Hello all! I hope this story finds you well! This story takes place almost immediately after the events of Say Something and is sort of a response to a prompt on one of the fic forums that called for Bucky having absolutely no bedside manner whatsoever. Sorry if anyone comes across as OOC, I was trying to keep everyone in character! Hope you all like it! :D

A/N: I own nothing =/

"James, this is Dr. Andre Renault," Dr. Chandler tells him early Wednesday morning as they stand in the sterile, empty waiting room of the clinic. "He's going to be in charge of your treatment while we're here."

The man in front of him is small and wiry with a thin frame and greying black hair. His dark eyes are warm and welcoming behind the lens of his glasses and a light dusting of salt-and-pepper stubble graces his jawline from a missed day of shaving. He looks tiny and frail in the emptiness of the clinic but his grip is surprisingly strong when he shakes the other man's hand. "Mr. Barnes," he greets him with a heavy accent. "It is truly a pleasure to meet you. Dr. Chandler has told me all about your predicament and we are both eager to help you in any way we can."

James doesn't say anything, he simply nods. He's not exactly sure when he began referring to himself as 'James'; sometime in the last 72 hours probably. Steve still calls him 'Bucky' but he can't bring himself to answer to that name. He wonders why he ever went by the name in the first place (if indeed it was ever his to begin with; he's still not exactly sure). It sounds so informal and childish, like a cartoon character of some kind. He may not remember being called James either but it's certainly better than Bucky.

They had left the Helicarrier early the previous morning, a handful of S.H.I.E.L.D agents accompanying them to a designated safe house about two blocks away from the clinic. Steve hadn't been there to see them off but he had stayed most of the night outside of the cell. Neither of them spoke much that night, Steve out of exhaustion and James out of principle. Silence had always been his ally, one he relied on more than anything else, and that wasn't about to change now. He had broken that silence and spoken to Steve though, a skeletal few words that seemed to hold the entire universe for the younger man. It's strange what a few simple words can do.

He had fallen asleep at some point during those late night hours, his back still pressed against the glass behind Steve's. When he woke up, the Captain was gone and Chandler was there. He's not sure if Steve had left on his own accord or if someone came in and hauled him away at some point in the night. He figures he would have heard it at least but he never did. Part of him wonders if Steve had been there at all or if it was simply a figment of his imagination.

If all goes well with Renault and his clinic, Chandler predicts that he should regain close to 90% of his memories within a month. He thinks it's a bit optimistic but doesn't say anything; he knows when to keep his thoughts to himself. He also knows that there's no way in hell S.H.I.E.L.D is letting him out of their sight after all of this. The security and number of agents may have decreased since he was first captured but the constant surveillance has not. He's still kept on 24 hour watch by at least two armed agents who probably have all kinds of clearance to shoot him if it comes down to it.

Whether he knew it at the time or not, allowing S.H.I.E.L.D to take him had essentially signed him over to their program. It wasn't all that surprising to be honest, he'd simply traded one group of handlers for another. He knows they have him on file and he's more than a little certain that Tony installed some kind of tracking device into his arm while he was fixing it. No matter where he goes, S.H.I.E.L.D will find him and he's smart enough to know what his options are: agree (grudgingly) to work with them or be locked up in a cell for the rest of his life.

The answer seems rather obvious in those terms. He could also try to run but he knows they would find him wherever he goes so that idea is pretty quickly dismissed. Not only that, the urge to run isn't as strong as it used to be and he finds the idea of disappearing altogether to be exhausting if not a little too complicated. So he'll agree for now and allow himself to be de-programmed or reprogrammed or whatever they feel like calling it and simply bide his time until something better comes along. It's better than sitting in a cell for another month and a half.

He follows along wordlessly as Dr. Renault shows them around the facility, explaining the different therapies and specialists they've brought in to help him recover his memories. The building is much larger than it appears from the outside, four stories of winding white hallways and open offices and medical suites. The bottom floor is reserved for permanent and extended care patients while the others are open for the neurologists and technicians that work in the building.

Everyone seems friendly enough, greeting them with warm smiles and a few nods as they pass by. Renault continues talking as they walk, explaining how they've planned out his treatment and what they hope to accomplish. Dr. Chandler walks along beside him, chiming in occasionally and offering additional information when it's required. He barely pays them any mind, his attention focused on mapping out the walls and the hallways as they pass through them. It's an old habit, one that's been deeply ingrained for longer than he cares to remember: always know the way out. A good exit strategy is just as important, if not better, as a good weapon.

The tour ends in Renault's office and both he and Dr. Chandler sit down to discuss the progression of treatment over the coming weeks. James sits in a chair next to the window, his back pressed firmly against the wall. Another deeply ingrained habit: never expose your back to anyone. He sits silently while the two neurologists discuss his treatment, glancing over his shoulder to the city outside. The last time he was in France it was 1979 and he was making the death of the Minister of Labor look like a suicide. He hasn't been to this side of the country though, he's certain of that. The city outside holds no memories for him and it's probably just as well; the more he remembers, the more he wishes he could forget.

Once the meeting comes to a close, Dr. Chandler thanks Renault and gathers James to return to the safe house. They're due back the next morning for the first meeting with one of the other specialists at the facility. Renault sees them out and a few S.H.I.E.L.D agents wait for them just outside the front doors to usher them into a car parked across the street. Both James and Chandler slide into the back seat and the car pulls away, the clinic disappearing in the rearview mirror.

The drive back to the safe house is short but it gives him plenty of time to think. There's been so much emphasis on getting his memories back that he's never stopped to question whether or not he wants them back at all. True, he's been remembering pieces of his former life on his own but with those memories also surfaced a few others he would have preferred to have kept buried. With each reclaimed memory of his life before the war, another one resurfaces filled with blood and death. He remembers the name of his boss when he worked the docks during the summer of 1940 but he also remembers tossing a match onto the gasoline soaked linoleum of a house filled with men, women, and children as they all lay sleeping upstairs. He remembers the name of his drill sergeant in basic training but he also remembers slashing the throat of a father of three because he had gotten just a bit too close to something he shouldn't have. He remembers Steve but he also remembers being a killer and now he's not sure he wants to remember anything anymore.

He had been a good man before the war, a good man during the war, but after the fall...he's not sure he's even a man anymore. He remembers parts of the fall but he doesn't remember being found. He doesn't remember much of anything following his revival until one day he found himself standing in a pool of blood with black matte pistol in one hand. He didn't have a name or a purpose or a reason; he was just there. Now the memories are returning, gruesome and dark and deadly, just like him. He's not a man, he hasn't been for a long time now, and he doubts regaining all of his memories will change that.

The car pulls up outside of the safehouse and the agents follow them inside. Two remain standing outside the door while the other three keep watch inside. They're always in sight, weapons at their sides, and they watch everything he does. Chandler may trust him not to slip back into his old ways but the agents certainly don't. Just as well, really; he doesn't trust himself either.

He pulls away from the crowd of agents and Chandler in the front room and walks down the hall to one of the bedrooms. They hadn't assigned rooms although if they had, the surely would have put him in the one room without a window. Such precautions had been unnecessary in the end; he'd chosen the windowless room all on his own. It had nothing to do with ideas of escaping or running, he simply didn't like to be in a room with more than one entrances. One door was easy enough to guard; add in a window and the situation became twice as difficult. He preferred it this way, always had and probably always would.

He closes the door behind him and hears one of the agents take up post on the other side. They'll watch in shifts, much in the same way they had done outside his cell on the Helicarrier, but he will be under constant surveillance while they're in the safehouse. It doesn't bother him; he's slept in worse situations than this. Only he doesn't sleep now, he doesn't even try. The hours creep by endlessly and he does nothing but lay flat on his back and stare at the ceiling. He says nothing. He stares at nothing. He is nothing.

OOOOO

He doesn't become suspicious until a full week has passed. He'll give credit where credit is due: they do know how to put on a good show. It's not an inherent lack of trust that tips him off either; he's never trusted the doctors or the specialists or Dr. Renault with his kind, calm smile. He hadn't trusted them the minute he stepped foot in the clinic and that hasn't changed in the week that they've been here. Everyone is too sincere, too eager to help, and it's set him on edge from the minute he walked in. He pushes it back though, leaving it on the backburner for the moment. He doesn't trust anyone and plans to keep it that way; it's kept him alive this long so why change now? If he's honest with himself, he doesn't trust Chandler either.

No, the suspicion doesn't spike until they start asking him questions. Not the innocent, non-intrusive questions that Chandler would ask him on the Helicarrier. They don't ask him what he remembers before the war or what he did while in Germany; they ask him what he remembers of his handlers, how they trained him, the different places he'd been sent on missions. They ask where his orders came from, who he answered to, why the Russians had kept him a secret for so long. Each question is asked carefully and wrapped in a thick guise of innocent curiosity, they assure him they just want to help. He doesn't believe it for a second.

He plays along with their questions, giving them the answers they want and pretending to be just as lost and desperate to remember as some of the other patients in the clinic. They give him reassuring smiles in return and the promise that everything is alright. He sees it in their eyes though, the slight twitch at the corner of their mouth as they speak. He's spent enough years mastering the art of body language; he can distinguish sincerity from dishonesty. They're lying, all of them, and he knows exactly what they want: him.

He doesn't say anything to Chandler or the other agents; he has no idea how many people are in on this grand scheme and revealing that he knows exactly what's going on will take away the advantage he has at his disposal. Another thing he remembers from his training (although he can't be sure if it was from the war or from his time in Russia): never let your enemy have the upper hand. If he wants to get out of this, he'll have to do it without them knowing.

So he continues going to the meetings and submitting to the tests and questions. They watch him carefully during each session and he watches them right back. Two can play at this game and he's had over 60 years of experience in fine art of lying and deception. He just has to wait for the right moment, one tiny slip in their control, and he'll make his move.

His break comes on a Monday morning when he sits down with Dr. Sophia Guillory to discuss a short period of cognitive behavioral therapy to help him understand and and accept some of the lingering effects of his most recent revival. Apparently he's still susceptible to violent outbursts and surges of uncontrollable anger due to his mind trying to make sense of the recovery of memories and they're hoping to help him with that. Once again, they just want to help. If he had a dollar for everytime they said that…

Dr. Guillory is explaining the process to him patiently and he does his best to appear interested and not as mistrustful of her as he is. She's the specialist right under Renault so he's positive that she's involved in whatever it is they're planning to do. He just needs to feed the fire a little bit more in order to turn the tide in his favor.

When she asks if he has any questions, he allows his expression to go blank for a few seconds before shifting it into something resembling confusion and hesitation. "I think I remembered something last night," he tells her, his voice soft and unsure, innocent to the t. "It was about my handlers. About the most recent time I was brought out of stasis."

Dr. Guillory's eyes widen just a bit in surprise and she looks at him with interest. "Really? That's wonderful! What do you remember?"

"A few names I think," he tells her, watching carefully as her eyes widen just a bit more. She's not even aware how much she's giving away with just her expression. "Not many, but I think I remember who some of the scientists were, the ones who woke me up. And the ones who gave me the orders. I think I remember them."

Dr. Guillory nods and writes something down on the notepad in her lap. "This is good, James," she tells him with a reassuring smile. "This is very good. Your treatment is coming along nicely and your memories are returning much faster than we imagined. Bon!" She finishes scribbling on her notepad and stands slowly, straightening her jacket. "I'm going to inform Dr. Renault; he will be very interested in speaking with you about these new developments."

He nods once and remains seated in his chair, playing the innocent card for everything he has. He watches silently as Guillory slips out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. It's only when he's sure she's gone that he stands and moves toward the door. He keeps his back pressed against the wall, shoulder wedged against the door jamb. He can hear them talking just outside and he needs to be ready the second the opening is made.

"He's said he's remembered something of his former handlers," Guillory's voice is soft and muted as she speaks and he has to strain to hear her. He knows she's speaking with Renault and he also knows that they'll keep their conversation as vague as possible in case he overhears. He's already prepared for it.

"This is very good news," Renault replies, the smile palpable in his voice. "His memories are progressing along at an exceptional rate. I believe he's ready to be moved into the next phase of treatment, don't you?"

"More than ready," Guillory answers quietly. "Have you informed his agents?"

"Yes, yes," Renault replies flippantly. "We spoke with them this morning. Coincidentally, they're in complete agreement." There's a something in his voice as he speaks, a kind of hidden joke that no one seems to know but him. It makes his skin crawl just thinking about it. "Go inform Duval that we're relocating to room 9. I'll make sure that our patient gets downstairs safely."

There's a brief moment of silence as Guillory walks away and Renault steps forward. His footsteps stop just outside the door and there's a very quiet knock. "James?" Renault's voice carries through the thick wood, charming and calm as always. The door nudges open just a bit and he steps through the threshold. "I've just spoken with Dr. Guillory and-"

He doesn't wait for him to finish, lunging forward and striking Renault across the back of the head with his metal arm. The doctor staggers and falls, sprawling across the carpet in a graceless heap. He doesn't stop to ask for answers or an explanation, he just plucks the ID badge from Renault's coat and runs out into the hallway. Renault is shouting into an intercom in the room, requesting security support, but he doesn't slow down.

He's on the fourth floor, left wing, third hallway from the elevator. The elevator is not an option but the stairs are and the ID card is the only way to gain access to them. He grips the card tightly between his fingers and keeps running.

A jumble of security guards cut him off at one end of the hall and he dodges to the right as they fire darts laden with tranquilizers at him. The darts embed themselves in the wall above his head and a few bounce off onto the floor. He lunges and swipes the nearest guard's feet out from under him, catching his gun as he falls and slamming it into the side of his face. The other two guards try to help but he takes them down as well, dropping them to the ground with a few darts from the gun in his hands.

He's just stepping over the nearest one when there's a shout, a muffled pop, and a dart embeds itself in his upper shoulder. Another guard is standing at the end of the hall, speaking rapidly into his walkie talkie and keeping his gun leveled on the renegade patient. The sedative is hitting hard and fast, his knees buckling a bit where he stands, but he doesn't go down. Instead, he pushes forward, charging the guard with an enraged growl and a punch hard enough to knock him off his feet. The guard topples and goes still and he's left alone, swaying drunkenly in the hallway.

He pulls the dart from his shoulder and drops it to the ground, struggling to remain upright. The hallway is spinning all around him, nothing but white, white walls blurring into more white nothingness. There's a few streaks of black off in the distance and he can hear muffled shouts in French but he can't make out what they're saying. The darkness is beginning to close in all around him and he has just enough cognitive functions to be pissed that he let himself get captured again.

His knees buckle and he starts to fall but someone grabs him by the back of the shirt and drags him backward before he can hit the ground. There's a tumble of light and dark, carpet and tile, and a face is suddenly inches from his own, a hand slapping his cheek hard enough to sting.

"-ucky...hey, Bucky! You with me? Come on, wake up!"

The next slap is hard and painful and he can't suppress the irritable growl that rumbles in his throat. "Do that again…" he mumbles, his own voice muffled and far away. "And I'll break your wrist."

"Promises, promises," the voice mumbles high up above him. He's shaken sharply and he snaps his eyes open, not realizing they'd slipped shut. "Hey! Eyes open, soldier. No sleeping on the job."

He finally manages to open his eyes and focus on the face above him. There's worried, slightly frantic blue eyes, a heroic flip of blond hair, and a jawline that could cut diamonds. He recognizes this face and he can't quite suppress the scowl that crosses his own. "Rogers? The hell are you doing here...?"

"Saving your ass is what it looks like," Steve mumbles and there's a sharp pinch of pain in his thigh as Steve jabs him with a needle. Almost immediately, the drowsiness begins to clear and keeping his eyes open doesn't feel like such a chore. "Come on, I'm going to get you out of here. You with me now?" Steve asks, his hands still cupped on either side of his face and peering into his eyes carefully.

He sighs and bats the captain's hands away, struggling to sit up on his own. "How'd you find me?" He mutters, passing a hand over his eyes briefly. The effects of the tranquilizer are fading fast but not fast enough, not if they hope to make a break for it.

"I followed you."

"Why?"

"Because they followed you," Steve says simply, looking over his shoulder toward the hallway they'd just exited. For the first time, James realizes they're in a broom closet and they're pretty much well and truly screwed unless they want to charge the armed guards outside the door head on.

"Renault-" he begins but Steve just nods like he already knows.

"Was hired to take you back to your Russian handlers. They've been tracking you ever since S.H.I.E.L.D took you in. Fury started doing research and became suspicious. He wanted to send in a team but I told him I would go instead. He refused so I went anyway." He reaches forward and grabs the metal arm, hoisting the other man to his feet. "We have a rendezvous location across town; Fury is sending a team for pickup."

"What about the agents at the safe house?"

Steve shakes his head, his expression grim. "Dead. I went there first but you were already gone. It looks like someone went in and took them out after you left; I don't know if they even had time to call for backup."

"Chandler?"

Steve shakes his head again. "I didn't see her there. S.H.I.E.L.D doesn't think she's involved though. More like she placed her trust in the wrong person and was used as a pawn. We can't know for sure though, no one knows where she is."

James shakes his head and pulls his arm out of Steve's grasp. "You shouldn't be here, Rogers."

"And let you have all the fun on your own? Not likely," Steve mumbles, glancing over his shoulder to the door at his back. There's voices in the hallway just outside, speaking rapidly and getting closer. They're stuck and they know it.

"I'm serious."

"So am I," Steve counters, turning to face him then. There's an aggressive spark in his blue eyes, a determination that can be seen even in the dim light of the room. "They took you from me once already, I'm not letting them take you again. Not when I'm finally starting to get you back."

There's an unspoken challenge in his voice that makes it clear that argument is not an option. Come hell or high water, Steve Rogers is determined to get him out of here even if it kills him. James feels the tiniest hint of a smirk pull at the corner of his mouth; kid always did bite off more than he could chew. "Alright, tough guy. You said you've got a plan to get us out of here?"

The grin Steve flashes is fleeting and just a bit devious. It would probably send a lesser man running for the hills. "Combined frontal assault. Hit hard and fast and keep going. Just like we used to do with Hydra."

He remembers Hydra but only in snippets. He remembers SS uniforms and heavily fortified bases. He remembers striking in the middle of the day and kicking in the front door on their way in (quite a ballsy bunch, weren't they?) And he remembers the cold. Always the cold. He used to wonder if it was possible for Hydra to exist somewhere that wasn't buried under 15 feet of snow.

The door buckles and shudders slightly as the guards outside try to open it. Steve glances at it before turning his attention back to the other man. "Ready?"

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Not much of a choice, is there?"

Steve takes that as a 'yes' and slams his shoulder against the door, knocking it and the three guards standing on the other side across the hall. There's at least three others, maybe more, crowded on either side of the door but the force of the door exploding outward and sending their fellow men sprawling to the ground catches them off guard just long enough to Steve and James to make their move.

Steve takes three on the right, James taking down two on the left. He's still a bit slow, the lingering effects of the tranquilizer causing his arms and legs to feel slightly leaden and heavy. It shouldn't take that much effort but the assault leaves him winded and breathing hard. Steve doesn't give him a chance to catch his breath as he snags him by the elbow and takes off running toward the stairwell at the end of the hall.

The guards are struggling to get up behind them but they keep running, the ID card swiping through the card reader rapidly and gaining them access to the stairs. Steve shoves James in front of him, hanging back for a split second to close the door and break off the handle just as another wave of guards slam into it from the other side.

"Go!" He shouts, taking the stairs three at a time behind the other man, clearing the landing in a matter of seconds. The door from the floor above them is straining and shuddering as the guards try to force it open but the broken handle ensures they won't be getting far without a battering ram.

They've nearly passed the third floor landing when the door from the second floor swings open below them and the stairway is filled with guards rushing up to meet them. Steve reaches out and catches James by the back of the shirt again, whirling him around and pushing him up the stairs back toward the third floor. The burst out into the hallway, the guards footsteps pounding up the stairs right behind them. The door slams shut at their back but the amassed security that fills the hallway in front of them ensures that they're now surrounded on all sides. The tranquilizer darts have been traded in for bullets and every gun is leveled in their direction. Well shit.

"Not so fast, Captain Rogers," a calm, soothing voice warns from the middle of the tangle of guards in the hallway. From their center emerges Dr. Renault, his hair and clothing slightly disheveled from his earlier encounter with the Winter Soldier. His expression is passive and serene as if standing in the middle of a unit of lethally armed security guards is no more troublesome than a brief afternoon shower. "I would certainly hate to shoot you but I will give the orders if need be."

Steve's eyes harden and he positions himself in front of James, his squared shoulders almost blocking the slightly shorter man from view. The door to the stairwell is still behind them, no doubt still filled with armed guards, but Steve has managed to wedge both himself and James into the corner of the hallway, keeping himself firmly between the guards in the hallway and the other man. "How do you-"

"Oh, I know all about you, Captain," Renault cuts him off smoothly with a flippant wave of his hand. "Captain Steven J. Rogers, leader of the Avengers, celebrated war hero and icon. Captain America himself. Yes, I know all about you. As I'm sure you already know all about me." Renault smiles smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back loosely. "I must say, it's quite an honor to meet you. Even in spite of our current predicament."

"I should also inform you that there is a rather impressive bounty on your head, Captain. One that many would be thrilled to claim in exchange for your head." He shrugs one shoulder casually as he speaks, the smile never leaving his face. "Were I a lesser man, I might almost be tempted to take up that bounty myself."

Steve's eyes narrow and he scowls at the doctor. "But you're not a lesser man, are you? No, working with a Russian terrorist sect and parading around as an innocent bystander somehow makes you much more respectable. Forgive me, I must have missed that distinction."

"Quite alright," Renault tells him, completely disregarding the slight tossed his way. "It's an understandable misconception. You see Captain, I am simply a businessman. My employers are paying me rather handsomely to return their property to them and I intend to keep my end of the bargain. It is nothing personal, really."

"'Their property'?" Steve shoots back acidly. "I wasn't aware that we still lived in a society where human beings could be owned like property."

Renault sighs heavily, his shoulder slumping like he's trying to explain a complex subject to a child. "Captain, I understand that you are trying to help this man, that you truly believe your friend is still in there somewhere and that you can bring him back. But it is no use. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but your friend is gone; he will never come back."

Renault takes a slow step forward, the guards around him keeping their guns leveled on the two cornered men at the end of the hallway. "The man you see here, the one you are trying so desperately to protect? He is a killer, a murderer. He is a living weapon programmed to do only one thing. He cannot be rehabilitated or repaired no matter how much you try. My employers, his handlers, are the only ones who can control him; they are the only ones who truly know the kind of monster he is."

"He's not a monster," Steve snarls, his blue eyes flashing dangerously. "And I know him better than any of his so-called 'handlers.' I know the man he was before they got their hands on his and the man he could still be away from their influence." His shoulders set a little straighter and he levels an icy glare on Renault and the guards behind him. "And if you claim to know so much about me, you should already know that you'll have to step over my dead body if you want to get to him."

James, who had been watching the exchange wordlessly for several seconds while wedged into the corner, takes the opportunity to jab a closed fist into Steve's left kidney. "Don't be an idiot," he hisses from behind him because he is not a Goddamn damsel in distress! He doesn't need saving! Steve barely even flinches at the blow and continues to face forward.

Renault's eyes harden just a bit and his smile becomes a little stiffer. "Do not be a fool, Captain. I am offering you a choice that many would not be so inclined to give. My employers only requested the return to the Winter Soldier, they said nothing about your capture as well. I am a reasonable man, Captain, and a generous one at that." He glances over his shoulder to the guards behind him, now armed with actual pistols and handguns. "Although they did request he be brought back alive, I am ensured payment if we bring back his corpse as well. As I said before, I would certainly hate to have you shot but if you give me reason I will give the order and simply kill two birds with one stone as you might say."

He turns his attention back to Steve, the easy smile crossing his face again. "Now, release the Winter Soldier to me and I will let you walk away unscathed. I will turn a blind eye and pretend you never entered my facility. Your life in exchange for his, Captain. What will your choice be?"

Steve is silent for a moment, his jaw set in a hard line. James may not remember much about his childhood or his relationship with Steve but he knows enough about the other man to know that he's not about to turn him over. He's contemplating something though, the pensive, troubled expression on his face is proof of that.

"If you take him," he says finally, his words clear and precise as he speaks. "You're taking me too." Renault looks surprised by the offer and James tries to punch Steve in the kidney again but the soldier is prepared for it and twists to the side to avoid the fist.

"Are you crazy?" He growls behind him but Steve just ignores him, his eyes fixed on Renault.

"Do we have a deal?"

The doctor shrugs loosely and smiles. "Very well. My employers will be very pleased to receive such a prize. Two is better than one anyday." He chuckles lightly and nods to the guards behind him. "Come along then, we do have a schedule to keep."

The guards begin to move forward toward the two men in the corner, their guns still drawn. Steve remains where he is but he glances back over his shoulder at James. He doesn't say anything but the question in his eyes reads loud and clear: do you trust me?

James says nothing, glancing back toward the guards coming closer. It's funny thing, trust. So simple and yet endlessly complex at the same time. Does he trust Steve, the same man he was commissioned to kill and the same one who is supposedly his former best friend? Does he trust him not to drag him back to S.H.I.E.L.D to be locked back in his bulletproof glass prison? Does he trust him not to make some stupidly rash decision that will more than likely end with both of them with an even higher bounty on their heads? No, he doesn't. Does he trust Steve with his life? Yes, in a way he feels he does. He apparently trusted him enough to follow him into some of the craziest missions ever accomplished during WWII, he feels like he's obligated to trust him now. He gives a barely imperceptible nod of his head in response and sees the Captain smirk in return.

One of Steve's hands is tucked just slightly behind his back, two small beads resting in the palm of his hand. They look like marbles, tiny and inconspicuous, but the way he's rolling them back and forth between his fingers leads James to believe they serve a much greater purpose. He's waiting for the right moment, just a few more steps, almost there…

The first guard is reaching out for them, hand just inches away, when Steve makes his move. He throws the beads to the floor, shattering them on impact. Almost instantly, a thick, impenetrable cloud of white smoke fills the hallway all around them, devouring the guards in an opaque embrace. Confusion erupts, hands grasping around blindly in the smoke, and Renault's voice is ringing loud and clear, ordering the guards to catch them.

Steve is already moving, grabbing James by the arm and cutting across the hall to the nearest office. Going back down the stairs is not an option, neither is trying to force their way down the hall through the guards, but Steve is nothing if not tactical. He plants a foot in the center of the door, cracking it inward with a puff of smoke billowing in behind them. "Go!" He shouts, shoving James forward across the office toward the window on the opposite wall. At his shout, the hallway behind them erupts in frenzy of bullets, almost all of which are aimed toward the now open door. It's a wonder the guards don't shoot themselves in the crossfire but none of it really seems to matter to them so long as it stops the two men from escaping.

James reaches the window first, shattering the glass with his metal arm and hopping up on the ledge. They're still three floors up, it's a helluva drop, but the alternative is getting shot and their options are limited.

A wayward bullet slices across the outside of Steve's arm and ricochets off of James's metal one. Steve grits his teeth but moves toward the door, trying to buy them a few more minutes and prevent the guards from entering the room. "Jump!" He orders just as the guards push their way through the smoky hallway struggle to get into the office. Steve knocks a bookcase over in front of it with a loud crash, the muffled thump of bullets piercing through the door and penetrating the books in the shelf. "Now!"

James doesn't need to be told twice and leaps out of the window just as another bullet clips off a piece of plaster beside his head. He adjusts his trajectory in mid-air, landing on top of a dumpster in the alley below and coming out of the landing in a roll. His feet hit the pavement just as Steve lands behind him in the same fashion. The guards appear in the window above them, shooting down at them and shouting loudly in French. Steve is up on his feet a split second later, catching James by the arm again and taking off in a dead sprint toward the mouth of the alley.

They both hear the front doors of the clinic burst open behind them, the guards pouring out behind them in pursuit. Neither of them turn to check their progress. Steve dodges into another alley, cutting through a crowd at the mouth of another, and then slipping into yet another alley as they continue to run. All the while, he never releases his grip on James's arm.

James forces himself to keep up, shaking the last remnants of the tranquilizers from his system as they continue to navigate their way through the back alleys and side streets of Nantes. He knew Steve was fast but Jesus Christ, the man could run. He surges forward, dragging the other man along behind him, as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels. For all intents and purposes, they might as well have been.

For the time being, James allows himself to be dragged along by the Captain; Steve seems to have a pretty good idea where they're going and at the speed they're running now, it would be nearly impossible for the guards to catch up to them. Not only that, if he stumbles at all or falls behind, he's relatively certain Steve will just toss him over one shoulder and keep going which is absolutely not going to happen. He has to maintain at least a shred of dignity by the end of the day. He takes a deep breath and keeps running.

OOOOO

They keep running for about eight more blocks before Steve is finally satisfied that they've put enough distance between themselves and Renault's men. He slows to a normal run, then a jog, then finally a walk as they cut across the street to a developing subdivision. James is breathing hard and winded, sweat clinging to his skin and hair from their escape. Steve looks like he's barely broken a sweat. Bastard.

As they pass through the groundwork of a partially built apartment complex, James shakes his arm loose from Steve's iron grip. He rotates the joint absently and shakes the feeling back into his arm. "Where are we?"

"Pickup location," Steve answers a bit breathlessly, still recovering from the run. He may not appear winded but the slight shakiness in his voice says otherwise. His face is flushed from exertion and his walk becomes slower with each passing step. "One of the developers has a brother who's affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D. Offered this place up as a rendezvous location."

It was rather perfect really. The community was completely empty on account of it still being built and the workers had probably been moved off the grounds hours before. There were houses and apartments on either side of the street, all plywood and sheetrock and perfect for hiding the two of them while they waited for pickup. The silence also brought them the added benefit of being able to hear anyone who came into the uninhabited community unannounced.

James takes a few more steps forward, pulling himself away from Steve and putting distance between them. He doesn't look back at the other man, doesn't try to acknowledge him in any way. Looking back meant realizing Steve had saved his life not once but twice in the past hour and that was a bit of a hard pill to swallow. He was an assassin, a monster...he didn't need saving. Especially not from someone like Steve Rogers.

The Captain doesn't appear too perturbed by the distance, his footsteps echoing softly along behind James as they continue to navigate their way deeper into the empty neighborhood. "We just need to hide out here and wait until the extraction team arrives. Easy as can be…"

For the first time since they stopped running, James notices an odd tone in the other man's voice. It sounds strained and tight, labored as if he's in pain and trying to hide it. He turns around just in time to see Steve stagger to the side and catch himself against the wall of the nearest building.

The Captain is hunched at the waist, one hand pressed to his stomach while the other braces him against the wall. His face is flushed and pinched in pain and when he pulls his hand away from his stomach, it comes away red.

"Huh," he breathes out, an expression of genuine confusion crossing his face just briefly before his knees buckle and he begins to fall. James moves forward quickly, catching him by one arm to prevent him from falling to the ground. Up close, he gets a better look at the damage and curses inwardly.

There's a small hole piercing through Steve's shirt surrounded by an even larger bloodstain that's getting darker and more noticeable by the second. It's streaking down the front of his shirt, dark red and garish against the cotton fabric. Another blotch of red colors one sleeve from where the bullet grazed his arm just before they jumped out the window and there's a similar stain cutting through the outside of his jeans. The blood has soaked through the denim all the way down the his ankle, the side of his shoes gleaming with tiny rivulets of crimson.

The realization that this happened during their escape isn't what pisses him off. No, it's the fact that while they were trying to escape, Steve kept himself firmly between Renault's men and James; he took the bullets meant for him. He got shot trying to save the other man's life, a man who had done his fair share of killing in the past. It also pisses him off that he hadn't noticed until now; he'd been on the other side of Steve when they were running and didn't even know the other man had been injured until just then.

"You idiot," he snarls, eyes narrowing at the alarmingly large blood stain spreading across Steve's shirt and the accompanying ones that stretch over the rest of his body. "Why didn't you say something?!"

Steve still looks confused, staring down at his blood-covered hand like he's never seen it before. "I didn't know…" he mutters as thick drops of blood drip off the tips of his fingers and land on the perfectly green grass in bright spatters of scarlet.

James grits his teeth hard enough to make his jaws ache. Poor bastard probably realized he'd been shot around the same time James did. That fact that it took him this long to feel it or be physically affected by it is unusual but not surprising; he knows from personal experience that adrenaline and fight or flight can be an impressively powerful combination.

He resists the urge to growl irritably and settles for a heavy sigh instead. "Come on," he mutters, looping one of the Steve's arms around his neck and heaving him up to his feet. There's only a soft hitch in the other man's breathing to indicate that he's in pain. James waits just long enough to be sure the other man's feet aren't about to go out from under him before he starts walking toward one of the nearest houses. "We need to get you inside and out of the open. Leaving a blood trail behind is kind of counterproductive to your whole "hide out and wait" plan."

Steve doesn't say anything but he nods, allowing the other man to lead him away from the side of the house and toward the back door. It takes a bit of maneuvering but James manages to keep Steve upright and shake the door open with one hand. The locks are flimsy and easily bypassed and they stumble into the empty house after only a few moments of trying. The door slips closed behind them, the locks tumbling back into place, like it had never been opened in the first place.

The house is empty with sprawling concrete floors and brick and plywood walls. Thick sheets of plastic are stretched over the windows to keep out dirt and leaves but they also provide decent cover from anyone passing by. From the outside, the house looks completely uninhabited; James hopes to keep up that illusion if at all possible.

He finds a hallway off the main living room and lowers Steve down against the wall. There are no windows in this part of the house and it gives him a clear view of both the front and back doors in case any unwelcome intruders decide to stop in. He leaves Steve in the hall and walks back into the living room, retrieving a loose piece of plastic from the floor beneath one of the windows. It's certainly not the most sterile thing to use as a dressing but other supplies are relatively limited in their current location.

Steve is still propped against the wall when he gets back to him, his face paler than usual and his expression tight with pain. He doesn't look like he's in immediate danger of bleeding out though so that's some relief. James lowers to his knees beside him and nudges Steve's hand away from the bloody hole in his shirt. He hopes the captain isn't too attached to this shirt because between the hole and the amount of blood staining the fabric, there's really no saving it anymore. Keeping that in mind, he doesn't feel as bad about ripping it open to get a better look at the damage beneath.

The wound is small, roughly the size of a nickel, but it's piercing the soft flesh just beneath Steve's ribs. Hell, judging by the placement and trajectory, it probably clipped a few ribs as well. It has to hurt like hell; he's been shot before (plenty of times) and knows that it's not a pleasant experience. Slightly more troublesome is the lack of an exit wound; that meant the bullet was still in there and there was no telling how much damage it had caused internally. Great. Once again he wonders how Steve could have been so oblivious as to not notice that he'd been shot until just now. Questions for another time; he waves them away and sets about tearing the plastic into more manageable strips to work with.

"It's not that bad," Steve mutters with a stifled groan when James re-covers the wound with his ripped, bloody shirt and presses a piece of plastic over the top of it. "I've been shot before."

James resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Previous experience with bullet wounds does not enable you to label getting gut shot as 'not that bad.' You know as well as I do what happens when someone gets shot in the stomach." He rips another piece of plastic with a little more force than necessary and presses it over the top of the other piece. He has to remind himself to keep his hands steady and his voice even. He's in control and he doesn't panic, he never panics. And he's certainly not worried about an injured and bleeding Captain America. That's ridiculous. He blames any kind of shakiness on lingering adrenaline.

He secures the second piece of plastic as best he can and moves Steve's hands back to cover the wound. "Keep your hands there," he tells him gruffly, grabbing another piece of plastic and shifting to look at the wound on his leg. There's a lot of blood staining the leg of his jeans but the wound is a through-and-through, clean and easy to treat. The bullet passed cleanly through the outside of Steve's thigh, a painful injury but not nearly as life-threatening as the wound in his stomach. The graze across his arm is almost nearly healed, the wound angry and red but closing rapidly. Still, the added blood loss from a secondary injuries can't be helping matters at all and the faster it's taken care of, the better.

He loops the strips of plastic around his leg several times, tying it off tightly once he reaches the end. "When did you say this recovery team was supposed to get here?" He asks after he's finished with the bandages, wiping blood onto his pants with a quick swipe of his hands. This definitely isn't the first time he's had blood on his hands but this is Steve's blood and that's different.

Steve bites back a grimace and shrugs one shoulder slightly, the plastic against his stomach making a wet squishing sound as he shifts. "Less then an hour or so? I contacted them right before I walked into the clinic."

James shakes his head and stands, walking over to the nearest window and peering through a small tear in the plastic. The neighborhood is still just as empty as it was then they first got here. "Hate to break it to you, pal, but you may not have an hour. A wound like that," he nods to the bloody plastic pressed against Steve's stomach. "You'll be lucky if you get an hour."

Steve appears unfazed at the mention of his possible mortality. "Hmm, unfortunately I left my ruby slippers at home. Can't exactly click my heels together three times and wish for 'no place like home'."

The other man does roll his eyes this time. "You and the Wizard of Oz references."

"It's a great movie," Steve protests quietly, shifting a tiny bit against the wall.

"You had a crush on Judy Garland," James shoots back. He's not sure why he remembers that but he does; Steve had it bad for Dorothy when that movie first came out. "That's why you dragged me to see it three times."

"Like I said, a great movie," Steve counters, a small, painful smile tugging at his lips. "You seem to be remembering more on your own now. I guess those sessions with Chandler worked out in the end."

"You'd be surprised what I remember," James mutters quietly, more to himself than Steve.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"Not necessarily," James tells him, stepping away from the window and walking back to the hallway. "Some memories are best left buried." He kneels next to the injured captain to check the bleeding, his expression a blank mask. He works best when he's clinically detached, it's always been that way.

"Regaining my memories means regaining all of them, the good and the bad," he continues, adding another piece of plastic to the wound in Steve's stomach. The bleeding has slowed considerably thanks to the Serum but it's still steady enough to be problematic without more serious aid. "People I've worked for, people I've killed, information I've gathered. Remembering all of that isn't such a good thing in the long run. Which means S.H.I.E.L.D is going to keep me on a tight leash until otherwise informed. More than likely indefinitely."

"They can't treat you like a criminal forever," Steve insists, a distinct bitterness in his voice. "Those people were controlling you. You didn't know what you were doing."

"And what if I did?" James counters, looking at him sharply. "What if I knew exactly what I was doing and did it anyway? What if I am a heartless killer? Would you still let S.H.I.E.L.D treat me like a monster?"

Steve shakes his head slightly, his mouth set in a tight line. "No, because you're not a monster. You're a good man, you always were."

"You have no idea what I am," James snarls viciously, his eyes narrowing at Steve. He stands and leans one shoulder against the wall behind him. "There's a reason S.H.I.E.L.D kept me locked in a prison cell with bulletproof glass for nearly two months. They know what I am and you should too. Just because you helped me out back at the clinic, don't think for a second I won't turn on you if it's in my best interest. I may not be actively trying to kill you right now but that does not mean we're friends."

Steve remains unperturbed. "You're trying awful hard to make yourself out to be the boogey man." He winces and swallows convulsively, blood-slick fingers clenching slightly against his stomach. "But I'm not afraid of you."

James barks out a short, sharp laugh at his response. "You should be," he growls a bit petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest. He wants Steve to be afraid of him, he wants him to be wary and on his guard at all times. Because he can deal with Steve being afraid of him; he's not sure how to deal with acceptance. "I could abandon you right here and leave you to bleed to death in this empty house. Or I could put you out of your misery and kill you with my bare hands. I nearly did it once before, I could just as easily do it again."

"But you won't," Steve counters smoothly, absolute conviction in his voice.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because you would have done it already."

James suppresses and irritated growl and pushes off the wall, walking back across the living room to look out the window again. He doesn't know what he hopes to see outside the window: the rescue team or Renault's guards discovering their location. Either way he keeps his eyes trained outside; it's better than facing Steve.

"Say what you want but it won't change my opinion of you," Steve continues, his voice a bit tighter as he speaks. He's in pain, a pretty considerable amount judging by his wounds, but he's trying to work past it. "I know you're not a monster no matter how much you believe you are."

James just rolls his eyes again. "You're an idiot."

"Yeah," Steve agrees with a soft, breathy laugh. "You've mentioned that before."

The conversation tapers off from there and James continues his watch outside the window. He keeps his back to the other man but listens carefully to the silence around them. He prefers the lack of conversation because it provides him with a better advantage to hear any unfamiliar voices entering the subdivision. Also, the silence makes it easier to monitor Steve's breathing if he's not talking the whole time.

"You remember that mission in Frankfurt?" Steve softly asks from the hallway and James bites back a sigh. Back to talking again. "The one where we got stuck in that blizzard for two days?"

"You mean the one when you got us lost in a blizzard for two days?"

Steve waves one hand flippantly. "Details…"

"Yeah, I remember." He does remember that mission, bits and pieces of it at least. Their cover had been blown early that morning and in their hurry to escape, they had run the wrong way and taken a tumble down a frozen ravine. A freak snowstorm had blown in shortly after that, near white-out conditions for over half the day, and they had been entrenched in an icy creek bed at the mercy of the elements for nearly two full days before their team found them.

Steve had broken one leg and fractured the other when they tumbled into the creek and even with his enhanced healing ability he was down for the count until the bones could mend themselves. James doesn't remember much of that mission, fragments of memories more than anything. He's pretty sure he sustained a pretty substantial head injury in the fall and that's to blame for the missing chunks of time.

He remembers Steve's arms around him, holding him close and trying to keep them both warm and alive until help could get there. He also remembers him talking, endless words and sentences that all blurred together into a hazy mutter before it was all over. He's pretty sure Steve talked for two days straight, trying to keep him conscious and alert in spite of his head injury, while they were in the creek bed although he only remembers pieces of it. He wonders if he's trying to do the same thing now.

"That was a really shitty mission," James mutters, glancing back out the window. The sun is beginning to set somewhere off behind them, long shadows creeping across the empty streets of the subdivision. Perfect neighborhood for families; if these houses had been inhabited, children would probably still be playing in the back yards and parents would just be getting home from work. Suburbia. It's all very cookie-cutter and after school special; it makes him feel edgy.

James frowns, suddenly coming to the realization that Steve isn't talking anymore. He turns sharply, his eyes landing on the slumped figure in the hallway. Steve's eyes are closed, head tilted slightly to one side, and he's not moving. James is across the room before he can account for the movements.

"Hey," he snaps, his voice a loud bark through the silent air. "Eyes open, Rogers. Wake up." He drops to a crouch beside Steve, giving him a hard shake to get his attention. Logically he knows he shouldn't be shaking a person suffering from a gunshot wound but raising alarm gets the better of him and he's gripping Steve's shoulders before he can stop himself.

Steve eyes slide open with a great amount of effort and he blinks to focus on the man across from him. "Hmm?" He mumbles, blinking owlishly like he's just come out of a deep sleep.

"I said eyes open," James repeats, frowning at the pallor of the younger man's skin. It's gone from pale to sickly grey and a slick layer of sweat glistens against his skin. His breathing is shallow and uneven and the bloodstains on his shirt look dark and ugly beneath the pieces of plastic pressed over the wound. The Serum might be doing its best to heal the bullet wounds but it can't do much for blood loss or the almost certain internal injuries sustained when the bullet struck. Steve could be completely healed thanks to the Serum and still bleed to death before help ever got here.

The Captain's eyes are beginning to slip closed again and James reacts before he can stop himself, punching the other man in his uninjured leg solidly. "Hey! I'm serious," he orders, meeting the weak glare Steve shoots at him with one of equal value. "You go unconscious and you die. And I am not hauling your dead ass out of here; I will leave you for the rats. Understand?"

"Your bedside manner is awful," Steve mumbles but does his best to keep his eyes open and focused on the other man's face.

James shrugs at the slight. He's an assassin; bedside manner doesn't really factor into his job description. He's usually the one playing Grim Reaper, not offering words of comfort to the dying. But right now Steve is dying, he's bleeding out and their rescue team should be here by now and he's at a loss at what to do now. Keep him conscious and keep him awake, that's really all he can do. But when that doesn't work anymore, when Steve doesn't open his eyes again…

"Just keep your eyes open, got it?" He mutters, probing the wound in Steve's leg carefully. It's still bleeding but not as much as before, the blood on his jeans now tacky and sticky to the touch instead of wet and slick. It's some comfort but not much, Steve is still sliding headfirst into shock and there's very little James has at his disposal to prevent that from happening.

He lifts his hand toward Steve's neck but hesitates in mid-air, frowning at the lack of reaction. Steve's eyes are half-open and resting on him passively, completely unperturbed by the assassin's hand positioned over his throat. For all he knows, the other man could be reaching out to snap his neck or crush his throat or any number of other horrible ways to die. Steve doesn't flinch or stiffen or try to move away at all. It irks the hell out of him and he doesn't know why.

"You shouldn't let your guard down so easily," he mutters, touching the tips of his fingers to the carotid artery at Steve's throat.

"I trust you," Steve mumbles back, the words slurring just a bit as he speaks.

"You shouldn't."

"I do."

"Stop talking." Steve complies wordlessly and remains silent as James keeps his fingers pressed against his throat. His pulse is weak and rapid, the heart trying to pump faster to circulate all the blood it doesn't have. Without some kind of fluid replacement, cardiac arrest is almost certain.

Steve shudders a bit beneath his hand and he blinks slowly. "Sorry."

James shrugs one shoulder and lets his hand fall away from the other man's neck. "Don't apologize. You're going into shock, it's to be expected."

"That's not good," Steve mumbles drunkenly, the slur in his speech becoming more pronounced.

The assassin resists the urge to roll his eyes and settles with a sigh instead. "Yeah, Rogers, that usually tends to fall into the category of 'not good.'"

"Hmm...could've been worse…"

James quirks an eyebrow in disbelief. "Please enlighten me on how this could possibly be worse."

"Could've been lower…"

The chuckle that rumbles from his throat is unplanned and unexpected. It's completely inappropriate and entirely unhelpful in this situation but he can't help it. A gut shot is bad but a dick shot would have admittedly been worse.

Steve tries for a smile but it looks pained and tight. "I'll be honest…" he mumbles, swallowing convulsively. " 'm not feelin' too great right now…"

James tries to think of something comforting to say, something that would inspire hope and ease the pain. He has no idea what to say; once again, providing deathbed solace is really not his strong suit. "Just hang on a bit longer," he says finally, glancing to the window in the hopes of urging the rescue team forward. "The agents should be here any- hey! Hey! Open your eyes, Rogers!"

Steve's eyes have fluttered closed again, his eyelids the color of an ugly, purple-blue bruise. His posture slumps slightly in unconsciousness, head rolled to the side limply. He's out, completely K.O., and regaining consciousness now is all but impossible. That doesn't stop James from trying.

"Eyes open, Cap!" He growls, sliding forward on his knees to grip the other man by the shoulders. He nearly shakes him but stops himself just before he follows through with the action. He moves his hands up, cupping either side of Steve's face and patting his cheek hard enough to sting. "Come on, asshole, wake up!"

Steve doesn't respond, doesn't even twitch at the orders. His body shifts against the wall and he begins to list to the side, sliding across the rough plywood walls toward the unfinished floor. James catches him by the shoulders, slowing his descent until he's a crumpled heap on the ground. He curses bitterly and crouches over him, hands moving up to brace Steve's face again.

"Hey! Rogers, can you hear me?" He's shouting now, voice rising in tight insistence. "Answer me, Cap! Open your eyes!" He grips his face, looking down at him desperately. "Steve!"

Less than a minute later, there's the muffled thump of helicopter blades somewhere overhead, loud and turbulent as they whip through the air. Fucking finally, James thinks bitterly, his attention still focused on the unconscious man on the floor in front of him. There are voices coming from outside on the street, flashlights reflecting off the plastic-covered windows. Black-clad agents enter the house, speaking quickly into walkie-talkies and moving toward them. In spite of the S.H.I.E.L.D logo on their uniforms, he has trouble allowing them close to the injured Captain.

Two agents rush over, pushing him to the side and crouching down on either side of Steve. One of them immediately starts documenting vitals signs while the other begins examining the injuries. Less than gentle hands palpate the bullet wound in Steve's leg before moving to the more serious wound in his abdomen. Gloved fingers prod, poke, and push along Steve's stomach, trying to make an assessment of internal damage from the outside. Steve groans and stiffens beneath the agent's hands, unconsciously trying to twist away from the source of pain. The agent pulls him back and keeps prodding.

"Hey," James growls from where he's been pressed up against the opposite wall. "Can't you see you're hurting him?"

The agent ignores him and keeps working, peeling away the layers of plastic and palpating the flesh around the wound. Steve's winces again but he's so far unconscious that neither agent really seems to notice. James notices though and it pisses him off.

"Hey, back off asshole! You're hurting him!"

The agent spares him an exasperated glance before nodding over his shoulder to one of the other agents standing a few feet away. Two agents approach from either side and move in to subdue the former assassin. James reacts out of instinct and tries to dodge away from them. He's outnumbered though, the hallway is too small for many evasive maneuvers, and they capture him easily. He doesn't intend on going quietly though, especially since that one agent is still making Steve groan in pain and seems completely unfazed by the other man's suffering as he slides an IV into the crook of Steve's arm.

"Stop!" James snarls, struggling against the agents holding him back. More agents are huddled around Steve now, touching him, jostling him, hurting him, and it causes his anger to swell to the surface. "Get away from him!"

He manages to pull his metallic arm free and is close to jerking the other one away from the agents as well when a flash of red and gold fills the room from the corner of his eye. The agents blur together in a muddled black haze and the red and gold replaces them, capturing both arms behind his back and holding them tightly. He struggles against him but it's useless; the grip is iron-tight.

"At ease, soldier," a voice rumbles from behind him and he gradually stops struggling. He recognizes that voice, it's the same one that spoke with him while his arm was being repaired on the Helicarrier. Stark.

"Just let 'em do their work," Tony continues, his voice oddly subdued as he speaks. His eyes are resting on his injured teammate and he's already no doubt run a scan inside his helmet to clue him in on the damage sustained. From his tone, James gathers that it's not promising.

The agents whisk Steve out of the room and back to one of the nearest helicopters, barking orders and calling for a trauma team as they pile into the cabin. James watches them until they're out of sight, his eyes locked on Steve's pale and motionless form until it disappears behind the doors of the helicopter. He can feel the blood on his fingers, thick and tacky as it dries. It's going to dry in the grooves of metal that make up his fingers and hand. It's going to dry beneath his fingernails and in the tiny ridges of his fingerprints. It's all over his hands, he can feel it. Steve's blood.

He sags slightly in Stark's arms and the grip on his own arms loosens. Tony steps out from behind him and claps him on the shoulder. "You did good, Barnes," he tells him, his voice still a bit flatter than it had been when he'd been repairing his arm only a few short days before. "Come on, let's get you out of here."

James allows himself to be led away from the hallway with the bloody smear against the wall and the crimson puddles on the unfinished concrete floor. He lets Stark steer him out of the house, past the blood-sprinkled grass and the bloody handprint on the outside wall. He finds himself in the back of another helicopter, Tony waving the pilot off from the ground. He sees a flash of light and watches through the window as Tony shoots off into sky, following the helicopter that had taken Steve.

James looks down at his hands, his tainted, blood-stained hands, and slumps against the seat. He weary to his core but he forces himself to stay awake. He doesn't remember anything about the flight. He doesn't think about anything and he doesn't say anything. His mind goes blank and he tries to remember what it felt like to be numb.

OOOOO

The coffee that's placed in front of him is jet black and searing. He downs the entire cup without so much as a flinch. Tony blinks in surprise as he watches him, one eyebrow quirking up as he comes around the other side of the table. "Ookay, so I'll be sure to let whoever made the coffee in the lounge that their most recent pot was an overwhelming success."

James doesn't say anything in response, the fingers of one hand still curled around the the heated ceramic mug. They'd arrived back at the Helicarrier a little over an hour before, a handful of agents gathering him from the helicopter and escorting him inside. He half expected them to take him back to the cell he'd been living in before but they didn't; instead they led him to an empty meeting room and told him someone would be in to retrieve him soon. That someone turned out to be none other than Tony Stark, sans the metal suit and dressed down in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He drops into a chair across from the other man and drums his fingers against the table top. He's trying to come across as nonchalant and carefree; he's failing miserably but James doesn't tell him that. The tension in his eyes could be seen from a quarter of a mile away.

"So the doctors said that Steve's going to pull through," Tony says after another quiet moment passes. "They said it close though, nearly lost him twice during the surgery. But, you know, this is Steve we're talking about here; kid doesn't know when to quit even when the odds are stacked against him."

James almost smirks but stops himself. He's washed his hands eleven times already but he can still feel Steve's blood on his fingers. He doesn't feel like smiling at much of anything right now.

"Should be up and good as new by the end of the week," Tony continues, drumming out a discordant tempo on the table with his fingertips. He stops, resting his palm flat on the table and looking back over at James. "Fury told me his agents rounded up Renault and his men, shut down their operation from the inside out. Turns out that guy was running a pretty shady side business of political kidnapping and human trafficking in his spare time. He kept it hidden pretty well though, it took S.H.I.E.L.D nearly a week to track down all of the records. The guy has more aliases than Prince."

Met with silence once again, Tony continues on, determined to fill the empty space of conversation with his own. "They found Chandler back at the safehouse. Apparently Renault had a soft spot for her and told his men not to hurt her while they were cleaning house with the other agents. Somewhere in the middle of a gunfight they found a way to tie her up and lock her in a closet."

Tony drums his fingers across the tabletop again, not satisfied with just talking anymore. "Fury's pretty sure she's innocent in all of this, just got mixed up with the wrong people in the end. He wants to be sure though so they're keeping her on the Helicarrier for the next few days to check through her records again for any ties to Renault and his operation."

Tony stops talking and levels a gaze across the table to James. The other man sits motionless and silent, still as a statue and just as expressive. Tony sighs heavily. "You know, it's really difficult to hold a one-sided conversation no matter how easy I make it look. Feel free to tap in at anytime, I'm sorta running out of conversation topics."

"So now what?" James asks finally, his voice hollow and flat as he speaks. "What happens now that Chandler is under investigation? Is S.H.I.E.L.D planning on locking me away again?"

Tony leans back in his chair and props one leg up on the edge of the table. "Well, that all depends on you. Fury seems to think that keeping you here will hinder your progress and recovery. He thinks you'd do better on your own. But, by all means, you're more than welcome to stay here in the Helicarrier, tucked away in your Hannibal Lecter room if that's what suits you. I don't think that's what you really want to do, though."

"Now granted," Tony continues, shrugging slightly as he speaks. "You'll have to stay in the city and S.H.I.E.L.D will be keeping a pretty scrutinous eye on you for the unforeseeable future, probably hook you up with some nifty little tracking device so they can keep up with your whereabouts. You know, the usual for them."

"I thought they had you chip me when you were fixing the arm," James counters smoothly, catching Tony's gaze from across the table.

The billionaire smirks and shakes his head. "No, they suggested it rather strongly but I had to politely decline." Which in Tony-speak probably meant he found some way to incorporate the words fuck and off into a sentence that came across as pleasant and inviting. "So for the time being you are happily chip-free. Can't guarantee the constant surveillance won't be just as annoying though."

"So S.H.I.E.L.D is releasing me from custody only to keep a round the clock tab on me off the Helicarrier." James smirks humorlessly and lets out a huff of a laugh. "A prisoner with his freedom."

"If it makes you feel any better, I think the surveillance is more for your protection than an invasion of privacy," Tony amends, sliding down in the chair a bit farther. "Renault has been detained by S.H.I.E.L.D but they're still working on finding the others who hired Renault in the first place. You know, your former handlers."

"I have their names."

"So does S.H.I.E.L.D," Tony counters lightly, crossing his arms over his chest casually. "It's kind of their thing, you know? Being all powerful and omnipotent. It's annoying really." Tony kicks his leg off the edge of the table and sits up suddenly, turning to face the other man. "So that just leaves finding a place for you to stay. Probably not your cup of tea but I do have a few spare rooms built into the Tower that you could set up camp in until you find something else."

James is silent for a moment, sliding the coffee mug back and forth across the table, catching it idly between one hand and the other with each pass. "I'm not the world's best tenant. I don't think you'd want that much responsibility under one roof."

Tony scoffs and fixes him with a level glare. "You seem to forget that I regularly bunk with not only a jolly green rage machine but also a god of thunder who happens to wield a very large, very heavy hammer. Trust me when I say I'm covered for pretty much any damage you think you might bring to the table."

When he's met with another round of silence, Tony shrugs and leans back in his chair again. "But you know, if you're looking for something a bit closer to home, Steve still has an apartment in Brooklyn. I'm sure he wouldn't mind a roommate for a few months."

It's James's turn to scoff and he shakes his head slightly. "I don't know if that's such a great idea. I'm not exactly good for his health; he nearly got himself killed helping me today and a few weeks ago, I tried to kill him myself. Not the healthiest of relationships. Besides, S.H.I.E.L.D kept us separated for a reason; they didn't know if I might try to kill him again if I got the chance. Hell, I don't really trust myself not to try to kill him again if the opportunity ever presented itself."

"This thing," he mutters, pointing to his head with one finger. "Doesn't exactly work right anymore. I might snap without any kind of warning and try to murder him with my bare hands again." He sighs softly and slumps back against the chair. "Better to stay away and be safe than get close and face the consequences later."

Tony just shrugs in response. "I think you showed more of your true character than you're aware of today. If you didn't try to kill Steve earlier when he was at his weakest, I doubt you'll be tempted to do it again at any other time. And Steve is a pretty patient guy; if you have a relapse and decide to go all Assassin's Creed on him I doubt he's going to take it personally. God knows he's put up with enough of my crap in the past; Cap seems to be a pretty good judge of character."

"Besides, you'll have to be a lot more convincing than that to get Steve to give up. He's not going to take 'no' for an answer, I can pretty much guarantee that." He stands slowly and straightens his shirt. "But I'll let you two hash that out on your own, no need for a third party interference." Tony starts walking toward the door but hesitates, looking back over his shoulder. "Oh, and Steve's awake by the way. Probably should have mentioned that before."

The blistering glare that James shoots at his back is met with a casual wave and a door swinging closed behind him.

OOOOO

The door is slightly ajar when he comes to a stop in the hallway. A lone guard is standing by the door, his expression one of quiet boredom. As far as James can tell, there are no other patients in this hallway, let alone one that would need a guard standing by the door. Makes for a pretty long, boring night if he's guessing correctly.

Said guard eyes him critically for a moment before nodding toward the room behind him. Apparently he was still considered dangerous but not dangerous enough to be denied access to the room. It wouldn't have really mattered if he was; he could shove his way into the room with very little difficulty if it came down to it. Such actions seem unnecessary though and James takes the opportunity given to him wordlessly.

Steve's bed is in the center of the room, a panel of monitors and machines lining the wall behind him. An IV stand sits on one side of the bed, the line feeding into the crook of Steve's arm. The bullet graze along Steve's arm is almost completely healed, the original wound little more than a red, raised welt that stripes across his bicep. His stomach is wrapped in a swath of sterile white bandages, the near-lethal wound hidden from sight with a few layers of gauze. Depending on the amount of internal damage, the puncture wound probably isn't the only thing the bandages are hiding; there's probably a whole set of incisions and stitches from the surgery beneath them as well. It's probably extremely painful, something that would bring a lesser man to his knees instantly. The doctors are predicting Steve to be up and moving within a few days, completely healed by the end of the week. Thank God for the Serum.

The soldier's eyes are closed lightly, a small amount of color returning to his face beneath the harsh overhead lights. His breathing is slow and even, the monitor above the bed displaying his heart rate the same way. It's much better than the rapid, uneven, shock-induced rhythm from earlier in the day. Steve looks relaxed and calm, his expression slack in the grips of sleep. James isn't fooled for a second.

"Cut the crap, Rogers. I know you're awake."

At the sound of the other man's voice, Steve cracks his eyes open slowly and looks across the room to his visitor. "Wasn't sleeping," he mumbles quietly, his voice groggy and thick with 'not sleep.' He blinks a few more times and manages to focus on the other man a bit more. "I was thinking with my eyes closed."

"Sure you were," James allows, stepping into the room cautiously. He's half-expecting a horde of S.H.I.E.L.D agents to jump him the minute he crosses the threshold but he remains upright and handcuff-free so he counts it as a victory. There's an empty chair beside the bed but he doesn't take it, he opts instead to leans against the wall and cross his arms. "You're looking pretty satisfied for a guy who almost bled to death a few hours ago."

Steve shrugs one shoulder slightly. "Told you I'd get us out."

"I don't really think it counts if you get yourself shot in the process."

The soldier shrugs again. "An unfortunate outcome but not entirely unexpected."

"You nearly died," James grinds out, irritated with the other man's complete dismissal of how serious his injury was. Steve regarded the wound in his abdomen as little more than an annoyance rather than something that had him patiently waiting on Death's doorstep, waiting for the Grim Reaper to open the door and invite him inside for a beer. "You came walking through the front door into a building full of armed guards with no backup. I can understand being reckless but that was just plain stupid."

"Well stupid saved your ass, didn't it?" Steve counters, a bit of the fiery spark returning to his blue eyes.

"I didn't need your help," James growls, his teeth grinding together painfully.

"From what I could see, you did," Steve retaliates, trying to push himself up in the bed. His mouth sets in a tight line but whether it's from pain or annoyance can't be determined. "They were about to whisk you away to another secret lab and brainwash you all over again. Forgive me if I saw the need to interfere."

"And take a bullet in the process."

"Well, I certainly wasn't about to let you take it."

"I'm serious, Rogers!"

"So am I!" Steve nearly shouts, the color draining from his face slightly as he pushes himself upright. The heart monitor above the bed spikes sharply and James feels the tight coil of irritation loosen slightly. He sighs and shakes his head.

"Lay back down before you give yourself a heart attack," he mutters, his voice softer as he speaks. "I think you've had all the near-death experiences you can handle for one day."

Steve's eyes are still sharp and determined but he obeys the other man's order and lays back against the mattress wordlessly. They both stay quiet for a few moments, Steve struggling to regulate his breathing and James watching silently as the peaks and valleys of the heart monitor even out.

"I meant what I said before," Steve begins after a few more seconds of silence passes by. "I wasn't about to let them take you away again. I just got you back, after so many years of thinking you were dead, and I'll be damned if I let anyone take you away ever again."

James sighs and rolls his eyes. "Well, now we know that if the whole superhero thing doesn't work out, you could have a solid job selling Hallmark cards." He moves over to the chair and drops into it gracelessly. It's not because he wants to be closer to Steve. Absolutely not. He's just tired of standing, that's all. And screw anyone else who thinks otherwise.

Steve gives him a faint smile in response. "What can I say? I've always had a way with words." A brief silence passes between them before Steve speaks again. "So what happens now?" He asks quietly, glancing at the other man from the corner of his eye. "After all of this?"

James meets his gaze but doesn't answer right away. Steve was almost always the one with the answer, even when they were kids. Even his heroic alter ego was nicknamed 'the man with the plan.' But he didn't have a plan now, he didn't have the answers. He was leaving that to James; the decision rested in his hands.

The assassin shrugs slightly, metal and flesh moving seamlessly together. "I'm basically S.H.I.E.L.D's kept pet until further notice. They're not about to turn a blind eye and let me ride off into the sunset. But Fury said they wouldn't keep me here in the meantime. I'm free to live in the city so long as S.H.I.E.L.D gets to keep an eye on me 24/7."

"So you're staying?" Steve asks, the hint of hope in his voice tinting the words as he speaks.

"I don't have much of a choice," James responds but there's very little resignation in his voice. More like acceptance rather than opposition. He sighs and leans back in the chair a bit. "Your pal Stark offered up a room in the Tower until I found a place." He shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't know how much of his sarcasm I can put up with on a daily basis though."

Steve smiles fondly in return. "Tony has a lot of mouth but he's not such a bad guy. One of the best in fact." Steve pauses before he speaks again, fidgeting with the hem of the sheet laid across his legs. "You could stay with me if you want," he says after a moment, the suggestion a bit shy and hesitant. "I mean it's just an apartment, kind of cramped and run down in places but it's comfortable. Kind of like the one we had before the war."

It's James's turn to pause and he lets out a long sigh before he answers. "Rog- Steve," he amends carefully before continuing. "You have to understand that things aren't going to be like they were before the war. I'm not the same man I was then and neither are you. Things are different now." He looks down at his metal arm, the jointed metallic fingers that curl into a loose fist. "I'm different. The man you knew from before, your best friend...he died when he fell from that train. What happened after, what they did to me... it changed me. The man I became, the person I am now, I'm not sure who he is. And sometimes I'm not sure I want to know."

"I know who you are," Steve asserts with absolute conviction in his voice. "I know who you are and I know who you've always been. You're James Buchanan Barnes, one of the bravest men I've ever known and one of the only ones stupid enough to stay by my side no matter how bad it got. We've both changed, you're right about that, but my opinion of you hasn't."

"I've murdered innocent people," James cuts in and he can't quite hide the shame in his voice. Not anymore. "Men, women, children. I've killed without remorse, without mercy. I became indifferent to the pain and death I caused. I don't even know if I started to enjoy it toward the end."

"I know all of that," Steve tells him patiently. "I've read the files and the reports. I know what you've done, the things you were associated with." James drops his eyes to the floor at Steve's admission, unable to meet the other man's gaze. He can't look at him, not now, not when he knows everything.

"But I also know," the Captain continues, his voice steady and unwavering, absolutely certain when he speaks. "That you weren't yourself when you were doing those things. You were being controlled, used as a tool for those too cowardly to get blood on their hands." Steve's voice takes on a slightly bitter edge. "They're the ones to blame in the end, not you. You're not like that, no matter how much you think you are."

"How can you be so sure?" James asks quietly and he's really not sure if he's asking Steve or himself.

"Because I know you, the real you," Steve tells him firmly. "I know the man you were and the man you are now. I know everything about you even if you feel like you don't know anything about yourself. You may have forgotten who you were but I haven't and I can remember enough for the both of us."

Steve shifts a bit, trying to catch the other man's attention. When James finally look up, Steve looks at him evenly. "I don't care how long it takes, how many weeks or months or years, for you to remember who you are. If it takes the rest of our lives, I can handle that too. I'm a patient guy; being frozen in the ice for seventy plus years renders time a little bit irrelevant to me."

James is silent for several minutes, not sure of what to say or do. Steve is accepting him whole-heartedly, arms open and waiting. He's seen the blood on his hands, he knows the crimes he's committed, and he's willing to take some of that burden onto his own shoulders. Not because he's Captain America and feels obligated but because Steve is his friend and that's what he's prepared to do. In spite of everything that's happened, everything he knows and understands, Steve is not willing to give up on him. James vaguely wonders if he would put that much blind faith into someone else when nearly everything was screaming at him not to. Before, he would have walked away without hesitation, leaving the doe-eyed Captain to flounder on his own. Now he's not so sure…

He sighs heavily and passes metal fingers through his hair roughly. He's taking a chance, a big one and he knows it; they both are honestly. It doesn't stop him in the end. "Please tell me your apartment at least has a decent heater." Ever since the fall, he's found that he can't stand the cold unless absolutely necessary. Living somewhere, anywhere, the heater better be top of the line.

Steve grins at him, the expression slightly wan and tired against his pale features, but it's genuine. "Yep, working heater, indoor plumbing. All that fancy stuff."

"You drive a hard bargain, Rogers."

Steve shrugs slightly. "I do what I can. Besides, if you stay at the Tower you run the risk of becoming Tony's newest project. He's fascinated by your arm, he has plans for it."

"Fair enough, you've made your point."

"Seriously, there are blueprints in his lab. Schematics and everything. If he gets hold of you, even for a second-"

"I get it."

"I'm just saying, I fear for your safety, especially if Tony's been anywhere near a coffee pot-"

"Time to stop talking now."

"There was this one time when he tried to alter my suit and-"

"Alright, alright," James says with a long sigh, giving in to the inevitable. "I'll stay. Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Good. Now stop talking or I'll smother you with a pillow."

Steve gives him a small smile and obeys, closing his mouth and leaning back against the mattress behind him. When he speaks again, his voice is softer but no less genuine, his words holding every ounce of conviction he can muster. "We'll be okay. Trust me."

James remains silent for a moment before he speaks, his own words holding the same amount of sincerity. "I do."

Thanks for reading guys! :D