Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

September 19th

Four months had passed since the night New York almost vanished beneath a shroud of darkness, a disaster that would have eclipsed anything the city had endured before—if not for an intervention that was more luck than leadership. In the days that followed, panic had rippled through the world’s most powerful cities, and the word “Thunderbolts” carried the metallic taste of fear.

Bob Reynolds—Sentry—had nearly let that darkness spill over the world. The scars of his rampage lingered in shattered glass, sleepless nights, and the haunted expressions of those who had watched the sky turn black.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, ever the opportunist, hadn’t missed a beat. The team’s rage still burning hot, she had swept onto the stage—both literal and figurative—and, with a smile that belonged on a wanted poster, delivered the world a new headline: the Avengers had returned.

The announcement blindsided everyone, least of all the Thunderbolts themselves, and turned public opinion on its axis for the briefest of moments. In one well-timed press conference, Valentina bought herself time and plausible deniability, basking in the flash of cameras and the chaos she so artfully manufactured. The Watchtower, once the heart of Stark’s dream, became their reluctant home base.

None of the team had forgotten how close they’d come to turning on their handler; for now, Valentina wore her role with uneasy grace, but even she could sense the knives at her back. The Thunderbolts watched her closely, the memory of near-destruction a silent threat pulsing in the air. They were not a unit forged by hope, but by necessity—a clutch of misfits and survivors, barely more comfortable in each other’s company than in their own skins. Even their new name, blared out to the world without warning, became a point of contention.

The city’s trust proved fickle. For every civilian who clung to the idea of heroes, there were others who remembered the smoke and the screaming. Headlines spun wild, voices on the street whispered of shadowy agendas, and the team’s reputation flickered between savior and outcast with every news cycle. And looming above all of it, Captain America—Sam—had made his stance clear from the very first day.

The scene unfolded in the war room: glass walls humming with the city’s heartbeat far below, harsh overhead lights sharpening the features of an uneasy family. Yelena lounged at the table’s edge, boots propped up, eyeing Bucky with that infuriatingly direct Russian gaze. John paced by the window. Alexei slumped in a chair built for men half his size, quietly destroying a bag of crisps with all the subtlety of a tank. Bob sat apart from the others, his hands folded in his lap, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the horizon—always elsewhere. Ava was the only one who managed to look at ease, watching everything with the patience of someone who expected disaster at any moment.

Yelena broke the silence first. “So, our fearless Captain America is not a fan of our little rebranding, yes? He sends lawyers now?”

John snorted, crossing his arms. “He’s sending everyone . Lawyers, PR hacks, his fan club, probably even the Girl Scouts at this point. Got to protect that precious brand.”

Bucky, standing at the head of the table, didn’t look up from the files in his hand. The lines on his face had deepened over the summer, from too many sleepless nights spent sifting through the chaos Valentina had left at their feet. “He’s got every right to be pissed,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “But if he wanted to talk, he could’ve picked up the damn phone instead of the paperwork.”

Yelena eyed him, her smirk flickering into something almost gentle. “Did you try, though? To talk to him, I mean. Man to man. Or… you know, super soldier to flying bird.”

The room was still, all eyes flicking to Bucky. He finally looked up. “Yeah, I tried.” He let the silence hang, the weight of it pressing down on the team. “Didn’t go well.”

John shrugged, gruff as ever. “How bad is ‘didn’t go well’? Are we talking just awkward, or like, ‘calls you a traitor on national TV’ bad?”

Bucky’s laugh was bitter. “Let’s just say, if Sam had his way, we’d all be looking for jobs in Canada right about now.”

Alexei grunted. “Canada not so bad. They have good hockey.”

Nobody laughed, but the edge in the air softened, just for a moment. The conversation drifted—legal strategy, mission rosters, new headaches brewing in the city—but the feeling remained. They were the New Avengers in name only. In every other way, they were still Thunderbolts—holding the line in a city that barely wanted them, haunted by the shadows of the past, and unsure whether the next day would bring redemption or ruin.

After the meeting, Bucky found his way to the Watchtower gym—a converted space on the lower floors where he could at least pretend the world outside was somewhere distant, the city’s noise and his own ghosts held at bay by layers of reinforced glass and old routine. The place was almost always empty.

The others used it sporadically—Yelena had tried kickboxing in here once, left the punching bag bleeding sand; John came in only when he wanted an audience; Alexei mostly broke equipment by accident—but for Bucky, it was a kind of sanctuary, the one slice of structure in a life that, lately, had started to unravel.

Be a leader, Bucky. Watch everything fall apart in real time. Hell of a promotion.

He changed into the battered sweats he favored, the same faded Army shirt he’d worn for years, and stepped up onto the treadmill, turning the speed higher than he probably should have. The rhythm was comforting at first, something he could lose himself in, letting the repetitive thud of his feet drown out the swirl of everything else. But the silence inside his head never lasted long, and soon enough his mind turned, as it always did now, to Sam.

What the hell is wrong with you, Sam?

Why did it have to be this way? For years, after the dust settled and the world insisted on moving forward, Sam had been the one constant in Bucky’s life—a stubborn, infuriating voice of reason, the only friend who never seemed to flinch from the weight of Bucky’s past. After Steve, it was Sam who managed to pull him out of the shadows, who dragged him to barbecues and tried to teach him how to live again, one awkward, halting conversation at a time. Sam had become more than a partner; he was family, the only one left who truly understood what it was to carry someone else’s legacy on your back.

And now, just when Bucky needed him most, Sam had built a wall between them, brick by stubborn brick, refusing to even listen to an explanation. Bucky wondered, not for the first time, if he’d misjudged their friendship, if perhaps Sam had always been waiting for an excuse to walk away. Guess I fucked that up too, huh?

He hit the treadmill’s stop button with more force than necessary, earning a mechanical protest that probably meant another repair request for Alexei to ignore. Chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes, Bucky grabbed a towel and sank onto the nearest bench. He dragged the fabric over his face, trying to rub away the migraine blooming at his temples. Everything seemed to echo, from the pounding in his chest to the silence in his inbox— especially the silence in his inbox. Why does it always end up like this? Screw it. Maybe I’m cursed.

He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over the messages—no new texts, no missed calls, not even a stray meme from Sam (and Sam loved sending him those, always some dumb eagle or a Cap pun, the kind that made Bucky want to throw his phone out the window). It had been weeks since Sam even bothered to pick up. Each unanswered call felt like a cold slap.

He considered, briefly, just showing up on Sam’s doorstep. Storming in, refusing to leave until Sam at least heard him out—old-school Bucky, the kind of idiot who thought you could punch your way through emotional walls as easily as physical ones. He snorted at the thought, the sound rough in the empty gym. Knowing Sam, he’d probably get himself arrested for trespassing, and wouldn’t that make a nice headline: Ex-Winter Soldier, Now Team Leader, Booked For Breaking and Entering. Captain America Refuses to Comment.

“Maybe I should,” he muttered, staring up at the flickering overhead lights. “Just show up. Make him listen. Worked on Steve, sometimes. Well. Once.”

Bucky sat alone on the bench, clutching his phone, wishing he could just let it all go. He knew he couldn’t. That wasn’t who he was. If nothing else, he owed it to Sam—and to himself—to at least try again. Maybe next time he’d manage to say what needed to be said before the world fell apart.

He wiped his face one last time, but the headache lingered, heavy as regret. Tomorrow, maybe, he’d try again. For now, all he could do was wait for a call that wasn’t coming, cursing Sam, Valentina, the world—and most of all, himself.

Chapter Text

September 22nd

Three days had bled away in a haze of frustration and insomnia before Bucky finally tracked down Sam’s whereabouts, his patience stretched so thin it could snap on a breeze.

He walked the narrow drive up to Sarah’s house as the day surrendered to dusk, shadows creeping long and soft across the battered lawn, everything gilded with the gold of late Louisiana sunlight. He hadn’t slept for more than a handful of hours since the last team meeting—but the adrenaline, for now, kept his feet moving.

Getting information on Sam’s location hadn’t been easy, not with Torres ignoring his texts and calls— thanks for nothing, Joaquín, maybe there’s a reason nobody trusts sidekicks these days .

In the end, it was Sarah who answered, letting him know that Sam was home for a few days with the boys, attempting a sort of vacation, if such a thing existed for a man who wore that much weight on his shoulders. Bucky didn’t waste a minute after that. He booked the next available flight, not that anyone could sleep sitting up these days—and spent the taxi ride to Delacroix trying not to grind his teeth into powder.

Now, standing a few yards from the porch, he felt every muscle lock up.

Come on, Barnes. You’ve survived Hydra, Siberia, and way too many government debriefings. One grumpy friend shouldn’t feel like a death sentence.

The house was alive with voices, the sound of children laughing inside spilling out onto the humid air, somehow making Bucky feel even more out of place. He let himself breathe once, then twice, before moving forward. His heart hammered in his chest.

He knocked, knuckles rapping sharp against wood, and heard the usual scramble inside—footsteps, a crash, someone yelling about shoes. The door opened to reveal Sam, who blinked in surprise, then schooled his features back to something more neutral, arms already crossing. “Bucky? What the hell are you doing here?” The words weren’t unkind, but there was a tension under them, a thread of caution Bucky recognized all too well.

Bucky summoned what he hoped was a casual, lopsided smile. “Nice to see you too, Sam. Or do I have to call for an appointment these days?”

He barely had time to register Sam’s skeptical look before Cass and AJ barreled in from the living room, nearly bowling Sam over in their excitement. “Uncle Bucky!” Cass shouted, his voice breaking into a laugh. “You didn’t say Uncle Bucky was coming!” AJ, not to be outdone, dove for Bucky’s arm, both boys firing off questions so fast he couldn’t answer a single one.

He found himself grinning despite everything, caught off guard by the onslaught of enthusiasm. Jesus, when did I become the cool uncle? He gave them an awkward pat, trying not to look as touched as he felt. “Hey, troublemakers. You’re gonna get me in trouble with your real uncle.”

Cass, wide-eyed, demanded, “Are you staying? Are you gonna show us the robot arm again? Do you still have the old one? AJ wants to see it.”

Bucky glanced at Sam, searching for backup. Sam just rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in his voice. “Alright, you two, it’s bedtime. Let the man breathe. Bucky and I have to talk.”

Naturally, the boys began to protest, but Sarah’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Don’t make me come in there, boys. You can see Bucky later, if you’re not grounded for mouthing off.”

Chastened, Cass and AJ shuffled back inside, AJ whispering, “He’s still the coolest Avenger,” as if Bucky was deaf.

Bucky stood, suddenly feeling awkward again, rubbing the back of his neck. He tried for levity, “Guess I still have fans. You ready to talk, or you want me to field bedtime stories too?”

Sam sighed, giving Sarah a quick heads up that he’d be outside for a bit. “Come on,” he said, jerking his chin toward the porch. “Let’s get this over with before the mosquitos make a meal out of us.”

Bucky followed, hiding his nerves behind a dry, “yeah,” as they stepped into the thick Louisiana twilight, the door shutting behind them like a verdict. Out here, the cicadas screamed, and the humid air felt as heavy as the conversation that needed to happen.

Their footsteps faded over the gravel, Sam led the way, silent, and Bucky trailed a few paces behind, his instincts drawn taut by old habits—always watching, never fully relaxed, not even here. The evening crept toward them, painting the world in burnt orange and muted blue as they reached the small bridge, where the land surrendered to the expanse of water and the last heat of the sun shimmered on the horizon.

Sam sat down first, settling on the worn bench. Bucky hesitated, his hands buried in his jacket pockets, before joining him. Only the constant lap of the tide and the far-off call of a gull broke the silence. They sat like that, side by side, but galaxies apart.

After a time, Sam’s voice broke the stalemate. “What do you want to talk about?” His tone was measured, but the warmth that usually colored his words was absent. Even their arguments used to carry a spark of something—respect, affection, old battle scars healing—but now all that lingered was the ache of distance, and the faint trace of resentment Sam tried, and failed, to hide.

Bucky exhaled. “You know why I’m here, Sam. If you’d stop ignoring my calls for once and actually listen—”

Sam barked a sharp, humorless laugh, bitterness seeping through. “That’s rich, coming from you. Remind me, who was it that never used to answer his phone? I practically had to invent Morse code to get you to return a damn message. But now, suddenly, you’re Mr. Communication?”

Bucky bristled at the jab, irritation flashing across his face. “Things change. I changed , whether you want to see it or not. I’m trying here, and that’s more than I can say for you these last few months.”

He tried to shift the conversation, to explain the mess Valentina had made and his own decision to stay close, but Sam cut him off, voice cold. “Don’t. Don’t start that. I don’t want to talk about your team, or about her.”

Bucky’s temper, already frayed, snapped. He stood abruptly, the motion sharp. “You know what? I think for once you do need to listen, Sam. I didn’t come all this way to get shut down again.”

Sam rose as well, matching Bucky’s stance. They faced each other, neither looked away. Bucky’s eyes were rimmed with the exhaustion of too many battles, but beneath the anger lay something raw. Sam’s gaze, once a lifeline, now held only censure and impatience—a mirror in which Bucky could barely recognize himself.

Sam’s next words cut deep. “I’m not interested in rehashing what we already said. My decision’s made. I can’t get behind what you’re doing, or what you’re letting her turn you into. You know what Valentina is, Bucky. She’s using you—just like Hydra did. And don’t get me started on John. You’re really going to stand with him after everything?”

Bucky’s frustration simmered over. “So that’s it? You think I’m just some puppet again, getting played by the next person in line? I expected better from you, Sam.” His voice dropped, trembling with the effort to keep it steady. “You look at my team and see nothing but criminals and washouts. I see people trying like hell to change. What, you think I’m so different from them? Because newsflash—no matter how many times the government tries to clean the slate, I still wake up every morning knowing exactly what I’ve done.”

He stepped forward, anger and hurt warping his features. “We’re not your enemies, Sam. At least, we weren’t supposed to be. I never wanted this—you and me on opposite sides, fighting for approval from people who only care when the cameras are on. You get to play hero while the rest of us take the blame in the dark. That’s what this is, isn’t it? I’m the dirty secret they let out when they need something done, and you’re the one they parade on TV. And now, because I wouldn’t walk away from people who actually need someone to believe in them, I’m the bad guy again. That about right?”

For a long moment, the only sound was the crash of distant waves. Sam’s posture hardened, arms crossed, jaw tight. “It’s not about being the bad guy, or the good guy. It’s about trust. Your team—hell, even you half the time—give nobody a reason to believe you can handle this without burning down half the city. I don’t care how many missions you take, or how hard you try to clean up Valentina’s mess. Some things can’t be fixed with good intentions.”

The judgment in Sam’s voice was cold—a wall Bucky couldn’t scale, no matter how hard he tried. For a heartbeat, he wondered if anything would ever be enough.

“I thought you, of all people, would get it,” Bucky said, voice low. “But I guess I was wrong.”

He turned away, the last traces of sunlight catching on the metal of his hand, shoulders hunched against the chill that had nothing to do with the evening air.

Sam watched Bucky’s retreating form, torn between pride and a surge of panic he didn’t dare name. Once a line like this was crossed, there was no coming back. But Sam’s anger, refused to let the conversation end on silence. He strode after Bucky, catching up with a voice that was sharper than he intended.

“Don’t walk away. You know damn well I understand you better than anyone—you’re not fooling me with this lone wolf act. You think those people you’ve collected—murderers, mercenaries, goddamn John Walker—give a damn about you? You barely know them, Bucky. Any one of them would stab you in the back the minute Valentina snaps her fingers. And you trust her ? After everything? You remember what John did, right? He disgraced the shield, killed a man with it in front of the world. He tainted Steve’s name, your name. And you’re just going to call him your teammate and hope he doesn’t do it again?”

The mention of Steve’s name was a blade. Bucky froze, jaw working, fists curling at his sides. He turned, ice in his expression. “Don’t bring Steve into this. Don’t you dare. He’d have seen the truth—he would’ve had my back, Sam. That’s the difference. All I ever wanted was for you to trust me half as much as he did.”

But Sam, pushed past the threshold of restraint, barely seemed to hear. His own hands trembled at his sides. “You want trust? Then stop acting like a soldier looking for the next master to follow. You think I don’t see it? Valentina’s just another puppet master and you—” Sam’s voice cracked, but he forced himself on, not noticing, or maybe not caring, how deep the wounds cut. “You always do this, man. Every time. You let someone else take the reins, you do the dirty work, and then what? You tell yourself it’s different this time? Maybe Steve was wrong to believe in you. Maybe that’s why you never got the shield in the end. You want to know the truth? You’re no better than the rest of them, Bucky. You’re still taking orders from anyone who’ll give them, still running back to the leash. Doesn’t matter if it’s Hydra or Valentina—the collar’s just got a new name.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of the tide and the distant shrill of birds in the reeds. Bucky’s breath caught in his throat; the urge to lash out warred with the hollow ache that opened in his chest, the kind that left him wishing, absurdly, for something as simple as physical pain. If the heart could bleed, this is what it would feel like.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, searching for words and finding none. His face drained of emotion, eyes empty as winter sky. For the first time, Bucky let the mask settle—cold, as though Sam were no more than a stranger. His voice, when it came, was low and controlled.

“So this is it,” he murmured, a bitter, humorless laugh breaking through. “That’s how it ends for us. You want to see me as the same monster I used to be? Fine. I won’t get in your way, Sam. If you can’t stomach being friends with someone broken, someone who trusted the wrong people too many times, that’s on you. You were the only one I ever let in, you know that? Steve gave me that trust, and you—you made me believe I might deserve it. Never thought I’d regret that as much as I do right now.”

He turned away, shoulders set in rigid lines. “Tell the boys I’m sorry I can’t stay. Guess I don’t fit the picture of a hero you want them to see.” He paused, not looking back. “Take care, Captain America. The country’s lucky to have you.”

Without another word, Bucky walked away, leaving Sam with the weight of words spoken in anger and the knowledge that some things, once shattered, are almost impossible to piece together.

Chapter Text

September 23rd

The clock in the common area had barely struck ten when the elevator doors slid open with their usual soft chime. The group was scattered across the living room, their morning routines blending into an uneasy domesticity: Bob curled into a beanbag chair, a half-empty bag of chips within reach and his sketchbook balanced precariously on his knees; Yelena and Ava locked in a game of cards at the coffee table, their laughter sharp and competitive; Alexei and John providing a running, deeply critical commentary from the couches.

The elevator’s arrival turned every head. Bucky emerged into the sunlit room, shoulders tense beneath the worn leather of his jacket, his expression closed. He hadn’t been expected until that evening, maybe even later, and for a moment, surprise held the entire team suspended in silence.

John was the first to recover, pushing up from the couch with a grin. “Look who’s back early from his heartfelt family drama. So, buck, how’d it go with Captain America? Did you two braid each other’s hair, or—?”

The only answer was silence. Bucky didn’t even slow his stride, passing John as if he were invisible. He swept past the group, reaching for Alexei’s vodka without so much as a word, the bottle disappearing into his hand with practiced efficiency. He crossed the room in a straight line, his boots heavy against the floor, and vanished through the private hallway, the door swinging shut behind him with finality.

For a long moment, nobody moved.

John stood frozen, one hand still outstretched in half a greeting. He glanced around the room, looking for confirmation that he hadn’t imagined being so thoroughly dismissed. “Uh… did bucky just ghost me? I mean, really ghost me? Like, Olympic level—”

Ava, her voice dry, finally said. “I think that was his way of saying things didn’t go well.” Yelena didn’t bother to look up from her cards, her tone as sharp as broken glass. “Wow. Thank you, Einstein. Truly, your intellect astounds.” Ava shot her a look capable of peeling paint, but Yelena only shrugged, drawing another card.

Bob peered over the top of his sketchbook, a chip hanging from his mouth, voice innocent and full of quiet curiosity. “Is Bucky mad?” He blinked, looking from one teammate to the next, as if waiting for someone to provide a manual on what to do with a heartbroken super soldier.

Alexei, who had only now noticed the absence of his bottle, leapt to his feet, his accent rolling thick through the words. “He stole my vodka! I do not believe it. This is personal betrayal.” He glanced at the door Bucky had disappeared through, fist raised, as if he might go after him. “I will have words with our captain. No one touches my vodka.”

John, sinking onto the couch with a defeated sigh, shook his head. “Maybe let the man have the drink, Red. He looks like he just got back from a funeral.” His voice was softer.

Yelena finished her hand, stacking the cards neatly, her gaze never leaving the closed hallway. “We should do something. Can’t just let him sit in there and brood all day.”

Alexei grunted. “We could break down the door, cheer him up with arm wrestling.” He flexed, the movement more comic than threatening.

Ava rolled her eyes, finally setting her cards aside. “Yeah, or we could let him have five minutes to drink in peace before you barge in like a Soviet parade.”

For a moment, no one knew what to say. The sense of helplessness was new; in battle, there was always something to punch, a clear enemy to fight. But heartbreak, disappointment—these things offered no target. Each idea offered—distract him, leave him alone, throw a movie marathon—sounded worse than the last, and none of them came close to fixing what couldn’t be fixed with bravado or bullets.

John glanced around, tone oddly subdued. “So what do we do now? Sit here and hope he comes out on his own? I’m not great at the feelings stuff, guys. Somebody’s gotta have a better idea.”

Yelena only shrugged, her eyes dark with worry, her voice barely above a whisper. “If you figure it out, let me know. Because I think he’s hurting more than any of us have seen.”

The day bled away, slow and uneasy. No one saw Bucky emerge from his quarters, not for food, not even for coffee, and certainly not for conversation. As the hours dragged on, attempts at brainstorming ways to help dissolved into fruitless argument.

Alexei suggested brute force. John argued for the tried-and-true “leave him the hell alone” approach, Bob, ever the mediator, only managed to escalate things when his gentle attempts to restore order were drowned by bickering and old habits. The group, for all its strange chemistry, was ill-equipped for anything resembling real comfort.

It was long after midnight when Yelena finally found him. She’d wandered into the training room, a habit carved out by too many restless nights and a mind that never fully let go of the past.

She expected solitude, the echo of her own breath. Instead, she found Bucky—alone, savage in his focus, fists hammering into the reinforced sandbag with a violence that bordered on desperate. Each strike sent shockwaves through the bag, the metal chain overhead rattling in protest, the dull sound of impact thick in the dark.

Bucky’s movements were relentless, each punch sharper and heavier than the last, a litany of anger. His face was a mask, jaw clenched, brow furrowed, sweat dripping from his hair onto the mat as he punished the bag, never quite hard enough to empty out the venom burning through his veins. The bag groaned under the assault, stitches straining, until, with a final brutal combination, the fabric tore open, sand pouring onto the floor in an untidy heap. He stood over the wreckage, chest heaving, gaze fixed on the ruins like he might still will it back together.

He reached for his water bottle, only to find Yelena standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Their eyes met for an instant—hers shrewd, quietly sympathetic, his raw and unguarded before the mask returned. Without a word, Bucky uncapped his bottle and drank, then turned away, feigning disinterest.

She approached anyway, undeterred by his silence. “You know, beating the shit out of the equipment doesn’t really scream ‘I’m fine.’ Might want to work on your poker face.”

Bucky took his time answering, packing up his gloves. “I’m fine.” The words were clipped, cold, the sort of response meant to end a conversation before it started.

Yelena glanced down at the burst bag, then back at him. “That bag would disagree.” Her tone was wry, but beneath it was a genuine concern she didn’t bother to hide. “Listen, you can keep sulking and breaking gym equipment, or you can tell me what the fuck is actually wrong. Everybody knows something happened with Wilson.”

Bucky’s entire body stiffened at the mention of Sam’s name. He turned, eyes dark. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he replied.

She moved to block his exit, posture casual. “Nope. Not letting you walk away until you say it. Come on, bucky, spit it out. I’m not leaving you alone until you do.”

Their gazes locked in the dim light, a silent battle of will. Finally, Bucky’s resistance faltered, his voice a low growl. “Fine. You want the truth? It went to hell. That’s it. We’re done. No more talks, no more trying to fix it. Captain America won’t be supporting this team—won’t be supporting me. That’s where it stands. Now move.”

For a moment, Yelena’s confidence flickered. “You mean… you and Sam—are you saying you’re not friends anymore?” The words landed heavier than she’d expected.

He paused, then nodded once, the smallest gesture, but in that instant he looked years older. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m saying. No more Avengers watching our backs.”

He gently nudged past her, heading for the door. Yelena let him go, watching his broad shoulders disappear into the corridor.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered to the empty room, surveying the burst sandbag and the trail of grit on the mat. “This is a fucking mess.”

Chapter Text

October 23rd

A month had crawled by since the last vestiges of Bucky’s friendship with Sam had crumbled, and already the world outside the Watchtower had shifted, public opinion now a battleground.

Bucky found himself in yet another of Valentina’s interminable one-on-one meetings, the kind she insisted on for “transparency” but that always left him feeling as though he were being measured for a new set of shackles.

He sat at the far end of an elegant oval table in Valentina’s freshly redecorated office—marble, glass, the faintest whiff of designer perfume hiding the scent of predatory intent. Sunlight filtered through the windows in cold, sharp angles, throwing Valentina’s silhouette across a canvas of carefully chosen art.

The conversation drifted from marketing pitches—merchandising, seriously?—to endless discussions of how to spin the “New Avengers” brand for the media. There was talk of a streaming series, action figures, some godawful reality show about “reformed villains.” Bucky’s patience ran thin; the mere mention of another bobblehead made him want to throw something heavy.

He tried to appear attentive, but his expression betrayed him. Campaigns to sway public perception. Defensive strategies against the never-ending legal onslaught from Sam and his team of lawyers. The country was split down the middle: half the citizens hailed the Thunderbolts as proof that redemption was possible, emboldened by their defense of New York during Sentry’s rampage; the other half clung to the familiar image of Captain America, certain that only he and his as-yet-unveiled Avengers could be trusted to keep the nation safe.

Valentina’s voice carried on, each word more grating than the last, until suddenly she snapped her fingers—sharp, just inches from his face. The sound jolted him out of his reverie, irritation flickering in his eyes.

“Try that again, and you’ll be picking up those fingers off the floor,” he muttered, voice flat, warning barely veiled.

Valentina’s lips curled into a smirk, dark amusement gleaming in her eyes. “Oh, come on, James. I thought you were used to that sort of thing. Didn’t they train you to sit and beg?” Her tone was light, almost playful, but the barb was deliberate.

His jaw set. Not today. The lines on his face deepened, but he said nothing, letting silence fill the space—a threat in itself.

Valentina cleared her throat, eyes glinting with mock concern. “I just want to make sure you’re listening, darling. We wouldn’t want you to miss out on the next big thing. After all, you’re the face of our redemption narrative, whether you like it or not.”

Bucky stood, moving around the table with a controlled coldness, each step deliberate. When he spoke, his voice was low, the edge unmistakable. “Let’s make something clear. The only reason you’re still here, running your little circus, is because we agreed to keep you on a leash. You step out of line, you so much as blink the wrong way, and I will make sure every piece of dirt we have on you finds its way to the people who actually give a damn. Don’t mistake our deal for loyalty, Valentina. It’s nothing but insurance—for both of us.”

She was momentarily taken aback, but only for a heartbeat. That smile returned, all teeth, practiced and predatory. “Message received, sergeant. Crystal clear. But really, James, you should relax—this is all just business.” She steepled her fingers, feigning innocence. “But while we’re being so honest, how are you holding up? I hear things have been… tense with Captain America. It must be so hard, losing an old friend. I’m devastated for you. Truly.”

Her voice dripped with false sympathy, the dagger sheathed in velvet. Bucky’s lips twisted into a thin, humorless smile. “Spare me the performance, Valentina. You wouldn’t know ‘devastated’ if it broke your fucking neck.”

For a moment, only silence filled the gleaming office, the tension between them as palpable as the city below—a game played in shadows, where trust was just another weapon.

Valentina only smiled wider, unbothered, as if Bucky’s threat were nothing more than a compliment. “Well. I do love a good show.”

Bucky didn’t bother to answer Valentina’s parting wave. He slipped from her office with the door still swinging behind him, her sing-song farewell—“Don’t be a stranger, James!”—trailing after him like a bad perfume. He felt the urge to tear the smugness right off her face, but he knew better than to play her game. Valentina thrived on reactions; her joy was a performance.

She had engineered everything from the beginning—the Sentry disaster, the campaign to make Bucky the new hero, the backroom betrayals that had nearly gotten them all killed.

Her finest trick had been turning her own exposure into spectacle. When cornered, she’d simply recast herself, shoving the Thunderbolts into the spotlight, announcing to a stunned world that the Avengers had returned under her benevolent hand. The city swallowed the story whole, and Valentina had walked away not in handcuffs but in a halo, adored by a crowd too exhausted to look beneath the mask.

Bucky and the rest had made the hard choice to play along, keeping her close where they could watch her, gather evidence, wait for her to trip. That was his reason for running to the congress, for subjecting himself to the bureaucracy he’d always despised—anything to stop her before she could do worse. He told himself he was doing the right thing, that someone had to play watchdog, but every time he sat through another of her briefings, he wondered if he’d been played all along. If only I’d known what it would cost, maybe I’d have let the world burn.

Sam’s friendship had been the only thing that made the game bearable, and now that was gone. Bucky had never been good at making friends, never trusted easily, and for a while Sam had given him hope that it was possible to build something honest, even after Hydra. That hope was a ghost now, and Bucky was left surrounded by people he could barely call teammates—each of them lost in their own orbit, each keeping secrets, every alliance as fragile as the thin glass walls of the Watchtower.

Despite the noise, Bucky had never felt so alone. The walls closed in, tighter every day. The improvements he’d fought for with Sam’s help—the routines, the therapy, the fragile sense of normalcy—had begun to erode under the constant pressure. Sleep was a memory; nightmares came in waves, sometimes laced with flashes from the Hydra years, sometimes warped visions from the Void, that hellish echo chamber inside Sentry where he’d glimpsed every monster he’d ever been.

No one talked about their experiences in the Void—he’d noticed that early on. Whatever rooms they’d faced, whatever horrors had clawed their way to the surface, everyone carried their scars in silence. The team functioned, barely, but intimacy had never come easy to any of them, least of all him. So he kept his mouth shut, because who would want to hear it anyway? Trauma was the only thing they all seemed to have in common.

He’d started dissociating again—moments where he’d lose time, find himself staring out a window or standing in the corridor with no memory of having walked there. It was an old habit, something the shrinks called “coping mechanisms,” but Bucky knew the truth. It was the mind’s way of running for cover when the present got too close to the past. He hated it, hated how much it reminded him of those first months after Wakanda, the endless sessions with government psychologists who never knew what to do with a weapon that wouldn’t talk.

He swore to himself, then and there, that he would never slide backward into becoming that man again. He’d been the Winter Soldier; he would not become a ghost in his own skin.

Even if it meant fighting every night for the rest of his life, he would not let them win.

Chapter Text

Late November

It had been nearly five weeks since Bucky’s mood took a final, downward turn—a descent obvious to everyone who shared the Watchtower with him.

No one said it aloud, but the memory of that fractured conversation with Sam hung over the team like fog over a graveyard. Every member of the Thunderbolts recognized the signs, each in their own way: exhaustion bleeding into his posture, a jaw set tight enough to splinter bone, the rare flash of wit replaced by silence or the clipped edge of command.

In the hope of lifting his spirits, Yelena took charge, corralling what passed for morale in this house of lost causes.

She enlisted Bob, gentle as ever, who somehow managed to persuade Ava—usually the last to join in group efforts—to come along, her agreement a minor miracle.

John, ever the showman, decided to tackle the kitchen, convinced that if he could just serve up the “right American breakfast,” Bucky might be tempted to eat something other than chalky protein bars and military-issue caffeine.

The results were mixed at best. Bucky’s only response was a polite decline or, on better days, a barely touched plate. Alexei, with his own brand of heavy-handed care, invited Bucky for sparring matches, vodka-fueled movie nights, or even wrestling tournaments, all of which Bucky refused with a gruff shake of the head.

Bob hovered at the periphery, unsure, but always offering a quiet presence—a sketch slipped under Bucky’s door, a soft invitation to join a board game that was always ignored but never resented. Yelena, for her part, found herself at a loss.

She had never learned the subtle art of comfort; the only example she had was Natasha, and even then, the lessons were mostly violence disguised as affection, not the slow burn of waiting for someone to let you in. Teamwork and friendship remained a mystery, a code she couldn’t crack. Sometimes, late at night, she heard Bucky pacing or the muffled sound of his nightmares leaking through the thin wall between their rooms. Each time she hesitated, hand hovering over the door, and every time she pulled back, uncertain what to offer.

The others felt it too. The things that made Bucky aggravating—his snark, that relentless black humor—were disappearing, and even John, who claimed to hate it, began to miss the old rhythm. Meetings and missions had become his sole focus, as though life outside the job no longer existed, as if he could outrun the ache by sheer force of discipline.

Their first official missions as a unit were, in a word, disasters.

The press, hungry for failure, found ample material. The initial attempt at crowd control during a hostage crisis devolved into chaos when John and Alexei argued over who should “take point”—their bickering so loud that half the hostages made their own escape while Bob, too nervous to act, phased out of sight for nearly the entire incident. Yelena and Ava managed to subdue two of the attackers, only to end up handcuffed together by mistake when Yelena misjudged the timing of a takedown. The news cycle had a field day: New Avengers Fumble Rescue, Mayhem Ensues! The memes were relentless.

The next assignment—intercepting a weapons shipment on the docks—ended with half the team in the water and Alexei unintentionally punching a hole through the side of the ship, causing an oil spill that triggered an environmental lawsuit. Bucky barely spoke through the aftermath, delegating the debrief with a voice stripped of feeling.

No one blamed him for the string of failures. They blamed themselves, if they blamed anyone. But the cost was visible—the tightening of his silences, the way every setback seemed to drive him further from the team, further from the hope that any of this could have been worth the price. He’d lost Sam, and now it seemed he was losing himself, too.

No one quite knew how to pull him back. No one knew if he even wanted to come back at all.

———————

Early December

Their most recent mission should have been routine— “a milk run,” as John called it when the briefing began. They’d been tasked with intercepting a rogue AIM cell attempting to trade next-generation tech on the outskirts of Jersey City.

The plan: Yelena and Ava would infiltrate, neutralize security, while John and Alexei held the perimeter, ready to swoop in as soon as the trade began. Bucky orchestrated it all from a nearby vantage point.

None of it mattered.

Within minutes of boots on the ground, the operation unraveled. Ava, trying to outmaneuver a sentry drone, ran off comms for a crucial thirty seconds. John, impatient for action, charged in early, setting off a cascade of alarms. Alexei, responding to the chaos, decided to punch through a reinforced wall rather than use the planned access route, bringing half the building down. Yelena, always too stubborn for her own good, pressed forward alone and took a stun round in the side from a panicked AIM tech. She went down hard, the breath knocked clean from her lungs, radio hissing with static as she tried to warn the others. By the time Bucky reached her, she was awake but barely coherent, and blood stained the tactical black of her suit.

It was over before it even truly began. Police sirens howled from every direction. Worse, Sam appeared, called in by frantic city officials, his presence a goddamn sledgehammer to whatever remained of Bucky’s self-respect. Sam landed, shield flashing in the light, dispatched the remaining hostiles, and coordinated cleanup while Bucky crouched over Yelena, watching the show from the sidelines. The rest of the Thunderbolts could only stare, helpless, as a single man did what their team had failed to do together. Not a word passed between Bucky and Sam, not even a glance—just silence thick enough to choke on.

Yelena’s injury, while not life-threatening, left a nasty burn along her ribs and a dull ache of shame beneath her bravado. On the jet home, the cabin was tense, Bucky locked in grim silence, his knuckles white around the armrest. No one dared bring up the obvious. Ava offered Yelena a painkiller. John sat at the back, staring out the window. Alexei kept flexing his hands, his whole frame twitching with bottled-up frustration.

Once inside, they were summoned to the conference room for the inevitable debrief, the atmosphere brittle and sharp as broken glass. Bucky sat at the head of the table, waiting as one by one the others filtered in.

Yelena leaned back, arms crossed, her bandaged side peeking beneath her shirt. “If anyone wants to blame me for that mess, get in line.”

John shot her a look, voice defensive. “No one’s blaming you for getting hurt. But let’s not pretend you followed the plan. You went off-script—again.”

Ava bristled, snapping back. “She went off-script because someone couldn’t follow orders. Maybe if you’d waited five damn minutes—”

John threw up his hands. “Oh, here we go. It’s always me, right? Maybe if Alexei hadn’t brought half the roof down, we wouldn’t have needed backup in the first place!”

Alexei, looming larger than life at the end of the table, glowered. “If you listened for once, little Captain, building would not fall. I fix problem, you make problem.”

John surged to his feet. “Are you kidding me? You’re twice my size and half as careful—Yelena nearly got killed because you two can’t work as a team!”

Yelena bared her teeth, a cold smile flickering. “Don’t put this on me. I can handle myself. Maybe if the rest of you stopped arguing over who’s in charge, we’d get somewhere for once.”

Ava’s voice was flat, wounded pride bleeding through. “We don’t need another alpha. We need everyone to stay in their goddamn lane.”

“What? You mean disappearing on comms and leaving the rest of us in the dark?” John shot back. “You want to talk about unreliable—?”

Alexei’s fist slammed into the table, making the entire room shudder. “Enough! You all sound like children. Blame does not fix broken team.”

Yelena, wincing at the volume, glared at John. “Just admit you fucked up, Walker. You always have to be the hero—”

Bob, caught in the crossfire, shrank into his chair, voice a whisper. “Maybe we could—maybe—just—”

The cacophony spiraled, voices raised, accusations flying—no one listening, each too busy defending themselves to see the larger picture. Then, without warning, Bucky stood, chair scraping sharply against the floor, voice cutting through the uproar like a blade.

“Enough. Sit down. All of you.”

His words landed hard, command honed by years in the field. Alexei dropped into his seat, eyes still dark with anger; John fell silent, lips pressed to a thin line.

Bucky turned, gaze icy, and spoke with the calm of someone at the end of his rope.

“Let’s get one thing clear. Every single one of you screwed up out there, and if Yelena’s wound had been a couple inches higher, we’d be talking about a goddamn funeral right now. Walker, you ignored my orders and jumped in early. Alexei, you went for brute force when precision was needed. Ava, you vanished on comms at the worst possible moment. Yelena, you pressed ahead when backup should have been the call. We nearly lost someone because none of you could set your egos aside for five minutes and act like a unit.”

John tried to speak, voice strained. “I was—”

Bucky’s glare shut him up. “Shut up. You all want to be heroes, but you can’t even be teammates. We’re not the Avengers. We’re not even close. You want to know why Sam had to show up tonight? Because you made it impossible for anyone else to help you. Because you can’t work together. So here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to sit here and think about the reason we failed. Because if we keep this up, next time, one of us won’t make it home.”

He scanned the room, daring anyone to argue. Silence stretched, uncomfortable, settling like a weight across every shoulder.

“Meeting’s over. If you’re not ready to act like a team, don’t bother showing up to the next one.” With that, Bucky turned and walked out, leaving the door to swing slowly shut behind him, the echo of his words vibrating in the stunned stillness he left behind.

Chapter Text

Ava’s voice finally fractured the heavy quiet, her laugh dry, eyes not even trying to disguise the defeat. “Well. Guess we did it. Pushed Barnes past the point of no return.”

John scoffed, folding his arms across his chest as he slumped lower in his chair. “Bucky’s been at the end of his rope for weeks. It’s his own damn fault, trying to hold all the shit together by himself. Stubborn idiot doesn’t know how to ask for help.” There was no real bite to his words, just the resignation of someone who’d seen too many leaders crumble under the weight.

Yelena rose from her seat, shaking her head as she stretched out the ache in her shoulder. “If we keep this up—this endless cycle of talking over each other and ignoring what’s right in front of us—we’ll end up exactly where he said. A pile of corpses and a headline no one will care to read.” Her voice softened. “He’s right. Our so-called team spirit is garbage, and we’re all guilty. No one’s tried to change a damn thing since the day we started.” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t trust Valentina, either. She’s circling Bucky like a vulture, and I have a bad feeling it’s about to get worse.”

John rolled his eyes, reclining deeper. “Come on, Valentina’s not that reckless. Not after what went down with Bob. She knows she can’t pull another stunt without all of us seeing it coming. She’d have to be insane.”

Ava’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “She’s not insane, she’s just desperate. We’re not heroes to her—we’re a human shield. As long as she keeps us dancing, she stays out of prison and in the spotlight.”

Yelena’s gaze sharpened, a pointed warning as she fixed her eyes on Alexei. “Then we keep an eye on her— subtlety for once.” Alexei raised his hands, as if to say, I’ll try.

She pressed on, “But more than that, we try for Bucky.”

The days that followed crawled past, heavy with effort. Yelena watched the news alone, every channel replaying their latest humiliation—the failed AIM sting, the arrival of Captain America, the crowd’s open preference for a symbol over a reality they barely understood. She listened as pundits questioned their very existence: Can we trust the New avengers? Who do they really answer to? Even the public, usually too distracted to care, seemed galvanized, social feeds lit with division and scorn.

Disgusted, she flicked the TV off, the echo of angry voices replaced by a hush she found no more comforting.

The elevator chimed. Yelena glanced over to see Bucky step out, the stoop of his shoulders more pronounced, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. His hair hung limp, suit rumpled, every line of him spelling defeat. She guessed immediately where he’d come from: another press event, another round of public flaying at Valentina’s side.

Bucky moved straight for the fridge, grabbed a beer, popped the cap with his metal thumb, and dropped onto a barstool. He didn’t look at her, but Yelena didn’t wait for an invitation. She slid off the couch and crossed the room, perching on the other side of the counter.

“How’d it go?” Her question was soft.

He took a long pull from the bottle, then let it clink against the granite. “Oh, fantastic. The media’s favorite game—‘Which ex-assassin do you trust less, the one with the star or the one with the shield?’ They barely asked a single question about the actual mission. Just Sam, Sam, and more Sam.” He laughed, a dark sound. “Honestly, the highlight was nearly getting my head caved in by a flying bottle. They must be running out of tomatoes.”

Yelena offered a half-smile. “At least next time you can duck behind Alexei. He’s basically a moving wall.”

Bucky snorted, but the sound faded quick. He leaned his elbows on the counter, head bowed, voice low. “They’re not wrong to be scared. We keep screwing up. If it keeps going like this… can’t blame them for not wanting us around.” His voice trailed off, defeated.

Yelena watched him in silence for a beat, then gave a little snort. “Well, fuck, Barnes, if you’re waiting for some golden piece of advice, you’re shit out of luck with me. I don’t have any magic words. Never did.” Her accent thickened with honesty. “Only thing I ever learned from Natasha about this mess was to keep fighting until you’re too damn tired to care. Not sure it works so great, though. You look fucking exhausted.”

He managed a tired laugh, low and humorless. “Yeah. That obvious?”

“Obvious enough,” she shot back, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. “So. You gonna sit there brooding like a sad bastard, or you want to tell me what’s actually going on in that steel-trap head of yours?”

Bucky hesitated, swirling the bottle in his hands. The bar’s surface blurred for a moment, his focus slipping, everything around him receding to a distant hum. He blinked, swallowing hard—when his eyes cleared, he caught Yelena studying him, concern hidden behind a mask of impatience.

“You just checked out on me for a minute there,” she said, voice less harsh. “You do that a lot lately?”

He gave her a wary look, and for once didn’t try to dodge the question. “Yeah. Sometimes I just…lose track. Comes with the insomnia, I guess.”

Yelena’s tone softened—just a shade. “The nightmares are back, right? That’s why I hear you pacing at three in the morning. Thought you might start wearing tracks in the floor.”

Bucky shrugged, every muscle rigid. “Sleeping’s a fucking lottery these days. Most nights, I just keep reliving the worst of it. Shit I thought I’d buried.” He paused, knuckles white around the bottle. “And then there’s the rest—”

She leaned in, elbows on the bar, giving him nowhere to hide. “You ever tell anyone? about the dreams?”

He almost laughed. “What, you think the team’s up for a group therapy session? Alexei would start a fistfight, Walker would play the victim, Bob would apologize, and you’d call us all idiots.” He paused, something like regret flashing in his eyes. “Never thought I’d miss the sound of Sam’s voice telling me to get my shit together.”

Yelena scoffed, but not unkindly. “Sam is an idiot and he’s not here, is he? We are. So, you know… if you ever want to actually talk about it—about any of it—I can promise I’ll only call you an idiot half the time. Deal?”

He smiled, the expression faint, shoulders lowering a fraction. “Deal.”

A silence settled, Yelena let it linger before adding, “For what it’s worth, I’m trying not to fuck things up as much lately. I don’t have a clue how to fix this mess, but I’m not quitting. And neither are you. I won’t let you.”

He tipped his head. “Yeah. I know you’re trying. Clumsy as hell sometimes, but… it means something.” His eyes met hers—grateful. “Thanks, Yelena. Really.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get all sappy on me now, Snowflake. I’ll start charging for therapy.”

He let out a small, genuine laugh, and for the first time in days, it sounded almost like relief.

Chapter Text

Late February

The darkness pressed in from every side—a cold void where time seemed to lose meaning. Bucky stood at the center, a single point beneath a blinding searchlight. His breath fogged in the chill, heart pounding as a familiar dread crawled beneath his skin.

It started with Steve—He stood before him, shield in hand, the echo of the Commandos rallying at his back. But there was no warmth in Steve’s eyes, only cold disappointment. “You were supposed to be better than this, Buck,” his voice thundered, fractured by the shouts of his squad. “How many chances do you get before you burn us all?” The Commandos jeered, their faces warped by contempt, voices swelling until Bucky could barely distinguish words from noise.

He reached for Steve, but the world stuttered—faces melting into the next scene, colors bleeding into an impossible daylight. Sam took Steve’s place, the shield gleaming in his grip. “You never change, man. Always looking for someone to clean up after you,” Sam spat. “You think I can trust you now? You don’t belong here.” The shield came down between them, a wall Bucky couldn’t cross. Sam turned away, the distance growing with every step until he was lost in a sea of shadows.

The darkness swelled, voices multiplying—he knew them all. The Thunderbolts appeared, one after another, each fixing him with the same look: betrayal, disappointment, disgust. Yelena’s voice cut through the din: “Should’ve known better than to trust a broken dog.” John sneered, shaking his head, “Washed-up killer, nothing more.” Ava’s laughter stung, echoing out of sight: “You’re poison, Barnes. Always have been.”

The dream collapsed outward, and suddenly he was in the middle of a city square, a faceless crowd pressing in. Angry, jeering, they pelted him with stones—each one a word spat like venom. “Traitor.” “Murderer.” “Monster.”

The mob swelled, voices merging into a single chant: “Winter Soldier! Winter Soldier! Winter Soldier!” Hands grasped at him, tearing at his clothes.

Bucky tried to run, but his feet sank into the ground as if the earth itself wanted to swallow him. The crowd parted. A mirror stood in front of him—his own reflection, but wrong. The other Bucky stared back, eyes empty, the mask of the assassin in place. The Winter Soldier lifted a pistol, leveled it at Bucky’s chest. His own voice came from that mouth, low and merciless: “You should’ve stayed gone.”

The gun fired.

**——————**

He woke, heart thundering, body jerking upright—scrabbling for purchase on the floor, hands instinctively curling into fists, breath tearing in and out of his lungs like barbed wire. For a moment, he scanned the dim room, vision fragmented by adrenaline and panic.

Gradually, the silence of the Watchtower crept back in, reality filtering through the remnants of terror. He forced himself to breathe, to unclench his hands, to recognize the familiar corners of his quarters. It was only then that he realized the hard press of concrete beneath him, the chill leeching up from the floor.

The blanket was tangled around his legs. He didn’t remember leaving the bed, didn’t recall when the urge to seek safety on the ground had overtaken him again. Not since the early days of therapy—back when the war was barely over, when comfort meant vulnerability and the floor felt more honest than a mattress ever could. He’d made progress once. Now, it seemed, his body had reverted without permission, the old instincts finding him in the dark.

He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, sweat cooling against his skin. Hell of a way to start the day.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze, the stale aftertaste of nightmares lingering in every corner of Bucky’s mind. He showered, letting the water run cold, trying to scrub away the sick chill from his skin. It helped, but only on the surface. Beneath, something festered—a tension he couldn’t name, a weight pressing behind his sternum that refused to shift.

Even in the kitchen, where sunlight warmed the counter and Bob mumbled a soft “Morning” from behind a bowl of cereal, Bucky found himself glancing over his shoulder, eyes hunting for threats that weren’t there.

He told himself it was nothing. Lack of sleep, that’s all. Nerves are shot, Buck. Get over it. Still, every little noise—doors closing, someone’s footsteps overhead, the muted hum of the city below—set his teeth on edge. He moved through his routines mechanically, shadowboxing in the gym, pretending to check mission reports, even forcing down half a protein bar for the sake of appearances. Nothing helped.

By midafternoon, the Watchtower felt even more stifling. He was about to head back to his room, maybe try to close his eyes for a few minutes—when John came barreling out of his quarters, phone in hand, face pale.

“Guys, you need to see this. Turn on the news—now. Captain America’s live, doing a press thing. About us.”

The others drifted in—Ava, already scowling, Alexei frowning in suspicion, Yelena barely concealing her annoyance as she snatched the remote and flicked the television on. The broadcast cut to Sam, standing at a podium draped in the stars and stripes, a forest of microphones bristling before him. Cameras flashed, journalists leaned in, hungry for scandal.

It didn’t take long for the questions to start circling, each one sharper than the last.

“Captain Wilson, do you support the creation of the so-called ‘New Avengers’?”

Sam’s jaw tightened, eyes hard. “Their formation wasn’t my decision, nor do I endorse it. The name is misleading, and it confuses the people we’re supposed to protect.”

Another reporter pressed, “Why file a legal challenge? Isn’t there enough division already?”

Sam barely blinked. “There’s a difference between redemption and responsibility. The Avengers stood for something. That legacy can’t be repurposed to rehabilitate criminals.”

The air in the room thickened. Bucky felt every muscle clench. The worst was still coming.

Then, a journalist with a voice just a little too eager asked, “And your relationship with James Barnes? There were rumors of a close partnership—some even said friendship. What’s the truth, Captain?”

The silence on-screen felt endless. Sam’s face remained impassive, every word chosen with surgical precision. “Mr. Barnes and I are no longer in contact. His decisions and the path he’s chosen for himself are his own. We will not be working together again. I wish him well, but we are no longer comrades. That’s all I have to say on the matter.”

The words hit like a blow, sharp and public. For a moment, Bucky just stared, unable to process the cold finality in Sam’s voice, the deliberate distance—the way years of hard-won trust were swept away in a single, televised answer.

John, realizing the damage too late, muttered, “Shit. Sorry, Buck, I didn’t—” but Ava had already reached for the remote, shutting the screen off before more could be said.

Bucky was already on his feet. The humiliation, the ache, the old fury—all of it threatened to swallow him whole. Alexei reached out, massive hand gentle as he tried to block Bucky’s exit. “You should not go. Stay, talk. We fix this.”

Bucky’s voice was hoarse, brittle as glass. “I need air. Don’t follow me.”

Yelena caught Alexei’s arm, holding him back. “Let him go. Trust me—he needs this. We all would.”

Without another word, Bucky shoved past, boots thudding heavy down the hall. The doors slid open and he stepped into the city, jaw set, breath ragged. The chill outside bit at his skin, but nothing compared to the cold settling in his chest.

Alone again. You ought to be used to it by now.

Chapter Text

The February air hit Bucky’s face like a slap. He drew in a lungful, letting the sting wake him fully, walking until the rhythm of his boots on the concrete and the churn of his thoughts nearly matched. The city around him glowed under the fading sun—orange and blue bleeding together across glass towers and tangled streets, the world edging toward night.

He didn’t bother with gloves or a scarf; the leather jacket was enough, and if it wasn’t, well, he’d survived Siberian winters with less. He almost smirked at the memory.

Hydra had a lot to answer for, but at least they’d made him hard to kill. No, what chilled him now had nothing to do with the weather, and everything to do with what he’d seen on that screen—what he’d heard, spat out like poison from Sam’s mouth.

Without thinking, his feet carried him north, away from the busy avenues and neon signs, toward a small, overlooked stretch of green near the water—the kind of park only locals remembered, tucked in the shadow of a long-abandoned pier. Years ago, before all of this, he and Steve would come here to breathe when Brooklyn got too small. Later, Bucky had dragged Sam out to this very bench, forced him to sit and talk when the weight of the shield got too heavy to carry alone.

He found the old bench, scarred by graffiti and time, and lowered himself onto the cold slats. He hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, knuckles pressed to his forehead, trying to squeeze the pain out—knowing it wouldn’t work.

The world had changed, the skyline unrecognizable, but the ache inside him was the same as it had ever been. He’d been hated before—he’d earned it—but somehow, Sam’s words had landed deeper than any bullet ever had.

Bucky had risked trust, let Sam in, made him family in a way he’d sworn never to let himself do again after Steve. And now? All of it dismissed, cut out before a live audience.

We are no longer comrades. That’s all I have to say.

He tried to tell himself he was used to it, that disappointment and loss were just familiar ghosts. Yeah, right. Like it doesn’t sting every fucking time. The logic didn’t hold. The hurt, burrowed deep. Was he really no more than a criminal to Sam now? Had the years of loyalty, the bruised and battered bond they’d built, meant nothing the moment Bucky chose the Thunderbolts?

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to punch something, anything. It would be so easy to run—to walk away from the team, from Valentina’s poison, from the eyes of the world. But then what? Leave a bunch of broken people to fend for themselves? Abandon them the way he’d been abandoned over and over?

No. He wouldn’t do that. Couldn’t. Even if it meant bleeding alone on this goddamn bench every night for the rest of his life.

And yet, beneath it all, the feeling persisted—a prickling on the back of his neck, the unmistakable sense of being watched. He’d learned to trust those instincts, however inconvenient they were. He glanced up, gaze scanning the park, eyes darting through the thinning dusk, searching shadows for movement.

Nothing obvious. Still, the feeling lingered, coiled in his gut, threading every thought with a warning. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was his nerves, or maybe—just maybe—he really wasn’t alone.

Just what I needed today. Bucky huffed, forcing himself to sit back, hands flexing against his knees. He’d survived worse. He could survive this. But God, he was tired of surviving.

Bucky had no idea how long he’d been sitting there, letting the cold settle into his bones as the city transformed around him, neon giving way to night. Eventually, he forced himself up, joints stiff and muscles aching from too much stillness. The guilt of leaving the others in the lurch was gnawing at him; he didn’t want to make things worse by vanishing into the dark, not with everything already hanging by a thread.

He cast a final look at the empty park, then set off for the Watchtower, hands jammed deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the bite of winter. Maybe he could convince himself the day had just been another bad one—one he could survive, like all the rest.

But then the sensation hit him again—this time not a vague itch, but a raw, electric jolt straight down his spine. Eyes scanning the gloom, he turned slow circles, searching every shadow, every rooftop, every broken streetlight. For a moment, all he heard was the distant rumble of traffic, the shudder of the wind against old brick.

Paranoid. That’s all. Sleep and food, and you’d be— The thought snapped in half as a glint caught the edge of his vision—something metallic, reflecting the glow of a streetlamp from a rooftop to his right, far enough to be safe for most, but well within the range of someone who’d spent decades hunted.

❗️❗️

He didn’t hear the shot.

He barely registered the muzzle flash before agony exploded through his side, the world tilting in a burst of pain so intense it stole his breath. He hit the ground hard, a strangled cry wrenched from his throat, but there was no one nearby to hear it. Instinct took over; he clawed himself toward a low stone wall, dragging his body with trembling arms until he could prop himself against the cold, rough surface.

Blood soaked his shirt, pouring from a wound just below his right ribs—lower abdomen, dangerously close to anything that mattered. He pressed a shaking hand to it, biting down a curse as his fingertips came away slick and dark. Shit. That’s bad. Really fucking bad.

Pain clawed through him, not the dull ache of a regular bullet but a savage, spreading fire. Something was wrong—very wrong. The agony didn’t settle; it intensified, twisting deeper, laced with a sickening cold. What the hell is this? he thought, struggling to keep his vision steady. He tried to flex his left hand, feeling it tremble uncontrollably. Whatever they’d hit him with, it wasn’t standard issue.

He knew, somehow, this wasn’t just a lucky shot. Whoever had pulled the trigger had come prepared.

A wave of nausea rolled through him, sweat prickling along his scalp despite the freezing air. Already, he felt weaker than he should have; the wound wasn’t clotting, the burning spread with every beat of his heart. He fumbled at his jacket, searching for his phone—only to realize, with a bitter snarl, that he’d left it behind in his rush to get outside, too angry and distracted to think straight.

His mind raced—Who? Who the hell had finally decided to finish the job? Was it Valentina, tying up loose ends? Some ghost from his Winter Soldier days?

Bucky pressed his back harder against the wall, blinking hard against the black spots crawling in at the edges of his vision. Not like this, he thought savagely.

He dragged in a shaky breath, fighting the rising panic, every muscle trembling from shock and blood loss. He had to move. Had to get back, get help, warn the others—before whoever had done this decided to finish the job.

It took longer than it should have—too long. Bucky’s hand stayed clamped to his side, the pressure doing little to slow the flood. His shirt was ruined, his jeans even worse, and the blood kept pouring as if his body had decided to empty itself out right here on a Manhattan sidewalk. Nothing in his years of violence—had ever felt quite like this.

He staggered forward, legs half-numb, one arm reaching for a trash can to steady himself as a fresh jolt of agony ripped through his gut. His palm left a wet smear of red on the metal, fingers slipping. Breaths came short, each one slicing his ribs open. Bucky cursed under his breath, the words little more than a gasp. Move. You have to move.

A glance over his shoulder showed nothing but blurry streetlights, distant city noise. The shooter would already be gone. He wouldn’t find answers here, only more questions. His only hope was making it home—if he made it that far.

The journey became a nightmare loop: half-collapsing against building walls, using lampposts for support, fighting to keep his knees from buckling. The darkness thickened, cars and strangers passing by, no one seeing—or caring—enough to intervene. New York was good at ignoring blood on the pavement.

Each step toward the Watchtower felt impossible, the ground beneath him tilting. Bucky didn’t dare slow, not when the world wanted to fade out. At last, he reached the entrance, heart hammering, legs trembling. The lobby spun as he punched the call button for the elevator, leaving red smears across the stainless steel. He slumped inside, bracing himself against the mirrored wall, eyelids drooping as the floor seemed to drop away from beneath his feet. His blood pooled, streaking the tile, his reflection a pale ghost in the harsh fluorescent light.

When the doors finally opened onto the team’s floor, the noise hit him like a wave—voices, laughter, a brief silence as he stumbled out, head down, all the world narrowed to the agony in his side and the taste of copper in his mouth.

John was the first to react, stepping forward with an awkward smile. “Hey, Buck, listen, about earlier—I shouldn’t have—”

But his words died mid-sentence. Bucky lurched, nearly collapsing against him. For a moment, no one understood. John caught him, hands steady, but went rigid as something hot and slick soaked his palm. He pulled it back, staring in disbelief at his blood-smeared fingers.

“Shit—Bucky, you’re bleeding. Jesus—”

The spell broke. Ava and bob were on their feet, Yelena already vaulting the back of the couch, Alexei thundering over, all of them speaking at once—too loud.

Bucky’s vision blurred, the world narrowing to faces and noise, everything spinning. He tried to speak, tried to warn them— sniper —but the word caught, choking him. Only a single sound made it out, broken, desperate:

“Trap…”

His knees buckled, the pain eclipsed by a wash of cold. He fell hard, John catching him before he hit the floor, the world closing in with a rush of static and shouts, team members yelling his name.

“Bucky! Buck—stay with us—BARNES—!”

But he was already gone, the world shrinking to a pinprick of light, then nothing at all.

Chapter Text

From the instant Bucky collapsed, everything spun out of control. John caught his full weight, lowering him flat to the tile as blood soaked through his own shirt, the floor already slippery beneath his knees. Ava was beside them in a flash, tearing open the ruined shirt to expose the wound—jagged, low on the right, already gushing more blood than seemed possible.

Bob hovered at the edge of the chaos, wide-eyed, knuckles white where he clutched the back of a chair. Yelena rushed to his side, voice tight, pushing him into motion. “Bob—ho to the medbay, now. Tell them it’s urgent. Move!”

He hesitated, rooted in place by the carnage, but Yelena’s hand on his shoulder was insistent. “If you don’t run, he’s dead. Go!”

Bob jerked a nod, turning and sprinting down the hall, sneakers squealing on the tile as he vanished toward the lifts.

Back in the living room, the shouting began almost immediately. John’s hands hovered uselessly above Bucky’s body, panic leaking into his tone. “He’s losing too much—what do we do, what the hell do we do?”

Ava, cursing under her breath, dug her knuckles into the wound, trying to stem the flow, voice hard. “Pressure. Grab the kit from under the bar. This isn’t right—he shouldn’t be bleeding this fast, not from one round…”

Alexei barged in, eyes wide, already raising his voice. “Let me do it. He needs compression, not a goddamn tourniquet—”

Ava snapped back, “Don’t touch him! You’re not a doctor, and he’s not losing a limb—he’s losing his life, you idiot!”

John reached for the medical kit, tossing it to Ava, but she batted it away when he fumbled, shouting, “Get the gauze , not the whole damn box—!”

Yelena stormed over, voice cracking like a whip. “Enough! All of you, shut the fuck up and listen . If you want to scream, do it in the hall. Right now, you’re going to save Bucky, or you’re going to watch him die. Pick.”

Her words hit with the force of a slap. The others fell silent, exchanging a look—fear, the realization that for once, there wasn’t anyone else to save them.

John swallowed, kneeling closer. “What can we do? He said one word—trap. That’s all we got. Who would—”

Yelena’s jaw clenched, her accent thickening. “Someone wanted him dead, that’s obvious. Ava, can you—”

Ava shook her head, sweat beading on her brow. “This isn’t a normal wound. I’ve seen sniper rounds—never seen a reaction like this. He’s burning up. Could be poison, something tailored to him. Shit. We need the medbay, now.”

Before anyone could answer, the elevator doors pinged again. A squad of medics, flanked by a breathless Bob, spilled into the room, eyes widening at the sight of all that blood. They converged in a practiced flurry, slipping Bucky onto a stretcher, shouting orders in clipped, urgent tones—IVs, oxygen, field dressings, monitors, everything at once.

As the gurney disappeared down the corridor, Yelena caught Bob’s sleeve, anchoring herself in the storm. “You did good,” she told him, quietly. Her own hands trembled.

The doors slid closed behind the medics, leaving the team in a wreckage of blood, silence, and the echo of their leader’s warning—a single word, whispered through clenched teeth, now hanging over them like a curse.

The corridor outside the medbay was thick with tension, each of them vibrating with helpless rage. John scrubbed his arms so hard the skin went red, the stink of Bucky’s blood crawling up his nostrils, refusing to leave. Ava muttered curses under her breath, pacing like a caged animal. Alexei glowered at the wall, fists clenched, the sound of his grinding teeth nearly drowning out Bob’s anxious whispering. Yelena, arms wrapped so tight around herself she looked close to snapping, punched the metal wall so hard it left a dent.

“Fucking hell!” she barked. “If Sam hadn’t iced him out, if Valentina wasn’t such a cold-hearted bitch, if we hadn’t been such a mess—maybe he’d have seen it coming! Fuck, Bucky, why did you have to carry all this alone?”

Ava’s voice was acid. “I’d put money on that snake Valentina having a hand in it.”

John’s phone was already ringing before anyone could argue, his voice like gravel as Valentina picked up.

“John, darling, is everything all right?”, Her tone was sugar, but even through the cheap speaker it curdled their blood.

“No, everything is not fucking all right. Bucky’s been shot. Bleeding out in the medbay right now. You want to play concerned boss? Here’s your chance.”

“Wait—shot? Oh my god. By who? Is he—” She gasped, an audible shudder. “ Is he alive? What happened?”

“You tell me, Valentina. He gets gunned down in the middle of the city—specialist bullet, we think. This isn’t a mugging gone wrong. Someone wanted him gone. Maybe you’d know who?”

“How dare you suggest such a thing. I’m as shocked as you are, John. James is a valuable asset—a hero to the people! I would never—”

John cut her off, voice sharp as a blade. “Save it. Just stay away. We don’t need your crocodile tears or another PR stunt. The medics say he’s got maybe forty-eight hours. That’s if we’re lucky. Don’t come sniffing around, Valentina. You’re not wanted here.”

“I—of course. Please, just keep me updated.” The call clicked off, leaving a bitter taste in the air.

Alexei snorted, voice a low growl. “That woman is poison. Every word from her mouth is a fucking lie.”

“Yeah, well, unless you have a smoking gun, keep it to yourself,” John shot back, voice trembling. “We’re not burning our last bridge just yet.”

They waited, the hours dissolving into a relentless blur of anxiety and exhaustion. No one spoke. Yelena’s knuckles bled where she’d slammed the wall again.

Finally, the medbay doors slid open, the lead surgeon emerging, eyes sunken, face waxy. He tried to step past them, but Yelena grabbed his sleeve, nearly pulling him off balance.

“Talk.”

He swallowed, voice trembling as he met their eyes. “The damage is… catastrophic. The round fragmented on entry, pieces are embedded across the right lower quadrant. We had to transfuse four units of O-negative just to keep his pressure up. The wound is—unnatural. There’s tissue necrosis already. It’s spreading.”

Ava’s voice was a rasp. “What the hell was in that bullet?”

He shook his head. “Some kind of molecular agent. It’s paralyzing his cellular regeneration. His core temp’s climbing, immune system is going haywire. We’ve got multi-organ inflammation, kidneys shutting down, early sepsis. We can’t get the fragments out—the tissue’s fusing to the metal, and every time we try to remove one, he goes into shock. If we don’t figure out how to extract everything, and neutralize the agent, he’s dead within forty-eight hours. Maybe less.”

Yelena’s eyes were glassy, wild. “So fucking fix it!”

“We’re not equipped for this,” the surgeon said, backing away from her fury. “This isn’t battlefield medicine. You need someone with experience—Dr. Helen Cho, maybe. She’s worked with this kind of thing before, but—”

“But she’s with the Avengers,” John finished, his voice scraping low. “Which means calling Sam. Shit.”

Yelena punched the wall again, voice breaking. “Fucking hell, why does it always come down to him?”

John closed his eyes, bracing himself, fingers trembling as he dialed. “We don’t have a choice. Buck won’t survive if we wait. He’s got hours, not days.”

Chapter Text

Hours had crawled by since the last call, the tension coiling in Sam’s gut even as he forced himself through the rote post-mission checks. The cold hangar air stung his face, the hangover from his press conference still pulsing behind his eyes. He wanted nothing more than a quiet minute, but life in the suit never gave him what he wanted.

He was halfway through packing up when the shouting started. The echo of heavy boots, the crack of metal, Torres pleading uselessly—Sam felt his blood pressure spike before he even saw the disaster. He rounded the corner to find Alexei prying the hangar doors off their tracks, Torres nearly getting flattened for his trouble, and the whole goddamn Thunderbolts lineup spilling in behind. Every muscle in Sam’s body tensed; he stalked toward them, jaw set.

“What the fuck do you all think you’re doing?” he barked, the words bouncing off the walls like shrapnel. “You can’t just storm a military base—what the hell is wrong with you? Out. Now. I’m not playing games.”

John tried, voice shaking, “Sam, just listen—”

Sam didn’t let him get two syllables out. “No. I don’t care if you want to whine about my interview, or beg me to play peacemaker with Bucky, or whatever bullshit you dragged yourselves here for. You made your choice. Live with it.”

That’s when Yelena lost it. She shoved John out of the way and stalked straight up to Sam, her eyes blazing, grabbing him hard by the collar. “Shut the fuck up and listen for once in your life, Wilson! This isn’t about your goddamn pride! Bucky’s been shot—right in the fucking gut. He’s dying Sam. If you don’t help us, he’s dead. You hear me? DEAD.”

Her voice cracked on the word. Sam just stared, anger sputtering out, brain refusing the words. For a split second he almost snapped back—almost called it a bad joke—but her face was twisted in a way he’d never seen, pure desperation.

Sam yanked at her grip, glaring, “Let me go—”

“Shut up!” she snarled, shaking him. “We didn’t come here for your bullshit. I’m not here to beg, and I sure as hell don’t have time for your pride. If you don’t help us, he’s dead. For real.”

The hangar went dead silent. Sam stared her down, chest heaving, trying to convince himself it was some kind of setup. But she only squeezed his jacket tighter, voice going raw.

“You wanna call me a liar? Fine. But when he’s six feet under, you remember you stood here and did nothing. That’s on you, Captain.”

John’s voice was thick, almost pleading. “She’s telling the truth. It’s bad, Sam. The bullet was meant for him—special load, something to take down a super soldier. The med team can’t help. If you don’t let us get him to Cho, he’s gone.”

Yelena’s hands shook, but she shoved Sam’s shoulder, nearly screaming in his face. “I don’t care if you hate us, if you think we’re the scum of the earth. But don’t you fucking turn your back on him. Not after everything you two have been through. He’d never give up on you. So don’t you dare give up on him.”

Sam stood frozen, eyes wide, pulse roaring in his ears. He searched their faces for a hint of a lie, but all he found was panic and the kind of pain he’d only seen on a battlefield. His next breath shook. “Who did it? Who shot him?”

“No clue,” John managed, voice barely holding together.

Sam’s fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. “Torres, get your ass moving and get a med transport now”

Torres didn’t hesitate, ducking away at a dead sprint.

Yelena finally let go, but not before jabbing a finger into Sam’s chest. “You get this straight: if he dies because of your bullshit, I’ll make damn sure you never sleep again.”

Sam swallowed hard, staring at the ground, then back at her. “I’ll get Cho. You’ll have transport.”

As the Thunderbolts turned to go, Yelena looked back, fire and heartbreak in her stare. “Don’t fuck this up, Sam.”

He stood in the ruined silence, already dialing Cho, his mind spinning. The weight of the shield had never felt heavier, or more personal.

*————*

Everything moved with surgical speed once Sam made the call. He deployed a secure medevac team to the Watchtower; Bucky’s transfer was handled with a kind of controlled chaos, sirens echoing through the night, the Thunderbolts trailing in their own convoy, refusing to be separated from their leader. None of them cared for the glares or questions at the gates—this was about Bucky, and nothing else mattered.

By the time Sam reached the Compound, Cho had already texted him: prepping for immediate evaluation. Sam moved through the brightly-lit corridors with a tension he couldn’t hide. The memory of his last words to Bucky in Louisiana gnawed at him, every step weighted by regret. He’d never hated himself more than in those endless minutes waiting for a doctor to pronounce the odds of survival for someone he used to call brother.

He found the Thunderbolts slumped on a bench in the hallway outside the exam room. Alexei sat hunched over, big hands twisted together. Ava stood by the window, back ramrod straight. Yelena’s glare could’ve cut glass, arms crossed tightly across her chest. John paced the linoleum, scuffing his boots in restless, angry arcs. Only Bob was missing, left behind at Yelena’s insistence to keep an eye on Valentina.

Sam stopped a few paces away, uneasy, searching for words that refused to come. No one greeted him, and no one had to; the silence between them was answer enough. Yelena’s eyes never left him, and in them he read pure accusation—a fury just barely kept on a leash because right now, Sam was their only hope.

He cleared his throat, voice brittle. “Any word since you got here?”

John shook his head. “No one’s come out. Cho’s been in there the whole time. We haven’t heard a thing.”

Sam found a spot on the wall a short distance away, joining their vigil, all their differences reduced to nothing beneath the weight of dread. The minutes crawled by in a haze of antiseptic and old resentment.

Twenty minutes later, the door finally opened and Cho emerged, her scrubs streaked with sweat, mask pulled down, exhaustion etched deep into her features. Sam was at her side before anyone else could move, the others gathering close behind.

Helen glanced from face to face, her expression grave. “It’s really bad Sam,” she said. “He’s lost a dangerous amount of blood—at least five units so far. The entrance wound was jagged and deep; the round fragmented on impact. Fragments are scattered throughout the right lower abdomen and iliac fossa, some dangerously close to the iliac vessels. Worse, the tissue surrounding the metal is already necrotic in places. There’s a synthetic compound adhering to the shrapnel—something engineered, not a standard toxin. It’s acting as a cellular disruptor, shutting down his regenerative response, inducing high-grade fever, and pushing him into early septic shock. His temperature is above 40°C. His white count is through the roof, but his platelets are already dropping. Renal and hepatic function are declining; we’re seeing evidence of multi-system involvement.”

Sam felt his stomach lurch. For a moment, none of them spoke.

Yelena stepped forward, voice ragged. “Are you saying he’s going to die?”

Cho didn’t blink. “I’m saying he might. I’m prepping for surgery now. I’ll attempt to extract as much of the shrapnel as possible and debride the necrotic tissue. I’ll also take samples for toxicological analysis—we need to understand exactly what was in that round if we want to reverse this. Post-op, I’ll start him on broad-spectrum antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and experimental immunosuppressants to try to slow the reaction. But I won’t lie—his body is under siege. The risks are enormous. Surgery alone could send him into cardiac arrest, and even if we succeed, the compound may have already done irreversible damage. But it’s the only option. If we wait, he won’t last the night.”

Ava pressed her hands to her face, fighting to keep her composure. “What can we do?”

Helen shook her head. “Nothing for now.”

Sam let out a breath like he’d been punched. “What the hell did they shoot him with?”

Cho’s mouth twisted. “Something made to kill people like him. Tell whoever did this: congratulations. It’s working.”

Sam ran a hand over his face, eyes stinging. “If you need anything—anything—”

“I’ll ask. Right now, the only thing that matters is what’s happening on that table.” She nodded once, sharp, then disappeared back through the swinging doors, the soft hiss sealing them out.

Chapter Text

The hours stretched, until Sam couldn’t stand the walls anymore. He stepped out into the cold, phone pressed to his ear, pacing under the flicker of a security light as the city’s quiet pressed in. Torres picked up fast, sounding like he hadn’t slept all night.

“Hey, man. You got anything?” Sam asked, voice tight.

“ I wish, dude. I mean—sort of. Got a few folks who saw something, but it’s all like ‘shadowy guy on a roof,’ y’know? No one saw a face. It’s New York, people don’t look up. Couple witnesses swear it was a pro—had to be, with the angle and the timing. But nothing. Feels like this guy could teach a master class in not leaving a trace. ”

Sam exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. “Of course he could. Why make it easy, right?” His voice was clipped, sarcastic, but underneath, exhaustion bled through. “Anything from street cams?”

“ Nope. Feeds are scrambled. My tech guys say someone looped footage, maybe jammed signals too. I’ve got people up on the roofs, searching for literally anything—fibers, prints, whatever. Not holding my breath. Whoever did this was ready. Knew the spot, knew when to take the shot. Wasn’t just lucky, Sam. ”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, well. Feels like that’s my life lately. You see any sign it ties to Valentina?”

Torres hesitated, then let out a low sigh. “ Man, I wish. She’s playing the grieving handler card for anyone who’ll listen. Unless she put her name on the damn bullet, we’re stuck. ”

Sam didn’t answer right away, just stared out across the lot, chewing the inside of his cheek. “This shouldn’t have happened. Not to him. He’s the last person to get caught with his guard down. Not since—since we started working together. Always sleeping with one eye open. Used to drive me nuts.”

Torres’s voice softened, more like the kid Sam remembered than the agent he’d become. “ Sam, look… You and Bucky, you’re stubborn as hell, both of you. He’s out there busting his ass trying to save the worst of us—‘cause he knows what it’s like, you know? You can’t carry all that for him. Nobody can. ”

Sam’s laugh was bitter, short. “Yeah, well, I’m starting to think neither of us know how to stop carrying other people’s crap.”

“ That’s probably true, ” Torres said, and Sam could hear the shrug in his voice. “ But listen. Don’t let whatever went down last time be the last thing he hears from you, alright? That’s not how this ends. He’s still fighting in there, so you gotta fight with him, too. ”

Sam shook his head, but a grudging smile tugged at his mouth. “Thanks, Joaquin. Just keep me posted.”

“ Copy that, Cap. I’ll keep shaking the tree. Hang in there. ”

Sam ended the call, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and blew out a long breath into the icy night. Then he turned back toward the Compound, jaw set. Maybe he couldn’t fix the past, but damned if he wasn’t going to be there for whatever came next.

On his way back to the medbay, Sam didn’t expect to find Yelena lurking by the elevator, her frame tense, fingers flicking a folding knife open and shut in steady rhythm. She barely glanced at him as he approached, metal clicking echoing in the empty corridor, but Sam had no illusions—she was waiting for him.

He slowed, trying not to look as tired as he felt. “Cho out yet?” The words came out quieter than he’d meant.

Yelena didn’t answer right away. She snapped the knife shut, sliding it into a pocket with deliberate calm, then peeled herself from the wall and closed the distance between them. Her eyes were a challenge, unblinking. Sam squared his shoulders. He wasn’t about to be bullied, not even by a ex Black Widow.

When the silence dragged out, Sam sighed, hands half-raised in an empty gesture. “Look, I’m not here to fight, all right? I get that none of you want me around. Trust me, I’m not exactly loving this either. But I’m not gonna start throwing punches in a damn hospital corridor.”

Yelena snorted, her mouth twisting into a smirk, all teeth and no warmth. “That’s rich, coming from you. Pretty funny, actually. Considering you were the first to say you didn’t want our sorry asses anywhere near your precious legacy.” She spat the words with venom, pushing him verbally, daring him to snap back. “You made it crystal clear—you don’t like people like us. Ex-assassins, ex-cons, freaks that don’t fit the poster.”

Sam pressed his lips together, shaking his head. “Wasn’t my best moment. I’ll give you that. I was wrong—about a lot. I don’t trust Valentina. And for the record, I wasn’t thrilled about the ‘new Avengers’ bullshit either. You think I wanted a PR war with her? With you all? That’s not how I pictured any of this going down.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, the motion sharp. “You think we did? News flash, Captain. None of us asked for this circus. When we met Bob, we were trying to kill each other. Literally. Then Barnes—Bucky—got in the middle and wouldn’t let go. Valentina saw her window and played us all. We were never meant to be anyone’s symbol, least of all America’s.”

She leaned in, voice flat. “I’m not Natasha. Don’t even try to compare us. I’m not a hero. I’m just someone who keeps getting dragged back into other people’s wars. But for whatever reason, Bucky believed in us. Fought for us. He’s the only reason we’re even a team. He made us want to be better than what they turned us into.”

Sam looked away, jaw tight, caught in the space between apology and confession. “Yeah. I get it, believe it or not. Before any of this, before I put on the shield, I didn’t think I was the right guy either. Wasn’t my idea to take up Steve’s mess. Bucky had to smack sense into me to even try. I guess I forgot what that felt like.” He hesitated, then forced himself to meet her eyes. “I was wrong to cut him off. I was wrong to—hell, to make it about me. I see that now.”

Yelena’s laughter was bitter. “See it now? Bit fucking late, don’t you think? He needed you, Sam. Instead, you let your pride run the show. You let him drown alone. And you know what? That’s why he’s lying on a slab right now with half his blood on the floor. Because you couldn’t pull your head out of your ass long enough to see what really mattered.” Her words were knives.

Sam’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking along his cheekbone. He forced himself to keep his voice steady, though every word scraped. “I never wanted it to end up like this. I sure as hell didn’t want to stop being his friend.”

Yelena took a threatening step forward, her glare practically burning a hole through him. “You think that changes anything? If you weren’t Bucky’s friend, you could’ve fooled the rest of us. You don’t get it, Sam. You broke him before that bullet did.” Her voice trembled with something just south of rage. “He’s been falling apart for weeks. Nightmares, insomnia, skipping meals—he barely even talks anymore. He spends his days picking up the pieces you smashed. All that time defending us against the media, taking the blame, getting pelted with rocks just for standing up to you. And you—” her voice cracked, “you just kept pushing.”

That landed deeper than Sam would admit. He stared at the ground, fists curled so tight his knuckles paled. The idea that Bucky’s progress, the hard-won inches of normalcy, had been ripped away—that he’d been the one to do it—made his stomach knot with guilt. “He’s gonna wake up,” Sam insisted, as if saying it could bend reality. “And when he does, I’ll tell him myself. I’ll make it right.” He looked up, meeting her eyes. “You want to take a swing at me, do it now. I probably deserve it.”

Yelena’s answer came quick—a fist to his jaw that caught him by surprise and dropped him to one knee. He spat a bit of blood, dazed but not angry. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it that fast,” he muttered, touching his jaw. “Not bad.”

She stepped in again, but before she could take another shot, Alexei and Ava rushed in, dragging her back. “Enough!” Alexei barked, practically hauling his daughter off her feet. “You said you had to pee, not pick a fight.”

John stormed over, tone half exasperated, half desperate. “Yelena, what the hell’s wrong with you? This is the last thing we need—if they throw us out, Bucky’s got nobody.”

Ava glared at Yelena, voice sharp. “You really think throwing hands is gonna help him? Use your damn head for once.”

Yelena twisted against Alexei’s grip, glaring at all of them. “He gave me permission! He earned it. And if it makes him even a little less of a stubborn asshole, maybe it’s worth it!”

Sam hauled himself up, dusting off his coat, voice quiet but level. “Let her go. She’s right. I did say she could. And she’s not wrong about me, either.” He looked around the group. “I screwed up. I judged you all before I ever tried to understand. Bucky saw something I missed, and I owe it to him to try to see it too. I’m not promising miracles, but…” He shook his head. “I’ll try.”

John blinked in surprise, his usual swagger faltering. “Well, shit. Didn’t expect that from Captain America.”

Alexei let out a snort of laughter, more relief than amusement. “About damn time. Now, if we’re all done with the confessions and punching, we should probably get upstairs. That’s why I came down—Cho’s out of surgery.”

Yelena swore, wrenching free. “You could’ve led with that, old man!”

They didn’t waste another second. The group piled into the elevator, shoulders brushing. As the doors slid shut, Sam pressed a palm to his sore jaw, glancing sidelong at Yelena—who, despite everything, almost managed a smirk.

The ride up was silent, everyone holding their breath, waiting for news.

Chapter Text

When they reached the medbay’s consultation room, Dr. Cho was already there, sitting behind a battered desk. The exhaustion was clear on her face, but her posture stayed straight. She gestured them inside.

“You can come in, close the door, please.”

The team filed in, silent except for a few uneven breaths. Sam hovered closest to the desk, his gaze flicking nervously toward the large window at the end of the room—beyond it, the faint silhouette of Bucky in a tangle of tubes and machines.

Cho gave them a moment before she spoke, choosing her words carefully. “Bucky is stable for now, but it’s very fragile. He’s in a private room under intensive monitoring. No visitors allowed yet, I’m sorry, but you can see him through the glass.”

John exhaled sharply, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. Yelena stared at the floor, hands clenched.

Cho pulled up a digital image on her laptop, turning it so everyone could see. “I found out what was inside the bullet. It’s a synthetic compound—actually, it comes from something I thought I’d only ever read about. There was an old government project, years ago, called nightshade. It was supposed to be destroyed before it ever got out, but someone managed to recreate it. The formula is… devastating, especially for someone like Bucky.”

She paused, letting that settle, eyes searching their faces. “This toxin attacks the body’s ability to heal—cuts off energy production in the cells, kills healthy tissue, and turns the immune system against itself. Even the serum couldn’t stop it.”

Sam’s voice was strained, disbelief and anger mixed together. “nightshade was never supposed to see the light of day. We argued against it from the start—it was a damn death sentence. How does something like that end up in a sniper round in New York?”

Cho shook her head, quietly. “I wish I had an answer for you, Sam. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. The damage started almost immediately.”

Alexei swallowed, his voice unsteady. “So what now? Is he… is Bucky going to wake up?”

There was a long, careful silence before Cho answered. “He had a seizure during surgery. The infection spread to his brain. I had to put him into a coma—to give his body any kind of chance to recover. We’re treating him with every tool we have. He’s on antibiotics, antiviral therapy, medications to keep his brain safe, everything modern medicine can throw at this. But he’s still in real danger.”

Ava stepped forward, voice gentle but trembling. “How bad is it?”

Cho looked at her, her expression kind but honest. “It’s serious. There’s no pretending otherwise. I had to remove a lot of damaged tissue. The infection nearly overwhelmed his system. The next few days are going to be critical—if he stabilizes, we’ll have hope. But even if he wakes up, we can’t be sure how much he’ll recover. There might be memory problems, trouble moving, long-term pain. I can’t promise anything right now.”

Yelena muttered a curse, swiping a hand over her eyes, and John just shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. Sam gripped the back of a chair, knuckles white.

“Thank you, Cho,” he managed, his voice rough but sincere.

Cho’s tone softened further. “Go see him, as much as you’re allowed.”

The team gathered by the window, looking in at the man who’d somehow become the center that held them all together. Through the glass, the machines beeped on, steady and fragile as hope itself. All they could do was watch and wait, the weight of uncertainty pressing in from all sides.

The days blurred into a relentless cycle of alarms, sleeplessness, and dread. For the Thunderbolts—and Sam—the world narrowed to the harsh white light of the medbay and the unchanging soundscape of Bucky’s machines.

He never seemed to stabilize for long. There were days when his fever raged, the numbers on the monitors rising beyond what should have been possible for any human. His skin flushed and burned. Twice, he went into septic shock, sending a cold wave of panic through the whole medical team. The infection in his blood raged on, slipping past every combination of antibiotics Cho could assemble, as if the nightshade compound mutated faster than they could counter it. Each time he seized, it was worse—his body arching on the bed, hands clawing at the sheets, until Cho and her team forced him back into stillness with sedatives that left him terrifyingly limp.

Sleep for the team was measured in minutes, not hours. Every setback left them more desperate. His kidneys began to falter, then his liver. His lungs filled with fluid. At one point, Cho had to rush to the room herself in the middle of the night, barking orders, fighting to get him breathing again. She never told them how close they came to losing him; the exhaustion on her face spoke for itself.

It was on the eighth night, when the fever returned—higher than ever, sweat soaking the sheets and his skin pale and waxen—that Cho found Sam alone at the window. He didn’t turn as she came in; his hand was pressed to the glass, as if he could transmit strength through it.

Cho leaned beside him, silent at first, watching Bucky’s chest rise and fall in shallow, irregular waves. Only when Sam broke the silence did she speak.

“How much longer do you think he can take this?” Sam’s voice was rough, nearly broken. “I keep waiting for a miracle, but it just… keeps getting worse.”

Cho let out a breath, slow and shaky. “I know. I’ve never seen anything like this, Sam. Every time we think we’re ahead, the infection slips past us. The serum keeps him fighting, but it also means the war inside him never lets up. I’ve thrown everything at it. Everything science has.”

Sam looked at her then, eyes bloodshot. “You look like hell, Helen.”

She almost smiled, but there was no humor left. “So do you.”

A long silence. Monitors beeped, somewhere far away.

“There’s something else I want to try,” Cho said at last, and her voice shook—not with uncertainty, but with the pain of what she was about to propose. “I spoke to Shuri this morning. Wakanda’s developed a new medical cryostasis unit—a proper one. It’s meant for healing, for slowing the body so infection and inflammation have a chance to burn out while the tissue recovers. He would sleep, and when we brought him back, his body would have had time to fight without being constantly torn apart by the drug and the fever.”

She hesitated, knowing exactly what she was asking. “But… I know what cryo means to Bucky. What it did to him, all those years. It’s not lost on me, Sam. I hate even suggesting it. But if we don’t—if we just keep watching this happen—he might not make it through another night like this.”

Sam’s jaw tensed. He scrubbed a hand over his face, anger and helplessness mixing with fear. “He swore he’d never go back in one of those damn things. After Wakanda, after everything, he said he was done waking up in another world. You’re asking me to sign off on putting him back in the ice.”

Cho’s eyes shimmered. “I know. But this is different. This isn’t about control or punishment. It’s about giving him a fighting chance, Sam. The chamber Shuri designed can be dialed precisely—we can monitor him.” Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “I won’t do it unless you agree. I’d ask him if he could hear me, but—”

Sam cut her off, voice soft but certain. “He’d want a chance. Even if it’s hard. He’s too stubborn to let something like this finish him off, and I’m not ready to let him go.” He swallowed hard. “Bring the chamber.”

Cho nodded, relief and dread mingling on her face. “I’ll make the call to Wakanda tonight. If they agree, we can have the chamber here within forty-eight hours.”

Chapter Text

The decision made, the days that followed moved with a strange, anxious momentum. Cho was in constant communication with Shuri. She detailed every protocol, the procedures drilled into Cho’s mind until she could have recited them in her sleep. The Wakandan med-jet arrived with the capsule sealed in a crate larger than any ICU bed, escorted by engineers and lab techs who moved with quiet urgency, their uniforms marked with the panther insignia.

When they uncrated the capsule in the medbay, even Sam—who had seen his share of miracles—found himself staring.

Cho moved her hand along the interface, the display blooming to life with a gentle tap. “This is a closed-loop system, Sam. Once we seal him inside, the chamber does everything—adjusting oxygen and nutrients on a molecular level. It’ll monitor infection markers, immune response, brain activity. If something changes, the chamber recalibrates in real time. It’s designed for full metabolic shutdown—the pod keeps his tissues oxygenated and flushes waste through micro-filtration. That’s how we keep him safe, even for… however long it takes.”

Sam listened, his eyes tracing the smooth contours of the machine, the faint glimmer of frost forming inside as the temperature dropped by fractions of a degree. “How long are we talking?”

Cho hesitated, glancing at Bucky’s face. “I won’t lie to you. It could be weeks. Months, even, if his body needs the time. The infection is deep, the damage to his nervous system is unpredictable. The chamber keeps him alive—and gives his cells the best chance. But when we bring him back, there could be side effects, it’s impossible to know until we try. But at this point, it’s his best shot.”

A silence settled as Bucky was lifted into the pod. Cho and her team worked methodically, attaching IV lines, setting the neural monitoring web over his temples, and closing the pod’s pressure seal. The hiss of cooling gas was soft.

Sam lingered a moment, nodding once to Cho. “Thank you.”

Cho only shook her head. “Say this when his out of that pod.”

When the final diagnostics flashed green on the Wakandan pod and Cho stepped out of the medbay, Sam let out a long, rough breath and squared his shoulders. He could see the Thunderbolts clustered in the common room.

He entered without fanfare, and every head turned. Sam didn’t wait for the awkwardness to grow claws. “I want you all to listen, because I’m not great at this,” he said, voice firm. “I’m not gonna stand here and pretend I haven’t been an ass. Especially to this team.”

Yelena folded her arms, eyebrow arched. Sam pressed on, words heavy with sincerity. “I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have. I doubted you—maybe because it was easier than dealing with my own shit, or maybe just because I didn’t want to see what Bucky saw in you.” His eyes swept the room. “But he believed in you. And if he’s got that kind of faith, I’d be a fool not to try. So here’s the deal: I need your help. I can’t do this alone, and neither can you. I want you to work with me—to find who did this, to get justice for Bucky.”

The surprise was almost comical. Alexei looked like he might burst into applause, while John actually gaped.

John recovered quickly, smirking with that annoying Walker confidence. “Well, hell, Cap, never thought I’d see the day. You admitting you need us—I think I need this in writing.”

Sam didn’t even blink. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Walker. I still don’t like you. Or your taste in jackets.”

Ava snorted, and Yelena burst into open laughter. “Finally, someone tells him,” she said, elbowing John so hard he almost dropped his phone.

“Don’t encourage her,” John grumbled.

Sam allowed himself a crooked, almost reluctant smile. “Like I said—if Bucky trusted you, that means something. Let’s prove him right.”

At that moment, the elevator chimed. A tall figure stepped out, shield glinting on his back: Elijah Bradley gave a short nod to the room. “Captain said you could use an extra pair of eyes.”

Sam glanced around. “Let’s get to work.”

*—————*

With Bucky preserved in the Wakandan cryogenic pod—locked in a state between life and limbo—Sam treated the medical wing of the Avengers Compound like a war zone under siege. No visitor, crossed the threshold without three separate clearances: a retinal scan at the outer entrance, an encrypted code only Sam and Cho knew, and a live facial confirmation overseen by Friday. Surveillance cameras tracked every footstep, while motion sensors and biometric alarms ran a silent loop along every corridor. Even the cleaning staff were replaced by DUM-E robots, programmed for strict routes and with no memory storage. No one would get close to Bucky without Sam’s say-so.

The pod itself, settled in a negative-pressure isolation suite, was surrounded by double-glazed bulletproof glass. The door was reinforced vibranium, coded only to Cho and Sam’s fingerprints. When Sam slept—rarely—it was in a cot positioned directly outside, shielded by a fold-out barrier and with a clear sightline to the pod.

Cho ran her shifts like a general at headquarters, rarely leaving the medical wing. She kept a rolling log of Bucky’s vitals—displayed on a secure tablet always within arm’s reach. Twice daily, she gave Sam verbal updates, no matter the hour. She even sent hourly encrypted bulletins to Shuri in Wakanda, just in case the situation tipped sideways and they needed a second opinion. Every hour, she recalibrated the pod’s meds and coolant, recalculated infection rates, and updated Bucky’s chart by hand—an old habit from a time before smart tablets, when every detail was a lifeline.

Meanwhile, Sam had made the Compound a fortress in more ways than one. The Thunderbolts weren’t just guests; they were under his protection, but also his scrutiny. Their quarters were repurposed from the old SHIELD barracks, each one outfitted with a private comm link, coded to Friday, and panic buttons in case of trouble. Sam was clear.

Common areas were limited to the war room, mess hall, and a handful of training spaces, with Friday monitoring all network activity. Only John complained about the lack of a minibar, and Yelena, ever pragmatic, made herself at home by stealing Sam’s coffee mug the first morning. Ava took to prowling the perimeters at night, Alexei commandeered the gym for deadlifts that made the floor tremble.

Bob, the only one not on-site, played his role perfectly back at the Watchtower. He reported in, feeding Yelena regular status updates and watching Valentina’s every move.

Inside that fortified bubble, the Thunderbolts finally turned their skills to something worthy: the hunt for Bucky’s shooter. Sam knew it wouldn’t bring bucky back any faster—but it gave them all purpose.

They clustered around the long table—Sam stood at the head, Eli at his right, Torres tapping rapidly at his tablet as Friday flickered to life in a shimmer of blue at the center of the table.

Sam took a steadying breath. “Before we get into the mess, quick introductions. This is Elijah Bradley—goes by Patriot in the field. He’s the grandson of Isaiah Bradley. Some of you might know the story. Long version short—super soldier serum runs in his veins, and the man can keep up with the best of us.”

Eli nodded, expression even, giving the room a quick, searching scan. “Glad to meet you all. Just wish it were under better circumstances.”

John whistled, rocking back in his chair. “Damn, Cap. First you want to play nice, now you’re bringing in the kids of legends. You trying to impress us, or just building the weirdest dinner party in America?”

Ava didn’t look up. “John, if you speak one more word, I will staple your tongue to the table.”

Yelena grinned, flipping through a file. “She’s not joking. I’ve seen her do it.”

Sam’s lips twitched. “Let’s stay on target, people.” He turned to Yelena. “You got anything concrete?”

Yelena shook her head. “Just ghosts and rumors. Everyone’s first instinct is Valentina, but she’s too obvious. She likes to watch the chaos, not start it directly—she doesn’t get her hands dirty, she buys gloves for that.”

Alexei’s voice rumbled low. “Could be anyone with a grudge and a budget. But she’s still top of my list.”

Ava set a folder on the table, her eyes hard. “I’d put my money on whoever’s sitting in Ross’s chair now. The government’s got deep pockets and no patience for people like us. And the weapon they used—nobody buys that off the street.”

Sam nodded, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “My theory’s the same. Whoever wanted Bucky dead had inside info, access to something off the books, and perfect timing. Could be a rogue actor. Could be a full-on sanctioned hit.”

John lifted a hand, mock-thoughtful. “Or maybe Bucky just pissed off someone from his Hydra days. I mean, no offense, but that list is longer than my ex-wife’s lawyers.”

Yelena didn’t miss a beat. “If you ever get shot, John, we’ll be sure to check your exes first.”

Eli hid a smile behind his hand, while Torres finally looked up from his tablet, the room quieting.

“All right,” Torres began, voice crisp, “I’ve got something. Friday, pull up feed T-73.”

The holoprojector blinked, and suddenly the table lit with a grainy, wide-angle video: a rooftop view, timestamped the night Bucky was shot. A figure appeared for a split second—a shadow with a rifle, face masked, movements disciplined. Friday enhanced the footage, tracking a faint glint on the sniper’s shoulder—an insignia, just visible, before the figure melted into the dark.

Torres froze the frame, zoomed in. “That right there—military. Not American. This patch? It matches a group out of Madripoor. Used to run with former S.H.I.E.L.D. assets, gone freelance.”

Sam leaned in, tension cutting through the exhaustion in his voice. “So we’re looking at a professional, someone with access to military-grade toys, and not afraid to use them.”

Ava’s jaw tightened. “And whoever pulled the trigger didn’t expect Bucky to survive.”

Yelena slammed her fist softly on the table. “We’re going to find them.”

John stretched, rolling his neck. “So what’s the plan, Cap?”

Chapter Text

February 24th.

A full week had bled away since Bucky had been locked in cryogenic stasis, the search for his would-be assassin consuming every waking hour for Sam and the Thunderbolts. The Compound felt like a military bunker, the medbay at its heart and the war room its brain. Paranoia ran deep—Valentina remained their number one suspect in theory, but no one was naïve enough to believe she’d have pulled the trigger herself. Somewhere out there, the sniper was a ghost in the crowd, and the real hand pulling the strings remained buried in shadow.

Sam split the team: he, Eli, and John —the three least likely to pass unnoticed, but best able to handle trouble—headed for Madripoor, armed with little more than a fake manifest and a battered folder of dossiers.

Madripoor had always been a snake’s den, but word was, the freelance sniper who’d hit Bucky had ties to a mercenary syndicate there—old SHIELD operatives, ex-Hydra, ghosts with expensive taste. Their mission: track down a local fixer named Shen “The Broker”, notorious for knowing every gun-for-hire east of the Indian Ocean. If anyone could name a shooter, it was him.

Meanwhile, Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and Torres kept their boots planted at the Compound. Yelena and Ava worked contacts and dark web channels, squeezing informants for chatter on international contracts, recent big payouts, and the appearance of rare, government-issue ammunition—like the one dug from Bucky’s gut. Alexei prowled New York’s underworld, using his old Soviet connections to fish for whispers of a hit put out on an Avenger. Torres coordinated it all, turning every scrap of information into data points, hacking financial trails and cell tower logs, keeping a digital map of connections sprawling across the globe.

The days blurred into each other. By the end of the first week, the only thing holding Sam together was sheer stubbornness—and a relentless need to get answers. Somewhere over a bowl of ramen in a cramped Madripoor alley, he finally got Torres on the line, the burner phone screen flickering with interference as thunder cracked in the distance.

“Torres, talk to me. Tell me something good. Actually, at this point, I’ll take anything that’s not John getting us kicked out of another bar.”

Torres’s voice came through with the faintest static—relaxed, almost too relaxed. “You know, I was going to start with the ‘Hey, Cap, how’s the tropical weather, how’s the local cuisine?’ but I’m guessing you’d just threaten to throw your phone in the river again.”

Sam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might throw John in the river. You got anything for me?”

“We’re moving. Ava’s been working her magic on a couple of French arms dealers who claim they’ve seen a guy matching our sniper’s build—East European, military tattoos, definitely not a local. Yelena’s got a line on a bank transfer—huge payout, coded with some old SHIELD black funds. Alexei… Well, Alexei nearly broke a guy’s jaw for saying you looked better with a beard, but that’s a whole other thing.”

Sam grunted, unable to stop the hint of a smile. “Yeah, sounds about right. What about you, Torres? Anything you’re not telling me because you don’t want me to panic?”

Torres let a beat pass. “Honestly, Cap? I’ve been tracking some encrypted communications routed through Singapore and Washington. Whoever hired the hit’s got government-level tech, maybe even inside clearance. I can’t prove it’s Valentina.”

Sam cursed under his breath. “Great. So we’re chasing a ghost who’s better at covering their tracks than we are at finding them. Madripoor’s been dead quiet too—‘The Broker’ keeps dodging us, John’s scaring off the locals with his ‘tough guy’ routine, and Eli’s about two bad days from punching the next Hydra wannabe who looks at him sideways.”

Torres snorted. “Just try not to start an international incident, okay? Yelena’s betting you’ll crack before John does.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Put me down for fifty bucks. At this point, I might root for it.”

“Deal. Check in tomorrow, yeah? I’ll keep digging.”

Sam hung up with a humorless chuckle, staring out at the neon-lit sprawl of Madripoor. If the shooter was here, he was the best ghost money could buy.

Sam lingered in the rain-damp alley a moment longer, knuckles pressed to his brow as if the headache pounding behind his eyes might finally dissipate. It didn’t. Madripoor didn’t let go of anything that easy.

He slipped back into their makeshift hideout—a battered, two-star hotel sandwiched between a karaoke bar and a noodle joint, where the stench of stale cigarettes was somehow the least offensive aroma on offer. Every sound from the corridor bled straight through the wallpaper-thin walls: an argument two doors down, music thumping somewhere above, even the distinct rattle of dice on ceramic tile. Home sweet home.

John was slouched at the table, boots kicked up on the rickety surface, picking absently at a fresh bandage on his knuckles. Eli sprawled across the sagging bed, laptop balanced on his knees, his lips wrapped around a lurid red lollipop he twirled with calculated indifference.

Sam sank heavily into the only free chair, resisting the urge to launch into a tirade about the world’s worst lodging choices. Instead, he leveled a look at Eli. “Anything yet on those surveillance grids I asked for? If ‘The Broker’ so much as sneezed in this city, I want a GPS location.”

Eli’s fingers hesitated, then stopped. With a heavy sigh, he snapped his laptop shut and let it collapse onto the mattress. “It’s all dead ends, man. Cameras wiped. No trace in the last forty-eight hours. Guy’s like a damn urban legend. And before you ask—no, I didn’t hack any police servers this time. I promised Shuri I’d try not to make an international incident.”

Sam glared, his patience fraying at the edges. Then, almost as an afterthought, he cocked his chin toward the candy. “And where the hell did you get that?”

Eli raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “The creepy bodega across the street. Guy behind the counter winked at me, then charged me double. Probably laced with caffeine. Don’t worry, Cap—the super-soldier metabolism burns through it like air.”

Sam dragged a hand down his face, muttering under his breath about rookies and unsanitary snacks . “That’s just what I need, you bouncing off the walls. John, what about our leads?”

John flicked a wrinkled piece of paper onto the table. “If you can call ‘em that. Every fixer, fence, and street rat we’ve tried’s either gone to ground or wants us dead. Broker’s spooked—someone paid good money to make him disappear.”

Sam leaned forward, tension in every line of his body. “We’re not leaving this city without a name. Madripoor owes me, and right now, I don’t care if I have to cash in every damn favor.”

For a long minute, the three of them sat, silent but wired, the hum of neon bleeding through the cracked blinds. Sam was about to launch into another round of questions when Eli’s phone chirped—a sharp, digital ping.

Eli thumbed the screen, eyes narrowing as he read. “Got something. One of my tags just triggered—encrypted comms between the Broker’s lieutenant and a new client, arranging a drop tonight. Dockside, warehouse district, southeast sector. If we move now, we can intercept.”

John was already shrugging into his jacket, all traces of nonchalance gone. “Finally. I was starting to think Madripoor lost its charm.”

Sam’s voice cut through the haze, crisp and commanding. “Move. Grab only what you need. If this goes sideways, we bail. Clear?”

Eli tossed his laptop into his bag, sucker clamped between his teeth. “Crystal, Cap.”

John cracked his knuckles, a feral grin breaking out. “Let’s go fishing.”

Sam checked his sidearm, his mind running over every variable. As they slipped out into the fluorescent glow and chaos of Madripoor, he couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight’s hunt might turn the whole damn game upside down.

The plan wasn’t elegant, but in Madripoor, nothing ever was. Eli had tracked the Broker’s movements to a grimy back alley near the docks, a place crowded with shipping containers and prowling mercenaries who didn’t blink twice at gunfire or the stench of money. Their mark was careful—never the same route twice, never without backup, and always with a new burner phone. But paranoia had a rhythm, and Sam meant to break it.

Sam pressed a finger to his comms. “Eli, you’re eyes on. Any movement?”

Eli’s voice came back, tense. “Broker’s out of his car, moving north toward the warehouses. Two heavies with him. John’s two blocks over, ready to cut them off at the loading yard.”

John’s voice cut in, crackling with impatience. “Copy that.”

They moved. Sam hugged the shadows, weaving between cargo containers. He caught the Broker’s silhouette slipping past a shipping crate, his security detail scanning the darkness. Sam gestured to Eli, who nodded and ducked around the far side, keeping low.

A shout split the air—one of the guards caught a glimpse of Eli. “Move!” Sam barked. The Broker bolted, cutting right between two containers, his men raising their weapons. Sam dove for cover as the first rounds sparked off metal just inches from his head.

“John, he’s running your way!” Sam called, sprinting after them.

John didn’t hesitate. He crashed through a stack of pallets, shield up, making himself a target. One of the guards opened fire—bullets pinging harmlessly off the vibranium disc. John charged forward, barreling into the first guard, sending him sprawling. The Broker, panicked, scrambled up a flight of steel stairs leading to an overhead catwalk.

Eli was faster. He vaulted a crate, landed lightly, and took off after the Broker, ducking a wild swing from the last bodyguard. Sam flanked left, cutting off the escape route.

The Broker, seeing himself boxed in, fired wildly behind him, desperate to clear a path. John, moving like a freight train, stormed up the stairs, not even slowing as a bullet ricocheted off his shoulder armor. He caught the Broker halfway up, wrenching the gun from his grip with a brutal twist. The man howled, tried to break free, but John slammed him against the rail, his voice cold. “You run, you lose your teeth. Got it?”

The Broker spat, wild-eyed, but John drove a fist into his stomach for punctuation. “I said, got it?”

Sam and Eli arrived at the top of the stairs just as John had the Broker in a headlock. Eli, panting, looked from John to the subdued mark and then to Sam. “So, interrogation suite in the Four Seasons, or…?”

Sam gave a wry grin, brushing glass shards from his jacket. “Nah, let’s go with the classic. There’s a nice soundproof shipping container with his name on it. Madripoor’s finest.”

John snorted. “Hope he likes salt air and tetanus shots.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “As long as he talks before the mosquitoes drain him dry.”

Chapter Text

The inside of the container was cramped, humid, and stank of machine oil and cheap plastics. Cargo crates towered to the ceiling, half the labels in Mandarin or Cyrillic, all of it shadowed by a single bare bulb. Eli stood by the door, phone in hand, while John leaned back against a stack of boxes, arms crossed. Chen Lin, better known in the Madripoor underworld as “the Broker”—middleman, fixer, and an absolute cockroach who’d outlived more power shifts than the neon signs outside, was roped to a metal crate, wrists bound behind his back, ankles twisted at a cruel angle. His cheeks were already swelling from John’s less-than-gentle handling, but his glare was pure venom.

Sam crouched to Chen’s level, laying two photos in front of him: one, a zoomed still of the masked sniper from the rooftop; the other, a close-up of the shattered, strange alloy round that Cho had pulled from Bucky’s gut.

“Let’s skip the warmup. Recognize either of these?” Sam’s voice was calm.

Chen glanced down, not even bothering to hide his sneer. “You drag me out of my shop for gun porn? Cute. Never seen either. That mark’s not local. And I don’t deal in bullets like that—My clients prefer problems to disappear quietly.”

John rolled his eyes, flexing his fingers. “You know, I could—”

Sam cut him off, never raising his voice. “Easy. Chen here is a businessman, right? You deal in information, not just contraband. So help me out—where’d a bullet like that come from?”

Chen let out a sharp laugh. “If you want to hit me, just do it. I’m not scared of you, Captain. I’ve had many agents break my ribs and try to drown me in my own bathtub. Go ahead. Make it interesting.”

John shifted uncomfortably. “Guy’s got a mouth, I’ll give him that.”

Sam slid the photo of the insignia across the crate. “And this? Look close, you’ve seen a lot of faces come through your doors.”

Chen looked, shrugged, and looked away. “Military contract, maybe. Could be anyone in Madripoor.”

Sam didn’t blink. “You’re not just a middleman, Chen. You hear things. You collect insurance on every whisper in the city. Who’s using off-market sniper muscle? Who’s got a reason to want a super soldier dead?”

At that, Chen’s bravado hardened. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t talk. You want to break my nose, fine. I’ll heal. But you start digging into this, you’re going to get yourself—”

John stepped forward, jaw clenched. “You wanna try me?”

Chen laughed, fearless. “Go on, Captain America, let your dog off the leash. Everyone bleeds.”

Sam let the threat hang in the air, then, with deliberate calm, reached into his bag and pulled out something odd: a long, black cloth and a heavy, folding multitool—a rescue axe. He set the axe on the crate beside Chen, close enough for the metal to clink. Then, in one smooth, silent motion, Sam tied the cloth into a blindfold and secured it around Chen’s eyes.

The sudden darkness was total. Chen tensed, his bravado slipping a notch. “What the fuck—?”

Sam’s voice was a whisper, so close Chen could feel his breath. “You know what I did before I wore the stars and stripes? Search and rescue. You ever hear a man scream because he’s trapped and can’t see what’s coming? Sometimes, you don’t need pain. Just the right story, and the right sound.”

He scraped the blade across the metal crate, letting the shriek of steel echo in the tiny container. Then, low and even: “I could let my guy have his fun. Or I could let your mind fill in the blanks while you sit there, wondering what comes next. Your choice, Chen. You want to take a walk out of here, or do you want to wait and see what I can do when I really need answers?”

Even John went quiet, the hairs on his arms standing. Eli, from the door, let out a slow whistle. “Damn, Cap.”

Chen panted, his bravado finally cracked. “Fuck. All right, all right—I don’t know who made the bullet, I swear. That’s not my lane. Whoever supplied it, they’re operating outside Madripoor, probably state-backed, definitely not street trash. But the patch? I’ve seen it once—mercenary, callsign Scourge, rumored to take jobs only from big money.”

Sam’s gaze sharpened. “Who hired him?”

Chen shook his head. “That’s above my paygrade, man. Orders came through a ghost account. I only moved money. You want more, you’ll have to dig deeper. All I know is whoever wanted your friend dead had government-level cash.”

Sam exhaled. “Good. Now you’re helping. Who else knows he’s in town?”

“I swear, man, that’s all I got. Even the Tiger Division won’t touch him. He’s bad news for everyone. Now, take that thing away—please.”

Sam removed the blindfold, his gaze flat, the axe still between them. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

John, still a little pale, muttered, “Jesus, remind me never to piss you off, cap.”

Sam flashed a brief, humorless smile. “Keep your notes, John. You might need them.”

He packed up the axe and photos, then jerked his head to Eli. “Get what you need. We’re done here.”

After the confrontation in the container, Sam, John, and Eli spent the next thirty-six hours combing Madripoor’s seediest corners—every bar, alley, and informant seemed to dissolve into smoke as soon as the word “Scourge” was whispered.

On the third night, desperate and sleep-deprived, they ended up in a bar so dingy even John hesitated before walking through the door. The clientele was half mercenary, half washed-up dream, the lighting so low you could barely see the stains on the floor

They picked a table as far from the bar as possible, pressed up against a graffiti-scrawled brick wall beneath a sputtering neon sign that flickered Tiger’s Maw in uneven blue and red. The room was a haze of cigarette smoke and cheap incense, the air thick with the sound of a broken jukebox cycling through old Motown and angry Cantonese karaoke. The floors stuck underfoot, every surface was stained or chipped, and the regulars looked like they’d stab you for your shoes—or, at the very least, your drink.

Eli leaned back in his chair, surveying the crowd with an easy smile. “I kinda like this place,” he murmured, nodding to the bar, where a tattooed bartender polished glasses with the air of a condemned man.

John scowled, arms crossed. “You would. I can smell the mildew from here. And I’m pretty sure that guy at the door just checked to see if I was on a bounty list.”

Sam, running on too little sleep and too much adrenaline, ignored them both. He was already laying out photos and notes on their scarred table, eyes scanning the room for anyone listening in.

They weren’t exactly inconspicuous. Three out-of-towners, all in better shape than the rest of the clientele, keeping their voices low. It didn’t take long before someone took notice. At the next table, half-swallowed by the darkness, sat a woman—She slid into their circle so smoothly Eli didn’t even see her coming. Mid-sixties, lean muscle beneath a battered bomber jacket, white hair tied in a loose braid, half her lipstick smeared off. The sort of woman you imagine could knock you flat with a broken pool cue—or buy you a drink and teach you how to win at cards.

“Mind if I join, gentlemen?” she asked, voice raspy and thick with whiskey. She didn’t wait for an answer, just pulled up a chair and grinned, showing off a gold canine tooth. “Saw you boys looking lost.”

John eyed her, unimpressed. “We’re good. Just talking.”

She waved him off, already leaning toward Sam with the easy boldness of someone long past embarrassment. “No need to be shy. Name’s Reggie Hennings—ex-military, ex-lots of things, depending who’s asking. I landed in Madripoor after some bad luck and a couple worse men. Been here so long, the rats know my face.” She cackled, the sound bouncing off the sticky walls.

Sam raised an eyebrow, John, thrown off for all of half a second, tried a smile. “You here to offer us a tour, grandma?”

She snorted, her laugh unbothered. “Careful, son. I’ve killed men for less and bought drinks for worse.” She leaned in, patting John’s cheek with a hand heavy with rings before turning to Sam. “You three keep saying ‘Scourge’ like you want him to hear you. Not many walk away from a meeting with that one.”

Eli stifled a snort, mumbling, “John, she’s about to sweep you off your feet.”

Ignoring them, Sam caught the woman’s eye. “You know him?”

Reggie’s eyes narrowed with interest, lips quirking. “You don’t waste time, do you, sweetheart?” She propped her elbows on the table. “Yeah, I know him. Everyone in Madripoor’s heard of the Scourge, Guy’s a legend. Shows up when the price is right, disappears when the heat’s on. You’re not the first to come sniffing around.”

Eli leaned in, lowering his voice. “Can you get us a meeting?”

She grinned, and it was as much challenge as invitation. “Maybe I could, I know where his fixer drinks, sometimes. But things in Madripoor don’t come free. You want info on him? I’ll need something in return.”

Sam exchanged a look with John, cautious. “Name it.”

Reggie glanced around, lowering her own voice conspiratorially. “I’ve got a son. Stupid kid got himself into debt with the wrong crowd. If you can get him a way out—a ticket, fake passport, enough cash to get clear—I’ll make the introductions. I just want him out before he ends up like the rest of these poor bastards.” Her eyes lingered on Sam.

John grunted, glancing at Sam. “Well, Cap, you wanted local connections. Can’t get more local than that.”

Eli snickered. “This is still the most normal conversation we’ve had in Madripoor.”

Reggie ignored them, turning to Sam. “So, you in? I’ll make the call tonight.”

Sam nodded slowly, jaw tight with resolve. “You help us find this guy, we’ll make sure your kid gets out safe. That’s a promise.”

Reggie grinned, relief breaking through her bluster. “Alright, Captain. I’ll send you a text with the details. Don’t go wandering off—this place gets hungry after midnight.”

As she pushed back from the table, giving John a wink that left him visibly uncomfortable, Eli looked at Sam, deadpan. “You think she’ll set us up, or is she trying to seduce John?”

John gave them both a sour look. “I’d rather take my chances with Scourge.”

Chapter Text

Before they left the Tiger’s Maw, Reggie pressed a small slip of paper into Sam’s palm, her hand lingering for a heartbeat. Her whiskey-soaked voice was quiet in his ear, just loud enough for him alone: “Warehouse 41, South Docks. Midnight. If you’re lucky, you’ll get your man. If you’re not—keep your heads down. König ( that’s His name) doesn’t like guests.” She gave a crooked smile that faded as quickly as it came, then vanished into the bar’s haze, leaving the three Americans to their nerves and second guesses.

The next night, the docks were a cathedral of shadows and cold salt air, the noise of the city filtered down to distant sirens and the occasional echo of laughter from the shantytown behind the warehouses. Warehouse 41 loomed ahead, a long, rusted shell with shattered windows and battered loading doors that looked like they’d weathered every storm since the Second World War.

Sam scanned the lot, jaw tight, his shield hidden beneath a canvas duffel. John stalked the perimeter with a hunter’s frustration, glancing at every patch of darkness. “Wide open,” he muttered. “If this is a trap, it’s a damn good one.”

Eli hovered just outside the pool of light from a flickering lamp post, the hood of his jacket pulled low. “I’m starting to think your friend Reggie just set us up,” he said, kicking an empty can with enough force to launch it into a nearby trash bin. “Couldn’t she have picked somewhere less cliché?”

Sam’s voice was low. “If König’s as smart as his rep, he picked the ground for a reason.”

A minute ticked by. Then another.

Suddenly, John froze mid-step, an uneasy prickle dancing up his spine. A shape detached from the darkness behind a stack of shipping crates. By the time John turned, the man was already within arm’s reach.

broad-shouldered, easily six-foot-four, with a steady, ground-eating stride that suggested military discipline in every movement. König wore heavy boots and a battered black field jacket that fit him like it had survived a decade of wars. His build was unmistakable: the kind of muscle that came from decades of training rather than any serum, his posture unhurried, almost casual. A tactical scarf covered most of his face, but you could see a scar nicking his right eyebrow, and a mess of pale blond hair was barely tamed beneath a wool cap. His eyes, icy blue, swept over the three. There was a quiet amusement in the set of his brow.

Sam braced himself, chin lifted, every sense on high alert—but König just cocked his head, studying the shield bag at Sam’s side, then the other two men, almost as if he were reviewing their stats in his head. When he finally spoke, his accent carried faint traces of Germany. “Captain America. Mr. Walker. And you—Patriot, yes?” He nodded once to Eli, who shot him a wary look. “It’s not every night I get visitors with such fine reputations.”

Eli nudged Sam, muttering, “He’s way too chill for a guy who shoots people for a living.”

König’s eyes glinted with wry humor. “Relax, kid. If I wanted you dead, we’d be having a very different conversation.”

Sam didn’t blink. “We came for a conversation, not a fight. You know who I am and why we’re here.”

König’s gaze dropped to Sam’s shield duffel, then flicked back up. “You want to ask about the Barnes job. You’re late. I don’t usually accept encores.” He smiled—if you could call the slight upturn behind the scarf a smile. “But I’m curious, so. You get three questions.”

Sam nodded, every word deliberate. “Fine—who hired you to kill Bucky Barnes?”

König tilted his head, considering. “Anonymous contract. All digital. Funds routed through shell corps—No direct contact. That’s how it works, Captain. Clean hands, clean conscience.”

Sam pressed on. “The bullet—you know who made it? It wasn’t from Madripoor.”

A flicker of something close to respect passed over König’s face. “You’ve done your homework. The round came Stateside. American-made. Whoever wanted the job done came from closer to home than you realize.”

John folded his arms, voice edged with irritation. “So, why’d you take the job? Out of all the contracts in this hellhole”

König shrugged, and for a moment his shoulders relaxed. “The winter soldier is a legend in Madripoor. Plenty of people want him gone. It was a big payout, every detail arranged—including the bullet. But honestly?” He smirked beneath his scarf, a spark of something like regret in his eyes. “I’d have preferred a real fight. There’s not many left I’d be curious to test myself against. But work is work—and the quickest path is usually the cleanest.” He looked to John. “If it makes you feel better, Walker, I don’t take pride in killing from the shadows. It’s just part of the job.”

John bristled. “Yeah, well, you caught him at his worst. Not exactly a fair fight.”

König met John’s stare with a flat, unwavering calm. “The world doesn’t care about fair, friend. The job was never to challenge him. It was to erase him. If you want a duel, try the ring.”

Eli, arms crossed, rolled his eyes. “So why the hell did you agree to meet us, anyway? This could’ve been a trap.”

König’s eyes sparkled, and he inclined his head in quiet amusement. “Ah, that was your third question, wasn’t it?” His gaze flicked to Sam. “I do have a weakness for men who still fight for something. Besides, it’s not every night the Star-Spangled Man himself sends out a personal invite.” He swept his glance over the group, lingering on John just long enough for the jab to land. “And I admit, it’s been a genuine pleasure to meet Captain America—and his very determined copy.” He gave John a small, mock salute, the gesture loaded with mischief.

John’s jaw dropped, indignation flaring. “Oh, come on. ‘Copy’? I had the damn shield first, you know!” He gestured between himself and Sam.

Eli exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t know what creeps me out more—the fact he’s right, or the fact he didn’t bother to cover his tracks.”

Sam glanced at Eli. “Get on the phone. We’re leaving Madripoor, we need to know who in the States is pulling these strings.”

Eli just nodded. “On it.”

Chapter Text

John grumbled about the “privilege” of driving a battered Madripoor rental through winding, neon-lit streets, one hand tight on the wheel and the other gesturing as he complained, “You know, I don’t even have a valid license for this country, Sam. You want us all locked up, or is that just bonus points for you?”

Sam ignored him, thumb already flying over his phone as he dialed Torres. The call picked up after two rings, Torres’s voice carrying a tired edge. “Yeah, Cap? You alive? You’re not calling from a jail cell, right?”

“Not yet,” Sam said, glancing out the window at the blurred lights, letting a half-smile play on his lips. “But Listen up—we found the Broker, finally, after a wild goose chase that nearly ended with John here making a new enemy at every bar in town. Made him sing. Got us a meet with the guy who shot Bucky.”

John shot Sam a dirty look in the rearview mirror.

There was a brief, shocked silence on the line before Torres could process it. “Wait, wait, wait. You let the bastard who shot Bucky just… walk away? Man, Sam, are you serious? I would’ve—hell, I don’t even know. Thrown him through a window, at least.”

Sam’s tone dropped, steady and cold. “Yeah, well… it did the trick. A woman gave us a name—said the shooter’s called König. We actually met the guy, face to face. He’s pure pro, man—works for whoever pays the most, doesn’t give a damn about sides. Just wants the cash and a good hunt. And get this: he said whoever hired him to take out Bucky knew exactly where to hit us. The bullet is american-made.”

On the other end, Torres blew out a breath. “Shit. So what, you just let him go? Cap, I gotta say—that’s a new one for the rulebook.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Trust me, I’m not happy about it. But you know how it works out here. Madripoor’s got its own set of laws, and right now, getting answers matters more than busting heads. König gave us what he had. Whoever’s behind this—they’re close. What about you?”

Torres sounded tired. “Over here, things are… complicated. Yelena’s running Valentina through every database, and Alexei’s convinced she’s got a mole in D.C.—won’t shut up about it. Ava’s hacking through shell companies, but so far, everything leads to dead ends or shell corps linked to someone in the Secretary of State’s office. We’re closing in, but it’s slippery.”

Sam rubbed his brow, letting the information sink in, but couldn’t keep the fatigue from his voice when he finally asked, “Anything new with Bucky?”

There was a long, softer pause. Torres’s voice came back lower. “No real change, man. Cho’s in there every hour, tweaking meds, watching the infection. She says the cryo is keeping things from getting worse, but his brain… it’s still a mess. The swelling’s gone down a little, vitals are holding, but… no wake-up call yet. Sorry, Sam.”

Sam stared at the passing cityscape, jaw clenched, the weight of it all pressing down. He didn’t speak for a moment, and even John risked a glance his way, reading the disappointment in Sam’s eyes before looking quickly back at the road.

Torres added, voice softer, “We’re not giving up, all right? He’s stubborn. He’ll pull through.”

Sam cleared his throat, the emotion raw but unspoken. “Yeah. He always does. Keep me posted.”

“Promise,” Torres replied quietly. “If anything changes, you’ll know.”

“Good. And listen,” Sam added, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll have a job for you when we’re back stateside—the woman who did us a favor in Madripoor. Name’s Reggie. Helped us get eyes on König. She needs a hand with her kid. I told her you were the man for it.”

There was a pause, then Torres’s usual spark crept in. “You’re sending me to do childcare, Cap?”

Sam couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Yeah, Joaquin. Consider it your big superhero assignment. I’ll fill you in when I’m back.”

“Copy that.”

Sam ended the call with a tired sigh, letting his head rest against the cool window. The city lights smeared into blurred constellations on the glass, every streetlamp marking time he couldn’t get back. Eli was out cold in the backseat, sprawled in a loose heap, his phone forgotten against his chest. John’s knuckles were white on the wheel, the silence heavy between them, pressing at the edges.

For a long while, neither spoke. The hum of the engine filled the void, Madripoor shrinking away in the rearview. At last, John broke the quiet.

“You know, Sam, it’s not lost on me how much this is costing you. Being here, chasing down leads in the dark, when the whole damn country’s looking for a headline from Captain America.” He didn’t look over, just kept his eyes fixed on the road, the reflection of neon tracing his jaw. “But you’re here anyway. Says a lot.”

Sam turned, surprised by the softness in John’s tone.

He let out a long breath, the words rough in his throat. “Bucky’s a pain in the ass, you know that? But—he matters. Even when he’s impossible. And I—” He stopped, shaking his head. “I screwed up, John. I let all this shit between us get bigger than it needed to be. I kept waiting for the right moment to fix it, but now—hell, now I might be—”

John cut him off, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “—too late.” The two words landed with a quiet finality that said he knew exactly what Sam was feeling.

John exhaled slowly, staring ahead, his own regret bleeding through. “I know what that feels like. Lemar… There’s not a day goes by I don’t wish I’d told him I was sorry. That I’d been a better friend. But life doesn’t hand out do-overs, Sam. You screw up, you hurt people, and sometimes you don’t get the chance to put it right.”

He hesitated, the weight of memory thick in his voice. “I learned that the hard way. Thought I could live up to that shield, fix the world with my bare hands. All I did was break things. Lost my family, lost my self-respect. But you—” John shot him a sidelong look, surprising Sam with how sincere it was. “You know what makes a real Captain America? It’s not never falling. It’s getting up after you do. Owning your mess. Fighting like hell to make it right, even when it’s ugly.”

For a minute, Sam didn’t say anything. The city lights flickered over them, painting both their faces in restless gold. He felt the words settle somewhere deep, the truth of them uncomfortable but real.

“Yeah,” Sam said finally, his voice quieter than he meant. “I guess that’s all any of us can do, huh?”

John kept his hands tight on the wheel, eyes fixed forward. “Look… Maybe it’s not as broken as you think. You and bucky—you’ve got history. That’s not the sort of thing that shatters overnight. Might be cracked to hell, sure, but not beyond fixing.”

Sam let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I wish I could believe that as easy as you say it. I’m not exactly feelin’ like Mr. Silver Lining tonight, you know?” The streetlights flashed over his face, shadows stretching the worry across his brow.

John shrugged, a quiet smile threatening at the edge of his mouth. “I get it. Optimism’s not really my thing either. But… listen, before the shit hit the fan between you two, Bucky—he’d talk about you more than he talked about anybody. Not that he’d admit it, but anytime your name came up, he’d get this look.” John risked a glance over, more serious than Sam had ever seen him. “Guy would defend you to the grave. Called you family. After the fallout? Hell, he turned into a ghost of himself for a while. Wouldn’t say two words for days. But he still watched every damn press conference you gave, caught every news segment when they said you were injured, or out in the field. He never really stopped worrying about you—even if he acted like he’d moved on.”

Sam stared, mouth half-open. He hadn’t expected that kind of loyalty from Bucky, not after the way they’d left things.

John continued, softer now. “I saw it. Living with him for months, you start to notice things. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s got a tell, you know? It’s in the eyes.”

Sam huffed, voice tinged with regret. “I’m a damn idiot, John. I should’ve seen it. Should’ve… done better.”

John’s tone turned reassuring. “Don’t start digging your grave yet. It’s not over. He’ll wake up. And when he does, you’ll get your shot to say all that stuff. I mean, don’t get me wrong—he’ll probably give you hell for a while, maybe freeze you out just to make a point. But the man’s got a soft spot for lost causes. And making up with you? He won’t be able to resist that forever.”

Sam shook his head, a slow, rueful smile finally pulling at his lips. “You almost sound like you like him, John.”

John snorted. “Don’t let it get around. But yeah… turns out, living with a pack of assassins is the weirdest kind of therapy. Teamwork wasn’t exactly our strong suit at first—Ava tried to kill me twice, and not even in a cute way. Arguments every day, trust issues, whole mess of old wounds. But bucky—he was the one who kept us together. Gave us a reason to stick it out. That’s something, right?”

Sam let the quiet settle, thinking about everything John had just said. “Yeah. That’s something. Maybe a second chance ain’t so far out of reach.”

John cracked a smile, half-grim, half hopeful. “If it is, at least we’re all in hell together. Wouldn’t trade this madhouse for anything else right now.”

Chapter Text

The city lights bled past the car windows, washing their faces in sickly gold and passing neon. John kept one hand tight on the wheel, the other drumming an anxious rhythm on the dashboard. His words hung in the air, lingering in the soft darkness between them. For a moment, the only sound was the muted hum of tires on blacktop, the faint, breathy snore of Eli sprawled in the back.

Sam let the silence stretch, his own thoughts circling like vultures. Finally, he spoke. “You ever think about how we got here?” He shook his head, lips pressed thin. “Hell, if you’d told me three years ago I’d be sitting in a car with you, talking about second chances, I’d have laughed in your face. Or maybe punched it.”

John gave a tired grin. “Trust me, nobody’s more surprised than me. Last time I got this sentimental I was wearing the stars and stripes, and that… didn’t end so well.” He stared into the darkness, jaw set. “But I figure we get one shot to pull ourselves out of the wreckage. Bucky figured that out before any of us.”

Sam’s eyes flicked over. “Yeah. Bucky always could see the good in people—even when they didn’t deserve it. Guess I should take a page outta his playbook, huh?”

From the backseat, there was the creak of old leather and the soft scuff of Eli shifting awake. He blinked, disoriented, catching the tail end of John’s confession.

Eli finally piped up, voice soft but certain. “You two really are a mess. Good thing you’ve got each other.”

Sam turned, surprise flickering in his expression. “Thought you were asleep back there.”

Eli grinned, shifting his legs and sitting up, rubbing at his eyes. “I was. Then you guys got all deep and heavy. Couldn’t sleep through the sound of grown men facing their feelings.”

John snorted. “Kid, get used to it. There’s a lot of that around here lately.”

Sam let his gaze return to the blur of passing streetlights, but some of the weight in his shoulders seemed to ease. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t quit, John.”

John offered a half-smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

Eli, already drifting again, mumbled from the back seat, “Don’t get too sappy. Still gotta find out who tried to kill Bucky before we all start singing kumbaya.”

The three of them rode in silence, city sliding by outside, each man alone with his thoughts—but not as alone as before.

A few days later

The air in the meeting room felt thick as Sam stood at the head of the table, eyes weary from the restless days and sleepless nights since returning from Madripoor with John and Eli. Every face around the table was fixed upon him.

“So, here’s what we know,” Sam began firmly, leaning slightly forward onto his knuckles. “The bullet used against Bucky wasn’t some exotic import—this thing was manufactured right here in the States.”

Murmurs erupted, disbelief echoing softly around the table. Torres cleared his throat, stepping forward as Friday’s blue-tinged holograms flickered sharply to life.

“Specifically, the bullet was assembled at a covert facility just a few hours away from here, under military cover,” Torres said, his voice tense but controlled as he activated the holographic display. Blueprints and diagrams floated in the air, sharp and damning in their clarity.

“We know the substance involved—it’s from Project Nightshade, originally developed as part of a classified military initiative.” Torres flicked another hologram forward, revealing an older, heavily redacted document stamped TOP SECRET.

“Project Nightshade was an initiative launched by the government initially back in 2009. Its primary asset was an experimental compound: the Anti-Serum Suppressor Round—nicknamed the Nightshade Bullet. Designed specifically to neutralize enhanced individuals—super soldiers and mutants alike—by rapidly incapacitating their healing and regenerative abilities. Essentially, the bullet turns their own bodies against them, triggering catastrophic cellular breakdown and neurological damage.”

“Jesus,” muttered John darkly, his jaw clenched tight. Yelena’s fingers twitched reflexively, her eyes sharpening with barely concealed anger.

Torres nodded grimly, continuing, “The original project was classified and later abandoned due to severe ethical concerns. It fell under Pierce’s jurisdiction during his tenure, but after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, the whole initiative was reportedly scrapped and all existing samples were ordered destroyed.”

Ava’s gaze narrowed. “But obviously, that didn’t happen.”

Torres swiped the hologram again, bringing up another document marked with red lines and annotations. “Exactly. Official reports claim the complete destruction of every existing sample of the Nightshade formula, but we have proof here—some slipped through the cracks. More disturbingly, recent evidence has surfaced indicating the project’s secret revival.”

The room went silent as Torres displayed the final document—recently dated, deeply encrypted, and heavily censored. “It seems someone within the government recently authorized a black ops reboot of Project Nightshade, focusing exclusively on targeting enhanced individuals. This time, however, the compound has been heavily modified, its potency significantly increased.”

Sam stepped forward again, arms crossed tightly as his voice dropped lower. “They had insider access to the highest level of government secrets. And right now, we can’t trace it back directly to anyone specific.”

“But we’re certain of one thing,” Torres concluded, turning to face them all, expression solemn. “Officially or unofficially, someone high up wanted bucky dead.”

A chilling silence filled the room, broken finally by Sam’s quiet yet steely resolve:

“We’re going to find who authorized this, and we’re going to hold them accountable—no matter how high up the chain we have to climb.”

The meeting had eventually drawn to a close, each participant slipping away into their own contemplative silence, leaving Sam with an undeniable pull toward the medical wing. He navigated the heavily fortified corridors, security protocols humming quietly as they authenticated his presence, allowing him to approach the cryogenic pod where Bucky lay.

Sam stepped into the sterile chamber, the quiet hiss of machinery his only greeting. The pod stood prominently, sleek Wakandan technology humming softly, its surface cloaked in a thin layer of condensation. Through the frosted glass, Bucky appeared peaceful—an illusion that tugged sharply at Sam’s heart. It felt disturbingly akin to staring through a window in time, freezing a moment Sam desperately wished never existed.

Resting his palm against the cool exterior of the capsule, Sam’s gaze dropped to the monitors flickering with vital statistics. Heart rate stable, neural activity minimal, but the stubborn indicators for infection and inflammation remained troublingly elevated. He sighed deeply, frustration and helplessness heavy on his chest.

“You stubborn bastard,” Sam whispered. “I swear, buck, if you don’t hurry up and beat this thing, I’ll kick your sorry ass myself when you finally decide to wake up. You’ve made your point, okay? I messed up. I need you here, yelling at me, not stuck in some damn frozen coffin.”

Sam’s voice trailed off, his throat tight as his knuckles gently rapped against the pod. Time lost its meaning as he stood there, half-expecting Bucky’s eyes to flicker open, a smirk emerging on his face, ready with a sarcastic retort.

The quiet whoosh of the automated door behind him signaled Cho’s arrival, her gentle footsteps echoing softly across the polished floor. She stopped beside him, gaze compassionate yet direct. Sam didn’t look at her, continuing to stare at Bucky’s motionless form.

“Any change?” he asked quietly.

Cho exhaled gently, her tone patient but mildly amused. “Sam, that’s the seventh time in four days you’ve asked me. Trust me, the second anything changes, you’ll be the first to know. But patience is key here.”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “Patience was never Bucky’s strong suit. And now it’s not mine either.” He paused briefly, a hint of worry creeping into his voice. “Do you think he dreams in there?”

Cho hesitated, her expression thoughtful as she looked at the pod. “Honestly, I hope not. Considering his past, dreams might not exactly be pleasant right now.”

Sam’s jaw tightened slightly at the thought, guilt flaring sharply within him. Cho seemed to sense it immediately, her hand striking his shoulder with surprising force, drawing an exaggerated wince from him.

“Ow! Jesus, Cho, did you have to hit me that hard?” Sam protested, rubbing his shoulder.

She gave him a pointed look. “Enough of the guilt-tripping, Sam. Punishing yourself isn’t helping him or you. Science and medicine can do only so much. Trust the process and focus on what you can control.”

Sam sighed deeply. “I know,” he admitted reluctantly. “It’s just…I can’t help but feel responsible.”

Cho’s features softened slightly. “Bucky’s strong, and he’s already made it further than most would have in his situation. But the reality is, we might be looking at weeks, even months, before the pod signals that he’s ready to come out safely. We need to trust the technology—and trust Bucky.”

He nodded, his gaze once more drawn to the still figure encased in the futuristic machine. “Yeah, well, he better hurry. I’ve got one hell of an apology waiting for him.”

Cho smiled softly, turning to leave Sam with his thoughts. “I’m sure he already knows.”

As they stepped out into the corridor, the hush of the medbay replaced by the even quieter echo of their footsteps, Sam lingered beside Cho, arms folded tight across his chest. Every time he walked away from Bucky’s pod, it felt like leaving something vital behind. He tried to ignore it, tried not to glance back over his shoulder, but habit—and worry—held him in place longer than he’d meant.

It was then that a figure appeared at the far end of the hallway, moving with the careful purpose of someone who belonged, but Sam’s instincts flared. The man was tall, lean, with deep brown skin and the proud bearing that spoke of Wakandan heritage. His black technician’s jacket was crisp and new, bearing the familiar vibranium-inlaid sigil of the Panther on one shoulder. His hair was cropped short, and his eyes flicked to Sam and Cho with polite deference.

Sam’s jaw tightened. “Hey—hold up,” he called, stepping forward. “You need something? This wing’s locked tight, friend.”

The technician paused, holding out a slim ID badge and a sleek Wakandan datapad. He answered, “captain, I am Kofi Nkosi, here at Princess Shuri’s request. I’ve been sent to run a systems diagnostic on the cryogenic pod—just routine maintenance, nothing more.” His smile was small and carefully nervous.

Sam didn’t move. “Routine, huh? Funny, I don’t recall any visits being cleared with me.”

Cho touched Sam’s arm—gentle. “Sam. It’s fine. Shuri mentioned sending someone, and I gave authorization a few days ago. He’s just here for the capsule’s systems—I don’t handle half that Wakandan tech, and you don’t want me pretending I do.”

Sam, not entirely reassured, nodded stiffly. “Don’t touch anything except the capsule. And Friday is watching, so no funny business.” He shot a look at the overhead camera.

Kofi dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Understood, Captain Wilson.”

Cho gave Sam a look—part amusement, part warning—then shepherded him down the hall, their voices fading as they turned a corner. Kofi waited a beat, eyes following their retreat, then palmed his access chip and stepped into the cryogenics chamber.

Inside the sterile glow of the cryogenics chamber, the Wakandan technician—Kofi—closed the door behind him, the hiss of the seal almost theatrical in the silence.

Kofi’s polite, almost timid smile vanished the instant he was alone. His entire posture changed: shoulders squaring, jaw setting with cold precision. He glanced once at the overhead camera, then at the frozen figure in the pod.

Slowly his lips twisted in a cruel half-smirk, eyes filled with a dark amusement.

He did not utter a word. Instead, keeping one eye on the cameras, he slid his hand into his jacket and drew out a compact device—just enough to catch a glint of metal in the blue light, his thumb caressing its side with unsettling familiarity. He studied it, his gaze reflecting a private satisfaction, then, careful not to give Friday’s sensors any reason to flag his movements, slipped the device quietly back into his pocket.

He gave one final, mocking nod toward the glass, then composed himself, resuming the mask of the dutiful technician.

Bucky was not as safe as they all believed.

Chapter Text

A month later,

The atmosphere inside the Compound was tight. Frustration radiated from every corner: a storm building beyond the reinforced windows, the media swirling with rumors and whispers.

It was only a matter of time before Torres cornered Sam, quite literally, in the lounge. Sam had been halfway out the door, muttering something about a lead with John and Ava, when Torres appeared in the hallway like a tactical roadblock.

“Sit down, Sam. Right now.” The kid’s voice had that crisp, don’t-even-try-me tone that Sam usually reserved for unruly senators and stubborn supervillains.

Sam, exasperated, tried to keep walking. “Torres, I really don’t have—”

Joaquin physically shoved him onto the couch, both hands braced on Sam’s shoulders, exaggerated and a little theatrical, but it did the trick. “Nope. You’re gonna plant your ass right there and look at this. Seriously, man—do not make me use the puppy-dog eyes.”

Sam scowled, but didn’t fight it—he was too tired. “This better not be another meme, Torres, or I’m gonna—”

Joaquin shoved his phone under Sam’s nose, the headline glaring in bold, merciless letters: CAPTAIN AMERICA MISSING IN ACTION—WHERE WAS THE HERO WHEN THE CITY FELL? Underneath, a grainy photo of a collapsed apartment building, all concrete dust and twisted metal. Civilians weeping. Rescue crews overwhelmed.

Sam’s lips tightened, jaw flexing. “Damn it…”

Torres didn’t give him time to stew. “You see why I called you in? That’s the third article like this in two days. It’s blowing up, man. The comments section’s a dumpster fire. People need you. They need to see you. You gotta show your face. Make a statement. Anything.”

Sam let out a long breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You think I don’t know that? I just… There’s too much right now. Whoever set up Bucky—they’re still out there. I can’t just pretend everything’s normal.”

Torres crossed his arms. “No one’s asking you to pretend, Sam. But you can’t disappear on people. They’re scared. They’re looking for hope, and you’re it. I get it, you’re worried about Bucky—I am too, you know I am—but he’s safe. The medbay’s locked down tighter than Fort Knox, and Cho says he’s finally turning a corner. She’s starting the new round of treatments today. Infection’s almost gone. The serum’s kicking back in. We’re not out of the woods, but he’s a hell of a lot better than a month ago.”

Sam’s reply was bitter. “He’s still in that damn icebox, Torres. Until he’s out, I can’t—”

Joaquin just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He’ll be out soon. Cho knows what she’s doing, Sam, and you know it. Right now, he’s safer in there than out here. I’m not saying you gotta start doing dance numbers for the cameras, but you can’t hide. Not if you want the country to have your back when this mess finally hits daylight. And the brass are already on my ass about your schedule, so please, just—think about it.”

Sam glared at the phone for a moment longer, then dropped it onto the coffee table. “Fine. I’ll do the damn press thing.”

Torres finally set his phone aside, exhaling with obvious relief. “Thanks, Sam. Really. I’ll get things rolling on the press side—leave the rest to me.”

Sam shook his head, his lips quirking despite the tension. “Yeah, okay.”

With that, he pushed up from the couch, straightening his shoulders as if he could will the weight away. “I’ve got stuff to finish. Set up the press conference—let’s get this circus over with.” Torres answered with a grin and an exaggerated thumbs-up, and Sam rolled his eyes before heading for the door, the faintest smirk cutting through the worry.

The air outside was crisp, the sky threatening rain. Sam crossed the parking lot, spotting John and Ava leaning against the side of their battered black SUV, mid-argument about the best way to tail a senator without being noticed. At least, Sam thought, they looked more like a pair of tourists arguing over a rental car than the world’s least subtle spies.

John spotted him first. “About time! What’d you do, write a memoir in there?” He popped the trunk with his heel, clearly eager to get moving.

Ava, arms crossed and brow arched, gave Sam a once-over. “Torres give you another lecture? He’s getting good at those. Should promote him to Captain Side-Eye.”

Sam winced, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, something like that. Kid’s got more nerve than most Congressmen. And apparently, I can’t ignore my job as Captain America, even when my best friend’s stuck on ice.”

John gave him a solid clap on the back—one that was meant to be comforting but nearly rattled Sam’s teeth loose. “That’s the spirit. You handle the stars and stripes, let us play in the shadows. I know you like to do everything yourself, but hey—teamwork, right?” He grinned, almost proud.

Sam shot him a skeptical look. “Right. Because that’s what you Thunderbolts are famous for…Teamwork.”

Ava snorted. “He’s got you there, John.”

John ignored her, undeterred. “Look, man, you gotta trust us. If you keep hovering, whoever’s behind this might get scared off. If they think you’re distracted, maybe they’ll slip. And we’ll be ready. Or, you know, as ready as a bunch of half-reformed lunatics can be.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “That supposed to reassure me?”

Ava deadpanned, “Depends—does the phrase ‘controlled chaos’ make you feel better or worse?”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I feel like I’m gonna regret this?”

John shrugged, slipping behind the wheel. “Because you’re not wrong. But trust us. You go play the good soldier for the cameras. We’ll handle the dirty work.”

Ava slid into the passenger seat, glancing back at Sam with a rare glimmer of sympathy. “Let Yelena and Alexei work on Valentina. They’ve got a way of making people talk. Especially when vodka and threats are involved.”

John, already buckling up, grinned in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, just remind them not to burn down half the city this time.”

Sam dropped into the back seat with a frustrated sigh, rubbing his eyes. “That’s not what I wanted. Any of this.” He looked out the window as they pulled out.

John kept his eyes on the road but didn’t hide his curiosity. “You wanna say what’s eating at you, or should I just guess?”

Sam shook his head, his voice low. “I don’t like splitting things up this way. Me out front, you all in the shadows. It’s exactly the crap Bucky used to hate. He was right—I got to be the poster boy, he was the one getting blood on his hands. It’s not what I signed up for, man.”

Ava twisted around in the passenger seat, her tone flat but not unkind. “Sam, nobody forced this. You think we want to play at being ghosts again? Hell no. But you’re Captain America. People need to see you. We can handle the dirt for a while. we’re choosing it, because we’re good at it. And because, let’s be honest, nobody trusts us with a press conference.” She shot John a sidelong glance, lips quirking.

John shrugged, lips twitching with a rueful grin. “She’s not wrong. You put me in front of the cameras and there’ll be a diplomatic incident before the second question. Might as well let us do what we do best, Pretty sure Bucky would call you an idiot for even thinking about ditching your job. And he’d tell us to let you talk to the cameras while we get our hands dirty. He hated it, yeah, but he also got why it worked.”

Sam tried to laugh but it came out tired. “Bucky’d kill me for agreeing to this.”

Ava rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile slipping through. “Let’s not pretend you don’t like the spotlight just a little. But that’s not what this is about. We do this as a team—even if it means half the team’s off the grid for now.”

The city lights slid by in silence for a beat. John drummed his fingers on the wheel, then nodded, voice quieter. “We’re not perfect, but we’ve got your back.”

Sam glanced out the window, the skyline reflected in his eyes. “Fine. Let’s get it done.”

John nodded, eyes hardening with resolve. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Cap.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, the briefing room at the Smithsonian was packed wall to wall, every seat filled with reporters, and a knot of civilians who’d been lucky—or unlucky—enough to snag a spot. Television cameras lined the back, red lights blinking, a forest of microphones bristled from the dais, the American flag hanging heavy behind the podium.

Sam adjusted his tie, nodded once to Torres—standing tall and stone-faced at his side—and stepped up to the mic. The flashbulbs detonated instantly, a rolling thunder of shutters and staccato questions fired before he’d even opened his mouth.

“Captain Wilson! Can you explain your extended absence from public duty?”

“Captain, is it true that you haven’t attended over a dozen major disaster responses in the last month? Why are you neglecting your role as Captain America?”

“How do you answer the citizens who say they feel abandoned? Do you have a message for the families of those lost in the Parkside Tower collapse?”

Sam take a big breath. “I want to be clear: I know what this shield stands for. And I know what people expect from me. No one is more frustrated than I am that I couldn’t be everywhere, every time. But my responsibilities don’t stop at the cameras.”

The room hummed, journalists scribbling notes. Someone from the Post shouted over the heads of the crowd.

“Can you comment on reports that sergeant Barnes, is in critical condition after an attack? Is this why you’ve been absent? Who’s responsible?”

Sam held up a hand, his voice cutting cleanly through the clamor. “All right, listen—there’s a lot of rumors and a lot of speculation flying around. Don’t believe everything you read online. An official investigation is ongoing, and until it’s complete, those details will remain confidential. Sergeant Barnes’ health and privacy come first, and I won’t go further into it.”

A murmur swept through the hall—Sam’s jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, the whole room stilled. Even Torres shifted, eyes darting sideways.

“Captain, reports say your relationship with Sergeant Barnes and the Thunderbolts has been… strained. Is it true?”

“Can you clarify your current working relationship with the so-called New Avengers?”

Sam met their questions head-on, this time his tone more reflective, almost weary. “You know, like anyone, I reacted with a lot of emotion and, honestly, not enough patience. There were misunderstandings—mistakes, on all sides. We’re working through them. Things are settling down. I’m not here to air private matters in public, but I’ll say this: I was wrong to turn my back on good people because I was angry. I should’ve known better.”

Another reporter piped up, voice sharp. “Are you saying the Thunderbolts are fully trusted by Captain America now? Can the public trust them too, after everything that’s happened?”

Sam didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. People deserve a shot at redemption—and that goes for every member of my team. I’m asking you all to give them that chance. Like you gave me.”

The cameras zoomed in, catching every flicker of emotion on his face. “We don’t always get to choose the people who save us, or the ones we have to save. What matters is that when the time comes, we’re there for each other.”

The crowd stirred, a wave of tension rippling through the gathered faces. Some murmured angrily, shouts of disbelief and skepticism cutting sharply through the air. But Sam couldn’t hide the subtle smile that formed when he saw another large portion of the crowd nodding thoughtfully, understanding and approval reflected in their eyes. He knew that change was never easy—especially when it challenged long-held perceptions—but it had to start somewhere.

Another reporter’s voice broke through the chaos, microphone thrust forward urgently. “Captain Wilson, are you suggesting the attack on Sergeant Barnes could have come from within our own government?”

Sam raised his hand firmly. “If someone comes after one of my own—no matter our differences, no matter how complicated things get—I will put everything on the line to ensure justice. Whoever decided Sergeant Barnes was a target and thought they could get away with it, better understand that I will personally see they face the full consequences of their actions, it’s a goddamn promise.”

An uneasy quiet fell, journalists exchanging glances, the realization clear in their eyes that this was a message, deliberately delivered. The message would find its intended recipient, Sam was sure of it.

He softened then, knowing he’d said enough to shake the trees and expose whatever might be hiding. “None of this means I’ve forgotten my duties as Captain America. I will always be here to protect and serve. Nothing changes that. And someday soon, I hope you’ll all see what I see in these New Avengers, and trust them the way you trusted me.”

Torres gave him a subtle signal from off-stage, tapping his watch meaningfully. Sam acknowledged him with a nod, stepping closer to the microphone one final time.

“I understand your doubts—I had them too. But just remember, none of us are perfect. I wasn’t exactly welcomed with open arms when I took this shield. But you gave me a chance. I’m just asking you to extend the same courtesy to people who are genuinely trying to make things right. That’s what being a hero means—not perfection, but striving every day to be better than we were yesterday.”

With that, Sam stepped away from the podium. Cameras flashed relentlessly, voices erupting once more, but Torres was quick to take his place, his voice clear and authoritative as he closed the conference.

“Thank you all for coming. No further questions will be answered today. Please follow security instructions and clear the area safely.”

As Sam strode backstage, Torres jogged after him, catching up swiftly and clasping a hand onto his shoulder, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Hey, that wasn’t half bad. I honestly expected something to explode.”

Sam chuckled softly, glancing sideways at Torres as he loosened his tie with a sigh of relief.

*————*

A few weeks had slipped by since Sam’s last uneasy encounter with the cameras, and despite the headlines finally cooling, tension remained as thick as ever behind the scenes. Sam had thrown himself back into the mantle of Captain America, eyes perpetually tired, but Torres shadowed him relentlessly—making damn sure his focus didn’t drift back to Bucky every ten minutes. It wasn’t easy. Nothing about this was easy. Meanwhile, the Thunderbolts kept chasing ghosts and names.

The only real spark of hope came from the medbay. Cho was cautiously optimistic for the first time in months. Every morning, she’d double-check the numbers and, with a quiet smile, announce that Bucky was nearly out of the woods. His wound had closed, though the scar would always be there, a blunt reminder of just how close they’d come. The infection was gone, his serum levels climbing, and all that remained was the unknown tangle inside his head. Cho warned everyone not to count their chickens—brain trauma was the one thing she couldn’t quantify.

Still, today wasn’t about that. Today was about finally pulling the curtain down on Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Sam was on patrol, when John’s number flashed across his phone. The message was as brief as it was electric:

We’ve got her. Full dossier. Time to pay Val a visit.

Within the hour, Sam called in the Thunderbolts. They converged in the underground parking of Langley’s east annex, a sleek, almost sterile CIA fortress—Valentina’s new lair, perched comfortably above any mortal jurisdiction. Yelena rolled her eyes at the fortress-like security. “It’s always the ones with something to hide who buy the biggest doors.”

John smirked, checking his phone again. “Relax. We’re not here to redecorate—unless she tries to run, then all bets are off.”

Ava stood beside Sam, arms crossed. “Let’s make this quick. I’d rather not end up on another federal watchlist today.”

Sam led the charge, Torres at his shoulder, the Thunderbolts spreading out in a loose V behind him. The elevator dinged and they swept down the glass hall, the kind of place meant to intimidate. At Valentina’s door, Sam didn’t bother with knocking—he just pushed it open, letting sunlight spill across the rug and startling a cluster of analysts outside.

Inside, Valentina was perched behind her mahogany desk, a picture of composed chaos: navy suit, hair perfect, her expression frozen for one priceless second in pure surprise before morphing into her trademark catlike calm.

“Captain America,” she drawled, folding her hands. “And the rest of the circus. If you’re here about my coffee budget, I’ll have you know it’s entirely above board.”

John snorted. “You wish. We’ve got more than receipts this time, Val.”

Sam didn’t sit. He leaned over her desk. “We need to talk. And this time, you’re not slipping out with a smirk. We’ve got proof, and a lot of questions. So you’re going to answer them, or we’ll drag this conversation all the way to the Senate floor.”

Yelena sauntered forward, dropping a file on the desk with a thud. “Maybe keep your hands where we can see them, too. Just in case you’re feeling creative.”

Valentina arched an eyebrow, scanning their faces—reading the room like a seasoned card shark. For a heartbeat, she seemed ready to deflect, but something in Sam’s expression made her reconsider.

She leaned back, lips curling into a practiced, insincere smile. “Fine. You want answers? Ask away. But let’s try not to break the furniture, hmm? It’s Italian.”

Chapter Text

Sam didn’t waste a second. “You know why we’re here, Valentina. Everything points to you. The bullet used against Bucky. Bob, the whole mess in D.C.—that’s all in here. We even have the name of the merc who pulled the trigger. And every thread we pull comes back to you.”

Valentina only arched a sculpted brow, taking her time thumbing through the file. “You’ve done your homework, I’ll give you that. I might’ve even admired the persistence if I wasn’t on the wrong end of it.”

John snorted. “If you’d been half as clever hiding your tracks as you were at making a mess, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

Valentina’s gaze slid to him, unimpressed. “Please, Mr. Walker. You’re about as subtle as a grenade in a fishbowl. If I wanted James dead, he’d be dead.”

Ava crossed her arms. “We’re not here to banter. We know you were the architect behind half the dirty projects the government swept under the rug. We’ve got enough to bury you, and you know it.”

Valentina’s composure only slipped for a heartbeat, just the faintest flicker of something uncertain. She closed the folder, exhaled slowly, and finally let her practiced smile fade. “Look, I won’t pretend I’m an angel. But I don’t have that kind of power anymore. After what happened with Bob and the Sentry program, I’m barely clinging to my seat at the CIA. My security clearance is down to reading the cafeteria menu . If you think I could pull strings like this, you’re giving me too much credit.”

Sam’s voice was cold, decisive. “That’s exactly what someone would say if they wanted to throw us off the scent. Why should we believe you? You’re the only one with motive and means.”

Valentina’s calm started to fray. She leaned forward, eyes flashing with an edge of real fear—or was it desperation? “I know how this looks, but you’re wrong. I’m not even looped into black budget projects anymore, and everyone here knows it. You want my calendar? My calls? Go ahead. For once, I’m clean. I found out about the hit on Barnes the same way you did. I swear on my life, I didn’t order it. If you don’t believe me, check with whoever’s got me under surveillance. They’ve been breathing down my neck for months.”

Yelena, arms folded, circled the desk like a shark. Her voice was low. “You always have an angle, Valentina. Always. Even when you’re cornered.”

Valentina’s lips twisted. “This isn’t me. I’d have come up with something smarter. Think about it. I wouldn’t use a bullet you could link to my past. That’s amateur hour.”

Sam pressed. “So who is it? If you’re not calling the shots, then who the hell is?”

Valentina looked genuinely frustrated now, the façade finally breaking. “If I had any idea, I’d have told you already. I don’t like being set up either, Captain. I have enough enemies without someone framing me for murder. I want whoever did this as much as you do.”

Sam was done with this. “I’ve heard enough. Eli, Torres, cuff her.”

Torres hesitated a half-beat, but Eli didn’t blink—he was across the room in two strides, catching Valentina’s arm as Torres circled behind her. The steel of the cuffs clicked with finality, and Valentina, caught genuinely off-guard, twisted in their grip, eyes wide with outrage.

“Are you serious?” she barked, struggling as Eli pulled her arms behind her back. “This is an outrage, Sam, and you damn well know it—let me go!”

Sam leaned in, his patience gone. “You’ve dodged enough accountability. You want to play games, do it behind bars. I’m done listening to your bullshit.”

Valentina’s mask finally broke, voice rising in desperation. “You’re making a mistake! You think you’ve got all the answers, but you’re just doing what someone wants you to do! I swear to God, Sam—!”

Yelena, who’d been silent, pacing like a caged animal, suddenly froze, her eyes narrowing. She held up a hand, cutting through the chaos. “Wait—stop.” Her voice was sharp enough to halt even Eli’s movements.

John shot her a look. “What? You got cold feet now?”

Yelena shook her head, jaw working as her mind raced. “No. Something’s off. This whole thing—these clues, the timing, the way it all falls in our laps—it’s too clean. Too perfect. Since when does Valentina leave a trail this obvious?”

Ava stepped in, frowning. “She’s right. Even Valentina isn’t that sloppy. There’s something here we’re missing.”

Valentina turned and glared at Sam. “This is what I’ve been saying, you idiots! I have my sins, but this—this isn’t one of them. Someone wanted you to drag me out of here in chains.”

Sam glared at her, but uncertainty finally flickered in his eyes. He looked at Yelena. “You’re sure?”

Valentina’s wrists were still pinned behind her. “Before you parade me out for the cameras, why don’t you check my damn logs? All my activity—emails, calls, my location every minute—is tracked by the government. You think I’m not on a leash these days? Go ahead.” She jerked her chin toward her desk. “My computer’s right there. Check the surveillance. I haven’t had access to anything sensitive in weeks—not without a roomful of eyes on me.”

Torres shot a questioning glance at Sam, but Valentina pressed on, her voice hardening. “I can prove where I’ve been, who I’ve talked to, every second. I couldn’t have set this up. Someone wants you to think I did, but they’re playing you.”

Sam hesitated, that old sense of doubt creeping in. He nodded at Torres. “Check her computer.”

A faint smile crept onto Valentina’s lips. “You want a real lead? Let me log in. I still have CIA access. I can’t clear myself without the right codes, but I can pull access records from Nightshade’s security files. It won’t get you all the way, but I can at least show you who’s been sniffing around. You want names, Sam? Let me help before someone else buries the trail.”

Ava folded her arms, studying her. “And you’re just going to help us? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

Valentina rolled her eyes. “Out of self-preservation. I’m not spending my golden years rotting in a cell for something I didn’t do. You want to catch who set up bucky? Yes or no?”

Sam’s jaw tensed, but after a moment he gave a single, sharp nod. “Fine. Unlock her.”

They watched, as Valentina—sat down at her desk, fingers flying across the keys.

Yelena hovered so close behind Valentina she could have counted every silver strand in the woman’s hair, eyes narrowed, fists shoved deep in her jacket pockets. Sam stood just to the side, arms folded, every muscle in his jaw working as the NIGHTSHADE logo flickered to life on the government terminal.

He let out a low breath, barely more than a growl. “So, you’re saying you didn’t know this got pulled out of the freezer and pointed at Bucky’s head? That’s a hell of a gap in your oversight, Valentina.”

Valentina didn’t so much as blink, fingers tapping, frustration simmering in her voice. “If I’d had anything to do with it, bucky would be a cautionary tale on the six o’clock news, not half-frozen in a medical pod. Give me some credit, Captain—I’m not that sloppy. Pierce shut it down for a reason.”

John let out a huff, clearly running out of patience. “If you two want to flirt, could you do it after we get to the bottom of who’s trying to kill us?” He rolled his eyes at Ava, who stifled a laugh with the back of her hand.

Valentina ignored them, cursing softly under her breath as the cursor blinked, then froze, the monitor awash in a harsh red warning: ACCESS DENIED—INSUFFICIENT CLEARANCE.

Sam’s skepticism hardened, but Valentina only spun in her chair. “You see? This is what I’ve been screaming since you stormed in. I don’t have access anymore. I’ve been on a leash so tight I can’t even sneeze without three men in suits handing me tissues.”

Yelena clicked her tongue, clearly itching for action. “I could break it.”

John leaned against the window, arms crossed, “What about using Cap’s codes? Worth a shot.”

Valentina didn’t argue, simply shoved her chair back, gesturing for Sam to step up. “Try it.”

Sam shot her a look, then entered his credentials. The machine whirred, green bars flickered, and the page opened—only partially, but enough to reveal a string of classified documents. Sam scrolled through, jaw set, eyes flicking down the page, absorbing the details: project start date, supply lists, locations… and finally, at the bottom, a name, typed in stark, bureaucratic font:

SECRETARY OF STATE MACINTYRE

The silence in the room felt like the moment before a bomb goes off.

Even Valentina’s practiced composure slipped, her lips parting in genuine shock. “Well. Didn’t see that coming.”

Ava exhaled sharply, her gaze darting between Sam and the screen. “So all this time we’ve been chasing the wrong snake?”

Yelena, scowled at the document, then at Valentina. “Looks like you’re not the only one with skeletons in your closet, Lady Director.”

Sam’s eyes never left the name, his voice low, more steel than ever. “Get every file you can. Now. And Torres, pull up everything we have on MacIntyre. I want eyes on her.”

Valentina arched an eyebrow, that familiar wicked smile tugging at her mouth. “Told you I wasn’t your villain. This time.”

Yelena didn’t let up. “You’re just lucky, Contessa..”

Sam barely heard them, his focus already shifting, mind turning over every new danger.

He stared at the name on the screen, knowing this was only the beginning of a new, much uglier fight.

Chapter Text

For a heartbeat, nobody in the office moved—a collective paralysis as the tension snapped tight. Then Sam’s phone shrieked through the silence.

He yanked it out, thumbed it open, and Cho’s name blazed across the screen. He barely managed a “hi,” before Cho’s voice crashed into his ear, jumbled by alarms and chaos on her end.

He could barely hear her, the cacophony in the background like the compound was being torn in half. “Sam— Sam —get back now . Breach in the medical wing. Whole sector’s locked down. I can’t access the controls, the fail-safes are blocking me out— Bucky’s in danger .”

Behind her, male voices snapped rapid-fire commands—security officers trying codes, swiping badges, even one of them swearing in frustration as another slammed a palm against the reinforced doors. The mechanical whine of the locked-down security shutters was constant. “Override won’t work! Manual’s dead too!” someone barked.

A sick chill slammed through Sam. His mind flashed to the technician—the one detail that had kept itching at him, the puzzle piece he hadn’t forced into place.

“Is that tech in there with Bucky right now?” Sam’s voice was tight.

Cho gasped, catching his urgency. “Yes, yes, he’s there—scheduled maintenance. I thought —Shuri cleared him, I—”

Sam’s knuckles whitened on the phone. “He’s not who he says he is. Shuri’s guy never made it—this bastard’s an infiltrator, probably sent by MacIntyre to finish the job.”

Torres was already moving, grabbing his comms.

He heard the commotion rise behind Cho—radio static, boots pounding, an officer yelling “Still nothing! He’s got us locked out from the inside!” Cho snapped orders in return, desperate but focused: “Keep trying, if you have to cut the damn doors, do it. Sam, please—”

“Cho, can Friday override the doors?” Sam pressed.

“No, something’s blocking her—malware or a physical lockout, I don’t know! She’s trying to cut in, but the whole sector’s dark. You need to get here— now .”

“We’re coming,” Sam promised, already moving for the door. He hung up, spinning to face the team, his voice slicing through the tension. “We’ve got a breach at the compound. Bucky’s in danger. MacIntyre played us—sent an assassin under our noses.”

For a second, chaos threatened to swallow them, but Sam’s command snapped them into action. “John, Eli, you’re with me. We’re going to the compound. Torres—Ava, Alexei, Yelena—you’re on MacIntyre. She’s going to run or burn the evidence if we don’t take her down now .”

Torres nodded, already dialing in backup. Yelena didn’t wait for orders, nearly dragging Ava and Alexei toward the door. “We’ll find her, Cap. She’s not making it out of the city.”

John’s jaw was stone as he followed Sam at a run, Eli hot on their heels. “If that bastard lays a hand on Bucky—”

Sam cut him off, his own anger bleeding through every word. “He won’t. Not if I have to rip the doors off myself.”

Sam’s mind raced as they piled into the nearest vehicle—every second counting down to a disaster he refused to let happen.

Back at the compound:

Inside the medbay, the world was nothing but crimson and alarm—The security lights flickered in time with the klaxon, shadows leaping across the capsule containing Bucky, still locked in his frozen, dreamless sleep. Outside, the echo of fists on steel doors and frantic shouts was muffled—nothing would break through unless it was torn open with force.

The man who called himself Kofi Nkosi, who had spent weeks building the persona of a reserved, almost nervous Wakandan tech, now moved with a sharp, predatory focus.

He’d just finished attaching a matte black device—sleek, shaped like an insect—over the door control panel’s manual override. The thing latched on, tiny metallic arms digging into the crevice between the hatch and the core wiring, a thin blue light flickering on as it began to override every security protocol Friday had in place, lines of code glitched and then faded, replaced by a static pattern and a message in red: REMOTE ACCESS BLOCKED .

Kofi straightened, rolling his shoulders, and in a fluid gesture peeled off the blue tech vest and tossed it carelessly into the corner. Beneath, he wore tactical black fabric, a holster tight against his ribs, a stiletto sheathed at his ankle. His eyes, no longer warm.

He slipped an earpiece in, his expression now flat. The moment it clicked, he didn’t even have to speak; the Secretary of State’s voice snapped through the feed—icy, clinical, not wasting a syllable.

“Report. Is the target contained?”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Doors are locked. Systems are down. No one’s getting in unless they bring a battering ram or a Hulk.”

She didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Proceed as planned. You know the risks. Clean up your tracks once it’s done. And if you’re captured—”

He cut her off, amusement curling his lips. “I know the drill. But you must really want this one dead. That’s a hell of a move—taking out Bucky Barnes, of all people.”

A pause—barely a second. “Mr. Barnes and his associates are an existential threat to national security. We’ve let too many loose ends dangle. If Valentina prefers her little circus, that’s her mistake. I do not intend to make it mine. Do your job, and never contact me again.”

The line went dead before he could throw another jab. He sneered, yanking the earpiece out and crushing it under his heel.

He crouched by the capsule, hands steady as he popped the cover on the cryo-pod’s side panel. Inside, an intricate web of fiber optics and insulated cables pulsed with slow, cold light. He worked quickly—unwinding a pair of wires, splicing in the AI-enabled kill switch, the black device humming as it synced with the core.

He whispered to the unconscious form behind the glass, his tone casual. “No hard feelings, sergeant. I don’t pick my targets. If it helps, you were always going to be someone’s problem. Guess today’s just your unlucky day.” He ran a finger along the frost-etched glass, then leaned in closer, his breath fogging the capsule. “Hell of a run you had. But we all get called in eventually.”

With a slow, practiced movement, Kofi pressed the activation switch on the black device, its LED pulsing as it injected a malicious current into the cryo-capsule’s control panel. Instantly, a series of relays began to short, the faint scent of ozone filling the chilled air. The pod’s internal cooling array shuddered to life, but instead of maintaining Bucky’s careful stasis, it began to plummet the temperature—way past safety limits, pushing towards a critical threshold.

In less than a minute, the inside of the capsule dropped from a survivable subzero to a deadly cold, engineered to halt even the iron heart of a super soldier.

Warning sirens shrieked. The capsule display flashed:

CRITICAL FAILURE: HYPOTHERMIC CASCADE. VITAL SIGNS DROPPING.

Red error lights painted the glass in violent pulses. Kofi watched, lips pressed to a thin line, as the frost thickened until even Bucky’s outline was lost behind the hoarfrost and ice.

He checked his watch, timing the drop—one minute, ninety seconds, just a little longer. He watched the heart rate display on the panel: from a slow, steady beat to a wavering stutter, then—

Flatline.

He smiled.

Kofi smoothed his hair, and turned for the door, drawing his pistol from its holster. He bent over to detach the first disruptor from the entry panel when something— a hissing, electronic whine —cut through the alarms.

He spun back just as the capsule erupted with noise. The display now showed an unfamiliar symbol: a golden panther’s head, fangs bared.

EMERGENCY SAFETY PROTOCOL ENGAGED

CATASTROPHIC TEMPERATURE DROP DETECTED

INITIATING RECOVERY: WARMING-UP AND FORCED AWAKENING

This wasn’t part of the plan. Shuri’s final safeguard, deep-coded into the Wakandan software: if temperature fell outside survivable parameters, the capsule would reverse course , dumping every last erg of power into heating the pod, flooding the system with warm, oxygenated air, and kicking off an emergency revival protocol—no matter what else was happening.

Furious steam billowed from every seam. The glass, once opaque with frost, now ran with rivulets, obscured by clouds of vapor as the heating elements battled the sabotaged circuitry. The alarms shifted pitch, now a banshee shriek warning of forced override .

Kofi swore under his breath, eyes darting. He leveled the gun with both hands, watching the shape inside as it shifted, first a twitch, then a convulsion.

Inside, Bucky’s body jerked violently, muscles spasming as warm blood suddenly surged through frozen veins, nerves on fire. The capsule’s seals popped in a series of sharp cracks. With a hydraulic sigh, the door hissed open, spilling vapor onto the tile.

Kofi stepped closer, squinting through the swirl of vapor, gun raised and finger white on the trigger. He’d expected a corpse—at best, a dying gasp.

He never even saw the movement coming.

From the thick bank of steam, a hand shot out, clamping down on his wrist. Kofi’s eyes widened in pure shock. No, impossible—

The gun fired, the round going wide, ricocheting into the ceiling with a scream of metal. Bucky twisted, yanking Kofi’s arm up and around in a movement so fast it was almost invisible, slamming him back against the console with enough force to rattle the entire capsule.

Before he could react, another grip— the metal arm —closed around his throat, vise-tight. For a split second their gazes locked, Bucky’s eyes wild, fever-bright, pupils blown wide and feral as an animal’s. There was no recognition there, just a survival reflex sharpened to a killing edge.

Kofi gasped, struggling, trying to bring his weapon to bear. “You—shouldn’t—be—alive—” he choked.

Chapter Text

Kofi didn’t have time to think. With a guttural grunt, Bucky lifted him bodily from the floor, steam curling around their figures in the red-strobing light. In one violent arc, Bucky flung him across the lab—the body crashed against a bank of equipment, monitors shattering, Kofi sliding to the floor in a heap, choking for breath.

The gun scraped across the floor, the metallic clang echoing off the sterile walls. Bucky’s gaze snapped to it, that predatory blue glinting beneath damp hair. He reached the weapon, hefted it in his left hand, and flicked his thumb to check the magazine with a mechanical click. Full. Ready.

Kofi, chest heaving, pushed himself upright. His ribs screamed from the impact, his legs barely holding. He pressed back against the wall, eyes wide, trying to force reason through the adrenaline. This can’t be happening. No one wakes up like that—not after what I did. He’s not a man. He’s a fucking monster. The thought burned as he realized Bucky—half-naked, steam curling off his skin, eyes blank and dead as arctic ice—was advancing, firearm steady, finger taut on the trigger.

Kofi made his decision in an instant. He lunged—not toward Bucky, but for the shattered desk to his left, grabbing a glass paperweight with one hand, the other reaching for a folding knife stashed in his boot. He hurled the paperweight toward the glass panel by the door, shattering it in a flash of sparks and shards. At the same time, he flung the knife with practiced aim—straight at Bucky’s head.

But Bucky moved before the blade even left Kofi’s hand. He ducked, the knife missing by an inch, and raised the pistol, firing two shots—one into the desk, splintering wood, another into the metal at Kofi’s feet, forcing him back behind cover.

“Shit—” Kofi hissed, breath rattling, heart a jackhammer against his ribs. He scrambled, slamming his palm on the panel by the door to try and disable it, fingers fumbling. He hurled a chair behind him as a makeshift shield, desperate to buy a second.

But Bucky was already there, he vaulted the desk, landing with a predator’s grace. Kofi managed to pull his backup gun from an ankle holster, swinging it up in shaking hands—but Bucky’s metal arm crashed down, smashing the weapon aside. The same arm caught Kofi’s forearm mid-strike, twisting until bone gave with a sickening crack.

Kofi howled, the pain blinding, but Bucky’s face was utterly impassive. He wrenched Kofi’s broken arm behind his back, the gun in his left hand pressing against the back of Kofi’s head. For a moment, their eyes met in the reflection of the blood-streaked glass.

Kofi tried one last plea, voice cracking. “Don’t—please, I was just—orders—”

But there was no mercy in Bucky’s eyes. The trigger squeezed, and the shot echoed, ending Kofi’s story with brutal efficiency.

Bucky stood over the body, chest heaving, the red light strobing across sweat-soaked skin and the glint of his metal hand. For a long moment, he didn’t move—just stared at the corpse, gun lowered, breath fogging in the chill that still haunted the room.

For a long, heavy moment, Bucky just…stood there, his eyes fixed on the corpse sprawled across broken equipment. Somewhere in the thundering distance, alarms screamed and red strobes ricocheted across the glass, but for Bucky, it was like staring through a snowstorm—everything blurred, every sound too sharp. He didn’t move.

A spike of confusion ripped through the fog. He jerked his head up, blinking, as if coming out of a trance. The icy clarity of violence faded, replaced by a rising, blinding ache behind his eyes. He staggered, nearly losing his balance. The gun dropped from his fingers, landing with a dull thud, but Bucky barely noticed.

Cryo. The word slammed into his mind with the dull force of memory. The pod behind him—its door gaping open, cold air still tumbling out. He recognized the shape, the tech, the unmistakable chill of forced sleep. The word Hydra floated up.

He tasted bile. His heart hammered. But beyond that—nothing. Blankness. Who had put him there? Why? Had it happened again? Had they dragged him back to the beginning? He gritted his teeth, trying to force the memories into place, but every time he reached for one, pain spiked through his skull and the memory shattered like glass.

He braced himself on the edge of a shattered monitor, fingers shaking. The world pulsed around him, every sound scraping raw against his nerves. The alarms, the mechanical whine, the stench of blood and coolant—overwhelming. He squeezed his eyes shut, sucked in a trembling breath, and opened them again.

His gaze dropped to his own body. Nearly naked—just a thin pair of boxers clinging to sweat-slicked skin, everything else gone. A shiver ran through him. He touched his abdomen, hissing as his fingers brushed a scar low on his right side—still tender. The memory of the wound—its origin, the pain— nothing . Just the fact of it, pulsing angrily beneath his palm.

Bucky staggered forward, legs wobbly. The world tilted. He caught himself on a metal cabinet, sweat beading on his brow. The side effects were rolling in fast—the crash after cryogenic stasis, making it impossible to grab onto a single thread of memory for more than a moment. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to run , but his body was slow to obey, muscles stiff and uncooperative.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, trying to will the pain away, trying to chase the fragments into something that made sense. The world spun.

He caught sight of the body again—the man’s eyes wide, mouth frozen in a last gasp, head bent at an unnatural angle. Bucky stared, unblinking, horror creeping in around the edges of his numbness. Did I…? He didn’t remember doing it.

A sound from outside—pounding on a door, voices muffled—jerked him out of the daze. He looked around wildly, searching for an exit, for a weapon, for anything familiar. Panic built in his chest. He was naked, unarmed, alone. And somewhere deep in his bones, the old training flickered, the part of him that never died.

But his mind was a labyrinth of static and half-formed memories, pain firing along every nerve.

All he knew was that he could not stay here.

Gritting his teeth against a wave of dizziness, Bucky forced himself to move, snatched a utility jacket from the floor, and stumbled toward the far wall.

He stooped to retrieve the pistol, hands steady only because his body remembered what his mind could not. The gun’s weight in his palm was reassuring, a strange comfort. His gaze drifted to the corpse sprawled on the floor—Bucky grimaced. He tried to look away but something inside wouldn’t let him. You did this. He forced himself to kneel, patting down the jacket until he found a knife—. He slid it into the pocket of the jacket he’d stolen, ignoring the way the fabric pinched across his shoulders. Too tight, but better than nothing.

He aimed at the device on the control panel and squeezed the trigger— once, twice —sparks flew, acrid smoke twisting in the red haze, but the door didn’t so much as shudder. Bucky swore under his breath. Without hesitating, he lowered his shoulder, bracing the metal arm and driving it into the door. One, two— three. The lock gave way with a shriek, hinges warping, and Bucky nearly lost his balance as he stumbled into the corridor beyond.

Instantly the alarms hammered at him—Bucky flinched, slapping his hands over his ears. The noise carved right through his skull, slicing old wounds open in his memory. Suddenly he was somewhere else—years ago. Bright lights, men in uniforms, boots echoing down metal corridors. Commands shouted in languages he hadn’t heard in decades. Electrodes pressed to his temples, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Subject. Asset. Target.

“No,” he muttered, shoving the memories away.

He staggered forward, still barefoot, every step an effort. His mind reeled. He knew his name— Bucky Barnes. He wasn’t at Hydra. He wasn’t their property. Right? But if that was true, why did everything feel so wrong? Why couldn’t he remember how he got here, or what had happened just before—before waking up?

He pressed his palm to the scar low on his abdomen. A flicker—a flash of gunfire, the punch of a bullet, then a blank nothingness. Had someone patched him up? Who? Why? His head ached as if someone had tried to stitch his memories together with barbed wire and failed.

He reached a hand to the wall to steady himself, breathing ragged, letting the cold concrete ground him.

“Gotta move,” he whispered.

He edged down the corridor, senses raw, waiting for another threat.

Chapter Text

The SUV skidded to a halt outside the compound, Sam barely waiting for the engine to die before he was out and sprinting up the steps, shield already in hand. Every corridor was alive with the angry strobe of red lights and the distant shriek of sirens—a cacophony that set his nerves jangling. His heart was in his throat as he tore through the familiar halls, dodging security personnel who looked as lost as he felt.

He found Cho exactly where she said she’d be: hunched in front of a sealed security door, flanked by a pair of guards pounding uselessly at the controls. Her face was pale, frustration warring with panic in her eyes.

“Move,” Sam barked, and Cho stepped aside, sweat slicking her brow. “Friday, code override: Falcon-Delta-Nine, Cut all alarms, full system reset,” he snapped, voice tight. All at once, the red lights flickered, the blaring ceased, and for a heartbeat there was only silence.

Friday’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Override recognized. System reboot in progress, Attempting emergency reset and manual bypass. Warning: Critical mechanical fault. Door cannot disengage—lockdown engaged.”

Sam set his jaw, teeth grinding. “No time.” He lifted the shield, glancing at Cho and the others. “Back up.” When the way was clear, Sam swung the shield with brutal precision, the vibranium edge slamming into the control box. Sparks erupted, the panel caved in, and John, who’d just skidded into view, didn’t need to be asked—he threw his shoulder against the warped frame, metal groaning.

Together, they forced the door open, the sound echoing down the corridor like a gunshot.

“Go!” Sam barked, leading the charge down the corridor. The closer they got, the stronger the metallic scent of blood grew. Sam’s chest tightened with every step.

When they finally reached the chamber, he stopped dead. The door hung askew, battered and half off its hinges. Inside was chaos: equipment scattered across the floor, the walls streaked with the aftermath of violence. The cryo-capsule gaped open, frost still steaming from its edges, and on the floor—sprawled in a pool of blood—lay the unmistakable body of the fake technician.

Sam’s breath caught—every sense screaming. “Jesus…”

“Shit,” breathed Eli, skidding to a halt behind Sam. Even John, for once, was struck silent.

Cho rushed to the capsule, her hands flying over the console. “Forced wake protocol engaged…multiple system errors…security breach,” she murmured, reading the warning on the screen. Her fingers hovered, hesitated, then curled into fists.

Sam’s mind spun. He took in the scene, every horrifying detail slotting into place. One body. No sign of Bucky. The pod open. The gun missing. The jacket gone. Weapons scattered. No sign of forced entry except from inside. Shit. Shit, shit, shit—

“Is it even possible—” John started, voice strained, but Cho cut him off.

“In theory? No. In reality? Apparently yes. He shouldn’t even be able to move, let alone… do this.” She gestured helplessly at the wreckage.

Sam felt his heart hammering in his chest. “What state would he be in, Cho? After something like that?”

Cho shook her head, her face grim. “I have no idea, Sam. Memory loss. Confusion. Rage. Maybe he’s in full fight-or-flight—maybe worse. With everything we pumped through his system, the toxins, the infection, the serum fighting to keep him alive, the forced wake—I’m surprised he’s even walking.”

John swore, rubbing a hand down his face. “So we’re dealing with a half-naked, half-crazed super soldier, probably armed, definitely traumatized, and with no idea if he knows friend from foe?”

“Pretty much,” Cho said softly, not bothering to sugarcoat it. “If he’s as disoriented as I think he is, anyone who tries to stop him is in danger. Including us.”

Sam stared at the devastation—the bullet holes, the blood, the shrapnel on the floor. For a moment, all he could see was the Bucky he’d known, the stubborn, loyal friend, now loose in the world again, hunted by his own mind and every authority on the planet. You weren’t here.

John swallowed, voice rough. “We need to find him. Now. Before anyone else does.”

“Friday, give me a sitrep!” he shouted.

There was a digital whine as Friday’s voice reasserted itself, stronger now. “Primary control restored. Captain, I am detecting unauthorized movement—sublevel access point. The southern service corridor—exit route toward perimeter tunnel E-4.”

Eli’s eyes widened. “He’s already moving, he’s headed for the south exit.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. He slung the shield onto his back, already moving for the door. “No time for chat. We find him—now. If he hits the perimeter, he’s gone.”

Friday’s voice echoed after them as they raced into the hall: “Warning. Sergent Barnes is exhibiting abnormal vital signs and highly erratic movement patterns. Recommend caution—potential for extreme violence.”

*—————*

The world stuttered, light strobing red across concrete and steel, shadows lurching with every faltering step. Bucky pressed his back to the cold wall, breathing ragged, the firearm in his left hand trembling just enough to betray the tremor in his nerves. His stolen jacket was no shield against the chill seeping from the ventilation grates or the raw ache radiating from the scar on his abdomen—a ghost of violence he couldn’t recall, pulsing in time with the headache that split his skull.

Sometimes he heard Russian, sometimes German, a voice barking orders just behind the ringing in his ears. The floor here was different. Too new. But the fluorescent bulbs overhead could have belonged to any bunker. Any cage.

He rounded a corner, blinking hard, heart racing. The route came back to him in pieces— service tunnels, sublevels, always follow the exits . At least, that’s what he used to do. That, and never trust the quiet. Hydra taught him that much. Trust the escape plan, trust your instincts, don’t trust the faces that try to look kind.

He didn’t know how long he’d been moving, how many stairwells he’d stumbled down, how many locked doors he’d forced with the butt of his stolen pistol or his left shoulder, metal groaning beneath the effort. There were blood smears on his knuckles— his? someone else’s? —and he kept replaying that brief, brutal flash in the capsule: panic, violence, the look on that man’s face. He was sure he’d killed before, but the way his stomach twisted now said it had been a long time.

Steve will know what to do. Steve always did. If I can just get to Steve… But the image he had of Steve in his mind felt faded, as if he were reaching for something underwater—familiar but receding, details sliding away.

He shook his head, vision doubling as he staggered against a junction box. He clung to the name: James Buchanan Barnes. That much he remembered. The rest was static.

That was when he heard footsteps echoing from the corridor behind. Too many to be a coincidence. His pulse jumped, his body snapped to attention on muscle memory alone. He pressed his back to a maintenance door, gun up, breath shallow.

He saw the group before they saw him—four silhouettes, breathless, barreling down the hall, their urgency radiating off them in waves. He locked onto their faces, heart pounding, the pistol a cold extension of his hand. He tried to piece together who they were. Allies? Hunters? Did he know them, or were they here because of what he’d done in that frozen tomb behind him?

Then one of them stepped forward—a shield slung across his back, unmistakable in the half-light. That shield. The star. It rooted Bucky to the spot, the air punched from his lungs. Steve? No… The uniform, the stance, the familiar way the man moved—it was all wrong. The shield belonged to Steve. Why did this stranger carry it? For a second, Bucky’s vision doubled, the world splitting in two: memory and reality tangled into one breathless moment.

Instinct surged. He leveled the gun at the man with the shield, jaw clenched, eyes burning with confusion and warning. The stranger didn’t flinch; he just raised both hands, slow and steady, his voice soft but clear.

“Hey, Bucky, it’s just me, Sam. We’re not here to hurt you, all right? Let’s put that down and talk, man..”

The name twisted in Bucky’s mind—Sam. He wanted to trust it, but there was nothing to hold onto. He tried to force down his ragged breathing, knuckles whitening on the grip. His legs shook, exhaustion threatening to drop him, but adrenaline wouldn’t let him collapse.

Sam’s voice was careful, coaxing. “You were hurt, Buck. We’ve been looking for you. You know us.”

Somewhere in the group, a woman—Bucky couldn’t summon the name—leaned close to Sam, her words a quick, urgent whisper. Bucky’s hearing, sharpened by training and instinct, picked it up easily:

“Be careful. He’s unstable—psychologically, physically. Any sudden move could set him off. I could sedate him now before he hurts someone—”

But the word sedate tore through him. Images of metal restraints, men in white coats, the sting of needles. He staggered, clutching his head, pulse racing out of control.

Sam, realizing the tension spiking, tried to bridge the gap, stepping forward with open hands. “Whoa—wait—Bucky, just listen!”

A tear slipped down Bucky’s cheek, but the gun never lowered. “Stay back!” His voice cracked, every cell on fire.

His finger squeezed the trigger before he could think, a single sharp report splitting the air. The shot cracked through the basement, echoing into a stunned silence.

Sam jerked back, eyes wide, one hand flying to his chest. Red blossomed beneath his fingers, seeping quickly through the suit. Eli and John caught him as his knees buckled, lowering him to the concrete as Cho dropped to his side, already tearing open a field dressing with shaking hands.

For a heartbeat, the world stood still.

Bucky froze, the horror catching up to him as Sam’s voice croaked his name— “Bucky…” —soft, full of disbelief and something heartbreakingly familiar.

Their eyes met. And in that single, gutting moment, the fog in Bucky’s mind split wide open. Bucky’s chest heaved, and suddenly memories flooded back in a rush— He knew Sam. He knew these people. He knew— God , he’d just shot Sam Wilson. Captain America. His friend.

Shock and guilt slammed through him, every muscle locking. The gun fell from his hand, clattering across the floor. He staggered backward, blue eyes wide, horror and panic writ large on his face.

“No, no, no—I didn’t—” His voice was hoarse, broken, barely more than a whisper. “Sam—I didn’t mean—”

But the world was already spinning. Security stormed the corridor, weapons raised, faces twisted in alarm. “Drop the weapon! Hands where we can see them!” someone barked, but Bucky was already backing away, hands up, shaking his head in mute devastation.

A shot rang out—close enough to graze his cheek, burning a red line across his skin. He flinched, spinning, heart hammering. Instinct screamed— run .

John tried to shove forward through them. “Back off! That’s not what he needs—”

A guard shoved him back, nearly sending him to the floor. “Sir, step back, or we’ll detain you!”

John howled, shoving at the guards. “Let me through, goddamn it—he’s not a threat, just let me talk to him—!”

But chaos drowned everything. Bucky staggered back, terror and grief twisting his features, his memory piecing itself together in jagged fragments. He caught Sam’s eyes, just as they fluttered closed—heard his name, saw the trust and pain there.

But more guards spilled in, voices blurring, guns rising. Bucky backed away, then—

He ran.

Chapter Text

Bucky’s bare feet slapped painfully against the cold, polished floor.

John’s desperate shout pierced through the fading confusion, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t . If he stopped now, reality would catch up to him—raw, and soaked in blood. Sam’s blood. Bucky’s stomach churned violently as another flash hit him, the recoil of the gun, Sam stumbling back, shock and pain twisting his features.

Bucky crashed through the next set of doors, ignoring the sharp sting as the edge caught his thigh. He vaulted a bench, nearly slipped on the polished floor, pushed past a stunned security guard who only managed a strangled, “Hey—!” before Bucky was already gone, pounding down the hallway.

He burst through a side exit, flinging himself into the biting air. He didn’t care that the jacket he’d taken barely covered his trembling torso or that pedestrians froze in open-mouthed shock at the sight of a half-naked, wild-eyed man fleeing in terror. He just ran, chest heaving, lungs screaming, heart pounding in his ears louder than the sirens swiftly closing in behind him.

Fragments of memory swarmed him as he stumbled blindly into an alley—blurred, chaotic images, a dizzying collage of faces and voices. The Tower, laughter around a table, arguments spiraling into shouting matches. His chest burned with shame. The scar on his abdomen throbbed. He knew he’d been shot, that much he could piece together; he remembered Cho’s voice, urgent yet gentle, machines beeping steadily around him, Sam’s voice drifting in and out.

But now, none of it seemed to matter, because in a split-second of confusion and terror, he’d hurt someone else—someone he’d trusted more than anyone, someone who had trusted him back. The sudden shock of clarity made him stumble, collapsing heavily against a dumpster. The metal was cold, digging sharply into his bruised shoulder as the adrenaline drained away and pain took hold.

Bucky clutched his head, gasping raggedly, as broken, splintered memories sliced through him—his desperate attempts to reconcile with Sam, the harsh accusations thrown between them, his own stubborn pride, and finally, the blinding moment of his awakening in the cryo-chamber, violent and disorienting, his mind caught between nightmares and reality.

And then— the trigger . The echoing shot. Sam’s shocked face as blood seeped from his chest.

“Oh God,” Bucky whispered, his voice raw and strangled, horror choking him, drowning him. “Sam…”

Shuddering breaths ripped through his chest as he pushed himself off the dumpster and kept moving. Every step was agony now, muscles protesting violently. The sudden, brutal awakening had left his body weak, joints stiff, and the world swaying around him in nauseating waves. His vision blurred in and out of focus, and he barely managed to avoid collapsing again as he reached a hidden entrance into the city’s sewer tunnels.

He shoved the grate aside, the scraping metal echoing ominously as he descended into the oppressive darkness. The icy water stung his bare feet and calves, but he didn’t care. Bucky stumbled deeper into the tunnels, driven only by fear and confusion, until finally his legs betrayed him completely. He crashed heavily against the slick wall, sliding slowly to the filthy, freezing floor.

He had shot Sam. He’d pulled the trigger without thinking, without recognizing his friend. He’d lost control again—reverting to what Hydra had always wanted him to be: a weapon, mindless and deadly.

“No…” Bucky rasped, dragging shaky fingers through his damp, tangled hair, gripping it tightly. “Please… no. Not again.”

His chest felt impossibly tight, his heartbeat thundered painfully in his skull. One thing was painfully clear, though: there would be no explaining this away, no quick forgiveness. Not after this. The world would see only the Winter Soldier—the assassin who’d attempted to murder Captain America.

They’d hunt him again. Imprison him. Lock him away forever, branded a traitor, a criminal. And the worst part was, Bucky wasn’t even sure they’d be wrong.

He sank deeper into despair, head dropping onto his knees, shivering uncontrollably.

Bucky forced himself to keep moving, every muscle screaming, knees buckling from exhaustion and pain. His bare feet splashed through the filthy water of the tunnel, his stolen jacket clinging damp and useless to his skin.

He couldn’t stop replaying the last hour—It felt like the world had cracked and he’d slipped into the void between the pieces. Every step sent shards of memory slashing through his mind: Why had he run? Why hadn’t he just dropped the weapon and surrendered? The answer felt out of reach…

Think. He had to keep thinking. But his mind was a frayed wire sparking in the dark—memories half-formed, names like broken glass. Steve. Sam. Yelena. Bob. The Thunderbolts. He knew these names, but their voices, their faces, the why of it all slipped between his fingers like smoke.

Hydra. No, he wasn’t with them anymore. He knew that. Right?

Then why did everything feel like he was being hunted again?

He stopped near a rusted access ladder, the iron slick under his palm, and let his head fall back. For a moment he almost laughed—he’d done it again, hadn’t he? Gone right back to square one, hunted, alone, the monster in the shadows. His thoughts flickered to the faces of those who’d once called themselves Thunderbolts, to John’s wary stare, to Ava’s dry humor, Yelena’s sidelong glances, Alexei’s booming laugh, even Bob’s awkward silences. He’d fought tooth and nail against the very idea of that team, yet somehow their memories were what cut the deepest now.

He’ll never trust me again. None of them will. Maybe they never should have.

That was when he heard it—the soft, methodical stamp of boots on concrete, followed by a cold bloom of white light flooding the tunnel. Bucky’s instincts snapped taut. He shielded his eyes with one trembling hand, heart leaping into a sprint, and spun away from the ladder, only to find more figures emerging from the gloom. All dressed in black, faces hidden behind mirrored visors, rifles steady and silent.

He whirled, desperate, but a second team blocked the passage behind him. How had they moved so quietly? Why hadn’t he heard them coming? His vision blurred, his legs suddenly felt like lead, the adrenaline finally burning out in his bloodstream. He sank to his knees, one hand scraping at the moss-slick wall for balance, but refused to yield, teeth bared in a snarl. They circled, keeping a careful distance.

He lunged . His bare feet slapped through shallow, filthy water, every nerve ending on fire. The first soldier to reach him got a vicious elbow to the throat for his trouble—Bucky spun, using the momentum, shoulder-checking a second man so hard he bounced off the tunnel wall and went down hard.

The others moved like wolves, tightening the circle. Bucky barely registered their shouted warnings—his mind was all angles, escape routes, the weight of muscle memory screaming move, survive, fight . He ducked a baton swing, grabbed the arm, twisted, and snapped the wrist with a sickening crunch. The man howled and dropped his weapon, but another soldier clipped Bucky across the face with a stun baton. Blue-white pain ripped through him, jaw snapping shut, blood on his tongue.

Snarling, Bucky surged up, grabbed the baton, and flung it into the darkness.

Three more converged at once, two from the front, one from behind. Bucky rolled, metal arm slamming one attacker aside, but he was outnumbered, body screaming protest with every movement. He caught a knee to the ribs, gasped, then a heavy boot caught his ankle and yanked—he went down hard, hands scrabbling for purchase, but the ground was slick and he was still weak from the cryo and injury.

A soldier tried to cuff him. Bucky twisted violently, nearly breaking the man’s grip, then kicked out, knocking another into the sewer wall. But someone jabbed a syringe into his shoulder—cold liquid fire spreading through his veins. He roared, shoving back up to his knees, arm swinging wildly—metal fingers closing around another throat. The fight was desperate. Two more tried to hold him—one almost lost an eye to Bucky’s thumb before someone managed to wrench his metal arm behind his back with a crackle of pain at the joint.

“No—no, no—” he gasped, clawing toward the wall, reaching blindly.

The sedative was taking hold. His vision blurred, but Bucky fought on, muscles straining against three men holding him down. He twisted, bit down on a gloved hand hard enough to draw blood through Kevlar. “Who are you?!” he growled, but his voice was already thick, the world slipping sideways.

It took all six to finally pin him—two on his legs, two on his arms, one crushing his shoulders into the concrete while the last snapped reinforced restraints around his wrists, clamping both flesh and metal so tight he couldn’t move. They jammed a second set of cuffs on his ankles, and for good measure, zip-tied his arms to his torso.

A boot pressed hard between his shoulder blades, holding him down in the stinking water.

Then—shoes, slow, clicking against wet stone.

“I warned them,” the man said—smooth, and familiar in the way nightmares feel familiar. “You can’t keep a weapon like you locked in a cage. You were always going to run.”

Bucky’s vision blurred again. “Who the hell—”

The man stepped closer, crouching just enough for Bucky to see the faintest glint of glasses and the ghost of a smile beneath them.

“You’re far too valuable to lose, Sergeant Barnes.” The voice was ice over velvet. “Welcome back to the program.”

He tried, one last time, to wrench himself free—but the strength was gone, the drugs drowning his senses. The man straightened, nodded to the soldiers. “Let’s get him out of here. And be careful—he’s worth more in one piece.”

Bucky’s vision went dark around the edges as they hauled him up, the clank of heavy cuffs echoing in the tunnel, and the final, soul-deep humiliation of being dragged away like a rabid animal. The last thing he saw before it all slipped under was that stranger’s cold, satisfied smile.

Chapter Text

❗️BREAKING NEWS❗️

ANCHOR (EMILY DAWSON):

Good evening, New York. We interrupt regular programming for a special report on the shocking events that have unfolded earlier today at the Avengers Compound.

In a development that’s already making headlines around the globe, Captain America—Sam Wilson—has been critically injured after being shot at close range inside the highly secure facility. The suspect, confirmed by authorities, is none other than Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, known to many as “Bucky Barnes,” the former Winter Soldier and ex-member of Congress. Barnes, until recently, served as one of the key leaders of the so-called ‘New Avengers’ initiative.

Eyewitnesses at the scene have described a chaotic confrontation in the sublevels of the Compound, which ended with Captain America being rushed to medical care. At this time, his condition remains undisclosed. The Avengers and their representatives have declined to comment further, asking for privacy and patience as the situation develops.

The NYPD and federal agencies have launched a city-wide manhunt for Sergeant Barnes, who is considered armed and extremely dangerous. He is wanted for the following charges: attempted murder of Captain America, armed assault, resisting arrest, and fleeing a federal facility.

Law enforcement urges all New Yorkers to remain vigilant. If you see Barnes, do not approach. Please contact the NYPD tip line immediately.

Once again, tonight’s breaking news: Captain America has been shot, and the suspect is none other than his former teammate and friend, Sergeant Barnes. The city, and the world, wait anxiously for answers.

Stay tuned to CityWire for live updates as this story develops. I’m Emily Dawson.

to be continued…