Dim visions of telling stories around a camp-fire somewhere in upstate New York filtered through the Winter Soldier's mind as he rummaged gingerly through a dumpster. He thought it might be his own voice telling about the bears that came down out of the forest, attracted by garbage, to eat unwary campers... but then, everything was so blurry and difficult to make out, that it could have been anyone.

A few hours ago, he'd felt hunger for the first time in … he didn't even know how long. He'd been walking for days when the first pangs struck, and at first he hadn't even recognized them. But his body was insistent and it wasn't long before his head began to ache and he began to stumble again, and he knew he'd have to stop and address this.

Training told him to stay hidden. His arm no longer bothered him - a simple dislocation that he had put back into place himself - but his chest was still tender to the touch. He'd definitely broken something, and that put him in no mood for unnecessary confrontation.

It would certainly be simple enough: smashing a window, crushing a door, and helping himself... but it would risk too much attention. Anyone who saw him would have be eliminated and that would be a lot of trouble. He'd found a dumpster behind a diner instead and helped himself.

He bit into a half-eaten sandwich, still wrapped and fairly clean. Pastrami on rye his mind supplied, unasked. He wasn't sure how or why he knew, but he was too hungry to care. It was delicious, even stale as hell and smashed by heavier garbage dropped on top. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, eating. As best he could recall, someone had once told him that they supplied his nutrients via tubes when he was in stasis…. true or not, he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually put real food in his mouth. His stomach demanded more, and he ate with gusto.

A blurry image of another sandwich from another time... pilfering a french-fry... god when had he last had a french-fry? from-

He recoiled, and what was left of the sandwich dropped from nerveless fingers. He winced and pressed his fists into his temples. Why wouldn't that blonde bastard just get out of his fucking head?! He couldn't even eat in peace.

With a sudden scream of animal fury, he slammed his metal fist into the dumpster and it crumpled like paper. A ripple of pain snapped through his damaged ribs in response. He sank to the ground, human arm curled protectively around them, gritting his teeth against another scream. Suddenly nauseous, he bent double and wretched until his stomach was empty again. Anger sang in his blood until he felt dizzy with it.

Someone was coming to investigate the noise. Running. Only one. No combat training. It would be an easy kill, even in his current state- but suddenly the bloodied face of the blonde man was in front of his eyes again, and all he could think to do was run until it couldn't keep up anymore. He staggered to his feet and disappeared into the darkness as a flashlight beam skimmed across where he'd been only a moment before.