There's a memorial to him. A memorial in the Smithsonian to him. He stares at it for a long while, listening to the memories of World War II around him, to the memories of those that lived it. He also listens to the accomplishments of the man... Christ, how does he even describe... Steve? Steve, who'd knocked some things loose, who'd made him think, who'd made him question, who'd called him "Bucky".

He ducks his head and leaves the exhibit. The ability to cry has been trained, beaten and wiped out of him. But damned if he doesn't want to at the moment.

Bucky - not Soldat - is only still in DC because he had to know if the man he'd pulled from the river had survived. When the news broke that he did, Bucky - it's as good a name as any - had come here, to see one final thing, before leaving. There are still HYDRA safehouses, buried in his mind, that have funds, materials, and things that'll help get him the hell out of this country. He needs to be anonymous and lay low for a while.

The words, though, pour of him like warm honey. He knows that voice. He turns to look at her. His hands stuffed deep in the pockets of the old army jacket he'd stolen. "Why are you here?" The Russian slips out, before he can even begin to parse English.