Imprint

Anger is often described in terms of heat. Boiling blood, burning anger, hot rage. If it were true, Sam would have enough to power one of Tony’s suits. But it isn’t true. So he puts it to good use and focuses all that energy into completing a list of tasks to get his two pain-in-the-ass companions out of jeopardy. He rises to a sitting position with a groan, muscles aching from the fight. Sand clings to his damp back, making the salt crusted remains of his falcon suit chafe even worse. Shivers wrack his body from head to toe.

First: Assess the situation. He pulls his broken goggles down around his neck and twists to scope out the landscape; miles and miles of lonely sandy beach, not a sign of civilization anywhere. The beach gives way to scraggly grass, and then a sparse copse of pine trees that gradually thicken into a forest.  He taps the touch screen on the back of his arm. The screen remains blank and unresponsive, likely fried when the wings shorted out. The earpiece is revealed to be just as dead. Desperately, he pulls his phone from his pocket. Water drips from the seams and power port. He slips the slim case back into his pocket.

They’re completely alone. Ok. On to step two.

Triage. Head wounds are tricky so Bucky’s injuries are a priority. The man in question is blinking rapidly and looking around in confusion. The cut on his forehead bleeds sluggishly. The skin of his arm pebbles and a faint shiver passes over him. Getting cold, but not nearly as bad off as Sam and Zemo. A rip tears across the upper left of Bucky’s black jeans. Peeling back the fabric reveals a shallow score across his flesh. “Hey man. You ok?” Sam asks softly around chattering teeth. Bucky rolls his head to look at him. His eyes seem clear and focused, but the pupils blow wide, which is kind of a strange reaction for a concussion. With no other baseline Sam can only chalk it up to weird super solder bullshit. It’s not like he has the supplies to treat any of these injuries anyway.

“Hvn’t felt this bad since the last time I was drunk.” Bucky grumbles.

If he’s coherent enough to joke he’ll be fine. Sam moves on to patient number two: himself. He unzips the vest of the falcon suit and lifts his shirt and gingerly prods his ribs one by one. No extraordinary pain or swelling. He can’t see his back, but he knows it’ll be covered in ugly mottled bruises from the impact that broke his wings. He lets his shirt drop and roves his eyes over Zemo. The baron is pressed shoulder to shoulder against Bucky, eyes closed and trembling. If Sam looks closely he can see the barest hint of breath fogging in the air. Dangerously cold for three soaking wet people, and it will only get worse once night falls. They have a good four hours to dry off. Despite the cloud darkened sky it’s barely noon.

 “Think you can s-stand?”

Bucky starts to rise, but his eyes widen and he flops back in the sand. His skin turns even paler.

“If you puke d-do it on Zemo.”

The Baron shifts away without opening his eyes.“I f-fail to see what I have done t-to warrant that.”

Sam allows a little of that anger simmering under the surface to leak out. “Sh-shelter first. Then I make y-your boot camp sergeants l –look like kittens.”

Bucky grunts, throwing an arm over his eyes to block the sun that’s beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. “What did I do?”

“Later” Sam growls. “C-Come on.” He slaps Bucky on the arm encouragingly and rises, feeling every one of his forty years as he does so. Zemo follows his lead, and while he may be the best off out of the three of them even he is starting to look ragged and worn around the edges. He holds a hand out to help Bucky stand, who stares at like it might bite before slowly accepting the offer. The sight of Zemo almost getting pulled back down to the ground by Bucky’s sheer weight smooths the hard edge of Sam’s anger. Just a little bit.

Bucky holds tight to Zemo’s hand when he’s finally on his feet, closing his eyes firmly and swaying. Abruptly, he bends over and pukes half the ocean back up on the beach at their feet. The Baron takes it stride, even laying a hand on Bucky’s back and steadying him. The tremor up Sam’s spine has nothing to do with the cold. An oily sense of unease washes over him. How much of Zemo’s actions were genuine, and how much manipulation? The man has been honest, but how far could they trust that honesty when it was founded on a solid knowledge that he was indispensable to them? There was no need to lie or hide his intentions. He could probably scream ‘Death to the Avengers’ and try to stab Thor in the middle of Times Square and they would still drag his ass along with them. Maybe with a gag. But that was rub right there. Despite being completely open, Sam still couldn’t peg his goal for Bucky. The conversation they had on the Alexia while Bucky used the shower echoed in his head.

 Super soldiers cannot be allowed to exist.

Zemo never did answer his question about Bucky. Was his silence because of internal conflict, or to conceal a future strike? Or did he want to use Bucky? It didn’t match up with his philosophy, but that hadn’t stopped him the first time.

There is no way Zemo has anything good planned for Bucky. But, as Sam watches the Baron rub small soothing circles on Bucky’s back, he couldn’t let go of the tiny thread of hope. The same thread that made him reach out to Karli over and over again.  The hope that, if given the choice, people will do good.

They walk twenty minutes into the forest to make sure they can’t be spotted from sea. Bucky hates it when they stop and Sam tells him to sit his ass down on a log and rest. He hates doing nothing while Zemo snaps branches to construct a lean-to. He hates sitting there uselessly while Sam breaks his goggles open and uses the wires to light a collection of pine needles on fire.

Most of all, he hates Sam’s furious silence.

Bucky jumps up and paces anxiously. The bullet wound in his leg stings and his head throbs with every heartbeat, but the pain is nothing to the thoughts eating him up inside. This is about what happened on the cargo ship. When he… shut down and turned back to his programming. Sam had to of recognized it. The Soldier. Christ, he hadn’t even spared a thought for the crew. How many were on the Bridge when it was blasted? The only thing on his mind, the Soldier’s only mission, had been Sam’s safety. He needs to see Shuri. They must have missed something, some hidden non-verbal trigger or- or-

 Sam glares at him over the crackling fire he’s slowly feeding sticks to. “Sit. Down.”

Bucky sits.

“Sam.” Zemo interjects, huddled in the shelter to his left. “Perhaps it would be best-“

“Shut. up. I’ll get to you next.” Sam turns that baleful glare on their guest before returning his focus to Bucky. He scoots closer around the fire until their knees are touching. Bucky remains perfectly still, thoughts still raging around in his head like a whirlwind, while Sam gently probes the cut on his forehead. Bucky breathes shallowly, waiting for Sam to lay into him, to confirm how broken and unrepairable he is. That Steve was wrong and he’ll always be the Winter Soldier.

Sam’s hands slide down to cup his face and Bucky is forced to stare into those set, determined eyes. This is it.

“We don’t trade lives.”

All the air whooshes out of Bucky’s lungs because this… this isn’t... what is this?

“That stunt you pulled on the boat? Never happening again. We cover each other, as partners. You don’t fling yourself in the path of bullets for me. Understand?” Bucky nods minutely, but Sam doesn’t let go. “I’m guna need more than non-verbal, Buck. Do you understand?”

“…Yeah.” He chokes out. “I got it, yeah.”

Sam’s eyes flicker, hunting for any hint of deception, before allowing his hands to drop. His face softens and he lowers his voice for only Bucky to hear. “and the other stuff… I’m not Dr.Raynor, but I’m here if you want to talk about it. It doesn’t have to be me but you need to talk about it.”

Bucky sucks in a breath, because he did notice Bucky's lapse. But he’s feeling fragile, brittle, like after the emergency debrief they shared at the police station before embarking on this insane mission. A bone deep exhaustion sets in. Thrown around, shot, cut, emotionally flayed. It’s too much in one day. He sinks back onto the ground, stretching out. “Later.” He promises. “When I’m less concussed. Later.”

Sam nods. “I’ll hold you to it. And you.”  The hard edge of anger creeps back into his voice as he turns on Zemo. The Baron leans back slightly , brows raised and a look of trepidation on his face as he braces for an earful from Sam. “Next time you use that little nickname I will personally march you back to your cell in Berlin. Got it?”

“Perfectly clear.” Zemo affirms.

Like with Bucky, Sam holds his gaze, searching for lies. A futile effort. Zemo remains as difficult to read as the day they sprung him from prison. He only has faith to go on.

Sam sighs and lets the tension bleed out of his body, laying back next to Bucky. He jerks his head, beckoning the Baron over. “Get over here. It’s going to be cold tonight.”

Zemo gingerly shuffles over to Bucky’s left, wary of drawing Sam’s tempter again. “I thought you did not approve of ‘cuddling’.”

Sam closes his eyes and pinches his brows together. “Just lay down and don’t make it weird.”

He lies down.

 A mountain of obstacles await them in the morning, but for now the storm has run its course and the trio watch the clear evening sky fade to twilight.