Bucky was relieved when Winner and Barton left. They both kind of creeped him out—Barton as a shadow who kept slipping from Bucky's attention, and that was fucking unnerving, and Winner just because no one who was as wealthy as Stark could possibly be as soft and naïve as Winner appeared. It had been nice to see Maxwell relaxed though.

He couldn't figure out what it was about Maxwell that drew him in. It had to be how Maxwell handled him. He arguably had more reason than anyone except Stark himself to hate Bucky, but he treated him more normally than literally anyone else in the Tower. Not that Bucky didn't understand why everyone walked on varying forms of eggshells around him, but even Steve tended to treat him with kid gloves and it was… somewhere between mildly irritating and insulting. Maxwell did neither. He respected Bucky's space, made sure to not surprise him, and otherwise, treated him as a normal person. Bucky hadn't realized how much he missed that until Maxwell reminded him.

Maxwell touched Bucky, ribbed him, teased him by calling him Terminator, asked for his opinion. Steve had remarked that Maxwell seemed to have Stark's penchant for nicknames, but Bucky thought it was different. Stark often used nicknames as thinly veiled barbs if not outright weapons. Even the nicknames he gave people as signs of affection were often more irritating than not. Maxwell seemed to only give nicknames to people he liked; they seemed fitting and not meant to dig in and irritate the way that Stark's usually did.

Somehow Bucky wasn't surprised that when he got down to the gym, it was already occupied by Maxwell. It seemed that Maxwell was as bad at keeping a regular sleep schedule as his father.

Bucky watched him for a couple minutes. He had his hair up in a high ponytail instead of its usual braid, and it moved like a cape or a banner as he darted in to punch and kick at the heavy punching bag. He must have earbuds in because there was something rhythmic to his movements that made him seem more like he was dancing than fighting. His hands were wrapped, and he wore a black tanktop, showing off most of his tattoos.

One of the weird disconnects hit Bucky's brain as he looked over the tattoos. Part of his mind, the part of who he was back in World War II, wasn't used to seeing that much ink on anyone outside of a circus sideshow, and even then, they didn't have the full coverage that Maxwell did. Part of him had seen people as covered or more for years and didn't think much of it beyond a vague thought that Steve would probably appreciate the artwork if he got a good look at it. Bucky shook his head, as if the physical shaking could toss the disparate perceptions together and make a unified opinion on how to feel about them. He landed more on the that was a lot of ink on a twenty-two-year-old side, but it was well-done ink at least, and Maxwell was a vet.

Maxwell tensed, looking like he was going to start another combo against the bag, when he froze, then relaxed. "How long are you going to stand up there just watching me?" he asked without looking up.

"Until I got bored, you finished, or you said something," Bucky admitted.

Maxwell looked up directly at where Bucky was watching him from the catwalk, but Bucky had the feeling that Maxwell knew where he was before he said anything. "Trouble sleeping too?" he asked.

Even though they were the only people in the gym, Bucky didn't want to have this conversation from separate floors. Instead of going walking to the stairwell, Bucky simply leaped over the railing and landed a few feet from Maxwell.

When he stood up, Maxwell raised an eyebrow and asked, "Is that supposed to impress me?"

How odd, the soldier that lived in the back of his brain thought. He'd landed a good five feet from Maxwell, but that was definitely close enough to make most people back up. Maxwell seemed to have known both that he was going to jump and where he would land. Anyone not used to dealing with supersoldiers should have been at least startled or surprised, if not necessarily impressed, but Maxwell was doing a pretty good impression of Natasha at her most unflappable.

"Not really," Bucky said. "Just didn't want to take the stairs." He flashed a shit-eating grin, and got a quirked smirk in reply.

"Well, since we're both up anyway, want to spar?" Maxwell asked, reaching up and running his hair down the ponytail, prying the strands away from where they were sticking to his sweat-sheened skin. He wasn't breathing hard, so if he weren't so sweaty, Bucky wouldn't have thought he had been down there for long.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Bucky said.

"Why not?" Maxwell asked. "We've sparred before."

"Yeah, but we were supervised. I'm not sure that it's a great idea to spar without anyone to keep an eye on us," he admitted. Bucky was also just tired enough that he was worried about overreacting and using too much force. "Besides, don't you still have stitches?"

Mawell rolled his head back, and his neck cracked. "Come on," he said, wheedling a little. "I can beat on a bag all night, but what I really need is something to get my adrenaline up a little. Bags don't hit back."

"No, they do not," Bucky agreed. "But if we were sparring by ourselves and you got hurt, your father probably really will kill me. He's already helping me when most people in his position would sooner shoot me than look at me. Hurting you would be a shitty way to repay him for it."

"Then don't hurt me," Maxwell said as if it were obvious, then darted forward.

Bucky moved back, automatically dropping into a defensive stance—dammit, he had forgotten how fast Maxwell was. He was at least as fast as Natasha, and Bucky didn't think he'd seen Maxwell go all out yet.

"This is a really terrible idea," Bucky said, sliding back again as Maxwell attempted to close the distance.

Maxwell rolled his eyes, and wow, he looked exactly like Stark when he did that. It was a little eerie, especially since at first glance, Maxwell didn't really resemble his father.

That moment of wandering attention cost Bucky, because Maxwell somehow knocked his feet out from under him and landed straddling his chest.

"Wherever you were, you should be paying more attention," Maxwell said, tapping Bucky in the center of his forehead before getting off him and holding out a hand to pull Bucky to his feet.

Bucky looked at the hand for a moment, because that had been a dirty trick Maxwell had used to get him down. He took Maxwell's hand, then yanked. Maxwell was planted well, so he had to use a little more strength to pull him off balance than he expected, but he still had Maxwell pinned beneath him in fractions of a second.

He grinned smugly at Maxwell until he caught the stunned look on his lightly flushed face. Bucky couldn't read the emotions in Maxwell's eyes, but he backed away like Maxwell was on fire. "Are you okay?" he asked, suddenly nervous. He hadn't slammed Maxwell to the mat hard or anything, at least, he was pretty sure he hadn't, but maybe he'd used too much strength? He really wasn't used to sparring with normal people.

Maxwell sat up slowly, then shook his head. "Sorry. I… You just, surprised me. That's all. It's fine."

"You don't look like it's fine," Bucky told him.

"It's okay," he repeated, lifting himself with a hand and getting his feet under him like a pro. "Really," he added once he was standing. "It's just… Jesus used to do that. The pull me down and pin me thing. I just wasn't expecting it, that's all."

"You sparred?" Bucky asked.

Wincing, Maxwell said, "I wouldn't call it 'sparring' as much as 'roughhousing.'"

Bucky knew when he was missing something, and he was definitely missing something. Where was Natasha and her creepy people-reading skills when he needed them?

"This is a bad idea," he repeated, turning to walk away.

Really, he didn't know why he expected Maxwell to let it go that easily. The mat barely crinkled under Maxwell's foot before he was on Bucky's back, using his momentum to try and pull Bucky down. Training kicked in, and Bucky held his feet, reaching behind him to try and peel Maxwell off his back, but Maxwell somehow managed to avoid letting him get a good grip. Clever hands found a startlingly ticklish spot, and it was enough to make Bucky crumple, which gave Maxwell the leverage to get them on the floor. Bucky recovered quickly, able to throw Maxwell from his back better on the ground than he had been standing, since Maxwell simply wasn't heavy enough to keep him down. Fisting his right hand in Maxwell's hair, he got a good grip and managed to pull Maxwell forward, slamming his back into the mat.

For a heartbeat, Bucky was afraid that he had seriously harmed Maxwell as he stared up at him with a look of betrayal.

"Did you really just pull my hair?" Maxwell asked, sounding disbelieving.

"I…" Bucky said, getting to his feet, stomach having dropped to his knees.

Maxwell's brows knit. He sat up and turned to face Bucky properly. "Hey, calm down. You didn't hurt me," he said, and got to his own feet. His ponytail was mussed but still in place.

"But I could have," Bucky said, feeling sick to his stomach. He could all too easily imagine having pulled Maxwell's head straight off its shoulders. Breaking that thin neck would have been even easier. He remembered how fragile Maria Stark's throat had been beneath his hand, could imagine Maxwell's face replacing hers.

"Hey," Maxwell said in a tone that said it wasn't the first time he'd said it. He was closer to Bucky than he had been, his hands held up and open to show he wasn't armed. Heart pounding, Bucky met Maxwell's eyes. "Hey," he said gently, seeming to realize he had Bucky's attention, and he stepped even closer. "It's okay. I'm fine."

It wasn't okay. He might be fine, but he almost wasn't.

Maxwell stepped closer, but Bucky felt frozen in place. "I'm going to touch you, okay? Not hurt, just touch." Every move he made was deliberate, broadcasting his intention, but Bucky still flinched when Maxwell's hands landed on his shoulders. "You're here." A hand somehow moved from Bucky's shoulder to his face, cupping it, drawing Bucky down without any pressure at all until their foreheads touched. "I want you to just breathe with me, okay?" His thumb brushed Bucky's cheek and was somehow calming enough for Bucky to give a bare nod. "You are Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Your friends call you Bucky. The year is After Colony 102," he said in the same calm, soothing tone he'd been using. "You're in the United States, in New York State, in New York City, in Avengers Tower. You are James Buchanan Barnes…"

Bucky closed his eyes and let the mantra-like tone and the feel of Maxwell's pulse in his hands slow his heart until he really felt like he was back in his own skin.

"You are—"

"I'm okay," Bucky interrupted, opening his eyes. He didn't know how many times Maxwell had repeated it, every time with the same cadence, the same simple certainty. He put his own hand over Maxwell's where it cupped his face and removed it, straightening. Maxwell let him go, taking a step back to give him space. When his fingers slid from Bucky's, Bucky nearly reached out to take them back, missing their warmth almost instantly. Purple eyes watched him with far too much knowledge, but no judgment and no fear.

"I'm okay," Bucky repeated, probably as much for himself as for Maxwell. "But we shouldn't spar. It's not safe."

Eyes still watching him, Maxwell pulled down the messy remnants of his ponytail before quickly tying it back at the nape of his neck. "You should trust yourself more," he said.

He didn't mean to, but Bucky laughed, a humorless, pained sound. "I could have killed you," he felt the need to point out.

"I doubt it," Maxwell said, crossing his arms loosely and shrugging. "I'm tougher than I look."

Bucky believed that, at least, even if he didn't have Maxwell's faith that he wouldn't have killed him. "We should both try to get some sleep," he said, determined to be the adult here.

"I'm not wrong," Maxwell said, apparently unwilling to just let him walk away from this. "You should trust yourself more. I'm not saying that there aren't going to be bad days where sparring like this isn't okay, all right? I know there are going to be days it's not safe."

"And yet you did this anyway—" Bucky snapped, getting angry.

"I did, and I'm not sorry. You didn't hurt me, and you needed to know that you do have that control."

"You couldn't have known that—"

"Look, I already said there are going to be bad days, okay? I get it. I do." Strangely, Bucky believed him. He could see the shadows of bad days in Maxwell's eyes. "What I'm trying to say is don't live every day like it's a bad day. Don't give them that power. You're not theirs anymore."

How many times had Steve tried to tell him that? But Steve would say it with something that was almost desperation. Steve needed Bucky to be okay. Maxwell said as if it were simply a fact. He had his own monsters, his own demons, but he didn't need Bucky to be okay, he was just somehow sure that he would be.

"How can you know that?" Bucky asked, needing to know, needing to understand.

A small, sad smile twisted Maxwell's lips up, and his gaze turned inward for a moment before he met Bucky's eyes again. "You're not my first broken soldier." He gave Bucky a smile, still a little sad but kind and sincere. "Good night, Bucky."

He turned and walked out of the gym before Bucky could reply, "Good night, Duo."