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Bucky was cooking dinner for Tony's return when a Hydra's Running Man commercial announced that day's victim—sorry, contestant—a violent and seditious terrorist who'd bombed Hydra City Airport that morning: Tony Stark.
Bucky's knife clattered to the floor as ice replaced his insides. All his focus was on the terrible photo of Tony—no doubt chosen to make him look like a criminal—next to airport staff being carted out of HCA draped in bloodstained white sheets.
Tony flew out yesterday. Some government meeting this morning, Hydra wanted his tech, Tony's appearance was mandatory, so Tony had gone to tell them in person to go fuck themselves—hopefully more politely, though knowing his husband, Tony had said it in a tone that pissed someone off—and flown home. And now, Hydra News said he was guilty of treason, a terrorist not even sent to trial or jail, but thrown into Running Man?
Bucky knew his husband; Tony wasn't a killer.
Bucky also knew Hydra—far better than he ever planned to tell Tony. After Tony was killed in Running Man, they'd seize Stark Solutions; only a handful of people had ever survived the full three hours of running and hiding and fighting assassins for their lives in the interred bones of the old city. The show was state executions for mass entertainment, and killers—Hunters—each with their own gimmick, were chosen by the studio audience to hunt and kill whatever unfortunate was labeled a criminal and thrown down there.
The contestants were never good people whose only crime was pissing off Hydra or some rich asshole with friends in high places. If the public found out that was a feature, not a bug, they'd riot. They'd wonder what else Hydra was lying about.
That's when SHIELD would move in, and—hopefully—end Hydra's chokehold for good.
Ironic that Tony, an innocent, was tarred with treason, while Bucky, an active member of SHIELD's resistance for years, was still flying under the radar.
Still at home, cooking dinner his husband would never eat.
Bucky stroked his wedding ring, a gold band built into the black and blue vibranium arm Tony had made him when his state-of-the-art Hydra prosthetic mysteriously died days after he quit. A sequence of taps opened the forearm panel. Inside were fine arm maintenance tools.
A multitool would fit if he removed them. If Tony had that, he could tech-wizard his way out of anything.
And if Tony had Bucky watching his back, he might survive the three-hour trial.
If nothing else, they'd be together. That's all Bucky had ever wanted: to be with Tony. And, through SHIELD, give him a better world.
So Bucky sent Steve a message, and got ready to storm Hydra Studios.
To his surprise, Steve showed up when Bucky was shrugging on his black leather jacket. "Fury thinks Hydra's core transmission system is hidden in the Undercity," Steve said. "That's why we can't find it. If it's down there, or you find something connected to Hydra's systems, insert this." He handed Bucky a small data drive. "We'll do the rest. Don't get killed."
With a farewell hug, Steve was gone.
Upon tucking the thimble-sized drive into his forearm, so was Bucky.
#
Tony had been in the Undercity for twenty minutes when Bucky burst onto the stage at Hydra Studios and stole the mic from the Running Man host, a tall, aging blond named Alexander Pierce. Above them, Tony's televised run for his life filled a giant theater screen. Bucky pointed at it. "Put me in there."
The audience murmured in confusion, unable to hear the exchange and unsure why an angry civilian in jeans, combat boots, a leather jacket, and a bun had grabbed the mic from Hydra's Favorite Gameshow Host. Bucky ignored them and the hired guns skulking out of the shadows.
"Now, why would you want to go down there?" Pierce asked, calm and amiable. It was a waste of folksy charm.
"Tony's my husband," Bucky said.
Pierce chuckled. "Well, I hate to break it to you, son, but your husband's a terrorist and mass murderer. If he wins, in three hours he can take you with him to live scot-free in a tropical island paradise. If he dies, well, he's getting what he deserves."
Bucky glared. It was an expression that promised violence—and usually delivered. "Hydra framed him to steal his tech," Bucky growled. "I know how they operate—I had Level-10 clearance. So." He jerked his chin at the giant lever beside the bobsled-like capsule that manacled and transported victims down a dizzying chute to the show's wasteland arena. "Either you pull that lever and send me down there in the next thirty seconds, or I start spilling state secrets on national TV."
Pierce blanched, but quickly recovered and raised his hands in mocking surrender. "It's your funeral, son. Far be it for me to come between true love. You'll have to change into the jumpsuit—"
"Fifteen seconds," Bucky said, breezing past Pierce and folding his large frame into the cramped chute car.
A harried Piece followed, waving off security and calming the audience's confused babble with a practiced smile. He grabbed the lever and held out his other hand. "Mic?"
Bucky handed it over.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Pierce began.
"Five seconds," Bucky interrupted loud enough for the mic to broadcast. "Four. Three."
Pierce glowered at Bucky and yanked the lever.
The glass roof slammed shut above him, and the car rocketed down, down, down, careening around the chute's metal walls at breakneck speed. Bucky ignored the g-forces dragging his stomach and flattening his body to the chair. Instead, he did a breathing exercise to relax his muscles for the stop at the bottom—and ease his anxiety about Tony. Tony was alive when Bucky got onstage. He was probably still alive now. Knowing Tony, he—
The car shot out of the tunnel, slammed into a mesh net, and stopped with a jarring lurch.
A motorcycle gang in theatrical metal spikes and black leather opened the hatch and dragged Bucky out, screaming obscenities and menacingly brandishing knives and tools of blunt force trauma. Bucky let them herd him to the entrance of the game arena while his center of gravity stabilized.
The guy with a bruising grip on Bucky's arm was holding a metal baseball bat. That could come in handy.
Bucky punched him with a vibranium fist. "I'm taking this," he said, grabbing the bat as the guy doubled over, clutching his bleeding nose.
Bucky sprinted into the arena before the rest could react. They wouldn't chase him; the Hunter would assume they were fresh victims dropped in mid-show. Hunters knew each other's faces and gimmicks—the show turned them into celebrities; kill count bets were big business. The one chasing Tony called himself Crossbones and wore a skull-painted helmet and black tac gear with a white X over the chest. His gimmick was metal gauntlets strong enough to shatter a watermelon with one punch. The psycho loved his job: killing unarmed victims as painfully as possible.
Bucky met a guy like him once: no compassion, no compunction, no conscience. That mission with Rumlow had showed Bucky what Hydra really was—all the suffering he'd caused.
Bucky was pretty sure Hydra only let him quit because he told them he was leaving to marry Tony Stark, be a househusband, and help with Stark Solutions—a company they desperately wanted under their thumb. Bucky may have made it sound like he'd be their inside man and extol Hydra's virtues enough to erode Tony's reticence about doing contract jobs for the state.
Instead, Bucky had secretly joined SHIELD and told Tony to stay away from Hydra.
Advice that earned him a treason charge and running for his life in this hellhole.
The Undercity was a hellhole, albeit a cold one, given it never saw the sun. Five square blocks of bombed-out buildings and rubble leftover from the Hydra coup strikes, lit by spotlights attached to the scaffolding Hydra City was built upon. The garish lights left plenty of shadows for Hunters to leap out of, and the arena's infrastructure hid traps, automated portcullises, and moving walls to help Hunters catch their prey. Nothing was taller than a story—higher floors were demolished to leave contestants fewer places to hide and wait out the clock. The graveyard silence of the dead city was occasionally broken by skittering rats that added fresh shit and festering nest air to the stink of old blood, urine, smoke, and sewage the show's cleaning crew hadn't managed to excise from the pipes. The ground they left as is: a mess of shattered pavement, rocks, metal, and glass.
It was hard to tread quietly here; almost every footstep scattered rubble. But Bucky was light on his feet, for all his combat boots, metal arm, and muscular frame were heavy. He could move like a whisper even over this terrain.
Crossbones's heavy gear and arrogance kept him from doing the same. Bucky located him easily, then crept away, searching for the landmarks he'd noted at the last location he'd seen Tony on the video feed. When he found the destroyed church, with its caved-in roof, hanging front doors, and the jagged tear through the cement steps, Bucky whistled.
Just two short notes, a call-and-response he'd learned from Natasha and later taught Tony after they got separated on a camping trip that may or may not have coincided with a nearby SHIELD meeting.
Silence.
Bucky tried to see the area through Tony's eyes. It took a few seconds, but then: power lines. Power lines would lead to tech, and tech was Tony's specialty. Maybe Fury was right? Bucky would have to ask Tony about that transmission system when he found him.
He would find him.
Bucky followed the power lines. They led deeper into the dark, away from the portion of the arena lit for TV. After a minute of walking, Bucky whistled again.
The right notes whistled back.
Awash with relief, Bucky followed the sound.
"Bucky?" Tony called. He was huddled behind the chest-high wall of what might've been a brick storefront before the bombings.
"Tony!" Bucky whisper-shouted. Elated, he squatted and scooped Tony into a bear hug, setting down the metal bat to gently cup Tony's head and press it to his shoulder.
Tony returned the hug fiercely, but hissed into Bucky's neck, "What the fuck are you doing here? They framed you too, didn't they. Fuck, now we're both gonna die—as terrorists. Fuck!"
"They didn't frame me," Bucky said. "I blackmailed Pierce into sending me down. Look, I'm not even in a jumpsuit."
The jumpsuits were neon, skin-tight spandex with no pockets—impossible to hide tools under, not that people were allowed so much as a hair tie to help save their lives. Tony's was hot-rod red with wide, gold lightning zigzagging from ankles to shoulders. The bright colors were as good as a painted target, helping Hunters and cameras spot him in the dim light.
Bucky slipped off his jacket and pulled it around Tony's shoulders. "Put this on. There's mace in the left pocket. Swiss Army Knife in the right."
"They let you bring tools?" Tony asked, incredulous. He slipped on the jacket and, after a moment of listening silence, zipped it up. It was a little big on him, but it wouldn't hinder his movements, and made him less visible. As always when Tony wore Bucky's clothes, Bucky's heart stuttered in possessive adoration.
"I didn't give Pierce a choice," Bucky explained while tugging up the black sleeve of his henley to expose his vibranium forearm. He pulled out the multitool and handed it over. "I kept this here just in case they managed to stick me in a jumpsuit, though."
"You came here to bring me tools?"
"And watch your back."
As Bucky closed his arm back up, Tony frowned. "Why's there a data drive in there?"
Bucky winced. "Treason? If we find a transmitter, this goes in it."
Tony sighed and pressed his forehead to Bucky's shoulder, wrapping an arm around him again and cupping Bucky's jaw before shifting back far enough to press a soft kiss to his lips. "You're crazy," Tony said. "I'd say you're lucky I love you, but you're down here, so it's clearly the other way around."
They smiled at each other—relief and love, concern and hope—for long moments.
Which they probably didn't have. Bucky heard shifting gravel down the block. He held a finger to his lips, then gestured to his ear and down the street. Tony's eyes widened, and watchfulness hardened his posture. He quirked his head to the left. Bucky nodded and gingerly picked up the bat. They crept away from the street, re-found the power lines Tony had indeed been following, and continued on.
"What's the plan?" Tony asked when they'd covered enough distance to feel safe for quiet conversation.
"Watch your back while you get us out," Bucky said like it was obvious.
"The treason plan. Is SHIELD coming?"
Bucky stiffened.
Tony rolled his eyes. "I wasn't lost on that camping trip—I was listening. I know about you and SHIELD."
That explained Tony's lack of surprise at Bucky's explanation for the drive. Still, Bucky pulled Tony into an alcove tall enough to hide them both. Above them, silhouettes of twisted, broken rebar looked like scorched tree limbs. "That was years ago," Bucky said. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"Why didn't you?" Tony shot back, a tinge of hurt in his eyes.
Bucky took Tony’s hand and pressed it to his mouth—not quite a kiss; he worried the sound would carry. "If I did, you wouldn't turn me in, and then you'd be guilty of treason. I'd rather you be free and embarrassed you didn't suspect anything than get arrested and killed with me."
Tony thumbed Bucky's wedding band with a pointed look, then squeezed his hand. "You should've told me. No more secrets, okay?"
Bucky couldn't help flinching.
Tony noticed. He always noticed. He pulled Bucky closer with their linked hands. "What haven't you told me?"
Bucky braced himself. "You know how I worked for Hydra?"
A nod.
"I did military ops."
Tony raised his eyebrows. "And?"
"I…" Bucky fell back on the iconic Taken line. "I have a very particular set of skills."
Tony's eyes widened. He opened his mouth, then shut it. "Oh," he said. Then, "Oh." His eyes softened, and he smiled, sweet and awed. "You came to protect me."
Bucky smiled back. "Course I—"
The clack of rocks—too close. A heavy footstep.
Just in time, Bucky yanked Tony against his chest and dropped them into a crouch with Tony's head safely tucked beneath his. Above them, where Tony's head had been, a metal gauntlet burst through the wall, showering them with shattered concrete.
"Gotcha," Crossbones crowed.
Bucky was already hauling Tony out of the alcove and pushing him into a sprint.
Behind them, a confused Crossbones said, "Barnes?"
That's when Bucky recognized the voice: Brock Rumlow, Hydra's golden boy. The kind of psycho who enjoyed wetwork. After Bucky left, he must've decided killing unarmed civilians was better with an audience.
He'd clearly worsened with time.
Instead of answering, Bucky let Rumlow—Crossbones—be confused, and swung the bat hard at the side of his knee. Rumlow yelped and stumbled into the alcove. Bucky knew he should double-tap, but if Pierce sent in another Hunter, taking care of their Crossbones problem might leave Tony alone and vulnerable for too long. So he sprinted after Tony. He caught up quickly, and though he could've run faster, he stayed close behind Tony, determined to keep himself between his husband and Crossbones.
"Barnes!" Rumlow roared. "I'm gonna have fun killing you!"
As they turned down the next street, Bucky glanced back.
Rumlow was back on his feet. Shit.
#
They were halfway through a tunnel Tony was sure would lead to the network hub transmitting all of Hydra Studios' programming—where better to put it than an all but inaccessible place completely controlled by Hydra, where no one in their right mind wanted to go?—when a portcullis slammed down in front of them. They couldn't reach the end of the tunnel, and they couldn't turn back—Crossbones stood silhouetted in artificial fog at the mouth of the tunnel. They were trapped.
Welp, time to find out how rusty he was. "I'll handle him," Bucky told Tony. "You get that open. Work fast."
"Don't get killed," Tony said.
In answer, Bucky winked and twirled his bat.
"That was deeply sexy," Tony informed him, then scurried up the iron portcullis to tinker with the mechanism at the top.
The fight with Rumlow was brutal and far too long: two minutes where thirty seconds should've decided things. But they'd never liked each other, and spite fueled their survival instincts.
Rumlow had a metal helmet, full body armor, deadly metal gauntlets, and a passion for murder. Bucky had a vibranium arm, knives, a metal bat that gave him reach, and the determination to keep Tony alive.
Unfortunately, blocking three of Rumlow's punches warped the bat beyond usefulness. Bucky threw it at Rumlow to give himself time to grab the knife strapped to his calf.
After that, it was a war of attrition: Rumlow winging Bucky, and Bucky dismantling Rumlow's armor. If Bucky's arm weren't vibranium, the impact from Rumlow's gauntlets would've destroyed it, and then Bucky. Instead, Bucky's arm was fine, which infuriated Rumlow; he'd seen Bucky's Hydra arm dent and tear during their joint mission. Bucky's new arm put dents in Rumlow's armor and was strong enough to rip away its loosened pieces.
And crack Rumlow's metal helmet.
Rumlow stumbled away at the blow.
"Babe, ETA?" Bucky called back, unwilling to take his eyes off Rumlow for even a second.
"Uh…Ha! Fuck your shitty tech!" Tony crowed. The next sounds were a Tony-sized thump and the portcullis lifting.
"Run!" Bucky ordered. "I'll catch up!" Quickly, in case there were more Hunters. He darted close to Rumlow and swung sideways, yanking aside the chest armor with one hand and burying his knife in Rumlow's exposed side with the other, then slashing his way out as he spun away from the fist arcing toward him.
Rumlow dipped and fell, clutching the wound, and tore off his broken helmet with a roar. The livid face underneath was red and sweat-soaked. "You think you're saving him?" he snarled, trying to get back to his feet. "Your precious husband, your Tony? Win or lose, you'll watch him die. And then you'll die." As he spoke, his free hand slowly reached behind his shoulder-blades—probably for a gun, because Rumlow was a cheat.
Bucky had to end this.
"I'll see you in hell!" Rumlow hurled his helmet at Bucky, grabbed whatever was back there—
But Bucky caught the helmet and bashed it into Rumlow's skull.
#
Bucky found Tony picking the lock of a metal building well off the arena's beaten path. Cables swarmed into it from the ground, and satellite dishes lined its roof. Tony got the door open just as Bucky arrived with a new gun tucked into his jeans.
Tony pulled him inside, locked the door, and immediately patted Bucky down for injuries, babbling anxiously, before settling his hands on Bucky's hips. "Thank god you're okay. I mean, I trust you, but I was still scared shitless. But you told me run, and you'd catch up, so I ran, and now you caught up—with a gun? Is this his gun? Is he dead? I hope he's dead—is that terrible? Point is: are you hurt? You're probably hurt. I'll find a first aid kit. And water; there's gotta be a bathroom somewhere. My bandaging work is shitty, but that's one-handed on myself, so I can probably do better with two—"
Bucky cupped Tony's face and kissed him quiet. "I'm fine," he promised when he pulled back. "Banged up a little, but this arm you built kept me alive." He waggled his vibranium fingers, then chucked Tony's chin with them and kissed him again. "Thank you."
Bucky had glanced around the room for enemy movement when they got in, but only now did he take it all in. It was searingly bright after the dark arena, and packed with computers and monitors.
Tony's eyes shone triumphantly. "Yay! We hit the jackpot. Drive?"
When Bucky handed it over, Tony plugged it into a terminal with a wry, "Vive la révolution!"
"Amen to that," Bucky muttered, taking Tony's hand to calm his nerves.
Every screen in the room winked out.
Moments later, they burst to life again—showing Steve in tac gear. "Hydra's been lying to you," he began, and launched into one of his impromptu speeches that would undoubtedly rouse the populace to revolt. Now that SHIELD controlled Hydra's broadcasts and systems, a regime change was almost inevitable.
Although Bucky and Tony still needed to escape the Undercity, that could wait. Tony looked exhausted. He needed food and rest, and was currently safer underground than above, where there would be riots and Hydra response teams and bombings of Hydra's (dis)information network. So Bucky pulled out a rolling chair and sat, tugged Tony into his lap, and unzipped the leather jacket enough to feel around Tony's chest.
Tony laughed. "Here? Really?"
Bucky fished his emergency protein bar out of the inner pocket and presented it with a flourish. "Here. Really." It wasn't the dinner he'd planned, but it would do for now.
Tony laughed against Bucky's neck and took the bar. "Want half?"
Bucky shook his head and kissed Tony's jaw. "What's mine is yours." At Tony's dubious look, he added, "I ate one on the way here."
Thus mollified, Tony ate, alive and well, in Bucky's lap. And together, they watched an empire fall, and a better one rise to take its place.