"She's missing teeth," Sam notices, crouched over the woman's body.

"Here they are," Steve says, a few feet away and Sam looks at him, slowly, as if afraid what he'll find.

Steve sounds indifferent.

"He must have been very angry," Steve says, calmly, as if there aren't teeth next to his booth instead of in someone's jaw.

Sam rises and goes to him. "Steve."

"Do you see that chair?"

Sam does. It is mangled in places but it still looks like the most ominous chair he had ever seen.

"That is where they killed him, over and over again." One of the arm restraints is on the floor, obviously ripped off and Steve kicks it with all his might.

It ends up embedded in the wall.

Sam stares at it, "That was quite a kick."

"Thank you. I imagined it was Zola's head."

Sam knows when to back off. "Can we leave now?"

"Yes," Steve says and they do.

They exit that room, and the next one, and the hallway and Sam resolutely doesn't count the dead.

Steve steps over them as if they were logs.


There are no surveillance cameras in the inside of the house, or in front of it but there is a car in the garage and it was caught on camera in a nearby street. They manage to trace its path backwards and it leads to the Smithsonian.

They watch as the woman exits the car and goes to the entrance. On the stairs she passes a man and Steve wouldn't think anything of it except that he stops and doesn't move. His face is hidden by the cap he is wearing and his hands are in his pockets. He looks eerie, standing so still in a crowd of moving people. He only starts walking again when another man comes to him and supposedly greats him.

The two men go to the car, enter it and drive off.

"That was Bucky," Steve says, full of conviction.

"We can't see his face," Sam hates playing the devil's advocate, "and it's not like we can follow that car all the way to the house. There are minutes we don't have on camera. Maybe it's not him."

"Who else could it be? He went to see the exhibit and they caught him."

"He didn't seem caught to me. He went on his own."

"Maybe they threatened him."

"With what? He could have easily escaped. I've seen that man fight, Steve. There is no way that guy could have restrained him. If he left, it was on his own volition."

Steve shakes his head, "I don't believe that."

"He is Hydra. Brainwashed or not, he is Hydra."

"He dragged me out of the river."

"And left. He has been working for them for a very long time. Saving you doesn't mean he is not working for them anymore."

"He killed a bunch of Hydra agents and destroyed the chair they used to control him."

Sam can't deny that. "You read the file Natasha gave you. It has happened before. They always get him back."

"We just have to get to him before they do."

"Fine. Let's say he is not on their side anymore. What then? He has his own side? That does not tell us much. You could still be on opposite sides. His side is not necessarily yours."

"It is."

Sam feels chills at the simple truth he hears in those two words.

Steve looks at him, resolutely, "I know him."

"You knew him."

"Some things never change. Don't worry, Sam." he hesitates a little before making the reference, "I'm not suddenly going to go to the Dark side. I just have to help him." He turns to the recording and lets it play again. "I want to show you something." He stops the recording when the unknown man and Bucky start walking towards the car. He turns to Sam, "Did you see that?"

"See what?"

"The way he walks. It is different before and after he stops."

"So?"

"I'm no sure yet. It means something."

"It is just a walk."

"No. There's something there. He wouldn't have gone quietly. I know it. That woman did something to him."

Sam remembers the corpse with the gaping mouth and thinks that she is lucky that she is already dead. The expression on Steve's face is ugly, twisted and black. He didn't know that Steve could hate so much, but that is only to be expected. Sam didn't know Steve when he was little, frail and running mostly on anger, both righteous and not. Back then, Steve hated more openly.

Not all the girls that avoided him then did so because he was small and sickly. Some saw the bruises on his knuckles and the shade of hate on his face.

Some just saw that he was quick to anger and quick to throw a punch.


He is dancing with a pretty girl and when he smiles at her she blushes. After the next spin he pulls her just a bit closer and she looks at him underneath her lashes. One corner of her mouth turns up, in a half smile, and anticipation settles low in his gut. The beat speeds up and-

Knock knock

-he opens his eyes to find himself in his hotel room with the television on, playing oldies goldies, the familiar beat thrumming in his veins.

Knock knock knock knock knock

He grabs a gun and rises from the bed. He opens the door a bit and stares silently at the dodgy looking guy on the other side.

"Rent," the guy says and waits. His eyes dart to the side, trying to see inside the room and Bucky moves slightly to block the view completely. The guy notices and gives him the stink eye. His eyes soften when Bucky pulls out the money.

The guy counts it twice and leaves, but not without throwing another quick glance at what little he can see of the room.

Bucky closes the door and leaves the gun on the nightstand. He falls on the bed, face first. The television is still on, a different song playing, and he grabs blindly for the remote and switches it off. He hates that song.

His arm whirs louder than it should and he forces himself to get up. It is obviously not going to fix itself. He shakes it and something inside it jingles. He sighs. He really needs to take care of that.

He pries a plate open and looks inside but it looks different than he remembers. He is not surprised. The outer shell of his arm may not have changed much since they put it on him but the inside of it has been upgraded several times, and he was rarely asked for input or instructed in how to do maintenance. Even if he had been instructed, the wipes took the knowledge away. He hopes that one day he will remember something about it. He hates not being able to fix it himself.

He leans down to take a closer look and his hair falls in his face. He tugs at it, annoyed. It really needs to go.

After a lengthy inspection, he puts the plate back in its place. He thinks he knows what the problem is, but he is not absolutely certain and he doesn't have the proper tools to work with. His metal arm is connected to his spine. He is not willing to rummage around in it and risk doing serious damage to himself.


"Are you going to eat that cake or should I eat it for you?"

"Your blood sugar-"

"Is fine."

"You dirty old liar, I've seen your test results."

"Who are you calling old?!"

"You are eighty years old!"

"I am in my prime."

Bucky glances at the table where a group of old ladies is sitting. Two of them are arguing loudly while the other two are eating their cakes peacefully, obviously accustomed to their friends arguing. The fifth one keeps looking in his direction. She doesn't look away when he catches her, just winks saucily.

He winks back.


"No, no, the asset…"

Asset. He lifts his head as if called, only to see two accountants in a heated discussion. His fingers tighten on the coffee cup. James Barnes, not the Asset, he chants inside his own mind. James Barnes. He takes an angry sip and the coffee scalds his tongue. He mutters profanities under his breath. The old ladies gasp as one and stare at him disapprovingly.

His look turns sheepish and he smiles at them disarmingly which makes all but one of them soften. The last one rises her nose up in the air indignantly, "I never-"

"Let it go, Martha. You say a lot worse when you get going."

"Not in public!"

"Like hell you don't! Just yesterday you told Cynthia she was a-"

"Cynthia does not count!"

"Of course she does!"

With their attention diverted away from him, he looks out on the street. He listens with half an ear to them squabbling.

"Stop trying to change the subject! And don't think I haven't seen you winking at him. You are weak on pretty boys. Admit it."

She shrugs, "There are worse things to be weak on."

"You slut."

The doors of the coffee shop open, the bell connected to them jingles and another old woman comes in. The others wave her over and she starts slowly towards them, her walking stick making thump thump sound on the floor as she goes. The smile on her face is wide and when she glances to the side and spots him it freezes on her face.

He grins, just to see her blanch.

She is older than the last time he has seen her but he remembers the green of her eyes and those long fingers digging inside his metal arm. She used to laugh when he cried.

He has questions and a malfunctioning arm. He hopes her hands don't shake.


They don't.

He admires it and hates that he does. It claws viciously at his insides making him want to strap her down and play around in hers until she is a sobbing mess, but he knows she would not cry.

He thinks she would have smiled.

She finishes working on his arm, puts the tools away and looks at him scornfully.

He leans towards her and she quickly leans away from him, knocking down her cane in the process. It clatters loudly.

"They will catch you," she spits venomously. "They will wipe you and put you back on ice."

"No. They will not."

"You said the same thing the last time."

He goes still and she laughs mockingly. "They always get you back in the end. Of course, they might just put you down this time. That wasn't an option before, but things have changed."

He stands up and takes out his gun.

"It will be a pity," she continues, "so much effort and money had gone into maintaining you, but everything has its expiry date."

He aims, "Yes, it does."

"My grandson-"

"I won't touch him if he stays out of my way," he confirms, reluctantly. Her grandson is Hydra but so low on the ladder as to be almost insignificant. Not worth his time.

He can't kill them all, after all.

I can, the thought comes unbidden but frank, and his arm recalibrates and whirs. It sounds like it's hissing yes.

He studies her expression. He can tell that she believes him; the relief is clear on her face and he wishes to go back on his word and hunt him down just because he can.

He won't.

Her eyes are hateful when they meet his own and blank when the bullet goes between them.