1.
Steve knew he had no one to blame but himself.
He tried sometimes to pass off his decision-making process on the Accords. Or on Tony. Or on the coldest autumn he had ever experienced in New York City, so cold even two serum-enhanced super soldiers had been uncomfortable. Sometimes he even tried to hold Clint culpable, with his "settle down somewhere" and "you'll find retirement relaxing" and "for God's sake pick a warm climate, Jesus, I freeze my ass off until April up here." He picked at old memories, his grandmother pining for a nice house in Palm Beach, postcards from friends who'd gone to visit Miami, brightly-tinted photos of beaches and sunshine and palm trees. Some part of him, not yet beaten down by betrayals and broken trust, whispered of warm, salty breezes and smiling girls in bikinis. He supposed he could blame that, too.
He never, ever blamed Bucky.
Logically, he could have, at least a little. Bucky always had been about seventy-five percent of his impulse control, and this, obviously, was an extremely impulsive decision. No agonizing over his choice, no second-guessing himself, no contemplating what it would look like or what the possible consequences would be. He saw the opportunity and decided to take it.
It was nice, for a change, to be allowed to alter his life's direction without the constant clamor to be Captain America again. But the one person who was going to be affected most profoundly by his decision had not contributed at all, not even as a dissenter.
Steve tried not to fidget. It was difficult; the wooden bench in the empty room was narrow and hard. The old courthouse had the heaters going full-blast, and the agency waiting area smelled like propane and dust. A vacant-faced, perfectly coiffed FBI security detail guard stood by the courtroom double doors. There was a television mounted on the wall playing a news show, and an equally vacant-faced and perfectly coiffed news anchor sat smiling at her desk while the banner INITIAL WINTER SOLDIER TRIAL JUDGMENT REVERSED AND REMANDED, JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES CHARGES DISMISSED WITHOUT PREJUDICE. CAPTAIN AMERICA, OTHER AVENGERS OFFICIALLY RETIRE scrolled across the bottom of the screen. She was talking about the Accords. She had been talking about the Accords for the last two hours. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about the Accords.
Steve was fucking sick of hearing about the Accords. He wanted the final judgment to be over so he could take Bucky and go.
"There is no official word yet on whether the Honorable Justice McBane will accept the defense attorney's proposal to allow Sgt. Barnes an honorable discharge from the United States Army," the news anchor smiled. "Controversial Hell's Kitchen defense attorney Franklin P. Nelson has demanded that, not only should all foreign charges pertaining to the Winter Soldier's actions while under control by KGB and Hydra agents be dropped and extradition refused, but that consideration for time spent as a POW be taken into account as far as rank, pension, and back pay are determined."
Steve stared at the stained and faded linoleum between his brightly polished shoes. He had stared at that same linoleum every day for the past three months. Wherever he and Bucky managed to settle down, house, apartment, boat, hotel room, under a bridge by the interstate somewhere, he refused to allow linoleum anywhere near them.
"Referencing Public Law 97-37 concerning benefits for former prisoners of war, the defense attorney has been in close communication with the Army's chief Judge Advocate General to coordinate honorable discharges for not only Sgt. Barnes, but Captain America himself. Citing philosophical and political dissention, Steve Rogers has, along with native Sokovian Wanda Maximoff, Clint "Hawkeye" Barton, and Samuel "Falcon" Wilson, refused to sign the Sokovia Accords … "
Tony was still pissed at them about that. Rhodey was disappointed. Vision was, not surprisingly, stoically supportive. But Natasha was the worst. She was saddened. Steve could bear Tony's anger, but Natasha's hurt and surprised face bothered him. He hated disappointing her. He could say he didn't have a choice, but … he did.
His choice.
Not Bucky's. Not Clint's or Sam's or even Wanda's. His choice. His own.
He would always have no one to blame for this but himself.
The news anchor's voice faded into a drone. Steve wondered if Nelson had finished his closing remarks. He was demanding a lot of McBane, of the JAG and the World Security Council and SHIELD, but every single petition was backed by legal precedent and reasonable process. He was confident he would be able to give both Bucky and Steve their freedom. Granted, under the tenets of the Accords, the freedom would be limited, and therefore largely an illusion, but Steve was intelligent enough to recognize that freedom and anarchy were only a fence line away from each other, anyway.
Nelson had already managed to spring Bucky from incarceration, protect him from government agencies wanting to get their hands on him, reverse charges of espionage and political terrorism, grant interrogation by third parties only with his oversight, and allow Steve nearly unlimited access to his old best friend. The odds were pretty good that he'd get everything he asked for from the US Army and the WSC. Justice McBane had a reputation for logic and fair-handedness. What could have taken years, Nelson had accomplished in just over four months.
During that entire four month-long process, Bucky said only a handful of words to Steve.
Steve knew he had been questioned at length, by JAG, by a UN committee, by investigators with SHIELD and the WSC, but he had never been allowed to be present at these interrogations. Only Maria Hill had whispered to him in private that Bucky, advised by his ever-present counsel, steadfastly refused to answer any questions. He didn't remember, he'd said, over and over again. He didn't remember. He didn't know. He didn't know why. Why couldn't they leave him alone? He didn't remember. He didn't know why he didn't. He just didn't.
Nelson had pulled out his ace at that point – documented evidence of the torture Sgt. Barnes had suffered at the hands of Hydra and the KGB, complete with film clips and sepia-tinted photographs. Two jurors had fainted, one had vomited, and even McBane had gone pale. Steve had no idea where Nelson had dug it up, and didn't care. He was just glad he hadn't seen it himself. He was angry enough.
Bucky had spoken to Mr. Nelson when needed, even smiling a little at the young lawyer's acerbic wit, but for the most part, he kept his head down, his mouth shut, shriveling into himself. During his hearings, he slumped in his chair, eyes unfocused, staring off into nothingness, hardly aware of what was going on around him. Steve ached for him, bewildered at Bucky's apathy. He knew no one trusted Bucky, knew no matter where they went or what they did, the stigma of being the Winter Soldier would follow him. The discharge, the change in legal status, his medals and scars, none of that meant a thing in their present world.
They needed to start over. "Retirement" sounded strange to someone who only thought of himself as a thirty-year-old, but he figured Bucky's body had felt the turn of the years far more sharply than had Steve's, and might like the break. A quick search on Google for "common places to retire" had him remembering Florida, which had him click on a list of places for retired people in Florida, which led him to – well, here.
The big, creaky doors swung open, letting out the murmur of voices and the staccato rap of a judge's gavel. Steve jumped to his feet, straightened his uniform jacket, and tucked his cap under his arm. The bailiff gestured him in, and Steve followed him, heart in his chest.
It was strange how his footsteps echoed in the courtroom. There was no press this time. After the disastrous first hearing, the media circus hell-bent on demonizing the Winter Soldier, Nelson had petitioned a closed court. So far the only thing that had been "accidentally" leaked was a shaky, dark video clip on YouTube of the Winter Soldier strapped to a chair, screaming around a mouth guard while electricity coursed through his brain. It had gone viral within five minutes, reached a million hits in an hour, and public opinion had been heavily swayed after that.
Steve wasn't sure how Nelson always got what he wanted, but he wasn't complaining.
The bailiff led him past the bar to the front of the court. The Federal prosecutor nodded politely to him. She had been a fierce opponent, but it had become obvious that the evidence was stacked against her. She'd taken it in stride, her sidelong frowns at Bucky's gaunt, hollow-eyed face tinged with mercy.
Bucky was standing next to Nelson, his uniform crisp and neat, his hair slicked back. His shoulders were rounded down, and his head drooped. Steve stood beside Nelson and glanced over at his friend. Bucky's eyes were on the old, faded linoleum, unblinking, vacant. He might as well been hundreds of miles away.
Steve was determined to do just that at the earliest possible moment.
"Remember," murmured Nelson in his ear. "Only respond with 'Yes, your honor.' Don't add anything."
"All right," Steve mumbled back.
"You too, Buck," Nelson whispered, and Bucky nodded once.
Justice McBane was a broad-shouldered former JAG, face craggy and pocked from an extensive career overseas. Steve had a deep respect for him, mostly colored by his complete lack of prejudice against Bucky from the moment the Winter Soldier had stepped foot into his courtroom. "Captain Rogers," he said. "This court has agreed with the defense attorney and his arguments, and has decided to release Sergeant Barnes without a stain on his record. However, due to the current political climate, in particular the Sokovia Accords, it is this court's wish to take into account past actions by the defendant when he was allegedly known as the Winter Soldier, the documented incidents of torture and other forms of violent coercion that caused him to allegedly commit those actions, and to protect the public and Sgt. Barnes from culpability for future acts by releasing him into the care of an individual capable of watching, regulating, and resolving Sergeant Barnes during his adjustment to civilian life. It is also our understanding that you, an Enhanced Individual registered under the SHIELD Index, have expressed a willingness to accept that function. Is this true, Captain Rogers?"
"Yes, your honor," said Steve.
"Sergeant Barnes, your defense attorney has proven to this court beyond all reasonable doubt that you as the Winter Soldier did act without autonomy or option, suffering physical, mental, and emotional damage at the hands of your captors. The court expresses its sympathy and condolences for the years lost at the hands of the KGB, Hydra, and other foreign agencies involved in your torture as a prisoner of war. However, the court psychiatrists that have evaluated you have expressed concern that the nature of your experiences, coupled with the recent events surrounding your trial, may have exacerbated the diagnosis of Dissociative Psychogenic Fugue State and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, causing a latent instability in your cognitive processes and an altered decision-making ability. Because of this, the court has ruled that you shall remain in the care and custody of Captain Steve Rogers. Do you understand?"
"Yes, your honor," said Bucky. His voice was flat and expressionless.
"Mr. Nelson has accepted on your behalf the full compendium of Index restrictions for you both," said McBane. He met Steve's gaze, twinkling brown eyes appraising. "He has informed the court that you have both read and signed the tenets of these restrictions. Is that correct?"
"Yes, your honor," said Steve.
He and Nelson glanced at Bucky, who was staring at a spot a foot and a half above McBane's head. Nelson nudged him with his elbow. "Yes sir," said Bucky absently, still staring.
McBane struck the podium with his gavel. "Then let the record show that, pending official sealed paperwork from the US Army, Captain Steven Grant Rogers will attain to the rank of General with all benefits, pay, and subsidies associated with that rank, and be held responsible for Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, attaining to the rank of Command Sergeant-Major with all benefits, pay, and subsidies associated with that rank, remunerated back to initial dates of service for them both, and that Captain Steven Grant Rogers and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes have accepted retirement from any and all acts of vigilantism under the tenets of the Sokovia Accords, and shall live out their days as private civilian citizens. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes is hereby remanded into the care and oversight of Captain Steven Grant Rogers, who will be held responsible for any and all acts of terrorism, dissidence, and/or criminal activity perpetrated by said James Buchanan Barnes, in order to maintain the wellbeing of the communities in which they live."
"And may God have mercy on your souls," smirked Nelson under his breath.
Nelson had demanded – and been issued – secure and sequestered escort out of the courthouse and to their vehicles. Steve appreciated his attempts to maintain some semblance of privacy. "None of anyone's damn business what you do next," he said as they shivered on the loading dock by Steve's car. Bucky was slumped against the side, rubbing his hands slowly together, flesh and metal, his eyes a million miles away. The wind was icy and wet, and smelled of garbage and exhaust. Two FBI security agents guarded the door to the courthouse, carefully ignoring them. "Here's your package. All papers signed and notarized. I'll file them with the federal court clerks tomorrow on your behalf." He opened the folder and pointed. "Debit cards. IDs. Checking account info. Pension portfolio. Recommended military psychiatrist in Sarasota." He snapped the folder shut and smiled up at Steve, pulling a business card out of his coat pocket. "And finally, another one of my official cards, just in case you forget who I am," he grinned.
"Thanks for everything," said Steve earnestly. "I can't tell you how much this means to me. To us," he added, glancing at Bucky, who was staring vacantly at the FBI agents. Steve had the unnerving suspicion that Bucky was evaluating how quickly he could take them out. Knowing Bucky, probably less than six seconds.
"Now, get the hell out of New York," said Nelson seriously, stepping back to the building. "I'll handle the media and the rest of the Avengers. Much as I'd love to treat you gents to a bottle of tequila, you'd better split before anyone notices."
"We will," promised Steve, opening the door for Bucky and gently maneuvering him in the passenger's seat. "Again, Foggy, thanks for everything."
"A genuine pleasure," grinned Nelson. He gave them a mock-salute, snapped his fingers at the agents, and ducked back into the courthouse, his black wool coat and shaggy blond hair tossed in the wind.
Bucky said nothing on their drive down to Sarasota, only grunting on occasion when Steve asked him a direct question. They made the trip in one long run, stopping only for bathroom breaks or to eat at the occasional diner. Out of their uniforms, no one even gave them a glance, though folks did look askance at his companion, dark and shabby and shambling. No one had thought to give Bucky any clothes except the new Army uniform, so he looked like he'd dressed himself out of the reject bin at the Goodwill drop-off, and his recent experience with his fellow men during the hearings left him taciturn and sullen.
Seventeen hours after they left the courthouse, they rolled into a Sarasota motel on the Gulf.
"Look, Bucky," Steve said hopefully. "'Lido Beach Motel.' That'll be like the Lido Beach off Long Island. Remember?"
Bucky didn't reply.
"Cold for this time of year," the check-in clerk said apologetically. Steve was happily astonished that "cold" in November meant fifty degrees. Brooklyn had been seven below when they'd left. Steve checked them in, mindful of the warm, salty, fishy air, the dusty smell of underused heaters, and the dark, empty lobby. The air smelled of the sea, but not how it had smelled in his memories of Rockaway; it was heavy, heady, moist and warm, not cloying but tangy and lingering.
He got Bucky into the motel room. The wallpaper was horrible, and the cheap polyester covers on the beds worse, but it was clean, and the tiny bathroom sparkled despite the stained sink and leprous mirror. He stowed their meagre belongings in the little closet, then looked around for his best friend.
Bucky had opened the sliding doors leading onto the harbor and stood at the edge of the little porch, staring out at the sunset over the water. Steve could only see his silhouette against the brilliant darkling sky, but as he watched, his heart hurting for Bucky's brokenness, he saw, slowly, Bucky's head come up, his shoulders down; he saw the hands, flesh and metal, unclench. Bucky's shoulders rose and fell as he inhaled the humid air, and then the breeze stirred his long, unkempt hair away from his face. Bucky was looking up, up at the stars partially obscured by the harbor lights, and the pinched, unhappy expression had fallen away. Instead, Bucky looked bemused, warm, still cautious, but comfortable.
So, if Steve were going to blame Bucky for their present living arrangements, he actually could. Looking back on that moment, seeing Bucky relax for the first time since 1942, Steve had the hope that he could bring his old Bucky back – that rollicking, jolly, dashing fellow without a care in the world past his next meal and that pretty girl in the polka-dot dress. Sarasota seemed at that moment to hold the promise of reclamation, and as a man who had lost everything, Steve was willing to grasp desperately at it with both hands.