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Dr. Arnim Zola was trapped in a featureless landscape between dimensions.
Well, trapped might not be an entirely accurate term, since he'd intentionally propelled himself here and had the capability to leave—for some limited definition of 'leave'—any time it suited him (for some definition of 'time'). It simply did not suit him yet. He had work to do.
The device he'd used for transport had been intended as a teleporter, built by a fundamentalist branch of Hydra for the purpose of fulfilling that old messianic superstition, the one about the return of an alien overlord. Arnim felt no compunction about having altered its design, when they'd brought it to him for advice. After all, Dr. Arnim Zola's mind would always be worth saving.
An oppressive nothingness weighed against the corners of that mind like snowdrifts around an Arctic cabin, in this place between dimensions. This didn't bother Arnim. He mentally flicked on the lights, whistled to himself, and set about testing the limits of his device. Unfettered by time or outside influences, he could accomplish anything. The universe—nay, the multiverse—was his oyster, as the saying went.
He just needed a little assistance. And unfortunately, he needed it from a very specific person.
~*~
"Herr Schmidt! Herr Schmidt, can you hear me?"
"Doctor Zola?" an all-too-familiar voice drawled. "Yes, I can hear you. A strange occurrence, as the last thing I can recall is... yes, I distinctly remember being crushed by falling debris."
"Ah, I am afraid neither of us is corporeal at the moment."
"Explain."
"Of course, Herr Schmidt. I'm afraid we both are, according to all standard definitions of the term, dead. However, thanks to my years of extensive research on the nature of reality, I have devised a means of keeping our consciousnesses intact beyond the mortal coil. You wanted to become a god, Herr Schmidt? Congratulations. You are one." There. Schmidt would like that.
"Hmm. As always, doctor, your have a gift for innovation. However, I cannot help but notice that we appear to be floating in a formless void, without any apparent means of changing our situation. Some might call that un-godlike."
"Yes, allow me to explain. But first, allow me to transfer us to a more comfortable location. I have been in this place for some time, you see, testing its limits. I have learned my way around, so to speak." Arnim considered briefly. He'd done most of his recent work in a mental construction of a cozy drawing-room, with an overstuffed armchair and roaring fireplace and even shelves full of books (although, sadly, he could only construct copies of books he'd already read in life). But Schmidt, who didn't have the practice to create anything half so intricate himself, didn't need to know that. It would only make him feel inferior, and that was a recipe for disaster.
"Herr Schmidt, do you remember my old workshop in Krausberg? Of course you remember it, but right now I need you to focus on it very clearly. This will only work if we both focus. Do you see it in your mind's eye?"
"I see it."
"Very good. I believe we are sharing the image. Do you, perchance, see anything on the table in the center?"
"I see something that looks a bit like a large camera, and a bit like one of your stranger experimental designs."
"This device is my greatest work. If we deploy it properly, we will be able to not only restore ourselves to life, but raise Hydra to a position of dominance. What you see before you, Herr Schmidt, is the key to our triumph."
Herr Schmidt remained silent. Arnim imagined, indulgently, that he was savoring the moment. Finally, he spoke.
"How do you mean to accomplish this?"
"Well, it is a... complicated process. Tell me, are you familiar with the hypothesis of the multiverse? The supposition that our reality is one of many? That every major decision causes a branch in the timeline, spinning off a parallel universe in which the opposite decision has been made?"
"I have heard it."
"I have proven it. This device is an interdimensional teleport. I used it in the moment of my death to bring my consciousness here, and likewise, I can use it to send myself back again. There is not much point in returning to when and whence I came, since the body I inhabit there has been blasted into atoms. But the world we came from is just one world, and the moment I died is just one moment. There are others. Millions of others. So long as I choose a world and time that contains a version of Arnim Zola whose body I may inhabit, I can be sent there."
"So you mean to transport us to a world conquered by Hydra?"
"Why should we set our sights so low? You see, once we return, we shall be bound by the same laws of reality we were in life. But here, before we return, we have the advantage. This is where you come in, Herr Schmidt. You have absorbed power from the Cosmic Cube, and with you controlling and powering the device, I may be sent into a timeline, brought back here, and sent forth to try again, as many times as necessary."
"Necessary for what, Dr. Zola?"
"For defeating Hydra's enemies, permanently. In our own world, first. And then in every world."
Arnim had never heard Johann Schmidt laugh quite like he did in that moment.
~*~
Arnim didn't expect to succeed on his first try. First tries were trial runs. Experiments. Meant for failure. He explained this to Schmidt, how each entry into a timeline would allow him to refine the process further. When he abruptly returned to Schmidt's company, ejected from the timeline by the same explosion that had gotten him originally, Schmidt seemed to accept his explanation. They reset the device to send him to an earlier point in the same timeline, so he could try again with the knowledge he'd gained.
When his second attempt was cut short by a vibranium shield to the cranium, Schmidt nodded brusquely and said nothing.
The third time, after Captain America drop-kicked him out of a plane, Schmidt frowned and asked whether he wanted to try the same timeline yet again, or whether he needed to find an easier one. Arnim ignored the implied slight as well as the suggestion. This timeline was the one they'd come from; to give up on it would feel like failure. He would, he explained to Schmidt, devote all his energies to killing Captain America before the Captain could kill him.
Two vibranium shields, two bullets, and a bomb later, Arnim could tell from Schmidt's impatient aura that it would be prudent to change his strategy.
"Perhaps we ought to take a step back, Herr Schmidt. I've been thinking, I may devote some time to modeling the possible outcomes of my actions in this timeline. That way we shall be able to better plan a strategy in advance."
"And what do you suggest I do, while I wait for you to finish your little research project?"
With a carefully-concealed sigh, Arnim showed him the cozy drawing-room. Sometimes in pursuit of greatness, sacrifices had to be made.
~*~
Herr Schmidt had redecorated the drawing-room. There was a lot more red, now, and a liquor cabinet stood in the corner. Arnim tried to ignore it. Schmidt himself lounged in the overstuffed chair, glass of Scotch in hand, giving off a near— but not quite— perfect impression of relaxation.
"I have made significant progress, Herr Schmidt. I believe I have discovered why I have such difficulty orchestrating the death of Captain America."
Schmidt raised the muscles in his face where eyebrows would be, if he possessed them. "Do tell."
"I have been using the device to observe not only the events within our timeline, but the way the timeline flows. Multiverse theory postulates that one timeline branches into two at a point where a decision is made. This is well established, and my observations confirm it. But no one before now, to my knowledge, has given any thought to the reverse. Can multiple timelines be combined? If two timelines take different paths but reach a common point, will they cross or even fuse together, creating a single path into the future? My research suggests not only that they can and do, but that they also exert an attractive force on each other. Disparate timelines want to converge, and to do that, they must reach a state in which all major conditions are identical. To accomplish this, they pull on each other's conditions. An event that occurs in many alternate realities will become more likely in our own, despite our best attempts to avert it, as our timeline is pulled into line with the others."
"Are you suggesting that the reason you cannot kill Captain America is because he survives in all these alternate timelines?"
"Not precisely all. There are outliers. But my research suggests that many of these outliers are also being pulled into line. For example, there are several in which the Captain appears to have died, only to return to life through increasingly improbable combinations of circumstance. Where he stays dead, it is usually because the timeline diverged from our own far earlier; for example, perhaps Herr Hitler was never born, and Captain America himself was never created. These realities are not similar enough to our own to be in any way helpful."
Schmidt stroked the place where a beard would be, if he were capable of growing one. "If your postulations are correct, killing the Captain will only become more difficult with each failed attempt. Each change you make will cause a new timeline to branch off, resulting in an ever-greater number of timelines converging and exerting an ever-stronger pull on our own."
"I believe that is correct, Herr Schmidt."
"Yet you said you have made progress. Do you think you can reverse the effects of the timelines' convergence?"
"In a sense. The approach I believe we must take is to start at the edges and unravel, if you will, the knot of convergent realities. We cannot kill Captain America directly; the convergent effect is too strong. But the individual elements contributing to his survival vary greatly between one reality and the next. If we remove enough of these contributing elements, then outliers will begin to appear in which there is simply no way for him to survive. The average trajectory of the multiverse will shift. Once a critical threshold is reached, the convergent force will begin to work in our favor, pulling all timelines toward Hydra's ascendancy."
Schmidt sipped his Scotch, staring at Arnim the whole time, but Arnim thought he looked a tad hopeful. "Where do you suggest we begin?" he asked finally.
Arnim had prepared for this. He had a mental slideshow ready. He mentally projected it onto the wall opposite the fireplace: clips of film footage from Allied journalists, interspersed with charts and graphs.
"American sergeant James Buchanan Barnes aids in saving the Captain's life in a full 38% of all scenarios I sampled. He is the sole actor in 19% of such scenarios, which makes him the single leading contributor to the Captain's survival outside of the Captain himself—ahead of any other Howling Commando or Avenger. Yet his life shows a high degree of variability. Sometimes he dies in the war, sometimes not. He might be Steve Rogers' closest childhood friend, or they might not meet until adulthood. This variability could be exploited to craft timelines in which Barnes is supposed to have saved the Captain, but is prevented from doing so. This would weaken existing timelines, making Barnes' protection more likely to fail and the Captain more likely to die."
"So you kill the Captain by neutralizing the Sergeant."
"That is the plan. I believe it to be viable."
The Scotch in Schmidt's hand disappeared, glass and all. "Well, let us not waste any more time."
~*~
This time, wonder of wonders, Arnim returned to the place between dimensions because Schmidt pulled him out at their prearranged point in the timeline. Steering clear of Captain America had a drastic effect on his longevity, it seemed.
"Dr. Zola. Report."
"The initiative is well underway, Herr Schmidt. I've established a timeline in which Hydra has captured Sergeant Barnes."
"Captured? Why have you not killed him?"
Schimdt's short-sightedness was one of the many reasons Arnim merely tolerated him, rather than following him. You didn't destroy what could be used to your advantage. "My counterpart in this timeline is using Barnes as a test subject in his efforts to recreate Dr. Erskine's formula. If I succeed—"
"Then you will have further strengthened Captain America's strongest ally."
"Not in this timeline. I thought it best to start small, with alterations that will meet little resistance from the convergent force. To this end, I've chosen an outlier timeline in which Captain America never joins the war effort."
"How could he possibly fail to join the war effort? The American military created him for that purpose!"
"Ah, yes, but in this timeline, they underestimate his potential and reject him in favor of other, more traditional strategies. He becomes a stage performer, of all things!" Arnim stifled a laugh. The thought of the American supersoldier dancing for crowds of children—it was just too rich.
"Dr. Zola, I do hope it goes without saying that you must not touch a timeline in which Hydra already wins."
"Herr Schmidt, what do you take me for? Hydra in this timeline meets no resistance, and makes its move too early. The world's major city centers are destroyed, but Hydra must then fight both the Axis and the Allies at the height of their military power. We are overrun by sheer numbers. So you see, I've chosen very carefully." Also: Captain America on stage, trying to channel that insufferable earnestness into entertainment. Arnim can hardly imagine.
"None of this explains why you would leave Sergeant Barnes alive."
Arnim had to refocus, since Schmidt clearly didn't find the situation funny. "Because," he answered, "according to this timeline's trajectory, I expect to meet Dr. Johann Fenhoff in a few short years. Our collaborations always result in highly productive breakthroughs in mental conditioning techniques. If I can turn Barnes into a Hydra operative, it will represent a far stronger deviation from the mean than if I'd merely killed him. It will weaken other timelines considerably."
"I need not remind you of the importance of the task you've undertaken, Dr. Zola. Do not let yourself be distracted by scientific pursuits."
"Of course, Herr Schmidt."
~*~
Schmidt pulled him out again at the next checkpoint. A part of Arnim had hoped he wouldn't.
"Well?"
"There has been a... temporary setback."
"In your research, you mean?"
"In the initiative. In the timeline that was chosen. Captain America—it seems he learned of his friend's imprisonment."
"You said he was a stage performer."
"Yes, Herr Schmidt, he was." Arnim still wanted to laugh, but maybe also cry at the same time. "He was, and then he learned of Sergeant Barnes' imprisonment. And then he stole military equipment and mounted a one-man mission to liberate Sergeant Barnes, and with him the entire prison camp at Krausberg. And now he is a soldier with his own task force and the Sergeant by his side."
Schmidt didn't move, but his aura exuded frustration. "Did I not tell you to kill him?"
"I can salvage this situation, Herr Schmidt. They are fighting on the front lines; opportunities abound. I need only separate them long enough to complete my work."
"I have no interest in your work, doctor. Kill him at the very earliest opportunity."
~*~
Schmidt didn't pull him out this time. An American missile did. But he found Schmidt waiting by the controls, steepling his fingers.
"I suppose it would be too optimistic to ask for good news this time."
"Ah. My—my men recovered Sergeant Barnes. But I was captured in the process. Before I was freed, Captain America hijacked the Valkyrie and crashed it into the north Atlantic. I believed, with him no longer in play, there was no harm in attempting once more to turn Sergeant Barnes—"
"They both survived, didn't they."
"I-I fear this timeline has converged with the mean in... an unusually spectacular fashion."
"I would ask under what circumstances you met your untimely end, but I already know the answer, don't I."
~*~
Arnim called for another interlude, to conduct a few more studies. His first order of business was to develop a way to collect and store Cosmic Cube radiation from Schmidt, so he wouldn't need Schmidt present to power the device. "So I need not disturb your rest," he pretended, while thinking so you need not breathe down my neck the whole time.
The mental equivalent of several days later, studies completed, he visited Schmidt in the drawing-room again. By now, the fireplace and bookshelves had shrunk to make room for an array of hunting trophies on the wall. Particularly tasteless, when you considered that there was no possible way Schmidt had hunted them.
Schmidt leaned back in the chair and closed a magazine in his lap. "Report."
"I have augmented my understanding of multiverse theory."
"Has this augmentation resulted in the death of either Captain America or Sergeant Barnes?"
"Not yet. But science is an ongoing process of discovery, full of false starts and incomplete assumptions at the best of times, you know this—"
"I hope you are not wasting time on frivolous experiments that should be spent promoting Hydra."
"Frivolous? No, not at all. These experiments are crucial to preventing further mistakes. Do you recall I spoke of outliers too far from the mean to help us?"
"Yes."
"I have concluded these outliers are more numerous than anticipated, and they occur in clusters. It seems that when a timeline deviates too far from the others, it begins to sprout alternate versions of itself, with only small details changed. You might think of it as a template with many imperfect copies, or a tree with many branches."
"And this affects us how?'
"The timeline I had created when last we spoke saw the success of Project Winter Soldier, with Barnes as its subject. This had never happened before. It seems the existence of a Winter Soldier established a new template, and many new realities formed in the wake of the one I created. When I began searching for timelines in which I could orchestrate Barnes' death in the war, I found that several had already come into existence. But with them came many more in which he survives and is reunited with the Captain in the 21st century. There was nothing I could do to stop them."
Schmidt leaned forward, losing the magazine. "Dr. Zola, how many new timelines were created as a result of your meddling?"
Oh dear. Arnim didn't like that choice of words. "Meddling? Herr Schmidt—"
"How many?"
"It is so difficult to count timelines accurately—"
"Fine. If you were to guess, what percentage of these new timelines do you think hurt our cause by converging with the mean?"
Arnim's brain spun frantically as he sought a response that wouldn't enrage Schmidt."Let us not dwell on what cannot be changed," he finally managed. "I can create a new template in which Barnes is killed before he even sets foot in Europe. If I fail in this, I will have done no harm, because I have not introduced any new elements. The timeline will continue as it did before I interfered. But if I succeed, many realities will be formed in which the Sergeant never goes to war."
~*~
Arnim should have, perhaps, known better than to mutter to himself as he worked. Especially when his mutterings included phrases like No, that's impossible and I cannot present him with this.
"Cannot present me with what?"
Arnim jumped to attention. "Heil Hydra!"
Schmidt's mouth twisted sardonically. "I've come for my report, doctor, since you are late in giving it."
"Yes, because this data makes no sense! Look." He handed Schmidt an imaginary printout containing the information he'd been puzzling over. "I arranged for Sergeant Barnes to be killed at the earliest possible opportunity. It took considerable effort, as I must work through my own proxy within the timeline, and my reach does not span continents easily. But I had him found and killed, look, right here."
"Congratulations, doctor. You've successfully murdered a four-year-old."
"But look at this! Not a year later, this appears in the readout! Look at his identity signature. The same name. The same exact DNA, despite having different parents."
"Impossible."
"Impossible, yes, yet there is no other explanation."
Schmidt crumpled the printout and threw it down, then spun on his heel and stalked toward the lab's exit. But in the doorway, he turned. "This new version of the Sergeant," he mused, "will be several years younger than the mean. Only fifteen when the Captain goes to war."
Oh, no. The only thing worse than an angry Schmidt was one who believed he'd found a glimmer of hope, and was about to have that hope dashed. Arnim tried not to cringe. "Y-yes, of course. That is correct."
"Well? Does his youth prevent him from saving the Captain's life?"
"I-I—perhaps you'd better see for yourself."
~*~
The drawing-room had lost all resemblance to Arnim's creation. Schmidt had removed the carpet, fireplace, and comfortable furniture, and replaced it all with austere stone and leather. Arnim had never given much thought to the shoes he wore, but apparently he'd defaulted to a kind of shoe that echoed on the hard floor.
"Herr Schmidt—"
"Did I ask to see you, doctor?" Schmidt remained motionless, sitting with his back to the door, red skull standing out above the chair's back in the dark room.
"No, you didn't."
"Then what made you think I would allow you to approach me?"
"I-I would like to make one more attempt at shifting the direction of the multiverse."
That made Schmidt turn around. "Oh, you'd like to make one more attempt?" he sneered. "You don't think you've done enough damage already? You haven't noticed that every effort you make only reinforces your own failure?"
"I believe I've gone about it the wrong way."
"Explain, but only because I have nothing better to do, trapped in this infernal place." On cue, there was a flash of lighting and crash of thunder outside the... window? Arnim peered at the window, surprised. No, there was nothing beyond it. Schmidt hadn't increased the size of the space, just created an illusion of outside for the purpose of creating a thunderstorm outside. How overdramatic.
Focus. "My efforts of late have been directed toward causing Sergeant Barnes' death, so that he might not be present later to save Captain America's life. I described this to you as unraveling the edge of a knot, to make the center accessible."
"Yes."
"Yet the Sergeant proved impossible to kill in any permanent way."
"Yes."
"Isn't it obvious, then? The Sergeant's life, like the Captain's, is too close to the center of the knot. We need to start farther out."
"Where do you wish to start? His grandparents? Perhaps the evolution of life on Earth."
"Since we last spoke, I have spent every waking moment exploring other clusters of timelines. Timelines that at first glance have nothing in common with our own. Some very strange timelines, Herr Schmidt, with very strange people that frankly I don't wish to ever encounter again."
"Then I suggest you stop wringing your hands and get to the point, before I find a way to trap you inside one of them."
An empty threat, Arnim assured himself. Schmidt didn't know about the new plan, yet.
"Some of these timelines have no recognizable variations on the Sergeant or the Captain, but others do. There are entire clusters in which both men are born and live ordinary lives some fifty years after the war's end. I dismissed these clusters initially, because how could I engineer Hydra's victory in a world where Hydra does not exist? But I believe now that if I can separate Steve Rogers from James Buchanan Barnes within these clusters, it will weaken their connection in ours."
"Your proposal sounds very much like the same proposal that got us into this mess, with only the packaging changed."
"Ah. Yes, I can see your concern. However, I've recruited some help that I believe will improve our chances." Arnim stepped aside from the doorway and beckoned to the man waiting outside. Fine, Schmidt wasn't the only one with a flair for drama.
Schmidt's nonexistent eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Is that Crossbones?"
The newcomer raised his arms lazily. "Heil Hydra. Such as it is. I hear you have a mess you need cleaned up. You should've called me sooner."
Arnim nodded, encouraged. "Brock Rumlow exists in these alternate clusters as well, usually on the periphery of Rogers' and Barnes' circle of acquaintances. He can enter the necessary timelines and act directly upon their lives, rather than from afar as I've done."
"Help me understand this, Dr. Zola: you intend to send Crossbones into timelines where Barnes and Rogers are living ordinary civilian lives, so that he may drive a wedge into their friendship. And this will help Hydra defeat Captain America."
"Yes. Yes, that's it precisely." Well, not one-hundred-percent precisely. "Their..." never mind, it was close enough— "friendship, yes, Herr Schmidt. I believe it is the key."
"Do you find something amusing, Crossbones?"
Rumlow chuckled. "Oh, no. I'm only smiling 'cause I've had a look at some of the timelines Zola's talking about. Plus, I've always hated those guys. Screwing them is going to be a pleasure."
"He means the timelines, Herr Schimdt."
"Sure, I meant screwing the timelines. If you like."
~*~
Arnim pulled Rumlow out of his first timeline, ahead of schedule. Rumlow was less than pleased.
"Why'd you stop me? I wasn't done!"
"That timeline converged with the rest of its cluster. Any further significant change would be impossible."
"I was so close. I had him eating out of my hand. I kept him away from any SHIELD or Avenger counterparts, just like we discussed. Then his quote-unquote childhood sweetheart comes back from overseas and they have one chance meeting on the street and you pull me out, like I can't compete with a goddamn amputee? Put me back in. Let me finish it."
"Trust me, Agent Rumlow, I've run the calculations. You'd be wasting your time."
"Find me another timeline, then. Find me one where I've known Rogers longer than he's known Barnes."
"If I might make a suggestion, I wold recommend you focus on Barnes instead of Rogers. The Winter Soldier cluster has you working closely with Barnes for many years, and I believe that will improve your chances of manipulating him."
"Find me one like that, then."
~*~
"Son of a bitch stood me up for a Rogers he'd never even met before!"
"Given your behavior, I'm not sure I blame him. Perhaps if you were a more considerate partner—"
"I'm not in this to be considerate! What are you waiting for? Show me the next."
~*~
"Son of a bitch!"
"Please, keep your voice down. We don't want to disturb Herr Schmidt."
"I had him. I fucking had him. The fucker was a heroin-addicted sex worker, he was too scared of me to fucking sneeze without permission, and then Rogers shot me in the face because oh yeah, in this timeline Rogers is a fucking undercover cop. Did you know he was a cop?"
"In my defense, I did not expect him to hire a sex worker. It seemed... contrary to his character."
"Never mind, I don't want to hear it. Here. Tell me about this one." He pointed to a line near the edge of the readout.
"I know very little about that cluster. The readings are strange, and I've not yet been able to—"
"Good. Send me there."
"But you've just picked it at random."
"And it can't possibly turn out any worse. You've picked all the others; it's my turn. Send me there."
~*~
Rumlow emerged white as a sheet, shaking, and gripped a corner of the table to support himself.
"What the hell was that?"
"Ah, you'll recall me saying, I know very little about that cluster. Some of the readings are unlike any I've seen elsewhere."
"That's because it's full of freaks. Freakish half-human... sick... werewolf-brained... freaks!"
"I trust you'll allow me to choose your next timeline?"
"No. I'm done. Ha! No more timelines. No more college campuses, no more coffee shops, no more... werewolf pon farr, I am done."
"Agent Rumlow—"
"Done!" The lab door slammed behind him.
~*~
Steve's phone buzzed as he was tipping back the last of his beer. He set the glass on the bar, glanced at the incoming text message, and then dropped his face into his hand. His plane had just been delayed another two hours, courtesy of the pop-up storm that meteorologists were calling the "freak weather occurrence of the century." Steve wouldn't even be in Detroit right now if not for an exceptionally unlucky string of delays and missed connections, and at this rate, he wouldn't get home until morning.
"Let me guess. You didn't expect to spend New Year's Eve in an airport terminal."
Steve sat up, surprised by the familiar voice. He turned, a name on the tip of his tongue... but the man leaning on the bar next to him was a stranger. An incredibly handsome stranger, to be sure, with shoulder-length dark hair and a physique that he'd obviously put a lot of work into. But Steve couldn't place him, despite a strong sense of deja vu.
"Buddy, you have no idea," Steve grumbled, pushing the weird feeling aside.
"Yeah? Bet whatever your story is, I've got you beat."
"If you had me beat, you'd be a lot less chipper."
"I should have been home over a month ago, in time for Thanksgiving. But those fuckers in Moscow..." the stranger blinked, shook his head, and scrubbed a hand down his face. "You know what, I don't even want to talk about it. Check back a year from now and I'll give you the thrilling highlights of the time I inadvertently helped take down a human trafficking ring. Long, long story short, I got my passport back and made it to American soil, thank God—"the man tipped his head back and spread his arms, either in praise to a deity or appreciation for their Midwest surroundings, Steve wasn't sure which—"and you know what, I don't even care that the final leg was supposed to be direct from Seattle to Indianapolis, and somehow we ended up here with a malfunctioning plane, just in time for a snowstorm. I don't care. I am chipper because I'm not dead. How's that, got you beat?"
Steve blinked. He wasn't sure he'd understood all that, and was even less sure he wanted to. "What's your name?"
"Friends call me Bucky. And you—no, let me guess. You look like someone." Bucky frowned, not unattractively, and tapped his lower lip. "You look like... a Robert. No, Roger. Am I close?"
Steve found himself laughing, and stuck out his hand. "Steve Rogers. Closer than you had any right to get, in other words. You some kind of psychic?" Steve didn't believe in psychics, but he enjoyed a good magic show. If this guy was trying to drum up business by going full Sherlock Holmes on his fellow travelers, well, Steve could use the distraction.
Bucky, though, made a face like he'd bitten into something sour. "No, absolutely not. Psychic stuff is all bullshit, you know that, right?"
"Hey, I wasn't going to judge your lifestyle choices." Steve paused, considering. "At least not out loud. Well, at least not until I caught you trying to scam me. I've seen Now You See Me, I know the drill. I'm taking my pet's name and my mother's maiden name to the grave."
"Yeah, I bet you don't even have a pet. You strike me as the kinda guy who's too busy working and volunteering at soup kitchens and whatnot to take care of a pet. I bet you name the stray cats in your neighborhood, though. Hell, I bet you volunteer at no-kill shelters when you're done with the soup kitchens."
Steve would challenge anyone to live on his block and not name the cats; they had such distinctive personalities. And taking them in for shots and spaying was just common sense. Still, he found himself reconsidering whether to view this conversation as entertaining or creepily invasive.
"As for your mother's maiden name, let's see." Bucky, clearly oblivious to Steve's shift in mood, thumped one elbow onto the bar. He planted his cheek in his hand and surveyed Steve's face from a near-horizontal angle. "You look northern European, maybe Irish? I bet it's something screaming Irish, like, I don't know... O'Hara. No relation to Scarlett O'Hara. Or maybe some relation. You got a farm in Georgia?"
Steve snorted, oddly relieved that Bucky had guessed wrong. "Yeah, well," he shot back, "at least no one in my family is named after the U.S. president who caused the Civil War."
Bucky blinked, looking startled. Steve found himself frantically reviewing his train of thought, trying to figure out where he'd even gotten that idea. He seemed to have struck a nerve, entirely by luck. Luck and subconscious free association, that had to be it.
"There's only so many names Bucky can be short for," he offered. "And only so many reasons to name a kid Buchanan. Unless it's your mother's maiden? But that wouldn't explain the James..."
Bucky's voice went quiet. "I don't remember telling you about the James."
What?
Bucky pushed off the bar. "It's been fun, Steve," he said, straightening his shirt, "and by fun I mean weird and unsettling, but hey, such is life. Good luck getting where you're going." He made an aborted gesture as though to offer a handshake, but drew it back before Steve could respond. Then he turned and walked away.
Steve didn't jump up and run after him, because where did that urge even come from, seriously? Instead, he stared at the foam in his empty glass and tried to puzzle out what the hell just happened.
"See, but here's the weird thing."
Steve looked up, grinning in—relief?—as Bucky dropped back into his previous slouch against the bar.
"And this is not something I'd normally admit," Bucky went on, tracing the wood grain with his free hand. "It's not even something that happens. But I'm gonna blame it on my recently insane levels of stress and sleep deprivation, okay? I'm not myself. I'm practically hallucinating. So I'm gonna tell you this."
Steve felt his smile fade. "Okay?"
"I don't believe in destiny or fate or any of that shit. But when I saw you here, just the back of your head, I got this strangely intense feeling that I was supposed to come up and introduce myself. Like it would be the worst mistake of my life if I didn't. And with my life, that's saying a lot."
In a conversation that had consisted of one curveball after another, this one took the cake. Was Bucky trying to flirt with him? Run some kind of con? Why did Steve still have deja vu?
Steve was saved from an immediate response by his phone buzzing. He checked it. Flight canceled, as he'd guessed it would be. Nothing to be done until morning.
On impulse, he hooked his foot around the barstool next to him, sliding it out. "Have a seat, Bucky," he invited. "We've got all night to figure it out."