Status: Currently in progress.
Run
9 Hydra
Bucky didn’t have much of a reason to return to DC. Nothing waited for him there. But he feared Hydra was still in New York and he wanted out of there, on the fastest plane he could find, and disappear so they could never find him again.
Tony took him back that very night. Bucky took Steve’s dufflebag of clothing, the sum of all of his possessions, and thanked Tony again. He tried to smile at him, to be friendly, but it came off as stiff and somehow still miserable, so he stopped trying and watched Tony leave silently.
He found a hotel outside of the airport that took his cash, so he barricaded himself in for the night and stared at the ceiling, wondering how to properly disappear.
Bucky spent the next week in that hotel, remembering. It was hard on him and he was frustrated when he didn’t get very far, which was often. But, he thought, if he was going to hide himself from Hydra, he needed info on them, and with some luck, he might have all the information he needed inside his scrambled mind. The hard part was doing the unscrambling, however, and he often slept after a particularly long attempt at remembering with a massive headache and shaking hands.
The torture and punishments were the easiest to remember. They lept out of his mind, jumping to the forefront as though eager to be re-lived. This did not please Bucky and more often than not, it stunted or stopped his memory searches altogether. Possibly due to this, Bucky had also begun to experience flashbacks more frequently than usual. Sometimes, they were pictures he didn’t recognize at all. Faces he didn’t know, places he thought he’d never seen. Other times, worse times, he didn’t get a picture. He got the emotional memory and found himself stopping on the streets with tears running down his face and no idea why, or lashing out in a sudden rage to anyone or anything near him for reasons he could only guess at. Once, in the night, he woke with tears streaking his cheeks and the inability to catch his breath and he sat on his bed and shivered with horrible fear until the sun came up and the feeling passed.
So far, his information about Hydra and where it could be now was limited. He remembered some faces, people he thought might still live, and he filed away their memory as people to avoid. He remembered some missions, places and targets, most now long changed or dead by his own hand. But recalling the missions, where and who and maybe even why, Bucky just might be able to put together a picture of what Hydra was doing. He wrote down a lot and he began keeping a sort of journal and found it helped.
Bucky also tried to remember Steve, when he was feeling particularly strong, or else particularly guilt-ridden. It was during these memory searches that he felt real, venomous hatred and blame towards himself arise from deep parts within his heart, more so even than the memories of the numberless and nameless murders he had committed. Of all the things he should remember, Bucky knew, he should remember Steve.
He got a few flashes. A smile on a sunny day. A skinny kid in an alley, in a lot of alleys, actually. Bruises and shields and war. But none of the memories were comprehensive and none of them told him anything about his relationship with Steve, or about whom he had been. His mind seemed particularly determined to keep Steve and his past a mystery and he hated himself for it. Nevertheless, he recorded each flash with care in his new journal and didn’t dare wonder if there would ever come a day when Bucky could redeem himself and they could be friends again.
Tony took him back that very night. Bucky took Steve’s dufflebag of clothing, the sum of all of his possessions, and thanked Tony again. He tried to smile at him, to be friendly, but it came off as stiff and somehow still miserable, so he stopped trying and watched Tony leave silently.
He found a hotel outside of the airport that took his cash, so he barricaded himself in for the night and stared at the ceiling, wondering how to properly disappear.
Bucky spent the next week in that hotel, remembering. It was hard on him and he was frustrated when he didn’t get very far, which was often. But, he thought, if he was going to hide himself from Hydra, he needed info on them, and with some luck, he might have all the information he needed inside his scrambled mind. The hard part was doing the unscrambling, however, and he often slept after a particularly long attempt at remembering with a massive headache and shaking hands.
The torture and punishments were the easiest to remember. They lept out of his mind, jumping to the forefront as though eager to be re-lived. This did not please Bucky and more often than not, it stunted or stopped his memory searches altogether. Possibly due to this, Bucky had also begun to experience flashbacks more frequently than usual. Sometimes, they were pictures he didn’t recognize at all. Faces he didn’t know, places he thought he’d never seen. Other times, worse times, he didn’t get a picture. He got the emotional memory and found himself stopping on the streets with tears running down his face and no idea why, or lashing out in a sudden rage to anyone or anything near him for reasons he could only guess at. Once, in the night, he woke with tears streaking his cheeks and the inability to catch his breath and he sat on his bed and shivered with horrible fear until the sun came up and the feeling passed.
So far, his information about Hydra and where it could be now was limited. He remembered some faces, people he thought might still live, and he filed away their memory as people to avoid. He remembered some missions, places and targets, most now long changed or dead by his own hand. But recalling the missions, where and who and maybe even why, Bucky just might be able to put together a picture of what Hydra was doing. He wrote down a lot and he began keeping a sort of journal and found it helped.
Bucky also tried to remember Steve, when he was feeling particularly strong, or else particularly guilt-ridden. It was during these memory searches that he felt real, venomous hatred and blame towards himself arise from deep parts within his heart, more so even than the memories of the numberless and nameless murders he had committed. Of all the things he should remember, Bucky knew, he should remember Steve.
He got a few flashes. A smile on a sunny day. A skinny kid in an alley, in a lot of alleys, actually. Bruises and shields and war. But none of the memories were comprehensive and none of them told him anything about his relationship with Steve, or about whom he had been. His mind seemed particularly determined to keep Steve and his past a mystery and he hated himself for it. Nevertheless, he recorded each flash with care in his new journal and didn’t dare wonder if there would ever come a day when Bucky could redeem himself and they could be friends again.