Disclaimer: I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Artie.

14. M.I.A.

Washington D.C.

Steve roused from unconsciousness with the warmth of sunlight on his face. That face, however, felt swollen. It was like someone had hit him repeatedly with a brick, leaving the right half of his face puffy and sore. A headache lingered behind his eyes. All of his limbs felt like they'd been filled with sand. Beyond the heaviness, though, he could feel them ache and throb. Over the years, Steve had been through plenty of fights, and he'd had to live with the aftermath of those fights. Bruised cheeks, bloody knuckles, dull aches all over. The kind of pain he felt steadily throbbing in his body was unlike anything he'd felt in years; not since he'd been given the serum. He'd really taken a beating this time around.

When he decided it was time to open his eyes, Steve was amazed at the effort that it took to do so. It was like trying to force open a door with sticky hinges. For a moment, everything was blurry. But with the fluttering of his eyelids, his vision cleared up. He furrowed his eyebrows at the effort of making such a small movement, shifting his head a little to look down at his body. It was covered by a thin white blanket and a delicately patterned hospital gown. An IV was stuck into his air, which lay bent across his midsection loosely. From the corner of his eye, he could just make out a figure. And with another effort-filled shift of his head, Sam Wilson came fully into his field of view. Relief swept through Steve's body at the sight of his friend alive and well. The only sign of injury were that of the scrapes on the side of his face. His head lolled back against the pillow, eyes falling shut.

"On your left," Steve breathed exhaustedly. There was an awkward pull at the left side of his mouth, like the skin had been stretched out tightly.

"Good to see that the fight didn't kill your smartass sense of humor," teased Sam. Steve chuckled, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth and throat were, and lethargically opened his eyes a second time. He rolled his head around and smiled lopsidedly.

"Good to see that you made it out better than me." Again, Steve winced at the pull at the corner of his mouth, this time more pronounced and sore as he spoke. Sam pointed at his face, brows rising as he shut the book he'd been reading.

"I'd be careful with talking. There's a real nasty cut across your cheek, starting at the corner of your mouth; they had to stitch it closed," Sam informed. Steve hummed a quiet acknowledgement, clearing his dry throat, which led to a small coughing fit. "Lemme get you some water." He rounded to the bedside table on Steve's other side. "Speaking of water, we found you on the bank of the river; didn't look like you'd pulled yourself out, looks like someone laid you out."

Steve's brows furrowed at that. He knew that he hadn't pulled himself from the water; unconsciousness had claimed him before he'd even hit it. Sam picked a water pitcher up off the side table and grabbed a disposable cup. Also on the table was a small speaker, attached to which was his phone; it was playing music––Marvin Gaye, like he had suggested earlier that week. Sam handed over a small plastic cup of water. Steve took the cup of water with stiff fingers and brought it up to his lips. He gulped down the water like a man dying of thirst, thankful at the cool relief it provided his throat.

Sam carefully removed the cup from his grasp and went about refilling it. As he did so, Steve made a visual sweep of the room. It was a private hospital room, no second bed. There were armed guards outside the door. He and Sam were the only ones present. Steve's brows furrowed.

"Where's Artie?" Steve asked tiredly. He shifted around in his recovery bed, wincing as his muscles smarted. He looked to Sam, who froze as he was about to pour a second cup of water. He smashed his lips together and set the pitcher down, the cup remaining unfilled. Sam rubbed his hands together, squeezing at his fingers in a manner that was almost nervous.

"Steve…" Sam started, wincing when he couldn't find the words to say.

Everything came back to Steve in a rush. Artie sprawled out across the ground in the helicarrier, blood smeared across the glass. The sound of her breathing wheezing through the air. How she'd mouthed 'I love you' before the glass beneath her had shattered and sent her plummeting towards the Potomac. He'd screamed her name, damned himself for not getting down there in time. He'd hoped that she'd had enough energy to get to shore, to find a way to safety. A spark of dread started to grow in Steve's stomach, accompanied by a stinging in his eyes and nose. "Sam. Where is she?"

"Nat wanted to be here when you found out, wanted to tell you…" Sam rubbed a hand over the top of his head, clearly not wanting to impart whatever information he was holding on to.

Steve's heart started to race, the frantic beating mimicked by the quiet beeping of his heart rate monitor. The muscles around his mouth, nose, and eyebrows twitched as he fought to keep his expression neutral. A fear of the worst started to flood his head. It caused his stomach, now only filled with water, to twist and roil in a nauseating manner.

"Is…" He wet his lips and looked down at his lap, eyebrows twitching upwards, "is she dead?"

Sam carefully seated himself on the edge of the bed, clasping his hands and letting them hang between his knees. With an apologetic expression, he shrugged his shoulders.

"We, uh… we don't know, buddy," he admitted quietly.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Steve ground his teeth together, nostrils flaring at the onslaught of emotion that flooded his system. A cold rush of panic and fear made his fingers shake. Sam let out a breath before he started to explain, his eyes not once leaving Steve's.

"Once everything settled down, we found you laid out on the bank of the Potomac. We couldn't find Artie. There was no sign of her, man, absolutely nothing. No footprints, no blood, no messages, not even CCTV footage. They've been searching the river for hours, Steve, and… they haven't found anything."

The sheets were fisted tightly between Steve's fingers as the information hit him harder than any punch Bucky had thrown. It felt like someone was squeezing his heart, digging their fingernails into the sensitive muscle till it started to bleed. The steady beeping of the heart rate monitor started to pick up as his heart began to race anxiously. They couldn't find her. Artie was missing. It could mean any number of things; and most of them weren't good. They were not good at all. Sam placed his hand over Steve's and gave it a squeeze.

"There's nothing?" Steve asked, voice rough with the threat of tears. When he looked up from his lap, he watched as his friend gave a regretful––and nervous––shake of the head.

"Nothing but wreckage. None of the bodies they found were her, either." But then Sam raised his eyebrows pointedly, a look of resolve replacing the regret. "We're gonna find her. She's a tough lady, you know that best of us all. I'm willing to bet she's the one that pulled you onto that bank. Went looking for help but got a little lost on the way," Sam reassured gently.

Steve couldn't find it in himself to respond. Confined to his hospital bed, he felt useless. They had no leads to go on. Nothing to track or trace or research. He knew that he wasn't fit to leave the hospital yet, and even if he tried, he'd be put right back where he was. There wasn't anything he could do to help the situation, and it left him feeling devastatingly useless. And, ultimately, Steve felt like he'd failed her. If he'd been able to foresee that this would happen, he would've pulled her to safety, would've made sure he got to her before the glass had started to crack. She'd gone missing on his watch. She'd gotten hurt on his watch. And that absolutely broke his heart. There was a heavy sense of deja vu, harkening back to the day Steve had found out Artie's brain had been hijacked by Loki. Somehow, this was worse; at least then, they'd known where to find her, knew they could get her back. This time everything was shrouded in mystery. This time, things felt a little more dire. For all they knew, she could be dead.

"We'll find her," Steve agreed, voice hoarse. "We have to find her."

OOOO

Unknown Location

Art's eyelids were heavy and wanted to stay shut. She wanted to rest. But a sudden surge of adrenaline coursed through her body, reminding her that she had been sinking into the Potomac moments ago. Her eyes flew open, then and her mouth shot open and gasped in a breath; she continued to breath heavily, greedily sucking in the stale air around her. Once her lungs fully expanded, a series of sharp stings grew in her ribcage. Art hissed and placed a hand on her midsection, her brows crinkling together. A cough then racked her body; the sound was dry and painful. Art gulped down a mouthful of saliva to wet her scratchy throat, and she blinked repeatedly in attempts to clear her blurry vision. Above Art she could see cracked, aged plaster instead of the smoky sky she'd glimpsed before slipping into unconsciousness. There was an ache throbbing against the front of her skull, focused on a spot just over her left eyebrow. Art's eyes began to flutter tiredly. It was difficult to keep her eyes open. Confusion washed over her bleary consciousness.

Art dragged her fingers wearily over her stomach, the tips running over folds of fabric. Bandages. The furrow between her brows deepened and she forced her eyes open, her vision shifting in and out of focus. Her shaky, stiff fingers rose to gently probe the aching spot over her eyebrow, again surprised to feel the sheet of gauze that acted as a bandage. Even the slightest amount of pressure placed to the tender area made her face scrunch up in pain. Someone had patched her up, taken care of her wounds. Someone had pulled her out of the Potomac, gotten her to… wherever it was she found herself.

With a lethargic roll of her head, Artie tried to take stock of her surroundings. The first thing she noticed was that she was laid out on a shitty old mattress. It was thin and sheetless, bearing a grungy looking brown plaid covering. An equally shitty feather pillow was shoved under her head, barely providing any support or elevation. The air smelled musty and her nose tickled from an excess of dust; it was the scent of disuse. It was easy to glean that, wherever she was, was not used regularly, if at all recently.

The next thing she noticed was that, to her left, there was what looked to be a kitchenette. It was sparsely furnished with a table, small and rickety, in the middle of the space. Atop that table was a haphazard collection of first aid supplies: bandages, an antiseptic bottle, and a plastic box that might have been a kit. A single chair had been pulled up within a few feet of her mattress, looking just as rickety as the table. Rolling her head lazily in the other direction, Artie eyed a door that had several sets of locks installed in it. The peephole had a piece of duct tape over it. To the right, there wasn't much to look at. Empty, dusty flooring, and an entrance to a hallway.

But the disuse of the space wasn't a comfort. It didn't tell her anything about whoever had saved her; there were no defining or damning features. No photographs, no furniture pieces, no nick-nacks. Not even a magnet on the fridge in the kitchenette. Artie focused on shifting her feet, checking to see whether or not they were restrained. Though the muscles in her legs were stiff, she was able to drag her right foot outwards. When it slipped off the mattress with ease, the heel of her boot thunking to the floor, it became clear she was not restrained in any manner. Just bandaged up and laid out on a mattress in an unknown location.

Artie tried to push herself up, but the muscles in her arms trembled something awful. She made a low, guttural sound as she sank her weight onto her forearms, wedging herself upwards. A sharp, guttural groan of pain left her mouth at the sudden pain that ripped through her torso. It felt like something inside of her was tearing open. A coughing fit suddenly overcame her, the pain in her ribcage growing tenfold. She collapsed back to the mattress, one of her hands flying up to her mouth. When Artie pulled it away, her palm was spotted with blood. Artie exhaled shakily, wiped her palm against the bandages around her torso, and firmly wrapped her arm around her middle. Sweat began to bead on her forehead as her world went fuzzy and started to spin around her. She shut her eyes and let out a breath that shook just as much as her fingers. Big movements seemed to be off the table.

For a while, Artie just laid there with her eyes completely shut. She could do nothing but soak in the lingering pain that stretched across her ribcage. Feel it grow worse and then ebb as time passed. It was almost hypnotizing; she became so focused on the tides of the pain that Artie couldn't pinpoint how long she had laid there doing so. The shaking in her fingers had lessened, and the sweat on her forehead had gone cold. It was only when the floorboards creaked at the foot of the mattress that Artie opened her eyes, and immediately stiffened.

Stood looming over her was none other than Bucky Barnes. His brows were furrowed sharply and his lips were tensed into a grim line. The tactical vest he usually wore was gone, instead replaced by a plain black tank top. No weapons appeared to be strapped to his belt or slung across his back. He looked strangely normal––save for the metal arm––though all the black stood out against the faded yellow paint on the walls. But the lack of visible weapons did not but Artie at ease. In fact, her muscles were so tense they started to hurt, more than they already had been. It was easy to piece together that he was who brought her there, to the disused abode; and nothing about that was comforting. This new Bucky Barnes was conditioned to follow orders, and his orders had been to drag her back to HYDRA. Who's to say he hadn't? Or was planning on it? If HYDRA had survived deep in S.H.I.E.L.D. for so many years, there was no saying how deeply rooted they were elsewhere.

For a distressing moment, all that happened was staring. Bucky stared down at her, and Artie stared blearily back up at him. His eyes––once bright and lively with mirth––trailing over her from head-to-toe with a clinical coldness. It was disheartening to stare up into the impassive expression he wore; for Artie had spent days with that very face, only it was grinning and bright. When it became clear that he had no intent to speak first, if at all, Artie open her mouth and inhaled slowly, raggedly. There was a wheeze to the breath that sounded rattling and hollow. She swallowed another mouthful of saliva to try and wet her mouth and throat in preparation to speak. Her mouth tasted like blood.

"I'm not restrained," she pointed out, voice croaking. After speaking, which proved laborious, Artie sucked in a breath, wincing when her ribs pulled painfully.

There was a beat of silence, the raggedness of her tone floating in the dusty air.

"You can't run," came the reply. His tone was indifferent and low. "Your injuries would prevent you from doing so."

Artie started to purposefully breathe shallowly, which seemed to hurt less. The more her lungs expanded, the worse the pain got. "Did you… patch me up?" The effort it took to speak was amazing; her shallow breathing making it hard to speak in full sentences.

Above her, Bucky was an emotionless brick wall. His expression didn't change and he didn't move. The way that he looked at her was disconcerting; it was cold and clinical and observant. It felt like he was dissecting her with his eyes, picking her apart bit by bit to find something. Not deigning to answer her question, Bucky moved to stand at the side of the mattress before he sank into a crouch. Every movement he made was calculated with terrifying precision. He knew he had the upper hand, that much was clear. But he still moved like he would in battle, like that was the only way he knew how to operate. Like everywhere was a battlefield.

"You're going to help me," he stated lowly, certainly. As though there were no doubt in his mind that she would agree to helping. Immediately, Artie assumed that what he needed help with was HYDRA business; that this was an introduction to the horror and pain that would lead to her being his partner. Just as Zola had stated. She wet her lips with an anxious dart of her tongue.

"Help… with what?" she rasped. Her throat was so impossibly dry that it was uncomfortable. It felt like it was coated in a thick layer of sand. The words were spoken scratchily and laboriously. Each inhale and exhale sapped her energy. With each passing moment, Artie could feel unconsciousness creeping back towards her.

For the first time since he'd reappeared, there was a break in the cold demeanor that had found a seemingly permanent home on Bucky's face. The steeliness of his gaze broke and softened. It became more distant, not focused on anything in particular. The tense hold of his lips lessened, allowing them to pull into the slightest of frowns. His fingers twitched. His nostrils flared and relaxed. His brows lessened their furrow into something more gentle.

"Remember," he muttered under his breath. Bucky's eyes flickered down to meet hers, the muscles of his throat moving visibly as he swallowed. It was an almost nervous action, like the word frightened him.

"How do you… mean, remember?" Artie exhaled weakly. A spark of hope ignited in the pit of her stomach, a spark that she tried not to immediately fan. There was nothing more that she wanted than for Bucky to remember who he was, but she had to remind herself that this could be a tactic.

Bucky exhaled heavily, audibly––shakily. He clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping. "Remember why you know me. I… recognized you. When I pulled you out of the river, I recognized you. Saw you. In military uniform. Olive drab. Short hair. Smiling. Laughing. Laughing, at me."

It was the most that Artie had heard him speak since he'd first spoken on the streets of D.C.. The familiar, lulling tenor of his voice was nearly hypnotizing; it brought back memories of sunny days, drizzly evenings, mud, blood, tears, and laughter. It was a voice that she'd longed to hear for so long, and hearing it again for such an extended period of time nearly moved her to tears. But what did rouse a reaction from her was what Bucky had said. The image that he recalled seeing a spark of. It caused the corners of her mouth to twitch into the smallest, most fleeting of smiles.

"You had a… memory from… nineteen-forty-five."

Then, just as it had softened, Bucky's expression hardened once more. The guarded steeliness returned to his eyes and his brows pinched in a familiar, deep furrow. "You're going to help me," he reiterated tersely.

Swallowing another mouthful of copper tasting spit, Art groggily bobbed her head in a nod. The spark of hope in her stomach was fanned in a great gust, causing it to grow into something more substantial. It was still something to be cautious about; HYDRA could have fed him information about her to gain her trust. However, even if this was a ruse, perhaps, Artie could spark something in him that would cause him to remember.

"I… can try," she agreed.

There was a flash of silver followed by the sensation of icy metal pinching at Art's throat. Bucky had curled a hand around her neck, fingers pressed into her flesh with a warning pressure. A warning that he would not hesitate to squeeze, to cut off her air supply at any given moment. She stared up at him unflinchingly, though her breathing had instinctively gotten faster. Bucky leaned in close, a predatory slowness in his actions. Artie could smell the sweat on his skin, hear the whirring of the metal bands shifting in his arm. He was so, so close… and it would be a lie if she said it wasn't intimidating.

"You will do more than try. I was given orders to eliminate you should you not comply," he growled. "This is your reprieve. If you do not help, I will not hesitate to finish my mission."

Keeping her eyes locked with his––familiar eyes filled with an alien anger––Artie lifted a hand that trembled with fatigue, and placed it on his metal wrist. There was no pulling in hopes of prying him off. Her hold was almost cradling, comforting. The threat was not empty, she knew that. The Winter Soldier would, indeed, kill her if he had to. But Bucky Barnes… Bucky wouldn't do it, even if she asked him to. So, with that in mind, she said something that would have horrified him. "I know. And I'll… let you."

The metal hand was wrenched away from her throat and out of her grasp as though he'd been burned. Art's hand flopped down to the floor as fatigue started to take over her body completely. Her eyes started to drift close lazily, occasionally jumping open as she tried to keep herself awake. Bucky was staring down at her wide eyed, mouth hanging open, chest heaving with heavy breaths. His eyes jumped to his hand, which he regarded in horror, almost. Artie's eyes slipped close, and unconsciousness reclaimed her, but not before she murmured,

"It'd be good… to have you back, Buck…"

OOOO

New York City, New York

It had been five days since Artie had gone missing, and there was still absolutely no sign of her. Steve and Sam had searched the entire D.C. metro area––with the help of what remaining S.H.I.E.L.D. agents they could get––for four days and had found nothing. The shore of the Potomac bore nothing, just as the river held nothing but debris. None of the bodies fished out from the water had been her, thank god, but it still wasn't much of a comfort. It was like Artie had been erased from the face of the earth the minute she'd fallen through the glass. They didn't know how to proceed without S.H.I.E.L.D. technology to scan security cameras or search social media for mentions of sightings. There was only so much they could do by hacking and scrolling on their phones. So they turned to the next best option for viable technology––they turned to Tony Stark.

Steve found himself anxiously pacing in the lab of the newly refurbished––and newly named––Avengers Tower, a fist poised at his mouth. His eyes were locked on Tony, who had been hard at work all morning. The billionaire was stood in front of a suspended glass screen, across which innumerable CCTV videos had been drawn up. With a frustrated flick of his hand, he banished the videos to another screen and took a step back. He lifted his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose, face scrunching up.

"JARVIS, can you run a search for any videos taken of the Triskelion incident?" Tony asked, bowing his head. He released his hold on his nose so he could massage the heel of his palm against his forehead.

"Yes, sir," replied the polite voice of the A.I. system. It wasn't long before numerous videos flickered to life on the screen. They bared everything from the helicarriers firing on each other to the swarm of cop cars and SWAT vehicles rushing to and from the Triskelion after the fact. The expanse of videos playing appeared just as hectic as the battle had been.

"She's not making this easy on us," Tony murmured. He enlarged one video, taken on the bank opposite the Triskelion, filming the final moments of the helicarrier's firing on one another. "JARVIS, run another search for articles, posts, and videos with the words 'Lieutenant Liberty,' 'sighting,' and 'Washington'?"

"Of course, sir. Would you like these searches to continue till further notice?"

"You read my mind."

Steve stepped forward as the videos changed and became interspersed with articles and various other social media posts. Some of them were old and irrelevant, so as they popped up, Tony swiped them away. The soldier's eyes flickered from video to video, article to picture, hoping to catch a familiar flash of Commando blue. He ran fingers over the still healing scratch along his cheek. The stitches had since dissolved, but the flesh was still tender. The silence in the room wasn't unfamiliar, but it was a touch uncomfortable. Neither man knew what to say to the other. Didn't know what kind of conversation they could have, given the circumstances. Casual conversation seemed to casual, anything about the last few days seemed too heavy. But Tony breached the wall of silence eventually, clearing his throat as a warning.

"So, uh… I saw the files. The leaked ones from S.H.I.E.L.D.," he started, tone light, as though confidential files becoming publically available was an everyday occurance.

Steve reluctantly tore his gaze from the screen and raised his eyebrows. He, too, cleared his throat, fingers still playing along the length of the healing wound. "Yeah?"

"Yeah! Lots of interesting stuff in there, made for some good, light reading before bed. But I, uh, saw that… I saw the ones about Artie, what HYDRA wanted to do to her; turn her into Winter Soldier two-point-oh." His tone wasn't prying, but it was still light. Probing gently to see if this was news that Steve had been made privy to.

And privy to such information he was. He nodded and looked down at his feet, clad in his uniform boots. He'd been able to retrieve his stealth suit before leaving D.C., and he'd practically been living in it for the past few days.

"Yeah. She, uh… she wasn't too pleased when she found out. Said that she felt like a danger to everyone around her. Really tore her up."

Tony nodded, as though he understood, and shoved his hands into his pockets. "It, uh, explains some things, though. The partial brainwashing probably triggers that weird… terminator fight-mode she gets into sometimes. Y'know when her face goes all stony and her movements get all sharp," he said, as though this knowledge was supposed to be comforting. He even held up his hands in a ninja-like pose, as though the humor of it might diffuse some of the tension.

Instead of being a blanket of comfort, however, it just twisted Steve's insides nauseatingly. He scrunched his eyes shut and gave a shake of his head.

"If we could not, uh… talk about that right now," he murmured.

"Right, yeah, yeah…" There was only a short beat of silence before he immediately launched into speaking again. "There's probably something that can be done about it––the partial brainwashing. People in cults get brainwashed, and when they get broken out, a lot of them turn out fine."

Steve ground his teeth together. "That is, if she's still only partially brainwashed when we find her."

"Are you… planning on finding her worse off?"

"I don't pretend to not understand that Bucky's been part of HYDRA for years. We knew that he had orders to take Artie in, finish the process they started on her back in forty-five. If he finds her before we do… if he hasn't snapped out of whatever they did to him, Artie's in more trouble than we know," Steve explained tightly, clipping back into his Captain America voice. He started to eye the videos on the screen again. They were all jumbled too close together to see anything comprehensible. "I have to fix this."

The billionaire condensed all the data on the screen and physically shifted it aside. He then shifted around so he was facing Steve, brows pinched over curious brown eyes. "Are you beating yourself up over this?"

For a moment, Steve simply stared at open space, as though he might be able to manifest all the answers he needed out of thin air. Then, with a resigned sigh, his shoulders dropped and he bowed his head. A hand rose to press and rub at his eyes, which had felt dry from staring at screens all morning. The last five days had been draining, and it didn't seem like it was going to get any easier.

"It's all on me," Steve stated firmly. He lifted his head and met Tony's eyes, screwing his lips together at the stinging in his nose. Tony folded his arms over his chest and quirked his head in confused curiosity. With a sigh, Steve brought both hands to rest on his hips, assuming a position that made him feel slightly more in control, when in reality he knew he was just barely clinging to it. "Losing Artie, it's on me. It happened on my watch. If things had gone smoother, she wouldn't have had to face Bucky alone, wouldn't have gotten so roughed up. I was the leader of the operation, I should have come up with a better plan, kept my right hand soldier at my right hand…"

Tony's eyes had narrowed and his lips had puckered. He rocked back on his heels and pointed a finger at his blonde haired comrade.

"But this isn't about losing a soldier––your 'right hand'––this is about losing Artie. The woman you love," Tony clarified. With an almost exasperated huff, he let his arms slap down against his sides; he then extended his hands in a gesture that was almost pleading. "This has nothing to do about your supposed… lack of planning, this has everything to do with your fear that you're the reason you might not get her back."

Steve grimaced as each word jabbed at his gut like a knife. He cleared his throat, which had grown thick, and let his brows briefly arch towards the ceiling. "Thank you for that observation."

"But, you, uh, know that wallowing in guilt isn't going to do anything, right?" Tony asked, the question clearly rhetorical. With brows puckering, Steve looked over at Tony, who stared back with arched eyebrows and a look on his face that said, 'well?'

"I'm not wallowing," Steve denied.

"Oh, you're not wallowing? Well, I hate to break it to you, but you can be kind of a drama queen. You're feeling lost about what to do in this situation, so you're focusing in on your self inflicted guilt. Do you think she'd want you tearing yourself apart over this? No. Artie would want you to acknowledge that you did what you could, pull yourself up by your star-spangled boot straps, and get a move on. She wouldn't want you to be like this. From what I understand, there was nothing anyone could've done to have prevented her falling through that glass. She did her job, you did yours. Artie would want you to do what you do best. And you don't have to do it alone," Tony told him firmly.

Steve dropped his eyes to the floor, quietly taking in Tony's words. It partially felt like a reprimand, partially like a pep-talk. He considered his actions of the morning and he shut his eyes in embarrassment when he realized, yes, he had been wallowing. It had been the easiest thing to do. Artie had disappeared so quickly that he'd been thrown into a tailspin. Up was down, left was right, north was south, east was west. The path to find her wasn't clear. And the path that led up to her disappearance was hazy; but it could've been easily paved by decisions he'd made. Steve had opted to focus on that, instead of throwing himself headfirst in the tangled maze that led him back to her. A partial, wry smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth and he lifted his gaze to meet Tony's.

"She'd kick my ass if she saw me right now," Steve muttered.

Tony smirked fully, unabashedly. "Then let's find her so she can kick some sense into your old bones." He turned back to the screen and enlarged the expanse of videos and articles once more. He started parsing through them again, muttering under his breath.

"Mr. Stark, Captain Rogers," alerted JARVIS, "Mr. Wilson has returned with Mr. Kenneth Knoll."

The announcement wiped the smirk right off Steve's face; a fresh, cool wash of dread rolled over Steve from head to toe. When they knew that they would be returning to New York, Steve knew that he was going to have to talk to Kenny. He needed to know what happened to Artie, and needed to be updated on her status. And he needed to hear it from Steve, not from any shoddy news source. Clearing his throat, Steve gestured towards the lab door. "Might not have to wait for Artie; I think Kenneth might knock something into me instead."

Afterword: And so it begins! I've been excited to write these Bucky/Artie scenes for AGES. I've had to edit them fairly heavily, as I've had to reevaluate Buck's level of lucidness and how heavily the Winter Soldier persona affects him in certain moments. We'll get some good Bucky POV, which is always good fun! And Artie's state of injury is gonna be something real fun for her to try and navigate. (Also, forgive my oddly written Tony, I've gotta get back into the swing of writing his beautifully sarcastic dialogue)

Review Replies!

Goldenfightergirl: The more Artie's head clears, the more she's gonna get a grasp on the situation. It was hard to write her being half-conscious, in insurmountable amounts of pain, and trying to grasp her newfound situation. Once she gets some pain meds in her, she'll be a little more lucid… and we'll see her thoughts on being seperated from Steve. And Civil War is gonna be an interesting ride… for everyone. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

FaeryMeganChase: Steve is… not holding up well. That poor boy blames himself for everything. And Artie may or may not end up having a chat with my girl Shuri down the line. If I were Artie, I would do everything in my power to figure out how to fix my scrambled head. We'll see, a little later (but soon), Artie having a big-picture perspective on her partial brain-washing; it's not a good picture for her. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

weasleylover10: I think I was the most surprised when I got last chapter up… and this chapter up so soon! I feel invigorated and happy to be writing again. I'm glad that you're excited to see where this goes! These are plans that I've been waiting to enact for literal years. I can't remember when the idea of Bucky taking Artie came to me, but when it did, I remember being like 'holy shit, this is it. This needs to happen.' I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Nina fo life: Writing Artie getting her ass handed to her was painful. 'Cause I'm so used to writing her in battle sequences being like 'she's battered, bruised, but she's still going.' But going up one-on-one against Buck is a whole nother story. And I wouldn't say that Steve's lost Artie just yet… he's working on getting her back, it's just gonna be difficult, difficult, lemon, difficult. But we will have some quality Bucky/Artie moments rolling up soon, and I'm uber excited to write them. I was always curious to know Bucky's process of getting to where he is in Civil War, so… I decided I was gonna write some of it! Hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Lulu14168: Bucky snatching up Artie was an idea I came up with and couldn't let go. As I mentioned in the last review, I was fascinated to know how Bucky woke himself up in the time between WS and CW. When we didn't get to see anything other than that snippet of the Smithsonian scene, and Bucky's journal… I knew I had to write something. I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Madama Crimson: Thank you so much! I'm glad that Bucky taking Artie wasn't telegraphed or expected. I wanted it to come about as it would have come to him, idea wise––sudden and jarring. Because, suddenly, as his organization crumbles to pieces around him, the only thing that's familiar to him is this woman. This woman he's been ordered to either kidnap for HYDRA or kill. So… finally able to do something of his own free will, he takes her in for a questioning of his own. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
AmethystSiri: Thank you so much! I'm glad that you've enjoyed the story so far, and hope you enjoyed the update!

Lady of Sign: I, too, am excited for quick chapters! I'm very happy to have such a steady stream of inspiration for this story again. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!

lydiavip: I'm glad I keep you on the edge of your seat with each chapter; it's my goal to keep things interesting as the story rolls along. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!

LoveFiction2019: Ooooh, indeed! I hope you enjoyed the continuation!

And thank you to those that added this to their follows/favorites; it means a lot!

Keep your fingers crossed that this update-streak will keep on going. I know, roughly, how the next few chapters will pan out, so they should be fairly easy to write. And then… we'll be wrapping up WS and be steadily rolling into AoU! Get hyped, 'cause I've got some MCU cameos planned soon. Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again, y'all rock!

~Mary