Disclaimer: The Winter Soldier does not belong to me.

Bucky ran down the stairs, ignoring the elevator, and trying hard not to push past a couple of startled looking people coming back up the stairs. He was sweating, his pulse racing. Suddenly, he'd begun to think. Think of what he was. What he had been.

Was he still...that?

Shocked, he pushed the door of the block open and began to hurry. He had to get away. Get away from the lurking threats and fears that were promising to spill out from the shadowy vestiges of his mind, consuming him. He began to walk, his hands shoved into his pockets, and his hood up.

He had to keep his hand concealed. He had no wish for anyone to see the flash of metal, leading them to draw conclusions, or shy away in shock or repulsion. He kept the hood up and continued. He needed somewhere where he could just blend in, not be bothered, try and ignore the thoughts swirling through his mind.

He walked the streets, confusing thoughts crowding in. Being in a chair. Feeling pulses of electrical shockwaves through his body. Icy temperatures. Feelings of unexplained fear.

He kept walking.

Natasha blinked, feeling slightly sick. She couldn't work out what had happened. One minute, they'd been together - suddenly, he'd left.

She swallowed, and heading to the bathroom, held her wrists under the tap to cool her blood. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she realised she had to find him.

But she couldn't do it alone.

She gripped the edge of the sink, and stared into it. "I can't do this," she whispered.

Shaking her head, she walked back into the bedroom.

He found the alley. Swallowing, he looked around, noting that it was deserted. Without wanting to make a sound, he stole quietly to a dark corner. He'd stay here, lie low until -

He blinked. Until what? He shook his head. He couldn't hide away. He would be exposed. He turned, and began to walk again. Deeper into an unsavoury district, with little comprehension of where he was, or what he planned to do. He wanted to blend in, fit in.

But how?

"He left."

Steve looked at her, gaping slightly. "But I thought-?"

"So did I." She shook her head, trying to hide the fact she was near tears. "Its - he can't handle it. He's destroyed. As a human being."

"No," Steve said, sharply, refusing to accept her interpretation. "He's not. He can't be. Maybe its just-" he bit his lip. "Too much, too soon."

"I pushed him too hard?!"

"No!" Steve turned to her. "More a case of I think he pushes himself too hard. And this is what worries me. He's remembering his life before, and its throwing him out of sync."

"He remembers shooting me," she said, suddenly. "In Iran. And on the bridge. He remembers, Steve. HYDRA tried to wipe him, but clearly they didn't do a good job."

Steve looked at her. "Sam would argue that eventually, the most repressed memory comes back to the surface." He shook his head. "Its not your fault. But its not his, either."

She looked at her hands. "It was going well."

"Do you actually care about him?" the question surprised her.

"Of course I do. Why?"

"Because I have wondered - if this is to -" Steve shook his head. "We need to find him."

"Hey sweetheart, you ok?"

Bucky turned. A voice. A female voice, soft, persuasive, called to him. "You ok?"

"No," he whispered. He was beginning to shake.

She smiled. "Come with me."

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