Imprint

Abner Jenkins puffs his chest out proudly, admiring the sleek lines of the new MACH-VII armored suit in the bathroom mirror. Even while wearing the suit it still feels like a dream. To think, six years ago he was sitting in prison watching his life go down the drain. Blowing his life savings on some gear cobbled together from half understood alien tech, accidently nearly detonating himself and everyone else up while robbing a bank, thirty years for the litany of charges against him. It was all over for Abner.

And then that wonderful beautiful lady swanned into his cell wearing those scary long heels and said “You’ve made some very bad choices in your life. Well, I’m here to turn that around. It’s time to start making good decisions, and you begin by saying ‘yes’ to everything I’m about to offer you.”

From low life street criminal to Captain America’s new partner. Wow. Talk about a turn around. Should he write a motivational book? This sounds like motivational book material. Would they get mad if he painted the stars and stripes on the wings? He twists, trying to get a better angle to envision it, and the tip of one wing knocks a little potted plant over. When he spins around to scoop up the mess another crash sounds behind him. Uh-oh. There goes his toothbrush into the toilet.

Abner stands sharply as his banjo ring-tone sounds in the Livingroom of the suite he’s staying in. That could be Captain America calling to inform him the mission’s starting early. Or he could be in trouble! He quickly strides out- and stops short as the wings wedge in the doorframe. Wrenching back and forth, he breaks free, scoring deep gouges in the walls. Shit- uh, damnit. He hopes the damages won’t come out of his paycheck.

Not important! Cap needs him!

A painful jolt runs through his knees as he crashes into the coffee table in his mad dive to pick up the phone. “Mr.Walker sir!”

“Oh, you’re like an eager little puppy! That’s adorably desperate!” a decided feminine voice that certainly does not belong to John Walker coos.

The wings dip as his shoulders slump. “Janice. Uh. Nice to hear from you?” He hasn’t heard from her since she represented him at his trial…which she only waived the fees for because he told her who he got the original MACH-1 suit from. He scans over the titles of the self-help books stacked on the table. Remove toxic people and enablers from your life. “I don’t think I should be talking to you…”

“Nonsense. I helped you out, didn’t I?”

She did manage to keep him from being sent to the raft, and it would be rude to hang up on her, wouldn’t it? A sinking feeling settles in his stomach and he mumbles “I guess…Why’re you calling now? It’s been years.”

“I heard the good news. Captain America’s sidekick! Congratulations, nobody deserves that honor more than you.”

“Partner” He corrects automatically.

“Anyway-“Janice continues “I heard you’re in Europe-“

“Ahahaha!” Nervous laughter bubbles out of him while he slams the lid of his laptop closed on the Top 10 Things to Do in Copenhagen! article. “No I’m not! Where’d you hear that?”

“Don’t worry about it. As I was saying before you interrupted, maybe we can meet up for lunch while you’re over there? I’m going to be there on a job.”

 A bead of sweat rolls down Abner’s temple. He swallows thickly, his mouth suddenly dry. “J-job?”

The target crawls across the floor, a red smear trailing in her wake. The Soldier prowls towards her cautiously. Red room operatives are tricky. Wounded and desperate targets are unpredictable targets. She has already proven herself resourceful: left arm non-functional, removal of device from between the titanium plates did not return functionality. Ammunition depleted. Knives: two of ten. Three, counting the one in her gut. A dozen minor wounds cover the Soldier. Two more serious wounds: bullets buried in the left thigh and hip.

The Soldier grabs a fistful of her hair. The target whips around. Blood splashes on the ground as she wrenches the knife out of her abdomen and sinks it into the Soldier’s bicep. The Soldier roars in pain and drops the target, staggering back. The Soldier twists, biting the handle of the knife and pulling it from the arm. The knife clatters to the floor. The Soldier flexes, tests the range of motion. Pain tolerable.  Right arm still operational.

The target lays curled on her side. Her skin is pale and breathing labored. The Soldier approaches again. When she makes no move, The Soldier kneels beside her and rolls the target on her back. The target had made the injury worse when drawing the knife. A gory mess spills across the floor.

Assessment: Fatal wounds, Mission Success imminent. No further action required. “Hail HYDRA.” The Soldier stands and the target weakly grasps his ankle.

“At least… give me… the courtesy…” The target can barely manage more than a whisper, choking the words out around mouthfuls of blood. It is more than loud enough for the Soldier to hear. “Of a quick death.”

The Soldier’s eyes darts down and to the left as he contemplates. There is no memory of ever seeing a wound like this, but he somehow knows it will be a prolonged and excruciating death. There is no need to perform the action, but mercy is rarely asked of the Soldier except to plead for life.

Mercy is not something the Soldier has been capable of giving for a very long time. This is something the Soldier remembers. Vividly.

With an assenting nod, the Soldier crouches. The target forces her pale lips into a pained smile. “Thank You.” She rasps. “Спасибо”

The Soldier smashes his fist into the target’s face over and over and every wet thud sounds like Mission Success. Mission Success. Mission Success. Mission Success. Mission Success.

Bucky rears back sharply as plaster rains down in his face. He blinks rapidly, shaking dust out of his eyes. It all filters back to him quickly: Copenhagen, another one of Zemo’s properties, a nice little two story building, all sharp angles that screamed 1960s aesthetics and cubism. Running on only two or three hours of sleep and dead on his feet, he’d walked into the first bedroom he found and curled up on the floor behind the bed.

And yup, that’s his arm buried in the wall.

“Bucky?” The thick oak door muffles Sam’s concerned call.

“I’m fine!” He calls back, wrenching his hand out of the wall. Small cuts and abrasions mix blood with the dust of the plaster. Small chunks of white debris stick in his knuckles like bone fragments. Bucky swallows down nausea and places a hand over the dog tags lying on his naked chest. The unsullied vibranium fingers gently curl around the metal plates, warm from where they absorbed the heat of his body.

“…Alright.” Sam accepts skeptically. “Wana grab some lunch?”

No, he doesn’t. But the serum demands he does, so he says “Let me clean up first.” and gets up, sweat damp skin clinging uncomfortably to the cool floor as he does. Maybe he’ll have an appetite again by the time he’s ready to go out.

Bucky sits on the couch, allowing the color and noise of the TV distract him from the vivid memories that replayed in his dream last night. It washes over him as white noise until a clip of John Walker plays. ‘Captain America working with the GRC!’  the scrolling caption at the bottom of the screen reads. Bucky sourly mashes the power button on the remote.

Sam drops down next to him, his fall cushioned by the ridiculously plush furniture. He winces in pain and moves the stun baton hidden under his jacket so it doesn't jab him in the ribs. “We got a little time before His Highness is ready. You wana talk about that thing we’ve been putting off?”

Bucky press his hand to the serum, stashed away in the little pocket sewn to the inside of his coat. Not that he needs to check that the serum is still there: small as it is, the press of it against his chest always feel so noticeable. Logically he knows it isn’t visible, but half the time he’s on edge waiting for Zemo to make some comment about the little lump in his coat.

“Yeah. Thought we could… “He actually hadn’t thought of anything beyond ‘please take this thing off my hands’. He struggles to come up with something. “…I duno, trade it?” He shrugs helplessly as he throws the idea out there. “Karli’s not going to surrender if she knows she’ll be disappeared.” And she absolutely will be, either to the Raft or some other facility to study the serum. “Maybe you can ransom it to the government for a reduced sentence. Or better treatment for the displaced people.”

A crease appears on Sam’s forehead, his knuckles resting against his chin and thumb brushing the side of his jaw as he thinks. “What about the Wakandans? You said you promised it to them.”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably, guilt gnawing at him. After everything they did for him, here he is, casually considering betraying them. Again. “Whatever you decide, we’ll deal with it.”

“I’m not going to make this choice for you. “ There’s Sam’s councilor voice again, all gentle but unyielding. “You need to stop looking to other people to tell you what to do or who to be. This is something you gotta decide for yourself.”

It’s the last thing Bucky wants to hear. It has that awful sting of truth to it though, like a particularly rough session with Raynor, and she and Sam tend to be right about this stuff. “I don’t know what the right thing to do is. What if I choose wrong?” He let slip softly, staring down at his hands at a complete loss. Other people’s lives are depending on this. God, he doesn’t even know what to do with his own life.

“Then we’ll deal with it.” Sam throws his words back at him fondly, offering his hand. “Like partners.”

“Together.” Bucky clasps the offered hand, sealing the promise.

Zemo’s in full blown tour guide mode as they stroll through the Nørrebro district, pointing out areas of historical importance and dropping anecdotes ranging in subject anywhere from art movements, to the effect political movements had on the neighborhood, to how Carl used to play in that park over there. The district itself is a strange mishmash of old classic architecture and contemporary art. Old stonework and brightly colored townhouses butt up against wildly imaginative graffiti artworks and modern installations.

 It’s a fifteen minute walk to a quaint little bistro at the corner of the main boulevard, and the weather is just warm enough for Bucky to leave his coat at home. Little birds hop around the paved patio, pecking at lost crumbs. A gentle breeze ruffles their hair, a little too cool to be comfortable, but the warm sunlight beating down on them makes up for it.

This close to Germany, The baron has abandoned his normal ostentatious style and donned the classic incognito attire: jeans, sunglasses, a hoodie, and a baseball cap. “I would appreciate it if you did not destroy every one of my houses.” Zemo chastises around a tiny spoonful of Risalamande.

“Thought the place could use a little remodeling.” Bucky shoots back. He relaxes back into the wrought iron chair, metal hand glinting in the sunlight as he takes a bite of Smørrebrød.

“I hear open concept’s all the rage.” Sam adds while sipping an iced tea, idly scrolling through his phone. A particularly bold bird hops up on the table, pecking at Sam’s Pølser bun. He yells, waving his arms wildly to scare it away. Bucky tips his head back, briefly closing his eyes and letting the nice day and easy conversation wash over him, equilibrium finally settling in after the nightmare. 

For a moment, he forgets he's the universe's punching bag. 

It so kindly reminds him when the wail of sirens and a long stream of GRC transport vans flying by ruins the peace. Dozens of them race down the road towards the center of the city, led by a police car forcing traffic to part.

Sam watches the procession like a hawk, rising from his chair and growling “The hell are they doing here?”

“Nothing good.” Bucky states tersely.

One of the vans veers out of the procession, angling towards the trio. Bucky’s on his feet half ready to shove Sam out of the way when the vehicle lurches to a stop halfway up the curb. The back doors fling open- and ok, that explains a lot. Number One Asshole John Walker leaps out, face set in a thunderous scowl as he stalks towards them. “Hope you three had a fun vacation, because it’s over and he’s going back to prison.” He jabs a finger at Zemo, who remains sitting, placidly watching the events unfold with another bite of almond rice pudding.

Sam puts a hand up, stopping Walker from marching past him to get to Zemo. “How’s Lemar?” The scowl deepens, his lips curling in a snarl. Sam puts his other hand up placating.“-I’m not making a dig, man. I’m worried.”

Walker falters, his furious glower stuttering into a sad frown. “Not good.” He tells them gruffly. “But I’m working on that.”

Bucky doesn’t know how Walker can ‘work on it’ unless he pulls a medical degree out his ass. GRC men follow Walker out the back of the van, four in total fanning out behind him. It raises Bucky’s hackles. He slides up next to Sam, creating another wall between Walker and Zemo. Maybe if they stall long enough Zemo can pull another Houdini and meet back up with them at the safe house.

Good thing for them Walker brought the distraction with him. A guy with overly large wings and a tin can suit stumbles out the back of the van. Bucky throws an arm up in indignant outrage, gesturing at the hopeless guy snagging his wings on the doors. “What, it wasn’t enough to steal Sam’s shield, you gotta steal his shtick too?”

“I didn’t steal the shield.” Walker refutes ardently. “The government gave it to me. And that’s Abner. He’s my...” Walker hesitates before reluctantly finishing “-temporary partner.”

“MACH- VII sergeant Barnes sir!” The tin can man holds a hand out to shake. Bucky stares ahead flatly. Sweet Jesus, it’s worse than Battlestar. He grimaces at the outstretched hand and reluctantly accepts it with his left. The guy practically vibrates, shaking with far too much enthusiasm. Where does John keep getting these guys?

“Unfortunately for you, John, it was not the government’s to give away.” All of Bucky’s hopes for Zemo escaping slip away as the man’s crisp accented voice pipes up behind him. “The shield was on loan to the museum and the property rights remain firmly with Sam. The seizure was unlawful.”

Sam yells in surprise and falls back against a chair as Walker shoves him to the side. Zemo’s forced to lean back, apprehension flickers across his face as Walker flips the table. His forward advance is halted as Bucky yanks his back by the collar of his suit and plants himself in the way. Walker huffs and puffs, glaring up at Bucky. “It must be so easy. With all that serum in your veins.”

Bucky keeps his arms cross over his chest. He isn’t going to throw the first punch. He leans forward, looming over him. “You’re used to being the big guy, aint’cha? Best of the best, beating up bullies, always lookin’ out for the little guy.” A little bit of Brooklyn bleeds into his voice as he quietly tears into Walker. Getting under his skin is easy. As easy as looking in a mirror. “Not so strong now are ya John?”

“Get out of my way.” John growls in his face, not backing down and inch. “Or you can join your terrorist friend in the back of the Van.”

Seconds tick by as Bucky stubbornly remains a roadblock. “Bucky.” Sam starts, defeated. “Come on. It’s over. You can’t help anything getting arrested too.” Bucky grits his teeth and shifts on his feet. Walker drops his hand to the cuffs on his belt.

“Fine!” He turns and walks away, not trusting himself to keep his cool if he stands next to that jerk any longer.

“Smart move.”

Hands falling to his hips, Bucky paces the patio like a caged tiger. Instinct screams at him to intervene while John roughly drags Zemo out of the chair and wrenches the Sokovian’s arms behind his back for cuffing. The man in question is only making life worse for himself by dropping taunting little remarks. It’s almost like he wants-

Bucky stops. “Sam.”He jerks his head when he has the other’s attention, motioning him to come a little further away from the commotion. They’ve only got a few minutes.

“Whatever you’re thinking, we are not busting Zemo out of prison again.” Sam says firmly.

“Sure, yeah. You're right. That would be insane.” Bucky agrees. “We'll get him when he breaks out of the transport.” He finishes chipperly.