CRUEL INTENTIONS, bucky barnes

thirteen

February 1, 2016

Bucharest, Romania

Bucky closed the door as quietly as he could manage with its squeaky hinges. The small apartment, if he could even think of it as one, was almost completely empty. There was a bare mattress on the floor under one of the two windows, a fridge, and a rickety-looking kitchen table. The only other things occupying the space were Bucky and all of the dust motes that he kicked up as he paced the creaking floor.

There was a back door, too, that led out onto the roof. He nodded to himself, reassured that this room would be the best for him. The top floor, removed from anyone living below. The woman who owned the building had been very accommodating. She didn't ask a lot of questions about Bucky's quiet nature or odd request for an isolated room.

He wanted to believe that it was simply because she was a nice lady, but there would always be the tugging suspicion that her kindness was ill-intentioned. No matter how many times he managed to shake those thoughts away, they always returned.

It had been five months since the incident in Geneva. Bucky still wasn't sure that he'd recovered from seeing Savannah. Her face was still burnt into his memory: the tight smile on her face as she'd gunned down her own agent, the one who'd shot him. Without hesitation. She never hesitated.

He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his human hand to his fevered forehead. Even thinking about her, just remembering, made his head spin. He focused on settling in and slung his backpack onto the kitchen table.

There wasn't much he could do with the space, but he could try. The plan wasn't to stay for very long, but while he was there he could at least make himself comfortable.

Comfortable. Whatever that meant.

He took two of the newest journals he'd bought out of his bag and set them on the table. They were mostly empty, unlike the two full-sized notebooks he kept for more important things, the ones that he poured over for days at a time as his memories came back to him. Those remained safely in the bag as Bucky wandered across the floor, looking for a board that would pull up the easiest.

It turned out that every one of the boards wouldn't give much resistance, so he went with one that was close to the back door. Quick and easy access, if he needed it. Before he secured his bag beneath the floor, he pulled out some of the nonperishable food he'd stocked up on before deciding that Bucharest was where he'd try to settle.

Granola, jerky, a few cans of soup. Things that would keep him alive without weighing him down. He'd grown very good at running in the past few months. There wasn't another choice. If he couldn't run and keep himself alive while doing it, he didn't have a chance at survival.

Bucky shivered and pulled out a chair at the wobbly kitchen table. One of the downsides of the landlady not asking questions was that she didn't mention anything about electricity, water, or heat in this apartment. The room gained some warmth from being on the top floor, but there wasn't much more than that.

It's better than nothing, Bucky wrote on the next blank page of his journal. Better than running through the snow at night, or worse, sleeping in it. At least this is... safe. I'm not sure I should call it that yet. Nowhere stays safe for very long.

He took a moment to think about the last few days, the week since he'd been in Romania. He had noticed a difference in the types of people around him. They weren't so shadowy, so menacing. Maybe it was his paranoia subsiding, but maybe it was genuine change. Perhaps he'd really lost them.

Romania has been safe so far. I don't get weird looks, but that might be because it's so cold right now. No chance for people to notice an entire metal limb if I'm all bundled up. But anyway, it's been nice, I guess. But the fear stays. It's always there, in the back of my mind.

Sometimes, I'll have a good day. Things will feel all right, and I can go through the motions without losing my grip. But then I'll either fall asleep or sit still too long and my mind just runs rampant and all I can think about is what would happen if they found me. What could happen.

I've thought about it a lot, what I'd do. A lot of the time I'll get stuck in a run and it's all I can think about.

Geneva completely turned me upside down. I thought I was doing all right. I'd worked so hard to flush them out, but seeing her...

Bucky gently set the pen in the binding of the journal. He took a deep breath and ran his hands over his face. The cool metal of his left palm was comforting, but his right was clammy, cold, and trembling. He didn't plan to write much more. Just enough so the entry felt finished.

I think my perception of how I was doing was all wrong. It really fucked with my head to realize that. Maybe, in the end, it turned out to be a good thing. Because it has made me think seriously about what I would do. Being found is a real possibility, no matter how unpleasant.

As far as I figure, there's two options if HYDRA ever gets their hands on me or near me again.

I'll either have to kill myself before they can get back in my head, or just let them in. Death or complete submission. I don't think I could fight through it all again, especially after being free for this long. I'd rather die than be aware of what they do.

Become a martyr or a puppet. Those are my options. I'm not counting on anything else. I won't expect anything from Steve and his team. I can't. They're too public, especially right now. Even if they did want to help, I couldn't let them.

I'd run from them, too, for everyone's sake.

Bucky closed the journal and stood. He pried up the floorboard with ease and replaced the small leather volume in his backpack.

As he ran a hand through his unwashed hair, he took in the narrow space, nodding silently to himself. The sun had fallen and cast the room in shadow. Bucky eyed the barren, dirty mattress on the other side of the room.

It was enough, at least for the time being.