Greece, Wish You Were Here!
After his unplanned trip to Atlantis, Bucky Barnes stood on the shores of Greece, staring at the crystal clear water as the sun rose up on a new day. His internal clock had kept going, but between the tumultuous visit and the lack of seeing the sun for the last couple of days, it was all kinds of screwed up. Drip drying on the shores of the mainland after catching a ride on a ship and swimming the rest of the way to shore, the soldier assassin stared backward in silence; numbed.
He had no identification. No money. No source of communication.
And he didn't give a damn.
Staring back at the clear waters he had just been escorted back from by Namor's men, the soldier-assassin felt a hollow listlessness somewhere in what he imagined might be where his soul rested. Wherever that was. And whatever remained of it. Looking back to where he had left his beloved, the chaotic, overly-emotional, newly heartbroken god of chaos and mischief, Loki Laufeyson of Asgard with his old war buddy, the extreme environmentalist Ruler of Atlantis, Namor.
In some part of his brain, he knew this was a bad idea. He /knew/ it was going to come back and bite them all in the ass. The whole reason that he went down there was because Steve and he agreed that Namor and Loki were a volatile combination.
But by the first moment Loki called Namor up, he felt this nagging that it was too late. The two non-human Princes had bonded. And the trip only further confirmed that fact.
The only question Bucky had left for himself was whether or not he gave a fuck right now if Loki and Namor burned the human world down, together.
It was a toss up, honestly.
Apathy was an ugly thing in times of action and the nagging tap of duty kept flicking Bucky in the back of his head until the 'dead' American soldier and equally 'dead' Russian assassin turned away from the coast. Peeling off his warm-suit and folding it up into a neat square under his arm, Bucky Barnes walked into the near city he'd been escorted to. Pawned the suit for a little bit of money and went to ask someone to use their phone as soon as he could find someone who could understand one of the seven languages he spoke--of which did /not/ include Greek.
Running through the list of numbers that he had memorized, he took pause when he realized he didn't have a generic number for SHIELD. Fuck.
But he did have Phil's number locked away in his head.
Without even waiting for pleasantries, it was a rough, hollow version of Bucky's voice that greeted the man--or his voicemail. Honestly, Bucky didn't wait to find out, though considering it was about 6am in Greece, that probably meant it was 11pm back in New York. "Loki is with Namor in Atlantis. There's going to be trouble." Click.
The second call directed to Steve with much of the same, "Loki and Namor have already bonded, sorry, kid. Be back when I get there." And without waiting for a reply, he hung up the phone, thanked the owner and went on his way.
Things had improved if only slightly. Greece's financial standing was fucking terrible, so what little money he got for the suit was pretty much bullshit, but he didn't care. SHIELD and the Avengers could watch the world for a while. He was done. Done. All the bullshit, all the confusion, all of the everything, he was just done right now. Content to bum around Europe on his own while he found his way back to the States. The gnawing hole in his chest feeling like a giant wound that wouldn't clot.
Yeah, Loki was right. It was telling.
He felt no excitement for getting back to New York. Only a wistfulness. A foreboding feeling of glum knowledge that he already knew what was going to happen when he got there. Negativity was a bitch.
But he had to know. He had to burn it out of his system before he could even begin to entertain the thought of the possibility of anyone else. Even Loki. Even...Loki...
Fuck.
The weight of his sidearm still stuck in its holster against his hip was growing heavier. His /one/ personal item that he'd kept on him throughout his journey to Atlantis and the one thing that he didn't leave with Loki when the liar had holed himself up in Bucky's room. It was just a little too awkward to pack up while the beautiful fucking man cried his guts out on his bed.
His side arm. His side arm and his bionic arm were the only things he had. The weapons. That's what he was, wasn't it; a weapon? Already trudging into the depths of self loathing and apathetic hatred of self...his side arm...
Pondering the merits of suicide was a rough one to swallow. But no rougher than the merits of going back to Russia. And both rolled around in his head as he walked through the streets of the Grecian city he was left to.
But he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't break. He wouldn't allow himself that relief. Instead, in some solitary portion of his heart, Bucky Barnes promised to let that misery fester and grow. He wouldn't let that energy go with some useless act like crying. He would use it, instead. Harness it. Let it propel him forward or eat him alive.
A couple days of wandering Europe like a piece of shit drifter might just be the thing to do before he goes back to New York and...finds a new place to live.
Again.
