He's in a bookstore - a cramped mishmash of well-loved paperbacks and esoteric first-editions. The smell of them, the lingering musk of ten thousand weathered pages, is strangely calming.
It stirs something in a neglected corner of his mind. The sensation is sad, as always, but sweetly so. He hopes this means that whoever he was, he liked to read.
His hands trail over the volumes on the nearest wall. Some seem familiar - The Great Gatsby, Macbeth - while others are utterly foreign, but call to him nonetheless. He is seized by a need to know their stories, learn their secrets so thoroughly that not a single word remains unexamined.
Just as his fingers withdraw The Count of Monte Cristo, there is a crackling from above. He jerks back, instinctively seeking the nearest corner. But there is no threat, no helicopters or paratroopers; only a soft violin crescendo issuing from the speaker overhead.
His pulse slows, but only for a moment. Violins fade. Vocals begin. Memory sears him like a bolt of lightning.
A woman sways back and forth, sequins sparkling here and there amid the crimson tatters of her dress. Her eyes are closed, her expression almost reverent. She runs a manicured hand across the top of a battered piano.
He drops to his knees, curls in on himself. The book clatters to the ground with a thud.
A blinding smile, on the verge of laughter, fills the frame. A hand grabs his. A whisper in his ear, "May I have this dance?"
The face in front of him is no longer young, handsome, laughing, but lined and worried. "You feeling all right, son?" He tries to respond, but his tongue is sandpaper.
The scene changes - this room is smaller, darker; the music is a haunting echo in the distance. I'll be seeing you...His arms loosely encircle a neck. Strong hands support his waist.
"Son? Son? Is there anyone I can call for you?" The worry in the voice matches the expression on the face. His own voice is gone, not that he would know what to say. He shakes his head violently.
"How long have you been working up the courage to do this?" He closes his eyes, sways closer. The song flows through him. It feels like he's shining with it. "Oh, not long. About ten years or so." In everything that's bright and gay...I'll always think of you that way...
"That's it. I'm phoning a doctor." Panic fills him and he lashes out. His fingers grasp desperately for the man's sleeve and cling there. No. No, don't call anyone. Please.
The strong hands slide up his back. Ribs, spinal column, shoulders, neck. They cup his face. His heart races, making his chest ache with the feel of it. I'll be looking at the moon... Lips inch toward him, and he's drifting forward in slow motion. A word breaks against his lips: Bucky. But I'll be seeing you...
A crackle of static, then silence. Tremors run up and down his spine, along his arms, out his fingers. Still shaking, they are gently curled around a glass. "Try to drink."
He obeys. The water soothes his parched throat a little, enough to get out, "I'm sorry." He waits for the room to change again, but this time the books stay put - the spell holding him is gone.
He lets his eyes close - relieved, fiercely disappointed. He takes a sip of water. Then another. And another. It is only when something drops softly into his lap that he realizes he's drained the glass.
It's a package, wrapped loosely in tissue paper. A gentle prodding of the top layer reveals the contents to be The Count of Monte Cristo and a small, flat box.
"That song is one of my favorites," the man says, tapping the box. "From a very long time ago indeed."
He futilely pats the various pockets in his jacket. "I can't...I don't have any money."
"Well, that works out, then - these items happen to be on special sale. Absolutely free, today only." When he looks up, forces himself to, the man is smiling. Like he's not scared. Like this is the best thing to happen in his bookstore in a long time.
"I..." He doesn't know what to say. The man in his vision would have. He hauls himself off the floor, grasping in the darkness for the words. "Thank you."
"It's no bother." The man shuffles back toward the door to grab a card from a little stand. He places it gingerly inside the tissue paper. "Now, you run into any trouble with your purchase, call me, you hear?"
Kind, shrewd eyes bore a hole through him. "You got someplace to go tonight, son?" He's about to fail miserably at lying, when it hits him all at once: he does. He does have a place to go tonight.
Another nod, and this time he tries a smile - the smallest upturn of lips, yet the man grins broadly at him in return. "Well, I'm glad to hear it."
He hugs the package to his chest, opens the door, and runs.