Hijacked when you weren't looking
Behind your back people are talking
Using words that cut you down to size
You want to fight back
You're out in the open
You're under attack
But your spirit's not broken
You know it's worth fighting for

They'll try to take your pride
Try to take your soul
They'll try to take all the control
They'll look you in the eyes
Fill you full of lies
Believe me, they're gonna try
So when you're feeling crazy
And things fall apart
Listen to your head
Remember who you are

You're the one
You're the unbreakable heart

- "Unbreakable Heart" by Three Days Grace

Steve was beginning to feel like he was living two separate lives. Well, if he was honest with himself, he'd felt that way ever since Bucky was first arrested, but now the separation felt more pronounced than ever.

He was more relieved than he could say to finally be able to visit Bucky again. Their conversations, though always too short, were the highlight of his day. They talked on the phone when he couldn't visit, and continued to write letters when they couldn't call. The first letter that Bucky had written while in isolation finally reached Steve, and even though it was weeks old, Steve pored over every word eagerly. Maybe it was too little too late, but it was the closest he would ever get to being able to support Bucky while he was alone. And his heart lifted a little more with every day that passed, because he knew it was bringing them closer and closer to the day when the case would be dismissed and Bucky could come home.

But for every morning he left to visit Bucky, and every time he stepped out of the room to take Bucky's call, he always had to return to the other side of his life. And though he didn't like to admit it, that was becoming harder and harder to do.

Any time Steve compared his current standing with Jake to the way things had gone with Winter, his heart sank to his toes. Six months into Winter's rehabilitation, they had already moved past the worst of their misunderstandings. Winter had been trying to stop cutting himself, and had turned to him and Sam for help. Steve fondly remembered the many late-night conversations they'd had, dozens upon dozens of chances for him to prove that he truly cared.

It had been six months since they'd found Jake, but he felt no closer to reaching him than he'd ever been. In fact, their relationship seemed to crumble more and more with each day.

Almost every day, it seemed, Jake threw another temper tantrum. He didn't limit himself to throwing chairs around, and due to his strength, something usually got broken. Sometimes, Steve had an inkling of what might have set him off, like the time he flipped the kitchen table over when Steve coaxed him to finish his green beans. But other times, everything would seem to be progressing normally, until out of the blue Jake would punch his fist straight through the wall for no discernible reason.

Steve was reaching the end of his rope. He tried talking to Jake, asking him what he was upset about and trying to explain why destroying the apartment wasn't the best way to deal with his feelings. Jake didn't say much, though Steve wasn't sure if that was because he didn't want to explain, or because he didn't know how.

He caught himself longing for the days Jake would yank his shirt off and lie face-down on the floor, trembling in fear as he waited for his 'correction.' Jake hadn't done that for ages now, but that had been much easier to deal with than Jake upending the couch and throwing all the contents of the bookcase onto the floor.

Maybe he was trying to see how far he could push the limits. Maybe he was waiting for Steve to finally snap, to start screaming and hitting him like he'd been used to with Hydra. Maybe, since Steve was never going to go that far, he would never find a punishment sufficient to actually deter Jake from any of this destructive behavior. Jake had already faced some of the harshest punishment a four-year-old could imagine. Why would he listen to someone who would never do anything worse than making him sit in his room for a while?

But Steve didn't know what else to do. Sam didn't seem terribly worried about any of it—but then, nothing fazed Sam. He seemed convinced Jake would grow out of it eventually, and that Steve would get through to him before too long.

Steve didn't want to voice his deepest worry: that he was doing everything wrong, and Jake would grow up hating him. No longer did Jake cower before him in fear, but now the only emotions he ever seemed to show Steve were anger or indifference. He never asked for help, he never said 'sorry' or 'thank you' except when Steve prompted him to. And there was certainly no warmth in his eyes when he looked at Steve.

Steve knew he was doing something wrong, but he didn't know what he could do differently. He tried to research some advice for dealing with temper tantrums, but he didn't have enough time to do more than skim a few articles online. Even with Sam's help, Steve's days always seemed to be eaten up with one thing after another. Visits to Rikers consumed a huge chunk of his day, and he devoted most of the rest of his time to taking care of Jake. Besides that, there was grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry...not to mention the extra cleanup Jake's tantrums left him. Even after he'd put Jake down for a nap or said goodnight, Steve often found himself completely worn out and unable to do anything but follow Jake's example and fall asleep.

Of course, a lot of the advice Steve did manage to glean from his cursory research wasn't particularly helpful. He knew it was too much to hope for that he'd be able to find the perfect advice for how a single parent could handle a four-year-old with enhanced strength who had been raised by Hydra.

One piece of advice stood out, though: to focus more on rewarding positive behavior than responding to negative behavior. From the beginning, Steve had made a point to praise Jake as much as possible, knowing that Hydra had taught him primarily through punishment. But now that Jake was acting out more, rather than hanging back timidly all the time, his most noticeable behavior was exactly the kind of behavior that Steve wanted to discourage.

So Steve started offering rewards when Jake behaved himself. Most children at that age were pretty transparent about what they liked and disliked, but Jake was so reserved that Steve wasn't always sure what he would consider a reward. But he did his best, telling Jake things like, "If you're a good boy this morning, we'll go to the park after lunch and get an ice cream cone."

He wasn't sure how well it worked. Maybe the incentives weren't good enough. Maybe Jake didn't believe that he would actually keep his word, so there was no point in even trying. Maybe Jake simply didn't know how to employ enough self-control over his emotions, after four years of someone else controlling him instead.

They had some good days, where Jake behaved himself and they would go for a walk in the park, and Steve would buy him a balloon or an ice cream cone, or they would eat hot dogs from a street vendor. Steve hoped the fresh air and exercise would help get out some of Jake's extra energy and forestall the next tantrum.

But for every good day, there seemed to be two bad days. Days where Jake would scowl, ignore Steve's warnings, and break something. He never cried or screamed or kicked his heels against the floor, but Steve almost would have welcomed such a tantrum. Jake never whined or complained; the most he would do was frown at Steve or say no, and then, just as Steve realized he was in the danger zone, Jake would rip a door off its hinges or something.

One of the worst tantrums came on a day when Steve had promised Jake a visit to the park if he behaved himself. As usual, Steve wasn't sure what set him off, but at one point in the morning, Jake got so upset he tried to knock the refrigerator over. Thankfully, Steve was able to catch it and set it back in place before any harm was done.

But that meant no trip to the park. When Jake had calmed down and Steve explained the consequences of his actions, Jake barely reacted. He just looked blankly at Steve as if he didn't care one way or another.

Apparently he did care, though. He didn't say anything more about the park, and went quietly to his room for his nap that afternoon. But when Steve went to check on him an hour later, he hesitated in the hallway at the sound of ripping paper.

Steve quietly opened the door and peeked inside. The contents of Jake's toy chest were strewn all about the room. He rarely touched anything in there, so most of the toys were brand new. Now they lay in pieces all over the carpet. The brightly-colored keys of the xylophone lay next to the wheels of the toy train. The plastic trucks were in pieces, and the hollow plastic building blocks looked as though they'd been stepped on. Bits of stuffing and stray limbs from the stuffed animals lay scattered everywhere.

Jake stood in the center of this carnage, jaw set as he ripped the pages out of one of his picture books and tossed them down to add to the pile of torn paper at his feet. He looked up when Steve entered the room, but all he did was reach for another book.

"Jake! What on earth..." Steve stepped inside, then stopped short when he felt something under his foot. Looking down, he found the remains of a stuffed lion lying at his feet. One of its arms had been ripped off, and its head hung by a thread. The plastic eyes were nowhere to be seen, and most of the stuffing had been pulled out through the neck.

The sound of more ripping paper caught his attention. Picking his way around the broken toys, Steve walked up to Jake. Though he didn't look up, Jake's movements grew faster, almost frantic, as Steve came closer.

Kneeling at Jake's side, Steve grasped Jake's hands, holding them still. Jake tried to yank his hands out of Steve's grip, but gave up after the first try, his shoulders heaving with huge gasps. His hands were trembling slightly.

"I know you're upset, buddy," Steve said, keeping his voice even and calm. "You wanted to go to the park, right? But we talked about this. If you don't behave yourself, there are consequences. That doesn't mean you should break all your toys and books like this. See?" He gently pried the torn book from Jake's hands. "Now we can't read about the Little Engine That Could."

Jake glanced around at the wreckage of his room, still avoiding looking directly at Steve. He seemed a little calmer now.

"If you're angry or scared about something, we can talk about it. That's a lot better than breaking things, isn't it?"

Jake shrugged, staring down at his feet.

"Well...let's try that out next time, okay?"

"'Kay," Jake mumbled.

"Now, let's get this place cleaned up," Steve said briskly, getting to his feet. "I'll get some trash bags, and then we can—"

"Steve?"

Looking over his shoulder, Steve saw Jake clutching at the front of his shirt, as if on the verge of pulling it off.

"What's cause-a-kwences?"

Steve turned back, trying to ignore Jake's flinch. Sinking to one knee again, he said gently, "Jake? Look at me, please."

Slowly, Jake's eyes rose to meet his. Steve could see the deep-rooted fear of punishment in them. He probably thought that now was when he'd finally crossed the line. Now Steve would beat him and yell at him for not doing what he was supposed to.

"Consequences are when something happens because of what you did. So, because you lost your temper this morning, we're not going to the park today. And the consequence of you breaking your toys is that now we can't play with them, and we have a mess to clean up. Do you understand?"

Jake nodded hesitantly.

"You have to think about what the consequences are before you decide to do something, or you might be sorry later. So we're going to learn from this and do better next time, right?" When Jake nodded again, Steve pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Atta boy."

While Jake gathered up the scraps of paper from the torn books and put it in a bag for recycling, Steve grabbed a trash bag and started filling it with the toys that couldn't be fixed. When he came to the stuffed lion that Jake had ripped to pieces, however, he set it aside. It was one of the first toys he'd bought for Jake, hoping to give him all of the good, comforting things his childhood had been lacking. Well, it was obvious what Jake thought of that.

But with a little needle and thread and a lot of patience, maybe Steve could still fix it.

It was odd, being on the other side. Bucky easily remembered Steve and Sam caring for him while he suffered from withdrawal, not to mention the months upon months of struggling to keep from cutting himself. He didn't have to reach too far back to recall the urges, the invasive thoughts, the shame...and the renewed hope every time they were there for him. But it was an entirely new experience to be the one offering that hope.

That first week was the hardest for Korey, as Bucky had known it would be. Bucky made an extra effort to stay close to him during the hours they were out of their cells. He did his best to distract Korey from his discomfort with conversation and endless card games with the deck he'd bought for exactly that purpose. He didn't think he did as good a job of it as Steve and Sam had for him, but he did the best he could.

In their long, rambling conversations, Bucky learned a lot more about Korey than he'd ever expected to. He got Korey to talk about his little brother, Kevin, whose goal in life was to be the first man to walk on Mars—but only after he'd won his fortune playing for the Knicks and perfected an invention that would take all the foods he didn't like and turn them into ice cream.

"He's a cool kid," Korey said with a wistful smile. "Not like me. He's goin' places, you know? Only...he looks at me like I'm the coolest guy he ever seen. And I do dumb shit like what put me in here."

"That's the kind of thing you have to keep in the front of your mind every day," Bucky said, practicing shuffling the cards one-handed. "Anytime you're tempted, just try to think of Kevin. Think of what you'd do if he was standing right next to you. Make him proud."

They also ended up talking about Bucky a lot. Korey blurted out questions that would have earned a glare and a few sarcastic words if they came from anyone else. But as he got to know Korey better and better, Bucky discovered that he didn't mind talking about it. He didn't go into any great detail about what Hydra had done to him or through him, knowing that if he delved too deep, the nightmares would emerge into the waking world.

There was still plenty to talk about besides that. Bucky confirmed that yes, his best friend was Steve Rogers, and yes, they had fought in World War II. He enjoyed the way Korey's eyes grew as round as dinner plates when he told stories of some of the crazier things the Howling Commandos had done. And he didn't mind it as much as he pretended to when Korey crowed, "Dude, you're as old as like...my great-grandpa or something!"

Talking with Korey was also helpful to Bucky himself. Distracting Korey was a good distraction from his own dark thoughts, and it helped the time pass a little faster. His heart rose a little above the fog of the endless, mundane days as he considered that maybe, just maybe, something good could come out of all this.

But of course, there were plenty of pitfalls on the path to success. On the third day after Bucky had given Korey his little talk, the younger man seemed to be avoiding him again. Bucky waited until they were let out into the yard for rec time, then headed over to the group of inmates Korey was hanging around. All he had to do was mention that he wanted to have a word with Korey, and the other men immediately scattered. Well, at least his reputation got results.

Korey stood with his back to the chain-link fence, swallowing convulsively and looking anywhere but at Bucky. "Uh...hey, man."

Bucky took a good look at him, noting that though he was obviously nervous, Korey wasn't shaking and sweating profusely the way he had for the past couple days. Normally, that would be a good thing, but...well, he knew what it meant.

Bucky leaned back against the fence, wishing he had two arms so he could cross them. "Hey," he said quietly, "how's it going?"

Korey's shoulders slumped, and any false nonchalance seeped out of him. He slid down to sit on the ground, hugging his knees to his chest as he stared bleakly across the yard. "I fucked up, man. The guys asked me if I wanted some, and..."

Bucky sat down next to him. "Felt good, didn't it?"

Gripping his head with both hands, Korey spat out a long string of curses—most of them directed at himself, as far as Bucky could tell. Then he let out a huge sigh and tilted his head back to look up at the sky. His eyes were dry, but Bucky could clearly see the pain in them, pain enough to make a grown man weep. "Yeah...and now I feel like shit. I...I know I shouldn't have...but I just...I felt so..."

"Hey, I get it." When Korey shot a look of disbelief his way, Bucky raised an eyebrow at him. "Trust me, I do. Detoxing is bad enough, without having to do it in a craphole like this."

Korey glumly picked at a loose thread in the seam of his shirt. "'M always lettin' everybody down," he mumbled. "Shoulda known it wouldn't be any different with you."

"You haven't let me down, Korey."

Korey craned his head around to look at Bucky in surprise. "But...if I'd'a just been stronger..."

"Stronger?"

Korey hung his head. "Yeah. If I was stronger, it'd be easy to say no."

"If it was easy for you to say no, you wouldn't have to be strong." He met Korey's surprised gaze. "Withdrawal sucks. All you can think about is the one thing you know you can't have. Every day, you have to wake up and remind yourself why you can't take the easy way out. And you have to remind yourself several times a day. You have to think about your mom, about Kevin. You have to remember all the things that made you feel good—the things that didn't leave you empty afterwards."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Korey looked like he was fighting back tears. "That's...hard, man. That's real hard."

"Exactly," Bucky said. "It takes real strength to keep trying when your own body is working against you." He leaned forward, trying to catch the younger man's eye.
"That means you're strong, Korey. You didn't just fight the urge for an hour, or a day. You went six whole days without taking anything. That's way better than I did at first. I'm proud of you."

Korey didn't seem to know what to do with this. He scoffed with a little roll of his eyes, then hesitated as if waiting for Bucky to confirm that he was pulling his leg. When Bucky just continued smiling at him, Korey hastily looked away. "Whatever, man."

"Hey," Bucky said, nudging Korey's shoulder until he looked up again. "You haven't failed unless you give up for good. All you have to do is try, okay?"

Now Korey couldn't seem to look away. "But...what if I fail next time too?"

Bucky almost thought he could feel Steve's comforting hand on his shoulder, showing his support. "Then you try again. And again. And again." He flipped his arm over to show Korey the plethora of scars marring his skin. "As many times as it takes."

Eyeing Bucky's arm apprehensively, Korey mumbled, "What makes you think I can do that?"

"Because I did. So I know exactly what it takes. And you have it."

Bucky and Korey were sitting at a table one afternoon, playing their twelfth game of War (anything to make the time pass faster), when suddenly Korey made a choking sound. Bucky looked up from the cards, worried for a second that Korey was going to puke or something. But then he realized that Korey was staring wide-eyed over Bucky's shoulder, in the direction of the door.

As Bucky turned to look behind him, the loud buzz of the electronic lock cut through the noise of the cell block. His heart dropped to his toes as he saw who Officer Petty was leading back in: Brad.

Though Brad's arm wasn't in a cast, he held it carefully by his side; it was probably still healing. Officer Petty carried his bedding for him up the stairs to their cell. As Brad shuffled after him, he cast his gaze around the room. Several of his gang members came over to greet him with a fist bump or a clap on the shoulder.

Brad's eyes found his across the room. Trying to keep his expression neutral, Bucky braced for a sneer or a look that would clearly say, You're dead. To his surprise, Brad just nodded to him and continued on his way.

Bucky's stomach squirmed uncomfortably as he turned back to the card game. Of course, he'd known that Brad would return eventually...but it had been so much easier when he was gone. Everyone but Korey had just left him alone. Now that their leader was back...would the Brotherhood change their tune? Would they try to get revenge for how soundly he'd humiliated them?

Not long now, he reminded himself, flipping over a card and barely paying attention to what the number was. I just have to hang on for a little bit longer. Then I'm out of here, and I'll never have to worry about Brad again.

Bucky glanced up and saw Korey nervously turning his cards over and over again in his hands, staring at nothing. He realized then that he probably would still worry about Brad, even once he got out. He'd worry as long as Korey was still here.

"Hey," he said, forcing more confidence into his voice than he felt, "don't worry about him, okay? You're going to be just fine."

Korey ran a nervous hand over his short hair. "They gonna kill me, man. Ain't no way they just let me walk away after...after everything..."

Bucky easily remembered the way Korey had made a stand, pitiful as it was, with him against the Brotherhood's ambush. He knew Brad and the others would remember that too. The battle lines had been clearly drawn.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you," Bucky said firmly. "Stick close to me as much as you can, and the rest of the time just keep your head down and stay out of his way. I think most people know now that if they do anything to you, they've got me to answer to."

Korey drew a deep breath and nodded. A tentative smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "Hey, uh...we gonna finish the game?"

Bucky smirked. "Eager to continue your losing streak, are you?"

"Hey, hey, my luck's gonna turn around any second now!"

Brad stayed in their cell for the whole day, but Bucky noticed members of his gang going in and out, most likely conferring with their leader and catching him up on what he'd missed. He tried not to wonder if they were talking about him and Korey.

No matter how much Bucky was dreading it, eventually the day came to an end and he had no choice but to return to his cell and come face-to-face with Brad again. He wasn't sure exactly what to expect, but he knew it couldn't be good. Bucky braced himself when he stepped into the cell and listened to the door slide shut behind him. But Brad just sat there, giving Bucky a nod that was almost...respectful? Bucky hadn't thought Brad knew the meaning of that word.

There was a catch. There had to be one. Bucky just wasn't sure what it was yet.

Every other night the two of them had been locked into their cell together, Bucky and Brad never uttered a single word to each other. But this time, while they lay in their bunks and waited for the lights to turn off, Brad suddenly began to talk.

"That Officer Petty's a real drill sergeant, ain't he?" Brad grunted, as they listened to the officer in question yelling at a tardy inmate to get in his cell.

Bucky was too surprised to say anything in response.

"Reminds me of Basic," Brad continued. "A lotta these bitches could use some real training, don't get me wrong. Walkin' around, thinkin' they're so tough 'cause they're a big name on the streets... But they ain't fought in a real war, ya know what I'm sayin'?"

Seemingly unperturbed by Bucky's silence, Brad continued to talk, rambling along about his time in the Army. It was almost like he was trying to break the ice and appeal to some kind of connection between the two of them, because they both knew what it was like to fight a war far from home.

But nothing Brad said warmed Bucky's heart with a sense of camaraderie. His stories of hazing new recruits, the disdainful way he referred to soldiers of a different race than him, not to mention everything Bucky knew of his actions here in Rikers, did nothing to ingratiate him to Bucky.

So Bucky said nothing, and eventually Brad trailed off into silence.

Over the next few days, Bucky kept waiting for Brad to return to the antagonistic way he used to act. He waited for the glares, the thinly-veiled threats, the stares and whispers from all sides as the whole gang watched his every move.

But it didn't happen. Instead of retaliating or threatening Bucky in any way, Brad acted as though they'd just met. Or...as though Brad had only heard of Bucky's reputation and was trying to become his friend.

Instead of shoving past him as they lined up at mealtimes, Brad shoved other men out of the way to let Bucky get his tray first. Instead of the sneers and glares Bucky had grown used to enduring any time they passed each other during the day, Brad started holding out a fist to knock their knuckles together. And while they were stuck in their cell together for hours on end, Brad filled the silence with idle chatter and questions clearly intended to coax Bucky to join the conversation.

The rest of the gang followed his lead. Mostly, they continued to steer clear of him as they'd been doing, but there were no more whispers behind his back. A couple of Brad's cronies even tried to get him to join their table for a meal or a poker game, but they gave up quickly when he went to sit with Korey instead.

Bucky supposed he ought to see this as a welcome change. Maybe, after losing two fights with him, Brad and the others realized antagonizing him wasn't worth it. Though he'd never tried very hard to fit in here, maybe that kind of violence was what it took. This was probably their way of being friendly and trying to include him.

But Bucky had no interest in being Brad's friend. He probably would never have befriended anyone inside these walls, not even Korey, if he wasn't trapped here too. Korey was certainly rough around the edges, and his life experiences were completely different from Bucky's. But every time they spoke, Bucky learned something new about him, and each conversation made him want to learn even more.

There was nothing Brad could do or say that would make Bucky want to get to know him any better. Everything he did, every word he uttered, was more distasteful than the last.

Korey had made some bad choices, and he had to contend with plenty of negative pressures and influences. But Brad hadn't just made some mistakes that had caught up to him. He was a bully, plain and simple—exactly the kind of person Bucky had never been able to stand. And not just a schoolyard bully who'd rub someone's face in the mud and steal their lunch money. No, he was the kind of bully who bragged about how many Black 'thugs' he'd knifed on the streets, like it was a public service. The kind of bully who calmly talked about beating his girlfriend with a belt when he caught her cheating on him—and then landing the man in the hospital.

It took Bucky a while to figure out where Brad had gotten the impression that they were buddies. What had Bucky done wrong, that Brad thought they had anything in common? But eventually, he started to piece it together.

"We're becoming the minority in this country, bro," Brad drawled as they lay in their bunks one night after roll call. "Hell, just look around you. And it ain't just Rikers that's full to bursting with degenerates like these. All over the country, you got prisons full of people like this. People who just wanna live on handouts and then turn around and bite the hand that feeds 'em. Or illegal immigrants who come along and take good jobs away from the people who deserve 'em. And you know those tip-toein' politicians are too chickenshit to go for the death penalty, so we just gotta take matters into our own hands, am I right?"

Shut the hell up, Bucky longed to say. You do realize you're in here too, right? So that makes you just as much of a degenerate as them. And you're a drug dealer, so I don't see how you get off thinking of yourself as a model citizen. But he bit his tongue and glared at the ceiling instead of saying anything.

"I mean, you know what I'm talkin' about," Brad continued, unperturbed by Bucky's silence as always. "You fought in World War II, right? So you saw the truth as it really was. Not this BS they teach kids nowadays about the 'Holocaust,' all those lies about 'genocide' like it was really that bad..."

"What?" The word popped out of Bucky's mouth in his surprise.

"Yeah," Brad said, as if they were somehow in agreement on anything he'd said. "It's the same thing all over—the Jews exaggerate everything to get sympathy, and everybody just goes along with it. It's propaganda. They tryin' to make us feel guilty so they can walk all over us. Too many people just sit there and let it happen. Not you, though—you joined Hydra, right?"

Bucky slowly sat up, hand curling into a fist as anger mingled with understanding. This was why Brad was acting as close to 'nice' as he probably knew how. "I didn't join Hydra," he said, speaking slowly to keep from raising his voice. "They forced me to work for them. I didn't ask for it. I was captured and held in a Nazi prison camp, Brad. No one is lying about any of that."

"Yeah, but they didn't gas you or nothing, did they?" Brad said, with a triumphant note in his voice as though he'd just won a difficult argument. "And you ain't Jewish either. It's all just blown out of proportion. You probably never read Mein Kampf, but if you did, you'd see that it wasn't actually about genocide, it was—"

"I did read Mein Kampf," Bucky interrupted, speaking through clenched teeth, "in its original German, by the way. So either you were reading a really bad translation, or a completely different book. Hitler was a traitor to his own country and a racist murderer who deserves no one's respect. I was there. I saw what he started in the name of bringing honor back to his people. And if you really think any of his ideas are worth the paper they're written on, then I'm the last person you should expect to be on your side. I've seen Hitler's ideals—Hydra's ideals—up close, and I want nothing to do with them."

A heavy silence (or as close to silence as the noisy jail ever got) settled over their cell. Finally, Brad grunted and said, "Guess I pegged you wrong, Barnes." There was a shuffling sound as he rolled over, and then they fell silent again.

As abruptly as Brad had started acting friendly towards Bucky, he suddenly changed his tune again. After that night's conversation, it was like he'd flipped a switch, and they were back to the hostile relationship they'd had from the beginning. Once again, Bucky endured glares and conversations he was clearly supposed to overhear from the Brotherhood. And this time, not everyone seemed quite as intimidated by a blank stare in their direction.

Most of the comments Bucky overheard were ones he'd grown used to hearing, like the jeers about how far the great Winter Soldier had fallen or suggestive comments about his relationship with Korey. But there were a few new ones too, which Bucky suspected Brad was responsible for.

From what Bucky could gather from the conversations no one knew he could overhear, people had been talking about the scars on his arm lately. Apparently, a strange rumor had emerged since Brad's return that each scar was a memento of the people he'd killed. It was the stupidest explanation Bucky had ever heard of, but apparently it had gained some traction—until now.

During lunch the day after the conversation about Mein Kampf, Bucky and Korey were eating in silence when the conversation from the next table over reached Bucky's ears. "I don't care what Barnes's reputation is out there." Brad's voice was just loud enough to announce that he didn't care who heard him. "Just 'cause he can fight don't mean he can kill. A scar for every person he merked? Right. They talkin' about someone else."

Korey nervously glanced between Bucky and the next table, but Bucky kept mechanically spooning watery instant potatoes into his mouth.

"Betcha his scars don't mean nothin' that impressive," Brad continued in a carrying drawl. "He did it for attention, bro." He pitched his voice up into an annoying whine that earned chuckles from the other men at his table. "'Oh, my life is so hard I'm gonna cut my own arm open so people will feel sorry for me.' Bet that's how he lost the left one. Cut it off like a psychopath, did it all to himself." He snorted loudly. "If I'd'a walked in on someone bleedin' like a stuck pig and I knowed they did it to themselves? Leave 'em be. Waste of air. What idiot wastes their time even saving someone who don't wanna live? I ever meet 'em, I'll knife 'em in the back. Unbelievable."

Korey stiffened more and more with each word, clenching his fist around his plastic spork. "We gonna fight 'em?" he breathed, looking like he was trying not to let on how terrified he was at the prospect.

But Bucky shook his head slightly. "Don't give them the satisfaction," he muttered. "They're just idiots."

"And who does this guy think he is, pretending he can look down his nose at us?" Brad was saying, raising his voice slightly as if to make sure Bucky heard every word. "Still nothin' but a coward with a weak mind. Ask him why he cut and he'll say he's 'depressed' or something. This what happens when your daddy don't whip you enough, don't teach you to get over yourself. Those scars ain't nothin' to be proud of, and he ain't nothin' to fear."

"You just gonna let them talk like that?" Korey hissed.

Bucky rolled his eyes. "If that's the best he can come up with," he muttered, "he's even dumber than I thought—and I already had a pretty low opinion of his intelligence to start with. Shame."

Korey raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Brad's trying every way he knows to get a rise out of me," Bucky said, forestalling his protest. "And if he can do that, he's won. He owns me. But I'm not going to let anyone control me with words again, and neither should you. Especially when they're flat-out lies."

After so many months of the Brad in his head spewing falsehoods like this, it was so simple to shrug them off. All he had to do was glance down at his scars, and the first memories that bubbled to the surface were all the times Steve had taken care of him. Knowing that they were only scars, rather than bleeding wounds, was proof of how much Steve valued his life.

Because he knew it would annoy the men at the next table more than anything else, Bucky smiled. "Here's the thing, Korey: I'm not proud of these scars. But they're a part of me. Part of my past. They're reminders of how hard I fought to get where I am, and why I'm not going back. It's a reminder that I'm stronger than that. So they can say whatever they want. They'll never know that kind of strength."

When a man's ways please the Lord,
he makes even his enemies to be at peace with him.

- Proverbs 16:7