The Backup

The people in the market were kind to him. He knew that they could tell he was foreign, that he was running from his problems and the law. But they helped him. When the amount of fruits and vegetables shocked him and he couldn't process the very definition of a simple desire, they helped him pick his way through the produce. A woman gave him two candy bars in exchange for two apples on Saturdays, which made him happier than it should have. But he had been without the small things in life for so long, so he was taking advantage of his ability to eat whatever he wanted, to do what he pleased in his own space.

While he was thriving in Bucharest, he still wanted one thing--his boy. His son. The kid he barely remembered, but saw enough to know that he had to turn back and find him. He remembered quiet laughter, painful training sessions, but, ultimately, a love and itch of protectiveness that ran so deep in his bones that he knew the boy was a vital part of him, just as much as his heart or lung.

Bucky smiled at the vendor, holding the plums he wanted out to her. He had been told by the woman with the chocolate bars that they helped increase memory, as or after it's been lost. It was like she just knew the information he needed.

Sirens flooded the air around him, and fear suddenly grabbed at his ribs. He glanced over his shoulder, out at the winding street, as they got louder, swelling in his ears. He stayed in place until the produce was handed to him. He took the bag with an uneasy smile, said thank you, and turned around. He steadied his nervous heart and forced the tension to ooze from his shoulders, setting himself into a casual walk toward the street.

The sirens zoomed past him. Like they didn't know how the horrors he had lived, the deaths he had caused. Under that familiar guilt, thankfulness blossomed. They weren't after him. Not yet.

He tilted his chin down, hiding his eyes from the people around him. A stare burned into his chest, and he followed it to the source; he couldn't help his curiosity. The vendor behind the news stand blatantly stared at him, not even trying to hide his unease. When the road cleared, he stepped off the cement sidewalk--and as he advanced, the kiosk vendor scrammed, tripping over himself to get away.

Scooping up the paper, he realized he had to leave. His eyes brushed over the security images and he read, WINTER SOLDIER CAUTAT PENTRU BOMBARDAMENTUL DIN VIENA.

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He managed to get to his apartment before the police forces he knew were on the way. But inside, he realized an entirely different force had beaten him. Captain America, Steve Rogers, pushed the chocolate bars off the notebook on top of the fridge, pulling the canvas bound-paper into his hands, cracking it open.

A small voice spoke into Steve's ear, and Bucky realized that, audibly, they weren't alone; "Heads up, Cap. German Special Forces, approaching from the south."

Steve responded, "Understood," and turned to Bucky. Eyes flashing with relief and recognition, he turned away from the fridge and asked, cautiously, "Do you know me?"

Did he? Bucky wasn't really sure--he remembered couch cushion forts and newspapers tucked into shoes, a sorrowful funeral in the late thirties and a call to war. But, as he was now? Modernized and playing for the government? That wasn't the Steve he knew. "You're Steve. I read about you in a museum."

The little voice chimed, "They've set the perimeter."

"I know you're nervous. And you have plenty of reason to be. But you're lying."

Why did this matter? Bucky thought, frustratedly. He needed to leave. Steve wasn't helping. "I wasn't in Vienna. I don't do that anymore."

"They're entering the building."

In his public speaking voice, Captain America's voice, he reported, "Well, the people who think you did are coming here now. And they're not planning on taking you alive."

Of course they weren't. They believed he committed a crime, and therefore he was going to pay. "That's smart. Good strategy."

"They're on the roof. I'm compromised." Outside the apartment, in the stairwell, heavy footsteps thundered.

"This doesn't have end in a fight, Buck." His brows were drawn tight, and Bucky realized--he was desperate, holding on to either end of a broken threat, pulling back with all his might.

But it was no use. Bucky had to hind his boy. Backing away, he murmured, "It always ends in a fight."

"Five seconds!"

"You pulled me from the river. Why?"

Bucky couldn't take it. He snapped, "I have to leave!"

"Three seconds!"

"Just tell me why--!"

The little voice shouted, "Breach! Breach! Breach!" and a grenade was thrown through the glass window. Bucky shook himself out of his shock and kicked it to Steve, who immediately slammed his shield on top of it.

Outside, a man yelled, "Shoot the door!" Something heavy was slammed into his door. Remembering the voice saying that they had the perimeter surrounded, he pulled his mattress up to cover him. Bullets buried themselves in it. Once the fire ended, he let the mattress fall and threw the small table into the front hallway. Each side got wedged on the wall, making it so the people outside couldn't get the door open. But that did nothing for the other entry points.

He spun around and punched the advancing office in the chest, pushing them into a wall. Steve shouted a warning; "Buck, stop! You're gonna kill someone!"

More gunfire. He could feel it, an itch under his skin. He pushed his old friend down, punching the floor beside his head--Steve dodged, flinching, just like Bucky knew he would--and grabbing around for the backpack.

Finally, his hand closed around the strap. He tugged the pack out, turning and throwing it out the window to the  neighboring building. He would jump after it, but he knew the fall from this height would injure his knees. He couldn't risk that right now.

More gunfire rained on them. He couldn't react fast enough, he braced himself--

Steve pulled him in close, pushing the shield in front of him. Instinctively, maybe even subconsciously, Bucky put his arm around Steve for a few seconds. Sensing that that immediate threat was over, he shoved Steve onto the balcony, where he stopped and knocked over another cop. He immediately spun, extending his hand to block incoming bullets. He grabbed the gun and pushed, knocking the guard into the shelves along the wall. He knelt, picking up one of the cinderblocks--he knew he took those for a reason! He pushed himself up again, slamming the cement block into one of the policemen's chests.

A cop shoots around the door outside. Bucky punches through the wall beside he door. He lays into the cops. A cop descends through a sky-light on a zip wire. Bucky grabs the cop's gun and slams him into the wall.

He remembered using Captain America'a shield, and he grabbed at the battering ram, pulling it onto his arm and striking whoever came near. As more cops ran up the stairs, Bucky threw himself off the stairwell, grabbing onto the zip-lining cop and swinging down a level.

"Suspect has broken containment! He's headed down the east stairwell!" Shortly, the warning was cut off with a crunching sound.
Fighting his way through the stairwell, he did nothing lethal. That wasn't him anymore. He knocked one of the officers over the railing, and Steve jumped to catch him. He raised his blond head, giving him an exasperated look. "Come on, man."

Bucky elbowed the advancing policeman behind him, and continued on and Steve threw the cop back up onto the stairs.

The grabbed the railing and jumped over the side. The structure bars ripped from the floor and Bucky swung down another level. He immediately resumed his desperate fight for freedom. Once he could continue, he did. He jumped into the empty square between the stairwells, catching onto the railing on a  down. His skin around the metal arm, though it had long gone numb, screamed in pain, his nerves having been jerked. His spine was pulled, his clavicle hissed at him--but he barreled through the pain, pulling himself up and sprinting through the hallway, throwing himself off the balcony.

His son could fly. He remembered that. He knew how to manage gravity, and pulled himself through the air on those altered webs like an ice dancer. Winding his arms and legs, Bucky flew. He hovered. He was free.

He hit the edge of the roof, ducking into a roll so the energy didn't shock his joints. He fell down onto the lower roof, pulling himself back up to his feet and grabbing the backpack, fastening it onto his back as he ran.

A shadow flew over him. As he began to make a reacting move, a solid, heavy weight plowed into his back. Both bodies tumbled down, but Bucky got back up as fast as he could, not wanting to be slowed down.

He half expected it to be Steve following him. But no. A man in a black suit stood up, and he curled his hands into claws--claws indeed. Sharp metal arrowheads popped out of the suit's fingertips.

And then suddenly, like a cat that his suit so much resembled, he pounced. Slashing and kicking, like he was fighting for his life, backing the shocked, tired Bucky into a corner.

Bucky dodged the kicked, pushing the limbs away. He narrowly avoided being slashed. He was kicked into a wall, and he barely got out of the way--holy shit, his brain could've been torn apart--He needed more than just himseld, he realized, as his eyes found a rogue metal pipe. He has it in

The cat's claws reached for him, but Bucky dropped the pipe and grabbed his wrists. When he saw the chopper over a black-clad shoulder, he pulled the man in front of him, using him as a shield.

What he didn't expect was for the suit to deflect the bullets. They seemed to freeze and fall to the ground, much like Peggy Carter's fired bullets had on a vibranium shield, so long ago.

He was frozen. All these things just kept getting thrown at him. The man surged up into another attack, but Bucky ran--he jumped down to where part of the building gutted out. He landed soundly on the balls of his feet, twisting around and jumping again. A high, screeching sound followed behind him, from the cat's claws raking against the cement wall.

When Bucky landed on Earth, he kept running, not daring to look back at the gunfire that tore through the sidewalk behind him. He saw a way out, he jumped--

He was surrounded by cars. Still, no choice but to run, so he did. In the path that could one day be a bike lane, he pushed himself even harder, the strap of the backpack digging into the middle of his chest. But he wouldn't dare undo that buckle.

Bending his knees, he pushed off the ground and propelled himself up. His boots fell firmly on the back of an SUV. He continued on, air rushing around him, throwing him off balance, but the added speed of the vehicle helped his case.

The sirens were deafening. This was a scene, through and through. It brought attention, which brought his place in the public-eye, in news reports and talk shows where writers and reporters tore him apart limb by limb, flayed him alive. He has to pay for his crimes.

And his most desperate thought always was, despite all of his nightmares and the blood on his hands; they aren't my crimes to pay.

Bucky jumped over a barrier, and Steve--in the Special Forces SUV--followed. He closed his hand around the handlebar of a bike and pulled it into a twist, shoving the rider off with his free hand--he felt guilty, but he always did. As the bike spun, he pushed himself up, getting his feet on either side of the seat. When the tires fell to Earth, so did he, but the bike surged onward. Bucky's hands felt strangely at home on the handlebars, and his feet knew what to do. He zipped through the traffic like it was what he was born to do, getting out of the law's clutches.

He just wanted to see his kid. Was that such a horrible thing to need?

He almost jumped when the man in the black cat suit landed on him. He pulled him up off the back wheel, over his head. Behind him, he hears the person with the little voice curse--

He found himself careening the bike to the side, propping the heel of his metal hand on the asphalt. He kicked the man off of him, sending him to God-knows-where, and pushed the bike back up into it's normal position.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out one of the few bombs he did carry. He triggered it and threw it up onto the edge of the overpass as he rode through, winning the reluctant race. Behind him, the cement and debris rained down on his pursuers.

But he wasn't as lucky as he thought.

Claws ripped into his clothes, tugging him off the back of the bike. They rolled onto the grey freeway, and then Steve was rolling over him, a blur of red, white, and blue, wrapping his arms around the black suit's waist and throwing him off.

Bucky, though he knew Steve was on his feet and watching his back, pushed himself up. Standing at Steve's shoulder felt right, despite the circumstances.

And then they were surrounded. A metal suit fell down, making three into four, closing them in a square. He held his bright palms out to him and to the man in the cat suit, yelling, "Stand down, now!"

Steve seemed to know the man in the suit, and put his shield on his back. "Congradulations, Cap. You're a criminal." As Bucky wanted to scream in protest, his wrists were grabbed, and he was forced to the rough ground beneath them.