Bucky/OC fic set after Civil War but in a sort of alternate timeline where Bucky doesn't go back under.
The first two chapters will be posted simultaneously.
He had wanted to go into hiding on his own, but Steve Rogers wouldn't hear of it.
"Technically, we're both criminals." He'd insisted as they ducked into his newest getaway vehicle to discuss their next move.
"You'll be cleared soon though-"
"Maybe you will be too."
"With all due respect, Steve." Bucky sighed, turning away from his friend to face out of the window, "There's a big difference between forgiving the nation's sweetheart, and forgiving a former assassin."
"I'd appreciate it if going forward, we removed the term 'nation's sweetheart' from play." Steve grimaced. Bucky swivelled back around to face him, with a wry smile.
"Don't lie. You love it."
Steve cleared his throat, suddenly looking quite serious. He gripped Bucky's shoulder in a supportive gesture. "Not if it means I can't help you."
And so it was decided. Romanoff was providing them with the co-ordinates of a series of safe houses they could lay low in, until their legal situation became less murky, at which point either she, or someone she trusted would come and retrieve them from hiding. Or not. There was still a chance Bucky would have to stay gone.
They drove for hours. Steve in the car, Bucky tailing him on a motorbike- Bucky thanked himself for opting to come on a separate vehicle, looking through the dusty back window of Steve's car at the super soldier, crammed into the driver's seat, shoulders hunched and grazing the car door on one side. A clown car, Bucky thought to himself with a small smile. Eventually, the window of the car rolled down and he saw Steve's head poke through.
"This is us!" He yelled over the noise of the wheels on the open road, and indicated with his head that they should take a sharp right.
It was little more than a shed on the side of the road, with a door, once painted red, rusted shut. Bucky flexed his metal fingers and wrenched it open.
"This better be the right place." He grumbled. He stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the light, slowly realising something that made him think about retracting his statement, "Steve. There's only one bed."
His friend chuckled, moving past Bucky, who's eyes were wide with panic, to the small table next to the single bed, sliding it over to reveal a small metal panel with a key pad. He typed in some digits and then crossed the room to where a few floorboards slid back, revealing a hole in the floor, and a metal ladder. He turned and took a few steps down the rungs, until only his head and shoulders were visible.
"Safe house." He smiled. Bucky rolled his eyes at him, and followed.
Their accommodation was basic, a little clinical, but sufficient. They had a small kitchen, a bathroom, and to Bucky's extreme relief; two separate beds big enough to accommodate for the enhanced soldiers.
Steve walked over to a little black table, dusting off imaginary lint with one arm as he set it out in the middle of the room.
"We could play cards here!" he suggested with enough enthusiasm to make Bucky's heart sink.
Hours of solitude, driving along with his own company had buried Bucky deep in his thoughts. Steve had done so much for him, and had risked even more that he felt it was only fair to try and humour him with empty smiles and smart little comments to try and replicate the man they had both left behind in 1945. Although his loyalty to Steve remained, other parts of that person were harder to access. He'd lost his metal arm to Tony Stark, and now sported a new prosthetic, however he couldn't help but feel like the Winter Soldier's metal arm was a good comparison for the man he was today. Somewhat alive, fully functioning, but not able to feel the way he used to.
Being around Steve was difficult for him, he struggled to process humour and compassion the way he knew he was supposed to and he saw the disappointment in his friend's eyes every time he failed to understand a reference to their past lives, or even worse when he knew what Steve was talking about but had changed too much to find it amusing. There was something horrible about looking back on familiar memories with your own, unfamiliar mind.
And then there were times when he wished that, rather than have himself change and revert back to the old Bucky Barnes, Steve could learn to follow the person he was now in the same way that he hopelessly believed in his old friend from Brooklyn. But what he'd really focussed on during that long ride down hopeless roads on his motorcycle was the fact that he had no right to friendship of any sort, as the eyes of those he tortured and killed floated past him. All Bucky really wanted was a release, from all sides of himself, all the competing James Buchanan Barnes' who wanted to take control of his mind, for better or for worse.
"So what do you say Buck?" Steve motioned to the table.
"Uh," He faltered, already seeing budding disappointment in his friend's face "I dunno Steve, we've been driving since last night. Maybe we'd be better of getting some sleep, you know? I know we've reached the safe house but it's best to stay as alert as possible." He sighed, feeling like a cheap Steve Rogers animatronic, parroting his friend's language back at him so that he'd sympathise with his logic.
"Of course. Good call." Steve smiled, and made his way over to his bed, pulling back the covers to settle in, "we can play cards later"
Bucky nodded, and from his sitting position on his own bed he rolled over to face the concrete wall, staring at it for what seemed like an age before he eventually fell into a restless sleep.
Somehow, every time Bucky had a nightmare, he woke up with the taste of blood at the back of his mouth. That was a common feature on his old missions, the Winter Soldier played with knives and specialised in combat- unsurprisingly, his kills weren't always the cleanest. He had butchered his victims and was familiar with the feeling of the odd spurt of blood on his face, which he'd later have to wipe off his lips, or lick from his teeth if he had been grinning- in the calm after the storm. The calm after the kill.
Bucky's stomach lurched and he sat up, grinding his metal fist into his flesh palm. He needed to get out, get some air, before he did something he'd regret. He looked over at Steve who still slept soundly. It was 9:30 in the evening; they'd been asleep for four hours. Bucky shuddered off his horrible dreams and slowly and quietly ascended the ladder. Once he was in the 'façade room' he wandered over to the rusty tap in the gaping wooden counter. He doubted it would even work but when he twisted the tap backwards with a thrust of his wrist, it belched out a murky liquid before running clear. He splashed cold water on his face and straightened up. Time to go.
Back on the road there was little in the way of interest, a spattering of motels and boarded up shop units, buildings made of wooden panels that were cracked and buckling into the ground. A few miles along he saw a roadside bar that, being the only establishment that was open on the entire stretch of road, actually seemed to attract a little bit of buzz. Bucky knew he couldn't get drunk but at the very least, he could go somewhere where everyone else would be. Loud music could drown out the noise in his head, people would be chattering away but not about him, not to him. He could take a break from misery for a night. Maybe even sit with a cold beer in his hand and try and remember the sweet power of intoxication.