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Everything James learned about himself, about who he was before... before , came from history books. They were always pretty much the same, detailing his name, rank, age, and friendship with Steve before noting his “heroic” demise in defense of the first modern superhero.
James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes: a sergeant, a war hero, a martyr, and the best friend of Steve Rogers.
The textbooks never went into what happened next, how the person they lauded as a hero was pumped up with a serum no one fully understands, was tortured into forgetting who he was, was forced into a new identity as an assassin, was used as a weapon against the very people he had been sworn to protect.
James was fine with them not knowing, with people not realizing the hell he had undergone with HYDRA, but that didn’t change the issue at hand. Once James had slipped his conditioning by saving the man on the bridge, by disappearing into the wind instead of returning to his handlers and the ice, he realized he didn’t know who he was , he had no identity other than what HYDRA had deemed necessary.
Which brought him to the museum, brought him to text books. But learning about the person “Bucky” Barnes had been didn’t feel like slipping into a role he had forgotten about. It felt awkward and unnatural, like trying to force himself into clothing three sizes too small for him. And no matter what he did, what he tried (eating Bucky’s favorite foods, returning to the neighborhood he was said to live at, even surveilling the Man on the Bridge (Steve Rogers, Captain America) as he went about his days), James couldn’t remember what it was like to be “Bucky”. “Bucky” was the base model, and James was the sum total of his experiences afterwards.
Not that James could remember what his life was like before he slipped his conditioning. Nothing seemed to be able to jog his memory, nothing could bring back experiences he had before HYDRA, and so James made the only decision he could: instead of clinging to a past he didn’t remember and forcing himself into a role that didn't fit, he would let it go. He would move on.
So James left New York behind and traveled the world as the ghost he had been trained to be. He never stayed in any one place for long, moving from city to city and losing himself in the rhythm of a place without any potential unlocked memories attached. James was, if not happy, content in his travels, until he made his way to Bucharest.
That was when he met her for the first time.
James had been strolling through a market, inspecting the wares and basking in the anonymity of being just another face in the crowd when he heard her. The woman’s voice was bright and joyful, laughter ringing out of her like bells over the bustle of the marketplace. James circled closer to the stall he assumed the owner of the voice was, and paused as a break in the crowds brought her into view.
The woman was young, possibly in her mid- to late-twenties, with long dark hair and a red knit beanie. Her clothes were more comfortable than stylish, and the messenger bag swinging from her shoulder was all scuffed leather and colorful patches. In the woman’s hands was a bag of plums, and James couldn’t help but focus on her bright red lips as she handed over the required amount (it seemed fair to James’ eyes) and chatted animatedly with the stall owner.
Just as James was about to move away, the woman’s voice cut off abruptly and he froze, eyes tracking the crowd looking for danger. The woman suddenly swung around and the harsh sound of her hand slapping the man behind her jarred James and brought his eyes back to the tableau before him.
The crowd around the woman grew quiet as the young man the woman had slapped pressed a hand to his red cheek. “What the fuck, you American bitch!” the young man cursed in English, his accent and smarting cheek thickening his words. The woman stared back at him, ice in her blue gaze as she sneered at the man.
"What the fuck did you think you were doing, grabbing my ass like that?” the woman snarled, and the predator in James took notice of the vitriol in her tone. “What, you think that you’re entitled to it or something? Newsflash, you fuckwad, no one grabs my ass like that unless I allow it and you are definitely not hot enough to be on that list.”
Humiliation and rage flashed in the young man’s eyes as the crowd around him began to chuckle at the woman’s comment. Unable to speak with his rapidly swelling cheek, the young man spat at the woman’s feet and beat a hasty retreat. As the woman looked from her feet to the young man rapidly retreating before her, James swore he saw a flash of another dark-haired woman, her hair in curls and a slash of vermillion on her lips as she slapped a boy for copping a feel. He blinked, and the image (memory? Was he finally beginning to remember before ?) was gone, leaving the disgusted woman before him shaking her head as she apologized profusely to the stall owner for making a scene.
James watched the woman exit the marketplace and another flash came to him, this time a dark-haired woman in an army uniform, before he stumbled as his head began to spin. Retreating back to the apartment he was renting, James felt confusion mix with elation and hope as he thought back to the young woman.
He thinks what he saw were flashes of memory, flashes of “Bucky”, of who he was before . And he didn’t know why now, why not before, but it must have been something to do with the young woman in the market. He needed to see her again, he wanted to remember and she was the only thing in his time so far that had jogged anything in his swiss-cheese mind.
So, James did what he did best: he became a ghost at the edges of the woman’s life.
The next time James saw her at the market, he learned her name: Darcy Lewis. She was American, and working for a scientist who planned to be in Romania for anywhere from six months to a year. She was easy-going and charming, quick to smile, and more than willing to chat with the stall owners and other patrons as she made her purchases for the day. He learned that she and her boss were stationed at the University of Bucharest and they were studying space, or the stars, or interdimensional wormholes? As the young woman (Darcy) chattered, James was struck by a memory of a blinding white smile, a skinny blonde kid, and a car that hovered for a few seconds before crashing to the ground. Left reeling from the memory, James stumbled a bit and bumped into the stall Darcy was visiting, managing to knock a few plums to the floor.
James also learned that in addition to being charming, Darcy was incredibly kind as well as she moved to help him right himself. “Are you okay, man? You don’t look so good,” she asked in concern, brows furrowing over her sharp blue eyes.
James waved a hand dismissively, stuttering out a reply in Hungarian that had Darcy scrunching her nose. “I’m so sorry, I don’t speak Romanian,” she replied. “But if you need help, I am more than willing to help you! I might just need a translator first.”
James swallowed thickly as another flash of memory assaulted him, this of the same skinny blonde as before but this time Bucky had his hand on the blonde’s shoulder, offering the blonde a place to stay. James shook his head quickly to free himself from the memory, eyes catching Darcy’s concerned gaze. “I’m fine,” he finally murmured in English, straightening up as quickly as possible. “Just a bit tired. I’m going home to sleep.”
Darcy exhaled, the worry and tension draining out of her at his words. “That’s a great idea. I hope you feel better soon, man. Get some rest.”
James left as quickly as he could, and resolved not to bother Darcy again. The memories were tied to her somehow, but seemed more work than they were worth if they managed to incapacitate him so severely.
This resolve lasted not even two days as James literally ran into her outside a coffee shop. Darcy stumbled with the force of the collision, and before he could think better of it, James reached out to steady her. She clamped on to his arm, righting her balance as she smiled up at him in gratitude, only for her eyes to widen in shocked recognition.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, hands flexing on his arm. “It’s you again! You look good, really good!” James couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him as Darcy flushed in embarrassment at her words.
“N-not that you didn’t look good before, you’re very good-looking in general, I just…” she stuttered, and James saw the first brunette girl again in the ghost of Darcy’s expression, the same embarrassment, but it flickered away harmlessly.
“A-anyway, fancy seeing you again! I didn’t catch your name last time; I’m Darcy,” Darcy recovered, smoothing her beanie (a soft-looking black knit today) and adjusting her glasses self-consciously.
“I’m James,” he replied softly, and Darcy’s eyes brightened in response.
“It’s nice to officially meet you, James!” she chirped, and James felt something flutter in his chest as she licked her bright red lips.
That was the beginning of everything for him.
After that, James and Darcy would meet regularly, whether for food or coffee or sightseeing, Darcy tugging James along in her wake as he regained old memories and made new ones. The first time she kissed him was in the shadow of St. Stephen’s Basilica, and for the first time James was glad that no memory came back to him: he wanted to bask in that moment with Darcy, and no other.
James broke his rule about not staying in any one place for too long, stretching his time in Bucharest as he spent more and more time with Darcy, falling in love with her bit by bit as he pieced his before life back together and created a new one by her side.
The first time he met Jane Foster, Darcy’s boss and a brilliant scientist, he was reminded so strongly of that skinny blonde boy in his memories that he nearly called her “Stevie.” The first time he told Darcy he loved her, James could confidently say that he remembered Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Peggy Carter, and the Howling Commandos.
The first time he told her goodbye, and meant it with the certainty that it was the last time, was when he saw the reports of the “Winter Soldier” bombing the UN Summit in Vienna.
What happened next was a whirlwind. Steve found him, the Hungarian police tried to take him in, and then his programming was triggered.
James didn’t remember much clearly after that.
But when he started to come back to himself, he found himself standing in a lab in Siberia, Steve at his side, Tony Stark in the Iron Man suit standing in front of him, and the man who had triggered his programming all present and watching grainy video footage of the Winter Soldier assassinating a man who looked quite a bit like Stark and the woman with him.
James felt the color drain from his face as he turned to Stark, sure in his bones that he just witnessed the Winter Soldier murder the man’s parents and took a halting step toward him.
“I-I’m sorry,” James stuttered, eyes fixed on Stark’s blank face. “I-I didn’t know it was them, I swear . They just sent me, I didn’t have a choice .”
Steve hushed him and tried to push James behind him, but James stayed firm. “I swear to you, Stark, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t remember him, couldn’t remember him. I couldn’t remember anything until just a few months ago.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Buck,” Steve stated, and James felt himself flinch both at the name and the uncaring tone he said it in. Ignoring James’ behavior, Steve continued, “It wasn’t you. It was HYDRA.”
“You knew…” Tony Stark murmured, and James’ head shot toward the man in confusion.
“I didn’t, I swear ,” he repeated fervently, and Tony shook his head, gaze fixed on Steve.
“You knew and you didn’t tell me , didn’t warn me that your best goddamn friend from the Forties was responsible for murdering my parents...my mother?” Stark growled, taking a threatening step toward them.
James turned to Steve in confusion and froze at the righteous look in the other man’s eyes. Shaking his head slowly, James backed away from Steve and toward the entrance. Steve’s head swung towards him immediately, reaching toward James with a startled, “Bucky, where are you going? It wasn’t you. It’s not your fault.”
Tony Stark seemed to choke at the words and James flinched harder as memories of Howard Stark assaulted him from all angles, shining in the rage in his son’s eyes, standing with a hand on Steve’s shoulder, tinkering with the controls of the lab.
“No,” James breathed, wide, panicked eyes moving to Tony Stark, the son of the man he had killed even if he wasn’t aware of his actions at the time. “I killed them, Steve. Even if I wasn’t the one in control, even if I’m just now regaining my memories, it was me.”
As his final word rang in the silence of the lab, Tony lunged at James with a snarl and slammed him into the wall. Head impacting the metal with a loud smack, memories began assaulting James like a tidal wave, pressing against his skull in a deluge of sights, sounds, and experiences that made his head spin even more than the probable concussion. As Steve ripped Tony away from him, James slid to the ground, burying his head in his knees as he tried valiantly to weather the flood of memories without getting sick or passing out. As he felt himself get swept up in the barrage of memory, James grasped onto the last time he had felt truly at peace: looking into Darcy’s blue eyes as he told her he loved her.
James sank into the memory ( his memory, not Bucky’s) and recalled everything he could: how Darcy’s hair was slightly flat on top from her beanie, how they were curled together on the couch in the apartment she shared with Jane, the sound of a trashy reality tv show playing softly in the background. He dove into the feeling of her lips on his, the rich sound of her laugh, the heat of her skin, and slowly but surely the world seemed to spin to a halt.
Opening his eyes cautiously, James was shocked to see sleek white walls and not the run-down beige of Darcy and Jane’s apartment. Sitting up with a start, James saw a young Black woman bustling over to him, a tablet in her hands and an armed guard trailing behind her.
“Ah, Sergeant Barnes, you are awake,” the young woman said, fingers tapping at her tablet quickly. “How are you feeling?”
“Where am I?” he rasped, and the woman sighed.
“You are in Wakanda, Sergeant Barnes,” she answered matter-of-factly, and James felt his brain screech to a halt.
“Wakanda?” he repeated, and the woman rolled her eyes, attention returning to her tablet.
“Yes, Sergeant Barnes, Wakanda. You have been under surveillance for the past 20 hours and seem to be having no ill effects from the use of the trigger words by Helmut Zemo. In fact, our experts say that your trigger words seem to now be inert.”
James froze, hardly daring to breathe as he processed what the woman just said. Inert. His triggers had been made inert .
The woman rubbed at her nose absent-mindedly as she poked at something on her tablet, her eyes flying to his briefly before being reabsorbed by whatever information she had there. “Our experts are unsure as to the cause, but seem to think you have found some sort of grounding in reality, or in sanity, in order to render the trigger words inert. That is good, Sergeant Barnes. That means you can’t be controlled against your will. You are a free man.”
James blinked mutely as relief and hope swamped him. He was free; no one could force his memory from him again. He wanted to jump, wanted to sing, wanted to tell Darcy --
James couldn’t help the smile that took over his face as memories of Darcy came to him unbidden, memories of her courage, her sincerity, her self-respect, and most of all of his love for her. Even when he was unsure of himself, of his mind; even when memories threatened to drown him he was sure of her, of Darcy.
He loved her, and it was both the beginning, and end, of everything.