Drive. ~James Buchanan Barnes

Chapter 7

I asked the question earlier today.

I asked him where we're going.

He said he wasn't sure.

This is great. This is just wonderful. I don't even know if I'm making it out of this alive, and now I don't even know how long this will last? Am I going to be driving around in a tiny car with an amnesiac war-vet forever?

What makes it worse is that we've started using the back-roads. Helicopters had begun to make regular appearances on the freeway, and police cars had been patrolling constantly.

I'm getting a touch of cabin fever.

Did I mention it's already been seven days?

A whole week of this. I'm stuck in a car with a guy who I thank god is sleeping right now because I'm really beginning to lose my cool.

My parents are expecting me to make the trip home today.  When I don't show, when I don't answer their phone calls, how long will they wait before they call the authorities?

Bucky shifts in his sleep, his face wrinkled and contorted with whatever dream is playing out in his mind.  He's had nightmares before, but doesn't talk about them, and I know better than to wake a soldier having a nightmare.

He's begun taking over the driving now that he's well on the mend.  I took the stitches out yesterday, but I think that was probably more painful for me than for him.

That's how our days have passed.  We eat at some empty, hole in the wall restaurant, or stock up on snacks from a gas station, and rotate driving and sleeping.

"Stop," I hear to my right.

I glance over to see if Bucky is awake, but am surprised to see that his eyes are still closed.

Yes, he's had nightmares, but sleep talking?  That's a new one.

I keep driving, but periodically glance at Bucky as his hands clench in and out of fists.

"Don't..." he murmurs, "Don't fucking touch me."

His voice is raising in volume now, and I'm toying with the idea of pulling over until his dream passes in case he starts thrashing around.

I keep driving.

His right hand grabs the side of the seat, "No! I don't know anything! Stop..." then quietly, "Please..."

He's silent again for a moment, and I think it's passing, but then he begins screaming.  His feet begin banging against the floor so hard I'm afraid he'll break the paneling. 

I pull into an abandoned lot, shutting off the car and unfastening my seatbelt. How do you wake a sleeping soldier? All I've ever heard is that you don't, but Bucky is still shouting and kicking and his metal arm is dangerously close to ripping the door off it's hinges.

"Okay," I whisper to myself, "Okay."

"Bucky?" I say louder, "Bucky wake up."

I repeat my words a few more times before realizing how useless they are. I switch on the radio, changing it over to an oldies station.

Maybe a gentle approach would be better, a way to ease him out of sleep instead of jolting him awake.

I recognize Jo Stafford's voice singing September Song as it begins playing, so I turn up the volume.

At first, it seems like it doesn't have much effect, and I begin worrying that I'll have to put myself in danger in order to stop him from destroying the car.

But, very gradually, his hold on the door loosens, and his kicking slows, and his shouting turns to groaning before stopping completely.

By the end of the song, all that's left of the nightmare is labored breathing as I see him open his eyes.

I sigh in relief, and his head snaps up at the noise. I speak softly, "Bucky, you okay?"

He only stares at me, his brow furrowed. I see his hand go toward his weapon belt uncertainly. Not good.

"Woah...okay. Do you know who I am?" I ask nervously, "I'm sure you're just disoriented, but I promise you I'm not an enemy."

He studies my face for a moment, though it seems longer, until his hand moves from the belt.

"Verity." He says simply. He's still on guard, looking ready to attack should I make a wrong move.

I nod slowly, watching his eyes dart from side to side, and back to me.

"Bucky, you were just dreaming." I say gently, "You aren't there anymore. It was just a dream."

He blinks, eyes looking anywhere and everywhere. I slowly rest my hand atop his forearm to get his attention, "You're okay. It's not real, Bucky."

He meets my eyes, relaxing ever so slightly, "It was."

"What do you mean." I ask softly.

He pulls his arm away, leaning back in his seat, "I've been having trouble figuring out which of my memories are real and which of them were put there by Hydra.  The only memories that are clear are the ones where they're hurting me."

"But you're remembering things from your past? Before any of this happened?"

He nods, "They don't stay long.  I can't remember them for more than a few minutes."

"Do you want to?"

"I don't know." He says oddly, "I don't even know who I am.  Maybe it's better to start new."

I nod slowly, "Maybe.  I guess I can't understand as much as I'd like to, but if I can do anything just let me know." I pause, "We should probably start moving again."

"No."

I look at him questioningly.

He sighs, "You don't look all that great, and we could both use a decent rest.  Let's just find a place to stay the night."

"Okay," I agree, starting the car, "you know what else we need?"

He raises a brow in question.

"Showers."