Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

✪ Bucky

Location: ?????

The wind pulled red leaves off the trees like someone shaking out an old quilt, and Steve shivered in his coat.

“You cold?” Bucky asked, not looking. He was staring out over the East River, shoulders hunched.

“No more than usual,” Steve said, voice raspy, half a grin tugging at his mouth.

The sun was gold, low and soft, catching in Steve hair. Bucky hated that he noticed that kind of thing.

“You gonna go? The draft.”

“Don’t really get a choice, pal.”

Steve stared down at his gloves. “You’ll come back.”

Bucky turned toward him, quiet for a long moment. “Yeah. 'Course I will. I gotta drag your scrawny ass outta fights, don’t I?”

Steve smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. 

Bucky watched a paper flyer skitter across the sidewalk. The corner had a jack-o-lantern in the window.

“Halloween’s gonna suck without you,” Steve mumbled.

“It’s not Halloween yet.”

“Feels like it already.”

The coffee shop smelled like roasted beans, cigarette smoke, and sugar that had crystalized in the bottom of too many chipped mugs. It was warm, though. The kind of warm that made your ears sting when you first stepped in.

Steve shook the leaves out of his hair as Bucky held the door open. “Still think I’m overdressed?” Bucky teased, brushing at his coat like he hadn’t been right about the cold all along.

“You dress like you lost a fight with a coat rack.”

“And you dress like you’re heading to the Bahamas.”

Steve shot him a look, but he was too tired to fire back. His fingers were already wrapped around the mug Bucky slid across the table minutes later, lukewarm coffee, two sugars, and just a splash of milk. The way Steve always took it. Bucky didn’t ask anymore.

The radio behind the counter crackled. Static buzzed for a second, then:

“Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something,”

Steve looked up at Bucky across the table, eyes soft. “You know this one,” he said, voice just above a whisper.

“When I, say that something”

Bucky grinned. “Hell yeah, I do.”

 “I want to hold your hand!” 

They both sang it together, almost in sync, off-key but completely earnest.

 “I want to hold your hand! Oh please, say it to me,
You’ll let me be your man!” 

Steve snorted through his nose. “You’re so dramatic,” he said, sipping from the mug.

“You were trying to do the harmony,” Bucky said, pointing. 

“I have asthma. I get a pass.”

They smiled at each other and both burst into laughter, loud and sudden and too much for how quiet the café was otherwise. A couple old men gave them side-eyes from the window booth, but neither of them cared. Steve was laughing so hard he almost spilled his coffee, which just made Bucky laugh more. Bucky leaned back, grinning so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes.

 “I feel happy inside

It’s such a feeling that,

My love,

I can’t hide” 

Steve was wearing wool blue clothes, some light blue, some navy. A checkered light blue and white scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, almost falling off. His gloves were a warm coffee brown, and his shoes were scuffed. 

He watched Steve, how the light hit his face, how beautiful he looked. And Bucky knew, his best friend was better than anyone on this Earth. He loved his best friend more than anyone on this Earth.

✪ Bucky

Location: New York, Starbucks

Handler Rumlow was screaming something at him, and whatever the screams meant, he knew that they were not good. He was trying to listen, really, but the confusing memory had messed with him. He tried, desperately, to snap his attention back to Rumlow.

Rumlow sat down on the chair across from him in the Starbucks. He looked angry. The Starbucks was a coffee shop, much like the one in his.. daydream? He wasn't sure what that was. The other man in the daydream would like the Starbucks , he thought. If only the other man was real. He liked the other man. The other man seemed much nicer than Rumlow. Wait, no, no, he can't do that. He can't compare a handler, no, no, no, no, stop, stop stop stop.

"Hey!" Rumlow said as loudly as he possibly could without drawing too much attention, "Fucking look at me."

The Asset immediately snapped his head up to Rumlow. He didn’t even realize he was zoning out. He had been doing that a lot recently, ever since the man on the bridge. The man he pulled from the water. The man he knew? 

He pushed those thoughts down, for later, to think of when Rumlow wasn’t ready to whip his skin raw and bloody until he was begging (even if he wasn’t allowed to) in the middle of the Starbucks.

He knew he would never be allowed to, but maybe, in some alternate universe, he could try a drink off the menu. He wondered what. Maybe a cold drink would taste good, what’s a good cold drink? Frappuccinos. He thought he would like whipped cream. He thought he would like mocha. But he should not be thinking about this. Why is he thinking of this, he cannot, he cannot, he cannot, he did not want to be punished.

“It took you long enough,” Rumlow went on, “Do you have any idea how long it took me to get your goddamn attention?!”

The Asset wasn’t sure whether to shake his head or nod, or say ‘ I’m sorry, sir ,’ so he stayed still. 

Rumlow slapped him, hard, and his edged nails broke open the skin on the Asset’s cheek, letting some blood trickle down. He almost moved his hand to wipe the blood, until he remembered no-fucking-way would he be allowed to do that. He was malfunctioning so much, the Asset was horrible. “That’s the worst I can do right now,” Rumlow sneered, “But just wait until we get to the hotel.”

He knew this was going to be bad.

“Until then, listen, unless you want to get punished further.”

He nodded. He definitely did not want to get punished more than he already had to be. 

“The Avengers and SHIELD are the reason that I’m on the run right now,” Rumlow snarled, “You’re going to get revenge on the bitches. And you’re not going to fuck up this time.”

He also definitely did not want to fuck up this time. He remembered the punishment for pulling the man out of the water. The Asset knew that if he was allowed to want things he would want to never repeat a punishment even half of that. The man he knew. He thought he knew? Push it down for later. Not now, not now, not now. 

“Yes sir.”

“Did I give you permission to speak?” Rumlow growled. Fuck.

The Asset shook his head. 

He would have hell to pay later.

 ⍟ Steve

New York, Avengers Tower

“I saw this guy in the park today,” Steve smiled, “He was wearing these awful rainbow suspenders, and I thought of you. If we were looking at that guy together, you’d tell me you’d wear those. I’d make fun of you for your equally awful fashion sense.”

“You’re beautiful no matter what you wear. It’s infuriating, really.” Steve paused, looking out into the sky. He was on the top of Avengers Tower, admiring the view from his spot on the open roof, feeling the warm sun hit his skin, “I can’t wait to see you again, Buck. Nat thinks Rumlow’s close, and I can just feel she’s right. I know you’re still my Bucky.”

Steve sighed, but his eyes looked like they were caught in a dream. 

“As much as I support emotionally-fueled tracking methods, Captain, might I suggest the GPS data instead? It’s considerably more precise than intuition.”

Steve huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You always this sassy, or is it just me?”

“Only for those with a flair for rooftop monologues and unresolved tension.”

“Remind me to install a mute button next time Tony upgrades you.”

“Noted. I’ll file it under ‘requests to be ignored.’ ”

Steve sighed, but a faint grin tugged at his lips as always. “Did you get the whole thing recorded?”

“Yes, as I’ve gotten every recording for Mr. Barnes for the past four months.” 

Steve heard footsteps sound behind him. Light, calculated, and then heavier, more cautious. Natasha first, then Bruce. Steve didn’t turn.

“Hey, Cap,” Natasha smiled, sitting next to him on the open top of the tower, “Still recording love letters?”

“I’m not recording love letters, ” Steve said, cheeks already coloring.

“Debatable,” JARVIS chimed in. “The last three have included direct compliments, a poetic metaphor involving stars, and, I quote, ‘I miss you more than I missed Brooklyn water pressure.’”

“Jarvis!” Steve exclaimed.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “So... yes, then. It’s alright, your secret’s safe with me.”

“When is any secret ever safe with you?” Bruce said, sitting down next to Natasha and Steve.

“I second that!” Steve added, “So, you two come up here just to bully me?”

“As always.” Natasha said.

“Well, it was originally to make you feel better, but this is more fun.” Bruce smiled, and Steve could see the comfort in his eyes.

“You think…we…” Steve stumbled over his words, “We can save him, right?” I can save him, right?

Tony appeared immediately, “Yeah, with a little bit of updog.”

“What’s updog?” Steve asked immediately.

“Not much, what’s up with you?” 

“Oh my god,” Natasha stifled a smile.

“Tony…” Bruce warned.

“Don’t worry, alright?” Tony put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve looked up, watching Tony’s face softly smile down at him, “We’ll find your emo boyfriend.”

“Thanks,” Steve smiled, and then exclaimed, “Wait- not my boyfriend!”

“Debatable,” Jarvis began once again, “The voice logs-”

“Jarvis!”

✪ Bucky

Location: Hotel in New York, Room 300

The Asset was correct when he knew his punishment was going to be bad. The Asset was correct when he knew that he had hell to pay later. He didn’t listen when his handler was trying to get his attention, and he spoke without permission.

He also compared his handler to the man in his daydream, thought about what he would want from the Starbucks menu, and thought about the man he pulled from the water- but Rumlow didn’t know about any of that, and he never would. No, fuck, he’s not allowed to keep things from he’s handlers. The Asset has to tell him, even if he really, really doesn’t want to. No! He will not tell Rumlow. But he’s not allowed to keep things from his handlers?

“Now do you finally fucking understand?” Rumlow snarled, and slapped him down to the floor again, pressing his boot onto the Asset’s face, “You will not disobey me, you will listen . You will kill the Avengers, and you will kill SHIELD. Every last one of them.”

The Asset vigorously nodded, and Rumlow kicked him in his already broken nose, sending hot pain throughout his body before walking away, purposefully omitting any instructions to eat or drink. 

His back had been viciously torn open and flogged, the whip still lying somewhere next to him (which even reached some of his face,) along with his human shoulder, which still had a knife embedded into it. Several of his ribs had been broken, along with his flesh ring finger. He could feel glass shards sticking into his skin. He wasn’t sure what was done to his mouth, but it tasted like a painful injury .

The Asset managed to bring his hand up enough to raise it. No, STOP

Rumlow kicked him sharply once again, and he wanted to throw up more blood than what was already surrounding him, “You shouldn’t even be allowed to speak right now, but what? Spit it out.”

“The Asset…disobeyed.” No, No, No, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Rumlow’s lips quirked up, and he raised an eyebrow. “Oh really, it did?”

“He…” The Asset took a breath, “He compared his handler to a man in his daydream. He thought about what he would want from the Starbucks menu.” NO, NO, NO, NO! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK! It regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth.

Rumlow dug his fingers into the Asset’s hair and pulled so harshly he could swear he felt blood pricking at the top, “You did what?”

The Asset wasn’t sure why his mind left out the part about remembering the man he pulled from the water. Maybe he didn’t want Rumlow to hurt the man, because if he knew Rumlow, which he definitely did by now, Rumlow absolutely would. Whoever the man was, the Asset knew, he wanted him to be safe, far beyond any programming.

The Asset also knew that this wasn’t going to end well either. 

 ⍟ Steve

New York, Avengers Tower

“Jarvis?” Steve's voice was soft and vulnerable. It was night, now. His team best friends family had decided to do a movie and board game night to cheer him up. They played Uno and watched Oceans 11 , and it really did help, but he just couldn’t help thinking of Bucky. His Bucky.

“Yes, Captain Rodgers?”

“Do you think Buck’s ever gonna be here to hear these? All the memos I’ve been recording for him?” No, he has to be. I’m going to save him. There’s no other option. Right?

There was a pause. Not the kind that meant lag, or processing power. The kind that meant hesitation - that very human breath of silence, like someone thinking hard about how honest they want to be.

“Statistically, the odds of a brainwashed Hydra asset understanding voice memos saved in a Stark Industries AI are… minimal.”

Steve didn’t say anything. His smile faded just a little.

“But then again, statistically, you weren’t supposed to come back from the ice. Statistically, you weren’t supposed to find the Tesseract. And statistically-”
JARVIS’s tone shifted, not quite gentler, but closer.
“-you weren’t supposed to survive losing him the first time.”

Steve blinked, swallowing hard. His voice cracked when he replied. “I didn’t.”

More silence.

“Then I suppose we’re overdue to beat the odds again.”

Chapter Text

 ☠︎︎ Rumlow

Hotel in New York, Room 300

The Asset slept curled up on the floor, his knees to his chest, as he always did. Sometimes he slept like that sitting up, too, knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees, head down. Rumlow decided not to allow him to eat or drink, it’s not like he deserved those things, anyway. Letting him eat or drink regularly and more than he needed to be functional and operational was a privilege that he didn’t deserve.

The bedroom Rumlow was sleeping in had two twin beds, (two comfortable ones, too. Nice, fluffy mattresses) but the Asset slept on the couch in the front room, because it’s not like he needs, or deserves a bed. Rumlow surprised himself that he allowed him to sleep on the couch at all, as he’d usually force him to sleep on the floor, especially so quickly after a punishment. But whatever, he could be generous for one night.

Rumlow went to the bathroom, washed his face, and brushed his teeth before he came outside to meet the Asset.

“Fuckface,” He greeted, pulling at the Asset’s hair to make him look him in the eye. He was sitting against the couch, his knees to its chest, arms wrapped around his knees. Pathetic. The Asset looked Rumlow in the eye like Rumlow wanted, and he could see pricks of blood on the top of the Asset’s head and smirked.

Rumlow let go of his hair, walked to the kitchenette added onto a counter with three stools next to it, and sat on one. He then snapped once and pointed to the floor beneath him, and the Asset immediately moved to kneel in front of him.

“I sent a message to the Avengers to meet you near the back of MoMA at seven pm if they wanted you,” Rumlow said, “You know where the Museum of Modern Art is, don’t you? Or are you too dumb to remember anything?”

The Asset nodded.

“You’re not being a total fuckup today, then,” Rumlow hummed. “Well, they’ll show up at MoMA, thinking you’re going to go with them, but then you’re going to turn your gun and terminate every last one.”

The Asset nodded once again, and Rumlow was considering making up something that he had done wrong so that he could punish him again. His favorite during punishments was when the Asset was begging for the pain to ‘just please stop’, and he could torture him even further.

He slowly, and warily raised his hand up. What the fuck could he be wanting to say? 

Rumlow considered letting him, considered slapping him and kicking him, but then eventually decided on allowing him to speak. Hey, maybe he’ll say something fun and worth punishing.

“You can speak,” Rumlow answered sharply, “What?"

“Thank you sir,” The Asset thanked. Damn right.

A pause, and then, “The Avengers…they… want me?”

Shit.

Rumlow knew the Asset couldn’t go around thinking that someone wanted him- that was a dumb idea because no one would ever want him, and the Asset should never even think that anyone would want him. Even worse because the Avengers did want him. Specifically, that dumb faggot Steve Rodgers wanted him- for some reason Rumlow didn’t understand.

He grabbed onto the Asset’s hair once again, tilting his head all the way up. Thank god we grew out his hair. Easier to pull on and tug than a collar.

“Open.” 

He obediently opened his mouth, and Rumlow watched the fear in the Asset’s eyes. It was delicious. Rumlow placed the side of the cold blade of a knife flat down on the Asset’s tongue, like a threat to turn it to the middle, sharp.

“The only reason the Avengers want you is to use you as their Asset, as something to punch, or for service. They want you for nothing more. Get that in your head.” 

He nodded.

“You didn’t use your goddamn words.” Rumlow brought his knife out of his mouth and sliced a short cut underneath his chin and on his lip.

“Sor-sorry,” He stammered, and Rumlow could wonderfully watch him being crushed, “I mean-I meant. Yes, sir.”

  ⎊ Tony

Avengers Tower

The team’s gathered- not in a formal meeting way, more like a “something’s wrong and we’re all pretending we’re not on edge” way.

Tony paced at the front of the room, tablet in hand. Steve stood near the window, arms crossed so tight it looked like he was holding himself together. Natasha leaned against the counter, arms loose but eyes sharp. Bruce sat on the edge of a stool like he might need to run. Clint was hanging upside down from a chair, chewing on a toothpick. Thor was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of popcorn in his lap, shoving kernels into his mouth like this was movie night. Sam looked like he’d rather be flying laps around the city than breathing the same tense air as the rest of them.

“Okay,” Tony finally said, holding up his tablet like it might shield him. “So. I got a message. Not a voicemail. Not a text. Like- Cold War–style encrypted nonsense. Bet you relate to that, Steve.”

“I was a soldier in World War II.” Steve sounded cold and sharp, not how he usually sounded. Usual Steve™ would have looked at Tony with a slight eyebrow raise and a laugh, and reprimand him with a ‘World War II, you mean.’ 

Bucky is in danger. Steve turns everything off besides the ‘I will die for Bucky’ and ‘I will save Bucky’ and ‘I love Bucky’ and ‘I want to die for Bucky’. 

“Yeah, yeah, Cap,” Tony played it off, “Anyway, it took me three hours and a not-so-polite AI to crack it.”

He leaned forward on the table, fingers tapping the glass screen, eyes flicking to the others like he wasn’t sure how to start. “Guess who it’s from?”

“Rumlow.” Steve’s voice landed like a knife. Low. Steady. Controlled in that barely not shaking apart kind of way.

Tony didn’t even bother being smug. “Gold star, Cap. Want a sticker?” 

“I do like stickers,” Thor added helpfully.

Bruce sighed. “Tony.”

“Right, right. It’s from Rumlow. Hydra’s own knockoff Jason Bourne,” Tony said. “And guess what he’s offering?”

It felt like the tower held a breath.

Tony let the pause drag, then said quietly, “Your little Winter Soldier.” 

Steve’s head snapped up, and for a second-just a second-he looked young. Small. Like a kid on the edge of some long winter. “Where,” he said immediately, his voice sharp as shattered ice. His hands were trembling. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, a leg up, a leg pressed against a table leg, ice cold and still.

Steve never could sit in chairs properly, but, as Tony always said, this takes the cake.

Tony didn’t comment. “Behind the Museum of Modern Art. Tomorrow night. Seven sharp.”

“That’s a little public for a hostage drop-off,” Natasha muttered, eyes narrowed.

“That’s not a drop-off,” Sam said, “That’s bait.”

“What did the message say exactly?” Bruce asked.

Tony turned the tablet around, quoting from the screen like it tasted bad. “Come collect your broken toy. He’s tired of the leash. Don’t be late. And, oh-” he added with a grimace, “It ends with a heart. The passive-aggressive kind.”

Natasha’s smirked grimly. “He wants a reaction.”

“He’ll get one,” Steve muttered. His fists clenched until his knuckles went white, like if he squeezed hard enough, maybe everything would just... stop.

“Okay, Righteous Rage™, slow your roll,” Tony said, setting the tablet down. “This whole thing screams setup. He wants us front and center. Flashy. Headlines. You know the story he's hoping for.”

“‘Captain America Reunites With Pet Assassin,’” Clint sing-songed from his upside-down perch.

“‘Winter Soldier Melts Hearts And Civilians,’” Natasha added.

Thor laughed. “That is a truly atrocious headline. But I would read it.”

Steve ignored all of them, “If Bucky’s out-if he’s there -then we have to go. I have to go.”

“You don’t even know if he wants to come back, Cap,” Tony said. “You don’t know if this is him or the part Rumlow keeps on a leash. You don’t know what version you’re walking into.”

“Besides,” Natasha said carefully, “How do we know he won’t order Winter-”

“Bucky,” Steve interrupted sharply. “His name is Bucky.”

Natasha met his eyes, she looked at him almost warm and sympathetic. “How do we know Rumlow won’t order Bucky to kill us the second we step into range?”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Then I’d rather be the one he kills. Not you.”

A beat of silence. No one liked that sentence.

“Absolutely the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Natasha announced. “And I’ve heard you give motivational speeches.”

“We’re not letting you go alone, Cap,” Bruce added, standing up. “No way.”

“Agreed,” Clint said, stepping forward. “We go together.”

“ Obviously ,” Tony muttered, “Because we’re codependent freaks who can’t do anything without spiraling together.”

“We are with you,” Thor said, placing a massive hand on Steve’s shoulder. “He is your brother. And that makes him ours.”

Steve blinked hard. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. Tony noticed a change in his eyes when Thor said brother . 

“We plan it right,” Sam said. “Eyes on every angle. Drones in the air. No uniforms. No big entrances. If he bolts, we don’t chase. Not unless he wants us to.”

“And if it’s a trap?” Bruce asked.

“Then we spring it carefully,” Tony replied. “Like responsible, emotionally repressed adults.”

Sam snorted. “So none of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Natasha said. “I’m a picture of emotional maturity.”

“You set a toaster on fire trying to show Yelena how to cook last week,” Bruce said.

“She laughed ,” Natasha defended.

“Back on topic, children,” Tony said, pulling up another file. “We show up... and I bring the override for his arm. Just in case.”

The room quieted.

“You won’t need it,” Steve said, and this time it was quiet in a different way. Not shaky. Not loud. Just solid. A vow.

Tony looked at him. “I hope not, Rogers. For both your sakes.”

A long silence followed. One of those heavy ones, full of everything unsaid and all the ghosts they were dragging to the surface.

Then Clint broke it.

“Okay but, like... hypothetically... what are we wearing? Because ‘undercover’ means different things to different people. Thor wore a cape to a farmer’s market once.”

“It was a regal cloak,” Thor muttered.

Sam rolled his eyes. “You all have suits. You all have black clothes. Don’t make this difficult.”

Natasha just smiled, slow and feral. “I call shotgun.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “On what?”

“Whatever explodes first.”

Steve didn’t smile, exactly. But his posture eased. Just slightly. Enough.

Enough to hope.

✪ Bucky

Location: New York, Shopping Center

Behind MoMa.

Seven PM.

That’s what Rumlow said. The Asset went over it again. For the fourth time. He was sitting stiffly on a bench in Central Park, surrounded by joggers, pigeons, and a saxophone guy who had been playing “Careless Whisper” for twenty straight minutes. He wasn’t sure if the guy was good or if his brain was just too scrambled to tell anymore.

He looked at the squirrels. They stared back.

“…weird little bastards,” He muttered.

Rumlow would meet him behind the Museum of Modern Art at seven pm, when he would kill all the Avengers for good.

The squirrel closest to him darted off, probably judging him. The Asset rubbed at his gloved hand. The wind had picked up, curling against the nape of his neck and tugging gently at the baseball cap. Hoodie. Cap. Assassin camouflage.

He thought he did a pretty good job disguising.

He stood up with a jolt. Sat back down. Stood up again.

Okay. Walk. Walking’s normal. People walk. You’re pretending to be a person. You do not have a nervous tic where you count every subway car that passes.

He walked.

Thirty minutes later, he found himself in a bookstore. It smelled like coffee. A kid was reading a picture book on the floor. The barista looked at him like he was either a cop or the guy who lived in the alley.

He hovered by the historical nonfiction section. If he was allowed to like things, he would like bookstores. He was allowed to like instructions, but he had none of those. He read half a paragraph of a book called The Last Days of WWII . A pamphlet about PTSD treatments was tucked into the shelf like a forgotten flyer. The Asset stared at it.

He bought a cookie and didn’t eat it. Put it in his pocket. 

Next stop: an art gallery that wasn’t the MoMA but had a giant neon “PLEASE TOUCH THE ART” sign, which made the Asset nervous on principle. A sculpture of a red cube was spinning slowly in the center of the room. A child had climbed on the sculpture. He stared at it for a full ten minutes before a gallery employee gently ushered the child off and then offered the Asset a granola bar like he might also be lost.

“Uh,” he said, “I’m good?”

“Okay!” she chirped, clearly unsure if she should call security or offer it a hug.

It was 5:12 now.

He sat on a bench across from MoMA. Just sat. The city buzzed around him. Somewhere, a car alarm was going off in rhythm with his pulse. His legs bounced. His hands flexed. He watched a guy walk five dogs and got genuinely, viscerally emotional about it. They all had tiny sweaters. One of them sneezed.

It checked the time again.

Still too early.

“Cool,” He muttered, to no one. “Love this. Love it here.”

He had ended up in a Starbucks, yet again. How does he keep ending up in a Starbucks?  He didn’t remember walking in- just that suddenly he was there, surrounded by blinding LED lights and indie music covers of Taylor Swift songs. The barista said “hi” in a way that made him feel incredibly, painfully visible, and he panicked and said “goodbye” in return before realizing that wasn't how people do conversations.

Blend in. Be normal.

He could do that.

He studied the menu like it was a classified document. Why were there so many words? What was a “brown sugar oatmilk shaken espresso”? Why were people ordering that like it was a thing humans just knew how to do?

Its eyes landed on “Pink Drink®”, and then “Mocha Frappuccino®.” The little picture next to it looked... decent. Cold. Chocolatey. It was basically a milkshake. That felt like a safe bet. Maybe he used to drink them? Back before—

Nope. Not going there.

There was no before, he was a machine, he was nothing but the Asset.

YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED. YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED. YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED. YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED.

What was he doing? Was he trying to get PUNISHED? Rumlow would absolutely murder him if he ever dared to eat without permission, or drink without permission, or want something. IT COULD NOT WANT THINGS. IT IS NOT A PERSON. IT IS A WEAPON. IT IS A GUN.

He glanced at the line. Then at the door. Then at the line again.

The barista caught him staring.

He fled.

The bell jingled softly behind him.

By 6:22, it had walked into a music store, a bodega, a tiny comic book shop (the guy behind the counter recommended Winter Soldier: Second Chances and he almost had a panic attack), and he had stood frozen in front of a bakery display for ten full minutes before walking away without buying anything.

He ended up in an alley.

He always ends up in alleys.

He leaned against a brick wall and stared at the skyline. His breath fogged in the cooling air. It was almost seven.

There was a street vendor just down the block- one of those fold-up tables covered in beads and handmade jewelry. Dreamcatchers. Keychains. Crystals and tiny jars full of glitter and fake herbs. Normally, the Asset would cross the street to avoid this kind of situation. But something tugged.

He stepped closer.

Among the clutter was a bracelet- simple braided cord, blue, like the color of the sky.

His fingers hovered over it. His metal hand stayed back. He didn’t want to weird out the vendor.

Something about it made his chest hurt. Not in the medical sense. In the emotional minefield, unstable programming alert, possible memory flare-up kind of way.

He didn’t remember why. Or who. Just that the color felt... like safety.

Like a guy.

A guy he used to know.

Laugh that shook the floor. Hands calloused from punching things he probably shouldn’t punch. Eyes that-

Stop.
He didn’t know him. 

Still. He pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill and handed it over.

The vendor smiled at him. “For someone special?”

The Asset blinked. “Uh. No. Just… for me.”

He put the bracelet on. The blue clashed with its black hoodie. Its gloves made it hard to tie, so he used his teeth. It wasn’t graceful. But it was on.

It felt. Right.

Like it had been wearing it for years.

Like maybe, for a second, he wasn’t just the weapon someone sent to kill the Avengers behind a museum. 

Maybe he was still whoever that guy used to know.

He stood there too long again, staring down at the bracelet.

Then he turned and kept walking.

The bracelet stayed.

Seven.

 ⍟ Steve

Back of MoMA

They’d all shown up early.

Steve stood still while the others fanned out- Natasha casually leaning against a fire escape, Bruce looking deeply uncomfortable beside a trash can, Thor looming like a myth. Clint had a vantage point up high, arrow nocked but not drawn. Sam hovered just behind Steve’s shoulder.

“Try not to freak him out,” Sam murmured. “Guy’s a trauma piñata.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “I know.”

He didn’t want to be here.

Correction: he did , more than anything. But not like this . Not with half the team on standby, waiting for a chance to take a shot. Not with the words ‘he’s a threat’ still fresh in everyone’s mouth.

The sound of boots on pavement made them all go still.

And then- there he was.

Bucky.

Hunched shoulders. Hair tucked under a cap. Metal hand glinting under a too-large sleeve.

Steve felt something inside him knock loose.

He took a step forward. “Bucky!”

A pause. 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” The words came out clipped. Wrong. Like it hurt to say them. 

Steve slowed. He lifted both hands. “Okay. No names. We don’t have to talk about the past. Just listen-something’s not right. You were set up. Rumlow-he-”

“I know the mission.”

Bucky reached into his coat.

The team tensed. Bruce shrank back.

Steve didn’t flinch.

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

Before anyone could react-before Clint could loose an arrow or Natasha could twitch toward her gun-Bucky had crossed the space between them, metal hand clamping down on Steve’s arm like a vice.

There was a flicker in his eyes. Confusion. Recognition. Regret.

And then it was gone, masked behind the Winter Soldier’s blank, vicious calm.

He dragged Steve backward, one fluid motion. Boots scraping pavement. Steve let it happen. Didn’t fight. Couldn’t-not when Bucky’s hand was shaking ever so slightly.

“Hey!” Sam lunged forward, but Bucky was already pulling Steve around the corner, into the alley beside the MoMA’s rear entrance. Dark, narrow, concrete walls closing in like jaws.

Steve hit the brick wall with a dull thud . Not hard, not soft-just enough to send a message.

The hand on his chest stayed there.

Steve didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

“Bucky,” he said again, softer this time. No threat. Just the truth.

The metal hand twitched.

“Don’t call me that.” Bucky’s voice was low. Unsteady. His other hand was curled into a fist, pressed against his own temple like he could knock the name loose.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Steve said. He didn’t lift his hands this time. Just stayed still. Grounded. “I know you don’t remember everything. That’s okay. But you saved my life once. More than once.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He leaned in a little.

“Bucky, please,” he said, voice soft. “You don’t have to do this. I know you. You know me, even if it doesn’t feel like it yet. You’re not a killer anymore.”

“I am a weapon,” Bucky snapped.

He was close now. Too close. Steve could see the tremble in his hand. Could hear the ragged catch of his breath.

Bucky came at him like a ghost.

No warning. No words. Just the shimmer of metal in moonlight and a fist aimed straight for Steve’s face.

Steve dodged-but barely. “Bucky-”

A boot slammed into his ribs. He stumbled back, gasping.

“Don’t call me that!” Bucky snarled, eyes wild and distant, like he wasn’t even here . Like he was watching this fight from behind someone else’s eyes.

“I’m not gonna fight you.”

“You do not have a choice.”

The next hit connected.

Knuckles split across Steve’s jaw. His head snapped sideways. He tasted blood and memories.

Not like this. Not again.

He tried to catch Bucky’s arm. Grip too tight. Too strong. Metal screamed against flesh.

“Buck, you need-”

“ STOP CALLING ME THAT! ”

And then Bucky threw him. Steve hit a wall. He barely had time to breathe before Bucky was on him again, hands around his throat like something desperate, something drowning, something trying to drag him under too.

“I do not know you,” Bucky whispered, breathless and trembling, “but my hands keep hesitating. Why do they hesitate? Why do I-”

And then-

Clap clap clap.

The slow kind. The mocking kind.

Rumlow.

“God, this is better than pay-per-view,” he said, stepping into the broken light. “What’s the matter, Soldier? Having an identity crisis?”

Bucky flinched, like a whip crack in his brain.

Steve pushed himself up. “Shut up, Rumlow.”

Rumlow grinned. “Just enjoying the show. Look at you two. A couple of broken toys in a junkyard. Makes you wonder, Cap-when did you lose him? Was it when he fell off that train? Or when you were too busy playing hero to go back for him?”

Bucky’s hands trembled.

“Rumlow, I swear-”

“Or maybe it was when he realized what you turned him into. A ghost. A memory you refuse to let die.”

Bucky screamed. Rage and confusion and grief in a single cracked sound as he launched at Steve again. They collided hard, fists flying, Steve blocking what he could. Every punch from Bucky felt like an apology wrapped in blame. Every hit Steve landed felt like betrayal.

Their fight slammed through a metal shelf. It crashed down in a cloud of rust and sparks. Steve’s shield clattered away across the concrete.

They froze, both of them panting. Both of them bruised.

And Rumlow just laughed.

“Jesus. You two really do love each other, don’t you? What’s next, a kiss in the rain? A knife to the heart?”

He watched, heart in his throat, as Bucky leaned in just slightly , just enough to breathe in. 

The shampoo. The one Steve still used. The scent that clung to his hoodie, his pillow, his bathroom tile.

Bucky blinked.

He didn’t look angry anymore.

He looked confused . Haunted.

“You…” he whispered. “I know-why do I-what is-”

And that’s when Rumlow stepped out of the shadows behind him, armed.

Steve swallowed. “Because you knew me.”

“No.” Bucky took a step back. “No, no, no-Handler Rumlow said you’d try this. That you would lie. That you would say anything to make me soft again.”

“I’m not lying.”

He reached into his jacket again, and this time Steve saw the flash of a knife. A clean, Hydra-standard combat blade. Nothing fancy. Just meant to cut.

“Buck- please- ”

The blade lashed out.

Steve ducked, blocking with his forearm, gritting his teeth as pain sliced hot and sudden across skin. He didn’t fight back. He wouldn’t.

“You’re not making sense,” Steve rasped. “You remember something , don’t you?”

Bucky went still.

Just for a second.

And then Rumlow’s voice rang out, too loud and too close. “Well, well. Looks like the asset needs another tune-up.”

Steve’s head snapped around- Rumlow, standing at the edge of the alley, gun aimed square at Steve’s chest, smug grin plastered on like war paint.

“Step aside, Buck. Let me finish this.”

And that - that was what did it.

Bucky blinked.

Looked at Steve.

Then at Rumlow.

Then back at Steve again- Steve, bleeding, breathing hard, not raising a hand to stop him.

And something snapped .

The knife clattered to the ground.

Bucky turned just as Rumlow fired- and caught the bullet on his metal arm with a clang like church bells, vicious and holy.

“What the fuck-” Rumlow’s eyes went wide, just for a second.

Steve didn’t have time to move. The world was a blur of fists and shouts and metal. Rumlow hit the ground hard, groaning, gun skittering across concrete.

But Steve was in a daze, thinking about Bucky, because fuck, that was all he could ever think about. Rumlow flipped Steve around, beating his face to a pulp.

Steve was going to die.

For a while, he didn't care.

He couldn't live without Bucky.

Without his Bucky.

But now, he had him back.

Was he going to lose him again?

Steve didn't want to die anymore.

Especially not at the hands of Brock Rumlow.

Steve wanted Brock Rumlow to suffer and die for every laying a finger on Bucky.

Bang.  

The shot echoed like a gunshot in a cathedral.

Rumlow yelled -a clean graze across his side-and ran . Limping, fast, disappearing into the shadows like the coward he was.

Steve whipped around. “Nat!”

Natasha lowered her pistol, stepping out from behind a half-broken pillar like she’d been there the whole time, “I can’t have one of my least favorite people die on me, can I?” But she smirked.

“You let him go ,” Steve said, hurt, stepping in front of Bucky instinctively.

“I let him bleed ,” she corrected. “We’ll track him. He’s not subtle.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue-but didn’t get the chance.

Because Bucky staggered.

“Why did I do that?” Bucky gasped, voice spiraling. “Why did I - why did I stop it -what the hell is wrong with me?!”

Steve grabbed his wrist. “You remembered something. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not!” he screamed. “It’s not okay- none of this is okay- ”

“Bucky!”

But Bucky just stumbled back. Looking down at his own hands like they’d betrayed him.

“Why-why did I do that-”

His breath hitched. Then fell apart entirely.

Natasha appeared behind him like smoke, gun raised, mouth set in a grim line.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Soft. Almost kind.

She pulled the trigger.

A stun dart hit Bucky’s neck.

His knees gave away like his body didn’t belong to him anymore. Steve darted forward, catching him before he hit the ground.

“No,” Steve whispered. “No, no, no…”

“Had to do it,” Natasha said quietly. 

His knees buckled, and he dropped into Steve’s arms like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Whoa- hey. Bucky, I got you-”

His breathing was shallow. Eyes fluttering.

Steve turned back to Natasha, heart in his throat. “ What did you do? ”

She holstered the tranquilizer. “He was about to short-circuit. I knocked him out before his brain did it for him.”

Steve tightened his grip on Bucky’s shoulders. “You could’ve warned me.”

Nat just shrugged. “And miss the part where you got all protective and soft? Never.”

And then-

from the busted loading dock doors-

“STEVE?!”

Tony’s voice. Loud. Annoyed. Echoing like a siren.

Moments later, the rest of the team was spilling into the warehouse like a hurricane. Thor. Bruce. Clint. Sam. 

Bruce was scanning the wreckage. “What the fuck happened here? Did a Home Depot explode?”

Tony spotted Steve kneeling with Bucky unconscious in his lap and made a face. “So. That’s your murder boyfriend.”

Steve didn’t look up. “He’s not- shut up, Tony.”

Thor knelt beside them, his voice soft. “He’s in pain.”

“No shit,” Natasha muttered.

Bruce nodded toward Bucky. “Do we… tie him up? Or hug him? Or both?”

“Absolutely not,” Steve snapped. “He’s not a threat.”

“He tried to kill you,” Tony pointed out.

“So did half of you when we met,” Steve snapped.

There was a pause.

“…That’s fair,” Bruce said.”

Steve held him a little tighter.

“Okay,” Tony said, clapping his hands. “Mission report: everyone’s traumatized, the floor is broken, and I think I stepped in blood. Can we please leave before something else explodes?”

“Agreed,” Natasha said. “I don’t want to be here when Rumlow regrows a second head.”

Clint offered Steve a hand up. “Come on, Cap. We’ll get you both out of here.”

Steve stood carefully, carrying Bucky in his arms like something holy. His grip didn’t loosen. Not even a little.

As they headed for the quinjet, Bucky stirred in his arms- just barely. His hand twitched against Steve’s chest.

And Steve whispered, “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Behind him, the team fell into quiet.

Not silence. Not peace.

But presence .

A beginning.