The soldier didn't like to look upon his captor. Steve, his captor called himself, a friend, as if the soldier had friends. Instead, the soldier spent the first three days of his imprisonment exploring the boundaries of his cell. It was the largest he'd ever seen, bounded by technology far superior to that which Hydra had access to. It was unlikely that the soldier would escape on his own. He had tried to leap over the barrier, force his way through it, dig under it, and attack it with projectiles. All had failed.

That was fine. He would bide his time. He had standard operating protocols for situations like this. Hydra would eventually find him.

Day four, his captor caught him sleeping beneath a tree in the rain.

"Oh, Bucky, will you come in now? I made your favourite: Shepherd's Pie."

Designation 'Bucky' was what his captor had chosen to call him. The soldier understood this to be a method of psychological torture, for which he would not fall.

"Negative. The soldier does not have favourites."

"Right. Alright. Sustenance then. You need food, at least. Come in, have a plate, and if it's really awful then you can tell me so. Only if it's really awful, though."

The soldier did require sustenance. "Affirmative."

The captor snorted, eyes wet. This was not the first time the captor had cried. Another form of psychological torture, no doubt. It made the soldier feel queasy inside.

Inside, they sat and ate in silence. The captor was distracted, an easy target. But the soldier had already tried attacking the captor in moments of vulnerability and he had been prevented from causing harm in any manner. Even the bomb he'd rigged to explode had somehow been contained.

"The food is adequate," the soldier said, after eating two plates.

The captor's head snapped up. "Yeah? Ha, I bet. More?"

With a frown, the soldier shook his head. "I have consumed the necessary calories."

Ignoring his response, the captor took his plate and served him another portion.

"Eat, Buck. You always underestimate how much you need."

As commanded, the soldier ate. After finishing the plate, he felt full. Sated.

"Adequate," he repeated, not entirely sure why.

"Sleep in a real bed, tonight," the captor said. "If you want, that is. Even I don't get my best sleep leaning up against logs."

"That's a lie, 'cus you sleep like a log, Rogers."

It took the soldier several seconds to realise those words had been his own. Where had they come from? Why had he said them?

"Bucky…" The captor's eyes were shining. "You're a real bastard, you know?"

"Back atcha, pal," the soldier said, uncertain why. It was like a code phrase that he'd known once but long forgotten. It must have been programmed into him before a wipe.

"Whatever you say, pal " the captor said, giggling like a child.

The soldier forced himself to look at the captor. Blonde hair, blue eyes, stupid face.

No. The soldier had no opinion on faces. Grabbing a canvas, he disappeared out the door and trekked to his favourite camping spot, on a hill that allowed him to see all that might be coming. He settled down on a dryish patch of thistle and slept.

Tony closed his eyes. Death was more peaceful than he'd imagined. There was no pain, not even a sensation of pressure or shock.

"Sir?"

Strangely, death sounded like JARVIS. It felt the ache of his arc reactor, buried within his chest. It smelt like ash and smoke.

"Sir!"

Tony gasped as his boot clipped the edge of the helicarrier, jolting him to the side, but not crushing him, not ending him…

"JARVIS? J? What happened?"

Before JARVIS could answer, Tony spun, repulsors at the ready. The helicarrier was floating gently to the ground, perhaps a hundred metres from land.

"I… I have no plausible answer, sir."

"Holy shit," Tony said, as he realised the most likely cause. "Looks like Fury somehow got through to Potter."

Fury watched the clip again and gnashed his teeth. They were on the somehow still intact bridge of the helicarrier and he could feel his blood boiling in his veins, because he knew, he knew he owed their lives to Potter and his magic .

Oh, how he hated owing his life to anyone.

"Sir, would you like our analysis?"

"No!" he growled.

He replayed the clip once more. Then once more again.

Fucking Potter.

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

"Even if he doesn't want to hear it, I do. Break it down for me and don't miss a single thing out…"

Fury glared at Melinda May, a dependable and deadly agent, one thorough invested in Coulson's wellbeing. She stared back, an eyebrow raised. With a huff, Fury ducked his head and motioned for the analysts to start.

They were, of course, poring over each and every frame of the footage of Loki and Potter's confrontation. Or rather, what the camera had captured prior to that.

Potter teleported on deck. Fury had seen these abilities before, but this time, Potter had brought a companion. Specifically, Potter had brought with him Agent Rigel, who Fury had sent after him. Worse…

"Potter and Rigel appear to be familiar with each other," Agent Simmons observed.

"Really," Fury said, flat.

"Yes! See how they lean into one another… ah, you were being sarcastic. Apologies." Simmons tucked her fringe behind her ear. "Right. So, we've established they know each other. Further, they have overlapping skill sets. Director Fury, was Rigel ever reported to have superhuman abilities?"

"No."

"He was known for being lucky," May murmured. "We hadn't realised he was supernaturally so."

"This isn't luck. This is lies." Fury pointed at the screen as Rigel teleported. Exactly as Potter had. Eye-witness reports had him materialising next to Thor as the glass cage tumbled to earth, before teleporting them both away. Neither had reported in since. They'd tracked the pair down to a flat in London, but Rigel had once more teleported them away with a wink and a wave, somehow aware of the recording equipment Barton had pointed in his direction.

"At this point, the cameras glitch," Simmons said. "Apologies, sir. That's all we've got."

"Let's assume that's Potter's fault, too."

Just before the cameras fried, however, they captured a shadow. A dark bloom that grew from Potter's shoulders into wings spreading wide. There the footage ended.

"Harry fucking Potter," Fury growled. "This has gone on too long. Find him!"

Phil blinked awake, surprised to be alive, and not in pain. He was abed on a soft mattress, in a room lit by dappled daylight pouring in through the window, a pair of blue cotton curtains neatly tied back to reveal foliage and blue skies. The ceiling had exposed wooden beams, like an old barn conversation, typical of architecture found in European countryside.

He wasn't on the helicarrier, the last place he remembered being, nor in any of SHIELD's medbays, nor in any place he'd been before.

Hmm.

It seemed the smell of fresh bread and chicken soup had stirred him. He considered his body and concluded that he likely could stand, if he really wanted to. As it was, he was so comfortable that he hardly felt the need. The urgency that had been racing through his veins these last few days was absent. He was safe and somehow, right now, that was enough.

"Harry," he called, for it could only be Harry who had against all odds managed to save him from what had felt like certain death. Phil had seen him perform miracle after miracle. What was one more?

A crash echoed from downstairs.

"Ah—one moment!"

A few seconds later, Harry was standing at the door to the bedroom.

"You're awake. Good, that's good. Sooner than I expected. How are you feeling?" Harry's eyes were bright as he examined Phil, but he didn't step into the room.

With a sigh, Phil patted the empty space on the bed next to him. He began to sit up, only to find Harry rushing forward to help.

"You were impaled less than 24 hours ago," Harry scolded.

Phil blinked, looking down at his chest. He was wearing a navy pyjama shirt, but he certainly didn't feel as if he'd been stabbed only the day before. Tentatively, he unbuttoned the shirt, fingers slipping on each pearl fastening, to find his chest as it had always been: a smattering of grey hairs and pale, unblemished skin. Not a single mark.

"It sure doesn't look that way."

He sank back against the pillows. Harry had perched on the bed, the corner of his mouth curled up into a smile. Phil returned it, intrigued to hear about what had happened after he'd blacked out.

"Loki failed to kill me, it seems."

Harry's smile slipped, eyes narrowing. "He did," he said. "His mistake was daring to try."

It was flattering to be the object of such care. Phil turned that thought over in his mind, exploring the repercussions.

"I have to say, I'm almost glad he did. You proved me right."

"Oh?"

Phil grinned. "You're a good person, Harry. Despite the way that SHIELD has hounded you, you still saved me. Although how, I don't know…"

"Right place, right time," Harry said, waving a dismissive hand, although his cheeks turned pink. Phil allowed himself a moment to look, for once not in a rush to complete a mission for Fury or call in backup. Harry wore the face Phil had first met, mid-twenties, tanned skin, dark, messy hair. His eyes were green and ageless.

"Right place, right time," he echoed and raised a brow. "Really?"

Harry shifted, looking away. "Well. Maybe there was an element of magical influence that allowed me to get to you in time," he allowed.

That was understating it, to say the least. Phil let the moment sit, a classic interrogation tactic. It seemed Harry was well practised, however, for his grin merely turned wry as the silence dragged.

The pleasant smell of soup from downstairs was turning acrid.

"I think something's burning," Phil observed.

With a curse, Harry jumped to his feet. "Lunch. Give me a second."

Harry returned shortly, a tray floating before him. The tray remained hovering while Harry propped Phil up with pillows, before settling on his lap. The thick crust of toasted bread and bowl of chicken soup was plenty appealing. Phil dug in, ignoring his curiosity in favour of suddenly ravenous hunger. His eyes were drooping closed by the time he finished it, but he forced them to remain open, even as he yawned.

"You need to rest, Phil," Harry said. He tapped the tray with a thin stick he produced from up his sleeve, and it disappeared.

"Magic," Phil said, searching for the energy to interrogate him further.

"Yes," Harry said. "I'll answer your questions when you next wake up. Although I might have fixed you up, your body still remembers the trauma. Sleep."

As Phil gave into the inevitable, a single thought occurred.

"Drugged me," he accused.

Harry's chuckle was the last thing he heard as tiredness overtook him.

Steve wasn't sure what to make of the man Harry had claimed was his godfather, despite the fact he was now sitting at the kitchen table of the safehouse he currently called home. Sirius Black had an edge to him that Steve had only seen in men like Fury, and Tony, and on his worst days, himself. Familiar with war and all the brutalities that entailed, dangerous, and whip smart to boot.

He was even less sure what to make of the man that Black at brought with him on this impromptu visit, only a few days after he and Harry had left.

"This is excellent fare, Captain Rogers," Thor said, putting away his fifth bacon sandwich. "It reminds me of the hog roasts my father put on for feasts."

Black cackled. "This guy," he exclaimed. "How often did you feast?"

Thor wiped his beard and leaned forward, the table groaning beneath his weight. He still wore the ornate silver and gold armour he'd arrived in. He tilted his head to one side and stroked his moustache.

"Whenever the warriors brought in a good kill," Thor decided. "And on days of festivities, such as the All Father's Day."

"Now that we've eaten," Steve said, or rather now that they had completed 'guest rites' as Black had suggested, much to Thor's delight, "perhaps you could tell me why you're here?"

As interesting as stories of Thor's world undoubtedly were, it was strange that Harry wasn't here, and Sirius was, especially with such odd company.

"Ah, it is a great tale of misfortune and woe," Thor said, "yet such tales oft have a happy ending, much as this one does."

A tree branch outside the house creaked, despite the lack of wind. Bucky had always loved stories as a child, even if he'd claimed not to have time for them as an adult. Thor, it seemed, had also heard the movement, his gaze shifting to the window. Cannier than Steve had initially expected, he said nothing, instead clasping Black's shoulder.

"But, it is not just my story to tell," Thor declared. "Lord Sirius, you share a part of this glory. I shall tell you my end of the business and he shall tell you his."

Black smirked, shifting back into his chair so he was slouching. "I'm no lord," he said, for the fourth time, although it was clear his heart wasn't in it.

"In truth," Thor began, smiling wide as his voice took on the cadence of a poet, "our story begins the day of my coronation, when I was but a young fool, filled with impulse and pride…"

Notes:

Harry once more driving Fury insane. Sirius adding fat to the fire. And Tony survives!

Ofc, if you know me at all, you know that Tony survives. Can't kill off my fave genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist.

Shout at me in the comments. Unless you're goign to be mean. Then shout at your local politican instead.