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ONE: HYDRA
This, of course, is the first scenario that comes to mind.
He’d have made it as far as Washington, the state, not D.C., on his way out of the country. Hiding out in an old abandoned hunting blind, he’d be shivering on the dirt floor in the cool spring air, coming off of the multitude of drugs that his keepers had flooded his system with, dehydrated, starving. He’d look out of the busted window and see vibrant green grasses softly swaying in the breeze in synchronous harmony with all of the pretty little purple and yellow and white wildflowers. There would be a fir tree right outside the blind’s door, shading the entire structure. The temperatures would be considered mild to the locals, but to him, the gentle breeze would sink into his bones like the teeth of a grizzly bear. Ironic, it would’ve been, wouldn’t it, if the famed Winter Soldier was done in by a gentle spring wind.
His mind would be racing. Coming off of the drugs, his thoughts wouldn’t be anything rational. He wouldn’t be thinking of food, or water, or where he should go from here. No, his thoughts would be flighty and erratic, zipping this way and that like little silver minnows in a stream. Nothing concrete; the flash of a familiar face, the sudden urge to go for the knife at his thigh, the ghost of the sensation of the blazing heat of an incinerated SUV across his face, perhaps.
He would hear them coming; of course he would. Too weak to stand and fight, he’d use the remaining vestiges of his strength to crawl to the corner - to hide, like an animal. Once there, he’d collapse, supine, and surrender himself to whatever came next. The exhaustion would eliminate any remaining possible courses of action.
The footsteps coming to the shack would be slow and leisurely. They would have been trailing him for some time at this point; they’d know how weak he is, how tired, how hopeless.
The door would open with a gentle creak, allowing a gust of wind to come inside. It would whisper across his face and rouse his sweaty hair, causing his bone-deep shivers to intensify. He would close his eyes and try to curl in on himself to no avail, limbs uncooperative.
Two pairs of footsteps would come closer, then closer still. He would drag his heavy eyelids open to see two pairs of standard issue black boots. Black cargo pants, leading up to black vests and familiar faces.
“Hey there,” Rumlow would say. There would be a smile on his face; he’s sure of it. Not because Rumlow’s happy to see him, necessarily, not in the way that people are generally happy to see one another. It would be a sinister grin, splitting his face and magnifying the malicious glint in his dark eyes. It would be a smile of victory, a smile that says I gotcha now, the smile of a cruel hunter cornering his kill.
He would close his own eyes, then, if only to spare himself the effort of keeping them open.
Rumlow and his Hydra Helper would take him, then. Maybe, if they were in agreeable moods, they’d wrap him in the spare windbreaker they have with them. He’d be hefted onto someone’s shoulders, and any freedom he’d gained since running after the Potomac would be gone.
“Don’t worry,” Rumlow would say once he’s secure in the car. “We’ve still got the Chair and some techs to operate it. You’ll be back to normal in no time.”
This promise would be kept, and soon the mirage of wildflowers dancing in his mind’s eye would be washed away in a shower of sparks and discipline.
TWO: THE GOVERNMENT
It surprises him that he’s still free when he makes it as far as Europe.
Hiding out in a rented room in the Austrian countryside, he imagines what it will be like when the multitude of government agencies out for his blood finally catch up with him.
He wouldn’t go down without a fight; of that he is sure. Hell, he knows how deep Hydra had been entrenched within these groups of people. He wouldn’t trust them, not with himself, not when he is what he is and he can do what he can do.
But of course, he can’t run forever.
He imagines they’d run him down in the grassy green fields. This is for no particular reason other than that he thinks the green scenery is beautiful, and he likes to think that he’ll be able to experience it up until he is taken away forever.
It would be something stupid, like a fallen fencepost placed just so that he trips over, falling face first into the dirt. He would smell that earthy smell and feel the grassburn where his jeans had ripped at the knees and know that it is over.
Several of them would hold him down despite the fact that he would no longer be resisting. He would be cuffed with the cuffs made just for him, and they would bind him some more just to be safe. Dark looks would be cast his way as he is marched towards the van. This would be the last that he sees of the outside world.
After this, his world would be limited to concrete walls and gray floors. They would take his blood, his DNA, and do experiments on him. They would shoot him up with drugs to keep him docile. “He’s going to trial,” they would say, and they would collect evidence. They would ask him about the assassinations, and he would tell them everything because even a death sentence would be preferable to this.
Steve would come by one day. He would look at him sitting in his cell, staring at him with a stone cold face and colder eyes. “You’re not who I knew,” he would say. He would leave, then, because there would be nothing worth staying for.
They would find him guilty, because how could they not. He should have fought harder. He should have been stronger. He should have never allowed Hydra to control him as they had.
By this point, they would have all they need from him. Because of his atrocious crimes, they would not deem him fit to remain on this earth. When that needle goes into his arm, he would smile, because finally, finally , it is over.
THREE: CIVILIANS
This is what he dreads the most:
That one day, he might be the recipient of true kindness.
It’s not that he fears kindness itself; more that he doubts he could ever truly believe in its sincerity. Suspicion is seldom a good start to any interaction.
People pity him on the regular. He sees it in their eyes as they walk past him shivering in an alleyway on the streets, or as he digs quarters and dimes out of his dirty pockets to pay for a meager cup of coffee at the local diner.
He dreads that someone might find him and take him in like a stray, offering him a warm bed with blankets and cool, clean water and a shower and filling food. He dreads that he will speak with them and they will smile at him and care for him and maybe even pull him into an embrace that draws the coldness out from his core and warms his frosty bones. He dreads that they will come to love him.
This is not the terrible part, of course. These things by themselves are nothing to fear. But the other shoe always drops, sooner or later.
They might walk in on him struggling with unseen demons in his sleep. He might lash out. He might reveal something that should never see the light of day.
Monster, they would call him. How could you do those things, how could you expect to be something lovable after all of that, how could you, how could you, how could you.
They might kick him back out onto the street after that, and he doesn’t know if he could keep going after that kind of a rejection. It might end him, once and for all.
Or, they might turn him over to the mercy of the cruel authorities. That, too, is not an option.
So, as he keeps running, he avoids kind eyes and pleasant smiles.
Don’t do it, his posture says to them. Don’t do this to me. Your kindness, no matter how well-intentioned, will be my death.
He means it with every fiber of his being and with every rabbit-quick beat of his heart.
HOW IT REALLY HAPPENS:
None of these imagined scenarios ever come to pass. What happens is this.
Of all things, what gives him away is a little plant in a pot that he’d set at the door of his temporary home. He’d etched a little doodle into the terracotta on a whim. According to Steve, they used to do that together with his ma’s plants. Who knew?
So, Steve had seen the pot and let himself into his home like he owns the place, the bastard, while he was away at the market nearby. He is standing in his kitchen reading his goddamned diary when he gets back. He freezes, because what the hell Rogers, that shit is private.
Steve drops the book when he sees him. He stares like he is fucking El Dorado or something, something elusive and beautiful and worth searching for. His hands come up a little, reaching toward him as if by instinct. “Hey, Buck,” Steve says, all soft-like. His bright blue eyes are shiny with hope, not at all cold and hard as he’d feared they might be.
“Hi,” Bucky says. He’s still caught a little off guard, the bag of fruit still hangin from the fingers of his left hand.
Steve’s face splits into a grin. It’s full of utter glee and happiness, genuine emotion, not at all sinister or cruel. “God, it’s good to hear your voice,” he says. He wipes his eyes, which had been leaking because he was a goddamned softie.
“Hi,” Bucky says again. He’s petrified; not scared, exactly, but frozen just the same, as if his body has turned to stone.
“Can I-” Steve pauses. His voice breaks. “Can I hug you? Please?”
Bucky finds himself nodding. He drops the fruit, and his own eyes well up, what the hell. Steve lunges forward, and he doesn’t flinch. Bucky is scooped up practically off his feet and enveloped in Steve’s arms. His nose is smushed into Steve’s shoulder, and one of the buckles of Steve’s uniform is pressing into his cheek. It’s the best he’s felt in a good long while.
The tears in his eyes spill over, and he makes a mess of the blue fabric beneath his face. “I missed you so much,” Steve says. His voice is shaky, and he sniffles.
Bucky doesn’t make any noise as he cries, but he knows that Steve knows that there are tears gliding down his cheeks. Steve can’t really speak, as he isn’t much better off. They cling tightly to each other for what feels like a second and an eternity.
Finally, Steve pulls away. He grabs Bucky’s shoulders and stares into his reddened eyes. “It’ll be okay, Buck,” he promises.
He’s right.