"Friendship marks a life even more deeply than love. Love risks degenerating into obsession, friendship is never anything but sharing." - Ellie Wiesel

Chapter 26: Ripples

"Come on, Bruce! Open up!" Tony rested his head against Bruce's suite door, huffing out a frustrated breath. "Seriously, man, I need some help with a project."

"May I suggest a different approach, sir?" JARVIS said, almost sarcastically. "I don't believe that your current tactic is doing much good."

"Shut up, JARVIS," Tony grumbled, but took the AI's advice anyway. He'd been trying to get Bruce to answer him for almost ten minutes now. "Don't be like that, Bruce. I'm sorry. Please let me in? I have shawarma!"

To his surprise, that actually worked; Bruce pulled open the door, peering out with a frustrated scowl on his face. One that barely masked the misery in his eyes. "What, Tony?" he sighed.

"I don't actually have shawarma, I just said that so you'd open the door," the genius admitted. "Do you need to talk or science or anything?"

Bruce smiled just a little. "No thanks. I'm fine."

Tony almost groaned in frustration, but that wouldn't be helpful, so he just nodded and oscillated in the doorway, not wanting to leave. "Can you come help me with the Avengers uniforms some more?"

"Not right now, Tony," Bruce said firmly but apologetically. "I need to get some sleep." He started to close the door, but Tony stuck his foot in the way.

"Nobody got hurt!"

"Nobody? Except you and Thor. And I nearly frightened the life out of Jemma."

"She's fine!" Tony protested. "She's tougher than she seems." He didn't add that if it wasn't for her bravery, the Hulk would probably still be running rampant around Manhattan.

Bruce nodded. "Yeah, I've noticed."

"Come on, Bruce, please?" Then Tony pulled out his trump card with a flourish. "Simmons is worried about you."

That did it, as he'd suspected it would, because he was totally a genius. Bruce let out a long sigh, obviously feeling guilty, and retreated inside. He returned a moment later, having put his hair and clothes in order and pulled on a pair of shoes. "You win, Tony," he mumbled. "But I really do need to get some sleep."

"And I really will get you shawarma. You need a lot of food after you Hulk out, remember?"

Bruce huffed an amused breath, and Tony sensed that that was the best he was going to get out of the scientist today.

Tony tried to make small talk as they took the elevator up to the common room, but Bruce was being disappointingly uncommunicative. Not that Tony could really blame him, but he hated silence and he especially hated silence when people were upset. He always felt like he was supposed to try to be comforting, and he wasn't good at that.

Simmons was seated at the bar, spinning absentmindedly on one of the stools. She didn't have a drink in front of her; she'd simply sat down the first available place after the incident earlier and refused the drink Tony suggested she take.

"Hey Jemma," Bruce said quietly, forcing a smile. The young woman spun around and hopped off the stool, hurrying over.

"Are you okay?" she asked, light brown eyes concerned. "I was so worried you might have gotten hurt when you changed back, with all the broken glass and chemicals and things."

Bruce looked stunned for a minute before managing to stammer, "Um, yeah… thank you for asking. I'm fine. What about you? Did I… he hurt you?"

Simmons shrugged and shook her head. "No, no, I'm fine too."

Tony smiled, proud of himself. If anybody could make Bruce feel better, it would be Simmons. Called it.

Apparently Bruce and Simmons had been working happily in the lab when Rumlow and his goons broke in and attacked them both. Bruce hadn't taken long to Hulk out, since he'd been getting in between the Hydra agents and Simmons whenever he could and had gotten badly injured. Or would have, if it weren't for the Hulk. Unfortunately, Bruce didn't see it that way; he was convinced that the "other guy" was nothing but a problem, never mind that he'd probably saved Simmons' life.

In the midst of the insanity, most of the science floor had been destroyed, an issue that Tony was already attempting to rectify.

Hulk had been unusually careful around Simmons. As Tony and Rhodey and Thor had worked to contain Hulk to one floor, they realized very quickly that he was not only aware of Simmons, but was actively avoiding her. And she apparently realized it too, because before they knew what was happening, she had gotten in between them and Hulk, holding out her hands like he was a wild animal, saying a bunch of stuff about how she respected him and thought he was nice and would he please calm down and strangely, the Hulk stopped and looked, really looked at her. That was just a few moments before he stumbled, shaking, and transformed back into Bruce.

Simmons was explaining the incident to Bruce now, somehow managing to make it sound like she hadn't done anything special and the Hulk really hadn't been a problem, which wasn't quite true but which was definitely what Bruce needed to hear.

"You're sure I didn't hurt you?" the biochemist asked anxiously.

"I promise you didn't. You kept me from getting hurt."

Bruce's weary face broke into a tentative smile, relief obvious in the way his back straightened and he finally met Simmons' eyes without flinching. In a moment he was serious again, although now with more purpose than before. "We need to make sure they can't compromise our defenses like that again. What'd they use?"

"EMP. Pretty large-scale. A few members of the construction crew apparently snuck it in amongst other equipment. We've arrested as many of them as we can and they're under questioning." Tony still couldn't believe that Hydra agents had gotten past his background checks and brought in an EMP. He needed to reevaluate his security measures, majorly.

Bruce nodded. "We should start working on this now. We can't afford another break-in like that."

"Well, first we need to have dinner," Tony said, waving his hand dismissively.

"I've ordered shawarma for everyone except Sergeant Barnes" JARVIS informed him immediately. "He asked if he was allowed to come to dinner."

"Of course he is. Find out what he wants and order it." Tony wasn't feeling guilty that this had happened to Barnes, and he absolutely wasn't feeling guilty for shooting Rumlow. And he definitely wasn't seeing Barnes' horrified face as Tony shot Rumlow every time he closed his eyes. At least, he shouldn't be. Rumlow deserved whatever he got, the bastard, and it wasn't like Barnes actually cared about the Hydra agent. Still, it had frightened him how the former assassin had responded to hearing that Rumlow wasn't really dead. What had they done to him? Did it matter? Could they even fix it? Answers: who knew, yes, probably not.

"The lab is a bit… smashed," Tony said slowly. "So let's get to work right here. You sure you don't want a drink, Simmons?"

She laughed. "Quite certain, thank you."

Steve did as he always did when he didn't know how to process his emotions: he went to the gym, hung up a punching bag, and started swinging his fists, sloppy and uncoordinated, teeth gritted. He didn't even bother wrapping his hands, relishing in the stinging impact of his bare knuckles against the leather.

Everything had been getting better. He'd begun to allow himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could break Hydra's hold on Bucky. That his best friend could be free. Steve had been sleeping better at night, his injures had healed (except for his still-tender ribs), things had been, if not good, manageable.

Damn Hydra.

He'd been so wrong. Trigger words? How the hell could they beat trigger words? Seventy years of programming. And he didn't even want to think about the way Bucky seemed attached to Rumlow, the way he'd been acting on the security tapes, begging, pleading, asking for the Hydra agent to understand, of all things. Steve's throat was closed up with what might be impending tears, and he beat his fists harder against the bag, panting, scowling.

Hydra was supposed to be gone. They were supposed to be in ruins, extinct, dead. He had destroyed them. He'd been willing to die, and he had, in a way. But they were still around, stronger than ever, and they'd turned his best friend into a robot and they'd broken him and they'd hurt people he loved and once, just once, couldn't he win?

"Steve."

It took a minute for Steve to register and respond to the quiet admonition, catching the swinging punching bag and holding it still. He glanced to his right, where Sam was standing, arms crossed, expression fairly ambiguous. "Hey," he mumbled, refusing to look at his throbbing knuckles, as if that could keep Sam from noticing them.

"Hey. Frustrated?"

"Just a little." Steve finally gave in and looked down at his hands; he'd bruised and split the skin on his knuckles, and they were bleeding just slightly. "Sorry."

"You're apologizing to me?" Sam raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Steve shrugged. "Sorry." Then he winced, embarrassed, realizing that he'd just apologized again.

His friend sighed, long and tired, and put his hands on his hips. "You need to go put something on your fingers, and then we need to talk."

"Are you going to lecture me about not pressuring James to be Bucky?" Steve said, a little bitterly. "Because I already got that from Nat and Clint."

"No. And if I was, now wouldn't be the time for that. Meet me on the roof after you deal with your hands, okay?"

Steve left the gym without saying anything more, arms still burning from the exertion. He should have known better than to let himself lose control like that; he'd practically been asking to get hurt.

He kept basic medical supplies in his bathroom: bandages, needles, sterile thread, mild antiseptic, and pain meds (it was a little scary how strong the medicine had to be to help a simple headache), amongst other things. He washed his hands, wincing a bit, and taped band-aids over the broken skin. He'd probably be better by tomorrow, but there was still no point in aggravating his injuries more than necessary.

He didn't really want to talk to Sam. The veteran had the unfortunate talent of being able to figure out what was bothering Steve and then ask about it without beating around the proverbial bush. And Steve didn't want to talk about the volcanic anger that bubbled so close to the surface these days, didn't want to talk about the sickening desire to put his hands around Rumlow's neck and squeeze until the man turned purple, didn't want to talk about how often he cried when he was alone and there was no one around to see.

He walked out of the bathroom and into the living room of his suite and it suddenly occurred to him that his bookshelf needed to be moved a bit more toward the kitchen. And after that, speaking of the kitchen, he should probably do the dishes.

JARVIS asked him what kind of shawarma he wanted. He muttered something noncommittal, scrubbing a plate.

"Mr. Wilson is waiting for you," JARVIS reminded him, gently. Steve gritted his teeth, sudsy water sloshing around his hand. He probably could have put all this stuff in the dishwasher. Never mind that though.

"Tell him I have a job to do," Steve grumbled.

"Pardon me, Captain, but I don't think Mr. Wilson will accept that excuse."

The Captain stopped working and slumped against the sink, scowling. "Fine. Tell him I'll join him in a minute." He went back to his room and found his leather jacket, the one he'd become inordinately fond of over the past year, and pulled it on over his t-shirt. He didn't want to talk to Sam. But his friend was probably right: he needed to.

Sam was indeed waiting on the edge of the roof, legs dangling out over empty space. He seemed to like that feeling, of being disconnected from the stability of the ground. Steve liked the idea of flying, but he didn't think he'd enjoy it as much in practice. He walked over and sat down next to his friend. "What did you want to talk about?" he sighed.

Sam smiled, glancing at him with a knowing look. "If you're really this averse to hanging out with me, we can just forget it."

"I'm sorry Sam, it's not like that, I just-"

"I'm kidding, Steve." The other man shook his head. "I guess I just figured you needed to talk to someone. Talking is usually more helpful than beating up a punching bag."

"I don't really want to talk," Steve said. "I'm fine." At Sam's incredulous look he amended his statement. "I mean, I'm managing."

"Cap, look, I get it. People kept trying to talk to me after I got back. Wanted to get me to process what happened to Riley and how I felt about it. And I didn't wanna do the sharing and caring thing with some shrink I didn't know, so I dealt with it by myself and I learned a few things. First thing I learned is that it sucks dealing with it by yourself."

Steve snorted. "Yeah, but it also sucks talking about it."

"I know."

Steve didn't know what to do with any of the information they'd learned today, and he didn't know how he was supposed to help Bucky in light of it. Maybe Sam would have some ideas. "Fine." Running a hand through his hair, he huffed a tired breath. "I just..." He took a moment to organize his thoughts as best he could. He almost wanted to just say "it's not fair" and let that sum things up, but instead he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared down at the busy street below the Tower, talking slowly. "How do I do this, Sam? I mean… what can I even do against everything they did to him? I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help him. What if I can't?"

He tapped his fingers restlessly against his knee, eyes unfocused. "I can't believe… He just obeyed them. He did whatever the hell they wanted, why… why would they have to…" He stopped, not sure how to finish.

Thankfully, Sam seemed to understand. "I'm not sure it was intentional. I've been thinking about all of this, and I think he has Stockholm syndrome. With Rumlow responsible for him in the field and giving punishments, Bucky must have gotten particularly attached to him."

Steve swore under his breath, rubbing his hands over his face. "Shit."

Sam nodded in agreement. "We can help him," he said firmly. "I don't know what we can do about the programming. Maybe nothing. But Bucky can get better."

Steve fisted his hand, staring at the band-aids on his knuckles, then sighed and stood up. The wind buffeted his back and sides, and for a moment the whole world felt unsteady. He took a few steps back from the edge of the roof, stretching. "Wanna spar until supper?"

Sam stood too, giving him a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "I don't think that's such a good idea, Cap. Not sure you could handle it since you already went a few rounds with a punching bag and lost."

Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, Steve answered, "I could beat you any day of the week, Sam, and with one arm tied behind my back."

"Just cause you're fast doesn't mean you're tough."

"Why don't you spar me, then? Scared?"

"Hell no. Who said I wasn't gonna?"

Steve laughed, and they walked back inside together.

A/N: I'm not sure I'm quite happy with this chapter, but my friend CandyCaneCool informs me that it's good, so I'll take her word for it.

It might be the last new chapter for a little while, because I am doing MAJOR editing/rewriting with the early chapters (because rereading them makes me cringe), so we'll see what happens with new updates...

But anyway, thanks for reading, my lovelies! Please review!