A/N: I don't own Marvel.


Peace.

Now that he was old and knew all the world had to offer, that's all he wanted.

Peace.

Heroism. Victory. Defeat for the enemy.

That's all he wanted once upon a time.

But that was back when he was young and naive.

Before he knew the true cruelty that the world can have.

James.

What his parents called him.

It was the name he heard from the mouths of those who loved him the most- the couple he came from- the couple that raised him.

Winnifred and George- Mom and Dad.

Becca- Sister.

If only the world had kept its peace, then he would have lived his life out with those he loved.

Bucky.

What Steve called him.

It was the name that came out of the scrawny five year old's mouth as soon as he heard James's middle name.

At first it was revolting.

But then, ever so slowly, he came to love the name just as much as he came to love the scrawny kid who couldn't back down from a fight.

The kid who wanted to help the world find its peace.

Sarge.

What the 107th called him.

His rank in the military.

A part of the gang.

The man with the sniper rifle who never looked those he killed in the eye.

The man who was just beginning to realize that his life would have been much better lived if he had stayed in peace.

Zimniy Soldat.

What his captures called him.

They treated him as an animal, a brute.

Not human, only a machine- a tool of death.

No feelings.

No remorse.

No peace.

Only death.

Friend.

What the man in the helicarrier called it.

The man was familiar, somehow.

Somewhere in the distant recesses of its thoughts, the soldier saw clearly who was speaking to it.

Saw himself as a person and not as a machine or pet for the first time in many, many years.

Put down his fists. Dragged the man out of the river.

Saw the possibility of peace.

Liability.

What the government called him.

When he was on the run, hiding from the world, from those who he hurt and those who hurt him.

He was dangerous. A risk.

Someone to be locked up in a cage for the rest of his days as punishment for the crimes his controllers did through him.

A punishment he knew he deserved.

That would never bring him peace.

Killer.

What so many called him.

What Iron Man called him when he shot his arm off again.

What he was called when he lost the tool of so much death.

When he was relieved to see it gone and not to have it for a long time.

When he began to feel some peace.

Ingcuka Emhlophe.

What the Wakandans called him.

A man so broken and defeated that he chose to be frozen because he found it impossible to trust that he wouldn't hurt anyone.

A man that somehow gained the protection from the most powerful kingdom on Earth.

The same man that thought, but knew in that back of his mind that he was not free.

That he could never find peace.

Free.

What Ayo called him.

The freedom of knowing that no words could ever control him again.

The joy he felt knowing that he would not commit any more atrocities ever again.

The feeling of finally being cut loose from the bonds that had enslaved him for ninety years.

The tiny sliver of hope that he could once again, maybe find some peace.