Chapter Text
It was dark when Bucky woke. He took a moment to orient himself: clothes on, blanket off, cold air against damp skin. In bed. Alone.
He sat up, pulling his watch off the side table to check the time, because God only knew where his phone was.
Four a.m.
Jesus, why am I awake? He collapsed back onto the bed and winced when it made his head throb.
His question was answered when he felt his pillow vibrate. Apparently his phone had been under there the whole time, and given recent events, Bucky was willing to bet it wasn’t the first call of the morning.
For a split second before he glanced at the screen, he hoped it might be Steve calling. But it wasn’t, of course. It was his mother.
He dropped the phone to the floor and lay back down, slinging an arm over his eyes. He felt a familiar wave of emotion wash over him—self-loathing, coupled with a bitter sense of validation.
He was too fucked up for someone like Steve. For good things to happen to him, period. This was proof of that. And it hurt, but at the same time it was a relief.
He could stop trying to be better than he was, stop putting on a show for his family and the press. Stop pretending he was happy, healthy, and reformed, when all he really was—would ever be—was the kind of person who put himself (drugs) ahead of anything that actually mattered.
“Hey.”
Bucky glanced up. Brock was shirtless, leaning against the doorjamb like he thought he was in a goddamn American Apparel ad.
“Hey,” Bucky said back.
Brock held out a mug of what appeared to be coffee. Bucky took it; he didn’t say “thank you” or smile, because he and Brock didn’t do shit like that. They fucked and they got fucked up, and the only reason Bucky was even in Brock’s bed was that he didn’t want anyone to find him.
He hadn’t so much as spoken to Brock in months. Hadn’t talked about him since rehab. Steve had never even heard Brock’s name. He could only hope anyone who had would underestimate how stupid Bucky was.
He looked up at the sound of a baggie rustling.
“Early morning pick-me-up?” Brock asked, approaching the bed.
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Just coffee for me, thanks.”
Brock dropped the baggie on the bed and grabbed Bucky’s foot. He skirted his palm up Bucky’s ankle, and Bucky shook him off, trying also to shake off the phantom feeling of Steve’s hand in the same place less than twenty-four hours ago.
“I’ll stick with coffee.”
“Man, what the hell is up with you? You didn’t let me touch you at all last night, and now you pull this shit? I’m starting to think you’re just using me for my product.”
“Would that surprise you?” Bucky asked, arching an eyebrow and blowing on his coffee to cool it.
“No,” Brock replied. His grin was salacious and hardly kind. “But you used to let me get away with a lot more before pulling this prissy shit. Did Captain Kiss-Ass suck all the fun outta you?”
Bucky didn’t let himself react, despite the hot panic that sent zinging through his chest.
He took a sip of coffee. Then swallowed and took another sip as he pondered how to navigate the conversation.
“If I suck you now, will you calm down?”
Brock grinned. “It’s a start. How ‘bout you come with me tonight to a club opening, then we’ll call it even?”
Again, Bucky didn’t let himself react. He’d meant it when he’d said he and Brock didn’t do shit like this. They didn’t go places together, or at least not for pre-planned outings that could even loosely be described as “dates.”
“Why?”
“Because I need more dope. And I want to go out.”
Bucky considered. “No press.”
“No press,” Brock confirmed.
“Fine.”
“Fine,” Brock echoed, reaching for his belt buckle. “Now, about calming me down…”
-
Voice message from STEVE, received at 6:31 a.m.:
“Hey, it’s me. Uh, not sure where you went. We should…I mean, I guess we should talk about last night. Anyway…yeah, call me.”
-
It was a lot harder to feel sorry for yourself when you were freshly showered, wearing a slick suit, and high as a fucking kite. Bucky would almost describe his mood walking into Hive as “good,” bordering on “upbeat.” Brock, of course, had a fucking pep in his step, futzing with the collar of his truly hideous button-down and making actual fucking finger guns at people they passed, because Brock was nothing if not a douchebag.
Bucky, meanwhile, was trying to keep his head down as much as possible. He hadn’t spotted a camera yet, but he’d rather be safe than sorry on that front, especially given his current status as a pseudo-fugitive from his mother and the country’s top defense force.
Brock kept slinging an arm around Bucky’s shoulder and shaking him like Bucky hadn’t fucked off without a word all those months ago. It was irritating, but also pretty helpful for staying unseen, though he doubted that was Brock’s intention.
Despite the noise and the hot press of bodies, stepping into the club felt like coming home. Weaving his way through the crowd, sidling up to the bar, feeling the music thrum through his chest—it was comforting, familiar. And it felt good, which was only seventy percent the cocaine talking.
Okay, maybe eighty percent.
The point was, Bucky was fine. Better than fine. He’d never been better. He told the bartender as much when he ordered a drink, and was undeterred by her rejoinder, “I’ve never given less of a fuck.”
The drink—a pink, frothy take on a daiquiri that burned his throat just right—only seemed to amplify the feeling. Bucky finished it in record time, then polished off another and headed onto the dancefloor, where he lost himself in the music and the crowd.
-
Voice message from STEVE, received at 7:46 a.m.:
“Hey, Buck. Me again. Just wanted to check you’re okay. I don’t really know how long you’ve been gone, but I haven’t heard from you, so… Yeah. Just let me know you’re okay. Bye.”
beep
-
An hour later, Bucky’s good mood had deteriorated. His head pounded in time with the music. The club was dark and loud, and the hot, writhing press of bodies only added to its claustrophobic atmosphere. He’d returned to the bar in the hope he might find Brock—and his stash—but the man was nowhere to be found. God, why had he let Brock drag him here in the first place?
Because you’ve got nowhere else to go, whispered a snide voice in his head. Bucky winced and pressed the cool, sweating glass of his drink against his forehead. It was true—and what was worse, he’d gone to great lengths to make it a reality. Because he’d known it was inevitable that he’d end up here, right where he’d started: strung out and miserable, stuck somewhere he didn’t want to be with someone he didn’t like.
Without conscious effort, Bucky’s mind conjured an image of himself from just days ago: sober, relatively happy, and surrounded by friends. It was a stark contrast to his current circumstances, and Bucky felt a pang as his thoughts turned to Steve. His smile the night before. His concern over Bucky’s panic.
The way he’d looked underneath Bucky, illuminated by moonlight. The way he’d felt, hot and electric under Bucky’s hands.
God, he would’ve given anything to have Steve there right then.
But that was no longer an option. Because Bucky had done what he always did—he’d fucked it up, this time beyond repair.
Bucky was interrupted from his descent into the depths of self-loathing then by the feeling of a hand on his ass, which made him start. He clenched his teeth as the stranger squeezed, breath a hot gush on the back of Bucky’s neck, but the hand and its owner were gone by the time he turned around. Just another body slipping through dark, humid space.
Bucky downed the rest of his drink in one go and signaled for another, flashing a twenty at the bartender. In no time at all, she was in front of him with a new drink, plucking the cash from his hand without a word. Bucky took a slower sip this time, savoring the taste of whiskey on his tongue.
Drink in hand, Bucky turned to seek out Brock. Maybe he’d concluded whatever shady business he’d come here for. Maybe Bucky could get another hit.
A cursory glance told him Brock was nowhere in sight, though that only ruled out the bar and this end of the dancefloor; it was a big club. Bucky started to edge along the throng of dancers, looking for a break in the crush of bodies.
Instead, he found the end of the bar and a set of wrought-iron stairs that spiraled up into the murky blackness of the second story. There were no signs saying he couldn’t, so Bucky ascended the stairs in a few short bounds and found a dimly lit space crowded with small, circular tables. It was hard to make out faces, but most of the tables were occupied—groups of three or four men clustered around them, speaking in low voices.
Bucky suppressed a shiver and took another sip of his drink. He knew this kind of club: it was the kind where backdoor deals came to fruition and illicit negotiations took place, where corrupt politicians came to air their vices.
He turned his back on the tables for now, instead turning to survey the club from above. He couldn’t say for sure where Brock might have gone, but it wouldn’t surprise Bucky to find him dancing down below or tangled up with someone in some dark corner.
Looking out over the floor, Bucky was taken by another wave of exhaustion and despair. His good mood from before seemed almost impossible to remember, let alone reach. With his free hand, he yanked his collar open and raked back his hair. His feet were like lead in Brock’s borrowed patent leather shoes. His phone was a heavy weight in his pocket.
He wanted Steve. He wanted Natasha. He wanted the camaraderie from the other night, the warmth and safety of time spent with people who liked him and had no agenda.
Bucky pulled out his phone. Too many voicemails. He couldn’t bring himself to listen to any of them. He thought he might break if he heard Steve’s voice, or Natasha’s. Even his mom’s. He opened his messaging app before he could talk himself out of it.
Nearly 40 messages. Jesus. A third of them were from Steve. In the preview pane, Bucky could see the last one to arrive began, I’m so sorry if I hurt you…
Swallowing, he moved on. Next was Natasha. She’d sent nearly as many as Steve, though judging by her last message—Barnes, call me—the content had been of a very different tone.
There were also texts from his mom—Hon, I can’t get a hold of you—and Clint, who’d sent a picture of Lucky with the caption come back he misses u. Even Tony had sent him a couple messages, which was especially strange as he didn’t have Bucky’s number. He opened Tony’s threat.
Don’t go down this road, Barnes, read the first one. Then, You might not like where you end up.
Last was a link to his old rehab facility. Bucky’s throat went tight and hot, and tears pricked his eyes.
His 30-day coin was still in his pocket. He’d moved it from his jeans to the pants of his suit by habit, without even noticing. How had he not felt the weight of it and realized what he was doing?
After a moment, he realized he was squeezing his phone so tight his wrist ached. Bucky took another sip and considered the link.
Then his phone buzzed anew—another message he’d have to ignore, he thought—but no, it was a text from Brock. He almost deleted it out of habit, but managed to stop himself by sheer luck, or whatever equivalent was awarded to people like him.
come 2 bathroom for party favors, the text read.
Classy.
All the same, Bucky was glad to have a reason to leave the second floor. He could feel eyes on him, his body—heated gazes making his hair stand on end. He downed his drink—once more unto the breach, dear friends—and set it on the nearest empty table. Then he slipped past a broad-shouldered man wearing a suit with an American flag pin on the lapel and descended the stairs.
-
Voice message from REBECCA, received at 10:13 a.m.:
“Hey, where are you? Mom just got a call from Captain America asking if we’d seen you and now the guards are kinda buggin’ out. Call me.”
beep
-
Fifteen minutes later, Bucky was slumped inside a bathroom stall watching Brock do a line off the top of the toilet tank. The bathroom was bathed in neon purple light, and Bucky could feel the club’s music beating through his chest, through his body, thrumming through him and amplifying the effect of the drugs coursing through his veins.
He blinked up at the ceiling, vision bleary, mouth hanging open. He’d never felt this good before, he was certain. He was unstoppable. His heart was beating so fast, keeping time with the music, and his skin was electric.
He felt a hot pull in his lower belly and let his head fall back against the partition. Brock was in front of him then. Or had he been there already? He was pressed up against Bucky, hands on his hips and lips against his neck, mumbling something into the skin there.
“You feel so good.” Bucky closed his eyes. Brock felt good, too. “Missed this.”
Bucky scrambled for Brock’s belt. He wanted Brock on him, in him, everything. He felt so good and he couldn’t remember anything outside of this, just this moment, this feeling, this blistering euphoria—
Brock was quick to help him and equally quick to divest Bucky of his pants. The sex was fast and frenzied, and so good Bucky whited out for a bit.
When he came to, their pants were both done up and Brock was still kissing him, almost sweet. A small part of Bucky’s brain registered that was unusual, but it was hard to focus on anything other than the solid pleasure enveloping him.
Brock pulled back then. He caught Bucky’s eye. “It’s nothing personal, Buck.” Bucky’s brow furrowed, but Brock interrupted his fuzzy contemplation with another kiss. Then he broke away and, without meeting Bucky’s gaze, said, “Let’s do one more.”
-
Voice message from ROMANOV, received at 12:25 p.m.:
“This is all very Twilight of you, Barnes, but you need to get your shit together. Whatever happened last night, I’m not getting involved; I only called to remind you of the security procedures. Check in.”
beep
-
When Bucky came to, his head was pounding and his mouth tasted like copper. He grimaced and felt blood ooze down his lip. After a moment of dumb, hazy consideration of whether he should swallow it, Bucky spit onto the concrete at his feet, a red slash of gore against steel gray.
Bucky then began to assess his situation, as best he could. He felt like he’d gone through the wringer: his limbs were weak and achy, and his body was wracked by a subtle but unmistakable tremor. The scent of vomit hung in the air, and a glance confirmed he’d been sick down the front of his shirt.
He was seated in a simple wooden chair, with zip-ties securing his wrists and ankles to the chair’s arms and legs. His chest was bound by thick rope, secured to the chairback so tightly it was difficult to draw in a full breath.
With some effort, Bucky managed to raise his head and look around. He was in what appeared to be a warehouse: tall walls flanked by sturdy steel scaffolding, wooden crates stacked throughout. There were small, rectangular windows on the upper level, many of them taped over or covered by tarps.
Most alarming, however, was the handheld video camera sitting on a tripod straight across from him, in front of what looked to be an array of tools.
Bucky swallowed hard and tried to ignore the taste of blood.
He could see the red light of the camera blinking. He tried to ignore it, instead testing the strength of the bindings around his wrists. There was virtually no give.
Bucky could feel panic and nausea welling up in his throat. He gritted his teeth against it and clenched his fists, pushing himself to recall his lessons with Natasha. Somehow, he didn’t think they’d ever covered zip ties, which now seemed like an oversight.
Then he remembered: the dog tags. If he could just get one hand loose, maybe he could—
Bucky looked up at the sound of metal scraping against metal. Straight across from him, far on the other side of the warehouse, he could see a broad, muscular man hauling up a rolling steel door, revealing a group of men and a squalid alley bathed in shades of red by the setting sun.
They were too far away for Bucky to make out individual features, but he’d recognize the insouciant slouch of Brock’s walk anywhere, unfortunately. The rest were unfamiliar, though something about the figure in front…
The men clustered at the other end of the room, talking in low voices. Bucky felt a drop of sweat slide down the side of his face. He realized he was breathing hard.
His efforts to free himself were growing erratic. His vision began to tunnel and he felt his chest constrict, thoughts racing. Then, suddenly, he felt a jolt and realized the room had tilted—he was on his side; he’d knocked the chair over in his struggles.
From his position on the floor, Bucky saw the men turn to look at him and laugh. More importantly, he could feel the chain of Steve’s dog tags against his neck. It had ridden up during his fall.
He could hear footsteps approaching.
Twisting his neck, Bucky started inching the chain toward his shoulder. If he could get it just far enough, he might be able to get his mouth around it, then maybe he could—
Two shiny black Oxfords appeared in front of him, stopping him cold. Slowly, Bucky’s eyes trailed up the pleated black pants, followed the line of the fitted suit jacket, and met the hard blue gaze of Alexander Pierce.
-
Voice message from STEVE, received at 8:48 p.m.:
“Bucky, you don’t have to call me, but please let someone know where you are. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk, but I’m starting to get worried.”
beep