FAULT LINES
CHAPTER 2
📋 MASTERLIST
C's corner: Hi loves, I am done hyperfixating on this chapter, so I decided to post it. We start seeing little moments between reader and Bucky in this chapter, so I am really excited to start working on chapter three. Like always, thanks for your likes, reblogs and comments. 🫶🏽✨
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.
WARNINGS: angst, canon-typical violence, airport fight/combat, emotional distress, arguments/friends turning on each other, imprisonment/incarceration (the Raft), restraints/handcuffs, interrogation vibes, mentions of brainwashing/trauma (Bucky), PTSD/panic responses, peril/rescue scene.
✍🏽 WC: 9.6K+
SUMMARY: Hiding out long enough to breathe, you, Steve, and Sam try to figure out what’s left of Bucky beneath the panic and the programming. He’s wary, sharp-edged, and terrified of himself, but in the quiet you get a moment that feels real, like proof he’s still in there. Then the world catches up. The airport turns into a battlefield, friends split into sides, and everything fractures at once. When Steve and Bucky head for Siberia, you make the choice to stay behind, buying them time… and paying for it with a one-way trip to the Raft. Steve comes back for you. Freedom doesn’t feel like victory, just another decision waiting to be made. And when the dust settles, you finally choose where you belong: following Bucky to Wakanda, not as a mission, but as a promise.
TAGS: @iwritefanfictionsnottragedies, @quantumlethe, @qvicksilversass, @daylightandthedreamer, @mencantaleer (to be added to the tag list CLICK HERE)
You wake up to the sound of chains. Not the clanking, dragging kind. This is tighter, sharper. Metal on metal, under strain.
Your head throbs. Last thing you remember is sprinting through the corridors, Bucky tearing through people like paper, Steve disappearing upward, the frantic scramble around you, you and Sam using it to your advantage to escape the building.
You blink your eyes open. The ceiling above you is a patchwork of rusted beams and broken skylights. Dust floats in the shafts of pale light like slow falling snow.
Abandoned warehouse. Classic.
You push yourself upright, wincing as your ribs protest. Someone tossed a folded jacket under your head as a makeshift pillow. Steve, probably. Or Sam.
Bucky sits on a battered chair dragged into the middle of the space, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tendons in his neck flex when he swallows. His metal arm is pinned to a heavy clamp bolted into a thick worktable, the kind used to bite down on steel beams and refuse to let go.
Whoever set it up had done it with grim practicality, not to hurt him, not to punish him, just to prevent the bolt, the sprint, the sudden violence that comes when panic gets a steering wheel.
Steve stands in front of him like a shield that learned how to be gentle.
Sam paces a few feet away, restless energy in every step. His eyes keep cutting toward the door, toward the windows, toward the world outside that's probably already hunting.
"Em," Steve says gently when he sees you sit up.
You drag a hand over your face. "Did we win?"
Sam snorts. "Define win."
Right. You look at Bucky again.
"Is he…?" You trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence. Awake? A threat? Him?
"Back," Bucky says hoarsely, eyes flicking to you.
You freeze.
His voice isn't flat anymore. There's a rasp to it, a human edge. Not the monotone you heard in the cell. Not the empty, mission coded cadence.
You shift onto your knees and crawl a little closer, ignoring the grit grinding into your palms.
He looks worn out and wired at the same time. There's dried blood on his lip. A faint bruise starting along his jaw.
"Bucky?" you say carefully. "Do you… remember me?"
He squints, like he's trying to focus through fog. "Apartment. Bucharest." A pause. "You said you didn't want me shot in the street."
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Well," you say, voice soft, "you still win 'worst first impression' of the year, but yeah. That was me."
One corner of his mouth twitches. It's not much, but it's there.
Sam walks over to him. "Prove it," he says, folding his arms more tightly. "No offense, but last time you were 'fine' you tried to separate my spine."
Bucky's gaze shifts to him, sharper now.
Steve edges even closer. "Your mom's name," he says quietly. "Do you remember it?"
Bucky's eyes flicker. "Winifred," he replies after a second. "She used to drag us to Coney Island when it rained. You hated the wet socks. Said it felt like walking in cold soup."
Your mouth quirks despite everything.
He turns his head, looking at you, eyes clearer now. "He stuffed newspaper in his shoes, too. Didn't want anyone to see the holes."
Your heart does something weird and painful.
Steve looks down at the floor, jaw tight with emotion. Those memories aren't in any HYDRA file. That's not programming, that's not brainwashing.
That's him.
"Okay," you murmur. "That's… pretty convincing."
Sam exhales heavily. The tension in the room drops a notch, though no one goes as far as relaxing.
Steve leans forward. "What do you remember? After the cell."
Bucky's expression shutters. He looks past you to some invisible point in the middle distance.
"Words," he says. "Coded phrases. Same ones as before…" He swallows. "Then nothing. Just… noise. Commands. Objectives."
You see his fingers flex experimentally within the clamp, the servos in the arm whirring softly as the metal strains and then stills.
"I tried to fight it," he continues. "You were there. All of you. I knew that. But the part of me that cared about that…" He shakes his head, frustrated. "It was like… I was watching through glass."
You remember the look in his eyes when he had you pinned to the wall. Nothing there but calculation.
You suppress a shiver.
"Do you remember him?" you ask. "The fake doctor."
"Little guy. Calm voice. Dead eyes," Bucky says. "He… asked me for a mission report."
He looks at Steve. "I gave him one. Siberia. An old HYDRA facility. Others like me."
The air seems to grow colder.
"Others?" Steve repeats.
Bucky nods miserably. "Soldiers. Like what they made out of me. Stronger, faster, meaner. Less noise in their heads. He wanted to know if they were still there. If he could… wake them up."
You feel your stomach lurch.
"Super soldiers," Sam says flatly. "Because that's what we needed. A sequel."
Bucky's gaze jumps between you, Steve, Sam. "If he gets to them, if he unfreezes them… you saw what one Winter Soldier did. Multiply that."
"We won't let that happen," you say, surprising yourself with how certain you sound.
Bucky opens his mouth, probably to argue, but Steve beats him to it.
"She's right," Steve says. "We need to get to Siberia before he does."
"That's charming and all," Sam says, "but in case you forgot, we're, what's the diplomatic term… super arrested? We don't even have gear. Or passports. Or a ride."
Silence. Then Steve looks at you.
"Sharon," you say at the same time he does.
Sam throws up his hands. "Of course. Secret agent girlfriend bails you out. Again."
"She's not my..." Steve starts, then thinks about it and gives up.
Bucky shifts, metal arm scraping against steel. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard. "Are you going to let me out of this thing?" he asks roughly.
You glance at Steve. "He seems… here," you say. "Whatever Zemo did, the words wore off."
Sam eyes Bucky like he's a live grenade. "Or they're dormant and we're all screwed."
Bucky looks at him, something like resignation in his eyes. "If I go off again," he says, "put me down."
The matter of fact way he says it hits you harder than a punch.
"Not happening," Steve says sharply.
You step closer to the clamp, fingers brushing the release lever. "How about this," you say. "You don't go off again, and we don't test that theory."
You unlock the mechanism.
The clamp hisses as the pressure plate retracts. Bucky pulls his arm free slowly, flexing the metal hand. The servos whine, strained from the fight and the restraint.
Steve glances at Sam, then at you "I'm going to make the call" he squeezes your shoulder as he passes you on his way to the door.
Sam still looks a bit skeptical, he turns to you "I gotta talk to him, will you be ok?" he asks, quietly, like he's trying not to insult you while still trying to protect you.
You manage a thin smile "We'll be ok"
"Five minutes," Sam says. "I'll be right outside that door. If you so much as breathe funny, I'm coming back in."
"Noted."
Then Sam heads out, the heavy door groaning as it swings and clanging shut behind him.
The warehouse suddenly feels bigger. Emptier. Like the silence has room to stretch its legs.
It's just you and Bucky now.
He glances at you, eyes clearer now. "Mara, right?" he says.
You blink. "You remembered."
He studies you, brow tight. "You shouldn't be here."
"I'm already here," you say gently. "Kinda hard to undo that."
A shadow passes over his face. "You should've left." He swallows. "When I ran. You should've let them take you, or… or disappear. Anything but this."
You shift your weight, grounding yourself on the gritty concrete. "And let you get hunted down like an animal?" you ask, voice low. "No."
His expression twists, a flinch of something like shame. "You don't get it."
"I do," you say, and you surprise yourself with how steady your voice is. "I saw you in there. I saw what they did."
Bucky's gaze drops again, like your words burn. "You saw me." His fingers curl. "Then you know."
You step closer by a fraction, not enough to threaten, just enough to be present. "I know it wasn't you."
Bucky lets out a sound that isn't quite a laugh and isn't quite a sob. "It was my body," he says, the words scraped raw. "My hands. My face. My… arm." His metal fingers flex. "Doesn't matter whose voice was in my head. People don't care about that part."
You don't answer right away because your throat tightens, because you remember the hallway, the blank stare, the way your own name had meant nothing to him for a moment. You remember how quickly the world decided what he was and how eager it is to keep him there.
Finally you say, "I care."
Bucky looks up fast, like the words hit him harder than he expected.
For a long beat, neither of you speaks. The warehouse holds its breath around you.
Then, quietly, he says it. The thing he's been circling like it might bite. "I'm not worth all this."
Your chest aches in a sharp, sudden way.
He doesn't say it with drama. He says it like a fact he's recited so many times it has grooves in his soul. Like the sentence is older than his nightmares. Like it's the first language he learned after the one they stole from him.
"You're wrong," you say, and it comes out immediate, instinctive.
His eyes narrow, not in anger, but in disbelief. "You don't know what I've done."
"I know enough," you reply, voice softening without losing strength. "And I know what was done to you."
Bucky shakes his head, small and tight. "Same outcome."
"No," you insist. "Not the same."
You step closer again, enough that you're within arm's reach of his human hand, but you don't touch him. Not yet. You keep your hands visible, palms open, like you're speaking a language he can trust.
His eyes flicker. For a second, it's like you see him standing on a ledge inside himself, trying to decide whether to step back or let go.
"You shouldn't…" he starts, voice breaking around the edge. "You shouldn't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm…" He swallows hard, words failing him. His gaze drops to your hands. "Like I'm a person."
You let the silence hang for a breath, then you answer in the simplest way you can.
"You are."
Bucky closes his eyes. His shoulders shake, once, barely. Like his body is trying to do something it hasn't had permission to do in decades.
When he opens his eyes again, the rawness is still there, but something else has surfaced under it, fear, yes. But also a small, fragile kind of hope, like a candle stubbornly refusing to go out.
His voice is a whisper. "What if I can't stop it next time?"
Your heart pounds. You think of the clamp. You think of the words. You think of how easy it is for the world to pull the trigger on fear.
You choose honesty. "Then we make sure there isn't a next time," you say. "Not like that. Not alone. Not without someone watching your back."
Bucky studies you like he's trying to decide if he's allowed to believe in that.
From outside the warehouse door, you hear muted voices, Sam and Steve, tense, moving pieces around on an invisible board.
Bucky's gaze flicks toward the sound, then back to you, and he looks suddenly exhausted. "You shouldn't be the one doing this," he murmurs.
You finally reach out, slow, careful, and rest your fingertips against his human hand.
It's warm. Real.
"I'm here," you say softly. "So I'm doing it."
His fingers curl under yours, not gripping, just… holding on like he's afraid you'll vanish if he doesn't.
And in that quiet, gritty warehouse, with the world outside sharpening its knives, Bucky Barnes looks at you and whispers, like it costs him everything to admit
"Don't let me disappear again."
Your throat tightens. You swallow, and it feels like swallowing broken glass.
"You're not…," you start, and the rest tangles. You're not disappearing. You're not allowed. Not again. None of it is good enough.
So you do the only thing that's honest.
You squeeze his hand.
It's small. It's human. It's a promise made out of skin and warmth instead of grand speeches.
Under the bridge, everything feels suspended.
The world above is honking cars and distant traffic; down here, in the concrete shadowed quiet, it's just you, Sam, Bucky, and a beat up compact that looks like it might actually lose a fight with gravity.
The three of you are cramped inside, waiting while Steve meets Sharon a few yards away.
Bucky claimed the front passenger seat on the logic that he's the one with the metal arm and the most enemies. Sam argued that logic is for people who haven't been illegally broken out of federal custody.
Somehow, you ended up in the narrow back seat behind Bucky, knees pressed against the back of the driver's seat, while Sam huffs in the front.
The car smells faintly of old fries and pine air freshener. The upholstery has seen better decades.
"Remind me again," Sam mutters, "how I went from counseling veterans to being copilot for Captain America and his brainwashed buddy?"
"You love us," you say.
"Jury's out on him," Sam says, jerking his chin toward Bucky. "And I barely know you. You might be a bad influence."
You kick his seat lightly. "Please. I'm a delight."
Bucky shifts in his seat, testing the leg room, or lack thereof. "Can you move your seat up?" he asks Sam, voice dry.
Sam doesn't even glance at him. "No."
You snort before you can stop yourself, the sound bursting out sharp in the cramped space.
Two pairs of eyes flick back toward you, Sam's in the rearview mirror, Bucky's over his shoulder.
You clamp your lips together, trying and failing not to grin. "Sorry," you say. "Just… men."
Sam raises a brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that I'm in the back with my knees in my throat and you two are arguing over three inches of legroom like it's a land dispute."
Bucky actually huffs a little laugh at that, looking back out the windshield. The sound is small, but it's real.
You rest your head cautiously against the seat, watching through the glass as Steve and Sharon talk a few yards ahead.
She's in a leather jacket and jeans, hair loose, standing beside a nondescript car with the trunk popped. Inside, you can see the gleam of familiar shapes, Steve's shield, Sam's gear, your weapons case.
"Well, that's our stuff," Sam says, following your gaze. "Guess that blows the 'maybe Sharon's just here for a stern lecture' theory."
"You two really trust her?" Bucky asks quietly.
Sam considers. "She stole Cap's shield and our gear. That's not nothing."
You nod. "She's helped us more than once. She could've turned us in ten different ways by now."
Outside, Sharon hands Steve a folder first, likely intel, travel papers, an extra middle finger to the Accords. Then she closes the trunk and steps closer.
You're not trying to stare. You really aren't.
They talk for a few seconds, faces serious, steps small, the kind of conversation that happens when time's short and you might not get another.
Then it happens.
Sharon reaches up, fingers curling in the front of Steve's jacket. He hesitates only a fraction of a second before bending down, and they meet halfway.
They kiss.
It's quick and a little awkward around the edges, like two people who have been thinking about this for a while and finally ran out of excuses. There's surprise in it, and relief, and something else you're not going to analyze in a stolen car under a bridge.
Your eyebrows creep up before you can stop them.
Oh.
You didn't expect to feel anything about this. Your heart gives a small, traitorous pang. Not because you wanted that kiss for yourself, exactly. More because it's a reminder of how much you've lost the luxury of simple things like that. Of any of you just being… people. Not symbols, not weapons, not fugitives.
You drag your eyes away, gaze skittering sideways and land on Bucky.
He's watching them, too, with a look you can't quite parse at first. There's something like nostalgia there, maybe. Something old and aching. But overlaying it is something much gentler.
He's smiling.
Not the edge of a smirk he uses when deflecting. Not the bitter twist you saw in the truck. A small, soft, almost shy smile, like he's happy for Steve in a way that hurts a little but feels right.
It makes him look younger. Less haunted. More like the man in those sepia toned photographs and less like the ghost the world has been chasing.
You've seen him cold, feral, sarcastic. You haven't seen this.
His eyes flick from the couple back to the windshield, and then, inevitably, to you.
For a moment, the car is very small and very quiet.
Your breath stutters in your chest. His gaze meets yours, blue and clear, and it hits you just how young he looks like this. Not the weapon in the glass cell. Not the fugitive on the news. Just a man who once had a best friend and a life and stupid afternoons in Coney Island.
Your heart lurches. You break eye contact too fast, gluing your attention to the glove compartment like it's suddenly the most fascinating thing you've ever seen.
Heat crawls up the back of your neck.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see his smile linger, just a fraction, like he caught your reaction and didn't hate it.
Sam, blissfully unaware of whatever the hell that was, gives a low whistle. "Okay, Cap," he murmurs, smirking as Steve and Sharon pull apart. "Didn't know it was that kind of mission."
You press your lips together, pretending to be very invested in checking that your shoelaces are tied.
Steve heads back toward the car, Sharon stepping away, professional mask sliding back into place as she returns to her own vehicle.
The trunk of your tiny car pops open as Steve loads the shield and gear in, the weight settling over the rear axle.
"Everybody ready?" he asks, opening the driver's door again.
"As I'll ever be," Sam says, grin still in place.
You find yourself stealing one more look at the man in the seat beside you. You don't know how complicated it's going to get yet.
But the soft ghost of Bucky's smile, burned into your memory, tells you this is where the real trouble starts.
Sharon's SUV disappears down the road, and the bridge feels even emptier once she's gone.
You're parked a good hike away from the airport, tucked behind a line of scrub trees and chain link fence. The air smells like jet fuel and cold metal.
The trunk is open. Gear glints inside.
Sam whistles low. "Man, I missed you," he tells his wing rig, running a hand over the folded metal like it's a beloved pet.
Steve pulls the shield out with something like reverence, fingers tracing the star. You look away, because watching that kind of devotion feels a little too intimate.
You find your own duffel beneath a crate of ammo and a set of borrowed explosives.
You unzip it.
Your suit is there, folded with military precision. Dark tactical fabric, reinforced seams, pockets exactly where your hands expect them. Your gloves. Your utility belt. Your favorite lockpick roll, tucked in the side pocket where you left it.
Your throat gets tight.
You didn't realize how naked you'd felt without it all until this moment.
You strip down behind the open trunk, using the SUV as a barrier. The air bites at your skin, goosebumps racing up your arms as you pull the suit on, base layer, armored panels, holsters. Muscle memory does most of the work. Your hands don't shake until you reach the belt.
The clack of metal on metal behind you isn't the car.
"Thought you might want this."
You glance back over your shoulder.
Bucky stands there in the shadow of the open trunk, holding your sidearm by the barrel, grip pointed toward you. He's already changed, dark combat jacket, gloves, boots laced tight. The metal arm gleams dully, dull silver catching stray light.
You take the gun from him, fingers brushing his gloved knuckles.
"Thanks," you say.
He nods, eyes flicking over your suit like he's assessing coverage, weak points, escape options.
"You look different," he says.
You snort. "Is that your subtle way of saying 'nice catsuit'?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I was going to go with 'you look like you're about to do something incredibly stupid.'"
You slide the pistol into its holster. "That's just my face."
His gaze lingers on your hands as you secure the strap.
"I'm sorry," he says abruptly.
You blink. "For what? The trying-to-kill-me part or the almost-crushing-my-trachea part? Going to need you to be more specific, Barnes."
He flinches just slightly, but stays where he is. "All of it," he says. "The… cell. The stairwell. The control room. I know it wasn't me, but… it was still my hands."
You tighten the last buckle on your belt. Step around the trunk so you're standing in front of him instead of talking over scratched metal.
"You also dragged me out of the line of fire in your apartment," you remind him. "Twice. You made sure civilians didn't get hurt in the chase. You stayed in that clamp even when you could've yanked your arm free. So if we're tallying, I think you're up a few points."
A muscle in his jaw jumps.
"That's not how it feels," he says quietly.
You look at the arm.
Up close like this, you notice things you didn't before. Fine scratches in the plating from years of use. Tiny weld marks near the elbow where it's been repaired. A faint line, just below the shoulder seam, where skin meets metal.
"Can I?" you ask.
He frowns. "Can you what?"
"See?" you clarify, lifting your hand, but not touching. Giving him time to say no.
He hesitates.
Then he lifts the arm a little, turning it so the inside of the forearm faces you. It catches the light, etching faint reflections across both of you.
You rest your fingertips lightly on the metal.
It's cool, not cold. Smooth in some places, rougher in others where the finish is worn. You run your thumb along the edge of one of the plates. Beneath it, you can feel the faint whirr of servos, the hum of power.
"Does it hurt?" you ask.
"Less than it used to," he says. "More than I admit."
You nod, tracing a scratch near his wrist. "It's part of you."
He huffs a humorless laugh. "Part of the weapon they made."
"Yeah," you say. "And part of the man who used it to tear through a dozen armed operatives trying to kill us, and somehow managed not to let me get shot in the process."
His eyes lift to yours.
"You keep doing that," he says. "Adding the other side of the ledger."
"That's how ledgers work," you say softly. "Both columns matter."
Something in his expression loosens, just a fraction.
"Mara, you know what'll happen if we go through with this. Siberia. Zemo. If we're right, there'll be more fights. More… bad days. You don't owe me this."
You let your hand fall from his arm, but you don't step back.
"You didn't owe me anything in that apartment," you reply. "You still opened the door."
"That was for Steve," he says.
"Sure," you concede. "But you could have closed it the second you saw me. You didn't. That counts, too."
He looks at you like you're speaking a language he almost remembers.
"You could walk away," he says. "Tony would take you back."
You think of Tony in that conference room. The disappointment. The worry. The way he said I hope you're right.
"I know," you say. "That's what makes this a choice."
He stares at you for a long beat.
Then, very quietly says "You're going to get hurt."
You smile, a small, lopsided thing. "Probably."
"And you're still staying."
"That's kind of the job," you say. "We go where the trouble is. Besides..." You shrug, feigning nonchalance you don't entirely feel. "Someone has to keep an eye on you."
His brows lift a millimeter. "Is that right?"
"Yeah," you say. "Can't let you hog all the trauma."
A breath escapes him that might almost be a laugh. It's brief, but the warmth in it hits you harder than any punch he's thrown.
He reaches out, fingers twitching like he might touch your arm. Then he seems to think better of it and drops his hand.
"Stay behind Steve," he says instead, defaulting back to safer ground. "When it starts."
"When what starts?" you ask.
He glances toward the distant curve of concrete and glass that marks the airport.
"The part where you stop being an Avenger and start being the problem," he says.
You'd argue that happened a few arrests ago, but he's not wrong.
Sam whistles, slinging his harness over his shoulders. "Suit up, lovebirds," he calls. "Field trip to the worst family reunion ever."
You roll your eyes. Bucky studiously does not react. His ears, however, pink the tiniest bit.
You tuck that away for later.
For now, you grab your holster, your utility harness, and your courage, and head toward the line you're about to cross in front of the whole world.
Leipzig-Halle Airport isn't ready for this.
You can feel it in the hum of the place as you move through back corridors and maintenance access routes. The normal buzz of travelers, luggage wheels, and announcements plays on, oblivious, overhead.
You, Sam, Steve, Bucky, Wanda, Clint, Scott… all ghosts slipping through the skeleton of the building.
You adjust the earpiece Sharon got you, your voice low. "How many people are we traumatizing if this goes loud?"
"Too many," Steve replies. "That's why we keep them out of it."
"You say that like it's a choice," Clint grumbles.
The group finally spills out into a wide, sun-blasted stretch of tarmac near the hangars. The quinjet sits in the distance, sleek and tantalizing, like salvation on landing gear.
Your stomach tightens.
Because there, blocking your path, is Tony Stark.
Helmet off. Suit on. Flanked by Rhodes in War Machine armor, a tall guy in a black catsuit who is definitely T'Challa, and Natasha in full Widow gear.
And flanking them…
"Is that a kid?" you blurt before your brain can stop your mouth.
The red and blue figure crouched beside Tony straightens, mask wide eyed, spindly limbs braced like he's about to bolt.
"Kid?" Sam echoes. "Oh, come on."
"You couldn't get, I don't know, another grown-up?" Clint calls. "Running low at Avenger HQ?"
Tony spreads his hands. "Look, you try getting anyone to sign up for this job with the current PR. He signed the waiver."
You can't help it. "There was a waiver?"
Tony's gaze snags on you, sharp. "Nice to see you fully accessorized again, Hart. It really completes the 'fugitive aiding known assassin' vibe."
You square your shoulders. "Nice to see you brought a teenager to arrest your friends, Stark. Really completes the 'bad decisions' vibe."
The kid in red sputters. "I am not..." He stops, maybe remembering he's supposed to be anonymous. "Hi. Big fan. Sorry about… uh… all this."
You blink. "We're committing high treason, Spider-Intern. You don't have to apologize for it."
"Spider-Man," he says. Then: "Ma'am."
You decide you like him.
"Last chance," Tony says, the humor draining out of his face. "You're not going to Siberia. You're going to a cell. We'll sort out Barnes' situation there. Safely. Legally."
Behind you, Bucky shifts his weight, muscles coiled. The air around him feels like the second before a thunderclap.
You glance at him. "Don't," you murmur. "Not yet."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't move.
Steve steps forward, shield resting at his side, gaze fixed on Tony.
"You're not going to stop us," he says. "You know we're right about this. You know what happens if Zemo reaches those soldiers."
"I know what happens if we keep playing vigilante," Tony replies. "I know what happens when we decide we're above the law, above accountability. I signed those Accords for a reason, Cap."
He looks at you, then back at Steve. "You want to chase this guy? Fine. But you don't get to drag everyone else into your crusade."
Clint snorts. "Pretty sure we dragged ourselves."
"Yeah," Wanda says quietly. "We chose."
You feel the words settle in your bones. You chose too.
"I can't let you leave," Tony says. "If I let you go, there's no going back. Not from this."
"That's the thing, Tony," you say softly. "I don't think there is going back. Not for any of us."
Something flickers in his eyes, something that hurts.
"I'm trying to keep you alive" he says. "You, Barnes, all of you. You think Raft custody is bad? Try what some of these governments want to do with people like us."
You swallow. "And if we don't stop Zemo, no one's alive to argue about it."
The silence stretches, taut.
Then Steve lifts the shield.
"I'm sorry," he says. And you know he means it.
Tony's shoulders sag, minutely. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Me too."
He slides his helmet on.
The fight begins.
You don't have time to watch it unfold like a movie. You're in it from the first second.
Sam takes to the air in a burst of wing and propulsion, drawing War Machine up and away. Clint fires arrows that do impossible things. Scott… grows. That's new.
The kid in red and blue slings webs at everyone like he's at the world's deadliest playground. You dodge a string of webbing aimed at your legs, roll, and come up in front of Natasha.
For a heartbeat, you just look at each other.
"Last time I saw you, we were on the same side," Nat says.
"Last time I saw you, your hair was less frizzy," you shoot back.
She snorts. "Tarmac humidity. Hate it."
You move at the same time. It's half-sparring, half-serious. She goes for your gun; you let her grab it, pivot, slam your elbow toward her ribs, she blocks, sweeps your leg, you twist, using the momentum to slam her against a luggage cart.
"Nat," you grunt, holding her wrist. "You know he's right. About Zemo."
"I know," she says. "I also know I didn't sign the Accords just to toss them the first time my friends want to hijack a quinjet."
"So you're going to stop us."
She hesitates, just a fraction of a second. It's enough to answer your question.
"I'm going to make it look like I tried," she says.
Then she headbutts you.
White sparks burst behind your eyes. You stumble back, dazed, as she spins away, sweeping your feet.
You hit the tarmac hard.
"Sorry, babe," she says, wincing. "I'll buy you a drink when we're done getting court-martialed."
She turns to engage Clint.
You groan, roll, and shove yourself back up, ribs screaming.
Ahead, Steve and Bucky make their move, sprinting for the quinjet under the cover of chaos. T'Challa sees them and bolts after, lithe and deadly.
"Sam!" Steve shouts. "We need a distraction!"
You don't know whose idea it is to drop a giant-sized Scott Lang into the middle of the runway, but it's… effective. Planes screech to a halt. Everyone stops to stare.
"Something just fell from the sky!" Scott booms. "I'm… I'm big now! Surprise!"
"Works for me!" you shout, taking off at a sprint.
You pick your way through the chaos, fighting just enough to clear a path, not enough to cripple anyone. You jam an elbow into Rhodey's side when he dips too low, forcing him to divert. You yank a web line off Sam's wing, freeing him for a second's flight.
Bucky and Steve reach the stairs to the jet and start up them at a run.
T'Challa is hot on their heels.
You dig deep and push harder, lungs burning, legs screaming.
You're not going to make it.
Natasha is.
She streaks past you, a red streak of fury, and plants herself between T'Challa and the jet ramp.
T'Challa snarls, claws out. "Move."
Nat meets his gaze, expression calm, eyes bright with a decision you know cost her. "I said I'd help you find Barnes," she says. "Not let you kill him."
Then she fires her Widow's Bite right into his chest.
Electricity arcs, snapping across his suit. He stumbles, crashes to the ground, sliding across the tarmac.
Bucky and Steve hesitate at the top of the ramp.
Nat looks back at them. Go, her eyes say.
You reach them just in time to hear Steve's voice, breathless. "You're going to be in a lot of trouble."
Nat shrugs one shoulder. "I'd rather be in trouble than wrong."
You stop at the bottom of the ramp, chest heaving, eyes on Bucky.
He pauses, halfway into the jet.
For a second, the world narrows down to a rectangle of metal and his face in the shadows of the ramp.
"You coming?" he asks.
Your heart hits your ribs.
Everything in you screams yes.
You want to be there. Want to help stop Zemo, to be in the room where this ends, to make sure those other soldiers never draw breath again.
But over his shoulder, through the heat shimmer and exhaust, you can see the rest of your team. Clint, Wanda, Scott, Sam. All of them still fighting, still drawing fire, still on the hook for following Steve down this path.
Behind you, you can feel Tony's presence like a stormfront rolling in. Vision hangs in the air, eyes bright. Rhodes is circling back, armor scorched.
Somebody has to stay and deal with the fallout.
Somebody has to be the one who looks Tony Stark in the face and says, We're not your enemies. Don't treat us like weapons you can shelve.
You swallow hard. "No," you manage.
Bucky's brow furrows.
"I'll just slow you down up there," you lie. "You need people who can punch through steel and survive Siberian weather. I… really don't like snow."
His mouth hitches, but his eyes stay serious. "That's not the real reason."
You glance back at the battlefield, then at him. "They're going to need someone down here who believes in what you're about to do," you say. "Someone who can talk. Or… testify. Or… I don't know, bite a lawyer."
Steve appears at his shoulder. "You don't have to do this," he says. "You've already risked enough."
You shake your head. "You need to stop Zemo. I need to live with myself afterward. This is the only way I see where both of those things happen."
Bucky's fingers flex on the ramp railing. For a heartbeat, you see the war in his eyes, selfishness vs self-preservation vs the bone-deep belief that he doesn't deserve anyone staying for him.
"If they hurt you because of me..." he starts.
"They were going to hurt me anyway," you cut in gently. "At least this way, it means something."
You force a smile you don't quite feel. "Besides, somebody's gotta stick around to tell everyone how stupid you looked when you fell out of that window in Berlin."
He huffs a short breath that might be a laugh, might be a sob. "You're impossible."
"And you'd better come back," you say, voice rougher than you intend. "With all your limbs. And Steve. Preferably not dead."
"We will," Steve says, and you believe him. Because you have to.
You step back off the ramp.
The quinjet doors begin to close.
Bucky holds your gaze until the last possible second. There's so much unsaid there that your chest aches with it.
Then he's gone.
The ramp seals with a hiss, engines spooling up.
You and Natasha stand side by side as the jet roars down the runway and lifts into the sky, carrying Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes toward Siberia and whatever waits for them there.
Nat exhales slowly. "Well," she says. "That's that."
You nod, throat tight. "Yeah."
Behind you, the noises of the fight shift. Scott shrinks back down, exhausted. Clint's bow clatters to the ground as he raises his hands. Wanda's power flickers out as Vision floats closer, expression pained.
It's over.
You turn around.
Tony is walking toward you across the tarmac, helmet retracted, suit scorched and shoulder smoking. His expression is… terrible. Not furious. Not triumphant.
Just tired. And hurt. Deep down.
"You let them go," he says to Nat, voice very calm.
She lifts her chin. "I helped them go."
He looks at you. "And you?"
You swallow. "I stayed."
His gaze flicks to the empty sky where the jet disappeared, then back to your face.
"You could've gone," he says. "Barnes clearly wanted you to."
You don't answer that.
"You realize," he continues, "that what you just did guarantees you a first-class ticket to a very unpleasant government facility."
"Yeah," you say quietly. "But if they stop Zemo, that means there's still a government to lock me up. Seems like a fair trade."
He laughs once, bitterly. "You and Steve. Always willing to throw yourselves on the grenade."
"That's because you're always standing on one," you say gently.
Something in his eyes flickers. Then he looks away.
"Stand down," he calls to the others, voice raised. "Nobody touches them. That's an order."
Rhodey lands heavily nearby. Vision descends, expression conflicted. T'Challa stalks closer, still crackling with fury, but he doesn't move to attack.
Clint raises his hands gracefully. "We going quietly, or you wanna argue about it first?"
Scott groans. "Can we argue in the car? My everything hurts."
Sam limps over to your side. "You sure about this?"
You nod once. Your heart is pounding, but your voice is steady when you answer. "We're in this together. All the way."
Tony studies you, Sam, Clint, Wanda, Scott. The remnants of Team Cap, grounded and exhausted.
"You know I could've used you on my side, Em." he says to you quietly.
You meet his eyes. "You still have me on your side, Tony," you say. "It's just… a bigger side than you think."
For a heartbeat, you wonder if he'll snap. If he'll lock the helmet down and order everyone into the ground.
Instead, he just sighs, like the weight of the suit has finally reached his bones.
"Get them out of here," he tells Rhodey. "Maximum security. No more than necessary."
Rhodey nods.
Metal cuffs click around your wrists, cold and heavy. You don't resist.
As they lead you away, you look back one last time at the empty sky where the quinjet vanished.
Steve and Bucky are out there, racing toward a frozen tomb full of ghosts.
You're down here, walking voluntarily into a cell.
The Raft sounds different at night.
During the day, it's a constant hum. Guards' boots, ocean wind, the distant thrum of generators, Ross's voice echoing off metal and glass as he struts through like he owns the place.
At night, it's quieter. The hum of the facility settles into a low mechanical heartbeat. The ocean presses in on all sides, a dark weight you can't see but feel in your bones.
Your cell is a glass box in the middle of it. No corners to hide in, no shadows. Just you, concrete, and your reflection staring back at you from every angle.
You lie on the cot and study the seams in the ceiling like they might spontaneously open into escape routes. They never do.
"Hey, Em."
Sam's voice comes through the speakers, a little tinny but comforting. His cell is somewhere down the curved line of the Raft's inner ring, not visible from where you are, but close enough to talk when the guards are bored or asleep.
"Yeah?" you answer.
"You still mad at me for not moving my seat up for Barnes?" he asks.
You huff a quiet laugh. "A little."
"Good," he says. "I'd hate to think prison was making you soft."
You smile faintly up at the ceiling. "How's everybody else?"
"Clint's counting imaginary holes in the wall," Sam says. "Wanda's quiet. Scott's… Scott. He spent a full twenty minutes trying to figure out if he could shrink through the toilets."
You wince. "Please tell me he didn't test that."
"Not after I reminded him he'd still be in the middle of the ocean," Sam says. "Guy's a lot of things. Fish food doesn't need to be one of them."
You exhale slowly. "We're going to get out of here."
"Sure," Sam says. "Any decade now."
"I'm serious," you say. "Steve won't leave us in here."
Sam goes quiet for a moment.
"Tony was here earlier," he says at last. "Tried to play good cop, bad conscience."
"Yeah," you murmur. "He came by my glass box too."
You remember the way he'd looked at you, torn, guilty, stubborn. The way he'd flinched when you asked about Steve and Bucky. How he'd avoided details.
You remember the way he left. Like he'd chosen something and knew you weren't going to like it.
Sam sighs. "He said stuff went sideways in Siberia. Wouldn't say how."
You stare at your reflected face in the glass. "If Steve's alive, he'll come."
"And if he's not?" Sam asks quietly.
You don't answer, because you can't make yourself say that out loud.
Instead, you roll onto your side and shut your eyes, listening to the Raft's mechanical pulse.
It's almost enough to drown out the memory of Bucky's voice in the warehouse.
If I go sideways again, you put me down.
You wonder which halves won.
Time smears.
You don't know how long you lie there before everything changes.
It's subtle at first. The hum under your feet stutters, like the Raft hiccupped. The lights flicker once, twice, then settle into an odd, dimmer glow.
You sit up.
"Sam?" you call.
"Yeah, I feel it," he says immediately. "Either this prison's about to sink, or something fun's happening."
The security cameras in the corners tilt, whirring as they try to refocus. For the first time since you got here, they don't seem sure where they're supposed to be looking.
An alarm doesn't go off.
And somehow that's worse.
You stand and step closer to the glass, palms flat against it. Your reflection stares back, jittery in the flickering light.
Then, faint but real, you hear it.
A distant clang, like a metal door being forced open. Shouting. Another bang. Footsteps, heavy and fast, coming closer.
"Wilson, what's going on down there?" a guard's voice barks over the PA. "Hart, back away from the glass!"
You don't move.
Because you can see him. A shape coming into view through the curve of the corridor.
For a second, your heart jumps into your throat.
Then he steps into the light.
No star on his chest, no bright colors. Just dark tactical gear, He looks rough. Beard stubble shadowing his jaw, longer hair. He looks like he's been through hell and then some. He also looks very done taking orders.
"Steve," you breathe.
Steve moves to the control panel at the head of the row, fingers dancing over the controls like he's done the recon and memorized the layout down to the circuit.
Locks cycle. You hear the heavy thunk of mechanisms unseating.
Sam's door slides open first. He steps out, shoulders tight, eyes bright.
"You know," he says, "I'd say you're late, but I'll take what I can get."
Steve's mouth twitches. "Good to see you too."
Your door hisses as the seal disengages.
Then it slides open.
You stand rooted for a second, muscles almost forgetting how to cross that threshold.
Steve looks at you, really looks at you, eyes scanning for visible damage.
"Em," he says.
You move.
It's not quite a hug; there's too much armor and circumstance for that. But you step close enough to rest your hand briefly against his shoulder, to feel the solid, living warmth there.
"You're alive," you say, stupidly, because your brain is still catching up.
"So are you," he replies, equally obvious, but there's a roughness to it, a gratitude that makes your chest ache.
Clint's cell goes next, then Wanda's, Scott's. Within minutes, the corridor is full of familiar faces blinking in the flickering emergency lights.
"This is gonna get you on Santa's naughty list," Scott says. "Pretty sure this place violates fire codes, by the way."
"We don't have much time," Steve says, ignoring him. "Guards'll regroup soon. I've got a jet docked topside. We need to move."
Clint glances around. "Not that I'm complaining, but what's the endgame here? We go from one illegal facility to another?"
"I'll explain on the way," Steve says. "Right now, we get you off this floating coffin."
He starts down the corridor at a brisk pace. You fall into step beside him, your body already remembering how to move in tandem with his.
"You okay?" he asks under his breath.
"Define okay," you say, because at this point it's tradition.
He huffs out a short breath. "Fair."
"Did… how did it go?" you ask quietly. "In Siberia."
His jaw tightens. "We stopped Zemo," he says. "He killed the other soldiers. Wanted to watch us tear each other apart instead."
Your stomach lurches. "The others are dead?"
"Yeah," he says. "He made sure of that before we got there."
You picture the cryo pods, the possibility of an army of Winter Soldiers waking up in the snow. Then you picture them instead as bodies. It doesn't feel like a victory. Just a different kind of loss.
"And Tony?" you ask, afraid of the answer.
Steve's stride falters for half a second.
"He saw the footage," Steve says. "Of his parents. Of… what they did to Howard and Maria while Bucky was under."
There's no need to specify who "they" is. HYDRA is the ghost in every room you stand in.
You imagine Tony, watching that grainy tape. Watching his mother's last breath, his father's body crumple. Knowing the man who did it is standing right there, looking like an echo of the soldier who was supposed to be his dad's friend.
You can almost feel the crack that must have made in him.
"He tried to kill Bucky," Steve says quietly.
Your stomach twists. "Did he…?"
"Bucky's alive," Steve says quickly. Then, softer, "His arm isn't. Not the metal one. Tony… took it."
You picture that, metal ripped away in a shower of sparks and shrapnel. Bucky on the ground, chest heaving, eyes wild.
You swallow hard. "And you?" you ask.
He doesn't answer that.
Instead, he says, "We got out. Barely. And then… T'Challa found Zemo before he could finish what he started."
You imagine T'Challa, standing over Zemo with every reason in the world to kill him.
"He didn't do it," you guess.
"No," Steve says. "He said vengeance had consumed too many people. He wasn't going to let it consume him too."
You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. You didn't know you'd been bracing for the version of T'Challa who chose blood over mercy.
"After that," Steve continues, "he offered us something."
He glances at you, then ahead again.
"Sanctuary," he says. "For Bucky. A place where no one will hunt him or try to use him again. Somewhere… safe."
There's a tone in his voice that makes your heart hitch.
"Where?" you ask, even though you think you already know.
"Wakanda," Steve says.
The word sits between you, bright and impossible.
Of course it's Wakanda. The country that's a mystery and a marvel, that the world underestimates on purpose, that hides advanced tech behind the mask of a developing nation.
You try to picture Bucky there. Green hills. Golden cities. Technology that might actually be able to untangle the knots HYDRA left in his head.
Hope flares in your chest like it hasn't in days.
"He'll be safe there," Steve says. "T'Challa's arranged for his scientists to work with him. Bucky asked to be put back under until they can finish undoing what HYDRA did. He doesn't want to hurt anyone else."
The idea of him voluntarily stepping into cryo again makes your throat ache.
"But he'll be… okay?" you ask. "They can help him?"
"If anyone can, it's them," Steve says.
You don't think, you just speak. "Can I go too?"
Steve stops.
The others keep moving around you, following the curve of the corridor toward the exit, until it's just you and him paused in the half light.
"What?" he says.
You swallow, forcing the words out before you can second guess them.
"Can I go to Wakanda," you repeat, "with Bucky. To keep up with his progress. To be there when he comes out of cryo. And to, um…" you add quickly, "keep you posted. About how he's doing. So you're not worried."
You tack that last part on like a shield for your real reasons, even though you know Steve sees right through you.
There's a beat of silence.
"You'd be going off grid," he says slowly. "Really off grid. No coming back to the States without facing charges. No Avengers. No… us."
"I don't exactly have a nine to five to get back to," you say. "The Raft wasn't much of a long term plan."
"Em..."
"Steve," you cut in, softer. "I'm not running away. I'm choosing where I can actually do something."
You glance down the hall, like you can see through steel and ocean all the way to the ship waiting to take you away from this place.
"Out here, I'm a fugitive with a messed up file and a target on my back," you say. "In Wakanda, with Bucky… I could be useful. To him. To you. To T'Challa, if he wants eyes on whatever the outside world is doing."
You take a breath.
"And Bucky shouldn't have to go through this alone," you add quietly. "Not again. Not in another strange lab in another strange country with people poking at his brain like it's a science project. He needs someone there who… knows him. A little. Who remembers he's more than what HYDRA made him."
You don't say someone who cares about him. You don't need to.
Steve's eyes search your face.
You half expect him to say no. To tell you he needs you out here, that he can't afford to lose another ally, that you've done enough.
Instead, he exhales slowly. "I already asked," he says.
You blink. "What?"
"After we got to Wakanda," he says. "Before I came for you. I asked T'Challa if he'd be willing to extend sanctuary to… others. People aligned with me who might need a place to land."
You stare at him. "You... you thought..."
"You're not the only one who doesn't want Bucky alone in this," he says gently. "T'Challa said if there were people he trusted, people I trusted, who wanted to stay and help with… everything… he'd consider it."
"And you trust me?" you ask, even though you know the answer.
He smiles faintly. "I broke you out of a top secret prison in the middle of the ocean, didn't I?"
"Fair point," you mumble.
He sobers, voice going softer.
"If this is what you want," he says, "I'll talk to him. But it has to be your choice. Not a favor to me. Not… because you think you owe Bucky something."
You think of Bucky's shy smile under the overpass. The terrified flatness in his eyes in the cell. The way he'd said your name, like he wasn't sure he deserved to.
"I do owe him something," you say. "But that's not why. I'm doing it because… I want to be there when he gets himself back. And because I think… I think I want to see who he is when no one is using him."
Your voice goes even quieter.
"And I want to see who I am when I'm not just… reacting to whatever crisis the rest of the world throws at us."
Steve watches you for a long moment, then he nods.
"Alright," he says. "When we get off this bucket, we take the others someplace safe. Then I'll make a call."
Hope flickers in your chest, fragile and bright.
"Thank you," you say.
"Don't thank me yet," he says. "You haven't met Shuri."
You frown. "Shuri?"
He almost smiles. "You'll see."
Sam jogs back toward you from the front of the group, eyebrows up. "Hey. What's the hold up? I'd love to get out of this villain lair before I start growing barnacles."
"Em's considering a transfer," Steve says.
Sam blinks. "To… where, exactly? There's not a lot of open positions for 'wanted associate of Captain America.'"
"Wakanda," Steve says.
Sam's eyes widen. "You serious?"
You nod.
He whistles low. "Damn. Skipping 'wanted' and going straight to 'mysterious expat in a hyper advanced hidden nation.' Ambitious."
"You mad?" you ask, only half joking.
"Nah," he says. "Someone's gotta keep an eye on the Tin Man. Better you than me. I'm gonna be busy babysitting Steve and his martyr complex."
Steve rolls his eyes.
Sam claps your shoulder carefully. "Just remember to write," he says. "Or, you know, whatever Wakanda's version of email is."
You smile. "Deal."
The three of you move together again, picking up speed as the exit hatch looms ahead. Guards shout somewhere above. An alarm finally starts to wail.
The Raft shudders as the docking clamps begin to retract.
You don't look back at your shattered cell.
You keep your eyes on the hatch. On the promise of open sky. On the faint, impossible image of golden light on a Wakandan horizon you've never seen.
Two hours ago, you were alone in a glass box at the bottom of the ocean.
Now, you're sprinting toward a stolen jet, a new life, and a future that smells like vibranium, wildflowers, and trouble with a man who still thinks he doesn't deserve any of it.
You're going to prove him wrong.
And you're going to send Steve every update he can handle.
👉🏽 CHAPTER 3
