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Steve sees it as soon as he walks into the interrogation room, and just manages to catch the name that threatens to tumble off his lips, stuffing it back down his throat before it can escape.
It’s a good thing too, because then the man in the chair turns all the way to face him, shackles rattling, and Steve’s heart drops from his throat into his stomach.
This man is not Bucky. The jaw’s too square, the cheekbones not sharp enough, the eyes just a little off the right shade of blue. But still--he’s close enough for confusion.
“Hello,” Steve says sort of awkwardly, because what do you say to a man who you’ve just mistaken for your best friend who’s been dead for over seventy years?
Also, he doesn’t really know what he’s doing here.
Predictably, the man, Not-Bucky, keeps staring.
“What am I doing here?” asks Steve, turning to Natasha behind him. He doesn’t doubt she noticed his slight intake of breath, the small hiccup in his step. Hopefully she misinterpreted it. Or just won’t bring it up.
Her face betrays nothing as she says, “Captain Rogers, meet the Winter Soldier.” She pops her gum, and Steve does his best not to look surprised. “We’ve had a crack at him. Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn at--what, exactly?” asks Steve, thoroughly confused. He lets himself turn back to face Not-Bucky.
The man is hunched over, with his hair dangling in his face, and all of a sudden, Steve is hit by a pang of sharp sympathy for the man. He’s been briefed on the Winter Soldier--they all had, about a month ago, when it was learned he had finally broken out of Russia control, and was at large. There’s a lot--there was a lot of information. Most of it hard to take in, but Steve had felt an obligation to read every last paper in the file. So at least someone could bare witness to this man’s horrific story.
It was probably a bit unnecessary, as there were SHIELD agents that most likely had the job of reading the full file, but still. Steve had to know. His curiosity often been somewhat of a downfall.
And what he had learned was, frankly, disturbing. The brainwashing, the experimentation, the cryofreeze (that made him shudder every time he thought about it)--it was absolutely horrendous.
Steve has no doubts that whoever the Winter Soldier was, before he was tortured into becoming who he is, would not have signed up for this. Who would? To go through horrific circumstances, even if it was to gain power, and then be forced to follow orders and kill on behalf of a country you believed yourself to be the symbol of--
Steve shuts down that line of thought before t gets too hypocritical.
“Coulson has a theory,” Natasha says, still chewing her gum. She doesn’t look relaxed at all, but she’s not quite tense, either. “That there are triggers, psychological triggers implanted in his brain. Just like there were when I was taken in,” she adds, at Steve’s worried look. “We’ve already gone through the most common verbal ones. We’re doing visual, and then we’ll do physical.”
“I’m--visual?” says Steve, feeling immensely stupid. Natasha gives him a look.
“You’re Captain America, the epitome of all that Russia despises,” says Natasha, and there’s a bite to her words. “What do you think?”
Steve nods. “So I--”
“Strike a pose. Monologue. Be Captain America and see if anything happens. I’ll be right outside.” And with those endlessly helpful instructions, Natasha ducks out the door,and Steve is left in the room.
Steve turns to Not-Bucky, feeling ridiculous. “Poses,” he mutters to himself, and puts his shield on his arm, his hands on his hips, and thrusts his chest out.
Nothing. The Winter Soldier keeps staring at him, and Steve’s not sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed.
He cycles through a couple more “Captain America” poses--whatever that means--until he runs out of ideas. Not-Bucky still hasn’t done anything, so Steve just plops down in the seat across from him.
“Hello,” he says awkwardly, and it’s oddly reminiscent of the beginning of this whole thing.
Not-Bucky looks at him with disinterest, which is at least a little bit better than the whole blank stare that was happening before.
“Nat--the agent told me to monologue, but that--that’s just words. And they’ve already tested you for, um, verbal triggers. And it shouldn’t have any effect if I say them?” His voices rises up at the end. “Um, I don’t know. Sorry.”
Not-Bucky stares. Steve doesn’t particularly want to leave the cell before Natasha comes in and says he can go. He’s too uncertain, knocked off balance by this whole situation. Usually he’s good at calling the shots, but this--he doesn’t know what to do.
Natasha, oddly enough, does not seem to be entering the room, or attempting to talk to Steve.
Steve takes the moment of silence to look Not-Bucky over. The more he stares, the more off his initial reaction seems. They’re all little nuances, little things that throw him off the scent of deja vu, things that could’ve been changed from torture and brainwashing, and cryofreeze, but are likely features this man has always had. Maybe not the metal arm, though, but still. This man is not Bucky.
But what if he was?
“Hey,” says Steve, sort of idly. Down this path lies only danger and pain, but now that he’s started down it, he can’t turn back. “Can you say something vaguely insulting in a Brooklyn accent?”
Not-Bucky looks at him. There’s a long pause where Steve thinks he’s not going to say anything at all, just like he has for this entire time.
But then.
“This,” says the WInter Soldier, and there’s a slight Russian tinge to the word, but then-- “is completely ridiculous.”
For a moment, Bucky sits across from Steve fully formed and it’s 1940 again.
The moment dissolves with a flash of light reflected off of the Winter Soldier’s arm. Steve forces air into his lungs, leans back.
“Thanks,” he tells Not-Bucky and waits for Natasha to come get him.
“So what are you going to do with him?” asks Steve at the end of a mission debrief. It was a fairly standard mission, all things considered, and they had ended up not needing Thor or Bruce, but all the Avengers ended up at the debrief anyway. “The Winter Soldier,” clarifies Steve, when Coulson continues to look confused. “You tested him for triggers, and somehow, you erased the ones you found. Now what?”
“Captain, I don’t see how this applies to the mission--” Coulson starts, but Steve barrels onwards because this is all he’s been thinking about for the past week.
“Are you going to rehabilitate him? Let him go? Or just keep him in his cell?” he challenges. Around the room, the Avengers are straightening up, watching.
“The Winter Soldier is an extremely dangerous assassin,” says Coulson stiffly. “He’s killed over a hundred people in cold blood, and I’m only talking about the ones we know of. He’s been operating for at least seventy years. We can’t just let him go.”
“So you’re going to help him,” states Steve.
Coulson purses his lips. “He doesn’t talk, he barely eats, he barely sleeps, he’s barely--” Coulson hesitates. “He’s barely there, Captain. There’s not much left to save.”
“You brought me out of the ice,” says Steve, and he can practically feel the Avengers’ eyes boring holes into him. “You took Natasha in, you brought us all together against unspeakable odds, and you can’t--”
“If we took in every villain in this country with the expectation of letting them go--” says Coulson, his voice rising.
“--forget he’s a person, and to me--”
“--he’s committed multiple various atrocities, worked for enemies of America--”
“--it didn’t look like he had much damn choice in the matter!” Steve’s voice rises to a shout, and he slams his fist on the table. The room is very, very quiet, and Steve takes a deep breath.
“You’re punishing an innocent man,” he says softly. ‘You’re not even giving him a chance.”
“He’s had chances,” says Coulson, though his mouth is scrunched up, and he’s avoiding Steve’s eyes. “Why did he choose now to get away from the Russians? Don’t you think he would want to get revenge on those who tortured him by giving us the information we’ve been asking for? He’s not whoever you want him to be, Steve. There are some people you just can’t save, that you have to stop.”
Steve clenches his fists, grits his teeth. Takes a deep breath.
If he does what he’s thinking of doing, his life will forever changed, not to mention the life of the man trapped downstairs. If he does this, history will have to be changed, if he does this, it’ll be simultaneously the worst thing he’s ever done, and the best. In fact, he’s not sure who this will hurt, who this will help.
But what did Bucky always say to him, about the biggest Jewish law? “To save someone else’s life is prioritized above all else.”
Steve licks his lips, and catches Coulson’s eyes.
“It’s Bucky,” he says, and thinks, Goodbye, Bucky. This, perhaps, may be the hardest thing he’s ever said. “The Winter Soldier is Bucky.”
The room collapses into an uproar.
Tony makes Jarvis “work for a living” and Steve’s never been so glad to hear the words “95% facial recognition” in his life.
He honestly didn’t know if this was going to work.
He’s been trembling for the last half hour, something he’d noted quite calmly a while ago, and was still not quite bothering him. It was like everything else besides what revolved around “Bucky” was taking a humongously long time to process.
“That’s 5% off,” says Coulson, and he cocks an eyebrow at Steve. Steve doesn’t slump in his chair, even though he’s exhausted. He doesn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know what to say,” he mumbles.
“Are you sure that the Winter Soldier, the man downstairs, is Bucky Barnes?” prods Bruce. “Because Steve, if you’re wrong--”
“I knew Bucky my whole life,” says Steve softly. He looks down, uncurls his shaking fingers. “I’d know his face anywhere.” That, at least, is not a falsehood.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” demands Natasha. “When I brought you in?”
Steve looks up again, meets her eyes across the table. He’s not a particularly good liar, and he doesn’t know how Natasha isn’t picking up on the hundreds of clues he’s surely broadcasting, or how Clint and Coulson aren’t, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Would you have believed me?” asks Steve.
The room goes quiet.
“Bucky Barnes,” says Coulson heavily. “Jesus Christ.”
For a moment, Steve feels bad for him. It could’ve been much simpler than this. He could’ve let it all go, let the Winter Soldier sink into forgotten oblivion, let an innocent man who had no choice continue to have no choice--but that would’ve been too easy.
And Steve’s never gone down without a fight.
“Guess you can’t pack him up and ship him off to Siberia like you wanted,” says Tony, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “He’s an American hero, Coulson, so what are you going to do? Can’t kill him off now, can you?”
Steve shudders.
Coulson seems to ignore the last thing Tony said, instead choosing to put his elbows on the table and bury his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters again. “What the hell is Fury going to say? What am I going to do?”
“Give the Captain’s fallen brother to him,” says Thor, and all eyes turn to the god who has been quietly observing. His face is drawn, his fingers curled around Mjolnir. For a second, an image of Thor and Loki facing each other flashes across Steve’s vision. Then, it’s gone. “Is that not the only thing to do? The right thing?”
Tony snorts. “SHIELD’s never had a history of doing the right thing, buddy,” he says, and claps Thor on the back. Clint frowns, and Thor looks confused.
Coulson sighs. “That’s probably our best option. We’re going to have to get him settled into the modern era, reintroduce him to all the things he’s missed, and get him to--to be a person again.” He sighs again.
Steve feels a little sick, all of a sudden. He thinks, What if the Winter Soldier never wanted to be rescued? What if this is just another choice I’ve stolen from him?
But it’s too late now to go back.
That night, Steve screams and sobs into his pillow, and wakes up after nightmares that he has far too clear recollection of.
He wonders if he is doing the right thing.
He wonders if he ever knew what the right thing was.
He draws Bucky as he remembers him--jaw a little rounded, cheekbones sharp, that little crease in his brow, the way his mouth turned up when he smiled--and then burns it.
He wonders if Bucky would forgive him for what he’s done.
Two days later the Winter Soldier--Bucky, now, Steve has to remember that--is brought to Avengers Tower.
Steve hasn’t been allowed to see him, which is perhaps why the others let him step forward first.
Bucky enters the room with two SHIELD agents flanking him. He’s got his arm still attached, but it’s hanging at his side, and Steve knows it’s been deactivated. Bucky’s long hair is still hanging in his face, and he walks carefully, lightly. He stops in the middle of the room, his head hanging low. He doesn’t look like an assassin. He looks lost, and cold.
“Heya Buck,” says Steve, and pain bites at the corners of his upturned lips.
The two SHIELD agents behind Bucky are perfectly still. Bucky slowly raises his head.
“Can you--” and his voice is rough, hoarse. “Can you call me James?”
Is this kinder? Is this easier? That Bucky--Not-Bucky--James, is creating an even further gap between himself and the man Steve once knew?
Steve’s not sure. He only knows that it feels like he’s cracked a rib, like he’s silently choking on air, like he’s freezing.
Steve resists the urge to reach out and lay a hand on Bucky’s--James’--shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice cracks. “Of course, James.”
He can’t--he can’t do this. He turns away from James, towards the rest of the Avengers, and they must see something on his face, because Tony steps forward, relieves him of this duty.
Steve’s relief doesn’t last for long.
“Nice to meet you, RoboCop,” Tony says cheerfully. “Heard you killed my parents.”
Steve freezes, looks over his shoulder. That’s right. Steve had almost forgotten that was in the file.
No, not forgotten. How could he, when Tony’s breakdown was so horrendous? In his tunnel vision, it was more like he had just pushed the thought aside.
Sorry, Tony, Steve thinks, and feels kind of sick.
James’ eyes are wide, and his arm, his right arm, has darted to his sweatpants, where a gun could be. Where a gun isn’t, because he’s been stripped down and checked for weapons repeatedly.
“I--” he tries, and shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”
Apparently that’s the wrong thing to say. Tony’s expression shutters, and it’s then Steve realizes how false his smile was before. He feels another pang in his chest.
“That’s great,” says Tony carelessly, and turns away, tossing a hand in the air. “Alright, follow me, I’ll give you the grand tour--”
“I don’t remember,” says James, and it’s a little steadier this time. “But I’m sorry. Were we--I think--” And he looks to Steve.
Steve swallows.
What they say about lying is true--that one will only lead to another, and that will lead to yet another, and the cycle will continue until you lay dying in your bed, and you have affected things forever more. That the lie you created will live on after your death.
Steve’s already died once.
“You and Howard were good friends,” he says, and he refuses to look anywhere but James’ eyes. “You loved working with your hands, and figuring out how things worked. You were good at it.” He breathes; in, out. “Howard was gonna give you a place at Stark Industries once the war was over.”
James shakes his head. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t move except for the slight turning back and forth of his head. “I don’t remember,” he whispers, and it’s not nearly as agonized as Steve imagined this confession would be.
Perhaps because he imagined another man confessing.
“That’s okay,” says Steve, and his heart is heavy as he watches the ghost he created stand in the place of a man who will never live again. “You’re here now.”
Slowly, never breaking eye contact with Steve, James reaches up and tucks his hair behind his ears.
“Okay,” he says.
It’s so unlike Bucky that Steve fights the urge to scream.
He avoids James for a little while, about three days. In that time, the Avengers learn James is easily startled, prefers to have at least three knives on him at all times (if not a gun), can speak eloquently in numerous languages (though he often refuses to speak at all), loves blueberry pancakes (Steve doesn’t say Bucky used to hate blueberries), and has a very clear preference for Natasha, out of all the Avengers.
“I shot you,” James says to Natasha in the kitchen that second morning. Steve is passing by on his way out to go for a four hour long run that will make him sweaty and shaky and sore but still not satisfied. His Russian isn’t great, but he’s picked up enough that he catches what James says, and what Natasha says back.
“I know,” she says, flipping a golden pancake with blue dots on the stove. “I forgive you.”
Then she adds a quip, something about bikinis, Steve thinks, but Steve escapes the room too fast to catch the end of it.
Isn’t this what you wanted? he screams at himself as he barrels past the blur of New York City at dawn. Didn’t you want to save him?
No, Steve answers himself. And this is the truth. I wanted to save Bucky.
But Bucky’s dead.
Steve’s only an hour in, so he keeps going.
Steve’s out on the roof the next night, sketching the sky and wishing he was someplace he could see the stars, and James comes to find him.
He’s quiet, like the lethal assassin he was--is--whatever--and he sneaks up on Steve. Not on purpose. Just one minute there’s nothing but concrete roof to Steve’s right, and then there’s a person.
“Hello,” says James, and Steve almost laughs.
“Hi,” he says, instead, and keeps sketching. It’s hard, because all of a sudden, he has the overwhelming urge to see if he can get Bucky’s jaw right. If he remembers how it curved, the exact shape of it--
James takes a deep breath beside him. “I disabled the security cameras up here,” he says quietly.
This gets Steve to stop moving his pencil. “Jarvis, too?” he asks, surprised.
James nods, a fluid motion. “I asked him for privacy. He acquiesced.”
It’s Steve’s turn to nod silently. He gets the feeling James has something he wants to say, and Steve’s happy--well, maybe not happy --to hear him say it.
“I don’t remember you,” says James. The metal arm brushes up against Steve’s shoulder. The two of them are wearing tank tops and sweatpants, and Jame’s has a jacket scrunched up in his right hand. Distantly, Steve registers that yes, it’s getting colder,and he should get inside before the temperature sends him into a full blown panic attack, but it’s so quiet up here, and James is turned at just the right angle so that it could almost be Bucky and Stevie on the roof of their Brooklyn apartment in 1940--
“I don’t think I ever will,” says James, and it’s like slap to the face, like cold air has punched Steve directly in the sternum.
Steve doesn’t answer, can’t answer. He’s lost the ability.
James lifts his metal arm, examines it, twitches the fingers. Tony fixed it yesterday, and it hadn’t gone very well. Steve had watched, from a distance, as James went into full soldier mode, completely unaware of anything around him. Fortunately, no one had gotten hurt.
“I’m not James Buchanan Barnes,” he says. “I never was.”
Steve’s numb.
“No,” he whispers. “No, you--”
“I don’t know who I was,” continues James. “But I was never your friend. Why did you--why did you lie?” He shakes his head, a move that Steve’s come to associate purely with him, a short uncertain movement of the head that Bucky never did. “Why would you do that for me?”
Steve takes a deep breath.
Why? Oh, too many reasons. Steve’s not even sure he knows. Nonetheless, he’s going to do his best to explain.
James deserves that, at least.
“I loved Bucky Barnes,” he starts, and he’s shaking. “I loved Bucky Barnes beyond anything I’d ever love or ever will love, and I let him die alone.” Steve breathes again, looks out over the horizon. “We were together for--since forever. Since we knew what love was, since we knew how to make love. It was hard, but--but there was no one for me besides Bucky. How could I--if you were--” He swallows. “If you had been Bucky, I would’ve done anything to save you.” And this is the heart of the problem, this is the core of it all. “But you weren’t. You look like him, but you aren’t him, but when I saw you, all I could think was what if you were him? What if you were Bucky?”
James is absolutely silent.
“Everyone deserves to be saved,” says Steve quietly. “Everyone deserves to make their own choices, to make their own mistakes, to decide what their future’s going to be. I took that from you, I think, and that was selfish. I thought, maybe, I could get Bucky back. I know I can’t now, I know you’re not--you’re not him. But you deserve--now you have some freedom.” James is looking at him now, Steve can feel it. “You can tell the others if you want. From here on out, it’s--it’s your show.” He smiles ruefully out into the night sky. “If Bucky was here, he’d probably smack me upside down the head for pulling such a stupid move, and call me a punk. And then--and then he would’ve helped you out. Probably in a more practical way, but--” Steve lets this last sentence trail out. “I loved Bucky Barnes,” he says, and he can almost feel the words drift away from him, like a leaf sliding away on a river. “And now he’s gone. If I couldn’t save him--if I couldn’t save myself--I have to at least try to save others.”
Steve remembers, vaguely, a few days ago, Natasha telling him to monologue for the Winter Soldier. He feels a strange urge to laugh.
Then, someone strikes a soft blow on the back of his head. It’s almost a tap, it’s so gentle.
“Idiot,” says James, but his lips are turned up the slightest bit.
Steve gapes at him.
“I don’t want you to be Bucky,” says Steve, fearful that James has misinterpreted what he’s said. “If you want us to call you something else, we can, whatever you’re comfortable with, you don’t have to be--”
“As I said,” says James, and the Brooklyn accent is gone, but the Russian one isn’t quite there either. “Idiot.”
Steve grips the edges of his sketchbook. “I don’t understand,” he says.
“James fits,” James starts. “It’s--it works. I’m not your Bucky, and I never will be. But Steve Rogers--” Here, he pauses, and holds out his hand. His right hand. Steve stares at him for moment, and then loosens his grip to take the left hand. James blinks, but wraps his metal fingers around Steve’s. “Steve Rogers, you are not a hard man to love, I think. You gave me freedom, both because you thought I deserved it, and because you wanted it.” He leans forward, intent. “Let me give you this for the same reasons.”
Steve licks his lips, nods, and fights the blush he can feel rising up on his cheeks. “Okay,” he says, and looks into James’ eyes. They’re a little bit off, and the cheekbones aren’t that sharp, and the jaw’s not quite the right shape, but the eyes are still beautiful, the cheekbones still shapely, the jaw still pronounced. “Okay.”
They’re gonna be alright.
Perhaps the Avengers figure it out. Steve certainly has his suspicions about Natasha. But in the end, it doesn’t really matter.
Steve will never get Bucky back. James will never remember who he was.
But in the end, that doesn't really matter either.