The Fell Clutch of Circumstance

by WintersSunrise

Post-Endgame canon-divergence. After Endgame, the government secretly arrests Bucky Barnes and sends him to the Raft. Steve realizes that Bucky has vanished and stays to search for him. When he discovers that Bucky is once again a prisoner, he crafts a dangerous rescue plan. Excerpt: Bucky stared at the gray ceiling of his tiny cell for a small eternity, his shoulder blades pressi

Author's Note: If you'd prefer to read this story in chapters, it's on AO3 under the same title and open to guest readers without an account.

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He was a curse. A fraud. Everything he touched turned to shit.

Staring into Bucky's somber eyes and telling him it was going to be okay was one of the hardest things Steve had ever done. He'd made a promise, but Tony was right. He was a liar.

He'd refused to trade Vision's life for the stone, and Vision died, anyway. Thanos got the stone. They failed. He failed. Half the universe paid the price for his decision.

He roped Tony into the time travel plan, and Tony went along. "Maybe no one dies," Tony had said, and he had the most to lose. He'd gotten lucky during the Blip. He had everything—the love of his life and a beautiful daughter.

Tony paid the ultimate price—laid down on the wire for the entire universe. Morgan would grow up without her father. All because of him.

And then there was Natasha.

Oh, Natasha, forgive me. He'd been wrapped up in his grief during those five years, and Natasha had picked up the slack. Her contributions over the years were frequently overlooked, just like Peggy's had been. She fought as an Avenger without a shield, without armor, without superstrength or magical powers. She'd been so much better than him, in many ways, and now, because of him, she was dead, too.

Steve stepped on the platform. He couldn't look at Bucky. He couldn't see those eyes again.

I'm sorry, Buck. I failed you, too. It's all my fault—everything that happened to you.

The mission to capture Zola, the firefight on the train, letting the Hydra soldier get the drop on them—all of it was on him. And when Bucky needed him the most, Steve failed him, too.

I couldn't even grab you, and then I left you for dead.

Everyone would be better off without him, Bucky especially. The only thing Steve had given Bucky was pain. Even growing up, it was always Bucky putting himself in harm's way to fight off bullies, missing work to take care of him when he was sick, and covering rent money.

He could start over in the past with Peggy—simpler times. No alien invasions. No avengers. He already knew what history had in store, and maybe then he could do some good.

Maybe creating one alternative timeline wouldn't be so bad.

-000-

Three days later….

Bucky Barnes was once again a prisoner, this time in the Raft. No one even knew he was gone. No one was left to care. The one person who might have come looking for him was gone.

Steve.

He and Steve talked for an hour or so after Steve gave the shield to Sam, and that was that. He didn't know where Steve went after their conversation but assumed it was to spend the remaining time he had with whatever family he had made for himself. Steve probably had children. It was only right that he spend his last days with his family.

There were no Avengers who'd take an interest in his whereabouts. Sam was the closest thing he had to a friend, and as far as friendships went, it barely qualified as one. Sam only gave him the time of day because of Steve, and Bucky figured that was more than generous considering how many times Bucky had come close to killing him.

Whatever plans his captors had, they didn't tell him. They did, however, question him—about everything. His missions, Steve's whereabouts, and what he knew about how billions of people suddenly rematerialized. He gave them nothing, which just pissed them off.

They were with the US government, which was far lighter on Hydra than it used to be, so maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn't end up back in the hands of Hydra. Nevertheless, he knew what likely lay in store for him.

They'd use him as a lab rat. They had no intention of letting him see the light of day again, not unless they needed him for something. Maybe they'd want him to be their indentured super soldier. Not that anyone really needed a super soldier these days. With aliens and Hulks, one World War II era super soldier was practically obsolete.

They'd given him no chance to escape...yet. When they'd arrested him, flashing government IDs, he had a split second to decide whether to fight and run or surrender. Instinct kicked in. He almost ran, but he'd had enough of fighting and running, enough of killing. He didn't want a repeat of Bucharest, with all its collateral damage. So, he let them take him.

He was starting to regret that spur-of-the-moment decision. He'd rather die than spend his life a prisoner, lab rat, or puppet.

He'd had hopes of escape before, when the Germans captured him…and then the Russians back during the war. He hadn't managed it then, not for any significant period of time. Not until Steve literally blew their operation to shreds. Maybe he'd manage it this time, but he'd wait and see what they had planned for him, just in case they were working through mounds of red tape and politics. Maybe they'd get him a lawyer.

Who was he kidding? There'd been no lawyer last time, in Berlin. He had to be realistic. The only people who ever got out of the Raft were the Avengers Steve busted out. He might die a prisoner. He only hoped this time it would be sooner rather than later, and they wouldn't make him hurt anybody.

Neither he nor Steve belonged in this time, but at least one of them made it home.

Bucky stared at the gray ceiling of his tiny cell for a small eternity, his shoulder blades pressing into the hard floor, until the silence made his eyelids heavy and dampened his thoughts. I hope it was everything you wanted it to be, Steve, he thought before he fell into a fitful sleep, filled with his most recent recurring nightmare. He was on his back fighting for his life, armed with only a knife. A hulking alien beast with four arms and razor sharp teeth had him pinned, and a raccoon cackled about stealing the arm from his corpse.

-000-

"... And there's been no sign of James Buchanan Barnes, the man known as the Winter Soldier."

Steve turned off the television and picked up his phone. He'd debated returning home to spend his last days with his family, but then Bucky disappeared. At first, he thought Bucky's vanishing act was his way of processing everything that happened, but that didn't sit right with him, so he tuned into the news, just in case anything came up about Bucky.

It was 24 hours a day of nonstop chaos on the screen after half the population returned. Amidst all those reports, including memorials for Tony and questions about "Captain America's" whereabouts, that was the only mention of Bucky. At least he hadn't turned up dead. That was something.

Maybe Bucky resented Steve for going back. If their positions were reversed, Steve might feel the same way. He wouldn't be proud of it, but they were both only human, after all.

Steve knew firsthand how hard it was to adjust to a new world, especially alone. That was why he'd greased the wheels for a pardon and asked Sam to be there for Bucky. It seemed, however, that Bucky wanted nothing to do with either of them.

A few phone calls later, he confirmed that neither Sam nor the Wakandans had seen Bucky in over a week. An unease grew in his gut. He didn't think this was like the last time Bucky had disappeared, but he couldn't be sure. He had so little time with Bucky between Bucharest and Thanos. The man he'd known back in 1945 would have wanted a shot at a real-life, but so many things had been done to Bucky since then. Maybe he just wanted to disappear. Steve could understand that.

Still, that feeling wouldn't go away. It took him a few more phone calls, but it was hard to get to the bottom of things while still staying under the radar. He couldn't let his time travel decision become public knowledge. He trusted Sam, though, and the Wakandans.

Another phone call and two hours later, the feeling in his gut was a raging inferno. Every one of his internal alarm bells were blaring. Someone had taken Bucky. The Wakandans intercepted intelligence communications within the US government. There was no smoking gun, but there was enough to convince Steve that an agency within the United States had captured Bucky. He could only hope they meant to detain him, but he was no longer the naïve soldier he used to be. If Bucky was still alive, Steve couldn't leave him.

He re-dialed another number. "Hey, Sam, I need your help."

-000

The lab rat part of Bucky's stay came almost immediately. He sat on the exam table and took slow breaths, schooling his features into a blank slate, pushing the itchy unease under his skin deep into his gut. He could play nice, for a while—give himself time to see what they had planned for him before he did something that he couldn't undo.

He let them slide a needle into his vein, draw blood, punch out tissue samples from his arm with their tools, and peed in the cup they handed him. But when they handed him another cup and told him to provide a semen sample, he refused.

He didn't know what they wanted it for, but it couldn't be good. Hydra had taken semen from him, and he never found out what they used it for. Did he have biological children? He tried not to think about that, but sometimes he dreamed of a blue-eyed assassin sneaking into his apartment in the middle of the night to dispatch Hydra's old asset and scrap him for parts.

No. He wouldn't give anyone else a chance to create a super soldier breeding program. He didn't know if the serum affected his swimmers. Maybe they did, or maybe they wanted to find out, but he couldn't stomach the idea of having a child conceived as a lab experiment, used as government property.

Ross stood in front of him, arms crossed. "Don't make us do this the hard way, Barnes."

Bucky looked around the room. There were four armed guards, three scientists, and Ross. He'd had worse odds, even with an electric collar on and his wrists shackled in front of him with vibranium cuffs, presumably so he could make use of the cup.

Where the hell had they gotten the vibranium? The Sokovia disaster, maybe?

"I said no."

Ross nodded at one of the armed guards, who reached into his pocket. The collar beeped, and a second later, the jolt was enough to steal Bucky's breath. He didn't give them the satisfaction of a reaction. That had been a warning shock.

"Do your best," Bucky eyed the guard who had activated the collar. "The answer's still no."

"Then we'll take it from you," Ross said.

"Why don't we give him a little time to adjust?" one of the scientists said.

Bucky looked at the man. He wasn't familiar – gray hair, a round face, and glasses. He looked like so many other scientists who had made Bucky part of their science experiments over the decades, but by the way the man quickly averted his gaze, it was obvious he wasn't completely on board with the situation.

"No, doctor." Ross turned to the guard. "We can't let the prisoners think compliance is an option." He nodded again at the guard.

The collar beeped again, and the jolt was enough to send him forward, toppling off the table. When it stopped, he was panting, the skin beneath the prongs hot and angry.

"Fuck off, Ross. No!" He got his legs under him and stood.

Two guards brought out electric batons, and the collar beeped again.

-000-

Steve had driven by the sanctum a couple of times when he was a young man, during his Avenger years, but he'd never seen the inside. He was about to knock on the door when it opened, seemingly of its own accord. He looked at Sam and took a step inside.

Sam had the good grace to let him go first. It was good to see him after almost 75 years. Those decades had passed faster than he could have imagined. Steve wasn't as fast or strong as he used to be, but he got around pretty damn good for his age. He had the serum to thank for that

Wong came downstairs, pausing halfway down, eyes dancing between them as he raised his eyebrows. "Don't tell me there's another alien invasion."

"No, but I need your help." Steve moved to the bottom of the stairs and rested one hand on the banister to steady himself. "Bucky has disappeared. We suspect someone has taken him. There's no one left to could help him. The Wakandans have their hands full putting the nation back together after the Blip. It's just me and Sam."

Dr. Strange appeared on the landing behind Wong, giving Steve a curious once over. "Wilson." He nodded, eyes going to Steve. "And you are?"

He straightened and squared his shoulders. "Steve Rogers."

Dr. Strange raised an eyebrow. "You're looking a bit long in the tooth, Captain."

"It's a complicated story. Can you help me...or, rather, Bucky?"

Wong studied him impassively, arms behind his back. "What kind of help do you need?"

"I hate to ask, but he's my friend, and I need to make sure he's okay. Can you open a portal to find him?"

Wong and Strange looked at one another for a moment.

"What if-?" Wong began.

"-Then we close it."

"We don't know who we'll find on the other side. I don't want that kind of trouble... Not right now. We've got enough on our hands." Wong leaned closer to Strange and lowered his voice. "The basement isn't even properly permitted."

Dr. Strange tilted his head. "We can always do a forget spell."

Wong breathed a heavy sigh and raised his fingers. "James Buchanan Barnes." He moved them in a circular motion in the air, and a golden ring appeared.

On the other side of the portal, Bucky was hunched near an exam table with a cluster of guards around him, some with batons in their hands, others with guns. Bucky looked up, eyes wide. His face was battered, and his arms were shackled in front of him. He wore a blinking metal collar around his neck — a goddamned collar, like an animal.

Steve took a step closer to the portal, but Sam's hand on his arm stopped him from going further. Seeing this version of his friend, wounded and shackled once again, felt like a kick to the chest. The doctors and armed guards startled and turned to look at the portal. Half the guns turned to face Wong, and the other half remained poised on Bucky.

"S-Sam?" Bucky muttered, eyes fixed on Steve.

A splinter of guilt skewered Steve's chest. Even after everything, with his own life on the line, Bucky was still protecting Steve. Whoever the men were holding Bucky, they didn't recognize Steve. They weren't expecting him to be an old man.

Bucky sprang into action, sending the closest guard sailing through the air with a shove of his shoulder. The collar around Bucky's neck beeped, and guards descended on Bucky with sizzling batons that hurled a scream from him and dropped him to his knees.

"Bucky!" Steve went to launch himself through, but a hand restrained him.

"Stand down!" a guard shouted.

One of the guards fired two shots into the portal. Steve and Sam dove. Instantly the portal vanished, cutting off Bucky's scream

"You okay, Cap?" Sam asked, already back on his feet. He extended a hand.

Steve batted the hand away and made it to his feet on his own, although not as gracefully as he used to. "Why the hell did you stop me?"

Sam raised his hands placating only. "What exactly do you think was going to happen if you made it through that portal? You can't take on an entire facility of armed men in your current condition."

Steve gritted his teeth. He might be old, but he wasn't dead yet.

"Mr. Wilson is right." Dr. Strange floated down the staircase. "If you'd made it through that portal, you'd be a prisoner, too."

"The room was garden variety evil lab, but those uniforms…." Sam looked at the empty space where the portal had been. "That was the Raft. If we're going to help him, we have to be smart about it."

"You're right." Steve's anger at Sam deflated. He didn't like it, and he hated himself for not being able to charge in and get Bucky out of there. "We do need to be smart about this." An idea was beginning to percolate. It was crazy. Reckless. Dangerous. "Do you know where Scott Lang is?"

The narrow gaze that Sam sent his way told Steve that Sam had a pretty good idea where his mind was heading. "Yeaaah... You're gonna do something stupid, aren't you?"

"Probably, but stupid has worked out for me before. We're also going to need Bruce."

CHAPTER 2

"I don't like this." Bruce hovered by the control panel, deep lines on his forehead. "We had no way of controlling it last time, and we'll have no way to control it this time."

They were on Bruce's island, in his laboratory. Scott swallowed the last of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and trotted up to Bruce, peering up at his green face. "You were able to control it enough to get me back into the right version of my body." He slapped Bruce on the arm. "We can figure this out… for Cap."

Steve gave Bruce a reassuring smile — or at least what he hoped was a reassuring one — and glanced at Sam for moral support. It was only the four of them on the island. No one else knew what they planned. It might not work. It might kill him, but he had to take the chance.

"I have faith in you, Bruce." He shrugged and took a breath. "Besides, if it kills me, I've already lived a long and wonderful life. All I ask is that you do whatever is within your power to help Bucky. He deserves a chance at a real life."

Bruce grumbled something under his breath and shifted on his massive feet. After a moment, he sighed and pushed his glasses up. "Give me a few more hours to make some adjustments and run tests."

"Thank you." Steve nodded curtly. "I'll leave you to it, then. If you don't mind, I'll take a walk on the beach. This is a beautiful island."

One edge of Bruce's mouth curved upward. "This was Tony's doing. He always said he might fly in and take it back from me one day."

Steve bowed his head with condolence. His grief over Tony Stark had faded. For him it was decades, and he'd spent much of that time watching another version of Tony Stark grow up, but seeing that grief fresh in Bruce's eyes brought it all back. He and Howard had become close friends after he went back, and he never had the heart to tell him what happened to his son in this timeline.

He made his way out of the lab and to the shore. The island was miles of isolation. The air was heavy, and even the breeze was too warm to be pleasant. His slip-on shoes were full of sand, so he kicked them off, feeling the familiar twinge in his right knee, and walked to the waterline. Waves rolled over his feet, only slightly cooler than his body temperature.

Bucky always loved the beach. He'd be in heaven in this place. As kids, Coney Island and Rockaway Beach had been their favorite getaways, even though getting there wasn't always easy—especially during the Depression— but they were full of crowds and things to do.

This place was different. It was quiet. Calming.

The sun was still waking up the island. Steve closed his eyes, curling his toes into the sand. God, how he wished Bucky were here to enjoy this. Instead, he was a prisoner...again. It wasn't right, and it sure as hell wasn't fair. Bucky deserved a shot at a happy life, like the one Steve got.

I'm coming for you, Buck. Hang on. I'm coming.

Steve sank to his butt in the sand, holding back a groan from the protest of his knee and back. He let the froth swarm around him. He hoped Bruce figured out a way to make the process work. It was dangerous, but he didn't have much time left, anyway. Not even the serum could stop time.

He lost himself to the glistening ocean as he went over the various options. He didn't realize anyone was behind him until Sam's voice pulled him back to reality.

"Bruce is ready."

It took him a few seconds to get to his feet, and he batted away Sam's outstretched hand. When he was finally upright he looked at his friend and nodded. "Good."

Sam's eyes were as bleak as his frown. "This is crazy, you know."

"Yeah." He smiled. "I missed you, Sam. It's good to see you."

"You ever gonna tell me about that life you led?"

"Maybe...but not now. We've got another problem to solve." He brushed the sand off his pants and headed toward the building.

Sam took up the rear, keeping a deferential pace. He was a good man, but Steve never liked to be treated like an invalid. Bucky knew that. Sam hadn't figured it out yet.

Looking over his shoulder at his young friend, Steve smiled. "Race ya." He took off without waiting for an answer.

He couldn't run like he used to, and his knee sure as hell didn't appreciate the exertion. He barely managed a trot, and running in sand didn't make things any easier.

"On your left." Sam came up behind, passing him with a shit-eating grin, then spun to face him and threw a victory punch in the air. "Finally!"

If this was his last day on Earth, he might as well go all in. With a smile of his own, he pushed himself, gaining enough speed to pass Sam. The look of surprise on the new Captain America's face was worth the toll this would take on his body.

If Bruce managed to figure things out, the strain on his body wouldn't matter.

They made it inside. Sam won, only slightly out of breath, while Steve was huffing, bent over with his hands on his knees, feeling every one of his 113 years. The deep lines in Bruce's green forehead revealed his concern.

Scott walked up to him, fidgeting on his feet. "You okay, Cap?"

"I'm not done for yet." Steve straightened. "Tell me you're ready."

Bruce sighed and pushed up his glasses. "I don't like this, but it's as ready as it can be given our time constraints."

Scott took a breath. "Let's just hope you don't become a baby."

Twenty minutes later, Steve was suited up and standing in front of the device Scott had brought. Hank Pym didn't know about this. If it worked, Steve would have to send the man an apology gift.

If it didn't work, well, hopefully Scott would convey Steve's thanks and regrets. He took a breath and lifted his chin. "Okay, hit me."

Bruce stood at the control panel, his lips in a tight line. He looked at Steve for several long seconds, then sighed and counted down. "Three-two-one."

The room spun, and Steve's stomach flipped as reality blinked and morphed into something dark and cold. He swayed, almost losing his balance, but a moment later, everything steadied. The world was whole again.

He felt different. The ache in his right knee was gone. His back felt brand new. It had worked. It had to. He removed the helmet and looked around for a mirror, but there wasn't one. Instead, he raised a hand—pausing it in mid-air to study the smooth skin.

Finally, he felt his face. "How do I look?"

Sam was in front of him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He clamped it shut, smiled, and shook his head. "About 30 years old."

Thank God. He looked at his hands again, awed by the plump skin and defined muscles beneath. It had really worked! He removed the suit.

Sam walked up to him, the shield held in his outstretched arm. "You're going to need this."

Steve's eyes caressed the shield. It was no longer his. "It belongs to you, now."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for this." Sam glanced down at the shield, his eyes going distant. "The legacy of the shield is complicated, but one thing I know is that it belongs to you more than it does to me. Besides," he looked back up and smiled, "you gave this to me because you retired, and now that you're out of retirement, I'm giving it back to you."

Steve studied the shield a moment longer, then nodded and took it from Sam. "Thank you." He'd already lived a complete life, but now he was circling back and starting another one.

He would take the decades of experience and knowledge he'd accumulated and make sure Bucky got at least one life to live.

-000-

Bucky hurt all over. Since Wong's incursion, they kept him in his cell, his vibranium arm shackled to the wall, with two guards on the other side of the force field.

They tried twice to get him to drink a milky white sludge that looked and smelled like the shit Hydra had forced on him for decades. The Raft scientists claimed it was a meal replacement, but even if he hadn't smelled the extra surprise in it, he'd still refuse. Just looking at it turned his stomach.

Few drugs would work on him, but Ross had access to the Bunker after the fiasco with Tony. That meant he had Hydra's files, including the chemical formulas they'd experimented with on him.

Bucky had enough room to sit on the floor and use the nearby toilet, but no more. The batons and collar had left him with a pounding headache, ringing ears, and a lingering pain in his groin, and fire along his ribcage. He'd had more cracked ribs than he could count in his time. He knew the feeling well.

At least they hadn't gotten the "sample."

They'd be back, sporting their batons, sample cups, and needles. It was only a matter of time. Until then, he was content to lay on his back and close his eyes. There was no way of finding a comfortable position, but he'd had far worse accommodations over the years.

He knew those batons. Hydra used them, but these guys weren't Hydra—at least, not as far as he could tell. Ross probably wasn't. Hydra wasn't what it used to be, anyway, not since Project Insight went down in flames and Natasha had dumped all their secrets onto the Internet.

Natasha.

She was one of the good ones who paid the ultimate price. There were far too few Avengers left, far too few people still around willing to risk their lives to stand against corruption.

Steve was one of the few remaining, but he was retired. Seeing him through the portal had been a shock. Why had he stuck around?

What had he been up to over those decades in the past? Had he created a new timeline? Steve had been surprisingly tight-lipped about that, which hurt a bit. Being left behind had hurt more, but he couldn't go back.

God, how he wanted to. Home was where the heart was, and his heart was back in 1945. His heart was his family, including Steve. His heart was his mother's warm hugs and his father's jokes, his sister's pranks, and Becca's penchant for mischief.

All he had to do was suit up and step on that platform, and he could've seen the people he loved. He could've spent his life in the past, just like Steve had done.

But he wasn't Steve. Steve went back to a time when his other version was frozen in ice. Bucky would've headed back to a time when his counterpart was being tortured, brainwashed, and made to kill innocent people.

He couldn't know that was happening and do nothing about it, and then there'd be two of him. Which one would get his life?

When Steve had told him what he planned, every kindling of hope he'd had since they defeated Thanos evaporated, and he was left with a dark, aching hole in his chest. He wanted to ask Steve to stay. Inside, he was screaming those words, but none of them made it to his lips.

He couldn't give them a voice, and he couldn't let on to the others that he knew, because if they got wind of it, they'd try to stop Steve. Part of him hoped they'd find out, or that Bruce would be able to get Steve back regardless. But Bucky wouldn't be the one to stand in the way of Steve's happiness.

He wouldn't do that to Steve. So he did what he knew was the right thing for Steve, even though it left him alone, empty, and completely lost in a world he barely knew.

And now he was in the Raft. They'd grabbed him shortly after Sam took the shield and before he could even think about returning to Wakanda. T'Challa made it clear he was welcome to stay for as long as he needed, but he couldn't take advantage of their generosity forever.

The arrest wasn't a surprise. He didn't expect to be able to walk away, not after everything he'd done. At least the code words were out of his head, and no one would be able to force him to kill again.

He hoped. He'd find a way to die before he let himself become someone else's puppet again.

Shortly after they arrested him, they interrogated him about everything – his missions, Steve's whereabouts, whether there were other supersoldiers they didn't know about, and how his vibranium arm worked. When they didn't believe his answers, they kept asking. Over and over again. They didn't let him sleep or eat, but the treatment was still better than what he'd gotten under Hydra's thumb.

At least they didn't strap him into a chair and send electricity into his brain. As for the medical "procedures," he'd had worse. Far worse.

He wasn't human to them. He was a lab rat. No one knew where he was. No one cared.

Then a portal opened, and he saw Wong, Steve, and Sam. He caught Steve's name on his tongue. They couldn't know it was him. No one except him, Sam, and Bruce knew that Steve had lived a life in the past and was now an old man.

It was little comfort. Steve wouldn't be busting down any doors at his age. The serum had kept him healthy, but time was the ultimate thief. At least he'd gotten to live the life he wanted, the one he deserved. At least one of them had.

Thinking of all the things Steve got to enjoy — birthdays, holidays, children, summer vacations — pushed a smile past Bucky's aches and pains. Despite everything, despite knowing he might never make it out of the Raft alive, it was comforting to know that Steve had made it home.

Finally.

Bucky couldn't go home, but he could live vicariously through Steve in his mind, imagining the milestones of Steve's life in the 50s, 60s, and beyond. Now that his mind was his own again, no one could take that away from him.

He wouldn't let them.

A buzzer sounded, and through the glass partition of his cell, he saw the metal door to the holding area slide open. Ross entered, ignoring the guards as he walked up to the impenetrable force field, his hands behind his back and a smug smile on his face.

"You still doing your hunger strike?" Ross asked. We found the formula in Hydra's files. It's apparently designed to provide optimum nutrition for supersoldiers."

Bucky didn't bother opening his eyes. "If you want to drug me, why not stick a needle in my vein? The lab geeks feeling nervous about getting too close to me?"

Ross shrugged. "That's an option if you become a problem. Keep refusing, and we'll have no choice but to force-feed you, for humanitarian reasons, of course. We can't let you starve to death." His tone was sickly sweet. "Besides, this is better than what they fed you as the Winter Soldier? No rats. Not that I know of, anyway."

Bucky opened his eyes to glare at the man.

Ross seemed unfazed. "There won't be any jail break like last time. We're dealing with the incursion. Sam Wilson is still a wanted fugitive, and we've sent agents to arrest him."

Goddamnit, not Sam. The guy had paid enough of a price for helping him. Bucky sat up, awakening a kaleidoscope of pains in his ribs and chest. He took a breath, gritted his teeth, grabbed the chain, and tugged on it to help get himself to his feet.

"We'll handle the sorcerers later," Ross continued. "The old man, though. Who is he?"

Bucky schooled his features into a blank slate. He'd had decades of practice, and it came second nature to him. "Hell if I know. One of the sorcerers? You tell me."

Ross's eyes narrowed. "We're not Hydra. We're the good guys."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"You know, despite the repulsiveness of their methods, there's no denying that Hydra developed ways to extract information and control human subjects. No one else has been able to replicate their success."

"You mean, no one else has been willing to commit those kinds of atrocities? At least, not officially, right?" He tilted his head. "If you think you can control me like they did, forget it. Those days are over. It took them years, and Shuri gave me a few tricks of my own. Give it your best shot."

Ross straightened. "We've gotten most of what we need from you, and we'll get the rest soon." He sighed and began a slow pace. "Some people want to put you in cryogenic storage. Others want to keep you here, alive and conscious, and learn what we can from you, especially the serum running through your veins. Others want you to go on trial, publicly, and let the chips fall where they may."

Bucky listened silently. He knew men like Ross. They liked to toy with people and enjoyed the sound of their own voice.

Ross waited a moment, but as the silence lingered, he took a step forward. "If we put you on trial, what do you think your odds are?"

Finally, Bucky walked to the edge of the chain, standing two feet from Ross, meeting his steady gaze. "In 1941, I joined the army to fight the Nazis. I hugged my mother, sisters, father, and Steve goodbye. They're all gone." At least as far as the government was concerned, Steve had vanished. "I don't care what you do to me. It's already been done. The brainwashing thing and helping you create a supersoldier breeding program…that's where I draw the line, but I don't have to worry about you trying the brainwashing thing. You're the good guys." He raised his chin, eyes boring into Ross. "Right?"

Ross shifted, his gaze darting away, then he turned and headed to the door. He hesitated, looked once over his shoulder at Bucky, and squared his shoulders. "As far as the U.S. Government is concerned, you're an American soldier who committed multiple acts of terrorism and treason."

Ross left. The metal door slid closed, a heavy clink indicating the lock had engaged.

-000-

"We know where they're holding him." Sam took a sip of his beer as Banner played bartender at his beach-front bar. "I recognized those uniforms instantly. Seen them too many damn times in my dreams, and I never thought I'd willingly go back."

"I'm in!" Scott munched happily on a bowl of chips while Steve played over the options in his head as he eyed the peaceful horizon. "We broke in once, and they've no doubt made upgrades to prevent a repeat."

"I hate to say this, Steve, but a rescue mission might not be feasible. They're expecting us, and like you said, they're prepared."

It would be almost impossible.

Almost.

No facility was impenetrable. He looked at Scott. "You do this, you might end up back there permanently."

Scott nodded, his expression going serious and his gaze distant. "Yeah, I know." He took a breath. "Guess that means I better not get caught."

Steve nodded.

Sam finished his drink. "So, Cap, do you have a plan?"

"Yes, I do."

CHAPTER 3

Bucky just finished emptying his bladder in front of the two guards—he'd had a lot less privacy during his Hydra days and, before that, the war—when a golden ring opened in the middle of his cell.

A siren blared over speakers, and the energy field separating him from the guards vanished. On the other side of the portal was Steve with the shield, looking younger than the day he hopped on the platform. Sam stood nearby. They were obviously doing a quick assessment before leaping.

The guards were on him instantly. One held a gun inches from his head, the other turned to face the portal, firing a spray of bullets that bounced off Steve's shield as Sam dove into an evasive roll.

Bucky kicked the guard that was firing and yanked on the chain, but it held. The other guard cocked his gun, standing far enough away that Bucky likely couldn't disable him before he pulled the trigger. "Stand down or I will terminate the prisoner!"

On the other side of the portal, Steve stood, hands raised, glistening eyes locked with Bucky.

Bucky gave the chain another yank, sure he could break it, but it would take a few seconds. It wasn't completely vibranium, probably vibranium-laced.

"One more tug, and I shoot," the guard said.

The portal glitched like an old TV with poor reception, the rim fading in and out, sparking in odd places.

"Bucky, hold on!" Steve yelled! "It's unstable, but we're coming!"

The portal vanished. A second later, half a dozen guards stormed in.

The guard Bucky kicked got shakily to his feet, a sliver of blood running down his temple. He'd hit the wall hard, and by the contorted expression on his face, he was pissed. He withdrew his baton and charged. Bucky grabbed it and snapped it in two.

The collar beeped, and whatever hit him took him out. When he came to, he was on the floor, half-hanging by his vibranium arm. The force field was back, and four guards now stood at attention on the other side. The one who charged him wasn't among them. Bucky figured he was in the infirmary.

It would be fun times when they put that guy back on duty. Bucky knew the type. He had an axe to grind, and Bucky would be on the other end of the blade.

"Hey, Mr. Barnes…or is it Sergeant Barnes?" a tiny voice whispered. "Or Bucky, should I call you Bucky? Are you okay? You were out for a few minutes."

What the hell?

Bucky looked around. He was alone in his cell, and the guards didn't seem to hear the voice—the voice that was suspiciously familiar.

Someone had come through the portal. He suppressed a smile as his tiny friend tugged at his right ear. "It's me. Scott."

Yeah, I figured, Pal. He couldn't answer Lang without raising suspicions.

"You look a little rough. You okay? I know you can't talk. Just tap your finger on the floor, once for yes and twice for no."

Bucky tapped once.

"So, here's the plan. We figured they'd be expecting another portal thing, and we were right. They're doing something to interfere with the stability of the portals, and I'm going to do a little recon, take out all the systems I can, except for life support. Then the cavalry's coming through. Be ready."

It was too dangerous. He wanted to tell Lang to call it off, but he couldn't say a word.

"We have the layout of the place from the last jailbreak, but they've probably changed things around since then, huh?" Lang said. "I'll do some recon. Oh, and hey man, you should wash behind your ears better. Wait? Do they let you shower? I can't believe they have you chained up like this. I could do something about that, but of course that's probably not a good idea. Not yet, anyway."

Bucky took a long breath. Jesus, the guy was as talkative as he remembered.

"Oh, yes, Cap," Lang continued. "He's fine. A little banged up."

Bucky stiffened, eyeing the guards, who seemed oblivious to the intruder. Lang was in touch with Sam? Or Steve? Which Cap? God, he wished he could ask.

"He's quiet as a mouse. Can't talk, of course, not with the guards. Damn, I should have packed more snacks. I'm sure they have a cafeteria or kitchen here. I'll figure something out….Oh….Yes. Of course, Captain Rogers. Right away." Lang tugged again on Bucky's ear. "The Captain wants to make sure you're all right. If they need to speed up the plan, tap on the floor once."

What plan? How could Lang talk so much and say so little?

"Not tapping, Captain. He's good for now. I don't know. He's got some lacerations, and he lost consciousness for a while. They hit him with the collar, like the one they put on Wanda….I know. I know. Aye, aye, Cap."

A buzzer sounded, and a drawer from the wall slid inward. A tall cup of white sludge was on it. Bucky looked at it but made no move to take it.

"Jesus, what is that stuff?" Lang asked. "It looks gross."

That was an understatement.

"Is that what they're feeding you? Oh, man. Even we got better stuff than that when we were here. What's it taste like?"

Something close to sour puke with a hint of cough syrup if it was similar to the stuff Hydra forced on him.

He needed more information from Scott, and the only other way he could think to do that was through discrete tapping. He hid his hand behind his leg and tapped out S-O-S. It was the most basic of Morse Code, but it would tell him whether Lang knew—or at least could recognize—the old code.

"Hey, why are you tapping so much? Is that— oh wait! That's Morse Code, isn't it? Good thinking… Yeah, Cap. No, I don't know Morse Code but I'm feeding it through the A.I."

Lang might not, but Steve did. Bucky tapped out the letter W over and over again until Lang caught on.

"Okay," Lang said, "It's a short–long–long, I think. W. Is that W?"

Bucky tapped once for yes.

He kept it up, letter by letter, going through the painstaking process of typing out 'Whats the plan?'

"Oh, the plan! You want to know the plan? Well, like I said, I'm going to do some recon and take out the power and whatever they're using to affect the portals. Then Wong will open up a decoy portal, draw resources there, and Strange will open up another portal. All you have to do is jump through it. I'll make sure the bolts on your chains are nice and loose."

The moment a portal opened, Ross's men would go through with guns blazing. Someone could get killed. Maybe Sam or one of the sorcerers. Even if they didn't, they'd be putting a lot of people on Ross' hit list.

For him.

Again.

He typed out 'No.'

"No? What do you mean? Captain Rogers says it's the only way. We can't leave you here."

'Knock out power.'

"Yeah, that's the plan."

'I'll do the rest.'

"He said he'll do the rest, Captain…. I don't know…. Bucky, or rather Sergeant Barnes, Cap says that's a suicide mission."

'Wouldn't be the first.' He made it out of the Berlin center after Zemo took out the power. He'd managed to evade an entire special forces squad before that.

Then there were the dozens of Hydra missions where they'd sent him in alone to make his way through the most elite armed security to find and kill targets that Hydra deemed a threat.

"Cap says we're sticking to the plan."

'No. My way.'

"He's adamant. Cap. He says it's his way or nothing….Yeah, I think he is…Okay… Sergeant Barnes, Cap says okay. We'll do it your way, but he doesn't like it."

Bucky closed his eyes, sagging against the wall in relief, and tapped out one final message in a slow, agonizing rhythm. 'If it doesn't work, my choice. End of line.'

-000-

"The way they had him chained, his wounds…" Steve paced Bruce's lab, anger fueling his steps. "This is inhumane!" He turned to Sam and Bruce. "This can't be legal! I joined the army back in 1943 to stand against bullies. I'll stand against the ones in our own government. No one is above the law."

"You would think," Sam huffed.

"Hell, Bucky's an American citizen! He has Constitutional rights."

Sam nodded. "So did we when they put us in the Raft."

"What do you think Barnes has planned?" Bruce asked.

"I wish I knew." Steve took a breath and leaned against the wall. Bucky was in an untenable situation. "All we can do is keep our connection to Scott open and hope they don't detect the signal."

Bruce tapped the console to open up communication. "They won't track your signal, Scott, right?"

"Nope," Scott's voice filtered from the speaker. "The signal is routed through a quantum tunnel that only our receiver is synched to. It being quantum in nature, even if someone figured out there was quantum communication, there are almost infinite quantum pathways. They'd never find the right one."

Steve took reassurance in that. "I'm going to follow Bucky's lead but keep an open channel to Scott. If things go south, I'm heading in. He won't fight alone."

-000-

"Okay, Big Guy, I'll be back."

Lang had uttered those words two hours ago before vanishing through a narrow crevice in the drawer where the food came through.

Bucky had spent those two hours tense, trying not to look it, ignoring the ache in his left shoulder from being twisted upward by the chain. So, when the power went out, he was ready.

The entire isolation area was suddenly dark. He snapped the chain from the cuff. Lang had been good on his word about loosening the bolts.

The force field separating him from the guards would be down, too. His vibranium hand took care of the collar around his neck, and another yank took the chain out of the wall.

The guards went down fast. The chain made an excellent whip. They didn't get off a single shot, probably too afraid of hitting one another. Without windows or artificial lightning, the darkness was impenetrable. Bucky couldn't see any better than they could, but he'd spent two hours calculating his attack.

He debated grabbing one of the fallen guns, but he didn't want to shoot people who were just following orders. He went to the door, reaching out until he found a handhold. He pulled, straining, groaning with the effort, until it budged.

Bucky worked his vibranium fingers into the crevice of the sliding metal door. It creaked. When he'd gotten it open enough, he slid through.

The backup lights flickered on, bathing the spartan area outside the isolation ward in a dim yellow hue. With backup power, whatever they were using to dampen the portals might be operational again, too, and if so, he and Lang had no choice but to get out the hard way.

Three men with guns came through a doorway in the far wall. He flung a tall metal cabinet at them that shielded him from their fire and took all three out at once. He wasn't trying to kill, but he couldn't afford to play easy. Not if he wanted out alive.

With the cabinet pinning the men, he leaped over it. Gunfire had him rolling. He spotted five guards, all firing in his direction, and felt slices of fire along his left leg and right arm. He got to his feet and sprinted away faster than they could pursue.

He needed to get to the choppers, and all he knew about their location was that they would be on the upper level. Hopefully, Lang would figure out how to get the Raft to surface and meet him on time to make their escape. He made it to the staircase and managed three flights before he encountered resistance.

It felt like Bucharest all over again, fighting close quarters in a staircase, only this time he didn't have Steve watching his back. He made it through the guards with another bullet hole, this one in the right shoulder.

He'd had far worse. It would slow him down, but not much. He'd fought through worse—completed missions as the Winter Soldier with worse. He could do this.

He almost couldn't believe his eyes when he spotted the two choppers and no guards in sight. He hesitated in the corner, concealed by shadows thanks to the dim lighting, listening and scanning the area for signs of a trap.

Where was Lang? He was supposed to meet him here, at the choppers.

It had to be a trap. They'd know he was going for the helicopters.

Still, he had to go for it, but if Lang didn't raise the Raft, the chopper would be useless. He had no choice but to have faith in Lang. It was either that or be shot. He sprinted, leaping into the cockpit. When he tried to start the engine, nothing happened.

That explained it. They'd disabled them, no doubt in a way he couldn't easily fix.

"Hey, you're bleeding!" Lang's alarmed voice said in his right ear, and a moment later, he felt a tiny presence on his shoulder.

"It's not serious. We're gonna have company asap." He heard them coming up the stairs. "I haven't felt this thing surface."

"It should be kicking in any second now."

He hoped so, but without getting airborne, they'd be trapped. Sure enough, a second later, dozens of armed guards arrived. He leaped out the other side of the chopper as they opened up fire.

There were huge metal vents along the perimeter. The ocean was on the other side. He didn't know how deep the Raft was below the surface, but he guessed not too far down since it frequently had to surface to accept helicopters.

The gunfire stopped suddenly.

"Barnes, stand down!" Ross yelled.

Bucky risked a glance over his shoulder. Ross stood behind more than a dozen men, all holding rifles aimed at him. Bucky swallowed hard, took a breath, and ran for the nearest vent.

The choppers provided some cover. The guards opened fire again, swarming around the choppers. He was a sitting duck. Another bullet tore through his back. He gritted his teeth and used his vibranium arm to rip through one of the vents. He barely managed to grab the rim when the ocean came pouring through.

"You're flooding the whole compartment!" Ross yelled.

Working against the intense pressure, Bucky clung to the side, flapping like a kite in the wind against the tide. His bullet wounds and broken ribs screamed with the abuse, and he could barely breathe against the onslaught. He ducked his head to avoid being waterboarded by the incoming saltwater.

The tide began to slow. They were rising. He used that to pull himself through the vent and, when he was more than halfway through, his legs did the rest. A solid kick sent him into the dark ocean, with a sea of stars above.

The water turned red around him, and his wounds screamed from the sting of salt. The serum gave him speed in the water, and he used his legs to propel him away from the Raft.

Lang. Where was he? Had he managed to hold on or had he gotten washed away?

He didn't want to leave Lang, even if there was no place for either of them to go. He was in the middle of the ocean and bleeding enough to attract sharks. Hopefully, the chaos caused by the motion of the Raft scared them away.

For now.

There were many ways he didn't want to die, and sharks were high on the list.

His lungs burning, he surfaced, gulping for air. The ocean was rough. Waves and wind slapped his face and whipped hair into his eyes and mouth. He couldn't see much except the inky surface and a few distant blinking lights that had to be the Raft.

"Lang!" There was no answer. Come on…

He dove, disoriented in the inky darkness beneath the surface, until he saw a beam of light that looked to be heading toward him.

Was that Lang? He swam toward it, and a murky cylindrical shape took form.

They had a submarine? Shit! The beam caught him square in the face, and he swam perpendicular to the craft, heading again for the surface and taking another few big gulps.

It wasn't firing on him, so he hoped it was unarmed. Maybe it was their backup transport vehicle if the weather grounded the choppers?

He dove again. The craft was below him, rising slowly. He swam for the tail rudder. His vibranium arm made short work of it. That wouldn't sink the sub, but it would stop it from pursuing him.

He surfaced again, taking another few breaths, and scanned the dark surface. There was still no sign of Lang. If he stayed too close to the Raft, they'd find him. He had to put more distance between himself and the prison.

After that, he had no idea what his next move was. He was in the middle of the ocean, and judging from the comfortably cool water, the Atlantic Ocean. He had no idea how far away land was, but looking at the stars, he could tell he was in the northern hemisphere, maybe not too far from New York.

That would make sense. He looked around, swimming in circles, searching for city lights, but there was nothing but darkness. When the sun came up, he'd have a better sense of direction.

The distinctive sound of a helicopter penetrated the ocean waves. He spun around in the water until he spotted the distant point of light moving slowly across the night sky. He had the advantage. He could see them a lot better than they could see him.

His wounds ached, and he was still bleeding into the water. He could already feel his strength waning. He was growing fatigued. Beneath him was nothing but the ocean and countless marine life he couldn't see. He dipped his head underwater, eyes open against the unforgiving saltwater. He could see nothing but inky water.

Something splashed near his shoulder, and he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He flailed, spinning around, vibranium arm on the offensive, his heart hammering before he realized it was just a fish less than a foot long.

He had barely a moment of relief before his brain went over the various reasons why a fish might jump out of the water—to flee a predator, for example.

Oh, God. He dove, eyes open again, though he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. He could sense something in the water with him. Something big. A shifting of the currents. Whatever it was didn't have a motor, which meant….

He got his vibranium arm up before the shark bit down and shook. He screamed from the utter shock of it and the power of the beast, realizing his mistake instantly when he swallowed water. His entire body was being whipped back and forth as the shark took him deeper. He managed to send a punch to the thing's square muzzle.

A tiger shark. This far out? Maybe. He didn't know much about sharks other than the little he'd learned growing up and the one summer he'd spent watching documentaries on them, but he knew enough to keep pummeling. On the second hit, the shark let go.

His wounds were still bleeding, and the shark was unlikely to want to leave him alone, even after getting a chomp of impenetrable vibranium. His lungs were burning, but the thought of surfacing made his insides go cold. He would be a sitting duck.

The scream had cost him. His lungs were out of air, but the idea of surfacing made him shiver. He'd be vulnerable. He was probably faster than the shark, even without fins. The serum gave him that, but given the amount of blood he lost, he wouldn't have the endurance. Hell, he wasn't even sure he still had the strength to outpace the shark.

The burning in his chest made his decision. He swam upward, having no idea how far up the surface was. His lungs screamed and his arms and legs trembled with the exertion. He had a moment of panic—certain he was about to drown—when he broke the surface, coughing, sputtering, and gulping greedy breaths. His mind flashed to an image of the shark coming up to take a leg, and spurred by the rush of terror of that vision, he dove again.

The sting of saltwater was too much, and he couldn't see anything, so he closed his eyes, focusing on the shifting of the water around him.

A moment later, light penetrated his lids. Shit. He was out of luck. Out of time. They'd found him.

CHAPTER 4

"Hey, Cap. Banner. Any chance I can get a portal?"

When Lang's transmission came through, Doctor Strange was already in Bruce's lab, eyeing the glass chamber filled with round saws with quizzical dismay.

Steve hated not knowing the situation on the other end. Lang had gone radio silent for 30 minutes, and the sporadic communication before that was overridden with gunshots and men yelling. "Doctor Strange…"

"Of course, it's what I'm here for." Stange sighed, moving far too casually for the circumstances—enough to make Steve fidget and take a breath—and traced a circle in the air with his fingers.

A portal opened. Lang spilled in on a wave of salt water.

"My lab!" Bruce yelled.

Strange grimaced and raised another hand, stopping the flood, keeping the water at bay with the portal open.

Steve hurried to Lang's side as he got to his feet, and took off his helmet. "Where's Bucky?" He looked into the portal but could see nothing in the murky depths.

"I don't know. In the water. We got separated." Lang turned to Strange. "Can you locate him?"

Strange nodded, closing the portal. He tilted his head and did his thing again, opening another portal. Bucky spilled in this time, careening into the far wall, and Strange shut down the portal. The lab's floor was covered in an inch of water, and the portion of it around Bucky was turning red.

Steve hurried to his friend. "Oh, God…"

Bucky was face down, coughing. That meant he was alive, Thank God. Steve put a hand on him, hesitating to turn him over until he knew where the blood was coming from. He did a quick visual assessment and spotted a tear in Bucky's prison uniform revealing a minor gash on Bucky's leg, but that wasn't where the blood was coming from.

It was the small, round bullet wounds — one in his shoulder and another in his back. "He needs medical ASAP!"

Bucky rolled himself onto his back, eyes meeting Steve's. His mouth curved upward in a weak smile. "If a shark eats you, does that make you seafood?" Then his eyes rolled upward, and he passed out.

-000-

Bruce's place wasn't equipped to accommodate more than a couple of guests, but it had a spare bedroom that let in the ocean breeze. The sun was low, casting the room in a soft light. Steve sat at the bedside, nestled into a white chair next to the window.

It had been eight hours since the rescue, and Bucky was still out. Fortunately for him, there were two people present with medical degrees. Both Doctors Strange and Banner came to the same conclusion.

Besides the gunshot wounds, Bucky was dealing with a concussion, contusions, dehydration, water inhalation, and blood loss. Banner had run a sample of Bucky's blood, and the results weren't dire, but they weren't good. His electrolytes were off. His iron levels and red blood cell count were low.

It was a miracle he'd gotten as far as he had. Some of the marks and burns on his body had already started to heal, which meant they hadn't occurred during his escape attempt. Steve watched a few of them land after Wong first opened a portal and surprised everyone.

There was also a ring of red marks around Bucky's neck, bruises on his wrists from the shackles—-which Strange had magically uncuffed—and a particularly nasty bruise on his right rib cage.

They'd cleaned him up, tended his wounds, did a few tests, found a pair of linen beach pants that fit him, and got him in bed. He roused a few times, eyeing Steve with bleary, red eyes that were pinched with pain. He mumbled something about Lang, and when Scott peered over him with a bright smile and a wave, Bucky faded again.

At least he was safe for now. Tony had purchased the island on the down-low, going through several corporations and transfers. Eventually Ross would find them, but for now they could relax. Breathe. Work on a game plan.

There was a knock on the door. Steve got up and opened it to see Sam standing with a dinner tray, complete with a beer.

"Room service." Sam smiled and peeked over Steve's shoulder at the bed. "Still out, huh?"

"Yeah." Steve took the tray with a grateful smile and moved aside.

"Lang said they were giving him some kind of liquid grub that he refused to touch." Sam stood at the foot of the bed. "He come around at all?"

Not in any way that counted. "He mumbles sometimes." Steve set the tray on the side table and sank into the chair. The food smelled delicious—salmon and potatoes with a hefty chunk of bread. He grabbed the bread and took a bite, washing it down with a swig of beer. "I'm sure he didn't get much sleep there."

"I sure as hell didn't when I was there. What they call beds are hell on one's back."

Bucky stirred, his breathing picking up. Steve moved closer, wondering if their voices were waking him. He hoped so. There was a fine line between sleep and outright unconsciousness.

The movement from the bed was sudden. Bucky huffed something indistinguishable, flinging himself to his right, toward Steve, left arm swinging up and around as though shielding himself.

Steve lurched forward just in time to ease Bucky's descent to the floor.

"What–? Shark!" Bucky looked around, wide-eyed. "What the hell?" He blinked at Steve, chest heaving. "Steve?"

"Yep, in the flesh, a bit younger."

Bucky gave the room another look. "Where am I?"

"Bruce's place." Sam said. "Tony bought him a private island."

"Oh." Bucky ran his hand through his hair and sat on the edge of the bed. "Where?"

"Mexico."

His brow crinkled as he looked up at Steve. "Lang?"

"Called for the cavalry. Once you were both clear of the Raft, Doctor Strange had no problem opening up a stable portal."

Bucky stared at him, jaw slack, eyes guarded, as though he were trying to figure out what to make of Steve. "Why are you young?"

"Did the thing with the Pym particles, like Scott did when we were testing things out before Tony came and saved the day. Only this time, we figured out how to finesse it."

"Oh." There was a glimmer of confusion and skepticism in Bucky's expression. "Is it…permanent?"

Steve smiled at the memory that question provoked. Life really did go full circle sometimes. "Should be."

Bucky eyed the dinner plate. "I'm starving. I don't suppose I can get some of that?"

Sam moved to the door. "I'll bring in enough to feed a small lion, and some water, too. Bruce was gathering up supplies for an I.V., so I'll tell him to hold off on that, too."

When Sam left, Steve offered his plate to Bucky. "Help yourself."

Bucky picked up the thick Salmon filet and devoured it in seconds, then polished off the potatoes.

"When's the last time you ate?"

Bucky set the empty plate down, shook his head, and scooted back on the bed to lean against the headboard, his right arm held close to his body. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. "They're gonna come for us."

"It's not anything we haven't dealt with before."

Bucky opened his eyes and swiveled his head to look at Steve. The bruises on his head had already begun to turn to a blotchy purple. "I saw a bit of the news before they grabbed me. You and the others are heroes. Sam could go home. Lang, too. They have families, don't they?"

Steve sighed. "Yeah." He may have the body of a 30 year-old, but he felt the weight of his years. Sometimes the burdens he carried were too much, especially when they involved others. "So did you. They took on the risk willingly, like you and I did back in 43."

Bucky's eyes shifted to the window, going distant. "You have kids?"

Steve smiled. "Two. James and Sarah Rogers."

The quick snap of Bucky's gaze made him smile. "Named after James Cagney."

Bucky chuckled. "Oh, is that it? Peggy was a big fan?"

"Okay so maybe it's not James Cagney. There's another guy I know with that name. Saved my life a few times."

Bucky's smile faded, and he sank against the headboard. "So, uh, where are they?"

"Not here. When I went back, I created a different timeline."

"I don't understand how you're here, then."

"Long story. Howard and Peggy knew the truth. He started working on a quantum timeline GPS, and Tony finished his work."

The way Bucky stared at him made something ache in Steve's chest. He'd had spent the last 74 years living the life he'd wanted. It hadn't been perfect, but it had been beautiful, with more joy than he ever thought he'd find.

Bucky—this Bucky—never got that. Steve couldn't quite place the look in those blue eyes. Those eyes had always betrayed Bucky, telegraphing every emotion. Before the war, anyway. Before Hydra. But even then, they were what told Steve Bucky was still in there, beneath the skin of the Winter Soldier.

"I'm glad we had this time," Bucky said, "but I know you need to get back to your family. Thank you for coming for me…again."

There was a hollowness to Bucky's words that sucked the air out of the room. "Buck, I—"

"Steve," Bucky squeezed the bridge of his nose, "I'm tired. My head hurts. I don't how long 'til they find us, but I'd like to get in a couple more hours of sleep before all hell breaks loose, if you don't mind."

"Of course—"

The door cracked open and Sam stuck his head in. Steve waved him inside.

"Brought water and more food." He carried a tray in, complete with a plate and tall bottle of water.

"You can leave it." Steve rose, giving Bucky a long look. Bucky wasn't even looking at him. Instead, he was focused on Sam and the tray. How long had he gone without food? "I'll let you eat and sleep. There are some clothes in the dresser over there." He pointed to a small white chest. "I'll check on you in a bit."

"Thanks."

Steve nodded at Sam, who set the tray on the bed and followed Steve out. Once the door was closed and they'd put a few steps between them and the room, Steve turned to Sam.

"I'm worried about him."

Sam glanced back at the room. "He's had a rough go, that's for sure. We got big problems, though. Ross."

"Yeah." Steve ran a hand over his face. He'd left politics behind years ago, but one thing he had learned over the years was how to leverage his position and strike when the iron was hot. "I need to make a call."

-000-

Bucky went for the water as soon as they left. It was blessedly chilled and tasted like heaven, soothing the Sahara inside his mouth and esophagus. It let the second helping of dinner go down easier.

Once his stomach was satisfied, he eased himself out of bed. His ribs ached, but they weren't the issue. It was the bullet hole in his back that made him wince, eclipsing even the one in his shoulder.

He limped to the window and looked out at the ocean view. It was a beautiful place. Of course, it would be. Tony bought it. Stark probably never envisioned it would end up harboring the man who killed his parents.

Still, it was nice to take in the view. The window was open, letting in a gentle breeze. The air had a bite of salt to it. He let himself linger a few more seconds, then got to business. This peace was temporary. He'd had a little calm in Wakanda, but that came to an end, just like this would.

He was still a wanted fugitive. After the things he'd done, no government on Earth would give him sanctuary.

He needed a bathroom. He shuffled out of the room, stunned by the elegance of the beach house. His room opened into a spacious open-air room, with a beach front bar.

Bruce was living the good life.

There was a small bathroom to his immediate left. He locked the door behind him and went to the sink, getting a look at himself in the mirror.

He didn't paint a pretty picture. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had an impressive collection of bruises. There was a gash near his right eye where a baton had clipped him, but it was already scabbed and on its way to healing.

His hair was a wild mess—stiff from the salt water and poking out all over. The bathroom had a modest shower, so he took advantage of that. When he was clean, he searched the bathroom cabinet and found what he was looking for—a razor, shaving cream, and scissors.

This time, he'd make sure he looked nothing like the pictures that would be plastered all over the news.

When he finished with his hair and beard, he went back to the room and dressed. His gunshot wounds and aching ribs made it difficult to get the shirt on, but fortunately there was a buttoned shirt in the drawer, and it fit. There was a pair of beach-worthy slip-ons near the dresser that he slid into.

Bruce had to have a way on and off the island. Bucky headed back out to the open-air room. It was simple and tasteful, but the thing across the room, nestled on a humble table, drew his attention.

It was a battered helmet that could only have been fashioned by Tony Stark. He approached it slowly, his steps taking him in a wide circle, and stopped a few feet away. It felt disrespectful to get to close, as though he'd be trampling on Stark's grave.

Tony Stark wouldn't have wanted him here.

The soft pad of footsteps told him he wasn't alone.

"Hey, who are you?"

He turned toward Lang.

"Holy shit!" Lang took a step back. "Bucky…um.. I mean. Barnes? Sergeant. Wow. That's quite a look."

He smiled at Lang's diplomatic honesty and ran a hand over his goatee. "Yeah. Hey, is there a way off this island?"

Lang tilted his head toward the beach. "Bruce has a jeep that can take you to a small dock on the northwest side of the island. There are a couple of boats." His eyes narrowed. "Uh, why?"

He didn't want to steal Bruce's boat, but he needed off the island before trouble followed him. Bruce, Sam, Lang and the others had done enough. When Steve left, they'd be the ones to pay the price for helping him.

"Tell Banner thank you, and I'm sorry, but I have to borrow a boat."

"You're leaving?"

"Yes, I am." He headed back into the room with Lang close behind. "You have a daughter, right?"

He opened a drawer and took out another set of clothes, layering a shirt and pants over the ones he was already wearing, clenching his jaw against the pains that evoked in his shoulder and back. The gunshot wounds could use a few more days healing, but a few more days could be too late. At least Bruce kept clothes of a generous size.

"Why? I mean, Cap's working on a plan."

"Steve always has a plan. Sometimes others pay the price for them." He found a small nylon backpack in the bottom drawer and stuffed a few changes of underwear and socks in it, then slung it over his shoulder.

"Ouch." Lang stood in the doorway. "I can't let you leave, not until you talk to the Captain."

Bucky eyed him, quirking an eyebrow upward and letting his amusement show on his lips. "Uh-huh." The window was already open. He eased himself out.

"Hey!"

He stopped, turning to look at Lang, who was leaning out the window, and gave him a three-finger salute. "Go back to your life, Lang. Tell Banner, Sam, and Steve to do the same, He gets a second life to spend with his kids and grandkids." His chest went tight. He'd already said goodbye to Steve after Tony's funeral. He couldn't go through that again. If he tried, Steve would talk him out of it, and he couldn't let that happen. "Just please, give me a head start so I don't have to tie you up. I'd feel real crummy about doing that after you helped me escape twice." Lang's suddenly wide eyes gave him a twinge of guilt. "Tell Steve…" His mouth went dry, and he got caught up on the words. He took a breath. "Tell him I can get by on my own."

CHAPTER 5

Steve squared his shoulders as soon as the President of the United States came on the screen. Sam and Bruce were in the lab with him, listening, while Bruce monitored the recording of the session. The signal should be untraceable, being routed through several VPNs and a private Stark satellite before being beamed back to Earth.

"Mr. President, thank you for taking my call."

The President sat behind his desk in the Oval office. "You brought back billions of people, and since then, you've been a hard man to get a hold of. We weren't sure you were still alive. I'm glad to see that you are, especially considering the state of the world right now. Billions of people have just re-materialized, and it's chaos. We could use every remaining Avenger to help deal with the chaos."

Steve smiled in the way he'd learned playing politics at Peggy's side for 70 years, despite the sting of the President's words regarding his disappearance and the sliver of guilt they evoked. "Thank you, Sir. I've seen the news." It truly was chaos. When they'd originally hatched their plan to undo the snap, they'd given only cursory thought to what would happen afterward. Even with the chaos, he would do it all over again. "I apologize for being out of communication, but I'm afraid I have a serious matter of a different nature I need to discuss. It's about the Raft."

The President's smile faded. "Go on."

"I'm sure you're aware of the prison off the coast of New York? I realize it was constructed before you came into office, but you're aware of its existence?"

"I am aware of several of our top security prisons."

"You're aware that James Barnes—who you seemed amenable to giving a pardon—is currently incarcerated there."

"We discussed a pardon, but I made no promises. He's a dangerous man, Captain. I know you consider him a friend, but the families of those he killed don't think he deserves to walk away without repercussions."

Steve took a breath to quench the volcanic tide rising in his chest. "What happened to him is undisputed. It's well documented, and the government has those files, confiscated from the Siberian bunker."

The President gave no response, so Steve continued. The years had taught him how to tangle with politicians. It was time to shift the focus from Bucky's wrongdoing to the government's. "Sir, when I signed up to fight in World War 2, I was fighting against facism, brutality, and the incarceration of human beings without due process. . .people who had no voice, who were locked up and disposed of en masse. I love the ideals of our country's constitution, especially the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments. I know you cherish them as much as I do. Those words are profound, and they've stood the test of time. I'm especially fond of the passage that says, 'all persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws."

The President looked at someone off camera, then leaned closer, folding his hands in front of him. "I'm aware of what the Constitution says."

"I know you are, Sir. After Hydra infiltrated our government, a lot of work has been done to stamp out corruption, but we still have more to do. Are you aware that American citizens are being arrested and imprisoned in the Raft without due process? James Barnes is just one of many. They aren't given a lawyer, a trial, or even a phone call. They are taken, imprisoned, and held indefinitely—something that is a blatant violation of our Constitution and their rights guaranteed by it."

"One moment, Captain." The video and audio went dark for a few seconds.

Steve eyed Bruce and turned off his video and audio. "I wonder who he's conferring with? The VP? AG? Press Secretary?"

"All of the above," Sam answered.

"You talk a good game, Steve." Bruce's smile was subtle, punctuated by an approving nod.

"I've had decades of pract…" He cut himself off when the President came back on.

"Thank you for waiting, Captain. I cannot continue to discuss the Raft with you."

Steve nodded and resumed the connection on his end. "Understood, sir. I'm just grateful that you've taken the time to talk to me and listen to my concerns. As you know, even before James Barnes, friends of mine have been victims of the Raft. It's a very personal matter to me, and now, after defeating a second alien invasion, it's important to me that the sacrifices of those who gave their lives to defend this planet are honored in the most meaningful way—by ensuring that the world we live in is worth saving, that the principals we've sworn an oath to uphold are, in fact, equally honored."

"What are you saying, Captain?"

"Bucky Barnes is an American citizen who was kidnapped by government officials, put in the Raft without charges, access to a lawyer, or a hearing, and used as a lab rat. You know who also did things like that? The Nazis. I cannot stand by and watch this country follow in the footsteps of Nazi Germany."

The President's otherwise stoic expression flickered into something akin to unease, and he shifted in his chair. "That's a hard accusation."

Steve nodded. "It's not an accusation, Mr. President, and you know that. It's a statement of fact. The Raft, in its current form, must end. While I understand the need for a high security prison to deal with enhanced individuals – I must point out it has frequently been used to house unenhanced individuals, like Sam Wilson, Scott Lang, and Clint Barton. Furthermore, enhanced or not, all people deserve due process. They deserve representation, a trial, a jury of their peers, and all the rights our Constitution bestows upon them. The American people have a right to know that our government is rounding up citizens and incarcerating them without due process and conducting medical experiments on them, in direct violation of our Constitution. This information has already been released to the media, and I've given them my statement on the matter."

If the President could melt the camera with a look, the signal would've already disintegrated. He took a visible breath, looked off camera, then straightened. "I was unaware that American citizens were not being given the proper due process rights, and I was also unaware that nonenhanced individuals were being incarcerated in the prison. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Captain."

Steve recognized the lie for what it was—plausible deniability for the President now that he knew the media was involved. "Thank you—"

"Cap!" Scott opened the door, hurrying down the stairs. He stopped when he saw the President on the screen. "Uh, I'll wait. But, not long. It's important."

The urgency in Scott's tone gave Steve a heaviness in his gut. "Mr. President, thank you."

"Is that–"

Steve ended the connection and turned to Scott. "What's wrong?"

"Bucky is, uh, well. He left."

Steve's stomach dropped. "What?" Left where? They were on an island, and Bucky's wounds weren't even close to healed.

"I tried to stop him, but he went out the window. He told me to tell you that he can get by on his own. He also asked me to give him a head start before telling you, so, uh… well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention I told you right away. I'd rather not have a beef with the Winter Soldier dude."

"Damn." If he had any doubts about how much his leaving had hurt Bucky, that message put them to rest.

Steve headed up the stairs as Sam muttered something about sending "that guy back to Wakanda for additional factory repairs." There was only one place Bucky could be heading. None of them had heard the jeep start up, and sure enough, when he got outside, the Jeep was still there. That meant Bucky was on foot.

The sound of thrusters above made Steve look up, but he knew instantly what he'd see. Sam was in the air, which meant he'd get to Bucky first.

-000-

"Got him, Cap." Sam spotted the figure jogging at a brisk pace, gait uneven, right arm held close to his side.

Bucky's head tilted up, and he stopped.

"He's spotted me. I'll talk to him." Sam descended, landing ten feet in front of Bucky and giving him a quick assessment. The new look the former Winter Soldier sported was…interesting.

Bucky's face was paler than usual. His hair was cut short, shaved on the sides with a thin tuft on top, and his chin was covered by a thick goatee. He sighed and shook his head. "I knew I should have tied up Lang."

Sam crossed his arms. "That would be a crappy way to say thanks for helping rescue me." He couldn't resist commenting on the hair. "All you need is a baseball cap and a stained, sleeveless T-shirt to complete the look man."

Bucky nodded half-heartedly, huffing under his breath. "I need to not look like the Winter Soldier or James Buchanan Barnes."

The waistband of Bucky's pants were blotchy red. The dumbass was bleeding, probably from the bullet wound in his back.

"You're bleeding all over the place, man." Sam shook his head. "What the hell are you thinking?"

"I appreciate the concern, Sam, but I need to leave."

Leaving was the worst idea. There was no way Sam was going to spend the next two years looking for the guy again. He had no idea what the hell Bucky was thinking. "Why?"

"After the things I've done, there's no place for me. They want to lock me up, use me, experiment on me, and you and the rest of Steve's friends have already paid a hefty price for helping me. I can't keep letting you do that. You have a life to get back to."

"We can deal with this."

"Sam," Bucky took a deep breath, his eyes were steady—intense, somber, and as unwavering as granite, "I'm leaving, and I'd rather not break your wings again."

Yeah, like that was gonna happen twice. "I'd like to see you try."

"No, you wouldn't."

Sam couldn't afford to lose another set of wings, so he decided to change tactics and play nice. "Come on, Man." He tried his most casual, confident tone, the one he used in group counseling sessions. "Steve's working on things. Give it some time."

"I waited too long before, in Bucharest. I went back for my pack, my journals. I thought I'd be fast enough, that I'd have enough time, and that was a mistake. I won't make that mistake again."

Sam recognized the look in Bucky's eyes. He'd seen it in other soldiers—a hollow resignation that topped a mound of hopelessness and trauma. For the first time, Sam saw the young man behind that guarded gaze—a young man who went off to war and never returned home, who was lost and afraid.

"Hey." Sam took a step closer, lowering his voice. "You've gone through more than just about anyone, and you're still here. There's a reason for that. Give yourself a chance at a life."

Bucky blinked, shifting on his feet, his jaw clenching. He looked away and took a breath.

Come on, Sam pleaded silently.

"Sam, I'll be there in a moment," Steve's voice, slightly breathless, came through the com.

Sam figured Steve was running full speed over the terrain.

Bucky took another deep breath and gave a watery smile. "Thanks, Sam, that's all I want to do, for as long as I can." He swiveled around Sam and launched into an easy jog. It was no where near the pace he'd kept during the chase in Bucharest, which meant he was likely really hurting.

Sam heard Steve before he saw him. A moment later, Steve emerged over a small hill, barely out of breath. He skidded to a halt when he saw Sam, his eyes scanning the terrain. Bucky had already disappeared through a grove of trees.

"Where is he?" Steve asked.

Sam pointed. "That way. I stalled him as long as I could."

Steve nodded, flashing a weak smile. "Thanks, Sam. Always." Then he took off after Bucky.

-000-

Steve spotted Bucky a few minutes later. There were two watercraft near a dock that looked surprisingly substantial—substantial enough to hold a Hulk.

Bucky was already unfastening one of the boats, though from behind, Bucky could have been anyone. His hair was almost gone, except for a wide strip at the top, and the clothes he had layered on, despite the warm weather, hid his physique.

The craft looked more like a glorified canoe than anything worthy of the sea. Bucky stopped, looked over his shoulder at Steve, then turned and hopped into the boat.

Steve sighed and broke into a run. Bucky wasn't going to make this easy. "Bucky!" He leapt from the dock into the boat before Bucky started the motor.

"Steve," Bucky kicked a small pack beneath the bench seat at the end of the craft, his gaze low, but not low enough for Steve to miss the wince. "I don't want to argue."

"Good. Me either. So you're staying then?"

The way Bucky peered up at him told Steve the joke landed flat, but the red stain on the waistband of Bucky's pants killed even a pretense at levity. "You're bleeding."

"Yeah, I'll deal with it when I get to shore."

"This is insane!" Steve threw his hands up. "Where are you going? You're injured. You can't—"

"Yes, I can." Bucky crossed his arms. "Ross is…upset. You can disappear into the past and avoid the fall-out, but Sam and Lang can't. Bruce can't. The sorcerers can't. It's not fair to them. I can't keep dragging people down with me." He gestured to the dock. "We already said our goodbyes, man. Don't think I'm not grateful for you staying long enough to pull me out of the Raft." His voice caught, and he looked away, arms going tighter across his chest. "I, uh…I am." He blinked, and when he looked back at Steve, there was a suspicious glimmer in his eyes. "I have to do the rest on my own."

Steve tried to process everything he'd just heard. There was a lot to unpack, a lot Bucky left unsaid in between the words but that came through as clearly as the ones spoken. Bucky expected him to leave everyone else to deal with the mess of the prison-break? And those words—on my own—struck a painful chord, an echo from another place, another time, when their situations were reversed. Bucky had taken Steve in, consoled him in his grief, and picked up the pieces of his shattered world.

"I'm not going back," Steve said. "There's too much going on here. I have no intention of letting Sam, Scott, Lang or you deal with the Raft alone. I'm staying and seeing it through."

"Good to know." Bucky grimaced, taking a deep breath that betrayed how much healing he still had to do.. "You've got all the time in the world with thos Pym particles, right? But my being here is going to inflame the situation. Right now, you've all got plausible deniability. Sure Wong opened a portal, but you were all just looking for me. You didn't know I was in the Raft, right? No law against opening a portal…" he tilted his head, "is there? As for the second portal, well, you saw them hitting me, needed to make sure I was okay, but you had nothing to do with my escape. That was just a happy accident. The device they used to interfere with the portal overloaded their systems. That's how it was supposed to look, right?"

Bucky was making sense, but he was leaving out a big piece of the puzzle.

"You can't hold out on your own forever, Buck. They'll catch up with you. Stay and help us fix it together. Besides, you're bleeding. You need a few days. Please, trust me. Stay."

The tilt of Bucky's head, the way his gaze darted away, and the subtle shift of his feet all made it clear that some part of what Steve said landed, but not in a good way. The body language was all there, as recognizable as the subtle upward curve of Bucky's mouth, even at rest, and the line between his eyes that appeared whenever he was upset.

"What is it, Buck?" Steve pleaded, knowing he sounded dangerously close to begging. "What's wrong? Why are you so determined to leave again? Sam and I spent two years looking for you last time. I don't want to go through that again."

Bucky's jaw went tight, and when he looked at Steve, there was a flash of anger in his eyes, but it faded instantly to something hollow. He bit his bottom lip and sighed. "When we defeated Thanos, after the memorial services, when things started to settle down, I had a moment…" He paused and took a breath. "I had hope. I didn't know what was in store for me, whether I'd face arrest, or have to go back to Wakanda, but I knew you'd be there, and that's the only thing that kept me going, even in Wakanda. It was my crutch, sometimes the only thing holding me up."

A slick, cold feeling spread from Steve's chest, snaking into his gut. He knew what was coming next.

"Then you left." Bucky stared at the sun, hanging low over the water. "You were all I had, but I wasn't all you had." Bucky looked back at Steve, a sad smile curling the edges of his mouth. " It made me realize you mean more to me than I do to you, and that's not fair to either of us. I couldn't put all that on you. I'm not gonna be that guy. So, it's best if I leave. Right now. I'm a liability to everyone."

Steve barely opened his mouth to protest—to explain why he left and how something changed inside him when he found out what Hydra had done to Bucky—but it died on his lips when Bucky shook his head.

"Don't, Steve. It's true. Sam gave me some good advice. He said I should take a chance to have a life. That's what I'm going to do. Until they catch me, or someone catches up to me and takes me out, I'm going to seize every day and do the things I've wanted to do, for as long as I can." His smile grew a bit lighter. "We always said we'd see the Grand Canyon someday. Maybe I'll do that."

They were supposed to go together. Steve caught the words on his tongue as Bucky continued.

"And when it all comes crashing down," Bucky looked back to the horizon, "I can say I lived a little."

"Want company?"

Bucky shook his head. "You've got a family to get back to eventually."

"I'm not going back."

"What?" Bucky's brow crinkled sharply. "What are you talking about? You have children. You can't go back or you're choosing not to?"

"I'm choosing not to." Steve sat on the bench seat.

Bucky peered down at him. "I can't believe you're abandoning your children, Steve. Come on."

That smarted. He stiffened. "I'm not abandoning them. Sarah and James are in their 70s. James lives in England, and Sarah moved to California. They have their own families. I see them on holidays sometimes, but not always. Everyone's so busy. Besides…" Steve sucked air into his lungs to quench the sudden ache. "Parents aren't meant to outlive their children. If I go back like this, I'll watch them both pass away. I don't want to bury my children. That's not the way it's supposed to be. They know that I left, where I was going."

"What about Peggy?"

The sunlight danced over the water, and in another life, he would have the urge to paint it. "She passed away a year later than she did in this timeline."

"What about me in that timeline?"

Steve knew it was only a matter of time before Bucky asked. "You never became the Winter Soldier. You died last week."

"Oh."

There was a heaviness to that one word that made Steve look up at Bucky. What he saw had him on his feet. Bucky was looking at him with wide eyes, mouth set in a firm line.

Oh no. He knew what Bucky was thinking. It wasn't like that. "I couldn't stand by and know what was happening to you and not do something about it. I couldn't sleep every night knowing you were being tortured. He wasn't your replacement. He's you, just another version."

"Whatever. I get it." Bucky turned away. "I'd do the same." He gestured to the dock. "Better go now, Steve."

"Let me come with you, Buck."

Bucky shook his head as put a foot against the dock. "No. All this time, ever since I got my memories back, I realize I've been living for you. At first it was to remember you and who I used to be. Then it was to not disappoint you, even when you weren't there."

Wakanda. Steve had left again, thinking Bucky was safe in cryo, and once again, that turned out to be the wrong move. Bucky barely survived the Killmonger.

"But it doesn't matter," Bucky continued, "because I'm not the guy you want me to be. I don't think I can be, no matter how much I want to."

"Bucky, I didn't want to leave you in—"

"Steve," Bucky pushed the boat gently away from the dock, "the life I had is gone. I've brought enough people down with me. I want to do this, alone, and I'm asking you to let me go, just like I let you go."

This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Steve felt like he was splitting open in the center, and every regret, loss, and pain he'd ever suffered was flooding the world. How could he refuse Bucky's request without becoming a hypocrit? "Just…I don't want this to be the last time I see you. I don't want to wonder if you're okay, if you're even alive. Please just promise me you'll…keep in touch. My email address is still the same, and my phone's still active. Will you do that?"

Bucky nodded slowly, almost reluctantly, a sad glimmer in his eyes. "Okay."

"Can I go with you to shore? I can make sure you get off okay and take the boat back here so Bruce isn't too upset about one of his boats going missing."

Bucky smiled at that. "Sure, Pal, as long as you let this conversation drop otherwise."

What choice did he have? Bucky's mind was made up. "You have my word."

They made it to shore just as the sun touched the horizon. Bucky gave him a weak smile and a light hug, then slung the pack over one shoulder and hopped out. Steve watched him go until he disappeared over a hill on the shore. Bucky never looked back once.

Sam was waiting for Steve when he got back to the island, and by his narrow gaze and the way his eyes kept flickering to the sun setting on the horizon, he had questions.

"What happened?"

"I couldn't convince him to stay."

"So, just like that….?"

"Just like that."

Steve secured the boat to the dock. There was a heaviness inside him that slowed his limbs and made it hard to breathe. He was a young man again. He should feel amazing. Instead, he felt all 113 of his years.

Sam moved closer and put a soft hand on his arm. "You okay?"

"It's not me you should be worried about."

"Come on, man, Bruce has a full bar, and apparently he's got some stuff that can get him tipsy, so it might work on you."

CHAPTER 6 The Grand Canyon

Several months later….

The last text Steve had gotten from Bucky was three weeks ago on Halloween, and it was a single word with a photo. No formal update. No 'I'm fine, how are you?' Just a photo of a bat-decorated peanut butter cup nestled on top of a Frankenstein napkin captioned by 'Boo!'

It told him Bucky was okay enough to indulge his sweet tooth. He tried to geo-source the image, even though he'd had little hope it would work. He'd tried before without success. It hadn't, of course. Bucky was too smart for that. The cell numbers changed all the time—burner phones, no doubt—so Steve had no way to contact Bucky except in response to a text.

Steve did, however, reverse image source the peanut butter cup and got a few hits. Unfortunately, a handful of bakeries across the nation made them. He even tried to cross reference locations with Frakenstein napkins, but as it turned out, those were all over the Internet, available at Walmart, Amazon, and dollar stores.

It had taken him way too long to respond– a whopping 23 minutes of trying to craft a reply that sounded casual but not too casual, that let Bucky know he cared but was honoring Bucky's space, despite the underlying guilt in knowing he was, in fact, not honoring Bucky's space….not when he'd spent two days trying to pinpoint Bucky's location.

He finally settled on a woefully underwhelming, "Happy Halloween."

Then silence for weeks, with Steve worrying whether Bucky was okay. If the government caught up to Bucky, it wouldn't end well. Not this time. The words Bucky said at the dock rank like church bells in his mind, a hymn of finality. 'Until they catch me, or someone catches up to me and takes me out, I'm going to seize every day and do the things I've wanted to do, for as long as I can.'

Bucky had a contingency plan, and the heavy thing in Steve's gut told him it didn't involve being captured alive.

It was Thanksgiving now, and Steve was a guest in Sam's home. The President finally agreed to give Bucky a full pardon and overhaul the Raft. All current prisoners would get lawyers and trials, and moving forward, every person arrested would get their due process rights.

Unfortunately, Steve had no way to let Bucky know about the pardon, not until Bucky contacted him again.

Sarah and the boys were amazing. He was in the kitchen with Sarah and Sam again while the boys played outside. Sam sat across from him, in front of two bowls—one with peeled potatoes and the other with skins. The scents from the oven and stove permeated the entire house. They had familiar notes—the Turkey, of course—but they were also new and different, with spices and dishes he wasn't used to.

He and Peggy used to work as a team in the kitchen. She handled the turkey. He peeled potatoes and worked on the green bean casserole. Every time he tried to help here, Sarah shooed him away.

He let AJ and Cass play with the shield while Sarah shoved snacks at him every few hours. Sarah's home was lovely, but it wasn't his. Every so often, he had second thoughts about staying, especially without Bucky.

But he'd made his decision, and it was the right one. He knew it in his head, and most of his heart was onboard, too. If he went back a young man, he'd likely outlive just about everyone. Hell, even his grandchildren were middle-aged. He knew it was selfish, but he couldn't do that.

If he let Bruce try to move time through him again until he was the age he arrived, well…he'd go back home only to die. He'd have, at most, a few weeks or months, and then his children would have to bury him.

This timeline needed him. The societal and financial implications of having billions of people suddenly rematerialize were profound. There were repercussions none of them foresaw, such as children who'd been orphaned and adopted suddenly having their biological parents rematerialize.

There were terrorists fighting against border controls. Politicians struggled to come up with solutions. The media was all over the place. It was the biggest shit-show he'd seen in his 113 years, and that was saying a lot. He'd helped make the mess. It was his responsibility to help fix it.

"Hey, man." Sam placed a finished potato into the bowl. "You're doing that staring thing. What's on your mind? Bucky or your family?"

He smiled. Sam had gotten good at reading him. "Both."

When his phone dinged, he practically jumped, snatching it out of his pocket. His heart thudded when he saw the unfamiliar number and three words, 'Happy Thanksgiving, Steve.'

He practically dropped the phone in his haste to text back. 'You've got a pardon. All you have to do is sign some papers.'

Sam leaned forward. "That's him?"

Steve nodded, waiting…waiting…and waiting. It was taking Bucky too long to reply. He'd have to reply to this one. Why wouldn't he? It meant he was free.

Come on, Buck.

Five minutes later, another text came through. 'Where are you right now?'

Steve was vibrating with energy. He wanted to hit the call button, but he knew Bucky never picked up. Bucky wanted proof it was him, however, so he'd give it to him.

"Hey, you two, how about a selfie?"

"Sure." Sarah turned from the stove to give him a quizzical look.

Steve grinned, self-conscious. "I know I'm not the selfie kind, but this one's for a good cause."

Moments later, he sent Bucky a photo of the three of them smiling.

Two seconds later, his phone rang. It was the same number. He walked to the window and answered. "Buck?"

"Hey, Steve. How…you? I'm kind of…you're still here."

God, it was good to hear that voice again. "I told you I'm staying. How are you? Your voice broke up a bit."

"Good…not…greatest reception. I saw the pyramids of Egypt. Spent… in Iceland. They have some amazing hot springs. Fresh fish and lamb... Borealis...Tiny horses." There was a pause, the subtle rake of breath, then, "So, a pardon, huh?"

"Yes. You'll need to sign the papers, and there are a few conditions."

The pause was longer, and when Bucky spoke, there was an edge to his voice. "What conditions?"

"Mandatory therapy once a week for six months, with a re-assessment after six months to determine if the therapy should continue. And, uh, you sign a release of any claim you might have against the U.S. or German government for the events that happened in Berlin when Zemo got access to what should have been a secure facility and…well, you know. Also, you agree to a lump sum compensation for your veterans benefits—"

"Veterans benefits?"

"Yeah, for, uh, being captured, a POW. I've learned a few things over the many years of my life. I made sure they're paying up. We haggled, and I hope you don't mind that I did this on your behalf, but you've been hard to get a hold of. Of course, you get the final say, but it boils down to about a million dollars, which is half of what you'd be entitled to if we nickel and dimed them. If you want to push for more…."

"No, man. A million dollars? They'll… a pardon and…a million dollars? And they think I might sue them?" He chuckled, hard and fast.

"You were in their custody. They had a duty to keep you and everyone else safe. Zemo got in with a stolen badge. I went hard on that. I'm done playing nice. Not when it's this important. They didn't after all."

"I'll….when I…."

"Bucky?" The connection was breaking up. "Bucky, I'm losing you."

"I'm…reception…in touch." Then the call ended.

Steve pressed redial, but it went to an automated voice that said no voicemail was set up.

"So?" Sam asked.

Steve looked up to see Sarah and Sam staring at him expectantly. "I guess he's someplace with bad reception."

Sam leaned forward. "Is he going to come in and do the paperwork?"

"I didn't get a final answer from him. He seemed receptive."

"Receptive about a pardon?" Sam rolled his eyes. "I should hope so, unless, what? He likes living out of a backpack and using newspapers for curtains?"

Bucharest came back to him—the tiny apartment. The journal. It was a lifetime ago for him, a few years for Bucky and Sam. He thought about that place occasionally, over the years, during holidays with the Bucky he rescued in the other timeline.

That Bucky would sometimes catch him staring, tilt his head, raise his eyebrows, and fling a smile over his beer. "What's troubling those two brain cells of yours, Steve?" he said asked.

Steve always fibbed. Bucky could always tell.

"I never told him."

Sam's face was stamped with confusion. "What?"

"The Bucky in the other timeline. The one I rescued. The one that never became the Winter Soldier. I told him just about everything else, but not that. He thought he died at the bottom of the ravine after saving my life."

"Ah." Sam got up, opened the fridge, and pulled out two beers, setting one down in front of Steve. He opened his, plopped back into the dining chair, and took a long sip. "That was probably for the best. Who wants to know they became a brainwashed assassin in another life?"

A brainwashed assassin. His best friend. His brother. Bucky had known nothing but pain and depravity for 70 years, being frozen and defrosted, having the memories burned out of his brain over and over again, alone, without hope, without even an inkling that he was worth saving…

"Hey." Sam leaned forward, eyes boring into him. "You okay?"

"No."

All he'd wanted when he woke up from the ice was something familiar. A sense of home. He missed Bucky, Peggy, the Commandos. He missed everything about the world he knew, but mostly the people.

Bucky was a limb to him. He didn't know what it was like to exist without Bucky. They'd been inseparable growing up, separated briefly during the war, and then the cosmos or fate or whatever threw them back together.

When he'd found out the Winter Soldier was Bucky, he'd been consumed with determination to save Bucky, to find him, to bring him home. "I spent two years looking for Bucky."

"We spent two years looking for him," Sam corrected.

"Yeah. We did." He smiled. "Thank you, by the way."

Sam leaned back, taking another swig of his beer. "You're welcome."

"He was on my mind every day. I kept telling myself that if I found him alive, I could fix everything else. I could get him the help he needed. I'd fight whoever and whatever stood in the way of that. I needed him. I just wanted him back in my life. It was an impossibility. When I first woke up from the ice, everything and everyone I knew was gone, and then suddenly he was here, in this time, this world, and all I wanted was to have him back."

"Yeah, I remember."

"Then I found him."

Sam nodded over his beer, eyes heavy, sensing the storm.

"And I left him." The memory of watching the Wakandan cryo-chamber freeze Bucky came back to him – and the pain in his chest he felt seeing Bucky lifeless returned, stealing his breath. "I left him. In Wakanda. After Thanos. I wanted him back so badly, and when I got him back, I left him."

"Don't beat yourself up, Steve." Sam set his beer aside. "You had other considerations. We were fugitives after Berlin, and as for your decision to get a life, well, you earned it….Are you regretting it?"

"I have two beautiful children. I lived an amazing life."

"Not everyone gets that."

"Bucky didn't. I made him a promise, on the helicarrier, when I thought I was going to die.

"What promise?"

Steve suddenly felt 16 again, standing in front of his door, searching his empty pockets for his key. "The same one he made me. That I'd be there for him, 'til the end of the line, but I left him to hash things out on his own through most of it. Wakanda. The chaos after the Blip."

Sam was quiet, eyes somber but without judgment.

"I broke my promise. I was in a bad place at the time. I ruined so much—Natasha and Tony were dead. I failed them both. I failed Vision. I failed Bucky. I felt like a poisonous cloud that expands and destroys everything I touch."

"Yeah." Sam sighed, sad and heavy. "Grief can do that to you."

Sarah shifted away from the stove. "He's a brother to you?"

"Yes."

Her eyes flicked to Sam, something pensive in them. "Then don't give up."

Steve grabbed his phone and texted, hoping Bucky hadn't ditched the device yet. 'I need to see you.' He paused, pondering the message, and added. 'PLEASE.'

He set the phone on the table and grabbed a potato, ignoring the side eye from Sarah. He needed to do something with his hands. He had three of them peeled when his phone beeped. His eyes snapped to the message on the screen, same number. Bucky still had the phone.'We said we'd see it together. Saturday, if you're open.'

The Grand Canyon. It had to be. He texted back. 'I'll be there.'

Sam grabbed the peeler and picked up another potato, eyeing Steve in a way that was far too casual on the surface. "You got a long trip?"

"Not too bad, but I better leave first thing in the morning." If he drove straight through, he could make it. They'd talked about watching the sunset over the Canyon. Hopefully, this time of the year, it wouldn't be too crowded.

-000-

Before sunrise, Steve left with a pack on his back and his new motorcycle beneath him. His old one hadn't survived Thanos' initial attack on the Avenger's complex, unfortunately. He liked the old one better, but the new one was quieter and better on gas mileage.

Progress. Time moved on, no matter what. The more time that passed, the more things changed, until the world was unrecognizable to anyone who had known it before.

He was getting used to understanding what that felt like. Through all the changes, the only constant in his life had been Bucky.

He drove for a day straight, finally making it to the canyon mid-morning on Saturday. They'd always talked about watching the sunset over the rocks, so Steve figured Bucky wouldn't be there until later in the day. Most of the restaurants and much of the park was closed for the winter.

The air had a bite to it that penetrated even his gloves and snaked beneath the collar of his jacket. He rode around the rim for an hour, found a small restaurant that was open, and ordered the hottest cup of coffee they could muster and two breakfast platters.

He killed time, sketching the canyon and checking in with Sam. When the sun flirted with the horizon, he hopped back on his motorcycle and drove around the rim of the Canyon, scanning the spattering of visitors. There were so few of them this time of year.

Would he even recognize Bucky? He hoped so. He'd spent 74 years with James Buchanan Barnes, grew old with him. He was pretty sure he'd know the cut of his shoulders and the width of his stance anywhere.

And there he was. A solitary figure in a dark jacket, tufts of hair peeking out from the back of a blue beanie, his hands stuffed in his pockets. By the subtle way Bucky shifted his weight, he knew Steve was approaching.

The engine died with barely a hum of protest. Steve swung his legs off the cycle and resisted every urge he had to close the distance between him and Bucky as quickly as possible. Instead, he hung back, slipped the pack from his shoulders, and took a moment to stretch the stiffness from his legs and shoulders.

It was a clear day, despite the chill. Bucky hadn't turned, so Steve went to him, keeping his gaze over the canyon. The sun kissed the horizon, throwing a fiery hue over the rocks. Shadows shifted and deepened, moving across the canyon's vast expanse in a slow, mesmerizing dance. The colors of the rock—burnt orange, deep red, and sandy beige—glowed under the gentle light.

"Hey." Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, studying Bucky in the periphery of his vision. Even beneath the layers, Steve could tell Bucky had grown a bit thicker. He took solace in that. It meant Bucky was eating well. His goatee had grown to a bushy beard that hid the bottom half of his face well.

"The beanie looks good." It was a new look for Bucky, probably part of his incognito strategy.

The slight upward curve that was a natural part of Bucky's mouth grew in a way that quieted the smoldering ache that had slept in Steve's chest since he watched Bucky hop off the boat in Mexico and disappear over a hill.

Bucky glanced at him. "Keeps my ears warm and my bangs out of my eyes."

"How have you been, Buck?"

"Not bad. Not great, but not bad, all things considered."

Steve turned to look at his friend, and when those familiar blue eyes flicked his way, they seemed somehow more settled. Maybe Bucky had found a measure of peace.

God, he hoped so.

"You look good." Steve nudged Bucky's foot playfully. "Copying my beard, I see."

When Bucky smiled, Steve felt ten pounds lighter.

"Damn serum makes my hair grow too fast. It's a pain." Bucky scratched at the hair beneath his chin. "But it serves a purpose." He turned toward Steve. "So, a pardon?"

That was Bucky, a bit of small talk, then down to business. In all fairness, that was usually his M.O., too. They'd developed habits like that, growing up together, fighting together.

"It's a good deal, at least I think it is, but of course it's your call."

Bucky's smile faded, and the peace that had rested in his gaze evaporated. "Therapy, huh?"

"I know you're not enthusiastic about that, but you'll have some say in the therapist. So will they."

"The government?"

"Yeah."

Bucky took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. Thank you."

The words "no thanks necessary" were about to jump off his tongue, but something in the flick of Bucky's gaze gave him pause. Instead, he nodded, looked back over the canyon, and said, "You're welcome."

It felt strange having this thing between them, whatever it was. Over the past few months, Steve had thought a lot about why Bucky felt the need to leave and tried not to feel like a hypocrite when he did. Maybe it was solely to protect everyone else from the fallout, but he knew in his bones there was more to it than that.

"I broke my promise to you, Buck. I'm sorry."

Buck's gaze slid to him. His shoulders relaxed, and his silence indicated he knew what promise Steve was referring to. The promise.

Steve watched the sun fatten along the horizon for a few seconds, then reached for his pack. The journal was in there, one of the few things he'd managed to keep for himself throughout the chaos of the years. He pulled it out and opened it to the sketch he'd created in 2012.

"I thought you were dead when I drew this." He stared down at the two figures on the page, standing side-by-side at the rim of the Grand Canyon. "I know it's silly, but I thought you might be watching." He shifted his gaze to the sky. "I held it up to the moon and told you I missed you. I can't imagine I mean more to you than you do to me, Bucky, because there wasn't a day that went by when I didn't think about you, miss you, even during my life with Peggy, even though I saved that Bucky, I still thought about you."

It took Steve a few seconds to get up the courage to look at Bucky, and when he did, the subtle smile and shimmer in his friend's eyes gave him hope.

Bucky blinked, taking the journal from Steve, his eyes fixed on the image. "You saw the Grand Canyon without me? Geez, Steve, I thought this was our first time together." He looked up with wide eyes. "I waited for you."

For a split second, Steve felt pieces of himself crumbling, but the upward curve of Bucky's mouth and the slight bop of his eyebrows made him instantly whole again. God, he'd missed Bucky's sense of humor, his gentle ribbing, the way he kept Steve on his toes just by existing. "I thought you were dead, you jerk. I was mourning."

Bucky nodded, face growing serious again. "I know. I know how that feels." He nudged him with his shoulder, just like old times, and Steve felt even younger, as though the Pym particles had suddenly made him 16 again.

He cleared his throat to get up the courage for his next confession. "And, uh, I've seen the Canyon in…you know. With you and Peggy."

Bucky nodded, deceptively nonchalant except for the hard breath he released that turned the air into a white puff around him.

It was time to ask the big question. The one he'd been avoiding because he was too afraid of the answer. "Can you forgive me?"

Bucky bit the inside of his lip "For leaving?"

"For everything I've done to you, even though I didn't mean to. Since we were kids. You know what I mean. I had a lot of time to think about things. My knowing you changed my life in so many ways—saved my life over and over again. If I hadn't met you, I'd have probably died a teenager. As fragile as my body was, without having you looking out for me, saving me from my own bullheaded stubbornness, I probably would have died. But your knowing me has brought you nothing but….tragedy. Over and over again."

Buck was facing him now, brow knit, eyes pinched. He looked almost…angry. "Is that why you left?"

Steve shook his head, "No and yes. It was a little part of why I left. I was in a bad place. Tony was dead. Natasha. Vision. Everything I touched turned to crap, and everything that happened to you was because of me. I asked you to fight with me in 1943, and that cost you your life—the life you knew, anyway. I asked again in 2018, and you paid the price again. I wanted so badly to make things right, but no matter how much I try, I can't. Growing old changes one's perspective. I've come to accept that all I can do is try, and I'm not going to be good enough all the time, maybe even most of the time….but the one thing I've learned that I wish I'd known earlier is that I should tell people how I feel about them because one minute can be a minute too late to let them know."

A lump formed in his throat, giving his words an embarrassing tremble. He swallowed and took a breath, grateful that Bucky was listening, soaking him in with those discerning eyes that held more depth than any ocean. "I love you, Bucky. Your life means more to me than my own. If I could take every bad thing that happened to you and put it on me, I'd do it in a second, even though I'm not sure I could endure half the things that you had to live through. When it comes down to it, you've always been stronger than me, more resilient. I love you, Bucky. I know it's selfish. I left you and led a wonderful life. I left when you needed me. If our places were reversed, you wouldn't have abandoned me. So my asking is selfish, but I have to. I have to let you know. I can't change what I did. I had my reasons, and I can't say if I had it to over again, knowing the two wonderful children I have, the life I led, I'm not sure I would do anything differently, except that I would have taken you with me, even though there'd be two of you in one timeline, even though it might have repercussions we can't imagine…and there you have it. When it comes down to it, I'm just a selfish son of a bitch who can't do anything right."

Bucky's face was a mask of shadows and lines, the dwindling glow from the setting sun making his expression hard to read. After a moment, he closed the journal, set it carefully on the ground, and leaned toward Steve. Gently, almost tentatively, he wrapped his beefy arms around Steve and pulled him close. Steve melted against him, arms coming up, holding him, and when he felt Bucky's breath in his ear, his knees almost gave out.

"Don't talk about your mother that way, Steve," Bucky whispered in his ear, punctuating his words with a squeeze.

Even now, after everything, Bucky was taking care of him, and just like that, Steve felt small again. The laugh bubbling out of his throat escaped as a sob.

"I forgive you," Bucky said, "but not because I blame you, because I know you need to hear it." He held the embrace a moment longer, then cleared his throat.

Steve recognized the signal for what it was—a chance to get himself together. He did the best he could, straightening and wiping at his face. He'd gotten so much softer in his old age.

"I didn't leave because I was angry with you," Bucky continued. "I left for many reasons. I was telling the truth when I said I didn't want Sam and the others to keep paying a price for helping me. I'm a bomb that keeps going off, destroying everyone around me. So, I know how you feel there. I get it. But my life has been so wrapped up with yours, even before the war, and when I started getting my memories back, so many of them were about you. I didn't know who I was without you. I leaned on the thought of you for so long, and there were too many days when the only thing keeping me going was you, my relationship with you, even though you weren't there. Even when I was running from you, it was still so much about you. I didn't know where you ended and I began." He took a long, slow breath and pulled the beanie off his head, revealing short locks of messy hair, and stuffed it into a pocket. "When you left, I had nothing. No purpose. No idea what the hell I was supposed to do. I realized I was living for you—because I needed you, and I didn't want to let you down. You were my crutch, and when you left, I realized I wasn't yours. After I got the words out of my head, I had hope. I hadn't felt that in a long time. I convinced myself that I could do it—I could go on and figure out my place in this world—as long as I had you in my life. But then you stepped on that platform. You were gone, and I had nothing and no one. It scared me. What was my reason for existing? I hated myself. I hated how pathetic I was. I needed to figure out who I am without you. I needed to know if I could live for me. That was my other reason for leaving. I wasn't doing it to hurt you. I hope you can understand that."

"I understand." Steve felt lighter, as though the glow of the sunset had infused him with renewed hope. He'd be a hypocrite if he didn't understand. This was the most genuine conversation he and Bucky had had since….well…since he could remember. Old age had softened them both, apparently. "Did you find out?"

Bucky shrugged, turning away as though embarrassed. "I think I'm a lot closer than I was."

That was a step forward, a huge step forward. Was he being greedy to hope for another? "Are you coming…home?"

He hoped Bucky understood what he meant. It was a cliche, but only because it was true. Home wasn't so much a place. It was people. Family. Bucky was his home, since the day he'd bulldozed his way through two bullies to save Steve's hide from a beating that probably would've put him in the hospital and taken five years off his poor mother's life.

Bucky's smile was crooked, reflecting the glint in his eyes. "Steve, are you…asking me to move in with you?"

"I am, got a two-bedroom. I've lived alone ever since Peggy died, and I don't like it much."

Bucky's smile softened, and he nudged Steve's foot with his own. "Okay. If you don't mind having a slightly crazy roommate."

The ache in Steve's chest melted into something warm that stung the back of his eyes. "It'll be fun. Two old dudes. We'll be like The Odd Couple."

"The what?"

CHAPTER 7 Amends

"Is it okay if I call you James?" Dr. Raynor asked.

Bucky stared out the window. Hints of the nature-esque wallpaper behind him bounced in the reflection. He supposed the decor was an attempt to make the office more comforting, but there weren't enough fake trees and natural sunlight in the world to help him feel comfortable sitting eight feet away from a psychiatrist, especially one the government forced on him.

He shrugged. "Whatever."

She scribbled something on her pad. The sound of the pen grated against the paper like the scribbles of a mad scientist frantically jotting down observations of his subject strapped helplessly to an exam table.

He took a deep breath and studied the wall just behind her head.

Without looking up, she asked, "Can you tell me why you're here, James?"

"The government says I have to be."

She raised her eyebrows and looked up. "So, you don't want to be?"

"I haven't had the best experiences with doctors."

"I understand that."

You really don't, Doc. Pray you never do.

He spent the rest of the session answering basic questions. She called this a "get to know you" session. Time seemed to function differently within the confines of her tidy office. Maybe this was what the quantum realm was like—syrupy ticks of the clock while the outside world bustled on. Maybe, like Scott, he was trapped in this place until a rodent stepped on the right button.

"That's our time for today." Dr. Raynor placed her pen down and closed her notebook. "Same time next week?"

"I'll be here." His legs itched for a sprint out of the place. Instead, he got to his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked out the door.

-000-

It was their first official Christmas together in the 21st century. The last one he and this Bucky experienced together had been over a video chat when Bucky was in Wakanda.

Steve missed his children, but they rarely all got together for the holidays. They each had families and in-laws of their own. The holidays also made him miss Peggy and the Bucky he'd spent a lifetime with. The grief that cloaked him whenever he thought of them was more like an old friend these days, a feeling he wasn't sure how to exist without.

He'd just finished wrapping this Bucky's present when he heard him coming up the stairs. Steve hoped this therapy session had gone better than the first. A moment later, Bucky turned the knob and walked in. There was no jangle of the key, which meant…

"Look, you've got to start locking the door." Bucky closed and locked the door behind him.

Steve clamped down on the smile threatening to show itself as he shoved the present under the tree and got to his feet. "I knew you'd be coming home soon and, besides, a locked door never stopped bad guys."

Even Bucky's glare couldn't deny the truth in that statement. He slipped out of his jacket and hung it on the wall hook, his eyes flicking to the present Steve had wrapped in the nick of time.

"How was therapy?"

Bucky made an indistinct sound and headed for the kitchen. He opened the fridge, grabbed a beer, twisted the cap off, and swigged half of it in one go.

"I'm sorry." Steve nodded at the fridge and Bucky grabbed another beer, sliding it across the counter.

"Talking with a stranger isn't going to fix what's wrong in my head."

Steve let that comment pass. He knew better than to argue when Bucky was in a dark mood. Instead, he sipped his beer and waited.

"She's having me write down stuff that I try real hard to avoid thinking about, not that it works."

"Like what? If you want to share."

"A list of people I wronged when I was the Winter Soldier. An amends list."

An amends list? Son of a bitch. What the hell? That reeked of Ross—a way of getting his jabs in amidst defeat.

"That was her idea?" Steve asked, trying to keep the anger from his tone.

Bucky shrugged. "She asked me how I was sleeping." His lips twitched in a tell-tale sign punctuating his next words. "I said laying down with a blanket and pillow."

Steve rolled his eyes, his anger melting into a smile.

"Anyway," Bucky continued, "I have to give her something, right? Or she writes stuff down and sends it to the government, and I go to the Raft."

"Not on my watch," Steve said.

Bucky's eyebrows merely flashed, and he took a sip of his beer. "We talked about my nightmares. I told her I have them once in a while."

They both knew that as a lie, unless once in a while meant every night.

"So, one thing led to another, and now I'm writing an amends list that I have to work through."

"Bullshit." Steve couldn't reign that one in before it escaped.

Bucky finished his beer and eyed him, mouth in a hard line. "You got something to say, say it?"

"You know that's bullshit, don't you?"

"What the fuck are you talking about, Steve? I mean, come on, they pardoned me, and this is part of that. I did a lot of terrible shit. I killed good people. I helped put bad people in power. Fuck, man, I can't fault anybody for holding me accountable."

There was a note of self-loathing in Bucky's voice that made familiar heat rise in Steve's chest—the one that had him getting his ass kicked after starting fights with bullys no one else would stand up to.

Except Bucky, of course. He had a knack for arriving just in time to prevent Steve from getting his skull bashed in.

"You don't have to make amends, Bucky. You did nothing wrong. All those things you did, you didn't have a choice…and don't you say it's on you because you did them. You literally fought Nazi's. If not for guys like you willing to put your life on the line, history would've gone a lot differently. You got captured doing your duty, and what they did to you—that's on them. All of it. Every person they made you kill is on them. They should be making amends to you." He avoided using the word victim because he knew Bucky would balk at applying that word to himself.

Bucky hadn't forgiven himself, and the fiasco with Tony Stark was thick in the air. It hung around Bucky like a dark cloud—just another thing he blamed himself for.

Steve put his beer down and leaned forward on the counter. "Buck, we've known each other since we were kids. I spent a lifetime with you in the other timeline. I know you, probably better than you know yourself. You're a good man. One of the best. You have nothing to make amends for…except for making me ride the Cyclone."

Bucky's eyes shimmered, and he grabbed the empty beer bottle, turning away too quickly and tossing it in the recycle bin under the counter. He didn't speak — not even one of his usual quips — which meant he couldn't trust his voice.

Steve waited a few seconds, then gave Bucky space, taking his beer into the living room. "Maybe she's not the right therapist, and if not, we can push for another."

Bucky cleared his throat. "Maybe don't rock the boat on session two."

Defeat was displayed in the slump of Bucky's shoulders and faraway gaze. He wouldn't speak up for himself, not about this, and knowing it was because Bucky believed he had no right to speak up made everything blurry around the edges of Steve's vision.

"Besides," Bucky continued, "she wants to know if you'll come to a session."

"What? Why?"

"She says you're the most—or rather, only—significant relationship I have in my life and she thinks a dual session with the two of us would be useful."

Steve couldn't believe his luck. "I'd love to, if you're okay with it."

Another shrug told him just how fond Bucky was of that idea. "Look, I'm a dog on a leash until the conditions of my pardon are satisfied."

Jesus. Steve took a breath instead of throwing his beer through their new television. He couldn't wait to meet Dr. Raynor.

-000-

Bucky felt like a specimen under a microscope—a feeling he was entirely too familiar with and one that made him tense from his hairline to the souls of his feet. He and Steve were sitting on opposite ends of the Doc's couch, and he found himself appreciating the way Steve automatically, without so much as a word or gesture, picked up on whatever subliminal cues Bucky was broadcasting regarding his need for space.

This whole "couple's therapy" thing felt incredibly absurd and awkward. He and Steve were best friends, brothers practically. They'd fought in trenches together, killed Germans side-by-side, cleaned up one another's battle wounds both in Brooklyn and Europe….and yet here they were being made to talk about their feelings in front of a woman who hadn't even been an inkling in her parents' eyes when Bucky died the first time.

Christ. The 21st century was too much.

"Thank you for agreeing to this session, Captain Rogers." Doctor Raynor held her pad and pen on her lap as she smiled politely from her chair.

Steve leaned forward, and oh boy, Bucky could read the stiff lines of those broad shoulders better than he could the tiny date scribbled on the upper right of the Doc's notepad. He knew Steve wasn't happy about the amends list, but he wasn't going to jeopardize this tenuous cease-fire between his legacy and the United States government.

No way.

"I am happy to be here." Steve smiled, something tight and flat.

Dr. Raynor tilted her head appreciatively. "I'm glad. I'd like to start off with—"

"Actually," Steve interrupted.

Oh, shit. Bucky deflated into the cushion. He threw a glare at Steve, who may or may not have noticed it because his steely eyes were pinned on Dr. Raynor.

"I have a couple of questions, Doctor, if you don't mind," Steve continued.

"Of course not."

"I want to make sure we're on the same page here. I assume you're familiar with Sergeant Barnes' history?"

Goddamnit. Steve was using the rank thing. He was on a mission.

"Steve—" Bucky gave his best warning look, but Steve's hand flickered up in the briefest of gestures, a mix of 'it's okay' and 'I'm not stopping."

Great. This was a bad fucking idea.

"Yes, I am." Raynor set her pen on the pad. "I've been fully briefed, read his extensive file."

"I'm delighted to hear that." Steve finally gave Bucky the briefest glance, and there was a bit of youthful fire in that gaze mixed with something old and wise. "You know that he was captured in 1945 on a mission to capture Zola, the scientist who had experimented on him and many others and who acted as one of Hydra's lead scientists?"

She nodded. "I am well aware—"

"Bucky was presumed killed in action on that mission—which happened because he stepped into the line of fire to save my life. But he wasn't dead. He was captured by Russians who were embedded with Hydra and working with Zola."

"Captain, I am aware that—"

"I'm not finished," Steve said. "I just want to make sure you're fully aware of his history before we continue. So, as I was saying, he was captured, and…" Steve took a breath, and the subtle shifting of his tone was something Bucky doubted Raynor picked up on.

Why are you going here, Steve? Please, stop…

But he didn't stop. Instead, Steve cleared his throat and continued. "He was tortured. Brainwashed. His mind programmed. There were a string of code words to make him compliant, against his will. I came face-to-face with him in that state four times. He had no agency of his own. He was as much a victim as every person Hydra sent him after."

"I read the file, Captain, and you're aware that's why the government decided to pardon him?"

When her eyes flicked his way, Bucky shifted his own to the closed door. Would they lock him up immediately if he ran out of one session?

Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "He shouldn't need a pardon. He's guilty of nothing."

The guy on the motorcycle in Bucharest would disagree with you, Pal, and I wasn't the Winter Soldier then.

Steve clasped his hands in front of him, his knuckles white. "I'd like to know why he's being made to work through a list of amends?"

"That was a mutual decision, and James is onboard with that." She looked at him again. "Aren't you, James?"

Bucky glanced between her probing eyes and the big blue ones full of question and sympathy that Steve was throwing his way. He didn't know what he was supposed to say, so he did what he usually did these days. Evasion. He shot to his feet. "Can I step out for some air without a strike team descending on me?"

"Of course, you can. Five minutes?"

He nodded and marched to the door, then through the small lobby and out onto the bustling street. The sound of traffic, footsteps, and murmured voices mixed with the breeze against his cheeks and made the air lighter in his lungs.

-000-

Steve gave Bucky a couple of minutes to himself, spending those two minutes in a back-and-forth with the Dr. Raynor about the ethics of making a veteran who spent 70 years as a POW work through an amends list. Then, he took off after his friend, finding him leaning against a street light watching passerbies near the coffee shop across the street.

"I'm sorry," Steve said. "I should have talked to you about this more. I'm old enough to know better. I just…I got…."

"Hot headed?" Bucky turned to him, his question hovering in the arch of his eyebrows. "She's not a back alley bully, and even if she was, don't you think I can stand up for myself?"

Steve took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his words were slow and measured. "I know you can, but I also know you're in a tenuous position. I didn't sign an agreement with the government, and that means I have more latitude than you do right now. I know you don't want to rock the boat, but I sure as hell can. Even with the agreement, Buck, you have the right to ask questions, to voice concerns. I've spent 70 years reflecting on…things." So many things he'd wished he'd done differently, and too many revelations that were too late. "On our way to Siberia, you said you didn't think you were worth what happened. The only time I can remember you speaking up about what you wanted after you escaped Hydra was when you asked the Wakandans to put you in cryo—you literally volunteered to be frozen again so you wouldn't hurt anyone."

Bucky looked away, his shoulders slumped like a petulant teenager. "I couldn't trust my own mind."

"Don't you think I see what you're feeling? You don't think you have the right to speak up for yourself because of the things Hydra made you do. You stay silent, out of the way. You lived on a hill with goats in Wakanda. You didn't want a prosthetic…not until the aliens came, and even though I know you'd had enough of fighting , you never said a thing. You just stepped up to fight because we wanted you to."

Bucky's eyes flashed with anger. "It was the end of the goddamned world. Of course I was going to fight."

"I know, because even though you were tired of fighting, and you'd barely gotten your mind free, you saw it as your duty, and you did it without question. Without complaint. Without hesitation. Just like you did in 1943 when you shipped off to England to fight Nazis."

Bucky leaned his shoulder against the streetlight, slumping as if every word of praise was a lash to his back. "So did a lot of other guys, Steve, that doesn't make me any better."

It was so clear how much Bucky needed him that Steve wondered how he ever thought Bucky would be better off without him. He'd always seen Bucky as the stronger one, the one he'd grown up admiring, wanting to emulate. He'd seen himself as the weight dragging Bucky down, keeping him from living up to his full potential. The fiasco with Tony, the Avengers, and his failures when Thanos came just made all those feelings of inadequacy flood to the surface.

But Bucky needed him now more than ever. The things that had been done to him and that he'd been forced to do had twisted his view of himself. He was burdened by a mound of self-reproach so huge that he couldn't see the man he was beyond the heap of trauma wrapped up in guilt and nightmares.

And, goddamnit, when Steve left, it probably confirmed everything Bucky thought about himself.

"I'm sorry I left." He was, even though he had a great life and had two amazing children. He could see the decision for what it was. He was running away. He wouldn't run anymore. "I'm glad I'm here with you now, Bucky, because I know you can't speak up. You're not in that place, yet, but I hope someday you realize you have every right to speak up. Nothing you did is on you, and no one should make you feel like you need to be grateful just because they haven't locked you up. You served your country and paid a price no one should have had to pay. You deserve a life, Bucky. If you can't speak up for yourself right now, especially with the conditions of your pardon, then please, let me help you. I've kicked myself so many times recently, knowing that had I not stayed, you'd be dealing with this on your own. You shouldn't have to. Right? Isn't that what you told me once? Let me return the favor. Let me help you, Buck. Make an old man feel useful."

That got a shallow smile out of Buck. He looked sideways at him through a veil of lashes. "Some old man. You're younger than I am…physically. Bruce should bottle that stuff and sell it."

Steve moved closer, placing a hand on the crook of Bucky's neck and giving a gentle squeeze. He wasn't going to be derailed by a joke. This was too important. "Someday I hope I can hear you say you deserve a life. Nothing you did was your fault. You have nothing to feel guilty for."

Bucky swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing, and he sucked in a shaky breath. His eyes darted around at passerbies, a few giving them odd looks, but most were on the other side of the street checking out boutiques and coffee shops.

"Hey, man." Steve gave a gentle pull, and Bucky yielded. The hug was quick. Steve was too old to care about what others thought, but Bucky wasn't there yet. He was still too self conscious, as though any bit of happiness he displayed was an affront to the victims of the Winter Soldier.

"I'm glad you're here." Bucky pulled back and wiped at his face. "Thanks, Steve."

"I'm glad, too." He nodded toward the building. "So, uh, do I have your permission to speak my mind in there?"

Bucky shrugged even as he nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I never stopped you before, even when I tried."

-000-

March 2025

Bucky left the doctor's office feeling like he usually did after his sessions—worn out. Even though he liked the new therapist better than Dr. Raynor, it was still a doctor and she still wanted him to talk. At least Dr. Swift never pushed. She asked similar questions, but didn't berate him when he didn't want to talk. For most of their sessions, her notepad and pen sat on a table next to her chair, but she was upfront with him about her process.

Once, when he was having a particularly bad day and they were on the topic of his disdain for doctors, his experiences at the hands of Hydra doctors, and his resistance to therapy, he flippantly asked her to hand over her notes about him if trust was to be a two-way street. He fully expected her to refuse and prove his point.

Instead, she got up, grabbed his file, and handed him the entire thing, including the notepad on the table next to her. That had been a month ago. Their sessions since then were better. Somedays he sat there and stared quietly at the window, answering her questions with one-word answers.

"How have you been sleeping?"

"Fine." A lie.

"Can you remember your dreams?"

"Sometimes." The truth. Mostly. He almost always remembered his dreams, usually because he woke up gasping in the middle of them.

"How are things going with Steve?"

"Great." That was the truth.

He and Steve had come to an understanding about their living arrangements. If Bucky had a nightmare that woke Steve up in the next room, Steve would stay the hell away. The last thing Bucky wanted was Steve—or anyone—in his face asking him if he was okay.

But if he ventured into the living room, that meant he wouldn't mind company. It was nice having that safety net. He'd been denied privacy of any kind for decades. Now, when his bedroom door was closed, that was a boundary Steve honored, and when Bucky woke up in the middle of the night barely able to breathe beneath the suffocating sense of isolation, he'd stagger into the living room, and Steve always opened his door, padded into the living room, made a hot cup of tea or cocoa, grabbed some cookies, and sat on the couch with Bucky.

Often, during those times, they didn't speak, and for that, Bucky was grateful. It was only during the past few weeks that Bucky felt the urge to share some of his dreams. He found that talking about them to the only person on the planet he trusted implicitly and who knew him before Hydra got their hooks into him made him feel more like a human being than he had in a long time.

Now, as he made his way up the stairs to their apartment, he was struck by a sudden, almost overwhelming sense of gratitude that he had a shot at a new life—a real life, and that Steve was there to share it with him.

He got to the apartment door. It was quiet inside, but something felt off. He put his ear to the door, but all he heard was soft music and the shuffle of a pair of feet. He smelled something that made his mouth water and his stomach grumble and decided he was being paranoid, but old habits were hard to break. It's not like an intruder would cook dinner and put on a Drifter's record.

Steve had developed a broader musical appreciation since he'd lived through the past decades. He was particularly fond of the sounds of the 50s and 60s and delighted in introducing Bucky to the music of those eras.

Bucky tried the knob, happy to find it was locked. He retrieved his key and unlocked the door, old paranoia making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He barely got it open when a chorus of voices hit him with "Surprise!"

Within the span of half a second, all his defense came forward. His heart raced, his vibranium fist clenched, and he shifted his legs into a stable fighting stance, but even as his body went to autopilot, his brain processed the situation and squelched his instinctive reaction just in time.

Steve offered an apologetic smile. Sam, Sarah, AJ, Cass, Torres, Dr. Strange, Wong, Scott, and the Bartons were clustered in the space where the living room transitioned to the kitchen. A large pink cake box was on the counter, and colorful balloons drifted along the ceiling proclaiming "Happy Birthday!" A pile of wrapped presents sat on and around the coffee table.

As his heart slowed, he took a breath and gave a shaky smile. He hadn't even realized it was March 10th. He hadn't thought about his birthday in decades. The last time he'd had anything resembling a celebration was March of 1944. That had been in the middle of the war, and yet Steve managed to surprise him with M&Ms and a Hershey chocolate bar at the end of a day after a hairy mission.

Bucky closed the door, feeling awkward as the center of attention. He was sure the smile on his face looked as goofy as it felt. "What…I, uh…. Shit." He looked at Steve and shook his head. "I didn't even realize what day it was."

Sam clapped his hands. "We figured you haven't had a birthday in a long time."

"Party, that is," Clint said, stepping forward and clapping Bucky on the arm. "You've had birthdays, of course."

"Yeah, you're old as hell," Torres said.

Bucky didn't know what to say. He wasn't expecting this, and he sure as hell wasn't expecting people to show up for a party. Hell, Lang lived across the country. "Scott, don't you live in San Francisco?"

Scott shrugged. "I'm here for a book signing event. There's a whole chapter on you."

Oh, hell.

AJ walked up to him, head tilted up and eyes wide. "How old are you?"

He did the math. "Not that old. Only 107. Nowhere near as old as Steve."

A ripple of laughter brightened the apartment. Steve approached, grinning wildly, and draped his arm across Bucky's shoulder. "Happy birthday, Buck."

Bucky looked around at his new friends. Most of them had risked their lives to help him. He was at a loss for words, and when he finally managed to swallow the thick lump in his throat, all he could say was "Thank you."

Scott clapped once and pointed to the counter. "Can we have cake now? I'm starving!"