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But I knew him…
"Yes, you did," Pierce says, considering. He’s been making eye contact since he came in, but for the first time, he really looks at you, evaluating. "I think it’s time for a new approach. Wipe him," Pierce orders, and you don’t want to lose this memory, but you already know that’s not an option.
You failed your mission. It’s what you deserve.
*
Scientists in white lab coats swarm around a large machine, but the Asset ignores them. He is waiting for his mission. It’s not of consequence.
He doesn’t recognize the machine. Perhaps it’s a new type of cryotank.
Then Pierce is there. "Your mission," he says and hands over a crisp, blue folder.
He opens it, scanning the dossier on one Rogers, Steven, Codename: Captain America.
"Do you recognize him?" Pierce asks.
"No," the Asset replies. The question is strange, non-standard. He never recognizes his missions.
"He was your last mission," Pierce explains, answering the curiosity the Asset knows better than to voice. "You failed."
The Asset freezes, his gaze caught on the picture of this Captain. He has failed very few missions.
"I thought about punishing you," Pierce continues casually, and the Asset swallows to suppress his gag reflex, spine taut, "but I think this wasn’t your fault."
The Asset flicks his eyes to Pierce’s face, assessing. His words make no sense. If he failed, it was his fault.
"He’s just too good. Hell, he was almost personally responsible for dismantling Hydra last time we were poised to take over. So instead of letting history repeat itself, I say, why not change history?"
Pierce hands him another folder, this one brown and worn. Inside is an SSR assessment of one Rogers, Steven, and a faded photograph of a tiny blond. Only his face identifies him as the same man.
"Captain America claims to fight for freedom, but he’s been spreading chaos for too long. Even in his absence, others used him as a symbol to rally a fight against the peace we’ve been trying to give the world. The world would be better off without him, and you’re going to make that happen." Pierce pauses expectantly, but the Asset merely continues to memorize the file. "Good," Pierce says.
They give him a tablet to read with all the information they have on the mission’s life in the years before he became a threat, historical accounts and medical documents and old maps of New York. If this intelligence is accurate, given the long list of ailments, the mission should pose no challenge. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, that this is the mission he failed.
"Ready? You have the supplies they gave you?" Pierce asks, and the Asset nods, the thin bag of material resting awkwardly against his back, inside his armor to protect it. "Remember, you won’t have backup, this time. And make it clean. He’s an orphan, so there’s no one to care about an accident." The Asset nods again.
The room is mostly empty now, and the machinery has started to hum. He tightens his jaw against the expectation of imminent pain and steps into a large open area when directed. A scientist in protective gear carefully places a small amount of glowing, blue material into a slot and encloses it in the heart of the machine. The hum picks up in intensity.
Another scientist hands him a small remote trigger. "If this works, that will trigger your recall. Just push it when the mission is complete." The Asset carefully tucks it away. The rest of the men in the room leave, including Pierce, who pauses at the door to give him a final inspection before turning decisively.
The hum becomes a vibration that shakes the whole room, rattling through his bones. Everything takes on a blue tint, and then goes transparent, as if the Asset is looking at an outline of the world, the edge of reality.
The blue turns white, and the Asset begins to scream.
*
He thought he died, but then he wakes up, blood thick against his teeth. The ground around him steams, and so do his clothes. Another person wouldn’t have made it through alive to finish the mission.
The building he’s in is huge and empty, a warehouse of some kind. He crawls to a nearby table and pulls himself up, his metal hand leaving a black imprint in the wood when he grabs it. He was lucky to land here, isolated and under cover, and he staggers through the space until he finds a small washroom.
He presses along the skin on his face and eyes, but his mask protected those fragile areas. He drinks deeply, even though the water tastes overwhelmingly of rust. After a few minutes, he leans over and retches, body convulsing as he throws the liquid back up. He forces himself to drink more.
No matter how deserted this place appears, it isn’t safe to remove his armor in the field. He unfastens it the bare amount needed to pull out the bag of supplies. He sets the bag aside until he redoes his armor and runs his fingers over all his various weapons to check them, and then he rips it open.
Inside are a number of tools that aren’t used for a typical search and destroy, including sedative tablets that dissolve cleanly, a fake driver’s license, and a number of tiny listening devices. He doubts that he’ll need any of this, but he tucks it all away in various pockets. The largest item in the bag is a thin square of black fabric that turns out to be a trench coat when he picks it up and shakes it out. It looks like it’s made of simple canvas, but the fabric stretches when he pulls it on over his tack, accommodating the armor and barely restricting his movement at the shoulders. It will do well to disguise his arm, so he leaves it, and then replaces his mask and moves on.
He goes to the roof, early evening sunlight filtering through broken windows as he walks, steadier now. The roof is windy, a chill in the air that he hadn’t noticed inside winding around him, and he’s not in Brooklyn. He doesn’t question this bone deep certainty. He waits until dark and then walks until he finds some train tracks passing through a tall cove of trees. He climbs a tree and waits, jumping onto the next train as it passes, riding along the top of the car toward Brooklyn and his mission.
*
It should take some time to find a single soul in a large population on shaky intelligence. Instead, he finds Steve Rogers within hours. He had chosen the most likely neighborhood based on the files and begun canvassing, stealing across roofs and fire escapes like a ghost, when a man’s voice rings out across the street.
"Steven Rogers!"
The Asset turns, body collapsing into the shadow of the building as he watches a thin, blond figure make his way up to the entrance of a church.
"It’s about time you came to Mass, young man!" The priest, standing in the doorway, isn’t speaking that loudly, the Asset realizes. It’s just he’s very close, albeit several stories up.
"Sorry, Father," the mission says, "I haven’t been feeling very well."
"I know," the man says, patting the mission on the shoulder. "I prayed for you, and for a short winter. Now, in you go."
The Asset finds the best vantage point to observe the church and settles in to wait.
*
The mission lives in a crowded tenement. It’s almost impossible to get a clear sightline of the tiny apartment, and it’s too cold for the mission to linger on the fire escape. The Asset spends several days watching, learning the rhythms of the neighborhood, the schedules and movements of all the players.
Steve Rogers lives with another man, dark hair, average height. He holds himself like he’s always expecting a fight, but he has a job somewhere. He leaves early and doesn’t return until late in the evening, often weaving with exhaustion. He won’t be an issue. The Asset ignores him.
An older woman who lives two floors up comes to check on him every day at noon, except for one day when they go together to get groceries, the mission carrying two bags up the steep stairs. Several other neighbors stop by at random times, but that still leaves hours and hours when Rogers is home alone in the apartment.
The Asset's own needs are few, but at night when the mission sleeps, he slips away. He travels until the streets are cleaner and wider. The buildings are not as close together as it seems they should be, and while he can go far along the rooftops, occasionally he has to slip down to ground level. He keeps his head down and avoids being seen, fading into alleys to avoid the few individuals out so late, sometimes climbing up to dodge groups of men, drunk and singing.
He finds emptier houses, ones dark and quiet that won’t notice his presence, and picks the locks with little effort. He drinks as much water as he can and eats sparingly. He’s like a ghost, gliding through without disturbing the owners, leaving no evidence that can be traced back to him.
*
He doesn’t have to wait long. The cold spikes, a typical northern front, and the mission falls ill. Possibly Rogers had never recovered from that first bout he mentioned to the priest. His movement around the apartment decreases, but his roommate still goes to work. Two neighbors check on him, including the older woman at the usual time, so another is unlikely.
It’s sunset, long shadows forming as the light fades, and here is the perfect opportunity: a few isolated hours and a plausible explanation for his death. The Asset follows the rooftops to the mission’s building and easily slides in through the window. He knows, instinctively, which floorboards will creak and crosses silently to where the mission is curled up in a ragged armchair, as close to the radiator as possible.
He had read the file, could quote the height and weight listed, but it did not fully convey how small Steven Rogers is. The Asset kneels down at his mission’s feet and stares at the sharp cheekbones in a face tinged slightly grey. The collar of the old, white shirt is stretched out so that his protruding collarbones are exposed.
The Asset stares and visualizes the many ways this could play out. The easiest would be to take a pillow or rag and smother him. He could even use the palm of his flesh hand. The mission is too weak to fight him.
He removes his goggles, tucking them away to see better in the quickly dimming room, leaving only the bottom section of the mask.
He stares some more, the fire highlighting the deep circles under the mission’s eyes.
He should be finished by now. Steve Rogers is his mission. Steve Rogers has to die, should already be dead.
He knows, in the empty part of his mind where memories should be and instead echoes with mission intelligence and protocols and combat techniques, that he has killed so many people. It’s an endless stream of forgotten faces, the taste of gunpowder on his tongue, and the solid grip of his knife.
This mission is no different from the others.
Captain America had escaped him once, but this Steve Rogers is weak. It will be so easy.
The Asset stares.
He finds himself listening, intently, to the wheeze that comes with every breath Rogers takes. He closes his eyes and counts each lungful silently out in his head. Every breath is another second that the mission is alive.
He resolves himself, once, twice. Three times. It gets lost in the numbers building in his brain.
He opens his eyes, but remains motionless and kneeling.
The horrible knowledge is growing ever closer. He swallows and tries to push it away, to find the distance he had when he watched the mission from across the roof, but he’s helpless against the certainty filling him like poison: he cannot kill the mission.
He doesn’t know how long he stays there unable to move, fists clenched and pressing into his thighs, but the wheezing he hears in Rogers’ lungs gets more pronounced until he coughs, small at first, but it grows until his body is shaking violently. Eventually he quiets again and blinks, opening his eyes. The Asset tenses, but Rogers’ eyes are too glazed and filled with tears to see him clearly.
"Water?" Rogers croaks, and one word from his mission is all it takes to end his paralysis. He stands and goes to the small kitchen a few steps away. The glasses are in the first cupboard he opens, and he fills one with water from the tap. He brings it back over and holds it out, but Rogers makes no move to take it. The Asset hesitates, and then moves closer. He carefully cups the back of Rogers’ head with his metal hand and holds the glass against Rogers’ lips. He can feel the fever radiating off of Rogers’ body at this distance, but holds steady as Rogers drinks. He pulls away when Rogers chokes slightly, not wanting to set off another coughing fit.
"Thanks, Buck," Rogers mumbles.
He doesn’t know what to do. He should complete the mission—but he won’t. He’s failed again. He should take the device they gave him, return and report—but he pictures Pierce’s impassive face when he’s unable to even tell them why. There is no good reason. Weapon malfunction.
The glass creaks in his flesh hand as he squeezes too tightly, and he forces himself to relax.
He wishes the mission would wake up and -
He doesn’t know how to finish that thought. He doesn’t, he doesn’t know how to do anything right now.
He realizes his breathing is outside of acceptable parameters and focuses immediately on the rhythm of it, the too-quick in and out, until it slows. Until his rapid-fire heart calms. Until—
The lights of the apartment turn on. The Asset releases the glass and turns toward the door, sliding a knife from its sheath and flipping it up into a defensive position. He’s braced and armed, so no one will hurt him, no one will hurt them—
The clothes and dark hair mark the man in the doorway as Rogers’ roommate but, not. This close, he can see the man clearly, and it’s his own face staring back. Two flesh hands, one on the door knob and another on the light switch. No mask to hide his shock.
The glass shatters against the floor, water and glass shards exploding around his feet.
"Hey!" his other self yells, weight shifting to lunge at him.
The Asset quickly pivots, tucking the knife away as he moves. He runs two steps and slides through the window, climbing up and away, toward the roof. He runs and doesn’t stop, not when he’s out of sight of the apartment, not when he knows he wasn’t followed, not even when the whole neighborhood is at his back.
*
On any other mission, he’d have been retrieved by the extraction team by now. It takes nearly a full day, holed up in a high, defensible position miles away from the mission, to realize that this is why he’s waiting.
He remembers Pierce saying, "You won’t have backup," and the Asset had taken that into account with respect to the mission parameters: no transportation, no additional supplies, no access to technicians for necessary repairs.
He hadn’t taken into account that no backup meant no oversight, no one to step in if he went off script, to retrieve him and discipline him for failing. No one to give him the next mission, and the next, and the next.
This time he’s unable to get his breathing under control, and it drags him down where everything is dark and quiet.
It’s a short reprieve that ends the instant he wakes and considers what he needs to do next, because the answer is nothing.
He has no idea what to do now that he has no mission, no orders. He tries to reason out what orders Pierce would give him, but the cool disappointed expression that rises in his mind reminds him that Pierce had given him orders, and he failed.
Standard procedure after a mission is to return to a prearranged extraction point or to the current base or safehouse.
He takes out the trigger he was given, studies it as it rests in the palm of his hand. He could return, report his mission failure and accept the consequences. The physical pain doesn’t matter, but if he returns, he’ll be wiped again. He’d tried to kill Rogers once before, and they took that memory from him. They’ll take this one as well, and he’ll never know that he failed to eliminate the same target twice.
He’ll never know that in the past there’s a version of him, unbroken, living with the man they sent him to kill.
He has all these facts, so many of them involving him, but he doesn’t know how they fit together. It’s possible, given the stark gaps in his briefing materials, that this information doesn’t survive into the future. In that case, if he goes back now, he’ll never know.
The Asset tucks the trigger away again. There’s no harm in gathering more intelligence before he makes any decisions.
*
He waits until night, when they’re both asleep, and slips quietly back into the apartment. The furniture has been rearranged and a small desk has been added since he was last here. It’s pushed up against the window, probably the best defense they could mount against the Asset’s return. Ineffective, but he can see several books and pencils scattered across the surface along with a nice sketchbook, so at least it’s being used.
He makes a quick circuit of the small apartment, avoiding the thin door that houses the two boys in the bedroom, and hides several tiny transmitters. Then he leaves again, settling down into the best spot he’d found during his surveillance of the mission. He tucks a small earpiece in and waits to see what he will learn.
*
The Asset sleeps, and when he wakes it’s to the sun peaking over the horizon and the mission’s voice in his ear, sleepily saying, "Good morning, Bucky."
He tenses, startled to be caught so quickly, when another voice answers, "I don’t know what’s so good about it. You should have stayed in bed where it was warm." The voice is his, but also not his, just like the other man’s face. Despite the grumbling, it sounds more cheerful than the Asset could make his own flat tone. He breathes out, consciously relaxing his muscles back into a resting position, and listens.
"Gonna make you some toast before you head out, so try being a little more grateful," the mission says.
"Aw, Stevie, that’s real nice, but don’t bother. You know I can never stand to eat this early. I’ll grab something in a few hours," Bucky says. It’s clearly a lie.
Rogers isn’t fooled. "Just one piece. C’mon, I’ll feel better if you eat something."
"You’ll feel better if you eat something," Bucky retorts, but then sighs. "Okay, but hurry it up, I’m gonna be late."
"Here, you jerk," Rogers says after a minute, "Go on, get out of here."
"Thanks, Stevie," Bucky says, voice muffled presumably by the toast, and then the door shuts.
He peeks over the edge of the building and sees Bucky walking away, chewing, and allows himself to relax again. The more Bucky had spoken, the more his head hurt, but now the pain dissolves away as the minutes pass quietly in the apartment.
The transmitters aren’t sensitive enough to pick up Rogers’ breathing, and as the sun rises, the Asset finds himself wishing Bucky were back so that he could hear the mission’s voice in his ear again, no matter how much it hurt.
The day remains quiet, though. Steve, apparently feeling much better, goes with his neighbor to run errands. Even when Bucky returns, however, they barely speak. He hears, "Hey, you hungry? It’s not much, but it’s hot," and then less than an hour later, "Jeez, I sure am tired, Buck. You mind if we head to bed early?"
It’s possibly that Steve is tired, recovering from his illness, but the words don’t sound genuine. "Sure," Bucky drawls, and the Asset knows that he isn’t fooled by Steve’s small lie, just like Steve didn’t believe him this morning about the toast. "Take your pill, and let’s go."
"I don’t need it," Steve says firmly, "I’m feeling better. I should save it for if I get bad again."
"The doctor said to take all of them," Bucky argues, and then continues quickly with, "Listen, Stevie, I’m tired, too. Can we not argue about this tonight? They’re paid for, so you might as well use them."
Steve is quiet for a second, and the Asset can imagine the frown he’s wearing, down to the lines between his eyebrows. "Fine," Steve says eventually.
It’s a good thing the Asset isn’t Bucky, because he doesn’t know how to do things like this, how to take care of someone to the point where you’re gentle even with their pride. It’s probably something you learn from being close to people, and Steve and Bucky seem close. They live together and take care of each other. He tries to picture Steve without Bucky, or Bucky without Steve. It doesn’t seem to fit.
For the first time he feels something other than panic when he thinks about how he failed the mission.
*
The next day marks a break in the routine, and the apartment stays quiet after the sun rises. The whole neighborhood has a slower feel, and when people start appearing in dressy clothes, the Asset counts the days to confirm it’s Sunday.
"Hey, Buck," Rogers asks, "You coming to Mass?"
"Nah, tired," Bucky answers, barely audible, "Lemme sleep."
"Okay, I’ll be back later," Steve says, and the Asset watches him as he leaves the building and walks away. He’s bundled up in a few more layers than his neighbors, including a sweater that the Asset recognizes as belonging to Bucky.
Bucky sleeps for awhile, but eventually he gets up and leaves, too. He’s only gone for a few minutes when he comes back with a wooden box tucked under his arm. A radio, the Asset understands when music begins to pipe through his earpiece. The music is pleasant, mellow with a catchy beat, and he finds himself humming along with a few bars, stopping abruptly when he hears Bucky start to sing.
Rogers arrives home after seven songs have played their way through, cheeks pale pink with the cold. "We got a radio now?" he asks when he makes it up to the apartment.
"We do today," Bucky replies. "You didn’t think we were missing the first game of the season, did you?"
"I thought I’d maybe have to keep you from breaking into Mr. Waterstone’s place to borrow his," Steve says.
Bucky laughs. "That was my first idea, but old man Waters ain’t the only one with a radio. Frankie said I could borrow his." The Asset squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain building in his head.
"Won’t he need it?" Steve asks.
"Nah," Bucky explains, "He’s got to go make nice and meet with his girl’s cousins. They’re from out of town, so this was the only time. A big family thing, I guess."
"His loss, then," Rogers says, and the Asset can’t quite get a grip on the dry tone, but Bucky laughs again.
"Exactly. No girl’s worth missing the Dodgers’ season opener," Bucky says, and then they fall quiet and let the music play out between them. The Asset relaxes and listens, breathing in rhythm with the slow back and forth of the current song.
The music is familiar, but the more he tries to remember from where, the farther the memories dance away from him until he’s left on the opposite end, scowling at the pain in his head as the music turns unfamiliar and strange.
"Game’s about to start," Steve says after a while, "You better change the station."
"Sure thing," Bucky says, and the radio spits out static and shards of voices and sounds until it settles on the cheerful prattle of the announcers.
This is worse than the music. An image forms in his head, the radio sitting on a rickety table with Steve sitting close enough to press warm against his shoulder. Steve is smiling, and without his sketchbook for once, attention fully on last season’s stats listed by the announcer. This is better than going to the game and risking Steve getting sick again, although he knows not to say anything like that. He nudges Steve’s side gently and says, "Hey, you think we’ve got a winning team this year?"
The vision warps and cracks as he hears the words from his own mouth and from his earpiece a beat later, the dissonance causing the pain in his head to spike. The Asset removes his earpiece and tucks it away, breathing slowly until the pain evens out and then fades. He doesn’t understand — he’s not Bucky, but for a second he was. He knows how Steve fits next to him in the apartment, listening to the game. Even so, it doesn’t change who he is now or fill in the empty spaces in his head. He looks down at his metal hand, clenched around nothing, and doesn’t look away again until he notices Bucky leaving, radio tucked under his arm to return it.
Even though he hadn’t listened, the Asset knows they lost the game.
*
"You heading out, too, Stevie?" Bucky asks the next morning.
"Yeah," Steve replies, "I’m gonna go see if the paper needs a comic this week. And I finished the advertisement for the hat store."
"I don’t like that editor," Bucky says, "He doesn’t pay you enough."
"I’ll take anything at this point, Buck," Steve says.
"Yeah, and he knows it," Bucky replies, "It’s practically robbery."
"Well, until I find something better—" Steve’s voice cuts off, most likely because they’ve shut the door to the apartment. Sure enough, a few seconds later he sees them exit the building. Bucky ruffles Steve’s hair, and Steve pushes him away, but not hard, and doesn’t protest when Bucky drapes an arm over his shoulder a second later.
Moving around during the day comes with a bigger risk of detection, but his curiosity outweighs it. If he’s not going to learn more, he might as well return to base and accept his punishment.
Bucky turns and heads his own way, but the Asset follows Steve. The number of people Steve knows slows him down and makes it easy to keep up. They call out greetings and wave as he passes, stopping him for brief conversations. It happens less the farther they go, and Steve makes several stops into buildings, including a rather garish haberdashery, while the Asset waits outside and watches.
Steve ends up at a small diner for lunch and stays to sketch for a couple of hours. The waitress comes over to talk with him in between serving coffee refills, her smile visible through the window. The sun glints off the windshields of passing cars, and the Asset frowns, fingers drumming against rough brick as he waits.
Steve moves on eventually, with nothing more than a short wave at the waitress, only to turn and practically disappear into a back alley. The alley is heading away from Asset’s position, and street is too busy to cross here, so he has to double back almost a mile, running fast and light along the roofs. It takes him several minutes to find the alley Steve disappeared into, and then he follows a rough path toward the apartment, unsure about where to go.
He’s almost given up and decided to return to his spot near the apartment when he hears a shout. It’s close, and the Asset runs toward it automatically, crouching at the edge of the nearest roof to lean over and see what’s happening.
Steve stands in front of three other boys, younger than Steve himself but still looming over him. He clenches his hands into tiny fists and stares up at them defiantly. For an instant, the image of Steve is overlaid with another man, tall and broad, jaw firm with blue eyes staring straight at the Asset. He squeezes his eyes shut and pulls back from the roofline, swallowing heavily and waiting for the strange sense of vertigo to stop.
"And what’s a weak little punk like you gonna do about it?" A belligerent voice echoes out from below and brings him back. He takes a deep breath and looks again, just in time to see one of the boys punch Steve in the face. He drops to the ground and the boys laugh, another one darting forward to kick him in the stomach.
Steve makes an involuntary little gasp at that, and the Asset’s grip on the roof tightens. Steve pushes himself up until he’s sitting, breathing erratic, and then begins to stand.
"Christ, you shoulda just stayed down," one says, and the other replies, "He will! Just kick him again."
There’s no chance for him to so, though, because the Asset steps off the roof, landing heavily between them and Steve.
All three of the boys take a step back, eyes wide. "Where’d he come from?" one whispers.
"Hey!" says another, clearly the leader of this little group. "Get out of the way."
The Asset doesn’t move, watching blankly and waiting for them to attack or retreat.
"Fine," the leader says, annoyed, and in the most dangerous move of his life, pulls his arm back and punches the Asset across the jaw, his fist jarring the mask. The Asset turns his head slightly to better absorb the blow, but otherwise doesn’t move.
The boy yells and cradles his hand to his chest, while the others stand frozen, surprised. "I think he broke my hand!"
"Serves you right," Steve says smartly, stepping forward to the Asset’s left with one hand gingerly holding his side.
"I’m gonna kill you!" the boy yells, and throws himself at Steve, the other two falling in behind him.
The Asset turns and steps into the leader’s motion, easily deflecting his attack and elbowing him in the face hard enough to break his nose. The boy drops unconscious to the ground, and the Asset turns again to knock the next one out with a blow to the side of the head.
The last one tries to rush him, but Steve throws himself into the boy's path. The Asset leans into the punch, hauling Steve out of danger by the back of his shirt, and the blow glances across the Asset’s face. The boy's knuckles catch the mask at just the right angle to twist it off, so that it goes flying across the alley.
He knocks the final boy out with his metal arm, using his own momentum against him so that he falls forward and lands on top of the others.
The Asset gently releases Steve, trying not to hurt him further. Steve turns around to say something, but he freezes when he finally gets a clear view of the Asset. "Bucky?" he asks faintly, mouth hanging open as he stares up in shock.
"No," the Asset says firmly, because he’s not Bucky. Bucky is Steve’s friend and roommate, a whole person who has a job and a life and takes care of Steve, and that’s not what he is at all.
"No," Steve repeats feebly, still staring. The Asset shifts his weight and glances around alley to check that all the exits are clear. When his attention returns, Steve looks a little steadier although his eyes are still huge in his face. "Sorry, no, you’re right, you’re not my Bucky, he’s at work. But you are Bucky."
The Asset frowns, because he doesn’t think that’s right either. He’s not anyone. "I have his face," he says, because that at least is true.
"Yeah," Steve says, nodding a little too vigorously. "I see that. And you have a metal hand." Steve reaches forward and tugs the sleeve of his coat up gently, thin fingers pale against the dark fabric. "How far up does it go?"
The Asset turns his body, pulling his arm free of Steve’s grip and moving it out of his line of sight.
"Sorry!" Steve says, holding his hand up, palm open. "No, it’s really neat. It’s like something out of Metropolis. Are you a robot?"
"No," the Asset replies, relaxing a little when Steve’s rambling is his only reaction.
"Sorry, that was probably a rude thing to ask. Probably a fella’s own business if he’s a robot or not." Steve’s speech pattern is a lot quicker than the Asset has ever heard before, and he watches Steve closely. "Thanks, though! Thanks for the help. Although I would have been fine. Uh, are they dead?"
He looks down. He’d already forgotten about the little pile of defeated bullies behind him. "Unconscious," he answers.
"Okay, good," Steve says, and then lets out a short laugh that’s edging into hysterical. "Sorry, I’m probably not making much sense." The Asset checks the exits again, wondering if he should leave. He hadn’t meant to upset Steve. He hadn’t even intended to let himself be seen. "Let’s try again," Steve says before he decides, "Hi, I’m Steve. Thanks for the help. What’s your name?"
"Not Bucky," he says. Steve nods and waits expectantly. "I don’t… remember. I don’t think I have one." Steve looks unaccountably upset with this, so he adds, "They call me the Asset."
"Well," Steve says slowly, "I’m not sure that’s the best thing to call a person. Can I call you James? Who knows, it might be your name. It’s real common, there’s at least four Jameses on my block alone."
"James," he says, trying out the feel of it in his mouth. He nods, and checks the exits. The longer they stand here, the more dangerous it feels. "I have to go," he says, suddenly unable to stand still with Steve’s eyes on him. He walks toward the closest fire escape, careful to give Steve a wide berth as he passes.
"Wait!" Steve says, "Will I see you again?"
"No," he says, because Steve shouldn’t have seen him this time.
"Oh," Steve says, and Bucky actually looks back, matching the tone to a disappointed expression on Steve’s face.
He has no idea what to do with that, with causing Steve disappointment. He jumps up and climbs onto the roof.
"Bye, James!" Steve calls.
He keeps going until he’s back near the apartment, hidden and safe. He realizes he’s shaking and curls up to conserve warmth.
"James," he says to himself, almost too softly to hear.
James could be anybody. The Asset can’t be Bucky, but he might be able to be James.
*
"Christ, Steve," Bucky’s voice jars him awake, coming clear through his earpiece, "What happened to your face? No, nevermind, stupid question. Who did this, huh?"
"It doesn’t matter," Steve says, "Listen—"
"Doesn’t matter, he says," Bucky interrupts, "Are you hurt anywhere else? Seriously, tell me what happened."
"Hey, stop," Steve says.
"Ribs, too? You are going to get yourself killed, and I’m not going to be there to stop it."
Steve laughs and then hisses in pain. James frowns at the sound.
"Careful," Bucky says, "Let me wrap it right, you don’t have it tight enough."
"Bucky," Steve says, and James twitches at hearing Steve say that name, "Listen, I owe you an apology."
"You bet your ass you do," Bucky says, "Because I have a clear memory of you saying that you weren’t gonna start fights anymore."
"That wasn’t my fault," Steve argues, "They were picking on one of the kids from the Orphanage. He was one of the little ones, too, half their size."
"Yeah? And who’s they?" When Steve stays silent, Bucky sighs loudly. James can almost imagine the expressions on their faces, stubborn beyond belief and exasperated.
"I wasn’t apologizing for the fight, anyway," Steve says after a second.
"No, of course not," Bucky says. "What for, then?"
"You remember when my fever finally went down, and you told me someone had come into the apartment?"
"Yes," Bucky replies, shortly.
"And that the guy was masked with a knife, and he broke a glass and then ran out the window?" James blinks. He hadn’t thought Bucky would mention that to Steve.
"I remember," Bucky says, like it’s a warning.
"I’m sorry I didn’t believe you."
"That’s alright," Bucky answers slowly. "It’s a pretty crazy story." There’s a long pause while James waits for Steve to tell Bucky what happens, but there’s only quiet. "You wanna tell me why I’m getting this apology right now?" Bucky asks suspiciously.
"Uh," Steve says.
"Just out of the goodness of your heart," Bucky suggests. "No real reason, right?"
"Right," Steve echoes. James rolls his neck, trying to figure out the purpose of that lie.
"You’re a terrible liar, Stevie," Bucky says lowly, "So you finally believe me. Why? Did you see him or something?" James doesn’t know what Steve does to give it away, but Bucky swears. "Did he do this to you?"
"No!" Steve practically yells, and James winces at the volume. "He stopped the guys that did this. Knocked them out like it was nothing."
"I have trouble believing the creep who broke into our apartment and apparently follows you around has your best interests at heart."
"He’s not a creep," Steve replies, "More like a guardian angel."
James can’t breathe for a moment, stunned by how completely wrong that is. James is dangerous, and Bucky has the right idea not to trust him.
"He pulled a knife on me," Bucky says.
"Yeah," Steve says, "I guess you startled him."
"I startled him?" Bucky asks incredulously.
"He’s not going to hurt me, Buck," Steve says, earnest in a way that rings true in the hollow parts of James’ mind. "And I know it sounds crazy, but he seemed scared, not—"
James yanks the earpiece out as quickly as he can with his unsteady hand, gripping it tightly in a fist against his chest. He can’t listen to Steve say good things about him, especially since they aren’t true. He can’t listen to Steve list all the ways he’s failed, the ways he’s not Bucky. He just can’t listen anymore.
When he goes to find food that night, he goes out even farther than usual. For the first time, he takes something with him that might be missed: a single glass tumbler, heavy and cold in his hand.
Steve and Bucky are sleeping in the main room, one of the mattresses pulled onto the floor so that they can curl up together. It makes it harder to move around the small room, but he sets the glass next to the sink in the kitchen and leaves again without waking them.
He puts the earpiece in when he returns to his spot across the street, able to rest easy knowing they’re safe, Steve’s head pillowed on Bucky’s chest as he drooled and kept Steve close with an arm around his waist.
*
"Hey, Stevie, wake up," Bucky says.
James had been floating, relaxed but not asleep, but those simple words cause his breath to catch in his chest. He remembers saying those words, remembers them falling easily from his lips. He’s young and small, and Steve is only a little smaller than him, curled up in his bed together because Stevie’s mom is working the night shift. He’s older, but still a kid, and Steve is wheezing so hard it’s scary, and he just wants Steve to be okay again, and he counts Steve’s breaths for hours, too worried to stop. He’s old enough for his country to send him to war, and the words are slurred because he’s still more than half asleep, and then he wakes and realizes that he’s alone and cold and far from home, but he’s so grateful that Steve is safe at home that it doesn’t matter. He’s in a tent, and he didn’t sleep once all night, but Steve is huge and shared his bedroll and kept him warm, and now it’s their watch, and…
He’s sweating, even though it’s still cool outside. He thinks about that last memory, the long hours he spent on watch at whatever scrap of land they were calling their base at the time. He pulls out a knife, one of the smaller ones with a blade about as long as his fingers, and begins to test the balance, flipping it and throwing it gently to catch it again, quickly switching between different grips. He concentrates on that until the flood of memories recede and he’s no longer in danger of drowning.
He’s tense when he comes back to himself, and abruptly he realizes that several hours passed by unnoticed while he concentrated. He sheaths the knife and looks across the street at the apartment, a small flash of white catching his eye.
He pulls out a scope, but has to move to a less covered part of the roof to get an unobstructed view. It’s a white half-sheet of paper stuck in the window. He focuses the scope until he can make out the black ink.
James, it reads, Thanks for the new glass. That was really nice of you. —Steve
He lowers the scope and shifts back to his defensible position. He has no way of replying, and no idea what he’d say if he could.
James has hardly moved when he sees Bucky coming home from work that evening. The note disappears from the apartment window, and he takes out the earpiece. Listening to Bucky’s voice has proven too much of a risk. He can’t risk getting lost like that again.
That night the empty house he breaks into has a loaf of bread sitting on the counter, left to cool overnight. It’s just barely warm to the touch, and he takes it with him. Bucky and Steve have moved the mattress back into the bedroom. It’s easier to sneak into the kitchen and leave the bread, but it makes him wary. He stares at the door to the bedroom for a few minutes, but doesn’t open it.
A half-sheet of white paper is tucked crookedly inside a book on the desk, catching his eye. He pulls it out, fingers tracing over the words of the note Steve wrote him. He carefully folds the paper and tucks it away inside his armor to protect it before leaving.
*
The next day starts darkly. Even though James can tell that it’s past dawn by the reluctant movement of the neighborhood as the day begins, the thick clouds neatly block out the rising sun. Bucky leaves at the usual time, although he walks a little more slowly than usual, as if he can tell just how miserable the day is going to be.
James puts his earpiece in, but it stays quiet in the apartment until the first fat drops of rain hit the roof around him.
A flash of movement catches his eye, and he turns to see Steve opening the window and sticking his blond head outside. He’s looking all around as though he’s lost something.
James blinks as a raindrop lands on his forehead. Several follow and land on the top of his head, cold against his scalp.
"James?" Steve calls, and James can see his mouth open and hear it in his ear, though his voice is muffled by the wind.
James considers going over there. He could make it without being seen, since there’s only a few people outside, all moving quickly and focused on getting inside out of the rain, but he’s not sure it’s a good idea. Surely Steve will go back inside when he sees that James isn’t there.
"Ugh, cold," Steve mutters, almost too low to hear, and doesn’t add anything else. James can see that the window is still open and Steve is looking up as if he expects James to drop down from the roof like he did before.
He shouldn’t care. The Asset wouldn’t have cared about the rain, but he’s James now, and if he wants to go inside to visit Steve instead of sitting here alone in the rain, he can do that. Also, Steve is getting wet as the wind carries rain through the open window while he squints up at the rooftops, and something in James rebels at the very idea.
It only takes a few minutes to get to Steve’s window. Steve has disappeared, making it easy to slip inside. Lightning makes everything bright for a single second, followed quickly by a crash of thunder that rattles the window's frame; for a moment, James is somewhere else, explosions echoing around him as dirt flies into his face.
Then Steve says, "Whoa!" and he returns to the apartment.
"Where did you come from?" Steve stands just inside the room, holding a hat that wouldn’t have protected him from the rain that’s coming down outside. James glances around, but the apartment’s the same as it was last night. He reaches back and slides the window most of the way shut. It puts him a little on edge, but it keeps the rain from blowing inside.
Steve seems to take that as some kind of answer, and elaborates, "I was just looking out there, and I didn’t see you." He gestures toward the window, but James keeps his eyes on Steve, examining him.
"You were looking for me," James says, not wanting to tell Steve about his spot on the roof.
"Well, yeah," Steve says, "But how’d you know that? Not a lot of places to hide out there."
"I could hear you," he answers, thinking it must be obvious, but Steve looks confused.
"Over the wind? It’s pretty loud."
"I have a way to listen in," James says slowly, "From… a distance." He’s never had to explain his methods before, and he keeps a close eye on Steve’s reaction.
"What, like a radio?" Steve asks.
It’s as good an explanation as any, so James nods once, a little stiffly.
Steve blinks, considering that. "Then I guess you heard that Bucky’s a little upset that you can come in without waking us up."
James shakes his head quickly and glances at the closed window and the storm raging outside, before turning back to Steve. "I only listen to you, not him."
Steve looks surprised. "Yeah, guess that would be strange. Thanks for the bread, though. It’s real nice of you."
James nods again.
Steve studies him for a second, and James finds it hard to stand still under the scrutiny, balance shifting gently to the balls of his feet as if preparing for an attack.
Steve looks away and slowly crosses the room to sit in the same chair he was in when James came the first time. "I’m going to do some work," Steve says, pulling out a sketchbook and opening it across his lap, "But don’t worry about being quiet, if you want to talk." Steve produces a nice pencil, not yet ground down to a stub, and starts to sketch, the low skrittch across the page somehow soothing. "You can take a nap, too, if you want. I don’t mind sharing, mine’s the bed on the left."
James glances at the window again. He doesn’t want to go too far away from it, so he slides down the wall to sit on the floor, legs bent in front of him. Steve doesn’t react at all, focused on his drawing.
Steve said he could ask questions, and he casts about for something to say. "What are you drawing?" he asks finally, shoulders pulling tighter when his voice comes out flat and harsh.
"Just a little doodle to warm up," Steve says, "but I need to draw a comic for the paper. Got any ideas for a punchline?"
James shakes his head.
"Me neither," Steve sighs. "At least it’s not due for another few days."
They both fall silent, but the apartment is filled with the steady beating of the rain against the building and the scratch of Steve’s pencil along the paper, so it’s not really quiet. James finds himself relaxing, head tipping back to rest against the wall as he watches Steve through slitted eyes.
"Can I ask you something?" Steve says after a little while, but he doesn’t look up or break the rhythm of his drawing. James lifts his head and glances at the window and then back to Steve. "You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to."
James clears his throat. "Okay," he says.
"I’ve been thinking," Steve says, and that’s not a question, but Steve continues before he can figure out how to reply, "And at first I guessed that maybe you were Bucky’s cousin or something, but I’ve met them all, and they’re all little. Most of them are girls, too. Plus, I know Bucky, and you don’t look like family, you look the same."
James swallows, uncomfortable.
"And then I started thinking about your arm, and now this radio you have, and—are you from the future?" Steve asks, with just a hint of that boundless enthusiasm he’d had when talking about James’ arm.
He hesitates, uncertain if Steve should know about that, but he’s already worked it out on his own. "Yes," James tells him.
"Time travel," Steve marvels with a grin. "Is everyone jumping to the future and back all the time where you’re from? I always wanted to visit the future."
"No," James says. "Most people can’t. Might kill them."
"Oh," Steve says. "Why'd you come if it was so dangerous?"
"They sent me." He shrugs. "It was experimental. It hurt."
Steve scowls down at the page, pausing for a second before his face smoothed out again. "They shouldn’t have done that to you, then," he says firmly. "I’m glad we got to meet, but they shouldn’t have hurt you." Steve turns to a fresh page and starts again, pencil darting carefully over the surface. "These people, you work for them?"
He’s never thought about it like that before, but it’s not exactly wrong. It isn’t right either. He nods slowly, unable to think of another way to phrase it.
"How'd you end up with a job like that?" Steve asks.
James frowns. He’d never known there was anything before, so it hadn’t occurred to him to try and figure out when it began. He thinks of the memories of keeping watch and explosions, and says, hesitantly, "There was a war."
"Against the Nazis, right?" Steve says, intent. "It’s getting bad overseas. A lot of people don’t think we should get involved, but it’s gonna happen eventually."
A war against Nazis again sounds both right and wrong at the same time, but James can’t tell why, so he doesn’t argue.
Steve concentrates on a particularly delicate movement of the pencil. "Do they hurt you a lot?"
James tilts his head back against the wall and doesn’t answer. A small line appears in Steve’s brow, but he doesn’t push.
So Steve draws, flicking little glances at him now and then beneath his eyelashes as if to make sure he’s still there, and James watches him, trying to carve this memory deep enough into his brain that it won’t desert him no matter what happens.
A sudden knock on the door shatters the spell. James stands, wrenches the window open. A gust of wind and rain immediately blows inside, but he blocks most of it with his body as he swings outside. He closes the window behind him, catching Steve’s startled expression when he glances back before climbing to the roof.
The cold rain wakes him instantly from the slow warmth of the apartment, and the knowledge of how complacent he just allowed himself to be is a bitter taste in his mouth. He scans the immediate area, but it’s still deserted, everyone hiding indoors from the storm.
He hadn’t been wearing the earpiece in the apartment, but he replaces it now, and Steve’s voice comes through.
"I really am fine, Mrs. Russell. Bucky brought home a new loaf of bread yesterday, so I’m going to have a sandwich for lunch. How about you? Your roof isn’t leaking again, is it?"
"Just the one spot," Mrs. Russell says, "But I’ve got my soup pot under it, so I’ll be fine."
"Okay," Steve says, "Do you need anything else? I could make you a sandwich too, if you want."
"No, thank you, dear," she replies. It’s hard for James to tell because he doesn’t know her, but he thinks she sounds amused. "The rain always makes my bones ache. I’ll be in bed if you need me."
"Alright, Mrs. Russell, thank you," Steve says. After a minute or so, Steve says, "James, if you can hear me, she’s gone. Come back, I’ve got a towel for you."
James climbs carefully back down and slips into the window as quick as possible, although the top of the desk is still beaded with water by the time he’s inside.
"Good grief, you’re soaked." Steve comes toward him and sets the towel over his head and shoulders. James tenses but allows it. "It sure is coming down out there," Steve says as he rubs one corner against James’ dripping hair.
Steve jerks suddenly, as if realizing just who he’s dealing with, and he steps away. "Here, give me your coat, and I’ll hang it up to dry."
James shrugs out of it, watching Steve’s reaction to his arm. Steve doesn’t say anything this time, just hangs the coat on a hook near the radiator. James wrings out as much water as he can from his clothes. At least the insides of his boots are still dry.
"I could cut your hair for you," Steve offers, and James looks up to find him watching. "I cut Bucky’s, so I know how."
James doesn’t respond, just covers his head with the towel and rubs gently to dry it.
"Not that I don’t like your hair," Steve says abruptly, "It’s nice long, too, I mean. You look, uh. It’s fine. You look very nice."
Steve is blushing, and James isn’t sure how he knows, but he’s certain that blush goes all the way down his chest. He takes the towel away and shakes his hair out, paying attention to Steve’s reaction.
Steve watches him, eyes following the movement, but only says, "I’ll make us those sandwiches."
*
The rains slows by the afternoon, which is good. James would have left before Bucky came home regardless of the weather, but he didn't want to go back out in the storm.
Bucky comes home completely soaked, clothes heavy with water and hair flattened to his head. James knows he should take the earpiece out, that it’s dangerous to listen to Bucky, and he just told Steve that he didn’t listen while Bucky was there, so it’s dishonest, too. But he can’t stop himself from finding out what Steve will say to Bucky about his visit.
"Hey, Steve," Bucky says.
"Hey, Buck. Rough day?" Steve asks.
"You have no idea. I’ve been dreaming of dry socks for hours," Bucky says.
"Yeah, go get dry, and stop dripping everywhere," Steve says.
"Good to be home," Bucky says, a little dryly but too sincere to make it a joke.
It’s quiet for a few minutes, and James waits.
Bucky asks, "Why are all the towels damp?"
"What?" Steve asks.
"The towels are all kinda wet. Jesus, you didn’t go out today, did you?"
"No, of course not," Steve says, "The window wasn’t shut all the way, and some water got in. I cleaned it up already."
"Okay," Bucky says, and then, "Steve, hey, Stevie, what’s wrong? You’re shaking. Are you cold?"
"I’m fine," Steve says, but his voice is quiet and breathless. James frowns, but there’s nothing he can do.
"Here, I got a blanket, come sit down," Bucky says.
"You’ve been working in the rain all day, Buck, you sit down with the blanket," Steve insists.
Bucky curses. "You’re more stubborn than all the other people I know combined. Here, now we’re both sitting, okay?"
"Okay," Steve says.
"Warmer?" Bucky asks after a second.
"Yeah, it’s nice," Steve agrees, "But I wasn’t that cold."
"You wanna tell me what that was about, then? You don’t feel like you got a fever."
"No, I’m not sick," Steve says.
"I know something’s been bothering you lately. You don’t have to tell me, but you can, you know? We can figure it out."
"I know," Steve says, and he sounds so sincere, "But I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet, anyway."
Bucky sighs. "Like I said, stubborn," he says, and Steve laughs.
James watches the glow from the apartment window and feels a strange sense of déjà vu. So much has changed since he first settled here to observe Steve—the mission, then—but he’s still on the outside, a shadow clinging to something he knows better than to think he can have. It’s not a good feeling, and useless anyway, so he pushes it away.
*
He finds out one thing has changed the next morning when Bucky leaves: Steve talks to him.
First he says, "Hey, James, Bucky is gone now if you want to come visit. Just if you want to."
James stays put, but it doesn’t stop Steve from talking.
He says, "I’m glad it’s warmer today. Everyone’s sick of winter, me included."
He says, "When I see you next, James, remind me to ask if there’s flying cars in the future."
He says, "Bucky and I came up with a joke for the comic. Let me tell you about it…"
It’s exactly what James wanted, listening to Steve without lingering in an unsafe location or coming in close enough to do any damage. He doesn’t have to respond or find things to contribute like he would in a real conversation, but he gets Steve’s voice in his ear, clear and easy.
Steve says, "I know we lost the opener, but I think the Dodgers have a real chance this year."
He says, "I asked around for a steady job, but no one had any openings. I hope I can find one."
He says, "I’m making sandwiches for dinner with the last of the bread you got us. Thanks again, it’s been good."
The next day is more of the same. James sits up against a corner of the roof, eyes closed and head tilted back and listens.
Steve says, "I’m just working on the comic today, so you’re welcome to come visit."
He says, "I can’t stop thinking about what the future’s like. Are there robots that do all the cleaning? Is everyone living on the moon?"
He says, "I hope my rambling isn’t bothering you. It feels a little silly, since I can’t tell if you’re listening."
The last makes James worry. The whole exchange is uneven, with Steve giving and James taking. He can’t expect Steve to keep doing all the work. Eventually, Steve will give up on him and go quiet again, and while he could stay on this roof forever if he had a mission objective, as it is he doesn’t want to sit on the roof day after day.
The next day he goes over to the roof of Steve’s building while it’s still dark, crouching in a blind spot by a chimney until he sees Bucky walking away down the street. He puts the earpiece in just in time to catch Steve saying, "So come visit if you want," before removing it and darting quickly down the fire escape to the apartment window.
He slides the window open and lifts himself inside. Steve jerks back from his place at the desk, almost falling off his stool in surprise. James catches his arm to steady him, but then lets go and backs a few steps away so that his back’s to the corner of the room.
"Sorry," he says.
Steve grins. "That’s okay! I didn’t think you were coming back."
He doesn’t know how to answer, so he lifts his right shoulder in a slight shrug.
"Did you hear what I said before?"
He’d only caught part of it, so he shakes his head, hair falling around his face.
"That comic is due today, so I’ll have to go turn it in, and then help Mrs. Russell with the groceries."
"Oh," James says, a heavy feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. "I can go," he offers.
"No," Steve says, emphatic enough that he probably means it, and scrunches up his nose. "I’m glad you’re here," he adds, "But I can’t stay around all day. And I have to finish up the comic, but I’m guessing you don’t mind."
He shakes his head again, and sinks smoothly to the floor, back against the wall.
Steve watches him a second and then turns back to the papers spread out on the desk. "You’re welcome to get a chair or something if you want."
James glances at the meager furniture in the apartment, but when Steve doesn’t add anything else, he stays still.
"You have a lot of weapons," Steve says. He doesn’t look up from his papers when he speaks.
James blinks. He doesn’t know how to react to that, but he’d come close so that Steve could talk to him. "Yes," he agrees, because it’s true, and then asks, "Why?"
"Just been wondering why you’re here. Are you a spy? Or," Steve adds before James can answer, "Or, well. The people that sent you seem pretty bad." Steve swallows, but his hands are steady as he inks in the smooth lines of the comics. "Did they send you here to kill someone?"
His body tenses up immediately, back pressing against the wall so hard the plaster makes a soft crackle noise until he eases up. If Steve hadn’t been by the window, he might have gone out of it, but he doesn’t want to approach Steve right now. The word rasps out of his throat when he finally manages to reply, "Yes."
Steve frowns, but looks disturbingly casual in the face of such an admission.
"How?" James manages to ask, because he can’t get past the fact that he must be so compromised now that his identity is written across his face, that everyone who looks at him will see nothing but blood. "How did I." He swallows, unable to continue.
James looks away from Steve, watching him from the corner of his eye. When James doesn’t continue, Steve asks, "Are you okay?" James realizes that his breathing has become shallow and fast.
"It was you," he says, fast as he can, because Steve shouldn’t be so calm. James knows he’s beyond dangerous, and Steve should know what he’s dealing with, what he’s let into his home.
Steve freezes, and James knows this might be the last time he’s welcome near Steve, but at least the last thing he’ll do is try to protect him. He takes a deep breath, and says again, "It was supposed to be you."
Instead of shock or outrage or fear, the expression on Steve’s face is mostly confusion. "That doesn’t make any sense," Steve says. "I’m not important, or powerful, or rich. I’m nobody special, just a kid from Brooklyn. Just nobody."
"You’re important," James says, because that much is clear to him right down to his bones. "One day you’ll be important to a lot more people."
Steve appears dubious of this statement, like he wants to argue but can’t really figure out how. After a few minutes he says, "Anyway, it was stupid to send you. You’d never hurt me." He says it like a fact, as if this is one of the few things in the world he can depend on, inescapable as gravity.
James knows this is wrong, remembers kneeling in this apartment and imagining the many ways to kill Steve. The thought of explaining that to Steve makes him feel sick inside, so he remains quiet and watchful until Steve has to leave.
"You should come back tomorrow," Steve says, as if nothing has changed between them.
James doesn’t reply and flees to the rooftops.
*
He half-expects Steve to change his mind, but when he puts the earpiece in the next morning as he watches Bucky walk away to work, he hears Steve say, "You can come in now if you want."
Steve is sitting in his ratty arm chair, sketchbook in his lap, and he smiles when James come in. It’s strange to have someone happy to see him.
"The editor liked my comic and asked for another," Steve says with a vague gesture at the mostly blank page.
James nods slightly, standing inside the window, weight on the balls of his feet.
"Everything okay?" Steve asks. James nods again. "Have a seat if you want." He goes back to drawing, focusing on his sketchpad and not looking at James. He does this often enough that it must be deliberate.
He thinks maybe he should try something other than sitting against the wall near the window. He glances around the room, hesitates, and then slowly moves toward Steve, watching carefully for signs of fear.
Steve stills when he is close enough to touch, and he pauses, but when Steve doesn’t object, he sits down on the floor with his back against the chair. Steve breathes out and starts sketching again, and James suddenly has a flash of memory and understands why this behavior is familiar.
"You used to feed the neighborhood cats out on the fire escape," he says. It’s so clear in his head, but he doesn’t look around at Steve, afraid he’s got it wrong. "Leftover oatmeal and milk."
"Yeah," Steve says and clears his throat. "You just remember that?"
James nods. "You would sit still until they’d get used to you. A lot of them would eat right out of your hand." Steve doesn’t contradict when he pauses, so he says, "You’ve been treating me like a feral cat."
He expects an argument or indignation, but when he glances up at Steve out of the corner of his eye, Steve is watching him with a sad smile. "I’m treating you like you’ve been hurt, and it made you scared." Steve carefully erases a line, blowing the bits of rubber off with a breath that gently stirs James’ hair. "Am I wrong?"
James ignores the question. "Some of them never did warm up to you," he says.
"I didn’t mind," Steve replies.
That matches what he remembers, Steve speaking in low tones to the ones who came up close and the more wary ones who would only take the food when Steve set it away from himself. Steve seemed sincere, and James takes a moment to entertain the thought that Steve is okay with him this way, that he doesn't need James to be like Bucky.
The logic is sound, matching everything James knows about Steve—right down to Steve accepting that he wasn’t Bucky and giving him a new name—but the idea resists being pinned down easily into something believable and real.
He tilts his head back to rest against the chair.
"You remember anything else?" Steve asks, and he’s trying to keep his tone even, but he’s not quite successful.
"Not really," James says, because he can’t describe the few bits and pieces he has. "I knew the Dodgers were going to lose that last game."
"Oh yeah?" Steve asks, amused, "What about the next one?"
James shrugs. "Don’t know."
"Too bad," Steve says.
He says it offhand, as if it doesn’t really matter, but James frowns. After a few seconds he tries again. "I remember sitting. You were sick, and I had to count. One number for each time you took a breath. I couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop counting, because you might stop, too."
Steve nods, encouraging, drawing abandoned for the moment.
"I think we were younger, but I’m not sure," he continues. Steve always looks small, so it’s hard to tell. "It was one of the first things I remembered," he adds.
"You stayed with me a couple times when I was sick and Mom had to work, " Steve says, "You’re a good friend. I’m lucky to have you." James doesn’t argue because he knows this time Steve means he’s lucky to have Bucky, and that’s true. "Hey, how old are you now?"
Even thinking of how much time has past causes him to shiver, echos of the ice pulling him down into the black. It’s been years and years and years, but he has no idea how to count them. "I don’t know," he says finally.
"Well, it can’t be that long," Steve says, and studies him. "You don’t look that much older."
James doesn’t answer.
Steve frowns a little and goes back to his sketch.
They sit quietly, but it’s not calm, not the way that James has stayed for hours watching Steve and listening, occasionally offering words of his own. His tension grows, coiling in his muscles until he can’t stand it anymore.
"I have to go," he says through gritted teeth, rising smoothly to his feet.
Steve jerks, surprised, looking up with wide eyes. "Okay," he says as James goes to the window. "I’ll see you tomorrow."
"Yes," James replies, hardly paying attention as he checks the fire escape before climbing out.
The restlessness fades as he moves, and it’s not until he’s returned to his customary spot on the opposite roof that he realizes what he said. Routine can be dangerous, he knows all too well, but he can’t find it in him to worry about this small weakness, too preoccupied by the strange anticipation of having a tomorrow to look forward to.
*
It’s easier, the next day, to lean against the chair with Steve at his back. He angles his head so that he can see Steve out of the corner of his eye and counts along with the steady rhythm of his breathing.
This small victory is overshadowed, however, by a newly discovered fear. At some point in the long hours before dawn, his anticipation had soured, and tomorrow had become a looming threat in the distance that turned his breathing into gasping panic.
He isn’t gathering intelligence on Steve, anymore. Hasn’t been since he'd first interfered, really, and these visits have gone beyond that and into unknown territory. He doesn’t want to give them up, but the truth is that this simple pattern can’t continue, not indefinitely. He knows eventually the war will come for Bucky and Steve and set them on the long, cold path to the future, leaving him alone in this time and adrift.
"Do you think people get what they deserve?" James asks slowly into the silence.
Steve looks up, his expression thoughtful. "No," he says after a few minutes, brows knit together as he explains, "Or, maybe sometimes, I guess, but it seems kinda random. Look at you and me," Steve continues, waving his hand a little, "I was born small and sick, but I don’t think I deserved it. I was just a baby." He shrugs. "And you’re a good person. You didn’t deserve to be hurt."
The last part is said with such sincerity that it makes his chest hurt, a tight ache that wraps around his rib cage. "I’m not a good person," falls out of his mouth. He doesn’t mean to get sidetracked on this, but he’s held his tongue too many times when Steve had said similar things. "You have no idea," and Steve opens his mouth to argue, but James insists, "no idea what I’ve done."
"You’re right," Steve says, and even though James should be glad that Steve has finally caught on, it makes his breath catch, but Steve keeps talking, "I don’t know exactly what you’ve done. But I know enough to forgive you."
James physically turns in place so that he can look up directly into Steve’s face without twisting his head around, but he can see no lie in Steve’s expression. It leaves him without words.
He wonders what Steve can see on his face, because he elaborates without prompting. "I know they made you hurt people. Did you want to do it?"
His head snakes once, a firm denial. For the Asset, want didn’t factor into it. There was only the mission, nothing else.
"If you had the choice, would you do it again?" Steve asks.
"No," James whispers.
Steve nods and looks him in the eye. "Then I forgive you."
"What if it was you?" James asks. "I was supposed to—what if I hurt you?"
"You didn’t. And I forgive you," Steve repeats.
James has to break away, gaze settling on the floor next to him. He focuses on breathing for a few minutes and tries to think that through, mind going round and round and always hitting up against the same obstacle. Steve forgives him, but, "I don’t think I deserve it."
Steve reaches out, slowly and steadily, and grips his shoulder, so lightly that he can barely feel it through the layers of his armor. "Good thing we just decided that people don’t always get what they deserve," he says, and James relaxes into his touch, leaning his head back against the chair.
When he wakes a few hours later, he’s shocked to find that he slept with Steve at his back. Steve himself has fallen asleep, too, curled up in his chair. James watches him sleep for a little while and then leaves without waking him.
*
James is stretched out on the roof, staring up at the clear blue sky. The sun beams down, warm and bright, through a gentle breeze. It feels like spring finally breaking free of winter.
He’s been still for hours, enjoying the day, but now he gets up. He looks across the street at the apartment window and studies it before taking the earpiece out and setting it on the ground. He crushes it beneath his boot heel, grinding down against the roof to make sure it’s beyond repair. He leaves it behind and makes his way to Steve’s apartment.
Steve doesn’t startle when he comes in, even though James makes enough noise to be heard over the sound of the kitchen sink, where Steve is washing a few dishes.
"Just a second," Steve calls, after glancing over his shoulder.
James waits patiently while Steve sets the last plate to dry on the counter and wipes his hands. "It’s getting pretty late. I thought maybe you’d gotten sick of me," Steve jokes, walking closer.
"No," James says. "I was thinking."
"Yeah?" Steve asks. "About what?"
"I think…" James has to stop a second. He hesitates before most decisions these days, and this is a big one. Still, given what he knows, none of his conclusions have changed. "I want to return to my time. To the future."
Steve’s face is open, and James can identify the expressions as they swiftly cross his face: shock, fear, anger, worry. "Why," Steve blurts out.
James swallows, picking his words carefully. "There’s a Steve in the future, and he doesn’t have what you have. He’s alone. I’m not Bucky, but..."
"You are Bucky," Steve says earnestly, "You’ve always been Bucky."
He presses his lips together and doesn’t argue this time.
Steve rubs one hand on the back of his neck. "So you came by to say goodbye."
"Yes," James says.
"Won’t it be dangerous? You could go right back to the people who hurt you."
"Maybe," Bucky admits. "But I need to try."
"Listen, I haven’t said anything before, but," Steve’s jaw firms up like it did in the alley, facing off against those bullies, "I’m going to stop this. When you go to the war, I’m going to go with you. I don’t know how yet, but I’ll find a way. I’m going to protect you, and then they won’t be able to hurt you so bad." He smiles, sorrow written into the twist of his lips. "I’ll do anything to keep you safe."
James wants to argue, to make Steve promise to take care of himself, but he thinks about what Steve Rogers becomes in the future, the lives he saves and all the people he touches. He thinks about a world without Captain America, the world Pierce was trying to create.
"I believe you," he says finally, "But this is what I need to do."
"Well," Steve says, blinking away the tears welling in his eyes, "Can I at least give you a proper goodbye?"
He holds out his arms, and James steps into them, carefully wrapping his arms around Steve’s slight frame while Steve clings to him, smelling familiar and safe. James rests his head against Steve shoulder and squeezes gently.
He looks down at Steve’s face when they pull apart, catches a falling tear with the thumb of his flesh hand.
Steve sniffs and says, "Shut up."
He remembers this, he realizes with a jolt, from before. He’d held Steve close just like this, the hand on Steve’s hip not yet metal, and then…
James leans forward and kisses Steve, a slow press against his lips. Steve jerks in his arms, and then pushes forward into the kiss. James eases him back and then shows him what to do, deepening the kiss.
Steve’s breathless when he pulls back, and his eyes are dark and wide. He brings one shaky hand up to touch his lips.
"That was your first kiss," James says, stomach tightening in response to Steve’s dazed expression.
"Yeah," Steve breathes out.
"Sorry," he says, "I remembered that from before. But if you don’t. Then, I guess. I guess I got it wrong."
"Don’t apologize," Steve says, "I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time now." Steve rubs his lips again. "You remember us kissing?"
James nods.
"Huh," Steve says, but he doesn’t seem upset, so James feels the knots in his stomach release.
James steps back toward the window, and Steve sways forward for a second like he wants to follow, but in the end stands his ground. "Goodbye, Steve," James says.
"Goodbye, Bucky," Steve replies. Then he grins and adds, "See you soon."
James nods and turns.
"Wait!" Steve says, dashing into the bedroom and returning with his sketchbook. He sits down with it and carefully tears out a single page. He walks back over to James and holds it out.
James takes it and turns it around to look. It’s a picture of the two of them, Steve rendered in broad strokes sitting in his chair, with James on the floor at his feel, drawn in meticulous detail. He stares a minute, and then folds it carefully, tucking it inside his armor next to the note Steve wrote him to keep it safe.
"Thanks," he says roughly and finally goes out the window.
*
He’s halfway to roof when he looks down and spots Bucky coming home. Curiosity wars with practicality for a second, but he can’t help sneaking back down the fire escape to watch. Steve hasn’t closed the window yet, so he can see clearly as Bucky comes inside. Steve looks up when the door opens, and before Bucky can say anything, he marches over and throws himself at Bucky.
"Hey," Bucky says, catching him in a hug. "You okay?"
Steve nods, but doesn’t let go. After a minute, he leans back just far enough to kiss Bucky, a simple press of lips, a mirror of the one he just shared with James.
Steve pulls back, but Bucky makes a rough noise and kisses him again, hand coming up to tilt Steve’s head, moving him to make the kiss easy and smooth. They both look dazed and happy when the kiss ends.
Bucky leans their foreheads together, and says, just loud enough for James to hear, "After all these years, how’d you figure it out?"
Steve laughs. It starts as a giggle, but soon he’s shaking with it, Bucky holding him up.
"It’s not that funny," Bucky says, smiling, and Steve laughs even harder.
James walks away with laughter ringing out behind him, the corners of his own mouth ticking up.
*
You fall, but Steve catches you. You don’t know where you are, or when you are, and your ears are ringing so loudly you can hardly hear him say, "Bucky!"
You swallow the blood in your mouth and choke out, "Steve."
He’s holding you, looking down at you as if you’re the most unbelievably good thing he’s ever seen.
You don’t deserve this.
But you want it, and you’ll hold on to it as long as you can.