It was supposed to be a low-stakes recon op.

In and out. Tag the intel, avoid any unnecessary firefights, and for the love of all things caffeinated, don't break anything. That was the plan.

But plans never meant much when you dropped Bucky Barnes and Tony Stark in the same war zone.

"Let me guess," Tony had muttered, surveying the bombed-out village. "This is the part where you grunt ominously and tell me you've got a bad feeling."

Bucky, rifle already raised, didn't even look at him. "I've had a bad feeling since you showed up wearing a $3,000 jacket in a combat zone."

"$3,400," Tony corrected absently. "It's water-resistant."

They'd been in the middle of bickering when they heard the sound—barely there over the wind. A dragging step. A rustle of fabric. Then a cough—sharp, dry, almost mechanical in how exhausted it sounded.

And then they saw you.

Just a kid, hobbling out of the ruins like something out of a nightmare. Skin too pale, ribs showing, face smudged with ash and dirt. You weren't crying. You weren't even speaking. You were just moving, one painstaking shuffle at a time, the end of your left leg ragged and bandaged with what looked like a strip of curtain.

"Nope," Bucky said immediately, lowering his weapon. "No way I'm leaving them."