Bucky knew damn well who the agent in the museum had been and he knew exactly how close to being fucked he had come. He'd spotted Steve the moment the man walked into the display room with FBI Agent Wilson at his side. It may have been nearly a decade since he'd been to New York or seen his old friend, but he'd never forget his blond, problem-causing face in all his life.

Unfortunately, the appearance of Interpol and FBI Agent Wilson had put a dent in his plans. What was supposed to be a very quiet egg switch had turned into a bit of an international problem. It would be weeks, maybe even months, before he could set foot in England again without having to worry about Interpol sniffing up his ass.

While the England heist had blown up a bit, it wasn't the worst he'd done. He came away with the egg and he hadn't run into Steve. Interpol still didn't have his face or name, though Agent Wilson would probably recognize him now.

No matter how troublesome it would be for Interpol to know his face and name, the egg was his biggest concern. The Bishop had been on his heels for weeks now and it had been a bit of a race to beat her to it. Heaven curse her, she was a pain to get rid of. It was all he could do to get the egg back to his safehouse in Thailand without someone raising an alarm, and he was fairly certain he had the Bishop to thank for Interpol finding him.

He stayed put for a week. No heists, no flipping goods, nothing. The quickest way for Agent Wilson to find him was to try and do business. Even if it had nothing to do with the egg, Agent Wilson was sure to be watching the market through whatever shady resources he had on hand.

Instead of working, he took a little vacation. There was still some work to do before he could hunt down the second egg―fuck that Italian bastard and his unbeatable security―but he had time to do it now. If anything, the little break was appreciated.

As the first week of his little vacation came to a close, he could proudly say he'd figured out the finer details of Stark's security. No, nothing was foolproof yet, but he had at least a semblance of a plan. It was better than he had before. It was a shame that, when he returned from the marketplace on Saturday evening, Agent Wilson was sitting on his couch.

"You're a hard man to find," Agent Wilson said. Looking around the little bungalow that Bucky had built for himself, Wilson said, "For an international art thief, you sure don't live like it."

"You must have the wrong person," Bucky told him. "I'm not an art thief."

Wilson gave him a knowing look then directed his attention towards a painting that Bucky hadn't managed to flip yet. It made a good wall decoration, but only when FBI agents weren't visiting.

"I'm a collector," Bucky amended.

"Is that what you tell your clients?"

"How the hell did you find me?" Bucky demanded. Interpol had almost nothing on him and the FBI had even less.

"A friend," Wilson said vaguely. "Someone who's also in the business."

Well, fuck her. The Bishop had played dirty and turned to the Americans to stop him. That meant he beat her, right? If she had to cheat to win, then it couldn't count as a win.

"So, you found me," Bucky echoed. Wilson nodded. "What now? Last I checked, the FBI doesn't have jurisdiction in Thailand."

Wilson nodded. "That's true. But Interpol does."

Wilson whistled and Bucky's hand dropped to the gun in his waistband despite knowing it would do nothing.

At Wilson's whistle, a swarm of Interpol agents appeared. He heard his front door kicked down and a dozen footsteps hustled into the room, but what made Bucky's gut drop was when Steve's voice shouted for him to get on the ground.

"Oh, fuck me," he groaned.

Moving slowly, Bucky knelt on the ground and put his hands behind his head, scowling at Wilson the whole time. Behind him, Steve moved forward and cuffed his wrists. Once the cuffs were secure, he stepped around and pulled Bucky to his feet. When he turned to look at him, though, they both froze.

"Bucky?"

Steve's eyes bore into his and for a moment, Bucky wondered if he was still breathing. A million emotions flashed across Steve's face, but all Bucky did was stare back apologetically. At least if he was going to prison, he'd let Steve know he was sorry.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" Wilson asked, looking between Bucky and Steve.

"Hey, Stevie," Bucky said quietly. "Got myself into a bit of a predicament, huh?"

"Buck―what?" Steve's eyes were wide. "Why? I thought you went into law―how did you―"

"It's a bit of a long story."

While Steve loaded him in the back of an armored vehicle, Wilson snatched the egg from the backpack Bucky had stuffed it in.

It was an unfortunately long and silent ride to where Interpol would be holding him. Much to Bucky's disdain, they would be taking him to a prison in Siberia until a trial could be organized. When he told him, Steve at least had the decency to look a bit apologetic.

"I just don't get it, Buck," he muttered, staring down at his hands. "Why steal art when you could have been a lawyer?"

Bucky shrugged, trying not to be offended by the way Steve wouldn't look at him.

"Better money."

"You know I don't believe that."

Bucky didn't offer a further explanation, though, and Steve didn't ask any further questions. As soon as they reached their overnight stop, Steve left.

* * * * *

Here's the thing about arresting the second most wanted art thief: it comes with a load of paperwork. Paperwork that Steve didn't want to fill out because said art thief had apparently been his childhood friend. After very little arguing, Sam agreed to complete it for him after they had shipped Barnes off to Siberia.

Barnes. God, the Winter Soldier finally had a face and a name. After so many years of chasing a ghost, they could finally pin the crimes to a man. It was too bad the man ended up being a friend of Steve's. Even Sam felt a little bad about it.

Now, a day after Barnes's arrest and subsequent shipment to Siberia, Sam decided to treat himself to one last drink before flying back to the States.

He was halfway finished with his bourbon when a man walked in with his badge in hand and three agents. Sam immediately recognized him as one of Steve's superiors: Thaddeus Ross. What the man was doing here, though, Sam had no idea.

"Hey, man," Sam said, turning to face Ross. "How can I help―"

"Sam Wilson, you're under arrest," Ross said sharply. He held up a pair of handcuffs and Sam blinked in surprise.

"Wait, what?" Sam stared at him. "What for?"

"Stealing an international treasure," Ross told him drily, "Cleopatra's egg."

Sam stuttered. "What? No, man, I didn't steal the egg, that was Barnes. We got the egg back and put Barnes in prison."

"This egg?" Ross pulled Cleopatra's egg out of his bag and held it at arm's length. Without looking away from Sam, he dropped it.

Sam jumped to catch it, but the egg fell and shattered on the floor. It was ceramic. A fake.

"It wasn't me," Sam exclaimed. "Look, man, I'll help you find the real one, but I didn't steal Cleopatra's egg."

"We called your director at the FBI," Ross told him, forcing Sam to turn around so he could cuff his wrists. "They've never heard of you."

Sam blanched. What the fuck was going on?

"Call them again," Sam demanded.

"You're under arrest, Mr. Wilson," Ross repeated with a smirk. "Hope you like Siberia."