A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, and Captain America: Civil War.

As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.

Note 1: I know it's been a while since this story was updated, but it couldn't be helped. Not only is my muse a fickle little scamp, my family has been experiencing a great deal of emotional turmoil that may not get better any time soon. Such is RL.

Note 2: This story is being revamped. Some scenes will be removed completely. Others will be changed to better conform to the MCU movies. Also, parts 2 and 3 will be eliminated and the chapters posted all under one title.

Namaste,

Sunny

"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."

― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems

Winter Soldier

And You Will Know Me Still

Chapter 4

Tossing the bag away, James shed his jacket as he broke into a run, diving head first over the fence and rolling to his feet still moving. He ran a few steps, jumped and slid across the hood of the car parked at the curb. Landing in the street next to the girl, he swept her up and kept going, the woman's terrified shriek ringing in his ears. "Ally!"

James skidded to a stop and handed the crying child to her mother. He turned away, looking back over his shoulder when the blonde woman clutched at his sleeve. A single drop of moisture welled up in her eye as she graced him with a grateful smile. "Thank you."

A few days ago, James would've let the child die simply because she wasn't a part of his mission. But then Steve, the woman with red hair, the man who flew like a bird, Norman, and Lucy, changed his world view. A half smile crossed his features as he searched for an appropriate response. Then, he heard Norman shout, "James!"

He whipped around, and saw Norman pointing at the still moving car. The street dead ended just a few blocks up at a concrete barrier designed to keep people from the steep drop-off. As fast as it was going, the driver would be seriously injured or killed on impact.

People are gonna die, Buck. I can't let that happen.

Breaking into a run, he quickly gained on the erratically moving vehicle. It sideswiped a car that had been abandoned almost two months ago, took out a row of recycling bins, the synagogue's mail box, and narrowly missed hitting the street light on the corner.

The road slanted downward causing the car to speed up. James picked up the pace until he came alongside the hybrid vehicle. As if it were nothing, he jumped, spinning in the air to land on both feet denting the hood. Dropping to his knees and bracing himself, he glanced in the windshield. The driver was unconscious, slumped to the side as far as his seatbelt would allow. His body moved with the side to side motion, head lolling at an uncomfortable angle.

Holding on with his right hand, James used his metal arm to rip the passenger door off and toss it aside. Swinging into the compartment, he pushed the driver over as far as he would go, then, steering with the right hand, he leaned across the other man, grabbed the emergency brake and yanked as he twisted the steering wheel hard to the right. The car came to a shuddering stop just a few feet shy of the wall.

He jumped from the car and ran around to the driver's side, opened the door and tried to unlatch the seatbelt, but it wouldn't come loose. Gritting his teeth, he yanked it free, the thick material parting from its anchor with an awful tearing sound. Then, he carefully lifted the man out and carried him to a patch of grass. Removing the glove from his metal hand, he touched the man's chest to check his heart rate, finding it too fast and irregular. Another memory briefly surfaced. An old woman unconscious on the worn carpet of the living room while a man knelt beside her and a younger woman spoke frantically into the phone.

Norman dropped to one knee next to him with a gasp. James looked down, dismay moving through him. For over a week James had managed to hide his metal limb from his friend. Yet in his haste to save the child and the driver, he'd literally shown his hand. Not only was his glove gone, his shirt was torn, the sun glinting off the silver metal.

Norman touched James on the shoulder, drawing his attention the sirens in the distance that were coming closer. "I've called the paramedics. The police'll come too. Gay avek," the rabbi whispered urgently, giving him a push.

Averting his face, James tugged his cap low over his eyes, stood up and sprinted down the street away from his refuge. He chose his route at random to throw off any pursuers until he was several miles away.

Slowing to a walk, he kept his head down, not making eye contact. Everyone was so engrossed in their smartphones they didn't even look up when he crossed in front of them. Up ahead was a sidewalk café. A jacket lay over the back of a chair. The table was occupied by an older man engrossed in the newspaper. James snatched the jacket, walking to the corner and out of sight as he slipped it on. In the pockets he found a pair of gloves. He put them on as he reached the other end of the alley.

A police car cruised slowly down the street, the officers inside giving the pedestrians close scrutiny. They'd come from the direction of the synagogue, obviously looking at everyone moving away from that area. James turned and walked toward them, relaxing his posture, then stopped to look at a window display, watching their progress in the reflection on the glass.

When the police had moved on, he ducked down an alley where he came upon a man making a delivery to a thrift clothing store. Using a hand truck, the man wheeled several large boxes in through the back door. After a quick scan of the area, James jumped into the back of the box truck where he ripped open boxes until he came to one that held clothing that would fit him. He jumped down and hid between a set of dumpsters while he changed clothes. He stuffed his hair up under his new cap, pulled a glove on over his metal hand, and exited the alley as if he owned it. Though he was decently dressed and his clothes were clean, no one gave him a first look much less a second.

Heading downtown, James thought about going to the library to wait. There, he could read up on the twenty-first century. The few times that Norman had left him alone in the residence, he'd turned on the television to watch current events. He needed to know what went on prior to being taken out of cold storage this last time. Nearly every night, his dreams were filled with vague images, memories, he supposed, of the times before. And each time, he forced himself to wakefulness before he disturbed Norman. Those times, he was reluctant to go back to sleep and would climb up on the roof until the sun came up.

His stomach growled, reminding him that breakfast had been hours ago. He had no money to buy food and refused to steal. Yes, he'd stolen the clothing, but he hadn't a choice. He would come back later with money to pay for them.

Up ahead, another delivery driver was stacking boxes on a converted hand truck. He looked from the cart and back to the truck, shook his head and went inside. The boxes left were too large and heavy for the man to move on his own with hurting himself. Jogging to the truck, James hoisted the box onto his left shoulder, using his right hand to steady it. As he turned toward the delivery entrance, the man came out. "Hey! Where you goin' with that, pal?"

"In there." James nodded. "Hold the door."

The man, fit for someone in his forties, opened and closed his mouth then stood back out of the way. When James returned to the alley, the guy was sitting in the back of the truck staring at his phone. As James approached, he put the phone into his back pocket and stuck out his hand. "Name's Eugene."

James took offered hand. "James."

Eugene gave James an appraising stare. "Fella who usually helps out has the flu. Supposed to be back end o' the week. You want a job for a couple of days? Cash paid at the end of the day."

Giving the appearance of thinking it over, James looked down at his shoes then back at Eugene. "Deal."

Jumping to the ground, Eugene showed that he was the same height as James. Reaching for the heavy strap, he pulled the door closed and locked it. "Get in. Next stop is Falls Church. We'll get a couple o' Brats and something to drink on the way."

"Sounds good."

"On me, by the way. You're doin' me a big favor helpin' with these deliveries."

The men parted, and met up again as they climbed into the cab of the truck and slammed the doors. The vehicle shook, the tailpipe belching smoke as it inched to the alley opening. Signaling a left turn, Eugene aggressively merged into traffic, coming to a stop at the light.

"Eugene?"

"Yeah?" his new friend answered distractedly, concentrating on navigating traffic.

"What are Brats?"

~~O~~

A map of D.C. hung on the wall of the cave, pins of various colors dotting its landscape. Steve stared at it, thinking hard about where James might have gone. It would be weeks before the military was done fishing the wreckage of the helicarriers out of the Potomac. Even longer for autopsies to be done on those who died in the crash, if the bodies were even recoverable. Some families may never know. While popular opinion believed James had perished when Charlie went down, Steve knew otherwise. His gut told him that James was alive and hiding somewhere not far from where the first responders had found him. But where?

He felt a presence enter the room, a slight warming of the air and pressure at his back.

"You're not going to find him by staring at the map."

Steve shoved his hands into his pants pockets and sighed. "I'm thinking."

Sam came to stand next to Steve, arms folded across his chest. "If you were a super-soldier with a cybernetic arm, where would you hide?"

"Away from the patrols, moving to an area they'd already searched. Then, when I was certain they'd gone, I'd move on. The military's doing a house by house search. Every home and business. No one gets to say no."

"You have connections, so I assume we'd know if they'd found him."

Smiling ruefully, Steve glanced sideways at Sam. "Natasha's the one with all the contacts. But yes. When they know, we'll know. I'm just not willing to wait for someone else to find Bucky."

Nodding, Sam stepped closer to the map. "If he doesn't want to be found, then how're we going to find him?"

"He'll take refuge in his instinct for survival. Search out the basic necessities."

"So food, water, and shelter." He indicated the area surrounding where Steve had been found, including the warehouse district. "It's a pretty fair assumption that HYDRA and the military's been through the area with every high tech gadget they can get their slimy hands on."

Slanting a look at him, Steve twitched one shoulder. "Simms and his team didn't find any trace of Bucky during their searches." Heaving a sigh, the super soldier dropped into a chair, his eyes still on the map. "Not that I'm surprised. He stayed under the radar for seventy years."

Taking the seat next to Steve, Sam slumped down, arms crossed and legs stretched out in front. "So did you."

"I was under the ice. He was too, in a way. Kept in stasis until HYDRA needed to take out a roadblock." Mimicking Sam's pose, Steve too slumped down, his long legs out in front and his eyes on the toes of his boots. There was a long silence while Sam waited for Steve to say what was on his mind. Steve sighed. "I wonder if he remembers shooting Natasha."

That surprised Sam. "Your bestie almost took out the Black Widow? Brave man. Hope she doesn't hold a grudge."

Steve chuckled and got to his feet. "He wasn't responsible for his actions. She more than anyone understands what it's like to be brainwashed, to have your mind manipulated by someone with their own agenda."

The opening and closing of the main entrance announced the presence of others. At the sound of Hill's voice, Sam was bemused to see Steve's eyes widen slightly, and his hands fidget. He clasped them behind his back to hide it.

Looks like Hill tickles Cap's fancy, Sam thought with an internal smirk. Something of what he was thinking must've shown on his face because Steve shot daggers at him in warning just as Hill and Natasha appeared in the doorway with bags bearing the name of Thai Me a River, a popular Thai restaurant.

Both men rushed forward to take the bags and set them on the table, removing the contents while Natasha poured them each a glass of wine and Hill handed out plates and chopsticks. Sam rushed to take the seat next to Natasha, forcing Steve to sit next to Hill. Natasha spooned rice into their plates while Sam carefully avoided the glare aimed in his direction. He snagged a spring roll and some sweet and sour sauce for dipping.

By Natasha's order, all talk about SHIELD and HYDRA was verboten. And because he didn't want to rock the boat, Sam complied. A pause came in the conversation leaving an awkward silence. Awkward for Steve, but not for the others. From the corner of his eye, Sam could see Steve chewing while his gaze darted around the room.

Sam took a sip of wine, using that time to observe Hill. She too was chewing, only her eyes were staring into her food as if secrets were buried under the orange chicken and bok choy, occasionally flicking a quick glance at Steve. Sam's scrutiny was noticed by Hill, one eyebrow twitching up a fraction of an inch as a challenge.

Then, she used her chopsticks to filch the last steamed dumpling. Just as she was about to sink her teeth into it, an indignant voice pierced the companionable atmosphere.

"Hey! I was gonna eat that."

One side of Hill's mouth smirked. "You snooze, you lose, Rogers."

Steve huffed good-naturedly. "Least you could do is share."

As though they were alone, Steve and Hill shared a small smile. She bit off half of the dumpling then held out the rest for Steve, gesturing at the container in his hand. Sam almost fell out of his chair when, instead, his friend guided Hill's hand to his mouth, taking the last bite and chewing without looking away.

Suddenly remembering they weren't alone, Hill set down her food and stood. "We need more wine."

As soon as she was out of earshot Natasha snorted, drawing an annoyed glance from Steve. "What?"

"You'll let me stick my tongue in your mouth, but you won't let me feed you?"

Steve's snort surprised Sam, as did his next words. "Yeah. Because with your tongue in my mouth you can't bite me."

A low growl came from Natasha's throat, more frustrated than angry, and she looked at Sam with a finger in the air. "It happened one time, and he never lets me forget it."

Shaking his head, Steve explained. "We were undercover."

"You gave as good as you got, Rogers," she added, using her chopsticks to dig in her food container, one shoulder going up and down, dispelling any thought Sam might've had that the kiss meant more than providing a distraction for the mark.

"Just drop it."

Sam and Natasha hid smiles behind a mouthful of food as Steve jumped up when Hill came into the room, taking the bottle from her and holding the back of her chair until she was seated again. He purposefully ignored them and concentrated his attention on the smile of thanks Hill flashed him over her shoulder. She caught them looking and shot a glare that was meant to kill. Sam took the hint and went back to eating.

A Few Days Later

When his work with Eugene ended, James was once left with nowhere to go. He wanted to see Norman and Lucy, but feared someone might have seen him and called the authorities. And if they hadn't, seeing him in the neighborhood again could convince them to do just that. The men and women who'd searched the synagogue would take Norman, and likely Ally and her mother, into custody.

He couldn't let anyone else get hurt because of him, so he hid in an abandoned home and watched. From the attic, he could see the synagogue and most of the main road, but the soldiers didn't return. Deciding to take the risk, James pulled a glove over his metal hand, shrugged into his jacket and climbed out attic window and down to the ground.

With the cap low over his eyes and both hands in his pockets, he crossed the road, circled around to the kitchen window and peeked through the ruffled curtains. Norman was at the stove stirring a pot while Lucy watched from her perch on a chair to his left. The old man scooped a few chunks of meat onto a plate and set it aside to cool for her. Then, he filled two bowls, turning to set them on the table. He went to the stove once more and came back with two cups of tea. Once more he shuffled out of sight, and a moment later, the back door opened and Norman leaned out. "You going to stare through the window all night, boychick? Come eat. Dinner's getting cold."

Once he was seated, Norman draped a napkin over his lap and picked up a spoon. But instead of eating, he looked at James standing in the middle of the kitchen, smiled and motioned for him to come inside. Reluctantly, James joined the old man, taking off his jacket before sitting in his accustomed seat. He stirred the chicken and dumplings with a spoon, and when the silence got to be too much for him, he finally asked, "How did you know I was there?"

Norman chewed, swallowed and sipped tea before responding. If James didn't know better, he'd've thought he was doing it to make his guest uncomfortable.

"These weeks, I've come to know you some, boychick. I knew you wouldn't leave without saying good-bye. You know, Lucy missed you while you were gone. Slept every night in your bed, and prowled around in the day looking for you."

James felt a touch on his thigh, and looked down to see the cat gazing at him expectantly. Setting his napkin next to his bowl, he tested the temperature of the food Norman had put aside for her then set it on the floor. She gobbled up the treat, and licked the plate free of every drop. James used his spoon to give her another chunk of chicken, smiling fondly when she devoured that tidbit as well.

"I'm thinking you'll be on your way soon, son. Get out of town before them soldiers come to take you away."

The way Norman's watery blue eyes searched his face and his somber expression, James could tell he knew more than he was saying. More than he would say out loud. Lucy jumped into his lap and lay down, digging her claws into his thigh and purring. "Lucy will keep you company."

"Of course. Stay for the Memorial Day simkhe tomorrow at down at the National Mall."

Confused, James brought the cup of tea to his lips and took a sip before asking, "Memorial Day?"

Now it was Norman's turn to be puzzled. "It's the day we honor them what lost their lives while serving in the military. My best friend from the old neighborhood went to France in WW Two, and got himself killed by the Führer's soldiers."

Norman pushed back from the table and slowly stood. Seeing that he was in difficulty, James rushed to help him, letting the old man lean on his arm until James could let him down on the sofa. He gave him the remote, and the television came on. Snatches of dialog stuttered as Norman quickly changed channels. James returned to the living room with a fresh cup of tea, setting it on the table to Norman's right. He graced him with a smile of thanks and went back to his channel hopping.

Back in the kitchen, James thought about what he'd seen and read at the museum. He was supposed to be dead. Steve too. Did that mean their names were on the wall he'd heard about? Tomorrow, he'd find out. Tonight, he would wash the dishes, clean the kitchen, pet Lucy and try not to consider what might have been.

Memorial Day

National Mall

Staying close to Norman as the crowds pushed and shoved their way past, James felt uncomfortable and out of place at the holiday celebration. There were too many people moving about, ebbing and flowing, laughing, running, jumping, kids chasing each other while waving flags and twirling sparklers. Most were dressed in red, white and blue. Others wore their dress uniforms, stopping to hug others their age, obviously from the same unit. Some just stood staring at the wall. More than one came to attention and saluted, and still others reverently ran their fingers over one or more names etched into the marble.

Norman touched his arm and pointed. "My friend's name is there. Corporal Frank Balducci. His parents came to the United States from Italy a year before he was born." He waved his hands in the air. "When he joined up, his mother cried for days. But Frank, he had chutzpah. Wouldn't let no one push him around. Always he was coming home from school with a black eye or a bloody nose, grinning like he was meshuggina."

The old man chuckled as they came to a stop. Hands behind his back, Norman stared at the name with a far way look in his eyes, no doubt remembering the fun they'd had together. It reminded James of Steve, and he wished he could remember their time together. He stepped away to give Norman his privacy, and without meaning to, he sought out a name he didn't want to see, but felt compelled to anyway. And there it was. Just like in the museum.

Barnes, Sgt. James Buchannan. It was followed by the date of his supposed death. Tentatively, he reached out to touch it, stopping in midair. His fingers curled into his palm and he slowly lowered his arm.

His metal arm began to ache, and pain shot up to his shoulder, though he didn't know how it could be. The only time he'd felt pain in his prosthesis was during the fight on the bridge after they'd moved to the street. Steve had sliced his metal arm with the shield causing electricity to discharge into his shoulder and upper torso. He'd ended it by performing a quick reset by circling his shoulder joint.

Reaching across his body, he rubbed the metal bicep through his jacket and shirt, and just as he suspected, it didn't help. Flexing his hand helped some, though not enough. He took a deep breath, held it a moment, and let it out, jerking at the sound of Norman's voice.

"He family?"

James thought for a moment how best to answer that question. He supposed that, in a way, the James Barnes on the wall was an ancestor of sorts. The man he'd been then had died a long time ago, as had the Winter Soldier. To avoid any awkward questions about his family, he shook no. And Norman, the man who saw more than he should, peered at James over the top of his glasses.

"Then it's just a coincidence you got the same name." Taking James' good arm, Norman led them toward the shuttle that would take them to their next destination. He didn't know what the old man had in mind, and at this exact moment, he didn't care. They queued up with the others, and Norman gave his bicep a squeeze. "It's called phantom limb pain."

Unsurprised that Norman would mention his prosthetic arm, James asked, "How long have you known?"

"Suspected from the first day, the way you hid it. Then, when the soldiers left, I looked in the window while you swept for bugs, as they say. That's one fancy schmancy arm you got."

The shuttle arrived, and they climbed aboard with the others, taking the seat directly behind the driver. James turned sideways so he could look out both windows without it being obvious, as the bus jerked, bounced and creaked every time it hit a bump in the road.

They came to a stop, and by some unspoken agreement, James and Norman waited until everyone else had disembarked to do so themselves. Norman once again leaned on him, and when they turned around, James found himself staring up at façade of the Smithsonian. He slanted a look at Norman, who looked back with mock innocence. "I'm a Captain America fan. So sue me."

Knowing that Norman couldn't know his full history, James grinned, shaking his head as he helped Norman up the stairs and inside.

~~O~~

Elbows on the arms of the wheelchair, Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan told one of this favorite war stories as his great-grandson pushed him through the Smithsonian. "…then Barnes says, 'Let's hear it for Captain America!' And Rogers stands there like he don't know what's going on, eyeing that girl…"

A much younger voice chimed in, "…Peggy Carter. I know Gramps. You've told me the story like a billion times."

"Hmph." His still impressive mustache twitched. "After all that crap they've been saying about Steve Rogers, I thought someone should speak out. He's a hero in every way. Mark my words, Robbie, the world is lucky to have him and the Avengers. Without them, we'd all be dead."

"You come here every year?"

Dum Dum pushed the bowler hat back so he could see in the museum's dim interior. "You bet your ass I do, and I'll keep coming back until the good Lord takes me." Robbie squeezed his shoulder, and Dum Dum reached up to pat his hand. "The only times I missed were the year your dad was born and when Helen passed. If you'd been a girl…"

"But I'm not." The boy brought the chair to a stop. "Look, Gramps. A bunch of the Captain America stuff is gone. His suit and some of the pics."

The sad reminiscences turned into anger. "Those sons of bitches! We should lodge a protest. Make one of those, what're they called? A sick movie?"

His great-grandson laughed. "Viral video." The idea seemed to take root in the boy's brain. "That's doable. I'll get Trevor, Chaz, and Simone to help."

"Yeah? How long?"

"A week, maybe. Depends on how many people we gotta interview. We can use Skype for that. Then there's editing and soundtrack. You get final approval, of course. We'll Tweet, Instagram, and Facebook. Bet we get at least a hundred thousand hits and shares overnight."

The nonagenarian chuckled at his enthusiasm. "That's m' boy."

"We can start now." Robbie leaned down and pointed over Dum Dum's shoulder. "How about over there in front of the Bucky Barnes exhibit? I'll use my phone."

Seeing two men, one young and the other nearly as old as himself, Dum Dum put up a hand. "Wait until they're gone."

The younger man seemed especially attentive to the white-haired man in the navy blue driver's cap and matching windbreaker. His companion wore a khaki green jacket and cap, with a glove on his left hand, which Dum Dum didn't find odd at all. Many soldiers covered up the scars of battle in any way they could.

Several kids, all around ten years of age, watched him from a few feet away, whispering and casting curious glances his way. With a gentle smile, he motioned them over. After a moment of hesitation, the group of kids swarmed around Dum Dum, talking so fast he could barely understand them. He didn't even notice when Robbie left them alone.

~~O~~

Standing in a small pool of darkness, Robbie watched his great-grandfather have his picture taken with the kids under the watchful eyes of their parents. The irascible old man persona was just a cover for the kind and gentle man inside. He used to hide behind his gruff exterior, but that had stopped when he reached the age where he'd come to the realization that showing compassion and caring for others wasn't a weakness. It was a strength. At least that's what Pops told him.

As the two men moved on, Robbie saw the younger of the two cast a long glance over his shoulder as they passed under a bright pool of light, illuminating his rugged features. He seemed to have a permanent scowl and a hardness in his eyes that came from loss and mental and physical trauma. His walk marked him as a soldier whose return to civilian life was recent.

He looks a little like that Bucky Barnes guy. Wonder if he'd be in our video?

Giving up that thought as ridiculous, Robbie saw that Gramps had an audience sitting on the floor, listening raptly as he told another of his war stories. Shaking his head, the teenager wandered away. When Gramps was ready for him, he'd call his cell.

He went into the theater to listen to the presentation, taking the only seat available. It just happened to be next to the old man in the blue cap. The Barnes look-alike gave Robbie an assessing glance as he squeezed past them, then went back to the movie.

~~O~~

With Norman engrossed in the film, James slipped out the exit and went around to the entrance to the Howling Commandoes exhibit. The purpose of this excursion was to appease his curiosity. Just for a moment, James thought he'd heard a voice from the past. Not as powerful and without the edge of cynicism, but familiar nonetheless. He had to know who it was.

He crept into the room where he could see the face of an old man in a wheelchair shaking hands with a group of kids and adults. They walked away, the kids waving as they turned the corner into the next room. The bowler hat and the thick mustache curled at the ends confirmed his suspicions.

One slow step at a time, James moved around in front of the old man. His gaze moved upward until their eyes locked. James slowly removed his cap.

Dugan stared at him in shock for a long moment then said, "Barnes?"

TBC

Boychick = young man

Simkhe = celebration

Meshuggina = crazy

Chutzpah = nerve, gall