Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The most surprising part about this picture, Steve reflects, is that the HYDRA agents who’d been left for him in his apartment are still alive.

There are three of them, piled up neatly just inside his front door, their black STRIKE gear hiding the worst of the damage. They're out cold and one is bleeding from a head wound, but he can still hear breathing. All things considered, he’s willing to count this as gentle handling.

He pulls out his phone and texts Natasha.

She shows up ten minutes later with a cup of coffee in each hand, one of which she gives to him. "I have to admit, I'm kinda jealous. I only ever get diamonds and perfumes from my admirers."

"Should I take this as some form of sweet talk?" Steve asks dryly.

She gives him one of those sharp, softly loaded looks he never knows how to decipher. "From the dust and wear on their pants, two of them had been sitting on the roof of the next building for at least a day. The third was in this building, maybe even inside this apartment. They were waiting for you." One of the men stirs slightly. She gives the limp forms on the floor a very unimpressed look that Steve thinks somehow penetrates the guy's hindbrain, because he goes quiet again. "They were a threat to you and your home, and they've been neutralized. You won't even have to answer any awkward questions about dead men being found in your apartment." She takes a casual sip of her coffee. "It's actually kinda adorable."

He doesn't know what to say to that.

"I'll take care of this," says Natasha, pulling out her phone. "You staying at Wilson's?"

"Thanks. And yeah," says Steve. "Though most of my things are still here." He pats the duffel bag full of clothes he'd brought with him. He comes back a couple times a week to do laundry and air out the apartment, but the place where he sleeps and eats and spends most of his time at is Sam's.

She finishes typing on her phone and looks up at him. "I'm thinking about moving to New York."

That makes him raise his eyebrows. "Stark?"

She nods. "SHIELD had a lot of clout in Washington, which means HYDRA does, too. I'm far more exposed here than I'm comfortable with." She nods pointedly at the men on the floor. "Seems like you are, too. This is a warning."

He looks at the wall with the bullet holes. Right through-and-throughs. Someone, Steve has no idea who, had patched them over with duct tape. Steve is a big fan of duct tape, it’s versatile and multi-purpose, but right now the little strips of grey are serving as a reminder that the Winter Soldier had shot Fury right through the wall. "I'll talk to Sam about it."

Sam likes to think that, between two tours abroad and all the recent excitement in his life, he's developed a sturdy constitution and a damn good tolerance for unexpected surprises.

Which is why he doesn't piss his pants when he looks up in the middle of the eleven a.m. group session at the VA to find the Winter Soldier sitting in the last row.

At least Sam's no longer the primary counsellor; he's just there to support Rodriguez, who's taking over most of his groups. Stability is important for effective therapy, and simply disappearing on his people doesn't sit right with him, so they do a proper handoff. He's made clear that he'd like the group to keep in touch with him, and he'll try to visit whenever he can.

"You're going back in, aren't you?" asks formerly Petty Officer Daniels, who now goes by Michelle.

"Not exactly," says Sam. He keeps his gaze on her while his thoughts scramble around, wondering if he should start freaking out. If he'd spotted that bleak, dead-eyed face in a mall or out on the street, he would definitely be freaking out. But in this space— it doesn't feel right, to be warier of one damaged soldier amongst other damaged soldiers. Even if it is the Winter Soldier. Sam swallows and focuses on keeping his cool. "I'm afraid I can't really talk about it."

"Give it up, Wilson, we know you're working with Captain America," pipes up Frank. There are slow nods around the room.

"The news footage didn't show much, and it was all from a distance," says Michelle, "but I thought, who would be crazy enough to fly around those fucking floating fortresses packed with cannons and machine guns without any fucking cover?"

"And I might have mentioned that my unit saw one of yours in action once," says Eric.

Sam shakes his head. "I should have known you guys would be a bunch of gossips."

"There might have been a Facebook group involved," admits Frank.

Perry, who never says anything without being prompted, rasps through his damaged voice box, "The wall is very therapeutic."

Laughter. Sam chuckles along with them. "Then you know I wouldn't just take off if it weren't important." It takes every ounce of willpower not to glance at the back of the room.

"I think what we're trying to say is that we're absolutely behind you in this," says Frank. "Like, how many people here signed up because of Captain America?" Next to Sam, Rodriguez raises his hand, shrugging shamelessly when Sam gives him a betrayed look. Most of the room have their hands up, and Frank waves his arm to emphasize the point being made. "Hell, knowing you're out there watching Cap's back is already doing wonders for my peace of mind."

"All right, all right. I'm still gonna be dropping in when I can," says Sam, "and I better see all your ugly mugs here when I do."

"Ugh, and I thought being out means I wouldn't have to get surprise inspections anymore," complains Michelle. She grins at him, though. All of them are smiling at him.

It's not a bad send-off, he thinks philosophically, especially if he's about to get his fool ass killed by the Winter Soldier.

"Man, I know you don't like them," Sam's voice drifts over from the direction of the kitchen, still a bit breathless from their morning run, "but that is no call for stealing a man's bananas."

Steve wipes his face with his sleeve and goes to investigate. The kitchen appears unchanged from when they left an hour and a half ago. The discreet little markers he'd left on all the entry points are still there, even the fine thread that had been strung across the doorway connecting the kitchen to the living room, which Sam sometimes forgets about.

Sam is glaring at the little basket on the kitchen counter that they use to hold fresh fruit. Where a bunch of bananas had sat that morning, purchased the previous night and only partially ripe, there is now a enormous bag of banana-flavored candy instead. It's a good thing the only other fruits in the basket are a couple of apples, because the bag might have squashed anything softer. Steve hadn't realized they even made the bags that size; it's bigger than his head.

"I still maintain your taste buds must have gotten messed up at some point, because those things are awful, banana-flavoring my ass, though it's comforting to know that you have some flaws. Or maybe it's a phase, ask me one day about that time I ate nothing other than red vines for a whole week- Steve? Why are you laughing? What's so funny?"

He gets caught up enough in the talk that he doesn't notice the Winter Soldier leaving, only sees that his chair is empty at the end of the meeting. Sam's instincts tell him this particular ghost hasn't left the premises, though, and sure enough, he finds him lurking in the hallway outside, still within sight of the front door but in the opposite direction from the meeting room. The regulars usually hang around chatting for a while, and Sam always keeps himself available during this time in case anybody wants to approach him, but today he excuses himself with a meaningful nod. None of the vets question it; all of them were first-timers, once. Sam casually ambles over to the man making like a statue next to the 'Coming Events' notice board.

It's rare for Sam to be at a loss for words. Riley always asked him how he knew exactly what to say in any situation. It'd been Riley who first suggested trying to be a counsellor or a therapist, if Sam ever separated or made it to retirement, "in case stand-up comedian doesn't work out for you."

Right now, Sam has no idea what to say to the Winter Soldier.

They stare at each other. Formerly Sergeant James Barnes looks a lot leaner without all the leather and Kevlar, or maybe he's in need of a few square meals these days. His hoodie is grimy and getting a little threadbare around the edges. Sam can't help but notice his choice of clothing is very similar to Steve and Natasha's when they're in incognito mode. Maybe this is what translates as "harmless bystander" amongst... super-people? Lean mean fighting machines?

"I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that you haven't sought me out for a fight," says Sam, though by “guess” he means “really, really hope.” He has no illusions about the man not knowing where Sam lives; the fact that he's chosen to show himself to Sam at the VA must mean... something. "So I'm thinking, maybe, you might be looking to talk?" Even saying it sounds a bit ridiculous. He gets no response, other than more staring.

On the flipside, he hasn't been punched in the face yet.

Sam glances towards the front entrance. There are still knots of people standing around and talking. He sighs and gives the Winter Soldier a mild look.

"How do you feel about coffee?"

Steve's become so thoroughly used to Sam's presence that he is only vaguely aware of the other man wandering past the couch, stopping, then bending down to rest a questioning hand on one of Steve's sketchbooks on the side table. "May I?"

Steve has nodded, focused on getting the shading just right on a particularly troublesome curve of metal plating, before he registers Sam and looking through Steve's art, and by then, Sam's already flipping through the sketchbook.

It's not that Steve is embarrassed about other people seeing his sketches. It's more that a) this is Sam, who knows what Bucky looks like and has eyes sharp enough to pick out familiar features in the partials other people would assume to be generic body studies, and b) even discounting the partials, there are rather a lot of pictures of Bucky.

He should have been suspicious when, instead of a teasing "I fully support your creative expression but this is getting a little creepy now" or a dry "what about some nice cityscapes, for a change?" he gets Sam looking thoughtful and saying, "You know, your boy is not bad looking."

"No, he isn't," agrees Steve, relieved, and then, "Wait, what?"

The Winter Soldier follows Sam readily enough to the café down the block. He doesn't volunteer any information when Sam asks him what coffee he'd like, so Sam ends up ordering him a caramel macchiato because that's the last thing Steve tried and liked. After a moment's thought, he also asks for a blueberry muffin and a scone. Yes, he'd like them heated, thanks.

Tray in hand, Sam leads the way to a pair of armchairs in the corner. They are unoccupied, which is a minor miracle during lunch hour. He lets the Winter Soldier take the one that has its back to the wall and angled for a good view of the rest of the café. The tray goes on the small table between the chairs. The Winter Soldier is holding the recyclable cup of coffee like he's not sure what to do with it. Sam slides the plates of food over to him.

"Okay, can you give me a name to call you by?" asks Sam. "I can't keep calling you Winter Soldier. It sounds weird even inside my head. And I'm not going to just assume you'd be okay with... other names you might have had, before. Not unless you say so."

The man stares at him some more. Sam's wondering if the only thing he'll be getting out of this is the silent treatment when he hears, faint and rough, "Barnes."

"Barnes," repeats Sam, just to be sure. Barnes nods. "All right. Well, Barnes, care to tell me what you want from me?"

"He's not the guy you grew up with. You know that, right?"

Steve lifts his head from where he'd been poring over the Winter Soldier's file. Sam's on the couch, watching a cooking show on TV. Steve stopped reading a while ago (they both pretend Steve hasn't already memorized the whole file), and his thoughts have wandered backwards, as they tend to do, to cakes made without sugar or butter and stew stretched to last for days and coarse bread that stuck heavy in the gut; he has to pull himself back to the now that has a whole channel on food and the various preparations thereof, gourmet or cheap or global. At the moment, it's on a commercial for some kind of high-tech vegetable peeler (Steve sympathizes with the carrots), and Sam's turned towards Steve.

A faint breeze drifts through the open window.

"Yeah," says Steve, clearing his throat when his voice comes out a little raspy, "yeah, I know." He glances down at the file. Doesn't look at the open window. "Thing is— I'm not the same guy either." Steve licks his lips. Lets the thoughts roll out of him, slow. "I don't mean just now. Back in the war, all our time was focused on knocking down HYDRA, and there wasn't room for anything else. I told him everything afterwards, of course, the serum and Erskine and the SSR. But he— I never really thought about how well he took it. My changes. Last he saw me, I couldn't make a hundred pounds soaking wet, and I never got to telling him I was in training, that I might join the war after all. Then he was in that awful place, and I just— turn up in a completely different body. Once I told him the full story, after, he was pissed I'd risked myself on an experimental procedure." Bucky's impassioned you could have died! had made him duck his head but also warmed him up on the inside. "But other than that, he just... accepted it."

Bucky hadn't really been the same either, and Steve hates that it makes more sense now, hates that he hadn't looked farther into what had gone on in that HYDRA factory. At the same time, he can't really regret leaving Bucky alone about what he'd gone through; he's pragmatic enough to know it wouldn't have made much difference without also knowing Zola's goals.

“'Course, we didn't really have much of a choice,” he adds conscionably.

He hopes maybe some part of Bucky will remember there's at least one person in the world who won't try to force their way inside his head.

Steve clears his throat again. "At least I had a say in a lot of the changes that happened to me. He didn't. He's been hurt, and I want to help him." He meets Sam's eyes. "We're neither of us the same. So, I guess... I want the chance to get to know him again."

The question seems to throw Barnes for a loop. Or maybe he just hadn't planned this far ahead in whatever it is he wants with Sam. There's a banked tension in him Sam recognizes from vets who are stepping out in public for the first time. Sam sits back and sips at his coffee; given the alternatives, he's more than willing to wait Barnes out, give him a chance to work through whatever's in his head. Sam doesn't think real communication is something the man has had to do in a long time.

He briefly considers stealth-texting Steve, but if Barnes had wanted to approach Steve, he would have. Hell, Steve's practically rolled out the welcome mat for him. Sam tries not to dwell too long on why Steve, whom Sam has personally witnessed to have zero qualms about flinging himself off high places and jumping straight into hostile situations, is being so cautious when it comes to this— whatever it is he has tied up in Barnes. He wonders if Steve even knows.

He can appreciate why Barnes might not want to deal with that just yet, though.

So, no alerting Steve. There's every chance it'll turn out to be the stupidest decision he's ever made. His instincts, though, clamor at him to wait.

Finally, Barnes says, "Steve Rogers. Codename Captain America."

It's been long enough that Sam has to recall his own words, tell me what you want from me, before he can try and figure out what Barnes means. "You want... Steve? But... you came to me?" Barnes tenses further. "Wait, sorry, I'm going about this the wrong way. Different question: what about Steve?"

A muscle twitches in Barnes' jaw. "Time parameters exceeded. Mission failed."

"I'm assuming this refers to your mission to kill him?" asks Sam. He's surprised at the calmness of his voice. The flatness in Barnes's gaze is the creepiest thing he's ever seen, worse than the rare cases from black ops or career military; it's only long practice that keeps him acting relaxed and matter-of-fact.

Barnes repeats, "Mission failed," as if he thinks Sam is deliberately missing the point. His eyes skitter away, sweeping around the café like he's checking no threats have shown up in the 0.05 seconds since he last looked. Or like he's expecting a threat to show up at any point.

Sam becomes painfully aware that the guy sitting across from him is probably wanted by a lot of scary-ass people. The thought is followed by a related one: namely, that Sam himself hasn't exactly been discreet in following after Mr. Red-White-and-Blue, and it's not inconceivable he might be of interest to a few people now as well.

Barnes twitches. It's a small movement, only noticeable because he's so still most of the time. Sam stares at him, thinking hard, and, well, there aren't exactly manuals and self-help books out there for brainwashed amnesiac soldier-assassins, but he and Steve have been reading a library's worth of literature on PTSD, dissociative identity disorder, traumatic brain injury- basically anything and everything that might be even a little bit relevant to Barnes's situation.

"Please tell me this is not your way of alerting me that he's still your mission," says Sam, a little plaintively.

"Natasha Romanoff. Codename Black Widow." Barnes is now glaring at him for some reason. It's somewhat terrifying but also, oddly, a little reassuring— because that's emotion right there, which means there's still somebody behind those eyes. Somebody who seems to think Sam is being a bit slow on the uptake. "Time parameters exceeded. Mission failed."

"Wait." Sam narrows his eyes. "Is this some kind of... report? Debriefing?"

"Mission report," confirms Barnes, looking pleased. Well, looking slightly less murderous than before.

"What-" Sam bites down on the first thing he wants to say. "All right. Thank you. What, uh, what now?"

Barnes looks down. The brief burst of personality seems to be fading, the blankness sliding back like camouflage blinds. Sam tries not to be alarmed, dismisses the thought of deliberately triggering another emotional response; the brain constructs defences for a reason, and poking at them without understanding more about Barnes's state will likely do more harm than good.

"I am so not qualified for this," sighs Sam. Barnes, staring at the table, doesn't present an opinion on the matter. "Look, just— I assume you've been taking care of basic necessities, because even amped-up superhumans need food and water and shelter. I don't know how safe this place is, but nobody's tried to kill us yet, so why don't you drink your coffee and have all that food?"

Barnes sets upon the muffin and scone like he's been waiting for Sam to give him a direct order. (Sam had been careful to phrase it like a suggestion, leaving wiggle room for Barnes to refuse, even though he really had meant it as an order, because the guy needs feeding up.) He eats neatly, efficiently, eyes continually scanning the café behind Sam's chair.

Sam makes a decision. "Steve and I are headed to New York. You've probably noticed us packing." He wonders if that's what had finally gotten Barnes to show his face, though Sam wouldn't have thought a relocation would present much of a problem to someone with the Winter Soldier's skillset. "I'm sure you won't have any trouble following us— if, you know, you want to. But. I guess this is me telling you, officially." Is this an invitation? He's inviting the Winter Soldier to come along with them. Sam is sure he used to make sensible life decisions, once. "Personally, I think you should just talk to Steve" —Barnes's eyebrows curl downward over the white cover of his coffee cup— "but, yeah, I can see you're not ready for that, yet. I guess I'm easier, right? Since we don't have a history. That's how Steve and I became friends, you know— a stranger can be more helpful, especially when you're trying to start over."

A soft expression settles briefly on Barnes's face. It's only there for a few seconds before he puts his cup down and the blankness is back, but Sam feels a unsettling pang of recognition— there, for a moment, he'd gotten a glimpse of the guy standing next to Steve in the rare few photos from the war where Captain America had looked happy.

"You know, I lost my best friend in the war," says Sam. In his head, he hears that ridiculous song that had kept him company on hundreds of restless nights, thousands of hours on transports, sky after unending sky, the slow Meg Bodoun version that warmed like bourbon in Riley's steeped-in-the-Deep-South voice: Who’ll rise or fall, give his all for America. "D'you want me to tell you about him?"

He's not really sure what he's expecting— for Barnes to up and leave now that he's given his “report” and been fed, probably. Barnes stares at him like he can't understand what he's being asked, or maybe like he can't understand Sam.

It feels an age before Sam hears a quiet but clear, "Yes."

Chapter Text

- - CODENAME: IRON MAN - -

Bits of circuitry hiss and sputter all over the suit. The HUD flickers valiantly for a few seconds, then goes completely dark.

"That's not good," observes Tony.

There's a loud, watery crash as the suit and Tony hit the river. The suit failing would normally trigger the automatic release function. Tony hears the blunted creak of external joints trying to detach, but are being prevented from doing so. Probably something to do with the gel-like substance that was sprayed at him during the fight. The bare minute he’d gotten to analyze it had told him it clung to metallic surfaces and, once there, immediately begin to harden. At that point, the baddie had taken advantage of his distraction to shoot some kind of EMP-delivering dart into the suit.

On the one hand, falling into the Hudson is less immediately fatal than hitting concrete or a highway in a nonfunctioning metal suit. On the other hand, the little bit of extra time won't exactly matter if he still ends up dead.

Trash of an unknown but possibly sentient nature floats past the tiny, tiny eye openings of the suit.

He knows better than to panic. No panicking inside the suit. Even— especially when he has a limited supply of breathable air. He calls for JARVIS, mostly out of habit but with a tiny grain of hopeful optimism, but the suit is unresponsive and the HUD remains dark.

"Well, this is... undignified," he declares to the universe. "A bit of a letdown, after aliens and mind-controllable tech and playing pincushion to a bunch of shrapnel. I'd expected my final exit to be a lot more grandiose. Definitely more explosions involved. Not a paperweight sunk to the bottom of the Hudson. Extra points to the universe for the plot twist."

Something goes knock, knock, knock against the back of the suit. Tony can't see much, makes a mental note to look into bigger eye openings the next time he redesigns the helmet. He struggles against the locked arm of the suit, trying to wiggle his fingers free of the glove piece, and ends up rapping the back of his knuckles against the metal plating.

He feels a pull around the suit's torso, and then the faintest tug of gravity. Something is yanking him up. He blinks when the suit breaks the surface and his eyes are hit by light.

The suit is dragged onto a dock, none too gently, but Tony is very willing to overlook this in return for seeing the sky again and getting a breeze of salty, polluted New York air once water drains out of the vents. He has no idea how someone managed to pull him out of the water; the suit and Tony combined make over eight hundred pounds, and he hadn't heard the whir of equipment.

"Hey, uh, thanks for fishing me out," he shouts. "Could you, maybe, give someone a call for me? It's just that the suit's locked up and the electronics are all fried, so I'm gonna need a little help getting out of it, unless you happen to see a Jaws of Life setup anywhere nearby. And know how to use it. So, uh, help me make a call and I swear I will... buy you your weight in beer, or something. Whatever you want, pal. Well, within reasonable bounds, but my friends can tell you that I have a very flexible definition of 'reasonable.'"

He doesn't hear anything for a full minute and assumes his mysterious rescuer skedaddled after pulling him out. Which, fine, not asphyxiating underwater is still a big plus in Tony's day. He also remembers that, hey, there's a genius lab tech gone rogue somewhere nearby, and it's actually pretty smart of a civilian to go into hiding instead of hanging about and practically gift-wrapping themselves as potential hostages. It's not their fault Tony hadn't thought to incorporate a tertiary emergency release mechanism for when unwanted substances prevent the suit’s parts from detaching.

He's investigating just how much legroom he has to work with when he hears energetic scuffling nearby. And getting closer. It's remarkably easy to play dead in a dead suit, so that's what he does. There are muffled noises, such as might come from someone wearing a fairly effective gag, up until a blunt, wince-worthy impact of a hard punch, and then silence.

Without warning, Tony's faceplate is pulled off. He breathes in fresh-ish air, blinks at the puffy clouds. A man he doesn't know is leaning over him, soggy and upside-down, and Tony beams at him.

"Oh, hey, wow, thanks for that. Again. Um, I'm assuming you're the same person who pulled me out of the river? Glad you came back. So, you won't happen to have a phone on you, would you? I mean, everyone does these days, but I'm starting to get the feeling you're not from around here. Oh, keep an eye out for a crazy-eyed lab tech in an unfortunate sweater—" The man's eyes flick to the side, and the warped edges of the suit's headpiece nearly poke Tony in the eyeball when he tries to turn his head far enough. "—whom you've already apprehended, I see. I'm starting to feel a bit superfluous, now, which, let me tell you, doesn't happen often." The man casts a calculating gaze over the rest of the suit, as if he's just realizing the predicament Tony is in. "But I'm totally cool with it! I'm all for the greater good and desirable outcomes. So, uh, about that phone call—"

The man leans forward a little, expression intent. A sharp and prolonged screech of metal, and suddenly half of Tony's upper body is free, including his left arm. Tony gapes unattractively.

That's— huh. The thing is, Tony spends a lot of time around ridiculously fit people, the numbers of which have tripled since the remnants of SHIELD scurried to take shelter under Stark Industries' benevolent wing, and theoretically this cast also includes a demigod and a genuine miracle of bioengineering, and furthermore, the suit is Tony's baby, even on days when it had almost been his coffin. So he should really, really not be turned on even a little bit by someone basically ripping the suit off him like it's made of paper and not reinforced gold-titanium alloy. Also, Tony has standards, and the person doing the ripping looks like he's been living rough for a while: threadbare hoodie, long, unkempt hair, fuzzy stubble, the works.

But then Tony catches sight of the arm, and—

"This is good," he squeaks, before Stubbly, Dark, and Robotically-Assisted can start on any pieces of the suit below Tony's waist. The man nods and sits back. There's a flatness to his gaze that takes care of any lingering notion of him being just a civilian. Tony really, really wishes he found that offputting.

(He has Issues. He knows. He knows.)

Mutual staring. Tony does his best not to let his eyes wander too much to the arm. The sleeves of Mystery Man's hoodie have been pushed to just above his elbow, but the cloth is wet from going into the water after Tony, and Tony can tell the metal goes all the way up to the shoulders. There are so many questions, and it's a testament to Pepper's many, many years of patient training in self-preservation that he doesn't give voice to them.

(Thinking of Pepper, a bit of memory flutters through the constant chatter in his mind— an email from Natasha via Pepper, something about assassins and Captain America and... a bird?)

At first, because Tony has a very good idea of where his personal strengths lie, he thinks Mr. Mystery is trying to out-stare him in some kind of powerplay; classic alpha-male stuff out of the bevy of social behaviors Tony is exposed to far too often. It's not until it occurs to him that, maybe, the guy actually doesn't know any better that Tony coughs, clears his throat, and says, "Thanks for the help."

Robo-Hipster nods, expression somber. He stands and glances at the lab tech, who has taken to unconsciousness like a pro. He walks away and disappears from sight. Tony realizes that, suit ripping aside, the man hadn't made a single sound.

Sam spreads his arms. "Why were you watching Stark in the first place?"

Barnes opens his mouth, then closes it like he's just discovered he doesn't actually have a good answer. After a moment, he says, "I had not meant to show myself."

"Yeah, I figured, and way to sidestep the question." Sam finishes investigating the rooftop of his new building. He knows Stark has given Steve his own floor in Stark Tower, but it surprised precisely no one when Steve insisted on getting his own place in Brooklyn. Sam refuses to live in Stark Tower if Steve isn't there, and that's how they've ended up sharing a modest two-bedroom apartment.

"It was a mistake to interfere."

"What? No, I'm glad you did. Stark is kind of an important guy. Plus, you know, rescuing people is a good thing. It was pretty much my job description, back when I was in the service." Sam eyes Barnes. "Do you regret saving him?"

Barnes makes a frowny-confused face (different from his frowny-sad face) and doesn't say anything, which Sam has lately decided is his way of admitting “I don't know” without verbalizing it. Sam's starting to get a feel for the places where he'd be butting up against the Winter Soldier's training; he hates that he can guess why the Winter Soldier would not have been allowed to show ambivalence or uncertainty.

"Well, that was a good thing, what you did," Sam says, as firmly as he can. "And I got to listen to Steve yell at Stark over the phone. It was awesome. Captain America lecturing Iron Man about teamwork and asking other people for help."

There’s the tiniest twitch on Barnes's face. Sam narrows his eyes.

"Wait, were you watching Stark because he's friends with Steve?" Sam knows he's hit the nail on the head the moment the words leave his mouth. Actually, he has no idea why he hadn't thought of it earlier. It's the same basis for his own contact with Barnes, after all. "It's a good thing we passed creepy about two statelines back. Were you, what, checking to see if Stark would be a good influence on Steve?"

Barnes shrugs his flesh-and-bone shoulder. (But not the partially metal one, Sam notes.) "Rogers needs people to watch his back."

"Man, I am so with you on that." Sam figures it's his turn to stare intently at Barnes, while his mind works over everything he's learned about him since their little one-on-ones started. He's always thought of Barnes as a combination of Bucky and the Winter Soldier, and yet separate, the least stable of a trio where no part makes sense without the others. Barnes is the Winter Soldier is Bucky is Barnes.

And yet, what would be the one thing all three of them can agree on?

"You're protecting Steve. I mean, I already guessed that much when you didn't show up to kill him and HYDRA agents in DC started dropping like flies. I swear, the two of you are as bad as the other. But. Does this mean he's your... mission, now?"

"Rogers needs people to watch his back," Barnes repeats.

"I'm going to take that as a yes. I'm also going to assume you're not going to show yourself to him so you can, you know, watch his back in person. Which, for the record, I am strongly in favor of."

Barnes shakes his head. "Not yet."

Sam sighs. "Fine." At least “not yet” is an improvement from an outright “no”. He tilts his head thoughtfully. "I get it, I guess. You can't protect Steve directly, so you help the people who protect him. Pretty logical. Unnecessarily complicated, but logical."

- - CODENAME: HULK - -

He becomes aware of being watched the moment he walks out of the bodega. No point looking around; he knows enough spies to expect that they would remain invisible to their target unless they have a reason not to be. He was already on his way back to the Tower, so he just starts walking faster. He's not worried about his personal safety so much as everybody else's: the Other Guy will very definitely object if some idiot tries to take potshots at him.

The clatter of metal cans draws his attention. He picks up voices coming from the alley ahead and slows down as he comes to it. Peering around the corner, he's not surprised to see a bunch of kids crowding around a smaller one at the end of the alley, their shoes crunching amongst the spilled contents of a garbage bag. The big kids are distinctly older: teenagers with gangly limbs and lean faces. The small kid is either undersized or no more than twelve.

"—no teachers here, dickface," says one of the teenagers.

"Whatchu need all that money for, runt, I ain't ever see you in the cafeteria," says another. The chain hanging out of his pocket jingles when he plants his hands on his hips.

Normally Bruce is... not okay, exactly, but able to hear this kind of thing without reacting too much. He wouldn't trust himself to walk around New York if he couldn't. But the kid at the end of the alley is trying to curl up into a ball while still remaining standing, and the way the older kids are looming over him, and clearly enjoying doing so, is kicking up that ominous stutter in Bruce's pulse.

He's just about to open his mouth when, "Hey," a man's voice says lazily, out of nowhere, "you guys wanna pick on someone your own size?"

All the boys startle. Their heads look up and around until they spot the figure leaning over the fire escape, several feet above their heads.

The thing is, the man's voice is pretty quiet. There's a screaming match going on in the building that the fire escape belongs to, loud bass-heavy music coming from the building on the other side of the alley, traffic from two major roads edging into the din of evening rush hour. But something in his tone or his expression —too shaded for Bruce to see clearly— leaves the teenagers looking unsettled. A couple of them start to back away, drifting towards the opening of the alley where Bruce is standing.

"Mind your own business, mister," says teenager with the chain.

The man seems to consider this for a moment, then swings his legs over the railing and drops down to the ground. It's a height of two floors, not something a regular person can't manage as long as they know how to land well, but the man doesn't even stumble, hardly seems to register the impact as his heavy boots hit the ground. He's only got an inch or so on the tallest of the kids, and his clothes look threadbare compared to theirs, but he's got a presence that makes him seem bigger, makes the bullies back away instinctively.

"Go now," he says, in a voice that's subtly different: thick and almost formal. Then the city drawl is back, loose and dangerous in its own way. "I ain't askin'."

A moment of hesitation, then the teenagers scatter. One of them nearly knocks into Bruce and mutters an apology as he darts past; the reflexive politeness while in the grip of fear leaves Bruce feeling bemused, which helps a lot in settling the Other Guy.

"You all right?" the man asks the teenagers' almost victim.

The boy nods without looking up. His rescuer is clearly lost, unwilling to get closer, yet not entirely convinced of the kid's wellbeing. Now that Bruce can see the boy more clearly, he notes the rumpled clothing, the torn strap of his backpack, the remains of a pair of glasses lying on the ground. There are red marks on the boy's right forearm.

"Hey," Bruce says quietly. The boy glances up towards him before looking back down again; the man doesn't move, clearly already aware of Bruce's presence. "My name is Doctor Banner. Can I come closer?"

The boy nods. Bruce spares a glance for the other man and takes the lack of objection as permission. He walks to the boy, keeping his movements steady and obvious. He crouches down and makes a sympathetic noise when he gets a good look at the arm. "You are going to have some pretty big bruises in a few hours. Can you move your arm like this?" He demonstrates with his own arm and watches for any signs of pain when the boy copies the movements. "What's your name?"

"Marco."

"Nice to meet you, Marco. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

A shake of the head.

"All right. Do you have a parent or a guardian at home who can help you put something cold on this?"
A shrug. "Mom's at work," says Marco. Now that he's closer, Bruce can hear a worrying wheeziness in the boy's voice. "I stay with Mrs. Tam 'til she gets home."

"Well, maybe Mrs. Tam can help you, then," says Bruce.

Then he realizes the kid is shaking.

"Hey, it's okay," he says. He doesn't feel comfortable about hugging a kid when said kid doesn't know him, but he spreads his hands a little in invitation. He barely gets the chance to blink before Marco is clinging to him, face pressed into Bruce's shoulder. Bruce rubs his back. "You'll be okay."

He waits for the kid to cry it out, and tries not to be alarmed when the crying seems to be getting worse rather than better. It takes him way too long to realize that the wheezing is not just crying anymore.

Before he can do anything about it, a pair of gloved hands appears in his line of vision, pulling off the bag that's barely hanging onto the kid's back. There's the sound of rummaging, and then an inhaler is thrust at Bruce.

"Asthma," says the man.

Bruce has figured out that much, but he thanks the man with a nod and helps the kid take his sprays.

"S-sorry," gasps Marco, wiping his face on his sleeve and not meeting Bruce's eyes.

"Not your fault," says Bruce firmly.

Marco ducks his head, body curling into itself and swaying like he's torn between moving away from Bruce and not wanting to lose the contact; in his slouched shoulders, Bruce can read the frustration and anger, turned inward, of every kid who blames themselves for things they want to change and can't.

Bruce appreciates, suddenly, the simplicity of the Other Guy's approach to problems. Smashing things sounds really, really good right now, because he wants nothing more than to help this kid and he has no idea how.

Then, unexpectedly, Marco says, "You're Bruce Banner. The Hulk."

"You're a smart kid," says Bruce, smiling. It still surprises him that he's able to smile about the Other Guy now, sometimes.

Marco sniffles. "What's it like? Being that big and—" a vague gesture with his hands. Bruce can guess what he means. Strong. Indestructible.

Normally, he'd explain that he can't really remember what it's like when he's the Other Guy, that he only gets vague impressions and echoes while it's happening. But that's the technically accurate answer, the simplistic answer. It says nothing about what it's like to be living with it. "To be honest? I spend most of my time worrying about hurting people."

"Even if they deserve it?"

"Especially if they deserve it."

Marco nods, tear-stained face thoughtful. A small whisper of sound, and Bruce is reminded of the other man's presence, feels surprised to find him still there. He steals a glance. Takes in the lost look on the man's face, the haunted way he's staring at Marco.

"You know," Bruce says to the boy, "I have this friend, a good friend, goes by Captain America— you might have heard of him?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the man's stance stiffening. Marco laughs. "Everyone's heard of Captain America!"

"Yeah, of course, you're right," says Bruce. "Well, he tells me that he used to get picked on a lot, too, when he was younger. Because he was small and spoke his mind, and sometimes the bigger kids didn't like what he had to say." He starts to pat his pockets, looking for something to clean the kid's face with. A tissue is pushed into his hand, fresh from a packet of them; from Marco's backpack, Bruce assumes. He gently wipes Marco's face. "He was sick all the time, too. Had asthma, rheumatic fever, heart palpitations, a bunch of things. And back then, medicines weren't as good as they are today. He got pneumonia twice—"

"Three times," interjects the voice behind him.

Bruce accepts the correction with a barely suppressed smile. "Right, three times, and some people thought he wouldn't live very long. He didn't have it easy, but he never gave up. Never stopped trying to do the right thing, always did his best to be a good person. Still does." Marco's eyes are wide. It's possible he's never heard this about the Great American Hero before. Bruce has lately become aware of how the history textbooks and documentaries never spend too long on Steve's childhood, preferring to start from his meeting with Dr. Erskine onwards.

"What about Bucky?" asks Marco.

"Cap's best buddy Bucky?" Bruce singsongs, remembering the cartoons he’d seen growing up. (He'd liked them better than the comics.) He ignores the way the hairs at the back of his neck are rising.

"Yeah!" beams Marco in recognition. "They were best friends since they were kids, right? If he was sick all the time, I bet Bucky looked after him a lot."

"He did," confirms Bruce. "Captain America is full of stories about Bucky taking care of him when he was sick or injured or feeling down. You know, he once told me he wouldn't have gotten better from the pneumonia, all three times, if it weren't for Bucky."

Marco sniffs loudly. "I wish I had a Bucky."

Something catches in Bruce’s chest. "You will. It can take a while to find your close friends, but when you do, the wait will be worth it."

Marco nods. He leans a little to the side and says, over Bruce's shoulder, "Thanks for helping me, mister."

Bruce doesn't turn around. There's a long, uncertain pause, and then, "You're welcome."

"My name's Marco. Can I have my bag back?"

The bag is handed over. Bruce sees that the damaged strap has somehow acquired a large safety pin, keeping the strap attached to the bag where the synthetic fabric has ripped. Marco tugs at the temporary repair, nods his approval, and carefully puts the bag on.

A clearing of the throat. "My name is James."

Marco smiles then, gap-toothed and squinting. Bruce quietly picks up the frame of the boy's broken glasses and pockets it; he can find out the kid's prescription and replace the lenses. He stands up. "Ready to head home?"

Marco nods.

They get out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, Marco staying by Bruce's side while regularly looking over his shoulder at their uncertain, unspeaking shadow; Bruce isn’t exactly comfortable, but Marco seems to find the other man’s silence soothing. After a few minutes, Bruce feels a tug on his shirt. Marco says, "I wish Captain America still has his Bucky."

Bruce sighs. "Me too, kiddo. Me too."

Sam is good with heights. He wouldn't have been able to do his job if he couldn't handle heights. In the right circumstances —with wings on and calm skies and a clear mission ahead— he absolutely loves heights, loves to see how far he can push the jets and how many loops his body can take.

Sitting on top of a skyscraper, under a brewing thunderstorm and the accompanying winds and no wings, is far less fun.

He has to raise his voice to be heard. "From what you've said, everything you've been doing seems like stuff you would've done before. Stuff that Bucky would have done."

Barnes gives every impression of not being aware of the weather, which is pretty impressive when his longer hair looks like a wild Medusa party in the wind. "You said before that you're not expecting Bucky to come back."

Sam rolls his eyes. "It's not about that. I think you're trying to find out what else you're capable of, outside the fighting and killing. Figuring out the bits that aren't the Winter Soldier. Unsurprisingly, a lot of those are gonna overlap with Bucky."

"Still doesn't make me him."

"No," Sam agrees. "But it does mean you are not just the Winter Soldier. You should have a think about what you want to do with that." He glances up at another rumble of thunder. "Can we go somewhere indoors now? In case you haven't noticed, that's lightning up there, and we are really high up and you have an arm made out of metal."

- - CODENAME: HAWKEYE - -

It's just one of those things. An unfortunate series of unlikely events that regular people would never have to deal with. He wants to be pissed about it, except he's aware of the other things, like impossible shots under crazy crosswinds and minor head trauma. Regular people can’t manage those, but Clint's got three under his belt and counting. He figures it evens out somewhere; so long as he gets to keep breathing, he's willing to take the bad with the good.

The “bad” is currently a fractured-but-maybe-broken leg, a sudden blackout in the building Clint is in, and, oh yeah, Clint being stuck in a ventilation shaft.

One of those alone isn't a big deal. But Clint is on the verge of conceding that he might be, maybe, a little bit lost; he doesn't remember the last time this has happened to him. It's possible it'd been before he joined SHIELD. Before the blackout, all the lights in the building had brightened, like there was some kind of surge, and the device anchoring Clint's rope hissed and sparked. Then all the lights went out, and the device detached from the wall; Clint fell an unknown number of feet in total darkness to land badly enough that every movement of his left leg now hurts fiery balls.

He'd memorized a map of the building while preparing for the op, but it's not that helpful when the map he was given is wrong, because there are only half as many service tunnels as he was expecting, and none leading the way he needed to go. In the end, he'd taken his favorite fallback and dragged himself into the nearest ventilation shaft. A shot of local anaesthetic dulled most of the pain in his leg.

He thinks he can still extrapolate a route based on the layout of the building. The darkness adds an additional challenge, as he can't use his flashlight or glow sticks unless he's sure the light won't travel anywhere there might be people. Which means there's a good chance he'll put his weight on a loose grate without knowing it and fall through, or otherwise land himself in deeper shit. Oh, and his comms don't seem to be working anymore, or at least he can't raise base, because this day is hell-bent on being a comedy of errors.

Voices from somewhere —he can't even see where any of the openings are— makes him shuffle the other way. He feels the wall turning into a side passage; he grits his teeth and drags himself backwards into it.

Or tries to. Turns out, someone else is already in there, and he discovers this when he sits right on top of their boots.

They both stay silent, presumably by mutual silent accord, while the echoing voices complain about the blackout and all the data that might have been lost. Eventually, the source of the voices move to a different room, getting further and further away until there's silence once more.

"So. Um. Awkward," whispers Clint. He's pretty sure this kind of thing wasn’t covered in training. Etiquette When Encountering Another Operative In Ventilation Shafts. Though he wasn’t the best at paying attention, so who knows? He quickly moves his ass to non-occupied real estate. Jostling his leg makes his breath hitch.

The other person doesn't say anything. Clint's fairly sure it's a guy from the size of the boots. He's so still that Clint would worry he's dead, except he can feel the guy staring at him, even through a darkness that is very nearly pitch.

One reason Clint has lasted so long in his line of work is that he's pretty good at assessing how dangerous other people are. (The other reason being that he has the sense to do his work from a distance.) He's really hoping he can get away from this without a fight; he's injured and this is as close quarters as anything can get, and even without being able to see him, he can tell this ain't somebody he wants to go toe-to-toe with.

"Well, it's been fun, but, you know, things to do," says Clint. He shuffles back farther, hand drifting closer to the knife in his belt. He should really bind his leg, maybe find something to make a splint. If he's not out by the time the anaesthetic wears off, he's going to be in a world of pain.

Mystery guy shifts. Clint makes like a caught rabbit and freezes, knife in hand. After a tense moment, a voice rasps, "Server room?"

Faint Eastern European accent, likely Russian. Doesn't mean anything other than the guy wants Clint to think he's Russian. Which only makes it probable that he isn't.

Then again, maybe Clint's been spending too much time with Nat. "Yes?"

A pause. "I have a similar goal. I can help you."

"Oh yeah?" Clint does an awkward quarter pivot on one buttcheek, still gripping his knife. "And what do you want in return?"

"Two scientists. They are HYDRA." Pause. "I want SHIELD to take credit for their deaths."

Clint had already known about the scientists. Undercover HYDRA operatives. They're part of why he's in this building in the first place. "Why do you think I'm SHIELD?"

A snort. "You are the one they call Hawkeye. A trained bird of prey on the hunt must have a master waiting somewhere."

Clint swallows. Well, he'd never been accused of being smart. "And what does the Winter Soldier have? A war?"

Another frozen moment. "How did you know?" The Russian accent's gone, like it'd never been there at all. Clint could be talking to his next-door neighbour.

(He belatedly remembers that his next-door neighbour is currently Nat.)

"I've got the ears of the paranoid," says Clint. "Blame Stark and his creepy, grab-happy robots. I can hear your arm." He sheathes the knife. Wonders if the Winter Soldier has decent eyesight in the dark, like Rogers. "And sure, I'll take your kills." He'd already been cleared to take them out if the opportunity presented itself. "Just help me get to the server room so I can retrieve my target."

He feels the Winter Soldier stare at him a little longer, and then there's a body leaning over his and a hand on his elbow. Clint's grabbed it before he realizes it's not an attack. The Winter Soldier doesn't seem perturbed, only helps Clint drag and butt-shuffle himself out to the main shaft.

"Wait," says the other man. "I’ll get something for your leg."

He disappears down the nearest vent opening. Clint half-braces for the alarm to sound. He doesn't hear anything for several minutes, and then the man is back, holding out what feels like two long rods made out of a lightweight but unyielding material. Clint pulls out the small roll of duct tape from his pack.

The Soldier mutters, "Hold on," and tightly tapes the pipes on either side of Clint's lower leg while Clint grits his teeth.

The result is ungainly, and Clint has to be careful while dragging his leg to keep the rods from knocking against the walls and floor, but it's better than nothing. He breathes a sigh of relief when they are able to crawl out into a service tunnel. Being upright lets them move quicker, and Clint doesn't say anything when the Winter Soldier pulls one of Clint's arms over his shoulder. The arm that ends up curved across Clint's back is the metal one, and takes most of his weight like it's nothing. It's clear Clint's unexpected ally knows where he's going; the service tunnel they're in seems to be the one Clint was looking for earlier, and soon he's able to approximate their position on the map in his memories.

There are emergency portable lights set up around the server room. It's empty of people when the two of them slip inside via a side door for maintenance staff. Clint takes in the rows and rows of dark computers. "Right. Server 5816."

The Winter Soldier nods and strides off. With the additional light, Clint is able to see his new buddy is wearing a Kevlar vest over a T-shirt that has one of its sleeves cut off. The long hair still matches Nat's description of him. Clint shakes his head and hobbles along the closest aisle, reading the numbers on the racks. The labels here are in the two-thousands. He's barely walked halfway when the Winter Soldier comes trotting back.

Server 5816 was noted as being "damaged" and thus unused in this facility's equipment log. It looks perfectly intact, as far as Clint can tell, and he carefully extracts the hard drive, storing it in the inner pouch of his vest. He spares a glance at the Winter Soldier. The man isn't even looking at him; he's peering up at the service walkways high above the room.

"Over there," says Clint, pointing to a particular spot near a support pillar. "Has a view of the door and most of the room, the stairs are on one end, and there's a vent right by that column."

"Not much cover."

"If it was me against you, maybe, but how many of the goons here do you think have that good aim?" Clint smirks. He's surprised and pleased to find it returned. "C'mon, I think the drugs are starting to wear off."

The climb takes longer than he likes, and he's sweating and gritting his teeth by the time they reach the vantage point he wants. The Winter Soldier investigates the rest of the walkway while Clint sets up. If Clint had known he'd be asked to leave a calling-card on this mission, he would have fought harder to bring his bow. The rifle isn't too shabby, though.

The Winter Soldier crouches down next to him. The two of them are mostly in shadow, with only the muzzle of the rifle poking out through a gap in the railing.

It's not Clint who breaks the silence this time. "For someone who's heard of me, you don't seem very alarmed."

"Oh, I am. I'm definitely alarmed." Clint shakes his head. "I've been hearing about you for longer than I've been officially active. Can't help wonder what it'd take to spook a spook, you know? But you haven't tried to kill me yet. That counts for something."

"I tried to kill your friends. A lot of people at SHIELD died at my hands, people you must have known."

Clint holds his next breath a moment longer, then lets it out slowly. "Yeah, see. Been there, done that. At least you were supposed to be the enemy." He glances down at his makeshift splint. Chuckles harshly. "I guess you can say I don't have a leg to stand on."

He feels the Winter Soldier staring at him. The guy seems to like doing that. "That's fuckin' terrible. You didn't even use it right."

"Your face is terrible," retorts Clint, mostly on reflex. He ignores the bloom of panic in his gut and does his best to look unconcerned, like he’s not in utter despair at the crap that flies out of his mouth sometimes.

A choked sound, like a mangled laugh. Or a laugh from someone who's forgotten what it's supposed to sound like. Clint is torn between wishing he could turn around and being glad for an excuse to not be looking.

"You know what," Clint says, easing back on the scope, "do you want to take this? The ballistics will match SHIELD's and I'm putting the kills into my report, so it doesn't really matter who pulls the trigger."

He's kept his voice light and casual, and maintains his position even though he's no longer looking through the scope. Eventually, he hears a soft "All right."

They switch places. Clint notes the ease with which the Winter Soldier settles into a sniper's stillness, the comfortable way he handles the rifle. It belatedly occurs to him that the guy has placed himself in a slightly more vulnerable position; he's got his back to Clint, and Clint's hands are now free where his are not. Clint has no doubts the Winter Soldier will be able to defend himself if Clint tries anything, but the show of trust still feels significant.

Faint voices from the door. The both of them go still and silent. Clint doesn't need the scope to identify the two men who come in as their targets. A third follows, wearing the uniform of the building's security. The main door into the room closes with a heavy clang. Clint blinks; he'd expected far more security. Maybe they’re all off elsewhere, which supports his theory that the blackout is the facility’s fault and they don’t know they have visitors. The scientists are caught up in some kind of discussion, pulling out laptops and turning them on with a distracted efficiency that reminds Clint of Stark and Banner. The security guy stations himself by the door, alert but clearly bored.

There's no sound when the Winter Soldier adjusts the rifle slightly. Clint is not surprised to see the security guy go down first. The scientists are so distracted they don't notice anything until the body hits the ground, and barely a second later, the first scientist jerks sideways, toppling off his chair. The last man has time enough to stand and look in their direction before he, too, is sprawled across the floor. Clint squints: three neat headshots, clean kills.

"Not bad," says Clint. There's a tense moment where the possibility of the Winter Soldier shooting him with his own gun hangs in the air; he blithely ignores it by dragging his ass up and off the cold metal floor, grimacing at the growing pain. When he holds his hand out, his rifle is deposited into his grip without hesitation.

To Clint's surprise, the Winter Soldier doesn't vanish right away, instead helping Clint back down to the service tunnel and supporting him through the shortest route to the outside. Apparently a brainwashed nonagenarian with limited technological resources has a more accurate knowledge of the building than the remnants of SHIELD; Clint is so looking forward to pointing this out, especially in Stark's hearing.

"I'm not going to tell you to talk to you-know-who," says Clint once he thinks they're close enough to the outside that he can manage if the Winter Soldier dumps his ass in a fit of feelings avoidance. "I just think I should let you know I totally blame you for all the depressing movies we've been subjected to since he started hanging out at the Tower." There's a stutter in their three-legged speed walk. They continue again after a moment, and Clint decides the metal fingers digging into his back are doing so unconsciously, not as a signal to stop. "He tries to watch them on his own, which is even more depressing, and it's probably some kind of national crime to let Captain America wallow in misery all on his lonesome, so the rest of us end up sitting with him."

They round a corner, the Winter Soldier's hand dropping to his hip and guiding him into the change of direction with surprising gentleness. Clint thinks of the new titles he's seen on Steve's bookshelves; the way Steve eats up every little thing that could be related to this ghost, even if it means facing the seedier parts of history; the file from Kiev that's been reread so many times that Bruce stuck a book cover on it before it could start to fall apart.

Doors open both ways, Clint remembers saying once. "Seriously, so many independent films, because mainstream dramas are too optimistic or something. Then Stark suggested foreign films, because he's a little shit. We’ve been watching French for weeks, and of course Stark only knows, like, a dozen words in it, while the rest of us are shit out of luck; Nat and I are officially fluent in five languages, don't ask about the unofficial ones, Steve and Bruce both have three, and Thor is the worst off, with that Allspeak of his. Man, you haven't lived until you've had an Asgardian cry all over you."

An alarm sounds just as they reach a reinforced metal door, which is presumably an exit. It refuses to budge when Clint pulls at it; he doesn't know if it's been sealed deliberately or it's the kind that locks when there's a power failure. The two of them share a look. There's a quiet whir of machinery, and then the Winter Soldier's metal arm is punching right through the door. Turns out it can be opened from the outside. Clint whistles in appreciation.

There are only two guards at the perimeter fence, despite the alarm, and they barely have time to bring their guns around before Clint's shot one in the head and the other has the Winter Soldier's knife sticking out of his throat.

Clint's extraction point is ten minutes away on a dodgy leg. He looks at his unexpected companion. "Go on, I can make it from here."

The Winter Soldier turns to leave, then hesitates. "He likes mixing salty and sweet popcorn. In the same bowl." His expression is the same bleak one he's worn the whole time, but his tone is all I find this baffling yet adorable and will shoot you in the face if you make fun of him for it, and Clint has to nix half the stuff that wants to come out of his mouth.

"I'll make sure he gets his very own bowl, next movie night," Clint promises. It's possibly the easiest agreement he'll ever make with a potential enemy combatant during an active op. He's also pretty sure they're talking about more than just popcorn; he's okay with that, too.

A nod and a weird little half-salute, and then the Winter Soldier is gone.

"Bad day?" Sam takes the silence as answer enough. "That's cool. The weather's perfect for just chilling out." He sits down next to Barnes and opens up one of the bags of trail mix he just bought. He suspects Barnes has taken to showing himself after Sam's been to the store because he knows Sam will share.

That said, he wants to ask why Barnes wanted to meet if he doesn't feel up to talking. He has a suspicion Barnes has gotten used to having semi-regular human interaction. Next step is, clearly, to convince Barnes to have these meetings in places more comfortable than random New York rooftops. If not for the fact that Steve is too polite to ask why Sam sometimes comes home with grime all over his pants, Sam would probably have been questioned about the sort of places he goes to.

A couple of stray nuts slip out of Barnes' hand. Sam barely has time to blink before a seagull has landed next to them. The bird eats up the fallen nuts, then eyes Barnes' hand. Barnes sends Sam a do something about this look.

"Hey, just because they call me Falcon, doesn't make some kind of bird whisperer," says Sam. He feels a tug on the bag of trail mix and turns his head to find a second seagull hopping up to him. "No, no, no. Shoo. This is people food, at least while it's still in my hands. I will concede that anything touching the dirty roof tiles is fair game."

When he looks back at Barnes, he finds the man in a stare off with the seagull, his metal arm held out menacingly. He's chewing with a vengeance and his hand is empty; Sam shakes the bag at him, offering more. The deadly fist of HYDRA grabs a new handful and shoves half of it into his mouth without looking away from the seagull, his expression decidedly smug.

"Man, you know that these are New York seagulls, right?" says Sam. "They're practically the mafia of the bird world. Don't antagonize them."

Barnes' seagull flicks its head to the side, giving them an unimpressed look, and dismissively spreads its wings. It flutters over them for a few minutes, maybe checking for any last-minute food spillages, then flies away completely— but not before shitting right on Barnes' metal arm.

- - CODENAME: THOR - -

In truth, Thor had been aware of the troublesome air brewing inside the bar almost from the moment he entered it; he has been the happy participant of too many a brawl in taverns and drinking-halls across the Realms to not recognize the signs. Most Asgardians treat brawling as an extension of merrymaking, an excess of spirits between warriors after a good battle or some great undertaking. Not at all like the unease he feels now: full of anger and resentment.

He will not be goaded. Even without Mjolnir, it would not be a fair fight.

His would-be adversaries had begun their mongering from their table at the other side of the room. Voices grew louder with every drink, and after a time, slurred words were paired with dark looks in his direction; one man in particular was spitting vitriol that heated even Thor's unwilling ears. To Thor's good fortune, the bar is fairly empty, with only a handful of weary humans spread out over the rest of the tables, and one other at the bar with Thor.

Eventually, the drunkest of the six seems take Thor's lack of reaction as a challenge. Thor easily hears his stumbling approach over the aging floors, the uncertain whispers of his friends. The angry one reaches the bar and prods Thor on the arm, hard enough that he ends up swaying backwards when Thor doesn't move.

"Are you listening? I said, you're not fucking welcome here, you freak, you and the rest of your alien devil spawn can go back to where you came from." A bated pause from his friends, and then, when Thor continues to do nothing, bleary agreement and whistles of encouragement. "You say you're here to protect us, but how do we know you're not just the same as the other one? We don't even know what you've done with him."

A different man, still at the table, calls out, "That Loki was one sick fuck who should have been whipped bloody and shot dead on live television-"

Thor only realizes he's gotten to his feet when he hears the scraping of his bar stool against the floor.

"Hey now, fellas," says a voice from behind Thor. It's the man who'd been sitting by himself at the far end of the bar. Thor distantly applauds his stealth, for he has left his stool and walked over to Thor's side without Thor being aware of it. "I can't help but overhear you giving this guy crap about stuff he didn't do."

"It was his brother who brought those alien things! Where are you from, Brooklyn?" The man doesn't wait for the newcomer's nod. "You guys got hit, too. Don't tell me you're okay with him walking around like he owns the place."

"Seems to me he was just having a quiet drink on his own," says the man. "And yeah, fine, so it was his brother. None of you have brothers or sisters, or cousins or family who aren't straightlaced? Everyone here's got a perfect life?" He sweeps a challenging look over the men. "And how many of you, when your brother does something crazy and wrong, will go after them and help to bring them down? Huh?" He steps towards the angry one who had approached Thor, seemingly uncaring of placing himself within striking distance. "Could you do it? Shoot one of your own, even if they're in the wrong and it'd be the right thing to do?"

The man stumbles back. Thor cannot see his unexpected ally's expression, standing behind him as he is, but he thinks it must be fearsome, for none will look at him directly. From the angry one, drunken abashment and bewildered fear rises above the reek of the drink.

"Didn't think so. Next time, think twice before you go runnin' your mouth."

The angry one makes it back to his table even as his fellows are getting to their feet. There is a moment of rushed mumbling, and then they are leaving money on the table and stumbling out the door.

Thor's ally nods at their departure and returns to his seat at the end of the bar. The moment he sits down, he holds a hand to his head, fingers massaging his temple as if in pain.

Thor knows the traditional way of showing gratitude in such a situation would be to buy the man a drink, but before Thor can order one, the bartender is placing a full glass of clear liquid in front of the man, saying, "On the house, for stopping that disaster." She smiles at Thor and gives him a new beer as well. "Not your fault people are stupid, honey. And after what your new friend here said, I figure I owe you a drink as well."

"Thank you," Thor says sincerely. He takes his drink and slides down the bar until he is a seat away from the man. "Thank you as well, my friend." The stranger is glancing between the bartender and his drink in confusion. Thor suspects that he is not accustomed to receiving free drinks.

"I just didn't wanna lose my quiet night in," he says. His smile does not reach his eyes.

"I understand," says Thor. "We who are children of war know well to hoard our moments of peace."
The man gives him a sharp look. "'Children of war' sounds way too poetic for someone like me. I'm not— the last rank I ever got, officially, was sergeant." After a moment, he appears to relaxes. "It's that obvious, huh?"

"Harsh deeds lie heavily upon you," explains Thor, "as well as a deep wariness— of yourself, I think. I have seen it in warriors who have fought too long without rest."

"That's." The sergeant takes a drink, clears his throat. "That's it? That's the only thing that gave it away?"

Thor's gaze is drawn to the man's left hand, largely because its fingers are being wiggled at him. "I apologize, I am not sure I understand."

"Nothing. Never mind." The Sergeant shakes his head. "It's just. Most of the time, when people assume I'm a soldier, it's 'cause of the arm."

"Are there not other ways one might lose a part of one's body?"

"Yeah, yeah, there are." A pause. "Maybe it's not just the arm. Guess I can't blame this fucking thing for everything."

"Forgive me, I did not mean to cause you distress." Thor hesitates. "If I might ask, why do you speak of it with such hatred? It is fine craftsmanship."

The Sergeant lets out a low, humorless sound. "Because I never asked for it. And yeah, it's a real piece of work, but so is an AK-47, or the Jericho." He goes still for a moment, and then rubs a hand over his eyes. "Shit, that must be new, I've never seen the Jericho before. Who the hell would make something like that?"

"The arm should not have been forced upon you," Thor agrees. "Yet I do not think it is much like those things you named."

"Weapons. They're weapons."

"And that is an arm."

"Which is very much a weapon." The Sergeant gives it a look of distaste. "Buddy, you can't begin to imagine the things I have done with this arm."

Thor looks contemplatively at his drink. "I took up my hammer, Mjolnir, when I was but a brash youth. I admired only its strength and power, the ways in which it would enhance my skills in war. It was only later that I understood how those things are only the least of what Mjolnir can do. When I came into my own, I was offered my pick of the royal armoury in Asgard— many true weapons of legend lie there, some as old as hallowed Ygddrasil. I never felt the same kinship with another, though. Now that I have learned, I hope, from my past follies and weaknesses, even more do I deem Mjolnir greater than all the ancient artifacts of all the realms. A sword might slay the enemies of my people, ensure the safety of all that I love. But a hammer— a hammer can build."

The sergeant frowns.

"And what is a hammer," continues Thor, "to an arm?"

A heavy sigh. "It doesn't need to be a weapon, is what you're saying." Small metal parts hum quietly as fingers open and close. "Maybe. But it's attached to me, and I ain't exactly a good man."

"Neither was I."

The sergeant seems to consider this, and Thor is content to leave him to his thoughts. They drink in a comfortable silence— not companionable, exactly, but not unlike when Thor had shared victuals with fellow warriors he had been fighting against only the day before.

Perhaps it is this that prompts him to say, after some time has passed, "My brother is now dead. That is why I... had trouble with my anger."

The sergeant nods somberly. "Did he die clean?"

"He-" Thor's voice fails him, and he has to clear this throat to continue. "He died protecting me."

A rush of movement: the man finishes his drink and moves as if to slam the glass down on the bartop. He slows his arm down at the last moment, angling his hand so it's his wrist that taps against the wood. He examines the vessel between his fingers, the light from ceiling gleaming off glass and metal. "So you got him back, in the end. He gave you that, at least."

Thor contemplates his own empty glass. He tries out a thought that he has been harbouring for some time, but hasn't yet been able to give voice to; nearly everyone he knows has had an altercation with Loki. "I wonder if it is not— not a matter of losing or gaining, when it concerns those we love. If, rather, it is a matter of knowing, of discovering parts of a person we did not know before. It may be that these parts were concealed from us, either by their design or by circumstances or our own wilful blindness, and they are no longer the person we thought they were. Yet it does not entirely remove the person we knew before, nor void the bonds formed from that knowing."

"Huh." The sergeant puts down the glass. He does not seem affected by the drink in any way, and there is something wistful about his gaze upon the racks of bottles arranged against the back wall.

Who did you lose? Thor wants to ask. He does not dare to. There is an air about the man that laments of one who has been deeply wounded, and Thor does not wish to hurt him further.

"My brother used to— do as you did," Thor offers. "Put others at ease after my brash speech and hot temper had turned people against us." He belatedly realizes that the man might not react well to being compared to the one who had brought such destruction to his city.

The sergeant only chuckles. "My ma always said I had a gift for sweet-talkin' folks." His eyes widen, and his expression freezes. There is something unnatural about the way he has simply stopped, and a breeze is stirring in the room before Thor becomes aware of the growing charge in the air. He quickly calms himself.

Silent minutes pass. "Are you well, friend?" asks Thor.

"Friend?" the man says faintly. He blinks. Slowly, as if it almost pains him, his body gives up the harsh tension that had seized it. The hand that finally pinches the bridge of his nose is trembling faintly.

Thor signals the bartender for another round. She refills Thor's glass without question but casts a curious look at the man next to him, supporting Thor's suspicion that his new acquaintance has been drinking for a while with little to show for it.

"Still the vodka?" the bartender asks.

The man glances at Thor. "Y'know what, I'll switch to beer. Same as he's havin'."

"I feel like I might as well be serving you two water," she says with a wry smile. "Not that I'm complaining. That's two less drunks I have to kick out at closing." She serves him beer in a fresh glass and leaves them alone.

"Shall we toast?" asks Thor.

"Toast?" The sergeant blinks, glancing at their drinks. Thor wonders if he's unfamiliar with the practice, and maybe Thor ought to have explained, but then the man's easy expression returns. "What're we toasting to, then?"

"Forgiveness." Thor presses a hand against the cool bar-top. “Deserved or not.”

A muscle in the sergeant's jaw tenses, but he nods willingly enough. "I'll drink to that." They clink their glasses.

"This brother of yours," says the sergeant, after a leisurely draw, "he a beer-drinker too?"

The question is so unexpected that it makes Thor laugh, loudly, drawing a few bleary gazes. None of them are unfriendly, though, or linger overlong. "Not at all. He hates— hated the taste of ale, would only tolerate mead when our mother was watching."

The man nods, eyes wide and skittish but clearly interested. It has been a long time since Thor has spoken with someone who so clearly holds no opinion of Loki or Thor or the changes they have wrought on this world; he does not know how this came to be, if the man somehow missed the events of the last few years, and he would ask, but he suspects it is to do with the wound the man is carrying, heavy and weeping under the matter of his flesh.

Thor has learned much of battles that cannot be won; so he drinks his Midgardian beer and talks, and talks, gently weaving the worn-soft thread of his memories into a cloak strong enough to shelter two grieving warriors from the uncaring cold, for a time.

The first time Barnes voluntarily brings up Steve catches Sam completely by surprise, even though nothing about it should have; he'd known it was only a matter of time.

"HYDRA's programming might still be active," says Barnes.

"How long have you been lurking in my bathroom?" demands Sam.

Barnes continues like he hadn't heard Sam. "The programming might recognize a failed mission and try to—" He grimaces. "—correct it."

"Don't pretend you haven't been stalking him ever since this whole thing went down." Sam resists the urge to flick his towel at Barnes. It's pretty clear he won't be showering until they sort this out, so he sits down on the closed lid of the toilet. "If you were going to take him out, wouldn't you have done it already?"

"The distance may be a factor. Direct contact might trigger a different set of protocols." Barnes shakes his head. "I can't risk him."

Sam raises his eyebrows.

Barnes huffs and says, "He'd let himself get hurt if he thinks it'll help me. He thinks— he shouldn't—"

"Hey, trust me, I know what you mean," Sam assures him, "I was actually going to point out that he wasn't your only failed mission."

- - CODENAME: BLACK WIDOW - -

The security guys on her tail are persistent. She ignores the instinct to duck her head and matches her pace to that of other commuters. Following the crowd down to the subway station isn't ideal, but breaking away at this point will draw attention to her. At least she's sure they haven't yet figured out exactly who she is; the black wig changes the shape of her head, and between makeup and a few tricks with her expression, she knows how to make her face look different from the picture that's lately been plastered all over the social media.

It's still not a good idea to get caught. For one, she won't hear the end of it from Clint.
Rush hour is not quite over, and there's a predictable crush of people where two tunnels connect. Her feet get stepped on several times, and she has to stop herself from lashing at out every errant elbow to her side. A crowd of much taller people, unmistakably tourists, decide to congregate right in her path. When the last of them stops blocking her view, she recognizes a different trio of security guys heading her way from the opposite direction. A glance back confirms that the first group is still there, barely slowed by the pedestrian traffic. Both groups are closing fast.

Decision time. If she continues as is, they might still miss her; she doubts any of them got a good look at her face, and being relatively short works in her favor in a crowd. On the downside, it'll be harder for her to run if she's made, and they probably don't care as much about civilian casualties.

A bouquet of flowers is suddenly thrust into her face, followed by a male voice saying, "Hey, gorgeous."

It's not a familiar voice, or it shouldn't be. She looks up, automatically tensing. The Winter Soldier gazes back at her. His long hair has been tied back, he's clean-shaven, and currently dressed in blacks and greys. She's aware that while the crowd has pushed them close together, he's carefully avoiding touching her, keeping the flowers between them. It's a token gesture; at this distance, he has at least a dozen options for killing her without raising any immediate alarms.

(The most predictable would involve hiding a weapon in the bouquet.)

His lips stretch, the corners quirking upwards; it takes her a moment to realize it's a smile. Or, rather, an approximation thereof by someone who doesn't seem to know how his face works.

Common sense wars with her own instincts. In the end, she's too tired of being hunted to turn down an unexpected assist. "Babe, you shouldn't have," she coos, beaming at the flowers. A calculated leap of faith —Steve you better be right about this— and she's embracing him. Her hands slip around his waist and under his jacket, finding one gun and two knives, one of which she liberates. He doesn't stop her. Then again, his metal arm is draped over her back. He can break her neck with a good grip and one hard twist of his body.

He's as tense and unyielding as a statue. Where she'd been able to say “kiss me” to Steve, here she goes with, "Lower your head, angle your face towards mine."

He ducks his head and she tucks her face under his jaw. The first group of security guards drift past and turn the corner ahead. The other group are nearly up the stairs by the time she looks behind her.
She gives it a five count and then pulls back from him slightly. "What is it with you ninety-year-old super-soldiers and doing covert ops? I might start getting a complex."

It's second nature to keep up the role. They remain standing close, just another couple sharing a quiet moment, voices audible only to each other.

He stares at her like he's expecting something. "You're my mission," he says in Russian.

She loosens the stolen knife she'd tucked into her sleeve. "Yes."

He looks down. This close, she can feel him taking deep, steady breaths. When he looks up again, there's a brightness in his eyes, something that looks like relief. He says, in English, “Call me Barnes."

She nods. She's a long way from relaxing, but— she thinks she understands where he is, along the winding, mine-spattered road she herself has walked. "Please to meet you, Sergeant Barnes. Natasha Romanoff, though you already knew that." She tilts her head, peering closely at him.

"What?" he asks.

"He asked for your file," says Nat. "I read it before I gave it to him. Twenty years ago, the Winter Soldier was loaned to the KGB to train young operatives. The children of the Red Room."

He connects the dots faster than she'd expected, which is a nice sign of his mental faculties still being intact. "So we've—" He gives her a sharp look. "You read it."

She nods in answer to his unvoiced question. "I, too, wasn't allowed to keep what others deemed... unnecessary."

This seems to rattle him. She wonders if he'd thought he was the only one. "Do you... have you got it all back?"

"No," she says outright. She remembers the days when everything was malleable and grey. She still has them, at times. She'd always found hard truths to be more helpful. "You won't either. You shouldn't expect to."

He deflates a little, but she can see he's not surprised. "'s not my expectations I'm worried about."

"He'll learn. He adapts fast, for an old man." She raises an eyebrow. "Once, you knew him better than anybody. You may not be that person anymore, but learning about yourself means learning about him, too. Do you honestly think he's going to give up on you?"

"He's too loyal for his own good," mutters Barnes.

Natasha hums in agreement. She's learned all she's going to, for now, which means she should start walking away. But. She does owes Steve. And maybe she likes giving the things only she can give, those pieces she's learned for herself instead of from training under others. "Look. People like us... we're always going to have blood on our hands. Whether it's from something that was inside us all along or from things that have been done to us— it doesn't make much of a difference. Someone like Steve, though..."

She slides her arm under his coat and returns the knife she'd stolen. He's frowning down at her.

"Maybe it's not our fault,” she continues, shrugging. "Maybe, yes, we've been made to be weapons for somebody else to use. But a gun wouldn't care about the body count, after. What other people don't always realize is that that's why we have to care, because keeping us from caring is also making us no better than guns. Do you understand?" He nods. "Another thing. Someone once said to me, you lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. I can live with that. The way I see it, as long as someone like him can still believe in us? Then we're not completely lost. And he needs you."

His instant "No, he doesn't," confirms so many of her suspicions. (The remaining ones are to do with the painful longing she catches on Steve's face sometimes, the way he'd been looking for a ghost long before the real one showed up, but she suspects Barnes won't be much help with those.)

"He really, really does," is all she says, because some things are better left for others to discover on their own. Even if she kind of wants to hit them both over the head until they do. Her attention diverts to the bouquet that's been crushed, forgotten, between them. "Seriously? Ten-dollar flowers?" she asks. Now that she's taking a closer look, she recognizes the name on the paper wrapping to be from a flower stall she'd walked past while trying to lose her tail.

Barnes looks confused for a moment. And then he huffs, expression twisting, and it's like watching a patchwork reconstruction; at least his smirk fits the drawl when he says, "Guess they would be, if I'd paid for them."

Plaster and bits of masonry stuck to his hair, his wings letting off worrying puffs of smoke, his ears still ringing from bouncing between the Hulk and a bad-tempered giant alien lizard— Sam doesn't so much land on the roof of his building as crash into it with purpose. Clint’s voice is in his ears; Clint, who is technically benched but in reality coordinating civilian evacuations and riding around in a car driven by Maria Hill. The alert for the attack had come while he and Steve had been at Stark Tower. Convenient for the Avengers, less so far any semi-homicidal emotionally compromised stalkers who might be attached to any of them.

Such as the one now offering Sam a metallic hand up, even though the rooftop had looked empty on Sam's approach. Sam accepts the help gladly. Something down his side is hurting, but he ignores it, brushes himself off and unfolds the wings once more.

All he has to say is, "It's Steve."

- - NAME: STEVEN GRANT ROGERS - -

Steve wakes up in Stark's Tower. He recognizes the bedroom as one of the guest rooms on Tony's floor, rather than the main bedroom on the floor that had been built for him— he still can't get over the idea that somebody would build him his own floor in a skyscraper right in the middle of New York City. He takes a deep breath that smarts around the ribs, and looks down to see his body covered by a medical kit's worth of bandages and stitches. Memory of the moments before unconsciousness floats helpfully to the fore: a lot of shouting over the comms, an inhuman roar, half a building falling on top of him.

Well, that explains the dressings. And the pain. There's a chair by the bed, like someone had been sitting with him for a while, but it's empty now; he takes it as a good sign that he hadn't been in enough danger to really worry his friends.

He grits his teeth and pushes his body up to sitting. JARVIS is good at keeping an eye on everyone, but it's team policy to keep injured teammates close by in case of unexpected complications. Voices drift in from outside. They sound relaxed, cheerful, and he thinks he can hear the television in the background.

For a moment, he's tempted to go back to sleep. But the growling of his stomach reminds him that with superhuman enhancements come an inconvenient metabolism. He gets to his feet, shaky and painstakingly slow, the movement pulling at still-healing skin. He walks the ten feet to the living room feeling each and every one of his ninety-six years.

And then freezes.

There's a baseball game on the TV. The big couch has been taken up by Sam and Clint and Clint's leg cast. Thor is in the smaller loveseat, listening to Sam, who seems to be attempting to explain baseball using expansive hand gestures. Natasha and Bruce are in the kitchen, chatting quietly while throwing ingredients into a large pot. Sitting at the island that divides the kitchen from the living room are Tony and Bucky.

Bucky is leaning on his left side, metal arm stretched out along the length of the island. Tony is talking a mile a minute, waving at the air above them and occasionally prodding the arm with what looks like a... spoon? Steve watches as Nat plucks the spoon and plants a pencil in its place; Tony shows no sign of having noticed the switch. Bruce starts ladling the contents of the pot into a small bowl, which he then puts in front of Bucky. Nat absently sticks the pilfered spoon into the bowl.

Without looking away from the television, Clint lobs a baseball directly at Bucky, who catches it an inch away from his head. Sam claps twice, and Bucky, still facing Stark, lightly tosses the ball to him. It seems Sam had wanted to illustrate a point to Thor, for he holds up the ball triumphantly, and Thor nods in understanding.

"I think I may hallucinating," announces Steve.

Everyone turns to look at him.

"Sleeping Beauty!" exclaims Tony. Either he recalls who exactly is next to him, or Bucky makes a noise; Tony looks sheepishly at Bucky, and then at Steve. "So, about that. No, it's not a hallucination, unless what you're seeing involves improbable circus animals in garish colours doing acrobatics, that sort of thing. But if you're referring to our esteemed guest of the tragic haircut, then yes, he really is here."

"I knew about the meetings with Sam," Steve says faintly. He hears Sam make an indignant noise, and grins weakly in his direction without moving his eyes away from Bucky. (He doesn't know if he'll be able to take his eyes off Bucky ever again.) "Sorry, Sam, but we do use the same machines for laundry."

His head is pounding, or maybe it’s his heart. Conjectures and inferences bounce through his thoughts, like he’s thrown his shield into a room that’s turned out to be shaped differently from what he’d thought, because Bucky looks— calm, if not entirely comfortable— and so does everyone else, and—

Steve must lose a bit of time, because suddenly Bucky's right there, a couple of feet in front of him. Bucky's right there. "Easy, Steve. Why don't you sit down? You just had a building fall on top of you."

"'m fine, Buck, stop fussing," says Steve, the words leaving his mouth entirely on reflex. He has to shake his head hard to bring himself back to the present, and— wow, bad idea.

"You always said that," says Bucky, a hint of wonder in his voice. It's different enough, the words and tone and even a subtle shift in accent, that Steve knows for sure it's from now instead of seventy-years from the past.

"You," pronounces Steve through the tightness around his throat, "are the biggest fucking jerk."

There’s a strangled noise in the distance. Bucky closes his eyes and lets out a long exhale, tension and air leaking out of him in equal measure. "Yeah. I guess I kinda am."

Steve looks away from him, because he has to, because he needs a moment. His eyes sweep over the living room. The rest of the team are making no pretence about their interest in the proceedings, but they're not outright staring either. Except for Stark, and Steve has accepted Tony's persistent nosiness as a simple fact of life.

A million and one things race through Steve's head. Mostly questions, a few accusations. He dismisses them all in favor of the most important: "Is this— does this mean you're sticking around, now?"

Bucky ducks his head. "Don't know.” He swallows visibly. Fidgets. “It’s like I’m made up of at least three different people, Steve, and a good day is when I can tell. And I don't even know which one is the most dangerous."

"So you'll fit right in," contributes the peanut gallery, at least the part of it that's Tony Stark. Steve glances at them over Bucky shoulder. A bowl of popcorn has materialized on Clint's lap.

And then Bruce says, "He's right, Cap." They all turn to look at him. Bruce smiles sheepishly under the attention. "If there's ever a group of people who'll understand..." He waves a hand to indicate the room at large.

Bucky turns back to Steve. "I'm sorry it took me a while to get to you." Because he knows Steve has worked out a rough idea of what's been going on, and he's figured out which part of it is bothering Steve. “You’re the... most important. I had to be sure of some things, first.”

The last of Steve's bewildered hurt-confusion-anger seeps away, as helpless as ever in the face of Bucky's wide, earnest eyes. He still sorta wants to cry, but the tears would be more out of relief and gratitude. "It was probably a good call. I don’t know how well I would have handled it. Both you and the others.” He meets Bucky’s gaze. “I'm kind of stupidly in love with you, you know."

Bucky stares at him, brows raised high, and then he’s smiling, wide, his eyes bright like they get when he's laughing on the inside. "You really never do anything by halves, do you?" says Bucky. "You're lucky I'm stupid about you right back, you little punk."

"Damn right. But don’t think this lets you off the hook."

A hum of conversation sprouts up from the direction of the couch. Bucky gives him a look of they know we can hear them, right? and Steve has to reply with They never remember my enhanced hearing, and the two of them roll their eyes at the same time, a mutual decision of ignore them reached.

("This is possibly the most emotionally efficient soap opera reunion I've ever seen in real life."

"Tony, why are you stealing popcorn out of my hand, the bowl is right there."

"You know, when we covered Cap's missions in Basic and I tried to imagine what his conversations with Barnes must have been like, I expected more patriotism and moral introspection, and less of the bad language and name-calling."

"Are you not also a warrior under the same banner as Captain America and the sergeant?"

"Yeah. In hindsight, I have no idea what I was thinking.")

Steve slowly closes the distance between himself and Bucky. He gives Bucky plenty of room to object or move away, but Bucky meets him calmly, like he’s known this was coming for as long as Steve has. Bucky feels like a furnace; this is the heat that kept Steve warm through dreary winters, heat Steve hasn’t been able to feel since science fixed up his body. Steve allows himself a moment to take in Bucky’s face, more familiar to him than his own, and Bucky’s sweetly blue eyes, the way his pupils expand when Steve subconsciously licks his lips.

A breath, and then Steve is pressing his lips to Bucky’s. He has some vague idea of keeping it light and chaste, which lasts right until Bucky inhales sharply, shakily, then lets out a quiet, breathy sound that punches want right through Steve’s gut. Hands grab at Steve’s arms, shoulders, reeling him in, and then they’re tasting each other’s mouths and lips, tongues slickly stroking. Steve loses track of anything that isn’t the taste and smell and heat of Bucky.

Nothing about it matches his adolescent expectations for their first kiss: Steve the taller and broader of the two of them, Bucky's hair long enough to tickle his cheek, the both of them standing in a penthouse in New York City in the twenty-first century in full view of other people who are openly exchanging the winnings of various bets, the roar of the crowd in the background from a Dodgers game in Los Angeles.

Everything is different, he thinks. It's perfect.

A last, lingering suck of Bucky's bottom lip, and then Steve makes himself pull away, flushed and breathless. He can't seem to stop grinning, and it only gets wider when he opens his eyes to see a mirror of his joy in Bucky's face. It has literally been a lifetime, he thinks; a lot of lives run their natural course in seventy years.

He thinks they might have gazed at each other for the rest of the day if someone hadn’t tactfully cleared their throat at that moment. Steve ducks his head and feels his face attempt to get even redder.

Bucky looks more bewildered than embarrassed, and he sends a challenging look at the rest of the room. “So, Steve, you want to introduce me to your new friends?”

Steve tilts his head. “What, really?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the manners your momma raised you with.”

“That is real rich, coming from you.” Steve shrugs. "Everyone, this is—?" Steve nudges Bucky in a go on way.

Bucky gives him an exasperated look. Steve doesn't miss the faint tremble that runs through the body under his hands, though, nor the way Bucky seems to relax. "James Buchanan Barnes."

"James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve parrots dutifully, grinning wider when it earns him a glare from Bucky, “this is everyone."

There’s a chorus of “hi” and “hello” and a muffled “are they serious?” from the direction of the couch cushions. In the kitchen, Bruce calls out, “Food’s done!” and Natasha doles out clean bowls and spoons by the expedient method of flinging them through the air at people. (Not a single piece hits the ground.)

He’s content to wait out the first rush, though. Especially since he’s pretty sure he’ll clean out the entire pot, he’s that hungry. Bucky doesn’t seem too eager to let go of him either.

And then he feels Bucky leaning into him. “So. Don’t take this the wrong way, okay, but… tell me that wasn’t your first kiss since 1945?”