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There is a brief, glorious moment after the cube does its work, wherein Bucky stops trying to kill Steve, and looks at him like he's the entire world. This is, however, scant seconds before he collapses, curls into the fetal position, and starts whimpering, “Steve, Steve what have I done?” over and over again.
It only gets worse from there on out.
Steve's instinct, when presented with a Bucky in distress, is to—situation permitting—allow his whole world to focus in on Bucky, and whatever it is that is making him hurt. Given the vicious stretch of time since their last meeting, and the concentrated intensity of Bucky's anguish, Steve's situational filter may be less than functional. Steve is crouched by Bucky's side, holding his hand (or rather, letting Bucky cling to his hand like some desperate anchor) when a squadron of SHIELD agents, whose approach he really should have noticed, materializes from the shadows. They're led by Nick Fury himself, flanked by Hill and Coulson (who looks like he's trying very hard to toe the party-line and mean business while witnessing the reunion between Captain America and Bucky Barnes) on either side.
“Captain, we need to take Sergeant Barnes into custody,” Fury says.
And with that simple sentence, he changes everything.
–
Natasha storms into the room, her agitation evident—it's an unusual state, and Steve knows this won't be good news, but he still has to ask. “What's the word, Agent Romanov?”
“Nothing,” she says. “None of it is working—not the telepaths, not the neurologists. It's all just gone.” She clenches her fists and takes a deep, slow breath. (Natasha Romanov needing to compose herself is a little-known horseman of the apocalypse; Steve is concerned). “I should have known they'd program in a failsafe. He knew too much.”
“Can we see him?” Steve stares at her, and he must be hemorrhaging hope and desperation from his words and from his eyes, but emotional restraint isn't something he has at his disposal right now.
“They've got him so drugged up he won't even know we're there,” Natasha says. “And besides,” she adds, “he doesn't remember us. He doesn't remember anything.”
“I know,” Steve says. “I know.” He'll never forget the way Bucky's face went blank when the cuffs went on—no love, no fear, not even the Winter Soldier's rage—just, nothing.
“I'll get you in, Captain,” Natasha says, resigned.
Steve knows he must seem pathetic, if the Black Widow is taking pity, but he can't dwell on that, just tells Natasha, “Thanks,” and goes to find a quiet spot where he can sit and wait and resolutely not think about the way Bucky looked, empty of light and emotion, until she comes for him.
–
They've got Bucky too drugged, and not drugged enough. He is shaking hands and unfocussed eyes, and Steve, who's versed in the curves of each of Bucky's emotions, even now, can see in him still the same terrible fear that first overtook him the moment he first found himself locked in a cell without memories or meaning.
“Bucky,” Steve says.
There is neither reaction or recognition.
“Please don't be afraid,” Steve says. “I won't hurt you. Or let anyone else hurt you. You're safe.” It's not a lie—he's as safe as anyone in the custody of a shadowy government organization has ever been, with Captain America and the Black Widow hovering over him like gloomy, violently-protective mother hens.
There is no response, no subtle twitch to the shadowed face, and Steve wonders if the words even mean anything to him at all, if any of the languages he knew are still in there.
“I'll help you,” Steve says. “I swear.”
–
“Imagine,” Natasha says, “that the human brain is a sponge.”
Steve nods his mute understanding.
“When they wipe you, it's like they're wringing it out,” she says.
Steve says, “But a sponge can reabsorb what was wrung out.” He is pacing.
Natasha's mouth curls. “A new sponge, fresh out of the package, maybe. But if it's been squeezed out a hundred times, if it's been worn to bits from endless scrubbing, the liquid stays on the counter.”
“And he's been wrung out too many times...” Steve finishes.
“Exactly,” Natasha says.
Steve takes a deep painful breath. “So there's nothing we can do?”
She is silent and still.
“We can't just leave him like that,” Steve says. “He's terrified and drugged out of his mind. It's inhumane.”
“Sometimes, there is no humane option.” Natasha's voice is cold, brittle.
Steve's eyes go shock-wide. “You can't mean—”
“No,” she cuts him off. Natasha has started pacing—it isn't like her. “At least, not yet. Not as the first recourse.”
“What else can we do?” Steve asks, unable to mask his abundant concern.
“Even a damaged sponge will still get wet if you dunk it in water.”
Steve looks at her, perplexed.
“You're right,” she says, mouth curling. “That analogy is crap.”
“You pull it off,” Steve tells her, echoing her small smile.
“What I meant is, his memories won't come back by themselves,” Natasha says.
Steve shuts his eyes and swallows, but when his eyes open, his face is all business; vulnerability all set aside, Cap through and through. “But we could make him new ones.”
Everything about the idea of digging into Bucky's mind, of manipulating him just the way Department X did is abhorrent to Steve. For Natasha, who's been through that herself, it must be so, so much worse. “Exactly,” she says. “We make him new ones.”
Steve does not look at her in the awe-struck way he wants. “I don't suppose we could...?”
Natasha shakes her head. “His life is too strange. There are too many gaps; it would be too hard to make someone believe that their youthful body was born in 1922. The memories might not stick, and if they did, they'd probably drive him insane.”
“Makes sense. We won't be working with the level of experience the people who...hurt you and Bucky had, either.”
“So you've already decided we should try?” Natasha asks, smirking.
“It's wrong,” Steve says, “But so is leaving him like this.”
“Sometimes there is not right, Captain,” she says. “Only the least-wrong option.”
Steve laughs, the sound uncharacteristic in its bitterness. “Bucky always used to try and protect me from morally ambiguous stuff. Of course, I'm a soldier, and we were at war—I had my share of the grey area. But he still tried. He always tried.”
Natasha puts a companionable hand on his shoulder. “That's our James. Lucky you—you have me for the ambiguous stuff now, Captain.”
–
“The key,” Natasha says, “is in the details. They always started with a simple idea, but the details are what makes it come to life and take root in your mind.”
Steve frowns. He's still a bit unsettled from how quickly SHIELD had jumped at the chance to try implanting memories. “What kinds of details?”
Natasha goes a little paler at the thought, and Steve is all set to stumble out apologies for his insensitivity when she stops him with a curt wave of her hand. “Once,” Natasha says, “I was a ballerina—”
Not 'they made me,' not 'I was programmed to be,' 'I was.'
“--The memory that made it feel most real, it wasn't all the memories of training, and breaking in toe-shoes, and my first day en pointe. It was a doll. When I was three, I had this doll—one made to look like me, with red string for hair, and I made my mother sew her a tutu, because she was a ballerina, just like I wanted to be. That made the dream of dancing real.”
Her eyes are somewhere far away, and Steve wants desperately to help, but does not know where to start, or if she'd welcome the effort. “Okay,” Steve says. “Details. Where should we start? What kind of life will we give him?”
Natasha smiles a small, tentative smile. “I think he should have a cat.”
–
James takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. He'd promised his professor that even though he wasn't using his linguistics degree, he wasn't going to let four years of Russian classes go to waste, but he's having trouble focusing on Pushkin today. The tome resting on his knees is just making his head hurt. Maybe, James thinks, he's still tired from a long shift on his feet. Maybe he's still tired from his still recent cross-country move. His arm hurts—well, his arm doesn't hurt, the nerve damage took care of that—his arm is disconcertingly numb, and his shoulder hurts. The symphony of its constant, dull throb is becoming familiar.
Vaya is curled, sleeping, against his thigh, and James turns his attention from the cries of confused nerve endings, to stroking her fur.
Jasper, his new roommate—also new to Seattle, having been transferred by his job for some undisclosed branch of the government—is on the phone, and James finds himself spacing off and listening in. He's read somewhere that one side of a conversation is harder to ignore than both, so James reasons that it really isn't his fault.
“Listen,” Jasper says, uncharacteristically exasperated, “you can't call to check in every day. That defeats the entire point of Seattle!”
He pauses a moment. “Seattle is lovely! I actually really like the weather. I went to the Space Needle yesterday! Thank you for asking!”
In the two weeks that they've known each other, James has found that Jasper has a marked tendency to occasionally speak entirely in bright exclamations—apparently, this phenomenon extends to frustrating phone conversations.
“Look, Rogers, I get it, and I'm sorry,” Jasper says, “he's fine. Leaves his dishes in the sink for at least a day every time, but he's fine.”
James hazards a glance in the direction of the kitchen, and wonders if he should wash his dish from lunch. It's not his fault Jasper is some kind of ridiculous, inordinate neat-freak, who never leaves anything, anywhere. It's hard to not be messy compared to someone like that.
“Absolutely not!” Jasper says into the phone, emphatic—and then, “you're right, that is interesting. Fine—twice a week. I'll give you twice a week—yes, and holidays and special occasions. You have to—what? You're on a mission right now?! You're calling me, and you're—” His eyes dart over to James, and he lowers his voice. It's no use, because James can still totally hear. “Get back to what you're supposed to be doing before Carter kills you. You know she will!”
Jasper hangs up, and give James a guilty look. “That was, um—my work,” he stammers out.
James looks at him, frank and unimpressed. He should probably be finding the conversation that just took place intriguing, but he kind of just wants to go to sleep. He's tired.
–
James dreams, that night, of slipping, soundless, into a heavily-guarded bunker; he slits the throats of sentinels, and awakens, with the first stirrings of dawn, expecting blood on his hands.
He sits up, sweating and cursing. There's no going back to sleep after that one, and even though he's working shitty afternoon shifts at the bar like all new guys do, he's still not due at work for a while. Vaya sits in the window, grooming sleek, black fur, and watching him with unconcerned eyes. James checks the clock—5:23 glows in digital red on the nightstand; he's got a ruthless number of hours to kill. James swears under his breath. He blames Jasper and his clearly shadowy government job—why else would he be having super-spy dreams?
Except that dream hadn't come with the adrenaline-and-concession-candy rush of an action film; for something so fantastical, the feel of plunging metal into the vulnerable flesh of someone's neck had been too real. Like every dream that James has had since his accident, this one was a nightmare.
James sighs, turns on the light, and grabs his glasses and a book off the small stack behind the clock. It is, he thinks, a Gorky kind of...well, it's either morning, or night.
Vaya takes a sudden interest in his activities, and hops onto the bed, circling and exploring a while before she settles in the hollow between his elbow and his waist. James scratches her head, and she purrs, contented. He passes the rest of the morning in bed with cat and book until the growl of his stomach propels him towards the kitchen.
It's an uneventful morning, followed by an uneventful shift, and an uneventful night.
–
“What do you do, anyway, Jasper?” James asks, scraping cream cheese onto a toasted bagel with a butter-knife.
It takes Jasper a second to react. “Sorry,” he says into his cup of coffee. “Not really used to being called by my first name anymore.” He grins at James. “I work for the government.”
James rolls his eyes. “I know that. Lots of people work for the government. Like the guys that repave the sidewalk.”
“How do you know I don't pave the sidewalk for a living?” Jasper asks, chipper.
“I bet those guys respond to their first names,” James shoots back.
Jasper just smiles. Living with him has taught James how it must feel to be a lone storm-cloud sweeping in across a sunny sky; it's an oddly familiar sensation.
–
James gets his first, proper, six-to-closing shift on a Wednesday. He celebrates, at the end of the night, when last call has swept the last of the barflies away, with a shot of sweet, Kentucky bourbon, and a triumphant count of all his tips. He's missed the lazy afternoons, and the way the night air feels walking home, but he's missed the bounty of working the busy hours most of all.
What James hasn't missed are the drunken boors that either want to fight him or fuck him (a guy hits on him all night, and won't take 'fuck off' for an answer), or the gnawing anxiety of walking home alone with a wad of cash in his pocket (he's hyper-vigilant on the trek back to the apartment). Halfway there, his toes curl with the creeping sensation that there's someone on his trail—he's not sure if it's the nerves, or the increased awareness, but James blames his too-alert state either way.
By the time he gets home, he's wound-tight with stress. It's just as well that James doesn't have a valid reason to be awake much before six in the evening tomorrow, since it seems unlikely he'll be sleeping any time soon.
Much to his surprise, Jasper—who usually keeps terribly standard hours—is awake and in the kitchen, half-shouting, terribly strained, into the phone. James collapses onto the couch and turns on the television, but quickly remembers that another flaw of working nights is coming home to nothing on. With some (slight) guilt, he instead tunes into Jasper's conversation.
“Wilson,” Jasper is saying, uncharacteristic in his agitation, “it's like...half your job to keep him from chasing bad ideas. You're his best friend.”
“How is this a bad idea?” He is borderline hysterical now. “This is the actual mother of bad ideas.”
Jasper rubs at his temple. “I'm not yelling at Carter right now, because she's not calling me to tell me about this an entire day after the fact—also, Sharon'd kill me, and you know things between them have been a little tense since...And this is completely beside the point!”
“What do I want you to do? I want you to fly your spandex-clad ass over here and fix it!”
There is a pause, and Jasper pales a little. “Sorry, Wilson,” he says. “It's very lovely spandex.”
James gives up on trying to decipher to conversation, and retires to his room, where he sprawls out on a bed that feels strangely empty, even with Vaya curled up by his side, and stares at the ceiling for what might be hours, until he finally drifts off to sleep.
James dreams, that night, of someone with a warm smile and blond hair, and he wakes up terribly lonely, to the sun shining bright through the curtains and the clock glowing half-past two.
–
There is an attractive man on his couch. It is not, James thinks, with some regret—and this probably means he's insane—the person from his dream. This man is tall, handsome, and muscular, with a sharp smile and warm, dark skin, and he's using the string of his hoodie to play with James' treacherous cat, who does not seem to be concerned that her owner's got bed-head and PJ pants and there's someone hot in his house. (Vaya rises up on her hind legs, like she's dancing, batting at the string).
The stranger looks up at James, who is quite caught up in glaring at his cat, and says, “What the hell kind of a name is 'Vaya,' for a cat, anyway?”
James runs a casual hand through his hair, trying to return it to some semblance of order. “It's short for Pikovaya Dama,” he says. “That means 'queen of spades.' It's from a Russian short story. Pushkin. I majored...in college...”
The stranger looks thoroughly unimpressed. “So you're the infamous James Barnes?” He gives James a once over. “Heard a lot about you.”
James raises an eyebrow. “Jasper talks about me?”
“'Jasper,' nice,” the stranger says, laughing at some private joke. “And yeah—sure, him.”
“So, uh, how do you know Jasper?” James asks. He's distracted by the broad expanse of the man's shoulders.
The stranger smirks; he's still playing with Vaya. “Sitwell and I are...work friends.”
“So you can tell me what it is he actually does for a living?” James asks, a little over-eager.
He laughs. “Good try, kid, but no.”
Sufficiently exasperated, James meanders into the kitchen, and starts making coffee. “Who are you, anyway?” he asks. “Figure I should know, seeing as you're on my couch, playing with my traitor-cat.”
“Sam Wilson,” he says, scratching behind the aforementioned creature's ears. “And don't take her defection personally—I'm good with animals. So, why'd you move to Seattle?” he asks, smiling.
James rubs his shoulder. “Got into an accident back home. Kind of a freak deal. Massive nerve damage, can't even feel my left arm anymore. Wanted a fresh start.” He does not mention the nightmares and the PTSD, though some part of him wants, very badly, to tell anyone at all.
“That,” Sam says, quite incredulous, “sounds like a very, very unusual injury, indeed.”
Jasper chooses that moment to materialize in the living room. “James, I see you've met Sam. He's a...colleague of mine. He has to go now. He's got some work to do...” The last part of what he's saying is not even remotely directed at James. “I'm going to help him.”
Sam strokes Vaya once more, and then heads out with a smile and a wave, and Jasper on his heel.
–
Sam doesn't show up at the apartment again, and Jasper seems to spend every minute he spends there on the phone. There's a part of James that desperately wants to know what all the strangeness is about, but something stronger within him just wants to pretend there's nothing amiss, so that's what he does.
On Saturday, James works twelve to six, and the bar starts filling up early. By five, the place is uncharacteristically crowded for the time of day, even if it is the weekend. Though James is initially mystified, the explanation finds him soon enough—it is the nature of his sorry existence that he has to be completely and utterly in the weeds when the most attractive human being that he's ever seen in his life sits down at the bar.
He's blond and all sorts of ripped, with a jawline James can't help but fantasize about licking, but what James catches on is the kindness in his eyes. There is kindness and guilt and some kind of old, unmasked, pain; there is something familiar, there, too, like snatches of a dream returning suddenly in waking life. James wants to wrap around him and hear his every story (naked, in bed).
Instead, he settles for asking, “What can I get you?” and smiling, almost definitely too wide and too bright to be socially acceptable.
The gorgeous man ignores the fact that James is now apparently incapable of controlling his face, and smiles back. “What do you have on tap, that's local?”
“We have a few local beers on tap!” he says, trying to moderate his excitement-level and failing. “There's the Profanity Hill Porter from Schooner Exact, the Boundary Bay IPA, the Summer Ale from Big Al Brewing, and the Loser Pale Ale, and the Avatar Jasmine IPA from Elysian.”
“Which one,” the beautiful man asks, “is your favorite?”
“The jasmine IPA sounds crazy, but it's fuckin' delicious,” James tells him.
He beams at James—and could this Adonis actually be attracted to him? The newly-minted twenty-one year olds from the university always are, but they're very drunk, and very excited that James is bringing them beer. This man is something entirely different. “Well, I'll take a pint of that, then,” he says, still smiling.
“Great!” James says, and he's really not running the show when it comes to exclamation points anymore. “That'll be six dollars!”
James goes to pour the beer, and wonders if it would be acceptable to bring him a pitcher when he asked for a pint. He is jerked from his reverie by a hand on his shoulder—the shock of the unexpected contact is so bad that James almost attacks on raw instinct. The beer in his hand is the only thing that stops him from punching his coworker in the face. “That is a very attractive man,” she hisses under her breath, “not my type, but very attractive. However, you've got other customers.”
For the first time since the photoshop-come-to-life blond sat down in front of him, James takes in the scene. There are an awful lot of patrons waiting; and though his fellow bartender has been doing the best she can to compensate, it's busy, and there's a reason that both of them are working. He turns to apologize, but she's already gone, rum-and-orange in one hand, whiskey sour in the other, and change in both.
James brings the gorgeous man his drink, trying to take in as much of his beauty as possible before he has to return to the mundane slog of his regular life. The beautiful blond smiles, says a polite thanks, and hands James a ten for the beer—which he enthusiastically praises. James hopes, in some still-naive corner of his heart, that the man will stick around until the end of his shift.
He doesn't, though—he doesn't stay, just leaves behind an empty pint, and all four dollars of his change as a tip, on the bar.
James sighs, and gets back to work—the phrase “too good to be true” comes to mind. He goes to take the order of a young woman who's alone at the bar, casting anxious glances in the direction of the table where her friends are all gathered.
“Jack and ginger,” she says. “Bummer about that guy. He was gorgeous. I didn't even mind the wait—would have done the same if it was me.”
James gives her a weak smile, and goes to make her drink. “That'll be $7,” he says.
–
It's not until he's slogging up a hill home, sweating and cursing up at the too-bright sun—he's pretty sure that half the reason he moved to this city is its rainy reputation; James would kill for the silver-tinged swirl of rainclouds, right about now—that James recognizes, far too late, the familiarity of that blond hair, and the haunting lilt of those kind eyes, and the way the soft warmth of his smile settled right down in the chill James keeps in his bones.
The man at the bar and the blond-haired mystery in his dreams are one and the same.
–
James paces the apartment like a large cat caged. He cannot sleep, and more than that—he cannot settle down to rest. It's two in the morning, and his heart has spent the last three hours trying to fight its way out through his ribcage (it isn't hammering—that's too gentle of a word). Jasper is not home (and if he were, he wouldn't be awake); James has no friends in this city—though when he thinks about home, his friends back in Chicago, it's like looking through a fogged-up window pane. The facts are there, but all the feelings have been blurred by the passage of time.
It's been a scant several months since he moved to Seattle, and James is shocked by how numb he's already become to the past. He remembers, in technicolor detail, his every friend crowded into his tiny apartment, himself, drinking one-handed, left arm still bandaged from the last of the surgeries. Cassie made a cake—chocolate, with raspberries—it was ugly and homespun, with uneven frosting, and chocolate chips arranged on top in the clumsy imitation of a 'J,' but all the more delicious for its homely looks.
James remembers all of it, every minute, but he doesn't feel a thing.
He looks out the window—all of a sudden, the cool, night air looks terribly welcoming. James realizes with a start, that he is very, very restless. There is a city out there, all quiet and tucked away for the night, because some cities sleep; and if he asks very nicely, it just might swallow him up.
–
James tumbles out the door and into the streets—the air is as crisp as it looked from inside, and he's sans jacket, because he wants to feel it on his skin. Seattle, at this time of night, is clad in little more than the glow of the streetlights and the residual hum of life engrained in the sidewalk (cities smell alive, even when they're resting).
James picks a direction, and goes—somewhere towards Belltown, he thinks—but what's he's chasing is a feeling; something like being alive. It's something animal, like tracking prey in the woods, and he is senseless to everything around him besides.
He is senseless to everything besides the steady thrum of it in his veins, and then he finds himself atop a hill, looking down. It is at that moment that he spots blond hair, and realizes that what he's been chasing isn't a feeling—isn't a feeling at all.
James has no idea how he did this, found him. The blond man spots him right away, and James knows, without understanding how, that he means to run.
“Wait! Please!” James calls to him. “You're in my dreams! Please tell me why you're in my dreams.”
The man looks back at him with such guilt, such anguish, that James bitterly regrets asking. And then he takes off, and James has to take a moment to reassure himself that he hasn't recently taken a blow of some sort to the head, because people don't run that fast.
No one runs that fast, but when James takes off in pursuit, he's keeping pace. The man clears a fifteen-food chain-link fence like it's a hurdle; James follows without thinking. He's up the fence and leaping off before he realize that climbing up means he's going to have to hit the ground. Much to his own surprise, he lands in a crouch, unharmed, already running.
The blond man races down an alleyway—it's a dead end, and surely, surely James can catch him now. Except, for him, the alley is no such thing—the man jumps up onto a dumpster, and then leaps some insane distance onto a nearby fire escape.
James races towards the fire escape and clambers up in pursuit. He is frantic with this, always a landing behind—but the roof must be the end of the road; there's nowhere else he can go from there, so James pushes on and makes it to the top without losing sight of him, shocked at just how easy the ascent is.
The man gives James a hard look, fondness and exasperation bleeding into his eyes, and then he takes a running start and sails across the vast stretch of empty space between the roof they're standing on, and the next one over.
Time slows.
There's no way anyone could jump that far. James has watched the handsome stranger perform impossible feats of athleticism, but this is something else. This is thirty feet of air with a meager running start, and a five story fall underneath.
The most beautiful person he's ever seen is going to die, and James is going to be the one who killed him. James does not think—he just backs up, to take a longer running start, and jumps after him.
If time was slow when James was watching, it's encased in amber when he's the one in the air.
He cannot hear anything but the muffled rush of the wind in his ears, but James thinks that someone is shouting his name. He can see the trajectory his flight is taking, and James does not think he will make it.
–
The next thing James knows, he's clinging to the ledge with bloodied fingers, scrambling desperately for purchase, heart beating like a piston.
Not a moment later, there's a strong hand hauling him up by his wrist.
“I've got you,” the superhuman blond says, depositing James on his feet.
James finds that his legs won't hold him—he's shaking too hard. He collapses—is caught, and set carefully down.
“You're alright,” the man says. “I wasn't gonna let you fall,” quieter, “not again.”
James trembles. He looks at his shaking hands—there's blood on the right, though the adrenaline coursing through his veins masks the pain; on his left hand, there is not blood. There is not blood at all. Beneath the torn skin of his fingers, there is steel.
Shaking turns to convulsing. His heart is racing, and his breathing is jagged. James tries to find words, but incoherent stammering comes out instead. “Why is there metal?” he finally manages.
The blond man sits down besides James, and very hesitant, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Deep breaths, Bu—James. Breathe. I'll tell you everything when you calm down.”
James looks up and into blue eyes that are bright with concern. The touch on his shoulder feels like—he can't even say—like the warmth of the other man's skin is seeping through his shirt and through his skin and into his bones. It brings James back from the brink of panic. Breathing comes easy and clear. His heart is still thrumming in his ears, so bright he feels it in his fingertips, but not like before—James can't look from his eyes. “Who are you?” The awe bleeds into his voice.
“My name is Steve,” he says, smiling, and it's so terribly fond.
James can't help but smile back—brighter, still, when Steve strokes his shoulder.
“I'm not gonna hide anything from you, anymore,” Steve says. The smile fades away. Everything about him radiates honesty. “You're not gonna believe any of it, but I'm telling you everything. Can't take the guilt.”
“Please,” James says. “Please.”
–
“That's all of it,” Steve says. At some point during his story, he got to his feet, and now he's pacing. “You must think I'm crazy, now.”
James takes a moment and a breath. “No,” he says, “no, I believe you.”
Steve arches an eyebrow. James can't stop staring at his face. “How can you possibly believe me?”
James tries to stand, and Steve offers him a hand up—again, his touch sends sparks. James mourns the moment he lets go.
“This—you, what you said. It's the first thing in months—the first thing I really remember that feels real,” James says.
“I should never have underestimated you,” Steve says. “You've always been too good for that.”
The tone is pure adoration. James beams.
“Is there anything you want ask? You must have questions,” Steve says. There's a sweet, concerned furrow in his brow.
James gathers courage. There's one thing he has to know, and he's got to say the words. “Were we—were we in love, Steve?”
Steve smiles, soft and warm and tinged with sorrow. “Yeah.”
“How long?” James asks, giddy with the knowledge.
“We told each other on your sixteenth birthday—on a roof, actually. Like this, but in Brooklyn,” Steve says, wry. “But we were in love before that, for a long time. How'd you know?”
James just shrugs, and looks at his shoes—only for a moment. There are nicer views available to him. James lifts his gaze to stare at Steve's face, and lets the awe take over. “I can't believe—” he says, and then he stops himself.
“What?” Steve asks, the soft smile turned teasing.
James blushes. “How could anyone forget being so lucky?”
Steve shakes his head, sad but terribly affectionate. “You got mind-wiped, Buck—I mean James, sorry. I keep forgetting we didn't give you that nickname.”
“No,” James says, “it's okay. That's who I am, or was, isn't it? You can call me it, if you want.”
“It is you,” Steve says. “There's some spark that's remained the same.” He sighs, and James can feel his heart twist with the turmoil on Steve's face. “I'm so sorry, James. For everything. For fucking with your head. I was desperate, but that isn't an excuse. I should have had faith in you.”
“I forgive you,” James says—without thinking, but it's true. He does forgive Steve—as if James could hold anything against him.
Steve shakes his head, face all screwed up. “You shouldn't. You shouldn't. I don't deserve it.”
“Hey,” James says. He touches Steve's arm—he can't keep away. “You were trying to stop me suffering.”
Steve looks at James, all soft eyes and overwhelming gratitude, and James can't help himself—he reaches up to touch the side of Steve's face; and then, when he meets no resistance, he leans in for a kiss.
It's the sweetest thing that James has ever touched, his mouth against Steve's—and Steve's kissing back, tongue and teeth and need, his hands, searing, on every exposed inch of skin. The intensity is overwhelming, and James pulls away, gasping. He ducks into the crook of Steve's neck, lips brushing the tender skin there.
Steve kisses his hair and strokes the bare skin of his arms. “I never stopped, you know. Loving you.”
“Would you think I was crazy if I said that I love you, too?” James murmurs, nuzzling closer. “I wish—I wish I remembered it all—us.”
“You know I wouldn't think that, and that I also wish you could...But you—after I used the cube to bring back your memories. Maybe it'll be easier for you this way,” Steve says. “You could stay here—have a normal life.”
“No!” James says, emphatic. He frowns. “I have nightmares, Steve. I think they're real—lost memories, maybe. They're fucking awful—the things I do in them...”
Steve wraps strong arms around him, strokes his back. “What do you want, then? It's your choice.”
“I have the bad things already, at least some of them. I want it all. I want the good things,” James says. “I want you.”
Steve laughs, rich and warm. “Yeah?”
“You have no idea,” James says.
“I think I might have some idea,” Steve tells him, voice low.
Suddenly wild, James pulls away. “I can't believe I'm never gonna remember how we were, before.”
“I can show you,” Steve says, smirking. “I promise to be very descriptive.”
“Believe me,” James says, “I've never wanted anything more. And I'm holding you to that—but we have this whole century of history, and there were all these people I knew. Natasha sounds awesome, and I can't even picture a face for her.”
Steve takes his hand. “She'll be happy to be introduced again.”
“You're gonna take me to SHIELD?” James asks.
“Only if you want to go there,” Steve says. “No one's gonna make you do anything. Natasha can meet us anywhere. But I figured that, since you've got some feelings and some nightmares, and that means that there's something of your memories left, there might be some kind of trigger that will bring at least some of them back. I don't trust SHIELD—they thought your mind was a total blank, or at least they told us that—but between them and Natasha, we might be able to find some of the people that programmed that trigger into your mind in the first place.”
James can feel a slow smile creeping its way across his face. “Find the people that took my memories? Maybe get something back? I like the sound of that.”
“You can meet Sharon, when we're there. After she's done killing me for taking off to find you, she'll be dying to meet you,” Steve says. “She's probably pretty jealous that Sam got to meet you first. He liked you by the way—it's good, you've got my best friend's approval.”
“Sharon? She's your ex, right?” James asks, frowning. “Jasper was saying, on the phone, that stuff between you guys was tense.” He makes a face. “I eavesdropped.”
Steve looks him in the eye, very serious. “James, James you have to listen to me. This is very important. You're about to meet a lot of secret agents, and what you have to know about secret agents is this—they're huge gossips. Sharon and I are fine—she's one of the most important people in my life, and we don't have to have sex for that to be true. Love doesn't have to be romantic.”
“Oh,” James says. A beat. “Steve, how are we going to get off this roof?”
“I've got my ways,” Steve says, looking up.
James looks, with apprehension, at the buildings around them. “I don't want to jump again.”
“Don't be silly,” Steve says, “I'm not letting you jump off anymore buildings today. We're getting flown out of here.”
James nuzzles into Steve's shoulder. “Okay.”
“Soon,” Steve says, pulling him close.
James lets himself spend a moment lost in the scent of his clean clothes, his soap, and his skin. A thought crosses his mind, and he cringes. “I just realized that not a single time that I remember having sex actually happened.”
Steve laughs, rich and hearty. “I think we can make a detour, and fix that for you.”
“Promise?” James asks, mind eaten up entirely with images of what it will be like to touch the muscled planes of Steve's godlike physique.
“Promise,” Steve says. “Besides, we should stop by your place to pick up your cat. Natasha will have both our heads if we don't bring Vaya back with us.”
“Steve,” James says, struck by yet another sudden thought, “I have a metal arm. What was the contingency for when I figured that out?”
Steve laughs once again, and James basks in the sound. “It was a bad plan.” He kisses James on the temple. “Really terrible.”
“Good thing you've got me to keep an eye on you again, yeah?” James says, grinning.
Steve just shakes his head, and goes in for another kiss.
–
A SHIELD training facility, Alaska.
“It's like you've never held a gun before in your life,” Steve gripes.
“I haven't!” James says, brandishing the aforementioned weapon. “That I can remember.”
“Easy,” Steve says. “Let's not point that anywhere we don't want to shoot.”
Steve slots himself behind James, and steadies his shaky gun arm—and James doesn't think he'll ever get used to someone else's touch feeling like this, like wires in his nervous system.
“Like this, Buck,” Steve says. He kisses James behind the ear. “I'll go set you some targets.”
Steve runs off into the distance.
“Are you crazy, Steve?” James asks. “I can't hit that. It's dark!”
“You can!” Steve shouts. “I promise.”
When Steve's safe, James takes aim, and pulls the trigger. The can goes down, and James laughs, delighted. He shoots another, and another, and hits them all, dead-center.
“See?” Steve says, suddenly close. “You're amazing.”
James grabs him and pulls him in for a kiss.
They make out for a while, and then Steve breaks away and says, “I'm about to do something that you're gonna kill me for, when you get your memories back.” And before James has too much time to wonder, Steve is picking him up, and spinning him around like he weighs nothing.
Maybe, in a different life, he would have been indignant—maybe, in a few months time, he will be. As it stands, James just laughs. “You're ridiculous,” he says, wrapping his legs around Steve's waist, anchoring himself.
Steve smiles at him, so bright it hurts. “You're almost ready to go to Russia.”