A/N: Thanks for reviewing!

So I'm the one who's bleeding

It took longer to get settled in Bucharest than it had in Brooklyn. He had a lot of cash, but most of the people he was seeing didn't take American currency. He also didn't have contacts to get his foot in the door. But he managed eventually. A small apartment that fit his specifications could be rented with what he had, and he was able to get some work. It was a godsend that he was fluent in the language – he hadn't been sure he would be. But it came as easily as anything else and made it much easier to deal with the locals.

After a while, he began making the apartment feel more like a home. He got some furniture and no longer had to sleep on the floor. The kitchen wasn't well stocked, but it was good enough to make what he wanted with fresh food when he got the chance. The hours he worked weren't overly oppressive, and his nightmares were less common. Though they had come back with a vengeance after HYDRA found him and he'd remembered what he'd done to Howard.

He remembered now being in Brooklyn before, when he was the Soldier. He remembered the attack on the highway when he was sent to stop Steve and Black Widow. There had been a third man with him – he'd had wings. And kicked him in the head. Of course, he'd gotten back at him for that, kicking him off the helicarrier. Now he was fascinated by the technological marvel of the wings and wondered what other things were possible these days.

Research was no longer a priority, since he figured he'd remembered everything important. Or at least anything that would have been put into reports. His notebooks were in the bug-out bag he hid under the floorboards and he didn't often add to them. He had picked a corner apartment and a table that could be used to block the door pretty well. The hallways were narrow enough to effectively bottleneck any assailants and he felt relatively safe. As safe as he could reasonable expect anyway.

His life was peaceful now, though he was always looking over his shoulder. He couldn't let HYDRA get him, or anyone else who might know the phrases. Karpov was not dead. HYDRA believed him to be – it's why he had gone over to American handlers after what happened to his Russian master. The words had not gone with him to the States, which was a blessing – he would never have remembered Steve if they had been in effect. But Karpov was still out there, he was sure. Biding his time.

So it was something of a surprise when he was caught for different reasons. The day started like any other, going to work and then to the market on the way home. He picked out some plumbs, considering what to do with them for dinner. But then a lot of sirens began to sound. They came from the opposite direction of the police station and roused his suspicion. It was confirmed when unfamiliar orange and white vehicles – not Romanian forces – sped past him. Going toward – home.

Warily, he looked across the street at a newspaper vendor. Who caught sight of him and ran off. He wouldn't make a scene, wouldn't do anything to attract more attention, so he calmly walked over and picked up the newspaper. "Winter Soldier Bombs UN in Vienna," it stated. There was a photo. It looked like him. He had a moment of panic – had he done this? Had someone… had someone used the words and made him forget, making him go about his routine afterward?

No… No, he didn't think that's what happened. He'd been framed, but not manipulated. Not yet. Scanning around him, he set his jaw and knew what to do. He'd prepared for this. But he couldn't run from here, from this market. He had to get home, to get his bag. If he hurried, he would beat them. Some kind of special forces team would be deployed to bring him down, or maybe in, but probably down. They would try to clear the area of civilians. It would take time. Time he could use to escape. And even if they caught him at home… Well, he'd picked that apartment for a reason.

He took back alleys to get to his apartment quickly – the sirens weren't there yet. The cars and vans along the road had been there that morning. They were not the kind the police or SWAT teams would use undercover. There was no one tailing him. So he slipped inside and went to the window in his living room, listening to see how close they were.

But then his door opened. He hid to maintain the element of surprise. A single pair of boots walked into the room, slowly, carefully. The person was heavy and what must be a tac suit creaked as he moved toward the kitchen. Slowly, he got to his feet and experienced a flood of emotions at the sight of Steve Rogers – dressed in full gear but gingerly looking at one of his notebooks. What did Steve expect to find here?

"Understood," Steve said to someone on comms. Then he noticed Bucky. He turned around but didn't lift his shield, didn't prepare to attack or defend himself. "Do you know me?" he asked, voice devoid of emotion.

"You're Steve. I read about you in a museum." It was the truth – and the presence of his pamphlet from the Smithsonian in his notebook had already been seen.

Steve's comm spoke again, but he didn't respond to it. "I know you're nervous," he told Bucky as he put the notebook gently on the counter. His tone was authoritative – taking refuge in his Captain America persona. Bucky wished he could do the same, but the Winter Soldier didn't exactly have a personality.

"You have plenty of reason to be," Steve continued. "But you're lying."

"I wasn't in Vienna. I don't do that anymore," Bucky replied, dodging the implicit question. If anyone could help him… No, that would open up a can of worms. He needed to get out of here, even if it meant running from Steve.

"Well, the people who think you did are coming here now and they're not planning on taking you alive." Steve was angry, though not really at him. At the situation, maybe.

"That's smart. Good strategy," he answered grimly. It wouldn't work, but it was as good a plan as any.

Steve didn't like that kind of talk. "This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck."

"It always ends in a fight," he told his former friend. He should understand that by now.

Steve's comm was buzzing again, and he glanced toward the window – as though he could see anything there. "You pulled me from the river. Why?" Steve tried again, a little more desperate this time. The special forces must be close.

Bucky pulled off his glove so his left hand could be free to do whatever he needed to do with it, then looked up. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

He clenched his jaw and who knew how long they would have stared each other down, each willing for the other to make a move, before a flash grenade crashed through the window. Then things moved very quickly. Steve was willing to help him, that was clear, and he used the security measures he had in place to limit the attack. The table fit perfectly, the mattress thick enough to protect him. Not as well as Steve's shield, but he'd never imagined that would be an option.

Then it was the fight. Like there always was. Like he'd never managed to escape. And Steve lent a hand, but he couldn't stay here. He got his bug-out bag, telling Steve that he had no intention of killing anyone. Then he used his left hand – and Steve – to block bullets. There were a lot of them. They were highly trained. But they were no match for him, especially with Captain America involved.

His apartment was too high. He had tried to get one a few floors below initially, but at least he had the advantage of higher ground. Getting downstairs was much easier than if he'd been trying to climb. So he made his way down, earning a look of displeasure from Steve when he knocked a man into the stairwell. Steve caught him because Steve was one of the good guys. He wasn't.

He jumped. And goddamn did it hurt when he caught himself – the metal of his arm strained against his flesh and he cried out. But then he climbed up and headed out the door, jumping from the balcony onto the rooftop of the next building. It would take some time for the German (?) special forces to regroup and come after him. His landing was sloppy, but he grabbed his bag and started to run.

Until he saw a shadow coming at him and had only a moment to duck before a heavy figure knocked him down. He rolled and stared in shock at a man dressed in black, wearing a mask. What the hell?

His questions could wait. The other man was fast and his claws cut through anything. He was losing. He might not survive this – maybe Steve would show up to help. Instead, gunfire came from somewhere – a helicopter? – and distracted his assailant long enough for him to put some distance between them. He jumped down the building, aware of how close behind the man in black was, and started running as fast as he could.

Perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise to find that the other man could keep up with him, if not overtake him. But there weren't many options, so he kept running, until he leapt off an overpass and into traffic. Maybe that would slow him down. If Steve was following, he had no idea. But running wasn't going to save his ass. There – an oncoming motorcycle. Easier to hijack than a car. He grabbed the handle with his left hand, swinging it around, out from under its rider and hopped on. Then took off.

This was easier. But the man in black jumped off a car and right at him – he caught him automatically with his right hand. It was like holding a tornado. The other man knocked them over so he was skidding along on his left hand until he could kick him off. Then he straightened, fumbling for a grenade. He tossed it at the end of the tunnel and it went off right behind him. The intent was to effectively block his pursuers. It didn't work.

The man who was chasing him somehow caught up and slashed his back tire, sending them both rolling. He was vaguely aware of the sound of an SUV barreling across the rubble, but was more focused on the other man jumping on him. Until, out of nowhere, Steve showed up and yanked the guy off.

They both stood and he would have run, but that's when everyone involved in the chase finally got there. Including a man in a metal suit – War Machine? The Iron Patriot? He wasn't sure what he was called these days, but knew he was Tony Stark's friend. He was clearly angry about what Steve had done, calling him a criminal, and Bucky reflected bitterly that this was why he hadn't wanted to be found.