Bucky heads to Europe. Some, okay a lot of 'what if' and supposition used. All errors are my own and unintentional. This takes place after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier to right before the events of Captain America: Civil War. Would love to hear what you think.
Dear Steve,
It's amazing what a thick roll of cash can do when you need to get out of town in a hurry.
In the right hands it can work miracles.
I saw the light of pure greed in his eyes.
I saw how he looked at me at first.
The speculation.
How did I get that amount of money?
What did I do?
What was I running from?
Or more to the point, who.
Wondering if I'm worth the trouble.
But I guess the lure of it made the decision for him
Because he took me on.
No questions asked.
No request to see papers.
Just a nod of his head. I was in.
Boarding the boat.
Weather beaten. Old. Seen a few storms in its lifetime.
I can relate.
He showed me to a bunk. Introduced me to the other guys.
Five of them
I nodded. Didn't speak.
Head down. Avoid attention.
Old habits die hard.
But I'm not stupid.
I saw the expressions on their faces.
They're curious but at least they don't try to hide it.
I'm the object of speculation. It's natural I suppose.
Because I don't talk unless I'm spoken to first.
Just easier that way. Less complicated.
Let's call it good old paranoia and leave it at that.
Doesn't mean that I have to like it though.
Truthfully, I don't care.
Let them speculate, make up their stories.
I don't plan on sticking around long enough anyway.
Just long enough to get across the ocean. To Europe.
I'm not here to make friends. Work hard. Keep my head down.
It would've been easier to board one of the bigger ships, the freighters.
A dime a dozen. Anonymous
Easier to hide in.
But if HYDRA are looking for me, they would be the first places they'd look.
And I liked the look of this one more.
Scoped it out for a day or two. Observed the crew. Did my homework.
Maybe I'll be less anonymous here. Who knows?
But by the time anyone makes the connection to who I am, who I was?
I'll be long gone.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
I'm surprised at how quick it took me to get used to travelling by sea.
The constant rolling and rocking of the boat as it surfs each crest and dip of the waves.
I like it, like the rhythm.
A couple of the other guys spent the first day or so confined to their bunks.
Arms wrapped around their bellies. Groaning. Dry heaving. Puking into buckets.
The acid sour smell of vomit hanging in the thick stale air.
They're pale. Sweaty. Convinced they're going to die.
They might feel like it but they won't.
I find the rocking and rolling motions strangely soothing.
Even during those rougher times.
I don't think I was always like this though.
Once upon a time I was like them.
Huddled on the floor of some long forgotten steamship.
Also heading to Europe.
Thinking I was going to die before I even set foot on foreign soil.
It's funny the things that keep coming back to me.
I didn't die. Felt like it but I didn't.
That happened later on in the story.
Apparently.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
I don't get much of a chance to write in this thing these days.
I'm doing okay. I think.
It's hard work. Back breaking almost.
Constantly soaked by huge waves washing over me and the crew
Coldly drenching and unforgiving.
Determined to send us overboard
Into the grey churning rage.
The moment we let our guards down.
We try not to. We work together in silent unspoken tandem
But a couple of times Mother Nature almost succeeded in her mission.
I quickly learned to hang onto the nearest solid object, to brace and wait it out.
One of the deckhands all but managed to get swept over.
He'd have gone over for sure if I hadn't grabbed onto him and held on.
With my left hand. My left arm.
The roar of the ocean too loud for anyone to hear the cybernetics in that arm protesting.
Just the kid's white soaking wet face staring up at me in abject terror.
Eyes wide. Mouth gaping.
Certain he was going to meet his maker.
Don't let go.
The message was clear on his face as I braced and hauled him back over the side and onto the deck again.
Like he weighed nothing and in truth he didn't.
Don't let go.
I didn't but I saw the look in his eyes at how easily I pulled back up and over, landing beside me.
No time to process it as his knees gave and he sank to the floor.
Bracing again as another enormous wave doused us.
I dropped down beside him, my left arm around his shoulders.
And we waited.
The wind howling around us, through us.
Hearts pounding in our chest.
Adrenaline in full flow.
Alternating between marvelling at the force of Mother Nature
And praying She didn't decide to take us after all.
The kid's name was Robert. Bobby.
He was barely twenty one
Saving to get married.
Already a dad to a two year old kid. A son.
Half of me thought a kid at his age was far too young
The other half had to admire his spirit. To want to provide for his family
But this? Doing this job? How close he'd come to going overboard like that?
Surely there are safer, easier ways to make some money?
Then I remembered who I was. What I'd done.
Who am I to judge?
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
It took a couple of weeks to get to my first destination.
Northern Scotland. Aberdeen to be exact.
An envelope thick with cash pushed into my hand.
A look of something, I'm not quite sure what, maybe suspicion from the captain.
I don't think I caused any trouble.
I worked so hard that often I'd just faceplant onto my bunk still in my clothes
Into a blessed deep and dark exhausted sleep. No nightmares. No screaming.
At least I don't think so. Nobody said anything
And I was always in the same place when I woke up again which was a relief.
Though the crew quickly learned not to wake me up suddenly.
The first time was…
Well put it this way, I had a hand around the guy's throat, the other hand raised in a fist before my eyes were properly open.
And all he'd done was shake my shoulder to wake me up.
To tell me it was time to get up. Go to work.
And I'd scared him half to death.
He kept out of my way after that.
They all did, apart from Bobby.
He decided that he liked me. Because I'd saved his life
He'd designated me as his friend
My silence didn't seem to put him off.
Perhaps he thought he felt safe beside me. That I wouldn't let him be washed over again.
It didn't seem to bother him that I wasn't much of a talker.
I'm not much of anything it would seem.
So now I'm in Scotland.
And a step closer to Europe.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
Turns out those stories about me are true.
I can be like a ghost when I want to be
And I'm good at it.
First I hitched a ride out of Aberdeen, down the East coast and over the border into England.
High up. I can see over the roofs of most other vehicles as the lorry I'm a passenger in eats up the miles with effortless ease.
It stops the curious glances of other drivers.
And I avoid being recognised.
Do they know who I am? What I've done?
Maybe not but maybe they do.
Now is not the time for me to let down my guard
So instead I watch. Observe.
Pay attention when to anyone around me it looks like I'm not.
Paying attention that is.
Watching the landscape roll and flatten and rise again.
The grey blur of the ocean to my left. I can almost smell it.
Makes me think of Bobby and the fishing trawler that had seen better days.
That by the grace of God had made it across the ocean on a wing and a prayer.
I look like I'm a million miles away.
But I know exactly how many vehicles are in front, to my left or to my right.
Behind even.
I have exit strategies in my head.
Every time the lorry slows, I'm scoping out my surroundings.
Looking for a threat.
How to get out of here in an emergency. Exits. Entrances. Routes.
Always with a plan. Always prepared.
Trusting my gut.
It hasn't let me down so far.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
My newest friend begins as the chatty sort. His soft brogue washing over me.
He speaks in quicksilver fast sentences. I maybe understand three words out of five and figure out the rest.
He did tell me his name but I don't remember it. Seems to be a habit.
He knows me as Jim. I'm pretty sure no one's called me that ever but it'll do for now.
After a while he stops talking, seems to realise that I'd rather not, that I'm not one to share stories or confidences.
He means well I suppose but it's too much for me. Too exhausting.
And there's the trust issues, they're always there.
Doesn't matter who it is.
Loose lips and all of that.
So there's just a radio playing for company.
Music. News. For the most part it just washes over me. Ignored.
Except for talk radio, now there's a trip and a half
People calling in to air opinions that are enough to make my hair stand on end.
And I worked for HYDRA.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
I made it. I'm in Europe.
Slid in like the ghost I'm supposed to be.
I still feel that itch between my shoulders though.
I never let my guard down.
It'll only take one time, one moment of careless behaviour
And it will all be over.
But the sense of freedom.
My head begins to clear. Memories come back to me.
Or at least I think they are. I like to think that they are
But they're hazy, disjointed, out of context.
So I write them down.
Initially I don't know why but I figure maybe one day I can show them to you
See if they make sense to you because right now they don't make a damned lick of sense to me.
Who's Dot? Dottie? Delores? Red hair, lively eyes, a knowing smile that made her eyes sparkle.
Like she knows the secrets of the universe.
Coney Island. A freezer truck. Hot dogs?
I can hear jolly mechanical music playing.
Laughter.
I can smell popcorn, cotton candy.
Screams that when I first heard them made me jump, heart thumping but eventually I realised they're not screams of terror, not real terror anyway. There's a difference.
No, these were ones of excitement, accompanied by a swooping pitching feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Breathless laughter afterwards.
A rollercoaster.
Did you throw up?
A hurricane? Why am I remembering a hurricane? What the hell is that all about?
I write these memories down and stare at the words as if doing that will unlock all of their secrets.
I hope they're memories. They feel like good ones.
Even the throwing up.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
It's been a little while since I last wrote to you.
Been moving around.
Various countries. Cities. Towns.
Places to stay.
Flea riddled motels that cost a handful of crumpled bills to rent.
Anonymous. Bleak. Quiet.
Not before I've scoped out my surroundings. Noted where the entrances and exits are.
Create exit strategies. Escape plans.
Always be prepared.
I'm never complacent.
I know HYDRA attack quick and without drawing attention to themselves so I'm always prepared, always ready. Just in case.
But these places are so neglected, so dilapidated that no one comes near.
I haven't noticed any familiar faces. Not that I stay around long enough to find out.
I read the reports of the hearings into how HYDRA infiltrated all aspects of SHIELD.
They seem to think it's all over, that the good guys won. That you beat them.
Don't believe them. They'll be back. They always come back.
Cut off one head. Pay attention to that because if you don't pay close enough attention, they will rise again.
I know all of their secrets.
I know where all their bases are here.
I've never forgotten those locations.
Mind wiping erases the surface memories but not the ones more deeply rooted.
They work their way to the surface eventually.
I'm starting to realise that. I'm starting to remember more.
About my life before and during.
They're disjointed, out of focus but they're there.
So I visit their secret bases.
Some are empty, long abandoned. Cold and resonant.
Others still in operation, the worker ants prodigious and secretive.
They were in such a panic when they discovered that their operations had been exposed to the light.
They scuttled like bugs back into the darkness but they weren't quick enough for me.
I go in. They don't see me coming. They never do. You'd think that they would, right?
But no. I always catch them by surprise.
And I make sure that I don't leave any traces of their hideouts, their bases when I leave. When I'm done.
I burn them all down to the ground.
Ash and dust, the smell of smoke lingering in the air.
The ghost.
Silent. Evasive. In and out.
Take the money, download their secrets.
An insurance policy.
Blow the place to kingdom come when I achieve my objective.
Complete my mission.
There's nothing left by the time I'm done with them.
I wonder if you've joined the dots yet.
Time will tell.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
I sat in a tiny little bar in a little no name place in Poland
So tiny that it's not even a name on the map
And watched a country rise thousands of feet up into the sky.
A tiny little country but a country all the same.
Sokovia
All because of Ultron. Oh yeah, I've heard of him too.
I watched the drama unfold on an ancient tiny black and white television
The picture rolling, twitching and hissing.
I saw you. All red white and blue.
Or at least I assumed you were all red white and blue.
Kinda hard to see on a black and white tv screen.
Doing what you're best at; saving people, looking after those less fortunate than yourself.
Even before all of this Cap stuff, you always saw the good in people.
Always were willing to do the right thing. No matter the cost.
And always doing the right thing was what got you this gig in the first place.
You couldn't sit idly by then and you still can't now it would seem.
You're in Europe. Closer than ever. I wonder if you realise it yet.
Are you looking for me?
I feel the back of my neck itch a little in warning.
Time to get going I think. Time to move on.
I'm not ready to face you again just yet.
Don't know if I ever will be.
I'm not one of those you think you can save
But it won't stop you from trying, I guess.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
Bucharest.
It's the longest I've stayed anywhere since New York.
Previously I'd stick around for a day or two, a week at most before moving on to my next destination.
This place is nothing special. None of them really are.
They're just places for me to hide out. To rest. Recharge. Get my bearings.
It's a couple of rooms in a building that's been earmarked for demolition for years.
Most of the apartments in this bare brutalist place are empty.
Windows boarded up, doors missing. Graffiti splattered everywhere.
Some are being used by people who have no connection to society, no roots; addicts, homeless.
Drifting from one place to the next.
So nobody pays attention and that suits me just fine.
They don't notice when I cover the windows with pages from newspapers.
I don't need anyone snooping.
They don't notice when I fix the lock on the front door.
No surprises. I don't like surprises of any kind.
They don't notice that I've created a space to call my own.
Like I've said before, it's nothing special but it's mine.
A saggy two seater couch, a small table that's seen better days.
Tiny kitchenette, home-made shelving. Salvaged concrete blocks.
They fit in the with style of the apartment block somehow.
A thin double sized mattress beneath the covered over window, a sleeping bag to keep me warm.
Things I've rescued from here and there, hauled up to my place and stored in here with a sense of achievement.
Because they're mine.
But most of all I like the silence. It's soothing. I can think here.
And I can also listen out for anyone approaching.
Having enhanced hearing is a benefit. I'm sure you feel the same.
So I begin to settle a little bit.
Though as always I have exit strategies and an escape plan in place.
I can be out of here and gone between you taking one breath and another.
And no one will be able to stop me.
I've been here for a few weeks now.
I live my life quietly, in the shadows.
I feel like I can breathe easier here as I become familiar with my new surroundings.
You cross my mind regularly as I try to make sense of new emerging memories.
Of my role in this new world.
What lies ahead for me.
What part you'll play in it because I have a feeling that you will one day.
But for now, I live this life, if that's what you can call it.
I live this life always watchful, always more than a little bit suspicious.
Trying to figure this new world out.
There's so much to learn and to understand.
And I wait for you to appear.
To come and rescue me again from some kind of prison, real or imagined.
Because you will, you'll try.
Because once upon a time you told me you'd be with me til the end of the line.
And I have a feeling that the story's not yet done.
Bucky.
Epilogue to follow at a later date...