Drive. ~James Buchanan Barnes

Chapter 6

The day went by quickly, especially since I didn't have to drive continuously.  Every few hours Bucky would tell me to pull in at a rest stop, and we would re-dress his wound, which was healing alarmingly quickly, and purchase anything we needed for the road. 

We are at one such destination now, and I am thrilled to discover that there is a small rack of clothes in the vending area.  I quickly pull out a hoodie- navy blue with pink roses and a drawstring hood- and a simple black t-shirt. 

I hesitate a moment, remembering Bucky in the car with his bloodstained shirt and pull out a long sleeved, burgundy replacement.  I also grab a random baseball cap from the pile of hats dumped carelessly into a cardboard box.

The shirt could hide his arm if he ever has to go out in public at least.

After everything is payed for, I make a detour to the bathroom and change as quickly as I can. After all, I didn't know I would find clothes, and I didn't tell Bucky I would be making a pit-stop.

Turns out, I should have.

As I exit the lavatory I am nearly startled out of my skin at the sight of the soldier standing in the shadows just outside the restrooms.

"Jesus! What the hell?" I whisper yell.

He stares at me coldly, "You were taking too long."

"So you decided to hang outside the women's restroom?"

He merely shrugs and grabs my arm, "Let's go."

I attempt to pull away, "Wait a second," he doesn't release me, so I pull harder, "Christ, Bucky.  Just wait!"

He turns roughly, getting in my face and fixing me with a threatening glare, "Do not test me."

I am silent, speechless, but I don't break his stare.  Instead, I hold up the bag containing his shirt and dangle it in his face.

"I got this for you."

"...What?"

I clear my throat, relaxing slightly as I feel his hold loosen, "It's a shirt."

"...Why?"

I raise a brow at that, "Well...because you're covered in your own dried blood.  I figured you might want to change."

His eyes have found the bag, and I see confusion cross his features.  He says nothing, so I elaborate.

"It's long sleeved...and uh... stretchy.  That way it will hide your arm just in case you ever have to go out anywhere.  There's a hat in there too."

I shove it at him, and he takes it, releasing my arm completely, "Uh, thanks."

I shrug at that, "I'll wait here if you want to change."

I lean up against the brick wall as he nods and walks into the men's room, casting one last glance in my direction.

What did I get myself into?

I keep trying to tell myself that I'm doing the right thing. That it wasn't his fault, that he didn't have a choice. Still, he's a wanted man. A dangerous, wanted person.

And I'm not even trying to get away.

He could kill me.  He's mentioned it several times already. 

But he's lost.  He doesn't even know who he is. 

I wonder if he knows where he's going.

Bucky exits only a minute later, his soiled top in the bag his new clothes came in.  I notice that not only has he changed into the shirt I got him, but he's also donned the baseball cap, and is using it to keep his hair away from his face.

I nod approvingly, "Better.  Much more civilian."

He doesn't really respond, other than a short glance at me in passing, and a bob of his head in the direction of the car.

"Should we find a place to stay the night or are we sleeping in the car?" I ask as start the car.

"We'll see."

"I could stop for gas at the next exit.  We're running a little low."

"Yeah."

"I wish they'd had some body wash back there.  I could use-"

"Why are you doing this?" He cuts me off suddenly. 

I am stunned, "What do you mean?"

"Helping."

"I..." I pause a moment, finding the question difficult, "I'm just trying to not get killed."

He shakes his head, "You're doing more than that.  You're being nice.  I'm kidnapping you right now and you're being nice."

I glance at him, and notice that for the first time since he was unconscious, he isn't watching me drive.  "I guess I don't think it's your fault."

At that, however, he looks at me incredulously, "What?"

I sigh, my fingers restless on the wheel as I try to find the right words, "Look... I don't know what happened to you in Hydra.  What I do know is that you're upwards of 90 and you look about 28,  you don't know your own name, and you don't want to go back there."

"I don't understand..."

"No." I mutter, "I don't either.  I don't know why I'm helping as much as I am.  It just seems like the right thing to do... I guess I just hope you don't prove me wrong."

His eyes find the road, contemplating, "Me too."