Deciding where to go was hard on your own. With no instructions, no mission, no commander telling you what to do; how was Bucky allegedly going to survive? After years of cryo, memory loss, restraint from the world, and zero contact with humans not treating him like a test subject, he finally felt distress. The Winter Soldier had to make decisions on his own, and he was scared.
Walking through D.C. wasn't so hard for Bucky, he could remember each street he crossed, what he walked by, and who he saw. The only hard part was keeping his broken arm still, and trying to move in a wet leather suit. "Stupid mission…" He was grumbly, mainly because he realized Hydra is destructive; although Bucky would like to believe it's more about the blond who he was supposed to gut. "Nevermind him," he thought to himself, "Let's just get to a hideout."
Settling on breaking into an apartment was a step forward. Despite still breaking the law, at least he didn't kill anybody in the process. After all Bucky still could have gone to the Hydra HQ in D.C., maybe he could have recovered some weapons…food…medicine? "Too bad, I'll just have to go rob a store later."
Buckster was laying on the floor, imagining all the media coverage of him, Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D, Captain America, and anything else that had to do with the awful assignment. He'd rather think about that though, then have flashbacks he didn't understand, and have theories running through his head of which could or could not be true. "Why can't it all come back like a hit to the head," he's hit his head plenty of times, but it never worked. Besides, he can't hit his head right now, the broken arm was killing him. At times like this, the soldier would wish he had two metal arms, but it was never serious; the emotional baggage of one is already pushing the limits.
Bucky could feel a powerful headache on the rise, apparently the arm was just the calm before the storm. Sitting up against the wall he ripped the sleeve from the injury and turned his head from side to side looking for something solid to wrap the arm against. "Fuck…" muttering curse words always seemed to help.