Hattie's Boys [Bucky Barnes/Avengers Fanfiction]

1

Bucky hated his uniform.

The old him—the James Buchanan Barnes part of him—would've balked to hear those words in that order. But as he, Sam, and Zemo walked the bridge toward Madripoor, he felt more and more like he wanted to tear off the vest and pants and leap into the fucking ocean.

Fuck the old him, the new him wanted sweatpants and a hoodie.

The uniform reeked of HYDRA. Every buckle, every piece of black fabric was a reminder of what he was—what he still might be, if he listened to Zemo. The Winter Soldier. It felt like he was wearing acid, like each step was pulling him closer and closer toward his past. His head began to pound.

Longing—blood—rusted—a woman screaming—seventeen—pain beyond measure, agony in his very bones—

He sighed shakily through his nose, counting his steps until he reached ten and then starting over again. The horrible panicked feeling began to fade slightly, the control rushing back.

Thanks, Doc, he thought dryly. Maybe Doctor Raynor would forgive the breaking-Zemo-out-of-jail, the multiple felonies, and anything else that would probably happen tonight (a small part of him already knew what he would have to do, but he refused to think about it) if she heard about a successfully avoided panic attack.

Hurrah for therapy.

Sam's voice broke through his thoughts as they passed below another light. "—do something about this. I'm the only one that looks like a pimp."

Zemo, walking between them and wearing the most ridiculous coat Bucky had ever seen, replied simply, "Only an American would assume a fashion-forward black man looks like a pimp."

If Bucky didn't know any better, he'd think Zemo was more Black Lives Matter focused than Sam was.

"You look exactly like the man you're supposed to be playing," continued Zemo, "the sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mack, AKA the Smiling Tiger."

Bucky glanced sideways at Sam to see the man considering a photo he held. He looked forward again to avoid an unexpected laugh. Sam looked ridiculous, too.

At least that was one good thing about his uniform.

"He even has a bad nickname," grumbled Sam. "Hell, he does look like me though."

A few seconds later a putrid scent hit Bucky's face, making his eyes water. His steps faltered.

"You smell this?" said Zemo, breathing deep.

Fucking psychopath, thought Bucky darkly.

A voice in his head replied, Pot's really calling the kettle black here.

He scowled.

"Yeah, what is that? Acid?" said Sam, sounding disgusted.

"Madripoor," Zemo said. He glanced at Bucky, then at Sam. "No matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it. There's no margin for error."

He nodded at this city blazing against the night sky to their right. Bucky would've thought it almost beautiful if he hadn't known what it actually was.

A city of false gods and hell itself.

A car crested the horizon ahead of them, headlights skipping along the bridge's pavement. Bucky tensed—

Daybreak—a laugh, high and cruel—furnace—his metal fist, hitting someone's face over and over and over—nine—a girl, a tiny girl, her parents—

The dark car rolled to a stop before them, windows rolling down, and Bucky made another series of counts to ten. Everything seemed to swim around him, his chest growing tight.

Sam cast him a concerned look. Bucky ignored him.

"High Town's that way," said Zemo, gesturing to their right. "Not a bad place if you want to visit, but Lowtown's the other way."

He said something to the driver. Bucky yanked open a rear door and got in, relishing briefly in interior's mint smell.

"Let me guess," grouched Sam as he sat beside Bucky. "We don't have any friends in High Town."

Zemo's face was partly hidden in shadow, but Bucky could still see his bare smile.

He slowly breathed out again.

This is a terrible idea.