Hours seep into days seep into a week and a half, and James' back is killing him. He drives all day and stops to sleep at night, but sleeping in the car as a fully grown man has him feeling like he has been hit by the car. He feels stupid for even just thinking of complaints. Warren hasn't complained about the sleeping situation one bit. Neither of them is accustomed to comfortable sleep, either. But now that James knows that it's an option, his body aches for it. He's only a human, after all.

The sun is going down already and Warren's energy is running low. He has been staring out the window longer than he used to. Every day, he is somehow able to keep silent for longer. James isn't sure what Warren is thinking about. It worries him a little, but then again, he knows Warren to be a very cloudy-headed boy. Usually, though, when Warren's head is in the clouds, he shares those clouds with his papa, going on and on about some story he has come up with. Not anymore, though. He just thinks now. James misses his chatter.

"Hey, Renny," James says, his voice raspy after not using it for hours. Warren floats down from the sky after a moment, his gaze indicating that he's listening. James gives him a small smile, sort of as a way to say hello again. "What do you think about staying at a motel tonight?"

Warren's face brightens up and he is suddenly fully grounded, like he had still been only hovering above the ground until the words were spoken. "I thought it was called a hotel," he says. "Hh. Not mm."

James snorts a soft chuckle. "There's not much of a difference. Motels are cheaper than hotels."

"Is there going to be an elevator?" Warren questions skeptically. He doesn't much care for elevators.

"Probably not."

"That's good." He smiles softly to himself and goes back to looking out the window and letting his mind wander.

This is how they have been spending their days; trapped inside this truck with aching muscles and endless thoughts of both dark and light themes. Warren lives in his own world, mostly, and James watches him. Half the time, Warren's expression is somewhat hardened, with narrowed eyes and sealed lips. That's when James knows he's thinking about the bad things again. HYDRA, SHIELD, Steve Rogers. Things James doesn't want Warren to think too much about. And other times, his eyes have stars in them and his stories don't stop. James prefers it that way, even if he sometimes misses the peace and quiet.

James spends a lot of his time trying to distract himself from his own thoughts on the bad things. Steve Rogers won't leave his mind, no matter how badly he wishes he would. Steve is like a parasite, or maybe gum on the bottom of James' shoe. He can't get rid of him. Warren is a good distraction, though. Being a father is a lot of work in the real world. Even harder under James' circumstances. Right now, he's considering getting Warren some kind of journal. He's not sure how to get it or where to find it, but the longer it takes him to figure it out, the less time he has to think about Steve. Maybe he's only procrastinating.

It doesn't matter. Just as long as it's working.

James drives on as the sun sinks deeper below the horizon and Warren's body—which is getting skinnier and dirtier by the day—sinks deeper into his seat, drifting slowly off into the dark sea that is sleep.

The thing that sucks about dreams is that you can't control them. Warren can't control his, at least. When he's awake, daydreaming about worlds where he was always free, he can change the story. He has control. In his dreams, though, he can't change a thing. It's like turning on a horror movie and losing the remote. He wants to shut it off, to wake up, but he can't.

It's not long after Warren falls asleep that he starts to squirm in his sleep, whimpering in fear and reacting to things that aren't really there. James pulls into the parking lot of the next motel he sees, shuts the engine off, and walks around to Warren's side of the car. As quietly as he can, not wanting to startle Warren, James pulls the door open and leans his weight against the side of the truck. He brushes his hand through Warren's bangs, his fingers gently grazing his forehead.

Warren stirs, his eyes blinking to life. His breathing is fast and ragged as he jolts up straight. James grabs his shoulder with his metal arm and uses the one of flesh to rub his thumb across Warren's cheek. "Just me, bud. Right here," he comforts. He watches relief melt across his son's face, and it's a good thing, but the guilt that it even has to happen rots a hole in James' stomach. "We're here. We'll get a room and you can wash up before going back to bed. Sound good?"

Too tired to use his voice, Warren only nods. He takes his papa's hand when it's offered and walks alongside him as they enter the building for check-in. He's still half asleep, honestly, and he's far too tired to pay any attention to the checking-in process. As his dad talks to an older man on the other side of a counter that happens to be about Warren's height, he just presses his face against Papa's side and shifts his weight from foot to foot, waiting. Luckily, the conversation ends up being short. Warren watches his papa slide money across the counter in take a key in return.

Papa smiles in a charming sort of way, like the princes in movies. Warren isn't sure how he does it, making everyone like him how he does. James has been locked up with HYDRA for over half a century, yet he still knows how to turn on the charm. He's done it at gas stations, a diner they stopped the day before, and now he's doing it at this motel. It keeps suspicions low and sometimes even earns him a discount. Not this time, though. Apparently, motels don't budge on pricing for a single night's stay. James shrugs it off. He'll hopefully manage to get the money back and more by sunrise.

"Ready?" James asks, gently ruffling Warren's hair.

"Mhm," Warren hums in response.

James takes Warren's hand once more and leads him back outside. Check-in is in a smaller, separate building while the actual rooms are in the larger building on the other side of the parking lot. They walk until they reach a door at the very end of the building.

Nudging Warren with his shoulder, James gestures to the sign on the door. "Know what number that is?" he quizzes.

"Three?"

"Nine," James tells him. "We'll work on that."

"Reading, too. I want to read," Warren tells him adamantly.

As James slides the key into the lock, he hums in agreement. There's a lot for them to work on together. Reading and math are the top priority, though, because, without those concepts, Warren can't really learn much else. Besides, if he wants to write stories, he needs to know how to spell. James makes a mental note to stop in a dollar store tomorrow. They'll need a notebook, pencils, and maybe a few kids' stories. That and time, but they already have plenty of that.

When James pushes the door open, Warren is quick to slip inside with a look of wonder in his eyes. "Wow. It's like a small house," he exclaims as he opens up every drawer he sees.

James can't help but be amused by Warren's amazement. The room isn't the least bit fancy. It's dark and dingy, the walls are stained yellow from smoke, the shades are bent, and when he sits down, he finds the bed to be quite stiff. But Warren sees the better of it all. He sees a place to sleep and a shower to clean up in. He sees a temporary home, even if it's just for a night.

After a minute of examining the motel room from top to bottom, Warren disappears into the bathroom. James follows him in and tugs the shower curtain to the side with a quick swoosh. Warren cringes at the sound of the hangers scraping against the metal rod, but steps closer to the edge of the tub anyway. He twists at the knob and water spills out from the faucet. He furrows his eyebrows with confusion.

"It's s'posed to come out from up there," he murmurs, pointing up at the shower head. He's taken showers before, of course, but all the showers are different and it's confusing.

"It will. You have to pull that little thing up," James explains, gesturing to a small knob on the faucet. He then taps Warren's shoulder before gesturing to the soaps balanced on the edge of the tub. "The one with the s is for your hair. The one with the b is for your body. See?"

Warren's eyes squint up with focus as he examines the letters on the bottles. "S and b. Okay." Really, he didn't know that the soaps for your hair and your body were any different until now.

"Okay. I'm gonna go check the mattress for bedbugs. Call if you need help," James says, turning away and heading back out into the main room.

"Bedbugs?" Warren questions with a scowl, making James stop in the doorway.

"Don't worry about it."

Although the sound of bedbugs is quite worrying, Warren just shrugs it off. If Papa says not to worry about it, it's probably nothing to worry about. Papa is the smartest person in the entire world. He knows what should and shouldn't be worried about. Warren knows that well. The hard part is not worrying about the things that shouldn't be worried about.

Luckily, though, Warren is so amped by the idea of being clean that the idea of bedbugs slips his mind only seconds after it enters. It's been ages since he's gotten to be clean. Or, at least it feels like it. Really, it's only been a week or so. But Warren can feel the dirt on his skin, the grease in his hair, and the overall filth surrounding his still-healing wounds. The gashes the seatbelt gave him are closed up now, but they're still red and inflamed, and when Warren presses down on them, they start stinging all over again. James has to keep reminding him to leave them alone.

After shedding his clothes—clothes that he'll inevitably have to put back on after his shower—Warren takes a moment to look in the mirror. He hasn't ever worried about his appearance. He hasn't given it much thought. Mostly, when he looks in the mirror, he hardly recognizes himself. It's him, and he knows that, of course, but it's a strange feeling. If he stares too long, his head starts to feel all fuzzy.

Right now, staring at himself, all he sees is a mess of brown hair on his head and bags under his eyes that seem to be growing darker by the second. He's exhausted. It's not anything new.

Before the staticky feeling can come, Warren steps away from the mirror and into the bathtub, being careful not to knock down the soaps or trip over the edge. When he's in, he tugs the curtain shut and twists the knob again. Water spurts out of the faucet and Warren pulls the grey, rusted knob up. Seconds later, chilly water sprays out of the shower head, leaving Warren's skin covered in goosebumps. He gasps and jumps away from the water, almost slipping along the way. For a good twenty seconds, Warren is too scared to try it again, but when he does work up the courage, the water ends up being warmer.

Letting the water flow through his hair and drip down his skin feels like heaven to Warren. It feels like all the dirt is gone right then and there, but he can still see it on himself. He needs soap to rub it all away. His eyes turn to the bottles on the edge of the tub. B for body. The one with two bumps and a line. Warren takes the bottle and squirts twice the necessary amount of soap into his palm. When he scrubs his hands together, the smooth, white liquid turns into frothy bubbles, which he quickly uses to wash the layer of dirt, dust, and general filth off of him. When he gets to his knees, he notices that the dirt isn't going away. And when he presses down to scrub harder, his skin aches. Bruises. Not dirt. He sighs and keeps scrubbing.

After washing all the dirt off, Warren switches out the soap to the one with the curvy line. The s. And even when his hair is all clean and all of the soap is washed down the drain, he says in the water just a little bit longer, savoring the warmth with the knowledge that he won't get it again for at least a few days at the very least.

When he's satisfied with his time, Warren shuts the water off and rubs the water away from his eyes. "I'm done!" he calls out.

Only a moment later, Papa comes in. Warren peaks his head out and watches his papa search the cabinets for towels. James finds a stack of white towels on the middle shelf and takes the top one from the stack.

He turns to Warren, who is still peaking his head out of the shower. "You wash the soap out good?" he asks. Warren shrugs, so James scrunches a hand through his hair to check. "Feels clean to me." He takes the towel and shakes it through Warren's hair before leaving it on his shoulders.

Warren pulls the towel down and wraps it around himself before stepping out of the shower. He feels a lot more nice and a lot more warm than before. A bit lighter, too, somehow. Like the filth was weighing him down or something. When he looks at the pile of his dirty clothes on the bathroom floor, all he can do is grimace.

James doesn't fail to notice the look on his face. "It's all we've got for now, but we'll stop at a store tomorrow. You can pick out whatever you want. Sound good?" He raises his eyebrows, hopeful for Warren to agree to that compromise. Warren isn't usually too stubborn, but sometimes something will bother him so much that he'll refuse it. James just hopes this isn't one of those times. "You just gotta wear them one more night," James tells him.

His nose scrunching, Warren considers it, rolling the idea around in his head. He looks up at his papa with an expectant look on his face. "Can I get pajamas tomorrow?" he asks. Those are much comfier than Normal People Costumes.

"I said whatever you want, didn't I?" James answers, giving Warren a soft smile in hopes that it will lift his mood.

And much to his luck, it works. A smile grows on Warren's lips, too. "Okay."

After that, James leaves Warren to get dressed in the bathroom and returns to the main room. He sits down on the bed—which he's found to be completely bedbug-free, thank God—with a heavy sigh. He adds to the mental list he has in his mind. He needs to get Warren to sleep, and then he needs to figure out how he's gonna get the money from the cashbox behind the motel check-in counter without being caught, and then he has to shower himself. Then, if there's time, he will try to get some sleep himself. Be there when Warren wakes up. And then they'll be off again. He will drive a few miles until they reach the next town over, and they'll stop in at some Goodwill or Walmart. They'll steal what they can and pay for the rest. Maybe they'll spend some time at a library.

Once all that is done, it will be back to driving. The problem with that is that James doesn't know where the driving is supposed to end. They can't drive forever. This lifestyle is only temporary. Somewhere, they will have to settle. He's almost positive that the settling place won't be in the US, so maybe they'll just drive until they reach a border, and they'll take a ferry to some other country. A country no one will think to check, at least for a little while. He has to make that decision soon, though. James can't just keep pressing on that gas pedal without any destination in mind.

"My eyes feel heavy." Warren's soft, sleepy voice breaks James' mind away from all the decision-making he knows he has to do.

A smile returns to his face once more. "That's 'cause you're tired, Renny," he says. Just looking at Warren makes James tired, too. He wishes he could just lie down next to him and sleep. But he has too much to do.

Warren nods, seemingly in agreement, before joining his papa on the bed. He crawls up toward the pillows and wastes no time in tucking himself underneath the covers. James switches the lamp on the bedside table off, but leaves the one across the room on to keep the room from being pitch black. He pulls the blanket up to Warren's chin and lies down beside him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

Sometimes it really hits James that, despite everything, his son is alive. That's a miracle in itself, really, but it's even more unfathomable that he is alive and free. And that they're together. A year ago today, James never would have thought a day like this would come. But here he is. Here Warren is; a ball of warmth beside him, tucked up under the covers like any other kid.

James finds himself staring at Warren. And the more he looks at Warren, the sadder he seems to look. Like his face is melting. "What's wrong?" James whispers with a furrowed brow.

Warren hesitates to answer. His lip wobbles. "I wish I could dream movies," he answers in a cracked voice.

It's easy for James to figure out what that means. Nightmares. He has plenty himself, and it's no secret that Warren has them, too. It's impossible not to have nightmares when you've lived like the Barnes' have.

The hardest part for James, knowing that Warren has them, too, is that he knows there's really nothing he can do to comfort him. He can't say something that will magically make the nightmares go away. He can't stand at the side of the bed and fight off the nightmares. He's helpless. There's nothing he can do. Nothing will make them go away. Nothing will make it so Warren can go to sleep without being afraid of what he'll find in his dreams.

"They're just dreams, милый мальчик," James tries, though he knows it won't do a thing.

Warren doesn't respond. Not even a nod. He just sinks deeper under the covers and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. "I think they will go away if you stay right here," he whispers. It's not the truth. He knows his papa's presence doesn't keep the monsters in his head at bay, but he knows that his papa doesn't sleep much. And he just wants him to stay right there, by his side.

James doesn't like lying to Warren. Sometimes, though, he feels like he has to.

"I'll stay right here," James says. Warren takes it as a promise.