BOY//ANIMAL • Barnes

Cars aren't too difficult to steal, Warren is beginning to discover. Steve and Natasha had taken one when they all went to the old army base—though Steve classes that as borrowing—and now Papa has stolen one, too. Except really stole this time. Warren is pretty sure his papa has no plans whatsoever of returning the truck they're in to its rightful owner. James only drives fast down a highway, the thought of the original owner far away from his mind as he presses on the gas.

Warren sits in the passenger seat with his knees up and a sour sort of look on his face. James glances over at him, wondering why he's being so quiet all of a sudden. When James was hotwiring the car earlier, Warren was over his shoulder asking a million questions per minute, and now Warren's not saying anything at all.

At first, James thinks that maybe Warren had gotten all of his questions out earlier and is now running dry of them. But he almost immediately dismisses that idea. Warren, he knows, has always been an incredibly curious boy. It isn't possible for him to run out of questions.

So, James glances over at him once more. "What's that face for?" he asks him.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Warren furrows his eyebrows with confusion. "Face?" he questions, unsure of what his papa could possibly be talking about. The only face Warren has is his own, and what that face is for is for him to be alive, of course.

"You're making a face," James says, his eyes shifting back to the road ahead. There are lots of cars out right now, which would be an inconvenience to most people, but James finds it lucky. The more cars around, the more theirs blends in, and the safer Warren is.

"I'm not making a face. I just have one," Warren says patently.

James can't stop himself from laughing a bit at that. There are lots of things that Warren doesn't fully understand yet, it seems, even after being out in the world on his own for a while. Part of James wants to teach all those things to him, but the other part wants to savor the funny things Warren does that still make him seem young. For now, he just decides to leave the whole face thing alone and get to the point.

"I meant what are you thinking about?" he clarifies, prompting a quick oh from Warren.

"Well," Warren begins, letting his feet drop to the floor of the car, "I was thinking if stealing cars is bad. Because when I was with Steve and Natasha—" James doesn't want to hear about Steve and Natasha for a long, long time, but he doesn't interrupt. He just swallows and pretends that Warren is talking about TV characters or something. "—they took a car that wasn't theirs. And Natasha said, 'Where did Captain America learn to steal a car?' And Steve said, 'We're not stealing; we're borrowing.' So, I was thinking that stealing a car is very bad because Steve won't do it, and he's good."

Sometimes, James forgets that Warren has never had the opportunity to learn morals and the rules of being alive. All he has learned is whatever lies HYDRA has taught him, the things James himself has managed to teach him whenever they've gotten time together, and the few things he's learned in the past few months in the real world. And now, Warren feels like he knows even less. He now knows, mostly, that what HYDRA taught him was lies. But he's not sure which particular things were lies and which weren't. The word Солдат means soldier. That is true and Warren learned that from HYDRA, so now he has to figure out what things HYDRA was actually right about. It's complicated, not knowing whether or not all he knows is the truth. James feels bad for him for that, among many other things.

As he tries to think of a good way to answer the question, James lets out a sigh. It's a confusing thing for even adults to understand, so how can Warren be expected to understand it? He needs an answer, though, or he'll never stop thinking about it, James supposes. "It's complicated, buddy. Stealing cars is bad, but sometimes you have to do bad things because they'll wind up good in the end," he tries to explain.

Warren squints his eyes in thought. "Like when we went on missions to kill people, but it was good because it would help HYDRA in the end? And HYDRA wanted to help the world be powerful?"

"No. No." James shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowed. He wishes he could start over and make things better for Warren. "HYDRA doesn't want to help anyone but themselves. Anything they do is bad."

"What about having me be born? Was that bad?" Warren questions. Not in an argumentative or disappointed way, but in a genuinely inquisitive way.

"No. That's not the same," James answers instantly. He sighs, and Warren does, too. "It's confusing. But you'll learn over time. You have all the time in the world to learn, now, Renny. You don't need to have it all figured out yet."

"Do you have it all figured out yet?"

James almost scoffs at the idea of that. "Not at all," he answers.

And it's true. He might have thought, back when he was younger and dumber, that he had it all figured out. That he knew right from wrong like it was as distinct as knowing left from right, but it isn't and it never will be. Right and wrong mix into each other differently in every individual situation, like how different amounts of the three primary colors can make an infinite amount of newer colors. There is no rule book, but there is thought, compassion, and understanding, and James can use those types of things to try and decide when he's doing right and when he's doing wrong. It's a lot to ask of a seven-year-old kid, though.

"Does Steve Rogers have it all figured out yet?" Warren asks next.

God, James wishes he wouldn't have to hear that name ever again, but Warren insists on talking about him. He keeps his answer as general as he can, so Warren won't ask about any other one particular person. "No one does. That's just how it is."

"That's confusing."

"Yeah," James whispers. He keeps driving, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel as he listens to Warren squirm in the passenger seat. They'll have to stop sometime soon. Warren will need to go to the bathroom, maybe get something to eat, and find something to entertain him. For now, though, they only have what's in the car, so James quickly looks around. His eyes land on the radio. He presses five different buttons on the radio before something finally turns on. It's music he hasn't heard before, but it has instantly grasped Warren's attention.

For the next hour or so, Warren busies himself with discovering what each little dial and button on the radio does and which combinations of letters and numbers—stations—he likes the best. 

☁︎

It's only an hour later when Warren is suddenly somehow dying of thirst and needing to go pee so bad he says he'll explode at the same time. So, the next gas station James sees, he heads toward. The sun has gone down, now, and the bright, glowing sign in the sky is hard to miss. Same with the big, red numbers on the sign. Unleaded is what James assumes the truck takes, because almost all cars take unleaded, and the numbers under unleaded read $3.35 per gallon.

"Jesus," James mutters under his breath.

"What?" Warren questions, his legs kicking impatiently against his seat.

"Nothing. Just—gas is expensive."

"Gas is what makes the car go?" Warren asks. He's very sure he's right, but he just wants to make sure. And when Papa gives him a nod and a hummed-out yes, he's absolutely positive. And that only leads him to another question. "Well, then why doesn't it come with the car?"

"Because it runs out," James answers as he pulls into a parking space. Warren furrows his eyebrows with confusion, and James has to remind himself not to chuckle at him. "Gas for cars is like food for people," he explains further.

It seems that the answer satisfies Warren, considering he is quick to move on to the topic of food. "I need food, too, and a drink," he tells his papa, pushing the car door open and hopping out onto the pavement.

Luckily for them, the gas station is entirely empty. No one else is stopped at the moment, which isn't too surprising since it is late at night, now, and anyone driving would more than likely be rushing home rather than stopping at a desolate, old gas station in the middle of nowhere. The only other car in the parking lot belongs to the man working inside. That makes what they need to do a whole lot easier.

Warren meets his papa at the front of the car and follows him inside. When Papa pushes the door open, a bell chimes above them to alert the worker that they have come inside. The man behind the counter doesn't look up from his phone, though, as he mumbles out a tired greeting. The whole place is full of a plethora of snacks that Warren has stolen in the past. Gas stations all seem to have the same things in them, he has discovered over time. Warren instantly heads for the aisle filled with colorful candies, like a moth drawn to a light, but Papa catches his arm before he can. Papa quickly leads Warren to the back of the gas station, where the bathrooms are.

"Go to the bathroom and-"

"But I need to get muffins!'

"I'll get you muffins," Papa says. He's acting strange. He's whispering, sort of, and looking around as if another employee is going to appear out of nowhere. And he looks a bit guilty, for some reason. "I'll get us some food, and you go to the bathroom. Don't come out until I come back to get you."

"Why?"

"Because," is all Papa says before shutting the door and leaving Warren alone in the men's bathroom.

Letting out a frustrated grumble, Warren crosses his arms and pouts at the door as if his papa could see him through it. It only takes a moment, though, for him to remember just how badly he really has to pee. The muffin distraction only lasted for a few seconds, but now it's all coming back to him. So, he rushes into a stall and steps back out soon after to wash his hands, which is something he has learned over time that is very important. Some of the families he has been with would freak out if he didn't wash his hands before eating or after coming inside. People are very afraid of germs. He dries his hands with one of the thin, brown paper towels and passes the time by trying to toss the paper towel into the garbage from across the room. After his tenth failed attempt, he ends up just picking the paper towel up off of the ground and throwing it away like normal.

Just as Warren drops the paper towel in the garbage can, the door to the bathroom finally swings open. With his metal arm cradling a bunch of snacks and his pockets full of cash, Papa stands in the doorway, holding the door open. "Time to go," he says, his voice quiet and serious. Warren can't ignore the gun in his papa's other hand. He eyes it with slight disdain as he passes his papa.

He hopes Papa hasn't killed the employee behind the register. He keeps his eyes peeled open in search of him as Papa leads him through the gas station. As they pass by the counter, Warren lets out a sigh of relief at the sight of the man standing with his hands up beside his head. Papa glares as they pass and the man doesn't do or say a thing. Papa rushes Warren into the car and dumps the snacks he collected onto the center console before driving off so quickly that the tires squeal loudly against the pavement.

For a little while, neither of the two say anything at all. It's a calm sort of quiet, though. Warren picks a pack of Mini Muffins and a bottle of a purple juice-like drink. Warren can't read the label, but the label has bugs on it, which he finds weird. He doesn't think too much about it, though, being too thirsty to care.

However, the moment Warren is done with his Mini Muffins, he has more questions to ask. He's worried, just a little bit, but worried nonetheless. "Are the cops chasing us?" he asks Papa. He knows that people are probably looking for them, but he's not sure who. It could be cops, or maybe Natasha, Steve, and Sam, or maybe the FBI—which is something Warren saw about on TV—or maybe Nick Fury. It could be any of them, all of them, or none of them, and Warren needs to know. He has to know who he is running from if he wants to keep running from them.

James considers lying at first. He doesn't want Warren to worry even a little bit, but he knows, deep inside, that in order for Warren to be safe, he has to know the truth. He imagines that they are going to be on the run for a very long time, if not the rest of their lives. He can't hide it all forever. They need to adjust to this new lifestyle quicker than humanly possible. Warren needs the truth to do that.

"Lots of people are looking for us," James says. To be honest, he doesn't know exactly who, either, but he can assume. It's probably government agents, which won't be too hard to identify with his experience. Steve is the problem. A big, huge problem that James can't fix, like a bullet to the heart.

Steve knows James better than James knows himself, apparently, so if anyone were to find him, it would be Steve. Not to mention the odd feeling he gets when he thinks too much about Steve. He wants to remember what it is or what it means, but he can't. Not for the life of him. He just wants Steve out of his life for good. All James wants is for him and Warren to be able to live life like any other father and son. Steve will get in the way of that. James is sure of it. So for now, avoiding even any little mention of him is what's best.

"We need to be careful with everyone," James goes on. He glances over at Warren and chooses not to think about the anxious look on the boy's face. It makes his stomach churn. "We don't know who will recognize us. But people are looking for us."

"How do I know who to run from?" Warren asks, his voice higher-pitched than it usually is.

"You run from who I tell you to run from," James tells him. That should be an easy enough rule for Warren to follow. All he has to do is stay in James' sight and do as he is told.

But it makes Warren go quiet.

James doesn't understand why. It's a simple rule, and he didn't say it aggressively or anything. But Warren has suddenly sunken into his seat and begun gnawing on his cheek with one of the saddest looks James has ever seen. He doesn't like it one bit, and it almost makes him pull the car over to comfort him, but he remembers that getting as far away from that gas station as possible is the priority at the moment. He can drive and try to fix it with his words, whatever the problem is. God, he hopes he can fix it.

"What's wrong, Renny?" James asks, making his voice as soft as possible. But Warren doesn't answer. Instead, he twists himself to the side, staring out the window with his back turned to his papa. James reaches across the seat to nudge Warren's shoulder, and when he does, Warren shrugs him off. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong, buddy," he reminds him.

It takes a few moments for the words to sink in, but when they do, Warren, surprisingly, actually listens. Though still with his back turned, Warren says, "I don't want to run away anymore, Papa. I want to have a home."

People in movies and TV shows have homes. And Sam had a home. His very own house with a TV and a kitchen full of food. Steve had one, too, with all sorts of books and an old record player to play music. He had been to Natasha's place as well. Her apartment was nice and she had a comfy couch that Warren got to sit on while she covered his scabs with Neosporin and bandaids. The point is that they all have a place where they can feel safe and comfortable, and where they can cover themselves up with a blanket and feel safe underneath. No one is after them at all times. They aren't afraid twenty-four hours a day. Warren wants that more than he wants any stupid Mini Muffins or candies. But he has this loud, unignorable voice in his brain reminding him every moment that he will never get it.

James has that voice, too. He just keeps trying to ignore it. All he can do is try, after all. Try to give Warren what will make him happy. No voice can stop him from trying.

"I do, too, Ren. I do," he says very sincerely. Warren feels like crying, but he doesn't. "And I promise I'll try. We'll find a place somewhere far away and have a home, even if it's just for a little while."

Warren turns away from the window, peeking back over at his papa. "Are you promising?"

The question makes James' heart pound. He can't promise that they will have a home. He can't even promise that they will make it to tomorrow morning without being caught. But he can promise one thing. "I'm promising that I'll try," he tells Warren. "Hard as I can."

"Okay," Warren whispers. He wipes his burning eyes with his sleeve and pushes hair from his eyes. "We can have a TV, too?"

Just like that, James feels a little bit warmer. He cracks a smile. "Maybe."

"Good. I like TV."

"We'll stop at a hotel sometime. They'll have a TV," James tells him. They won't be stopping anywhere until James can't keep his eyes open anymore, and even when they do, it won't be a hotel for at least a few weeks. But he's sure that, eventually, far away, it will be okay for them to stop at a hotel for a night. For now, though, the car is all they've got. "Why don't you get some sleep, huh? And when you wake up, you can tell me about your dreams to keep me entertained."

"Entertained?" Warren echoes with a questioning twinge in his voice.

"It means giving me something to enjoy. Like TV. TV keeps you entertained," James explains to him.

Warren hums in understanding, giving a slight nod before sighing and laying back. Looking over at him, James is able to forget about it all for just a few moments. For now, he has his son back, and he has this car, and he can drive for miles and miles just like that. The tank is running on half a tank of gas, and when the little gas light flickers on, he'll use the stolen cash he has collected to fill it back up, and they'll start driving all over again. Every mile is a step closer to a home, just like Warren wants. And James will do everything in his power to give it to him.