Imprint

Bucky pulls a shirt over his head and grimaces as it scrapes over the freshly taped cut on his forehead. The indignant rage at the invasion of his privacy is still simmering close to the surface. When he blindly grabbed the stack he half expected black BDUs and a tac-vest reminiscent of his winter soldier gear. He can imagine the insincere ‘so sorry James. I didn’t realize’. But they’re good clothes, sensible: A black t-shirt and denim jeans that are almost the right size.

Small miracles still exist because the room is empty when Bucky reemerges. No falcons with prying uncomfortable questions, no barons with needling comments that dig under his skin. Just silence that’s even quieter than his Brooklyn apartment, unbroken by muffled voices through paper thin walls, or the drone of a TV running twenty-four hours news channels, not even the ticking of a clock. Only a vast suffocating quiet. His shoulders bow under the weight of it. It no longer feels comfortable… or, maybe comfortable isn’t the right word. Familiar. Yeah, that’s it. The quiet was familiar. The quiet was sitting in a HYDRA safe house, dripping water from the Potomac. The quiet was a crummy run down one-bedroom in Bucharest.

It’s so ill-fitting now.

A new addition to the room provides a distraction. Two large black bags occupy one of the beds, ones contents laid out over the bedspread. Mainly there are pistols of various calibers but Zemo has taken note of his companion’s propensity for non-lethal combat and a taser rod and flash-bangs are thrown into the mix. His hand glides over a SIG-Sauer P226. The rough textured grip scrapes his palm as he closes his fingers around it. A perfect fit, molding to every contour of his hand. It’s light, like holding a feather. This, too, is familiar. Maybe even comfortable. It calls to the old ghost in his head.

Sweat prickles his pores as cold fear flashes through him. He sets the gun back down with a ragged exhale. The knives he brought are enough for now.

The other bag holds more mundane supplies: food, water bottles, and basic necessities. Bucky grabs a fistful of protein bars and devours five of them immediately.

He calls Yori. It doesn’t help. The old man sounds lonely.

Moving a chair to the back corner of the room where he can watch the door while remaining out of sight of the window, he settles down, downloading a few books onto the phone to occupy the time. He’s Twenty three pages into ‘The Lord of the Rings’ when he glances at the door, hoping Sam will walk through it any second.

Bucky finally throws in the towel when he’s one hundred and forty three pages in and he scans the door the millionth time and wonders if maybe Zemo will be back soon, because by god he will not sink so low that he’s going to wait on tender hooks for that man to come back. He has standards thank you very much.

He snatches a nice blue wool coat and leather gloves from the wardrobe. After a moment of deliberation he tentatively stuffs the gloves in his pockets rather than on his hands. The people here seemed to be used to a little strangeness. He pockets a folded stack of Norwegian Krones that have been left by a spare key next to the door and makes his exit.

The early afternoon sun sits high in the sky, changing the cold biting breeze from this morning into only a slight chill. Bucky’s stomach growls and twists into knots. Aside from the protein bars the last thing he’d eaten was that little box of tiger cereal yesterday morning. It’s an awkward time of day for a restaurant to open, but there’s bound to be some late lunch or early dinner joint open. He wanders down the cobble stones path, letting his nose lead him to a little traditional Japanese ramen stand near the water. It sticks out like a sore thumb amidst the rustic appearance of the harbor, and the obstinate refusal to adhere to the local aesthetic appeals to Bucky. Intrigued, he pushes the cloth flaps aside and drops onto a stool. A young Norwegian woman calls out from open kitchen behind the counter, keeping her eyes on the noodles she’s preparing. “It’s a little early but I can whip something up. What would you like?”

“Three of the biggest bowls you’ve got. Any flavor. Just some water to drink, please.” He’d eat anything at this point. Even those awful rations from the war.

Bucky thinks he might really like this country because she doesn’t bat an eye at his large order. She finally tears her attention away from her work, fixing her soft honey-brown eyes on Bucky. Her smile is small and demure but there’s a mischievous streak hidden somewhere in the crease of her eyes. “Any flavor?  Very bold, I’ll hold you to that.”

Flirting comes as easy as breathing. Folding his arms up on the counter he leans in conspiratorially, matching her tease or tease.  “I like trying new things.”

“Liv.” She responds. Humming, she crosses her arms and leans her elbows on the counter opposite him, sliding along the smooth counter until they press up against his. She leans in as well and tucks a stray lock of light brown hair behind her ear. “Sure I can’t interest you in a little Sake?”

“Bucky.” He smiles winsomely, eyes crinkling at the corner. “ And only if I can share it with you.”

Her lips curve into a slow smile. “Absolutely.“

Liv gets the broth and noodles going first, calling out over her shoulder as she works. “Is it rude to ask how you got that cut?”

“Nah. Got it in a fight. You should see the other guy.”

“Oh yeah? What’s he look like?”

Like he was wearing grandma’s quilt. Bucky stares hard at the counter and tries to come up with something that doesn’t make him sound as crazy as he is. “I dunno. Never saw him. What’s a little slice’a Japan doing all the way in Stavanger?”  He enquires curiously, changing the subject while she rummages beneath the counter. A pair of wide shallow cups rap against the bar top, one for him and one for her, and a porcelain jug follow suit.

“The blip.” She explains, shrugging as she pours out the Sake. Steam wafts from the pale near translucent liquid. “I moved out to Kyoto. Wanted to get away from all the memories, all the ghosts, start fresh somewhere. I made a new life there, really fell in love with the place.” Her expression sours, lips pinching and bitterness tinging her voice. “Then everyone came back and I got kicked out.”

She lifts her little cup into the air. “Kanpai.”

The tale hits a little too close to home, throwing Bucky off. “Kanpai.” He responds automatically and mimics her gesture stiffly. They toss their drinks back together, the sweet alcohol burning down the back of their throats. A question builds inside his chest, yearning and raging to be let out. Bucky licks his lips hesitantly before asking “Did it help? Leaving?”

The errant strand of hair falls back in his face when she hangs her head, a single soft self-depreciating laugh puffing from her lips. “No.” She admits. “I never dealt with it. Up and left one night, no bags or anything. Dumped my kid on my dad’s doorstep and disappeared. I just… ran away and pretended nothing happened and everyone was waiting for me back home.” She lifts her head, smiling lopsidedly and rolling her eyes, running her finger over the rim of her cup. “Pathetic. I know.”

“Yeah that’s kind of awful.” He agrees bluntly, but his tone lacks any judgement. The Sake jug warms his hand as he pours another for her. “People can do terrible stuff to survive.” Liv at least made sure her kid had a home before vanishing. “You ever reconnect with them?”

The cup she’s playing with stills. ”Yes.” The cold air seeps back into his arms when she draws back, drifting back into the kitchen to work on his order. Bucky shifts anxiously, equal parts achingly desperate and dreading what her answer might mean. “They hate me.” She states quietly to the cutting board while slicing pork. “but I think my dad’s happy to know I’m still alive. I’m going to stick around and keep working at it.”

“Sorry.” Bucky apologizes lamely when she returns with two piping hot bowls of Miso. “Didn’t know asking about a ramen bar was such a loaded question.”

The apology startles a laugh out her. “Mind if I ask a loaded question of my own?”

“Fair’s fair.” He breaks apart the pair of chopsticks she hands him and motions with them for her to go ahead.

“What was it like coming back for you?” She queries. “Not the-“ She holds her hands up, wiggling her fingers around her face. “- actual coming back, but after?”

 It’s easier, he finds, to speak to a stranger he might never see again. No Raynor with her clicky pen and notebook and the quiet threat of what might happen if he’s not good enough looming in the background or Sam who might decide he’s not worth it if he really knew the depths of the things Bucky did as the Soldier. Now that the words are out of him it’s hard to stop. Like a plug pulled from a drain it starts spilling out. “Rough. I wasn’t a good person before when I was- “ He stops, correcting himself because he’d almost said ‘when I was HYDRA’. It’s simple to tweak his story to fit the narrative. “- before the blip.  And after- “ A swollen bruised face, explosions, screeching steel falling all around, till the end of the line “- things were so… different. I was different.” He can’t help the twist of his lips into a painful grin as the delicious irony hits him. “I was the one that disappeared, but when I came back everyone else was gone.“ Three times. It fucking happened three times. At least the second time that little punk from Brooklyn had been there.

He quickly cuts that train of thought off shoves a wad of noodles in his mouth because he’s not going to begrudge Steve his happy ending.

“…Is there anyone now?” She asks shyly.

The tiny list of ‘must survive’ crosses his mind. “Yeah. prob’ly don’t deserve ‘em.” There’s no bite to the statement. Deserving or not, he’s going to claw and fight for any chance of a good life. He’s a greedy bastard like that.

“Me neither. “ Now that he’s had a taste of the food his hunger becomes more pressing. He’s too busy shoveling soup in his mouth, already working through the second bowl, to notice the look of disappointment on Liv’s face and the way she unconsciously shifts further away, putting more space between them. “They’re lucky to have you.”

“Damn right they are.” Bucky jabs a chopstick in Liv’s direction to reinforce his point. “Who else is gunna pull their bacon outa the fire?”

The last bit of Sake drips from the lip of the jug as she pours out two final cups. Liv lifts the cup in a salute and Bucky responds in kind, tapping the rim of his cup to hers. “To second chances we don’t deserve. “

Liv squeezes her eyes tight and gasps out a satisfied ‘ahh’. Slapping the empty cup down she declares challengingly “I’ve got something special for you, Mr. ‘any flavor’.”

‘Something Special’ turns out to be a plate of instant noodles covered in an orange dust, arranged on a plate of equally dusty triangle shaped chips. Bucky nibbles on the corner of a chip, eyes narrowing suspiciously at the cool ranch flavor bursting over his taste buds. “Is this the Captain America Dorito?”

“Mmmhmmm.” Liv confirms

Bucky’s eyes narrow further. “John Walker or Steve Rogers?”

She plucks the bag out of the trash to answer, and there’s that’s pompous asshole’s face staring off into the distance in a poor imitation of Steve’s heroic stare. “It’s terrible.” He declares, shoving the plate away. “Totally inedible. “

“Not a fan?”

Bucky spends the next twenty minutes explaining to Liv in great detail everything wrong with the new government issued Captain America. He would have gone on longer but a text from Sam cuts him short.

“- bossy asshole who thinks he’s entitled to people’s – oh, uh, hold on, I gotta.” He points to the phone and Liv waves him on. “Go on, I should really get back to work anyway.”

Bucky swipes open the messenger app.

Samwise: guess who fixed their gear?

A five second clip of Bucky ‘jumping’ out of the plane in Germany follows shortly.

Damnit. He had hoped that died with redwing.

Samwise: Got a new lead. Meet up?

Bucky responds ‘hotel’ and stuffs the device in his pocket, sliding out of the stool and rapping his knuckle on the bar to grab his hostess’ attention. “Thanks for the meal, Liv.”

“Any time!” She salutes him the large iron ladle she’s using to stir a large vat of noodles. “Come back next time you find yourself in Stavanger.”

A rogue smile spreads across his face and he utters smoothly “I can think of one reason to come back.”

He leaves with a wink, much less money in his pocket, and a new number in his phone, bringing his total number of friends up to eleven.

Their paths converge two blocks from the hotel. Sam falls in line next to Bucky and they clasp hands together in greeting. Sam’s cleaned up during the down time, finally shedding the remains of his falcon suit, the stink of the ocean, and a day’s worth of stubble.

Sam eyes him up and down, taking in his relaxed stance and gentle easy smile. “You look good.”

 “I always look good.” Bucky preens, smoothing the edge of his jacket.

An exasperated groan rumbles from Sam and he slaps Bucky’s elbow good naturedly. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

Bucky laughs while they leisurely meander down the seaside quay. “I took your advice, talked to somebody.” He divulges when the laughter subsides.

“Did it help?” Sam asks.

 “I duno.” He stuffs his hands in pockets and shrugs. “I don’t feel better. But it didn’t hurt like I thought it would.”

“Putting yourself out there is tough, especially when it means opening yourself up to harm.  It’s a good step forward. “ Sam’s calm and steady, but stern. A solid rock, providing stability yet totally unyielding. Bucky can see why he’s good at this counseling thing. “I’m not gunna push you Bucky. That’s not my style. But if you want help I’m here. “

 “Thanks.” He speaks quietly as they approach the garish red front entrance of the hotel. He holds the door open for Sam and the rush of warmth he feels has nothing to do with the blast of hot air from the building. “But you’ve got enough problems. You don’t need mine too. I can deal with it on my own.”

“Yeah, I know. I think you could. You’re strong like that.” The words settle deep in Bucky, the unwavering faith that he can be better sitting as a counterweight to Zemo’s absolute confidence that the programming will win out.  Sam places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and squeezes. “But you don’t have to.”

It cracks something in Bucky. It isn’t an earth shattering revelation or miraculous break through that moves him to tears. It’s a barrier he never knew existed vanishing. A brick in the wall crumbles and lets a little bit of light shine through. He still doesn't plan on scaring Sam off with gritty details of what he's done, but maybe, maybe he can trust him with a bit of it. He reaches out across what was previously an unfathomable channel and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder as well. “Ok.”

“Maybe not while Baron Buzzkill’s around.” Sam concedes, letting his arm drop and leading the way up the stairs.

“Yeah.” Buck agrees, following. He almost runs into the man when he stops abruptly. “What? What is it?”

Sam places a finger to his lips, then points to the door of their room down the hall. The Door fits in the frame crookedly, like it’s been knocked out of alignment and poorly jammed back into place. The wood is splintered and cracked, and the frame around the latch is chipped and gouged. Bucky silently prowls down the corridor and takes cover on the left. The ex-assassin breathes steadily through his mouth, suddenly wishing he had eyes on Zemo. Or any clue of his whereabouts, really. A text, god damn anything to dull the sharp edge of worry thrumming through him. Something to let him know there isn’t a dead body cooling on the floor in there.

 Sam slides in on the right. He eyes the knife that’s magically appeared in Bucky’s hand. Bucky points at Sam, then the door, and mimes throwing the knife. His companion nods and holds up three fingers, two, one-

Sam slams his shoulder into the door, throwing the full force of his body against it. Sam staggers through and peels off to the side as it flies open and bounces into the wall with a bang. Bucky dashes through, rapidly taking in the scene. Overturned  reading chair. Lamp laying on the floor, intact. Weapons no longer neatly lay out on the bed, now a jumbled mess. Stun baton is missing. Blood on the corner of the night stand, droplets on the carpet around it. No persons or bodies in the room.

A wet gurgle and thrashing emanates from behind the closed bathroom door.

He quickly crosses in the room in long strides, scoops up the SIG-Sauer, and loads a clip from the bag. He does the same for a standard 9MM, tossing it to Sam who catches it. They run into complications when they both try to take up the same position next to the bathroom door. Sam glares at him flatly, squeezed shoulder to shoulder with him against the wall, motioning for them to switch place. Bucky responds with an unflinching iron stare. When Sam becomes more agitated he shakes his head slowly, never breaking eye contact.

“I had to breech the last one” Sam hisses “You get the door and I’ll go in.”

“Nope.”

“I thought you forties guys were supposed to be chivalrous.” He whispers harshly in annoyance.

“You don’t look like a dame to me.” Bucky wisecracks

“Why do you always need to be the first one-“

“Gentlemen.” Zemo’s rough crisp accent calls from behind the door over the racket of violent sloshing water and scrambling boots scraping against tile. “Impeccable timing.”

Bucky allows himself a moment to sag against the wall, exhaling harshly. Jamming the SIG-Sauer in waistband of his jeans, he rips the door open. The Baron stands imperiously, one hand returning his own pistol to its holster and the other holding the head of a weakly struggling black clad man under water in the tub. The hand fisted in the captive’s hair yanks harshly, allowing him to surge up and frantically gasp a lung full of air before being forced back down. The tattered remains of the shower curtain twist and knot around his thrashing legs and his screams rise with every lost breath of air that bubbles to the surface. The stun baton hangs from the baron’s belt. Judging by the burnt hair smell wafting through the air it’s been well used already.

Sam slips in behind him and shuts the door, trapping them all in the tiny space. “Were you planning on calling us before or after you tortured a guy?”

“After, Ideally.” Zemo’s completely unashamed to divulge. “I’m quite certain you would not approve of my methods.” He very pointedly doesn’t address Bucky with that statement. And he might not be entirely incorrect in either assumption.

“Probably not.” Sam agrees. “ Let’s see if we can get him to talk before then.” He jerks his chin, motioning for Zemo to let the man up. The Baron untangles his fingers from the man’s hair and slips back to join the duo on the other side.  The man surges out of the water, heaving and eyes blinking rapidly and darting in blind panic. Blood tinged pink water dribbles down his chin.

His eyes lock on Sam as he moved forward, crouching down near the edge of the tub. “Hey. I think you better start answering some questions. Because my friend here? You know who he is?” He nods to Bucky without breaking eye contact, who’s leaning against the wall putting on his best soldier-murder-stare. “He won’t be gentle like Zemo.”

The man’s unfocused gaze slides from Sam to the silent soldier lurking in the background. His slack jaw slowly pulls into a wide grin. “Heh… hehe.” He laughs, his eyes turning sharp and hyper focused on Bucky as oxygen floods back in his system. “You? I aint afraid a’ you. Ya got no idea what Broker’s got in store fer you. I don’t envy ya, not one bit. Ah yer fucked matey. Yer so fucked!”

The plates of Bucky’s arm ripple and lock. It’s a battle to keep still and not shove the man back under water until he stops moving at all. It’s the same old story, over and over and over again. Power mad psychopaths who just want to use him for their own gains. “How’d you find us?” He grits out instead.

“This aint America, mate.” He explains slowly like they’re stupid. “Ye can’t just walk into a Walmart and buy a gun. Not a lot a’ fences around here. Word gets out quick.”

Zemo observes him with cold calculating eyes. “Why are you talking now?”

The man dissolves into a fit of laugher, flopping back in the tub and sending a slash of water over the sides. “’Cause yer dead!” He exclaims, making a chopping motion with both his hands. “And yer dead too.” He repeats it for Sam, like this is all some funny joke at a bar. “And you, yer gunna wish you were dead.” The last is saved for Bucky.

He’s a ball of tightly coiled tension, ready to spring forward and sock this guy into next week.

Sam gets there first. The good cop routine goes right out the window as his face scrunches in disgust and he lands a brutal punch to the guy’s jaw. The man’s head slams into the back of the tub with a crack. A fresh wave of red spills down his chin. “Changed my mind. You can shut the hell up.”

The satisfaction at hearing the guy moan weakly and cup his face almost causes Bucky to miss the tiny movement to his left.

Bucky slams Zemo up against the wall, flesh arm thrown across his chest to keep him pinned and metal one gripped tight around the wrist that held a pistol, forcing it down and away from the broker’s man. Bucky’s eyes widen as agonizing pain seizes his arm. It feels like a fire’s engulfing the appendage, like the bones are breaking and knitting back together. He grunts in pain, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stifle a gasp. It’s bewildering because Zemo isn’t doing anything, is just glaring at him and breathing heavily through his nose, so where the hell is coming from? Not even his vibranium arm is working properly, fingers twitching and plates spasming but refusing to clench around the wrist any harder and force Zemo to drop the gun.

“Drop it.” He orders through gritted teeth.

“There is no more need for him.” Zemo challenges hotly, his expression mutinous. His toes barely touch the ground, slipping across the wet tiles as he struggles to gain footing. “Letting him live only leaves an enemy at our backs, an information leak for the Broker to extort.”

 Every moment he grapples the Baron, every beat of his heart, causes the searing pain to increase. Sweat beads on his forehead and he grunts tightly again. Zemo’s seditious expression morphs into confused suspicion, the hard downward angle of his eyebrows tilting up and annoyed pressed line of his lips parting. The eyes remain narrowed and searching.

Bucky can’t tell if it’s better or worse that Zemo looks as disturbed as he feels.

Thank god Sam is there. He’s right there beside Bucky prying Zemo’s fingers off the pistol until it drops into his waiting hand. “We’re not killing a man while he’s down!” He snaps.

Bucky drops Zemo immediately and backs away. The pain fades the moment he loses contact. Zemo’s still staring at him, half supporting himself against the wall while he caught his balance, face now an unreadable mask. The gaze traps him, his own wide round eyes unable to break away. Bucky swallows harshly, fighting to keep the rising swell of panic under wraps.

“Awww.” Their captive coos half deliriously. “looks like the dog’s gone soft. No worries, broker can fix that too.”

It’s enough to snap him out of it. He snatches a pair of dirty socks off the ground and jams it in the captive’s mouth. “Just shut up, asshole.”

“It appears I am out voted.” The baron states calmly. “What do you propose we do with him?”

Bucky keeps himself busy, studiously avoiding looking at Zemo or thinking about what in the fuck that was. He drains the tub, tears the shower curtain into strips and binds the broker’s man.

“We’ll hold onto him until we’re ready to leave. Once we’re gone I’ll text Torres.” Sam crosses his arms, running a hand under his chin as he thinks. “…maybe Sharon.”

“Yeah.” Bucky forces out absently. “Sounds good to me.”

Why can’t his life ever be easy.