Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Come here, Lily-monster,” Bucky says to his niece.

“M’not a monster, Uncle Bucky,” she giggles. He helps her into his lap and turns her so they’re both looking out the plane window.

“Look at all the trees,” he points out. “I think I’ll climb to the top of that one, right over there.”

“You can’t climb to the top. It’s too big!”

“No!” Bucky says dramatically. “Look how small they are.”

Lily looks out the window and considers. A small frown forms on her face, and she cocks her head to the side. Five-year-olds are fun, he thinks, although he’s liked every age Lily has been, from the squirming baby to the defiant toddler. She’s just turning from the window to look at him when they hit a spot of turbulence that sends him bouncing in his seat. He grips her tight and feels the constriction of her small arms around his neck. God, he’ll never get used to small planes and how every pocket of air seems massive.

“It’s okay, Lily,” he says, rubbing her back in soothing circles.

“It’s just a little turbulence!” the pilot calls back to them.

“See?” he says into Lily’s ear, running his fingers through her hair. “Nothing to worry over.”

“Lily, back in your seatbelt, please,” Becca says from behind him, pausing her conversation with their mom. The two of them had taken the back row of the Cessna so they could talk about Becca’s upcoming nuptials and with his dad up front with the pilot, that left Bucky and Lily to share the middle row. Which is fine, because Bucky would rather have a conversation with his five-year-old niece over any of his other family members.

He buckles Lily back into her seat, and then looks down again at the expanse of wilderness below them, wondering how much longer they have until they land. An impending sense of dread fills him when he thinks of where they’re going.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic.

But he’s really not looking forward to one week with no internet or cell service. There’s not even a road to the cabin they’re staying at. The pilot is just going to land on the lake. It’s insanity. Who even thought this was a good idea to begin with?

His dad turns around in his chair as if summoned from Bucky’s internal tantrum. His dad smiles. Bucky glares back. His dad sighs and turns back around.

“That was mature,” Becca whispers from behind him.

“Whatever,” he says.

“You’re such a child.”

“Whatever,” he says again, leaning against the window. If his dad wanted to make amends for his “small lapse in judgment,” he should have just brought their mom out here. No need to make him miss spring break of his senior year of high school. So, yeah...whatever.

“Just about there, folks,” the pilot tells them. Below them, spots of blue begin appearing to break up the blanket of green. “I’m going to start taking us down.”

The plane begins to bank and descend. Bucky can see at least five lakes out his window and wonders which one they’ll be landing on. Then the plane levels out before banking the opposite way. Lily stares out her side of the window in awe.

“See, Uncle Bucky,” she says matter of factly as she points at the large evergreens. “The trees are big, not little.”

“You’re right, Lily-monster,” he concedes.

The plane levels out once again. “Almost there! Just a couple more turns, and I’ll have you down on the ground.”

Each turn brings them closer to their destination and “family time.” He’s almost tempted to ask the pilot if he can ride back with him just to see the look on his dad’s face, but he doesn’t.

“Are we the only house out here?” he asks the pilot.

“Nah. There’s a couple of eccentric millionaires with cabins. I mean, if you want to call those monstrosities cabins. But they’re almost never out here,” he says. “Alright, one last sharp turn and then the landing.”

The turn is sharp, as promised. He looks toward Lily and sees the lake filling the entire window.

“What the hell? What-” his dad’s panicked voice fills the plane. Bucky frowns but ignores him. His dad is forever dramatizing every part of his life. Just a little bit of calmness would be nice for a change...huh...they’re still turning.

“Mommy, does he have an owie?” Lily asks. Bucky follows her gaze toward the front of the plane.

What he sees…it doesn’t make sense. Drifting from the man’s hands are large flakes. His arm lifts off the throttle—no, it dissipates, and they’re still banking as the flakes swirl mid-air through the small plane, which continues its turning even as the pilot turns to ash in front of him. Bucky’s heart is pounding hard and fast in his chest. The cabin of the plane is loud with yelling but the words are lost, washing over Bucky like the wave of panic pulling him under.

Then, suddenly, the rest of the pilot collapses into a pile of ash. The throttle, free from the pilot's pressure, springs back.

It’s too late. They’ve turned and turned and descended too far and the water is so close.

Too close.

No no no no, his terrified mind wails.

“Mommy!” he hears Lily scream.

He grabs her hand hard as the wing hits the water. His body is thrown forward against his seatbelt as the plane shudders and shreds around him. The last thing he remembers is Lily’s scream and her hand ripped from his grasp.

Rhodey has never been so grateful for Tony’s uninvited and unsanctioned upgrades to his suit as he is right now. He’ll never tell Tony. It’ll make him even more insufferable than usual when he gets back—because he will make it back.

“Pop the top,” he says and immediately hears the releasing of thousands of small mechanisms within the suit. The pieces disengage from one another, and the suit falls away, allowing him his first full breath since Thanos had crushed the suit around him.

Slowly, he pulls himself out of the suit frame. His robotic exoskeleton pulls free with him, only slightly damaged from the fight and fall. He pulls the removable com from the suit and is about to put it in when the forest around him falls silent.

Eerily silent.

“James?” Sam calls over the com.

“Sam?” he asks, relieved. He’s alright, thank God, “where are you?”

He’s met with silence.

“Can anyone hear me?” he tries after a moment.

Nothing.

“Damn,” he swears and starts walking as fast as he can to where he’d last seen Thanos.

“Sam?” he calls again, desperation and fear creeping into his voice. “Sam!?”

“Steve?” he hears Sam say over the com, but nothing more.

He pushes himself to run as fast as he can, but even then it takes precious minutes to reach the empty clearing where Thanos had stood. He runs again, his hips screaming at the stress, until he finds them. Bruce, Oyoke, the alien raccoon, Thor, and Steve, standing with Sam’s wing pack slung over his shoulder. Nat stands closeby, and they both wear matching expressions of disbelief.

But no Sam.

“Steve,” he says, and he’s suddenly terrified. Because Steve is here and so are Sam’s wings but Sam isn’t here. Sam isn’t here.

“Steve, where’s Sam?”

Steve sits stunned in the quiet meadow amongst the swirling ash of his friends.

“Oh, God,” he says, running his hand over the spot where Sam had just been.

He was so sure that they were going to make it. The gauntlet had been in his hands, he’d been so close. In the end, he hadn’t been strong enough. Thanos’ strength combined with the power of the stones had been beyond anything he’d ever gone up against before.

From across the clearing, he heard the soft snap of Thanos’ fingers.

How could something so soft rip their world apart?

“James?” Sam had called out, so full of fear that Steve’s head had whipped towards his voice. Rhodey was nowhere to be seen so it was Steve’s eyes that Sam had locked with. Sam had lifted a hand to Steve and they’d staggered toward one another, one step, then two, when Steve noticed the ash floating from Sam’s fingertips.

“Steve?” Sam had asked fearfully, but Steve hadn’t any answers for his best friend. Steve had reached out again, but too late. Suddenly, Sam was gone, collapsed into ash, leaving only his wings behind on the ground.

Steve’s legs had shaken as he’d turned in a circle until they’d finally given out and he’d slumped to the ground where he sits now.

Snap

It will be the sound that haunts Steve’s every waking moment.

Pain is the first thing Bucky registers. It radiates throughout his body, dull in some places, sharp and stabbing in others. He feels too heavy, immovable where he lies. It’s a monumental task to curl and flex his fingers, digging into the gritty sand and smooth pebbles. The heaviness increases and he slips back into unconsciousness.

I don’t remember going to the beach, he thinks when he surfaces again, but he can hear the gentle sound of water on the dark shore, so close to him and so cold. It’s a bone-chilling, steal your breath cold. Instinctually, he tries moving away from it, and the pain in his body flairs to life again and shoves him back into unconsciousness.

He’s able to open his eyes the next time he comes around. It’s not dark like he’d thought, but he is on a beach—the sand and pebbles under his hands and cheek are real. Cold water laps at his legs.

Where…what happened…

He tries to think back, his head protesting, but he pushes through it. They’d left the house, boarded the plane, and they were taking one last turn and then...ash.

The pilot had turned to ash, and he had grabbed for Lily’s hand. Lily.

Panic wins out over pain. He pushes himself up onto his hands and knees and slowly crawls away from lake water. It hurts, God, it hurts more than anything, but he manages to make it a couple of feet before collapsing face-first into the sand. His chest heaves with sobs and groans where he collapses.

Once the pain recedes, he pushes him further before the agonizing task of turning himself over so he can sit up. It takes a long time, but once he's done it, he looks up and down the shoreline. Debris floats atop the lake and litters the shore, but there’s no plane—and no family.

“Mom?”

He calls again and again, with no response. He calls for Becca and Lily. And then his dad. No one calls back.

He wraps his arms around his knees and shivers. And he waits.

“Steve?” Nat’s hand slides along his shoulder. “We need to head back to the palace and regroup.”

Regroup. When half of them just drifted off on the warm Wakandan wind. How?

He’d had his hands around the gauntlet. He’d been pulling as hard as he could. And then: snap. And then Sam.

“Steve,” Nat says again, and he knows she’s right. They need to regroup. There must be something they can do, and he can’t do it here on the ground. She sticks her hand out to help him up, and when he’s up, they share a look of anguish.

Snap, he hears in his memory. It should have been louder, he thinks. It should have been like a knife to his ear, like lightning striking and thunder cracking, like the sound of artillery from the war.

“We should search,” he gestures around them. “See if anyone needs medical assistance.”

See how bad it is, he wants to say. But it’s already bad.

He and Natasha start moving. Thor trails behind them, and they pick up Bruce and Okoye, and slowly the other survivors begin to gravitate toward them. He listens to the voices still calling out, searching for lost friends, teammates, and lovers. He was wrong before. This will be the sound that haunts him.

Bucky’s toes are freezing.

His toes are freezing and his shoes are missing. It’s an absurd thing to worry about, but he can’t help but notice as looks down at his waterlogged socks, speckled with sand and dirt. The sky is beginning to dim in the east, the temperature dropping every minute so that his breath starts to cloud with each exhale. He left his coat in the plane, wedged between him and Lily so she could use it as a pillow if she needed a nap. He hopes that she has it, out there in the woods to keep her warm.

He shivers and flexes his fingers and toes. He should move. It’s going to be dark and he should go. He can’t seem to move past the thought. Go, go, go. It’s cold and he should go. He’s wet and tired and hurt and it’s getting dark and he’s alone. He should go.

Maybe try to find shelter, he finally thinks. It’s the first real concrete thought he’s had and he’s determined to keep hold of it. ‘Go find shelter’ becomes his entire world. He repeats it, so he doesn’t lose it again.

Find shelter. Leave the beach. Get warm. Find somewhere safe.

Better to think of shelter than his missing family and the pilot turning to ash.

There’s nothing to the right but more beach and darkening wilderness. The pines stand tall over him, the fading light makes them look ominous.

To the left, the lake extends onwards and then curves. There’s nothing that he can see, not from here. But a thought tickles right at the front of his brain. It’s so close. The lake extends. The lake curves around a bend. And beyond the bend…

He laughs. He forgot the cabin. How could he have forgotten the cabin? The week getaway for their family. His dad’s apology to Bucky’s mom.

The cabin. That’s where his family is, waiting for him to get there.

He turns over onto his hands and knees and tries to get his feet under him. His entire torso is one large ache from shoulder to hip but he forces himself to focus on the task. After a few attempts, he’s swaying and crying again, but upright. Every step sends a new wave of agony through his body but he’s determined to get away from this spot. His family is waiting for him. He limps his way onward, following the shoreline and then around the bend where he can finally see the outline of the cabin.

It’s a good four hundred meters away, an entire quarter of a mile. Bucky had run track his freshman year and the four hundred was his most hated event. He wasn’t even any good at it. There wasn’t really any pacing involved, it just ended up being a full out sprint around the track. He hated it.

This is worse. At one hundred meters, he’s broken into a cold sweat and gritting his teeth. At two hundred meters he’s openly sobbing. His legs give out at three hundred meters so he crawls until he can barely do that. By the time he reaches the porch, he’s dragging himself on his stomach, kicking forward with his feet, scraping the dirt under his hands. He can’t focus on much once he pulls himself up the steps to the door. Darkness creeps in at the edges of his vision as he makes a grab for the doorknob.

Locked. Bucky lets out a sob and slides down the door. Why would they lock the door? They should be expecting him. They should be here. Maybe he just needs to wait a little longer, which works out because his aching body isn’t going to move one more inch, so he closes his eyes and lets the exhaustion creep back in and overtake him.

Rhodey’s phone buzzes on the bed beside him. It’s late and he sends the call to voicemail. He knows who it is. Ross, or rather, one of Ross’ assistants calling for an update. When will he be returning to the States? What is the status of Wakanda? What is the status of the Avengers?

And if he was answering his phone, he'd give the same answers as before.

Tomorrow. Devastated. Broken.

But he’s not answering. Because he needs to rest. The entire universe just went through a traumatic event, but Ross and his assistant didn’t fight Thanos. They don’t have the guilt that he has lying on his chest, crushing him, because he couldn’t stop Thanos and now Sam is gone.

Sam is gone.

And he hasn’t been able to reach his sister or his nephew. And half the world is gone. And it’s all because they couldn’t stop Thanos.

So, he’s not going to answer his phone tonight. Tonight he’s going to lay in this bed where he and Sam had made love twelve hours ago and feel the full weight of his devastation. He’s going to hold Sam’s pillow and try not to break apart, but if he does, then he does. He’s been through enough therapy, and been in the front row seat of too many of Tony’s breakdowns, to know what he shouldn’t do. Answering the phone is something he shouldn’t do. It can wait until morning.

He rolls over and pulls Sam’s pillow to his body. He hugs it tight and closes his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, disturbing the silence of the room. They are the only words he’s spoken since Steve left him with a soft click of the apartment door.

Their relationship had begun with those words too. Not in the simple day to day way, like, I’m sorry I didn’t do the dishes or I’m sorry I didn’t take out the trash, but in the most serious of ways. He’d just been treated by the best surgeons Tony’s money and guilt could buy when he found out what had happened after he’d fallen.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” he’d said from outside the cell. Sam had gotten up then and walked close to the barrier. With a glare, he had folded his arms across his chest and waited for Rhodey to continue.

“You don’t belong here,” he continued.

“You know Rhodey,” he’d been Rhodey back then, not James. “None of us belong here.”

“I agree,” he’d said, “and so I’ve got some help with me.”

T’Challa, Nat, Oyoke, and Steve had stepped out of the shadows and they’d taken anyone who wanted to go with them. That had been the beginning. T’Challa had given Sam and the others sanctuary in Wakanda and he’d stayed the night at Sam’s new place. They’d talked more that night than they had the entire time they’d known each other back in the States.

They’d talked about their childhoods and their families, school, and college. They talked about their decision to enlist, the why’s and the how’s, and they commiserated over drill instructors and shitty duty assignments.

They did not talk about Tony and Steve and the fight that led them there.

In the morning, Sam had stood in the doorway and grasped his hand, making the first move, and told him to come to see him again.

So, he had. Over and over again.

It may have been complicated, but it had been so worth the risk and they'd been happy in Wakanda. It had been the happiest he’d ever been, even if he had to keep his relationship secret from Tony. Or maybe the relationship had flourished because it was totally void of Tony’s influence and speculation, a rarity in his life.

His relationship with Sam was something that he could hold separate and safe.

Until he couldn’t.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers again, and then, incredibly, he drifts off to sleep.

“You should get some rest,” Nat says, dropping heavily into the seat next to him.

“Hypocrite,” he shoots back.

She shrugs and for a while, they sit in silence watching the room men and women work around them.

“Rhodey?” she asks.

“In his room.”

Rhodey had waved off Steve’s offer to stay, which he was secretly grateful for. Not that he doesn’t like Rhodey. They had always been friendly, with the one and obvious exception of the Accords. But Rhodey had been willing to risk his career and freedom to break Sam and the others out of the Raft and after that, he’d become a regular in Wakanda when he started dating Sam.

But, he’s still Tony’s best friend.

“That’s good.”

“You see the others?” he asks her.

“I believe Thor is pacing out in the garden. The raccoon...the alien talking raccoon,” she says in disbelief, “is with him.”

He nods, “I think Tree was with them. Did you meet Tree? I think...I think they’re gone too.”

“A tree?”

“I think they said their name was Groot?”

“A talking tree and raccoon.”

“Yeah.”

“What a day,” she whispers.

“Yeah.”

They fall quiet again. The monitors on the walls flicker and change as calls stream through the emergency services and information is tabulated. Somewhere else, analysts are pouring over the data in more detail, looking for patterns, clues that might help them.

“They’re sitting steady at twenty-five percent missing,” Nat says. “But Okoye says that they still have a lot of towns that haven’t reported in.”

Wakanda is, unsurprisingly, ahead in collecting data on the missing. Queen Ramonda had directed emergency response teams to coordinate with counterparts all over the country to determine the snap’s impact. Internationally, most countries haven’t even begun to report numbers and once they do there’s no telling how accurate they’ll be.

“Any word on Clint?” he asks and her face twists, putting another mask in place just as another layer of sadness is added.

“It’s just him now,” she says, looking away. “I offered for him to come to the compound tomorrow, but he shot that down.”

“Damn.”

“I think he blames me,” she says.

“No, Nat. He’s in shock. He doesn’t blame you.” He says it with as much conviction as possible, but he doesn’t believe it himself. He blames them. He blames himself. The gauntlet had been warm in his hands. The stones glowed and they were so close.

They pass the night watching the numbers rise. Nat’s phone buzzes from time to time with updates from contacts around the globe. They watch international coverage. Hour by hour Steve feels his anger grow, burning away the self-pity. By morning, he’s enraged by the level of hurt and destruction that Thanos felt entitled to wreak upon the universe and he’s ready to do what Steve Rogers does best.

Fight.

Bucky wakes up on the porch, though he's not sure if waking up is the right word, more like regaining consciousness. He doesn’t feel rested and his body hurts just as much as it did the night before. But, his head does feel clearer, if just a bit. He feels just a little less hysterical, a little less like he’s breaking apart. But, physically, he’s still a mess. In the light of the early morning, he can see cuts and bruises littering his hands and arms. He lifts his shirt just enough for the deep purple bruising to be visible before dropping it back down.

He repeats the painful process of getting up from last night but this time he uses the door to lean against. He limps to the porch railing and uses it to keep him upright while he looks out. It’s his first real look at the cabin and the lake because he absolutely doesn’t count yesterday, when he was half out of his mind. In front of him, the lake is so calm it looks like glass. There’s a small dock, presumably where they were supposed to depart the plane. The lakeshore curves out of sight, but he knows that if he follows the shore he’ll end up back where he woke up yesterday.

The surrounding woods are quiet, giving the forest an eerie feeling. Why is it so quiet? He’d have thought that there would be more sounds of wildlife in the morning.

It’s slow going down the porch steps. His socks are still damp, but the thought of bending over to take them off sounds so painful that he’d rather suffer through keeping them on. Stepping carefully, he slowly makes his way around the cabin, using the siding for support, looking for an unlocked door or window with no luck. He keeps breaking a window as a last option. He doesn’t want to break one especially when he’s not sure if he could physically climb through a window at the moment.

He guesses that if he doesn’t find a way in soon, he’s not going to have a choice. Maybe though, he can lift Lily up and she can squeeze through the window. Whenever his family decides to turn up, that is. It’s unsettling, being here alone in the quiet forest. Last night, he’d been so sure they were waiting at the cabin for him.

Now he feels anxious at the thought that maybe he’s left them all on their own. They could just be out in the woods, hurt, and he left them alone instead of looking for them. He’d only thought about himself. He didn’t even look, just yelled their names a few times. He needs to find them. He can’t imagine how scared Lily must be.

He makes it back to the front of the cabin and takes a hasty look at the lake again, noting nothing changed from this morning or last night. Going into the woods is his only option now. Getting lost in the woods scares him too, but it is the only logical place to look, so he forces himself to move. He keeps close enough to the lake at first but he gets braver the longer he’s out. He ventures further and further away until he can’t see the water through the trees. But as long as he doesn’t go too far, he should be able to stay oriented to where the cabin is. So, he keeps moving further and further until he starts seeing parts of the plane. Small pieces and then larger chunks and then it’s there in front of him…the cockpit.

And then, he finds his dad.

When he wakes the next morning, Rhodey almost forgets what had happened the day before.

Almost.

The phone vibrates on the bed next to him. He groans and picks it up.

“Rhodes,” he answers.

“Colonel Rhodes?” a young voice asks, sounding relieved. “Oh good. This is Airman First Class Jennings, Sir.”

He digs his fingertips into the pressure point right above his eyes, hoping for some relief from the growing tension, and pushes down his annoyance at being hounded. “Go ahead, Airman,” he says as kindly as he can manage, reminding himself that this kid is probably scared too—statistically, had most certainly lost someone yesterday too.

“The General, General Ross, that is, he’s inquiring after your itinerary for today. What time will you be arriving stateside? Sir.”

He pushes his fingertips in harder. “Tell the General that I will call him with my ETA once I’m in the air. I’ll see him in D.C. today or first thing tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow?” the Airman squeaks and then hastily adds, “Sir?”

“Is that a problem Airman First Class Jennings?” losing the precious bit of patience he had gathered moments before.

“No. No, Sir. Not to me, Sir. Thank you for your time, Sir.” The call disconnects.

He lets the phone slip from his hand and takes a few deep breaths that do nothing to settle his nerves before hefting himself out of bed. He looks around the apartment, mentally deciding on what to pack and what to leave behind for storage.

His chest aches thinking about the task.

“Fuck it,” he says. Coffee first, then packing.

He’d been looking for his shoes.

When he’d started seeing the bits of the plane here and there he’d switched from Operation Find Family to thinking that maybe his shoes would turn up. Then bits and pieces had turned into a trail and then he’d been stepping carefully over the wreckage. And then his world shifted.

He’s never seen anyone dead before and it knocks the breath from his lungs, seeing the stiff corpse of his dad among the trees and brush and ruin of their plane.

It’s the khaki fisherman’s vest that causes him to freeze where he stands. Then he forces himself to keep going, step after step punctuated with harsh breaths. Ten feet away from his dad, he collapses against a tree and tries to stop the panic overtaking him. He can’t tear his eyes away from the vest. Bucky had rolled his eyes when his dad had brought it home. His dad, who had never fished a day in his life, had gone all out on his vacation wardrobe. New pants with plenty of pockets, insect shielding shirts, and ultra-low temperature rated hiking boots. His dad had offered to take Bucky with him, but Bucky had declined. Declined rudely, as he remembers.

What he wouldn’t give for a do-over.

He pushes himself up and backs away from the body. He feels metal bits from the plane dig into his feet but he doesn't care. He just needs to go. Go away from this place and sit and think, or maybe sit and not think because his body is rebelling against him. He’s hot and cold and he’s walking but he can’t feel his body, and he can hear his own ragged breaths but it doesn’t feel like he’s breathing. He just needs to go and sit and not think and just be.

He stumbles as he breaks through the brush and finds himself back at the beach. He sags down onto the ground, curls into himself on hands and knees, and drags his fingers through the sand. He stays like that until the mantra of dad’s dead, dad’s dead, dad’s dead, loses its incapacitating edge and he can push himself away from the sand.

He looks back in the direction of the cabin his dad had rented. Bucky can imagine him at home, sitting at his desk researching. God, he researched everything. He’d found the cabin, the perfect place to spend time with his family, and booked it. He’d chartered the small plane. He’d planned every detail because he wanted to be with his family.

And now he was dead in the woods.

The mantra continues in his head, now punctuated with the sad scenes of his dad’s excitement over the trip. He must have opened every zipper and pouch on that vest to show Bucky. That vest, Bucky thinks, looking back toward the cabin. There’s a river close by and fishing rods in the cabin. His dad even had lures hooked onto the vest. That vest, he thinks again, a memory nagging at him. And then he remembers and groans, his body rebelling in empathy. He hadn’t wanted to break the windows just yet and he’s glad he didn’t because he knows where the keys to the front door are.

They’re in that stupid khaki vest.

There’s a light tap at Sam’s door even though he had left it open for Steve and Nat after they’d given him a warning text of their arrival. Instead of coming in, they opt to stand in the doorway, shifting nervously until he rolls his eyes and waves them in.

“We’re mostly packed,” Nat says. Steve nods in apparent agreement but stays silent, eyes roaming around the apartment.

“I’m ready,” he tells her.

He’d tackled the task after his shower and coffee, making his way through the small apartment methodically. He didn’t touch his own belongings. He’s got stuff back at the compound. But, he wanted to take as many of Sam’s belongings with him as possible. And since Sam’s motto after being identified as a fugitive was to live lite, it went quickly.

Rhodey hates it. He hates that Sam, who would do anything to help anyone, felt like he needed to live like he’d have to run at a moment's notice. Even here under the protection of Wakanda.

He grabbed Sam’s duffle bag from the closet and opened it on the bed. In went Sam’s clothes and his favorite coffee mug, the one with the small cartoon Falcon and War Machine flying together. He never did figure out where Sam found it. He packed the few pictures and nicknacks from the shelves and went through every cupboard and every drawer until he was sure he had everything of sentimental value. Everything else will be safe in storage.

He looks around the room once more and closes his eyes. He can still imagine that it’s a regular morning and he and Sam have just woken to the soft sunlight streaming through the curtains. They kiss, soft and sweet. Maybe it grows heated, maybe not, but it’s full of love.

The unfairness sits heavy in his chest. They had made love here. They had a future here.

No, he decides. If that gauntlet could take Sam away from him then it can bring him back. He looks at Steve and Nat. There’s weariness and sadness there still, but there’s something else he didn’t see before, grappling with his own grief. There’s determination and there’s anger.

“We’re going to get them back,” he says.

Steve smiles and nods, but it’s not the propaganda smile. Not the bond-selling smile of the ’40s. This is the smile that promised pain and death to Hydra and Nazi soldiers. Good, that’s what they need.

“Let’s get it done,” Nat says.

He picks up the duffle and then, gently, Sam’s wings. He’ll keep them in perfect working order.

After all, Sam will need them once they figure out how to undo this mess.

The door to the cabin swings open.

Bucky shuffles through, exhausted, but finished.

His hands are stiff, blistered, and dirty from shoveling the hard ground.

Inside the door, he drops the keys onto the table before slowly bending over and unlacing the boots, and slipping them off. He closes and locks the door before walking the rest of the way to the small couch.

When he curls up, he fits perfectly on the sofa. So that's what he does, curls his body as small as he can. Three days post-crash and his body hurts so, so much, but his heart hurts more.

He looks at the ultra-low temperature rated hiking boot, runs his fingers over the zippers, pouches, and lures on the khaki vest he wears, and weeps.

Chapter Text

It’s late in the evening when Captain Danvers brings Tony home.

Steve stands outside the complex, hanging back with Natasha and Rocket while Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy wait closer as she sets the ruined spaceship down.

He watches as they rush to meet Tony. Pepper cries, her face a mixture of relief and heartache and worry. Worry, because Tony’s time in space is evident. He’s gaunt, sickly, and pale. He’s weak and unsteady on his feet, but his eyes flash with anger the moment they meet Steve’s. Happy keeps a gentle yet firm grasp on Tony’s waist to keep him from bolting at Steve. And then Rhodey is there putting up his hands and blocking Tony’s path to Steve.

“Now’s not the time, Tony,” Rhodey tells Tony calmly.

He can’t see Tony’s face, but the top of Tony’s head tilts down as if in acquiescence and the four of them move on toward the compound.

“That went well,” Natasha says.

“I guess Tony and I are picking up where we left off,” he says.

Nat shrugs her shoulders. “Not much we can do about that now. I don’t regret my choice. Do you?”

He’s taken a lot of time in the past weeks to put every choice he’s made over the last three years under a microscope. Could he have been more supportive of Tony’s idea of a global protection plan? Sure, but Ultron had been a catastrophic failure and Tony had never even discussed it with the team. Could he have signed onto the Accords? He could have. But then he would have been at the mercy of oversight. And who oversees them?

“No. I wouldn’t have done anything differently,” he tells her.

Natasha looks like she’s going to say more when they see more movement from the ship.

“Geez,” Rocket says from where he stands looking up into the spaceship, “you’re like a bad omen, lady.”

The other occupant, another survivor of the group who was with Tony steps forward and down the steps. She looks around, her black eyes scanning over him and Natasha and then back to Rocket. She smiles at him, a tight cruel thing.

“It makes sense,” she says, “that out of all of us, it would be you and I who were spared. The two most undeserving.”

Rocket looks down and Steve expects some kind of snide comment, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he sighs and runs his hand over his face, and nods. “Yeah, lucky universe. Come on, I’ll show you our new digs.”

Together, they pass by without a word.

“She’s very…” he trails off.

“Segmented?” Natasha suggests.

“I was going to say blue but, you’re not wrong.”

“That’s it,” Carol says after a moment of silence, “just the two of them on board.”

“Thank you, Captain,” he tells her, “really, I don’t know how to thank you.”

Differences aside, losing Tony had been a catastrophic loss to the planet. The man had resources and connections the rest of the team, when they had still been a team, relied heavily on. Having him back could make all the difference.

“Do you need a place to crash?” Nat asks.

“No, I can’t stay. I’ve got someone I need to be with,” Carol tells them with a sad smile. “But I’ll be in touch and I’ll be on-planet for the time being. You know how to get in contact with me if you need to.”

“We do. See you around,” he tells her, and then she’s gone.

He looks over at Nat, whose eyes follow the Captain’s flight path until she’s out of sight. She looks back over at him. “Our lives got real weird, real fast.”

“To be fair, I watched a man pull his face off over seventy years ago.”

“Point taken,” she says, smirking over at him “but did he fly?”

They place Tony in isolation for the first few weeks he’s back. He’s thin and vulnerable to any microbe that may make its way into his system. But once he’s out of immediate danger, he sets to interrogating Rhodey about every and all things related to Thanos.

He refuses at first, no matter how much Tony tries to get him to talk. And boy, does he try. Tony becomes angry, and when he’s angry he’s demanding and manipulative and so obnoxious. And Rhodey is so completely done, juggling his responsibilities, buried under his grief, and carrying the guilt of a second failed mission to defeat Thanos.

It takes a week for Rhodey to snap.

“I lost the kid, Rhodey,” Tony says, and that’s it—that’s the breaking point for him.

Here lies James Rhodes’ patience. Survived by his grief and anger and one week of Anthony Stark’s badgering.

“No,” he hisses at Tony and Rhodey doesn’t know what his face is doing but Tony must finally see the anger there because he sits up straighter in his bed and pushes himself back into the pillows. “There isn’t anyone, Tony, anyone, in this universe who didn’t lose someone to Thanos.”

“We could have been ready,” Tony argues.

“We could have never been ready for this.”

“If Vision had been with me, if the Avengers had still been together.”

“Thanos’ army would have found Vision wherever he had been. And we don't have half of the defensive technologies as Wakanda. Hell, a quarter of their tech even.”

“If they had just signed the Accords.”

“Tony!” he shouts. “Listen to me and believe me when I tell you that it would not have made a difference. Everyone on this planet is grieving right now. But the only people, the only people, who can share the guilt you feel on top of the loss are right here in this complex.”

Tony looks at him, shocked into silence and Rhodey thinks good. Good, look at me, see me, see what I lost. He watches the anger drain away and when Tony speaks again his voice is wretched and wrecked and broken, “we almost had him, Rhodey.”

“So did we,” he whispers back.

“We were so close and we almost had him,” Tony repeats before leaning forward and grabbing Rhodey’s hand.

The room is silent and still, blanketed by the heaviness of their guilt.

“I’m so sorry,” Tony says, at last. “I’m glad you’re here still. Did I tell you that? I don’t think I told you that. Rhodey, I’m so glad you’re here.”

He looks away from Tony. He hasn’t decided if he’s glad he’s still here. It’s so hard being the one left behind. It hurts so much.

“Rhodey,” Tony gives his hand another squeeze. “Forget Thanos. Tell me what happened with you, what I was too selfish to ask about before. Tell me everything...or whatever you’re willing to.”

He drops Tony’s hand and walks to the other side of the room to move one of the reclining chairs closer to the bed. He disengages the frame of his exoskeleton and lowers himself into the chair.

“Everything is a lot, Tone,” he says.

“I have the time,” Tony says back, “and, I would like to hear it.”

“You’re going to be mad.”

“I promise I won’t be mad.”

He considers for a minute and decides that yes, he wants Tony to know. He wants Tony to know how Thanos has hurt him.

“Alright,” he says, reclining back into the chair. “It started after the Accords and when I helped Steve break into the Raft.”

“Oh, everything begins with treason?”

“Tony.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Tony says with a smile, “continue.”

There's a pantry in the small kitchen that had only held a tiny supply of food—enough for a family of five to live off of for their one week stay, but not enough for Bucky and the months he’s been here. Not enough, even with not eating those first couple of days when his head was still fuzzy and he could still smell his father’s grave. Not when he hardly remembered to drink water until his throat was so dry he’d crawled his way to sink.

When he did finally eat, it was straight from the can. His hands shook holding the can opener he found in the drawer. He spilled half the chicken broth down the front of his filthy shirt and tried desperately not to think about his mom and how she would have shaken her head at him. But then that was all he could think about, all he could see. His mom and her hair up in a messy bun, her arms crossed and a small smile on her lips. Because she would have been annoyed, but she wouldn’t have been angry. He would have slurped the rest of his soup, changed his shirt and that would have been that.

Simpler times.

He does his best to make the food in his cabin last. He rations his portions until his body trembles and his stomach cramps. He hears his sister’s voice, cajoling him, cursing him to get up. Get up you idiot, he hears her say. But food be damned, the thought of leaving the immediate area terrifies him. What other horrors will venturing outside bring him?

When he’s down to his last three cans of soup, Becca’s voice is joined by their dad’s. Bucky nearly shakes apart at the sound and softness of his dad’s words. He doesn’t feel like he deserves them. His guilt is still so raw, his regrets so insurmountable. But he must want it because his dad’s words are gentle and kind and Bucky believes them. He listens to them.

Days later, he rolls out of bed.

Today's the day, he thinks while he staggers out the backdoor and heads to the outhouse. That was also something dad had neglected to tell them. There’s running water for the kitchen and a small sink in the ‘bathroom’, but no indoor plumbing, so...an outhouse it is.

Back inside the small bathroom, he looks at himself in the mirror. You wouldn’t think that a month would change a person so much but...here he is. The baby fat that stubbornly clung to his cheeks no matter how much he worked out is gone. His hair, which was already in need of a trim, looks shaggier than ever, growing down almost to his ears. And he hasn’t been able to shave so now there’s a scraggly, patchy beard attempting to grow on his face. At least he has plenty of toothpaste so he doesn’t have to feel his teeth rotting in his mouth.

Today’s the day, he thinks to himself in the mirror again. He can do this. He can leave the safety of the cabin. He will do it and he’ll take one of the trails—the one to the left—the one farthest away from…

No. He’s not thinking about that today.

He’ll take the path to the left. He’ll follow it as far as he can. And then he’ll come back and it’ll all be fine. It will all be fine.

He laces his boots and pulls his vest from where it hangs inside the door. He doesn’t lock the door behind him. If there’s going to be a rescue, and at this point, he’s doubtful of that happening, he’s alright with finding them waiting in the small living room for him.

At the back of the cabin, he faces three trails before moving to the one at the far left. He makes it another few steps before lurching to a stop, looking back at the cabin, frozen with uncertainty, terrified of leaving, and not being able to find his way back.

But…he has to go. Because hope all he might, there’s a chance that no one will come for him.

The path slopes uphill for a mile before leveling out. He’s a shaking mess by the time he reaches the top. He collapses at the base of a tree and stays there, sweaty and breathless for so long that even the sparse chirping and buzzing of the forest resumes around him. When he can finally get his legs under him again without feeling like he’s going to pass out, he moves through the woods for another mile before the trees begin to thin more and more until…there’s a cabin and his breath catches at the sight. A cabin means people, it means there’s some chance he’s not alone.

The thing is huge.

A monstrosity, he hears in his father’s voice.

It’s got to be at least four times the size of his own. But it’s amazing and beautiful and more than Bucky could have ever anticipated. All of its three stories are wood paneling, high windows, and natural rock. One large balcony jets out toward him and wraps around the second floor, out of sight. He tries to get a look through the windows from where he stands, maybe there’s someone inside, but no matter the angle he tries there’s a glare that doesn’t let him see. He moves a step closer and pauses and when nothing changes he walks cautiously to the front door and knocks.

And knocks again. Then again harder and harder until he’s pounding at the unyielding wood. Around the side of the cabin he finds the staircase leading up to the balcony, finding himself in front of the wall of tall windows. He moves closer until his face is pressed all the way up against the windows and he still can’t see inside.

“What the hell?” he whispers.

He tries the door further down the balcony, knocks against it, yells, pleads until he tries pulling on the door handle. He grunts as he pulls up and down, finally giving the door a little kick in frustration.

“Ouch…fuck,” he hisses, shaking his foot.

He turns and walks back toward the staircase, dragging his fingertips along the glass windows and then over the wooden...he stops and turns, his fingers still up against the house. He scrapes his fingernails over the siding and finds that it’s not made of wood at all. He knocks his knuckles against it, pushes into it, scrapes, and digs his short fingernails into the material. It’s solid, with no give and no peeling. It’s not siding like his house has back home. It’s not wood or stucco or cement. He’s not sure what it is, but now that he’s looking, it’s everywhere. It’s the same when he explores out back. The back door and the large shed are just as sturdy as anything else he’s found.

Well, he thinks, only one thing to do.

He walks to the edge of the clearing and finds a rock the perfect size for busting windows. He walks, tossing the rock up and then catching it. Up and down, all the way up the stairs. Obviously, this is the only option, he thinks, looking at the line of windows, considering his options. He decides on a spot, takes two steps away from the window, pulls his arm back, and throws the rocks as hard as he can—and watches it bounce harmlessly off the window and to the balcony floor.

He looks from the glass to the rock with confusion before trying again. And again. And when nothing happens, he pounds at the window until he’s out of breath and weak all over again. He leans heavily against the unbroken window, letting the rock drop to the ground. He runs his fingers over the glass again—not even a scratch.

“What the hell?” he whispers again.

Defeated and hungry, he heads back to the trail that takes him home.

“He wants to talk.”

Steve shovels another bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth and keeps his eyes cast down on his plate. He chews slowly, hoping that Rhodey doesn’t take offense to his hesitancy. He knows they have to speak, they have to air out their grievances if they have any hope of working together. The fork clatters against his plate. He wipes his mouth and nods, finally looking up at Rhodey.

Rhodey looks exhausted, wrung out, and full of sorrow. They haven’t talked yet either, not really. Not about the one person who mattered most to the both of them. He’s practiced how he would begin the conversation. Locked away, in the safety of his own room, he recites the words in his mind but when he opens his mouth...he chokes on Sam’s name. It lodges itself in his chest and he can’t push through it.

“Okay,” he says with another nod and pushes himself from the table.

He follows Rhodey in silence, down the corridors to the medical bay staffed with a skeleton crew of medics and nurses who never seem to shake the haunted look from their eyes. Maybe that’s all of them now. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen anyone smile, heard anyone laugh.

Your fault, his mind helpfully supplies.

His fault that no one can laugh and no one can smile. The hallows beneath Rhodey’s eyes—his fault. The loss Nat tries to cover—his fault.

Rhodey turns to him, “one thing.”

He releases a breath, makes himself appear as calm as possible. “I promise just to listen. I know he’s still recuperating and I don’t —”

“No,” Rhodey interrupts, “that’s not what I’m worried about.” His mouth twists the side and he rests his hands on his hips as he deliberates. “I love Tony. He’s my best friend and he’s been through a lot...but he doesn’t have a monopoly on loss. And you don’t own any more blame in the outcome than anyone else.”

“Okay,” he manages.

His heart wants to believe that’s true even as his mind works to reject the words. He takes a step forward and pats Rhodey’s shoulder as he reaches for the door, “thanks, Rhodey.”

Bucky overturns the rock and twists his fingers into the cool dark soil, repeating the motion until he’s turned up a dozen fat earthworms. One by one he plucks them from their home and drops them into the small styrofoam container. His stomach growls as he drops the fattest one and closes the container.

I am not eating another worm, he thinks. He will, of course, if he’s got to. But if it comes down to it, he’ll find himself some grubs and cook them over the small stove in the cabin.

Mmmmmm, that was a juicy one, Jamie, his sister’s voice taunts in his ear.

“Shut up,” he tells her and when he turns his head he sticks his tongue out at her because she had never in her life been so hungry that she laid in the dirt shoving plump bugs past her lips so she didn’t die.

Nothing wrong with a few bugs here and there, his dad says. That’s what the survival book says anyhow.

Bucky knows. Bucky read the book once he figured out that pillaging the nearby cabin wasn’t going to happen.

Bucky wipes the dirt from his knees and walks the small deer trail leading to the river. He can hear the gurgling and rush of water before he breaks the crest of the hill and if he focuses, he can make out the promise of rougher water further down the river. He turns away and moves upstream where he knows the water is calmer and hopes the fish are in a biting mood.

It’s a lucky thing for him his dad had been enthusiastic about the opportunity to fish in the river and catch their own dinner. In the back corner closet of the living room, Bucky found four poles, a small tackle box, and a thin beginner’s fishing book. It is not the same book that taught Bucky how to find grubs and worms and grasshoppers to eat. That one he’d found shoved in the couch.

So, once he finds a spot he likes he settles down to read over his directions again before making his way closer to the riverbank.

It’s all in the wrist, his dad says.

“I know,” he mutters back. “Be quiet, you’re going to scare the fish.”

He’s going to scare the fish, Becca says from the shore. Even in his head, she won’t set foot into the river.

And ruin these shoes? She says, picking up a foot and inspecting the strappy sandal for any dirt.

Those aren’t exactly 'camping appropriate', his dad tells her.

“Could you two stop?” he hisses before casting...into the tree...again.

“Fuck!”

Shhh, you’ll scare the fish, Becca cackles.

Bucky groans and goes to untangle his line, again.

He moves to a new place in D.C., despite Sam never having stepped foot in the old one. The housing market is in disarray and he finds it both easy to find an open house and difficult to actually close. Everything is in shambles so eventually, he simply moves into the house. He figures the mortgage company will catch up at some point. Or maybe it won’t—even better.

The new house is nice. He’d say it’s in a quiet neighborhood but they all seem to be quiet these days. When he walks in after a long day at work, he can breathe. There are no memories of walking through the door after saying goodbye to Sam, no memories of leaving to sneak into Wakanda.

There are miles of paths cutting across his neighborhood that he likes to explore. He’s just finished his workout when he sees it through the billowing white cloud of his breath.

He squints up into the sky, shielding his eyes the best he can, and watches the falcon soar. He doesn’t believe in signs. He doesn’t believe that Sam is out there somewhere sending him a falcon six months to the day he was stolen from him. He doesn’t believe that.

But…

But there’s something there, a thought, an idea, unformed and indecipherable, but percolating in the back of his mind while he watches the bird catch the wind and glide out of view, leaving only the thought trapped in Rhodey’s mind and a small feather drifting down, down, down, gently to the earth.

His sister was supposed to have been married in the fall. Her fiance’s grandparents had gifted them the use of their home and Becca had wanted to exchange vows near the small pond as the leaves turned from green to red and gold.

Bucky doesn’t understand why no one has come looking for her. He thinks about it a lot. He’s never been in love, but he would like to think if his fiance disappeared, that he’d go looking. Everything is so wrong.

He just doesn’t understand.

Now, so many days have passed that he doesn’t even know the date, he’s not even certain of the month. But…he watched the last of the leaves drop from the trees weeks ago and the air has turned cool, as tender of a warning as winter is likely to give…and his sister was supposed to have been married in the fall.

The large cabin up the hill has remained another mystery, but that mystery he’s determined to solve. The cold snap has ushered in a new sense of urgency. He’s resolved to find a way in because he knows there must be something useful inside. More food, a coat, and a phone would be a great start.

Dead leaves crunch under his boots as he navigates the now familiar path. He rounds the cabin like he’s done at least once a week since he found it. The place is a damn fortress. Once he had gained back his strength, he tried busting down the doors again and nearly dislocated his shoulder for his trouble. All the windows are shatterproof and he can’t find a way to remove them.

Desperation and frustration had even led to him setting a small fire. That’s when the voice came, calm and even-toned. It terrified him until his brain caught up with his racing heart and he nearly yelled himself hoarse. The voice didn’t return until he tried for another fire, only to realize with crushing defeat that it was some elaborate security system.

What are you going to try this time? He turns and watches the specter of his sister dancing across the fallen leaves. She’s in her wedding gown and she holds her arms out in front of her as if she’s embracing her wife. She looks over her shoulder at him. I should be married now. Did you know?

He clears his throat and curses his brain's macabre coping mechanism.

“I know,” he says carefully, trying to avoid the minefield of ‘should be’s’ living in his mind.

You could imagine her here with me, she says, dropping her arms.

“You wouldn’t have wanted that,” he whispers. His sister would have wanted Lark safe and not here with her.

That’s why you don’t ever see—

“There’s power going into that cabin,” he says, interrupting that dangerous string of thoughts. He focuses on the cabin again. “I’m going to cut it and see if that gets me in the door.”

Do you know how to do that?

“I mean, it can’t be that hard right? I figured out where the generator is, I just need to turn it off. Piece of cake.”

And the voice?

He shrugs. “I think it’s a recording,” he says. “Maybe it’s only triggered by fire?”

Everything is a guess at this point. Even cutting power to the cabin. He has no idea what good it’ll do. Maybe it won’t do anything. But maybe it will…he’s been here too long to care at this point. He blows on his hands to warm them as he walks to the generator.

For months he had overlooked the thing, walking by until one day the sunlight caught it just right and he noticed a perfect seam down the side of the rock. Once he’d sat himself down beside it he could hear the low hum of electricity. When he placed his hand against the surface, he could feel the minute vibrations.

It’s clearly more complex than the one sitting idle next to his cabin. That one doesn’t look like a large decorative rock, for one thing. And his runs off of gasoline, which is unfortunate since he ran out months ago. This one, well, no one has been swinging by to top it off. He’s not sure what it’s running off of. He sits down in the dirt and presses his hand down along the seam.

Take your time, his dad says, appearing over his shoulder in full dad mode, humming and mumbling about projects and tools.

“I am,” he answers.

You gotta be careful with electricity.

“I know.”

It’s not something to play around with.

“Oh my god. I know, dad.”

There’s a flat panel on the side of the generator that looks promising. He brought the small toolbox from his cabin with him, but the panel slides open with only a gentle press from his fingertips. The panel houses a myriad of complex looking components but only one toggle switch helpfully labeled ‘On’ and ‘Off’. He hesitates, the options seeming too easy. Nothing has been easy since he’s been here. He looks at his dad.

You’ve come this far, his dad says. It would be a shame to turn around now.

Bucky moves the toggle to ‘Off’ and the gentle hum stops.

He presses the panel door again and it soundlessly slides closed again. He grabs the toolbox and makes his way to the back door. He kneels in front of the doorknob and this, he thinks joyfully, is actually something he has done before, both here and earlier when he decided that he was old enough to have a lock on his door since some people didn’t know how to knock.

So sorry, comes Becca’s sarcastic reply. She’s out of her wedding gown at least, giving Bucky’s brain a reprieve.

It doesn’t take long to take apart the doorknob assembly with his screwdriver. The first time he had taken this doorknob off had ended in frustration, just like everything else he had tried. The deadbolt hadn’t budged one bit and Bucky had sat in front of the door, legs crossed, staring at the door, convinced that the deadbolt was made of the same indestructible material as the rest of the house. The knob came off easily enough, but the deadbolt was completely immovable.

This time though, with the generator silent, he easily slides the deadbolt back and the door swings open.

“I did it!” he yells, turning around.

Great. You gonna just stay out there or are you coming in? Becca asks from inside.

“I’m coming,” he responds with a roll of his eyes.

He brings his tools and the doorknob into the mudroom and closes the door behind him. He stares in front of him. A washer and dryer, in nearly pristine condition, stand off to the side. He’s been boiling water and washing his clothes by hand as often as he dares. But, maybe, if there’s water, he could start coming here and using the washer.

Do you even know how to use a washing machine?

“Shut up, Becca. Yes, I know how to wash my own clothes,” he huffs at her before moving on.

James Barnes, I know you’re not about to walk through someone’s home with your filthy shoes on, his mom says.

He smiles, “Sorry, mom.”

He’s giddy with excitement. It’s not often his brain conjures his mom. This is turning into such a good day. He slips out of his boots and walks up the steps to the living room.

“Wow,” he whispers, making a circuit of the room. Large bookshelves flanks both sides of the fireplace, one side filled with books on technology—physics, mechanics, biomechanics—not exactly what Bucky would consider light reading for a getaway.

The other half of the bookshelf is devoted to biographies. Many of them are from World War II, which will go to the bottom of the reading pile. He just had a section on that in school before leaving for the cabin. Some of the other titles look more interesting. There are five just on Tony Stark and those have got to be interesting given the life he’s led—before disappearing on an alien ship that is.

There’s a rocking chair with a basket of knitting supplies next to it and the living room window that Bucky had tried to break over and over. And also, there’s the biggest couch Bucky has ever seen.

Focus. You came for food, not luxuries, Becca tells him.

“But it’s so big. Look at it. And no one is here. I could stay here…”

And leave us down the hill? Her remark is cutting and cruel. He doesn’t want to leave them there. But he could be so much more comfortable here.

And is that what you deserve, Bucky? she asks him. To be comfortable?

His stomach twists in shame and guilt. No. It’s not at all what he deserves. He leaves the living room without answering.

He stomps his way into the kitchen and stops, stunned. Jackpot, he thinks. There’s an electric stove and oven unlike the wood burning fossil he’s been using and a sink practically big enough to bathe in, and there...a huge pantry that’s stocked full of non-perishables and a lot of them aren’t even that expired. He starts grabbing can after can, putting them into his backpack.

Don’t take it all, his dad says. Be smart. Leave some up here just in case.

He nods and puts a few of the cans back promising himself that he can always come back for more, now that he knows how to get in. Before leaving the kitchen he tries the kitchen faucet and a steady stream of water falls after a sputtering start. The water runs over his hands and he can’t help himself from dreaming of what the water pressure in the shower might be like here.

Next time.

He strolls through the rest of the house, poking his head into each room, flushing the toilets…dreams do come true, and being an all-around snoop. There’s just so much to take in. Back in the living room, he looks out the windows and onto the balcony. From here, he can see just fine—none of the issues he has from the outside looking in. Whoever lives here really wants their privacy. He decides to take a few books from the bookshelves, one that seems like the easiest mechanics book and a biography called Stark Raving Mad: How Howard Stark Birthed the War Industry.

You should get going, his dad says. Bucky nods, watching the sun start descending below the highest treetops. He looks around one more time, longing to stay but knowing he’d feel too guilty.

But you can come back, his dad adds.

“Yeah,” he whispers to the empty room. “I’ll be back.”

“Right there is perfect, Steve,” Pepper tells him, and thank God because he’s exhausted from moving this bookshelf from one end of the room to the other. Not physically—physically, he could do this all day—but mentally, he’s so tired.

“Are you ready for a break?” he asks when he notices Pepper rubbing at her stomach.

“What about me?” Tony complains, dropping another box into the living room.

“You just had a break, Tony,” Pepper tells him, shoving at him in playful exasperation as Tony smiles at her, pulling her into a hug. With Pepper at seven months pregnant, Steve has never seen Tony look so happy, so at peace. Which is strangely the opposite of how most of them feel these days.

They’re all just...finding their footing—finding a way forward. Some people, like Tony, are finding it easier and faster than others. Like Steve.

“I have sympathy fatigue, Pepper,” Tony whines. “Being a soon-to-be father is exhausting.”

“Of course, it is, dear.” Pepper rolls her eyes before looking back at Steve. “Let’s break for lunch and give Tony a chance to sit.”

Tony and Pepper’s cabin has a screened-in porch under the shade of grand pine trees that surround the property. The ground is free from snow, but Steve can feel it coming.

“It’s beautiful out here,” he tells Pepper again. “You two will be in for a picturesque winter.”

She smiles at him, “I am terrified of being stranded out here so I’m hoping for picturesque, yet drivable. And you’re welcome out here anytime. We’ve missed you over the last couple of years, even if Tony won’t admit it.”

Tony had admitted it, in his own way, in private when they were both taking their first tentative steps back toward friendship. The thought of hiding away out here is tempting but he can’t do that. Not before he finds his own footing and what it is he’s supposed to do now. Tony has Pepper, the baby, and his neverending tinkering and creating. Nat is running the Avengers compound. Rocket and Nebula are out on missions, keeping their own losses at bay with insults and distance. Thor is with the remaining Asgardians and Rhodey is busy in D.C..

Steve, well…he’s still picking himself up from the fight.

“I missed you both too. I wish it could have been different,” he says, bypassing the invitation, the comfort, and circling back to the wound.

“Just promise that if there’s anything we can do, you’ll ask,” she says, observant as always. He supposes she’s an old hand at dealing with men picking at wounds and evading healthy coping mechanisms.

“I promise,” he says, hoping that it’s not a lie.

James...

That’s as far as he gets into the email before he closes out of it again, for the third time.

Rhodey considers himself a brave man. He made it through the turbulence of his childhood, was accepted into and excelled at MIT, and befriended child prodigy Tony Stark. After that, it was the military and everything that comes with that kind of decision...training, mobilizations, deployments, and fighting.

So, why does he find himself terrified of reading an email?

James.

So very few people called him James once Tony had nicknamed him Rhodey. But Sam had come along and between them, Rhodey had soon changed to James. And that had extended to Sam’s mom and sister.

Stealing his nerves, he opens the message.

James, the email from Darlene begins and he closes the damn thing again. Logically, he knows that she doesn’t blame him. But in his heart, he can’t understand how she can’t blame him when he blames himself. He’d failed her. Failed to protect her son and failed to bring him back as he’d promised.

“Hey,” a voice comes from the doorway, startling him from his thoughts and, oh, it’s late again, all the cubicles beyond his office are dark and empty.

“Nat,” he says, surprised, “I didn’t know you were coming into town.”

He gets up to greet her and she pulls him into a firm hug. If anyone had told him a decade ago that he’d be on a first name basis with the Black Widow and that she openly and readily gave him hugs, he would have never believed it. It’s one of the many changes in this post-snap existence of theirs. While so many have closed themselves off, Nat who always kept them a bit at arm's length, began trusting them with her vulnerability.

“Some people actually go home in the evenings after working a full day,” Nat teases.

“Some people are quitters,” he teases back. “It’s good to see you…take a seat.”

“I’m sorry to ambush you like this, but I wanted to talk to you.”

“You just want me all to yourself,” he jokes as they sit at his desk.

“I do,” she smiles, “but it’s also business.”

“Oh, business,” he leans forward. He’s only tangentially involved in the hero business these days. With Tony completely out and the world’s general disarray, his connection to the hero business is solely with the hero’s and not so much the business. He hears bits and pieces from Nat, less from Steve, and some from Nebula who he strangely has developed a certain fondness for.

“I know we’re seeing each other this weekend, but I didn’t want to bring it up at the baby shower.”

“Can’t believe she’s almost here.” His impending role as a godfather is something that he’s genuinely looking forward to.

“Have you wrapped your present yet?” Nat asks.

“You know Pepper asked us not to bring gifts. She'd rather us donate.”

Pepper has been insistent about the donations. She and Tony may have retired from Stark Industries, handing the reins over to their competent successors, but she remains heavily involved in areas of their charities.

The snap had been indiscriminate in who it took, dividing families in cruel ways. Rhodey had lost Sam but joyously found his sister and nephew safe. He can appreciate how lucky he is to have them, despite his pain. But so many parents had lost their children and many, many children had lost their caretakers. Pepper and Tony’s daughter will have everything she’ll ever need. Pepper strongly requested that friends donate to children in need.

Which he did, of course.

“Sure,” Nat says, “but did you wrap her present?”

“No,” he admits, making Nat break out in laughter. “It’s a small gift. So small. And I did donate.”

“Sure,” Nat repeats, and then slowly the smile drops from her face. He recognizes that look. While he’s soon to gain a goddaughter, Nat had lost her own.

“You’ve heard from Clint,” he says.

“Not exactly,” she says, hesitant, “but there’s been a sighting. I tried to follow the lead, but he had already left.”

“Where was he this time?”

“Honduras.” She looks off to the side in defeat. Clint had begun his rampage tour in the United States but when they had started tracking him and closing in he’d fled the country and picked up again.

“Shit, Nat,” he says, but she’s already nodding her head.

“I know,” she says. “I’ll stop him.”

“It’s not just a matter of stopping him at this point. Now we’re getting into international law...treaties...extraditions.”

Rhodey felt for Clint, he did. To lose all of your children and your partner, he hates even thinking about it. But Clint had support, people who would have been there with him, mourned with him. Instead, he’d turned his back and taken his sorrow and pain out in ways he had no right to.

“I know. But it should be me to bring him in.”

“You don’t owe him that. You don’t have to tear yourself apart because of the choices he made, continues to make. We all have guilt and we’re all hurt and angry, but we all choose to deal with it every day in ways that don't include murdering people.”

“I want him to look me in the face,” she says angrily. “I want him to look me in the eye, after everything we’ve been through and explain to me how this was a better alternative to being with us.”

He leans forward in his chair. “I don’t think he’s going to have an answer for you that will make it make sense Nat.”

She nods her head, slides out of her chair, and walks back to the door. “If you get a hit on him, will you let me know?”

“I’ll send anything I hear your way.”

“Thanks, Rhodey,” she says, turning to leave, and then pausing. “Hey, call Darlene. She says she sent an email that you haven’t responded to.”

He drops his head to his hands and groans.

“Buck up there, Colonel Rhodes.”

“Thanks, Natasha.”

“See you this weekend,” she calls over her shoulder, melting into the darkness. “Can’t wait to see you get destroyed by an eight-month pregnant woman for doing the one thing she asked you not to.”

“But, I’m the godfather,” he says, but she’s already gone and he’s alone again. He opens the email, takes a deep breath, and starts reading.

James...

Two weeks ago, a pine tree appeared in the common room of the compound. Steve hadn’t asked questions. Christmas was quickly approaching, but considering the current residents of the compound, it was a little bit of a mystery.

Then small ornaments started to appear. An old cassette tape. A long branched stick with a smiley face drawn on. A small red-headed doll painted green.

Steve had caught on.

A couple of days later a small falcon had been perched up high along with a wasp next to a few tiny action figures. More and more appeared. A cat and a small figure of a scientist. A large and kind of creepy looking red and blue spider.

Steve both loved and hated it and had added a small robot and another red-headed doll to the ensemble. Tonight though, no new figures have made an appearance but Natasha has been staring at the tinsel on the tree for ten minutes.

“The tree looks nice,” he tells her, interrupting whatever thought she had been lost in.

“It’s alright,” she says, crinkling the bag of shiny tinsel in her hand, “do you think it could use some more tinsel?”

“I might be the wrong person to ask. We couldn’t really afford to have a tree when I was growing up.”

She hums out a sigh, “we had a tree in Wakanda.”

“We did.” He smiles at the memory of them around their small fake pine. “It was only with you and Sam that I’ve had them.”

“And Tony,” she adds, smirking.

“Oh, yes, if you consider a twenty-foot, professionally decorated Douglas fir in the same league as ours.”

She reaches out and brushes the needles of the tree against her fingertips. “I would always help decorate Clint and Laura’s tree. When he first brought me in after Fury cleared me, Clint took me to the farm and,” she laughs, “it was like a complete immersion into a Hallmark Christmas, without the drama.”

Clint. The murdering elephant in the room. They actively avoid talking about him because Steve hates how much Clint has hurt Nat and Nat knows how angry Steve is. He could go on for hours about what an ass his former teammate is being.

“You miss him,” he says instead.

“I miss who I thought he was. I miss his family. I miss feeling like I belong.”

He reaches out and takes her hand from the tree. “You belong here, with us.”

She squeezes his hand and lets out a shaky breath before returning her attention to the tree.

“We had one when I was a little girl...kinda. I don’t think ours had tinsel,” she admits, “but my...my mom had said that our next Christmas we would use garland that time.”

“Here,” he reaches out and takes the bag from her hands and pulls out a handful of tinsel, “I’ll get the high up parts.”

Nat smiles and takes a small handful of tinsel out for herself. Quietly, they work side by side.

“I had a sister,” Nat whispers, draping more gold across the large spider.

He pauses for a moment and then goes back to work, not wanting to scare her away from sharing something so personal. “Do you want to tell me about her?” he asks calmly.

“Yeah,” she says with a nod, wiping at her cheek. “Her name was Yelena.”

James, the letter began. He had read it through twice in his office and once at home that night. He called Darlene the next morning.

Come home to us, she had written.

Home had been a Wakandan apartment. Home had been strong arms and soft lips, an infectious laugh and wit that Rhodey misses every day. But most of all, home had been being wrapped up in Sam’s kindness, and Sam was kinder than anyone Rhodey had ever met.

Rhodey went home. He’d let himself be embraced and wrapped up in the love of people who knew Sam just like he did. They don’t blame him, they never did, and they love him simply because Sam had. They kept a space for him even with Sam gone. In this world, less than a year from the Decimation, or the Snap, or the Blip, or whatever it was being called this week, where the world is already filling in the gaps left behind, Darlene and Sarah had carved out a space just for him.

“And then what happened?” AJ squeals, reminding him that he’s in the middle of a story.

“And then, you’re Uncle Sam, he flew down—”

“—with his wings?”

“With his wings,” Rhodey confirms, spreading his arms out wide, “and he saved Captain America.”

“Wow,” AJ says, eyes wide as he imagines his uncle.

“Uncle Rhodey can fly too,” Sarah says, gently swaying side to side, keeping Cass content.

“Can you show me?” AJ pleads, “please?”

“Sure,” he promises, “when it gets warmer.”

“That was a good story, wasn’t it baby?” Darlene asks, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Great story,” AJ says, resting his head against Rhodey’s chest.

Great story, he thinks, squeezing AJ tight the way he knows Sam would have.

“We’re glad you came, James,” Darlene says. “You always have a place here.”

“I’m glad I came too,” he tells her truthfully and knows now, more than ever, that he’ll keep his place here in the Wilson family. Not to fill the gap Sam left, but to keep Sam’s place ready for him when Rhodey brings him home.

Bucky’s footsteps are muffled by the fresh snowfall, but his heart has been beating loudly in his ears ever since he heard the piercing cry of a rabbit caught in his trap. He rushes as fast as he can toward the sound, hating this part the most.

Just make it quick, his dad’s voice floats to him.

“I know,” he breathes out, his breath small puffs of air in front of him.

He hates this part, thankful he doesn’t have to do it often. Most of the time the snare has done its job by the time Bucky makes his rounds. But boy does he hate it when he has to finish the job himself.

He makes it quick. He’s gotten better at that at least. His first time having to kill a rabbit snared in his trap had turned him into a weeping guilt-ridden mess on the forest floor. But he’d been so hungry for something other than fish.

The big cabin is out of food. He ate everything he could find, digging the last expired cans out of the corners of the cupboards and eating them when he was well and truly desperate, to mixed results. Mostly he’d been fine, but there had been one can that had made him so sick he was sure he was going to die.

Luckily, he turned out to be good at fishing, thanks to that small book.

Don’t forget your lucky fishing vest, his dad says.

And he had his fishing vest, which admittedly has been very useful. So he’d fished and fished. And fished. But when the weather started turning colder and the river began to freeze over at the banks, he started setting traps.

Should have started earlier, dad adds. Like I said.

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh, “I know, dad.”

Starting earlier may have helped him build up more of a surplus than the little bit he has hidden away in the big cabin’s freezer. He might be better off right now, not having to go out as often. But, Bucky was a city kid…or a suburb kid really. Food came from the market or a drive-through. It wasn’t furry and he hadn’t trapped it himself. And he hadn’t had to kill it and…prepare it.

So, he’d been off to a slow start.

The woods grow darker around him, the day having slipped into early evening without him paying attention. He picks up his pace, weaving between the trees until he breaks out into the open. Halfway across the frozen lake, the night sky brightens, casting a soft green glow on the snow.

The sight stops him in his tracks. He lets the carcasses drop from his hands and then he joins them on the snowy ice, staring up at the sky. There’s a calendar in the big cabin, an electronic one that he doesn’t need to switch the months or cross out any days as they pass. He knows what day it is. If he were home and his family weren’t….gone, they would have a tree with strings of colorful lights. They would be in pajamas and watch silly movies that Bucky liked to complain about but secretly loved.

Across the lake, he can see his small cabin. He lets his eyes drift to the right, where he knows there’s an abandoned trail. He should go there, but he won’t. If he doesn’t go there, down that dark trail to that pretty little meadow, he can still imagine they’re all here with him.

The alternative is too much.

We are all here with you, his mom’s voice comes, calming his anxieties, pushing the fear of being alone far away. He smiles as he leans back and looks again at the night’s sky. He supposes that he’ll take this, a night with most of his family, just a thought away, surrounded by pine trees with the sky alight with the Northern Lights.