Beatrice sat on the edge of her bed, the thick S.H.I.E.L.D. folder Natasha had given her lying open on her lap. It had been nearly a day since she'd woken up at the safe house, and despite the wealth of information she now had, both from Steve and from studying the files, she still felt just as lost as she had been upon opening her eyes.

Although she was now up-to-date on what exactly the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division was—an intelligence agency that had grown out of the SSR after the war, founded by none other than Peggy Carter and Howard Stark—she still had no idea what exactly they did. According to Steve, the agency had been destroyed and forced underground after Hydra's infiltration of it was discovered, and the subsequent investigations of its bases had led to Beatrice's discovery. And that was only the declassified information she knew. It was making her head pound; she couldn't process everything at once. Steve, who had been living in this new world for two years, admitted that even he was still lost sometimes, which didn't give Beatrice much hope for herself.

She'd been poring over the files for hours, determined to soak up as much information as she possibly could. It was hard to wrap her mind around the fact that she had actually been frozen—in a coma-like state, but just alive enough so that her body and mind were preserved—similar to how Steve had been trapped in the ice off Greenland for almost seventy years, only her case was intentional. Suspended animation, the reports said.

Beatrice surveyed the pages that were spread around her; whoever put together the folder had evidently designed it with her in mind. Many familiar faces appeared among the files, and she'd carefully set those ones aside to study them more closely.

Peggy was now an elderly woman living just outside of London. She'd married a fellow agent five years after the war ended, and their children and grandchildren were scattered across the globe. Angie had recently passed away but had, for all intents and purposes, lived a long and full life. Helen and Ruth had both married their sweethearts and died within a year of each other in the nineteen-eighties. Rebecca had become a widow very young—Ernest was killed at the beginning of the Vietnam War, unable to avoid the draft—but she still resided in Brooklyn. Howard had died in a car crash some twenty years ago along with his wife, leaving his only son as the sole inheritor of Stark Industries. Ivan had been killed in the sixties in Moscow, for reasons unknown—likely a mission gone wrong, but he would have been elderly anyway, Beatrice thought with some confusion.

And…Henry.

His file was the strangest of all; while he was by far the youngest of those whom Beatrice had known and loved, any information about him was scarce. He'd moved to America after Ivan's death and joined S.H.I.E.L.D., quickly rising through the ranks until he'd become one of their most respected field agents, traveling between the United States and the Soviet Union as a double agent like Ivan; according to the file, he had retired at the end of the Cold War and now lived alone in Washington. But unlike the others, any personal information about him was scarce—no mention of a wife or children. Perhaps, like Ivan, he had been married to his work. Still, the lack of detail was strange.

Beatrice flipped over the page she'd been studying, a brief summary of what was known as the Battle of New York, and a large, full-color picture of Steve jumped out at her. She could tell he had been grimacing just before the photograph was taken. The file was primarily focused on his involvement with S.H.I.E.L.D. rather than him as an individual. Beatrice studied another picture of him with the Avengers, of which Steve was a member, along with Natasha and Clint Barton. A smile darted over Beatrice's face as she studied his appropriately patriotic, star-spangled costume, but it immediately disappeared when she saw the next file waiting to be read.

JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, it boldly stated in large block letters, and as Beatrice smoothed out the paper, a photograph fluttered out onto the floor. She leaned over to pick it up and her eyes landed on her own face. It was one of the pictures she had brought with her to Europe, taped to the inside of her suitcase. It must have been retrieved by the SSR—and later S.H.I.E.L.D.—after she'd been declared missing in action and presumed dead. This particular one was of her and Bucky sitting on a bench at Prospect Park. Bucky's easy grin was apparent even in the grainy image, and Beatrice had turned her head away from him, instead staring at Steve behind the camera. The picture was slightly blurred owing to the movement of its subjects—neither Bucky nor Beatrice had been sitting completely still—but she remembered the moment well. Bucky had stolen Rebecca's camera in revenge for her taking the family car to sneak out and visit Ernest, and they'd spent the afternoon clogging the film with unwanted pictures—a tree here, a group of pretty girls there. Rebecca had been furious, Beatrice thought with a tiny smile, remembering the younger girl's reaction when she'd found out what her brother had done. But the few pictures that had been taken of her, Steve and Bucky were worth every bit of it. Things had been so much simpler then, though it hadn't seemed like it at the time. Beatrice's biggest worry had been struggling with her growing feelings for Bucky. She imagined telling the girl in the picture that within a year, she would be engaged to him, would be trapped in a prison cell with him while she was tortured for information, would feel the exhilarating high of his body pressed against hers, tasting brandy on his breath while he struggled to drown his ghosts in drink. Neither of them had ever been the same after that, not really. Bucky's eyes had grown harder, the lines around his face tighter, his humor turning blacker than death. He had held her so carefully when they'd been at the dance hall in Brooklyn, his mouth gentle, almost hesitant, as he'd kissed her for the first time. And the last time they had kissed, at the Whip & Fiddle just before Beatrice confronted Lorraine, was desperate, urgent; there had been no softness to it at all. Bucky's lips had been hard and insistent against hers, as if he was starving, as if he couldn't bear to let her go. The intensity of it, of him, had taken Beatrice's breath away, and even as she was leaving she'd known he was still watching her. She wondered if, even then, there had been a small part of both of them that knew it had been their final goodbye. Maybe they had always known it couldn't last.

The words on the page had begun to blur together, and it wasn't until a drop of water splashed on the edge that Beatrice realized she was crying. She sniffled and wiped away the tears, knowing it would be ten times as difficult to put herself back together once she fell apart. Blinking furiously, she forced herself to continue on through Bucky's file.

"Declared MIA in December of 1944…notification sent to next of kin Mrs. Rebecca Proctor of Brooklyn…" A copy of the condolence letter was even attached to the file; Beatrice could only skim it. God, S.H.I.E.L.D. knew everything about Bucky: his birthday, his dates of enlistment and deployment, his address, the schools he'd attended—even his grades were included. Beatrice began to feel uneasy as the list continued; how on earth had they gotten hold of such personal information? She couldn't imagine Rebecca giving it up willingly.

But it wasn't until she came across a single photograph taped to the back of the paper, captioned with the words "The Winter Soldier Project", did she realize the extent of what Hydra had done to him. And there was Bucky as he must have looked after the fall, lying naked on an operating table, his mangled left arm nearly torn off and blood congealing into a puddle on the floor. His eyes were closed, his hair matted and stuck to his head, his entire left side covered in blood.

Beatrice quickly flipped the file over and covered her mouth, staring blankly at the wall in front of her, trying not to vomit. She desperately wanted to forget what she had just seen, the image of him on that table like an animal being prepared for dissection, Hydra doctors about to cut him open. "Bucky," she whispered brokenly to the empty room, and the tears finally began to spill down her cheeks as she began to sob, shaking so violently she thought she would fall over. Whatever had happened to him…what they had done to him was her fault. If she hadn't lost the fight against Lorraine, Bucky and Steve wouldn't have had to go after her and he never would have fallen from the train. He would have chosen death over becoming a pawn of Hydra's, Beatrice knew. He would rather have been killed than lose his memories.

But then she thought of what Steve had told her: "He remembered me. I know he did." So did that mean his brainwashing wasn't permanent? Had Hydra only been able to suppress his memories rather than erasing them completely? She remembered the way he had wrapped his arm around her throat, cutting off her air supply, choking her while she'd struggled and gasped against him…the way he had strode so calmly and purposefully toward her, like a lion stalking its prey…she gasped, her hand flying to her bare throat. The imprint of his fingers had long since disappeared, but she could still feel a phantom touch.

But he—Bucky—still had to be in there somewhere. He had to. He couldn't have been made into Hydra's perfect weapon and not gone down without a fight. Beatrice guessed that most of his assassinations had been high-ranking political or military figures, since they posed the greatest threats, but had his targets been women and children too? She doubted Hydra cared much about collateral damage, and felt ill at the thought.

"Even if he's broken free, he's not the same person he once was," Natasha had interjected in the middle of Steve's story. "That kind of conditioning always leaves a mark."

While Beatrice was aware that she was correct, she couldn't help but feel a spark of annoyance toward the other woman. Natasha hadn't known Bucky like Beatrice and Steve did. What could she possibly know about what he had gone through? Beatrice was wary of her, and for good reason—she had been tranquilized twice, even if it was under Fury's orders. Steve seemed to trust her, but Beatrice didn't even know if she should trust Steve anymore. He was different from the man she had known—not just in Brooklyn, but during the war as well. Now he was guarded, wary, always tense as if he expected to spring into battle at any moment. Beatrice had the sense that he was close to his breaking point, and she had no idea what would happen if Steve finally broke. She knew it was illogical, but she couldn't help but think that she was just an inconvenience to him, interrupting his search for Bucky. Yes, she had once lived with him for six months, but Bucky was his best friend; his brother. Steve would go after him no matter what, heedless of the consequences. And not for the first time, Beatrice wondered if both Bucky and Steve had gone to a place she couldn't follow.

A knock at the door had her quickly snapping the folder shut and tossing it aside, pretending to have been sitting quietly. "Come in," she called, hoping her voice didn't waver, and wasn't at all surprised when Steve himself appeared in the doorway. Beatrice leapt to her feet, her mind swimming with everything that had been crammed into it during the past day, and saw Steve relax ever so slightly.

"Come to change the lock on my door?" Beatrice asked him. She was only half-joking, knowing that she could escape if she really wanted to. She wasn't being monitored all the time—that she knew about, at least—but she was also aware that she wouldn't get very far wandering the countryside before someone found her again. Fury—wherever he was; she hadn't seen him since waking up in the laboratory—had chosen this spot well.

Steve scoffed and leaned against the doorframe, but Beatrice thought she saw a flash of guilt in his eyes. "We're not locking you in," he said firmly. "You can leave anytime, you know."

She raised an eyebrow. "What will Fury say about that?"

This time Steve didn't even bother to hide his displeasure; he shifted so that the bulk of his weight was on his shoulder and his eyes visibly narrowed. Beatrice noticed the tension immediately; he was trying and failing to put up a calm front. "Fury has no say in this," he said, clenching his jaw. "He's not the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore."

"Well, I'm not going to leave," she assured him, though if she was planning on it she would have already done so, and Steve knew that perfectly well. "I have nowhere to go, anyway."

"You're always welcome here, Beatrice," he said steadfastly, with a lopsided smile, and her chest suddenly felt as warm as if she had drunk an entire cup of hot tea in one go.

"You can't imagine how grateful I am to hear that," she said truthfully, and glanced over at the folder lying haphazardly on the other side of the bed. "Have you read it?" she asked him, her voice quivering. "Did you see what…what they did to Bucky?"

Steve's expression darkened, and he moved further into the room, staring down at the file with a mixture of loathing and a terrible heaviness, as if the weight of the entire world rested on his shoulders. "Yes," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you had to see it."

Beatrice sucked in a sharp breath. "I wanted to know everything. I needed to know everything."

He met her eyes again, and there was something cautious in them, almost wary. "Sam got a tip earlier this morning," he began, and paused, as if he was deliberating the words before barreling ahead anyway. "Bucky's here. In Switzerland."

Beatrice felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of her. "W—what?" she asked shakily. "Is that what Natasha said he wanted to talk to you about?"

Steve nodded. "We've been monitoring a few places for a while, and yesterday afternoon a plane from Washington landed in Geneva with a passenger that matched Bucky's physical description. Sam decided to wait until he was sure it actually was Bucky before gathering more intel. And there was a break-in at an old Hydra facility not far from here about an hour ago."

She forced herself to nod as calmly as possible, determined not to betray the thrills of both relief and dread that simultaneously shot through her. "An old Hydra facility?" she questioned.

"It's outdated information," Steve clarified. "The building's not been used in decades—certainly not in this century. He must be going off of what he remembers."

The implication that Bucky remembered something was enough to calm her, and she was relieved to hear that her voice was steady as she asked, "Were there any deaths?"

"No," Steve said, and she sagged in relief. "Two detainees at the airport are reporting that they came face-to-face with him but he let them go."

Beatrice frowned. "Why would he spare them?"

"I don't know," Steve said, with a tiny, frustrated shake of his head. "He's probably searching for as much information about himself as possible—that's why he was at the museum. And the trail must have brought him straight here."

"You're going after him, then," Beatrice said. She crossed the room and stared up at Steve's prematurely lined face; stress was set so deeply into the set of his mouth, the creases around his eyes, that it seemed to have become a permanent part of him. "Take me with you."

His mouth tightened. "You don't have to come along, Beatrice. It could be dangerous. It will be dangerous."

"But you came in here to give me the choice," she insisted. "Steve, I appreciate your concern, but you're hardly the most appropriate person to be warning me away from something. I need to see him. I need to see Bucky. Even if he's not—even if he's not the same." She could barely get the words out past the sudden lump in her throat, and forced herself not to cry. She had already done enough of that.

"I know," Steve said quietly, and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it like he used to do so often with Bucky. She smiled up at him through watery eyes, knowing he was trying to comfort her in the best way he could. "We'll find him, Beatrice. I promise."

For the first time since she'd lost the fight against Lorraine days ago—but it hadn't been days, had it? It had been years, seventy years—Beatrice felt hope. It was intoxicating, almost dizzying in its suddenness and intensity; she'd almost forgotten what it felt like. She might have had to leave everything she'd known behind, but she wasn't alone. Steve was with her, and Bucky was here, too, somewhere, as changed as he was. And she was no longer in Hydra's grasp. Still, it was too much for her to process at once. She had to compartmentalize her thoughts or risk breaking down in front of Steve again, who had much more important things to do than comfort her.

"Fury's not going to let you do this," she told him, although she herself could care less about what Fury thought. If the supposed ex-director of S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't even bother checking up on his own safe house every once in a while, she didn't see what business he had telling Steve what he could and couldn't do.

By the looks of things, Steve was thinking along the same lines as her. "Fury doesn't have to know," he said resolutely.

Beatrice thought of the other two agents in the house—Steve had said they were partners, but she didn't know if he'd meant in the professional sense, the romantic sense, or both. "What about Natasha and Clint?"

"They're on an assignment for Fury," he answered. "They won't be back until tomorrow at the earliest."

Beatrice knew it must seem as if she was stalling for time, and in a way, she supposed she was. She was waiting for Steve to tell her that it might not be Bucky after all, that it might be a trap, that he was going to forbid her to accompany them. But she could tell just by looking at his face that he wasn't about to forbid her from going anywhere. Maybe there was even some part of him that wanted her to come along, now that she was the only other person alive who understood him and Bucky. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

"All right," she said, and ducked past him out the door, trying to ignore the cold sweat coating her palms. "Let's go."

The car was black and sleek, the engine purring so quietly that Beatrice wasn't sure it was even running at all. The seats were made of leather and bizarrely soft—Sam told her it had heated seating; what kind of idea was that?—and the dashboard glowed with an eerie neon light, displaying the time, speed, gas mileage, and even a map of the nearby area flashed on a small screen. Beatrice stared at it in awe, and couldn't resist peppering Sam with questions despite never having been interested in automobiles before. She could sense Steve's amusement from the backseat as she asked Sam yet again how he didn't get distracted by all the glowing numbers and symbols.

"It's easier than you might think," Sam repeated patiently; as if to prove it, he hadn't taken his eyes off the winding road ahead of them once. He was a calm, steady presence; Beatrice could easily see why he and Steve got along. They'd only known each other for a number of weeks, Steve had said, but there was no doubting the loyalty that already existed between the two men. It was a different dynamic than the one he'd had with Bucky, but Beatrice suspected it was a welcome one nonetheless.

She lapsed into silence, not wanting to bother Sam anymore, and leaned her head back against the headrest. Soft jazz music filled the car—Sam had asked if she wanted to hear something called rock and roll, and Beatrice readily agreed until Steve had put his foot down, saying that there were some things one had to get used to slowly. Now the air was thick with feigned nonchalance as they carefully avoided bringing up the topic of their destination.

Beatrice stared at the road ahead; the bright headlights illuminated the forest flashing past them on both sides, occasionally interrupted by a house or farm. She hadn't seen another soul since leaving the safe house, which unsettled her for reasons she couldn't quite explain. All her life, she had been surrounded by people: growing up in a crowded tenement in New York, and then going off to spend two years in a war where there had never been a shortage of nurses and soldiers, had at least given her a sense of comfort that she wasn't entirely on her own. Then, she had never felt completely alone, but was often lonely. Now, although she wasn't lonely—she had Steve, after all, and Sam, who seemed like someone she could grow to care for—she had never felt more alone. She was isolated, an other who had been in Hydra's clutches for so long that Fury thought they might have corrupted her without her knowing it. When Steve had been discovered in the ice, he was a hero reborn, and the public had been eager to embrace him again. Nobody knew who Beatrice was, and she felt as if she'd had to reintroduce herself to Steve, who had been one of those who knew her best. It was as though the Beatrice who was locked in the cryochamber wasn't the same woman who had come out of it.

"What does it say about him at the Smithsonian?" she asked hesitantly, breaking the silence. "About Bucky." It was beyond strange that events she had experienced less than a week ago were now displayed at a museum, remembered only by a select few.

Sam glanced into the rearview mirror, and Beatrice knew he and Steve were exchanging a look. "Just the basics," Steve replied after a moment. "That he was born in Brooklyn and served in the 107th Infantry before his unit was captured by Hydra and later liberated."

"By you," Sam interjected, and the two men shared another meaningful glance.

"Yeah," Steve admitted; Beatrice pictured him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "It mainly focuses on his time as a sniper for the Howling Commandos." He paused, and she could tell he was deliberating his next words. "There's also a dedication to you."

Beatrice's mind blanked for half a second, and she twisted around in her seat to stare at Steve. "W—what?" she stammered. "A dedication? To me?"

He nodded, a bit of color staining his cheeks. "I insisted on it. You were—are—so integral, Beatrice, I couldn't just leave you out."

"What does it say?" she asked.

"That you were an army nurse," Steve explained. "That you were close with me before the serum. And that you were Bucky's fiancée."

Beatrice's heart was pounding ridiculously hard; she hoped Steve and Sam couldn't tell. "Do you think he read it?" she asked through a suddenly dry mouth.

"Probably, yeah," Steve admitted. "When we got the call from Natasha that you'd been found, he was definitely still close by. He would have heard your name at any rate."

Beatrice slowly turned back around to face the front, mind racing. How much did he remember? Had he recognized her name? She didn't dare to think that part of the reason why he was in Switzerland had to do with her. Her hand unconsciously reached up to touch her throat, and she shuddered, feeling a sudden wave of panic. If he had tried to kill Steve…what were the chances he would try to kill her, too? Did he even know he had seen her once in Zola's laboratory, or had that been wiped from him like everything else? How much of Bucky was left?

"We're here," Sam said in a low voice, and Beatrice was thankfully distracted as the car slowed to a stop, gravel crunching under the wheels. She hadn't noticed the forest thinning out, to be replaced by a street lined with low brick buildings, their foundations crumbling. Colorful graffiti covered many of the walls, and the windows were either cracked or completely missing. It was obvious this area hadn't been populated in quite some time. She raised her gaze higher, where the dim outlines of the Alps were visible in the distance, bleeding into the purple sky. It must be nearing nighttime again.

Steve was the first one out of the car, coming over to open Beatrice's door for her, but she guessed the gesture was just as much protective as it was polite. He was scanning the area, searching for any signs of a disturbance, his expression wary and alert.

"He's here, Sam," Steve said under his breath as Sam rounded the car to join them. "I know he is." Without waiting for the skeptical response that was sure to come, he continued, "Stay here with Beatrice until I give the all-clear."

"What about your shield?" Sam asked as Steve began to walk away.

He turned his head to call back, "I'm going in as Steve Rogers, not Captain America."

Sam waited until he was out of earshot before swearing under his breath and asking, "Has he always been this idiotic when it comes to Barnes?"

"Yes," Beatrice replied at once.

She watched Steve's retreating back until he reached the door and shoved it open with his shoulder; it immediately swung open and he disappeared inside the building, leaving Beatrice alone with Sam. She looked up at him curiously, and would have been amused had the situation not been so tense when she saw he was staring after Steve with an expression identical to her own.

"So what do we do?" she asked, hoping he would insist they go after Steve anyway.

"We wait," he replied, sounding just as thrilled as she was by the prospect. "Man, I should have brought my wings."

"Your what?"

He glanced over at her with a slight smirk. "I guess Steve didn't tell you about that one, huh? Well, it's a long—"

But he didn't get a chance to finish his sentence before another pair of headlights lit up the fast-darkening sky and a car pulled up next to theirs. Sam straightened, his hand going to his pocket where Beatrice was sure a gun was concealed. For her part, she nervously looked back at the building, hoping for Steve's reappearance, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Two men dressed from head to toe in black emerged from the car and strode towards them; Beatrice instinctively took a step back so that she was behind Sam. The one who had been driving, who had dark eyes and a long, narrow face, barked something at them in what she recognized as German before switching to English. "You aren't supposed to be here," he said in a heavy accent. "This is private property."

"I didn't see a sign," Sam replied coolly. Beatrice admired his composure.

This time the second man, who was shorter and had a more muscular build, spoke up. "We won't ask what you're doing here if you leave the premises immediately," he warned. "I'm giving you thirty seconds."

Beatrice stared desperately at Sam, who was clearly steeling himself for a fight. His eyes flickered over to hers, and he inclined his head ever so slightly in the direction of the building. Before she could give him a nod of agreement, he sprung into action, his leg flying around to catch the first man in the back of the knee. Taken by surprise, he fell to the ground with a startled yell just as Sam whipped a handgun out of his pocket and cracked the second man over the head with it.

Beatrice turned on her heel and fled, sprinting toward the door where Steve had disappeared through. She could hear muffled grunts and shouts from behind her, and hoped that Sam would be able to incapacitate the men long enough for him to escape as well. By the sounds of it, it wouldn't take him very long.

She burst through the door, which easily opened under her strength, and stared wild-eyed around her. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light at once, and she was suddenly grateful for Zola's serum, as much as she despised the man. There was a staircase directly in front of her, with a long corridor stretching off to the right. Beatrice could have sworn she saw a shadow ghost across the floor. "Steve?" she asked, not caring how panicky she sounded, but there was no response.

Instead of waiting to see if her imagination had tricked her or not, she flew up the stairs, climbing higher and higher until the sound of her footsteps creaking on the old wood and her ragged breathing were the only things she could hear. She didn't stop to look as she passed each floor; something compelled her to continue climbing until she reached the very top, hoping to find a window where she could see if Sam was still outside.

The stairs ended abruptly after she had counted nine flights, and she found herself in a dark landing, the only light shining in through a broken window ahead of her, shards of glass littering the floor. Beatrice paused, her heart pounding in her ears, and felt a prickling on the back of her neck as if she was being watched. She whirled around, but her own reflection was the only thing that greeted her. Silence pressed on her ears.

She carefully made her way forward, her feet crunching on the shattered glass, and leaned out the window, searching the parking lot. Both cars were still present, and there were two bodies sprawled out several feet away from the vehicles. If Beatrice squinted, she could just make out the forms of the men—security? Police?—who had confronted them. Sam was nowhere in sight; she prayed he had met up with Steve and they were coming to find her.

Something on the wall next to the window caught her attention, and Beatrice's gaze moved over to it. It was one word carved into the paint, messy and jagged as if it had been written with a knife:

Strucker

What did that mean? Was it a name? A foreign word? Beatrice traced her fingers across it, and flakes of paint spilled out from the carving, fluttering onto the floor. It was fresh.

Just as she came to this conclusion, the prickling on the back of her neck increased tenfold until she could no longer stand it. This time she didn't even check around her before she ran, bolting for the opposite corridor. She ran into the first room she saw, which appeared to have once been an office; filing cabinets lined the walls and the desk in the middle of the room was filled with papers. Beatrice ran to it and frantically began rifling through them, searching for a stapler, a letter-opener, anything that could conceivably be used as a weapon. She was beginning to despair when she came across a pair of scissors and eagerly snatched them up. One of the papers fluttering to the floor contained the phrase PROJECT WINTER SOLDIER that she saw out of the corner of her eye; the scissors were suddenly forgotten as she snatched it up.

It was written in a scrawled, hurried script that was nearly impossible to decipher, and when Beatrice raised it closer to her face her heart sank when she realized it was completely in German. Her eyes desperately scanned the lines, searching for any sort of familiar word or phrase. She'd managed to pick up bits and pieces of the language at the field hospital, but not enough for anything more than a basic conversation—

And then her eyes caught on her own name, and it was all she could do not to gasp. Beatrice Hartley. Steven Rogers. Their names were listed several times down the paper, all appearing in the same sentence:

Er schreit für sie. He screams for them.

It wasn't a file at all, but a log system, detailing Bucky's condition when he had been taken by Hydra after falling from the train. He had been calling out for her and Steve when he was lying on that table. How long had he done so before they wiped his memory, before he'd given up hope for good that he would ever see them again?

The noise was so quiet it was nearly imperceptible, her enhanced senses the only thing that alerted her to the disturbance, and she went still, her head snapping up as a soft creak echoed from somewhere outside the room. She quickly straightened up and dove out into the corridor, now determined to get out of the building as fast as possible. She would tell Steve about the papers—there was sure to be more valuable information in the pile she had left behind.

Beatrice had only reached the opposite corner when she glimpsed movement in her peripheral vision—a human figure standing perfectly still at the other end of the hallway. A long moment passed, and the other person didn't move, though Beatrice was certain they were staring straight at her. Just as she was about to retreat, they took a step forward and began to stride in her direction.

Stifling a gasp, she ducked back the way she had come and broke into a run. Whirling back around, she saw that she was still being pursued. She was sprinting away before her brain caught up with her, the walls and doors blending into one continuous blur. Beatrice didn't turn around to see where they were—her fight or flight instincts had finally caught up with her, and she'd chosen flight.

She skidded around the corner so fast that she hit the opposite wall, her hands reaching out to brace herself against the impact, and felt something give way under her weight. To her astonishment, the plaster had cracked, leaving an indentation in the wall. Beatrice was reminded of falling from the staircase at Castle Zemo, and the dent in the floor after she'd hit the ground—but she didn't have time to dwell on that now.

As soon as she'd recovered, she was off again, having spotted the staircase ahead of her. Her heart dropped when she heard footsteps ringing off the walls behind her, and prepared to duck if she heard gunshots. She prayed for someone—anyone—to rescue her.

Beatrice leapt onto the stairs and took the steps two at a time, pushing her legs forward as fast as they would go and praying that raw adrenaline would be enough to get her out of danger. She just had to find a way outside—

"Stop running," someone growled from behind her, and at the sound of Bucky's voice—Bucky's—Beatrice came to an abrupt halt. But she had forgotten she was so high up and her momentum was still very much in action. Her foot caught on the railing and the floor suddenly disappeared from under her as she fell. The ground was solid concrete, and Beatrice barely had time to comprehend that she'd flipped right over the railing or prepare herself for the impact—

And then Bucky was suddenly under her, not making a sound as she landed in his grasp, her knee painfully slamming onto his metal arm. She winced, unable to move, as he carried her down the remainder of the stairs before dropping her unceremoniously on the ground. Despite her injured knee, Beatrice was somehow still able to scramble to her feet, but there was nowhere to run. He had her cornered.

"Bucky—please don't hurt me," she panted, the Winter Soldier's file still fresh in her memory, but her mind was only partly on the words as she greedily searched his face. He seemed taller than she remembered, brown hair falling over his achingly familiar eyes. He wore a dark green jacket and cargo pants, his hair tucked under a baseball cap. Stubble coated his chin, and his eyes glinted with an almost feverish light as he stared down at her.

If he was going to kill her, as Beatrice had feared, why hadn't he done so already? Why not let her smash onto the stairs instead of catching her? Instead he was silent, his eyes boring into hers with an unsettling intensity. Do you remember me? she wanted to ask, hoping the sound of her voice had triggered something in him. His expression was carefully blank, empty; she couldn't tell if there was anything left of the man she had loved—still loved—behind his eyes, and that terrified her more than any torture Hydra could ever inflict.

His metal arm whirred as he moved his fingers to her upper arm—she flinched—but his grip was lighter than she expected. What shocked her most was the realization that his arm was vibranium. Like Steve's shield. The rarest metal on earth, Howard had once said. But where had Hydra gotten it from?

"I'm not going to hurt you," Bucky finally said, his voice low and now tinged with a slight accent that Beatrice couldn't quite place. She stared, wild-eyed, up at him. His face was whirling above her, and she sensed another fit of panic coming on. His grip loosened, the muscles in his face relaxing somewhat. Beatrice concentrated on taking deep, even breaths.

"I knew you," he whispered after another moment, his lips barely moving, and the side of his mouth twisted upwards in what could have been the ghost of a grimace.

"Yes, you did," she gasped. "It's me. It's Beatrice. I was your fiancée."

At this, he released his grip on her completely and drew back, shaking his hair out of his eyes, his chest heaving. There was something utterly lost about him, as if he was a guard dog who no longer had orders. Whatever Hydra had done, they had nearly crushed him, if not entirely broken him. His eyes stayed locked on hers, and Beatrice slowly reached inside her pocket with shaking hands and drew out the crumpled piece of paper she had taken from the office. "Read this," she whispered. "It has information about you. About us."

His eyes didn't leave hers as he took the paper from her fingers. His eyebrows drew together and his lips parted slightly as he tilted his head to the side in something that was almost curiosity. "Beatrice?" he asked, and he seemed to stumble over the word, as if it was unfamiliar on his tongue.

The creak of a door opening sounded from above them, and before Beatrice could even blink, Bucky had disappeared, taking the paper with him. She was left with the memory of his gray eyes boring into hers as she leaned back against the wall again, resting her throbbing head on the cool concrete. All the fight had gone out of her.

Footsteps rang on the stairs above her, and Beatrice wearily glanced up when she heard a worried voice say her name. Steve and Sam were hurrying towards her, Steve kneeling down beside her at once while Sam took her wrist, feeling for her pulse. Beatrice didn't try to resist.

"What happened?" Steve asked urgently. He reached out and placed a hand on her knee, seeing that her leg was twisted at an awkward angle. The tendons flexed under his skin.

"Her vitals are fine," Sam murmured. "I think she's just in shock."

Beatrice's head was beginning to feel fuzzy, as if her thought process was slowing down. "Bucky's here," she whispered. "He…he just saved me."