AUTHOR NOTE: This story is a stand-alone sequel to my previous story Winter Soldier: Resurrection, which follows Falcon and The Winter Soldier and involves time travel that creates this alternate timeline. Winter Soldier: Resurrection is only about 38,000 words, so it's easy to read that one first to get background information for this story. However, you can read this sequel and understand it fine without having read the first one.
Chapter 1: The Hunt for the Winter Soldier
Steve stood on the grassy field in front of the cabin and looked up at Sam on the platform. They were finally home—back in their own timeline—and Sam was about to tap the screen on the tablet and send himself back to the future. Tony apparently had concerns about branches and alternate realities, because he'd spent far too many hours trying to make sure Sam ended returning to where he'd come from instead of some alternate timeline.
Steve didn't understand it. It was enough for him that Tony did—at least somewhat. But, as he looked at Sam, he couldn't help a sliver of fear in his gut. With so much that had happened, he wanted to be sure Sam actually made it back safely.
That wouldn't be possible. He'd have to have faith in Tony Stark's brain. Of all the brains in the world, Tony's was probably the most likely one to figure out this particular puzzle.
Steve just wished he'd gotten an answer to the question that had plagued him ever since future Bucky had turned up at the Avenger's tower.
"See you, Cap!" Sam smiled, his hand hovering above the screen.
"Sam…" Steve studied his friend. He knew he probably shouldn't ask, but if he'd always followed the rules, a whole lot of men would've died in Azzano.
"Yeah, Cap?" Sam eyed him expectantly.
"Where is he now? Do you know?"
Sam's expression darkened, and uncertainty flickered in his eyes. "I don't know. Honestly, I don't." He looked down at the tablet, and an internal battle seemed to play on his face. When he finally lifted his head, he sighed heavily. "But I can tell you where he will be…Bucharest." Then, he tapped the screen and, in a flash of light and electricity, vanished.
Tony slapped a hand on Steve's shoulder. "You're going to be very happy you have me as a friend."
Steve looked over at Tony. "Because you're getting us a ride back to New York?"
Tony cocked his head and whipped out his cell phone. "Well, yeah, that, too." He waved his free hand in the air and began pace while his thumb worked the phone's screen. "But also because, as cute as it was that Barnes thought he could somehow keep me from accessing the Internet, he was terrible at that particular job. I guess I should cut him some slack being that he was born in 1917 and spent most of the last 70 years or so a buckypop. I should give him some credit, though. His old school habit of looking over my shoulder really put a crimp in the amount of intel I was able to gather."
Steve felt every nerve in his body tingle suddenly. He looked at Stark, who was acting frustratingly casual, his eyes on his phone screen, pacing distractedly. "Tony?" Was he saying…? Is he saying…? "Do you know where Bucky is?"
Stark was maddening in his nonchalance.
Tony shrugged, barely glancing up at Steve before tapping the screen with his thumb and raising the phone to his ear. "I know where he'll be very soon…. Ah, Happy, yeah, need a ride from Louisiana. I'll text you the address. And stock the jet with goodies. I'm starving and we've been living on crap." He hung up and inhaled a deep breath. "God, it feels good to be rich again."
-0- -0- -0-
He knew he was being followed…again. Bucky eyed his surroundings. The festival was populated with yellow tents and tourists despite the cold. Spring was being held back by a particularly tenacious winter in Hungary. Tall buildings in a variety of brown hues peppered the street beyond. Bucky scanned the windows, searching for snipers. He saw none in the windows, but he spotted two men on rooftops—lookouts, no rifles.
He kept his pace steady, his gloved hands in his pockets and his head low. The wide-brimmed baseball cap hid most of his face. His ears tracked the footsteps behind him. He turned a corner. The footsteps followed.
His heart raced. How many would there be this time? He had no idea how they were tracking him so easily. He was always careful; his movements had been virtually untraceable. He'd disabled the GPS in his arm. They had to have another tracker on him somewhere, perhaps a backup in his arm that he didn't know about.
If he had to, he'd remove the arm himself. It was heavy and it hurt most of the time. Unfortunately, it was also an asset. Without it, he'd be less able to fight back should Hydra get too close again.
He couldn't let them turn him into a killer again. He'd die first. For good, this time. He could barely live with the horrors rattling around in his brain—the faces, the screams, the people begging for their lives, praying to God to save him.
His stomach churned, his heart raced faster, and he picked up the pace. He could never live with the blood of one man, in particular, on his hands—a man he'd come so close to killing.
Steve.
Bucky knew him, and the memories came to him a little more each day. Brooklyn. A scrawny kid. Brave. Confident. Too big for his britches. Shy with the ladies. A serious face and a rare smile that, when it graced his face, made the world seem right.
The train. He dreamt about the train most nights. A snowy mountain range. That shield. Falling. His arm. Being dragged through the snow. Watching as they carved into him. Screaming, unable to move. Pain. A terror so profound he thought his heart would explode.
He couldn't function this way. His brain was cloudy, disorganized. He needed to focus if he had any hope of surviving and evading Hydra. He took a breath. He set the soldier inside him free, let the stillness invade his mind and the mission imperative extinguish all distractions.
He focused on three mission objectives. Escape. Neutralize the threat. Preserve civilian lives.
That last one had never been a consideration before. It made the other objectives more difficult to accomplish.
He rounded another corner. The footsteps tracking him were 40 yards behind. They slipped, probably on a patch of ice. Bucky came across a building that looked empty. Quickly, effortlessly, and quietly, he turned right, grabbed the door handle, and forced it open. Inside, the room was dark. It looked like a vacated restaurant, with tables, chairs, a counter, and a back area with a large room and a narrow staircase. He headed back, listening as the footsteps followed. More footsteps arrived in the rear. A deep voice spoke Russian.
"Aktiv ukrylsya. Neminuyemoye sderzhivaniye." Asset has taken cover. Containment imminent.
They no doubt thought they had him. This was an enclosed space. All they had to do was surround him. They might be right but taking the fight out into the street would mean innocent people getting killed.
He had too many nightmares already, enough for several lifetimes. He didn't want more. Hydra may have turned him into a monster, but he wouldn't let the monster rule him.
He hid in plain sight, quiet, to the right of the doorway. He heard heavy footsteps, indicative of a large male, and stilled his breath as they grew closer. The footsteps paused—the man was hesitating just outside the doorway.
The soldier took over, operating on muscle memory and programming. He moved swiftly, his metal arm snapping out, hitting the man squarely in the face as the rest of the soldier's body followed. The man went down without a sound.
The soldier heard the steady, fast approach of more footsteps. He disarmed the man, procured the weapon, and recommissioned the comm piece to his own ear. Then he pulled the fallen man into the room and switched jackets with him, putting his own hat on the man's head.
He was out of time, he knew. The others were seconds away. He heard the chatter of the ones outside. He now had full ears on them.
He fired two shots into the floor, then barked Russian words into his mic. "Aaktiv snizhen." Asset down.
As the hurried footsteps approached, he sank into the darkness and leapt up the staircase, using his free hand to propel him higher up the rail to avoid the creak of the steps. He landed silently, then dropped to his stomach on the landing.
The area above was small and cramped, housing a few more pub style tables that looked out over windows. There were no balconies, and he heard no one on the roof, so his position should be mostly secure.
He watched as the men entered, fanning out. Two spotted the fallen agent, and he took advantage of their momentary confusion as they approached with rifles raised. Two bullets from his rifle took out both men.
It was a numbers game now, he knew. He heard three more sets of footsteps coming from the front of the building and several on the street below the windows. He slithered on the landing, snaking to the window and pushing himself up just enough to look out. From the angle, all he could see was the street, not the area directly below him.
He knew there were likely agents below. His current position was not secure. He had to use the element of surprise.
The men coming into the building spotted him, and he launched himself through the glass, landing below and taking out one man instantly. Bucky rolled, firing his rifle and hitting the remaining two men as their bullets bounced around him.
He felt a sting against his right side, but ignored it as he leapt to his feet, dumped his rifle, and ran with everything he had. The men in pursuit wouldn't be able to catch up.
He knew they still had eyes on rooftops, however, and carrying a rifle would make him too conspicuous. This time, he headed for people. The more the better. He heard them in pursuit, listened to their commands in his ear. One of the snipers had a lock on him.
He swerved just as the bullet whizzed past his ear. Then he was back at the festival, doing his best to blend into the crowd. He patted the pockets of the stolen jacket, felt ammo and a wad a of cash. He removed the cash and slipped out of the jacket, tossing it beneath a stand in one of the yellow tents.
A crowd of woman hurried passed him, laughing and chatting, and he moved with them, keeping them on one side and the vendor stands on the other. He heard the voices in his ear. They'd lost sight of him. He hoped they hadn't wised up and realized he had a comm piece. If they did, then their chatter was meant to misdirect and distract him.
He saw a woman set a bag full of meats and breads next to her as she inspected a row of cheeses at one of the booths. Without skipping a step, Bucky grabbed the bag and swung it over his shoulder, keeping his head low. He found a vendor booth of hats and sunglasses, slapped a wad of cash in front of the woman, and grabbed a large trapper hat with flaps along the sides and a pair of sunglasses and put them both on.
He hoped he'd paid enough, but she didn't put up a fuss as he left, so he assumed he'd paid ample. He was still amazed at how much things cost in this world he was only just beginning to understand.
He kept his right arm near his side. He was bleeding, but fortunately his black shirt hid the red of the bloodstain. He felt the warm liquid dribbling down his leg, beneath his jeans.
There was a solid chance he'd lost them. He needed to take cover and deal with the bullet wound in his side.
"gde yego sleduyushchaya ostanovka?" Where's he heading next?
"Bucharest."
What the hell? How could they know he was making his way to Bucharest? He was occasionally hitting old Hydra safehouses for cash and weapons, but there were too many stashed in different parts of the world for them to be able to predict which ones he'd target. Could they have done something to his brain? Either programmed him to hit certain places in a certain order in just this scenario, or…somehow implanted something in him that let them read his thoughts?
He shook his head. None of this made any sense. If they could read his thoughts, they'd never have lost him back in the market, and they'd have him in their possession. A low growl rumbled in the back of his throat at that thought.
He'd have to make do with the cash he had and take no more chances. No more cheap rooms and safehouses. Alley ways, hostels, and empty buildings were safer.
-0- -0- -0-
Steve tried to keep his mind focused on the new crop of Avengers. But now, with Ultron defeated, he couldn't stop thinking about Bucky. Tony's information had proven…unreliable. There was no explanation for it that they could think of. Bucky was supposed to have been in Scotland a week after they'd landed back in this timeline, but by the time they'd arrived, he was gone. Bucky had been there, with Hydra hot on his trail. Local news had grainy footage of a shootout and a man that Steve was pretty sure was Bucky—clad in a dark jacket and a baseball cap—running far too fast down the street with a hail of bullets behind him.
The news had labelled it a "terrorist act."
His search for Bucky had taken a hiatus with the scepter and Ultron. He couldn't believe Tony's future Internet sleuthing hadn't uncovered the disaster with Ultron and Sokovia, but Tony had defensively suggested that if Steve thought he could do a better job figuring out time travel while trying to pinpoint the past whereabouts of a 90-some-year-old ghost on spotty Wi-Fi in a remote cabin under the watchful eye of a supersoldier, he'd like to see him try.
Tony had uncovered bits and pieces of Bucky's whereabouts before being captured in Bucharest. Bucky had spent confirmed time in Belgium, Scotland, Austria, Hungary, and, finally, Romania. There were gaps in the timeline, so he'd hopped from place to place, but where he'd gone during those brief interludes was still a mystery. Steve would bet money that Hungary was one of the likely spots currently for Bucky's lay-low tour as he carved a path toward Bucharest.
And, apparently, Hydra was hot on his tail. That worried Steve. He knew that Bucky escaped Hydra and would eventually get his mind back, but things seemed to be happening a little differently now. Bucky wasn't where he should be when he should be.
"Steve?" Natasha nudged him as Wanda, Sam, Vision, and Rhodes watched him expectantly. "We done for today?"
He looked over at her, nodded, then told the group. "Calling it a day. Let's order dinner."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and marched out. He heard Natasha's light footsteps behind him.
"What's wrong?" she asked as she came into step alongside him.
"We're losing him," Steve replied curtly. Every day, he felt Bucky slipping further out of his grasp.
"Things aren't going according to plan, I know," she said.
"I think something's changed."
She stopped, and he stopped with her, facing her. "You think there are still Hydra agents from the future here?" she asked.
Steve nodded. That's exactly what he thought. "It's the only thing that makes sense. They would know where he had been. We never figured out how many had come back or what their ultimate goal was before we secured the device. That means we likely trapped one or more Hydra agents from the future back here."
She sighed. "And they would know Barnes' hot spots during his time on the run. They're feeding that future knowledge to current Hydra agents."
They'll catch him, Steve thought. It's only a matter of time. "I can't let them get him again. If they do…"
"Then Barnes might not end up with the future we saw, at least not the Barnes in our timeline." Her voice betrayed genuine worry.
"He can't go back to that." Steve shook his head, imaging it all happening all over again—the brutal chair, the code words, the Winter Soldier reactivation. Bucky was so close to freedom. "Somehow, this is all getting screwed up. We have to find him, and we have to find him now."
"At least we have the book," Natasha said. "One of the souvenirs from Siberia."
The book. Natasha had translated parts of it for him, but he knew she'd left out a lot. It detailed some of the experiments Hydra had conducted to turn a very good man into an elite assassin. The parts she'd read to him kept him up several nights in a row, painting images in his head that he'd never be able to forget.
"They have to have a backup of the activation words," Steve said. "Or someone knows them. They'd have more than one copy, just in case."
Natasha nodded. "Agreed. But we know what region of the world he's in."
"What can we do with that?" Steve asked. "That's still a lot of ground to cover."
She tilted her head. "We have agents all over the world, satellites, and an algorithm. With Hydra agents closing in on him, they're going to generate a lot of noise."
"Will Fury help?"
She nodded. "I think he will. Better we get Barnes first before Hydra. Plus, Fury likes collecting strays, even if he is still doing his laying low act. We can head to that region so we're close by in case of a hit. I know of a couple of places where we can keep a low profile."
-0- -0- -0-
Bucky huddled in the corner of the old building. It was dark outside, and the place he took shelter in looked like it was mainly used for storage. It was in poor condition, with a couple of broken windows and boxes of items. It had little insulation, and the night was frigid.
He'd rifled through a few of the boxes. There were books, papers, random office supplies, and one huge box of holiday decorations. Dust and cobwebs filled the place. A few of the boxes were open, half empty. Others had already rifled through, it appeared. He'd hoped to find some clothes or blankets, but he found nothing of use.
He lifted his shirt and inspected the damage. He saw the single bullet wound in his right side. He reached around his torso and probed the skin on his back until his fingers found another wound. That was good news. The bullet had gone clean through him. He should heal soon.
He reached into his backpack and withdrew all the cash he had, counting it quickly. It was a combination of U.S. dollars, Euros, and Hungarian Forint totaling about $3,000 total. It wouldn't get him very far, but if he kept lodging expenses to a minimum, it should cover food and transportation. He always kept the bag—sans cash—stashed when out to avoid it identifying him to Hydra agents or otherwise raising suspicion. People who traveled light rarely merited a second look.
He leaned back, pulled up his legs to ease the pressure on his wound and preserve body heat, and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, hungry, and he knew he needed sleep to heal.
He hated sleep. It brought dreams. Faces. Pain. Memories. He only hoped he was tired enough that he'd manage a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before the nightmares came.
In the morning, he'd work on a way to get to Krakow instead of Bucharest. He'd been to Poland before on a mission, but never Krakow. As far as he knew, there were no Hydra safe houses there. It was fresh territory, and hopefully they wouldn't expect him to head there.
-0- -0- -0-
Steve was just coming out of the shower of his hotel room in when he heard a knock on his door.
"There's a hit in Miskolctapolca." Natasha's voice sounded.
Hungary. Steve knew that from the war. He'd spent far too much time in that region looking over maps, battle plans, and terrain.
"Shots fired." She continued. "Security camera footage shows someone who can move way too fast and is much too strong."
He was packed and ready to go in 10 minutes.
Author Notes:
I know previously I said I'm probably done with the long fics, but here we are. I swear I meant it at the time, but then I had to take time off work to care for a family member after surgery, and I thought 'three-story arch! Let's finish this thing up!' I *think* for real I am probably done with the longer stories now (at least for a while). I'll probably still do a few shorter or medium-length bits here and there. We'll see how long the fanfic bug lasts for me this time around (after a 20 year hiatus).
I'm one of those weird little authors who like comments and feedback! :) You should know, I have a thick skin, so you don't have to worry that you might say something in your comment that gets me all bent out of shape. Heck, even if you notice a typo, speak up (I go back and fix them if I have the time). So, I'd be thrilled if you let me know you're reading! I love any little details you give me about what you like or what stood out to you but, hey, even if you just say "Thanks for writing!" or "I'm here reading!" I'll still be thrilled to hear from you.
(Note: Chapter count is finalized but I do often tweek as I proof/re-read prior to posting so that may mean I decide to cut a chapter off differently. Hence, the final chapter count might change, give or take one, by the final posting).
