Chapter 2
As a small child, James Buchanan Barnes had never been prone to a racing heart or fits of nerves. His life had consisted of the thrill of adventure, of discovery, of this is new, what is this, what does it do, can I touch it, what does it feel like-? His racing thoughts and unrelenting curiosity overrode any fear of the unknown.
And then he had met Steven ‘I-Rush-Into-Danger-Without-Thinking’ Rogers and he had had nothing but a racing heart and fits of nerves. That boy had caused him more sleepless nights and panic attacks than he was willing to admit to. His relationship with the idiot was worth it, he supposed, but it was the principle of the thing.
Things had been so much simpler before Steve.
Well.
Before breaking up fights in back alleys from grade school ‘til they were both in their twenties-
Before the war that broke him in ways he couldn’t put into words but Steve had seen, he had seen Bucky on that table at Azzano, he had seen Bucky zone out, freak out, fly into rage and settle into preternatural still-
Before the fall, before the seventy years of hell as Hydra’s puppet, their pet assassin, their Asset-
Before Rumlow shouting in the street while the buildings around him shook and shattered with the force of the bombs he had set off, screaming at Steve every horrible, vicious, heartless thing the Winter Soldier had ever done with a shit-eating smirk on his face-
Bucky felt his heart beat triple-time in his chest even in unconsciousness. Rumlow had revealed some of the Soldier’s worst crimes and, even though he knew Steve would never look at him any differently, it had still hit him hard, sent his heart sinking through his feet in the aftermath.
Some of the things Rumlow had said were things that Bucky hadn’t even remembered yet.
Did you know, your best pal, your buddy, your Bucky, he stabbed an ambassador through the skull while the guy begged and his kid watched? Did you know, he blew up a protest in Prague one time, killed almost three hundred people in ten seconds? Did you know, did you know, did you know?
In that moment, Bucky had seen red. He hadn’t cared what the consequences might be, what Steve might say about murder, what the politicians and media would scream about him next; he had wanted to kill Brock Rumlow, Hydra bastard, ex-handler to the Winter Soldier, and one of the thousands of monsters under Bucky’s bed.
He had taken one step forward, one heel-to-toe step, the sound like the bang of a gunshot in the silence that had followed the bombing and Rumlow’s harsh words, and then the world had gone black.
Bucky had dropped to the ground in reflex, covering his ears and his eyes and waiting for the worst to happen. There was a buzzing in the air, stealing his hearing, and an unbearably bright light, stealing his sight.
He waited, and he waited, and finally he heard the faint sounds of screaming. That was enough warning for him, and he raised his head, squinting through the dust of the remains of what looked to be another bombing.
Quickly, he scanned the area, already standing and moving in one fluid movement. He had always been graceful; in dancehalls in the thirties, on battlefields in Italy, in the field for Hydra and then, later, the Avengers. This grace was something that had saved him multiple times, hundreds, thousands, even.
He used it to save himself one more time.
A bullet whizzed past his face and he ducked, twisted, and then slammed his foot into the chest of the man that had shot it. They were being attacked, he had to warn the others, but his comm had dislodged itself at some point, probably when he had slammed himself down to the ground. From the sounds of things, there wasn’t much need for warning, anyhow.
He saw the Widow before he ever heard her, as she had been trained. Her brilliant red hair was the only heads up he got before she was in his face, over his assailant’s shoulder, a garrote wire wrapped around the guy’s neck. She kept eye contact with Barnes the entire time his assailant struggled, something visceral and yearning in that look, but he shrugged it off almost immediately.
They knew they had a past together. But Barnes wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole, not yet, at least. Perhaps one day. Perhaps never.
She rolled her eyes at him as he broke eye contact and the assailant fell to the ground, unconscious. She covered his flank as he stormed closer to the origin of the blast; there were charred remains on the ground, something had definitely gone off.
Rogers was standing in the smoking ruins of the street, his shield steaming but otherwise intact. No doubt the numbskull had hid behind it, expecting it to protect him like he always did. The blast hadn’t originated with Rogers, though; no, it was a few feet to his right, where Rumlow had been.
Barnes could admit that he felt a warring of emotions at the idea; he was sure that a blast of that size must have surely finished the job that building had started months before, but he was also furious that his hand would not be the one that finished the bastard off.
The Widow stood at his shoulder, poised for attack though looking just as calm and composed as ever. There was barely any soot on her, from the earlier fighting, or from the more recent explosions.
They came to stand with the Captain, grim expressions on their faces though they all had to admit that no one would miss Brock Rumlow.
And then there was movement, where no movement should have been.
Barnes saw red once more, and this time it wasn’t the Widow’s hair.
The monster would not die, would not go naturally into the cold hands of death. Why?
Despite himself, that insatiable curiosity of his youth, that deep-down need to know, to understand took over him, and he took a step forward, and then another, and another, until he was standing over the smoking ruins of Rumlow’s tactical armor.
The vest was moving.
The vest should not have been moving.
As if from a great distance, far away in a safe spot in his mind where he didn’t have to think about his actions, Barnes reached out and tugged the material away.
There was a child there, where a child should not be.
It was impossible.
Rid-iculous.
Insane.
But then again, they dealt every day in the impossible, ridiculous, and insane.
This instance just hurt a little more.
“Buck,” Rogers said, his voice unsure, more like the Kid-From-Brooklyn than the Captain-From-America.
“I don’t understand,” the Widow said, her tone of voice matching the Captain’s but her face remained a hard mask; she understood just fine, just like Barnes did. This was their life, now. Weird shit happened every day. This was no weirder.
“What was in that bomb?” Barnes asked plainly, and that got the others’ attention quicker than anything else he could have said. They stood to their full heights and looked around for any sign of the attack, while Barnes remained crouched on the ground, tugging more material away from the dirty child, unconscious on the war-zone of a street. There was nothing to find, and Barnes already knew it.
He grabbed Rumlow by the vest, swung him into his arms, and refused to follow the memory slicing through his mind, a tiny dark-haired baby, a little girl, placed in his arms hours after his mother had given birth (a little sister, aren’t you so excited, James?) He refused, he refused, he wouldn’t, not now.
The memory faded but the weight of the child-that-was-not-a-child remained, so light yet so heavy at the same time.
What the hell had happened?
And what the fuck were they supposed to do with him?
“I don’t believe his little act for a second,” Tony growled the moment the doors opened onto the communal floor. Barnes’ eyes flew open at the sound, wrenched from his memories, from his disturbed sleep, from his dream-that-was-not-a-dream.
Someone was rummaging in the kitchen but Barnes was hesitant to wake Rumlow; the boy had looked exhausted before Barnes had gotten him to sleep, likely overwhelmed and frightened but too tired to fight off the comfort of a soft sofa and a calming presence.
The sounds of exasperation following Stark’s entrance were varying; he could see most of them from his spot on the couch, and he could read all of them (most of them) fairly well by now. Barton seemed to find this entire situation hilarious, hiding a smirk behind his cell phone as he thumbed away at it; Dr. Banner looked equal parts intrigued and thoroughly done; and Romanoff was simply glaring at him, with her signature You’re-A-Goddamn-Dumbass look that she wore so well.
“I’m just saying. He’s probably trying to worm his way into our good graces so we don’t throw his ass in jail, with his cute little smile and his tiny face and his giant eyes and his-,”
“Complete lack of understanding?” Barnes rumbled from his spot on the couch. He watched Stark turn around to glare at him. Barnes returned the look, in no mood to pander to the egotist. All Stark wanted was people to listen to him, and Barnes had soundly squashed that with half a sentence.
“I’ve spent some time with him. He wouldn’t be able to fake that kind of wonder, or fear, or surprise. He also wouldn’t have let himself be seen as something so vulnerable, even if his life depended on it.” He turned to send them his iciest Winter Soldier glare. “He’s not faking. Now drop it.”
Stark grumbled but he saw that the others seemed to be taking his word for it. “I still think he’s going to somehow use his cuteness to strangle us in our sleep,” he muttered, before disappearing into the kitchen to join Rogers.
“I have to admit,” Barton managed between snorts of unbridled laughter, “I really wouldn’t put it past the bastard. But really, I can’t picture him allowing himself to cuddle with the Winter Soldier. Not even on pain of death.”
Barnes felt his arms tighten around the kid still somehow dozing on his chest. All of this conversation would surely wake the boy. But then, the kid had been living on the streets, so surely he wasn’t this light of a sleeper?
Barnes felt the glare taking hold of his face before he could restrain it, as he reached down and jerked the boy’s chin up, meeting wide, wild eyes with his own.
The kid had been faking sleep.
And well.
(Barnes hadn’t even fucking noticed.)
“Sorry!” Rumlow was already apologizing, gaze running rapid-fire from Barton to Romanoff to Barnes and back again. His cheeks were flaming red in embarrassment and his eyes were beginning to brim with tears. Romanoff raised an eyebrow, but Barton was the one that said what they were all thinking, letting off a long, slow whistle of surprise.
“Hot damn. He really isn’t lying then. Never seen Rumlow cry before, and I was there on that mission where he nearly lost a fucking leg.”
Everyone turned their attention back to Rumlow, who was looking more and more uncomfortable as he peeked around the room. He carefully leaned back against Barnes’ chest, biting his lip as he looked up at the older man.
“Am I in trouble for lyin’, Mr. Barnes?”
The room echoed in silence for a long moment, and then Barton broke it by cracking up laughing almost immediately after. He was howling next to Romanoff, leaning on her for support, one hand on her shoulder while he bent in half and used his other hand to wipe away mirthful tears.
Rumlow was staring at Barton like he had never seen a creature quite like him before. His eyes were wide, his cheeks pale now that he had something else to focus on, and he was calm and compliant in Barnes’ hands when he moved them to a sitting position.
“Are these the friends you were talkin’ about?” When Barnes gave him a single, solemn nod, Rumlow turned to take in Barton and Romanoff one more time, before he leaned back and whispered (none too quietly), “They’re kinda weird, aren’t they?”
Barnes didn’t waste a moment, nodding solemnly once more, the words, “That they are,” out of his mouth before he even had time to think. Because yes, these people were the frickin’ weirdest.
“Does that mean we get to eat pizza now?” Rumlow asked, turning wide, hopeful eyes onto Barnes even as Barton straightened up, looking indignant and put-upon all in one facial expression.
“You promised him pizza? Without consulting me? I am the pizza extraordinaire, Barnes, where was my input?”
Barnes turned back to him, one eyebrow raised in firm disbelief. “You would eat cold pizza off the floor if Romanoff didn’t stop you. How does that make you a pizza extraordinaire? Other than the fact that you somehow don’t get sick off of it.”
Barton sputtered in disgrace, and Barnes left him to it, Romanoff on his heels a moment later with a simple shrug in Barton’s direction. Rumlow was riding in Barnes’ arms like he fit there and Barnes once more had to shove away vivid flashes of holding his sisters, all of them tiny and breakable and not Rumlow, fuck, go away.
He walked through the doorway and into the kitchen, where Rogers had somehow magicked the pizza through the entire floor with no one noticing and then had disappeared himself somewhere. Rumlow stared at the stack of boxes like he couldn’t believe his eyes, and it left something aching and painful stabbing into Barnes’ chest like an ice pick.
It was uncomfortable, but it was familiar.
He set Rumlow in a seat and then sat down himself, Rumlow on one side and Romanoff on the other. She always made him nervous, what with her knowing mind and her knowing smirk and knowing everything. It made him uncomfortable, that they had this past, this something between them that he hadn’t found yet, but that she seemed to remember completely and wholeheartedly, and was just waiting for him to catch up.
It left him floundering most of the time, and he hated that feeling, so instead of confronting her about it, he turned around and dragged a pizza box towards him, uncaring of what kind it was, and threw three large slices down on Rumlow’s plate, adding a few to his own at the same time.
He tried not to watch the kid, but he had never been able to ignore children. His old handlers had all noted the knack he had with little ones; they had said it was an abnormality, that his conditioning and programming should have overridden it, but somehow it always came back.
The missions with children were always the worst.
He saw Rumlow eye the food, a glint of distrustfulness in his eye, before he cast a furtive glance around at the others gathered around the table and snatched a slice, shoving nearly the entire thing in in one go.
The table quieted as they all stared at Brock Rumlow shoving now two whole slices of pizza in his mouth, his cheeks puffed out uncomfortably like a chipmunk. He tried to chew and found it difficult, his face screwing up in concentration as he worked the food around in his mouth.
Finally, it seemed the spell had been broken as Barton, once again the one smashing all of their awkward silences to pieces with his own awkwardness, said, “I’m kinda impressed. But I think he’s gonna choke.”
Rumlow was looking a little red in the face, but Barnes didn’t think it was because of lack of oxygen. He had finally looked up to find five pairs of eyes staring at him and he apparently didn’t like it.
“Slow. Down,” Barnes demanded, his voice brooking no defiance. Rumlow turned to look at him with his puffed up cheeks, and then turned to his plate and slowly spit the half-chewed pizza back out.
Stark and Barton groaned in disgust, covering their eyes and moaning in displeasure like they were the children. Romanoff just sighed and traded Rumlow’s plate for a fresh one with a single, small slice of pizza on it.
Stark and Barton were still gagging and complaining loudly from the other side of the table, but it was more playful now, as they shoved and pushed at each other, trading insults and dares towards each other. When he checked the rest of the table, he noticed the pensive looks on the faces of Dr. Banner and Romanoff. They were both watching Rumlow physically restraining himself from scarfing the food down, far away, sad looks on their faces.
And Barnes could understand why, at least. He could commiserate.
Barnes could remember a childhood where there had been six mouths to feed and not enough food to go around at times. He knew what it was like to always be hungry, to have that constant ache in his belly and have to ignore it like it was just a fact of life. He knew what it was like to be given a feast and not know what to do with it other than to shove it all in at once before it was taken away.
He couldn’t blame the kid for acting the way he had.
Barnes had been to war with a super soldier metabolism hidden under the radar, surviving on field rations and pure iron will. It had probably been a fucking miracle he had survived long enough on so little to even get to the train, let alone be of any use to anyone.
And being a Hydra asset, well. That taught him a thing or two about surviving on pure goddamn iron will, too. They had rarely given him solid food, let alone anything filling or tasty. That goddamn nightmare had been an experience, he supposed.
It all left him so fucking grateful for what he had in front of him now, like it was manna from heaven and not just some cheap greasy take-out pizza from a Mom-and-Pop shop somewhere in Queens.
He knew Rumlow, who was fresh off the streets, was nowhere near ready to consider food as something that was just going to magically appear for every meal, but Barnes supposed he was going to be stuck with them for a while, at the least. Perhaps the kid would learn a thing or two, in that time.
“Oh, you started without me,” Rogers said, re-entering the room like he had never been gone. The others grunted in response, but Barnes noticed Rumlow go stiff beside him and mentally prepared for the worst.
“You lied to me!” the kid screamed, throwing the half-eaten piece of pizza he was holding at Rogers before slamming a blunt hand onto Barnes’ arm a few dozen times. His eyes were screwed shut but Barnes could read the animal terror in his body language, in his screaming, in his heart rate jack-hammering in his chest.
The kid peeled his eyes open long enough to find an exit and he took it, booking it out of the kitchen and disappearing into the living room. They heard a pitiful slam against metal, and then a long, drawn-out, “Owwwww.”
Barnes was the first one out of his chair and striding into the living room, full of determination. He wasn’t entirely sure what was going through Rumlow’s mind, but that didn’t matter at the moment.
He had to prevent Rumlow from harming himself, and then he could figure out why he had been harming himself.
Mission: accepted.
The boy was banging on the doors to the elevator, but JARVIS was incredibly smart, and wouldn’t be opening them any time soon. There were tears streaming down Rumlow’s cheeks, his small fists barely making a sound against the metal panes. He was shaking slightly, whether from fear or exhaustion, Barnes wasn’t sure.
“You’re a cop,” the boy moaned, like it was the worst thing someone could possibly be. “This was all a big trick. I knewit.” He turned around, his back to the elevator doors. His glare was quite effective for someone so small, the tears and the anger and the confusion adding to the effect. “I didn’t do nothing! I swear! Just don’t send me back!”
The tension in the room was palpable and no doubt pressing down on Rumlow like a heavy weight. His shoulders were tense, his face cast in a rictus of fear, his arms and legs shaking in uncertainty.
“Brock!” Rogers sighed, looking smaller than he had in more than seventy years. Barnes watched him move with detached confusion; where once there had been the hulking figure of Captain America, there now was the slighter, calmer visage of Steve Rogers superimposed over his form.
Barnes knew it wasn’t real, just a trick of his eye, something that happened sometimes, but it made his breath catch when Rogers shifted his weight just so, so he was crouched down in front of Rumlow, hands reaching out to rest on the boy’s shoulders, even as he flinched and shied away.
“It’s alright, Brock. I know this is a lot to take in right now, and you’re probably really scared and really confused.” His voice was tight, like he wanted to say more, do more, but was holding himself back. His eyes were sparking dangerously, but Barnes knew he was no threat to the boy.
Captain America-no. Steve Rogers would never do such a thing.
He was too goddamn moral to even try.
“It’s okay. I already told you, back at the facility. I’m not a cop. I really amCaptain America. And that, over there, that’s my friend, Bucky Barnes.” He turned, one hand still on Brock’s shoulder, as he pointed back at Barnes.
Rumlow shook his head hard, eyes squeezed shut tight, looking like the world’s most obstinate five year old. The signs of a panic attack were obvious, with the shortness of breath and uncontrollable shaking, so Barnes decided to step in.
He pushed Rogers out of the way and took his spot, kneeling so he could be eye-to-eye with Rumlow. “Brock,” he growled softly, the same voice he had used earlier to calm the boy. Perhaps it would work again. Sure enough, Rumlow opened his eyes, those eyes that the Asset had looked into so many times, the eyes that glared back at him unforgivingly, with glee as they strapped him in to be wiped, as they-
But, no. Those weren’t the same eyes staring at him, nor the same person kneeling on the floor in a mess of fear and anxiety.
He was not the same.
Just as Barnes was not the same.
Not. Any. More.
“Маленький волк,” he said, the same words from earlier, something that had seemed to calm him then and was working to calm him now. Romanoff hummed behind him, but he ignored her. “I did not lie to you,” he said with such strong conviction, such matter-of-factness, that Rumlow could not possibly disbelieve him.
The boy halted his movements, his shaking and his crying and his suffocating fear, and practically melted onto the floor, looking up to Barnes for the answers he needed.
“What’s going on?” he finally pleaded, so confused and frightened and just done.
Barnes hesitated for only a moment before he leaned closer to Rumlow, eye to eye, nose to nose, no room for confusion.
“Do you trust me?”
Rumlow bit his lip, hesitating just for a moment before he finally nodded, his shoulders swaying beneath the admission.
“Good.” He turned and pointed an unyielding finger into the face of his Captain. “That really is Captain America, Steve Rogers,” he revealed, nodding in decisiveness. There were days he still had to convince himself of this fact, but it was a fact worth remembering. “They found him in the ice a few years ago. You actually worked on the same team as him for a few months.” Rumlow’s face was full of suspicion, but he also had a tinge of something else. Guilt, perhaps? With a splash of embarrassment, too, if Barnes wasn’t crazy.
“I lied to you then, didn’t I? Mr. Barnes said I was a bad guy.” He frowned up at Rogers, his shoulders slumped down in shame and defeat as the gravity of his adult life seemed to crash down around him. “I grew up to lie to Captain America?!”
Rogers’ face had gone through a funny slide of emotions, from anger to fury to defeat to acceptance. His face softened slowly, like he was giving something up, letting something go, and his eyes were far kinder than the burning cinders they had been earlier. “It’s fine, Brock. I said so, remember?” he said softly, gently. “You know, I would be scared in your shoes, too. We haven’t really been the most welcoming, have we? Or really explained much of what’s going on? I’m so sorry about that, really. But you can trust my word that none of us will hurt you.” His mouth twisted up into a half-formed grin, something obviously forced but trying so hard not to be that it was almost real, as he said, “And yeah, you did lie to me for a really long time. But that’s not on you, Brock. I won’t hold it against you.”
Rumlow was silent for a few heavy moments, as the others waited to see which way this would swing. Finally, Rumlow sighed, nodding, looking exhausted. He turned old eyes up to meet Barnes’ stare, biting his lip and just waiting for what was to come next.
“It’s getting late,” Barnes decided, reaching out and scooping the kid up into his arms, toting him into the elevator when JARVIS opened the doors for him. “Time for bed.” He gave Rogers a hard look before staring straight ahead, asking the kid, “It okay if Rogers comes with us? It’s his floor, too.”
Rumlow grumbled but nodded in the end, peeking around Barnes’ shoulder shyly to get another glimpse of the American icon as he moved to stand beside Barnes. Rogers just smiled at him, still uncomfortable with children even after all these years of pandering to the public.
They rode down to their floor together in silence, Barnes feeling an almost vicious glee when the doors closed on their teammates and they were plunged into blessed quiet.
“If I was a bad guy,” Rumlow started, shifting uncomfortably in Barnes’ arms, suddenly looking very fragile and uncertain, far too breakable to be anywhere near Barnes, “then why are you being so nice to me, Mr. Barnes? You said I was mean to you.”
“Like Rogers said,” Barnes shrugged, overjoyed that it was an easy answer, an easy escape, so he wouldn’t have to dig any deeper for meaning than the very surface, “I don’t hold that stuff against you. You’re just a kid.”
“Okay,” he said quietly, resting his head against Barnes’ shoulder just long enough to fall asleep once more, before they even stepped foot into their apartment. Barnes sighed; he could already feel the drool seeping into his t-shirt.
He took Rumlow to the first guest room he came to, nestled safely between Rogers’ bedroom and Barnes’ own, tugged the blankets up around the kid’s shoulders, left a dim light on in the corner just in case, kept the door slightly ajar, and leaned against the wall, staring at nothing for a moment, just to catch his breath.
Maybe to remember he needed to breathe in the first place.
Rogers was leaning right there next to him when he came back to himself, minor panic attack averted with steady, controlled breathing he remembered teaching to Stevie, little Stevie, a whole lifetime ago.
“It’ll be okay, Buck. We’ll figure out what happened. It won’t be forever,” Rogers promised, rattling one off after the other as if he wasn’t quite sure which one would make Barnes feel better, so he just settled on saying anything that came to mind.
In the end, it worked pretty well.
Barnes wasn’t sure what he was worried about, really. But just having Rogers at his side, Romanoff at his flank, the others supporting him and shielding him and working right alongside him helped, too.
He needed that. God, but did he need that.
Especially now.
Fuck, but they led weird lives.