Ch. 4

Bucky made sure that he never stayed more than a week in any one place, in any one town. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Hydra was after him, coming to claim him. He wasn't going to let that happen. He wasn't going to become that thing again. He could feel him, the Winter Soldier, in the back of his brain, buzzing about, telling Bucky to be careful, telling Bucky that they were going to get him, strap him down and wipe him again and again until there was nothing left.

And Bucky knew he was right.

So, Bucky lived on the fringes of society. He didn't wash his face or hands, rarely bathed or showered. He lived in homeless encampments in the worst parts of cities, filthy places filled with rats and lice, swimming in addiction and disease. For a while, he tried sleeping by himself, far from others, in barns or under bridges, but he found that it attracted unwanted attention. For some reason, people who were moved to pity or willing to try to help an individual seemed to turn a blind eye to a large group of people down on their luck.

He ate from dumpsters, from food banks, from wherever he could. He had lived through The Great Depression; he was no stranger to not knowing where his next meal was coming from. He was always hungry, though, a persistent gnawing in his gut, an ache that never seemed to abate; the serum that gave him strength also demanded an enormous amount of fuel.

During the day, he'd find a local library and read for hours. He avoided the internet, mostly. He knew that too many searches on one particular topic or another would alert his former captors. But, books, magazines, newspapers were all fair game. He read about the past. He read about the present. He tried to fill in any gaps in his recovering memories. He read about himself. He read about Steve. He read about S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra and senate hearings and coverups.

He kept to himself. He never spoke. Not once. Not in the entire six months since D.C. He didn't speak because he remembered. He remembered telling Pierce that he knew Steve. That he knew the man on the bridge. And because of what he said, they had wiped him again and sent him out to kill his best friend.

And, he nearly did.

Bucky wasn't going to let that happen again.

So, he was silent.

It was remarkably easy to be invisible when you're silent. He travelled from town to town, city to city, hopping on passing freight trains. There were no records of his journeys. No ticket sales, no train agents to remember him. No way to follow him, no way to trace him. He knew about surveillance cameras and made sure to always avoid them, twisting out of view when necessary. He was a ghost, floating through life, leaving no mark on the world.

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Bucky only got involved with other people twice during the entire time he was gone. The first time, a group of young punks were circling an older homeless woman on a deserted street one afternoon. She was pushing a shopping cart full of all of her worldly possessions and they followed her, taunting her. Soon, they stopped her cart and began to circle her, saying horrible, cruel things to the poor woman as she began to sob, hot tears streaming down her dirty face.

Bucky saw what was happening. It killed him to see it. He wanted to stop them immediately. But the Winter Soldier cautioned against it.

They'll find you. You know they will. If you cause a scene . . . if you attract attention . . . they'll find you and take you back. Do you want to go back? What will they do to you when you go back? How much more blood will you soak your hands in? How many more lives will you take? They'll erase every last bit of you. No more Bucky. Just a shell. Just a machine. Bucky could hear the vicious whispers playing again and again in his brain.

But finally, he could take what he was watching no longer and he descended on the menacing group of ruffians. In less than a minute, they were all groaning on the ground.

He left town within the hour.

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The second time Bucky got involved was late one night in some nameless, sprawling city. Nighttime was the worst for Bucky. It meant that the nightmares would come. They would come and torment him. They would come and eat away at the precarious hold on his sanity, on his reasoning. Most nights he walked the city until he was completely exhausted. Exhaustion meant that sleep came quicker. Some nights, if he was really, really lucky, exhaustion meant that he wouldn't dream at all.

So, he'd walk. For miles and miles. Thanks to his programming, he'd map out the city in his brain, so he'd never get lost and he'd end up back with the rest of the desperate people he'd find, and huddle on the cold concrete on a piece of soiled cardboard, pulling his ripped hoodie around him.

One night, he saw a young woman take a shortcut into an alleyway across the street. The two burly men who were walking in front of him saw it, too. One of them looked at the other, elbowing his friend in the ribs. "Oh, this is going to be too easy. We're about to have ourselves a little fun."

Without thinking, ignoring the frantic screams of the Winter Soldier in his head, Bucky followed the pair into the alleyway where they had cornered the woman, telling her about all the vile things they were going to do to her.

Bucky came up behind them and briefly closed his eyes, letting his mind go blank, allowing the Winter Soldier take over. He saw what he was doing, but he couldn't feel anything. No pain, no remorse, no emotion at all. His body was on automatic, following the programming that had been imprinted in his brain. When he left the two men a few minutes later, they were a pile of broken bones, jagged cuts, and bruises, screaming for their mothers, crying out in sheer agony.

He was gone before the young lady had a chance to thank him.

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Bucky's memories came back to him in fits and starts. One moment, he'd remember throttling the life out of a target, the man's large hands uselessly clawing at him, tears streaming down the target's reddened, sweaty face. The next moment, he'd remember being a kid and playing stickball with Steve in the middle of the street, throwing the ball nice and easy for him, but not so he'd notice.

Some memories made him smile. He could almost taste the cinnamon in his mom's apple pie, almost taste the caramelized sugar on the crust. He could almost feel the warmth of it on his tongue as he snuck a bite while it was supposed to be cooling on the window sill.

Some memories were so horrific that he'd double over and retch again and again. He'd find a corner and curl up, closing his eyes tightly, trying to ride out the waves of panic and anguish.

Ever since D.C., his memories came steadily back to him, the years of being used by Hydra, the years of being made into an emotionless assassin, woodenly killing again and again. He tried to focus on his time before. Before he joined the Army. When he and Steve were the best of friends. When he had a family. When people loved him.

Before he killed.

One day, he tried to count up every single life he had taken. The worst thing was, it was impossible. In D.C. alone, how many fatal car accidents had he caused? How many stray bullets had struck down innocent bystanders? Even if he could one day remember all of his targets' names, see their faces once again, he knew that there had to be dozens more.

Collateral damage. Such a clean phrase for such a dirty thing.

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It was New Year's morning. Steve had counted down the New Year the night before with Stacy over Skype, blowing each other fervent kisses through the webcam. It had been midnight in New York and only nine p.m. in L.A.

Steve tried to watch the nightly news; the reception was so bad on the hotel T.V. that he could barely make out what was happening. It was disheartening. There never seemed to be anything good, just more war and destruction.

He was in bed by ten that night. The mattress was too soft and it took him nearly an hour to fall asleep after tossing back and forth. Around midnight, he woke up and heard a few rowdy revelers in the hotel room next to him, but he just turned over and went back to sleep.

He woke up before six. He looked around the dingy hotel room, wincing at its shabbiness. He didn't mind; Steve had grown up poor and in rougher conditions than this, but he felt bad for Sam in the next room over. At the beginning of their search for Bucky, they had stayed in decent hotels, nothing fancy, but they were clean and comfortable.

But Steve's funds were rapidly dwindling.

He had no paycheck from S.H.I.E.L.D. and the merchandising money was drying up, too. Not many kids wanted Captain America dolls anymore it seemed. It was amazing how quickly the public had turned on him, had vilified his actions. He knew that he had his share of supporters, but a lot of people felt like he abandoned them when he disappeared and went to look for Bucky.

Steve and Stacy's financial situation was so dire that it was lucky that they owned their apartment or Stacy probably would have had to move back in with Monica. Six months of hotel rooms and three meals a day eaten in diners or fast food restaurants had taken their toll on their bank account. Sam had offered to pay his own way, but Steve wouldn't let him. It was bad enough that Sam gave up six months of his life to search for Bucky with him, he shouldn't have to pay for it, too.

Steve knew that he could always ask Tony for money. He'd give it to Steve readily, without even a second thought. A few thousand dollars was pocket change from him. But, Steve couldn't bring himself to do it. It stung his pride too much that he wasn't providing for himself and his wife.

The last few Skype calls to Stacy had been tense. She had refused to pay the money to fly out to see her parents at Christmas, choosing to make the eleven hour drive to their Michigan home by borrowing one of Tony's cars. Steve knew that things were tight, but it killed him to see how exhausted she was after the trip. They had argued and made up, but the underlying tension was still there, still buzzing under the surface.

He got up and stretched. He looked back at his empty bed and tried to imagine Stacy, curled up like a cat, burrowing under the covers, her hair splayed across the pillow. They only had three weeks as husband and wife and it hadn't been enough. Not nearly enough.

Steve missed his wife so much it was like a constant pain, an ache in his chest. One more week and no matter what, he was going back to her. He hated the thought of giving up on his search for Bucky, but he needed to be with his wife. He needed to see her again. He needed to hold her again.

Steve walked to the dingy bathroom and washed his face. He dressed quickly, donning a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved henley shirt. He had to admit, he could get used to the Los Angeles weather. It was January first and the predicted high for the day was sixty degrees.

He briefly thought of knocking on Sam's door for their usual morning run, but Sam had been out late the night before and he didn't want to wake him. Sam had tried to get Steve to go out and enjoy New Year's Eve, but the truth was that Steve had no interest in going to a club or a bar until the wee hours of the morning.

Just as Steve began to descend the concrete steps that connected the second floor of the hotel to the parking lot below, Sam's door opened.

"You taking off without me?" Sam asked in a friendly tone as he peeked his head out of the doorway.

"Sorry, I didn't want to bother you. I didn't hear you come back last night," Steve said, turning around and giving Sam a grin.

"I got back right after midnight. Turns out, I wasn't much for the club scene around here. Let me get dressed and I'll join you."

"That'd be great," Steve said, sitting on the top step to wait for Sam.

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Ten minutes later, they were starting off on an easy jog together. Steve could have run circles around Sam, but he kept to his friend's pace, starting off slow and gradually working up to about eight or nine miles an hour. They rarely talked on their runs and Steve enjoyed the relaxed companionship. He didn't know how he would have gotten this far without Sam there by his side. Steve's technological skills had improved drastically in the last two years, but Sam still blew him out of the water. He was constantly thinking of new ways to find Bucky and Steve was grateful for his help.

"After breakfast, I thought after this we could check out Skid Row. It's a needle in a haystack, I know, but I saw someone working for one of the missions tweet about a guy with a metal arm down there. It'd be worth checking out," Sam offered.

"Yeah, that sounds good," Steve agreed half-heartedly. There had so many false leads, so many times they just missed Bucky, he didn't dare get his hopes up.

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They got to Skid Row around eight in the morning. Some of the inhabitants were still sleeping, some were already awake. Sam parked the car they had rented, clicking the automatic lock once they'd gotten out. "There are thousands of homeless in this area. The tweet I saw mentioned Sixth Street. I figure you go one way, I'll go the other. See what we can find. Hopefully, help a few people out."

Steve nodded. Unfortunately, the days when he could afford to donate thousands of dollars to homeless shelters were long over with. However, he and Sam always brought food with them whenever they searched for Bucky, handing it out to the people they encountered on the way.

He sighed as he looked that city block spread out in front of him. Dozens of people were lying on the sidewalk, huddled together, one after another, their backs against a chain-link fence topped with razor barb wire.

Steve went to them, one by one, handing each person he passed a bottle of juice, some fruit, a bagel and a peanut butter sandwich. It wasn't enough, he knew, not nearly enough. But, it was all he could do at the moment.

He nearly passed Bucky by. He didn't look like a person at all, at first, just a collection of grimy blankets and rags. Then, Bucky shifted slightly and Steve realized that there was a person burrowed underneath. He leaned down to drop off the food, his eyes watering at the stench. He realized it was a man, a younger one with long, dark hair. Steve crouched down, peering closer. The man wore long sleeves and gloves, but as he moved, Steve saw a glint of metal on his left wrist.

"Bucky? Is that you?"

The man stirred, slowly taking the blankets off of himself. Then, Steve saw his face and relief flooded his system. "Bucky, it's me, Steve."

Bucky began to smile and the tension that had wracked his body began to ease.

"It's going to be okay, Bucky. I'm going to take you home. You're going to be okay."

Bucky slowly sat up. It broke Steve's heart to see his friend, disheveled and filthy. Steve sat down on the concrete in front of Bucky, facing his friend and handing him the food and juice. "Here, you should eat something. I'm always starving. That serum. Makes me ravenous."

Bucky nodded and took the food, downing the entire bottle of juice in one long gulp and nearly swallowing the bagel whole. He ate the rest of the food much more slowly, savoring each bite. Steve couldn't wait to get Bucky out of there. He started to grin. They'd be back to New York that night, if he could swing it. He'd call Stark and ask for the jet. He was sure that Bucky didn't have any I.D., so flying commercial was out of the question. Steve spent several minutes, watching his friend eat, planning out all the details for the trip home.

Then, Steve heard the unmistakable sound of dozens of guns cocking behind him.

"Agent Rogers, this is S.H.I.E.L.D. We are authorized to take Sergeant Barnes into custody. Please stand down," a male voice said over a bullhorn.

Bucky's eyes widened, panic and betrayal evident on his face.

Steve's stomach clenched. They had followed him. Probably ever since he left Fury's base. And he had led them straight to Bucky. "I didn't know, Bucky. They didn't tell me. I'm not going to let them take you. I'm going to keep you safe," he said firmly.

"Stand down, Agent Rogers," the head agent ordered. "We need to take the prisoner into custody."

"That's not going to happen. He's coming with me. You aren't going anywhere with him," Steve said, gritting his teeth as he stood and turned around to face them. He looked at the dozens of S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives, all pointing their guns at him and Bucky. He began to calculate the best way to take them down and get Bucky out of there.

"This is your last warning, Agent Rogers. We are authorized to use force. That man is a known assassin."

Steve shook his head. "You're going to have to go through me."

All of a sudden, a small object was tossed in front of him and Steve's heart sank as he recognized it.

Without a second thought, Steve jumped on the grenade, using his body to cover the device.

He could hear Bucky scream, "No!", just before his world went black.

Author's Note-

1. If you haven't gotten a chance to already, please check out my other Captain America story "Information". I'd love to know what you think.

2. On tumblr, I've seen quite a few posts about Bucky roaming the streets and saving people in danger and they were the inspiration for Bucky indulging in those two scenes of vigilante justice.