Chapter Text
“I’m not going to fight you.” Steve pulled off his helmet and let it drop to the ground as he stumbled back to his feet. He let the shield fall from his hands into the swirling water below. “You’re my friend.”
The man in front of him hesitated for only a second before tackling Steve to the ground. “You’re my mission,” he spat out. He used what strength he had left to land a series of six heavy but sloppy blows to Steve's face, repeating the statement.
On the seventh punch, he hesitated, as if some unseen force was holding him back. Steve sucked in a deep, ragged breath. “Then finish it. ’Cause I’m with you to the end of the line.”
Something shifted in the man’s face—a flash of recognition that melted into pure horror. Slowly, he lowered his fist.
Steve
Something exploded above them, and debris rained down. The blast ripped through the air with a deafening crack, hot wind slamming into them like a wave. Shards of metal clanged against the floor. The impact threw the two men apart.
Steve hit the ground with a grunt, the breath knocked clean from his lungs. The scent of smoke and scorched metal filled his nose.
Bucky landed hard, his ribs protesting as he rolled to one side. A sharp, metallic taste bloomed in his mouth. He blinked through the haze, struggling to orient himself through the shrill hum in his ears.
Somewhere nearby, something groaned as it collapsed inward, and he scrambled up onto his hands and knees. He was half-crawling, half-scooting across the metal ground, struggling to move with a broken arm.
When his back reached the control column in the middle of the helicarrier, he turned and pressed into the cool metal. His breathing was ragged, and his eyes drifted in and out of focus as he tried to process what had happened.
On the other side of the now-shattered glass floor, Steve dragged himself shakily to his feet, swaying slightly. The comm system in his ear—he thought it had been broken—buzzed with static as a voice tried to break through.
“Steve… approaching now… where are… don’t have a lot… before this… water.” Sam’s voice filled his ears. With another glance at the man sitting across from him, Steve raised a hand to his ear, hoping Sam would understand enough through the poor connection to find them before it was too late.
“Sam, we’re on the bottom of the carrier, right by the control column.” There was more static, likely meant to be Sam’s reply.
Still stumbling as he walked, Steve stepped around the broken glass and slowly approached the man sitting on the ground. Every step closer made Steve's throat tighten. Bucky didn’t flinch, but he didn’t relax either. His fingers twitched—ready to bolt or defend. Steve saw the blood running in slow rivulets down his arm and the way his shoulders trembled with the effort of staying upright.
“You don’t have to trust me,” Steve said quietly. “Just don’t run. Not this time.” Bucky’s eyes were now trained on Steve, his left arm cradling the right close to his side. He looked like a wounded animal—cornered and scared.
The urge to drop to his knees and wrap his friend in his arms was almost overwhelming, but Steve kept his distance and continued to approach with caution.
“Bucky, the carrier is going down. You can’t stay. My team will be here any minute. Please come with me. I promise we can help you.” He extended a hand carefully, but Bucky didn’t take it. Instead, he just stared up at Steve, his expression unreadable.
“I know you don’t know me right now, and that’s okay. But I know you. And I’m not leaving here without you.” He kept his hand out but slowly let his open palm close.
There was a smaller crash near the top of the helicarrier, followed by the pounding of footsteps on the upper deck. Bucky’s eyes flicked upward briefly before locking on Steve’s again—a flicker of fear passing through them as he tightened his grip on his arm.
Without breaking eye contact, Bucky slowly stood, his hand palming the empty holster at his side before moving to one of the knives strapped to his back. He leaned heavily against the wall but didn’t move.
Somewhere above, Sam’s voice echoed through the din of the crumbling helicarrier. “Steve, where are you, man? We’ve got to go!”
Steve let his outstretched hand fall to his side before calling back, “Down here!” Then, quieter, “That’s Sam. He’s a friend of mine. He is here to help, and I promise he won’t hurt you.”
Sam’s boots thudded rhythmically down the metal stairs nearby as Steve took a small half-step toward Bucky. “Steve, we have a helicopter on the deck, but they can’t keep it there for more than a few minutes. We need to meet them up there and—shit.”
Sam froze as he rounded the corner and spotted Steve and Bucky, who was now holding the knife defensively in front of him. Steve stepped quickly toward Sam, blocking his view.
“Sam, it’s okay. Just trust me.”
Sam hesitated before taking a half-step to the side so he could peer around Steve. “This him then? The guy from the bridge?” His eyes scanned Bucky before moving on to Steve. “I’m guessing he’s the one responsible for your busted face and the blood soaking through your uniform? Steve, we need to go. Now.”
Steve nodded and looked back at Bucky as he moved toward Sam. “Buck, I won’t force you to come. But please—don’t make me lose you again.”
Bucky didn’t answer but took a slow, deliberate step toward Steve. He was careful to keep some distance between them as he carefully put the knife back in place.
Sam had stopped walking when he reached the stairs. He shot a wary glance in Bucky’s direction before hooking an arm under Steve’s, offering help he didn’t necessarily need.
“He’s not coming with us. The man has nearly killed every single person on that helicopter, including you.”
Steve accepted the support and leaned into Sam’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving without him, Sam. So either he comes too, or I’ll need to find another way off this carrier.”
Sam pressed his lips together but didn’t argue as the three of them climbed the staircase to a door marked Caution: Flight Deck Access. The noise outside was louder now—wreckage groaning beneath the steady hum of the helicopter overhead, the whole world feeling off-balance.
As they approached, the helicopter touched down hard. Natasha leaned out of the open door, hand outstretched. Steve took it with a wince, pulling himself onto the rough metal floor. Sam followed, gripping a handle to hoist himself up beside them.
Steve turned back toward the deck and extended a hand to Bucky, who stood just beside the helicopter, unmoving. From the pilot’s seat, Nick Fury shot them a quick glance and shouted over the roar of the blades, “We’ve got about ten seconds, Cap!”
Steve reached further, locking eyes with Bucky as he pleaded. “Please. Take my hand.”
Bucky stared at it for a beat before shifting his eyes to each person onboard. Then, making up his mind, he grasped Steve's hand with his left. With a strained pull, Steve hauled him inside just as the landing gear lifted off the deck.
As soon as he was inside, Bucky dropped Steve’s hand and scooted across the floor to the far side of the cabin. He pressed his back against the wall, one leg dangling out the open door.
For a second, Steve thought he might jump. But instead, Bucky wrapped his arms tightly around his chest and drew in, trying to make himself as small as possible. Once again, Steve was struck by how much he looked like a wounded animal.
“So… did the old uniform work, or…” Natasha joked, trying to cut the tension as the ruined helicarriers disappeared behind them.
Steve looked down at the old suit, the star faded and darkened with blood. He let out a breath and gave a faint, tired nod. “Yeah. I think it helped.”
He looked across the cabin at Bucky, still curled in on himself, eyes distant and unfocused. Steve’s smile faded.
Sam followed his gaze, then leaned in slightly. “He doesn’t look good, Steve.”
“No,” Steve murmured. “He’s not.”
There was a beat of silence, the hum of the blades filling in the space. Then Steve added, quieter, “But he’s here, and that’s something.”
Natasha didn’t push the joke further. Her eyes flicked toward Bucky and softened. “Yeah. It is.”
They flew in silence. No one dared to speak—or even move too quickly—just in case. The hum of the blades and the occasional creak of the helicopter’s frame filled the heavy air between them.
When they finally landed outside a covert SHIELD base tucked deep in the woods, Fury cut the engine with a decisive flick of switches. The sudden stillness felt even louder.
“Steve, I need you for debriefing. Hill’s already inside waiting.” Fury peeled off his headset and climbed out without waiting for an answer.
Steve shifted in his seat, glancing toward Bucky—who hadn’t moved an inch the entire flight. He still sat curled in the corner of the cabin, arms wrapped tightly around himself, eyes vacant.
“Can’t it wait?” Steve asked quietly.
Fury paused on the tarmac, already half-turned toward the building. “No. It cannot. I’ll see you inside. Wilson, you too.”
Sam sighed and stood to follow, but Steve didn’t move. His eyes were still on Bucky.
He glanced at Natasha. “Nat, are you—”
“Going home,” she said, running a hand through her tangled red hair. “I’m going back to my apartment, taking a long shower, and pretending today never happened.” She nodded toward the parked car nearby. “I’ve got room for one more if you need it.”
“Right.” Steve exhaled slowly. “Could you guys give me a second?” He jerked his chin toward Bucky.
Natasha and Sam exchanged a look, then stepped out and headed toward the facility, leaving the two of them alone.
Steve climbed out of his seat and lowered himself slowly to his knees, careful not to get too close. “I’m going to have Natasha drive you to my apartment, if that’s okay? She’s got a key, so she can let you in.”
No response.
“You can use whatever you want. Shower. Clothes. Food. Just… make yourself at home, I guess. I’m hoping I won’t be too long.”
Still nothing. Not even a blink.
Steve hesitated, then scooted closer. The moment he shifted his weight, Bucky flinched so violently he nearly fell sideways out of the helicopter.
“Hey, hey, sorry. I’m sorry.” Steve froze, palms raised. “It’s okay. I’m not going to touch you. I just—I need to go inside. Are you okay riding back with Natasha?”
Slowly, Bucky lifted his head. His eyes met Steve’s—hollow and unreadable. It felt like he was staring through him, seeing something else entirely. Steve held his breath.
Then, at last, Bucky gave a small, shaky nod.
“Okay.” Steve backed away, moving with care as he climbed down to the tarmac. “That’s good. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Behind him, Bucky didn’t move. He remained curled on the floor, hands clenched in the fabric of his shirt, gaze locked on the far wall.
Steve crossed the lot, where Natasha leaned against her car and Sam waited near the base entrance.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable driving him?” Steve asked her quietly. “You don’t have to say yes. I’d understand.”
Natasha raised a brow, then casually rubbed her shoulder. “Why? Because the man shot me? Twice?”
Steve grimaced. “That’s… part of it, yeah.”
“Water under the bridge,” she said with a tight smile. “Besides, I’ve driven with worse company.”
Sam let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, though his eyes were still serious.
“You still have a key?” Steve asked.
Natasha nodded. “Always.”
“Thanks, Nat. Really. Text me if anything happens.”
“I will.” She pushed off the car and walked toward the helicopter without another word.
Steve lingered for just a moment longer, watching her go—then turned and followed Sam inside.
Natasha
She approached the helicopter slowly, reminding herself she was armed—not that it would matter much if he decided to make a move.
The Winter Soldier—Bucky, she corrected herself—had already climbed out and was standing on the far side of the machine. His back was pressed to the creaking metal hull, shoulders stiff.
Natasha cleared her throat, soft but deliberate, careful not to startle him as she rounded the tail rotor.
“Hey,” she said gently. “My name’s Natasha. I’m a friend of Steve’s.”
No response. No flicker of recognition. Not even a glance.
“He asked me to drive you to his apartment,” she continued, her voice low and calm. “My car’s just over there. We can go whenever you’re ready. No rush.”
Still nothing.
She turned to walk away, not expecting an answer, but a dull metallic thud behind her made her pause. She didn’t look back—just kept walking at an even, unhurried pace. The soft crunch of footsteps on gravel followed her all the way to the car.
She unlocked the door and climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirror by instinct. A second later, the rear door behind the passenger seat opened and shut with a quiet click. She didn’t look back.
Natasha wasn’t sure if it made her more anxious to have him behind her or beside her.
She started the engine. “It’s about a forty-minute drive to Steve’s apartment,” she said casually, trying to inject some normalcy into the air. “If that’s okay. I can play music or... just drive.”
A pause. Then, from the back seat, a barely audible: “No music.”
“Okay,” she muttered. “No music.”
Just forty minutes of complete silence with a man who once tried to put a bullet through my heart. Super fun.
Fifteen minutes passed in unbearable quiet. The road twisted through dense trees and broken sunlight. Natasha could practically feel the tension buzzing in the air, coiled like wire.
Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore.
“So,” she said lightly, “you knew Steve growing up? That’s... cool. I saw you in that Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian. The one with all the old photos.”
No answer.
She wasn’t surprised. But the sound of her own voice—any voice—felt better than the crushing weight of nothing.
“I get it, you know,” she said after another stretch of silence. “Being turned into something you're not. Used. Shaped into a weapon.”
Her words came slowly, deliberately. She wasn’t trying to bond or crack him open—just find a sliver of connection.
“I was trained in the Red Room. Half my life was names I don’t remember and missions I don’t want to. The KGB didn’t ask questions, and I didn’t get a say. You just become who they tell you to be.”
She glanced in the rearview mirror.
His eyes were locked on hers.
“I’m not pretending it’s the same,” she said. “What they did to you—that’s its own brand of hell. But... I know what it’s like to wake up and not recognize your own reflection. To wonder if you’ll ever be anything more than what they made you.”
The silence lingered, but something had shifted. Something subtle. Like the air had finally taken a breath.
“If you ever want to talk to someone who kind of gets it,” she added, quieter now, “I’m around.”
She gave a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Not that you seem like much of a talker.”
She risked another glance in the mirror.
Still watching.
Still unreadable.
Then, barely loud enough to be heard over the hum of tires on asphalt, she caught it:
“…Thank you.”
Her eyes flicked back to the road. In the mirror, she caught him turning away, his gaze shifting to the blur of forest outside the window.
Natasha let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, tension melting from her spine, just a little.
They still had nearly twenty minutes to go. She decided to shift the topic to something lighter.
“I’m sure Steve’ll be happy to have you around. He’s had a hard time adjusting. I don’t blame him—waking up seventy years after you left the world? That’s rough.”
She laughed softly as they rolled into the city limits. “I’ve tried setting him up on dates—not interested. Tried to get him on Facebook. That lasted about two days.”
Realizing the man behind her probably had no idea what Facebook even was, she changed tack. “He’s been trying, though. I can see it. It’s just... hard.”
There was a pause, then, from the backseat:
“What’s he like? Steve?”
The question caught her off guard.
“Well, uh… he’s... stubborn,” she said, her tone fond but wry. “Like dig-his-heels-in-and-break-his-back stubborn. It’s one of his best and worst traits. Once he decides you matter? That’s it. You’re in. He’ll throw himself in front of a train for someone he met five minutes ago. Drives me insane.”
Her voice softened.
“But he’s good. The kind of good that’s rare. Not in the naive, Boy Scout way people think. He’s seen things. Done things. Lost more than he lets on. But he still holds onto this... belief that people can be better. That the world should be better.”
A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “He’s not perfect. He broods when he thinks no one’s watching. Carries guilt like it’s a second shield. But when everything else goes to hell, he’s the guy you want standing next to you.”
In the mirror, she saw Bucky’s brows pull together. His gaze dropped like he was lost in thought—or trying to remember something.
Natasha turned onto Steve’s street. It was still early evening; a few people lingered outside in the warmth.
She pulled up to the curb as close to the building as she could. “Well, this is it. Steve’s on the tenth floor. Unfortunately, the elevator’s out more often than it works. You okay taking the stairs? I’m not sure where you’re injured.”
She turned in her seat to scan him. She hadn’t paid much attention earlier, but she didn’t recall the sound of a limp as he followed her.
Knowing he wouldn’t answer, Natasha climbed out and waited for him to follow before locking the car. A few people cast curious glances as they passed, but she ignored them.
As expected, a faded “Out of Order” sign was taped to the elevator. She sighed and headed for the stairwell, her already sore muscles protesting the climb.
They took the ten flights quickly, and Natasha was grateful they didn’t pass any of Steve’s neighbors. She led Bucky down the hall and stopped outside the familiar door, unlocking it and holding it open.
Bucky stepped inside but froze a few feet in, his eyes going straight to the boarded-up window and the bullet hole in the wall opposite.
Maybe this wasn’t the best place to bring him, she thought.
Clearing her throat, she gestured around. “Bathroom’s there. Kitchen’s here, though I doubt it’s well stocked. Steve should be home soon. If you don’t need anything else from me, I’ll leave you be.”
She motioned toward the door, already dreaming of a hot shower and clean clothes.
“No. Thank you,” he said, still not turning around.
With a small nod, Natasha stepped out, closing the door behind her—but not locking it.
Steve
Fury’s debrief absolutely could have waited. Steve had said as much the second they stepped into the cold, sterile room that looked more like an interrogation cell than a debriefing suite. But Fury insisted. Said it had to be done now, while everything was still fresh.
He paced slowly at the front while Steve and Sam sat at the long metal table. A medical officer had patched up Steve’s worst injuries—ribs tightly wrapped, stitches holding bullet wounds closed. Now the adrenaline was gone, and the pain was setting in like concrete.
Fury wanted details on everything: what they saw on the helicarriers, how they took down the targeting systems, the condition of the Triskelion before it crumbled into the Potomac.
Sam answered where he could, quick and concise. But somewhere around the thirty-minute mark, Steve’s leg started bouncing—and didn’t stop. The table quivered with the movement. If Fury noticed, he didn’t say anything.
Eventually, they got to the third helicarrier.
Steve kept his voice steady, describing the sabotage, the failing engines, the collapse. But when it came to Bucky—when Fury asked what had really happened—Steve faltered. He gave the bare minimum.
“There was a physical altercation. I was shot at. I got the final card in place.”
Fury raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press. He never had to. His silence did the work for him.
After a beat, he leaned back, folding his hands.
“That brings us to the last point. Where’s Barnes now? I assume he’s not waiting in the lobby—or locked up downstairs in holding, as he probably should be.”
Steve straightened, ignoring the tug of fresh stitches along his ribs. “No. I asked Natasha to drop him at my apartment.”
His tone left no room for argument.
Fury’s gaze narrowed. “Captain, I know he was your friend a long time ago, but I don’t need to remind you how dangerous he is. You’re giving shelter to a man who’s been on the most-wanted list since before you were pulled from the ice. That’s not a small decision.”
“He’s not a threat. Not right now.” Steve reached for his uniform shirt. The T-shirt clinging to his skin was soaked with sweat and blood.
“He’s confused. Wounded. He doesn’t even know who he is.”
“And you don’t think that makes him dangerous? To himself? To this city? To you?”
“He’s not.” Steve met his gaze, steel in his eyes. “And if he becomes dangerous or out of control, I’ll handle it.”
Fury exhaled, slow and measured, then stood. “I won’t argue with you. But you need to promise me something. If he slips—if he shows signs of instability—you call me. Immediately. I won’t bury him in some black-site cell. But I also won’t let him tear through this city unchecked.”
Steve swallowed. “I understand.” His voice was quieter, but firm. “If it comes to that... I won’t let him hurt anyone. You have my word.”
Fury studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
“Good enough.”
He waved over a nearby agent. “Get them a ride. Drop Captain Rogers and Wilson at their places.”
As they followed the agent to the door, Fury called out, “And Steve—I'll let you know when we find the shield.”
Steve paused. “Thanks.”
The ride back to Georgetown was quiet. Sam didn’t ask questions, but Steve could feel them in the silence. Every jolt of the road sent pain flaring through his ribs, but it wasn’t what he was focused on.
He was thinking about what—or who—might be waiting on the other side of his door.
When they pulled up to the curb, Steve didn’t move at first. The building looked quiet. A warm yellow glow spilled from the streetlamp overhead.
He stepped out into the cool night, his body aching. The elevator had been broken for over a week. Normally, he didn’t mind the stairs. Tonight, ten flights felt like Everest.
Finally, he reached his door. He took a slow, shaky breath.
Then he opened it.
The apartment was dark.
Steve stepped inside, set his jacket on the kitchen counter.
“Bucky?” he called softly, moving room to room.
No answer.
The apartment was empty.