Disclaimer: I own nothing but my feels
Author's Note: Multi-chapter prequel to my "i'll always think of you that way" series. Moving back to the beginning before I write any sequels to "just what you're worth". Post-Winter Soldier, pre-slash Bucky/Steve, mild smut, psychological trauma, suicidal ideation, period-typical homophobic attitudes, references to past torture, violence, mistreatmemt of a prisoner, the Avengers help out, feels.
"I'm with you til the end of the line, pal." Or, how Steve finds the Winter Soldier, and tries to bring Bucky home.
you belong with me, not swallowed in the sea
So Steve pulls on that thread.
And Natasha was wrong and right and everything in between, but when it comes down to it, Steve didn't exactly have a choice, not when it involves Bucky. Until the end of the line; it's a promise he's going to keep for both of their sakes.
Three days after receiving the dossier from Natasha, Steve and Sam pack their bags and head off on a chase that leads them everywhere but to Bucky. They see evidence of his passing scattered like a fairytale trail of breadcrumbs, but never Bucky himself. He is always gone by the time Steve and Sam arrive; leaving whisper and rumour, and occasionally a dead body or two behind him. The corpses are all Hydra, or related to them in some manner – many whose signatures are on the forms in the dossier on Bucky – and that fact is both a relief and deeply disturbing to Steve.
He tells Barton about Bucky's kills when they rendezvous in Italy to collect some new tranquiliser dart guns from the bowman, courtesy of Stark Enterprises, and doesn't get the response he expected. "Just because a dog turns on his masters, doesn't mean he won't bite you, Cap. Don't make the mistake of thinking a common enemy makes you friends…again. Whatever. He's gone rogue, that's all." And then Barton claps him on the back and says, "I'm sorry, Cap. I know what it's like to…you know." And Steve stifles the angry denial that springs to his tongue and just nods numbly, summoning up a small, grim smile and clinging to hope.
Steve sends Sam back to the US after five months have passed, and they still are always two steps behind Bucky. Sam says it's not healthy to keep thinking of him that way; as Bucky. Sam says that after reading the dossiers, Steve has to know there is nothing of the James Buchanan Barnes he knew left in the Winter Soldier. Steve disagrees. Steve also thinks Bucky keeps avoiding them because Sam is with him. The thought comes to him late one night, lying sleepless on a ratty bed in a cheap motel room – the world snapping into crystal clear focus and it makes perfect sense. Of course Bucky doesn't want Sam there – but he wouldn't have been leaving a trail behind him if he didn't want to be tracked down at all.
Steve leaves that night, because there is nothing to think about – if there's even a chance… He scribbles Sam a note: I have to do this alone. It's what he wants. I owe you one, Sam. Thanks. Steve
Sam calls him exasperated and scolding the next day, but Steve is already across the border in Romania by then, and he's insistent Sam go back to the US. "This is what I've decided, Sam. I'm more thankful for what you've done than you'll ever know, but I have to do this. Respect my decision." Wise man that he is, Sam knows when it's time to give up. He says it too.
"Fine, Steve. I'll be on the first plane back to real life tomorrow. I know a lost cause when I see one," comes through the phone, all irritated and tired, and Steve has been living with Sam for nearly half a year now – he can picture his expression right down to the defeated little slump of Sam's shoulders. Then Sam adds, "Maybe you need to work on that," and Steve isn't stupid; he grinds his teeth hard and chooses to pointedly ignore the remark.
Sam wishes Steve luck after that, but all Steve can think is that Bucky isn't a damned lost cause; hot anger toward Sam – that he is deeply uncomfortable to be feeling – constricting around his bones. Does Sam even realize what a miracle it is that Bucky's still alive? He should be a picked over pile of remains in an abyss – he should have been dead for decades, and that is a lost cause right there. But he isn't. Bucky is breathing and walking around right now, somewhere in Romania – unless he's moved on elsewhere – and as long as Bucky keeps breathing, Steve will have hope. He refuses to give up on Bucky. To the end of the line he said, and that is what he aims to do. Bucky would do the same for him, were their positions reversed, and Steve knows that.
He sees him in Germany – eating lunch at a café, pasta that Steve wolfs without even tasting, and then there is a glint of light at 2 o'clock on the roof of a building just a block away. It catches Steve's eye and jerks his head up, fork forgotten in his hand, and he sees him. In his battered black garb from what Steve can see of him, nestled into a position that is too exposed – he has to have meant Steve to see – and Steve can see. His hands clasping the rifle, the ends of his hair fluttering in the breeze around his pale face – half-obscured by his rifle – and Steve can imagine the expression on Bucky's face. That tense little drawn-down shape to his mouth, the crease between his brows, those bright eyes narrowed in concentration.
He stands on instinct, his only thought to go to Bucky, fork still forgotten in his hand, his eyes on Bucky – fixing his position in his mind – and then the street, trying to work out the quickest route to the building. Steve isn't letting him go; not when he's this close. He marks where he needs to go, and is taking a step when suddenly pain sears through his shoulder – as if someone has driven a red hot steel rod into his flesh. The impact of the bullet pushes him back on that side – he twists and staggers on the spot, and his hand drops the fork. He clutches the wound – clean through his shoulder and out the other side, he's relatively sure – and chokes on pain. There is another shot cracking dully out, and Steve ducks, but wherever it went, the shot goes nowhere near him. People are suddenly screaming and scattering, and Steve tells them to 'get down, get to cover!' before he's forcing himself to run, snatching a dishtowel from a crouching waitresses' shoulder as he goes, packing it against the wound with a groan through gritted teeth.
Another shot sounds faint on the air and Steve ducks down as he runs, but it's over his head and off to the right, and he thinks with a thrill of something that renews his strength and makes him run faster, that Bucky missed on purpose. Down the street, vaulting small obstacles and sliding over car bonnets, yelling for people to get out of the way – heading with breath rasping and shoulder screaming daggers of fiery pain, for Bucky. Steve skids to a halt outside of the building's entrance – non-descript offices, all modern steel and glass, and then barrels through the doors and heads up the stairs because the elevator is too damned slow.
The roof looks empty when he gets there, shoving the door open and running out into the middle. He looks left and right and ahead of him, but Bucky is nowhere to be seen. He jogs forward to where Bucky had been situated, straight ahead from the door. He balances on the roof edge; so precarious as he leans out that one nudge would send him over, but completely unmindful of that. His chest heaves and his heart pounds hard and steady. "Bucky!" He screams his name, scanning the city as far as his eyes will see…and then the rooftop door clicks shut. Steve spins, realizing and cursing himself for being an idiot. Bucky was right there – right there – if only Steve had searched the roof properly with a clear head, instead of all muzzed up with emotion. Damnit!
He breaks down the door, but with his shoulder hurt it takes a few seconds longer than usual, and that is all that Bucky needs. By the time Steve charges down the stairs and bursts out onto the street, staring wildly around him, Bucky is gone. He is lost in the myriad of people and cars that mill along the streets, and Steve's heart cracks and hurts in his chest. He was so close…he had thought…thought that Bucky might actually face him now, with Sam gone. His shoulder roars into full life, yelling its trauma at him, and he clamps his hand to it absently, the dishtowel dropped somewhere, he doesn't remember where, sodden with blood and useless.
He goes back up to the rooftop, ignoring the curious crowd now gathering in the lobby of the building, and finds one bullet casing set neatly where Bucky would have been positioned. Steve knows Bucky left it on purpose. What he doesn't know is why.
"I saw him," he tells Natasha when she calls that night – she 'heard through the grapevine' that he'd had to go to the hospital to get patched up. "I saw him." There is hope and hurt all tangled up in his voice, and he feels like he is trying to tell her something very important with those three words, but he doesn't quite know what.
"Steve…"
"He's never let me get this close before. Never." Steve knows he sounds excited beyond all proportion. He shifts in his seat and grins to himself; sitting alone in his cheap little motel room, in clothes that haven't been washed in three days, his shoulder strapped up, with a cup of half-cold coffee and an old black and white photo of Bucky on the table in front of him. "This is…this is the best thing that's happened in...a very long time."
"…He shot you, Steve," Natasha says with a careful neutrality. "I'm not sure that's supposed to be a positive thing."
"He could've made a kill shot, Natasha. I – I was right there, it should have been easy. The first shot, maybe he could've choked or just misjudged the wind, I guess. But the second? And the third? There's no way that Bucky missed three times like that. It wasn't an accident. I know him, Natasha. I know –"
"No. You don't," Natasha cuts in crisply, and her tone is like a two by four to the face. Steve jerks the phone away from his ear a little, his grin wiped away. "You knew Bucky Barnes. You do not know the Winter Soldier."
"No. No, I guess not," Steve says evenly, because he doesn't know the Winter Soldier, and he doesn't want to argue with Natasha right now. But he thinks to himself that he may not know the Winter Soldier, but he does know that Bucky is still in there. He has to be. The Winter Soldier – Bucky – actively saved Steve's life, in direct disregard of his mission. Even tortured, brainwashed, and injured, Bucky dragged him out of the water when he could have just walked away and let Steve sink. "He could have taken the shot though."
"Steve…he's unstable right now. Highly unstable. He had only ever been taken out of cold storage out for very short periods of time before, has undergone repeated memory wipes, suffered a great deal of trau–"
"That's enough!" He nearly snarls it through the phone, so angry it takes him by surprise. He yanks himself back into line harshly, swearing and sighing to himself, rubbing his forehead with a hand. "I know what they did to him, Natasha. I read the file."
There is a pause before she speaks again, as if she's reaching for calm in much the same way Steve is. "Of course, Steve," she says smooth and coolly soothing. "My point is merely that we don't know how badly his ability to function may have been affected by his mental state. He is not –"
"The man I knew," Steve finishes shortly. He stares at the picture of Bucky on the table, a bitter, angry smile tightening his lips. "I know that, Natasha. But thank you for the reminder."
"I was going to say: he is not likely to last much longer. Assassins like him…they are not…programmed to function for long periods of time."
"What do you mean, not last much longer?" Steve's fingers tense around the phone and the case creaks warningly. Natasha sounds like she is shrugging; flippant and easy in her words, and as always it makes Steve a little sad for her that such topics are so familiar. This time it also makes him sick that they are talking about Bucky.
"He's likely to become more and more erratic. His level of self-care is probably very basic – if he gets wounded he won't go to a hospital, of course, but unlike most fugitives he won't go even if infection sets in. He may not be eating well. He – he is designed to kill, not take care of himself, Steve. And combined with his…confused…mental state, he shouldn't be able to avoid you much longer. As long as one of the targets he seems to be taking out don't take him out first." Silence falls, and Steve's mind races. This is potentially good, but also potentially very bad, because the thought of Bucky being 'taken out' is not one that Steve can afford to dwell on, and it's crowding out everything else in his head right now. He thinks of Bucky dying of an infection that could be cured easily. He wonders how much weight he's lost. But whether good or bad, it's indisputably horrifying, and Steve wants to scour his brain of the scenarios running rampant through it.
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"You read the files, Steve. It was all in there to see, plain as day." Natasha is apologetic, but Steve is furious and frantic with an urgent kind of fear now. He should have seen it. Why didn't he see it? Why did he put the pieces together and not come up with anything like that? It's simple; he read the files looking for Bucky – for evidence of his friend, lost somewhere in the Winter Soldier – and he read the files horrified by what Bucky went through, as a friend. Natasha read the file and saw facts.
"I have to go," he lies to her, guilty and sick to his stomach, and it shows in his voice. "I'll be in touch."
Natasha sends him an email the next day. 'Alexei Petrikov,' it reads, along with an address in Moscow, and: 'Maybe you'll get there first.' Steve knows it means that she thinks this man will be next on Bucky's list of personal vengeance. And Natasha's best guess is more than Steve's working with right now; the way he's going it seems he'll never catch up with Bucky unless Bucky allows it. And right now Steve doesn't feel he can wait for that to happen. He's scared for Bucky. So he packs up his one, meagre bag of belongings and clears out of Germany.
I crave feedback - please review :3
