Chapter 24: I Knew Him
After stopping at a convenience store for basic supplies—water, hats, sunglasses, and energy bars—they used the facilities and headed to the diner. Bucky was dressed in his tactical gear, with a zipped hoodie to cover the vest and arm.
They'd come to a compromise on weapons. Bucky wanted to carry as many as he could possibly hide on his person, but that would eventually draw the attention of someone with a good eye. That, and limited weapons meant Bucky would be easier to manage if something set him off. He hated thinking that way, but that was the current reality. He was still trying to figure out how much of his friend was in that familiar body.
Bucky agreed to one handgun and a single knife tucked in the vest, beneath the hoodie. The morning was still cool, but the afternoon would likely get too warm for a hoodie, and that might draw attention as well. Maybe. In New York, maybe not.
Hiding behind hats and sunglasses with Bucky stuffing his metal hand in the hoodie's pocket, they found a booth at the back of the diner and stashed their bags on the floor beneath the table. It was the shield that proved the biggest challenge. He didn't have the carrying case for it, and even with the case, it was conspicuous. Without the case, it might as well be a neon sign. He opted to leave it in the basement behind the metal cabinet for now.
Bucky sat rigid, back straight, eyes scanning the environment, stopping a fraction of a second on each person before moving on.
Steve knew he probably looked silly wearing the hat and sunglasses inside, but he risked being recognized if he removed them. Bucky set his on the table but kept the hat on. Fewer people were likely to recognize him—except Hydra.
A waitress with graying hair and deep smile lines around her mouth and eyes walked up, pad in hand. "Can I get you started with some coffee?"
Steve made a show of studying the menu to keep his head down. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
She looked at Bucky quizzically. After several seconds of silence, he looked up at Bucky to see him staring straight ahead. Maybe the diner was a bad idea. Possibly a really bad idea.
"He's a little distracted today," Steve answered. "Water is fine."
"You got it." She turned and left.
"Bucky," Steve leaned forward, keeping his voice low, "when people ask you a question, you can answer them."
Bucky's gaze snapped to Steve's, and his breathing quickened. The plates in his metal arm clanked beneath the sleeve.
"It's okay. Should we go?" Steve asked.
Bucky shook his head. "We need fuel." His eyes dropped to Steve's wounded side.
"When she comes back, how about you order oatmeal and white toast, unless there's something else you prefer?" He didn't want to keep ordering for Bucky. That would raise eyebrows, but he wasn't sure Bucky was up to the task of selecting from a huge menu of options after living off bland grub for 70 years.
When the waitress returned with coffee and water, Bucky repeated the order Steve had suggested verbatim. Steve ordered a combination platter with eggs, bacon, pancakes, a biscuit, and then threw in another biscuit and a side of fruit, enough to satisfy his hunger and, hopefully, entice Bucky into venturing further into the realm of solid foods.
The woman took down their orders with a grin and wink. "You two boys sure have an appetite."
When she left, Steve leaned back in the seat and took a moment to look at Bucky. Really look at him. Everything had happened so fast since Siberia that he barely had time to process it all. The basement had shrouded Bucky in shadows, but now in the light of morning, he studied his friend.
His best friend.
He could almost pretend things were normal and they were their old selves, grabbing a bite to eat and shooting the breeze, bantering, talking about their dreams for the future or some crazy thing one of Bucky's sisters did. Often their conversations were around whatever book Bucky was reading, like the riddle game Bucky roped him into playing after reading it in The Hobbit. Other times, they talked about girls, dates, whatever bully had recently pummeled Steve, or, of course, the Brooklyn Dodgers.
But he couldn't talk about any of that with Bucky, at least not now. Maybe they'd get there again. He hoped they would. God, he missed his friend. He'd pushed that grief so far down, he could almost pretend it didn't exist, but here it was, fresh and raw, sitting two feet away from him.
"We should leave the country as soon as possible," Bucky said.
The words stopped Steve's thoughts in their tracks and sent him internally into a panic. Leaving the country wasn't something he'd considered. He'd hoped to give Bucky time to decompress, lay low, and feel safe from Hydra, then bring up the topic of returning to Stark Tower with proper precautions.
A public diner wasn't the place for that conversation. "After breakfast, we'll pick up a few more supplies and find a motel room. We can talk more there, in private."
Bucky nodded.
When their food arrived, it was almost comical. Steve had four plates in front of him, and Bucky had only a bowl of oatmeal and a side of toast. Remembering the aversion to utensils, Steve leaned forward and whispered, "Probably shouldn't eat with your fingers here. It'll draw too much attention." He offered a spoon. "You remember this?"
Bucky looked at it, head tilted, brow furrowed, then took it from Steve and dipped the round part into the oatmeal. He repeated the motion several times, mouth pressed into a tight line, huffing occasionally.
Steve was getting worried. "Bucky? You okay? If it's a problem…"
"It's not a problem." Bucky lifted a spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth and swallowed it. "I know what a spoon is. It feels familiar, I just don't remember using one."
Score one for muscle memory, Steve thought.
Bucky winced and set the spoon into the oatmeal as he rubbed his head with his gloved metal hand.
"Are you okay?" Steve figured there was a memory behind that headache. He'd picked up on the pattern. He just hoped the memory wasn't a bad one. The diner was no place for a scene, not if they wanted to lay low.
Bucky took a deep breath. A glimpse of emotion flashed in his eyes—like the moment a child realized he was lost—then it vanished and Bucky grabbed another spoonful of oatmeal. "I remember a table full of food. The woman you said was my mother at one end. A man at the other end. Three girls. Meat. Potatoes. Biscuits. You were there, and another woman."
"Sounds like Thanksgiving," Steve said. "Your parents always invited me and my Mom." Talking about it opened an old pain in his chest. There were so many people neither of them would ever see again.
Steve wished his mother had lived long enough to see the serum cure his ailments.
"You're welcome to try any of this food," Steve said. "Pancakes are good. You always liked them." He cut off a little piece and set it on the plate next to Bucky's toast. Hopefully, a bite of food would sit easily enough in a stomach that was used to liquids and soft foods.
Bucky picked up the small section of pancake with his fingers and tentatively placed it in his mouth. His eyes lit up. He swallowed the piece without chewing, then coughed and guzzled the water.
"You need to chew," Steve whispered, wincing inwardly at how much it sounded as though he were talking to a toddler, but after living on mush for decades, Bucky obviously had to relearn the basics of eating solid foods.
"Here." Steve cut another small piece and put it on Bucky's plate. "Try again. Chew until it's almost completely dissolved."
Bucky did as instructed. He chewed slowly, carefully, as if the movement was foreign to him, and for the first time since Steve had pulled him out of the cryogenic chamber in Siberia, Bucky smiled. It was tiny, a mere hint of one, but it was enough to make Steve drop his head and peer into his coffee to avoid making a fool of himself.
"I like it," Bucky said.
Steve grinned. There was a puzzling, aching satisfaction to seeing Bucky experience ordinary things as though it were the first time. He placed another small piece of the stack on Bucky's plate and grabbed the syrup.
"Now try it with a little of this. You had a sweet tooth, so my guess is you'll still like it." He poured a dime-sized portion of syrup and nodded at the utensils. "You don't want syrup on your hands, trust me."
Bucky stared down at the fork, picked it up, and stabbed the pancakes aggressively enough to bend the tines. Steve winced, but none of the other diners seemed to notice. As soon as the sweet concoction hit Bucky's tongue, his eyebrows shot up. He chewed and swallowed eagerly, then looked longingly at the stack in front of Steve.
Steve pushed his plate over to Bucky. "Here, but a word of caution. Go easy. Your digestive system isn't used to this, so too much, and it might come back up or not sit well with you…"
Bucky completely ignored him as he poured syrup all over the stack and shoveled huge bites into his mouth.
"...later," Steve finished.
So much for going easy. Bucky ate as though he was afraid someone would take the food away. They'd find out soon whether Bucky's stomach was as resilient as the rest of his body.
A few patrons cast quizzical glances their way. Bucky's metal hand was covered by a fingerless glove, and a few people noticed the fingers. Steve lowered his head and focused on his remaining food. When they finished, Steve threw enough cash on the table to cover the meals and a generous tip. They grabbed their bags and hurried out before someone recognized them or decided to snap a photo.
They were almost back to their hideout to retrieve the shield when Bucky groaned and leaned against the building, his arm wrapping around his stomach.
"That was a bit too much rich food, too fast," Steve said, wincing sympathetically. "You okay?"
Bucky opened his mouth, and Steve took a step back, preparing for breakfast to make a re-appearance. Instead, Bucky released a huge belch. His eyes went wide, as if he hadn't been expecting it, then his cheeks turned pink. Steve couldn't help it…he laughed.
Bucky's eyes narrowed sharply as his face turned a deeper shade of red. Steve tried to quell his laughter, but with all the craziness of the past few days, it bubbled out of him uncontrollably. He leaned back against the building and doubled over, hands on his thighs.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "You should've seen your face…"
Steve was laughing so hard, he snorted. It wasn't even that funny, but he just couldn't seem to stop, and he wanted to, because Bucky obviously thought Steve was laughing at him instead of…
Okay, he was laughing at Bucky.
Bucky's face softened, and his lips curled upward. Then he smiled. Actually smiled. His eyes crinkled, and he huffed, pushing off the wall to march past Steve and into their hideaway.
-0- -0- -0-
The motel room was adequate and paid for with cash. He listened through the doorway into the hotel room as Steve unlocked the door and pushed it open. There were no signs of threats.
Steve was entirely too at ease walking into the room, bag in one hand, shield on his back. "This'll do for a couple of days, don't you think, Bucky?" Steve asked, setting his gear on the floor below the window.
Bucky…The name was settling in him as if it belonged, nestled in the exact size and shape to fill an empty space.
He followed Steve in and locked the door behind him. The room was filled with old furniture and decorated in garish, clashing colors—a busy bedspread and an equally busy carpet, dusty cinnamon drapes, and a wooden chair with stained upholstery.
"Showers?" Steve asked. "You wanna go first?"
Bucky shook his head and slipped out of the hoodie, stuffing it into Steve's bag. The room needed to be searched before he attended to his hygiene. Even if Hydra had no way of predicting they'd pick this motel or get this room, he nevertheless had to make certain the area was secure.
"Okay, I'll make it quick." Steve disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the door halfway open.
Bucky reached into his bag and retrieved the detector he'd procured from Sitwell's place. He performed an electronic sweep of the room as the gentle roar of the shower filled the room, then he moved onto a physical search, removing the drawers from the nightstand, probing for false bottoms, inspecting the light fixtures, vents, and looking behind the worn furniture. The place was clean.
Light streamed through a slit between the curtains, bouncing off glasses stacked next to a small coffee pot on top of a table.
A shot glass in his hands, light glinting off the rim. His targets were at a table near a window. American servicemen. A bartender with dark hair and almond eyes asked in Korean if he wanted another drink. He nodded. A black man walked in, tense, muscular, American, hand reaching for a firearm beneath his jacket.
They fought. The man was strong. Fast. A blow sent him sailing backward into the shelves of liquor. He came up firing. The American dodged, fired his own weapon. The bullets bounced off his metal arm. Something sparked, igniting the alcohol. He leapt over the bar and tackled the American.
Flames surrounded them. The heat seared his lungs as he traded blows with the American, landing one that crushed the man's orbital socket. His metal hand found the man's throat and squeezed. A fist smashed into his face, flipping him, trapping the metal arm behind him, a knee in the small of his back. Tendons tore in his shoulder. A scream ripped from his throat. His right hand pulled a knife from his pantleg, flipped it around, and sent it into the man's gut. The American grunted. He twisted the blade, his hand sinking into warm, wet flesh and eliciting a strangled cry from his opponent. The pressure on his metal arm gave way with a screech of metal and a crackle of sparks that sent searing jolts into the base of his brain.
He fell into darkness and came to with bright lights in his face.
He was on the table, restrained. His arm sparked. Lightning in his brain, down his spine. He twitched with each pulse. He heard only the voices, Russian. His vision shorted in and out.
"It failed," the voice said in Russian.
"It killed everyone they sent after it," another countered.
"Except for one. The Americans have a new supersoldier."
"Who suffered as much damage as the Asset. Our sources say the damage may be too severe for the American to overcome."
"They must be desperate, wasting the serum on inferior stock."
"Not so inferior. He took the arm off ours."
"The old arm was too clunky, too heavy. The bone was badly damaged when the Asset tore it off in resistance to conditioning. The reattachment point was weak. This time, we will remove more tissue, embed it deeper, reinforce it. Then we will intensify the Asset's combat training. We will forge it into a weapon like no other."
-0- -0- -0-
Steve walked out of the bathroom in his sweatpants, a towel draped over his shoulders. "All yours, B–"
He froze. Bucky was sitting on the floor next to the foot of the bed, hunched over, hair covering his face. His hand clutched his metal shoulder, and his breath came in quick, shallow gasps as if he were in pain.
"Bucky, what's wrong? Is your shoulder bothering you?" God, he hoped he hadn't damaged anything with the massage.
He dropped to one knee. When he saw the distant, unfocused look in his friends eyes, he knew Bucky wasn't with him. He also knew now not to touch him unless absolutely necessary.
A low keening sound gurgled from Bucky's throat, and he began to twitch, wincing with each spasm. Steve looked around the room, hoping to find a clue about what triggered the flashback, but everything seemed normal. Flashback or not, Bucky looked to be in real pain.
"Bucky." Steve shifted a foot away, out of arm's reach just in case. "You're okay. Can you hear me?"
He wasn't sure if his voice made things worse, or Bucky's flashback just progressed on its own, but Bucky curled tighter, his fingers clawing at his metal shoulder. The sound coming from him was tortuous, and Steve couldn't bear to listen to it any longer.
He took a breath and sang Winifred's lullaby. It reached Bucky once. Maybe it would again.
By the time he reached the second verse, Bucky quieted, then he sucked in a deep, shaky breath and lifted his head, blinking in wide-eyed bewilderment as he took in his surroundings.
"Are you with me, Buck?"
Bucky's gaze snapped to his, and his brow crinkled. "That song…You sang it before. Where's it from?"
Steve thought of Winifred. Was she up there, somewhere, looking down at them? Had she been watching over Bucky the last 70 years, witnessing the terrible things done to him? There was both joy and sadness in knowing that her song survived everything Hydra had done to Bucky. "It's a lullaby your mother made up."
"I think I remember her voice." Bucky tilted his head and rubbed at his temple. "She…she was nice to me."
The plaintive tone almost shattered Steve. Had there been anyone—even one person in the seventy years of his captivity—that had been nice to Bucky?
"She loved you very much."
Bucky's eyes went distant again, shimmering like the surface of a lake that obscured the complexities beneath. Memories were playing behind those eyes, and despite what Bruce said or the scans showed, Steve couldn't help but get his hopes up. Every day, Bucky reclaimed a little bit more of his past. It wasn't all gone. Maybe, with time, he'd get enough of it back to remember who he really was and where he came from.
Steve patted Bucky's ankle. "Do you want the shower? I left you hot water."
Did Bucky even know how to use a modern shower? They'd had only a bathtub in their apartment, and what passed for a shower in the Italian base was merely a hose attached to a shower head. The single dial on modern showers had taken Steve a couple of minutes to figure out the first time.
How had Hydra handled grooming? He tried not to think about that because, knowing the Russians and Hydra, they probably made that terrible, too. The best he could hope for is that it was simply all about efficiency.
Bucky got to his feet and removed the weapons from his vest, placing two guns and two knives on the dresser. So much for their agreement that he'd only keep one of each on him. When did he sneak in the extras? Then he stripped, putting his clothes and tactical gear on the chair with mystery stains Steve tried not to think too hard about. Later, they'd have to hit a store for cheap clothes. Maybe he could find a working payphone and call Nat or Tony and get someone to do a run to his apartment for essentials. Probably Nat. If Hydra was trying to find them, she had the experience and skill to avoid being followed.
It would also give him a chance to check in and find out if they'd made any headway on figuring out who was SHIELD and who was Hydra. Maybe, just maybe, he'd even be able to convince Bucky that it was safe to return to Stark Tower and not leave the country.
Steve walked to the bathroom door and gestured inside. "Shower has one dial. Turn it left for hot, right for cold."
Bucky walked past him and stared at the chrome knob but made no attempt to turn it or get into the tub.
"Here." Steve reached forward and started the water. The spray was already warm from his shower. "Wait…is your arm waterproof?"
Bucky glanced at the arm. "It can get wet."
"Okay, good. The tiny bottles are shampoo, conditioner, and soap. I left you half of each." When Bucky continued to stand there, Steve gestured to the tub. "Get in, Bucky." He tested the water. "It's warm. Once you get in, if you want it hotter, nudge the dial to the left…a little at a time."
Bucky stepped over the lip of the tub and stood under the spray.
Steve realized simple directions were working best, but it didn't make sense. Bucky was obviously capable of acting independently. He'd recruited Banner and Wilson and mounted a rescue mission, all without guidance from anyone. Yet he suddenly needed direction to do something as simple as step into the shower. Steve figured some of that had to come from decades of Hydra conditioning—being forced to follow orders—but Bucky knew Steve wasn't Hydra and had even gone against Hydra. Hell, Bucky had put a bullet in Karpov's head without hesitation.
So, what was going on now? Did it have to do with the flashback? Maybe if he just asked…
"Bucky, how did you deal with personal hygiene when you were with the Russians?"
"As necessary before or after a mission, I would report to maintenance for examination, tune-up, and grooming."
"Do you know what a shower is?"
"Yes."
"Bucky, are you okay?"
"I'm functional."
"I know that, I mean, we were making progress, I thought. We talked last night. You asked questions. Now you're… Is something wrong?"
Bucky's gaze drifted as he stood beneath the spray, wet hair clinging to the sides of his face. "No."
"No?" Steve sighed. Maybe this was to be expected. He'd had too much hope that Bucky was coming back to himself, but of course it wouldn't be that easy. Maybe, for right now, Bucky needed direction. "The first bottle is shampoo. Open the lid and squeeze all of it onto your hair. Lather it up. Rinse it all out. The second bottle is conditioner. You need more of that than I do, so I left you the whole bottle. Put that in your hair after the shampoo. Then rinse it all out. The third bottle is soap for your body. Use the whole bottle, lather it all over, rinse it out. Turn the knob to the center to shut off the water when you're done. Grab the white towel on the rack and dry off. Okay?"
Bucky nodded.
"I'll be out there, of course, if you need me." Steve closed the shower curtain and left the bathroom, keeping the door open.
He threw on a shirt and removed a pair of sweatpants and a blue shirt from his duffel bag, which were pretty much all he'd packed except for the sweats he was wearing, a pair of jeans, socks, and underwear. He packed Bucky's tactical clothing, gear, and weapons in the black bag, and stored everything in a neat pile, making everything quick to grab in case they needed a fast getaway.
They really needed to pick up casual clothes and find a washer and dryer.
The shower turned off. Steve resisted the urge to peek in and check on his friend, but he kept his ear tuned to the bathroom while his mind drifted back to the logistics of their situation.
The other Avengers had to be worried about him, and with Hydra having infiltrated SHIELD, there was work to be done. He'd told Peggy he wouldn't stop until every last member of Hydra was dead or captured. After what they did to Bucky, he meant that now more than ever. Bucky deserved a life where he'd never have to look over his shoulder and worry that some asshole with a few words could turn him into a killer.
Bucky emerged from the bathroom naked and damp, without so much as a towel around his waist. The shallow gash on his side was almost healed, though the bruises were more prominent. His hair clung in wet strands around his neck and jaw. Steve had packed a comb, but it had rather narrow bristles meant for short hair. It probably wouldn't work well for Bucky's hair, but since they were holed up for a while, Steve supposed it didn't matter much.
Steve pointed to the pants and shirt draped over the bed. "You can wear those."
Bucky slipped on the gray sweatpants and shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Steve.
There wasn't much they could do. The motel room had a small TV on a stand against the wall. He'd turn on the news later to see if there was any reporting on the Camp Lehigh situation. But now that they had full bellies and a shower, Steve wanted to take the opportunity to see if he could reach Bucky and figure out what was going on in his head.
He pulled the chair around so he was facing Bucky then plopped into it, trying not to think about the stains on the cushion. "How are you feeling?"
Bucky's gaze dropped to the wound on Steve's side. He'd taken the bandage off for the shower, but the flesh had already mostly healed. There was only a red line to indicate where the knife had penetrated. In a day or two, even that would be gone.
"I'm okay," Steve said. "How are you? Is there anything you need?"
Bucky looked back up at Steve. "We can't stay here long."
Steve sighed. He supposed now was as good a time as any for the conversation. "I need to contact the Avengers. They aren't Hydra, and with how suddenly we left, they'll be worried. Plus, they have resources we need."
A muscle twitched in Bucky's jaw.
"I know you're anxious, and you have every reason to be. What about Tony Stark? He's not Hydra. You know that, right?" He paused to take a breath. He didn't like bringing up Stark and didn't know how much Bucky remembered of Howard or his assassination, but the sudden increase in Bucky's breathing told Steve the topic stirred something inside him.
"It's okay," Steve continued. "You know Tony's come to terms with that. It wasn't your fault. Hydra made you do it. He's as motivated as we are to get rid of Hydra."
Bucky didn't seem to be listening anymore. He was gulping fast, shallow breaths, and his gaze was now on the floor, glassy and distant. His metal fist clenched and unclenched, the plates in the arm shifting with each motion.
"I'm sorry." Steve kicked himself for bringing it up. He could've waited a few hours or even a day, given Bucky time to decompress and get more comfortable. Instead, he'd pushed, too far, too fast. "We don't have to talk–"
Bucky lunged off the bed and flew into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Shit. Another resource they needed was a head doctor who knew what the hell they were doing. A medical professional. A psychiatrist. Someone who wouldn't fuck up like he just did.
He went to the door and knocked, but there was no answer. Slowly, he cracked the door open and peeked inside. Bucky was on the floor, wedged in the space between the tub and the toilet, legs bent, head buried in his knees. His hands held his skull, rubbing, scratching as he rocked. It was wrong, so wrong to see Bucky like that. Bucky who had always been strong, confident, and oh-so resilient.
Steve pushed the door open and gripped the frame, leaning against it and taking a moment to push down the tide or rage and grief that threatened to propel his fist through the wall.
He needed to get it together, keep calm…for Bucky. If only he knew what the hell to do. He couldn't do nothing. If their situations were reversed, Bucky would be there for him. He had always been there for him, both in Brooklyn and on the battlefield.
"Stark's parents weren't your fault." Steve slid to the floor, his back resting against the doorframe. "Tony knows that. I know that."
Bucky exploded off the floor, leaping over Steve. As Steve rocked to his feet, a wood-splintering crash rocked the entire hotel room.
"Bucky!"
Steve ran to the open door. The frame was splintered. He had no time to think as he grabbed the bags and the shield and headed after Bucky, their bare feet pounding on the pavement.
Bucky had a head start and was already a block ahead, running like a wild, panicked horse with no apparent destination. The motel was on the outskirts of town, in a seedy neighborhood, so fortunately the sidewalks weren't packed, but there were still cars and a few pedestrians. Bucky weaved around them effortlessly, leaving startled exclamations and curses in his wake, then darted across a street, leaping over an oncoming car.
Steve pushed himself to catch up, hoisting the bags over one shoulder as he carried the shield in the other. He careened around a corner after Bucky. Overshooting and slamming into the brick corner of an antique shop. He pushed off, focusing on keeping track of Bucky. He couldn't lose him again. Not again.
They ran for half an hour, until the buildings and the city were behind them and they were in an industrial area with water visible in the distance. It wasn't until Bucky reached the edge of land that he stopped, his hands grasping a metal rail as he leaned forward, chest heaving, gasping for breath.
Steve stopped a few feet away, his own breath coming hard and fast from the exertion as he dropped the bags. Bloody footprints lead up to Bucky. Somewhere along the way, he must have sliced his feet on glass or something.
After a few moments, they caught their breaths. A warm breeze wafted off the water, bringing a touch of salt and the scent of fish and garbage that mingled with the odor of blood from Bucky's feet.
"I knew him," Bucky said, gazing over the water.
So, Bucky did remember. Steve hated himself for pushing earlier. He never should have brought up Tony's parents.
"He called me Sergeant Barnes." Bucky sank to his knees and leaned his head against the metal rail. "Who was he?"
Steve walked up to the rail and propped his shield against it. He didn't want to upset Bucky further, but Bucky was asking, and he deserved to know. "He was an engineer who worked with us in the war. Tony's father, of course. Head of Stark Industries. He created my shield and helped Erskine with the serum that turned me into what I am now."
Bucky looked up at him. "Who am I?"
"Your name is–"
"That doesn't tell me anything."
Steve sighed. He knew what Bucky was asking. "I'll show you, but first, we have to get back to the room. The noise was bound to draw attention, and there are weapons and the only remaining cash we have in that room."
Bucky nodded and got to his feet.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Check out this beautiful illustration of Bucky's flashback scene by leoxarian (on Instagram). You can find it on my Tumblr (FFN won't allow links or embeds, as far as I can tell): dcangstfiction dot tumblr dot com or see it on the AO3 posting.