Drive. ~James Buchanan Barnes

Chapter 3

I'm still driving around, getting slightly worried I won't find what I'm looking for in time to help him, when I see it.

The nastiest, most out of date, tiniest motel I've ever seen.

Perfect.

I pull in, glancing around for any cameras, or security system. When I see nothing, I grab my wallet and head in.

The man at the front desk barely gives me a bored glance.

"I need a room for two nights. Two beds."

"Name?"

In response I slide $250.00 on the counter, "If it doesn't matter you can keep the change."

The man raises a brow slightly, but seems unsurprised. In a hotel like this, I'm sure he gets his fair share of anonymous residents. He takes the money and says, "Welcome, Ms. Jones. Here's your key. Enjoy your stay."

I only nod before heading back out to the car. I unlock the room, and am pleased to find out that we are on ground level, near the back. Smart man.

I hesitate a second. The Soldier could kill me for this.

Then again, he probably plans to kill me regardless. With that thought, I shake him vigorously.

Nothing. Of course.

"Okay, Soldier. This is only going to be embarrassing for me." I mutter quietly.

I thank my lucky stars that my father was a fireman, and taught us a few things about medical emergencies. One of which was how to carry an unconscious person, even if they're twice your size.

I'll save you the details, Imaginary-Person, and just tell you that eventually, I got him in the room, and on the bed.

Okay. Problem number two. He's still bleeding. Not heavily, but still bleeding.

I go to open the trunk of my car and retrieve my pitiful first-aid kit.  Inside are just a few scraps of gauze, a tube of Neosporin, a tiny bottle of peroxide, bandages, both cloth and the band-aid kind, and some alcohol wipes.

I also grab my tiny sewing kit, because unfortunately, I think I'll need it, and on the way back, I swing by the ice machine.

When I go back in the room I see that he...still hasn't moved. I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't worried at this point.

I lift his shirt, because he really would kill me if I tried to undress him, and get to work. It isn't a clean wound, like a knife or a bullet would be, but it looks like something gashed him. Maybe debris. I discover that I am correct in my assumption. He's going to need stitches.

He winces slightly when I begin cleaning it, and his fingers twitch, worrying me a little. I don't want him to wake up when I get the needle out.

I put some ice on his wound as I ready the needle, and my self, for what I have to do next.

As I work, he only groans quietly, but never wakes.

I once again thank my lucky stars.

I finish up by wrapping him up with gauze and cloth bandages, and leave him to rest.

By leave, I mean I went twelve feet from the room to the vending machine and bought some potato chips and honey buns, and two cokes.

I put the coke in the fridge and turned on the tv. The news was already there. Footage of the helicarrier falling from the sky, explosions, screaming, burning, everything was there. This was shortly followed by an announcement of SHIELD's upcoming statement, and that Hydra had indeed infiltrated it.

I shut it off and look at the man on the bed.

I nearly fell off of my own when I realized he was looking back.

He attempts to raise himself into a sitting position, but grimaces and settles for being propped up by his arms.

"Where the hell are we? What did you do? Who the hell did you call?" He rasps out.

I slowly turn to face him fully, and decide to try and get a little closer. I take a small step before I answer his questions in order, "We're in a crappy motel just on the border of Virginia and Kentucky. There aren't any cameras. I checked. I pulled in because you were unconscious and bleeding out. I didn't call anyone."

"You're still here."

The question isn't posed as a question, but I steeped myself and explain anyway, "I sort-of know who you are, and I have a pretty good guess as to what happened to you."

He stiffens at that, and his voice is low and dark as he replies, "Who do you think I am?"

"I read about you in a museum," I begin slowly, and speak softly when his brow furrows in confusion, "You're Bucky. You're Captain America's best friend."

"No. You're wrong." He states, "You don't know anything about me."

I am confused by this. Does he really not know who he is? "You don't remember any of that? Your life before Hydra?"

His eyes find the sheets, seemingly pondering this for the first time.  I take the opportunity to move closer.

"You must've had a life before Hydra, right?  Friends? Family?"  I pause, almost as confused as he is, "Do you remember your mother's name?"

His hand clenches into a fist, grabbing the sheets so hard I think they may tear, and speaks one word.

"No."