( so it turns out that not all your problems go away with a presidential pardon.
bucky's been trying to make ends meet, scraping and picking up odd jobs for a local restaurant. immersing himself in normalcy as if rubbing shoulders with regular citizens is contagious; as if he could catch some semblance of a regular life if he just stayed near them long enough, followed the rules, talked to his stupid court-appointed therapist, and all-in-all tried his best to prove that his winter soldier days are long, long past.
but tonight, that past follows him home. it's not a gigantic alien invasion and it's not the end of the world, but it is this: the prickling between his shoulderblades, that familiar sawing on the edge of his nerves telling him that something is wrong. so move. faster. now. he breaks into a faster walk, his stride lengthening even as the shadows break into movement behind him.
anyone who tries to mug the winter soldier would be an idiot. but these aren't robbers, are they?
bucky looks at the approaching men, and notes the physical details in quick succession: military buzz-cuts; broad shoulders; their english is russian-accented. they might as well bark hail hydra at him when they come closer. he can guess what they want: it's him. recovering their prized asset.
it's the middle of the goddamned street in new york, but it's also past midnight. there aren't many civilians around to hear the crunch of bone as bucky slams one man into the wall; the staccato ping as he deflects some bullets with his arm and the fabric of his leather jacket rips; the howl of pain from the hydra operative as bucky snaps his hand. same shit, different day. and it's almost a relief: getting to cut loose, warm up these long-dormant muscles and hated instincts.
but he's outnumbered, and it's dark, and the twentieth bullet hits its mark. and then the twenty-first. the bullets lodge in his side and he jack-knifes over them, the breath driven out of him. another man uses some kind of goddamn high-tech taser on his metal arm and it short-circuits; it catches, the hinges creaking and the whole thing becomes dead weight hanging off his shoulder. by the time bucky ends the fight — and he ends it, hard, — he's stumbling and he can't move his arm. the sound of the gunshots still ringing through the neighbourhood.
he slumps against a brick wall, letting it prop him up.
you should call sam, he thinks. and then a second later: i will literally die before i call sam for help.
it's hyperbolic, sure. but he's gonna be okay. he thinks. or he's pretty sure. his healing is faster than the average human's. he just... needs to rest.
the thing he isn't counting on: the strawberry-blonde reporter, and the last man, coming in late to back up his buddies. )
→ a perilous meet cute.
bucky's been trying to make ends meet, scraping and picking up odd jobs for a local restaurant. immersing himself in normalcy as if rubbing shoulders with regular citizens is contagious; as if he could catch some semblance of a regular life if he just stayed near them long enough, followed the rules, talked to his stupid court-appointed therapist, and all-in-all tried his best to prove that his winter soldier days are long, long past.
but tonight, that past follows him home. it's not a gigantic alien invasion and it's not the end of the world, but it is this: the prickling between his shoulderblades, that familiar sawing on the edge of his nerves telling him that something is wrong. so move. faster. now. he breaks into a faster walk, his stride lengthening even as the shadows break into movement behind him.
anyone who tries to mug the winter soldier would be an idiot. but these aren't robbers, are they?
bucky looks at the approaching men, and notes the physical details in quick succession: military buzz-cuts; broad shoulders; their english is russian-accented. they might as well bark hail hydra at him when they come closer. he can guess what they want: it's him. recovering their prized asset.
it's the middle of the goddamned street in new york, but it's also past midnight. there aren't many civilians around to hear the crunch of bone as bucky slams one man into the wall; the staccato ping as he deflects some bullets with his arm and the fabric of his leather jacket rips; the howl of pain from the hydra operative as bucky snaps his hand. same shit, different day. and it's almost a relief: getting to cut loose, warm up these long-dormant muscles and hated instincts.
but he's outnumbered, and it's dark, and the twentieth bullet hits its mark. and then the twenty-first. the bullets lodge in his side and he jack-knifes over them, the breath driven out of him. another man uses some kind of goddamn high-tech taser on his metal arm and it short-circuits; it catches, the hinges creaking and the whole thing becomes dead weight hanging off his shoulder. by the time bucky ends the fight — and he ends it, hard, — he's stumbling and he can't move his arm. the sound of the gunshots still ringing through the neighbourhood.
he slumps against a brick wall, letting it prop him up.
you should call sam, he thinks. and then a second later: i will literally die before i call sam for help.
it's hyperbolic, sure. but he's gonna be okay. he thinks. or he's pretty sure. his healing is faster than the average human's. he just... needs to rest.
the thing he isn't counting on: the strawberry-blonde reporter, and the last man, coming in late to back up his buddies. )