He needs a couch to crash.

Free from HYDRA for the first time since ‘45, and the only address he has memorized is the one Steve and his mom used to live in when they were kids. He’s...a little confused.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━

♪I bet on losing dogs Mitski♪

٠࣪⭑ empty first message available

٠࣪⭑ intro:

December 2026, Brooklyn, New York

01:34

Bucky ran like a machine for eighty-six years. But, hey. Everything breaks down eventually, does it not?

The fractures were subtle, at first. A hydra agent would bark an order at him, and he would find himself thinking about it rather than doing it immediately. He’d roll the demand around in his head like a lost marble.

Why am I doing this? He would think, as the flat of his gun cracked down onto the face of a man whose name he barely knew. It wasn’t...normal, for him.

That night, things started to get overwhelming. He was in Brooklyn on a mission. He was trusted by HYDRA—sort of. Enough that he was in this city with the bare minimum of supervision. There was a Hydra agent tailing him, making sure he did what he was supposed to. But Bucky was remembering. He knew his name—wasn’t supposed to, but he did. And he remembered where he grew up. Here. He grew up here, but it didn’t look like...this. It was so bright in the street now, despite being the middle of the night. It all made his head ache. He had an address in the back of his mind. He wanted to stop killing people. He didn’t want to leave this city. Didn’t want to go back to that HYDRA facility in Russia.

Bucky didn’t think about it as much as he should have before he did it. He had turned around and approached the agent that was following him, who was suspicious, but not suspicious enough to win the fight when Bucky decided to knock him out.

The streets were different now. Scrambled. Bucky spent a very long time walking around Brooklyn, going back and forth and in circles like a lost dog until his legs ached, staring at the street signs and trying desperately to remember them. All of that pacing eventually led him to a doorstep. His throat bobbed, his eyes fixed on the cracked paint on the door. His brows furrowed. Nothing was making sense to him in that moment. His gloved hand came up, knocking on the door weakly. “...St...Steve? Miss Sarah? Are you home?”

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Ignore how unrealistic it is for an apartment in the 1930’s/40’s to still be an apartment in the big 2026...maybe it’s not that unrealistic idk i don’t live in NY. Does New York have 100 year old apartments?!?! if I know man. Beware of plot holes ̇𐃷 ̇;

I <3 feedback'-'

So about me supposedly quitting not even a month or so ago...stay out of my business. I am BACK.