Chapter Text
Some days, the arm felt heavier than it probably was. It felt like a brick attached to his shoulder —an immovable curse that mocked every time it caught the little light he even let spill through the broken window of the abandoned apartment. He forced his boots to make heavy noises with each of his steps —noise was a good indicator of existence. Only dead things stayed quiet —when he was the soldier, he was muzzled to make sure he stayed quiet. He was allowed to make noise now.
He wasn't that thing anymore.
Still, he refused to use the dead weight of the shiny alloy to pick up the last slice of greasy pizza from the box. Pizza was so good... like all the time. He hadn't had a bad pizza yet. Matter-of-fact, food when you have the choice is so good. He'd found so far that pizza is great, everything on the menu at the four Chinese restaurants in a 3 block perimeter was also good. There was an Indian place 4 blocks over. All of these things were good.
Barnes let the weight of his body fall like lead onto the old couch. It was a nice find, a bit musty but functional at least. He'd found it thrown out in some dumpster. He couldn't really believe that people were so wasteful these days —or at least that was the Depression Bucky talking. Other than that, from his little jigsaw pieces of memories, he'd been handled and surrounded by people who disposed of other people in worse ways than the couch.
Observation: waste was relative.
The news broadcaster on the little radio spewed horrid facts about murderers and rapists and robbers who ran around New York as soon as the sun fell and still hadn't been caught. While the sun set, Barnes forced himself to stare directly into the light, ignoring the way the piercing rays made his eyes ache in a warning. He'd be fine. Even if he made himself go blind, he'd heal... maybe.
The jarring stimulation forced his mind to still as much as it could. It had never come to a screeching halt —not since he held back the heavy metal limb and stopped it from slamming into the blond man's face. Not since his brain bloomed in brighter rays than the setting sun and uttered that name so reverently: Steve. His brain hadn't been still since then, nor did it feel like it was going to again. But now, staring into the sun, at least he could track the routes of his never-ending thoughts. They flowed in streams and sometimes aligned to the same river, but most times just became spiderwebs of incoherent thoughts, memories, and otherwise fog.
In times like this, he could name the streams.
There were three main ones. There was the consciousness that came with the inherent suffering of growing up in the war. He called this one Depression Bucky (or just Bucky) because —no matter fucking what— he couldn't shake the ever-present wariness of wasting or the joys that came with simple things like... sugar in coffee or breathing in air that wasn't filled with gloom and industrial smoke.
The other came from The Soldier. Most of those thoughts fell in fragments of foreign gibberish that always dwelled of memories of murders and pain. The Soldier was ever-present in the way his eyes skimmed every visible window and rooftop and his footsteps were inaudible to even himself. The Soldier woke him from sleep time and time again —sometimes waking with broken pleas from his lips, other times in a chilling emptiness . The Soldier was heavy-handed... heavy left-handed.
Lastly, there was the one that had to deal with the other two. He decided to just call himself Barnes... because he wasn't really Bucky but he wasn't the soldier either. Barnes had to live day to day on the dragging weight of only sleeping for 3 hours but somehow still buzzing with a hum of energy that needed to be expelled. Barnes spent a lot of his time in silence, trying hard to gather his thoughts and group his memories. Barnes kept journals. Barnes liked coffee with vanilla pumps in it and Barnes always had this burning anger in his chest that would never really go away because both Depression Bucky and The Soldier ended up where they had because of the will of pointless men in power.
Barnes thought a lot about power.
He thought a lot about power in the hands of the powerless and he often tried to figure out where he stood in that scheme now.
Barnes remembered more occasions than he could count when he was just a gun shooting bullets in the direction of wherever men in power pointed —both before the war and during everything that followed.
In times like this, when the sun was almost completely gone from the sky, Barnes would sit up and blink the black spots in his vision away. He would stare blankly at the cracked wall and he would barely make out something being said on the radio. Then, he would reach for his duffle back and rummage through blindly until he picked up a few things and tucked them into his waistband. Barnes had power, brute power —he knew this— and there were a lot of sticky men in New York who liked to pretend that violence was power.
Barnes had no problem playing powers with those men.
In many things —most things really— the line between good and bad wasn't so distinct as it had been for Bucky in the war. There weren't rogue Nazi science divisions running around the streets of New York... well, not dressed in their blaring uniforms anymore. Barnes couldn't really punch his way through all of those anyway. Steve was busy doing that and the news made a point to talk on that as much as they could.
Just at the thought of the man's name, Barnes lifted his eyes to the backlit billboard of Captain America. It was an artist's rendition of his face with some corny slogan about peace and community and Barnes felt Bucky's heart beat pick up just a little. He couldn't escape Steve, not in New York... it wasn't like he wanted to either.
Well... The Soldier part of him tried.
Mission objective failed.
Seeking new mission parameters.
Barnes tried tried to leave as soon as he could —every ticking and functioning part of The Soldier's training pushed him to leave; leave America as quickly as possible but something about the way Bucky's heart pulled as he got further and further from where Steve would be made them settle down. Bucky was all heart and The Soldier was all instinct and Barnes had to sit in madness to settle between the two. Eventually, he had circled way back to New York about a year after the whole mess had happened.
Barnes inhaled, a deliberate and deep breath —trying his goddamn best to still the racing thoughts of his head. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, half out of instinct to make sure he wasn't being followed and the other half was in hopes that he'd catch a glimpse of the billboard. He didn't know if he was more disappointed at the fact that he was completely alone on the pavement or that the back of the billboard was an insurance ad.
Barnes let out that deliberate breath and shrugged to himself. The summer's night was hot, sticky, but it was good. He had learned that it was more likely to struggle with The Soldier's presence when it was cold out. New York right now was anything but. He saw it in the way people hung themselves out on their fire escape like wet clothes meant to be dried. Girls wore thin and loose clothes that he would never have the chance at seeing in the 30s.
Still, he kept his jacket on and his gloved hands tucked into the pockets, hat on, head mostly down as his heavy boots made constant thuds against the cracked pavements. He kept all of this up, combing through the noises of the restless the borough until something still his thoughts for just a second.
There was the obvious noise of struggle, a high pitched and choked plea followed by more begging and a deep grunt of a man. Barnes' legs moved before his brain did, hurrying down the poorly lit roads and malfunctioning streetlights until he bent the corner and stare right into a dark alley.
"Hey," Barnes harsh voice cut through the night, stalling the little shrill screams of the 3 teenage girls backed into a corner. The man, large back facing Barnes, went rigid instantly... and the next words that feel from Barnes' lips were as uncharacteristic and corny as they were natural.
"Pick on someone your own size," he grumbled and watched the man's unconvinced features twist into anger just before Barnes' right fist slammed into his jaw. The man stumbled back —3 steps exactly— before he tugged on his knife and pointed it at Barnes.
"You should'a minded your business, man," he hissed just as he swiped for Barnes. The man was shorter than Barnes, stocky, possibly built under his sweat stained shirt but Barnes couldn't really tell, nor did he care. His reach wasn't very far, his footsteps were heavy and clumsy. Barnes easily stepped back with a deep scowl on his lips before his left arm made a whirring noise and was suddenly wrapped around the man's neck.
The next step was precise and methodical.
Mission objective: kill.
The man was up against the brick of the alley wall and all the wind was knocked out of him. Barnes felt the way his features dropped into something worse than a scowl —emptiness. He felt the way his thumb and middle fingers applied more pressure than the rest —not a bruising force but definitely a warning. He knew, now, that the man would being seeing more black dots than clear vision, that the way he writhed an clawed against Barnes' unfeeling hand was indicative of desperation.
The man's face started going up in flames and Barnes couldn't even revel in the satisfaction that it brought.
No! he thought.
"Your-" the man lifted both hands, one wrapped uselessly around Barnes' wrist while the knife cut precise slices through Bucky's jacket sleeve. "Insane," he finally chocked out.
"You're ugly," Barnes grumbled at the man's twisted mug before he slammed his head back against the wall. There was a crimson trickle that dripped down the spot once the man's body collapsed onto the ground. Barnes stood over him, a looming shadow in the splotchy yellow light of the flickering streetlight.
Breathing, he noted.
Barnes turned to the kids —wide-eyed and panting— and tried his best to give them a smile. It was a terrible smile but they seemed to get the message. One of the girls —her hair was dark, wild, there was a growing pink patch at the side of her face as she held the other two girls behind her outstretched arms.
"Call the police," was all he could really offer. He hadn't learned how to comfort people yet. He wasn't very good at that, given that most of his human interaction was with his intrapersonal alter egos, and that one kid at the pizza spot he liked the most.
Just a few moments later, he heard the kids' heavy footsteps hightailing it away from the scene. Good, he thought. He doubled back to the scene, stared at the slouched figure and the knife held loosely in his incapacitated hand. Barnes grimaced before he reached down and pat up and down the man's sides until he found a thick wallet.
He skimmed the contents: cash, cards, condoms. Barnes took the cash and left the rest, tucking the leather right where he got it and moved on easily. Again, the line between good and bad was so blurred these days. Pizza wasn't free.
Barnes waited for the guilt. He stood over the body and watched the small rise and fall of the man's chest and just nodded to himself. The guilt wouldn't come. Despite the blurred, mis-stepped lines between good and bad, this was probably something good. Besides, even if it wasn't, The Soldier was dripping in so much blood that another drop of red would do nothing to his conscience... at least that's what Barnes hoped.
But in the absence of guilt, something else claimed his constantly racing mind.
Pick on someone your own size? He thought the phrase incredulous to himself —yet still, it flowed out of his mouth and felt so natural. Barnes shook his head and huffed as his legs forced him to continue down the street. About 6 blocks out he glanced up at another billboard, similar to the last but with another slogan. This time, he couldn't help the way he lifted his hand and waved to the thing.
"Hi Stevie," he mumbled to himself and frowned. Apparently, Depression Bucky was here as well, just simmering beneath the surface and peering through Barnes' eyes.
Barnes rolled his eyes. "If you like him so much, why don't you just go talk to him," he muttered to himself. He knew that no one would answer. He knew that Bucky wouldn't answer either because Bucky wasn't actually a separate person and probably just an extension of himself that he was having a hard time connecting to and integrating with. Barnes huffed again, hoping to slow his mind. He was clearly reading too many of those self-help books. They hadn't been much help anyways. Not many people have shared life experience, they can't tell him what to do.
Either way, he knew that his question would be answered eventually. If not now, at least right before he got pulled into restless sleep when his mind begins to slow and mostly lovely memories from Bucky's time played in the background like some silent film.
The rest of the night went like this —slightly bloody but mostly boring and mostly good. It was a little bit fulfilling at least, and Barnes got that buzz he often looked for when that one guy actually landed a solid one to his stomach. It would bruise and also be gone by morning.
So Barnes laid back on the battered little couch and let his heavy boots fall to the ground with their individual thuds. He circled himself up as small as possible to preserve all the warmth that he could —and he just laid on his side. It didn't matter if his eyes were opened or closed, time passed, all the same, accompanied by daydreams or memories (he didn't know the difference) of that man named Steve.
And maybe that was why he couldn't really go talk to Steve. Barnes didn't know what was real and what wasn't. Some things felt like home, and other things were too soft and too safe and too tender to have existed at that time, and if he didn't, he didn't think he could be what he was then, now. He didn't know who he was anymore, and he barely knew who he was then. He knew what Steve looked like now but there were smells that his brain kept projecting —something cinnamony and a little bit minty (possible vick's) but he didn't know if that was true. He didn't know if any of it was true, but at least it was nice. It was nice fuel to fall asleep to.
And for the most past tonight, Barnes' dreams didn't wake him in fits of screaming. The memories of the brain fog faded as he awoke, slipping from the edge of his periphery. There were possible faces and maybe heavy footsteps of his own or someone else's but he couldn't remember. He couldn't reach the dreams anymore.
Barnes opened his sandy eyes when the radio blasted with the obnoxious melody of the news broadcasting introduction. It was loud, it was blaring and usually didn't startle him like this because he was usually wake well before the mid-morning news.
"Breaking News", The announcer spoke before he rambled on while Barnes was just trying to catch his bearings. He sat up, feet falling heavy to the ground with the thud of being within steel tipped boots.
His frown deepened... he was so sure that he'd taken those off before he went to sleep.
"And almost the entire Irish Mafia was killed in one hit," the announcer spoke with a tremor in his voice.
"These are scary times we're living in," his partner recovered and moved on to the other —less important titles.
Barnes stared at the coffee table in front of him. Four of his knives were laid out, shiny, and organized, freshly cleaned in descending order by weight and they were right on top of his journals. There was a half-eaten box of pizza right on top of the entirely empty box that Barnes had consumed before he stepped out the night before.
His back was stiff, sides bruised and definitely had dried blood on his shirt that also wasn't there when he came in. What sent the largest chill over his spine, though, was the note just under the pizza box scribbled messily at the back of the receipt.
"I used your money for food. Sorry -Winter". The words were written in jagged, and sharp outlines of child's handwriting, smeared from left to right as though something was dragged across each letter as soon as it was written. Barnes was smart enough to lift his own, left hand to see the remnants of black ink on the underside of where his palm technically was.
But there was nothing in his memory —absolutely nothing. He could have done anything and he wouldn't know it.
Maybe he wasn't just living with alter egos then.
He needed more self-help books.
"Police are suspecting that this may have been gang-related retaliation," one of the radio people spoke in a more conversational but no less terrified tone.
"But, Mark," his partner interrupted. "Hell's kitchen hasn't seen anything like this before. We are talking military grade weapons and military precision."
"That is true," the former —Mark, hummed. "This is all just speculation though. One thing we know for sure is... New York is about to get a bit bloody."
Barnes' blood ran cold, a deep chill running through his veins causing his stomach to turn in on itself. He stared down again, swallowing the pools of the saliva settling in this mouth and he read the note, he watched the hand-writing he glanced at the knives and discarded, empty magazine settle under the coffee table.
"Fuck," he groaned, suddenly feeling trapped by his own shirt before he struggled to rip it off of his shoulders. "Fuck!" he yelled even louder once he was standing, heaving hot and heavy breaths, bare chested in the small living space.
"What did you do?" he whispered to no one in particular, dragging his shaking human hand and unmoving left hand through his hair. Barnes settled himself in the corner of his room closest to the door and farthest from the window. He stooped, back pressed to the cool wall and eyes strained on the boarded up window.
No one answered.
There were no intrusive thoughts following, no mission reports, no reconnaissance, no observations. He was left alone with the aftermath of his shaky mind.