I don't own Marvel.

Here we go. An alternate take on the Berlin Interview scene. Warning you now, it's dialogue- and character-heavy. 28,000 words, 9 chapters + epilogue, all pre-written. No slash. Updates every three days or so.

I adore reviews. Enjoy.

1. Broussard.

Ross's psychologist stepped into the room where they were holding Bucky. The guards left, closing the door behind them. Steve watched on the screen as Broussard— slim, dark-haired, light-footed — set his briefcase on the table.

No sound, Steve noted. Outside the office, Tony and Nat seemed to be listening to an audio feed. Whatever was happening in Bucky's cell, they hadn't deemed it important enough to let the two renegades - criminals - listen to it. Or T'Challa, for that matter: the Wakandan king sat in an adjacent office, showing no sign that he was listening or even watching the interview.

"The receipt for your gear," Sharon said behind him.

Steve didn't look away from the screen. The psychologist stood, one hand on the chair back, looking at Bucky with narrowed eyes. Bucky's head was down, chin hanging, shoulders slumped. But his eyes were cracked open. Bucky might not want to make eye contact with the shrink, but he wouldn't want to be blind to his movements, either.

Sam snorted. "Bird costume, really?"

"Come on, I didn't write it."

And then there was sound. Steve swung around, saw the trace of a smirk on Sharon's face, swung back in time to see Broussard nod to himself.

"Hello, Mr. Barnes. I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you. Do you mind if I sit?"

No response from Bucky. Steve would have been surprised if there had been. His old friend hadn't exactly been the most communicative since he'd appeared like a ghost in the tiny apartment in Bucharest. They might be in Berlin now, but it would take more than a change of scenery to make Bucky talk.

"Your first name is James?" Broussard sat and pulled out pen and notebook from his bag.

Again, no response.

The shrink's mouth twisted. He made a note on the page. Left handed, Steve noted.

"I'm not here to judge you. I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James?"

Bucky blinked, lashes dragging slowly on his cheeks. His gaze slid a foot to the left. He didn't open his mouth.

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."

Steve half turned away. He supposed Ross had to go through the motions, but it looked like a waste of time and effort. If Bucky didn't want to talk, there was nothing on earth that could make him. He could be as stubborn as Steve himself when he wanted to be.

Bucky's voice floated through his mind, Brooklyn drawl thick. Where do you think I learned that from, huh, punk?

"My name is Bucky."

Steve turned back to the screen, hardly daring to believe his ears. He hadn't been mistaken. Bucky had lifted his head, making brief eye contact with the shrink before looking away again. Was it Steve's imagination, or had his gaze lingered on the camera for a second? Did he know Steve was listening?

Bucky?

Who the hell is Bucky?

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.

If Bucky knew himself enough to correct the shrink on his name, did it follow that he knew who Steve was? Not just a man from a museum display, but his childhood friend? Had he been dodging the question when Steve asked him in Romania?

Of course he'd dodged the question. Two years on the run after seventy years as a brainwashed assassin with no sense of self… Steve shouldn't have expected anything else.

Hoped, maybe. But expected? No.

Peggy's voice floated through his mind, sharp and vivid. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He damn well must have thought you were worth it.

Broussard was talking again, firing questions, but Bucky remained silent. Steve sighed and turned away, frowning as he caught sight of the file on the table. A photo lay on top, a grainy black-and-white of the UN bomber. "Why would the task force release this photo to begin with?"

Sharon shrugged. "Get the word out, involve as many eyes as we can?"

"Right. It's a good way to flush a guy out of hiding. Set off a bomb, get your picture taken. You get 7 billion people looking for the Winter Soldier."

"You're saying someone framed him to find him."

Sam shifted in his seat. "Steve, we looked for the guy for 2 years and found nothing."

"We didn't bomb the UN. That turns a lot of heads."

"So?" Sharon asked. "That doesn't guarantee that whoever framed him would get him. It guarantees that we would."

Steve looked back at the screen, at Broussard with his notebook, his laptop, his piercing stare. "Yeah." It didn't sit right.

And the psychologist was still talking, oblivious to Bucky glaring at him from beneath lowered brows. He tapped at the laptop screen, frowned at whatever he saw there, and looked at Bucky again.

"Tell me… Bucky. You've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Bucky said, jaw clenched. He must know the precarious situation he was in — as if the cage wasn't enough of a clue — because he hadn't said what he was so clearly thinking, which was a succinct F— off.

"You feel that… " Broussard spun a pen through his fingers, musing aloud. "That if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop."

Bucky looked away.

The shrink tapped at his screen again. Steve frowned. What was he looking at? Broussard shifted; Steve caught a glimpse of the screen over his shoulder, just long enough to read the words regret to … delivery failed … will attempt to redeliver next day. The laptop slammed shut.

"Don't worry," Broussard said. The pen came down on the desk with an emphatic click. "We only have to talk about one."

Bucky didn't so much as move an eyelash.

"Why don't you tell me what happened on December 16, 1991?"

That provoked a reaction. Bucky jerked in the chair. His eyes came up, a flash of something like fear shooting through them. And then he clamped his eyes shut.

Out in the common room, Tony was on his feet. Steve saw him wave an arm wildly, clearly shouting. He couldn't hear a thing through the glass. Ross shook his head sharply and snapped something, and Tony sank back into his seat, white-faced.

"Will you talk?" Broussard asked. His voice was deadly soft.

Bucky's metal hand trembled. "No."

"I would prefer not to force you."

"What the hell?" Steve demanded. "Force him? What does he mean?"

"Tell me about the night of December 16, 1991."

"No."

"It is imperative."

Silence.

"December 16, 1991. Do you remember it?"

"No."

"You don't have to lie. You have nothing to fear."

Bucky swallowed. He kept his eyes closed.

Broussard sighed. "Very well." He picked up something that looked a remote from the desk. "I did warn you."

He moved a dial on the remote and hit a button —

Bucky's back arched, teeth gritting, eyes opening to staring sightless at the ceiling for a moment —

And it passed. Bucky slumped, breathing heavily.

"What the hell!" Steve shouted, turning to pin Sharon with a glare. "Did you know about that?"

Tony was on his feet again, Natasha at his side. Ross looked pissed off, but somehow triumphant at the same time.

Sharon shook her head, eyes wide. "It — it was a preventative measure only, I swear. We never — "

Bucky's laugh filled the room, dark and humourless. He sagged in his restraints, blinking at the ceiling. "You think pain will make me talk?"

"I would prefer," said Broussard, "not to do that again. But if you refuse to cooperate…"

Bucky turned his head and spat. "You're just like them." He glared at the shrink. "And let me tell you, it'll take a hell of a lot more than that to make me talk."

"Where is he?" Steve demanded.

Sharon spread her hands. "You can't — "

"Where. Is. He?"

"Answer the question," Broussard said.

"No."

"December 16, 1991. Will you tell me what happened, or shall I press the button again?"

Bucky stared him down. When he spoke, his voice was low and angry. "There's only one person whose questions I'll answer. And you're not him."

Steve ran a shaking hand across his face. It meant something that Bucky trusted him above anyone. Of course it did. Even if Bucky was still figuring out who he was, who they both were to each other… You're Steve. I read about you at the museum… it meant the world. But they'd never let him — never in a million years let him question Bucky, even if it could get them honest answers.

"I'm trying to help you. Bucky."

"By torturing me?"

"By… jogging your memory… shall we say."

"I'm not answering your questions."

Broussard stood and stepped closer to the cage. "But you will answer Captain Rogers'? Is that what you're saying?"

A muscle twitched in Bucky's jaw. He didn't reply.

"Unfortunately," Broussard said, "your Captain is not a registered psychiatrist. I am."

Silence.

"And, if I may be frank with you, it is well known that he is hardly the most… objective… when it comes to his Sergeant Barnes. What was your childhood like? It must have been very interesting to have fostered that level of codependency."

Steve snorted. It's called The Great Depression, you idiot. And World War Two. Ring some bells?

Bucky closed his eyes.

"No? You will not cooperate?"

"I won't answer your questions." He laid the slightest stress on your. "You can torture me all you want. Hydra did." He gulped a breath. "I'm used to it."

"I regret this. I really do." Broussard watched Bucky for a moment, eyes cold, and then pushed the button again.

Steve spun away, feeling sick. "Sharon!"

"There's nothing I can do! It's protocol, Steve! Not — not like this, but — "

"Stuff your protocol. Where is he?"

She looked from Steve to the screen, and back to Steve. Indecision flickered briefly, and then her expression firmed. "I never meant — "

"Tell me where he is!"

"Sub-level five. East wing. Here — " She slipped the comm set from her ear and held it out. "Channel eight, you'll be able to hear him."

"Thank you. Sam — "

Sam was on his feet. "I'm coming with you. No telling what's going on down there."

Tony and Natasha were still arguing with Ross. Nobody in the outer room was watching them.

They sprinted for the door.

Channel eight, channel eight, where was it… there.

"Will you answer the question now, Mister Barnes?"

Down the hall, through the door, feet pounding down the concrete stairwell, come on, come on…

"I must have an answer, Bucky. Tell me what happened, and I won't have to push this button again."

Bucky growled something in Russian.

"In English, if you please."

Silence.

"Very well."

Bucky groaned, long and drawn out. But he didn't speak.

Steve found himself a full turn ahead of Sam, and still pulling ahead. Heart pounding in his chest, eyes barely focused on the ground before him, he spared every bit of concentration for the conversation.

"I take no pleasure in this, you know. But your answer is required for the evaluation. We cannot move on until we have an answer, you must see that."

Harsh panting filled the silence.

"Mister Barnes. Bucky. Please. Let me help you."

The panting died away.

There was a moment of stillness.

And Bucky drew a breath.