Status: Currently in progress.
Run
7 Attack
Trigger warning for violence
It had been a few days day since Stark had taken his arm and Bucky was trying valiantly to live without it. But it had definitely made life harder. His right arm was weary already, although he rested it often. He still didn’t want it back, though. It was Hydra’s and he didn’t need it.
In the tower, Bucky’s room was nicer than any room he could remember. It had a big window and a large bed and a very spacious living area. Bucky liked it there and he liked sitting on the bed and staring at the sky out of the window. He didn’t spend time with the others in the tower often and when he did, he kept his head down and spoke to no one. He spent most of his time outside of the tower, walking up and down the streets and avoiding Steve. He knew this frustrated Steve, but Bucky still preferred it that way. It made things easier.
Bucky bought a newspaper on the street one day and found the pictures and articles about himself that Tony had mentioned. There had been many pictures taken of him, and a lot of very clear images of his face. The article stated that he had saved nearly all the people from the wreckage and now couldn’t be found. The last image showed him walking away, a shell-shocked and stunned expression on his face, holding his dysfunctional arm.
He threw the paper away after that. He didn’t really like the photos, or the words of people praising him who didn’t really know him. It felt like he didn’t truly deserve those words and if the people had known what else he’d done and who he was, they would take back their praise and that was okay because Bucky hadn’t accepted it in the first place.
As usual, Bucky spent most of his nights awake and walking. He got to know the block around Stark Tower well, and nearby parks and benches and rare quiet spots. He was out walking that night, his left sleeve pinned up awkwardly and his right hand on the back of his neck, eyes on the ground. He was thinking.
A few blocks away from Stark Tower, in the dark, Bucky began to feel a little tired. His feet ached and he needed to sit down for a minute before he walked back to his room and pretended to have slept through the night. He recalled a small park closeby and made it there in record time.
Bucky collapsed on a bench and leaned back, eyes closed, his exhaustion overcoming him. He folded one leg and used the heel of his hand to rub his aching foot. Bucky sat for another good minute, relieved to be sitting, until he heard something. A whizzing, just barely above a buzz, getting closer. In a second, his eyes were open and he ducked, rolling off the bench, catching himself with his right hand, tense and close to the ground. There was a thin dart in the park bench where he had been sitting. Bucky looked from where it had come and saw a flash of something shiny. A gun.
Before he knew what he was doing, Bucky was up and running. He reached the hitman in the nearby alley in record time and before the offender had time to realize what was happening, Bucky was hauling him up by the collar with one hand. He stood the man up and hit him as hard as he could. The gun slipped from his fingers and Bucky grabbed it, whirled it around and struck the man’s temple with it, hard. The man gasped and stumbled back, at which time Bucky, working almost solely on instinct and muscle memory now, threw the gun down and grabbed him up by the collar again. The Winter Soldier moved fast, too fast to retaliate against. Bucky could almost feel the mask up against his mouth again and in instantaneous flashbacks, saw his metal left hand close around a lot of throats. With only his right hand, though, he was still as terrifying. The hitman still wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. Bucky dragged the man by the collar to the nearest brick wall and shoved him up against it, legs steady, body tense, pressing his face against the wall until the brick cut into him. The air of dark, deadly confidence filled Bucky up again. Arm or not, he was strong and he was ruthless and this time, he had no orders.
“Who are you,” The Winter Soldier demanded, his voice low and undeniably threatening. The hitman laughed.
“Who do you think?” He said. The Winter Soldier pushed him against the wall harder, then decided against it. He pulled back his fist and hit him the jaw repeatedly. The man’s face bled and Bucky’s hand felt sore.
“Answer my question,” he said again.
“Hail Hydra,” the hitman said through a quickly swelling jaw. The Winter Soldier pushed the man’s back against the wall now and kneed him in the gut and the groin.
“Where is Hydra?” he yelled in the man’s face. “Who all is left?!” The man’s hysterical laughter choked in his throat and turned to wounded sobs. He refused to answer and Bucky thought maybe his jaw was snapped.
“I bet you’ve got that suicide pill in your mouth,” the Winter Soldier said as he stepped back and the man fell forward, groaning. “I suggest you break it now.”
It had been a few days day since Stark had taken his arm and Bucky was trying valiantly to live without it. But it had definitely made life harder. His right arm was weary already, although he rested it often. He still didn’t want it back, though. It was Hydra’s and he didn’t need it.
In the tower, Bucky’s room was nicer than any room he could remember. It had a big window and a large bed and a very spacious living area. Bucky liked it there and he liked sitting on the bed and staring at the sky out of the window. He didn’t spend time with the others in the tower often and when he did, he kept his head down and spoke to no one. He spent most of his time outside of the tower, walking up and down the streets and avoiding Steve. He knew this frustrated Steve, but Bucky still preferred it that way. It made things easier.
Bucky bought a newspaper on the street one day and found the pictures and articles about himself that Tony had mentioned. There had been many pictures taken of him, and a lot of very clear images of his face. The article stated that he had saved nearly all the people from the wreckage and now couldn’t be found. The last image showed him walking away, a shell-shocked and stunned expression on his face, holding his dysfunctional arm.
He threw the paper away after that. He didn’t really like the photos, or the words of people praising him who didn’t really know him. It felt like he didn’t truly deserve those words and if the people had known what else he’d done and who he was, they would take back their praise and that was okay because Bucky hadn’t accepted it in the first place.
As usual, Bucky spent most of his nights awake and walking. He got to know the block around Stark Tower well, and nearby parks and benches and rare quiet spots. He was out walking that night, his left sleeve pinned up awkwardly and his right hand on the back of his neck, eyes on the ground. He was thinking.
A few blocks away from Stark Tower, in the dark, Bucky began to feel a little tired. His feet ached and he needed to sit down for a minute before he walked back to his room and pretended to have slept through the night. He recalled a small park closeby and made it there in record time.
Bucky collapsed on a bench and leaned back, eyes closed, his exhaustion overcoming him. He folded one leg and used the heel of his hand to rub his aching foot. Bucky sat for another good minute, relieved to be sitting, until he heard something. A whizzing, just barely above a buzz, getting closer. In a second, his eyes were open and he ducked, rolling off the bench, catching himself with his right hand, tense and close to the ground. There was a thin dart in the park bench where he had been sitting. Bucky looked from where it had come and saw a flash of something shiny. A gun.
Before he knew what he was doing, Bucky was up and running. He reached the hitman in the nearby alley in record time and before the offender had time to realize what was happening, Bucky was hauling him up by the collar with one hand. He stood the man up and hit him as hard as he could. The gun slipped from his fingers and Bucky grabbed it, whirled it around and struck the man’s temple with it, hard. The man gasped and stumbled back, at which time Bucky, working almost solely on instinct and muscle memory now, threw the gun down and grabbed him up by the collar again. The Winter Soldier moved fast, too fast to retaliate against. Bucky could almost feel the mask up against his mouth again and in instantaneous flashbacks, saw his metal left hand close around a lot of throats. With only his right hand, though, he was still as terrifying. The hitman still wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. Bucky dragged the man by the collar to the nearest brick wall and shoved him up against it, legs steady, body tense, pressing his face against the wall until the brick cut into him. The air of dark, deadly confidence filled Bucky up again. Arm or not, he was strong and he was ruthless and this time, he had no orders.
“Who are you,” The Winter Soldier demanded, his voice low and undeniably threatening. The hitman laughed.
“Who do you think?” He said. The Winter Soldier pushed him against the wall harder, then decided against it. He pulled back his fist and hit him the jaw repeatedly. The man’s face bled and Bucky’s hand felt sore.
“Answer my question,” he said again.
“Hail Hydra,” the hitman said through a quickly swelling jaw. The Winter Soldier pushed the man’s back against the wall now and kneed him in the gut and the groin.
“Where is Hydra?” he yelled in the man’s face. “Who all is left?!” The man’s hysterical laughter choked in his throat and turned to wounded sobs. He refused to answer and Bucky thought maybe his jaw was snapped.
“I bet you’ve got that suicide pill in your mouth,” the Winter Soldier said as he stepped back and the man fell forward, groaning. “I suggest you break it now.”