Warning: One illegitimate child.
T MINUS 31 HOURS
Bucky's preparations weren't extensive, but they were thorough. A carefully selected outfit—warm enough for the weather, casual enough to deter suspicion, and concealing enough to hide his identity on first glance. A knife in each boot, a handgun in his belt, and a full magazine in each hip pocket.
He was prepping his gear in the dining room on Steve's floor, live cartridges scattered all over the dinner table, when his hands began to slow.
He still had that bandage over his right palm.
The handgun made a heavy, metallic thump as he set it down. He peeled the bandage off his hand and winced. The adhesive smarted on his skin.
There it was. He ran a metal thumb over the surface of his palm. The cut had closed and begun to heal; all that remained to show for it now was a thin, white line.
Footsteps to one side and motion in the corner of his eye made Bucky lift his head. There was Steve, hands in his pockets, and he entered the dining room slowly and leaned against the wall.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice low.
Bucky exhaled through his nose. He knew what Steve was worried about. They'd called a meeting that morning, and the team had all agreed—Natasha, actually, had been their biggest supporter—but Steve wasn't quick to jump on the idea of Bucky and Tony taking this mission solo.
Bucky was determined, though. Smaller numbers would be less suspicious. And anyway, it only felt right. So he nodded and said, "We gotta do it alone."
A muscle twitched in Steve's jaw, but he nodded and stared at his feet.
A shy smile grew on Bucky's face, a shadow of the smirk he used to have. Somehow, it felt familiar—if a bit turned around and backwards. Once upon a time, Steve had been the little one, and Bucky was the one always worrying about him.
An accent he barely remembered crept into his voice, and he echoed what Steve must have said dozens of times back then.
"When are ya gonna stop treatin' me like I'm made a' glass?"
Steve's head flew up, and for a moment, his eyes were wide and bright with recognition. Then he smiled and sighed. "When I remember you aren't." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Buck, it's just—"
Bucky stuck the handgun in his belt and began to store away the cartridges. "He's eighty years old. He won't fight."
"That's not the one I'm worried about."
Bucky's hands slowed, and he frowned. "He's not after me anymore."
Steve gave a harsh sigh. "Well, no, but..."
Bucky looked askance. He didn't like to admit it, but he did have contingency plans if any one of Steve's friends—or even Steve—turned on him.
He knew what Tony's weakness was.
It glowed bright and blue in the middle of his chest.
"I could take him," Bucky said softly.
Steve snorted. "Maybe not in the suit."
Bucky just lifted his head and looked at him.
"But you're right." Steve pushed a smile onto his face. "I oughta trust my friends more."
Bucky didn't smile, but his gaze did soften a little.
Steve stepped forward, took the seat beside him, and set a hand on his shoulder. "Just be careful," he said, and Bucky could hear both the Captain and the genuine concern in his voice. "We can't resort to vigilantism. This is toeing the line enough, and with your reputation..."
Bucky felt his lips twitching upwards. "We're just asking questions. We won't kill him."
Steve huffed up a little laugh and shook his shoulder. "Well, just stick to that, okay?"
Bucky nodded and leaned in. Steve gave him a hug and slapped him on the back.
"Go get that bastard." Steve pulled back to grin at him.
Bucky's smile felt small and feral. "You betcha."