It was just before midnight, raining buckets, and Steve Rogers was running.

Umpteen times around the National Mall, up, down and around countless miles of wet D.C. streets, on and on and on, as he doggedly, desperately, courted exhaustion and sleep.

What the hell else could he do? Running was better than staring at the ceiling all night, obsessing about Bucky. Thinking about what those Hydra bastards had been doing to his best friend for more than half a century, worrying about what could be happening to him right now.

Worse, worrying about what Bucky could be doing right now.