Chapter 3

Sam and Steve woke the next morning to a knock on their hotel door. Exchanging a look, they grabbed a pistol and a shield respectively.

"Housekeeping!"

Steve took the lead, peering through the small lens in the door to see who was on the other side. "Natasha?"

He exchanged a confused look with Sam and then pulled the door open. Natasha stood on the other side, a practiced smile on her face.

"About time. Long time no see, boys."

"Nat," Steve greeted. Sam just nodded.

"Why are you here?" Sam asked. "Thought you were down doing your thing in…what was it, France?"

Natasha shrugged. "I figured I'd stop by."

"Did you get sent to check up on us?"

"Maybe. Everyone wants to know where the Winter Soldier is, and you're the best bet for finding him. Have you, by the way?"

"We ran into him near here," Steve admitted. "But he left before we could really do anything."

"Unfortunate. Know where he went?"

"No idea."

"He's good at disappearing," Sam put in. "Took us over a year to get this far, and he's already gone."

"Hm." Natasha crossed her arms, taking a minute to think. "Do you mind if I join you for a few days? I have some time to kill between this and my next assignment."

Neither Sam nor Steve voiced any objections, and so Natasha joined their group.

Bucky tipped his head back and let out a long sigh. His head was a mess, and part of him felt that was fine while the other part railed against that first part. It was enough to give him a headache.

"Why are you here?"

"I had to follow you, Buck."

"You didn't."

"I did. We're friends."

I don't know what we are right now.

It hurt, of course, to realize that. To realize that, even though he called himself Bucky, he wasn't that man anymore. Not with the gleaming metal making up one arm and the memories of countless assassinations—assassinations he was trying to both remember and forget—running through his head. And even though he wanted to talk to Steve more, to trust him, he couldn't. Not when the world was still out looking for him.

Eliminate the target.

Or, ignore the voice in his head. He liked the second option.

(He was making his own damned choices now.)

He worked his jaw as he stared out the car's windshield. He was parked on the side of a long, backcountry road that no one else had driven on for a while if the snow obscuring the lines was anything to go by. It was beautiful scenery, but Bucky couldn't properly appreciate it.

He wondered if Steve would ever trust him again while also wondering why he was thinking about that.

No.

But at the same time, yes. Because Steve was—he was loyal. Bucky had broken memories but he remembered that well enough, remembered that even when his head was a roaring mess Steve had refused to fight back for the sake of the friendship Bucky had completely forgotten about.

And Bucky had nearly killed him.

Bucky stared at his hands and briefly entertained the idea that both were steeped in crimson.

Something moved in his peripheral vision but by the time Bucky had focused on it, whatever it was had disappeared. He started the car's engine again. Even if that had been nothing, he'd spent too long in this town.

The engine doesn't sound right.

Bucky's vision went white right as he unbuckled his seat belt. Heat and pain threw him through the shattered windshield and he hit the ground hard on his metal arm, using it to stabilize himself and get back to his feet as broken glass and shards of metal rained down around him.

His car was a smoking wreck. Someone had planted an explosive on it. When, Bucky didn't know, but this was dangerous; he didn't know his surroundings well and he didn't know who the attacker was.

Something glimmered from the nearby tree line and Bucky ducked, narrowly avoiding the dart that disappeared in the snow over his right shoulder.

Where?

Another dart came from the opposite direction and Bucky blocked it with his metal hand, seeing the tip break apart on contact. Bucky's lips thinned. His gun had been in the car, and there was more than one attacker using what Bucky guessed were tranquilizers. He couldn't go after one without risking an attack from behind from the other.

He was stuck in the open, and he couldn't risk just running away in case there were more attackers. To make matters worse, he had no long-range weapons to use.

This is bad.

He blocked another dart and ducked a fourth. One caught him in the calf and he grunted, pulling it out immediately, but he wasn't fast enough to stop it from dispensing its sedative. Whatever the drug was, it was enough to hit Bucky immediately; his limbs went heavy and his vision swam. Another dart got him in the thigh and he staggered, his muscles no longer responding right.

Shit.

He lifted his metal arm—the only thing he was confident he could control—and punched the road as hard as he was able. The asphalt cracked around his fist, and Bucky fell into unconsciousness as two more darts hit home.

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