In hindsight, it was inevitable that they would be interrupted. Not simply because they're out in the open with no cover, or in someone else's space, or even because Miss Potts specifically said that she would be back after her phone call to Washington. The interruption was inevitable because that's just the kind of shit luck the asset has always had.
"Celebrating a little early, don't you think, Rogers?" Agent Romanov asks with that flat affect the asset is starting to think she uses to hide her amusement as she slides onto the bar stool beside Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers wrenches himself away immediately, stepping back and slapping a hand up over his mouth like he means to hide the evidence of their impropriety. Or maybe like he's wiping the asset away now that they're done.
"I didn't hear you come in," Steve Rogers says tersely, the words slightly muffled against his glove. His face is red, and he isn't looking at the agent or the asset when he speaks.
"Jarvis and I have an agreement," the agent replies, feigning boredom as she checks her nails. "He doesn't announce my approach, and I don't make him waste processing power to keep me out of his programming. The only person I can't sneak up on in the tower is Stark, because it's bad for his heart."
"Why are you here?" Steve Rogers asks, fixing the agent with a suspicious glare. She looks notably unimpressed.
"I was going to rescue you, but clearly you have everything well in hand."
Steve Rogers's flush returns in full force at that, and he coughs, rubbing at his mouth again and turning away to face the balcony. The agent drops a hat onto the bar top next to the asset's elbow. It's dark blue, with a white insignia he doesn't recognize, and a stiff brim. "For you," she says.
The asset straightens up from where he'd been pushed back over the bar, still breathing heavily. Steve Rogers's behavior is upsetting, but he doesn't know why. What does the captain have to be embarrassed about? He picks up the hat, turning it over with confusion.
"What is this?" he asks, and the agent's smile turns sharp and mischievous.
"I figured you and Cap probably have the same favorite team," she says, and the asset's blood runs colder than ice. The asset has been on a lot of teams over the years. Teams like the Howling Commandos and Strike, like the Russian Winter Soldier Project. He stares at the unfamiliar insignia and doesn't remember it, not really; it must be from before the war, before he ever got on the train, but he knows it wasn't their team. They were a two man team back then. "You like the Dodgers, right?"
"Who the hell are the Dodgers?" he asks, his throat tight. He thinks, vaguely, that it is Steve Rogers's favorite team. That makes his left arm clench up, the plates shifting and resettling with a soft whirr and click. It shouldn't be. No team that the asset is not on should be Steve Rogers's favorite team.
"Baseball, Buck," Steve Rogers answers distractedly, which clarifies absolutely nothing. The asset knows what bases are and he is aware of the shape of a ball, but what those two things have to do with each other is beyond him. "Though they're a California team now."
"You. . . You like the Dodgers," the asset confirms, his sense of dread growing.
"Yeah, sure. I love the Dodgers," Steve Rogers says, but there's something wrong with his voice, something bitter and self-deprecating. The asset narrows his eyes.
"Who's your favorite?"
"Alta Cohen," Steve Rogers says without missing a beat. He crosses his arms over his chest and hunches his shoulders defensively, like he needs to explain himself. Like he's done this before. "He's got an arm like a rocket and is a real solid batter –"
(he carries a rolled up mitt in his back pocket for a solid six months, practicing with any boy he can find because he's gonna be a great ball player and have Stevie come to all his games and cheer him on)
(he's on his way to the field when he finds them in the alley, and Stevie goes down and doesn't get up why doesn't he get up)
(he grabs the wooden bat from the ground behind them, and the other kid never even sees Bucky take the swing)
(the kid goes down and Bucky hits him again and again and again and there's blood on the bricks and the bat and his shirt and Stevie's pale pale face and)
(he's breathing hard and crying when the bat slips out of his shaky fingers and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do now)
(Stevie needs a doctor and all Bucky can do is carry him home)
"James," the agent says, softly, in warning. The asset blinks, exhales, and steps away from the bar. He can't be here right now. For a wild moment he thinks he should wash the blood out of his shirt before the doctor hits him again, but despite the ringing in his ear the only woman in the room is Agent Romanov. He doesn't stumble under her watchful eyes as he heads for the hallway.
"Can I help you, Sergeant Barnes?" Jarvis asks when the asset reaches the elevator, and the asset shakes his head. No one can help him. He's not the favorite, and all he wants is to be the old Bucky Barnes, whoever that is, with the memories and the mannerisms Steve Rogers prefers. He wants Steve Rogers to keep him, not to send him away again or punish him for his faulty nature. He wants Steve Rogers to reward him with kisses that don't end in flinching or guilt. He knows the captain is possessive, and he wants Steve Rogers to chase him like he is the most important thing in the world.
He wants to take this stupid hat and toss it and these invasive, uncomfortable memories down the goddamn elevator shaft.
He starts to pry the doors open. The voices in the other room abruptly stop as Jarvis informs them of "a problem" in the hall.
"Get away from there," Steve Rogers orders. He has stopped at the entrance to the hall, one hand outstretched, expression haunted. He knows what the captain is seeing: his favorite sergeant standing in front of an opening outlined with busted, jagged metal. The floor of the tower rocks as the train rattles over the tracks and the wind howls through the mountain pass behind him. "Please, Buck. You'll. . . you'll fall."
"Yeah," and the asset can't stop staring at the hurt, broken look on Steve Rogers's face. The hallway is so quiet he can hear the captain's heart beat even from here. It's so loud, he can't hear his own.
"So catch me," he says, and steps back into the open elevator shaft.
The asset hits the concrete at the bottom of the elevator shaft hard, Steve Rogers's ball cap still clenched tightly in his right hand. His left glove is burned ragged from the friction of the cable used to slow his descent, and falls off the heated metal of his uncurling fingers in black strips and clumps. It doesn't take him long to pry open the doors leading into the lobby, where several startled security guards and personnel staff stare at him as he sprints for the wide glass entryway out onto the street.
He bursts out into Times Square facing west at about the same time that the heavy glass from the balcony of the ninetieth floor hits the pavement, followed by Steve Rogers in free fall.
He doesn't seem to hit the ground as hard as he should, and the asset thinks the delay is due to the black grappling line wrapped around one arm. It's not long enough for the whole tower, but it probably cut his drop in half. It's also, clearly, not part of the captain's gear; the hook is what's wrapped around his bicep and the other end has been cut. Steve Rogers grits his teeth, slams his dislocated shoulder back into place and staggers to his feet, yelling, "Bucky!"
The asset runs.
They sprint past pedestrians on the crowded street, the asset heading south down a one-way street he doesn't know how he knows. He shoves a man out of his way and goes up and onto the hood of a car parallel parked too close to the corner of Broadway and 6th Avenue, using it as a launchpad through the intersection to lengthen his lead on the captain.
"Out of the way!" Steve Rogers shouts at the bystanders as they cut through another intersection toward a park. But Captain America is faster than the asset, his upgrade better, and he keeps gaining on the asset over the next eight city blocks that fly past. He can feel Steve Rogers's outstretched fingers brush the back of his shirt, only just failing to get a grip as he turns back onto Broadway, heading south by southeast like something is drawing him that way, some forgotten failsafe algorithm driving him homeward.
They pass Madison Square Park, and Broadway gives way to Union Square West. The asset cuts through Union Square Park, hops the black iron-wrought railings to come out the other side, dodging motorists and confused tourists.
Steve Rogers charges after him, trying to follow the asset through the intersection of East 14th Street and 4th Avenue, and is struck by a car heading west. The asset hears the screech of tires as the driver fails to brake in time, the sharp crunch of the vehicle's fender and hood around the captain's enhanced body. He jerks, twisting around to watch as the collision throws Steve Rogers's body to the pavement where he skids to a halt in front of the gold façade of the Metronome, his temple bouncing off the concrete curb.
For a moment, despite his pounding heart and heaving lungs, the asset forgets how to breathe. But Steve Rogers gets up. Of course he does. Steve Rogers never learned how to stay down. He stumbles to his feet, weaving forward a few steps before shaking off the concussion.
The asset turns and runs. His lead increases. He runs down 4th Avenue to Cooper Square and Bowery, with Steve Rogers chasing him doggedly. They go down Bowery to Park Row and the Brooklyn Bridge Promenade.
Seeing the bridge sets off a wave of memories that threaten to pull the asset under. He turns east toward the river and sprints up the walkway. Steve Rogers follows. They're on the second level, where the pedestrians amble and crowd the edges between the two opposing directions of traffic. He shoulders two women posing for a picture out of his way and uses a bench as a stepping off point to hop the railing and run up the big thick cable that leads to the top of the first tower.
"Move, move, move!" Steve Rogers is gesturing for people to get out of their way and nearly topples over the cable guard into the East River when he follows the asset up. "Bucky, stop!"
But the asset does not comply. He can't. He still has Steve Rogers's hat clenched in numb fingers and he's not supposed to coddle him just because he's got asthma. The top of the tower is flat and grey, empty except for a tall metal pole.
The wind is loud in his ears, whipping his hair into his face.
Steve Rogers finally catches the asset up there under the shadow of the American flag snapping in the cold breeze. The asset pivots, trying to get away. He steps backward, toward the edge, and his boots slip on the concrete, on black ice and the unstable rattling of the train car.
He starts to fall.
Steve Rogers goes to his knees, reaching desperately for the asset, screaming for Bucky to give him his hand. Sweaty fingers close around the asset's wrist, slipping on the metal. "Bucky!"
He is still going to fall, just like he always does. The captain never catches him in time. But this time, Steve Rogers bares his teeth and follows rather than lose his grip, tumbling over the edge with him. They plummet down the side of the mountain and hit the cold water of the East River, plunging deep beneath its surface.