The Familiar
At least the pain is familiar. He’s not sure where he is, he doesn’t quite remember who he is supposed to be right now, his name, where he is going, who he is killing. But the pain is familiar. It’s comforting, it means he’s still himself. What little of that there is.
He’s off the street immediately, running from a suit of armor, running from red and gold, golden cage, it’s had him trapped. He shifts like snow and he’s gone, through a building with nobody in it and then a building with four somebodies in it. Nobody notices him. He runs and hides and shifts until he’s somewhere remotely safe, remote and safe.
The Winter Soldier is hiding in some dusty never used garage between two bins, the smell overwhelming him together with everything else. He begins cataloging, a habit never trained, something he’s not supposed to have, and he indulges in it like a secret stash of liquor.
It’s been an hour. He’s been he for an hour. He tries to reach further back, remember something before a rush of air and cold metal cage, and fear slices through him. A visceral, bone deep terror and he jolts against his foul smelling cover. Alright, he can’t do that again, can’t give himself away. His heart is racing away from him, and even his lungs are heaving air, not from running, but from trying to remember what he’s running from. No more thinking back.
Cataloging. That’s safe, always has been, although the consequences of showing that he’s been collecting information he’s not supposed to have are always painful. But at least pain is familiar.
His shoulder hurts. Barnes looks down on himself, at his missing arm. He doesn’t remember how he lost it, and he’s scared to try, scared what might come up if he does. He leaves it, the information isn’t necessary to function. Next he turns his attention to his clothes. It’s not his usual clothes, although what those look like he can’t recall. Apart from pain that may be the most familiar sensation to him. Reaching out for information and finding there is none. He never knows what he knows, what he will remember. He remembers how to fasten the buttons of his shirt with one hand, which means he’s practiced it, which means he’s had only one hand for a while. He doesn’t remember for how long.
So, right now he’s in pain. Good. He’s free. Good for now. He doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to be doing. Who he’s supposed to be, to be killing. And that is terrible. He doesn’t know what comes of a failed mission, but he knows to fear it, his body does it for him without much prodding.
He needs to hide better. He needs to figure this out. Where he lost his arm. If he needs to bring it back. That arm is more valuable than he is. And he needs to figure it out before anyone finds him.
The Winter Soldier gets up and for a moment his vision fades. The pain from his missing shoulder is abysmal, is spears through him and consumes him. He doesn’t know how he stays on his feet, panting, his other hand clenched around one of the trash containers, deforming the metal with his strength.
It takes long, terrible minutes for the pain to fade, for him to be able to breathe, to see. This isn’t good. He doesn’t know how long he’s lived with this kind of pain, but it’s something entirely new. For a moment Bucky isn’t sure if he can handle this. The pain is in his bones, it throbs in his shoulder, shooting into him with every movement, every breath.
But he’s the Winter Soldier. He has to handle it. He grits his teeth and takes a step. It’s agony, it's all encompassing fire, but it does leave him standing. So he takes another step. And then the next one, the next one, taking less and less time, less and less consideration with each one. The pain is horrible, it makes everything in him shudder against it, which of course only makes it worse. But he can’t pass out. Can’t throw up. He can’t leave traces and he has to hide.
So James walks slowly, carefully out of the dusty forgotten garage and goes to find a place that suits him better. Something older than forgotten, a place that nobody even knew existed. A place as unsure in its presence as he is.