Chapter Two

The first thing she notices is the pounding in her head. The pain seems to move through her veins, from the center of her skull outward, down the back of her neck, into the nerves of her shoulders.

She groans and her eyes flutter open. The world shifts into focus as she rolls over onto her side, then pushes herself up, brushing her hair out of her face as she looks around.

She's sitting on an old mattress in the middle of a huge room—some kind of drafty industrial building. The floors are gritty with dirt and sawdust, and the uncovered mattress is missing a chunk of material in the upper left corner. Bright morning light filters through the clouded windowpanes. High above, a walled-off loft is supported by crisscrossed rafters and tall columns that rise from floor to ceiling.

It takes a moment for her mind to clear as she tries recall how she got here. There was the phone call from Don—that she remembers clearly. Then, the strange man in her apartment. The private entrance to Stark Tower. The neuroscience lab. Tony in his armor. Gunfire. A seventeen-story drop. And that's where it gets a little fuzzy.

There are two possibilities, Rosie figures. If Tony has rescued her, he's dropped her off here until Stark Tower is secure. Or, if the man in black managed to survive the fall with her in tow, now that he's gotten what he wanted, he'll probably want her gone. Permanently.

Except, if that were the case, she'd probably be dead already.

The thought sends a chill up her spine. She wraps her arms around herself, pulling her robe closer. It's okay, she tells herself for the hundredth time. Everything is going to be okay. I am going to be okay. Because I am not a victim. Because I am a survivor, and I am not afraid.

In truth, she's fucking terrified. But her therapist always said that reframing your narrative as a story of survival rather than one of victimhood could be very empowering. And right now, she really needs to feel empowered.

The pain in her head persists, but she pushes it down and gathers herself. She stands up, walking gingerly toward the rickety wooden steps that lead up toward the loft. If there's anyone else here, that's where they'll be. And if there isn't, at least she'll have a clear view of her surroundings.

When she reaches the top of the steps, she turns down a walkway and moves toward the loft door. As she passes by a grimy, dust-streaked window, she peers inside.

The man stands some ten or fifteen feet away, his face obscured by the veil of his thick hair. He seems to be moving slowly and deliberately as he rotates a shoulder, then presses that same shoulder blade with his other hand.

Rosie hurries past the window to the door, which she pushes open with one quick movement.

The man must be preoccupied, because he doesn't look up. He's in the process of shrugging off his jacket. She watches silently as he grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head.

Ordinarily, she would have turned away. Ordinarily, she would caught sight of his smooth, powerful torso and would have flushed and stammered as she apologized for intruding. But when she sees his extraordinary metal arm, all thoughts of apologies or embarrassment or even escape disappear.

It's sort of stunning, in a bizarre, jaw-dropping kind of way. The prosthesis is burnished and bright, and the overlapping plates shift and interlock like a highly sophisticated plate of armor. And where metal meets skin, angry scars diverge from the old wound, as if the plates were melded into flesh and bone with tremendous force.

That arm. It's familiar. She's seen it somewhere.

The man twists, angling his mechanical arm toward the light, and she notices that there's blood trickling down his ribs—from a gash just under the scapula.

She gasps. He looks up at the sound, his hair falling away from his dark, haunted eyes.

"You…" she murmurs, "I saw you on TV. You're the Winter Soldier."

The man goes still.

"You are, aren't you?" she says. The knot of anxiety in her stomach gives way as she moves into the room. He's not the enemy, and he hasn't hurt her yet. Considering she's just been kidnapped from her home in the middle of night, this seems like a major win. "Captain Rogers told me about you. He said… you weren't yourself. Not anymore."

This revelation makes his eyes sharpen. It's the first semblance of emotion she's seen on his face, and she doesn't know what that means.

"You know him?" he asks.

She takes another step toward him, tentative but calm, as one might approach a wild animal. "He said you saved his life."

At this, he glances away.

"You should have told me," she continues. "Any friend of Captain Rogers is a friend of mine."

Okay, so maybe that's a bit of a stretch. She doesn't know Steve Rogers very well, but she does know Tony, and if Tony trusts Steve and if Steve trusts the Winter Soldier, then at least that's something to build on.

"He's not a friend," says the Winter Soldier in a flat voice.

"Well, he's worried about you," Rosie replies. Everyone's worried about you. Worried about what you'll do. What you are.

Once again, she peers at the blood running down his side. Now that she looks more closely, she notices there's a shard of glass protruding from his skin. "That looks painful. I can clean it—if you want?"

The soldier touches his side, then studies the smear of blood on his fingers, staring at it like he's got no idea where it came from.

There's something not quite right about him, she realizes. It's not the tightly control violence that lingers just below the surface—she saw that the moment she met him. It's the way he looks at everything with that empty expression, as if he's a shell of a man, as if all the humanity has been carved out of him.

"Or not. It's totally up to you. I just thought I'd offer, since we're on the same side here."

His hand falls to his side and he looks up. He nods brusquely.

"Do you have any water or first aid supplies?"

He looks over to the opposite wall, where there's a stash of water bottles, clothes, and blankets.

"Um, maybe you could sit…" She glances around—gaze landing on an old desk that's been pushed to the corner of the room. "Yeah, maybe you could sit over the there."

To her surprise, he does as ordered. He looks a bit like a shy schoolboy, with his shoulders slumped and eyes cast down toward the floor. She's struck by a sudden urge to hug him, which, as she realizes a half second later, is insane. Just because he resembles a lost puppy doesn't mean he isn't still a super soldier capable of ripping her in half.

Oh Rosie, one of these days, your love for strays is gonna get you in trouble.

When she first took Percy in, the cat bit her arm so hard, she ended up with two stitches and a rabies shot. So maybe that's the silver lining here: the likelihood of the soldier biting her is pretty slim.

She points to his shirt, which is lying in a heap up on the floor. "May I?"

Kneeling, Rosie picks it up and wraps it around her hand. She grabs a water bottle, then moves to his side, noting the way his whole body goes rigid as she approaches.

"I'm going to examine the wound, and it's probably going to hurt and bleed a lot." She holds up the hand wrapped in his shirt. "I'll try to be gentle, okay?"

This is going to take a light touch. A very light touch.

So she reaches out, her fingers grazing the bare skin over his ribs, and she lets them rest there as she feels muscle and bone lift with each breath he takes. After a few long moments, he relaxes under her touch and his breathing deepens. She takes this as a cue to delicately lay her whole palm against his ribs. He tenses again, but she waits as he acclimates to the contact.

"You know what I just realized?" she tells him as she leans over to scrutinize the wound. "We haven't formally met. I guess we didn't have time for proper introductions, what with the gunfire, and breaking and entering, and all that. I'm Rosemary Grant, assistant to Tony Stark. Everyone calls me Rosie."

That fragment of glass needs to come out, she decides. "I'm going to pull out the glass. I'll do it quick but it'll hurt like a bitch."

The man nods again.

She gets hold of the edge of the fragment and pulls. The glass slips outs. He doesn't even flinch. The laceration starts to gush, and she covers it with the shirt, pressing down to stem the bleeding.

"You're probably wondering where I got my medicals skills from. Since obviously I'm not a doctor," she says offhandedly. She pours some water onto the t-shirt and dabs it on his torn flesh. "I used to get hurt a lot and sometimes I had to patch myself up. I didn't want to go to the hospital, and I managed not to for a long time, but eventually I broke a wrist, and there's not much you can do at home for a fractured wrist."

The man is quiet, though he appears to be listening. She doubts that he's interested in her boring stories but the sound of her voice was enough to sooth Percy when she first found him, a starved and scared little thing curled up on her fire escape. So maybe it will calm the Winter Soldier too.

She dampens the fabric again, this time moving to clean the skin around the wound. "When I finally did go to the hospital, the ER nurse took one look at me and guessed how it happened. See, my boyfriend had a terrible temper, which he sometimes took out on me. I don't know why I let him do that. I guess I thought I loved him."

Unwinding the shirt from her hand, she steps back and looks up at the soldier, who's watching her out of the corner of his eye. "You might need stitches, but I'm really not qualified to sew you up. And you should definitely get some antiseptic in there."

"I'll heal," is his answer, as if it's a given.

"If you say so," she says, because there's no way in hell she's going to argue with him. "So, uh, should I call Tony for a ride, or what?"

The man picks up his bloodied shirt and puts it on. The shirt is still wet and cold and bloody, but he doesn't seem to care.

"I suppose I could walk," she adds. "Speaking of, where exactly are we?"

The man stalks over to the doorway. He turns, his gaze hooded, as he pulls the door. The lock slides into place with a click.

"Hey! Wait!" she says.

She rushes over, seizing the handle, twisting it to no avail—then desperately, violently throwing her weight against the door. She stumbles back, clutching at her arm. It's no use. The lock is secure. She can't break down the door, and she'll probably end up with one hell of a bruise on her shoulder.

So much for establishing a rapport. Chances are that no one else in the entire world knows where she is. The soldier might be the only one, and if he comes back, he may yet kill her. If he does come back, that is. He might've just left her here to die.

Her heart starts to hammer as the thought hits home.

"Please! Please, oh god, please don't leave me!" she cries as she pounds on the door. The words catch in her throat as she sinks to the floor, lungs seizing as she begins to sob.


"You were shooting at him?! But you—you could've killed him!" says Steve as he paces in circles, practically wearing a hole in Tony's overly expensive Persian rug.

"Look," Tony replies, with all the patience he can muster. Which, admittedly, isn't much. "I got nothing against Barnes, but he shot at me too. And when somebody shoots at me, I shoot back."

Steve runs a hand through his hair. "Is he okay? Did he seem hurt? What about his arm?"

Tony rolls his eyes. These super soldiers. Such drama queens. "Relax, Ken. Barbie's gonna be just fine."

"But what if he—"

Tony grabs Steve by the shoulder and steers him toward the sofa in the center of the office. Steve reluctantly sits. "He didn't move like he was injured. He's still super fast and strong, as far as I can tell."

"Good. That's good, I think."

"It is, especially when you hear this next part." Tony slides a file across the table to the captain.

Steve flips open the file, his brow drawing together as he skims the page. "Dissociative states?" he asks. "What is this?"

"It's the files he stole. With the help of my assistant. Which is unfortunate, because if he hasn't killed her yet, she'll probably quit after all this."

"Bucky won't hurt her. Besides, she's a smart girl. She'll be okay."

"Yes, but you're missing the point: that is, how this situation effects me. Do you know how many times I've had to find new assistants?"

The answer: way too many fucking times. Ever since Pepper was promoted to CEO, he can't seem to find one who's willing to stay—and who isn't working for Fury, of course.

"Whoa, back up a sec." Steve leans forward as he reads the file. "He stole this?"

Tony nods. "That's right. It's basically a scientific how-to on brainwashing."

Steve's whole face lights up. "This means he's trying to get his memories back!"

"He'll never be able to do it alone."

"Of course not," Steve says. "He'll need doctors, access to the proper equipment, probably certain drugs... Oh, right. All of which you have right here."

"Tens points to Gryffindor," says Tony. "We know he's in New York. We know he wants his memories back."

Steve tosses the file on the table and stands again, resting his hands on his hips, as he finishes the thought: "All we have to do is find him."

"And Rosie. Don't forgot about her."

"And Rosie. Because goodness knows how'll you function without her," Steve deadpans.

"The sooner we find her, the less likely she is to sue. Did I ever tell you the last one sued me?" Steve gives him a strange look. "Well, I told you I've had bad luck with my assistants."

"Do we have any leads?" Steve says, obviously not interested in Tony's staffing problems. Geez, what does a genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist have to do get a little sympathy around here?

"Not exactly, but I was thinking, we should drop in on our favorite green monster. I bet he knows a thing or two about this brainwashing stuff. Whaddaya say, Steven? Wanna go on a field trip?"


The Winter Soldier returns to the warehouse hours later, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. As he ascends the stairs to the loft, he listens closely for signs of movement inside. A whisper of clothing. A shuffle of feet. But there's nothing—the air is static, hushed.

He unlocks the door and pushes into the room, stopping just beyond the threshold.

The woman is still there. She's curled up in the corner, arms wrapped around herself, shivering. Her eyes are red. Her face is streaked with tears.

It occurs to him that he should probably kill her. She's a liability. She's proof that he's still alive, that he's not dead in a ditch somewhere, as he probably should be. If the U.S. government or—worse yet—the Captain were to find her, there's no telling how quickly they'd catch his trail. Pierce would've ordered him to kill her. Pierce never liked loose ends.

And yet, he finds himself indifferent to thoughts of what Pierce would want. The man is dead, and gone with him are the directives that governed the soldier's missions.

Besides, the girl isn't a threat. She hasn't made even a single move to defend herself. It would be a waste of bullets. And she's not like his handlers at Hydra—none of them spoke to him at length. None of them talked to him like they thought he might respond. None of them had gentle hands or big eyes or soft voices.

Her hands and her eyes and her voice make him curious, but that's what is most troubling. The curiosity. It's unfamiliar, that sensation of grasping at disjointed thoughts in his head, trying to pull them together in one cohesive impression. There are too many questions, too many gaps in his knowledge of human behavior. What is her objective? What does she want from him? How will she try to use him?

And what use could she have for death? Because killing is all he can offer.

Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century.

He was wrought to be the sharp end of Hydra's blade. It's is all he knows. It's what he was created for. He only wishes everyone else could understand that. The woman doesn't seem to get it. Neither did the man on the bridge.

The soldier drops the duffle bag on the floor, then retreats to the opposite side of the room. Crossing his arms over his chest, he waits. The woman—Rosie, she had said—rises slowly, her back pressed against the wall. She looks from duffle bag to him, then back at the bag.

Tugging her robe close, she lurches forward and kneels next to the bag. She unzips it, peaking inside.

"Oh," she exhales as she pulls out a few random pieces of clothing. "These are mine."

She's doing it again. That thing where she pauses, expecting an answer to fill the silence.

"Thank you. That's kind of you," she says eventually. "I thought… Well, I thought you had left me here for good. Turns out I was wrong about you."

He decides now, as her feature smooth over with relief, that maybe it's better that she doesn't understand. Human beings can't seem bear the realities of his work. When faced with the prospect of it, they break down. They scream obscenities, or they weep in fear, or they freeze, knees buckling in horror. Or, like the Captain, they refuse to believe what's right before their eyes.

"You know what I think now? I think maybe you're not as scary as you pretend to be."

Yes, this woman is a lot like the man on the bridge. He should have killed them both, but when the moment comes, he can't pull the trigger. He just doesn't want to.

He pivots on one heel and moves back toward the door, leaving it wide open as he turns toward the stairs, running down them two at a time.

He hopes she hears what he can't say.

Leave now, before I add another number to my body count. I don't have to kill you. I'm trying not to.


The woman doesn't come down for another thirty minutes. When she emerges, she's dressed in her clothes, no longer shivering. Her hands are clutched together as she descends the stairs, crossing the warehouse floor toward where he stands, slouching in a shadowed corner, beyond the reach of the bright midday sun that pours in through the windows.

She clears her throat. Her knuckles turn white.

"So. Uh, about those files you—we—stole."

He doesn't look at her. She might keep talking if he does. She's supposed to leave. Why isn't she leaving? Even the Captain ran away when given the chance.

"I had a few seconds to skim them when they were downloading and then I got to thinking, and I'm pretty sure they're all about getting your brain right after you've been… programmed. And that sounds like something you might be interested in."

Frustration swells in his chest as he listens to her ramble on. She still hasn't told him her objective, and he can't figure out it because she keeps talking in circles. It's like trying to decipher a language he doesn't speak.

"I don't have any personal experience with this kind of thing, but since that you're Captain Roger's friend, or he thinks of you as a friend, you should maybe consider the fact that I have connections in Stark Industries. So even though this is very possibly the worst idea I've ever had in my entire life, what I'm trying to say is… I think you need my help."

She squares her shoulders. "I want to help you."

This…

Is not what he expected.

Because it doesn't make sense. She must have a motive. An objective. A mission. Everyone does.

"Why?" he says, his voice still raw from disuse.

She shrugs. "Maybe if I help you, less people will get hurt in the process."

His mechanical hand curls into a fist, and he turns away.

"No," he says, falling into Russian. "I work alone."

But the woman pipes up again. "I know what it's like to have someone seriously fuck with your head, and I get why you'd do just about anything to undo that. At least think about it. If you change your mind—well, you know where I live."

She's halfway to the exit by the time he can get the words out.

"Yes," in Russian. And then, more roughly, in English, "Yes."


A huge, huge thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, or followed this story. You guys are the greatest. :)