Steve POV
Steve woke up in a cold sweat. The afterimage of his mother’s face was hovering in the darkness above him, a gaunt phantom of the nightmare he’d had.
He grabbed his flashlight from its home on his nightstand, making his way to the bathroom with only the light from the LED illuminating his path.
His phone rang, making him jump. He picked it up from his dresser, flipping it open. “Rogers.”
“Morning, sunshine.” He checked his watch. It was just after 0400. “You sound like you’re awake.”
Steve stifled a yawn. “I’m always awake for work, boss.”
He could imagine Fury’s smile. “That’s what I like to hear. I want you to come to my office in thirty minutes. I’ve got a new assignment for you. How do you feel about parole monitoring?”
“Isn’t that usually Sam’s job?”
“Yeah, but he’s on vacation starting tomorrow. I’ll need full attention for this one. If you’re not up for it, I can call Maria or Phil.”
“No, I’ll take it,” Steve automatically insisted. Fury had been babying him ever since the incident last month. If he thought he was up for a real project, than Steve was more than willing to be taken off light duty. “How long do I have to prep?”
“I’ll give you his file when you get here. You can do the extracurricular stuff on your own, but you should meet with him today. He’s released at 2 p.m., and we don’t want to give him too much time to get any wise ideas.”
“Yes, sir.” Steve realized he was standing at attention, but it was useless, since Fury couldn’t even see him. He tried to relax the set of his shoulders. He could feel a headache coming on.
Fury told him a few more details over the phone, and after they hung up, Steve changed into a fresh shirt and some cargo pants, arming himself and tucking his badge into one pocket. He arrived at Fury’s office ten minutes early. He let him in anyway, and briefed him on the rest of what he needed to know. Steve began to build the profile in his head with his photographic memory.
James Buchanan Barnes. 35. Incarcerated at 21 when he was arrested for several charges. There were ten of his classmates implicated, and his lawyer made a bargain with him to lessen his sentence if he would give them up, but he insisted that he acted alone. Loyal. Intelligent. Creative. Authoritative. Dominating.
And…
Hansom.
Steve had seen the class of prison Sam worked with. They were often young white men just out of a juvenile penitentiary, drug users from broken homes. Steve saw the look in their eyes, lost and looking for an anchor. Some found it. Most didn’t, and they ended up right back in prison. Most of the prisoners who violated their parole did it within the first 72 hours. And if there was a violation at all, Sam always caught them.
55 percent of parolees return to prison within five months after their release, his brain supplied.
As he sipped his coffee in iHop, waiting for Barnes to arrive, he couldn’t get the image of his mugshot out of his mind.
In 2005, Steve was in Afghanistan. In 2005, Steve’s mother was still alive. In 2005, Steve still believed in the intrinsic altruism of man.
In 2005, James Buchanan Barnes was arrested for three counts of forgery, one of larceny, and one (alleged) embezzlement. He had long chestnut hair, down to his shoulders, piercing steel blue eyes, and an easy king of charismatic smile. Steve could tell a lot about a person from their mugshot. He wondered what kind of a person smiled.
He supposed he was about to find out, as the host lead a tall man toward Steve’s table. Steve had chosen it specifically for its location between the two exits, and from his seat, he would be able to catch Barnes easily if he tried to run. He’d ordered the man a large stack of french toast with all the sides on a whim. It was always what his mom would give him after a bad day of school. Steve wanted to give Barnes a chance.
Walk it off. Eat your bacon, drink your juice, and try again tomorrow. The American legal system was supposed to promote second chances.
He didn’t meet Barnes in the eyes until he took his seat. “Mr. Barnes. I’m glad you could join me.”
What he’d assumed about Barnes had been correct. He added more traits as their interaction continued. However, the man before him was clearly not the boy who was arrested fourteen years ago. It was hard to tell underneath all the layers he wore paired with his neatly trimmed beard, but from the number painted next to Barnes in the mugshot (6’0”), Steve guessed that he must have put on about fifty pounds since then.
Barnes quickly finished his food within ten minutes, clearly used to meals that size, and Steve’s stomach fluttered.
Steve Rogers was a pro at compartmentalizing. When he was discharged with honours and started working for the DCPD, he’d only made a few rules. The most prominent was don’t ever let your feelings interfere with your work.
Intuition, however, was good. Steve knew from his training that the brain’s subconscious could work faster than the conscious brain could catch up on. Sometimes, the subconscious would pick up on subliminal information- not enough to make sense to the conscious brain, but enough to give the body a response. Intuition had saved his life on a number of times. He had the ability to tell whether a person was trustworthy with startling accuracy. Above all else, it’s what made him an excellent agent. It was based on logic and evidence and results.
But feelings were messy. Feelings were the chemicals in a brain going haywire. The feeling Steve was getting just then- the butterflies in his stomach, the airy feeling in his head, the sweating in his palms and the dryness on his tongue- those would only cloud his judgement and make him mess up. Steve didn’t get attracted to people on the job, and he certainly didn’t get attracted to convicts.
He told his feelings to shut the hell up so he could get back to work.
“I was looking for a position in Wakanda.”
Every instinct within Steve screamed all at once, an alarm set off in his brain like the demon running his head had flipped a switch labeled ‘PANIC’. Wakanda meant that Barnes would have to go through an emigration process, maybe dual citizenship. Wakanda meant that he would be 9,000 miles away.Wakanda meant that the DCPD wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on him. Most importantly, Wakanda meant that Steve wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on him.
And as much as he hated it, there was a demon in his head wearing a big heart on his chest that said that he really wanted to keep an eye on Barnes. Or two. Specifically, on his round, soft tummy. The demon also might want to reach out and touch him.
Steve specifically resolved himself to never listen to his head-demons. He looked at the notifications on his apple watch, stalling for time. “In some cases, we allow parole prisoners to go outside the state. I’ve never seen a national transfer, but I’m sure it’ll be allowed, providing you adhere to the laws of both countries, and that I accompany you, of course.” There was no doubt in Steve’s mind that Barnes intended on doing something illegal overseas. That wasn’t probable cause by any means, but Fury trusted Steve, and he was sure he’d let him take Barnes to Wakanda. Fury had given him the case, after all. He knew it was special. So Steve would just have to go with Barnes, pretending to be his oblivious parole officer, and meanwhile he’d be investigating whatever crimes Barnes would commit. Probably drug related. What other reason would the man have for wanting to travel to Wakanda?
Barnes expressed his extreme distaste at the idea of the two of them travelling together, and Steve had to agree. His mind was racing through all the problems this would cause, all the inconveniences. He’d have to oversee Barnes’ acquisition of a passport (obviously his, if he had one at all, wouldn’t be up to date), two plane tickets, and two hotel rooms for the duration of their time in Wakanda. Whether that would end with Barnes’ arrest or the end of his parole, he couldn’t say. He wished for the latter, but assumed the former.
Steve had a long night of work ahead of him, and he could tell that Barnes was ready to leave as well. When the waiter came to give him the check, Barnes offered to split it- an act which took Steve by surprise, because surely he couldn’t have that much money freshly out of prison- but Steve had insisted, and at his approval Barnes ordered a coffee for the road.
A sugary, heavy-cream, white-chocolate-peppermint-flavoured-mocha, calorie-laden coffee for the road. Barnes left in a fancy new Tesla, and Steve swung one leg over his motorcycle, trying not to stare so obviously.
Barnes’ number was in his phone, and he could practically feel it burning in his pocket. He had an app that told him where the man would be at any given moment in the day, and he swore he wouldn’t abuse that power.
However, later that night, when he had a mountain of paperwork on the desk before him and it was getting hard to keep his eyes open, his soft bed behind him calling, Steve found it harder to resist temptation.
He pulled out his phone and unlocked it, noting the time. Just a little after midnight. He opened the app and found Barnes’ location, which, unhelpfully, was only listed in the app as an address. He entered the place into Google maps, and quickly discovered that it was a doughnut store. Certainly nothing inherently evil about that… and yet so thrilling. Steve felt himself stirring in his pants.
He reminded himself that he had at least another hour of work before him. This was no time to be thinking about Barnes, with his beautiful eyes and his soft jaw, his wide back and his soft middle, eating doughnuts at 12:09 in the morning for no goddamn good reason except they were good and he was out of prison. Now was not the time to be thinking of a powdered doughnut, disappearing bite after bite into his mouth, past those soft lips… a sprinkle of powder falling onto his thick thighs, right where his the overhang of his belly almost brushed against his lap…
Now was not the time, yet Steve found himself reaching for the lotion and tissues anyway.
Feelings were gonna be the fucking death of him.
He woke the next morning to the insistent tone of his alarm. He’d finished his paperwork last night, and it actually seemed that succumbing to his urges allowed him to focus better afterward. He might not have gotten visions of Barnes out of his head all night, but at least he’d filled out the seven forms requesting a travel visa and a business trip. He’d fallen asleep in the same close he’d worn yesterday, and he changed his shirt and gave himself a quick shave before leaving. He wondered what Barnes would do with his hair, now that he was out of prison. Would he grow it out? Would he keep it short? Would he grow a beard?
He briefly pictured him with green hair up in spikes, and then shook himself out of the nonsensical train of thought.
They had another meeting at 4 today. It was snowing lightly, so Steve opted to take his Jeep instead of the Harley. It was unlikely that the snow would stick, but he didn’t particularly feel like having the icy particles sting his face on the way to work, so he enjoyed the comfort of his heated car.
Fury was, understandably, less than ecstatic about Barnes’ plans to head to Wakanda, but with some convincing, he came around. “Listen, Nick, I’m not much on it either. But he’s gotta only have two things in mind; either he’s trying to start a job in Africa, or he’s genuinely making an attempt at being an honest citizen, and it just happens to take place on another continent. If it’s the second, we wouldn’t want to discourage it, and if it’s the first, then it’s better we allow it and I go with him than if he would try something under our noses.”
Fury glowered at the floor for a few moments, but eventually he nodded. “Alright, if you think that’s best. I’ll send through the paperwork.” As Steve was about to leave, Fury called to him again. “Steve- hey, you met with him yesterday. What was your impression?”
Steve would never get used to calling his c.o. -Boss, he reminded himself, you’re not in Afghanistan- by his first name, or vice versa. But Fury had insisted, and no matter how uncomfortable it made him feel, he knew it was a sign of trust between himself and the captain.
He sighed, and paused. He wasn’t sure how much information he wanted to share. “He seemed… different. I don’t know. Determined. He was certainly driven, that’s for sure. And that’s not something I see much in ex cons.”
Fury caught the tone of his voice, and mistook it for reverence. “Refreshing?”
“Concerning.” Steve tapped the doorframe as a way of saying goodbye, and went back to his desk.
The approval for the forms came in a surprisingly quick six hours later, and Steve filed them. He’d share the news with Barnes, providing he’d heard from the ‘company’, as it were, about his hiring. A little after 3:30, his phone buzzed with a text.
JBB: Where to this time?
Steve checked Barnes’ location. He was a distance away from the iHop they’d met at yesterday, and he didn’t want to make it too difficult.
SGR: You decide.
This in itself was another test. Steve was curious about the location Barnes would choose. It’d say a lot about him, certainly. He couldn’t say he was surprised when the man sent him an address for a diner. He was pleased too, a little bit. He tried to reassure himself it was just because Barnes had picked a domestic location, and nothing as nefarious as a bar or a private address.
No, it’s because you want to see him eat again, his head-demon whispered. You got a taste of it yesterday and you can’t wait for more. You want to watch him, you want to see what he’ll order, you want--
He quickly snapped out of it, and stood, grabbing his keys and heading out the door. He’d have to leave now if he wanted to be there before Barnes and have the advantage of picking their table.
He didn’t anyway, and when he arrived, Barnes was already eating in a booth. He would have preferred a seat where he could keep an eye on all the exits and weak points of the building, but this would have to do. At least it was near a window where he could view the entrance.
He took his seat across from Barnes, who look up from his double cheeseburger.
“I ordered you a water. I didn’t know…”
“No, that’s okay. I just had lunch, thank you. I’m not hungry.” Don’t be so polite, his mind yelled at him. “Let’s get to business. Have you talked to your associates in Wakanda?”
Barnes half-rolled his eyes, and Steve couldn’t tell whether it was at his use of the word associates or his disregard of small talk.
“Yes, I did. It’s a go, I have the job. I’m looking to leave next week.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve already made all the arrangements. We’re flying in one of our personal jets.”
“Aw, come on, I wouldn’t want to put the PD out any,” Barnes interrupted.
“Nonsense, I insist. It’ll be much-” Steve clenched his jaw, carefully choosing his next words. He could already tell from the look in Barnes’ eyes that he’d guessed exactly why Steve wanted to choose the transportation.
“Really, it’s no trouble. Wouldn’t want to put the taxpayer’s good money to use on me flying across the pond.” He paused, taking a considerable bite of his cheeseburger- which Steve just spotted included bacon- and washed it down with a thick gulp of chocolate milkshake. “I’ll purchase my own plane ticket this afternoon, and you can just tell the security for the plane that you need to sit right next to me, flank me with a battalion of cops or whatever.” Steve rolled his eyes, but he was glad playing games was over. Clearly, Barnes wasn’t a man for a great deal of implications, and Steve appreciated that. “I’m sure they’ll be fine with it. Then, when we get to the hotel, you can put an ankle monitor on me or whatever.”
Steve pulled out a few documents from his briefcase. “You’re not required to wear an ankle bracelet. While on Wakandan soil, however, you must adhered to these rules.” He handed the paper to Barnes.
He cleaned off his greasy fingers before scanning the document. His eyebrows raised, and Steve could guess which part he was at. “I’m aware they have some unconventional laws including alcohol and curfews.”
“Unconventional? More like fucking crazy.” He slid the paper back across the table, not bothering to put it in Steve’s outstretched hand. He turned back to his food, finishing his burger and starting in on the sweet potato fries. “But whatever, that’s fine. I’ll be there for business anyway.” His phone buzzed, and he took it out and frowned at it for a moment before tapping out a response. Steve looked out the window and sipped his icewater, trying not to be rude.
The waitress arrived a moment later. “Are you ready for your pie now, sir?” She asked Barnes.
“Yes, thanks, hon.” He flashed her a dazzling smile, charm oozing out of his every pore. Steve tried not to gag.
“Anything for you, sir?” She asked, turning to Steve.
“Uh, yeah, I’ll take a slice of pie too.”
“What kind? We have apple, blueberry, pecan, and key lime.”
“Pecan, thanks.” His head-devil must have some bizarre control over him, because Steve had no intention to eat the pie. He’d have to have a stern talk with himself later. Or a stern wank, his head supplied.
They went over a few other documents while Barnes finished his milkshake and they waited for their pies. Steve discovered that Barnes had ordered apple- his personal favourite, but he was glad he hadn’t ordered it as well- and he began eating, while Steve pushed the pie around on his plate with his fork.
“You know what, I think I overestimated myself when I got this. I just had lunch a little bit ago, and I’m not really feeling this,” he mentioned as casually as he could, hoping Barnes wouldn’t take his actions as some kind of submission. “You want it?”
Barnes made a huffing sound, but lifted his shoulders in a kind of shrug, even as he was eating his own. “Pecan’s my favourite,” he commented as he accepted the plate, sliding it over. Steve had to physically stop himself from letting a smile spread across his face.
As Bucky continued eating, Steve felt like the restaurant had suddenly gotten a thousand times hotter. He began shifting, and his light shirt and jeans suddenly felt too restricting. For entirely other reasons that the man in the opposite booth, he was sure, as it had been clear he’d been uncomfortable in his clothes the whole meeting. Steve wanted to leave the diner, take his Harley on a long ride to clear his head. “I’d, uh..” he murmured, trying to tear his eyes away from the way Barnes’ mouth curled around a fork. He cleared his throat and tried again when he realized the man was looking him in the eyes. He stood. “I’d better get going. I’ll text you tomorrow to coordinate the rest of the. Uh.”
The waitress arrived with the check, and Steve was grateful. He hadn’t been entirely sure how he was planning on ending that sentence. She looked unsurely between the two men before Bucky spoke.
“I’ll get it,” he said with a light groan as he reached across the booth to grab the check.
“Are you sure?” Steve asked reflexively. “I could-”
Bucky flapped his head at him. “Nah. I ate all the food anyway. Besides, you paid yesterday.” He put a bill in it and handed it back to the waitress, winking in their general direction.
Steve nodded and left, cheeks burning. He must’ve been winking at the waitress, not Steve. He’d been flirting with her earlier. There was no way he’d meant it to land on Steve. But, he made it feel special. He made it feel almost like a date.
Except it wasn’t a date. It was a mandatory meeting, set up by the U.S. Government, and Barnes was a felon, and Steve was the appointed official to set him back on the path to righteousness. There was nothing romantic about it.
Nothing at all, Steve reminded himself as he pressed down his erection with the heel of his head, shifting his car into reverse and backing out of his parking space.