For the first hour or so Bucky felt like he could die from the silence and loneliness that Steve had left in his wake. Then, as one hour gave way to two, and then three, the acute loneliness faded, replaced instead by a sense of calm. Bucky hadn't been truly alone in so long that he had forgotten how refreshing it could be. With all the time simply to himself, Bucky washed the dishes, and thoroughly cleaned the house. He even daring to peek into, and then clean Steve's room, which he had always assumed was off limits, even though Steve had said nothing to that nature. He made himself lunch, and took a long hot shower before prepping dinner for when Steve come back to him.
And then there was Liberty. While Bucky had been, by now, quite enjoying his laid back day, Liberty was going stir-crazy. She bounded clumsily around the living room, tore her rope-knot to shreds, and then set to work on Bucky's flip-flops. That was the last straw. Bucky knew she needed some time outside to play.
Needless to say, Liberty was ecstatic when her owner joined her outside. She ran around the yard with that odd, three-legged gate of hers, her eyes manic, tongue lolling. Bucky allowed himself a smile, catching her in one strong arm as she tore past him. He flipped her over on her back, rubbing the wriggling puppy's stomach until she squirmed free and went back to her laps. Bucky pushing himself back to his feet, absently brushing at the grass stains on his knee. Eventually, Liberty found one of the tennis balls that Steve had bought for her to play with. The young dog drug it out from under one of the bushes planted against the house and tripped over to where Bucky now stood, her expression expectant. A smirk tugged at Bucky's lips and he reached down, prying the slimy ball from his dog's mouth and throwing the pitch that would begin a game of fetch lasting well over an hour.
"Last throw," Bucky murmured to himself, convinced that he would no longer be manipulated by Liberty's big pleading eyes. He hauled back and chucked the ball, Liberty scrambling after it. The ball flew slightly off course, rebounding off the wall of the house and rolling under a bush at the edge of the yard, when Liberty promptly lost track of it. It would have been fine to leave well enough alone, but Liberty seemed so distressed at the loss of her toy that Bucky, heaving a sigh, got on his hands and knees himself to dig the ball out from the brush. After a moment, he sat back up, holding the slimy, dirty ball in his hand.
Bucky heard a barely audible hiss, and suddenly a something smacked into him. Pain flared across his entire chest, his brain pitching into a panic. There was blood. He could feel it, but it hadn't yet soaked through to show where he had been shot. 'I've been shot…' He processed, his mind reeling. He had only just approached the edge of the yard! The perimeter was supposed to be farther back! All off this raced through his brain before he ever hit the soft grass. Pain like electric coarse though his body as the shock of the impact spread across his chest and up his neck. A strangled cry forced past his lips and he curled momentarily to the side. His hand moved unconsciously to the area just bellow his right shoulder. He could feel the blood now. It was seeping through his shirt. His vision was dimming as shock began to set in. 'I can't just lay here!'
All of his conditioning came flooding back and, spurred by desperation, he surged to his feet. The pain was unbearable, sending shafts of white hot agony through his body. Bucky was vaguely away of a commotion deeper in the woods; the men at the perimeter reacting to the situation. 'They're going to gun me down.' Bucky realized, breaking into a panic fueled sprint. He crashed into the door of the house, a cry escaping his lips as the impact jarred his injury. He wasn't thinking anymore, he was just moving, just trying to find a safe place to hide. Bucky's vision was going fast, his body numbing to the pain as he fell into Steve's bedroom door.
The last thing he remembered seeing was the gun laying on Steve's end-table, and the sight of his own bloody fingers curling around it.