Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A robin falls and suffocates next to his mother. Buried, his body is stolen. Revived with science and human greed. He is catatonic. Like the others near him, he is reflexive and static.

The men in white coats inject him and others with green, and he is angry. Livid and spitting mad, as he attacks the other boys with matched vigor and indiscriminate hatred.
The green recedes and most of the boys survived. The ones who didn't, coat his and the others' hands with gore.

He is trained, but they train him more. He gains experience and is rewarded for completing practice drills. He sleeps in his cot and eats what he is allowed.

They eat MRE's. The Meal, Ready to Eat’s are injected with something that gives them the rest of the nutrients they need.
Cracking open his packet, he ignores the steam and pours his portion into his mouth.
His tongue burns, but not as hot as the fire--
He clicks his mouth shut and swallows. Looking down at the table he’s seated in, he watches as the other boys dig into their own meals with gusto.
They weren’t allowed dinner for the past two nights, since around half of them would drag their feet when recreational time was over.

It was a light punishment, all things considering.

--

The other fighters are not close, and there is nothing to smile about.

He smiles when the fight is rejuvenating. He smiles as he brushes teeth, and remembers something. A mix of yellows, greens, and reds, an old man with food and a soothing voice, and a woman and man that laughed and played with him. Another woman that blended into the night and only smiled at him, pearly whites shining as bright as the stars in the sky and her eyes.

He kills two trainers for trying to get into another boy's pants. His smile has never been so wide. One of the men had green teeth and the other had purple gums, and the cackle flies out of him as the last body slumps to the floor.
He freezes in place when he hears it.

That laugh didn't sound like him.
He doesn't remember, but that laugh was not his.
Generally, there is nothing to laugh about, so he doesn't.

The body of the boy he saved kills itself some time later in the winter. Unable to process the serum properly, he fizzled from the inside. A rare reaction, the white coats say.

The other fighters are unfazed, and so is he. He remembered that night, watching a woman he was close to fizzle out from the inside, too.
Needles that weren’t green and tired eyes that asked for what he scrounged to give. Until the very end, where her body lay at rest, and those eyes glazed with dead looked through him. He spent a long time in that room, unthinking. The rot would set in, and he loathed to move. To leave the security of what was never secure at all.

Sleep was elusive, and he paid for it in training the next morning.

Chapter Text

The handler tells them they are seventeen, and will start officially training with the men, and eating lunch with the widows.

The girls are cruel, and he doesn't remember girls like them.

The girls are rationed to eat the same MRE’s as them. It doesn’t look like it’s enough. Their ribcages are visible, and the hollows of their cheeks are haunting.
The boy with ginger hair shares his packet with the girl across from him, and she eats it greedily.
She flushes with the attention it pulls, and savors the meal thoroughly.

He looks back at the trainers just outside the rooms, and they stare impassively. He still hasn’t learned to read them yet. What he does know, is the pit in his stomach makes him itch to move. Away, or toward a fight, isn’t clear.

He ponders on sharing his meal with the girl across from him, but he can’t show that kind of weakness. That softness that can be exploited.

There is a blonde, one of multiple, and she stares at him from across the table, for moments at a time. Not hostile, but dangerous as any other web.
He continues to chew at his meal, and stops a third of the way finished. Placing his packet back down to his plated area, he looks above the heads, and along the rows of fighters relishing in their respective meals.
From the corner of his eye, he watches feminine hands grab at the rest of his packet, and isn’t sure how to feel with the remaining rumbling of his own stomach.
She eats quickly, and he rests his eyes back on her. Her eyes had never stopped watching him.

He does not approach her until they are paired to fight.
Their Sand Room is called the Red Room, and the girls fight like dancers, not pugilists.
The blonde and him, they dance and speak in martial art. His smile is wide and vicious, and hers, confident and easy. She entraps him in her webbed steps, and he rips through her defenses with glee. She enjoys it too, the game they've created.

As combatants, they're both healthy and have sparred without restraint. They are rewarded with life.
He walks back to the boy's side of the room, and stands to attention.

He learns from his peers as they fight to the death, and eats the offered snacks and water bottles. Protein filled, and healthy, after a good work out.

A girl with a lithe figure spars with him, and he loses.
She's elegant, and looks Eastern in origin. Black bobbed hair with a closed lip smile. Her dance is soothing, and it frustrates him. The tea shop surrounds him, made of iron that reflects what is given. The cutlery and plates read him easily, and as the bull, his tactics do not chip the patterns. Never shatters the delicate rings.

The spar ends, and he remembers a brother. Silenced words, speaking to him with an easy smile after a good spar. Then an irritated frown directed at him, through him, and over his head, as the brother looks at his clothes. Bright...colorful...
He blinks, and he's landed on his rear. The exertion of the fight and possibility of death shades him and heats his cheeks. Caught in a memory he knows he shouldn’t be having. Can’t afford to have. Not here, and not now.

He feels a tap at the crown of his head, and he looks up to see her with her hand outstretched. Face looking away as she watches their handlers, mere feet away.
Both of their handlers are discussing and idly surveying the fight a square from theirs. His handler glances in their direction, and there’s a tense moment before the man nods. He takes the girl’s hand, and allows her to help pull him up.
She looks unfazed from the fight, and doesn't let go of his hand. He looks back at her, and her gaze pierces him with unmatched intensity.

'Survive, think closet. Sit in. calm.' she mimes. She nudges him to the boy's side, and he spends the remainder of the spar picking a part what was given to him.
A meal of a webbed carcass, he untangles with strained effort.

That night, he sits in his room, and stares at the ceiling. Imagines a closet, small and spacious. The one that housed his belongings from his original home, now decorated with pretentious patterns and swirls. Within, the photo of his brother and the extra packaged food he was able to smuggle in sits, untouched, near a visible corner inside. The closet is arranged with a single red jacket hanging from a worn and bent hanger, and he urges himself to get closer. The back of the closet is open. A wall of pitch black where light doesn't reach through.
He sits under the jacket and next to the small box. Where the sleeves touch his head, he feels how soft and worn it is. Similar to the feelings he had of his original home, before the drugs and before the gang.
He closes the closet doors, and leaves a crack to see through. His back just barely touches the darkness, and he shimmies himself closer to the closet walls. Peeping through the cracked doors, his shoulders automatically relax.

Opening his eyes, he feels much more settled. Balanced and clear. Focused, with nothing to focus on.

He thanks the girl by standing at an impasse with her, in the Red Room.
Her smile is acknowledging, but sad. The spar is called to end, and he's rewarded for meeting one of the top widows at her level.

Tomorrow is resistance training with the men, and the end of widow interaction for the week.

Chapter Text

The men are strange. Most of them don't remember their past, either. Some smile like he does, lost and foreign to a face that rests in a scowl.
Others look at him and the other boys with troubled sadness.
Why ask about it when they don't know themselves? Choose not to know or simply lie about it, he can’t tell.

A few have a look he doesn't like. That look that made him giggle for the boy, with that laugh that wasn't his.
That weird feeling is probably discomfort. The girls knew things like that easily.
He thinks, privately, that he's jealous they don't get to thoroughly learn about those things too. The handler says they'll learn it when they are men, so he leaves it alone for now.
His assigned partner, is a man. The other boys have an assigned Mature too, but his is special. He is both a man, and a trainer, to be respected and worked with. He also looks like him. Has a similar jaw and furrowed brow that he’s seen in shards of glass and cracked mirrors before.

But he does not know him. And the man holds no familiarity nor recognition in his gaze.

The boys will be sleeping in the men's quarters and learn by demonstration, what can only be taught through human interaction and experience.
His partner, has enhancements in his legs. Buzz cut dimly lit by the damp lights, his cracked lips are thinned to a neutral countenance. Frosted eyes bore into him, brows twitching with irritation every time he looks for too long. Trying to see what so clearly is lost to him. He wonders what the man sees when his cool eyes melt fractionally, and sadness forces him to look away. Wonders what hidden memories are buried within him.

The men come into the program later in life, and as men they require different, more intense training than the boys. It’s more likely they’ll remember more than a boy can, and that makes them act out and unstable. He supposes he’ll have to wait and see when his partner will crack.

---

The night is tense.
Both occupants ready for an attack that never comes. Sleep is fitful, and as the sun rises he arranges his sleeping place cleanly, and waits for his partner's handler to come get them.

The knock is startling, and his partner mechanically rises to the call. Bed unmade and ruffled, the man doesn't bother fixing it as the door slides opens, and the handler ushers them out.

He stands at his side of the door frame and looks down the hall and sees...the aftermath.

One room has a leak of blood growing in puddled size through the opened door, and a few rooms have irregularities in their occupants. Some have no men and no boys, another has a man with no boy, further down the hall is a boy with no man, and the rest have boys and men in various states of unrest.

He doesn't look at his partner, and he doesn't feel the eyes of him watch him either.
The handlers convene and count the men and boys still operational, and line them up for training.

He spars with his partner, and his smile unnerves the man. Learning new techniques from him has also been fun, it all has become such a thrill. To learn better and more efficient ways of completing a spar.

Sometimes, when he steps into the closet, he hears cackling coming from deep within it.
Eerily similar to ‘his’ laugh, it makes his skin crawl.

He’s learning to ignore it as best as he can. He needs this closet to stay vigilant and well maintained.

Stepping out will get him killed.

---

His partner remembers less than the boys do. He mumbles names, and knows 'Catherine' is very important.

He's learning Italian, when his partner speaks to him properly for the first time.

"They put me in a chair." It's mumbled and low. A whisper to be heard between them until night fall.

Night comes, and when time stalls to a drag, he hears the man continue his mumbled speech,
"Put holes in my brain that the body regenerates. They mold the new brain to what they like. I forget and learn more."

There isn't more. Days pass, and he watches on in distracted apathy. All he can really feel now, until the week passes.

His partner is gone for his weekly test. A mission their Handlers assign them. Something he and the other boys will participate in, soon enough.

The man returns from his time away, more blank than before. Freezing fingertips touch his shoulder in jerky movements, his words soft but no less striking.

"If they send you to the metal chair, make them put you down."

---

Most of the time, that clarity is wiped from the man's features.

He learns to be patient. He practices his lies and plays aloof to the situation.
He will be a man soon, and the metal chair may become a possibility for him. Most definitely, if he leaves that closet now. If he remembers too much too soon, if they catch on to him retaining more than he probably should.

Just yesterday, he was ordered to shoot the boy with facial moles, in the back of the head. A test.

The boy had been showing signs of defecting, talking of escape and creating a plan with the others.
The handler displays his power in this way. He understands, and he hates it.
He kills the boy in his sleep. When it was his turn for the warm-up spars, he tired him out. Dragged with an endurance match, just so he’ll sleep harder that night.
The boy’s cot and floors are empty of a man. Dead, upon their first bunking.
Jagged scribbling under pillows and in the far corner walls.

It was better him that did it, quick and unexpected, rather than what the Handler would’ve done. Because he was told, in detail, what he would’ve done.
The anger sparks within, and he lowers his head to keep his restraint in check.

--

He learns more of what the trainers don't teach him.

The man sometimes cries during their sleeping time.
The trainers say crying is weak, and stupid, so he doesn't. He doesn't remind the man about how dumb crying is, he just asks why he does it.

"Because it helps." he had said.
Helps what? His memories? The pain?

He thinks, as he's thrown down on the mat, hard and bruising, he understands. Just a little.
The frustration and fear of failure makes a pressure behind his eyes build and teeth grind.
The grief and anger that courses through him as the boy’s brains splatter against the kitchen walls, and the shaking doesn’t stop until days have passed.

Crying would help, he thinks. Automatic, just as he breathes and blinks, the body tells him he is in pain and tired; That crying would help.
But it's weak and stupid, so he doesn’t.

He cries with the man, when the night is long and the memories are painful and strange.
When he bruises and bleeds and fails one too many times, not knowing when the next spar will be his last. Waiting for another boy to kill him when he doesn’t suspect it, and when the metal chair will have his blood stick to the seat.

There is nothing and no one to say otherwise of this reality. Where he should be dead and continues to survive despite the futility of it all.

He eats, he trains, he learns, he sleeps.

It hurts, and the clock keeps ticking.

Chapter Text

They all are eighteen today, and turn from boys to men.

He looks down at his training shorts. Tank top stretching its limits as he stays hunched over in bed. Sitting above his covers, he feels...nervous.

Something inside him clicked into place, and he isn't sure what it is.
He surveys the room and knows it feels off, but doesn't know how. It’s as if he sees his room for the first time. The gray walls, dreary and bland. Cots with thin, thread bare blankets and flat pillows.
His partner and him both lay on the floor, despite the clear bench made for one bed.
No windows, and the seeing slot for the door is shut.
The man has been gone for about half a season, and his trainer had said he should be back today.

Shifting to stand to his feet, he freezes as the door slides open. The man walks inside, in full gear. Blank as usual, his handler leaves them as the door closes behind him.

The man sits at his own side of his bedding. He watches as he unloads and sheds his armors. Armors, gear, weapons, all of it.
The man’s training clothes are different from the boys. Clothes he and the other boys will receive and wear after they've officially become men today.

The man looks up at him and quietly studies him. He, himself, begins to eye the weapons on display and wonders at what point he will be put down.
He’s gotten proficient in training, sure. Is most definitely ready for the tournaments outside, where the sparring partners are too easy to defeat and the information taken back practically child’s play. But he’s not the only one.
Sooner or later they’ll scrap him for one reason or another.
What would have them place him in that metal chair? What requirement would he not meet? Or maybe, it's what he shouldn’t have done. Wouldn't have done, just like Bruce with--

His head hurts and he looks away. Squinting at the far wall, he cringes at the memory trying to breach the surface. Take place above the forgetful sands.

A gun is placed on the floor next to his pillow. The arm sweat glistening, as it retreats from his space.
He takes it and empties it's magazine, disassembling it with ease. Taught by many hands before him, and repeated the many times after.

The pieces are placed methodically and with purpose. He puts it all back together again, like the puzzles in the recreation room. Piece by piece, he counts each piece and places each part where they need to go. The knot in his throat eases and his fingers stop shaking. He's disassembled for the twelfth time, when the man speaks up,
"Keep it. Disassembled and hidden. A present, for you."

It was allowed, he learned, that the men were to give the boys one present they could each keep.

What does it mean when his partner gave him a gun, and the other boys were given nothing and scraps? They each hold a certain value that he'll never truly understand.
He thinks he understands the gift when the man begins to frown at his handler when he isn't looking, or takes a fraction of a moment to comply with requests. When the other boys, men now, stare at him a moment too long. He waits for the fight, the most exhausting part, as not even in his room he’s safe.
It’s possible the other young men could sneak in, while either of them are unaware, and kill them both.

He’s just waiting for the right moment.

The man looks at him longer, and shifts his gaze to the door more often than not. Mind running and hurtling toward what he can't see. He knows, though. Understands, and is willing to go through with it.

If they’re going to pull this off, it needs to be after his first official mission.

Chapter Text

Today’s the day the boys are sent out into the world. The first wave, he hears. 
It doesn’t matter to him. 

What matters, is getting out of here and taking that kid with him.

He wakes up early, just to listen in on what the Trainers talk about. Idle chatter that’s useful for his escape plan always perks him up by breakfast. 

Sitting up from his laid position on the ground, he watches the slow and steady rise of the boy with that weird white tuft of hair. Scarred to all hell and most definitely trained by experts long before he was forced into this program. 
It’s moments like these, where he sees the curve of his eyes and hears a familiar snore, that his suspicions come back to nag at him. 
That torture chair’s scrambled him. Scrambled him bad enough, he doesn’t remember his real name, and doesn’t remember where he was before this or how he got here in the first place. 

What he does know, is he remembers holding this boy. In his arms. A small bundle. 
With his nose and… a woman’s eyebrows. The perpetual frown, a familial trait, if what his brain is telling him is correct and not just wishful thinking. The agony of wanting that wish to be true, but so very, very false.

Slowly standing, he walks over to the bathing rooms and gets to work. He’s got another job, and whether the kid understands his signals, he’ll get them out of there. 

If all else fails, he’ll get the kid out. Something in him screams that he needs to, and if there was one thing he’s learned from being stuck in this weird cult, it’s to listen when his brain is warning him.

--

His beard itches as he checks his gun’s safety, despite already knowing how good of condition his weapons are in. 

He’ll be swapping out with the kid to finish the other half of the mission when the boy checks in with the Handler. 

He’s already slit the throat of a few of the other men here. Shot as many boys as he could last night. The rest will be up to his boy. 

His Jason. 

He’s held onto it. As tightly as his brain could. 
He had two sons, two wives, and all he has is Jason now. 
Scarred, burned, skilled, and quiet. 

He can’t remember if he was always like that. Was he like that when he was playing in the living room? Did he like the baby puzzles and apple sauce pies? What was his favorite color, and God--
What happened to him? Why didn’t he protect him-- where was he? Where’s his wife. Either of them? 

A high chuckle greets his right ear, in Russian, clear as day.
“Look at him, comrade, he is so diligent.”

To his left, voice hoarse and full of phlegm,
“Ah, relax brother. This one is the lazier of the bunch.”

Jason should be back by midday, but the last he checked it was nearing sundown. 
Did they lie about the mission statement, or is Jason just taking his time? Maybe there were complications all of them hadn’t accounted for. Or worse, Jason had failed. 

Pursing his lips, he steadily lowers his pistol to his side. 
Whatever the case, it’s now or never. 

He raises his elbow, a sneeze in coming. The two beside him watch amusedly as they wait for the act. They’re greeted with bullets straight between the eyes. Both men slump to the ground, and he tears the spare ammunition and knives from their dead weight. 

There’s a sense of foreboding, and he pushes away the fear. Welcomes the terror and wraps it around his arms. Picking up the dropped rifle, he makes his way down the halls. Rooms and hallways mapped for this exact moment. 

Chapter Text

The mission was a success. The target group were all eliminated within the time frame, and he got out without being discovered.

He hit a snag when he hears a scream from a dark alley. Startling, as it pulls his full attention to the commotion. He’s walking into the alley before he can stop himself. Something deep within him screaming at him to walk faster. To run toward the scream. The call for help.
His second mistake.

The situation is grim.

A little girl cowering, bruised and defiant as she attempts to shield the woman slumped behind her. Needle stuck in a well-used arm, her eyes are glazed with bliss, unaware of the fight taking place.
Two men and a woman try to hedge around to get to the woman, but the girl is fighting them off with a rusted crowbar--

He checks the nearby dumpster, and finds a bottle and a small grocery bag still filled and sweating liquids.
Opening the bag, he throws it at the nearest man. He doesn’t care to remember the rest.

Broke the glass bottle over one head and slashed the throat of another. Tied the bag over the woman’s head and twisted her neck to seal the deal.

He drags the one with glass shards in his hair, further down the alley. Is ready to start bashing his skull against the brick wall for even conceiving the thought of harming Catherine, when she’s at her most vulnerable--

A small hand tugs at his shirt, and he twitches to keep his fist to himself. Looking over, he watches the girl let go and fold in on herself. He pointedly doesn’t look at the crowbar in her other hand.

“Thanks, I um. I’ve got it from here.”

The man’s still passed out when he hands the girl a twenty dollar bill. Passes the woman and blinks away the memory. Shuffles back into his closet and grits his teeth when the cackling turns mocking.

--

He’s late.

That alleyway detour took just about thirty minutes from the time he’s supposed to return.

His trainer and guard find him first. Walking to them with an unhurried pace, they lead him back to a car. Driving along the roads, he wonders at how they didn’t blindfold or gas him this time.

If they want him to look, they’re unconcerned that he knows.

They arrive at the building he’s been housed in for… however long it's been.
The guard steps out of the car first, opening the door for the handler before reaching his door.
He moves to get out of the car. Feigning a trip, he swiftly buckles the man’s knees. Bent, he snatches the pistol in its holster and fires through the man’s skull. The trainer reaches for his own weapon before the shock of the bullet between his brows flinches him back. The man’s body collapses, and he drops the body beneath him. Jogging to the handler, he fishes for keys, cards, and any spare weapons. Tucking another pistol within his pants, jutting out at the hip. The spare knife is small but versatile, as he keeps hold of the handle. A key card is procured, and placed in his back pocket.

Straightening, he hears the quickening thump of boots, shoes, and the slap of feet against concrete near him. Taking a deep breath, he tests the weight of his second pistol at his back.

He listens to the rush of adrenaline coursing through him as he walks forward, and marks the first head peak from the inner shadows. Feels alive, as he fires the first of many bullets through hearts, arteries, and gray matter.

The fighters are skilled, but he’s better.

He’s been trained his whole life; Practically lives to fight.
Learned many things while he was here, and puts it all to good use.
The most prevalent, is that he’s learned he hates being forced to do things. Hates having wished for things that he’ll never have. It was stupid to rely on someone else to help him escape. Daft of him, to think Bruce would keep him. Stupid to hope for a happy life with Sheila.

He should have learned that lesson already.

He saves the last two shells for the Handler and himself.
Relying on his knife and whatever the trainers and fighters had on them to walk through the halls he’s known for years. Each face, he’s seen in passing, are fish eyed, scared, angry, and dead.
He passes the housing rooms, the Sand Room, the lunchroom and the recreation room. He’s steeping in blood, covered in gore, and finds the Handler in record time.
Holding some glowing blue cube and muttering to himself.

He raises his remaining pistol and focuses his sights--
From the side, the man’s head flies back, bullet lodged into his skull.
Turning, he watches his Mature drop to the ground. Gun clattering as his heavyweight slams against the floors. Blood seeps out of him, uniform ruined and soaked with gore and tears.

He’s by his side in an instant, and can’t stop his hands from shaking.
He remembers this. There was-- he remembers this happening already. It’s happening again. Another-- he can’t--
The pool of blood continues to grow as the man blearily looks up at him. A smile, gentle, and so different from the small ones he would offer before. Eyes held with pain, he still smiles at him.

“Be better than me, Jason. Better than your old man ever was.”

His face feels numb, but the tears streak down his face anyway. He watches the defiant light in those eyes fade to a darkness he’s seen many times. Experienced once before.

His father.

He’s lost his father. Again.

Once to the cages of prison, and now to the whims of the Sicarius and their plan for freedom.
His memories are still scattered, but it doesn’t seem like he can keep a parent no matter what he does.

Willis, dead, as he kneels in the deepening pool of blood. His fingers shakily moves to close the man’s eyelids.
Catherine at her favorite chair. Lost to the world of heroin. Laced or the simplicity of an overdose, he’ll never know. Smelling the rot of a love long dead. Of a woman no longer there.
Natalia, bled out in his arms. The knife too deep and help too far away. No matter how hard she tried for him, she couldn’t escape.
Bruce… Bruce threw him away… He was never truly his son, was he?
Then there was Sheila.

Tortured and maimed for wanting love. To be loved and not be let go. Again and again and again--

Taking out his remaining pistol, he unlatches the safety and aims for his own temple.

If he’s going to die again, he’ll do it on his own terms. No one else’s.

The tears double in its efforts to relieve his heart’s pain, but he closes his eyes to it. Numb to the cooling barrel digging into his scalp.
Numb to it all.

Chapter Text

He's awake and active.
Ordered to guard the cube, and kill anyone that tries to get near it.

The facility it’s housed in is a bowl of human soup.
It’s none of his business, as long as stray bullets don’t nick him.
He finds the source of the carnage, near the far wall of the circular room. Two men, dead, as a boy weeps with a gun to his temple.
His throwing knife is lodged in the boy’s wrist, dislodging the weapon and gaining his full attention.
Young eyes harden as the gun drops and his caught with his remaining hand. Quickly firing, the bullet bounces off his metal arm, the sounds tinkling among the room full of its own metal ambiance. The boy stumbles to a stand and defends himself against his advancing brutality. Boot catching against the laid body behind him, he reaches out to catch the kid by the shirt. Blocking the knife aimed at his eyes, he holds that hand steady as the boy struggles to release himself from his grip.
“The cube.” he grunts.

He can feel the kid putting less weight in his stance, and he readies himself for a kick. Strong young arms grapple him, and they roll to the floor. Legs constricting his airways, he flips them over. Blocks the kid’s advances and makes the choke hold tight. Waits for him to become dead weight, he waits a bit longer for good measure before letting go.
Searching the room for the cube, he finds it, jostled but unharmed. Using its designated container, he picks it up and looks back at the kid. Surrounded by bodies, the scarred face colored with true despair stains his eyes as he looks at the boy’s unconscious state.
Hefting him up, he throws the kid over his shoulder before leaving.
The bunker isn’t far from here.

Chapter Text

They leave the labs and cages, and journey far into snowy terrain. Russian lands untouched by their people, with dead bodies littering the path before them.

The kid is awake. Hasn't tried attacking him again, and had decided to follow him.

They walk side by side now, and the kid is mildly curious about him. About the cube.

He has no answers.

The kid goes to touch it, and the handgun is aimed for those hands and not the head. Not the head and not the heart. He must follow orders, but the warning must deter the boy. Needs it to. 

The kid shows his hands and keeps walking. Indifferent to it all.

The cold air whips and bites at him, but he is numb to it. The kid is not. His skin is darkened with heat and the sun. Happy lines in a scarred face, marred to a scowl.

He undoes his jacket and flings it to the side. The boy catches it, and he, the man, keeps walking. 

Overheating is not conducive to the mission.

--

They enter the underground bunker, and he locks up behind them. Nodding to the guards at the door, he keeps the kid next to him as they walk.

Seating themselves in the central room, he sets the cube down at the designated table and pulls out a spare chair for the kid. The indication is clear as he looks around the room. The young man sits at his leisure as he surveys the place. Dirtied boots find the curve of the table, and he pays it no mind.

He finds a manual on mechanical repair on the seal near a taped doorway. Taking the manual, he tosses it over to the kid’s side of the table. The booklet slides cleanly across the surface and hits a boot. 

A young eyebrow is raised.

He tilts his head to the sealed door. “Unlock this door.”

“Why?”

“Unlock it.”

He turns and sits at the Cube’s resting place. There, he waits for his next set of instructions or the eventual task of bodily function. The task he had given the boy should last until then. 

The boy has his boots audibly squeak against the table while he reaches for the book. Pointed, but he ignores it.

Chancing a glance out of one of the window slots, he settles in for the wait.

--

The boy unlocks the door after a few hours have passed. 

Impressive. 

His Russian is good too, but he doesn’t look to be from the country.

The kid is well-built and honed, like a well-polished gun. A fast learner, that takes to tools with ease.

The boy's eyes sparkle with pride as the door cleanly slides open.

It’s short-lived, as the repetitive thunk of boots advances to their location.

He stands to attention and readies himself for the threat, and doesn’t let up when one of the engineers pops into the room first.

Foot soldiers, an engineer, and a doctor.

“Soldier, what is the meaning of this?”

The engineer is nervous as he demands his answer.

He blinks and loosens himself a little.

“Simply testing the new Soldier’s skills, sir.”

“Without authorization.” The doctor notes.

The boy is shifting from foot to foot, and he, the man, puts himself in front of him. The conversation will stay between him and the engineer. 

“Idle hands, sir.” He pauses here.

“It is more conducive to the mission if he repairs what is broken. A test was doled, and he has passed.”

The doctor grunts, and the engineer thins his lips. The tense quiet is broken up by the birds flocking to the skins outside. Snowed leaves sweating their chunks of ice to the bunker’s structure below.

“As you were, Soldier.”

The engineer turns and ushers the soldiers out of the room. The doctor lingers as he attempts to eye the kid behind him.

He, himself, shifts more firmly in place as he looks down at the man.

The man grunts again before leaving. Taking the tension with him, the hard footsteps against metal floors reverberate down halls and rooms, and he softens his squared shoulders. 

He looks out the stifling window and finds the whites of the snow reflect the dull grays of the sky. Nearly night.

He moves to head out the same door the scientist and doctor left through but feels a snag at the back of his shirt.

Looking back, he finds scarred fingers flinching back from the initial grab. Eyes not meeting his, there's a question here he's not sure how to answer.  

He continues his walk and finds the storage room. 

Rationed packages stacked on top of each other, he sets his sights on an abandoned flashlight and pockets it. The packages are dated to the First World War, and the nutrients aren’t sufficient for people like him and the boy.

He leaves the bunker in a minutes’ time. Checking the perimeter and deftly plucking the blackberry bushes, he deposits them in an emptied flask. He keeps up his patrol until night had officially fallen past the trees.

Back inside, he reenters the food storage and places clean ice inside the berry pouch. With that, he takes four of the military rations and carries his haul back to The Cube’s room. He finds the kid staunchly watching The Cube and blinking his surprise with his reappearance.

“What was in the room?” he mutters, placing the food at the kid’s side of the table. 

The berries are a slush as he opens it and pours water inside.

“Computer room.”

He hums and pours out the residue over a spare filter system. Watching as the water and berry juice come back together by the time they hit the bowl’s inner base.

While it finishes, he pours the bowl back into the pouch and pours more water in. Screwing the cap on, he places the flask near the kid that had just sat down at his side of the table. 

The Cube glows in small increments as it watches them eat. Cracking open packets and wolfing down their respective shares, the room is an uncertain quiet.

--

Days have passed, and it’s nearing time to be put back into the ice. Preserved for his next mission to wait for his next set of orders.

With the downtime, the kid has been agitated.

There are no more pamphlets and no more instruction manuals. The strewn-around manifestos bore him, and he’s beginning to start conversations with the engineers.

The boy will die for speaking out of turn, no matter his skills. He sees it in his eyes; he doesn’t care for this consequence.

He watches the sleepless nights catch up to the kid. There is pain in the boy's sleep.

Where they rest near the cube's station, he requires less sleep than the boy. Does not envy the tortured terrors haunting him. 

The boy hurts, and he cannot help.

He hurts in places he can't reach and sees things he cannot.

When he does manage to fall asleep, the murmuring grows in frequency, and the boy becomes angrier when he awakes.

He watches the kid and doesn't remember how to soothe. Where to define “comfort.”

His tongue is weighed with commands and chains, and his hands are of a man that spills indiscriminate blood.

This is not conducive to the mission.

The boy allows himself to flinch away from him, so he keeps the space between them. When it’s his turn, he sleeps further into the wall, away from him, and rests lightly.

The boy hurts, and he doesn't remember how to help.

It is none of his business, and yet, he loses hours of sleep over it.

--

It's a Tuesday afternoon when action finds them.

He is fighting Captain America, and it is a stalemate. The man matches him in strength and determination. Something about the American makes him itch to remember, but there is nothing to remember. He is familiar and not. It aggravates him and makes him sloppy.

The cube is seized by the kid, and that blonde woman tackles him for it. They grapple and fight, and it's dangerous and bloody, but he can't get to him without letting this man out of his sight.

They fight, dirtier and more primal than the last, and he follows the motions of a brawl his muscles recognize, but his brain does not.

The cube is in Captain America's hands, and the man tells him to be healed of all brainwashing. 

The next moments are nothing but pain. Mental anguish, searing his skull and liquefying his brain. Memories, smells, actions, people, purpose, and what he's done. What he was made to do, what he is now, and what he was about to do. Unlearning and relearning, gray matter sewing itself back together as the past becomes the present future.

It hurts; his throat is coarse with screaming.

The next moment his eyes focus, the woman is thrown at the man—Steve—and the kid runs toward him. Lifting him from his limp position and snarling for the others to stay back. The cube had been dropped, and the kid aims his pistol at it.

The bullet is fired, and the cube shatters. The mystic composition bursting and catching flame. Windows crack, bodies fly back, and the Russian assassins disappear.

Here, black soot is all that remains of them.

Chapter Text

He was ushered into the white-walled room.

There, he's given a new arm. It hurts. Pain searing as the nerves are misaligned and are jammed into action. He is given orders, and time passes. Blood is spilled, and bodies fall.
Information is gathered, and the mission looms just above him.

He is put within the cold, and the world darkens to ice. With no light, it's cool with no heat. Nerves sluggishly pulse with pain; he forgets.

He's awake and breathing. The kid is crouching over him in contemplation. His face is blank as he sees he's come to. 
Mind made up, a young, scarred finger taps his leg and directs him to look up at the open window across from them. A bathroom, with their viewpoint, a marked calendar is visible. He sees the date and remembers his twelfth birthday. His fourteenth, within the training camps, as he’s gifted smuggled contraband from the company as a whole.

He sees a calendar for the first time in decades and realizes he's both thirty-four and ninety-one years old.

--

They’re in Gotham. The younger recognizes it. Says he was born here, lived on its streets, and everything. 
It's the most he's gotten him to talk so far. 
But then, the boy sees the papers, and something changes. No, something remembered resurfaces. 
The display televisions are laden with static, and the kid goes quiet. 
Taking in the animated, colored pictures of a clown. The headlines are of some boy in a colorful costume working with some man in a black bat suit. 
Something about an asylum leak and the reason the streets are so barren.  

The kid’s shoulders sag, and he can't see his face from his position behind him. 
Quickly turning, the boy stalks off in another direction. Away from the news. 

He finds him sitting by a dock and watches him throw pebbles into the undisturbed waters. 

It's none of his business. None of his concern. 
He'll need to find another way back. With or without the kid. 
He stays standing, looking over the quiet waters.

The night is chilly, but neither of them moves. 

“Are we going back?” To before the cube. Before they were zapped into 'Gotham.'

The kid is out of rocks by the time the sun begins to meet consciousness. Rising with the waves, he can better see the boy’s complexion. 

“Yeah,” the young man mumbles. Puffy eyes focused on the horizon, and a scarred face resigned to do… something.

The boy abruptly stands, dusting his hands of the rock dirt while getting a lingering look at the horizon. 
“I have some errands to run first.”
It's said with a flat tone. A cover for something far more passionate he can't hear. 
It's none of his business, so he doesn't ask.

He follows.  

--

The nearest ATM takes Rubles, so they convert their remaining cash for the US dollar. Two hundred and thirty-nine dollars is a start, but won't last long with their metabolism. 

The kid is laid leaning against the wall, eyes roaming while waiting for him. 
"If we mug that mugger, we could buy a diner burger."

He adjusts his sight to the dark and sees the glint of metal poking through. Shaky and unstable, the chance of that guy having anything higher than a five is low. 

The earthy smell of concrete and heavy air is obvious as the minutes tick by. 

"I'll figure out the money and food. Find us a place before it rains."

Just as they move to leave, the man charges at them with his knife. It's light work to disarm the blade. It clangs below as the man slumps to the ground. 

"Kid."

The boy shuffles through the man's pockets, and they find what they're looking for. Fifty dollars is procured, and he notes to take the boy's intuition into account more. 
He shoves the man away and watches him stumble back and run to where he came from. 

"You can call me Red, by the way."

The kid looks at the cash a moment longer before pocketing it. 
A slow smile inching its way onto the young man's face, wry and amused. "It's fitting."

They continue on their walk. Red leading, and him following just behind. 

He's lead to a run-down house. All warmth of human life absent, he doesn’t bother to take in what isn’t there. 
The young man navigates the place with familiarity, the surety of someone who’s come home to a changed environment. 
He glances at the barely buzzing fridge and sees the faint outline of residual glue from magnets long pried off. 
The dilapidated couch in the living room is ruined with use, not withered age.

He looks at the Red again and sees a kid that's been left behind. Forgotten, maybe. 
Steve never gave up on him. If no one else, Steve believed in him, remembered him, and welcomed him. Always. 
This boy… doesn't have a Steve. A Steve, a Natalia, not even a Rebecca. 

He doesn’t bother stopping himself from passing the kid and checking the bathrooms. A hand to the boy's hair as he passes, he doesn’t miss the stuttered flinch that attempts to lean into his palm. 

Embarrassment swivels the head, then the body, back toward the main room without a word. He's already thinking of buying shampoo and conditioner when they get the chance. What they could eat while Red does his… whatever he's going to do. 

The kid doesn't have his friends and doesn't have the long-dead Buchanan family. But he has him.  

--

He's left the boy to the new squat while he finds them food. He was shooed toward the diner open at this hour, and to tell the waitress he's a Veteran. 

He's left the place with two bagged boxes and a motherly kiss on the cheek. 
He doesn't plan to eat his share fully, as the kid probably needs it more. It helps that the woman added more meat after mentioning there was a boy with him. 
Is it still manipulative if it's the truth? 

It's pouring by the time he's halfway to the squat. 
He's realized he doesn't particularly enjoy the rain pelting at his scalp, despite his hair's efforts to shield him from it. 

He's inside and placing the food on the worn counter, when Red rounds the corner and dumps a cache of weapons and ammunition onto the hard wood surface. 

The boy reveals his plan; the two men he planned to kill, and why.
He, the man, offers to do what the Bat doesn't sound like he's able to. From what he's hearing, it sounds like a mental block, nothing can really get passed despite outside forces. 

Red watches him, even while he rethinks his plan.

The kid's eyes never leave him throughout the next few days. Even when he's out loading up mailed packages, and buying food stuffs for their meals, or when he's following Red to the library for 'research purposes', he can tell the younger is still eyeing him. Watching or waiting for something. 

He's just not sure for what. 

Red reveals the revised blueprint with quiet intensity. Eyes burned with green as he watched him grasp his work.
What he wants and what he's asking for.
What he, the man, is promising him.
The plan involves him now. Incorporates him into the scheme of... killing the enemy. 

He remembers, before he was a soldier, he was a son and a brother. A son that made promises he never kept, with a father that further became disappointed in him with each broken vow.
He’s not that boy anymore; he hasn’t been for decades. 

Then, while in the army, fighting for and serving the People in hope. In promised justice and a world where Americans can live with freedom in their hearts and easy, sweet dreams in their well-earned beds.

Something these people, the People of Gotham, don't seem to have. Can't seem to have, with these people still alive and running rampant. Just like the Nazis, and just like Hydra. Just like those corrupt politicians and fat cats, unconcerned with the countless human life lost for their own personal gain. 

The boy is asking of him what he already provided. What he's willing to provide for him. What he already has so far.

He agrees to the plan and sees the hesitant hope within those young hues.

Chapter Text

Red relearns English, and he relearns faster. He points out the mistakes the kid makes, and the boy readjusts accordingly. The language for the boy like a frog to water after a long day in the sun.

The younger is satisfied with his progress and sends out a survey to his People. The people of Gotham.

While they wait, the papers mention a mysterious figure this Bat guy is hunting down. The kid has been watching the Bat. Intensely. Obsessively.

Some days, he says he found himself watching the mysterious figure watch the Bat. The plans have been reworked again. The figure an unknowing piece on the board.

Votes come pouring in, and they both collect their materials for the month's coming events. The boy is buzzing with energy.

He asks how Red will know if the mysterious figure doesn't end up ruining his plans all together.
The boy wraps his face and hands in bandages. A long light brown coat that covers the rest. Matching brown gloves are the most notable after the whites of the bandages.

"Guy's unstable. Tunnel vision. Holds personal grudges." That covered face shows only the recognizable acidic green eyes. "He won't notice a thing."

--

The end date passes, and the final results are in. The kid leaves him with a 'Zsasz', 'Dr. Pyg', and 'Doll Maker'.
By the time he's finished with one, the kid will have gone through 'Scarecrow' and 'Mad Hatter'.

They reconvene at their squat, a month later, and exchange doufle bags.

"Riddler, Penguin, and Black Mask are next."

"And after that?"

The bandages have come loose, and he leans over to readjust a few. The boy swats his hand away with a huff.

"Night time, Poison Ivy and Day time, Killer Croc. Bombs." The kid fiddles with the zipper a moment before tapping at the residual gun powder on his gloves. "Get the bomb in Croc's mouth and detonate. If that doesn't kill him, the ruptured organs will."

'C-4'.
His bag has a layer of C-4 in it.
The last he remembered, the British were working with C-2.

"It won't detonate without the detonator. If you lose it or it breaks," The kid fully unzips his bag and points to a baggie. Full of white powder, it's sandwiched between two ice packs.

He raises an eyebrow, and the kid shakes his head.
"Acetone Peroxide. APEX. Explodes with heat, friction, electricity, shock," He zips the bag back closed, "and most definitely, stomach acid."

That night, he kills the weird doctor - scientists, and comes back to an empty place. He showers and goes to work. Working overtime with pay keeps him busy. It keeps them with steady income they can rely on to eat with. To buy shampoo and soaps with while they work through the list. A quick medical kit that doesn't involve wrapping the entire face in gauze and wrappings.

He's bought chicken breasts and pasta when he sees the silhouette of black leap across the nearest building.
He adjusts his cap and keeps walking.
Dinner won't make itself.

--

The kid comes back damp. An airy chuckle hissed through his teeth as he closes the window behind him.

“How do you tell a riddle where the Riddler is the answer?"

Red smells like fresh paint. His eyes are wild and manic as he checks the corners of the room. The boy inches his way further into the room, a hand twitching for one of his holstered guns.

"Don't know." he replies. Just neutral as he would've said any other time. He was never the brains, not during his Bucky days, and most definitely not while he was the Soldier.

"You don't tell anyone anything-- you Hush!”

Red laughs. A bark of a scoff as he rips the bandages off. "Fuck, I hate riddles."

He pushes the cooked plate over to the boy as he sits. Red pauses and looks at the meal, "Mystery Man is named Hush. It was the Riddler's idea. Manipulated it that way."

He hums, and sets down a bottled water for him.

"Cat Woman got to Black Mask before I could." The kid is reluctant to sit. Staring at the seat like it was his personal death bed.

"You sound bummed."

The kid shrugs and looks him in the eyes. Gritting his teeth he sits and picks up his fork. Relaxing into his chair, he continues, "He's dead, just sucks I didn't get to do it."

Two days from now, Red will go after Ivy, and he'll take down that crocodile.

Efficient and lethal, it leaves them with just the clown. The 'Joker'.

--

The kid has been staying out later and later. Longer, and the food gets cold.
He says he's been working with others to 'increase harm reduction', but half of the explanation just sounds like he's creating a very violent Social Services.

He's got no cart in the race, but he sees the people starting to rebuild already. People are outside, walking more. Talking to others more.
During the day, sometimes he hears children laughing near the new parks.

They've been here for almost four months, and they've already made an impact. A way of life that wasn't possible the previous months before.

"The drug money is being put back within the community. It should be enough for the plans and projects the People have in mind."

Of course, not everything can be fixed overnight. Assuming they are still leaving after all is said and done, they won't see the full fruits of their labor years down the line. They won't be there to further enforce if the system they set up begins to wear or break down. It will be in the People's hands, and no one else's.

Well, and law officials.

Red has been pulling strings in high places to have certain laws come to pass. Bills, that will yank the unfortunate like Park Row, out of its filth and decay and into decency. Function. Prosperity.

That's what he says, anyway.

The boy is quite passionate about this. About all of it.

"That night, when we arrived here." Red lowers his fork but continues chewing. Slower than before, his attention is solely on him.
But he's not sure how to ask. How to word his questions. "Why is all of this so important to you?" This safe house, 'Crime Alley', killing clowns and people made of scales and straw. Bribing and threatening law makers for this city, these alleys...

"Do you remember the girl that lost her shoe near here, and tried to steal your wallet while you helped her tie them on?"

He dips his head and worries his finger into the worn wooden table.

"I used to be her. I had to be out on the streets and squatting in cars and junkie buildings to survive. CPS was a joke and the police a punchline. Working with the mob bosses that sold laced and bummed packs to children and addicts throughout Gotham just because they could." Red sets down his fork and he watches the boy's jaw flex, "Education was shit, jobs were either gang related or pay in piss, and the wealthier cities, their people would sit there and laugh it up. Rich fucks drinking their shitty champagne and playing social elite games while people starve and freeze to death on the streets. Overdose and get gassed by Scarecrow. Get caught in one of Riddler's games, or are threatened to be blown up by one of Joker's attention grabbing bombs."

"Poor people are left to die, and the people that can do something about it, don't. I would've been dead if--" the boy blinks and twists his mouth at the sour words just at the tip of his tongue. Hands balled into fists as an indifferent expression reattaches itself to his face. "Going for a walk, don't follow."

And that was that.

--

The last is the Joker, and the kid can't stop shaking. His aim is unsteady, and it’s enough time for the Bat to appear. The tension in the kid’s frame is lined with frustration as he sets his sights on the new contender.

The clown is weak and predictable in his unpredictability, so, through his earpiece, he tells the boy he will kill the Joker. The kid freezes for a just a moment, a black glove smacking him in the jaw as reprimand. Words stuck in a scarred throat, the kid doesn't need to ask. Never needs to second guess where he stands with him.

The younger puts his back to the clown and he, himself, gives chase.
It's not about him killing the clown. Not entirely.
It's about who does it, and why.
He never said it, but it's clear now. It's clear what he has to do for the American People, and for his kid. The two things he knows he'll never stop fighting for, despite his past actions.

He waits until the fight dies down, for Batman to be led away by the kid and for Joker's henchmen to dwindle, before he lies in wait. The darkness blends him into the background, and the stillness sinks into his veins.

He sets up his sniper rifle. Readies his spare knife and watches the clown watch the Bat.

He stops the boot from kicking his head, knife in hand, he slashes for the heel. The body jumps back, and he sees that kid in the colorful costume reach for a black blade. Stance ready as he blankly assesses him.

“You’re not from here, are you?” A wry smile, “Sorry, but The Bat believes in rehabilitation.” The blade is aimed for the nozzle, and it’s too quick, too close, to deter.
He gets to his feet and chances a glance at the clown, none the wiser of the fight for his life.

--

“What do you get from doing this?”

The ache hits harder than any punch he could’ve thrown at him.
The past rushing to blind the present.

He blocks another blow and creates distance. Stances still ready, he hates the cavern between them.

Hates what the man did even more.

“Why is the Joker still alive?”

A brow twitch, “Killing isn’t the only answer.”

“The People of Gotham were pretty vocal about who they wanted dead. Those fucks were unrepentant and continue to harm civilians, no matter where they were housed. They had to go.
I even left the ones willing to actually change alive, just for you.”

“You and your partner will face the crimes you’ve committed in the court of law, just as any other villain or civilian.”

Sighing, he removes the face bandages. Hears the intake of breath, practically a wail for the man.

“Jay… Lad?”

He doesn’t bother replying. Answering to a name that no longer fits him. No matter how much he wants it to.

“Why is he still alive, B?”

The Bat purses his lips and angles his head down, gathering his thoughts as the night drawls on.
He supposes he understands why he was replaced. Doesn’t blame the man for his death, just that his murderer still lives.
Is still able to pull bullshit like this, like there aren’t innocent lives being lost because of it each and every time.

Like his death meant nothing. Nothing had changed, and he has to be the one to enact that shift in motion.
Take out the dangerous toys, so the sandbox stays Batman approved and the People can still live in its sandcastles.

“He can be helped, Jason. He’s not well.”

“He’s past getting help, B. He’s a lost cause, and you know it!”

He remembers how skewed the courts are, doesn’t even bother suggesting it. Already knows, the Joker has been in and out of it, then let go all the same. "He still breathes. Speaks and dances--."

“I want to kill him, Jason, God do I want to-- but I can’t! I can’t cross that line.”

That’s right. He almost forgot.
Bruce isn’t just Batman, but the symbol itself.
His actions ripple with impact that affects the hero community entirely, not just civilians and the law.
The Bat cannot kill, because he is the hope in this fucked up hellscape.

Doubly, he remembers, when he was still bright-eyed and happy to have a stable source of food and shelter, asking the man why he doesn’t just get rid of them. Get rid of the root of the problems and work on fixing what they ruined. And Bruce had said he won’t allow himself to succumb to the temptation that he knows he wouldn’t, couldn’t, pull himself out of.

“So, that’s it, then.”

They continue to circle each other, both acknowledging the stalemate they’ve created.
Bruce hasn’t moved to catch up to his partner or called for reinforcements, and that's all he needed to know. The only way they can both allow this to go, amicably.

“I’m sorry I can’t be what you needed, Jay.”

And isn’t that what hurts the most. Makes the tears fall and his sternum bruise with its pain.
He swallows thickly. He tastes salt and blood.

“Fix your relationship with Dick, B. Family therapy if you have to.”

He doesn’t belong here, with them. Gotham is his as much as its B’s, but with this clean up, he hopes Bruce will change his approach this time.

“Jason—”

“Use that rich boy money and get eyes on the ground to relay the troubles of the city.”

“Jason,”

"Oh, and your new robin sounds like he needs more socialization. He’d love the ladies in DownNarrow. The girls on that corner are quite chatty. Have kids that like exploring, last I remember.”

“Jason.” It’s strained.
Bordering on a break, and he pauses to clear his throat of snot and melancholy.

“Will you come home?”
Metal arm would say this place isn’t good for him.
He’s already died here once before, and there’s nothing here for him that wouldn’t suck him back into the night-life’s fight he was raised to embrace.

“Why did you take me in, Bruce?”

The man clicks his mouth shut, and he knows. He already knows, but needs to hear it. Just so the ache will go away.

“Out of the goodness of your heart? Because you were bored?” He looks into those aged eyes and watches. Piercing green to agonized blues, “Or because you missed your actual son? Wanted a replacement to start over with.”

“That’s not--”

“Isn’t it? It was almost a year and a half before Dick told me you didn’t even tell him you made me Robin. So ready to shove another orphan in his suit, took the name his parents had given him and made it into another symbol for your little hobby out here. God, you wanted me to be him so bad, it was embarrassing!” He laughs, mean and biting,
“Shit, B, you missed ME so much, you got ANOTHER Robin! Again! You’re getting predictable.”

“Jason, please--”

“NO!”

"I WAS SAVING YOU!"

Anger is tight and coiling within him; grinding his teeth.

The man's breath stutters before it attempts to smooth again, "I thought I was saving you."

Swallowing, he stops his circling and faces Jason fully. "Like how Batman is saving me."

Jason shakes his head, and the shadow continues, "I never wanted you to end up like me. None of you, but especially you," Kevlar tightens in its own fist, "But I don't want loneliness for you-- for the only other person to fully understand you to be the Joker or A joker." Jason scoffs, and the other moves past it. Pointedly, "You need friends. Love, family-- I never wanted this for you: Crime. Fighting it, in the middle of it, controlling it. You told me-- TOLD ME, you didn't like doing it just to survive, and I still offered. Still gave you the suit and trained you for the crime out here.

You were supposed to go to school and have sleepovers, go camping, fishing-- and I couldn't see that. Couldn't provide that for you and be what you really needed, and I am so, so sorry, Jason." Bruce's chin wobbles, his next words congested, "For all of it. You're my greatest failure," The man shakes his head, pleading to let him finish, "because I failed you. In all ways that matter, I failed and I keep making it worse." Ripping off the cowl, the blue eyes he's seen in glancing finally look at him. Uncovered by the mask, and uncovered by the years that predate him entirely. The tears overflowing; Agonized.
"And I can't fix it. I can't change the past and I hate fighting you, Jason. Every punch and every step, but I love you." 

Despite the burning against his lungs and agitation in his throat, he feels tired. Healed and still so torn open. 

“Sometimes love isn't enough to fix what you did, B." He allows it. The tear that finds his cheek, warm and soothing. "Fix your shit, then fix Gotham’s. I’m done; Moving on. Away from here, and away from you.” 

--

The vigilante pulls out a baton, and that blank look is back. Head quirked to the side in quiet contemplation.
He pulls out his makeshift grapple gun and shoots for the building just behind the kid’s head. With his arm outstretched, the kid advances toward his left. A black blade nicks his wrist, and the electric shock from the blade forces his muscles to drop the gun.

The boy moves in, gathering the gadget in hand, he dismantles the device before lightly wrapping the line around his baton.
With his arm control returned to him, he charges. They enter a dance of martial arts, and he vaguely notes the baton that moves around and in front of him. By the time he’s about to reach for the kid’s head, the boy yanks, and the winding rope around his calves encase his legs. His weight tipping with the sudden motion, he uses his weight to roll back. Flipping open his knife at the back of his boot, he begins to saw. He just barely misses the baton aimed for his chin. Evading, he throws a fist toward the boy’s legs. Attempting to jump away, he trips in place as he opens his fist for a grab. Throwing the boy across the lot, he creates enough airtime to saw through the rest of the wire just in time to block the pole’s impalement.

In range again, the younger begins pecking at his arm where he can. Using his smaller body and lithe form to dodge his heavy grabs and fists.

Finding what he was looking for, the kid rushes at him and he, himself, holds firm as a small hand taps the inner joint in his arm. Another shock, intense and blinding, as it courses through his arm and into his side. His metal arm drops the knife and catches it with his flesh hand, using the butt of it to the boy’s temple.
Dodging, the boy continues his advance. He hears the crack of metal and rules out his sniper rifle, quickly turning, his artificial arm holds the wire strictly taut as he maneuvers the wire along the kid’s neck. The staff is shoved between the wire and neck as he attempts to pull himself free and breathe, but he tugs harshly. Bringing the boy to the ground before he could pull another move, he forces his weight down upon him while shifting the pole out of its place. He uses his cooling arm to choke hold the kid and slowly adds pressure. Releasing the wire and waiting as the kid scrambles to get out from under him.

The kid mutters a strained, “Miscalc.” before a light smoke is introduced to the ground beneath them.
There’s a small sound as a tiny beep is heard, and hot fire blasts in his face. He closes his eyes to the damage but refuses to move. His facial and flesh arm’s muscles are numb by the time he opens his eyes again, and the kid is gone.

Clicking his tongue, he stands from his position and digs for the compartment parts on his person and begins assembling the spare rifle. Salvaging the parts undamaged by the boy’s meddling, he makes quick work of the scuffed weapon. He tests the weight before loading up the chamber.
Making his way down the concrete hills and relocating his target, he sees the colors of the kid moving in a precise direction.

A body is being dragged along with him, writhing with joy. A smudge of greens and purples, and he gets closer to the two. Just close enough to hit the target, and at an angle to avoid the boy.

He aims through the sights, then fires. The lungs are hit, and the man flinches enough to stop the kid in his tracks. The next shot is through the head, brains and blood splatter against the boy's turning head. His masked eyes wide, with small lips drawn to a frown.
The sniper’s barrel steams with the friction as he disassembles quickly. Sprinting toward the body, he watches the kid drop the dead weight and reach for his ear, presumably an earpiece.
The body falls to the ground. The pool of blood, a stark smell of iron against the lingering stench of trash and recent heavy rain.
He pulls out the last of his two knives, and eyes the kid, who begins wiping the residue from his face with his unoccupied arm.
The boy takes a deep breath before looking at the clown, then back up at him. A moment passes before the kid blinks out of thought.

“Why’d you do it?”

He plunges the knife into the man’s heart, and keeps his eyes on the kid.

‘He hurt someone I care about’ doesn’t encapsulate it all.
‘Seems like he kills a lot of people around here’ sounds too open-ended for a discussion he’s not willing to have.

He supposes simplicity works just as well.

“I made a promise.”

Sawing off the head with precise strokes, he watches the kid leave. Grapple down the slopes of the buildings and rooftops, as the sounds of the night wind down.
Grabbing the head, then body, he trails over to the warehouse the man was watching The Bat from, and dumps the body in a wheelbarrow.

He looks around the building’s interior and finds sack cement mix. Sawing the body into clumps and pieces, he works quickly.

Hands steeped in blood, a cement block is thrown into the sea, and he finds Red alone on a rooftop. Drained, most definitely.
He looks up and sees him, remnants of blood still flaked to his skin, dried between the plates of his mechanical arm.

He doesn’t expect the harsh impact of a hug. Over two hundred pounds of mixed, disbelieving relief.

The hug is a desperate, 'thank you'. The arms clutching him tightly whine, 'Please, don't leave me'.
The boy buries his face in his chest, wetting his shirt without a sound.

He returns the hug, and feels the warmth seep into him. Between them, he allows his actions to say what he struggles to.
Strange and unusual, he hugs the boy closer and allows him to weep as he needs. He doesn't watch him, but he rubs the boy's back and feels him shudder under his touch. The strangled sob is lost and purposeless, and the vulnerability invigorates him to never let go. He, too, is lost and purposeless, and lets those tears be his own. He holds the boy as long as he'll allow him, and just as tightly.
The boy is stuck with him now, and he with him. For better or for worse, he won't let go unless the kid does first.

--

James Buchanan Barnes is his name. The kid, Jason, had asked two weeks after lying low.

The room is quiet. Jason sits close to him, and dwells on memories long in the past, and James parses through their next steps.

"Why not go back to him? Bruce."

Hypocritical, as he does not go back to Steve.

Jason looks away and the slump in his shoulders loosens further as he sits back into the couch. Beat up and torn, but a placeholder until they can run across the state.

"Your suggestion made me realize I was just his ward, not his son. You were right. He wouldn't have done what I wanted him to, even if I were his son. But you..." you did.

Jason turns to him and doesn't need to say it. Doesn't need to ask for assurance that it's true. That he knows what he agreed to, what he's promised him.
He moves his arm to the back of the couch and leaves his side open. Vulnerable to an attack, open to him, as Jason is the only one alive that knows of most of his weaknesses. Knows where to twist a knife and shoot for more time. Jason is competent, even with the lack of experience in comparison. Meticulous and young, with scarred hands that shake to offer his full faith. His trust. Dependence.

Jason hesitates before leaning himself into that space. Allowing himself that comfort for just a moment. James' arm comes down steadily, and wraps around the smaller frame, and breathes in the silence.
Comfortable, with the words said and unspoken.

Chapter Text

From what Jason remembers, there’s a British man that can help them get back to James’ universe.

Jason tells him this as he washes the kid’s hair. Shampoo sullied with dirt, blood, and build up, he massages his way from left to right. The base of the neck to the front, and shields his eyes of the soap slipping down his face.

Jason had asked if he could wash his hair before they left. ‘To use up the rest of the stuff so it’s not wasted’, he had said. He doesn’t doubt the kid would’ve given away the remaining soaps and foods to the homeless if he had said no. Would have done it anyway, if he weren’t here with him.

Up close and clean, he realizes the hair is a dark cherry red. Curly and fluffy by the time he’s finished, Jason purposefully runs his hands through the curls to spite him. Only to stop in wonder. Shoulders sagging minutely, as he softly feels the strands. Mind elsewhere, he leaves Jason to it as he cleans the area.

He throws out the empty bottles and is wiping down the counters when he feels two arms wrap around his middle.
He makes to turn, but those arms hold him in place, begging him not to. So he doesn’t.

Finishing his cleaning in slow motions, and only stops when those arms unstick themselves from him.

“You stink. You should take care of that.”
The boy says it lightly. Bright, in the way that feels real. He’s already showered. Cleaned up before Jason, as habit from his time in the army, and to give Jason time to back out of his own offer.

He turns then. Pointedly looks at the far wall and ruffles those dark, clean curls. The warmth already heating his ribs.

“Of course.”

--

A week has passed, and they’ve packed up their remaining gear. He’s quit his job moving boxes, and watches the skies for lingering bats. The days pass with relative ease, even as Jason ties up knots and remaining loose ends within the underbelly business.

The kid has faith in the bat, even after their last confrontation. He notes the interesting dynamic, a closed chapter now, as they focus on their leave.

They meet with the contact Jason had remembered, but the British man could not help them get back to his universe. Stood in that alley mumbling about the how’s and the why’s of their predicament for the three minutes he allowed it.
Before he could attempt to bruise that perfectly shaped jaw, the man had pushed them in the direction of a doctor that could do help more than he ever could. A doctor that’s ‘weak to sad wet cat people’.

So there they were, at a diner, waiting for a physician to finish with work and meet them here.
Jason is on his second burger when a thought comes to him.

Irritating with its insistent dilemma:

What he’s done as the Winter Soldier, and if he can ever atone for what he may or may not have done while under Hydra.
The guilt gnaws at him, and he’s not sure how he’ll go about it.

Plus, he… he has Jason now. Suicide isn’t entirely on the table anymore.

Taking a sip of his hot chocolate, he surveys the restaurant. The kid sits next to him as they face the door, focused on the task in front of him. Burger already half way finished, the kid savors his meal.

He needs to stay alive, for Jason.
Atone for what he’s done for the rest of his life if he needs to.

The diner doors open and a young man, older than Jason, walks through the doors. Formally casual in dress, he searches the rows of tables, benches, and chairs then lands on them. Perking up with the find, he makes his way over and takes the vacant seat in front of them.

“Khalid Nassour, I hope fate has been kind to you.”

No. He doesn’t think it has.

Jason’s fingers twitch at the ends of the remaining buns, and he thinks the kid knows the exact feeling.

“James.” He flicks his eyes to the kid beside him, starting on his fries, “This is Jason. We’d like to go home. Something about dimension travel.”

He wasn’t paying too much attention when John was theorizing. More concerned about getting back to a world that somewhat still made sense to him, and keeping track of Jason’s sleep schedule.

The man looks to the side with a hum.

“That might take a few hours. Need to hype myself up beforehand, y’know?”

He doesn’t know, but he remembers getting ready to tell his sister he had lost her favorite hair tie and equates the feeling.

Nodding, he takes another sip of his drink.

The sun is beginning to set, and they’ll need to find a place to squat in the meantime.

Jason cuts into the quiet, suspicion lining his brow.
“What do you want as payment?”

The man looks at Jason, then to James, before sighing.

“If I were a bus driver, I’d help you hitchhikers get home. There’s nothing else to it.”

--

They've either used up everything or donated the rest of what they had to the community before officially meeting with Nassour again for the transfer. It was a rooftop this time. Jason seems hesitant to go, but steels himself to continue to walk up the stairs to the meeting point. The doctor meets them just as the door is swung open, and the man gets started.

One minute they’re on a grimy rooftop, and the next, they’re alone in a hotel room. A jarring experience he doesn’t care to revisit.
Jason had a better time re acclimating than him, raising questions about portal travel and dimension-hopping he’s not going to poke at. A minute of habitual safety checks pass between them before they deem the place safe, and most assuredly in his universe, and with that confirmation, the kid flops to his claimed bed of the room and attempts to doze.
James leaves the room and greets the front desk, the lethargy pushing him to make the interaction even quicker than his normal brusque manner.
He answers no questions and hands over the money to pay for their stay. A temporary find that’s better than the streets, abandoned squat buildings and homes they've been using just before. Leagues better than the floors of bunkers and whatever linens they tossed inside those Sicarius cells.

He’s given their room key and checks his remaining pocket cash.
From what he remembers, the stashes of rubles and American dollar hidden within this specific city shouldn’t be too hard to find, but for now, rest.

He and the kid have earned it.

Chapter Text

Another week passes, and the new apartment is small. A placeholder as they get their feet under them. As they both adjust to their new normal. 

He makes himself visible, far from the apartment, for Steve to find him.

"It was a lonely existence without you, Bucky. I mean that sincerely." 

"I don't think you have an ounce of insincerity in you, Stevie." Wrapping his arm around those heavy shoulders, he pulls Steve close. The side hug returned with its own arm. "I missed you too. It's... it's been hard." 
Adjusting. Relearning and attempting humanity's laws again. 

"Y'know I would've helped you. Adjusting and... acclimating, you know?"

A smile lifts to his cheeks then, "Yeah, I know. I think askin' for that kinda help would be like askin' the sun to beam light into my eyes though." 

"Overwhelming and painful." Steve sighs. Dejection sagging him slightly. 
He taps his hand on that touched shoulder, "Too much too soon, pal, that's all. I needed to figure things out, line my ducks in a row. Figure out what I want and rediscover myself, even with the recovered memory. Kinda stuff not even YOU would know or could help me with."
And, well, there was Jason now. It wasn’t just about him anymore. 

Steve had called in Fury after the reunion, and there, they spoke cooperation. With his help in unearthing Hydra activity in America, he’ll be paid handsomely for his work and alliance. A pardon already baked into the contract for his actions and activities as the Winter Soldier after his first stream of information next week.

Jason has been working on his education. With a new laptop, he’s going for his GED. The education, similar but still different from what he knows from his own universe.  
The kid isn’t too excited about trying out sports or joining clubs just yet, the academics his main focus, but the question of what he wants to do after school never seems to leave him. 

He’s suggested college, and the boy seemed to like that, but walking by the homeless on their walk back from the store seems to get cogs turning. 
Jason is still nineteen, and doesn't know how to act like it. He looks at the teens and young adults his age and tilts his head in wonder and bafflement. He was no better at that age. Less baffled and more agitated to get blood on his hands. A name for his family and the soothing thought of his life meaning something after his service in the army. As Bucky. 

He looks over to Jason and watches the kid linger on a couple holding hands. Laughing as they trade jokes with one another, oblivious to anything that isn’t them. 
Jason’s eyes catch his as he keeps walking. His own lips turn traitorous as they twitch up in amusement. 
He receives a glare with minimal heat and can’t help the huff that slips from him.

"I hear online dating has its merits."

"Too many steps ahead of what I'm ready for, Buck." Jason scoffs. Walking faster to the complex just ahead.
They've spent enough on groceries, but he’s been thinking of buying a house that’s close enough to the city but quiet enough for his nerves. The nomadic lifestyle he’s had so far wouldn’t allow for something so permanent, but the concept of a safe home rather than a safe spot is more appealing with Jason there. Someone worth clawing his way back to. 
Maybe even just a duplex, in case Jason still wants him close by. A place they could call home when they get into the groove of a schedule and the monotony when they aren’t working. 

They make it inside and he starts preparing the food.
The kid was neurotic when creating his plans, unwilling to take his eyes off that bat-man so long as his ideas were in play. 
Dinner only really a step in keeping him functional, right along with sleep. 

Now Jason sits to watch him cook. Content within the sounds of the kitchen, the newness of it is… foreign, but not unwelcome. 
Today is chicken and pork Alfredo with sautéed vegetables. Yellow and red apples sit nearby, and he plans to use one for the stir-fry.
The kid sits with his head to the table, watching him as James watches the food simmer.

It’s a moment before the younger asks, "Did the Batman ever freak you out?"

He sighs, washing his hands succinctly. From what he could discern... "That man carried a lot of burden and guilt. A lot of anger. We're similar like that." Pursing his lips, he can't help the pity fogging his throat, 
"Even still, I'm not afraid of a man who can't protect his children."​

Jason hums. Green eyes watching him chop at the vegetables, his cheeks covered by folded arms. 
The next question, not unexpected, is asked with the same cadence as the first.

"What do you want to do after this?"

He considers the question, but doesn't have an answer.

He likes this. Cooking for Jason after a long day, and learning new things with him. Relearn who he was, or maybe discover who he can be now.
But Jason will be the priority, no questions asked.

The chicken is almost done, so he readies the noodles.
"I want to be there for you, as you grow into yourself. To catch you when you fall, and teach you to make your own net."

Sauce is poured and stirred, and the noodles have finished. He plates them for both, plucking the cooked and sliced meats, he seats them at the other third of the plate.

"If not that, then learning about my past or creating a new me. Healing what I can." He begins working on the vegetables.
"The Avengers could always use my help in taking down the rest of Hydra, might dedicate myself to that."
The bastards that did this to him will always be on his hit list.

He lets the sizzle of the vegetables permeate the room, loud, hot and juicy, as he adds seasoning and droplets of bottled water.
The greens are finished, and he plates them before setting up the leftovers to rest in the pots and pans. Easy temporary containers.
He places Jason's plate in front of him, and, setting down his own plate, grabs two more waters. Placing one near Jason, he finishes,

"At the end of the day, I go where you go. I'll make what I want work with your needs."

The forks are inserted into each plate's fill, and he sits with little fanfare.
It's quiet, as he looks up to the kid and sees Jason looking away. Hiding budding tears he doesn't need to.

He doesn't watch, as he digs into his meal. Doesn’t look up after the first few sniffles that accompany the clink of fork to plate. The warm food is good, home cooked is always better warm and fresh. 
His eyes peek through his hair as he continues to chew. Jason’s face a mess of tears, stubborn wet streaks over scarred skin he continues to eat with gusto. 

Like an opportunistic scavenger to fresh food. It’s bittersweet to see his kid like this. 
The hardships he’s gone through being a scar that will never fade, but he can start new here. Eat healthily and sleep comfortably; will never want for anything so long as he lives. 
He’ll make sure of it. 

Chapter Text

After he was given a phone, James has been going out more. 
Leaving for hours at a time then coming back groaning about being sore.
‘Wakandan Therapy’ he had said; To help get rid of the last of what Hydra had done to him. 
A program that was ordered by Fury and strongly recommended by Steve, even though it was Bucky that asked about it first. 

All that leads to is where he is today. In his own personalized hell-- healing journey. 

“You need to step out of that closet, Jason.” Dr. Nema says, her framed glasses adjusted as she lowers her clip board.  

He cracks a smile, and she waves her pen at him. 
“You’re about to deflect, but it’s important to do this, Jason. You’ve been in there for too long. It’s healthy to address these issues and dissect the feelings within them before they destroy you from the inside.” She bumps her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, 
“I can give you pointers on where to begin, and give you the tools you need, but it’s up to you to open those doors and take a look at what’s inside. No one else can do that for you.”

It’s been hours, and he sits near the burrito truck’s station. His after session reward feeling heavy in his hands. A lot happened in that program, and he’s not sure if he really wants to unpack all of it. If he could even begin to unpack his life before it. 
The warmth of the day cooling, as he uses one hand to lift and nibble at his burrito.  

Taking out his phone with the other, he hits James’ contact and waits for him to pick up. 
It’s a moment before he does, 
“Kid?”

“Question.”

There’s a small shuffle from the other side, “Might have an answer.”

“Do you have a…” a thing you repress all your emotions and trauma into? A mental box that helps you focus? A walled off area in your brain, your therapist yells at you to address every session? 
“A brain box?”

“A brain box?”

“Yeah, y’know, a place where you put all your emotions, insecurities, and trauma into, and then you’d forget how to directly address them.”

“Jesus, kid.”

“Was just wondering. You seem like a guy that would have something like that.”

There’s a sigh over the line, and he can almost vividly see the bland exasperation wrinkling the man’s face. 
He’d do that thing where he tries not to smile at the bullshit that just came out of Jason’s mouth, and his answering smile would only egg on the inevitable. 
He’s regretting not doing a video call.

“I’ve got something similar. S’like a frozen mind palace where it’s supposed to be spring. 
Arctic Tundra instead of a rain forest.” There’s a pause, and he takes a bite of the burrito. Spices combating the oncoming chill. 
“Traumas and emotions get covered by the snow. I have to dig them out with my hands. Therapist helps me make shovels and hands me the wood ash to help with the dig. It helps.”

He hums. 

It would be easier to take a shovel and break down the closet wood panel by wood panel, but that’s several steps beside self-destruction and he kind of… doesn’t want to do that. Not anymore. 

“Thanks, Buck.”

“Anytime.”

--

He sits in his room and wonders at his new closet. He had hoped he could stare at it long enough to get an inkling of an afterimage of what his own closet looks like, but he’s got nothing. 
It’s plain, and unassuming. 

Not jogging any kind of memory. 

Tugging at his hair, he leans forward to think better. 
He’s doing this wrong, still. There’s something missing, there has to be. 

He hears the slow, confident foot pattern of James in the kitchen just feet away, and the thought strikes him. Sudden and so obvious, he feels embarrassed he hadn’t thought of it already. 

Letting go, he stands to attention and meanders his way across the hall and to Buck’s room. Raising his voice, he asks,
“You mind if I look at your wardrobe for a bit?”

“What?”

“You heard me-- your clothes, old timer. I need to see what you’re workin’ with.”

There’s a pause as a pot is lightly placed into the sink.
“Sure.”

He opens the man’s door, averts his eyes to anything that isn’t the closet nearest to the wall next to him. 
Militant in cleanliness, he leaves the door cracked as he sits just in front of the double door-ed furniture.

It’s black, and smooth in its polish. Sharp edges where it's needed and sanded at the handles for user-friendly access. 
He leans forward and pulls one of the doors open. The smell of gun oil and pine leaks from the clothes hung above. The cotton a welcome texture against the wooden frame surrounding them. 

Taking a deep breath, he leans back and slouches in place. 

The Program, Sicarius. That’s where it started, wasn’t it? What did he imagine? Where was it?

The smell of gun oil and cotton anchors him. Tethered, he keeps breathing. Even and slow. Focus. Focus...

He was starting to remember after that girl told him to compartmentalize. Remembers Bruce and Batman, and the mansion. The room he was given while he stayed there, with the fancy closet he hid food and his remaining belongings in. 

Breathe. Focus...this isn’t about him. 

He had a box in there. The box had a pack of cigarettes, crushed and used. He had started after his dad was put in jail for working under Two Face. When his mother had started seeing the swirls and smudges of heroin more than his poems and graded essays. 

His brother, Danny, went missing. He was being babysat by one of Catherine’s friends. Sat with him when he was told he went missing.
His dad...Willis, had found the body in the rivers and clung tighter to him. Both Catherine and him, telling them it was all his fault. That he should've just done the damned job. 

That collage list of photos was all he really had of Danny. What he kept with him after all those years, and what his father had given him to remember him by. A folded wallet picture, with him and Danny, all smiles and giggles as they laugh together in a run-down picture booth.

Those set of photos sit on top of that box, and-- the closet was small. Could barely hold himself inside it whenever the world became too loud and things were moving too fast for him. The outside, decorated with… Wayne money. Pretentious swirls, patterns, and designs of Eastern and African origin. 

Breathe…

It was spacious on the inside. Completely pitch black within. 
The outline of a familiar red hoodie sits on the lone hanger above. 

A trail of strewn about clothes lead further into the dark just beyond the back of the closet’s interior. Endless and daunting, as faint giggling is heard within. 

He tries to focus on the clothes. What they could mean. 
A colorful leotard, singed and bloody. Revealing child’s clothes,with its mysterious liquids and unpleasant textures. The Sicarius uniform, flecks of blood splatter against its liquid resistant form. The Adult Sicarius uniform, the knees drenched in fresh blood.

The giggling has stopped, and he looks up at the darkness ahead of him. 
A wide spread of teeth meet him. Joyous in twisted glee, the mouth opens. Slow and dragging, as the invisible jaws are pulled a part. 

His heart races as the memories flood him. Back to the closed doors, he begins to suffocate. Air dwindling by the second, the laugh comes back, booming louder than before. Cackling. Cackling. 
He can’t breathe. Metal against flesh, metal against bone, acid sprays against his tender joints. Punchline, ticking, waiting and waiting and waiting please where are you dad it hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts--

“Jay?” The voice is muffled against the raucous laughter. 
“C’mon, bud, breathe with me.”

He gasps for air as his eyes fly open, arms flailing to re-steady himself or scramble back. A hand is held between his skull and the hard edge of wood from the bed frame, and he attempts to gulp in lung fulls. 

“Jason you’re having an attack, I need you to hold your palm out, okay?”

A strained wheeze is all he can manage as he’s flipping between clawing through dirt and swallowing acidic green. The giggles are reverberating through his skull and rattling down his diaphragm, as the phantom pains of metal striking against bruised, pulsing flesh. The harsh training of yellow sands demand he get back up, a dessert with nothing but blinding pain who knows nothing but gleeful chaos. He lifts his palm in an aborted motion of digging. The tremble of it apparent, even as he feels a warm hand hold it over a beating heart. 
He remembers ripping out that same muscle and tissue before, and knows in his bones he can’t recreate it. Shouldn’t. Won’t.
The lungs expand and are let go, easy and steady. “Follow me.” In, easy and heavy, held, then out, nice and slow. 
He follows. 
A son to a mother’s request, a soldier to learned muscle memory. A bird to a bat’s shadow.

“That’s good, keep going.”

Sound properly registers, the laughs petering into a low hum. The frequency of the heater warming the only two people in the apartment. James is here, and wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Wouldn’t let him go back-- killed his boogeyman for him, for Gotham. 
He can better feel the fabric of the man’s shirt. Dog tags that cool against the warm skin underneath, the heart continues to beat. Strong and steady. Warm and alive and ever present. 

“Sorry. I-- uh.” He shudders out another breath, “Sorry.”

He feels more than sees the shake of the other man’s hair, “No need for that.” James leans back, eyeing his closet before returning his attention to Jason, “What were you doing, anyway?”

He blinks, the world coming into focus properly. A few more times, and he squints at the sharp lights and visual noise. “Uh,” he starts. Brain scrambled and sluggish. “Wakandan Therapy.”

James snorts and rolls to a stand. A hand in his space offering to help him stand. 
It takes him a moment to take that hand. The hesitance making him feel silly as he’s brought to his feet. Stance unsteady as he looks back at the dresser. 

He ignores the wet streaks that stain his cheeks. The itch of dried tears already aggravating, but soothed by the production of more tears. 

James has proven himself.
Made good on his promises and protected him. Helped him and wants to continue to help him. Guide him and let him stay.
Jason doesn't run from it, doesn't bolt from the fire that he remembers to have burned him three times before, but the tears won't stop.

He clutches the front of James’ shirt. The fabric of the Captain America shirt wrinkling even while his hands migrate to the back with an iron grip. 
The man opens himself up, loose and unbothered as he hugs him, fully. All encompassing; Unsure but warm and calming, he feels those safe arms envelop him. Those steady hands holding him together like healing ointment and heating pads. 
It gets easier after each time, hugging. The intimacy of a contact without pain. 
He sinks into the learned familiarity of it. 
A sand spider shuffling into the new warm sands around him.

Chapter Text

Jason doodles suit ideas while he studies for his GED. The audio version of his studies, just after reading the text himself. The content new, similar, but still fun despite it all being online now.
Reading and hearing the difference in proper education after so many years… it’s like water to a cracked tongue. 
It’s been a few days, and he can’t stop thinking about the closet. Again. What those clothes meant, mean, to him.

The leotard sticks out among the rest, so that’s what’s been taking up the most space in his mind. Colorful, youthful, magical. Full of hope and pride. 

He remembers Garzonas. The rage and despair of it. What Batman had done and what the victim had done right after that phone call. Doesn't remember what he did, but the hollow victory was still there after his body splattered against the concrete. What good is it if they were both dead? All avoided if they'd done it his way the first time around. 

There were fewer pieces of shit in the world than before, but the victim still killed herself. Gone, and never able to recover or live past her traumas. The system and they, right alongside it, failed her. 

He twists his lips, soured at the thought. 
He sighs and refocuses on his workbook. 
The next test should be in a few months’ time, but he wants to savor the lessons given here. Soak it in while he can. 
The jingle of keys is minimal, but still noticeable among the quiet home. James coming in from whatever SHIELD has him do for work these days. 

He doodles in gun holsters. Tapping the pencil’s eraser against the rest of his written notes, he listens to the couch groaning with weight. The tv flickering on with the volume low, he catches sight of his wall clock.
Dinner not for another hour or two, he stands anyway. His red highlighter rolled to the side and near his laptop’s propped up fans, he grabs it and places it with his other pens. 
The few sticky notes still in use, crossed out with a red x to keep him from going over content he’s already memorized. Captivating as it was, he shuts his current book, and heads out of his room. 
Just toward the living room, he finds James, as he thought he would, splayed along the couch. With Jason’s arrival, he waves limply before closing his eyes fully. The dark circles prominent and lip bruised, his attention is prodded with a commercial, a couple riding a ferris wheel with absolute glee. His curiosity piqued, yet again. 

“You need friends.”

“YOU need friends.” James grunts, “Your enclosure is sorely lacking of proper socialization.” An eye lazily opens, “and I’ve got friends, kid. Just need to reconnect.”

Lifting his foot, he nudges the man’s side. “Go to a bar. Meet someone.”

James’ brow furrows, “Where’s this coming from, bud?”

Setting down his foot, he sighs, long and agitated. 
The far wall more interesting than the growing heat at his cheeks. “You take care of me, and that’s nice and everything, but you should have James’ time. Reconnect with your friends and have spa days.” Huffing, he mutters, “Do more than cook, clean, and work.”

James blinks open both eyes at that. Sitting up slowly, he holds himself up as his legs land softly to the floor. Their eyes lock, and cold blues smile up at his boy, amused. “I get out plenty, Jason. Don’t worry about me.”

Jason crosses his arms, the tv recapturing his eyes with a slasher film promotion. James huffs, pulling out his phone and flicking through a few things before landing on what he wants. “I’m thinking of talking to this guy right now. I wanted your judge of his character.”

Perking up, he swiftly seats himself down at James’ side. Looking over to the screen to find… A blonde. Late thirties; early forties, with short hair and a good ratio of muscle and fat to match. 
The photo is of him in a tank top and shorts eating a pizza slice… wrong. Teeth pulling and pecking at the pepperoni, he’s skinning the slice of its cheese. Leaving the wet oils of the cooked dough exposed to the air. 

This is… definitely a choice.

James flicks his thumb to another photo, the man holding up an arrow target full of bullseye shots like a caught trout. “One of my friends suggested him. Another vouches for him.” Pausing, he recalls Natalia’s summary:

“More heart than anything. Good fighter; tactician and expert marksman. Divorced. People person. Terrible at espionage." and keeping quiet. And following orders.
And is a functional slob.
But apparently loves getting on Steve’s nerves, which he can greatly appreciate.

"You don't look like you like him." 

He doesn’t usually stay after the hook up, even when the offer was presented to him. But… last week… last week he stayed. Just until his uniform and casual wear were cleaned and washed thoroughly. Just so it didn’t smell of smoke and ash. The previous mission had ended with the client's house burning down, and he would rather die, again, than be the reason Jason’s progress with Dr. Nema stunts.

"I like tolerating him."

The bafflement is palpable, and the amusement lifts his cheeks, "Weapon of choice is a bow and arrow."

Jason's brow narrows. “And you… want to pursue,” Jason’s finger swipes back to the pizza picture. “This?”

“Thinking about it.”

Jason grunts and shoves the phone away, curling up against James’ side instead. 
“Do whatever. It’s your love life.” Yawning, he covers his mouth of the exhalation, “Get back to me when the wedding’ll happen.”

“Jason--”

“’M serious.” Looking up at James he continues, earnest green to nervous blue. “You deserve your happy ending too, not just me.” Burrowing his face into the man’s shoulder, the vulnerability exceeding this week’s quota. 
The warmth in his chest grows, fondness taking shape among the amusement. Lowering an arm around Jason, he slowly yet firmly rubs his side. Some modern detective show back from the commercial break. 

“I’ll give it some thought.”

Chapter Text

The heat allows for an evening splurge on cold, sweet treats. That’s what James says, anyway. 
He thinks it’s a way of giving him positive reinforcement and indulging in his own sweet tooth, but what does he know. 

He got strawberry with its syrup. Sprinkles on top, just to try it. 
He remembers something similar to the way the sweet cream is consumed, and the words fly out of him as a spark of a memory attempts to replay.

“When I was ten, I used to suck dick for money. Imagined it was ice cream to make it easier.”

Blinking, he lowers the cone and looks at it. A chuckle sliding out of his throat, 
“I don’t know why I said that.”
Shame and embarrassment crawl up his spine. Disgust threatening to clog his senses and delve into the memories he can’t stop himself from recalling.

“Steve and I would work the corners to pass the time.”
He looks up and sees James looking at his own cone. Half way finished already, his expression is pensive. Sorrowfully pensive. 
“Helped pay for his treatments when working the regular just wasn’t cutting it. Never that young, though. Near sixteen, maybe.”

“How did you keep…?”

“Scrubbed my tongue raw, couldn’t taste anything anymore. Was plannin’ to get into the army anyways. The sex…” The man shifts and looks away, uncomfortable, 
“disassociated. We got the money in the end but,” he shakes his head, looking back at him, 
“Wasn’t right. For me and him, and especially not for you.”

He hums. Shoulders evening out as he looks ahead. Gnawing into his ice cream before it completely melted in his hand. 

“You think it helped that Steve was there with you?”

The man eats at his own cone and thinks it over. They continue to walk, the bustle of cars going to and fro a hum of backdrop behind them. Clouds continue to drift over the happenings of the world below. 

“Maybe. He was most of the reason why I did it in the first place. Easy bruised skin and weak bones couldn’t handle the rougher treatment of the higher payin’ anyway.”

He’s down to the cone, intermittent bites between thoughts. 

“I had a brother, a twin, but he died. Gang related.” He breathes in the humid air, as they continue to walk. The local pond, teaming with swimming ducks. 

“But, sometimes, I wonder if it would’ve been easier or worse, if he were there with me. Or, if I had him as a goal to keep us both alive and safe, if my life would’ve ended up differently.” 

A selfish thought he couldn’t help but entertain. The lighter floating thoughts among the dark. If Batman this, if Sheila that. If Willis this, if orphanage that. If Dick this, if Natalia that. 

“Can’t get stuck on what if’s of the past, Jason. It’s not a pretty spiral.”

From what he knows about James, he’ll try to take his word for it. 

War veteran James Buchanan Barnes, to brainwashed Winter Soldier of the Russian state, he would know best, wouldn’t he?

“How do you feel about your last name?”

The sudden change of topic has Jason turning to look up at James. Face impassive, as he gives the question thought.  
“Means something to me after Willis died. If it isn’t his last words, then it’s his last name I keep close.”

James hums, finishing his cone entirely. Jason not far behind.  
“Do you want to make a grave for him?”

Scarred hands pick at the soft cotton ridge of his shirt. The fabric, a warm black. It’s own hug. “There’s no body. No ashes.”
“Doesn’t matter." James murmurs, "S'just something else to remember him by.”

Ice cream finished, he rubs at the crumbs stuck to his fingers. The small stick from the melted treat he hadn’t managed to eat in time.

“Yeah,” Jason murmurs, “I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

The red hoodie was a birthday present. 

Just a year before Willis was taken from them, it was gifted to him. Behind bars or in that program, he’ll never really know. 
He was supposed to grow into it. Oversized for a well-fed body before the neglect and eventual homelessness. 

He feels the soft cotton of the pull-over and takes one in his size. Can’t stop rubbing the fabric in repetitive motions. 

He starved in this hoodie. 

Slept in it to keep warm and wiped his sweat with it after long shifts at the diner. 
Bled in it when the other street kids found value in his fresh twenty dollars. 
Wrapped it around himself, self soothing, when his back alley clients had finally left, and he could take off his worker outfit. 

It soaked up his tears, for years, before he was taken in by Bruce. 
Was able to put down the outfit and stop stealing for food and cash, and safely stash away his hoodie for safe keeping while he worked with Batman and went back to school.  

“Be better than me, Jason. Better than your old man ever was.”

Placing the hoodie back, he heads further into the store. He’s not here for comfort, but for one thing in particular. 

Willis was never there, couldn’t be, but what he remembers starkly of him, was his brown leather jacket. 

He sees what he’s looking for, at the far wall. Hung up among other varieties, the brown has a hint of shine from its leather. He expects to smell cigarettes and gum, and only finds clean leather.
This jacket is ‘vintage’. A bomber jacket.

Collar neatly folded, the two layers of zipper ensures warmth and security. The leather is new, where he expected a worn, softer texture. Pockets large and capable of holding a large variety of items… a standard desert eagle is about the length of the pocket’s depth. The flap, easily maneuverable and connects as an overbite, with its magnetic pull. Strong, but he’d feel better if he made it stronger. 
Ribbed cuffs and waistband a softer texture than the leather itself, he feels the cotton and is reminded of his red hoodie. 

He takes the one in his size, and hands over the cash at the self check-out. 
The technology here still so new to him. The advancement, a new plaything when he’s not studying or looking into the different sports he could join when college rolls around.

He heads back to James’ car, and lets himself in. Blinking away the memories for now. 

“Didn’t like the red one?”

He feels the heat creep up his cheeks and adjusts his shopping bag, buckling himself in. “Didn’t come here for that.” he murmurs. 
James hums, finishing his typing on his phone, he starts the car once he’s finished.

It hurts to think he’ll have to move out at some point. The healing balm of knowing James won’t be far from him soothes that agitation quickly. If only slightly. 
For now, he wants to keep that closeness for just a bit longer. 
Greedy, but he’s always been greedy for things like that. For what Willis couldn’t continue to provide, what Bruce couldn’t, but what James offers in spades. Unconditionally. 

“My friends want to meet you. Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff.”

James has been generous in his musings, stories really, about Steve. Even after the fight at the bunker, there’s nothing but respect in his voice whenever he talks about him. Wrapped in frustratingly fond memories and admiration, the Captain America title he would attribute to a Super Man himself if he didn’t know better. 
Natasha, however,

“Captain America and…?”

“The Black Widow.” James purses his lips, gaze clouding with foggy memory.
“She was one of the successful base Widows that your Widows were made to replicate.” 

He leans back in his seat and holds his jacket close. It’s likely she already knows about him. Joy.

“Steve offered for all three of you to go rock climbing together.”
His heart stutters, 
“You’re not coming?”

A smile ghosts over that placid expression.
“Me and heights don’t exactly get along when I’m aware of it.”
A quick look over at him before returning his eyes to the road, 
“I’ll be on the ground holding all of your things. At the bottom, if you fall.”

He breathes easier with that admission. His shoulders losing their tension, as he digs into his bag to feel at the cotton cuffs of his jacket. 

“Told him it’d be better if it was just you and him, before Natasha gets to you.” James continues, “He goes on morning runs, and gets breakfast at the nearest diner.”

It saves him more research he’d do on any regular occasion, but if James trusts him…

“Yeah, I’ll go.” His smile spreads. Wide and goading, “Meet your exes and all. I feel honored, really.”
The man attempts to hide it, but the quick look up at the rearview mirror tells him, specifically, how hard he would roll his eyes right about now. 

He huffs his own laugh and lets the low volume of the radio fill the comfortable silence between them. 

--

“Gee wiz, you’re broad! How old are you again?”

He counts the years. Focuses on the numbers of what it was and not what his life has been throughout it all. 

“Nineteen.”

“Coulda fooled me!” The man holds out his hand, easy and light, 
“Steve Rogers, I’m sure I’ve been in plenty of textbooks by now.”

No kidding.

Taking his hand, he gives a firm shake. Warm and steady.
“Jason. Buck talks a lot about you.”

Their hands separate, and the man chuckles sheepishly, 
“All good things, I hope?”

The memory listening to James grumble at a resurfaced memory steals his attention. How Steve got his head stuck in between an apartment’s stair railings and needed James to squeeze him out with the last of their rationed butter. 

“How’d he even get in there, I’ll never know. God love him, he probably saved a snail from gettin’ squished.” James continues to chop the potatoes with patient hands. The exasperation palpable.
“He was supposed to still be in school, taking that damn math test.” An amused shake of the head, clearing the memory. 
“Don’t be like me, and don’t be like Steve. I was never a scholar, but I bet my own dog tags he still can’t remember half of the common algebraic formulas.”

“Fond memories and heroic deeds.”

The man chuckles, “Well, c’mon, let’s get this show on the road. After the run, we can stop by at this diner that makes the best flapjacks around!”

Chapter Text

The run was nice. 

He’ll never be as fast or have the endurance that Steve has, but that doesn’t stop the man from encouraging him to do intermittent sprints throughout the trail. 

By the time they’ve made it to the end, he’s wheezing and highly dehydrated. 

Steve, unchanged by the run, hands him an unopened water jug, and it takes him a moment to take it. The weight, taxing against his limbs, he unscrews and takes greedy gulps. 

“You did great! It usually takes a while for my jogging buddy, to get into the rhythm of it like you did. Then again, he’s not enhanced.”

“You must have a lot of friends.”

The man nods, grave in thought. “As many as I can protect.” He sighs then, wistful. 
“Y’know, I never actually wanted to be Captain America.”

Flippant, he goads, “You’d have to be insane to want to be an ideological symbol.”

Steve shakes his head, “It’s what the People needed. I was just supposed to be a soldier, nothing more. Then I was given a real chance to fight the good fight, and I took it. Was brought back into a time where Captain America lived on in name, but not practice,”

“Like Jesus.”

Steve chuckles, “I suppose so. Even if I didn’t ask for this… burden, I will carry it. I’m the only one that really can.” Earnest blues find him again, “And with the new connections I’ve made, they push me to continue fighting against the Nazi scum that still linger in this era.”

The blonde straightens and looks off toward the rising sun. Easy and confident, the weight of his years rolls off the man’s back. A cascade of water against carved stone. 
“Protecting my friends, the American People-- their freedom. The innocent and civilian, no matter the identification...”

A small laugh is breathed through those hearty lungs,
“I’m not usually this mouthy or smiley, but it’s just,” The man’s smile holds bright against the sun’s prodding. Tree leaves attempting to obscure what will never be covered, 
“With Bucky back and helping with the take-down of Hydra again; using his skills and experiences for the better, it reminds me of old times.” The smile dims to something much smaller, warmer, 
“And well, it’s nice not being the only serum enhanced, fighting this fight alone, anymore.” 

He’s finished half the jug of water, muscles straining but holding firm.  

Bruce was broken by crime and fed off of its pain, wrapping himself in self-made justice; He wasn’t all there. Wasn’t present when he needed him, and couldn’t figure out how to be when the times arose. Bruce is nothing without crime. Can’t live without being elbow deep in it’s ripped cartilage and toxins. 

He was too young to fully understand it then. Too excited by the prospect of a parent and a home with proper utilities and food always available at the dinner table, ready to give back and help the people on the streets just like him. To give hope and spread a sense of safety to those who needed it.

“If Hydra was taken out for good tomorrow, what would you do?”

The man bobs his head slightly, 
“Hydra is just as persistent as the mythological creature, but if I could imagine it...” Steve tilts his head in thought. Eyes wandering off to the distance as the minutes pass. 
A wandering squirrel scrambles across the dried leaves and various tree roots beneath them. 

“Keep working to help the People with the abilities I still have, I suppose. Help with the constructions of more homeless blocks, or maybe get back to making those PSA’s. Once upon a time, I would have said I’d rejoin the army, but, I’m still on the fence with that one.” His fingers lightly tap at his chin, “Find new ways to help people, just to keep things from getting too monotonous. Maybe lean more into my artist hobby when I get a moment to myself, or just start a hot line for civilians in need of hero assistance… something like that.”

He offers to carry the water container, and his scarred hands hand it over, 
“Tony says I should run for president, but,” Blonde eyes close with another head shake, 
“I think I should save that card for when the People truly need it.”

James wasn’t kidding about that old-fashioned American optimism and earnest want to do good for people. 
Even he feels inspired, and he’s not even that patriotic. 

One last question.
“Unrelated, but as a Captain, do you end up doing a large amount of math and writing?”

The bark of laughter is good-natured, dying down as Steve gestures for them to continue walking. The diner just in sight over the small forested hill. 
“A fair amount where it matters. I was never close with the books, so they don’t rely on me for things like that.” 
The path is worn and well trodden. The sun continuing to flicker with the leaves, as a slight breeze picks up. 
Steve turns to look at him, smile back and brighter than before.
“I stick to what I’m good at, and that includes playing a mean game of chess, protecting the vulnerable, and throwing a titanium Frisbee.”

--

The food was filling. Apparently, Steve gets a heavy discount there because of his work as Captain America, despite insisting he pay just as the others do. He was able to wiggle in Jason for an excuse to pay properly this time, and they relented. 

The food was good. They ate their fill from the dinner menu, and with Steve’s encouragement, ate over half of the entire thing. The guy was excited to hear his opinion of each item, visibly vindicated when he agreed on the meal they both liked, that Sam had found mediocre or down right despised. 

James drove into the parking lot around the two pm mark, waiting for them to finish their meals. 

“Don’t be a stranger, Jason. Even when I’m out, I’ve still got a phone, so call if you need anything.”

A new contact in his phone, and a full stomach, he enters the car with waning energy. 

The drive home is quiet, as usual. Comfortable and warm, but the stickiness of his sweat and his foul odor makes him agitated to stay awake and get clean as soon as possible. 

“How was it? Learn the difference between acrylic and gauche?”

“Was good. He’s cool.”

The man huffs, 
“Cool? That’s one way to describe him, sure.”

He goes over the day again. Hour by hour. 
The encouragement, the excitement, the love and care he has for his friends. For America itself. How happy he was to finally not be alone like he was before Bucky came back. How much he just wants to do good in the world. 

“Why haven’t you dated him? Steve’s much better than the other guy.”

James blinks a few times. Then a few more with a side eye.

“We’re… like brothers. ”

“Brothers in arms or womb-mates?”

James squints at the far distance, the absurdity of the question wrinkling his nose, he keeps his remark to himself. Lame. 
Eyes focused on the road and yet distant to the mental map in his mind. 
The radio is turned to jazz this time, Smooth and slow, it’s soothing against the low hum of the well maintained vehicle. 

James' admission just as soft. A murmur. “A best friend I’d die for.”

--

Out of the car and walking up the driveway, James takes out his keys, 

“I talked to Fury while you were out, today. Steve had vouched for us while we were in Gotham, and gave us a time period to prove ourselves useful and not a danger to the public, in exchange for a complete pardon.” James’ sentence sounds incomplete, but he won’t finish it. With a raised eyebrow, James doesn’t look his way, but instead unlocks the door. Turning the knob with ease.
“Fury says you’re free to roam as a civilian, after. So we can use the banks and our real names on paper: Buy houses, get a proper job, have your name on a diploma...”

James pauses in place. Hand still on the doorknob as he scans the entryway in front of him. Shoulders squared, his casual, bland tone contrasting with the readying stance, 

“We’ll talk more after you get a shower in you. I left something on your bed while you were out, so go on and get it while I make smoothies.”

He sidesteps the man and scans the place himself. Wall to wall, ceiling and floor, he doesn’t feel anything off, but the warning bells in his brain are telling him something isn’t right either. 
He hears the freezer door open, James clicking his teeth for his attention.
Turning, he catches the knife tossed to him. 

Solid and freezing to the touch, it’s enough to wake up the rest of his senses to the unseen threat. 
He heads to his room, hairs raising at the back of his neck as he opens the door. Clear of people, he sees a clothes bag, sitting unassuming on top of his bed covers. He takes a step to inspect it when the air shifts behind him. 

The movement is fast, but he’s nearly matched it. The instinct honed along his muscle memory drive him to turn and grip the shirt of his attacker with his left. His other arm already restrained, the zip of a wire is tight around the limb. The tip of the blade mere inches from the-- woman’s, neck. The wire digs into his flesh while he strains to inch his arm closer, her arm keeps steady as she readjusts to account for his brute force. 

“You’re the Widow.” he hisses.

Her stare is flat, 
“You’re trained.”

Twisting his arm within the wire, her upper half follows with it. 
He rears back his torso and aims a fist for her ribs, but she hops away-- releasing the wire as consequence. 

He’s begun to unwrap the wire when he hears James’ steps reach their small scuffle. 

It halts as he nears the hallway. James’ inflection flat; Hard. 

“Natasha.”

“Barnes, I was looking for you.” She replies curtly. Like she hadn’t broken into their home and most definitely searched and bugged his entire room by now.

The man crosses his arms, a hand gesturing to Jason and the room at large, 
“And this?”

“Was just curious. Can never be too careful.”

He feels cold. Drenched in sweat and out of people energy, he fights off the agitation. The thought of showering with her in the house making his skin crawl. 
That feeling is most definitely discomfort. 
Dr. Nema would be proud.

“You’ve had your fun, lady, now get out.”

She tuts, “He has terrible manners, have you not taught him forties hospitality?”
She pushes past James and heads into the kitchen. 

James looks back at him, eyeing his arm. Question unsaid, and yet, he hears it asked all the same.

“Will feel better after a shower.”

The older nods toward his own room, 
“Use mine. I’ll keep her in the kitchen.”

“Women in the kitchen? I thought you were better than that, Buck.”

The man shakes his head and leaves the doorway. 
“Medical is under the sink.”

Left alone, he turns back toward the bag. Placing the knife down, he opens the bag to find… a red hoodie. 
No, the red hoodie he was eyeing just a couple of weeks ago. 

He lifts it from the confines of the bag, and feels the soft cotton against his fingertips. Rubs the fabric as the plain, stretch of his favorite color greets him. 

The warmth in his chest is distracting from his watering eyes, so he places it over his shoulder, and collects his clothes for the oncoming shower. 

--

“Who’s the squirt?”

“He’s taller than you.”

“And? He’s still a little spider to me.”

He purses his lips at that. “You already know who he is.”

“Yes, but who is he to you?”

“Why do you care?”

“Information is like currency, and even I’d like to be rich.”

He gives her a flat stare at that. 

“And… I was worried about you." She shifts in place, "After hearing you ran, I thought the cube thing didn’t work, and you brought some,” she waves a hand toward the running shower, 
“Other operative home or something.” 
Still intertwined with Hydra, is the insinuation and yet, he can’t fault her for it.

“I’ve taken him in. He’s… we’re still adjusting.”

She hums.
“Child rearing. Tony’ll love that one.”

“Fury knows, Steve just met him an hour ago, and Tony was supposed to meet him after you.”

“Aw, it’s like you’re showing him off! Where are the matching jackets?”

He decidedly does not look down at his cotton, black hoodie, 
“I’m socializing him. Interaction that isn’t me, his therapist, and library books.”

The amused smile adjusts to something more attentive. More real. 
“You really care about him.”

He nods and starts gathering fruits. It’s obvious. A weakness, as great as a new strength. 

She walks past him and toward the front door,
“You’ve made a lot of progress since I last saw you.”

He hums, already slicing the apples,
“I’ll see you at the park. Rock climbing with Steve.”

She sighs, ever suffering.
“Goodie.”

Chapter Text

Natasha helps fasten him to the security line. He’s rigid with tension because of the proximity, but he holds still. 
Steady hands working quickly to get to the main event. 

James stands nearby, listening to Steve exclaim with vibrant words the weeks he’s had. 
Metal arm haphazardly covered with his red hoodie and his own black jacket. His flesh hand holding the items in place with firm pressure. James' head tilted toward Natasha and him as he keeps his eyes on Steve. 

Natasha looks up at him and steps back. Amusement coloring her words.
“What's it like being the son of the softest man alive?”

He grunts and checks the strength of the locks himself. 

Secure. 

The irritating warmth at the back of his neck reaches his ears. The growl automatic, "Check your locks. Don't want you falling."

“Threats don't work on me, BUT, I'll forgive you, if you can make me brownies.”

It’s then that he feels a large figure tower behind him. “You guys ready to go?”
Turning slightly, he finds Steve there, smiling curiously at the two of them, where James stares at the climbing walls beside them. 

“Born ready,” Natasha replies. The false cheer aiding Steve’s smile to a brighter visage. That smile turns to him, and he squints at the shine. 
“And remember, it’s all in the legs!”

“Relax your hands,” James adds, eyes finishing with his own survey before finding Jason. “They’ll cramp, eventually.”

Natasha closes in on Jason’s wall and outstretches her arm against it. “And, if there’s a searing pain in your arms, stretch it. You’re welcome.”

“Any other tips I should know about?” Jason monotones, eager to get moving.

The three look between each other, Steve shaking his head with a smile. The blonde waving behind him as he walks to his own climbing wall. “See you at the top!”

As soon as Steve’s at the wall, he’s the first to begin the climb. 
Methodical in his approach, he’s conscious of his weight as he balances himself from the rock’s different colored holds.

The man’s rock wall complex, and lone in its configuration, stretches high and crooked for an expert level climber. His own applied hook to be reattached along with his climb, his solo solitary climb is made in slow but meditative strides. 

He feels a gentle tug at the line connecting him and James together. Both of them in harnesses, with James as the anchor for his own sectioned off wall. The colorful rocks that jut from the plain gray already tempt him to start his climb. 

“Ready?” James murmurs. The jackets adjusted, he continues, “Tell me when you want down, need the wire slack, or tightened.”
Jason nods, the least a bit nervous. It’s different than hopping buildings. Parkouring and navigating the map of a grungy city. 
Why does it feel more intense now, when the whole point is for it to be safer? 

“Don’t worry, Sandy. We can race, if that’ll motivate you.”

“Sandy?”

“Sand Spider. I like it more than Skunk.”

“Funny.” 
He’s stretching in slow increments. Muscles loose and ply for the journey ahead. 

“I try.” Natasha sighs. Put upon, even with the smile staining her lips. 
She leaves them, then, to her own wall to the left of his.

He looks back up at his wall and finishes with his remaining stretches, with James pushing the chalk bowl toward him. Lightly pressing his palms to the powder, he dusts away the excess and looks back to Natasha. Already starting her ascent at her wall, he eyes his wall and sees the route he wants to take. His climbing shoes snug, as he rocks to his feet with newfound energy.

And then, he begins the climb.

--

He likes this. Rock climbing. 

It’s like a puzzle for his mind and body. 
Fascinating, how that works out. 
He’s halfway up the wall, behind both Steve and Natasha, but he’s enjoying himself. The comparison automatic, he can’t help the competitive streak attempting to emerge. Like his days as Robin. Never living up to an idol. An ideal; Romanticized version of someone else. 
Even when he’s managed to bat away that thief of joy, there’s so much space to think. Ruminate, up here. 
Meditative, if he would bother to make this a regular activity. 

He peaks over at Natasha’s wall. Her figure growing smaller as she continues to climb with grace. Like she was simply molding to the rock’s formation and not climbing it. The smooth oil to a freshly coated pan, reaching end to end in earnest. 
Her work-out clothes are skin tight and sweat absorbent. Shirt, an obvious black tank top, with matching yoga pants to fit. 
It reminds him of the Widow’s outfits back at the Sicarius. 

The women would wear black, flexible skin tight suits, while the girls trained in black shirts, with shorts and flexible pants. 
It was so different to the boys and men’s clothes. 
So odd, seeing them relax in the recreational rooms with bras and shorts to cool off after an intense spar. 
It would occur to him, again, that they were girls. Girls and women, that he was interacting with. The same and similar to the women he would hang around with in his memories. Girls he would talk to while in school, and living on the street. Talking, laughing, and playing some sport to pass the time, smiling and angry. Tearful and annoyed, scared and manic, curious and pitying. Playful. 
The girls in the program were such a stark contrast. 
Barely anything there at all. 

He rests at his spot on the wall, and relaxes the muscles in his calves and toes. 
Taking a glance at Steve’s wall, he watches the man already nearing the top. Just a few footholds away. 

He sees the broad frame momentarily pause, and look down over the entire gym. Sharp, eagle eyes assessing the people below him, ready for anything, he supposes. Those eyes land on him, and his face brightens considerably. 
A wave, enthusiastic as he rests against his wall, “You’re doing great!” he calls. 

He offers a thumbs up, and feels heat creep up at the back of his neck. A chuckle comes from up above and down below, and he creases his brow about it. 
Steve continues up his path, and Jason focuses back on his route. Changing the mental approach this way and that, before going for it. 

Steve’s attire is eerily similar to the Sicarius’ Mature Uniforms.
The boys were given breathable pants and a simple T. The men, a tank top and shorts, both always a sandy color indoors. The rest of the clothes that would fit over them, would be adjusted for the environment of whatever mission they had them do. 

The image of his covered knees smudged, stained with blood, stalls him, and he nearly slips. The wire holds taut, as James holds him up where he failed to keep his center balance steady.

He realigns himself with the wall and breathes. Calms his racing heart minute by minute, he places his forehead against the wall to cool it, just for a moment.

The line stays steady all throughout it. James, a steady anchor, as always. 
Back then, just when he was about to put an end to the misery of his existence. Gave him drive to keep going, when the man himself was just as, if not more lost than him. 
Helped him in Gotham, when he didn’t have to. Fed him, talked to him, kept him steady. 
Even now, holding him up when he can’t so much as move, he continues to support him. In his entirety. 
Even when he’ll continue to climb on his own… James will still be there. 
Sitting outside those closet doors, patiently waiting for him. Always. 

He unfurls slightly, and properly grabs hold. Pushing with his legs, he’s leveraged up and maneuvers with his hands toward the rest of the way. The wall’s top in sight, as he continues his trek. 

Both Natasha and Steve have no doubt already finished with their climb, but that’s okay. 
His own pace, his own way, works just fine for him, and he’ll be much happier for it. 

He’s going to be okay. 

Chapter Text

James had to leave earlier than his regularly scheduled calls. The call-in, time sensitive, he had woken Jason with his rifling throughout the home. 
Quick assurance he’d be back, he didn’t bother estimating when. Calls like these can vary between a few days and a week depending on how stubborn the client is on clinging to their previous life. The extra days simply babysitting duty, if he were to simplify it. 
Clint had assisted in a gang take down this time. Unexpected, and only marginally welcome. 

The high of a successful extraction assignment and identity reassignment, with Clint… showing off, his precise shots while on their escape route, made the post mission motel detour a lot more... aggressive, than it would normally be. 
But Clint hadn’t tapped out. Encouraged it, in fact. 

That kind of trust… 
"You really don't fear me, do you?" he murmurs. Cutting off Clint’s ramble about his like-hate relationship with Tony. He gives up all this information, so willingly. Readily, like James couldn’t take his words and tie the noose in milliseconds with the control of those few, simple targeted words. 

Clint lies on his side facing him. The heating and healing cream smelling of tree sap and ozone, the room is comfortable. The fresh smell of soap and sweat hovering over the changed sheets’ lingering scent of sex. 
“Not as much as any other random on the street. I mean, I’d like to think you like me a little by now. And by the way,” Quick fingers lightly tug at his hair. “Wash your hair, you’ll feel better. And hey, if I’m not dead to the world by the time you get out, can you teach me how to dance? I'm as fluid as a board, but I'm sure I can squeeze a laugh out of you after twenty minutes on the dance floor.”

Taking the other man’s hand in his own, he sets it down. Those deft fingers, stained with his hair’s grime, brush the remnants away. Clint’s eyes continue to browse James’ face, curious and steady, they dart to his lips as James mumbles, "You make me laugh plenty."

Clint brightens at this, mouth opening to speak, but James cuts him off. “But I can’t.” 
That makes the other pause, and he feels himself plead to fidget. Despite the nervous tell being zapped and beaten out of him years ago, the itch still remains. Frozen to a near nonexistence. 
Cold blues focus on Clint. The inch of James starting to wane in the face of Bucky, as his gaze sharpens. “I have a boy at home.”

“Oh,” Clint’s mouth works around air, the confused squint working just over his shoulder. “Is… uh. H-- what--”

“I’m going to Wakanda, and I need someone to watch over him while I’m gone.”

“And you’re-- you want ME, to be that someone?” his brow furrows, “Don’t you have a super soldier best friend and a spy lady to help with that? Tony can literally build a Fort Knox crib!”

“Your personalities will mix better than them. And I,” swallowing, James continues, “If we’re really doing this, then you need to meet him. He's capable on his own, but I’m trusting you with him, Clint. He’s my everything.”

Clint sighs and pulls his arms behind his head. Resting fully on his back now, the smile is soft and small. Eyes never leaving him. “Tell me about him?”

Chapter Text

It's Christmas week.
The cenotaph was small. A few rocks and a pack of cigarettes buried just underneath. Unassuming, but just as meaningful. Willis probably wouldn’t want something so loud, something for his family, most likely. From what he remembered, it’s the closest assumption he could come to. 

Inside, Jason still wasn’t sure what he was going to gift James. Something homemade, maybe, or just cooking would be enough. 

The drone of the news is a low hum against the quiet of the apartment. 
Currently, he’s scrolling through colleges, meandering between the most interesting and the university that will get him the information he wants. For fun, this time. Just for him, and no one else. 
And when all is said and done, he’ll walk on that stage and take his diploma. His own diploma, with his name on it. Jason Peter Todd… 
He’ll look into the crowd and see James and--

“I’m leaving the country in a few hours.”

His shoulders hike at the reveal. Was it all a lie? A miscommunication somewhere? 
Is he coming with? 
Turning his head, he watches James dry his hands with the dish towel. Blank as ever, he can’t help but ask: “What?”

The man sighs and tosses the cloth over the counter. Steps with weight, the unhurried gait finds a spot just near his position on the couch. Moves to adjust the laptop for him, he bends his knees, and finds James’ fingers most interesting. A small twitch-- an aborted movement that can only be inferred as fidgeting.

“I’m going to Wakanda. Manually going to... remove, what’s left of the brainwashing Hydra had done to me.” The man shifts and sits beside him. The warmth of him easing his coiled muscles, only slightly. “It’s a private Country, so they don’t let anyone that isn’t authorized in. I want—” James falters, and takes a deep breath, “Ever since my old man passed, Christmas has been about looking back at the good, the bad, and the things that have been lost, for me. I want to be able to do that properly, next year.”

Setting his feet to the ground, he processes the ‘with you’ behind that want, and blinks. 
“But… you are coming back,” he states. A command really, without room to question. 

James has been acting off lately. Not so much that it’s alarming, but the oddity is noticeable. 
He doesn’t think it’s anything to really worry about, but it makes him wonder. Requires him to be alert to, despite James trying to ease him from it. 
But now he's... worried. Worried this is James’ own way of saying goodbye.
Even after everything--

“Of course.” James assures. A warm palm resting at Jason’s knee. The pat is a gentle few taps; The mass of a lion’s paw, against kitten fur. “It might be a few months, but I will always be available if you need me, Jason. I’ll fly back if I need to.”

He nods, shoulders evened, he breathes in deeper than before. “Okay.” Another nod, as he fully digests.

The holiday events properly catching up to him just then. 
“You’ve been doing Thanksgivings on Christmases?”

Shrugging, the man leans back in his seat. “It just is.”

He hums and fiddles with his pants leg. The soft texture soothing, he gathers his courage. “Hey, Buck?”

"Yeah, bud?"

He feels sweat begin to accumilate and it agitates him. The need to scratch all the sweat off battling with the desire to finish getting his thought out there. 
"I was thinking of getting my own place and," Jason fumbles with his hands. Ending up shoving them under his thighs, he looks out the window. 
The sky already darkening. "If we get a duplex, it'd be like we're neighbors."

James blinks and eyes him. 
"Is that what you want?"

Jason looks back at Bucky. Green watching gentle blue. "Yeah."

James hums and relaxes himself back into the couch cushions. "Find a place you wanna settle for and let me know. I'll pay for both of our halves." He cuts Jason off before he’s finished opening his mouth, "Extended birthday present."

Jason scoffs, “You don’t even know when my birthday is.”

“M’kay, when is it?” 

“August sixteenth. You?”

James thins his lips and closes his eyes. “March tenth.” Eyes opened, he looks at the ceiling in thought. “I haven’t celebrated my birthday in…years, until Clint.” 
Turning his head to Jason, his eyes glance at Jason's scarred fingers. Movements in small increments. “Months after we got back, it was Clint that reached out and celebrated it. Chili dogs and a sci fi movie.”

“Didn’t ask for your date details, Buck.”

The smile is fast. Flashed before dimming just a bit, “Do you still want to celebrate your birthday?”

Jason shrugs. The attachment long gone, “Doesn’t matter much to me.”

Metallic fingers come up to pinch the fabric of his pajama pants. A small tug. “It matters to me.”

Sighing, Jason looks back to his computer screen. The future just within his grasp. So much to learn. To discover and experience. 

“I'd like to try something new. Next year-- every year after, I wanna visit space or eat scorpions. Go skydiving, scuba diving... things like that.”

Humming, James lets go. Eyes falling shut, his smile is melted in place. Jason's own smile mirroring him. “You’re the boss.”