Chapter Text
Of all the things that HYDRA had taken from James Barnes, be it his arm, his time, his soul, the worst of all had to be his memories. James had once heard that, in the end, all a person had was memories. He knew now there was absolute truth in that. James had minimal possessions to his name - most of them were lost or discarded after he was declared KIA nearly 80 years ago. What little he had was irrelevant, nothing that really meant all that much.
If he could have one thing back, from all those years ago, it would be the memories of his time before the war. He could remember the basics; times with Steve, living in Brooklyn, some of the fights, the beginning of the war. Nothing that made any of those memories treasured. He couldn’t remember the smell of the open fire they used to have in the living room, nor the taste of his favourite meal, or even his favourite meal. It was all just moments, with nothing to say he lived in them. James felt like an outsider to his own life, like he didn’t fit in.
Like he had no place in this world.
That was what they wanted him to feel. That was their goal, with his constant routine of cryogenesis, torture, propaganda, abuse, repeat. They obviously thought that merely replacing the good memories with pain would turn him into the perfect weapon. Thank god he met Steve when he did, James thought. Thank god, his best friend didn’t give up on him.
It took a while before James truly believed that there was someone, anyone out there who actually cared about his wellbeing. HYDRA was adamant on convincing him that they did not exist. Now, he had several. Friends, teammates, a family of sorts. He had possessions of his own, ones he had bought himself, that he had grown to cherish in their own unique ways. He even had a preference when it came to his coffee. Something as small as that, a small luxury that was afforded to him, went a long way to making him feel like a person again.
If only he still had his memories.
He had confided this with Wanda, on their way to Norway, a few months ago, before they had taken up regular therapy sessions. Even back then, he struggled to believe that she could untangle the mess that was inside his head. Even with her powers, it would take a miracle to reach into the depths of his memory and make some sense of it. Every time he tried to think back on his life, to specific times, his mind clouded over, the faces blurred, the sounds faded away, and the moment would remain just out of reach like a word trapped on the tip of his tongue. It was as infuriating as it was deeply dehumanising. Wanda, however, was adamant that she could make a difference.
“I haven’t really tried this with anyone else,” she admitted before they began. The pair had found themselves in James’ bedroom, in the space around his bed, opposite each other on small cushions, putting them at eye-level with each other. It was a quiet evening. The moon was just beginning to rise over the canopy of the treetops in the distance. The perfect setting for some calm meditation. “I can read a person well, conjure scenarios that best suit a certain mood. You’ve probably heard how I made nightmares for each of the Avengers.”
“I haven’t,” he said honestly. Wanda tilted her head curiously, to which he merely smiled. James wasn’t in the habit of asking around about people. When it came to bad reputations, he wasn’t in any position to judge. “But that’s good to know. Is it only nightmares?”
“No,” she added quickly, “It can be good dreams, too. It just needs to fit an emotion. A nightmare comes from sadness, or guilt, or anxiety. If I wanted to show something that would make you happy, I could find memories that would trigger that reaction.”
James pondered for a moment.
“Does that mean you can only show me what I can remember?” he asked.
“Possibly,” she shrugged. “But it still requires me going inside your head. Perhaps I can help you order your thoughts a little so that you can remember it yourself.”
“Let’s hope that’s how it works.”
“Well, have a little faith in me, eh?” Wanda smirked, placing her hands on his temples. He smirked back.
“I have more than a little faith in you, Wanda.”
He noticed a glint of something in her eyes before she schooled her face.
“I want you to close your eyes.”
He did so. Soon enough, he felt all feeling divulge inwards as if he were being swallowed up by his own mind.
James felt surprisingly weightless, swimming in a soup of thought. He tried moving, but he couldn’t feel his limbs. He was only a consciousness, alone in the darkness inside his head.
“James,” he heard the voice of Wanda echoed all around him, “can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” he breathed back, hearing it both inside and outside. “This is weird.”
“I know,” Wanda hummed. “So, where do you want to start?”
“At the beginning,” he decided after a pause. “As far back as I can remember.”
He didn’t know what to expect, walking back through his own recollection. It was a lot blurrier than he imagines. Colours and shapes moulded together, producing blobby, unfocused scenes. Even through the lens of his decaying memory, James recognised the setting: Brooklyn, the streets where he grew up.
“Is this where you used to live?” Wanda asked, materialising beside him on the street. He nodded - or rather, he imagined a nod.
“I think my house is close by.”
He saw Wanda strain for a second, her face furrowing in concentration.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“There’s something… missing,” she explained. “I can feel it. There’s something just underneath the surface.”
“Like what?”
“A person. There used to be a person here with you.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Can you… show me?”
She nodded.
“I can try.”
She inhaled, moving her hands in a complex motion. The forms in front of him began to morph. A blurred part of a nearby wall fizzled out, transforming into a foggy silhouette of a small child, skipping past him. There was a noise, at the edge of his hearing. It sounded so familiar. James’ eyes widened.
“I think I know her,” he gasped.
“Her?” Wanda asked.
James paused, surprised at how he could possibly know. Then, he realised. He remembered them.
“Her,” he said firmly. He turned, staring down the alleyway, back towards the little girl. She was faint, barely a shape, but she was there. He was so close. “Can you do anything else?”
“I’m not sure,” Wanda replied.
“Please,” he begged. “I can almost see them. I just need a little more.”
“I don’t know, James-“
“Wanda,” he pleaded. “I need this.”
She hesitated, her hands remaining by her sides.
“Please.”
Wanda deliberated, gazing towards the silhouette, running past them again and again in a repeated cycle of memory. Eventually, she raised her hands, her eyes glowing intensely.
“Fine,” she said tersely, “but if something goes wrong, we end this immediately.”
“Hey,” he called, smiling. “I trust you.”
She smiled back, moving her fingers lightly, wrapping the scene again. The silhouette began to morph in turn, and the sound that had haunted the scene began to clear. It was the little girl’s voice, high and shrill and giggling. She was saying the same word, over and over again.
“Bucky!”
That voice. James knew that voice.
“Bucky! Bucky, wait up!”
He knew exactly who that voice belonged to.
“Bucky! There you are!”
And then he saw her. The fog began to clear, revealing the remnant of a face; a pair of big, shining eyes; a small button nose that he used to pinch when he was bored; a head of golden-blonde hair, kept in a short bob, so similar to her mother. The face of his baby sister gazed back at him, smiling and beautiful, small and naive. Jenny. His little sister. Happy. She was delighted, and so was he, for a moment. He finally remembered his little sister. He could finally remember all the times he gave her piggy-back rides down the street, all the times he helped her with her homework, all the times he would build paper hats for her, and boats for when it rained. He could remember how proud she was to see him in his army uniform, how proud he was to see her graduate, how they shared a tearful goodbye as he was sent off the front line. How no matter old she was, no matter what she did, she always smelt like vanilla, and adored chocolate, when they could afford it.
And she was happy. She was the happiest little kid on the planet. And he was too. James hadn’t been this happy in a long time.
The very next day - after he enthusiastically thanked Wanda for her help in giving him his family back - he searched online, in the phonebooks, in public record, for any hint or a clue as to where he could find Rebecca Barnes. Eventually, his investigations turned up a lead. Turns out she wasn’t Rebecca Barnes anymore. She had gotten married since he went missing, to a man called Jason Proctor. She had children - grandchildren, even. He was an uncle and a great-uncle, and he hadn’t even known. Some digging found her in a small retirement home on the outskirts of New Jersey. Not too far away from New York. It had a phone number - for guests, he supposed.
He dialled it in, waiting with baited breathe as the line rang. Eventually, the call connected.
“Hello, Hearth Village Retirement home,” the voice of a patient-nurse called from the other side.
“Hi,” he stumbled, “My-my name is James Barnes. I-I’m calling to ask if you have a Rebecca… Rebecca Proctor?”
The line went quiet for a few seconds. He glanced into the receiver, waiting for a response. It didn’t come, not for a while.
“Hello?” he called, suddenly feeling very anxious.
“I’m sorry, Mr Barnes,” the voice replied. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. “I’m afraid Rebecca… passed away, a few days ago.”
James opened his mouth to respond, but the words refused to come out. His throat was contracting around itself, and his heartfelt like it had been slammed into a brick wall. All he could do was stand stock-still, staring at the carpet. The young, smiling face of Rebecca flooded his brain, taunting him. ‘A few days ago.’ All those years, all that time, he had been missing, and it had come down to a few days. He was so, so close.
“Mr Barnes,” the voice called to him again. He inhaled shakily, trying to put words together and failing.
“Yeah… I’m sorry, I… oh god…”
“She was happy,” the nurse added before he could break down any further. “She was the jolliest old woman in the world. The life of the party, even at her age. She had a photo of you, she always carried it with her, wherever she went. She was always telling everyone she could about how proud she was of her big brother.”
He smiled, his eyes glazing over.
“I’m sure she was,” he laughed, trying to best to man the sob that had crawled its up through his throat. “Was it… peaceful?”
“In her sleep,” she assured him. “Her family are having a funeral on Friday. They’ve been wanting to contact you, but they didn’t know how.”
“Do you have their number?”
The nurse rattled off a telephone number for a Simon Proctor, her son as James recalled. He thanked her, putting down the phone, and slumped against the wall. He didn’t move for a long time, not until Sam eventually found him, wondering where he had got to.
James didn’t tell anyone about the funeral, not at first. He scarcely believed it was happening himself, even when he called up Simon, his nephew, that evening, sharing condolences and asking for details about the ceremony. It wasn’t until James lay resting in bed that night, finally alone, the compound dormant, that he realised that what happened was real. That his little sister was dead and that he would never see her again.
It was Wanda that came to him, probably sensing his despair from all the way down the corridor. She didn’t ask why. She just held him, throughout the night, in the darkness of his room, letting him break down for the first time in a long, long time. Bucky was sure he hadn’t cried that much since he was a little boy. Tears were a sign of weakness, back then, especially in HYDRA. Wanda didn’t care about weakness. He didn’t have to pretend, not for her. With Wanda, he could be vulnerable. He would always be safe with her - in fact, she promised to him as such, as she sat beside him, whispering softly as he finally began to calm.
He invited her to the funeral, of course, and she graciously accepted.
It turns out Rebecca was being buried only a few miles out of the retirement home, in a nearby cemetery. It was a quiet ceremony, only populated with a few surviving members of the family. His family, he reminded himself; by blood, at least. He made efforts to introduce himself, to his nephew and niece, to give his condolences and his support. They didn’t say much, but he knew that it was appreciated.
Wanda had very kindly brought a bouquet in Rebecca’s honour. Lily flowers, as was appropriate. After the coffin had been lowered, and the grave filled - which Wanda also helped with - she gently leaned the gift on the headstone, next to the bouquet presented by Rebecca’s grandchildren. The two decorated the stone nicely, complimenting the message enshrined upon it:
Here lies Rebecca Proctor nee Barnes,
21st August 1924 - 3rd July 2023
Beloved sister, mother and grandmother
“There will no longer be any mourning, crying or pain for the old order of things have passed away.” - Revelations 21:4
The rest of the funeral moved swiftly onward. Most of the attendants departed for an after-gathering, one which James decided he wouldn’t be attending. He was a stranger to them, after all. They didn’t need a stranger in their homes, not after losing their mother, and their grandmother. Before his niece and nephew left, however, they presented a small gift for him. They told him that, if she were ever to pass away, it was to be sent to him. Her most treasured earthly possession.
James hugged them both, apologising for not being there when they needed it, telling them that he was proud of everything they had managed to achieve. And then they left, taking their children with them, leaving James and Wanda alone for the first time since the ceremony began.
“You okay?” Wanda asked quietly. James didn’t reply.
Instead, he unwrapped the gift, revealing a framed photograph - the one she must have taken everywhere in her final days, he deduced. It was a clipping of him, surrounded by the Avengers, just after the final battle at the compound. He was standing side-by-side with the others, waving at the journalists that had found their way to the scene after the fight was over. His face harboured a tired but sincere smile. He remembered what the nurse had said, about how she never parted with it, how she had taken time to brag to everyone who would listen that her brother was a superhero.
His eyes fell to the gravestone once again, and he smiled. How glad he was that he had been able to remember her, even if it was too late. How glad he was that he was holding her final cherished possession in his hand at that moment. He noted, as he turned and put an arm around Wanda’s waist, that it was all because of her.
“I am now,” he replied softly.
Wanda had given this all to him. He couldn’t be more grateful.
He voiced his sentiments to her as they were driving back to the compound. Her only response was that he should consider it a thank you, for what he did in organising Vision’s memorial. Honestly, he thought the two acts could never compare, but he stayed quiet, choosing to accept her gratitude instead.
James often spent time staring at that photo, imagining the reflection of his sister’s face in the glass, staring alongside him, sometimes for hours on end. He wondered if she took comfort in his printed smile. He hoped she could imagine that his smile was for her. Those times would usually morph into him trawling back through his memories of Rebecca, writing down as many as he could, so that he would never lose them again. It could never erase the pain of knowing that he would never meet her again, but the memory of Rebecca would forever stay with him, for as long as he lived.
James knew that longing for the past was never a good idea. He had heard such a thing from Steve himself many times. It didn’t stop him from wishing that he had found her just a few days earlier, that he and Wanda had started sooner. If they had, then maybe he could have said goodbye to his little sister.
James turned under his sheets, resting his head on pillows, staring at the framed photo by his bedside. He reminded himself that he still had so much to live for now. The Avengers; the new world; Wanda. He had a place in the world, a place where he belonged. It was reassuring, of course, it was, but he knew that the longing would never leave him. He would always long for what was, what could have been. That was just in his nature, just like it was for Steve, for a time.
And just like Steve, he knew that he would grow out of it eventually. He just needed time.