Chapter Text
It’s a beautiful Louisiana morning in Baton Rouge. A soft fog hugs the Mississippi, burning off under a clearing sky. A sighing breeze rustles the cottonwoods, takes the bite out of the southern summer humidity. It’s a beautiful Louisiana morning. Outside the cab of Sam’s pickup.
Inside, it’s a different story.
“What kind of uncle are you?” Bucky snipes from the passenger seat. “How could you forget his birthday?”
“I did not forget A.J.’s birthday,” Sam bites back. “I’ve just…been busy.”
“You forgot,” Bucky counters. “Seriously, Sam, you already missed five of them. First time back in existence, and you forget the next one?” Sam shoots the other man a death glare that puts Bucky’s own to shame.
“Sam?” Bucky points at the slow-moving SUV they’re about to rear-end.
“Shit!” Sam swerves wildly to avoid it, angry horns blaring at the imposition.
“And you’re a terrible driver,” Bucky continues. “How did you ever convince them to let you fly?”
“Jesus,” Sam snarls, yanking at the knot of his tie to get another inch of air. “Do you know how busy all the Cap stuff is keeping me?”
“I do,” Bucky replies, “because you complain about it. Every. Day.”
“Steve never told me it would be like this.”
Bucky snorts. “Steve got dragged around on tour with a bunch of show girls. And he had to pretend to punch out Adolf Hitler. What are you complaining about?”
“I’ve been in seventeen meetings in the past month. Which would you prefer? Sitting through another PowerPoint on providing adequate sewage treatment facilities to the resettlement camps, or punching out fake Hitler?”
Bucky clucks his tongue. “Think I would rather punch out actual Hitler. But I take your point.”
“Look,” Sam says, cutting off a small sedan to catch his exit from the highway, “I get it. I’m a terrible uncle.”
“The worst,” Bucky agrees.
“And I’m a terrible person.”
“God awful.”
“And I shouldn’t be asking you to pick up the slack for me.”
“Again.”
“But look, man, I have to make this meeting with Senator Kinsey. That gives me just enough time to get back before the party starts. And I can’t show up empty handed. A.J. will never forgive me.”
“He’ll forgive you,” Bucky corrects. “Sarah won’t.”
Sam winces. “Right. So hey, just do me a solid, alright? They’ve got these sneakers he’s been begging for in stock. You get in, get out. Takes you ten minutes, tops.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this for you,” Bucky grumbles.
“Well,” Sam remarks, “you’re a good friend.”
“I’m a great friend. And you’re a terrible person.”
Sam sighs as he turns into the parking lot. “Yes, awful, terrible. And if I show up to A.J.’s party without a gift, I’m going to be even worse. Consider this your opportunity to set me on the path to redemption. You’re kind of an expert at that, right?”
Bucky snorts. “You really don’t deserve me, you know.”
Sam smirks. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”
“You owe me, Wilson,” Bucky says with a glower.
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam tilts his head. “Hey. Did you get A.J. something for his birthday already?”
Bucky stares at him, aghast. “Yes, Sam. I got A.J. something for his birthday already. Because I’m a good person. Unlike some people.”
Sam stops the truck with a squeal at the yellow-blazed curb outside Macy’s. He examines Bucky, suddenly doubtful. “Have you ever even been to a mall?”
“Sure,” Bucky declares.
Sam’s gaze turns hard. “Let me rephrase that. You ever been in a mall to buy something, not shoot someone?”
Bucky scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sam, I can manage it.” Sam stares. “Jesus. You’re sending me in to buy a pair of shoes at a suburban mall in Baton Rouge on a Saturday morning. I think I can handle it.” Sam says a million things by not saying a word. “If you’re so worried about it, you go.”
Sam grins. “Nah, man, you know I’d be swarmed by beautiful women asking for my autograph the second I went in there.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Seriously, I’ve got to make this meeting. Shouldn’t take too long. I’ll give you a call when I’m coming back, alright? Party’s at two, we gotta be back by then.”
Bucky slides out of the truck, grumbling, “Yeah, yeah.”
“Hey,” Sam calls out. Bucky leans into the open window. “Size seven. Mantra Orange, okay? That’s A.J.’s favorite color.”
“Mantra Orange is A.J.’s favorite color?” Bucky asks in disbelief. “What the fuck is Mantra Orange?”
Sam scowls. “It’s orange, okay? He likes orange. Not everyone wears black leather everywhere. Except Magic Mike. And you, apparently.”
Bucky blinks. “Am I supposed to know who Magic Mike is?”
Sam’s brow creases. “Who? No, it’s a…you know what? Never mind. I don’t need to have that talk with you right now. Just…buy the shoes. In orange. Think you can manage that?”
Bucky glares. “Yeah, Sam. I got it.”
Sam gives him a good look. “Alright. Thanks. And hey,” he calls as Bucky turns to leave. “Try not to shoot anyone this time, okay?”
Bucky flips him the bird over one shoulder in response, ignoring the affronted gasp from a young woman dragging a tow-headed child behind her. He strolls through the sliding glass doors, winces at the glaringly bright store lighting and the overpowering stench of cologne. The super soldier serum is great in a pinch and all, but sometimes hyperactive senses aren’t everything they’re cracked up to be.
He ignores the pristinely stacked polo shirts in easter egg colors, the gleaming jewelry cases, finds his eyes lingering on a bank of cashmere scarves, out of season, on clearance. He idly runs the fabric through a hand, debates taking off his gloves to feel the warp and weft of the wool. But he can tell from the burning between his shoulder blades, and the view in a small mirror on top of the shelf, that the woman from earlier is glaring, just waiting for an excuse to snap out her phone or call out to an employee.
He can imagine that text to Sam. Hey Sam. Gonna need you to pick me up a little early. Locals got a look at the vibranium arm and chased me out of the place with torches and pitchforks. He lets the fabric slide through his fingers, wistful, and heads to the mall entrance.
The inner sanctum of the mall isn’t exactly bustling, though it’s still filled with older people getting their steps in, harried looking parents, and a few teens idling away their summer breaks. It’s one of the odd quirks of the blip – this reinvigorated interest in public spaces, in being around people and noise, even if anyone can buy just about anything from their couch.
The old Bucky loved a crowd. The blare of trombones in a dance hall, the excited murmur at an expo, the press of bodies in line for the newest ride on Coney Island.
The new Bucky is too busy scanning faces and hands in a crowd for any sign of a threat to enjoy them much. Raynor said it was an understandable paranoia he would eventually overcome. That was before a misguided teenager weaponized a disenfranchised group outside the GRC building and almost took out half the world’s leaders in one night, though.
He finds the store he’s searching for easily enough, makes his way to a wall of sneakers. He considers the floor to ceiling display, blinking. How many shoes do people need? He’s given Sam plenty of crap about the man’s need for a different pair of sneakers for every occasion, but this is a little absurd. It takes him a few minutes to absorb it all, to find the pair he’s looking for.
Got it – size seven. He eases the cardboard box open, peels a layer of thin tissue paper back to reveal a white high top. A swish in —he checks the label —Mantra Orange. He looks closer. “It’s just orange,” he mutters to himself. A clerk comes over and he chats idly with her before he hands off the box.
He debates taking out his phone, shooting off a quick text. Hey Sam. Mission accomplished. Supplies procured. Zero casualties.
The he feels it – nothing he can see or hear, exactly, but something that pings against the Winter Soldier’s razor sharp senses. Something wrong.
He sneaks a look out the shop windows. A young father pushing a stroller, cooing at a toddler with tight curls. An older woman powerwalking with weighted bands, in nylon shorts and socks up to her calves. He slinks closer to the window, casts his glance up and down the corridor. Nothing. He looks up at the second floor mezzanine.
There – a middle-aged man, dressed too heavily for the weather, pacing along the railing and muttering. He watches the man for a moment, heavy jacket and baseball hat. Bucky flexes a hand, looks down. Maybe, in a dark jacket and gloves in the middle of summer himself, he’s not able to judge anyone else’s sartorial choices. He reaches into a pocket to trace his fingers over his phone case, reconsiders texting Sam.
Hey Sam, he could write, I saw a guy in an ugly coat in a mall and lost my shit. Guess you’re right, I’m great in a life-or-death fight, but buying a pair of damn shoes may be too much stress for my delicate psyche.
He shakes his head. Probably nothing. He strides back to the register. The clerk scans the shoes, frowns at her computer.
“Problem?” he asks.
“Looks like our system’s having issues.” She gives him an apologetic smile, poking at the screen. “I’m sure it will be back up in a second.”
“Sure,” Bucky agrees. He turns back to the window. Pair of chattering teens, in skirts that would have given Rabbi Schmidt from the old neighborhood apoplexy. That woman with the weighted bands, puffing, laser focused, again. Another woman, in a tailored dark suit and impeccable makeup, scowling at her phone.
Bucky really does pull out his phone this time. He frowns at the no service icon. Must be a dead spot. A quick glance tells him the clerk is still fighting with the computer.
He stalks to the entrance, again, lets his eyes drift over the scene, focusing on everything and nothing. A woman coming down the escalator catches his attention – heavy coat and baseball cap, too. He shifts, uneasy, looks down the opposite length of corridor.
There – two more people, same get-up as the others. He checks his phone again. Still no service. He takes a step back, two, turns to the clerk, still absorbed at the register.
“Hey, is your phone wor—”
The lights go dark in an instant, and he hears mumbled curses and shouts from the hallways. Then there’s a flash, a scream, a loud booming voice and the unmistakable clap of gunfire.
Emergency lights flicker on, pale and sickly. He creeps to the store window, watches panicked shoppers scattering like a school of fish. More people in coats and caps, and now with guns, pluck a few out of the current to drag them to the center of the atrium, near a burbling fountain. An armed group mills on the mezzanine. Yet another marches in from one of the department stores, tracing rifle rounds into the ceiling.
“Goddamnit,” he curses. “Sam is going to kill me.”
He dashes back to the register, finds the clerk staring into the hall, wide-eyed. “Hey,” he snaps his fingers in front of her face. “Do you have a back exit here?” She points mutely. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Bucky steers her through the dimly lit store, to an employee break room, and finally a door to a loading area that runs the length of the building. He scans the gloomy concrete hallway, spots a metal door to the outside. He drags the clerk there and pushes her through, squinting in the blaring daylight reflecting off the half-filled parking lot. “Run,” he tells her. “To the next building. Go inside. Call the police.” She nods, lips tight, and sprints across the lot until she’s out of sight.
Bucky picks his way back into the store, crouches behind a display of shoes. “Just a quick favor, Sam said. Pick up some shoes for A.J.’s birthday. Take you ten minutes, tops, Sam said,” he grumbles. A peek around a corner reveals two men with guns in front of the store next door, a few more in front of a Raising Cane’s. A glance at the upper floor finds several more gunmen patrolling the promenade.
He ducks back, checks his phone again. Still no service. Shit. Cash register, lights, phones, all out. They must be blocking the signal, somehow. So, no text to Sam: Hey Sam, so, turns out a suburban mall in Baton Rouge on a weekend morning is just as dangerous as a den of Hydra goons. Go figure, right?
Well, nothing for it, then.
A low whistle draws the two nearest gunmen closer. Bucky’s on them the second they get past the door, drops them both with sharp blows before they have a chance to react. He pats them down, comes up with a radio. He bends one rifle in half, takes the other for himself.
Another survey from the doorway shows a small group of shoppers corralled on their knees in between a band of armed people. A few more gunmen have appeared across the way, and Bucky counts at least four prowling the second floor from his vantage point. “Yeah, Sam, I think I can handle it,” he echoes to himself. He takes one more look, checks his gun, turns off the radio.
Then the Winter Solider goes to work.
He shadows the mall’s perimeter, avoiding the larger groups of gunmen and focusing on the singletons and pairs. He doesn’t use the rifle, decides it’s better to pick off as many as he can before someone raises the alarm.
Two armed women are patrolling the aisles of the Stark Tech store, harsh light from rows of tablets casting spectral shadows across their faces in the dark. Bucky sequesters himself under a table adorned with wearables and watches.
“Is it set up yet?” one asks as they come level with Bucky’s position. He dives out, dispatches her with an elbow, the other with a knee. He goes down the aisles himself, looking for something, anything, with a connection to the outside world. No dice.
He’s about to toss the latest Stark phone down to the table with disgust when he hears a stifled whimper. He peeks over the register to find a pair of clerks huddled together.
“You alright?” he whispers. They nod. He looks around, sees a door on the back wall. “That lead outside?” Another pair of nods. “Good. Go. Don’t stop until you’re out of here.” He doesn’t need to tell them twice.
Next is a man with a rifle slung around his neck helping himself to waffle fries at the Chick-Fil-A. He’s gabbling into a radio around masticated potato. “Yeah, yeah, she says it’s almost ready.” A sharp blow to his head from behind, and Bucky catches his body before it can hit the counter. A teenage cook cowering near the lemonade machine twists his white paper hat in his hands. Bucky points to the back, and the boy sets off without a word.
There are two more men more rifling through women’s undergarments in Victoria’s Secret instead of watching their own hostages. “He out of the tunnels yet?” one asks, tracing a curl of lace atop a brassiere cup.
“Soon,” the other answers, eyeing a baby blue nightie. “Won’t know what hit ‘em,” he adds, a second before Bucky hits him. Bucky’s on the other man before he can shout, takes him to the floor with one hand.
A handful of employees and shoppers cower on their knees in the center of the store. They all stand when he motions at them, an older woman helping her husband up. They’re on the second floor now, so no back door here. He shepherds the group out the front, leads them through the shadows to an emergency exit. He shoulders the door open to find the stairwell empty and motions the group through.
He’s reaching to help the couple, bringing up the rear, when a cap and coat-clad woman comes out of the Dillards, pulls up her rifle in surprise. He lets off a round from his own gun, and she drops to the floor. Someone screams. Then all hell breaks loose.
More gunmen come at him from the other direction, and he shoves the wife toward the door with one hand. The husband stumbles, crashes to the floor without her. Bucky trades pot shots with the shooters, no cover here, tries to keep them pinned behind a nearby wall. One gunman pops out and Bucky hits him in the chest, sends him to the ground.
Bucky runs to haul the older man up and drags him upright. He propels the man into his wife’s waiting arms when a woman with a rifle leans around the corner, training her sights on them.
Bucky spins to snap his own rifle up just in time to catch a pair of bullets in his right shoulder. They bloom with a terrible warmth. He lets out a sharp yell, gets off a shot that takes the woman down. He charges over to her position, takes a breath when he doesn’t see any immediate threats.
He may not see the threat, but it’s still there. Bullets ping the floor around him and he hot foots it behind a nearby planter. A quick look through the ficuses shows a gunman on the opposite side of the escalator. He lets off a few shots to force his opponent’s head down. His rifle clicks empty, and he dives to his next cover.
He picks his way behind obstacles — another planter, a set of couches, a piano that makes him do a double take —until he’s able to slink into a shadowed Pottery Barn. He makes it past the faint light cast from the skylights in the atrium, then the pain crashes over him.
Bucky catches himself on a shelf full of tableware and vases, almost gasping loud enough to drown out the sound of approaching footsteps. Almost. He snags a few cloth napkins from the display and squirrels himself away in the darkness under a dining set to take stock.
He peels his jacket and shirt away from his shoulder with a hiss. He can’t see the damage, but he can feel the bullets in there, mushroomed metal scraping against his collarbone, hot and barbed and filling the back of his throat with acid. He folds the napkins up, bites back a cry when he presses the starched linen against his torn flesh. He breathes hard through his nose, peers around the silhouettes of sectionals and bar stools to see the goons fan out in the atrium, rifles at the ready.
He knows there’s no signal, so he can’t send the text he wants. Hey Sam, so, turns out this place is full of angry people with guns shooting up the place. And me. Guess they aren’t all terrible shots. Any chance you could pop in, lend a hand right about now? K thx.
Who the fuck are these people? No masks to say Flag Smashers, no apparent powers, nothing obviously in common with one another. He hasn’t heard any demands, no indication they’re even in contact with anyone on the outside.
Well, whoever they are, they know he’s here now. Despite his best efforts, they still have hostages. And guns. Lots of guns. He’s got an empty magazine, a vibranium arm, and two bullets in one shoulder. And they’re coming for him.
He bangs the back of his head against a table leg. “Fuck,” he whines. “Sam is really going to kill me.”