Chapter 1
According to Steve Rogers, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes was a poor lost little fluffy kitten he’d had as a kid…and Steve was only trying to bring him home.
But if Samuel Thomas Wilson had learned anything since that fateful day jogging the National Mall, the world according to Steve Rogers was usually dead fucking wrong. Because the Winter Soldier? Yeah. Less a frightened kitten and more some feral tom who’d seriously fuck you up if you got too close. Oh, and the thing about cats? Stray ones particularly? They didn’t like it when you chased them, and they sure as hell didn’t come when called.
So far, Cap’s strategies had oscillated somewhere between coax it in gently with a saucer of milk and chase it headlong into oncoming traffic.
…needless to say, neither strategy had been particularly successful. Oh, and putting up flyers? How ‘bout no, motherfucker, seeing as the ASPCA was out to euthanize on sight and the local neighborhood fucktard was a psychopath bent on recapturing and terrorizing it. And the neighbors? Let’s just say the neighbors we’re still pretty opinionated about kitty hacking up a hairball all over Washington D.C., not to mention the great litterbox fiasco of November 22nd, 1963 where kitty shat on an entire country.
So, no. In the two years since The Winter Kitten went missing, Sam Wilson had only glimpsed him once.
Upside down.
…hanging from a ceiling.
Sam woke up with the world’s worst hang-over and everything was spinning, no, wait, fuck, the world WAS spinning and there was a fucking mech warrior with a goddamned bowie staring at him with his freakish murder eyes.
Oh, shit. Sam thought. Then—
Goddamnit, Steve. This is what you got for trying to rehabilitate HYDRA assassins. On a good day, Sam Wilson was a VA Counselor who was all about reconciliation. But today? Given his current predicament? The kind you save, his ass.
“Wilson. Samuel Thomas,” the Soldier said in its freakyass robot voice, like English wasn’t its native language, or else its vocal cords were all rusted and needed Dorothy to bring some goddamned oil. “58th Pararescue. Alias: Falcon, The.”
“Who wants to know?” Sam shot defiantly.
“Ally of Avengers, The. Known associates: Rogers, Steven Grant. Confirm identity.”
The room was still spinning and all the blood was rushing down to his head. He had a mofo of a headache, that’s for sure, and this dude was speaking Klingon. “Man, what do you want?”
“Insufficient intelligence.”
“Oh, man,” Sam groaned, stopping his twisting and letting the swinging grow still. “You and Cap both.”
But Murderkitten wasn’t impressed. That bowie knife got close enough to give Sam a shave…and not his face. “Confirm identity.”
“Alright, alright, alright!” Sam squawked as the blade brushed his testicles through the inadequate protection of his Captain America cotton PJ pants. Sure, they were a joke. But they were hella comfy, and Sam Wilson didn't have to take your judgment, son. “I’m the motherfucking Falcon! You happy?”
“Error. Motherfucking Falcon not recognized.”
“For an emotionless killing machine you’re a real smartass, you know that?” Sam leveled.
“Confirmation required,” the Soldier frowned.
“Yeah,” Sam said, “or what?”
“Appendages will be removed.”
Yeah. And dude wasn’t talking about fucking fingers. Sick bastard. “I’m Sam Wilson. The Falcon.”
“Identity confirmed. Mission proceed.”
Sam had a bad feeling about this. “Yeah, and what that might be?”
“Interrogate. Obtain information. Information required: location of Rogers, Steven Grant.”
“Location of Rogers, Steven Grant. Right, then. Listen, shithead, you’ve got a knife to my balls and me hangin’ upside down from a ceiling. Like I’d fucking tell you.”
The Soldier frowned. “Compliance will be rewarded.”
“Man, you didn’t just drink you are drowning in that HYDRA koolade.”
The Soldier was undeterred. “Order through pain.”
“Shit!” Sam panted as the bowie found its way under his left thumbnail. “Rumlow really did a number on you, huh?”
“Location of Rogers, Steven Grant.”
“Nope,” Sam said, tight-lipped, sweat leaking into his eyes. “Not gonna happen.”
And that was when Samuel Thomas Wilson learned what denailing meant.
“Oh, you little shit you did not!” Sam shouted as blood gushed from the exposed bed . “I’ll never fucking tell you, you sick psycho! Go on and kill me! You’d better pray Cap’s never finds out about this—“
But Murderkitten backed the fuck off. Made a gasping, grating noise.
“I do.”
It took Sam far too long to realize. The Winter Soldier was crying.
Okay. So that was definitely not the response Sam was expecting.
Then—
“You mean to tell me you’re not all murderkitten right now?” Sam groaned. “And you fucking did all this anyways—?”
“What. The. Hell,” the Soldier growled through ugly sobs. “Is a Murderkitten.”
“I’m lookin’ at one.”
Murderkitten did an exercise in glowering silence. For a homeless-looking white guy streaming snot, it was pretty damn impressive.
“Look, man, I get it,” Sam soothed, absolutely 100% fucking done with supersoldiers for the day and absolutely 100% unable to drop his mother hen act for one damn second even for his own good. “You had to make sure I wasn’t HYDRA or something. No harm, no foul. Didn’t need that fingernail anyways. I might've done the same."
Muderkitten just made ugly cry-face and ugly cry-noises.
"I got his back, okay, man?" Sam continued a littany of consolation until that awful sound of sniffling stopped. “You gonna untie me now?”
Murderkitten said nothing. Murderkitten didn't so much as blink.
And that was when Sam Wilson knew he was wholly, entirely, royally fucked. “Man, I fucking hate you.”
“Steve needs someone on his six,” the man formerly known as Bucky Barnes said, rifling through Sam’s suitcase. “Right now it can’t be me.”
“Oh, so you want me to explain that to him?” Sam snarled. “‘Gee, sorry, Cap, I had your best pal and let him go’. You know how dead my black ass would be?”
Barnes only shrugged. “Don’t tell him.”
“Hey—hey! That’s my wallet!” Sam protested.
Barnes ignored him. Pocketed the cash. Pulled out a clean ball of Sam’s socks.
“DO NOT LEAVE ME HERE,” Sam shouted as he understood what exactly Barnes meant to do with those socks. “Motherfucker you DO NOT LEAVE ME HERE.”
“Stop following me,” Barnes commanded.
“Don’t you do it!” Sam twisted away, sending himself spinning again. “Goddamnit Barnes don’t you fucking do it!”
“Here,” Sam felt rather than saw the bowie slip into his own grasp. “You should be able to get free in half an hour or so.”
Sam just glared. “Where are my wings, motherfucker?” he asked as the gag got shoved unceremoniously between his teeth.
“FEDEX,” Barnes walked away without a second glance.
Then— “Don’t tell Steve.” And he moved the ‘do not disturb’ sign to the outside of the door.
“Fuggu!” Sam snarled through a mouthful of silk/wool blend socks. Current predicament in a shitty motel aside, Samuel Thomas WIlson was a master in the art of treat yo self.
And oh? Those knots? Try three fucking hours. Murderkitten definitely needed a lesson on safe words and proper bondage techniques before his reunion with Steve. ‘Cause this right here? Not cool, man. Not fucking cool at all.