A/N: I know I said I would probably make it a one-shot. I lied. Thank you to my lovely reviewer who motivated me to get off my lazy butt and write chapter 2. It may be a little unclear, but he finally passed out in the alley only an hour or two before this chapter.
Also, I edited chapter 1. I didn't realize I left that sentence incomplete, but it's there now.
One last thing, I'm sorry. I have no idea what D.C. is like so this little town may be really inaccurate. Sorry.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bucky Barnes or any writing talent at all.
Bucky was woken the next morning by sunlight streaming into the alley. It nearly blinded him as he opened his eyes slowly. He rubbed them with the back of his flesh hand and sat up. His eyes took their sweet time adjusting to the light, and he sat there squinting for a minute or two.
His headache was gone now, but the chirping birds were likely to bring it back. He looked around for the source, and found a little group of birds pecking at some food at the entrance to the alley. He threw a knife at them, hitting and killing one. The others scattered in panic, returning the area to silence. The occasional car rolled past, but other than that it was quiet.
He was panicking slightly as he realized he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. Looking around, he could tell that the cracked buildings around him were abandoned. It didn't look like a nice area to be in, for someone who didn't know how to fight. He saw water dripping from gutters, making a little ploosh sound every time a droplet hit the ground. There was garbage everywhere, and his pants were stained with something that looked a lot like grease.
Water hit him right in the eye as he looked up. It looked like it would be a nice day, but storm clouds in the distance promised more rain. His hair was still damp from last night's rain, and his jacket was completely soaked.
Not only was it soaked, but it was also now completely useless, he observed as he looked at his exposed left arm. Its only purpose was to keep his prosthetic arm hidden, but the sleeve appeared to have been ripped off. The arm was whirring very softly and slightly dirty. Little rocks had embedded themselves in the cracks between the sheets of metal, and it would have to be cleaned up before it broke.
Two more drops of water hit his face, and he pulled off his mask and wiped his face with his hands. The gesture replaced the cold water with some other liquid, which was thick and warm. He looked at his hands, disappointed to find the palms covered in blood as well as the hem of his sleeve. He had just rubbed the blood all over his face, which would turn out to be a problem.
He used the ripped sleeve to wipe it off, though he had no idea if he removed it all. He would have to find somewhere to wash up, and get a new jacket. Maybe some gloves as well, because he left his at the museum.
He tried to remember how he had gotten here, but his mind was blank. Flashes of red filled his mind - which were no help at all, because obviously he had committed some kind of bloody crime - and his head starting aching again.
He found his gun on top of a pile of four bloody wallets, obviously stolen from whoever had been his poor victim last night. He stuffed them all into different pockets in his pants and took off his jacket. He put his mask in the pocket with the gun and stashed his knife back in its hiding spot. His hat was nowhere to be found, but he could buy a new one.
He walked out of the alley and began heading down the sidewalk. He had no idea where he was going, or where he was, but he could smell food. His stomach grumbled at the thought of eating. It had been days since his last meal.
As he continued walking where his nose was taking him, he reached a more populated area of the town. There were cars, and pigeons, and people going about their day. Shops were just starting to open, and people were waiting for buses and hailing taxes and reading newspapers on benches. He grabbed one out of a man's hands, tearing a piece of it and getting blood on another part of the paper. Ignoring the man's protests, he went into a public bathroom to wash the blood off of himself. He stuffed the newspaper into a pocket, which was starting to get full.
He began scrubbing at his hands and face, thinking as he did. He had noticed the stares people gave him as he walked by, and he could tell that he was getting odd looks from the other men entering and leaving the bathroom. His working metal prosthetic and bloody face had gotten him noticed, and that was not a good thing.
He dried his face with a paper towel, and rubbed at the red star on his arm. He knew the paint wasn't going to come off with just water, but he had to try.
Eventually he was forced to give up and throw away the paper towel. He would have to find some kind of paint remover to get it off. He left the bathroom, glad that it was somewhat fast-paced in this area, and those who had seen him had gone on with their business.
The street was getting busier, almost like it was waking up. The smell of food kept getting stronger as he walked. His mouth began watering as he thought of eating a juicy burger and some fries.
He found himself at a little restaurant and bar. He walked inside, taking in his surroundings. It wasn't particularly beautiful, but that was fine. He had no idea how much money he had, and he could be traced if he was found using some dead person's credit card. Some men were getting themselves drunk at the bar, even though it was only noon. A bartender was trying to refuse them more drinks, looking slightly uncomfortable around the large men. A waitress was taking the order of another patron, but other than that it was empty. He sat himself down at a booth in the corner and busied himself with sorting out the useable money from the ruined and bloody money.
He had fifty-six dollars in total, enough to get him a meal and a new jacket, at least. He moved the money to the cleanest wallet, as well as the credit cards from all four wallets. He would get cash at an ATM and abandon them later.
The waitress finally came up to his booth, holding a notepad and a pen.
"What can I get'cha, hon?" she asked, making a little rhythm by tapping her pen on her notepad. Her gaze drifted to the metal arm. She tried to be conspicuous but it was obvious she was staring at it.
"A cheeseburger, some fries and..." He glanced at the men, who were now happy that they had finally gotten another round of drinks. "...and something strong."
The waitress nodded as she ripped her gaze away from Bucky's arm and began writing down the order. She looked disgusted that this clearly homeless man was wasting his money by getting drunk.
After throwing away the other wallets and useless money, the waitress finally came back with his food and his drink. Noticing the different colors of hair ties on her wrist, he asked her, "Before you go, can I have a hair tie? I'll pay you for it."
She raised an eyebrow at the request but gave him a black one.
"Maybe you should try cutting your hair, and washing it once in a while," she said with a sneer. Then she stalked off to the bar, probably to tell the bartender to stop giving the group of men drinks.
He tied his hair back, and decided he wasn't going to give her a tip. He was surprised by the difference the ponytail made while he ate. He wasn't eating his own hair anymore. He took a bite of his burger, then chugged most of his drink.
He was disappointed to find that whatever HYDRA had done to him didn't seem to let him enjoy the feeling of even getting tipsy. He could have used something to numb his mind for a bit.
He let out a sigh and set the rest of his drink down. He ate some fries and leaned back in his chair. He thought about how badly he needed to leave D.C., but he didn't do anything about it. He was enjoying the time he had, without anyone ordering him around. He felt a quick, sharp pain in his head that faded quickly.
"What'sh da matter, roboguy? You gettin' all- hic!- fidgggety?" one of the drunk men asked, acting like he was the leader or something. They seemed to have gotten bored with harassing the poor bartender. Bucky hadn't even noticed them walk up, which was odd.
The others laughed at the man's almost incoherent joke. Some of them repeated it, and others were laughing and hiccuping so loudly that Bucky could feel the pain coming back in his head.
Bucky chose to ignore them, taking another bite of his sandwich. After the man realized he was being ignored, which took a second, he got very angry.
"Hey, I'm talking to you, one-arm!" He grabbed Bucky's metal arm, probably not even expecting him to feel the touch.
Bucky did. He reacted instantly, without even thinking about what he was doing. His left arm moved slower because of the rocks stuck in it, but it was fast and strong enough to grab hold of the drunk man's arm and crush it.
Bucky jumped up in surprise at what he had done. The man screamed in pain, scattering the other men and summoning all of the other members of the restaurant staff. His arm was dangling bloody and useless and slightly crumpled as he ran out the door.
The bartender let out a noise of fright, breaking the silence that had come when the drunk man left the place. The other patron in the bar was staring at Bucky in horror and the waitress was already calling the police.
Bucky slapped some money on the table and ran out of the restaurant. He ran the opposite direction he had come in earlier. It brought up a few more images from the previous night, worsening his headache. He finally slowed down at an ATM about ten blocks from the bar, but he didn't feel tired.
He got all of the money out of the credit cards, filling his wallet up with thousands of dollars. He could probably get a very fancy new jacket.
He rested against the wall for a moment, willing his headache to disappear. He could hear police sirens now, bringing up more images from last night.
He pulled out the crumpled newspaper and began reading as he waited for his headache to calm down. Although much of the front article was either ripped or ruined by blood, he could still make out the headline.
"SEVEN DEAD IN MURDER SPREE"
He skimmed over what he could see of the article. Armed and dangerous... report any leads... it was all the same stuff you saw in newspapers, no matter what year it was.
He froze when he saw the grainy security camera photo in the corner of the page. He could recognize the hat, and the mask, and the little glint of a metal hand in the light of a street lamp.
The picture was of him, but he couldn't remember any of it.
"Check this out, Cap," Sam said, showing Steve the picture in the news article. "Doesn't that mask look familiar?"
Steve ripped the picture out of the magazine, examining it closely.
"Says he's killing innocents now, I guess... Oh, look at this, it says he's 'armed' and dangerous, Steve. Armed. And dangerous." Sam laughed at his joke, but Steve remained fixated on the little picture of the man he knew, even though he couldn't make out a face, to be Bucky Barnes.