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“Hold on, you’ve got-on your face-”
Sam put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder to stop him reaching for the doorknob. Not the doorbell. Well, sure, locks are a social construct when you’re strong enough to rip the steering wheel out of a car. Why not.
Bucky flinched a little at Sam’s touch. Under that slouching posture and tired frown, he was wound up to a hair trigger. Sam was not fooled. If this man knew Bucky, he wouldn’t be fooled either. It made the knot of worry in Sam’s chest wiggle itself into even more intricate snarls.
“Here?” Bucky wiped around his mouth.
“No, little lower, no,”
Bucky got out a handkerchief. Sam wiped his own jowls. Bucky mirrored him and managed to get off most of the egg.
“Got it?”
“That’s fine.”
“Buck-”
Bucky turned back, again, rolling his eyes.
“This is gonna help? Doing this?”
Bucky nodded to himself.
“I need to talk to him,”
“And if he doesn’t say what you need to hear?”
He frown smiled at that.
“I know he won't.”
“Why are you doin’ this? Really? It’s not too late, if-”
“Why are you here if you don’t agree?”
“So I can tell Sarah I tried when you’re too messed up to come to your own damn birthday party.”
Yeah, that made him pause.
“You, planned me a birthday party?”
“It was mostly Sarah and the boys. Supposed to be a surprise, but,”
“That’s, uh,”
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck.
“That’s really, I-”
“-You’re welcome,”
“Thank you,”
Bucky cleared his throat, glared up at the decrepit little cinder block bungalow. Sam put his hands on his hips.
“So you’re goin’ in.”
Bucky swallowed.
“Yeah,”
“And I can’t come in with you?”
That earned him a tight smile.
“Nope.”
“Ok.”
“Thanks Sam, for, well. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Don’t get brainwashed.”
Bucky snorted.
“I’ll try my best.”
He reached for the door.
“And Bucky?”
“What!?”
“You’ve got nothing to prove.”
With a heavy squeal of protest from the bolts, Bucky let himself into the house of Colonel Vasily Karpov.
Sam waited. He waited a while. Nothing exploded. That’s usually a good sign. The house remained silent. When the streetlight three houses down came to life, he sat on the shell of an upturned washing machine in the soggy lawn, stuffing his hands in his pockets against the cold.
The neighbors came out on their balcony to smoke marijuana and throw drunken commentary at him in French. Sam smiled politely. A cop car crept by and stopped to idle in front of a townhouse at the end of the street. Sam tried to think about the cops, about the French, about the cat, stalking haughtily down the salt-stained sidewalk, but every second thought was in the house with his partner-erm-colleague.
Sam imagined the reunion. Sam imagined that face. The Senate archivist had found them one and only one picture of Karpov. It was from the Insight Committee Report. It was a picture of Vasily Karpov holding a Koala on his family vacation to Australia, circa 1971. That was before he divorced his wife after she refused to pull their children out of school mid-year to move to Siberia, the archivist told them with the absolute glee of someone who loves their job.
Karpov looked a lot like Sam’s grade seven English teacher. To Sam. God knew what Bucky saw when he looked at that face. God knew what Bucky’s poor heart would do seeing it in person.
Sam hoped for the best.
Maybe Karpov was making dinner. Maybe he was turning around at a little noise and seeing Bucky standing there in the doorway. Sam hoped Bucky was keeping it together enough to stay present, to stay himself. Karpov deserved to see the man he had dedicated his life to hurting as James “Bucky” Barnes. Sam hoped.
Sam’s hopes were unfounded.
Twenty feet behind him, Bucky was remembering what disappointment feels like. It had been a long time since he’d let expectations get in the way of his work. Now he remembered why it’s nice to keep all your bars on the floor. Sagging ceilings, broken beer bottles, a bird chirping from somewhere in the wall, no one had lived here in years. Attempts at secrecy were dropped. He kicked a milk crate out of his way, crunched through an upturned chipboard table, warped and gray from years of exposure. The sight in the kitchen made him stop.
“He’s dead.”
Sam jumped out of his skin. Bucky’s face was dull and hollow. He slammed the front door behind him and stalked over to Sam. He sighed an exasperated sigh when he saw Sam’s face.
“I did not kill him. He’s, it’s, he was dead.”
“Oh,”
Thank the Lord!
“How long?”
“Years? I don’t know.”
Bucky hoisted himself onto the washing machine with a huff, it creaked piteously in response.
“You don’t know that it was him, then?” Sam pointed out.
“It looked like him. You can go check, if you want.”
“I believe you,”
He touched Bucky’s elbow. It was time to go.
“He might have framed it, tried to get out,” Sam offered as they walked back to the Airbnb. “Long time for a corpse to be rotting in a house in the middle of town. You think someone should have found him by now.”
“I dunno. It looked like him. Maybe. I think it was him. Could we get a DNA test run?” Bucky asked.
“I don’t think they’ll have him on file. We could ask. I can call Torres if you want, figure something out,”
“Mm, we have my kidney.”
Sam just staired.
“It’s transplant, was his. I don’t know if that would work. . .” he trailed off.
“Uh, we can look into that,” Sam agreed.
“It’s, a long story, if you’re wondering.”
“Yeah, I can imagine. No, that kidney is your business. I don’t need to know.”
“Thanks,”
They walked for a while in silence. Sam sighed.
“Well, that was a letdown. But-I don’t know about you-but we’ve got a great eggy meal to look forward to! I’m eggcited.”
Bucky rolled his eyes.
“I can see it, I can see it in those psycho eyes of yours, don’t try an’ hide it Bucky, you’re eggcited for more egg!”
Bucky snorted.
“I’m lovin’ the egg, Sam,” he agreed, finally, a little bit of something creeping back into his face.
“That’s the spirit! What do you say we hit this egg town, Sergeant?”
Sam even won a little smile.
There had been an incident on the plane in involving Sam, a breakfast quiche and six barf bags. The less said about that, the better, in Sam’s opinion. But, as Steve would say, Bucky had been a jerk.
“You’re feeling better?” Bucky had asked while they lined up to buy crappy lunch stuffs at the airport in Ottawa.
“Fine.” Sam had shot back.
Bucky had snorted a little to himself.
“What?”
“’S funny. I’m sorry Sam,” Bucky had said.
“You professionally fly around in a wingsuit like you're crazier than me and yet you get motion sick on commercial flights? ”
“It was that tart. I’m allergic to eggs.” was Sam’s terse reply.
“Yeah? So you would say no to an egg salad sandwich right now?”
Sam’s stomach growled.
“I would,”
“Sure,”
It was only once they got to the counter that Sam had realized his wallet was missing, presumed stolen. Yay!
“That sucks,” Bucky had sympathized, “hey, my treat, Sam, don’t worry about it. Grab us some chairs?”
And don’t you know it, Bucky had bought them two egg salad sandwiches. And Sam had eaten his without incident. Sam’s retaliation came in the form of puns.
“Wow, I didn’t know you loved eggs this much, Bucky. What an eggcelent source of vitamin D for you pasty basement dwellers, eh? Well I’m committed to helping you with your diet now,” Sam had promised.
“Yeah?”
“Of course. You know I’m here for you Buck. No, I’m eggcited,”
Sam yolked around a lot with the puns. Bucky had cracked a few himself too, although about an hour into their road trip down the valley from Ottawa there had come a point where Bucky had stopped groaning and started threatening strangulation. Sam’s eyebrows had formed stiff peaks at this declaration. Bucky’s death threats were only slightly undermined by the fond smile that crept across his face every time Sam came up with a new pun.
Captain America keeps his promises.
Well, combining their self-imposed all-egg diet with a location with just about as much charming atmosphere as Soviet-era Russia, Sam’s stolen wallet and the delightful aroma of raw sewage and tobacco smoke that permeated the Airbnb and expedition morale was pretty much rock bottom before the corpse development. How many hours had they spent at Sarah’s kitchen table, piecing together Karpov’s story, only to find another, literally, dead end? There’s only so much egg puns can do to make things better, but maybe that’s ok. They were both still willing to laugh.
They stopped off at the house so Bucky could wash off the smell of death, then went on the hunt for sustenance, specifically a reputable-ish restaurant serving dinner that wouldn’t turn Sam’s ‘stomach of a delicate disposition’ as Bucky would call it when Bucky felt well enough again to call Sam names.
“I can reimburse you later if you want to go somewhere less eggonomical tonight,” Sam said.
“Eggcelent,” Bucky played along, but Sam could see it was an effort.
Eventually they found a Boston Pizza. They settled in the corner, with a nice window overlooking the parking lot and beyond the mighty, murky Saint Laurence river, swollen with the spring melt and jagged with broken ice. Swimming didn’t really appeal that day, to say the least.
Bucky was drifting again, his eyes looking at somewhere far past the river. Sam pretended he didn’t notice. Sam pretended his frown was directed at the food options.
“So what do you want?” Sam asked, reading down the menu.
“I donno, uh,”
Bucky pulled himself out of his mind with a sigh and slid his eyes back to Sam.
“What are you having?”
“I’m going for the veggie.”
Bucky nodded to himself.
“Sounds nice, you want to get a large and share?”
“Do I want to share my pizza with a super soldier? Let me think about that a moment, how about no.”
Bucky heaved a huge sigh at the thought of the insurmountable task of ordering his dinner. Sam rolled his eyes. Bucky stared at the menu a while, then drifted and started staring vaguely at some point directly behind Sam’s face.
One of those days.
Bucky’s staring used to make Sam squirm. Something about it was kind of making him squirm now. Worry. Worry was definitely playing into it. He decided he’d give Bucky a little prod in a minute, see if he wanted to open up.
They lapsed again into a long silence, disturbed only by the ordering of drinks.
“I’m sorry about Karpov,” Sam said quietly, sipping on his water when it came.
Bucky nodded.
“This means a lot to you, it must have been, frustrating finding that.”
Sam offered a label for the feelings, he gave Bucky his full attention, then let it hang. Bucky picked at the peeling lamination on the menu.
He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, closed it, then opened it again and spoke.
“I guess,”
He shrugged.
“I-it was weird to think of him living there, at some point. You know? A lot to imagine. I-I didn’t know him like that,”
He looked away. Paused.
“I don’t think I ever really thought of him as a person. But, but the house was real, it was all real-I’m not making sense.”
Bucky looked down at his lap, a strange expression of humor on his face. Maybe humor wasn’t the right word. An appreciation of irony. I’m not crazy enough to think I’m sane, Sam read.
“No, I follow.” Sam told him, frowning.
“Like seeing a teacher out of school,”
Bucky smiled wanly at that. Teacher, handler, organ donor, what had been the nature of their relationship? Something important. It was upsetting Bucky more than Sam had seen since the whole shield debacle. Sam gave Bucky a moment to say something more. He didn’t. Bucky sipped at his coffee, more fiddling with the cup than actually consuming its contents.
“What would you have said to him, if we’d found him today?” Sam asked.
“Well, what? I. . .”
“-say I’m Karpov. What do you need him to hear?”
Sam leaned forward, folding his arms on the slightly sticky plastic table. Bucky broke eye contact and stared out across the river, back at the U.S. He shook his head slightly. Little ripples in the surface of his drink betrayed the tremor of his hand.
“I donno, Sam. I don’t. . . He was a terrible person.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“But,”
“He wasn’t. A terrible handler.”
Bucky raised his glass slightly in mocking concession.
“As, well, as Hydra handlers go. He only ever punished me once. He always took the blame. Always very, professional.”
Can you call it professionalism when your subordinate is also your tortured prisoner?
“Wasn’t above asking me for help, you know, letting me call him out when he suggested something stupid,” Bucky continued, words bubbling up faster and faster.
“He protected me, I thought. He’d say, ‘are you a behavioral scientist? No? Then don’t try an’ fix him. Fix how we use him,’.”
Bucky raised his eyebrows, sardonic smile only growing.
“And I liked thinking I had him in my corner because of that. Thought he saw me. Respected me, maybe,”
“Karpov knew I was thinking. Maybe that makes him worse. I know he was terrible. I see that. I didn’t see it then,”
It occurred to Sam, the thing that had been bothering him earlier, that he’d never seen Bucky stair like that in a civilian setting. But Bucky was still talking.
“He gave me the order to kill the Starks, you know. And then he stood by and watched them hurt me. He recommended it. I remember.”
The smile slipped.
“I told him about Howard, he recognized me, you know that? Don’t see it in the video. But, he called me Sg. Barnes. I didn’t, I didn’t know him all that well, before. He and Steve were pals, but I don’t think I ever had a conversation with him that wasn’t about some weapon or another. His flying cars. Still waiting for that one. Well, he was surprised to see me, but he saw me. Looked me right in the eye and called me Sg. Barnes. I don’t know what he must have been thinking, when he saw me like that, what that was like for him.”
Bucky paused, frowned.
“You do. We fought on the bridge. You were there. And the helicarrier. And Berlin. You didn’t even know me when I was sane. Thanks for not hating me.”
“Oh, I hated you plenty, Buck.”
“But you’ve got it all out of your system now,”
“Detox period complete.” Sam confirmed.
“I mean, what’s not to love? I’m such an empathetic, warm, socially aware, all around nice guy, right?”
“Buck,” Sam reproached.
“You’re not my therapist.” Bucky shot back before Sam could get out the encouraging message he was brooding. Bucky sighed and scratched the back of his head.
“It must have been awful. That’s all I’m sayin’. Also, you know. It, just, it must have been awful. Not, well,”
“Well,”
Bucky’s eyes went back out over the water.
“So I went back to Hydra.” he said.
“And I gave him my mission report. I told ‘im about the name Howard called me. Karpov asked me why I had told him that. I said, I said it was important.”
Bucky laughed.
“He asked me, if it meant anything to me. I asked him if Steve might come to visit me, one day.”
Ouch. Sam could feel himself grinding his teeth. But this wasn’t about him. He fought to keep his face still, not let his anger spill over.
“He asked me who Steve was. I told him Steve was sick, and, needed my help. I told him what Steve was. He told me I wasn’t made to have that. ‘But my mother,’ said I.”
Bucky pitched his voice high and childlike. Sam cringed.
“‘My mother loves me,’. And he asked me what my mother’s name was. I didn’t remember. He asked me what she looked like and I told him that she smelled like starch. Starch for collars and shirts, I mean. You don’t really do that anymore, do you? No, my mother didn’t smell like corn starch. I didn’t even know what I was talking about when I told him that. It was just coming to the front of my mind as I said it and the more I said the more I had to say. It was like,”
Bucky bit his lip.
“Like, for the first time in my life I had something for me, that was mine. Like I was filling back up. He asked me if I had a father and I told him that I did. I thought he loved me too. Well, I told him about a banana song and how in my mouth blood tastes like learning to swim, and how I felt sad all the time but I didn’t know, I-. He asked me if I wanted to stop feeling sad. I did. So he put me in the chair and he hurt me until I-, until I wasn’t me any more. And he kept hurting me, after that. There was no point. He just- he was awful. That’s the bottom line, isn’t it? He only hurt me for the sake of hurting me when he saw that there was little bit of a person left. Maybe it made him feel better. Maybe it was about power. It’s always about power, isn’t it? Power, money, ritiouse ideals.”
Bucky sniffed.
“That’s always the reason. I don’t know, he was sick. I guess I wanted him to see me. All of me, too much for him to take away, even if he tried again. And I wanted to tell him that my mother’s name is Winnifred.”