Chapter 1
Chapter One:
Nine Years Later. . .
Steve found the office a little unnerving. For one, it wasn’t an office per se, not exactly, although the room had the markings of an office: a hardwood desk, armchairs, bookcases filled with books. Beyond that, it was more a chalet—a rather impressive chalet.
Despite his unease with the place, Steve couldn’t help but admire of the magnificence of his surroundings. It looked assembled from sleek wooden logs, and it was larger than two story height, with a vaulted ceiling that pointed skyward. It granted him tall windows, open spaces, and great lighting coming from the sun’s rays filtering inside.
Steve found himself standing at the glass window that covered the entire wall of the end of the office. Beyond it, he saw an autumn forest and a stark blue lake outside that mirrored the sky above. The placid water spanned across for miles, surrounded by smattering houses and buildings.
It was an odd juxtaposition of wildness with civilization and Steve found unusual for them to mingle. It didn’t seem right. He thought nature should have been left alone—a thing to admire, even to explore, but not to live amongst.
A door creaked behind him, snapping his thoughts out. He turned to face an older woman—perhaps in her sixties—with coiffed short gray hair. Her sharp business clothes stood out in the middle of the rustic interior of the office. She looked as if she belonged better in Manhattan’s CEO’s office rather than here. Yet, her warm expression indicated otherwise.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting, it took me awhile to get everything ready.” She smiled at him, almost motherly, and it grated Steve’s nerves.
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, but Steve figured polite was better than honest. “I was busy admiring the view.”
She chuckled, glancing at the scenery for a moment. “Yes, it’s rather impressive, isn’t it?” She flicked her gaze at the furniture, gesturing with her hand, “Please, do sit.”
Steve picked one of the chairs in the corner of the room that faced the window and had the door in his view. The older woman picked one across him, folding her hands on her lap with a serene expression.
“My name is Dr. Emily Alloway,” she began, her voice placid. “Has anyone explained to you what I do? Or what I can do for you?”
A sort of anxiety began to settle on Steve. “Yes.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Actually, that’s the reason I came here.”
“Good.” She nodded. “Now, Commander Rogers, tell me why you’re here.”
And there was the panic, hitting Steve hard in the chest when he heard her request. What if coming here was the worst thing he could ever do? What if going through this would break him to the point where he couldn’t even cope?
He almost left. He was about to stand up to leave this warm office, this lovely chalet, and run far, far, far away from here. But then, Steve thought of Tony. The lines of fear in his brown eyes. The frozen deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face as Steve screamed: Come on, Tony. Take my hand!
“Commander Rogers?”
He blinked, focusing on her. He couldn’t leave. It wouldn’t be fair for anyone, much less for himself. They deserved better. Somehow, he knew what to do—or rather what to say.
“I . . . I came to a realization a week ago.” His voice almost cracked. “My teammates don’t trust me.”
The silence stretched out between them, and Steve stared at the wooden floor just near his shoes, unable to look at the doctor’s face.
“I see,” she said after a moment. “Do you know why?”
“I think I have some idea,” Steve answered, his voice tight. “Couple reasons, I guess. Or it's just one thing." He swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I think I haven’t been . . . a good leader to them. . .”
As if summoned by his words, Steve could see Rick Jones consumed by an explosion of blue energy. The weariness in Sam’s face and Natasha disappointed expression. Tony’s frozen horror under the beam of light. Bucky’s frantic voice over the comm, full of fear and concern. Steve had to resist the urge to squeeze his eyes to chase the memories away.
“No, I know I haven’t been a good leader,” he corrected himself and tried not to feel the shame. Eyes stinging with tears, Steve ducked his head and struggled to spit out: “. . . and I’ve been a poorer friend.”
“Okay,” Dr. Alloway said after a moment, expression neutral as she mulled it over. “What are you going do about it?”
This, he knew how to answer, and Steve surprised her by looking at the doctor dead in the eyes.
“For one, I want to do better.” Resolve was woven in his voice. “I have to do better.”
******
The sound of metal clanking echoed in the bunker, followed by series of whines of repulsors firing in the air. It grew louder and closer. Bucky could feel the sound vibrate down to his bone as he hammered his metal fist over the titanium alloy. A repulsor flared over his skin, missing him by inches.
Out of desperation, Bucky dug fingers over the edge of the arc reactor—so close that he could feel the warmth pulsing within his palm.
Iron Man’s faceplate was up, revealing brown—and too human—wide eyes as Stark realized what was happening—and how powerless he was to stop Bucky, but the anger that refused to surrender was still there.
Bucky screamed, his arm straining to pull out the arc reactor. Electrical sparks shot out in all directions from the chest plate, the metal protested at the force. Then Bucky yanked it out, followed by a blinding trail of sparks and frayed wires.
Within Bucky’s palm, the arc reactor sputtered before it went dark.
Bucky woke up and lurched upright up from the chair, shaking like a fragile leaf in autumn. His heart thudded painfully against his chest, trying to regain his bearing. Confused for a moment, he tried to remember. Where was Tony? Was he okay?
Dread grew over him and Bucky felt dizzy.
“Hey man, you okay?”
Spooked, Bucky jerked around, he brought his shield up in a defensive position. The man jerked backward and raised hands in a gesture of surrender before Bucky recognized him.
“Sam?” Bucky frowned. Only after looking around he realized where he was.
Grey walls surrounded him. The place was almost pitch black and cramped with reinforced chairs bolted to the floor. At the end of the room revealed a cockpit with a massive windshield. Bucky could see the stars and a sea of dark clouds outside from where he sat.
He was on the Quinjet.
Then he remembered. He was on a mission—actually, had been on a mission, he reminded himself—and he wasn't alone. There were his teammates, on board with him: Carol Danvers, who was piloting the plane, her expression soft; Hope Van Dyne and James Rhodes, who were both buckled in their seats against the wall, sleeping, dead to the world after long sleepless nights.
T’Challa was the only one who was awake and aware of the situation. He was terribly relaxed for a man on his feet on an unstable plane as he tapped his fingers on the console, his expression blank.
Sam lowered his arms. “Bad one?”
His fingers loosened his tight grasp on his strap and Bucky placed his shield down, next to his legs. “You could say that.”
“You were whispering his name,” T’Challa offered, still not looking up from the console. “Mr. Stark.”
Sam sat next to him and there was a glimmer of concern and pity in Sam’s eyes and Bucky gritted his teeth, resenting it. “Arc reactor again?”
Sometimes, it bothered to Bucky that he had told his teammates about his nightmares. The pity always made him feel weak and unfit as a leader. But once he'd a closer look at Sam’s eyes, Bucky realized it wasn’t pity. It was an understanding. Bucky immediately felt guilty for thinking the worst, because if anyone on the Quinjet understood what was like, it was them.
With a shaky sigh, Bucky ran his fingers over his face. “Yeah.”
“Do you want me to call TADASHI , boss?” Carol asked, flicking the switches above her as she nudged the joystick. “See if he can reach him this time around?”
Bucky shook his head, “No, he said he’ll be out range for at least a week.”
“Actually, Mr. Stark said that as an estimation, factoring time dilation,” T’Challa corrected. “While I don’t know much about the theory of relativity, for we all know, he might be in our system already.”
“Besides, can’t hurt.” Sam leaned his back against the chair, closing his eyes, pretending to doze off for Bucky’s sake.
And sometimes, like today, it moved Bucky as he found himself surprised over and over again by how he understood the depth of their acceptance. It almost made him say yes—almost. But Bucky wouldn’t be so disarmed so easily.
His expression must’ve been obvious because T’Challa looked up and called, “TADASHI? Is Mr. Stark’s signal in range?”
At once, the entirety of the computers and the consoles in the room flashed blue. A pleasant, Japanese-accented voice chimed in, “Resilient is currently in Earth’s orbit.”
Bucky jerked, his heart pounding and the anxiety from his nightmares had followed him hadn’t quieted.
TADASHI continued on, unaware of the tension in the room, “ETA of re-entry will be in two hours and forty-two minutes. Baring from emergencies and debriefs, he will arrive Stark Tower in three hours and twenty minutes.”
“Even better,” Carol chirped and Bucky wanted to strangle her due to her cheerfulness. “You’ll have that video call you wanted.”
“Is that all, your highness?” TADASHI asked.
T’Challa finally looked at Bucky, meeting his eyes. “That depends.”
Bucky opened and closed his mouth a few times, leaving him feeling edgy with panic. Out of everything, it was the idea of seeing Tony after Bucky had made the decision a week ago which left him on edge and uncomfortable. It just . . . Tony’s friendship was one of the precious things he’d come to cherish, and he didn't want to lose it due to feelings.
The problem was becoming obvious. His teammate had noticed, much to their not-too-subtle pointed suggestions and amused expressions. Hell, even too oblivious Bruce noticed it. Pepper had probably noticed. Sooner or later, Tony was bound to figure it out.
He took a deep breath and tried to calm his screaming thoughts. He’d made his choice. For better or worse, he was going be honest with Tony. At least that way it would be on his terms and easier to do damage control.
Bucky stared down at his gloved hands and curled them on his lap. He could hear the overlapping metals whir under the glove and something occurred to him. He tilted his head, considering.
“Actually," Bucky said, glancing up, "I got an idea . . ."