Splinter

Sam stalked out of Stark Tower, looking back over his shoulder at the wall of glass and steel. From ground level, this place seemed so impossibly cold. Not the kind of place Steve Rogers belonged in the least, but seeing him at the party, with people like himself, Sam could see how his friend fit into the weave. Steve's world was one of impossibly weird shit that had turned Sam's life on it's head since that day he'd worked up the courage to talk to America's Hero on the mall that day. Sam still had to wrap his mind around that fact that his two best friends at the moment were a geriatric GMO and an ex Russian super spy. But being in a single room with both Iron Man and War Machine was hard to process. Thor had shaken his hand, laughed at his jokes and invited him to spar, which was rather terrifying in and of itself. Dr. Banner fascinated him, how such a small, soft spoken, unassuming man could become the thing that destroyed Harlem, it was hard to realize he couldn't even be angry with him, when he'd looked him in the eye. Watching Barton and Hill drunkly arm wrestle had been a trip and Dr. Cho had gone on with him at length about her work with the Cradle; the very concept of which had blown Sam's mind. The number of lives that could be saved with that kind of technology was mind boggling.

Then all at once, Sam had looked around the room and felt suddenly overwhelmed. Was this his world now? Rooms full of impossible people acting as if everything was fine? That aliens couldn't spill out of the sky at any minute or the organization that had once been a shield between all that and them had rotted from the inside, had splintered into cells of nazi's, armed to the teeth? The idea of that world terrified Sam. It was a world he'd volunteered for, and more frightening still, it almost excited him. Some how, in the context, looking for a brainwashed super assassin didn't seem so daunting by comparison.

Sam shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he walked to his car. He wondered, quite without meaning to, what Riley would have thought of all this? Riley was the sort of man Steve would have liked. He was a golden boy, all toothy grins and twice damned sense of honor. They'd shown him the wings and Riley had gone ape shit, never a thought to how wrong things could have gone or how dangerous they could be. These he'd grabbed Sam's shoulders, grinning like a mad man. Think of all the people we could save with these Sammy, he'd said, think of all the good we could do. He thought about it every day now, how many people he could save. But some nights, his chest still ached with the weight of all the people he couldn't.

Sam shook his head again, and thought for a moment about calling a cab. He'd only had a couple of beers when he'd first arrived, some hours ago; he was sober. Still, he felt tired to the bone. He'd spent hours in a room with gods and mad men and Steve, who was enough to wreck Sam all by himself, when he looked that good. But the party had served only as a temporary distraction, and now that he was out on the street, he felt the weight of his self appointed mission settle on his shoulders again.

Bucky Barnes was a ghost, in the best sense of the word. When Natasha had dumped Hydra's files online, they thought something about the Winter Soldier would have cropped up. But besides a few pictures and missions specs, there was almost nothing on him in the system. Natasha's Russian connections were able to find some hard copies, more appeared every week. The Soviets had made their man a long, complex paper trail, bits and pieces in the life of an experiment that had exchanged hands more times than Sam had thought possible. He felt like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing and no idea how the final picture was supposed to look. He'd even entertained the idea of stepping back, of admitting this was not his specialty, finding lost assassins. But every new sliver of information, every new picture, new sliver of footage or sound bite, made Sam rethink that choice. Sam had always known it was his fatal flaw, that his fear of the unknown would always be trumped by his insatiable need to try the impossible, to touch, to be part of it. It was why he'd be become part of the Falcon program, it's why he had dropped that file on his breakfast table and called it a resume, and it was why he spent long ours scouring for any shred of information about the man who had once been Sargent James Barnes. The things that had been done to Barnes, the things he had endured, Sam had to believe that, despite the impossibility, that there was still some clinging humanity inside that modified body. He'd let Steve live, he's called for backup, he was killing Hydra agents and very purposefully not killing Sam or Steve. All evidence, in Sam's mind, pointed to a person who could be found, who could be helped, and something in his soul drove him to do so. The other part of him though, would never forget the feeling of falling, or having a steering wheel torn out of his hands or Natasha's boot in his ribs when she kicked him out of the path of a bullet.

The sense of something looming over his path covered him again and he pulled in a deep breath. He'd never understand how some people viewed the world in black and white, as good an evil, with no middle ground. Maybe that sense of absolutes had never been part of him, maybe the war had beaten it out of him. Sam had seen some shit in the desert, had watched men die, and had killed them. The sound of screams, recorded half a century ago, of a young man crying and begging for mercy in half a dozen languages against the crackle of electricity, would haunt Sam's nightmares for a long time yet.

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and straightened for a moment, looking through the crowd, trying to find the source of the movement he'd seen, a shadow flitting across the park's tree line, across the street. Against the shadows edging the streetlights, he thought he could make out a slightly darker outline, but he wasn't wholly sure. It took everything in him not to reach for his gun. If Barnes decided to attack him, chances were it wouldn't matter any way. He was sure it was Barnes though, he'd caught near glimpses of him here and there. He wasn't close all the time. The evidence of his proximity was few and far between. Hill had mentioned that a number of Hydra nests had gone up in flames, though it wasn't on the official record who was responsible. It lead Sam to infer that some part of the Winter Soldier was in control of his faculties. He knew Hydra was the enemy, and was together enough to take down small cells of them himself. He was functioning at a high enough level to follow Sam and Steve, watch them, and never be caught. For good or ill, Sam couldn't say, but he'd never made a move to hurt either of them, which must have meant something. Still Sam couldn't help but wonder if he was tracking a machine or was he tracking a person.

He'd seen what the soldier could do himself. The hand of Hydra was a sniper rifle or a battle ax, depending on their needs. Where did Barnes fall into all that, the person he had been, the person he was now? The traffic, people on the street, the party of super humans somewhere above him didn't mean shit if Barnes decided to kill him right now. Looking into the shadows, searching for a face, it felt like holding his hand through the bars of a bears cage, waiting to see if the beast would accept him, ignore him, or try and tear his face off. Something in the shadows across the street wavered and he squinted, trying to pinpoint the form, with no luck.With a sudden clarity, he knew Barnes was gone, like he'd melted into  the shadow, like magic. Which was it's own distinct possibility that Sam wasn't entirely ready to rule out these days. Either way, Bucky Barnes or whoever he was now,  wasn't going to be found until he was damn good and ready.

Steve couldn't see that. He'd spent so long in mourning, for Barnes, for Peggy, for his friends, his fellow commandoes, for every sliver of the life he'd lost. Bucky was the last timeless shred of the life he had had before. Jim and the others were gone, Peggy grew worse every day. Steve was an old man in a young body, fighting a war that hadn't ever ended for him. Sam was his friend, his best friend; survivors guilt was a thing he was intimately familiar with. But he knew he couldn't know what it was to be Steve, to watch time take everything from him will he stayed young and fast and strong. Steve bore his guilt like Atlas, refusing to complain while the weight of it drove him to his knees. Knowing Bucky too had stood the test of time, captured, wiped down, and weaponized, torn Steve up inside. He mourned for the life he'd barely gotten to live, even more so now that he knew of his friends long suffering. Steve couldn't let Bucky go, couldn't stand apart, he couldn't see the untangling that needed to be done before Barnes could be close to people again, could be a person himself. Steve could only see his friend, who had been alone and hurt for so long. Sam couldn't blame him, if positions were switched, he knew he'd be the same, if it were Riley who'd come back. It was hard to see the end of a tunnel you were still in it yourself.

Sam had made the call to keep it to himself, the fact that Barnes tread so close to them. His proximity didn't mean he was any more ready or willing to be cornered, it didn't mean he was safe. Barnes always seemed to be two steps ahead of him. Every hide out they'd found was already abandoned and swept. Sam's most solid lead was a series of deaths, Hydra cells found wiped out, all the operatives dead. Hydra, the once great and secret machine was crumbling, their greatest weapon pulling them apart at the seams. With all the disturbing things Sam had seen in those files, there was a sense of poetic justice in it. They'd made a man into a weapon, and when he finally had the choice, he'd turned himself against them. Still, it didn't keep Sam from looking over his shoulder. He'd seen how far Hydra's tentacles could reach. 

He'd just dropped his keys in the bowl when his phone buzzed. Natasha's number appeared on the screen. 

“Hey Nat,” he said, flipping on the hall light, "Miss me already?"

“Sam Wilson you are a coward. I had such high hopes for you,” she droned irritably on the other end of the line, “Stark has a free bar. Thor is feeding Steve Asgardian mead right now. There is absolutely no reason you should have ended this evening home alone and not here, holed up in some broom closet with your tongue half way down Steve's throat. I honestly thought better of you Wilson, such wasted potential, weaseling out when my back was turned.”

Sam snorted.

“Who says I'm alone?” he shot back, balancing his phone on his shoulder, and pouring himself a glass of milk.

“Your cat doesn't count.”

“I will have you know Tipsy is my mother's cat, thank you very much. I'm just sitting.”

“Wow that's even more abysmally sad,” Natasha snarked and Sam couldn't almost hear her smiling, “Seriously, you left me here with all these posturing losers and you didn't even kiss Steve once.”

He grinned. Natasha was a stone cold ex soviet assassin who loved to play matchmaker. Sam hadn't seen that one coming when they'd started up their friendship.

“How do you know I didn't kiss Steve?” he shot back, passing his mom's stripped grey cat, where she lay on the back of the couch. She gave a pleasured chirp.

“Are you kidding? His ears would still be red if you had,” she sighed, “Seriously though, you okay? You left without saying goodbye. I thought you were having a good time?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Stark is just a lot to handle. Think I'm going to need to ease myself in,” Sam said. It wasn't a lie, not really, but Natasha didn't seem convinced.

“Information extraction is kind of my forte Sam," the voices on the other end of the phone faded, she must have gone into another room, " What's really going on with you?”

Sam plopped down on the couch, and the cat hopped down onto his lap. He stroked her head for a long moment, trying to think of what to say. Natasha let him. Silence was never uncomfortable with her.

“It's just a lot to take in is all. A year ago, you guys were just...faces on a tv screen.  A year ago, I never thought I'd fly again. You and Steve showed up on my porch and everything changed, not just my world, but the whole world. Now I'm playing pool with a god, drinking Tony Stark's beer, and spending my night trolling through nightmare fodder, looking for a ninety year old killer who might not even know who he is. World's a lot bigger now than it used to be. It's a lot to take in,” he said earnestly.

“That why you haven't made a move on Steve yet?”

Sam laughed.

“You're not gonna let that go are you?”

“Not until one of you idiots takes a step. The two of you are killing me with constant flirting and heart eyes. Have mercy on a girl, will you?”

“He's got a lot on his plate Nat...”

“So do you,” She shot back, but not unkindly, “Listen Sam, in all seriousness, you've done him a world of good. I know this thing with Barnes is hard on both of you but, don't let it eat you up too okay?  It's a rabbit hole. ”

Sam chewed on his lips for a moment.

“Natasha, you saw the files, you've seen the footage. Be honest with me. You think we can save him? You think it's worth it?”

She was quiet for a long time.

“Part of me wants to say no. I've told a lot of lies, lived a lot more. I've seen up close what they created when they made him,” she sighed, and he could hear the click of her heels on the marble, as if she were pacing, “but I also know that, not so long ago, some one else could have had this exact same conversation about me. I owe Clint a lot because, honestly, he took a shot on me. He took a shot that there was still something inside me worth saving. Part of me thinks Barnes needs to be eliminated, because he's unknown, he's dangerous, he's a weapon. But so am I, so I'm not sure I get to make that call. Steve's too close to this to see it logically. You've got to follow your gut on this one Sam. Whatever you decide, I'll back you up on it.”

Sam scratched behind the cats ears, trying to quell the subtle ache in his chest. He knew Natasha' history, knew how she'd had her childhood stolen. She'd dumped who she was onto the web when she'd taken down SHIELD, dropped all the names, burned all the aliases. Things she'd risked her life to hide, over and over, and she'd dropped it all into the open like a bomb when the time had come. Sam didn't watch the news much anymore, unable to quell the hard rage that bubbled up in his chest when some news boy tried to call her a terrorist, tried to belittle her or use what she did or who she was against her, as if she wasn't a hero, as if she hadn't given up everything she was for the greater good. She still amazed him, even now, the compassion she carried in her. She knew what is was to be unmade.

“I will. Thanks Nat,” He said, running a hand across his face, trying to rub the tired out of his eyes,”Now go have fun at that party for me. Bet Banner wouldn't mind."

Nat laughed softly.

“Whatever Wilson. Have fun sitting around with your cat and being boring.”

“Goodnight Natasha,” he said, before hanging up and rolling his eyes.

Hanging up the phone, he padded to his room, shrugged into his sweat pants and hoodie and popped a bowl of popcorn. He looked through the blinds, half out of habit, wondering if he would see a figure lurking in the shadows, or if his man was still circling Stark Tower. He saw nothing but a possum skitter across the yard and he frowned, hoping it didn't toss trash all over his front lawn again. He plopped down on the couch, cat crawling into his lap again while he flipped through the channels. Maybe he should have stayed at the party. He'd liked getting to spend the time with Steve, hang out with him like normal people. It had been so rare since Steve had gotten back on his feet, started cleaning up Hydra's mess. For all of Natasha's teasing, she wasn't far off the mark. They'd been tiptoeing around what  this  was for months, neither wanting to make a move, though their reasons were valid. Steve was still working through himself, through the loss and the grief and the scars of a war he was still fighting. Peggy's condition had gone down hill again, and with Bucky looming somewhere in his peripheral, his heart was already heavy with enough lost love. Sam hadn't made many efforts to get back on the horse in a while either though, to be fair. Riley's death had wrecked him. He'd loved Riley, loved him down to his bones. They'd shared everything, even the sky. There had always been quiet glances, quieter talk, of who they might be to each other when they got out. Sam had watched that dream drop out of the sky when Riley did. He'd come home with more issues than he felt good laying at the feet of someone else for the long haul. Then there was the constant looming threat of something else out there too. Steve belonged to the hero world, a world Sam had volunteered for and would jump head long into if he was asked again but it was a lot to adjust to. Actively fighting or not, he'd put himself on Hydra's radar when he'd helped take down the the hellicarriers. Operatives took shift watching his momma's house these days and every room in his home had a loaded gun or a sharp knife somewhere close at hand.

“Maybe I'll just keep you when they get back from their cruise huh,” he said to the cat, “you're a lot easier than a boyfriend I bet.”

She chirped quietly at him, contentedly pawing at the fabric of his sweat pants.

The tv had turned to infomercials when a ringing of Sam's phone woke him. His home phone. His brows furrowed. Only his family called the land line anymore. But to the best of his knowledge his parents, his nana, and both his Aunties where some where in Jamaica at the moment. He groaned, pushing of the couch and padding into the kitchen. The cat leapt of his lap with a disgruntled meow.

“Sam Wilson.”

“Sam, it's Steve.”

“Hey man what's up? ” he mumbled, still sleep grabbled.

“Sam, there's been a situation. I know this sounds crazy but I need you to shut down all the wireless devices in your house. Wifi, LTE, everything. Now.”