Chapter 8
The cold floor of the lobby was unforgiving on his stiffened joints, but it’s not as if he’s unfamiliar with the sensation. It does make maneuvering towards the train station a bit more difficult, but that, too, is familiar. He needs to push past the irrelevant physical discomforts of his body and continue on.
He gets up and starts walking. Pushes past the broken boards scattered by the door, smeared with one long streak of darkened red.
He’s unsure of how long he was passed out on the floor; it couldn’t have been too long, as the sky was still dark when he awoke. The blood loss is seemingly starting to get to him. And he’s painfully aware of all the other injuries on his body, even the ones he’d rather not be.
Bucky continues slinking in the darkest shadows of the night, cradling his chest with his working arm, attempting to make sure that the open wounds he has are not leaving behind a trail of blood. Of course, he doesn’t have to worry about being tracked by that when his sloppiness is reason enough. His mind is cloudy and aching with an ever-present pain, and he sincerely doubts he would be able to sense if someone was following him.
Sloppy. Useless. Weak.
He needs to get his act together.
It’s a bit hard when the supposed miracle serum running through his veins is not really giving him the boost it should, not mending his wounds or curing his headache, but still. He’s been through worse and held it together. He’s been through worse. There’s no reason to be so recklessly careless and inattentive. He’s been through worse.
A sharp pain from his shoulder makes it all too apparent how he’s letting his weakness control him. It causes him to stumble, and he has to lean the inactive vibranium arm against the brick of some apartment buildings. Damn the fucking electricity. Has he ever said how much he hates electricity? A lot. It’s cool to have in lightbulbs and tvs and even cars nowadays, but not so much in people.
A groan slips past his lips unbidden. He wishes he could take the damn thing off, but it’s damaged too much for it to work. It’s quite literally a hunk of metal attached to his side right now. And though the vibranium is light, it’s just another weight to drag around and pull on his injuries.
Bucky blinks and sees the flash of lighting in the darkness of his eyelids. Sees the first, second, third, and finally fourth attempt to deactivate the arm through brute force. That fucking machine. Grating. Hot. He resolutely opens his eyes wide, forcing the images from his head.
Memories, as he thought prior, can sometimes be a burden. How he wishes he could forget the past, what- forty eight hours? Maybe three days at the most? His internal clock is pretty good at gauging time, but he has had a few stints of unconsciousness that make it hard to pinpoint. It doesn’t matter that it felt like days, weeks, months. He knows it’s not. From experience when it was.
He’s been through worse.
This shouldn’t be as much of a problem as it is.
And yeah, that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Here he is, off licking his own wounds after leaving Sam to contend with his mess, and the possibility of an upcoming HYDRA cell reemerging. The people who- The people who took him clearly had connections. That red dust…
Logically, he knows that this is something to be dealt with, something that needs to be dealt with. Immediately. The dumbasses that kidnapped him, incompetent as they were, knew exactly what they had on their hands. A chemical form of mind control.
But the way they stripped him of his autonomy, stripped him of his decisions so easily, like he was just a thing, a machine to use, a weapon, a toy. An object to be used again and again and again, so many times he couldn’t even keep track. And how fucking sad was that? How fucking pathetic.
And to think, it took HYDRA years to implement the code words and ensure his full compliance. And these guys, these idiots, were able to do it with a fucking teeny ass bottle of dust. Sure, it wore off, but so did the trigger words. You’d think after all this time, all these years, he would have gotten better at resisting.
It turns out, he’s just as weak as he always was.
And here he is, running away again. Like that’s ever helped. At least it’s in character.
Whatever. Whatever. Thinking about shit he can’t change is useless. It doesn’t help anyone. And the longer he spends prowling the streets of the city like some kind of rabid dog, the more people will begin to get suspicious.
No feelings, only facts: He needs to get somewhere less exposed. There’s still the threat of HYDRA. The men he took out were only a smaller sect of a larger operation, if the Russian man was any indication. HYDRA certainly isn’t as powerful as it had been with his help before the disaster in 2014, but with this dust stuff… There’s no telling what they can do.
And if he’s being honest with himself? (Which, for the record, is something he tries to avoid) He can’t go through that again. There’s only so many ways to glue a shattered teacup back together before it’s beyond saving. The pieces are too small to hold, only shards that stab into your hand. And he’s been dropped too many times already.
Bucky continues trudging towards the nearest subway.
-
The floor of the subway is scattered with garbage- crumpled tissues, McDonald’s wrappers, empty soda cups. There’s not too many people around, bar the many homeless, disguised as lumps of blankets along the tile walls. Thankfully this area of town is not too lively at night. Though it is the city that never sleeps, it does nap.
It’s something to be thankful for in a situation where there’s very little going his way. Not that there’s anyone to blame but himself, of course. Who ran away from the hospital- No, wait. Who attacked the people at the hospital? Who injured a nurse? Who couldn’t remember who he was, the one thing he should always know, the one thing he was told would never be taken from him again?
Who let those men, those idiots, r-
Shut up, shut up! He shakes his head, which causes a wave of dizziness and nausea to roll over him, immediately regretting the movement. Huh. Maybe he has a concussion. That would certainly track with the seething headache and how the world blurs and spins with every movement. It could just as easily be attributed to the blood loss, though is likely compounded by it. He has to pause even longer than he has been to regain himself, right hand leaned heavily against the grimy wall. His fingers clench into a fist.
Weak.
At this rate, he’ll be blown over by the wind from the tunnels as the train rushes through. He needs. To get a hold. Of himself.
He blinks. Twice. Three times. Dark eyes peek out at him from underneath a mound of cloth.
Okay. Okay. He can do this. He can do this.
Breath.
-
When he opens his eyes, he’s somewhere he doesn’t recognize. Vertigo immediately overwhelms him, and he stumbles back from the ledge of the ground below him, tripping over the uneven ground. He’s somehow able to keep from completely collapsing, perhaps out of shock, if nothing else.
Bucky blinks.
His vision clears.
And he laughs.
He laughs.
…
It’s not very funny. But that doesn’t stop him.
-
Back in Bucharest, and before that, in Sofia, and Lviv, and wherever the fuck else he was in Europe, there were moments where he just… disappeared.
Not in a literal sense, of course. (Though, perhaps that clarity is warranted, what with the existence of sorcerers and the fact that- oh yeah, half the world kinda blipped out of existence for five years) But just blankness. Empty space in his memory where normal people would have thoughts and recollection.
One day he’d wake up on a Monday morning only to find it was Tuesday night. Another time he opened his eyes and found pages upon pages of writing in his journals, with handwriting he recognized as his own, but words he did not.
He’s “woken up” in empty rooms, in the middle of crowded farmer’s markets, in new towns or cities or, even once, in another country with someone’s stolen passport resting in his pocket.
And every time. Even when forgetting was as normal as breathing to him. It scared the shit out of him.
Not because he doesn’t know what he did- though that’s a big part of it too. But because he knows what he can do. What he has done.
He once said to Tony Stark, “I remember all of them.” But the fact of the matter is, he can never be sure. (He’ll drown in the guilt regardless. It will never be enough)
So when he opens his eyes in a different place, body aching like he’s been walking for hours and mind fuzzy in an all too familiar way- it’s just par for the shitty course.
-
Lashes thick with coagulated blood and never tears, he blinks. Bodies litter the floor around him, an instant massacre. He looks down. His shaking hand is slick with blood, and only half of it is his own.
His stolen knife- laid on a counter, out of reach- now rests snugly in a man’s eyes. The thick metal straps that had restrained his arms and legs and chest are now split open at the seams. The soldiers once standing and surrounding, crowding, are now slumped, bloody and prone on the concrete floor.
It is the world’s most macabre ‘spot the difference’ puzzle.
He was on the table. And then he wasn’t.
(What was that line, about not being a killer anymore?)
-
Despite his vertigo, he recognizes the locale almost immediately. Rockaway Beach.
Back when he had gone with Steve, the place had been bustling with life. There were bright colors and carnival stands, people milling about aimlessly as they perused the shops on the boardwalk. Now, it’s deserted. Empty. Cold. The teak of the boardwalk he had walked along so many years ago has been remolded by concrete. The sand even seems to be a shade darker, less saturated, the ocean waves a dull gray. The night has wiped away the few stragglers that might be visiting the beach for a day trip, and the blip has ensured that there are no attractions to entice additional patrons.
He is alone.
There is a surrealness to the serenity, and he stares out at the ocean, eyes blurry and burning with the strain of keeping them open. He finds himself walking forward, stumbling off the boardwalk and into the supple sand of the beach, grains clawing at his ankles and trying to drag him down. The waves roll and crest as he staggers along, and he keeps his eyes upon the dark expanse of water before him. It could swallow him whole.
He’s not quite sure what he’s doing, not quite sure what his aim is, but eventually his body decides for him, unable to continue. At least he doesn’t pass out this time- small, pathetic victories.
He’s able to half catch himself on the way down, sticking his right arm out, but it buckles under the weight with a sharp spike of pain that causes him to clench his teeth and hiss. Elegantly, he lands on his ass. There must be a rock of some sort beneath him and after taking a few breaths in to regain himself, he tries shifting back and forth. Which is ultimately a bad idea, because it reminds him of all the pain down there he has yet to address. He decides to stay still instead. (As still as he can get, with his shaking body).
Bucky gives up on his staring contest with the ocean, and looks back at the pier. He can almost see the games stands, smell the hotdogs and cotton candy, watch Dolores’ red curls bounce up and down as he leads her by the hand, Steve trailing close behind. His chest aches. A deep ache, permeating the tissue beneath his raw skin and poisoning the marrow of his ribs. A hollowed out cavity that feeds off of anything and everything in reach, never to be satiated.
It’s eerie how akin he is, to that feeling.
This close to the water, the salt water sprays and stings in his open wounds. He ignores it. It’s not until small droplets of water bleed from the sky that he’s brought back to sensation.
What is he doing here?
No, really. What is he doing here?
Here, feeling sorry for himself, when HYDRA is still out there doing god knows what? When HYDRA has a new chemical form of mind control that some idiots got their grubby hands on, which- to his knowledge- can be used on anyone close enough to breathe it in? (Unless it only works on him. Unless his mind is too fucked up, too broken, too wrong to defend against a small dose of a chemical agent, inhaled, not even injected.)
He shifts his weight yet again, annoyed by whatever’s underneath him. It’s not a rock, as it follows his movement, and he realizes much too slowly that it’s something in the pocket of his jeans.
Well, not his jeans. Those were left torn and bloodied in the HYDRA base, unsalvageable. He wouldn't have worn them again, anyway.
He fumbles with his right hand, twisting in an awkward position to try and reach the back pocket. The sand rubs harshly against any uncovered skin, getting under his nails and scratching away the encrusted dirt and blood. He curses his lack of dexterity as his shaking fingers weakly pull at the leather wallet, trying to coax it from the stiff jean. He hears Sam in his mind, asking why he isn’t using the metal arm. Well, shut up, mind Sam. It’s currently out of commission. And he is right handed, even if he doesn’t look it right now.
He’s able to pry out the wallet eventually, and though it doesn’t solve the pain of sitting, it does help- albeit marginally. As he readjusts, he flops the thing down into the sand in front of him, and opens it up.
The face that stares up at him shouldn’t be surprising. Covered in opaquing plastic, held in place by ripping seams that trail through faux leather. A driver’s license. Scarface guy. He- what was his real name again? Had he even gotten his name? It wasn’t exactly like they had time for introductions. What with the whole burning his arm into inutility and gagging him thing.
He could’ve sworn though… He combs through his general memories of those few days, clinically. No time like the present, if he’s actually gonna do his fucking job and figure this shit out. There was Nikolayevich, and his merry band of goons. The more traditional HYDRA entourage, faceless obedience. If there was one thing his American handlers suffered from, it was too much ego, all over the place, spread out even in the lowest ranking of the bunch.
Then there was Meyers, the incompetent one. The one he would’ve had the best chance of talking to. If these HYDRA guys had cyanide pills, Meyers was certainly the one who wouldn’t be cracking his tooth at the first sign of trouble. He lacks the hard devotion that HYDRA requires, and that could be exploited. Well, could’ve , since the point is moot now, with a knife in the guy’s eye, but he can’t find it in himself to feel too bad about that.
It almost feels like HYDRA’s grown softer, vulnerable, by recruiting such an obvious weak link; they’re always there, always, but usually much better hidden, much better kept in line with the promise of someone like the Winter Soldier coming for you, should you defect or show any signs of indevotion. HYDRA was no stranger to pointing a gun at their own- firing it when necessary. Meyers would’ve never lasted long in the HYDRA from before 2014. Come to think of it, maybe he wouldn’t have lasted much longer in this current iteration.
Next, there was… Moloney? Murray? Some other ‘M’ name. Neither of those sound right. God, he should’ve gotten it memorized. Without a second thought. Seems HYDRA isn’t the only one getting sloppy and weak with age. But he knew that already.
And of course, the man whose shitty jeans he’s wearing: Scarface. Even in the grainy license picture, Bucky can see the raised line of scarring over the bridge of the man’s nose and onto his right cheek. Saw it up close and personal, too. Got acquainted with Scarface’s greasy pores and musty breath, as he shoved his nose real close to Bucky’s own. His hair being short hadn’t stopped anyone from yanking his head into place. It was a bit too familiar for his liking.
He blinks, and looks at the name listed on the license. Dylan Hobbes. He blinks again. Blinks a few more times as the spray of ocean waves spits into his face. He pushes his knee into the faux leather, holding the wallet in place, and digs his fingers around the hard plastic of the ID. It takes more finagling then he’d like; it’s not cold, but his fingers are numb.
It’s a fake. Not a great one, but not a bad one, either. Mediocre, just like the entire fucking crew of bozos that took him. Thinking about it, ‘Scarface’ is honestly too cool of an epithet for a prick with a punchable face who just happens to have a scar there, too, like someone else had the same idea. But no way in hell is he admitting he was overpowered by a guy named Dylan Hobbes. Even if it is a pseudonym. Sam would give him so much shit.
Sam.
He flicks through the rest of the wallet, maladroit hand rifling through the small pockets. There’s not much- probably not the guy’s real wallet- but there is a surprising amount of cash to have on hand. Scarface is packing quite a few Benjamin’s. About $620, to his count. He quickly stuffs them back into the wallet’s pocket, the rain coming down harder now, faster. He blinks away the droplets that cling to his eyelashes.
There’s nothing else of note. He manages to get the wallet back into his jeans- front pocket, this time- and takes a moment to think about what he needs to do. Really think about it, no more half-assed wandering around the city, running away, again. Like he always does.
Lighting flashes across the water, one, two, three seconds- followed by a booming thunder. He looks up at the sky, looks back at the sand beneath him. Brings a hand to his head when the movement sends a spike of pain through his skull.
Yeah. Getting inside somewhere would probably be a good idea.
-
There’s a 24 hour hole-in-the-wall tech place not far from the boardwalk. These kinda places are a dime a dozen in the city, with their neon lights and lit up shelves. It takes about five minutes to find the place, another five psyching himself up to go inside. Presentability generally wasn’t the biggest concern for the Winter Soldier. But he has no clue who’s out there looking for him. It’s not worth causing a scene, not worth being anything but an unrecognizable passerby. So he schools his expression, tries not to limp.
An electronic bell dings as he opens the door. There’s a lone cashier at the back, whose eyes flit up briefly at his entrance. He banks on the fact that the rain has helped wash away any visible dirt or blood. It’s not exactly like he has a mirror to check.
Bucky picks up the cheapest smartphone he can find, shells out the hundred or so it costs, and moves to leave before spying some of the other tech the place has. He’s no mechanic- there was always a guy for that- but ideally he’d be able to get his arm somewhat functional. He grabs a handful of things that might be helpful, and once again goes up to the tired man working the register by himself. He blinks groggily at Bucky before ringing the items up. Even gives a small plastic bag for the items with a yellow smiley face and a ‘Have a Nice Day!’ printed on the side. He can only wish.
By the time he exits, the sky is a slightly lighter blue, though the rain hasn’t let up. He quickly slings the bag around his arm and boots up the phone, which tells him it’s just past five in the morning.
It’s in his best interests to get off the street as quickly as possible, for a multitude of reasons. He keeps his phone out, tucking it under his jacket to try and shield the screen from the rain. There’s a dinky looking hostel he finds online, not far from where he is. No website listed, no reviews, only a picture that has about five pixels in total, and a phone number. It’s perfect. It’s also half a mile away. Which isn’t far at all, on a normal day, but it ain’t exactly a normal day. Usually he walks around with one less (possible) concussion and no litany of injuries.
Whatever, he’ll make do. There’s no other option. Unless passing out in the street is considered viable, but that's more of a consequence than a choice. So a brief trek in the rain it is.
-
When he approaches the hostel, the sky is a hazy orange and blue, sun barely visible over the horizon line as he looks through the gaps in the buildings. It’s a row of decaying bricks, crumbling cornerstones and shadowy alleys. The hostel itself is unmarked, but he’s been in enough of these places to know that the innocuous black door with an iron gate and a single buzzer is his target.
He hits the buzzer, waits a few seconds for the click, and slips past the gate. The front desk isn’t far, and a squat woman rests her elbows on the counter, eyes blinking as she takes in his figure.
He asks for a single room with a bath, and the woman asks him how long he’s staying. He tells her he’s not sure, but he’ll pay for three nights now. He’s half inclined to ask if this morning counts as his first “night,” but honestly he couldn’t give two shits and it’s not long before he pays and she hands him a key and he’s stumbling down a narrow hallway to his room. He’s just glad she didn’t ask any unnecessary questions.
It takes longer than it should for him to find the room, having to focus on the tiny, printed numbers on signs on the wall. When he does find it, it takes four times for him to actually get the key in the lock and another 10 seconds to turn it and open the door. The bed he finds is laughably small, and kind of dirty, but it’s not like he’ll be using it anyway and he didn’t come here for comfort. Comfort isn’t something he deserves right now. Hasn’t earned it. If he wanted comfort he could have stayed in the hospital, waiting to be coddled by a worried Sam, until the other man found out what happened and was too disgusted and ashamed and-
Anyway.
Not something to think about now.
What he really needs is a shower.