Searching for Steve was hard work, only made worse by the fear of saying the wrong thing and giving himself away. They'd tried Borough Hall first, but had no luck. Then they'd tried the cathedral, but again, their search had been fruitless.

Natasha had then suggested they split up, to cover more ground. He'd been reluctant, as it meant wandering around this hauntingly familiar, horribly alien Brooklyn on his own, but it made sense. The more area they covered, the sooner they'd find Steve, and the sooner they found Steve, the sooner they could go back.

Natasha had opted to check out his old home. He'd argued against it - his old neighbourhood had been rough, and a lone woman as finely dressed as Natasha would have been a target for certain. But in spite of the layers upon layers of petticoats, she was still Natasha Romanoff - the street thug who took her on would be in for a rude awakening. And who knew what his neighbourhood was like right now? Back in the future, apartments in the street he'd lived in were worth an eye-watering amount; in this time, it could be the most genteel area of the town. And the docks, his destination, were never and never would be the place for a woman on her own - Natasha would stand out a mile there. And this way, he'd avoid the painful memories of his old home.

She'd soon disappeared into the crowd, effortlessly assimilating herself into their current situation. He'd been an assassin, not a spy - he'd never needed to cultivate a cover, or be anything other than a ruthless killing machine. He was vulnerable out in the open like this, exposed to the world. And when he felt vulnerable and exposed, his belligerent alter ego had a tendency to emerge. And if he started a mass brawl on the streets of 1840s Brooklyn, he'd mess up the future for sure.

Abruptly, he turned away, and strode off towards the Navy Yard docks. He'd spent a lot of time there with Steve, watching the ships with his – with Emily? He stopped dead in the street, overwhelmed by the rushing return of his memories. His little sister, Emily. He'd been as single-mindedly protective of her as he had been of Steve, and she'd always had his back, too. Whenever their mother had denied him his dinner for getting into fights (without exception because Steve had started them), Emily had always saved half of hers for him. And she had loved those ships. She'd always been so excited to see them, and she'd always made him go and find out where they'd come from. And whenever he came back with the news that one of them was in from China, she'd been thrilled. She'd always wanted to go to China - had she ever made it there?

"Are you alright, sir?" A stranger's voice intruded into his memories. Instantly, he was on high alert, the Winter Soldier scanning the street for potential threats, formulating plans for several quick and efficient ways in which they could be removed. With a superhuman effort, he brutally suppressed those instincts and turned slowly and non-threateningly towards the person who'd spoken, a newspaperseller. "Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to startle you, but you just stopped suddenly, and you looked lost somehow." The man was babbling, on the verge of panic. So much for non-threatening.

He held his hands up placatingly. "I'm fine. I just – I just haven't been here in a while, and it's amazing how much it's changed. It hit me quite hard, that's all. Er, thanks for trying to help."

Before the man could reply, or retreat, he rushed on, "Actually, I'm looking for a friend. Steve, Steven Rogers. He's blond, very tall, broad-shouldered, he might have been wearing strange clothes?"

"Sorry, sir. I've never seen anyone like that. He doesn't sound like someone you'd forget."

Bucky sighed. "No, he isn't. Thanks, anyway." But as he turned to walk on, his eye caught the newspapers on the stand. He picked one up and scanned the front page, his gaze catching on the printed date. His heart stopped. Swearing under his breath, he threw a handful of coins at the bemused seller, and stalked off in search of a quiet alleyway.

Once there, he switched on the comms unit that the Wakandans had provided for them. "Romanoff? We have a serious problem."

"What is it?" Her voice was clipped, barely enunciating the words.

"We're too late. It's not 1846, it's 1851." Even as he said the words, the world span around him. He'd failed his friend - he'd come too late to save him. By now, Steve could have left New York, be anywhere, even… Even dead.

"Are you sure?" Natasha's voice pulled him out of his tailspin. "How do you know?"

"I bought a newspaper. Today is the 3rd March, 1851. We're five years too late. Five years, Romanoff! What the hell happened?"

"I don't know. It's not like I'm an expert with the damned stone! Maybe the Wakandans got something wrong. It was always a risk it wouldn't work properly - you know that!"

"How are we supposed to find him now?"

"Bucky, calm down. Chances are, he's still here. This is his home - no matter how few memories he has left, I think he'll remember that much. We'll find him. Or someone who remembers him and knows where he is. It will be OK." There was an edge of panic to her voice, despite her calm and measured tone - she was afraid he was going to have a meltdown. She'd even used his first name.

He took a deep breath, and then another. She was right - Steve was probably still around here somewhere, and it might even make it easier to find him. More people would know who he was if he'd been around for five years. Assuming he wasn't the drooling idiot Natasha had worried about.

"Barnes?" Her momentary lapse into first-name terms had ended; she'd evidently decided he wasn't going to do anything stupid.

"I'm here."

"Meet me back at the hotel. I think we need to change our plans."