Chapter Text
John exits the locker room using the side door and pauses to watch a yellow leaf flutter off an oak by the football field. More than a year now. His thumb absently rubs over a worn Captain America shield keychain fixed to his backpack as he stares.
Lemar slaps his back. "Come on man, Momma's making chili."
"Uh," John's gaze doesn't hold on his friend. "I'll be a little late. I have to check in with my folks."
"Okay." Lemar knows better than to argue the benefits of 'check-ins.' "Just don't let them keep you too long."
"I know. I'll see you in a half-hour."
"Yeah."
They part ways. John heads towards his side of town where the homes don't touch sidewalks. They're stretched thin in the trees, porches are guarded by mean dogs tied up under their stairs, and the old freight train growls through the woods behind the properties.
His limbs swing sorely today from practice; Coach put pressure on him to perform, already touting what will surely be the third championship win in a row for the Custer's Grove Bears. John sighs and digs his palm into his eyes. He's too young for life to be this exhausting. And, on top of the sport, he's been holding his breath waiting for West Point's acceptance letter to come in the mail. This will all be worth it if he can secure that for his future.
Don't make it harder for us, John. His folks' words are permanent in his skull like iron stakes. He won't let Senior Year be what Junior Year turned into. But what are you supposed to do when you find out your older brother, your hero, idol, your north star, is just gone? Not plummet. He tells himself. Not lash out or skip class. Football was the only thing John could remotely focus on and even then, he was placed on probation because of his poor grades. His future circled the drain, and he would've fallen down where it was too dark to get out if not for Lemar, Olivia, and the Hoskins.
The train rumbles in the darkening woods.
John needs West Point to work. He needs to prove to all these people he's worth propping up. He doesn't have money, but he can make it up to them with sacrifice. With service. John begins to feel a second wind when a powerful screech and crash shake the ground.
Instinct, and an unfortunate propensity for thoughtless bravery, has John sprinting into the tree line towards the tracks. He smells the acrid stench and smoke before he sees the derailment. Pushing through a wall of browning thicket and hearty kudzu, John sees two train cars dented into deep grooves dug into the earth from their velocity when they flipped. The rest of the train squeals to a halt farther down the route.
John's eyes dart around in search of injured operators when he hears scuffing coming from the wreckage. Then a single gunshot rolls out like local thunder. He flinches.
Now's the time to run, isn't it? He shouldn't be walking closer over mud and gravel, because that sound still echoes in his ears: a warning he refuses to heed. Some man clad in dirty grays bursts out from around a tankard and spots John.
A breath of time freezes before this man lunges for him. John tries to scramble away, he slips free from his backpack, but strong hands dig into his arms and grapple him into a human-shield. His shoulder twists until the joint is hot. This man's fingers smell like sweat and iron as they squeeze his jaw and hold his head back, pressing him into his chest.
John's dragged away from the derailment, but he never stops squirming. He gets an opening and scrapes his heel down the man's shin. The man curses in some foreign language. John shoves off him only to receive a right hook across his cheek that spins him into the ground.
Pain fires across his face. His sweatshirt dirties in the mud and oil. Then a second gunshot bangs. Sideways, John watches the man fall before he can get into the trees. John's body listens to adrenaline and tries to pick itself up when the silhouette of a broad-shouldered man rises from the shadow of the tankard cast over him.
Heartbeat drumming blood into his ears, John checks over his shoulder and sees the threatening outline of the man. Perfectly still. Metal arm gleaming in the setting sun. Dark hair cascading around a black mask. Rays glint off the pistol in his hand.
John flinches and dives towards the tankard just as this assassin fires into the dirt where he once stood. But he might as well be a trapped rabbit because this armored man jumps down, and now he's stuck. John swings a sloppy punch that gets deflected. Then another. He's slammed into the dirt and squashed there by a heavy boot moments before the gun aims between his eyes.
Worthlessly, his arms come up to protect himself as rambling words and begging spill out. The assassin is not fazed. Then the light shifts, bounces off metal debris as leaves bend in the wind, until a shaft cuts across this man's face. John feels like the name is stolen from his lungs.
"Bucky Barnes?"
The only sign of recognition John gets is that he's still not dead.
"R-Right? Bucky Barnes. You should be dead…but Steve survived and…" Rambling is an unfortunate nervous tic of his. "You fought the Nazis with Steve Rogers, Cap—" John grunts when the boot pushes off of him. He slides an inch away, cold mud stinging the cuts in his palms. "I'm not wrong, am I?"
The gun drops slowly, and John prays he's seeing turmoil in those steely blue eyes. Hesitation.
Sirens chirp from the nearest road as authorities come for the derailment. John catches the faint flicker of their lights through the woods and, when he looks back, Bucky Barnes is gone.
John glances around before running.
His family home is never something that could draw him in with the promise of warmth, but it's the closest set of walls and a roof he knows on this side of town, so he doesn't stop sprinting until he's stumbling through the side door and down into the basement bathroom. Here the light above the sink likes to blink twice before staying on obnoxiously bright. The sink is less reliable.
John shakes and holds his hands under the mineral-caked faucet until icy water spits out. Dirt and blood splash in the basin. He pumps the empty soap dispenser for barely a few bubbles before rubbing his throbbing palms together under the water. They don't feel under control. Sloppy. All of it sloppy and numb and yet still sore.
Catching himself on the sink, he pants ragged and looks at himself in the mirror: blond bangs askew, dirt and oil on his face, a swollen purple bruise growing in his cheek, a bleeding cut at his temple. He swallows.
Upstairs his parents' footsteps wander around. John glances up then back to himself and tries to fix his hair with shaking hands; he drags his fingers through like a brush, making the blond bloody and wet.
No. The thought of going up there to talk to them, to hear nothing but criticism, it makes him nauseous. John surprises himself by sniffling. He's crying. Great. The more he hates it the more he cries. Sink still gushing water down the drain, John covers his face from the mirror and tries to get himself under control. His shoulders hitch. His lungs burn for more air.
Stop. Don't make it worse. He hears Mikey's voice, who sounds strangely like his dad these days. John sucks in a deep breath and holds it while he scratches his sleeves over his eyes to dry them, only then does he exhale. He turns off the sink and listens: sounds like his parents and sister are cleaning up after dinner. There's no going upstairs; he's not that brave. So John sneaks out the side again and takes off into the woods towards the Hoskins'.
It's a route he can run in his sleep and blindfolded. Every tree root and sticker bush he avoids. Over boulders and under the massive trunk that fell in the summer of 1999. He can now jump the small gully, which shaves off four minutes. And when he reaches the other half of Custer's Grove he can feel it in the air. The warm porch lights and laughter break into the woods like fireflies. Here the properties have clean fences and gardens. Dogs who bark to play instead of out of fear or hunger. And when John stumbles into the backyard that has that old tire swing, and the junk filled detached-garage, and Leena Hoskins' famous tomato plants, John always breathes easier.
They haven't locked their back door in eight years; the screen door is latched, but they leave the main door behind it unlocked so John is always welcome regardless of the hour. The kitchen is empty now, but the lights are on, and the spicy smell of chili is still fresh.
Like a dog who didn't listen when called, John slinks into the house with his head low, shoes dirty, driven by a need for warmth and hunger. The screen door squeaks like it always does, though it usually doesn't seem this loud. John hopes everyone here randomly chose to go to bed early, but seconds later Lemar's footsteps rush down the stairs.
"Jesus, John." Lemar freezes coming around the corner. And, yeah, John must look horrible under these lights.
He winces. "Hey, sorry I'm late." Fuck. His voice sounds horrible too.
"What the hell happened?"
Leena shuffles out from her bedroom muttering under her breath about her son's language when she sees John for herself. "Oh, baby…" Her body loosens, face filling with empathetic pain as she walks towards John with her hands out. Bert is next, but he lingers at the threshold looking stern.
"He do this?" Bert's voice is low.
"Dad," Lemar tries to keep things calm.
John opens his mouth to say something, he doesn't know what, but then Leena has her warm hands cupping his jaws and the world goes fuzzy.
Leena speaks softly. "Baby, what happened?"
John doesn't even try to talk anymore because he knows it'll lead to him crying. So he just looks away.
Leena's thumb tenderly brushes over the bruise. Somehow her touch doesn't hurt. The floral lotion on her hands and the soft skin is nothing but soothing. "I don't know how anyone could put their hands on their child like this."
It feels like he's not in the room anymore.
Bert grumbles under his breath and pivots towards the door until Lemar grabs his arm and steers him towards a medkit kept under the sink in the bathroom, something to give the older man's hands to focus on. And from there John lets himself go, lets himself be guided down into a chair, given a bowl of re-heated chili, turns his palms up so they can be cleaned, tilts his head so it can be taped.
Lemar doesn't get in the way of his parents' fussing; he sits next to John and just puts pressure against John's leg with his own knee under the table. It helps more than he can know.
When he's done eating, Leena takes the bowl before he can wash it himself, kisses his forehead, and holds his jaw to force him to look into her eyes so he can see her sincerity. "You did nothing to deserve this, baby. We love you so much, and I am so happy you always find your way back to us."
John's voice is barely a whisper, one he hopes doesn't betray how he can't believe her words as much as she does. "I know."
She sighs and kisses his forehead again, then fixes his hair before leaving him be. Lemar takes over and brings John upstairs. The fold-up mattress and frame usually in the corner is already setup. They both sit on their respective beds.
"What really happened to you?"
John looks up wide-eyed.
"Unless your old man changed tactics, I don't think I've ever seen marks on your knuckles before." Lemar doesn't let up the pressure from his gaze. "You actually fight back for once?"
"You're not going to believe me."
"Try me, man."
John swallows and takes a shaky breath. For the first time since, Bucky's face rematerializes in his mind. "Train cars derailed around Smokey Hollow. I went to check and this guy jumped me…but then someone shot him and-" He squeezes the cuts on his palms until they sting. "I saw him."
"The shooter?"
"He…" John feels a weight blocking his throat. It's insane isn't it? "I saw Bucky Barnes." He looks up, and at least Lemar isn't laughing yet.
"What?"
"Lemar, I swear to God, I saw Bucky Barnes. The Bucky Barnes, at that wreckage, with a gun! He shot the man who jumped me and would've shot me too if I weren't such a nerd who could recognize him from nothing."
"He's dead, John."
On his feet now, "No, he's not!"
"The man would be close to a hundred."
"Doesn't look it."
"Then it wasn't him."
"And he had a metal arm."
"John, listen to yourself!" Lemar grabs him. "Sit down and take a breath."
He does.
Lemar continues, "you should go to the police."
"What?" His brain can't fathom trying to turn Howling Commando hero James Buchanan Barnes into the police.
"You said you saw someone shoot someone else!"
From below, Bert shouts: "BOYS!"
"Sorry, Dad." Lemar hollers. They must only hear the volume. Lemar rubs his face. "John, just…you need some sleep. And I really think you should go to the police tomorrow. You witnessed a murder."
"I…"
"Sleep." Lemar deflates. "Let me know if you need anything, man."
John sighs and falls back onto the familiar lumps in the mattress and, despite the adrenaline buzzing under his skin, the sense of being in this house puts him to sleep in minutes.
"BOYS!"
John and Lemar grumble and roll over.
Leena Hoskins stomps up the stairs. She pounds on the door. "Boys, you two better be up and ready for school unless you want to be scrapping my gutters clean." She pounds again for good measure before leaving and muttering about how her daughter Glory would never be caught being so lazy.
"Dammit…John…we're going to be late." Lemar yawns.
John rolls over onto his sore face and blindly feels for his backpack. "Shit!" He jolts up so quick he's left dizzy.
"If Momma hears you say that she's going to smack your other cheek."
"Lemar, I left my backpack at the derailment."
"You mean the crime scene."
"Yes!"
"BOYS! Why do I not see you down here?"
Lemar starts ripping open his dresser, throwing clothes back to John. "We'll get it later, you'll live."
"It's got all my stuff, Lemar!"
"And I'd rather you get through a day of school without your homework than make both of us late… We'll go get it during lunch."
John huffs and tugs on the clean clothes. "Fine." They rush downstairs, steal toast and jam from a fresh plate, and go running the mile to school, slipping inside just before the late bell rings.
John feels off all day. He doesn't have any of his work or books. People keep nagging him to explain his injuries. And the derailment happens to be the talk of the town because nothing happens in Custer's Grove, so this must be the end of the world. All day he hears people muttering theories about toxic chemicals or terrorists, and it only sends him back where he feels another man's hands on him, and then he's staring down the barrel of a gun.
Olivia finds them during lunch, and they're dragging her out as they explain.
"You were there, John?"
"How do you think he got the shiner?" Lemar leads.
Olivia says with a bluntness born from the injustice, "I thought his dad did it."
"No." John mutters. "Some guy at the site did it."
Lemar adds, and he doesn't mean for it to be as mocking as it feels to John "and then Bucky Barnes saved him by also trying to kill him."
Olivia knows the name only because of these two. "Like the dead hero, Bucky Barnes?"
"He's not dead." John clings to that fact. To the striking blue of the man's eyes. "I saw him. I said his name, and he reacted."
"Ignoring the obvious holes in this story, why would Bucky Barnes try to kill you?"
"I don't know… He, maybe he didn't know what was going on."
"He said so?"
"No but…his movements were so precise, really unnatural, maybe it wasn't him entirely." John speaks to his shoes.
Olivia hums and decides not to press the issue, especially when Lemar sends her a worried look over his shoulder.
They eventually arrive through the woods to the site where they find the area sectioned off with loose police tape; the untested Custer's Grove lawmen on their own lunch break likely overwhelmed by such an event.
"Yeah, that's a derailment alright." Liv walks around the edge of the tape. "…I don't see any chalk marks."
"What?" Lemar and John join her.
"You know, the marks they put around dead bodies."
"But…" John blinks. "He died right over there!" He points to a patch of grass and gravel that's completely clean. "And I don't see my bag anywhere."
"Both might be down at the police station." Lemar suggests.
John runs around the perimeter to get closer to where that man fell. "Right there. I swear to you guys!" But his friends look at him worryingly, then exchange a look themselves.
"John," Olivia starts softly. "You've been really stressed waiting to hear from West Point, and I'm sure between football and class-"
"You-" He flinches. He knows this tone. He knows why they sound like this.
Lemar steps closer. "John, it's okay."
"You guys don't believe me." His palms sting as he clenches his fists at his side. "You think I'm going crazy again!"
"No, but-"
"This isn't like last year! And my dad didn't do this to me!"
Lemar and Liv look heartbroken.
"I swear! Bucky Barnes was here!" Fuck. He's going to cry again. John sucks in a breath and holds it. He squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten, and when he opens them his friends look no more convinced. John bites his lip and turns back to the spot on the ground where he thought he saw what he saw. "Let's just go back." He mumbles.
"John," Lemar hears the defeat in his voice.
"No. You guys are right. I, I probably just hit my head and saw something that wasn't there."
Liv walks up and gently takes his arm. He doesn't say anything else the whole trek back, and John proceeds to spend the next three periods scratching his thumbnail back and forth over his finger to remind himself of what's real. It works okay, but he still ditches school before the last period; he just has to get out before everything loud in his head becomes too much—just like Junior Year all over again.
As he shuffles through the second biggest street in town, the locals eye him warily, still not trusting him to keep his temper under control. He walks with his fists in his pockets and his head down. Winning them another championship trophy last year did nothing to help John get back into their good graces.
Hands hook his arm and drag him into an alley.
"You were at the derailment, tell us where the flash drive is?" A sour breath touches his neck as he's shoved into the brick wall.
"What the hell are you talking about?" John thrashes.
The men shove him. The bruise on his cheek blossoms in hot pain, but, before he can scream, something sharp and hot stabs into his neck.
The world tilts sideways.
A shadow of a man appears behind his attackers.
John falls, but he never hits the ground.
His eyes blink open to dust motes in sharp rays of sunset. The world and his stomach sway in opposite directions. John groans. He rubs at his eyes and registers that he's sitting on the hard ground, back against a hard wall. Broken rafters and beams stretch above him—this is the old canning factory on the edge of town.
A man steps out from the shadows.
John jumps and uses his heels to push himself further into the wall. "You! I, what did you do to me?"
"Nothing." The man steps closer into a beam of light so John can see him: tactical boots, too many knives holstered around his legs, a handgun in a thigh holster and another in a side holster hanging from a vest. John's eyes go next to the silver metal and red star on his left arm, then travel up to his face without the mask, the eyes.
"You're Bucky Barnes."
"How do you know me?" He would seem more menacing if he didn't also look impossibly confused.
John swallows. "I…I just do. You're in my history book." And in my comic books and on the poster I made.
"What?" Bucky blinks.
"You, you're supposed to be dead."
"I'm not."
"I can see that." John's hands tremble as he uses the wall to pick himself up. "Obviously, you're standing right here, in front of me… You're Bucky Barnes!"
"Stop doing that."
"Sorry! It's hard not to."
"How do you know Steve?"
"Everyone knows Captain America. And you served with him. You guys were in the Howling Commandos together! But then you fell from the train, and you were never seen again, but you didn't die because you're right here."
Bucky scowls and stands perfectly still as John drunkenly paces around.
"And, and you were going to kill me!"
"I didn't mean to."
"What does that mean?"
"I had orders to eliminate any witnesses. You were a witness."
John gasps, "And you decided to let me go because I knew your name?"
"I…wasn't exactly myself." His mouth presses into a line. "It's complicated."
"You know you look great, by the way, for your age." John cringes immediately and hopes to hide the blush in his cheeks by stepping into the shadow.
"What year is it?"
"2002."
Bucky turns away, unreadable. Then he pauses, tilting his head towards the wall.
John spots his backpack on the ground and picks it up. His fingers touch where the Captain America keychain should be, it must've fallen off; he tries not to think about how Mikey fell off too. "Look," John says quietly. "About what happened at the tracks, that guy you—"
"Get down!" Bucky dives towards John and pins him to the floor with his metal arm as bullets shatter old glass above them. "They're here."
"Who?" All John can do is hold onto to the cold limb as he's manhandled into cover.
Bucky never answers him. He moves precisely around the discarded machinery inside, firing through the smallest windows and tightest angles as enemies close in from the outside.
"Run." He shoves John towards a back door. The other side of the factory is breached by something like a SWAT team clad in gray. Bucky lays down cover fire before following.
John has no choice but to obey. Adrenaline fills his limbs as he sprints only to slam into a firmly shut door at the end of the corridor. Bullets pepper around him, and he covers his head uselessly.
"Buc-" he turns to see Bucky charging. John hops to the side when Bucky lowers his metal shoulder and barrels through it like a linebacker, dragging John out with him by the back of his shirt. John finds his feet and stumbles towards the motorcycle Bucky swings onto.
"Get on." Bucky starts the engine.
"Where?"
"Hurry!"
John climbs onto the back just as Bucky peels out of the overgrown lot. He scrambles to get his arms around the man's torso before he flies off the back. They accelerate away from the factory so fast John squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face into the back of Bucky's tactical vest. His ears ring from the close-quarters gunshots and now the growling of the engine beneath him.
He doesn't know how long they're riding for before he cracks an eye open and sees Southern twilight settling. The cold wind has numbed his arms and face beyond feeling. Instinct has him twisting to check behind them when something in his side pinches sharp. Fingertips touch warm wetness and come away red.
"Bucky?"
The man somehow hears him over the wind and glances down, then glances down again before braking and fishtailing dramatically.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Bucky grumbles.
"I, I didn't know. How did I not know?"
Bucky yanks him off the bike and holds him still without any of the care someone usually reserves for the injured. He inspects John's side with tough fingers before deciding it's a graze that doesn't want to stop bleeding. Without asking, he takes out a knife and starts to cut the bottom of John's shirt.
John doesn't react beyond blinking and flinching, even when Bucky presses the strips into the wound. Blue eyes stare at John's pale face.
"You're going into shock."
"What?"
"Here." He takes John's hands and manually presses them into his side. "Now sit."
"I-"
"Sit."
He does, slowly, not sure where his body is.
"Bullet grazed you."
"Why are you cutting my shirt?"
"You're bleeding."
"Oh. Why?"
"Eyes open." Bucky kneels. "We can't stay here."
"I…I know where we can go."
They roll the bike off the road into the woods, and John leads them the next couple hundred feet until they're staring at Bert's garage where John's seen old doomsday kits hidden among the junk. His right arm itches from all the dried blood that's caked where his elbow is keeping the shirt-gauze pressed. He goes to use both arms to try to shimmy open the back door to the garage and realizes the strips of his shirt now stick to his side on their own—pleasant. He grumbles and kicks the door. Nothing. So he leans all his weight into it.
Bucky reaches over and nudges it open with a single push, making John stumble inside into a bucket. A muffled yelp of pain slips out at the sudden motion. Recovering slowly, John slips through decades worth of collected belongings while Bucky follows too close for comfort. The larger man struggles in the space. He's lighter on his feet than he looks, but it's difficult to anticipate where a stake of old tools might be precariously placed, hidden under tarps and yellowed newspapers, and Bucky knocks over several.
"Maybe you should wait outside." John hisses under his breath.
Bucky doesn't answer, just stares at the blood.
"Here," Finding the old tackle box, John lifts it onto a workbench and unclips the front.
"You're bleeding again."
"I'm fine," John says through some of the worst pain in his life.
Liv shouts from outside. "Lemar, seriously!"
"I heard something, Liv." Lemar replies. "It sounded too big to be an animal."
"Dammit." John grips the edge of the workbench as his head swims. "Look, Bucky-"
Lemar bursts through the other door with a bat raised high, Liv behind his shoulder with a flashlight, then John sees Bucky's gun trained eye-level, so he throws himself in front of them.
"Wait! They're my friends!"
"John!" Lemar doesn't register the gun and pushes through the junk into the garage. "Where the hell have you been?"
"You're bleeding!" After turning on the lights, Liv follows in the trail Lemar carved.
Bucky cocks his head at the other teens and lowers his weapon.
"Guys, listen," John breathes heavy.
But then Lemar looks to his left. "Holy shit. You're Bucky Barnes."
"What?" Olivia gasps.
Bucky looks on blankly before busying himself with the outdated medkit. "Sit." He tells John.
"That's Bucky Barnes." Lemar repeats as his brain reboots.
"It can't be." Liv remains the last voice of reason. "Jonathan Fitzgerald Walker, you have a million things you need to explain right now."
"Sit." Bucky ignores the teens and pushes down on John's shoulder, not that he puts up much of a fight. Bucky lifts up the bottom of the shirt and gives it to John to hold. Lemar and Liv both freeze at the sight of all the dried blood.
"Why are you in Dad's garage and not a hospital?" Lemar shouts.
"Stop, your parents going to hear you." John says, exhausted, his head hanging. Bucky prods the wound and starts to peel off the strips of shirt fused to skin.
"No, they're not. They went to your parents house because you went missing from school, and you skipped practice, and-" Lemar stops himself. "And you were off today. They thought your folks had something to do with it…"
John's blue eyes glance up then back down. He's too tired to stop himself from hissing as Bucky rips off another makeshift bandage. The man growls something John is choosing to interpret as an apology.
"John," Olivia is clenching her fists without answers.
Bucky looks around the garage, spots the mini fridge, and pulls out what he was hoping would be there. "Here," he hands over a bottle of amber-colored alcohol.
"You can't drink that." Liv gasps.
"I—I don't drink." John weakly pushes it away. "I'm underaged." His voice is small from the embarrassment he doesn't know why he's feeling.
Bucky pushes it back. "Drink." He starts to work on the wound just enough to demonstrate the pain to come, pausing to let John grimace and swig a mouthful. John gags on the burn before taking another. And then the sting from the iodine hits and he takes a third.
"Dude." Lemar rips it from him.
Liv elbows her way closer. "Why is he bleeding?"
Bucky doesn't answer her; he only works.
"So," Lemar breathes out. "You weren't lying, about any of it."
Olivia storms out. "I'm going to call the cops."
Bucky scowls, watching her leave.
"Stop her," John begs with bags under his eyes. Lemar puts down the bottle and trips out after their friend. John's whole side feels like numb fire—however that's possible. He eyes the bottle and reaches for it again. Maybe after drinking enough this whole day can end and turn into a harmless dream.
A metal hand steals the bottle before it slips from his fingers. Then these intense blue eyes become the only thing in the room not spinning. He doesn't know how long he's staring.
"Don't puke."
"Why?"
"Because you're about to pass out."
Bucky catches him and swings him over his shoulder in a smooth motion. He focuses on things that are tangible: the dust, smell of oil, the cable that tried to trip him—the heavy breathing of the kid whose name he just officially learned is Jonathan Fitzgerald Walker. He did go through the kid's backpack and found the initials J. F. W. on everything, but part of him wondered if maybe they shared the name James, that would've been weird.
Outside, the property is dark except for the small bubbles of soft light coming from the home and the neighborhood. Bucky doesn't think about what the normal lives are like for those inside the houses, he just carries this person inside after his 'friends.' He ducks into a kitchen.
The girl turns to him in shock. The guy follows her gaze as he holds a phone out of reach from her hands.
"He's asleep." Bucky deadpans.
"You sure?" Lemar frowns.
"Yes."
"Uh, follow me." The guy leads him into the house but constantly glances back over his shoulder while the girl fearlessly follows on his heels. They bring him to a modest bedroom, and he's directed to lay John down onto the fold-out bed.
Lemar touches John's shoulder with a fondness that makes Bucky nostalgic. Lemar then says softly, "I…should call my parents and tell them to come home."
Now it's just Olivia and Bucky.
"Did you do this?" She asks, arms crossed.
"No." Bucky side-eyes her in the dark.
"He said you tried to kill him."
"A misunderstanding."
She glares.
"You're protective." He says, uncomfortable right now; his body itches. It's been too long since since he's been stuck in a room with a normal person he's not been ordered to kill. "You his boyfriend?"
"No." She says too quickly. "…he has a lot to figure out."
Bucky loses interest and moves towards the window.
"Where do you think you're going?"
He lifts it and climbs out without another word. Dropping to the dewy grass, Bucky goes into the woods to find a good vantage point to watch the house. Something tells him his targets aren't going to give up, and if they're smart enough to recognize and follow J. F. W. into town they may also know his home address, or friend's address; Bucky hasn't figured out the situationship here yet.
After checking on the motorcycle he stole yesterday, he finds a sturdy tree that gives a clear view of the street and the house. There he sits and holds in his hand that small Captain American shield keychain. Bucky tries to remember everything he can, at least until the memories become jagged, bloody amalgamations.
John wakes slowly, head throbbing, stomach uneasy, side stiff with pain. He knows he's home at the Hoskins's from the creak of the springs and the smell of lavender in the sheets. He rolls over and decides he hates life right now.
Downstairs is the muffled bubbling of arguments on the first floor, not that he can tell what it's about, he just hears Lemar and Lemar's parents, Liv even. John groans. A shadow stretches over him that breaks the soft moonlight. His body flinches, primed by the disasters of the day. A few seconds later his dull head recognizes Bucky.
"Those men are closing in," Bucky says. "They know your name and must have tracked this address."
"I don't have what they want.
"Doesn't matter. If you stay, they're going to hurt those people downstairs."
John lifts himself onto shaky elbows. "That can't happen… Maybe, maybe I can draw them away."
"You sure? It's not going to be easy."
"I'm sure." John feels a cold sweat covering his skin. "No one down there deserves to get hurt because of me."
Bucky gets a glint in his eyes but otherwise remains stoic. He lifts John's backpack. "I had a feeling you'd say that."
John takes his bag and throws it onto his back, but not before emptying it of his school supplies, stuffing in an extra pair of clothes, and writing Lemar a letter. It's not a good one, how do you fit a lifetime of debt, devotion, and friendship into a hastily scrawled page?
Bucky leaps out of the second-floor window and stands looking up as John sits on the sill, stomach rolling. He covers his mouth and waits for the chill to settle.
Bucky cocks his head.
"It's not the height." John swallows. "The rum…and my side…" He doesn't want to keep this soldier waiting so he starts to climb down as best he can before pain flares in his side, and he slips. Bucky catches him, not that either acknowledges the act.
They go into the woods and walk the motorcycle out. Bucky climbs on and revs it to life, but John lingers and stares back at the Hoskins's home where he sees Momma through the kitchen window looking upset and arguing with Lemar and Bert, probably about him. She does so much for John, too much, and she deserves to give that care to her real children and not some stray.
"Get on."
John takes a deep breath and holds it, then gets behind Bucky Barnes as they ride off, loud enough to draw any hostiles after them, just two figures in the Georgian night.