Oddly enough, everyone seems… fine as they begin to filter out of the conference room that evening.

The moment they break, Steve begins barking orders at Natasha and Clint about running some new drills in the morning. The two nod blankly – obviously ignoring his every word – as they head for the door, parting to each sidestep a meandering Tony whose face is buried in his phone as he shops for new conference tables. Vision and Bruce have already begun chatting intently about some additional decryption on something as they exit and slowly make their way down the hall. And Wanda is demanding that Tessa join her in the common room for dinner, nearly dragging her away before she can sneak off to her apartment or – more likely – go dig into her medical file with Bruce.

Tessa tosses up a quick hang on finger, easily pulling from her friend's grasp, and turns to Bucky. "I think I have plans," she tells him, voice a bit meek. Natasha gives her a quick, gentle hip check – a c'mon, let's move command – and joins Wanda in a slow stroll as they make their way to the common room.

He nods and waits for the women to move further down the hall. "You sure you don't want to just head back upstairs with me?"

Her hand drops down to the center of his chest, taking a moment to let the steady beat of his heart pulse into her palm. She looks up at him and offers a small – but genuine – smile as he swiftly brings his hand up to cover her own, warm fingers giving hers a firm, tender squeeze. "It's okay," she reassures him gently, tone soft and slow. A thick wave of doubt flows out of him, the uncertainty prickling at her senses. "I'm okay," she states decisively before placing a quick peck on his cheek and pulling away to follow her friends.

Bucky continues to stand, feet cemented in place as he watches her go. It's times like this that he finds himself truly envious of her gifts. There's no way that he actually believes she's really okay. How could she be? But what he wouldn't give to be able to feel her energy – her fear, her sorrow, her guilt – just so he could know.

Still, he can't help but wonder, as his eyes follow her purposeful movements – the strong set of her shoulders and relaxed swaying of her hips – if she might just be a little more okay than he is right now. Maybe even a lot more.

"Hey, Sarge," sounds suddenly from just over his shoulder, pulling his attention swiftly away from Tessa. He spins around and sees Clint still looming in the doorway of the now empty conference room, his expression cagey despite his seemingly relaxed stance. "You got a sec?"

"Sure," he mutters, clearing his throat when the word comes out oddly strangled. "What do you need?"

Clint's eyes tick up to take in the small group – Vision, Steve, and Bruce – still lingering just down the hall, suspicion ringing his gaze. He cocks his head to the side, towards the conference room and steps back to let Bucky enter. "I just need a minute," he tells him as he slowly, quietly shuts the door behind them.

Bucky leans his hip into the sturdy conference table and folds his arms tightly over his chest as he waits, watching the slow rise and fall of Clint's shoulders as he continues to lurk by the door, his back still turned. "Everything okay?" he asks, a bit of an edge to his voice.

He turns slowly to face him, sloping heavily back into the closed door and releasing a long, defeated-sounding sigh. Bucky observes him with a quirked brow, a thick swell of trepidation threatening to rush through him. "You and me," he starts, his tone tentative, "we're a lot alike."

Bucky stares curiously at him. "Okay," he murmurs as a foreboding sort of silence permeates the room.

It's true, he thinks, they are pretty similar. In all honestly, Bucky sees in Clint the sort of man he thinks he could have been – would have been – had he never fallen off that train and into Hydra's grasp. A man who knows what's right and wrong, even if acting based on those determinations is sometimes a challenge. A man who's fine hanging in the background – being the one who takes the final shot from a distance, a far-off spot – going unnoticed while others storm the battlefield on their way to glory. A man who lives for others – for the ones he loves – fighting and defending and caring for them above all else.

Clint nods absently, releasing a long, rough sigh before connecting with his friend's eyes. "I would want to know," he says conclusively. "I would want the chance to… do what I think should be done. If I were you."

Bucky's eyes narrow. "What are you talking about, Barton?"

He leans back against the conference table, trying once again to look casual despite every muscle in his body going tense and rigid. "The others," he muses, gaze drifting around the empty room. "They don't get it. What it's like to…" He shakes his head and turns back to Bucky, lets loose a dreamy sort of sigh. "I love my kids, man," he admits through a breathy chuckle. "More than anything. More than I ever thought possible. But that… that's built in. Because they're part of me." His gaze shifts a bit, locking onto Bucky's curious gray-blue eyes. "But my wife? I choose to love her. Everyday. She doesn't always make it easy… but I always come back to her." He shrugs, a small but beaming smile taking over his face. "She's my better half."

Bucky's brow furrows, not just in puzzlement, but in genuine concern, the man's ramblings putting him on edge. "Okay," he repeats simply, pulling away from the table and taking a small step towards him. "Clint…"

He waves a silencing hand through the air. "If anything ever happened to her… if anyone ever did something to her… I would…" His jaw tenses, teeth audibly grinding together. "I don't know what I'd do. But I'd damn well want the chance to do it."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asks, voice low and menacing. The tension filling the room – dripping from each of their stiff and anxious bodies – is almost too much to bear. "This is about Tessa?"

There's a sort of stoic earnestness emanating from his gaze as he gives a short nod. "I had a hunch so I did some digging. One of ours…" He pauses briefly and releases a quick, shaky breath, never looking away from the man before him. "Scofield kept records of everything. I've been going through it all with Vision the last week or so, taking a deep dive." He steps swiftly over to Bucky, pulling out his phone and quickly bringing up an audio file. "I don't know if he was just paranoid or what, but he recorded a shit ton of conversations with people. And this morning, I found this one."

He holds up the phone and hits play, a bit of static ringing in the background as slightly muffled voices sound over the top:

"I understand that you don't trust me. You don't need to trust me," a familiar, smug voice begins. It isn't quite the Scofield they had recorded during Tessa's surreptitious meeting with him just a couple of years ago. But it certainly sounds like the arrogant – much changed – man they had confronted up in Yukon. "Just know that I can solve that biggest, most insidious problem currently on your plate."

Silence rings for a brief moment and Bucky finds himself leaning in closer to the phone, as if he might be able to discern others on the recording merely by proximity. But he needn't worry about having difficulty recognizing the next voice that sounds. It's a soft, feminine drawl that's rung in his ears so often over the past year – in debriefs, on missions, during trainings and drills – that he'd have to be entirely oblivious not to know it immediately. "How could you possibly know what my biggest problem is?"

Sarah Atkinson.

His eyes go wide, chest suddenly – painfully – constricting. Sarah Atkinson met with Dr. Aaron Scofield. Spoke with him. Knew him. And she had said nothing to any of them about it. She had said nothing. Because…

"Because I can read you." Scofield laughs, the sound a bit maniacal. "Even without my new powers… and damn, I love having these powers… you just make it far too easy. So obvious. Not the best spy, I'd suspect."

"Shut up," she barks angrily.

Bucky looks up at Clint, his wide eyes burning with a sort of muddled fury as his mind shifts and starts, working to make sense of what he's hearing. "What is this?" he asks, voice thick with disgust and desperation.

There's no reply, Clint simply looking back down at his phone, allowing the recording to go on.

"Just help me set something up with her," Scofield articulates in a slow, syrupy intonation. "And I promise you, you'll never have to deal with Dr. Sullivan again."

There's a sharp pull of breath amid the static, followed quickly by a stuttering, "I don't… I didn't…"

"Ah, but you do," the doctor muses. "You did. You might not have said as much, but I know all I need to. I know who you are and who you work for. I know that Stark is just as much her boss as he is yours, so you have access. And I know, just from the way you said her name a moment ago… I know that you want her gone. Out of your life. And I want her in mine. It's the perfect trade!"

"No," Atkinson states, tone defiant. "It's not that simple. She's… you think she just works for Stark? She's practically an Avenger! She's their doctor… and they all fucking love her."

There's another beat of silence, an eerie chuckle gradually filtering in over the top of it. "All of them?" he asks with an amused lilt. "Or is it really just one of them? I can smell it on you. Unrequited love."

"You don't – "

"Agent, you wouldn't still be talking to me right now… you wouldn't be talking to me at all, if you didn't want this to happen. I know you want this to happen. Just… give me Dr. Sullivan and you can have whoever he is all to your little self."

Bucky's ears prick and attune, focusing in on every barely audible breath that fills the spaces of silence. His patience hangs by a thread, his composure slowly starting to crumble.

"I can't just hand her over," Atkinson mutters finally, her voice sounding so dejected by the declaration. "I don't know who you think I am, but…"

"All I need you to do is arrange a meeting."

"She's never going to meet with you!"

"No, of course not. We'll need to make it seem as though she'll be meeting with someone else. Just, get into her calendar. Find out who she's been talking to, doing business with… Give me a name. And I'll find someone who can be that person. One of ours. We can do this… neatly."

There's another long beat of silence, the static of the recording nearly deafening. Bucky stares at the phone, jaw tightly clenched, eyes painfully fixed, as he waits for her reply. "What will you do with her?"

"You probably shouldn't ask questions that you don't really want to hear the answers to," he says with a brazen cadence.

"If you're going to hurt her… I can't… I won't…"

A sharp scoff sounds, Scofield replying quickly with, "Everyone hurts, Agent. I hurt. You hurt. You're hurting right now, aren't you? I'm just trying to help."

As another drawn-out silence settles around the room, Bucky realizes he can almost hear the gears turning in the young woman's head. He can almost see her nervously work her lip between her teeth in that way he's seen a hundred times before… as she prepares to tackle a particularly rough obstacle or spar an as-yet undefeated opponent. It's a look of both reluctance and pure exhilaration.

"Dr. Sullivan is a… stubborn woman," Scofield states suddenly. "Startlingly tenacious. I can tell you from personal experience, she will not give up and she will not give in. So if you truly need her to go… to get what you want… then you're going to have to get rid of her yourself. Or… as the opportunity is presenting itself now, allow me to take her off your hands. Agent, I assure you, this will be the easiest way to remove her from your life. And from the life of the man you love."

A thick swell of bile licks at the back of Bucky's throat as he hears those final words… the man you love.

The air in the room turns heavy and sour, his face twisting in disgust, his chest tightening with trepidation. A sense of dread washes over him, prickling the back of his skull and weakening his knees as he awaits her reply, hoping beyond hope that somehow the response he knows she's about to give – already gave so many months ago – simply won't slip from her lips.

"Okay," she breathes out, clearing her throat just after. When she speaks again, her voice is firm, decisive, set in the way he knows so well, the way that never failed to impress him. "Okay, let's do it."

Clint clicks the recording off, tossing the phone to the table where it lands with a clatter. He watches as Bucky's ire-filled gaze follows the felled device, dark, dangerous eyes boring into it long after the offending voices are snuffed out.

"She must've found out about the calls between Stark and Schmidt-Muller Technologies," he starts, continuing to eye Bucky as his shoulders tighten further. "Gave Scofield the name, Dr. Emily Falstein. Markum – who seems to be the link here since we know Atkinson was posing as his assistant – set up a meet-and-greet with Falstein in Berlin, something about an investment opportunity. She must've taken the bait." He shrugs. "There's not much in the files about how involved Markum was. My guess is that he just did a favor for an old friend and got a big payout. But… who knows? He went missing around the same time as Falstein, and we're all assuming she's dead."

"Sarah did this," Bucky mutters through tightly gritted teeth, his eyes still focused on the silent phone. He cocks his head slightly, as if in thought, and shifts his gaze up towards Clint. An odd sort of tranquility rolls out over his features, a stoic, almost emotionless expression taking over. He stares at Clint with cold, detached eyes and repeats, tone deep and stilted, "She did this."

He nods – "She gave him the intel he needed." – and looks away, the unnervingly composed fury oozing off of Bucky almost making him regret his decision to say anything at all. Almost.

For the briefest of moments, he flashes back to that day in Yukon, to Scofield's throat twitching inside of Bucky's tightly clenched metal fist. He remembers what he told Steve just after the incident, when worry and fear sloughed off of him in thick waves, the man simply unable to comprehend this atrocity his friend had just committed.

I'd have done the exact same thing.

He shifts his gaze back to the righteously fuming man by his side. "Yeah," he says with a definitive nod. "Atkinson's the one who set her up."

000

He finds her in the gym running drills, catching the group on the tail end of their last training session for the day. It isn't hard… he knows the team's schedule by heart. It's his team, how could he not?

Sam – who'd been running so many of these sessions in Bucky's stead over the past few months – stands off to the side, watching intently as Robson and Reynolds slowly, slyly circle each other on the mats. He rolls his eyes impatiently. "Somebody make a damn move already," he barks at the men, irritated eyes ticking up just in time to see Bucky marching towards them.

His shoulders are stiffly set, face devoid of emotion, feet and legs carrying him at a sure, swift pace powered solely by a sort of steely, resolute fury. He pays no heed to anyone else in the gym as he barrels towards the group. He doesn't even register Sam's questioning gaze. Nor Atkinson's oddly enthusiastic, "Sarge?"

Without a word – without so much as a sound – he bursts through the group, hip-checking Reynolds and nearly trampling the man when he goes flying to the mat, wind harshly knocked from his lungs. He doesn't stop. He doesn't even slow his pace. He merely reaches out and grabs Atkinson's upper arm, his metal fingers clinking and whirring with the effort to forcefully cinch around her. And he tugs her violently away, dragging her off across the gym to the corridor by the locker rooms – her feet pedaling desperately through the air as she tries to regain enough footing to keep up with his speed.

"Hey," Sam calls out after them, leaving behind the befuddled support team to try and catch up. "What the hell, man?"

Bucky slams Atkinson into the wall, releasing his fingers and watching – with more than a hint of satisfaction – as she cringes painfully, letting out a small yelp as she takes hold of her deeply bruised bicep. He doesn't say a word to Sam, just throws up a stilling, silencing hand in his direction.

"Look, man," Sam tries, his voice dropping an octave as he halts just outside the corridor. He's no fool. He's seen this side of Bucky before. Just never… at home. Never outside of an op. Certainly never directed at one of them. "Just… tell me what's going on."

Bucky turns on him then, his steely blue eyes filled with rage. And defiance. "Go," he issues out in a low, dangerous tone, one that sends a prickling chill up Sam's spine. And he turns back to the small woman in the corner, not giving the Falcon another thought.

Go. Stay. What he chooses to do is of no concern to Bucky now. He only knows what he has to do. And there's not a doubt in his mind that Sam's not going to be the one to stop him.

"Sergeant Barnes," Atkinson says, her voice clear and solid despite the obvious trembling of her body. "I… I don't know…"

He leans in, looming dangerously over her, blanketing her in his hulking, ominous shadow. "Did you really think," he starts, breath hot on her face as he hisses at her, "that I would ever want you?"

She pulls back as though she'd been slapped, a small, startled gasp spilling from her parted lips. "What?" she asks, the trembling from her core spilling into him as he further invades her space, his steel-toed boots deliberately creeping atop her small feet and pressing firmly down.

The slight, pained moan she releases does little to appease Bucky. He stares down at her, feeling his composure begin to wane as he takes in her terrified expression. "If only my wife was gone?" he chokes out, voice faltering, the words coming out more aggrieved than threatening.

"I…" she sputters, a cloak of sudden shock rolling over her features. "I… I don't know…"

"Don't lie to me!" he shouts, punching into the wall with his right hand, shattering through the drywall a mere inch from her head. He slams his forearm across her chest, knocking the wind out of her as he leans in and pins her in place.

"I'm not lying!" she shrieks breathlessly back at him – equal parts frightened and infuriated. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed as he assesses her level of sincerity. Perhaps she really doesn't know what he's talking about. Perhaps she truly does think she's gotten away with it. After all, she'd been free of any suspicion for months now. She's been free of suspicion all along really. Why would anyone doubt her? She's a part of the team. A trusted member of the team.

She's one of them.

He pulls back just the slightest bit, eyes lightening and brow furrowing as he relaxes his grip. "Did I ever not have your back?" he asks, a sudden sadness sweeping over him. "Did any of us?"

Her mouth gapes open, but no words come out.

There's an obvious shift in his demeanor, the smallest bit of compassion, perhaps even affection, softening his expression. "I picked you," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I saw something in you."

"Sarge," she chirps softly – a throwaway plea – as her big brown eyes roam his wounded face, beseech his stormy gray orbs.

But the moment she connects with his gaze, his face pinches yet again, stare turning cold. "I trusted you." His flesh arm slowly creeps back up her chest, pressing firmly against her collarbone, the pressure eliciting a sharp wince. "And you took the one thing I love most in this world."

Her countenance changes then, features setting sharply, jaw tensing tightly as the fear melts away, leaving a sort of righteous resentment in its place. "The thing you loved most? You never even talked about her," she bites out, leaning as far forward as she can, jutting her chin defiantly as he continues to pin her against the wall. "I trained with you for months and you never mentioned her. You never even said her name. And she's the one thing you love?" She lets out a small snort of a laugh. "How sad for you."

He stares down at her for a long moment, studying her face closely – this person he had trained and served beside and fought for – before shaking his head slowly. "Who are you?" he asks, the inquiry ringing with a sincere curiosity despite the almost menacing accusation.

Her face remains impassive and sternly set, only her now glassy eyes hinting at the painful truth… "You don't really care."

For some reason, her words hit him sharply. He doesn't care? He had never cared for her like she wanted… never could. But that doesn't mean he doesn't care. They're a team. They were a team. Of course he cares. Or… he did.

He blows a harsh breath out through his nose, pinched lips parting just enough to say, "Scofield kept records. He recorded your conversations."

"Fine," she utters flippantly. "And you heard them?" He doesn't so much as nod, his hateful stare being all the response needed. "So you know how badly he wanted her," she goes on, voice taking on a bitter edge. She shrugs, in as much as her position allows. "Seemed like he wanted her more than you ever did. Thought I was doing both of you a favor."

Two soft snaps sound – one from his jaw as it clenches and shifts until a ligament pops, the other from his metal hand, fingers tensing into a tight fist as it hangs by his side. He continues to stare unnervingly at her, a barely perceptible, oddly pensive, "Hm," humming from his pressed-together lips. Footsteps echo from the right, and his eyes slowly track over to peer at the small group gathering at the entrance to the hallway. He watches as Steve pushes harshly through Natasha and Sam, observes Clint standing idly by, casually crossing his arms over his chest as he leans heavily against the wall. Then he looks back at Atkinson, expression calm, almost serene, and he tells her to, "Say that again."

Spittle flies from her lips as she hisses out, "I was helping you."

His fingers tighten around her T-shirt, arm pressing further into her as he leans heavily forward, slowly crushing into her chest. At his side, his metal fist flexes and constricts, sensors firing off in his too-tight shoulder commanding the bionic arm to do something his conscious brain isn't yet willing to allow.

Atkinson continues to stare heatedly at him, seemingly oblivious to the slow approach of her Captain. Something inside of her clicks into place. Her gaze hardens, a loud scoff filling the air between them. She swallows hard, forcing saliva down past the steadfast arm pressing agonizingly into the base of her throat. "She's a smug, pretentious bitch. Everyone says so. You deserve better than that." She lets her head fall back, colliding softly with the wall, eyes blinking shut as she steels herself for what's to come. "And I know… she's a fucking freak."

He's not sure which part hits him hardest – smug bitch or fucking freak. Or maybe it's the accusation that he doesn't really love her, shouldn't love her… that he'd somehow be better off without her. Or maybe it's that he – not thirty minutes ago – was forced to watch his wife getting tortured, experimented on, brutalized in a way that no one but he could truly understand or identify with. Maybe it's knowing that none of that would've happened had this little blonde not handed her blithely over. Or maybe it's knowing that he's the one who chose this… person, he's the one who brought her into their lives and – for some unknown reason – trusted her.

Doesn't matter really… if it's one of these things, all of these things, a million other things that have been building up inside of him for the past who knows how long. In this moment, it doesn't really matter how the Soldier managed to creep so close to the surface. It doesn't matter why Bucky relents, stepping back and letting go of the beast within.

Reasons are meaningless and pointless and needless.

His metal arm pulls up in a flurry, fist tightening with a sudden whir before crashing into Atkinson's face. The sound of her jaw cracking echoes throughout the hallway, a harsh gasping sputter following as thick, hot blood gushes from her split lips. His fingers click and grind as they pull apart, open up, shift down, and – in the blink of an eye – wrap themselves severely around her tiny, pale neck, bruising and pinching her delicate skin. He tightens his grip, enhanced hearing picking up on the tiny snaps and catches of her windpipe crumbling. Her gasps cease and her eyes bug out and miniscule vessels pop just beneath her skin, sending small blossoms of blood to the surface.

Bucky can hear Steve behind him, yelling his name. He can feel his friend wrap himself around him, pulling and tugging with all of his might, his fingers desperately trying to work their way beneath his metal digits. He hears someone shout, "Enough!" though he's not sure who… it's so hard to recognize voices – to recognize anything at all – when he's buried so deep within himself.

He watches from a peculiar distance, using his own eyes to see his own hand choke the life out of his own protégé. And faintly, a thought passes through him, a mere word really, echoing in an all-too familiar voice. Monster.

From the corner of his eye, he notices Natasha stepping forward. She reaches across him and slaps a small metal disc on his arm, the thing popping with a jolt that causes the bionic limb to catch and crash, the sizzling electricity rendering the prosthetic temporarily useless. His fingers fall away from Atkinson's throat, the woman slumping to the side. He struggles to shift and pull his other arm free from Steve's mighty grip, use it to finish the job. But before he can, he feels Natasha slam another disc into him… into his neck. It detonates immediately, causing his breath to catch and legs to give and mind to whir for the fraction of a second he lasts before blacking out completely.

000

When he finally comes to, he finds himself in the same hallway he'd been in with her. The blurred outline of gray-blue lockers to the left – and a blood-splattered wall with a hole the size of his fist in it directly in front of him – giving his location away. Tinny voices sound behind him, those of the people who'd clearly been unwilling to move his dead weight out of the way filtering to him in short bursts.

"You wouldn't understand," a clipped retort in Barton's derisive tenor.

"It was a dick move and you know it," sounding in a harsh near-whisper that could be only Romanov. "You never should've put him in that position."

Bucky moans involuntarily, the guttural noise falling languidly out of him as he clumsily rolls and shifts to his side. He pulls his head up off the floor for just a moment before dropping it back with a thud, a heady wave of dizziness creeping up from nowhere.

"It lives!" Clint exclaims, stepping over and jokingly kicking the felled man in the hip. He kneels down beside him and helps him to sit upright, leaning him back against the wall for stability as a teasing, crooked smile rolls over his face. Bucky awkwardly blinks his eyes open and tries to regain focus, his swimming vision taking its sweet ass time settling. "Those widow bites are a bitch, huh?"

"Well I had to do something," Natasha grumbles as she paces slowly in front of them. "He was about to kill her."

Bucky looks up and glowers at the woman. She stills across from him, stiff stance with arms wound tightly across her chest clearly displaying her ire. Clint helps him to stand, seeming to have no qualms about draping the dangerous metal arm over his shoulders to lend support. "Where is she?" Bucky asks, his voice coming out as a dull growl.

"Being processed with Steve and Sam… where she should've been from the beginning." She turns a vicious glare on Clint, her eyes narrowed threateningly.

The archer just scoffs as he sheds Bucky's arm, leaving him to lean up against the wall. "Being processed… what the hell does that even mean? There's nothing they can do with her," he argues, steeping forward and flailing his arms heatedly. "She didn't commit a crime."

"Treason," she utters with a forced-casual shrug, her eyes veering away as she speaks.

"Against who?! We're not a government agency. Treason in the private sector is just… being a dick."

She looks back at him and scowls. Dropping her arms from the protective shield she'd build around herself, she advances, closing the distance between them in just two short strides. "Counterespionage," she tries, raising a single, challenging brow.

He leans back and laughs. "You're so full of shit. Since when do you even care about doing things the right way anyway?"

Her forehead furrows, brows knitting tightly together. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He gives her a get real stare. "I've heard you tell Fury himself that he can take his protocol and shove it." He takes a step closer, shoves a pointed finger into her shoulder as he looms mere inches from her face and bites out, "Tell me you didn't want to crack her skull open and spill her pretty little brains all over that wall when you saw her."

She shakes her head, face setting in a stern expression, lips pinching tightly together. "That's not the point," she says with a snarl. "This isn't about what I wanted to do. Or what you would've done. You told him." She tosses a slightly trembling finger in Bucky's direction. "And you damn well knew how he'd react." Her voice drops an octave. "And that was not fair."

He shrugs, dropping another blasé scoff. "He's a big boy. He can think for himself."

"He's barely been able to think clearly for months!" she nearly shouts, taking a step back and tossing her hands into the air. "You're supposed to be his friend! You never should've put him in that position!"

It may be the most animated and emphatic that Bucky's ever seen the Widow get. And part of him kind of wants to ride this thing out and see how the – admittedly pointless – argument ends. But at the same time… "You know I'm standing right here, right? You could talk to me instead of about me."

She turns to face him, a deep, almost mournful frown on her face. But she says nothing. Neither does Clint, despite a somber, regretful sort of glean to his eye.

Bucky sighs. "Am I free to go? Or are you planning on throwing me in a cell somewhere?" Natasha rolls her eyes and waves her hand dismissively. He nods, interpreting her gesture as do what you want. "Where's Tessa?"

"She's with Bruce. Going over her file in his office." Her eyes move over to Clint, the two sharing a meaningful look as she finishes with, "No one told her anything."

He nods stiffly – "Good." – and slowly pushes past them, lumbering away as he awkwardly shakes out the residual buzzing and quivering in his legs. He turns before he reaches the end of the hall, stares them both down for a brief moment and bites out, "I wasn't going to kill her," his eyes shifting away at the end, not realizing until the statement fully leaves his mouth that each word is a lie.

000

He can just make out her voice as he arrives at Bruce's office, the sound of it – low and deep and earnest as it always becomes when discussing work – sending a soothing shot of warmth through his otherwise trembling core. He looms there in the doorway, leaning heavily on the jamb, watching intently as the two scientists lean into one another – shoulder to shoulder – as each points to some datapoint, some highlighted note or random lab result in turn.

"Hey," she breathes out, finally looking up and noticing him there. A wide smile spreads across her face as she shifts her glasses up into her hair. "Looking for something?"

He grins back at her, the action feeling utterly effortless and natural despite the roiling in his gut. "Looking for you."

Bruce checks his watch and quickly begins shuffling papers back into folders. "Yeah, it's late," he mutters. "We can pick this back up in the morning."

She rolls her eyes – "It's barely seven." – but yawns just the same, pulling a sanctimonious smirk from the man to her left. "You're the worst," she mumbles under her breath as she shoves away from the desk and crosses the room towards Bucky.

He takes her hand and leads her into the hall, "Not too early," falling from his lips as a cautionary reminder to Bruce.

The doctor merely gives him a look – one that just screams bitch, please – before he closes the door on the couple, eager to return to the quiet sanctuary of his office.

"Where've you been?" Tessa asks softly as they head for the elevator. Bucky says nothing, simply issuing out a short shrug in response. She gives his hand a quick squeeze and bumps his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Sure," he mutters, guiding her into the elevator.

She knows it's not true, of course, can feel the thick, anxious energy dripping off of him as they stand sequestered in that tight, silent box. But she also knows him well enough to pick up on the fact that he doesn't want to talk about it right now. And the truth is, while she's been able to maintain that brave, nonchalant façade for the past few hours – working to keep Bobby's heartbroken face out of her mind, and the images now vividly recalled of the bodies she'd torn apart at bay – she's more than a bit concerned that if they do actually talk about, well… anything, she might just break apart right along with him.

So instead she gives his hand another strong squeeze, leans heavily into him, and drops her head to his shoulder for the short elevator ride upstairs, all in the hopes that this little bit of closeness will lend him the comfort he needs.

It obviously isn't enough. His grip on her is fierce. He refuses to drop her hand, tugging her from the elevator and opening their apartment door, ushering her through all while grasping her fingers firmly in his own. Even as he begins to move towards the kitchen, he holds her tight, stretching their arms out as she remains planted in the living room. "Did you eat?" he asks casually, stilling in the doorway.

She nods, feeling his energy suddenly shift into a sort of frenetic unease. "Soup. Again."

"You still hungry?" he asks, averting his gaze. "You want anything?"

She tightens her fingers around his hand and gives a little tug, urging him closer to her. He takes one wide step back into the room and she twists into him, shaking off his hand and wrapping her arms around his torso, hugging him tight. Anxiety rolls off of him – a tumultuous mix of fear and anger and so much grief – and it causes her breath to catch as she buries her face in his chest. "I want you to be okay," she mutters, the words leaving her mouth before she can get the chance to swallow the aching sentiment back down.

It isn't fair of her to ask that from him, she knows. It isn't fair of her to request that he magically just heal after all that he's been through. But she can't help but want him to, need him to. She tightens her grip on him, steeling herself for the annoyed sigh or outright snub that she's sure she'd put out there if in his place. But he doesn't pull away. And he doesn't stiffen in her hold. Instead he drapes his arms tenderly around her and rests his slightly trembling hands at her hips.

"I have to tell you something," he says after a long, silent moment.

She waits, slowly building up a wall to keep his disquiet at bay so that she can focus on his words instead of drowning in his uneasy energy. "Okay…"

He drops a kiss on her head, lips lingering there as he buries his nose in her hair, sinking for the briefest of moments into the delightful scent of her honeysuckle shampoo… the overwhelming aroma of her – his girl, his wife, his Tessa.

He pulls in a tight breath and mutters into her, "Scofield is dead. I killed him."

Her shoulders tighten, back constricts, every muscle tensing beneath his fingertips. But she doesn't pull away, not an inch. "Wh…what? When?"

"He was at the site in Yukon," he begins, voice thick and slow. His eyes flutter shut, head dipping further down so that her soft hair caresses his cheek. "He started talking about extraction… he said it'd be easier, less painful if you would've just helped them."

She pulls away and looks up at him with incredulous eyes. "He said that? He told you that?" Rage builds in her blood as he slowly trains his gaze on her, his own eyes filled with so much hurt. Then he nods.

"He said you called for me… screamed for me…"

She unfurls her arms from around his center and brings her hands to either side of his face, cupping his jaw, feeling it tighten and click beneath her palms. "Baby," she breathes out, watching intently as a sheen of tears coats his light eyes.

"I told you I'd never let them have you," he mutters, voice cracking at the edges. "Lobe. After that damn op…" He blinks his eyes tightly shut before any tears can fall, and he shakes his head languidly back and forth. "I never should've gone along with it… never should've let you get in that trunk." She tenderly drags her thumbs across his stubbled cheeks as he speaks. "I never should've shot out the tire… then the driver… that's why you went in the river." A halting breath falls from his lips as his eyes open, bright blue glassy orbs staring down at her, right through her. His hands begin to slide up her back, fingers splaying out over her ribs, pressing desperately into the skin beneath her sweater. "And I didn't do anything. I couldn't get you out. I couldn't… bring you back. That was Steve. And Barton."

She shakes her head slowly back and forth, her hands falling to his shoulders as she jostles him the slightest bit and says simply, earnestly, "No. I came back for you."

His stare is deep and intense and utterly penetrating, the air around them thick and silent as his lips part to speak again. "I couldn't do anything," he laments. "Even that night… you were so scared because Lobe knew who you were. And you said he couldn't get you… if he got Supernova…" He looks away then, his eyes ticking off towards nothing as a rumbling scoff, a sardonic, mournful grunt falls out of him. "I told you I'd never let him have you," he bites out, shaking his head bitterly.

His fingers tighten around her ribcage as he tugs her close, pressing her body firmly against his now shuddering chest. Her right hand slides up into his hair, burying itself there, gripping tightly as her other arm wraps around him and hugs him to her. "It's not your fault, Jamie," she soothes in a low tone, a heady whisper at his ear. "None of it is. Tell me you know that."

He says nothing for a long, aching moment, his body sputtering in her grasp. He buries his head in the crook of her neck and does all he can to hold in the hot, remorseful tears as he presses his face into her. Just as she did that first night home, she holds him tight, softly scratches at his scalp and breathes easy shhhs into his ear to calm his mangled nerves.

And he lets her do it. He hates himself for it… for letting her soothe him when he's done nothing for her. When he failed her time and time again. When he let her go. And let them have her. When he stood by and did nothing. When he remained blind to the threats right in front of them, threats that he invited into their lives.

"Atkinson gave you up," he says stiffly, voice thick with unshed tears, muffled as the words spill out into her, the statement grating along her senses as his teeth scrape along her flesh.

Her fingers freeze in his hair, the slight rocking motion her hips had begun, halting with a sudden hitch. She pulls away and his head falls from her shoulder before rising just enough to look her in the eye. "What?" she asks, gaze bewildered.

He sniffles and takes a step back, releasing her as he brings the heels of his hands up to press deeply into his still seeping eyes. "She was undercover with Scofield's old partner. Must've gotten him to introduce her… I don't know. But she met with Scofield. She told him about you… set up the fake meeting where Lobe…" He pulls in a deep breath, the dense air catching in his chest, and he drops his hands, opens his eyes and gazes at her with such contrition. "I think she thought… without you around…" His jaw snaps shut, clicking audibly, and his features set into a bitter scowl. He shakes his head once more. "I just thought it was a stupid crush. I never thought… I never…"

Tessa's eyes go wild, her brain sputtering as it works to make sense of everything, to weave this new information in with the memories she already has and the interpretations already spawned by an analytical mind eager to make sense of the world. And damn if this doesn't just make sense.

She knew something was off about Sarah Atkinson. The way she acted around her, a smugness that she never seemed to give off with anyone else. And the closeness she seemed to crave with Bucky, the desire to be the best on his team, the one he'd choose, the one he'd count on and come to. There was never anything about her – or her crush – that screamed innocent schoolgirl, nothing that ever made Tessa think what she held was simply an inappropriate infatuation. All along she could see wheels turning in that woman's tiny, blonde head. All along she felt the niggling urge to not trust her.

But Steve said she was good. And so did Bucky. So who was she to doubt?

"Where is she?" she asks, voice calm and steady, contemplative gaze directed at the floor.

"With Steve," he replies, ducking his head in shame. "I almost killed her," he mumbles. "Choked her." He wraps his arms stiffly over his chest and unconsciously takes a short step back. Then another. "I wanted to rip out her throat," he emits in a low growl, words barely audible. "Like I did to Scofield."

Her head jerks up, eyes boring into him. She maintains her position, not moving any closer to him despite desperately wanting to embrace him again, to hold him close and ease his pain. But she feels the raw, hostile anger burn through her, a fiery rage creeping just beneath her skin, crackling at her senses. The fear of touching him, burning him, harming him again overwhelms her and she swiftly folds her arms around her center, clenching her fists tight.

"You should have," she says, voice thick with warring sentiments – scorching fury and frantic restraint. He looks up at her, quirking his head as his brows pull together in confusion. She nods stiffly and repeats herself, the words this time dripping with a terrifying conviction. "You should have."

And then she turns and walks out the door.

Whew... what a rough day for the team! Anyway, I hope the Atkinson reveal at least somewhat lived up to your expectations. Though, obviously, she hasn't really been thoroughly dealt with yet...

Thanks for reading!