Archive of Our Own

Steve unlocks the door to his apartment for the first time in seven months, shuffles through the door and drops his duffel in the entry hallway. He knows he should care about the egregious amount of dust on everything, but doesn’t. He’s too exhausted right now.

In the kitchen, there isn’t any drinkable beer in the fridge, not counting the stale open can. Great. He’s stuck sober after returning from hell, not willing to make the trip round the corner to the ABC.

His phone lights up, probably a text from Sam, wanting to know if Steve got home safe. He always jokes about helping the elderly, but really they’re both too wary to not check in.

Steve walks into the darkened living room and falls into an armchair. The light on in the kitchen is just enough to see the outlines of the TV and bookcases, and to the left of them, the balcony. Beyond it, Manhattan. God, he hates it. A borough full of people rich and privileged enough to escape the sinkholes that are the other four. But Sam wouldn’t let him find a nice, shitty hotel in Brooklyn to spend the night at. “Unsafe” he said, even though they’d slept in shitholes in Romania and woken up to guns pointed down their throats. So he’s back here, in his old SHIELD-provided apartment because he refused to stay at Stark’s. At least here he has the semblance of independence, even if last time he checked there was a tailing agent living two doors down.

Steve wonders if Sharon’s still there. A strange pang goes through his chest thinking about the last time he saw her, before it all went down at SHIELD. And he had bolted for Europe after his hospital discharge—she probably thought Steve abandoned her. He remembers how Hill had told him she’d held a gun to Rumlow’s head and the guilty feeling goes through Steve again.

He’s beyond tired, but propels himself from his chair and out of his apartment, kicking his duffel out of the way.

It’s two a.m. by Steve’s watch but his knuckles don’t hesitate over her door. Three knocks and inside he hears a shuffle and and muffled crash, like someone’s tripped over something. Then the door is flung open and he’s got a glock 42 in his face.

After months of similar treatment out East, Steve’s reflexes kick in. Ignoring his muscles protesting for sleep, he ducks under her arm, grabbing the gun and twisting it out of her grasp. It clatters to the floor. He dives for it, ejecting the magazine and emptying the chamber in one swift motion.

She gets one good look at Steve’s face and surprise lights up her features, mingled with guilt. He doesn’t care that she almost shot him though; if anything, he feels bad that he disarmed her instead of waiting until she got a look at him.

But he can’t tell if she’s happy to see him or not so he just hands her the carcass of her pistol and waits for an invitation to either enter or fuck off.

“Jesus, Steve, I didn’t think it’d be you!” Her expression is still indecipherable.

“Who were you expecting? A booty call?”

She screws up her face and grabs the magazine from Steve, retreating back into her sparsely lit apartment, leaving the door open behind her. Steve follows.

One thing that strikes Steve is how empty it is. Most of the living room is empty, just the requisite couch and TV, neither of which look extensively used. The bare walls leave the place looking cold and unfriendly. There's no clutter anywhere--no take-out boxes, drug store receipts; in fact, the only signs of life are the sheer mounds of papers covering the kitchen table. Ranging from one to two feet in height, they spill over onto the floor as well, making Sharon’s table look more like a deconstructed file cabinet. Overall, it looks more like an office than a home. And Steve had thought his apartment decorations were superficial—Sharon didn’t even bother.

“Love the feng shui.”

Sharon cracks a smile. “Yeah, I try to spread the paperwork in evenly sized stacks on each chair. Keeps me balanced with positive energy.”

“And you were always bugging me about not putting down roots.”

She shrugs it off. She’s leaning over a laptop on the table, body blocking the screen from Steve’s line of vision. He shifts, trying to see what she obviously doesn’t want him to.

A glance out of the corner of her eye and she shuts the laptop screen. “Subtle, Rogers. You’ve clearly entered a career in covert espionage since we last met.”

“What are you doing?” Steve nods to the computer, knowing she won’t tell him the truth, or at least not without holding something back. It’s the SHIELD way and old habits die hard.

“Monitoring your apartment. No, not for SHIELD, don’t look like that. SHIELD’s dead, or at least as far as I’m concerned. The CIA offered me a nice position after they got through interrogating me about last May.”

Concern shoots through him but he doesn’t ask. From the look on her face, he wouldn’t get anything. Sharon’s a spy through and through, and Steve knows from Natasha not to approach her head on.

Instead he asks about the work. “You monitored my empty apartment?”

She shrugs. “You disappeared without a trace, it was a bit suspicious. Plus, you are pretty high on HYDRA’s To Kill list, so I figured keeping an eye out for intruders wouldn’t be amiss. If you want to be psychoanalytic about it, I’m probably still clinging on to SHIELD. Last orders, and all that.”

Steve nods. He’s peering at the papers on the top of the tall stacks. “CIA, huh?”

Sharon walks into the kitchen calling back, “It’s what I do best. Besides,” Steve hears the fridge open and shut, “no one in the private sector would take me.”

Steve makes a noise indicating, “why?” and Sharon gives him a wry grin as she returns, two beers in hand. “Why should big business hire me, with my past tied up in a shady government agency? There's always some starched shirt fresh out of college. Patriotism is out, Rogers, no one trusts the government and their clearances.”

Steve’s attention is drawn from the papers. “Has it been bad? After April?”

She looks away. “Well, I’ve still got a job most kids would call a super spy.”

“But…?”

She’s not looking at him. She’s trying to screw the cap off her beer, but it's the kind that needs a can opener. The ridged edges are digging into her skin, and Steve can see her knuckles whitening on the bottle.

Involuntarily, he starts towards her but she stops him.

“Don’t.”

He halts in his tracks. Her voice is suddenly choked up. The beer gets thrown onto the table as she grips the wooden surface.

Steve is alarmed; Sharon is never anything but smiles, and one or twice, focused in critical situations. But never openly emotional.

Though, now that he thought about it, how well did Steve really know her?

Steve’s concerned. Anything that happened to her as a result of April was his fault—though it was technically with HYDRA, she had had a stable job and future at SHIELD. And on top of that, he hadn’t even stayed behind to clean up the mess. Natasha had said she’d done some damage control with the Senate which had gotten them to fuck off, at least until they’d all made their escapes. Which had been within twelve hours of his hospital discharge for Steve.

It was really easy to take action but picking up the pieces was messy. The worst thing, the thing Steve had barely even wanted to think to himself, was that he just hadn’t wanted to spend the time to help. Bucky was out there, an older, more personal failure of Steve’s and he hadn’t been able to keep himself in Washington if he’d tried.

So he hadn’t taken responsibility. He’d known that and let it torture him even as he suffered in old Soviet bloc countries.

But he hadn’t realized he’d left people to a now-paranoid government.

HYDRA was down—and though moving forward was going to be difficult, he’d never thought good, honest SHIELD employees would be hurt by that. He’d been so naive.

Steve cleared his throat awkwardly. Tension knotted Sharon’s shoulders. He saw her chest rise and fall in a calming breath and waited for her to say something.

Instead, she turns around slowly, her eyes indecipherable.

She starts towards Steve, jerking up her sleeve, and he stumbles back a step before he can stop himself. Is she going to fight him? She stops and glares at him and he feels foolish. He feels ashamed facing Sharon like this; he doesn’t know her well enough to help her right now.

She’s finished tugging up her sleeve and is fumbling with her bare wrist, scraping at the skin. Her nails come away with something flesh-toned under them. And there, amongst the fresh scratch marks, are three precise scars. Three deep cuts forming a rectangle with one side missing, running up the better part of her forearm.

Steve takes in the scars with a churning horror building in his stomach. How could he not have seen them before, even with the makeup over them? The sight of them makes him want to vomit—the surgical nature of the slits in their preplanned formation. Clearly marks of torture.

Steve’s eyes flick to her other arm and he can just see the scars there, too, hidden under some foundation. Her eyes search Steve’s but he can’t tell what reaction she’s looking for.

“Just a little sample of what the government had for me after SHIELD fell. You’d be surprised at how medieval some of the interrogation methods still are. And how little they believe a statement made under oath.”

“Sharon...I...I’m…”

“Salt, Steve,” she says harshly. He flinches. Suddenly it’s too much to look at the mutilated flesh when his brain’s connecting it to the sensation of salt rubbing into a—

Sharon jerks her sleeve back down. “Care to share what was so important last April?”

Steve’s eyes drop from hers. No. No. A thousand times no. He doesn’t know the extent of what the dumped HYDRA files said about Bucky and the Winter Soldier, but he’s not going to openly address it with anyone.

“Sharon…”

“I was lucky, Steve!” She’s angry and it’s all coming out now. “I had connections, I had Tony fucking Stark looking out for me on Maria Hill’s personal request! For no fucking reason other than that I had been assigned to guard you. You! It’s always about the great Captain America.” She almost spits the name. “Any agent could have been assigned to your case, it's not…Jesus, you have no fucking idea.”

It’s ironi;. Steve could say the same about her. But she has a point, so he tries, “Sharon, I’m sorry.”

She looks away as if she hadn’t heard him. “You think the world’s this black and white place, Steve Rogers, and that you’re one of the good guys. You still believe in the government, even though you just brought down a corrupt faction of it and have seen what they do to innocent people in the wake.” Her hand twitches over her sleeve. “Don’t deny it, I can see it in your eyes. You still think the U.S. Congress is making all the democratic choices, that they actually care about sorting out right from wrong. The fact is the House Speaker would put HYDRA in the fucking White House if it suited his career.”

Her words sting but Steve knows they’re true. People have been condemning his trust of democracy to his face since 2012. He’s still stuck in his 1940s mindset where the government unified the American people, people participated in rubber drives, and the American Way was more than manipulative politics.

“Sharon, I’m so sorry. About April, I— just had to get out of here.” His excuse sounds weak even to himself.

She huffs and turns away again.

He continues. “Look, I don’t know if you’ve read the released HYDRA and SHIELD stuff, but it’s probably in there if you want an explanation, I just—”

“Stuff? What stuff?” She’s alert again. Steve can practically see her mentally brushing aside her feelings, focusing on what he just said. “The shitty, sparse press releases dealt out at the whim of the President?”

Steve looks at her funny. “No, the SHIELD data Natasha dumped online? Didn’t you read it?”

Something clicks together behind Sharon’s eyes. “Shit,” she says. “I thought that was just rumors. Anti-government people trying to claim Congress was withholding to stir up hate at a time when everybody was flocking to them for comfort.”

“Rumors? What do you mean?” A hint of urgency is creeping into Steve’s tone. It can’t have gone wrong, Natasha had told him it was even trending on Twitter. People had seen it. And anything on the Internet is there forever, someone had told him. But Sharon wouldn’t have just not read them.

“Well, I thought that whole conspiracy that someone had leaked SHIELD data was all crazy men with neck beards stirring up shit from their parents’ basement. I mean, sure, they claimed to have government documents, but no one believed them. Photoshop, you know.”

Steve’s almost speechless. How was the info just...gone? It’d still been up when they’d all left to go underground...

“How...how…” He stammers.

Sharon looks alarmed by this point. “Well, the rumors claimed that the government came in and cleaned up the files really quickly. And pretty damn efficiently, too, if they’re truly gone from the internet. People online procured documents by the NSA claiming the files were a “breach of national security” or something, but there was never an official press release about it. It was all hush-hush, I guess.”

She sounds worried. “You can see why no one believed them, right? No one would believe the government could or would do that…”

Steve’s mind is racing. “And you never saw the files? Not even at the CIA?”

“Never.” She’s followed him into the living room where he’s pacing around. “God, Steve, if this is all true, then it’s extremely shady. For that level of secrecy to be maintained for something this big...where are you going?”

He’s over by the glass door onto the balcony, looking out intently. He wasn’t sure if…

But yes, there it is again. Just a flash, quick.

Turning away from the balcony, he passes it off as tired eyes seeing things combined with a long trip home. If he’s honest, he almost believes himself.

He heads for the door. Sharon asks where he’s going, sounding annoyed that he’s leaving right in the middle of their conversation.

“Sam’s. Gotta tell him about this. This is a mess, Sharon, I never thought…”

She sighs. “Not that unexpected, really, if you think about it. The government’s always monitoring what we know.”

Like wartime. Steve nods and leaves it at that, closing the door to her apartment behind him, trying not to think of her worried face behind him.

***

Needless to say, Sam was annoyed to be woken up so soon after returning home. He grumbled something about coffee and now they are on 49th Street, Sam clutching a Starbucks cup like a lifeline. Every few minutes he shoots Steve a glare as if to tell him that every moment awake and not asleep is painful.

Steve is walking dead, too. And he keeps getting annoying flashes in the corner of his vision that disappear if he blinks really hard. He idly wonders how long he’s been awake for at this point.

Finally they reached their destination: a brand name coffee bar. As he tosses his disposable cup into a trash can, Sam looks eager at the prospect of a second round.

“So who are we meeting exactly?” He sounds wary.

“I told you, just Hill. She was here, she was monitoring the file drop after it happened, she’ll know everything.” Steve repeats, though he doesn’t blame Sam; he doesn’t cope with extreme sleep deprivation as well as Steve can. Enhancements, he figures.

Sam nods and they keep walking, coming up the side alley towards the cafe. Steve can tell the gears are grinding in Sam’s head as they get closer, figuring out the most efficient safety sweep, how they should approach. A thousand questions asked every time they go anywhere: enter together or separate? How much time in between each entry? Wear hats and sunglasses, or are those more conspicuous?

“Sam, man,” Steve stops him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s just walk in this time, yeah? Everyone thinks we’re gone or dead, we won’t have any problems.”

Sam hesitates, then nods. He has to go back to civilian life.

They round the corner and Sam glances through the front window seeing Hill sitting at a table. Beside her are two kids, probably other agents of Coulson’s.

Sam asks incredulously, “Hey, who the hell are those two? Steve, man, come on, I’m not doing this government shit anymore.”

Steve doesn’t slow his step. “Just get in there and bear it, Sam. They’re here to help.”

Sam rolls his eyes and mutters, “‘They’re here to help,’ that’s what you said about SHIELD…” but there isn’t any real malice behind it.

Entering the cafe, they meander towards the corner table, casting glances around at the rest of the customers. The news plays quietly on an old TV overhead.

Hill stands to meet them, extending a hand to Steve and Sam. Sam’s smile glazes over when the kids are introduced, but he takes his seat quietly after all the handshakes are done.

Her greeting is cut off as the news report blares through the café. At the bar, someone is holding the remote and staring at the TV with wide eyes.

“In a new announcement from President Ellis today, the executive department is proposing a new temporary agency for Congress to take a vote on on Thursday. Why the urgent nature? Well, this new agency would be targeted at finding and bringing in the notable assassin called the “Winter Soldier,” who was involved in HYDRA’s corruption of SHIELD last April. As you may know the Winter Soldier is credited with…”

Steve’s staring at the screen, transfixed. When Sam says his name, he looks disconnected, like he didn’t even hear him.

Tense silence falls over the table, punctuated only by the blaring news announcer. All eyes are on Steve and Sam can sense his discomfort. Before he tries to bolt away, Sam tries to reel him back to reality.

“Steve, man, he’s fine. Right at this moment, he’s safe, he’s not caught, we’d have heard. They haven’t even ratified it yet, we’ve got ti—”

The sound of Steve’s chair scraping against the floor cuts him off. He’s on his feet and out the door in a flash, weaving through tables, leaving Sam behind.

“Fuck!” And he’s out after him, knowing after seven months that Cap shouldn’t be alone after news about Bucky. Still, Sam curses him in his head as he runs out of the cafe, only feeling a little guilty.

All those thoughts are chased away as he takes in the scene on the sidewalk.

People clad head to toe in tact team gear surround Steve in a semicircle, pinning him against the building of the cafe. Each person holds an AR-15 and Sam sees several of them joining it with a glock slipped from a holster as they notice his arrival.

An SUV roars around the corner with four men clinging to its sides, geared up from head to toe. Emblazoned across their chest is an acronym “A.R.W.S.” It comes to a stop and the passenger door opens to reveal a big bald man, obviously a bodyguard. He rounds the car to escort someone who Sam is sensing is the Big Deal.

He’s a middle-aged white man and Sam almost rolls his eyes, unsurprised. He swaggers over to them with an air of superiority rolling off him. Sam hates him before he speaks.

“Ah, gentlemen, the fine defenders of our nation!” He lays on heavy sarcasm. “What a pleasure. Captain America and...the Bird?”

Sam restrains his reaction to narrowing his eyes.

When he gets no more reaction, the man continues, “Well, I’m Senator Swade of California, 14th District—yes, yes what is it?” His bodyguard makes an attention-getting gesture and taps his watch. Swade casts him an irritated glance then smoothes over his expression to re-address Sam and Steve. Sam decides politicians scare him.

“‘Fraid we’ll have to keep this short boys. Got a subcommittee meeting back on 2nd Street.” He turns to address who must be the commander of the armed men. “Can I read them their charges? Just as an indulgence...no? Shame.” He turns back. “Well, I’m off then. Soon as your cuffed.”

Steve, already tense and wired from the news report, seems to grow ten times more fierce. Sam’s so distracted worrying about him that he’s taken by surprise when one of the agents forces him onto his back and clicks the bracelets tight in front of him.

A knee collides with the back of his head and next thing he knows his skull is being mushed against the cement, someone’s boot propped on it. From this angle he can still see Steve, expression blank, kneeling and getting cuffed without any struggle. A detached voice reads their rights in the background. He wants to shout at Steve, tell him to fight, demand why he’s standing for this crazy shit, but the boot on his back has moved to crush his trachea into the dust and he can’t get the words out.

But god, this is some crazy shit. What the hell is going on?

At some point he tunes back into the background monologue to hear, “aiding and abetting high-profile fugitive codename the Winter Soldier—”

And just like that, Steve snaps back into himself. Sam watches as his eyes refocus, muscles flex as they’re fueled by adrenaline. He seems to grow in size and bulk over the span of three seconds, completely dwarfing the two agents beside him.

Sam hears as he spits out, “No, god, Buck, he’s n—”

He gasps and chokes as a knee connects with his groin. Seeing him double over gives Sam the anger to fight. He kicks, punches, digs an elbow in the right place and he’s free except for the cuffs clacking between his wrists. Steve sees him and mirrors his actions. His guards drop to the ground too and he’s advancing on the commander still reading their charges. She realizes within seconds that something’s gone wrong, eyes widening comically.

Staring down the face of her drawn glock, Steve speaks, voice angry.

“What are my charges? Helping an innocent man?”

If confusion flickers over her face, Sam can’t see behind her helmet. When she speaks, it’s with a carefully unemotional tone.

“You are charged as the accomplices to an enemy of this nation. As part of Ellis’s government initiative to track down the Winter Soldier and bring it to—”

She cuts off as Steve starts towards her and Sam immediately moves to block him.

But that doesn’t stop Steve from shouting at her, “How can you do that? He’s an innocent man!”

“This manhunting agency hasn’t even been ratified yet, how do you have the authority to do this?” Sam also shouts, his grip on Steve loosening with every word.

“I think you’ll find,” the woman says as she flips a piece of paper at them, “that the public news is slow to be informed and that I have perfect authority to take you both in.”

Because on the crumpled, stapled packet are the words:

WARRANT FOR THE ARREST or detention OF
STEVEN GRANT ROGERS

Detailed fine print fills the rest of the page and the next one contains a similar order for Sam. He blanches as he looks over Steve’s shoulder at it. Though he hasn’t exactly been on the best terms with the U.S. Gov recently, two tours of fighting for it in Afghanistan has left him with a loyalty that’s hard to just discard.

This moment is a sort of crossroads for him, the choice clearly presented. Comply, or don’t.

But of course he knows what Steve will do even before he kicks up, striking the gun from the woman’s hand. And he knows before he even grabs her and yanks her into a headlock that he will follow Steve. It isn’t an era of governmental trust.

Holding the woman close to them is their only insurance against the shooters whose fingers are now ghosting over triggers, millimeters away from firing. And as Sam and Steve scuttle backwards in escape to a side street, they exchange an uncomfortable glance.

This is a tactic of no honor. This is how rhetoric is shaped against American enemies.

“Former superhero resists arrest while using a U.S. Commander as a human shield,” the headlines will say. And Sam knows all too well that rhetoric shapes wars.

And while Sam did far worse things on Afghan soil, it’s a completely different feeling over here. Much more criminal. He doesn’t like being the one to call the shots.

At the last second they drop the woman and disappear around the corner. They aren’t pursued but Sam has a feeling that it won’t last.

He doesn’t look at Steve the whole run back. He’s afraid Steve’s face will spell out the exact conclusion Sam has been trying not to come to.

They are being hunted, too.

***

Back in Sharon’s apartment, the television blares the evening news report, awash with testimonials about the new government agency. It’s a good idea, it’s going to destroy democracy; none of the experts can seem to agree.

Though they all trip over themselves to make it known that they condemn the Winter Soldier. Sharon explains it as riding on the coattails of the patriotic renewal many Americans have had since the events of April.

Sam and Steve are watching, their eyes practically glazed over as the scrolling banner along the bottom warns them of the Winter Soldier’s casualty statistics.

An announcer reports that there is no news of the dangerous fugitive, overemphasizing dangerous, and restates all the information already known. Steve can recite it by now, like it’s implanted itself into his mind.

The Agency for the Recovery of the Winter Solder, also known as the ARWS, is a brand new executive agency created by President Ellis and spearheaded by Todd Swade. Unconventionally ratified in both houses of Congress with bipartisan support, the temporary agency has the main objective of bringing the HYDRA assassin the Winter Soldier to justice. The Winter Soldier was the main hand of HYDRA in the April Exposé last year.

Her bland voice lulls him to sleep. He can hear Sam’s breathing evening out next to him on the couch, too, and the clacking of keyboard keys as Sharon types away in the adjacent room.

Steve knows she’s tired despite what she protests. She’s been sitting at that computer ever since they came limping back from the cafe hours ago and heard their story. The shock, the guns, the injustice. Steve was wilting a little, unhappy to be at odds with the government again. And over Bucky. Again.

Sam had concluded, “Fugitives again” and flopped down on the couch, beer already in hand. But a flicker of something had gone across Sharon’s face. When Steve had asked, “What?” she’d only shook her head.

She had wandered out of the foyer, seeming to forget about Steve standing there.

“Where are you going?” He’d asked.

“To work,” she merely answered.

Then she had booted up her computer and hadn’t left it since. She gave Steve’s concerns and offers to bring her food half a mind. Her eyes didn’t leave the screen longer than they had to.

So Sam and Steve had relaxed into the couch, news in the background, not fighting their exhaustion anymore.

Hours later, during which Steve drifted in and out of sleep, he hears her moving around in the kitchen, apparently no longer locked in.

Her footsteps move back and forth between the kitchen and the table, stopping by the latter and hovering for a moment. Steve imagines her pausing, peering at the screen. Then straightening up and heading back into the kitchen to repeat again. Waiting for something to load, maybe. Something large, given the wait time.

The footsteps come again but linger this time, leaning into the floorboards until they creak. Steve feels the hairs on his neck prickle with anticipation.

Then, a slight intake of breath. She shifts her weight and the floor creaks again, in a different way this time. Relaxing instead of stressing.

Three rushed steps in their direction and Steve’s head is already up as she’s waking them.

“Sam, Steve! I’ve got it.”

She looks worn; her eyes looks tired. Her clothes hang limp on her slumped shoulders. But she sounds excited nonetheless, impatient for them to wake up and listen.

“I’m into the CIA’s confidential files. Well, not all the way, not to the very, very classified ones, but I’m only so good.” She glows with pride anyway.

Sam and Steve follow her to her laptop where she sits down and begins clicking through open windows. After a few times being cut off, Steve doesn’t try to read the documents on the screen anymore and just waits for her to point things out.

“So, what we’ve got is actually not much more than they’ve released to the public or we know through that very helpful commander. New task force, essentially secretly ratified, mission to take down the Winter Soldier. It says here,” she leans closer to the screen to read some small print, “that the officers’ orders are just to take him in.”

Steve gives a weak smile. “No shoot to kill yet.” He feels Sam’s eyes on him, concerned.

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Sam says.

“But I don’t understand,” Steve says, pushing away from the table, “why now? It’s been seven months, surely public interest peaked long ago.”

Sharon clicks around more vigorously. Finally she pulls up an official-looking document and scans it swiftly. “Well, there’s a bunch of shit here about it being ‘the right time’ now that things have ‘calmed down.’”

“Sounds like a load of rhetoric to me,” Sam says. “Politicians drool over the opportunity to slap their names down on something patriotic.”

“Yeah, and after April they would love a common enemy they can unite the people behind. Someone outside the government this time.” Steve says with a wry grin. “And it’s Bucky.”

It’s almost comical the way both Sam and Sharon flinch.

“Bucky’s the enemy of America.”

To their credit, they don’t share any looks about Steve, though he can see they want to. But he’s not hysterical. They just need to face these facts if they’re going to help Bucky.

Plus, he’s had a lot of time to get used to the corruption rug being pulled out from under his pure ideologies.

He doesn’t say any of this though, and the sound of computer keys clacking resumes as Sharon turns back to her screen. Sam gives him a sorrowful look which makes him look away. Sam doesn’t mean it in a pitying way, he knows, but it reminds him of just how much shit he’s in here. How much Bucky’s—

“Breaking news,” the TV blares over their uncomfortable quiet. “The Department of Homeland Security has just released that they have reliable intel that points to the Winter Soldier being in the country, somewhere on the East Coast.” Steve’s standing involuntarily. “Though spokespeople for the Department refuse to be more specific, they did say that they have the possible location pinned down to a city.”

All their eyes are wide as they turn to face each other. Steve heads for the door, like a dog catching a scent. In a flash, Sharon’s blocking him. “Where the hell are you going?”

A lost look comes over him. “I’m, I’m…”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Sam speaks. “You gotta stop running the second you hear something about him, man. Freaks me out.”

Steve looks chastised.

“You never pulled this shit in Europe. What’s gotten into you, man?”

A heavy sigh goes up as Steve collapses onto the couch next to Sam. Sharon’s still listening from her perch behind the laptop.

“It’s a reality now, I guess.” He passes a hand over his face. “He’s close, and not just to me. Close to danger. I trusted him in Europe—it’s been his native terrain for the past seventy years. He could handle himself. There, he’s the top of the food chain. But in the U.S. there’s a whole new set of variables.”

He feels haunted by an elusive ghost; gone when they look for him, right beside them when he shouldn’t be.

“Steve, you gotta tell us this shit. You look at us like we’re crazy for being concerned, but then jump at every news report.” Sharon joins in.

“I’m sorry, guys, I really am. He just twists me around.”

“Boy, if that’s not true,” Sharon says, cracking a smile. And just like that, some of the grimness evaporates from the conversation. They all look back to the TV, the announcer still talking next to images of Bucky from April.

“So do we look for him?” Sam says.

“No,” Sharon says, cutting off Steve before he could start. “Think, guys, it wasn’t just that you were bad at searching in Europe. He was avoiding you. If you strike up again, he’s gonna bolt.”

“Well, then what do we do?” Steve asks anxiously.

“Sit. Wait for him to come to you, if he’s gonna. Figure out what the hell is going on and how to stop it. Clear his name.”

“And Steve,” she continues gently. “Have you considered the fact that he might not want—”

A sharp shake of the head from Sam and she cuts off. Some of the light has gone out of Steve’s eyes.

“Look, we’ll be more productive here rather than chasing him across the continental U.S. and making him ultimately more terrified of facing you,” she amends.

Steve looks at Sam mournfully, and Sam nods.

“All he knows about me is that I'm Captain America and America is the one who’s showing his face on every news platform in the country,” Steve says despairingly.

Back on the TV, a banner is circling the bottom of the screen: GREEN LIGHT: PRESIDENT ELLIS’S AGENCY FOR THE RECOVERY OF THE WINTER SOLDIER RATIFIED & FUNDED BY CONGRESS.

“How far does it go?” Sam wonders. He meets Sharon’s eyes and she turns to her monitor. “The corruption, I mean. How far up the food chain?”

“The names on this are some pretty high up dudes, for sure. We’ve got the President, Secretary of Homeland Security, and Speaker of the House as signatures to start, and countless more from miscellaneous Senators and Representatives. Looks like it was proposed by the president’s people, though who knows how many other bigwigs helped him brainstorm.”

“Begs the question, then, since the big names know they’re deliberately ignoring a man’s innocence,” Steve swallows, “does everyone who voted for it know?”

Sharon’s momentarily shocked but quickly wipes it from her face.

Sam says, “A Congress-wide conspiracy? That might be even more fucked than SHIELD’s HYDRA infestation. People voted for these people.”

“It doesn’t say on this document, this is the official bill, but if I—” Sharon says, alternatively clicking and typing, head bent close to the screen. “Okay, got it! A roster of votes. We can see which Congressmen voted for and against the agency.”

“Oh, shit,” she breathes when the list comes up. “House: 218 votes in favor. Senate: 60 votes in favor.”

“Meaning?”

“The exact number of votes necessary to pass in each house. That’s very perfect.” A side glance to Steve who meets it grimly.

“Too perfect,” says Sam.

“How about we pay some of these representatives a visit?” Steve says, shutting Sharon’s laptop screen.

***

Sharon takes point as Steve and Sam follow her down the road. It only took a few quick Google searches after selecting a name to find his address and directions. Laughably easy, Sharon thinks, given the conspiratorial state Congress is in.

Steve jogs up to walk beside her. “So who is this, Sharon?”

She flips open her folder paperclipped full of photos. Steve’s eyebrows raise but she ignores him, reading off the top paper, a profile of some kind.

“Gerald Zimmerman. 56 years old, got a wife and three kids who live in Arizona. Voted ‘no’ to ARWS.”

“Let’s hope he knows what’s going on,” Sam joins. “And is willing to talk.”

In front of a house with pillars, Sharon comes to a stop. Looking up from her phone, she confirms it as his house.

Sam raises his eyebrows at the richness of decor but merely walks up the steps to knock on the door.

From the side window, a middle aged woman peers out, a wary expression on her face. Sam and Sharon exchange a glance before she opens the door, security chain locked in place.

“Who are you?” Her tone is rife with paranoia.

Sharon puts on her warmest smile and pushes in front of Sam and Steve. The woman’s expression relaxes a fraction.

“Hi, ma’am we’re here to speak to Representative Zimmerman. You see, we’re officials from the F.E.C. and we need to speak to him about some issues that came up during his latest financial check.”

It has the desired effect; the woman looks alarmed. But she still doesn’t remove the chain.

Sharon clears her throat. “I’m afraid it’s imperative that we speak to Representative Zimmerman immediately.”

“Are you on his calendar? You should schedule an appointment, at his office.” The woman’s eyes are narrowing.

“This is time-sensitive information, ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to let me speak to him. The F.E.C. mandates that these corruption interviews take place randomly and, most importantly, timely.” On the last word, Sharon takes another step closer to the house.

Mirroring her, the woman, whose eyes had widened further at the word corruption, takes one back. Her hand is looser on the door.

Sharon finishes her off, tone sharp. “If the Congressman get locked up for money laundering, your salary and job goes away.”

The door shuts and they hear the clink as the chain is drawn back. A second later the door is reopened.

Sharon flashes a smile as the woman leads them to the living room.

“Just a minute,” she says, leaving them without smiling.

Zimmerman’s living room looks...professional. Impersonal. Everything color coordinates, the carpet to the drapes to the wallpaper. The furniture looks nice but isn’t comfortable. Sharon supposes he spends more time at his office or home in Arizona. Hence the need for the woman, a housekeeper, probably.

When he finally comes, he looks flustered and doesn’t meet their eyes. When he speaks, it's in accented English. “I know you're not F.E.C. I’ve never messed up my financials in my life and I’ve never done anything illegal.”

“We know. We need to ask you about something else. Something...recent.” Sam says.

Zimmerman blanches. Instead of sitting down, he scrambles for a pen and paper and writes one word: EARS. Sharon shoots a side glance at Steve and knows he’s remembering the same painful night as her.

“Are you talking about the ARWS?” He asks in Spanish.

Sharon suppresses a smile at the looks on the boys’ faces. Steve’s completely blindsided, though Sam seems to have mostly gotten it. He still has that deer-in-the-headlights look of high school Spanish experience, though. She’ll let him have it for as long as possible.

“Yes. We can’t speak in English?” He asks.

Sharon wants to give a laugh at Sam’s desperation but the situation is far from funny.

Zimmerman shakes his head. “Ears.” He points to his own.

Sam nods.

“Please, I can’t tell you too much. I’m under pressure. My family…” Zimmerman trails off.

Sam looks lost so Sharon jumps in.

“I know, I know. Please, our friend is in danger.”

“The Winter Soldier?”

Sharon nods.

“He is your friend?” Zimmerman gasps, as if horrified to find out that he’s human.

“Yes. And now the agency wants to kill him.”

“I can’t stop them. Please, I already tried.” Zimmerman squeezes his eyes shut at the memory.

“We know. We just don’t know what happened. There were files, secret ones. Did you have clearance to those?”

For a moment, Sharon’s worried he won’t talk. She feels some of his paranoia—it feels like they are everywhere these days and always watching. But he answers, finally.

“Everyone did. After they were taken off the Internet by TechCorp, every Congressperson had full access and everyone read them. They were still available to us until just a few months ago. Which is when I assume this agency started getting cooked up. But congressional sympathy for the Winter Soldier was going to cost them votes, so.” Zimmerman gives them a grim look.

“TechCorp? What’s that?” Sharon leans forward. There wasn’t anything in the CIA database about this, not even a whisper.

“The company they got to take down the files. And not just get them off the internet—literally wipe them from public existence. As in, hacking into citizens’ hard drives and deleting downloaded copies. Extremely illegal. But the Speaker of the House and POTUS told us it was an issue of national security and it was a critical moment to show loyalty. Misinformation was rampant, no one thought not to trust the two leaders of our nation.” His tone suggests he’s pretty unimpressed with them.

“So the people had no idea about TechCorp? Did Congress get any say in contracting them?”

Zimmerman shakes his head. “Nominally, we did. But not really. It was almost over and done with before we even got to debate and vote. It was sleazy politics; they found a loophole somehow.”

“I saw the roster of votes for the agency. Exactly the number needed to ratify and fund it.” She hands him a printout of the screen they had all been looking at earlier. “That’s not natural.”

It’s not a question, but his body language confirms it as he shifts in his chair and glances around.

“Listen if I tell you this, even in Spanish, then we’re all in danger. You are in danger even now.”

Sharon says gently, “Representative, we’ve been in danger since we knocked on your door.” Truthfully, it’d been far before that, but he didn’t need to know about the hit order on them.

He nods curtly, apparently trying to get his courage up. “Right, I’m only telling you this because I think you can actually make a difference. A man—your friend—has already been through 70 years of hell and now they want to kill him for their own political careers. If anyone can do something, they have to. I mean, he’s Captain America,” nodding at Steve. “He’s gotta be the Winter Soldier’s best chance. I only wish I had him on my team.” He gives a nervous laugh.

Sharon lightly covers his hand with hers, comforting him. “Trust me, he is.”

A moment passes, then she asks, “Mr. Zimmerman, how did they get the votes?”

“Blackmail. Is it really a surprise? People who refused to vote yes got the Committee to Reelect on their asses. The first tier threats included defunding peoples’ campaigns, ensuring bills they wanted passed didn’t, that kind of stuff. Minor career obstruction. The second tier got worse: “exposed” for corruption to their constituents, career ruin, essentially. The third and final was threats to your family culminating in a lawsuit with TechCorp. They would press some false charges and even all the money in the world couldn’t buy better lawyers than theirs.”

Sharon listens with big eyes as Sam and Steve watch her, uncomprehending. When she speaks, her voice is quiet.

“But you voted no.”

“I was allowed to. Pure luck I wasn’t one of the 218. But I knew what they were up to. Everyone in Congress knew, so much so that it was unreal to come home at the end of the day and realize no one else did. It was so transparent in the Capitol.

“I’m still monitored, though, everyone is. Every member of Congress is controlled by the Committee to Reelect the President. They can’t let word get out, about their scheming or Bucky’s innocence, even if no one would believe it.”

Sharon’s jaw is set; She’s sick of being betrayed by a government she believed in.

“This isn’t even bad, comparatively,” Zimmerman gestures to the hidden bugs and cameras around the room. “I wasn’t one of the ones who spoke out against the Committee’s actions. This is practically privacy compared to what they’re living with. But I still wish I’d had the courage.”

Sharon replaces her hand on his. “You’ve probably saved his life, Representative. The Committee won’t succeed, I promise.”

“Yes, I know.” He smiles tightly. “I just wish I could’ve been around to see it.”

“Wha—”

There’s a pop and a hiss and smoke fills the room, sending Sharon’s eyes watering. She coughs and blinks, trying to see Zimmerman. Smoke bomb. Through the haze, she can just make out the housekeeper, bent over his limp body on the couch. A syringe is sticking out of his arm; Sharon realizes with a jolt that she’s injecting him with something.

Sharon clambers up, pushing off the couch. She stumbles through the fog that burns her eyes and obscures her vision. Her foot catches on something and she falls over the coffee table, landing right next to the housekeeper on the couch.

Winding up, she swings her legs around to clock the housekeeper right in the face. She falls back against the couch next to Zimmerman and then Sam and Steve are there, subduing her.

Just when they’ve got her arms around her back and are pulling her up, sirens blare just a few blocks down.

Sharon meets the others’ eyes immediately, and they all share the same expression. Shit.

They drop the housekeeper—she didn’t seem to have much more in her than pulling a pin and sticking a needle anyway—and make a break for it. They manage to get out just as ARWS agents kick down the door, swarming the place instantly.

As they run and Zimmerman’s townhouse gets smaller and smaller in the distance, Sharon can’t help thinking about the cruel irony of a man ultimately killed by the system he wanted to change.

Later, Sam turns on the news in the background and the current story is about a Congressman proclaimed dead by house fire. Sharon wonders what bullshit they wrote down for the cause of it is. There’s video footage of a burning house, definitely Zimmerman’s. In the corner, just for a second, Sharon sees a glint of metal through the living room window. Too tired to analyze it herself, she tells Steve, then goes to bed.

***

When Sharon’s door finally bangs open, Sam doesn’t know if he’s more relieved or wary. Sam and Steve stare as she goes into the kitchen, banging cupboards and opening the fridge before she comes into the living room.

She’s in full tact gear and loaded up with sidearms, and also carrying a huge duffel on her back, presumably with more. Sam’s mouth hangs open in surprise.

Sharon tosses the bag onto the table and ignores Sam and Steve’s indignant looks while she shoves pasta into her mouth.

“Shar—” Steve starts, but Sam cuts him off with a gesture. He knows Sharon will explain when she wants to.

Once her tupperware is discarded in the sink, she returns from the kitchen with an expectant look. “Right, well, you two still aren’t ready, so were you planning on doing this today or next week?”

“Doing what?” Steve asks.

Sharon unzips the duffel and brandishes two AR-15s. “Taking down TechCorp, of course.”

Steve starts in his chair, stammering, “Sharon, what the, when did we talk—”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Sam cuts him off. Despite the plan’s whimsical appearance, Sam knows Sharon’s thought this through. With all the years of training she’s had, she wouldn’t suggest a mission like this on a whim.

Steve gapes at them both. “Are you crazy? We can’t just conduct a last-minute strike against a massive corporation! We’ll never be able to even make a dent in their security with just the three of us and a couple of guns.”

“You say that, but we were the brute force behind the SHIELD takedown last year,” Sam says. Maybe that’s simplified because they had Hill and Fury and Natasha and Sharon on the inside, but still. And maybe they can’t take down TechCorp entirely, but they could get far enough to get some more information on Zimmerman’s claims.

After many arguments from Sam, Steve starts to look persuaded. Sharon continues checking ammo on her firearms. When Steve finally gives the command to suit up, she looks relieved.

Sam is sure he looks the same. It’s going to be his first mission back stateside.

So as Sam and Steve pull their suits out of the closet and dust them off, Sharon lays out a prepared file on the table, reading off from it for them.

“Our target is William H. Highsmith, CEO at TechCorp, elected January of last year, well before the April situation. However, once he got into office, he started expanding the company’s contracts from private businesses to services for the government. He wormed his way up in Washington, contracting services for lower ranking senators and representatives, until by the time April rolled around, his name was frequently floating around the Capitol.”

“Do you think he planned this?” Steve calls out from the bedroom.

“Almost definitely. It’s a pretty lucrative contract.”

“Well, it’s possible,” Sam qualifies. “It’s also possible he promised the Executive Board at TechCorp more contracts, more success, more profits by working for the government on the side, and this was merely an opportunity. Or he could have planned it on its own.”

“Any way, it’s a fucking mess,” he hears Sharon mutter from the living room.

When they both come back out, suited up, testing weapons, she reminds them of the mission. “Get in. Corner Highsmith. Make him talk about the location of files, how to access them, how to rerelease them online.”

They both nod. Sharon looks to Steve. “We’re close. He will be cleared for real this last time.”

He nods, more for Sharon’s benefit than out of confidence. His eyes slide to the day’s newspaper where it sits on the table. The headline reads: WINTER SOLDIER SOON TO BE FOUND, PROSECUTED FOR HUNDREDS OF SHIELD DEATHS.

Sam, used to Steve’s loss of faith when it comes to Bucky, steps in front of it, blocking Steve’s view. He pushes his goggles up from when he was testing them. “Steve, man, you gotta have faith that we’ll make it happen. If you don’t, then who will? You’re his number one, you won’t let him down.”

Steve gives a small smile. “Thanks, Sam, I know.”

They all turn and get ready to head out. Sharon folds up the file, tucks it out of view under some papers on the table. Steve swallows and follows them out of the apartment, into battle again.

***

TechCorp’s headquarters look exactly what a massive data company’s offices would look like: gray walls, no windows, fences around the lot. It is the most boring and unwelcome architecture Sam’s ever seen.

Steve, Sam, and Sharon stand in the trees across the parking lot from the main building, sizing up what they’re about to do. Steve clears his throat. “You all know you can still turn back now. You’ve already done more than enough—”

He breaks off at the two incredulous looks they are giving him.

“Steve, what the hell. We’re always fighting for you.” Sharon says.

He looks genuinely surprised at the sentiment and Sam rolls his eyes with Sharon.

“Let’s just fucking go, man,” Sam says, and starts forward, Sharon and Steve following behind.

When they approach the last row of parked cars, Sharon gestures for the boys to stay there. They brace themselves against cars, watching her creep along the side wall of one of the buildings. Another gesture tells Sam and Steve to wait five minutes. With that, she turns and darts into the building, out of sight.

“Do you think she has a plan?” Steve squints after her.

“She’s going to infiltrate the tech corporation contracted by the U.S. Government, a move laden with security infractions that will probably force her into exile,” Sam replies. “I’m sure she’s thinking it up as we speak.”

They wait, a long, uncomfortable pause settling between them for several minutes until they both speak at once.

“We should check on her.”

“What the fuck’s she doing?”

Scrambling, they push themselves off the car they were leaning against and trace her steps to sneak up on the side of the building. From their position, they can just see into the lobby. A secretary is sat at her desk, typing something onto her computer. Nearby, two heavily armed guards block one hallway.

Sam nudges Steve. “Bet we could get some intel off that computer, like Highsmith’s office location.”

Steve begins to nod but stops when they see a movement from the vents. One of the metal coverings is being unscrewed one corner at a time until it hangs by one single screw. It dangles precariously, threatening to fall and clatter against the floor. Sam holds his breath as an arm whips out to grab it just in time.

The covering disappears into the vent and a moment later, Sharon emerges and maneuvers so that she is perched on top of the vents that run all around the circumference of the room.

Sam anxiously checks the guards, but they seem more preoccupied with staring blankly at the opposite wall. The secretary continues typing, oblivious.

She crawls along the vent and at measured intervals, sticks something onto the side of the vents. Sam can’t see what it is yet and nudges Steve in lieu of asking. He gives a shrug, tensely.

Once she’s gone the full way around the room, she hesitates in the corner. The next second, two objects are flying through the air towards the guards. They hit their marks dead on, the security guards convulsing and sliding to the ground. But the electricity released from the devices doesn’t appear to stop, arcing up in a dangerous burst of electricity to the nearest device planted on the vents.

One by one they connect, encircling the room with an electric current that reaches out to touch the secretary’s computer, the guards’ radios, and the light switches. In the new darkness, Sharon front flips down. Sam takes this as their cue and they both run forward to join her in the lobby.

She smiles. “Did you like my toys? Natasha lent me a few.”

“Widow’s bite,” Sam grimaces at the expressions of pain on the guards’ faces. “Nice.”

A wavering voice cuts in. “Please...please, don’t hurt me.” The secretary is huddled in the corner, looking at the three of them in fear.

Sharon immediately goes to help her up. She flinches but lets herself be pulled up and checked for any injuries.

“We won’t, we won’t,” Steve tries to reassure her.

“We need to see Mr. Highsmith,” Sam says.

She still looks afraid, but nods her head.

As they walk through the hallways, Sam wonders where all the security is. Aside from the two guards at the hallways entrance, they haven’t seen a single person carrying a firearm.

“A little light on the security, aren’t they?” He whispers to Steve. He must not be as quiet as he thinks because the secretary answers him. “Didn’t you know? We’ve just been under attack. The man—he came in, with all those guns, I hid under my desk—he killed all the guards. We’ve just got reinforcements left.”

“Who was he?” Steve asks.

“Not human. Took three bullets to the gut and kept killing.” The woman dissolves into sobs.

Steve feels phantom pains in his gut, reminding him of April.

“Steve?” Sharon notices him gripping his stomach white-knuckled and stands up off the floor to check on him. Sam is giving him a scrutinizing look making Steve more uncomfortable.

“I’m fine, guys,” he tries to give a small smile.

“Security!” The secretary suddenly screams. “Security!”.While they were distracted, she had managed to crawl backwards to the nearest door undetected. Now she twists the doorknob and backs through the door, continuing her cries.

“Shit,” Sharon says, unholstering weapons. They’re surrounded by armed guards within seconds, no time to retreat.

Sharon’s got a gun in each hand, firing simultaneously and ducking regularly as Steve’s shield comes ricocheting around the room, bouncing off walls. Sam’s using what little height advantage he has, hovering up on the ceiling and firing down, so the guards are confused which they should concentrate on, the ground or the air. The result is about half looking different ways and leaving their blind spots wide open. They pick them off easy.

After about half of them have been taken down—Sharon’s doing leg shots only, she’s not merciless—Steve shouts for Sam and Sharon to make for the door. Agents swarm to block them, but they quickly go the way of their friends.

They manage to squeeze out, slamming the door behind them and lock it from the outside with some tech.

“At least we won’t be bothered again,” Steve says, gasping for breath. “That was practically their entire security department right there.”

Sam gives a laugh. “Yeah, nice backup. They really must have been crippled after that guy blew threw.”

That sobers the mood up as they realize they still don’t know where Highsmith is.

Sharon listens for several minutes, ear pressed to the door.

Finally she says, “They’re quiet.” She turns off the artificial lock device and before Steve can say anything, is on the other side of the door.

Sam whips the door open after her, determined to know what the hell she thinks she’s doing, going back in to face the rest of TechCorp’s security department on her own.

He enters the room, then stops. Sharon is dragging one of the guard’s body across the floor towards the door. Sam shoots a panicked glance around the room, but no one from the pile of unconscious people sees her.

“Holy shit, Sharon!” He whispers loudly. He comes up beside her and helps her pull. It’s the longest 30 seconds of Sam’s life as his muscles strain, sweat rolls down his back, and adrenaline continues pumping. He’s terrified that at any moment the guy is going to regain consciousness and start yelling for help; they’ve already wasted enough ammo and energy. Not to mention time, which is running out. Sam doesn’t want to think about how long they have left to safely leave the building. More reinforcements are inevitable, and they can’t afford to fight forever. There’s only three of them.

Finally, they manage to get the limp body into the hallway, refasten the lock, and collapse against the door. Steve looks livid.

Sharon is already bent over the body, trying to resuscitate him. With several slaps to the face he jerks back to consciousness, a hand pressed over his mouth.

“Where’s Highsmith’s office?” She asks.

She’s only met with widened eyes. In one motion, she jams her hand directly into the bullet wound in his upper thigh. He screams and jerks against her hand.

Sam shares an uneasy glance with Steve. Neither of them like these methods, SHIELD-endorsed or not.

Sharon keeps going though, asking the man again where Highsmith is. She’s got multiple fingers in his wound by now and her hand isn’t enough to muffle his screams.

When his eyes fall half shut, she relents, not wanting him to black out again. “Tell us,” she growls.

He gives a list of complicated instructions and Sam is suddenly glad they did it this way. Highsmith has his office hidden away.

They leave the guard there on the ground. Steve gets a look on his face like he hates it, but their window is closing every second.

Thank god the guard’s instructions were correct. When they finally come to what is marked as Highsmith’s office, they had to wind through a labyrinth of rooms and cubicles first.

Steve kicks the door in and freezes.

Inside the office, Bucky stands over Highsmith, who is bloodied and tied to his desk chair. A bunch of knives is protruding from his stomach. He looks, if Sam was looking at it comically, like a pincushion for Bucky’s knife collection.

At their entrance, Highsmith begins to jerk and struggle, trying to get them to help.

Bucky blanches when he sees Steve and flies into action. Both of his hands work to pull knife after knife out of Highsmith’s stomach. Blood leaks out weakly as if his body doesn’t have much more to give.

Steve, however, is in shock. He just stares at Bucky, unmoving.

Bucky pulls something out of his jacket pocket and clicks it once, twice before it catches. Sam realizes with a shock that it’s a lighter. Ripping back Highsmith’s shirt, Bucky sticks the flame in Highsmith’s stomach, cauterizing the wounds. Sharon gasps and chokes at the smell next to him. Sam watches as the flesh boils under the heat, unable to look away.

Bucky holds it for a period of seconds while looking at them with a calculating glare, like he’s trying to figure out how many seconds he has before they snap out of their shock and rush him. Steve continues to look like he is having an out-of-body experience.

When he’s done, the lighter gets thrown to the ground where it rests next to the bloody knives. Bucky hefts Highsmith’s body over his shoulder and makes to go.

Steve, jolted out of his stupor, starts forward. “Bucky—”

Bucky smashes the window. He looks back over his shoulder at Steve, indifference in his eyes. Then he jumps out of the window, plummeting down with Highsmith’s body on his back. Steve rushes over to the sill see if he makes it.

When he turns back, expression unclear, his voice is hoarse, and he doesn’t look at either one of them when he speaks.

“We need Natasha.”

***

Dull brown. Like every day in this shithole. Natasha glares at her reflection and uselessly combs her hands through her hair. She would kill to go back to her usual red head. But being in hiding comes with a price and it’s hard to stay incognito if your head is a giant landmarker for your enemy.

The monotony of this hiding place is getting to her. All the buildings are brown, the washed-out walls, her skin with its permanent layer of grime.

She likes the people, though, at least some of them. The landlords are bullies and the pimps are ruthless, but the girls they prey upon have become her tentative friends. She tells herself it’s only part of fitting in.

The door to her bedroom opens and she can’t resist smiling when she looks behind herself to the person in the mirror.

Katya smiles back and her heart swoops in her chest. When she comes to join her at the grimy vanity, Natasha leans back into her touch.

“Dobroe ootra.” Good morning.

Katya’s hands sweep her chest, squeeze her breasts as her mouth goes to Nat’s neck. “Dobroe ootra, darling.” Natasha’s hand goes up to clutch Katya’s head to her neck and her eyes slip shut, enjoying the moment.

When she turns her head to pull Katya’s mouth to hers, Katya purrs low in her throat. She tugs her up out of her chair and twists her around so she can push Nat down onto the adjacent bed. Natasha lands amongst the unwashed blankets, feeling the whole frame creak and wonders to herself how long the bed has left. Then she tells herself it doesn’t matter, because her position here is temporary.

When Katya crawls on top of her, the mattress protesting more, Nat’s hands go up to lift her shirt up and over her head. As always, they ignore the bruises spotting Katya’s chest and blooming all down her torso before they disappear into her shorts. Natasha kisses a new one on her shoulder gently, loving the way Katya’s eyes slip shut at her touch.

She tells herself Katya’s also part of her cover.

Later, when Katya’s getting ready to leave, pulling on her skirt, Natasha’s cell phone rings.

It’s such a strange sound, discordant with the decaying state of the house, the shrill tone bringing a world left behind back into reality for Natasha. When Katya asks her what it is, Natasha simply tells her, “My old life.”

She gives her a bracing smile as the call goes to voicemail. Once she’s dressed, Katya gives Nat a lingering kiss goodbye and the decrepit door closes behind her as she goes to work. She won’t be home again until tomorrow morning, and Nat suddenly longs for it, knowing it’s too far away.

Left alone with her silence, the phone nags at her. Emergencies only, that was the plan. That they would all go their separate ways with no contact until the SHIELD thing was buried so deep or there was a new crisis so great that the government was desperate for the Avengers again.

Or it could be a junk call. Nat desperately hopes it is as she kneels down on the floor, punching lightly through the rotted floorboard to get to her storage place. Removing the plastic bag with all her old IDs and money first, she fishes out the phone. She flips the screen open and is surprised to see that there is service here. Huh. So three bars, but no one to fix the plumbing in the flooded bathroom. Katya would laugh.

Sure enough, the phone’s display shows 1 Missed Call and then the number underneath. Natasha can’t be sure, but it tugs at her memory enough that she suspects it is Fury’s or Steve’s.

Either one, it means her life here is done. And that’s a good thing, she tells herself sternly.

She dials the number back. There is a click when the other line has picked up.

“Steven Grant Rogers, it has been too long. I’m getting sick of this hair color.”

“Nat.” His voice is warm.

“Is this an emergency, or did you just miss me and want to start chatting every week?”

“While I have missed you, unfortunately we have a situation.” He lays it all out for her, from the conspiracy through the failed TechCorp mission.

When he’s done she lets the silence drag on before responding.

“So I take it your Europe tour didn’t go as well as planned?” There’s an edge to her voice she can’t keep out. She’s more worried about Barnes and what he means for Steve than she would like to let on.

“Other than leading him right back to the plot to take him in, no.” Steve sounds like he blames himself. He needs to get over it, they all do.

“We need you to come back, Nat.”

She closes her eyes. She doesn’t know if she’s relieved or upset, but her stomach twists at the words.

“We have to find where he took Highsmith and we need you to predict where he would hide out. He’s more like the person you knew than the one I did.” Steve’s voice wavers a bit but for his sake, she ignores it.

“I could do that over the phone, Steve,” she says gently. “Why do you really need me back?”

There’s a long pause. She hears the shuffling of footsteps over the line; he’s probably moving away from Sam or whoever is there. “I—he doesn’t care about me, Nat. Why should he? He doesn’t know me.”

“But he knows me,” she finishes the thought. “More importantly, he could trust me. So you want me to speak to him? To get him to work with us?”

“Look, it’s not like I expect anything from him. It’s just—we can help clear his name together. He doesn’t have to work alone, you know?”

“What if he wants to?” Natasha says and then regrets how harsh it sounds.

“Just come, Nat.”

“I’m on my way.”

“ETA?”

“Whenever I get there.” She grins and hangs up. The bedroom that has been her home for seven months faces her, suddenly distant in the dingy morning light.

***

Steve’s back in his own apartment for the first time in a week, and it’s still a mess of neglect. The fridge is still empty, so he bums a beer off Sharon who is not excited to see him only twenty minutes after he left her apartment.

The had all decided to sleep on how to get to Highsmith, not sure what could be done without Natasha to smooth the way. Steve had vetoed open confrontation of Bucky because he didn’t want to scare him away, so now they’ve all gone back to their own places to get some sleep.

Steve has nearly drifted off on his couch when he hears a voice say, “Captain America.”

It’s coming from the balcony and quiet enough that without his enhanced hearing, he’d never have heard it.

In a second, he’s jerked up off the couch and pushed the sliding glass door back until he stands out in the frigid nighttime air.

By the moonlight, Steve can just make out a shape crouched on the railing. It shifts and something metal hits the light, glimmering. All the breath gets sucked out of him and he hardly believes he’s looking at Bucky crouched on his balcony railing.

When he speaks, Steve can’t see him in the dark, but his voice sounds hoarse and unused. “That’s what they call you, isn’t it? They dehumanize you with the title, and yet you pity me.”

All he can do is gape at Bucky. “I—”

“Nevermind,” Bucky cuts him off. “That’s not why I’m here. My captive is alive, but I’m ready to kill him. You’re interested?”

“In what?”

“Well, I’m done with him. I’m looking to sell,” Bucky explain.

“I don’t want to buy him!”

“Okay, I’ll go kill him. I don’t care.” His voice is flat.

“Jesus, Buck. Don’t—”

“What’s your business with him then?”

“To help you.” Steve says it and feels weak. He doesn’t know how to make Bucky believe that, but it’s the truth.

Bucky climbs down from the railing and comes into the light, confusion showing on his face.

Steve changes topics. “Why did you come? It was half a year of chasing you from country to country and now you just appear on my balcony.”

“Curiosity,” Bucky looks away. “You seem to know more about me than I do.”

Bucky’s back is to Steve. “I didn’t kill Zimmerman, though. I know you saw me on the news, but I didn’t. I got him out and dumped him in the back garden, behind the fence. I watched for a while, he was safe. He was a good man.” He says it like it’s a strange concept to him. “And it wasn’t necessary for the mission.”

“Oh.”

Bucky faces Steve. He’s close, maybe an arm's reach away, like Steve could stretch out his arms place them on his shoulders.

“Who were you to me?” Bucky asks.

Steve hesitates. “A lover.”

There’s a long pause. Steve tries to read Bucky’s face, but it’s closed off.

Bucky speaks slowly. “Okay. I can use backup,” he takes a deep breath. “We’re going to take down the President.”

***

They’re in Sharon’s apartment again and Sam and Sharon are facing the two new arrivals against the other wall. Steve’s hovering somewhere in the middle, trying to ease the tension in the room.

Because ever since Bucky entered the room, everyone’s been on edge. Except Natasha.

She’d been here for a couple hours before Bucky showed up, at Steve’s request. Their greetings had been warm but brief as they focused on the situation at hand. But Steve is grateful that Natasha hadn’t tried to comfort Steve with any false words. Sam was forthcoming with those, as always, trying to keep morale up, but right now Steve had cut the bullshit. Bucky wanted a professional relationship and that is what Steve is going to deliver.

That will make it easier on Sharon and Sam, who don’t trust Bucky. Steve’s emotions could mess up the plan and they had before on countless missions. That was one of the beauties of the Winter Soldier machine, that it was a weapon without a heart.

When Bucky had arrived, eerily punctual to the time he’d arranged with Steve, he had swung in through the window and dropped in Sharon’s living room. Like cats, Sharon and Sam’s backs had immediately gone up and hadn’t relaxed since.

Seeing Natasha had instantly changed Bucky. All his muscles had locked up; he’d stood frozen in place, pure disbelief in his expression.

Then Natasha had said something in Russian, low and rapid, and it was like ten layers of tension had evaporated out of the air. He responded in Russian, and they’d been off, an urgent private conversation taking place while Sharon and Sam shifted uncomfortably. Steve could tell they were measuring Bucky’s proximity to Natasha at every moment, logging his weapons, calculating their moves if he were to strike. Their trust of him would be hard won, if at all.

Natasha had suddenly moved forward to hug Bucky and everyone had jumped, hands twitching to weapons instinctively. But it was clear she wasn’t in any danger as Bucky’s arms encircled her gently. Her face went to hide in his neck, an intimacy that made Steve uncomfortable to witness.

They stayed held together for a few long moments. When they broke away, they faced Steve and the others and Bucky had begun to explain everything he knew.

It turned out torturing Highsmith had led him straight to the motherlode of information—a weak man, he hadn’t lasted long under torture.

“He told me almost everything before you all barged in,” Bucky said with a little malice.

“Did you manage to destroy TechCorp for good?” Sharon merely asked.

Bucky shook his head. “It won’t take them long to regroup, appoint a new CEO, etc. But the best way to tank a company is to take away their profit source, as in, the consumers.”

“You’re saying turn public opinion against them? It’s a government contractor, that’s not exactly going to decrease sales.” Sam remarks.

Bucky looks annoyed and unimpressed with their slowness. “Congress answers to its constituents, and if they don’t like TechCorp, then their Senators and Reps aren’t going to, either. Ultimately, politicians would do anything to get reelected.”

Steve clears his throat, trying to move the conversation forward. “So, Bu—uh, so, what did Highsmith tell you?”

“That it was the President who ordered the files wiped. Fuckin’ Ellis, just trying to get reelected. Greedy son of a bitch. His Committee to Reelect does more along the lines of Nixon’s than, say Reed’s,” Bucky says, naming Ellis’s opponent in the upcoming 2016 race. “Ellis formed ARWS, too, with its main mission being, take the Winter Soldier in, and secure America’s love at the polls.” He spits the last part out, disgust showing on his face.

“So what do we do?” Natasha says. “Expose him? We don’t have any evidence except a kidnapped, tortured CEO.”

“Nyet, Natalia, no. We kill the fucker.”

There’s an instant reaction to his words. Sam makes an incredulous noise and Sharon narrows her eyes, knuckles turning white over her gun while Natasha looks at Bucky, frowning. Steve just looks shocked.

“No, we have to bring him to justice,” Steve asserts. “It’s the right thing to do. Besides, you’ll never be cleared if we don’t convince the public that he has framed you.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky says flatly. “I just want to stop being hunted.”

“It actually makes sense,” Natasha says slowly, ignoring Steve’s glare. “Think about it. Congress would never impeach Ellis, they’re all either too corrupt or bullied by those who are corrupt. Also, Ellis is party leader, so if they go against him, they could lose party funding for their next campaign.”

“Jesus, do these people’s consciences ever catch up with them?” Sam sighs.

“Why don’t you just leave the country for good?” Sharon asks Bucky.

He gives a wry smile. “A United States hit order follows you to a lot of places. It’s getting annoying.”

Sam speaks up. “Say we did this...you’d have to do something for us.”

Bucky waits.

“You’d have to help us redump the files online.” He glances at Steve, and Steve realizes that this is for him. “Highsmith must’ve told you how, so do it and we’ll help you with your crazy mission.”

At the word ‘crazy,’ Bucky’s mouth quirks up.

Steve wants to say they’re all insane and do they know how many people have tried to kill presidents and failed, besides it’s not the right thing to do, but chokes on the words when he sees Sam and Sharon smiling tentatively at Bucky, and him smiling back.

“All right,” Bucky gives them a nod.

They all shake hands. Steve going last, trying to meet Bucky’s eyes, but he’s avoiding him.

Sharon begins whipping out laptops and booting up desktops, and they all turn their attention to her. Once she’s got them all up and running, she and Nat settle down to drive two of them. Bucky hangs back, but at an expectant glance from Sharon he sits down at one on the end.

“All right,” Sharon says, authoritatively, beginning to click around. “What do we do?”

The three of them instantly delve into tech speak, pulling up multiple windows and tabs, typing furiously and constantly turning their screens to compare progress. Sam pulls Steve aside quietly.

“You expect to much.”

Steve gives him an innocent look. “I don’t expect anything.”

“You didn’t expect him to welcome Natasha so warmly, Steve, and it bothered you. Cut the shit, I saw.”

“I guess part of me thought—hoped—he wouldn’t remember her. That me and Nat could at least both be strangers to him. But now he’s got her, and I’m the person who wants him to remember.”

“Listen, man, forget all that. It’s not like he came here to make friends. He’s gonna leave her after this is over, same as you.”

Steve looks at the two of them, heads bent together over Bucky’s screen. “Is he? He’s got nothing and no one else. He might want to stay with her. Go where she goes, and stuff like that. And you know,” he says, “it might be what’s best for him.”

Sam can’t dispute that. “Yeah.”

“Someone’s gotta look out for him. I know he’d say he’s a loner, but the fact is that he doesn’t know who he is. Maybe she would ground him. Even if he stayed here—which he won’t—I’m full of memories of a person he doesn’t know. He’d feel alone even with me.”

Sam nods. “But maybe he’ll surprise you. You said he was curious on the balcony.”

“Don’t read into it, Sam,” Steve says flatly. “I don’t need false hope.”

Sam just looks at him with sad eyes.

A couple hours later, and there’s a stilling of the chaos from the row of computers. Sharon’s pushed back her chair and is staring at her screen. Bucky and Nat are too, both of them wide-eyed, hands hovering over the keys, as if in shock.

Steve is there in a second. “What, what is it?”

“We’ve been…” Natasha trails off.

“We’ve been blocked,” Sharon says, anger seeping into her voice. Lines of code are stacking up on her screen. “Someone’s getting in our way.”

Sam shares a glance with Steve. “Who...? It can’t be the government, they’re too clueless about cyber security.”

“Could be the Committee,” Steve says in a low voice.

Sharon’s typing frantically. “Shit, I can’t get through. This is a serious block. Shit, how did they know to protect this pathway?”

“We were going in through what was essentially the mouse hole around the corner from the back door, ” Natasha supplies to Sam and Steve’s nonplussed expressions.

Sharon’s screen goes dark. She jumps back, hands held up. “They killed me,” she says, surprised. “They fucking killed me, what the fuck. That’s it. Nat, find an IP address.”

Natasha goes to work, bending over her screen. A few minutes, and she pronounces, “Got them pinned in Taiwan.” But she doesn’t stop typing. Bucky looks confused, no longer typing, just watching.

Seeing his confusion, she explains. “No one hacks without a bajillion proxies up their ass. For me, it looks like I’m in Nairobi.” They all look impressed. “Unfortunately, this dickhead’s doing the same thing. We’re good enough to crack it, though.” Natasha looks up just long enough to flash her a smile. “It’ll just take a little time.”

They settle in to wait again. Sharon’s looking over Nat’s shoulder, watching her type and occasionally suggesting something quietly. Steve watches Bucky, who is fiddling with his metal arm. Steve watches as he picks up each finger in turn and works the joint, pulling it slightly out of the socket, so that the metal pops. If it’s painful, his face doesn’t show it.

Several minutes go by. They’re all ready, no one flipping through TV channels or making something in the kitchen. Everyone wants to know who is onto them and more importantly, if they know where they are. If Natasha can track them down, surely they’re doing the same thing. They might even have a head-start, given that they were able to put up the block.

Finally Nat leans back. “Annapolis.”

“Maryland? That’s so close.” Steve’s surprised. “Why—”

He cuts off. Bucky’s on his feet, sending his chair skittering behind him, shoving his hair off his face back into a ponytail.

He’s out the door in a second, Natasha calling after him in Russian. They all look after him in shock.

“Do you think he’s going to—” Sam begins. Steve struggles to look neutral. But yes, Bucky’s en route to take out some tech employees likely sitting in cubicles somewhere. He’s still the Winter Soldier, and maybe he believes the ends justify the means. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

***

Rocks crunch under Natasha’s feet as she stalks along the rooftops of Annapolis, her eyes trained on the ground below. Oblivious pedestrians litter the streets during the lunch rush. Even with the crowd below, she’s confident that she’ll spot Barnes the instant he turns up. She can spot the too-casual air of a trained assassin instinctively by now.

A flash out of the corner of her eye distracts her and pulls her gaze from the streets. It’s already gone, but she just spots a flash before it disappears behind an AC unit a couple of buildings ahead. So he’s not on the ground. Tricky bastard.

She hangs back, concealing herself behind a similar unit. She’s not here to confront him, though Steve probably would. Another flash and he’s moving again. Nat doubts he thinks she’s gone; but he apparently doesn’t care enough to stop his mission.

Flipping out her phone, she dials Sharon fast. She keeps it brief.

“Hey, I’ve got eyes on Barnes. Don’t tell Steve, but I’m not going to intercept the mission, I’m gonna let him do it.”

A couple seconds’ hesitation; Natasha can feel Sharon struggling with the fact that she’s just going to be a bystander to Barnes’s plan, but in the ends she sighs.

“Okay. I’m babysitting the boys until I get the call to move ahead.”

Natasha shuts the phone and moves after Bucky, trying not to lose him as he darts and weaves from building to building, in a style too similar to her own, though with a heavier step. There are differences, too, but a lot of his stealth tactics resemble hers. Memories of training in the Red Room threaten to surface at the thought, but she pushes them aside to focus. As she’s following, she finds herself matching his actions, placing her hands to brace in the same spot on walls, feet landing in the same places to navigate tricky spots.

He finally ducks down from a roof, scaling down one side of an alleyway. Natasha is half-surprised he didn’t turn to confront her at all during the fifteen minute trek. But he probably didn’t want to be talked out of this.

She wouldn’t have tried, though; she meant what she’d said to Sharon. Only watching. She was just going to make sure he didn’t get too out-of-hand. The only deaths were going to be the tech guys responsible with no civilian casualties.

Bucky is over by the building next to the one Natasha elects to stay perched on, giving her a clear view of both Bucky and the street. As she watches, he climbs down the side and darts across the street, narrowly avoiding oncoming traffic. He circles the building directly opposite, surveying it for some reason. When he comes around front again, his hand digs into the duffel bag hanging off his back. As Natasha watches, he pulls out a brick, crouches low and chucks it, sending it crashing through the window. Screams go up and the sidewalk immediately dissolves into chaos with confused passersby, giving Bucky the perfect cover.

In another fluid motion, Bucky’s hand dips into his bag again, bringing something else out. A grenade. He pulls the pin and lobs it through the hole he made.

And he’s running back across the street, not even checking if it hit it’s mark, he already knows it did. Natasha remembers that confidence, that feeling of satisfaction, to know you were that good. She also remembers smiling as explosions went up behind her and people screamed.

She shakes the old memories off and watches Bucky dart through traffic and return to her side of the street, ignoring the couple of people who are pointing at him.

It stings a little that he didn’t want to talk to her on the way over. All they’d had was a few brief sentences exchanged in front of everyone else back in Sharon’s apartment. Natasha feels she is justified in wishing for a lengthier catch-up after a couple decades apart.

There’s a movement on the adjacent building and it’s no surprise to see Bucky clambering up. He throws down his duffel bag and starts unpacking it. Rods, barrels, a v-prop come out, and she realizes he’s setting up his rifle. His fingers work over the pieces, getting it done in less than a minute.

Then he pauses and looks over at Natasha. She meets his eye directly and sees the harsh battle mode of the Winter Soldier like a mask on his face. Then he smiles manically, breaking the seriousness. He throws her a wink and turns to settle on his stomach and watch the building.

She strains her eyes to see into the building; everyone is crowding around the exits, trying to stay away from the broken window.

She looks over to Bucky. A button of some kind has appeared in his hand. His thumb hovers over it while he looks through the scope of his rifle, trained on the building.

Nat clears her throat. She’s taking a chance; but she swallows her nervousness. She calls out across the gap between their buildings, trying to make her voice light, “I suppose this is the wrong moment to ask if you’ve checked that they’re actually the ones blocking us.” She gestures to the building.

He doesn’t look away from the scope. “I can confirm that they are.” A pause. Then, “You ready?”

With a sickening feeling building in her stomach as she remembers his previous loop around the building and the trigger in his hand, she nods.

His finger presses down on the button and explosions go up across the street. Fire and expanding air rip through the building, sending rubble flying. Pedestrians cover their heads and flee; the people inside have disappeared in a cloud of smoke. The building catches on fire.

Across the roof, Bucky’s dropped the deadly button and has got two hands wrapped around his rifle. Nat, still crouched across the alleyway from him, can’t help but root for some survivors to come crawling out, to see the hope on their faces. But she knows, with a side glance at the gun trained down on the street, it’s going to end for them one way or another.

The architecture of the strike is a thing of beauty, to be sure; Natasha can’t deny it. Two rounds of grenades, the second set was placed towards the far side of the building to force any stragglers to stagger to safety on Bucky’s side of the building. Leading to…

Three gunshots go off and Bucky absorbs the kickback each time. Fresh screams rise up from the rubble. Natasha is half-horrified, half-impressed at the efficiency of the plan, and how ruthlessly he executes it.

A couple more shots ring off, echoing in her ears and making them hurt.

They stay there for another long hour, each holding their positions. A couple times, Bucky spares a glance in her direction, but she doesn’t get any more smiles. He’s probably wondering why she’s here. She’s not sure if she knows, really. She knows what she told Sharon and Steve, but she doesn’t know if it’s the truth.

Finally, Bucky sits up and looks over at her. She takes this to mean they’re done. He packs up his rifle while she flips out her cell phone.

Sharon picks up fast and Natasha doesn’t waste time. “You won’t find any obstacles on the server now.”

“Nat, what happened? Who was—”

She hangs up. She types out a text to Steve, heading back now. eta 2 hours, then deletes it. Eyeing Bucky, she meets his hard stare. She’s going to make him talk to her.

***

The call clicks off and Sharon stares at the phone, indignant.

“She hung up on me!”

Steve hands her a beer with a wry smile. “Natasha doesn’t believe in extraneous conversation.”

With a shrug, she returns to her computer. Her wrists protest returning to the keyboard and her eyes ache from staring at the screen for so long with only a couple hours’ break. Still, she shoves it aside, remembering worse missions she’s run for SHIELD.

This time around, she gets through the block. In fact, there is no block, almost like someone had just plucked it from the server without a trace.

That gone, it only takes Sharon another half hour before she’s plugging a pre-loaded memory stick into her thumb drive.

“Guys, I’m about to do it!” She calls out to Sam and Steve, lounging on the couch. They’d been trying to give her space. She knew she got catty when hacking, wired in to the point that the outside world became annoying.

But at her invitation, they bound over in a second, leaning over her shoulder. She clicks and highlights hundreds of files and drags them over to the government database. A deep breath, and she drops them in.

It buffers for a second, then, “It worked. It went through.”

All of the breath whooshes out of Sam and Steve behind her. A couple more clicks and she’s sent the link to a couple of news sites and tweeted it out from several dummy twitter accounts to get it circulating.

Sam and Steve start yelling behind her, jumping around and clapping each other and Sharon on the back. When she spins around to face them, her cheeks are flushed with happiness. “TechCorp can’t take this one down, guys! They’re in fucking shambles! So unless Ellis has another massive tech corporation on speed dial....”

They’re all smiling at each other, their first victory just handed to them. Sharon feels content with herself in a way she never was at the CIA. In this moment, she knows this is why she joined SHIELD. This feeling of winning for the right people.

Twitter’s blowing up already when she logs in to her real account to check. Millions of people spreading the information around, weighing in on whether it’s fake, deciding Bucky’s innocence or guilt.

Turning the phone to Steve she says, “Congrats, man. It’s trending worldwide.”

Tears spring to his eyes. Sharon doesn’t ever think she’s seen him smile bigger.

Every few seconds, she gets another notification from Google Alerts with a headline like “After 70 years of injustice, a WWII POW cleared” with an attached photo of Bucky from 1945. She shows Steve every one.

Sam eventually clears his throat, face serious. “Not to be the wet blanket, but...you know there’ll be skeptics, man.”

Steve looks brought down slightly. “Yeah. Of course. Don’t blame ‘em.”

“And the press’ll want to talk to you.”

Steve makes a face. The last time he’d talked to the press had been during World War I. He’d been a private guy since 2011, but knew all too well their reputation in modern times. Sharon felt a rush of sympathy.

But Steve just clears his throat and squares his shoulders. “The real story hasn’t even happened yet.”

“Right...the mission.” Sharon says uneasily. She’s not sure how comfortable any of them are with this one.

“No matter how justified, no matter how many corrupt things the President has done or at least organized, I still think killing him is too extreme,” Steve states. And with that, the celebratory atmosphere finally evaporates.

“We’ve been over this, Steve,” Sam replies. “The justice system doesn’t work. It serves the upper class, which POTUS is, and will never convict him.”

“I know, but—”

“I agree with Sam,” Sharon joins in. “I think that this is a necessary evil. I mean, look at Nixon; he was pardoned, for god’s sake, and he hasn’t even come close to the schemes Ellis has.”

“That doesn’t mean we should murder him,” Steve says simply. And he’s right, Sharon can’t deny it. An uncomfortable silence ensues, neither she nor Sam wanting to contradict him. But…

“If we don’t help Bucky he’ll do it anyway, without us.”

Steve sighs, knowing it’s true. Sam looks like he almost regrets everything they are about to do, because there’s no way Steve will stop now.

“Alright, let’s prep for mission then.”

Sharon begins pulling out files, but not before closing her laptop screen on Twitter still open to the hashtag #LiberateBarnes and a dozen other like it.

***

By the time Natasha hangs up on Sharon, Bucky’s already disassembled his rifle and packed it away in his duffel bag. With hardly a glance her way, he’s on his feet and scrambling over the rooftops again, back the way they came.

Dammit. She takes off after him, calling after him this time. “Bucky! Wait up goddammit!”

He slows his pace by a miniscule amount and she resists the urge to roll her eyes.

They come to a large gap between buildings, larger than Nat feels confident she could pull off. Bucky lands it easily, boots planting solidly onto the opposite roof, but Nat skids to a stop. The hesitation costs her the jump completely, just a millisecond waver that lost her her momentum.

But Barnes is still running, not looking back for her. Feeling desperate she’ll never get to corner him again if he goes now, she calls after him again.

“You know Steve thinks you’re going to stay with me.”

His boots grind to a halt, back going ramrod straight.

“After this is over,” Natasha continues. “Because you remember me and not him.”

When he speaks, Bucky’s voice is rough. “That’s not going to happen.”

Natasha, in lieu of an answer, merely backs up across the roof, winding up to attempt the jump again. In a few swift movements, she runs forward, springing off the building’s edge, flipping high into the air and landing lightly on the gravel on the other side. She looks up at Barnes from where she’s crouched next to him.

“You haven’t forgotten what the Red Room taught you, then.”

“Nyet. Though you might’ve.”

Bucky looks momentarily closed off and Natasha can’t tell whether he remembers or not. “Look, Bucky, you can’t come with me after Ellis is dead. We’re a thing of the past.”

“I know,” he says harshly. “I wasn’t planning to. I was going to—”

He cuts himself off, turning away so she can’t see his face.

Despite the signs telling her to back off, that he’s not going to open up, she has to ask. “Why’d you come back Barnes? And don’t say Ellis, you didn’t have to join up with Steve to get a man killed. You didn’t come for me, either, you could’ve found me on my own months ago. So why?”

“I don’t need to talk to you.” He sounds on the verge of a breakdown, clutching the sides of his head like his thoughts are painful.

“Bucky…you came for him. It’s okay to admit it.”

“No, he...expects too much.” Bucky’s struggling with words now, eyes twisted shut. “I can’t be—”

“He’s not the same as he was in 1945 either, Bucky,” she says gently.

“But he remembers and I…” He gives a shuddering sigh.

“You can start over, you know, the two of you. Believe me, Steve’s scared shitless of losing you Bucky. Just...talk to him.” She doesn’t know what else to say. Bucky needs more than anything to see Steve, to stop distancing himself from him through his “Winter Soldier” persona and come home. They almost need to re-meet each other, Natasha thinks as she lays a comforting hand on Barnes’s shoulder.

They run the rest of the way back together, Natasha making the jumps first with Bucky right behind her.

***

Sharon, Sam, and Steve are all huddled around the table in Sharon’s kitchen, maps and pictures spread out around them. With time to kill before Bucky and Nat get back and the plan starts rolling, Sharon’s been filling them in on Ellis and his Committee.

“So, cut off the head,” she says, pointing to Ellis’s photo, “and the beast will die. The Committe to Reelect will have no candidate, at least not before we get Steve in an interview with CNN to expose them all.”

“I’m still not sure about this, Sharon. Something’s missing.” Steve says.

Sam gives him a measured glance before saying, “Yeah, Steve’s right. Why would the public believe us when we’ve been discredited and just assassinated the president?”

Sharon’s brows knit together. She starts pushing pictures around, pulling photos of Congressmen towards her. Then, slowly, gently, a look of realisation comes over her face. “They don’t have to. Not if they see it for themselves.”

“See…what?” Sam asks.

She flashes him a giddy smile. “See the president confess.” She looks smug at the stunned looks on their faces. “I know. It’s brilliant.”

“That’s gonna need more planning, Sharon, and we don’t have time, Nat and Bucky are already on the way back and Buck’s anxious to get—”

“No, Steve,” she says, gesturing him to silence. “We can do it. But it can’t just be a filmed confession. That could be edited, tampered with. It’ll never stand up.” She’s thinking out loud as Sam and Steve stare at her with wide eyes.

“If I use the Twitter accounts...people believe in those now, since the leak...get the world’s attention, we could—”

“Livestream Ellis’s confession.” Sam finishes. “CSPAN it.”

“Holy…” Steve sits down. “The assassination too?”

Sharon looks uncertain and turns to Sam. He shakes his head. “Too much.”

Sharon gives a final nod of assent, then sits down at her computer and begins typing. “I’ll hack CSPAN now and give my phone access. Then I can go live from the scene whenever we’re ready. I’ll also start circulating tweets with rumors, get people tuned in and listening to these accounts again. Let them stir up a fuss in the next couple hours before we hit ‘em.”

“I can go ahead of everyone else,” Sam says, eyeing his flying pack. “Set up cameras, etc. I was already planning to be the scout, so it’s convenient.”

Steve clears his throat. “Well, I guess I’ll suit up th—”

He’s cut off as the apartment door bangs open, revealing a frantic Natasha. She’s obviously come straight from Annapolis, her gear still laden with guns.

“He’s gone ahead. Bucky’s gone ahead, alone, to kill Ellis.”

Steve’s on his feet. “What?!”

“Why?!”

“Is this a sort of betrayal?” Sharon looks furious.

“It’s so we don’t have to go kill Ellis,” Steve says slowly. “He’s...sparing us. But why would he team up with us only to—”

“Shit,” Sharon interrupts with a horrified look to Sam. “We can’t let Bucky kill him. We need his confession. America will never stop trying to hunt Bucky if we don’t show that these people trying to discredit him, and whether he cares or not, the last obstacle to people believing he’s innocent is POTUS’s condemnation. We need to show everyone that he’s wrong.”

Natasha looks blank. Sam’s nodding though, solemn.

“The evidence convinced maybe half of American citizens, optimistically.” Sharon explains. “We’ve just gotta lock this final piece in place, Ellis’s confession. Then the world will believe.”

Sam shoots her a worried glance. “But not if Bucky’s killed him already.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in. Then Steve’s rallying everyone, calling for suits on, ammo checked, and guns loaded. It’s a messy half hour of scrambling before they’re all loaded into an old van Natasha got and speeding towards 1600 Penn Ave.

The atmosphere in the van is tense. Sharon talks over the plan, giving each person their assignment, updating Natasha on the new parts of the plan and her role. Her voice is interrupted only by the periodic clicks of bullets being loaded into chambers. Everyone is as focused as a SWAT team.

“All right I hacked the security cams and Ellis is currently in the Oval Office itself. Sam’s already scouting ahead, setting up visual for me and once I get the okay from him the feed’ll go live, along with several hundred mass tweets I’ve queued.”

A moment’s pause and Sharon looks uncomfortable. “And, uh, I have to say this, but no one wants to hear it. There is the possibility that Bucky will be hostile. He may see us as interfering with his mission. Just…exercise caution.” She swallows hard and looks anywhere but at her friends.

“ETA ten minutes.”

***

Sam’s in the air again, and it feels great. It’s been ages since he got to really let himself go, given that he and Steve were always looking over their shoulders in Eastern Europe and trying not to draw too much attention to themselves. But now, Sam’s let loose.

It takes him no time at all to get to the White House, but he has to be more careful about his approach, since Secret Service guys are patrolling everywhere. He manages to get close nearly undetected, though if one guy ends up knocked out behind a dumpster, Sam doesn’t waste time feeling bad.

He sweeps the perimeter as best he can despite his need for invisibility, and manages to spot Ellis in his office. Looking around, he has no idea where to estimate Bucky is, and wishes for Natasha. Desperation threatens to seep in—what if Bucky’s putting Ellis in the crosshairs and pulling the trigger now—but he reminds himself all he can do right now is set up the camera.

He finds a spot easily enough, though he has to take down another guard. Each one he subdues makes him more nervous—surely there are checks in place to notify someone if a guard goes missing—but the campus is silent for now. Miking the office is harder, as it requires Sam to get closer, but he can still do it from the outside. Thank god for Sharon’s stash of SHIELD tech so he can hook up an internal mike from outside.

That done and called in to Sharon, he turns his attention again to Bucky. Where would be the best place to shoot from safety, stay invisible, and have an easy escape? Sam doesn’t know. He was a soldier not a spy. God, he hopes the others get here soon.

A flash out of the corner of his eye and he’s instantly in the air, speeding towards it. There’s no doubt in his mind that it was—

Bucky’s metal arm comes out of nowhere, punching Sam out of the air. He goes into a tailspin and lands with a graceless crash onto the concrete floor of a parking garage.

When he manages to blink through the pain, he realizes Bucky actually isn’t paying Sam that much mind. Sam rolls slowly from one side to the other, feeling out his gear for damage. Luckily, it can and has stood up to a lot worse.

Standing again, he can see his initial assessment was correct; Bucky is paying no attention to him. He’s peering into his rifle scope, guiding it with a steady hand to tweak its aim. Panic shoots through Sam and before he can think better of it he’s striding forward, calling out, “Hey man, you can’t shoot Ellis yet, we need him, you need him for a—”

Bucky’s arm flies out again and Sam finds himself on the ground for the second time. He hears Bucky mutter, “Goddamn interference.”

That’s when Sam knows he won’t be able to talk Bucky off this ledge. Shoving his hand into his gear pocket he pulls out the phone. With rapid fingers he types, b lining up the shot. cant stall long. He pushes another button and sends it to Sharon.

He pushes up onto his heels and waits a fair distance from Bucky, watching him though he couldn’t stop him if he tried. His eyes squeeze shut and he prays they get here soon. There’s nothing worse than a plan gone wrong.

***

“ETA 30 seconds,” Sharon calls out in a clear voice. “Remember, our first priority is the confession. Nat, this is you. It has to be on camera, and it has to be willing. No torture, or the entire nation’s gonna be sympathetic to the wrong guy, and any court of law could get it thrown out on charges of duress.”

Natasha nods. She’s not in disguise because there wasn’t any time, and but she can make it work.

“Steve, you’re on Bucky. Anything you gotta do to delay the shot till I give the okay over the comms.” She opens a box and they all grab a bug and stick it in their ear.

The van slows to a stop and Steve unbolts the door and one by one, they all jump out and dart away to cover. When Sharon’s closed the door behind her, the van speeds away and she joins them in the underbrush.

“Alright,” she says looking at her watch. “You have one more minute to enter the Office, Nat, or you can wait until the next guard rotation.” Even as she says it she looks anxious, and Natasha knows that time is critically low. She takes off toward a side door marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” only looking back to see Steve breaking away from the group himself. She kicks the door in, fervently hoping no one’s on the other side. Her only plan thus far is to blend in as staff until she can sneak away into the Oval Office.

She’s in luck. The door has let her into some sort of management room, and on a practiced impulse, Natasha grabs a clipboard and a bunch of pens. Her standout gear is fixed by grabbing a long coat hanging on a coatrack in the corner.

Darting and weaving through the hallways of the White House, she tries to keep her head down. Some people give her a lingering look but Natasha just ducks her head and moves on before they can stop her. She avoids anyone older than 30; from experience, she knows they’re more likely to be in charge and spot an outsider.

She’s been walking for five minutes before she remembers she doesn’t know where she’s going.

“Excuse me,” she says, stopping a young girl, probably an intern. She employs her most nervous tone. “Could—could you direct me to the Chief of Staff’s office?”

She didn’t dare ask directly for the Oval Office—god knows that would have brought the Secret Service raining down upon her. But the Chief of Staff should be near the President.

Luckily, the intern falls for the act. “Oh, first day? That’s odd that you’re running errands there already.” Natasha holds her breath for a long moment. Then the girl shrugs. “Guess Ms. Jillan knows what she’s doing. It’s down the East Wing, third door on the left at the end of the hall.”

Natasha thanks her and takes off.

The door to the Oval Office is obvious by Sam’s camera extending from the ceiling above it. Natasha’s heart pounds in her chest as she reads the incriminating “Stark Industries” label off the side, wondering how stupid Sam could be to put it here in plain view.

Then, she reassesses: it is out of sight from the interior of the office, though if the secretary were to leave for a cup of coffee they’d be screwed. Also, if anyone from the adjacent offices left or entered they’d see it, but it’s a quiet corridor, so the President’s security is actually working for them this time.

All in all, it’s a measured risk. Nat’s had worse odds. She leaves it to capture the office as she enters herself, tightening her grip on her clipboard.

She rounds the corner and he is there. Ellis sits at his desk, hovering over some papers. He doesn’t see her so she takes deep breath out of view before she strides confidently into the room.

“Excuse me sir, but Warren took off after his lunch break, he felt ill,” Natasha says, remembering the plaque on the empty secretary’s desk. “I’m filling in for the afternoon.”

Ellis takes off his glasses to peer at her, brow knitted. After a long minute he says, “Yes, alright. Get me the Leslie Reed and Tax Reform files from the archives, I need to know if I’m endorsing this tax bill. Also check if Todd is still on for 2 o’clock and do I have any appointments after seven tonight? I was hoping not...where’s my lunch?”

Natasha tried to suppress the deer in the headlights look she knew she was getting. Instead, she begins fudging her way through to get right to her point. “Actually, lunch is cancelled for today, sir, the Chair on the Committee to Reelect is coming to see you, some apparently urgent business.”

“Oh! Did he say what about?”

“The Winter Soldier issue, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I know I’ve been fielding the press on that, but I’ve really got to know what’s going on…”

“You want me to pencil him in for a status update?” Natasha asks, eyes flicking up to gauge his reaction.

Ellis looks troubled. “No, no, it’ll have to be longer. I need to be filled in…I’ve let him handle the whole thing, but it’s really heating up with the Soldier in D.C…” He trails off, talking to himself.

“Sorry sir, but wasn’t it your idea to target the Winter Soldier?” Natasha says softly.

He gives her a sharp glance and she follows up quickly with, “Just been watching the news, and all.” She gives her most simpleton smile. Maybe she’ll come off as just really interested in current events. Oftentimes, powerful people like him will say anything to their maids, bartenders, anyone who is there and isn’t important. It’s an old trick of Natasha’s and gotten her way more intel than bugging rooms.

And the act seems to work, or at least Ellis is confident his inner circle doesn’t violate their confidentiality agreements, including his secretary. “No it was entirely Todd’s project.”

***

Steve’s been sprinting since his feet hit the ground off the van. He took one look at Ellis’s office, shared a glance with Natasha, and knew immediately Bucky would be hiding out in the parking garage. His footsteps echo around him as he books it up the staircase, not letting himself call out to Bucky out of fear it would make him shoot, but not having the self-control to slow down and be quiet, either.

He’s one flight left from the top when he spots two figures along the wall of the garage. His approaching footsteps make one of them look around and he moves to meet him. In the dim light, Steve doesn’t recognize Sam until he’s close.

“He won’t put the rifle down for me,” he’s muttering. “I’ve told him the plan, he’s still aiming.”

Steve gives him a grim look and claps his shoulder. “I’ll take it from here.” He hopes his nervousness doesn’t show in his voice.

Sam heads down the stairs, leaving Steve alone with Bucky.

“Buck.”

No response.

“Buck, why’d you come back?”

Bucky actually lifts his head from the rifle scope. He looks surprised and Steve feels slightly satisfied.

But it’s gone in a second, Bucky’s face schooled back to apathy as he turns back. “I don’t have to tell you.”

“You don’t,” Steve tries. “But maybe you want to.”

“I don’t.”

“Like how you don’t want to stay with Natasha after this?” Steve gives a wry grin at Bucky’s surprised face. “Yeah, I’m more observant than you give me credit for. I may not be able to speak Russian, but I can read body language.”

“Maybe I don’t. So what? You treat it like it’s some big secret.” Bucky clears his throat. A Russian accent had been seeping back in. “We’ve talked. It’s fine. She’s not pressuring me to stay in one place, or with people I know.”

Steve would laugh at the irony if this wasn’t all serious. “‘Course I want you here. You’ve known that since back in the helicarrier. But I’m not expecting James Buchanan Barnes, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not really Captain America, either, or what the public thinks of him. What I’m saying is we could start over. No old memories, just new ones.”

Bucky had been staring at Steve while he spoke and now turns back to his scope. “That was a pretty speech, but I’m still taking the shot.”

“Bucky,” Steve knows he sounds desperate. “Give me ten minutes?”

Bucky pulls back and looks at Steve again, long and hard. Steve almost wants to flinch but makes himself meet Bucky’s eye.

“Fine.”

Steve lets out all his breath.

“But don’t think it’s because you promised to hold hands with me and sing campfire songs. It’s just that he’ll be as dead in ten minutes as he would be now. And I’m not in a hurry.”

Steve gives a tight smile and sits down next to Bucky’s rifle to wait.

***

Sharon is sitting in a dumpster. Yeah, her friends invade the White House to take down the President and Sharon gets stuck sitting in a dumpster, trying to keep her computer logged into the network and dirt-free.

Right now she’s on a private comm link with Sam, who’s out there flying around. While they’re killing time for Natasha, Sam’s got an extra job to do.

“All right, you’re coming up on the first drop point. Detour to wait on the roof for 90 seconds, there’s a guard headed your way.”

She watches on her dim monitor as he follows her instructions, swooping up and then down once the patrol passes.

“Can you see a good spot?” She asks. She can’t see much on her monitors to guide him to one, so she hopes he does.

His voice crackles in over the comm. “Yeah, got it. First one dropped. Six more to go.”

This had been another of Sharon’s last minute plans, to be scrapped if something went wrong or it didn’t work out. She hadn’t even told anyone other than Sam, knowing Steve would make it into a big deal.

Right now, Sam was placing seven mines around the outside perimeter of the Oval Office. Sharon would, after Ellis had been shot, detonate them from her laptop, sending the entire East Wing into chaos, leaving the perfect escape and cover for them. It was crude to think about, but ideally the explosion would blow the President to bits, destroying any evidence of a gunshot. With any luck, and by luck, Sharon meant more hacking, the explosion would be written down faulty gas lines.

“Three more to go, how am I looking, Sharon?” Sam said, diving down from the roof to place a bomb right behind a passing guard, barely escaping notice.

“Risky, but that’s your style.”

“I can hear you rolling your eyes and I raise you…” Sam starts as he gains some height, then, with the air of someone walking the plank, steps off the edge of the White House roof and plummets down the the manicured gravel below.

Sharon’s smiling and rolling her eyes some more when a movement out of the corner of her catches her attention.

A guard, coming around the corner, three minutes ahead of schedule.

“Sam, Sam, pull up, patrol coming early on your nine. Get out of sight!”

She desperately watches the screens as Sam abandons his trick and skitters through the air before gracelessly collapsing just behind some potted plants.

His breathing is heavy over the comm and she’s so sure that the guard is going to hear him as he walks right by Sam’s hiding place.

But he seems to be in a hurry and doesn’t linger. He rounds the corner, and Sam falls out from behind the plants, wings unfolding. “God that was close. I didn’t have time to collapse the wings properly, I was sure he was gonna see.”

“Why was he early?” Sharon worries through the comm. “That’s not good.”

Sam looks at her uneasily through the nearest security camera. “Wonder how the others are doing.”

***

Natasha’s advancing on Ellis, still at his desk.

“You mean...you have no idea what’s going on with the Committee to Reelect and the Winter Soldier’s hit order? That’s bullshit.” She slams her hands on the desk. “You’re the president.”

Ellis looks alarmed. “Well, Todd wanted a job, and he’s an old family friend, so—”

“Oh my god,” Natasha shoves back from the desk. “You politicians, you’re all the same, aren’t you? Jesus. So you have no idea what Todd is up to then?” She spits the name. “You just let him have free reign, do whatever he wants so long as he pulls you votes this November? Disgusting.”

“Listen, young lady, I’m going to have a word with your—”

“Bullshit!” Natasha cries. “This is bullshit. You’re a puppet. It wasn’t even your idea.” The phrase repeats in her head, over and over, taunting her. How could they have gotten it so wrong? They just believed the media when it had told them that this was the President’s agency. Highsmith probably had as well.

Natasha’s backing up now. She has to go and tell Steve they got the wrong man before it’s too late. This is a huge mess.

She’s just turned to go when Senator Swade walks in.

The President gasps in relief. “Todd!”

***

Up in the garage, Steve knows something’s wrong. Bucky’s whole body is tensed, his eye glued to the scope.

“What is it?”

“Another person just walked in. And Natasha hasn’t disposed of them yet.”

What, is all Steve can think. His mind is just flashing the word “danger” over and over again and connecting it to Natasha.

“Something’s wrong. I’m taking the shot.” Bucky wraps his fingers around the trigger.

That’s when Steve’s comm crackles in his ear.

***

Natasha’s backing up from both Ellis and Swade now and feels her heart sink as she feels the corner coming up behind her. She doesn’t have anywhere else to go. She’s screaming into the comm on her wrist at anyone listening that Swade’s the real target, take the hit off Ellis.

“Don’t let him shoot, Steve!” She says as her back goes up against the wall. Swade has a sickly smile spreading across his face watching her squirm.

***

“It’s not Ellis!” Natasha’s voice, rarely so panicked, is screaming into Sharon’s ear via the group link. “It’s Swade!”

“Holy shit,” Sharon says, forgetting she’s still linked to Sam.

“Sharon?”

She casts a frantic look over her security cam screens, looking for one with...got it. A flash of silver betrays him every time to the practiced eye. Panic goes through Sharon. His rifle’s still up, he’s still bent over it.

“Sam,” she starts screaming. “Sam, get out of there! Get out of there, Bucky’s going to take the shot anyway, it’s all gonna go up. Steve’s not gonna be able to stop him, get out!”

“Almost placed the last one!”

“No, Sam!” Desperation is feeding the adrenaline in her veins. “It’ll be fine with six, leave it!”

***

Things are eerily calm at the top of the parking garage. People are crackling on the comm, but Steve’s lies on the ground. He’s staring at Bucky.

“Bucky, please, don’t do this.”

“The man who’s hunted me is in there, Steve, who’s made me, me, go into hiding.”

“But there’s an innocent man down there, and Natasha, too.”

“She’ll get herself out.” He sounds completely apathetic. “It’ll end it, Steve.”

“Bucky…” Steve tries one last time, putting all his energy into the name.

Bucky makes one last adjustment and looks up from the scope. His eyes, when they meet Steve’s, say they’re sorry.

But not for what he’s about to do.

“I have the shot.”

His eye goes to the rifle one last time, his finger brushes over the trigger, he exhales.

And fires.

***

Sharon sees the bullet enter Swade’s chest, a direct hit, a clean mark. She sees Natasha running, knowing she took it as a sign for her to get out.

But what—

Seven bullets fly across Sharon’s screen and time seems to slow as they arc across the air. They jump from box to box as different cameras pick them up. All Sharon can think before they hit is how the nation is watching, and that this moment will be replayed and replayed as people try to figure out what happened to blow up an entire wing of the White House.

There’s silence, then the Oval Office explodes.

***

Sam’s just placed the last bomb when they go off, blowing him backwards with a heat so extreme he feels like his skin is going to melt. His eyes squeeze shut against the blinding light as he tumbles over himself in midair.

Then he’s falling again, momentum only carrying him so far. Something still hurts though, in his head. There’s a lacing pain through his right ear and Sam’s fingers are scrabbling over it, trying to make it stop.

He brushes over something white hot. His earpiece. Fried beyond use but still attached to his ear, it’s burning him now that it’s been turned into overheated metal by the bombs.

He rips it out, the pain still growing as his adrenaline spike starts to fade. The earpiece burns his fingers befores he drops it, leaving them a pulsing angry red.

The ground’s coming up fast now as he falls through the air. Sam’s not worried, he can fly, after all. He does wonder why Sharon set off the bombs, though.

He’ll ask her later. Right now he jams his elbow onto the button on his suit for wing deployment and nothing happens.

He tries again. Panic rises up in him. He’s picked up speed now, plummeting towards the asphalt at a dangerous speed.

Desperately, he hits the button again and again, praying it’ll work. To his relief, it finally does, sputtering and smoking in a worrying way. Sam has to get back to the van quick.

Pulling out of his fall, the first thing he notices is that his balance is off. He’s flying like a toddler learning how to walk—wobbling and slow. His engine is spotty as well, often leaving him stranded in a fall before kicking in mere feet from the ground, giving him a heart attack every time. He manages to power along though, pushing his pack to make it.

Finally, the van comes into sight. Everyone’s gathered around it, loading up weapons and gear, Steve and Bucky still sprinting up last minute.

Sam feels a wash of relief that he’s going to make it, he’s not going to end up abandoned in some back alley of the White House stranded.

One of the group, he can’t make out who with his strangely fuzzy vision, yells and points at Sam.
And that’s when his left wing gives out entirely. It dies, leaving Sam spinning in midair, spiraling to meet the ground again. This time, he doesn’t think he can count on wing resuscitation in time.

Using the last bit of power in his engine, he tries to slow his fall, wrapping the other metal wing around himself to take the brunt of the fall when he hits the ground hard and rolls. His head keeps knocking against the ground and a faint alarm in the back of his mind tells him this is bad.

When he opens his eyes again, there are strange black patches blocking out parts of the world. Above him, several worried faces hover and he can see them mouthing his name.

He’s suddenly jerked into the air and he realizes with a twinge of embarrassment he’s being carried.

“No, no, I can walk,” he tries to say but all he hears is a slurred version of the words coming from his mouth.

After a while of staring at the increasingly blackening sky, the jostling footsteps stop around him. The last thing he remembers before everything fades to black is van doors slamming shut behind them all and the rumble of the van’s engine as it starts to drive away.

***

When he comes to, Steve’s on the TV. He’s saying something about the government and Bucky to a news anchor.

“Hey, soldier.”

He turns and Natasha’s there sitting by his bedside. He realizes as he looks at his surroundings that he’s in the hospital.

“What happened,” he asks blearily, trying to sound more collected than he is.

Natasha gives a small smile. “We were all trying to get the hell out of dodge, the explosion damaged your pack, you hit your head several times when you crashed.”

Sam moans. Now he can feel it. A pulsing ache all over his head. “Goddammit.”

“I agree,” Nat says, taking a sip of some coffee. “Concussions are a nuisance.”

Sam watches the TV for a few minutes. Some interviewer is trying to desperately put together a narrative of the whole thing live while interviewing Steve.

“I bet the entire country’s confused,” he says.

“Yep. But they’ll figure it out. Steve’s trying to do damage control.” She looks at him on the screen. “Captain America was always cut out for PR stuff.”

They fall to silence as the interviewer says, “So why should the public believe you, Mr. Rogers? You weave quite a story.”

Steve just gives an easy smile before lying through his teeth. “Well, I’ve never believed in the American government, Sandra. Captain America, this mantle I took up, was always about truth and justice for the people. They’re who I believe in, and I hope that goes both ways.”

“As for Captain America, he’s seen quite a bit of action within the past year. Just last April, you were involved in the SHIELD/HYDRA takedown. Do you have some kind of anti-government agenda?”

“I guess I’ve just got a thing for exposing corruption, wherever it comes.”

Sam nods. “He’s good.”

“Yeah, Tony made him do a bunch of Avengers TV stuff after the Chitauri attack, so he’s had practice.”

Sam turns to look at her and says “So what happened?” and knows Natasha will understand he’s not talking about press conferences anymore.

She gives him a long look. “It wasn’t Ellis, who organized ARWS. But Bucky took the shot anyway.”

“Not only that,” Sam says, grimacing in pain. “But he detonated the bombs, too. That I do know, too well. How he figured out we were—”

“Serves you right, being in this state,” Natasha says, but she doesn’t mean it. “Rigging the office to blow like that, it was reckless to keep it a secret.”

Sam can’t argue with that.

“But we still completed the mission, though it cost us Ellis’s life. The video’s been burning through Twitter as well. I don’t think Steve even really needs to do these.” She gestures to the TV. “The evidence is irrefutable, just the way Sharon wanted it.”

“Where is she? Where’s everyone?”

“You were out for a couple of days. Everyone’s gone back to their lives.” Natasha looks away.

“Bucky…”

“Yeah,” she says, though she doesn’t sound sad. “Steve was a bit broken up when he bolted right out of the van.”

Sam sympathizes with Steve’s hopeful stupidity, yet curses him for it all the same.

“So what are you going to do?” He asks after a minute.

A smile creeps over her face. “Go back underground, I think. I was...happy there.” She sounds almost afraid to admit it, like by just saying out loud someone could snatch it from her. “Plus, it’s probably a more prudent time than ever to stay out of the government’s hair.”

Sam nods. “Thanks so much for coming, Nat. Steve couldn’t have handled Bucky without you.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” she gives a smile. “Bucky approached Steve before me. But I did fill the awkward silences.”

She takes one last swig of her coffee, tosses it in the trash, and stands, pulling her coat on.

“I’ll see you around, Sam. Get better. And give Steve my love.”

“Will do.”

And with one last flash of a smile, she’s out the door and gone.

***

Steve pulls up to his apartment, parks his motorcycle and kills the engine. It’s already getting dark outside and he’s dead tired as always these days. He’d left straight from another press appearance to visit Sam at the hospital and had stayed longer than he expected since Sam’s mother had been there.

In the building, he passes Sharon’s door. It’s quiet, and he hopes she’s getting sleep. He hasn’t seen her since the day of it all, but knows she’s under inquiries at work for missing days and security breaches.

He unlocks his door and from the doorstep, his apartment looks just as lonely and deserted as it did a week ago. His duffel looks sadder than ever in the corner, gathering dust like everything else.

In the kitchen, the fridge is still empty of beer, and Steve casts it a mournful look before continuing into the living room to plop down onto the couch.

He’s just leaned for the remote when a faint tap-tap comes from the balcony. Steve knows who it is before he turns.

“Bucky,” he says breathlessly. It’s the first time he’s seen him since he left after the mission, and Steve was afraid he’d lost him forever.

But here he is, standing on Steve’s balcony, pointing at the sliding door lock to get Steve to open it.

When he does, he holds himself back. He wants to hug Bucky so badly but knows he’ll be rejected. He keeps his arms by his sides as he waits for Bucky to say something.

A ghost of a smile passes over Bucky’s face. “I thought it would be rude to break the glass, seeing as it makes up most of the wall.” He gestures to the sliding glass door.

Steve barks a short laugh, stepping back to let him in.

Bucky’s staring at him, almost like he’s studying him, and Steve feels self-conscious as he shuts the door behind Bucky.

“So…”

“Steve. I should be straight with you. I’m not staying.”

Steve swallows his disappointment. If he was honest, the minute he’d heard the knock a tiny flare of hope had put the idea in his mind and he hadn’t tried to kill it.

“But I’m not leaving you.”

Steve’s confused.

“Look, Steve, I can’t fit into your life. There’s no point in trying; I just can’t do the morning run, the Starbucks, the crime fighting routine. And I’d be a horrible roommate or boyfriend or whatever. Don’t,” he says seeing Steve open his mouth to protest, “tell me I’d learn, or there’d be an adjustment. I would hate it.”

Steve looks crushed.

“I’m like a wild dog, Steve, the kind you can’t put in a home. I’m sorry.” He genuinely looks it, which makes it worse.

“So why are you here?” Steve doesn’t mean it to be as harsh as it sounds.

“I’ll stop by,” he sounds hopeful, like he wants to believe it will work. “I’ll come around often. I’m curious about you; I don’t know why my past self liked you.”

Steve gives a wry smile and says unthinkingly. “You and me both, pal.”

Then he sucks in his breath at the casual name, cursing himself for not thinking. Bucky’s eyes widen a little bit, but he doesn’t look displeased.

“So I’ll see you soon, then?” He asks, and it doesn’t seem real to Steve, not at all. That he would get Bucky back after all this time is too good to be true.

But Bucky leaves after a nod from Steve, leaping over the balcony and plummeting out of sight and Steve wonders if it was all a dream.

But a month later, Steve comes home and Bucky’s on the balcony. And that’s when he knows this is unbelievably real.

The first time is awkward, Steve and Bucky sitting around drinking beers only too aware of the memory difference between them, all the things Steve knows about him that Bucky doesn’t.

But he comes back, and Steve learns. And as one visit bleeds into two, three, four, he knows not to talk about the past. They’re starting over.

They do things, lame things for only people over 90; argue over the crossword puzzle, watch movies from the 1930s. Steve gets a kick out of showing Bucky his favorites for the first time again, usually earning himself a metal elbow to his side.

Sometimes, when they’re really tired and have had a few more beers than usual and pretend they can get drunk, Bucky asks in a quiet voice about his family. About living with Steve and what they meant to each other.

Years pass, and Bucky’s visits become more and more frequent and he stays longer and longer, hours graduating to nights and days and weeks. He starts leaving more and more weapons around the apartment and stops arming himself so much to come over. He’s also figured out how to unlock the sliding door from the outside.

Until one day, when everyone around them is approaching middle age, Steve lifts his still-young head and says to Bucky, “You know, you haven’t left in a while.”

To which Bucky, from his well-worn spot on the couch, replies, “Steve, you idiot, I haven’t left you in twenty years.”