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 27

When the thing didn't fall, Clint looked up. It, or rather they, hung there, swaying precariously. He slowly put first one foot then the other over the side, but before he could make good his escape, a dozen water-filled condoms fell on his head, soaking him-and his bed-with ice cold water. "Shit!" he exclaimed, rolling out of bed to his feet.

Stifled laughter came from behind him, and he knew without looking that he'd just been royally pranked by Hill and Rogers. When Clint faced them, his mood dark and dangerous, they ignored him. No, it was worse. They laughed!

"I would say this as a successful operation," Hill stated, holding out her hand for a fist bump, and Rogers tapped it with his.

"I agree." As they left the attic, Rogers asked, "Think he's learn his lesson?"

"Never has before, so don't hold your breath."

Rogers held the door for Hill and followed her down. "I could do with a cold beer. Join me, Commander Hill?"

As the door closed at the bottom of the stairs, Hill's overly cheerful voice responded, "I'd love to, Captain Rogers."

Their laughter faded as Clint pushed his hands through his hair, flinging water and pieces of latex on the floor. He stripped off the wet clothes and momentarily thought about walking down to the bathroom bare ass naked to teach them a lesson. However, it was unlikely that either would notice or care.

He pulled on a pair of shorts, gathered the wet clothes, and carried it all down to the second floor bathroom where he hung the wet items on the shower rod and threw the other stuff in the trash. After towel drying his hair, he ran a comb through it, and instead of going back to the attic, Clint co-opted one of the empty bedrooms. The bed where Sullivan slept had been stripped and clean linens stacked on the dresser. He made the bed and lay down to stare up at the ceiling, contemplating making a quick call before sleeping. It was late, even on the west coast. The call could wait until morning.

Instead of going right to sleep, Clint wondered what had gone wrong that Hill and Rogers had made water balloons from the condoms instead of using them for their intended purpose. What the hell are they waiting for? They had the place to themselves long enough to get the deed done, and didn't take advantage of it. Too busy plotting revenge, I guess. I could take it to the next level, but not this time.

Clint was always up for a good prank war, but with everything going on with Dooney, his heart wasn't in it. You're getting old, Barton, he told himself just before lights out.

Vermont

All the girls knew better than to question Madam B, but Natalia had done so. Once might be forgiven. However, it was never forgotten. Within moments of the second infraction, the matron had her dragged into a room designed to deprive the occupant of any form of sensory input. Stories were told that if you stayed in there long enough, you would surely go mad. Yet somehow, the matron who oversaw their training never let it get that far. The occupant was always released before toppling into an abyss from which she would never emerge.

This time, however, Natasha wasn't alone in the room. She could sense amorphous creatures moving around her, touching and retreating before she could defend herself, testing, becoming bolder the longer she remained. Suddenly, one became aggressive, wrapping itself around her head, oozing into her mouth, nose and ears, smothering her. The harder she fought, the harder it squeezed, until her oxygen starved brain stuttered and fizzled. Then, just before her consciousness winked out, a hand gripped hers, holding tight, lending her strength.

As if from far away, she heard a voice calling to her name. "Natasha-a-a?"

The last syllable was drawn out, echoing in the chamber. How that could be when it was made to be sound proof? And that name. Her birth parents had named her Natalia Alianovna.

"Natasha. I'm here." The voice, speaking Russian, was closer now. She could feel their arms brush against each other in the darkness, and knew her savior was male. "Take my hand. I'll save you."

But how could that be? The only men at the facility were the doctors and researchers, and they never used endearments for the girls.

The voice was familiar, soft and warm, with an element of affection. A sharp contrast to the frosty tones of the staff. By instinct, she gave her trust to the other person, allowing him to pull her into the safety of his embrace.

Bolting upright in bed, Natasha awoke from the dream about the Red Room, a scream trapped in her throat, choking her. She gulped air, panting as if she'd singlehandedly fought a squadron of Chitauri soldiers.

Her instincts told her someone else was in the room. She switched on the lamp, illuminating the near side of Barnes's face. He was on one knee, the single blue eye she could see showing concern. "Are you okay?"

She inhaled and closed her eyes, taking a mental and physical inventory, nodding though she still felt the dream creatures touching her skin. "Da."

Barnes stood and moved back when she flung the covers aside and stood. The gentle breeze from the air conditioning stirred her hair and cooled the sweat that soaked her pajamas, chilling her. A few hairs stuck to her forehead and cheeks, and she brushed them away impatiently. "Did I wake you?"

"No."

"Good." As she moved past him, Barnes stepped out of the way then followed her to the kitchen. She took two beers from the refrigerator, twisted the tops off and passed him one. Leaning on the counter, she pushed one hand into her hair, lifting it off her neck and letting it fall again. She pulled out a chair and dropped heavily into it, resting an elbow on the table and her head in that hand.

Barnes sat down and stared back, just his eyes visible in the moonlight streaming through the window over the sink. He took a sip of the cold beverage, and still said nothing. Just watched her in that way he had. Assessing, not judging.

Rolling her eyes, Natasha conceded. "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours." He looked at her with a blank expression, and she explained. "It means, 'I'll tell you about my dream, if you tell me about Isolde.'"

He looked away as he took another sip of beer. Stalling, Natasha decided. Finally, he shook his head.

"That's what I thought." Natasha drank down the last of her beer and set the bottle in the sink. Barnes did likewise and they returned to their rooms. With one hand on the knob, she looked over and saw him watching her. "Spasibo."

He nodded once and went into his room. Just for a moment, before he closed the door, she saw him smile.

Lower Manhattan

Kiba stepped over the threshold into Dooney's apartment, staring around her with wide-eyed wonderment. She knew he made a decent living, but this was beyond what she'd expected.

The floor was made of a dark charcoal grey wood, a perfect foil for the silver-gray-white furnishings and thick pile area rug. Expensive without being too showy. Three-quarter windows looked out over the city of Manhattan. Her trained eye spotted the hidden window coverings that were lowered from the ceiling. A panel near the kitchen had to be the controls.

The kitchen island was made of Italian marble, but that was just a guess, coming as it was from a girl who grew up in Parachute, Colorado.

A hallway branched off to the right where she could see four doors, only one of which was closed. Kiba considered an open door an invitation, and as such, she would not enter that room without Dooney's express permission.

The dining had been placed near the windows offering a spectacular view of the city suitable for an intimate dinner party or a romantic evening for two. Or it would have if the place hadn't been trashed.

"Kiba?" Dooney was standing at the entrance to the hallway. "This way." She closed her mouth and followed Dooney down the hall. "Bathroom, closet, master bedroom."

"What's that one?"

"Home office and workout room. You can use the equipment anytime as long as I'm not working."

She pursed her lips to fight a grin. "I'm EOD, not a corporate spy."

He chuckled at her mock serious tone at odds with the almost grin. "I need to work without distractions, and seeing you running on the treadmill in a pair of spandex shorts and a sports bra would derail my train of thought long before it got to the station."

Tilting her head to the side, her gaze roamed over his face and back to his eyes, the grin coming out. "I'll keep that in mind. Got a bed in there or does the sofa pull out?"

"No bed in the office and the sofa doesn't pull out. Where you sleep is your choice." His gaze dropped to the floor and back to her face. "I have my good and bad nights. If you're willing to risk wakin' up to a man pukin' his guts out, you're welcome to sleep with me. And I do mean sleep."

Taking two steps forward, she reached for his hand. "My mother died of cervical cancer a year after I graduated high school. A nurse came in while I was at work, but I did most of it myself. Joined up after she passed and became an EOD. Pretty sure I can handle anything that comes my way and then some."

"Sorry about your mom. I won't feel slighted in the least if you change your mind down the road. And make no mistake, the road will get bumpier as time goes by. I'm not sayin' that to scare you off. Just a statement of fact."

Dropping his hand, Kiba moved in closer. "I'm not doing this just because we slept together."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because no one should have to go through something like this alone. I care about you, but even if we were just friends, I'd still be here. Everyone needs a support network. You have Barton, but he's busy matchmaking Hill and Rogers, not to mention some mysterious project. Romanoff is out of the picture for now. I'm sure you have other friends, but I want to do this." Still, he hesitated. "Duane, you've taken care of yourself for a long time. Let someone else take the burden for a while."

Kiba watched unidentifiable emotions flicker in his eyes. He breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief. "Can you cook?"

With a smile, she set her bag on the floor by the closet. "I know my way around a kitchen and haven't killed anyone yet. You rest and I'll see what I can find."

He handed over his wallet. "Use my credit card to order out or have supplies delivered. The numbers are in the landline contact list. If you need to go out, take the Hummer. Keys above the wine rack."

One side of her mouth turned up. "We've only known each other a couple of weeks. How do you know you can trust me?"

"In my business, you develop instincts or you don't last. I'm not one to get into bed with someone with questionable ethics, literally or figuratively. If I didn't know for certain I could trust you, it would've been one and done."

Assuming that "one and done" meant that he wouldn't have kept coming around after the incident with Newcomb, she smiled her appreciation. "That's good to hear. Rest. Let me take care of everything else."

With that, Kiba closed the bedroom door, warmed by Dooney's faith in her. She searched the kitchen and made a list of supplies, mostly ingredients for soups and foods that would set gently on his stomach when he wasn't feeling well. From the landline, she called in an order to the market. The service rep was suspicious at first-apparently Dooney was a frequent customer-but when she explained that she was his new cook and housekeeper, his tone turned friendly again. She hadn't needed the credit card because Dooney had an account with them, and he promised to have the order delivered ASAP.

Laying the phone aside, Kiba searched out the cleaning supplies and set about putting the chaos in order. She didn't run the vacuum because Dooney was sleeping.

Just over an hour later, the delivery service arrived with the food and other items Kiba ordered. Once everything was put away, she threw a few ingredients in the crock pot and set it on low. She wrote a note and set it on the bedside table where Dooney would see it when he woke up. And though she hesitated to drive such an expensive vehicle, Kiba took the keys and left the apartment. She got directions to a clothing store from the doorman and took off.

She'd just arrived at a mid-priced resale boutique when Kiba received a call from a familiar number. "Hardison… Yes, of course… I appreciate your call… This week? No, no problem, ma'am. I'll be there… Looking forward to working with you as well, Sheriff."

The phone went back into her pocket as she entered the store, wondering how she was going to tell Dooney she would be leaving sooner than expected.

Stark Tower

A Few Days Later

"Bruce! Wake up!"

Bruce opened his eyes to Helen standing over him shaking his shoulder. Having fallen asleep on the sofa, he yawned and sat up, rubbing his eyes. She handed over his glasses and he put them on. "You have something?"

The dark-haired woman was fairly dancing with excitement as he got to his feet and followed her back to the lab. "The computer modeling finally came up with a solution." She handed him a tablet. "We'll need more of Mr. Nelson's blood, but I feel confident that we'll be able to cure his leukemia. As you can see, it will take a series of injections, and in that time, he must remain in isolation while the restructuring of his DNA takes place."

"In order to cure him, we'll have to destroy his immune system?"

Helen rushed forward to send the information to the holographic system. "First, we'll render the imperfect genes dormant then add the altered genes. If that works, his immune system won't have to be destroyed. If it does, we'll be resetting to zero, essentially rebuilding from the ground up. He doesn't have a gene that tells his system to keep the leukemia in check so we're giving it to him."

Bruce watched the display as it incorporated the alterations. An enlargement of one section showed the toxic cells being targeted and eliminated. "If this works, you'll have created a cure for leukemia. You may even get a Nobel Prize out of it."

Her excitement dimmed, and Bruce found it painful to watch. She looked down, shaking her head. "It's not a cure for mankind, Bruce. Just for Mr. Nelson. I've checked and rechecked the modeling. This solution won't work for everyone. The conditions have to be just right for it to work. The right dormant and/or missing genes, the patient has to be in the end stages of the disease, and it will only work for this form of leukemia. It's so rare, there have only been a dozen documented cases in the last hundred years."

With Helen on the verge of crying, Bruce searched for something to say that would make her feel better. Nothing came to mind so he put his arm around her shoulders, and she pressed her face into his shoulder. "I really wanted it to be a cure for everyone."

"I know."

The sound of the lift urged them apart. For just a moment, they stared into each other's eyes. Helen's lips parted, almost as if she were inviting him to kiss her. But before either could put thought into action, the lift doors opened and Tony Stark burst into the room, shattering the moment. Bruce cleared his throat and stepped back. "I'll give Barton a call. Would you prefer to use the isolation room here or at your lab?"

Helen kept her eyes on the tablet in her hand for no reason except to avoid looking at either man. "Here is fine. I understand the subject lives in Manhattan."

Suddenly, Tony was standing between them, peering at the tablet in Helen's hands then the one in Bruce's before examining the holographic info floating in front of them, using a finger to spin the images so he could see them from all angles. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," Bruce answered for both of them. "We were just finishing up."

"'Cause when I came in I saw…"

"Nothing, Tony." Bruce cast a quick glance at Helen who had moved to the other side of the lab and was avoiding looking at both men. To the room, he said, "Jarvis, call Agent Barton. Tell him to bring Mr. Nelson here as soon as possible. Just the clothes on his back. We'll provide everything else."

There was a pause, then Jarvis spoke. "Agent Barton and his companion will arrive within the next two hours, traffic permitting, Dr. Banner."

To Tony, Bruce said, "Are you going to stay around to meet Barton's friend? I understand he's quite a character."

And as Bruce hoped, Tony beat a hasty retreat toward the lifts. "As much fun as that sounds, no. Pepper's on her way home from a board of directors meeting in Tokyo. She'll be here for two days then she's gone again for a month. We need a little quality time together before she leaves."

When Tony had gone, the tense atmosphere created by their near kiss returned. Helen looked at Bruce and away again. "The iso room will be ready when they arrive. Should I brief Mr. Nelson?"

"I can, if you like, or we can do it together."

Finally, she smiled, shyly, it seemed. "We should talk about what almost happened before Mr. Stark came in."

Bruce took off his glasses and turned to lay the tablet on the desk. "Or we could not talk about it."

Helen snorted. "Okay. I need to make a few calls."

His office door closed behind her and Bruce let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Though he would deny it if asked, in the back of his mind, he wondered what would've happened if Tony hadn't intruded.

Vermont

It had been several days since Natasha awakened James from his own nightmare. He couldn't remember the details, just that it had left a lingering chill in his bones that the beer he'd drunk hadn't offset. But it did feel good to provide a comforting presence for her after all she'd done for him.

Over the days since, he and Natasha fallen into a routine. Tai Chi in the morning, breakfast, coffee, a hike, and back to the cabin for lunch. Reading or watching films in the evening, and off to bed. It suited James very well, helping to keep his mind calm, each day making him feel more… human was the only word he felt described this new sensation.

Prior to shipping out, James had experienced moments of humor and that involuntary pull toward the opposite sex. In the back of his mind, he felt they were two of the most important aspects of his personality that had been programmed out of him. Or had they? The fact that he was able to understand and react to these emotions now he saw as proof that he was no longer the cold-blooded killer he'd been made into. However, it didn't mean he wouldn't return to that state under the right circumstances. It wasn't something he wanted, but his captors had spent years altering his mind, character and personality. Everything that had made him the individual who had once gone by the name Bucky Barnes had been suppressed. Though he had no memory of it, he felt it was safe to assume that they'd refined the process over the years until he obeyed automatically when given an order. That is until the day he encountered a ghost from his past.

Try as he might, James could not recall what he was feeling at that moment. He wanted to, but the desire for something didn't automatically present a solution. Every time he tried to latch onto a memory, it flitted out of reach, or rather most of them did. Pain, numbing cold, anger, determination, and relentlessness were what dominated his conscious mind. Only in sleep did the walls come down. But they didn't stay down. Whatever he learned about the past from his subconscious vanished when he opened his eyes.

The area around his left eye ached and he rubbed it with his right hand. Now that it had come to his attention, he could feel a pattern to the slight indention that extended around to his temple and into his hairline. Going to the mirror, he leaned close, fingering the spot, wondering what it meant. Something about it was familiar.

Out in the hall, James listened at Natasha's door. Hearing nothing, he made his way to the living room. She wasn't there either. Her boots were gone from their accustomed place next to his by the front door. Their absence meant she would be gone for a while.

He brought the computer out of power saver mode and stopped in the process of closing the tabs Natasha had left open. Apparently James wasn't the only one who was doing research, and along the same lines. The page that caught his eye defined and gave the history of repressed memories.

Repressed memories are hypothesized memories having been unconsciously blocked, due to the memory being associated with a high level of stress or trauma. The theory postulates that even though the individual cannot recall the memory, it may still be affecting them consciously.

The existence of repressed memories is a controversial topic in psychology; some studies have concluded that it can occur in victims of trauma, while others dispute it. According to some psychologists, repressed memories can be recovered through therapy. Other psychologists argue that this is in fact rather a process through which false memories are created by blending actual memories and outside influences. Furthermore, some psychologists believe that repressed memories are a cultural symptom because there is no written proof of their existence before the nineteenth century.

While it didn't adequately define his situation, it was close enough that Natasha had thought it important enough to look it up. The accepted recovered-memory therapies were hypnosis, guided-imagery and the use of sedative-hypnotic drugs.

Hypnosis, a state of consciousness where a person loses the power of voluntary action and becomes highly suggestible, didn't appeal to James on any level. He was done with having others' will imposed upon him. The use of pills would achieve the same result, but again, not something he wanted to try.

The third option, guided-imagery, the use of words and music to help the subject bring to mind positive scenarios seemed the least invasive, though how it differed from hypnosis wasn't clear. Perhaps one you could do alone, in the privacy of your room, and the other required another to be the instigator. For hypnosis, there had to be a level of trust. The one person in whom James placed the most trust was Natasha. Even so, he was still wary of allowing another to have control over his thoughts and actions. That left only one option: meditation. But before he searched how to do it, he opened a new tab and typed in "Bucky Barnes".

Brooklyn

Clint hung up on Jarvis, searched his contact list and dialed Dooney's number. It went to voice mail. He left a message then sent a text to Rogers who was out on a run with Wilson, Hill and Santino. For a moment, Clint contemplated taking one of the vehicles, but changed his mind. He could run the few miles to Dooney's, and use one of his vehicles for the trip to Stark Tower.

His arrival at Dooney's apartment was uneventful. His friend was already at the curb in the 1963 Corvette. Convertible passenger seat. Clint hopped in, buckled up and they were off. Neither man said a word during the drive to midtown.

The valet at Stark Tower took possession of the 1963 Corvette. Convertible, promising to treat it with reverence. On the trip up in the lift, Dooney tapped his heel on the floor, the only outward sign of nervousness. "What's the doc's name again?"

"Helen Cho. And don't worry. I've seen her and Banner work miracles." Dooney swayed on his feet, and Clint grabbed his arm to steady him. "You okay?"

His friend gave a slow head shake. "Had a bad night. Kiba was up and down with me, making tea and broth, rubbing my back while I puked. It went on so long she wanted to call an ambulance. We finally fell asleep around four, I think. Then you come callin' at what the **** o'clock. Tell me not to pack anything, not even a toothbrush. What's that all about?"

Clint stopped a smartass remark before it could be verbalized. "Doctor's orders. That's all I know."

Since the surgery to restore his hearing, Clint no longer felt his ears pop as the lift moved upward at an incredible speed, for which he was thankful to Cho and her team. Without them, he might be totally deaf now. He'd missed so much that he would never get back. Now if only Cho could do the same for his friend.

The lift came to a smooth stop and just before the doors opened, Dooney pushed away from Clint's support, preferring to meet Banner and Cho without a show of what he perceived as weakness. Not that Clint blamed him. He just hoped his friend would learn that leaning on others wasn't a character flaw or disadvantage. It was a lesson Clint had learned from Laura. And if he said it often enough, maybe one day Dooney would believe it. He was already partway there by letting Kiba stay with him.

"Dr. Cho, Dr. Banner, this is Duane Nelson."

Banner smiled and extended his hand. "Good to meet you, Mr. Nelson, though not under these circumstances."

"Dooney, please. Mr. Nelson is my father, wherever the sonofabitch is."

Cho smiled and nodded, but didn't offer to shake hands. "If you'll come this way, we'll get started."

Though he tried to hide it, Dooney was suitably impressed by the lab, looking around the room like a tourist on holiday as he followed Cho down a short hallway to the outer room of the isolation area, Clint tagging along. She pressed her thumb to the DNA scanner and the door whooshed open. "If you'll step inside, we can get started. I need you to get undressed, and put everything in the bio-hazard bag on the shelf, then place the bag in the pressurized containment locker. After that, take a shower and wash your hair using the special anti-bacterial shampoo and body wash provided. When you're done, put on the scrubs and have Jarvis call me. We'll begin with a full physical examination, including a stress test, if you feel up to it."

Dooney unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. "Why all the drama, doc? Thought this would be simple. Get a shot, do a few tests, and I'm good to go."

"Sorry if you got that impression, Mr. Nelson." Cho folded her hands in front of her, the tablet held in one hand. "Before we can cure you, we have to kill you."

TBC