I do not own Captain American anything.
But the digital copies are all mine. Mine, I say!
I Am Machine
How To Be Normal
There really was no purpose to his life. He existed to continue his existence.
And to keep his body away from the governments that sought him, from the monster that was HYDRA.
If he died and his body was found, they could use it to continue their inhuman scientific experiments.
If he died, he would never finish piecing himself together again.
If he died, HYDRA would have won.
And so he continued to live. To breathe. To trudge on.
To search for himself amid the tangled webbing of his mind.
And everyday it become more difficult.
A frightfully fractured understanding of what he had been, what he had done, and the ease with which he could be triggered into a merciless killing machine again, had led to an intense sense of self-perservation for Bucky Barnes.
Which had led to paranoia.
Which had led to a general distrust of any and all members of the human populace.
Which had led to isolation.
Which had led to intense loneliness and waves of deep depression.
He could not be trusted.
They could not be trusted.
He must not be seen, noticed, or found.
Recognized. Involved. Or connected.
It was the only way he felt he could stay safe.
Counting it as necessary for the continued survival of his freedom and the safety of potential HYDRA targets.
As well as something of a penance for the egregious sins he had commited while under the control of a seemingly innocuous set of spoken Russian words.
That somewhere out there in the world, somebody knew. Somebody who wanted him under their control.
And he could not allow that to happen.
Not again.
And so, even though he had metaphorically stepped out of the shadows for a few brief, careful spans of time, he still remained coated in darkness.
And aloof, hovering on the edges of society.
Spending his week in the same routine as he spent every week.
Working his way down the repair list his landlord provided him with.
In exchange for free rent.
Haunting construction sites, touting himself as one of the faceless general day laborers.
Taking walks.
Writing in one of his many precious notebooks.
Procuring food and making hesitant human contact at the open air market.
Finally deciding to brave his apartment building's laundry to wash his clothes instead of the sink.
Boy, Ma sure could've used one of these machines.
". . . clean shirt?"
"Yes, James. Here you go, son."
"Thanks, Ma!"
Phantom smooch on the soft cheek.
Self-conscious fluttering of a dismissive hand.
"Oh, go on now with you."
"Bye, Ma!"
I'm just one person. She was laundering for six.
Keeping his head down, his nose clean.
In short, attempting to live normally.
As normally as someone like him could hope to live.
And still thinking from time to time of . . .
"Carl, hey!"
He hesitated.
This is a bad idea.
I shouldn't be here.
Be known.
To people.
But for some reason, his sneaker-clad feet kept walking across the fresh green grass.
Not some reason.
Because he chose to.
I want to.
I miss people.
Nice people.
"How's it going?"
He thought he nodded.
"Mmm."
And then he held out his offering toward her.
With his left hand.
Offering, instead of pain and death . . .
Always bring something along to a gathering, James. It's polite manners.
Yes, Ma.
"Oh, I love plums! Thank you!"
"It's a warm day," Amelia observed. "Aren't you hot in that jacket, Carl?"
Hot? No, not hot. He was stifling.
The material of the hooded jacket and gloves were breathable enough but he was still sweating.
Well, the parts of him not composed of metal.
"I'm okay."
She studied him more a moment then seemed to take his response at face value and move on.
"More grapes, Simon?"
She held out the container toward him. And the boy diffidently turned his head away from it.
And continued to laser focus his gaze on the grass.
Individual blades of grass, Bucky surmised.
"Maybe later," she conceded, seeming unconcerned by his behavior.
Instead, setting the grapes down between them, within easy reach of the child.
And running a loving hand down along the back of his head in a gentle gesture.
Bucky watched the mother and child carefully.
Wondering. Wanting to ask.
Feeling uncomfortable doing so.
Amelia's eyes were suddenly on him and he drew his gaze away.
"You can ask, you know. It's alright."
Bucky studied the child for a moment.
"Is he . . . okay?"
The woman smiled and once again ran her mother's hand over along the back of the boy's head, down the nape of his neck, and the length of his back.
He did not shy away but he didn't outwardly respond either.
"Yes, he's okay. He's also autistic."
Bucky nodded, mentally filing the word away for further inquiry at a later time.
"He can attend to his own functions. Bathroom, feeding, and stuff like that."
The child seemed to take no notice of them, continuing to focus on the grass blades instead.
"He can understand speech and follow one step directions."
A small hand removed a grape from the container without looking.
"He can read. He doesn't really write."
Popped a grape into an open mouth. And chewed mechanically.
"He's very withdrawn, more so around people he's not used to. Doesn't like being touched or making eye contact, that kind of thing."
"And he has never spoken."
"He does best with routine and familiar things he knows."
She stopped talking and Bucky absorbed her information thoughtfully.
"He goes to a special school four days a week in the mornings. They teach academics but also socialization skills."
Another grape come from the container.
"I don't know why he is the way he is but he's my kid and I love him."
And that was the end of her speech.
Finally he said the only thing he could think of.
"Okay."
Amelia nodded mildly, a small smile painting her face prettily.
"Okay."
And Bucky Barnes found himself smiling back.
I'm really very happy to have some people interested in reading this story, yay!
'Equilibrium' reference there near the beginning. Excellent movie by the way.
Thanks to brigid1318, NightOwl247, and Blue Phoenix 217 for reviewing!
Thanks also to Sassiebone, Jean d, and OnYourLeft107 for adding your support to this story.
You know, I think Bucky may have a touch of PTSD . . .
