It was oh-two-thirty and Steve had to admit he was tired. And cold; his flare of anger had burned out hours ago. He'd dragged Sam along on this wild goose chase for months, and this is was how he thanked the man? You're better than that, Rogers, he thought. Time to head back inside to warm up a little.

He quietly woke Sam, who mumbled complaints, but headed outside to take over the watch. In the dim light of the propane heater, Steve saw that Bucky had kicked off the blankets in a restless sleep. He heard quiet muttering (some words in English, some not) then a whimper, a wordless moan. You weren't supposed to wake someone in the middle of a nightmare, but he couldn't bear to let his friend suffer a moment more.

"Hey, Bucky... it's okay. It's just a dream. C'mon... wake up for me. I'm here, it's Steve." He crouched down, speaking quietly and resting a hand on his good shoulder. Bucky startled awake, his look of terror and confusion a match for their last moments on the helicarrier. When he lashed out, Steve took the blow without moving away. He watched as Bucky then folded into himself, wrapping his free arm around his body. He still seemed lost and afraid, but his ragged breathing started to even out.

" 'M cold, Stevie." He sounded no older than the day they had met, and God, how that hurt.

"Here, sit up for a sec." Picking up the discarded bedding, he tucked it around Bucky, then sat down, sliding between the improvised recliner and him, pulling his shivering friend against his chest.

"You used to do this for me, Buck. When I couldn't breathe right and it was easier to sleep sitting up. You kept me warm. You always took such good care of me. Let me finally return the favor.' They sat in silence for a few moments. "Come back with me, Buck. I've got a nice place, upstate. There's fruit trees in the yard. You missed seeing them bloom, but I bet we can make pies or applesauce in the fall."

"I'm not your Bucky any more, Steve. I'm sorry. I can try, but I know I'll never get it right. Wilson said you read about the Soldier - what they did. What I did. I'm damaged goods and nothing but trouble. No silver slippers for me - can't ever go home." Steve was shocked at the bitterness he heard. He moved so he could face his friend, look at him in the eye.

"You've always been trouble, Buck... and I'm not giving up. You know me better than that," he fiercely replied. "One step at a time. We get you out of here, get you somewhere safe. Sam knows people who can help you adjust, recover. We can find lawyers to argue the whole "brainwashed prisoner of war" angle. And you aren't the only one who's changed. I'm not the scrawny punk you knew back in Brooklyn."

Bucky snorted in dark amusement. "You're still one stubborn pain in the ass, Rogers, you know that?"

"And you're stuck with me. I didn't chase you around the country to give up this easily."

They heard the door open and Sam stuck his head back in. "I'm heading out to the airport to pick up Lang. Anything you can pass along to bring him up to speed? " Bucky suggested Wilson take some photos of the access panel on his shoulder blade.

"I hope this makes more sense to Lang than it does to me." Steve said, holding the flashlight. "Just looks like a tangle of wires." He tried hard not to think about what this goddamned hunk of machinery represented. Not just the loss of Bucky's physical arm, but the loss of so much more. Steve remembered feeling as if a vital part of himself had been torn away when Bucky fell from the train, leaving a ragged empty hole.

The wound had begun to scab over as he had started a new life in the 21st century; only to be ripped wide open when the Soldier's mask was torn from Bucky's face. He may have changed in many ways beyond the physical, but Steve was sure that the core of James Buchanan Barnes was intact.

"Earth to Rogers, come in Rogers." Wilson's voice brought him back from his reverie.

"Yeah.. sorry, Sam."

"I was saying I gotta go. There's a box of donuts in the bag over there, along with instant coffee. There's only about 2 cups' worth left in the thermos and you both look like that ain't near enough. There's a saucepan in the bag as well - I'm sure you can rig something up."

And they did - using some spare wire to secure the pan over the heater. Bucky joked that if his arm were free, he could just hold the pan until the water boiled.

"If that were the case, we'd already be on our way back to DC... or New York. Anywhere other than this godforsaken place." He saw a hurt look flash across Bucky's face. He hadn't meant it to sound so harsh. "Sorry - I know you felt this was the only safe way to reach out. I guess I don't understand."

"I hope you never do, Steve." And now it was Bucky with the harsh words. But he had a point. They finished the donuts and god-awful coffee in silence.

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you and drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; nooses give; gas smells awful; you might as well live. Miss Parker sure had a way with words.

Barnes knew this was just James' dark sense of humour, but It wasn't the first time that idea of taking the final exit had come up. There had been hours of waking nightmares over the past several months. First just brief flashes of missions, then full installments, recorded in perfect clarity. It wasn't even the actual acts of murder that so horrified him; it was the satisfaction he remembered feeling on completing a mission; on following his handler's orders.

The time between Peggy's funeral and discovering Steve was in New York had been the worst.

After they fled the cemetery, It had taken the better part of a day before James spoke again. Barnes had thought he'd lost his companion for good, and he couldn't bear the thought of being alone. He had gotten as far as pulling the pin from a grenade while sitting in the dusty wreck of a warehouse. But there had been a cat, small and scrawny, warily watching from the shadows.

It would have been a sin to have taken that life as well.

He knew he should give thanks for how far he'd come; the blessing of having Steve back in his life. But not like this; the plan had been a terrible mistake. The Soldier might well just be playing a waiting game, and he would wake up with Steve's blood on his hands again. He was exhausted, so tired of fighting, of being afraid. He burrowed back into the blankets as best he could to try to shut out the world.

"You okay, Buck?"

He was too tired to care, to spare his feelings. "No. It hurts, Steve. Everything hurts."

"Almost there, Buck. We'll get you out of here, get you safe and warm. Take you home." He started humming a tune that was deeply familiar. "I bought you this record for Christmas, Buck. We borrowed Mr. Steinman's wind-up Victrola and listened to it again and again."

" 'And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.' I want to believe that Steve, I really do. But I don't think I deserve it."

Steve remembered Bucky's black moods all too well. He'd had them since they were kids; where would withdraw into himself, answering any queries with either silence or sarcasm. It wasn't any surprise that everything that had happened over the past three-quarters of a century only made those black moods darker and deeper. In the past, a long walk or a couple of rounds in the boxing ring would be enough to set Bucky to rights, but neither of those were an option right now.

He watched over Bucky as he fell into a fitful sleep; moving only when his phone buzzed with a text from Sam.

On our way back - what is it about engineers being blabbermouths? ETA about 30 min

So, another half-hour to rest - better than nothing. He let his eyelids droop briefly; only to snap open when he heard the crunch of gravel outside. Another text arrived at the same time.

Sam says to tell you it's just us chickens, whatever that means.

He sent back a thumbs up emoji, then stepped outside, and a few moments later, Sam was introducing Lang. Despite being perhaps in his late thirties, he seemed giddy as a teenage girl to be meeting Captain America. He let the man gush for a moment, smiling and nodding, well used to this reaction. Before it got too embarrassing, Sam broke in. "So, you saw the pictures, Lang - think you can help us out?"

Lang blinked. "Uh yeah... and I've been shaking your hand way too long, Captain Rogers, haven't I?"

"Call me Steve. Let me go check on Bucky." As he stepped away, he heard Lang say "Thinks for thanking of me! I mean, thanks for thinking of me."

"Hey, Buck..." He knelt down next to his friend, reaching out to wake him. He startled, then rubbed his eyes, looking a decade younger for a moment. "Lang's here. You ready?" Despite Bucky's nod and mumbled reply, Steve could tell that no, he wasn't ready, but he knew they had no choice. He heard the other men walk in the room.

"Lang, this is Bucky... James Barnes. As you can see, he's in a bit of a tight spot. Buck, this is Scott Lang. He's going to fix things so we can get the hell out of here."

"Okay - well, Mr. Barnes - apparently there's some sort of access panel on the back of the prosthetic, right? Can I take a look?"

"Sure, but Mr. Barnes was my dad. Call me Bucky." Steve knew he was putting on a good face in front of this stranger.

"Okay - then I'm Scott."

They shifted the boxes and crates so he could take a look at Bucky's shoulder. He had to cut away part of the shirt, and Steve saw for the first time the cruel scarring where flesh met metal. Scott had brought tools with him and was soon engrossed in his explorations.

Bucky was holding up well, all things considered. Steve hadn't thought to ask how long he'd been trapped in the machine before he and Sam arrived, but he wouldn't be surprised if he was going on over twenty-four hours of captivity. Steve knew he'd been in similar spots during sniper missions in the War; waiting for hours in cramped, cold conditions. And he'd probably faced even worse during his years (so many goddamned years) as the Soldier.

"So - I've found what looks to be the switch, but I want to take a closer look. I'll be right back." Scott stood, grabbed the duffle he'd brought with him and left the room. Steve shot Sam a questioning look, but Sam just shrugged again, then pulled out a six-pack of familiar-looking glass bottles.

"Picked up some Coca-Colas - figured they might hit the spot right around now." He opened the bottles and passed them over. "They're kosher - made with sugar instead of corn syrup." Sam had seen the face Steve made the last time he tried a modern soda. But this one was good, really good. And he could use the caffeine and sugar right now. Bucky had downed his already, and was reaching for another.

Lang came back in the room, dressed in a red, silver and black costume that looked vaguely similar to his own Captain America outfit, but more futuristic. He gave Steve an earpiece, then donned an odd-looking helmet. "Can you hear me okay, Cap... er... Steve?" he asked.

"Yeah, Scott - loud and clear. What's this all about?"

"Wilson didn't tell you?" He sounded surprised.

"Nope - said I wouldn't believe it til I saw it." Steve's interest was piqued, but they had a job to finish. "How is that getup of yours going to help Bucky?"

"I'm going to shrink down and take a look around inside his arm - see if I can figure out how the biofeedback system works so I can deactivate the arm without the associated pain."

"You're going to do what?" Steve's shocked tone must have spooked Bucky, as his eyes suddenly too big for his face. "Sorry, Buck - it's okay. He just... well... apparently things are gonna get a little strange here in a moment."

"Welcome to my world, punk." Sarcasm was always one of Bucky's defense mechanisms; and Steve could tell how close to the end of his rope he was.

"Okay, Scott - do whatever you gotta do to get things done." Steve sighed... and Lang disappeared.

We've finally cracked the hell up. That's the only explanation. We have gone fucking nuts.

But Wilson hadn't batted an eye, and Steve seemed only a little shaken when the new guy, Lang, had disappeared.

"Steve, what the hell just happened?" It came out surprisingly steady; considering how he felt inside.

Wilson spoke up. "The suit that Scott's wearing allows him to shrink down to about so big." He held out his hand, index finger and thumb about a quarter of an inch apart. "And believe it or not, that's not the weirdest thing he can do."

Steve added, "He's going inside your arm to try to figure out how to make it not hurt when we switch it off." He cocked his head to the side he wore the comm link on. "He says he'll try not to disturb anything, at least at first." He could hear a soft murmur from the earpiece Steve wore. Lang was apparently providing a running commentary as he explored the inside of the arm.

Ugh - kinda gives me the creeps just thinking about it - what if he all of a sudden un-shrinks?

The minutes ticked by and Wilson busied himself by packing up their camping supplies. Suddenly, Barnes gasped as the dull throb he'd almost gotten used to suddenly flared to a searing agony. Steve startled at that, saying "Scott, what the hell did you just do?" The pain then subsided back to its original level almost as quickly.

"S'ok Steve - it's better now - back to where it was." he said, breathing a bit heavily.

"Scott said he's sorry - he wasn't sure he was in the right place. He's going to try to re-route the pathways, whatever that means." Barnes wasn't sure either; no one had ever bothered to explain how the mechanical monstrosity they'd chained him to actually worked, beyond teaching him a few basic repairs he could do in the field.

His arm suddenly felt hot, like a sunburn; then cold, as if he'd just walked out into a snowstorm. It itched intensely for a few agonizing moments... and then the pain was gone. Completely gone. He nearly wept in relief.

"Hot damn. He did it, Stevie. It doesn't hurt anymore." Steve's face lit up, as he said to Lang, "Whatever you did, Scott - it was right. Bucky said the pain is gone, totally gone. Think you can deactivate it now, so we can get the hell out of here?"

After a few minutes, Lang must've found the right switches to flip, because his hand froze in mid-clench, and the arm felt heavy and numb. "Tell him he's got it. The arm is dead. We're done here."

It wasn't quite as simple as that. Lang had to find his way back out, then unshrink. That was somehow even more unsettling, seeing him appear out of nowhere. And even though Steve made short work of the machine, prying the press plates apart with the help of a steel bar, he could barely stand, after having been stuck in basically the same position for the better part of a day and a half.

Take it easy - let him help you. We're almost done - time to rest.

Leaning heavily on Steve, he made it out to the car, sliding into the back seat. Thanks to Wilson, they were on their way quickly enough.

"Thank you, Scott. I can't even tell you how much your help has meant." Steve was well aware that his assistance had not necessarily been in the man's own best interest. With the shrinking suit, he was as accountable to the Accords as Stark or Rhodes or Sam. And then there was the whole "aiding and abetting a fugitive" situation which would apply to anyone, enhanced or otherwise.

"No problem, sir, er. Steve. Glad I could help out. So, what happens next?"

"Hell if I know. I wish this whole mess would just go away." It had all happened so quickly, and was likely to get worse before it got better.

"I hear ya, Steve. Scott, you staying the night here, or catching a flight back home tonight?" Wilson spoke up, ever the practical one.

"I'm taking a late flight back - technically I'm still on probation, but Hope said she'd cover for me if necessary." Scott paused for a moment, as if in thought. "You know, I'm still not quite sure why we had to deactivate Bucky's arm."

"He's afraid the Soldier part of him still sees me as a target," he responded.

"Well, that would complicate things." Scott replied dryly. "I'll give you some notes on how to reactivate the arm once he's ready." He continued after a moment. "Listen, if you need a place to lay low for awhile, I bet Pym would be willing to help - he's got a cabin out in the middle of the redwoods. Let me give him a call."

Only half-listening to the conversation, Steve dozed until they pulled into a diner parking lot.

"Think we should wake Sleeping Beauty, Steve?" Sam asked.

"No, he needs the rest. Get me a few burgers and maybe some chicken noodle soup or something for Bucky." Sam nodded, and he and Scott went into the diner.

"The redwoods... that means California, doesn't it?" Bucky's voice was fuzzy with sleep.

"Since you heard that, I assume you got the rest of the conversation, too." Steve replied. "What do you think about heading out to the west coast for awhile? At least til everything blows over."

"Suits me fine. Maybe take that train trip we always talked about; can't exactly drive with my busted arm. They still have Pullman cars?"

"Don't know - but we'll figure something out. We always do."