Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's been less than twenty-four hours since the cemetery when Steve's phone rings. Not the one plugged into the wall, the one that's still probably crawling with SHIELD/Hydra bugs, but the new one, the one Sam had called a burner, that was meant to be about as off the grid as something that still had to connect to satellites could legally get.

The number's unknown, but that doesn't mean anything. Could be Natasha, touching base after touching down somewhere with a beach. Could be Fury, needing his help after all. He answers it.

“Hello?”

There's nothing but the hiss of the open line, and what sounds like hushed breathing, in and out.

“Hello?” he repeats.

It might be a wrong number. It might be what Natasha inelegantly called 'butt dialling' but then, why would he be able to hear breathing?

It might be Hydra.

“Who is this?” he asks, torn between frustration and something like fear.

“There's a warehouse on the bank of the Anacostia river,” a voice whispers. “In exactly thirty minutes, it'll go up in flames. Coordinates to follow. Bring a large car or a van, something that can seat multiple civilians. Come alone.”

The line goes dead, and his phone buzzes a second later with a text. It's an address.

Steve's not stupid. He's reckless, but he's not actively suicidal. He knows that running off blindly into the night to follow some phantom voice on the phone into a low-traffic area is something he thinks he's actually seen listed on the internet under the heading 'Horror Movie Don'ts 101'.

But the whisper on the line sounded a lot like Bucky to his ears. He might just be fooling himself, but he can't take the chance of blowing the meet if it is.

Steve's motorcycle is the only vehicle he owns. It seats up to two, and only then if they want to get real cosy. He's going to have to improvise. He slips his shield into its satchel, and practices his most sheepish smile before knocking on a door two levels down.

“Hi, Mrs Li,” he starts.

Mrs Li is a designer. Her apartment's arranged like something out of a magazine, even though she's got three young teenage kids who thunder up and down the central stairs half a dozen times a day. She brought Steve pot stickers the day he moved in, and she gently ribs Steve about his single life almost as much as Natasha does. She's quick to believe Steve's story about a missed delivery and a parcel that he can't fit on the back of his bike. He promises to fill her enormous SUV up with gas, and he's turning the keys in the ignition in under five minutes.

DC is still a maze of closed roads and debris. By the time Steve's meandered through half a dozen detours to get to the location, the clock's ticked away twenty-five minutes. The gate is flung wide, and there's a long gravel drive that Steve inches the SUV up until he reaches a low, dark compound that is not, as far as he can tell, on fire.

He cuts the engine but leaves the lights on, shining out across to the door marked ENTRY.

His feet crunch loudly as he walks, his shield on his arm but swinging loose at his side. He could creep as quietly as a cat if he wished, but he's not going for subtle, he's not going for sneaky. He's hoping that signalling his approach is the best way to not get shot.

“You took your time,” a voice calls out from the shadows, from a corner so dark even Steve, with his enhanced eyesight, can't penetrate.

“Roads are all torn up,” Steve says. “Had to take the scenic route.”

There's a pause. “You were hurt,” comes a moment later.

“I got better, Buck,” Steve says.

“Don't call me that,” Bucky snaps.

“Then what-”

“Just don't,” Bucky says.

“Okay,” Steve says, raising the hand not holding the shield in a placatory gesture.

“You came alone?” Bucky asks.

“Yes,” Steve says.

“No one following? Sneaking up on me from behind? Watching from a rooftop?”

“No,” Steve says.

“Because I'll kill them,” Bucky says coolly. “I'll kill them before they can even draw aim on me.”

“There's no one,” Steve says. “Just me.”

“That was stupid,” Bucky says, but the tone is almost fond. “You always were a stupid punk, weighing in when you shoulda kept your nose out.”

“What do you want, B-” Steve coughs, to cover the name that sprang to his lips automatically. “Why did you call?”

“This used to be a Hydra base. Research and development. Biological experimentation,” Bucky says. “In three minutes, I'm going to burn it to the ground, so no one ever gets their hands on its secrets,” he adds, casually.

“And you called me here to what? Watch? To get me to try and stop you?” Steve asks.

“You can't stop me,” Bucky says, eerily calm and slightly amused. “You won't want to stop me, when you know.”

“Then why?” Steve asks, standing stock still in the headlights, the door alarm dinging faintly in the background.

“Because you're the only person I trust to take them,” Bucky says eventually.

“Take what?” Steve asks.

“The subjects,” Bucky says, and finally slides into the light.

There's a child in his arms, twig thin and milk pale. There's another, larger, curly haired and solemn, holding onto Bucky's metal hand with no fear. Behind, in the shadows, there's a stirring, and Steve can make out the forms of at least a half dozen more, following Bucky out into the light, on bare feet, across the stones. Every single one of them is wearing a loose shift and too baggy pants, cream-coloured prison issue scaled down for pre-teen bodies.

“Christ,” Steve gasps, and lets his shield slip to the ground. “I need to call-”

“Don't,” Bucky snaps sharply, like the crack of a whip or the report of a rifle. “They'll take them back, cut them up, hurt them.”

The child against Bucky's chest whimpers slightly, turns into his neck. The one beside him lifts his chin mulishly, and oh, Steve recognises that look, those eyes.

“What did they do, Buck?” Steve rasps out.

“In ten minutes, it'll all be gone. Those that did it, they're gone, too,” he says, and Steve doesn't dare ask whether gone means just gone, or means dead. “I'da taken them to you direct, but I didn't have a vehicle big enough, and I woulda had to light the base and run and just hope that everything got burned, because I don't think the little blond ones should be around the smoke too long. Their lungs...” He shrugs. “I don't think their lungs are up to it.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay, I'll take them.”

Bucky nods, something like a grim smile forming on his lips. He lets go of the hand of the kid next to him and nudges his shoulder. “Go get in the car. You're the biggest, so you help the others. Make sure everyone's in, and no one gets left behind. Okay? I'm counting on you.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy says, and starts shepherding the little flock of kids towards the vehicle.

“Take him,” Bucky says, and steps towards Steve.

Steve has his arms out without thinking. The child Bucky places is them is too light for his size. His breathing is fast and shallow, his forehead damp and hot against the skin of Steve's neck.

“He ain't well. The others ran and hid from me at first, and he tried to keep up, but he just fell over. His lips went kinda blue,” Bucky says, then rummages in a pocket. “The big kid, he said that that's his medicine,” he says, handing over an asthma inhaler, “but if he's as much like you as I'm bettin' he is, then his heart ain't great either.”

“He needs a hospital, then, Buck. They probably all do,” Steve says firmly, but Bucky shakes his head.

“You take 'em in, Hydra'll just gather 'em right up again. I'd kill 'em myself first,” Bucky says, nothing but steel in his voice.

“Okay,” Steve says. “No hospitals for now. But if he goes blue again, I'm gonna have to do something. I'm not just gonna sit and hold his hands and beg him to keep breathing.”

Bucky nods. “Kept you alive, didn't it?” he says as he turns away.

“Aren't you coming?” Steve calls after him, but Bucky doesn't answer, just sinks into the shadows.

“Is this a test?” the boy says, his voice a fragile thread of sound, his hand curled into Steve's collar.

“No, son,” Steve says, dipping down to pick up his shield. “No tests.”

“Okay,” he says, and lets out a gentle sigh.

"He Ain't Well" by kath ballantyne. Click through to see bigger, and to leave kudos!

The SUV seats eight, but with a full dozen kids crammed in, most two to a seat, it's a squeeze.

“Everyone got belts on?” Steve asks, and receives eleven solemn nods. “Good. Can you take him?” Steve asks the oldest boy. He nods and releases his belt so that he can wrap it around them both. “What's your name, kid?”

“Alexis,” the boy replies.

“Hi, Alexis, I'm Steve,” he says, with what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“Yasha said his friend Steve was going to take care of us,” Alexis says, cradling the sick boy close to him.

“Well, that's me,” Steve says, snapping the seat belt home, “and that's what I'm gonna try and do.”

By the time Steve's turning off the gravel and back onto the road, a red-orange glow is building behind him. As they swing towards the river crossing, Steve can see at a glance it's a conflagration, fingers of fire leaping high into the air.

The children are quiet, unnaturally so. They stare out of the windows at everything they pass, wide-eyed and wondering. In Alexis's arms, the sick boy sleeps.

*

It's getting late by the time they pull up by his building. With Alexis's help, he gets the kids out and up the stairs, somehow without meeting anybody on the way. Steve's carrying four of them by the time they're at his door, including the kid too sick to walk, and Alexis has another on his back. There's a chorus of tiny, wheezing breaths in his ears, and he's wondering if there's enough medicine in the little capsule to help them all.

“They'll be all right,” Alexis says. “They just get tired easy.”

Steve lines them up along his sofa, tugs a blanket down out of his closet and encourages them to pull it up over themselves.

All of them are blond, he notes.

“You're all right?” he asks the rest, the ones with brown, wavy hair, who are huddled together but peering about the apartment with undisguised curiosity.

“Yep,” Alexis says, and the six behind him nod. “We're different.”

“You don't get sick?” Steve asks.

“Not like they do,” he says.

“Is this where you live?” asks the boy to Alexis's right.

“It is,” Steve says.

“It's really messy,” he pronounces, which Steve can't really argue with.

“Well, somebody broke in,” Steve says. “They broke some of my things, and I'm still cleaning up.”

“Oh, okay,” says the boy, sounding unconvinced.

“Did you kids get dinner?” Steve asks, and there's a handful of headshakes, plus a couple of “no”s.

“Okay, well, why don't I get some dinner, while you watch the TV,” he says, and switches the set on. He tunes it until he finds a musical he doesn't recognise, but which looks old enough to not be filled with violence, sex, and bad language, and slips into the kitchen.

Sam picks up on the second ring. “What's up?”

“Pararescue, that means medical training, right?” he asks.

“Shit, man, you just got out of the hospital,” Sam says, sounding annoyed.

“Not me, I'm fine,” Steve says. “But could you come over? And bring your kit, if you have one? And maybe some food?”

“All right,” Sam says, though he sounds wary. “You going to explain when I get there?”

“Yes,” Steve says, and Sam sighs.

“How many people am I catering for, here?” Sam says, the moving-cloth sounds and thuds of him getting dressed and slipping on his shoes evident through the connection.

“Um, seven? Maybe eight? One of whom is me, and I need-”

“A lot. I remember,” Sam snorts. “You're paying me back, right? Because my salary at the VA does not stretch to random eight-person banquets from the places that are still serving after nine,” he says.

“I'm paying you back,” Steve confirms.

“Right, well, I'll ring in an order now, but they still have to cook it. I'll see you in maybe an hour?” he says, car keys jingling and the clunk and scrape of Sam's front door lock twisting open.

“See you then,” Steve says.

He pockets the phone then rummages in his pantry for anything kid-friendly for the mean time. He carefully avoids the nuts, and tugs out a bag of pretzels and a bunch of grapes. It's the work of moments to put them into bowls, and then pour milk and water into some pitchers he hasn't used since he moved in.

In front of the television, the kids are transfixed. Those that could fit have wriggled onto the sofa with the others, and the rest are sat crosslegged on Steve's rug. Steve places the bowls and pitchers on the floor amidst them, then fetches all the glasses and mugs he owns so that there's enough to go around.

“I'm just stepping outside for a minute, okay?” he says.

“Only a minute?” one of them asks. He thinks it's the same one who asked about the mess, but he isn't certain.

“Only a minute,” he promises. “You can watch the clock if you want, and it'll only be a minute. I might have a friend with me when I come back, but it'll be okay, and you don't have to be scared.”

The kid's chin tilts up, just like Alexis's had at the compound, just like Bucky's always had when he was at his most cocky. “I'm not scared.”

“Good,” Steve says, smiling. “There's proper dinner coming soon, but eat a little now and have a drink to tide you over.”

When he steps away, the kids descend on the food, Alexis and one of the others pouring out drinks for the ones who are still recovering from the stairs. Steve forces himself to turn his back and walk to his door, step outside, and tap on the door to his left, the one that still has a slice of light streaming out from underneath, despite the fact that SHIELD no longer exists.

“Hi,” says Sharon, blinking up at Steve.

“I know you're not a nurse,” Steve begins.

“I didn't keep the uniform, if that's what you're asking,” Sharon says, and after a beat, Steve gets what she means and his face burns.

“Natasha said you might stop by,” she adds, mouth twisted into a smirk.

“I need a doctor, on the quiet, and you're the closest thing I've got. If it's all a cover, and you can't help me, I've got a friend coming, but he's going to be an hour,” Steve says in a rush.

Sharon's face is serious in a heartbeat.

“Can you help?” Steve asks.

“I can help,” Sharon says.

“I'll leave my door open. Come in slowly; they're a bit jumpy. I'll explain later,” he says, then turns to walk back inside his own apartment.

The grapes have already been decimated, and there's a general munching of pretzels going on. Half a dozen glasses are being sipped out of, and there's a minimal amount of spillage that he can see.

“Okay?” he says softly, and those that bother to tear their eyes from the screen nod. One gives him a shy smile. He weaves his way to the sofa, and leans in close to the kid Bucky'd placed in his arms. He'd slept in the car, and he's halfway there, now, but Steve doesn't know if that's good or a sign of something wrong.

“Hey, buddy,” he says. “I've got a friend coming over, and she's going to check you out.”

“You said, no tests,” the kid says, his brow wrinkling in an almost-angry frown.

“No tests, cross my heart, she's just going to make sure you're okay after earlier, all right?” Steve reassures him.

“Yasha gave me my medicine,” he insists.

“I know, we're just making sure it worked. How about you come and sit with me, so we don't disturb the others?” Steve holds out his hands, and the kid wriggles out from under the blanket and leans forward. Steve lifts him easily and carries him over to sit in the armchair.

Sharon sidles into the room a moment later, her eyes wide.

“Over here,” Steve says, and she comes to kneel at Steve's feet.

“So many questions,” she says.

“Later,” Steve says. “He had an asthma attack about an hour ago, and he took his medicine, but he's lethargic and I'd rather not wait until Sam gets here, just in case he needs treatment.”

“Okay, no problem. What's your name?” Sharon asks.

“Robbie,” he says.

“Hi, Robbie, I'm Sharon,” she says. “How old are you, Robbie?”

Robbie holds up two fingers.

“Two? Nah, you're older than that, you're a big boy,” Sharon says, snapping on a pair of blue gloves and pulling a stethoscope out of her bag.

“The doctors said I was two,” Robbie insists. Steve shakes his head minutely, and Sharon nods.

“Okay, then. I need you to take some nice big breaths for me, and I'm going to listen to your chest. Won't hurt a bit,” she promises, and Robbie nods.

Half a dozen deep breaths later, Sharon tucks her stethoscope away. “Doesn't sound too congested, but he's got a slight heart murmur. Could be benign, but best to get it checked out by someone far more qualified than me.”

“No tests,” Robbie whines, and Steve rubs his back.

“No tests, not right now,” he soothes, and Robbie settles. “How about you snuggle back under the blanket with the others, okay?”

Robbie nods, then slides from Steve's lap and walks unassisted to the sofa, where he rejoins the puppy pile as though he'd never left.

Sharon raises her eyebrows.

“Later,” he says. “Can you stick around for a moment?”

“Sure,” she says.

“Thanks,” he says. “I'm just going downstairs. I'll be back in no more than five minutes,” he says, holding up his hand. “Okay?”

The kids who are looking at him nod, and he grabs up the car keys and his wallet before briskly walking downstairs.

“I'm sorry, I forgot my wallet, so it isn't filled up,” he says, his best apologetic grimace in place. “Here,” he says, holding out some cash with the keys, more than enough to cover a full tank.

“Oh, it's fine,” Mrs Li says, but he shakes his head.

“Please, take it,” he says. “I got stuck in traffic, took about a dozen detours to get where I needed to be,” he says. “It's no big deal, I can afford it.”

Mrs Li smiles and takes the cash. “You're a good boy,” she says, though she can't be much more than a decade older than he looks.

He waves a hand and shrugs. “Thank you, again.”

“Any time you need it, just ask,” Mrs Li says.

When she closes the door, Steve turns to see Sam staggering up the stairs with a medkit the size of a small gym bag and three full bags of food.

“You have got to move somewhere with an elevator,” Sam gripes.

Steve thinks of the tired huddle of blond boys on the sofa and grimaces. “You might be right,” he says, and takes the bags. “C'mon up.”

“Whoa, that's a lotta kids,” Sam says under his breath when he steps into the lounge.

“Hey, guys, this is Sam. He brought dinner,” Steve says.

Sam has the room's attention immediately.

“Hi,” he says.

“It smells good,” Alexis says. “What is it?”

“It's Chinese food. You ever had Chinese?”

He's met with a sea of blank faces and shaking heads.

“Well, it tastes as good as it smells. You got enough plates for this bunch?” Sam asks.

“Actually, no.”

“I've got some stuff,” Sharon says, and steps out to re-appear a moment later with a package of paper plates and probably every fork she owns. “Let's do this in the kitchen.”

“Five minutes, okay? Then dinner,” Steve says.

“Okay, answers, now,” Sharon says, the moment they're out of the room.

“They're Hydra. Something Hydra made. I don't know for sure, but I think they're from me.... and from Bucky,” Steve says while mechanically opening boxes of noodles, rice and meat.

“Shit,” Sam says.

“Any of these got nuts?” Steve asks. Sam points at a box of chicken and cashew, and Steve moves it to the other side of the island with the push of a single fingertip. “No peanut oil in any of the rest of these?” he asks, and Sam shakes his head. “You sure?”

“My niece's got allergies, so I check that shit outta habit. I didn't know who was gonna be here, so I got a variety of things,” Sam admits, and Steve nods.

“If we need it, I've got an Epipen in my kit,” Sharon says.

“Me too,” Sam says.

“Well, we've got five kids in there who I'd bet on not being able to eat nuts, so we'll dish theirs up first. That one, you can take home for yourself, I'd rather not leave it around, just in case,” Steve says. Sam nods, folds the box shut, and shoves it back into a carry bag. He washes his hands very thoroughly, after.

The next few minutes are fairly quiet, the three of them dishing out portions of everything onto Sharon's paper plates and breaking the spring rolls into thirds so everyone gets at least one piece. They shuffle out into the lounge and hand them out, a plate and a fork each. Steve gently shakes Robbie and a couple of the others awake, and before long, the room is filled with sounds of twelve children's indecorous eating habits.

Back in the kitchen, Sharon and Sam have assembled a plate each for themselves and one for Steve, and after a minute eating, Sharon's the one who breaks the silence.

“That fire at the industrial park. The one on the news. That was you?” she asks.

“Wasn't me, but it's connected,” Steve admits.

“Natasha?” she asks.

When Steve shakes his head again, Sam puts down his spring roll.

“It was him, wasn't it?” he asks.

“Who?” Sharon asks, but Sam's not paying attention, he's too busy staring down Steve like a priest trying to force out a confession.

“You as much as said, half of those kids are from him. Was he involved?” Sam asks.

“No!” Steve says, than deliberately lowers his voice. “No. I don't think he was involved, at all. I don't think he even knew they were there. He called me, said, bring a big car or a van and come to the address he texted me, and to come alone.”

“I oughtta kick your ass for being so stupid,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

“Funny, he said pretty much exactly the same thing,” Steve says, and Sam huffs out a laugh.

“Bucky Barnes is alive?” Sharon asks.

“He's the Winter Soldier,” Steve says, and her eyes widen. “He's also been a POW since 1945. Arnim Zola experimented on him, the KGB and Hydra both used him. He's a free agent now,” he adds.

“He's a loose cannon,” Sam corrects.

“He called me to take the kids because he said I was the only person he trusted,” Steve says. “Said he would have brought them to me personally, but he didn't want the ones like me to be around when he was lighting the fire because of the smoke.”

The clock on the wall ticks as they all think about that.

“You think he's remembering things,” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Steve says, definitively. He remembers Bucky at the beginning, just a voice from the shadows, harsh and cool, and how the longer they spoke, the more familiar his accent became, the more easy their back-and-forth, the more references to their childhood he shared.

“Okay,” Sam says, and gives a slight nod. “So, what do we do right now? Because this apartment? Is not big enough for thirteen people, even if twelve of them aren't old enough to be in high school yet.”

“Bucky wanted them kept out of the system. Said Hydra would take them if they could, said they were valuable,” Steve says.

“So you called on us,” Sam says, and Steve nods. “Even if we could, it wouldn't be right to hide them forever. They need a lot of things. School, friends, a normal life. And some of them need medical care. Those little-yous look like they never ate their spinach a day of their life.”

“I ate my spinach, and it never helped me, either,” Steve admits.

“There could be ways,” Sharon says. “We could create a paper trail, make it legitimate. If they're documented as the victims of child trafficking, they can get proper social security numbers, naturalisation, medical care. It wouldn't even be that big a lie.”

“And how do we keep them safe in the mean time?” Sam asks. “This place isn't really defensible. Not to mention that it still has bullet holes through the walls and a boarded up window.”

“I've had a busy week,” Steve says, and tries to muster a smile.

“If you're looking for defensive measures, you might want to think about going big,” Sharon says. “Pepper Potts is in DC right now, wrestling with the DoD. Stark's company's looking to fill the gaps in security, at least in the interim. Maria Hill was talking about switching over to the private sector, last I heard, and Stark's pretty much the only real game in town. She's our in. It's doable.”

Steve shakes his head, confused. “You want me to beg Tony Stark for sanctuary?”

“Pepper,” Sharon corrects. “You'll like her. And she'll love you.”

“And what, she smuggles me and the twelve clones in the next room home to New York on her private jet?” Steve asks.

“Yep,” Sharon says, popping the p, then licking plum sauce off her fingers. It's distracting.

“Sounds crazy. Could just work,” Sam says, crunching down on the last of his spring roll.

“Can you set it up?” Steve asks.

Sharon snags a carton of noodles and starts eating them straight out of the box. “Give me twelve hours,” she says.

*

When Steve emerges from the kitchen, it's to a mostly sleeping room of kids. The television is off, and the dinner things shoved aside, out of the way. Alexis is still alert, watching Steve as he clears up discarded plates and milk glasses and moves the pitchers further away, out of range of twenty-four twitchy feet.

“What's going to happen to us?” he asks, sounding and looking more young and scared than he has all night.

“You'll stay here tonight, with me, and maybe Sam, and tomorrow, hopefully, we'll all be going somewhere bigger, and better, with enough beds and plates and forks for everyone,” Steve says ruefully, and Alexis dares a little smile. “You ever been to New York?” Steve asks.

“I'd never been outside at all before today,” Alexis confesses, in a hush. “There was a playground without a roof, so we could see the sky, but it had wire and bars all over the top to keep us in. There was mesh, all around the sides, so we couldn't see out. But we could hear them, outside, while they watched us.”

“Hear who?” Steve asks.

“The doctors. The ones who did the tests. The ones Yasha killed,” Alexis says.

“He killed them in front of you?” Steve asks, horrified.

“No. But I asked him, when he picked up Robbie, when I gave him the inhaler, I asked where the doctors went and he said he'd killed them. And I said good,” Alexis says with a grim satisfaction. “I don't like doctors.”

“You let Sharon check Robbie was okay,” Steve points out.

“She's different,” Alexis says dismissively. “Doctors have a clipboard, and they make you hurt, or make you run, or give you needles that burn, and they make you go away if you're broken. They were going to make Robbie go away. They said so. But Yasha made them go away instead.”

Steve swallows, hard, the paper plates in his hands forgotten. “You might have to see more doctors,” he says, “but they'll be doctors like Sharon or Sam, not like those doctors were. If they give you needles, it'll be to stop you hurting or getting sick, and if they give you tests, it'll be things like to make sure Robbie's heart is okay, so they know if he needs medicine for it, like the medicine for his asthma. All right?”

Alexis watches him for a long moment, his eyes glittering in the semi-dark. “All right,” he says finally.

“Good,” Steve says. “I'm gonna get you guys some more pillows and blankets. Okay?”

He returns with a bundle that Alexis helps him divide up and spread over all of them, sleepy and already sleeping.

“You can sleep in the chair if you like,” Steve suggests but Alexis shakes his head.

“I'm okay on the rug,” he says, and lies down next to one of the others, nestling in close.

“Good night,” Steve says, and watches as Alexis's limbs slacken, as his eyes close and one arm drifts up to curl around his bedmate.

Back in the kitchen, Sharon's got her kit over her shoulder, the bag with the uneaten chicken and cashew in one hand, and her keys the other.

“I have to sleep if I'm going in to bat for you in the morning,” she says apologetically.

“That's fine, thank you, so much,” Steve says, holding a hand out. She smiles like she's amused, and slides the takeout bag up her wrist so she can shake it. “I'll get all your forks back to you tomorrow.”

“If you don't, I can manage without them,” she says, and slips out.

“You want me to take first watch?” Sam says, and Steve's suddenly overwhelmingly thankful that Sam understands.

“I won't sleep tonight,” he admits. “I can go a few days before it affects me. But if you'd stay, I'd be grateful. My bed's pretty nice. On the soft side, but nice,” he says, and Sam smiles. “I'd offer you the lounge room floor, but it's covered in children right now.”

“Bed'll suit me just fine,” Sam assures him.

“On your left,” Steve says, and Sam mock growls under his breath in response.

“Good night. Wake me if you need me. Even if you've just got a weird feeling. I'm here to have your back,” Sam says.

Steve nods. “I will.”

Sam gives a tiny salute, then closes Steve's bedroom door behind him.

It's quiet for long enough that Steve thinks, were it not for the carnage of Chinese food spread out on the counter top, he might believe it was all a strange hallucination. That his lounge is empty of anything but his half-hearted efforts to tidy it, that Bucky never called but was still out there, somewhere, unseen since the wrecks in the Potomac.

He has his phone in his hand before he even knows why. Bucky's smart; he'll have ditched the phone he called from. He'll be miles from the site of the fire, possibly not even in DC any more. And yet, Steve's thumb tabs through to the received calls, and selects the number.

It rings for half a dozen heartbeats, and then, when the line connects, it's just that empty air hiss and the slow in and out of breath again.

“We'll be moving in the morning. I'd say midday at the latest,” Steve says, without preamble. “They'll be Stark Industries people, but I don't know if they'll be using marked vehicles, or if the people will be wearing uniforms. Maria Hill from SHIELD may be involved, but I doubt she'll come in person, and she's not Hydra. She's the one who rescued us from the strike team.” And you, Steve adds, mentally. “Unless you see me fighting, we're okay. And I would be fighting, Buck,” Steve says firmly.

“You never back down,” Bucky says softly.

“No,” Steve says. “Not even when it'd be smart.”

“Especially not then,” Bucky says, and Steve laughs.

“Robbie's okay, by the way,” Steve says. “I had a friend check him over.”

“The flying man?” Bucky asks.

“No, a neighbour,” Steve says. “She's a nurse.”

“She's not a nurse,” Bucky corrects.

“True, but she's got more training than me, so she's better than nothing,” Steve concedes. “He's just tired, for now. His heart needs a proper check, like you said, but he'll be okay until we get where we're going.”

Bucky's quiet for a moment. “Will you tell me? When you get there. Where you're going.”

“Of course. I'll tell you now if-”

“No, not now. Not yet. Later,” Bucky says quickly.

“Okay,” Steve says. “I'll let you know, the moment we're secure.”

The long, slow breath on the other end of the line sounds like a sigh. Steve's willing to believe that it's relief.

“You'll be safe tonight,” Bucky finally says with certainty.

“You sound so sure,” Steve says. He means it to be teasing, but it comes out almost wistful.

“I know you will. You can sleep,” he says.

“You know me, Buck, I don't sleep well when I've got eyes out looking for me,” Steve says.

He gives up the kitchen as a loss, shoves the leftovers in the refrigerator, and pads through into the lounge room, where his arm chair and a half-read book that he hasn't picked up since Fury came calling are waiting.

“The only eyes looking out for you are mine,” Bucky says with something like ferocity.

There's a pile of sleeping children in Steve's lounge, tucked around each other on sofa and rug as best they can fit. One sighs in his sleep, another wriggles and turns over. A couple of pairs of eyes crack open as he moves though the room, but quickly sink shut again, either into sleep, or the semblance of sleep.

And out the window, through the gaps in the boards, Steve can see a glint of metal on the opposite rooftop, where nothing metal should be.

“Sleep, Steve,” Bucky says, abruptly tired and affectionate. “I've got this watch.”

The line goes dead before Steve can formulate a reply.

Steve isn't going to bed. He can't. There are a dozen reasons why he can't rest easy. But his armchair is comfortable, Bucky's watching over them, and maybe shutting his eyes for just a little while won't hurt.

*

“So, that's how the Army teaches soldiers to keep watch? Good to know,” Sam drawls.

Steve forces his eyes open to a room striped with morning light. There's a couple of tiny faces close to his own, really close, actually, and a little ripple of giggles travels through the room.

“You were making noises,” one of the kids standing close says. He's not Robbie, but he's one of the little blond ones, one who hadn't so much as made a sound last night.

Steve supposes he can't have been screaming in his sleep, since they all look more amused than traumatised.

“You were going...” The little boy next to him, the smallest of the Buckys, demonstrates a series of grunting and snorting noises, and the giggles are louder.

“They made you into Mr. July, and they couldn't fix you snoring like a buzz saw,” Sam says, clucking his tongue.

“Nobody's perfect,” Steve says.

Sam alone seems immune to the epic bedhead everyone else in the room seems to be suffering. Aside from wearing the clothes he'd arrived in last night, he seems perfectly composed, which is actually a little annoying when Steve's still trying to catch his bearings.

“You wanna watch cartoons? 'Course you do. Oh, here we go, here's Dora, you like Dora?” Sam asks.

“What's Dora?” one of the brown-haired kids asks, two fingers stuck in the side of his mouth and wide eyes.

“Dora's great, she's got a backpack and she goes on all kinds of adventures. You guys all sit and watch Dora for a bit. And since you,” Sam kicks Steve's foot lightly, “are obviously well rested, you're on breakfast duty, with me,” he says, all stern face and seriousness.

There's a general titter of laughter, and when Steve mugs a heavy pout it only gets bigger. “None of that, I'm immune. Suck it up,” Sam says, cracking a smile, and Steve stretches, stands, and follows him out of the room.

“You're on toast, I'm on cereal,” Sam says, and Steve grabs the bread and gets to work.

“I'm guessing your nap and Sharon's little visit an hour ago are connected,” Sam says eventually, and Steve pauses. “She said there's someone watching from a perch across the street, that she caught a glimpse of him at daybreak, when the light was just right. But you already know about that.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, because he doesn't know what else he can say to that.

Sam's got what Steve's pretty sure is a salad bowl, and has filled it with half a packet of corn flakes. The last of Steve's milk gets poured all over it, and two whole bananas get sliced up and scattered on the top. There's a fistful of soup spoons, dessert spoons and teaspoons, most of which are not Steve's, ready to go out with it.

“I heard you make a call, last night,” Sam says. He's turned to face Steve, and there's nothing as heavy as judgement in his eyes, more like a resigned acceptance. “You told him about today?”

“I thought he'd want to know,” Steve says.

“Did he?” Sam asks.

Steve busies his hands, pulling out cooked toast, slipping in another four slices and depressing the lever. “Not where we're going, he didn't want to know that. But the rest... yeah.”

“I guess it makes sense for him to know they're being moved, rather than panicking and opening fire on Pepper's people, mistaking them for Hydra. I guess that's what you would have been thinking, if I thought you were thinking at all, rather than just telling him everything,” Sam says.

Steve scrapes butter then jelly or honey across the slices, and cuts them into thirds; finger food for little hands.

“He said he'd take first watch,” Steve says, as the silence spools out longer.

“And you slept,” Sam says, nodding slightly.

“Better than I have since the war,” Steve admits, and starts stacking toast fingers onto a couple of dinner plates.

“Your boy watching over you, from a rooftop, probably with night-vision goggles and a high-powered rifle. It's sweet, in a creepy, stalkery-assassin kind of way,” Sam says, as they move through into the lounge.

They arrive at the moment Dora prompts her audience to repeat a phrase in Spanish, and the twelve kids all obediently chirp it out, in union.

“Of course, there's relative levels of creepy,” Sam admits, and Steve only just manages to cough back his laugh before they get surrounded by a cluster of hungry children jostling for breakfast.

*

Steve is doing the rounds with a damp cloth, wiping dozens of sticky fingers, when there's a gentle tap on the front door. “It's Sharon,” Sharon says, so Steve lets her in.

“Thirty minutes until they get here,” Sharon says. She looks obscenely cheerful for someone who's been wrangling with high-ranking former SHIELD agents and high-flying CEOs since daybreak.

“I have four-dozen doughnuts, no nuts,” she says, dumping the boxes into Steve's arms. “I have a box of Epipens and Ventolin inhalers, courtesy of a couple of friends who work at Washington General. And I have a hundred-pack of magic markers, and a roll of 'hello, my name is...' stickers from the office supply store down the road. Let's do this,” she says.

“How much coffee have you had?” Sam asks.

“Too much, and nowhere near enough,” Sharon says, and makes him take the bag of markers.

Four dozen doughnuts sounds like a lot, but Steve has to be quick to snag two glazed, three frosted and one cinnamon, since he's officially out of toast and cereal.

“They just ate breakfast,” he says, bewildered.

“They're kids,” Sam says. “They burn through fuel as fast as you do, but with naps. Well, more naps.” He nudges Steve's shoulder with his own, and Steve gets fake-strawberry frosting on his nose.

Steve does another round, cleaning sugar off hands and faces, and clears the empty boxes so Sam can lay out the markers and labels.

“Who can write their name?” Steve asks, and there's an assortment of 'me's and 'I can's.

“Okay, well, we've got some stickers and some markers, and we're going to make everybody a name badge,” Sam says, opening up the packet of markers and starting to tear individual labels off the roll.

“Even you?” a blond boy asks.

“Especially me,” Sam confirms. “And if you want help, we can help you, or we can write it for you.”

“I can write it,” he says, stretching across the table to snag a green marker and slowly writing L-i-a-m on a sticker in the white box.

“Good job,” Sam says, and there's a bit of a run on markers and stickers after that.

Steve learns in the next ten minutes that the boy who'd called his apartment messy is called Simon, that two of the blond boys are actually twins called Connor and Colin who write with opposite hands to each other, and that the boy who'd mimicked his snoring can't write his own name legibly but is very particular that it starts with a K and that it needs to be written in exactly the right shade of purple. Selection approved, Steve writes K-r-i-s neatly in the box and teases up the edge of the sticker paper so that Kris can peel it off and stick it (crookedly) to his own shirt.

“I'm making a list,” Sharon says, and has her phone out.

A couple of minutes of craning her head, muttering under her breath and rapid phone typing, and at least two head counts (complicated by continuous bathroom breaks, Steve's never heard a toilet flush so often) until finally, Sharon makes a satisfied hum.

She tilts the screen to show Sam and Steve. In addition to Alexis (b), Robbie (s), Simon (b), Connor (s), Colin (s), Liam (s), and Kris (b), they apparently have a Luc (b), Brant (b) (no, not, Brent, not Grant, Brant), Vincent (s), Felix (b), and Fido (b).

“Fido?” Sam asks, under his breath. “Really?”

“It's Fidel, but he hates it,” Brant says.

Fido's face goes deep red and Brant gets slugged in the arm. Steve wades in before it escalates further, tugging the two tiny boys an arms-length apart.

“Okay, cool it,” Sam says as others around the room fidget restlessly. “He wants to be Fido, he can be Fido. He's allowed to choose what his name is, okay? Anyone else hate their name? Now's the time to speak up, while I've got the stickers and the pens, here.”

He raises his eyebrows and waggles a marker. It's surprisingly effective.

“I don't like my name but I don't know if I wanna change it,” Vincent says. He's the smallest of the blond boys, smaller even than Robbie. He'd been the one Alexis had piggybacked up the stairs the night before.

“That's okay,” Sam says. “You have a think about it. If you think you want to change it before we leave, that's fine. If you think of something later, that's fine, too. But there won't be any name-changing while we're travelling, because we gotta keep track of you,” Sam says.

“How about I call out your names and you tell me how old you are?” Sharon asks.

Much like Robbie last night, the numbers are low, far too low. Even Alexis, who has the long, almost gangly limbs of a preteen, says he's only seven. The blond kids are all no older than two and a half, with Vincent, the smallest, saying he's turning two next month. Most of the brown haired boys are older, but Kris proudly announces he's one plus four, which Sharon decides must mean he's only sixteen months old.

In the kitchen, they have a quiet conference under the pretext of washing up.

“I wouldn't put any of them under the age of six, except maybe Kris or Vincent,” Sharon murmurs.

“Alexis looks twelve, thirteen? A big eleven?” Sam says.

“Eleven,” Steve agrees. “Bucky was tallest in our grade at eleven.”

“Why the grouping in the age range?” Sharon wonders. “Why not a balanced spread?”

“They only had access to me for the last three years,” Steve says grimly. “They've always had Bucky. They switched to samples from me when they found me in the ice. Switched back to Bucky when the kids from me turned out sick.”

“Any indication they're powered?” she asks.

“Not that I've noticed. Sam?”

Sam shakes his head. “Think that they're growing fast right now? Or that they had some kinda baby tube that sped things up, early on, and now they'll just grow like normal kids?”

“I don't know,” Steve admits.

“Mighta been able to find that out, if where they came from wasn't a big black hole in the ground,” Sam says.

“He did the right thing,” Steve says, and finds he means it, like Bucky said he would.

“Think there's bigger kids somewhere else? Adults, even?” Sam asks, and Steve swallows, trying to quell the nausea.

“I don't know,” Steve sighs. “I hope not. Alexis said the ones who didn't... work, like Robbie, went away, that the doctors made them go away.”

“That's chillingly euphemistic,” Sharon says.

“I think they were hoping for super soldiers, and they got regular kids. And I don't think they'd keep kids past the age they're easy to control, if they were failures,” Steve says, and the silence in the wake of his pronouncement is bleak.

The knock at the door is an almost welcome relief.

Steve turns to go answer it, but Sharon holds up a hand. From under her long sweater, she draws her sidearm.

“Allow me,” she says.

“I bounce back easier,” Steve argues.

“Then you can shield the kids and get them out,” she argues.

“I'm gonna check the window,” Sam says, and moves in the direction of the lounge.

The kids have all gone quiet, like they know something's up. Sam peers through the gap in the boards.

“Transport with an escort. No badges,” he says.

Sharon slips up the hall like a shadow with Steve following behind, snagging his shield on the way past.

The second knock is like a gunshot.

“Want me to look?” Steve mutters.

“That's just begging for a head shot,” Sharon says derisively.

“Okay, plan B then,” Steve says. “Who is it?” he calls out. Sharon rolls her eyes.

“It's Pepper,” the person outside the door says.

“Shadows,” Sharon mutters, pointing at the stripes of more than one pair of legs under the door.

“Got it,” Steve replies. “Are you alone?” he asks.

“I've got my bodyguard and my PA with me,” she says, sounding more amused than anything.

“Okay, I'm gonna let you in,” Steve says, moving around Sharon to snap back the latch.

To credit Pepper's nerves, she only blinks twice when she sees the gun, then places a restraining hand on the arm of her bodyguard, who was clearly reaching to draw from a shoulder holster.

“Sorry, it's been quite a night,” Steve apologises.

“I'm sensing that,” she says, a warm smile blossoming. “You're Steve, I see,” Pepper says.

When Steve blinks in bafflement, she points at the sticker on his left pec.

“Yeah, sorry, hi,” he says. He leans the shield against the wall and holds out his hand. Her grip is firm.

“I'm Pepper, this is Happy, and this is Declan,” she says, waving a hand over her shoulder at her PA, who is weighed down with several large cartons. “I'm hoping that's your sniper cover JARVIS picked up on across the street.”

As if on cue, Steve's phone rings.

“They're ours, stand down,” he says immediately.

“Roger, Rogers,” Bucky says, and the line cuts off.

It's a joke that's over seventy years old, and it almost winds him.

“I'm sorry,” Steve says, when he catches his breath. “Come in. You need to leave that outside, though,” he says, pointing to the tablet in Happy's hands.

“What?” Happy says, startled.

“It looks too much like a clipboard, the way you're holding it. Either leave it here, or hide it, or stay outside.”

“I'm not staying outside,” Happy says.

“I'll put it in the kitchen for you,” Sharon says, tugging it from his grasp.

“But-” Happy starts, raising a finger, but Sharon is already gone.

“So, do I get a name sticker, too?” Pepper asks.

“Oh, they're compulsory, round here. You'll see why,” Steve says, and leads the way.

“Oh, my. Look at all of you,” Pepper says when she rounds the corner.

“This is Ms. Potts, she's helping us to get to New York, and she's going to let us stay in her building for a while,” Steve says.

“Pepper, please,” Pepper says, sticking her name badge on a shirt so nice it's probably never had adhesive near it in its short, expensive existence.

“Pepper's not a people name, it's a food name,” Luc says.

“Hey, remember what we said about names?” Sam says, from his perch near the window.

Luc's brow wrinkles. “That we can choose our names?” he asks.

“Right, so, Pepper can be Pepper if she wants to be, even if it's a food name,” Sam says and Luc subsides.

“I like your hair,” Connor says.

“Thank you, I like yours,” Pepper replies smoothly, and his pale skin pinks.

“What's in the boxes?” Robbie asks, sidling up as close as he dares. He tangles a hand in the hem of Steve's shirt.

“Why don't we have a look and find out?” she says, and gets Declan to put the boxes in the centre of Steve's rug.

Pepper's nails easily scratch up the edge of the tape sealing the first box shut, and the kids watch her peel it off as though entranced by a stage magician. When she pulls apart the flaps, there's an audible gasp.

“Pass them around, and find one you like that fits you,” Pepper says, and Steve's lounge is suddenly a riot of bright colour and excited noises.

“They're promotional, we got them for free,” Pepper explains, as the Heroes of New York tees quickly replace the clinical, uniform tunics. “Tony always has a box with him in case he visits a paediatric hospital, or a charitable event with lots of kids.” The second box is an assortment of cargo pants, jeans and shorts, which are likewise oohed and ahhed over.

“You said they needed shoes?” Pepper asks Sharon as she tugs open the third box. “I bought out a whole display of kids' Crocs this morning, since I didn't know individual sizes.”

“Good choice, no laces,” Sharon say approvingly, and digs in with both hands.

“You're incredible,” Steve says, and Pepper's smile lights up the room.

“This is nothing. Give me a week, and you'll have guardianship solid enough it could weather any appeal,” she says, and Steve hopes she's too busy handing out pairs of jelly sandals to notice his thunderstruck expression.

“Everyone make sure you put your sticker on your new shirt,” Sam says.

“I lost mine,” says a blond boy Steve thinks might be Colin.

“Well, then, come over here, I'll write you a new one,” Sam says, and does just that. “Stick it on, make sure it's staying put. Good? Good.” Sam says, then tousles his hair.

Kris has managed to wriggle inside a giant purple shirt with a Hulk fist logo punching through the chest and refuses to swap it out for a smaller one. Simon's wearing a blue shirt with Steve' shield on it, and has run to look at his reflection in the real thing. Felix and Fido have matching Widow's hourglass shirts and black cargo pants, but Felix is wearing green Crocs and Fido has chosen one yellow and one purple. Alexis is helping Vincent pull on a grey shirt with bolts of lightning decaled on front and back, and has a red and yellow shirt on the floor next to himself. Happy, despite his decidedly unhappy frown on the doorstep, seems to have taken it upon himself to pair up Crocs with the feet of kids who have obviously never had to find fitting shoes before, and is bossing Declan round like it's going out of style.

The Kids by kath-ballantyne. Click for larger size, and to leave kudos!

“Where's your new shirt?” Robbie asks, sidling up to Steve and leaning on him. He's wearing a black t-shirt with a spray painted target on the front in lavender. On the back, there's the outline of a quiver.

“I don't think Pepper brought one in my size,” Steve says.

“Oh, there are plenty in New York,” Pepper says. “Tony's been wearing Hulk ones round the workshop for weeks just trying to get a rise out of Bruce.”

“See? Mine's in New York,” Steve says.

“Okay,” Robbie says, and Steve's only a little startled when he climbs into Steve's lap without warning and leans against his chest with a sigh.

“You still tired?” Steve asks.

“Little bit,” Robbie admits with a yawn.

“You can sleep in the car, okay?” Steve says, and Robbie nods.

“Five of them'll need carrying down the stairs,” Steve tells Pepper.

“How on earth did you get them up here in the first place?” Pepper asks.

“Two in each arm, and Alexis carried Vincent,” Steve says, pointing to the boys in question. “The hard part was getting my keys in the lock without dropping any of them.”

“Okay, well, there's six of us, now. If Declan takes the boxes again, then each of us can take one of the boys,” Pepper says.

“If it's all the same, I'd rather take point on this one,” Sharon says.

“I can carry two, easy,” Steve says, and Sharon nods.

“Anything you need to pack?” Pepper asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Just the shield. Everything else can wait.”

*

Everything after that point moves very fast. All the discarded clothing and Crocs are stuffed unceremoniously back in the boxes. Sam marshals the kids for a last minute bathroom break, and Steve takes a moment to slide the shield into its satchel and pull out his phone.

“We're getting ready to move. How's it looking from up there?” Steve asks.

“All clear,” Bucky reports.

“Might take us a few minutes to get to street level. Call me if there's a problem,” Steve says, and waits for Bucky's assent before picking up his bag.

It is slow, but not as slow as the careful ascent the night before. Robbie's tired but alert on his left arm, Liam remarkably chatty on his right. Alexis has Kris's hand in a tight hold that Kris is whining about but not actively resisting (yet), and all the other children not in the arms of an adult are similarly buddied up, with Felix, Fido and Simon forming a very loud trio.

Once they're in the open air, Happy takes over co-ordinating getting all the kids into what's basically a discreetly armoured minibus. Even with his tablet tucked away, he's as brutally efficient as Pepper was at finding clothes and shoes for twelve kids, and they're all inside in under thirty seconds. It's quick, and clean and it works like clockwork.

“Is your friend on the roof coming?” Pepper asks.

“Not this time,” Steve says.

Sharon is travelling along to the airport, Sam is riding along on the plane as med support, just in case. Steve, however, is aware that this is possibly a one way trip for him, that his hand might be forced for him by twelve kids who need him in a way he's never been needed.

“Hold on a second,” he says, and jogs over to the front stoop. His keys make a heavy, metallic crunch when he sets them on the side of the stone, where they won't get stepped on, but where they'll be obvious to someone looking down at them through a scope.

“My bike's just around the corner if you want to shadow. Either way, it's yours,” Steve says when the call connects, and there's an intake of breath down the line. “My apartment's free, too. I think you'll like it. It needs a little mending, but you were always handy like that. And when you want to come see us, you're always welcome.”

The breath is rough again, a quick in-and-out. “Thank you.”

“Don't stay away too long,” Steve says.

There's nothing but a steady sigh in reply, and then silence. Steve pockets his phone, gets in the bus and watches his old life slip away into the distance.

The transfer from the bus to the jet is just as quick. The plane is already powered up, the turbines creating an ear-splitting whine of sound. It's too much for some of them, but tears are quickly forgotten when Pepper digs into Tony's junk food stash and asks the flight attendants to bring out a dozen sodas.

“The flight won't be long, but there's a bed if any of them need to sleep, and don't worry, the sheets are clean,” Pepper says, and Sam chokes on a laugh.

“There's oxygen, right?” Sam asks, when he recovers. “Just in case any of them can't handle the altitude,” he clarifies.

“There are the standard flight masks above the seats, but Tony has his own, personal supply of oxygen that he pretends he doesn't use recreationally since he cut down on drinking,” Pepper says with a wry smile. “It's behind that panel.”

“Good to know,” Sam says. “Let's get everybody buckled in.”

Though there are only a couple of chairs, there are belts tucked into the creases of the bench seats that line the walls. As the engines whine up another notch, the last belt is buckled and Steve settles in to his chair just as they start taxiing down the runway.

He hadn't seen a glimpse of Bucky while they wound their way through Washington. He'd tried to focus instead on the city he was leaving, and the reactions of the children to every new thing. He'd tried to imagine that that was enough.

It isn't till they're shooting up into the sky, until the earth is tilting away from them, that Steve looks down and sees a dark figure beside a motorcycle, standing outside the airfield, one glinting hand raised in farewell.

*

That night, almost exactly twenty-four hours since Bucky called him out of the blue, Steve's lying in a pillowy, blankety construction that Tony had dubbed Cushiontopia. There's an animated picture being screened right onto the wall in front of him, just like the movies, and there's a collection of sleepy children watching it.

Pepper and Tony slipped away some time ago, but Bruce has stuck around to watch the film spool out to the end. Sam has somehow managed to avoid getting climbed all over by virtue of good-natured growling, but he's got his arms around Colin and Liam, and has one hand scritching gently through Felix's hair.

Robbie is stretched out full length on Steve's chest, limbs slack in sleep and a sticky handful of uneaten double fudge popcorn clenched in one fist that's slowly seeping sugar onto Steve's new Iron Man tee. (Tony claimed the Captain America ones all shrank in the wash. All of them.) Alexis has his head pillowed on Steve's hip, and a bony knee poking into Steve's calf. Simon's somewhere above Steve's head, and every now and again, an elbow or a heel cuffs him lightly in the ear or his temple. It's uncomfortable, but nothing in the world short of a wide-scale emergency could coerce him to move.

Steve's phone is like torchlight in the gloom. He blinks until the screen comes into focus, then creates a new text, the first since his terse 'arrived safe' several hours earlier.

We're in New York, he types. Stark Tower. It's pretty fancy.

A few minutes later, the phone buzzes in his hand. You're out of milk. And everything except nuts.

Steve stifles a laugh, then pets Robbie's back until he settles again.

You gave me a dozen kids to feed that ate like you and me.

Point, Bucky replies, and Steve imagines that crooked, sardonic smile. I'm eating beans, cold, with one of your millions of spoons. There's a draught through the boarded window and the holes in the wall. It's just like the war. Why do you even have these in your pantry, you sadist?

Same reason I own a record player. Same reason I'll fight for you, always. I'm not ready to let go, Buck.

It's long enough that his screen goes dark, long enough that Steve thinks he's crossed a line, before Bucky messages back.

I'll see you soon, Steve, he says.

It's a little thing, a fragile thing, but Steve is willing to risk believing that it's a promise.