Author's note: Thanks to Spanish girl, jerseydanielgibson, Nimrodel 101, alive by grace, codedriver, FigurativelyDying, birdy, sofiarose613, girliemom, Tanya and Guests for your reviews! I'm excited to say that with this post, I've now hit 100,000 words, more than 100 reviews, and more than 400 views each day I post a new chapter. I really appreciate the interest!

5:21 p.m., December 16, 1991

Natty was afraid the guard at the entrance onto the Stark estate would give her trouble, but he obviously recognized Tony's sports car as she pulled up to the gate, and when he leaned out of the booth window and looked into the back seat to see Tony lying there in a stupor, he sighed deeply and said only: "His father's going to hit the roof."

"I know," Natty said in a small voice.

With a shrug, the guard opened the gate and waved her through. Trying to still the trembling that kept sweeping over her, Natty drove up the winding road that led to the mansion at the top of the hill. For the first time since this mission had begun, she felt alone, truly alone. Her earpiece had gone silent.

"You need to concentrate on taking care of Tony," Grandma had said softly in her ear. "I'm going to turn off your audio now. You can open the channel back up if you need to talk to us, and I'll get back on to let you know the moment we know something about your parents. Aunt Sarah's looking for them now. Understand?"

"I understand."

"Don't worry. Your grandfather and I will be there in just a few minutes. We'll park on the road, out of sight of the security station, and keep watch from there."

"Okay."

And then all had gone quiet.

But turning off the sound couldn't turn off Natty's worries, couldn't make her forget that the last she'd seen of her parents, their family minivan had been rolling off the road and down a hill, with the world's deadliest assassin just out of sight around a bend in the road. He was presumably still fixated on going after either Natty's parents, or Tony and herself.

She couldn't relax. Not yet.

Natty pulled up to a stop on the gravel loop right by the front door, and quickly she swung out into the frosty air and opened the back door, reaching in to pull Tony into an upright position.

He wasn't exactly unconscious, but he was pretty out of it. In fact, he was as limp as a wet noodle, and it took quite a bit of maneuvering to get him out of the back seat and onto his wobbling feet, where he draped one arm across her narrow shoulders and leaned on her heavily. He still smelled like whiskey. Nervously Natty glanced over her shoulder. No other car coming up the lane, at least not yet.

She wrapped an arm around Tony's waist and pulled him forward into a stumbling walk. He was taller than her, and yet she wasn't supporting him so much as she was half-carrying him. Apparently he wasn't so hung over that he didn't notice that simple fact.

"Wow, Candy. You are really strong," he mumbled as he staggered along by her side, squinting in the bright rays of the setting sun.

"I'm a ballerina, remember?" she said quietly. "We work out."

She heard the front door unlatch just before they reached it, and she was relieved when it opened automatically with the faint whine of machinery. It must have some way of sensing Tony's presence. Carefully she helped Tony up a couple of steps and over the threshold.

In the foyer, everything was spacious and clean and decorated just so, with a huge Christmas tree that sparkled red and gold nestled in the curve of the staircase, but Natty barely registered that. She just looked around for the nearest place to put Tony, and saw a pair of French doors that opened up into a music room dominated by a beautifully polished baby grand piano. There was a couch behind it, under the floor-to-ceiling windows. Without hesitation she guided him around the piano and plonked him heavily onto the couch. Tony immediately laid down and curled up into a fetal position once more, tugging the Santa hat back over his eyes and hugging his arms across the Mr. Softee logo on his chest.

"'s cold," he mumbled, and she looked around until she spotted a festive red velvety blanket draped artfully over a wing chair. She pulled it off and tucked it around Tony, trying to be gentle, but he grimaced and made a wounded sound.

"You okay?" she asked hesitantly, feeling ridiculously out of her depth. She didn't know how to take care of someone who had drank too much. In fact, she'd never actually seen a drunk person up close before, not unless you counted the movies. What exactly was she supposed to do for him? What if he threw up and choked on his vomit? She hadn't heard any sounds in the house yet, and for all she knew they were alone here.

"Head hurts," he mumbled.

"I can… I can try to find some Tylenol?"

Tony made a whining noise in the back of his throat that sounded like an assent, so she got up and went to the threshold of the music room and looked around. She had no idea of the house's layout, and the hallways were practically as wide as rooms, making everything look imposing, but she tried walking down one and lucked out; it did in fact lead to a bathroom. She looked in the cupboard and behind the mirror, but there was no medication to be seen. It was just a guest bathroom and wasn't stocked with anything but toilet paper. She went further down the hall and found herself in a spacious kitchen. She tried a few cupboards, but she only saw dishes. Just then she spotted a woman's purse on the counter.

Feeling oddly guilty, she looked around to make sure she was alone and then opened it up and carefully looked through. Yes, there was a little bottle of Tylenol. She shook out a dose and then poured a glass of water from the sink.

When she turned off the water, she heard footsteps. They sounded like they were coming down the stairs. Cautiously, she tiptoed down the hallway and carefully peered into the foyer just as gentle piano chords sounded, and a woman's voice softly sang:

"Try to remember the kind of September…"

Through the open glass doors of the music room Natty could see a woman sitting at the piano, wearing a powder blue blazer and a pearl necklace. She had blond hair pulled back into a bun. Tony's mother, no doubt. As she played the piano she glanced over at Tony lying on the couch, and a fond smile touched her lips. Natty shrank back behind a potted tree, still clutching the glass of water in one hand and the pills in the other, unsure of what to do next.

"-when grass was green…" Maria Stark sang, and just then a white-haired man man strode through the foyer and into the music room: Howard Stark. Glancing up at him, Maria stopped singing, but kept gently playing the chords.

"Wake up, dear," she said over her shoulder to Tony, "and say hello to your father."

The Winter Soldier took a swing at Mike, his metal arm flashing in the setting sun.

He had the sense not to try to block it, and instead ducked smoothly, dealing out a kidney punch on his way back up. He hit as hard as he could, but it didn't have quite the effect he was used to seeing. The Soldier fell back only a few steps and then, recovering quickly, backhanded him casually. Mike went sprawling, feeling a hot gush of blood pour down his face.

"Mikey, don't fight him." His dad's firm voice came through his earpiece.

"I don't have a choice!" Mike shot back, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He staggered back to his feet and immediately launched himself at his opponent, using a flying kick that used the full weight of his body. He struck the Winter Soldier in the chest and he fell back, but recovered quickly and then whirled around in a vicious attack of his own that Mike was hard-pressed to defend himself from. The two of them fell into a flurry of strike and counterstrike that went too quickly to permit thought, leaving him to rely on instinct alone. For a period of time that seemed to stretch beyond its natural limits, there was only blurred motion, and impact, and pain.

The impasse didn't last long. Suddenly Mike caught sight of a metallic flash, and the next thing he knew a knife was slicing through the air toward his face. Bending backward to avoid it, he could not recover his balance fast enough to avoid the boot that struck him in the side only a second later.

He felt the crunch more than he heard it, and a fresh bolt of pain jolted through him. It took him a little longer to get back on his feet this time, and he could not suppress a guttural groan as he involuntarily clutched at his ribs. Something was broken. A lot of somethings. The Winter Soldier faced him in an alert crouch, muscles taut, knife still held at the ready. His face was invisible behind his mask.

"You can't reach him with blows," his dad said urgently in his ear. "Fight him with words! Say this word! Zhelaniye!"

The Soldier attacked again, whip fast, and Mike fended off a fresh flurry of blows, doing everything he could to keep the knife as far away from him as possible. But he was getting pushed back, and the agony in his side was making him clumsy. The Soldier was controlling the fight, and that was bad news. But Tien was helpless in the car, and he couldn't leave her undefended, whether he was outmatched or not. "What?!"

"Repeat after me!" his dad shouted. "Zhelaniye!"

"Zhelaniye!" Mike repeated. The Soldier hesitated for a millisecond, mid-swing, and Mike took the opening, jabbing with his left fist and cracking one of the lenses of his goggles.

"Prorzhavevshiy!" his dad said.

"Prorzhavevshiy!"

"Semnadtsat!"

"Semnadtsat!"

Mike understood now what they were doing, and he repeated the sequence of words with a will, using the best Russian accent he could muster. Meanwhile, he was getting the jelly beat out of him. Sweat was stinging his eyes, and everything hurt, and every word he shouted seemed to spur the Winter Soldier into a greater desperation. No longer was he striking with the implacable strength of a man who was only programmed to do so. Now he was fighting like a wounded animal that had been driven into a corner, and his breaths were as loud and ragged as Mike's, even though he had not gotten nearly as good as he had given for the entire fight.

"Odin!" Mike said hoarsely, and he threw up an arm to protect his face, but the next blow knocked him flat on his back anyway.

"Gruzovoy vagon!" his dad said in his ear.

"Gruz-" The Soldier stomped on his stomach, and he gasped for breath. "Gruz- Gruz-"

"Gruzovoy vagon!" his dad repeated in his ear.

Mike forced the words out with a terrible effort. "Gruzovoy vagon," he wheezed.

The Soldier froze, his knife clenched in his fist right above Mike's chest, where it had been about to come down.

Then slowly and deliberately, he lowered his knife hand. He reached up and pulled off his goggles. Unlatched his mask. Dropped it on the ground.

Mike looked up at him in astonishment… and a sudden pulse of pity. His face, familiar to Mike since childhood, was exactly as he remembered it. Exactly as Dad had drawn it. Right down to the blank expression in his dark eyes, and the way he jutted his jaw out ever so slightly, giving him a sullen kind of look that stood in marked contrast to his open, smiling gaze from his earlier years.

If Mike hadn't hated Hydra already, he was really starting to hate them now.

"Bucky?" he asked, tense with hope.

Bucky didn't respond in any way, verbal or otherwise, but stood there looking at him with a kind of weary expectation.

Mike felt his heart sink in disappointment. "Soldat?" he tried next.

Bucky blinked at Mike unsmilingly and said in a low voice, "Gotov soblyudat."

"He's ready to comply," his dad said in his ear, and the relief in his voice was evident.

Mike sat up stiffly, trying not to twist his torso as he pushed himself up but unable to prevent a fresh stab of pain in his ribs as he slowly got back on his feet. Bucky made no move, either to prevent him or to help him. Wobbling a little on his feet, Mike snuffled loudly and then wiped his nose with his sleeve, leaving a thick smear of blood.

"Don't-" he said, and then paused to take in a couple of shallow, pained breaths. Even his lungs hurt. "Don't hurt her." His eyes slid over to Tien, still slumped over the steering wheel. "Don't hurt her."

Silence was his only response. Bucky's eyes weren't a window, they were a blank wall. But he wasn't fighting anymore, and that was all Mike needed. "You were ordered... to go after... Tony Stark," he continued, panting despite his best efforts. "Don't take him… don't hurt him… don't touch him."

"Da ser," Bucky said. His tone was cool and business-like. It clearly didn't matter to him in the slightest whether he completed his original mission or not. All he wanted to do was comply. It was all he could want. It was all they allowed him to want. Mike had to suppress a sudden fury that rose up in his gorge. He'd known the violations Hydra had inflicted on Bucky, but somehow he hadn't really felt it until this moment: The wrongness of it. They'd taken away his freedom to choose. To think for himself. He was nothing more than a mindless puppet. A fate worse than death.

"Or the... the girl he's with," Mike added.

A faint nod.

"Good man." Mike coughed a little, wincing as his ribs were jarred by the motion. "You're a… a good man."

Bucky went very still. A hint of a crease showed between his eyes. A faint confusion.

Just then an engine roared nearby, and they both turned to see a man on a motorcycle turning off the road and careening down the grassy hill toward them.

He wasn't wearing a helmet, and instantly Mike recognized Brian Moran: The Hydra agent who had once worked in Dr. Greiling's lab at S.H.I.E.L.D., the one who had posed as a steward on the Starks' private plane. Bucky's handler, at least for this mission. The man who had apparently been put in charge of the operation to steal the serum and kill Howard Stark.

"Grab me… by the shirt," Mike gasped, and instantly Bucky obeyed, clutching his collar firmly with his metal hand. Mike grabbed onto his wrist with both hands in an effort to look like he was resisting, although in reality it was much easier to stay on his feet now, with Bucky supporting him.

"Don't tell him… what I told you," Mike whispered urgently. "And Bucky?" He sucked in a painful breath. "Soldat?"

Bucky looked at him questioningly.

"Don't hurt... Howard Stark."

"Mike. You can't-" his dad said softly in his ear.

Mike set his jaw, not taking his eyes off Bucky. "Don't hurt... Howard and Maria Stark. Promise me."

There was another faint nod, another low acknowledgement: "Da ser."

Moran pulled up to a stop near them and swung off the motorcycle. Mike opened his mouth one more time, ready to give Bucky one last instruction — "Kill him" — but he realized an instant later, with sinking heart, that here was one order he could not give.

Asking Bucky to spare the lives of the innocent people he'd been brainwashed into attacking was one thing. That was a mercy, not only to his intended victims, but also to Bucky himself. Ordering him to commit another killing was something else. If Mike ordered Bucky to kill, even a Hydra agent, he would be taking away Bucky's right to choose just as surely as his Hydra handlers had. And Bucky would have more than enough blood on his hands to torment him when he finally came back to himself. Mike could not add to that burden. He would not.

"Let go of him," Moran said as he approached them, his gait unhurried and his expression casual. Instantly Bucky obeyed, and deprived of his support, Mike fell heavily onto his knees.

"Go to the rendezvous point and wait for instructions," Moran said. His eyes raked over Mike, kneeling bloodied on the ground, and then took in the smashed minivan behind him. "I'll clean up here."

Bucky never said a word, merely climbed onto the motorcycle and roared off. His goggles and mask were left discarded on the grass, but Moran either didn't notice or didn't care that his prized soldier's anonymity was now gone.

Moran strode toward Mike with a cocky kind of swagger in his step; he was armed and utterly unafraid of this man before him who had already been subdued. Mike knew he needed to get back on his feet, knew he needed to put Moran in his place once and for all. Tien needed help, and he was the only one who could give it to her.

But his head pounded with pain with every beat of his heart; he had never taken a beating like the one Bucky had just given him, and he knew without a doubt that there were bones broken, that he was bleeding inside. If he could only catch his breath... maybe he would be able to gather the strength he needed to give Moran everything he deserved. To get Tien to safety. Mike took in one ragged breath after another, trying to get air, trying to gather that strength.

Moran grabbed Mike by the collar with both fists. "You're a dead man," he said, low. Matter-of fact. "But I'm gonna let you have your last words."

Mike grunted as a fresh jolt of pain shot through him, and he tried to grab onto Moran's wrists to pry them away, but everything was going fuzzy and he couldn't quite manage it.

"Who the hell are you?" Moran demanded loudly. "Does Stark have security we don't know about?" He shook Mike roughly. "Answer me!"

Mike smiled tolerantly through bloodied lips, and said nothing. He seemed to be looking at Moran through a tunnel of gray, and the tunnel was growing narrower by the moment. He furrowed his brow fiercely and forced himself to concentrate. He had to hang on. Had to be ready to fight back. In just a minute...

Moran flew into a cold fury. "You better start talking, soldier, or you'll wish you had!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "No one knows how to inflict pain better than I do. I can do it fast or I can do it slow. Now. Why don't you start by telling me your name?"

Mike coughed a little and then croaked out one word: "Hercules."

Moran squinted at him in disbelief. "Hercules?" he repeated suspiciously. "What is that, a code name?"

"No, dope," Mike said contemptuously, and he paused for a moment to spit out blood. It hurt to talk, but he forced out the words hoarsely. "Demigod. Son of Zeus."

Moran stared at him.

"You know... the guy who... killed the Hydra?" Mike helpfully clarified between ragged breaths.

Moran's eyes widened, and then darkened. He raised a fist furiously, and Mike waited for a blow that never came.

"Hey!"

Still clutching Mike by the collar, Moran turned toward the new voice, and he could not have been more surprised than Mike himself was to see a 15-year-old Harrison, of all people, inexplicably standing there with his fists up in guard position, fixing Moran with a furious stare.

"Leave my dad alone!" he growled, and then his fist came flying directly at Moran's head.

Moran didn't get even a moment to react. One moment he was holding Mike with a vice-like grip, and the next he was hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Harrison actually looked startled, looking down at Moran's limp body, and no wonder: he'd never hit anyone for real before, not with his full strength. Mike saw with aching eyes that there was a spinning halo of gold behind his son, with Sarah standing in the center of it, sling ring in one hand and the other circling in the air; her backyard was clearly visible through the portal.

Mike let himself sag with relief. He hadn't dared to hope for backup, but he had never been so happy to see his family in all his life.

"Dad, are you okay?" Harrison asked anxiously, stooping to help him up. Mike painfully staggered to his feet, leaning on Harrison more than he wanted to. "Where's mom?"

Mike turned to look at the minivan, and Harrison followed his gaze. She was still slumped over the steering wheel. Still motionless.

"Mom!" Harrison cried out, a spike of fear in his voice, but the next moment they heard the wail of a siren approaching, and they turned to see two police cars pulling to a stop on the shoulder of the road, and uniformed men spilling out the doors.

They could have been police officers, or they could have been Hydra. There was no way to know, and Sarah didn't wait around to find out. She flung her arms outward and the portal opened wider, and then she shoved her hands forward, eyes intense.

The portal slid forward and swallowed up Harrison and Mike and Moran and the entire minivan. With a quick gesture Sarah brought her hands together, and the portal snapped shut.

They were in the safety of her backyard.

TO BE CONTINUED

Author's note: Feedback is welcome! Please leave a review.