Sorry, it's been a while. I've been so busy with life and writer's block has been a pain in the butt. I've also been working on the Avengers Prank War story a lot, leaving little time for my long term stories. This chapter is a little shorter, with a bit of comic relief. Big thanks to everyone for sticking with this story although I am a terrible updater ;) Without further ado, here is the next chapter, and I hope you guys all enjoy it!

I don't own Marvel.

Natasha knocked quietly on the door a few times before entering. Steve was sitting up in the bed, eyes awake and alert.

"Hey," she said, sitting in the chair next to his bed. "How are you feeling?"

"We are gonna have to start paying Bruce for his medical services," Steve replied jokingly. He raised his loosely fitting shorts to show her the bandage that covered his thigh. She looked at it unfazed, having seen injuries much worse before, even on her own body. But she was deep in thought too. If she had been there with him and Clint and not cooped up inside the tower, maybe they both wouldn't be recuperating. It was her they were after.

"Eh, it stings a little but that's about it. You should have seen some of the battle wounds we got back in the war. All of the scars faded but-"

His words were cut off abruptly as Natasha leaned over him and pressed her lips to his. Steve was taken aback at first, heat crawling into his cheeks. She tasted sweet, like vanilla, and her lips were soft against his cracked ones. It was a soft kiss, but it was enough to make both of them confused.

Natasha pulled away first, her cheeks also flaming. "Shit," she whispered.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize-" Steve stuttered, trying to apologize. Natasha pressed a finger to his lips and smirked.

"You talk too much. I cursed because this means Clint was right," she hissed. "Don't let him know I said that."

She pushed herself up from the bed, the flames dying in her face. "I'll check in later, Steve."

"Bye, Nat," he replied kindly as she left the room, leaving the soldier to his thoughts about the spy.

"Um, Nat," a tentative voice sounded in her earpiece.

"What, Banner?" she replied, stopping in her tracks in the middle of the med bay.

"Barton had a little, um, issue. Can you help me hold him down?"

"Damn it, Barton," Natasha cursed under her breath. "Yeah, I'm on my way."

Under a minute later, she was back in Clint's room. Clint was lying in the bed, chest heaving, and Bruce was standing at the end of the bed with a syringe.

"Just hold him down," Bruce said tiredly.

Natasha obliged and approached Barton, clamping onto his arms with her hands and forcing him onto the bed.

"You've got cold hands, Nat!" he exclaimed. Bruce walked forward and stuck him with the needle, gently pushing down the plunger. "Ow," Barton muttered.

Bruce stepped away, satisfied and Natasha moved her hands away from her loopy companion.

"Okay, so why does he need more painkillers?" she questioned.

"He tried to leave the room, which caused too much blood to flow to his arm. He was looking for his bow I guess. So I had to re-bandage him and give him a few more days bed rest."

"Whoopee," Clint said from the bed, eyes half lidded.

Bruce chuckled. "Although it isn't a problem getting to see him like this. Can you sit with him for a few minutes and make sure that he doesn't do anything too stupid until the other meds kick in?"

Natasha nodded and took a seat beside the bed as Bruce left the room.

She sighed, turning her attention to the loopy archer. He usually acted like a seven year old. When he was on painkillers, that age dropped to about four.

"You're always telling me to be careful, yet you're the one that always gets hurt," she said, smirking.

"Well, it's hard not to," he replied slurring his words. "Did you give your BOYfriend the same talk. He's always getting hurt," Clint ended, pronunciating the word 'boyfriend'.

Natasha decided to stay away from the topic all together. "Everyone gets hurt sometimes. Remember when I got shot back in Taiwan and had to be put on extreme painkillers? You were the one that almost died that day from laughter."

Clint chuckled at the memory. "Yeah, but I think the first time I heard YOU laugh was when I got hurt and started mumbling about whatever," he replied.

"You were mumbling about what kind of food you wanted while we were stranded in the snow in Russia. Hard not to laugh at least a little," she chided back. Clint was one of the few people that could make her laugh, or had heard her laugh. The fact that he did both of those things so soon after meeting her secured a bond in both of them.

"What is it with US," he said, motioning to himself and the red head, "and getting injured only to be put on painkillers to make us look like idiots?"

"Well, you look like no more or less of an idiot on painkillers."

"Ow. Even in my state, that was kinda a burn," Clint replied, seething his teeth as if he had been burned. His eyes were almost closed now, effects of the drugs finally working their way through his system.

Natasha chuckled slightly. "Okay. Don't do anything else, or you'll have to spend more time than you want to here. And next time, I'll bring my camera," she threatened.

Clint nodded slowly, dozing off into a light sleep. She shook her head and walked silently out of the door, closing it behind her as she left.

"Alright, lemme get this straight," Tony started when everyone but the injured Avengers were up on the communal floor. "HYDRA wants your blood to make a super, super serum that can be used to make a super massive army?"

"Yes, Tony. Exactly as she's told you the past three times," Bruce replied for Natasha, his head in his hands.

"What can we do to stop them?" Thor asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

"I don't know. But I'm not going to sit here like, well, a sitting duck. I say we take the fight to them and take them down," she said.

"As much as I'd like to do that, Red, we can't risk an army. How about we wait for Spangles and the Hawk before making plans?" Tony asked.

"Fine," she grumbled. "But if I can't get out of this tower for another week, I am going to lose it."

The cool metal from the chair was beginning to seep into his skin. The interrogation room was not so unlike the medical room, the dining area, or the room he slept in. Every single room had metal walls and a cold, concrete floor. There were no windows, instead harsh white light was thrust into every metal box. HYDRA believed that if there were windows, it would give him some sort of hope.

Whenever he came back from a mission remembering something, they made sure to take that hope away from him first. The little electric sparks would dance across his brain, making him scream bloody murder until he either went unconscious or his voice ran out.

Sure, they moved him from time to time to different locations depending on his missions. Whenever he was not staying in a shanty motel overlooking the target, it was always the same setup. Metal walls, cold lights, gray floor, barred "doors". They were portals in and out to everyone else. But to him, they were a reminder that he was theirs and that he was not allowed anywhere unless they opened the door for him.

The interrogation room was used when one of his masters really wanted something. In this case, Rumlow had already asked him of his motives, but had not been satisfied with the answer. He could only guess that the only reason why Rumlow would want him in the room would be either to threaten, torture, or tell him something, possibly a combination of all three.

This time, as Rumlow entered the room, James decided to give him nothing. He wanted to retain the sense of familiarity that he had felt up on the hill only a day ago. For some reason, that sense was giving him the feeling that he assumed was hope. It had also given him a name, which he had latched onto and would not let go of. "James" was his little secret, and he intended to keep it that way.

It still felt mildly wrong though, as if there were another name floating out there for him somewhere in the recesses of his mind that had been wiped so many times that it was fragmenting. Rumlow's voice drew him away from his thoughts.

"I don't understand," Rumlow said quietly, shaking his head. "You've killed thirty four people cleanly, without any help. Yet this time, a clear shot, and you do not take it. You directly disobeyed orders. Why?"

James remained silent, handcuffed to the chair, his eyes trained on his metal arm. Rumlow swung out with his left hand, hitting James' other side of his jaw, the one that Rumlow had not hit the other day. It threw him back in the chair, but James did not raise his eyes to the man.

Rumlow let out a hot, annoyed breath. "If Pierce were here, he'd have your head. Lucky for you, he's at another facility. Also lucky for you, he's given orders for me not to harm you. Maybe because he wants to do it himself, I have no idea." A sliding of metal caught James' attention, and he knew that Rumlow was sliding his knife out of his belt to try and intimidate him. James would not give him that victory. The knife was set onto the metal table with a clang.

"On your next mission, if you screw up like you did yesterday, I will go against Pierce's orders. Do you hear me?" Rumlow slammed his fist down on the table.

James looked up coolly.

"I will have your squad bring you in if you can not complete your mission."

"The mission?" James asked.

"It got pushed back a few days, so I will debrief you tomorrow," Rumlow shook his head again. "If you do not go with your squad willingly, I will give them orders to open fire. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Guards led him down to his "quarters" later that night. At least, he assumed it was night. With no windows to the outside, it was hard to tell.

"Hey, want some water before bed?" one guard asked him jokingly. It had become a running joke with some of the agents that were jealous or that simply didn't like him. They knew that he could no nothing unless ordered to, no matter how much he may want something. The first few times he heard the "joke", he landed three agents in the med bay. They knew better than to mess with him other than when he was in his cell for the night.

The gates clashed together as the guards closed them and James listened to their fading boots as they marched back down the hall, their laughter slowly fading out. He sat on the cot, which bounced under his weight, the fabric rough under his flesh hand.

James looked at his flesh hand. Scars that were barely visible in the light were crisscrossed over the tan skin. He remembered the red, white, and blue shield that he had seen the day before. Somehow, his other name was tied to that shield.

Going back through all of the faces he had seen that day, his mind settled on the injured man with blonde hair that he had seen being escorted from the rubble.

He could picture snapshots of himself, in a crisp uniform, and the man, but he was much smaller. A woman in a red dress with dark brown curls came into the bar one night to give them orders. On the battlefield, James could see his comrades being disintegrated by bursts of bright blue light. In one image, his hand was stretched out in front of him to reach the man on the train as snow swirled around his face.

"C'mon, think," he breathed angrily to himself.

James focused in on the train memory, on the terrified look the blonde man had on his face. James could feel the wind picking up under him as the cold bit through his jacket. Both hands, each real, were reaching towards that man, who grew smaller and smaller as James fell into the deep, snowy canyon.

"BUCKY NO!" The words echoed throughout his head, like a bird finally let out of the cage. He latched onto the words and realized that he had found his name. The one that meant the most to those around him.

"Bucky," he murmured and smirked, lying down on the cot. He repeated the name over and over again, memorizing it, making sure that he would never let it get away from him again. Bucky was still whispering it as sleep overtook his tired body.

On a small side-note, only 32 days until the Age of Ultron! Who is psyched?! ;)