…I need a happy scene. Why am I doing this
Bucky had been roaming undercover for months after Hydra’s plans fell through. He was on his own. In the 21st century. All he knew was his name and that he knew the man he was told to fight.
In his time working for Hydra, he had either been in a freezer, placed in special treatment, or hunting someone down. He was taken care of- well more like kept alive. He was put through trials of experiments to make him stronger and practically invincible to help the cause. It had succeeded long ago. Only a couple years of procedures and they had mastered the formula. He became their soldier, the Winter Soldier.
After that, the focus was really on their genius achievement of his arm. Improving it was a big priority, making him a bigger threat to all who opposed Hydra. But they also kept maintenance on it.
With him trying to escape his past, it meant he had no one to help him. No one with the knowledge to repair his arm. It had gotten damaged in the crash after the captain fell. After he had saved him. There was one problem.
It was hardly functional, he lost all motor skills in his fingers. But he had full movement of his shoulder joint, thankfully. Otherwise, the only thing that useless hunk of metal hanging off his shoulder could do was bend at the elbow some. He had taken to wearing a hoodie with his metal arm tucked securely into the pocket. At least that way it wasn’t swaying at his side and getting in the way.
But that wasn’t the worst part. The arm was never really comfortable to him in the first place. The only features the Hydra followers cared about was that it could carry a gun and destroy a car. Apart from that, it didn’t matter.
The metal dug into his skin. It irritated it. The skin on the edges of his bionic arm would swell and scar. The men working for Hydra that specialized in his care would only treat if it seemed to be a real problem, impeding their plans. Every so often it would flare up and they would have to routinely clean and care for the arm to prevent further damage. Sometimes making changes in the engineering of how the arm fits against his skin.
They were working on it before Captain America had come down to stop their plans. It was cut short and they had to send Bucky up to fight without fully fixing the problem with his arm. He didn’t have the chance to return as he had left as soon as the fight was over.
The arm was in disrepair and was in need of a professional to fix it, and if the metal pieces kept scraping against each other inside, the debris would cause an infection soon enough. He couldn’t be seen by anyone. A doctor would turn him in before he even showed him his robotic appendage. A mechanic would not only do just the same, but they would have no idea where to start with such advanced technology.
There was nothing else to do about it. Bucky continued with his work. He wanted to lie low before he decided on anything, to learn about what he missed in his trance, to regroup and figure who he was, who he is, and what he had become. He had begun researching his former life, before he became the Winter Soldier. He researched more about Shield. About what Captain America had done with them.
He looked into who was left of Hydra. What he could do to right his wrong. What he could do to wipe the red from his ledger. And he acted on it.
After months and months of going from place to place, fighting for good and redeeming himself in the only way he knew how, his arm deteriorated more and more. Each time he had to fight off someone, the more the metal wore off.
One day the pain became unbearable. He tore off his shirt. The gore around the edges of his shoulder were hard to look at. He scratched and clawed at it, in his struggle to rid himself of this weapon that had turned against him.
It began to bleed. On the ground of this obscure and generic motel room he was hiding out in, he thought he met his end that should have come decades earlier. The blood trickled down his side, his back, pooling under his arm, and dripping onto the floor.
There was a knock at the door. Bucky couldn’t answer. He tried to groan in response, but even that was too difficult. Then a pounding. He was too delirious to recognize that a visitor would be odd.
The door was forced open. Steve called out, “Bucky?” He was wary in the way he asked it. The man was only trying to assassinate him less than a year ago. He also didn’t want him to think that he was trying to attack him. But he had to come in. He had been trailing him ever since Shield fell and he wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.
Steve walked in and saw Bucky. A mess on the floor. He rushed to him. Kneeling at his side, Steve tried to make sense of what had happened. He hovered his hand over the metal arm not wanting to startle or hurt him, seeing that the skin puckered painfully. He finally looked up at Bucky.
Bucky’s tormented eyes stared up at him. “Steve?” he asked roughly.
"Yeah, it’s me, Buck. I came to find you." Steve said. "Sam was just with me, he’ll be here soon." Steve put his hand onto the side of Bucky’s face to prop him up so he didn’t have to struggle to look up at him.
Bucky started to say something, but he was losing consciousness fast. He tried again and began mumbling apologies repeatedly.
"Hey, stay with me." Steve choked, his voice was giving out. He couldn’t lose his friend again, not when he was so close. "Till the end of the line. Remember?"
"Till-till the end of the line, pal." Bucky gasped. His vision went white.
It’s 9 in the morning in my time and I saw this. Hell what’s the point to get up then…with all the words and details it hurts even more. Hell of a way to start a day and a whole week.