A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, and Captain America: Civil War.

As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.

Note 1: I know it's been a while since this story was updated, but it couldn't be helped. Not only is my muse a fickle little scamp, my family has been experiencing a great deal of emotional turmoil that may not get better any time soon. Such is RL.

Note 2: This story is being revamped. Some scenes will be removed completely. Others will be changed to better conform to the MCU movies. Also, parts 2 and 3 will be eliminated and the chapters posted all under one title.

Namaste,

Sunny

"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."

― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems

Winter Soldier

And You Will Know Me Still

Chapter 2

Pushing open the door, Norman ushered James inside. The room was cozy and inviting, just as he imagined it would be. His host pulled out a chair and James gratefully sank into it. An enticing scent touched a long forgotten memory. The smiling face of a woman with dark hair set a steaming bowl in front of him. A child's small hand picked up a spoon and began eating. Somehow, he knew that she was his mother. Perhaps those who'd imprisoned him had only thought all had been erased.

The older man finished washing his hands, and that reminded James to do so as well, casting a glance over his shoulder and turning so his host wouldn't see his metal hand. He pulled a glove over the hand and returned to his seat and the clatter of silverware brought his attention back to Norman. The older man turned back to the stove where he filled two bowls from a pot. He handed one to James and placed the other in front of the remaining chair. Bowing his head, Norman said a short prayer.

Puzzled by Norman's words, James watched him pick up his spoon to begin eating. As if he'd never seen one before, he picked up the spoon next to his bowl. Copying the other man's actions, he scooped up a chunk of meat and a carrot, bringing it to his mouth. The moment the food touched his tongue, James's stomach growled, and he realized that it had been a very long time since he'd had anything solid to eat. A short vision of being forced to drink a vile tasting liquid blinked inside his head and was vanquished as he shoveled the food into his mouth.

James was more than halfway through the stew when a wrinkled hand grasped his wrist. "Slow down, boychick. You'll make yourself sick."

The clenching of James's stomach came at the same time as Norman's advice. His body wasn't used to solid foods, and eating too much too fast would be a waste as he'd likely vomit it all up. Setting the spoon beside the bowl, James sipped hot tea while Norman spread a thin layer of butter on a slice of bread and passed it to him. Norman dipped his bread in the gravy puddled in the bottom of his own bowl and bit off that part. Again, James copied him, expecting the bread to taste soggy. Instead, he enjoyed it so much, he did it again and again until the bread was gone.

When he'd finished, Norman stood and carried his bowl to the sink. Following, James did the same, even rinsing the bowl and spoon under the water. As Norman bustled around the kitchen putting things away, James watched him, not knowing what to do next.

"There's a bed in the guest room, if you'd like to stay a couple of nights." Norman led James down the short hallway. He pushed open the first door on the right and flicked on the light. "The bed's already made up with clean sheets. There's a blanket in the hall closet with the towels, if you need it. Bathroom's on the left. Toothbrush in the left hand drawer." His lined face brightened. "And I might even have some clothes to fit you."

Shuffling down the hall, Norman went into the kitchen, and a moment later, the back door opened and closed. Not knowing what to do with himself, James went into the room, standing in the middle of the area rug, turning in a circle to take his surroundings. The furniture was remnants from an earlier time. He reached out to touch the wooden footboard with his metal hand, feeling the smoothness of the varnish and the slight roughness where it had wore away.

The back door slammed again, and soon, Norman joined him once more. James quickly tucked his left hand behind his back. If Norman had seen his prosthesis, he gave no indication.

Norman tossed a pile of clothes on the foot of the narrow bed. "We just had a clothing drive. Those should fit."

As some response seemed to be required, James nodded. His host smiled back, and as he reached the door, his voice barely above a whisper, James offered, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, son. If you need anything during the night, just knock on my door. And help yourself to the food in the kitchen if you get hungry later."

The door closed, leaving the room partially filled with a weak glow from the lamp on the bedside table. Removing the jacket, James cast his eyes around the confines of the small room. The bed was narrow, not much larger than a cot.

Bits and pieces of memory floated through his mind like motes of dust. They just kept moving, never staying still long enough for him to see them clearly. Except for when he'd been strapped to a table while someone injected him. Later, falling from a great height and excruciatingly painful surgeries and experiments.

The last was so vivid that pain pierced his head and the room began to spin. Feeling behind him for the bed, he touched the edge of the mattress and gratefully sank onto it. Squeezing his eyes shut, James willed the vision-and the pain-to stop, and to his relief, it did.

He removed his boots, setting them next to the bed. Then, he took off the flannel shirt and the white tee underneath and went to the mirror to examine where metal and flesh had been joined. Pressing his fingers over the seam, he felt only the pressure of his touch, not the touch itself. It didn't hurt, nor did it feel good. It didn't feel like anything. Especially where the flesh was scarred and puckered. Something in the mechanical arm allowed his brain to interpret the sensory impulses in a way that felt normal, or rather what he thought of as normal. Now he knew it wasn't. When he thought of the meaning of the word, he realized that he hadn't been or done anything that could be considered typical in a very long time.

Fatigue washed over James as he returned to the bed. He undressed and put on the pajamas, turned off the light and lay down, left hand on his stomach and the right tucked under his pillow. He stared up at the ceiling watching the light filtering in through the curtains creating amorphous shapes that merged and melded, eventually lulling him to sleep.

And in that sleep, he saw more visions that he wouldn't even try to make sense of upon waking. For now, he dismissed the past and concentrated on getting through one day at a time.

Over a Week Later

Though he'd meant to move on after resting for a day or so, James found himself reluctant to leave the security of the synagogue. Norman had welcomed him into his home without knowing anything about him other than his name. The rabbi didn't ask questions about his past, or what his plans were for the future. He just let James hang around, and in return, James performed a few services for him, cleaning and repairs, mostly.

Once, Norman had found him staring curiously at the eastern wall. The rabbi told him it was where the aron ha-kodesh-the holy ark-was located. The ark, he explained was the repository for the Torah scrolls when they are not in use. It also served as the focus for one's prayers. Above the ark was the ner tamid-the eternal light-recalling the eternal light in the Temple as described in Exodus 27:20-21.

He carried groceries and other supplies in from the car, and even functioned as a sounding board for the coming week's sermon, reminding James of church with his mother, father and siblings, all in their Sunday best. Mom always wore gloves and a hat, and dad had spent the time before and after talking with the other men about baseball in summer and football in winter.

Strange that he should remember that then nothing until the fights with Steve, the red haired woman and the other man, the one with the metal wings who looked like a bird of prey. His mission had been to stop them from neutralizing the helicarriers, the orders having come from a man who'd once offered him milk.

At the time, he hadn't quite understood the question and so had not responded, not even after the man had killed the woman called Renata without a second thought. He'd watched it happen and had felt nothing at the time. Now, he wasn't certain what he was feeling. Shame, remorse, regret? All three?

In his sermon, Norman had made two valid points. The first was a quote from a man by the name of Edmund Burke, "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."

James felt that he'd once been a good and just man, and that his life had been twisted around until he was no longer that man.

The second point made was another quote, this one from a man by the name of Friedrich Nietzsche. "That which does not kill us makes us stronger."

Whatever he'd done, or had been done to him, hadn't killed him. It had made him physically stronger while at the same time removing his will to resist. Today was the day his will returned. He'd been turned into the evil that triumphed. It was time for him to stand up to those who killed for pleasure or personal gain.

~~O~~

The Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti, better known as the KGB, was the main security agency for the Soviet Union from 1954 until its collapse in 1991. At least that's what Russia and her satellite states allowed the rest of the world to think. All the dissolution of the USSR did was drive the agency and its agents underground. Around the same time, the orphaned Natasha Romanoff was placed in a specialized program that trained their charges in the art of espionage beginning at the age of seven. Now referred to as the 2R facility, its existence had come to light years ago, the Black Widows-as the female agents were called-attaining legendary status.

Now that Natasha's dark past, as well as her years of atonement for the crimes she committed had been exposed, she needed time. Time to figure out who she really was, and what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. In no way could she see herself as a soccer mom, working in an office, or even as a ballerina.

The reminder of the memories planted in her brain by Ivan Petrovitch and his team of madmen and women posing as doctors made her angry again. They'd given her false memories of being a prima ballerina as well as a brief marriage and widowhood. Anger bubbled inside her, but she wouldn't lash out. She'd save it. Savor it, then one day soon, maybe she could use it to do good once more instead of the evil that Petrovitch had made her and the others do. That day would come again, and perhaps more of the red in her ledger would be wiped out.

~~O~~

At the same time that was happening, Natasha received a subpoena requiring her to appear before a hastily formed subcommittee tasked to investigate the activities of HYDRA and SHIELD. Prior to the start of the hearings, Natasha contacted a friend within the KGB, and soon, a file was delivered by special courier. She read it over, then made copies for her own use before handing it over to Steve.

He'd had been released so he could attend Fury's "funeral". Natasha had already ordered the headstone placed over the grave. There would be a service, though most of those that would normally have come were so far off the grid they couldn't even see the path to the grid. These individuals couldn't risk coming out into the open at a set place and time that was known to the world or they could end up like her, subjected to questioning by a subcommittee whose ultimate purpose could only be to locate a suitable scapegoat for what happed at Insight. The men and women on that committee could be HYDRA for all she knew. Or worse, the committee could have its own agenda that had nothing to do with HYDRA.

While brushing her hair, Natasha briefly thought about going back to blonde, but decided against it. The red was more her style. The straightener should wear off in a few weeks leaving her with the curls again. Then, she'd cut it. The less time spent on her hair, the better. Especially now.

Taking a modest black dress from the closet, she pulled it on over her bra and panties. She slid her feet into low heels, added earrings, bracelet, necklace and watch. On her way to the door, she drew the veil of her small black velvet hat down over her face, pulled on black gloves, picked up a small clutch purse and her keys.

The drive to the cemetery didn't take long, and soon Natasha was standing alongside Steve, Clint, Sam, Bruce, Sharon Carter, and a few others who dared be seen in public with the Avengers. Some had come in the standard SHIELD disguise of hoodie and dark sunglasses or baseball cap and nerd glasses. It gave Natasha a much needed moment of humor that she hid behind a tissue wadded in her hand, waiting for the service to end.

~~O~~

"…Just this morning, the doctors at Mercy General have informed us that Captain America, Steve Rogers, is being released from the hospital today. The hospital administrator, Mr. Edward Forsythe, refused to give a specific time in order to preserve Captain America's privacy.

"Captain Rogers was involved in repelling the alien invasion over Manhattan two years ago. He was the leader of a team that calls themselves the Avengers.

"One has to wonder what the rest of the team was doing while HYDRA was growing right under their noses.

"Earth's mightiest heroes? The curator at the Smithsonian doesn't think so. While the Howling Commando exhibit remains on display, the mannequin that once sported the red, white and blue uniform Captain America wore during World War II has been replaced by the one depicting Sergeant James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, the only member of the Howling Commandoes to lose his life during that time.

"This is John Harriman for WZNN News."

Lying in bed listening to the radio tuned to an "oldies" station, James decided it was time for him to move on. He couldn't stay with Norman indefinitely. There was always a chance that HYDRA, the police, or some other law enforcement agency, clandestine or otherwise, would come looking for him. To stay would place Norman, the congregation, and the neighborhood in danger. Those that came after him wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who got between them and their target. He had no way of knowing from where they would come, but he knew it would be soon. They'd begin with searching the area around the crash sites and work outward until they determined that he'd left D.C.

People are gonna die, Buck. I can't let that happen.

The words Steve said came back to James, and this time he heard the pain behind them. Had he once felt such emotion at the deaths of the innocent? Though he tried, James could only recall small snatches of his past life. Lives.

If everything Steve said was true, and he had no reason to doubt him, then James was just beginning his third life. The first was his true self, the one he'd been born into that had ended sometime in the mid-forties. His second life, if it could be called that, began when HYDRA used him as an instrument of death and continued until he made the decision to save Steve, to no longer blindly follow orders as he'd been conditioned.

Raising his metal arm, James dragged his right palm over the warm metal up to his shoulder and in toward his neck, stopping when he touched flesh. As he'd done on numerous occasions since coming here, he traced the edge of the prosthetic around to the back of his shoulder then up under his arm. And like the previous times, a memory came to him. This one was pleasant, and included another.

James was laughing and trying to get away from someone who pursued him relentlessly, digging his fingers into the spot just below his armpit where he was ticklish. Closing his eyes, he let the images come without forcing them, and soon, he could see the face of his tormentor, a boy the same age as he, sandy-haired with blue eyes and a skinny, underdeveloped body.

Suddenly the boy rolled away and got to his feet, hands on his knees as he fought to draw air into his lungs. James saw himself laying a comforting hand on the other's back, looking up when the door opened and a pretty, dark-haired woman looked in. Once the other boy stopped wheezing and coughing, she looked relieved and shut the door.

Certain that the other boy was Steve, James switched out the light and lay in the dark. He promised Norman that tomorrow he would finish the repairs on the balcony. Once that was done, James would take his leave, and his first stop would be the Smithsonian. There, to visit the Howling Commandoes exhibit. All the information he was looking for should be easily accessible.

He listened to the creaking of the old wooden floors as Norman shuffled down the hall to his room and shut the door. The older man moved about the room, changing into his pajamas, brushing his teeth and getting into bed. And as he's been doing for the last several night, the former soldier waited until Norman fell asleep before tiptoeing to the kitchen and out the back door to patrol the area.

Night was when he was the most restless. He disliked feeling vulnerable, and wondered how Norman had made it to his advanced age without being fatally injured or killed by another. James had come to the conclusion that it was the older man's personality-the fact that he was exceptionally likable and bore no animosity toward anyone-that had kept him safe.

Hours later, James felt ready to sleep. Though he didn't want to, he knew it was necessary to reinvigorate. Eating did that as well, but now he knew that they worked in conjunction to keep his body fit. Apparently, maintaining health also included grooming. His host had been subtle in his hints that James shower, wash his hair, brush his teeth, and so forth. However, he didn't understand until Norman came right out and told him to get showered after a day of working in the yard hauling bags of mulch.

James counted himself lucky that he and the elderly rabbi had found each other. Every time a police vehicle came past the church, James would hide his face or go inside. Norman couldn't have missed his aversion, but was kind enough not to speak of it.

Soon, he was asleep, his dreams filled with frightening images. Being captured by men wearing the uniform of the enemy. A man with greasy hair and round glasses directing him to be strapped to a table while he was given injections, the contents of the syringes unknown, yet turning his blood to fire, burning their way through his body. A man with a red face. Falling from a great height. Waking up in a strange place surrounded by men and women in white coats doing unspeakable things to him. Then, the icy cold. Each vision was more frightening than the last.

Eventually, James's agitation calmed and he fell into a restful sleep.

In the morning, he awakened just as he had since his arrival: to the scent of food cooking and that other smell, coffee. He dressed and made his way to the kitchen, and just like every morning, he found Norman standing at the gas stove. He used a spatula to flip the items in the cast iron skillet, and a short time later, scooped them onto a plate. James sat down just as Norman set a plate in front of him. The food was unfamiliar, and he stared at it with a frown then poked it with a fork. "What is it?"

"French toast." Setting a bottle of syrup on the table, Norman grinned. "Just try it, boychick." Norman returned with two cups of coffee and saw that James still hadn't started to eat. He picked up the syrup and poured a generous amount over James's then his own.

Using the fork and knife, James cut a piece of the fried bread, put it in his mouth and chewed. The moment it touched his tongue, his eyes went wide. It was amazing! Sweet, yet it tasted of eggs and bread and butter, the combination making the others so much better.

James ate almost without chewing, and soon, his plate was empty. He used the last bite of bread to scoop up the bits of syrup remaining on the plate and followed it up with the coffee. Norman chuckled and James looked over at him. "I like it."

"Want more?"

James shook his head. He was still hungry, but his stomach wasn't used to large amounts of solid food. Sometimes he thought if he could just be still long enough, the past, everything he'd forgotten, would come back to him. Not like his dreams, which faded into mist as soon as he awakened, leaving him frustrated.

Pushing his chair back, James stacked the dishes and silverware together, and set them in the sink. "I should get to work."

Norman smiled. "Leave the balcony for now. Could you repair the fence in the back?"

James acknowledged the request as if it were an order. And because it seemed important to Norman, he tried to smile. The time he spent practicing in the mirror last night paid off when Norman returned it.

Going out the back door, James went to the storage shed and took out the tools he would need to finish repairing the fence. Hoisting the stack of boards onto his shoulder, he picked up the toolbox with the other hand.

He leaned the boards against a tree and got out the nails and hammer. The wood had been pre-treated to withstand the weather, making the repairs easier. Today, he wouldn't worry about what or who he'd been prior to confronting Steve in the helicarrier. He would work on the fence, go inside for meals and drinks, and then, after Norman was asleep tonight, he would go on his usual patrol.

The boards were pre-cut to the size needed. All he had to do was put them in place and hammer in the nails. He'd been working for over two hours when he heard a high-pitched squeak. Setting the hammer on top of the fence post, James cocked his head to the side, trying to locate the source of the sound.

There it was again. Off to the right. Slowly, he crept in that direction, his feet making no sound on the soft grass. There was a thump and he heard the squeak again. A scraping sound came just before a bush moved though there was no wind, and a moment later, a small grey and white animal walked into view, long-haired and mostly white, with grey on the tail, sides, along the back, and a grey mask on her face that left a white triangle with the point ending on the top of her head. When she saw James, she sat down and gazed up at him, her furry tail swishing through the short grass.

"Reow."

James found himself reaching out to let the creature sniff his fingers. His memory told him that this was a cat. She must've found him acceptable because she rubbed her cheek on his hand. He ran a hand down her back, enjoying the softness of her fur, but not that he could feel the ridges of her spine and ribs. "Are you hungry?"

She meowed in agreement. James picked up the cat and returned to the residence by the back door.

~~O~~

At the same time that James was feeding the cat leftovers from the night before, Norman was sweeping the lobby when two men in black military uniforms entered, removing their caps as they looked around. They spotted him and took out their IDs. The older man nodded a greeting. "Good morning, rabbi. I'm Colonel Simms, and this is Major Altman."

Norman leaned the broom against the wall and turned his full attention to the men. He gave the IDs a long perusal, comparing the photos to the men, while at the same time, glancing out the window to see armed military personnel keeping watch. At the curb sat two black SUVs.

Apparently satisfied, he gave the appearance of being happy to see them. "Welcome to Temple Shalom, gentlemen. Rabbi Norman Shulman, at your service. What brings you here on this fine morning?"

The older man, African-American, over six feet tall and well-muscled with a ram-rod straight spine, reached over his shoulder. The Major passed him a photo which Simms held up so Norman could see it. "We're looking for this man. Have you seen him?"

Taking the photo, Norman turned it toward the light. The picture quality was poor. If he had to guess, he would say that it had been taken from a great distance and enlarged to the point that you could barely make out the face.

The man in the picture had shoulder-length, dark brown hair, several days' growth of beard, and was dressed all in black, except for the left arm which was lighter, with a red star on the bicep. His eyes were so cold and lifeless, Norman almost shivered with the intensity. It was a face he'd seen just that morning over a stack of French toast. The photo was of the young man staying in his guest room and going by the name James Barnes.

TBC