James Buchanan Barnes

I am lost, confused, without purpose, and I think I have been for a long while; at least without my own purpose. I think. For the first time in my life, at least for the first time I can recall, I am my own master. I have left my handlers behind, or they have left me. It is hard to say, probably even harder to understand to someone who hasn't lived this life. The men who resurrected me likely believe that I have perished in the downing of the Helicarrier Fleet. I see no reason to correct that assumption. I have been given a gift by the most unlikely of men, a former target, the man on the bridge I was sent to kill who would not defend himself from me, not once he saw my face and knew who I was.

Is it irony that he knew me when I did not know myself? Or is it just tragedy?

He called me Bucky, told me we had been friends, that we were friends, that he would always have my back, that he would not kill me. And so he came back for me when he could have saved himself easily, to free me from certain death, and then somehow, I did the same for him. He was called Steve Rogers. Others have called him Captain America, and his story was not hard to find, nor my part in it.

I procured some clothing to conceal the metallic arm gifted to me by my makers, with a hood and cap to pull over my face, providing me with the anonymity I needed as I stood in front of my own picture in the museum, reading the scant, sanitized information about the life that had been taken from me. From that point it took very little effort to research Bucky Barnes; everything I wanted to know about him, myself, my past, until the day that life ended, on a bridge, surely that is irony? Since then my life has been a series of missions, being put to sleep between them by those handlers. Keeping my real memories suppressed had driven me to the edge of madness too many times so I was 'reset' like a misbehaving computer. That was until Steve Rogers pushed me past that madness into the truth.

Not that I knew exactly what I was going to do with that truth.

I had stayed in DC for lack of any better destination, and because I was able to observe the changes being wrought by the collapse of SHIELD and the response of others filling the power void. Perhaps I was just trying to decide which side (if any) I was going to come down on? Washington was a mess of competing ideologies, with the associated collateral damage. I happened to stumble upon the aftermath of that competition on a fall afternoon.

They were bringing a soldier into Arlington; I spent a great deal of time there, looking at names carved into granite, torturing myself by ripping forth memories. There were men I had served with, and specifically one I hadn't, one who had set me on my initial path perhaps more than any other. I sat cross-legged on the patch of grass before his tombstone, silent as the graves that surrounded us, eyes tracing th and S over and over. No one bothered me there, it would seem I wasn't the only one who came to reflect. It was during one of those reflections that the procession came by me. It seemed only right to stand and pay my respects as it passed, but something about it was different, something drew me away from my father's tombstone and down to the path, something made me pull my hood down, feeling the sun on my face for the first time in weeks, and made me salute with my right hand, my left still tucked into the pocket of my jacket. All funerals were important, but this one seemed even more important, though I can't say why. I joined the thin crowd that had begun to line the route. Shoulder to shoulder we watched the horse drawn cart deliver the flag draped casket to section 60, well beyond where I had been contemplating the marble. A man of some importance it seemed, though I never discovered his name.

The woman beside me remained as quiet as I, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy white handkerchief more reminiscent of my era than the millennium I found myself in, at least as I was learning, (or relearning) about that time. It was funny how sometimes it came to me, the past lessons, the memories of ladies handkerchiefs and men's hats, and the way you held open doors and shook hands. Touch, the delicacy and propriety of it all. Just then, staring at that Battenberg lace, it rushed back, making me feel overwhelmed and unsteady. I wobbled a little on my feet and an arm caught my elbow.

"Are you all right sir?" I looked at the woman who had touched me; the first person who had done so with any compassion in decades and said nothing in response.

There had been no conversation in the assassin's life that I could remember, orders, taken, given, little more. I don't know that I even knew how to do something so benign any longer. I looked at her by way of some type of apology. She smiled, seeming to understand even through glistening tears as yet unshed.

"Did you know the man?" She gestured at the cart that had passed us.

I shook my head, closing my eyes with a deep breath.

"But you've lost someone too?"

"Yes." I managed to whisper, feeling as if I was not lying. Did it matter if the man I had lost was myself?

"Why don't you sit down, you look a little pale."

"I will be fine." My voice had regained a little strength.

"Never the less, sit for a moment." She was indulgent just then, like the gentle prodding of a mother to a child, set in her goal but presenting it sweetly. I found myself unable to refuse her.

Her hand still on my elbow she turned me away from the dispersing crowds, to one of the ever-present stone benches, and I sat. There was a force of will about this woman that could not be easily ignored, even if she did not wear it on her sleeve as others did.

Sitting beside me she tried to smile and tucked away the Battenberg.

"My name is Sharon."

"James." I offered.

We sat in silence for a few more moments, the wind whipping the strands of my hair into my eyes briefly. I let my head sag so they would fall forward without me having to brush them away. My hair hadn't always been this long I recalled just then, not that I could recall when or why I had let it grow to its distinctly un-military length.

"I come to Arlington as often as I can." She began. "It's important that we be here, to remember them."

She drifted off a little just then, I understood how easy that was, when memories became so oppressive.

"He isn't here." She said to the empty air in front of us. "There's a memorial, but he isn't here. He went down with his ship as it were, even though it wasn't really his ship, and it really didn't go down. They just never found him to bring him home."

I needed to say something just then, for her I think, not for me, for that politesse that someone had ingrained in me; the me I was trying to recover.

"How long?" I asked, keeping the reverence of her memory.

"Three years, two months and eleven days." Her voice quivered. She turned back to me, stared straight at my eyes. "I need a drink, and drinking alone isn't good for you, so James, can I buy you a drink?"

I found myself walking beside her, hood pulled over my head again, ostensibly against the wind, but in truth against recognition. I counted the blocks, watched the streets and the rooftops, plotted every route of escape should some danger present itself. I imagined every potential weapon; a man with a cane, a woman with a mesh shopping bag, the soldier at the corner with the auto across his chest and the tactical knife on his thigh. Preparations aside, we arrived unscathed at a small bar she seemed familiar with and settled into a table at the back. I ordered a whiskey, it was the last memory I had of having a drink, though I suspected there were others that hadn't surfaced yet. She had the same, and we silently toasted those men and women left behind in Arlington and our memories. A second shot followed the first, and then a third. Day turned into evening.

She didn't ask me any questions, didn't ask me my story, didn't ask why I was at Arlington, or Washington, or anything, but we talked, about nothing of consequence. She told me about music, about her home, about how she kept thinking she should get a dog but she worked so much that it wouldn't be fair to a pet. Her conversation made me feel comfortable, a thing I had not felt in a very long time. She lived such a busy life to hear her tell it, and I understood. Better to be busy than to have to think about what you had lost. I didn't have that luxury. Perhaps I was jealous of those benign concerns; perhaps I didn't consider them all that benign after all? She excused herself to powder her nose, and when she was gone I thought that it might just be okay to pull my left hand out of my lap where I had consciously left it, just to see what turn it might cause in our conversation.

At first she didn't notice the gleaming steel. In truth I had made an effort to dull it a little, and I had taken high grit sandpaper to the red star on my shoulder. I'd also pulled the sleeve of my hoodie as far down my wrist as I could manage.

"Hello." She greeted me as she returned. She looked surprised to see me still at the table.

"Hello?" I replied, a little confused.

"I didn't expect you'd still be waiting here for me." She sat down in her previous spot and picked up her empty glass, rolling it about in her fingers, focusing on it instead of me.

"You thought I would have left you, why?"

"Well, I've spent the better part of the last hour or so talking about myself. You've been very polite in listening, but I thought your patience might have grown thin with me. So I gave you a chance to leave without having to be rude to my face."

"It would have been quite rude to have just disappeared."

"But you can, if you want to."

"I don't."

"Really?" Then she let her gaze leave the glass tumbler and cross the table to me, only she got stopped part way."

"Oh my goodness." She'd seen the metal of my fingers. "You're?"

A monster? An Assassin? The Man who tore up my city trying to kill Captain Rogers? I pulled my hand back away off the top of the table and hid it, checking out the quickest passage to leave the bar before she could start screaming, or alert some authorities.

"A vet?" She stumbled over her words as my wound muscles began to uncoil. "I mean I figured you were, being at Arlington, and saluting and all, but I never thought." She looked right into my eyes, her own wide and glossy. "You were injured?" She asked.

I nodded, considering what I needed to say next.

"You lost your hand?"

"My whole arm." I whispered.

"Oh Jesus." It was the first curse I had heard her utter. "I'm sorry, so sorry."

"It's alright."

"It isn't, I've been going on about my lot without even asking about you. I'm so self-centered. I'm sorry."

With my right hand I reached out to cautiously touch her fingers.

Her eyes became even more liquid.

"I think I should go home now. I've made such a fool of myself." She pulled away from me and fumbled for her coat, which had gotten crumpled against the back of the bench seat. It looked as if she was going to cry as she tried to straighten it enough to get her arms into it.

"You can't drive." I told her, gathering myself up as well.

"I'm not going to drive, I live close by, I'm just going to walk."

"Not alone in the dark, not as upset as you are. I'll walk you home."

She burst into tears right there and could only nod as she pursed her lips together tightly and slung her bag over her shoulder. I followed her out then fell in step beside her. She had collected herself into a tight little ball; mortified perhaps, sad, intoxicated. I did her the honor of not questioning her.

She lived in a three-story walkup, one that might have been there at the time of my first life. A brick exterior with five stone steps up to the main door and a motion detector front porch light greeted us. Her hands were shaking so badly as she finally pulled her key from her purse that I wondered if perhaps I hadn't misjudged her, that perhaps she did know who I was and had alerted authorities who were waiting within to subdue me. As she tried to turn the key I looked around at my surroundings. There were no crouched figures behind hedges or upon rooftops, no non-descript vans hiding tactical forces or surveillance equipment; no noise or movement out of place, but of course, that would have been how I would have set up the op if it had been me planning it. I braced myself as the door swung open, ready to leap for the overhanging ledge and pull myself to the shadows. I heard the tumblers click and again tensed my muscles for action.

The door swung open to dim light filtering in from the kitchen, the main floor was wholly open-concept; you could see through the sitting room to the dining room by way of a large arch. The kitchen sat behind the staircase, barely large enough to hold a man of my size, let alone one in body armor with an automatic weapon in his hands. Aged stairs and original wooden floors betrayed every movement we made, and certainly couldn't disguise anyone else. Still, I stayed on the porch and watched Sharon settle her purse on a hall table, gripping it for a moment as if needing to steady herself. I watched her shoulders heave up and down several times.

"I should leave you then. Thank you for the company." I turned away from the light, back to the lamp-lit street.

"Please don't leave." She half whispered, half squeaked. "Please. I've been alone for so very long."

I crossed her threshold and closed the door behind myself, latching it firmly without even turning around to see the actions of my fingers on the bolt; all I could do was look at her. She had shrugged out of her leather coat and hung it on the freestanding coat rack; I slipped out of my hoodie and reached to hang it on an arm alongside hers. She looked up the length of my exposed arm; I'd been wearing a tee shirt, so only my shoulder was completely covered.

"That's amazing." She whispered. Her reverence for the thing made my stomach flop. I had never stopped to consider what it meant; if it was some kind of symbol of the machine they had made me, if it was as evil as those who had made it a part of me, or if it was something else. Sharon seemed to have her own ideas. She touched the segmented surface and turned it gently back and forth as she smiled.

"I've never seen anything like this before." She ran her fingers downward towards my own. "Myoelectric?" I didn't know the word.

Her fingers met mine and I curled around them.

"There's no lag?" Her brows knit together. I had seen other men with prosthetics, I knew that what I possessed was far superior to what was generally provided; but of course, that was because I had a greater purpose than those who only sought to be able to return to a normal life. I had to be able to kill; I had to be perfect, better than perfect, better than state of the art.

"Experimental." I offered.

"Can you feel pressure?" She asked, clutching my hand more tightly.

"And warmth, and your pulse." I whispered, she blushed; the sight of it drew an unbidden smile from me.

"I should make us some coffee or something." Her words were hesitant, quiet, questioning.

"Is that what you really want?" I prodded gently, pulling her a little closer to me, still holding her hand. She stepped towards me so that only her sweater and my shirt were between us. Looking just past her, to the mirror over the hall table, I felt and saw her relax into me, letting her head rest carefully on my shoulder, not quite committing to letting herself go, but inching towards it. I wrapped my right arm loosely around her waist, feeling her long, low breathing against my neck. There was still fear in her movements, and it was still fear of me, in a way, and it might still have been fear that I would hurt her. But I think that it was mostly fear of herself. I pressed my face into her hair, taking my own slow breaths. Perhaps I had the same kind of fear in my heart?

"Is that what you really want?" I asked again.

"No."

I felt lightness in my chest that I don't know if I had ever felt before. I certainly could identify a wash of relief; something that was also quite foreign to me. I pressed a very cautious kiss against the top of her head, not lingering, not qualifying, just the barest hint of intimacy, to see where she would take it. She let fall a single sob and pulled herself completely into my embrace, so I held her and let be just 'be' for a few moments.

"Do you think? Would you like?" She stuttered, looking over at the stairs, hoping to make her point to me without actually having to say it.

"I should just take off my boots first." Letting her go, which left me feeling a little cold, I leaned down and pulled the laces free deftly. I tucked them under the hanging garments on the coat rack, out of the way as I had been taught.

"I can't get over how incredible that is. Is that alright to say?" She was still watching my arm with a scientist's fascination.

I laughed a little and nodded. Once everything was settled away I took the hand she offered me and let her lead me up the stairs, creaking with every step. I liked them, if I ever got to settle down somewhere I was going to buy an old house like hers, and get to learn every little noise of it. (Of course I had few illusions of being able to re-integrate and grow old peacefully.)

The room she led me to was simply decorated, a bed with a dark green coverlet and a few occasional pillows tossed at the head of it, against the rich coffee colored wooden headboard. A hope chest that appeared to be a century piece served as a footboard. Matching side tables each held a brass lamp, something that had also certainly been converted from antique to modern usage. A small collection of glass bottles mixed with pillar candles adorned an occasional table, and the dresser held photos of lives lived when black and white film was the only choice. Men with short haircuts and caps posed with ladies in up-dos and starched collars. Uniforms were pressed and shoulders set with a grit and determination I recognized. Any one of those men could have been me, ready to serve, ready to die. Any one of those women could have been… I stopped that thought. Landscapes hung on the walls, green spaces, trees and nature that all added to the atmosphere of frozen time she had obviously been trying to create. I knew the closet was empty, I knew this room hadn't seen occupants in a great long while, except for those who brushed away the dust. But I understood. How could you bring a man, a man not your husband, to your bedroom, for you both to be assaulted by the memories that remained there, both physical and ethereal? No, this was neutral ground and it suited me well.

She dropped my hand as we crossed the threshold, not turning on the light, standing a little too still, not able to look at me just then. We both stood motionless in whatever scant light filed in from the hallway.

"I don't know what I should do." She keened, so close to misery that I wondered if I shouldn't just leave her there and save her from the demons she was conjuring. But I couldn't. As quietly as I could I slipped my tee shirt off and folded it, laying it over the lid of the chest as I stepped towards her. I put my hands on her shoulders; she didn't startle as I did; the floors having creaked under my footfall to betray the movement.

"I do." I whispered to her as I let my hands drift down her arms. It was she that curled them over her waist as I reached her wrists. I hooked my fingers under the hem of her sweater and rested them against her bare skin, feeling (with both hands) how she trembled. Kissing her neck, lingering there as my hands drifted, I judged her reactions, prepared to pull away at the first sign of discomfort. I coaxed the sweater from her body and she let me. When her bare skin touched mine as she settled into me, it was my turn to tremble.

"I don't want to frighten you, but I have scars." I whispered into her ear before she could turn around to look at me.

"We all do." She spun in my grip and looked, not at my chest, not at the human flesh melded into the metallic, but into my eyes, even with the strands of hair that half hid them.

Her lips were parted, her chest rising and falling, her stare soft and pleading but not afraid. I pushed my mouth over hers and took her willing kiss and the pressure of long stilled passions that stoked my own. I pulled her up into my arms, hardly pausing in the embrace of our mouths, and stepped over to the bed, laying her atop the coverlet, hovering over her, feeling her hands brush across my chest. I kept kissing her even as I walked my body up over hers.

Head bent to the tender place where her neck and shoulder met I pressed tiny kisses against her skin, and again waited for her reactions before proceeding any further. Pushing aside the straps of her camisole I caressed her arm, and felt the sob in her chest that caused me to rock backwards into my knees, still somewhat astride her; which I imagine she could have seen as quite threatening. I tried to move backwards away from her, but ran out of space on the bed. She sat up to face me, right arm keeping the silk from slipping off her breasts, left arm holding her against falling. So vulnerable.

"I'm sorry." She whispered.

"I understand. We don't have to do anything that you don't want to." Perhaps it was a selfish response, not offering just then to leave. I don't know. I didn't want to go, but I knew I couldn't push her. I had memories in those quiet times, flashes of that life imposed on me, and not memories where I had committed such an act of harm against a woman, but of those around me in battle, who took such liberties as spoils of their victory. I would never be a party to that.

"I do, want to." Her eyes assured me that her words were honest.

"I will not hurt you." I told her.

"I know." She took a very deep breath and held it, exhaling through her parted lips as if letting go of something. Then she reached for me with her right hand, allowing the silk to slip to her waist as she touched my cheek and curled her fingers under my chin, drawing me towards her as she lay back against the comforter again. I followed.

It was her fingers, drawing shapes all over my back that encouraged me. Slight pressure changes I could feel when my mouth lighted upon a sensitive spot in its pursuits, even more pressure when she desired me to go further. It was a wonderful thing to be so directed. There were no further sobs; only trembling as I pulled away from her, again holding her gaze as I unfastened my jeans and maneuvered them off my legs. I returned to her as vulnerable as I could ever be, as human as I ever would be as she received me into her arms.

Her body was warm, and her skin smooth under me. Deep kisses were the prelude to another most intimate invasion as I brought myself between her legs, touched her, reassured her, and then took her as my own. Her cries built along with the need in my chest, and I thrust against her and within her; deeply, slowly, carefully so that my vigor would not hurt her, but my passions would be unmistakable. She held me to her, our breaths synchronizing till we both moaned and called out together, falling into each others arms, skin glistening, hearts pounding, senses alive for the first time in so very long.

She lay nestled in my arms, our chests rising and falling as one, spent by the activity, and the emotions it had unlocked in us both. I could have stayed there forever I thought. (Not practically of course). But being able to let down the shell I had built around myself for even a few hours was intoxicating, and I feared falling into the addiction. Sadly, the spell was broken as I heard the click of a door lock being sprung without the key. I sprang up and had my jeans about my waist before the first step echoed into the foyer.

"Stay here!" I hissed at Sharon, her frightened eyes making my voice sharper than it probably should have been. I apologized immediately. "I'm sorry," I touched her hair, feeling her lean into my hand. "Please, stay here, I don't want you hurt. Hide." I was gone before she could object.

Fortunately the room we had occupied was a few steps down the hall, away from the top of the stairs. It gave me those few seconds of an advantage over whomever it was who had gained entry. A quickly extricated shower rod from the nearby bathroom provided a staff. The first noisy step on the bottom stair and I sprang forth. There was no time for either of them to draw a bead on me with their weapons, so surprised were they by my sudden appearance. The first was downed by the force of my forward movement, knocked over into his companion, the both of them scrambling to right themselves when my makeshift weapon slammed into their heads in sequence. It was easy enough to recognize them as Hydra agents; they made no secret of disguising their insignia and their weapons. I ensured they would never wake to further threaten Sharon. It was instinct and muscle memory that drove me then, and for that I was thankful. I grabbed up a lost weapon and eased through the front door, barrel first; the sniper on the rooftop opposite was dispatched with one shot. Fortunately Hydra equipped their operatives with the most lethal skills and armament; the noise of the shot was no more than a killing breath. There was no further movement outside the house but within I heard the only sound that could have made my blood run cold. I wheeled about, gun still in my hand, the look of the predator stamped on my features. I must have been terrifying to see.

"Please don't look." I stared Sharon straight in the eyes, willing her to look at me only, and not the bodies in her foyer. It was over; whatever interlude we had snatched from the universe was at an end, reality, my reality had slammed the door and chained it.

"Who?" She stammered out, pulling at the collar of the robe she had draped over her beautiful body.

"Agents of Hydra." I saw no need to lie to her.

"Why are there here? Why would they come after me?" The rise and fall of her chest, only moments ago from passions and exhaustion was now driven by fear and panic.

"They aren't after you Sharon. They are after me."

It felt as if another chain had been wrapped over the door to that intimate place as she stared at me then. But should I have expected anything less?

"Who? Who are you?"

I chose not to answer her question just then. I was searching for her cell phone, set within her purse on the hall table. I thumbed it to life, not needing a passcode to dial 9-1-1. As the operator answered I spoke quickly, and clearly.

"Someone has just broken into my friend's home." I looked at Sharon who was on the verge of tears.

"I'll send the police." The operator said to me.

"No. Send the NSA. These men are Hydra, and I have killed them all."

I hung up then, knowing I had three minutes perhaps, before the sirens would split the calm of the night air.

"Who are you?" Sharon demanded, red streaks running down her face.

"I am not your enemy Sharon, I swear it. But I am theirs. And I am sorry I was so foolish to endanger you."

"But?"

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." I tried to smile at her, "But my friends call me Bucky."

The sirens sounded, I had two minutes at most. I grabbed up my hoodie, the second discarded automatic, and a tactical knife.

"I am so sorry, I have to go." She launched herself at me, and in truth I had hesitated in my escape because I had hoped somehow that she might forgive, if not understand my actions. I took the desperate kiss, crushing her body to mine, forcing my tongue into her mouth, grinding against her.

"Will I ever see you again?" She was breathless, as was I.

"I'll be at Arlington." I said as I tore out of the door, sprang upwards to the small roof over her porch, and from there scaled the brick to the roof proper. I faded into the shadows, not done yet, needing to watch just a little longer.

The first responders, local police were overwhelmed as they verified the story I had told the 9-1-1 operator, and they hustled Sharon into a squad car as they checked the rest of the house for further carnage. I leapt to the adjoining roof, and quietly used the knife to pry open the cover atop the ventilation turbine. I secured one of the guns by its strap to the inside and replaced the cover. I did the same with the second gun, another house over. I knew that I would be back to watch over her, to ensure that she was left in peace both by the NSA and Hydra. Having a small cache at my disposal would be useful.

I knew there wouldn't be much time until the soldiers arrived, but I needed to listen, to gauge the reactions of the officers to her. I had made the call, made it obvious that she had not been involved in the deaths of the two men who were readily visible. A shout from across the street (a neighbour, now woken, coming out to see the show of lights) betrayed the resting place of the sniper. Military vehicles now arrived, but still I waited.

"Mrs. Carter." A gruff officer spoke as he approached her (still sitting half in and half out of the squad car). "What happened here tonight?"

"Someone broke into my house." She said, more composed than I thought she would be. "I had a visitor." She did not elaborate. "He saved my life."

"Where is he?"

"He drove off, down the street, in a pick up truck, a Ford I think." She pointed in the opposite direction to which the soldiers had arrived.

"What was his name?"

"He told me it was Howard. But I suppose in retrospect that was probably a lie." Her face had frozen, no emotions at all suddenly as she stared at the large man who was questioning her. Her words seemed to be enough for him somehow though. It was that presence I had seen at Arlington, it was in her genes.

"Just give my men a few minutes to secure the scene," he corrected himself, "your house Mrs. Carter. And we'll let you back in."

"Thank you."

Her eyes never once turned to the path I had taken, not while she sat outside, not while the stretchers carted away the bodies, not while the vehicles were dispatched in pursuit of a quarry they would not find. She returned inside after an hour or so and I prepared to melt into the night. Thankfully no one had thought to requisition a helicopter to aide in the search. I pulled the dark hood over my head. I heard a very soft voice like a song waft up through the chimney. How had she even known I was there?

"I put your boots on the window ledge outside the kitchen Bucky. Please be careful." I scratched on the metal pipe '- ... .- -. -.- ...' I did not know if she knew Morse Code, if anyone did anymore, but I had a feeling she just might.

Thanks, I had said to her as I retrieved my boots and slipped away.