A/N: Hello friends! Thanks to BlueBoxForever for this idea and screaming over it with me. Please, read, review, and enjoy!
Bucky brushed his hair out of his face for what felt like the millionth time that day and let out a soft grunt as it immediately fell back where it had just been. It had been raining all day and showed no sign of letting up soon. Most people had been smart enough to get out of the rain once it started to pour, but it hadn't bothered or impeded the recently liberated Winter Soldier, so why should he? But now, even he thought the constant downpour was a bit ridiculous. As he shuffled along, he looked around the deserted city block for a good place to lie low for a while. Most of the stores were too high end to let him stay for long and everywhere else was empty enough that he would draw attention.
His eyes glanced over the next sign. LIBRARY it read. A vague recollection of a memory came back, of somewhere safe and quiet and peaceful. It was enough to convince him and he beelined for the entrance.
The rush of warm, dry air was welcome after the cold, driving rain. Bucky resisted the almost instinctive urge to shake like a dog and took a moment to look around as he paused in the doorway.
A circular service desk sat in the middle of the floor where the librarian was eyeing him with a mix of apprehension and pity. Bookshelves stretched in rows behind her to the back of the building and the ceiling stretched high above him, making room for not one, but two wide, wrap around balconies bordered with more shelves. The wood paneling and colors were light and bright and Bucky could feel himself relaxing in response to the environment.
Hefting his backpack onto his shoulder better, he moved farther in. He skirted the desk, not wanting to make the librarian more nervous than she already was, and headed to a lounge section he spied in the back corner. Maybe a dozen other patrons milled or sat about, waiting for the storm to ease. A quick assessment told him that none of them were threats and he allowed himself to relax further, an odd sensation for him.
The assassin tried sitting in one of the plastic chairs against the wall, but to his surprise, within fifteen minutes, he found himself growing bored.
He'd never had the time nor ability to be bored before. It was never part of his mission, not to mention he was a sniper; he could sit for hours with unwavering focus. This development unnerved him.
Standing suddenly, Bucky moved between the shelves and quietly began to browse.
Some titles were familiar, most were not. He brushed the spines with his flesh hand as he walked by and wondered if he had read any of them before, when a title caught his eye. Peter Pan.
A memory burst into his head like the clearing of static: a woman, two boys, and a girl, all huddled on her lap as she read them a story of pirates and fairies and belief.
The soldier blinked as he desperately tried to regain his bearings and hoped he hadn't been compromised for the instant he was vulnerable. Everything came back into focus. The library remained unchanged. He carefully pulled the book from its shelf with his metal arm, returned to his seat, and began to read.
It was amazing how something could feel so utterly foreign and familiar at the same time. He didn't know how long he sat there, poring over the images and words and rereading them again and again.
"I'm a lost boy," he muttered.
Another break in the static, this time filled with children's laughter- his laughter- and… the man on the bridge's? They play-fought with wooden, toy swords and the blonde boy wore a battered green cap.
"And he's Peter Pan," the soldier murmured. What did that mean? He read the book again.
The lost boys followed Peter Pan, that much he knew, but what about when Peter wasn't there? He read it again.
At one point, the lost boys got captured by Captain Hook. Almost like a light bulb turning on, Bucky whispered,
"The pirates are HYDRA." The name was bitter on his tongue, and he read it again.
He was a lost boy, who had usually hung out with Peter Pan. But, according to this, he'd been captured by Captain Hook. And now?
Now, he was lost more than ever.
What was he lost from? Where was he trying to get back to? Ever since he had pulled Steve from the river, he'd been running. Running from HYDRA and SHIELD, running away from whatever he had done, and desperately trying to regain some semblance of an identity on the way.
Run, run lost boy, he thought ruefully.
The storm still raged outside and now that he had found somewhere relatively safe, he was in no hurry to leave soon. He browsed some more, heading up to the balconies, musing all the while on the storybook.
The soldier returned to his spot with a decent pile of books and began to read. Anyone watching him carefully would note the stiff and unfamiliar posture he started out with slowly fade into a comfortable slouch as he surrendered himself to the words, worlds, and worries of others. Over the next few hours, Bucky reacquainted himself with a favorite pastime he had long forgotten. Needless to say, he was shocked and mildly panicked when the clock struck six. Had he really been that blissfully unaware for that long? And nothing bad had happened?
"Sir," the librarian said as she approached him. "It's closing time. I'm afraid you'll have to leave."
"верно," he replied huskily, then shook his head and said, "Right," regretfully closing his book. He looked down at the pile as if unsure what to do with it.
"I can take those," the librarian offered. "Or would you like to check them out?"
"I can't," he said. He was on the run. He didn't have time to read, much less a safe place to do so. It was ludicrous and impractical. Definitely not in line with his mission.
"Do you not have a card? We can set you up with one. It's free."
He had not expected that.
It seemed crazy, silly even. Could the Winter Soldier, the infamous ghost assassin, really apply for something as simple as a library card?
"Yes. Please," he stammered out. The lady smiled kindly at him and he followed her to the reception desk like a lost puppy.
As he left the library that evening with a bag full of borrowed books, including Peter Pan, he looked in wonder at his library card, his own library card, with the name Bucky Barnes shakily scrawled on the back, and allowed himself a small smile. It was such a small thing, but weren't small things where great things started? Freedom didn't always start with revolution: maybe it started with making your own decisions and doing something simply because you enjoyed it. Maybe he hadn't demolished HYDRA's shackles (yet), but he'd taken a step to break the link.
I'm still lost, he thought. But lost boys are free.