Thanks so much for the favorites and follows! I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate them! My plan for this story has always been for it to be Bucky after Hydra, on the run. And Elia ;) So I've been SO EXCITED to get to this part of the story and we're finally here! I couldn't wait to write so somehow am managing a fairly quickly update since the last chapter. I really hope you enjoy! Let me know what you're thinking!
Chapter 9
The Soldier.
Bucky.
Bucky—that was familiar. That rang true. Or it had. Somewhere in his memories it rang out. But it was drowned out by all the other memories. Too many memories. Every memory.
Every kill, every mission. Family who loved him—who he had loved. Guns and war. Choking, strangling people to death. Not people, just targets. Stabbing. A scrawny kid he loved like a brother. Trains, bridges. Pain.
Every single memory came with piercing pain.
Bucky kept walking. One foot in front of the other. His arm throbbed with every step, but his head pounded. Away from the river bank. The road that was on the other side of the dense forest would be a direct route back to Hydra, the abandoned bank they had taken. He stepped into the woods, the dank coolness a relief from the sun outside the woods, but it didn't ease the pain.
His steps slowed.
He stopped completely, looking around the forest around him. He could still hear the rumbles behind him of the building collapsing.
He wasn't going back. Not to any of it.
He adjusted his steps, away from the road through the woods. His arm hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain shooting through his head, throbbing and burning at once.
He slid into a quiet recess in his mind, like he would if he was preparing for a mission, blocking out any extra noise. The pain faded slightly as the memories were pushed away.
He kept his injured arm tucked against his side, continuing on the path he had chosen. He would figure out where he was going. Right now his mission was to get away.
The sounds coming from the falling building were mixed with the screams of people running for safety. He didn't want to be near them. He changed course again.
Staying to the edge of the tree line, it took all his attention to keep his mind under control. To not let the memories in. His hands shook with the effort and he clenched his fists. The pain in his flesh and bone arm fought against him, driving back the pain in his head further.
Every footstep was muffled, his boots sinking slightly in the muddy ground. He kept a steady pace until he heard other footsteps. Ones that didn't match his stride.
He slowed, cocking his head slightly to listen. Shuffling steps. Uneven.
He didn't have many of his weapons left, but there was still a smaller handgun at his hip. He drew it and slowed his steps farther. He used the trees as camouflage, looking toward the road and the sounds.
The footsteps slowed. Stopped.
He waited, but there were no other sounds. He tightened his fingers around the grip, listening.
"Bucky! Be nice!"
The childish feminine voice rang through his head.
"You're going to give me a hard time because Peter Adams wants to take me to Coney Island? How many girls have you kissed on the ferris wheel there?"
"None of them was my sister."
"You're not the boss of me!"
"No, just your big brother."
The trees in front of him blurred with a face he should recognize. Blue eyes, pursed lips looking at him with frustration.
"You know what? Coney Island sounds fun. Steve and I will meet you there. Introduce ourselves to this Peter guy. Make sure you don't ride the ferris wheel."
A small moan sounded.
Bucky clenched his jaw, willing the memories—the pain—away.
His vision blurred. Then cleared. He took a silent step forward, scanning for what he was hearing.
He almost missed the figure—all in black—on her knees in the ditch along the road.
He surveyed their surroundings quickly, seeing no immediate threat he approached her. Cautiously. She may have convinced strike agents and handlers she wasn't a threat, but he had seen what she could do if she was threatened.
A scrawny kid in an alley, refusing to back down from a fight.
He grit his teeth. He felt a muscle pull in his jaw. Focus.
The woman put a hand out and braced herself against the ground, then pushed up before falling back to the ground.
Bucky recognized her. Everything he knew about her came rushing in, but it brought other memories with. Ones he didn't want in his head. Kills he had made. She had tried to stop him.
"Please don't…"
"Let's go." He hadn't hesitated. Grabbed her and taken her with to use her to access the senator.
The woman got to her feet, the knees of her pants damp with mud, the palm of her hand coated with dirt and fallen leaves. She didn't seem to notice, taking a lurching step and continuing forward.
Bucky looked back toward the frantic crowd in the distance. They were aimlessly milling, none coming this way. Emergency vehicles were starting to arrive.
He could assume a manhunt would be following shortly—whether it would be for all Hydra assets, or only Pierce and Rumlow, he wasn't going to take any chances. He wasn't going into captivity again—no matter who the captor was.
"You can't stay here," he said to the woman, letting her know he was approaching. She needed to get moving. She had been used by Hydra, the same as him. They could be coming for her, too.
"Home," she murmured. "I'm going home." Her words slurred. "1512 United Parkway. Apartment…" her words trailed off.
1512 United Parkway was as good a destination as any. He holstered his gun. Maybe she had people to get back to. He could get her there, get some supplies for himself, a change of clothes. He was too exposed like this.
He looked down at his arm, the setting sun glinting off the metal. At the woman in what looked like black fatigues. They didn't exactly look like they belonged on the streets of DC. Not if they didn't want to be brought in by Homeland Security.
He took her by the arm. She didn't look like she registered his grasp at all, still mumbling something about home. He tugged her along.
"Please. Please don't." A woman's green eyes met his, wide with terror. Pleading. "Please don—"
Her words were silenced when he gripped her neck. His hand clamped. He pushed her back slightly, tightening his fingers, the mechanical whir of the metal arm drowned out by her desperate choking. Her eyes bulged, her sounds silenced—
Bucky dropped the woman's arm. He wasn't going to drag her along.
"This way," he said, willing her to follow him.
She kept unfocused eyes on the ground, but tripped along with him. He slowed his steps slightly to accommodate her slower pace, but he didn't stop scanning their surroundings. He mentally catalogued every weapon he still had left. Listened to the chaos they were leaving behind.
Hearing something, he slowed, holding a hand out toward her without touching her. He made sure she was following before he veered toward a privacy fence at the edge of the trees.
Three cop cars went by, lights and sirens blaring.
"Take cover!"
The entire building shook.
"We're taking enemy fire. Sound the sirens!" Sirens took over the air.
"C'mon, Buck!" A tall man in a blue mask with a shield motioned to him. "We're not letting Nazi scum take out an entire barracks while we do nothing."
Steve.
His eyes felt like a metal spike was being driven through them. He started to lift his hand to press against his forehead, but the pain in his arm stopped him.
He gathered his reserves, fighting against the memories. The pain. He had to pull it together. He wasn't getting caught. No one was going to bring him in.
He drew a long breath, getting the memories under control again. The emergency vehicles long past, he made another survey of their surroundings. The girl wasn't there anymore.
Damn it.
He started to walk in the direction they had been heading. He rounded the corner of the privacy fence and saw her, half slumped against the wood slats, eyes closed.
"We need to keep moving," he said.
She didn't move.
He glanced over his shoulder. The street they were following was empty for now.
"Come on," he said.
She blinked up at him.
"No," she said, squinting at him. She started to topple over and caught herself against the fence.
"We don't have time for this," he said, hearing how gruff his voice was. He didn't used to sound like that, did he? He looked over his shoulder, making sure they were still safe.
"I'm not…" her voice trailed off and she blinked. Her hair was a tangled mess, half covering her face where it had come free from the braid it had been in earlier. "I'm not helping you…helping you kill anyone." She wove unsteadily on her feet.
His jaw clenched painfully. "We're not killing anyone," he spoke through gritted teeth.
"Please. Please don't!"
He shoved the memory back. He looked over his shoulder again. Two figures in black were in the distance. Strike agents?
"We have to go," he said, it coming out like an order.
The woman looked at him, her brows knitting slightly like she couldn't figure out who he was.
That made two of them.
"Come on," he said. This time when he took her arm, he was ready to fight back any memories that threatened. He held on just long enough to get her moving before dropping her arm.
They turned a corner and started crossing a park. The few people that still remained in the park were running, a desperate sprint away from the chaos behind them.
"Wait," Bucky said. Another blunt command. But she listened.
A small kiosk of souvenirs was tipped, all the wares scattered across the grass. Bucky grabbed a small t-shirt and tossed it at her. She stared blankly at it, making no effort catch it. It fell to the ground and she looked down at it without moving.
Bucky grabbed a black hoodie. He held back a grunt of pain when he maneuvered his broken arm into a sleeve before pulling the other sleeve on and zipping it. Nothing he could do about his silver hand, but at least his arm wasn't a signal to anyone looking for him. He pulled the hood up over his head.
The woman was still staring blankly at the pale green sweatshirt on the ground in front of her like it held answers.
There were no answers for any of this.
Bucky grabbed it and thrust it at her. "Put it on."
She stared at him.
A frustrated sigh burst from him. He tugged it over her head awkwardly with one hand. Thankfully she started moving, automatically slipping her arms through the sleeves.
He scanned the merchandize again and pulled hat from the mess, pressing it into her hands. She looked slightly less like a drugged enemy of the state and more like a disheveled tourist when she put it on.
"Keep moving," he said. That was their only objective right now. Keep moving until they got to her apartment.
#
Home.
She was home.
Too numbed to feel the relief at that knowledge, Elia followed along on wooden feet.
"1512 United Parkway," she mumbled. "Apartment 4A."
The man in front of her opened the door to the small foyer and said something. She didn't understand, his words floating past her.
She was home. She looked at the plain carpeting of the foyer. The glass door that opened into the first floor hallway. She pushed against the door. Her hands didn't cooperate. Someone next to her got the door open and she staggered through.
It had been a hard shift at work. She had lost a patient. Those were the worst shifts. The pain of losing a child, of holding grieving parents, would stay with her for weeks afterward. Longer than weeks. Months.
Heavy boots sounded alongside her as she went down the hall. She wasn't coming home from work. She had been a prisoner. But she was home now. Wasn't she?
It was automatic to go to the stairwell. The elevator was at the far end of the hall and she just wanted to get to her apartment. The stairs were quicker. But nothing was moving quickly. Her legs were heavy. Every step was like walking through water, a current pushing against her.
The first flight of stairs took a year. Or maybe a minute. The bootsteps stayed near her. Someone was with her.
The second flight took just as long. She was halfway up the third flight when something sounded in the distance, echoing through the stairwell. The Triskelion stairwell. She had to get down the stairs. Away from Pierce and the guns. Down the stairs.
A rough voice spoke near her. "Keep going up."
Elia blinked. Up the stairs. She needed to keep going up the stairs.
A door opened into the stairwell and suddenly there was a man in front of her, a black hoodie zipped up, hood obscuring most of his face. He nudged her into a corner of the stairwell and angled himself between her and whoever had come onto the landing. He kept his back toward the other person, but she could see him watching from the corner of his eye, over his shoulder. Elia sagged against the wall behind her, letting it do the work of keeping her upright.
Footsteps rang out as the person jogged down the stairs. When another door opened and closed, leaving the stairwell silent, the man stepped away from her.
Elia stared up at him. His face blurred. Under the hood she could see the set of his jaw. His eyes avoiding hers. He was the Soldier. Why was the Soldier at her home? Was he hurt? Was she supposed to help him? That was what she was supposed to do, wasn't it? Had he been shot?
He took another step away from her and opened the door onto the fourth floor hallway, looking around quickly before holding the door for her to go through.
Elia took stumbling steps through. Her apartment was the first one by the stairwell. She looked at the door. Pressed her palm to it. She was home. Where had she been? She shook her head slightly. Numb fingers brushed against her pocket for a key. It wasn't there. Where was her key?
The man next to her glanced around them, then put something in the lock. With a dull click the lock tripped. He did the same with the deadbolt. He pushed the door open.
Her apartment was cold. Musty smelling.
Elia made it inside. She was home.
#
"Is he alive?"
"Get medics over here!"
Steve struggled to open his eyes. Someone was hurt. He needed to help.
"He's breathing."
"Captain, don't move. We're getting you help."
"Bucky," he said. He had to get to Bucky. Make him remember.
"You found Steve?"
Steve recognized Sam's voice joining the fray. He got his eyes open.
Sam leaned over him.
"Sam," Steve said.
"Just hold still. They got medics coming," Sam said.
Steve could tell how bad his injuries were from the way Sam looked at him. He had to ask what had happened to Bucky. Had Bucky made it out? He tried to ask Sam, but he was too short of breath. It hurt to breathe. He tried to move a hand toward one of the gunshot wounds, see if he was still bleeding. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. He fought to keep his eyes open, but the blackness at the edge of his vision started closing in.
#
Bucky listened for any sound coming from the apartment. It was silent. Dark and closed up. There was no one here.
Relieved he wouldn't have to deal with anyone, Bucky quickly closed the door behind them. He flipped the locks and left the lights off. If this woman had been missing for months, anyone who knew that and saw lights come on may come to investigate.
The woman swayed on her feet as she looked around the dark apartment. Her eyelids fluttered. She turned and looked at Bucky, confusion marring her face.
"I need…" she blinked. "I'm home." She stumbled to a door off a short hallway and went through it.
Bucky moved quickly. Just because he hadn't heard anyone, it didn't mean the entire apartment was clear.
She was just falling face first onto a bed when he got in the room. Bucky made a quick pass of the room to ensure it was empty.
She was completely asleep, one arm flung out at her side, the other curled under her cheek, when he looked at her again.
He left the room quietly, closing the door behind him.
Now that they were off the street, he needed to do something about his injured arm. For the first time, he paid attention to the lack of movement. He grimaced as he tried moving it at the elbow. He didn't think it was broken. But it was dislocated.
He needed the joint back in place, that would help the pain. And make his arm functional again. There was a light throw on the back of the couch. Some pastel colored blanket. He took it, twisting it into a thick make-shift rope. He tied the ends together and stuck them in the door of the bathroom, pulling the door closed to hold the loop in place.
He stuck his forearm into the loop. He gritted his teeth. He had been shot. Stabbed. Any number of injuries over the years. They all started flooding his mind. No. Focus on this one now.
He clenched his jaw. Braced himself. Pulled against the traction on his arm.
He bit down hard, holding back any shout that would draw attention to the dark apartment. His chest heaved, beads of cold sweat dotting his forehead.
With a pop and a quick burst of searing pain, his elbow moved.
"Ugh!" He couldn't hold back the cry of pain, but quickly bit it back. He fell back against the wall opposite the door. A picture fell from the wall with a muted thud into the plush carpet.
He looked down at it. It was a picture of the woman. Her in pink scrubs, smiling with several other women, also in scrubs. He absently moved his arm, testing its movement while he moved down the hall, looking at pictures. A picture of a cat, sleeping on a couch. One of the woman, this time in a jean skirt and sweater, with some of the same women from the first picture. An elderly couple with a little girl. No pictures of her with anyone that looked like parents or siblings.
He moved to the living room, this time taking in his surroundings, not just looking for threats. Not much for personal items. A couple pictures of her with kids. Pink throw pillows on the couch.
Outside the faint thumping of a helicopter's engine sounded. It drew closer.
Bucky went to the window. The blinds were down. He carefully looked around the edge of them, without moving them.
A military helicopter flew low, but didn't pause near the apartment building. It continued on in the direction of the Triskelion.
He needed to get out of here. Sirens sounded, growing louder, then fading, as they went in the direction of the helicopter.
He looked around the edges of the blinds again. No one moved out on the street. He wondered if the city was locked down.
He shifted his shoulders, moved his titanium arm before he caught himself. He wasn't going to fight his way out of the city. He was done killing.
Killing. "You don't have to kill me," the young man pleaded. "You don't have—" Blood flowed crimson from his chest, his words silenced with the gunshot.
He squeezed his eyes shut, stepping back from the window. He didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to relive every kill.
His breath grated with every inhale. He had to stop the thoughts. Stop remembering.
He braced a hand against the wall, the sharp knife daggering every part of his brain at once. He had to get control. Get out of here.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. He straightened, pulled a gun, a familiar weight in his hand.
The footsteps went past without pausing at the apartment door.
He kept hold of his gun, waiting for another threat.
There wasn't a threat. That thought shook free. No one knew he was here. The girl—
The girl. He tried to shove the memories back to the past, where they belonged. Tried to take over his own mind again. It was enough to dull the pain to a burning ache. He could at least move down the hall.
He went back to the bedroom and looked at her. She was sleeping. Sort of. Her breaths were shallow, one of her legs twitching violently.
"Soldat, ty podchinish'sya." Soldier, you will comply.
"Bucky, you've known me your entire life."
He didn't know what he was. Who he was.
He watched her leg, the movements uneven, until they slowed. When there was nothing more than the rise and fall of her back with every breath, he stepped back out the door.
He couldn't leave her here. Neither one of them could leave this apartment while the entire military was mobilizing against Hydra.
His boots didn't make much noise across the carpeting. He positioned himself at the start of the short hallway, lines of sight to the bedroom and the door out of the apartment.
Relieved to have a mission—a duty—he settled his thoughts. His posture fell into something familiar, a soldier on guard. He let his conditioning take over, do what didn't require thought. What came on instinct.
He watched, and he waited.
#
