Chapter 3

"Facial recognition software? That's hot. And you claim you don't know how to talk to women, Rogers." Thirty seconds into the phone call and Steve realized how much he'd missed having Natasha around.

"Funny," he said, trying to suppress a grin even though she couldn't see it. "Can you help?"

"Of course. Get a copy of the surveillance footage. Try to find the clearest images of the hostage and our friendly neighborhood assassin so that I have something to upload for a match. I'll be there in two, maybe three hours." Steve switched the phone to his other ear, hiking up the cuff of his jacket to check his watch. They'd already lost an hour. As much as he hated waiting, at this point time wasn't really of the essence and without good intel, they would just be running around Washington like chickens with their heads cut off.

"You know, she might not be a hostage," he said and he caught Sam out of the corner of his eye, shaking his head, glancing at the ceiling as though looking for diving guidance.

Natasha clearly wasn't convinced either. "And I might be your fairy godmother," she deadpanned. "Look - this will all go easier on you if you don't make excuses for him. Expecting the worst case scenario makes the actual outcome a whole lot easier to swallow."

"I can't help it, you know that."

"I don't think the glass is going to be half full this time, Steve." Her voice was softer than normal. This was the Natasha that lurked beneath the tough exterior, the one she only let a select few know existed. "What he's been through … people don't come back from that."

"You did."

She chuckled, not a sound he associated with the Black Widow.

"What?" he asked.

"You got me there, I admit it."

"And Clint …"

"I had to hit him really hard on the head. I don't think that will work in this case."

"I just want to help him."

"And I just want to make sure you don't get hurt in the process. You're my friend. He's the guy who shot me twice and almost killed you."

"How about if I go with cautiously optimistic?"

"Very cautiously optimistic," Sam leaned in and whispered.

"As long as you let me be the voice of reason," Natasha said.

"Deal."

XxXxXxXxXx

"You're bleeding?" Sarah was about to have a panic attack. There was blood all over her hands and some quasi-Nazi soldiers were about to discover them any minute and … god, there was so much blood.

Bucky leaned back, wincing. "I got shot." She couldn't see much of his face under the hat, hair and grime, but what she could see looked pale and waxy.

"No shit, Sherlock," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I don't suppose you'll let me take you to the hospital?" She rubbed her hands on the seat, trying to wipe the blood off, saying a silent apology to the owner of the car they'd stolen.

He looked over at her. His eyes were blank and cold. It was like he kept switching between channels – human one second, dead and emotionless the next. "Negative. Treat it."

Her mouth fell open. "Treat it? Like surgery?"

He blinked a couple of times at her, like he was waking up and trying to figure out where he was. He looked down, opening his jacket. From below his ribs down, his t-shirt was wet with more blood. He lifted the shirt and tilted his head, like it was every day you examined a bullet wound in your own side. "No surgery," he said. "It went straight through. Duct tape."

"Are you joking?"

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers and he didn't answer her. Right, she thought, he didn't do joking. Probably ever.

"It works," he said and she grimaced.

"I don't think I want to know why you know that."

"You're right. You don't."

XxXxXxXxXx

The desert was dry, the terrain unforgiving and every bump the Humvee tore over jolted him and sent shards of pain rattling through his battered body. He was lying in the back of the vehicle, unrestrained but unable to move. Cold. He felt cold. But different from the cold he'd woken from a few days ago. This was different. He was weak. He was never weak.

The mission had been a success, but he'd been a casualty and that was unacceptable.

"He's hurt, sir," the soldier who was in the back with him said. "What do you want me to do?"

"How the fuck should I know?" the soldier in the passenger seat snapped – his name was Rumlow, he remembered. He was important – his handler had given him his name, the others were nameless, faceless.

Rumlow looked over his shoulder and shrugged. "Slap some duct tape over it and let's get the hell out of here. Let the mad scientists take care of it. If we're lucky, he'll bleed to death on the way there."

"But, sir …"

"'But sir,' what? We don't fucking need some brain dead Frankenstein to do our dirty work for us. 'Bout time they lost their little experiment and let us real soldiers do what we signed up for."

He could feel his eyes on him. Dark. Menacing. There was something different about the soldier named Rumlow. He looked at him. The others never did, like they were afraid of him.

Rumlow sneered. "Duct tape. That's an order."

XxXxXxXxXx

They switched cars in a parking lot – quickly finding one that was unlocked because smashing a window wasn't exactly subtle and they were going for subtly in their exercise in futility. It took Bucky a few quick seconds to get the engine to turn over. Apparently he'd decided to save his hot-wiring lesson for another day.

"Drive," he said, stepping out of the car after he'd gotten it to start. He was still dangerous and imposing and could kill her with a good long stare, but she couldn't help but notice the way he leaning on the door, like he was using it for support. He was hurting and getting weaker. She could run and maybe stand a shot at getting away.

As if sensing her thoughts, he said, "It's not safe. They have your face on camera. They'll track you down."

Somehow her life had turned into a bad action movie.

"You mean they'll find my apartment?"

He nodded.

"And they'll ransack the place?" Ransack? She could officially add that to the list of words she'd never thought she'd say outloud. She was this close to dissolving either into a puddle of tears or a torrent of hysteria-induced giggles.

"Mission protocol would require them to inspect the premises, yes."

"But … my cat."

XxXxXxXxXx

"I knew I should have just stayed in bed this morning. I knew it." She pounded on the steering wheel, shaking her head. "I'd even said to myself, 'Sarah, there's no reason to do anything other than read a book, have some coffee and veg on the couch with Jonesy all day.' That's my name, by the way. Sarah. Not that you seem to care. And Jonesy is my cat. He's a jerk, but right now he's all I've got. Sad, right?"

She glanced over at her kidnapper. His eyes were closed and his head was leaning to the side, pressed against the passenger side window. His breathing didn't sound too hot and she felt a knot of worry twist in her stomach which was ridiculous because, well, he was her kidnapper and she should be happy he appeared to be dying as she drove them to a Wal-Mart in Arlington. She chewed on her lip, wondering if Google would tell her if it was possible to develop Stockholm Syndrome within a couple of hours or if she was just a giant pushover.

Bucky stirred when they pulled into the parking lot. He motioned to a spot that was close to the door but off to the side. She supposed there was some sort of tactical advantage to the particular spot, but since she would be the one driving if a car chase did break out, they were shit out of luck anyway.

He handed her his baseball cap and she took it from him, scrunching up her nose at it. "Put that on, keep the brim low, don't look up at any cameras," he instructed. "In and out. Quick. Cash only."

"I don't have any cash."

He dropped a wad of bills in her lap before she could finish the sentence. "Let me guess," she said as she flattened out the money before tucking it into her pocket. "Part time job at McDonald's? Pizza route?"

"Tore open a money machine in a convenience store after hours."

"Or that," she said with a nervous laugh.

"Gather supplies quickly but not too quickly. You don't want to draw attention to yourself and rouse suspicion."

"Have you ever been in a Wal-Mart? People shop there without pants on. I don't think we need to worry about me drawing attention."

XxXxXxXxXx

Sarah was back to the car in less than thirty minutes with a cart full of bags. Her assassin-slash-kidnapper appeared to be sleeping in the front seat, which didn't strike her as being very professional, being an assassin and all. She tapped on the glass, startling him.

There was a gun his hand faster than she could blink, pointed out the window at her, his finger on the trigger. "Relax, Clyde," she said raising her hands, trying to stay calm so that he'd lower the gun. "It's me, Bonnie, I got the supplies. Can you pop the trunk?"

He blinked slowly at her, lowering the gun. "Clyde?"

"It's a joke – a movie. Which you probably haven't seen, so me telling it is pretty much pointless."

"You said your name is Sarah, not Bonnie."

"I know. Like I said, bad joke. Maybe we'll start a list of the stuff you need to catch up on. Books. Movies. TV. Music." She pointed, tapping on the window. "The trunk?"

Bucky leaned over, his arm pulled stiffly to his side, more blood on the seat behind him, as he reached down and pulled on the lever to release the trunk.

Sarah unloaded everything and circled back to the driver's side door. She plopped into her seat and pulled off the hat, handing it back to him. Pushing her bangs out of her eyes, she said, "I got you something."

She tossed a silver roll into his lap and he picked it up, twisting it back and forth as he inspected it. "Duct tape," he said.

She put the car into reverse. "Don't say I never got you anything."

XxXxXxXxXx

"Stark?" Steve said, confused, holding his door open, staring at the man who had been pounding on it moments earlier.

"Cap." Tony nodded.

Natasha was in the hallway behind Tony. "Steve."

"Nat."

"Well, this is a riveting conversation," Sam interrupted as he stepped forward and held his hand out. "Sam Wilson."

Tony took his hand, shaking it. "The pleasure is all yours, I'm sure."

"Um …"

"Natasha," Steve interrupted, "what is Tony doing here?"

"Great to see you, too, Uncle Sam." Tony patted him on the shoulder as he pushed his way through the group crowding the doorway. He had a black, hi-tech looking briefcase with him and he lifted it up, tapping on it. "Natasha called, said you needed help finding Boris but Moose and Squirrel could use some assistance in the tech department."

"Did you just call me a squirrel?" Sam asked.

"Sam, meet Tony Stark," Steve said with a sigh.

"Yeah, I got that." Sam said, crossing his arms.

Stark looked him up and down, suddenly snapping his fingers. "Exo-7 Falcon, right?"

"Yes." Sam uncrossed his arms and squared his shoulders. Steve couldn't help but grin at how proud his friend looked.

"Remind me to fill you in on the Exo-8. Could really use your input."

"My … you want my input?"

"Of course. You're the guy who's going to be using it. Gotta rebuild the wings from the ground up – keep them from being so easily clipped by every Tom, Dick and Hydra agent who grabs onto them."

Tony kept talking as he made his way into the apartment, arms waving as he started throwing the typical Stark-jargon at Sam, who seemed to be eating it up with a spoon.

Steve held back, motioning for Natasha to join him.

"Seriously, Nat?" he said, trying to be quiet, but knowing Tony wouldn't be able to hear him over the sound of his own chatter anyway.

"We need him."

"What did you tell him?"

"Everything. He can be trusted."

Steve knew that. Of course Tony could be trusted. The man was annoying and frustrating beyond belief, but at the moment, he was one of the only people in the world Steve would trust with his life. He just couldn't help thinking about what he and Sam unearthed in the vault. When Tony found out he was helping them find the man who more than likely killed his parents, he wasn't exactly going to be thrilled.

"Cap," Tony called over. "I love what you've done with the place. Bullet holes. Very avant-garde."

Steve ignored him and looked down at Natasha. "Anyone else going show up? Is Barton parking the car?"

Her expression grew shuttered at the mention of Hawkeye. "He's not here."

She started to walk away, but Steve grabbed her elbow to stop her. "Everything okay?"

She smiled, the kind she reserved just for a select few – soft, wistful, a little sad – no trace of the spy. "Getting there. Fury asked for his help in Europe. He's heading there now. It'll be good for him."

Not for the first time, Steve found himself wondering just how much there was between Natasha and the archer, but he left all his questions unasked and settled for a nod.

"Good," he said and she looped her arm with his, tugging him away from the door.

"Very good, Captain," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear and he noticed her necklace – the one with the arrow charm. He realized he didn't need to ask the questions to get his answers.

XxXxXxXxXx

"Bingo. Got a match."

"Sarah Quinn," Natasha read from her spot on the couch next to Tony. The briefcase housed a very powerful computer that was currently tapping into agencies Steve was pretty sure they had no business tapping into. A woman's driver's license was displayed along with a whole slew of information that went beyond your typical age, weight and hair color rundown.

The picture that stared back at them belonged to a very average looking woman – cute bordering on pretty, wide-set green eyes, light brown hair, easy smile. She was twenty-four, average height, average build. Nothing that screamed secret Hydra agent, which made Steve think she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Tony was scrolling through the data compiled below her picture. "Looks like she's a waitress who moonlights as a reporter. Or vice versa. Some riveting articles about cupcakes and 101 uses for vinegar popped up. Maybe Robocop needed some emergency household cleaning tips?"

"Where does she live?" Steve asked.

"Outskirts of town where the apartments are a bit cheaper, crime statistics a bit higher."

"Let's go." Steve stood up, back straight, his shoulder tense. His hands grasped at the air, like he was already holding his shield.

"The probability of them being there is pretty much non-existent, you know that, right?" Sam asked.

Steve let out a breath, his shoulder sagging slightly. "Well, we gotta start somewhere."

"Can't hurt to look," Tony said and Steve had a feeling he was just humoring him. "Anyway, the program will keep running – searching for matches from surveillance cameras, cell phones, your basic Big Brother type situation that makes everyone feel all warm and fuzzy inside." Tony pulled out his cell phone. "Jarvis will shoot me any alerts and data as soon we get a hit and I'll turn on the Cap Signal and let you guys know as soon as I do."

"And if it doesn't work? What then?" Steve asked.

Sam clasped Steve on the shoulder. "Relax, man. We've got this. It'll work."

Tony stood up, briefcase in hand. "Well, I'd love to stick around, but I have a cocktail party to attend in less than five hours and a little firecracker named Pepper who will kill me if I miss it."

"We can handle it from here. Thank you, Tony," Steve said, holding out his hand.

"Anytime, Cap." Tony tightened his grip as he shook his hand, his expression a little less cynical than normal. "Oh, and when the wild goose chase is over, drop by the tower sometime. Need your measurements."

Steve dropped his hand, his eyes narrowing. "My measurements?"

"New suits. Top of the line. Got the best designers working on them."

Steve looked at Natasha who just shrugged. "Humor him. Yours is full of holes anyway."

"And, like, a hundred years old," Sam added. "Plus the Smithsonian wants it back."

"Besides," Tony interrupted, "I need to show you your floor."

"We've already discussed this."

Sam glanced up at Steve, his eyebrows raised. "Discussed what?"

"Tony wants us to all move into Stark tower together," Natasha explained.

Sam snorted. "Like a superhero Brady Bunch?"

"Exactly. Only some of us value our privacy and solitude."

"A floor, 007, I'm giving each of you an entire floor. The bathroom is bigger than this apartment. You could go days without having to see neither hide nor hair of me, though we both know you'd miss me terribly."

She rolled her eyes and made a fist, like she was holding a knife, one she would like to plunge into Stark's heart. Steve smirked and shook his head.

"And for the umpteenth time, it's not Star Tower anymore," Tony said, closing the lid on the briefcase and latching it. "It's Avengers Tower and it's far easier to assemble if we're all in one place and not scattered all over the globe."

"Not everyone wants to live in a billion dollar high rise, Tony," Steve said, running his hand through his hair. Part of him liked the idea of moving back to New York, but he pictured himself more in Barton's rundown apartment building that in the spit and polish of Stark's metal and glass monstrosity.

Sam stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "Dude, if you don't take it I will."

"Oh, don't think I haven't thought about where to put you up, birdbrain," Tony said.

"Seriously?" Sam eyes got wide and he looked exactly like a kid at Christmas seeing the gifts under the tree for the first time.

"Maybe not a whole floor." Tony said. "Not yet, anyway. Need some time to meet with the architects, work out the details."

"Maybe a broom closet," Steve joked.

"A very nice broom closet," Stark corrected.

"I think what Tony is trying to do, Sam, in his own special way, is ask you to join The Avengers Initiative. You are doing that, aren't you, Stark?" Natasha said, her patented "I've had enough of your rambling; get to the point before I electrocute you" face on.

"Yes, if you want to get all technical and clinical and detached and suck all the fun out of the room, then yes, that's exactly what I'm trying to do." Tony turned to Sam. "How about it, Wilson, you in?"

"Hell yes. But like I told the last guy who made me a similar offer, I'm a soldier, not a spy."

Tony walked over to the wall that faced the buildings across the street, running his finger over one of the bullet holes that had ripped through the place the night Fury had been shot. "Well, one thing I've learned these last couple of years, we need the soldiers just as much as we need the spies. That right, Cap?"

Steve crossed his arms and nodded. "Can't win a war without troops. Good to see you've finally figured that out."

Tony turned and clapped his hands together. "Okay, that settles that. So without further ado, you have a stray cyborg to track down and I have to go put on a tux and schmooze New York's elite as I try to explain the benefits of privatizing global security. Don't think I wouldn't trade places with you guys in a heartbeat."

XxXxXxXxXx

The motel was grimy and rundown, but it was one of the few in the area that took cash, no questions asked.

Bucky kept his right arm wrapped tight around his side as he slowly walked from the car to the room. Something wasn't right. He shouldn't feel so tired, so drained. He'd been shot before, but his handlers had taken care of it and he'd never remembered anything beyond the initial rush to surgery. He'd wake, days, months, years later - cold, confused, healed, repaired.

There was one surgery, though, that he kept seeing flashes of. A saw of some sort. His arm. The one that was metal, was suddenly flesh. There was blood. Pain. Bone. Pain. So much pain.

He stopped, catching his breath and the woman – Sarah – turned, her eyes wide with worry. Worry for him. He wanted to let her go. Tell her to run. But she wouldn't get far. HYDRA didn't like loose ends. Didn't allow for loose ends. He'd pulled her into his world and made her a target.

A feeling he couldn't name curled in his chest and clawed at his brain as she hurried over to him, tucking her shoulder under his metal arm. She tensed and he knew she'd realized what it was. She'd told him at the museum that she knew who he was – not just the soldier named Barnes, but that he was the monster who'd hurt the captain. Surely she knew about the arm.

She hesitated for a second before gently tugging him toward the door. "Come on, time to put that duct tape to good use."

"It works," he said, his words tired, his brain slurring everything together.

She smiled and he found himself wanting to smile back, but not knowing how. "I know," she said. "I Googled it."