Bucky Barnes is owned by a whole lot of people that sadly don't include me. All I own is a Bucky Bobblehead, which I adore and treat very kindly.
Many thanks to my beta's, Imbecamiel and Lady-banner!
Technically, this is a Winter Soldier comic-based fic more than a movie-based one, but future stories will most likely use the MCU, so I'm leaving it in the Captain America movie category.
1973. That was the year he rode my bus. Even though it was some forty years ago and I've long since retired, I still remember him like it was yesterday.
I got a lot of memories of a lot of passengers, but that kid…he stood out above all of 'em. He stood out over good folks like the old dame back in 1948 who knitted me a scarf because she worried I'd get chilblains opening and shutting the door in the wintertime, and he stood out over the run-of-the-mill goons and bums who occasionally showed up thinking they could try something on me and get away with it. He stood out in large part because I didn't know which way the coin would fall. He mighta been as sweet as my old lady, or he might have been a cold-blooded killer.
I just couldn't tell.
I'd been driving the Chicago-New York route for twenty-six years at that point. Came home early from the War nursing a bum left knee, courtesy of a Nazi bullet. Took me three years to get healed enough to try for the job, and I was lucky to get it. A clean driving record and a knack for getting along with passengers helped me keep my place at the wheel. In '73, that wasn't exactly a no-sweat proposition. I was pushing fifty and the young bucks coming home from driving Jeeps all over 'Nam were knocking on my boss's door looking to oust the old stag.
Not that I minded too much. Being a veteran, I had a real soft spot for the soldiers who rode my bus, even if some of them might have wanted my job. It's not like Captain America ever rode with me—I woulda fallen outta my seat if he showed up with a ticket in his hand-but they all wore the uniform, so in a way, they were all Captain America as far as I was concerned. I made it a point to treat every one of 'em like they were the man himself.
Some boys climbed on with wives in tow, but most traveled alone, carrying duffle bags, their uniforms crisp but their eyes torn, all anxious to get home. In 1947, they came home pretty happy. Then came Korea and a new bunch, same duffles, same crisp uniforms, but maybe a little more haunted in the eyes. Then, damn, there came Vietnam and those poor boys with the too-old eyes who shoulda been able to find peace on their home soil but instead had to fight through folks spitting on them and tossing curses and rocks in equal measure. Those boys more or less threw themselves into the bus like it was a damned foxhole, and I can't blame 'em. It still shames me, the way soldiers got treated in those days.
As each person came aboard, I'd take their ticket and their measure, chatting with them as I stowed their luggage, laughing with old friends, hopefully making some new ones. It was always good business, being friendly, and it didn't cost me anything to smile. Most were more than willing to tell me a little about themselves—where they were from, where they were going. Some gave me a whole autobiography, some just briefly mumbled the basics, too shy to say more.
So this kid in '73... he was quiet, but at the time I didn't think it was from being shy. He looked for all the world like a shell-shocked soldier. He wasn't in uniform and his hair was as long as any hippy's, but if he wasn't a soldier, then I would have climbed up on the roof of my old bus and sung If I Were A Rich Man. And trust me, ain't no one wants to see or hear that. Zero Mostel, I was not and never will be.
He was dressed in a black coat, black pants, sturdy boots that might have been military issue, and he had him a glove on his left hand, like maybe he was hiding a scar or a lame hand or arm. He wasn't using that hand and arm at all, and he kept himself turned so his right side was always toward me. I felt a stab of sympathy. It was a common enough sight back then amongst veterans, trying to hide what war had stolen. These days, thank God, soldiers tore up by IEDs in Afghanistan can proudly show their prosthetics and no one blinks an eye and more often than not, they get all the free beers they'd ever want, just because folks are thankful. But not back then. Back then it was hell on the front and hell when you got home.
Though such somber clothes in those days of wild-colored shirts, blue jeans, and platform shoes was enough to make me wonder, it was his eyes that gave me the real screaming meemies. They stared out of a pale face under a shock of all that shaggy dark hair, assessing me like he'd just as soon slit my throat as talk to me. One look at those glaring eyes and I immediately marked him as a potential problem. But he had a ticket, and I couldn't refuse him just because I didn't like the way he looked. If I did that for every customer I thought looked weird in those days, I'd have been running an empty bus. I sighed a little, wondering if this one would cause trouble somewhere down the road. I decided to do my best to forestall it, which meant making him my friend if I could. So I cocked my head, smiling a little, determined to connect with his good side, if he had one. "Hello there, son. No bag?"
He stared at me for a minute, then finally blinked and looked at his empty hand. "No," he said in a quiet voice, and when he looked at me again, instead of angry and dangerous, he looked sad and lost, like he didn't know how he'd got to where he was at that moment and just wished someone would tell him.
"Not to worry, son. Lots of people travel light. Ticket?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled it out.
I saw he was going the whole way. "Off to New York, are you?"
He seemed to measure my words for some secret meaning. He finally nodded without saying anything.
My mouth was feeling a little dry, but by God, I wanted to crack this tough nut, if I could. "Ever been there? It's a great city. Lots to do. Lotta good people. I was born in Brooklyn, myself. Love getting back there when I can."
When I said Brooklyn, he blinked and almost acted like he was gonna say something.
"You from Brooklyn, maybe?" I asked.
Another stare, and that sad, lost look got stronger, then finally he whispered, "I…. Brooklyn. I want…" Then he jutted his chin out and found his voice. "Yes, I am going to Brooklyn."
It was an odd response, to say the least, and didn't really answer the question, but I let it pass. He acted like maybe he shouldn't be going to Brooklyn, like maybe he was supposed to go somewhere else and thought I might try to stop him. Maybe the kid was AWOL. Hell, I hoped not. I didn't need that kind of trouble on my bus. "You sure about that, kid?"
His eyes hardened. "Brooklyn."
I tried my best to look absolutely harmless. "Well, good luck to you when you get there. You got family there? Maybe I might know 'em. What's your name?" In case the MP's show up…
And just that quick, panic flickered in his eyes. "My name…" But then his voice trailed off, and he stared into space like he was trying to hunt it down but it kept getting away from him. I had a fleeting thought he might be high on something, but his eyes didn't have that look. No, this poor fellow was a shell-shocked soldier, I'd bet my last dollar on it. Probably discharged what we called Section 8 back then. I decided then and there I wanted him in the seat behind mine, so I could keep an eye on him and make sure other passengers didn't pester him. And to make sure he didn't pester them.
I waited another minute, to see if he could find his name.
"S-steve?" he finally said. He frowned like the name wasn't the right fit.
"Good to meetcha, Steve from Brooklyn," I said. I wanted to pat his shoulder, he seemed that dazed and troubled, but there was still that element of the killer mixed in with the battle-fatigued ex-soldier, so I temporarily dropped the attempt to get to know him and simply punched a hole in his ticket. "Tell you what, Steve, take the seat right behind me. You're a long way from Brooklyn, and it might be nice to have someone to talk to about home." I handed him the ticket. "Okay, there you go. You're with me to the end of the line, pal."
He took the ticket in his hand and stared at it without moving. If anything, he turned even more pale. He stood stone-still, like he was having some kind of paralytic fit. I wasn't even sure he was breathing. I dared to put a hand on his right shoulder; the muscles were tighter than bow strings. "Son? Are you all right?"
He drew a sharp, hitching breath. Giving me a stricken look like some damned kicked puppy, he crumpled the ticket in a trembling hand and shoved it in a pocket. He shrugged off my hand and stumbled up the steps to collapse in the seat behind mine. I coulda swore there were tears in his eyes.
I shook my head, wondering what his story was and also wondering what the day would hold with such an odd duck riding behind me, but then I got busy ushering the last stragglers into the bus and couldn't give him much more thought beyond steering the last passengers to seats well away from his. Luckily the bus wasn't that full, so it wasn't hard to give him space. Finally, with the last suitcase stowed and the clock ticking toward departure time, I did my walk-around to check the tires and make sure the cargo doors were latched, then I hauled myself up the steps and sat down. As I buckled my seat belt, I glanced at him in the long rectangular mirror that lets me watch the passengers. He was sitting quietly enough, staring into some middle distance between his window and the horizon. Thousand-yard stare, they call it. His lips moved a little and I heard him whisper, "Brooklyn." He put his hand to his forehead and leaned forward over his lap, like he had a headache. "Brooklyn…."
I waited, my hand hovering over the seat belt buckle in case he started in on some kind of nutty flashback tear thinking I was the Viet Cong, but he didn't do anything else. Just sat hunched forward, his fingers digging into his hair, whispering the city name over and over. I ain't ashamed to say that it tore at my heart. I wanted to say something, but that damned clock was ticking, and passengers were waiting down the line. I couldn't delay. I shut the door and rammed the old gal into gear and rolled forward. I glanced back one more time and he was sitting up, his face turned toward the side window. He still looked like he'd just lost his best friend, but at least his whispering seemed to have stopped.
Funny customer, Steve, and not Carol Burnett and Tim Conway funny. Aside from those tortured whispers, he never said another word to me or anyone else, all the way to New York. Didn't even look at me when I offered him part of my sandwich. Just stared out the window, looking empty and lost. When I pulled into the station at New York, he got off and then turned to give me one last long, sad look before he melted into the crowd.
I never saw him again, and all these years later, I still wonder what happened to that kid from Brooklyn.
A/N: Bucky Barnes isn't from Brooklyn in the comic book canon. He was born in Indiana, not that he remembers that at this point in his story. But still, some fragment of memory drove him to travel to New York when he went rogue, and I like to think it was whatever fractured piece of memory he had left of Steve Rogers, who, of course, was from Brooklyn. In the movies, he and Steve grew up together in Brooklyn. So take what you will from the title… it fits both 'verses.
Another note on details: in the comic book, Bucky's carrying a duffle bag before boarding the train, but appears to no longer have it when he debarks the bus in New York City. There's a suitcase between him and the man beside him in the security camera photo, but it's unclear who's actually carrying it. For the purposes of this little ficlet, I'm assuming it belongs to the other man and not Bucky and that somewhere along the way, he lost or misplaced his bag.