Road to War Part III: I Would For You

And I Only Have Myself to Blame

Natalia appears when it's time to go, as if she knew they were finished. He embraces Steve, lacking the words to express what he wants to, and then they leave. As they walk down the stairs to the ground floor, Natalia takes his hand and squeezes it gently, looking at him.

"Is that really what you want?" she asks.

"Hmm?"

"To turn yourself in," she clarifies.

He shrugs. "I deserve it. I've spent seventy years destroying lives."

Her fingers tighten around his hand, and she shakes her head vehemently. "It wasn't you."

The sentiment is getting a little old, and he sighs. "Natalia, I don't want to be the reason for any dissidence. And if submitting myself to the justice system is what is expected of me at this point, I'm willing to give it a try."

She bites her lip. "But they might put you in a prison."

"They might. But I'm a mess, Natalia. And maybe I'd do better in there than trying to act normal out here." He stops them on the sidewalk and turns to face her. She's not making any effort to hide how his words upset her. "I don't mean that you and Steve and Sam haven't done your best to help me. And I'd hate to be away from any of you. But I'm trying to be realistic. The Winter Soldier was a war criminal, a terrorist. And I'm not going to hide that."

She pulls him down for a kiss and he closes his eyes as her hand presses on the back of his neck. "You're an idiot," she tells him gently, smirking, when she releases him.

A smile comes unbidden to his lips, and he shakes his head at her. "I'm trying to be serious here," he answers.

"Too serious," she explains. "Anyway, I think the argument can be made that you've been a prisoner of war longer than anyone in history, and should be treated as one." His brow furrows as he considers the idea. "But come on. Steve will be serious enough for the three of us, so let's go have some fun." Her hand takes his again and she drags him forward. He grins and lets her set the pace.

Steve sends him messages frequently. They're usually short, sent via his cell phone, and rarely expect a response. He tries to answer as often as possible, but most of them seem to be more a case of Steve reminding himself of his friend's presence than a real interaction. If he wants that, Steve calls. As expected, the messages following their exchange heavily feature protestations of his innocence in what the Winter Soldier did, and how he shouldn't blame himself for anything that's happened. He supposes he does blame himself to some degree, for allowing that to happen to him. But certainly not to the degree that Steve thinks. It's just more red in his ledger, as Natalia would say.

His days are filled with research, which has occupied most of his time for the last few months. All the information he could gather on himself and the project he has long since gone through and dissected. He won't read it again. Instead, he reads about SHIELD, and HYDRA, and what is happening in the world now. It's difficult to follow, usually, since there is so much he's missed. But he does what he can to understand why Steve and Stark are able to cause a rift in much more than just their circle of friends.

There were always whispers of the Winter Soldier in the intelligence communities, but he's becoming better known. At least mentioned as being connected with recent events, or with previous assassinations. No indication is given, at least as far as he can find, that the Soldier was once Captain America's best friend, Bucky. People are much more aware of Bucky than he thought or expected. So it seems like only a matter of time before someone connects the dots, but he can't find anyone suggesting it. Perhaps it's a little too far-fetched, even after everything else that's happened.

After a long walk one evening, he freezes when he sees that his door is ajar. Pressing himself against the wall as he approaches the door, he listens hard for any sign of who is in his apartment. The lights are on, faintly visible through the small opening, and he supposes stealth wasn't exactly their intention. It's probably not a trap, then; though he's gotten himself out of plenty of those. Gently, he pushes the door open and slips inside, shutting it behind him.

Sam is sitting on his couch, staring intently at the wall. For a moment, he's relieved to see his friend, but then tenses as he wonders what he could possibly be doing here. "Hey," he says, folding his arms across his chest.

When Sam turns to look at him, he is considerably startled to see he's been crying. "Hey, Bucky. I... I came to tell you."

"Tell me what?" he asks, attempting to keep the urgency from his tone.

Sam bites his lip, looking away, then back. "I came to get you," he clarifies. "You'll have to keep a low profile, though. They might be looking for you."

"Who? Why? What's going on?" he demands.

Getting to his feet, Sam shakes his head, trying to look reassuring. Calming. "It's Steve. He's been shot. They're not sure... They don't know if he's going to make it."

"What?" The breath escapes him and he leans heavily against the counter.

Sam walks over and puts his hand on his shoulder comfortingly. "Come on, let's go see him."

Obediently, he turns and follows Sam out the door. Sam locks it behind them, since the thought wouldn't have occurred to him, and leads the way to his car. The drive seems both eternal and far too fast. When they arrive, he'll have to face this. He'll have to look at Steve and see what happened to him and have to deal with it. And he's not ready. He'll never be ready. Somehow, he gets out of the car and makes his way after Sam through a parking garage and in an elevator and down sterile white hallways until they get to Steve's room.

"Steve," he whispers, walking as if in a trance over to his friend, who's lying somewhat propped up in the hospital bed. The regular beeping of machines is oddly comforting. Steve doesn't move, doesn't open his eyes, when he approaches, not even when he takes his hand. It's cold. He almost drops it in distress, but then Sam's there, over his shoulder.

"They put him under to reduce the swelling. I think they said. I didn't entirely follow the technicalities," Sam tells him gently.

"What's going to happen to him?" he chokes out, holding tightly to Steve's hand. What will he do without him? Stuck here, in the future, without his best friend? Without the person who saved him from the hell he was living for decades? What will he do?

"I don't know, man." Sam pats his shoulder, then just stands quietly.

At some point, he is aware of the door opening behind him, but can't seem to care.

"James," Natalia's voice disrupts his train of thought and he looks up at her. She's been crying, he notes, and is surprised to realize his own face is wet. Kneeling down beside him, she wraps her arms around him, nestling her head against his chest. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs.

"For what?" he wonders, confused.

"I was there, James. I shouldn't have been so far away, I should have checked the rooftops first, I should have –"

He shushes her, pulling her close, then looks back at Steve. "What's going to happen?" he asks her quietly. She shakes her head slowly, closing her eyes.

"We have to go, guys," Sam interrupts, sounding pained.

Frowning, he looks up. "Why?"

"Because they'll be back soon and, uh, they can't find you here."

He looks at Natalia, who nods, trying to compose herself. "Come on, James. I'll take you home. Sam will keep an eye on him for us, won't you?"

Sam nods gravely. "Stay safe," he tells them as he allows Natalia to lead him away.

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