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Chapter Text

[Siberia...Coordinates Unknown...]

If Steve had thought to expect anything—anything at all, knowing Tony and his melodramatic inclinations—he did not expect him to just...drop his chin against the hard plating of his chest armour, blue glow shadowing his expression, eyes hidden under stray strands of hair—quiet. Oh, so freakishly quiet.

Steve also didn’t expect to feel so terribly relieved at the lack of emotional outburst. He released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and relaxed the tension starting to strain his muscles. 

Tony still didn’t say anything. No sniffle, no noise, no vicious, cutting words. Just that everlasting silence. Eyes averted. 

It was unnatural, considering. The Tony he knew would start a fight, destroy the compound in a rage, seek revenge, make them hurt the way he hurt as if to prove himself justified. At least, that’s certainly what Steve thought Tony might do.

But this Tony? This version looked small. Meek. Passive. Shrunk down further than he’d ever seen the billionaire before. Even when Thor towered over him, Tony had seemed larger than life. It was strange and made him uneasy and yet he was still wordlessly, incomprehensibly, relieved the man had yet to react.

Steve looked to his friend, his everything, and away from the merchant of death. They called Bucky ‘the soldier’ as if he was nothing; just some nameless greenie, boiled down to a rank and how useful he was in the moment. Something easy to throw away. Something replaceable. Yet, that’s not who he was—or who he would be, if Steve had anything to say about it. 

But, and it hurt ever so, the other man did not look back. He did not return his gaze, seek his comfort, find solace in his friendship. Instead, Bucky’s piercing steel eyes were locked on Tony’s frozen form. Tony, who was encased in his iron coffin and held separate from the world.

What Bucky was seeing, or perhaps what he was looking for, Steve couldn't tell, nor was he sure he wanted to find out. The man’s willing isolation never failed to capture lingering stares, though it was never anything more than envy and lust and the simple mystery—the common people wanted that sort of money; that sort of fame and power. They wanted the lifestyle that could come with it.

Bucky’s attention tugged at something in him; something—not jealous, of course not, why would he be jealous—misunderstood and grasping. Bucky was everything Tony wished he could be. It would be admittedly hard for Steve to imagine Bucky, of all people, harboring such envy for the eccentric con. Strong and of character, unlike…

Tony jerked and his suit creaked loudly against the pulsing silence. Steve smothered the way he jumped behind the shift in his stance. He was ready for a fight. That's all it was. Rolling from his heels to his toes, widening his feet and letting his knees bend ever so.

Tony’s helmet came up to cover his face with a sharp sound, still downturned. Still hiding. It burned something bitter in him. 

Coward, he wanted to poke and prod. But he didn’t mean it, did he? What would come from provoking Tony’s wrath? Regret? And yet—

The way the helmet’s eyes glowed stirred his gut, warm and nervous, and raised the hair on his arms. 

Tony didn’t attack, though. He simply turned, barren of parting comments or shallow quips to leave them reeling. He just walked off, down the industrial corridor and out of sight. The suit’s heavy clank echoed with every step, slowly growing quiet. 

The sound of it still knocked around his skull like something pulled loose and Steve swallowed reflexively. 

Bucky drew himself up as if his string had been cut and he had to find balance again—balance to stand on his own while teetering on a ledge—and drew in a deep breath. It was strange, Steve thought. Had Bucky been overwhelmed by relief, too? Had he been tense for a fight and Steve hadn’t noticed? Had he really neglected his friend’s emotional wellbeing so utterly, he simply overlooked such details?

Bucky didn't offer him a word. He turned to leave, just as quiet and foreboding as Tony had, but back out the way they came in. Steve breathed too, the day’s adrenaline leaving him wary, but not so much he couldn’t ignore the way his fingers quivered. 

That feeling of strange relief followed him diligently, even as he stepped into the snow outside the compound to follow his friend. To his surprise, it remained still as he stepped off the QuinJet and onto the warm Wakandan soil, so far from where they’d last seen Tony.

While he could hope it stayed, comfortable in its presence and proof his intuition had yet to leave them astray—it did not. Though, perhaps that was truly the proof he needed. Tony was something of myth—legendary when it came to death toles and petty vengeance. Perhaps still, he’d be more suspicious if the relief haunted his dreams instead of Tony’s hardened brown eyes.

To the group, to his friends, to his brother, he would issue warnings and caution. “Be careful,” he’d say, after weeks of ghostly presence and the phantoms that would follow him from room to room. His team would nod with determination, taking his words to heart, bleeding caution and a watchful eye—though Bucky, ever the one to flow against the stream, would walk away as if Steve had never said anything.

It was odd. Considerably so. Unsettling, even, once Steve truly thought about it. He could count just how many times he had to warn Bucky about getting too close to Tony. How many times he said something about not letting his guard down—about never being alone with the man—about not trusting him so easily. He cautioned against gullibility, against letting Tony’s charm disarm him. He even warned against his cunning AI.

This was, of course, if Bucky ever found himself in contact with Tony. Or, in any way, influenced by his technology and ever-reaching connections.

Regardless, Steve was duty bound to prepare him. Bucky had the luxury of limited interaction and Steve was, in a way, jealous, but equally as concerned. It meant that without Steve, he’d be a minnow in a sea of bloodthirsty sharks.

What was most disconcerting, he found, was that he distinctly remembered how many times he’d attempted to nail his warnings into Bucky’s very psyche. Hell, he could also recall how many of those times Bucky completely brushed them off.

If he had a tally chart—

It was every single one of them. Every. Single. Time. As if their livelihood wasn’t being held over all of their heads. As if Steve’s word meant nothing, as if their history together was of little consequence. The whole thing forced him through a nervous sweat—he hadn’t done something so ridiculous since he was skinny, scrawny and in piss-poor health.

He just knew paranoia was just around the corner. Or maybe a nervous condition. Or psychosis and hallucinations. 

Here, he was left waiting: waiting for the moment Tony’s ruinous anger finally tore apart another set of lives. Except, Steve thought with piercing shame, these lives were considerably more important—global safety, what they represented. The average population couldn't compare.

That shame was easily obscured by the way it scared him. Pulsed fear through his veins in ways that he’d long forgotten. There was a mongoose under his house, one of the most clever and capable alive, and it was hungry. Steve found himself stranded and waiting with bated breath for the very moment they’d all be consumed. Irreparably devoured.

It’d only been a few months since they’d left the bunker. Their access to the news from within Wakanda was limited, but Tony’s picture-perfect media façade haunted the screens they were provided; the screens and, equally so, Steve’s dreams with increasing clarity. Talks of the accords, passive-aggressive statements about the nature of the Avengers—now, as they’ve been dubbed, the “Rogues”—left Steve on shaky knees and, if he were honest, utterly incensed. For all they’ve done, this is what they got? This was their due?

Tony had also—apparently, much to Steve’s resounding shock—reached out to the Wakandan Royalty in regards to Bucky’s treatment. He was told that Tony had only done so concluding the accords negotiations, but the proverbial grapevine told him differently. It seemed no one thought to truthfully inform him when it came to something so pressing to their safety. Their very livelihood. Their rights as people.

On another note, the absolute horror that shot through his very soul when he found out that not only had the Royals been graciously receptive to Tony’s outreach efforts, but that Bucky had been as well—it left him dizzy with outrage. Steve would not have minded so much given literally any other fucking circumstance with literally any other person. The universe clearly had it out for him.

As if the mere suggestion wasn't enough to set his teeth on edge, Tony went one step farther, going so far as to aid the Princess in designing a new metal arm. And again, providing his B.A.R.F. technology as a base to advance and augment a program with the hope of eventually removing the triggers in Bucky’s head.

He couldn’t help but nurse the idea that the opportunity was perfectly perfect. But of course it was, Tony was a textbook genius. The world was one massive game of chess and Tony was always at least five moves ahead at any given moment. With the addition of JARVIS—or, now, FRIDAY—those five moves could easily become ten, he was sure.

As far as he knew, the progress on both the arm and the mind-altering technology were being completed at alarming rates. Between Tony and the Princess, he couldn't truly be surprised.

He gnawed his lip for days. He knew what he had to do, but he didn't know if he had the strength to do it.

His resolve came quickly. He simply couldn’t let it happen—the arm was already too much. Tony could practically weave technology; who knew what he could put in the arm. Maybe he’d make it go haywire. Would he make it attack the team? Attack Steve? Attack Bucky himself? Or maybe he’d stick a bomb in it. Or show Bucky some semblance of hope before ripping it away. Or maybe it would simply hurt him—exacerbate his chronic pain.

Steve had seen glimpses of Tony‘s cruelty and at this point, he wouldn’t put a single thing past the man.

As bad as all that was, nothing could really beat the idea of giving him access to Bucky’s mind—his entire being. His memories and personality. Steve would rather go back in time and fall off that damned train himself.

The technology was finished a few weeks later.

Now, granted, Steve didn’t exactly know how to be subtle like the well-trained spies of their little found family, but he did know enough to at least be stealthy—to an extent, of course. Most of his missions with Natasha, before the Avengers were truly established, wouldn’t have been the least bit successful if he was completely inept, after all. So while he didn’t possess stealth in droves, he was still capable enough to sneak into the Princess’ lab under the cover of low-buzzing darkness to snatch the technology he just knew was from Tony right off the metal desk. 

They were small things, round and wireless with a faint blue glow. It was almost like Tony was taunting him—them—by leaving a calling card. Proof of himself in every aspect of their lives. Steve would be lying if he said he wasn’t successfully threatened by it. 

He really couldn't say it was a surprise—this was Tony—but he was admittedly disappointed. It didn’t take much to remember a time when he truly believed Tony could change, that he was trying to do as much good as Steve was. How naïve he had been, so blinded by the potential he saw in others. Tony had all the money in the world, and even the brains to use it—yet here they were. Thousands more dead, a few extra AI’s, and nothing but blood on his hands.

Steve couldn’t contain his sigh, looking steadily at the tech flat in his palm. They were delicate things, so fine and fragile. He almost felt bad—but only almost. A small part of him ached at what he was doing, and that part of him didn’t understand why he had to. 

He swallowed the unease and shook his head, closing his hand over the very things that held a false promise over Bucky’s freedom.

Yeah, he knew what he had to do, and he did have to have the strength to do it. He wasn’t about to lose Bucky again just because Tony wanted a little payback—a bit of misplaced revenge for a time long past. 

He knew Tony did, of course he did. That’s who Tony was.

Which is why it was all too easy to crush the two pieces of technology in his unyielding grip, shattering them into small shards that tried desperately to cut into his skin. To slice him open and make him bleed like all the others suffering from Tony’s mere existence.

He shoved the remnants into one of the pockets on his tactical gear—not an ounce of guilt could touch him. Steve would be the one to help rid Bucky of his triggers. While he would have trusted the Royals to do so as well, their willful collusion with Tony set them on thin ice in Steve’s eyes. They made one irreparably terrible decision when they chose to work with him, and now, Steve couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t make even more terrible, irreversible ones.

He wasn’t willing to risk Bucky’s life. For all he knew, the next time they messed up, Bucky would be nothing more than a memory. A vignette left to rot in a history museum.

He considered sending Tony a note, maybe a letter; some kind of foolhardy attempt to placate the man: he would thank him for his efforts, and request he leave them alone—but he knew that would make it worse. 

He wouldn’t mean his apology; he wouldn’t mean his gratitude, though he was glad that Tony had yet to be wholly successful in whatever his gambit was. Steve knew a few moves, too. He just had to survive and checkmate first.

He knocked on wood.

He would try anyway. While the falsehoods would not be received well, he hoped to God that by telling Tony to leave Bucky alone, he would back off a bit, realising he was under Steve’s scrutiny—and by extension, the rest of the “Rogues”—and hopefully give Steve more time to think up a plan of his own.

He requested materials that morning, and received the paper, pen, envelope, and postage hardly half an hour later. For all his reservations, the Royals were certainly efficient and accommodating when it came to most things.

He sent the letter off after another half-hour. 

While he didn’t exactly apologise, he did lament the fact that he believed his actions were necessary to protect someone he considered precious—the only family he had left.

For all of Tony’s spite, Steve was well aware that he was emotional and sentimental when it came to things like that. He even mentioned Tony’s late AI program. It was certain to appeal to something human in Tony. 

It was only in his ending remarks that he requested they be left alone.

It was blunt, he’d admit. Maybe too blunt. But he figured Tony would appreciate his straightforwardness. Perhaps such open honesty would temporarily placate some of Tony’s mounting ire; if it was still mounting, that is. He doubts it would do any good if Tony had already peaked in that respect.

Either way, it was the most Steve could truly hope for. He prayed his appeals to Tony’s sentimental side worked as intended. Otherwise, it might just come back to blow up in his face, which would be as unpleasant as it would be intimidating. 

A plotting Tony was a threat, something to be cautious and wary of; that was something he’d learned while working with the man. But an furious Tony, with all his power and influence and genius, was a force of nature rivalling even Loki in his destructive potential.

Steve shuddered suddenly. Such a dreadful thing to think about. He wondered if he’d even be able to protect Bucky, then. They certainly wouldn’t be safe in Wakanda. The Royals had seen to that rather thoroughly. 

Hell, the Royals might even aid Tony with whatever he had planned for his dear friend—

A breath was punched from his lungs. Every single hackle he had, every fine hair on his skin, rose with goose flesh. His shoulders tensed, his stomach dropped and he tried to swallow around the thick weight in his throat, suddenly finding it that much harder to breathe. 

He felt cold. Heavy. Weighed down by the world.

Bucky wasn’t safe here. None of them were.

Steve nearly launched himself right out of his seat when a rough hand landed on his shoulder, its warmth seeping into the fabric of his shirt. Sam leaned over so that Steve could see his face through the haze in his vision. 

Sam smiled good-naturedly, albeit a bit tight, “Buddy, you look like you’re either about to pass out or commit murder. Judging by your pallor, my money’s on murder.”

Steve tried to huff out a laugh, blinking dots from his eyes. It ended up more of a wheeze instead, but it was the effort that counted, right? It was certainly all he could hope for at the moment. His chest was tight. He felt like he was drowning in air—

When he didn’t say anything, Sam tried again, sobering obviously and frowning instead. “Maybe you should lay down, you really do look like you’re on the verge of collapse,” his brows pinched and the hand on Steve’s shoulder squeezed briefly before patting him thrice and settling back at his side. 

Steve struggled against the pressure at his sternum and forced a deep breath. In…hold…out. “I’m good,” he cleared his throat. “Haven’t had anything to eat today is all. Where’s Bucky? I was supposed to go to the lab with him—the Princess said they had something that’ll work for his, you know,” he waved a hand at his own head vaguely, fighting gravity.

Sam stuffed his hands into his pockets and smoothed his expression, straightening up, “Uh-huh. Right. From what I’ve heard, he just got down there. A little birdie told me Princess Shuri’s been more active than usual today. My money’s on a nerd’s excitement.”

Steve swallowed, stood against the weightless feeling in his head, and wobbled on his feet for a moment before physically trying to shake off the lingering effects of his…shock.

He really needed to snap out of it. He was better than this. He was a soldier; he was resilient, and he may not have been a genius, but he was determined and strong and clever when he needed to be. No matter what happened, he was not about to do something rash. 

God knows what being stupid and rash would do. 

“Thanks. I’ll see you guys for lunch,” Steve cuffed Sam on the shoulder and gave him a firm smile. Well, a smile was what he was aiming for, at the very least. 

Sam gave him an odd look. “Sure, Cap. Don’t be late. Lunch is supposed to be something extra-American today. Scuttlebutt is that it’s burgers.” He offered Steve a generous grin, however faux in feeling it might be. It was an attempt to change his dreary mood into something more manageable. Steve appreciated the effort.

He inclined his head and shuffled away, crossing his fingers until they hurt: he hoped his acting was up to snuff—it'd definitely been a while since he'd gone undercover. He was anxious, that much was true, but he held himself firm and steady, walking with measured steps and his posture purposefully relaxed. 

"Captain." The Dora Milaje flanking the lab greeted him with a pointed nod and piercing eyes as he approached their position.

Steve clenched his jaw reflexively and forced himself to smile something reserved and polite. "Ma'am,” he offered.

One of them moved a little, considering him, but nothing more. "The Princess and The Wolf are inside."

The Wolf…

"Thank you," Steve nodded and walked through the wide arch. The door slid open to reveal a white expanse that lacked in sharp angles, leading to a set of large spiral stairs. He descended, steps just as measured and firm, with his senses on high alert. Every illusion of movement, sterile smell or blinking light…

"Ah, Captain. Finally. And here I was thinking today's experience would be the soldier and I's alone." The Princess snarked, raising a brow as he approached.

"Sorry, Princess." Steve regarded her, rubbed the back of his neck in reluctantly-sheepish chagrin. He looked to Bucky next, who simply peered back with a hard gaze and a straight face. Steve frowned, then.

She waved him off, “Yes, well, I suppose it gave me time to remake my hardlight communicator prototypes. They went missing—and after all that work.” She shook her head. With pinched brows and an uptick to her lips, she was obviously annoyed. 

Steve paused and swallowed, feigning concern, “Missing?” But what he really wanted to ask was: Hardlight communicator? That certainly didn't sound like anything that could help Bucky. Moreover, it certainly didn't sound like anything Tony may have made for him.

She rolled her eyes—why, Steve wouldn’t deign to speculate—and tapped on her datapad. “Actually, no. Not missing. They were crushed.” She pointed to metal fragments sequestered in a white petri dish on the desk. “I found these little shards on the floor. You know, it took quite a while to make them.”

The Princess set her padd down and fiddled with bits and bobs of God-knows-what. “Fortunately for The Wolf, they weren't the psycho-framing discs Mr. Stark and I have been working on. Mr. Stark sent in the final product for that this morning,” her wandering fingers finally landed on something solid and she spun to face him, holding up two disk-shaped pieces of technology. They were small in her palm, about the size of a quarter, and glowing a gentle sapphire blue.

They looked exactly like the hard-whatever things, except that they were smaller, thinner, and had tiny little teeth-like spikes coming out of the side. He could only assume it would go against Bucky’s flesh. The Princess smirked, “I’ve got the finished product right here. Cool, right?”

Steve’s heart went cold and the hair on his neck stood on end. “Oh,” he said rather intelligently. 

“Indeed.” The Princess’ lips pierced then, and her eyes darkened with a look that reminded him eerily of Tony. “It was, as I said, fortunate. Had these been crushed, and Mr. Stark any less cautious…” she sighed and looked mournfully over to shards he’d apparently left behind—Steve wept silently to himself. “The soldier would be stuck with his conditioning for however long it’d take for us to rebuild. It would be such a shame. His triggers would just be there waiting to be activated again at a moment’s notice.” She said it almost nonchalant. Like she wouldn’t have cared either way.

Steve’s eyes darted to his friend, whose expression developed a considerable shadow. Dangerous, his mind said. He pushed it away. “Just to be clear, Princess—Tony had his hands in this creation, but you did the most work, correct?” It was futile, he knew. A ridiculous question, but he was perfectly willing to grasp at straws for the sake of his own mental well-being. 

Granted, he also needed to be careful. Tread lightly. The Princess was fond of Stark. So much so that she’d started to take after him—mannerisms and all. The way she rubbed her knuckle against her chin when thinking; the way she cocked her head to the side as if she could literally see something differently if given a new perspective. That look. He supposed weeks of prolonged contact would do that to a person. 

The Princess’ expression twisted strangely, which was not entirely unexpected. “No, but either way, this was a joint effort. The mind is a tricky thing and technology still has a ways to go.”

Steve shuddered. No, not unexpected at all. 

But, and he thought deeply about it as the seconds stretched, what if it messed Bucky up more? Or what if Tony placed some kind of bug in it—something to force Bucky into doing things against his will. Or what if it removes Bucky’s conditioning but takes out everything else, too? Or maybe it replaces the words with a trigger only Tony knows so then he’d be the one to control the soldier? Or—Steve nearly broke out in a sweat, working himself up—what if the device does what it's supposed to but makes Bucky forget Steve specifically? Forget who Steve was, what they mean to each other, their past and what would be their future—wiped clean, leaving everything else behind like some threadbare patchwork?

He couldn’t think of a crueller punishment. Truly, there would be no greater pain to losing the one thing he had left from his old life; to losing his best friend for the second, infinitely more permanent, time. Steve wouldn’t be able to bear it again. The hole in his soul and the ache in his bones. Tony might as well vaporise him, too—but that would be an act of mercy, and he was sure Tony was all out.

The Princess cleared her throat, “James, are you ready?”

Bucky’s eyes finally left him and Steve’s heart jumped sky-high. His friend smiled something shy and fragile, the corners of his lips twitching before nodding and laying back against the white table.

The obvious nervousness is what stuck out to Steve. The wavering tilt to his smile—something he admittedly hadn’t seen in…years—and the ever so subtle tremble of his fingers. He couldn't help but think Bucky was finally listening to him. Understanding that Tony was not their friend, that he was dangerous and necarious. That he was never so generous as to pass upa perfect opportunity. 

Maybe he was just as worried as Steve was. Steve’s heart skipped a painful beat and the palms of his hands gathered moisture—Oh God, what if he was terrified? Faced with endless possibility and placing his faith in someone statistically likely to turn against him. 

Steve hadn't had the chance to talk to Bucky yet, alone, to find out how he felt about this. The tremor of his hands, the uneasy twitch to his expression, the tightness in his face and his posture, his—shallow—breathing. 

Steve had to do something. His fears, his friend’s fears—they rose within him like a tide before the storm. Then they receded suddenly with every breath. He was going to lose him. He didn't want to lose him. Not again, not again! He had to—

“Wait,“—his hand shot out blindly, his legs moving before he could even process it. The tsunami was fast approaching; a wall of water and omen and death threatening to take him under—“Stop!”

The Princess jerked away from him, hand full of the delicate technology held securely to her chest as her feet nearly fell out from under her. She gasped and Bucky shot off the cot, barrelling towards Steve between one blink and the next; jerking an outstretched arm up in placation and placing his other hand—the cold, so cold, metal one—against Steve’s chest to steady him. He was considerate in his body language, warm to the touch, but his tone shot ice down Steve’s spine.

Two Dora Milaje rushed in, standing at the top of the spiral stairs, eyes flicking between Steve, their startled Princess, and—The Winter Soldier. 

“Rogers!” he gritted, glaring at Steve. “That is enough.” His accent was thick, losing its familiar brooklyn edge, and Steve felt suddenly like that hand on his chest was wrapped around his windpipe. He could smell ash in the air—could see it fall around them like snow flurries in December.

Steve blinked. Then swallowed. Then shivered. A pit growing in his gut as an unsteady feeling burrows a home in his very marrow. 

He’s lost so much. What more did he have but Bucky’s companionship? His affection? He was the last remnant of Steve’s dour past. A revenant so alike to him. What else was there to cling to? What was left?

Pull yourself together, Soldier!

He’d do what he can to salvage the situation. He was no diplomat. No politician. But he was, in fact, a strategist. He cleared his throat of the swelling smog, “That was…I apologise, Princess. It was out of line. I hadn’t meant to…” To what? For a moment, he’d forgotten the parasitic relationship between strategy and wordplay. A foolish oversight on his part, and one that left him floundering. 

Perhaps he felt unsettled, he could tell them, yet his purpose was sincere. But truly, how could he apologise for that? For protecting his best friend from malicious technology a genius with a world-renowned mean streak created from scraps? 

An eerie calm washed over him. Something apathetic in nature and smelling of sulphur and mildew.

But, he supposed, to be fair to the poor Princess, it wasn’t entirely her fault she didn’t know Tony like he did. Tony was a brilliant yet terrifying con-man—something Steve was perfectly able to realise. A particularly dedicated actor capable of fooling the globe with a mere bat of his thick lashes. It was truly the most amazing yet daunting thing Steve had ever witnessed. He repressed a disappointed sigh.

Rogers! Something in his mind mocked. So it seemed he waited too long to answer.

“I am this close to freedom and you’re this close to ruining it! For everyone!” Bucky looked at him, a fire blazing in his eyes—one Steve hadn’t seen in…in ever. It was vindictive, flesh-hungry, unforgiving and all-consuming. His accent only grew thicker.

No, Steve thought, pleading to whatever would listen.The tsunami was gone, only destruction left in its wake. It scorched him black. No!

Bucky didn't relent, oblivious to his inner turmoil and cold anger, “You realise this is bigger than us, yes? What kind of narrow-minded bullshit headspace are you in, Rogers? Huh?” Another unforgiving jab to his chest. A hook. A kick. He was being nicked by noxious thorns and left to succumb to his wounds.

He blinked, his ears ringing, skin itching, reaching for the words he could hardly comprehend. “What?”

The Princess cleared her throat and dropped her shoulders, “If I may, this particular piece of technology will be something shared with the world through Stark Industries, provided it’s successful and falls within projected parameters. It would revolutionise modern medicine—or at least, pave the way, so to speak.”

“So, either get yourself together and be here for me, or leave.” Bucky, his Bucky, said. Glaring at him through bloodshot eyes and a scowl that ripped into Steve like serrated teeth.

God, he was too late, wasn’t he. Truly too late—Bucky was standing right in front of him yet he was gone. Out of reach. Stolen from right under his nose, from beneath his fingers. He gripped—gripped so damn hard and for so long yet Bucky’s form fell away like vapour. 

He tried. He tried—he tried, and what more could he do? Bucky had already been consumed by the foolish futurism that painted their past and represented their present. He’d already given in to the temptation, forgetting everything he was in favor of…anything but him. Steve tried to resist the way his anger undilated, warping within him to feed that apathetic blackhole within him. It was too much—he lost it all. He was alone—alone! He—

Steve growled, low, deep and cursing. A click, a tick, the sound of realisation, of puzzle pieces fitting together, the muffled snap! of success—

Tony.

Something brutal ignited inside him, like a lighter to a gas giant—it wasn't a black hole, it wasn't apathy. It was something wholly un-American; something warring that violated everything he was at his core—everything he stood for, represented, worked towards.

It shrivelled in agony and bloomed with a dark, seductive, ichor-like whisper—calling, petting, seeking with sticky hands, beckoning with a promise that made Steve shudder. This time, it was not from fear or unease.

“Bucky,” he intoned, a patient smile stretching his lips thin. He felt it pull at his cheeks and wrinkle at his eyes. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Proceed, Princess, I’m going to…I’m going to wait with the others.” His friend was already lost. What would he gain by sitting there with him, watching him be remade. There was nothing more he could do for him. Now, he could only stand to keep and cherish the husk of a familiar face.

He had to look to the culprit. The successor.

Only then would he stand the chance of getting Bucky back. He just had to go to the source.

No more laying around, no more sweating, waiting for something to happen—when it happened right next to them, within their home and space and around their friends, their family—no more waiting until it was too late. No more.

He left the room voluntarily blind to Bucky’s beseeching gaze, walking swiftly past the Dora Milaje and, hopefully, out of earshot. 

“Barton,” he flicked his communicator open, fingers cold and shaking minutely. Adrenaline, he was sure. Had to be. “Gather the others. It’s time we do something for once—make a stand.”

“Er…” the communicator gargled with static. “Alright Cap, I’ll tell the others. But if—“

The com clicked shut in his hand. Barton could be a ball of paranoid nervous energy on his own time. They had a new mission, one that would change their lives.

The warm ichor in his gut buzzed with delight.

Chapter Text

Five.

He remembered this:

What it was like to see him again—for the first time since he knew to mourn his death:

He was caught between the seconds—between the tick and the tock and the space separating breaths. Every whistle tone and bird song rang long and warped where bare movement spoke of a silence so deafening he was dizzy with it. There was blood in his ears as the universe narrowed in on the inevitable tear that thrust Steve back into the folds of time and space that defined him.

It was there, that sharp face with black paint around dull blue eyes and dark lashes. It was there, that brown hair falling past a pinched brow and silvery scars. It was there, with that metal arm against his throat, wanting, more than anything, to crush his larynx and bleed him dry.

He could taste the electric charge windswept across his warm skin, past his teeth, and up against his palate. He could feel the earth beneath his feet struggling to churn, the tide sloshed and the moon stilled, and night lasted ever so slightly longer.

It took a decade, maybe longer, for the stuttering engine to start once more, leaving him grasping with impossible brevity. The screech of car horns; the crack of gunfire and burning vehicles. They came forth like a tsunami, flooding every sensitive sense he held intact and struck him violently

—savagely.

The hand, familiar hand, cruel now but part of something he dreamed to remember, was nowhere near his throat now. Its presence, he felt, was like a myth of old—like an omen left to haunt him, mock him, demonize him.

“Bucky,” he croaked, coming up for air. There was a nameless inferno raging within the cage of his ribs, trying as it might to smoke him out. Never had he felt like such an imposter in his own body.

That inferno dimmed, stroked gently with some cooling rapture—a freedom he so longed for all this time. He could recover. Take back what was stolen from him. A victory or perhaps a forgiveness, presented to him by fate or God himself. Within reach, close enough to touch—

With the aid of a steady tick, the missing pieces of himself came together, fitting snugly and with a fondness that left him wanting. It enhanced all that he felt and saw and waited for.

Until the tock sounded and his world shattered like stained glass along the marble of his chapel, and the colour drained away from the world itself—

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Four.

He could only watch, powerless like a spectator, as a rocket hit his past square in the chest, flinging him back out of Steve’s reach and into a plume of dust and gunpowder.

When Nat dragged Steve away, what stuck was the drum-beat pulse of he’s alive; he’s alive; he’s alive. And it’s mistress: this whole time. Avenging angel: I left him. Anathema: I should have known.

And something ever so cruel: you left him again.

He’d never felt so driven to Fix It. To turn back that clock. After, time broke off into shards he could only vaguely piece together. They were hard to keep track of, to find and place in their neat little spot as they float on by once more, change their shape, obscure themselves.

It would take forevermore to feel normal again.

###

Three.

He also remembered this:

There was this hum just on the edge of consciousness. Light streamed in through the room’s arching windows, lighting up the darkness behind his eyelids. 

There’s a strange effort that comes with waking. Like stretching past what the body willingly bends for. He stretched, and his eyes peeled open, the hum following him from his dreams into waking reality. His comm buzzed incessantly next to his head and the beautiful Wakandan morning blinded him to migraine. Or perhaps it was just the curse of waking up one more day without the world at the palm of his hand.

This world of his, so near so far, hidden under the palace in a cryotube. Mind gone and history lost.

His curse was never knowing what it meant to feel tired, but he felt it against his brow, against his hope, against his due. He wanted a break like any other man, he supposed.

Two.

He answered the comm and the hum stopped. 

“Are you up yet?” Natasha droned. Tap, Tap, Tap, on the other end of the line.

“Why?”

“Well I figured you’d want to be here when he wakes up but if you don’t care, then—”

Steve sat up quickly, scrambling up and tamping down the wrinkles of his two-day-old clothes. “They’re taking him out?”

He felt of grime and dried sweat, of trial and error, of waiting and training. So much waiting and training. Regardless, he shoved on his shoes and abandoned his room. 

“Something like that. They’re in Shuri’s Lab.” The comm clicked off as he shoved it into a pocket. It seemed that he’d set a standard, intentional or not.

One.

###

Steve’s eyes twitched with the swelling anticipation, tension pooled in his legs, washed across his biceps and hardened his heart. He was making the right choice—oh, how his dark passenger purred a needy, pulsing heat. It was a hungry thing, starved and existant, pushing him to open the doors that trapped him, repressed him. A semblance of perfection kept him seated and still and shackled to his ‘place’ in the world. 

Tony did that too. Kept him complacent; kept him small and useful. 

Don’t you just want to let go? You give them everything and what do you get? You’re demonized. It whispered in his ear, warm like hot chocolate and sharp like cider. Avenge yourself. Avenge them all.

Tony took everything from Steve—from the world. He took his past and his future, his family and nearly his friends. Tony put on his pretentious little mask of lies and inhumanity and passed the blame for his deeds off to the people who couldn’t even fight back. The death toll rose, the faith the people had in Tony rose with it, and those fighting for their freedom were left to rot, to run and to slink around in the dirt, looking for scraps. Tony took it all, leaving not even a crumb for the ravenous dogs he saw them as. 

There was no mercy in this—Tony had none to give.  And so, even as the better man, Steve wouldn’t be merciful either.

He took a breath and stilled the pitter-patter of his heart. To underestimate Tony—Howard Stark’s son—Iron Man—The Merchant of Death—would be to dig their own grave. They were more deserving than that, more capable.

They ended up, much to Steve’s horror, with little else than the flimsy concept of ‘playing it by ear.’ He had a plan, sure, but the sheer lack of intel was startling. They’ve been gone too long and it was being rubbed in their face.

Steve shook his head trying to jostle his thoughts, trying to listen in on the muted world while his ears rang—the hum of the QuinJet; the rustle of clothing; shoes beating hollow against the metal flooring. He could even hear the wind and the rain—every element that dared resist them. 

Building plans rested in his lap, grey and smudged from half-hearted fabrication and fiddling. 

He cleared his throat like it would blow away the gathering smog in his lungs. “Nat, remind me what you got on security?” 

They had nothing official. Compound plans were kept strictly secret, probably under a mountain of Stark Industries red tape to protect the nation's heroes from infiltration and the like. They were ever-changing and ever-moving out of reach. Steve had never been more annoyed by conscious forethought in his life. 

What they had seemed to be entirely recreated from memory. 

He did it on purpose.

Natasha was slouched down in her seat, staring absently out the window, looking unbothered and guarded depending on the light. Every once in a while, out of the corner of his eye, he would catch her ear twitching and her eyes darting briefly but non-committal. 

“Typical, I’m sure. From what we know,” she droned with a heavy sigh, “there are two guards at every door; shifts change every six hours with a ten-second gap during the day. Cameras on the north, east, and south walls facing outward towards the grounds. Movement and heat sensors cover the western cliff. All glass is Reinforced with titanium alloy and temperature regulators—and likely a 24-hour watch from the AI. If there’s anything new, it’s fair to say we wouldn't know.” She glanced in his direction before her head lolled back to face the window.

He frowned under his hand. He was beginning to think he was far too hasty, both in his plans, and in trusting she was there to help, rather than there out of familiarity. Or, he wondered, because she didn’t seem to belong elsewhere and was stuck tagging along. 

Liar. Liar. Liar.  

He shook it away. Though, he had to admit, he was surprised that she was feeling particularly unhelpful considering it was still a ‘team issue’, despite whatever motivations she truly had. He wondered if she simply felt uncomfortable with the mission itself.

Pity the fool.

“Do you really think this will work?” Scott pressed, fiddling nervously with the fastenings on his suit. No one seemed willing to answer him, too weighed down by reality alone to feel faith in their project.

“We’ll land the jet along the bluff and come in through the west entrance. Wanda, how many people can you carry at once?” he said instead. Hiding the ship along the cliffside would keep them out of sight, but vibration would be detected immediately so their feet could not be allowed to touch the ground. Depending on how many Wanda could carry, they could all go in one trip.

“Four, including myself.” She said, small rings of red energy weaved between her fingers and over her palms. She’s so young. He took everything. Her home, her brother. Everything; Everything.

“And Sam?” Everything.

“I'll fly and take the ant,” he said, looking increasingly wary but there nonetheless. 

“I have a name, you know,” Scott grumbled, lacking heat.

“Yeah,” Sam rolled his eyes and looked to the bed of his nails, “Ant.” 

Wanda snickered.

“Caution is our friend,” Steve continued. “This was our home, but it’s been taken from us. We will not be meeting friends today.” Steve hunched over himself suddenly, stomach contracting painfully, heart thudding against his ribs. His vision blurred and he felt the saliva in his mouth go tacky and acidic. Everything!

He forced himself to breathe, to cope, to do something—anything—else. That saliva burned as it went down his throat.

He looked up, wishing for a lifeline.

Instead, he saw Sam standing at the mouth of the QuinJet, arms crossed and face pinched watching him. “You know what I still don’t get? Why we’re doing this at all. You know, provoking the one guy on the planet with the power to exonerate us. Or hide out bodies, he could do that too.”

“Steve?” Natasha whispered cautiously.

His axis abandoned him and all he could see were black spots and heat lines—his body felt light, yet like it weighed a star, wrapped in its own seclusion, consumed by consumption, left only to feast on the remnants of its outer rim. Of the gas and dust and pressure swimming just out of reach. His purring darkness rested over his ears, drowning out the white noise to hum promises and a tune that stirred his soul.

He took him. He took it all, It whispered, pushing and pulling and kneading his organs.

It was right.

Their ship grappled parallel to the cliff’s edge, its nose pointed precariously to the sea. It was out of sight, away from parameter sensors and underground wires. When they made it to land, moderately woosy but no worse for it, they made their way to the compound’s main room without hindrance—

Until they were met face to face with a band of—of something. A green woman with red hair, a raccoon holding a gun far bigger than it, some sort of tree, a muscle tank, and a dirty blond human.

“Guns on the ground!”

Barton sputtered, shaking from surprise and faster than their majority, “Who the hell are you?”

The man with cropped dirty-blond hair and a rugged off-world look growled. His face was sharp and there was a light behind his eyes that spoke of a nameless power. “I said: On. The. Ground.”

You could kill them. You’re stronger. Faster. Better.

He could. He’s not. He couldn’t. Too many unknowns. Too much left to lose.

Nothing left to lose at all.

Wanda scoffed, eyes rolling before leveling them with a glare. “You first,” she spat. Steve’s mouth dropped open to mediate but found his tongue lodged in his throat.

In the same moment, the large man with red markings rather enthusiastically shouted, “No, you first!”  

The green woman pivoted her phaser over his shoulder to narrow in on Wanda’s form just behind him; his own head snapped to follow the look down the black barrel, very suddenly aware of the danger they were in. It was significantly more than they’d planned for. 

“Move and I’ll shoot, witch,” the green woman said. 

He wasn't thrilled about the newest…residents, some were dressed in comfortable clothing, the Stark Industries brand on the breast of their shirts and the length of their legwear. A branding. An ownership—

That was you, once. Marked by a madman. That was you, that was you, that was you. Trapped! Kept.

While the ‘Rogues’ held no companionship with Tony, this compound was still their home. Wanda’s hands glowed a deep, menacing red and Steve’s gut growled its approval but a quiet voice in his mind echoed with warning. 

Wanda glowered, “I’d like to see you try.” The green woman raised a brow, but her finger settled heavy and secure against the trigger—as if the challenge was nothing but a waste of words.

The rugged human spoke again, pointing his own gun at Steve’s head. An actual one with bullets, not something that looked right out of a sci-fi comic. “You’re trespassing,” he said lowly, and while intimidating in its own right, especially considering the solid threat of metal in his face, the timbre of his voice was somewhat unfit for such threats. That power behind his eyes, though. That held a greater threat.

Something he really shouldn’t ignore. 

“I think,” Steve started, his tongue finally unsticking itself from the roof of his mouth, “you're the one’s trespassing.” Perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t the most advantageous time to mention such a slight but he was surrounded by the world’s first line of defense. Any following anxiety quelled quickly.

“You’re one to talk—” the raccoon said. “Quill, can’t we just kill ‘em already?”

Scott was the one who sputtered, thus far quiet, “Did the rat just talk?” As if the gun twice its size was acceptable but a functioning voice box and language skills were a step too far.

“Rat?” It asked, flummoxed.

The human, Quill, listed slightly, “That was an insult. He was insulting you.” 

Scott blinked hard from the edge of Steve’s vision, “Wait I—I didn’t—”

But the damage was done. “Damn it!” The raccoon snarled something nasty and vengeful, “You know, I've been looking forward to testing out this new ion vaporizer I acquired in the Dolend System.”

“Enough.” Tony's voice echoed over them, sweeping the room and settling heavy like a thick atmosphere. “Jesus, you’re all obnoxious.” Thin fingers pressed between his eyes, “Friday, activate the electromagnetic containment field. Steve, do yourself a favour and don't move. Or, do me one and go ahead.”

Their feet were practically glued to the floor, weighed down by infinite gravity and electric currents that lit his insides up unpleasantly.

> Containment field in place. <

“Tony—” Steve started, yet nothing followed. The hot coil in his gut twisted and writhed and screamed, seeking blood and flesh and something more, more, more! Steve’s fingers twitched and his lashes fluttered, jaw clicking as the pressure in his head grew—pulsed—wanted. A containment field of bouncing static settled around them.

“Nebula,” Tony said offhandedly to the blue person who walked in with him, “if he moves.”

“Nothing will be left,” she said, settling black, soulless eyes over his form. A threat.

A threat.

“Great.” Tony looked them all over, before pausing with a tilt to his head. “Winter Wonder,” he said thoughtfully, and Steve’s nose wrinkled. What a strange thing to say. “Oh, Friday?”

> Didn’t even touch him, Boss. <

“Great!”

A low chuckle sounded from behind his team and Steve jolted, viciously craning his neck around to look right at Bucky emerging from the shadows like a wrathe. Where he came from, he couldn't guess to save his life. If he’d been with them, they’d have noticed, right? Two spies, two war heroes. 

They would have noticed.

Bucky’s eyes were vibrant and sparkling. Fond and dangerous with a little something else that had Steve’s gut-twisting like thorny vines around ensnared prey. The containment field kept him rooted in place, whiplashing him and keeping him away from his only friend.

“What are you still doin’ with these ragtags, snowcrow?” Tony wondered, amused and lighthearted and talking like none of them were there. They were nothing but phantom echoes. Wastes of space and inconsequential.

Bucky moved from behind them. Tony’s—guests?—seemed to relax. 

“Hitched a ride,” Bucky smiled, sidestepping each and every one of their forms, meandering with a practiced grace to the man that sunk his nails in Steve’s heart and tugged with reckless abandon. The hollow space left bloody and torn throbbed in memory.

“Sounds fun.” Tony’s eyes sparkled something blindingly beautiful as they skidded over every inch of Bucky’s face. When Bucky was but a scant few inches from Tony, his arm rose—new, black and gold and sleek—and with it, every word Steve ever wanted to say lodged in his throat.

Bucky’s hand tangled in Tony’s hair, sweeping it back to grip the small hairs at the nape of his neck. He brought him forward, leaning down to seal their lips.

Reality. Loss. Steve could feel it in the way his skin turned warm and his hands went clammy. He could feel it in the way his eyes pricked and blurred and his heart skipped a beat or two and constricted tight from behind his aching ribs. He felt thrown into a vice—claustrophobic in his own body, fingers bloody from trying to crawl his way out of the prison. He was lightheaded. Stumbling without moving. Knees knocking together like a lamb—brittle, the way he held onto what was left. Brittle more, the way he watched it crumble.

His emotions were like ocean waves. Tides with no set pattern, equally as brutal as they were absent; held in place by sheer will.

When they pulled apart, Steve felt like a bubble had popped and all he was left was the sensation of spaghettifying grief.

“Gross, Tones,” Natasha said. Natasha, from right next to him. Natasha, with her arms crossed over her chest and a flat expression. Natasha, who also had no containment field to keep her suffocatingly rooted in place.

“Spare me, red rover. C’mon over,” Tony offered her a hand.

Natasha just shook her head and took the foreofferance to place an affectionate kiss against his fingers before sitting down in one of the entrance settees. She seemed so comfortable, more than she had been for the last several months alone.

Another. He took another. 

It was a near thing, the way Steve almost felt the sting and slip of venom drip from his sore gums. His jaw ached and his fingernails itched and he worked to unclench with little success.

There was audacity here, he was sure; nothing so dire as theft but perhaps it was more so a strange cruelty. What could Tony have to hold over her; what could he promise that Steve couldn't?

Freedom? Forgiveness? 

Tony cleared his throat, and Steve looked at him closely, though not quite seeing. 

“Who are you?” Tony asks. It was startling. Unexpected in the way that most things tended to be so recently.

Unexpected and, truly, nonsensical. “You know who I am.” They had worked together, fought together, argued and threw fists and words and promises that were more often threats with a generous disguise.

“Answer the question,” he said, pulling away from Bucky to stand on his own. “Or are you afraid of it?”

A challenge, far from abnormal but it made something in him throb gently. “My name is Steve Rogers.”

“Is it?” A riddle without an answer. A shadow of a shadow—what did he want?

“Captain America,” Steve amended.

“Are you? When people look at you, what do they think?”

Steve’s face twisted, confused and set apart, still taken by the riddles. “I'm an Avenger. I protect people.”

“Do they love you?” Tony asked, head now cocked to the side—curious and experimental.

“Yes.” Because they have for decades. The years he was in the army, the years he saved people, the years he fought and died and came back to do it again. They had no reason to throw him aside.

“No.” Tony’s curious expression chipped away, eyes now hard and with a glow. Steve’s breath caught in his throat and the hair on his arms rose with some instinctive fear. 

“They don’t like you at all, Steve. How could they? All you do is destroy what is theirs, ignore their pleas, and take what you think you’re owed.”

It’s a lie. Some twisted version of the truth, like everything seemed to be with Tony.

“They don’t love you, they’re scared of you.”

He’s scared of you.

Tony smiled, palm outstretched, gesturing to a TV screen that hadn't been there before. It was alight with something that threatened to snuff whatever fight brought him to Tony’s door in the first place. 

Steve’s heart took a pause, gaze dead-set on the Central Park billboard. Upon it, clothed in darkness and war-painted with blood, was a man. A man of History, a man built for war. A man with a golden halo of hair and piercing blue eyes that spoke more of wrath than angelic justice. Steve refused to choke at the sight.

“America’s golden boy,” Tony clicked his tongue and hid a vicious tell in the corners of his mouth, upturned ever so and twitching. “Now they know what you truly are.”

The billboard changed, and like a movie, Steve saw his life played out before him in still-life snippets. The ugly side of him, the one that bled for the people, the one that took their pain as his own, and the one that he hid away from prying eyes. When he smiled for the camera, it was there; when he spoke with his friends, it poked and prodded at his self-control. It was the voice in his head and the Thing in his heart.

“What—“ he started. The pictures on the board sped up, nearly too fast for his sluggish mind to see.

Tony sighed with what seemed to be disappointment, “You wouldn't show them, Steve,” he said. “So I had to do it for you.”

A punishment, a promise. 

It was a brutal reality.

—to be bared into nothing but stripped-back flesh and sinew—

—and ruined for it.

“Steve…” Sam started, hesitant. There was a rustle of fabric and Steve expected a hand on his shoulder, a friend at his side—but he didn't get either.

“Did you tell them about Siberia? About Sokovia?”

“We’ve heard—”

“Have you?” Tony challenged. “As you can see, your good Captain here is prone to leaving things out.”

Silence reigned and Steve felt utterly separated from it. Instead, his attention was drawn to the way Bucky’s hand disappeared behind Tony’s back, how his arm flexed and bent as he stroked down Tony’s back and squeezed when he reached the swell of his ass. Steve's face was hot with indignity, but even that, he could barely feel.

Tony leaned into it, his eyes still full of an ethereal blue glow. “I have a friend, if you remember. Goes by the name Dr. Strange. He’s got this remarkable ability to see all possible futures, and do you want to know what he saw? Want to know what would have happened in Siberia in every reality but this one?”

Sam was now shoulder to shoulder with Steve, brows furrowed and body tense. “What…did he say?”

“I died with a vibranium shield through my ribs.”

Sam choked and stepped away from Steve. Bucky’s arm tensed, Natasha turned her face from the crowd.

Steve wondered if he could topple the building tower of lies looming over him, or if he was doomed to fall by Tony’s sharp tongue and sharper teeth. His friends were being poisoned, petrified at his feet and he…he was lifeless.

Whatever dark passenger stoked the fire in his veins had left him. Abandoning him to the sharks and laughing all the way. It was bemused by his futile attempts, looking upward to the billboard, the scroll of news feeds right next to it, all lit up on the oversized TV.

At some point, Tony’s friends had left the room, guns and knives put away, leaving Tony, Bucky, and Steve to suffer the same air once again. So near parallel to Siberia, yet here, it is he who stands alone. He who has felt the spear of final betrayal.

Bucky’s hand left Tony’s back and moved to the back of his neck to thumb gently at the skin.

Steve felt an intense loneliness suddenly, one that wanted to eat him alive and leave him in darkness.

Tony breathed, and Steve mimicked the motion. “I hate you, Rogers,” he said simply. “But I always wanted more from you. I looked up to you, I wanted to be like you, yet I met you and knew the world deserved better.”

“And that’s you?” Steve wondered aloud. 

Tony shook his head and gave a wry smile, “No, but that’s the difference between us. I try to be; you already think you are.”

Tony looked at the TV, and Steve did so too. “Ross will be here soon,” Tony mentioned carelessly. “That should be fun.”

The world hated him. His friends abandoned him.

And he, he was put in cuffs, sat in the back of a car, sequestered off to nowhere he knew.

There was that laughter again. A cruel little snicker that pointed to all his flaws.

It’s not my fault, he would think.

Isn’t it? The voice would say.

The last thing he would remember would be the way Bucky smiled at Tony, the way he kissed him, held him, while Steve was being led to his solitary eternity. The last thing he would think before falling asleep was how Tony made his best friend happier than he ever did.

How Tony stole that time and privilege from him, too.