The light hurt his eyes as it made its way into the supposedly hidden chamber where he thought he would be living - no, not living, existing - for the foreseeable future, and wasn't that an odd situation? If he was not supposed to see any light, be it artificial or natural ever again?

"Maybe we should kiss him," a voice said to his right, making the pit of his stomach settle with dread. "That would shake his 1940's sensitivities awake."

"I believe that would not be ethical, my friend," another replied with half fond amusement and half horrified disbelief.

"Humph," the first voice huffed. "You are too good for this world, kitty cat."

James opened his eyes...

... and stared into Anthony Stark's glinting honey ones.

"Stark," he said slowly, throat protesting its disuse with a croak.

Stark raised an eyebrow.

"Barnes," he mocked, his lips curling in a way so achingly Howard that the guilt coiling inside his stomach spiked and burned like acid, weighing his whole body down onto his weakened knees. Had he been not been strapped against the wall of his cryobox he would have fallen face first onto the floor.

He allowed his eyes to close, the ice-cold lump in his throat settling into a hazy sort of clarity, of a purpose he had been eager for and yet not able to voice less he face Stevie's heartbroken baby blue eyes.

Now, face to face with Iron Man himself, the face of the one he had wronged so many years ago, the child he had orphaned with his own two hands...

He leaned back against the wall, his neck arching, his hands splaying against the metal, his posture open and ready... He knew Stark's hand would be swift and merciful, that his revenge would be quick.

He closed his eyes, ready and at peace.

A beat of silence enveloped him.

"Oh for the love of..." Stark snapped, one hand on the door, just as the other - the one with the red and gold gauntlet, the one with the strength to overcome human limitation - was pulled back lightening quick before crashing against his cheek, forcing his face to the side, his skin to redden, his eyes to flash open in shock.

"Anthony!" T'Challa gasped, one hand ready to pull the other man back.

Stark's hands sized his shoulders, strength born out of rage he pulled James forward, so impossibly close their breath seemed to twist and join the cold air.

"You don't get to do that, Barnes," he snarled, ignoring the Wakandan King behind him. "You won't make me help you ease your conscience."

James blinked at him, his eyes wide, defeated.

"I deserve your anger..." he whispered, unable to keep looking into the other man's face. "I don't deserve to live after all I..."

Stark stared, his lips pulled back, his eyes narrowed.

"You are right, you don't," he agreed, nodding to himself. "But you don't get to take the easy way out either!"

T'Challa's hand on Stark's shoulder retreated.

James locked eyes with the man, anger simmering.

"The easy way out? Easy?!" he snapped back, angry, hurt and vicious the way Stevie seldom saw him. "You think it's easy? Living like this? Knowing I did what I did? You think I can live like this?!"

"You should! We all have to live with the guilt and try to make amends and fret and cry when our efforts go sour!" Stark snarled. "You don't get to sleep off your mistakes just because Captain fucking America says so."

James shook his head, eyes wide in disbelief.

"I'm the Winter Soldier," he stammered. "I'm dangerous."

Stark rolled his eyes.

"I'm the goddamn Iron Man, he's the Black Panther," he said dismissively. "We are all fucking dangerous, and you know what we do? We live on and we do our best day by day because that's what people do. I was the fucking Merchant of Death for years and you don't see me hiding away for a guilt free nap."

James' frown deepened, his anger still boiling inside him being appeased by his innate curiosity.

"What do you want from me?" he asked.

Stark's lips pursed.

"I want you to come back home, to get help, get better and maybe one day be human again," he explained, his eyes haunted.

James blinked.

"Why?"

Stark's lips sank onto his bottom lip.

"The Winter Soldier killed my mother," he said honestly, in a forcedly detached manner that spoke of still aching trauma. "I thought for a long while what I would do if I ever saw you again, how I would get even... And then it struck me."

Stark's oddly warm, calloused and scarred yet gentle hands tightened on his shoulders.

"The only way I can get revenge on the Winter Soldier and still honor my mom's memory..." he hesitated. "Is to make sure the Soldier is dead and Bucky Barnes comes out alive."

T'Challa's hand came back to Stark's shoulder, this time more a show of support than an attempt at contention.

"So, what do you say, Buckcicle?" he asked with practiced nonchalance. "Will you let me kill that fucker and make you whole again, or will you go back to hiding your head in the sand?"

James hesitated.

Stark sighed.

"There are going to be ground rules, of course," he said, as if talking about the weather. "You will be required to sleep in the Cradle until your therapist deems you stable enough to be moved to another, more stylish floor and…"

"Cradle?" T'Challa asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Oh, just a special room I had built for the days when Brucie was feeling a little green around the edges…"

"… You are talking about your Dr. Banner," the King surmised, nodding.

"Don't look at me like that, Hello Kitty," Stark scowled. "The Cradle is definitely not what you are imagining, it's a completely furbished room… just Hulk-proofed."

James imagined a room made for Dr. Banner, and could vaguely remember reading about The Hulk and all its green glory.

He guessed he could live in a room like that.

"You'll also have to have your sessions submitted to me as your primary guardian, so there won't be much of Doctor-Patient confidentiality in the beginning. And I'll have Friday monitor you 24-7, just to make sure you are not going to go cuckoo for cocoa puffs, which has nothing to do with you being brainwashed from Berlin to Beirut but with all the issues and PTSD you are surely carrying around," Stark continued, undaunted. "She does the same for all so don't think you'll be a special lil' princess to her."

"All?" James asked weakly, feeling overwhelmed by such a barrage of information.

Stark raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, all," he said slowly. "Me, you, Rhodey who is currently recuperating after his last meet up with the fabulous swan queen and Vision who refuses to leave if I am, and I quote, 'dead set on endangering my life by pursuing such hazardous hobbies' so yeah, you get roomies this time around."

James shook his head for a second, then stopped, his brows furrowing in thought.

Steve's face floated to the forefront of his mind then, the way his eyes held only worry and love for him when he told him he'd rather go back to the ice, and yes the way his shoulders slumped, how his whole face was one of cautious relief.

Steve wanted him safe and sleeping, where nothing could hurt him again.

James was silent then. His rage now completely gone.

A thousand different thoughts swirling in his brain while he locked his gaze with Stark's.

A part of him missed New York, the noise, the smell, the feeling of belonging.

A part of him wanted to stop feeling guilty, wanted to stop being a burden.

A part of him feared Stevie's reaction if he ever found out Stark had found him.

A part of him wanted to feel whole again.

A darker, smaller, almost imperceptible part of him craved the order, the sense of purpose and of belonging to something...

... to someone.

He shook his head.

"When do we leave?" he asked with a whisper, refusing to aknowledge, much less try to interpret, the fluttering inside of him when Stark and T'Challa's eyes widened and small, triumphant smiles curled their lips.