A/N: I am trying a new fanfic, and I have no idea if this will actually be more than just a oneshot. Also, it's just drabble and I have no clear plot written out, but I know where it could go if I decide to finish. I was really tired when I typed this up and it gets a little shoddy near the end... sorry ^.^;
Disclaimer: I do not own the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, Captain America, or that one kid in the movie that recognized Cap.
He looked at his own memorial. It was almost unreal. He could see his face in black and white, he could recall everything mentioned in the biography, but it just didn't seem like it was real to him. It was like watching a movie. You could tell someone about everything that happened in the movie, but you couldn't tell them how it felt to be there. He watched the video of himself running with Captain America, and he could remember exactly when that had happened, but not how he had felt about it. He was almost certain that he could only recall when it had happened because it said so right next to the video. September 14, 1942.
There were still parts of his memory that were missing, but more came back to him every day. He couldn't remember how he was supposed to have died. The audio recording that played whenever he pressed the red button could give him more information about his own death than he could give himself.
"He fell from a train, despite Captain America's best efforts..."
That was how he had lost his arm, but it didn't explain how he was found alive.
"His body was never recovered..."
Of course it wasn't. He was standing right here, in front of the part of the Smithsonian dedicated to him.
"Bucky was the only Howling Commando to give his life serving Captain America..."
He balled his metal hand into a fist. He wanted to rip the entire appendage off, with its red star and HYDRA technology. He wanted to take it out and bleed and die, right here, where the memorial would finally tell the truth. That would be stupid, he told himself, because I don't want to die.
He was so caught up in his returning memories that he almost didn't notice the little boy who was staring at him. The boy was wearing a shirt with Captain America's new shield on it. It seemed like this wasn't the first time that he had visited the exhibit, and it wasn't the first time he had seemed to see someone who wasn't supposed to be there.
At first, Bucky assumed the boy was staring at him because he pressed the little button every time the audio ended. After a moment, he realized the kid seemed to be shifting his gaze from Bucky to the picture and back again. Realization hit him suddenly. The kid recognized him, despite his longer hair and stubble and the baseball cap he wore to cover his face.
The shock of this caused him to move his hand to the gun holster he no longer wore. He remembered that his gun was in his pocket and, horrified, also remembered that he would never want to shoot an innocent child. He slowly took his hand away from his belt and gave a shaky little smile to the child.
"Don't-" He cleared his throat, his voice cracking from lack of use, "Don't tell anyone, okay, kid?" he asked, sounding gentler than he thought he was capable of at this point.
The kid grinned and nodded, ecstatic that he had met the real Bucky Barnes and that he got to keep his secret. He ran away to talk to his friends, no doubt to tell all about what had just happened. Bucky honestly didn't see a reason why that was a problem, but something about anyone knowing about him made him uneasy. If HYDRA wasn't really defeated, they would be looking for him everywhere...
To add to that, he was still trying to get over the fact that he would have shot the little boy if his gun had been in a different place. He had his memories back, but being the Winter Soldier had changed him - probably forever - and he would have to be more careful.
A few days ago, he wouldn't have cared at all about whether or not that little boy was dead right now. He disgusted himself, remembering all of the assassinations he had carried out. He hadn't even questioned it! He just killed all of those people, for no reason! He had even tried to kill Steve, his old best friend... He thought of the fun times they had, and found that he couldn't remember the joy. He felt nothing as he contemplated the mission he had failed, unlike all of the other successful missions. So many people had died at his hands, the hands that were only half human... the other half was HYDRA. Again, he resisted the urge to rip the arm out of its socket. Instead, he just ripped his glove off and looked at the shining silver.
Now angry and upset at himself, he had to stop him from destroying the display in front of him as well. He didn't deserve even this for all he had done. He didn't even deserve to be mentioned by Captain America. He walked out of the Smithsonian solemnly, with both hands in his pockets, trying to keep the gun hidden as he passed the guards. He didn't want them to get the wrong idea.
He almost laughed at that.
The sky had gotten grayer since he had entered the museum, just to spite him, it seemed. A few drops of water hit his jacket, and he was glad that he was wearing it and his arm couldn't rust or even be affected by water.
He hailed a taxi, the gesture reminding him of having to hail HYDRA before every mission, despite the wave not being very similar. He climbed into the yellow cab just as the rain started to really come down. The sky seemed to be crying over something, but he didn't know what.
Bucky gave the man behind the wheel directions to a cheap motel he had looked up beforehand. It wasn't too far, but far enough for the rain to get really bad by the time he was there. He sighed, but only in his mind. His outside expression was almost blank as the cabbie started driving.
"Checking out the Captain America exhibit?" the driver asked, trying to start conversation. Bucky ignored him, staring out the window and watching the raindrops eat each other as they slid down the window. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Bucky glanced at the driver, and slowly pulled his metal arm out of his pocket so he wouldn't alert him. He grabbed the wallet sticking out of the man's pocket while he was looking around at a stop sign. He quickly put his hand and the wallet back in his jacket pocket as the man looked his way before continuing to drive.
They drove past the waterlogged wreckage of one of the Project Insight helicarriers, the one that Captain America had brought down while Bucky was trying to kill him. Bucky deliberately looked away, not wanting to remember dragging Steve to the shore, or having so many of his memories shoved back at him all at once. Instead, he focused on polishing his metal thumb with his jacket sleeve.
"It's amazing, how big these planes are. I wonder how they made them? Such a shame they were used for such a horrible purpose..." the man trailed off, realizing that he wasn't going to go very far in trying to break the ice.
Bucky wanted to stay silent, to enjoy the peace now that the man knew he should shut up. He wanted so badly to just watch the rain race down the window... but he couldn't stop himself from asking the question burning his mind.
"What were they used for?" he asked, his rough voice surprising the driver. He obviously hadn't expected Bucky to answer. Bucky eagerly waited for the response as the man got over his little shock. HYDRA never told him anything but his mission, and he had no idea why he had been there in the first place.
"Well, there were those organizations... HYDRA and SHIELD, I think?" Bucky nodded at the man. He took his sweet time thinking about Bucky's question and answering, and they had gotten quite far before he began talking again. "Yeah, they both had different ideas about the planes... SHIELD was going to take out potential threats to the world, and HYDRA-" The man stopped talking as he hit the brakes in front of a badly-maintained building. "Well, this is your stop," he said with a smile, not noticing Bucky's angry expression. What was HYDRA going to do with the helicarriers?
Calming down, he handed the man a large tip, because he was using the driver's money. He got out and slammed the door, his left hand making a dent in the metal and scraping some of the yellow paint off. The rain immediately began to soak his hat, and he took it off, letting the heavy rain soak his hair.
By the time the driver noticed the thievery and came back, Bucky would be gone. He couldn't afford to stay in one place for long, and he was leaving first thing in the morning. As he walked into the registration building, the woman at the front desk sat up a little straighter and ran her fingers through her bangs. It seemed to be empty aside from himself and the woman.
"How can I help you?" she asked, batting her eyelashes. Bucky frowned a little at her not-so-subtle and not-so-great attempt at flirting, and pulled out the wallet.
"I need a room for the night," Bucky responded, sounding almost bored. The woman was beautiful, and he recalled being very interested in women like her at one time. Now, all he was focusing on was getting a bed to sleep in, roach-ridden or not. Without her.
"Alright, hon, that's fifteen dollars." She seemed to be ready to say something a little more suggestive when she noticed his hand.
He was too absorbed in counting the money and thinking about old memories to notice that she had seen the metal glinting in the dim light. Thinking it was a wedding ring and being disappointed, she was surprised when a hand made of metal gave her the money.
"Your hand is..." she trailed off, unsure of what to say. She stared at it for a moment, not worrying about being rude.
He cleared his throat, and she seemed to snap out of her trance. She handed him the room key and a little note that looked suspiciously like a phone number, gave him the directions to his room, and winked. He raised an eyebrow at her, which was hidden by his hat, and walked towards the stairs he was directed to.
Thinking about his old life was beginning to make his head pound. Reaching the top floor and walking down the hall, it quickly got worse. By the time he reached the door, he was already fumbling with the key, wanting to get in the room and sleep to get rid of the headache.
Throwing open the door, he stumbled into the room and dropped to his knees on the rough carpet. He held his head in his hands, almost certain that the throbbing of his head could be felt from the building across the street, and kicked his door closed. More memories entered his head. He could remember a train... Steve reaching for him... he was falling now... He was convulsing violently on the floor now, like he was waking up from a nightmare over and over, as the memories flooded his mind.
Images filled his head, and it felt like he was fast forwarding a movie. Something in his mind clicked, or unlocked, or maybe snapped, and his seizure stopped.
Lying on the floor, he let go of his head. His hands had blood on them, and he realized his ears were bleeding. His headache was still there, but it didn't bother him anymore. He stood up slowly, testing his limits, and found that he was fully capable of walking on his own, despite the seizure.
He also had the strong desire to kill.
The Winter Soldier had no orders, though. He had no way of knowing what to do. He was lost without HYDRA's orders. However, he did know that he was an assassin. Assassins were meant to kill, to see blood and rip flesh with their hands and knives, to puncture skin with their bullets. If he had no mission, he would have to give himself one.
He removed the gun from his pocket. He also checked to make sure all of his knives were still hidden on his person. He pulled the mask out of a different pocket than the one holding his gun and put it on his face.
He put on his hat and pulled down the front to cover his eyes. He swung open the motel door with such a force that it fell off of its hinges. Bloodthirsty and holding a loaded handgun, he walked down to the registration office. The woman was gone, and it seemed a few hours had passed since he had entered the motel. It was now midnight, according to the clock above the registration clerk's head.
The Winter Soldier shot the new man behind the desk without missing a beat. He kept walking out the door as the man slumped over on the counter, blood pooling around his head. The clock had shattered when the bullet had gone straight through the man's head, permanently stuck at 12:03.
The Winter Soldier made it about four blocks away, shooting anyone he came across, before he heard police sirens. Someone else in the motel must have heard the gunshot and called the police. He dove into an alleyway, the blaring sirens and bright lights aggravating his head. He collapsed on a pile of soda cans, grabbing at something to make the pain stop. He eventually settled on pulling at his own hair, screaming to match the sirens and dying down as they did.
Silence washed over the neighborhood, which seemed to be either deserted or everyone was sleeping. He closed his eyes, trying to stop his mind from exploding. This only made the pain worse, and he writhed on the concrete. Visions danced in his eyes, even when he opened them, and it was becoming unbearable.
He ripped the sleeve off of his left arm, revealing the metal underneath. It helped him cope by ripping at the fabric, until he finally fell unconscious, his body unable to stand any more.