I'm not supposed to be scared of anything
But I don't know where I am
I wish that I could move
But I'm exhausted and nobody understands

(How I feel)
I'm trying hard to breathe now
But there's no air in my lungs
There's no one here to talk to
And the pain inside is making me numb
I try to hold this under control
They can't help me 'cause no one knows

- "Changes" by 3 Doors Down

Bucky was slowly growing used to the routine of his new life. He had to.

There wasn't much to do during the day, but at least there was a predictable schedule. Bucky soon learned when to expect the guards' shift changes, which were always accompanied by a head count where all the inmates had to stand by their cell doors. He knew when to line up with everyone else for their trays at meal times, and when certain inmates were to line up and get their daily medications.

After a few days of observation, he figured out when the best times were to use one of the phones or the little computer screens that gave them access to commissary. Steve made sure his account stayed at a reasonable amount—enough to make sure he could buy everything he needed, not so much that it would draw undue attention.

The TV was kept on all day, usually tuned in to the news or sports. Bucky found himself watching much more than he ever had before, simply because there was little else to do. They were sent out to the rec yard for an hour every day unless it was raining, but there wasn't much to do out there either. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Bucky stayed away from the weights and exercise equipment they were allowed to use under close supervision. There were basketballs and hoops that a lot of the inmates used, but no one ever asked Bucky to join. Most of the time, Bucky just wandered up and down the fence, watching everyone and keeping his distance. Still, it was nice to breathe the fresh air and see the sky before they were herded back inside.

The book cart from the library came by once or twice a week, but they were only allowed to check out one book at a time, and that wasn't enough to fill all those empty hours. Still, Bucky made sure to grab any book that looked even slightly interesting. Anything to take his mind away from his surroundings.

Even more than he had in the London prison, Bucky lived for his phone calls and visits with Steve. He called Steve every day, even on the days he'd come out to see him. There was no visitation on Mondays or Tuesdays, but for the rest of the week, Steve could come see him every other day. That meant in one week he would get three visits, and then two the next week.

No amount of time spent talking on the phone or sitting on opposite sides of a thick layer of glass could possibly be enough. Bucky tried to relate something funny or at least positive from the day, or talk about the books he was reading, but often he didn't say much. Steve always carried the conversation, telling him about the new apartment they'd moved into, recounting some cute anecdote of what Jake was up to or a joke Sam had made.

Bucky knew Steve was just trying to make him feel included, like he was still part of their life outside these walls. But no matter how detailed Steve's descriptions were or how vivid Bucky's imagination was, it just wasn't the same as actually being there. He didn't really know what the apartment looked like. Sometimes Steve would have Sam and Jake join the call, but that only served to remind Bucky that the last time he'd seen either of them was almost a month ago.

He missed them. Everything was okay for a short space of time while he was talking to Steve, but as soon as he hung up or turned to leave the visitation room, Bucky's heart would sink to his toes at the return to reality. A reality without them.

The only other break in the monotony was the visit Matt paid him once a week. There wasn't a whole lot of news to give him; right now, all they could do was wait for the paperwork to move through the system and to see what kind of materials the prosecution might turn up during the discovery period. Still, Matt made sure to keep him updated. Bucky knew he could easily have done this with a regular phone call, but he realized that Matt was giving him a weekly respite from prison life, brief though it might be. For that, Bucky was infinitely grateful.

As much as he hated it, Bucky knew he was slipping back into the man he used to be. The wary, isolated man with a shell too hard for anyone to penetrate. When he was with Steve or Matt, or when he was talking on the phone and heard Sam's warm laughter or Jake's timid little voice, his heart would instantly soften, and he could be his true self. But as soon as he had to turn back to life in a prison cell, all the walls would instantly rise up around him again.

He couldn't keep himself from observing everything. He was aware of everyone in the room at all times—watching their movements, assessing their potential threat, watching for weakness and vulnerability that he could exploit if it came down to a fight. As much as possible, he found places to stand or sit with his back to a wall. Just in case.

Not even 24 hours had passed in this place before he'd seen his first fight. It was over something stupid, some small disagreement; he wasn't sure what. The officers broke it up almost immediately, and the worst that came out of it was a busted lip, but it served to drive home to Bucky that he was far from safe in here.

He didn't talk much to his fellow inmates. Not that he minded—he didn't want to get to know any of them better, and they all seemed perfectly content to give him a wide berth. When Bucky's name inevitably came up on the news from time to time, he was sure to hear mocking cheers from the men around the TV, followed by a few snide comments, but that was usually the extent of it.

Even though he hardly spoke two words to anyone in here, Bucky couldn't help but get a sense of the social dynamics of the cell block, just from observing everyone. He didn't do it consciously, but his brain seemed to run on autopilot, assessing his surroundings because he knew that was the only way to protect himself.

There were three main gangs here, divided for the most part along racial lines. Almost everyone seemed to belong to a gang, whether they'd joined the gang on the outside or had been initiated during their stay here. Bucky wondered if he was expected to join the 'Brotherhood,' which seemed to be the name of the White gang. On the other hand, maybe they wouldn't let him join even if he'd wanted to, judging from the way Brad and his friends looked at him.

It didn't take long before Bucky gathered that Brad was known as the 'pod boss.' Any business that took place in that cell block—the trading of commissary items, the movement of contraband, the settlement of disputes—had to go through him. If an argument arose among members of the other gangs, Brad would let them deal with it. But if that argument involved inmates from multiple gangs, Brad would always show up to resolve the conflict.

But 'resolving conflict' was putting it nicely. Even in the first few days he was there, Bucky saw evidence of Brad's discipline. He would disappear into a cell with several of his men, always one of the cells that wasn't in a direct line of sight of the security cameras. Bucky's sharp ears would pick up the muffled sounds of a scuffle, and then within minutes—long before any of the guards noticed, let alone were able to respond—Brad would casually walk back out. And every time, someone would end up walking around with a black eye or a bloody nose.

No one went to any of the guards for help. If any of the officers ventured in to break up a scuffle or demanded to know why someone was bleeding, everyone in the entire cell block would grow mysteriously ignorant of what had happened, even the ones who had been avidly watching every moment of the fight.

Bucky followed their example and kept his mouth shut. He kept reminding himself that nothing in here mattered in the long run. He'd be out of here before too long. Besides, most of these men were hardened criminals. They probably deserved it.

He doubted any of the guards would be much help anyway. It didn't take long to get a feel for each of them, both from watching them at their jobs and from overhearing other inmates' comments. Officer Ted Bailey was a tall, barrel-chested Black man who never said more than he had to and wore a permanent expression of boredom, barely batting an eye even when someone broke the rules right in front of him and hardly ever writing anyone up for anything. At the other end of the spectrum, Officer Benjamin Petty was a White guard whose only remarkable physical features seemed to be how average and unremarkable he looked—average height, average build, brown hair and eyes, completely forgettable. But Bucky quickly saw that everyone was always on their best behavior when Officer Petty was on shift, because he would notice even the smallest infraction and carry out discipline by the book.

Bucky's heart sank when he realized that he couldn't rely on any of them for his safety. Officer Brenda Fields just sat at the desk in the little office with a window giving her a narrow view of the cell block, hardly ever setting foot inside. Officer Jose Guerra was almost certainly taking bribes from the Hispanic gang. From what Bucky had gathered from several overheard conversations, one of the higher-ranking gang members was Officer Guerra's cousin. He would go up to speak with Officer Guerra when he was on shift, then hand him something when he thought no one was looking. After that, Officer Guerra would turn a blind eye to anything they did or said when he was on shift.

No, Bucky couldn't rely on any of them. He was surrounded by dangerous men, many of them violent, and he could trust no one to protect him but himself.

Bucky would have preferred to know as little as possible about Brad's business dealings. Unfortunately, he didn't really have much of a choice. Even though he kept his distance when they were allowed out of their cells, that still left many hours stuck in a cell with him. There was no space or privacy, just an awkward tension between them that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

They didn't talk unless it was absolutely necessary. There was no open hostility between them, other than Brad giving him a few terse warnings to stay out of his way and keep his belongings tidy in his bunk. Bucky had an idea of how Brad would react if he stuck his nose into his business, so he did his best to just keep his head down.

Still, he couldn't help noticing that Brad kept a rather large collection of commissary items stashed under his bunk. When commissary was delivered, he always received a large bag filled with everything from ramen noodles to deodorant. Far more than he could go through in a week by himself.

Even though it was against the rules, Brad ran a store out of their cell. People came to him to trade for different items, or even sometimes for an entire tray of food at the next meal. Bucky didn't stick around long when this business was being carried out, but from what little he'd heard, he knew Brad didn't just deal in commissary items, either. Bucky wasn't familiar with all the different names they used, but it wasn't hard to figure out they were talking about drugs.

After observing this business for a couple weeks, Bucky realized that a lot of the threats and discipline that Brad carried out were in connection to the economy of the jail. Brad seemed to have very little patience when it came to inmates running up debt for the things they 'bought' from his store. If commissary was handed out and someone didn't pay back what they owed by the end of the day, they were sure to face immediate consequences.

It was brutal, but more or less fair. If an inmate wanted to get high in here, he had to pay the price one way or another. He made his choice, Bucky kept reminding himself as he turned his back on the threats and beatings. He should have known better. And I can't afford to get involved.

But he couldn't help noticing a skinny Black kid who kept going back to deal with Brad, even after getting a beating for running up a debt. Maybe it was just the kid's small stature, or maybe it was his scraggly attempt at growing a beard, but he didn't look a day older than eighteen. Brad positively dwarfed him.

The day after the beating, Bucky was walking around the second level like he often did, when he noticed the kid hurrying away from Brad, who loomed in the doorway of their cell.

Doesn't matter, Bucky told himself as he continued walking. None of my business.

Brad's beady eyes followed Bucky as he rounded the corner. A couple of Brad's thuggish friends headed over to the cell, and Bucky overheard one of them say, "That little bitch Korey still tryin' to stiff you, Brad?"

Brad snorted. "Not for long."

"Yeah, soon he'll be singin' a different tune."

Bucky slowed to a stop halfway down from the cell and leaned against the railing, pretending to idly watch the TV on the level below them. He was far enough away from Brad and the others that he should have been out of earshot, but his enhanced hearing picked up everything anyway. There was something in the menacing tone of their voices that put him on edge.

"So when are we doing it?"

"I been watching him—Korey always takes a shower late. After everybody else."

"Shy, is he? Well, we can help him out with that."

It was only through a monumental effort that Bucky managed to keep his expression neutral as he continued to stare blankly down at the lower level. But as he listened to Brad and the others making several more lewd comments, his gut twisted with horror.

He knew what they were planning to do. He could practically see how it would happen—

No, no, don't think about it, don't get involved...

"Yeah, right before the shift change," Brad was saying. "Then we all get locked down and he can't snitch even if he wanted to."

One of the others snickered. "Bet he has nightmares tonight."

"Oh, he'll have nightmares the whole rest of his stay."

As the three men guffawed and went their separate ways, Bucky stayed rooted in place, gripping the railing tightly. Am I really going to do this? he asked himself. Who do I think I am, Steve Rogers?

The voice that responded in the back of his mind sounded like Stephanos. You don't have to be. This was always who you were.

The only way Bucky remained calm for the next several hours was through his extensive training. He shut down the part of his brain that dwelt on the horror and disgust. He stubbornly refused to worry about whether he would get hurt, or to think about how terrified Korey would be, or to wonder what would happen once it was all over.

He could think about all of that later. For now, he just needed to watch. Wait. Be prepared. And not let anyone else realize that he was watching.

As the hours passed and the minutes ticked closer to the end of the day, Bucky could feel the adrenaline building up inside him. All of his senses were heightened even further than they normally were. He was aware of everything.

So he immediately noticed when one of Brad's cronies stepped out of the shower room with his towel over his shoulder, met Brad's eyes, and nodded slightly. Brad subtly nodded back, then muttered something to the group of men he was playing cards with. Casually, they brought the game to an end and got to their feet one by one. The man with the towel leaned against the wall by the doorway to the showers, acting as if he didn't notice when Brad and the four others walked past him. But once the last of them had disappeared into the showers, he slipped back through the doorway to join them. No one noticed, or if they had, they didn't seem to care.

While pretending not to pay attention, Bucky had been slowly slipping closer and closer to the showers. He glanced around, waited until no one was looking in his direction, then stepped through the doorway after them.

The showers were in an open room with tiled walls and floor, with drains in the floor and shower heads at regular intervals. There were no curtains or partitions. It was an open, unforgiving space. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Bucky took everything in at a glance. He could barely see Korey shivering in the far corner, his wide eyes darting around at the men closing in on him. His light brown skin glistened wetly as he desperately tried to cover himself. "N-No...please, I-I-I..."

Brad was saying something in a low growl, but a rough hand on his shoulder brought Bucky up short. The man with the towel stood just inside the doorway. The lookout.

"Bad timing," the man snarled. "Get lost."

Bucky grabbed the man's arm, and in one smooth motion, flipped him over his shoulder to smash onto his back. The man lay there, too stunned to move.

Already marching forward, Bucky fixed his eyes on the group around Korey. One of the men looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening when he saw Bucky. "Hey!"

That was all he had time to say before Bucky smashed his fist into the man's cheek, knocking him aside. He stumbled against the man next to him, grabbing at him to stay upright.

Now everyone had noticed Bucky. The nearest man made a grab for him, but Bucky ducked under his clumsy lunge and jabbed his elbow into the man's gut. When the man doubled over in pain, Bucky grabbed his shaved head and shoved it down against the floor.

He jerked upward, smashing his head into another man's chin, swiping his arm upward to block a blow from another direction, dancing away from a kick sent his way. He had to work extra hard with only one arm, but none of these men had formal training. Nor enhanced strength. He could still hold his own.

A thick, beefy arm latched around his neck from behind, another arm locking around his, holding him in place. Bucky struggled to breathe, squinting at the hand he could just barely see at the edge of his vision. 666 across the knuckles.

Two of the others stepped forward, raising fists to beat him while Brad held him still. Bucky lifted both legs at once and kicked the two in the face, sending them reeling back with cries of pain. Then he swung one leg back and landed a swift kick in Brad's crotch. It wasn't as painful as it would have been if Bucky were wearing combat boots instead of shower slippers, but Brad still let go immediately with a sound like an angry bull.

Breathless, Bucky wasn't able to put much strength in the spinning kick he landed on Brad's chest, but it still knocked him over, where he lay groaning in a puddle of soapy water. Bucky spun to face the others, who drew back with wary looks.

He glanced over at Korey, who had slumped into a quivering huddle in the corner, gaping at them all with sheer terror. The boy's eyes met Bucky's, and the fear retreated slightly. Bucky tilted his head toward the door. "Run."

Korey scrambled to his feet, stopping only to grab his pants before scurrying to the door.

The man Bucky had knocked down first grabbed at Korey as he ran past, but Korey dodged out of the way and hurtled through the door. Instead of chasing after him, the man turned back to join the group circling around Bucky.

Swearing profusely, Brad struggled to his feet. "You're...gonna regret...this..." he growled, still clutching himself in pain.

Yeah, I'm shaking in my slippers, Bucky thought, but he didn't waste time saying it. Instead he feinted towards one of the men closing in around him, then swung in the other direction.

As he continued to fight, trading punches and dodging kicks from all directions, Bucky thought he could hear Stephanos' voice again, somewhere beyond the noise of fist hitting flesh. Pull your punches. Don't hit as hard as you can. You want to stop them, not kill them.

Because he could kill them, so easily. For a moment, Bucky felt as though he had stepped out of his body, and watched the whole fight from above. He could dash their heads against the wall so hard they'd never recover. He could grab their arms and snap them in two. He could hit them in the chest so hard their ribcages would shatter, and then they would never do anything like what they'd almost done to Korey.

They would deserve it.

Don't, the voice whispered in his ear. That's not your decision.

For a moment, he thought he saw Stephanos over one of the men's shoulders, looking on with a somber frown. Bucky hesitated, and a punch landed on his jaw. He took a step back, raising his arm to fend off the next attack.

Suddenly the room echoed with shouts of "Break it up!" and "Get down on the ground!"

Before Bucky knew what was happening, he was surrounded not by inmates in bright orange uniforms, but by guards in full riot gear. Before he could even lower his arm, something sprayed right in his face in a burst of burning pain. A blow on his back sent him to his knees.

He clawed at his face, trying to wipe whatever it was out of his eyes so he could see, heart pounding out of his chest as chaos filled the burning darkness around him. Another blow hit him across his shoulders, and someone shoved him face-down onto the floor. A knee against his back held him down, and a rough hand yanked his arm behind him.

No. They'd found him. It hurt. They were chaining him up. They were going to...it burned...the Chair...nonono not again no no no no please no... He couldn't let them. He couldn't do it again. It burned, but he wasn't going back there, no matter what they did, no matter how they beat him, he wasn't going to just sit here and let them...he wouldn't go down without a... Steve...Steve, help me...

It's okay, the voice murmured in his ear, somehow breaking through the roar of pain and fear. Not Hydra. Don't fight.

Then it wasn't Stephanos talking to him, but the voice of whoever was pinning him to the floor while cuffing his hand to the chain around his waist. "Shut up and stop resisting, or you'll be in the bing for a month!" he was saying, panting with the effort of keeping Bucky down.

Bucky fell still, tears streaming down his cheeks. He wasn't sure whether it was from the fear still rushing through him, or the chemical that burned in his closed eyes.

The guard hauled him to his feet and marched him out of the showers along with Brad and the others. Bucky could barely pry his eyes open, so he had to rely on the grip on his arm to navigate. The guards escorted them out of the cell block and down a series of hallways. Bucky didn't know where they were going—'the bing,' apparently, whatever that was.

The adrenaline rush was slowly dying down by the time Bucky's guard finally pulled him to a stop outside a door. Tremors ran down his sweat-drenched back as his brain tried to convince the rest of him that he wasn't in a battle for his life. He blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision.

The guard unlocked the door, shoved him through, and unfastened his restraints. Squinting past the burning in his eyes, Bucky made out the blurry sight of a small cell. A single bunk. A grungy toilet. A tiny window up near the ceiling.

The door swung shut with a clang behind him, the lock shot home, and the guard's footsteps retreated down the hallway. Bucky drew a deep breath, let it out shakily, and slowly sank down onto the bed. He closed his eyes, which helped the burning sensation a little, and listened to the empty silence close around him.

Steve had just poured himself a cup of coffee when he got the call. The only person he would have expected to call him this early in the morning was Sam, but to his surprise, the name displayed on the screen was Matt. A shiver of unease trickled down his spine as he answered.

"Good morning," he said.

"Sorry to call you so early," Matt said, "but I just found out, and I thought I should call as soon as possible, in case you were planning on visiting Bucky today."

The unease solidified into fear. "What happened?"

"It seems Bucky was involved in a fight yesterday. I'm not clear on the details, but he wasn't taken to the infirmary, so it doesn't sound like he was badly hurt. But he's been sent to solitary confinement for fourteen days. During that time, he won't be allowed visits or phone calls."

Every sentence felt like a punch to the gut. "A fight? Bucky? Why...?" He couldn't form a complete sentence. All he could do was splutter in confusion and gaze desperately out the window—even though he'd confirmed that no, he couldn't see Rikers Island from here.

"I'm going to make a trip out there today," Matt said, his voice unbelievably calm. "He still has a right to legal counsel in solitary confinement. I'll find out what really happened and let you know."

"Right," Steve said numbly. "Th-Thank you..."

After they'd said their goodbyes and hung up, Steve stood aimlessly in the middle of the kitchen. Bucky...in a fight. While Steve had been laughing with Sam, or helping him unpack, or giving Jake a bath, Bucky had been in a fistfight with other inmates.

It wasn't like he could have done anything, even if he'd known what was happening. Even if he had some sort of clairvoyant sense that Bucky was in pain, he would have been utterly powerless to help him.

But that just served to underline how separate their lives had become. Just like when Bucky was under Hydra's control, kept in cryo or sent on their bloody missions while Steve sat comfortably at home. Though he knew he shouldn't blame himself for not knowing something he had no way of knowing at the time, he still felt guilty.

As illogical as it might be, Steve couldn't shake the feeling that he should have been there. He was supposed to protect Bucky. If they had to fight, they were supposed to do it together. At the very least, he should have been able to patch Bucky up afterward and make sure he was okay—just as Bucky had done so many times for him.

But now Bucky was alone. Completely alone. Was he scared? Was he in pain? Was he listening to the voices in his head?

If the answers to any of those questions were yes, Steve wouldn't even be able to find out for the next two weeks.

With a heavy sigh, Steve moved to put his phone back in his pocket. He looked down, realizing that his hands were trembling. He opened and closed his fists several times, but they wouldn't stop shaking.

The sound of Jake softly closing the bathroom door made him jump slightly. Shaking his head, Steve pushed all extraneous thoughts from his mind. Breakfast. Right. Unpacking. Maybe take a walk later and explore the neighborhood.

There's nothing you can do for Bucky right now, he told himself sternly. So just don't think about it. Just focus on what you can do.

When Sam made the trek up to the top floor that morning, he was expecting to give Steve a brief greeting and then take over with Jake for the day. But when he let himself into the apartment with the spare key, he didn't find Steve bustling about, anxious to catch his bus. Steve and Jake still sat at the kitchen table over their breakfast dishes. Jake's was licked clean, but there was half a piece of toast going cold on Steve's plate. He was just staring into his coffee while Jake watched him with a little furrow in his brow.

"Hey, what's up?" Sam slid into a chair next to Jake, watching Steve across the table. "Isn't today a Bucky day?"

Steve shook his head, finally looking up. "We're not going to have another Bucky day for a while."

Alarm twisted his gut, but Sam strove to remain calm on the outside. "What happened?"

Steve explained what Matt had told him, the words tumbling out in a hasty jumble. Because Jake was there, he danced around the details, but Sam could easily imagine why Bucky would have tried to break up a confrontation in the showers.

A cold, heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach as he acknowledged all over again what a dangerous position Bucky was in. Gideon had gone to jail a few times, but he never talked about it, even now that they were on speaking terms again. Of course, none of the small county jails Gideon had been to were anything like Rikers...

"I just...I was going to see him today," Steve finished, staring glumly at the tabletop. "And instead...I'm just stuck here, thinking about him. Missing him."

Sam nodded sympathetically and opened his mouth to say something, but just then Jake spoke up. "Where is Bucky?"

Jake looked from one of them to the other, shoulders hunched a bit as if expecting them to yell at him for interrupting. But the confusion written all over his face was apparently strong enough to overcome his usual silence.

"Sorry, buddy," Steve said with a pained smile. "I guess this is kind of confusing, huh? Bucky...got in a bit of trouble. He didn't do anything wrong, but...but he has to be by himself for a bit, so Daddy can't go visit him for a while. Just...you don't need to worry about him, Jake. It's okay."

It wasn't the clearest explanation, not that Sam could blame him when he was so distracted with worry. But he could also see that Jake only looked more confused than before.

"When's he going to die?"

Steve straightened with a look of shock. "What? He's not going to... Wh-Why would you ask that?"

Jake shrank back in his chair, glancing swiftly between them again. "'Cause...Vino's dead."

Steve blinked several times and looked helplessly at Sam, but Sam was just as baffled as he was.

"What are you talking about, buddy? I don't understand..."

For a moment, it looked like Jake would clam up, too nervous to push the issue any further. But finally he blurted out, "'Cause Vino went away and we went to a different place and then Vino was dead, an-and then Bucky went away and we came here..."

It sort of made sense. Sam tried to imagine what this all looked like from the perspective of a four-year-old who had no real understanding of laws and prisons and how society worked. All he could do was notice patterns and try to understand the world through them.

But the mere mention of Bucky being dead agitated Steve. Sam could see the anxiety bubbling just under the surface of his forced calm. "No, Jake," Steve said, turning the ring on his finger around and around as he struggled to explain the situation. "That's a completely different... Vino's gone; I killed him, and you don't have to worry about him doing anything to you again. But Bucky's going to be fine. He'll be coming home soon, and it'll be just like it was before. You'll see."

Jake didn't look completely convinced. He gazed up at Steve with his big blue eyes, eyebrows pinched together in an expression more serious than any four-year-old should wear. Sam wondered how much of the explanation made sense to him, and how much would just have to wait until Bucky came home.

Before the silence could grow too uncomfortable, Sam got to his feet. "Hey, Cap," he said in a voice of forced cheer, "you still owe me that mushy hug, remember?"

Steve's face softened into a small smile as he pushed his chair back. "One mushy hug, coming right up." He got up and pulled Sam into one of the bear hugs he was so good at. Peeking over Steve's shoulder, Sam caught Jake's eye and winked.

Jake just watched them silently.

For he delivers the needy when he calls,
the poor and him who has no helper.
He has pity on the weak and the needy,
and saves the lives of the needy.
From oppression and violence he redeems their life,
and precious is their blood in his sight.

- Psalm 72:12-14

Author's Note: One of the most useful sources of research for me when it came to writing about Bucky's experiences in Rikers was a reality TV show, of all things ' 60 Days In is a show where volunteers spend two months in a jail, pretending to be inmates, with the ultimate goal of reporting back to the prison warden so they can patch up weak points in security and hopefully improve conditions for the inmates. While they never went to Rikers, the show inspired several characters and situations that appear in this fic. But most importantly, it gave me the best glimpse I could have had of what daily life is really like in jail. And makes me very thankful I've never had a closer look.

Also, I'm sure many of you are aware, but the chapter title comes from the U.S. Army motto, "This We'll Defend."