Chapter Text
Gotham was colder than Bucky remembered. Not that he’d ever been here, technically. But cold cities all started to feel the same after a while—like ghosts of past wars, past missions. Places where shadows outnumbered the living, and morality was a luxury no one could afford.
He’d come here because Hydra couldn’t.
Not without stepping on the toes of the so-called Bat. That suited Bucky just fine. If they were afraid of this city’s Dark Knight, maybe he could find some quiet while he did his own hunting.
Then again… quiet didn’t last in Gotham.
He heard it before he saw it—a wet cough, desperate breathing, the metallic tang of blood in the air. Bucky turned the corner of a back alley in the Narrows and saw him.
A kid.
No, not quite a kid—seventeen, maybe eighteen. Black hair matted to his forehead, one hand gripping his throat, the other trembling as it tried to apply pressure to a vicious wound slicing across his neck. Blood soaked his jacket, pooling beneath him.
Bucky dropped to a knee beside him without hesitation.
“Hey, hey—easy,” he said, his voice low, calm despite the adrenaline kicking in. “You’re not gonna die here. Not tonight.”
The boy’s eyes locked onto Bucky’s. Fierce. Angry. Terrified.
Bucky recognized that look. He’d seen it in a mirror before.
“Don’t… let him… get away…” Jason rasped, barely audible, his voice wet with blood.
Bucky frowned. “Who?”
Jason’s hand twitched toward the rooftops, but his strength gave out. Bucky caught him just before he slumped completely.
Then he saw the shape on the ground—a shattered batarang, stained red.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed.
Batman.
Something was very wrong.
He looped an arm under the boy and gently lifted him. He was light, too light. His body bore the signs of recent trauma—bruises, older scars, and fresh ones.
This wasn’t just a mugging. This was personal.
“I got you,” Bucky muttered. “You’re not alone.”
He carried Jason through the maze of Gotham’s alleys until he found a rundown safehouse—one of a few he’d set up in case things went south. It wasn’t fancy, but it had what he needed.
Medical supplies. Clean water. A bed.
He laid Jason down and began working quickly—sterilizing, stitching, stabilizing. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. The boy didn’t speak again. He passed out from the pain halfway through the procedure, but Bucky kept going, driven by something he couldn’t quite explain.
A sense of recognition.
When he finally finished, Bucky sat back and took a breath.
He studied the boy’s face. There was something familiar there—not in the features, but in the presence. This was someone who had been shaped by pain, twisted by it. Not unlike himself.
He reached into Jason’s jacket and found a small communicator. Busted. But beneath it, tucked in a hidden pocket, was a photo. Old. Faded.
It was of the boy and Bruce Wayne.
Bucky’s lips tightened.
So this was one of his. One of the Bat’s soldiers. But something had gone horribly wrong.
He looked back at Jason and muttered, “What the hell did he do to you?”
Outside, Gotham’s shadows deepened.
Inside, Winter had come.