Among Thieves (Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader) — Masterlist
A Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader Story
Three years after Steve Rogers chose a different life, Tony Stark's younger sister has learned to survive by burying herself in work, carrying grief that never quite loosened its grip. The last person she expects to find herself relying on is James "Bucky" Barnes, a man haunted by a past he can never erase.
Thrown together through the events of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier and Thunderbolts, two people who have spent years believing they were too broken to be chosen slowly discover that healing isn't found in forgetting the past; it's found in letting someone stay.
A slow-burn romance about grief, redemption, second chances, and the quiet ways love begins: a borrowed jacket, a shared blanket, late-night conversations, almost-kisses, and two people learning that home was never a place.
Sometimes... it was a person.
Masterlist
Updated 07/18/26
ACT I — THE END OF ONE LIFE
The world survived Thanos. You aren't sure you did.
Chapter 1 — Proof That Tony Stark Has a Heart
Chapter 2 — Five Seconds
Chapter 3 — The Weight of a Symbol
ACT II — LEARNING HOW TO LIVE
Working beside Bucky Barnes was never supposed to become personal.
Chapter 4 — Old Wounds
Chapter 5 — The Devil You Know
Chapter 6 — Masks
Chapter 7 — The Ghosts of Who We Were
Chapter 8 — Quiet Places
Chapter 9 — Debts
Chapter 10 — Breaking Points
ACT III — A Place at the Table
Some people don't save you all at once. They simply refuse to leave.
Chapter 11 — Home Isn't a Place
Chapter 12 — A Couple of Guys
Chapter 13 — Captain America
Chapter 14 — The Things We Don't Say
ACT IV — Long Way Home
The world is ending. Again. Only this time, neither of you has to face it alone.
Chapter 15 — Bob
Chapter 16 — The Things We Bury
Chapter 17 — What We Become
Chapter 18 — The Sentry
Chapter 19 — The Void
Chapter 20 — Sunrise
ACT V — HOME
Some endings aren't endings at all. Sometimes...they're the beginning.
Chapter 21 — New Avengers
Chapter 22 — Among Thieves
Chapter 23 — Chosen
Chapter 24 — The Long Way Home
Chapter 25 — Sunrise
Chapter 26 — Home
Chapter 27 — Epilogue
Author's Note
Welcome to Among Thieves. 🤍
This is an original character (OC) story set within the MCU, told primarily in second-person POV.bucky
The protagonist is Tony Stark's younger sister and Steve Rogers' former fiancée, following her journey alongside Bucky Barnes after the events of Avengers: Endgame.
If you enjoy slow burns, mutual healing, found family, longing, and a healthy dose of 1940s Bucky Barnes charm, I hope you'll feel right at home here.
Thank you so much for giving this story a chance. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. ❤️
Summary: Three years after quietly drifting apart, you and Bucky find yourselves face-to-face again and finally confront the hurt that neither time nor distance could erase. As old feelings resurface and a shared suspicion draws you back to each other's side, you begin to discover that finding your way back may be easier than either of you expected.
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Three years. Three years since the Flag Smashers. Three years since the blood on Steve Rogers' shield had forced the world to redefine what Captain America meant. Three years since Louisiana.
Some days it felt like a lifetime. Other days, you could still close your eyes and hear the water against the Wilsons' dock, feel the humid evening breeze, hear Sarah laughing from the kitchen while her boys chased Bucky around the yard asking if they could arm wrestle his metal arm.
Life had moved anyway. It always did.
Sam had carried the shield exactly the way everyone who truly knew him believed he would, with compassion first and conviction second. Somewhere along the way, the world had finally stopped asking whether he deserved to be Captain America and started asking what Captain America thought. The distinction mattered. It meant he'd earned it.
The Avengers, however, that was another story. There were fewer heroes now than there had been when you were twenty. Tony was gone. Natasha was gone. Steve...Steve had chosen another life.
Bruce disappeared into research more often than not. Clint had retired, for real this time, everyone hoped. Thor came and went like the weather. Wanda's fate remained uncertain. The world still had heroes.
It just didn't have a family anymore. Not the one you'd once known. Your own life had become quieter in different ways.
On paper, your career had never been stronger. Director of Enhanced Affairs Representative. Lead liaison between enhanced individuals, federal agencies, and congressional oversight committees.
Most weeks you split your time between Washington, New York, and whatever crisis decided it couldn't wait until Monday morning.
You managed Stark Industries' remaining government contracts, advised Senate committees on enhanced legislation, and, much to your own annoyance, had become one of the people senators actually listened to before making decisions involving superheroes.
It was the closest thing the government had ever had to someone both sides trusted. Tony probably would've laughed himself sick. Then, complained about the paperwork.
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had become a recurring fixture in that world. Never for anything illegal. Never for anything you could actually challenge. Just always there.
Defense appropriations. Property acquisitions. Private security contracts. Closed-door committee meetings. She smiled too easily. Knew too much. And somehow always seemed to be standing exactly where history was about to happen.
You'd learned to pay attention whenever Valentina entered a room. Because she never wasted a visit.
Bucky Barnes had kept his promise, too. You still caught yourself smiling whenever another article appeared.
CONGRESSMAN JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES ELECTED
BARNES INTRODUCES PTSD REFORM BILL FOR VETERANS
FORMER AVENGER ADVOCATES FOR ENHANCED CIVIL RIGHTS
No one, not even Bucky, if the expression in his victory interview had been any indication, had expected him to win. Yet somehow politics suited him. Not because he enjoyed it. Because every bill he wrote felt like another apology to the people governments had failed.
Veterans. Refugees. The people of Brooklyn. Victims of experimentation. Enhanced individuals.
He wasn't trying to change history. He was trying to make sure another Winter Soldier could never exist.
You admired him for that. More than he'd probably ever know. The irony was, for all the articles, interviews, birthdays, holidays, and congratulatory texts, the two of you had quietly become strangers again.
Not completely. There were messages.
Always answered. Always kind. Always safe. Never conversations. Never phone calls. Never, How are you, really?
Three years ago, you'd stood beside each other through firefights, funerals, and impossible choices. Now you measured your relationship in typed sentences and punctuation marks.
You had spent a long time convincing yourself the distance was his choice. Eventually, you admitted the truth. It was yours, too.
After Louisiana, you'd forgiven Bucky. You truly had. But forgiveness wasn't the same thing as trust. The hardest part wasn't that he'd known Steve planned to stay.
It was that every laugh you'd shared that summer, every late-night conversation, every quiet moment when you'd started believing you knew him, had happened while he carried a truth you didn't.
You understood why he'd kept it. You even believed him. That didn't stop it from hurting.
So you had done what people always did when they were afraid of losing something they hadn't realized mattered. You stepped back first. Not because you wanted to. Because distance felt safer than finding out whether the two of you could ever become what you'd almost started to be.
And if you were honest, there was another reason. Somewhere between Louisiana and now, Bucky Barnes had stopped being Steve Rogers' best friend.
He had simply become Bucky. And that realization had frightened you more than heartbreak ever had.
You never returned his call. Not the next morning. Not the following week. Eventually, enough time passed that returning it would've felt stranger than letting it remain unanswered.
So neither of you ever brought it up again.
Instead, your relationship quietly changed into something neither of you had intended. You didn't stop talking. You just stopped talking often.
The first text came on Christmas. Merry Christmas, Barnes.
A few minutes later your phone buzzed. You too, Stark. Try not to argue with anyone over politics today.
You smiled despite yourself.
Birthdays followed. Happy Birthday.
His reply came almost immediately. How do you know my birthday?
You rolled your eyes before typing back. It's literally engraved on a plaque in a museum.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
Then—Right. Forgot about that.
You laughed loud enough that Morgan looked up from the living room and asked Pepper what was funny.
The conversations never lasted more than a few messages. Congratulations when he won his election. A short Saw your interview. Hope you're doing okay.
Sometimes he'd send a newspaper clipping after one of your Senate briefings with nothing more than: Saw this. Nice work.
You'd answer: Thanks, Congressman.
Always "Congressman." Never James. Never Bucky. He never corrected you. Neither of you crossed whatever invisible line had formed between Louisiana and now. Not because either of you wanted distance. Because neither of you knew what existed on the other side of it.
The betrayal had never truly disappeared. Neither had the affection. They had simply learned to live beside one another.
For three years, Bucky Barnes existed mostly through television screens. Campaign speeches playing quietly in airport lounges while you waited for delayed flights. News interviews running in the background of Senate offices. Articles forwarded by coworkers. "Your friend is on television again."
He wasn't your friend. He never was. Was he?
Sometimes you caught yourself stopping whatever you were doing whenever his face appeared on screen. He looked older. Not physically. Lighter.
The permanent tension around his shoulders had eased. He smiled more during interviews now. Still awkwardly. Still like he wasn't convinced anyone actually wanted to hear him speak. But he smiled.
You were proud of him. Painfully proud. Sometimes, embarrassingly so. You found yourself defending him in meetings before anyone had even criticized him. "Congressman Barnes has already proposed legislation addressing that." "Actually, his office published research on the veterans reform bill last month."
You knew his committee assignments. You knew which bills he was sponsoring. You knew which veterans' organizations he'd visited that week. You realized one afternoon that you knew his congressional schedule better than your own.
That had been concerning. Because despite all of that, you still hadn't seen him. Not once. Not in person. Not in three years.
You missed him. Not dramatically. Not in the aching way you'd missed Steve. This was quieter. You missed his dry comments that usually caught you off guard. The smell of cedar and aftershave whenever he'd quietly appeared beside you. The way he'd somehow notice you across crowded rooms before anyone else did.
The doors he always held open. The chairs he always pulled out without thinking. The tiny acts of consideration he'd performed so naturally that you'd barely noticed them until they were gone.
Nobody had done those things since. You hadn't realized how much space he'd quietly occupied in your life until that space became empty. And perhaps that was the cruelest part.
You'd spent so long convincing yourself you couldn't let anyone close after Steve that you never noticed someone had already slipped through the cracks.
Not with grand declarations. Not with impossible promises. Just by showing up. Again. And again.
Until one day he wasn't simply Steve Rogers' best friend anymore. He was Bucky. And somehow… that frightened you even more than heartbreak ever had.
So you buried yourself in work. It was easier. Government contracts. Congressional briefings. Enhanced Affairs. Stark Properties. There was always another crisis waiting. Always another meeting. Always another stack of files.
Which was exactly how Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had become such a constant presence in your life. She had an uncanny ability to appear wherever politics, private industry, and enhanced affairs collided. Military contracts. Private defense initiatives. Oversight committees. Property acquisitions. Always smiling. Always perfectly prepared. Always one step ahead of everyone else.
The most exhausting project between the two of you had been the sale of Avengers Tower. Even now, you hated calling it that. To the public it had become just another Manhattan skyscraper. To you, it had once been home. The Avengers Tower hadn't simply housed heroes. It had held birthdays. Movie nights. Arguments that somehow ended in shawarma at two in the morning. Tony's workshop humming through the night. Bruce asleep over research. Natasha making food in the kitchen. Steve pretending he didn't know who kept leaving dishes in the sink. It had been alive.
Now it was only steel and glass. Pepper had been the one to finally convince you. "Buildings aren't people. They're just places."
She was right. You knew she was. But that hadn't stopped your hand from trembling when you signed the paperwork transferring ownership. One signature. A few hours of legal documents. And just like that the last physical home the Avengers had ever shared belonged to Valentina.
You told yourself it was only a building. You weren't entirely sure you believed it.
Back at the Capitol, you heard his name before you ever saw him. It started as a ripple through the hallway. "Congressman Barnes!" "Representative Barnes!" "Sir, one question!"
The corridor filled almost instantly with cameras, microphones, and reporters jockeying for position. Curious staffers slowed their pace, hoping to overhear something worth repeating before the hearing began.
You stopped walking. For a heartbeat, you considered turning around. Three years suddenly didn't feel very long.
Then the crowd shifted. And there he was. Bucky. Your breath caught before you could stop it. He looked older. Not old. Settled.
His dark hair had grown longer than the last time you'd seen him beneath the Louisiana sun, brushed neatly away from his face instead of tucked beneath his ears to keep it from falling into his eyes. The sharp navy suit fit him almost too well, tailored enough that it looked like he'd finally accepted people expected him to wear one.
Gone were the combat boots. Gone were the leather jackets. Gone was the man who constantly looked ready for the next fight.
Standing in front of you was Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. And somehow, he still looked exactly like himself.
"...Representative Barnes," a reporter called, shoving a microphone toward him. "As a freshman congressman, any comment regarding today's impeachment hearing?"
Bucky didn't even hesitate. "Well," he began evenly, "I'm not on the impeachment committee, but the allegations are concerning. Very concerning."
You bit the inside of your cheek. There it was. That careful politician cadence. Measured. Diplomatic. Every answer somehow saying everything while committing to almost nothing.
"My constituents in Brooklyn deserve transparency," he continued. "So does the American people. I'm confident the committee will get to the bottom of this concerning matter."
Another question. Another practiced answer. Then—"Thank you, everybody."
He nodded politely before slipping away from the reporters with surprising efficiency. You couldn't help smiling. He looked absolutely miserable.
Politics hadn't changed Bucky Barnes nearly as much as everyone believed. He still looked like he'd rather fight three super soldiers than answer one press conference. He adjusted the cuff of his jacket as he turned toward the courtroom.
That's when he saw you. His footsteps stopped. Just stopped. For one suspended second neither of you moved. Three years disappeared. Louisiana. The dock. The sunset. The unanswered phone call. Every birthday message. Every conversation left unfinished. Every word unsaid.
His expression softened before he caught himself.
You reached him first. "Congressman Barnes."
His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. "Ms. Stark." Professional. Careful.
He extended his hand. Not because he wanted to. Because he wasn't sure he was allowed to do anything else.
You looked down at it for the briefest moment. Then slipped your hand into his. His grip was steady. Confident. Warmer than you remembered. He'd learned how to shake hands like a politician. Somehow, that hurt.
"It's good to see you," he said. The words sounded rehearsed. Like he'd imagined saying them a hundred different ways and chosen the safest one.
"You too."
Neither of you let go immediately. Neither of you realized it until the pause had already become awkward. You both released at exactly the same time.
"So..." he said, clearing his throat. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"I figured watching from home would've been less entertaining."
One corner of his mouth twitched upward. "There'll probably be fewer thrown chairs than Congress usually promises."
"There goes my afternoon plans."
He laughed. Just once. Quiet. The sound settled something inside your chest you hadn't realized had been tight for years. He hadn't changed. Not really.
"You and Director de Fontaine work together, don't you?" he asked.
"Work adjacent."
His smile widened. "That's politician language."
"I've been spending too much time around senators."
"And?"
You glanced toward the courtroom doors. "I sign contracts with her." You lowered your voice. "I don't trust her."
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Neither did he.
"I've been trying to figure out what she's building," you admitted. "Everything she does is technically legal."
"But..."
"But people like Valentina don't buy half of Manhattan because they like the skyline."
The title landed harder than you expected. Ms. Stark. Not your name. Not... anything else. Just another government official entering another government hearing.
You smiled anyway. "Thank you, Congressman."
You hated yourself a little for saying it. He did too.
You found seats beside one another without discussing it. Not because it was planned. Because somehow it still felt natural.
The hearing began. People spoke. Reporters scribbled notes. Someone behind you coughed. You barely heard any of it. Instead, you noticed the inches between your elbows. The careful way Bucky rested both hands together in his lap instead of on the shared armrest. How he shifted slightly farther toward the aisle every time one of you accidentally leaned the same direction.
Like he was terrified of invading your space.
Three years ago, he would've nudged your shoulder with a sarcastic comment before the hearing even started. Now he acted like touching your sleeve by accident might cost him the privilege of sitting beside you.
Your chest tightened. Maybe…maybe this was your fault. Maybe you'd pushed him away so completely that he genuinely believed he wasn't welcome anymore. The thought hurt far more than you expected.
Bucky wasn't listening to the hearing either. He couldn't. Not when you were sitting beside him. Three years. Three years of television interviews. Birthday texts. Christmas messages. Congratulations. Safe conversations. Professional conversations. Enough to convince himself you'd both moved on.
Enough to convince himself that whatever had existed between you during that summer had belonged to another lifetime.
Then you'd smiled at him in the hallway. And suddenly, he remembered everything.
The sound of your laugh drifting across the Wilsons' dock. You teasing him for snoring. The way you'd always checked to make sure he was eating. How effortlessly you'd treated Bucky Barnes like someone worth knowing instead of someone worth forgiving.
You'd done something Steve never could. You'd made him believe he could become someone beyond the Winter Soldier. Beyond guilt. Beyond survival.
Congress hadn't been Steve's idea. It had been yours. Not directly. But every time he'd wondered whether he belonged anywhere...he'd remembered your voice. "They wouldn't be voting for the Winter Soldier. They'd be voting for Bucky Barnes."
So he ran. And somehow...he won. He'd spent the last year wanting to tell you that.
Instead, he stared straight ahead, pretending to pay attention to testimony he wouldn't remember tomorrow.
Because after everything, after the secrets, after Louisiana, after the distance, you were sitting beside him again. Close enough that if he moved his hand an inch, he'd brush yours. He didn't. He wasn't sure he'd earned that yet.
For now, being beside you again was enough.
The courtroom settled into an uneasy silence as the final members of Congress took their seats. Rows of reporters lined the back wall, notebooks already open, camera lenses trained toward the witness table.
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine looked remarkably comfortable for someone facing impeachment. Almost, too comfortable.
She crossed one leg over the other, smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the sleeve of her cream-colored suit, and offered the committee the same polite smile she'd worn in every meeting you'd ever attended with her.
It was the smile that bothered you most. Not arrogant. Certain. As though she'd already read the ending before everyone else had reached the first chapter.
The chairman adjusted the papers before him. "Today," Congressman Gary began, "this committee convenes to examine the conduct of Director Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Articles of impeachment have been filed before this body, and should they be approved, you will be permanently removed from your office."
He looked up. "Please state your name for the record."
"Valentina Allegra de Fontaine."
"Ahem... Miss Fontaine—"
She smiled. "No." The correction came pleasantly enough that half the room almost missed it. "It's de Fontaine." She folded her hands neatly atop the table. "You remembered Secretary of Defense's title." Her eyes drifted toward another committee member. "I imagine you'd also remember that his name isn't Secretary Fence."
A few reporters hid smiles. Others immediately began typing. Even now, she controlled the room.
The chairman cleared his throat. "Director de Fontaine. You currently serve as Director of the CIA."
"I do."
"And prior to that you chaired the board of the OXE Group."
"I did."
He flipped another page. "Despite relinquishing formal control, you continue serving in an advisory capacity while OXE maintains financial interests in numerous offshore laboratories—facilities linked to allegations of illegal enhanced-human experimentation."
The room grew quieter.
"How do you respond to those accusations?"
Valentina didn't answer immediately. She almost looked disappointed. "As fascinating as conspiracy theories can be," she said lightly, "I really don't have time for rumors." She stood. "I do, however, have time for reality."
Her voice carried effortlessly through the chamber.
"Reality is that the world has changed." She paced slowly before the committee. "There are governments developing technologies beyond our own." She looked directly toward the press gallery. "Weapons capable of destabilizing entire nations." Another step. "Enhanced individuals operating without oversight." She stopped. "And unless anyone has forgotten..." A faint smile. "Our last President became a giant red monster."
Uneasy laughter rippled through the gallery.
"You all watched him nearly level this very city." She let the silence linger.
You felt your stomach tighten.
Valentina continued. "The Avengers aren't walking through that door."
Something inside your chest clenched.
"They're gone." The words echoed through the room with unsettling certainty. "We no longer have reliable heroes." She looked directly at Congress. "So the responsibility falls to us." Her hand swept across the chamber. "To government. Everything I've authorized, whether through OXE or the CIA, has served one purpose. Keeping the American people alive."
You swallowed. Beside you, Bucky hadn't moved. Not once. But out of the corner of your eye you noticed his left hand.
His vibranium fingers had curled so tightly into a fist that the servos inside his wrist emitted the faintest mechanical whine. His jaw was locked. Eyes fixed straight ahead. Not on Valentina. On the words.
The Avengers aren't walking through that door.
For three years, he'd been helping rebuild a government because there were no Avengers left to rebuild the world. You understood exactly why those words hurt.
Before you even realized what you were doing, your hand moved. Warm fingers rested lightly over cool vibranium. Not squeezing. Not asking. Simply, there.
Bucky froze. The mechanical tension in his hand eased almost instantly beneath your touch. One finger relaxed. Then another. Finally the fist disappeared altogether.
Only then did you realize what you'd done. Your eyes met. Neither of you spoke. There wasn't anything to say. You quietly withdrew your hand back into your lap.
Bucky looked forward again, but the corner of his mouth softened. Just enough that only someone watching as closely as you would've noticed.
The chairman broke the silence. "Order."
Valentina returned to her seat as though nothing had happened. "I categorically reject these articles of impeachment." Her smile returned. "This investigation is nothing more than political theater." She folded her hands once again. "And I assure you..." She looked directly at every committee member in turn. "...you may search every filing cabinet, every laboratory, every nook and cranny you can imagine. You'll find nothing."
The confidence in her voice wasn't defensive. It was calculated. Like someone who already knew exactly where no one was looking.
“Then you don't mind if this committee...continues this investigation?” Congressman Gary pushed.
Valentina reached for her glass of water, “Oh, of course not.”
You heard the faint falter in her voice. You felt Bucky glance toward you. This time you looked first. Neither of you needed to say it aloud. Something wasn't right. Not illegal. Not yet. But wrong.
The hearing adjourned nearly an hour later, dissolving into the familiar chaos of congressional politics. Reporters surged toward committee members. Staffers hurried through the aisles carrying stacks of documents. Lobbyists gathered in polished little circles, already spinning the outcome before anyone else could.
You answered questions. Signed two briefing packets. Promised three follow-up meetings you were already dreading. By the time you finally escaped into the marble hallway, Bucky was gone. Or so you thought.
You stepped through the courthouse doors into the afternoon sun and spotted him standing alone at the top of the steps. Hands in his pockets. Tie loosened.
Watching Washington move around him instead of participating in it. For the first time all day, he looked less like Congressman Barnes. And more like Bucky.
You barely made it through the courthouse doors before another microphone appeared in front of you. "Ms. Stark!"
You forced another polite smile. One more question. Always one more question.
The reporter hurried to keep pace beside you. "Director de Fontaine just claimed the Avengers aren't coming anymore—that there are no Avengers left." He lifted the microphone. "You were one. Do you agree?"
The question caught somewhere beneath your ribs. For a split second you genuinely didn't know how to answer. Were you still an Avenger? Did that word even mean anything anymore?
Before you could decide—"Sorry."
A familiar voice cut cleanly through the crowd. "We've got somewhere to be."
Bucky stepped effortlessly between you and the cameras, one hand resting lightly against the middle of your back as he guided you through the cluster of reporters. "No more questions today."
Someone called after him. "Congressman Barnes!"
Another shouted your name. Neither of you looked back. Only once you'd disappeared into the quieter hallway leading toward the underground parking garage did he finally remove his hand.
The silence felt almost...comfortable. Almost.
"Thanks," you said.
He slipped both hands into his coat pockets.
"Washington?" You nodded. "It doesn't get easier."
"No." He glanced back toward the courthouse. "It just gets louder."
You laughed. The sound surprised both of you.
"So," you said, "how many times have you escaped reporters like that?"
"I've stopped counting."
"You looked suspiciously professional."
"I hated every second of it."
"I could tell."
"I've gotten good at pretending."
"I noticed."
Another smile. Another silence. Neither one of you seemed in a hurry to fill it. It reminded you of Louisiana. Except three years had settled carefully between every sentence.
Then at the same time--"Something's off about de Fontaine." "So..."
Both of you stopped talking. Bucky blinked. You did too.
"...Sorry."
"You go."
"No, you."
You both laughed. Again. It felt easier this time.
You folded your arms. "I don't trust Valentina."
His expression immediately became serious.
"I've been trying to figure out what she's building." You continued walking. "Everything I've signed involving her has been legal. Which somehow makes it worse."
"Exactly."
You glanced toward him. "Military procurement. Private research. Property acquisitions. Defense funding. OXE. Every single piece makes sense on its own. But together, they're building toward something."
Bucky nodded slowly. "I've been seeing the same thing in Congress. Nothing you can actually accuse her of."
"No."
"But enough to keep you awake."
You looked at him. "I'm glad it's not just me."
"It isn't."
The parking garage came into view. Concrete. Cool air. Much quieter than the courthouse above. Bucky slowed.
"So..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I've actually been meaning to ask you something."
You looked up. He suddenly looked less like Congressman Barnes. More like Bucky. The one who never quite knew what to do with his hands.
"The phone call." His voice was quieter now. "Three years ago." He couldn't quite meet your eyes. "I always wondered..." He exhaled. "...why you never called me back."
There it was. Three years. Reduced to one sentence.
You looked down at the concrete between your feet. "I wanted to."
He looked up.
"I picked up my phone more times than I can count." Your laugh held no humor. "I'd even type something."
"What happened?"
"I'd delete it. Every time." You searched for the words. "I wasn't angry." Not anymore. "I was..." You shook your head. "Hurt."
He nodded once. "I know."
"No." You looked at him. "I don't think you do."
He stayed quiet.
"I wasn't hurt because you knew." Your voice softened. "I was hurt because somewhere along the way..." You smiled sadly. "...you became important to me."
Bucky’s breathing caught.
"And suddenly I didn't know what our friendship had been." You looked away. "I started questioning every conversation we'd had that summer. Every joke. Every late-night talk. I kept wondering..." You swallowed. "'Was he looking at me knowing the whole time?'"
His face fell. "I know. I know. I asked myself that every day." The words came quickly now. "I should've told you. Maybe not that day. Maybe not the next. But sometime sooner than I wanted. I just..." His shoulders slumped. "I kept waiting for the right moment. And then too much time had passed. And after that..." He laughed bitterly. "I figured you hated me."
You stared at him. "You really thought that?"
"I would've." He shrugged helplessly. "If somebody hurt me like that."
You sighed. "I didn't hate you. I just..."
"You needed space." Bucky blurted, more for himself.
"I needed to stop blaming the wrong person." You exhaled.
He frowned. "What?"
You smiled sadly. "I spent so long trying to figure out who to blame for losing Steve that I picked the only person who was still there."
Bucky looked like someone had knocked the air from his lungs.
"I knew it wasn't your decision. I've always known. But knowing something and accepting it...They're different."
He nodded slowly. "I understand."
Silence settled again. Lighter this time. Not because everything had been fixed. Because everything had finally been said.
For the first time in years, neither of you was carrying it alone.
He glanced toward the garage exit. "So..." His smile returned, hesitant but genuine. "I'll see you at Fontaine's charity gala?"
You couldn't help yourself. "De Fontaine." You emphasized the syllable.
He groaned dramatically. “So, you’re still as insufferable”
“Always”
He smiled. "I figured." He gestured toward the lower level where your car was parked. "Can I walk you to your car?"
You looked at him for a moment. Three years ago, you might have overthought the offer. Wondered what it meant. Wondered whether accepting would make things more complicated.
Today, it just felt familiar.
You smiled. "I'd like that."
Neither of you noticed that, for the first time in three years, you were walking beside each other instead of several careful steps apart. Neither of you reached for the other. But neither of you drifted away, either.
If you had paid closer attention to the invitation weeks ago, you never would have accepted it.
The realization didn't hit until your driver slowed beneath the familiar skyline. Your eyes lifted. Then stopped. Stark Tower. Or, what used to be Stark Tower.
The glowing "A" that had once crowned the building was gone, replaced by clean architectural lighting and discreet corporate branding. Glass panels reflected the Manhattan skyline exactly as they always had, but somehow the building looked colder now. Sterile. Like someone had taken a home and turned it into an investment.
You remained seated for another second after the car stopped.
Tony had built this place to bring people together. Now it hosted fundraisers for politicians. Funny how buildings survived people.
A valet opened your door. "Good evening, Ms. Stark."
You thanked him automatically. The words barely registered. As your heels clicked across the marble entrance, memories surfaced before you could stop them.
Tony yelling across the workshop because you'd touched something you definitely weren't supposed to. Natasha stealing strawberries from the kitchen. Bruce explaining radiation mechanics to a very confused Thor. Steve standing by the windows overlooking the city, waiting for you to finish work so the two of you could finally go home. Your chest tightened. Not today. You'd promised yourself this wasn't going to be one of those days.
You stepped inside. The lobby had changed almost beyond recognition. The Avengers' history had become branding, history, decorations.
The conference rooms were gone. The common living spaces had become elegant reception halls. Even the elevator interiors had been redesigned. Valentina hadn't simply bought the building. She'd erased everything that had made it a home.
A server appeared beside you with a silver tray. "Champagne?"
You accepted a glass more for something to do with your hands than because you intended to drink it. Music drifted through the ballroom. Politicians. Military officials. Corporate executives. Lobbyists. Foreign diplomats.
Everyone smiling. Everyone pretending.
It was remarkable how quickly Washington and New York became the same room when enough money was involved.
You recognized almost everyone. Few of them were friends. Mostly people you'd learned to negotiate with.
You smiled. Shook hands. Accepted compliments. Answered the same questions. All while trying very hard not to think about the floor beneath your feet.
Then, something made you look up. Not instinct. Habit.
Someone was watching you. Your eyes found the second-floor balcony. He was already looking at you.
Bucky stood near the railing, one hand resting loosely against polished wood, another wrapped around an untouched glass of sparkling water. A charcoal suit replaced the leather jackets you had gotten used to seeing him in. His tie had already been loosened half an inch, as though even Congressman Barnes hadn't fully adjusted to formal events.
He looked comfortable. No. He looked like someone pretending to be comfortable. The difference mattered.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Three years. Hundreds of texts. One unanswered phone call. One awkward conversation outside a courthouse.
And somehow, seeing him across a crowded room made the past three years disappear.
Bucky smiled first. Small. Almost hesitant.
Your shoulders relaxed before you even realized they'd been tense. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He always had.
From the balcony, Bucky watched you accept another handshake. He'd seen you the second you'd stepped through the doors. Actually, before that. He'd recognized your car pulling into the sidewalk outside. Old habits.
His attention had tracked you automatically. He noticed the brief pause outside the entrance. The way your eyes lingered on the building. The tiny breath you took before walking inside. Nobody else would've recognized what that meant. He did.
Because he understood what you lived inside these walls years ago. Back when laughter echoed through the halls instead of campaign donations. Back when the Tower had felt alive.
He wondered if coming here hurt. Judging by the look on your face, it did.
Without thinking, he set his untouched drink onto a passing server's tray. Then headed downstairs.
You looked up just as he reached the last step. "Congressman Barnes."
There it was again. Professional. Safe.
He smiled despite himself. "Ms. Stark."
He stopped in front of you. For one ridiculous second, he forgot every prepared sentence he'd come up with while walking downstairs. Instead, the truth escaped. "You look..."
You glanced down at your dress. "Miserable?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Out of place?" you offered. You gestured around the ballroom. "Like someone who realized a little too late where this thing was being held?"
Bucky couldn't help smiling. "I was going to say..." His eyes met yours. "...beautiful."
Silence. Real silence. Not awkward. Just unexpected.
Heat crept into your cheeks so quickly you almost looked away. Beautiful? You hadn't felt beautiful all day. You'd nearly changed dresses three times. Spent twenty minutes convincing yourself not to cancel. Had cried, just a little, while fastening your earrings.
Yet somehow, he'd looked at you like none of that existed.
Bucky looked equally surprised. The words had simply come out. No rehearsing. No overthinking. Just honesty.
He realized then that it had become dangerously easy to tell you the truth.
You smiled. Softly. "Thank you." Your eyes wandered over him now. Actually looking. "You clean up pretty well."
He chuckled. "I'd hope so."
"No..." You tilted your head thoughtfully. "I like the hair."
Almost reflexively, he reached up, brushing a hand through it. "It getting too long?"
"I didn't say that."
"So it's...okay?"
"I think it suits you, Bucky."
He smiled. Not because of the compliment. Because, for the first time in years, you hadn't called him James. Or Congressman Barnes. Or Representative. Just—"Bucky."
It was such a small thing. One word. Yet somehow, it sounded like forgiveness. And for the first time since Louisiana, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, they weren't starting over. They were simply finding their way back.
Bucky rubbed a hand through the longer hair at the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. "I figured I'd try something different."
"It works." You tilted your head, studying him for another second. "It fits the whole serious Congressman image."
He laughed under his breath. "That's the nicest way anyone's ever called me old."
"I didn't say old."
"You implied it."
"I implied professional."
"Worse."
You laughed, and somehow the sound dissolved the last bit of awkwardness between you. It surprised both of you.
For three years, every conversation had lived behind a phone screen, carefully measured, politely distant. Birthday texts. Holiday messages. Congratulations after elections. Articles forwarded without explanation. Neither of you had ever stopped reaching out. You had simply stopped reaching.
Yet standing here now, teasing each other as naturally as you used to, it felt almost unfair how quickly the distance disappeared. As though it had only been waiting for someone to ignore it.
Neither of you mentioned it. Neither of you wanted to risk breaking whatever fragile thing had quietly returned between you.
Bucky followed your gaze around the ballroom. "So..." He nodded toward the towering glass walls. "You really sold the place."
Your smile faded. "...Yeah." You looked around slowly. "I fought it for months." You laughed once, shaking your head. "Actually... I think Pepper would've said years."
He stayed quiet, letting you continue.
"Every email from Valentina sat unanswered. Every contract ended up at the bottom of a pile." You exhaled softly. "Eventually I realized I wasn't protecting the Tower."
Your eyes lingered on the grand staircase where the Avengers logo still overlooked the lobby, now more decoration than a symbol of what you represented. "I was protecting a memory."
Bucky looked around the room.
"It doesn't feel like home anymore." You whispered. "It isn't."
The words carried more relief than sadness. "I haven't stepped foot in here since Tony died." You smiled faintly. "I almost turned the invitation down the second I saw the address."
"I would've." He confessed.
You looked at him. "You came."
"I have committee obligations. " He argued.
"Liar."
His mouth twitched. "...Mostly, I wanted to see what she’d turn it into. Maybe I am a bit of a gossip."
That earned another laugh.
He looked around again, taking in the polished marble, the expensive artwork, the unfamiliar furniture. "Maybe..." he said quietly, "...that's not the worst thing."
You raised an eyebrow.
"When I first got to Washington, I hated it." A smile settled across his face. "But eventually..." He slipped his hands into his pockets. "Being somewhere new forced me to stop asking who I used to be."
You listened carefully.
"I couldn't be the Winter Soldier there." His eyes drifted toward the ballroom. "I couldn't even really be Steve's best friend." He shrugged. "So I had to figure out who Bucky Barnes was when nobody had an answer."
You didn't interrupt.
"I think..." he admitted, "...politics helped with that."
"You believe in it."
"I believe in helping people." He smiled. "Turns out Congress is just another way of doing that."
You looked at him for a long moment. "It suits you."
His eyes met yours. "And you?"
You looked around the ballroom. Around the people. The politicians. The military officers. The endless conversations you'd spent years navigating.
"I don't know." It came out quieter than you intended. "I keep waiting to feel like I've arrived somewhere."
"You have."
You frowned.
He continued before you could argue. "You spend every day trying to keep people from tearing each other apart." His voice remained calm. "You bridge governments and people. You protect people who don't always deserve protecting. And somehow..." A small smile appeared. "...you still believe most people are trying to do the right thing."
You looked away. "I don't know if all that's true."
"I do." The certainty in his voice caught you off guard. "I think you're a lot closer to figuring yourself out than you think."
For just a second, the noise of the gala disappeared. You weren't sure anyone had ever said something that kind to you without wanting something in return.
Before you could answer, Bucky's attention shifted over your shoulder. His expression changed instantly. Professional. Focused.
He gave your shoulder the lightest bump with his own. "You can thank me later."
"For what?"
He nodded toward the far end of the ballroom. Valentina, still entertaining donors with an effortless smile, had just been intercepted by Congressman Gary Anderson. The congressman's expression was far less pleasant.
"You wanted something suspicious." Bucky's eyes narrowed slightly. "I think we just found it."
Without another word, the two of you drifted through the crowd, not as Congressman Barnes and the government's Enhanced Affairs Liaison...
But as partners following the same instinct. Again.
Across the ballroom, Valentina moved through her guests with effortless precision, never lingering with one person for too long before drifting to the next. Every laugh sounded practiced. Every smile landed at exactly the right moment. She stopped beside a glass display case.
Inside rested a pair of battered Chitauri restraints, warped from years of damage, the alien metal still carrying faint blue etchings beneath the lights. She gestured toward them as another wealthy donor leaned closer.
"They're genuine," Valentina said warmly. "Recovered after the Battle of New York by one of the city's first responders."
The guest's eyes widened. "Really?"
Valentina nodded. "They came with the building." Her fingers brushed lightly against the glass. "I thought they deserved a better home than another government warehouse."
She smiled, almost sentimental. "A reminder that people fall..." She paused just long enough for everyone listening to lean in. "...but we always find a way to rebuild."
The donor chuckled appreciatively. "That's beautiful."
"It photographs well too," Valentina replied with a wink.
Before the guest could answer, another voice cut through the conversation.
"That's certainly...inspiring."
Valentina's smile never faltered as she turned. Congressman Gary Anderson. Of course.
She clasped her hands together. "Congressman. I'm delighted you came."
"I couldn't miss it. It's a beautiful fake event." His gaze swept across the ballroom. "The First Responders Family Fund." He gave a slow nod. "That's cute."
"Cute? Oh."
"This won’t sway the votes enough to save your ass. " He looked around at the towering chandeliers.
A few nearby guests suddenly became very interested in their champagne.
For the first time, the smile around Valentina’s eyes tightened. Barely. "Mel?" Her assistant appeared immediately. "Would you check on Mr. Whitmore? I think he was looking for me."
Mel understood the dismissal without another word and gently guided the donor away, leaving the two politicians alone.
Gary waited until they were out of earshot. "This gaudy Avengers propaganda..." He gestured toward the Chitauri restraints. "...reeks of desperation."
Valentina folded her hands behind her back. "If you really believed that, Congressman..." she said softly, "...you wouldn't have bothered showing up. You're scared because your investigation into my office came up clean."
His expression hardened. “Spotlessly clean. Almost as if someone frantically got rid of all the evidence.”
She laughed. "Or..." She leaned forward just enough to lower her voice. “as if someone was incredibly innocent. Without evidence, this impeachment process is running on borrowed time.”
The silence stretched between them. Then— "Excuse me!"
A photographer appeared almost out of nowhere. "One picture?"
Both politicians smiled instantly. As though the previous thirty seconds had never happened. Flash. Another. Flash. Valentina rested a friendly hand against Gary's arm. Gary smiled for the cameras like an old colleague.
Anyone looking from across the ballroom would have believed they were allies.
Only after the photographer thanked them did they step apart. "Have a lovely evening, Congressman." "You too, Director."
They walked away in opposite directions.
You watched the exchange beside Bucky, neither of you speaking immediately. Bucky watched the exchange unfold from beside you, though at some point he'd stopped paying attention to Valentina altogether.
Instead, he found himself watching you. The way your brows drew together whenever something caught your attention. The little smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth every time Congressman Gary landed another jab. The quiet laugh you tried, and failed, to hide behind your champagne glass.
It was familiar. Comfortably familiar. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed seeing it in person.
When Gary and Valentina finally drifted apart, you let out a small breath through your nose. "Well," you said, lifting your glass, "there's my entertainment for the evening."
This time he did laugh. "Washington grows on you."
"I'm not sure that's something to brag about."
"It's not."
You smiled at each other. Not awkwardly. Not cautiously. Just normally. The realization caught him off guard.
For the first time since Louisiana, this didn't feel like two people carefully choosing every word. It felt like them.
His smile lingered a second longer before duty pulled him back to reality. "I've..." He glanced across the ballroom. "I've gotta take care of something."
You raised an eyebrow. "'Take care of something?'"
He nodded. "Need to talk to someone."
"Very mysterious."
"I try."
You leaned in conspiratorially. "Political business?"
"Something like that."
"You realize that makes it sound even more suspicious."
"It probably is."
You grinned. "Ooh." You lowered your voice dramatically. "Secret congressman mission."
He rubbed the back of his neck, already regretting saying anything. "I didn't say that."
"No..." You pointed at him. "...but you definitely implied it."
He couldn't stop himself from smiling.
"I'll try to stay out of your way then."
"You don't have to—"
You were already reaching for another champagne flute from a passing server. "Relax." You looked back over your shoulder. "I promise I won't accidentally expose your covert operation."
Then, you winked. It lasted less than a second before you disappeared into the crowd.
Bucky remained exactly where he was. He stared after you longer than he probably should have. His stomach did something strange. Not unpleasant. Just, unexpected.
You’d winked at him before. Dozens of times. Usually after teasing him. Or winning an argument. Or catching him being grumpy. So why did it feel different now?
He frowned to himself. Maybe because it had been three years. Maybe because you smiled first. Maybe because, for the first time since that night on the dock in Louisiana, you looked at him like nothing had to be repaired anymore. Like he hadn't lost you after all.
He wasn't sure which thought unsettled him more.
A passing congressman clapped him on the shoulder, snapping him back to the present. "Barnes."
Bucky blinked. Right. He had a reason for being here. He tore his eyes away from where you'd disappeared into the crowd and straightened his jacket.
Mission first. Whatever... that had just been could wait. For now.
Across the ballroom, Bucky finally spotted Mel standing alone near the grand staircase. She wasn't watching the guests. She was staring at the massive illuminated "A" suspended above the lobby, the same place where the Avengers logo had once overlooked the Tower.
Or maybe she wasn't looking at the letter at all. Maybe she was imagining what had stood there before.
He approached quietly, stopping beside her instead of directly behind. For a few moments, neither of them spoke.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Mel blinked, almost startled. "Oh." She turned. "Congressman Barnes."
He nodded politely. "Mel, right?"
A small smile. "That's me."
His gaze drifted back toward the towering emblem. He looked up at the ceiling.
He gestured toward the building around them. "All of this probably feels like ancient history to you."
"Kierkegaard said..." she began carefully, trying to remember the quote. "Life can only be understood backwards..."
"Very true," Bucky added.
Her eyebrows lifted. " Is it?"
“I don't really know.”
She laughed. “Though it sounded good”
He shrugged. “He believed it was up to individuals to create values.”
She smiled. After a beat, she added quietly, "I know who you are and what you're doing.”
Bucky looked at her. His expression stayed perfectly neutral. "What am I doing?"
She nodded. “You're working me. You're trying to get me on your side.” She folded her arms. She studied him.
"You know..."
He didn't react. “Okay, look. You say you know who I am, so you know my story.” His eyes met hers. “And you know I didn't have a choice who I worked for. But you do.”
Mel looked away first. “I need to keep Valentina on schedule. “
Bucky reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. She immediately sighed. "Oh, what's this? Is this your trash?”
He held out a business card.
“It's my business card.”
She looked at it but didn't take it.
"In case..." He smiled. "you need help or, you know, want to share some secret hidden evidence."
She finally accepted it.
“Well. Goodbye”
She tucked the card into her pocket. As she walked away, Bucky didn't call after her. He simply watched her disappear into the crowd. Sometimes planting the seed was enough. And if his instincts were right, Mel had looked at that business card for just a second longer than someone with nothing to hide should have.
For the rest of the evening, you found yourself unconsciously searching for him. Not because you meant to. Because somehow, every time you looked across the ballroom, you knew exactly where he was.
He never stayed in one place for long. One conversation with a senator. Another with a military liaison. A handshake with a donor. A photograph with someone from the Veterans Committee.
To anyone else, Congressman Barnes looked perfectly at ease. You knew better. His eyes never stopped moving. Neither did yours. He wasn't working the room. He was watching it. Watching Valentina. Watching Mel. Watching every entrance, every hallway, every whispered conversation that broke apart the second someone approached.
Whenever another guest stopped him, he smiled politely, answered their questions, even laughed when expected. The second they walked away, the smile disappeared. His jaw tightened. His shoulders squared.
You'd seen that look before. Not the Winter Soldier. Bucky when he was trying to solve a problem.
Hours passed before you finally slipped away from the ballroom, needing a break from the endless music and political small talk. The hallway outside was blessedly quiet.
You had barely rounded the corner when someone caught your wrist. Your body tensed automatically, until you saw him.
His grip loosened immediately. "Sorry."
"No," you said, smiling. "You just scared five years off my life."
"I'll buy them back later."
"You'd better."
For a second, neither of you moved. Then he glanced down the corridor before speaking quietly. "I talked to Mel."
You leaned against the wall. "Valentina's assistant?"
He nodded. "I think she's wavering."
"Wavering?"
"I don't think she's completely bought in anymore."
That got your attention. "You think she'll talk?"
"I think..." He searched for the words. "...she wants someone to give her permission to."
You studied him. "And?"
"I need Gary."
"Congressman Anderson?"
"Yeah."
"What for?"
He looked at you. "Do you trust me?"
The question caught you off guard. Not because of what he asked. Because he asked at all.
Three years ago, you weren't sure how you would've answered. Tonight, you nodded without hesitation. "I do."
Something in his expression softened. "Come on."
He led you upstairs toward one of the quieter hallways overlooking the ballroom. As if on cue, Congressman Gary Anderson stepped through a nearby doorway carrying a folder tucked beneath one arm.
Bucky intercepted him. "Congressman."
Gary nearly jumped. "Holy—" He grabbed his chest dramatically. "Barnes. You trying to kill me?"
Bucky ignored the comment. "I've got something."
Gary immediately glanced around. "What?"
"Mel. The assistant? I think she's..." He paused. "...ductile."
Gary blinked. "Ductile?"
Bucky nodded slowly.
“Oh. I mean, good.” He sighed, annoyed, “I mean next time text like a normal person?”
You pressed your lips together, desperately trying not to laugh. Bucky looked over at you. That familiar glare.
Except after all these years, it had completely lost its intimidation. It wasn't the Winter Soldier's stare anymore. It was simply Bucky silently informing you that you were being very unhelpful. Which somehow made you want to laugh even more.
He sighed. "Look, we're safe here." He pointed toward the ceiling. "We’re in a blind spot, okay. Away from those two cameras."
Gary looked upward. Then back at him. "Hold on, alright? We don’t need to go rogue, in the darkness, or whatever you people do.”
"You people? Hold On? You don't know what Val is capable of.” You argued.
Bucky sighed, “We need to move fast and the assistant is on the fence.”
You stepped beside him. "He's right."
Gary looked at you. "Miss Stark. You've worked with her."
"I have."
"Then you know accusations aren't enough."
"I also know she's spent three years making sure no accusation sticks."
Gary sighed. "Without a smoking gun, the best chance to get Val out of power is to whip the votes. And you can help with that, and let the system do its job.”
Bucky laughed once. A tired laugh. "The same system that takes a recess every afternoon at four?"
Gary didn't smile. He adjusted the folder beneath his arm "Look, we are in a good spot. I assure you. My team is putting together a juicy packet for the next hearing.”
Bucky blinked. "...Packet?"
"Yes. A packet." Gary looked genuinely confused. "Read the packets, Barnes."
Then, with one final nod, he disappeared back toward the ballroom.
Silence settled between the two of you. You watched Bucky stare after him. He looked disappointed. Not angry. Just disappointed.
He'd hoped another elected official would understand. Would act. Instead, he'd gotten another reminder that Washington solved problems with binders before people.
You stepped closer. "He isn't wrong."
"I know."
"But neither are you."
He looked at you.
"You've spent all year trying to change the system." Your voice softened. "You're just frustrated because it's starting to change the way you work too."
He let out a slow breath. "...Maybe."
"No." You smiled gently. "It still hasn't though. You still run toward people. You just wear a suit when you do it now."
For the first time that evening, he smiled again. A real one.
The gala slowly began winding down. Guests filtered toward the exits, conversations giving way to polite goodbyes and the hum of waiting town cars.
Bucky insisted on walking you outside. Neither of you talked much. Some silences didn't need filling anymore.
Your car pulled to the curb. He opened the door before you could reach for it. Some habits never changed.
You looked up at him. "Goodnight, Congressman."
He smiled. "Goodnight..."
This time, he said your name. Not Ms. Stark. Not professionally. Just your name. You smiled before climbing into the car.
As it pulled away, you glanced back through the rear window. He was still standing there beneath the lights of the Tower. Hands in his pockets.
Watching until your car disappeared into Manhattan traffic. Only then did he turn back toward the building. Toward Valentina. Toward whatever secret she was working so hard to keep hidden.
Summary: In the quiet after the fight, you and Bucky find yourselves surrounded by the kind of belonging neither thought you would have again. But when Bucky finally reveals the one secret he has carried since the day Steve left, the fragile trust growing between you fractures, leaving both to wonder whether some things can be forgiven without ever being forgotten.
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
The days that followed settled into an unfamiliar kind of quiet. For the first time in weeks, there were no explosions. No emergency calls in the middle of the night. No rushing to airports or chasing leads across continents.
Life simply... resumed. Or at least, tried to.
Bucky disappeared almost as quickly as the dust had settled. He never told anyone where he was going. You didn't ask. Some part of you already knew.
He was finally doing what you and Sam had challenged him to do, not avenging his past, but facing it. One name at a time. One apology at a time. One impossible conversation after another.
You found yourself wondering how he was doing more often than you cared to admit. Sometimes your fingers hovered over your phone before you stopped yourself.
He needed to do this on his own. Besides, you weren't exactly good at asking people if they were okay either.
Sam, meanwhile, disappeared for different reasons. He'd mentioned wanting to visit Isaiah Bradley. After everything that had happened, the shield, Walker, Karli, New York, it felt overdue.
As for you, life returned to conference rooms. Government briefings. Security assessments. Questions from senators who suddenly wanted your opinion now that Captain America had publicly challenged them.
You attended meeting after meeting, reviewing footage from New York, answering inquiries about enhanced individuals, reconstruction efforts, and international relations.
There were questions about Walker. Questions about Sharon. Questions about the Flag Smashers. And surprisingly, very few objections to Sam.
After his speech, even the loudest critics seemed reluctant to argue with him publicly. Not because everyone agreed. Because everyone had heard him. That mattered.
A week later, Sam called. You answered.
The Captain America exhibit was quieter than you remembered. School groups wandered through the displays. Veterans stopped beside old photographs. Parents explained history to children too young to understand it.
You waited near the final gallery, hands tucked into your jacket pockets. The familiar exhibits surrounded you. Steve's uniform. His motorcycle. The Howling Commandos. Peggy. The shield. Bucky.
Memories seemed to live inside every glass case. Your eyes lingered on one photograph longer than the others. Steve. Smiling.
It still hurt. Not as sharply anymore. But enough. Enough that your chest tightened. Enough that you still missed reaching for him.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. You looked up. Sam entered first. Beside him walked Isaiah Bradley. His grandson, Eli, stayed close, looking around with quiet curiosity.
Isaiah barely glanced at the familiar Captain America displays. His attention stayed on Sam. "You brought me all the way here for this?"
"Just keep walking." His voice carried a smile.
Isaiah grumbled something under his breath, but followed anyway. They rounded the final corner. Then Isaiah stopped. Completely. His grandson froze beside him.
You were already waiting there. Behind you stood a new exhibit. Not large. Not flashy. Just honest.
A bronze statue stood proudly beneath soft museum lights. Isaiah Bradley. Not hidden. Not forgotten. Displayed beside the heroes he'd fought alongside. Along the wall stretched photographs that had never before been seen publicly. Black-and-white images. Military records. Recovered documentation. His years of service. The years stolen from him.
A timeline that didn't erase the suffering, but refused to let it remain buried. At the center rested a simple plaque. ISAIAH BRADLEY. Soldier. Hero. Patriot.
Beneath it was the story history had finally chosen to tell. Not the government's version. The truth.
Isaiah didn't move. His weathered hands trembled almost imperceptibly. His eyes moved from photograph to photograph. Reading every word. Studying every date. Almost as though he expected them to disappear if he blinked.
You watched him quietly. For once, there was nothing to fix. Nothing to say. Only something to witness.
After a long moment, Isaiah finally turned toward you and Sam. His eyes glistened. Years of anger. Pain. Silence. Gone, if only for a moment.
You stepped beside Sam. A small smile found your face. "Now..." Your voice was barely above a whisper. "...they'll never forget what you did for this country."
Sam nodded. "Never."
Isaiah looked between the two of you. He tried to speak. Nothing came out. Instead, he crossed the room. He stopped in front of Sam. Then, without another word, he reached for him. Pulling him into a fierce embrace. Not because Sam had given him something. Because Sam had seen him. Really seen him.
The old soldier shook as decades of grief finally escaped him. Sam simply held on. No speeches. No promises. Just held on.
You looked away for a second, giving them the privacy they deserved. Your gaze drifted toward Steve's photo displayed in the next gallery. For years, his shield had represented one man's legacy.
Today, it had become something bigger. You smiled to yourself. Steve would've loved this. And somehow, you thought Sam knew that too.
A few days later, you found yourself driving back down the familiar roads of Delacroix. This time, there were no emergency calls waiting for you. No helicopters overhead. No meetings to rush back to. Just Louisiana.
The windows of your car were rolled down, letting the warm, salty breeze drift through the cabin. The scent of marsh water mixed with barbecue smoke long before you reached the Wilson house.
You smiled. You'd know that smell anywhere now. As you pulled into the gravel driveway, music floated through the air. Laughter followed. The celebration had already started.
Colorful string lights stretched between the trees, glowing softly as the sun dipped lower over the bayou. Folding tables overflowed with homemade food, desserts, coolers full of drinks, and enough seafood to feed half the parish.
The Wilson boat sat proudly at the dock, freshly painted and shining in the evening light. It looked alive again. Just like the family who owned it.
The moment you stepped out of the car—"There she is!"
One of Sarah's neighbors waved you over before you even had a chance to grab the pie you'd promised to bring.
Someone else immediately relieved you of it. "You're late."
"I brought dessert."
"So, you're forgiven."
You laughed. "I was hoping that was the exchange rate."
"It is around here."
The first familiar face you spotted wasn't Sam. It was Bucky. He stood near one of the picnic tables, somehow looking completely at home despite the fact that only a week ago he'd claimed he wasn't good with people.
Apparently the people of Delacroix hadn't gotten that memo. Someone shoved a paper plate piled high with food into his hands. Another neighbor handed him a drink before he'd even finished the first one.
One of the older men slapped him on the shoulder like they'd been fishing together for years. "You eat enough yet?"
"I think this is my third plate."
"Then you're behind."
Another plate appeared. Bucky looked completely defeated. "...Thank you."
You couldn't help smiling. The former Winter Soldier, the man who once terrified entire governments, was currently losing a battle against Southern hospitality.
He caught your eye across the yard. For a split second, his expression changed. Not dramatically. Just lighter. His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. He lifted his beer in greeting.
You mirrored the gesture with an amused nod before someone bumped into him, dragging him into another conversation.
"About time." Sam appeared beside you as though he'd materialized from thin air.
Before you could answer, he shoved a cold beer into your hand. "There."
"I didn't even ask."
"You were gonna."
"I was."
"I know." He grinned. "Come on." He hooked an arm around your shoulder and steered you through the crowd before you could protest. "Sarah!"
She looked up from arranging another tray of food. The second she saw you, she abandoned the table completely. She wrapped you in a hug so warm it immediately reminded you why you'd come back. "You came."
"I said I would."
She held you a little tighter. "...Thank you."
You frowned. "For what?"
"For everything. The boat. The boys. Sam. You didn't have to keep showing up."
You smiled gently. "I wanted to."
She looked like she wanted to argue. Instead she simply squeezed your hands.
"We're glad you did."
You bumped her shoulder playfully. "I expect payment."
"Oh?"
"Home-cooked meals."
"As many as you want."
One of Sarah's friends laughed from nearby. "Honey, we'll feed you."
Another looked you up and down dramatically. "You could use another twenty pounds if you're gonna keep saving the world."
Laughter erupted around the table. You looked down at yourself before shrugging. "I've been told explosions burn calories."
"They do not."
"There's no scientific evidence."
"I'm choosing to believe there is."
"Sit down." Someone was already piling food onto another plate for you.
You surrendered. "I've learned fighting this is impossible."
Sarah smirked. "Now you're getting it."
As the evening settled in, the party grew louder. Children raced across the yard chasing one another with glow sticks. Someone started dancing near the dock. Music drifted over the water. Neighbors told stories you'd already heard twice, and happily listened to them a third time.
Eventually Sam stood. Beer in hand. He cleared his throat. The conversations slowly quieted.
"I just wanted to say..." He looked toward the restored boat. "...thank you." His voice caught for only a moment. "This thing means more to our family than I probably ever knew."
He looked toward Sarah. "Couldn't have done it without my sister."
Sarah rolled her eyes immediately. "You absolutely could've."
"No." He smiled. "I couldn't."
She finally stood too. "If we're being honest..." She pointed toward the crowd. "It wasn't just us." Her eyes wandered over everyone gathered there. "Every single one of you showed up. When we needed help... You came."
Her gaze eventually settled on you. "...Some people came from a little farther away than others."
Your cheeks warmed immediately. You shook your head. "It wasn't a big deal—"
"No." She interrupted gently. "It was."
For a moment, you didn't know what to say. So you simply smiled.
Across the yard, a burst of laughter stole everyone's attention.
Bucky sat cross-legged in the grass surrounded by AJ, Cass, and what looked like every child in the neighborhood. "Does it come off?"
"No."
"Can I touch it?"
"...Sure."
Tiny hands poked cautiously at the vibranium fingers.
One little girl gasped as they moved. "Do you feel that?"
"I do."
"So it's real?"
He looked at his arm thoughtfully. "...Pretty sure."
Another kid frowned. "So you're basically a robot?"
Bucky looked horrified. "No."
"You sure?"
"I'm... mostly sure."
The children dissolved into giggles.
You watched from across the yard. Something softened inside your chest. He wasn't forcing himself to smile anymore. He simply was. Happy. Or maybe, learning how to be.
Almost as if he sensed your gaze, Bucky looked up. Across the crowd, your eyes met. Neither of you waved. Neither of you spoke. He simply smiled. Small. Easy. Real.
You smiled back without thinking.
Then AJ grabbed his metal arm again. "Can you lift Uncle Sam?"
Bucky looked over at Sam. A slow grin spread across his face. "I probably could."
Sam pointed at him from across the yard. "Don't you dare."
The entire party erupted into laughter. And for the first time in what felt like years, everything was good. Even if only for one evening. It was enough.
The celebration slowly faded into the background. The music became quieter. Children were being rounded up by tired parents, paper lanterns reflected across the calm water, and conversations drifted farther apart as the night settled over the bayou.
You found yourself alone at the end of the dock. A bottle rested loosely in your hand. The sunset painted the water gold, then orange, then deep violet. For the first time in months, your mind was quiet.
You heard footsteps on the wooden planks. Slow. Measured. They stopped beside you. You didn't look over. You didn't have to. You recognized him before he even spoke.
The faint scent of cedar, old leather, and machine oil had somehow become familiar. Comforting, even.
Bucky stopped beside you. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
It had been nearly two weeks since New York. The longest you'd gone without seeing one another since everything in Munich had begun.
Funny. A few months ago, that would've meant nothing.
Now, you found yourself oddly aware of the absence.
He leaned against the railing beside you. "You disappear for two weeks..." His voice carried that dry edge you'd grown to love. "...and suddenly I have to compete with half of Delacroix for your attention."
You laughed softly. "I could say the same thing. I spent twenty minutes looking for you." You smiled.
"I noticed."
"You noticed?" You frowned.
He nodded toward the house behind you. "You checked the porch. The kitchen. The boat." A tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "...Then you came out here."
You blinked. "Were you watching me?"
"I observe."
You laughed. "Oh, now you're stealing my line."
"I learned from the best."
The words came easily. Naturally. Not forced. Not accidental.
Bucky Barnes was finally speaking before the Winter Soldier had a chance to stop him.
Heat crept into your cheeks despite yourself. "That almost sounded like a compliment."
He looked genuinely thoughtful. "Maybe it was."
You stared. The smile that followed was unmistakably his. Relaxed. Confident. Dangerously familiar.
"Careful, Barnes."
"What?"
"You keep saying things like that..." You tilted your head. "I might start believing Steve's stories."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "They got dramatic every time he told them."
"Oh?" You smiled. "I don't know."
"What?"
"I think you've still got it."
His eyebrow lifted. "...Got what?"
"I told you. The charm."
For just a second, he didn't look away. He simply smiled. "...You think so?"
The question was quiet. Not fishing for reassurance. Just curious.
You nodded. "I know so."
Silence settled again. Comfortable. Easy. Neither of you seemed particularly interested in filling it.
"So..." His voice was almost lost beneath the breeze. "What now?"
You smiled softly, watching the horizon. "Later this week, I'm accompanying Sharon to her hearing."
He nodded.
"They're finally pardoning her. They should've done it years ago."
"They should've." Another pause. "And after that?"
You exhaled. "I'll probably go back to New York. Answer the mountain of emails I've been pretending don't exist."
He laughed quietly.
"I've got meetings. Briefings. Pepper's still trying to sort through Tony's estate." Your smile softened. "I've been meaning to spend more time with her... and Morgan."
Your eyes drifted toward the house behind you. Laughter floated out through the open windows. "But..." You looked back at the water. "Today doesn't belong to any of that. It belongs to this."
You gestured toward the lights behind you. "The Wilsons. The boat. The food. The terrible dancing.”
"I wasn't dancing."
"You were."
He looked offended. "I was standing rhythmically."
You laughed. "Sure."
The laughter faded naturally.
"It just..." You searched for the words. "It feels good. I haven't felt... normal...in a really long time."
Bucky looked toward the party. Neither had he.
"What about you?" you asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I've been thinking."
"Uh-oh."
He smiled. "I was thinking..." He looked almost embarrassed to say it aloud. "...Politics."
You turned so quickly you nearly spilled your drink. "...Politics?"
"I know."
"You?"
"I know."
"The guy who threatened to throw Zemo off a plane?"
"He deserved it."
"I don't disagree. But still..."
He laughed. "I figured..." He looked out toward the water. "If I'm serious about trying to make things better, I should probably stop punching every problem."
You grinned. "That'll be quite the campaign slogan."
He laughed. "Still working on it."
You stared at him for a second. Then, laughed. "I did not see that coming."
You smiled. "I think you'd be good. Who knows maybe one day we’ll see your name on the presidential ballot."
He snorted. "Let's slow down. I've gotta figure out whether people are willing to vote for the former Winter Soldier first."
"You'd be surprised." You looked directly at him now. "They wouldn't be voting for him. They'd be voting for James Barnes."
Silence. His smile faded. Not from sadness. From the weight of hearing his own name. Nobody had said it quite like that before.
Not with so much certainty. Like it wasn't something he had to earn back. Like it already belonged to him.
"...Thanks." Barely above a whisper. He looked over at you. Really looked.
The breeze pushed a loose strand of hair across your face.
Without thinking, he reached over. Then stopped. His hand hovered over your face for the briefest second before dropping back to the railing.
Old habits. Different century.
He cleared his throat. "...There's one more thing."
Immediately your stomach tightened. He reached into his jacket. Pulled out the small red notebook. Steve's notebook. The pages were worn now. Corners folded. The leather softened from use.
"You remember this. The amends list."
You nodded. "The names. The people you wanted to make peace with."
He smiled sadly. "Yeah." His thumb brushed across the cover. "I’ve crossed out almost every name."
You smiled faintly. "Then why are you still carrying it?"
A long silence.
His fingers stopped moving. "...Because I lied."
Your smile disappeared. Slowly, he opened the notebook. Most of the names were crossed out. Some had notes beside them. Some only initials.
At the very bottom—Yours. Still untouched.
You frowned. "...James."
His eyes never left the page. "I kept telling myself I'd cross it off after I told you."
He swallowed. "But every time I tried..." His voice faltered. "...I couldn't."
His eyes stayed fixed on the notebook. "You forgave me."
He said it almost to himself. "For your parents." He nodded once. "You forgave me for Siberia." Another nod.
"You forgave me for things I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for."
Finally, he looked at you. "But this..." His voice cracked. "...This one was my choice."
Your heartbeat slowed. "What are you talking about?"
He looked away again. "The day Steve left."
Your stomach tightened. "The bench."
He nodded. "He told me about Sam. The night before."
Your chest began to ache.
"The shield." Another nod. Then— "He told me he wasn't coming back."
The world seemed to stop. Even the waves. Even the breeze. Nothing reached your ears anymore.
"...What?"
His jaw tightened. "He said he'd finally found the chance at life he'd spent seventy years missing."
His voice grew quieter. "I smiled." A bitter laugh escaped him. "I told him he deserved it."
He swallowed hard. "I thought..." His eyes squeezed shut. "...I thought he'd already told you."
He clenched his fist, "I asked him."
Your eyes lifted.
"He said..." Bucky's voice barely existed now. "'She understands.'" Another breath. "'She'll be okay.' I believed him."
He laughed once. There wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "I believed my best friend." His shoulders sagged. "And then I saw you."
The lake. The bench.
"You looked at him..." His voice broke. "...like your whole world had just disappeared." Another pause. "Then you looked at me."
He finally met your eyes. "And I realized..."
His own eyes filled. "...I wasn't keeping Steve's secret anymore. I was keeping mine. I should've told you. The next day. The next week. In New York. Here." He shook his head.
"I almost did. So many times. Every conversation. Every laugh. Every night we couldn't sleep." His voice cracked harder. "But every time..."
He looked away. "...I knew what happened after I said it."
Silence.
"You'd lose Steve all over again." Another pause. "And this time..." His throat tightened. "...I'd lose you too. I don't expect you to forgive me. You shouldn't." He slowly closed the notebook. "I just..."
Another shaky breath. "...I couldn't stand beside you anymore and keep asking you to trust me, while I was still carrying this."
His shoulders sagged. "But that wasn't all."
A hollow laugh escaped you. "No." You shook your head slowly. "It wasn't." Your eyes finally met his. "It was every day after."
His face crumpled.
You stepped back without realizing you'd done it. Not far. Just enough. Enough for him to notice. Enough for it to hurt.
"You knew..." Your voice trembled. "...when I came looking for you and Sam."
He nodded once. Barely.
"You knew on the plane."
Another nod.
"You knew in Madripoor."
His eyes closed.
"You knew in Latvia."
"I—"
"You sat beside me." Your breathing became uneven. "You asked if I was alright. You made me laugh. You carried blankets because you knew I was cold. You stayed awake talking to me half the night."
Each memory felt different now. Not ruined. Just changed.
"You told me about your mother." Your voice cracked. "You told me things no one else knew."
Another tear slid down your cheek. "And every single one of those nights, you already knew and didn't say anything."
Silence.
"So every time I trusted you, you were carrying the one thing I couldn't understand."
Bucky couldn't make himself interrupt. Because none of it was untrue.
You looked down at the dock. "I kept asking myself..." Your voice barely existed. "...what I had done wrong."
His heart stopped.
You laughed again. Broken. "I thought maybe...I just wasn't enough."
The words hit him harder than any punch ever had. "No."
He stepped toward you instinctively. "No." His voice cracked. "Don't..." He swallowed. "Don't ever think that. You weren't the reason."
"I know." You nodded through your tears. "I know that now."
Your eyes lifted. "But I didn't then." Another silence. "And you did."
That one sentence shattered him.
"I wasn't trying to lie." His voice had become desperate. "I swear to God. I kept telling myself...'Tomorrow.'"
He laughed bitterly. "Tomorrow, I'll tell her. Then, Madripoor happened. Latvia. Walker. Karli. Then..." He shook his head. "...then it wasn't about finding the right time anymore."
"It became..." He couldn't finish.
You waited.
"...It became about being afraid." He finally admitted. "I knew..." His voice broke completely. "I knew the second I told you…I'd lose this."
His hand gestured helplessly between the two of you. "The conversations. The laughs. The way you look at me."
Another shaky breath. "You'd stop seeing James. You'd see another man who kept Steve's secret."
He laughed once. Empty. "And the worst part..." His eyes filled. "...is that you'd be right."
You stared at him. That hurt almost worse. "You were afraid I'd stop trusting you."
He nodded. "I was."
You looked away. A tear fell onto the wooden dock. "So..." You whispered. "...instead..." Another breath. "...you gave me a reason to."
Silence. Real silence. The kind that echoed louder than shouting ever could.
Bucky physically flinched. Not because you'd raised your voice. You hadn't. Because disappointment had always hurt him more than anger.
"I spent months..." You laughed weakly through another tear. "...thinking I'd lost the most important person in my life."
Your eyes met his. "I never imagined..." Your voice broke. "...I'd be standing here wondering if I was losing another one."
Silence. Bucky couldn't breathe. Because you hadn't said… "I hate you."
You’d said… "I'm afraid of losing you."
And somehow, that hurt even more.
Bucky couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to disappear. Hydra. Prison. Therapy. None of it compared to this. Because this, this wasn't losing a fight. This was losing someone's faith.
"I'm sorry." His voice broke completely. "I know that doesn't fix it."
"No. It doesn't."
"I should've told you. The next morning. The next week. The first night in Louisiana. The second. Every day after and before."
He looked at you through tears he wasn't trying to hide anymore. "I kept thinking...if I could just give you one more good day, one more laugh, one more memory before I broke your heart, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much."
He closed his eyes. "I was wrong."
A bitter smile crossed your face. "You know what the worst part is?"
He couldn't answer.
"I still forgive you."
His eyes lifted. "You do?"
You nodded. "I forgave you...the second you finished saying it"
Another tear rolled down your cheek. "But forgiveness..." You drew a shaky breath. "...doesn't mean nothing has changed."
Another long silence.
"I trust that your heart was in the right place." You looked at the water instead of him. "But trust takes a long time to build. And only one secret to crack."
Bucky looked away. He'd spent months believing he was finally becoming someone worthy of the man Steve had always believed he could be.
Standing on that dock, he felt farther away from Bucky Barnes than he had in years. Not because you'd called him a monster. You hadn't.
Not because you'd stopped caring. If anything, that was what made this unbearable. You cared enough for the betrayal to hurt.
Neither of you spoke again. The bayou carried the silence between you. For the first time you’d arrived in Louisiana, it no longer felt like home.
Behind you, the Wilson family laughed beneath strings of warm lights. Life continued. For a long while… Neither of you moved. The wind rolled gently across the water.
But this time, the distance between you wasn't measured in inches. It was measured in trust. And for the first time since he'd begun making amends… Bucky Barnes wasn't sure whether he'd be able to earn it back.
Bucky stood beside you. Not touching you. Not trying to fix it. Just staying. This time… He wasn't going to distance himself. Even if you asked him to.
Later, just before you left for the airport, Sarah caught you by the wrist as you wandered through the kitchen looking for your travel mug.
"Come here." Her tone was suspiciously casual.
You narrowed your eyes. "...What?"
She pulled you farther inside until the noise from the backyard became little more than muffled laughter through the screen door.
Then she crossed her arms. "So."
You already knew where this was going. "No."
She smiled. "Yes."
You sighed dramatically. "If this is about Bucky—"
"It is absolutely about Bucky."
You groaned loud enough that she laughed. "There is nothing to talk about."
"Oh, honey."
"There really isn't."
Sarah leaned against the counter, watching you with the same expression mothers wore when they already knew the answer. "You two disappeared for an hour."
"We talked."
"You both came back looking like someone kicked your puppy."
"It was... a conversation."
"Mhm. And?"
"And that's it."
Sarah waited. You didn't elaborate. She gave you another few seconds before tilting her head. "So he wasn't confessing his undying love?"
You nearly choked on your own laugh. "What?"
"Oh, good." She nodded dramatically. "Because the rest of us were clearly watching a different man all weekend."
You blinked. "What are you talking about?"
Sarah stared. "You seriously don't know."
"Know what?"
She laughed so hard she had to grab the kitchen counter. "No." She pointed toward the backyard. "No, absolutely not. You cannot be this oblivious."
You frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
She looked genuinely astonished. "The man watches you like you're the only person in every room."
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. "He does not."
"He does."
"No."
Sarah began counting on her fingers. "He waits for you before walking anywhere. He opens every door. He pulls your chair out. He slows down when you're tying your shoe. He remembers how you take your coffee. He checks where you are every five minutes."
Your face twisted in disbelief. "That's just…he's polite."
Sarah barked out another laugh. "Baby."
"He's from the forties. He was raised that way."
"Sure." She smiled knowingly. "But that's not what I'm talking about."
You frowned.
"When everyone else is talking, he's looking at you."
You looked away. "...No."
"The whole neighborhood noticed."
"No."
"Carlos noticed. Tommy noticed."
"...What?" You stared.
"My boys asked if he was your boyfriend."
Your eyes widened. "They did not."
"They did."
You covered your face. "Oh my God."
Sarah laughed again before stepping closer. "You know what I think?"
You shook your head.
"I think he feels safe around you." The teasing disappeared from her voice. "He smiles more. He laughs. He's lighter. I don't know what happened between the two of you, but whatever it is, you make each other better. Happier."
Something tightened painfully in your chest. You forced yourself to smile. "Sarah, it's not like that."
"Why not?"
Because he's Steve's best friend. Because Steve left. Because Bucky knew. Because Bucky never told me. The answers piled up before you spoke.
"Because…he's Bucky."
"As if that's an explanation."
"It is."
She searched your face. Then hers softened. "This isn't about Steve anymore, is it?"
You looked down. No answer was answer enough.
Sarah reached over, gently squeezing your hand. "I know you're still grieving." She spoke carefully. "Tony. Natasha. Steve.”
“So much has changed." You exhaled.
"I know." She smiled sadly. "But grief has a funny way of convincing us that if we ever love someone again, we're betraying the people we lost."
You swallowed hard.
"I would never ask you to move on." Her thumb brushed across your knuckles. "I just don't want you to stop living."
Your eyes burned.
"I care about you. So does Sam." She glanced toward the backyard. "...And whether either of you wants to admit it. Bucky does too."
You looked away before she could read your expression. Because she was wrong. She had to be. Bucky couldn't--Not after today. Not after everything he'd just told you. Not after keeping that secret for months.
You managed a small smile. "Thank you for everything. For letting me crash here, for the food, for making me feel like family."
Sarah pulled you into another hug. "You are family."
The words stayed with you long after you climbed into the rental car.
The flight home was quiet. New York waited on the other side with meetings, paperwork, and another mountain of responsibilities.
Normally, work was enough to drown everything else out. Not this time. Your mind refused to let go of the conversation on the dock. Not Steve. Not anymore.
James. Bucky. Every laugh. Every mission. Every late-night conversation. Every quiet glance across rooms. Every time he'd asked if you were okay. Every moment you'd started believing he trusted you as much as you trusted him.
Now they all looked different. Not fake. Never fake. But incomplete. He hadn't lied to hurt you. That almost made it worse. He'd cared enough to protect your feelings and in doing so, had taken away your choice.
You rested your forehead against the airplane window. Outside, the clouds stretched endlessly beneath the setting sun. For the first time since meeting him, you didn't know where you stood with Bucky Barnes. And somehow, that uncertainty hurt almost as much as losing Steve had.
Later that week, you accompanied Sharon to Washington for her hearing. She had insisted she didn't need anyone there. You had insisted anyway.
After everything she'd sacrificed, after Madripoor, after years spent surviving alone, it felt wrong for her to walk into that room by herself.
So you sat quietly in the gallery while senators, intelligence officials, and military representatives filled the chamber below.
The chairman adjusted his microphone. "On behalf of the United States Intelligence Community, I'd like to offer you and your family our sincerest apologies."
Sharon sat perfectly still.
"The Carter name has always been synonymous with service, sacrifice, and trust. Today, we begin correcting that mistake."
She lowered her eyes for only a moment.
"We are offering you a full presidential pardon." The room remained silent. "There is also an opening within your former division." He folded his hands. "If you would be willing to return."
A faint smile crossed Sharon's face. "It would be my honor."
The senator smiled. "Welcome home, Agent Carter."
Applause filled the chamber. You found yourself smiling before you realized it. For the first time in years, she looked relieved. Really relieved.
When the hearing adjourned, she found you outside beneath the courthouse steps. Before you could say anything, she wrapped her arms around you.
"Thank you."
You hugged her back. "You earned this."
"No." Her smile softened. "You made sure I got the chance."
You shook your head. "You would've found your way back eventually."
"Maybe." She stepped away. "I'll see you soon."
"You better." You laughed. "I've got enough government meetings. I don't need another friend disappearing on me."
She grinned. "I'll try not to."
You watched her disappear into the crowd. Only after she was gone did you turn toward the waiting town car that would take you back to New York.
Back to work. Back to normal. Or whatever passed for normal now.
Sharon didn't leave immediately. She stood beneath the courthouse awning until your car disappeared around the corner. The smile slowly faded from her face. She reached into her coat pocket. Pulled out a burner phone. One ring. Then another. Someone answered.
She didn't bother greeting them. "Start contacting our buyers." A pause. "No. The serum's finished. It's too risky now."
She looked back toward the street where your car had vanished. A small smile returned. "But our inventory just expanded." Her voice became almost amused. "We've got access to government intelligence again. Military prototypes. Enhanced individual files. Satellite systems." She paused. "And Stark technology."
The person on the other end said something.
Sharon's eyes drifted toward the Capitol building. "Not yet." Another pause. "No. They trust me." Her smile widened. "They all do." She ended the call.
The burner phone snapped cleanly in half inside her hands before she dropped both pieces into separate trash bins. Then she walked toward a waiting government vehicle.
The driver opened the rear door. "Good afternoon, Agent Carter."
She slid inside. "It certainly is."
The door closed. The black SUV disappeared into Washington traffic.
By the time you reached New York, the sun had already disappeared behind the skyline. Your apartment greeted you with familiar silence. The kind that had once felt peaceful. Now, it only reminded you how empty the place had become.
You dropped your overnight bag beside the couch. Kicked off your shoes. The small red notification light on your answering machine blinked patiently from across the room.
Four messages. You sighed. "Work never sleeps."
You pressed play.
A secretary's voice. "Ms. Stark, this is a reminder regarding tomorrow's enhanced individuals committee meeting..."
Delete. The second. "Ms. Stark, this is Director Fontaine's office."
You paused. Valentina. "We'd like to schedule a meeting regarding your expanding responsibilities following the recent New York incident."
A beat. "Please contact us at your earliest convenience." Delete.
You rubbed your eyes. Of course. More meetings. More politics. More people deciding the future of heroes.
The third message began. Static. Then—"Hey."
Your breath caught immediately. Bucky. His voice was quieter than you remembered. Almost uncertain.
"I..." A long pause. "I know you probably don't want to talk right now." Another pause. "I just..." He exhaled softly. "I wanted to make sure you got home."
Silence.
"I keep replaying what happened. What I said. I'm sorry."
Again. The word sounded heavier this time. Not rehearsed. Not part of making amends. Just honest.
"I don't expect you to call me back." Another pause. "But, I hope one day you will."
The recording clicked off. The apartment became quiet again. Too quiet. You stared at the answering machine for a long time. Your finger hovered over the replay button. Instead, you turned away.
You wandered toward the window overlooking Manhattan. The city glittered beneath the night sky. Thousands of lights. Millions of people. Some grieving. Some celebrating. Some beginning again.
Your forehead rested against the cool glass. Sarah's voice drifted back into your thoughts. "The whole neighborhood notices the way he looks at you."
You smiled faintly despite yourself. Ridiculous. Bucky didn't—Did he? You remembered every door he'd held open. Every chair he'd quietly pulled out. The way he'd slowed his pace without asking. How he'd always seemed to find you first in every room. How he'd asked if you were okay before asking anyone else. How he'd looked at you across the dock, right before telling you the truth.
Your chest tightened. No. You squeezed your eyes shut. Was that him? Or was it Steve? Was Bucky protecting you because that's who he had become? Or because somewhere along the way, Steve's best friend had started seeing you as more than Steve's girl?
You didn't know. Maybe Bucky didn't know either.
Your phone rested silently on the kitchen counter. No missed calls. No new messages. Only one voicemail… waiting to be replayed. You looked at it. Then, looked away.
Tonight, you couldn't. Not yet.
Outside, the lights of New York burned late into the night. And somewhere across the country, Bucky Barnes waited for a phone call that never came.
Summary: As the Flag Smashers launch their final attack in New York, you, Bucky, and your allies reunite for one last fight. But as Sam finally steps into the role only he could fill, you are reminded that a legacy isn't defined by the shield you carry; it's defined by what you choose to stand for.
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
The streets of Lower Manhattan had dissolved into organized chaos. Police barricades stretched for blocks. Emergency vehicles lined the sidewalks. News helicopters circled overhead despite the temporary flight restrictions, their cameras aimed toward the towering GRC building. Crowds gathered behind the barricades, everyone craning their necks for a glimpse of whatever was happening inside.
You ducked beneath the yellow tape, flashing your government credentials before another officer could stop you. Your eyes instinctively searched the crowd.
You didn't realize someone had already found you. A familiar shoulder bumped yours as someone casually fell into step beside you.
"Hey, coworker."
You looked over. Bucky. He'd traded the leather jacket for darker tactical gear, cuffs rolled back just enough to reveal the vibranium hand.
You smiled before you realized you were smiling. "Hey."
He glanced toward the building. "Looks a little busy."
"A little?" You reached into your jacket pocket, pulling out two communication earpieces. "I'd call it mildly catastrophic."
He chuckled. You handed one to him. As he reached for it, your fingers brushed for the briefest second. Neither of you acknowledged it. Instead, Bucky looked you over once.
Not obvious. Just enough to notice.
"You look good."
You raised an eyebrow. "Good, or 'there's-an-active-terrorist-attack' good?"
He looked almost caught. "I meant..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...you look prepared."
You grinned. "Nice recovery."
His ears turned faintly pink. "Shut up." He laughed under his breath.
You slipped the earpiece into place. A second later, Sam's voice crackled through both communicators. "I'm almost there."
You pressed two fingers against your earpiece. "What's the plan?"
"Karli's close. I can feel it. Eyes open."
You scanned the growing crowd. "That narrows it down to everyone."
Bucky snorted quietly beside you. Before either of you could say anything else, a uniformed NYPD sergeant approached. "Sergeant Barnes."
Bucky looked up. "Yeah?"
The officer stepped closer and suddenly his face shimmered. The illusion dissolved like static. Blonde hair replaced dark. Blue eyes. A familiar smirk.
"Relax." Sharon Carter.
Bucky sighed dramatically. "...Of course."
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Sharon, what the hell are you doing here?"
She straightened the borrowed police uniform. "No one's looking for me during a situation like this."
Sam's voice immediately cut through the comms. "Wait, is that Sharon?"
Bucky answered first. "Unfortunately."
Sharon rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. I figured I'd get the band back together."
You laughed despite yourself. "You always did have terrible timing. And impeccable entrances."
"I prefer memorable."
Sam sounded genuinely relieved. "You're risking a lot coming here."
Sharon shrugged. "I've risked worse." She smiled faintly. "Besides, I hear pardons aren't everything they're cracked up to be."
Bucky muttered just loudly enough for everyone to hear, "Depends on the therapist."
You bit back another laugh.
Sam ignored him. "They're gonna move on the building soon. Be ready."
The three of you spread out naturally. No one needed to assign positions anymore. It just happened.
Minutes passed. Nothing. Too quiet. You watched officers shift nervously outside. Watched civilians press closer against the barricades. Watched helicopters continue circling overhead. Then, Sam's voice returned.
More urgent this time. “Guys, status?”
You scanned the entrances. "No movement."
Sharon frowned. "Same here."
The silence on the other end lasted barely two seconds. Then, "She's not coming in."
Your stomach dropped. "What?"
"Karli's forcing an evacuation. We have to keep everyone inside. If those delegates get outside, they're sitting ducks. Don’t let anybody out!"
You, Sharon, and Bucky immediately turned toward the front entrance. Almost on cue, hundreds of frightened civilians began pouring out of the building.
"So, all of them," you muttered.
The three of you sprinted forward. Metal detectors screamed as Bucky's vibranium arm passed through security.
The guard barely had time to react before Bucky pointed toward the flood of delegates. "Sorry." He didn't slow down. "Emergency."
Bucky caught sight of one of the Flag Smashers disappearing into the stairwell. "There." He pointed briefly before looking at you. "I've got the evac."
"I'll sweep the lower levels." You nodded once.
"I'll take the basement."
Neither of you waited for another instruction. There was no need. Somewhere along the way, the awkwardness had disappeared. Now, splitting up simply felt natural.
As you disappeared down one hallway, Bucky headed toward another, already shouting directions to frightened delegates. "This way! Keep moving! Don't stop!"
A woman suddenly stepped into his path. "Mr. Barnes." She held out a cellphone. "It's for you."
Bucky frowned. He should've ignored it. Every instinct told him to. But something in the woman's frightened expression made him take it. He never stopped walking.
"Karli?"
Her voice came through immediately. "Aren't you tired of fighting for the wrong side?"
Bucky scoffed quietly. "I've done this before, kid. I know exactly how this ends."
As he continued ushering civilians toward the emergency exits, his eyes constantly searched the room.
Karli's voice remained eerily calm. "It doesn't matter if I survive. I'm fighting for something bigger than myself."
A family hurried past him. He pointed them toward another staircase. "This way. Keep moving."
Then answered her. "You think I never believed that?" His voice hardened. "That's all I ever tried to do. I believed in causes. I believed in flags. I believed in orders. And I failed." His jaw clenched. "Twice."
He still remembered every face. Every name. Every nightmare. "You think your cause makes the killing easier? It doesn't. The nightmares don't disappear. You remember every single one." His pace slowed. "Trust me. Don't do this. Don't become who I became."
For just a second, there was silence. Then, "If that's really how you feel, maybe you should sit this one out."
A sad smile crossed Bucky's face. "You already know I'm not gonna do that."
Another pause. Then, "Thanks for taking my call. You've been a big help."
The line went dead. Bucky stopped walking. "...Damn it." His stomach dropped. It had never been about convincing him. She'd only wanted time.
Meanwhile, you reached the lower levels of the building. Your boots echoed against the concrete floor as you swept through the underground parking garage. Too quiet. Always the dangerous kind of quiet.
"Nothing on my side," you murmured into the comm.
Sharon's voice crackled back. "I'm checking the loading dock."
Above you, the sound of tires screeching echoed through the structure. Then, Bucky's voice.
"I got played."
You closed your eyes briefly. "Figures."
The garage doors burst open as Bucky sprinted inside. He barely slowed before spotting a motorcycle parked beside a security booth. One swing of his metal arm snapped the steering lock. The engine roared to life.
Sharon looked up from across the garage. She didn't even hide her annoyance. "Seriously, Barnes? You had one job."
Bucky threw one leg over the motorcycle. "You worry about your guy."
He twisted the throttle. The tires screamed against the concrete. A second late, he disappeared into Manhattan traffic.
Sharon exhaled. "So dramatic." She adjusted the small device concealed between her fingers before spotting one of the Flag Smashers weaving through the parked vehicles.
"There you are."
She brushed past him casually. The tiny magnetic charge clicked onto the back of his jacket. He never noticed. By the time he climbed into a delivery van, the device had already begun releasing invisible mercury vapor.
Sharon calmly turned away. A muffled cough echoed behind her. Then another. She pressed a finger against her earpiece. "One down."
You smiled to yourself while crouched behind a concrete pillar. "How'd you manage that?"
"Mercury vapor." A beat. "...Among other things."
"I'll pretend I didn't ask."
"Probably for the best."
Movement. You spotted another Flag Smasher slipping toward the emergency exit. Without hesitation, you intercepted him. One clean strike to the ribs. A twist of the wrist. His weapon clattered across the concrete. Before he could recover, your arc-bracelet flashed once. Just enough force to send him crashing into a stack of crates. He didn't get back up.
You adjusted your jacket as if nothing had happened. "That's two."
Then, the unmistakable roar of helicopter blades echoed overhead. Your head snapped upward. "...You've got to be kidding me."
You pressed your communicator. "The helicopter's spooling up. It's leaving the roof."
High above, Sam was still trading blows with Georges Batroc.
He grunted as another kick barely missed. "Bucky!"
Traffic blurred around Bucky as he leaned the motorcycle into another impossible turn, weaving between yellow taxis. "I don't fly, man. That's your department."
The motorcycle shot forward. Ahead, one of the stolen GRC vans burst through an intersection. Bucky opened the throttle. The chase was on.
Batroc finally crashed through the skylight, disappearing beneath Sam's boots as the fight ended.
You barely gave yourself time to breathe. A deafening whine split the air overhead. The stolen helicopter.
You looked up just as it lurched violently over Lower Manhattan, swerving between skyscrapers. Its tail rotor clipped the side of an office building, showering glass into the streets below.
"Sam!"
He had already launched himself into the sky. The new wings unfolded with practiced precision, city lights flashing across the vibranium as he accelerated after the aircraft.
You fired your boot thrusters a heartbeat later.
Unlike Iron Man's armor, the bracelet Tony had built for you wasn't designed for sustained flight. It expanded across your forearms, calves, and torso in a ripple of red-and-gold nanotech, enough propulsion to keep you airborne, but only barely. Every second in the air drained power you couldn't afford to waste.
The helicopter banked hard. Too hard. It wasn't trying to escape anymore. It was falling. The Flag Smasher forced the nose downward, sending the aircraft screaming toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then another explosion. An NYPD rescue helicopter swung into view just in time to intercept, and immediately took a burst of gunfire through its rotor assembly.
"No..."
The helicopter spun violently, losing altitude. Sam never hesitated. He dove.His wings folded tight against his body until the last possible second before exploding open again. He ripped the terrified pilot free from the cockpit just as the aircraft rolled toward him. Redwing detached from his back, engines screaming as it raced to assist.
You saw the drone angle toward the falling officer. "I've got him!"
Redwing changed course instantly. The HUD Tony had built into your visor highlighted the pilot's trajectory in glowing blue.
Impact predicted: six seconds.
Your thrusters flared. The city blurred beneath you. You caught the officer around the waist only a few dozen feet above the bridge, the sudden weight nearly ripping your shoulder from its socket.
"Easy..." You redirected your momentum instead of stopping outright, letting physics work with you instead of against you. Tony would've approved.
You landed hard across the pavement, sliding several yards before finally coming to a stop.
"You okay?" The officer stared at you for a second before simply nodding, too stunned to speak.
A shadow passed overhead. You looked up just in time to see the empty helicopter crash toward the bridge. Sam landed first. His wings wrapped around both himself and the rescued pilot like an enormous shield.
The wreck slammed into him. For one terrifying second, all you saw was fire. Then the vibranium wings absorbed the impact, throwing the burning helicopter sideways.
It tumbled over the railing and disappeared into the East River below. Cheers erupted almost immediately. People climbed from abandoned cars. Phones appeared. Someone screamed Sam's name. Others pointed toward you. Neither of you stayed long enough to acknowledge them.
You shot back into the air beside him. "Status?" you asked over comms.
"I'm good." His breathing said otherwise.
Ahead, the hijacked GRC helicopter still barreled through the skyline. Redwing had already reached it, somehow managing to get a communications earpiece to one of the senators trapped inside.
"A little birdie told me you know how to fly a helicopter," Sam said.
The senator's voice cracked over the comms. "I flew in the Army Reserve... twenty years ago."
"We'll take it."
The helicopter suddenly lurched toward you. You rolled beneath the spinning blades as they passed inches overhead. Sam banked left and the helicopter rammed him directly into the side of a cargo crane.
The collision echoed across the harbor. Concrete exploded. Your heart stopped.
"Sam!"
His body disappeared beneath several tons of collapsing debris before crashing into the water below.
"No..." Your visor flickered.
A transparent display bloomed across your vision. Thermal scan initiated. Life signs detected.
The image shifted beneath the river's surface until a familiar silhouette appeared. Sam. Alive. His vibranium wings folded tightly around him like a cocoon. Relief hit you so hard your knees nearly gave out.
Then, he moved. The wings exploded open. He burst from the water like a missile.
You couldn't help laughing despite yourself. "There you are." Your own thrusters strained trying to keep pace as he rocketed back toward the helicopter.
"Boy..." Sam muttered."...you just earned this ass-whoopin'." He circled the aircraft once before looking directly toward you.
You already knew what he wanted.
"On your mark. Be ready to stabilize if they lose control," he ordered. "If anyone falls—"
"I've got them."
"You always do."
Five. Four. Three. Two. The shield left his hand. You never got tired of watching it fly. It carved through the air with impossible precision, slicing clean through the helicopter's damaged door before curving back toward him.
Sam slipped through the opening before it had even finished falling. Seconds later, the Flag Smasher pilot came flying back out.
The senator dove into the cockpit. The helicopter lurched violently. You shot beneath it, both palms raised. Twin repulsor bursts fired upward, not enough to hold the aircraft, but enough to bleed off some of its momentum while the senator fought for the controls.
The helicopter steadied.
"I've got it!" she shouted.
Sam hovered beside the cockpit with an exhausted grin. "Nice work, Ayla."
You waited until she was clear before peeling away.
"There are still civilians," you reminded him.
"I know."
Together you accelerated toward the next emergency.
By the time you arrived, Walker had already disappeared over the edge of the construction site. Above him, a GRC armored transport carrying the remaining senators teetered precariously off the side of the building, its rear wheels hanging over open air.
Sam didn't hesitate. He dove straight for it. You didn't even need to speak. Years around the Avengers had taught you something simple: The best teams didn't need directions.
You landed above the vehicle, wrenching the passenger door open while Sam fought underneath, every muscle straining as his wings and Redwing kept the transport from plunging into the street.
"Come on!" you shouted.
One by one, terrified senators climbed toward you. You pulled each of them onto solid ground before turning back.
Sam gave one final push. The vehicle slammed safely back onto the platform. Silence. Then, applause. It spread through the crowd like a wave.
People leaned over barricades, phones held high. Children pointed toward the man standing below in a brand-new suit of red, white, and blue.
"Hell yeah!" "That's the Black Falcon!"
Another voice answered immediately. "Nah..." The man smiled. "That's Captain America."
The cheers above were quickly swallowed by another explosion. The floor trembled beneath your boots.
You spun just in time to see Karli hurl one of the construction spears straight toward Bucky. The spear screamed through the air. He caught it one-handed. Not even looking. His vibranium arm absorbed the force with a metallic clang that echoed through the tunnel.
For a heartbeat, both sides froze. Then Sam moved. His shield left his hand in a blur of red, white, and blue. It ricocheted off a concrete pillar, slammed into one Flag Smasher, bounced into another, then clipped Karli squarely across the shoulder before curving back toward him.
She staggered but stayed on her feet. When she pulled off her mask, her expression wasn't angry. It was disappointment..
"You," she said quietly, staring at Sam. "Of all people... you bought into that bullshit?"
Sam caught the shield without breaking stride. "I'm trying something different." His voice stayed calm. "Maybe you should do the same."
Before Karli could answer--Boom. The tunnel shook violently. A second explosion followed. Then another. Metal canisters rolled across the concrete, hissing almost immediately. Gray smoke poured from them in thick waves.
"Tear gas!" someone shouted.
Within seconds visibility dropped to almost nothing. The Flag Smashers disappeared into the haze.
"They're running!" you yelled.
Sam pointed toward the branching tunnels. "This way!"
Everyone moved at once. Bucky fell into step beside you while Walker sprinted ahead, disappearing into the smoke.
"Sharon," Bucky said into his comm, coughing once. "We're underground."
You tapped your own earpiece. "Entered through William Street. Heading south."
Static crackled. Then Sharon's voice. "Copy. Police are moving topside."
The tunnel split into four different corridors.
Sam stopped only long enough to assess them. "They split up." He pointed. "You take left." He looked at you. "With Bucky."
Walker didn't wait for instructions. "I'm taking center." He was already gone before anyone could argue.
You exchanged one look with Bucky. "...Of course he is."
Bucky sighed. "Come on."
The farther you ran, the quieter the shouting became. Only the sound of your footsteps echoed through the aging subway tunnels. Nothing. Another turn. Still nothing.
You slowed, scanning the darkness. "They're gone."
Bucky frowned. "No..." His phone buzzed. He glanced down, then immediately motioned you forward. "I've got something."
A GPS ping. Sharon.
You hurried after him until the tunnel opened into another station. Walker was already there.
He glanced up as you approached. "I've got movement."
All three of you instinctively pressed yourselves against the concrete wall. Footsteps. Dozens of them. A group of frightened civilians rounded the corner with their hands already raised. Flag Smasher sympathizers. Some still wore the group's patches. Others looked terrified. Behind them came the sound of approaching police.
Walker stepped into view. His pistol remained lowered. "Mercy bears richer fruit than strict justice."
The civilians hesitated. Then, one by one, they surrendered. Police officers rushed past the three of you, securing everyone without another shot being fired.
You watched the scene unfold with quiet relief. No blood. No broken bones. Just handcuffs.
When the officers had finished, you turned toward Walker. "...Did you seriously quote Abraham Lincoln?"
He looked almost offended. "Great man." He shrugged. "Great quote."
You looked between them before deadpanning, "Not when you say it"
For the first time all day, Walker actually laughed. It was brief. Barely more than a breath.
But it surprised all three of you. Bucky looked almost as shocked as you felt.
Then, just as quickly, Walker cleared his throat and started walking again. "...Don't get used to it."
You exchanged another glance with Bucky.
He rolled his eyes. "Wasn't planning on it."
Together, the three of you disappeared deeper into the tunnels, still chasing Karli before she slipped away again.
The three of you made your way back toward the command center, weaving through overturned barricades, abandoned emergency vehicles, and the sea of flashing red-and-blue lights that now consumed Lower Manhattan. The chaos hadn't ended. It had simply changed.
Police officers hurried in every direction. EMTs rushed stretchers toward waiting ambulances. Helicopters still circled overhead, their blades chopping through the evening air.
Then, the crowd erupted. Every head turned skyward. "There!"
You looked up just in time to see Sam descend from the clouds. His wings folded behind him as he landed softly in the middle of the command post, Karli Morgenthau cradled carefully in his arms.
For a moment, the entire city seemed to fall silent. She looked impossibly small. The same girl who had declared war against the world's governments now barely clung to consciousness, blood soaking through the front of her jacket.
Sam knelt. As gently as if she weighed nothing, he lowered her onto the waiting stretcher. The paramedics rushed in immediately. One pressed gauze against the gunshot wound. Another checked her pulse.
Sam stepped back without saying a word. Then the reporters descended. Microphones. Cameras. Questions fired from every direction.
"What happened to the Flag Smashers?" "When did the government make you Captain America?" "Are you still Falcon?" "So what is it now, Captain Falcon?"
You couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at your mouth. Even Bucky snorted beside you. Walker only frowned.
Sam ignored every question. Instead, he walked straight toward the senators waiting behind the security line. Senator Lacont stood first. The rescued senators quickly followed.
Ayla reached him before anyone else. "Sam," she said, emotion catching in her voice. "Thank you... from all of us."
One of the senators extended his hand. "You did your part dealing with those terrorists." He smiled diplomatically. "Now we'll do ours."
Sam never reached for the handshake. Instead, he asked quietly, "Are you still moving forward with resetting the borders?"
The senator blinked. "Our peacekeeping forces will begin relocating people immediately." He glanced toward Karli's body. "The terrorists only delayed us."
Sam shook his head. "No." His voice wasn't angry. It was tired. "Stop calling them terrorists."
A murmur rippled through the gathered reporters.
"What else would we call them?" another senator challenged.
Sam looked around the crowd before answering. "Your peacekeeping troops are forcing millions of people into settlements." His gaze settled back on the senators. "What do you think those people are gonna call you?"
You found yourself standing beside one of the news monitors broadcasting the exchange live. The camera framed Sam perfectly against the skyline.
Behind you, reporters had stopped asking questions. Even the officers nearby had gone quiet.
Walker folded his arms. "...He's actually doing it."
You glanced toward him. "What?"
"Talking to them."
There wasn't sarcasm in his voice. Only surprise.
You looked at Bucky. He hadn't taken his eyes off Sam once. Not once.
"These labels," Sam continued, "terrorist... refugee... thug..." He gestured toward the ambulances. "They make it easier not to ask why."
The senator sighed impatiently. "The settlements created after the Blip—do you honestly believe governments can support them forever?"
"Yes." Sam’s answer came without hesitation.
"And the people who came back only to find strangers living in their homes?" the senator shot back. "What happens to them?"
"I understand it's complicated." Sam nodded. "I really do."
The senator started walking away. Sam kept talking anyway. "And that's exactly why this matters."
The senator stopped. Slowly… He turned back. Now everyone was listening. The police. The reporters. The rescue workers. Even the civilians standing behind barricades had fallen completely silent.
"You all know what helpless feels like now." Sam's voice carried effortlessly through the crowd. "For the first time... everybody does." He looked each senator in the eye. "You know what it's like to wake up one morning and have your entire world changed by someone else's decision."
His expression softened. "People have been begging you to understand that feeling for years. Now you do."
You swallowed hard. You remembered another speech. Different battlefield. Different war. Steve.
He had always spoken quietly too. Never because he doubted himself. Because he believed people would choose to listen.
You realized Sam had learned the same lesson. Just in his own way.
The senator shook his head. "You don't understand."
Sam laughed once. Softly. Disbelieving. "I'm a Black man carrying the stars and stripes." His fingers tightened around the shield strapped across his back. "What don't I understand?"
No one answered.
"Every time I pick this shield up. I know there are millions of people who hate me for it." His eyes drifted across the gathered crowd. "I feel it. The looks. The judgment. And I can't change that." He rested one hand against the shield. "But I'm still here. No Super Soldier serum. No blond hair. No blue eyes. The only power I have is believing we can do better."
He stepped closer to the senators. "You control the banks. You move borders. You can wipe out forests with one email. You can feed millions with one phone call."
He let that settle before asking quietly, "So who's sitting in the room when those decisions get made? The people whose lives you're changing? Or just more people like you?"
No one answered. Behind you, someone lowered their camera. Another reporter slowly set down their microphone.
Sam looked toward the ambulance where Karli lay surrounded by doctors. "This girl died trying to stop you. And not one person has stopped long enough to ask why."
He looked back. "You have to do better. Because if you don't, the next Karli will. And trust me. You don't want to meet Karli 2.0."
His voice grew quiet again. Almost hopeful. "People believed in her cause enough to stand against the strongest governments on Earth. Ask yourselves why."
He looked from senator to senator. "You have just as much power as an insane god, or a misguided teenager. The only question is: how are you going to use it?"
Silence. Complete silence.
Standing beside you, Bucky finally exhaled. Almost unconsciously. "Steve would've been proud."
You looked over. He wasn't looking at you. He was still watching Sam.
You smiled anyway. "Yes, he already was."
For the first time since the battle had begun, it felt like Captain America was standing in front of the world again. Not because of the shield. Because of the man carrying it.
For several long moments, no one moved. Sam's words lingered in the air long after he had finished speaking. The senators remained where they stood, none of them quite knowing how to answer. The reporters had lowered their microphones. Even the camera crews seemed hesitant to break the silence.
Across New York, and around the world, millions watched from television screens. In Louisiana, Sarah stood frozen in front of the television. In Baltimore, Isaiah Bradley hadn't said a single word. Joaquin watched from the military command center, a slow smile spreading across his face. Back at Avengers Headquarters, government offices, crowded bars, living rooms, people simply watched. And listened.
Sam finally turned away from the crowd. The shield rested comfortably across his back now, as though it had always belonged there.
As he walked toward the two of you, his eyes briefly met Walker's. Neither man spoke.
Walker gave a small nod. Not as Captain America. Just as John. Sam returned it. It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't friendship. But it was acknowledgment. Sometimes that was enough.
Walker watched him disappear into the crowd before quietly turning the opposite direction.
No one said anything at first. The noise of the reporters faded behind you. The city suddenly felt... peaceful.
You looked at Sam. Really looked at him. There was dirt smeared across his face. His new suit was torn in several places. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion.
Yet somehow, he looked lighter than he had in weeks.
You and Bucky fell into step beside Sam as the three of you slipped away from the flashing cameras.
You smiled. "I'm proud of you, Sam."
He glanced over, the corners of his mouth lifting. "Thanks."
Silence settled again.
Bucky put his phone back in his pocket, pretending to have been scrolling through messages with far more interest than he actually had.
Finally he cleared his throat. "So..." He looked up innocently. "I was texting."
You raised an eyebrow. "Mhm."
"So I only caught the part about..." He gestured vaguely toward Sam's suit. "'Black guy in stars and stripes.'"
Sam barked out a laugh. You laughed right along with him.
Bucky shrugged. "I assume the rest was pretty good."
"It was decent," you said, unable to hide your smile.
"Decent?" Sam scoffed.
"I'd give it... an eight." You thought.
"Eight?"
"You lost points for being dramatic." You motioned casually towards the city behind you.
"I was not dramatic." Sam argued.
"You absolutely were."
Bucky nodded with complete seriousness. "Little dramatic."
Sam looked between the two of you. "I hate both of you."
"No," you corrected. "You tolerate us."
"I barely tolerate you."
"Progress."
Bucky smiled to himself. "Nice job, Cap."
The joking disappeared as quickly as it had come. Sam looked at him. There was something different about the way Bucky had said it. Not teasing. Not reluctant. Genuine.
"Thanks."
As the three of you rounded the corner, you spotted someone leaning against a parked sedan. Sharon. She looked pale.
One hand was pressed tightly against the bandages wrapped around her abdomen, crimson slowly bleeding through the fabric despite her best efforts to hide it.
She caught sight of Sam and rolled her eyes. "You're blocking my light."
You immediately crossed the distance between you. "Sharon."
Her breathing was shallow.
Your stomach tightened. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"I've suggested that before," Bucky muttered. "She wasn't interested then either."
Sharon shot him a look. "I'm still not."
"Told you."
She winced as another wave of pain crossed her face. "It's not even the worst thing that's happened to me this week."
You reached for her arm anyway. "This isn't a debate."
"It usually is."
Before you could answer, someone called out from farther down the street. "Uh... Cap?"
Sharon gave him a tired smirk. "I think they're talking to you."
Sam turned instinctively. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Still getting used to that."
Her expression softened. "For what it's worth..." She looked him up and down. "The suit looks good."
Sam smiled. "Thanks."
You adjusted Sharon's arm over your shoulder. "Compliments later." You looked between the three of them. "Can we please leave before someone decides getting shot twice sounds fun?"
Bucky stepped forward without hesitation. "I'll help."
Without waiting for permission, he moved to Sharon's other side, taking some of her weight.
She sighed dramatically. "I hate that you're both being nice."
"You'll survive," Bucky said. "...Probably."
She actually laughed. Small. Weak. But real.
As the three of you started down the street, Sam stopped behind you.
"I didn't forget."
Sharon looked back over her shoulder. "My pardon."
He nodded once. "I keep my promises."
For a moment, something vulnerable crossed her face before she hid it behind her usual confidence. "I know."
Sam didn't hesitate. "You three okay?"
You nodded. "We've got her."
Bucky tightened his grip on Sharon before answering. "Go."
Sam smiled once.
Another voice called from behind. "Captain America!"
Sam turned. An NYPD officer jogged toward him. "We've got eyes on the last Flag Smasher. Hudson River. Injured, but still moving. Think you can help?"
"Always." The wings unfolded behind him with a familiar metallic snap. A heartbeat later, he launched into the evening sky.
You watched until he disappeared between the buildings. Only then did you turn back toward Sharon. "Come on. Hospital," you said firmly. "No arguments."
Sharon sighed. "...You're all incredibly annoying."
"That's what friends are for."
For the first time in a long while, no one argued with that.
Summary: As Bucky begins confronting the past he can no longer outrun, Sam finally starts to understand that carrying the shield was never about becoming the next Steve Rogers. With you beside them, both men begin choosing who they want to become, just as the fight they thought they'd left behind finds its way to New York.
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
You found them later near the edge of the Wilson property.
The afternoon sun hung low over the bayou, painting everything in warm shades of gold. Sam stood several yards away from the dock, the vibranium shield strapped to his arm. Trees had become makeshift targets, old tractor tires and wooden boards secured with duct tape where the shield had already left dozens of dents.
The rhythmic sound echoed through the quiet. Thunk. Whirr. Thunk.
Sam caught the shield cleanly against his forearm before throwing it again. You slowed beside Bucky without saying a word. Neither of you had to. Watching Sam pick the shield back up again felt significant.
Sam caught it once more. "It still feels weird," he admitted quietly. He looked down at the shield resting on his arm. "...Picking it up again."
He exhaled before throwing it toward another tree. The shield ricocheted between two trunks before Bucky caught it effortlessly.
For a moment, he simply looked at it. His metal fingers traced the worn edge almost absentmindedly.
You found yourself watching him instead of the shield. Watching the way his expression softened. The way grief looked different on him than it did on anyone else.
You spoke gently, "The legacy of that shield is complicated."
Bucky nodded almost imperceptibly. "When Steve told me what he was planning…I don't think either of us understood what it meant." He looked toward Sam. "What it would feel like for a Black man to be handed Captain America's shield."
A long silence settled. "How could we?" He swallowed. "I owe you an apology." His voice was steady this time. "I'm sorry." He extended the shield.
Sam accepted it. Their eyes met. "Thank you."
Another silence. Not uncomfortable. Just honest.
Bucky looked back toward the water. "Whatever happened with Walker, wasn't your fault. It just..." He searched for words. "...that shield was the closest thing I had left to a family." His jaw tightened. "When you gave it away, I felt like I lost Steve all over again."
He laughed quietly at himself. "It made me question everything. Myself. You. Steve." He reached into his jacket. The little red notebook appeared in his hand. Steve's notebook.
"I've been carrying this around. I figured…If it helped him figure out this new world, maybe it'd help me figure out mine."
Your chest tightened. You remembered Steve scribbling movies onto those pages. Music. Food. Things he wanted to experience. He'd once insisted on writing down every recommendation you gave him because—"I don't want to forget."
You smiled despite yourself. "I always wondered where that ended up."
Bucky looked over. "I couldn't leave it behind."
"No." You nodded. "I don't think Steve would've wanted you to."
Sam finally broke the silence. "I understand, man." He looked at both of you before continuing. "But Steve's gone." The words still hurt. Even now. "And this might surprise both of you, but it doesn't matter what Steve would've wanted."
Both you and Bucky looked at him.
"You've gotta stop letting a dead man tell you who you're supposed to be."
The words landed harder than Sam probably intended. Because they weren't just aimed at Bucky. You felt them too.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
Sam smiled softly. "I'm talking to both of you."
Your eyes dropped. "...Yeah."
He picked up the shield again. "You still having nightmares?"
Bucky didn't hesitate. "Every night."
Sam caught the shield. "What do they mean?"
Bucky answered quietly. "They mean I remember. They mean a part of me is still the Winter Soldier."
He threw the shield. This time, it came toward you. Instinct took over. You caught it against your forearm. The impact traveled through your shoulder.
Both men blinked.
"...Huh," Sam muttered. "You've had some practice."
You smirked. “Steve made sure of it." You looked down at the shield. Then back at Bucky. "You ready for some tough love?"
He already knew the answer. "No."
"Too bad." You stepped closer. "I've read every file. The therapy reports. The pardon. The notebooks. The names. You've been trying so hard to punish yourself that you forgot the point."
His shoulders stiffened.
"You aren't making amends. You've been chasing guilt. You've been avenging. You keep thinking if you suffer enough, you'll deserve to move on."
His eyes never left yours.
"But that's not how this works."
Sam nodded. "She's right."
You handed the shield back. "If you want out of that hell, then, climb. No shortcuts. No punishment. No hiding. Just do the work."
Bucky looked away. "I've been trying."
"I know." You smiled gently. "I've noticed."
That surprised him.
"You don't think I noticed every time you tried to help somebody this week? The boat. The boys. Sarah. Sam. You carried groceries for Mrs. Patterson yesterday."
His eyebrows lifted. "...You saw that?"
"I see lots of things."
For reasons he couldn't explain, that meant more to him than it should have.
Sam took over. "You keep apologizing because you think it'll make you feel better. But that's backwards. You help them. You give them peace. I guarantee there's somebody in that notebook who's waiting to hear something only you can say."
Bucky looked down. "...Probably a dozen."
Sam smiled. "Good. Then, start with one."
A long silence followed. Finally—"Good talk."
All three of you laughed. Sam stepped forward first. He pulled Bucky into one of those awkward half-handshake, half-hug combinations that somehow only the two of them could manage.
"You know Karli isn't done." Sam stated.
"I know. You call. I'll come." Bucky replied with a smile.
You nodded. "So will I."
Bucky looked at you. "I figured."
The three of you began gathering your things.
"Not necessarily as a team," Bucky added.
"Nope," Sam agreed. "We're definitely not that organized."
You laughed. "We're barely functional."
"Professionals," Bucky corrected.
"Questionable professionals," you said.
Sam grinned. "We’re just a couple of guys."
Bucky nodded thoughtfully. "Coworkers." There was another pause. Then he looked between the two of you. "With a mutual friend."
Sam's smile softened. "A friend's now gone."
You looked toward the shield resting against Sam's shoulder. "So, just a couple of guys."
Bucky chuckled. "I can live with that."
"Good." Sam clapped him once on the shoulder. "Thanks, man. It meant a lot."
"It wasn't just for you." Bucky adjusted his jacket before starting toward the road.
After only a few steps, he stopped. Turned back. His eyes found yours almost immediately. He hesitated. As though debating something.
Finally, "You take care of yourself."
It was such a small sentence. But somehow, it sounded different than goodbye.
You smiled. "You too, James."
He returned the smile almost automatically. Small. Barely there. Yet somehow the easiest one you'd ever seen on his face. Then he turned and kept walking. You watched him until he disappeared behind the trees.
"You know," Sam said beside you.
Without taking your eyes off the road, you answered, "What?"
"I don't think either of you realizes you're friends yet."
You smiled to yourself. "We're coworkers."
Sam laughed. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
Beside him, Steve's shield caught the afternoon sun, gleaming brightly. For the first time since Steve had left, it no longer felt like the end of something.
It felt like the beginning.
Later that afternoon, the three of you sat along the dock while the final coat of paint dried beneath the Louisiana sun. The boat barely resembled the broken thing you'd arrived to. Fresh boards. Fresh paint. New wiring.
The old Wilson family shrimp boat looked like it had been given permission to breathe again.
Sam dipped the paintbrush into the white bucket before looking over his shoulder toward the two of you. "Well," he announced. He smiled. "There's only one thing left."
You leaned against the railing, arms folded. "It looks beautiful."
Sarah crossed her arms. "Stop."
Sam blinked. "...Stop what?"
"Don't." She shook her head. "We can't sell it."
Sam stared at her for a second. Then the corners of his mouth slowly lifted.
Sarah groaned dramatically. "I know that look. I know you're about to give me some inspirational speech."
Sam laughed. "I wasn't—"
"You absolutely were."
"I was thinking about it."
The three of you laughed. Sarah sat beside her brother on the edge of the dock, their shoulders bumping together the way siblings naturally did after a lifetime of knowing one another.
You stayed perched on the edge of the boat, swinging one foot lazily over the water.
"I just..." Sarah looked down at the fresh paint. "It isn't smart. It probably isn't practical. But I can't." Her voice cracked. "I just can't let it go."
Sam quietly set the paintbrush down beside him. "Sarah..." He smiled. "I'm really glad you said that."
You nodded almost immediately. "Thank God." They both looked toward you. "I was about five seconds away from crying, and this isn't even my family boat."
Sarah laughed. "Oh, sweetheart, you've definitely been adopted."
You laughed with them. For a moment, it almost felt true.
Sam looked across the water. "We have to preserve this. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that I can't win every fight." He shrugged. "And that's okay. I've made peace with that. But this?" He rested a hand against the old wood. "This is our history. Our parents. Our childhood. Our family. We don't get to lose this fight."
The breeze carried the smell of saltwater across the dock.
"I used to think, if I could just leave, I'd change the world." He laughed quietly. "Pretty arrogant, huh?"
Sarah nudged his shoulder. "Little bit."
"I thought saving people meant flying halfway across the planet." Sam smiled. "But every time I'd come home, I'd look at you. And I always thought you believed I was running away."
Sarah turned toward him immediately. "Samuel." Her voice softened. "There has never been a single day where I thought you were running away From anything." She smiled mischievously. "Not even when I was chewing your ass out at the bank."
Sam groaned. "There it is. I was waiting for it."
She laughed. "Who knew Captain America was so sensitive?"
They both burst into laughter. Real laughter. The kind that came from years of inside jokes. Years of growing up together. Years of knowing exactly which buttons to push.
You smiled automatically. Then, without warning, your vision blurred. Your smile stayed. But your eyes filled anyway. You looked away quickly, pretending to watch the sunlight ripple across the water.
Not because you wanted to hide it. Because you didn't know why it suddenly hurt so much. No. You knew exactly why. This. This was what grief stole. Not just people. Moments.
Tony had always been like this. He would've complained the entire time he helped fix the boat. He would've redesigned the engine halfway through. He would've insisted on installing something completely unnecessary because—"Come on, it'll be cool."
Pepper would've rolled her eyes. Morgan would've wanted to help. Happy would've accidentally dropped something expensive into the water. You would've laughed until your stomach hurt.
The memory settled over you so suddenly your chest physically ached. You hadn't realized how desperately you missed hearing your brother laugh. Or watching him argue over something that didn't matter. Or simply existing in the same space as him.
A tear escaped before you could stop it. You wiped it away quickly. Too late.
Sarah had already seen. She didn't call attention to it. Didn't ask if you were okay. Instead, she quietly reached over and squeezed your knee. Just once. A silent little gesture. You're here. You're not alone.
You covered her hand with yours for a second. "...Thanks."
She only smiled. Across from you, Sam had seen it too. He said nothing. He understood enough to leave grief alone when it needed quiet.
After a long moment, Sarah spoke again. "God, I missed you so much."
Sam looked at his sister. "I missed you too."
The words were simple. Yet they landed somewhere deep inside you. Because there had been a time, not so long ago, when those words had been effortless.
When Tony would call you at two in the morning because he'd built something ridiculous. When Steve would quietly reach for your hand in the middle of the night just to make sure you were still there. When Natasha would drag you out for drinks because—"Starks brood too much."
Now, the world felt quieter. Smaller.
You smiled anyway. Because watching the Wilsons reminded you of something you'd almost forgotten.
Love didn't disappear when people did. It simply found somewhere else to live.
Sarah looked back at Sam. "There's a fight out there." She motioned toward the bayou behind them. "And then there's our fight right here. You've taken on both." She tilted her head. "So are you really gonna let Isaiah Bradley decide what you do next?"
Sam stared across the water for a long time before answering. "No." He shook his head slowly. "Isaiah has every right to feel the way he does. What happened to him…No one should survive that." He exhaled. "If I were in his shoes, I'd probably feel exactly the same."
He looked down at Steve's shield, resting quietly against the dock. "But then, what was all the pain for? What was all the sacrifice for?"
Tony. Steve. Natasha. Vision. Every name echoed through your mind.
Sam looked toward both you and Sarah. "If the people who came before us kept fighting, how can I stop now?"
Silence settled over the dock again. Peaceful. Comfortable.
For the first time in months, you didn't feel like an outsider looking in at someone else's family. You simply felt included.
And somewhere hundreds of miles away, though neither of you knew it yet. Bucky Barnes found himself looking down at his phone, debating for the third time in an hour whether he should send you a message.
He never did. But the thought alone surprised him. Because for the first time in years, he found himself wondering how someone else's day had gone.
The next morning, and every morning after that, you met Sam at the clearing behind Sarah's house.
The sunrise had barely broken through the trees before training began. The shield had already carved fresh scars into the bark from the days before. Again. And again. And again.
The metallic clang echoed through the Louisiana swamp. Sam hurled the shield. It ricocheted off the first tree. Second. Third, and buried itself into the dirt several feet away.
Sam groaned. "Oh, come on."
You checked the stopwatch. "Again."
He shot you an exhausted look. "You sound like Steve."
You smirked. "I'll take that as a compliment."
He sighed dramatically before retrieving the shield. Hours blurred together. Running drills. Target practice. Hand-to-hand sparring. Shield retrieval. Reaction timing. Footwork.
You timed every lap. Corrected every stance. Forced him to repeat movements until they became instinct instead of thought.
By noon both of you were drenched in sweat. Sam launched the shield again. It clipped one tree. Missed the second entirely. He caught it awkwardly against his forearm.
You shook your head. "Too slow."
"It hit”
“It survived. Not the same thing."
He rolled his eyes. "You got anything constructive?"
You stepped closer. "Give me the shield."
He handed it over.
You adjusted his feet with the toe of your boot. "Wider. No. A little more. There."
You nudged his shoulder. "Relax."
"I'm relaxed."
"No, you're pretending to be relaxed."
He laughed. "You sound like a therapist."
"I've spent years negotiating between enhanced individuals and world governments." You shrugged. "Trust me. I know what tense looks like."
He chuckled.
You lifted the shield. "You're watching the shield."
"I know."
"Stop."
"...What?"
"You keep tracking the metal. You're reacting. You need to anticipate."
Sam frowned. "...Explain."
You balanced the shield against your fingertips. "This thing shouldn't exist. It violates conservation of momentum about six different ways. The vibranium absorbs kinetic energy. Redistributes it. Stores some. Bleeds some back out."
You looked up. "The point is, if you throw it like a Frisbee, you're fighting physics. If you throw it like Steve, you're still fighting physics."
Sam blinked. "So what's the answer?"
You smiled. "You stop thinking about throwing it."
He looked even more confused.
"You tell it where you want it to end."
He stared. "That sounded incredibly fake-scientific."
"It is. But it's also true." You stepped back several yards. "The shield isn't a weapon. It's geometry. Every impact creates the next angle. The moment it leaves your hand, your job is already over. You should already know where it's coming back."
Sam folded his arms. "And you figured all that out, how?"
Your smile softened. "I didn't."
He frowned. "What?"
"I mean... not by myself." Your thumb traced the worn edge of the vibranium. "After the Blip, after you disappeared, and Bucky, Wanda, and Peter..." Your voice quieted. "Everyone."
The bayou suddenly felt very still.
"It got really lonely." You looked down at the shield. "The compound felt empty. Too quiet. So one day, I wandered into one of the training rooms." Your lips curled into a nostalgic smile.
"And there it was. Collecting dust. I picked it up because..." You shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe because it reminded me of Steve. He wasn’t the same after Thanos won. None of us were." You smiled sadly. "And maybe because I needed something to throw."
Sam smiled knowingly.
"I threw it once. It ricocheted off one beam, came straight back, and launched me almost two hundred feet."
Sam burst into laughter. "No way."
"Oh, absolutely. I landed flat on my back. You should've seen the bruise."
He laughed harder. "And you tried again?"
"I’m a Stark." You gave him an amused look. "When has 'that hurt' ever stopped one of us?"
That earned another laugh.
"So I threw it again. And again. And again. All day. For too many days. I'd go to bed with another bruise. Another scrape. More dirt on my face. One time it clipped me in the shoulder so hard I couldn't lift my arm for a whole day."
Sam winced. "...Ouch."
"Yeah. It was humbling." You smiled at the memory. "But by the end of a really hard day, Steve had noticed. Of course he had.”
You could still picture him leaning against the doorway. Arms folded. Trying, and failing, not to laugh.
"He never told me to stop. He just walked over. Took the shield. And said..." You shifted your stance instinctively. "'Your feet are too close together.'"
Sam smiled. "Sounds like him."
"'Your grip's wrong. Stop locking your shoulder. You're thinking too much.'" You demonstrated each adjustment as you spoke. "For weeks, I thought he was teaching me how to throw the shield." A quiet laugh escaped you. "He wasn't."
Sam tilted his head. "What was he teaching?"
You looked down at the vibranium. "He told me something I'll never forget."
You could almost hear Steve's voice.
"The shield isn't special because it's made of vibranium. Or the colors on it. It's special because of the person carrying it."
You swallowed. "I didn't understand what he meant back then. I thought this..." You lifted the shield slightly. "...was what people believed in."
You shook your head. "It wasn't. They believed in him."
Sam grew quiet.
"For years, Steve carried this thing. It protected him. It defended people. It represented America. But that was never why people followed him. They followed him because when Steve Rogers walked into a room, people believed things could get better."
Your eyes met Sam's. "The shield didn't make him Captain America. He made the shield mean something."
Silence settled between you.
"So, you think I'm supposed to make it mean something."
"I think..." You smiled. "...you're still trying to carry Steve's shield. But that's impossible. Because Steve already carried it."
You stepped closer until you were standing directly in front of him. "This thing..." You tapped the vibranium lightly."...isn't asking you to become Steve Rogers. It's asking you to become Sam Wilson."
His expression shifted. You saw it. The moment something clicked.
"The shield is an extension of the person holding it. It reflects every hesitation. Every doubt. Every ounce of confidence. If you throw it wondering whether you're worthy, it'll fight you every step of the way. But if you throw it because you already know exactly who you are, it'll find its way home."
Sam stared at the shield. Then quietly asked, "So, what if I still don't know who I am?"
You smiled sadly. "Neither did Steve."
He blinked. "What?"
“He questioned himself all the time. He just never questioned whether helping people was the right thing to do." You rested a hand on Sam's shoulder. "That's the difference. You don't have to believe you're perfect. You don't even have to believe you'll win. You just have to believe the cause is worth standing for."
You thought about Steve. About Tony. Natasha. Everyone who wasn't here anymore. They didn't keep fighting because they knew they'd survive. They kept fighting because somebody had to.
A breeze swept across the bayou. You took a step back. "The shield isn't asking whether you're good enough. It's asking whether you still believe."
Without another word, you threw it. It slammed into one tree. Then another. A third. A fourth.
Each rebound cleaner than the last. The shield curved back through the humid Louisiana air, and snapped perfectly into your hand. The force still shoved you backward several inches, your boots digging grooves into the dirt.
Sam laughed. "So it still kicks."
You flexed your wrist with a wince. "Oh, absolutely. This thing humbles any normal human."
You tossed it back toward him. "Again."
The next throw was better. Not perfect. Better.
By the third day, he barely missed. By the fourth, he was beginning to predict the rebounds. By the fifth, he finally caught it without thinking.
He stared at it. Almost surprised.
You smiled. "There it is."
"What?"
"You finally stopped trying to throw Steve's shield."
Sam looked down at it. Then back at you. "I'm throwing mine."
You nodded proudly. "Exactly."
The rest of the week disappeared almost as quickly as it had begun. Between training sessions, boat repairs, family dinners, and Sarah insisting neither of you was eating enough, the Wilson home became something dangerously close to normal.
Closer than either of you had expected. Closer than either of you were ready to leave. When the morning finally came, Sarah packed enough food for three flights despite your protests.
"You'll thank me later."
"I already know you're right."
"I usually am." She hugged you tightly. "Come back soon."
"I will." And you meant it.
Sam loaded your bag into the truck before turning toward you. "I can't thank you enough."
"You don't have to."
"You helped me become Captain America."
You smiled. "No. You already were. You just finally believed it."
He laughed quietly before pulling you into one last hug. "You better answer your phone."
"I usually do."
"Even if it’s Bucky."
You froze for half a second. "...Excuse me?"
"I didn't say anything."
"You absolutely said something."
He grinned as he climbed back into the truck. "You'll figure it out eventually."
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
A few hours later, your flight banked toward New York. Rain clouds rolled beneath the wings. Passengers dozed around you while the television mounted above the aisle played the afternoon news.
"In New York, where the Global Repatriation Council is preparing to vote on the controversial Patch Act, lawmakers are expected to decide whether more than twenty million displaced people will be repatriated to their countries of origin. The proposal comes amid increasing international pressure following recent attacks attributed to the Flag Smashers..."
You stared through the airplane window. Work. Back to meetings. Politics. Reports. Paperwork. The brief peace you'd found in Louisiana already felt impossibly far away.
Hundreds of miles south, Sam stood alone beside the rebuilt boat when his phone rang.
He answered immediately. "Torres."
"Sorry this took so long," Joaquin said. "Spare you the technical stuff, but I finally finished those scans you wanted."
Sam straightened. "What'd you find?"
"When we map every Flag Smasher sighting against encrypted communications, they leave tiny electronic fingerprints before every operation." A keyboard clacked rapidly. "They've been bouncing all over Europe." A pause. "But this morning, I got another ping."
Sam's expression hardened. "Where?"
"New York." Another beat. "I can't promise they're not masking their location, but if they're slipping up, this is the best lead we've had."
Sam looked toward the horizon. For a brief moment, he already knew who he’d call. Bucky. You. Instead, he smiled to himself.
"You did good, Torres. I'll take it from here."
The hunt had begun again.
The television hanging in the corner of your office abruptly interrupted the afternoon programming.
REPORTER (ON TV): "We have breaking news. There is a complete lockdown at the Global Repatriation Council summit in Lower Manhattan, where authorities are responding to multiple threats believed to be connected to groups attempting to stop today's vote on global resettlement."
You were already reaching for your jacket.
REPORTER: "A no-fly zone has been established over the area. NYPD and federal agencies have secured the perimeter. Civilians are urged to avoid Lower Manhattan until further notice."
Your phone buzzed before you even made it to the elevator. Sam. One sentence.
Summary: After months of surviving loss by keeping yourself busy, you accept Sam's invitation to Louisiana and find something you thought you'd lost along the way: a place where you belong. When Bucky unexpectedly follows, quiet days, shared laughter, and late-night conversations begin to blur the line between friendship and something neither of you are ready to name.
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
The following two days blurred together into an endless routine of pretending your life hadn't completely unraveled. You answered emails. Reviewed contracts. Revised offers for Stark-owned properties Pepper had trusted you to oversee. Signed documents transferring facilities to universities, charities, private buyers. One property after another. One piece of Tony's legacy after another.
You buried yourself in work because work had rules. Work didn't ask how you were sleeping. Work didn't care that your head still throbbed every time you turned too quickly, courtesy of John Walker throwing you into a steel support beam.
Work didn't notice that you had started eating dinner standing over the kitchen sink because setting the table for one somehow felt lonelier.
It was easier this way. Until it wasn't.
On the fifth evening, the silence finally caught up to you. You unlocked the apartment door. The lights flickered on automatically. Everything looked exactly the way you'd left it. Exactly the way it had looked months ago.
A jacket Steve had forgotten still hung on the back of one of the dining room chairs. His favorite mug sat upside down beside yours in the drying rack. A stack of books remained on the coffee table, one still folded open where he'd left a bookmark halfway through.
You hadn't touched any of it. You couldn't. Because moving any of it would make his leaving feel permanent. And some irrational part of you still wasn't ready for that.
You quietly dropped your keys into the bowl by the door. The sound echoed through the apartment. God...
It was quiet. Not peaceful. Just empty. This apartment had never been meant for one person. You and Steve had picked it together after the Blip. Small enough to feel like home. Big enough to escape Avengers Tower. A place where neither of you had to be Captain America or Tony Stark's little sister. Just the two of you.
You wandered into the kitchen almost automatically. Made tea. Forgot about it. By the time you remembered, it had gone cold. You poured it into the sink without taking a single sip.
Leaning both hands against the counter, you stared out over Manhattan. Thousands of lights stretched endlessly across the city; somewhere out there, people were falling in love. Arguing. Laughing. Cooking dinner. Watching movies. Complaining about work. Living wonderfully ordinary lives.
You wondered what that felt like now. Because yours had become anything but ordinary. Tony was gone. Natasha was gone. Steve had chosen another lifetime. Thor had disappeared into the stars. Bruce buried himself in research. Wanda--God, Wanda. She had lost everything. Pepper spent every day pretending to be stronger than she felt for Morgan's sake. Morgan was growing up without her father. Bucky wandered through the world trying to forgive himself. Sam carried responsibilities he never asked for, and you--
You weren't entirely sure who you were anymore. You had spent so much of your life taking care of everyone else, you'd forgotten how to take care of yourself.
Your eyes drifted toward the corner of the living room. The record player. Dust had settled across the wooden lid. You hadn't gone near it since, since him. Your feet carried you there before your mind caught up. You brushed a fingertip across the lid. A clean line appeared through the dust. You swallowed. Slowly. Carefully. You lifted it open.
The record was still there. Exactly where Steve had left it. The last album he'd played. The needle still rested where he'd lifted it months ago. Your fingers trembled as you lowered it onto the vinyl. Static. Then, music. Soft. Warm. Painfully familiar.
The first notes filled the apartment. For one impossible second, it almost sounded like he was in the next room. You closed your eyes. You could picture him perfectly. Barefoot. Making dinner. Quietly humming along without realizing it. Looking over his shoulder every few minutes just to smile at you.
The memory hit so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs. Your knees buckled. You caught yourself on the edge of the couch before slowly sinking onto the floor. The tears came without warning. Not graceful tears. Not quiet ones. The kind that made breathing hurt. The kind that shook your entire body. Months.
You had held this together for months. For Pepper. For Morgan. For the Avengers. For the UN. For the world. You had attended funerals. Managed estates. Represented governments. Stopped terrorists. Sat through congressional hearings. Comforted everyone. Everyone except yourself.
"I miss you..." The words barely escaped. "I miss all of you."
Tony. Nat. Steve. Even the family that still remained somehow felt scattered across the world. You wrapped your arms around yourself as though maybe you could keep your heart from breaking any further.
The music continued playing. The apartment echoed with memories that no longer had anywhere to go.
Your phone buzzed somewhere across the room. You ignored it. Another vibration. Then another. Eventually the notifications became so persistent they interrupted the record.
The music stopped. The silence returned. Sniffling, you wiped your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt before reaching for your phone.
Sam Wilson. Three unread messages.
Sam: I meant what I said.
A second.
Sam: Come down to Louisiana.
A third arrived just as you unlocked your screen.
Sam: Sarah already started making enough food for five people, and somehow she knew you'd say yes.
A picture followed. The Wilson family dock. The boat. Bright blue water. Children running barefoot across the wooden planks. Normal. Peaceful. Home.
One final message appeared.
Sam: We could use another set of hands. Besides…I think you could use a bit of bayou air.
Then, his address. You stared at it for a long time.
The apartment around you suddenly felt impossibly still. Your eyes wandered one last time across the room. Steve's books. His jacket. The record still turning slowly beneath the silent needle.
For months, leaving this apartment had always meant another mission. Another meeting. Another responsibility.
This would be different. This time, you wouldn't be leaving to save the world. You'd be leaving because someone had quietly noticed that maybe… You needed saving too.
Delacroix, Louisiana
The drive south had been exactly what you needed.
Miles of highways slowly gave way to winding roads lined with towering cypress trees draped in moss. The farther you drove from New York, the lighter your chest seemed to feel. The constant hum of traffic disappeared, replaced by birdsong, cicadas, and the occasional fishing boat gliding through the bayou.
The air was different here. Heavy. Humid. Warm enough that the moment you stepped out of the car, the heat wrapped around you like a blanket.
You smiled despite yourself. Sam had been right. It felt...alive.
You barely had time to shut the driver's door before two familiar voices shouted across the yard. "She's here!"
You looked up just in time to see AJ and Cass standing near the front porch, backpacks already slung over their shoulders for school.
The second they recognized you, they abandoned all attempts at looking cool. "Miss Allison!"
They sprinted toward the house instead of toward you.
You laughed. "They're warning everyone I'm coming?"
"Mom!" AJ yelled as he burst through the front door.
Chuckling to yourself, you followed the boys inside. The smell hit you first. Fresh coffee. Bacon. Toast. Something sweet baking in the oven. Your stomach growled before you could stop it.
The kitchen was filled with quiet, familiar chaos. Sarah packed lunches at the counter while Sam leaned against the island, stealing grapes from a bowl every time his sister looked away.
"You know I can see you, right?" Sarah said without turning around.
"I'm quality testing."
"You've quality-tested six already."
"They passed."
She rolled her eyes. Only then did she glance toward the doorway. The moment she saw you, her entire expression softened.
"Sweetheart." She crossed the kitchen before you could even say hello. Her arms wrapped around you without hesitation. Not polite. Not brief. The kind of hug that mothers perfected. Warm. Safe. The kind that quietly asked how you were doing without expecting you to answer.
Your arms tightened around her automatically. For one dangerous second, you almost cried. Not here. You promised yourself. Not here.
You blinked quickly until the tears stayed where they belonged. "Hi, Sarah."
She pulled back just enough to cup your face. "Oh, honey. You look exhausted."
You tried to smile. "I've looked worse."
She gave you the exact look mothers gave when they knew you were lying. "Mm-hmm. We'll fix that."
You laughed softly. "I'm already feeling better."
She squeezed your shoulder. "I was hoping you'd say yes."
"So was I." Behind her, Sam grinned. "See? I told you she'd cave."
You shot him an unimpressed look. "I didn't cave. You guilt-tripped me."
"I invited you."
"You emotionally manipulated me."
"I prefer 'persuasive.'"
You rolled your eyes. "It was a beautiful drive, by the way."
"I know." He leaned back proudly. "Told you."
Sarah shook her head affectionately. "You two sound like siblings already."
Neither of you commented. Somehow, it didn't feel inaccurate.
Sarah returned to packing lunches while Sam wandered back toward the counter.
"So..." She sighed dramatically. "As far as the boat goes..." She placed another sandwich into a paper bag. "Mr. Dinh backed out."
Your smile faded. "Oh."
She nodded. "The parts alone are going to eat up everything we'd make."
Sam immediately straightened. "Don't worry. I'm fixing the boat."
Sarah looked at him over her shoulder. "Aren't you supposed to be off saving the world? What are you doing back here bothering me?"
You couldn't help laughing.
Sam placed a hand dramatically over his chest. "My family's part of the world."
Sarah snorted. "That was smooth."
"I practice."
She pointed a butter knife toward him. "You absolutely do."
She turned to you. "So, the government's finally letting you all take a vacation?"
You laughed. "I wish. They stepped in after Walker. Took jurisdiction. Benched us."
Sarah let out an understanding hum. "So, you're both unemployed superheroes."
"Temporarily." Sam corrected. "Temporarily."
She smiled knowingly. "That's somehow even worse."
Before anyone could answer, AJ and Cass reappeared. Already dressed. Already impatient. Sarah handed each of them a lunch. "Now. Make sure Bennett and Elling each get one too."
Both boys nodded immediately. "Yes, ma'am."
She kissed the tops of their heads. "Have a good day. Love you."
"Love you too!" The front door slammed shut behind them.
Silence settled over the kitchen for a moment. Sam watched through the window until they disappeared down the road.
"Bennett and Elling?" You asked.
Sarah sighed. "Their dad." She shook her head. "Can't seem to get out of bed before noon. The boys keep showing up hungry. They're too proud to ask for help."
Sam smiled sadly. "You're just like Mom. Feeding every kid in the neighborhood."
Sarah shrugged. "Somebody has to."
Sam looked around the quiet kitchen. "You know, how many people still owe Mom and Dad favors?"
She smiled. "Probably half the parish."
He nodded once. "Good. It might be time to collect." His expression shifted. Determined. "I'm fixing that damn boat."
For the next two hours, you watched something beautiful happen. Sam didn't call celebrities. He didn't call politicians. He didn't call generals. He called neighbors. People who remembered Paul and Darlene Wilson. People who remembered borrowed tools. Shared meals. Late-night repairs. Kindness given freely years before.
One after another, they answered. "Hey, Miss Patty. It's Sam. Yeah. Paul's youngest."
Every voice lit up. "Sam?" "How's your sister?" "How's the family?" "What do you need?"
He smiled every single time. "Actually, I was hoping to ask a favor."
He never had to explain much further. The answers were always the same.
"Anything for the Wilsons." "We'll be there." "Just tell us when." "Of course."
You leaned quietly against the porch railing, listening as another call ended.
Sam slipped his phone into his pocket.
"You know..." You looked over. "I've spent years around millionaires. Tech gurus. Scientists. World leaders. Kings. Geniuses."
He raised an eyebrow. "And?"
You smiled toward the road where neighbors would arrive. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone richer than your parents."
Sam followed your gaze. Then smiled. "Yeah. They'd like hearing that."
For the first time in what felt like months, the weight on your chest eased. Not because your grief was gone. Not because the world had stopped hurting.
But because, standing on that little porch in Louisiana, you were surrounded by something the Avengers hadn't felt like in a long time. Community.
And somehow… It felt like the beginning of healing.
The next morning smelled of saltwater, fresh lumber, and coffee. The sun had barely climbed above the trees when you joined Sam down by the dock, a mug warming your hands despite the already humid air. The bayou was beginning to wake around you. Birds skimmed low across the water while boats hummed quietly somewhere farther down the marsh.
For the first time in months, you hadn't woken up to sirens. Or news alerts. Or another government briefing. Just birds.
You understood why Sam kept coming home. A pickup truck rumbled down the dirt road.
Sam looked up immediately. "There they are."
The truck stopped beside the dock, already loaded with lumber, piping, and replacement engine parts.
Sam's face lit up. "Gentlemen!" He jogged over before the driver had even climbed out. "Tommy. Carlos." He pulled both men into hugs. "This is incredible. Seriously, thank you."
Carlos laughed. "Word gets around the Wilson family needs help..."
Tommy finished proudly. "...people show up."
Carlos patted Sam's shoulder. "We've still got a little usefulness left in us."
Sam looked toward the truck bed. "Only problem now..." He scratched the back of his neck. "...how exactly do we get all this off?"
No one answered. Then, wood scraped against metal. A heavy crate lifted effortlessly into the air.
At first, all you saw was the vibranium arm. Silver caught the afternoon sun before the rest of him stepped into view. Leather jacket. Dark henley. The familiar rhythm of boots against weathered dock planks.
Your breath caught before you realized why. Bucky.
It had only been a few weeks. Three, maybe four. Not long. And yet, it felt strangely longer. Long enough that you'd stopped expecting to see him around every corner. Long enough to notice the empty space he'd left behind.
Bucky balanced the crate against one shoulder as though it weighed little more than a suitcase.
His eyes found Sam first. Then—You.
He hadn't expected that tiny rush of relief. There you are. The thought arrived before he could stop it. Safe.
Still arguing with Sam about something, judging by the expression on your face. Good.
He looked away almost immediately.
The wooden crate landed with a heavy thud. The dock groaned beneath it. Tommy's eyebrows climbed.
"...Well." Bucky dusted off his hands. "You're welcome."
Like he'd merely held open a door. A laugh escaped before you could stop it. There it was. That dry little delivery. You hadn't realized how much you'd missed it.
For the first time since Latvia, neither of you had somewhere else to be. No explosions. No negotiations. No governments watching. No one trying to kill anyone. Just a quiet dock.
You looked at him properly. He looked different. Not physically. Lighter. The permanent tension that usually lived across his shoulders had eased. There was still sadness there. Always would be. But something had changed.
Like he'd finally set down a weight he'd been carrying for decades. He looked less like the Winter Soldier. More like Bucky Barnes.
Bucky noticed it too. You looked healthier. Still tired. Still carrying too much. But the tightness he'd grown used to seeing around your eyes had softened.
Somewhere between Berlin, Madripoor, Latvia and Louisiana… You'd both healed a little.
His eyes lifted. Caught yours. Neither of you looked away. Not immediately.
It was strange. Three weeks ago, you'd spent nearly every waking hour together. Planes. Safe houses. Arguments. Long silences.
Now, simply standing across a dock suddenly felt almost unfamiliar.
You smiled first. Small. Warm. Like greeting someone who'd become unexpectedly important. His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
For a brief second, 1943 won.
"Thought you forgot where we lived." The words slipped out before he could think about them.
You laughed. "I was starting to think the same thing."
"I've been busy."
"So have I."
A beat. "...I noticed." His eyes drifted briefly toward the Stark tablet tucked beneath your arm. "You look tired."
You smiled. "You too."
He nodded. "...Fair."
It wasn't much. It didn't need to be. Somehow, it felt like picking up a conversation neither of you had ever actually finished.
Instead, Bucky reached back into the truck. Pulling down a sleek Wakandan case. He set it carefully beside Sam.
"Just dropping this off." He nodded toward the case. "You can sign for it."
Then looked back toward the truck. "'I’ll head out. I called in a favor."
Sam immediately recognized the Wakandan craftsmanship. His expression softened. "...You didn't."
Bucky shrugged. "They owed me."
You smiled to yourself. Liar. The Wakandans didn't owe anyone anything. He'd asked. For Sam.
Because that was who Bucky Barnes had always been. Not loud. Not showy. He loved people quietly. In blankets. In impossible favors. In showing up. Always showing up.
Steam suddenly hissed somewhere beneath the boat.
Sarah's voice echoed across the dock. "Sam!"
The pipe burst with a loud spray.
Sam ducked immediately beneath the engine compartment. "I'm on it!"
He grabbed a wrench. Nothing happened. The leak only grew worse.
Bucky wandered over almost absentmindedly. "Move."
Sam slid aside. Bucky crouched next to him, taking the wrench. Sarah wandered closer. Only then did Bucky finally notice her standing there.
"Oh, hi."
Sarah blinked. "...Hi."
You watched the entire exchange unfold. Then, looked at Sarah. Then, back at Bucky. Sarah suddenly remembered she was holding a clipboard and awkwardly hugged it against her chest. You bit the inside of your cheek. Oh no. You knew that look.
Bucky finished tightening the pipe. The hissing stopped. He handed the wrench back.
Sam looked at him. "Why didn't you use the metal arm?"
Bucky frowned thoughtfully. "I..." He looked down at his flesh hand. "...don't always think about it." A beat. "I'm right-handed."
Sam laughed.
"So that's the boat."
"It is."
Bucky looked it over with genuine curiosity. "It's nice. You want help?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah."
He headed toward the opposite side of the dock. Leaving Bucky standing directly across from Sarah. Neither moved. Neither spoke.
Finally, "I'm Bucky."
Sarah smiled warmly. "Sarah."
"...Sarah." He repeated it absentmindedly. Testing the name. The same way people did when they wanted to remember it. His smile softened. "It's nice to meet you."
There it was. You felt it immediately. Your eyes slowly slid toward Sam. Sam was already looking at you.
Oh no. You knew that smile. Steve hadn't been exaggerating. Mr. Hotshot Bucky Barnes was alive and well. He just didn't know it yet.
Sam watched Bucky lean casually against the railing, completely relaxed for the first time in weeks. Then watched Sarah smile back. Then looked at you.
You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurt. Absolutely not. You elbowed Sam. Hard.
He winced. "...Ow."
Sarah looked between the two of you. "What?"
"Nothing." You answered much too quickly.
Bucky looked completely oblivious. "What?"
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh my God..."
Sarah looked around. "Am I missing something?"
You stepped over, gently taking the clipboard from her hands. "I'll get this."
She blinked. "...Thanks?"
"You seem..." You glanced very deliberately toward Bucky. "...occupied."
Sarah followed your gaze. Her cheeks pinkened immediately. "I—" She looked back at Bucky. "...No."
"Mhm." You smiled to yourself, pretending to study the clipboard.
Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Bucky finally start piecing together everyone's expressions. His brow furrowed.
Slowly.
"...Wait."
Sam looked away. Already laughing.
Bucky looked between the three of you. "...You think—"
Nobody answered.
His ears immediately turned pink. "Oh." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...That's not..."
You finally looked up. "No?"
"No. I was introducing myself."
"You repeated her name."
"So?"
"So..." You tilted your head. "...The stories were true."
"They were exaggerated."
"Mhm."
"They were."
"I didn't say they were bad stories."
He looked genuinely offended. "I wasn't flirting."
"I know."
"You do?"
You nodded. "I know." A beat. "...That's what makes it funny."
He blinked.
Something about that landed differently. The smile disappeared from his face. His eyes found yours. For just a second. Long enough that the teasing quietly gave way to something softer.
You smiled. "...Relax. I know."
He let out a quiet breath. "...Good."
"You've still got it, though."
He frowned. "...Got what?"
"The charm."
His ears turned pink all over again. "I don't have charm."
Sam laughed. "Buddy..."
Sarah smiled.
"I think you do."
Bucky groaned. "Oh, this is never gonna end."
"Oh, never." You winked.
For the first time in days, Bucky laughed. Not loud. Not long. Just one quiet, genuine laugh that slipped out before he could stop it. The sound caught you off guard. You looked at him. Really looked at him. It suited him.
He caught you staring again. This time, neither of you looked away immediately. There was no battlefield between you. No mission briefing. No gunfire. No government watching.
Just morning sunlight reflecting off the water. For the first time since Latvia, you realized how strange it had felt not having him around. You wondered if he'd noticed your absence too.
Across the dock, Sam watched the two of you in complete silence. Then he quietly muttered to himself, "Finally."
"What?" Sarah asked.
Sam shook his head, hiding a grin. "Nothing. Just..." He looked back toward the boat. "...thinking this is gonna be a long week."
The rest of the afternoon passed beneath the warm Louisiana sun. Nobody talked much. Nobody needed to.
Work had a funny way of filling silence. You sanded old boards while Sam crawled beneath the engine compartment muttering colorful things about rusted bolts. Bucky replaced piping with an efficiency that made every task look effortless.
By lunchtime, the three of you had settled into an easy rhythm. Someone asked for a wrench before another person had already handed it over. Someone steadied a board before it slipped. Someone laughed when Sam dropped yet another bolt into the water.
It felt, normal. Painfully normal.
Your hands were stained with grease by the time you crawled out from beneath the engine. You smiled to yourself. Tony would've laughed. The memory didn't hurt quite as sharply this time. It felt warm.
Years ago, your summers had been spent inside Tony's garage. While everyone else your age went to parties, on vacations, you learned how to weld. How to solder circuitry. How to rebuild engines. How to hold a flashlight exactly where Tony wanted it without getting yelled at. "You're holding it wrong."
"Tony, it's literally pointing at the thing."
"Wrong angle."
"You're impossible."
"I'm brilliant."
You found yourself laughing quietly.
"What?" Sam asked from across the dock.
You shook your head. "Just remembering my brother."
Sam smiled softly. "He would've loved seeing you covered in grease, out here in Louisiana."
"He would've complained I wasn't using the right tools."
Bucky looked over. "You worked on the suits?"
You nodded. "Mostly handed him tools. He was super controlling at one point. Occasionally reminded him not to electrocute himself."
"He listened?"
You snorted. "Absolutely not."
For a brief second, Bucky imagined the scene. Tony. Young you. Arguing over machinery. Laughing.
The picture fit together so naturally that he wondered why he'd never thought about what your life had looked like before all of this. Not the Avenger. Not Steve's girlfriend. Just you.
He found himself watching you a little longer than he intended. You were smiling. A real one. He realized, he hadn't seen that smile since before Latvia.
Something loosened quietly in his chest. He looked away before anyone noticed.
Later, the three of you tipped the boat to drain the last of the water pooled inside. Buckets sloshed. Water poured over the dock.
Sam wiped sweat from his forehead. "You think Karli throws in the towel?"
Bucky shook his head. "No. I think she doubles down."
You rested your forearms on the side of the boat. "You have any idea how we stop her?"
Sam sighed. "I've got Joaquin chasing a few leads."
Bucky shrugged. "Zemo still thinks there's only one answer."
"Yeah." Sam answered quietly. "And I still think he's wrong."
Neither argued. Because none of you actually knew anymore.
You wandered toward Sarah, who was balancing a clipboard beneath one arm while trying to carry three bottles of beer with the other.
Without a word, you rescued two of them from her hands.
"I've got these."
She smiled gratefully. "Thank you. You've already done enough today."
"So have you."
She laughed. "You know, I really appreciate you being here. It would've taken me twice as long without you."
You shrugged. "I don't mind. I just wish you'd let me help a little more."
Sarah immediately knew what you meant. Financially.
She smiled before gently bumping your shoulder. "Absolutely not."
"But—"
"Nope." She shook her head. "I already told you. We don't need your money."
She pointed toward the dock. "We needed your hands." Then she looked back at you. "...And that laugh. You've laughed more today than I think you've laughed in months."
You hadn't even realized. Your smile faltered. "I..."
She softened. "This place is good for you."
You swallowed. "I hope you all don't mind me invading."
Sarah looked genuinely confused. "Honey." She reached over and squeezed your hand. "You're family."
The words landed harder than you expected. You blinked quickly. Again. Before she could notice. Unfortunately, she noticed anyway.
Instead of saying anything, her eyes wandered toward the dock. Toward Bucky.
"...So."
You followed her gaze. "So?"
She smiled. "What do you think of Bucky?"
You nearly dropped the beers. "What?"
She laughed. "The poor man. I don't think he knows where to look whenever you're nearby."
You stared at her. "...He's just awkward."
"Mhm. He is." She nodded knowingly. "But that's not what I asked."
You rolled your eyes. "I think he is..." You searched for the right word. "...good."
Sarah tilted her head. "Just good?"
You smiled to yourself. "He's trying. Really hard. And maybe, he doesn't realize people can see that."
Sarah looked at you for a long moment. Then smiled wider. "I think he likes that you do."
You immediately laughed. "Sarah. No."
She raised both hands dramatically. "Okay. If you say so." She leaned closer. "But I still think you should watch out."
You smirked. "For him?"
"No." She nodded toward Sam. "For my brother. The second he notices..." She whistled. "...he's going to be unbearable."
You laughed so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes.
When you returned to the dock, the sun had begun sinking toward the horizon. Everything glowed gold. The three of you sat on the edge of the boat with cold beers in your hands.
Nobody talked for several minutes. The quiet wasn't awkward. Just comfortable. Bucky leaned back on both hands, watching the sunlight dance across the water. He couldn't remember the last time he'd simply sat. No mission. No therapist. No nightmares. Just existing.
He became aware of someone looking at him. Again. Not intensely. Not suspiciously. Just watching. He turned.
You looked away almost immediately, pretending to study the water instead. He frowned slightly. Had you been watching him? Why?
He looked back toward the bayou. His mind should've moved on. Instead, he found himself wondering what you'd been thinking.
It was an unfamiliar feeling. Nobody had watched him like that in decades. Not evaluating. Not fearing. Not expecting something. Simply seeing him.He wasn't sure which unsettled him more.
Eventually he finished his drink and stood. "I've got a flight tomorrow." He stretched. "Figure I'll grab a hotel tonight. Get some sleep."
Sam looked horrified. "You're really gonna do that to me?"
Bucky blinked. "...Do what?"
"Leave me here. Alone. With all this work."
Bucky snorted. "I didn't want to impose."
Sam shook his head. "You kidding? My family's the most welcoming group of people on Earth. They don't care if you've got six toes. They don't care if your mom's your aunt. They definitely don't care if you wear those tiny little T-shirts."
Bucky looked down at his Henley. "...They're normal-sized."
You couldn't resist. "There's still a top bunk."
His eyes immediately found yours. "You offering?"
You shrugged innocently. "You fit." A beat. "...Barely."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "You've gotten funnier."
"So have you."
He looked genuinely surprised. Had he? Maybe. A little.
Sam watched the exchange. Slowly. Then looked toward Sarah. Then back toward Bucky. A grin spread across his face.
"One thing."
Both of you looked over.
"What?"
Sam pointed directly at Bucky. "You."
"What about me?"
"Don't flirt with my sister."
Silence. Bucky stared at him. "...What?"
"Sarah." Sam nodded toward her. "My actual sister."
Before anyone else could react, Bucky's eyes flicked to you. Almost instinctively. Like he needed to know whether you believed that too.
You caught it immediately. The tiny glance. The almost imperceptible hesitation. Interesting. Only then did he look toward Sarah.
"...Oh." Realization slowly spread across his face. His ears turned pink. "I wasn't—"
"You were." You cut in before he could finish.
He looked back at you immediately. "I wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
"I introduced myself."
"You repeated her name."
"So?"
You folded your arms. "So..." You lowered your voice into a remarkably accurate imitation of his. "...Sarah."
He stared. "I do not sound like that."
"Oh, you do."
"I do not."
"You even smiled."
"I smile."
Sam barked out a laugh. "No, man. You don't."
Bucky looked around at you two. One by one. Finding absolutely no allies. "This feels coordinated."
"It’s not." You answered immediately.
He sighed dramatically. "I walk into one fishing town...And suddenly everybody's a comedian."
You smiled. "No. We're just enjoying ourselves."
He pointed at you. "You're enjoying yourself."
"Immensely."
He narrowed his eyes. "You started this."
"I merely observed."
"Oh." His eyebrow lifted. "We're stealing my lines now?"
"I learned from the best."
The words slipped out before either of you thought about them. For a second, neither of you spoke. Something unexpectedly soft settled between you.
His expression changed. Only slightly. Almost too small for anyone else to notice.
"...Careful." His voice had gone quieter. "You keep saying things like that..."
You tilted your head. "...Like what?"
He smiled. "...People might think you like me."
Heat bloomed unexpectedly in your cheeks. "Oh?" You stepped a little closer. "Maybe I just tolerate you."
The grin tugging at his mouth grew just enough to notice. "...That's not what your face says."
Your heart stumbled. Oh. That… That had definitely been flirting. And judging by the brief look of surprise on his own face, he'd only realized it after it left his mouth.
Sam looked between the two of you. Then loudly clapped his hands together. "There he is."
Both of you looked over. "What?"
Sam pointed triumphantly at Bucky. "Now that wasn't for my sister."
Bucky blinked. "...What?"
Sam just grinned. "I knew you still had it."
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm leaving."
"Nope." Sam grabbed his shoulder. "Too late. You live here now."
Bucky sighed toward the sky. Then, despite every effort not to, he laughed. A real one.
And somewhere between the teasing… The sunset, the laughter, and the people surrounding him, he realized something he wasn't nearly ready to admit. For the first time in a very long time. Leaving somewhere sounded worse than staying.
And he couldn't decide whether that terrified him. Or felt like home.
That night, Bucky insisted on taking the couch. It didn't matter how many times Sam argued. But in the end, it was you that won him over.
“C’mon are you really that scared of me? Or is it against your conservative beliefs not to sleep in the same room as a woman?” You had only meant it as teasing, even Sam had smiled, but Bucky had taken it to heart.
His face immediately turned red. It’s not like he had never been with a woman before. In the 40s, he was definitely a ladies man. But it felt odd, wrong to confess that to someone like you. Like he wanted to be better than the man he had been.
"There are literally two beds."
"I know."
"So take one."
"I've got the couch. Sam can take it."
"You fought aliens."
"I know."
"You've slept in cryo tubes."
"I know."
"So why are you afraid of a mattress?"
Bucky shrugged. "It's Sam’s house. It doesn't feel right."
Sam sighed dramatically. "You know what? I'm too tired to argue. I’m taking the couch. You better get your ass in there and not wake me up.”
Without another word, Sam climbed into the sofa, covering himself with a blanket and adjusting the pillow as he asked you to turn off the lights as you headed into the room. Bucky quietly grabbed a blanket off the couch and followed you down the hall.
Something about it tugged at your heart. Even here. Even surrounded by people who had welcomed him without hesitation. He still tried to make himself smaller. Like taking up space was asking too much.
That night, as both of you laid in the bunks, he took the bottom one as you laid on top. A choice you had taken at his stubbornness, at least getting into the lower bunk would be easiest.
After a while of staring at the ceiling, you heard him deeply exhale. Before he spoke.
"You awake?"
You smiled into the darkness. "I was beginning to think you were going to ask."
A quiet chuckle drifted up from the bunk below. "I've been trying to decide for the last twenty minutes."
"That sounds exhausting."
"...It was."
The room fell quiet again. Outside, crickets sang somewhere beyond the open window. The Wilson house creaked softly as it settled for the night. For the first time in what felt like weeks, neither of you had anywhere to be.
"I've been thinking."
"...Dangerous."
"I know." Another pause. "I didn't mean to flirt with Sarah."
You smiled. There it was. "I know. We were only teasing."
"I know. No..." He sighed quietly. "I mean..." His fingers laced behind his head. "I really didn't realize I was doing it. I keep catching myself lately."
You frowned slightly. "Doing what?"
"...Being me." Silence. "I don't know how else to explain it."
His voice was almost lost beneath the sound of the ceiling fan.
"There are moments where I say something before I can stop myself. I laugh. I joke. I tease people." Another pause. "And then afterward..." He exhaled slowly. "...I realize I haven't done any of that in years."
"I don't think that's something to be afraid of."
"No?"
"No." You rolled onto your side. The wooden slats of the bunk creaked quietly beneath you.
"I think..." You searched for the words. "I think you've spent so long trying not to become the Winter Soldier again that somewhere along the way, you forgot Bucky was allowed to come back too."
Silence. Real silence. You wondered if you'd said too much. Then—
"I thought I missed out on getting to know him."
The words escaped before you could stop them. Your eyes widened. You corrected softly. "I mean, I like getting to know you."
Something tightened unexpectedly in his chest. No one had ever said they liked getting to know him.
People pitied him. Forgave him. Feared him. Thanked him.
No one had ever told him they wanted more of the man he'd been before Hydra.
"You know..." His voice was softer now. "I used to think I knew exactly who I was."
Before the war. Before Hydra.
"I never questioned it." Another pause. "Now..."
He laughed quietly to himself. "I get excited because I accidentally remembered how to flirt."
You smiled. "You were pretty good."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I introduced myself."
"You repeated her name. Very gentlemanly."
"I was being polite."
"You smiled."
"I smile."
"Not like that."
He groaned quietly. "...You sound just like Sam."
"I'm right."
"...Maybe."
"You know..." You smiled. "I don't think that's why everyone was laughing."
"No?"
"No. They were laughing because..." You hesitated. "...for a second you looked happy."
"I think..." He hesitated. "...You've helped."
Your heart stumbled. "How?"
"I don't know." A small laugh. "I just...I don't feel like I have to pretend around you."
Silence.
"You know who I used to be. You know what I became." Another pause.
"And somehow, you still talk to me like I'm just..." He searched for the word. "...Bucky."
You smiled into the darkness. "That's because you are."
The bunk shifted again.
He looked toward the ceiling. "...You move around a lot."
You laughed. "I do not."
"If you want the bottom bunk—"
"James."
"...Yeah?"
"I'm comfortable."
"...Alright." A few more seconds passed. "...Good."
Silence. Then—"Goodnight."
The word came quietly. Like it had been a long time since he'd genuinely wished someone one.
You smiled. "Goodnight, James."
Neither of you slept right away. But somehow, the darkness didn't feel nearly as lonely anymore.
Bucky lay awake staring into the darkness beneath the top bunk, listening to the quiet creaks of the old Wilson house and the distant chorus of crickets outside the open window. Somewhere above him, the mattress shifted softly as you settled into a more comfortable position.
He found himself listening for it.
It was ridiculous. Only a few weeks ago, the two of you had barely tolerated each other. Now, somehow, the sound of you moving overhead had become... comforting.
His eyes remained fixed on the underside of the bunk as his mind wandered back through the last few days.
Your laughter. The teasing. The way you always challenged him without ever trying to change him.
The way you looked at him, not like the Winter Soldier. Not like an Avenger. Not like Steve's best friend. Just James. Bucky.
He hadn't met anyone quite like you.
Not because you were beautiful, though you were. Not because you were brilliant, or quick-witted, or stubborn enough to argue with him over nearly everything.
It was the way you chose to see people.
You'd seen the worst parts of him. You knew exactly what Hydra had made him do. You knew what he carried. And somehow, you still spoke to him as though the man beneath all of it deserved to be found.
That terrified him more than he cared to admit.
Because every day he spent around you, it became a little easier to believe you. And every day that happened, the secret he'd been carrying grew heavier.
Steve. The lake. The shield. The choice to stay. The goodbye you were never given.
He still hadn't found the courage to tell you. He didn't know if he ever would.
Some selfish part of him wanted just a little longer. A few more quiet conversations. A few more shared jokes. A few more evenings where you still looked at him the way you did now.
Because he knew, sooner or later, the truth would come. And when it did… He wasn't sure whether you'd still see Bucky Barnes. Or only another man who had failed you.
The next morning, you wandered into the kitchen expecting to find coffee already brewing.
Instead, the house was strangely quiet. Sarah was already gone. The boys were at school. The coffee pot was empty.
You frowned. "...Sam?" Nothing. "...James?"
Still nothing. You checked the porch. No truck. No voices. Only the distant hum of cicadas.
For reasons you couldn't quite explain, disappointment settled quietly in your chest. You caught yourself smiling at how ridiculous that sounded. You've known him for years. You told yourself. You don't miss him after 8 hours....Right?
You shook the thought away before it could linger.
By late morning, you were helping Sarah organize supplies when raised voices drifted across the dock. You recognized them immediately.
Sam. Bucky.
You exchanged a look with Sarah. She sighed. "They're touching my boat."
The sentence alone carried enough irritation to answer every question. Clipboard in hand, she marched toward the dock. You hurried after her, trying not to laugh.
Carlos and Tommy followed behind like two men walking toward a train wreck they were powerless to stop.
By the time you reached the boat, Sam and Bucky were halfway inside the engine compartment. Sam pointed toward a cluster of pipes.
"Start loosening those bolts."
"Got it."
"Okay, then after that—"
"Excuse me." Sarah's voice cut cleanly through the conversation.
Both men froze. Slowly. Very slowly. They looked up.
"...No."
Sam blinked innocently. "What?"
"I told you..." She pointed directly at the engine. "...specifically the water pump was not the problem."
Sam tried anyway. "In our defense—"
"There is no defense." Bucky wisely remained silent.
Sarah wasn't finished. "And yet." She gestured dramatically toward the dismantled engine. "Here you are."
Sam looked offended. "You don't even know what I was gonna say."
"I don't have to." Sarah folded her arms. "I've known you your whole life. You were about to explain why making my job harder was somehow helping."
Tommy snorted loudly behind you. Carlos elbowed him.
Sam looked genuinely wounded. "In our defense, we were supposed to be finished before you woke up."
Sarah stared. "I don't fly into the sky and tell you how to do barrel rolls." She pointed toward the dock. "So don't come down here and start fixing things you don't understand."
Silence. Then, Sam slowly nodded. "...That's fair."
"You know it's fair." She pointed toward the shore. "Off. Both of you. Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your enthusiasm. I love you, bro. Now leave."
Sam climbed out first, dramatically wiping imaginary tears from his face. "She's a very mean person."
You couldn't help it. You laughed.
Bucky climbed out after him, brushing grease from his jeans. "It's tough love."
Sarah pointed toward the toolbox. "And don't forget my wrench."
He immediately turned around. "...Yes, ma'am."
You watched him disappear back into the boat without a single complaint.
A smile tugged at your lips. He'd faced HYDRA. The Avengers. Zemo. The Dora Milaje. John Walker. Countless other opponents. But Sarah Wilson? She'd defeated him in under thirty seconds.
As if sensing your eyes on him, Bucky looked up from inside the engine compartment. Your smile hadn't disappeared. Neither had his.
For half a second, the world became strangely quiet.
He frowned ever so slightly. There it was again. That look. You'd been doing it all weekend. Watching him. Not because you expected him to fail. Not because you pitied him. Not because you were trying to fix him. Just watching.
He couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him like that. It made him oddly self-conscious.
"...What?" he asked.
You blinked. "What?"
"You keep smiling."
"I do not."
"You do." He climbed out of the engine compartment, wiping his hands on an old rag. "Every time you look at me."
Heat crept into your cheeks. "I was laughing at you."
"That's not better."
"It kind of is."
He shook his head, but there was no irritation behind it. Only quiet amusement. "I think you're making fun of me."
"I think," you replied, "you're just making it really easy."
He huffed a laugh through his nose. "...Maybe."
Sam looked between the two of you. Then, toward Sarah. Then, back again.
He frowned, "...Did I miss something?"
Sarah hid a smile behind her clipboard. "You always do."
Sam looked even more confused. "I hate when you answer like that."
Carlos leaned over to Tommy. Quietly enough that he thought no one heard. "I give 'em another month."
Tommy nodded solemnly. "Maybe less."
Bucky's ears immediately turned pink. "What?"
Carlos pointed at absolutely nothing. "The weather. Real nice today."
You lowered your head, biting back another smile. Bucky looked at you. You looked anywhere except at him.
Neither of you noticed Sarah watching the entire exchange with the satisfied expression of someone who had already figured out the ending of a story long before either of its main characters had.
Summary: An uneasy alliance finally fractures as grief, anger, and the weight of an impossible legacy push John Walker past the point of no return. In the aftermath, you, Sam, and Bucky are left to reckon with a bloodstained shield and the broken man the government once chose to carry it.
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Walker blinked. "...That's not how jurisdiction works."
"It is now." You muttered.
Walker sighed dramatically. "I think we're just getting off on the wrong foot." Then, he made the single worst decision imaginable. He reached out. And casually rested a hand on Ayo's shoulder.
Time seemed to stop.
"...John." You whispered. Too late.
Ayo moved. One smooth motion. She twisted beneath his arm, hooked his wrist, and slammed him across the room with such effortless precision that Walker crashed shoulder-first into the stone pillar.
The spear already embedded there vibrated violently. Walker barely had time to breathe before another spear struck his shield with enough force to send him sprawling again.
The apartment exploded into motion. Lemar rushed forward. The Dora answered instantly. Steel clashed against vibranium. Walker struggled to regain control of the shield while two Dora drove him backward with relentless precision.
Across the room, Zemo calmly finished the last sip of his drink.
You stared at him. "...Seriously?"
He merely raised an eyebrow. "It seemed wasteful to spill it."
You looked back toward the fight. Walker wasn't winning. He wasn't even close.
Bucky folded his arms. A playful taunt in his tone. "Looking strong, John."
Despite yourself, you laughed. Walker shot him a murderous glare. "This isn't helping!"
"No." Bucky admitted. "It isn't."
You looked back toward him. "Maybe we should step in."
He glanced over.
"Maybe..." You nodded toward Walker, who had just been kicked into another table. "...before he accidentally starts an international incident?"
Bucky sighed dramatically. "I was hoping he'd learn."
"James."
"...Fine." He stepped forward. "Ayo."
She barely acknowledged him before another spear swept toward Walker's ribs. Bucky intercepted the strike. The metal rang loudly through the apartment.
"Ayo." He blocked another strike. "We need to talk."
She answered by attacking him instead. Their movements were entirely different from Walker's fight. No wasted motion. No anger. Just two warriors who already knew exactly how the other fought.
Watching them was almost beautiful. Until it wasn't. Sam jumped in moments later, intercepting another Dora before her spear reached Lemar.
Within seconds, the apartment had become complete chaos. One of the remaining Dora turned toward you.
You immediately lifted both hands. "I really don't want to do this."
The answer came in the form of a spear flying directly toward your head.
"...Okay." You ducked. The spear buried itself into the pillar behind you.
You caught the shaft instinctively, using it to swing yourself sideways as another strike narrowly missed your ribs. Your feet landed lightly against the wall.
Tony's bracelet shimmered faintly beneath your sleeve. Tiny strands of nanotech crawled over your wrist. Ready. Waiting. You could feel the arc reactor humming softly beneath the metal. One blast would end this fight.
You looked at the Dora advancing toward you. Then at Bucky. Then at Sam. No. Not against them.
You slipped beneath another strike, using the spear as leverage to redirect her momentum instead of meeting it head-on. She recovered almost instantly. Faster than you expected. Of course she did. She's Dora Milaje.
Another strike. Another. Another. Each one pushed you farther backward. You blocked. Dodged. Redirected. Never attacking. Only surviving. Eventually, you lowered your hands. "Alright, I’m done."
The Dora stopped immediately. Her spear remained poised. But she did not strike. Respect. Not mercy.
Across the apartment, Sam had also found himself overwhelmed beneath two coordinated fighters. Then, a sharp metallic click echoed through the room.
Everyone turned. Ayo's fingers had found a small pressure point beneath Bucky's left shoulder. His expression changed instantly. Confusion. Then realization.
His vibranium arm disengaged with a series of mechanical clicks before falling heavily onto the hardwood floor. Clang. Silence.
Bucky stared. Not at the arm. At Ayo. His face wasn't angry. It wasn't even shocked. It looked… Hurt. Deeply. Quietly. As though something far greater than metal had just been taken from him.
You felt your own stomach sink. Of course. Wakanda built it. They had always retained the right to take it back.
Ayo's expression softened almost imperceptibly. She spoke quietly. "James." There was apology in her voice. Even if there wasn't forgiveness. She stepped past him without another word.
The Dora quickly searched the apartment. Empty. Ayo looked toward the open window. "...He's gone." She didn't sound surprised. Only disappointed. The Dora gathered their spears.
"Leave it." One warrior casually pulled Walker's shield free before tossing it back toward him. It clattered loudly across the floor.
None of them even looked at it. Then, they were gone. The apartment became silent once more.
Bucky remained exactly where he stood. His eyes still fixed on the empty space where Ayo had disappeared. Only after several long seconds did he finally crouch and pick up the detached vibranium arm.
You walked over first. Sam right behind you. You knelt beside him.
"Did you know..." Your voice stayed gentle, "...they could do that?"
He looked down at the arm resting across his knees, "...No."
One word. Quiet. He carefully aligned the connection against his shoulder. The mechanisms locked together one by one with familiar metallic clicks. He rotated the wrist once. Then the elbow. Then his shoulder. Testing every movement. Perfect. Mechanically. Emotionally. You didn't say anything else. You simply reached over, and quietly brushed a piece of dust from the sleeve of his jacket.
A tiny gesture. Barely noticeable. Bucky glanced sideways at you. For a brief second, some of the hurt in his eyes softened. He gave you the faintest nod.
Thank you. No words were needed.
Across the apartment, Lemar hurried to Walker's side. "John." He crouched beside him. "You alright?"
Walker sat motionless for a long moment, his shield lying forgotten only a few feet away. His breathing came hard. Not from exhaustion. From humiliation.
Finally, he looked up. "They..." He swallowed. "They weren't even Super Soldiers." The words barely escaped him.
Lemar offered him a hand. "Come on." Walker accepted it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. He brushed imaginary dust from the front of his uniform, trying desperately to recover what little dignity remained.
No one said anything. Because there wasn't anything to say. Everyone in that room had just watched four women dismantle Captain America without breaking a sweat.
Sam walked past him. Not stopping. Not slowing. Only giving him one long look. Disappointed. Walker looked away first.
You followed Sam toward the bathroom, where the door hung partially open. Bucky reached it a second before you did. The three of you looked inside. The bathroom was empty. The sink still dripped quietly. The window remained closed. But beneath the rug, the manhole cover had been pushed aside.
Sam sighed. "I cannot believe..." He rubbed both hands over his face. "...he pulled an El Chapo."
You looked down into the tunnel. Dark. Dirty. Exactly the sort of escape route Zemo would've planned hours ago. You shrugged. "I can."
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. So can I." He looked back toward the apartment one final time before nodding toward the hallway. "Come on."
The streets of Riga had grown noticeably quieter. Even the rain had finally stopped. The three of you walked without much conversation. Bucky led the way. You walked beside Sam.
For several minutes, no one spoke. You found yourself glancing toward Bucky every so often. He looked normal. Almost. But every now and then, his left hand flexed. Almost absentmindedly. As though he were reassuring himself the arm was still there.
He caught you looking once. You immediately looked away. He didn't mention it. Neither did you.
Sam's phone suddenly rang. He frowned. "Sarah."
He answered immediately. "Hey." The warmth disappeared from his face almost instantly. "...She said what?" He stopped walking. "So she actually called your phone?"
Your stomach tightened. Bucky stopped too, immediately reading Sam's expression.
Sam turned slightly away, already slipping into the calm voice of an older brother. "Listen to me. I need you to pack a bag. An overnight bag. The boys too." He paused.
You could hear Sarah talking rapidly through the speaker. "I know. Only use cash. Don't tell anybody where you're staying. Call me when you get there."
Another pause. His shoulders lowered slightly. "I love you. I'll never let anything happen to you. Any of you. Okay? Bye."
The line disconnected. For a second, Sam simply stared at the phone. Not speaking.
You'd heard that tone before. Years ago. Tony.
When he decided to fly a nuclear missile through a portal to save New York City. He called you first. Telling you how much he loved you, and you were the best sister he could’ve ever imagined. He called Pepper after. Trying to sound calmer than he actually felt. Heroes always sounded the same when the people they loved were in danger.
You quietly rested a hand on Sam's shoulder. "What happened?"
He finally looked up. "Karli." His jaw tightened. "She found Sarah. Threatened my nephews."
You felt your chest tighten.
"So now..." He exhaled. "...this isn't just about stopping her anymore."
Sam looked down as his phone vibrated again. A text message.
Bucky's expression hardened. Almost immediately. "What did she say?"
He opened it. Read it once. Then again. The silence somehow became even heavier. Finally, he turned the screen toward the two of you. "She wants to meet." He looked up "...Alone."
Bucky answered before Sam could finish speaking. "I'm coming."
"No." Sam shook his head.
"I'm serious."
"So am I." Bucky replied. "I'm not letting you walk into that by yourself."
You stepped closer. "Neither am I."
Sam looked between the two of you. One stubborn super soldier. One equally stubborn Stark. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You two are impossible."
You smiled faintly. "We've been told."
Bucky nodded once in complete agreement. "Frequently."
Despite everything, the corner of Sam's mouth finally lifted. Just a little. It didn't last long. But it was enough. For one brief moment, the three of you didn't feel like reluctant allies anymore. You felt like a team.
The abandoned municipal building echoed with every footstep. Dust floated lazily through broken shafts of afternoon sunlight pouring in from shattered windows overhead. It felt empty. Too empty.
Sam adjusted the harness across his shoulders as the three of you entered. His Falcon suit looked almost unfamiliar without the shield resting across his back.
You and Bucky followed a few paces behind, both dressed in dark tactical clothing that blended easily into the shadows of the old building.
No one spoke. Until—
"There." You looked up. Karli stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the atrium. She hadn't even tried to hide.
Sam immediately started up the stairs. "Karli!" His voice echoed through the building. "You called my sister?" Another step. "Threatened my nephews?" Another. "That's what we're doing now?"
Karli didn't flinch. "I would've never hurt them." She spoke quietly. "I wanted to understand you." Her eyes shifted behind him. "I see you didn't come alone."
You and Bucky remained halfway up the staircase. Far enough back that Sam still had space to talk. Close enough to intervene if things went sideways.
Sam never looked away from Karli. "You have to end this."
She almost smiled. "You still don't understand." She slowly descended one step. "I don't want to hurt you. You aren't my enemy." She gestured toward him. "You're a tool. A good man trapped inside broken systems. If I killed you..." She shrugged sadly. "It wouldn't change anything." A pause. "I was actually hoping you'd join me." Another. "Or..." She tilted her head. "...you could do the world a favor. And let me leave."
Sam didn't answer. For just a moment, it almost looked like she believed he might. Then, your comm crackled.
Sharon's voice burst into your earpiece. "Sam." Urgent. "Walker is moving." A short pause. "I think he found them."
Sam cursed under his breath. "Walker."
Karli's expression changed instantly. "No—"
Before anyone could react, Bucky vaulted over the stair railing without hesitation. Dropping nearly an entire floor before landing smoothly below. Sam spread his wings and dove after him. You didn't wait.
Tony's bracelet shimmered. Nanotech raced down your legs, replacing your boots with compact thrusters. Blue-white arcs ignited beneath your feet. You launched yourself from the landing.
For one exhilarating second, You were weightless. Then gravity caught you as the thrusters redirected your fall, carrying you safely to the lower floor.
Bucky glanced up only briefly. Saw you already landing beside them. No hesitation. No worry. Just trust.
"Sam." Karli suddenly tackled him from the side, crashing both of them into a concrete wall before pulling her mask over her face. The Flag Smashers scattered.
Sam recovered first. He looked toward you and Bucky. "I'll send the location. Go."
His wings snapped open. He shot upward through the broken ceiling.
You and Bucky exchanged one quick look. No words. Then both of you ran.
The abandoned warehouse was already falling apart by the time you arrived. Concrete dust filled the air. Metal screamed somewhere overhead.
Walker stood halfway up a staircase. Face bruised. Shield raised. Across from him, Dovich. One of the Flag Smashers. The super soldier swung a rusted steel beam. Walker caught it. With both hands. Metal groaned. Bent. Folded like paper.
Dovich's eyes widened. "...Shit."
Walker shoved him backward with enough force to send him tumbling down the stairs. He immediately chased after him. Then stopped when he noticed you and Sam arriving.
"What happened?" Sam demanded.
Walker didn't even look at him. "They took Lemar."
Everything inside him had narrowed to a single objective. Find Hoskins. Nothing else mattered. The four of you split through the warehouse. Searching room after room. Empty. Then, noise. A crash. A shout.
You burst into the largest room yet. Flag Smashers. Everywhere. The fight began immediately. Knives flashed. Metal clanged.
Walker slammed one man through a railing. "What is it with you people and knives?"
No one answered. You ducked beneath one blade before driving your elbow into another attacker's ribs. Behind you, Sam folded one opponent with his wings before another knife shot toward his blind side.
You barely had time to warn him. "Sam!"
A flash of silver intercepted it first. Bucky caught the attacker's wrist. Twisted. Disarmed him. Then glanced toward Sam. "You're welcome."
Even now. He had time to be sarcastic.
Sam rolled his eyes. "I was handling it."
"Sure you were."
The fight surged again. Bodies collided. Concrete cracked. You knocked another attacker backward just as Walker disappeared beneath two Flag Smashers trying to pin him to the ground. Then, Karli appeared.
She charged straight toward Walker. Knife raised. Walker never saw her.
"Walker!" Someone shouted.
Hoskins sprinted into the room. He hit Karli full-force. Knocking her away from Walker. The two stumbled across the floor. Trading desperate blows. Everything seemed to happen at once. Karli shoved him backward. He recovered. She threw another punch. This time, with everything the serum had given her.
The sound echoed through the warehouse. Hoskins' body flew backward. His back struck a concrete pillar with a sickening crack. The column splintered. Chunks of cement rained onto the floor.
Then, silence. Not the peaceful kind. The awful kind. The kind that follows something so irreversible that even the world seems to hesitate.
Dust drifted lazily through the air. Pieces of concrete rolled across the warehouse floor. Lemar didn't.
For one impossible second, your mind refused to understand what your eyes already had.
Blood slowly spread beneath the back of Hoskins' head. Walker turned. His breathing stopped. "Lemar..." His voice barely existed.
The sound hit something deep inside you. Another voice. Another battlefield.
"Tony..." Your own voice.
Raw. Broken. Begging.
You blinked hard. No. Not now.
But the memory didn't care. You remembered dropping beside your brother. The blood. His trembling hand. The way you'd kept talking because silence would've meant accepting what was happening.
You'd told him he was okay. Even when you knew he wasn't.
Walker hadn't reached that part yet. He still believed there was time.
You looked instinctively toward Bucky. His face had gone completely still. The kind of stillness that only came when something terrible had just happened. Without thinking, your feet carried you toward Walker.
Not because you trusted him. Not because you liked him. But because, in that moment, he wasn't Captain America. He wasn't your rival. He wasn't the man who took Steve's shield. He was simply, a man kneeling beside his best friend. Watching him die. And for the first time, your heart broke for John Walker too.
Walker collapsed beside Lemar. "No..." His voice cracked. "...No."
He gathered Lemar into his lap with trembling hands. "Hey." A shaky laugh escaped him. "C'mon."
Nothing.
"You gotta get up." He patted Lemar's cheek. "Hey."
Another little shake. "Quit screwing around."
Still nothing. Walker swallowed hard. "...Lemar." A little louder. "You hear me?"
His friend's head rolled limply against his arm. Walker froze. Because bodies weren't supposed to move like that.
Around the room, the remaining Flag Smashers slowly began backing away. One by one. No one spoke. No one attacked. Even Karli stood frozen. Her eyes locked onto Hoskins' body. Horror spread across her face. She hadn't meant to--she turned and ran.
The others followed. Within seconds, they were gone. Only the four of you remained.
Sam looked from Lemar to Walker. Then toward the fleeing Flag Smashers. He made the decision first. "Bucky."
Bucky already knew. The two of them sprinted after Karli.
You stayed. Walker hadn't moved. He still held Lemar. His knuckles had gone white around his uniform. You slowly approached. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.
Without thinking, you reached for him. Your hand rested carefully against his shoulder. Not to stop him. Not to pull him away. Simply, to remind him he wasn't alone.
The contact was light. Gentle. Minutes ago, that same shoulder had brushed roughly past yours outside the church. Now, you held it together because he no longer could.
You checked Lemar’s pulse. But you already knew.
"John..." No response. You crouched beside him. "I'm so sorry." Still nothing.
You didn’t want to try to stop him. You knew nothing you’d say would matter anymore.
You looked down at Lemar. Then back at Walker. Your throat tightened. "I don't know what this feels like." You swallowed. "...Not exactly."
Another breath. "But I know what it's like to lose someone who would've done anything to keep you alive."
Tony. Lemar. Different men. The same choice. Both had stepped between danger and someone they loved.
Walker finally looked at you. His eyes were empty. Completely hollow. Something broken. You felt your heartbeat stumble.
"John..." You whispered. "Take a breath. We'll figure this out together. We'll find—"
His gaze drifted past you. Toward the shattered window. Toward the city outside. Toward the people responsible. You saw the decision happen. Right in front of you.
"He was supposed to come home." Barely a whisper. "I promised."
The words weren't really for you. They were for himself. Like if saying them aloud might somehow change what had happened.
You wanted to tell him none of this was his fault. You wanted to tell him Lemar had made his own choice. That he would've done it again. That people who loved us, always seemed willing to step between us and danger.
Your father. Natasha. Tony. Now, Lemar.
The words stayed trapped in your throat. Because no sentence had made your own grief smaller. Why would they make his?
"John..."
He gently lowered Lemar's body back onto the floor. Almost reverently. Then stood. Towering over you. For one impossible second, you thought maybe he'd listen. Maybe he'd stay. Maybe—
His eyes drifted past you. Toward the shattered window. Toward the city. Toward the person responsible. Something changed. The grief didn't disappear. It hardened. Like molten steel cooling.
You recognized it. Not vengeance. Purpose. The dangerous kind. The kind grief often became when it had nowhere else to go.
He was already gone. He vaulted through the broken window. Glass exploded outward.
"John!" You rushed after him before stopping yourself.
Your eyes fell back to Lemar. Still lying exactly where Walker had left him. Alone.
No one should be left alone like that. Not after spending a lifetime making sure someone else wasn't.
Your chest tightened. "I'm sorry." You whispered. "I'll come back."
You forced yourself away. Nanotech flowed down your legs as blue-white thrusters ignited beneath your feet. You jumped.
The drop was farther than you'd expected. Repulsors roared just before impact, slowing your fall enough that you landed hard, but safely against the pavement below.
People were already screaming. Running. Pointing. Somewhere ahead, Walker. You took off again. Following the sound.
The plaza had dissolved into chaos. People shoved past one another. Phones already filled the air. Someone screamed. "There!"
You rounded the corner just in time to see Walker tackle one of the fleeing Flag Smashers onto the stone steps of the monument. It wasn't Karli. Just one of the super soldiers..
Walker didn't care. He slammed the shield into the man's chest. "Where is she?"
The man cried out. "I don't know!"
Another strike. "Where is she?!"
"I wasn't—" Another. "It wasn't me!"
You broke into a sprint. "John!"
He either didn't hear you or chose not to. The shield rose again. And again. Each impact echoed across the square. His strength was no longer fully human, as the super soldier serum he’d injected earlier ran through his veins. People screamed. Some ran. Others stood frozen. Recording. Always recording.
"John!" Your voice cracked. "Stop!"
Another strike. The man stopped moving. Walker didn't. The shield came down again. Then, one final time. Silence.
The only sound left was Walker's ragged breathing. He remained standing over the body. The shield hanging loosely from one hand. Blood dripped slowly from its edge. Bright red. Against vibranium. Against the symbol Steve had carried through wars. Through sacrifice. Through hope.
You stopped several yards away. Unable to move. Unable to breathe.
Across the plaza, Sam landed hard beside the crowd. Bucky emerged from another street at nearly the same moment. All three of you stared. Not at Walker. Not at the body. At the shield. Steve's shield. Your brother and dad’s design. The shield that had once represented the best parts of humanity.
Now, stained with innocent blood.
Walker slowly turned. For the first time, he seemed to notice the hundreds of phones pointed toward him. The horrified faces. The silence. The blood.
His eyes finally dropped to the shield in his hand. His expression faltered. Just slightly. As though reality had caught up to him.
No one spoke. No one could. Because in that single irreversible moment. Captain America hadn't just killed a man. He had shattered everything Steve Rogers had spent a lifetime trying to build.
And there would be no coming back from it.
Later, the warehouse was almost empty. Rain tapped softly against the rusted metal roof overhead. Broken machinery cast long shadows beneath flickering fluorescent lights. The silence somehow felt louder than the fight that had happened only an hour earlier.
Walker stood alone. One knee resting against the concrete. Steve's shield leaned against the floor beside him. His hands rested over it almost reverently. Not as Captain America. As John. As a man trying desperately to convince himself he had done the right thing.
The warehouse doors groaned open. Walker didn't turn immediately. He already knew who it was. You. Sam. Bucky. The three of you stepped inside together. No words. No weapons drawn.
Just three people hoping this could still end peacefully. Walker finally stood. He looked exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot. His uniform still carried streaks of Lemar's blood.
"So." He picked up the shield. "Time to get back to work." His voice sounded almost normal.
That frightened you more than if he'd been screaming.
"John." You stepped forward first.
He glanced toward you. "You guys should probably see a medic." His eyes lingered on the bruise forming beneath your cheekbone. "You don't look so good."
He tried walking past.
"John."
Nothing.
"Walker."
This time, he stopped. Slowly. "What?"
"You saw what happened."
His breathing quickened. "You know why I did it."
You held his gaze. "I know why you wanted to." Silence. "But that's not what happened."
His jaw clenched. "I killed him because I had to. He killed Lemar."
"No." Bucky's voice echoed through the warehouse. Quiet. Controlled. "He didn't."
Walker looked toward him. "You don't get to tell me that."
Bucky slowly approached. "I've walked that road." His expression never changed. "I convinced myself every person I killed deserved it. I convinced myself I didn't have a choice. I convinced myself revenge would make it stop hurting." He shook his head. "It doesn't."
Walker scoffed. "I'm not you."
"No." Bucky answered. "But if you keep going you will be."
The words landed harder than any punch.
Sam stepped forward. "John. It happened during the fight. If you surrender now...We can explain it. Your record. Everything you've done before today… They'll take it into account. We don't want anybody else getting hurt."
You looked at him again. His breathing had become uneven. His grip tightened around the shield.
"John." You softened your voice. "Please."
For a second, it almost worked. His eyes met yours. The anger disappeared. Only grief remained. Then, he looked at the shield.
Everything changed. A bitter laugh escaped him. "...So that's what this is." He looked between the three of you. "You almost had me."
Sam frowned. "What?"
Walker slowly backed away. "You don't care about me." His voice grew louder. "You want this." He lifted the shield.
"You made a mistake." Sam answered calmly.
Walker laughed again. "No." His eyes burned. "You did."
The warehouse fell silent.
Sam sighed. "You've gotta give me the shield."
Walker stared at him. Then at Bucky. Then, finally, at you. "You really want to do this?"
Bucky answered first. "Yeah." He took one step forward. "We do."
The first punch landed before anyone saw who threw it. Walker exploded forward. The fight began. There was no warning. One moment he stood across the warehouse, the next, he was already on top of Sam. The shield slammed forward.
Sam barely raised an arm before the vibranium edge crashed into his forearm, sending him skidding across the concrete. Bucky met Walker head-on. Vibranium collided with vibranium. The impact echoed through the warehouse.
You darted in from Walker's blind side, aiming low the way Natasha had drilled into you years ago. "Never fight the strongest part of your opponent. Take away their balance."
You swept your leg toward Walker's ankle. He stumbled. Only for a second. Then, his hand caught your wrist. Too fast. Too strong. He threw you hard enough that your shoulder slammed into the concrete.
Pain exploded through your arm. By the time you looked up, Sam had already been knocked down beside you.
Walker stood over Bucky now. The shield angled toward his throat. Your stomach dropped. "No." The thrusters beneath your boots ignited just long enough to propel you forward.
You caught Walker's forearm with the heel of your boot. The shield flew sideways. Walker grunted, more surprised than hurt. His attention shifted. To you.
For one brief, terrifying moment, You saw exactly what Steve had spent years protecting you from. A Super Soldier who wasn't holding back.
You had sparred with Steve countless times. Early mornings. Late nights. Training rooms. Backyards. Sometimes just because one of you was bored.
Back then, you'd always thought you were getting better. That maybe, one day, you'd actually beat him. Now...
Watching Walker charge you with the same shield, You understood the truth. Steve had never fought you. Not really. He had loved you too much.
Walker didn't. The shield came toward your head. You ducked. A punch. You redirected it. A kick. You rolled beneath it. Everything Natasha had ever forced you to learn suddenly came rushing back. Don't meet strength. Redirect it. Make him chase you. Make him overcommit.
Walker swung again. You caught his momentum, twisting around his shoulder and sweeping both legs from beneath him. He hit the floor. You immediately kicked the shield farther away. Good. Keep him away from it.
Walker looked up. Breathing hard. Then smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was rage. His next punch came faster. Harder. You barely blocked it. Another. Another. Each one drove you farther backward.
You weren't losing. But you weren't winning either. He was getting stronger. Or maybe, he was simply getting angrier. You finally found an opening. You jumped. Locked your legs around his neck. Twisting. Trying to cut off his balance instead of his breathing.
"I'm not trying to hurt you!" You grunted.
"Then stop fighting!" Walker roared. He grabbed your waist. Lifted you completely off him. Then slammed you into one of the steel support beams. The impact drove every bit of air from your lungs. Stars burst across your vision. You crumpled to the floor. Somewhere nearby, you heard someone shout your name.
Walker was already sprinting toward the shield again. Before he could reach it, a blur of black slammed into him. Bucky.
Watching Bucky fight was nothing like watching Steve. Steve always looked controlled. Disciplined. Hopeful. Bucky looked inevitable. Every movement efficient. Every strike deliberate. No wasted motion. No anger. Only purpose.
For several long moments, the two Super Soldiers looked evenly matched. Until, Walker hurled the shield. Bucky caught it.
The impact alone shoved him backward into one of the warehouse beams. Metal screamed. The concrete cracked. But he never let go.
Walker charged. Both hands slammed against the shield. Driving it into Bucky's chest. Pinning him against the support column.
"Why?" Walker screamed. "Why are you making me do this?" He shoved harder. Hard enough that the steel beam behind Bucky groaned beneath the pressure. "You think I wanted this?" Another shove. "I did everything right!"
Electricity suddenly erupted through the damaged beam. Sparks exploded beneath Bucky's metal arm. The vibranium hand jerked violently. His body convulsed.
Then, he collapsed. His left arm smoking. Motionless.
"James!" You pushed yourself upright despite the pain shooting through your back. Before you could reach him—
Sam crashed into Walker. The two rolled across the warehouse floor. Walker recovered first. He raised the shield. Exactly the same way he had in the plaza. The same angle. The same motion. Your blood ran cold.
"No!"
Sam blocked the first strike with his wings. The second. The third. Walker screamed. "I AM CAPTAIN AMERICA!" His hands dug beneath the metal wings. With a roar, he tore them free. Metal shrieked.
Sam cried out in agony as the wings ripped away from the harness. Walker lifted the shield. Ready to bring it down. Then, Bucky hit him like a freight train.
The shield spun between them as both men struggled for control. Sam rejoined the fight seconds later, grabbing the opposite side despite the damage to his suit. Neither could overpower Walker.
You forced yourself back to your feet. Your vision still blurred. Your bracelet hummed. Nanotech flowed over your right hand. Not your whole body. Just enough. You ran.
Walker never saw you coming. You drove the reinforced gauntlet between his wrist and forearm. The impact echoed. A sickening crack followed.
Walker screamed. His grip failed. The shield flew free. Sam stumbled backward with it.
Walker dropped to one knee, clutching his arm. Still, he tried to stand. "It's..." He panted. "...mine."
You stood between him and Sam. Breathing just as hard. "It's over, John."
"No." His eyes were wild. "It's mine!"
He charged again. Bucky intercepted him with one devastating punch.
The fight lasted only seconds now. Walker was exhausted. Outnumbered. Broken.
Bucky finally hooked one arm beneath Walker's legs. Lifted him. And threw him hard enough to shake the warehouse floor. Walker didn't get back up immediately. Silence settled. The only sound left was vibranium scraping across concrete.
Bucky turned. You stood several feet away. Steve's shield resting quietly in your hands. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Bucky slowly exhaled. The fight had finally ended.
You crossed the distance between you. Without a word you offered him the shield. He looked at it. Not at you. His eyes looked distant. Exhausted. Haunted. He accepted it silently. Walked past you. And gently laid it beside Sam.
Not tossed. Not dropped. Placed. Like something sacred. Then he turned… And walked away. You watched him go. Something inside him had changed. Again.
You helped Sam to his feet. He picked up the shield with both hands. Neither of you spoke. He stared at the blood still clinging stubbornly to the vibranium. Slowly, almost reverently, he began wiping it away with the sleeve of his jacket.
As though cleaning the shield, could somehow begin repairing everything it had witnessed. He looked toward you once. You managed the smallest nod. Neither of you had won today. You had only stopped something from becoming even worse.
Then, without another word, the three of you walked away separately.
For the first time since Steve had left, it no longer felt like grief was the thing driving you apart. It was everything left unsaid.
By the time you regrouped, the adrenaline had long since faded. It left behind only bruises. Aches. And exhaustion.
The apartment the authorities had converted into a temporary command post overlooked the now-empty refugee camp. The raid had already happened. Doors hung open. Mattresses had been overturned. Children's drawings still clung to cracked walls with faded tape. Yet somehow, Karli had vanished again.
You had showered. Changed into clean clothes. Patched the cuts across your knuckles. None of it made you feel any less tired.
When you stepped into the living room, Sam stood over a table littered with maps and reports while Joaquin scrolled through surveillance photos on a tablet.
Bucky stood nearby with his arms folded. Quiet. Always quieter after a fight. Sam looked up first.
"The GRC has already started raiding every refugee camp connected to the Flag Smashers." Joaquin pointed toward the map. "They hit this one first. Same result as the others." He exhaled. "Followers. No Karli."
Torres zoomed in on another satellite image. "They tore the place apart. Found nothing."
Sam rubbed tiredly at his jaw. "She's gone. We're never gonna find her like this."
Torres finally looked up. His attention immediately landed on Bucky's reattached vibranium arm. His face brightened. "Oh. You got your sleeve back."
Bucky stared at him. Expressionless."...Arm."
Torres blinked. "...Right. Arm." A beat. "Looks good."
Bucky sighed through his nose. Without another word, he turned toward the hallway.
"You heading to deal with Zemo?" Torres called after him. "...Good. I mean...I'm glad you're alive."
Bucky paused only long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes met yours. Just briefly. There was something in that look. Tired. Heavy. Almost, apologetic. Then he disappeared down the hallway. You watched him go longer than you meant to.
"Damn." Torres muttered under his breath. "I don't think he likes me."
A tiny smile escaped you. "He doesn't." You paused. "...But if it makes you feel any better, he barely likes the rest of us either."
Sam chuckled quietly. "So." Sam leaned back against the table. "What are our options?"
Torres' smile faded. "Honestly?" He grimaced. "Not many." He tapped another report. "Captain America killing a foreign national on camera kind of became everyone's problem." He looked toward you. "The higher-ups have already stepped in."
You nodded before he even finished. "They're taking jurisdiction."
"Yeah." Torres sighed. "So we're officially being told to stay out of it."
His attention drifted toward the large case resting against the wall. Sam's wings. Bent. Broken. He walked over, crouching beside them. "...What happened to these?"
Sam ignored the question. "So there's really nothing?"
Torres shook his head. "They've locked everything down. The camps. The borders. The investigation. And after yesterday?" He whistled softly. "Karli's probably underground."
"No." He corrected himself. "Under underground."
Sam looked down at Steve's shield resting quietly on the table. "The longer we wait the harder she's gonna be to find."
"I know." Torres nodded. "But she's got people helping her everywhere. Every country. Every platform. She's good." He looked back toward the wings again. "...Seriously though. What happened?"
Sam finally laughed. A tired one. "Long story."
Torres shrugged. "I guess all we do now..." He leaned back in his chair. "...is sit tight. Sometimes there's nothing to do until there's something to do."
Sam looked at him for a second before smiling. "...That's bizarrely wise."
Torres grinned proudly. "I am a bizarrely wise man."
"You keep telling yourself that." Sam laughed again. This one came a little easier. He reached for Steve's shield. Its surface was finally clean. No blood remained. Only scratches.
He nodded toward the door. "C'mon." You followed him outside.
The afternoon air felt strangely quiet. Torres carried the damaged wings outside behind you. "Hey! You forgot these."
Sam looked back only briefly. "Keep 'em."
Torres stared. "...Seriously?"
"You'll know what to do with them." Sam smiled. "I hope."
Torres looked like he'd just been handed Excalibur. "I…Thanks."
Sam loaded the shield into the back of the truck. You expected him to climb into the driver's seat. Instead, he noticed you hadn't moved.
"You coming?"
You smiled faintly. "Not this time."
His expression softened. "Work?"
You nodded. "I got called in. The Senate wants me present during Walker's hearing." You let out a dry laugh. "They figured the government liaison who keeps defending Captain America might as well defend this one too."
Sam shook his head. "They really don't make your life easy."
"They never have."
A quiet silence settled between you.
"You think you'll be alright?"
You considered the question longer than expected. "Work?" You shrugged. "That's the easy part." You looked out toward the empty refugee camp. "It's everything after that I haven't figured out yet."
Sam understood exactly what you meant. He leaned against the truck door. "I've gotta head home. Louisiana." He smiled. "Help Sarah with the boat." A pause. "Come with me."
You looked at him.
"Sarah would love to see you. The boys too. And..." He hesitated. "I think it'd do you some good."
You smiled despite yourself. "You offering me therapy?"
"I'm offering you decent food." He grinned. "And my sister. She's a lot cheaper than therapy."
A quiet laugh escaped you. The first genuine one in days. "I'll think about it."
Sam nodded. He didn't push. He never did. "That's all I'm asking." He climbed into the truck. Before closing the door, he looked back one last time.
"Oh. If Bucky shows up before you do..." He smirked. "Try not to let him do all the work."
You rolled your eyes. "As if he'd volunteer."
Sam's grin only widened. "You'd be surprised."
He started the engine. You watched the truck disappear down the road until it became little more than a speck against the horizon.
Only then did you realize, for the first time since Tony died, someone had invited you somewhere that wasn't a mission. It wasn't work. It wasn't an obligation. It was simply… Home. Even if only for a little while.
Washington, D.C. - The Following Morning
The hearing was scheduled for nine. You arrived nearly an hour early. Not because you expected to change anyone's mind. Because you already knew you wouldn't.
Government hearings weren't about justice. They were about optics. And after what the entire world had watched happen in Latvia, someone had to take the fall.
The marble hallways outside the chamber buzzed with reporters and military personnel. Cameras flashed every time someone important walked past. You hated places like this. Too many polished floors. Too many expensive suits. Too many people pretending decisions hadn't already been made behind closed doors.
You adjusted the folder tucked beneath your arm, Walker’s personnel file, incident reports, witness statements, psychiatric evaluations. You had spent most of the night reading through all of it.
Decorated. Brilliant. Disciplined. Three Medals of Honor. A man built his entire identity around serving his country. And then, one terrible decision. One moment of grief. One public execution.
It had erased everything that came before it. Or at least, that was the story everyone wanted to tell. The conference room door opened. John Walker stepped into the hallway. He still looked like he hadn't slept.
There was a fading bruise across his jaw from the warehouse fight. His knuckles were wrapped in fresh bandages.
He stopped the second he saw you. "What are you doing here?" His voice wasn't angry. It was exhausted.
You looked up from the folder. "Besides recovering from the mild concussion you gave me?" The corner of your mouth lifted. "I'm here to represent your ass."
His brow furrowed. "You're not a lawyer."
"No." You tucked the folder beneath your arm. "I'm worse." A beat. "I work for the people writing today's headlines."
Walker looked toward the hearing room. "...Lucky me."
Silence settled between you. You glanced toward the conference room door. No one else had come out yet.
Good. Quietly— "Can I ask you something?"
Walker looked back. "...Depends."
You lowered your voice. "Does Olivia know?"
His expression didn't change. "Know what?"
"The serum."
The words landed heavily between you. For the first time that morning, Walker looked genuinely caught off guard.
His eyes searched yours. "You figured it out."
"You bent a metal pipe" You answered simply. "And I watched you throw a man through a concrete wall."
A beat. "You weren't doing that two days ago."
Walker looked away. His jaw flexed. "...No."
"She doesn't know?"
He shook his head once. "No."
Silence. You nodded slowly. "I figured."
"You gonna tell her?" He finally looked back at you. There was no anger. No challenge. Just exhaustion.
You held his gaze. "If I wanted to..." You lifted the folder. "...I would've put it in there."
His eyes dropped to the file. Then back to you. "You didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
You considered the question. "Because that's a conversation your wife deserves to hear from you."
His shoulders sagged. Almost imperceptibly.
"And because..." You continued. "...You've got bigger problems walking into that room than another charge."
Walker let out a quiet breath.
"You should tell her."
He frowned.
"You don't know what that serum does yet."
His eyes drifted down toward his own hands. Neither did he. Not really. He'd thought it would simply make him stronger. Faster. More capable.
Nobody had explained what it did to grief. To anger. To guilt.
"It doesn't just change your body." You said softly. "It changes every decision you make from here on out."
Walker swallowed. "I wasn't trying to become..." He searched for the words. "...That."
"I know."
"You do?"
You nodded. "I read your file." A small smile. "I also watched you with Lemar." Silence. "I don't think John Walker wanted that man to die."
Walker's throat tightened. "He shouldn't have."
"I know."
"Lemar stepped in because of me." His voice almost disappeared. "And now he's gone."
For the first time, the hearing didn't seem to matter anymore. Not to either of you.
Before Walker could respond, another voice interrupted. "John." Olivia Walker stepped into the hallway.
She looked tired in a way only spouses of soldiers seemed to understand. Strong enough to keep standing. Too exhausted to pretend everything was okay.
She smiled gently at you. "Thank you for calling so early this morning. You didn't have to come."
"I wanted you to know what was going to happen. And I thought you could use the support."
Walker blinked between the two of you. "You talked?"
Olivia smiled. "For almost an hour."
"When?"
"This morning."
"About what?" He looked even more confused.
She looked at you.
You answered first. "You."
He stared. "...Why?"
You shrugged lightly. "Because somebody had to."
You sighed. "Mrs. Walker—"
She interrupted immediately. "Olivia."
You smiled. "Olivia."
Walker folded his arms. "I'm missing something."
"You usually are," you muttered.
He frowned. "What was that?"
"Nothing." You shut the folder. "She's worried about you. So am I."
Walker looked almost suspicious. "You barely know me."
"You might be right," You admitted. "But, I know enough." A small pause. "I've spent enough time around soldiers to know what grief looks like."
His eyes flickered.
"And I've spent enough time around this building to know what they're about to do to you." You nodded toward the chamber doors. "They're not walking in there to understand you. They're walking in there to make an example out of you."
Walker stared. "You still came." A long silence settled between you. Finally he asked, "...Why?"
"I'm here because that's my job." You held his gaze. "And because everyone else in that room is about to see Captain America. I'd rather see John."
Something flickered across his face. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
"You know..." He looked at you for a long moment. "I thought after the warehouse..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...You'd hate me."
You smiled sadly. "I’m still pretty upset about the concussion."
That earned the tiniest laugh.
Then you became serious. "I hated what happened." A pause. "I don't hate you."
Walker looked away. Almost relieved. "I appreciate that."
You gestured toward the chamber doors.
"Come on. They're waiting."
The hearing room was already full. Rows of military officials. Members of Congress. Press. Observers. Every seat occupied. Camera shutters echoed through the chamber the moment Walker entered.
Olivia quietly took a seat in the front row. You remained standing a few feet behind Walker. Not as his attorney. As his liaison. As the one person in the room whose job was to speak before everyone else decided to speak for him.
The committee chairman adjusted a folder. "John F. Walker." His voice carried through the chamber. "It is the decision of this council that you are no longer authorized to act in any capacity as a representative of the United States Government or its Armed Forces." A pause. "You are hereby stripped of the title and authority of Captain America effective immediately."
Camera shutters exploded. You stepped forward. "Mr. Chairman." The room quieted. "Permission to address the council regarding the circumstances surrounding the incident."
Several senators exchanged looks. One finally answered. "The circumstances have already been reviewed. They have been summarized."
You remained calm. "With respect, Senator, a summary and context are not the same thing."
Another senator leaned forward. "Miss Stark, the council appreciates your perspective. But the findings remain unchanged."
Your jaw tightened. Of course they did.
Walker cleared his throat. "With all due respect, I don't believe the council fully understands the circumstances."
"This is not a negotiation."
"I understand."
"It is a mandate."
"I understand that."
"It is a mandate."
His breathing grew sharper. "I understand that!"
You stepped closer. "John." Quietly. "Take a breath."
For half a second, you thought he might actually listen. Instead, he looked directly at the council.
"I lived my life by your mandates." His voice cracked. "I dedicated everything to your mandates. You told me who to be. You trained me. You put that shield in my hands. And I became exactly what you asked me to become."
The room remained silent. Not sympathetic. Just...Silent.
The chairman didn't even blink. "You will receive an other-than-honorable discharge. Effective immediately. You will hold no military rank. No retirement status. No associated benefits."
The room gasped. Reporters practically climbed over one another to capture Walker's reaction. You lowered your eyes.
This wasn't discipline anymore. It was spectacle. You had stood in rooms like this before. After Washington. After Siberia. After choosing Steve over the Accords.
Different accusations. Different senators. Same outcome. Someone always had to become the example.
Walker stared ahead. Almost whispering now. "You built me."
Nobody answered. Finally, "I am Captain America."
The chairman sighed. "Not anymore. And if you continue to challenge the authority of this council, you will spend the remainder of your life in the United States Disciplinary Barracks."
Silence. Walker laughed once. It wasn't amusement. It sounded hollow. Then he turned. Without another word, he walked out. The doors slammed behind him. The echo lingered through the chamber.
You gathered your folder. Before you could leave, "Ms. Stark."
You stopped.
One of the senators looked directly at you. "I trust you'll exercise better judgment regarding the individuals under your supervision." A beat. "The council has shown considerable patience following your previous... associations."
You knew exactly what he meant. Tony. Steve. Bucky. The Avengers.
"If we determine that you are no longer capable of performing your duties objectively, your position will be reevaluated."
There it was. The threat. Wrapped politely.
You met his eyes. "Understood, Senator."
He nodded once. "See that John Walker returns the shield promptly."
You inclined your head. "I'll relay the message." You left without another word.
Outside, the hallway was empty. Walker was already gone. You considered following him. You even took two steps toward the exit. Then stopped. He didn't need another government representative chasing after him. He needed space.
So instead, you walked outside into the cool afternoon air. For the first time all day, there were no cameras. No senators. No applause. No accusations. Only silence.
You wondered if this was how Steve had felt after signing nothing. How Bucky had felt after every hearing. How Tony had felt after every congressional subpoena.
Maybe that was the cruelest part. The government had a remarkable way of building symbols, only to abandon the people inside them the moment they became inconvenient.
And despite everything Walker had done, you couldn't bring yourself to hate him. Not after watching the machine that created him pretend it had nothing to do with his fall.
You went home. Because there wasn't anywhere else to go.
Summary: As Sam risks everything for one last chance to reach Karli, tensions between uneasy allies threaten to destroy the fragile trust holding you together. But when Bucky disappears without explanation and returns carrying a warning of his own, an unexpected arrival makes it clear that Karli isn't the only problem waiting for you in Latvia.
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Latvia felt different in the daylight. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving puddles that reflected apartment windows and faded murals painted years before the Blip. Children kicked a worn soccer ball through cracked pavement while volunteers unloaded boxes of food nearby.
Life continued here too. It always did. Sometimes you wondered if survival was simply humanity's oldest habit.
The streets surrounding the camp had grown noticeably busier. People dressed in dark clothing quietly made their way toward the memorial. No one spoke loudly. The grief hanging over the neighborhood seemed almost tangible.
You walked beside Sam while Bucky and Zemo followed a few steps behind. The four of you had barely reached the next intersection when two familiar figures rounded the corner.
You sighed. "Of course."
John Walker. Lemar Hoskins. Walker spotted your group immediately and his expression hardened. He crossed the street without hesitation.
He looked like a man who hadn't slept. The smile he offered was polite. Practiced. But the dark circles beneath his eyes betrayed him almost immediately. He wasn't enjoying this. He was trying to live up to something impossible.
"Karli Morgenthau is too dangerous for you people to keep pulling this kind of stunt."
Bucky let out an exaggerated sigh. "How'd you find us this time?"
Hoskins smiled apologetically. "You really think three Avengers can wander around Latvia without somebody noticing?"
"Fair." You admitted.
Walker ignored the joke. "No more secrets." His eyes landed on Zemo. "You can start by explaining why he's out of prison."
Bucky shrugged. "He technically broke himself out."
Walker blinked. "That's not helping."
"It wasn't supposed to." Bucky replied.
Walker stepped forward again. "This better be one hell of an explan—"
"John." Your voice cut across his before it could escalate. He looked toward you. You motioned subtly toward the surrounding crowd.
Several people had already slowed down. A few phones were out. Recording. Watching. Waiting. Your voice stayed calm. "Let's not create an international incident before lunch."
Walker followed your gaze. His jaw tightened. After a long second, he forced himself to inhale.
"Right. Sorry." It was genuine. At least partly.
You gave him a small appreciative nod. "Thank you."
Zemo took advantage of the pause. "I know where Karli is." He started walking again.
Walker immediately stepped in front of him, placing a firm hand against his chest. "Where?"
You watched Bucky out of the corner of your eye. He caught your glance. Rolled his eyes. You fought the urge to smile.
Sam answered instead. "We know she's attending the memorial. We're going there."
Zemo calmly brushed Walker's hand away as though removing dust from his jacket.
Lemar stepped forward. "That means civilians. High casualty risk."
Walker nodded immediately. "Then we move fast. We hit her before she disappears."
"No." Sam answered. "I go in alone."
Walker looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "...Absolutely not."
"The person closest to her just died." Sam continued. "She's grieving. She's vulnerable. This is the best chance we'll get to talk."
Walker shook his head. "She blew up a building full of people. We're past talking."
Lemar spoke more carefully. "If Sam walks in alone, she could kill him."
"And if we storm the funeral?" Sam countered. "More innocent people die."
The street fell quiet. Walker looked between all of you. Finally his eyes settled on you. Then Bucky. "You're seriously okay with this?" He pointed toward Sam. "You're just going to let your partner walk into a room alone with a Super Soldier?"
Bucky answered first. "He's handled worse." A beat. "And he's not my partner."
You looked toward Walker. "John." He met your eyes. "Sam's spent years counseling veterans. He understands trauma. He understands grief. If anybody has a chance of reaching her, it's him."
Walker studied you. He respected your opinion. That much was obvious. He simply hated that it didn't match his own.
"I know." He admitted quietly. "I've served with men like that. And that's exactly why I think this is a bad idea."
Lemar finally stepped beside him. "John, if he can talk her down...isn't it worth ten minutes?"
Walker looked at his partner. Then at Sam. Then, at the growing crowd around the memorial. Finally, he sighed. "...Fine, But only because if this works, it's better for everybody." He jabbed a finger toward Sam. "You get ten minutes. No heroics. No improvising. No disappearing."
Sam smiled faintly. "I make no promises."
Walker groaned. "I hate that answer."
Then, the conversation went silent. No one really noticed the silence amongst them, until Lemar spoke. He’d been watching the way Bucky stared at the kids playing down the street.
Innocently, almost curiously, he asked, “You got kids?"
Bucky laughed. Actually laughed. Like if he’d been asked the most simplest and rhetorical question on the planet.
"No."
"You ever want them?" Lemar continued. The group didn’t dare bother to look at Bucky for his answer. There was just silence.
"Never thought I'd get the chance."
Even though it was a silent conversation between them, you’d heard it all. But you didn’t reply. Didn’t feel like it was your place to comment.
Ahead of them, Zemo suddenly veered toward one of the neighborhood children. You recognized her immediately. The little girl from earlier. She smiled shyly when she saw him. He crouched to meet her eye level before slipping several folded bills into her small hand.
"For your family." He said quietly. "Would you mind showing us the way?"
She nodded without hesitation. You watched the exchange carefully. Still trying to decide whether Zemo genuinely cared, or simply knew exactly how to earn trust. Perhaps both.
The little girl led your group through another narrow alley before stopping outside a modest apartment building. She pointed toward a weathered wooden door. Then disappeared back into the crowd.
Zemo straightened his coat. "Karli is inside."
Sam immediately started toward the entrance. Before he reached it, click. Walker snapped a pair of handcuffs around one of Zemo's wrists and secured the other end to an old iron radiator pipe beside the building.
"There." He stepped back. "You stay."
Zemo glanced down at the cuffs. "...Really?"
"You've got ten minutes." Walker folded his arms. "After that, we're doing this my way."
Zemo smiled pleasantly. "Aggressive." He looked toward Sam. "But understandable."
As Sam disappeared through the doorway, your heart began to race. Everything felt, too quiet. You glanced instinctively toward Bucky. He was already watching the door. One hand resting near the pistol beneath his jacket. Ready.
Just in case ten minutes turned into something much worse.
Silence settled almost immediately. No one spoke. No one sat. The only sounds came from the muffled voices inside the memorial and the occasional church bell echoing somewhere across the neighborhood.
You leaned against the stone railing beside the entrance, your eyes never leaving the doorway Sam had disappeared through. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Bucky still watching the same door. He didn't fidget. Didn't pace. Didn't even cross his arms. He simply waited.
Walker caught the brief glance between the two of you. The kind that lasted only a second. But somehow said enough.
A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "...Well." He folded his arms. "You two seem different."
You frowned. "Different?"
Walker motioned lazily between you and Bucky. "Last time I saw you, Barnes could barely look at anything but the ground."
Walker chuckled. "Now look at you."
Lemar glanced between the two of you.
"You've gotten... comfortable."
Neither of you answered.
Walker continued. "She keeps looking over to make sure you're still standing there." He nodded toward Bucky. "And you keep doing the same thing."
You blinked. "...We're watching the door."
"So is everybody else." Walker smiled. "But not everybody keeps checking where the other one is."
Silence.
You hadn't noticed. Judging by the slight crease between Bucky's brows, neither had he.
Walker let the observation drift away. "So..." He leaned casually against the stone railing. "You two friends now?"
You looked toward Bucky. He happened to glance over at the exact same moment. For half a second, neither of you answered.
You looked away first. "I don't think we've ever actually defined it."
Walker laughed. "That's somehow an even stranger answer."
Bucky shrugged. "I tolerate her."
You scoffed. "He's lying."
Walker's eyebrow lifted. "Oh?"
You smiled. "He says I complain too much."
Bucky looked over. "I do not."
"You do."
"I make observations."
"There it is." You pointed at him triumphantly. "See?"
Walker looked between the two of you. "What?"
"He says that every time." You smiled at Bucky.
"I do not." Bucky grumbled.
"You literally just did."
"I was making a point."
"You were complaining."
"I was observing."
You smiled. "...He's very committed to the distinction."
Walker laughed. "I kinda like this version of Barnes."
"You shouldn't encourage him," you said. "He already thinks he's right about everything."
Bucky looked genuinely offended. "I don't think that."
You tilted your head. "...Really?"
A beat. "...Most things."
"There it is."
Lemar chuckled. "He's getting honest."
Bucky sighed. "You spend one week with her..."
"And?" You raised an eyebrow.
"You start explaining yourself."
You smiled sweetly. "So you've noticed."
"I was making an observation."
"You've become predictable."
"I have not."
"You've said 'observation' four times."
"...Three."
Walker burst out laughing. "There it is."
Bucky looked between all three of you. "...I'm starting to regret talking."
"I think that ship sailed."
A beat.
Walker snapped his fingers as though remembering something. "Oh."
He looked toward you. "Our coffee."
You blinked. "Coffee?"
"You said we'd finish that conversation."
"I said maybe."
"You definitely said coffee."
"I said we'd see."
Walker smiled. "So... after this?"
Before you could answer—"...She's busy."
The words came quietly. Matter-of-fact.
All three of you looked toward Bucky. Even he seemed surprised he'd spoken first.
Walker blinked. "...I was asking her."
Bucky looked at you. Then back at Walker. "...We've got work."
Walker smiled. "Together?"
"...Yeah."
The answer came just a little too quickly. You looked sideways at Bucky. He didn't seem to notice.
Walker did. "So..." He folded his arms again. "Coworkers."
You nodded. "Coworkers."
Bucky nodded once. "That's all."
Lemar hid another smile.
Walker looked between the two of you again. The way neither of you quite believed your own answer. "...Mhm."
He let it go. Instead, he shifted his attention back toward you. "I guess I just figured..." He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Steve being my predecessor." He nodded toward Bucky. "And him being Steve's best friend." Then his eyes settled on you. "And you..."
He hesitated. Steve's fiancée. Tony Stark's sister. Government liaison. Avenger. None of them seemed right.
"The point is..." He continued quietly. "I figured you would've already known each other."
Bucky answered before you had the chance. "We did." He glanced toward you. "We do." A small pause. "...Just not like this."
Your chest tightened. Not like this. Not before the missions. Before Madripoor. Before the sleepless flights. Before the laughter.
Walker nodded slowly. "...Fair enough."
Silence settled over the group again. Lemar wandered a few steps away, quietly surveying the memorial while Walker remained where he stood, watching the entrance where Sam had disappeared.
You eventually moved toward the worn stone steps near the memorial gates, grateful for an excuse to sit. The last few days seemed to have compressed into one endless stretch of airports, gunfire, negotiations, and sleepless nights.
Bucky stayed on his feet. Not because he preferred standing. Because he always positioned himself where he could see every exit. Where he could reach the doorway first if something went wrong. He didn't think about doing it anymore. His body simply chose before his mind caught up.
From where he stood, he found himself replaying the conversation with Walker. Not because of Walker. Because of you.
He'd noticed how easily you'd answered him. How naturally you'd spoken about your past.
Months ago, every mention or implication of Steve's name had seemed to hollow something out inside you. Now, it still hurt. Bucky could hear it in the slight hesitation before certain words, see it in the way your eyes drifted somewhere far away for half a heartbeat.
But you spoke anyway. Not because the grief had disappeared. Because you'd learned how to carry it.
He wasn't sure which was harder.
Walker hadn't meant any harm. Bucky knew that. If anything, the man had been trying to understand. But every question about Steve asked you to reopen a door you'd only just learned how to close.
And somehow, Bucky found himself wishing people would stop asking you to walk back through it.
The thought caught him off guard. When had he started noticing things like that? When had your exhaustion become something he could recognize from across a room?
His eyes drifted toward the bottle of water tucked into the side pocket of his jacket. He'd grabbed it that morning without thinking.
Another habit. Always carry extra water. Always be prepared.
His mother used to say people forgot the little things first. Sleep. Food. Water. The little things were usually what caught up with you.
His fingers wrapped around the bottle before he'd even made the decision. He crossed the few steps between you. "You forgot this."
You looked up, confused. "...I did?"
He held up the bottle with the faintest tilt of his head. "You've barely had anything to drink all day."
You stared at him for a moment. Not because of the water. Because you'd never told him that. You honestly couldn't remember the last time you'd taken a drink.
A small smile found its way onto your face. "...You've been keeping track?"
His brow furrowed slightly. "You haven't?"
The question came so naturally it almost sounded obvious. Like of course someone should've noticed.
You looked down at the bottle. "...Apparently not."
He gave it another small shake until you finally reached for it. "Humor me."
You laughed quietly. "Is that an order, Sergeant?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "No." A beat. "...Call it good advice."
You unscrewed the cap. Took a sip. He didn't move. Still watching.
You lowered the bottle again. "There."
"Another."
You raised an eyebrow. "...Bossy."
"I'm practical."
"You keep saying that. Doesn't make it less true." You took another sip, mostly to prove you could stop him from staring. "There."
His eyes lingered on the bottle another second before finally nodding once. "...Better."
You smiled over the rim. "You know..."
"What?"
"You're surprisingly good at this."
"At what?"
"Taking care of people." The words escaped before you could stop them.
His expression softened almost imperceptibly. "I had a lot of practice."
Steve. He didn't have to say the name. You both heard it anyway.
A quiet silence settled between you. Then, almost without thinking— "My ma would've scolded me if I'd let a lady sit out here dehydrated."
The words slipped out so easily they almost sounded borrowed from another lifetime.
He blinked. Realized what he'd just said. His ears pinkened almost immediately. "...Not that—"
You looked up at him, unable to hide the smile growing across your face. "'A lady?'"
He looked toward the church instead. "...Forget I said that."
"I don't think I will."
"It sounded less old-fashioned in my head."
You laughed softly. "I kind of liked it."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "...Yeah?"
"It suits you."
He looked over. For just a second. Long enough that something almost passed between you.
Then he cleared his throat. "...Finish the water."
You smiled into the bottle. "There he is."
"What?"
"The grumpy Sergeant."
"I was gone?"
"For a second."
"...Must've been a long second."
"It was." You shook your head, smiling into the bottle.
As Bucky returned to his place near the entrance, he didn't realize he'd smiled almost the entire time.
Five minutes passed. Then six. Then seven. Walker checked his watch. Again. Then again. He started pacing.
Lemar sighed quietly. "John..."
Walker ignored him. His foot tapped impatiently against the pavement. Finally— "No." He shook his head. "I don't like this."
Bucky didn't even turn around. "It hasn't been ten minutes."
Walker kept pacing. "Doesn't matter. It feels wrong."
"It hasn't been—"
"I heard you." Walker snapped. Then, immediately looked away. "I just..." He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "This isn't how I operate."
Bucky finally faced him. "That's obvious."
Walker pointed a finger. "Don't."
"What?"
"Patronize me."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm literally standing here."
Despite everything, you almost smiled. They argued like two brothers who refused to admit they were having completely different conversations.
Walker looked toward the entrance again. "I'm going in."
Without waiting for an answer, he started forward. Immediately, Bucky stepped into his path. Not aggressively. Simply enough that Walker couldn't reach the door. His vibranium hand rested flat against Walker's chest.
"He asked for ten minutes."
Walker looked down at the metal hand. Then back at Bucky. "...Move."
Bucky didn't budge. The silence stretched.
Walker exhaled sharply through his nose. "This isn't about you."
"No." Bucky's voice remained calm. "It's about respecting what he asked."
Walker took another step anyway.
You instinctively moved between them. "John—"
"I just want to make sure Karli doesn’t get away."
"I know." You lifted a calming hand. "But barging in isn't going to help."
"I'm not barging—" He stepped sideways to move around you. His shoulder caught yours harder than either of you expected.
You stumbled back a half step. Before you could catch yourself, Bucky moved. Faster than anyone had seen him all afternoon.
His metal hand caught Walker square against the chest, stopping him cold. This time, it wasn't simply blocking the doorway. It shoved him back. Not hard. Just enough.
Enough that Walker understood exactly where the line was. The air between them changed. Lemar immediately looked up.
Walker glanced toward you first. "...You alright?"
You steadied yourself. "I'm fine."
He nodded once. "Sorry."
It sounded genuine.
Then his eyes returned to Bucky. "What?"
Bucky's jaw flexed. "You don't put your hands on her."
Walker frowned. "I wasn't trying to."
"I know." His voice remained level. "You still did."
For a second, neither man moved. Walker studied him. Really studied him. Then something clicked.
A knowing smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "...There it is."
Bucky's expression didn't change. "What?"
Walker folded his arms. "You care." Silence. "You care what happens to him." He nodded toward the church. "And you care what happens to her." Another pause. "So answer me something."
His voice lowered. "If something happens to Sam because you stopped me..." His eyes locked onto Bucky's. "...You gonna be alright with that?"
The words landed exactly where Walker intended. Not because they questioned Bucky's strength. Because they questioned his responsibility.
Bucky's eyes flicked toward the church. He trusted Sam. He did. But trust had never stopped bad things from happening.
Steve had trusted him. Tony had trusted Steve. People still died.
Walker saw the hesitation. Pressed. "You know as well as I do..." He nodded toward the church. "...Sometimes ten minutes is too long."
You watched Bucky's shoulders tighten. You knew what Walker was doing. He was forcing him to imagine the worst. To carry responsibility before anything had even happened.
You stepped beside him. Not in front. Beside. Close enough your shoulder almost brushed his.
"James."
His eyes shifted toward you.
"You know Sam." Your voice stayed quiet. "He asked for ten minutes."
You held his gaze. "You trusted him enough to let him walk in there." A small pause.
"I still do." His jaw tightened.
You saw the conflict. Walker wasn't wrong. Neither were you. That was the problem.
Bucky slowly let out a breath. If Sam needed help, every second mattered. If he didn't, they'd be breaking the one thing Sam had asked for.
He removed his hand. Stepped aside.
Walker nodded once. "...Appreciate it."
He started toward the doorway. You watched him disappear inside. Then turned back toward Bucky. For just a second, disappointment crossed your face. Not because he'd moved. Because you'd thought Walker had gotten inside his head.
Bucky caught the look immediately. It settled somewhere heavier than he'd expected. He wanted to tell you. It wasn't Sam. It was you.
The moment Walker shoved past you, the conversation stopped being about Sam. It became about making sure neither of you ended up fighting each other before anyone even reached the church.
But he didn't know how to explain that. Didn't even know if he understood it himself. So instead...
He simply nodded once. "...I know."
You looked at him. He thought you were disappointed in him. You thought he'd doubted Sam. Neither of you realized you were both wrong.
Without another word, you followed Walker inside. Bucky fell into step beside you. Close enough that if something happened, he'd reach you first. He never noticed he did it.
Walker didn't hesitate. The moment he stepped through the doorway, his voice rang across the memorial hall. "Karli Morgenthau." He reached for the cuffs already clipped to his vest. "You're under arrest."
The room froze. Karli slowly turned. Her eyes found Sam first. Then Walker. Then the rest of you. Understanding settled across her face almost instantly.
"So..." A bitter laugh escaped her. "This was the plan?" Her gaze landed on Sam. "You were stalling."
Sam immediately stepped forward. "No. Karli, listen—"
"You lied." The hurt in her voice surprised you more than the anger. For a split second… She looked less like a revolutionary. More like a grieving girl whose trust had just been broken.
Walker saw only an opening. He lunged. "We've talked enough." Before his hand could reach her, she shoved him backward with enough force to send him crashing into a row of chairs.
Walker recovered almost immediately. "You little—"
"John!" You shouted.
But he was already charging again. The room exploded into chaos. Sam grabbed Walker around the shoulders, trying to pull him back.
"I've got this!"
Walker fought against him. "No, you don't!"
Across the room, Bucky moved instinctively toward Karli. Only to have Lemar step directly into his path.
"Move." Bucky growled.
"I'm trying!" Lemar answered as the two men struggled to keep each other from reaching the fight.
You looked back toward Karli. Slowly raising your hands. "I'm not here to hurt you."
Her breathing was uneven. Tears still lingered in her eyes. "You need to leave."
You spoke quietly. "This doesn't have to—"
"Stay back." She warned. Her voice cracked. For just a moment, you thought she might actually listen.
Then Walker shoved free from Sam. Everything changed. Karli bolted. She sprinted toward the stairwell.
"Karli!" Sam shouted.
You immediately ran after her. She vaulted over the railing almost effortlessly. You reached the stairs, and your name vibrated through the walls.
Bucky's voice echoed through the building. You turned instinctively. He had already spotted where she was going.
"Left!"
Without questioning him, you changed direction. Trusting his instincts over your own. Bucky launched himself over the railing entirely, dropping nearly an entire floor before disappearing into the lower level after Karli.
Show-off. You thought despite yourself. Then immediately chased after Sam instead.
The building became a maze. Narrow hallways. Storage rooms. Dark stairwells. Every corner looked exactly like the last.
Your lungs burned as you followed Sam through another narrow corridor.
"Karli!" His voice echoed uselessly through the tunnels. Nothing. Only footsteps. Somewhere overhead. Another hallway. Another dead end.
You rounded one final corner, only to nearly collide with Bucky as he emerged from the opposite tunnel.
The two of you stopped abruptly. Both breathing hard.
You doubled over, hands on your knees. "...Damn it." You managed between breaths.
Bucky glanced behind him one last time before shaking his head. "I lost her."
Sam caught up a second later, equally winded. "This place..." He looked around at the endless maze of corridors. "...is impossible."
For several seconds, none of you spoke. There was nothing left to say. Karli was gone. Again.
The walk back to Zemo's apartment felt longer than before. No one argued. No one joked. The weight of another failed opportunity settled over the entire group.
By the time you reached the apartment, exhaustion had replaced frustration.
Zemo was already stretched across the sofa. A folded towel filled with ice rested across one side of his face where Walker's punch had landed.
He barely looked up as the door opened. "I do hope..." He winced. "...that everyone else had a more productive afternoon than I did."
Sam ignored him completely. He dropped heavily into one of the chairs, rubbing both hands over his face.
You quietly shut the apartment door behind you. Only then… Something felt wrong. Your eyes instinctively scanned the room. Sam. Zemo. You frowned.
"...Where's James?" The words escaped before you realized you'd said them aloud.
Sam looked up. Confused. Then around the apartment himself. The silence answered for him. Bucky hadn't come back with you. Your stomach sank.
"When..." You frowned harder. "When did he leave?"
No one had an answer. Because none of you had noticed. Except you.
The apartment had somehow grown even quieter. Outside, the steady drizzle continued to fall against the windows, blurring the rooftops of Riga into streaks of gray.
Inside, no one seemed eager to speak. Zemo remained stretched across the sofa, the ice pack still pressed against the bruise blooming across his cheek. His expensive robe had long since been traded for another impeccably tailored suit, as though even recovering from being punched required a dress code.
Sam leaned against the kitchen counter, exhaustion written plainly across his face. You stood nearby, absently turning the business card the teacher had refused over and over between your fingers. You hadn't been able to bring yourself to put it away.
Zemo finally broke the silence. "...Were you ever offered it?"
Sam looked up. "Offered what?"
"The serum."
Sam didn't hesitate. "No."
Zemo studied him. "And hypothetically, if you had been? Would you have taken it?"
"No." Again. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Simply… "No."
For the first time all afternoon, genuine admiration crossed Zemo's face. "...Interesting." He nodded once. "That may be the first thing you've said today that impresses me."
Sam folded his arms. "Don't sound so surprised."
"I am." Zemo admitted. "Most men believe they deserve more power. They rarely question why." He looked thoughtfully into his untouched tea. "You still believe Karli can be saved."
Sam remained quiet. "I do."
"You shouldn't." Zemo replied. "The woman you met no longer exists. She died the moment she decided innocent lives were expendable." He looked toward the rain-streaked window. "We cannot allow another generation of gods to walk among ordinary people. Super Soldiers should not exist."
Sam tilted his head. "Funny. That's exactly how gods talk." The room went silent. "And if that's really what you believe..." Sam continued. "...what about Bucky?" Zemo didn't answer. "What about Steve?" Still nothing.
"What about all the people the serum actually saved? Blood isn't always the answer."
Zemo looked away. For once, he didn't have one.
The apartment door opened. Everyone turned. Bucky stepped inside. His hair was damp from the rain. His jacket hung loosely over one shoulder as he quietly shut the door behind him. He looked tired. More than tired.
Something about the meeting with Ayo had clearly stayed with him. No one asked. He walked straight toward the small bar tucked against the wall. Without saying a word.
You watched him quietly reach for a bottle. Then another glass. His movements were almost automatic. He poured one drink. Then reached for another glass. A second later, he slid it across the counter toward you without looking.
Your favorite. You blinked. "...Thanks."
Only then did he glance over. A brief shrug. "You looked like you needed one."
The smallest smile tugged at your lips. "So did you."
"I definitely do." He picked up his own glass before finally turning toward everyone else. "Something's wrong with Walker."
You raised an eyebrow. "...You don't say."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I know crazy." He took a slow sip. "Because..." He gestured vaguely toward himself. "...I'm crazy."
Sam snorted. "I'm not arguing with that."
Bucky ignored him. "We never should've let him have the shield."
Sam sighed. "I didn't give it to him."
"No." Bucky answered quietly. "You didn't." His expression hardened. "And Steve sure as hell didn't."
The words settled heavily over the room. Steve. Again. This time, you noticed Bucky's eyes briefly drift toward you. Almost unconsciously. Checking. Making sure you were alright.
You met his gaze. A tiny nod. I'm okay.
He returned one of his own. Good.
Neither of you realized Sam had watched the entire exchange. He smiled to himself. Barely.
The apartment door suddenly burst inward. Everyone turned. Walker stormed inside with Lemar close behind. His patience had officially run out.
"Alright." He pointed directly at Zemo. "Conversation's over." His eyes shifted toward Sam. "Turn him over."
Sam didn't even move. "Easy."
Walker took another step. "I'm done asking."
Sam folded his arms. "Shield or no shield. The only thing you're commanding in here is your mouth."
The room went deadly quiet. "You blew my chance to stop Karli." Sam continued. "And whether we like it or not..." He nodded toward Zemo. "...he's been useful."
Walker laughed once. No humor. "So how exactly do you want this conversation to end?" His hand settled on the shield. "What?" He slowly unclipped it from his back. "You want me to put this down?" He carefully leaned the shield against the nearby table. "There."
He spread his arms. "Now it's fair."
You slowly stood. Almost instinctively, Bucky stepped beside you. Close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you had to. The tension in the room tightened like a wire.
Walker took one more step. Then— THUNK. A spear buried itself deep into the stone pillar beside Walker's head. Silence. No one moved.
Walker's eyes slowly turned toward the weapon vibrating inches from his face. The apartment door opened again. This time, no one had to announce who it was.
The Dora Milaje entered with the effortless confidence of warriors who already knew they controlled the room. You felt the atmosphere change instantly.
Even Walker sensed it. Beside you, Bucky visibly relaxed. Not completely. But enough. Almost as though he'd finally seen allies instead of enemies.
Without taking his eyes off the Wakandans, he absentmindedly lifted the glass he'd poured earlier for himself and pressed it gently into your hand.
"You'll want this, too." He murmured.
You looked down at the amber liquid before smiling softly. "...I probably will."
The Dora Milaje stopped only a few feet away. Their leader's eyes settled immediately on Bucky. "James."
The room held its breath. Ayo stepped forward. Her eyes never left Zemo. She spoke first in Wakandan, her voice low and controlled. "Even if he is a means to your end..." She looked toward Bucky. "...your time is up."
Then, in English, "Release him. Now."
The apartment fell silent. Walker stepped forward before anyone else could answer. He straightened instinctively.
"John Walker." He extended a hand. "Captain America."
No one took it. Not one of the Dora Milaje so much as glanced in his direction. Their attention remained fixed on Zemo… And Bucky.
Walker slowly lowered his hand. "...Right." He cleared his throat. "Well..." He forced an awkward smile. "Maybe we could put the pointy sticks down and talk this through."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "John, don't."
You bit the inside of your cheek. Hard.
Walker looked over. "What?"
You shook your head, unable to hide the smile threatening to escape. "I'm just saying, you might want to fight Bucky before you pick a fight with the Dora Milaje."
Ayo's eyes briefly found yours. Recognition. Respect. Just a nod. Nothing else.
Bucky didn't even look away from Ayo. "I'd listen to her."
Walker frowned. "They don't have jurisdiction here."
Without missing a beat, Ayo answered. "The Dora Milaje have jurisdiction wherever the Dora Milaje find themselves."
Summary: As the search for Karli leads them to Latvia, the line between right and wrong becomes increasingly difficult to define. Between a community that refuses to trust them and quiet moments that bring you and Bucky unexpectedly closer, both begin to realize that some walls are easier to break down than others.
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Several hours later, the familiar hum of Zemo's private jet settled over the cabin once more. For the first time all day, no one was running. No one was shooting at them. No one was pretending to be someone else.
Exhaustion settled over all of you almost immediately. Sam had kicked his boots off and stretched across one of the leather seats, phone pressed to his ear as he spoke quietly with Torres.
Across from him, Bucky sat with one leg crossed over the other, a clean towel draped across his lap as he carefully wiped soot and dried blood from the seams of his vibranium arm. The movement was slow. Methodical. Almost meditative.
Across the cabin, Zemo had already poured himself another glass of Sokovian brandy and opened a thick leather-bound book as though the events of the evening had been little more than a mild inconvenience. Some people decompressed with silence. Zemo apparently preferred expensive liquor.
"...Donya Madani." Sam spoke into the phone. "She's a refugee." A pause. "Yeah. See what you can find." Another pause. "Call me if you get anything." A faint smile. "Appreciate it, Torres." The call ended. Sam lowered the phone and rubbed both hands over his face before letting out a long, exhausted sigh.
The cabin fell quiet again.
You leaned forward slightly. "You okay?"
Sam stared out the window for a moment before answering. "...Yeah." Another sigh. "I've just been thinking." He rested his elbows on his knees. "Everything Sharon lost. Isaiah. The way Nagel talked about him..." His jaw tightened. "...like he wasn't even a person. Just..." He gestured vaguely with one hand. "...a blood sample. A test subject."
You looked down at your hands. You'd heard it too. Not once had Nagel referred to Isaiah Bradley as a man. Only as data. A resource. Something useful.
Sam continued quietly. "It just makes me wonder…How many people get steamrolled, just so somebody else can carry that shield."
Silence lingered.
Bucky never looked up from the vibranium arm resting across his lap. He continued polishing the metal thoughtfully before speaking. "...Depends who you ask." His voice remained calm. "That hunk of metal saved a lot of lives."
Sam nodded. "I know. I'm not saying Steve wasn't worthy."
Bucky looked up then. Immediately. His expression softened. "I know."
Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I just..." He exhaled. "...Maybe I made a mistake."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You said it first."
"I think we said it together."
Sam pointed between the two of you. "Are you guys doing that synchronized thing again?"
Neither of you answered. Which, somehow, answered the question.
Sam shook his head. "...Weird."
You rolled your eyes. "We're not weird."
Bucky muttered quietly, "I think we're becoming predictable."
You smiled despite yourself. It was the first time he'd included himself in a joke with you.
Sam leaned back again. "...Maybe." He stared toward the ceiling. "...Maybe I never should've put it in the museum." Another pause. "Maybe I should've destroyed it."
Bucky stopped polishing his arm altogether. The towel rested quietly across his lap. He looked directly at Sam. "No." His voice wasn't loud. But it carried enough weight that everyone looked at him.
"That shield..." He searched for the right words. "...means different things to different people." He looked down briefly. "It meant hope. It meant Steve." His fingers unconsciously brushed over the vibranium plating. "...It reminded me that someone believed I could still come back."
Your chest tightened. Bucky rarely spoke this openly.
"The world's upside down." He looked back at Sam. "And people need Captain America." A beat. "It just isn't Walker."
Silence settled over the cabin. "So..." Bucky leaned back again. "Before you destroy that shield..." His voice became almost teasing. "...I'd appreciate the chance to steal it first."
Sam laughed. "There he is. The criminal."
Bucky shrugged. "I've done worse."
"You have." You deadpanned. "I've read the files."
He groaned dramatically. "I liked you better before the sarcasm."
"I've always been sarcastic."
"You've gotten worse."
For just a second, the heaviness lifted. Sam's phone buzzed. Everyone looked over. He answered immediately.
"Torres?" The smile disappeared from his face almost as quickly as it had arrived. "...Yeah." Another pause. "...Okay." His shoulders slowly sank. "Good work." The call ended.
"What'd he find?" You asked quietly.
Sam looked around the cabin. "They found Donya Madani." Nobody spoke. "...She died." The words landed heavily. "Riga. Near the Baltic."
Silence. Even Zemo closed his book. He finished the last sip of brandy before setting the glass carefully onto the table. "I know the city." He stood. "There is a place there." He buttoned his jacket with practiced precision. "And..." A faint smile appeared. "I admit, I'm rather looking forward to finally meeting Miss Morgenthau." He glanced toward the cockpit. "Oeznik."
The older man appeared almost immediately. "Yes, Baron?"
"We're changing course."
Oeznik nodded once. "Very good, sir."
The jet banked gently several minutes later. Its nose turning east. Toward Latvia. Toward Karli. Toward another fight none of you were truly ready for. You looked out the window at the endless darkness beneath the clouds. The quiet felt different now. Not peaceful. Just, temporary.
Without thinking, your shoulder brushed lightly against his as the aircraft shifted through a pocket of turbulence.
Beside you, Bucky quietly folded the towel he'd been using and rested his vibranium hand against the armrest. Instinctively, he steadied himself just enough that you wouldn't have to.
His arm remained there. Not pressing. Not retreating either.
Neither of you acknowledged the contact. Neither of you moved away.
It lasted only a few seconds before the plane leveled again.
Still, neither of you seemed particularly interested in reclaiming the extra inch of space.
As the flight redirected toward Latvia, the cabin slowly settled into another comfortable silence.
Zemo had stretched across the makeshift cot Oeznik had insisted on setting up before takeoff, one arm thrown over his eyes as though he had never once questioned whether he would sleep peacefully after breaking out of a maximum-security prison. Sam, exhausted from the last forty-eight hours, claimed the row across from him, long legs stretched awkwardly across two seats as he was asleep within minutes.
Which left only you and Bucky, sitting across from each other. Neither of you acknowledged it. There didn't seem to be any point.
You settled back into your seat, pulling out your phone almost instinctively. Emails. Stark Foundation updates. United Nations briefings. Three missed texts from Pepper. Two budget approvals waiting for your signature. A draft speech someone wanted reviewed before morning.
Your thumbs moved automatically across the screen. Work had become muscle memory. Keeping busy was easier than thinking.
Across the aisle, Bucky watched you for a moment before looking back down at the pistol resting in his lap. The rhythmic motion of the cloth against the metal continued almost absentmindedly.
He wasn't cleaning it anymore. Not really. It was something for his hands to do while his mind wandered somewhere he didn't want it to.
He noticed the crease between your brows. The way your lips pressed together every time another notification appeared. Every email seemed to steal another ounce of whatever energy you had left.
You worked the way Steve used to. Like resting was something other people did. The thought came so naturally it surprised him.
You looked tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixed. The kind he'd started recognizing in mirrors years ago.
He looked away before you caught him staring. Only, you already had.
You smiled without lifting your eyes from the phone. "That thing so old it needs polishing every five minutes?"
Bucky glanced down at the pistol before the corner of his mouth twitched. "It probably doesn't."
"So then why do you keep cleaning it?"
He turned the cloth over between his fingers. "My ma used to polish my father's boots."
That made you look up. "What?"
"When she couldn't sleep." His thumb turned the cloth slowly. "Said busy hands gave worried minds somewhere else to go."
He looked down at the pistol. "I think she mostly said it so Dad wouldn't notice she was worried."
You smiled. "She sounded smart."
"She was."
Silence settled comfortably between you. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.
You watched him look back down at the pistol. His movements had slowed. Almost like he'd forgotten he was still holding it.
"Does it work?"
He thought about the question longer than you expected. Not because he didn't know the answer. Because he'd spent years pretending he did.
"...Sometimes."
He wasn't talking about the pistol. You knew that.
Your eyes drifted back toward your phone. The screen was still filled with unread emails. Deadlines. Requests. Problems only your signature could solve.
You stared at them. Then quietly locked the screen. Maybe you hadn't been answering emails because they were urgent. Maybe you'd simply needed something to occupy your hands.
Your father built inventions. Tony built a suit. Steve fixed broken cabinets. Bucky polished weapons. And you answered emails at two in the morning.
Different lives. Different decades. The same quiet attempt to outrun thoughts that refused to stay buried.
Across the aisle, Bucky noticed your phone had gone dark. He didn't ask why. He had a feeling he already knew.
It struck him then, almost unexpectedly, that the reports and meetings... the flights across continents, the late-night conference calls...
They weren't just part of your job. They were armor. Not so different from his pistol. Or Steve's shield. Or the worn notebook tucked inside his duffel.
Everyone carried something. Some people just carried it more quietly than others.
It reminded him of Steve. Not because Steve buried himself in work. Because Steve carried responsibility the same way. Quietly. Like if he put enough weight on his own shoulders… No one else would have to.
He wondered how long you'd been doing the same thing. Long enough, apparently, that you'd forgotten how heavy it had become.
Without a word, Bucky reached behind his seat.
He pulled the spare blanket from the overhead shelf and, without looking directly at you, folded it neatly onto the armrest near you.
You looked down. "...What's this?"
He didn't stop absentmindedly turning the cloth between his fingers. "It's cold."
You glanced around the cabin. "...For you?"
"No."
"You'll freeze."
"I've survived worse."
You smiled. "James."
"It was either that or listen to you complain in twenty minutes."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "I don't complain."
His eyebrow lifted. "No?"
"No."
He finally looked over. "...Your shoes."
"I couldn't run in heels."
"The dress."
"It didn't have sleeves."
"My jacket."
"It looked uncomfortable."
"My hair."
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
His eyebrow climbed just a little higher. "...Looked what?"
"I don't remember."
"...Liar."
"I genuinely don't."
He gave you a look. "You told Sam I looked less..." He searched for the word. "...'grunge.'"
"...And emo."
His expression flattened. "...Emo?"
"I stand by it."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "You notice a lot."
You tilted your head. "So you don't mind that I noticed?"
"...That's not what I said."
"But you didn't say you minded."
He looked at you for a long moment. "...I didn't."
Your smile widened. "So you liked that I noticed."
A beat. He could've argued. Instead, "...Maybe."
Your eyebrows shot up. "Maybe?"
"I figured if somebody was going to critique my haircut..." He shrugged. "...Might as well be somebody with decent taste."
You stared at him. "...James Buchanan Barnes."
"What?"
"...Did you just flirt with me?"
His entire expression stalled. "What?"
"That was flirting."
"It was not."
"You called my taste decent."
"I said your observation was."
"Mm."
"They're different."
"Are they?"
"They are."
You leaned back in your seat, studying him like a puzzle. "...You really don't know."
"Know what?"
"When you're flirting."
"I wasn't flirting."
"I think you were."
"I was being polite."
"There it is."
"What?"
"The forties."
He looked genuinely confused.
"You men thought opening doors, lending coats, carrying blankets and saying nice things were just manners."
"They are."
"They're also flirting."
"They're..." He stopped. Thought about it. "...No."
You laughed. "They absolutely are."
"I don't flirt."
You smiled to yourself. "I don't think you know how not to."
He blinked. "...That's ridiculous."
"Is it?"
"You've known me three days."
"And in those three days you've given me your jacket..."
He opened his mouth.
"...Made sure I ate."
"I—"
"Gave me a blanket."
"I was being practical."
"And somehow managed to compliment me twice without realizing it."
"I did not."
"You really did."
He rubbed a hand over his face. "...Steve told you too much."
A grin spread across your face. "Oh, he told me everything."
He groaned. "I'm gonna haunt him."
"You'll have to get in line."
A comfortable silence settled between you again.
He glanced toward the phone still resting dark in your lap. "...You know..."
"Hm?"
"You look prettier when you're smiling."
The words slipped out so naturally neither of you seemed to register them at first.
Then, his eyes widened. "...I mean—" He gestured awkwardly toward the phone. "...When you're reading those, you get this..." He motioned vaguely between his own eyebrows. "...Little wrinkle."
You stared. "Little wrinkle?"
His mouth opened. Closed again. "Yeah."
"You've been watching me."
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
"I was making sure you were alright."
"You've got an answer for everything, don't you?"
"...Usually."
You smiled, softer this time. "I think Steve undersold it."
His brow furrowed. "...Undersold what?"
"How naturally charming you are."
He looked almost offended. "...I'm not charming."
"You've accidentally flirted with me four times in the last ten minutes."
"I have not. I don't even know how."
"I know." A smile tugged at your lips. "...That's the dangerous part."
For the first time all evening, Bucky laughed. A real one. Warm. Unrestrained.
The sound lingered in the quiet cabin long after it faded. Neither of you spoke again.
Outside, clouds drifted beneath the wing as the aircraft carried you steadily toward Latvia.
The cabin remained silent. Only this time, the silence no longer felt like something either of you had to survive.
RIGA, LATVIA
By the time Zemo's jet landed, dawn had already painted the Latvian sky in muted shades of gray and gold. The air felt colder than Madripoor. Cleaner.
The smell of saltwater and diesel had been replaced by damp stone, pine trees, and the lingering scent of morning rain. For the first time in what felt like days, the world was quiet.
You stepped onto the pavement, pulling your jacket a little tighter around yourself as a cool breeze swept through the nearly empty streets. Riga was beautiful. Old churches stretched toward the sky beside Soviet-era apartment blocks, while narrow cobblestone streets wound between cafés just beginning to open for the morning.
It felt normal. At least as normal as the world could still be after the Blip.
The four of you walked without much conversation. Everyone seemed lost in their own thoughts.
Zemo eventually broke the silence. "I heard what became of Sokovia." His voice carried an unusual heaviness. "It was divided before the rubble had even settled." He kept his eyes forward. "My country no longer exists. Only borders. New governments. New flags." A bitter smile touched his lips. "I don't imagine any of you visited the memorial."
No one answered. He didn't seem surprised. "Why would you?" He looked toward the street ahead. "We're here."
He stopped outside an aging apartment building tucked between two narrow side streets. Nothing about it stood out. No guards. No security. No indication that Karli Morgenthau might be somewhere nearby. Which, somehow, made it feel even more suspicious.
Sam looked toward the entrance. "So, this is it."
Zemo nodded. "I believe so."
You started toward the front steps, then realized someone wasn't beside you anymore. Bucky had stopped several yards back. Hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
His gaze lingered somewhere farther down the street. Almost, as though he'd been expecting something. Or someone.
Sam noticed too. "You good?"
Bucky looked back. His expression was unreadable. "I'm gonna take a walk."
Sam frowned. "...Now?"
"I'll catch up." There wasn't hesitation in his voice. Only quiet certainty.
You studied him for another second. Something felt different. Not wrong. Just, intentional. You couldn't explain why. Maybe it was the way he kept glancing toward the neighboring streets. Maybe it was how alert he suddenly seemed. Or maybe, after the last few days, you were simply beginning to notice the things he didn't say.
"You okay?" You asked softly.
His eyes found yours. For a brief moment, the guarded expression he'd worn all morning eased. Just slightly. He gave you a single nod. Small. Almost imperceptible.
But you'd begun to understand what it meant. I'm okay. Or at least… Don't worry about me.
You smiled faintly. "Okay."
You didn't press. Something told you he wouldn't answer anyway. Bucky returned the smallest nod before turning toward the opposite end of the street. His boots disappeared around the corner within seconds. You watched him go longer than you meant to.
"He'll be alright." Sam said quietly beside you.
You looked away. "I know."
At least, you hoped so.
Zemo opened the apartment door without another word. You took one last glance toward the empty street where Bucky had disappeared. For reasons you couldn't explain, you suddenly found yourself eager for him to come back.
Then you followed Sam and Zemo inside.
By the time Bucky returned, the apartment had begun to feel almost lived in. The rain outside hadn't stopped. It tapped steadily against the windows overlooking Riga while soft jazz drifted through the speakers Zemo had somehow managed to find.
For a strange moment, it almost felt normal.
You'd stolen another shower while Zemo monopolized the bathroom first, finally washing the soot and smoke of Madripoor from your hair.
Afterwards, you'd wandered into the kitchen, discovered fresh strawberries and blueberries hidden in the refrigerator, and quietly claimed them before anyone else could. Small victories.
Now, you sat curled into one end of the couch, absentmindedly picking at the fruit while Sam leaned back beside you.
Across the room, Zemo emerged wearing an absurdly expensive dark robe, drying his hair with one towel while pouring himself another drink with the other hand.
"You know..." Sam watched him. "I've met rich people before. But you're something else."
Zemo glanced over his shoulder. "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I accepted it as one."
You smiled into your bowl. Then, the apartment door opened. Bucky stepped inside. The room immediately quieted. He shrugged off his jacket as though returning from an ordinary walk instead of meeting Wakandan warriors.
"The Wakandans are here." His tone remained calm. "They want Zemo." He looked toward the Baron. "I bought us a little more time."
Sam immediately sat forward. "Were you followed?"
"No."
Zemo raised an eyebrow. "And how can you possibly be certain?"
Bucky closed the door behind him. "Cause I know what it feels like to be followed."
There wasn't arrogance in his answer. Only experience.
Zemo took another sip of brandy. "It was surprisingly thoughtful of you."
"No." Sam answered immediately. "You don't get to twist this. No one's protecting you."
You looked toward Zemo. "You murdered Nagel."
He sighed dramatically. "Do we truly have to litigate events that may or may not have occurred?"
Sam stared at him. "...You shot him. There isn't much room for interpretation."
Before Zemo could answer, "Sam." Bucky's voice interrupted.
Everyone turned. He hadn't been paying attention to the conversation at all. Instead, he stood near the window, scrolling through his phone. His expression had changed.
"What?" Sam asked.
Bucky looked up. "Karli bombed a GRC supply depot."
The room fell silent. Sam stood. "...How bad?"
Bucky swallowed once. "Eleven injured." A beat. "Three dead." He lowered the phone. "They're demanding the GRC meet their conditions. They're promising more attacks."
The words seemed to hang in the room. You looked toward Sam. His shoulders sank almost imperceptibly. You'd noticed it before. This mission had stopped being about the serum. Or Walker. Or even Karli.
Sam genuinely believed she could still be saved. That hope was becoming heavier every day.
Zemo broke the silence. "She's escalating." He looked calmly around the room. "I am prepared to finish this." His eyes settled on each of you. "Are the three of you?"
"She's a kid." Sam answered quietly.
Zemo didn't even hesitate. "No. She's a supremacist. You keep searching for someone who no longer exists." He rested one hand against the bar. "The desire to become superhuman has always walked beside supremacy. It gave us the Red Skull. Ultron. The Avengers."
Sam's expression hardened. "You're talking about our friends."
"The Avengers." Bucky corrected flatly from behind the couch. "Not the Nazis."
You hadn't even heard him move. He now leaned casually against the back of the sofa only a few feet behind you. You looked up at him briefly before returning your attention to Zemo.
"There has to be another way." You spoke carefully. "Karli's become radicalized. But people can still come back from that."
Zemo regarded you thoughtfully. "No. She won't. She'll continue escalating. Until either she dies or one of you does."
Bucky folded his arms. "Maybe you're wrong. The serum never corrupted Steve."
For the first time… Zemo hesitated. Only briefly. "Touché." He inclined his head. "But, there has only ever been one Steve Rogers."
The room became very still. You lowered your eyes. Steve. It had been days since you'd allowed yourself to think about him. Not really. Not beyond passing memories.
Madripoor hadn't given anyone enough time to grieve. Bullets had a way of postponing heartbreak. Now, silence gave grief room to breathe again.
There has only ever been one Steve Rogers. The words echoed somewhere deep inside you. Everyone loved Steve. Admired him. Believed in him. How could they not? He'd been the best of all of you. And somewhere beneath all that admiration, a familiar question quietly returned. If he'd loved you… Why had leaving been easier than saying goodbye?
You looked down at your hands. You hadn't even realized your fingers had stopped moving. The bowl of fruit rested forgotten in your lap. Your shoulders had curled inward ever so slightly. As though making yourself smaller required less effort than holding yourself together.
Across the room, Bucky noticed. He didn't know exactly what you were thinking. He didn't need to. He recognized withdrawal when he saw it. Recognized the instinct to disappear inside yourself. He'd lived there for years. His eyes flicked briefly toward Zemo. Then back to you. Enough.
He pushed himself away from the table. "Maybe..." His voice deliberately interrupted the silence. "...we should hand Zemo over to the Wakandans right now."
Every head turned toward him. Exactly as he'd intended.
Zemo sighed dramatically. "And lose your exceptionally handsome tour guide?"
"Yes." Bucky answered without hesitation.
Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Wait. I've got an idea. When I was a kid...My TT passed away."
Bucky frowned. "...Your what?"
"My TT."
"What is a TT?"
Sam blinked. "My aunt."
Bucky looked genuinely confused. "...Then why didn't you just say aunt?"
"Because everybody says TT."
"Everybody where?"
"In Louisiana."
"That explains nothing."
You couldn't help smiling. The heaviness in your chest eased just enough.
Sam pointed triumphantly. "See? She understands."
"I understand neither of you." Bucky muttered.
Sam ignored him. "When my aunt died… The whole neighborhood showed up. For almost a week. Food. Stories. Music. Everybody came." He looked toward all of you. "If Donya meant that much to the community… They'll gather."
You slowly nodded. "It's worth checking."
Bucky looked toward you. You met his eyes. A small nod. He returned it.
Then looked back at Sam. "...Good idea."
Sam smiled. "I know."
Across the room, Zemo reached into a crystal bowl sitting on the counter. "Your TT..." He tossed a piece of candy through the air. "...would be very proud."
Sam caught it effortlessly. "What is this?"
"Turkish Delight." Zemo smiled. "Irresistible."
Sam looked suspiciously at the candy. "...You say that like I'm about to regret eating it."
"I rarely make promises."
The apartment settled into quiet laughter once more. You glanced sideways toward Bucky. He was already looking away. As though making sure you'd smiled again had been enough. He never mentioned Steve. Never asked if you were alright. He simply, changed the conversation. For reasons you couldn't explain, that helped more than he would ever know.
Later that afternoon, the four of you made your way through the narrow streets surrounding the displacement camp. The morning rain had finally stopped.
Children chased one another between apartment buildings while volunteers unloaded boxes of donated supplies from battered vans. Laundry hung from nearly every balcony overhead, fluttering gently in the cool Latvian breeze. It almost looked peaceful.
Until you remembered why everyone was here. You walked beside Sam, absentmindedly scrolling through your phone as another news report autoplayed.
A reporter stood in front of the charred remains of the GRC warehouse.
"The depot destroyed yesterday was funded and operated by the Global Repatriation Council."
You slowed your pace slightly.
"One employee killed in the attack was the father of two children and had only been working there for one week."
Your chest tightened. Another family. Another person caught between ideologies.
"Following the attack, the GRC has announced plans to accelerate legislation known as the Patch Act, aimed at restoring traditional border policies and expediting post-Blip repatriation."
You frowned. "That'll make everything worse."
Sam looked over. "You think?"
You locked your phone. "The Patch Act isn't going to solve anything. It'll just make displaced people feel cornered."
Zemo, walking a few steps ahead, spoke without turning around. "Violence has a fascinating way of helping both extremists and politicians." He glanced toward the crowded camp. "Karli creates fear. The GRC responds with harsher policy. And everyone trapped in the middle suffers."
You hated that he wasn't wrong.
The reporter continued from your phone.
"Support for the Flag Smashers continues to grow internationally, even as governments condemn the group's increasingly violent tactics."
You switched the screen off.
Silence felt preferable.
The camp itself occupied what had once been a community center. Its faded walls still bore cheerful murals painted years before the Blip. Now, they overlooked hundreds of temporary cots. Children. Families. People who no longer belonged anywhere.
Zemo slowed. "It's a shame." His voice had softened. "When I was young..." He looked around thoughtfully. "My family used to attend dinners here. Concerts. Fundraisers. I remember chandeliers." He smiled sadly. "I knew nothing about politics then. I only remember thinking it was beautiful."
You looked around the worn building. It was difficult imagining this place filled with music instead of uncertainty.
Sam broke the silence. "I'm checking upstairs." He looked toward you. "You coming?"
You nodded. "Of course."
Then he glanced toward Bucky. "Keep an eye on him."
Bucky snorted. "I wasn't planning on letting him out of my sight."
Zemo placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "I'm touched. I'll try very hard not to escape."
"No promises." Sam muttered.
The second floor was quieter. Long hallways stretched past classrooms converted into sewing rooms, makeshift clinics, and temporary living quarters. The rhythmic hum of sewing machines echoed through one of the open doors. Women sat shoulder to shoulder repairing donated clothing.
As you and Sam entered, conversations stopped. Several women quietly stood. Without a word, they left the room.
You exchanged a glance with Sam. Wrong approach.
He tried anyway. "Excuse me. You ever hear of Donya Madani?" One young woman hesitated.
Then shook her head almost too quickly. "No. I'm sorry." She hurried away before either of you could ask another question.
You frowned. "They're scared."
"Of us?"
"Of everybody."
As you turned to leave, something caught your attention. A wooden craft box sat beneath one of the sewing tables. Painted across the lid, a familiar red handprint. You crouched beside it. The Flag Smashers.
"They've been here."
Sam nodded quietly. "They trust Karli. Not us."
The next several rooms ended exactly the same way. Questions. Silence. Closed doors. Avoided eye contact.
By the fourth attempt, Sam sighed heavily. "Donya Madani?"
Nobody answered. Another family quietly disappeared into a neighboring room. He rubbed both hands over his face.
"...We're getting nowhere."
"Not nowhere." You corrected gently. "They're telling us something."
Sam looked over.
"They don't trust institutions anymore." You looked back down the hallway. "And right now, we're part of one."
At the end of the corridor, children's voices drifted from a classroom. A middle-aged man sat beside a young boy at one of the desks.
"...Favorite color?" He asked warmly.
The little boy thought hard. "...Yellow."
"Can you spell it?"
You smiled despite yourself.
Sam knocked lightly against the open doorway. "Sorry to interrupt."
The teacher looked up.
"Can we ask about someone? Donya Madani."
The warmth disappeared from his face. "We're not refugees." He said calmly. "We're internationally displaced people. For what it's worth. And we don't trust outsiders."
The children quietly gathered their notebooks. You stepped forward. "My name is Allison Stark. I work with the United Nations. If there's anything your community needs—"
He smiled sadly. "I know exactly who you are." He looked between you and Sam. "And I know exactly what organizations promise. Teachers. Medicine. Food. Hope. They promised six months ago." He gestured around the classroom. "We're still waiting."
The words landed harder than any accusation. You couldn't even argue. Because, he was right.
You reached into your pocket, pulling out one of your business cards. "If you're willing, my direct number, my personal email. No assistants. No switchboards. If you ever decide you want someone to call, call me."
He looked down at the card. Then back at you. For a moment, you thought he might take it.Instead, he folded your fingers gently back around it. "I'm sorry. I can't."
He gathered the children. "Come on."
Within seconds… The classroom was empty. You stood there a long moment after they'd gone.
Sam quietly rested a hand on your shoulder. "You tried."
You looked down at the card still in your hand. "It wasn't enough."
"No." He answered honestly. "But it mattered."
Downstairs… The atmosphere felt strangely different. You found Bucky standing several yards away with his arms crossed. Watching. His attention wasn't on the children. It was on Zemo.
Zemo sat comfortably at one of the small wooden tables surrounded by laughing kids. A paper bag lay open beside him. Colorful wrapped candies spilled across the tabletop. The children leaned in eagerly as he spoke softly enough that none of the adults could hear. One little girl giggled. Another whispered something into his ear. He laughed quietly before handing each of them another piece of candy.
You slowed beside Bucky.
"It's starting to feel like a dead end." Sam sighed.
Bucky never took his eyes off Zemo. "...What the hell is he doing?"
You watched the children for another moment. "Maybe, he's just giving them candy."
Bucky looked at you. "He isn't that nice." A beat. "He's a rich asshole."
Despite yourself, you laughed. "Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"They usually are."
You watched as Zemo leaned closer, whispering something else to the children. One of the boys immediately pointed farther down the street. Toward another building.
Your smile disappeared. "...James."
Bucky had already figured it out. "I knew it. He wasn't being nice. He was gathering information."
Almost on cue, Zemo stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves before strolling back toward the three of you as though he'd simply enjoyed a pleasant conversation. "Cute children." He smiled pleasantly. "They're also considerably more observant than adults." He slipped one wrapped candy into his pocket. Zemo said nothing more. He simply turned and walked away. As though he'd already decided the conversation was over.
You admitted quietly. Because somewhere beneath the manipulation you'd also caught something genuine. Zemo had smiled at those children. Not the calculated smile he gave diplomats. Or the polite one he reserved for strangers. For one brief moment, he'd looked almost human. And somehow, that disturbed you more than if he'd been pretending the entire time.
The four of you followed him back through the damp streets of Riga, weaving between narrow alleyways until you reached the apartment once again.
The moment the door shut behind you, the silence settled back over the room. Zemo disappeared into the kitchen without another word, humming softly to himself as cabinets opened and closed.
You kicked your boots off by the door before collapsing onto one end of the couch with an exhausted sigh. Across from you, Sam dropped into the opposite sofa, elbows resting on his knees. Bucky remained standing for a moment before finally sinking into the armchair nearest the window. The apartment felt smaller than before. Quieter. Like everyone had too much on their mind.
Bucky rubbed a tired hand over his face. "Well, I got nothing."
"No one's talking about Donya." Sam nodded slowly. "Because Karli's the only one who is."
Bucky let out a frustrated breath.
"And she's not wrong."
The room fell quiet. Bucky looked over at him. "What do you mean?"
Sam leaned back. "For five years, people crossed borders that would've never opened for them before. They found homes. Jobs. Communities." He gestured toward the window, toward the camp beyond it. "People actually helped each other. The whole world had to. It wasn't just one country. It was everybody." His voice softened. "And then..." He snapped his fingers. "Half the universe comes back. Governments decide it's time to go back to normal. But..." He shook his head. "Normal for who?"
You listened quietly. Sam wasn't defending Karli. He was trying to understand her. And somehow, that made it even sadder.
"To those people..." He continued. "She's the only person actually doing something."
Bucky folded his arms. "You think her ends justify her means?"
"No." Sam answered immediately. "I think she's angry. And I think nobody listened until she picked up a bomb."
Bucky looked toward you then. Almost instinctively. Waiting. You met his eyes.
"I understand why she's angry." You chose your words carefully. "But innocent people don't stop being innocent because someone has a good reason." Your gaze dropped briefly. "The father who died yesterday, he wasn't the GRC. He was just trying to feed his kids."
Bucky studied you for another second before giving the smallest nod. You'd answered exactly how he'd hoped you would. Not choosing sides. Choosing people.
A quiet clink of porcelain interrupted the conversation. Zemo emerged from the kitchen carrying an elegant tea service balanced effortlessly on a silver tray. Steam curled gently from the pot. He set it carefully on the coffee table.
"As fascinating as your moral debate is..." He calmly poured himself a cup. "...it's becoming repetitive."
Nobody reached for the tea.
Bucky leaned forward. "The little girl. What did she tell you?"
Zemo lifted the cup to his lips first, deliberately taking his time. "The funeral. This afternoon."
Bucky's jaw tightened. "You know the Dora Milaje are coming for you. They're probably outside already." He stood. "So keep talking."
Zemo smiled faintly over the rim of his teacup. "And surrender my only bargaining chip? I think not." He set the cup down with maddening precision. "I rather enjoy having leverage."
Something in Bucky's expression changed. You noticed it immediately. His shoulders stiffened. His breathing slowed. The room suddenly felt, sharper. Like the air had thinned. Before anyone could react, he snatched the teacup from Zemo's hand. It shattered violently against the wall. Porcelain exploded across the hardwood floor. Silence.
"You want to talk about leverage?" Bucky's voice remained terrifyingly calm. "I can show you leverage." He took one deliberate step toward Zemo.
Zemo didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He simply watched him. Which somehow only made things worse.
You and Sam were on your feet immediately.
"James." You stepped forward first. Not grabbing him. Just putting yourself close enough that he knew you were there.
Sam moved to Bucky's other side. "Easy." He rested a hand lightly against his shoulder. "Don't give him what he wants."
Bucky never looked away from Zemo. "He's doing that thing again."
Sam sighed. "I know. The stupid head tilt."
Sure enough, Zemo tilted his head ever so slightly. You almost laughed despite yourself. Almost.
Sam groaned. "I hate that I called it."
The corner of your mouth twitched. Bucky actually rolled his eyes. Which meant the moment had passed. At least for now.
Sam patted his shoulder once. "I'm calling Sharon." He glanced toward you. "Come with me."
You nodded, giving Bucky one last look before following Sam toward the other side of the apartment.
Behind you, Zemo calmly poured himself another cup. "Cherry blossom tea?" He asked pleasantly.
Bucky folded his arms. "...No. You enjoy it."
Sam stepped into the hallway while dialing. You leaned quietly against the wall beside him.
Sharon answered on the second ring. "Well..." Her voice carried its usual dry amusement. "I always enjoy hearing from friendly voices. But somehow...I get the feeling you're about to ask me for something."
Sam smiled tiredly. "You know me too well. We found the camp. But nobody's talking. Zemo knows where Karli's going to be. He's holding the information hostage."
Sharon laughed. "And this surprises you?"
"No. It just annoys me."
"Fair."
Sam sighed. "We need eyes. You still got any satellites lying around?"
"I may..." She answered dramatically. "...or may not...know someone who owes me a favor."
You smiled to yourself.
"I'll see what I can find." "Thanks."
A pause. Then Sharon's tone became serious. "Sam, if Karli disappears again, we're never finding the serum. You know that."
"I know."
"And another thing. The Power Broker completely lost it after Nagel died."
Your eyes met Sam's.
"He wants his investment back. You killed the golden goose. Madripoor's about to become very unpleasant."
Sam closed his eyes briefly. "...I'm sorry."
There was a beat of silence before Sharon answered. "Don't apologize. Just find Karli." The line went dead.
Sam slowly lowered the phone. Neither of you spoke for a moment.
From the living room, you could hear the quiet clink of porcelain. Zemo calmly stirring his tea. As though none of the world outside was falling apart.
Sam finally looked over at you. "You ready?"
You exhaled slowly. "No." A small smile. "...Let's go anyway."
Bucky joined you and Sam only a few minutes later. No one asked where he'd been. Whatever conversation had happened during his walk remained tucked safely behind the calm expression he wore as he adjusted the sleeves of his jacket.
A few moments later, Zemo appeared from the hallway, fastening the cuffs of a fresh coat as though he were preparing for an evening gala instead of attending the funeral of a revolutionary. "Shall we?" He asked pleasantly. "Time is rather important."
Summary: While Sharon helps track down the man behind the new Super Soldier Serum, old wounds finally find room to surface, and you begin to see just how many people were left behind by the choices Steve made. Somewhere between shared grief, unexpected laughter, and a dangerous search for answers, Bucky starts occupying the quiet spaces where your memories used to live.
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
High Town felt like another world. The farther Sharon drove from Low Town, the quieter the city became. Neon signs gave way to marble storefronts, luxury hotels, rooftop gardens, and galleries that glowed warmly behind towering glass windows. The streets were cleaner here. The people, better dressed.
The danger hadn't disappeared. It had simply learned better manners.
You found yourself staring out the passenger window. "It's beautiful."
"It is." Sharon didn't look away from the road. "Don't let it fool you."
The elevator climbed nearly thirty floors before opening directly into Sharon's apartment. Or, calling it an apartment hardly seemed fair. The place resembled a museum more than a home.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city below, while sculptures, paintings, and antique furniture filled every corner without making the space feel crowded. Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers. The faint scent of expensive candles mixed with fresh coffee and old books.
You slowly turned in place. "...Wow."
Sam let out a low whistle. "So..." He gestured toward the room. "Breaking international law's treating you pretty well."
Sharon tossed her keys onto a marble countertop. "I figured if I had to become a criminal..." She shrugged. "...I might as well be a successful one." She paused beside a massive impressionist painting hanging above the fireplace. "You know how much a real Monet goes for?"
Sam didn't miss a beat. "Deactivate hustle mode. You sell fake Monets."
"No." Zemo answered before Sharon could. "They're quite real." He wandered toward another painting with genuine admiration. "This gallery specializes in stolen masterpieces." His eyes drifted across the room. "Monet. Van Gogh. Degas. The originals."
Bucky slipped his hands into his pockets. "It's true." He glanced toward you. "Half the paintings tourists line up to see in museums are reproductions. The originals end up in places like this."
Sam immediately pulled out his phone. "Alright. I see what's happening. You people are trying real hard to make me feel uncultured."
Bucky glanced over. "What does Google say?"
Sam looked up a second later. "...Well." He sighed dramatically. "I hate when you're right."
You couldn't help laughing. "So, noted."
While Sam continued muttering to himself, Sharon disappeared farther into the apartment. Zemo followed without invitation. You exchanged a look with Bucky before quietly trailing after them. The hallway opened into what looked like a dressing room. Several garment racks lined one wall. Another held tactical equipment, holsters, and disguises. A fully stocked bar occupied the opposite corner.
Sharon immediately started sorting through clothes. "You all need to change." She barely glanced up. "I'm entertaining clients in an hour. I'd rather they not assume I've started harboring Avengers."
Sam began digging through the clothing rack. "I don't know whether to be offended or impressed."
"You'll survive." Sharon tossed a bundle of clothes toward you. Black jeans. Boots. A fitted black shirt. A worn leather jacket. Much more practical. You smiled.
"Thank you."
She only nodded.
A folding screen stood in the corner of the room. You disappeared behind it, gratefully peeling yourself out of the dress that had become increasingly impractical over the course of the evening. The boots alone felt like heaven.
When you stepped back out a few minutes later, Sharon looked you over. Then nodded approvingly. "Much better."
You rolled your shoulders experimentally. "I can actually run now."
Bucky looked up from where he was adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. "Good."
The single word slipped out so naturally that you weren't sure he'd meant to say it aloud.
You smiled. "I'll try not to slow you down next time."
His expression immediately became awkward. "...That wasn't..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...what I meant."
"I know." Your smile softened. "I'm teasing."
Sam looked between the two of you with unmistakable amusement. "You two done?"
Neither of you answered.
Sam eventually settled onto one of the couches. "What's going on, Sharon? You really never want to come home?"
Sharon poured herself a drink before answering. "If I step foot back in the States..." She swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully. "...they'll arrest me. Madripoor doesn't extradite. It's convenient."
Sam's smile faded. "I'm sorry I never called. After the Blip. Everything just—"
"Fell apart?" Sharon finished quietly. "You don't have to explain." She took a slow sip. "You know the whole hero thing's a joke now, right?"
The room fell silent.
"The way you gave up Steve's shield..." She looked directly at Sam. "You knew. Deep down. You knew the whole thing was hypocritical."
Zemo smiled faintly. "He knows. Not terribly deep down either."
You noticed Sam's shoulders tense. He didn't argue. Maybe because part of him agreed.
Sharon changed the subject. "So, how's the new Captain America?"
You let out an involuntary laugh.
Across the room, Bucky groaned. "Oh..." He leaned back against the couch. "Don't get me started."
Sharon laughed. "Oh please."
She sat beside him, crossing one leg over the other. "You bought into all that stars-and-stripes nonsense." She pointed lazily toward him. "Before you were HYDRA's favorite psychopath, you were America's golden boy. Steve Rogers' best friend."
You watched Bucky roll his eyes. Then look toward you with the most exhausted expression imaginable. "...She's kind of awful now."
You laughed. "I was thinking it."
"I heard that." Sharon smirked.
The laughter faded as you leaned forward. "Karli Morgenthau. At least seven confirmed enhanced individuals. The serum is already spreading."
Sharon's smile disappeared. "You should all leave. For your own sake."
Sam shook his head. "We're not leaving until we find the person who recreated it. We've got a name."
Bucky added. "Wilfred Nagel."
Sharon looked surprised. "So you actually found something." She set her drink down. "Nagel works for the Power Broker."
The room quieted again. Sam leaned forward. "We need your help. I can get your pardon."
Sharon laughed. "You bargaining with my life?"
"Not like that."
"You cleared Bucky." She pointed toward Bucky. "He killed..." She looked at him apologetically. "...a lot of people."
Bucky raised one finger. "I heard that."
Sam smiled despite himself. "My point is, if they could clear him. they can clear you."
Sharon shook her head. "I don't trust charity."
You stood before Sam could answer. All eyes turned toward you. Slowly, you extended your hand. "No charity." You held her gaze. "A deal. If you help us stop this, I'll personally make getting your pardon my first priority when we get home."
Sharon studied you. Long enough that you wondered whether she'd refuse. "You really think you can do that?"
"No." You answered honestly. "I think it'll be incredibly difficult."
A small smile crossed Sharon's face. "Finally. Someone in this room tells the truth."
You smiled back. "I learned diplomacy from people who lied for a living."
That earned a genuine laugh. With an exaggerated sigh, Sharon rolled her eyes and finally reached out. Her hand met yours.
"Fine." She gave your hand one firm shake. "I sell to some very well-connected people. I'll ask around." She let go. "In the meantime..." She pointed toward the windows overlooking Madripoor. "Stay here. Blend in. And for the love of God..." Her eyes lingered on Sam. "...try not to start another international incident."
"I make no promises." Sam replied.
"I know." She smiled. "That's what worries me."
Without another word, Sharon disappeared down the hallway. The apartment fell quiet.
For several seconds, no one moved. Then Zemo calmly reached for another glass. He looked toward the three of you. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Trouble."
Nobody argued. Because somehow, he was usually right about that.
Hours later, Sharon's apartment barely resembled the quiet gallery you'd first walked into. Music pulsed through the walls, bass vibrating beneath your feet as voices blended into laughter, expensive conversations, and clinking champagne glasses. Collectors. Criminals. Politicians. Mercenaries. Artists. Somehow, everyone occupied the same room.
Paintings changed hands for prices no one dared say out loud while sculptures disappeared into private collections before the evening was over. The party wasn't really a party. It was business. It simply happened to involve alcohol.
Sharon floated effortlessly from guest to guest, smiling just enough to make everyone believe they were her favorite client. Sam had disappeared into the crowd almost immediately, slipping back into Conrad Mack with surprising ease. Across the room, Zemo wandered leisurely between paintings as though he'd forgotten he was technically still an escaped prisoner.
You found yourself standing in front of a painting. It felt oddly comforting. Art had always been easier than people. You tilted your head slightly, studying the young woman floating peacefully beneath the water.
"Ophelia." Zemo's voice came quietly beside you.
You hadn't even heard him approach. He stood with both hands folded behind his back, studying the painting rather than you. "Sir John Everett Millais. Nineteen years old when he began painting it."
You glanced sideways. "You know art too?"
"I know many unnecessary things." His eyes remained fixed on the canvas. "Elizabeth Siddal posed for months. She nearly died of pneumonia. The oil lamps beneath the bathtub went out while she continued posing."
You looked back at the painting.
"Her father threatened to sue Millais over the doctor's bill." Zemo smiled faintly. "History is rarely as romantic as the paintings themselves."
For a moment, the two of you simply admired the artwork. Then, almost absentmindedly, "You call him James."
You blinked. "...Who?"
"Bucky."
You frowned. "You call him James too."
"Yes." Zemo nodded. "But he isn't my friend." He finally looked toward you. "You, however..." His expression remained unreadable. "...were Steve Rogers' partner. The sister of Tony Stark. An Avenger. A woman who once helped shelter the Winter Soldier from the United Nations." His head tilted ever so slightly. "And after so much history, you still call him James." Not Bucky. "Why?"
You opened your mouth. Then stopped. Because you genuinely didn't know.
"I..." You laughed quietly. "I've never really thought about it."
"Hm." Zemo's smile returned. "I think you have."
Before you could ask what he meant, he simply inclined his head and disappeared back into the crowd. Leaving you alone with the question.
James. Why did you call him James?
Steve had always called him Bucky. Sam called him Buck. Almost everyone did. Yet somehow, the very first time you'd spoken to him...
"James" had simply felt. Right. You couldn't explain it. So you stopped trying.
Sharon found you sometime later. A glass rested loosely between your fingers as you stared out across the crowd, watching the moving figures. She didn't interrupt the silence. She simply joined it.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You wondered if maybe that was all she wanted. Someone who understood that not every silence needed filling.
"You know..." she said eventually, eyes still fixed on the crowd. "I used to hate you."
The words landed gently. Not like an accusation. More like a truth she'd finally grown tired of carrying.
You turned toward her, surprised. "Because of Steve?"
A quiet laugh escaped her. "No."
She took a slow sip before shaking her head. "Because you got the goodbye."
Your brows knit together.
She finally looked at you. "I never did."
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. You thought back to the bench. The lake. The shield. Steve's gentle smile. His apology. His peace. It had shattered your heart, but at least you'd known. At least he'd looked you in the eye. At least he'd told you.
Sharon hadn't been given even that. One day she'd been fighting beside him. The next she'd become an outlaw for helping him. Then years passed. Blips. Wars. Time.
Until somehow Steve Rogers had become a story everyone else remembered differently. No explanation. No final conversation. No chance to ask why. Just absence.
You felt your throat tighten. For so long you'd carried your own hurt like it belonged only to you. You'd never stopped to wonder how many other people Steve had left standing in the wake of his choice.
Not because he wanted to hurt them. Because he'd finally chosen something for himself. And everyone else had simply been expected to understand.
"I'm sorry," you whispered.
It felt inadequate. Two words couldn't possibly cover years of unanswered questions.
Sharon offered a small smile. "I know."
She looked back toward the party. "I spent a long time thinking I was angry because he chose you."
She laughed quietly to herself. "Turns out..." Her fingers traced the rim of her glass. "I was angry because he never chose to say goodbye."
Silence settled between you again. This one felt different. Lighter. Not because either of you hurt less. But because, for the first time, neither of you was carrying it alone.
You nodded slowly. "I hated him for a while."
The confession surprised even you. The words slipped out before you had time to soften them.
"Not forever." You swallowed. "But long enough to wonder if loving someone was supposed to feel like being abandoned."
Sharon didn't flinch. She didn't defend him. She didn't tell you he had his reasons.
Instead, she simply nodded. "I know."
The two words carried more understanding than sympathy ever could.
"I think..." You smiled faintly. "...he would've hated that we're agreeing about this."
A grin tugged at Sharon's lips. "Oh, absolutely."
"He would've tried to defend himself."
"'I had my reasons.'"
You both laughed. Not loudly. Not because it was funny. Because for the first time, remembering Steve didn't feel quite so heavy.
The music grew louder as you wandered toward the balcony doors. Electronic music pounded through the speakers hard enough that the windows vibrated faintly. Definitely not your first choice. But you appreciated the energy.
A small crowd had gathered near the dance floor. You turned, and nearly walked straight into someone. Strong hands caught your arms before either of you lost your balance. His grip was firm. Warm. He let go almost immediately. Almost.
"Sorry."
You looked up. Blue eyes. Bucky.
He took a half-step back, clearing his throat as though he'd been standing too close.
"No," he said quickly. "That was me."
"...You sure?"
"I've walked into enough walls lately to know when it's my fault."
You smiled. "I'll try not to add myself to the list."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "I'd appreciate that."
You studied him for a second. Leather jacket. Hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. Expression somewhere between mildly confused and deeply uncomfortable. He looked painfully out of place. You couldn't help laughing.
"What?" He sounded almost offended.
"You look miserable."
"I am."
Another laugh escaped you. "You don't like electronic music?"
He stared at the dance floor. "...Sounds like somebody dropped a radio down a flight of stairs."
You laughed. "That's incredibly offensive."
"I'm aware."
"People like this music."
"People also liked powdered eggs during the war."
"That's your argument?"
"It's a strong one." Bucky actually looked back toward the speakers. "People really listen to this?"
"They do."
"On purpose?"
"Believe it or not." You motioned for him to follow as you escaped toward one of the quieter corners of the gallery.
He fell into step beside you.
"I'll admit..." You shrugged. "It's not exactly my favorite either."
"No?"
"My house growing up?" You smiled fondly. "Almost exclusively rock."
Bucky looked over. "Seriously?"
"Tony had terribly great influence."
"I don't believe that."
"Oh." You laughed. "He was convinced every road trip required AC/DC. And if Dad was driving..." You smiled at yourself. "Queen. If Mom got control of the radio, it was usually Fleetwood Mac."
Bucky's eyebrows lifted. "...Fleetwood Mac."
"There you go. You've heard of somebody after nineteen-forty."
"I've heard Fleetwood Mac." He paused. "They're good."
"They're great." A comfortable silence settled between you. Then, "What about you?"
He looked almost surprised you'd asked.
"What'd you listen to?"
He thought for a moment. "Glenn Miller. Benny Goodman. The Ink Spots."
You smiled. "I know the Ink Spots."
His head turned quickly. He looked genuinely surprised. "You do?"
“Why are you so surprised?” You smiled widely.
"I figured Stark would've had you listening to..." He gestured vaguely toward the speakers. "...whatever this is."
"My father had much better taste."
"I can see that."
You smiled. "You can?"
He nodded. "You carry yourself differently."
Silence. He blinked. Almost like he hadn't meant to say that out loud.
"...Differently?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know. You just..." His eyes searched for the words. "...you've got an old soul."
There it was. A compliment. Completely sincere. Completely accidental. He didn't even seem to realize he'd just given it.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. "...Thank you."
He nodded once. Then looked away.
You laughed again. "I like older music. I always have. Dad used to play it all the time. Even when we’d switch the records."
He studied you quietly. "You would've fit in."
"The forties?"
He nodded and shrugged. "You ask questions."
"I do."
"You laugh easy."
"...Sometimes."
"You don't scare easy."
"You've known me two days."
"I know." Another shrug. "Still." His eyes wandered over the room. "You remind me of people I used to know."
You tilted your head. "...Friends?"
He smiled. "...The ones worth remembering."
You smiled. "I think I'd rather visit. Running water's gotten pretty hard to give up. That, and vaccines."
For the first time that evening, Bucky laughed. A real one. Not just the tiny almost-smiles he'd been giving you all day. It wasn't loud. But it reached his eyes.
You stared.
"...What?" He asked.
"You smiled."
"I do that."
"No." You shook your head. "That one."
He frowned. "What one's that?"
"The real one."
His expression softened. Only for a second. Then disappeared again. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You hide behind this..." You motioned vaguely toward his face. "This whole grumpy soldier thing."
"I'm not grumpy."
"You are."
"I'm observant."
"You sound ninety."
"...I'm over a hundred."
"...Good point."
He laughed again.
You pointed triumphantly. "There!"
His eyebrows lifted. "What?"
"You did it again."
He sighed. "...You're impossible."
Your grin widened. "So I've been told."
"...Believe it." He shook his head. Then he continued your conversation before you’d cut him off. "You'd manage."
"The 40s? I wouldn't even know how to dress."
His eyes wandered over you. Not lingering. Simply noticing. "You'd figure it out."
"...Would I?" You teased him.
A tiny smile formed on his face. "You make most things look easy."
Silence. His own words seemed to catch up with him.
He cleared his throat. "...I mean..." He gestured awkwardly. "...you adapt."
You didn't rescue him. Because you knew exactly what he'd meant. "Oh." A smile slowly spread across your face. "...Thank you."
His ears turned just slightly pink. He looked away.
For a second, neither of you spoke. The music suddenly didn't seem nearly as loud.
You realized something strange. For nearly ten minutes. You hadn't thought about Steve. The realization startled you. Not because you'd forgotten him. You never would.
But because someone else had managed to occupy the quiet spaces grief usually claimed. That felt dangerous.
You looked over. Bucky was watching the crowd. Completely unaware. He hadn't been trying to distract you. He'd simply been there. Somehow, that had been enough.
Bucky watched you quietly. "You okay?"
You blinked. "Hm?"
"You got quiet."
You smiled. "Just thinking."
He nodded. He didn't press. For some reason, you appreciated that.
Before either of you could continue, "There you are."
Sharon's voice interrupted. The two of you looked up simultaneously. She approached quickly. Business replacing the easy smile she'd worn moments earlier. "I found him."
Sam appeared behind her almost immediately. "Nagel?"
She nodded. "Let's go."
The moment disappeared as quickly as it had begun. Bucky glanced toward you once before falling back into mission mode. So did you.
Sharon drove without speaking. The farther you left High Town behind, the emptier Madripoor became. Luxury hotels disappeared. Streetlights became fewer. Eventually, there was nothing except shipping containers stacked endlessly beneath towering cranes. The harbor smelled of rust. Saltwater. Diesel fuel. Cargo ships groaned somewhere beyond the darkness.
You stepped out of the car. The evening air immediately cut through your jacket.
Sam looked around. "...Madripoor could honestly give New York a run for its money." He glanced back toward the skyline. "They really know how to throw a party."
Sharon didn't smile. "Trust me." She scanned the surrounding rooftops. "The longer you stay here the less likely you're leaving." She pointed toward a weathered blue shipping container. "Four-two-six-one. Nagel's inside."
She reached into her pocket and produced four small earpieces. "I'll keep watch. You've got maybe five minutes." She handed one to each of you before fitting the last into her own ear. "If anything changes, you'll know." Without another word she disappeared between the rows of cargo containers.
The four of you approached cautiously. Bucky instinctively moved ahead of you. Not enough to block your view. Just enough that if someone opened fire, he'd be first. Again. You noticed. Again.
Sam pulled open the heavy container door. Nothing. Empty. "...Sharon?" His voice echoed inside. "You sure this is it?"
"Positive." Her voice crackled through the earpiece. "It has to be."
You stepped inside first, sweeping your flashlight slowly across the steel walls. Nothing. No equipment. No furniture. No signs anyone had lived there. Too clean.
You frowned. "This doesn't make sense."
Zemo silently took the flashlight from your hand. He walked slowly toward the back wall. Tapped once. Twice. Then smiled. "Hollow." A concealed door swung inward. "Of course."
The staircase descended farther than you expected. Concrete replaced steel. Then tile. Then polished laboratory flooring. Music floated up the stairs. Classical. Mozart. The kind of music people listened to while pretending they weren't committing crimes against humanity.
Bucky and Sam drew their pistols. You rested your hand near yours. Ready. The laboratory spread out beneath you. Bright. Spotless. Sophisticated enough that it looked more like a pharmaceutical research center than a criminal hideout.
Your eyes immediately swept across the room. Industrial centrifuges. Cryogenic storage. Protein analyzers. Microscopes. Government-grade equipment.
You felt your stomach sink. "This isn't homemade." You murmured. Someone funded this. A lot of money. Someone with serious connections.
Ahead of you, a lone scientist carefully transferred liquid between two glass vials. He hadn't noticed you. Yet. The music kept playing. You quietly crossed the room. Lifted the needle from the record player. Silence flooded the laboratory.
The scientist nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around. "...Who are you? What do you want?"
"We know who you are." You answered calmly. "Doctor Wilfred Nagel. You recreated the Super Soldier Serum."
His face hardened instantly. "Leave." He took one step toward you. Then another. "You have no idea what you're interfering with." Before he reached you—
"Hey." Bucky’s voice cut cleanly across the room. Nagel stopped. Immediately. His eyes found Bucky. Recognition. Fear.
Sam appeared beside him. "You know exactly who that is." He nodded toward Bucky. "And that's Baron Zemo. So..." He smiled without humor. "I'd become real conversational."
Nagel swallowed. "...Make me a better offer. I'll tell you everything."
Your eyebrows lifted. "You really think we're negotiating?"
Bucky didn't hesitate. He grabbed Nagel by the collar. Sat him down hard in a nearby chair. One smooth motion. His pistol rested lightly against the side of Nagel's head. Not shaking. Not threatening. Simply, waiting.
Outside, automatic gunfire echoed through the shipping yard. "They're everywhere." Sharon's breathing had quickened. "Every bounty hunter in Madripoor showed up. You've got to move." The transmission cut.
Bucky calmly fired one round into the wall inches beside Nagel's head.
Concrete exploded. Nagel nearly fell out of the chair. "Okay! Okay!" His hands shot into the air. "I'll talk!"
You stepped closer. Notebook already in hand. "You worked for HYDRA."
Nagel nodded rapidly. "They recruited me after Siberia. The Winter Soldier program. They wanted me to succeed where five previous subjects failed."
Bucky’s' jaw visibly tightened. You pretended not to notice.
"When HYDRA collapsed?"
"The CIA." Nagel answered immediately. "They recovered blood samples. An American test subject. Semi-stable traces."
Your heartbeat quickened. Isaiah. It had to be.
"I isolated the compounds." Nagel continued almost proudly. "I perfected what Erskine started. No massive muscles. No physical mutations. My serum was elegant. Subtle. Perfect."
Your eyes moved around the laboratory.
"No Vita-Ray chamber. No amplification equipment. No gamma radiation."
Realization slowly settled over you. "...You changed the delivery system."
Nagel looked surprised. "...Yes." He blinked. "Exactly."
Nagel continued. "Then, I disappeared. The Blip. When I came back, the program was gone. The Power Broker funded the rest."
"How many doses?" Sam asked.
"Twenty." Nagel answered. "Karli Morgenthau stole every single one."
Twenty. You wrote the number automatically. Your stomach twisted. Twenty opportunities to create another Winter Soldier.
"Where's Karli?" Sam asked.
"I don't know." Nagel answered. "But..." He hesitated. "She contacted me. A woman. Donya Madani. Sick. Tuberculosis. Typical in displacement camps."
"What happened to her?" Sam asked.
Nagel shrugged. "Not my pig. Not my farm."
Silence. Bucky slowly pressed the barrel of the gun back against Nagel's temple. Not harder. Just enough.
"You know..." His voice remained frighteningly calm. "I really hate that expression."
Nagel immediately shook his head. "No more serum. I swear. It's gone."
The laboratory door burst open. Sharon hurried inside. "We're out of time." She looked between all of you. "We have to leave."
Everyone turned. Everyone, except Zemo. He had quietly wandered toward one of the fallen mercenaries. You barely noticed him bending down. Until—BANG.
Nagel jerked backward. A crimson bloom spread across his lab coat. Your breath caught. For one suspended second, nobody moved. Sam lunged first.
"No!" He tackled Zemo's arm away as Sharon ripped the pistol from his hand.
"What the hell did you do?!"
Zemo simply looked down at Nagel's body. Calm. Unmoved. "As long as men like him breathe..." He said quietly… "...someone will always try to build another Winter Soldier."
The laboratory exploded before anyone had time to react. A deafening roar tore through the cargo container as the entire wall erupted inward. Heat slammed into you like a freight train. The force threw everyone in different directions.
You hit the concrete hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. For several seconds, all you heard was ringing. Then, fire alarms. Metal groaning.
Someone shouting. "Everybody okay?" Sam's voice sounded distant through the ringing in your ears.
You coughed violently as thick smoke rolled across the laboratory floor. The fire spread unnaturally fast, licking up shelves of chemicals and shattered glass. Everything around you was burning.
A familiar hand grabbed your forearm. "Come on." Bucky. He hauled you upright with surprising gentleness before immediately looking past you. His eyes swept the room once. Quickly. Counting. You. Sam. Sharon.
"Zemo?" No answer.
Bucky immediately crossed the room, helping Sharon to her feet while Sam stumbled upright beside the overturned lab table.
"Anybody see Zemo?" Sam asked, coughing.
"I lost him."
The ceiling groaned ominously overhead. Bucky looked toward the collapsing hallway. "We have to move."
Now. The four of you burst out of the container just as another explosion ripped through the laboratory behind you. The blast chased you into the shipping yard. Flames burst through the roof of the cargo container, sending twisted sheets of metal into the air. You barely had time to catch your breath before you realized you weren't alone anymore.
Dozens. Maybe more. Bounty hunters poured between the rows of containers from every direction. Weapons already raised. Bucky scanned the yard once. His eyes moved rapidly. Cover. Entrances. Exits. Numbers.
"Wait for my signal." He spoke quietly. Not shouting. He didn't need to.
Everyone moved immediately. Sam broke left. Sharon followed. Bucky sprinted toward the opposite row of containers. You stayed close behind him, firing controlled shots over your shoulder as bullets ricocheted off the steel walls around you.
The harbor erupted into chaos. Gunfire echoed from every direction. Your shoulder slammed against a rusted container as you ducked behind cover. Bucky fired twice. Three times. Four—Click. Empty.
"Damn it." He immediately dropped into a crouch. No panic. Just calculation. He motioned two fingers toward the next container. Move. You nodded.
Together, the two of you sprinted through another hail of gunfire toward Sam and Sharon's position.
Sam glanced over. "I thought we were going left!"
Bucky ducked behind the barricade. "I was clearing a path."
"You went the wrong way."
"I followed the people shooting at us."
"And where'd that get us?"
You leaned around the corner, firing twice before ducking back down. "Guys."
Neither man listened.
"I came out first." Sam argued. "You were supposed to follow me."
"I adapted." Bucky shot back.
"You improvised badly."
"I improvised successfully."
You looked between them in complete disbelief. "Seriously?" Another volley of bullets slammed into the metal barrier. "This is your argument?"
Sharon sighed without looking up. "They're doing this now."
Your laughter escaped before you could stop it. "I cannot believe you two."
Bucky glanced over. "What?"
"We're being shot at!"
"So?"
"So maybe save the marital argument until after we survive!"
Sam pointed triumphantly. "See? She gets it."
Bucky rolled his eyes. "I hate both of you."
Sharon fired another burst. Click. She frowned. "I'm out."
"So am I."
You checked your own magazine. Almost empty. Bucky looked around. "This isn't cover."
Sam frowned. "It's absolutely cover. It's in every action movie."
As if to prove Bucky right, a bullet punched straight through the steel container inches above Sharon's head. Everyone instinctively ducked.
"...Okay." Sam admitted. "Less cover than advertised."
You leaned out, squeezing off your final rounds toward the advancing hunters. One. Two. Three. Click. Empty. You dropped the magazine instinctively.
More bounty hunters poured into the yard. Too many. Far too many. Then, boom. A massive explosion tore through the opposite side of the shipping yard. Flames rolled skyward. Several bounty hunters disappeared in the blast.
You looked up. A figure emerged through the smoke wearing a familiar purple mask. Baron Zemo. Not the cultured aristocrat. The Baron.
He moved through the chaos with unnerving precision, firing methodically as the remaining hunters scrambled for cover. The mask made him almost unrecognizable. For the first time, you understood why entire intelligence agencies feared him.
Bucky watched him only briefly. Then immediately turned back toward you. "Move." His hand landed lightly against the middle of your back. Not pushing. Guiding.
You all sprinted deeper into the maze of containers. Gunfire chased you the entire way. A bullet sparked against the steel inches from your head.
Bucky immediately slowed. Without thinking, he shifted to the outside of the group. Placing himself between you and the gunfire. You noticed. Again. And somehow, you were beginning to expect it.
Sharon suddenly yanked open the side door of a shipping container. "In here!"
You scrambled inside after Sam. Bucky stayed behind. Just long enough. He fired several controlled shots, forcing the bounty hunters to take cover before backing into the container himself.
"Bucky!" Sam shouted. "Move!"
"I'm moving." Bucky answered calmly.
Then, instead of following the narrow corridor, he drove his vibranium arm straight through the opposite steel wall. The metal crumpled outward with a deafening screech. Daylight flooded in.
"...That works." You muttered.
"Usually does." He answered.
Waiting outside, sat an immaculate vintage convertible. Engine already running.
Zemo rested one hand casually on the steering wheel. "...Supercharged." He smiled.
Sam stared. "You're going back to prison."
"Perhaps." Zemo replied. "But first, would you still like to find Karli Morgenthau?"
Silence. Bucky looked between the approaching hunters, then, the car. "...He's right." He hated admitting it.
"There are five of us." He looked toward the dozens of armed mercenaries flooding into the yard. "...And a lot more of them."
No one argued. Bucky climbed into the passenger seat. You slid into the back beside Sam just as Sharon leaned against the open door.
"Well." She smiled tiredly. "That was one hell of a reunion."
You looked up at her. "Come home with us."
She hesitated. Only for a second. Then shook her head. "I can't." Her voice softened. "Just get me the pardon you promised."
You reached over and squeezed her hand. "I will.”
She studied you for a long moment before smiling. "I know you will."
Sam nodded. "Thanks, Sharon."
She stepped away from the car as the door shut. The engine rumbled beneath you. For a brief second, nobody spoke.
Then Sam looked toward the front passenger seat. "...You're not moving your seat forward, are you?"
Bucky didn't even turn around. "No."
Sam sighed dramatically. "I knew it."
You leaned your head back against the leather seat, laughing quietly to yourself. After everything that had happened, somehow, it felt strangely comforting that these two were still arguing over absolutely nothing.
For the first time all night, the drive didn't feel quite so lonely.
Summary: In Madripoor, survival means becoming someone else, and for Bucky, that means stepping back into the role of the Winter Soldier. As a dangerous undercover mission spirals out of control, an unexpected ally emerges from the shadows, carrying wounds of her own.
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
Madripoor looked beautiful from a distance. Almost deceptively so.
The city glittered beneath the night sky, neon signs reflecting against black water while towering skyscrapers overlooked crowded streets below. Music drifted through the humid air, mixing with laughter, engines, and conversations spoken in a dozen different languages.
It would've been breathtaking, if you didn't know almost everyone here was dangerous.
The four of you stepped onto the dock in complete silence. Your stomach reminded you just how long it had been since you'd eaten anything substantial.
Somewhere over Europe, Oeznik had taken pity on all of you, quietly producing crackers, fruit, and a bottle of wine from whatever miracle pantry existed aboard Zemo's jet.
It hadn't exactly been dinner. But it was enough to keep everyone from becoming insufferable.
Especially Sam. "I would've killed for an actual sandwich." He muttered while adjusting the sleeves of his tailored jacket.
"You say that like we weren't offered caviar." You smiled.
"I don't trust fish eggs."
"You eat sushi."
"That's different."
"How?"
"...It just is."
Bucky shook his head from beside you. "I don't understand either of you."
"You've been awake since nineteen-forty-something." Sam deadpanned. "You don't get an opinion."
"I've earned several opinions."
"You've earned a nap."
Zemo had insisted everyone change before landing. The result was unexpected. You glanced down at yourself one last time. Gone were the comfortable jeans and blazer you'd boarded the plane in.
Now, a sleek black evening dress hugged your frame, elegant enough to blend into Madripoor's High Town while still practical enough to move in if things went wrong. Not exactly your first choice for fieldwork. But it fit the role.
Across from you, Sam looked equally uncomfortable in a sharply tailored cream suit. He adjusted the cuffs for what had to be the tenth time.
"We really need to talk about this."
Zemo looked over. "About what?"
"I'm the only one here dressed like a seventies nightclub owner."
A corner of Zemo's mouth lifted. "Only an American." He smoothed the lapel of his own impeccably tailored coat. "...would assume a fashion-forward Black man looks like a pimp."
Sam sighed dramatically. "I knew you were gonna say something like that."
"You look precisely like the man you're portraying." Zemo continued, entirely ignoring him. "Conrad Mack." He handed Sam a phone displaying an old intelligence photograph. "Also known as the Smiling Tiger."
Sam stared. "...He really does look like me."
You leaned over his shoulder. "...Okay." You blinked. "That's actually a little unsettling."
"It is, isn't it?" Sam muttered.
Zemo nodded toward you. "And Allison." He looked almost amused. "You'll be playing Stephanie."
You raised an eyebrow. "...Stephanie?"
"Conrad's current companion."
"Current?"
"Temporary." Zemo shrugged. "Conrad isn’t known for long relationships. So, no one should question why they've never seen you before."
Sam looked horrified. "So now I'm a womanizer?"
"You were already complaining about the suit. You don't get to be picky." You laughed. "I can't believe my fake boyfriend's biggest concern is his nickname."
"The nickname is terrible."
"'Smiling Tiger?'"
"I sound like a breakfast cereal mascot."
Even Bucky let out a quiet huff that suspiciously resembled a laugh.
You looked over immediately. "You're smiling again."
"I am not. It was a cough."
"You laughed."
"It was respiratory."
Sam pointed triumphantly. "I saw it too."
Bucky looked toward the skyline instead. "I regret speaking."
"You've barely spoken all evening."
"I regret that too."
The wooden pier gave way to old concrete. The closer you walked toward the city… The stranger the air became.
Zemo stopped walking. "You smell that?"
All four of you paused. You inhaled carefully. Saltwater. Exhaust fumes. Cigarette smoke. Something metallic. Something chemical.
Sam frowned. "What is that? Acid?"
"Madripoor." Zemo answered simply. "The scent never really leaves."
Ahead of you, a sleek black sedan rolled silently to the curb. The rear doors unlocked with a soft click.
Zemo stopped before climbing inside. "This is where our roles begin." His expression hardened. "From this moment forward, you are no longer yourselves." His eyes settled on each of you in turn. "There is absolutely no margin for error."
You felt yourself instinctively straighten. Not because you were nervous. Because you were slipping into character.
Diplomacy had taught you something invaluable over the years. Sometimes survival depended entirely on becoming whoever the room expected you to be.
You exhaled deeply, your body trying to kick into spymode, but miserably failing. You looked Sam, as he tried to look comfortable in his suit. Then you looked at Bucky. He was already staring beyond the bridge, towards the city. He turned to catch you watching him. He didn’t say a word.
Instead, he removed his gloves. One finger at a time. Rolled his shoulders. Straightened his posture. The Brooklyn softness from earlier disappeared.
You noticed. He was changing. Not physically. Mentally. Sam noticed too. Neither of you said anything. Until you decided to step towards him, as he stood a few feet away from Sam and Zemo.
"James.” You softly whispered.
He looked over at you. Something already different in this look.
"...You know you don't have to become him."
He looked at you as he studied your face. The genuine worry behind them. "I know."
"...Do you?"
He looked away. "It's easier this way."
Zemo pointed toward the glittering skyline perched above the cliffs. "High Town. Wealth. Luxury. Power."
Then toward the maze of streets below. "Low Town." He smiled thinly. "Where we're going."
Sam climbed into the opposite side of the sedan. "Lemme guess. We don't have friends in High Town."
"We have acquaintances." Zemo replied. "They're considerably more dangerous."
Bucky opened the rear door beside you. He didn't say anything. Just rested one hand against the roof of the car while waiting for you to climb inside first. Again. That old-fashioned habit.
You smiled without thinking. "Thank you."
He gave a small nod. "Mm."
Only after making sure your dress cleared the doorframe did he quietly slide in beside you. The gesture was so natural you doubted he even realized he'd done it.
The city swallowed you whole. Towering neon signs flashed through rain-speckled windows while music echoed beneath elevated highways. Motorcycles appeared seemingly from nowhere. One. Then three. Then eight.
Within seconds, the sedan found itself surrounded by riders wearing black helmets and carrying enough automatic weapons to start a war.
Nobody inside the car reacted. Not even Zemo. You watched the convoy in the side mirror. Professional. Disciplined. Silent. Not a gang. An escort.
The realization settled uneasily in your stomach. This wasn't simply a city ruled by criminals. It was a city with its own rules. And somehow, Zemo knew every single one of them.
The sedan left the main boulevard, descending beneath an abandoned overpass before finally rolling to a stop. The motorcycles peeled away as quickly as they'd appeared, disappearing back into the endless pulse of neon.
For a brief moment, everything became quiet. Zemo adjusted his cuffs. Then looked at the three of you. "Welcome..." A slow smile spread across his face. "...to Madripoor."
The deeper you walked into Low Town, the more Madripoor seemed to come alive.
Neon signs washed the streets in impossible shades of violet, turquoise, and crimson, reflecting across rain-slick pavement like wet paint. Music spilled from every doorway. Languages blended together until they became little more than background noise.
It was beautiful. In the same way a venomous snake could be beautiful.
You found yourself unconsciously drifting closer to Sam and Bucky as the crowds thickened. Not because either man had asked you to. Because instinct told you they were the safest place to be.
Every face you passed seemed to be watching someone. Every alley concealed another pair of eyes. Weapons weren't hidden here. They were displayed. Pistols tucked openly into belts. Knives strapped to thighs. Assault rifles slung across shoulders as casually as handbags.
Nobody hurried. Nobody smiled. Everyone looked dangerous. And somehow, everyone seemed to recognize Zemo. He walked through Low Town like a man returning home.
The nightclub announced itself long before you reached it. Bass vibrated beneath your feet. Colored lights pulsed through blacked-out windows.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke, expensive perfume, alcohol and something metallic. Blood. You couldn't tell whether it was fresh.
Zemo never broke stride. He guided the three of you through the packed dance floor as if he'd memorized every inch of the building years ago.
You stayed close. Sam walked beside you, shoulders loose, already slipping into Conrad Mack.
Bucky remained just behind. Quiet. Alert. Watching everything.
Then, you noticed it. The whispers. They weren't following Sam. Or you. Every pair of eyes slowly found Bucky. One conversation died. Then another. Then another. The room grew quieter with every step.
Someone near the bar whispered,"...Winter Soldier."
Another voice answered, "I heard he was dead."
"No."
"He came back."
Your stomach tightened. These weren't people looking at a celebrity. They were looking at a ghost.
Zemo finally stopped at the bar. "There we are." He leaned casually against the polished wood before speaking a short phrase in Russian. Then, almost conversationally, "Ready to comply..." His eyes settled on Bucky. "...Winter Soldier?"
The words landed like someone throwing a switch. You saw it immediately. Not in his face. In his posture. His shoulders straightened. His expression emptied. His eyes became colder. Less… Bucky. Your heart sank.
The bartender looked up. His eyes widened. "The Smiling Tiger." He smiled toward Sam. "Wasn't expecting you tonight."
"Our plans changed." Zemo answered. "We're here to see Selby."
"The usual?"
Sam gave a slow nod. "Yeah. The usual."
The bartender disappeared beneath the counter. A moment later he emerged carrying a large glass jar. Something moved inside.
Your nose wrinkled. "...Please tell me that's decorative."
No one answered. The bartender reached into the liquid. Pulled out a snake. Then calmly began skinning it. You stared. Absolutely horrified.
The bartender sliced off a piece before dropping it into a shot glass. The liquid sloshed unpleasantly. He pushed it toward Sam. Sam looked at it. Then, looked at you. Then, back at the bartender.
"I..." He forced a smile. "...love these."
You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurt. Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't--Zemo lifted his own glass. "Cheers."
The glasses clinked. Sam threw back the shot. For one glorious second… Nothing happened. Then his face tightened. His eyes watered. Every muscle in his jaw visibly fought the urge to spit it back out. "Mmm." He swallowed. "Mmm. Fantastic."
You glanced sideways toward Bucky. He had turned away. But not quickly enough. You caught it. The tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"You smiled." You murmured quietly.
Without looking at you he answered, "No."
"You definitely smiled."
Despite yourself, you smiled too.
A heavy hand landed on Zemo's shoulder.
"We got word." A broad-shouldered man leaned close enough that you caught the scent of whiskey. "You're not welcome here."
Zemo barely acknowledged him. "I have no business with the Power Broker. If he insists..." He motioned lazily toward Bucky. "...he may come speak to me."
The man finally looked at Bucky. Recognition flashed immediately. "New haircut?"
Zemo answered for him. "Or...he may bring Selby."
The man studied Bucky another second. Then disappeared into the crowd.
Bucky exhaled quietly. "A Power Broker. Really?"
Zemo sipped his drink. "Every kingdom requires a king."
Sam folded his arms. "Let's hope we stay off his radar. You know him?"
"Only by reputation." Zemo's voice remained calm. "In Madripoor, he is judge. Jury. And executioner."
Before anyone could respond, he switched to Russian. One sharp command. "Winter Soldier." Then, "Attack."
Everything happened too fast. A hand touched Bucky's shoulder. Before you'd even registered the movement, the man was airborne. His body slammed against the nearest table hard enough to splinter the wood. Another attacker lunged. Bucky pivoted effortlessly. One strike. An elbow. A kick.
The second man crashed through two chairs. A third came from behind. Bucky never looked. He simply caught the wrist. Twisted. Dislocated the shoulder.
The scream disappeared beneath pounding music. Your breath caught. It wasn't the violence. It was the precision. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Every strike already calculated before it happened.vYou suddenly understood why entire governments had feared him. Because this wasn't fighting. It was programming.
Someone else charged. Bucky threw him across the room so hard bottles exploded behind the bar. Glass rained across the floor. People scattered. Tables overturned. Music kept playing. As if this happened every night.
Zemo watched with almost academic fascination. "It doesn't take much." He murmured. "For him to remember."
You looked at him sharply. Then back at Bucky. He wasn't angry. He wasn't enjoying himself. His face was empty. That frightened you more than anything else.
He caught another man by the throat. Pinned him against the bar. Metal fingers tightened. The entire nightclub froze. One by one, weapons appeared. The unmistakable sound of pistols being cocked echoed around the room. Safety catches clicked. Dozens of them.
Your pulse spiked. Sam moved first. Slowly. Carefully. He stepped beside Bucky. Rested one hand lightly against his forearm. Not pulling. Just there. Grounding him.
Zemo never looked away. "Stay in character." He spoke quietly. "Or every gun in this room turns toward us." Then, in Russian, "Well done...Soldier." The words made your stomach twist.
The bartender finally broke the silence. "Selby will see you now."
Bucky released the man's throat immediately. The body collapsed to the floor in a coughing heap. Without another word, Zemo turned and walked deeper into the club.
Bucky followed. You remained where you were. Watching him. He hadn't looked at anyone. Not once.
Sam glanced after him before turning toward you. "You okay?"
You realized your hands had curled into fists. "I..." Your voice came out quieter than expected. "I don't think he is."
Sam followed your gaze. Neither of you moved for a moment.
Finally, he called after him. Bucky stopped. Just for a second. He didn't turn around immediately. Instead, you watched his shoulders rise with one slow, controlled breath. Then another. Almost as if he were reminding himself where he was. Who he was. When he finally looked back, the emptiness in his eyes had faded. Just a little.
He gave the smallest nod. "I'm okay." It wasn't convincing. You knew it. Sam knew it. Judging by the way Bucky immediately turned away again. He knew it too. Still. He kept walking. And the two of you followed him into the unknown.
The music faded behind you as Zemo guided the four of you through a maze of narrow hallways hidden behind the nightclub. Every turn seemed intentionally confusing. One hallway opened into another. Heavy velvet curtains concealed steel doors. Hidden cameras followed your movements from the ceiling. No one here trusted anyone.
Eventually, Zemo stopped outside a weathered wooden door. A guard opened it without knocking. The room beyond was quieter. Smaller. Dimly lit by amber lamps hanging low over expensive leather furniture.
A woman with cropped white hair lounged comfortably on one of the couches, one leg crossed over the other as though she'd been expecting company all evening.
She didn't stand. She didn't smile. She simply watched. "You should know, Baron..." Her voice was smooth. "...people don't usually walk into my establishment making demands."
Zemo smiled politely. "Not a demand." He sat opposite her without waiting to be invited. "...An opportunity."
Selby studied him for several long seconds. "I heard you were rotting in a German prison." A small smile tugged at her lips. "I was almost disappointed. How exactly did you escape?"
"People like us..." Zemo folded one leg over the other. "...always find a way." He leaned back comfortably. "And judging by the fact that I'm still breathing, I'm assuming you've already guessed why I'm here."
Selby laughed softly. "I usually know what people want before they walk through the door." Her eyes shifted toward Sam. She purred almost playfully. "You're taller than I imagined, Smiling Tiger."
Sam answered with nothing more than a confident nod. You almost smiled. He was getting better at this. You remained exactly where Zemo had quietly instructed you before entering. Half a step behind Sam. Present. Forgettable.
Diplomacy had taught you that sometimes the safest person in the room, was the one no one remembered afterward.
Selby's attention drifted back toward Zemo. "So, what's the offer?"
"The Super Soldier Serum." Zemo answered immediately. "We're looking for its creator. And in exchange..." He stood.
Your stomach tightened. Without warning, he walked toward Bucky. Slowly. Deliberately. He reached up, and adjusted the collar of Bucky's leather jacket. Then tilted his chin slightly, almost like someone examining merchandise before a purchase.
The gesture made your skin crawl.
"You can have him." Your eyes snapped toward Zemo. "He comes with every trigger word." His fingers lingered against Bucky's jaw. "He'll obey any command."
You looked at Bucky. He hadn't moved. Hadn't reacted. His face remained perfectly blank. The Winter Soldier. You realized with a sick feeling in your stomach. This wasn't just an act for Selby. This was exactly how people had once spoken about him. Not a man. A weapon. An asset. Something to own. You found yourself curling your hands into fists. Every instinct told you to shove Zemo away from him.
Instead, you stayed perfectly still. Stephanie would've stayed still.
Selby smiled. "There he is." She leaned forward. "Now that's the Baron Zemo I remember." She laughed quietly. "I'm glad I didn't have you killed the second you walked in."
Her eyes wandered appreciatively toward Bucky once more. "You were right to come to me." She picked up a glass of whiskey. "The serum is here. In Madripoor." She took a slow sip. "Doctor Wilfred Nagel. The Power Broker hired him. Whether you thank him, or kill him, depends entirely on your perspective."
Zemo remained calm. "Is Nagel still here?"
Selby smiled knowingly. "The breadcrumbs are free." She swirled her drink lazily. "The bakery costs extra. And before you get clever, you won't find him without me."
Silence settled over the room. Then, a vibration. Soft. Almost imperceptible.
Your head turned instinctively. Sam's phone. Your heart dropped. No. Sam looked down automatically. Only for a second. Long enough.
You caught the name flashing across the screen. Sarah.
Before you could say anything, Selby's eyes narrowed. "Answer it." Another vibration. "Speaker."
The bodyguard behind Sam took one slow step closer. The room suddenly felt much smaller.
Sam answered. "...Hello?"
Sarah's familiar voice immediately filled the room. "Sam. We need to talk. It's driving me crazy."
Sam desperately tried to stay in character. "What exactly are you talking about?"
You almost winced. Too obvious.
Sarah sounded confused. "Are you serious? The boat. What other situation would I be talking about?"
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Selby's expression slowly changing. Suspicion. Interest. Calculation.
Sam forced an awkward laugh. "What situation? Say it."
Sarah sighed loudly. "The damn boat. And watch your attitude. I already let you get away with enough at the bank."
Sam doubled down. "The bank?" He laughed. "They'll come around. If they don't..." He shrugged dramatically. "I'll have the banker killed."
You closed your eyes for half a second. Please work. Please—
Sarah yelled toward one of her boys off the phone. "Cass! I told you to stay out of the Cheerios!" Then back into the receiver. "I don't have time for this. I'll call you back, Sam."
The line disconnected. Silence. Dead silence.
Selby slowly lowered her glass. "...Sam." Her voice had gone cold. She looked directly at Sam. "Who's Sam?"
Nobody answered. Selby didn't need one. "Kill them."
The command had barely left her lips, CRACK. The window behind her exploded inward. A single bullet tore through the room. Selby never even had time to scream. She collapsed backward onto the couch. Dead before she hit the cushions.
Everything exploded into motion. Sam reacted first. He spun, driving an elbow into the nearest bodyguard before ripping the pistol from the man's holster.
Across the room, Bucky moved almost simultaneously. One strike. A disarm. Another man crashed through a table. Glass shattered across the floor.
Then, without looking, his metal hand reaches backward. Searching. It found you. Your wrist. He pulled you behind cover. Hard.
Bullets explode above them. You breathed hard. Looking at him. He's already scanning exits. Doesn't even realize he's still holding your wrist.
Only after the shooting slows, does he notice. He immediately lets go. "...Sorry."
You look down."It's okay."
You ducked instinctively as another window burst. More gunfire.
"Move!" Zemo's voice cut through the chaos.
You didn't hesitate. Following him and the others toward the corner of the room.
Sam glanced toward Selby's body. "They're blaming us for this."
"They already have." Zemo answered. His voice remained unnervingly calm. "We have a much larger problem." He looked directly at Sam. "Drop the weapons."
Sam frowned. "What?"
"Now."
Bucky didn't argue. He quietly set the pistol on the floor.
You looked between them. "James..."
He gave the smallest shake of his head. Trust me.
You hated how quickly you understood what he meant. If they walked out armed, they looked guilty. If they walked out empty-handed, they looked like survivors.
You slowly exhaled. Then followed Zemo toward the exit.
The nightclub sounded different now. The music hadn't stopped. But the whispers had. As the four of you stepped back into Low Town, every conversation ended. Heads turned. Phones appeared.
Someone whispered. "Selby's dead." Another voice answered. "They killed her."
The words spread through the streets like wildfire. One block. Then another. Every pair of eyes settled on your group. The city itself seemed to shift. Hunters recognizing prey.
Zemo glanced around once. For the first time all evening, even he looked concerned.
"This..." He murmured quietly. "...is not good."
The first shot echoed through Low Town before anyone had time to react. Then another. And another. Glass exploded somewhere to your left as people screamed and scattered in every direction. The entire street dissolved into chaos.
"Move!" Sam's voice barely reached you over the gunfire.
Instinct took over. You turned toward the nearest alley, but before you could take more than two steps, someone grabbed your upper arm. Strong. Steady. You spun instinctively.
Bucky. His metal hand had already released you, but his flesh hand remained lightly around your arm, redirecting you toward another route. "This way."
There wasn't panic in his voice. Only certainty. He didn't wait to see if you followed. He simply knew you would. You stumbled after him as another burst of gunfire tore into the wall behind you. Concrete sprayed across the alley.
"Shit!" Sam ducked beside a dumpster as bullets ricocheted off the pavement. "Hurry!"
You tried. God, you tried. But the heels that had looked perfectly appropriate for High Town suddenly felt like instruments of torture.
"I can't run in these!" You hissed, nearly twisting your ankle.
Without breaking stride, Bucky glanced back. His eyes dropped to your shoes. Of course. Another burst of gunfire. He made the decision before you even saw him think about it.
"Here." His hand found your waist. Not pulling. Supporting.
Just enough to keep you balanced as the four of you sprinted deeper into the alley. You hated how grateful you were. "I officially hate Madripoor."
Sam barked out a breathless laugh. "Join the club."
The alley narrowed. For one hopeful second, it looked like you'd lost them. Then—
Three armed men stepped out from the opposite end. Weapons already raised. You froze. So did Sam. Bucky instinctively shifted half a step in front of both of you. Not dramatically. Just enough that if the shooting started...
He'd be the first thing they'd hit. Your stomach dropped. The first mercenary squeezed the trigger. CRACK.
His body jerked sideways before collapsing. Another shot. Second man down. Third. The alley fell silent. Smoke drifted lazily through the air. All three mercenaries lay motionless on the pavement.
You looked upward instinctively. A rooftop. Someone stood there. Rifle still raised. Then, the figure disappeared.
A moment later, footsteps echoed behind you. Zemo emerged from the opposite end of the alley as though he'd merely taken a leisurely stroll. "You appear..." He adjusted his cuff. "...to have acquired a guardian angel."
A familiar voice answered from the darkness. "I wouldn't push your luck."
The click of a pistol being cocked echoed through the alley. Every head turned. A woman stepped from the shadows with practiced confidence. The streetlight caught blonde hair first. Then determined blue eyes. Then the pistol aimed directly at Zemo's chest.
Your breath caught. "...Sharon?"
She never looked away from Zemo. "Drop it."
Her voice remained calm. "Now."
Bucky's eyebrows lifted. "Sharon?"
She smiled bitterly. "Bucky. You cost me everything."
The words weren't shouted. They didn't have to be. Years of resentment sat behind them.
Sam instinctively stepped between Sharon and Zemo. "Sharon. Wait. We're chasing someone who's recreated the Super Soldier Serum." He motioned toward Zemo without taking his eyes off Sharon. "He had a lead."
Sharon's expression hardened. "So that's why you're here." Her gaze shifted briefly toward the street behind you. "And Selby's dead."
Nobody answered. Because nobody needed to. She already knew.
You finally spoke, "So what are you doing here?"
For the first time, Sharon looked directly at you. Recognition softened her expression, only slightly. "I stole Steve's shield." She answered matter-of-factly. "And Sam's wings." She glanced toward Sam. "So you two could save him." Her laugh carried no humor.
"I didn't have Stark lawyers. I didn't have Avengers. I didn't have a family name powerful enough to make Congress forget." Her eyes swept across the city. "So now..." She holstered neither weapon nor anger. "...I have Madripoor."
Sam sighed. "I was on the run too."
Sharon looked at him. "Were." A beat. "I still am." Her voice quieted. "I don't speak to my family anymore. My father has no idea if I'm alive." The words lingered.
You remembered Sharon from a few years back. Bright. Idealistic. The kind of agent who genuinely believed the system could be good.
Standing in front of you now, she looked like someone who'd stopped believing.
You took one careful step forward. "Sharon."
She looked at you again.
"I know we don't have the right to ask." Your voice remained soft. "And I know none of this is fair."
You thought of Steve. Of the choices he'd made. Of the people left behind to deal with them.
"But, we need your help."
Sharon's jaw tightened. For several long seconds, she didn't answer. Then—
"Please." The second voice surprised all of you. Bucky. He hadn't moved. Hadn't tried to defend himself. He simply looked at Sharon. Not as the Winter Soldier. Not as the man who'd helped destroy her career. Just Bucky.
There wasn't an ounce of pride left in his expression. Only quiet sincerity. "I wouldn't ask if there were another way."
The alley fell completely silent. Even Zemo stopped talking. Sharon studied him for a long time. Then slowly, very slowly, she lowered the gun.
"This conversation..." She slid the pistol back into its holster. "...isn't over."
Bucky nodded once. "I know."
She looked toward the rest of you. "I've got a place in High Town. You'll be safe there. For now."
Then her attention settled on you. For just a second, the professional mask slipped. A knowing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"...So," she said lightly, "Steve definitely had a type."
Sam's shoulders immediately started shaking with suppressed laughter.
Bucky frowned. "What does that mean?"
You let out an exhausted groan. "Oh, come on."
Sharon folded her arms, studying you with the same quiet assessment she'd probably once reserved for Steve.
"Persistent."
You raised an eyebrow. "I prefer 'determined.'"
"Mhmm." She took another step closer. "Stubborn."
"I am not stubborn."
The silence that followed was immediate. Sam looked at you. Then Bucky. Then Sharon.
Even Bucky, who had absolutely no interest in getting involved, slowly lifted an eyebrow.
You pointed at Sam before he could open his mouth. "Don't."
He held both hands up innocently. "I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
Sharon laughed under her breath. "You know," she said, her voice softer now, "he used to get this exact look whenever someone told him he was wrong."
You couldn't help smiling. "Did it ever work for you?"
She smiled back. "Not once."
For a brief moment, the noise of Madripoor seemed to fade. No bitterness. No awkwardness.
Just two women who had known different versions of the same man. Who had each watched him carry the weight of trying to do the right thing.
Who understood, without saying it aloud, that loving Steve Rogers had never been the difficult part. Letting him go had been.
Sharon broke the silence first, slipping effortlessly back into business.
"C'mon." She turned toward the crowded streets.
You watched her disappear a few steps ahead before glancing sideways at Bucky.
He was already watching Sharon. Not with guilt. With understanding. Like he knew exactly what it felt like to lose everything because of choices someone else had made.
You reached out almost without thinking. Your fingers brushed lightly against his sleeve. Just enough for him to notice. He looked over.
"You okay?"
The question came quietly. So quietly that only he heard it. For a moment, he simply stared. Then, the smallest nod. "I'm fine."
You didn't believe him. But you also knew that if Bucky Barnes ever admitted he wasn't okay, the world had probably ended.
So instead, you nodded back. "Okay."
It was enough. For now.
Together, the four of you followed Sharon into the lights of High Town. Sam keeping one firm hand on Zemo's shoulder the entire way.
Summary: Following Bucky to Berlin means confronting a ghost none of you ever wanted to see again. But as one dangerous decision sends you toward Madripoor, you begin to discover the man beneath the Winter Soldier, and somewhere between shared grief and sleepless nights, the silence between you starts to feel a little less lonely.
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
Berlin, Germany
The flight across the Atlantic was painfully quiet. Not awkward. Worse. Necessary.
It was the kind of silence that settled between people who had spent the last several years surviving one crisis after another and had somehow mistaken movement for processing. Airports. Safe houses. Police stations. Briefings. Sirens. Handcuffs. Isaiah Bradley’s voice still echoing inside all three of you like a door slammed shut from the inside.
You sat beside the window, one hand curled loosely around a paper cup of coffee that had gone cold somewhere over the ocean. You hadn’t taken more than two sips.
Across the aisle, Sam stared down at a tablet, thumb moving slowly across reports Torres had forwarded. Flag Smasher activity. GRC supply routes. Displaced communities. Medical shipments. Border conflicts. Nothing that resembled an answer.
Beside him, Bucky sat completely still. Too still. His shoulder was angled toward the window, his gloved hands folded loosely in his lap, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. To anyone else, he might have looked calm. Resting, maybe. But you were beginning to learn that Bucky Barnes had a way of going quiet that didn’t mean peace.
It meant calculation. Or memory. Or both.
Every now and then, his jaw tightened. Every now and then, his fingers flexed against his knee.
Every now and then, his gaze shifted toward his reflection in the dark oval of the airplane window, and he looked at himself like he was waiting for someone else to stare back.
You looked away before he could catch you watching. That was becoming a habit. So was noticing him. That was becoming more inconvenient.
Sam finally broke the silence somewhere over the Atlantic. “So we’re really doing this.”
Bucky didn’t look over. “We’re already on the plane.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was an observation.”
Sam leaned back in his seat and stared at him. “You know, one of these days, I’m gonna ask you a yes-or-no question and you’re gonna give me a yes-or-no answer.”
Bucky blinked once. “No.”
Sam’s mouth opened. Then closed.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Sam turned toward you slowly. “Did he just—”
“Yes.”
“That was a joke?”
“I think so.”
Bucky looked between you both, visibly unimpressed. “It wasn’t complicated.”
Sam pointed at him. “See, that right there? That’s why people don’t know when you’re joking.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
A tiny sound escaped you before you could stop it. Not quite a laugh. Something smaller. Rustier. But real.
Bucky looked at you then. Only for a second. His expression didn’t change much, but something in his eyes did. The tension around his mouth eased. Barely. Like the sound had surprised him too.
You looked down at your coffee. It was easier than looking at him.
Sam noticed anyway. Of course he did. He always noticed exactly what you didn’t want him to.
The conversation eventually settled. Mission briefings replaced teasing.
Sam spread a map across the small table between the three of you. "So..." He pointed toward several marked locations. "Here's everything we know."
For the next hour, he walked you through everything that had happened while you'd been buried beneath government briefings. The LAF. The stolen vaccine shipments. The Flag Smashers. Karli Morgenthau. The fight on top of the trucks in Germany. John Walker. Lemar Hoskins. Every new piece seemed somehow more impossible than the last.
You listened more than you spoke. Occasionally asking a question. Mostly absorbing information. Your mind automatically began organizing everything into the same categories you used during UN briefings.
Known enhanced individuals. Unknown enhanced individuals. International jurisdiction. Potential humanitarian implications. Possible GRC involvement.
By the time Sam finished, you had almost forgotten this wasn't one of your meetings. It was your life now.
"...That's everything." He leaned back with a sigh. "What do you think?"
You looked down at the map. Then toward Bucky. "Honestly?"
"Always."
"I think this is a terrible plan."
Sam laughed. "I knew I liked having you around."
"No." You looked directly at Bucky now. "I mean going to see Zemo."
Silence. You continued carefully. "The last time you were in a room with him..." Your voice grew quieter. "...he destroyed our team."
Bucky didn't respond.
"He used you. He manipulated all of us. He almost got you killed."
He still said nothing. You searched his face for some hint that he was reconsidering. There wasn't one.
Finally, he spoke. "I know." Only two words. Softly spoken. But they carried years of regret.
You sighed. "I don't like this."
"I know."
"I don't trust him."
"I know."
"I don't think he'll help us without wanting something in return."
"I know."
Sam looked between the two of you. "...You guys done?"
Neither of you answered. He clapped his hands together once. "Great. We're all equally uncomfortable. That means we're making progress."
Despite yourself, you laughed. Bucky looked toward you. Then quietly, very quietly, the corner of his mouth lifted again.
By the time the plane landed in Berlin, morning had spread pale and gray across the city.
Rain clung to the windows of the car waiting on the tarmac. Not heavy. Just enough to blur the edges of everything. The kind of weather that made buildings look older, streets look colder, and history feel less like something written in books and more like something breathing underneath the pavement.
Berlin felt different from Washington. Washington hid its ghosts beneath marble and flags. Berlin let them stand in the open.
You noticed Bucky staring through the car window as you drove through the city. He didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t ask when you’d be there because he already knew. Or maybe because he didn’t need to. Maybe men like Bucky Barnes always recognized prisons, even before they saw the walls.
Sam sat in the front passenger seat, still scrolling through Torres’ files.
You sat in the back beside Bucky. Not close. Not far. Just enough space between you for neither of you to have to acknowledge it.
Outside, the city passed in streaks of gray stone, wet pavement, and morning traffic. People hurried beneath umbrellas. A woman in a red coat guided a little boy across the street. A cyclist cursed at a taxi driver in German. Somewhere in the distance, church bells rang the hour.
The world kept doing that. Continuing. You hated how often it continued.
“You’ve been quiet,” you said softly.
Bucky’s’ eyes stayed on the window. “I’m usually quiet.”
“No.” You looked at his reflection instead of his face. “This is different.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. Sam’s thumb stopped moving over the tablet. He was listening now. Bucky knew it too.
His gaze flickered briefly toward the front seat before returning to the rain-streaked glass. “I know what you’re going to say.”
You folded your hands in your lap. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You don’t have to.”
The car turned onto a narrower road. High concrete walls rose in the distance.
Bucky’s’ voice dropped. “You’re going to tell me this is reckless.”
“It is.”
“That Zemo is dangerous.”
“He is.”
“That trusting him is a mistake.”
“It probably is.”
His mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. “Then we agree.”
You looked at him fully now. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It shouldn’t.”
Sam sighed from the front seat. “For once, I’m with her. I hate this plan more every time you explain it.”
“I haven’t explained it.”
“Exactly.”
Bucky finally turned away from the window. His eyes settled on Sam first, then on you. There was exhaustion there. Not the kind that came from lack of sleep.
The older kind. The kind that had built a home inside his bones and refused to leave.
“We don’t know where the serum came from,” he said quietly. “We don’t know who made it, who funded it, or how many more vials exist.” His jaw tightened. “Zemo knows HYDRA networks. Black market routes. Old scientists. People who disappeared after Sokovia, after the Accords, after Thanos.” He paused. “He’ll know where to look.”
Sam stared at him. “And what does he get out of helping us?”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately. That was answer enough.
You felt your stomach sink. “James.”
He looked at you.
The car slowed as the prison came into view.
“He doesn’t get anything,” you said. “Does he?”
His silence confirmed it.
Sam turned fully in his seat. “Barnes.”
Bucky looked out the window again. You followed his gaze.
The prison stood ahead of you, severe and colorless beneath the Berlin morning. Tall fences. Surveillance cameras. Guards posted near the entrance. Everything designed to keep dangerous men away from the world.
And somehow, you had flown across an ocean to ask one of them for help.
“This is an incredibly stupid plan,” you said.
“It usually is,” Bucky answered.
Sam threw his hands up. “I hate when he’s right.”
“I didn’t say I was right.”
“You implied it. You gave me the look.”
Bucky frowned. “This thing with the look, again?”
Sam turned toward you. “Tell him.”
You stared at Bucky. He stared back. Completely blank. Completely serious. And somehow, that made it worse.
“You have a look,” you said.
His frown deepened. “I do not.”
“You do.”
“What does it look like?”
“Like you already decided to do something terrible and you’re waiting for everyone else to catch up.”
Sam snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”
Bucky was quiet for a beat. Then he looked out the window again. “Useful look.”
You blinked. Sam blinked. For one glorious second, neither of you moved. Then you laughed.
Not loudly. Not freely. Not the way you used to before battlefields and funerals and men you loved aging seventy years in five seconds. But you laughed.
Sam laughed too, shaking his head as though personally offended.
Bucky looked between you both with faint confusion. “What?”
“Oh, nothing.” Sam wiped at the corner of his eye. “Just processing the fact that you may have developed a personality.”
“I had one.”
“Debatable.” You smiled despite yourself. “Highly debatable.”
For the first time since Baltimore, something close to a real smile crossed Bucky’s face. Small. Reluctant. Gone almost immediately. But you saw it. Worse. You wanted to see it again.
The car stopped outside the prison gates. The moment ended.
All three of you stepped out into the cold Berlin morning. Rain dotted your coat almost instantly. You pulled it tighter around yourself, but before you could take another step, Bucky shifted beside you. Not dramatically. Not even consciously. He simply moved to your left, placing himself between you and the road as a transport vehicle rumbled past.
You noticed. He didn’t. That made it harder to ignore. Sam noticed too.
You knew because he looked from Bucky to you, then very deliberately said absolutely nothing.
A guard met you at the entrance. He checked Sam’s identification first, then yours. His eyes lingered only briefly on the Stark name before returning to the tablet in his hand.
Then he looked at Bucky. The guard’s posture changed. It was subtle, but you saw it.
Most people did that around him. They remembered the Winter Soldier before they saw the man standing in front of them.
Bucky noticed too. Of course he did. His expression did not move. Then, the guard handed it back to him, before returning to his tablet.
He guard opened the first security door. A low buzz echoed through the concrete corridor. You stepped inside.
The prison swallowed sound differently than other buildings. Footsteps became sharper. Breathing became louder. Every door seemed to close with too much finality.
You had been inside government facilities before. Military compounds. Holding centers. Interrogation rooms. Stark Industries had once built security systems stronger than most prisons.
Still, something about this place made your skin tighten. Maybe it was the lack of windows. Maybe it was the smell of disinfectant and old concrete.
Maybe it was the man walking beside you, silent as a ghost, toward another ghost from his past.
Sam leaned closer to you as the guards led you down the corridor. “You know he’s up to something.”
“Yes.”
“You know he knows we know.”
“Yes.”
“You know that somehow makes it worse.”
“Also yes.”
Ahead of you, Bucky sighed. “I can hear you.”
Sam didn’t miss a beat. “Good.”
You almost smiled. Almost.
Then the guards stopped in front of a reinforced door.
"He's just through that corridor." The guard gestured toward a thick steel door at the far end. Silence settled over the hallway.
Bucky stared at it for several seconds. Then, looked toward the guard. "Give us a minute."
The guard nodded before retreating down the hallway, leaving the three of you alone. No footsteps. No voices. Only the distant buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.
Bucky finally turned to face you and Sam. "I'm going in alone."
Sam frowned immediately. "Why?"
"Because..." Bucky looked toward the door again. "...you two are Avengers. He hates Avengers."
You folded your arms. "James." His eyes met yours. "It's not exactly like you and Zemo were off frolicking through flower fields together."
For the briefest moment, you thought you saw him trying not to smile.
"We've got history."
"Yeah, So do I."
"I know." He exhaled slowly. "He spent years studying HYDRA. He understands things about me that most people don't."
The words hung between you. You hated hearing him describe himself like a problem someone had studied.
"I've got this." He wasn't trying to sound brave. He sounded resigned. Like he'd already accepted that whatever happened beyond that door, he'd face it alone.
Your instinct screamed to argue. To tell him he didn't have to. That he wasn't alone anymore. Instead, you remembered something Steve had once told you after one of Bucky's nightmares.
"If Bucky asks for space, give him space. If he asks for help...he'll almost never say it out loud."
You looked at Bucky for another long moment. Then nodded. "I trust you."
His expression softened almost imperceptibly. Not relief. Not gratitude. Something quieter. Something that looked suspiciously like being understood.
Sam sighed beside you. "I still hate this."
"So do I."
Bucky nodded once. "Good." Then, without another word, he turned and walked down the corridor alone.
You watched until the heavy door swallowed him from view. For reasons you couldn't quite explain, the hallway suddenly felt much colder.
The wait felt longer than it probably was. You and Sam remained outside the visitation room, separated from Bucky by reinforced concrete walls and several inches of bulletproof glass. Neither of you spoke much. There wasn't much to say.
You watched guards pass through the corridor, boots echoing rhythmically against polished floors. Every now and then, your eyes drifted toward the heavy steel door. Wondering what was happening inside. Wondering whether Zemo was doing what he always did best, getting inside people's heads.
Inside the room, Bucky stood alone beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. On the opposite side of the glass, Baron Zemo sat quietly on the narrow cot bolted to the floor. He didn't look surprised. Almost, expectant. As if he'd known Bucky would eventually walk back into his life.
A slow smile spread across Zemo's face. He spoke in Russian. "Longing. Rusted. Seventeen..."
The familiar sequence of words echoed softly through the room. Words that had once reduced a man to a weapon.
Bucky didn't flinch. He simply looked back. “Those days are over."
Zemo tilted his head. "I know." A beat. "I merely wished to see whether the old words still reached the old man." His smile lingered. "Some things remain."
He observed Bucky carefully. "Though I suppose being unconscious for much of your imprisonment was... merciful."
Bucky's jaw tightened, "It wasn't exactly a picnic."
"No." Zemo's expression unexpectedly softened. "For what little my apology is worth...I'm sorry."
Bucky's eyebrows lifted.
"It was never personal. You were simply...a means to a necessary end."
Silence. Then, "Someone recreated the Super Soldier Serum." Bucky's voice returned to business. "I need to know who."
Understanding flickered across Zemo's face. "You assume HYDRA."
"No." Bucky answered honestly. "I assume someone learned from HYDRA."
Zemo smiled. "Which means you've come to me. You are desperate." Another pause. "Fortunately for you, I know exactly where we begin."
Nearly twenty minutes later, the heavy door finally opened. You immediately stood. Bucky walked out without looking either of you in the eye. His expression remained carefully blank.
"Well?" Sam asked.
Bucky kept walking. "I'll explain on the way."
That was all either of you got.
The drive across Berlin was unusually quiet. You stopped asking questions after the third unanswered one.
Eventually Bucky parked outside what looked like an abandoned industrial warehouse. No signs. No lights. No indication anyone had been there in years. He climbed out.
"So..." You looked around. "This is where explanations happen?"
"No." He answered simply. "They happen inside."
The building smelled like old oil and rust. Bucky led the way through complete darkness as though he'd memorized the place years ago. His flashlight cut narrow beams through abandoned machinery while you and Sam followed several paces behind.
The silence pressed against your ears.
Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. "You want to break Zemo out of prison?"
Bucky kept walking. "Yes."
You blinked. He said it so casually. As though he'd just announced he needed groceries.
Sam threw both hands into the air. "Where are we? Buck. Have you completely lost your mind?"
"We have no leads." Bucky answered. "No options. Nothing."
"What we do have..." You gestured emphatically toward him."...is one of the most dangerous men alive safely behind bars."
He stopped walking. Slowly turned. "We also have eight enhanced terrorists running around Europe."
Neither of you answered. He wasn't wrong.
Sam stepped closer. "Zemo manipulates people. You know that. You especially know that. No offense."
Bucky finally reached the far wall. His hand disappeared beneath an electrical panel. Several loud metallic clicks echoed through the warehouse. Then, the generator roared to life. Lights flickered overhead one after another. Rows of classic luxury cars slowly emerged from the darkness. Shelves of antique tools. Motorcycles. Engines. A mechanic's paradise hidden beneath decades of dust.
You looked around, genuinely impressed. "This is yours?"
"No." Bucky answered.
Bucky leaned casually against one of the workbenches. "Zemo hates Super Soldiers. He always has. He's dangerous. He's manipulative. But he has a code."
"I've been on the wrong side of that code." Bucky’s eyes narrowed. "So have you."
Sam laughed without humor. "He bombed the UN. He murdered King T'Chaka. He framed you." He pointed toward Bucky. "You think Wakanda forgot?" Silence. "Rhetorical question. They didn't." His voice softened, "I know why this matters to you. I really do. But this..." He gestured around the garage. "...this is pushing you somewhere I don't like."
For a long moment, Bucky didn't answer. Then, "We don't know who's making the serum. We don't know how many enhanced people are out there. We don't even know where to start." He looked between both of you. "So, walk through something with me."
Sam narrowed his eyes immediately. "What did you do?"
Bucky blinked. "I didn't do anything."
You looked from one man to the other. "Could both of you..." You rubbed your temples. "...stop arguing for one minute? I feel like I'm missing about six conversations."
Neither man spoke. Bucky finally sighed. Then looked at you instead of Sam. "The weakest part of any security system isn't the software, or the hardware. It’s the meatware--the people."
His voice shifted. Less emotional. More analytical. Almost academic.
"If two inmates start fighting, the protocol requires four guards. They leave their posts. They separate prisoners. They call for backup."
As he spoke, he picked up random objects from the workbench. A wrench. A socket. Several loose bolts. Moving them around like chess pieces. Visualizing the prison in front of him. You found yourself watching his hands. Not the objects. The precision. The confidence. Every movement is deliberate. Every step is already calculated.
"Then..." He continued. "If someone happened to trigger the fire alarm while everyone was distracted, the system would begin evacuating." His fingers slid the final bolt across the table. "A hallway opens. A door unlocks. A camera loses visual." He looked up. "Chaos."
You stared at him. Not because of what he'd said. Because of how he'd said it.
He'd dismantled an entire maximum-security prison in under a minute. Entirely from memory. Entirely in his head.
Steve had told you Bucky was stubborn. Protective. Loyal. He'd never mentioned brilliant. Dangerously so.
Sam looked equally horrified. "I don't like..." He pointed vaguely toward Bucky. "...how casually you just explained all that." A beat. "That's not normal."
Bucky simply shrugged. "It works."
"It shouldn't."
"It does."
Silence settled over the garage. Then, the heavy steel door slowly creaked open.
All three of you turned. A figure stepped inside. Prison Guard coat. Leather gloves. Perfect posture.
Baron Zemo smiled as though he'd merely returned home. "Well..." He dusted off his sleeves. "I see the plan worked."
Your stomach dropped. You looked toward Bucky. He never met your eyes. For the first time since you'd met him, you realized something unsettling.
He hadn't been asking whether he should free Zemo. He'd already decided. He'd only been hoping the two of you would forgive him afterward.
"Whoa." Sam stepped forward so quickly you barely had time to react. "Whoa, whoa, whoa." His voice echoed through the garage as he pointed directly at Zemo. "What are you doing here?"
Bucky moved between them almost instinctively. "Sam, listen—"
"No." Sam shoved a hand through his hair. "No." He pointed again. "What did you do?"
Bucky didn't answer.
"You broke him out." Silence. "Buck." Nothing. "You broke Zemo out of prison."
The silence stretched longer. Bucky simply stood there, shoulders squared, saying nothing. You looked from Sam to Zemo, then finally to Bucky.
"James." Your voice came much quieter.
He met your eyes.
"What did you do?"
For the first time since walking into the garage, he looked uncertain. Only for a second.
Then, "We need him."
That was it. No excuses. No elaborate explanation. Just three words.
Sam laughed in complete disbelief. "Oh, you're out of your damn mind." He jabbed a finger toward Zemo. "You're going back to prison."
Zemo cleared his throat politely. "If I may—"
"No." Sam answered immediately.
You didn't even think before speaking. "No."
Bucky echoed almost simultaneously. Three voices. One answer.
Zemo raised both hands in surrender. "My apologies." He leaned back against the workbench. "I shall wait."
For once, the Baron knew when to remain silent.
Bucky turned back toward you and Sam. His expression had changed. Less defensive. More, resolved.
"When Steve refused to sign the Sokovia Accords..." His voice remained calm. "You stood beside him."
Sam crossed his arms.
Bucky nodded once. "I know." His eyes shifted toward you. "Allison, You did too."
Your chest tightened.
"You knew what it would cost." He continued. "You knew Tony would never understand."
The words landed harder than he intended. You could tell immediately by the look that crossed his face. Regret.
He looked away. "I'm sorry." The apology came quietly. "I didn't mean—"
"I know." You interrupted gently.
He nodded gratefully before continuing. "You both broke the law. You risked everything." His eyes finally lifted again. "...for Steve." A pause. "...for me."
Silence settled over the garage.
His attention remained fixed entirely on you. "I'm not asking because Steve would've wanted it."
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
"I'm asking..." He hesitated, "...because I trust both of you."
The admission seemed to surprise him almost as much as it surprised you.
"You trust us?" Sam asked.
"I do." Another pause. "I wouldn't have brought you here otherwise."
You searched his face. There wasn't manipulation there. No desperation. Just honesty. Quiet. Uneasy honesty.
"I know how this looks." He admitted. "I know neither of you would've agreed. So I made the decision. I'll take responsibility for it. If this goes wrong..." His voice remained almost unnervingly steady. "...it's on me."
Your heart sank. There it was again. The pattern. Every single time something difficult happened, Bucky instinctively stepped in front of the consequences. As though punishment belonged to him by default.
You wondered if he even realized he was doing it anymore.
Zemo politely raised one finger. "I really do believe that I'm proving rather invaluable."
Sam didn't even look at him. "Shut. Up."
"...Fair." Zemo answered pleasantly.
Sam sighed. Long. Exhausted. He looked toward you. Then toward Bucky. Then back toward Zemo.
Finally. "If—" He emphasized the word. "If, we do this." He stepped directly in front of Zemo. "You don't breathe without one of us knowing. You don't leave our sight. You don't make a single move without permission."
Zemo smiled pleasantly. "As you wish."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"You double-cross us..."
Zemo nodded. "...and?"
Sam stared. "...You know what? We'll cross that bridge later."
A small chuckle escaped Zemo. "I appreciate your optimism."
You finally stepped forward. For reasons you couldn't quite explain. Zemo's attention immediately shifted toward you. Not Sam. Not Bucky. You.
His eyes lingered a second too long. Calculating. Studying. Almost, interested. It sent a chill down your spine. Of course he'd recognize you. Tony Stark's sister. Former Stark Industries board member. Government liaison. Steve Rogers' partner.
There were very few people in the world whose lives intersected with so many powerful names. Baron Zemo collected information the way other people collected books.
You knew he'd already built an entire file on you before you'd ever walked through that garage door. You forced yourself not to react. "So..." You folded your arms. "Where do we start?"
A slow smile spread across Zemo's face. Not triumphant. Satisfied. As though he'd been waiting years for someone to ask that exact question.
He answered simply. "If one wishes to find the serpent, one begins at its nest."
Silence settled over the garage once more. You looked toward Sam. He looked exhausted.
Toward Bucky. He looked relieved.
Toward Zemo. He looked comfortable. Far too comfortable.
You already hated that. Still, you followed the others toward the waiting car.
Something in your gut warned you this decision would change everything. You just hadn't realized, for whom.
The drive out of Berlin was quiet. Not because anyone had run out of things to say. Because none of you trusted the man behind the wheel enough to fill the silence.
Zemo, however, seemed perfectly comfortable with it. He drove with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, humming softly beneath his breath as though he hadn't escaped a maximum-security prison less than an hour earlier.
You weren't sure whether that made him brilliant or completely insane. Probably both.
Eventually, the city disappeared behind stretches of countryside until the car rolled through the gates of a private airfield.
Your eyebrows rose. "Please tell me we're not stealing another vehicle."
A faint smile crossed Zemo's face. "We're not."
The hangar doors slowly rolled open. Rows of immaculate vintage automobiles gleamed beneath the overhead lights, each polished to perfection. Mercedes. Rolls-Royces. Bentleys. Aston Martins. History on four wheels.
Even Sam couldn't hide his appreciation. "Damn." He turned slowly in a circle. "So..." He gestured broadly toward the collection. "Our first move is grand theft auto?"
Zemo looked genuinely offended. "They're mine." He ran a gloved hand across the hood of an impossibly pristine Mercedes. "My family has collected these for generations."
There was no arrogance in his voice. Only fact.
You caught yourself studying him. It was easy to forget that before Sokovia, before HYDRA, before revenge had consumed him, Baron Zemo had once been exactly what he claimed.
A baron. A husband. A father. A soldier. Grief had simply carved him into something unrecognizable.
"I spent years hunting everyone HYDRA recruited to recreate the serum," he continued as he disappeared between the cars, retrieving a leather travel bag from a nearby cabinet. "Because once the serum exists," He looked back at the three of you. "Someone will inevitably build an army." His gaze drifted briefly toward Bucky. "Like the Avengers."
The words lingered in the air.
"I ended the Winter Soldier program once." He zipped the bag closed. "I have no intention of leaving my work unfinished."
Sam folded his arms. "Well." He shrugged. "Join the party. We've already started."
Zemo nodded approvingly. "Our first stop is Madripoor." He pulled a dark coat over his shoulders. "A woman named Selby still owes me several favors. A broker. A fence. She'll know who supplied the serum. And from there..." A faint smile. "...we climb."
The sunlight outside hit like a wall. You instinctively reached for your sunglasses before stepping onto the open tarmac. The concrete radiated heat beneath your boots despite the cool spring air.
A sleek private jet waited only a few hundred yards away. Its engines were already humming.
You narrowed your eyes against the brightness, adjusting your sunglasses as the familiar ache behind your temples began to build. Too little sleep. Too much coffee. Not enough water. You ignored it. There were more important things to worry about.
Sam, meanwhile, had stopped walking altogether. He stared at the aircraft. "You have a private jet?"
Zemo didn't even look back. "I have several."
"Of course you do." Sam muttered.
You smiled despite yourself. You'd barely taken another step before a quiet voice spoke beside you.
"You alright?"
You looked over. Bucky had slowed his pace to match yours. He wasn't looking directly at you. Just checking. The gesture caught you off guard.
You forced a smile. "Well..." You glanced toward Zemo's retreating figure. "We're following an international fugitive, that you broke out of prison, to an undisclosed location, on approximately two hours of sleep, and whatever nutritional value stale airport coffee has." You shrugged. "So, I've definitely had worse Tuesdays."
For a second, Bucky simply stared. Then, a quiet laugh escaped him. Not loud. Not forced. Real.
You looked at him with exaggerated surprise, “Was that a laugh?"
"It wasn't."
"It definitely was. You smiled."
"I did not." He shook his head. "I think you're seeing things."
You grinned. "I think you're lying."
He looked away, unsuccessfully hiding another smile. Something about that made your chest feel unexpectedly lighter.
Bucky wasn't sure what surprised him more. That he'd laughed, or that you’d managed to make him forget where they were for a few seconds.
You had an odd habit of doing that. Finding something absurd to cling to whenever everything else felt unbearably heavy.
He wondered if you'd always been like that. Or if grief had taught you the same lesson it had taught him. Sometimes laughter wasn't happiness. Sometimes, it was survival.
Sam looked back at the two of you. "What're you two smiling about?"
"Nothing." You and Bucky answered at exactly the same time.
Neither of you acknowledged him.
"So..." Sam looked back toward Zemo. "You've secretly been rich this whole time?"
Zemo raised an eyebrow. "I am a Baron, Sam. My family belonged to Sokovian nobility long before your friends accidentally destroyed my country."
There wasn't bitterness in the statement. Only quiet resignation.
Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "...Right. Still getting used to the whole 'Baron' thing."
The jet's staircase lowered with a soft hydraulic hiss. A sharply dressed older gentleman descended with practiced elegance. He smiled warmly the moment he saw Zemo. The two greeted one another in Sokovian before embracing like lifelong friends.
You couldn't understand a word. But you understood loyalty when you saw it.
Zemo kissed him lightly on both cheeks before turning toward the rest of you. "My friends." He gestured toward the man. "Oeznik."
The older gentleman offered each of you a respectful nod. "Welcome." His English carried a thick accent, but his smile was genuine.
Sam immediately climbed the stairs without hesitation. "Appreciate it."
You followed more slowly. As you reached the bottom step, you felt Bucky stop beside you. You looked over questioningly.
He gave a small nod toward the staircase. After you. It was such an old-fashioned gesture that it almost made you laugh.
"You know" You murmured quietly. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who's accidentally this much of a gentleman."
He frowned. "I wasn't—"
"You were."
"I just" He searched unsuccessfully for the right explanation, "old habit."
Your smile softened. "Still. Thank you."
For a brief moment, something unreadable crossed his face. Almost, embarrassment.
He dipped his head once. "You're welcome."
You climbed the stairs first. Only after making sure you'd stepped safely inside did Bucky follow.
Sam watched the entire exchange from the cabin doorway. A knowing grin spread across his face. Neither of you noticed.
By the time the jet leveled above the clouds, an uneasy quiet had settled over the cabin. The adrenaline from Berlin had finally worn off.
Now all that remained was exhaustion. The leather seats were comfortable enough, though no one seemed relaxed. Sam had claimed the seat beside Zemo, either out of strategy or sheer distrust. You sat directly across from them. Bucky took the seat opposite Sam, angled toward the window, one arm resting across the armrest while endless clouds drifted past beneath the wing.
No one spoke for several minutes. The low hum of the engines filled the silence.
It was Oeznik who finally broke it. He emerged from the galley carrying a crystal wine glass and a half-finished bottle tucked beneath one arm.
"My apologies, Baron." He offered the glass apologetically. "The refrigerator has decided to stop cooperating."
Zemo accepted it with an amused smile. "In that case..." He replied in Sokovian, quietly enough that only Oeznik understood. "If anything in the galley fails the smell test...serve it to them."
Oeznik laughed under his breath. "It is good to have you home, sir." He inclined his head respectfully before disappearing toward the cockpit once more.
Sam watched him leave before turning back toward Zemo. "You know..." He leaned back in his seat. "I almost forgot you were living like royalty before all this."
Zemo slowly swirled the wine. "You forget many things." His gaze lingered on the glass. "You do not know what it is like to spend years inside a prison cell." He paused. Then looked toward Bucky. "...Although, I suppose you do."
The cabin grew noticeably quieter. Bucky didn't respond. Didn't even look up.
Sam, sensing the direction the conversation was headed, cut in before it could go any further. "Why don't you tell us about Madripoor instead?"
Zemo had already returned his attention to the book resting open across his lap. "I'm sorry." His tone remained almost absent-minded. "I was distracted." He turned another page thoughtfully. "This..." He frowned. "...fascinates me."
He reached between the pages. "I've been trying to determine what this list means."
Your eyes narrowed. Then, he slid a small red notebook free.
Your breath caught. No. Not just any notebook. Steve's. You knew that worn leather cover. The bent corner where he'd dropped it outside the Smithsonian years ago. The faded blue ink stain near the spine from a pen Tony had insisted wasn't leaking. It was the notebook. The one Steve had carried everywhere after waking up in the twenty-first century. His list. His terrible handwriting. His way of making sense of a world that had left him behind.
You remembered teasing him mercilessly after finding "Thai food" squeezed between "Star Wars" and "Nirvana."
"You're making homework out of pop culture?"
"I'm catching up."
"Steve, that's forty years of homework."
"Seventy."
"Even worse."
Zemo examined one of the pages curiously. "I don't suppose..." He tapped the paper lightly. "...Nakajima was a musician?"
Before the sentence had fully left his mouth, Bucky was already moving. His seat scraped violently across the cabin floor. In one swift motion he crossed the aisle, snatched the notebook from Zemo's hands, and slammed him back into the leather seat.
His vibranium hand wrapped around Zemo's throat. The movement happened so quickly your body reacted before your mind did.
You half-rose from your seat. "James—" The word escaped instinctively.
Bucky's voice came low. Cold. "If you ever touch this again..." His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'll kill you."
The promise wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. For the first time since meeting him, even Zemo looked genuinely unsettled.
After another heartbeat, Bucky released him. He slipped the notebook into the back pocket of his pants without another word before returning to his seat. He stared out the window again. As though nothing had happened.
No one spoke. Finally, Zemo adjusted his collar. "My apologies." His voice remained remarkably composed. "I assumed it was another notebook." His eyes drifted toward Bucky. "A list. People you've wronged. The Winter Soldier."
Bucky never looked at him. "Don't." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Push it."
Silence returned.
You couldn't stop looking at the outline of the notebook tucked into the back of Bucky's jacket. "I've seen that before." Your voice came quietly. "It was Steve's."
Bucky's shoulders stiffened. Slowly...
He looked at you. For just a second. Neither of you smiled. Neither of you spoke. You remembered.
Steve scribbling movie recommendations into the margins. Crossing things off with unnecessary satisfaction. Arguing with Tony about whether Star Wars or Back to the Future deserved first place. He'd carried that little notebook everywhere.
And somehow, after Steve had chosen another life, it had found its way to Bucky.
You didn’t asked how. You weren't sure you wanted the answer.
Sam cleared his throat. "I told him to listen to Trouble Man." He pointed toward Bucky. "He wrote it in there. You ever listen to it?"
Bucky shrugged. "I like forties music."
The corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself. Of course he did.
Bucky looked at you. "I liked Marvin Gaye too."
Sam laughed. "There you go."
"Everybody likes Marvin Gaye." Zemo nodded thoughtfully. "It is a masterpiece, James." His tone had returned to scholarly. "It captures the African American experience in a way very few albums ever have."
Sam sighed. "He's outta line, but he's right."
Bucky folded his arms. "I said I liked Marvin Gaye."
"I wasn't arguing."
You smiled into your coffee cup. For a moment, the cabin almost felt normal.
Zemo closed his book gently. "You must have admired Steve Rogers greatly." His gaze settled on you. Then Sam. "But when I met him, I realized something." His voice became quieter. "The danger with men like Steve, isn't the man. It's what people make him become."
Sam's expression hardened. "Watch your step."
Zemo continued anyway. "They become symbols. Icons. We polish away every flaw until only perfection remains." His fingers rested lightly on the wine glass. "And once we convince ourselves perfection exists, we begin asking others to become it." His gaze drifted toward the shield leaning against the cabin wall. "You know where that leads."
You swallowed. You did. You'd just met the man carrying that impossible expectation.
"Cities fall. Innocent people die. Wars begin." He looked toward Sam. "You've seen that." Then toward Bucky. "So have you." Finally, his eyes found yours. "And so have you, Miss Stark."
No one answered. Because no one could.
Before anyone realized it, the cabin had surrendered to silence.
Sam had eventually lost his battle with exhaustion, his head tipped awkwardly against the window, arms folded tightly across his chest. Across from him, Zemo slept with all the dignity of a man in a royal bed instead of an old cargo plane, Oeznik's spare blanket pulled neatly over him as a surprisingly refined snore drifted through the cabin.
The engines hummed beneath your feet.
The darkness beyond the windows swallowed everything. You'd tried closing your eyes. Once. That had been enough.
Tony was laughing again. Not Iron Man. Just your brother. Standing over your shoulder in the workshop, insisting your code was wrong.
"It’s wrong."
"It isn't."
"It is."
He reached over your shoulder anyway. Five seconds later the entire program disappeared.
Pepper walked in just as both of you stared at the blank screen. "...Tell me one of you made a backup."
Neither of you answered.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm banning you both from touching anything with electricity."
Tony had laughed so hard he'd nearly fallen off the stool. You'd laughed too.
The memory dissolved before you could stay there. Now it was Steve. A tiny apartment. Music spinning softly from an old record player. Pasta boiling over because neither of you had been paying attention.
"You're stepping on my feet."
"I'm leading."
"Poorly."
He'd smiled anyway. Then kissed your forehead like he'd won the argument.
Then, the lake. The bench. The goodbye.
The way he'd looked at you with a smile that already belonged to another lifetime.
Your eyes opened. The ache settled back into your chest. Instinctively, your thumb brushed the pale strip of skin on your left hand. The ring was gone. Months now. The mark remained. Funny. Skin healed faster than hearts ever seemed to.
A quiet metallic click echoed through the cabin. You looked up.
Bucky wasn't cleaning the pistol anymore. He was watching you. Not staring. Watching.
Like he'd been debating whether to say something for several minutes.
His eyes dropped briefly to your hand. Then back to your face. He'd noticed it hours ago. The way your thumb kept circling the same empty place. Like your body still expected something to be there. Something, or someone.
He didn't know why that realization made his chest tighten. Maybe because he'd spent years reaching for things that weren't there anymore too.
"You alright?" His voice was barely above a whisper. Low enough not to wake anyone.
You looked toward him. He'd leaned his head back against the wall beside Sam, one knee bent, metal fingers resting loosely around the dismantled pistol.
Those blue eyes looked tired. Not physically. Soul tired.
You recognized the feeling. You offered a small smile. "Couldn't sleep."
He nodded once. "...Me neither. Every time I close my eyes..." he said quietly, "...it's usually somebody."
You looked at him.
He didn't. "I remember people." A pause. "The ones I hurt." Another pause. "The ones I couldn't save."
Silence settled between you.
"...And tonight," he added dryly, glancing toward the other end of the cabin, "I'm realizing Zemo snores like an eighty-year-old diesel engine."
You covered your mouth before the laugh escaped.
Across the cabin Zemo shifted. Everyone froze. Nothing happened.
You both looked at each other again. That made it worse. You laughed harder.
For the first time all day, Bucky smiled. Not because the joke had landed. Because you had smiled.
Small. Rusty. But real. Somehow, it felt like the brightest thing in the entire cabin.
Bucky had noticed the fall in your eyes. He hadn’t expected to make you laugh, but he'd hoped to cheer you up. He didn’t necessarily like the way you looked when you were upset. It was ridiculous. He barely knew you. At least, that's what he kept telling himself.
But somewhere between Baltimore and Berlin, he'd decided he preferred the version of you that laughed.
“See, I know you can make jokes. You’ve just been gaslighting me” you whispered as you squinted your eyes at him jokingly, as if watching him closer.
I still don’t really know that term. Bucky thought, but was too embarrassed to bring it up. Instead, he just shook his head as he scoffed.
“I was young once too, you know?” he smirked.
You smiled at him again. And nodded. “Yeah, Mr. Hotshot Bucky Barnes. Steve told me all about it. How you’d stick up to his bullies, how much of a ladies man you were, when you’d scored dates for both of you, only for you to end up with both girls at the end of the night,--”
He shook his head at the memory with a smile. Like if he hadn’t thought about that version of himself in years, simply because he couldn’t bring himself to it. But your version of it, the way you smiled and teased him for it, made it feel lighter. Like it was meant to feel like a good memory, because it was.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "He might've exaggerated a little."
"A little?"
"A gentleman never confirms his reputation."
You blinked. "...Did you just call yourself a gentleman?"
"I said a gentleman never confirms."
"So you are admitting there was a reputation."
"I didn't say that either."
"Oh, wow."
He looked almost amused. "You ask a lot of questions."
"You dodge a lot of answers."
"...Worked pretty well back then."
"Oh, I believe it."
He looked over. "And you?"
"What about me?"
"Were you always this nosy?"
"I prefer observant."
"...Dangerous combination." His smile tugged just enough to soften the words.
Your smile was wide, like you’d meant to tease him with the memory.
“And that didn’t last too long, remember? Or did he leave out the parts on the way ladies treated him after the serum? I wasn’t the ladies man after”
You rolled your eyes. But you smiled, still. “Of course, you’re going to tell me that ladies in the 1940s aren’t going to fight over Steve? All they had was drafted boyfriends, the depression, and flirty soldiers. Steve was a snatch, even then.”
He smiled at you, the way you still spoke kindly of Steve. Bucky knew Steve had broken your heart. He had known Steve would stay back in time, just like he had known Steve would give Sam the shield. But one secret he had kept.
His eyes drifted toward the notebook resting on the table beside Zemo. Red leather. Worn corners. Movie and song titles. Food. Small random grocery lists. A recipe. Names. Amends.
You had never belonged on that list. And yet, somehow, your name was at the bottom of his list. But he was trying. In his own way.
He’d felt guilty about it. But he didn’t know how to say it. How to apologize for a choice he didn’t know you weren’t given. How he didn’t know he’d been carrying out a secret for his best friend. But he’d done it. He had played a part in hurting you. Just like he’d hurt all those people under Hydra’s control.
He laughed. Really laughed. Then he looked at you. A little too long. "...You would've fit right in."
You blink.
"In Brooklyn." His voice softened. "The girls talked like that." A beat. "They laughed like you too."
He immediately looked away. "...Guess some things don't change."
You noticed the way his eyes drifted, like if he was getting lost in his thoughts, or his memories.
You cleared your throat quietly, as if trying to make his memory a little better for him, as if you wanted to remind him of the good times, even if you only knew them from stories: “He also talked about the times you went to Coney Island, when you forced him to ride the Cyclone, and he threw up.”
You laughed, he did too.
“How excited you both were to see the Stark Expo, how excited he’d been when he realized you both would be soldiers together, brothers in arms, like you were brothers, best friends. They sounded like good times”
“Yeah,” he sighed, “They were.”
You smiled.
“He left one part out."
You looked over. "What?"
Bucky smiled, "The Cyclone wasn't what made him sick."
"...It wasn't?" You frowned.
"He ate four hot dogs first."
You laughed. "No."
"He was trying to impress a waitress."
"Steve?"
"He insisted he needed protein."
"...Did it work?"
Bucky laughed, "She laughed so hard she gave us free pie."
"Oh my God."
"He still threw up."
You smiled at him as your laugh died down. Only small and looked away briefly. At Sam. At your hands. Your mind drifted back to Steve. The way his eyes would lit up when he’d tell you stories of his past, with Bucky.
“I didn’t know you knew all those things,” He whispered back.
You smiled at him again, this time more of a smirk. "I know lots of things."
He looked at you. Really looked before rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "I've noticed."
"You notice everyone."
He looked at you. "...Not everyone." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Silence. His eyebrows knit together. Like he'd only just heard himself.
You felt your heartbeat stumble. Across the cabin, Zemo snored. Sam mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep. Neither of you moved.
Neither of you knew what to do with what he'd just said. So, after a long moment.
You smiled. "...Get some sleep, Sergeant."
His lips twitched. "You too."
Neither of you slept.
Outside, clouds drifted beneath the wing. Somewhere ahead, Madripoor waited.
So did another fight. Another impossible decision. Another reminder that the world rarely gave people time to breathe.
But for a little while, inside the quiet hum of the jet, neither of you were thinking about the next mission. Or the last one. Or the ghosts waiting patiently in the corners of your minds.
You simply sat there. Awake. Together.
Neither of you noticed that somewhere between Baltimore and Berlin, silence had stopped feeling lonely.
Half an hour later, Zemo began to awake, as had Sam. The silence was still there, just a little more peaceful. Like the conversation that happened in the quiet moments brought a little bit of peace, a little bit of happiness into the cabin.
After several long moments, Sam finally broke the silence. "So..." He rubbed a hand over his face. "What's so special about Madripoor? You keep saying it like we're sailing into Skull Island."
Bucky answered before Zemo could. "It's an island nation in the Indonesian archipelago." His voice had returned to normal. "It started as a pirate sanctuary. It never really stopped."
Zemo smiled approvingly. "A city where everyone is for sale. And everyone has a price." He looked toward Bucky. "Unfortunately, we cannot arrive as ourselves."
Bucky already knew. You could see it in his face.
Zemo leaned forward. "James." His smile disappeared. "You'll have to become someone you insist no longer exists."
The cabin fell silent once again. You looked at Bucky. He hadn't moved. His eyes remained fixed on the clouds beyond the window. But his jaw had locked so tightly you thought it might crack.
A cold knot settled in your stomach. You suddenly understood what Zemo was asking. Not for Bucky to pretend. For him to remember. And that terrified you far more than Madripoor ever could.
Summary: When you track down Sam and Bucky in Baltimore, you expect answers about the new Captain America, not a buried piece of history that changes everything you thought you knew. As old wounds resurface and unlikely paths cross, the three of you find yourselves turning toward the one man who may have the answers you need: Baron Zemo.
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
The headlines somehow grew more irritating with each passing day. At first it had been harmless.
"Meet America's New Hero." "Captain America Returns." "John Walker Begins National Tour."
Then came the interviews. The photo shoots. The smiling magazine covers. Morning talk shows. Military ceremonies. Public appearances.
Every news outlet seemed determined to convince the country that Captain America had never really left.
You found yourself changing the channel more often than not. It wasn't personal. At least, you tried telling yourself it wasn't.
John Walker wasn't Steve Rogers. He wasn't pretending to be Steve Rogers. He hadn't stolen the shield. The government had handed it to him. That wasn't his fault.
And yet, every time you saw him standing beneath Steve's colors, your stomach twisted.
A classified briefing landed in your inbox three days later. SUBJECT: CAPTAIN AMERICA INITIATIVE
You sighed before opening it. Professional obligation. Nothing more. John F. Walker. Thirty-eight. Decorated Army officer. Three Medals of Honor. Special Forces. Psychological evaluations. Combat history. Government endorsements. No enhanced abilities. No serum. No classified affiliations.
You read every page. Twice. By the end, one conclusion became painfully obvious. John Walker wasn't a bad man. He was simply the wrong symbol.
That realization somehow frustrated you even more. Because if he had been arrogant… Cruel… Power hungry...
Hating him would've been easy. Instead, he looked like someone trying desperately not to disappoint an entire country.
You knew what that felt like. You hated that you understood him.
Still, there was one person you needed to talk to. Sam. He deserved at least one "I told you so."
You'd called. Texted. Left two voicemails. Nothing. Eventually you tracked down Joaquin Torres.
"You just missed him," Joaquin said apologetically over the phone.
"Any idea where he went?"
"...Not exactly." A pause. "But if he's with Barnes..."
You smiled to yourself. "I can figure it out."
Baltimore greeted you with humid afternoon air and rows of weathered brick homes. It took less than ten minutes to spot them. Sam. Bucky. Walking side by side.
Arguing about something, judging by the way Sam kept throwing his hands into the air while Bucky stubbornly refused to look at him.
Some things never changed. Before you could call out—
"Hey!" A little boy pointed toward Sam. "It's Black Falcon!"
Sam stopped immediately. "It's just Falcon, kid."
"No." The boy shook his head confidently. "My daddy says you're Black Falcon."
Bucky looked suspiciously entertained.
Sam sighed dramatically. “Is it because I'm Black and I'm the Falcon?”
"I mean...yeah."
"So are you Black Kid?"
The kid frowned. "What?"
Sam stood triumphantly. "I got him."
Bucky snorted. Actually snorted.
The kid rolled his eyes. "Whatever, man."
As the boy wandered away muttering under his breath, you couldn't help laughing. Neither man noticed you until you stepped directly into their path.
Sam's eyebrows shot upward. "Well..." He smiled. "I was wondering how long it'd take before you found us."
Bucky looked considerably less amused. "Should've known government paperwork travels faster than people."
You folded your arms. "It helps when the people refuse to answer their phones."
Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "...That's fair."
Your eyes drifted toward Bucky. "Hello, James."
He gave the smallest nod as he said your name.
Still formal. Still careful. Like neither of you quite knew what to do around the other.
"You two have been surprisingly difficult to track down."
Sam smiled innocently. "I've been busy."
"I noticed." You glanced meaningfully toward the news article still open on your phone. "The entire country's apparently met the new Captain America before I managed to find either of you."
Sam groaned. "Please don't start."
"Oh, I absolutely intend to."
A faint smile tugged at Bucky’s mouth before disappearing almost immediately.
"There'll be time for that later." He motioned toward the row house ahead. "We're here to see someone." His expression shifted. Becoming heavier. "I think you should meet him too."
You studied him for a moment. Something about the way he said it, made you stop asking questions.
Instead, you simply nodded. "Lead the way."
The boy answering the door couldn't have been older than 16.
"We're here to see Isaiah."
"Nah." The boy shook his head. "Ain't nobody named Isaiah live here."
Bucky remained surprisingly patient. "Tell him the guy from the bar in Goyang is here."
The kid narrowed his eyes.
"He's gonna know what that means."
The boy disappeared. Sam leaned casually against the railing. "Nice kid."
You glanced sideways at Bucky. "So, who’s Isaiah?"
His eyes remained fixed on the closed door. "I used to know him." A pause. "We had a fight."
"What kind of fight?"
He answered so matter-of-factly it almost didn't register. "Korean War."
You blinked. Right. Of course.
Sometimes it was easy to forget Bucky Barnes had lived enough lifetimes to answer questions like that casually.
The boy reappeared. "Today's your lucky day. He wants to see for himself."
The locks clicked one after another. Three. Four. Five. Each one sounding heavier than the last. The door creaked inward.
The boy stepped aside without another word.
You followed Bucky into the small row house, the air inside carrying the scent of old wood, coffee, and something simmering on the stove. Family photographs lined the walls. Children's drawings were taped to the refrigerator. The house felt lived in.
Loved. Protected. It was the kind of home someone fought very hard to keep.
"Isaiah?" Bucky called carefully.
An older man emerged from the back room. His shoulders were still broad despite his age, his movements deliberate, his eyes immediately finding Bucky.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Isaiah let out a quiet scoff. "Look at you." There wasn't warmth in his voice. Nor hatred. Just history.
Bucky took a small step forward. "This is Sam." He motioned toward Sam before looking at you. "And Allison."
You offered Isaiah a polite nod. He acknowledged it with the slightest inclination of his head before Bucky continued.
"Sam... Allison..." His voice carried a quiet reverence you'd never heard before. "This is Isaiah." A pause. "He was a hero." Another pause. "One of the heroes HYDRA feared the most."
Your eyebrows lifted. Bucky looked toward the old photographs hanging on Isaiah's wall before quietly adding,"...Like Steve."
The comparison lingered in the room.
"We met in '51."
Isaiah barked out a dry laugh. "If by met..." He pointed a finger toward Bucky. "...you mean I whupped your ass..." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "...then yeah."
For the first time since entering the house, the tension eased ever so slightly.
"We heard whispers there was some ghost on the peninsula." Isaiah's eyes never left Bucky’s. "Everybody they sent after him never came back." His gaze drifted briefly toward the vibranium arm. "So they dropped me behind enemy lines."
You instinctively glanced toward Bucky.
"I took half that metal arm in Goyang." Isaiah crossed his arms. "I see you managed to grow it back."
Bucky looked down at the floor.
"I mostly wanted to see..." Isaiah admitted quietly. "...if you got the arm back." His expression hardened. "Or if you'd come to kill me."
Bucky finally looked him in the eye. "I'm not a killer anymore."
Silence. Isaiah studied him. Really studied him.
Then asked the question that seemed to settle over the entire room. "You think you can wake up one day and decide who you wanna be?"
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
"It doesn't work like that." He laughed bitterly. "...Maybe it does for folks like you."
Your eyes drifted toward Bucky. His jaw had tightened. His shoulders were rigid. He didn't defend himself. Didn't argue. He simply accepted every word. Like he'd already asked himself the same question a thousand times.
Bucky swallowed. "Isaiah..." His voice was almost pleading now, "The reason we're here is because there are more people like us."
Isaiah's expression darkened.
"You and me. And we need to know how."
"I'm not talking about it." He turned away.
Bucky took a cautious step forward, "Isaiah—"
Before anyone could react… Isaiah grabbed the small metal tin resting on the table. With one effortless motion, he hurled it across the room. The container slammed into the opposite wall with a deafening crack before embedding itself several inches into solid brick.
Your breath caught. Not because of the strength. Because of how casually he'd done it.
Instinctively, your mind catalogued the force. Enhanced. Far beyond any ordinary super soldier profile you'd ever reviewed. No. Not reviewed.
Hidden. Buried. Erased.
You slowly looked toward Bucky. His expression wasn't surprise. It was guilt.
Isaiah crossed the room until only inches separated them, "You know what they did to me..." His voice trembled with anger decades old. "...for being a hero?"
No one answered.
"They locked me up,” His finger jabbed against his own chest. "For thirty years. Took my blood. Ran their tests. Came into my cell whenever they wanted."
Every word landed harder than the last. Your stomach twisted. Government. Military. Doctors. Scientists. Not HYDRA. America.
“Even your people weren't done with me."
Your heart sank. Your people. Not Bucky’s. Not Sam's. Yours.
The institutions you now worked alongside. The governments you spent every day trying to convince yourself could become better.
Sam stepped forward. "Isaiah..."
"Get." Isaiah pointed toward the door. "Out."
Nobody moved.
"OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
The boy appeared almost immediately from the hallway. "Come on." His voice was gentler. "Let's go."
You were the first to turn. The weight in Isaiah's eyes was too much to bear.
One by one, the four of you stepped back outside into the humid Baltimore afternoon. The door shut quietly behind you. No one spoke. Not Sam. Not Bucky. Not you.
For several blocks, the only sound was the steady rhythm of footsteps against cracked pavement. You kept replaying Isaiah's words. "They took my blood. They locked me away. Your people."
Every meeting. Every policy discussion. Every government briefing you'd attended over the last six months suddenly felt painfully incomplete.
How many other names had been buried? How many other stories had never made it into the reports sitting on your desk?
You looked over at Bucky. He hadn't said a single word since leaving the house. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His gaze remained fixed on the sidewalk.
You wondered how many ghosts a person could carry before they forgot what it felt like to stand upright. Without thinking, you slowed your pace until you were walking beside him. Neither of you spoke.
You didn't know what to say. Neither did he. But for the first time since Steve had left… The silence between you didn't feel awkward. It felt shared.
No one spoke for almost half a block.
The weight of Isaiah's words followed the three of you down the sidewalk, settling between each step like another person walking alongside you.
Finally, Bucky broke the silence. "...Sam."
Sam didn't stop walking. His jaw remained clenched, "Why didn't you tell me?"
Bucky looked ahead. "I..."
"There was a Black super soldier." Sam finally turned. "Decades before Steve." His voice wasn't angry. Not yet. It was wounded. "How did nobody know about him?"
Bucky sighed.
"I asked you a question."
"I know."
You looked between them. The pieces still hadn't settled in your mind.
"Steve..." Your voice came quietly. "...he never knew?"
Bucky shook his head. "No."
"You never told him?"
"No."
"Why?"
Bucky took a long breath before answering. "Because by the time Steve met me again..." His eyes dropped toward the pavement, "...Isaiah had already suffered enough."
The three of you stopped walking. Traffic rolled lazily past the intersection. People hurried by without realizing history had just unfolded inside a small Baltimore row house.
Sam rubbed both hands over his face. "So you're telling me..." He laughed once. Disbelieving. "...that America had another Captain America."
His eyes met Buckys'.
"And everybody buried him."
Bucky didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The sharp chirp of a police siren cut through the conversation. A patrol car slowed beside the curb before coming to a stop.
All three of you turned. Two officers climbed out. One rested a hand near his utility belt.
The other approached cautiously. "Afternoon."
Sam offered a polite nod. "What's going on?"
The officer glanced between the three of you. "Everything alright over here?"
You answered before either man could. "We're fine."
"We're just talking." Bucky nodded once. "No problems."
The officer's attention settled squarely on Sam. "Can I see some identification?"
Sam frowned. "...Why?"
Bucky exhaled sharply beneath his breath. "Oh, come on."
Neither of them acknowledged you. Their attention never left Sam.
"Sir." The officer's tone hardened. "Just stay calm."
Sam blinked. "I am calm."
"What exactly is the problem?" The officer pushed.
"There isn't one. We're literally standing on a sidewalk."
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sam. Just show him your ID. So we can all go home."
"No." Sam folded his arms. "I'm not giving him anything."
Your frustration began simmering beneath the surface. "We've answered your questions. If there's reasonable suspicion of a crime, I'd be happy to discuss it." You offered a practiced smile, "If not, I believe we're free to continue our conversation."
Again, the officers ignored you.
One motioned subtly toward Bucky. "Sir..." He asked quietly. "Is this individual bothering either of you?"
Bucky looked genuinely confused. "No."
You stared at the officer. "...Excuse me? He isn't bothering anyone. Do either of you know who you're talking to?"
Neither officer answered. Instead, one leaned toward the other. His eyes widened. Recognition finally dawned. "...Wait."
He whispered something too quietly for you to hear. The second officer looked back at Sam. His face immediately drained of color. "Oh. Oh my God."
His entire posture changed. "Mr. Wilson..." He let out an awkward, nervous laugh. "I'm...I'm so sorry. I didn't recognize you without..." He gestured vaguely toward Sam's face, "...the goggles."
The apology only made your anger worse. Not because he'd apologized. Because it came after recognition. Not before.
You stepped forward. "I'd like both of your badge numbers." Neither officer spoke. "And your supervising officer's name."
The younger one swallowed hard. "Ms. Stark..."
"No." You kept your voice level. "We're going to do this correctly. I've asked for your supervisor. And your badge numbers. Now."
The two officers exchanged another nervous look. One hurried back toward the patrol car, speaking rapidly into his radio. The other remained rooted exactly where he stood. No one spoke.
Sam stared at the ground. Bucky stared at nothing.
You slowly let out the breath you'd been holding. "I'm sorry." You looked toward Sam. "I shouldn't have—"
Bucky interrupted quietly. "I didn't tell anybody."
The two of you looked at him.
His voice had become almost painfully soft, "Isaiah had already been through enough. I wasn't about to drag him back into any of it."
No one argued. No one could.
The officer returned. Slower this time. Almost reluctant.
He cleared his throat, "Mr. Barnes."
Bucky looked up.
"There's a warrant out for your arrest."
Your eyebrows shot upward, "What? Look, the president pardoned him for all that.”
The officer nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am. Not for that." He shifted uncomfortably. "He missed a court-mandated therapy session."
Bucky closed his eyes briefly. Of course.
"It's treated the same as missing probation." Silence. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barnes. You'll have to come with us."
Your head turned toward Bucky, "...James?"
You expected sarcasm. An eye roll. A complaint. Anything.
Instead, he simply nodded. "Okay."
The officer reached for the handcuffs almost apologetically. Bucky extended both wrists before being asked. Metal clicked around vibranium. Meaningless restraints. They couldn't have held him if he'd wanted to leave. Everyone there knew it. Including the officers. But Bucky never resisted. Not once.
As they guided him toward the patrol car, he glanced back only briefly. Not at the police. Not at the gathering crowd beginning to stare. At you. His expression wasn't embarrassed. It wasn't angry. It was tired. Profoundly, unimaginably tired.
The car door shut. The engine started.
You and Sam stood silently on the sidewalk as the cruiser disappeared around the corner.
Only after it was gone did Sam finally speak. "You wanna help me bail out the world's oldest eighty-pound teenager?"
Despite everything, you laughed. A short, exhausted laugh that surprised even you. You shook your head. "I think we're going to need a lawyer."
By the time you reached your car, Sam had already pulled out his phone.
"I'll..." He looked at you. "...actually, I don't know who I'm calling."
Despite everything, you smiled. "I've got him."
Sam blinked. "You've got him?"
"I've got government paperwork." You unlocked the driver's door before climbing inside. "And government paperwork is somehow scarier."
Sam laughed. "I believe that."
The smile disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. The past six months had taught you one thing. Being a Stark no longer opened doors. It invited scrutiny. Every authorization required three signatures instead of one. Every international flight generated questions. Every property transfer became another congressional inquiry.
Someone, or several someones, had started paying very close attention to every decision you made. You couldn't prove it. Yet. But you felt it. Like someone waiting patiently for you to make the wrong move.
Still, some names carried enough weight to make phone calls happen. Doctor Christina Raynor answered on the third ring.
The Baltimore precinct looked exactly like every government building you'd visited that month. Too bright. Too beige. Too many people pretending paperwork solved everything.
Sam dropped into one of the waiting room chairs with an exhausted sigh. You remained standing. Pacing. Checking your watch every few minutes.
Not because you were worried Bucky couldn't handle himself. Because you hated the idea of him sitting in another holding cell. Even if only for an hour.
The front doors opened. A woman in a charcoal coat entered carrying a leather satchel.
She immediately spotted the two of you. "You must be Sam." She smiled warmly before looking at you. "And Allison." She extended her hand. "I'm Doctor Raynor. I've heard quite a bit about you."
You shook it. "Thanks for bailing him out."
Christina smiled. "I appreciate the sentiment. But I wasn't the one who got James released."
You frowned. "What?"
Before she could answer—"Christina!"
A familiar voice echoed across the station. You turned. John Walker strode confidently through the lobby. Lemar Hoskins a step behind him. Walker smiled like he'd known everyone in the room for years.
"It's good seeing you again."
Christina sighed almost imperceptibly.
"You know each other?" Sam asked flatly.
She nodded. "We worked field operations together."
Walker offered an easy smile. "Long time ago." Then, he looked toward you and Sam. "I heard Barnes was being detained. So I pulled a few strings."
You folded your arms. "Under whose authority?"
Walker blinked. "...Mine."
"You don't have that authority."
His smile never disappeared. "I do now."
Something about the confidence in his answer irritated you. Not arrogance. Certainty. The kind of certainty that came from believing the system would always back you.
A loud buzz echoed through the station. The secured door opened. Bucky stepped through. Still wearing handcuffs. A deputy removed them before quietly disappearing again.
Walker immediately stepped forward. "Barnes."
Bucky didn't stop walking.
"You're too valuable an asset to waste sitting in a jail cell." His tone was friendly. Professional. Almost rehearsed. "So whatever you and Doc here need to finish..." He motioned toward Raynor. "...finish it. Then come find me." He smiled. "We've got unfinished business." His eyes shifted toward Sam. "You too."
Then finally, toward you. "And Ms. Stark." His smile broadened slightly. "It's nice finally meeting you. I've heard impressive things."
You returned a polite smile. "I'm sure you have."
"I'd love to sit down sometime."
"So would I." Your answer surprised even yourself.
His eyebrows lifted.
"...Professionally." You clarified. "There are several briefings enhanced government assets are expected to receive."
Walker laughed. "I'll keep that in mind." He nodded politely before heading toward the exit with Hoskins.
Only after the doors closed did Christina turn back toward Bucky.
"Condition of your release." She looked at him. "Therapy." Then toward Sam. "You too."
Sam immediately shook his head. "I'll stay out here."
Christina raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't a suggestion."
You tried very hard not to smile.
Sam looked at you helplessly, "You gonna save me?"
"No,” You patted his shoulder sympathetically. "I've seen her credentials. You don't stand a chance."
Bucky actually laughed. A quiet one. Barely audible. But real. For just a second, the tension eased.
Sam pointed accusingly. "I saw that."
Bucky shrugged innocently. "You saw nothing."
"I hate both of you."
"I know."
Christina held the room door open. "Inside."
Sam sighed dramatically. "Yes, ma'am."
The three disappeared down the hallway. The door clicked shut. Silence returned.
You gave them fifteen minutes. Then twenty. Eventually you accepted they weren't coming out anytime soon.
The coffee shop across the street became a welcome excuse to escape fluorescent lights and uncomfortable waiting room chairs. The autumn air felt cooler now.
You leaned against the brick wall outside the café, warming your hands around a paper cup while the city moved around you. For the first time all day, everything was quiet.
"Ms. Stark."
You looked up. Walker and Hoskins had just exited the station. Hoskins spotted you first. He said something quietly to Walker. Walker turned. His posture subtly shifted. Shoulders straightening. Smile widening. Almost unconsciously becoming, Captain America.
"I was hoping I'd catch you."
Walker stopped a respectful distance away. Close enough for conversation. Far enough that it didn't feel like an ambush.
Lemar remained beside him, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets, though you caught the amused look he gave Walker. It was almost as if he were silently encouraging him.
Walker offered his hand. "John Walker. This is my partner, Lemar Hoskins."
You looked at it for a moment before shaking it. "Allison Stark."
"I know."
You smiled politely. "I'm sure you do."
His grip was firm. Military. Disciplined. Not performative. When he released your hand, you folded your arms comfortably.
"So..." You tilted your head. "John Walker." You searched your memory theatrically. "Decorated Army officer. Former Captain in the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment. Three Medals of Honor. Distinguished service record."
His eyebrows lifted, "You've done your homework."
"It's my job." You smiled faintly, "Though I admit, I can't say I know much about you." Your gaze drifted almost involuntarily toward the shield resting against his shoulder. "It seems there was some...communication lost somewhere between appointing a new Captain America...and informing the person responsible for government oversight of enhanced personnel."
Walker sighed. There it was. The conversation he'd clearly expected.
"I owe you an apology."
"You do."
He nodded without hesitation, "When I accepted the position..." He glanced briefly toward Lemar before looking back at you,"...the team and I decided not to overwhelm you."
"The team?”
"The transition committee." He answered honestly. "Defense. State. A few White House advisors. They felt..." He hesitated carefully, "...considering everything you'd been through that it would be better to wait."
You studied him for several seconds. Long enough that he began shifting his weight almost imperceptibly.
"The Blip." You nodded. "My brother. Steve."
He nodded once, "Yes."
Your expression softened, "I appreciate the consideration." A beat. "But I would've appreciated the respect more."
Walker blinked.
You continued before he could respond, "I've been back in Washington for nearly a week. My office never received an official notification. No personnel briefing. No interagency memorandum. No transition file. No psychological evaluation. Just your face on my tv screen,"
You offered a small, apologetic smile. "Which means either someone forgot...or someone intentionally kept me out of the process."
Lemar quietly looked toward Walker.
Walker rubbed the back of his neck, "It wasn't personal."
"No?"
"No. I was told you'd be briefed. Eventually."
You laughed once, "'Eventually' is a dangerous word in government."
For a moment, Walker actually looked embarrassed. Not defensive. Embarrassed. "I'll make sure that changes."
Your eyes narrowed slightly, "I hope so."
He nodded, "So do I."
Silence settled between you.
You decided to shift gears, "One more thing."
"Of course."
"I've reviewed your personnel file."
He looked surprised, "You have?"
"I review everyone." Your tone remained matter-of-fact. "I was expecting to see documentation regarding the Super Soldier Serum."
Walker shook his head, "There isn't any."
"So…you aren't enhanced?"
"No."
"You've never received the serum."
"No."
"No experimental procedures?"
"No."
You stared at him for a second longer. Interesting. "So Captain America without the serum."
He smiled, "I suppose that's one way to put it. I've heard worse."
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped.
Lemar caught it immediately. "There it is,” He grinned. "I told you she smiles."
Walker shot him an exasperated look. "Lemar."
"What?"
"You've been acting like she's gonna throw a stapler at you."
"I don't even own a stapler,” You deadpanned, "I throw briefing binders."
Lemar laughed.
Walker pinched the bridge of his nose, "I apologize for him."
"I don't." Lemar answered.
"You'd be surprised how often this works."
The tension eased. Only slightly.
Walker looked back at you, "I know this isn't easy." His voice had become quieter. "I know what Steve meant to people."
Your smile faded, "You don't."
He stopped. Not offended. Listening.
"You know what Captain America meant." You glanced toward the shield. "That's different."
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Finally, you exhaled, "Look." You gestured vaguely toward him. "The suit. The shield. This. I don't have anything against you. I don't know you. And from everything I've read you're a good soldier."
Walker remained silent.
"This just..."You searched for the right words,"...caught me off guard." You looked away from the shield. "I'm still trying to separate the man from everything wrapped around him."
Walker followed your gaze to the shield. Understanding flickered across his face. "I can respect that."
"I appreciate that."
Then, almost hopefully, "Maybe someday you'll let me buy you that coffee."
You smiled politely, "My office hours are nine to five. I'll let my assistant know if I find an opening."
Lemar coughed suspiciously loudly into his fist to hide a laugh.
Walker turned toward him, "Don't."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You were about to." Walker sighed, "This is why I can't take you anywhere."
Before anyone could respond, the station doors opened.
"Well, I feel horrible!" Sam's voice carried across the sidewalk.
"It’s like that sometimes—" Bucky stopped mid-sentence.
All four men looked toward each other. Then toward you. The easy conversation vanished almost instantly.
Sam looked between you, Walker, Lemar, and the shield. "Everything okay?"
You glanced once more at Walker. Then back toward Sam, a smile on your face, "As okay as government bureaucracy usually is."
Walker's smile returned. Bucky's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The air shifted. The real conversation was about to begin.
"Gentlemen." Walker’s smile widened, though it no longer reached his eyes. "Good to see you again."
You noticed the subtle emphasis on good. It wasn't genuine. It was diplomatic. The kind of smile you'd seen exchanged between ambassadors who couldn't stand each other.
Walker folded his hands behind his back. "Look, if we divide ourselves, we don't stand a chance. You both know that."
Sam crossed his arms. "So, what've you got?"
Walker immediately shifted back into briefing mode. "The leader's name is Karli Morgenthau.”
“The Flag Smashers have been moving through displaced communities across Central and Eastern Europe." Lemar stepped in naturally, almost like he'd delivered this briefing dozens of times before. "They've been tagging supply routes, scrambling signals. Our satellites have started picking up their symbol near refugee settlements."
He tapped the tablet tucked beneath his arm. "We think they're moving the medical supplies they stole from Munich."
Walker nodded. "If we're right, Karli's headed toward one of the camps."
Silence settled for a moment.
Then Bucky spoke. "There are hundreds of camps." His voice remained level. Quiet. "So I guess you'll have to look real hard."
Walker smiled. Too quickly. "Good thing I've got good vision."
The joke landed. Nobody laughed.
You watched Bucky carefully. He didn't react. Didn't smirk. Didn't roll his eyes. He simply looked at Walker with an expression so unreadable it almost unsettled you. "Where is she now?"
Walker blinked. "What?"
"Karli." Bucky took a slow step forward. "Where is she?"
Walker hesitated. Only for a second. "No." His voice sharpened. "We don't know. But we will. It's only a matter of time."
Bucky tilted his head slightly. The movement was almost curious. "Things are pretty intense for you aren't they?"
You looked between the two men. Walker grew louder when challenged. Bucky grew quieter. One tried to fill the space. The other seemed perfectly comfortable letting silence do the work.
Walker took a step forward. His jaw tightened. His shoulders squared. Instinct. Military. A challenge answered with presence.
Before either man could close the distance, Sam stepped neatly between them. "Take it easy." His tone remained calm. Almost bored. Like this wasn't the first time he'd broken up an argument between stubborn soldiers. He looked toward Bucky first. Then Walker. "Walker's right."
The admission surprised you.
"We need to stop the Flag Smashers." His gaze shifted toward Walker. "But, you've got rules. Authorizations. Jurisdiction."
Every word carried years of experience.
"You answer to somebody." Then he pointed between himself and Bucky. "We don't. We're free agents. We move faster."
"So..." He shrugged. "It doesn't really make sense for us to work together."
Walker stared at him for several long seconds. You almost expected him to argue. Instead, he nodded once. Almost disappointed.
Sam turned without another word. Bucky followed immediately. The conversation, apparently, was over.
You lingered where you were. Caught somewhere between both groups. Your instinct as a diplomat screamed to smooth things over. Your instinct as a Stark wanted to drag Sam back, remind him that refusing help rarely solved anything.
Then again, watching Walker and Bucky on the same sidewalk for more than five minutes felt like watching two magnets forced together at the wrong ends.
You glanced toward Lemar. He caught your eye and offered the smallest shrug. Almost apologetic. You returned it with a faint smile. You tried. He seemed to understand exactly what you meant.
Walker, however, hadn't stopped watching the two retreating figures. Something flickered across his face. Not anger. Frustration. The kind born from believing you were offering help and having it rejected.
Finally, he spoke. "A word of advice."
Sam and Bucky stopped walking but didn't turn around.
Walker took one measured step forward. "Stay..." His voice lowered. "...the hell out of my way."
The street fell quiet. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Bucky glanced sideways toward Sam. Not Walker.
Sam sighed. "You hear that?"
Bucky slipped both hands into his pockets. "Hard not to."
Without another word, the two of them continued walking. You watched them disappear down the sidewalk.
Walker remained beside you. Still staring after them. "You know..." He spoke quietly, almost to himself. "I really was trying."
You believed him. That was the complicated part. "I know."
Walker finally looked at you.
"But they're not ready to trust you."
His shoulders dropped ever so slightly. "No. They're not."
You watched Sam and Bucky disappear around the corner.
Walker looked down at the shield strapped to his arm. "I don't want to replace Steve."
You smiled sadly. "I don't think anyone can."
For the first time since meeting him, Walker looked less like Captain America. And more like a man standing beneath a weight he wasn't sure he could carry.
You walked away from them, as you followed after Sam and Bucky. You couldn't help glancing over your shoulder one last time. Walker still stood where you'd left him. Shield resting against his arm. Lemar beside him. Watching the three of you disappear down the sidewalk.
For just a second, you almost felt sorry for him. Then you turned the corner. The city swallowed him whole.
The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable anymore. It had become... familiar.
Six months ago, every quiet moment had been filled with Steve's absence. Now, the silence simply belonged to the three of you.
Traffic hummed somewhere nearby. Children laughed from a park a few blocks away. Life carried on with an almost insulting normalcy.
You matched your pace to Sam's, though Bucky had already pulled a few steps ahead, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. He always seemed to walk like he had somewhere important to be. Even when he didn't.
"So..." You finally broke the silence. "What are we thinking?"
Bucky didn't slow down. "I know what we have to do."
Sam groaned immediately. "I already don't like the sound of that."
"When Isaiah said..." Bucky’s voice remained calm, "'My people.'"
Sam waved a dismissive hand. "Don't take that to heart. That's not what he meant."
Bucky stopped walking. Slowly, he turned back toward both of you. "No." His expression had become unreadable again. "He meant HYDRA." The words landed heavily between you. "HYDRA..." He looked down briefly."...used to be my people."
Your heart tightened. Not because you believed him. Because somewhere inside, you knew he still did.
Sam shook his head almost immediately. Knowing where he was headed with his statement. "No. No chance."
Bucky continued as though he hadn't heard him. "Walker doesn't have any leads."
"I know exactly where you're going with this." Sam pointed at him. "And the answer is no."
"I agree with Sam." Both men looked toward you. "No."
Bucky sighed, "Zemo knows every HYDRA network. Every contingency. Every secret." His eyes met Sam's. "Don't you remember Siberia?"
The word hit you like ice water. Siberia. Your feet stopped moving. The snow. The bunker. The old HYDRA recordings. Tony. Steve. Bucky.
Your brother collapsed onto the concrete floor while Steve desperately held him back. The sound of metal striking metal. The scream you'd never managed to forget. For years, that had been the worst day of your life. Until 5 years ago. Until 6 months ago.
You looked at Bucky. Really looked at him. His expression hadn't changed. But somehow, you realized he wasn't remembering the fight. He was remembering what came before it. The programming. The control. The man he'd been forced to become.
"You want to sit in a room..." Your voice came quieter now. "With Baron Zemo?"
Bucky didn't hesitate, "Yes."
The answer came so quickly it almost frightened you. Like he'd already accepted whatever that meeting would cost him.
You exchanged a glance with Sam. He looked exactly as unconvinced as you felt. You rubbed your temple, "This is an incredibly stupid plan."
"It usually is." Bucky answered.
Sam sighed dramatically, "I hate when he's right. He gave me the look."
"What look?"
"The look."
"I don't have a look."
Sam turned toward Bucky. "See?"
Bucky’s mouth twitched. Barely.
"Fine, I have a look."
You stared at him. "Was that a joke?"
He blinked once. "Maybe."
You looked at Sam. Sam looked at you. For one glorious second, he two of you burst into laughter.
Bucky frowned. "I don't understand what's funny."
"Oh, you absolutely do." Sam wiped at his eyes. "That was the closest thing to a joke you've made all day."
Bucky looked genuinely offended. "I've made several."
"You've made observations."
"Same thing."
"No." You smiled, shaking your head, "Definitely not the same thing."
For the first time since Baltimore, a genuine smile appeared on Bucky's face. Small. Almost reluctant. But real. It disappeared just as quickly.
Finally, Bucky turned to you and quietly asked, "You think he's a good man?"
You already knew who he meant. Walker.
You thought for a moment. Then, "I think he's trying very hard to be."
Bucky nodded. "...Sometimes that's not enough."
You looked over. "You would know?"
Bucky gives the tiniest smile. "...Yeah."
His conversation wasn’t really about Walker. It's about himself. Bucky. He believed trying isn't enough.
"So..." Sam sighed, accepting the inevitable awkwardness settling. "We're really doing this."
You looked between both men. One stubborn. The other somehow even more stubborn. Then, you laughed softly. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to meet a convicted terrorist I helped put in prison."
"We’re not meeting him." Bucky corrected. "We're asking for his help."
Sam looked at him. "That somehow makes me feel worse."
"It should." You muttered.
The three of you stood there for another quiet moment. The enormity of the decision settling over all of you. Finally...
Sam threw both hands into the air. "Fine." He pointed at Bucky. "But when this inevitably blows up in our faces. I'm blaming you."
Bucky nodded once. "Fair."
Sam looked at you. "You coming?"
You hesitated. Only for a heartbeat. You thought about your inbox. Your meetings. The reports waiting on your desk. The governments expecting their liaison back in Washington tomorrow morning.
Then, you looked at Bucky. At the exhaustion he'd tried so hard to hide all day. At Sam. Already preparing to shoulder another impossible mission.
You let out a slow breath. "When I accepted this job..." You smiled faintly. "I was under the impression I'd mostly be attending meetings."
Sam laughed. "Welcome back to the Avengers."
Your smile faltered for just a second. "No." You looked ahead. Toward wherever this road was taking the three of you. "Not the Avengers."
Your gaze shifted to Bucky. Then to Sam. "...Just us."
No one said anything after that. There wasn't anything left to say. Together… The three of you started walking. Toward Zemo. Toward a future none of you could yet imagine.
Summary: Six months after losing Tony and Steve, the world has learned to move forward, even if you haven't. Burying yourself in work becomes easier than facing the life you lost, until honoring Steve’s legacy forces you to confront the memories, people, and future you have spent months trying to avoid.
Author's note: Among Thieves is written in second-person POV, but the protagonist is an OC named Allison Stark, Tony Stark’s younger sister, and Steve Rogers ' fiancée. While the story follows the events of the MCU, some canon events, timelines, and character relationships have been altered to fit Allison’s story and her slow-burn relationship with Bucky Barnes. I hope you enjoy 🤍
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
Six months later. Winter had arrived quietly. Nobody announced it.
One morning, the trees simply stood bare. The mornings became colder. The lake froze around the edges. Morgan had grown half an inch. The world had continued.
The lake house no longer echoed. It hummed. Refrigerators. Heating vents. Morgan's cartoons. Pepper's conference calls.
Tiny sounds that had always existed, but had never been loud enough to notice while Tony was alive. Funny...
One person could make an entire house louder simply by existing.
Pepper had become frighteningly efficient. Breakfast at seven. Morgan dressed by eight. Meetings by nine. Bedtime stories. Laundry. Emails. Repeat.
She smiled. She laughed. She answered every question Morgan asked.
Sometimes, you wondered if Pepper remembered to grieve. Then one Tuesday morning, you found her standing in Tony's workshop. Not crying. Simply, staring. One wrench rested in her hand. She didn't seem to know why.
People congratulated you. "You're handling this so well." "Tony would be proud." "You're so strong."
Every compliment made you feel a little more like a fraud. Because strength implied choice. Survival rarely did.
You had tried to return to yours and Steve’s apartment. It had remained untouched. His books. His coffee mug. His leather jacket. His notebook. Maybe his old compass. Everything exactly where he left it.
You didn’t cry. You just sat. For an hour. Swallowed by the emptiness and heartbreak of what this place meant to you. Home with Steve.
Then you left. Again. Leaving everything exactly as it was. That hurt more.
Sam called, he texted. Tried to reach you to offer the comfort he could. The comfort you didn’t allow yourself to feel sometimes.
"You heard from Barnes?"
You looked up from another stack of Stark property documents. "No."
"He's okay."
You nodded. "Good."
Sam hesitated. "...He asked about you."
You stopped writing. "...What?"
"Not..." Sam scratched the back of his neck. "...like that."
You smiled faintly. "Sure."
"He just..." Another pause. "...wants to make sure you're alright."
Silence.
"Tell him..." You looked out the window. "...thank you."
The truth was, you had stopped trying to surround yourself with people who reminded you of what you’d lost. Bruce, Bucky, and Sam were the biggest reminders of what happened that day on the platform. You didn’t blame them. But your brain tied their faces to the last time you’d seen Steve, the last time you said goodbye to him. But family was the toughest reminder of their absence.
"Auntie?"
"Yeah?"
"Where is Uncle Steve"
You froze.
"Will he visit soon? I like his pancakes."
The room became impossibly quiet. Pepper looked down at her coffee. Happy suddenly found the newspaper fascinating. Nobody knew what to say. The sudden memory of the scent of Steve’s chocolate chip pancakes filled your brain.
Morgan frowned. "Did I ask a bad question?"
You crossed the kitchen. Knelt beside her. Brushed a loose curl behind Morgan's ear. "No, sweetheart." Your voice almost broke. "Just a hard one."
You hadn’t had the heart to explain it all to her. You just smiled and hugged, promising to try to make his pancakes for her.
Happy had done what he’d promised. He stayed. He took care of you, all of you. He fixed things. Brought groceries. Made sure Morgan's bike tires had air. Showed up. Left. Never asked for thanks. Exactly like Happy would.
One night, as you laid in your bed awake. You scrolled through your phone, through photos with Steve, with Tony. Baby Morgan’s photos. Until your fingers reached the voicemail box. You had several unanswered voicemails. But your finger scrolled as it found the last one Steve had sent. You couldn't even remember what it was about. You mindlessly pressed on the play button.
It wasn’t a goodbye. It was months old. A memory of the domestic bliss you’d experienced.
"Hey. Just picked up Chinese. Got extra dumplings so Tony won’t eat them all. I'll be home in twenty."
You listened to it. Again. Then again. You didn’t have the heart to delete it, so you just locked your phone and set it back down. His voice playing out in your head, over and over, again.
Your eyes drifted over to the ring on your finger. You hadn’t had the heart or strength to take it off. It was a reminder of Steve, of his love, of his promise. And even though he’d moved on, you still weren’t sure you were ready to.
Suddenly, your phone started to vibrate on the night stand. That was weird. It was late at night. You weren’t expecting any calls. Especially this late. You glanced at the screen. Unknown number.
Regardless, you answered. “Hello?”
No one answered on the other end. You couldn’t even hear breaths or signs of any life. You didn’t say anything for a few seconds. The silence went on for what seemed like minutes, before the line disconnected. Weird. You thought.
Six months had passed. The flowers around the lake had changed. The leaves had fallen. Snow had come and gone. The world had rebuilt itself. Governments reopened. Cities healed. Children returned to school.
News stations stopped saying Tony Stark's name every night. Eventually, people stopped asking if you were alright. You weren’t sure which hurt more. Because grief didn't disappear.
It simply became quieter. It stopped announcing itself. It settled into ordinary things. Empty chairs. Cold coffee. Unanswered phone calls.
An apartment nobody lived in anymore. A ring you'd finally managed to take off. It wasn't the loud kind of pain anymore.
It was silent. And somehow, silence echoed louder than anything she'd ever heard.
Winter gave way to spring. Spring became summer. Somewhere between flights, meetings, diplomatic briefings, and hotel rooms that all looked exactly the same, six months disappeared.
Grief hadn't become easier. It had simply become scheduled. Tuesdays were meetings with the State Department. Wednesdays belonged to Stark Industries. Thursdays were United Nations briefings. Fridays...
Fridays, you usually forgot what city you were waking up in. Busy people didn't have time to fall apart. You had become very busy.
Grief was strange. The first few weeks after losing Tony had felt like drowning. The next few months felt worse. Because the world had expected you to start swimming again.
People smiled more now. News cycles moved on. Cities rebuilt. Children returned to school.
The Blip became history instead of catastrophe. The Avengers… Became stories.
You, on the other hand, had somehow become busy. Painfully busy.
"...with all due respect, Minister..." You folded her hands on the conference table. "...enhanced individuals aren't the problem."
"Tell that to the families displaced by the Blip."
"I have." The room became quiet. "...Many of them lost family too."
Another diplomat leaned forward. "Ms. Stark, our concern isn't emotional."
"No." You met his gaze evenly. "It's political."
"Exactly."
You nodded once. "Mine isn't."
Tony hadn't left behind just Iron Man. He'd left behind Stark Industries. The Stark Relief Foundation. Hundreds of charitable initiatives. Dozens of properties across the globe. Government partnerships. International treaties. Enhanced technology agreements.
Pepper carried more than anyone should ever have to. So you carried what you could. Some days that meant board meetings. Some days it meant reviewing grants.
Other days it meant flying halfway across the world to reassure nervous governments that yes, Stark technology would remain regulated despite Tony's absence.
You sat in your hotel room, after a long and painful meeting. Room 814. It looked exactly like Room 516 in Brussels. Which had looked exactly like Room 1022 in Vienna.
Hotels all eventually became the same. White sheets. Gray curtains. Tiny bottles of shampoo. Silence.
But even the silence gave way to grief. Even through room service. There was a knock on the door as the hotel staff walked into the room, rolling the dinner cart slowly.
"One grilled salmon. Two coffees."
You frowned. "...I only ordered one."
The waiter looked confused. "The ticket says two."
You realized, you still ordered coffee for Steve. Without thinking.
You quietly thanked him. Keeping both cups. One grew cold.
Another reminder that he was gone. Tony was gone. And your hands moved to grab the paperwork on the desk, trying to keep your brain busy from thinking about Steve.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't heroic. But it mattered. Sometimes, keeping the world together happened inside conference rooms or surviving hotel rooms, instead of battlefields.
Today happened to be both. The invitation had sat unanswered on your kitchen counter for nearly two weeks.
Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. Captain America Legacy Exhibit.
You'd almost thrown it away. Then Pepper quietly picked it up. "You should go."
"I don't think I can."
"You can." She smiled sadly. "You just don't want to."
She'd been right.
The museum buzzed with reporters long before you reached the entrance.
Camera flashes reflected off polished marble floors. Politicians. Military officials. Veterans. Families. Children wearing Captain America shirts far too large for them.
Voices instinctively lowered beneath the enormous glass ceilings. Children stopped running. Veterans stood a little straighter. Even reporters seemed quieter. History had a way of demanding respect.
People smiled. Laughed. Took pictures beside Steve's statue.
It felt wrong. Not because they were celebrating him. Because the world had already begun remembering him as history. To you, he still felt like yesterday.
A security agent recognized you almost immediately. "Ms. Stark."
You still weren't used to hearing that without Tony turning around first, trying to make some remark about him being the oldest.
"They're about to begin."
You nodded politely before slipping quietly into the back of the crowd. Just in time.
Sam. Your eyes immediately found him standing beneath impossibly bright lights. The vibranium shield rested beside him.
For one impossible second, your heart forgot. Forgot Steve wasn't standing there. Forgot six months had passed. Forgot he had chosen another lifetime.
Then Sam smiled. Reality returned.
"Steve represented the best in all of us." His voice echoed throughout the museum. "Courageous. Righteous. Hopeful. And he mastered posing stoically."
The room laughed. You did too. Despite yourself.
That sounded exactly like something Sam would tease Steve about. "...The world has been forever changed." Camera shutters erupted around him. "A few months ago, billions of people reappeared after five years away, sending the world into turmoil."
Your mind wandered. Not because you weren't listening. Because you knew every word Sam was saying. He wasn't talking about Steve. He was talking about all of you. About learning how to keep moving after impossible things.
"We need new heroes."
You looked down. Did we? Or did we just need the old ones back?
"...Symbols are nothing without the women and men who give them meaning."
His hand rested on the shield. "And this thing..." He smiled. "I don't know if there's ever been a greater symbol."
Neither did you.
"But it's more about the man who propped it up."
Your chest tightened.
"And he's gone."
No. Not gone. Just, somewhere else.
"...Today we honor Steve's legacy." His voice softened. "But we also look to the future."
You weren't ready for the future.
"So thank you, Captain America." He gently set the shield inside its display. "But this belongs to you."
Applause erupted around the room. You clapped too. Slowly. Quietly.
Because despite everything, Steve deserved this. Even if you still weren't sure you could forgive him.
Before you'd managed to disappear into the crowd, someone called your name.
Rhodey. He crossed the room in only a few strides.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, he wrapped his arms around you. The hug lasted longer than either of you intended.
"You okay?"
There it was. That question again.
You almost laughed. "I'm functioning."
Rhodey pulled back. "I guess that's something."
"It's progress."
Neither of you mentioned Tony. Neither of you needed to. His absence stood between you anyway.
You noticed Sam speaking with one of New York City’s senators and seized the opportunity to redirect the conversation.
"Come on." You nudged Rhodey with your elbow. "Let's go save Wilson."
Rhodey smirked. "Already causing trouble?"
"I learned from my brother."
"I was afraid you were gonna say that."
By the time the two of you reached Sam, the senator was already finishing his speech.
"Thanks again for coming forward with the shield, Sam." The man offered an overly polished smile. "It was the right decision."
You and Sam exchanged a glance. Tiny. Barely perceptible. But it said everything. Passive-aggressive.
Sam's expression barely twitched. Yours almost did. Personally, you still thought Steve had given Sam that shield for a reason. But it wasn't your decision to make. Nor was it your place to question one he'd already struggled enough to make.
Rhodey clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Take a walk?"
The three of you slipped away from the cameras together, weaving through the exhibit until the sounds of reporters dissolved behind museum walls.
They stopped in front of a display chronicling Steve's life. Brooklyn. The Howling Commandos.
Each photograph captured a different version of the same man. Your eyes lingered on one longer than the others. Steve. Barely twenty.
Standing beside a grinning James Buchanan Barnes in military uniform. Two boys who had no idea what history would ask of them. Steve always smiled differently around Bucky. Not bigger. Easier.
Like Brooklyn never really disappeared as long as Bucky was standing beside him. Funny. You couldn't remember the last time you’d seen Bucky smile like that.
"Yeah," Sam said quietly, pulling your attention back to the present. "I've been home. My sister... my nephews." He smiled to himself. "When I left they were babies." He shook his head. "I came back and they're practically little men."
Rhodey chuckled. "You oughta bring 'em to D.C. sometime. I'll teach 'em how to fly. The right way."
Sam laughed. Then, looked toward you. Really looked. The way only someone who'd watched you survive the last six months could. "How about you?" He tilted his head. "You eating? Still doing the world tour?"
You laughed. "That's an incredibly rude greeting."
A genuine smile tugged at your lips. "A little." You folded your arms loosely. "I’m doing, okay. I mostly work."
"Mostly?"
You laughed softly. "Tony always wanted to take us to Scotland." The memory warmed and hurt all at once. "So Pepper, Morgan and I finally went."
Sam smiled. "How was it?"
"Beautiful." You grinned. "Cold."
Rhodey laughed. "You get any rest?"
"Whenever Morgan decided sleep wasn't a conspiracy."
Both men chuckled.
"I didn't realize traveling with a four-year-old qualified as endurance training."
Sam nodded knowingly. "Told you. They grow up fast."
The laughter settled into comfortable silence. Then, your eyes drifted back toward the photograph. Steve. James. 1943. Still smiling. Still unaware of everything waiting for them.
For a long moment, you simply stared. Not at Steve. But at the young man standing beside him. The one who still had both arms. The one whose smile reached his eyes. The one you'd never really known.
Your gaze drifted toward the pedestal where Steve's uniform stood beneath the museum lights.
It looked complete. Almost. Except for the man who was supposed to be wearing it.
"Crazy," you murmured quietly, almost to yourself.
Sam looked over. "What is?"
You nodded toward the shield resting inside its display case. "It's strange to think..." Your voice softened. "...that nobody's going to be carrying it anymore."
Sam followed your gaze. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, he shrugged. "We went years without anybody carrying it when Steve was on ice." A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I think we'll be alright."
Rhodey remained silent. Long enough that both of you turned toward him.
"That was a different time, Sam." His tone wasn't judgmental. Only honest.
You continued wandering through the exhibit together. Photographs slowly gave way to artifacts from another lifetime. A faded leather jacket. Military uniforms. A compass. Letters preserved beneath glass. Pieces of Brooklyn. Pieces of history. Pieces of Steve. And, pieces of Bucky.
Your feet slowed almost involuntarily. The photograph from 1943 was larger here. Steve stood shoulder to shoulder with Bucky, both of them grinning at something beyond the camera.
Neither of them looked like soldiers. Just boys.
Rhodey noticed where Sam was looking. More accurately, where Sam wasn't looking.
"I see you're gonna make me ask."
Sam sighed.
"I figured." Rhodey folded his arms. "Why didn't you take up the mantle?"
Sam didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stared at the photograph of Steve. "When Steve first handed me the shield..." He smiled faintly. "The first thing I said was..." His eyes drifted toward the display behind you. “‘It feels like it belongs to someone else.’"
Rhodey nodded. "Mhm."
"That someone else..." Sam's voice caught for the briefest second. "...is Steve."
Silence settled around the three of you. It wasn't uncomfortable. Just heavy.
Finally, Rhodey exhaled. "The world's a crazy place right now."
You almost laughed. That was an understatement.
"Nobody's stable." He gestured vaguely around the museum. "A few months ago half the planet came back." He looked toward you. "Governments are barely functioning."
Your stomach tightened. He wasn't wrong. Most of your days were spent inside conference rooms trying to convince world leaders that enhanced individuals weren't weapons. Some believed you. Many didn't.
"Allies are enemies." Rhodey continued. "Old alliances are gone. The world's broken." His eyes returned to Sam. "And everybody's looking for someone to fix it."
Sam nodded quietly. "Yeah."
You looked away. I've seen it. Children separated from parents because borders had changed during the Blip. Countries arguing over citizens who didn’t exist for 5 years. Refugee camps overflowing. Entire governments trying to rewrite five years of history in six months.
No. The world wasn't broken. It was grieving. Just like all of you.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled your attention back. A group of Marines entered the gallery, their conversation echoing softly against the high ceilings. Almost instinctively, the three of you continued walking until the exhibit grew quiet again.
This section was newer. Brighter. At the center, the shield. Freshly polished. Already behind glass. Already becoming history.
Rhodey looked at his watch. "I've gotta run." He clasped Sam's shoulder. "It's a new day, brother. I'll be in touch."
Then he turned toward you. His expression softened. "Take care of yourself, sweetheart." He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss against the top of your head. "And tell Pepper, Morgan invited me for a tea party sometime.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. "I will."
He smiled. Then disappeared back toward the museum entrance.
Silence settled once more. Sam remained staring at the shield.
You stepped beside him, resting your hand lightly against his shoulder. "So..."
He smiled without looking at you. "You're leaving already?"
You sighed. "I've successfully ignored about a month's worth of emails."
He laughed. "Still doing the liaison work?"
"Unfortunately." You folded your arms. "Turns out when half the universe disappears and then suddenly comes back...international relations get complicated."
"Little bit."
"Just a little." You smiled. "Someone has to convince governments that enhanced people aren't the only reason the world's falling apart."
Sam finally looked at you. "You've always been good at seeing both sides."
"I try."
"No." He shook his head. "You really do." His expression softened. "I honestly wasn't sure you'd come today."
Neither had you. "I almost didn't."
"So why did you?"
You looked back toward Steve's exhibit. Toward the uniform. Toward the photographs. The shield. Toward the life he'd left behind.
"Because..." Your voice came quietly. "I admired Steve Rogers long before I ever loved Steve." You smiled sadly. "He deserves to be honored." You looked at Sam. "And...you deserve someone familiar standing beside you."
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Sam asked the question you'd known was coming. "You don't think I should've given it up."
It wasn't really a question. More, a quiet observation. You studied the shield. Its reflection shimmered across the glass.
"I don't think..." you began carefully, "...that it's my decision."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "But."
You smiled. "But I think Steve gave it to you."
He didn't interrupt.
"So whatever choice you make…make sure it's yours."
Not Steve's. Not the government's. Not the museum's. Yours.
Sam stared at the shield for a long moment. "You still think I made the wrong call."
You laughed softly. "I think..." You leaned over, kissing his cheek the way you had countless times before. "...you're smart enough to figure it out without me."
He chuckled. "That's not an answer."
"No." You stepped backward toward the exit. "It isn't."
He called your name.
You paused. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
You smiled. "For what?"
"For showing up."
Your eyes drifted one last time toward Steve's shield. Toward the symbol he'd carried. Toward the impossible expectations he'd left behind.
Then you looked back at Sam. "Take care of yourself."
"You too."
"And tell Sarah..."
"...Pepper still wants more cookies." Sam laughed. "I'll let her know."
You turned toward the museum doors. Neither of you noticed the television crews gathering just outside. Or the announcement waiting to change everything.
As you strolled through one of the beautiful parks in Washington, you sat a bench and just stared. Alone.
It was sunny, crowded with people laughing, kids playing, others riding their bikes. Washington was beautiful. Life had continued.
Then, a little kid ran past wearing a plastic Captain America shield. He pretended to throw it. His mother laughed.
"Come on, Steve."
You looked up, towards them. The little boy wasn't named Steve. He was pretending to be him. The tiny misunderstanding completely gutted you.
The days that followed blurred together. Meetings became flights. Flights became hotel rooms. Hotel rooms became conference tables.
Some mornings you woke up genuinely unsure what country you were in until someone handed you coffee and an itinerary. It was easier that way.
Busy people didn't have time to think. Your calendar became a carefully orchestrated distraction. United Nations briefings in Geneva. Emergency reconstruction conferences in Brussels. Meetings with the State Department in Washington. Panels discussing enhanced individuals, post-Blip international policy, displaced citizens, Stark technology regulations, refugee relocation, humanitarian funding...
The world had survived Thanos. Now it had to survive itself. And somewhere along the way, you'd become one of the people trying to hold the pieces together.
It wasn't glamorous. There were no explosions. No portals opening in the sky. No armies charging across battlefields. Just endless conversations between people who'd spent months learning how to distrust one another again.
Sometimes diplomacy felt harder than saving the universe.
You'd taken a rare week away from Washington to return to New York.
Not because you wanted a vacation. Because Pepper finally admitted she couldn't do it anymore. The first time she'd asked, she'd done it apologetically. The second time, she cried.
"I can't keep looking at his things." The words had barely left her mouth before she covered her face with both hands. "I know they're just buildings." She laughed bitterly through tears. "I know they're just patents and facilities and property deeds. But every single file has his name on it."
You'd crossed the room without thinking, wrapping your arms around her while she quietly fell apart.
For months, Pepper had carried Morgan. Carried you. Carried Stark Industries. Carried the impossible weight of moving forward after losing the love of her life.
You'd forgotten that someone needed to carry her.
"It's okay. They're yours," you'd whispered. "We'll figure it out together."
She shook her head. "No." She pulled back just enough to look at you. "They're ours."
Your throat tightened. "Pep..."
"Tony trusted you. He loved you." Her voice steadied. "So do I." She reached for the stack of property files spread across the dining room table. "I don't need six houses." A watery smile. "Morgan certainly doesn't." She slid one folder toward you. "If something should be kept..."
"You'll know."
Another folder. "If something should help people..."
"You'll know."
Then another. "If something should be sold..."
"...you'll know."
You looked down at the familiar Stark Industries logo printed across every folder. Labs. Research facilities. Manufacturing plants. Vacation homes. Private hangars. Warehouses. Entire buildings you'd never even visited. An empire.
One man had built all of it. Now it rested in the hands of the two women he'd loved most.
You weren't inheriting Tony's wealth. You were inheriting his responsibility. And somehow, that felt infinitely heavier.
The work itself became strangely therapeutic. Some properties remained under Stark Industries. Others were donated to universities. A handful became research grants. Several humanitarian facilities were transferred to organizations Tony had quietly funded for years.
Then there were the assets that governments wanted. Strategic locations. Former Avengers facilities. Storage compounds. Old laboratories. Most requests were immediately denied. Some weren't.
Every decision carried Tony's name. Every signature reminded you he should have been the one making them. Not you.
The rest of the world, meanwhile, refused to stop making headlines. There were reports of a mercenary organization calling themselves Flag Smashers, operating in Tunisia.
The intelligence brief crossed your desk like dozens of others. You read it. Flagged it. Forwarded it to the appropriate agencies. Then moved on.
Legally, there wasn't much your office could do. Not yet. You filed the report beneath a growing stack labeled Pending International Jurisdiction. Another problem for another day.
It was nearly midnight when you finally made it back to your apartment. New York glittered outside the windows, the city somehow as restless as your own thoughts. You kicked off your shoes, loosened your blazer, and collapsed onto the couch with every intention of enjoying five uninterrupted minutes of silence.
The television flickered quietly in the background. You weren't really watching it, too busy pretending to be into your tea. Until...
"...recent events have left us vulnerable."
Your attention shifted. The news anchor stood before a podium draped in American flags. Government officials lined the stage. Military personnel stood at attention.
You frowned. "What now..."
The Secretary of Defense's voice echoed through your apartment. "While we love heroes who put their lives on the line to defend Earth..."
You slowly reached for the remote. "...we also need a hero to defend this country." Something about his tone made your stomach knot. "We need someone who embodies America's greatest values."
No. "We need someone to inspire us again."
No. No… "Someone who can be a symbol for all of us."
Your fingers tightened around the remote. "On behalf of the Department of Defense..." Your pulse quickened. "...it is my honor to introduce..."
The curtain behind him opened. "...your new Captain America."
The crowd erupted into applause. A man stepped onto the stage. Blue suit. White star. Red gloves. And, Steve's shield.
Your breath caught. Not because someone else was wearing the uniform. Because it wasn't Sam.
For a long moment, you simply stared. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to understand.
Then, very quietly, almost to yourself, "You've got to be kidding me."
Summary: Steve Rogers is only supposed to be gone for five seconds. But when five seconds become an entire lifetime, you are forced to say goodbye to the future you thought you had and find unexpected understanding in the one person who knows exactly what it means to be left behind.
Author's note: Among Thieves is written in second-person POV, but the protagonist is an OC named Allison Stark, Tony Stark’s younger sister, and Steve Rogers ' fiancée. While the story follows the events of the MCU, some canon events, timelines, and character relationships have been altered to fit Allison’s story and her slow-burn relationship with Bucky Barnes. I hope you enjoy 🤍
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
The battlefield looked strangely peaceful in the daylight. It almost felt wrong.
Forty-eight hours ago, this ground had been littered with broken armor, shattered earth, and enough grief to last several lifetimes.
Now. The smoke had settled. The silence remained.
You stood beside Steve, your fingers lazily intertwined with his while Bruce made one last adjustment to the rebuilt Quantum Platform. Beyond the clearing, birds chirped as though the universe hadn't nearly ended.
Life had moved on. You weren't sure you ever would.
Bruce stepped away from the console, rubbing a hand across his face.
"Now remember," he began, pointing toward the briefcase containing the Infinity Stones. "You have to return the Stones to the exact moment you got them. Otherwise you're going to create a whole bunch of nasty alternative realities."
Steve smiled, "Don't worry, Bruce. I'll clip all the branches."
Bruce gave a tired laugh before it faded just as quickly. "You know..." His eyes lingered on the Stones. "When I had them... I tried."
Silence settled over the group.
"I really tried to bring her back."
Natasha. The name didn't need to be spoken.
Steve lowered his head.
"I miss her, man."
"Me too."
The words hit harder than you expected. Your throat tightened. No. Not here. Not again. You focused on the dirt beneath your boots, blinking rapidly before anyone could notice.
Except someone did. Sam's expression softened almost immediately. "You know..." he said, looking toward Steve. "If you want, I can come with you."
Steve smiled warmly. "You're a good man, Sam." His gaze drifted toward you for the briefest moment. "But this one's on me."
He crossed the distance between you in only a few steps. You expected another joke. Another reassuring smile. Instead. He simply looked at you. Really looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize your face. His thumb brushed softly against your cheek. Your heart skipped.
Something was different. You couldn't explain it. Only that something deep inside you whispered… Pay attention.
"Steve?"
His smile faltered. Just for a second. Before he leaned down and kissed you. Not hurried. Not playful. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was trying to pour every unspoken feeling into one final kiss.
His forehead rested against yours. His hands lingered along your jaw a heartbeat longer than they usually did.
You smiled. "What?"
Steve blinked. "...Nothing."
"Steve."
He laughed softly. "Just memorizing you."
You smiled. "You'll be gone for five seconds."
His smile faltered. "...Yeah."
Five seconds. He kissed you again. Slower this time. Like he couldn't quite convince himself to let go.
When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours once more. "I'll be right back, doll."
You smiled despite yourself. "Five seconds."
"Five seconds."
You watched him walk away. You never noticed the way his shoulders tensed. But someone did. Bucky.
Standing several feet away, he watched Steve with an expression you'd never seen before. Not fear. Not doubt. Something quieter. Something heavier.
Steve stopped beside him. "Don't do anything stupid till I get back."
Bucky huffed a laugh. "How can I?" His eyes never left Steve's. "You're taking all the stupid with you."
They embraced. Longer than usual. You smiled. They'd always found comfort in each other. Brothers.
Steve pulled away first. Bucky didn't. His hand remained gripping the back of Steve's jacket for just a fraction of a second longer. Barely noticeable.
Unless you'd spent your entire life watching soldiers say goodbye. Steve looked at him. Bucky looked back.
Steve gave the smallest nod. "It's gonna be okay, Buck."
Bucky looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded. "Yeah." His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Yeah."
Steve climbed onto the platform. Mjölnir rested comfortably in one hand. The case of Infinity Stones in the other.
You'd never gotten used to seeing him lift the hammer. Not after that party years ago. You remembered Tony insisting Steve had almost moved it. Steve insisting he hadn't.
The memory made your chest ache. Back then… You'd all believed there would always be another mission. Another Christmas. Another birthday. Another argument over takeout.
Bruce's voice pulled you back. "Ready, Cap?"
Steve nodded.
"We'll meet you right back here."
"You bet."
Bruce looked around the platform. "Going quantum. Three…”
You squeezed your hands together.
"Two..." Five seconds. "One." Steve vanished. The platform fell silent.
Bruce immediately began counting. "And returning in...Five."
Bruce's voice echoed across the clearing. "Four..."
Sam folded his arms, already grinning to himself. "Bet you Rogers comes back with another souvenir."
Bruce laughed tiredly. "Please don't even joke about that."
You smiled despite herself. Steve always came back. He always found a way.
"Three." Almost home.
"Two."..."One." Nothing.
Your smile disappeared. Bruce frowned. His fingers flew across the controls.
"No..."
Sam stepped forward. "Where is he?"
Bruce started typing. The clearing filled with voices. Questions. Confusion. Panic.
Bucky heard none of it. His eyes had never left the tree line. Somewhere beyond it, the lake shimmered beneath the morning sun. Steve had looked at him. Really looked at him. Not when they hugged.
Before that. Right before climbing onto the platform. It's gonna be okay, Buck.
Not, see you soon. It's gonna be okay.
Bucky closed his eyes. Eighty years together. Two boys from Brooklyn. One train. One war. Hydra. Wakanda. Thanos.
Steve had never been good at saying goodbye. He'd always hidden it inside ordinary sentences.
Bruce shouted something. Sam answered. Allison's voice cracked.
Bucky still didn't move. Because, somewhere inside him, he already knew. Steve Rogers hadn't missed the platform. Steve Rogers had finally gone home.
"I don't know." Bruce kept typing. "He blew right past his timestamp. He should be here."
Your pulse quickened. No. No. No. "Bruce."
"I'm trying."
"Get him back."
"I'm trying!"
"Get him the hell back!" Sam shouted.
Bucky hadn't moved. He wasn't looking at the platform anymore. He was looking toward the lake. His breathing slowed. Almost… Peacefully. "...Sam."
Something about his voice made every hair on your arms stand up. Sam turned. Bruce followed. You did too.
An old man sat quietly on a weathered log beneath the trees. Your knees nearly gave out. Bruce caught your arm before you hit the ground.
No. No. That wasn't, it couldn't. You looked at Bucky. Desperate. Confused. Terrified. He met your eyes. And gave the smallest nod. Not because he was happy. Because he understood before anyone else did.
"Go ahead."
You barely remembered walking. Only that every step felt impossibly heavy. As though somewhere inside you...You already knew.
"Cap?" Sam's voice sounded impossibly small.
The old man looked up from the bench. She looked at his face. The wrinkles. The gray hair. The wedding band. Decades. Entire decades. Christmas mornings. Sunday breakfasts. Arguments. Vacations. Birthdays. Quiet nights reading beside someone who loved him. An entire lifetime had happened. Without her ever existing inside it. Somehow, that hurt more than if he'd simply died.
"Hi, Sam." His gaze lingered on you. "...Allison."
Your name sounded different coming from him. Like something precious. Like a memory.
You stopped a few feet away. Close enough to reach him. Too far to touch.
Sam broke the silence first. "So... did something go wrong?"
A faint smile tugged at Steve's lips. "No." He glanced toward the lake before looking back at both of you. "I guess something finally went right."
The words landed somewhere deep inside your chest. Not like a knife. Like the slow realization that a door had quietly closed behind you.
Steve hadn't gotten lost. He hadn't died. He hadn't been trapped. He'd chosen. He had chosen another life. Without you.
Your throat tightened. You swallowed hard before your voice could betray you. "...How'd it work out?"
His smile softened. "It was beautiful."
For just a moment, you hated him. Not for leaving. For making it sound so simple.
Then, just as quickly, the feeling disappeared. Because you knew him. Really knew him. You knew the nightmares that still woke him. The guilt he'd never outrun. The longing he'd buried every day since waking up seventy years too late.
You had loved every broken piece of Steve Rogers. And because you loved him… You understood. Even if understanding hurt. You looked down at your hands. Your fingers still wore the ring he'd slipped onto them two Christmases ago.
A promise. A future. One he had quietly left behind.
"You always wondered," you whispered.
Steve's smile faded. "I did."
"What would've happened..."
He nodded. "If I'd stayed."
Silence stretched between you. The wind stirred the trees overhead. Somewhere in the distance, birds sang as though nothing in the universe had changed. Everything had.
"You should've told me."
The words escaped before you could stop them. Not angry. Just… Heartbroken.
Steve looked down. The silence lasted so long you wondered if he intended to answer.
Finally, "I tried."
You frowned.
He laughed quietly. "God..." He rubbed a weathered hand across his eyes. "I rehearsed that conversation a hundred times. I still remember it."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because..." His voice cracked. "...every version ended with me staying."
"I deserved the chance to say goodbye."
"I know."
"I deserved the chance to choose too."
His shoulders slumped. For the first time since you'd known him, Captain America looked small.
"I didn't know how." His voice cracked. "If I'd told you..." He looked at you then. Really looked at you. "I wouldn't have been able to leave."
Your eyes burned. "So instead..." You forced yourself to smile through the tears. "...you left without letting me try to stop you."
He didn't defend himself. Didn't explain. Didn't justify it. Because there wasn't a justification. Only a choice. And choices always cost someone.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. Then, very quietly, you laughed.
One soft, broken laugh. "You know..." You shook your head. "I spent years wondering how a man born in the forties could ever survive this century. And then you did."
"I did." Steve smiled through watery eyes.
"You built a life."
"I built a life."
"You loved me."
"I did." He blinked hard. "I still do."
Your breath caught. Not because you hadn't known. Because hearing it somehow made letting him go even harder.
You took one slow step closer. Then another. Until you were standing in front of him. You crouched beside the bench and gently took his weathered hands into yours. Age spots. Wrinkles. Hands that had once carried a shield. Hands that had once held yours.
"I hope..." Your voice trembled. "I hope she loved you the way you deserved to be loved." A tear escaped before you could stop it. "And I hope... after everything..." You squeezed his hands. "...you finally found some peace."
Steve couldn't speak. He simply nodded. His own tears slipping free.
After a long moment, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. The embrace felt unfamiliar. Smaller. Fragile. But somehow...still Steve.
When you finally pulled away, your thumb brushed across his cheek. "I'm glad," you whispered.
He frowned. "You are?"
You smiled through tears. "If you'd asked me." You watched his face crumble. "I would’ve let you go." You looked toward the horizon. "...love isn't always choosing the same road."
Steve closed his eyes. He already knew. "I'm sorry."
"I know."
And somehow… That hurt even more.
Sam cleared his throat behind you, giving both of you the grace of pretending he hadn't heard any of it.
"The only thing bumming me out..." he said with a watery laugh, "...is that I gotta live in a world without Captain America."
Steve smiled. "Oh." He reached beside him. "That reminds me." He lifted the shield. It caught the morning light exactly the way it always had. "Try it on."
Sam looked back toward Bucky. Bucky gave one quiet nod. No words. Just permission.
Sam accepted the shield with both hands.
"How's it feel?" Steve asked.
Sam stared down at the vibranium. "...Like it's someone else's."
Steve smiled. "It isn't."
Tears welled in Sam's eyes. "Thank you." He swallowed. "I'll do my best."
"I know you will." Steve rested a hand over Sam's. "That's why it's yours."
You stepped back, allowing them their moment. This wasn't yours. This belonged to them. To Steve. To Sam. To Captain America.
Your gaze drifted away. Only then did you notice the simple gold band resting on Steve's left hand.
Your chest tightened. Of course.
Sam noticed it too. "You wanna tell me about her?"
Steve's smile grew impossibly soft. The kind of smile reserved for memories no one else could touch. "No." He chuckled quietly. "I don't think I will."
Another tear escaped before you could catch it. You turned away quickly, wiping it with the sleeve of your jacket before anyone could notice.
Anyone...Except one person.
From where he stood beneath the trees, Bucky Barnes watched you. Not Steve. Not Sam. You.
He watched you standing alone beside the water. Watched the way your shoulders stiffened. The way you hid your tears before they could become sobs. The engagement ring still caught the sunlight. The way you smiled anyway.
Steve had left. But unlike Steve, you hadn't chosen this ending.
Bucky looked away. Because for the first time since 1945, he understood what it felt like to be the one left behind.
The clearing had emptied almost without you realizing it. Bruce. Sam. The platform. Gone. Even Steve. Eventually.
Only silence remained. You stood staring across the lake. Your engagement ring caught the afternoon sunlight. She couldn't stop looking at it. It suddenly felt impossibly heavy.
Footsteps approached behind her. Quiet. Familiar. You didn't turn. Somehow, you already knew.
Bucky stopped beside you. Neither of you spoke. The wind stirred the trees overhead. Somewhere nearby, birds continued singing. As though the universe hadn't just quietly changed forever.
Bucky looked toward the lake. "He loved you."
The words were almost swallowed by the wind.
You swallowed hard. "...I know." Silence. Then, "I'm angry anyway."
Summary: In the aftermath of Tony Stark’s sacrifice, the world mourns Iron Man, but you mourn your brother. As the people he loved gather to say goodbye, you’re left to face a painful truth: sometimes the hardest part of losing someone isn’t letting them go, but learning to live in all the places their love remains.
Author's note: Among Thieves is written in second-person POV, but the protagonist is an OC named Allison Stark, Tony Stark’s younger sister, and Steve Rogers ' fiancée. While the story follows the events of the MCU, some canon events, timelines, and character relationships have been altered to fit Allison’s story and her slow-burn relationship with Bucky Barnes. I hope you enjoy 🤍
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter
Tony Stark cheated at Mario Kart. He was one of the smartest people on the planet. Yet, he insisted he didn't. Even when there was video evidence. Especially when there was video evidence.
"That race doesn't count," he'd argued once, pointing dramatically at the television while you laughed so hard soda nearly came out of your nose. "Your controller disconnected."
"Tony."
"Mine disconnected."
"You drove into a banana."
"Strategically."
"You drove into three bananas."
"They were aggressively placed."
You'd laughed until your stomach hurt. He'd demanded a rematch. You'd beaten him again. Somehow he'd still walked away convinced he'd won.
Funny. The memories that survived grief weren't the important ones. They weren't the battles. They weren't the speeches. They weren't the moments that changed the world.
They were bananas in Mario Kart. Burnt pancakes on Saturday mornings. Tony singing the wrong lyrics on purpose just to annoy Pepper. Morgan taking one of his vintage ACDC shirts because she thought it made the best cape in the world.
They were ordinary. Wonderfully, painfully, ordinary. Those were the memories your mind refused to let go of. Because they were proof that even when he became Iron Man, Tony Stark had simply always been your brother.
Since the day your brother decided to prove, once again, that he was the most selfless idiot on the planet, the world had refused to make sense.
People kept asking if you were okay. You hated that question.
As if there were an answer that could somehow make any of this easier. As if "okay" was something a person could still be after watching their brother die to save half the universe.
Sleep became something other people did. You simply closed your eyes. Sometimes for ten minutes. Sometimes for an hour. Never long enough to dream. Because dreaming meant seeing him again. And waking up meant losing him twice.
So eventually, you stopped trying.
Instead, you drifted in and out of memories. Tony smiling. Tony arguing. Tony laughing so hard he snorted whenever you managed to beat him in any videogame.
Then your mind always found its way back to the battlefield. "Hey, Pep." The crack in her voice. "We're going to be okay." The light leaving his eyes.
You stopped sleeping after that.
Stopped eating, too, unless Pepper quietly set a plate in front of you and looked at you with those exhausted eyes that silently pleaded, Please. Morgan needs one of us to function.
So you ate. Not because you were hungry. Because Morgan deserved at least one adult who wasn't falling apart.
Morgan had started asking strange questions. Questions only four-year-olds could ask. "Does Heaven have cheeseburgers?" "Can Daddy call us if he misses us?" "If I draw him a picture...how does it get there?"
Pepper always answered. Somehow.
You never could. So instead, you colored beside her. Because sometimes loving a child meant admitting you didn't have answers either
She was too young to understand why Daddy wasn't coming home. Too young to understand why every room in the lake house suddenly felt impossibly quiet. Too young to know that losing a parent wasn't supposed to happen this early.
You knew. You'd lived it once already. You refused to let her live it alone. Pepper was surviving the only way she knew how, by keeping her hands busy. There were papers to sign. Calls to return. Arrangements to make.
Tony had somehow managed to leave behind an entire empire, and even after saving the universe, people still expected the Stark name to keep the world turning.
You helped where you could. You answered questions. Sorted files. Smiled politely through meetings you barely remembered attending.
Anything to keep Pepper from drowning beneath responsibilities that had suddenly become hers.
Steve never told you everything would be okay. He knew better. There wasn't a version of the universe where Tony came home. There wasn't a speech capable of stitching a hole that large back together.
So, he stopped trying.
Instead, he made coffee. Terrible coffee. Because apparently ninety years of life hadn't taught Steve Rogers how measurements worked.
He quietly folded laundry. Sat beside Morgan during cartoons. Fixed a cabinet Tony had promised to fix six months ago. Held your hand whenever your thoughts became louder than the room.
Sometimes, love looked remarkably ordinary.
The living room was quiet enough to hear Morgan's uneven breathing.
She sat curled between you and Pepper, tiny fingers absentmindedly playing with the sleeve of your sweater while Happy occupied the seat beside you. His hand rested over yours, his grip firm enough to remind you that someone was still there.
Rhodey stood near the fireplace. He hadn't sat down once. Steve lingered in the doorway. Bruce kept taking his glasses off. Cleaning lenses that weren't dirty. Happy's coffee had gone cold nearly an hour ago. Thor stared out the window as though expecting someone to walk back through the front door.
No one spoke. Tony always filled rooms with noise. Without him... Silence felt wrong.
The only person unaware something was missing was Morgan.
Somehow, that made it worse.
Bruce carefully set the damaged Iron Man helmet on the table. A soft blue glow flickered to life. Then your brother appeared.
"Everybody wants a happy ending, right?"
Your breath caught.
Morgan's entire face lit up. "Daddy!"
She smiled so instinctively that, for one impossible second, your own heart forgot he was gone. You smiled before you realized you were smiling. Your body still hadn't learned he was gone.
Then reality came crashing back. This wasn't Tony. It was the closest the universe would ever let any of you come again.
"...I'm hoping if you play this back, it's in celebration."
You laughed. Or maybe you cried. It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell the difference.
Tony looked exactly like Tony. Comfortably slouched. Hair a mess. Talking with his hands as though he couldn't physically tell a story without them.
"If there ever was such a thing."
God… He knew. Not exactly. But somehow… He knew. Every joke. Every pause. Every smile. It felt less like a goodbye and more like he'd stepped into another room.
Beside you, Morgan giggled at something only she understood. Your chest tightened. She wasn't old enough to recognize what this recording really was.
To her, Daddy was talking. Daddy was smiling. Daddy was coming back.
You wished, more than anything, you could believe that too.
"So I thought I'd probably better record a little greeting..." Tony continued, his voice impossibly familiar. "In the case of an untimely death on my part."
You rolled your eyes through fresh tears. Of course. Even his own farewell had to begin with sarcasm.
"Death at any time isn't untimely..."
The room laughed. A broken, fragile sound. The kind people made when they desperately needed permission to smile.
Love didn't leave all at once. It lingered. In coffee cups no one wanted to wash. In half-finished conversations. In Morgan's laugh. In Pepper's wedding ring. In Steve's hand wrapped around yours.
In every room Tony Stark had ever entered. You hadn't realized it yet, but grief wasn't learning to live without someone. It was learning all the new places they continued to exist.
Pepper was the first to step outside.
She carried the wreath with both hands, holding it carefully, almost reverently, as though setting it down too quickly might somehow make this goodbye permanent. Morgan stayed glued to her side, one small hand wrapped around Pepper's fingers while the other clung tightly to yours. You squeezed her hand before she could squeeze yours. She smiled up at you. Your heart shattered all over again. Children weren't supposed to know grief this young.
Neither of you spoke as you followed Pepper toward the lake.
The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The water stretched before you, impossibly still, reflecting a pale gray sky that couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to rain.
Maybe it already had. It was difficult to tell where the drizzle ended and your tears began.
The others were already waiting. Not in neat rows. Not like soldiers. Like family. People who had once crowded around conference tables arguing over impossible plans...who had celebrated birthdays...shared takeout at three in the morning after missions...laughed until Tony threatened to ban Thor from touching another piece of expensive technology.
Now they stood together because none of them knew how to say goodbye. Peter stared at the ground, shoulders shaking despite every effort to stand tall. Rhodey leaned heavily on his feet, looking older than you had ever seen him. Bruce folded his arms tightly across his chest, as though holding himself together. Thor didn't bother hiding the tears running freely down his face. Sam stood quietly beside Bucky.
And Bucky… Bucky stood a little farther back than everyone else. Like he still wasn't convinced he belonged among them.
Your eyes found Steve almost immediately. His cheeks were damp. His eyes were bloodshot. He offered you the smallest nod. Not encouragement. Not reassurance. Just a silent I'm here. It was enough.
Pepper knelt carefully at the water's edge.
For a long moment, she simply looked at the wreath resting in her hands. Nestled among the flowers sat the first arc reactor Tony had ever built, the one she'd rescued years ago and framed beneath a simple message:
Proof That Tony Stark Has a Heart.
Back then it had been a joke. A reminder that beneath all the sarcasm, arrogance, and impossible genius was a man capable of loving with everything he had.
Now... It had become his epitaph.
Pepper lowered the wreath onto the surface of the lake. It floated effortlessly. The water accepted it without resistance, carrying it farther and farther away with the gentle current.
No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the quiet lapping of water against the shore. You watched until the flowers blurred into patches of color. Until the arc reactor became nothing more than a faint circle of blue. Until there was nothing left to watch.
People lingered long after the ceremony should have ended. No one seemed ready to leave. Maybe because walking away meant admitting Tony really was gone.
Conversations happened in hushed voices. Arms wrapped around shoulders. Hands found hands. People cried openly now. There was no reason not to.
You watched Clint cross the lawn toward Wanda. Neither of them spoke. He simply opened his arms. She collapsed into them.
They had both lost the person who understood them most. There weren't any words big enough for that kind of grief.
One by one, the gathering slowly began to thin. Bruce left with Sam. Thor embraced Rocket before disappearing toward the Benatar. Peter stood with May for a long time before Happy quietly rested a hand against his shoulder and led them toward the cars.
Eventually… It was just you.
You hadn't realized your feet had carried you back to the edge of the lake. The wreath had long since disappeared downstream. You wondered if that was what grief looked like.
Not vanishing. Just drifting farther away until you could no longer see it, even though you knew it was still there.
Footsteps crunched softly across the grass behind you. You didn't turn around. You already knew who it was. Steve stopped beside you. Neither of you spoke. There wasn't anything left to say.
His fingers brushed yours before gently intertwining with your hand. You let out a shaky breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Then he pulled you into his arms.
You buried your face against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Strong. Familiar. Safe.
For the first time since Tony had died, you let yourself stop pretending to be okay. Steve didn't tell you everything would be alright. He didn't offer false hope or empty promises. He simply held you. And somehow… That was enough. For now.
