Chapter 3: Leaving a Part of Himself Behind
Bucky hadn't slept more than two hours in three days. After Sam and the lawyers left, he signed the legal papers needed to allow Murdock and Nelson to file his answer and assert the statute of limitations defense. He spent the days cyber stalking the families, staring at photos, videos, social media posts, and comments from friends and families.
He learned a lot. Sara was having a hard time keeping up with the mortgage and Billie needed braces. Her dead husband's brother and parents helped out whenever they could. Billie wanted to be a pilot when he grew up. Billie was also a year behind in school and struggling with grades. The Blip and losing both of his parents had been hard on him. The family's insurance didn't have good mental health coverage and Sara couldn't afford out-of-pocket therapy.
There were dozens of comments wishing a variety of terrible things on the person responsible for the family's troubles.
Shannon Anderson wrote beneath one post, "Can't believe the government bought that brainwashing story."
Carol Sevier commented, "An eye for an eye. James Barnes deserves to die over and over again."
Jason Bosner opined, "Sorry, you and Billie are going through this. I hope someone puts a bullet in that man's head. He may have been a hero once, but now he's a walking bomb. It's only a matter of time before he goes off."
That one hit a bit too close to home.
The vitriol wasn't new. He'd heard it all and worse screamed by protesters during his pardon. The reversal of the Blip had everyone preoccupied with the reunions and logistics of suddenly being alive again. Even the families and friends of Winter Soldier victims were overwhelmed. So, instead of hundreds or thousands of protesters at his court appearances, there'd only been a handful each time.
Except at his first appearance, when a single protester—a gray-haired woman dressed all in black — stood outside the courthouse steps in front of reporters, a sign in her hand that read. "My son was innocent. The Winter Soldier killed him."
He looked her up after his pardon. Her name was Evie Bellamont. He'd slipped a blade into the brainstem of her son Daniel, a researcher with S.H.I.E.L.D., in 1998.
Bucky navigated to the social media page of another victim. Eric Sanders, the driver injured in the collision with the truck on the freeway, had a host of physical and mental problems. Besides the physical injuries, he suffered PTSD from having witnessed a man get splattered into pieces on the freeway. He successfully battled an addiction to painkillers. He just celebrated nine months clean. He lost joint custody of his daughter during his addiction. Now, he had supervised visits with her on weekends.
When Bucky made his list of amends, he hadn't put Sara or Billie Thomas on that list. They knew what happened to Bryce Thomas, and they now lived in Maine. Frankly, there were so many people left behind by the Winter Soldier's assassinations, he could spend the rest of his life trying to make amends.
Bucky hadn't even known about Eric Sanders. How many others did he not know about? The driver of the truck that hit Sitwell probably re-lived that scene every time he closed his eyes, but Bucky didn't know that victim's name.
How many people on the bus beneath the overpass died? How many others on the freeway were injured during his assassination attempt on Natasha and Steve?
Why stop there? What about the guy on the motorcycle in Bucharest? He'd ended up in the hospital, and Bucky couldn't blame the Winter Soldier for that one. He never found out how badly the guy was injured. And the members of the special forces? Most of them were carried out on stretchers.
The bombing of the U.N. might have been Zemo's doing, but the fault was his own. He ran. He hid. He knew there were people looking for him—people who would kill to find him.
He could have done so many things differently. If he'd reached out to Steve after remembering their friendship, King T'Chaka would still be alive, as would the guards Zemo killed and ordered him to kill.
Slouched against the floor on the wall of the living room, he set his phone down and eyed the silent news on the television. The captions told him the anchors were discussing preparations for the anniversary of the Return of the Vanished next month.
He got to his feet and decided to try for sleep. Maybe he could manage a few more hours before the nightmares jolted him awake. Entering the bedroom he lurched to a halt. A black backpack lay on the floor by the mattress, its top zipper open, revealing rolled-up clothes.
For a moment he thought there was an intruder, until a vague memory teased his mind, a hazy image of pulling it out of the closet…had he packed the bag himself? Shit. He closed his eyes and sighed, slipping out of his clothes and falling onto the mattress. If he didn't get sleep, he'd lose his mind completely.
-0- -0- -0-
He's on the airstrip outside the Triskelion, fire and smoke all around as he moves, taking out planes, airmen, and anyone else in his way.
A ground control officer dressed in orange stands in his way, gun in hand. He kicks, sending the man airborne into a jet engine, turning him into a spray of blood and flesh.
Tendrils of black smoke part, and a little boy stands in front of him, caked from head to toe in blood, with bits of flesh and brain matter on his face and in his dark hair. He looks familiar, like a younger version of another face in a Siberian Bunker.
The boy stares up at the Winter Soldier with round, brown eyes. "You killed my Dad. Do you even remember him?"
Bucky woke with a gasp, breath coming in short, quick bursts, the covers tangled around his legs. He sat up and worked his legs free, scrubbing a hand over his face to banish the nightmare. Once his heart slowed, he reached for the phone charging on the floor next to the mattress. 1:33 a.m. He'd managed seventy minutes of sleep, and he knew if he tried for more, he'd likely just end up lying restlessly in bed.
He got up, turned on the light, and finished packing, taking time to go through the entire apartment three times. He'd take whatever was useful and could fit comfortably in the pack. Once he was sure he hadn't left anything essential behind, he grabbed his phone and scrolled through the news, clicking on every link related to the lawsuit and the victims.
He read an interview with the truck driver that hit Sitwell. There were bits of Sitwell stuck to the front of his rig. The man couldn't get over the gruesome experience and never drove a truck again. He still had nightmares.
Bucky's memories of that day were excruciatingly vivid. He felt nothing when he smashed through the back window and tossed Sitwell into oncoming traffic. It had been as easy as swatting a mosquito.
Firing through the roof of the vehicle, getting tossed into the air, facing the oncoming car, yanking the steering wheel from Sam's hand, and sending a rocket straight toward Steve Rogers and the shield.
The shield.
At the time, none of it meant anything to him. It should have. The shield should have jogged something.
The events played in his mind like a movie he'd seen yesterday. The fight on the street below. Realizing his target was strong. And fast.
When he grabbed Steve by the throat and looked into that strained face there had been something in the depths of his brain. He wasn't sure what it was—something barely qualified to be called an emotion, more like the shadow of one.
It wasn't until his mask came off and Steve finally spoke that the shadow turned into something real. It stopped him. For a moment.
"Bucky?"
Steve's voice, saying that name–a combination some part of the Winter Soldier recognized. It confused him. Then the mission prerogative took over, and he raised his gun. He still remembered the devastated, stunned look on Steve's face as he stood there, in the middle of the street, frozen.
A perfect target.
If not for Sam and Natasha interfering, he'd have killed Steve.
Sometimes, in his nightmares, he did.
Bucky set his phone down and grabbed his checkbook, pen, envelope, and sheet of paper. Now that he completed his court-mandated therapy, the shackles were off. He no longer risked arrest if he missed a check-in. It was laughable that anyone thought a few months of therapy would fix an iota of the 70 years of fuck up in his head.
He'd head to the lawyers' office at nine, take care of a few things, then hit the road.
-0- -0- -0-
Sam came back from his run and jogged up the last few steps to his DC apartment, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He froze when he saw the long black case on the floor next to the couch. A white envelope was taped to the top, his name written in large, neat letters.
He looked around. He'd been gone less than an hour. Who could have left it, and more importantly, were they still inside?
He left the door open behind him. "Whoever you are, you better show yourself now."
The hairs on the back of his neck raised, and he turned around, scanning outside. Nothing seemed out of place, and there was no sign of whoever had left the package. He grabbed the envelope, pulling out and unfolding the paper inside.
It was a handwritten letter.
Sam,
I don't want to risk this falling into the wrong hands. Please make sure it gets to the Wakandans. Steve couldn't have picked a better man to carry on the legacy of Captain America. Thank you for all you've done for Steve and me.
I gave checks to the lawyers with distribution instructions. I'd appreciate it if you could check in with them and make sure it all goes the way it should. I'll never be able to truly make amends for everything I did as the Winter Soldier. I can't bring back the people I killed, and I can't heal the grief of those left behind. This is all I can do.
Goodbye, Sam. Be careful out there.
-Bucky
Cold snaked along Sam's spine, and he clutched the paper tighter in his hands. Bucky, what the hell are you about to do?
He pocketed the letter and opened the case.
Oh God. It was the vibranium arm, nestled neatly in black foam that had a section carved out in precisely the shape of the prosthetic.
There was no way Bucky would leave the arm without making sure it was safe. He had to be watching. Sam snapped the case closed and hopped over the steps, landing lightly on his feet and listening for sounds in the bushes and trees around the house.
"Bucky!" he shouted. "I know you're here, let's talk about this."
He waited in silence, but there was no answer.
Shit. Bucky could move fast when motivated. Sam flew back up the porch, grabbing the case and heading inside.
Slipping into his wings and goggles, he hurried back outside and took to the air, sending the drones into search mode.
Two hours later, he was forced to admit defeat and returned to the house. He stared at the black case on the table and tried not to panic. Just because Bucky left the arm didn't mean….
He wouldn't. Would he?
Bucky had been in a dark place. Hell, he'd been in a dark place for a long time. He'd taken Steve's leaving harder than he let on, and the court-mandated therapy had probably done more harm than good.
He needed to pay a visit to Nelson and Murdock in New York, then check out Bucky's Brooklyn apartment. Maybe he'd get a lead on where Bucky had gone.
-0- -0- -0-
"It's a nice bike. Why are you selling it?" the heavy-set, middle-aged man asked.
"It's a bit difficult for me to ride."
"Oh…Oh!" The guy's eyes widened with realization, then his lips immediately pressed into a fine line of embarrassment. "Sorry."
Bucky shrugged his left stump. "Not your fault. So?"
"Yeah, man, yeah. I want it."
"Great. I have the paperwork ready as long as you have the cash."
-0- -0- -0-
Matthew Murdock knew the moment he heard the footsteps in the staircase down the hall that Sam Wilson was on his way to the office. He placed the large manilla envelope in the top drawer of his desk. Barnes had left clear instructions with a dozen checks drafted to family members of Winter Soldier victims. The sum total was substantial. Too substantial.
Matt had done his research. He knew how much Barnes' government POW benefits were. Unless Barnes had more financial reserves, the checks represented 85% of his total worth.
Wilson entered the office and Foggy met him first. Matt listened to the conversation.
"Captain America, it's a pleasure! What can we do for you?" Foggy greeted.
"I know Bucky left checks with you and instructions on how to distribute them. I have a note from him asking that I check in on that. What did he leave and to whom?"
Nice try, Captain, Murdock thought.
"I'm sorry," Foggy answered. "That's subject to attorney-client privilege."
"I'm the reason he's your client."
"I know that, but unfortunately, it doesn't change anything. We still can't breach the attorney-client privilege without Barnes' express permission."
"Here, read the note yourself." Wilson sounded almost breathless.
Something was wrong.
Matt grabbed his cane and walked into the lobby. "Mr. Wilson, my partner's right. We can't disclose confidential information."
"Look," Wilson began, "if I tell you something, will this stay between us?"
"Unless I have a legal duty to disclose, of course." He listened to Wilson's heartbeat, it was fast but steady.
The man was worried, almost panicked.
"I think Bucky might try to…hurt himself. Maybe. I need to find him. He's not answering his phone, he left his apartment, and he left me something that tells me he isn't planning on coming back. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"
Matt studied the man as he pondered the situation. If Barnes was a danger to himself or others, he could breach confidentiality. "I can tell you that Barnes left a substantial amount for us to distribute to the families of his victims, but unfortunately, he didn't tell me where he planned to go."
"Shit." Wilson sighed heavily. "Please tell me you still have those checks."
"I do." He knew what Wilson was going to ask, and he was already ahead of the man. "Given the situation, I'll keep them for as long as I can. We've got time with the statute of limitations ruling and the legal process, so I don't need to distribute the funds right away. However, if Barnes doesn't turn up within a reasonable timeframe to tell me otherwise, I will have to abide by his wishes."
Or if he turns up dead, Matt thought.
-0- -0- -0-
One month went by in a blur, and Sam was no closer to finding Bucky. He searched public records and found the cabin, but there was no sign Bucky had been there recently. The man still had the ability to be a ghost. Wincing inwardly at that thought, Sam hoped the ghost thing didn't end up being literal.
No sign of Bucky was a good sign in some ways. It meant his body hadn't been found.
You better still be alive, you asshole.
He hadn't reached out to the Wakandans because he hoped he could find Bucky and talk sense into him. Then there'd be no need to return the arm to Wakanda. Unfortunately, such a successful outcome was looking less and less likely.
He didn't have a Kimoyo bead, but he did have a cell phone contact for Shuri. She'd left it with Steve in case there were any complications with Bucky after his treatment, and Steve had quietly passed the number along to Sam.
Taking out his cell phone, Sam dialed. To his surprise, the number still worked. He recognized the woman's voice immediately.
"Shuri, Sam Wilson here."
There was a pause, then, "It is good to hear your voice, Captain, but I fear the purpose of your call is not a social one. Has something happened to our mutual friend?"
Straight to the point. Shuri was insightful. "Yes, unfortunately. He's given most of his money away, left the arm, and disappeared. He asked me to make sure it got back to you."
Telling Shuri made it real.
And grim.
Bucky had put his affairs in order, and no one had seen him since.
-0- -0- -0-
Daryl Stein drove up to the overhead door of the warehouse. It was two a.m. and he was tired. He wanted to deliver the cargo and get the hell out of there, get drunk, then sleep for two days.
He pulled the van into position, and the overhead door lifted. Johnny waved him in. The door closed behind the van, and he hopped out.
"Girls are quiet now," he told Johnny. "Some have injuries, but we didn't touch their faces. The redhead probably has a broken arm."
The van's side door opened. Bobby and Jerome hopped out, each one tugging a chain. Six girls stumbled out. They had tear-streaked faces, all but two with messy mascara and makeup. The youngest—the fourteen and fifteen-year-olds—were barely able to keep their feet beneath them.
Looking at the really young ones bothered him, but the money was good enough to quiet his conscience most of the time. The girls would've probably ended up dead on the streets, anyway. At least this way, some of them might make it to thirty.
"Hey, girls," Johnny greeted them, flashing a smile that always gave Daryl the creeps. "Good news. We're getting you off the streets and finding you all new homes. All you have to do to survive is behave, keep quiet, and do what you're told."
A few of the girls started crying. Johnny sighed and jerked his chin at Jerome. "Get them cleaned and locked up."
A clatter against the side door startled them all. Daryl pulled his gun from its holster as the other men spun toward the sound.
"Check the cameras!" Johnny ordered.
"They're out, all black," Andy announced from a desk against the far wall, seated in front of a dark monitor.
"Shit!" Johnny raised his gun toward the front door. "Bobby and Jerome, go check it out. Front door, recon around the side and take whoever or whatever that was by surprise."
Bobby nodded, and the two men walked cautiously to the front door. Johnny nodded at Daryl.
Shit. Daryl just wanted to go home. Instead, he was following Johnny to the side door, taking a position opposite the other man. Bobby and Jerome opened the front door and cautiously peered out. It was quiet. Bobby went first, but something took him off his feet. He yelped, and slipped on something. His feet thrashed in the air, taking out Jerome.
A moment later, something exploded. Daryl was still blinking the bright spots from his vision when the door crashed inward. A blurry mass collided with Johnny, who dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Daryl caught only a glimpse of the one-armed figure before pain flashed in his skull, sending him to oblivion.
-0- -0- -0-
Bucky moved quickly, disabling the remaining two men and approaching the cluster of terrified girls. They scattered in various directions, but the tethering chains yanked them back and over one another.
The chains weren't anywhere as heavy as the ones Hydra had used on him, but they were even more effective on the stick-thin girls—girls who were going to be sold as sex slaves. He knew all about what it meant to be a piece of property, used and abused.
He couldn't take revenge on the people who had done that to him. Most of them were dead now. But he could stop the modern slave-traders. The human traffickers. The people with power who traded in flesh and viewed human beings as mere assets to be bought, sold, trained, and molded until they were nothing more than a pet or a puppet.
Helpless. Broken.
The youngest of the girls were children, teary-eyed and trembling, huddled on the floor. Decades ago, he was them, doing the same thing. He remembered that feeling, curling into himself on a cold floor, braced into the corner of a room, trying to make himself as small as possible even though it wouldn't save him. Nothing could.
"Easy, I'm not going to hurt you." He didn't have time to reassure them further. He'd called in the anonymous tip five minutes ago, and he could already hear distant sirens.
His fingers crushed the chain links, breaking the tethers between the girls one by one. They clustered together, crying. As the sirens grew closer, he knew time was running out.
"Cops are on the way. Keep your hands where they can see them, okay?"
The redhead clutching her right arm to her side nodded shakily. She looked at him with red, puffy eyes and wet cheeks. "Thank you." Her voice trembled in sync with the rest of her. "Thank you so much."
Bucky swallowed and managed a "you're welcome." This is what it felt like when he used to be the good guy, instead of the ruthless assassin. This is what it felt like when someone looked into his face with gratitude instead of terror.
The sirens were close. He shook himself out of his momentary stupor and made his exit. By the time the cops arrived he was far away from the warehouse. He adjusted the cross-body pack and hopped over the brick fence separating the industrial district from a two-lane road. The Florida night was warm and humid, and it made the air in his chest feel heavy.
He jogged two miles to the used white SUV he bought before leaving New York. It was an older Hybrid, decent on gas mileage and a hell of a lot easier to drive one-armed than the motorcycle. It allowed him to carry an extra pack and supplies, and he could tilt the seat back to sleep in it.
He drove the remaining fifteen miles to the boarded-up house on the outskirts of town. By the time he parked the vehicle and entered the house, he was exhausted. He used half a bottle of water and a towel to wash the black makeup from his face, then undressed and used the other half of the water to wipe the sweat and grime from his body.
That done, he grabbed a pen and black journal from his pack and lowered himself to the blankets on the floor. His mission was complete. In the morning, he'd move on. Setting his phone down, he activated the screen to provide faint light, then opened the book and held it one-handed against his lap. He flipped to the next blank page, wrote down today's date and, under that, the number six.
He slipped beneath the blankets, his jacket wadded up as a pillow, and lay down, clutching the book to his chest and hoping that if he saved enough lives, they would bury the corpses of his victims and keep the nightmares at bay.
