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It’s said that memory is fallible. That any number of things can affect a person’s recall of incidences, events, even the taste of a once beloved drink. It could be because of trauma, the brain trying to protect itself, even the anesthesia from a routine surgery could affect the memory. Rationally, Bucky Barnes knows this, has been told it often by his therapists and Sam and even Steve, during one particularly frustrating day, but it still weighs on him.
That there are periods of his past, both during his time as the Winter Soldier and as James Buchanan Barnes, that will never come back to him. No matter how hard he tries.
Doesn’t mean it’s going to stop him from trying, however.
Which is how he finds himself in Coney Island one fall afternoon, walking down the boardwalk as the chill winds come off of the waves and work their way down his back. Bucky is certain that even back before the war he wasn’t a fan of the cold weather, though the end of October is nowhere near as bad as the depths of February. It’s not the Coney Island he remembers, not by far. The amusement parks that are there now are all shiny and new, and while the name of the park may be the same as the last time he was there, it’s definitely not the same place. The parachute jump is relegated to a monument to times past, and that’s a different Thunderbolt than what the fuzzy pictures in his head is telling him. Same Wonder Wheel and Cyclone though, Bucky thinks with a fair bit of wonderment as he spots them from the boardwalk.
Except for the price, though. No way is he shelling out nine bucks to ride that pile of matchsticks.
Bucky stops in one of the restaurants that line the boardwalk for a burger and an egg cream, trying to pull those flavors out of the fuzziness and make them clear once more. It’s marginally successful, but there’s something a bit different about the egg cream that’s entirely unlike the ones he thinks he remembers from back in the day.
The restaurant’s not that busy, and it’s all too easy for a creaky but still strident voice to carry across the drafty room. “I swear to god those stupid bums don’t know their ass from their elbow!” Bucky turns his head, just slightly, taking in the group of old men sitting around one of the tables, eyes glued to a TV screen nestled in the corner.
And then, he gets an idea.
**********
Okay, maybe this wasn’t Bucky’s best idea.
Note to self, if you’re going to go somewhere to try and revive some memories in your brain, it’s probably best to go to a place where something of the memory still exists.
He walks around the block where the stadium used to be, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. As he walks the square that surrounds the apartment block - an apartment building, of all things! It’s a fucking ugly monstrosity that doesn’t even remotely have the same sort of grandeur that the stadium used to - Bucky passes by drugstores and restaurants, parking lots and banks, and other blandly modern designs that just make him want to sigh in disgrace.
And yet…
His mind fills in the gaps between the cracks in the sidewalk and the empty spaces that exist between parking lot and apartment building, seeing the crowds flooding the street as he turns from Sullivan on to McKeever. They’re excited and enraged, and every sort of feeling in between, because that’s what happens when you go to a baseball game. His brain may not remember the Dodgers games he and Steve had hopped the turnstiles to get into, but his body certainly remembers just how baseball made him feel, wound up and tense and waiting for the inevitable explosions.
It’s kind of a good feeling, when he thinks about it.
There’s a basketball park on McKeever, closer to where the block intersects with Montgomery, and there are a few benches lining the sidewalk outside of it. Bucky settles down on one of them and lets his eyes land on the apartment block, trying to bring his brain back to baseball instead of thinking about everything that had been lost in the last seventy years.
Dem Bums, the Boys of Summer, the glorious Ebbets Field, the legendary Trolley Dodgers...relegated to this. Brick towers and anemic structures that don’t even give the slightest hint about what magic used to happen on this patch of dirt. Sure, the apartments share the same name as the old stadium, but how many of the people who actually live there even know where the name came from these days?
Bucky’s not sure how much time has passed before he feels another body sit down on the bench next to him, and he briefly, mentally smacks himself upside the head for letting his guard down enough for someone to get the jump on him. But he recognizes that frustrated sigh all too well, and whatever tension had just taken up residence in his back quickly bleeds away.
“It’s a fuckin’ travesty, is what it is,” Steve says, giving the apartment block an impressively dirty look that Bucky’s only ever seen him give Hydra agents before.
For the briefest moment Bucky wonders how Steve found him, especially after he’d changed his plans, but then he groans to himself. “I left the GPS on my phone, didn’t I?”
So much for super spy assassin skills.
Steve just shrugs, sliding his eyes over to Bucky. “Trade secret,” he says.
“Damn GPS.” Bucky turns back to the apartment block, shaking his head. “You know, rationally, I knew that the stadium was gone and that our team had turned tail and run. I was out of my skull for most of the twentieth century but even I’d heard that. But seeing it in person…”
“Feels like someone socked you right in the gut,” Steve finishes, bumping his shoulder against Bucky’s metal one.
“Sounds about right.” His fists clench in his pockets, and Bucky finds he wants to say something, anything, but putting feelings to words has never been his strong point. Even less so now after everything. Silence has never really been awkward around Steve though, born of years upon years of knowing each other. Or something like that. “What’s it they say about not being able to go home again?”
Steve nods, leaning against Bucky once more. “And then, if somehow you do make it home, the future moves on without you. Your baseball team decides to up and move out to California.”
“Amongst other things.”
“True.”
“Wow, we’re cheery bastards today.”
He looks over at Bucky once more, eyes bright and a bit shiny with something Bucky can’t quite put a name to. “Future’s not all bad,” Steve says.
Steve’s face slides right into a look Bucky recognizes all too well, his ‘I have a plan,’ look, and Bucky’s internal alarm bells, the ones that are specially cued into Steve and his tendency to get into trouble even if he didn’t mean to. “Steve…” he trails off, hoping that every single suspicion is coming out on his voice.
Steve just grins and stands up off of the bench. “C’mon,” he says, reaching out and hauling Bucky up after him.
**********
It doesn’t take them long at all to arrive at their next destination, the concrete lot behind one of those big old brick school buildings that has passed as a Brooklyn playground since time immemorial (one other thing that hasn’t changed, at least, Bucky thinks). It’s a Saturday afternoon and the playground is dead quiet, except for the solitary figure sitting against the brick wall of the school building.
Bucky’s suspicious look aims itself at Steve’s back once more, but now at least there’s a tinge of warm affection there around the edges also. He glances back over at Darcy, who’s lost in her cell phone with a messily chalked ‘X’ in a box by her head and a small pile of what could ostensibly be called equipment down by her feet. But the equipment itself is infinitely familiar, and Bucky finds that Steve’s grin has gotten even wider. “What’s going on, dollface?” he calls over to Darcy as they come close to her.
Darcy looks up, smiles, and scrambles to her feet, scooping up a pink bouncy ball in her hand as she does. “So! First base is that line, second is Steve’s jacket over there, third is there by the monkey bars, and I think you can figure out home plate.” She bounces the ball up and down a couple of times, giving Steve a mock glare in the process (he just gives her a sunny grin back, the little shit). “Steve, you’re playing outfield, so you can chase down these hits because you know Bucky’s not going to pull his punches and I can’t run that fast. I’m pitcher, and Bucky?” Darcy picks up one of the sticks in the equipment, a mop handle without its head, and throws it at Bucky, who catches it easily with one hand. “You’re up first.”
Bucky watches as the other two jog off to their positions, and he just shakes his head in amusement. This is definitely not where he expected his day to be going, but as is so often the case, sometimes it’s best just to go with it. He swings the mop handle in his hands a few times, getting used to the weight.
Somewhere in the depths of his brain muscle memory kicks in, and he arranges his hands on the stick just so. He sets his stance, taking one more test swing for good measure. Steve and Darcy are ready, with Darcy tossing the ball back and forth in her hands once more. Bucky grins, widely and honestly, and calls out:
“Play ball!”