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“Welcome back, sir.”
James nodded to Marie, the small, slight-build museum guide--with fragile arm strength, would be easily overtaken by the simplest maneuvers--
James sighed and shoved the intrusive thoughts away. They happened less often these days, but his programing still hovered near the surface. Never far enough away, still an instinct he couldn’t completely turn off.
However, thanks to his frequent visits to the Smithsonian, he’d come to know Marie and felt fairly comfortable with her. Almost like a friend. Almost.
But talking to her--well, listening to her, really--he’d come to know much about her. Which helped him humanize her. She owned a tabby cat named Chow-Chow and she was terribly amused by the ironically, dog-like name for a cat. Her parents were still alive and liked to travel, as they had throughout her childhood. She’d majored in art history and had last been to Paris when she was only thirteen. James knew many things about Marie.
For Marie, however, she knew his name was James and he had a potent interest in Captain America and the Howling Commandos. And that was all. She once called him a World War 2 “buff”, which James found strange. But he could hardly explain that he had fragmented memories of being there.
Marie smiled up at him. “Is there a specific portion of the exhibit you want to visit today? I don’t mind taking you.”
“Maybe--” James lifted the cap off his head and scratched his fingers through his newly cut hair. It still felt odd--and good. He ran his fingers through it again. “The biographies?”
Marie had been informative in those early visits, giving him personally guided tours through the exhibit and talking extensively on Captain America’s history and the company of the Commandos.
James didn’t speak much in those early days--still didn’t--and she seemed inclined to fill the dead air with lectures on history. On James’ personal history--though she would never realize that.
Marie turned towards the center of the maze-like exhibit. “I like the Howling Commandos displays, too. They each went on to lead very interesting lives after--well, almost all.”
“Right.” Marie, leading the way, didn’t notice James flinch at her words.
Marie talked as they strolled, saying, “You’ll remember that the group bonded while in the 107th Infantry Regiment and ultimately met Captain America during his first--of many--rescue campaigns. As noted by the Captain himself, he started that first campaign in an effort to rescue his childhood friend, Bucky Barnes.” Marie turned, an expectant and slightly concerned look on her face. “Do you remember me mentioning that before?”
James nodded and made himself smile. It shouldn’t be a foreign sensation, but it was.
Marie had quickly picked up that James wasn’t always--how did Jerry put it? Not right in the head. Maybe Marie thought he had amnesia, or suffered from a memory issue. She often had to repeat her stories for him, but not for the reason she likely thought. James’ mind distracted him too often. He evaluated room layouts for escape routes and mapped them in his brain. He saw large built men and quickly assessed their weaknesses. Just in case he had to take them down.
Not that James realized he’d had been doing anything alarming--at least, not at first. He “zoned out”, as Marie called it, and trying to refocus was sometimes difficult for him. And Marie avoided touching him to get his attention--for good reason. He still flinched at contact. But worse yet, the first time she grabbed his arm after he’d “zoned out”, he grabbed back, hard, barely stopping himself from twisting her arm around and pinning her to the ground. His intent, in that moment, had been completely adversarial. She seemed to know that, too. And yet she still volunteered to give him these tours. How she didn’t see him and run in the opposite direction after that incident, James would never know.
So even when he tried not to “zone out”, his mind still managed to distract him and he missed parts of conversation.
Important parts.
“Wait, what?”
Marie turned back around and shrugged, like a shy girl James vaguely recalled from his past. He often thought Marie reminded him of someone he couldn't quite remember. “I was saying that there are some scholars claiming the relationship between Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes could have been sexual--at least that’s the latest speculation.”
James stared at her. There had been many surprising things he’d learned from this exhibit--his own identity, for one. That the man he’d rescued from the Potomac had lived as strange a long life as James had--though with very different outcomes. He’d learned that his memories of war were real, and so were the nightmares. All of these things had sent James slightly off-kilter whenever each lesson from Marie had rang true in a way no logical sense should allow. But he’d learned early on to take those moments in stride.
Yet this news sent him reeling.
“How could that-- You’ve never mentioned that before!” He’d raised his voice; he didn’t mean to, but that’s how it came out, matching the way his body seemed to be screaming at him. His gut was tight and his heart beat racing.
Too much. Too fast. Get out.
Marie’s cheeks flushed bright red. “Um...like I said, it was just an article I read. I mean, it’s complete conjecture. No one knows for certain and Captain Rogers declines all interviews on most matters, but especially World War 2.” Marie made an aborted attempt to comfort, likely meant to touch his arm and didn’t. “I’m sorry to upset you.”
Upset him. Was he upset? Is that why his heart pounded against his ribcage like a beast trying to escape a cage? James felt everything ramp up: his blood pressure, his heart rate, his thoughts.
“I-I think I need to go.”
Marie nodded and waved her hands. “This way, let me get you to a quiet door.” She wove through the crowd, leading him to an exit he’d scouted long ago. Taking a hidden turn, Marie gestured him forward down a short corridor to an emergency exit. At the door, she punched the code to keep the alarm from sounding.
Just before James grabbed the bar to release the lock, Marie said softly, “You have PTSD, don’t you?”
James turned. “What?” Marie expression twisted, like someone looking at an injured dog. She started to speak again, but James couldn’t wait. His brain told him to leave and leave now.
~*~
“PTSD?” Jerry took a bite from the stew he had sitting before him and then shrugged as he chewed, still talking despite the food in his mouth. “Yeah, I figured you had it. No one can come within an inch of ya. Maybe your nightmares are less, but you still have ‘em, man.”
James scuffed his feet against the cracked and faded linoleum floor, the last lingering edge of anxiety from earlier still playing havoc with his limbs. He rubbed his hands over his arms, picking at his sleeves, his gloves in place. Jerry had seen his metal fingers once (though he probably didn’t realize that the metal reached all the way up to James’ collarbone and scapula), but he never asked the question. Jerry didn’t ask very many questions, really.
“And what does that stand for?”
Jerry munched a bit, then said, “Post traumatic stress disorder. Figured you’ve seen some shit, you know? You look like the type who’ve had.”
James often stayed up into the late hours, waiting for Jerry and sitting with him as he mulled over his day, eating his late dinner. Jerry had a job cleaning toilets at a nearby factory and came in around 2 am. James did his duty as a handyman for the halfway house, on account of his strength and his tendency to avoid all contact. After an altercation with a coworker at the same factory which employed Jerry, the halfway house social worker said, “Maybe focused, hard, handy-work would be best for you right now.” James didn’t disagree. The work came at random, as needed, which allowed him the freedom to do research at the library, maintain his exercises and visit the Smithsonian whenever he liked.
As to staying alongside Jerry, following him into “the system” (as Jerry called it), that had been more a product of convenience than a plan. James didn't mind Jerry. He gave James someone to talk to, when he felt inclined to talk, without worrying about the endless possible questions.
Questions that James didn’t even know the answer to, yet.
“So you going to go back there, then?”
James raised his brow. “The museum?”
“Yeah.” Jerry took another bite of stew. “I mean, that chick sorted you out. You don’t like being sorted out. You react badly to speculation. I’m just saying.”
James looked down at the kitchen table, at his gloved hands, at the discolored, chipped linoleum below. He reacted badly to speculation? Is that what had happened?
Usually it was the crowds or his mind moving faster than he could control--trying to decide how to overtake any and all people present, if needed--that caused James to make a quick, frantic exit. Learning about the war and his doppelganger’s roll in it had never startled him into a panic.
Yet the speculation of intimacy between his former self and last mission had.
Is that why the Captain had stopped fighting him in the helicarrier? Had they been more than just friends? Is that why his words had meant so much to Bucky Barnes that they’d caused him to break free from a frozen, programed mind?
Was there a single thing in that archive to help him understand that?
“I-I don’t know.”
Jerry shrugged. “It’d be a shame if you didn’t, though. You seem to like it there.”
James stared at Jerry. For someone who claimed didn’t like to interfere in others’ business, who rarely asked questions of James, he’d done a fair amount of “sorting” of James himself.
Slowly, with a sigh, James nodded. It wouldn’t make much sense to anyone else, but that museum had the oddest sensation of home.
“Yeah, I do.”
~*~
When Marie saw him, she darted into a run, but then quickly slowed down and approached James like a spooked animal. He supposed, in a lot of ways, he was one.
“I’m so glad to see you, sir. And so soon!” She clasped her hands before her chest, as if in prayer. “I hope I didn’t upset you too much. I shouldn’t have been talking about anything that isn’t officially part of the exhibit, I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. You didn’t--I mean, I wasn’t upset exactly.” James hesitated. Acting the way he had, claiming he wasn’t upset probably sounded absurd. “Surprised, I guess,” he added.
It hadn’t been difficult to return to the museum, as Jerry suggested. Maybe the place couldn’t answer all his questions, but being there made more sense in his broken life than a lot of other things.
Marie seemed to relax as she shrugged. “I suppose it’s not fair to assume something like that with a symbol like Captain America.”
Her choice of words stilled James. Had she been unkind, “not fair”, to imply a romantic relationship between Captain America and Bucky Barnes? Would that implication have upset the Captain?
“Is that because--” James considered his question, considered his own shock. “Is it a bad thing?”
Marie glanced up at him with an expression James hadn’t seen in a while, like she needed to study him, to be sure how to proceed. Was his question that odd?
But then her eyes widened with the sincerity of a child and eagerness of conviction. “No! It’s not a bad thing. Not at all. There should never be shame in two people having feelings--even strong, romantic feelings--for each other. Regardless of gender.”
James frowned and glanced away. There was something familiar in her words.
/Do you think it’s wrong?/
/“I meant what I said to the sarge. If he’s a good fighter, I don’t think it should matter.”/
/“Before, when you asked me if I was jealous. What if I said yes?”/
James felt his heartbeat increase again, but not to an uncomfortable level. Not enough to bring on the sheer panic he’d experienced before. But it was very much like that moment, that strange and terrifying moment when his entire understanding had changed, when some buried part of Bucky Barnes broke free:
/‘til the end of the line/
These were memories, bits and pieces that bleed into his fragmented mind, spoken in the voice of the Captain. Bucky Barnes had escaped the cold hibernation again.
“I don’t know what to think,” James said, softly, thinking aloud, talking to the voice of the Captain, so distant and also fleetingly close. “It shouldn’t feel real, but it does. So many things here affect me, but that more than anything else. Does that make it true?”
“Um.” Marie leaned over, trying to catch his gaze. “I’m sorry, I-I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to say?”
He didn’t get a chance to answer. In his periphery, he saw him: smartly dressed, wearing sunglasses indoors, a relaxed appearance that belied an experienced soldier on a mission.
The man with wings.
Panic set in. James’ heartbeat rushed forward; his adrenaline spiking. The programing would have made him engage, leading a threat to an empty hallway or into a back alley. But he knew the Captain worked with this man, considered him an ally. A friend.
James couldn’t let himself attack. And it was no coincidence this man had come here.
“Uh, sir--er, James? Are you OK?”
He could surrender himself, go with this man to an uncertain future--though no more certain than his current reality. It could lead him to the Captain: a man who knew him, but whom he didn’t know. A man who might mean so much more than he’d ever anticipated.
No. He wasn’t ready.
James executed one of his escape routes without excusing himself from Marie. He heard her gasp as he took off.
There was no need to run, but he did anyway, his head spinning with thoughts of escape and capture and a few more fears that he knew, logically, didn’t meet standards of rationality. But he didn’t care about that, either.
All he knew was that it was too soon to see any of them.
Especially, the Captain.
~*~
“Hey, buddy, how’s New York and that sweet tower you’re holed up in?”
“Sam, please—“
Steve heard the heavy sigh through the phone as clearly as if Sam were standing next to him, not still working from DC. He didn’t have to say the next words; Steve knew them by heart.
“The lead dried up. I’m sorry, man. I don’t even know what my next step is right now.”
Steve closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When Sam thought he’d seen Bucky at the Smithsonian exhibit, Steve had been rushed by more emotions than he expected, chief among them was excitement. Hope. Joy.
And though that sighting had led to several clues about what Bucky had been up to for the last year--of living in a homeless shelter, of the few friends he’d made--all those contacts had become dead ends. One after another.
As Natasha had once said: “He’s a ghost, you’ll never find him.” Those words were truer than Steve could have predicted.
Steve appreciated that Sam had kept up the search when Avengers business drew him to New York, but he also felt guilty that he’d handed it off like this. However—
“I’m going to be out of touch for a while. Stark has something...not good developing here and I need to help in any way I can. Don’t feel like you have to—“
“Don’t start with that.” Steve could hear the grin in Sam’s voice. “I already told you, I’ll keep looking for your boy because I get how much it matters to you, OK? No apologies.”
Steve smiled. “Thanks, Sam. For everything.”
“Kick ass, take names. We’ll be in touch.”
~*~
It took him six weeks to accept that James wasn’t coming back. When the social worker first asked him about James, after three days of no hide nor hair, after answering the questions of a man too jovial to be on a man-hunt, Jerry had quipped, “Well, you knew it was just a matter of time before that one bolted.”
And he believed that. But having a familiar face--if not exactly friendly--waiting for him at 2am, content to listen to him rattle on about that filthy factory and his basket-case coworkers as he fixed himself dinner--well, that had been nice.
But he’d overheard enough nightmares and sleep-distressed mumblings to know that kid was cracking underneath some heavy shit and struggled to understand himself.
Maybe the answer lay in the name he whispered almost every night. Maybe Jerry should have told James how often he said the name? Maybe he held it back in fear the kid would take off even sooner than he already had? Wouldn’t be the first selfish thing he’d done.
Jerry skipped the soup tonight and dug out a stashed bottle of beer from behind a forgotten bag of sprouting spuds. They weren’t supposed to have any liquor in the halfway house, but alcohol had never been his problem, so he didn’t see why he couldn’t keep it around.
He stepped out of the back door and sat down on the cold, concrete steps. Looking up at the clear sky and the barely visible, light-dulled stars, he held the bottle aloft. A toast. An apology.
“Sorry kid, guess I wasn’t much help to you. I hope you find your Steve.”
Tonight, Jerry drank to dull his thoughts.
~*~
To be continued...