A Walking Disasters

A walking disasters

WORD COUNT:  1098

SUMMARY: Steve and Bucky talk about feelings and stuff while the Avengers have a water fight.

WARNINGS: none

AUTHOR: Killer raccoon

"Won't your fella get jealous?" Bucky asked suddenly, whip sharp grin placed firmly on his face, looking so familiar Steve ached. It was scary how easy it was for Bucky to look like Bucky again, like the Winter Soldier, like the plane crash, like the 21st fucking century didn't happen. Steve should've liked it, he knew, but he didn't.

Steve rolled his eyes. "Tony gets jealous when strangers on the street propose. It doesn't bother him when I spar with Natasha or when I run with Sam. This, us, doesn't bother him at all."

"You've got a good thing going here don't you," Bucky huffed, eyes closed and head tipped back against the wall. Steve shifted grappling for any sort of comfortable position on the rock hard couch. Tony had warned him that all the furniture in this room was designed to make people look regal, not make them comfortable. It was the only room in the mansion left untouched from Tony's childhood.

"Yeah, I do" Steve looked at Bucky from where he was sitting side ways against the arm of the couch, "better with you here though."

"You know I'm never going to be just Bucky Barnes right?"

"I know you haven't been talking to your therapist."

"And who's bright fucking idea was that? A therapist? Really? You think after decades of being the most talented killer alive - and shut the fuck up Steve, I killed people, we both know I killed people - you really think I'd just be fucking dandy with spilling all my secrets to some idiot with a clipboard and orders to take me out when I get aggressive?"

"I know you won't ever just be Bucky again, I know you're Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier, but you're still my friend. You're still my fucking family," Steve burst out suddenly. "Please tell me you know that."

It was deathly quiet in the room before Bucky spoke again, out of the corner of his mouth, like he was too tired to talk properly, "Nathasa's stronger than people give her credit for. So's Tony."

"People give her a lot of credit. And you know she hates it when you call her that," Steve said mildly, not commenting on the remark.

Bucky grinned his shark smile again. "No, she doesn't. And don't think I didn't notice you ignoring what I said about him."

Steve sighed, felt the air come up from his diaphragm, filling his lungs and his mouth. "I'm just glad you stopped calling him Stark. Why?"

"Why what…"

"Bucky," Steve ground out.

"They make living with blood on your ledger look easy," Bucky breathed out suddenly. Steve paused, stomach in his throat when Bucky turned to him again, suddenly vicious. "You won't tell them this, ya hear? Last thing I need is more fucking pity."

"Of course I won't tell. I'm surprised you're even talking to me right now. But we both know they would be the last people to pity you. They know what you're going through."

"You're saying you don't?" A challenge.

"I've killed people-"

"You've killed Nazis," Bucky said with a bark of a laugh. "Nazis don't count as people." Steve could at least agree with that.

"You know, I miss being the stubborn one in this friendship."

"I'm not talking to them. It's a different situation entirely."

"I thought you said they knew what it felt.."

"Never like this. Never like me. Fucking Tony didn't even know what was happening with his company, how does that compare to this?" He turned to Steve, desperate, "I trained Natasha, trained her to be a murderer. What does that say about me?"

"It says something about the Winter Soldier. It says that you were brainwashed."

"I killed his parents, did he tell you that? Blew up their car, slit his mother’s throat while she was screaming. Stabbed his father for good measure. And if you tell me that's okay, if you make excuses for me, I'll fucking deck you."

"I don't need to tell you that it was wrong. You think I don't know you're thinking of running away again? The guilt eats away at you. The Winter Soldier didn't know what guilt was because he was fucking brainwashed. You were tortured Bucky."

"I killed so many innocent people."

"You killed people. Innocent people and we both know you can't make up for that. There isn't anything you could possibly do. That's not how it works." Steve was so tired of this, tired of how complicated this was, tired of morality and honor and redemption. "You do good and you wait until there's enough good to not make the bad crawl under your skin like palladium," Steve quoted. Tony was strangely poetic at the 3 in the morning, all ruffled hair and tight breaths. "I just want you to be happy. Don't we deserve that? After all the second chances we've been given, don't we at least deserve that?"

Silence again. Steve stared out the window opposite him, Bucky's silhouette barely blocking the view. Everything here really was excessive, slightly more so than even by Tony's usual standards. He wondered idly how he could go about sketching the exact way the light snagged on the leaves of the topiaries in the garden outside.

"I'm not going back to that therapist." Steve waited him out, could taste the capitulation on his tongue. "But we could do this more often. Just. Talking."

"Yeah?"

"How many more times do you need me to say it?" Bucky grinned suddenly. "Age catching up to you, Rogers?"

"Screw off Bucky," Steve laughed, shoving him roughly. "I'm really, really happy that you want to talk to me," he couldn't resist adding.

Bucky made a face, "How does Tony stand all this earnestness?"

Steve smirked, "You really want to know?"

"Oh fuck no, never mind. Still can't believe how filthy you are now, Christ."

"The army does a number on scrawny virgins."

"It also does a number on beefed up super soldiers." Bucky shot him another look, that 'I know you' look that gave Steve dizzying hope.

Steve looked out the window again, at their teammates, their friends, running past, equipped to the teeth with various water shooting weapons. Bucky followed his line of sight and chuckled suddenly. "Tell me how I got roped into living with a bunch of 9 year olds."

"Hey! I'm at least 12," he said, moving to get up. "How bout we go and show them how it's really done?" he asked, smirking.

"As long as you and Tony keep your hands to yourself."

"No promises."

The chronicles of the winter || Part XI

Part II  || Part III || Part IV || Part V || Part VI || Part VII|| Parta VIII || Part IX || Part X continuation of imagine 

Word Count: 6770

Warnings: strong language, blood and injuries

Author: Beast

"You're safe, you're safe…"

The words reached him gradually, spoken softly and warmly as his tentative grip on reality tightened. He felt awful, head swimming and senses dulled. He wanted nothing more than to give in to the lull of sleep, to let go of consciousness and fall back into the waiting darkness, but he knew that would leave him vulnerable. The awareness of his own body was painfully slow to return. He was lying on something soft, his shoulder ached with a pain like broken glass in his head, his mouth was far too dry and something was touching him.

For some odd reason, he wasn't as panicked as he thought he'd be. Concerned was a more accurate word; concerned about what was near him and who was speaking, but the voice was comforting and gentle, and his guard wasn't so quick to build up. It was familiar in some odd way that he couldn't quite put his finger on; it was nothing like the barking orders and fearful murmurs of the white-coated men who pulled him from the icy depths of cryostasis. He couldn't have been in cryo for that matter, he felt too warm for that, and waking from that death-sleep never happened on something soft; he always awoke strapped down on a metal table, alone.

Movement in front of him; someone was standing, walking away. He heard wooden floorboards creak softly underfoot. Not in the facility. That was assuring, but also alarming. Where the hell was he, if he wasn't back there? Memories came back in a fuzzy tangle of pain and confusion, not at all clear and providing no answers. All he could definitively pick out was running, running, running, and suffocating pain. It was too much of a jumbled mess to make sense of.

Testing his body was difficult. The pain was sharp enough to register through the programming, indicating that something was damaged severely. His thoughts were too sluggish for him to adequately catalog his own wounds in his mental checklist to relay to his handlers. Wait—the handlers are dead. That realization forced his eyes open, mind in desperate need of affirmation for that line of thought. The light, however dim it might have been, was oppressive and overpowering. He blinked several times before he could make out any semblance of detail. The walls were painted a warm, light color, with pictures and furniture scattered around the room. It was nothing like the sterile space he typically woke in. Everything about it was different, but not in an uncomfortable sort of way. He could see a pile of bloody clothes—mine?—off near the door, and was suddenly quite aware of how defenseless he felt.

"… Bucky?" the voice was so sudden it caused him to twitch, body suddenly tense and ready to spring when he caught sight of someone peeking in from a doorway across the room. His vision was still blurry but he thought he recognized him. When the person stepped closer he was sitting up in an instant—and instantly regretted it. The sharp movement caused a burst of warmth on his shoulder, choking down a yelp at the intense pain. He chanced looking away from the man, metal hand cautiously touching the back of his shoulder. The limb lacked tactile sensation, but he did determine there was something spongy and yielding there, and when he removed the hand, the fingers were covered in fresh blood. My shirt was removed and wounds tended to. Did the man do this?

The couch, he'd realized he was lying on one a few seconds prior, dipped slightly as the man sat down next to him, keeping enough space between them so he wasn't crowded. The fact that he had approached without him noticing was enough to alarm the asset into immediate guard. He pressed himself against the arm of the couch, back against it and wound as far away from the other as he could get it. He studied him intently, looking for any weapon or any item that was a danger. He was ready to defend himself at the slightest provocation.

"I brought you some juice, if you want something to drink." The man with the bright eyes spoke softly, offering him a clear plastic cup filled about halfway with the liquid, smiling at him with familiarity. It was brightly colored and somewhat unusual looking, but it smelled rather pleasant and his dry throat was suddenly at the forefront of his awareness. The confusion surrounding how he got here was still taking precedence in his mind, but the man, he remembered something about him. His voice was the one that had said he was safe. His hands were faintly stained with blood and his shirt was marred with it as well. He must be the one who treated me. He wasn't entirely sure why that thought was comforting, but it was.

Moments passed with no movement between the two, the assassin distrustful and rightfully wary. Kindness and compassion were both incredibly foreign concepts, locked out of him by layers and layers of ridged programming and conditioning. There had to be some reason this man was doing this. Was he being prepped for something?

He swallowed thickly, the dryness of his throat too much to ignore, and cautiously extended his metal hand out to take the offered cup. Eye contact was never broken, not giving the other the chance to do anything that could threaten him. The cup was fragile, thin plastic, and it took a little testing to make sure he wouldn't break it before he took it from him.

"Its orange juice," the man started, "I have milk or water if you'd rather have that?" was he asking for his preference? That was… he didn't really remember any time when anyone had asked what he'd wanted. He didn't respond and regarded the juice warily, but he eventually deemed it safe. It wasn't logical to go through all the effort of tending to his wounds just to poison him. Even with that thought in mind, his first sip was hesitant. It tasted overwhelmingly sweet, enough so that it almost made him gag, but he was so thirsty he probably would have taken just about anything.

Emily was standing on the corridor, listening to the conversation of two men. She sighed sadly, knowing that something was about to happen..

"Will you let me look at your shoulder?" the question was entirely unexpected, causing icy eyes to cut over to the other man, "It's bleeding again, and I'd like to get an actual bandage on it, if that's alright with you." He was asking his permission. The concept was almost intangible to his methodical mind. He had rarely been told what was happening to him, let alone given anything resembling a choice; when things needed to be done, things were done, and he had no say in them. He was interested in his wellbeing, so perhaps he was a new handler, to replace the ones that were dead.

"One round, sniper rifle, distance of several blocks." He repeated all the information he knew about the injury, "Bullet didn't exit, needs extraction." His voice was monotonous, not looking away from the man at his right. Several moments of silence passed before he watched the other man retrieve several items from the floor before sitting back down next to him, much closer this time. In response the soldier moved, sitting so that his back was to him so he could reach the wound easily. He was operating on programming and instinct, otherwise he never would have turned away from him.

"I'm going to take off the bandage now, let me know if it hurts and I'll stop." His voice was still that gentle tone that held a familiarity that he couldn't place. He didn't respond, just sipping the juice he had been given as he felt the other peel the blood-soaked fabric from the wound. To distract himself he tried to focus on the events that ended with him waking up in this place. He remembered something about the Strike team, about HYDRA, about desperately seeking out someone, about Robrax.

The asset tensed absentmindedly when he felt the other man dab at the wound with a cloth, wiping away the blood. He heard a hastily mumbled "sorry" from behind him before the work was continued, gentler than before. Minutes passed in silence, with the weapon sitting stilly and obediently as the taller man cleaned and dressed the wound. The disinfectant stung but he didn't show any discomfort, allowing him to clean the wound thoroughly as he let himself be lost in his own thoughts.

A hazy memory trickled into his mind of a cold and dimly-lit apartment, with himself and someone else sitting on a ratty old couch covered in moth-eaten blankets. The other person was scratching the stub of a charcoal pencil into a small sketchbook, bundled up in as many of those pathetic-looking blankets as he could and sitting as close to—me?—as was physically possible. He remembered feeling Steve, his name was Steve, shivering horribly even through all those blankets. It was winter, he'd just gotten over pneumonia, and he remembered how scared he'd been thinking he was going to lose him. But... why did he remember this? Were those memories actually his?

"… you still draw, don't you, Steve?" the soldier suddenly questioned, the degrading programming loosening its grip on his awareness now that he was fully awake. The other man, he remembered his name now. He was Steve Rogers. Captain Steve Rogers. He was the only face he could recall with any clarity, therefore he had to have held some significant importance to him at some time.

"I—" Steve faltered, finishing up wrapping gauze tape around his shoulder to hold the sterile packing in place, "Y-yeah I do, Buck. You… always liked watching me draw." His voice was tentative and hopeful, something the asset made immediate mental note of. He heard Steve putting away things behind him, and he took it as a sign that he was finished.

"… do you still keep a sketchbook?" the assassin wasn't sure why he was so interested, but the memory had been rather clear and he took it as an opportunity to possibly learn if it was real. He tilted his head to glance back over his shoulder, and saw Steve nod slightly. "Can I see it?" he wasn't used to asking questions, to voicing his own thoughts, and he felt a need to try it. Seeing the smile that broke across the other's face was oddly rewarding.

"Of course you can." Steve nearly fumbled over his own words, eyes alight with some emotion he couldn't place, "Here, Bucky." A shirt was held out to him when he turned to face him fully, "Your shirt was ruined, so you can use one of mine." Blue eyes regarded it somewhat warily, but he took it from him regardless. It was little more than a plain grey shirt, but it was appreciated. "I'll go and get you some more juice and my sketchbook. I'll be back in a moment." The empty cup was retrieved from his hand, the assassin not startling at the sudden movement, before the man left the room. Bucky. There was that name again. His name. He dimly recalled it—yes, it was his name.

The shirt was a little difficult to put on with his arm and shoulder injured, but it was managed. The horrific grinding and popping of his joint when he pulled it over his head confirmed that the injury had to be set. He added it into his mental list of injuries. The garment was a little big on his thinned frame, but it was clean and comfortable. It had a somewhat familiar scent to it as well that he couldn't quite recall. Even in as much pain as he was, he felt better than he had in a very long time. Not physically better; he felt absolutely awful physically, but maybe a little better mentally.

He had confirmation that his name was the same as the Sergeant memorialized in the museum, and that this other man was the same Steve that he could dimly remember. There was still an odd disconnect between himself and his past, between himself and the man known as Bucky, but this was a fragile thread that tied him back to it. There were a lot of blank, empty spaces where memories should be in his mind, and he doubted he'd ever get everything back, but this felt… right? Being here with Steve felt right. Yes, he was fairly certain this was the right thing to do.

Tired eyes caught sight of a few folded blankets on the floor near his feet. He might have just regained consciousness but he still felt absolutely exhausted and drained. One of the blankets was picked up, wrapped around him tightly to try and block the cold. It was one of those odd constants that never left; cold seemed to follow him like his own shadow, sinking teeth of ice into his flesh every waking moment. No matter what he tried he never could seem to warm himself up. He curled up tightly under the fabric, feeling a tentative safety for the first time in a long while. All the running and fear and paranoia was starting to melt, bit by bit, as he allowed his eyes to close willingly. By the time Steve returned, he had already dozed off, huddled against the arm of the couch with his back to the door; a small, fragile sign of trust. It was the first deep, peaceful sleep he could remember since he woke from stasis.

When he opened his eyes this time there was no light, the space dark and silent, the reason for just why he was awake unclear. Several moments passed before he realized he was staring into fabric; the back of a couch, he determined. Unease breathed at the back of his neck, but nothing seemed outwardly wrong around him. However, something still felt off. His memories were slow to catch up with his awareness, but he pieced together where he was soon enough. This time his return to consciousness didn't come with any overwhelming paranoia, just a faint acknowledgment of his surroundings; it was a first for the soldier.

He hadn't moved at all since falling asleep, the skill of remaining completely motionless honed into a fine art. It was an ability he'd possessed even before HYDRA's conditioning; he half recalled something about sniping. The downside was that he was now rather sore, and he was sure the injuries he'd sustained earlier in the night had only been compounded by his lack of movement. He'd slept on his right arm, which hadn't done his dislocated joint any favors. He would be sure to alert his new handler to the injury come morning.

There was a momentary lapse before he corrected his thought. Not handler, Steve. The man was an odd sort of mystery in his head. He wasn't a handler, wasn't a white-coated tech, wasn't anything he was familiar with. Steve was Steve. He was a strange exception in a world of ridged rules and protocols. Normally such an obvious outlier would make him nervous, but Steve's presence was comforting and nonthreatening and achingly familiar.

Movement was difficult; now that the adrenaline and shock had worn off he felt the full force of the pain. Every muscle seemed to ache, a deep-seeded burn that spread from his skin to the deepest parts of him. His prosthetic creaked and the servos whined pitifully, the weeks of abuse and ill-care wearing at it. Getting into a sitting position took much more effort than he expected, but now that he had a clear view of the entire room he felt a little safer. The tentative feeling of security let him will himself to take stock of his situation.

The room hadn't changed except for the light having been flipped off, but the darkness was of no hindrance. He could see rather well at night, but whether or not that was inherent or due to HYDRA tampering he wasn't sure. Despite the fact that this place exuded a sense of safety that he'd never experienced before, checking the perimeter and his surroundings was so ingrained in him that he felt a compulsion to do it.

As he moved to get up, he noticed there was a second blanket covering him. Or had been, before he sat up and caused it to tumble off of him in a heap. Absentmindedly he reached out to pick it up, wincing a bit at the metallic whine of his artificial joints and tendons. Several of the plates were jarred out of place, clanking together unnaturally and restricting his range of motion. Dried blood mired the reflective surface, coming not from himself but from nameless HYDRA agents. As soon as he had recovered enough to be effective, he had gone and destroyed every safe house he knew of, killing every HYDRA agent he came across. He was going to destroy HYDRA all on his own if it came to that; they were going to regret ever having created him. He'd see to it.

"Mm, Buck?" the sleepy hum of the Captain broke the silence, the soldier's eyes cutting over in that direction. He hadn't even noticed the other man had placed himself in a nearby chair, now-open eyes regarding him tiredly. Keeping an eye on me? Making sure I don't escape? The second thought made his brow furrow a bit. No, that's not right. He somehow just knew that wasn't why he had opted to rest out here instead of returning to the bedroom.

The asset didn't respond verbally, but gave him a brief nod before he carried through with picking up the blanket. The nervousness was once again settling into the pit of his stomach, the sort of feeling he expected prey felt before a predator sprung from the shadows. It was such an unfamiliar feeling, as he was usually the lurking predator in question. He could hear Steve stretching and moving to get up, so he decided to remain seated; he had a feeling the Captain would fuss if he tried to get up and walk with his wounds.

"Feeling any better?" the other's voice was far too bright for it being so early in the morning. The assassin just watched as he tapped at a phone, glancing to him after the screen lit up. He took a moment to check himself mentally before he responded. His metal fingers hesitantly relinquished their grip on the blanket, instead wrapping gingerly around his shoulder joint, where the Captain had dislocated it in their struggle.

"… arm hurts." He mumbled quietly, lacking the robotic, monotonous quality that had previously dominated his voice. He knew that the Captain had seen the deep bruising and discoloration around the joint, as the bullet wound was plastered in the middle of it, but he was well aware that there was likely little he could do for it. Even he wasn't sure if it was just a dislocation, or if there was a fracture as well. The frown that appeared on the other man's face at his words was enough to make the nervousness he was experiencing leap to the front of his mind.

"We'll get it looked at, don't worry." His voice was always so soothing, "But…" discomfort, possibly even fear crept into the other's tone suddenly, serving to heighten the soldier's apprehension. His gaze was at his phone again, tapping his finger against it nervously. "… we can't stay here, we need to get somewhere safe." The sense of urgency was contagious, it seemed. The hairs on the back of his neck were on-end again, and the assassin was on his feet in a few seconds.

"Buck, are you sure you're alright to be up and.." the glare he directed at the Captain was much more threatening than he meant it to be, but he got his point across as the rest of the man's sentence withered in his throat. He wasn't fragile, he wasn't to be coddled; he was a weapon that was damaged and malfunctioning, not broken and useless. Weakness wasn't tolerated, his handlers had made sure to drive that into his programming.

"Give me a minute to get ready and get you a jacket, then we've gotta move out." Those were words the soldier remembered and associated with. Location compromised, moving to safety. It must be why he woke up; HYDRA must be closing in. It was enough to make his muscles stiffen with readiness, not wanting to be taken by surprise like last time. They wouldn't have that luxury. Not again.

 Emily also had packed some necessary stuff earlier. She was standing in the middle of the room, with a backpack hanging over her shoulder.

“Guys…” she whispered. “We don’t have much time.”

Waiting was not in the Winter Soldier's repertoire, and instead of remaining still he was up and moving. The pistol he had dropped earlier was retrieved, inspected and placed into his pocket. There wasn't a lot of ammunition left in it, but enough to be useful. He'd done more damage with much, much less. Now that he was up he decided to do that perimeter check he'd been planning on. Steve was doing something in his room, so he avoided that room and checked every other one. His pass through the kitchen produced the knife he'd left that first night, still sullied with the Captain's blood, and a worn sketchbook. There was a twinge of guilt in his stomach that passed quickly as he placed the blade back into the sheath at his ankle. The small book, likely the one Steve had been bringing to show him, was tucked into his pocket.

The dull, aching burn in his muscles was pushed out of his awareness; now that there was a clear threat to him all pain was ignored. It was how he had been conditioned, trained and taught; pain was a weakness and only useful for determining damage after a successful mission. He hated to admit that he was nervous, but he was. He had the beginnings of fragile trust in Steve, but this had the makings of a trap. Suddenly relocating after arriving? Departing hours before the sun rose, when no one would ever notice their passing? It was enough to set off warning bells in the soldier's mind.

"Buck," the Captain's hesitant voice broke his thoughts, eyes cutting over to where the other man was peeking in from the door, "Are you ready?" again with questions, again with asking him things. It was still a strange and unusual concept to the asset, used only to demands and orders. He responded only with a curt nod, taking a jacket that the other offered to him. It was somewhat big on him, but worn and soft and comfortable nonetheless. Nothing like the rigid combat gear HYDRA had outfitted him with. In a way he felt vulnerable, missing the reassuring weight and constriction of his body armor.

Steve had a small pack slung over his shoulder, the contents of which the soldier didn't know, and shield strapped to his arm. It was clear, however, that they were likely not coming back, not for a long time at least. There was no sentimental attachment to this place for him, he didn't have any sentimental attachments honestly, but he did know this place and knew it was safe in his mind, so leaving it didn't sit right in his mind. He did know, however, that staying would end in certain HYDRA custody or death.

Ushered out into the hall, the soldier only moved when prompted by his new handler. No, Steve. His senses were on alert, although still dulled and sluggish from the blood loss earlier. The sleep and bandaging had improved his awareness a bit, although even with his serum it would take a few more hours before he would be in a condition he was comfortable with. He just watched as Steve tapped at his phone, door pulled shut behind him. It was only after he read some text message for the fifth time that he suddenly froze.

"Shit." Now that got a reaction out of the soldier. He tensed up and stood perfectly still, the tone of Steve's voice setting off warnings and alarm bells that something was catastrophically wrong. His tone had been nothing but softness and warmth up until now; the swear sparked just the ghost of a sensation in his head, of cold wind and the smell of gunsmoke as he peered over a trench in some long forgotten battlefield.

"We need to move. Now." the words spilled out of the blond man suddenly, a hand grabbing his right arm without warning and tugging him down towards the stairs. Normally such an unexpected action would have warranted a swift punch to the jaw, but the startled tone in the other's voice alerted him that something was very, very wrong. He didn't resist, letting Steve lead him swiftly down the stairs and towards a back door, the other man mumbling the entire way about something about the text having been wrong. Muffled voices—HYDRA, Strike team—filtered through the walls from outside, formless shadows visible through the frosted glass of the front doors.

Subtly was thrown out the window as Steve kicked the back door open and bolted outside, the asset stumbling and fighting to keep up with the jolting motion. The man had yet to let go of his arm, guiding him through narrow alleyways and side streets in a path that seemed predetermined. He didn't know the plan, which was a source of anxiety in and of itself, but Steve clearly had something in mind, so for the first time he—trust was too strong a word—relied on the other's decisions to get them out of harm's way.

HYDRA agents were all over, dressed in varying uniforms of Strike and police and others he did not recognize. They shouted as they tried to corner them, seemingly appearing from nowhere from alleyways and cars and from behind objects. Steve did not engage them, instead pulling him along as he ducked and weaved dizzyingly between buildings and sleepy streets. He had a set destination in mind, the asset could tell, and even though the sight of HYDRA angered him into considering pulling away to fight, he knew it was too risky to separate himself from the Captain.

Unfortunately, HYDRA did that for him. There was a sudden, jarring shout from one of the alleys they were about to blow past, and before either could react the darkened space filled with blinding light and a concussive sound. Flashbang. Steve yelled something but the asset didn't hear, the grip on his arm lost as the other covered his ears. Even before the white left his vision, formless shapes surrounded them as agents appeared to spring from the very walls to box them in. Wordlessly, the assassin and the Avenger stood back to back, fitting into formation as easily as if it was something they did every day. The pistol was pulled from his pocket, knowing that even with little ammo it would be more effective at the moment than a knife. There was a brief flash of familiarity in his mind, but the situation around him drowned it out almost instantly.

"Drop your weapon and surrender the asset, Captain Rogers!" a husky voice barked out, a dozen barrels of a dozen guns aimed at them. He could feel Steve tense against his back, but so vastly outnumbered and outgunned any outburst now would likely end in one or both of them dead.

"… Steve." He wasn't sure just why he spoke, or why his voice was softened and hinted with an accent he only vaguely recalled, but he did. It was a sort of rash, sudden need to ground himself in the present, to remind himself that the man behind him was indeed the Steve he could so faintly remember. His statement, however, had an unintended consequence.

"The asset's compromised," that growling voice spoke again, "he'll need to be wiped and reconditioned if we're going to salvage this." That statement triggered an intense, shattering terror in the assassin the likes of which he could not recall. Broken memories of deafening electricity crackling madly, of being tied down and unresisting and passive, suddenly swam in his mind and broke through his calculating combat mindset. Without thought he pressed himself further against Steve's back, as if somehow he could hide from his own horrifying memories in the other's presence.

"Buck, it's alright," voice hushed and gentle, the Captain spoke only loud enough for him to hear, "You've got to work with me, we're going to work together to get out of this, just follow my lead." It wasn't worded as an order or command, and as such disoriented the soldier for a moment, but that fragile ideal of trust settled in to fill in the gaps and his only response was a slight nod that went unseen. They could do this. “Emily. I’m gonna take their attention, you need to run. If they will take us three, nothing will left.”

She nodded slightly and before the fight, she ran toward the nearest window. She stopped in front of it, taking a look back at her men. Steve was looking at her above his shoulder, he gave her a nod, so she followed his order and jumped out of the window, disappearing in the darkness of the night.

There was no warning for the HYDRA agents, shield thrown and colliding with several and incapacitating them while three expertly placed and near-simultaneous bullets downed three permanently. They moved in sync, still keeping each at their back even after separating and lunging at the ring of agents that surrounded them. The now-useless pistol had been abandoned in favor for a blade, which was used to swiftly and efficiently disable and kill two more agents before they could even fire off a round.

The resonant clang of the shield behind him let him subconsciously track the Captain's movements, even as he threw himself into the tangle of agents in front of him. He used the knowledge that he was wanted alive to his advantage, as he knew they wouldn't dare try to shoot him at such close range as it would likely irreparably damage him and they would lose their prized asset. It couldn't have worked better for him, as he was just as comfortable and deadly dispatching a target at close range as he was sniping.

An agent was slammed against the nearby wall, razored blade deftly sliding between neck vertebras to kill his target instantly. Without a moment's hesitation he was upon another, moving with all the predatory grace of a hunting cat, throat slit and body casually dropped as if it were little more than a discarded jacket. The remaining two agents in his field of view turned and bolted, and had he been on his prior missions of annihilating HYDRA installations around the city he would have pursued them relentlessly, but now he barely acknowledged their escape. Instead, he spun on his heel to where Steve was fighting, wasting no time engaging the remaining agents that swarmed him.

His blood-sullied blade dipped into the throat of a Strike member readying to shoot Steve's back, a gurgled wheeze of horrified shock the only noise that escaped before he was roughly shoved aside. Sticky crimson soaked deep into his jacket and clothes beneath but little regard was given to it; the horrors of his actions seemed as commonplace as any daily act to him after decades of repetition. Another HYDRA infantrymen lunged at Rogers with a stun baton, but the soldier intercepted him, slashing with a precise stroke that opened the man's torso as easily as a zipper. He fell noiselessly into a jumbled heap of blood and viscera at the Captain's feet, a non-threat.

Soon only a few hostiles remained, mostly stepping far back and firing as many rounds as they could at Captain Rogers. The asset refused to leave the man's side again, tucked up close near him in an effort to deter any more firing, and to his dim surprise it seemed to work. The agents backed away even farther, guns raised but triggers untouched, eyes locked on them. He took the brief lull in fire to glance at Steve for a moment, to assess his condition. He was on his feet, but blood had soaked his right leg from a bullet wound to the calf. A slash from a knife tore through his jacket and into his side, while red dribbled from his saturated sleeve from another entry wound. He was standing, for the moment, but the soldier knew that even with the serum the blood loss would catch him quickly.

Steve asked something, something about how he was holding up or the like, but the assassin didn't catch it. Instead his attention was elsewhere when his eyes caught a brief flash of light from the roof of a building two streets over. His heart fell into his stomach and his shout of warning was lost to the rifle crack when the realization hit. Of course, the bullet hit first, just not in the place HYDRA had wanted it.

The soldier had reacted instinctively, kicking the back of Steve's injured leg hard enough that he buckled. His sudden movement meant the bullet, aimed for a kill shot on the Avenger's heart, instead struck and slid off the slant of his shield and hit his collarbone. A second bullet, fired milliseconds after the first from a likely second sniper, caught him across his already-slashed ribs, blossoming open as if it were a grotesque flower. The strangled cry of shock and pain that left the man as he crumpled to the ground snapped something buried deep beneath HYDRA programming, and within a half-second he had grabbed Steve by his arm and pulled him into a small alcove between two buildings. He heard two more bullets strike the asphalt where they had been moments before, and knew that HYDRA was likely not going to take Steve alive.

All thoughts of the remaining HYDRA agents were abandoned at the sound of Steve's raspy breathing, the assassin leaning him against the building wall as to hopefully ease it some as he leaned down to his level. Even though the shield had absorbed most of the energy of the round, the wound was devastating. The bullet had shattered his collarbone, flesh torn and ripped and blood dripping freely. A dribble of the crimson stained the Captain's chin, breath labored and choking and heaved in and out. His lung's been punctured, probably collapsing. The second bullet had no doubt shattered his ribs, and the awful torn wound was jagged and blown apart by the unimpeded bullet's passing. It was a grim prognosis.

The sounds of the agents trying to regroup from the attack were hardly registered, hands pressed to the man's injury in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood. A pained cough escaped him, reddened mouth slackened open as he tried again and again to fill his lungs full to no avail. "B… B-Buck…" he slurred wetly through the blood, half-lidded eyes beginning to glaze over as unconsciousness loomed, "… got t-to… get… a-away…" shock was setting in, body trembling under the assassin's hands, but he mustered the energy to nudge him with the shield in a halfhearted attempt to push him into running. He wanted him to leave him behind, to save himself from falling back into HYDRA's control. The very thought of it twisted the soldier's stomach in a knot and caused his breath to catch in his throat.

"S-Steve," his normally-controlled voice was shaky and small, fear filling every inch of him as trembling, blood-stained metallic fingers brushed golden hair away and cupped the Captain's cheek to hold his gaze on him, "You've gotta hold on," his eyes began to sting as an unfamiliar heat and blurriness began to build, "I-I'm not leaving you behind." Something had woken up deep in his mind, faint ghosts of memories of battles long past. Of fights in alleys where both refused to run away, never leaving the other's side. It was such a strong emotion that consumed him that he couldn't ever hope to fight it, and strangely enough, he possessed no will to resist it.

Footsteps and barked orders behind him drew him from his withdrawn, focused state. It was like a switch flicking in his head, the sharp focus of combat and programming setting in, and within the space of a breath he had taken the shield from Steve's faltering grasp and spun around, keeping himself between the agents and his injured partner. His vision was blurred and his eyes stung fiercely, an unfamiliar wetness trailing down a cheek, but he didn't move from his defensive stance, rooted to the spot with shield held solid in his metal prosthetic. The plates whirled and slid together with a groan of protest, ready to lash out with the vibranium disk at the slightest movement.

"Get away!" he snarled in a voice so loud it startled the men, "Get away from him!" he swung the shield at an agent that dared to approach, knocking him clean off his feet and sending him tumbling. The sharp, ripping pain as his own shoulder wound tore caused him to wince, but it was immediately stuffed down as he had much more important things to focus on. Seeing their own knocked away so easily, even while he was in such a state, caused the others to take heed and back away a few feet. Even though his joint protested, he retrieved and hid a blade in the palm of his injured arm, keeping it disguised behind the shield. If they got close again they would be in for a nasty surprise.

"This is… unexpected." The same agent who spoke earlier piped up, rifle trained on the pair with deadly intent, "Looks like the programming has decayed more than anticipated. General Lukin isn't going to be pleased." That name was familiar, and struck a fear like a dagger of ice into the soldier's heart. He pressed himself back, shield held higher in a desperate attempt to keep the agents at bay. Steve moved behind him, whimpering in pain, and a moment later the former Soviet felt his hand press reassuringly to his back in a wordless gesture of trust. It was enough to steel his nerves, to dispel his own fear just enough to focus on the agents who had chanced to venture further.

With an almost animalistic roar, he leapt at the nearest agent, jamming the sharp edge of the shield into his ribcage, crushing it like a flimsy can. He dropped into a tangle of limbs, and he used the moment of confusion to swing at another, feeling the agent's skull cave under the impact. The shield was brought down on the neck of another agent, while the knife in his right hand pierced the torso of one rushing at him. As he swiveled to lunge at the seeming-commander he froze mid-strike, eyes wide with terror, when he saw that another agent had a gun trained to the downed Captain's head.

"No!" the word clawed its way out of him, shield and blade falling from his hand in a show of submission, eyes wide with feral panic. "D-don't do it." He'd never demanded anything from anyone, not in all his active years, but he was now. He was scared, desperate and out of options, pleading like one of his victims to spare the other man's life. The commander's gravelly voice broke into a laugh behind him, but before he could round on him he felt a pinprick on the back of his neck, followed immediately by a burst of warmth that spider-webbed through his body. His knees buckled and vision swam, awareness growing fuzzy as he collapsed to the ground. He gasped out Steve's name, tried to push himself back up, but he couldn't even prevent his eyes from sliding shut a heartbeat later. His hearing muffled, but the last thing he was aware of was that growl of a voice ordering the surviving agents to take the both of them before everything drained away into nothingness.

Imagine: Daredevil joins Avengers.

Request by: @deliciousbouquet90

„Soo… He is like..” Tony looked at Steve over papers that he held in hand, frowning softy.

“Blinde… Yea I know that… but he is good, it took me a while to make sure about this but he is good, really good.” Steve said. “Like really really good. You should see his skills, the things that he can do. He fights like normal person, even better. He fights like a real hero.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Come on, Steve! This guy’s blinde, blinde like a mole. I don’t believe you, how someone like he can even call himself a hero?”

“Have you read newspapers? He is all over them… maybe we should at last try… give him a chance. Pleaseee Tony.” Steve sighed sadly making kind of a puppy eyes.

“Okaaaay! Fine!” Tony muttered. “If something will happen, it will be your responsibility, Cap.” Man said.

“It always is my responsibility..” Steve said quietly to himself.

“What?” Tony frowned.

“No! Nothing! Thanks, Tony.” Steve said and left.

Matt felt a bit uncomfortable, he didn’t really know this new place very well. He also wasn’t really sure about him joining Avengers, it was so out of place. Well yes, he was a hero but he wasn’t like any member of Avengers. However he came anyway.

Cap and Bucky walked into room, Steve looked at Matt and then at Bucky. Bucky only shrugged and sat on a couch.

Steve smiled at Matt and offered him hand. “Mathew Murdock, am I right?”

“Yes, Captain, but Matt is enough.”

Tony walked into the room and looked at Cap. “Steve…. He is blinde. He for sure won’t see your hand.” He laughed.

Steve smiled awkwardly and immediately his face became red. Bucky rolled his eyes and took Tony’s empty cup from a coffee table. “Hey! Devil! Catch this!” He yelled and threw cap into Matt’s direction. Man caught it without problem. “I knew that second guy was there.” Matt said happily.

Tony blinked and frowned softly. “Whatever! And YOU! Never threw my stuff” He growled and left. Bucky only laughed. “I love to piss him off.”

“Um… Thanks Bucky. So… Matt? Welcome to Avengers?” Bucky only facepalmed when Steve again offered his hand to Matt, this guy was just too nice.

Matt smiled and nodded. “Thank you Captain Rogers.” Matt said and took Steve’s hand. “I hope that cooperation will be successful.”

Author: Cass Gif: X X 

Chasing the shadow || Part II

Summary: Your quiet life quickly get complicated Words: 1712 Warnings: none Author: Cass

It was a month since you met Ezio again and you two were together now.

You were happy. You finally felt alive.

Taking care of assassins was something good for you. You were busy but never alone, assassins appreciated your work.

Your duty was to take care of every Ezio’s assassin. Sometimes assassins were coming to you, they were sick or hurt. You were patching their wounds or you were making sure they will recover really quick from any sickness. It was hard, some assassins were stubborn as hell,sicknessa tough task to keep them in bed.

The nicest work was when assassins were coming to you to get something to eat. It was nice to cook for more than one person. You were cooking for everyone, for sick and hurt assassins and of course for hungry assassins

Sometimes it was hard. Some nights you had to stay awake. Just like one night when you peacefully slept in your bed, dressed only in your [Y/F/C] nightgown. Suddenly your arm was grabbed and sshakd.

“[Y/N] wake up… please…” You good knew this voice, it was Ezio.

You looked at him.

“What is it…?” You muttered and sat up, rubbing your eyes.

“We need your help..” He said and looked over his shoulder, shoulde same and looked behind him. Two of his assassins were holding the third man. He was badly hurt… really really badly. You blinked in shock and looked back at Ezio. “Something has went wrong? Take him to free room, undress him, Ezio, take my bag and go with them… I will dress up and join you really quickly.” You only said and everyone listened to you. Taking care of assassin's wounds took you many hours.

You spend whole night, sitting on bed next to the hurt man, making sure everything is okay.

Ezio walked into room.

“Tesoro… come to bed, you need some rest.”

You only shook your head.

“I will be fine. I need to make sure… that he won’t die.”

Man only sighed and walked to you, he kissed your forehead, stroking your cheek.

“Bene, but please as soon as he will be fine. You have to take care of yourself. Buona note.”

“Buona note, my love.” You said quietly.

It was the worst night ever but you loved this work, many assassins were thankful because you saved their lives. You often talked with your friend who was a doctor, he was teaching you new stuff what made you only better in your work.

You also felt happy from different reason and it was because you were with Ezio, you two were together and this made you really happy. He was always making sure you are safe. No matter what it was, a walk, small trip for shopping, meeting with friends, always two assassins were somewhere close, keeping their eyes on you.

Ezio even made sure, that you got your choker. Simple black ribbon with silver assassin’s emblem.

This was your life now. No matter how hard it was sometimes, you loved it in the way it was.

You were walking around your living room, reading book. Nothing interesting, some medical stuff from your friend. You were just walking and repeating words from pages, you were trying your best to memorize them.

Suddenly someone grabbed your waist and picked you up, you let out a loud, scared whimper and you were scared until you saw who it was.

It was Ezio with happy smile on his face, you looked at him and laughed. “Ezio... Don’t scare me like this, please.”

“Scusami.” He said simply and kissed you.

You kissed him back and slowly took off his hood. “I missed you...” You said quietly.

Ezio put you back onto floor and hugged you tightly. “I missed you too so much.” He tried to hug you even tighter but he only hissed.

You blinked surprised, than you looked at him, frowning. “What did you do?” You asked angrily.

“Me? Nothing!” He said and smiled at you, “alright, alright... I just got stabbed few time.”

You rolled your eyes annoyed. “Sit.” You growled and went to find your bag.

Ezio sat down on your bed. “Don’t be mad, mi amore.” He said and started undress himself.

“Il mio bel, idiota.” You growled and stared dressing his wounds.

“They started looking for you...” Ezio looked at you, he seemed to be worried.

You were gently cleaning his woubes, you looked at him. “For me...?”

“Well... Not particulary but they know that there is someone in the city. Someone who helps us, they slowly try to look for this person...”

You shivered. “But... what I will do now..” You said deeply scared. You were brave, but not brave enough to stand still about possibility of being captured.

“Don’t worry, you will be safe. I premise.”

~~ Few days later~~

You took your basket and left your house. You walked trough calm streets of Rome, looking around at houses, people, at the whole world which was surrounding you.

You felt a bit weird. Ezio left you again to take care of some ‘important stuff’, you hated it because he was always leaving you under care of his assassins and the truth was you needed him the most.

You looked around, this weird feeling on the back of your neck was still presence. No one, only two assassins on the roof, but around you... no one. No suspicious people. You took deep scared breath and continued your walk, no matter how fast you were walking this feeling didn’t left you. For sure it wasn’t because of assassins, you were already used to their presence, it was something different and you could felt it in your bones. You only shook your head and walked even faster to do shopping and go back to home as quick as it was possible. Was it paranoia or you just lost the habit of feeling good around normal people, knowing your position now?

You got everything that you needed, Some food, medicines and fabrics. You were looking around whole time. But no one was after you, all you could see were people, normal people and guards that were walking around the streets. Everything was extraordinary.

“I think it’s paranoia..” You muttered to yourself when you opened door to your house. It was when you saw both of your “protectors” on the ground, they were probably dead, but this wasn’t the thing that scared you the most.

There was five heavily armoured soldiers and their captain. Man looked at you hardly. “As I can see, we were right. This place really is an assassin’s hideout, and you need to be their “famous” slut.”

Man growled, walking closer to you. “You are arrested. As a traitor!” man ripped off necklace from your neck.

You wanted to fight, oh so badly, but you know you had no chance. If you would start a fight, you would die. Being arrested was ‘better’ option in your situation. You only looked at man, growling under your breath.

He smiled and grabbed your cheek. “You won’t try be so strong later.” Man said. “Take her!” He ordered to his men and left your house.

Soldiers were really harsh with you. They put tight rough ropes on your hands and pushed you out of the house.

The walk to the prison... was terrible, every person, no matter if you know these people or not. They were looking at you, frowning, whispering between each others, turning their back to you.

You felt bad but, you also knew you were doing the right thing. No matter what people were thinking.

People in prison tried to pull out information from you. Cold water, beating up, intimidation... nothing made you talk. Maybe it was a mistake for you not to talk, but you knew you had to stay loyal to Assassins.

By the end of the day you were threw into a small cell, filled with mud and old hay. Your once beautiful dress was destroyed, your hair was a mess, your face was completely devastated, just like the rest of your body.

You whimpered, when you tried to got up from floor, but all you could do was getting onto your knees and hands. You looked around and saw an old matters, stained with blood and with other fluids you didn’t want to know about.

You forced yourself to move. You slowly laid down on your new ‘bed’ thinking about what will happen next. Will Ezio return on time? Or maybe his assassins will make him go back... or maybe they will help you? Maybe you will die here? What will happen tomorrow? What they will do to you next time?

All those questions filled your head, you were scared, but also full of faith, even when strong pain was filling your body.

Next day everything has been repeated: tortures, questions, tortures, questions... over and over again.

In the end of the day, you were just laying on your bed, listening to screams and guard’s talks. The thing that you heard frizzed your blood.

“What with that assassin’s woman. The one that was helping them?” “You didn’t heard. She don’t want to talk. She will be hanged  tomorrow.” “Why so quick?” “Captain is mad. I think he has a plan. I have no idea.”

You could feel tears in your eyes you didn’t want to break down, especially not now...

“Where is she?!” Ezio yelled loudly. His voice was full of fear and anger, his eyes were full of rage. “How could you let something like this happen to her!?”

Assassins that were supposed to protect you looked at each other, one of them started to talk.

“We... We tried, but...”

“They were awaiting...” The other one finished. “We didn't have any chances..”

“Imbecilli! You two have to find her. And tell me where is she. Understand?” He asked frowning.

Both man nodded and quickly ran out of house.

Ezio sighed heavily and looked around your devastated house. He felt so bad now, just every place reminded him about every single good moment with you.

He slowly sat down and rubbed his face.

“I will find you... I promise.” He said quietly to himself, clenching his hands into a fists.

A/N: Hey guys. I just wanna say that writing of next part... may take a while... Reason: 

I’m really sorry guys but I want finish game when I still have too much of free time but I promise I will try write as fast as I will be able to ;) 

Bear by @tykorclint

tykorclint:  For you from me ;*

We love it soo much! it’s so cute! Thank you very much! 

~Cass 

Little letters

WORD COUNT: 1680

SUMMARY: Some letters Tony and Steve exchanged between each other.

WARNINGS: none

AUTHOR: Killer raccoon

Capcicle:

This phone is embarrassing. I’m embarrassed to have it anywhere near my person. Pretty sure you must have recovered it from an archeological dig of a Neanderthal cave. Which would be fitting for you, them being your people and all. Still pissed by the way, haven’t reached that ‘understanding’ yet.

Unsincerely,

T.S.

 Dear Tony,

I know. Both about the phone and the understanding. I must admit that I did get slightly amused imagining your reaction to it. The phone that is, not the other thing. I think it portent that older phones don’t have tracking chips in them, and they aren’t being monitored by the NSA. Kind of thinking that says something about modern society and not really in a good way. Trading privacy for security. It’s devastating. As for the other thing… I know you're upset. You have reason to be. I get that, I do. I should have told you about your parents. I wish I could go back in time and do things different. But I can’t. So the only thing I can do is to repeat that I am sorry.

As for the ever so subtle dig, how did the party-line go? Fire bad, tree pretty? Or, you know, ooga-booga. Or whatever it is that Neanderthals like me say.

Yours most sincerely,

Steve

 Spangles,

I have been ‘tracking’ you since they found you on the ice. Trust me sweetums, the NSA is the least of your worries. Also, did you just crack a joke at me? And used pop culture at that? I am shocked. Shocked I tell you! Kindly cease destroying my world view, I’m too busy being livid at you to be amused (at how bad you are at it). Thank you.

Also, why? And don’t give me that ‘protecting me, protecting you’ bullshit. Details. All of it.

T.S.

P.S. Paper letters are so undignified.

Dear Tony,

Not sure how to react to the tracking thing or how to take it. In a weird way it’s good to know? I don’t know. When I first came off the ice I would have done anything to get back in it. The grief of losing Bucky was still fresh, and on top of that everyone I had ever known was either dead or only experienced occasional moments of lucidity, like Peggy. I didn’t recognize anyone, or anything and when I went down, I was a soldier. I slept on the ground, for the most part. The Commandos and I used to take shifts so no one would creep up on us in the middle of the night and capture or kill us. I still heard the ring of gunfire and bombs going off in my head. To go from that back to civilian life and not just civilian life but civilian life in a completely unrecognizable world… I wasn’t in a good place.

I sat outside your tower once, at a little cafe near the tower, hoping to get a glimpse of you. I don’t know what I would have said or done if that had happened. But SHIELD gave me a file on you and I knew that you were Iron Man, so I thought maybe if anyone would understand what it was like to wake-up in this strange world that sort of turned you into this impossible legend while you slept it would be you, being a legend yourself. There are days when I still wonder how the Captain America thing became so rampart. Trading cards?! But after we met I didn’t think you liked me much, so it’s strangely touching to hear that you tracked me, as messed up as that probably sounds. I mean, I know that our first meeting was under the worst possible conditions. We were stressed, I was so lost, and we had Loki’s scepter bringing out the absolute worst in both of us, but I always got the feeling that I annoyed you a bit.That my old fashioned ways, my ethics, my confusion... I just always felt that it kind of rubbed you the wrong way, even after we became friends and teammates.

At least I know why now. Howard. Would you believe me if I told that I was surprised to find out that Howard spoke so fondly of me to you? Don’t get me wrong, I admired Howard a lot. He was brilliant, he was funny and very charming. Not nearly as charming as you, of course, but he did have it. And I will always be forever grateful for what he did for me, flying me into enemy territory so that I could save the 107th. Without Howard there would be no Howling Commandos. But the truth of the matter is that while Howard was generous and brilliant, he sort of talked to me like I was a kid, you know? He didn’t act like he was all that impressed by me the entire time we knew each other.

I regret how he died. And your mother. I do grieve for them and for what happened. You want answers and I’ll try my best to give them to you but in all honesty I’m not sure I understand it entirely myself. First and foremost I feared for Bucky. You have to understand, Bucky and my Mom were all I had as a kid. I was sick, and weak, and picked on like you wouldn’t believe. Bucky always stood up for me, protected me. Without him my childhood would have been a completely different story and I probably wouldn’t have made it out of it. And when my mom died he was there for me again. I actually crashed on his couch for months afterwards. No one knew Bucky like I did, and no one left alive but me had seen him at his best, so full of life.

He is a good man, he didn’t deserve what happened to him. And it’s my fault - what happened to Bucky - it was all my fault. I recruited him into the Howling Commandos even though he could have left the army. He had been captured and tortured by Zola, the army was ready to release him. But he followed me back into war because I asked. He was so loyal. So honorable. Maybe too loyal and honorable. I was concerned that because there was no one but me left who had known Bucky pre-Hydra programming, that no one but me would believe him redeemable. And so I wanted to protect him and I thought that if I told you about your parents that you would be just one more person gunning for him. I mean, even Sam had his doubts that Bucky was still Bucky deep down and Sam is a former soldier, a VA counselor and a good friend. If Sam didn’t fully believe Bucky could be reached, what hope did I have that you would?

Still though, I realize that whether you would have reacted poorly or not, and whether you would have become just one more person I’d have to race to get to Bucky first, I shouldn’t have kept Hydra’s involvement in your parent's’ death from you. You had a right to know, a right that didn’t supercede my drive to save my best friend, and I was wrong to keep it from you.

This letter is long. Longer than I intended. But you asked for answers and I hope I gave them to you.

Sincerely,

Steve

 P.S. I don’t know, call me old-fashioned (you do anyway) but I like paper letters. They just seem more… personable. Besides not only are email accounts trackable, but they’re also annoying. No matter how many firewalls you put on my accounts, I’m still getting emails from some guy in Nigeria who is most eager to inform me that I’ve magically inherited millions of dollars.

 Stars and Stripes,

Of course I am more charming than my father.

Tony

 Dear Tony,

Not that I’m complaining here, it’s always great to hear from you and I know I have no right to ask... but is that really all you took from my last letter? It’s just you didn’t insult me, my parentage, or my honor at all in in your response, so I’m concerned.

Love,

Steve

 Cap,

I am processing. I need time. I’ll be in touch.

Tony

 Steve,

Okay, so I’ve processed. Sort of. It’s ongoing. James Buchanan Barnes has been cleared of the U.N. bombing in Vienna. Officially. As such you, Wilson  and the others have also been cleared of the aiding and abetting charge, and a financial donation from yours truly went a long way in clearing up the property damage charges. I know Barnes is in cryo in Wakanda, I may be able to help with the de-programming.

Meanwhile I need you to get your (admittedly fine) ass home. Bring your big boy pants, you and I are going to have a very long conversation. We’re going to put it all on the table.

Love,

Tony

 Dear Tony,

I’m on my way (and by the time you receive this I’ll probably already be there).

Love,

Steve

 Dearest Steven,

Well that conversation, after hours of deliberation, ended rather smashingly, I thought. And by smash I mean that I was quite impressed that you managed to break a solid oak, steel bar reinforced desk while I fucked you on it following said conversation. The Hulk himself couldn’t have done better. Good job. I told you we would put it all on the table. No worries, I’ll buy sturdier for next time.

Love Always,

Tony

 Dear Tony,

I’m looking forward to it. Now can you come to bed? I want to snuggle.

With love,

Steve

 P.S. In my day we built furniture that lasts (while we walked uphill to school both ways)… Couldn’t resist. Oh come on, it was right there!

 P.S.S. You’re sending texts in letter form now. Admit it, you liked the letters.

 Steve, dearest,

The sarcasm. I’m almost proud. Almost. And I admit nothing. Love, He who is heading to you right now...