U.N. Building, Vienna, Austria

For a few hours, Sharon had to trust that Sam and Steve could muddle through the complexities of being "undercover" without her help. Lord help them both, but they seemed to think that "disguise" meant putting on a baseball cap and a t-shirt. And they were always such tight T-shirts. Hadn't either of them ever heard of a goddamned big and tall store? She wanted to grab their necks and shake them, like rookie agents. Or naughty puppies. Then she wanted to give them a two-hour crash course in basic covert protocols. But she had work to do.

Ross was exactly what Bob had said: a blowhard. She arrived at the site less than two hours after the phone call, but it took her another half an hour to make her way through the layers of bureaucracy to actually see him.

"Who are you?" he snapped at her as she finally found him in a Cetron Mobile Command Hub on the edge of the rubble.

"Sharon Carter, CIA," she stuck out her hand. He scowled but shook.

"Where have you been? I was told you are my subject-matter expert?"

"At my aunt's funeral, sir, in London. I flew out as soon as I heard."

Ross was a blowhard but he wasn't stupid. She could practically watch as he put together the pieces: Funeral, London, last name 'Carter', Bucky Barnes. His eyes lit up a little.

"Then you are just the person I need," he snapped his fingers at a sour looking woman in a grey windbreaker that said BVT across the chest. "Here, you, Frau Gusen, I need you to work with Agent Carter here. You have a team of five to help sort through this… mess."

And with that, he turned his back on her.

"I suppose it's nice to be trusted," she muttered to herself before switching to German. "Frau Gusen, it's a pleasure to meet you, I am Sharon Carter with the CIA."

"Welcome to Vienna, Agent Carter," Frau Gusen responded, in English, her mouth locked down in a tight unhappy line.

"I'm sorry we have to meet in these awful conditions." She made sure that the words were neutral but swept a glance that managed to include Ross as one of the 'awful conditions.'

Gusen raised an eyebrow in surprise and her mouth softened. A little. "I am, too."

"What are we working on?"

"We have been put in charge of sorting through the feuerwehrschlauch of calls from around the world. It seems the Winter Solider is like your Elvis, yes?"

Sharon did some half-assed translation in her head and figured that feuerwehrschlauch was "fire group hose", which was probably an understatement.

"I can only imagine," she winced. "Can you show me what you've got set up so far?"

What they had so far was a top-notch, well organized, and comprehensive vetting system with five other BVT agents who were experienced in data mining and large-scale disasters. Information was pouring in from intelligence agencies all over the world and it was getting sorted through Frau Gusen's hands. Gusen - a white woman in her mid forties wearing a salt-and-pepper ponytail - reminded Sharon a lot of a gunnery sergeant she'd known back at the Triskelion. Efficient, effective, and completely without a sense of humor.

She could work with that.

It didn't take long for her to get read onto the analysis team. As one of the Agency's point-women on the "enhanced human situation," she was thoroughly debriefed on all aspects of the two-year hunt for Barnes, both the official and the unofficial. Consummate professionals, members of the BVT team appreciated her insights and knowledge and welcomed her into their group.

It was another hour before the first real lead came through. A low-level SRI agent with a thing for enhanced humans had been pestering his station chief for six months about the Winter Soldier living in a flat in the Ferentari area of Bucharest.

The station chief sent the information along, carefully couched in qualifiers – the guy in question also insisted Thor took saunas at the Grand Continental – but attached his report and a few crappy cell phone videos. The vids showed a man wearing a heavy winter jacket and low cap browsing through the history sections at an English-language bookshop called Anthony Frost. If it was Barnes, he shared Steve's attitude towards disguises: a baseball cap that didn't hide the fact that he was wearing exact same haircut he'd worn in D.C. The team almost dismissed it without watching the whole video but the note had included a suggestion that they watch to the end.

The man in the video reached out to pick up a book and his sleeve rode up. There was a flash of silver between the cuff and the glove. It could have been just an old-fashioned man's watch, common enough in Romania, but the man reacted strongly, yanking his jacket down hard and dropping the book.

Then he looked around, a little wild-eyed, and the video froze on a perfectly framed shot of James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. The Winter Soldier.

"That's him." Sharon said, her voice steady.

The operative had tracked him back to a flat and Sharon scribbled the address on a scrap of paper and waited for Frau Gusen to take it to Ross. She'd be able to slip Steve the-

"Frau Carter," Gusen's humorless voice interrupted her. "Would you please take this information to Herr Ross?"

Sharon blinked, staring at Gusen for a few moments. Had she figured out Sharon's ulterior mission? Did she want to help Steve?

No. The more likely answer was that Ross was an asshole and Gusen didn't want to deal with him.

"Of course," she managed a smile that was both grateful and regretful. Gusen shrugged a non-apology with clear subtext: he's your pain in the ass; you deal with him.

Sharon kept her face straight as she jotted some notes, shuffled some paper, and then jogged over to the Command Center. Though the dead and wounded were long gone, the scene was still noisy chaos, with sirens and first responders and forensic experts working hard, heads down over the explosion site. As long as she didn't look too gleeful at this unexpected opportunity, it was unlikely anyone would notice her planned detour. She'd done some quick googling on way to the airport and planned a meet with the men at a cafe that was about the right distance from the explosion.

And there they were, two well-muscled Americans being overtly casual on the edge of a disaster scene. Subtle. And Steve was on the phone. A cell phone. Okay, probably one of Stark's little black-box jobs, but Steve had to realize that Stark was going to get involved some point soon, right? Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, please save her from amateurs.

Steve hung up and went into the café, leaning against the bar with studied nonchalance. He and Sam stood side by side, conspicuously not looking at one another as they spoke. Sharon glanced around and assured herself that all the observant people were still focused on the rubble, gathered her temper, and then walked in.

"Tips have been flooding in since that picture went viral. Everyone thinks that the Winter Soldier goes to their gym. Most of them are just noise. Except this one," she slid a folder across the bar. It contained a bunch of random papers that had nothing to do with anything. The relevant address was written on the back flap of the folder along with the name of a private pilot who was on standby at Vienna International. She hoped he'd figure it out. This would be much easier if Natasha was working with him again.

"My boss is expecting a briefing pretty much now, so this is all the head start you'll get. And you'd better hurry. Our orders are to shoot on sight."

Steve flinched, a single pained flash of terror that made him look sixteen years old. Losing Bucky would break him. She wasn't sure what happened when you broke a good man, but she was sure it wasn't something she wanted to see. She couldn't let that happen. The country owed him more than that. She owed Peg more than that.

He thanked her, politely, and she had to walk away again. Now came the hard part.