FAULT LINES
CHAPTER 1
📋 MASTERLIST
C's corner: Fault Lines tracks the MCU timeline (with a few tweaks for drama, your honor). Some scenes are canon-adjacent, some are fully mine, and all of them are here to emotionally ruin you in the most tender way possible. Buckle up.
This is written in second POV, but reader will have a name, Mara Hart, it won't be used often, but will pop up every now and then, especially her nickname, Em.
I was originally going to post this the last week of December, but... Fuck it! Merry early Christmas loves. 🫶🏽🎄
WARNINGS: angst, high tension, canon-typical violence, mentions of HYDRA brainwashing & trauma (Bucky), panic, claustrophobic crowd situations, government/police custody, arrest, restraints (handcuffs), threat of execution, “shoot to kill” implications, emotional distress, fear responses.
✍🏽 WC: 8.6K+
SUMMARY: When news breaks that Bucky Barnes has resurfaced, Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson don’t hesitate. Neither do you. You’ve barely had time to find your footing with the Avengers, but you can’t stand the thought of the government getting to him first, not when “capture” sounds a lot like “execution.” The first fault line cracks wide open and you’re standing right in the middle of it.
TAGS: @iwritefanfictionsnottragedies, @quantumlethe, @qvicksilversass
You didn't join the Avengers for this.
Not the fugitive status. Not the arrest warrants. And definitely not to be crammed into the back of a nondescript cargo van with Captain America, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, while the world plays the same grainy security footage over and over again.
But that's what's playing on the tiny screen bolted to the van's ceiling, King T'Chaka's final moments in Vienna, the explosion, the blurry frame where the Winter Soldier's face is caught in soot and smoke.
How were you to know that, briefly after joining the Avengers, things would get so complicated?
"Volume down," Sam mutters from the front, leaning over the monitor and stabbing the controls until the sound clicks off. "We get it. They've played the loop a hundred times."
Across from you, Steve doesn't look away from the frozen image of Bucky Barnes' face. His hands are braced on his knees, knuckles pale through his gloves. His shield is propped between his boots, the star catching the thin light that slips in from the gaps in the van doors.
You feel the tension in the air like a storm front, electric, thick, and heavy. You've been with the Avengers for all of four months. You've seen your fair share of weird: alien robots, Sokovia fallout, politics that made your head spin.
But this is different.
This is personal.
"Sharon said the CIA's already in Bucharest," Sam says, turning in his seat to glance back at you both. "Joint Counter Terrorist Centre's coordinating from Berlin. They see Barnes, they don't talk. They shoot."
You shift your weight, the borrowed tactical gear suddenly too tight around your shoulders. "So we're racing an entire government agency to grab one guy who may or may not have bombed a UN summit. No pressure."
Sam huffs a humorless laugh. "Hey, at least you're getting the full Avengers experience. Betrayal, manhunts, international incident. Really rounds out the resume."
Steve finally looks away from the screen. His eyes flick to you, softening for a fraction of a second. "He didn't do it."
You've heard that sentence three times since you got the call to suit up. Each time, he says it with a little more steel.
"You're sure?" you ask quietly.
"I know him," Steve says. "That… thing in Vienna. I don't care what the footage shows. That wasn't Bucky."
You've heard the stories. The files you weren't supposed to see, the whispered mission reports, the outdated black and white photos Steve sometimes keeps near his gear, one of them of a smiling, dark haired soldier with his arm thrown around a much smaller Steve.
Bucky Barnes was a person long before he was the Winter Soldier.
You stare at the frozen image again. The haunted eyes. The set of his jaw.
You've never met him. And yet, somehow, you feel like you've been living under his shadow since the day you joined the team.
Sam's phone buzzes. He checks it, mouth tightening.
"Sharon says we're ten minutes out," he reports. "CIA's already canvassing his last known address. If we want to get there first, we gotta move."
The van jolts as it hits a pothole. The city outside is just a blur of grey and neon through the slats, Bucharest, you think. You haven't even processed the jet ride over, the way Steve paced the entire time, or the way Sam kept making quiet jokes just to fill the air.
You swallow, rubbing your thumb across your nervous palm.
"You sure you want me here for this?" you ask, more to Steve than to Sam. "I mean, I'm the new one. 'Hi, nice to meet you, I'm with the guy you've tried to kill several times'? Great icebreaker."
"You're here because I trust you," Steve says simply.
You blink. You weren't expecting that.
Sam tips his head. "Also, we might need someone who's not a walking piece of American propaganda to talk him down."
Steve gives him a flat look. Sam just grins.
The van slows. You feel the change in momentum, a subtle shift that says you're leaving the main road, weaving into tighter streets. The engine idles, then cuts off.
"Showtime," Sam mutters, opening the side door.
Cold air hits you first, sharp and dry, tinged with exhaust and something frying from a street vendor nearby. You step out onto worn pavement, pulling your cap lower, tugging your jacket tighter around you.
Bucharest hums around you, cars, distant sirens, people talking in a language you don't understand, all of it layered over that constant buzzing awareness in your chest that things could go bad very, very quickly.
Steve shoulders his backpack, the shield disguised under a hoodie. "Sam, eyes from above," he says. "Hart, you're with me."
You fall into step beside him, heart thudding. This close, you can feel the quiet determination coming off him in waves.
"You okay?" he asks under his breath as you cross the narrow street.
"Define okay," you murmur.
He almost smiles. "You're gonna do fine."
You want to believe him.
Sam peels off down the alley, wings hidden in his backpack rig, trying to look like any other guy out for a walk as he checks rooftops and corners. Steve leads you toward a faded apartment block, the concrete stained and cracked, balconies cluttered with laundry and plants and satellite dishes.
The kind of place a ghost might try to live in.
Sharon's voice crackles in your earpiece. "You're close. Barnes' alias popped on local surveillance three days ago. He's been in and out of that building."
You look up at the windows. Any one of them could be him, watching you right now.
"Copy," Steve says. "We'll go in quiet."
"Emphasis on quiet," Sharon replies. "You're already on half the world's watchlists. Don't give them another reason to shoot on sight."
Steve reaches the front entrance and hesitates. The door's locked with a rusted metal gate. He glances at you.
You move ahead, fingers working quickly over the worn latch. It takes a little finesse and some muscle, but with a soft click, it gives. You push the gate open, the hinges squealing a protest.
"Nice," Sam says in your ear. "Remind me not to piss you off."
You smirk without thinking. "You're already on the list."
Steve leads the way up the dim stairwell, steps muffled on the cracked tiles. The place smells like bleach and old smoke and boiled cabbage. You pass a woman carrying groceries, a kid dragging a backpack. Normal lives, normal problems.
And somewhere above you, a man the whole world wants dead.
On the third floor landing, Steve pauses. You see it, the way his shoulders tighten, the way his gaze sharpens. He knows this is it.
"Which one?" you whisper.
He doesn't answer verbally. He just walks to a particular door halfway down the hall, scuffed and nondescript, a crooked number hanging precariously by one nail.
Your pulse jumps. You stand to the side of the frame, out of direct line with the peephole, hands damp.
"Sam?" Steve murmurs.
"Two vans just turned onto the street," Sam replies. "Marked CIA. They're not here for the sightseeing tour. You got maybe five minutes, tops."
"Then let's make them count." Steve lifts his hand and knocks.
A beat passes. The hallway buzzes with a flickering light overhead.
No answer.
He knocks again, firmer this time. "Bucky, it's Steve."
Silence stretches. Your stomach twists.
Then, soft, so soft you almost miss it, the faint scrape of movement inside.
Steve looks at you, breath held. You nod once, nails biting into your palms.
The door opens a crack.
You catch a glimpse, dark hair, shadowed eyes, the outline of a face you know better from blurry files than from reality. His gaze flicks to Steve first, something like recognition and pain colliding all at once.
"Steve," he says, voice rough, like he hasn't used it in days.
It does something to your chest, hearing that one word.
"Bucky," Steve murmurs, relief and grief tangled in the syllables.
The door opens a little wider, enough for you to be visible. Bucky's eyes shift, landing on you, and for a heartbeat everything else drops away.
Those eyes are not the dead, empty ones you saw in the Hydra mission reports. They're wary, yes, coiled with tension, but aware. Blue and sharp and so full of things you can't read that it rattles you.
You swallow. "Hi," you say, because your brain picks the worst possible moments to crash. "I'm... with... Mara"
Smooth. Really smooth.
Bucky's gaze sweeps over you, lingering just long enough that you feel it like a touch before he returns his focus to Steve. "You shouldn't be here."
Neither should you, you think, but you don't say it.
"We need to talk," Steve says quietly. "About Vienna. About what they think you did."
"I didn't bomb the UN," Bucky snaps. Too fast. Too defensive.
"I know," Steve replies instantly.
The conviction in his voice makes something twist in your chest. You don't know Bucky. But you know Steve. And you've never seen him this certain about anything except the shield on his arm and the people he calls friends.
Bucky's jaw clenches. His metal arm is hidden beneath a glove and long sleeve, but you can almost sense the weight of it. "Doesn't matter. They won't care."
He's right. You've seen the way the talking heads on TV are already salivating over the story, the fallen assassin, the vengeful king, the political fallout.
"Let us help," you blurt, surprising even yourself. "Just… let us try."
His gaze cuts back to you, sharp, assessing. It's like being pinned in place by a spotlight.
"Who are you?" he asks, something almost suspicious in his tone.
"I'm someone who doesn't like the idea of you getting shot in the street for something you didn't do."
Sam's voice snaps back into your ear. "Uh, not to kill the heartfelt moment or anything, but we've got company. CIA's out of the vans. They're gearing up."
Steve exhales slowly. "Bucky. Please."
There's a long beat where you can see the war inside him, fight or flight, trust or run, machine or man.
Finally, he steps back, opening the door wider. "You've got two minutes."
You slip inside after Steve, closing the door behind you.
The apartment is small, almost painfully so. Sparse furniture, bare walls, a sagging couch. A pot on the stove you suspect once held coffee now reduced to stale residue.
There are little signs of a life trying very hard to be normal, a pair of worn boots by the door, a half empty loaf of bread on the counter, a stack of cheap notebooks on the table.
You're drawn to those notebooks like a magnet. The top one is open, pen resting across the spine. Your eyes flick over the visible page. Short sentences. Times. Places. Phrases like anchors: Buy plums. Don't talk to anyone. Roof at night.
"I write things down," Bucky says, noticing your focus. "So I don't forget."
There's no shame in his voice. Just blunt fact.
You nod, throat tight. "It's smart."
"Vans are closing in," Sam says. "They've got a tactical unit with them, not just suits. This is going to get loud if we don't move."
Steve steps closer to Bucky. "We can clear your name. But we can't do that if you're dead or disappeared again."
Bucky's eyes flick toward the window, like he can see the approaching storm through the walls. "You want me to trust you."
"Yes."
"And if you're wrong?" Bucky asks, gaze flint-hard now. "If this is just… another trick? Another leash?"
Steve doesn't flinch. "Then you can blame me."
You can feel the weight of the choice hanging between them, thick and suffocating.
You take a small step forward, hands raised slightly to show you're not a threat. "You haven't met me before today, so I don't have a history to weaponize against you. But… I do know what it's like to have people decide who you are before you walk into a room." You shrug, a little self conscious. "I'm not asking you to trust us. Just… trust that you want to live long enough to decide what happens next."
His eyes lock with yours again, and this time you see a flicker, something like surprise at being understood, even a little.
"Steve, we're out of time," Sam says, urgency punching through the comm. "They're at the door."
As if on cue, there's a heavy thud from the hallway. The unmistakable rhythm of tactical boots. Muffled orders in English.
Bucky's entire body tightens. You see the shift, the way his shoulders square, his stance changing from wary to combat ready. The part of him that once was a weapon snapping to the surface like muscle memory.
"Back door?" Steve asks.
"Doesn't matter," Bucky replies, tone clipped. "They'll have the stairs covered. They always do."
Another pounding knock rattles the door. "CIA! Open up!"
You flinch. Steve moves automatically, placing himself between the door and the two of you, shield sliding from under his jacket with practiced ease.
You realize your hands are trembling. You curl them into fists.
Bucky glances at the notebooks on the table, at the half life he's built here, and you see it, the split second of grief for yet another existence he has to abandon. Then he looks at you.
"When this goes sideways," he says quietly, "stay behind him."
You almost laugh. "That's the plan."
He huffs a humorless sound that might almost pass for a chuckle if the situation weren't about to explode.
The door shakes again, harder this time. You hear the metallic whine of a breaching tool being set.
"Steve..." Sam starts.
"I know," Steve says. He glances at you, eyes steady. "You ready?"
No.
"Yes," you say.
Because ready or not, you're in this now. In the middle of a world that hates the man standing at your side, that wants to kill the man behind you.
Outside, someone shouts. The breaching charge hits the lock with a deafening crack.
"CIA! Hands where I can see them!"
"Get on the ground! Now!"
Everything happens at once.
Steve's shield snaps up, catching the first burst of gunfire with a deafening clang. You flinch at the sound, ears ringing. Bucky moves, no hesitation now, no wary confusion, just pure, drilled in instinct.
He grabs you by the shoulder and yanks you sideways, out of the line of fire. Your back hits the wall just as a bullet punches into the plaster where your head was.
"Stay down," he growls.
You don't.
You drop to a crouch, but your hand goes for the small sidearm at your hip, muscle memory kicking in. You're the new one on the team, but you're still on the team. You're not going to curl up and let this happen around you.
"Hold your fire!" one of the agents barks. "Barnes! On the ground! Do it, or..."
Bucky grabs the nearest table with his metal arm and flips it into the path of the door like it weighs nothing, sending one agent sprawling. Steve deflects another bullet that would've hit your leg.
"Bucky, don't!" Steve starts.
Too late.
Bucky's already moving toward the back of the apartment. He smashes through the thin wall with his shoulder like it's paper, spilling dust and fragments of plaster into the air.
You cough, eyes stinging. "He's going for the..."
"Window," Steve finishes, already on his heels.
He glances back at you. "Stay with me!"
You bolt after them, darting past an agent still flat on his back. He tries to grab your ankle; you twist, drive your boot into his wrist, and keep running.
The back room is cramped, dominated by a single bed and a narrow window overlooking the courtyard. Bucky's already halfway out of it, torso hanging over empty space three stories up.
"Bucky!" Steve shouts. "Stop!"
Bucky doesn't stop. He gives Steve a look, something wordless and raw, then drops.
Your stomach lurches as you reach the window. He hits the next balcony down, rolls, and uses the momentum to fling himself to the one below that. It's not graceful, exactly, but it's efficient.
Alarms are already blaring in the building. You hear shouting in Romanian, a baby crying, a dog barking hysterically.
Steve swings himself out onto the ledge. "I'll go after him," he says over his shoulder. "You..."
"Don't say 'stay here,'" you snap, adrenaline burning through your nerves. "I'm not staying here."
He hesitates for half a second. You use it.
You climb out onto the narrow ledge beside him before he can argue, fingers digging into the rough concrete. The drop is enough to make your legs go weak if you think about it too hard.
"Great," Sam's voice crackles in your ear. "Everyone's jumping off buildings today."
"Where are they?" you gasp, looking down.
"Courtyard," Sam replies. "Barnes is heading toward the next building. Steve, you've got a rooftop exit if you can get up one more floor. Em, try not to die, okay?"
"I'll pencil it in."
Steve drops down to the next balcony, landing hard enough that the metal railing groans. He reaches up without looking, hand open.
You suck in a breath and jump.
His fingers clamp around your wrist, grip unshakable. He swings you down, and your boots hit the balcony with a sharp jolt up your spine.
Somewhere above you, an agent yells into a radio. There's going to be a whole lot more of them in about thirty seconds.
"Go," Steve says.
You run.
Down one floor, through an open apartment where a woman screams at you in confusion, out another window, onto another balcony.
You catch glimpses of Bucky as you move as he vaults a railing like it's nothing.
For a moment, you understand why the world is terrified of him.
Then you see what he's actually doing. The way he shoves a civilian out of the way before he barrels past. The way he adjusts his path to avoid a kid coming out of a stairwell.
Weapon or not, there's still a person in there.
You're halfway across a rooftop when you see him falter.
He reaches the edge and pulls up short, eyes narrowing. There's someone standing on the adjacent roof, tall, broad shouldered, dressed head to toe in a sleek black suit that gleams slightly in the light.
The helmet is shaped like a cat's head, ears pointed, eyes narrowed to silver slits.
You skid to a stop beside Steve, chest heaving. "Who the hell is that?"
"I have no idea," Steve says.
But the way his posture tightens tells you he has a guess.
The man in the cat-suit, the one you'll later know as T'Challa, as Black Panther, doesn't hesitate. He leaps the gap between buildings, claws extended, moving with a fluid, terrifying grace.
Bucky barely gets his arms up in time.
They collide with a bone crunching impact, rolling across gravel and tar. You wince as sparks fly where metal arm meets vibranium claws. The sound is wrong, too high, too sharp, like knives on glass.
"Sam, you seeing this?" you pant.
"I'm seeing it," Sam says grimly. "King T'Chaka had a son. Figured he wouldn't sit this one out."
Right. The dead king from the footage. The one everyone blames Bucky for.
You thought this was complicated before. Turns out you were just in the tutorial level.
You sprint across the roof as Steve charges forward, shield up. Bucky breaks from the grapple long enough to bolt for the opposite edge, the only exit left.
The Panther slashes at him, claws raking sparks along the metal arm. Bucky grunts in pain, stumbling.
"Bucky!" Steve calls.
Bucky doesn't answer. He just runs.
You're close enough now to see the muscles bunch in his legs as he launches himself off the roof, dropping toward the narrow gap and the building below.
"Don't..." you start.
He lands on a lower balcony, then kicks the door in and vanishes inside.
The Panther doesn't hesitate. He jumps after him.
Steve reaches the edge and looks down, jaw set.
You swear under your breath. Three stories, maybe four. The ground below is a tangle of balconies, wiring, clotheslines. One bad jump and you're going to be modern art.
"Sam, stairwell?" you gasp.
"There's one to your left," Sam says. "Door's stuck, but you're strong, right?"
You and Steve pivot toward the rooftop access door. Steve shoulders it open like it offended him personally. You follow him into the stairwell, boots pounding on concrete.
The air smells like dust and metal and the faint tang of mildew. You leap down steps in twos and threes, hand skimming the railing to keep your balance.
You hear it before you see it, the crash of breaking glass, the thud of bodies hitting walls, someone grunting in pain.
Then you burst through a door onto a lower floor hallway just in time to see Bucky slam into a wall, the Panther's claws embedded in his jacket, pinning him.
"Stop!" you shout, gun raised.
The Panther's helmet turns toward you, lenses locking on. The weight of that gaze is suffocating. He looks at your gun, then at Steve barreling out behind you, shield up.
He lets go of Bucky long enough to avoid getting mowed down by a vibranium frisbee. The shield ricochets off the wall, barely missing both of them, and clangs back to Steve's arm.
"You are protecting him," the Panther says, voice modulated but clear. The accent is unfamiliar, clipped. "You protect the man who killed my father."
"He was framed!" you snap, even as you mentally note that arguing with the grieving son of a murdered king is probably not in the Avenger handbook.
"There's a time and place for this!" Steve says. "This isn't..."
Bucky bolts again.
You're starting to understand why Steve looks ten years older than his actual age most days.
"Stairs!" Sam yells. "He's heading down. They're almost at ground level."
You, Steve, Black Panther, everyone moves at once, funneling toward the stairwell like water toward a drain.
Chaos.
You don't even remember how you get outside. One moment you're pounding down concrete steps, the next you're bursting out into a cluttered courtyard, sunlight and shouting crashing over you like a wave.
Bucky vaults a low wall. You clamber after him with less grace, your boots scraping on stone. The Panther is a shadow to your right, fast and silent. Steve is a constant, steady presence at your back.
"Street level," Sam reports. "He's heading for the underpass. Traffic's a mess."
Of course it is. Why run in an empty field when you can run through rush hour?
You chase Bucky out onto a busy road. Cars screech, horns blare, drivers shout in at least three languages as you all spill into traffic.
Bucky jumps onto the top of a moving car, then to another, using them like stepping stones. The Panther follows, claws digging into metal. Sparks shower the windshield of a sedan as he uses it to launch himself forward.
"Sam!" you yell, dodging around a honking cab. "Any chance you can do something about..."
"I'm on it," he says, and then he's above you, wings flaring as he dives into the chase.
You see him streak overhead, a red and silver blur weaving through the chaos.
"Left lane!" he calls. "He's going for the ramp!"
You push yourself harder, lungs burning. You almost get clipped by a motorcycle and have to twist out of its path, palm slamming against the hood of a van as you use it to propel yourself faster.
Bucky reaches the concrete barrier at the edge of the elevated roadway and vaults it, dropping onto the tunnel road below.
Black Panther follows.
You hit the barrier, hesitate for a split second as you look down. Cars are shooting through the tunnel below at terrifying speeds.
"Don't think," Steve says, suddenly at your side. "Jump."
You hate that he's right.
You climb onto the barrier and hurl yourself into space.
The drop steals your breath. Wind roars in your ears. For a heartbeat, you're weightless.
Then you hit the roof of a moving car, knees almost buckling. The driver looks up through the windshield, eyes wide with horror.
"Sorry!" you shout, because you're polite like that.
You jump again, landing on the next car closer to where Bucky is tearing down the road on foot now, weaving between vehicles like they're stationary.
The Panther is right behind him, claws sparking as he scrapes along the side of a truck to keep his balance.
"Sam, we're gonna need an exit strategy," you say.
"Working on it," Sam replies. "Try not to get run over first."
You're so focused on not dying that you almost miss it, the roar of a motorcycle engine revving harder than the others.
You glance up in time to see a rider thrown from their bike as Bucky grabs the handlebars mid-ride, twists, and swings himself around in a maneuver that should not be physically possible.
He lands on the seat, boots gripping the frame. The bike skids, then rockets forward under his control.
"Okay," you mutter. "That was… objectively cool."
"Eyes on the road!" Steve snaps, sprinting along the side of a truck.
You leap off your current car onto the back of a flatbed truck closer to him. Your thighs scream in protest. You ignore them.
Bucky weaves through traffic on the stolen motorcycle. Black Panther sprints behind him, fast enough to keep up, which is unfair, frankly. Steve finds an opening, leaps onto another car, then onto the back of the bike. He grabs at Bucky's shoulder, trying to slow him down.
"You're going to get killed!" you shout, unsure which of them you mean.
You never find out.
Because that's when the sky opens up.
A beam of sound slams into the tunnel, invisible but brutal. It hits the road like a shockwave, rattling your bones, sending cars fishtailing. The noise is so intense it's almost not sound at all, more like pressure, knifing into your skull.
You drop to your knees on the flatbed, hands clapping instinctively over your ears. You see Steve and Bucky both recoil, the motorcycle skidding out from under them. Panther stumbles, claws scraping the asphalt.
Overhead, Sam cries out, wings locking awkwardly as he crashes onto the hood of a car.
"Everybody down!" a voice booms. "Now!"
The sonic blast cuts off.
You blink through the ringing in your ears and look back up the tunnel.
A figure hovers at the far end, suspended in the air by a sleek, armored suit.
War Machine.
Rhodey's voice is unmistakable even through the modulator. "Congratulations, Cap. You're all under arrest."
You raise your hands slowly as armed vehicles scream into position at both ends of the tunnel, boxing you in. Black SUVs, police cars, armored transport. Men with guns pour out, forming a wall of rifles and shields.
You slide off the flatbed and hit the ground, knees wobbling. Your ears are still whining; every sound feels muted and far away.
"On your knees!" a German voice shouts. "Hands on your head!"
You get your hands up, forcing your breathing to slow. This isn't the first time you've had guns pointed at you. It's just the first time it's been… your own side.
Sam is dragged to his knees not far from you, wings half deployed, sparks still twitching along the damaged metal. He catches your eye and grimaces.
"Next time," he mutters, "let's pick a mission where nobody's shooting at us for a solid five minutes."
"No promises," you whisper back.
Steve stands slowly, hands raised, shield discarded at his feet. He looks like a man trying very hard not to punch everyone in sight.
"Steve Rogers," a woman in tactical gear says as she approaches, rifle trained on his chest. "You are ordered to surrender into custody of the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre. Any resistance will be met with lethal force."
Steve's jaw flexes. He glances at you, at Sam, at Bucky.
Bucky.
He's already on his knees, hands laced behind his head. Several officers are on him, weapons pointed at his skull like they expect him to transform into a monster any second.
His eyes are unfocused, somewhere between here and whatever nightmare they've dragged him out of.
You feel something hot and ugly twist in your chest.
"Don't hurt him," you say before you can stop yourself. You don't even know who you're addressing, Rhodey, the anonymous cops, the universe.
A German officer glances at you. "You will remain silent."
She grabs your arm, forcing you down. Your knees hit concrete hard enough to send pain lancing up your legs. Cold metal clamps around your wrists as they cuff you, pulling your hands down behind your back.
You bite back a wince, swallowing your pride with the ache.
Rhodey lands nearby, armor hissing. His helmet retracts, revealing a tired, frustrated face.
"Steve," he says, shaking his head, "you really don't know when to quit, do you?"
"Rhodey," Steve replies. There's a world of history in that one word.
"This is me trying to keep you alive," Rhodey continues. "You, Wilson, your new recruit here," he tips his chin at you "and your pal Barnes. You do not want to see what happens if I'm not the one bringing you in."
You open your mouth, then close it. There's nothing you can say that won't make this worse.
Someone hauls you to your feet. The world tilts for a second; you blink until it steadies. They march you toward a waiting armored truck, your boots scraping the concrete.
You glance back over your shoulder as they shove you inside.
Bucky is being handled differently.
They've already locked heavy cuffs around his wrists, reinforced with additional restraints. A metal collar snaps around his neck, attached to a short chain held by two officers like he's a dangerous dog. His expression doesn't change, but you see the flicker in his eyes, the same resigned, hollow look you've seen in old HYDRA footage.
Not a person. A package. A problem. A weapon.
Heat floods your chest, anger, guilt, something else you're not ready to name. You don't know this man. You only met him twenty minutes ago in a cramped apartment that's probably already being stripped for evidence.
But watching him be dragged like that sits wrong in your bones.
Steve meets your gaze as they push him toward the same truck. There's an apology in his eyes. For the mission. For the cuffs. For dragging you into this whole mess just weeks after you got your Avengers badge.
You shake your head the tiniest bit.
You chose this.
They shove Steve in after you. Sam's forced in next, muttering under his breath. The interior of the transport is cold, metal bench seats lining the walls.
You shuffle over to make room, chains clinking.
Bucky is the last one brought in.
They sit him across from you, between two guards, restraints clinking ominously as they secure him to the bench. His hair falls into his face, shadowing his expression. For a moment, you're not sure he even remembers you're there.
Then his gaze lifts.
His eyes find yours, flicking over your cuffed wrists, your bruised knees, the dried dust on your jacket. Something shifts in his face, confusion, maybe. Or curiosity.
You hold his gaze, ignoring the way your pulse jumps.
"We'll figure it out," you say quietly, because you have to believe it. "We're not going to let them kill you for something you didn't do."
One corner of his mouth twitches, like he's not sure whether to scoff or believe you.
"Doesn't matter what I did or didn't do," he says softly. "They already decided."
You don't have an answer for that.
The door slams shut, plunging you all into dim, cramped half-darkness. The engine rumbles to life beneath your feet as the transport pulls away, carrying you deeper into a mess that feels bigger than all of you.
You lean your head back against the metal wall and shut your eyes for a moment.
This was supposed to be simple. Find Bucky Barnes. Keep him from getting killed. Clear his name.
Instead, you're in cuffs, an international fugitive in the making.
How were you to know that this arrest, this moment in the back of a freezing transport between Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes, wasn't just an ending?
It was the start of everything.
Tony Stark looks smaller without the suit.
Not physically, he still fills out the navy blazer and designer tie like he stepped out of a magazine, but sitting at the head of the conference table, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes ringed with tired shadows, he looks… human.
Annoyed, yes. Disappointed, definitely. But underneath all of that, exhausted.
You're handcuffed to the chair between Steve and Sam, the metal bite at your wrists a constant reminder that you're not here as an Avenger.
You're here as a problem.
A screen on the wall cycles through grainy footage, Vienna. The explosion. The chaos.
"Tell me you guys at least got frequent flier miles for all this," Tony says, breaking the silence. "International manhunt, destroyed property, chasing down a guy every intelligence agency on the planet was already chasing down."
He taps a remote against the table, the sharp plastic click grating on your nerves.
Steve stares straight ahead. "We found Bucky."
"Yeah, I noticed," Tony says tightly. "The news noticed. The Joint Counter Terrorist Centre really noticed. Berlin is… how do I put this politely… not thrilled that you turned their city into a stunt reel."
He looks at you then, dark eyes sharp. "And you, Hart. You've been on the team what, five minutes?"
"Four months," you mutter.
"Right. You couldn't just do training wheels and call it a day?" His tone is light, but the edge is razor sharp. "You had to jump straight to 'aiding and abetting international fugitive with a kill count longer than my therapy bills.'"
You feel heat rise in your cheeks. "He was going to be shot on sight. We stopped that from happening."
Tony stares for a beat, like he's deciding how much of himself to show. Then he sighs.
"You think I like this?" he asks. "You think I enjoy being the Accords police? I signed to keep us out of cages, not to throw a welcome party in one."
He clicks the remote again. New footage: civilians trapped in rubble, news anchors talking about "enhanced individual collateral," shots of Sokovia, Lagos, New York, D.C.
"The world is scared," Tony says quietly. "Hell, I'm scared. They don't trust us. Half of them want us leashed, the other half want us gone entirely. And then you three," he gestures at you, Steve, and Sam "go vigilante in Bucharest to snatch Barnes out from under a legitimate operation."
"Legitimate?" Steve repeats, incredulous. "They were going to kill him on sight, Tony."
"Because on paper he's a super assassin who blew up a UN summit," Tony snaps. "The king of Wakanda died. There are consequences."
Steve's jaw tightens. "He was framed."
"And I'm working on proving that," Tony fires back. "Which is a lot harder while you keep proving everyone's point about us being a danger to ourselves and others."
He looks at you again, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
"You believe he was framed too?" he asks.
You swallow. "I believe he didn't bomb Vienna."
"On what evidence?"
"On the fact that when we found him, he was living in a hole in the wall apartment with a notebook full of reminders not to talk to anyone," you say. "On the way he moved civilians out of the way during the chase instead of using them as shields. On the way he looked when we said he believed he was innocent."
Tony studies you for a long, measuring second.
"Optimistic," he says finally. "Dangerous combination with your skill set."
He tosses the remote down and leans back. "Here's the good news. I convinced the JCTC not to throw Barnes into a black hole just yet. He's going to psych eval instead. Talk to a doctor, answer some questions. Maybe we prove he's been manipulated."
"'Doctor'?" Steve repeats. "Who?"
Tony waves a hand. "Some guy Berlin brought in. Neurological experience, trauma cases. He's in with Barnes right now."
A chill crawls up your spine before your brain even registers why.
"Wait," you say slowly. "Right now-right now?"
"Yeah," Tony says. "Why?"
You glance at the clock on the wall. Something about the timing, the tidy neatness of it all, arrest, transport, instant psychiatrist, it scratches at the back of your skull.
"We're not allowed to observe?" you ask.
Tony shakes his head. "Nope. JCTC rules. They're barely letting me breathe the same air as their detainee."
He looks at Steve, something like pleading half-hidden behind his sarcasm. "Look, just… sit tight. Let the grownups handle this. Let the system work for once, instead of punches and rooftop gymnastics."
Steve's expression hardens. "The system is what turned him into the Winter Soldier."
Tony flinches, just a little.
"Yeah," he says. "And if we don't play this right, the system is going to turn all of us into public enemy number one. Including you, kid." He nods at you. "You like being an Avenger? You like, I don't know, not being in maximum security?"
You clamp your teeth together.
"We're trying to stop people from getting hurt," you say quietly.
"Then stop making it so damn easy to paint targets on our backs," Tony says, standing. "You want to help Barnes? Let me work. Let the shrink work. Don't blow anything else up."
He starts toward the door, then pauses, looking back.
"And for what it's worth," he adds, softer, "I really hope you're right about him."
He leaves before you can respond.
The door shuts with a soft click that feels louder than the blast that blew Bucky's door open.
You don't stay seated.
They finally take the cuffs off, but leave a guard posted at the door. Steve had left some time ago to try and talk to Tony alone. Leaving you pacing around the room, Sam following you every now and then.
Then, the lights flicker.
Once. Twice.
Then the main power dies.
Red emergency lights flare to life, bathing everything in an ominous glow. The air fills with the low, pulsing hum of backup systems kicking in.
"What now," Sam mutters, looking up.
An alarm starts to wail, long, unbroken, not the fire alarm. Something deeper. Something worse.
You feel it before you hear it, a dull thud through the walls, like something heavy slamming into reinforced metal.
Then, faint but unmistakable, the guttural, wordless roar of someone in pain and rage.
Your blood runs cold.
"Barnes," you breathe.
The guard at the door jumps, hand going to his earpiece. "Sicherheitsprotokoll aktiviert..."
You don't wait to hear the rest.
You grab him by the wrist and twist, using his surprise against him. The gun comes out of his holster with a smooth, practiced motion. Sam's already behind him, shoving him gently but firmly to the ground.
"Sorry, man," Sam says. "Hero business."
You're out in the hallway a second later, boots pounding on the tiles, the wail of alarms bouncing off the walls.
The frosted glass windows are no longer frosted.
Every screen, every panel, every surface you pass is flickering between static and cascading code. Someone's hijacked the system. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
You skid to a stop outside Bucky's cell.
Or what's left of it.
The inner glass is spiderwebbed with fractures. The outer layer is intact, for now, but you can see the impact points where fists, or a metal arm, have slammed into it over and over.
Inside, Bucky is on his feet, chest heaving, eyes wild and wrong.
This isn't the wary man from the Bucharest apartment. This isn't even the haunted prisoner from the transport.
This is the Winter Soldier.
"The words," you whisper, horror dawning. "He said the words."
Sam glances at the control panel beside the door. "Whatever he did, he fried the system. Locks are cycling."
As if on cue, there's a sharp hiss and a metallic crack. The fracture in the glass spreads. A small chunk shatters outward, tinkling across the floor.
Bucky turns toward you through the remaining barrier.
His gaze rakes over you, empty, clinical. Assessing threat level, escape routes, weapons.
Not seeing you.
Just the mission.
"Em, move!" Sam shouts.
You jump back just as Bucky plows through the weakened glass, shards exploding out like shrapnel. He hits the floor in a shower of glittering fragments, rolling into a low, predatory crouch.
"Barnes," you manage, raising the gun but not pulling the trigger. "Bucky, listen to me..."
He launches at you.
You barely get your forearms up in time to block the first hit. His human fist slams into your guard; even pulled, it feels like getting hit by a car. The follow-up strike with the metal arm you only just duck, feeling the air shudder above your head.
"Okay," you gasp. "Conversation later."
You pivot, use his momentum to drive your shoulder into his ribs. He stumbles back a step, not because you moved him much, but because something in his programming is making him reassess.
You see the calculation flicker behind his eyes.
"Target," he says flatly, voice devoid of recognition. "Unknown. Threat level: moderate."
"Moderate?" Sam barks, offended, as he dives at Bucky's side, trying to pin the metal arm. "That hurts, man."
Bucky backhands him into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.
You lunge in, going low, trying to sweep his legs. He hops over it, almost bored.
You've fought enhanced before. But this is different. This is like fighting a machine wearing a man's skin.
He grabs you by the front of your shirt, metal fingers fisting in the fabric, and slams you into the wall. Your skull rings. His other hand comes up, fingers curling around your throat, not squeezing yet, just pinning.
"Stand down!" you choke. "That's an order!"
He pauses.
For half a heartbeat, something flickers in his eyes. Confusion. Static.
Then the alarms blare louder and the moment shatters.
Doors along the corridor unlock with heavy clacks. Security personnel spill out of side rooms, weapons raised. Behind them, another figure moves with practiced ease, red hair pulled back, expression like thunder.
Natasha.
"Barnes!" she snaps, raising her gun. "Back away from her."
He releases you, not because she said so, you realize, but because he's already shifting priority. More targets. More threats.
"Nat, don't shoot to kill!" you croak, stumbling to her side.
"No promises if he breaks my ribs again," she mutters.
Bucky charges.
Nat holsters the gun and meets him bare handed, because of course she does. She moves like water, knife flashing into her hand as if from nowhere, legs wrapping around his arm in a grappling twist that would dislocate a normal person's shoulder.
He just rips her free and throws her into a glass wall.
"Okay, that's new," she groans, sliding down, already reaching for another weapon.
"Stop him from reaching the stairs!" Sam shouts, limping back into the fray. "If he gets vertical, we're screwed."
You lunge, grab Bucky's metal wrist as he tries to push past you. It's like grabbing a moving train. Your boots skid on the floor. For a second you hold him, just enough.
A red, white and blue blur slams into him from the side, shield hitting his ribs like a freight truck.
"Bucky, no!" Steve grits, grappling him.
They crash through a door into the stairwell. You sprint after them, Nat and Sam on your heels.
The stairwell is chaos.
Bucky fights like a demon, every move efficient and brutal. Steve's holding back just enough not to break bones, which is clearly not in the Winter Soldier's current calculations.
You throw yourself into the melee whenever you can, kicking his knee out to give Steve a second, slamming an elbow into his kidney, grabbing the railing to swing your weight into a tackle. He shrugs you off each time, annoyance flickering but not recognition.
"Stop... hitting... me!" you gasp as he sends you tumbling down three steps.
Steve grunts, catching Bucky's punch on his shield.
The alarms echo in the stairwell, deafening. Somewhere above, a door bursts open. A shadow drops down in an arc of claws and fury.
T'Challa slams into Bucky from the landing above, boots driving into his chest. They hit the steps hard. Metal scrapes on stepped concrete, claws screeching against the vibranium star.
"You will not escape justice again," T'Challa snarls.
Bucky kicks him off and bolts downward, shoving past Steve hard enough to send him stumbling. You lunge, fingers catching his sleeve, feeling the fabric tear under your grip.
"Bucky!" you shout.
He yanks free and your hand closes on air.
He barrels through the door to the lower corridor. You all spill out after him into a maze of hallways now full of panicked staff and armed guards.
"Stark, where are you?" Nat snaps into her comm.
"Trying to get the power back and stop the building from collapsing, thanks for asking," Tony replies in your ear. "What's going on?"
"Your 'doctor' triggered your brainwashed assassin," Nat says. "We're taking the scenic route up from hell."
"Are you serious..."
Bucky appears at the end of the hall, sending two guards flying with a single sweep of his arm. He heads for the security control room. You recognize the sign on the door just as he shoulder-slams it open.
"That's bad," you wheeze. "That's very bad."
You push yourself harder.
Inside the control room, monitors flicker between static and surveillance feeds. A dozen officers are scrambling for weapons.
Bucky takes them apart in seconds.
You're just close enough to see the moment he goes for the gun.
"NO!" you shout.
Something whistles past your ear. For a wild second you think it's a bullet.
It's not.
It's a red and gold gauntlet, flying off a nanotech bracelet as Tony charges into the room from the opposite door, suit still assembling around him. The gauntlet slams onto his hand mid stride.
The gun Bucky fired a split second earlier is already in the air, bullet screaming toward Tony's face.
Tony raises his arm.
The bullet hits the gauntlet and flattens with a spark, inches from his eye.
Everyone in the room freezes for a heartbeat.
Tony looks at the ruined bullet on his palm, then at Bucky.
"You're gonna have to pay for that," he says tightly. "Custom build."
Bucky lunges.
You dive in from the side, tackling his legs. For a second you think you've actually stopped him, then he twists, kicks, and you go skidding into a desk, monitors crashing down around you.
Nat, Sam, Steve, T'Challa, they all pile in at once, turning the control room into a whirlwind of fists, claws, and repulsor blasts on low power.
Sharon appears in the doorway, gun up, breathless. She fires a stun round that hits Bucky's shoulder and barely seems to register.
"He's heading for the top!" she yells over the chaos. "There's a helipad... if he gets outside..."
As if summoned by the word, Bucky barrels through the final line of bodies, shoulder-checks Steve into a console, and smashes through the glass of a side window.
Cold air rushes in, along with the glare of daylight.
You stagger to your feet, lungs burning, everything aching.
"Go!" Steve barks. "I'll stop him at the roof!"
He takes off after Bucky. Sam limps to the window and launches himself out with half-deployed wings, curses echoing.
T'Challa is already gone, a dark blur heading for an external stairwell.
Nat leans on her knees, breathing hard. "Tell me," she says between breaths, "this day is almost over."
Tony helps you upright with his still gauntleted hand. "Oh, Romanoff," he says grimly. "I'm pretty sure this is just the middle."
You move to the window, fingers gripping the jagged edge of the broken frame.
Far above, on the rooftop, you can just make out shapes: Bucky running for a helicopter, Steve clinging to its landing skids as it tries to lift off, muscles straining as he drags it back down through sheer stubbornness and strength.
He's trying to save him. Again.
You press your forehead briefly to the cold metal, shutting your eyes.
Zemo awakened the Winter Soldier. You couldn't stop it. You couldn't stop Bucky from escaping whatever leash that man just wrapped around his mind.
But you saw it, in flashes, hesitation when you said his name, confusion when you called him off, the fraction of a second where orders and identity collided.
He's still in there.
Somewhere.
You open your eyes, looking back in time to catch Sam's gaze on you. A silent question: You want to live through this? Move.
You can't go with him, your brain insists, already listing all the reasons. You're under arrest. You have no clearance. You're supposed to be accounted for, processed, locked up. If they see you...
You nod once, small.
Your lungs burn.
Three… two… one…
You slip out.
And as sirens wail and the building shakes and the world outside spins closer to war, you make yourself a silent promise;
You're going to drag James Buchanan Barnes back out of the dark.
Even if the whole damn world lines up to stop you.
👉🏽 CHAPTER 2
