Chapter Text
Steve cracked open his eyes, the firm grip on his shoulder acting as a grounding presence as he fought through the waves of nausea. He blinked away the blurriness in his vision and the hospital swam into focus, as did the IV still attached to his arm. The pain came next and he groaned, his ribs protesting each breath.
“Take it easy,” Sam’s voice came. “You’re okay.”
“Sam?” His voice sounded rough and he tried to clear his throat. “Wha-”
“Here.”
Steve felt a straw press against his lips and he took a few small sips of water. “Bucky?” He asked once his mouth wasn’t so dry.
“I’m gonna need you to stay calm,” Sam prefaced, and Steve could hear the trepidation in his tone.
“What happened?” Steve asked, already moving to sit up despite the protest of his body.
Sam gently shoved him back onto his pillow, his face remaining unreadable. “Calm.”
Steve nodded, just needing to know. He felt a pain settle into his chest that had nothing to do with the bruises or broken ribs.
Sam took a deep breath and briefly glanced up towards the ceiling, as if asking for guidance. He held out his phone and Steve didn’t say anything before reaching for it, clicking play on the video.
He processed the headline first: WINTER SOLDIER APPREHENDED!
Then, the video became clear. It was the Smithsonian, Steve would know those steps anywhere. The footage was shaky, no doubt a recording from somebody’s cell phone, but it showed a small crowd that had gathered, keeping their distance from the figure standing motionless near the entrance.
It was undeniably Bucky, though his dark hair fell into his face and he was wearing gloves and a large denim jacket. His posture was tense but he wasn’t fighting or running, simply standing there as armed officers moved in with their guns pointed at him. Bucky’s hands rose slowly in surrender, his face a mixture of defeat, confusion, and loss. They were shouting at him to get on his knees and Bucky complied with slow and mechanical movements, but someone kicked the back of his leg anyway and he went down hard.
Steve felt his chest constrict, like air couldn’t make its way down to his lungs. “No,” he whispered, unable to take his eyes away from the screen. “No, no, no.” He was moving before he’d made the conscious decision, swinging his legs off the bed in one swift motion. Pain exploded through his torso and the room tilted violently as he stood on shaky legs.
“Steve, no, just wait-” Sam reached for him but Steve shrugged out of his grasp.
“I have to–he’s–Sam!” He took a step forward and his knee buckled.
The door burst open and two nurses rushed in, one already reaching for a syringe. “Captain Rogers, you need to stay in bed-”
“No!” Steve made one last attempt for the door but his vision began to gray around the edges. “I have to get to him, he doesn’t understand, he’s not-”
“Steve!” Sam’s voice was firm. He could feel his hands on his shoulders, helping him back towards the bed. “I know, okay? I know. But you can’t even stand, you need to heal.”
“I-I don’t care about that-”
“He needs you alive.” Sam’s face appeared in his line of vision, his expression serious. “Okay? He needs you alive. Do you hear me? Whatever you’re planning, you can’t do it like this.”
Steve wanted to argue. He wanted to fight his way out of this room, out of this building, and wanted to find whoever had Bucky and tear through them like paper. But the nurse was already pressing something into his IV and he knew, deep down, that Sam was right.
“Sam,” his voice slurred. “Sam.” He wasn’t sure what he was asking for, or needing, but Sam seemed to understand.
“I know, Steve,” he assured as he pulled the covers back over Steve’s legs. “We’ll get him.”
Steve realized he was still holding the phone in his hand and the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the image of Bucky being shoved into an armored vehicle, head down and compliant.
**
Low voices floated through his head, tugging Steve back toward consciousness.
“-exactly what I said would happen. He’s not going to just-”
“I know, Sam.”
Natasha.
Steve kept his breathing even, though he felt a moment of relief at hearing her voice. His body still felt it had been put through a meat grinder but the sharp edges of pain had dulled into a constant, gnawing ache.
“He tore his stitches trying to get out of bed. The second he’s conscious again-”
“I’ll handle it.”
Steve opened his eyes, immediately finding them silhouetted in the window. Natasha noticed first, her expression morphing into something carefully neutral. Sam turned second and straightened, as if bracing for an attack.
“Don’t,” Steve muttered before either of them could speak. He cleared his throat. “Don’t tell me to stay put.” He pushed himself upright, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain. He moved slower as he reached for the water in front of him, taking a few careful sips as he watched his friends.
“Steve-” Sam started.
“I’m leaving.” Steve went to pull out his IV but was stopped by a pair of smaller, but firm hands.
“To go where?” Natasha’s voice was quiet but it cut through his determination. “Do you know where they’re holding him? Do you even know who has him? Do you have a facility location? A transport route? Any intelligence on who ordered the capture to begin with or what authority they have?”
Steve exhaled harshly. “Then get me that information.”
“I’m working on it.” Natasha removed her hand, but she stayed close to his side. “But it’s not that simple. Officially, SHIELD doesn’t exist anymore. Half the agencies don’t know who is in charge, or who is doing what. And nobody is talking. At this point we don’t know anymore than the general public, that the Winter Soldier was taken into custody.”
“He’s not the Winter Soldier-”
“They don’t know that.” She sighed, her voice softening slightly. “Or if they do, they’re keeping it quiet. They’re saying he’s a HYDRA assassin, and that he’s in protective custody pending investigation into his crimes.”
“His crimes,” Steve repeated, monotone. “They made him-”
“I know.” Natasha sat on the edge of his bed, close enough that he could see the tension in her shoulders. She was worried, or at least on edge, and that scared him more than anything. “But like I said, they aren’t linking him as James Barnes. If they know who he is, they’re keeping it quiet.”
“Why?”
Natasha looked away, frowning slightly. “I could guess. But I don’t actually know yet,” she said, almost quiet. She turned back towards him, her expression sharpening. “I’m looking into it. I need you to hear me, Steve, okay?”
He nodded, because it seemed as though she was looking for confirmation.
“I don’t know where he is. Every contact I have is being stonewalled, or stonewalling me. Whoever has him is working hard to keep it quiet. They’re compartmentalizing. But something will give eventually, I know it.”
“We don’t have time, Nat.” His voice cracked and he realized he was on the verge of crying. He leaned his head back against the pillow, blinking away the tears. “I can’t..”
“You can,” Natasha corrected, her hand finding his. “You can, and you will. Because he needs you. But going after him half-dead won’t help him. Best case they put you in a cell next to him, worst case you end up in the ground. Please be smart about this.”
Steve didn’t have much strength to do anything other than nod. He used his other hand to reach for the chain around his neck, his fingers closing over the dog tags that were cool in his palm. They weren’t Bucky’s real ones, as those were lost somewhere in the Alps, but they brought him comfort anyway. These had been given to him when he woke from the ice, along with a pair of his own that he quickly discarded into a box in his closet. He never put his back on, and he never took Bucky’s off. The metal was starting to indent on the back from two years of his thumb rubbing over it.
He could make out the stamped letters on the front without looking:
JAMES B BARNES
32557038 T42 43 O
P
“He went to the museum,” Steve said quietly after several minutes. “He was trying to remember.”
Sam and Natasha exchanged a look that he couldn’t decipher.
Steve’s grip tightened on the tags until the edges bit into his palm. “Get me the information, Nat. Whatever it takes. I don’t care about the chain of command or jurisdiction or politics.” He met her eye, unflinching. “Find him.”
“I will.” She nodded, her expression matching his in severity. “But promise me you’ll heal, first.” Natasha squeezed his hand.
“I’ll heal.” It was the best he could do.
Sam’s shoulders dropped slightly, his relief evident. “I’m going to make some calls. I’ll be back soon.” He gave Steve a meaningful nod before ducking out the room, the door closing gently behind him.
Natasha exhaled, withdrawing her hand. She stood and moved towards the window, looking out with a contemplative expression. “He recognized you,” she said quietly.
“Yeah.” Steve’s throat tightened and he attempted to clear it.
She turned to look at him. “That’s something, Steve. It may be everything.”
Steve didn’t, or couldn’t, answer. He flattened his hand against his chest, pressing the dog tags into his heart.
**
Brooklyn, 1926
The bigger kid’s fist caught Steve square in the jaw. He went down hard, scraping his elbows against the alley’s rough concrete, and his vision swam as blood filled his mouth.
“I told you to mind your business, Rogers!” The kid–Frank something–shouted. He loomed over him, twelve years old and built like he worked the docks already.
Behind Frank was the smaller boy, scrambling to gather the contents of his overturned school bag. There were books, papers, pencils, and a battered lunch pail scattered across the ground. The kid’s lip was already swelling, and he couldn’t have been more than seven.
“He didn't do anything to you,” Steve managed, spitting blood out of his mouth. He tried to push himself up and his arms shook with the effort. He was wheezing already, his lungs tight in his chest the way they did when the weather turned cold.
“His kind don’t belong in our neighborhood.”
That was enough to spur Steve up onto his knees. “It’s not your neighborhood–-it's everybody's!”
Frank’s boot caught him in the ribs and sent him back to the ground. The world went white with pain and Steve curled around it, gasping, as spots danced across his vision. He heard Frank say something else but the words were lost in the ringing in his ears. He heard footsteps and went to brace himself.
“Hey!”
The new voice was young and cut through the fuzz in his head. Steve’s swimming vision made out the shape of another kid, dark-haired and moving fast. There was a meaty thunk and Frank made a surprised sound. There was more scuffling and Steve managed to roll onto his side in time to see the new kid plant a solid punch right in Frank’s gut.
Frank doubled over, wheezing.
“Picking on kids half your age, you asshole!” The dark-haired kid wasn’t much bigger than Steve, maybe a year older, but he held himself like he knew how to fight. “Real brave of you.”
“This ain’t your business, Barnes-”
“It is now.” He jerked his head towards the smaller kid, who was still frozen against the wall. “Get out of here. Go on.”
The boy grabbed his things and ran.
Frank looked between this Barnes kid and Steve, who was still laying on the ground. Whatever he saw made him spit on the concrete and back off. “You’re both gonna regret this.” He slunk back toward the main street, muttering threats under his breath as he went.
The dark-haired boy waited until he was gone and then crouched down next to Steve. “You okay?”
Steve tried to answer but his breath caught in his lungs and turned into a coughing fit. His ribs were on fire and he wondered if Frank actually managed to crack one. When he finally got himself under control, he realized the other kid was still there, staring at him with an unreadable expression.
“I’m fine.”
“You live around here?” The boy was frowning now, concerned in a way that made Steve’s face heat with embarrassment. “Need help getting home?”
“I’m fine,” Steve repeated, but this time with more bite. He pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the way his vision tunneled. “Didn’t need your help anyway. I had it under control.”
The other kid’s eyebrows shot up. Then, impossibly, he grinned. “Oh yeah? What was your strategy? Take the beating so the little guy can get away?”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
The dark-haired boy laughed, the sound surprised and genuine. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Bucky.”
Steve looked up at the offered hand, then took it. The grip was warm and steady as it pulled him to his feet. “Steve Rogers.”
“Well, Steve Rogers, you pick fights often?”
Steve shrugged, looking around for his own discarded bag. “I didn’t pick it. He was going after that kid for no reason.”
Bucky reached for his bag and handed it to him without a word, something like curiosity flickering across his face. “He was twice your size. Most people would have kept walking.”
He shouldered his bag before wiping blood from his lip. “Yeah, well.”
Bucky studied him for a moment before smiling. “Come on,” he said, slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulders like they’d known each other for years instead of minutes. “Let’s get you cleaned up before your ma sees you. You live far?”
“Just over on tenth.”
“Me too, we’re practically neighbors.” Bucky’s arm tightened slightly, steadying him when he stumbled. “You know, you keep pulling stunts like that, you’ll need someone to watch your back.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” Bucky glanced at him, something fierce settling into his eyes. “But you don’t have to.”
Steve didn’t have an answer for that. He didn’t know that seventy years later, he’d be the one searching desperately for a way to return the favor. But walking down that Brooklyn street in 1926, with blood drying on his lip and his new friend’s steady presence beside him, Steve Rogers smiled.