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jinxquickfoot · 3 months

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@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Kidnapping

Find the fic on Ao3

Every day of the Louisiana summer has been perfect.

Bucky sits out on the boat, feeling the gentle bob of the serene ocean, the slightest tap tap tap as it knocks against the dock. He comes out here for the missions; he stays for these still moments.

The world is different. Everyone had reacted to the Blip ending in different ways, all of them messy. He splits his time now between missions with Sam and visiting Clint either in New York or at his farmhouse. He’s kept his apartment – no need for the US government to wonder why the former Winter Soldier no longer sees the need for a home address – but all it’s good for is gathering dust. He no longer spends his nights on the floor. Instead, he wakes up next to Clint or on Sam’s couch. And every time he does so, he gets a little closer to hoping the other shoe isn’t going to drop. That this is it – he finally gets peace.

He slips back to Sam’s house, giving himself enough time to pick up dessert for the party on the way. “Uncle’s Day is a made-up holiday,” he’d protested the first time Sam had mentioned it.

“Every holiday is a made-up holiday,” Sam had retorted. “Go on, argue that logic, let’s see what that cyborg brain comes up with.”

And as Bucky hadn’t found a comeback, he’d been roped into joining the celebrations.

Clint has flown out to join them, bringing his own niece and nephews for good measure. “Made-up holiday,” Bucky asserts as he greets Clint at the Wilsons’ front door, giving his boyfriend a kiss on the cheek.

“Who cares,” Clint replies. “It’s an excuse for cake.”

They retreat inside when the sun goes down and the air cools, the kids’ energy finally starting to abate as the day grows late.

“Okay, photo time before you all start dropping like flies. Uncles in the middle.” Sarah shuffles Sam and Clint into place as the five kids crowd around them. “You too, Bucky.”

Bucky stills, confused. “What? You said uncles.”

“Exactly.” Sarah places a firm hand on the small of his back, propelling him forward. “We've got three uncles in this room, and there are going to be three uncles in this picture.”

“I don’t–”

Sarah places a hand on her hip. “You arguing with me, Barnes?”

“Of course he’s not,” Sam chimes in. “Even the walking staring problem isn’t that stupid.”

Bucky glowers at him, about to protest further, when Clint holds out his hand. “Kids, do you want Uncle Bucky to be in the picture?”

The resounding chorus of yes is impossible to refuse.

Waking up in chains is never a good sign.

Bucky forces his eyes open, willing himself to focus despite the pounding in his head. It doesn’t work, the gray world around him continuing to swim. Drugged, then. Not a lot of chemical combinations out there that can do that. Not many people who have access to them, either. But not many isn’t zero. The kind of person who can kidnap the Winter Soldier isn’t the kind he wants with a drug that can knock him unconscious long enough to drag him to an empty warehouse.

The ache in his back registers next. He’s standing—always a disorientating position to regain consciousness in—but when he moves his hands, they move. No restraints around his wrists. Instead, something thick and cold is wedged under his armpits like a metal harness, forcing him upright. That cold is around his ankles, too. He drops his head, blinking at what looks like metal boots surrounding both feet. He tries to shift them. No dice. He’s bolted to the ground, unable to so much as wiggle his toes.

“Yeah, someone took the concept of steeltoe boots a little far.”

Bucky stiffens, heart pounding even before he lifts his head to get a better look at what’s surrounding him. Or rather, who’s surrounding him. He twists his head towards the source of the voice, stomach sinking through the floor when he sees Sam a dozen feet away from him, lashed head-to-toe to a metal chair with chains that look strong enough to tow a ship. Sam sees where he’s looking, and shrugs as much as he can. “They know I didn’t inherit Cap’s muscles along with the shield, right?”

“At least you get to sit down,” Bucky shoots back, straining in the odd harness. It’s restricting enough that he can’t maneuver the metal arm anywhere but up, and he certainly can’t reach the harness itself. “What did you do this time?”

Sam makes an insulted sound. “Why would someone target me? I’m irresistibly likable.”

“Debatable.” Bucky switches from struggling to straining, leaning forward into the immovable harness as though he can flex the restraints open. He’s actually managed that trick once or twice, before HYDRA figured out just how strong their pet super-soldier could be. “Do you remember anything?”

“I’m guessing you don’t mean who won the game last night.” Sam’s testing his own restraints, trying to shimmy under the chains wrapped around his chest. He’s having about as much success as Bucky.

“Why would I mean a baseball game?”

“Just trying to lighten the mood, man, come on.” Sam gives his struggles a rest, taking in the rest of the warehouse instead. Bucky follows suit, heart sinking as he sees the reinforced metal grates over windows and the singular, heavy, undoubtedly locked door. “Ah, shit. That can’t be good.”

Bucky’s halfway to a quip about none of this situation could be defined as good, Sam, but the words die on his lips as he follows Sam’s gaze upwards. There, dangling from a chain several feet above Sam’s head, is a concrete block the size of a minivan. Bucky’s gaze tracks to the right, where a twin slab of concrete dangles above a single metal square, exactly the same as the one under Sam’s chair.

“Oh, this is some Jigsaw bullshit,” Sam mutters. He tests the chair, this time looking as though he’s trying to rock it from side to side. It doesn’t even quiver. He’s bolted down, right under a block that’s going to turn him into pulp if it falls. Or if someone decides to drop it. “Why the hell are there two of those things?”

Bucky goes to snap back that he has every piece of information Sam has, when there’s a click and a bang from behind him. Huh. Maybe there are two doors in here. Might be something, if he can figure out how to move his feet off the floor.

Sam cranes his head to see around Bucky, expression transforming from wary to concerned. He darts his eyes from Bucky, to the concrete blocks, to whatever is being dragged into the room out of Bucky’s eyeline, seeming to put together a puzzle with a less than desirable outcome. Five seconds later, the sounds of a chair being scraped along the floor finally move from behind Bucky to in front, and Bucky’s trepidation triples as he sees a bound and unconscious Clint being hauled into the warehouse.

Bucky swallows past the sudden knot in his windpipe. He and Sam being kidnapped as a pair, fine, there are a dozen or so reasons for that to happen. Someone going after his best friend and his boyfriend? One answer was more plausible than the rest. “You have a problem with me, it’s with me,” he calls over to the person dragging Clint. “Leave them out of it.”

The man—and it is just a man, the guy looks like he could be cleaning up on aisle nine at Walmart—doesn’t pause in his trajectory. The metal chair continues its screaming, scraping sound against the warehouse floor, Clint’s chin lolling horribly against his chest. The guy has to be strong as hell, to drag an unconscious archer wrapped in several feet of chain the distance to, Bucky notes with dread but not surprise, to the metal platform right under the second concrete block.

There’s a rattle of metal as Sam shifts in his restraints, and Bucky marvels a little as he sees Sam don the Captain America mantle in real time. “Whatever you want, this isn’t the way to get it.”

His voice is clear and strong, even a little empathetic. Sam’s good at talking the bad guys down, at finding the solution where nobody gets hurt. Even so, Bucky hasn’t been naive enough since the forties to believe Sam can pull that off today. Someone willing to go to the lengths of kidnapping three Avengers in such an elaborate way isn’t going to stand down just because Captain America pulls out a pretty please.

The man gives as much attention to Sam’s words as he had Bucky’s. Instead, he lets the chair drop fully into the metal platform, and Bucky flinches as he hears four magnetic locks click into place. Then the man brings slams his fist into Clint’s face.

“Hey!” Bucky lunges forward in his harness, hands grabbing at the air. “Don’t you dare touch him.”

The threat is met by a low groan, Clint’s eyelids fluttering as he comes to. Their kidnapper steps away, eyeing him surgically as Clint slowly regains awareness. Bucky makes the most of the new angle to better examine the guy’s face, to see if the mess of shaggy brown hair and scraggly beard is familiar. No memories surface.

Clint sees Bucky first, eyes going wide as he sees the restraints, before he notices Sam. His eyes travel to the concrete block dangling over Sam’s chair, before craning his neck up to see the one above his. “Ah, crap. This was supposed to be my day off.”

“Maybe we should have chosen jobs with paid vacation days,” Sam calls back. “Sarah’s at home with her feet up sipping iced tea right now.”

Their kidnapper pays exactly no heed to their banter. He steps into the middle of the room, until Sam and Clint are equal distance away from him, and he’s staring right at Bucky with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. “Winter Soldier. I want to play a game.”

“Oh, so the guy actually thinks he’s Jigsaw,” Sam grumbles. “That’s just great. Why don’t we ever get the normal villains?”

Clint’s making his way through the customary restraint checks both Bucky and Sam have already tried, searching for weaknesses. “Try fighting a gang of Russian mafia in matching tracksuits, then you can complain about weird bad guys.”

A line appears in their kidnapper’s brow, as though he hadn’t expected this much talking. Figures. With the time and effort it must have taken to set this up, the guy’s probably been preparing his big speech for months.

Bucky beats him to it. “I’m not the Winter Soldier.” He keeps his voice soft. Or, he tries for soft. He thinks he at least lands close to it. “The Winter Soldier worked for HYDRA, and HYDRA’s gone. I don’t work for anybody.”

“Except for when Sarah ropes you into making family dinner,” Sam offers, and this isn’t idle chit-chat to cover up their nerves, not anymore. He’s humanizing Bucky. Damn, Sam really is good at what he does. Maybe after they get out of here and down half the local Delacroix bar, Bucky might actually feel up to telling him that. “The boys make less mess than you do, Uncle Bucky.”

He’s laying it on a little thick, but Clint’s caught onto what Sam’s trying to do and joins in. “When I asked you to take me to more places, babe, this isn’t what I meant. Maybe that place that does the fish next time?”

Bucky doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to put on a cheery front to try and save his loved ones’ lives. He doesn’t even particularly want this guy to step a few paces closer so he can get his hands around his throat. He just wants someone else to handle this. He wants the backup to burst through the door and rescue them, so they can go throw the shield around in Sam’s backyard and sip beers by the lake. He doesn’t want to do this anymore.

But no backup miraculously appears, so he pushes away the thoughts of the sunny Louisiana day they’re supposed to be having and gets with the program. “What would be the point? You hate fish.”

Clint shrugs as much as he can in the chains. “They do burgers.”

Sam whistles. “I could so go for a burger right now. Southern fried chicken. With jalapeños. And chili-mayo.”

“Stop!” The kidnapper pulls in a few short, sharp breaths, getting himself back on script. “Winter Soldier. I want to play a game.”

Bucky takes the guy in properly for the first time. He’s older than Bucky had first guessed, maybe in his early fifties. Arms with the sinewy muscle of a gymnast rather than a weightlifter. Mousy hair with a cheap barber’s cut. Clothes so worn they’re unraveling at the seams. He’s unshaven, unkept and, judging by the smell, unwashed. This isn’t a man with anything left to lose.

The man jerks his arm forward, pointing at Bucky in a motion so practiced and theatrical that he would have laughed if his ears weren’t filled with the sounds of Sam and Clint struggling in their restraints, trying to free themselves before whatever storm is coming hits.

“Twenty-eight years ago,” the man’s voice cracks on the words, and he has to swallow, clearly annoyed at himself, before he restarts. “Twenty-eight years ago, my family and I were vacationing in the Bahamas. Me, my fiancée, my brother, my parents.”

He starts to reach into his back pocket, and Bucky startles out of instinct. But it’s not a gun he withdraws. It’s a crude remote. “She was my fiancée for all of a day,” the man continues, and Bucky’s heart sinks. He’s already figured out this was revenge. But revenge for a loved one’s death… very hard to talk someone off that ledge. Bucky found that out in Siberia. “I had just proposed. We were celebrating in the resort’s rooftop restaurant.”

Bucky frantically casts his mind back to what the hell he was doing in the Bahamas in the nineties. He has a vague recollection of a high-profile target that had to be eliminated at all costs and a tiny window in which to eliminate him. A mission he’d been ordered to complete by any means necessary.

“I remember.” The words are a croak. “I remember what happened there.”

Something like unease flashes across the man’s face, as though he’d expected Bucky to deny it. Or maybe he really had expected the Winter Soldier: a dangerous weapon to be dismantled. Bucky knows he’s not the Winter Soldier anymore. On his worse days, he’s not so sure about the second part.

“You bombed the restaurant,” the man announces, and Bucky feels sick when he sees both Sam and Clint freeze at the words. They both know far too many details of his past already, even though Sam has shown him nothing but compassion, Clint complete empathy and understanding. He doesn’t deserve them.

“Whoever I hurt, I’m sorry. But hurting more people isn’t going to bring them back.”

“Hurt?” A glint appears in the man’s eyes, bright and dangerous. “My parents were killed instantly. They were the lucky ones. Do you remember what happened next?”

Yes. He’d run. Left the crime scene before he could get caught.

But apparently the question’s rhetorical. “The blast split the building in two,” the man whispers, his face haunted. Twenty-eight years. He’s lived with this for nearly three decades. “My parents fell right into the giant hole you made. No chance of grabbing them. They died screaming.”

“It was HYDRA,” Bucky tries, but the man doesn’t so much as pause in his story.

“I was thrown backward, away from the hole. And when I looked back, I saw my fiancée on one side. My brother on the other. Both of them barely hanging on. I didn’t have time to get to them both.” And he presses one of the buttons on the remote.

Bucky braces himself, but all that happens is that two chains tumble from the ceiling, stopping vertically within his reach. He follows the lengths of the chains up and up and up towards the ceiling, and realizes with sickening horror that they’re connected on a pulley system to the two concrete blocks.

“I had to make a choice,” the man states, the words well-worn with practice. “But I was too slow. I couldn’t choose, and so I lost them both.”

“That sounds devastating.” Sam’s voice echoes across the warehouse, far too calm for the situation. “Really, man, I can’t imagine. And I know you want someone to blame. But the people who killed your family are long gone, I’m sorry.”

The man turns on him, and Bucky takes the opportunity to check on Clint. He appears relaxed enough in the chair, but Bucky can see him trying out every SHIELD trick in his arsenal to try and escape the chains. It doesn’t look as though he’s made one iota of progress.

“The person who did this is right here!” The kidnapper blinks at Sam a few times, distressed, before whirling back on Bucky. “You’re going to make a choice today. You’re going to know how it feels.”

“Don’t.” Bucky pulls at the harness for the umpteenth time. “Listen, I’m sorry. But it’s not their fault. Let them go.”

The man just raises the remote again. “Make a choice,” he whispers, and pushes the second button.

Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever moved as fast in his life as when he reaches out to grab the two chains: one in his metal hand, one in his human one. He holds on for dear life— two dear lives, as dear to him as breathing—as the pulley systems keeping the concrete blocks in the air unlock.

He feels something in his right shoulder tear as he takes the full weight of both concrete slabs. A yell is ripped from his throat, fire exploding up the torn muscle, but he doesn’t let go. He can’t let go.

“You understand now.” The man nods, satisfied. “You will not be able to hold up both blocks forever.” He takes in Bucky’s metal arm. “You will be able to hold the one up on the left for longer, I imagine. And when your right arm inevitably gives out, you will have the choice. Do you keep holding up the weight over your friend, and let the man you love die? Or do you grab onto the other chain instead, and lose your friend?”

He takes a step closer, well within grabbing range now, if Bucky’s arms weren’t a little occupied at the moment. “Or do you wait until you’re completely exhausted, unable to choose, until your body gives out altogether and you lose them both?”

“Please.” That torn muscle splits a millimeter further. Bucky doesn’t care. He’ll happily tear every tendon in his body before he lets Clint get hurt. “It wasn’t their fault.”

“And it wasn’t my family’s either,” the man hisses at him. “They were innocent. I was innocent!”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.”

The man steps away, taking in his trap one more time before he nods, satisfied, and heads for the door. “You have a choice now.”

Bucky’s vaguely aware of Sam saying something else, trying to reason with him, but all he can take in is the sound of retreating footsteps, followed by the door out of his eyeline being locked.

“Worth a try,” Sam mutters, sending a wary look at the block set to crush him. “Alright. I guess we brainstorm. Any way out of these chairs?”

“If there was one, I would have found it,” Clint replies, but his concerned eyes are on Bucky. “They’re magnetized to the floor and the chains are locked the same way. Nothing to pick even if I had something to pick locks with.”

“Bucky?” Sam calls over. “Any more luck on your end?”

“Little busy,” Bucky gripes back. He’s somewhat adjusted to the weights now. His stupid super-soldier body is used to adapting quickly to new kinds of stress. It’s the one thing he can actually be grateful to HYDRA for. He presses against the metal harness, the encasing boots. “Even if I could get out, I can’t move, unless you want me to let go of these chains.”

“Yeah, let’s not do that,” Sam agrees, brow furrowed as he thinks.

“He didn’t take my hearing aid,” Clint points out. “There’s a tracker in it that Kate has access to.”

Bucky takes a few slow breaths. The calmer he stays, the longer he’s going to be able to hold up the blocks. “Same with the arm. Rhodes has access to it in an emergency. Think this counts. Except they don’t know an emergency is happening.”

“Kate’s pretty quick to jump the gun when I go missing,” Clint offers.

“And the United States Air Force isn’t a fan when I go off the grid,” Bucky points out.

Sam huffs at that. “Also, you know, Rhodey is our friend and he cares about us.” Sam casts a nervous look upwards again. “So, someone will come. Just hold on until then, Buck.”

“Gee, thanks Sam, wasn’t sure what I was going to do, how nice of you to explain that I have to hold on.”

“And I thought me and Bucky were supposed to be the bickering old couple,” Clint mutters, even as he glances upwards himself. “Holding on though… good idea.”

“I’m not letting go.” Already, pain is mounting in his shoulder blades, and it’s far worse in his right than his left. He ignores it. Even though the multiverse theory has been proven true, there’s no reality where he drops a slab of concrete on Clint.

Even if that means letting go of the one over Sam? a nasty voice says in his head.

Bucky pushes it away. Neither of them are dying. The guy who set this up was prepared, sure, but there’s no way he knows just how far HYDRA pushed Bucky’s body. He knows what the Winter Soldier can do. And he knows he can keep both concrete blocks in the air until rescue comes. He’s not making that choice today. He’s not making that choice ever.

“Bucky,” Clint’s voice interrupts his thoughts, his tone strong and sure. “You have this.”

“I have this,” Bucky repeats. “I won’t let go.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sam chimes in. “Want us to distract you?”

Bucky frantically nods his head.

“You actually asking me to speak nonstop, Barnes?”

Bucky huffs. “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t. You love my dulcet tones. Did I ever tell you about the time Sarah and I tried to break into the mall after hours?”

Sam launches into a story that Bucky is sure is mostly exaggerated, but he doesn’t waste the energy calling him out on it. When he reaches an ending that somehow includes no less than three motorized scooters and a priceless Ellen Ripley action figure, Clint takes over with a tale from his SHIELD days about spiked punch and a more than tipsy Fury. Bucky tries to actually listen to that one—it’s rare he can get Clint to talk about SHIELD at all, it reminds him too much of Natasha—but soon the ache in both shoulders is too prevalent to focus on individual words. He tunes into the sounds of their voices instead as they switch back and forth, trying to keep him distracted, trying to keep him thinking about anything except letting go of chains.

It works well enough until the stories become more up-to-date, and they start to talk about the kids. The time Sam had caught AJ and Cass trying to surprise them with dinner and nearly setting the kitchen on fire. How Lila’s first word had been No, repeated often and with ultimate authority. The play all five of them had put on for them last Christmas—

“Stop.” The word comes out a strangled gasp. His left arm is holding up okay, except for the tug of metal on skin. Shuri had designed it to be as comfortable as possible, but even the smartest person in Wakanda couldn’t have dreamed up that the arm would be used for this. The arm could probably hold the weight of the concrete block indefinitely—Bucky’s just not certain his shoulder blade is going to hold up nearly as well.

And none of that is even really an issue, because his right arm is going to give first. He swears he can feel the tear in the damaged muscle splitting further and further with every passing minute, like a zip slowly being undone. He’s going to let go of that chain first, and the block over Clint will fall unless he uses his metal arm to catch it, and Sam dies instead.

Make a choice.

No, no, it’s not going to get that far. But he’s not going to last by picturing which set of kids might lose an uncle today.

“Bucky—” Sam starts, all sympathy and understanding and no, nope, that’s not helping. Because this trap wasn’t designed for Bucky Barnes, and Bucky Barnes isn’t going to be the one to get them out of it.

“You have to push me.” So far Bucky has been staring at the floor, letting their voices wash over him, but now he raises his head. He doesn’t bother looking at Sam, not for this. He turns straight to Clint, whose expression is already a grim mask of understanding. Clint’s going to hate this, but he’ll understand why it’s necessary. Sam somehow manages to always find the best in Bucky, but Clint understands the darkest parts of him. Bucky needs the latter right now.

“When I was the Soldier…” Bucky breaks off with a wince as a particularly nasty twang goes through his right shoulder blade. He forces the pain down. His arm could rip in two and it still wouldn’t be as painful as what’s going to happen if he lets go.

“When I was the Soldier,” he starts again. “I took much worse than this.” He meets Clint’s gaze, willing him to understand. “I had to. There was no choice.”

“Christ,” Sam mutters, but Bucky tunes him out.

“When I had a mission, my handlers pushed me until I achieved it. And when I failed, the punishment was always the worse than whatever pain I would have suffered by just pushing through.” Not unlike now. Every time he thinks he’s finally going to let the past lie in peace, someone wakes it right back up again. “So push me.”

Clint looks a little like he’s going to be sick, but he nods. “Alright.” He sends a quick look Sam’s way, as though reminding himself what’s at stake if he doesn’t do this, and then nods a second time. “Ah, futz. Alright. Let’s go. Soldier—”

“Russian,” Bucky corrects him around short, sharp breaths. “More effective… Russian.”

A string of muttered curses, then— “Soldat.”

Bucky hates that, even after all these years, even after all his recovery in Wakanda, even after all the time spent with people he loves, that one word snaps him right to attention. An odd calm spreads through his chest, grounding him, as he waits for instructions.

Clint—not Clint, he can’t think about Clint, this is his handler now—continues in Russian. “Your mission is to keep holding those chains, Soldat. If you let go, you will be punished.”

It’s not a struggle to recall all the possible outcomes of that threat. His handlers had swapped and changed regularly throughout the years, some more creative than others. They’d initially used the Chair, until they realized that labeling it as punishment was messing with the Soldier's programming. The Chair was rebranded as a gift, a reward, and other penalties were invented.

A particularly memorable punishment had been enacted after Bucky had collapsed somewhere in the icy outback of Siberia. “You are the Soldier,” his handler had scolded him. “The Fist of HYDRA. You endure or you are worthless.” That handler kept Bucky on the balls of his feet for days, lest he impale his heels on two razor-sharp spikes covered in chili oil.

“You are made to endure,” Clint’s—his handler’s—voice echoes across the warehouse, and a distant part of Bucky wonders if he’s remembering the same story. Or maybe he’s thinking of the half dozen others Bucky had confessed to him over the years. That there was a version of the Soldier’s mask that placed a razor right over his tongue to teach him to complete missions in total silence. That one set of handlers had worked out that if they pulled his teeth out but left them in the gums, the serum would heal them within the hour, meaning they could repeat the activity endlessly without permanently damaging their weapon.

All of that was worse than a little ache in his arms, and he’d endured it. He’s the Soldier. He is amde for this.

He takes several slow, deep breaths, latching onto the voice that’s telling him this is his mission, this is what he is built for, that failure will come with extreme punishment. He’s been here before. This is familiar. And he has always survived, no matter the cost. Even when the cost had been unimaginably high.

I’m not sure I’m worth all this, Steve.

The remembered words break the fantasy Clint’s words are painting around him. After years of convincing himself the mission was the only thing that mattered, a familiar face from his past had blown that reality to smithereens. Steve had been so sure Bucky was worth saving. Sure enough that his actions had sent Sam and Clint to the Raft. Sure enough to destroy his relationship with Stark and leave the Avengers scattered when Thanos attacked. Sure enough to go back into the past, convinced that Bucky was in safe hands and that the Soldier was gone for good.

And Steve had been wrong. Because he’s here, with more people the Soldier has put in danger. He’s a weapon. He endures. And people die because of it.

“Okay, okay, stop!”

A familiar voice cuts through his thoughts. That voice doesn’t belong here, not with the Soldier, and Bucky feels his constructed fantasy splitting open just like his shoulder muscles are.

The Russian monologue hesitates.

“No.” Bucky’s eyes fly open, and suddenly he’s back in the present, and also fully aware of the increasing fatigue in his body. “Wait, don’t stop, I need—”

“It’s not working." Sam’s voice leaves no room for argument.

“I…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he stares at Clint, willing him to keep going.

But Clint shakes his head. When he speaks, his words are English, his tone soft, his voice his again. “Sam's right. It was making you spiral. That’s not helpful.”

Bucky’s right arm has started to shake. “I can’t—” He cuts himself off before the words hold on can be added to that sentence. He has no choice. He has to endure. He’s been through worse pain, he can do this.

“That’s okay.”

Bucky blinks, sure he’s misread Sam’s words. He looks over to his friend, who is eyeing him with a kind of grim calm.

“This isn’t your fault,” Sam continues, in that same awful, measured tone.

Bucky swallows around a lump in his throat. “I killed that guy’s family.”

“That was HYDRA,” Clint reminds him. “You had no choice. Like I had no choice with Loki. We’ve talked about this.”

They have, multiple times. Whenever Bucky starts to backslide into self-hate and blame, Clint reminds him of a certain God of Mischief that had visited New York. If Bucky can’t blame Clint for his actions under Loki’s control, he’s not allowed to blame himself for anything he did under HYDRA’s.

“This isn’t your fault,” Sam insists. “You shouldn’t have to make this choice.”

With a sudden bolt of dread, Bucky realizes where he’s going. “No. You’re both getting out of this. I can do this.”

Even as he says the words, the chain in his right hand slips.

There’s a single terrifying, horrifying moment as the block over Clint starts to fall. Bucky lunges forward as far as he can, yelling as the friction in the chain burns his palm, tightening his human fist in a vice. The yank of the chain as he catches it pulls at his already damaged shoulder, and he shrieks as he feels the snap of his tendons.

There are several seconds where all he can see is white, where all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears. He blinks it away, fighting through the fresh bout of pain. The first thing he sees when his vision is returned to him is the now slightly lower block over Clint’s head. Bucky almost failed. He almost—

“Good catch.” Clint seems to be getting his breath back himself, only for his eyes to go wide as he stares at Bucky’s hand—at the blood now dripping down the length of metal. His palm is cut. His grip is weakened. And now there’s liquid to make his hold slippery.

Bucky wastes all of half a second wondering if he can slowly lower the concrete blocks instead of dropping them from the warehouse ceiling before he dismisses it. All that would result in would be slowly crushing them to death.

“Thanks for proving my point,” Sam says drily.

Bucky clings onto the chain even tighter, ignoring the sting of cold metal in an open wound. “I’m not dropping them. You’re both getting out of this.”

“Buck,” Sam says softly, and Bucky kind of wants to punch him for how gentle he’s being. “When Steve gave me the shield, he gave me all his responsibilities, whether I asked for them or not. Protect the planet, stand up for what’s right, all that jazz, but one thing Captain America has always been known for is looking out for his team.”

“Sam,” Clint starts in warning, but Sam’s not deterred.

“Like I said, this doesn’t have to be your choice,” Sam continues. “I’m the captain of this team. That makes you both my responsibility, and that makes this my call. And my call is, when it gets too much, you’re going to use that freaky metal arm of yours to get you and Clint out of here.”

Clint yanks on the chains, clearly not having it. “Or, counterpoint—Steve gave you the shield because he knows the world needs Captain America. Besides, I don’t think I could…” He swallows, turning to Bucky. “After Pietro and Natasha, I can’t be the one who survives this a third time, Bucky. I can’t. Save Sam.”

Sam exhales. “That is so manipulative, Barton.”

“Whatever gets the job done.”

“Yeah? You want to get manipulative?” Sam meets him with a look. “You said Kate is likely going to track your hearing aid out here at some point. Which means she’ll be the one to find you all over the floor. You really want to put that on her?”

“Stop,” Bucky groans, trying to push away that particular horrible visual. “Not… not choosing. Can’t.”

It’s getting harder and harder to hold onto the chain in his right hand.

“Use the handler voice again,” he asks. Pleads, maybe. “It was working, I swear. Just go harder.”

Clint glances at the makeshift executioner’s tool waiting above his head. “I’m not a huge fan of my last words being I’m going to punish you for something that isn’t your fault.”

Bucky’s heart sinks through the floor. “It is,” he croaks. “He did this to hurt me. For what I did.”

“That was HYDRA—” Clint starts, but Bucky shakes his head.

“They didn’t tell me how I had to do it,” he whispers. “I just had to take out the target. It didn’t matter how. I thought it was just him and his colleagues in the restaurant. I didn’t know… I didn’t know.”

“We know you didn’t,” Sam says. “We know, Buck. The guy who grabbed us has been grieving for years and clearly not dealing with it. He’s projecting. That doesn’t make this your fault.”

“Stop. Stop, Sam, I just… talk to me like the Soldier again, that was helping, that was…”

“No, it wasn’t,” Clint interrupts him. He’s looking at Sam, some unspoken conversation passing between them. “And us trying to convince you who to let die isn’t helping either.”

“No shit,” Bucky gasps. His left shoulder blade is almost numb, which would be a relief except it’s making the pain in his right one ten times more intense. He can’t keep holding onto both chains for much longer. But he has to. But he can’t.

Whatever silent exchange Sam and Clint are having seems to come to a conclusion. Bucky braces himself—if they’ve somehow decided which out of the two of them should die, as if Bucky could live without either of them, he’s going to… well, not kill them. Would kind of defeat the point of trying to beat the kidnapper’s trap. Stern words, maybe, when he finally catches his breath.

Sam speaks first. “You’re not going to win this because you’re the Soldier, Bucky.”

Bucky huffs at him. “I am going to win. I am.”

“I know,” Sam continues. “But you’re going to do it because you’re Bucky, and because you love us.”

“I…” Bucky’s brain tries to cling to the soldier mindset of endure to complete the mission, but it just short circuits.

“What he said,” Clint adds. “This guy wants to punish the Soldier, but the Soldier’s not here. He never has been, Bucky. It’s just you.”

Bucky’s right arm is practically vibrating with the strain of not letting the chain go. “Neither of you are dying.”

“That’s right,” Sam encourages him. “Because you want us around. Bet that’s not something you thought you’d ever admit to.”

If Bucky could speak in full sentences, he’d ramble something about not a want. He needs them like he needs air. Both of them.

“Every other romantic partner I’ve had has been a total car crash,” Clint says softly. “And then you came. You’re the safest person I’ve ever dated.”

The words make Bucky’s eyes burn. Safe. He hasn’t had anyone refer to him as safe since the forties. “I’m… not.”

“Of course you are,” Sam says. “You think I’d let you around Sarah and the boys if I didn’t think you were a safe person, Buck? And more than safe, you’re good for them. You’re a pain in my ass but there’s no denying that Delacroix doesn’t quite feel right unless you’re around.”

“Same with the farmhouse,” Clint says, and every word is sincere. “Those kids love you so much.”

“No, don’t talk about the kids, I said—”

“We’re going to talk about them,” Sam cuts him off. “Because you’re not taking either me or Clint away. You’re going to get us home to them. You’re going to get yourself home to them. You can do this.”

“You can do this,” Clint repeats. “We love you, Bucky, okay? So much. I don’t, um… don’t say that to a lot of people. But I’ll always say it to you, as much as you need to hear it.”

“Same, man,” Sam takes over again. “Why do you think I blew up your phone for months even when you were too stubborn to respond? You’re stuck with me. One guy with a grudge against the wrong man isn’t changing that.”

They go on and on, the same sentiments repeated over and over again. Hold on. You can do this. We love you. Their words caress him like a cape, settling on his aching shoulders, and he draws every ounce of strength he can from them. No one ever loved the Soldier. He was a weapon, a means to an end. Even with the worst of punishments he would fail missions, again and again and again.

But the Soldier isn’t here. The Soldier can’t fail, because he’s gone. And Bucky is going to win.

He’s in so much pain that, when he finally hears the sound of the War Machine suit, he’s half-sure he’s hallucinating. Then the ceiling of the warehouse bursts open in a shock of sunlight, a metal figure framed there.

Rhodey takes all of two seconds to figure out the situation. He lands right in front of Bucky, War Machine gauntlets grabbing the chains. “I got them.”

The words don’t register. Bucky’s still gripping the chains with any ounce of strength he has left, despite the puddle of blood underneath his right hand. Then, suddenly, the weight vanishes. For one horrifying moment, he’s sure he’s dropped them after all, but there is no crash of concrete on bone to be heard. He raises his head, seeing both chains held securely by someone else. He’s done his part. Someone else can take over now.

A sob rips up his throat as he collapses forward in the restraints, arms too numb and sore to wipe away the tears that start to flow, relief and exhaustion hitting him all at once.

“You’re alright,” Rhodey’s tinny voice turns clear, his faceplate flipping up. “Guys, hurry up, I’m, um… kind of stuck.”

Bucky doesn’t have long to wonder which guys he’s referring to. There’s the click of the door behind him, followed by footsteps and concerned voices sprinting across the warehouse floor. He tugs ineffectually against the metal boots and harness, ready for this to be done so he can just go home.

“Easy,” Rhodey soothes him. “Torres and Kate will get the others free, then I can let go and release you, alright?”

Bucky’s half-aware of voices, the click of metal chains shifting, the thunk of bodies being tugged out of chairs. He thinks he hears Rhodey say something like, “Hold on, this is probably going to get loud,” before he lets go of the chains.

Bucky’s attempted “Don’t!” comes out more as a guttural scream as he lunges forward, trying to catch the chains before it’s too late, only to feel his heart implode as he hears the smash of the concrete blocks hitting the two chairs.

There are more voices, and then hands on him, pressure being relieved as the metal holding him upright snaps open. He collapses to the floor, except there are strong, familiar, calloused hands to steady him. Rough thumbs come up to wipe the tears off his cheeks, and then he realizes Clint is in front of him, free, unharmed. “You did it,” he’s saying. “We’re okay. You won.”

Then another hand is touching him, and Sam comes into his field of view as well. “Knew you’d miss me too much to let that block fall.”

He gives Bucky’s aching arm a gentle squeeze and moves as though to check the damage to Bucky’s shoulders, but Bucky grabs him back. “I just need…” To feel that they’re both here. To see that they’re both okay. To know that it’s over.

Thankfully, they both seem to understand. Bucky knows there’s more to do. Injuries to be fixed, a kidnapper to chase down. But he’s got Sam on his left and Clint on his right.

They’re okay.

And, in this moment he’s going to linger in a while longer, everything as it should be.

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