"This is just getting ridiculous now."

As the phone hit the table with a clatter, blue eyes lifted in exhausted interest, watching as the man began to pace a hole in the carpet with quick movements. The billionaire had started a rigid line, shifting from end of the room to the other with tight and fast steps, his hands taking up any remaining space with wild actions. Any other day, the soldier would've found the mussed hair and crooked clothing amusing, probably would've hidden a smile at the sight actually, but now all it did was remind him of their failure.

I'm sorry, but it's another dead end… This guys doesn't even know who I'm talking about…

Steve coughed lightly, trying to clear the lump clogging up his throat. "What's getting ridiculous?" he questioned, voice quietened by tanned skin. He was resting on one of the couches smattered about the living area, body splayed out and arms creating a solid prison around his head from which he could watch the other man move across the room.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and –

"This! All of this," Tony exclaimed, one had gesturing wildly towards the phone while the other raked through his hair. "He's one man Rogers, one! And we're a group of amazing, crime fighting, superhero types! We have access to any resource we might need to catch him, but he keeps getting away. We have superpowers, and all he has is a shiny arm but he's winning!"

Steve tried for a smile, offering the crooked attempt to the genius in penance. "Yeah, but it's a pretty awesome arm," he pointed out.

The bitter look sent his way made the smile widen, and he earnt a snort from the billionaire. "Don't pull that bullshit on me," Tony grunted, his quick pace beginning to slow into a steady gait. "I know you're hiding your man pain behind that smirk, Rogers. Don't be shy, let it out," he commanded, coming to a complete stop before the couch. "All that conceal don't feel crap is for losers."

"And fictional characters," Steve sighed, lifting one hand to wipe it down his features. "I'm not hiding man pain, okay? It's fine, I'm fine, we're all fine," he murmured, tucking his face back into the cushion of his arms.

Weight settled against his side, the genius gingerly sitting on the edge of the cushions. "And wow, didn't that sound so believable."

"I said it's fine." At being called out, anger started to burn slow in his gut, and he took a steadying breath to douse the flames. He couldn't lose his cool, not without a punching bag nearby.

"Did you? Huh, sorry, didn't hear you what with my mental lie detector going haywire," Tony mused mockingly, and absently the blonde noted he could feel bone pressing against his hips, sharp ridges of the man's spine digging into skin. "I'm gonna ask again, and we'll see what happens, hm? How are you feeling today? Bottling up any man pain?"

Steve felt his cheek twitch. "I'm not lying to you," he bit through his teeth, his chest tightening. "I didn't expect this lead to actually end up anywhere, so there's no disappointment."

"Beep, beep beep!"

Painfully slow, the soldier shifted so he could give the other man his eyes, the blue irises warning him away from the path he was treading. It wasn't that he didn't trust the genius; he just didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to push his problems onto someone else. He'd learnt rather quickly during the war that venting this crap out only got him two responses – either they'd feign their sympathy and he'd come to realise they didn't care, or the sob story would ruin their day and make them as miserable as him.

And he liked thinking that the man cared because he liked his illusions unshattered, thank you.

"What the hell was that?" Steve demanded lowly, using his elbows to prop his upper body away from the couch. If the genius so much as hinted that it had been his mental lie detector, there'd be a swift kick in his near future.

Tony pretended to study his nails. "Oh that? Yeah sorry, that was my mental lie detec – Gah!"

Steve didn't spare the man a glance, instead settling back against the cushions with a strained sound. His hip was no longer warm, the familiar body now draped over the floor in a rather indignant position, legs askew and features slackened and pale. Tucking his nose into the crook of his arm, he spoke louder so the older male could hear him. "I don't want to talk about it."

A groan sounded. "You couldn't have just said that?" Tony whined, and the rustling of material showed the man was moving about. "Not that I would've respected your space or anything, but I would've been smart enough to move out of reach before pushing your buttons. Damn, that hurt. Did you knee me?"

"Yes."

"Prick," the dark haired billionaire muttered, and weight pushed down on the side of the couch. "Okay, so you're upset, I've gathered that much. But why? You said you didn't think we'd find him this easily, so what's dampened your spirits, oh merry one?"

Blue eyes glared and the man quickly retreated to a safer distance. "Can we drop it?" Steve requested, the anger from before now a raging wildfire in his gut. He was pissed and he wanted to hit something hard.

Tony pretended to mull it over. "No, we really can't."

It was the blonde's turn to groan. "Why?" he demanded, pushing up and settling with sending across a dark look. "When did you suddenly start caring about someone other than yourself?"

The question hovered between them, darkening the mood and making both men shrink back, repulsed. The soldier was appalled his own lips had uttered such cold words to the person who had been nothing but kind to him, but the other man had deflated, staring down to the carpeted floor like it held all the answers. But like earlier that day, the genius spoke up before he could even think of the words he wanted to say.

"I care," Tony defended quietly, giving nothing but an awkward shrug. "About all of you, really, I just – I just suck at showing it, you know? Emotions aren't really my thing. But at least I try, Rogers."

The pointed words made the soldier think back to when they'd first saved the world as a team, how the man hovering before him had offered them all board at the tower for however long they'd needed. All of them had refused - sure they'd given pretty decent reasons, but aside from Banner who'd needed somewhere to crash, they'd gone their separate ways.

None of them had wanted to spend more than five minutes in the sarcasm laced presence of the other man. And honestly, Steve had thought the offer was a way for the man to have something to hold over him, a card he could play later on in the game.

But no, it wasn't an attempt at victory, but an attempt at reaching out. Tony had tried. And they'd all shot him down.

Blue eyes dropped to the floor in muted shame. "And by trying, you're doing better than me," Steve pointed out limply, eyes slipping close. "Come on, we should probably pull ourselves together. Natasha said she was heading over now that we've run out of leads, and I don't think we want her catching us with our pants down."

He started to stand, hoping to run, but a hand wrapping around his wrist stopped him short. "Steve, what's wrong?" Tony tried again.

Steve hesitated, licking his lips as stared down at the man. There was that infamous set to his stubbled jaw, the one that warned of the impending volcano about to blow, and the soldier hurried to weigh out his options before hell rained down. He could break the weak grip and wait out the storm in his room, maybe hide behind Natasha when she showed, or he could sit down and fess up, tell the man what was bothering him and maybe lose some of the weight on his shoulders.

He could be a coward, or he could be the hero everyone thought he was.

Once again, he closed his eyes. "What if we don't find him?"

Tony looked up sharply. "Steve?" he ventured, shifting slightly and adopting a pensive look. "Didn't I promise that we'd – "

"When he fell from the train, I didn't even look for him. Despite being told they never recovered a body, I hid under the military's skirts and tried to drink away the pain. I just – I should've looked for him and I didn't. I was too scared that I might find him, that I'd see him broken in the river because I hadn't been fast enough to save him," the captain started desperately, slowly dropping his weight back onto the couch. "I never even looked, Tony, and he was my best friend."

The genius was already shaking his head. "No, no, I saw the reports and what you put as your statement – none of that was your fault," he argued, peeling his fingers back from the soldier's wrist.

"I wasn't fast enough to stop him from falling, and maybe that wasn't my fault, but I wasn't even man enough to look for him and stop him from falling into their hands. HYDRA found him because I didn't look," Steve shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "What if, because I'm sending out agents and assassins instead of looking with my own eyes, he slips past us again and they get him? I can't lose him, not now, not when I just got him back. I wouldn't be – I just can't, not again."

Tony didn't seem to have many words, his lips moving soundlessly and eyes wide. After a few empty seconds, he found his voice again, uttering out a soft; "Oh…" before falling silent

And that was why he hated speaking his mind. The man cared, which was a miracle all in itself, but now the dark cloud hanging over his blonde head had found another target, another soul to reap and torture. Steve rubbed a hand down his face, the anger fizzling out and leaving a coat of ash that made him feel sick to his stomach.

"No," Tony suddenly muttered. "You know what? We're finding him. End of story."

"Tony – "

"End of story, Rogers."

Shocked into silence, the accused superhero gave a slow nod, watching the other man closer as he ran a hand over his chin. It was nervous tic of the billionaires, to scratch or pick at the coarse facial hair lining his features, but as focused on it as he was, the soldier noticed what the dark strands were hiding.

Gaunt, hallowed cheeks.

Narrowing his eyes, Steve pretended to bend in thought, blue orbs flickering up to take in the slumping posture of the genius close to him. The usually bright chocolate shade of his eyes was dulled, the lashes lines by dark, bruising circles that showed he was lacking in sleep. But his shirt – the same one he'd worn on the helicarrier – was loose, the material no longer hugging him but instead hanging from his shoulders and torso, hiding the thinning physique the man was nurturing.

And something told him, that if it was still at home in his flesh, the arc reactor would've been nothing more than a thin light, flickering like a candle in the wind. At the mere thought, Steve shifted awkwardly, once again feeling what he could only call shame licking up his cheeks. He'd been so damned focused on his own problems, that he hadn't noticed the world weighing down on his friends.

Damn.

Licking his lips, the blonde finally pushed to his feet. "Hey, you wanna grab something to eat?" he offered, tucking his hands away in his pockets. "I hear that even us superheroes need to do that whole food thing occasionally."

Tony looked at him like he was insane. "Didn't you eat lunch like, ten minutes ago?"

"You didn't."

He could see the protest grow, the man's eyes dimming as he hunched in defence, but it never hit the air. After a few awkward seconds, the man made a small sound. "Kay, guess I could go for something sweet right about now. Wash the taste of emotions out of my mouth," Tony allowed, one hand lifting to wipe over his nape. "Ever had cheesecake, Spangles?"

Steve rolled his eyes, already herding the man towards the elevator. "I meant real food," he scolded lightly, pushing at weakening back. Now that he'd taken the time to look, he could see that the man was looking every day his age rather than the younger illusion he usually wore, lines wearing into his features.

But worst of all, he could feel bone under his hand when he grabbed the man's shoulder companionably.

"Cheesecake is real food, mother dearest," Tony announced knowingly, nodding as though he was trying to cement the fact into the history books. "Trust me. I once lived on it for a month. Perfectly healthy."

The soldier blinked. "You can have cheesecake if you have a proper meal," he decided, squeezing the skin under his palm. There was still sinewy muscle lacing around the smaller body, no doubt from the suit and heavy lifting the man did in the lab, but what little fat he'd had was long gone. "Something meaty. Ever had a steak, Ironboy?"

"Uh, it's Ironman, 'cause you know, I'm a man. Not a small child."

Steve made a soft sound back. "Sure you are," he mocked, shifting to clap the genius's back. "But I'm sorry, I'm not going to treat you like one. You want dessert, you have dinner – or lunch. Steak, burger or whatever you fancy, then you're welcome to order the whole dessert menu if you want."

Tony grunted. "I ought to, you know, just to spite you," he grumbled, folding his arms and tucking them against his chest. "I'm a fully grown man, being told by an even fuller grown man that I won't get cake until I eat my vegetables. This sucks."

The apparently fully grown man continued complaining, resorting to colourful language at some points in order to get a rise out of his companion, but the blonde only nodded or laughed back. After the last twenty minutes, he didn't have it in him to feel anger or irritation – he was emotionally spent, and hoping for a mindless few hours to help him get over the bump.

Then when he'd bounced back, stronger and wiser than before, the genius rambling at his side was getting his full attention. Because there was no way in heaven or hell, that he'd be letting his friend go down any road – dark or not – on his own.

And he knew post-traumatic stress disorder when he saw it.

"Change it."

"You change it."

"Last time I tried to touch your radio, you slapped me. Change it."

Samara sent a venomous glare across the small space, cheek twitching when blue eyes lit up in amusement. "This is the fourth radio station you've deemed unacceptable," she muttered, reaching out to slap a finger against the worn button. "First you turned down classical, then country, then the top forty and now you hate reggae. I'm not mad about the country bit, cause uh, yuck, but what did classical music ever do to you?"

"It existed," Bucky answered easily, one shoulder lifting in a light shrug. "There has to be more than four genres out there. Find one I like and stop complaining."

Sending him another, apparently entertaining glare, she waited for the car to pick up another channel, heart in her throat. "Next thing you'll be telling me is that you hate happiness, or puppies," she grumbled.

The man shifted beside her, once again offering nothing but a limp shrug. "I'm more of a cat person."

Samara groaned loudly, barely resisting the urge to reach out and slap the man. "How? How can you be so horrible?" she demanded, biting her tongue as music flooded through the car and stopped the impending rant.

It had been less than an hour into their trip when the radio had been switched on to cut through the silence, conversation proving to never last longer than ten minutes without turning into bickering. She'd thought she'd come up with a genius plan – but of course, out had come the soured look, vocal complaints and the constant change of the station by a picky passenger. It was making her almost dizzy, grumpy, and she could feel a headache forming behind her eyes but hey, at least it wasn't quiet right?

Wrong. Some sacrifices weren't worth it, and she'd prefer to bask in the awkward silence and –

"What's this?" Bucky asked, bringing her back to reality as he leant closer to the radio. "It sounds like that song you were playing that first morning, when you made me breakfast."

Samara tuned back into the real world, taking a few seconds to listen to the sound echoing around her. "Oh uh, yeah, same band," she allowed, nodding once before her head began to shift with the beat. "Must be the alternative rock channel or something? Or maybe just rock. Figures you'd be into this. I should've jumped straight to the heavy metal and saved myself the trouble."

Bucky's lips moved, silently repeating what she'd said before vocally announcing it, "Alternative rock…"

And that's his approval, good, maybe now he'll stop the nagging…

Samara gave his curious look a small smile and nodded. "That's the one, big guy," she murmured back, focusing on the road and terrain surrounding it. They were still on the interstate, the ground conflicting shades of browns and bronzes with the sky clear above them in a sharp contrast of blue. It was almost photogenic, almost, if there was more colour gracing the land then the odd green from bushes.

Despite the lack of diversity, it seemed to have a calming effect on the man sitting beside her. It had been easy to catch the tension in his shoulders when they'd started driving –a dislike of tight spaces maybe? – but over time it had eased away, leaving him almost boneless in the leather as he watched the world flying past.

And while she was happy to see him relaxing, legs splayed out every which way, she didn't want him falling asleep and leaving her alone in the land of consciousness. Because even if they weren't talking, it was nice to know she could speak and be heard instead of talking to nothing but air.

Years of living alone may have been what she chose, but a lack of companionship wasn't.

Flexing her fingers around the wheel, she spared the man beside her a quick glance. He was still slumped low, like he wanted to be able to duck if he had too, blue eyes glued to the world outside the window and legs spread in an artless slouch. "Comfortable?" she questioned after a few seconds, speaking into the silence between songs.

The person running the radio station started blabbering away as a dark head turned in her direction. "Could be more, but I'm not going to complain," Bucky mumbled, gloved hand hovering by his mouth and the other propping up his weight against the door.

"Why not? You're so good at that," Samara teased, getting bored of the continuous and seemingly endless road. "Did you know that in cars nowadays, the chairs can be shifted to suit a certain person's needs? Don't give me that look, I'm not lying. Look, down the side by the door, there should be some notches there," she instructed, gesturing to where it was on her own seat.

The blue eyed man sat up, brow coming together as he tried to look down the side of the chair before moving his hand. "What notches?" he grumbled, fiddling about with the levers if his strange wiggling was any indication. "I can feel something but what do I do with – "

The chair dropped back abruptly, taking both the man and his pride down in one swift motion.

"Oh my god," Samara giggled and pretended to be engrossed in the road, sparing her fallen comrade a few looks. "Are you – are you alright down there?" she asked lightly, trying not to grin too widely at the shocked expression. Both hands had shot up, one hanging onto the edge of her own chair and the other trying to find a grip on the door. "If you wanted a nap you only had to say so."

A growl sounded. "You didn't warn me," Bucky accused, scrambling to find his bearings in the now flat backed seat. "And I'm not tired, thank you," he added darkly, no doubt plotting revenge already.

The doctor spared him another grin, biting her lip to keep the laughter bubbling in her chest at bay. "No I didn't," she admitted, sighing contently at the glare directed her way. "And it was totally worth however you're planning on getting revenge, I can tell you that now. Ever wish you had a camera on you sometimes? So you can capture special memories."

"Like my in progress plan of revenge?" Bucky grumbled. "That's going to be pretty special."

"Totally worth it."

The once solider frowned, trying to work out how to get the chair back up now that it had dropped back. She could see the question sitting on the tip of his tongue, the request for assistance, but she could also visibly see his damaged pride so there was no doubt he'd try figure it out on his own first. And of course, if that didn't work…

Bucky grunted quietly. "How do I get it back up?" he murmured, voice quiet enough that she almost missed the words under the beat of the radio. Looking over at him to make sure he actually had spoken, she caught the hopeful glance he sent her way. "Samara?"

Sighing, she nodded to show she'd heard him. "Lean forward with it," she instructed gently, reaching out to turn down the volume. Neither of them were listening anyhow. "Give it a direction to move in." With another pensive frown, he did as he was told, hunching over too let the chair smack back into place before quickly taking his hand away from the levers. "There you go, now if you want to push it back again just – "

"I'm happy with how it is now…"

The interruption made a small smile grace the woman's face, a chuckle hitting the air between them. "I don't blame you, that must have been traumatising, you poor dear," she cooed, wrinkling her nose in his direction. "Bad chair. Naughty chair."

"You're mocking my pain," Bucky snorted, folding his arms against his chest.

"Yes, I am."

Silence then; "Asshole."

Samara made a sound suspiciously close to a squawk, whiskey orbs shooting from the road to his pout. "Oh excuse you!" she exclaimed, trying to adopt a frown rather than a grin. His use of the word she'd recently thrown his way was endearing, but also, well, rude seeing as it was an insult and all that. "I am a picture of perfection; I'll have you know."

Blue eyes flickered her way for a split second. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you that," he murmured, shrugging one shoulder before the corner of his lips quirked upwards. "But I assumed you already knew."

She managed to tear her eyes away long enough to send him a terrified look. "Oh god no, my sarcasm and genius wit is rubbing off on you," she realised, injecting false horror into her voice. "What have I done? I've doomed us all. The end is nigh."

"Stop being so dramatic," Bucky rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

"Dramatic? I'm sorry but have you not noticed that hell has frozen over?" Samara demanded playfully, tutting as she breathed out a loud sigh. "James Buchanan Barnes has a sense of humour, who would've thought? It's like you're a whole other person."

"You know I can still kill you and just drive myself, right?"

"And there's the Bucky we know and love…"

The slam of the car door was like a crack of thunder in the silence, earning a wince from the doctor when the sound bounced back. The next few seconds, the echo still rumbling around her, was spent waiting for someone to pop out of the shadows with a knife and crazy gleam to their eye.

Nothing.

Samara sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, shifting her weight about as she looked over the area around her expensive vehicle. It was dark, empty and unsavoury, but her passenger had demanded they stop in this kind of neighbourhood – even if her polished shoes and shiny car made them stick out like a sore thumb.

"I thought we were trying to avoid attention…" she grumbled, tucking her arms around her body.

"And I thought I said to wait in the car?"

Spinning on her heel, the doctor almost fell over in her haste to face the new voice. "Buck?" she gushed out quickly, grateful when blue eyes flashed from under dark bangs. "Oh thank god, please say we can go now? Please. I'm begging you."

Bucky smiled wanly. "Not your kind of place?" he questioned, gesturing to the car with a jerk of his head.

Samara shook her head, already moving to get back in the vehicle and buckle up. "Not really," she admitted, giving a limp chuckle and awkward shrug. "I just – well, we kinda stick out, you know? I didn't want someone noticing that or someone taking a keen interest in my lovely automobile." With the man now beside her, she locked the door and started the car up with a rumbling growl. "So, why did we need to come here anyway?"

In response, he lifted a bag.

"Helpful," she noted, looking around before shooting onto the road. "But seriously?"

Bucky made an impatient sound, fishing around with one hand before pulling out what looked like a driving license. "Look," he instructed, all but shoving it under her nose. "I know multiple places in multiple cities able to create passable forms of identification. If I was too ever find myself stranded and unable to get into contact with my handler, I was to return to…"

Samara studied the small card, impressed with the quality. "You were to return to where?" she pushed, heading into a bright section of the city.

"Siberia," Bucky frowned, blinking rapidly at the passing landscape before continuing, his voice a drone. "If separated, I needed a passport to cross borders and use commercial airlines. Money isn't a problem, it's easily stolen, but a persona isn't. I needed to know where to create one if the need arose. Nearest possible location besides Pittsburgh was either New York or Montreal. Making the stop now is more logical."

The doctor swallowed at the words, noticing the almost mechanical voice they were delivered in. This order of action – separation, identification, regroup – was drilled into him like a lesson was taught to a child. "Well," she voiced loudly, checking the license one more time before passing it back. "I'm pissed. Everyone takes bad photos for their passports, but you? Nope. Is it actually possible for you to take a bad one?"

"You've asked this before…"

"And you didn't answer, nor provide proof that it was, in fact, possible," Samara answered quickly, breathing a little easier when the better part of town surrounded them. "Hence why I'm asking again."

Bucky stared at her for the longest time, saying nothing before he only murmured; "I don't know."

"I should try," she mused, looking around for a place they could crash. It was getting late, the latest pit stop taking over an hour of their time away, and they were both hungry and exhausted. "Use the camera on my phone and just snap a picture when you least expect it. I'm hungry, but I swear to god another burger and I'll be sick. Chinese food is always good right? I really want some, like, citrus chicken or fried rice."

Silence from beside her again.

"You ever had lemon chicken? Oh, no, have you ever had orange or tangerine chicken? Now that is a dish I would sell my soul for, you know? It's got tang from the citrus and usually the sauce is sweet too, so like, instead of sweet and sour sauces it's a sweet and citrus sauce. I'm not sure which I like more – sweet and sour pork is to die for – but I know it's bad for the waist line, know what I'm saying? Wait, do you know what I'm saying? You didn't answer me when I asked if you've had it before and if you haven't, I feel a little bad for you right now and – "

A quiet sound made her voice die down, blue eyes looking her way with muted amusement. "You're rambling Samara," Bucky pointed out, shifting to throw the bag behind him. "Which means you're nervous."

The blunt comment made her flush. "Yeah, well, I ramble all the time, so get used to it," she grumbled. "It doesn't mean I'm nervous."

"Yes it does."

The doctor shot him a sharp look, slowing down when she noticed the glow of takeaway shops from the corner of her eye. "Well, excuse me, but when did you get a Ph.D. in all things Samara Masons?"

"Same time I got my passport," Bucky responded quickly, leaning back and pinning her under a careful glare. "Haven't you noticed it's easy to falsify legal documents? And I thought, hey, I'm getting a driving license anyway, might as well throw in a university degree."

Samara blinked in surprise, tearing her eyes away and instead putting all of her attention on the road.

A sigh echoed beside her. "Look, there's a motel, stop there and we'll walk back to one of those stores we just passed okay?"

Not saying a word, she pulled over and stopped the car, staring up at the cliché neon sign announcing the free internet and cheap rates. It was the type of motel one would see in every movie, the one with gaudy lights and a half asleep patron behind the front desk. But, because of the unsavoury nature, there appeared to be cars as polished as her own in the parking lot, rich men or woman cheating on their spouses away from their known territory.

They definitely didn't stick out.

"People are going to think that one of us is rich, and the other is a prostitute," she wagered, turning to shoot him a challenging look. "And I'm just going to say now that I don't look like a lady of the night, so prepare for a judgmental look from whoever's behind that desk."

Bucky spared the hotel a small look. "I don't think that whoever it is has the strength to show judgement anymore," he muttered, shaking out his shoulders before opening the car door. "Come on, I'm hungry, and I want to try sweet and citrus sauce."

Samara sighed but got out of the car, making sure her wallet was tucked into the tight pocket of her pants.

"I told you you'd get a judgement look."

"Shut up and eat your chicken."

There we go guys! Over five thousand words, damn, this is a monster chapter but I couldn't stop! It was really coming, and I didn't have the heart to like, cut this chapter or anything.

So yeah, monster chapter it is! Hoped you all liked it, and thank you to the kind comments I've been getting. Means the world.

Taila xx