I don't own it.

Here we go. The epilogue. And Siberia. Yay!

Chapter 4 of Barton, Undercover should be up later today for those of you who are following that.

Epilogue

Tony knocked out the audio recorders ten minutes after takeoff and promptly turned on Bucky — and by extension, Steve. The shouting match lasted forty minutes; the tears and aborted attempts to punch a wall ("Do you want this mission to be over before it's even started?"), another fifteen. A dozen rounds of apologies later, the air finally settled. Neither Tony nor Bucky looked happy, but they could at least stomach working with each other for the duration of the mission.

T'Challa cast an eye over the shelves in Clint's locker and borrowed a book. Sam started up a conversation with Tony about his armour. Natasha shrugged into a hoodie, settled cross-legged in the pilot's seat, and blared music through her headphones.

Steve dragged Bucky off to the far corner of the cabin and wrapped a blanket around both of them. "It's a nine hour flight to Yakutsk and you're exhausted. You need sleep."

"Speak for yourself," Bucky mumbled, already burrowing into Steve's shoulder. His eyes fluttered closed and then cracked open. "We safe here?"

"Da, soldat." Natasha stuck her head around the corner from the cockpit, headphones shoved back from one ear. "You're safe. Until we get to that facility, at any rate."

"Good. You speak Russian?"

"No," she said, deadpan.

Bucky stared at her.

"Buck?" Steve prompted.

"Yeah. Sorry. Can we stick to English, please? I really don't want my mind reverting to Russkiy when we're h — at the base."

Natasha nodded. "English it is." She vanished.

Bucky's eyes closed. Steve yawned. Two minutes later they were fast asleep.

x

"Remember the time you got sloppy drunk at that Christmas party?"

The stories had started on their first mission as a team. Bucky had been clinging to the overhead rail of the plane, checking his parachute straps for the fiftieth time and looking an inch away from losing his breakfast. Steve himself hadn't felt too good, what with the churning anxiety in his gut and a lingering lightheadedness from last-minute blood tests. He'd blurted out some tale from home, anything to get their minds off the upcoming drop that would plummet them into enemy territory.

It had worked, to his surprise. And the stories had stuck.

"Buck?" Steve prompted.

Thoughtful silence from Bucky, and then, darkly amused: "If I said I didn't remember… I don't suppose you'd believe me?"

"Well I wouldn't now. You came crashing in and nearly overturned the bookcase — "

Bucky groaned. "I kept calling you Mary-Anne, right? And telling you — "

"Telling me I had the prettiest hair in all of New York." Steve grinned.

"Kept running my fingers through it."

"Like it was catnip or something, yeah."

Bucky checked his assault rifle and started down the exit ramp to where the others were waiting. "I've got the prettiest hair now."

"Keep telling yourself that, pal."

Armoured up and weapons in hand, the six of them stole into the base through a back entrance. Bucky led the way down through twisting corridors to the cryo room, practically silent even in heavy combat boots. The only one quieter was T'Challa — and Steve was starting to wonder if the guy was actually part feline, because no matter how hard he strained his enhanced senses, he couldn't hear a sound from T'Challa's feet. Breathing, yes. Footsteps, no.

Maybe it was the outfit. Sound dampeners in the boots. Or something.

Six huge cryo chambers were spaced around the room. Five of them glowed golden, shadowy figures lying behind clouded glass. The sixth sat dark and empty. Bucky stopped and stared up at it for a long moment, face unreadable, and then moved on.

"This guy's asleep," Natasha said.

"This one, too," said T'Challa from across the floor.

Three men, two women. They were all asleep. Unconscious. Whatever the right word was for being in cryostasis.

"So Broussard was going to wake them up," Tony said. "That was his plan, right? Interrogate Barnes for intel on the serum and the location, and then come up here and wake them?"

Sam swore. "Dude would have an army at his fingertips."

"No, he wouldn't," Bucky said quietly.

Five pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

"He'd be dead. Even with me, the book would only have taken him so far. Without the commands being reinforced by training, by authority… To do it properly would take years." He nodded at the chambers. "And their first instinct was always to attack. Especially if they thought they might be separated."

"So we'd have five rogue Winter Soldiers on our hands?" Tony asked. "That's what you're saying?"

"Yeah."

Natasha hummed. "That better or worse than having them under some nut-job scientist?"

"Hard to say."

Steve fought back a shiver. He'd seen a lot in his lifetime, but something about the sleeping figures… knowing who they were, what they were capable of, knowing that Bucky had been one of them not so long ago… it gave him the creeps. But this wasn't his territory. "What do we do, Buck?"

Bucky smiled sadly. "Sanction and extract." He hesitated. "I know they were… evil, for lack of a better word. And I hated them. But they were my brat'ya."

"Your brothers," Natasha said softly. "And sisters."

"Yes." He looked almost pleading. "Please. Let me do it."

Steve waved him forward wordlessly.

Bucky went about it methodically, neither speeding through the task nor drawing it out. At each chamber he laid a hand on the glass, murmured something hoarse and broken under his breath, and shot them between the eyes with his pistol. Steve guessed it was a small dignity, in a way. A show of respect. Giving them a clean death, an expert shot.

When Bucky finished he stepped around to join Steve and the others, and turned to face the pit in the centre of the room.

Steve's stomach lurched. He hadn't really looked at the pit before: the wide flat circle, the machines and cables, the operating chair in the middle. He recognised it now, though. From the videos, the pictures, the endless clinical records.

Bucky stepped down into the pit. Turned grey. Doubled over and vomited.

If there had been any doubt in his mind, that erased it. Watching Bucky's anguished face, his shaking body, Steve knew this was where his best friend had been tortured. Had had his memory wiped, painfully, agonisingly, over and over again for decades.

Bucky swayed back against the railing and crumpled to sit on the step. He drew a shuddering breath and looked back at Steve.

"I can't." He gestured with trembling hands at the machine. "I — I can't." His mouth worked soundlessly. That lost, confused look crept into his eyes. "Why can't I — ?"

"It's okay," Steve murmured. He padded forward to stand beside Bucky, close enough that the metal arm pressed against his calf.

Bucky stared at the chair. "It hurt me."

The statement was so simple, so childlike, that Steve's chest tightened.

"So why can't I — ?" Bucky made a soft noise of frustration. His jaw trembled.

Enough. Steve crouched down in front of him. He threaded his fingers through Bucky's hair, cradling his temples, and brought his head around to look at Steve. "Bucky."

The response took longer than it should have. "Steve."

"Do you trust me?"

That ghost of a smile came back, breathtakingly sad. "You're the only one I do trust."

"Let me do it for you?"

Bucky stilled. Looked at Steve. His head moved in a motion that might have a nod or a shake. A pause, and then the movement came again.

Steve waited until he was sure it was a nod before he stood.

"Here." Bucky proffered his rifle. "And — don't go alone. Please."

Slow anger coiled in Steve's gut, tendrils reaching out to flood his limbs with fire. He heard what Bucky didn't say. Don't go alone — like I was. Don't lose yourself to it like I did. It's dangerous. Please, Steve, I can't lose you. He shook his head and pushed the gun gently back to Bucky's knees. Squeezed his shoulder. "I don't need it. Sam?"

Sam strode forward, grim-faced. He'd read the file. He knew what this place was. "Ready when you are."

Working in silence, they took the pit apart with their bare hands. The blood sang in Steve's veins, a triumphant roar to drown the dull insidious hum of the machines. They smashed the monitors, snapped the cables. Tore the IV lines from their anchor points. Brought down the overhead surgical lights with gritted teeth and a whine of contorting metal. The humming fell silent soon enough.

The chair came last.

Muscles bulging, sweating with the heat of righteous rage, they ripped it from the ground. Never again, Steve swore as the concrete foundations cracked and broke. Never again, as he wrenched the headrest clean off. They overturned the seat and broke it into a dozen shattered pieces. Never. Again. as they pounded the remnants into the ground.

When it was done, Steve went back to Bucky and tugged him into a hug, heedless of the dust and the dirt that coated them both. He felt Bucky tremble and clutched him tighter. He was sure Bucky could feel him shaking, too. Necessary this whole shindig might have been, but it took a toll.

The shivering petered out. Bucky drew back and looped a hand around Steve's wrist. "I remember this," he said softly.

"What?"

Two fingers wormed their way between his sleeve and glove. They tapped the pulse point on the inside of his wrist. "When you were sick. Used to sit like this for hours, just feeling you breathe… I remember being terrified that this time you weren't gonna pull through, that — that you were too sick, too broken, that I hadn't done enough — "

Steve shushed him. "You're not broken."

Bucky swallowed. He didn't say anything.

"You're not. You're confused, sure, and missing a few pieces, and that's fine. It's fine, Buck. We'll get those pieces back. The memories will come back."

"What if they don't?"

"Then we'll make new ones. Art galleries, science expos, saving the world another couple times… you name it, we'll do it. Together."

Bucky's grip tightened and then released. He nodded. "Help me up?"

Steve hauled him to his feet. The head slap came out of nowhere, Bucky's flesh hand glancing off the back of his helmet. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Stark Expo, 1943. Giving you your stupid back, punk." His eyes softened. "Thank you."

x

Tony took a million and one photos of the destruction — "Ross will want to see evidence," — as well as a quick video. Then they wound their way back through deserted corridors toward the outside.

Two turns away from the entrance, Tony stopped them with a hiss.

"What is it?" Steve asked, tensing. He hadn't heard anything, but the sensors in the Iron Man suit were world-class. "Hostiles?"

"No." Tony shoved a hand through his hair, eyes shadowed. "Look, before we get back in range of the jet's sensors… what's the plan here?"

"Plan?" Sam asked.

"Plan, yes." He looked around at their blank faces and sighed. "I'm not taking you back to Ross."

Steve drew a sharp breath. "What?"

"He wants to lock you up. That was never — " Tony bit his lip. "I never wanted that. You were just trying to do right by Barnes, I know that. You're not criminals. You're my friends. And Ross — it's not just any prison. He's planning to send you to the Raft."

"What's that?" Bucky asked.

"Supermax prison," Natasha said. "Out in the middle of the ocean. Underwater. Specially designed to detain enhanced individuals. Maniacs. Terrorists. It's… not a nice place."

T'Challa glanced at a readout on his arm. "My jet will land on the far side of the facility in three minutes. I have room for five." His eyes crinkled in silent mirth. "Six if we squeeze."

Tony huffed a laugh. "Good planning, your highness."

"Thank you. I believe in being prepared."

"Ross is expecting us back in Berlin," Steve said. "We go missing, he's going to hold you responsible, Tony, you know that."

"I'll make my excuses. Say you guys ganged up on me." He spread his hands at Steve's disbelieving look. "What? I can't go up against you and Barnes together. Not to mention Wakanda's warrior king."

Sam cleared his throat.

"Don't give me that, Wilson. I could take you on any day."

"You wanna prove it? Here and now, tough guy. Bring it."

"I would, I'm sorry, but I've got an appointment in Berlin that I can't miss. Speaking of which, I need to get going."

Steve looked at T'Challa. "If you could take us as far the States, that would be fantastic. Drop us on the East Coast…?"

T'Challa slid an opaque glance at Tony and then looked back to Steve. "It would be an honour, Captain."

"Nat?" Tony asked.

Natasha grimaced. "This wasn't what I signed up for."

He nodded, looking resigned. "I thought you might say that."

"I do think we need, I don't know, supervision. But after Project Insight, the helicarriers… this is too close. Too invasive. Sorry. You can strike me off the list, tell them I'm retiring. Say Cap forced me to go with them, took me hostage, whatever."

"Well," said Bucky. He reached out to take Natasha, very gently, by the arm. "In that case. Come with us if you want to live."

"Tony." Steve hesitated. So much to say, so little time. Why did this feel like a slow tearing apart of everything they'd worked for? "Take care, okay?"

"Of myself? You betcha."

"Come here." Steve gripped his hand and pulled him for a quick hug. "If you ever need us — "

"I'll be in touch. Promise. I really do have to go, though. Like now."

"Right, right." He let Tony go and turned away. "We'll go out the side door. Out of the range of the sensors."

"Yeah. Good." Tony looked down. Took a breath through his nose. Smiled tightly. "I'll see you around." He turned and walked away.

When he was out of sight, Natasha shot T'Challa a sharp look. "You're not taking us to the States, are you?"

"If you wish me to, then certainly I shall. But." T'Challa tilted his head, looking down the hall where Tony had gone, and then continued. "On behalf on my nation, you are more than welcome to visit Wakanda. For as long as you need."

"Your isolationist policies — " Sam started.

"Our policies are changing. As a wise man once said: the wide world is all about you. You can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out."

"Tolkien," said Bucky unexpectedly. "The Lord of the Rings. 1954."

T'Challa smiled. "Yes. It is a good book."

Steve traded a look with Bucky. Read the confirmation there. Turned back to T'Challa. "Your highness, we would be honoured."

x

And when, five hours later, a power surge knocked out the lights and cameras in the Berlin Joint Counter Terrorism Centre, the man they knew as Doctor Theo Broussard could do nothing but lay his head back against the cold wall of his cell and laugh.

It was either that or cry.