No copyright infringement intended.

*rubs hands* I'm curious what you think about this chapter!

Warnings: someone has a panic attack, torture mention, brainwashing mention,

-4-

Franzi packed up everything of value to her, sent a text to her neighbor that she would be on a spontaneous vacation and asked that they check on her plants and forward her the mail as usual, all the while trying to push away a sense of foreboding.

They flew to New York in one of Stark's private jets.

Coulson did not come along.

She did not know why, but she didn't care enough to ask. His reasons were his own.

Stark mostly communed with his electronics, so Franzi busied herself with her own laptop and phone.

They arrived in a rather private area in the countryside. There was only a large, ultramodern complex. With a landing strip for the freaking jet of course.

Anna texted her: hope you're not being kidnapped. Text me when you know what the fuck is going on.

Franzi promised to do so. Then she slipped her phone into her pocket.

Stark led the way inside, mentioning this room or that one.

However, not far into the complex, they were greeted by a welcoming committee.

Rather abruptly, Stark stopped.

"This is Steve Rogers," he mentioned, waving to the guy. (Who really didn't need an introduction.)

He was hardly easy to overlook; tall, packed with muscles, and exuding a certain excited energy.

Also dressing like a 90 year old grandpa.

She knew him. Now, to show that she recognized him or not?

"Good morning," the man said, eyes fixated on her. Taking her in, from head to toe.

"Good morning," Franzi replied. She offered him her hand to shake. "I'm Franzi Aßmann."

He blinked, blinked again, then took her hand.

"It's nice to meet you."

Stark rolled his eyes, but it had a good-naturedness about it. "Yes, yes. Now, as to why we brought you here."

He turned around, motioning to a previously clear wall of glass.

A bunch of things appeared as if on a huge screen, but most important was the video feed in the center.

It had been filmed several weeks before - she'd been to one of her favorite cafes in the Portuguese Quarter with a new book. (Anna wrote the best novels.) She remembered because the book had just arrived in the mail that morning.

Frowning, she looked closer.

Stark helpfully enlarged a section in the corner.

At first there was only some part of someone's t-shirt, of the sleeve of their leather jacket, but they shifted a bit.

Then, for some unknown reason, they stared straight into the camera.

They must have known where it was.

"Pause this! Can you enlarge that part please?"

That sense of foreboding? It had evolved into a loud klaxon going off in the background, albeit still only in her mind.

This. This couldn't be possible.

Stark refrained from saying anything, just doing as she'd asked him to.

Franzi swallowed, knees growing weak. She grabbed the first thing she could get a hold of - a chair, thank the stars - and swallowed. One hand covering her mouth.

Tears were welling up behind her eyelids.

This could not be possible. How was this possible?

She woodenly accepted the handkerchief someone offered her.

Must have been Rogers, because it was fabric. Clearly made for a man, judging by the lack of flower embroidery.

"I take it that you know who this is?" Stark asked, stopping the video feed.

Oh gods.

Franzi closed her eyes, fighting down the bile rising in her throat. Oh gods.

Rogers pushed over a trash can for her, possibly recognizing the signs.

Tears streamed down her face, unacknowledged.

There was nothing she could do to stem the emptying of her stomach, except to ride it out.

Humiliated, she accepted the glass of water Stark offered her.

Only sympathy and understanding shone in his eyes.

"Are you feeling better?" He asked, possibly an eternity later.

She took a deep breath, heart still beating wildly.

"Yeah," Franzi croaked out. "Let's get this over with."

Both of the men present nodded.

"So, you know who this is."

She nodded. "That," she motioned to the still of her husband's face, "is James Buchanan Barnes. There's no question about it."

Stark and Rogers exchanged a quick glance.

"How do you know that? I mean he does look spry for his age, but you are much too young to know him. Is he your grandfather?"

Her eyes closed, and she took a sip of the water. What to do? What to say...

Then, deciding to Hell with this, she grinned.

Gods, Anna and Leonie would kill her for this. So dead.

"Not - exactly."

Stark tilted his head, giving her his full attention.

Rogers shuffled a bit in the background.

"What do you mean?"

A small smirk began to stretch her lips.

"Well. If you think he looks good for his age," she nodded at the picture of Bucky, "then what would you say about me?"