Happy checked his watch; nothing was running on time today, but he was prepared.

"She's headed down now," Friday reported to Happy Hogan through a discreet earpiece, right as expected.

"Got it. Tell the driver to pull the car around, but I'm driving."

"Of course," the computer replied, with just a bit more sass than was necessary.

"Do I need to remind you that I know where the master kill-switches are?"

"Those aren't real."

"After Ultron ate Jarvis you can bet your digital ass they're real. I've got a plastic key and everything."

The elevator opened and they exited, The elevator doors opened and Happy moved quickly to stand between the exiting guests and the door. "Miss Dumont, I've got a private car to take you-"

"That won't be necessary," Mab's escort - her Uncle - cut him off, "just hail us a cab at the curb, if you don't mind. We can do it ourselves if you're too busy."

Happy glanced at Mab, trying to will her to meet his gaze. The little machine in his ear spoke with a calm and friendly voice, reporting: "Miss Dumont's phone does not appear to be active. Mr. Stark requests that you verify it's working correctly before they leave."

Mab's Uncle locked him in a fierce gaze, nearly prickling with barely-restrained contempt. Happy stepped outside into blistering cold and waved down a cab with a swift gesture. Any cabbie worth his salt would stop on a dime when hailed by this door.

His earpiece chimed again. "Mr. Stark insists-"

"He's not about to let me ask her a damn thing," he cut off the AI, "better to save any goodwill we've got left by letting them make a graceful exit."

Happy held the door open so the wheelchair didn't jostle against the door. He'd have to see about getting those upgraded - something wider, with a strong automatic motor that could fight against the bitter Manhattan winds.

Mab's scarf ripped off in the wind, a shock of green lightning bolting down the street, unnoticed as she moved slowly into the cab.

Happy kept his distance as the cab pulled away from the curb and headed down to Greenwich Village. He stepped out into the vicious winter wind, shoulders shrugging up instantly in a poor attempt at keeping warm. "Be right back," he reported to the computer.

He could see it, though, it hadn't gotten far. He jogged down the sidewalk and reached up into the bare branches of a stubborn tree, and took back the stolen greenery of Mab's scarf. It was snagged in a few places, but as he patted away little bits of dirt and bark, Happy could also see it had been lovingly mended before.

It would survive these little injustices once more. "Friday," Happy ordered, knowing the computer was always listening, "call that tailor and cleaner we like, and have her come by for a pickup. No rush."

"Of course. Delivery to Greenwich Village?"

"No," he said, "return here. She'll be back."

"You willing to bet on that?"

Happy tucked the sweater away in a drawer, away from prying eyes, until the tailor could pick it up. "Name your stakes."

Six Months Later

Warm summer winds tried to cheer up Steve's empty mood. The beer bottle sitting between his hands, sweating condensation onto the porch railing, tried to keep his attention. If he held it too tightly the glass could break, easier than breathing. He could so easily remember a time when breathing was a challenge, walking up a hill, walking up the stairs, so many things beyond his grasp.

That perfect recollection haunted him. He could remember it all. Steve remembered the gunfire, the explosions, a fear and a sense of purpose, and laughter. He could accurately count the number of pints he'd shared over wobbly tables, and what day he'd had them. Steve knew with perfect clarity the number of rounds he'd fired, and where, and into what bodies. He knew the number of seconds he'd clung to the side of a damaged train, reaching for Bucky's hand, before he fell. He knew how many times he'd kissed Peggy; once. He knew how many times he'd kissed Mab; none.

His perfect recollection haunted and taunted Steve. He could perfectly remember the feeling of her hand in his, the ocean's call of her tires rolling by, or the clack of her cane, or the cadence of her laughter. There was no green and blue like what he'd seen in her eyes, not that he could stop searching for it. He couldn't stop listening, searching, reaching out with every sense, and it haunted him.

It haunted him, that he remembered the taste of dead bodies in the air as he ran through abandoned hospital halls, praying that he could find her and begging God that he didn't. He could hear the even cadence of her heart, reported in terrible music by a machine that kept her alive. Your fault, it sang.

The bottle cracked in his hands, spilling glass shards and beer all over the porch.

The balcony doors opened behind him, letting out the briefest murmurs of the conversation continuing without him. "And I swear, if we don't get some rain soon, I'm going to have to-"

"I was just about to come back in," he said, turning his head to see who had followed him outside. It was Bucky that had come to check on him. A pang of guilt, no less sharp for all the barbs he already carried, that his friend had needed to step away from his weekly ritual to check on him. "Sorry," he said without thinking, sweeping glass off the porch with his foot and trying to shake the liquid from his hands.

Bucky didn't reply right away. He walked slowly to the edge of the covered porch, resting his hands on the balcony railing, looking out at the ocean. He didn't need to acknowledge the broken glass for Steve to hear the question, to know the exchange that would have followed, the tension. They'd had the same conversation so many times.

"I feel like every conversation we have always ends up back in 1945. But," Bucky sighed, tapping metal fingers against a metal balcony rail until it sang. "I left you behind."

Steve was quick to argue, "No, Buck; you didn't-"

"I did, and it wasn't fair." Bucky said. "I got caught up in this new life, which is great, but we always promised we'd be there for each other. I let you down. And I'm sorry."

Steve didn't argue. He'd been beyond envious of Bucky's recovery, that he'd been so seemingly unnecessary to it, that he was on the outside of a beautiful future and unwelcome. And that had riddled him with guilt, that he was anything less than supportive for his oldest friend to finally have a moment of peace after decades upon decades of torture and blood.

Envy, not his greatest sin but certainly no stranger. Your fault, his envy reminded him. Greed, pride, envy, all his closest bedfellows.

Bucky leaned on the balcony railing, looking out over the water. "You weren't mean to fix my mistakes, but you did it anyway." Bucky shot him a look. "Sold your soul to make me and the others 'legal'. I have to thank you, but I also want to hit you over the head for it." Bucky shook his head. "I mean, how could you do something so stupid?"

Your fault, Pride roared, not with shame but in defense. A confidence he could still feel that he could make the right choice and keep everyone safe. He alone could carry the heavens on his shoulders and keep the sky from falling. Except when he couldn't. Your fault.

"When I woke up, after the ice, it was too easy to just fall back on old habits. Everyone was 'sir', or 'ma'am', and everyone was fine with how I behaved. I even dressed the same."

Bucky groaned. "God, tell me you didn't."

"I spent a lot of time growing out of that mold, had a lot of help. Nat, Alice, Sam." Steve sighed. "Tony." Steve rubbed his face with one hand. "Just feels like, these days, everyone's trying to shove me back into it. And I don't have the leverage to fight it. I can either keep being Captain America and keep everyone safe, or I can let everyone down."

Bucky hummed thoughtfully. "Yeah, maybe." A wry smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. "But are those your only two options?"

The question hit Steve like a sack of bricks. The shock on his face made Bucky's smile broaden. "I knew Peggy, too, Steve. It seemed like - for a while there - that you had almost got out?" Bucky seemed hesitant to ask.

Almost got out, but at what price? Your fault. Almost got out, but going where? Your fault. Where would he even go, when Heaven fell?

You could have killed her. Shouldn't he have known? He knew, she knew he knew, better than anyone else how fragile illness could make you. Just how delicate he needed to treat those hands, that heart. She had told him, and he hadn't listened. Pride. A blind confidence that he alone could hold up Heaven had almost killed her.

He deserved what they made him.

More beers appeared on the railing. "What's this, a conspiracy within a conspiracy? How scandalous."

Steve ducked his head. "Hey, Tony."

Tony raised a glass of water in toast. "Cap, Straw Dog."

"He's moping," Bucky said, taking one of the offered beers.

Tony hummed. "Ah, that would be the poet."

"Mab?" Bucky asked, startling Steve. "Don't make that face - I do actually talk to the rest of the team."

"I don't want to talk about-" her name clutched at his throat, settled in too deeply to be freed. "I don't want to talk about her," he said with more force than he intended.

Bucky and Tony raised a brow in sync, and it would have been funny in any other circumstance. Tony and Bucky had come to some kind of understanding, clearly. The two existed at regular Sunday dinners without knives or bullets passing over the table, and Alice never seemed to intervene anymore.

Speaking of conspiracies, "Where are we on the data extraction, Tony?"

Tony clucked his tongue. "Nowhere, annoyingly. Beacon stopped pinging once it got in, but was reporting all green as far as collection until then. I have to assume it's got all the goodies just waiting to be picked up."

"So we need to pick it up."

"Yeah, about that," Tony twirled a spoon in his hand, "I think they're on to us."

"What?" Steve asked, alarmed. "How?"

"I don't have a stellar helpful reputation, so offering to troubleshoot various issues may have raised a red flag. Or, it's worse than we think and they're being cagey about it."

"See," Bucky interjected, silver knuckles dancing in the low light as he tapped a thoughtful finger along his chin, "I think that can still work to your advantage. Steve," he turned, a mischievous light in his eyes, "you remember Dudley?"

Steve's memory wound back. "Who, Clarke?" His mind raced, and he let out a heavy breath. "Abeam's a bit of a long game."

Bucky shrugged. "Are we in a hurry?"

Tony snapped his fingers to get their attention. "I just want to remind you that I taught both of you how to use a credit card. And email."

"Sorry," Bucky apologized, "it's an old trick, Operation Abeam. From our time." He grinned wickedly. "If they're afraid of a boogeyman and there's none to be found, you make one. Put men in the enemy's uniform and walk them around town. Fake paperwork for made-up invasions, threats of airborne assault."

"That's the kind of thing people get disappeared for these days. Making plans like that," Tony said, but he didn't sound against it. He hummed, hawed, and crossed his arms. "I don't know, Cap. Last time I made the final call it was to sign on to this mess." Tony's face was the apology that Steve had never asked for. "It's your call, Cap."

Sounds of laughter reached them, of the merry weekly dinner they'd left. These were the lives they'd tried to protect, that hung in such delicate balance.

Wasn't this the mistake they'd made before?

"It's not my decision," Steve said. "It shouldn't be. If things don't go the way we want…" he looked at Bucky. "At best, we're all in cells."

With a dramatic flourish, Tony gestured to the balcony doors. "After you, then."

Steve clenched his hands, trying to think of how to interrupt the last of Sunday dinner. He'd gone out onto the balcony to try to avoid ruining the atmosphere - the one moment of the week when the whole team felt they could relax, sheltered away in Alice and Bucky's farm out on the island, close to the ocean.

But his team wasn't stupid or oblivious - they could read his face as he returned, Bucky and Tony in tow, faces grim. Conversation immediately halted. Rhodes stood, sharing a look with Tony.

"Sorry to interrupt," Steve said over the sudden silence, "but we need to talk."

"Are we breaking up?" Natasha asked, calculated easygoing tone targeted at the rapidly escalating tension.

"Should I make tea?" Alice asked, standing slowly.

"Sit back down," Bucky said sternly.

She sat down, looking disappointed. Natasha glared at Bucky and said something in Russian. He shot an even nastier look back with something in Russian that was more likely than not some version of 'go to hell'.

Steve decided to leave it be. He addressed the group; "We have a decision to make, and I'd like for us to come to a decision together. Not a vote, not a command, but a unanimous choice one way or another."

"You've certainly got our attention, Captain," Vision said.

"The United States Government has been using us to control a mutant project, corralling and controlling test subjects that can't or won't be controlled. Tony has had a data-collection device at the Raft for the last six months, but we can't remotely access it to retrieve our proof. Retrieving and exposing the Government for their crimes could be considered treason."

"Test subjects…?" Wanda uttered, "can you be sure?"

Steve nodded. "We're sure. Tony decrypted the classified portions of the Sokovia accords that permitted human subjects suspected of meta- or enhanced abilities."

"I don't exactly remember reading that part on signing day," Rhodes said.

"Shockingly, to absolutely no one's surprise, there were two versions," Tony said. He held up one finger. "The press and public version, which while somewhat redacted at a staggering three hundred and seven pages, is nothing compared to the classified version." Tony crossed his arms. "approved by a smaller council at the United Nations, and certainly not all 117 approving nations, special articles suspend citizen rights in any signing country in the event of the expression of meta-abilities."

"And since the Feds want as many super-soldiers as they can get, they've been paying poor suckers to screen for any potential powers, and sending any uncontrollable powers to the Raft," Bucky said.

"With our help," Sam said, sagging back in his seat.

Steve nodded. "It wouldn't have been possible at this scale without the Avengers. We're at a crossroads; we can either choose to act and potentially be considered traitors, or we can do nothing and be co-conspirators."

"That's not a crossroads, that's the fucking Rubicon," Rhodes said.

"Or a bridge too far," Vision added.

"Ok, let's take a step back from the nonstop war metaphors," Sam said, rubbing a hand over his eyes, "what's the endgame here? What does victory look like? This isn't like fighting some alien monster from outer space or some crazy wizard; this is the United States Government we're up against, and the entire United Nations while we're at it."

"Can't really expect them to just say 'sorry' and take the thing apart," Wanda grumbled.

"Why not?" Vision replied, not naive but not fully a challenge, "it's happened before; Tule Lake, Manzanar-"

"Those were on American soil," Natasha interrupted. "Feds learned after that. Gitmo and the Raft are the new rule."

"Can we not forget the part where we might just get shot for this?" Rhodes added. "I think that's pretty important to make sure we talk about."

"You're being uncharacteristically quiet, Ratched," Tony called across the table.

Steve hadn't realized it until Tony pointed it out. Alice's hands were clutched tightly around her mug and her face seemed pale. Her eyes darted idly from side to side, like reading a page over and over as she tried to organize a thought. She frowned, opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.

Sam gave her a nudge with his knee. "Your thoughts need to be on the outside now, Al. Share with the class."

"Sorry," she said reflexively, "I'm trying to do a lot of backwards math."

"I'm great at math," Tony shot back, "give me the variables."

Her face twisted. "I don't think I have all of them. How much did those two tell you about my old war stories?"

"I was strictly informed that you were not to be bothered."

"Then this is about to sound completely wild."

Something about the last few years had taken the edge off of the insanity of Alice's story. Fresh, scattershot, the enormity of her task hit home like a punch to the gut. As she spoke, sometimes stumbling over her words or reaching for an apt description, she blindly and slowly extended a hand for her husband. He moved to her the background, gathering her hand in his and anchoring the tale.

Not to be forgotten, almost no one else had known. They knew Alice was precious, that she extended her love with no reserve, and that she fought like a pit of vipers when cornered, but they hadn't known her sacred mission.

How odd, but not odd at all, that she had found a place at their table. No, that's not right, Steve corrected. Tony had built the table. Tony has built the table, the tower, the compound. Alice had built a home, built a hearth, built a place of peace. She had drawn them there, summoned and called. They had built different tables, but both had been needed.

Wanda nodded as Alice described Azzano; the man she'd killed there, who had wanted Bucky dead. The time seemed to stretch out in her story; the preparation for a hard life and a long wait. The enemies she'd killed, with a knife or with a gun. Her mission. Her exile. Her death.

Bucky closed his eyes as he clutched at her hand; Alice now his lifeline against a tide of terrible memories.

Sam nodded as she described the long years alone, then with his friendship, before Steve and Natasha had appeared on her doorstep. Then Bucky; the Soldier. Their time in Iceland. Their return, then the new mission, too many details to count. And finally, Cable's farewell.

With a deep furrow in his brow, and chin tilted low over crossed arms, Tony had listened without comment. Alice let go of Bucky's hand to wring hers together. She looked like she wanted to apologize; she'd done it before. Her shame rivaled any good Catholic's guilt.

"That's everything?" Tony asked when Alice stopped.

She nodded. "As much as I can remember."

Tony looked almost relieved. "Then it doesn't matter what we choose."

"I don't follow," Wanda said.

"I do," Natasha said. "Whatever it was that Alice's changes were meant to insulate against hasn't happened yet. That's why we're missing variables."

Tony pointed to her with his pen. "Gold star. The only thing that does matter is that we make our decisions together."

"How do you figure?" Bucky asked.

"Because it's not what happened after you traveled back through time that matters, it's what happened when your friend said you were done," Tony raised an eyebrow at Alice, leading her to the answer.

"The accords?" she asked.

Tony nodded. "We signed them. We all signed them, even though your best judgement told you not to. Why?" he asked Steve.

Steve looked at Bucky, positioned behind Alice's chair. His oldest friends.

Tony didn't make him say it out loud. "Let's do a little speculating, shall we? Madam Liberty over there doesn't time travel at all, and you survive your super special assasination attempt, if that was even real. What's different?"

"Sergeant Barnes," Vision declared, "we can't say for certain he would have rejoined us without his additional connection with Missus Barnes. If his memories would have returned so swiftly without her help. As Hydra didn't know she was still alive, the Winter Soldier wasn't programmed to attack her and she could work to resolve-"

"Yup, we get it Vis, thanks," Wanda cut him off.

"Thirteen tries," Tony said. "Thirteen tries, to get us all to sign the Accords. That doesn't strike you as insane?"

"Cable was a nutjob," Alice muttered.

"Maybe. But something about the Accords should have split us up."

"Something's coming, something big," Natasha said.

"We've seen big, and we've beaten it," Rhodes said.

"Exactly," Natasha agreed, "we've seen big things we clawed past on the way to victory, and that's not what she was sent back to prevent." Natasha let the threat hang in the air.

Like a call of distant ocean waves. Slow drips of rain, collecting into puddles that kicked up great waves as soft tires rolled through. Tides and waves, skimming through library rows, hands twirling leaves between fingers. He could almost hear her voice, whispering through a clear telephone line with rain as her chorus. "Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again."

"It's strangely… freeing. If you think about it," Vision mused. "Until some ultimate enemy descends from the Heavens on a chariot of fire, we are all but guaranteed victory in our efforts."

"As long as we make our decisions together," Sam added. "So, whatever decision we make, we all have to agree. We have to stay together as a team."

"So, what would you do if you knew you could not fail?" Vision asked.

Alice grinned. "Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter."

You would have loved Mab, if I hadn't almost killed her, Steve almost said.

Instead, he said: "I understand if anyone isn't comfortable with what we have to do, I just ask that… please, don't-"

"Rat you out?" Rhodes said abruptly. "C'mon, Cap, give us more credit than that."

"I'm sorry, who in this room has medals for service to the government? Raised hands, please, fellow patriots." Tony raised his hand. As did Steve, followed by Sam. "C'mon, Rodey, you're a certified patriot, get that hand up."

Alice also reluctantly raised her hand. "It's a little old, but I think it still counts?"

"Alright, fine, put your hands down," Rhodes grumbled, "I get your point."

"I know what I'm asking you to risk giving up. We might fail, we might be exiled forever, we-"

"No, Captain. I choose to believe Mr. Stark; we can choose to do the right thing and bring an end to this injustice. It may be foolish to blindly believe that we are assured of victory, but…" he smiled, slowly, and so human, "is this not what we were made for? Not to protect governments or nations, but people?"

Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. That you will stay who you are, not a perfect soldier, but a good man. And he had pledged, all those years ago, to stand up for the little guys.

"We're with you, Steve. Whatever you need," Sam said. Murmurs of assent went round the room.

Steve nodded, clearing his throat to clear the tightness there. "Then we have a lot of planning to do."

A/N: Let me just lie down in exhaustion - so, so much going on here. We're tying up some loose ends and adding new exposition, and this took absolutely forever to work out.

It's not critical to the plot, but guesses on what Bucky/Nat/Alice's problem is?