a/n: I think this is going to be a long meandering mess of a story. And I still have no idea who Natasha's true love, though I do three candidates depending on where I take the story.

I'm damaged

But somehow I managed

This far

But I don't think I can find my way back home

Assemblage 23: Damaged

Chapter 3.

Steve sighed in frustration, and ran his hand through his blond hair.

The folder, that Natasha had managed to procure for him, was pushed to the side showing wear from constantly being handled. A map was pinned to the wall with thumbtacks placed in various locations that he, and Sam had been to. Papers were shewn all over a makeshift table in a rundown hotel in the middle of a country that he could barely pronounce. Old black and white photos were interspersed amongst the mess, and Steve's eyes were both repelled and drawn to the images they contained.

He could feel anger bubbling inside of him like water in a tea kettle, and he clutched his fists, and closed his eyes tightly in a futile effort to keep control.

Natasha had warned him about pulling on that particular thread, and a part of him was thinking he should have heeded her words. He was starting to lose hope that there was nothing but the Winter Soldier, that whatever humanity was left had been wiped away.

But he had saved you, a tiny voice in the back of Steve's mind whispered stubbornly, he dragged you out of the river. He's your brother, you can't give up on him.

Still the things that had been done to his best friend, Bucky, was absolutely barbaric, monstrous even: constant mind wipes to keep him pliable, the years spent in a cryogenic tube to rob him of his freedom, and the buying and selling of him like he was a used car.

Steve took in a long shuddering breath and released it. Then in a fit of rage he upturned the table with a strangled cry of frustration spilling everything in a heap on the floor. He watched as papers fluttered slowly to the floor as he stood seething in the middle of the room feeling impotent and helpless. He looked down at his fists, clutched tight enough to to turn his knuckles white. They were completely useless, there was no enemy to punch, no enemy to kick, there was only a past that could not be changed, and a feeling of endless despair.

This new body they gave him was suppose to be able to protect the people who were most important to him. And yet it felt as if the one time it really and truly mattered, he failed. He failed to keep Bucky from falling, he failed to keep him from becoming a human guinea pig. He should have been stronger, faster, better. If he had, his best friend, his brother, would have lived a nice normal life, gotten married had a boat load of kids.

Just like Peggy.

Peggy had lived a long and full life, which was only a small solace to his anger-fueled mind. It should have been him in those pictures. Those children should have been theirs. They had earned their happy ending trough blood, and sweat, and pure grit.

But the world was cruel, and fate was crueler, and time waited for no man. Not even for one frozen in ice for nearly 70 years.

Peggy was old, and her mind was no longer all there.

And Bucky would never be the same, even if he was still alive.

And he was stuck in this century alone.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to rail against cruelness of fate which seemed bound and determined to take everything away from him and leave him with nothing. Instead he flopped onto the couch and held his head in his hands.

Sam returned shortly to find Steve in that same position, having not moved for nearly 20 minutes.

"I'm sorry. I'll clean it in a few minutes," the blond said.

The younger male placed a reassuring hand on his partner's shoulder, and gave it squeeze. Having counseled returning veterans for a number of years, he recognized the look of utter defeat in Steve. It was not uncommon for returning men and women to feel out of sync with their family and friends when they returned from their tours. The black man could not even fathom how out of sync Steve must have felt after literally decades away.

And yet, he had to give the blond man all the credit in the world. Steve did his best to catch up on technology, to come to terms with new social norms, even though Sam knew some of them rankled him to the point where he had to just walk away.

"Don't worry about it, okay? Why don't you set up for dinner," Sam said. He passed a bulging plastic bag to the super-soldier. The smells emanating from it were enticing, and despite himself, Steve's stomach gurgled at the prospect of being filled. "I have no idea what exactly I got but it looked good, so hopefully we don't both end up with food poisoning."

A reluctant smile spread across Steve's mouth. "If you do, I'll make sure to hold your hair back when you vomit."

"Aw, and they say chivalry is dead."

While Sam cleaned up, the blond emptied the bag on their small nightstand. It looked to him like a hodgepodge of random Russian cuisine. He recognized most of the dishes from the war, and time spent with Natasha. Despite her claims of no longer being Russian, she still enjoyed the cuisine, and was more than happy to take him to her favorite restaurant where they would order half the menu, and a couple of bottles of expensive vodka.

He couldn't get drunk, but he enjoyed the company, and he enjoyed the food, and for awhile at least, he no longer felt as if he were a stranger in his own country, his own world.

"You okay, Steve?"

"Yeah," the blond said with a chuckle. "I was just thinking about the last time Natasha dragged me to her favorite Russian restaurant. We must have consumed 400 dollars worth of food and vodka."

Sam made a face. "Don't tell me she made you pay for it?"

"No," the blond said with a devilish smirk. "Tony did."

"Tony? Tony Stark!? What did she do? Steal one of his credit cards?"

"It was a corporate account, from when she was his P.A.. He never took it back, or canceled it, so she on occasion uses it."

"I think that might be illegal," Sam said with a laugh.

"It's not illegal if you don't get caught, or at least that what she said. Besides I don't think even Tony has the stones to say no Natasha."

The black man merely nodded his head in agreement, and continued to pick papers off the floor. He had only known the redhead for a short time, but he could tell she was a force of nature. He doubted anyone could say no to her.

And speaking of the devil . . .

"Steve, look at this." In the younger man's hand was a slip of paper in Natasha's distinctive loopy scrawl. There was a short message and coordinates on it.

The blond looked over at the slip, and shook his head in bemusement. She had put a little emoji at the end of the note: a smiling, winking face. She was the only adult he knew that would do that, and he couldn't help but smile a bit.

"We should check it against the map to make sure, but I think that's Maine."

"Maine? Why would she send us there?'"

Steve shrugged, who knew what went through the redhead's mind. But the thought of taking a break, recuperating, and starting out again with fresh eyes did sound appealing. But what was more appealing was the hope that Natasha was there.

Natasha should have been in Storybrooke proper, but she wasn't. She should have made a beeline to Granny's to rejoin her compatriots, who she knew would be worried about her, after the senate hearings. But she couldn't.

Instead she was in the old sorcerer's mansion wondering down the familiar halls, running her hands along familiar wood panels as memories of time spent here washed over her. Everything was as she remembered, except it felt empty, deserted like the sorcerer and his apprentice had just up and disappeared. Even the air felt stale, musty like it hadn't been used in ages.

Not that the mansion was ever a bustling place. On occasion a member of royalty traveling with an entourage would stop over for either advice or a potion, very rarely did they stay the night, but those instances were few and far between. For the majority of the time it was just her and the apprentice.

She entered a smaller room, and took the seat across from an old mahogany desk.

She remembered sitting in this very room when he handed her the quill . . . .

"That, my Dear, is the most powerful weapon, in your arsenal," the apprentice said. "It is more powerful then any weapon you'll ever learn to use as a knight of the realm."

The eight-year-old redhead was skeptical, and her expression plainly showed it. There was noway that a quill would ever best a sword, or knife, or even a bow and arrow. If she wanted to, she could break it into two with her bare hands.

"You don't believe me, do you?" the old man said kindly.

Natasha shook her head. She raised the quill so she could better study it, but still she saw nothing special about it.

"It's the words you write with this quill that makes it more powerful then any weapon forged."

"Then why not give it to my brother? He's much better with words than I am."

"Maybe so, but the quill picked you. It saw something in you that your brother lacked. He does not believe in Happy Endings or true love. But you do. That was why it chose you. You have the heart of the truest believer."

Little Natasha stared down at the quill, her eyes filled with wonder . . .

The adult redhead shook her head as her mind caught up with present. She no longer had the heart of the truest believer, that belonged to a boy in Storybrooke, and she was tempted to give the quill and a blank book to him. But there was something that stopped her. The quill had chosen her, and charged her with writing the book, she couldn't bring herself to relinquish that responsibility even though she knew she was the worst person for the job.

And there was still a part of her that didn't want to let Charming or Snow or Red down either, even though she had no idea how to believe anymore.

Natasha ran a hand through her hair, and sighed. And then there was Coulson and his team. She knew they were waiting for some word from her that Fury was alive and that SHIELD wasn't dead that there was something left to rebuild, because the world still needed to be protected.

Despite what she had said to the congress, she on the other hand, thought that maybe letting SHIELD and the Avengers Initiative die would be a good idea.

Did the world really need spies and superheroes?

Fury seemed to think so.

He hadn't trusted her with his fake death, but he trusted her enough to seek her out and give her the means to restart SHIELD.

In her coat pocket was a small black box with all the information needed to do just that. She could do it herself, or she could hand it over to the only person she trusted with something this big and this potentially dangerous: Phil Coulson.

The question was: should it be restarted?

It had become corrupt once, what's to stop it from it from becoming corrupt again?

"Enjoying yourself, dearie?"

Natasha gave a small sigh before turning around to face her uninvited guest.