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

Chapter7

The breeze toyed with the brightly colored blossoms recently awakened from their long winter naps, the blooms bobbing their heads in time to nature's song in praise of spring. Children's laughter was carried on that same breeze, rejoicing in the passing of cold weather and the need for protection against the elements.

A new mother sat near the window where she could see the world coming back to life. Birds flitted from branch to branch and tree to tree looking for the ideal location to build their nests. Squirrels chattered at each other while butterflies fluttered past the window. One stopped for a moment, perched on the new leaves of the hedge that grew along the front of the house, marching off to the right and left from the bright red door then flew away.

His feeding taken care of, the mother carried the sleeping child into the nursery to put him down for a nap. And in doing so, she missed the small brown bird that flew past the home with a clear destination in mind.

The bird angled downward, easily slipping through the open window. Landing gracefully in the rafters high above the deserted warehouse floor, she added the twigs and bits of paper to the nest she was building, carefully placing and adjusting each piece until she was satisfied, secure in the fact that her renovations wouldn't be disturbed. However, she was not as alone as she thought.

~~O~~

James awoke to the sounds of a city coming back to life. Disoriented at first, he rolled onto his back, groaning as his muscles protested, stiff from staying in one position too long. As he sat up, a scent wafted past his nose. As familiar as the face that looked back at him each day. His clothes were drenched in it, the odor filling the room, reminding him once more of the past, the killing. The sour stench of fear, bringing with it blips of faces contorted in terror, women and men begging for their lives. Some attempted to fight back while still others accepted their fate bravely. Most had no idea that they would die that day, and so, did nothing to stop it. Not that it would've done any good.

Scenes shuffled through his memory like a stack of index cards faster and faster. Then, they slowed to a stop, the tableau displayed expanding to fill his vision until he once again felt the wind on his face, smell the saltiness of the sea.

The hum of a car engine approached along the P70 passing through Nova Dofinivka, Odessa Oblast where it crossed the bridge over the canal between the Velykyi Adzhalyks'kyi Gulf and the Black Sea.

A dirty white sedan that had seen better days moved into the AN-94's scope. The Asset tracked its progress as it reached the spot where the road divided and squeezed off three rounds. The car turned sharply to the left, drawn by the flat tire and careening toward the cement barrier. At the last moment, the driver yanked the wheel to the right. The car spun around three times, flipped onto its side and rolled down the embankment. The vehicle dropped out of sight as it plunged over the edge into the water some twenty meters below.

Replacing the mask as he'd been ordered, the Asset also pulled the hood of his coat up to cover his head making identification difficult, should he be seen. The AN-94 he tucked out of sight by pulling the coat closed in the front.

Ignoring the traffic, what little there was at this time of night, the Asset jogged across the road and down the embankment. Crouching under the bridge, he waited, unconcerned with the passage of time.

Soon, he heard voices speaking in Russian, a woman and a man. They stepped into the weak light from the street, their faces illuminated. The woman was petite and had an air of absolute confidence that had not been dulled by her unceremonious dip into the gulf, her red hair darkened and hanging in strings around her face. The man, on the other hand, shivered and complained.

The Asset stepped out into the light, pushing back the hood and raising the AN-94. The woman moved in between the weapon and the man, determination dipping her chin and narrowing her eyes.

With a nod, he accepted her challenge. He brought the rifle up, took careful aim and fired. Both cried out in pain and fell to the ground.

His aim had been perfect. While the woman had only been injured, the man had been hit in the thigh, the femoral artery shredded. He would bleed out within seconds. The Asset could've killed the woman without a thought, but she wasn't his mission. Just the man, a scientist on the verge of a breakthrough that would put his captors in an untenable position.

For a long moment, the Asset stood over the woman as she pressed a piece of cloth to the scientist's wound while ignoring her own injury, the light in her eyes still a challenge in spite of the pain she must be enduring. Their eyes met, and he felt something vaguely familiar: a connection, emotive in context. It reminded him of someone, but try as he might to bring it into focus, the memory stayed just out of reach. Then, she spoke to him. None had done that before, except in attempt to stop the inevitable.

"Are you the Winter Soldier?"

Aiming his weapon in the air, the Asset stared at her for a long time. A heavy truck screeched to a stop on the road above. Dismissing the woman as unimportant, he turned his back and walked up the hill. He climbed inside the truck, slammed the door, and they drove away.

James returned to the present with a snap. The red-haired woman he'd shot that day and the one from the bridge were one and the same. And he'd shot her for a second time. He hadn't known her name then, and didn't now. All he knew was that she and the other man who'd been in the car were friends of Steve's. His mission to kill them had gone incredibly wrong, and they'd been captured instead. A short time later, the memories of his past life had begun to surface, and all because of one word said softly, as if the speaker couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Bucky?

Despite his programmed response "Who the hell is Bucky?" the name had struck a match to tinder, setting flame to long forgotten memories, tiny pinpoints of light that had a domino effect. Then came the slap, and the man's voice demanding, "Report!"

Getting to his feet, James pushed the events behind a door. Someday soon, he'd have to deal with the things he'd done, but to do that, he first had to survive. And if he didn't lock the thoughts and feelings away, at least temporarily, he'd surely go mad. But given the choice between captivity and apathy, he'd choose freedom, no matter what the consequences to his sanity.

James leaned on the edge of the sink as yet another fragment of memory floated to the surface, a line from a play. He said the words aloud with a British accent. "I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw."

He chased the other half of the memory, catching it with ease this time. Miss Greer's literature class, second period just before gym class his senior year. "Hamlet, Act II, Scene II."

Agatha Greer was every high school boy's fantasy. Five-six, slender with legs so long they seemed to go on forever. Legs that appeared even longer in the heels she wore with the tight skirt that had four-inch slits on both side seams, or in the middle of the back. Most days, she would walk between the rows of desks as she expounded on the passages they'd read the night before. Sometimes, and James was certain she did it on purpose, Miss Greer would perch herself on the front of her desk, those long legs crossed at the knees. Every male eye would be riveted, almost hypnotized by the top foot swinging in time to the cadence of the poem she or one of the class recited.

James recalled once, Miss Greer had called on him to read from the scene in which Hamlet is contemplating suicide. He'd surprised her by standing next to his desk and delivering the entire speech without once consulting the text. When he finished, he'd crossed his arms, a smirk appearing at the stunned expression in her dark brown eyes, one eyebrow lifted.

With a sigh, he went back to contemplating his reflection in the cracked and dirty mirror over the sink. He touched his right cheek, feeling a thin layer of grit. With his fingernail, he scratched a few flakes loose, brought it to his nose and sniffed. It smelled faintly of salt, and he concluded that he'd been crying in his sleep. And why not? Though he couldn't consciously recall every time he'd been taken out of cryo-sleep, the pain and suffering he'd endured over the years still resided in the deepest recesses, buried beneath layer upon layer of mental, physical and chemical conditioning. It would take some time to bring it all out into the open, but now wasn't the time. He needed to stay sharp.

Turning on the water, James let it run while once more examining his features. Then, bending forward, he stuck his head under the water, turning side to side until his entire head was wet. Using the bar of hand soap he'd taken from the other bathroom, he used it to wash his hair and face. He rinsed and started on the rest of his upper body. When he was done, he took off the rest of his clothes and washed his lower half as best he could.

After drying off with a t-shirt, he hung it over a towel rack and returned to the office to get dressed. Just as he was shoving his head into the neck of a clean t-shirt, he felt a faint vibration in his left arm, like a mild electric shock. Drawing his arm across his chest, he ran the fingers of his other hand down the bicep until he located the source of the vibration. His captors must've implanted a tracking device on him.

Until now, all of his energy had gone into surviving in a world he wasn't prepared for, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of it before, James rushed out into the vast open area of the warehouse. An enclosed area in the middle he'd assumed was a supply closet revealed itself to be just that. Inside, he found a variety of rusted tools, most of which were useless. Then, there, in the bottom of a banged up tool box, he found several screwdrivers, a pair of plyers. Not perfect, but they could work.

In the bathroom again, James gripped the screwdriver in his right hand and worked the flat head between the plates of his metal arm. A frustrating hour later, after shocking himself almost into unconsciousness, he admitted defeat. To get to the tracker, it would be necessary to use two hands and to be able to see what he was doing. That meant he had to have help. Someone he trusted. There were precious few people in the world in whom he had complete faith. Steve, of course. Tempered by the suspicion that had to have been programmed into him. Norman. Dum Dum. He could rely on Eugene, but only up to a point. The man had a family, parents, siblings, a wife and children who could be used as leverage to coerce the man into talking, if it came to that.

And then there was the red-haired woman. The connection he'd felt the first time they met had told him they were two souls who had seen and done things that would appall the average citizen, yet to them, it was who they were. A part of them. His guilt for the things he'd done would always be there, and soon he hoped to get the chance to apologize for the pain, physical and emotional, he'd inflicted on his victims and their families.

He wanted to start with Steve, but his chances of locating him or the woman were slim at best. After everything that had happened, he doubted they were even in the area. Going to Norman for help again would be futile. At no time during his stay had he seen any indication that the rabbi had any mechanical or electrical know-how. That left only one person to whom he could turn.

~~O~~

With a casualness that gave nothing away of the real situation, Dum Dum quickly surveyed the yard and surrounding area. None of his family were about. Nor were the neighbors. He relaxed just a little as he closed and locked the front door of his home. He lived in what was typically called the mother-in-law apartment. His was detached, affording him privacy and independence while still having family nearby.

Using his cane for support, the elderly ex-soldier waved a hand in the air. "Best close the blinds and draw the curtains. Don't want my nosy family peeking in and seeing something they shouldn't."

Sitting heavily in an overstuffed armchair that faced the television, Dum Dum watched as Barnes approached the windows from the side and sneaked a quick look, then, the blinds and curtains were closed, darkening the room. Without being asked, Barnes flipped on the overhead light, his eyes darting around the room as if he expected to be attacked.

Barnes wondered over to the small sofa at right angles to the armchair and sat down. During the war, Barnes had been laidback, overly confident, with good reason, and, in his opinion, overly concerned with the opposite sex. Every town they stopped in while on a mission, Barnes would chat up the local ladies, though more often than not, he got torpedoed. He never let it get him down though, because there was always another town and another girl or two. Some dames didn't care for Americans even while helping them hide from the Nazis. But there were just as many girls who fell for his load of crap. Especially the one from Leipzig, Germany.

Now, however, Barnes had the look of one who was hunted. Expecting the enemy to appear out of thin air, he was poised to defend himself at all times.

"Thought I'd seen the last of you at the museum, Barnes. You weren't too keen on keeping touch."

Sitting back, Dum Dum's uninvited guest looked at his hands, turning them over to examine the palms as if he'd never seen them. Today, just like at the museum, he wore a glove on the left.

"I need help and didn't have anywhere else to go." He flexed the fingers of his left hand and sighed. "You can't tell anyone what you're about to see."

Scoffing, Dum Dum got to his feet and shuffled toward the kitchen in the back, talking as he opened the refrigerator and took out two beers. "I've never told a soul some of the things we did back in the day. Not even my family." Barnes rushed to his side, taking the bottles and setting them on the table barely big enough for two. Dum Dum joined him, both twisting the cap off and setting it out of the way. "Been writing my memoirs. Can't publish though, 'cause then I'd have to kill anyone who read it. Even with the Freedom of Information Act, most of our missions are still need-to-know."

Barnes sipped his beer, making a face at the taste, then just held the bottle, watching the condensation bead up on the brown glass. "I haven't had a beer since before we hopped that train."

"You sure about that?"

He down at the tabletop, a lopsided smile dimpling both cheeks. "No." Two more gulps finished off the beer, and the bottle was set aside. With his right hand, he pulled the leather glove off the left and held it up. Dum Dum wasn't surprised to see that Barnes had a prosthetic hand. By Rogers' account, the man had fallen more than a hundred feet from a fast moving train. If all he'd lost was a hand and seventy years, he considered that a blessing. Barnes flexed the hand. "There's more."

Barnes stood to remove his jacket and lay it over the back of his chair. He pulled his arm out of the long-sleeved t-shirt showing that his entire left arm up to the shoulder was made of metal.

Dum Dum reached out, stopping in midair. "May I?" With a nod, Barnes granted permission for him to touch it. The metal had the appearance of silver though it was more likely an alloy of some kind. Military grade. It was completely smooth, no rough spots. Instead of being cool to the touch, it was warm, like skin though not nearly as supple. A thick layer of paint had been sloppily applied over the entire bicep.

"The tracking device has to come out."

Their eyes met, and in Barnes' eyes, Dum Dum could see an expression of regret that he'd put his former colleague and his family in danger by coming here. Dum Dum put on his glasses to examine the arm more closely. "And you're just now doing something about it?"

"Had other things on my mind."

Dum Dum nodded. "Granted." He removed his glasses and went back to the armchair. "My skills're more than a little rusty. Sorry you've wasted your time."

Barnes retrieved his shirt and jacket from the dining room. He lay the jacket on the sofa, put the shirt back on and rubbed a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes before picking up his jacket and heading for the door. Dum Dum was truck with an idea. "Wait. I know someone." Barnes hesitated, and he rushed to reassure him. "He won't say a word to anyone. What d'you say?"

Thirty Minutes Later

"Don't move," Robbie ordered.

Sitting rock still even through the pain of electrical shocks, James concentrated on his next move: how to dispose of the tracker. Dum Dum and his great grandson, Robbie, had been kind enough to help him, and he had no idea how to even begin to repay them. The danger to the family was real, yet neither of the Dugan men seemed to notice or care.

"Ha!" Robbie held up a pair of tweezers, a tiny square of metal and silicon gripped between the pointed ends. "Got the sucker!" He set it on the table and picked up a hammer. "Now we disable it."

James turned his arm so he could see the opening through which Robbie had located and removed the tracker. "If it suddenly stops broadcasting then the people looking for me will know it was removed. They'll come here and question your family and neighbors. Maybe even kill everyone just because you saw me."

Dum Dum scoffed. "Idiots. Every one of 'em. They came around a couple of times, but that stopped when they realized I didn't know nothing about nothing. I'm an old man who watches sports, plays poker with his pals down at the senior center and gives his family as much hell as they can stand, and then some."

A snort came from Robbie as he closed the segment of the arm and snapped it back into place. "We love having you here, Gramps. Too bad I can't repeat any of the stories you told me."

"It's okay to talk in front of Barnes, boy."

Metal clattered on metal as Robbie put his tools away and snapped the box shut. Then he picked up a cloth to rub at the scratch marks on the metal, surprised when they disappeared leaving the arm looking like it had never been touched. "You're really him, that Bucky Barnes guy from the museum?"

"'Fraid so." He put the t-shirt back on and reached for his jacket, nodding at the tracker still on the table. "I have to get rid of that, and soon."

The boy grinned. "I got this." Before James could voice an objection, Robbie picked up the small square and was gone. He came back a short time later, still grinning.

"What did you do with it?" James wanted to know. It wasn't that he didn't trust the boy. He needed to know in order to keep them safe.

Outside, the engine of a big rig rumbled to life. The driver revved the engine a few times and soon, it was gone. Poking a thumb over his shoulder, Robbie looked extraordinarily proud of himself. "Our neighbor's a long-haul trucker. I used some super strong glue to stick it to the underside of his rig before he pulled out. He'll drop that trailer somewhere in north Michigan, pick up another and take that one to Pacoima. The one he left in Michigan will be picked up by someone else, and so on. No telling where it'll end up."

Dum Dum chuckled. "See, Barnes? Told you my boy here was a genius."

Robbie shifted his feet and shrugged sheepishly. "He's been saying that ever since I got a perfect score on the SATs."

"On the what?"

"Never mind." Again, Dum Dum chuckled, shaking his head. "Why don't you stay for dinner and sleep here tonight. The sofa's fairly comfortable, and I've got extra blankets and pillows if you need 'em." Both men noticed Robbie staring at James, his brows draw together in thought. "Something wrong, son?"

"Yeah." He shrugged and peered closer at James, this time assessing. "You wanna fly under the radar, pal, you gotta change your look in a major way. My friend Tracie's just graduated from a fancy hair styling school. She'll do the deed. Knows how to keep a secret too." His phone was already in his hand and dialing. "Hey, Trace…Sorry. Can't tonight. Got something on the books that can't wait. I've got this, uh, cousin who just got out of jail and needs a makeover. Hair and clothes….No, he didn't kill anyone. He's just not used to being around a bunch of people…Uh…" Robbie walked around James, looking him up and down. "About six feet, a buck seventy, really fit, dark brown hair…I don't know! Dark brown?" He peered at James' face, "Blue eyes…What do you mean 'what color of blue'? They're blue…Whatever! When can you get here? You're the best. Oh, and park in the alley. Yeah, if Mom finds out he's here, I'll be grounded until I'm thirty. See ya." He shut off the phone and shoved it into his back pocket. "She'll be here in an hour or so. Her mom owns a bunch of clothing stores so she's making a pit stop first."

"That's not necess…"

Robbie held a hand up when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and winced. "Hey, Mom… Oh, sorry. Gramps had an accident in the bathroom and… No. He broke a bottle of that disgusting after shave he likes. Yeah. Now the bathroom reeks… 'K." He put the phone back in his pocket. "Gotta go help Nana with something. I'll be back before Tracie shows up."

Before James could object, Robbie was gone, the front door slamming behind the overzealous teen. Dum Dum grinned unapologetically. "He's a little headstrong."

Flexing his metal hand, James paced over to peek out the window. "Seems to run in the family, Dugan."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." The older man gripped his cane and used the other hand to lever himself to his feet. "I gotta hit the head before Robbie's friend gets here. When they're done, we can order something delivered. Menus are in the middle drawer of the desk. Anything you want. I'm not picky."

James pulled open the drawer and took out a stack of restaurant menus. He shuffled through them without much interest. Since his escape from HYDRA, the only food he'd eaten had been provided by Norman, except for the Brats and shawarma he'd eaten with Eugene. The scents of the different kinds of foods cooking had touched a long forgotten memory that he couldn't quite bring into focus though one particular image stuck in his mind.

James was young, maybe eight, but that was just a guess due to the fact that he had to look up to see the faces of adults. He'd come into the kitchen and found an older woman standing at the stove wearing a faded apron and stirring a pot on the gas stove. Every few seconds, she sniffled. He got the impression that she wasn't family, but still close to the young Bucky and his mother.

The bathroom door opened, puncturing the memory and sending it into a dark corner like a frightened animal. The paper menus were still in his hand. He hadn't even looked at them.

Dum Dum noticed, but pretended he hadn't. "I've got a hankering for a burger and fries from Roadhouse Grill. That work for you?"

"Yes." Sorting through the menus, James found the correct menu. He shoved the others back in the drawer and perused the grill's offerings. The food was just as Dum Dum had described it. Burgers, fries, steaks, baked potatoes, chicken fried steak with cream gravy.

"I usually get the $7 Burger, fries and apple pie."

Scanning the right hand page, James found what he was looking for. But something was off. "Says here the $7 Burger is $5.95. A misprint?"

Chuckling, Dum Dum took the paper from James and set it aside. "Guess no one would buy a burger for seven bucks, so they dropped the price." He glanced at the clock. "She'll be here soon. You should cover up that arm. Go in my room and get a long sleeved shirt from the dresser."

In the room, James hesitated before opening the second drawer, feeling like he was snooping into his friend's personal belongings even though he'd been given leave to do so. He took off his plain white t-shirt and replaced it with one from the top of the stack. Catching his reflection in the mirror, James smiled at the illustration on the front. A faded photo of Steve's shield and nothing else. The smartass remark on the tip of his tongue went unexpressed at the knock on the door.

Barely a millisecond passed between the knocking and James switching into fight mode. The knife in his right boot appeared in his hand as he dived through the door and rolled into a crouch, his eyes darting around the room and back to the door when the knock was repeated.

"Something wrong, Barnes?"

Dum Dum's questioning voice went unheard as James crept to the door. He twisted the knob and yanked the door open, grabbing the visitor's wrist and turning her into his embrace, his knife pressed to the jugular.

TBC