Chapter Text
Brooklyn had always been his home.
On the long aching nights, Hydra would weld his arm back together, flickers of the past would creep their way in as his mind would wander free of the cage they had put him in.
A dinner table with his mother and sisters arguing before his dad got home, when a silence would fall across the house. He was used to quiet places. Homes weren't loud back in his day; they were filled with roles and structure, not the sounds of TV and kids playing games. People had a place, and they accepted it.
Then Hydra had taken him and told him where his place was. In the ice, in a blender, on the field, before he was submerged back under the icy rocks of Siberia. For him, it was never home, even when his mind was sterilised to robotic patterns. Home was the shitty apartment in Brooklyn that was knocked down in 1952 to be made into flats, then again in 1996 to be repurposed into a high-rise or a skyscraper. He didn't really understand the difference yet.
The Government pardon hadn't felt like freedom to him. It had come with the strict conditions of therapy once a week and Raynor's pushing attitude that felt like it was chipping him down. Maybe that was the aim. If they kept crushing him into the ground, maybe all his trauma would spill out, and they would know the truth. Or he'd bury himself, save them a job. The gaps in history would be placed back together and no one would ever thank him. They would just know exactly how to villainise him and blame him. He did enough of that himself.
Countless nights where he woke up covered in sweat, coughing for air, had become as familiar as the guilt that sat at the back of his mind. He remembered it all. Every shot that he had landed perfectly, to the heart, to the centre of the temple. The bodies had fallen like sacks of flour in a bakery. His just weren't reused. They were disregarded, he was reset and moved onto the next mission.
He wished they didn't linger. That moving on had been as simple as getting himself an apartment in Brooklyn. Yet, in the middle of the night, he could've sworn that the rust on the radiator pipes was the same that used to hiss as they thawed him from the ice while his mind battled between the past and present. Even if it was just lingering decades of rust that a cheap landlord hadn't bothered to scrub clean.
It wasn't much but new safety standards made it better than his childhood home. Small place, one bedroom, one bathroom, a conjoining kitchen, dining room and living room. Enough for what he needed. He went on surviving on an army pension and what people wanted to hear. But he felt the stares when he would walk down the street, even with his metal arm covered. The face of the Winter Soldier was known and he could feel the fearful gaze on his back. No fake identity would ever work. Vienna, all those years ago, had plastered his face on news outlets worldwide.
No one would ever trust him.
He had come to accept that.
So he went about his way, as quietly as he could. Trying to come to grips with the skyscrapers that dominated the New York skyline, he once knew. The truth that it was never coming back. No matter how much the past haunted him, the prospect of the future filled him with some hope that simplicity could return.
It was a bitterly cold December day as he walked back home from the Chinese, where he always grabbed takeaway on a Friday. Times like these, he wished he understood how to take the subway. The routes and how they overlapped all over New York were just too much for him, he stuck to buses and his feet. When he was a kid never had anything like that, just walked, buses weren't free like they were for veterans. So that's what he did. He just walked, keeping his head down, staying quiet and keeping to himself.
Less chance he could hurt anyone that way.
His fingertips were cold as he fought with his keys and walked up the damp stairwell. It wasn't the nicest of places but the landlord hadn't asked many questions and it was cheap. He was used to living in much worse; the nicer apartments he'd looked at just had too many added extras, filled with technology he wasn't ready to tackle. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other.
The door didn't shut. He had learned the pattern of four seconds and then it would slam, reverberating throughout the corridor slightly. Someone was following him. He was careful as his hand drifted to the gun hidden inside his pocket and then finally glanced over his shoulder. Prepared for any threat. Maybe a ghost from Hydra had come slivering from the darkness to get him, family of someone he'd slaughtered on orders, there was a long list that could finally be coming to try and take him down.
When he turned, it was just a girl. A teenager, he couldn't put a number on it. Kids these days were strange. Dressed like adults at ages he was still playing with toy trains. But she looked like she had herself pretty together. A pair of jeans that he saw teenagers all over New York wear like an assigned uniform and a hoodie that said Nirvana, whatever that was.
"Can you get out the way" she snapped. Jerking her head to the side as she stood at the bottom of the steps.
He was losing his touch. He used to be able to keep track of milliseconds and now he had been caught staring.
"Yea—sorry" he quickly apologised. Continuing the climb up the steps and letting his hand relax, falling away from the metal weight secured against his chest.
He counted this time. Five and a half seconds before she spoke.
"You live here?" she suddenly asked. He wasn't used to questions, more looks of judgment and fear and people moved on.
He hesitated with the answer; he wasn't looking for dinner invitations anytime soon, or ever. Just wanted to be left alone. "Yes" he answered. Simple and factual. Distant enough that she might not even bother replying. Hopefully.
"Since when?" she questioned. Kid was too curious for her own good.
He didn't want to answer but it would be strange if he didn't. He looked about forty these days and he'd just been staring at her for God knows how long; he didn't need to give people reason to ask questions. "Moved in a few months ago" he answered vaguely.
He picked up his pace as he headed up the steps onto the second floor. Breathing a sigh of relief when he heard the door click shut just as he expected. He didn't even notice his hands were shaking until he dug in his pocket for his keys. The leather of his gloves crinkled against the metal as he quickly rattled the door open.
He couldn't explain why that interaction had shaken him so much; he just wasn't used to talking so casually to people these days. Once, he would've walked the same streets and thrown out a few compliments maybe, could've cracked a smile at the crowds like it was nothing. These days, it feels so impossible.
So he slammed the door shut a bit too hard and went back to the apartment he had become familiar with. Home. Alone.
The only way he understood how to be these days.
He didn't do much with his days. It was sad but true.
8am: run ten miles.
10pm: gym.
Sometimes he would eat three meals a day, sometimes he wouldn't. He had therapy on Mondays at noon and he told her he was doing things. That he'd been to Central Park, gone out for dinner, seen Sam. When truthfully, he'd punched a bag until his knuckles cracked and bubbled with blood that healed before he even felt the sting, visited the Captain America museum for the third time in a week and asked himself, why. Why had he told Stelve to go back? Why'd he let go of the only person he'd ever had?
Deep down, he knew why; it was the same reason he looked at Sam with such resentment when he handed over that shield.
Steve had lived. He had found something, even when they were just boys playing war heroes. Steve had found love, something to miss, regret, and want to return to, a life that meant something. All he had left to were the memories that haunted him. Blood and regret left staining the deep red star Hydra had plastered onto the metal they'd grafted into his skin.
So he told Steve he'd be fine. Even when he knew he'd end up so lonely. Because he didn't want the only friend he's ever really had to stay in the modern world just for him. One of them deserved to get everything they wanted.
As he thought about it, he heard the showerhead crack, looking up at the water that was now dripping down his skin. Another thing he'd have to put back together.
So he'd dried himself off and got dressed and left the apartment for the first time in days to head to the shop and get a new one.
Walking back up the damp steps, he balanced the box against his prosthetic arm as he dug around for his keys, looking up to see his apartment door cracked open. He hadn't received any letters about repairs or the landlord coming for a check.
He moved almost automatically as he slipped his keys into his pocket, abandoning the new showerhead in the corridor, his hold on a gun still feeling familiar. The metal felt a bit lighter than he remembered as he gently stepped into the apartment. There were no immediate signs of distruction but he could hear movement coming from the kitchen. When he rounded the corner, he could make out a figure in the dim light. A black jumper, with the hood up, the guns he kept in his apartment on the kitchen table, along with a few other things. A couple of hundred-dollar bills he'd had hidden under a mattress, a laptop, his watch and some papers he couldn't identify from here.
It was pure instinct that had his arm around the individual, holding them in a headlock before they could catch a single breath. Hearing a gasp as a knife was sunk into his thigh, not going very deep as it caught on the thick denim. He didn't let go. He'd been in far more pain. Nevertheless, he was careful with how much pressure he applied; he didn't want any more bodies to his name. So he made sure to keep his grip secure but not tight. No more than bruising to a normal human.
"What are you doing?" he questioned, his voice emotionless as he kicked the drawer they'd been going through shut, hearing a knife clatter violently on the ground.
"I'm sorry—I'm—" he quickly let go when he heard those gasped out words. Female. He'd heard them before. There was no hesitation as he let go and saw her stumble, managing to catch the edge of the kitchen counter, stopping herself from falling to the ground. She was the girl who'd followed him up the stairwell yesterday.
His mind ran with a million possibilities of why and what had led her here. She'd followed him, that was factual. Maybe she'd watched him unlock his apartment yesterday. She could have been watching him for weeks. He didn't even know for a fact she lived here; he had just assumed. God, he shouldn't have assumed. For all he knew, this was calculated to the last detail and she had just been waiting for what she thought was the right moment, then got it wrong.
He didn't think any further as he raised the gun and pointed it in line with her lung. She'd know it was only meant to harm, not kill, if she were actually a profession. It would only take him a moment to redirect to her heart if needed. As he watched the fear dawn over her face, he came to realise he judged her wrong.
"I'm sorry, I am" she quickly repeated. Against his better judgment, he put the gun down but kept the safety off. This couldn't have been planned. It was sloppy. If she'd been watching him, she would've come on therapy day. A time when he left for a consistent extended period. No, this was impulsive. "I just—I'm sorry" she stuttered.
He wanted to yell at her, that this wasn't a game. He could've actually hurt her, killed her. Instead, he realised he was just looking at a stupid kid who'd acted on impulse and got the shit scared out of her. "What'd you take?" he questioned.
Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she seemed to remember how to speak. Emptying her pocket. A necklace, some cash, and probably about half his stamp collection. Nothing Hydra-related to his relief. "I'm sorry. I just—needed the cash" she reiterated, tears welling in her eyes. He couldn't really blame her. Ten seconds ago, he'd had a gun pointed at her and five seconds beofre that, he was about to choke her out. He could feel the guilt creeping in. He'd hurt someone. Again.
He just huffed as he clicked the safety on and put the gun on the table where she'd collected what she probably perceived as valuable. Placing it too far away for either of them to grab, before he turned back to her. "You broke into my house for cash?" he questioned.
She nodded quickly, her body still shaking with fear. "Look I'm sorry I really am. Just—that was it—" she gestured towards the small pile of things she had removed from her pockets. "—please don't tell anyone" she begged.
He wasn't planning on it.
He'd probably come out as the bad guy for pointing a gun at a teenage girl, only making the government think he was more unstable. Fuck, he realised. This was the last thing he needed to be filed as a police report. They'd say he was still violent and a danger to society. No, he could resolve this. No one was hurt. No one needed to know.
"I'm not going to" he assured her quickly. "Just—get out" he declared. It was all he could say.
There was no hestiation as she scattered from his apartment and down the hall heard the door slam shut behind her but he kept listening. Through the open door, he could've sworn he heard her go up the stairs. Maybe she did live in the building after all. That only made this whole thing more reckless on her behalf.
"Fuck!" he swore out loud, his hand denting the surface of the counter, his vibranium arm absorbing the impact. Drawing a spark breath as he looked over at the few valuable items he owned scattered carelessly across the table, his mind moved back to the new problem he had upstairs.