Disclaimer: I do not own Captain America or any of Marvel's characters. I'm just having fun with them.
Author's Note: I decided to go a different route with this story. I changed a few things around quite heavily, and I'm slowly posting the redo. I hope it's enjoyable to read!
Warnings: Smoking, adult language, mentions of torture, and PTSD/flashbacks. I'll update warnings as needed.
Any comments or feedback is much appreciated!
Pure American Brother
Prologue
The ragamuffin gunner is returnin' home...
... like a hungry runaway.
The Soldier didn't know who James Buchanan Barnes was. The Soldier didn't even know who Steve Rogers was, apart from the simple fact that Steve Rogers and his Mission are the same person.
The worst thing was the way he was suddenly aware of how fractured he was, as if all the parts of his mind was compartmentalized and jumbled; painfully unable to find his way out of the maze. Since that day on the helicarrier, he was seeing images in his mind. Dreams? Memories? The Soldier didn't know. The images would be prompted by the smallest, most insignificant thing.
That afternoon, outside the museum, there had been two boys running carefree in the sun. They were laughing, and had ice cream cones in hand. The Soldier was sitting on a bench, hat pulled down over his forehead, when he suddenly felt like all the oxygen drained from his lungs. He gasped for air as images bombarded his mind at a numbing speed.
Front stoop of a tenement building in a big city. Hot summer day. Baseball game on the radio, the announcer's voice drifting out from an open window. The Dodgers.
New York City?
Two boys. Big for their age. Mean.
Bullies.
Hulking over a small, frail boy seated on the steps, ice cream cone in his tiny hands. Vanilla droplets melting over his bony wrists and the hot pavement.
The Soldier could almost hear the droplets sizzle as they hit the ground.
Sadistic laughter. The liquid splatter of a scoop of melting vanilla hitting the sidewalk, then the hurried rush of feet in sneakers traveling to their next victim.
The boy's crestfallen face, tears splashing off his jutting cheekbones.
Another neighborhood boy, crossing the street. Ice cream cone in his hand.
A warm, shy smile. Outstretched arm, cone precariously perched between fingers.
"I'm James. You don't have to call me that, though, everybody else calls me Bucky."
"I'm Steve."
"Okay, Stevie. It's strawberry, eat it before it melts, okay?"
Bucky. The same name Rogers insisted on calling him at each one of their meetings. The same name on display in the museum. The name still held no personal meaning for the Soldier, except now he had a frame of reference: an image, a dream sequence, a memory belonging to someone else.
This Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were childhood friends. Giving ice cream to someone who just had theirs tossed to the street by bullies was something that a friend would do. He couldn't say how he knew that, but he did.
Was that something the Soldier would do? He didn't know. First of all, he couldn't remember if he had ever eaten ice cream, and if he had, what it tasted like. He didn't know where that film in his head came from, was it implanted by Hydra?
The Captain would know. Finding him might be a little more difficult than when he was following a mission under orders. He could still find him by sundown.