Chapter Text
The place smelled like sweat, like whiskey and too many bodies stuffed in too-small of a space.
“Rollins not joining us?” Steve stepped just inside the doorway, posture too tight and back too straight.
Too tense.
Brock didn’t say anything at first, just jostled him inside with a shoulder, half a grin curling over his face. “Nah, this ain’t his kind’a thing.”
The room noticed him anyways, briefly.
Heads turned and it was quite hostile. But it wasn’t friendly.
Someone sitting at the bar called out, “That the new one?”
“Wonder how long he’ll last,” Muttered another voice.
Steve couldn’t place it.
Rumlow just kept walking, letting Steve trail behind. “Commander Collins’ is out- Fucked his leg up real nice a couple’a week back. Surgery, recovery, all that shit. Don’t know if he’ll walk right again,” He offered a half-shrug. “So now we’ve got Hayes.”
Steve didn’t have to ask which one Hayes was. He felt it a second later, like cold air sneaking under his collar.
The man stepped from the bar, controlled and measured. He kept his gaze held on Steve.
“You’re Agent Hughes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hayes studied him for a beat longer than Steve thought necessary, though he didn’t break eye contact.
Finally Hayes gave a small nod. “Try not to embarrass us.”
He said it simply, like it was a fact, then moved on, exchanging a few quiet words with a man hunched over a tablet at the far end, drink untouched.
Rumlow let out a low breath. “Gotta say, that went well. He didn’t even threaten you.” There was humor, there. Kind of.
“He didn’t have to,” Steve muttered, feeling the tension begin to coil up in his back.
Brock grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re learning.”
He trailed behind Rumlow, deeper in. There was less tension, now, more noise. People were breaking off, falling back into easy patterns now that Commander Hayes had stepped out.
There was no kind of formal introductions, no handshakes or the like. Steve juset.. Picked things up.
Big guy by the bar- McCallister, Steve heard someone use the name in passing. Same with Griffin, the sandy-haired man sitting backwards on a chair, lazily arguing with the other man about something over a half-empty bottle.
McCallister didn’t say much, just nodded when Steve passed by. He was nursing something dark- His eyes were steady, calm. There was no judgement and Steve’s shoulders began to ease under his look.
“Careful,” Brock hissed. “Start standin’ too close to the nice ones,” He cocked his head. “An’ the rest of ‘em’ll think you’re soft.”
Steve shot him a glance. “That a problem?”
Brock smirked. “Only if you are.”
Griffin was louder, friendlier. He just leaned over, offering Steve a beer without really looking up. “Hope you’re not shy. First round’s on the new guy.”
Steve didn’t take it, but he appreciated the gesture.
Someone bumped into him from behind, probably on purpose. Steve turned to see a wiry man with a crooked smile, his glass already half-empty. “Don’t worry, man,” He drawled. “We don’t bite.” He paused, running his tongue over his teeth as he glanced at Brock. “Well, most of us.”
“Mason,” Rumlow said once he’d wandered off, then nodded to a quiet woman leaning against the wall. The only one in the room. “Hunter,” He said.
She was sipping something clear from a bottle, gaze flicking coolly around the room. She’d not said a word or moved an inch, but as Steve turned his attention to her she just gave him a nod.
He didn’t see Davies until he heard him, the click of a lighter, rhythmic and over and over again. He was sat at the corner of the room, boots up on a chair, staring through Steve like he wasn’t quite worth the effort.
“Strange guy,” Brock offered. “You’ll know if he likes you when he gives you a warning.”
Steve wasn’t laughing and he wasn’t sure if Brock was, either.
They ended up at the far end of the bar, where the lighting was dimmer and the hum of conversation was quieter.
Brock ordered something neat- Something clear. No ice.
Steve just shook his head when the bartender raised an eyebrow at him, but Rumlow ordered him a beer.
Brock tilted his glass. “To new blood.”
Steve nodded.
“You’re quiet,” Rumlow hummed. “Mean’s you’re thinkin’.”
“Just trying to read the room.”
He leaned in, dropping his voice low. “Don’t go readin’ anyone too hard, these people ain’t pages.” He glanced back, then cocked his head. “They’re weapons, all’a them.”
"And where are you in that lineup?" Steve asked.
There was a moment, and Brock didn’t smile this time. “Everywhere I want to be.”
That made Steve look away—And he didn’t want to admit to himself just how goddamn familiar that voice felt. Not just the sound, but the shape- The pressure behind it.
Someone else, kind of, had said something just like that to him once, in a different room, in a different life.
Someone he had kissed.
“Careful,” Brock said, softly. “Too much thinking gets people hurt.”
Steve’s hand curled around the edge of the table.
He lingered there, even as Brock wandered off. The room had started to thin a bit, people drifting off into smaller groups. A few had peeled off back to their homes.
Griffin was still nursing his drink, boots tucked up on the rung of his stool. He caught Steve’s eye with a nod and motioned to the open seat beside him.
“Hangin’ around with Rumlow,” He said, casual. “Thought you’d be louder. More—”
“Just watching.” Steve sat down.
“Dangerous habit.”
Griffin tipped back the rest of the beer, signaled for another. “Everyone’s still sizing you up. Best to not overthink it- Let folks show you who they are.. It’s easier.”
He gestured faintly towards the rest of the room with his glass. McAllister was leaned close to Slater in the corner, voices low. Mason was way across the room, moving towards the other two. Hunter had slipped out at some point—And the place was still loud enough. With all the music, clinking glasses and half-drunnk laughter—But Steve still felt outside of it.
He was about to say something back when a hand landed on his shoulder. Too firnedly to be polite, too firm to brush off.
Rollins.
“Well look at you,” Rollins drawled, leaning in just enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice. “Hidin’ out at the bar while the rest of us have a good time. That won’t do.”
Steve turned, just slightly. “What’s the alternative?”
Something in Jack’s grin tugged sharper. “Alternative’s you come with me. Got someone who wants a word with you, better to hear it quiet than shouted across the room.”
Griffin’s boot tapped once against the stool rung, and he didn’t look at Jack, just muttered something into his glass that Steve could barely pick up. “Careful where you follow him.”
Jack’s eyes flicked that way, amusement and something darker glittering in the green. He patted at Steve’s shoulder, “Don’t worry, Hughes. I’ll have you back before you’re missed.”
Steve stood after a moment, gave Griffin a nod, and left the beer untouched.
Jack led him to a room tucked somewhere off to the side. They weren’t all gathered together- Well, they might as well have been. Davies leaned against the table and Hunter was tucked on the edge of a couch. Mason was sprawled out in a low chair, flipping a bottlecap between his fingers like a coin.
Steve realized Hayes was gone. Rumlow wasn’t.
He was leaning against the doorway, drink untouched, watching the group. His eyes tracked Steve the moment he crossed into his line of sight.
“Look at that,” Mason said with a grin, pretty drunk but not quite sloppy. “Hughes made it to the real table.”
“Guess we can stop pretending now,” Hunter muttered.
Steve didn’t really sat anything, he stood there while Jack dropped back into the circle.
Rumlow finally moved, not towards Steve, but around him- Passing shoulder brushing too close. He took up a lean beside Mason, elbow resting on the man’s shoulder.
“Mission came down,” Rumlow said, voice low, flat. “First light.”
Hunter just nodded once. No questions. Davies reached for the toothpick tucked behind his ear.
“What’s the op?” Steve asked.
Nobody looked at him.
Jack broke the silence. “Clean-Up. Local cell. Nothing flashy, but it’s time-sensitive.”
“Collins signed off?”
“Collins isn’t signing off on anything from a hospital bed,” Rumlow said. “This came from Hayes.”
Steve felt something shift in his ribs, a nervous kind of anticipation he’d not felt since the war.
“They want the new guy to see how it’s done,” Mason said, the grin on his face easy. “Break him in.”
“Hope he doesn’t.” Hunter added.
⫘⫘⫘⫘✘♚✘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The lights were already too bright.
Steve stepped into the gear room, boots echoing on the polished concrete, and blinked hard against the hum of flourescents overhead.
People moved like they’d done this a hundred times before, calm and practiced and methodical. Vests strapped tight, weapons checked and cleaned, the occasional laugh, low and private, between those who knew they’d survive the day.
Steve didn’t feel that certainty.
He hadn’t slept.
The night before kept looping- That circle of agents. Easy smiles, too-slick charm and Rumlow’s always being so goddamn close.
And then- Bucky—
Steve took a breath and moved towards the table lined with loadouts.
He was checking his gloves when Rumlow hit the room like a live wire.
He wasn’t yelling, wasn’t grinning but it was all there—In his stride, the way he snapped his vest into place, the energy simmering just under his skin. His eye caught Steve’s as he passed, and for a beat too long, they stayed locked.
“Big day,” Brock said, voice low and way too amused. “Don’t want’a miss your debut.”
Steve didn’t answer.
Rumlow laughed under his breath and kept moving- Checked a rifle and slapped a fresh mag into place, then tossed it down again like he couldn’t stay still long enough to focus.
“Something we should know?” Steve asked, voice clipped.
Rumlow glanced at him like the answer should have been obvious. “Rumor mill’s been running hot this morning. Hayes pulled a favor- Insurance, I guess.”
Something in Steve’s stomach tightened. “What kind of—”
Rumlow smiled, smirked, really, and leaned in.
“Cold storage, big guns- You know the type.”
Steve blinked, suddenly nauseous. “.. Are you saying the Wint--?”
Brock tapped a gloved finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
Then he turned, laughing as he went.
There was movement at the far end of the bay. A door slid open, two guards standing firm on either side. Hayes emerged a moment later- Gray coat, gloves, and that same unreadable expression.
Nobody said anything.
Rumlow was practically vibrating.
Steve stepped back from the table and felt that old gut-level warning flare up again. A whisper of wartime instinct. Don’t look away from the shadows.
Don’t follow ghosts down hallways you don’t know.
⫘⫘⫘⫘✘♚✘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The drop was clean. Fast. Cold air howling past as the quinjet doors groaned open to fog and frost.
Steve hit the ground second.
The landing zone was half-melted permafrost, slick with blood from a skirmish that had barely cooled. Fire still licked at a wrecked outpost on the horizon—One of SHIELD’s listening stations, reduce to rubble and silence.
STRIKE scattered on impact, boots crunching, rifles up.
Steve moved without waiting for orders.
Knife strapped high against his chest, rifle slung across his back- The weight bringing him back to the shield and…. No.
The enemy was dug in. They weren’t uniformed and they weren’t local, either. These were ghosts- Burned ID’s, black market gear, foreign tongues that Steve recognized but couldn’t quite place. They were trained well enough to know how to flank, but poorly enough to think they could outlast STRIKE.
They didn’t.
He saw Hunter slam someone into the ground hard enough to crack his helmet- Her braid snapping like a whip as she pivoted and sent her knee into another soldier’s chest.
Mason was in a stolen truck by then- Tore past the gates in reverse, gouging deep grooves into the dirt. He rolled out and to the mounted .50 cal, hammering out suppressive fire as everyone moved into the building.
Steve ducked under the debris, shoulder-rolling through a blown-out hallway. He caight Davies in the distance placing something. No countdown.
Just a click and the whole left wing disappeared.
The first kill was quiet. Steve breached a storage wing alone- Muzzle flash from inside the dark, a round grazing his shoulder.
He dropped flat, rolled.
Came up with the knife.
He rushed quick and the man barely had time to react before Steve buried the blade between his ribs, angled up and in.
Blood gushed warm over his glove and Steve didn’t blink.
He wiped the blade on his pant leg and kept moving.
Two more in the corridor. One through the eye, one through the throat. It wasn’t elegant, but it was fast.
⫘⫘⫘⫘✘♚✘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Rollins slid up beside him at some point. “Better than I expected, Hughes.”
Steve didn’t say anything.
“That’s alright,” Rollins smiled. “You’re efficient, that’s what matters.”
They moved as two units, now—Mason, Hunter and Davies clearing from the right, Steve, Brock and Jack pushing forward.
And they pushed deep, past the main chamber and further into the reinforced wing.
Hayes had said there was a vault.
Intel. Weapons. Maybe a prisoner.
Maybe not.
Steve knocked out the final door, shoulder first.
Inside there was silence.
A man sat cuffed to a chair in the center of the room. Blood dried along his temple, eyes half-lidded.
Steve blinked. “Alive,” He said into the comms.
Then-
Behind him, a sound, almost too soft to register.
Steve pivoted on instinct- Rifle up--
And saw him.
No sound, no breath, just a presence advancing down the hallway.
Tall, broad.
Masked.
Goggles caught the light like the flash of a blade.
Black combat gear- Arm gleaming like steel dipping in fucking shadow.
Steve dropped his rifle and went to move, but he was too slow.
The Winter Soldier was already moving.
It happened fast.
Once moment, Steve was standing. The next he was slammed into the far wall- Barrel snapped, knife gone flying.
The air was tore from his lungs.
The Soldier didn’t speak- Didn’t recognize him.
Steve knew he had to—He swung, bare-fisted. Landed one hit and Bucky didn’t flinch.
Another hit came back, an elbow to the ribs and fist to his throat.
Steve stumbled, eyes blurring.
He hit the floor again, rolled. Came up with the broken end of the rifle and stabbed.
The jagged end cracked against metal and the Soldier didn’t even flinch.
Rumlow’s voice, only half-urgent, cracked in the distance.
“Goddamnit, let him be! Jesus fuck- Just grab Carpenter-“ There was a short crackle of electricity and then--
Nothing.
The Soldier stepped back, picked up the unconscious man with one arm and dragged him back through the shattered doorway.
Steve sat against the wall, throat burning.
The memory of eyes that, once again, looked through him like they’d known him before.
He blinked towards the door, boots step in—Brock, his grin wild. “Hell of a warm-up, hm?”