The journal helped. He wrote down everything he could remember. Even the things he didn't wish to.
Bucky's memories came back in bits and pieces. The Captain America exhibit at the Air and Space Museum had helped trigger some. Mostly the war years. The blurb about him on the display had said he was from Brooklyn.
He laid low for a while; day laboring for cash and staying nights in rundown motels. No one cared who you were or where you came from if you could lift heavy things and do menial work without complaint. He knew he eventually had to walk through his old neighborhood, but Captain America (Steve?) – Steve would look for him there. So he took the long way back, from West Virginia, looping northeasterly through Pennsylvania and upstate New York before heading back south through Connecticut before getting on the Metro North and heading into the city.
It took him a few days to get his bearings. The Brooklyn he knew had vanished. Eventually though, Bucky found their old stomping grounds. At first he couldn't understand why so many memories involved stopping larger boys from beating up a scrawny one. He had seen the exhibit, but had a difficult time reconciling the man he fought and that history memorialized with the boy he knew.
It was surprisingly easy to blend into this new Brooklyn. Shabbily dressed twenty-whatevers who sat in coffee shops while scribbling in notebooks were a dime a dozen.
He was passing another alley when a car honked at a delivery biker. Unlike his previous memories of Steve getting beat down and standing back up, this one was of a girl. She'd had soft lips. He closed his eyes and leaned against the brick wall. A giggle and a gasp danced across his memory. He thought he heard someone moan then whisper "Bucky." His eyes snapped open and assessed the area. No one was paying any attention to him. No one was pretending to not pay attention to him. He needed to write this down before the memories vanished back into the tangled mess that was his mind.
With the aid of a cup of strong black coffee (at least something had improved with time), he began recording what he remembered by the alley. As he wrote, more memories came. A girl in pigtails. A white confirmation dress. Being yessed at for flicking a girl's ear in class. Soft lips. A giggle. A gasp. A moan. "Bucky." A sigh. Angry letters from home.
A child.
He was a father. His pen froze. Shock radiated through his system.
Did Steve know? No. Yes. Steve knew? Steve knew. Bea. She had written. Steve had written.
Bonnie.
His daughter's name was Bonnie.
Should he look her up? Did he want to look her up? Was she still alive? Did he mean Bea or Bonnie? Both?
He decided to table it. They were likely being watched by SHEILD/Hydra/whichever. Bucky left Brooklyn that day and headed to Port Newark. He was able to trade work for free room, board, and passage on a cargo ship headed to Morocco with a Polish captain who declined to ask many questions. Free labor was free labor.
He thought about crossing directly into Spain or Portugal, but it would be too difficult to hide his tell-tale arm in Western Europe. So he worked his way around the Mediterranean, from freighter to freighter. Yugoslavia would be a good place to get lost in.
Wait. No. That was wrong. Yugoslavia didn't exist anymore. Sometimes he thought shout slamming his head against the iron girders of the cargo hold. Maybe if he hit his head hard enough his brain would unscramble. But that would draw too much attention.
In the middle of the night, he hopped off his latest freighter and made his way to a Croatian tourist beach. The back door of a clothing shop didn't have a lock (or rather didn't have a lock that could withstand a forceful twist of the door knob). He left cash on the counter in exchange for the clothing he took. Part of him hoped he left enough. The bills were in a few different currencies and he didn't exactly memorize the current exchange rate. He made a mental note to exchange his cash for Euros and Kuna. Then he made a note in his journal to exchange his cash for Euros and Kuna.
It was difficult to find day labor jobs as he worked his way through the country. However, he discovered that translators were frequently needed and if he picked the pockets of a few drunken Australians every now and then, well… at least it didn't kill any one.
It was in an internet café near the Croatia-Hungary-Serbia border when a cocktail of guilt and curiosity led him to look up his daughter… after masking his search through a few different IP addresses.
The first result was Bea's obituary. The photo. He remembered that Steve had taken it. That summer had been sweltering.
Bonnie had children. Of course she did. James, Steven, and Sarah. Why didn't it occur to him that he might be a grandfather? Yes, he was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that he was a father, but math Bucky. Cripes. He was too old for this. All of it.
His lips twitched a bit. Almost as if he thought about smiling for a hint of a second. Bonnie Barnes married John Carhill in 1971. She was a teacher. Must have inherited Bea's brains. His son in law sounded like a bore. An accountant? Too late now, Bucky.
At least his grandchildren took after him. Was that a good thing? No wait. That's bad. Is it? Considering his namesake was a photojournalist and Steve's was a soldier (OF COURSE Steve's would be a soldier. It's like that name is cursed. Blessed? No, cursed. Maybe both.), he expected his daughter would probably be bald from pulling her hair out due to stress. He studied their photographs. Beyond general build, he couldn't see himself in them. Plenty of Bea, that's for sure. But the girl. Sarah. She was his. She was trouble. From the way she smirked in pictures on social media he could tell that she had inherited Bea's brains and his bravado.
He had bravado? Oh yes. Maybe he should write this down? Yes. He should definitely write his memories down. But later when he was alone in his room at the Hostel he was currently working. He should definitely be alone for those memories. Had he really considered making it with Bea in an alley? He was a dog. Had been a dog. What had Bea ever seen in him?
He shook his head and refocused on his family. Sarah was a ballerina. A damn good one too if her resume was anything to go by. He remembered going a Bolshoi performance once. Granted, he had been there to assassinate some official. He should write that down. He'd enjoyed the parts of the performance he had seen before he stabbed the official and on his way out of the theater. Had he stabbed the official? Or had he garroted the official? Had he killed two different politicians at different Bolshoi performances? He really needed to write this down.
Bucky looked at the clock on the monitor. He'd been online too long. Shit. Hungary and Serbia were out. He mentally plotted a new route. South to Bosnia-Herzegovina and Montenegro then cut east into Serbia and Bulgaria. From there, he could work on freighters again in the Black Sea.
First thing's first, though. He had some memories to write down.