What it Costs
Character: Bucky Barnes
Tags: Slice of life. Introspection.
Warnings: PTSD. Dissociation. Flashbacks.
Summary: Post-Blip Bucky forces himself to go buy groceries a few days after moving into the building.
Word Count: 1k
Note: Second story for the @writer-in-a-cryofreeze event, published anonymously in January.
The prompt was: Write a 1k-word fic using this phrase as an inspiration: āYou know what I think?" she says. "That people's memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive. Whether those memories have any actual importance or not, it doesn't matter as far as the maintenance of life is concerned. They're all just fuel.ā ā Haruki Murakami
I think this could go in the Neighbours AU, so I'm adding it to that masterlist too.
2A&3BMasterlist - WIACF Masterlist
Bucky sat at the small kitchen table, cupping a chipped mug. The coffee inside had gone lukewarm again. Heād already reheated it twice, which somehow made it worse: burnt and thin, like it resented being brought back.
He sipped it anyway.
The apartment was quiet, only pipes murmuring somewhere in the walls. A car alarm rose and died a few streets away. The refrigerator clicked on, then off. He could hear his own breathing, steady enough, even if it felt shallow.
He knew he had to go out. There were things he needed: food, soap, whatever ran out when you werenāt paying attention. Heād been putting it off all morning, letting the hours slide by because no one was telling him when to move anymore. Freedom did that.
The mug was lighter than he expected when he lifted it again. In Wakanda, mornings had smelled like earth, leaves, and something warm cooking nearby. People brought things without making it feel like charity. He hadnāt had to choose much. On the run, it had been easier. Anonymous cities, borrowed names, moving fast enough that no one looked twice.
Here, everything demanded a decision.
He set the mug down and rested his forearms on the table. The wood was scarred with old cuts and stains, and he traced one of them with his thumb without really noticing he was doing it, tracing someone elseās history.
Going outside meant eyes. Options. Shelves full of things that did the same job but insisted on being different. It also meant the chance -small, but never zero- that someone would recognize the shape of his face behind the beard and the long hair.
He stayed where he was a moment longer. The coffee had gone cold again.
Cold food had always meant it was time to move. He didnāt remember learning that, only that staying never ended well. Then-
A hand fisting his hair, yanking his head back. The MRE packet crushed against his mouth, thick paste forced down his throat before he could swallow. Not enough air. Never enough air between one mouthful and the next. They didn't stop until the packet was empty.
His jaw clenched. The mug was still in his hand.
He set it down carefully and pushed his chair back. Because choosing when and what he ate was the kind of freedom he'd burned too many memories to lose now.
The jacket hung by the door, waiting. He shrugged it on, checked for his wallet, and made himself move. The hallway smelled like someone else's cooking. He locked the door behind him and took the stairs down, footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell.
He stopped on the buildingās threshold for a breath, then another. He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking, counting blocks in his head. Four. Just four.
The corner store was already busy when he pushed the door open. A bell rang overhead, sharp and tinny, and his shoulders tensed on reflex before he could stop it. The place was narrow, shelves packed too close together, boxes stacked wherever they fit. It smelled like coffee, cleaning products, and something fried that had seeped into the walls.
He took a step inside. Then another.
Someone bumped his arm almost immediately, a kid with headphones, eyes glued to his phone, who didnāt even look back. Bucky didnāt move. The kid did, rebounding off him without noticing, already gone, swallowed by the aisle.
He frowned. No apology, not even a glance.
The shelves pressed in on both sides. Too many labels. Too many colors. Everything was shouting for attention. He grabbed the first loaf of bread within reach without checking the brand, then a bottle of soap, then something that looked like it might be toothpaste. He didnāt stop to read. Reading meant choosing.
A woman with a plastic basket turned suddenly, catching him square in the arm. She muttered an apology and kept moving.
āYeah,ā he mumbled, though she was gone before the word fully left his mouth.
His pulse was up now, loud in his ears. He could feel the space shrinking, every movement around him unpredictable. He tried to keep his pace steady, but it kept breaking; someone stopping short, someone reaching across him, someone brushing past too close.
Maintain the objective. Ignore irrelevant contact. Complete the mission.
The words surfaced in his mind without permission: clear, cold, and automatic. He hated that they still worked. Hated that the Soldat's protocols were the sharpest tools he had to do a fucking grocery shopping. But his body obeyed anyway: muscle memory from places that had been loud, crowded and dangerous for different reasons, now burning itself down just to buy milk and eggs.
He focused on the floor instead. On the distance between the cooler and the register. Short. Manageable.
The cashier glanced at him once, then again, eyes lingering on his face just a second longer than necessary. Bucky looked away and shifted his weight, already counting the steps back to the door.
Outside, the noise hit him all at once again. Traffic, voices, a siren somewhere too far away to matter and too close to ignore. He stepped aside instinctively, letting a couple of people pass before he realized he didnāt need to.
He started walking, keeping his eyes on the pavement.
By the time he reached his apartment, he exhaled.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, letting it fall shut behind him. Silence was already there. Familiar and heavy.
He set the bag on the counter and started unpacking. Bread, soap, eggs. Small things. Normal things.
The kind of things that shouldn't cost what they did.
Not money. Memories.
He'd burned through how many, just to walk four blocks? The MRE packet. The protocols. The coldness of a weapon pretending to be a person. All of it fuel, keeping him upright, keeping him moving when his own will wasn't enough.
He wondered -briefly, uselessly- what would happen when that ran out. When he'd used up every scrap of trauma, every cold instruction, every ghost of who he used to be.
Maybe that's what freedom was. Learning how to move once the fuel was gone.
He closed the refrigerator and stood there for a moment, hands flat against the door.
Outside, the city kept going. In a couple of days, he'd have to do this again.
One way or another, heād keep moving.
