9. It's Destroying Me
He waits patiently in the open space, standing by the door. Steve and Natasha have disappeared down the hallway. He is uninterested in what they might be doing. He sees the way Natasha looks at him and the man they kidnapped, the looks she gives Steve, and does not wish to remember what the connection is. Standing near the window is warm. He glances down at the man, the prisoner, and decides to get him out of the sun. He is not particularly familiar with keeping unconscious people from having their condition worsen.
There is a stone tablet standing before the wall to the left. He walks over to it, dragging the man by the collar behind him, who stirs but doesn't wake. He drops him and looks idly at the names on what is apparently the Wall of Valor. None of them ring any bells; he doesn't expect them to. He's just passing time. Until he sees one that does. His body grows stiff as he sees "Bucky Barnes" written there. The world blurs and he clenches his jaw and tenses his body to stay upright, the name the only clear thing in his vision.
He is familiar with war memorials. He knows what kinds of names these are. He knows his name shouldn't be included. He didn't die with valor, with honor. He fell and went on to serve the enemy far better than anyone else could. These people, listed beside him, are good people, good agents, good soldiers. They served their country and died defending it. He doesn't fit. He doesn't fit anywhere.
He reaches almost automatically with his metal hand, touching the name, first gently, hesitantly, then he presses harder and digs his fingers into the stone until the name is gone. It takes a few moments. When it is done, he steps back unsteadily. He glances down the hallway where Steve had gone, then back outside. He considers briefly, looking down at the man in front of him, then walks away.
He is driving. He doesn't know where he is going; it doesn't matter. He wishes he had his mask still. But, no, it had been broken during the first fight with Steve and had not been replaced. Why hadn't it been replaced? Did they no longer care about keeping him anonymous, keeping him a ghost story? Maybe not. It was likely, from what little he'd learned about the helicarriers, that they didn't think they'd need him anymore. Was he a target? If so… Then Steve had saved his life. Again.
Saved it for what? He thinks bitterly. Sam was right; Steve was stubborn and so was he. Steve had such faith in people; he would only be disappointed if he found out how he was feeling. How seeing his name on that wall made it feel like the world was twisted and crumbling. Steve was a hero. There was a museum dedicated to him from his exploits during the war and from after he'd woken up in the ice.
There was an exhibit dedicated to Bucky Barnes, but not to him. Bucky had died, had sacrificed himself for his country, for Steve. And Bucky is gone. He may remember things from Bucky's life, but that isn't who he is anymore. He isn't a hero. He isn't even a veteran. He is a soldier, but not the kind people talk about with anything but fear in their voices. The way the man he'd captured look at him… It was pure, raw terror. He had undoubtedly recognized him. He'd expected to be killed, and not pleasantly.
He has killed a lot of people. He knows that. He doesn't think any of the deaths were particularly cruel. The ones he remembers were efficient; that's what he was trained for above all else. Invisible, untraceable, efficient. He hadn't interrogated anyone. He hadn't tortured anyone. He ended it quickly, often before a target was even aware of his presence, and disappeared before any survivors could find him.
Was Bucky an efficient killer? He has few memories of Bucky in battle, though he knows he was always a good marksman. People loved Bucky; not just Steve. No one loved the Winter Soldier. Even those tasked with his care were always on edge, afraid, when he was around. Because he was a machine. Is he any less of one now?
He realizes he doesn't know where he is. He pulls the car over onto the side of the road, and leans forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. He doesn't break, but some part of him contemplates the idea. The emotions filling him are too much. He struggles to remain silent. To relieve some of the tension, he punches the dashboard with his right hand. It hurts. He sits back, running his fingers through his long hair, sighing deeply. He pulls back onto the highway.
Eventually, he reaches Avengers Tower again. He has contemplated where else he might go. There are options. He doesn't have to return to this place, to no doubt be fussed over by Steve when he returns. As much as he hates the idea, he knows what will be best. If he is alone, out there, he will lose more of who he is than he already has. Steve might not know him anymore, might be mistaken about him, but he certainly treats him like a person. So does everyone he's met here so far. To hide out there would mean being anonymous, a ghost, and he is tired of that.
Getting into the parking garage requires going through some mechanized security checkpoints. He is let through without question, which sets him on edge. He parks the vehicle, the one Natasha had taken, back where it was. Then he walks to the elevator and rides it silently to Steve's floor. He doesn't see anyone else, which is a relief. He goes to what is now his bedroom, and sits on the floor in front of the window.
The window looks out at the skyline of the city. There are no buildings nearby as high as this one, so he can see pretty far. He pulls his knees up against his chest, wrapping his arms around them, leaning against his bed, and watches the sun dipping toward the horizon. Some birds fly by, almost striking the glass. He is unaffected, motionless, thinking.
He was walking down the street, home from school. Steve wasn't at school today, and he's carrying his books home so he can catch up. He knew that Mrs. Rogers was working a lot lately. There wasn't an answer when he knocked, though he'd done it lightly, in case Steve was asleep. He picked up the brick from the ground and pulled out the key, letting himself in.
"Hey, Steve," he called softly as he walked inside, setting Steve's books on the end table near the door. There was no answer. He frowned, then walked quietly down the hall to Steve's room. He was inside, asleep. He looked terrible.
Returning to the kitchen, he made some soup with what was food was left over. It wouldn't be very good soup, but he figured the warm broth would do Steve some good. When it was hot, he poured himself and Steve a bowl, and carried them carefully to his friend's room.
"Rise and shine," he said as he pushed the door open wider with his foot.
Steve blinked owlishly at him. "Bucky? What are you doing here?"
"Having dinner," he replied, stretching out his arm to offer the bowl.
"Yeah? You desperately wanted some left-over stew?" Steve asked sarcastically, but his eyes lit up at the sight of food.
"I did. You have much better left-overs here than at my house." He settled down on the floor a few feet from the bed, facing Steve, and began to eat with relish.
Steve smiled, shaking his head. "If you say so."
"I do." They ate in silence for a few minutes. He applied himself to his meal and forced himself to pay no attention to Steve. "I brought your schoolwork," he said when he finished his portion.
"Oh, great. That will make me feel much better," Steve answered, making a face.
He laughed. "What, did you want to just sleep all day and night?"
"Yes. That sounds like a great idea."
"Your mother would never forgive me if I let you fall behind," he told his friend sympathetically.
"You mean your mother. Mine's a little too worried about other things," Steve said, looking away.
He could tell he'd stumbled onto something that bothered his friend. He waited, to see if he would explain himself. Steve was moving his spoon slowly around the bowl, not eating. He sighed. "Like what?"
Steve shrugged. "Things are rough all over. I can't complain."
"You can always complain to me."
"Yeah?" Steve looked up, surprised.
"Now, I mean, I won't be particularly interested, but sure," he shrugged, keeping a straight face.
Steve laughed, but it turned into a cough. "You're a jerk."
"Punk," he replied with equanimity.
"Okay, I'm done eating, Mom. Where are these books I'm supposed to learn from?" Steve said, putting his bowl on his nightstand.
He got to his feet languidly and took both bowls back to the kitchen, then returned with the schoolbooks. "Have fun," he said, handing them to Steve and turning to go.
"Wait." The request was quiet, almost as if he didn't really want to be heard.
"Steve, I already did my work. You want me to just sit here and watch you do yours?"
"I don't have to do it right now." Sick as he was, Steve was still so stubborn.
"Fine," he said, sighing as he sat back down. Steve settled back against his pillows, watching him. "How about some cards?" he suggested.