A/N: In honor of Civil War coming out, here's the latest chapter! Let me know what you think in the review section!


Winter stared at her as if he didn't understand what she meant.

"Take off your bandage," she repeated slowly, pointing to her blood-stained shirt wrapped around his chest. "You know, my shirt? You need to clean your wounds."

He stared at her, brows furrowing as if he still didn't understand what she was saying—or perhaps he didn't understand why she was saying it—but then he tersely said, "I know that," and yanked at the shirt, intending to tear it off.

"Whoa, stop!" she cried, instinctively grabbing his arm. His eyes widened and she quickly wrenched her hand away before he ripped it off. "I mean—" She took a deep breath. "Don't rip it—it's the only good bandage we have right now."

His eyes were cold as they swept over her face (taking in everything, she was sure; her expression, her tone, her breathing, her everything) but he stopped yanking at the shirt and reached both arms behind him, fumbling with the knot she had made. She saw him wince slightly and saw fresh red blood bloom against the bandage.

"Let me do it," she said.

He looked at her.

"You're only hurting yourself by stretching behind you," she pointed out. "I made the knot, I can undo it."

"Fine," he grunted. "Do it."

Thankful that he hadn't put up a huge fight, she pushed her sweaty hair back from her face and knelt behind him, nimble fingers deftly untying the knot she'd made. She'd thought she'd made it loose but it took a good two minutes to untie the sleeves of the shirt, biting her lip and concentrating and cursing herself for making the knot so tight. Had she really made it this tight? Had he been walking around in a pseudo-corset this whole time? Then again, he's pretty…broad-chested. And the shirt's small and stretchy. It was bound to be a tight knot. Once she'd undone it, she noticed that there were angry red marks where the sleeves had pressed tightly against his back throughout the day. She bit her lip. Oops…

He peeled the shirt away from his chest and tossed it aside. Then they both looked at his slashes. Sophie had to fight very hard not to wrinkle her nose in disgust. The cuts weren't so deep that he was going to die—but they were deep enough to be bright red and still have fresh blood trickle out of them, even though the edges of his slashed skin had congealed, mushy blood on them. Rust-colored stains had dried in smears all over his chest, due to the blood being smeared around from the bandage.

"Well, at least the bleeding stayed contained," she murmured to herself, missing the sharp look that the Winter Soldier gave her. She looked at him and rubbed the back of her neck. "So…do you want to wash your cuts? Or…I guess I could do it, if it hurts too much…" She didn't even really understand why she kept offering to help him—except that she didn't want him to die. She had the sense that his death would result in even more dire consequences for her. And, despite all that he had done to her, Sophie remained a bleeding heart deep inside. She couldn't stand seeing people hurt and she didn't like hurting people. She was the kind of person who shed a tear or two over a butterfly with a broken wing. She hadn't had much opportunity to help out actual people in her life, seeing as how she'd been the most anti-social person she knew (or, rather, didn't know…), but it appeared that she had a nurturing instinct.

Either that or she was seriously over thinking this and really just wanted him to survive in case he had to fight off another mountain lion for her. Because she sure as hell wasn't going to fight one.

He was silent for a moment, looking down at his gashes with an almost-clinical expression, and then he looked up at her and said something in a low voice. She had no idea what he said and said, "What?" in puzzlement. "I didn't hear you."

"I said, you clean and sew them up," he said in an only slightly less low voice. If she hadn't known better, she would have said that he was embarrassed at having to ask her for help in stitching himself up—

Then what he said hit her.

Her eyes widened and she instinctively leaned away from him. "Excuse me?" she asked uneasily. "Sew you up? What are you talking about? We don't have— How am I supposed to sew you up?"

"I have supplies," he said.

So nice of you to volunteer that information earlier.

"I'm not a doctor," she said, feeling panicky. Was the day getting hotter or was it just her? The back of her neck suddenly felt very warm and sweaty. "I don't know how to— I've never stuck a needle in anyone! I don't even know how to stitch with cloth, you want me to—with your—skin?" She gagged internally. The thought of stabbing a needle through flaps of skin—with blood everywhere—sewing through skin

"I'm going to be sick," she mumbled, turning away and trying not to dry heave.

"Get over it," he snapped. "I don't have time for this shit."

Sophie's jaw dropped and she stared at him incredulously. "You don't—you don't have time for this shit?" she gasped. "You don't have time? If you didn't have time for this shit, THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE KIDNAPPED ME! Ever thought about that, huh, master ninja? You started this! You kidnapped me! So if you don't have time for this shit, how do you think I feel?" She was shouting now, her hands clenched in fists. She didn't even know what she was trying to achieve—he'd long proven that he had no capacity to understand her emotionally in any way, nor did he seem to want to—and she certainly couldn't attack him—though perhaps in his weakened state… She angrily shook her head, brushing away furious tears before they leaked onto her cheeks and betrayed her. "So make time for this shit!" she said, her voice trembling with anger. "Because I am doing the best I can for someone who didn't sign up for this SHIT!"

A heavy, awkward silence hung between them after her outburst. To her surprise, he didn't hit her or even say anything nasty. He merely stared at her and she took a deep, shuddering breath, holding her hair up from her neck and fanning it, trying to calm down. Surprisingly, she felt a little calmer at the prospect of having to stitch him up after that little fit. The thought of stabbing a needle into him even seemed kind of nice now.

"Fine," he said somewhat sarcastically. "Take your time coming to terms with it. I'll just wait here. Bleeding."

Sophie glared at him. "Don't try to turn this on me. Every word I said was true."

He shrugged slightly, his gaze insolent and apathetic. She bit down another wave of rage and took a deep breath. Don't keep feeding into it. There's something not right with him. She still wasn't entirely sure if this was true…but it made her feel slightly better, thinking it. She felt she had better control of her temper when she suspected there was something wrong with him—because that way she could sort of convince herself that perhaps this wasn't…one hundred percent his fault or doing. Just perhaps.

"Alright," she said. "I'll do it."

She was wearing a t-shirt so she didn't have any sleeves to roll up but she took a moment to metaphorically roll up her sleeves and take a deep breath before beckoning Winter closer to the water. He obliged and they both sat on the grassy bank of the pond. Sophie's mind suddenly went blank as she stared at his gashes. What was she supposed to do now? She only began to move after noticing he was giving her a Well? sort of look. She scooped up a handful of water and sort of slapped her hand on his chest, letting the water trickle down as she wiped downward.

It was a mess. It felt like she was a five-year-old kid finger-painting on his bare chest with his blood and sweat and some water. It felt disgusting, it felt awkward, and it definitely didn't feel like she had cleaned anything off. He was giving her an incredulous look, as if he couldn't believe the depths her stupidity had reached. She blushed a furious pink, gave herself a mental slap upside the head, and hurriedly rinsed her hand off in the pond. Then she grabbed her jacket, balled it up so she had a small corner bunched up in her hand, soaked it in the water, and began to dab at his cuts. She worked gingerly, using copious amounts of water to the point where his entire legs seem to be soaked—but he didn't say anything. He kept his eyes closed as she worked. She wiped away the dried blood all around his cuts and then got to work on the gashes themselves, gently wiping up crusty, dried bits of blood that could get clogged up and cause infections. He winced ever so slightly once or twice when she accidentally jabbed the jacket into the raw muscle underneath and she whispered, "Sorry, sorry, sorry!" each time, wincing herself.

Once she was done, the gashes looked much better. They still looked deep and glistened a gross shade of red but fresh blood was leaking out less and less and at least the rest of his skin wasn't covered in dried blood. He smelled like blood, though—and sweat and dirt. The strange thing was, he didn't smell gross, like a guy who hadn't washed in days normally would—he just smelled sort of acidic and chemical. It made Sophie pause for a moment, wondering if he actually was a robot on the inside—if his insides were made of metal just like his left arm—but then she told herself that her imagination was running away again and she came back to reality.

Still. It would explain a lot, if he was a robot.

Reading so much sci-fi clearly hadn't been a good idea.

The stitching kit (or whatever it was called) was in an inside pocket of his vest. He directed her to it and she pulled it out, staring down at it. It was a very thin clear plastic bag with a small, sharp-looking needle, gray thread or wire (or whatever material they used to stitch people up), some little white packets, some pressed cotton balls, a short and flat gray plastic blade-looking thing…

She opened it up and stared helplessly down at the bag. "What do I…?"

He looked like he was barely suppressing an eye roll with extreme effort. "Alcohol swab first," he said in a low voice. "To clean the edges off. And your hands."

"R-Right. Of course," she said in a shaky voice. She was so nervous that she was forgetting basic hygiene. She ripped open one of the alcohol swabs and cleaned off her fingers and hands. Then she opened another and carefully ran it along the edges of his gashes. She saw the muscles in his arms and chest tighten and go rigid but if he felt any sting or pain, he didn't say so or make any outward display at all. Then she used another alcohol swab to clean the needle off, glad she'd thought to do it without him telling her. She had been beginning to wonder if her head had been stuffed with wool instead of brains.

As it turned out, stitching a person up was not like sewing cloth. One continuous thread was not used to close a whole gash. Each gash required close to ten tiny pieces of thread. She had to loop it around the end of the needle, pierce his skin, pull it under the other bit of skin across the gash (while trying to control her stomach and not vomit all over him), pull it from under to the top, slip the needle off the thread while holding onto both ends and then tying them together as tightly as she could. Her fingers got slick with her sweat, and his sweat and blood, and she fumbled: slipping, losing grip on the needle, accidentally letting go of one of the ends of the thread, accidentally letting the knot go and having to start over…

It was slow, awkward, back-aching work and at first she had to fight down the urge to panic and freak out completely because of what she was doing and how close she was to him and how badly she was doing…but he sat as still as a rock and didn't say anything and slowly she became engrossed in her work. If she held her breath and ignored the salty, coppery smell of the blood and sweat, she could almost pretend like she was doing some sort of arts and crafts. It was definitely not as fun as cooking or drawing or reading a book but it was a task and it took her mind off of things for a while, because she had to focus one hundred percent on her fingers, squinting down at the needle.

She was so lost in her work that she didn't realize she was practically kneeling in his lap by the time she was done and he was sitting so rigidly that he might have been made of stone. She finished up the last stitch and sat back, wiping the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead, allowing herself a self-satisfied smile. "Done," she said proudly. "I did—" Then she noticed how stiffly he was sitting, how his eyes stared past her, over her head, deliberately not seeing her.

She was bewildered. What would make him act this way? He was the one who'd told her to stitch him up. Was it how close she'd been to him? Had he been uncomfortable? Why on Earth should he be uncomfortable? She'd been doing clinical, soulless work and hadn't even tried to speak to him, so focused had she been on the task. It couldn't have been more emotionless had she tried.

She suddenly wondered if he'd ever been close to a human before?

She decided to test out her theory. It could be dangerous but…she had to know. She slowly inched closer to him and very quietly said, "I just want to—make sure—my work is okay. Is that…okay?"

He didn't speak for a moment and then— "Whatever you want." The words came out in a hiss through a tightly-clenched jaw. He seemed incredibly tense, as if he might explode the moment she touched him. She definitely hoped he wouldn't.

Slowly, she reached out a hand to him, noticing the way his eyes widened and how rigid his body was—and then she very gently placed a hand on his chest. She didn't even touch one of the stitched up gashes. She just kept it there against his very warm chest (wondering vaguely if he had a fever; why did his skin feel so hot?). He was so tense under his skin that it almost felt like he was…trembling.

She suddenly realized that he looked…afraid.

He had the look of a very scared, cornered wild animal that didn't know what to do or where to turn. She had to be careful with her next move. He could either remain frozen—or rip her head off. There was no telling when it came to wild animals.

Or terrified children—because that was also what he looked like. His eyes looked strangely innocent, blank of any grown-up anger or aggression. He looked like… Sophie's stomach flipped. He had the expression she'd seen on children in TV slots about child abuse. Half-defiant, half-frightened, as still as a rabbit caught in the crosshairs of a fox… Except he's the fox and the rabbit, she had to remind herself. He's the danger as well. Don't forget that, Sophie.

She slowly moved her hand down, very gently, almost as if she was stroking him, and a shudder ran through his body at her touch. He seemed incapable of moving or even speaking. He could only stare at with those wide, frozen eyes and she began to feel frightened. What was wrong with him? Why would he react this way to her touch?

Had he…

Has he never been touched gently by someone before?

The thought horrified her. She pulled her hand away before it became unbearable for him and he went crazy, and he seemed to visibly relax in front of her, almost crumpling. She knew it wasn't just her imagination that made her see his shoulders slump slightly.

"Yes," she whispered. "It's fine." She turned away, pretending to busy herself with folding her spare clothes, trying to hide the shock she could feel all over her face. Whatever she had expected with him, it hadn't been this. She'd gotten the feeling early on that there was something different about him—something that didn't seem to click—but she had never expected to find…this.

And what was this? She didn't even know. She couldn't define it. However, she knew that she felt wrong inside. She felt shocked and afraid and… She bit her lip. Sorrow. She felt sorrow inside, nagging at her, telling her that there was more to him than she had assumed and that perhaps she wasn't the only one deserving of sympathy around here.

She thought he'd immediately keep moving but he sat there at the edge of the lake, staring off into space for a while, his expression a bit dazed, so she let him have his time. Perhaps he was resting. She wouldn't blame him if he was. He was strong and tough, yes, but he'd also gotten clawed by a mountain lion and stitched up by someone who was definitely not a professional. She hoped her stitches would hold.

She, on the other hand, methodically folded and unfolded her other clothes, while thinking hard. What did she really know about him? He called himself the Winter Soldier but that wasn't a name, just a title. He didn't seem to want her to know his name…or he didn't have a name. The thought was unnerving but it did fit in with the mental image she was building of his entire person. He was tough, brutal, rough, scary, and he'd lost his temper a few times—but he'd never seemed to show any pleasure in his cruelty. He seemed solely focused on finishing the mission with maniacal stubbornness. He was kidnapping her for some sort of group named Hydra. She'd never heard of them before but then again, Sophie had lived a very sheltered life. For all she knew they were a very well-known crime group and she'd just never noticed. After all, she'd increasingly spent the last few years of her life with her head trapped in a book. He referred to himself as Hydra's asset, a strangely dehumanizing term. He hadn't called or reported to anyone even once—that she'd seen anyway—and this meant he was very independent. She could believe that. After all, he'd just killed a mountain lion. Speaking of killing a mountain lion…he'd done things no human man was capable of, such as kicking a hole in an airplane wall and leaping from extreme distances. He was clearly more than human—he was some sort of super human. His arm was metal and his empty eyes, his blank expression, his lack of self…she might have actually started guessing that he was some sort of high-functioning, extremely-advanced robot, complete mechanics on the inside, made to look like a human.

She might have believed that…had she not just seen his reaction to her touch.

No robot would have reacted that way. No machine could have shown that kind of fear, trepidation, anxiety, shock. He was human alright but he was more than human and less than human all at once. It was incredibly confusing.

She didn't want to feel this way about him. She didn't want to start thinking about him in sympathetic terms. She didn't want to start trying to figure his story out. She wanted him to remain the monster in her story. She wanted to keep hating him. It was easier that way, to hold him at a distance, to look away from his cold gaze, to allow her hate to bloom like a poisonous flower inside her chest. But the thing was…that wasn't who Sophie was. She'd always been a nice person. She didn't like hurting people in any way. She didn't like being unfair. She didn't like letting people down even if she always felt like she did.

And her sense of fairness—and curiosity, because she'd be lying if she said she wasn't curious about his story—wouldn't allow her to keep hating him without fairly examining the situation. And the situation was this: he was a dangerous man who'd done dangerous things…but a part him—perhaps all of him—was clearly being controlled by other people.

She didn't know what had been done to him. Perhaps he'd been tortured. Perhaps he'd been brainwashed. Perhaps he'd been kidnapped as a child and now had Stockholm Syndrome. Perhaps he'd had a lobotomy. But there was a part of him that had been taken away. He didn't seem to recognize himself as a person. He didn't prioritize any of his needs—if he even had personal needs. He didn't look like he was used to a gentle, normal human touch.

All of this bothered Sophie. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do with this information. He didn't seem like he'd changed, even though she had. He was still planning on delivering her to people who probably wanted to use her skills for very bad purposes. He wasn't planning on letting her go anytime soon. Her sympathy wasn't very well-served…and yet it still existed.

She wondered if she could somehow…get closer to him. Find the human part of him, no matter how deep down it was buried, and appeal to it to let her go. To do the right thing.

They moved on.

The pond widened into a river and she wondered where it ended, where all the water went. If both sides had a definite end, then the water was stagnant. There had to be some sort of drop-off from somewhere. Unless…her eyes raised to the snow-capped mountains that surrounded them on either side. Unless the water was fresh runoff from the mountains during the colder seasons. Did it snow in Peru? She thought it might.

How many days had they been here? She tried to count backwards and found that the days were blurring in her mind. It had to have been only a few…and yet she couldn't really remember. She thought this might be the fourth day—unless it was the third. Or was it the fifth? She thought she'd been gone just around two weeks now but she really couldn't remember. She'd stopped keeping track of the days a while ago. But she'd definitely been gone for a decent amount of time…people had to know she was missing by now. If the police had been in her apartment, they would have seen the signs of a slight struggle. Her dad was a rich man and she wondered if her name and face was plastered across newspapers and news headlines across the country—perhaps across the world? She was young, she was pretty, she was white, and she was the daughter of wealthy people. She was the only kind of person that the media cared about, unfortunately for other missing people.

Around evening, something changed. The valley began to widen and the mountains began to spread further apart. They reached the top of a hill and when they looked down, Sophie gasped. She could see the valley spreading further and further below them, reaching out wide like a spilled glass of something, pushing the mountains further apart, and she could see what looked like homes! Small, one-room homes—but homes nonetheless!

She turned to see how Winter felt about it but he was staring in a different direction, to their left, where—Sophie squinted—a woman with a mule and a cart was staring at them from a long ways away. She appeared to be heading in the same direction as them, towards the small cluster of homes, the beginning of a town.

"What are we going to do?" Sophie asked. "Run?"

He crossed his arms and then winced slightly. "No. We're going to wait."

"For what?" she asked. "Are we waiting for her?"

He nodded. Sophie didn't notice it at the time but he was responding to her questions more and more. She was too preoccupied with the worry that perhaps he was going to kill this woman. She didn't really see why he would do that but who was she to know how his mind worked? "What are we going to do to her?" she asked. He didn't answer, his gaze locked thoughtfully on the woman, who was headed towards them. "Winter!" She tugged at his arm and he looked down at her, looking almost surprised at her presence. "What are we going to do to her?" she asked urgently, wondering if she could warn the woman away in time.

"To her?" he asked. "Nothing."

"Then…why are we waiting for her?" she asked.

"Do you speak Spanish?" he asked.

Sophie was thrown for a moment. "What?" she asked blankly. "Spanish? Uh…not really, I took it in high school but I can only say a few things…"

"Like what?" he asked a touch impatiently.

"Hola, me llamo Sophie," she said. "Me gusta pantalones y helado. Um… ¿Como eres tu?"

"What does that mean?" he asked. He seemed irritated that she knew something he didn't. He needn't have worried, she personally thought. Her Spanish was dreadful. She had no real advantage over him.

"Um… 'Hi, my name is Sophie. I like pants and ice cream. How are you?'" She blushed slightly after she realized how stupid she sounded. It wasn't her fault that she could only remember the most random phrases. Language wasn't taught very well in American schools. Her Spanish classes had consisted of memorizing list after list of irrelevant vocabulary without learning how to structure conversation properly.

He stared at her and she felt her blush deepen. Before he had time to make a scathing remark, the woman had reached them. She looked middle-aged and had a lined, weary-looking face but dark eyes that seemed to sparkle, even from this distance. Her skin was tanned, the ridge of her nose very flat, her eyes almond-shaped. She had dark hair twisted into a thick braid that hung over one shoulder. A tan-colored hand was jauntily perched on her head, looking a curious mix between sombrero and cowboy hat in Sophie's opinion. She wore a black dress with a geometric orange print patterned around the skirt and a bright red cape-like thing tied around her neck and thrown over her shoulders, designs of white and brown and deeper red decorating it. Rough brown sandals covered her feet. Her wooden cart was piled high with a purplish-looking vegetable that looked sort of like a radish…but not quite.

She said something to them. If she was speaking Spanish, it was clearly a form of Spanish Sophie had never heard before; either that or she was speaking a different dialect altogether. They both stared blankly at the woman and then suddenly Winter spoke. "Brazil?" he asked, holding his hands up as if to show he was confused. Sophie felt a bit startled. She'd never heard him speak normally to another human, she realized—and she'd never heard him speak to a woman point-blank. Somehow it made him seem…gentler.

You're insane, Sophie, she told herself. You're getting carried away. This isn't a novel.

"Brazil?" the woman asked quickly, making it sound like brathel to Sophie.

"," Sophie said, hoping the woman truly was speaking Spanish. She nodded to make her meaning even clearer. "Um…Dondeeres…I mean… ¿Donde está Brazil?" She winced, wondering if she'd phrased it properly.

The woman seemed to be biting back a smile but she said, "¿Americano?" with a knowing look.

Sophie froze. If she said she was American, there was a slight chance that she would be recognized as the missing American girl, if these people somehow knew about it. However…admitting to being an American abroad was also asking for trouble sometimes. She'd read this in travel guides. People saw Americans as either nuisances or good people to con. She glanced up at Winter, wondering what he was going to do. His face was tight when he tersely said, "No. No Americano."

The woman looked a bit bewildered then but she motioned for them to follow her. Sophie didn't understand what was going on but when she looked up at Winter, he shrugged slightly, as if to say that he didn't even really care at this point. Sophie wondered how far he would go to finish this mission. Even he had to have his limits, right? Perhaps she could just dawdle and draw it out to the point where he gave up. "Let's go with her," she said. "Maybe she can point us on our way to Brazil."

He didn't even seem to question why Sophie would want to go where he desired to take her. He nodded once and they followed the woman, who looked back at them from time to time with a curious, wary expression. She asked them a few questions but Winter remained stoically silent and Sophie helplessly shrugged, an apologetic expression on her face, so the woman gave up.

She led them to a small path worn from the wheels of carts, a long line of scraggly crass in between the wheel tracks, and they began heading down the steep heel toward the valley and plains below. Sophie had the sense that they were descending down and out of the mountains completely. She could still see the dark, shadowy silhouettes of mountains in the distance but the narrow valley they'd been walking through seemed to have finished. No more isolation. She couldn't help but feel extremely relieved. It had been very weird, to only have Winter's face to look at (or not look at as the case sometimes was).

Sophie had misjudged how far the little homes were. They'd seemed so close from the top of the hill but as they descended, they seemed to get further and further away. Her brow furrowed. That's not right, is it? They made their way down the hill, leaving the dense mountain chain behind them. The skies were a pale gray and looked like they might bring rain down upon them anytime soon but Sophie knew better by now. These skies usually looked like that and it hadn't rained once yet.

The woman led the way in front, Sophie trailing a few feet behind her, and Winter quite a ways behind both of them. Sophie was a little surprised that he stayed so far behind—what if she somehow signaled to the woman that she had been kidnapped by him?—but he probably figured the language barrier was enough to keep him safe. He was right. Sophie had no idea how she could have gone about exposing him short of pointing at him and yelling, "BAD! NO!"

The woman's name was Ihuicatl, Sophie was pretty sure. She had looked back at Sophie and said the word a few times, tapping her chest and nodding. Sophie had tapped her own chest and said her own name and the woman had repeated, "So-fee," and broken into a gap-toothed smile. She was beautiful and Sophie's heart ached. She wished she could have met this woman in better circumstances. She wished she'd been braver and traveled more and met more people. How many lovely people and places had she missed out on by being so worried about everything?

It took them a good hour and a half but Ihuicatl eventually led them right to the small cluster of dwellings. The land was uneven and looked like large stepping stone platforms of grass, making the land look scaly and patchy. Small red houses with angled roofs stood clustered together. A dusty, well-worn road traveled through the middle of the town as a main street of sorts. Women sat in the grass by the side, blankets in their hands, and stood by doorways, hanging out laundry and sheets. Sophie didn't really see any men as they made their way through the small town. A gaggle of children ran up to them, their feet dusty, shiny dark hair cropped close to their shoulders, small braids thrown behind them, golden ball studs glinting at some of their ears—those must be the girls. They were curious and excited, some of them hanging back, shy, others coming closer, more daring. Sophie imagined that she and Winter must look a bit strange, pale-skinned and dirty-looking. She suddenly jolted around, wondering if Winter was still shirtless except for her shirt tied around him—but no, thank God, he'd put his dark vest jacket thing back on and zipped it back up despite the slashes in it. She hadn't wanted to lead him through the village like some kind of Tarzan, especially with his long dark hair.

She studied him to see how he would act around children. This was the true test to see what kind of person he was. He stared resolutely ahead, his body stiff, ignoring the children that danced around him and followed him. If Sophie wasn't mistaken, he looked a bit uncomfortable as well, as if he didn't know how to handle these little people who were clearly unafraid of him.

Well, they wouldn't be, she thought, turning away. He hasn't attacked them yet. Then she felt bad for thinking that. Yes, he'd attacked her, but she was beginning to think more and more than he wasn't completely in control of himself.

She was just too damn nice sometimes.

Ihuicatl shooed the children away and they scattered like a flock of birds but Sophie could see them trailing further behind, mischievous twinkles in their dark eyes. She immediately felt fond of them and couldn't resist peeking behind her and waving her fingers at them. She felt Winter's eyes on her but ignored him. Surrounded by all these other people, she felt infinitely braver. She knew he could still hurt her but a part of her had a hard time believing he would, especially with so many children as witnesses.

Ihuicatl led them to a small house with a pale pink door set into a tiny alley on the side. She parked her cart in front of the alley and ushered them through the door. They stepped into what looked like a one-bedroom house. A bed with a colorful woven blanket, a small table, colorful shawls hung strategically as curtains, painted ceramic bowls and vases adorning the tables, dried and pressed flowers and leaves tacked to the walls, and a stack of old-looking books in one corner, spines faded and peeling and worn. They looked loved. Sophie itched to go and take a look at the stack but she didn't know if that would be rude so she controlled her book nerd impulses.

Ihuicatl ushered for them to sit down. Sophie's legs were aching but Winter sat down at the edge of the bed and there was no way she was going to choose to sit next to him. She sat down at the table. Ihuicatl said something to them that they didn't understand but she looked so hopeful that Sophie nodded. Ihuicatl nodded as well, held up a hand with all five fingers up, and then vanished, closing the door behind her.

"What did she say?" Sophie asked blankly. Of course Winter remained silent. "I think she said she'll be back in five minutes," Sophie answered her own self.

I'm talking to myself now. Out loud. Dial down the crazy, Soph.

She examined her nails. They were all chipped and had dirt under them. Normally she kept them neatly trimmed and buffed. She let out a short, humorless laugh. My luxury days are behind me. She had no idea what was coming next but she wasn't stupid enough to believe that escape was anywhere near possible right now. Yes, she was surrounded by other people now—but they'd also gotten back on track with Winter's mission. He was still going to deliver her to Hydra, wherever Hydra was.

"Is Hydra in Brazil?" she asked, still examining her nails, making her voice casual. "Or is that another stop along the way?" He was silent and she decided to test out her theory again. "I think they're in Brazil," she said. "Of course, Brazil could have been another stop along the way—just like Cuba—but that doesn't make sense, really. If someone was going to pick us up in Brazil, we're really late for the meeting." She snickered to herself. "So if we're still headed towards Brazil, I can only conclude that Brazil is our destination. Unless…unless you know how to fly a plane and Brazil is just another stop along the way? But that can't be true because if you knew how to fly a plane, you w—"

"They're in Brazil," he suddenly snapped. "Now please shut up."

She smiled to herself, pleased. "Yes, Winter."

"Stop calling me that." Her back was turned to him but she could hear almost see the peevish expression on his face.

"Why?" she asked casually. "You either won't tell me your real name—"

"I told you, I'm the Winter Soldier—"

"—or you don't know your real name," she finished quietly.

There was a sudden silence between them and she twisted around in her chair to look at him, locking eyes with him. His face was expressionless as always but he did look a little paler than normal. "Well?" Sophie prompted, her voice even more quiet now. "Do you not want me to know your name—or do you not know your own name?" She knew she was treading on dangerous ground but this would tell her something very important about him.

"I don't have a name," he said through clenched teeth.

"Everyone has a name," she whispered.

"Everyone but me," he said shortly and then he turned away, laying down on the bed and closing his eyes. The action was so human that Sophie stared at him, startled, for a moment, taking in the paleness of his face, his closed eyelids, the lock of dark hair that fell onto his cheek. Then she turned away, feeling somehow as if she had witnessed something private that she shouldn't have seen. He'd all but admitted it: he didn't know his own name. This only confirmed the suspicions Sophie had been having about him.

He'd been wronged—perhaps even more than Sophie had been wronged.

She just wanted to know how.

It occurred to Sophie that now they were in civilized society, she could possibly utilize her skills to help herself. It was clear that Winter didn't know what her powers were because otherwise he probably would have said something by now. However, looking around, she didn't see any electronics. No computer, no phone, nothing she could use to possibly help herself. She bit back a sigh just as Ihuicatl entered back into the room.

The rest of the evening passed by in a bit of a sweep. Ihuicatl fed them a bowl of what looked like a dark, mushy stew but actually tasted quite tasty in a smoky sort of way. Then Winter showed her his wounds at Sophie's urging and Ihuicatl gave him a homemade paste to apply to his angry red wounds. Sophie hoped it had antibiotic and antibacterial properties. She didn't want him to die from an infection at this point.

While Winter was sitting at the table, messing about with the basin of cold water and the paste that Ihuicatl had given him, Sophie sat on the bed, leaning her back against the wall, and watched. And then, without meaning to, she fell asleep. The bed was soft and lumpy and it smelled like dust and spices and she couldn't help herself. She slid down the wall and was out for the count as soon as her head hit the bed.

She woke an hour later to Ihuicatl tugging her awake gently. Blinking blearily, she sat up. Winter was nowhere in sight. She opened her mouth to question where he was going but realized that Ihuicatl wouldn't understand her anyway. Ihuicatl led her to a very large wooden tub sitting behind the table. It was filled with water, steam rising off of the top, and pointed to it. Then she pointed to a garment draped over the back of one of the chairs. Sophie suddenly understood what she meant and threw her arms around the woman, unable to show her gratitude in any other way. Ihuicatl stiffened and Sophie pulled away, afraid she had offended her somehow—perhaps touching wasn't in their custom?—but Ihuicatl gave her a shy smile and then left the room.

Sophie didn't know how on Earth Ihuicatl had convinced Winter to give Sophie some privacy or when they'd be back but she didn't even care right now. She stripped and got into the tub, almost groaning because it had been so long since she'd felt hot water on her skin. She sat, arms wrapped tightly around her knees in case anyone walked in, for a while and then she scrubbed herself clean, ducking her head in to wash her hair as well. When she was done, she used the blanket Ihuicatl had left to dry herself off and then tried on the clothes that Ihuicatl had left her, gladly kicking her old clothes aside. They were too gross and worn by now anyway.

She had a pair of thick brown tights that cut off at the ankles, a bright red dress, and a black sweater with a bright blue print on it. There was also a pair of thick, woolly socks. Everything smelled clean, like water and fresh air. She pulled her Converse on and then finger-combed her wet hair, wandering to a mirror that sat against a mantle in the far corner. She couldn't help but laugh at how she looked. She looked like a little girl playing dress-up in foreign doll's clothing. Still, the clothes were clean and warm and soft, so she didn't care. Let her look odd. At least her clothing fit in in this country.

She didn't know what to do with the tub so she lugged it to the door and peeked outside, looking up and down the alley. Winter was leaning outside, wearing a dark baggy cardigan-looking thing that covered his metal arm, and she gave a slight jump when she realized he'd been so close this whole time. For some reason she felt like blushing. She gave herself a mental smack and then said, "Help me with this," motioning to the heavy tub. She'd intended for him to help her carry it out but to her surprise, he picked the entire thing up himself as if it weighed nothing to him and carried it down the alley, dumping the water in the grass in the back. She sighed. Of course it weighed nothing to him. He was a superhuman. She thanked him when he came back and he ignored her.

Night had fallen by now and Ihuicatl eventually came back but there was a man with her now. He had darker tanned skin and was thin and rangy, tall, his face also lined. He looked cautious, more suspicious of the strangers. He took in Winter's muscular figure and half-stepped in front of Ihuicatl protectively. Sophie didn't really blame him. Winter could look…well, terrifying. But the man needn't have worried. Winter didn't commit that sort of crime; Sophie knew this by now.

"Mi marido," Ihuicatl said, pointing to the man. Sophie didn't recognize the word—as far as she remembered "husband" was esposo—but she guessed that the man was her husband. He was far too young to be her father and stood in far too familiar a fashion to be her brother.

"You go to Brazil?" the man asked. Sophie felt a rush of relief; he spoke English! Even if it was broken English, it was still English nonetheless!

Winter stepped forward and calmly said, "Yes. Can you point us the direction?"

The man regarded him silently with suspicious eyes. Then he pointed jerkily to Sophie and said, "Your…wife?"

There was a silence. It seemed Winter didn't know what to say. Sophie hastily stepped forward and said, "Yes…yes, he's my husband." She didn't know why but she had a feeling that these people might have been the traditional type to dislike unmarried men and women traveling together. She didn't want to do anything to get on this man's bad side. Pretending to be married to Winter just made their lives easier. Plus, it might help deter any creeper who wanted to put his hands on Sophie. She hadn't forgotten the disgusting frat boys back in Cuba. One look at Winter and they probably would have fled. It was sad but the reality was, men were much less likely to harass a woman if they thought she belonged to another man—especially a man as scary-looking as the Winter Soldier.

The man visibly relaxed, as if the thought of Winter and Sophie being married reassured him that they were a kind and innocent couple. "I show you," he offered. "Tomorrow. Tonight…stay. Eat." He rattled off a set of instructions to Ihuicatl in rapid Spanish and she nodded, walking over to the two small counters that seemed to be their kitchen.

Sophie glanced at Winter. He had an ugly, obstinate expression on his face—a dangerous expression. She quickly grabbed his arm and swung him around before Ihuicatl's husband saw his terrifying expression; one look at that and they'd both be tossed out immediately. He looked like a man out for blood. "One night," she said in a low voice. "If you do anything crazy now, they'll never help you. Are you going to massacre the entire village? Or just hold him at gunpoint and make him show us the way?" She ended on a fierce note, letting her tone tell him just what she would think of such actions. It was probably stupid to hope that he even cared somewhat about what she thought but she could only try.

His jaw tightened and he looked extremely angry—but then he tightly said, "Fine. One night." His shoulders visibly relaxed a bit. "We're already late as hell, what's one more night," he muttered so low that Sophie wasn't sure if she was supposed to hear or not. She didn't care. Elated that she'd won this round, she skipped over to Ihuicatl and watched her prepare dinner, clumsily helping when she could (and probably just creating more work for Ihuicatl, who then had to fix Sophie's mistakes with a good-natured expression).

Dinner was some type of indistinguishable meat dish and mashed vegetable. All of it was foreign, all of it could have used a little more salt in Sophie's opinion, but she was no one to turn down hot food at this point, especially when it was meat. They ate in mostly silence, candlelight illuminating their faces, Ihuicatl's husband watching them with careful, dark eyes. He was a cautious man. When they were done, Sophie suddenly realized that there was only one bed. Ihuicatl seemed to have realized the same thing at the same time and thus began the world's most awkward, confused argument, both Sophie and Ihuicatl insisting that the other take the bed, both half-laughing because it was clear no one understood a word the other was saying.

"No—please," Sophie said desperately, feeling near laughter. "It's your bed—we'll be fine on the floor—" God knew they'd been sleeping on the ground for the past few days.

Astonishingly, it was Ihuicatl's husband who settled the manner. "You, bed," he ordered, pointing. He seemed extremely stubborn and Sophie wondered if it was a matter of honor. She remembered vaguely reading somewhere that hospitality to strangers was very important to South American cultures. She hesitated. Perhaps they'd actually be offended if she and Winter slept on the floor? She didn't want to offend them. She peeked at Ihuicatl's husband's resolute expression and then nodded. "Yes," she sighed. "Okay. Thank you."

It was only after she sat down on the bed that she stiffened, realizing Winter would have to sleep next to her. What's the big deal? she asked herself. You've literally cuddled up to him once before. This is way easier. But it didn't feel easier. She'd had to sleep pressed up against him for warmth that one night—it had been a necessity. This just felt…different. She gingerly laid herself down onto the bed and faced the wall, scooting so close to it that she was almost hugging the wall. She felt Winter lay down behind her. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she was amazed he couldn't hear it.

Unless he could hear it. God, how embarrassing that would be.

She only peeked behind her once to see which direction he was facing. Their eyes locked and she quickly looked away, cheeks burning. She couldn't believe she was playing little spoon to his big spoon, his bent knees pressing into the backs of her knees, so close that she could hear his breathing. At first she was unbearably tense, unable to relax, but the candle eventually burned out and darkness blanketed the room. The world fell into a hush and her natural exhaustion took over and she slid into sleep.


He was having trouble sleeping.

Everything seemed strange. Letting these people help him—that was strange. He'd never needed help on a mission before. And then earlier, when he had let the girl talk him into staying the night here. What had that been? He could have held a gun to the man's head and forced him to show them the direction to Brazil. And yet…the girl had suggested the very same thing, her tone dripping with disgust and scorn. And for some strange reason, he hadn't wanted that disgust aimed at him—not today. He was too exhausted. So he'd agreed to stay the night. He'd said yes to her.

And now here he was, unbearably close to her. They'd slept like this once before—closer, in fact—but he'd done it to keep her alive. There was no such need now. He didn't have to do this. And yet…here he was. He was so close that soft strands of her hair tickled his face and he could see the rise and fall of her chest ever so slightly. She was in deep sleep now. He could feel her body heat. She was probably overheating due to the ridiculous red thing the woman had given the girl.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and then sighed. He needed to sleep if the rest of this mission was to go as planned. So he forced himself to empty his mind. This was something he'd practiced before: clearing out the debris, quieting the screaming and sirens, allowing the sickening spin of thoughts to slow to a stop, forcing himself to submit to the silent darkness in order to rest.

And there he fell asleep, his hand somehow ending up resting on the small of her waist.