It had hurt, taking the arm off.
He knew he wasn't meant to. There was a voice in the back of his head telling him not to and it hurt, christ it hurt. His memories were returning to him in patches, slipping away if he focused on them too hard - but he'd seen this enough to know what he was doing. He'd spent the last of his money on a screwdriver and gone to work.
His shoulder was a mess, loose with wires and the heavy, overpowering stink of metal, and when he woke up in the mornings he felt the pains all through the joints of an arm that wasn't there any more. But it meant he couldn't be traced or controlled or remotely killed. So he wasn't sad when he left it behind in a junk yard and ran, as far away as he could get.
New York is busy, always busy and his head hurts with it.
It's expensive, too, and there's always someone with an eye out when he's trying to steal food or find somewhere to kip for the night. He sleeps in doorways, park benches and rifles through dumpsters outside restaurants for scraps. He can't get his head around the idea of homelessness when he never had a home to start with, but some kid walks past and snaps hobo at him and another one walks past and drops some change by his feet, so he guesses this must be it now. He knows he should be keeping a low profile, but some days he's too tired to move and others his head is so full of memories it's like someone's pinned him to the spot. So he sits out in the open and tries not to think if they find me, fuck 'em.
And somewhere along the way he meets people. He sees them regularly, occasionally talks to them and smiles with them and even laughs with them. He thinks they might be called friends.
There's Josh and Erica, down by the bridge, who always have a fire lit and a bottle passing between the two of them. He'll take it when it's offered, not so much for the taste as the warmth - he's always cold these days, fingers like ice cubes - and when they ask him his name he hesitates and then says James.
Then there's the police man who's usually on patrol in the spot he likes to sleep in - the bench is long enough that he doesn't have to curl up and it's up against a brick wall, so his back isn't left open and vulnerable. Most of the officers will move him along but this one doesn't mind turning a blind eye. Sometimes, in that spot, he'll wake up and there'll be a sandwich or even a hot coffee sat on the ground near bye - or the thick blanket he keeps with him now, that had been draped over his shoulders one particularly cold night. The police man never introduces himself, never says a word, but his name badge says Tom.
There's the boy in red and blue who sort of looks like a spider. They've come across each other a few times. The boy will throw jokes and barbs at him and show him how his web works - and he'll just stare back, shrug silently at his questions. But the web is interesting and the boy lets him wind some of the stuff around his fingers, laughs noisily when they get stuck together, and when he introduces himself as Peter, he thinks a little while and eventually tells him James.
He makes a few more friends after that. The man with greying hair and glasses who takes him for a few meals. He doesn't ask any questions, doesn't even ask his name - but he thinks about all his other friends and it feels - it feels wrong not to tell this man too. So as he digs into his third plate of pancakes he leans over and says my name is James. The man smiles back - it's a soothing thing; he's always calm and he's always quiet - and says he's called Bruce.
Then there's the dog.
He's not sure how you can make friends with a dog, but he's fairly sure he's managed it.
The dog always knows where he is. It crops up about twice a week and spends a lot of time sniffing him. Then it usually sits on him for a little while - it's a fucking heavy dog and it's hard to push a fairly sizable animal off of you when you've only got one fucking arm - and once it's given up on that it'll roll along the pavement and wait patiently for its belly to get rubbed. When that doesn't work it just licks him. A lot. It's really annoying. Honestly, he couldn't have made a worst friend.
Still. When it's cold and the kind police man isn't on duty, when he's too tired to trek down to the bridge where Erica and Josh are, when Peter's not about and he hasn't seen Bruce for a few days - well. Maybe it's nice to have some company.
He wakes up to a kick to his ribs.
He's heard about this before - Josh and Erica both have their stories - but this is the first time he's been awakened so rudely. Instinctively, he curls into a ball, an arm - his only arm, he reminds himself - curling over his side. Words are spat him, barely making it through his sleep-fogged brain - cripple, freak, he's heard it all before - and he struggles, tries to get up. Panics when he can't.
It's been a while since he got something to eat and there are odd, black dots swimming across his vision. He bares his teeth up at his attackers but he can't get his eyes to look, to focus and there's that little voice in his head telling him failure, this is failure and they'll wipe you for it, this is bad you're doing badly you're bad -
There's sirens in the distance. Busy New York traffic, a street vendor shouting - a dog growling. Barking now, getting a little closer, but the sound's fading and so's his vision, and
-
He wakes up to a dog licking his face.
There's pain blooming all along his ribs and he thinks his face might be a little bloody, but when he forces his eyes open the dog's staring at him. It almost looks concerned, head cocked to one side as it brushes its cold nose against his cheek.
'Piss off,' he grumbles at it, pushing its head away. The dog stays put, giving him a little whimper and nosing at his sore body, the stump of his left shoulder. 'Go on, scat,' he snaps, louder now, lets his head thud against the brick behind him when the dog rests against his leg, looking up at him with huge, sorrowful eyes. Finally, he relents, rests his hand on its head and scratches behind the ears, smiling a little when the dog's tail starts wagging hopefully. 'Guess I'm pretty lucky you were here, huh.'
His hand strays down a little further, frowning when he comes across a harsh, scratchy material. A rope lead.
He stares down at the dog. The dog stares back.
Slowly, he stands up, lead still in his hands.
If the dog has a lead it must have an owner - an owner that's out, now, maybe looking for their dumb, lost dog.
He takes a step. The dog heaves itself up and takes a step with him.
A dog's got a lead. You walk it. That's how it works.
The Winter Soldier ducks his head, pulls his hoodie up a little further over his head, and takes the damn dog for a damn walk.
There's a girl running through Central Park, wearing all-purple. It catches his eye. She's not running like a few others are jogging - she moves aimlessly, swearing under her breath, eyes scanning the paths. It's not until she comes to a stop, hands on her hips as she tries to catch her breath, that she spots him, a mixed look of irritation and relief coming across her face.
'Lucky!' She cries, rushing forward to her knees, totally ignoring him as she lets the dog - who is, apparently, called Lucky, and he's practically wincing at the lack of originality - lick her face, tail moving so fast it's practically a blur. 'You dumb, piece of shit dog! Why'd you run off?' Finally getting to her feet, she's beaming at him even though she's still not really looking at him. 'Man, I would have been in so much trouble, you have no idea - I'm Kate.'
He holds out his hand, because that's what people do these days, apparently, before realising he's still holding the lead, retracting it quickly before the girl notices.
'Uh - James,' he manages, the rasp in his voice catching her attention.
'Nice to meet -'
The way she breaks off as she takes in the dirty clothes, long hair, his left sleeve flapping emptily - it's almost insulting and he wishes she'd stop gawping at him. Scowling down at the pavement, he shoves the lead into her hands and turns away, shoulders hunched up around his ears.
'Hey, there's a reward, you know.'
Curiously, he turns. Stares at her. Stares at Lucky. Lucky smiles back - or, at least, if dogs could smile, he likes to think Lucky would be smiling at him. Kate really is smiling, tentative as she rolls up the sleeves of her purple hoodie. She can't be more than sixteen.
'A reward?'
'Yeah. It's called free breakfast. You look like you could do with it, tbh, and I know the best pancake place -'
'Tbh?' It's the most he managed to pick up on, other than free breakfast.
'To be honest.'
'Right.'
'Come on, then.'
Kate lets him walk Lucky, the dog straining against the lead the whole walk, constantly sniffing and getting tangled up in people's legs. Kate chatters away non-stop, not leaving him much space to talk - which he appreciates, honestly - talking on and on about the city she used to live in, how much warmer it was there, but the food's cheaper here and, apparently, there's less crime. She's a detective. Or a super hero. Or a super-detective - he's not really sure, just figures she's another one of those New York nuts he comes across all the time.
Still. It's a nice day. He's walking with a pretty dame. Every so often, Lucky'll lick his hand, or bump up against his leg, like a reminder that he's still here.
Sure. It's a nice day.
When they get to the cafe Kate was talking about, she guides him to a booth in the corner. There's already someone sat there - huge shoulders and blonde hair, shredding a paper napkin to bits. His friend Bruce is there too, smiling as he pushes his glasses up his nose, giving him a little wave.
He's about to introduce himself - he's getting good at that now - when the man turns.
The man's got this smile that's too big for his face and his eyes are stinging and he doesn't manage to say his name is James because the man is out of his seat, hovering awkwardly a few steps away, and he's breathing out Steve instead.
