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He stayed until he was sure the blond was breathing and then he ran.
Bucky was going to have to jump if he wanted to survive, the helicarrier was going to collapse into S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters anyway and the water would only leave him with a red mark at best; but he didn't need to drag the other man out of the water. It was like something inside of him was fighting to overtake the Winter Soldier and he had a nerve-wrecking feeling in the back of his head that this man was important to him for some reason.
He stayed until he was sure the blond was breathing and then he ran.
Thirty-six miles and counting.
Bucky didn't need even go there to know that the HYDRA base he was stationed at was completely deserted after the mission turned to rubble. He knew his handlers were out there somewhere, possibly already searching for him but as he shredded through miles like no one's business the most important thing was survival. He had already caused havoc in the last town he was in; a small place a mile or so off of the interstate where he had stolen a change of clothes and a backpack, as well as sunglasses and a cap to hide his identity.
He had a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, another in his backpack and a small, two-barrel pistol in his hand. So far, he's thirty-six miles away from Washington DC but news coverage from a local café shop had already put up multiple shots of the attack and of the blond man. The first one was of him in a torn, bloody uniform, getting checked up by a medic and the dark skinned man with the mechanical wings he fought was beside him, whispering into his ear. The other shots have been all over the place, but the one that made him leave the café in a blur was the very last shot he saw; the blond man getting into a monster black car and heading out of DC.
In his direction.
Bucky knows that he's off grid and it will take the blond man, Steve, ages to find him but thirty-six miles between them isn't enough. In desperate need of air, Bucky stopped running just as he reached a gas station. He stayed in the shadows, crouching down to regain his normal heartbeat.
Steve's a in car, that can go up to 156 mph; Bucky's on foot and can go maybe 5 miles for every thirty minutes a car drives. If he wants to get a bigger distance between them he'll need a motorbike or a car himself. And his luck seemed to be coming to light for the first time that day.
Just three metres sat a couple motorbikes; the one closest to him looking close to brand new. No one was there to attend to them and seeing as there's a fast food place on the other side of the gas station, he doubts anyone will be close by. He stayed in his position for another five minutes - scanning each and every bike and recounting how fast each of them can go. In the last couple decades Bucky had had to high-jack things from computers to bloody fighter jets; motorbikes weren't brand new on him.
Jumping into action, Bucky shot over and was straddling a hot-wired bike within half a minute. He can't remember how he even did it, his hands just moved on their own accord but when he gunned it down the highway he was glad he didn't need to rely on his memory. Moving at over 120 mph, he was bound to get more miles between him and Steve easily.
Thirty-six miles and counting.
He wished he was dead.
It took three days before someone found him for the first time. He could tell they were HYDRA without having to look at the insignia on their arms. He could tell from their sinister looks, their scarred faces and the shiver that ran up his spine when they attacked. It started off with three men holding small hand-pistols. They attacked from the front, one at a time, but they obviously didn't know how to control him because the second his metal fist hit their skin they were on the ground; unconscious or dead he wasn't sure.
That's the thing with the metal arm; he needs to control how hard he hits. Even one punch to the face could kill someone (cave their skull in and pierce the brain) if he put enough strength into it.
But the second they were down, five more swarmed in from an alley. They attacked with knives and guns and were lethal; following whatever twisted orders they had been given. He didn't get a chance to hit one of them before ten more were swimming into his vision, then another couple, then a large dozen. They were packing the streets; civilians were running and screaming as one of them managed to pin Bucky to the floor.
They started hitting and kicking, with Bucky only half-fighting back. He had broken a couple ankles, dislocated some knees and thrown someone five feet into the air by the time the stronger one (obviously the leader) pounced on him and repeatedly punched Bucky in the face. He might have been trying to knock him unconscious but he might also be trying to kill him.
Bucky wished it was the latter option.
But the same irritating voice in the back of his head that was coming more and more frequent since DC started screaming at him to fight back; to be the Winter Soldier one last time. To get out of there without harming anyone he didn't need to. And because this voice seemed to have the better judgement Bucky listened. He can't remember how long it took, doesn't even want to know, but when he managed to escape he had so much blood on his hands and covering the majority of his clothes.
He rummaged through a bin liner in one alley that was packed with clothes. He dumped the bloody ones in a dumpster after changing into a new outfit and then he jumped onto the back of a train and kept his head down until he found himself in Nevada. The whole time, Bucky only had one thing going round his head.
He wished he was dead.
It had been 57 hours since Bucky had last fallen asleep - or gotten any rest in that case.
57 hours. 3420 minutes. 205200 seconds.
But he had no time to rest. He was either running as fast as he could or he was fighting. He was slipping up; HYDRA had three units find him already, S.H.I.E.L.D had two units go after him and no doubt a third on its way, and Steve and bird-boy (or Sam, as he found out) were close to were he was. He's bruised, hungry, thirsty, tired and battered but he can't be found.
Memories are slowly coming back. Grasping for recognition but every time he lets one take over it's just death, death that he caused, and he swallows it back down before he can crack. The amount of blood on his hands is too great for him to just stop and turn himself in. He'll serve life in jail if they miraculously don't put him on the death sentence. He'll be turned over to S.H.I.E.L.D and God knows what they'll do to him.
God knows what anybody will do to him.
It had been 57 hours since Bucky had last fallen asleep - or gotten any rest in that case.
He's used to the cold.
Cold was always there, no matter what happened. He falls from the train in '44 into an icy mountain slope, loses his arm to a ragged piece of ice on his way down and then rests in a cold, ice sheet. He gets the bionic arm from HYDRA, the hands handling him were cold and the medicine they gave him was like having a mint after brushing your teeth. He fails a mission, he gets put in the cryo which sends a shock of cold through him; effectively knocking him out with a gust of cold air. He looks at the gun in his hand and he shivers from the cold chill running up his spine. He jumps into the water after Steve in DC and he's cold from the water and cold from the feeling of leaving him alone (because no matter what, he can't shake the fact that the blond man is somehow important to him). The cold never goes away, it never gets slightly warmer. It's always cold for Bucky.
He's used to the cold.
It's been three and a half months.
Bucky can tell because people don't seem to know trash cans exist and keep dropping their newspapers on the floor as they walk. He uses them to educate himself in the present activities; the present news; the present. It's dark, it's terror and fear and America seems to be blanketed by Steve (or Captain America) and Bucky's thrown back in time where he's sat with Steve in a dingy bar, both of them in army uniforms and Bucky's asking him "you're keeping the uniform though?" and Steve looks at him with nothing but amusement and something else in his eyes before replying and they're laughing.
Bucky's been staying in crappy motel rooms that cost five dollars a night. He's eating any food he can scavenge and he didn't realise until last night that he's been slowly making his way towards New York. He's keeping his metal arm hidden at any means possible which also involves only using his right hand when signing in for a room under a fake name, or when he eats.
He's had to use the metal arm around nineteen times. Ten times on HYDRA operates who tracked him down; three times on S.H.I.E.L.D agents and six times when his memories come back too strong and he punches a wall because it hurts. When they come back they don't come slowly, they barrel in like a tsunami and completely wash him over with a rage of emotions that he's not used too.
It's been three and a half months.
Nine months.
Ten months.
He surrenders on the eleventh month.
'Surrendering' is what he was aiming for anyway but guns were still pointed at him, he was still tackled to the floor and, when he was slammed onto the tiles too hard, cracked two ribs. He gets treated like a bad animal for fourteen long hours. Then a small, female agent with brown skin and extremely curly black hair took his arm gently and gave him a smile like she didn't blame him for anything as she led him towards a room.
He was shut in there for another hour and a half in which time he took refuge on the floor with his back against the wall and his knees drawn to his chest with his head hung low. He doesn't look up when the door opens - doesn't look up when prickles ran up and down his skin as the new presence stood in the middle of the room and he only winced slightly when he heard a very quiet, very muffled sob.
He lost track of time. Bucky just sits on the floor and waits, waits for the click of a loaded gun and the sound of it being fired in his direction.
They're going to kill him. It's inevitable. He's actually gotten to the point where he's wishing for death to just take him already.
But the man has other plans. He sits up close to him - shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh - and rests his head against Bucky's shoulder where metal meets flesh. His hair is fluffy and tickles Bucky's neck but he stays tense for a while, but blond hair catches his eyes and then he sees how the man is picking at his thumb nail with his fingers and he's transported to '41 where he's sat across from Steve in a doctor's office and Steve's doing that adorable thing with his hands that he does when he's nervous.
He instintively reaches over, holding out a hand but metal meets his eye and he tries to hurl it back but Steve's quicker and grips on tight, but not too tight to cause injury and he's holding onto it loosely enough so Bucky can pull his hand away if he wants too but he doesn't. Doesn't pull his hand away, nor wants to.
He surrenders on the eleventh month.
"Steve, m'sleeping." Bucky whined into his pillow, with a smile (a genuine smile) on his face nonetheless. "Stop it."
"I'm not doing anything." His boyfriend replies, but never seizes the pen in his hand from moving across Bucky's back in one of his many masterpieces. Bucky can't tell what Steve's drawing but he knows it's going to be a beautiful no less.
"Stevie, that tickles." Bucky giggled, a manly giggle, and turned to rest his cheek against the pillow to smile up at the blond man lying beside him. Steve smiles back with nothing but love and admiration in his eyes before planting a sweet kiss to Bucky's lips.
"You're one of the world's most intimidating assassin with a metal arm, a higher-than-average intelligence, super serum in your bloodstream, you can beat any Olympic runner in whatever distance possible and you're trying to tell me a biro against your back tickles you?"
Bucky stared blankly at Steve. "Well when you put it like that."
Steve laughed and shook his head before kissing him again, slowly this time and with slight force to show Bucky he loves him so much with having to say the words out loud. Bucky groans into his mouth and pulls him closer, smiling goofy against red lips. "I love you too Stevie."