If you follow hockey, you've probably heard of them. A surprise win pulled out against London Knights in the 2016, and a much-anticipated win against the Windsor Spitfires the following year. More likely, you heard the commentators mention them during last year's U18 hockey tournament, where they pulled out a gold medal against Canada. You may have heard them mentioned in articles about the upcoming 2017 NHL draft, or in ones taking bets on the Halifax Lynx's top choices for the draft. But however you've heard of Steve Rogers and James Barinov, you probably have not hear of where they came from.
In the fall of 1999, nuns at a small church in Upstate New York were surprised to find that an anonymous gift had been left at their doorstep- a baby no older than a few months. Doctor's estimates put the baby, a John Doe with no identification, at around two months old in mid-September, and the press was quickly to label the boy 'The Child from Nowhere'. Left with only a note declaring him Steven Rogers, he was immediately transferred to the care of a local family with a son around the same age as the little boy. Investigations into the matter reached dead-end after dead-end, and the child's family seemed to have abandoned him for good, perhaps in hope of a better life or to avoid the financial stress of a child. Even birth records could not find a trace of his parents.
Fostered by the Barinov family, Steve quickly grew into his new life.
Russian immigrants Ekaterina (Katya) Barinova and Stanislav (Stas) Barinov were excellent candidates for fostering any child. Both Katya and Stas had steady incomes, and they lived in a nice house on the suburbs of Albany. They were frequent volunteers with a variety of programs, and had strong social ties to the community. Their only child, James, was approximately four months older than little Steve, and authorities believed that they would be able to raise Steve into an excellent young man.
Raised alongside James, or Yashenka as his parents called him, everything was looking up for the child from nowhere- both boys began preschool at the age of three, and were simultaneously enrolled in Peewee hockey together. While there are few pictures from the boy's early childhood, the few that there are stand out:
Steve Rogers and James Barinov on ice skates on an outdoor pond, circa 2001.
Steve Rogers and James Barinov stand together on ice skates in front of a hockey net, circa 2001.
Steve Rogers, James Barinov, Katya Barinova and Stas Barinov in a professionally taken family photograph, circa 2002.
By the winter of 2002, the Barinov family began petitioning to adopt Steve as a permanent member of their family. Reports indicate that they referred to the quiet boy as Styopa, a common Russian nickname for Stepan, the Russian variant of Steven, throughout official interviews, and the request was awaiting only a signature when both Katya and Stas were killed in an automobile accident on the way home from a date night in April 2003.
With all of the remaining Barinov family still living in Russia, James was left as orphaned as Steve.
In a fortunate twist of fate in summer, 2003, the two boys were taken in by politician Alexander Pierce, who famously turned down a Nobel Peace Prize, stating, "Peace is not an achievement, it is a responsibility." Pierce was recently re-elected to the United States Senate as a New York representative. From his apartment in the city, and from a large house on the Canadian border, Senator Pierce raised the boys without the help of any partner.
Both Steve and James continued playing hockey while under the care of Senator Pierce, and were first enrolled in summer development camps at the age of nine. Not long after, at the age of fourteen, both boys were invited to participate in Team USA development camps, increasing their prowess on the ice with top-notch coaching from America's best. Coaches said they were bright and eager to learn while teammates said they were quiet but hardworking.
From 2014-2017, both teenagers billeted with a family in Sault Ste. Marie (pronounced Soo Saint Marie) while playing with the Sault Ste. Marie Greyhounds. The Ontario Hockey League (OHL) made a rare exception to allow the two fifteen-year-olds to be able to play in the OHL, with the normal minimum age being 16. When asked about this decision, OHL officials stated, "We have conducted multiple interviews with both James Barinov and Steve Rogers, and over the course of those interviews it has become apparent to us that they are not only phenomenal hockey players but also mature young men capable of being responsible for themselves away from home."
It seems to have been an excellent decision, too. Both Steve and James were among the better players on the Greyhounds, and in the 2015-2016 season, the Greyhounds won the Memorial Cup, and again in the 2016-2017 season.
More notably, both competed in the IIHF World U18 Championships earlier this year, and the year before. This past year, Steve and James did not only win the Memorial Cup, but also a gold medal for their country.
Now, the two brothers are set to be drafted in the 2017 NHL draft, and are considered favourites for first overall. James will turn eighteen shortly before the draft, and Steve will legally be considered eighteen in August.
In the 17 years since Steve Rogers and James Barinov first met, their world has undergone a lot of change, but there have been two constants through it all: their friendship, and hockey.
Akin to the grey sky of an overcast day, or the pale surface of the moon, grey eyes swept across the crowded room, hovering for several moments over the distant doorways and the dozens of reporters that graced the rom. For the time being, peopled milled around in formal attire suited to the occasion, but the tension in their air was palpable. Over two hundred youth were preparing for the most stressful night of their lives, recorded and broadcasted across the continent. For most, it would make no significant change on their lives, but for others, it would be the beginning of a career that made millions.
Steve Rogers leaned back in his chair as he surveyed the room, grey eyes making another sweep, hovering for a half second over a man dressed in a dark suit, grey hair pushed back. Beside him, James Barinov did the same, his own calculating chestnut eyes considering the other youth in the room, taking in their respectable heights as he did so.
For all that Steve was one of the best junior hockey players in North America, he wasn't much to look at. Standing at just under average height, he was short for a hockey player, and his Irish complexion made him appear sickly in near every light. The thinness of his body, only just beginning to fill out, did nothing to aid his appearance, and the only saving grace he had was a thick head of golden hair that lay swept across his forehead. Unlike the majority of hockey players in the room, there was no suited figure beside Steve to guide him through the process, whispering suggestions in his ear as they went. Rather, beside Steve was James, over six feet of lithe muscle and pale skin. His own hair, a deep chocolate brown, was styles in an artful sweep. He, too, wore a suit stiff with newness and bore an expression of malcontent as he considered the room surrounding them.
The night's draft was an important one, with the newly minted Halifax Lynx aiming to expand their two-day-old team with young talent. At the Lynx's table, the coach and general manager spoke in hushed tones, occasionally glancing over at the draftees. When the draft did begin, they would be the first to make their way to the stage, announcing their first draft pick before the player made his way up, receiving a jersey and hat before posing for photographs.
Steve shifted in his seat, eyes scanning the room once more as James' elbow brushed against his own. The gentle murmur of the room swept around them, surrounding them with the constant pressure of human interaction, and James muttered beneath his breath as an aging man in a suit walked by.
"The draft's set to begin in two minutes."
Steve responded with a slight nod, eyes tracking a young player passing by, tailed by a younger sister. "I don't get it. Why does it take so long to start?"
James shrugged, leaning back and crossing his arms across his chest. "I have no idea, Stepka."
The minutes dragged on like a child on their way to school, until the draft began with the Lynx officials making their leisurely way up to the front. The room quieted as if something phenomenal were happening, rather than a group of aging men in suits walking to a slightly raised platform.
"The Halifax Lynx are pleased to announce," began a portly man of around fifty, whose grey hair was thin at the temples, "that we will be taking James Barinov as our first overall draft pick."
Beside Steve, James stood to make his way to the stage, smiling and greeting the Lynx officials with a warm smile and firm handshake. He was an upset for first draft pick, coming up on top of the disliked Gilmore Hodge, who had been the favourite for first overall. On stage, they pose for a series of photographs, before sending James off to speak with the press- he talks about how excited he is to be drafted, and how much he's looking forwards to playing with such a good group of veterans. When asked about going first overall, he pulls out the aw shucks routine, ducking his head and smiling shyly all while insisting he hadn't thought it would happen.
The room settled back into the quiet hum it had been before James was drafted, interviews over as James made his way back to his seat. Steve leaned over as he returned, murmuring beneath his breath.
"Congratulations, Bucky."
James, Bucky, gave him a warm grin, brushing their shoulders together as the Lynx prepared to pick their next draft pick.
The manager took a deep breath in, and began the second announcement of the night. "The Halifax Lynx are pleased to announce that, as our second draft pick, we will be taking Steven Rogers."
Steve gave himself a half second to be surprised, before Bucky nudged him gently towards the stage. On the first step he stumbled, but was quick to regain his balance and make his way to the stage. The first to greet him was an aging man with greyed hair, known exclusively by his surname, Brandt. Steve shook his hand before the general manager, who was also grey and aging, took Brandt's place. Unlike the Lynx's owner, their general manager had an energy to him that sparked off his limbs like electricity from a faulty wire. Last of all was the team's coach, easily the youngest of them all and the only one without a single grey hair. Once a talented player, who had gone to the Olympics and led the United States to a gold medal as captain, Howard Stark was notorious for his antics.
The instant the pictures were done, a reporter shoved a microphone into Steve's face. Holding the microphone was a brunette who appeared to be of south-east Asian descent. "Mr. Rogers," she began, and her voice was polite but somehow Steve still felt himself tempted to shift away. "How do you feel about being drafted to the Lynx?"
"It's wonderful," Steve replied. "I am very excited to be playing with such an amazing group of players, and Halifax is, of course, a beautiful city. I could not be happier."
Her next question was a little more difficult to answer. "How do you feel being drafted so early?"
"It is amazing." He fake-pondered for a few seconds, rolling the question over in his mind. "I never expected to be taken this early. Too short."
The reporter smiled politely, congratulating him before stepping away. Another one stepped in to take his place, and Steve smiled at him as well, but stepped around him to return to his seat.
Bucky leaned over to nudge his shoulder, speaking in his native Russian. "Pozdravleniya, Stepka," he murmured. "Congratulations." A warmth permeated his quiet voice, as though the sun shone somewhere in his throat and reached out to entrance all those that spoke to him. "Told you you'd go early, Bratishka."
"My infinite source of wisdom," Steve smiled back, a drop of sarcasm permeating his words, but not overpowering the underlying note of warmth that pooled in the words. Ever aware of the cameras that filled the room, Steve kept a solid distance between him and James.
Halifax was a beautiful city, the cool Atlantic Ocean spreading out in before the city and surrounding the entire province, creating an island of warmth in the cool ocean water. Piers rested over the open water, with little shops and restaurants, and the city was dotted with large parks. Across the Bedford Inlet was Dartmouth, Halifax's beautiful counterpart. In Down Town was a beautiful, public garden that boasted the brilliant greens and bright flowers. Summer had already set upon the city, the pleasantly warm weather just a touch chiller than New York City.
The late May air was thick and heavy over the city, and the sun shone down upon the city as Steve glanced up at the tall buildings surrounding the city streets. From a perspective, Halifax was not half as impressive as New York, the tall buildings of the metropolitan centre not spreading out nearly as far as the New York streets did. But Halifax was less New York, the people friendlier and the streets more welcoming to visitors.
"It is much less busy than New York," Steve said, as they waited to cross a street. "But I think that I might like the bustle." A car wailed through a yellow light, Steve half-diving behind his friend to avoid the car. He blinked after the rude driver. "Or maybe not. It's got a greater area than New York, pretty much double the size."
Bucky laughed, pulling Steve along with him. "Come on, Stepka, we're going to be late now."
"That is not my fault, Bucky. If it is anyone's fault, it is yours. You made us go through Dartmouth rather than around the inlet. It would have been faster." Steve jerked out of the way of a passing pedestrian with a rather large boombox resting on his shoulder, the music coming from the machine louder than was polite on public streets. "Besides, Nikolai Alexeyevich just texted to say that he's running late."
They turned left off Morris, passing by an aging school building surrounded by a brief ring of green grass. Barrington was a larger, slightly busier street, with a few houses on the left side of the street and a bank on the other side. A severe community church they passed played host to the religiously-affiliated Salvation Army, notorious for their door knocking and homophobia. Past the church, they reached a white building with red-tiered windows, a cheerful sign proclaiming it a Chinese eatery with, 'Superior Traditional Chinese". Steve eyed the building with a suspicious glimmer coating his features.
Bucky rolled his eyes at him. "Davay," he insisted. "Come on." He swung the door open, and they made their way inside together.
The restaurant's interior was brighter than the exterior, with the same white walls and red decorations hanging from the ceiling, the sort often seen in Chinese New Year celebrations rather than casual, year round decoration. A few people sat at tables towards the front of the restaurant, but farther in the back was a man sitting hunched over his phone, back towards the door. As the little 'Someone's Here!' cling echoed through the restaurant, the man looked up and over at them, face half hidden by a baseball cap. He smiled, waving them over.
"Zdravstvujtye," he said with a smile. The man stood, stepping away from the table to shake first Bucky's hand, and then Steve's. "Hello. I am Nikolai Alexeyevich. It is nice to meet you." He offered the two brothers a warm smile. "Ochenyen' priyatno." The Russian words rolled pleasantly off his tongue, fluid and lolling together into a fast-paced string. Nikolai Alexeyevich stood taller than either boy at around six feet, four inches. Broader than both as well, the hockey player had long reddish hair that hung around his face and cut off around his jaw. Blue eyes were set evenly in the middle of his square face, and he had a strong jaw line.
"Mnye tozhye, Nikolai Alexeyevich" Steve replied, a weak smile gracing his features. "Same here. I am Stepan. This is my brother, Yakov." His own Russian was not half as fast, and he rolled the words over in his mouth as he spoke them, caressing reach syllable as though it were something holy.
"Stepan," Nikolai Alexeyevich greeted, the downwards first syllable coming off as an 'i' sound in his Russian accent, the more dominant 'pahn' sound overpowering hit. "Yakov. You should sit." He pulled a chair out, and ushered the pair into their seats. "So you are brothers?" He gestured between the two of them with a hand, and Bucky nodded. "That is excellent!" Smiling openly at them, his delight was clear. "You can do no look passes?"
Bucky laughed, though it dissolved into a smile a moment later. With a duck of the head, he answered, "Yeah, occasionally. Stepka always knows where I am."
"He exaggerates," Steve stepped in. "He's the one that scores goals. I just help."
"I'm sure you are lying," Nikolai Alexeyevich replied. "I saw your stats. You score plenty, just as much as Yakov, if I recall correctly." A waiter arrived with their menus, placing one in front of each hockey player. Nikolai Alexeyevich flipped the menu, humming as he did so. "I had not visited Halifax before, but it is similar to Vancouver, I think. Little colder, little warmer, but it's all the same to me. Anything is warmer than Moscow. You two have not visited either?"
With a shake of his head, Bucky flipped his menu open- an appetizer list greeted him, and he blinked at the options. "I don't even know what Szechuan is."
"Region of China," Nikolai Alexeyevich replied. "Very good food. Spicy. We had a good place in Vancouver, but not as good as the Japanese food there." He peeked over Bucky's menu. "That beef is very spicy, but very good. You should try. They have many types of dumplings, too."
They ended up with two plates of vegetable dumplings, Szechuan ginger beef, and barbecued pork buns. It was an obscene amount of food, but less so when one considered the high-calorie diets of professional hockey players.
Half way through their meal, Nikolai Alexeyevich mentioned their living situation. "So have you two found an apartment?"
Steve shook his head. "We are going to look tomorrow."
He waved it off. "No need, Stepan. Ne Nuzhno. If you two are willing, you are welcome in my house. I have found a place on Williams Lake. It is too large for just me, and I have already told our captain that I am very willing to host a rookie or two. It is a good solution, I think. I enjoy having rookies live with me, and always had one in Vancouver."
Steve and Bucky exchanged a glance, faces painting a clear message- Steve's brow had knit together and Bucky shifted ever so slightly, one shoulder dropping in a half shrug. They considered one another for a half second, and then returned their gazes to Nikolai Alexeyevich. "That's very generous of you Nikolai Alexeyevich. It is our honour to accept."
Nikolai Alexeyevich smiled at them, gentle expression playing off his face with an air of fondness that settled deep in his eyes and the creases in his smile. "Call me Nikolai. If you are to live with me, calling Nikolai Alexeyevich is simply too much."
"An honour, Nikolai. You can call me Yashka, if you wish."
Nikolai tipped his head to the side. "Yashka."
"Bucky calls me Stepka," Steve offered.
"Stepka. We have an agreement?"
Both brothers nodded, earnest gazes resting on the older hockey player, who smiled back at them. "I assume you have a hotel for the night?"
Bucky nodded.
"Then I will pick you up tomorrow morning, and get you settled. Right now the rooms are not very furnished, but we can fix that soon."
"I want to change my name," Steve said, when they were alone in their hotel room and had a dish of broccoli beef between them. He took another bite with his chopsticks, watching Bucky's face for a what little reaction the other teenager would give.
Bucky hummed, and stole a piece of broccoli straight from Steve's chopsticks. "What do you want to change your name to?"
"Stepan Barinov." Bucky shot him an odd glance, head tilting to the side like a dog's. "Don't give me that look, Buck. Everyone I've ever cared about has called me Stepan or Stepka, and I would have been a Barinov if not for the car accident. Besides, who am I to keep the name of the people that abandoned me in a church."
"People are going to think that we got married."
"People are stupid. Why would they assume that? We were literally raised in the same foster family our entire lives."
Bucky rolled his eyes. "And that means that we had years to get to know each other in the privacy of our own home."
It was Steve's turn to roll his eyes as he took another bite. "It's also hockey. It's pretty much the most homophobic league in the world. The press would assume that we're brothers, and everyone else would go with it." Even when both were sitting, Steve was much shorter than his brother. At around average height, he was not yet done growing even though Bucky had taken the past few years to grow to the respectable height of six feet, one inch. He had long limbs and big feet, and clear grey eyes that latched onto one with such intensity that it was as though fire burned within them. Just like his limbs, Steve had somewhat long hair that brushed over his eyes.
In contrast to the slight Steve, Bucky was increasingly tall and broad as the weeks wore on. His chocolate brown hair was cut to jaw length, hanging evenly one either side of his face in what came to be a severe style. The straight lines gave his face harsher lines, which contrasted his warm brown eyes at every opportunity. "It's your choice. You're already a Barinov if you want to be. I've just kind of figured that you'd want something of your own parents."
"They're not really my parents though, are they? I mean they left me at a church when I was a month old, so how much can they have loved me?"
Bucky gave him a glance that spoke words. "You're being ridiculous, Stepka. Your parents, whomever they were, absolutely loved you. They probably wanted you to have a better life than they could have given you." He stuffed a piece of beef into his mouth. "And even if they didn't, they brought you to me, so how bad can it be? Because I'll always be here for you."
Steve gave him a weak smile. "Thanks, Bucky. I want to get my name changed on my birthday. Help me pick a middle name?"
" 'Course. When have I ever let you down."
"That time I shot set you up for that goal but you lost it on the five hole."
"Fine," Bucky huffed. "Be that way. Do you want a patronymic or a normal name?" The difference was astounded- if Steve chose a patronymic as his middle name, it would not be his name that he was choosing, but rather someone else's. He pondered the idea for a few moments, chewing on another bite of broccoli beef. "You could just go with Stanislavich, like me. That would be really easy, and if you're serious about erasing your birth parents, it's a pretty good way to do it, aside from deleting their last name from your life."
"Unless I find a name I really like and that has meaning to me, I think that's a good plan. I'd feel weird choosing a Russian name." Steve paused, articulating his thoughts before continuing. "Like I'm trying to choose my own father, even though I had Papa."
Bucky leant back, stealing the entire plate of broccoli beef from between them. "We can look at names after we finish eating. Any ideas right now?"
He shifted in his seat, and snuck a bite of beef, eyes focused on the wall next to Bucky's head. "I kind of want something unique so that I'm not just a face in the crowd but I also want something normal so that I blend in. It's really confusing." He dropped his chopsticks to flex his fingers, eyes slipping from the wall so that they rested on his tingling extremities. "I don't feel so great, Bucky."
"Okay," his voice softened. "We can talk about this another time. You feeling nauseous?"
"Dizzy," Steve gasped out between quickened breaths. "Chest hurts." His heart beat wildly against his lungs, forcing his breathing faster until he felt as if he were suffocating. An arm wrapped around his shoulders, and Steve blinked at the empty chair across the table- when had Bucky moved?
"Come on." Wrapping an arm beneath Steve's shoulders, Bucky lifted him from his chair to sit on the nearby couch. Bucky sat next to him, pulling Steve close so that his head rested on Bucky's shoulder. He ran a gentle hand over Steve's shoulder, a constant, steadying pressure. He began to speak in gentle tones, Russian sounds soothing over his words. To them, the language was private. Steve shut his eyes and leant against his friend, allowing the Russian story to fill him with tales of The Firebird and Vasilisa.
As the story came to an end, Ivan leaping from the boiling water unharmed to marry the beautiful princess, Bucky shifted to humming the lullaby their parents had once sung for them. "Spi mladenets moy prekrasnyy, bayushki-bayu." The lullaby had a slow, quiet rhythm. Every other line followed the same rhythm, merely with different words. "Bogatyr' ty budesh' s vidu," Bucky sung softly, keeping Steve tucked to his side like a small child. "Bayu bayushki bayu."
Despite Bucky's best attempts, Steve's heart continued to race against his chest, pounding his lungs out of place. The tingling in his fingers now encompassed both his arms, and he was numb from the knees down. As Bucky continued singing, slipping into the better known Tili Tili Bom, the dizziness that plagued Steve began to recede, world holding still.
As Bucky finished the haunting lullaby, he murmured against Steve's hair. "Get some rest. I'll wake you for a run tomorrow."
Steve would have nodded, but he was already too far gone.
"Want me to move you to the bed, or is the couch okay?"
He let out a rising hum, and let Bucky half-carry him to his bed, tucking him into the warm covers. "We can talk in the morning, but right now you need rest."
The house that Nikolai had bought was a large, private home on the edge of a rocky lake just inland from the ocean. It was by no means a mansion, but it had six bedrooms and five bathrooms, and could theoretically sleep multiple families, so it was grand in its own way. The outside made the home a classical craftsman, with a porch out front that overlooked the lake's cool water. Built in the late 50s, the house had been expanded and improved upon more than once, leaving one section of the house sticking awkwardly out to one side. It consisted mainly of two connected rectangles, but the offshoot at one side lasted only a single story and made for an awkward touch. A disconnected garage could house two cars, though it was a tight fit, and a stone walkway led down a lightly forested path to the house.
At the entrance, they were greeted by an athletic black Labrador, who made a valiant attempt to slobber on Steve's face before Nikolai called him away, cooing. "Klichka, you dvornyazkha, give them some space. Oh yes, schenok."
Steve blinked at him. "Is she named Nickname?"
"It is nickname," Nikolai replied. "For dogs. Her real name is Nala."
Bucky nodded, as though naming a black Labrador after a lion was common sense.
The interior was just as stunning as the exterior, with common spaces decorated in a variety of light blues. The entryway opened into a sitting area, with windows splashing the interior with light. The blue walls were accented with darker shades of the colour, with windows surrounding by the brighter shade and bookcases painted the same colour. Aside from the bookcases, the room was sparsely decorated, with only one awkward chair in a space designed for a couple of couches. They walked past a set of stairs, made from the same pale wood as the floor, to enter a kitchen.
Before the kitchen was a small dining table of a medium wood. Within the kitchen, the stovetop was clean stainless steel, and the counter top had recently been cleaned. White cabinets stood out against the darker blue wall, and the windows allowed the light to shine through. Beyond that was a living room, except cozier. A large TV was mounted on the wall and comfortably chairs, and a beanbag or two, were circled around a coffee table. Drapes were ready to be pulled over the windows at a moments notice, and each drape was a shade of the same set of blues.
"The rest of this floor is bedrooms," Nikolai announced as the exited the kitchen into an open space. "Would you like to look at them? You can choose your own rooms, but I think that these ones are the most boring. Wood floors aren't so great on the feet, you know?" He was rambling, words flowing out of his mouth for no apparent purpose as Steve tilted his head at the man.
"Nikolai," Bucky's tone is amused. "We should be the ones nervous, but you have become a spy's greatest treasure. Of course we will look at the rooms, and we do not mind wood floors so much. We have slippers for that."
The first thing they'd done upon entering Nikolai's house was taking off their shoes and replacing them with fuzzy slippers, the sort ideal for cold winter mornings.
"You don't need to impress us," Steve adds quietly. "You've already done that. And your home is beautiful."
They key to anyone's heart was a few well-placed compliments.
Nikolai smiles at them. "The upstairs has three available bedrooms. Mine is the one with the double doors. Go explore. Bring your bags to the room that you decide upon. Then remember that everyone else who is town is coming to have lunch here. It's us, the captain, and another defenseman."
Bucky smiles reassuringly. "Chill, Nikolai. Prostuda."
Then he grabs Steve's arm and hauls him up the stairs, ignoring the look of utter confusion that the defenseman bore. As they reached the top, Steve whispered, "You know that doesn't translate like that, right?"
"It's funny to confuse him," Bucky whispered back. "I like chirping, so long as it's not mean."
The stairwell opened into another open space, which veered off to the right. But to their left was another room, and Bucky gently opened the door to reveal the room inside. The carpet was a simple, deep tan, and a series of large windows opened the room up for natural lighting. It was only part furnished, but the walls had already been painted a pale mint green that verged into the category of turquoise. The colour contrasted pleasantly with the tan carpet, and the windows had tan-pink curtains drawn back from them. The only furniture was a bed and mattress, arranged at the closest end of the room with the back against the wall and one side next to a window. A bedside table next to it was unpainted, with nothing on it. At the far end of the room, a patch of ceiling had been replaced by a trapdoor.
"Probably a crawl space," Steve said. "This place is a craftsman style, so there has to be some sort of an attic if we have flat roofs up here."
Bucky nodded. "I like this one. Whomever lived here had style. They have a pretty nice analogous colour scheme going. It's quite pleasant on the eyes. Come on. Let's check out another one."
They exited the tastefully styled room for the one with the door closest to the common space. The decoration was washed out blues and tans that created a watery atmosphere. Unlike the previous room, it was furnished with a sole bed, without so much as a mattress on it. The bright lighting that streamed through the windows made the room even more distasteful. Steve wrinkled his nose at it. "I'm not a fan of this one."
"Me neither."
Immediately to the left of the second room was yet another one, done in a similar colour scheme to the first one. The main colour was a pale, misty blue that floated over the room, with the carpet and drapes done in the colour. The walls were a pale purple, and the series of bookcases lining one of the walls were done in the same green as Bucky's room. It was tastefully styled, and furnished with the bookcases and a desk. Steve tilted his head at the room, considering his options- if he moved those two shelves there, he'd open up space for his bed next to them and could set up an easel at the other end of the room…
He shot a glance at Bucky, who rolled his eyes. "You like this one. It's okay. Pierce isn't here. Mrs. Abell isn't here either. No one is going to get mad at you for being excited or happy."
"Yeah, I know, Buck. Doesn't mean that old habits don't die hard. You liked the first one."
He ducked his head, taking on the expression of an abashed puppy. "I did," he admitted.
"Then choose that room. And I'll live in this one, and neither of us will be in the room closest to Nikolai. And who knows, maybe that attic space is all connected and we can hang out up there."
"Or maybe it's full of tarantulas."
Steve scoffed. "Tarantulas have about as deadly of 'venom' as a bee does."
"Doesn't mean it wouldn't hurt," Bucky replied, standing on the tips of his toes to reach the trapdoor above them. As he pulled it open, a ladder slid down to hit the floor with a dull thunk. Pressing a foot against the first rung, Bucky shrugged before beginning to climb. "Come on," he called down, after entering the attic space. "I think I've found the lights."
Steve climbed up after him, light streaming down from the open hole in the ceiling. As he poked his head through, he blinked up at Bucky, who was grinning at one of the walls. When Steve fully entered the attic, he realized what his friend was gazing at. The closest straight wall, facing the lake, had a full window that allowed the morning light to stream through. Like all the other windows in the house, it had drapes that could easily be drawn over it. But more surprising than the windows was the TV that had been abandoned on the dusty floor. In the other direction was another trapdoor, but no set of windows.
Bucky grinned at him. "Adjoining rooms via secret hangout passageway?"
"Sounds good to me. Let's go get our bags."
By the time they hauled their bags up the stairs, the midday sun was high in the sky. Nikolai smiled at them as the passed him in the dining room, and offered to carry their bags. Steve plunked his into his newly claimed room, duffel bags slung over his shoulders.
Truth be told, he did not have much to bring with him: several pairs of shirts and pants, sweaters the few sets of suits that Mr. Pierce had insisted on buying for formal occasions, his shoes, jackets, and warmer winter clothing. The rest of his things, some books, old stuffies Mama and Papa gave him when he was little, and his art supplies, were being mailed the thousand kilometres northeast. For the time being, however, Steve unloads his shirts and sweaters into his new closet, followed by the pants. The suits, he hung carefully. They made the closet look empty, but Steve brushed it away. The duffel bags he scrunched away into one corner of the closet.
His books, a variety of classics, hockey fiction, hockey historical fiction, hockey, and sci-fi, would not even half fill the shelves.
From somewhere below came the pleasant ding of a door bell, and Steve shoved the thoughts aside.
Christopher LaFevre was young for a captain, having only been playing in the NHL for six years. At 25, he was in his prime but no longer in need of guidance from older players. His last season, with the Pittsburgh Penguins, he had taken home the Stanley Cup. But because of the team's phenomenal roster, they had not felt it necessary to protect the Quebecois center. He played good, clean hockey, and Steve was ecstatic at the possibility of playing with the hockey powerhouse.
Taller in person than in images, LaFevre stood at over six feet, with a curly head of brown hair and brown eyes. His face was set in a gentle smile when he glanced to Steve and Bucky, giving a little wave. When he spoke, he did so with the heavy French accent that was so often underestimated. "Hello," he began, skipping the 'h' sound entirely and skipping straight into the word. "I am Chris. You must be James and Steven, yes?"
Steve gave an awkward wave, and Bucky nodded.
"I brought cookies."
Nikolai laughed. "Chris, you scare them! They are small rookies, you are best player. Be nice. That is Yashka, and Stepka. They are Russian, so they use Russian name."
Chris nodded as though that were normal. "A pleasure to meet you."
"You too," Bucky said. "Yashka," he said, shaking the mans hand. "A pleasure to meet you as well. This is my brother, Stepka."
Steve shook the man's hand as well, and smiled. "We look forwards to playing with you. I saw your stats from last season- you're an excellent player, Mr. LaFevre."
If he was put off by the mention of his stats, he didn't show it. "Same here. Call me Chris."
The doorbell rang again, and Nikolai opened it to reveal a slighter man with bright eyes and a shaved head. "Nikolai," the man chirped. "Good to see you again. You have the babies."
"Yes," Nikolai drawled. "Babies." He gestured at Bucky and Steve. "Big one is Yashka. Little one is Stepka."
"Blagodaryu," Bucky grumbled. "Thanks." Then, facing the newcomer, "I'm Yashka. This is my brother, Stepka. Nice to meet you."
"I'm Michael," he replied. "You guys are Russian?"
"Our parents were," Steve replied. "You can call me Steve if you prefer."
"Hey, whatever you want. It's not my place to tell you what your name should be."
"Stepka, then."
The man nodded in understanding. "And you two are both forwards? Got a no-look-pass thing going on?" When Bucky nodded, the man grinned. "Awesome. I'll defend the net if you guys score all of our goals."
Chris groaned. "You'll defend the net no matter how many goals those two score. Heck, they might not even make the team. Boss still has a lot of cap-space before we meet our max, so we might manage to get some pretty good free agents. I think he's trying for a top-notch sniper." He grinned at Bucky and Steve. "You two will probably make the cut, not playing on our first line or anything but third or fourth, probably. Get some experience, get a little taller, get a little more muscle," his eyes flickered over Steve, "and you're golden."
Steve shifted his weight back, a minute half step that allowed Bucky to shift in front of him, shielding him from the captain's piercing gaze.
"Be nice to them," ordered Nikolai again.
"Hey, I'm being nice," Chris drawled.
"Vixen resolved not to steal chickens," Nikolai shot back, and Michael through his hands up.
"What does that even mean? I'm hard-pressed to remember what a vixen even is."
"Fox. It eats chickens. It says it does not eat chickens. It is lying."
Chris made a long 'aah' sound. "Cannot change its true nature. Je comprend."
With a frown, Bucky glanced at the man. "In French you just say that something can't change it's true nature? Russian has a lot of metaphors."
"It's French. Simple."
"Simple," Steve echoed. "How many tenses does French have?"
The captain slipped into his natural French. "Oh, je sais pas exactement. I'm not sure."
"That's because there are sixteen of them. And each one has three different conjugations depending on the type of verb you're dealing with, and then there are literally hundreds of irregulars not to mention Dr. Mrs. Van Der Tramps, so in short French is exceedingly complicated. How do you say 'I will miss you'? I don't know, because it translates directly as 'you will be missed by me', I think."
Chris laughed. "Quebecois French is much simpler. You will soon learn this."
"Right," Michael drawled. "Because making there be more French words is simpler."
With a few extra blankets, the attic a comfortable place to spend time. Bucky leant against the wooden wall, head tipped back and eyes closed. Sitting on a folded blanket, he was the picture of exhaustion, even more so with Steve half on top of him. Curled up next to his brother, Steve's head rested on Bucky's shoulder as they rested. The evening sun was just dipping below the horizon to allow the darkness to overcome the land, and the lake at night was eerie and beautiful, mere flickers of light glinting first from the moon and then to the water. The reflection shimmered and shifted with the gentle waves.
"I liked them," Steve murmured into the near darkness. "The captain seemed nice." He shifted closer to Bucky, pulling a soft blanket tighter around his shoulders as the evening cool began to set in. "I hope the rest of the team is as nice." A gentle sigh escaped him.
A large yawn captured Bucky's mouth. "Me too. And I hope they stay this nice."
"You didn't lock your door, right?"
"Of course," Bucky soothed. "Better safe than sorry.
Steve sighed again, and yawned as he pressed even closer to Bucky, until the other youth wrapped an arm around Steve's slight frame and pulled him closer. "I don't want him to get angry."
"Me neither."
The new message blinked accusingly at Steve from his laptop screen. Under other circumstances, the gentle colours of his email account would have been soothing, but instead the name glowered at him from its electronic confines. Alexander Pierce. Steve huffed at it, hovering his cursor over the message as though being near it might make it open of its own volition. His finger twitched. Once. Twice. Not enough of a motion for the laptop to register it, but enough for the motion to be there, and real, an aborted motion awaiting completion. Steve took a deep breath and opened the message, hands trembling as he did.
Dear Steven, it reads, passive and gentle. The rest was not so.
The Senate has been rather boring these past few months. Not enough motions are making their way to us for it to be interesting, but the lack of motions does mean that nothing is changing in our country, which is excellent. I'm sure you're aware that change is the root of all evil, of course. However, it would be nice if we could at least vote against a number of motions sometime, to keep life interesting. I have nothing to do now that you boys are in Halifax, so I spend all day in the apartment, reading. It's rather boring.
Instead of passive, or gentle, the letter takes on a bored tone that reached through it and engulfed it in misery.
Enough about me. How have you and James been? Are you settling in well? Is the team nice? You had better make them like you.
When I was a child, hockey was a much rougher sport than it is now. Frankly, I think it's a shame that so much has changed in the sport. Back in the day, you would get entire teams on the ice at once, all throwing punches. It was a sight to behold. With all these new rules, I'm do not understand why children keep playing it. Aside from the fighting, it is a boring sport. Even basketball is better. At least they score once in a while. Nonetheless, I respect your decision to continue playing the sport.
Have you heard about what happened in Europe last week? Truly despicable. I cannot believe that people would be so weak as to accept such a person into a position of power. I can hardly stand for all of those people in my own country, let alone in others. I'm sure you understand this, Steven.
Write me soon.
Senator Alexander Pierce, New York
Steve squeezed his eyes shut, head thunking against the wall behind him. His heart pounded, dizziness building until the world spun on an axis around him, sources of sound shifting like the ocean's dark waves. He waited for the rocking to pass, forcing the letter from his mind. It did.
With trembling, numb fingers, he began to type a response.
Senator Pierce,
It's kind of you to write so soon- James and I had not been expecting to hear from you for another few days, and were delighted to see your message. It's quite a shame that the Senate is so dull. We are certain that you will find something productive to do with your time. Perhaps you could write a book. The people of New York would be quite delighted to hear from their Senator in such a setting.
James and I are quite well, thank you. The team has been kind thus far, and James and I intend to do the work in keeping it this way.
Hockey was quite exciting fifty years ago, and I enjoy watching older games. It gives me insight on how people succeeded then in comparison to now. But many people prefer the faster style of play where less people get injured, and the sport can do nothing more than shift with it.
Yes. Europe is quite a mess right now. Such a shame.
It was lovely to hear from you so soon, Senator Pierce. James and I have been so lucky to have grown up with an understanding and powerful guardian such as you. We are quite looking forwards to seeing you again some time.
Thank you again for writing,
Steven Rogers
"Write the minimum," Steve whispered to himself. "The minimum with as little detail as possible, and agree with everything he says." He took a deep, shuddering breath, and tapped on the wall between his room and Bucky's. A minute later, a pair of feet descended the ladder into Steve's room.
"Hey, Stepka. What's up?" Bucky smiled at Steve, all charming grin and warm eyes. His gaze flicked from Steve to his laptop, where it lay open on his bed, and then back to Steve. Smile gone, he took in Steve's haggard face and trembling hands. "Did," his voice took on a sarcastic, mocking tone, "Senator Pierce send an email?"
Steve nodded, and Bucky sighed. "He always sends them to you," he grumbled. "You don't deserve to deal with that. Have you written a reply?" Another nod. "Okay. I'll read it over, and then we can send it together." A warm arm wrapped around Steve's shoulder, pulling him close. His gaze flickered over the email Steve had written. "It looks good, bratishka. Agreeing, but not adding anything to it. You're way better at these than I am."
"No I'm not."
One stride, two strides, pick up the puck and go, three passes and a shot on net. The air is cold against my face, whispering against my skin as tiny needles that glance off my face. The rink is thick with the scent of ice and new pucks. Two pairs of skates slash through the fresh ice, timing off so that they create a malignant crescendo, distracting me from the puck. Beneath my fingers, my stick is all at once unyielding and accompanying. The pressure builds as I catch a pass from Chris, darting past the defenseman to snatch it.
Being on the ice is like flying, like soaring so high that all that surrounds is clouds and cold, crisp air. Being on the ice is feeling the world drop away until it narrows to nothing more than the ice. Being on the ice is the feeling of freedom, of seeing the light that encompasses this world yet so rarely shines through. Being on the ice is knowing the pain of failure and the joy of success and loving every moment of it, every last touch of the puck and each and every bruise.
On the ice, I fly.
Flight is a beautiful thing.
The words were not intended for Steve's ears, but he heard them anyways.
"Not that I'm questioning the management or anything, but that kid doesn't seem like a second overall draft pick to me. He's a decent player, sure, but if that's the way he always plays, he might not ever play in the NHL." Philipps' voice possessed no tone, nothing to suggest that he cared.
"You're exaggerating. Have you watched those videos I sent you of him, or seen him play with that other kid we drafted in the first round?"
"No, haven't had the time yet. And Barinov was in with Dr. Erskine when Rogers was on the ice."
"That's why we drafted him second overall. On their own, both Rogers and Barinov will be first line players with the right coaching. They might not end up as superstars, but they'll be good players. If they keep playing together, they'll be superstars. I don't know what it is, if they're uncomfortable with others or if they're just really in tune with one another, but they play worse when they're separate. And give the kid a break. He's playing with a star player on NHL ice for the first time, of course he's not playing his best. Give him a break, then put him and Barnes through some two on one and see what happens. And he's a kid. He's still building up self-esteem and confidence."
There was a long sigh. "Chris, I never should have chosen you as captain. Too damn convincing. I'll put them out tomorrow, and we'll see what happens. You better be right about this one."
"Coach?" It had the upturned note of a question, of someone calling after another person. "We need to build their self-esteem, not tear it down. Remember that."
There was low cursing from Philipps. A moment later, he shouted, "Rogers! I want you back on the ice in ten minutes. Take Barinov with you."
The count of ten slipped by, and Steve stepped into the hallway. "Yes, Coach Philipps?"
"You and Barinov need to be on the ice in ten."
Steve nodded, and popped back into the changeroom, where Bucky was lacing up his skates. "Coach wants us on the ice in ten."
"That's ridiculous," Bucky replied. "You just went through a whole bunch of drills with Christopher LaFevre. You could use a break."
"I'm fine, Bucky. I've done longer practices than this. You just get your skates on and I'll see you on the ice in a few. I'll skate a warmup with you."
Bucky stood. "Come on, but remember to take it easy. The last thing you need is an injury now." He ambled from the locker room, skates making his steps awkward. The cushioned floor of the walkway soothed the edge of their skates, preventing damage to the shark edges. "You'll be fine, just keep doing what you do."
They step onto the ice, together.
The ice is different with Bucky.
I can't put my finger on how or why, but I know it's different.
Even just skating our warmup laps, our skates are in sync. As the blades cut through the now used ice, the harsh shh, shh, shh of skates on ice melds together to create a single sound. I don't need to look where he is. I'm not sure if it's that I've played with him for so long, or that his skates sound different against the ice, but I know which one Bucky is when all the rest of them blend together.
Bucky reaches out to brush a hand against my arm. Are you okay? Got a little spacey on me there. I nod at him, and manage a smile. He rolls his eyes back. Davay, punk. Come on. Let's see what Coach Philipps wants. He turns inwards from our easy lap as Philipps emerges onto the bench.
"Rogers! Barinov!" The coach has a voice that must have once been strong, but has since faded with his increasing age. "You ready?!" Everything the man says is shouted, and I flinch away.
"Yes Coach," Bucky replies, coming to a halt a few feet from Philipps.
"Good. I want you two skating a two on one against Petersen over there." The man in question was Nikolai's defensive partner, a hulking Finnish player that had come from Minnesota. "Each of you starts on one side of the defensive zone, crossing over and one of you will pick up a puck I throw in, and then you try to get the goal within five minutes. Andersen is in net. Play clean."
We nod, and skate into starting positions. Go.
Our first run is hesitant, testing the waters.
I time my puck handling to my strides, picking up speed as we cross the red line. Petersen positions himself between Bucky and me, crouched into a defensive position and guarding Bucky and offering me a clear line to the net. Andersen crouches in the net, prepared to catch anything I fire his way. Maybe Philipps calls something, but I don't hear it. As I approach the net, I fake right and fire a pass to Bucky as I spin, catching Petersen off guard. Bucky catches the puck on his stick, and sends it flying towards the net with a slapshot, a clumsier shot than I'm used to seeing Bucky do.
Andersen catches the puck, but only barely. He cradles it to his chest.
Good shot, I say to Bucky. You almost got him.
Almost isn't good enough. Almost doesn't win games.
Almost gets us chances and the possibility of a goal.
With the puck out of play, we look over at Philipps, who's been joined on the sidelines by Chris. The Quebecois center smiles at us, and nods. His bright expression does nothing to ease the blank face that Philipps bares. "Again," the aging man calls, and we set up again. On the way back, I whisper at Bucky: We need to change it up, they'll be expecting a quick pass again.
I carry it up- they'll expect the same thing as last time, so I pass to you and they expect you to shoot, fake it and pass back to me. I shoot or pass back to you and you shoot. Bucky has honest eyes, warm and gentle and prepared to do the work.
Got it.
Philipps slips the puck onto the ice, and we're off. Bucky snatches the puck up at half ice and immediately sends me the pass.
I shift it over my stick, and wind up for a fast one. Petersen is ready for it, prepared to catch it on his stick from where he stands in front of me as I fake a shot, tiny motion sending Bucky the puck once more. He doesn't wind up for a slapshot, but rather makes his shot softer, a wrist shot that he sends at the upper glove side.
Again, Andersen catches the puck but it's by a narrow margin.
Sneaking a look at Philipps, I notice a shift in his demeanour. A minute ago, he was as blank as a fresh sheet of paper, without a single crease or imperfection. But now he's different. His weight, once distributed evenly between his two feet, has shifted so that it all rests on his right foot. My mind flashes back to his injury, a badly town Achilles tendon that ended his career. Not only is he resting on his right leg, but he's leaning more forwards than he was before. We've made him want to play.
I figure that's a good thing.
We repeat the drill again, with a different tactic as we enter the defensive zone. Again, Andersen stops the puck but this time we get a rebound shot, which catches the edge of Andersen's glove before entering the net.
We repeat the drill again, and Andersen covers the puck after a low shot.
We repeat the drill again, and score on the first shot on net forty-eight seconds into our allotted five minutes.
You've impressed Philipps, Bucky tells me. That was a beautiful shot. Right over the shoulder, he never saw it coming.
I sneak a glance at Philipps, and he's set back into his blank demeanour. You sure? My voice wavers.
Yes I'm sure. I can practically hear Bucky roll his eyes. You didn't see him when you put that puck in the net. He's convinced.
I fly when I'm on the ice. But when I'm on the ice with Bucky, I'm gliding. Everything becomes as seamless and effortless as swimming would be to a fish. When I'm on the ice with Bucky, I don't have to worry about how my offensive partner moves, because I have Bucky there and I know how Bucky moves. I know the sound of his skates on ice better than I know my own skates, because for as long as I've been skating I've been watching, listening to, Bucky skate.
When we were two and I was too sick to walk, Mama carried me to the pond with Bucky so I could watch him skate even though I couldn't. Then when I got better, Mama brought us to the pond again so that we could skate, together. Bucky learned to skate before I did, but I learned to skate faster than he did.
We grew up skating together, Bucky with his too-large feet and full-cage helmet and me with a half dozen layers to prevent me from freezing on the ice.
As we leave, Bucky brushes his glove against my jersey.
Once more, Steve wasn't meant to hear the conversation that he did.
Philipps spoke in gruff tones, voice scratchy from shouting as much as he did. "What use is a player that can't play without his other half?"
"Plenty good," Chris replied. "You got to give them a chance, Coach. What can you possibly have against a pair of eighteen-year-olds only just starting to play professionally."
"My problem," Philipps growled back. "Is that they think they can just waltz in here and get whatever they want. I've seen their kind before. Rookies who think they're so talented that they can carry a team to a Stanley Cup in their rookie season? As if."
There was a pause before Chris spoke. "Why do you think that? Have you ever spoken to them? I told them they'd be playing third or fourth line when we first met, and you know what they did? Stepka – Rogers – tried to hide behind Barinov. Neither of them have any confidence whatsoever. You compliment either of them, and he goes bright red. They're only just gaining confidence now. They still can't accept a compliment."
"For the record," Philipps' voice shifted, into a I'm better than you tone of voice, "I have not spoken to them. But I know that anyone who knows Alexander Pierce is bad news."
Chris sighed. "Coach, they showed up at the airport a month ago with a bag of belongings each and a gear bag they shared. Stepka isn't even of age yet, but they have no guardian or adult figure with them. Nikolai tells me that he hasn't heard anything about Pierce since they arrived. Clearly, they don't have a great relationship. At best, Pierce was a distant parent. At worst, I think there's a chance he was downright abusive."
"Please," Philipps scoffed, as if it was impossible for a hockey player to have been abused (it wasn't). Before he could continue, a ding came into his phone. "Give me a second. Yes hello? Mr. Brandt, a pleasure to hear from you, truly. Uh-huh. Yes? They what?" He covered his phone with one hand. "I'm sorry, Chris, but I need to leave now. It's an emergency. Yeah. I'll be right over there. Call PR."
"The heck is going on!"
"I'll explain later!" Philipps shouted back.
Steve stepped out of the locker-room to find Chris staring after Philipps. "You don't need to defend me," he said, and Chris jumped when he spoke.
"Steve," the man replied. "You scared me there."
"Sorry."
"It's okay, I know you didn't mean to. And I do need to defend you."
"Why?"
Chris smiled sadly at him. "Because you're just a kid, and Philipps is a grown man that can't think of anything better to do with his life than insult you. Come on now, we can talk in the car. Nikolai and Yashka have already left- we're taking you rookies out for lunch." He wrapped an arm around Steve's shoulders, and smiled down at him.
"You've been growing," Chris commented as he turned his car on.
"Just an inch," Steve ducked his head, not meeting Chris' eyes when the captain looked over.
"It's still growing. And you're bulking up a bit, too. I told you Dr. Erskine could help."
They lapsed into silence as Chris turned out of the parking lot.
"You're right about Pierce," Steve finally broke the silence as they rounded a turn, making their way towards Dartmouth. "A little, at least." He settled back into silence, and Chris did not push until Steve himself chose to continue. "He didn't hurt us, not physically. But he shouted at us for doing something but he'd never tell us what we did wrong. We'd tell him we had a game the coming week, and he'd forget about it. When he did come to watch our games, he'd end up shouting at us afterwards over a play we made, or how my shot missed the net or whatever. We had to do everything perfectly, or he'd start saying that we'd never be able to play hockey again."
Chris glanced over at Steve. "You're not alone anymore. You have us. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here."
Steve gave him a weak smile. "Thanks. I'll let Bucky know, too."
Moving onto greener pastures, and topics of discussion, Chris grinned at Steve. "So tell me about that nickname for him. How does one get Bucky out of James? And everyone else calls him Yashka, but you call him Bucky. Is this a Russian thing?"
Chris got a call during lunch, from Philipps. He apologized to the table, and went to take it. "Coach Philipps. What was that? Alright. I'll bring them in once we've finished lunch. No, we're having lunch. Oh yeah? Try and make me." He returned to the table, offering an apologetic smile at the assembled rookies. "Sorry. Philipps is an ass."
Cedric Carrel, born and raised in the heart of Quebec with the thickest Quebecois accent east of Montreal, shrugged. "Not problem," he said. "Your food has arrived."
"What was that about?" Asked Jacob Stallman, who was taller than Bucky but skinnier than Steve. "Sounded pretty urgent. Sure you don't have to go?"
Chris scowled. "Philipps is over reacting to something that isn't public information. It will probably be in a couple of days, but we have time before them. And frankly, I am damn hungry."
"Can you tell us what's up?"
Through a large bite of spaghetti, Chris said, "Nope. It's private information and the person involved will tell you himself when he feels ready."
Jacob groaned. "Could that stick be any farther up your ass?"
"I am protecting private information that, frankly, I don't even have the right to know. So no pushing, I'm not going to tell you."
"This is Sarah Walsh." The woman, British and dressed as though it were the 1940s, pushed a picture towards Steve. "A private detective by the name of Natalia Romanova brought her to our attention a couple of hours ago. Born in Ireland, moved to Ottawa in 1996, where she worked as a nurse before marrying this guy." Peggy Carter held up an image of a man dressed in military attire. "Joseph Rogers. Veteran who served in Iraq and Afghanistan before returning home and being arrested on multiple occasions. They got married, and had a son. Steven Grant Rogers, who disappeared after the death of his mother in 1999."
"Let me get this straight," Steve said, frowning at the array of files before him. "A private detective read something about how I was abandoned in Albany, figured that Canada wasn't too far and checked birth records and found me? And now you're telling me that my mom died after she abandoned?"
Carter grimaced. "That's accurate. We'd like to run a DNA test before the story runs. Romanova may be the first to have figured it out, but she won't be the last."
Steve flicked his eyes up from the images, where a young blonde woman with the same, distinctive nose as Steve stood. "Okay. I'll do it."
"Wonderful," Carter replied. "You are going to swab the inside of you cheek with this," she handed him a Q-tip. He did, and handed the clean side back to her. "We should have the results tomorrow, tested against Joseph for a match. His DNA is on record for public drunkenness and a bar fight."
With that, the woman left the room. For a PR manager, she did not come off as polite or likeable.
"Davay," Bucky murmured, coming up behind Steve to brush fingers against his shoulder. "Let's go home. Our bus leaves in ten."
For the first time in their lives, Bucky didn't protest when Steve took the only open seat. He moved with the gentle flow of the bus, shifting his weight to remain balanced against the motions. They left the bus two stops early, feet moving in sync.
"You're thinking," Bucky said, when they were still blocks away from Nikolai's lakeside home.
"And you aren't?"
There was a pause, and Steve sighed.
"I don't think it really matters if these people are my parents." Bucky hummed, not commenting on the idea, but waiting for Steve to continue. "If they are, then I had a mother that cared about me enough to try and seek out a better life for me, away from that guy Joseph- he seems like a jerk. And if I don't, then I still had a wonderful family for a couple of years, and I still have you."
"That's an interesting way of putting it," Bucky offered. "I was gonna ask if you still wanted to change your name."
"I think so. If they are my parents, it doesn't change the fact that they didn't raise me. Mama and Papa did."