Sam Wilson
Steve Rogers was Captain America. Steve Rogers was an All American Hero. Steve Rogers was the First Avenger. Steve Rogers was a tough son of a bitch who wouldn’t appreciate that sort of language. Steve Rogers was a good soldier. Steve Rogers was a good friend. And Steve “Stars and Stripes” Rogers was loyal to a fault.
…and Steve Rogers could be purposefully, pig-headedly, resolutely oblivious to the obvious when he wanted to be.
And right now, Sam Wilson was pretty sure he wanted to be. The Soldier’s hints hadn’t exactly been subtle, and the Soldier’s hints hadn’t exactly been hints, either.
But Sam had seen this sort of masochistic self-destruction before. Depression, drug use, sexual indiscretion, violent outbursts…however it manifested, it was dangerous, and it was a warning sign to any veteran who knew it.
Barnes wasn’t coming home.
(It’d been 70 years. Barnes didn’t have a home.)
Barnes wasn’t stopping.
Barnes had no intention of turning himself in.
Barnes was the Winter Soldier, now. And the Winter Soldier was writing Steve a good-bye letter the only way he knew how.
Killing HYDRA.
But Barnes had gone a step further than that, the sort of step that made Sam think, oh shit. The sort of step that would give a man with any intention to live a pause.
“All I’m saying is…why publish it? Think, Steve. He has to know. He’s uploading every dirty secret HYDRA ever had—hell, blowing covert ops and covers they’ve been running for years. He’s dumping everything, including the things they did to him. Hell, complete with any audio-visuals. Pictures, medical reports…some of this stuff, Steve, it’s snuff pornography with victim who can’t fucking die, and he’s leaving it out there for the world where anyone with internet access can see every single sick thing they’ve ever done. That they’ve made him do. He’s murdering every HYDRA agent or asset he can get his metal hand on. That sound like the sort of guy who’s planning on turning himself in?” The sort of guy who needs saving?
…who even wants saving?
“What are you saying.” There was that pig-headedness he’d been talking about again.
“Man, I’m trying to put this delicately.”
“You think he wants to go down fighting. Be the hero the world thinks he was.”
“He’s looked smaller. Sicker,” Sam tried to break the news gently. “Every time we’ve seen him.”
“Just tell me what you’re saying.”
“I think the Winter Soldier’s on his farewell tour. I think your friend plans to kill every single last one of these HYDRA motherfuckers…then I think he plans to die.”
“Not if I find him first.”
Five continents. Thirty-seven countries. Who knows how many hours of goddamned lost sleep. “Steve, the only reason we’ve found him so far is because he’s wanted to be found. He’s reached out to you—hell if I know why, if even he really knows why—but he’s reached out to you every step of the line. It’s been three weeks now,” Sam stopped, well aware of the ground he was about to tread. Three weeks since last contact. Since last sighting. Three weeks of radio silence on a backdrop bathed in blood.
...now nothing.
A muscle in Steve’s stern jaw twitched. He knew.
“I don’t think we’re looking for Bucky Barnes anymore, Cap,” Sam continued softly. “I think we’re looking for an unmarked grave.”