Round Four! Featuring: many conversations, a lot of seriousness and soul-searching, and a lot of my own thoughts on what it means to come to grips with a past that affects the present.

Chapter Four: The Dream That's Almost Dead Today

All in all, it was fair to say that today was not John Walker's best day.

He sat on a wooden bench outside the room that had decided his fate, staring dully at his Medal of Honor.

"They just do not understand what it takes to be a good soldier, they just don't…" he muttered.

His wife took his hand. "Okay, focus. One thing at a time. Start by visiting Lemar's parents. They need to see you. And then we can build…"

The steady, heavy thud of footfalls sounded down the hall and broke her train of thought. They both looked in the direction of the sound.

From around the corner came the last person either of them expected: a tall, blonde, muscular man in a pullover sweater and khakis.

"You…" John sputtered.

Olivia kept her hand firmly on his arm.

"I'm just here to talk." Steve said, hands spread. "Couldn't help but hear down the hall. You're right, senators rarely know anything about being a good soldier. But I think I'm justified in saying that I do."

Olivia shot him a glance that seemed to beg for his help, so Steve carefully sat down on John's other side, keeping enough space in between them.

"They made me." John said finally, not looking Steve in the eye. "They gave me the tools to do all this. Gave me a title and a fancy weapon. They trained me. I always obeyed-I did everything they ever asked! And now they wanna cast me out because I'm too 'controversial'."

Steve let a pause lapse for a moment, before interjecting.

"Yeah, they trained you. And yeah, they taught you to obey orders, to follow the mission, to get the job done. But John...you can't surrender to that mindset all the time."

John looked up, blinking in shock. "But that's...the Army."

Steve gave a quiet laugh. "The best soldiers are always the mavericks. The ones who stick to a beat of their own. Oh, they know how to say 'yes, sir' with the best of 'em-but they never lose their ability to remain themselves."

A light seemed to dawn in John's eyes. "Like...like you?"

"You said you studied up on me. Pop quiz-what kickstarted me going from dancing monkey USO boy to actual soldier?"

John bit his lip. "Um...A-Azzano, yeah? The raid on the HYDRA base?"

"Yeah. I found out that my best friend-hell, my brother-was captured by HYDRA. I'm fairly sure only God himself could have stopped me from getting to Bucky. So, I get it."

John slumped. "I just...they didn't even care. Pompous dicks. Lemar was my best friend…"

"I know." Steve replied. "Believe me, I know."

"Bucky's still alive."

"Yeah, now. But there were days that he wasn't. And I had no way of knowing I would get him back. And even after, I had to fight him, twice. Trying not to kill him. I understand. But you can't, you can't just kill people because you're in grief."

"I didn't actually kill him."

"Yeah, no thanks to yourself."

John hunched over farther. "I wasn't trying to be you. Or Wilson."

Steve sighed. "Not trying to be Sam is a whole other can of worms, that I don't believe is really your fault. But as for not trying to be me, I get it. Not even I can always live up to the expectations of 'Captain America'-sorry 'US Agent'."

The air quotes were palpable in his tone. Olivia snorted.

"I told him they were just playing." she whispered. "They just wanted to have their cake an' eat it, too. They never actually took Captain America away from the Black man, this is US Agent! Totally different!"

"It was the honor of a lifetime!" John protested, looking slightly sulky. "To represent my country to the whole world…"

"And that's a noble dream." Steve cut in. "So what happened?"

"...they killed Lemar."

"You were up in arms before they killed Lemar. Bucky described you as 'pacing like an angry wildcat'. What was wrong with trying to talk things out?"

"You can't reason with these people! You have to just go in and take 'em out! That's the mission! You understand-you fought HYDRA! You're telling me you personally sussed out the motives of every operative on every base?"

"No." Steve said. "We didn't, you're right. But neither have I ever overused violence on a man who was not personally attacking me."

John turned away. "Well, whoop de-do! Want a gold medal?"

"John!" Olivia protested.

"No, I meant it! You wanna come in here an' pontificate on what I shoulda done-that doesn't work in real life, Rogers! Not in the heat of battle! You fight quick, an' you fight dirty, an' you get it done. And not everyone has the stomach for that, but I do!"

Steve glanced at him with a sorrowful look. "And how did that work out for you?"

John's eyes grew large with anger.

"Hear me out." he continued, the smallest bit of his 'Captain voice' peeking through. "I understand that some fights are dirty. I have blood on my hands, too. I'm not proud of it, but it's there. But being Captain America-or anyone else in the public eye-is different. It's why we had the mess with the Accords back in 2016. We're public figures, accountable to the public above all else. And sometimes, many times, that means considering how something will look in the public eye. Why do you think Christy took the time to yell at you in the middle of a fight? She weaponized the fact that the whole world was watching. She grabbed control of the narrative as it was being written. If you want to represent anything, anyone, you have to consider how it's going to look to the world. This isn't a Black-Ops job-this is theater. Brutal, real theater-but theater."

John sat stock-still, drinking in every word. For once in his life, he had nothing to say.

"You say that you're comfortable with the gray area stuff. Fine. We need men like that in this dirty, stinking world, honestly. But consider very carefully where to offer your skills. If you offer yourself up as a public servant, the public will judge you-and they are often not kind." he smirked, "It's one of the many reasons I retired after the Blip."

Olivia nodded, her eyes shining with gratitude. "Thank you, Captain."

"It's, uh, technically just Mr. Rogers now...although I understand that may call another figure to your mind...my son is a big fan of the old show."

Olivia laughed, while John shook himself out of minor stupor.

"So what now?" he rasped.

"For now, take a bereavement leave." Steve said, firmly but kindly. "Your wife is right. Go see Lemar's family. Take the time to get your head on straight. And then, take a good, long look at yourself to see where you want your talents to be best used. You're a good man, John. A talented one. But if public life isn't for you, then find a way to stay in the shadows."

"...I will. Thank you, Captain Rogers."

Numbly, almost by reflex, he snapped off a salute. Steve smiled quietly and returned the gesture.

"I suppose that should have been reversed." he said. "You do outrank me, after all, Major Walker."

With a far larger dose of humility than normal, John muttered, "No, sir, you definitely outrank me. In more ways than one."

"I'm glad you boys could spare a moment to let me say my piece."

Bucky grinned and lounged against the sofa. "No problem, old man. Wouldn't want to interrupt your afternoon nap."

Fury glared, which was somehow more terrifying with one eye than two. "Watch it, Barnes, I know enough to knock the breath out of you before you could say mama."

"Or Steve." Sam muttered. "Ooh, Steve, save me from the wrath of Fury!"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I ain't some damsel in distress."

"Coulda fooled me, Rapunzel."

"You take that back!"

Fury let the banter go on for a little longer than was strictly necessary. They would need the moment of levity to help them face what was about to come.

He waited for a lull in the sniping before tossing out a new bombshell:

"I was recently looking through some old files, from the fallout of HYDRA. It had to do with a human experiment-and the serum. SR-17."

"Ah, charming." Bucky drawled, failing to hide the slight twitch of his eye. "Another victim of knock-off serum. Real glad I crushed all those vials to hell, even if I missed one."

Sam, however, could sense the brooding coming off Fury in waves. "So who was the lucky guinea pig?" he said wryly.

Fury slid a blurry, black-and-white photo across the table. It was an old mugshot.

"Isaiah Bradley, serial number 52 345 843. Arrested, court-martialed, and detained for disobeying orders and engaging in illegal activity behind enemy lines." Fury paused. "The illegal activity was illegally springing his squadmates, who had also been experimented on. Further experimentation and testing was conducted during his thirty year stay in prison, which he only escaped by faking his death."

The photo seemed to swim in Sam's eyes, and the man's haunted gaze pierced his soul.

"...when was anybody gonna tell me that there was a Black super soldier?" he asked.

Bucky's eyes immediately widened. "Sam, I…"

Sam clutched the picture, crumpling the edges. "Where is he?"

Fury sighed. "He lives in Baltimore, with his grandson. I can give you his address, but he barely let me in the door. He doesn't want to be disturbed."

"Does Steve know?"

"...yeah. He knows. He didn't go with me, though. I think Bradley woulda skewered him."

Sam still hadn't let go of the picture.

"Tell me the address." he said finally.

"Sam…" Bucky tried.

"Buck, please. I know...it's not your fault, you didn't know, but I really don't wanna talk to you right now."

Bucky looked away. "...alright."

Fury scribbled something on a piece of scrap paper and pushed it across to Sam. "Go if you want. But I can't promise you'll feel any resolution."

With a final look at Bucky, Sam strode out of the room, steps short and clipped.

"...he's angry." Bucky said.

Fury gave a mirthless laugh. "Wouldn't you be?"

"I mean...I'm angry, for sure. Angry at what was done in the name of science. I get it, more than most. But I know that this is a hurt that's older and bigger than one guy that got screwed over."

Fury nodded. "Far bigger. And older than the pyramids."

Bucky scrubbed his hand across his face. "How did Steve take it?"

"About like you'd expect. Apparently he wore out some punching bags."

"Sounds like Steve." Bucky clenched his vibranium hand and shut his eyes. "God. Why?"

"Prejudice, callousness, a lust for power?" Fury said dryly.

"Yeah, something like that. It's why we couldn't let Walker do what he wanted to do. The kid was right. The Shield means too much as a symbol to let it be sullied, even if all Walker had was a terrible mock-up."

"It looks like it already has been sullied."

"Yeah. Well...now what do we do?"

Fury looked pained. "I saw Isaiah. He wasn't in a state for conversation, and he wasn't in the mood for reparations, either. He just wanted to be left alone. He had so much stolen away, I don't blame him."

Bucky leaned forward, chin in hands. "I hope Sam can find something to give him closure."

"You and me both."

Sam walked down the beat up street, past the boys playing basketball and to a small, wood and brick house.

He rapped on the metal grill and waited patiently for the door to open.

The door cracked open slightly. "Who's there?" asked a deep voice.

"Sam Wilson." Sam said, taking a quick breath. "I just wanted to talk."

The door swung open wider, and a hand unlocked the grill. "Come in."

Sam hefted the Shield in its case and walked into the house.

"Sit down." Isaiah said, after a long pause. "Is that what I think it is?"

Sam nodded and started to unzip the case.

"No, no, you keep that thing zipped up. Those stars and stripes don't mean nothin' good to me."

A lump caught in Sam's throat, and he quickly re-zipped the case.

"I want to understand…" he said.

"You understand." Isaiah replied. "Every Black man does."

"Nah, nah, don't do that bitter old man thing with me."

Isaiah laughed, sarcastically. "If you ain't bitter, you're blind."

"I don't get it." Sam sat forward, eyes sorrowful. "What went wrong? How...how did it happen? Why not come forward?"

"...I used to be like you. Until I opened my eyes. I saw the Red Tails, the famous 332 fight for this country, only to come home and find crosses burned on their lawn."

Sam sighed. "I'm from the South. I get that. But you were a Super Soldier, like Steve. You could've been…"

"Could've been what?" Isaiah looked accusing. Sam could feel the tears well up in his eyes. "Blonde hair, blue eyes, stars and stripes? The entire world's been chasing that great white hope since he first got dosed with the serum."

"Look, leave him out of it, alright? He didn't have anything to do with it. Steve did not put you in jail."

Isaiah stood up and took an old tin box down from a high shelf. Inside were letters and photos, stained with fingerprints and age.

One showed a clearly-young Isaiah with a beautiful, smiling woman in front of a wedding cake.

"She died while I was in prison." Isaiah said. "They, uh...never let a single one of her letters get to me. They locked them away in this box." He paused. "They told her I was dead."

Sam sucked in a heavy breath.

"Yeah, and uh, after she had been gone a while…" Isaiah stopped, voice choked. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Sam could see tears forming in his eyes.

After a moment, he seemed to recover slightly.

"You wanted to know what went wrong. A handful of us got shot up with different versions of that serum, but they don't tell us what it is. They tell us it's tetanus. They sent us on missions, even though the others weren't stable. Some of us started dyin' off. Then, a couple of the boys get captured on a mission. I heard the brass talk about blowin' that POW camp to hell, to hide the evidence. But, those were my men. My brothers. Not evidence."

Sam ducked his head down, eyes shut in grief.

"So, I bust out of the facility one night, and I brought those boys back. Not that it made a damn bit of difference. It wasn't long before it was only me left. And what did I get for saving their lives?"

Isaiah lifted his shirt, revealing a large, dent-like wound, covered in scar tissue.

"For the next thirty years, they experimented on me, trying to figure out why the serum worked." he shook his head. "There was a nurse. She took pity on me. She wrote up some fake report, something. Had me declared dead. That's who gave me this."

He picked up a stack of worn letters, bound with fraying twine, and handed them over the coffee table. Sam took them gently.

"My God…" Isaiah said, voice heavy with emotion. "I loved her so much, Sam!"

"Mr. Bradley, um…" Sam looked up from the photos and letters, head shaking. "W-we gotta do something, we gotta tell someone…"

Isaiah shook his head. "No. Leave me dead. My name is buried. I told that Nick Fury I don't want or need nothin', and I meant it."

"But the world's different now! I know people…"

"Man, that's why you're here? You think the world is different? You think times are different? You think I wouldn't be dead in a day if you brought me out?"

"I don't, honestly!" Sam cried.

"You wanna believe jail was my fault, because you got that white man's shield."

Sam took a deep breath.

"Now, just you hold on a second. Mr. Bradley, you've been through hell, and I respect that, but you're not gonna rag on a man that I happen to consider a brother. I asked you once before, an' I meant it. Please, leave him out of this."

Isaiah nodded sharply.

"Thank you."

"They were afraid of my story getting out." Isaiah said. "So they erased me. But they've been doing that for 500 years, haven't they?"

Sam could feel the old resentments that he had tried to banish on the boat, all those weeks ago, rise up again in his heart.

"They will never let a Black man be Captain America." Isaiah continued. "And even if they did, no self-respecting Black man would want to be."

The words skewered Sam, piercing a gaping hole through his heart. He closed his eyes, feeling faintly dizzy.

"Thank you." he said finally. "Thank you for your time."

Sam left very shortly after that, his very soul burned and aching. As he stepped off the front porch, the Shield in his hands seemed to triple in weight. He fumbled for his cell phone and hit a familiar number.

"Sarah? I'm comin' home."

"Sam, you can't just leave! What about the job? The Flag Smashers?"

Sam threw another pair of boxers into his suitcase. "Torres is keeping me abreast of anything, and if they so much as breathe, Sharon will also know about it. They're laying low for a while. And I need to clear my head."

Bucky sighed. "Sam…"

"Don't 'Sam' me."

"What happened to Isaiah was awful, but..."

"What happened to Isaiah was just another thing in a long, historical line of other horrible things, alright? And it has really, really made me question if Steve knew what the hell he was doing, giving me that Shield."

Bucky stopped, blinking.

"So excuse me for going home to help my sister, so she doesn't have to sell the legacy our parents gave us."

He turned away to grab toiletries from the bathroom. Bucky watched in silence.

"Steve gave you that shield because he trusted you." he said finally. "That shield, that is... that is everything he stood for. That is his legacy. So maybe he was wrong about you. And if he was wrong about you...then was he wrong about me?"

Now it was Sam's turn to blink.

"All those years ago, when I was a sopping, shivering mess, with a brain fried six ways to Sunday, was he wrong about me?"

"No, of course not." Sam said. His voice was patient, but there was a tinge of anger to it. "But making a judgment about your best friend since childhood being redeemable is not the same as grappling with the ramifications of asking a Black man to represent a country that won't represent him! Thirty years, Buck! That means he was still locked up in the damn eighties! It took that long for someone with a spine to come along! And it was a nurse! It wasn't even someone in power!"

"Sam…" Bucky's eyes were wide as his brain scrambled for something, anything to say.

Sam took a deep breath. "I'm angry. And I know I sound irrational. I know I'm probably being irrational. I don't hate you, not really. But you're here, and conveniently white, which makes it easier to vent my feelings on you. You don't deserve it, man. Neither does Steve. So that's the other reason I'm going, before I say something I regret to two people I still deeply care about."

He zipped his suitcase shut with an air of finality.

"...tell the boys Jamie says hi."

Sam's mouth imitated a smile. "I will."

"So...what the hell do we do now?"

The question fell like a boulder into a lake, leaving everyone still with the shockwaves.

They were sitting on the porch of the Mansion, the white clapboard farmhouse across the hill from Clint's property. Bucky had posed the question, but no one seemed to have much of an answer.

"He didn't seem like he wanted to be followed." Steve said glumly. "And we're agreed that we're not telling Christy the real reason Sam's in Louisiana?"

"Not until Sam's cooled down enough to tell her himself." Sharon agreed.

Wanda twisted red sparks through her fingers. "...I am probably the least qualified to offer advice…" she said shyly.

"Say anything you like." Steve encouraged. "It might be better to have an outsider perspective."

"...I speak as someone who also once had an irrational but justified hatred: it is hard. Especially when you know that those you hate had nothing to do with your suffering. Sam knows that you do not want to hurt him. He knows you cannot help being what you are. But he is angry, and anger always looks to blame."

"He was self-aware enough to leave before he blew up." Sharon mused. "The question is, how long before he cools down."

Steve sighed. "Sam usually doesn't stay hot for long, but I've also never seen him...like this."

"What if you go to help?" Wanda said quietly. "With the boat. The way he talks, it is very important to him, yes?"

Bucky nodded. "It's the biggest thing he has left from his parents, but according to Sarah, it's a money sink. All breaking down at once, too fast to fix."

"...then go." Sharon echoed. "Offer yourselves to help. Be humble. And don't say a word about all this. See what that does. If it offers you the chance to speak, great. If it doesn't...then at least you've shown that you're nothing like the bastards that kept Isaiah Bradley locked up for thirty years."

Steve looked at Bucky. "Just us?" he asked.

Wanda nodded. "We would be in the way. Besides, this is about the three of you."

"And if you think I can't handle Jamie alone for a week or two, you have severely underestimated my capabilities." Sharon added.

Steve laughed, and Bucky cracked a small grin.

"You ladies are the best." he whispered.

Steve nodded eagerly. "...best of wives and best of women."

Sharon groaned and swatted at him. Wanda muttered, "Not wife yet."

Bucky breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the tension in his heart lift for the first time in days.

Sam stood, mouth agape, gazing at the new motor.

"Carlos, Tommy, this is amazing, man! Thank you, thank you so much! But, uh...how are we gonna get it off the truck?"

Suddenly, the motor lifted three feet in the air as two sets of super-soldier arms lifted it onto the boat.

"We, ah, heard there was a boat getting restored?" Steve offered sheepishly.

"We both worked at the docks in our youth, so boats are not beyond us." Bucky added, voice lofty and joking. "Even if Stevie only lasted about a day on the job before choking on his own mucus."

Steve elbowed Bucky, before turning soulful blue eyes on Sam.

Sam took a deep breath.

"Yeah...I guess we can use some help."

The next several days, the three men spent nearly every waking second on the boat. Bucky clearly knew his way around a sea vessel, and what Steve lacked in experience, he made up for in excitement.

"I've never seen a grown man so excited about hauling things." Sarah teased one morning.

Steve blushed. "It's just...I haven't done a lot of pure manual labor, since I've had the serum. It's kind of fun!"

"Mm. So you wanna paint my kitchen next?"

"I mean, if you need it…"

Sarah laughed. "I'll be happy if you can fix the boat."

They worked themselves to the bone. One afternoon, Bucky was dozing on the couch, when he heard the familiar scuffling of AJ and Cass.

He lazily opened one eye, just in time to catch them both pretending to toss the Shield.

Sam had brought it along, for reasons that none of them knew, not even Sam himself. But the boys were certainly enjoying it.

"Put it back, put it back!" AJ hissed frantically, as Bucky gave an experimental stretch, eyes closed.

The boys dashed away, down the hall. Bucky looked at the gleaming metal and gave a half smile.

They don't care. All they see is a cool weapon. They see something to fight for justice with. And hopefully, that opinion never has a reason to change.

It won't, as long as it stays in the right hands.

It was Steve and Bucky's last day in Louisiana. The boat was on its way to full repair, and Sam was staying on to finish.

Each man was taking a turn tossing and catching the Shield, as it bounced off the trees. Each tree was covered in thick, gym-mat padding.

Sam slung it out. "It feels...weird. Picking it up again."

Steve cleared his throat. "I said once that it shouldn't feel like it was someone else's."

"...and I know you meant that."

"I did. I wanted you to have it. To take on the legacy. But Sam...I was naïve to think that you wouldn't have anything to wrestle with, beyond the ordinary sort of wrestling."

Sam looked away. "You had good intentions."

Steve gave a self-deprecating smile. "Not enough. I should have thought longer. Should have discussed it better. I assumed you'd see the Shield the same way I did."

Sam glanced at the round, curved disk. "The legacy of this Shield is...complicated."

"Neither of us fully understood the implications of asking a Black man to pick up the Shield." Bucky said quietly. "We both owe you an apology, Sam. I'm sorry for not understanding, the other day."

"And I'm sorry for forcing this on you, in a way." Steve added. "I'm sorry for not considering all the angles. Sorry for causing you so much grief."

Sam let out a long, slow breath.

"...thank you, both. That means a lot."

Bucky rested his hand on a smooth, metal box that he had brought out to the backyard. "I called in a favor from Wakanda."

Sam opened the box, to discover a shiny, updated Captain America uniform winking up at him.

"...it's gorgeous. Thank you...thank them."

"I will."

Steve cleared his throat. "The Flag Smashers aren't done for good. And they're only the beginning. This world isn't going to get any less dangerous just because we all came back from the dead. It needs new heroes. People who understand the times, and can navigate what to do. Sam, I understand if you don't want it, but I still say there is no one better to have this Shield than you. You, I trust, because you've proven yourself worthy of this legacy. I trust you not to run around with it flippantly, or use it to justify hate. That is why I chose you, and that is why I still choose you."

Bucky nodded. "That Shield means a lot of things to a lot of people, including me. The world is upside down, we need a new Cap, and it sure as hell ain't gonna be Walker, so if you don't want it, give it to me for safekeeping."

Sam curled one hand around the Shield.

"...can I keep it and get back to you?" he said, looking straight at Steve.

"Always." Steve replied.

"I'll let you know soon. Before the Flag Smashers blow up another bank."

The next day, Steve and Bucky returned to New York. Sam sat on the boat with Sarah; painting the worn wood of the hull.

"I'm glad you decided not to sell." he said, breaking the silence.

"How could I, when I saw how the whole community rallied around? When I took a step back and thought about it?" Sarah shook her head. "You were right. It's our history."

"Sarah...I'm sorry for not being around. I guess I was spending so much time trying to be...well, a hero, that I missed the fight here. I know you probably thought I was running away."

Sarah set down the brush. "Sam. Listen to me. At no point did I ever think you were running away. There's the fight out there, and there's our fight here. And you, bro...you've taken them both on."

Sam gave a quiet smile.

"So don't you dare let Isaiah Bradley tell you what you can and cannot do. And don't you dare let him tell you what makes a self-respecting Black man. Because I cannot think of a better example for my sons than you."

Sam could feel himself flush as he replied, "Isaiah's been to hell and back. If I were in his position, I'd probably feel like him."

He paused, contemplating the boat before him.

"But what would be the point of all the pain and sacrifice if I wasn't willing to stand up and keep fighting?"

That night, sweaty and tired from a full afternoon and evening of training, Sam sent Steve one photo.

It was of AJ and Cass, each gripping the Shield and grinning ear to ear.

The accompanying text said, simply:

I'm in.

I had to mute the episode while transcribing Sam and Isaiah's conversation, because I was about to start bawling at 11 pm. The raw emotion was palpable from both actors-it was well-acted, even if it hurt to watch.

One of the reasons I like 'adapting' FaWS for the ChristyVerse is that Steve is still around and can actually speak for himself.

Next time: "The Land That Never Yet Has Been," aka The Big Dang Finale where we get lots of battle and fight scenes (joy) and Sam gets to monologue for .5 seconds to the world as the official, new undisputed CAPTAIN AMERICA.

Reviews are getting to play with the Shield.