Chapter Text
It was sometime late into the next day that Bucky startled awake. Had he missed his History of America exam? Was Brock still there?
These questions, he thought dimly, were out of order.
He took some uneasy breaths as he propped himself up on shaking arms, eyes searching the room for Midas, a habit he had developed over the past couple of weeks. Weeks of gnawing dreams, though he had been too tired to dream anything last night.
There she was, as always, a neat little ball at the corner of his bed. The curtains had been drawn, something Bucky had never done while living here.
He stood, rolling the tension out of his shoulders, desperately hoping he would find Steve in the other room. He was unsure if Steve had even really been there at all. Maybe it had been a dream or wishful thinking. The loneliness inside him had spread and festered into something nasty, even when he had been actively avoiding his friends; too tired to reassure everyone he was fine and too worried that in his state he would say something embarrassing.
Steve was home, though. Sitting at the side of their table, which was still propped under the door handle. He was drinking his very black coffee and looked up only when he heard Bucky stumble in. It was with his characteristic sternness that he got up, pulled the second chair from the table, and waved Bucky down to sit. Moments later, he had a glass of water and a bowl of oatmeal set carefully in front of him. The attention Steve was paying him was unfamiliar to the point of discomfort; he had to stop himself from pushing the bowl away. Neither of them said anything as Bucky diligently chewed, feeling the throbbing in his head slowly subside.
"Okay," Steve said, finally breaking the tense silence, "What happened?"
Bucky did, as best he could, tiptoeing around the parts of Brock's visit and the rest of his week he wasn't sure were real or not. Steve did his best to probe gently and back off when he could see Bucky thinking too hard about it. It worried Bucky a little bit how closely Steve was watching him, and out of habit, he found himself trying to deflect.
"What do we do?" Bucky asked, after the silence that followed his last thought.
Steve thought for a moment. "I guess we'll start with deadbolts."
For a moment, Bucky thought he was joking. He nodded along dispassionately as Steve outlined his plans for their dorm. It took him a second to realize that at some point during the plotting, Steve had asked him a question. "Sorry?"
Steve's eyebrows knit together. "What's going on with you?"
Bucky looked up, meeting his eyes. For a second, a thousand thoughts scribbled through his mind all at once and he considered telling Steve about all of it. He only got as far as "...you mean aside from everything?" before he gave up completely and sank his head into his hands.
He couldn't see Steve's reaction, but he heard distantly, "You haven't been spending much time with anyone." It wasn't phrased as a question.
"Been having weird dreams," was all he could manage as he turned away to pour himself a diluted cup of the coffee Steve made, "makes it hard to sleep."
Eventually, he had to turn back to the eyes he could feel scorching him. He wasn't sure how to persuade Steve that he was fine, that no one had to worry about him. He could tell by the restrained look on his roommate's face that Steve had more questions to ask, but something about Bucky's body language made him think twice. For the best; Bucky hardly had enough energy to muster up a compelling lie - and where would he even start with the truth? He had spent so much of his life unattended, he wasn't about to trouble the only person who almost knew him at all.
Besides, though the ceramic had been swept up, there was still a chip in the paint where the mug had hit and shattered. Best tread lightly.
The long, unconvinced pause ended when Steve finally said: "I'm going to go kick the shit out of Brock."
"What?" Bucky sighed. His eyes followed movement as Steve flexed his wrists and cracked his knuckles.
"You heard me."
"No, you're not. He would kill you. And I'm pretty sure he has a gun."
"Coward's move."
"A coward with a gun. You want to take your exams nursing a gunshot?"
"What’s your suggestion, then?"
Bucky chewed on the inside of the lip. He had no ideas. He hadn't considered that there was anything specifically to do, except stay sane and avoid the frat guys at all costs. "The deadbolts sound good."
He saw annoyance flash across Steve's face and looked away bitterly. The snow was feathering down outside their small window, blanketing the tormented town in a sheet of quiet white. He heard Steve take a deep breath. "We'll get through exam week, and then I'll get back to investigating." He said as though the 'after exams' part was a compromise on his part, as though he didn't also have exams to study for.
Bucky felt his heart trip and looked over desperately. "I'll help. If you still want."
Steve met his eyes again, he looked tense, almost guilty. “Don’t worry about it, there hasn't been much of anything.”
* * *
Later that night, after what felt like hours of working on his final project for his Folklore class, Bucky found himself awake again, half-consciously walking out of habit to the common area. He sat down, staring aimlessly out the window at the squirrels digging around in the snow outside for some indeterminate amount of time before it occurred to him to turn on the TV. He hesitated, at first it felt like something of a betrayal to watch without Steve, but he was gone so often now that it had somewhat worn off.
Flicking through the limited channels, eventually he found himself fully invested in some old show he’d never seen before. Just as Noel had taken a bullet for Rachael (or at least he was half certain those were their names) and was dramatically bleeding to death in her arms, he heard a voice from behind him.
"Move."
Bucky flinched, and just barely had time to pull his legs up before Steve was sitting down beside him. "What is this?" He asked, nodding towards the TV.
"No clue," Bucky answered, truthfully.
A pause.
"You can put your legs back."
Bucky looked over at him. "What?"
Steve’s eyes were still on the TV, squinting as he tried to catch up with what was happening. "You were comfortable, it’s fine."
"Yeah, but I'm..." Bucky started, but could feel the warmth radiating off of Steve, and couldn't help himself. He looked around the empty common room as subtly as he could - though evidently it did not escape Steve's notice - before stretching his legs back over the couch, which had now been replaced by Steve's lap. He watched Steve relax his back into the old sofa before they turned their attention back to the TV.
"Do you care about this, or can I change it?"
"You can change it," Bucky answered, trying not to sound disappointed.
Steve rolled his eyes. "I'm gonna start throwing mugs at you every time you let somebody walk over you." He made no move to change the channel.
Bucky tried to fight a smile. "We'll run out of mugs."
"No kidding."
Bucky kept his eyes glued to the screen, desperately trying not to notice Steve absentmindedly playing with the hem of his flannel pajama bottoms, though he had no idea what happened in the show after that.
* * *
“You’re not real.”
Bucky was perched on the corner of his childhood bed, unfamiliar in a way that made him suspect this wasn't reality. Only reality had been uncertain so often this year it was impossible to tell completely.
In front of him, Brock was sitting crisscrossed, his smile almost impossibly large, shadows distorting his face enough to make him appear the mockery of a human. That was further proof, wasn’t it? That none of this was real. Instead of speaking, the Brock-shaped thing in front of him tilted its head, feigning confusion. “I’m not?” A laugh, low, eerily friendly. “Well shit, what am I doing here then?”
Bucky didn’t answer, locked his jaw, and waited for the moment to pass. If it was a dream, he would have to wake up eventually.
Brock was undeterred by his silence as usual, resting back on his palms with a sigh. “Have you thought about our offer?”
Bucky shook his head and spoke with newfound defiance. This wasn’t real, it didn’t matter. “Fuck you.”
Steve's words echoing from his mouth, his voice from his lips.
Brock didn’t laugh its eyes darkened impossibly in the dim ethereal light of the not-quite bedroom. Bucky unintentionally recoiled.
“You know what your problem is, Barnes?” It was rhetorical. Bucky remained still, only leaning back as Brock moved forward. “It’s that you think there are rules. Good, bad, heaven or hell, you think that you have to make these– ethical decisions all the time. That there’s some karmic scale you’re trying to balance, but that’s not how it works.” The smile returned, but the creature's eyes didn’t lighten. “There aren’t any rules for men like us.”
Bucky couldn't help himself; he bit the extended hook. “What do you mean, men like us?”
Brock's mouth opened again as if to speak, but promptly shut as it shook its unsteady head, miming a zipper over thin lips as the music started playing. Steve’s Radiohead CD, muffled by the plaster.
Brock’s eyes flicked to the wall beside them that hadn’t been there a second ago. “I guess our time is up.”
Instinctively, Bucky almost made a move to protest when he was on his back, eyes open, and greeted by the face of Midas, pawing gently at his shoulder. She meowed, irritated and hungry. He turned to the clock by his bedside, almost ten minutes past her usual breakfast.
It took a moment to collect himself, to determine if this wasn’t still a dream. The music continued, mellow cords radiating from the room over, bleeding and blurring the line between his conscious and unconscious, but he wasn’t back in New York. He was in his dorm, he was awake. Another impatient whine, and he huffed, reaching out to scratch behind her ear. “Yeah, alright, just hang on.” He swung his legs off the bed, rubbing tired hands over his face to steady himself. He would keep this one to himself.
* * *
The crunch of the snow beneath his boots was the only thing pulling focus away from Sam's smooth voice effortlessly making Steve laugh. He didn’t particularly want to be here, trudging his way across campus with the two of them, but it was either this or turn down yet another offer of company in favor of hiding out at the dorm. He hadn’t mentioned the dream, but Steve had made true on his promise to install new locks, a deadbolt on both the front door and his window. The window in Bucky’s room was reserved for Midas to come and go, and didn’t open enough for any Brock-sized person to enter in, regardless. She’d been spending a lot more time indoors lately anyway, preferring the warmth of their blankets over the increasingly rough elements.
He shoved icy hands into his pockets. The sun was shining for once, reflecting off a fresh layer of snow and making it difficult to look at anything directly without wincing. If he thought the fall at Hollis was picturesque, it had nothing on winter. Steve had finally begun dressing appropriately for the weather, too, something that had been worrying Bucky as the temperature dropped further. Now, at least, he’d added a scarf, the red contrasting the blue of his eyes and bringing out the pink that was almost permanently grafted onto his nose and cheeks. Bucky wondered if he could convince him to wear a hat; maybe he had a spare.
“Well, I’m going, and I’m sure we can convince pretty boy here to go too. Right?”
Bucky only looked away from Steve’s concerningly red ears when it became clear the question was directed at him. “What?”
Sam chuckled but watched him a little more carefully. “You sure you’re alright?”
Bucky nodded, waving a hand. “Just tired, what are we talking about?”
“The 'Christmas ball', it’s a yearly thing, the sorority hosts it.” Steve clarified, a puff of hot breath with every word.
“And we’re going?”
Sam shook his head, his gloved hand pointing a thumb at his chest. “I'm going, I’ve been asked, you could too, if you play your cards right.”
Bucky frowned. Sam often spoke as if he had some secret, socially important information.
Steve, taking pity: “It’s supposed to be some type of charity thing, although I doubt it. They host it every year in the retired mess hall at the back of campus. If you’re not asked by a sorority girl, the tickets cost like a hundred bucks - hotshot over here got asked twice.”
Sam smirked, shrugging pridefully, Bucky felt his stomach turn.
“You’re kidding.” He mumbled sarcastically, a little less to himself than intended.
If he picked up on it, Sam didn’t say, just nudged him in the shoulder playfully. “They just started asking, give it a day, I’m sure you’ll be swimming in offers. Sexy, mysterious new guy? Who could resist?”
Bucky ignored him, turning to Steve. “Have you been?”
Steve scoffed, as if the notion were ridiculous. He shook his head. When he spoke, his teeth were chattering. “No, and I don’t plan on it, I don’t mess with that sorority stuff.”
It was Sam’s turn to scoff, stopping the progress they'd been making by turning to face them. It was so cold, they were so close, Bucky fought the urge to just push past him.
“You don’t mess with what? A bunch of insanely hot girls and what I can only assume is extremely fancy champagne?”
Steve rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest while Bucky just gazed longingly at the cafe out of reach. “I don’t trust them, or frankly, care about their elitist party bullshit. And it’s an on-campus event, so I doubt they have champagne.”
A gust of wind shook Bucky’s own scarf, nearly causing his hat to go flying.
“Guys, can we please go inside?”
Sam ignored him. “I think for it to be considered a school thing, it’s gotta be a current building, the old mess hall they host it in was bought out like thirty years ago, I don’t even know if the property is considered technically part of the campus.”
“Dude I don’t care about the champagne, even if they had a fucking-”
Bucky huffed, electing not to hear the end of Steve’s sentence in favor of escaping the weather. They would meet him inside.
The sudden warmth, partnered with the smell of pastries and coffee, was immediately soothing. Bucky sighed, breathing it in as he filed compliantly into line. Unlike a few months ago, even the less popular cafes on campus were nearly always full these days. With not much else to do during the weekdays, and exams right around the corner requiring excessive caffeine, finding a table wasn’t likely. He didn’t care, he hadn’t had anything to drink in hours, and his head was pounding. It was finally his turn to order when before he could open his mouth, a small hand was tugging him to the side.
“Natasha? No, hey, I was just about to order.” He tried to turn back, but was stopped once again, looking up and pausing at her severity. “What’s wrong?”
The bell on the door chimed again, Steve and Sam entered still mid-argument, and Natasha left him to demand Steve’s attention instead. Bucky followed, giving up entirely on his pursuit of coffee this afternoon.
“We need to talk.” Her eyes flicked to Sam. “Alone.”
“Seriously?”
Natasha didn’t answer, just glared, and after a beat, Sam raised his hands in surrender before stepping away to join the line.
She tugged Steve into a dim corner, just far enough to be out of earshot with all the commotion inside. Bucky stood awkwardly beside her, unsure if he was to stay or go; he hadn’t been dismissed the same way Sam had, and Natasha had grabbed him first. God, he wished he had a coffee.
“The police were at my dorm this morning. There was a suicide note recovered last night.”
Bucky blinked in surprise, but Steve just frowned intensely. “Clara.”
It wasn’t a question, but Natasha nodded regardless. “They wouldn’t let me see it.”
Steve blew a frustrated breath from his red nose, shaking his head as if this were obvious. “Is there a body?”
“Apparently, but they wouldn’t tell me much about that either.”
They were both talking so impersonally, almost sterile, Bucky glanced around the room for any prying eyes or listening ears, but found none. He swallowed, looking between the two of them. “So, it wasn’t connected, then, to Hannah, I mean Clara just-”
“She didn’t fucking kill herself.” Natahsa snapped, a little too loudly. So much for impersonal. Steve’s jaw clenched at her tone towards Bucky, but he didn’t intervene. “This is a cover-up; they want to put the whole thing to rest so we stop digging. It’s way too fucking convenient.”
If Steve thought anything of Natasha’s bias, he kept it to himself.
“But we haven’t been digging.” Bucky chimed in.
A look was passed between the other two, but neither spoke. Steve was first to break the gaze, shaking his head again. “We were, though, before Thanksgiving, we were asking around. I mean, think about it, the corn maze too, we went following a lead and ended up with two of us almost in the hospital.”
“But this is the police, not the frat guys- you think what? Brock was able to write a false suicide note good enough to fool the cops?” Even as Bucky was saying it, though, he believed its improbability less.
Natasha: “We need the letter. I want to read it. I’ll know if it was her or not, we used to edit each other's papers.”
“How? You said they wouldn’t let you see it.”
“I need some air.” It was Steve, clenching and unclenching his fists before exiting the shop in haste.
Bucky watched him go with hesitation but was more keen on not leaving Natasha alone. “I could try and make some calls maybe? I don’t know, my family has some money, maybe we could get a lawyer or-”
“Why did Steve just throw a snowball at that cop?” Sam was beside them. He handed Bucky a coffee, but even the surprisingly kind gesture wasn’t enough to distract from the statement.
“What?”
They looked through the window where two officers were standing beside a squad car. Bucky recognized them from their shifts patrolling the campus’s more lively areas. From the angle the three of them were standing, they could just barely see Steve, with a clear view of the two officers. One of whom was facing their direction, a look of surprise on his pinched features. Another snowball, hitting the larger, burlier officer in the back of the neck. They rushed out of the coffee shop, stopping in their tracks only when Steve threw a third directly into the face of the big guy. Bucky went to step forward, but was halted by Natasha’s hand on his chest. “He knows what he’s doing.”
Bucky froze, but shook his head because, from the looks of it, that was the exact opposite of what was happening. This conclusion was further emphasized by the fact that rather than retreating, Steve was now up in the taller man’s face, antagonising him until the officer spun him on his heels and shoved his body against the car. A crowd had gathered now, Steve’s shouting alerting the people passing, and some had exited the coffee shop at the flash of the siren lights. Bucky’s own hands clenched into fists at the sight of Steve’s head being shoved downward against the icy metal while the damp officer cuffed his wrists together before hauling him back up and pushing him into the back of the squad car. Steve shifted his focus towards them before he was fully inside, shooting a quick thumbs up before the door slammed shut.
Bucky, aghast: “He’s insane.”
Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, too nonchalant. “I’ll get my car, let's go meet him at the station.”
* * *
Throughout the entire drive, while Sam and Natasha conversed casually in the front, Bucky couldn’t stop compulsively checking his phone. As if Steve could reach him from a jail cell, god, what had he been thinking? What were any of them thinking? Natasha had insisted they wait at least an hour, adamant that Steve had a plan and would require more time than the few-minute drive to the station would allow. It felt like a bad plan, like a horrible spur of the moment self destructive plan, and frankly, Bucky hated it.
There was only the one station in their county, and it doubled as the city hall. It was an ugly, tan colored building, and not at all what Bucky had been expecting, if he’d expected anything. Inside, somehow more underwhelming, the woman at the weathered front desk barely acknowledged them. They waited until Sam cleared his throat, and her tired eyes looked up from the Cosmo she’d been reading.
“We’re here for our friend; he’d have come in about an hour ago,” Sam flashed a smile.
“Name?” Her answer was curt, like their presence alone was bothersome. Something about the way she was chewing her gum was making Bucky’s hairs stand on end.
“Steve.”
A sigh, and an unnecessary eye roll. “ Full name.”
Sam’s hands gripped the desk tightly, his knuckles whitening. “Listen, it’s a Tuesday afternoon and I know there’s nobody else here. I can see him, can we just go in, please?”
Bucky followed his line of sight through the doorway, and sure enough, there was Steve, sitting, his hands in his lap, head forward, and leg tapping restlessly. He wasn’t in cuffs anymore, but was behind comical bars, the kind Bucky associated with cartoons and old westerns.
Natasha touched Sam’s shoulder gently, urging him to calm down. It struck him just how much Sam seemed to genuinely care for Steve, and he felt his stomach twist.
“It’s Rogers, if there’s bail or anything we’re prepared to pay, although I witnessed the incident and I can’t see them being able to hold him on any real charges.” Natasha’s voice was much calmer, stern. The receptionist sighed again, but this time picked up the phone.
“There's some people here for the kid, the loud one, yeah, he’s in holding two.” She nodded, leaning back in her chair before covering the bottom of the phone with her hand and taking a moment to blow then pop a bubble. “You can go ahead, but only one, Mike doesn’t like bein’ crowded.”
Bucky and Sam spoke in unison: “I’ll go.”
They looked at each other, Sam’s expression confused, while Bucky was unable to keep his eyes from narrowing offensively.
“Yeah, it really has to just be one of you.” The receptionist repeated unhelpfully.
Natasha pushed past them both and disappeared around the corner. Good call.
Sam was really frowning at him now, watching closer than he usually did, but before he could speak, Bucky, having found his voice, pointed to the chairs by the window. “Can we wait here?”
Only a shrug was given, but it was enough that they took their seats without further comment. The coffee he’d neglected was becoming more of a regret by the second as they sat in silence, Sam's eyes on him suspiciously. It stayed that way for about five minutes before Bucky couldn’t take it. He stood again and approached the desk.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
Silence, and he huffed before leaning forward. “Hey, seriously, tell me or I’ll just start opening doors.” The action of his assertiveness was causing knots to form in his stomach.
Thankfully, though, it was enough, and after a mild stare off, she pointed to the only open hallway and mumbled something about the third door down.
“Thanks,” Bucky replied only partially sarcastic before turning the corner in the same direction Natasha had just gone down.
The cell where they’d seen Steve through the opening was now empty, and he felt his fists tightening at the thought of Steve in there alone. In front of the bathroom door, he lifted his hand to push it open when Natasha’s voice floated from a room over.
“You can’t seriously still be keeping him in the dark about this.”
Bucky paused, glancing around the empty hall before-
“ He lied to me .” It was Steve’s voice, and without letting himself second-guess, Bucky shifted closer to the sounds. Steve and Natasha were alone in an office, talking with hushed voices, Bucky could just barely make out without entering the room.
“It’s just, better he’s not involved, alright? You saw the shit they did to him at the maze. Brock was in his fucking bedroom.”
Bucky stiffened; they were talking about him.
“That stunt at the maze is exactly why he should be involved, we know they’re targeting him, the less he knows the less prepared he is, the less prepared any of us are- this, Jesus, Steve-” There was a shuffling of papers, Natahsa’s voice wasn’t her usual leveled tone, it was shaky, almost scared. “This is bad, this is bigger than we thought and you and I poking around is not enough, either you fill the rest of them in, or I will.”
The next stretch of silence was longer. Bucky could so clearly picture Steve’s tight expression, resistant to any stance opposite of what he’d taken. But as soon as the teeth gritted, “ Fine .” Was uttered, their footsteps were also moving, getting louder, and Bucky quickly turned on his heels, beelining back to the entrance.
A moment after he’d sat back down beside Sam, Steve, Natasha, and the heavy-set officer were shuffling into the small shared foyer. Immediately, they stood, although Steve didn’t appear to be taking any of the situation as seriously as he’d sounded a minute ago. He had a cheeky smirk on his face and was arched defiantly. Bucky recognized the stance; he’d seen it when Steve told off a bully or got an answer correct during a lecture. Steve was proud of himself.
“He’s free to go.” The officer explained to Natasha, only giving a courtesy glance in his and Sam’s direction, his voice didn’t suit him at all, too nasally and much higher than Bucky had expected. “On account of there not being much space this time of year come sundown- holidays, evenings are a bad time for drunk and disorderly, but, I’ll tell you this, if he ever pulls something like this again it’ll be a night in the cell, minimum.” Straightening up and attempting to use his size for intimidation, he turned his attention to Steve, who was doing nothing to shy away from it. “Don’t think I haven’t heard about you, Rogers, I know your rap sheet. Being enrolled at that fancyass school ain’t gonna protect you from the law.” There was a pause, where Bucky was genuinely concerned that Steve was about to do something stupid. “We’ll be watching you.” Finished the officer, and Bucky let his chest deflate the breath he’d been harboring.
Steve’s smile grew subtly, and he nodded. “I’m flattered.” He turned to the three of them now, beaming. “I’m starving, you guys feel like burgers?”
* * *
The table of the nearest diner was barely the size required to fit the seven of them. It was the circular corner booth, out of the way enough in the otherwise empty establishment, but Steve was still keeping his voice low and halting completely every time the waitress came by to refill their mugs.
“It’s more complicated than we thought,” He was going on, but even though the information was important, Bucky was struggling to keep his mind focused on anything other than the shallow burn his exclusion had left within him.
It was only somewhat of a comfort that it seemed nobody else knew anything either. Steve hadn’t forgiven him for Halloween; he didn’t trust him and maybe never would. The best he could do was try and be useful to the team, maybe earn back his favor with some kind of loyal labor. Natasha was speaking now, and Bucky gripped the too-hot mug tight enough to spark a little pain beneath his fingers, focus.
“A girl goes missing every year and nobody cares, not the school, not the cops, we don’t know exactly who’s involved, but this is.. Larger than we’d originally suspected.” She glanced around the still-secluded diner for a moment before spreading out the papers on the table. Everyone other than Steve leaned forward to see. He’d done it, gotten a photocopy of the note, but more shockingly than that, found something worse. A blank autopsy report, with a large red approval stamp in the center.
“I don’t understand,” Angie started, reaching out to delicately touch the note that Natasha had confirmed was not in Clara’s handwriting.
“There’s no information,” Steve elaborated. “There is an autopsy, this, with her name and nothing else, filed as if it were an official document, meaning somebody somewhere is lying, pulling some kind of coverup. The misfiled report tells us that the police are involved, either that or incompetent- the forged suicide note tells us that someone doesn’t want us looking. That ain’t all bad, means that there is information out there they don’t want people finding,” He paused, slumping back a little. “But we’re stuck, too many angles, no manpower.” His jaw tightened, and Bucky felt as though Steve was avoiding his face specifically.
Natasha finished the unspoken thought for him. “We need help from people we can trust.”
The word trust echoed in Bucky’s ears, he felt the urge to leave, but was blocked in by three people on either side.
Peggy, without hesitation: “What can we do?”
Peggy reached out her hand, taking Natasha’s across the table firmly. She smiled at the gesture, but Bucky could see her eyes kept returning to the forged note.
“I need to get into the Tri-Sci house, Clara’s old room, but the house in general, if it’s involved with this. We think the ball will be our best shot. They host it, all the girls have to be there, so the place should be completely empty, but we need lookouts. Steve can’t watch all of them.”
Angie frowned, tilting her head a little. “Is he even invited?”
Sam snorted into his mug, and Steve shot him a dagger of a look.
Natasha persisted, ignoring Angie’s question. “We also need people to keep an eye on the new recruits, there’s some kind of initiation that nobody knows much about, could be the standard weird rich kid stuff, but just in case we want to make sure nobody else gets hurt.”
Steve: “If we’re right about the pattern, it should be another full year until someone goes missing, but with the fake suicide, we’re just covering our bases in case things have changed.”
There was a quiet moment of reflection as the cramped table processed the information. Finally, Sam set down his mug. “So, I’ve gotta spend the evening watching a bunch of sorority girls very closely?” he asked, a sly smile and raising his hands sarcastically. “I mean, gun to my head..”
“Sam.” Steve chided.
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Steve,” more serious now, he brushed their shoulders together affectionately. Bucky looked down at his drink. “Obviously, we’ll help.”
Peggy rested her fixed gaze on Steve. “You should have told us about this weeks ago, we could’ve been helping.”
Steve was staring at his fork, avoiding the six sets of eyes that were now watching him intently. Natasha made no move to help him, and he huffed, leaning back. “I didn’t want anyone else involved, but here we are.”
Angie, to his left, smiled softly. “Better late than never.”