Part II: Real Man, Always Thinking With My Fists

So I'm the One Who's Bleeding

It took longer to get settled in Bucharest than it had in Brooklyn. He had a lot of cash, but most of the people he was seeing didn't take American currency. He also didn't have contacts to get his foot in the door. But he managed eventually. A small apartment that fit his specifications could be rented with what he had, and he was able to get some work. It was a godsend that he was fluent in the language – he hadn't been sure he would be. But it came as easily as anything else and made it much easier to deal with the locals.

After a while, he began making the apartment feel more like a home. He got some furniture and no longer had to sleep on the floor. The kitchen wasn't well stocked, but it was good enough to make what he wanted with fresh food when he got the chance. The hours he worked weren't overly oppressive, and his nightmares were less common. Though they had come back with a vengeance after HYDRA found him and he'd remembered what he'd done to Howard.

He remembered now being in Brooklyn before, when he was the Soldier. He remembered the attack on the highway when he was sent to stop Steve and Black Widow. There had been a third man with him – he'd had wings. And kicked him in the head. Of course, he'd gotten back at him for that, kicking him off the helicarrier. Now he was fascinated by the technological marvel of the wings and wondered what other things were possible these days.

Research was no longer a priority, since he figured he'd remembered everything important. Or at least anything that would have been put into reports. His notebooks were in the bug-out bag he hid under the floorboards and he didn't often add to them. He had picked a corner apartment and a table that could be used to block the door pretty well. The hallways were narrow enough to effectively bottleneck any assailants and he felt relatively safe. As safe as he could reasonable expect anyway.

His life was peaceful now, though he was always looking over his shoulder. He couldn't let HYDRA get him, or anyone else who might know the phrases. Karpov was not dead. HYDRA believed him to be – it's why he had gone over to American handlers after what happened to his Russian master. The words had not gone with him to the States, which was a blessing – he would never have remembered Steve if they had been in effect. But Karpov was still out there, he was sure. Biding his time.

So it was something of a surprise when he was caught for different reasons. The day started like any other, going to work and then to the market on the way home. He picked out some plumbs, considering what to do with them for dinner. But then a lot of sirens began to sound. They came from the opposite direction of the police station and roused his suspicion. It was confirmed when unfamiliar orange and white vehicles – not Romanian forces – sped past him. Going toward – home.

Warily, he looked across the street at a newspaper vendor. Who caught sight of him and ran off. He wouldn't make a scene, wouldn't do anything to attract more attention, so he calmly walked over and picked up the newspaper. "Winter Soldier Bombs UN in Vienna," it stated. There was a photo. It looked like him. He had a moment of panic – had he done this? Had someone... had someone used the words and made him forget, making him go about his routine afterward?

No... No, he didn't think that's what happened. He'd been framed, but not manipulated. Not yet. Scanning around him, he set his jaw and knew what to do. He'd prepared for this. But he couldn't run from here, from this market. He had to get home, to get his bag. If he hurried, he would beat them. Some kind of special forces team would be deployed to bring him down, or maybe in, but probably down. They would try to clear the area of civilians. It would take time. Time he could use to escape. And even if they caught him at home... Well, he'd picked that apartment for a reason.