Completely written, 25k. Teen. Pairings are Bucky Barnes / Titus Andromedon (Stucky and Titus/Mikey endgame), and Kimmy Schmidt / Dong Nguyen. Nothing lasts forever. No smut because I am a frigid prude. Takes place in seasons 1 and 2 of Kimmy Schmidt, and a year or less after the events of CA:TWS. Updates planned once per week. Expect shopping, PTSD, con artistry, suit porn, identity porn, a prison escape, terrible money management, passive aggression, and bad movies.

In Richard Voorhees' Manhattan penthouse, a gathering of wealthy internationals simmered like an unattended pot of pasta: steamy, crowded, promising great things to come, and about to boil over. How momentous the occasion was depended on who you asked. To Jacqueline Voorhees, it was a critical ambush opportunity to prove her husband was trying to trade her in for a younger model; her adrenaline was up, her heels were extra high, and she had talcum powder on her knees from sprinkling it on the floor under the dining room table before her husband arrived (a critical part of her plan). Richard Voorhees thought he was hosting a business dinner to unveil a prototype home assistance robot who could cook you dinner, tie your shoes, and sing "Let's Fall In Love" while it did so.

To Kimmy Schmidt, alias Smith, Jacqueline's home assistance human and partner in crime, the gathering was her Cinderella Ball, her very first party since 1998, when she'd been kidnapped and held for fifteen years in an underground bunker in Indiana by a maniac preacher. She'd arrived in an off-shoulder black minidress, metallic gold pumps, a crystal swing necklace, and a mohair shrug; so far, none of the billionaires had realized she was just the help, and Jacqueline was far too busy to notice how the help was dressed.

Titus Andromedon, nee Richard Wilkerson, was being paid to sing. This was a welcome novelty; not the singing, but being paid. He crooned jazz standards with a circle of session musicians, swaying in a tight tux and scanning the crowd for Broadway producers; at the first sight of one he'd switch to singing The Lion King and his backup had better hold tight, because Titus was going to get his break one day if it killed somebody. He also checked in on Kimmy from time to time. He'd made her outfit out of old clothes and things lying around his apartment. Kimmy's new shrug had been his bathmat. He was better than any fairy godmother, if he said so himself.

Young Logan Beekman of real-estate royalty fame saw the party as a chance to do some slumming. Richard Voorhees' business associates saw it as a place to eat free kobe hamburgers, compare their own penthouses to his, and ogle his wife. The session musicians were in it for a little rent money, maybe leftover hors d'oeurves for dinner if they were lucky. The robot was here to make her debut in a fabulous world full of admirers.

And then there was the Smooth Waiter, as Titus and Kimmy each called him privately in their heads. The acme of masculine courtesy, a vision in a tux and white gloves, he was an arresting presence. A transplant from a bygone era. Narrow black shoes, wet-gleaming, bounced and circled in time to Titus's voice; firm thighs supported a taut derriere and sturdy torso; one-handed, the Smooth Waiter raised a double-stacked tray of brimming champagne flutes without a ripple as he circled the crowd. He took coats, pulled out chairs, memorized requests. His ready smile flattered and beguiled men and women young and old. Jacqueline Voorhees, who had the power to find fault with anything, called him Ponytail Waiter. But this was his only fault.

This gathering, full of promise, would collapse into chaos after reaching its inevitable boiling point: Jacqueline would fail to expose her husband and attempt to murder his robot with an axe, an brawl would empty the penthouse, Titus would miss his shot at Broadway but instead land a steady but humiliating job as a singing werewolf in a Transylvania-themed restaurant, and Kimmy would capture the eye of Logan Beekman, losing one shoe and everything.

Though Kimmy and Titus spent a fair portion of that fateful night gazing star-struck at the Smooth Waiter, he passed out of mind quickly after the party: Titus had six days to teach himself all the special effects makeup from An American Werewolf in London, and Kimmy had a date with Prince Charming.

Or, Kimmy would have had a date with Prince Charming, except that two nights after the party, Charming Sr.'s limousine drove over an embankment, throwing Sr. straight through the glass moonroof and impaling him on three lengths of rebar that happened to be lying around in a nearby construction site: one in the head and two in the chest. This was why, Jacqueline explained to Kimmy the following morning, the funeral they would be attending in four days would have a closed casket.

"Poor Logan!" Kimmy exclaimed.

"Now is not the time to make a move on the bereaved," Jacqueline said severely. "Talk about long odds. Now is when all the Beekman family's enemies, allies, and acquaintances come together to show respect for the Beekman legacy. Every funeral is a social slaughterhouse. I need you with me, by my side, as a show of strength. I can't look lonely in front of Richard."

Richard had, in fact, been cheating on Jacqueline, a fact which slipped out during their couples' therapy session after the party. He had been cheating on her with their couples' therapist.

Kimmy put a firm hand on Jacqueline's shoulder. "I am here for you. You will get through this. I'll help you however you need."

The day of the funeral saw Kimmy perched on an upper balcony of the cathedral clutching her cell phone and a set of opera glasses Jacqueline had provided, watching the crowd for a Lydia Thornbustle. Down in the crowd, Jacqueline was "catching up" with Lydia's boyfriend Justin Hammer of Hammer Industries, in the time that Lydia had left for the bathroom. Both Jacqueline's and Kimmy's phones were set to vibrate. Jacqueline's was concealed on one of her tiny thighs, strapped in place by a jogging armband. She and Kimmy had a predetermined code. One buzz meant the girlfriend was in the room. Two meant the girlfriend was moving toward them. Three meant Jacqueline had been seen.

It all felt very important and grown-up.

A man coughed behind her. Kimmy gasped and spun around, raising the opera glasses like a bludgeon. The man shifted his weight back and tracked the opera glasses mildly. He wore a long black coat, like her, and gloves, and carried a wool slouch cap in one hand. He wore his dark hair tied back, and his blue eyes were calm and curious. "Nice view up here," he remarked.

"Don't you touch me," Kimmy growled. When he stayed put, she said, friendlier, "I know you. You were that cool waiter. What are you doing here?"

"Enjoying the view, same as you." He leaned on the railing beside her, peering down at the crowd as though bored. "Mind I ask who you work for?"

Kimmy pointed out Jacqueline in the crowd and outlined the key points of Jacqueline's plan, born of spite and financial insecurity, to trade up from Richard Voorhees to Justin Hammer. "I see that smirk, mister," Kimmy interrupted herself, advancing on him. "Mrs. Voorhees is in a rough spot right now, and she needs all the support I can give her."

"Lydia Thornbustle," he said, pointing subtly.

Kimmy whirled and raised her opera glasses. "Foozball! Where?"

He guided her lenses onto Lydia's bone-straight blonde bob, quickly and accurately without actually touching her or crowding her at any time. "Target sighted," Kimmy hissed, and carefully signaled Jacqueline, letting the phone ring once before hanging up.

"I like your style," the man remarked after she finished. Kimmy checked the buttons on the black overcoat Jacqueline had lent her: there was no funereal black dress underneath, as Jacqueline had decided that it was good enough to put a nice coat over Kimmy's candy-colored street clothes and have Kimmy wear it tightly closed for the entire service. "I remember you. You wore that swell party frock made out of a pair of short-pants and nobody noticed because it made your legs look a mile long."

"You noticed," said Kimmy, blushing.

"Adidas," he said. "I'm trained to look for insignia."

They surveyed the crowd below, silent: Kimmy bouncing her opera glasses between Mrs. Voorhees and Ms. Thornbustle, and the man gazing down as though taking in the whole scene at once.

"So I told you why I'm here," Kimmy muttered as she tracked Ms. Thornbustle through the crowd. "Why are you here, Mr. Waiter-Who's-Trained-To-Look-For-Insignia-On-Little-Black-Dresses?" She listened, but did not bother to look away from her opera glasses as she waited. The man noticed this with puzzlement.

"What if I told you," he said slowly, "that Beekman Senior was a very bad man?"

"Then I'd wonder what's bad about him, and whether his friends know, and how sure you are that you know. Also, I'd wonder if you'd mayb L'd him."

"He was a senior officer in a Nazi-affiliated criminal organization. I've seen twelve people down there signal each-other that they belong to the same group. His area was human trafficking. And I'm very, very sure."

"Human trafficking is kidnapping people," Kimmy said, for clarification.

"To start."

"If you told me that," Kimmy said, just as slowly, "then I'd shake your hand. And I wouldn't tell anyone else unless I thought you were going to go o L'ing people willy-nilly. But you don't do that, do you?"

"No, I've never killed people willy-nilly. And I won't start." He swallowed and gazed solemnly over the crowd. Kimmy scooted next to him so their elbows bumped, and he smiled in surprise. "Say," the man said after a long silence. "Do you know any cheap tenements for let around here?"

Titus Andromedon returned to his basement apartment, exhausted, baffled, and sweating under his 18 th century werewolf getup, to find Kimmy and a dark-haired, blue-eyed, and very stacked white man sharing his couch and a load of takeout from a diner in Manhattan. He stopped in the doorway and took a deep, settling breath from the belly. "Kimmy," he said, and raised one eyebrow under the heavy latex.

"Hi, Titus!"

"Kimbeline," he repeated. He jerked his head repeatedly at the bathroom.

"You look super cool! Titus, this is—"

"Kimblivious, come to the bathroom, I need to talk to you in private about something that has nothing at all to do with this lovely young man," Titus insisted, helping Kimmy up and ushering her along by her elbow. He shut the door and planted his foot against it because the lock did not work. "Kimmy, you've been sparkling all week to meet your new sugar daddy, but I have to cut this off at the pass. That isn't Logan Beekman."

"Ugh, no, Logan's dad was a Nazi and what if Logan knew about it? No, that's our new subletter! He's a super-spy!"

"You got a subletter?"

"He lost his memory, he's all alone, he thinks the people who trained him and took his memory made him do all kinds of horrible things and are probably still out there hurting people. He just wants a place to stay that isn't under a bridge or eight thousand dollars a month and to not get treated like he's weird."

"That is almost the exact plot of The Bourne Identity. And this apartment has two bedrooms! My suite, and your . . . your suitelette! Kim, I am not easy enough to share my intimate living space with a charismatic waiter who goes around telling strangers he's Matt Damon!"

"We figured it all out. He'll sleep on a mat on the living room floor! He can't handle enclosed spaces, and he says he'll just sleep for four hours in the middle of the afternoon, then roll everything back up. It'll be like he isn't even there!"

"Kimmy that is inhumane and despicable. To do that to that poor man! Especially since he has no money."

"I have money," called the stranger through the door. "What's The Bourne Identity?"

Titus and Kimmy crept out of the bathroom, and the man showed Titus the stacks of fifties that occupied half his duffel bag. The other half was very heavy and made metallic clunking noises when the bag shifted. Titus stared down in shock.

"I have conditions," the stranger said. "I'll pick up half the rent. But. Regarding the bag: nobody looks in the bag. Regarding the notebooks: nobody reads my notebooks. Regarding the bathroom: nobody comes in the bathroom when I'm dressing. Regarding HUMINT: if anybody asks for me, you've never seen me. For my part, I'll be quick in the shower and I won't leave any shit lying around for you to try to explain to your friends or trip on."

"That is some Bluebeard Room shadiness," Titus said. "Or the Scarlet Ribbon. What happens if someone slips up?"

"What's The Bourne Identity?" Kimmy interrupted.

It turned out that neither the stranger nor Kimmy had ever seen The Bourne Identity. Titus fished a battered VHS tape out of his closet and they all sat down on the couch to rectify this travesty. "It's a pivotal piece of your culture," Titus informed them. "I'm saving you from years of shame and confusion."

"Isn't this an old movie like James Bond?" Kimmy asked.

"Who's James Bond?"

"Don't make fun of Kimmy," Titus growled at the man, who lowered his eyes. "No, this is the remake. With Matt Damon wrestling with his inner demons and with his former brothers-in-arms!"

They watched The Bourne Identity and ate the take-out. Kimmy pumped her fists at the explosions. The stranger sat very straight on the couch as though attempting to memorize the entire film. As the film ended, and Titus looked at the clock, he realized that Kimmy had, indeed, found them a subletter. Kicking him out into the night would be too cruel.

"That's me," said the man as Titus rewound the tape.

"You're the hero?" Titus asked skeptically.

"No, not like that; I mean how the rogue agent knows things but doesn't know why he knows. Difference is I know I can fly a helicopter, build a bomb out of household chemicals, and field-strip an antimateriel rifle, and I got a good idea why, but I get blindsided by the normal shit I can do, like load an icebox so the meat don't get dripped on, or boil a shirt."

"Far be it from me to judge what is and is not normal," Titus said, "but normal people don't boil shirts."

The man dropped his head into his hands abruptly. "I can't go back."

"Don't you dare!" Kimmy growled. He looked up at her in confusion. "No matter how scary and lonely it is outside, you're free now! You're strong, and your life is yours and no-one else's! Don't you ever go back!"

"Thanks, kid. You're right. The thing is, I'm not right. I don't fit anywhere. I came to New York hoping it'd jog some memory, but it's too strange anymore, and anyone who knows me, I can't see again or don't want to. But you're right. Things could be worse."

Kimmy slowly but firmly hugged him.

"Well, someone steered you right," Titus said. "You've come ashore at the Island of Misfit Toys. You'll fit right in."

Misfit toys? The man mouthed to himself. Kimmy, blinking back tears as she stared at the man's gloved hand in hers, did not notice. "Sometimes. When you're in a really awful situation that you can't change, it's nice to take a vacation. Only in your head. So, for example, if you're trapped in an underground bunker with a maniac preacher, you can tell yourself, maybe you're lucky. Maybe there really was a Scarypocalypse outside and you're one of the only people to survive on Earth. Just pretend in your head that what happened to you wasn't so bad, and then it won't make any difference how bad things actually are, but you'll feel better about them."

"Ah," the man breathed.

"But it's just a vacation," Kimmy added hurriedly. "Just a few days at a time, or you'll go crazy."

The man's eyes were wide, and he did not react to Kimmy's addition. "Da, da, okay. Okay." He patted Kimmy on the shoulder and paced around the living room for a minute, occasionally muttering to himself. "I got it. I got it! I'm not a—I'm a longshoreman from the Bronx. There was an accident on the docks and I hit my head, I lost all my memory and it's never coming back. They kicked me outta the hospital 'cause I got no money and no family. I fell in with a bad crowd, did bad things. All the HYDRA shit was a hallucination on account of all the nose powder I snorted, and too much Buck Rogers and capitalist propaganda. I got outta the gang and off the coke. I'm nobody. Nobody wants me, nobody's looking for me. I don't got any access codes. My left arm is covered in burn scars and offensive tattoos." There was a bounce in his step and he seemed to be floating. "My name's Roger Gordon, born 1981." He stuck out his hand for Titus to shake, grinning to light up his face. "Pleased ta meetcha."

Dumbstruck and filled with foreboding, Titus shook it.