Happy Friday!
When Steve gets the phone call, he is painting in the living room of his apartment. His hands are stained with vibrant colors, and he is humming along to a song on the oldies station.
"Hello," he answers, trying his best not to get blue paint on his phone.
"Steve Rogers," the voice on the other end of the line says. Steve furrows his brow.
"Fury?" he asks.
"I have a couple of questions for you," Fury says. Steve frowns. "Now before you get your panties in a twist, let me explain. Do you have a couple of minutes?"
"Is this the kind of conversation best suited to a phone call?" Steve asks, but it is also a challenge. On the other end of the line, Fury is smiling.
"It's about James Barnes," he says. Steve's heart drops.
He swallows. "What about him?" he asks. He feels cold. It's creeping up his spine.
"Have you spoken to him recently?"
Steve's lip twitches into a frown, he takes a deep breath. "No," he says. "Not in months."
Sam is laughing so hard that he is crying.
"Alright, so you're telling me – you're telling me that you've been here for what? Three years? And nobody ever showed you Miss Liberty?" He is wiping a tear from his eye and leaning forward on the couch. Steve is on the other end, sprawled out comfortable against the cushions. Two video game controllers sit between them. It is 'tomorrow night'.
"No," Steve says, eyebrows raised. There is good humor in his voice. "Nobody has ever showed me 'Miss Liberty', and something is telling me that there was a good reason for that."
Sam smiles, bites his lip and shakes his head. "Buddy, I've got some news for you. That girl you were telling me about? What was her name?"
"Judy," Steve answers. Judy Goldstein, born 1923 in New York, New York. Pretty young thing with hips that swung, and lips that always curled into a genuine smile when she saw him. The only USO girl who neglected to either throw herself at him or avoid him like the plague. He can close his eyes and remember the way that her blonde hair bounced at her shoulders, the way that her eyelashes fluttered, the flare that she had on stage. She had performance written in her bones, surging through her blood. She could swear like no other girl Steve had ever (and will ever) meet. She was beautiful and kind in the way that made you think she was a tragedy waiting to happen.
And outside of Chicago, Illinois she took Steve's virginity in a hotel room. She kept kissing him while they were on the road, leaving lipstick imprints on his wrists and chest. She brought a realness to the unreality of his new body. He left her in the States, and he stayed in Europe until he froze. They parted through letters. "Sweetheart," she had written. "You don't owe me a thing." It smelt like her perfume.
"Yeah," Sam said. "Judy! Yeah, she had quite the reputation."
"She did?" Steve asks, sitting up. "Was she successful?"
"Was she successful," Sam repeats, grabbing his laptop. "Depends on your definition."
Steve frowns, scratches his neck. The video game is paused on the screen. Steve liked it, he thinks. "I mean, did she have a career? She always wanted to be an actress." Sam bites the inside of his cheek, types on his computer. "Judy," Steve repeats. "Judy, Judy, Judy. I haven't thought about Judy in a long time."
"Yeah, well I haven't thought about Melissa in a long time," Sam replies. Melissa, dark curly hair, green eyes. Born 1982, Springfield, Illinois. Sam Wilson's first girlfriend. They were twelve. He held her hand at the movie theatre. She stole her father's watch to give to him as a one-week anniversary present. They both ended up grounded.
Steve and Sam have been swapping stories.
Sam leans over, passes the laptop to Steve. What he sees makes his eyebrows lift with lightning speed.
Wikipedia, 23:32 PM, February 14th
Judith Fletcher (October 31st 1923 – May 17th 1998), known professionally by her stage name Miss Liberty, was an American actress, singer and performer. She is most known for her performance in the 1953 B-movie Captain America Stole My Heart, in which she plays the role of a young USO girl who has an affair with Steve Rogers. The film was widely panned due to its risqué themes, but it has since become a cult classic.
Unable to find serious work as an actress due to the film's infamy, Liberty found work instead in b-movies, exploitation and horror films throughout the 1950s and 1960s.
Historians are divided as to whether or not Liberty had a romantic relationship with the real life Captain Rogers. She did serve as a USO girl on Rogers' nationwide tour selling war bonds, but there is no concrete evidence that suggests the two were involved. Testimonials from former USO girls are divided on the issue. Since his return, Rogers has not made a comment.
"Captain America Stole My Heart?" Steve repeats out loud. Sam laughs so hard he wheezes.
"It's awful," he says. "But like 'rite of passage' awful, so bad it's good. Like Rocky Horror. I saw it for the first time in college." He smiles, leans back into the couch. "I think it's on Netflix."
Steve's face is twisted with confusion. "And it's about?"
"Sort of a saucy version of the story you were just telling me," Sam says. "Man, when I saw that movie way back, if you told me that I would be getting the first hand story from Captain America –" Sam breaks off, shakes his head.
Steve furrows his brow. "Captain America Stole My Heart?" Sam wheezes. Steve looks up from the laptop screen, open-mouthed. "Seriously?" Sam closes his eyes and nods furiously. Steve takes a look at him, a look at the laptop, and then a look back at Sam. Sam stills for a moment, too cognizant of the lack of reaction from Steve when –
Steve lets out a low, but genuine laugh and buries his face in his hands. His body shakes and his noises are muffled. When he looks up, his face is flushed and he's blinking away tears. There's a very wide, incredulous smile on his face. He points at the laptop screen. "This is," he says, pausing to wipe at his face, "The most ridiculous thing that I have ever seen."
Sam widens his eyes. "Wait until you see the movie!" he says, relaxing again into the couch.
Steve's eyes are half-lidded, and his face is a copy of the look that Bucky gives when he hears something he thinks is too obvious or stupid. That look. Sam's heart skips a beat. There are texts from Natasha on his phone, coordinating care and full of concern. Across the city, Bucky is massaging the muscles in his arms and legs, sore from sparring and training.
In Sam's living room, Steve says "I don't think I want to see the movie." He spits out 'want' with a comedic flare, crosses his arms and leans back into the couch.
"No, dude, it's great," Sam tells him. "There are some really bad special effects, the guy playing you is wearing pants that are way too tight, and at one point Miss Liberty puts on one of those bras that shoots bullets."
"What?" Steve asks.
Sam nods. "Yeah, like she shoots bullets out of her boobs. Like, her nipples." Sam straightens his back, squares his shoulders, imitates the motions.
"Stop," Steve says, smiling but closing his eyes. He puts a hand out to motion for Sam to cease and desist. "Stop, stop, stop. I get it."
"But Captain," Sam says in a faux high-pitched, feminine voice. He shoots Steve a coy grin and bats his eyes.
"Stop," Steve says, batting at Sam, drawing out the 'o'.
Sam stops, laughs. "Alright, but you gotta admit it's not the worst piece of Captain America pop culture out there."
"It's probably one of the worst I've seen," Steve says, setting the laptop on the coffee table.
"Including or excluding the porn parodies?" Sam asks. Steve freezes.
"The what?"
"Oh," Sam says, voice crawling to a slow inch. "Oh, no."
"You know what?" Steve asks. "Don't even start."
One hour later.
"And the album is supposed to sync up with the movie?" Steve asks. Sam is calibrating electronics and changing volumes. The DVD menu for "The Wizard of Oz" is playing on a loop on the screen of the TV. "Did they do it on purpose?"
"No, man! That's the crazy thing; it just happened like that!" Sam says. He is grinning so wide his face hurts.
Steve is skeptical on the couch. "Who figured this out?"
Sam shrugs. "Some college students, I don't know."
Steve laughs. "How much free time do you have to have to –"
Sam shushes him, motions for him to quiet. "I've gotta sync it up," he says.
"What year did this album come out?" Steve whispers, despite himself.
"'71, I think," Sam says. His attention is focused on the screen. "Fantastic album," he adds.
"I know," Steve says. Sam raises an eyebrow. "I mean, I'm supposed to know. I listened to it a couple of times."
"What'd you think?"
Steve shoots a devious grin. "Well, I listened to it more than once."
Two hours later.
"That's easy," Sam says, leaning into his seat. "Fuck Tony, marry Bruce, kill Clint."
"What'd Clint ever do to you?" Steve asks, eyes glistening with amusement.
Sam shrugs like it's obvious. "Falcon," he says, gesturing to himself. "Hawk-Eye," he says, gesturing away from him. "There can only be one."
Thirty minutes later.
Laughter echoes across the apartment.
Steve is crying, buckled over. His face is flushed. His hands are shaking as he tries to point at Sam.
Sam's eyes are closed. He is laughing so hard he is not making a sound.
Dawn.
The sun cracks over the edge of the earth and catches the two of them on Sam's back porch. They are wrapped warmly with blankets and sweaters, but the cold does not push them inside. Steve traces the horizon with his eyes and sighs. Sam blinks lazily and shifts in his seat.
"You know it's not your fault, right?" Sam asks.
Steve swallows hard. "Feels like it is." His voice is low.
"You reacted how anybody in your situation would have," Sam offers. He speaks evenly. It is clear against the cold air.
Steve's lip trembles, but he shuts it down. His eyes water, but he shuts them down. "You weren't there," he says. "You wouldn't know."
"You're right," Sam says. He is looking at the sunrise. "But I do know that I would be pissed as hell if the ex-brainwashed assassin I'm rooming with went behind my back to attach a weapon of mass destruction to himself." Steve raises an eyebrow. "Natasha told me," Sam says, and then he continues with "I'm not saying you were justified, but I am saying that anybody would be mad."
Steve shakes his head. "I should have been –" he tries to start, but he cuts off. "He was trying to – and I –" He hunches.
Sam's lip twitches into a frown. Steve does not face his friend, but he does lean forward and bob is head up. His eyes are cast downward. "I just miss him a lot, you know?"
Sam takes a deep breath. "Steve, what you did for him was beyond what anybody else would have done, and it was hard, and it was the bravest thing that I've ever seen anybody do." Steve does not speak, merely shakes in the morning light. "But you couldn't be there for him for everything. He's… it sounds like he's gotta work out some things for himself."
Steve leans back up, finishes wiping at his red-rimmed eyes. He steels himself, repositions and tries to relax. He licks his lips. "I don't know what to do," he says. "I just… after the Potomac it was – I had to get him. We had to bring him home. And then, after he was home, I had to help him get better and now that he's gone I-" He shuts his mouth, clenches his jaw. Takes another breath. Keeps speaking. "After I woke up, there was New York. After New York, there was SHIELD. After SHIELD, there was Bucky. And now I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
There is silence. There has been a lot of silence. Sam turns. "I asked you once what made you happy."
Steve's lip twitches. "Yeah, you did." He runs his hand down his face. "Bucky asked me that once, too."
"What'd you say?"
Steve takes a ragged breath. "Same thing I told you."
"Hasn't changed?"
Steve snorts. "No, I guess not," he says. His voice is weak.
"What about before the war?"
Steve furrows his brow. "What do you mean?"
Sam shoots him a very small smile. "Had to be something."
Steve swallows. The sun rises. "Yeah," he says. "There's something."
Steve stares at the blank page of his sketchbook. He sits down, cracks his knuckles. Begins to draw the curve of a tree limb. It roots to the page, grows as he lets it grow. Leaves are placed at the tips of its fingers. They flower. Steve lets them blossom pink. He leans back, chews on the eraser of his pencil.
In the morning, he runs with Sam. The air has a chill, but it is warming up. "You know, you're always welcome at group," Sam says, winded. Steve considers it.
When he returns home, the apartment is empty. It is lonely. If he thinks of the absence – if he thinks of the absence, it hurts. Rattles around in his chest. His hands go weak. He takes a deep breath. He puts on a record. Music fills the apartment. He does not lay languid against Bucky's chest. He presses carbon to paper. Four hours later, the face of a girl he met briefly on the street is immortalized in his sketchbook.
That night, he buys art supplies. Paints and inks, oils and charcoal. He sleeps in an empty bed. Across the city, Bucky Barnes is doing the same. They both turn over, roll beneath the sheets. They move closer to each other without even realizing it.
Mornings come and go, and stretch into days and nights. Steve takes his sketchbook with him. The city fills its pages. He misses New York.
New York as he knew it exists in the pages of past sketchbooks. They sit in his dresser, untouched since that night that Bucky ran his fingers across their pages. The thought makes Steve's heart twitch. If he tries he can feel it bleeding through his rib cage, and down into the pit of his stomach. He follows the curve of their leather casings. He peels back the cover.
He can trace the evolution of his talent, with gaps. They exist at the Smithsonian, or in private collections. He misses them acutely, sees the empty spaces they leave. Wishes he could remember their secrets.
There is one in particular that he stops on. He laughs when he sees it, assumed it had been destroyed. There is dirt on its yellowed, curled corners, and the rusted stain of what Steve assumes to be either his or Bucky's blood in the lower left of the piece. His lip trembles. He snorts, runs a hand through his hair. Develops an idea.
The next morning, the flamenco dancers are in their prime on his easel. Her dress is red as blood, the sort of red that the cones in his eyes before the serum had no way of giving him. She is beautiful. She has Peggy's lips and eyes.
Steve washes the red from his hands and goes to sleep long after he should have. Across the city, Bucky asks Natasha if she would like to watch a movie. To his surprise, she says yes.
Clocks tick. Wounds heal.
Their bodies are pressed against the swollen wood floors of Steve's childhood apartment. Grey afternoon light is cast across them as they lay. It is fading into early evening. It has been raining for hours. Steve absent-mindedly scratches at his ankle. Bucky sniffs at a cold. Down the street, Winifred Barnes coughs into a handkerchief. It turns crimson beneath her breath. She pales, clutches at the arm of her chair. She has three months.
It is 1934.
"Do you ever think about what you wanna do?" Steve asks. He is staring at yellowing ceiling, following the cracks with his eyes.
"What do you mean?" Bucky asks in reply. He has been thinking about Flash Gordon for the past three minutes of silence.
Steve chews on his bottom lip. He winces; there is a split in the center from the fist of a boy who will later die in the Pacific. He tried to rip off a street vendor. Steve gave him a piece of his mind. "I mean when you're older. Like for the rest of your life."
Bucky's first reaction is to laugh, low and bitter. He cannot see the grave his mother will lie in, but he can see the unemployment lines, the dark reality of his future. He has no hope of a better life. But then, he says "You know what?"
"What?"
"I wanna see the country." His lips fall straight and resolute. He stares at the ceiling and crosses his arms. He is sitting in quiet contemplation.
"That's swell, Buck," Steve says, turning his head to face his friend. Outside, the air is cold. Inside, they are warm.
Bucky thinks for a moment, nods. "Sure as hell is," he says with a smirk, turns his own head to face Steve's until they are looking at each other. "You and me," he tells him, pointing accordingly. His knuckles are bruised from the wallop it took to peel that asshole off of Steve. "I'll save up enough money, and we can hop on a train and travel the whole US. Maybe even other places too."
"You mean that?" Steve asks.
"Yeah, of course. I did it when I was a kid with my family, before I came here. It was a lot of fun."
"Where'd you go?"
Bucky thinks for a moment. "All over," he says. "Saw everything. Even saw the Grand Canyon once." His lip twists into a half-smile when he thinks of it.
"You did?" Steve exclaims, rolling up on his elbow. He is absorbed completely.
Bucky snorts. "Would I lie to you?" he asks.
Steve rolls his eyes, but asks "What was it like?"
Bucky considers. "Big," he offers, eventually. "My ma loved it," he continues. "And every morning me and Becky used to pick up rocks to bring back. We always tried to one up each other, you know, who could get the best rock?"
"Who got the best rock?" Steve asks.
"Who do you think?" Bucky sneers, scratching at his neck.
Steve shrugs with one shoulder, says "Well, I was gonna place my bet on Becky, but –"
Bucky shoves him playfully. "Ah, fuck off Stevie," he says. "It was me," Bucky clarifies. "I got the best rock."
Steve hides his smile behind his hand. "That's quite an accomplishment there, Buck."
Bucky shoots him that look. Outside, there is thunder. "I'd like to see you try," he says.
"Try to get the better rock?" Steve asks, raising one eyebrow.
"Yes, 'try to get the better rock'. It's not as easy it looks," Bucky says, crossing his arms. He narrows his eyes, but every inch of his body denotes playfulness.
"Who's gonna judge?" Steve asks. Bucky lifts an eyebrow. "I mean, who's gonna judge who's rock is better? What is the criterion for the competition –"
"When you find a good rock; you know it's a good rock –"
"Yeah, but what if we both find good rocks? Who's gonna decide who's rock is better?"
"I'll decide."
Steve shakes his head. "But you're biased. You're gonna pick your rock –"
"Look, Stevie, if you find a rock that really knocks me off my feet, I'm gonna say that you've got the best rock, you win."
Steve steels his jaw. It's difficult, because he wants to laugh. "I'm gonna get the best rock."
Bucky snorts. "Oh, we'll just see about that," he says. There is a brief pause between them. They listen to the rain as it hits the roof of the apartment building, the sound of car horns in the distance.
"Do you think we can see the Niagara Falls?" Steve asks. His voice cuts through the gloom.
"Don't see why not," Bucky replies. "Personally, I'd like to go to Hollywood." Steve barks out a sharp laugh.
"Hollywood?" he repeats.
"Yeah," Bucky says. "Why not? Say hi to some movie stars, make some friends on top. It's gonna be great." Bucky pauses for a moment, listens to the rain. "Just gotta save up enough money to get outta here. Take a year off, see the world. No parents calling you in too early, no where you gotta be. Just me and you and wherever we wanna go."
The picture being painted is irresistible, and Steve can see it stretching before them like a movie show. Grabbing a train, hitch-hiking the plains. He feels the excitement in the thin bones of his legs, makes his long fingers twitch. It's an idealism that scrubs away at the grime of the Great Depression. It gives him the courage to say (sheepishly) "That's a neat idea, Buck. Me, I wanna go to art school."
A grin spreads across Bucky's face. "You do?" he asks.
Steve bites on his lip. He can feel embarrassment spreading warm across his cheeks. "I mean, drawing's the only thing I'm really good at –"
Bucky rolls up onto his elbow, turns to face Steve until they are reflections of each other. "Steve, that's great!" he says. Something pulls at the corners of his mouth, beats sick in his heart for a split second. Steve doesn't catch it. "Steve, you got a real plan, you got a real shot. You're gonna go be an artist somewhere."
His words make Steve smile, but he looks down as he does, studies the hardwood floor. It's pressed cold against his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. He has doubts. "Thanks, Buck," he says. "What about you? Gonna travel the world forever, or settle down somewhere?"
Bucky chews on his lip, takes a deep breath. "Well," he says, but his voice is weaker. "I'd probably come back," he continues, feigning a sort of smooth coating of disinterest. "Keep a job down by the docks for a couple of years. Then who knows."
Steve nods. He can see easels and books, great windows of some great observatory.
Bucky can't see anything at all.
Sam leans back into his seat, relaxes easy. His back arches comfortably; his fingers are curled around the drink in his hand. "So, what about you?" he asks. "What have you been up to?"
Steve lips twitches, mouth half-curves into a smile. They are out for coffee on the warmest afternoon of the year, seated in a little place in the opposite direction of the café that Bucky found for himself. "I've actually been drawing a lot lately," he says.
"You draw?" Sam asks, and then he says "Wait, yeah, of course you draw. Sorry, everybody knows that."
Steve snorts. "They do, do they?"
Sam nods, takes a sip of his coffee. His body language is casual, but poised with concern. He is in a state of relaxation, but knows how to mediate if he has to – an ability born from practice and a genuine concern. Steve likes him. He's a good friend. "That well known, huh?"
Sam nods again. "It's like George Washington chopping down a cherry tree. Kids learn it in kindergarten. I didn't know you still did it, though."
Steve entertains the notion for a moment, but it leaves him feeling detached like he is not him but instead of a puppet on strings. He wraps his fingers tighter around his coffee, lets it burn him for a moment before releasing again. He is back. "I've always done it," he says. "But lately it's been –"
"Been what?" Sam asks.
Steve thinks for a moment, grimaces briefly and finally decides on "I haven't drawn this much since before the war."
"Is this a good thing or a bad thing?"
Steve bites his lip. "I don't know," he admits.
"Why so unsure?" Sam asks. "I mean, usually people fall one way or another on something like this."
Steve snorts, smiles. "I suppose they usually do," he says. "I guess I just don't really know what I'm doing with it anymore."
"Well, do you enjoy it?"
Steve thinks of creation, of mastery, of any moment he could think of where he placed a pigment to the paper. "Yeah," he says. "I do."
"Then I'd say that it's a good thing," Sam tells him. Outside, sun hides behind a cloud. People drift past.
Steve nods, opens his mouth to speak and pauses. Closes his lips. Opens them again to say "You know I wanted to go to art school."
"You did?" Sam asks. This information is new. He shifts in his seat. "Ever get the chance?"
Steve snorts, shakes his head. "Nah. Not at the time. We could barely afford our apartment."
"That's too bad," Sam says, and he means it. "You ever think about going now?" Steve raises an eyebrow. Sam shrugs. "It's not that crazy."
"I'm not fit for it anymore," Steve says. He shits in his seat. Taps at his mug once, twice.
"What do you mean?" Sam asks. "Why not?"
Steve swallows, thinks. "There's been – I've missed a lot. In the art world things are constantly changing, and I missed a lot of it.
"Never too late to look into it," Sam says. The sun breaks through. Afternoon light spills across their table. Steve lets it warm his hands as he listens to Sam tell a story about his sister in law school, about his day.
That night, his mind rests.
They give him his things in a cardboard box from the archives of the Smithsonian. There are sketchbooks, letters, photographs. The aid who hands him the box is kind, demure, seems almost apologetic about the situation. Steve is just happy to hold them in his hands again.
The box finds it's way to his coffee table, besides a cup of tea and an old book. He puts a record on. Music fills the apartment. Steve walks into the past.
There are three sketchbooks in the box. One is ancient, falling apart. It is embarrassing to him how foreign its age is, a reminder of the progression of time. In his head it is new, presented to him by his mother's frail hands on the eve of his tenth birthday. It is expensive, and they can trace the things they must give up for the purchase, but Steve barely notices and Sarah thinks that it is a sacrifice she is willing to make to have a child who is still alive. Now it frays at the edges.
He is gentle with it, careful as he peels it open. The penciling is faded, but still visible. He laughs when he sees some of the drawings, cringes when he sees others. If he had the choice he would have kept this book under wraps. The thought that others – probably hundreds – had seen these drawings makes his stomach seize with embarrassment. But he pushes past it without a second thought, and it bubbles up as laughter instead.
The second sketchbook is newer, in better condition. It fills a gap between November 1937 and August 1939. It locks into place like a puzzle piece, and it is more satisfying than it should be. He lifts the cover and freezes. Bucky stares back at him, skin slick with sweat and a lazy grin on his face. Steve takes a deep breath and continues to flip pages.
Bucky is dotted throughout, but he appears in quantities that are tolerable. Steve's eyes skim past his pages. Sometimes they fall too long on a line and his chest seizes, all he can think of is the pacing and harsh sting of words and the final slam of a door. Natasha sends him messages, small updates. He hates when she does. He doesn't want her to ever stop.
He is four records in, side A when he reaches his last sketchbook. It is labeled 1942, and it was bought for him by a salesman he knew who kept his shoes immaculately polished and never told a soul about the four years of his life that he went drinking regularly with the man who would one day become Captain America. Inside the front cover "FROM ME + MISSUS. MERRY CHRISTMAS 1942 STEVE-O, MAY YOUR HANDS CRAMP AS MUCH AS EVER" is written in dark ink. Steve trails his fingers across the message.
He is not three pages in when a slip of paper falls from deep within the book, hits his shoes. He furrows his brow, places the book open on the coffee table and goes digging. It is folded, not yellowed. Modern. Steve unwraps it. "American Art in th/ 20th Cent. – DODSON p 143"
Something pricks at Steve's back. There is recognition here. He turns from the note back to face his bookshelf. There are empty spaces, the abandoned homes of books that Bucky had taken to read. They now pile in stacks around the room, untouched. Steve leaves them just as he leaves the couch, approaches the shelf and grabs a book from the left, fourth row from the bottom. "American Art in the Twentieth Century" by E.J.L. Dodson. It is a solid book, with weight to it. Steve grabbed it from a bookshelf at a used bookstore because of the title, a wondering of is relevancy. He hasn't opened it yet.
He turns to page 143 and stills. Steve trails his eyes across the page.
"Since Rogers never kept a formal journal or diary, the best record of his life can be seen through his many sketchbooks. Early drawings like his pre-war 'Untitled, April 11th, 1941' drawing of the New York marketplace (pictured above, left) suggest a great deal of optimism, even at a dark economic and social time in American history.
The people in the marketplace are shown to have kind faces and very open body language. There is a great amount of attention given to every item drawn in the scene. At the time of the particular drawing, Rogers was gravely ill and reportedly too weak to even walk up a flight of stairs without assistance. Along with illness, Rogers was suffering financially and would continue to suffer financially until becoming America's first and last Super Soldier…"
That night, his mind spins.
"Do you still draw?" Bucky asks. They are in France. There is rain falling from the infinite dark of the sky. The cold binds them, and the Commandos, together.
Bucky's voice is quiet. It is a question meant only for Steve. Around them, the others buzz in the warm haze of camaraderie. "Of course," he says.
"Haven't seen you lately," Bucky tells him. He sounds empty, but Steve ignores it because he has to. He'll regret it every day of his life.
"Haven't really gotten the chance," Steve replies, and there is humor in his tone. He smiles. It's warm, and bright. Bucky attempts at a return, but it falls flat. It is a mere echo.
"Don't blame you," he says, and it is almost a joke. It has the bones of a joke, the bones of an easy sway.
But nothing is easy anymore.
"… After going overseas and seeing military action, Rogers went through a brief 'Dark' Period. He moved away from gentle scenes and delicate shading as had become his norm and veered to more raw subjects. His untitled drawing commonly referred to as 'Picture of a Dead Soldier' (pictured above, right) from mid 1943 shows a lush forest with a lifeless Hydra soldier laying on the ground, serving as the focal point.
Unlike the drawing of the New York marketplace, there is very little attention given to the subject. The Hydra soldier's face is far less detailed than the faces of other works by Rogers, though the soldier's wounds are shown with painstaking detail. The forest background is drawn with harsher and darker strokes, giving the piece a sense of urgency..."
"I get to see this when it's finished, right?" Sam asks.
Steve nods without looking up from his sketchbook. "Of course," he says. He is distracted by focusing on the curve of lines, the shade of his pencil.
"You know, you should do one of Clint and an actual hawk," Sam says. "Like you're doing with me and a falcon."
"A comparative work," Steve offers the term, glancing briefly at Sam.
"Yeah. Maybe even Natasha and a spider," Sam says, taking a moment to laugh to himself. "Dunno how well she'd pose, though."
"Natasha poses very well," Steve says. "She's amazing. Makes faces, though."
"Faces?" Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Sticks her tongue out," Steve offers, shifting his legs. "Crosses her eyes." The memory catches in Steve's throat, restricts his breathing for a moment. Natasha was – is – a friend. The tensions between them that were born and wrapped around Bucky have been pulled tight for months. He misses the ease of her at his side, the respect and competency and occasional bad jokes that never really stopped catching him off guard.
Steve glances up to see Sam posing strangely, pursing his lip and locking their eyes. "What are you doing?"
"It's called 'blue steel'," Sam replies. His look intensifies. "Ever hear of it?"
Steve bites on his bottom lip to keep from laughing. "No, I haven't," he says. "And I'm kind of glad."
"What!" Sam exclaims. "The blue steel is classic, timeless."
"Quit movin'," Steve tells him, leaning forward. The work is almost complete. It is one of many that clutter his apartment. The place is a mess with art supplies and half-finished canvasses. It's dreamlike in quality, one from a childhood pressed against his mother in their one bed in their one room apartment. Sam gives him an easy smile. There is something Steve must ask.
"Hey, you doing anything Friday night?"
Sam furrows his brow. "Not really. You got anything in mind?"
"Got anything to wear to a black tie?" Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.
Sam crosses his arms. "Got a suit from my cousin's wedding that might do the job. We going someplace I won't be able to afford?"
"Won't have to afford anything," Steve replies, putting the finishing touches on the drawing. "Any interest in being my plus one?"
"Depends on where we're going," Sam says. His body relaxes as he watches Steve set the artwork aside.
"Stark event, fundraiser dinner at the Avengers tower," Steve says. "People are going to talk if I keep putting them off. Have to make an appearance sometime."
"Wait, hold up," Sam says, places a hand out. "Are you asking me if I want to have dinner with Tony Stark?"
Steve shrugs. "Yeah, he'll be there –"
Sam takes a seat directly across from Steve on the coffee table. Their eyes are level. "Steve, I know you see Tony all the time, but you gotta look at it from my perspective – you are asking me if I want to have dinner with Iron Man at his house."
"Is that a yes?" Steve asks.
"Of course it's a yes!" Sam replies. "In what world would I possibly say no to this?"
Steve chuckles to himself. Warm afternoon sunlight casts a glow across the two. He can see the haze of dust particles float through the air. It is almost a year since the Potomac, the days and weeks between then and now seems almost incomprehensible to him. There is death and growth curled around the passage of time. There is Bucky; a moment where his entire world stopped turning.
He thinks of the horrors he read about that took place in the Red Room, the pictures and stories he found in the file. His chest seizes momentarily and he exhales harshly.
"You alright?" Sam asks.
"Of course," Steve says. "Now quit moving, I'm trying to finish."
He wonders about Bucky.
"… Rogers' Dark Period lasted approximately five months, ending in the early Winter of 1944. At this time, he began spending more time on specific studies than drawing scenes. His 'Study of Icicles' (pictured below, right) indicated the end of the harsh and aggressive lines of his Dark Period. The icicles are drawn with gentle lines and shading that are more common in his earlier work, bringing back a sense of wonder and hope that had been severely lacking in months prior… "
"Where's your shadow?"
Steve cringes, turns his body to the right where Tony Stark stands. They are both facing forward from the sidelines; watching guests in fine clothing mingle. Sam is chatting up a Japanese neurosurgeon a few feet away. She thinks he's handsome, turns toward his body. He is enchanted by her eyes and the slope of her neck.
"Dunno," Steve replies, taking a sip of his drink. The hair on the back of his neck is on end. He wishes that he were at home, focused deep on an art project and halfway through the B-side of a favorite album.
"You don't know?" Tony asks. He raises an eyebrow in an almost theatrical manner, takes a sip of his drink. "How can you not know? Did you lose him on the –" Tony stops. Steve turns to watch the information process through his brain. He narrows his eyes. "He never told you, did he?"
Steve freezes, the ice creeps through his veins and stops at the tips of his fingers. He imagines it sending a sheet of frost across the cool glass of his drink. "Tell me what?" he asks, but his voice sounds hollow.
"'Bout the arm," Tony answers nonchalantly. He makes no motion, but he hangs himself casually at Steve's side. There is a sense of a shrug in his body language. "I told him to tell you," Tony adds. Steve swallows. His back is stiff, his arms are straight. Of course, he thinks. Tony gave Bucky the arm. He'd have to talk to Tony tonight. Two and two had not placed themselves together in his head.
He thinks of art and Sam and E.J.L. Dodson and realizes there were other things on his mind.
"Hope he hasn't been sleeping on the couch for too long," Tony says. The choice of language makes the corner of Steve's lip pull downward into a frown, but Tony does not dwell on it. There is no weight placed there.
Steve steels his jaw, thins his lips. He takes a deep breath. His eyes rest on Sam and the Japanese neurosurgeon. "How did he seem?" he asks.
"What do you mean?" Tony replies. He takes a sip of his drink, shoves his hand in his pocket. They do not face each other.
"When he came in," Steve continues, "What was he like?" He turns toward Tony just slightly, enough for there to be contact made.
There is a moment of silence between. Tony blinks once, looks Steve up and down, and then blinks again. His licks his lips, scratches his jaw. His entire body resettles. "He was determined," he finally says, in a voice that is low and uncharacteristic. Steve is at rapt attention. "A little crazy," Tony adds, "But he knew what he was doing."
Steve nods, inhales once. He chews on his lower lip. "Did he tell you why he wanted it back?" he asks. His voice is strong, but there are edges of uncertainty. It does not shake, but its strength is fragile.
"Said he wanted to help people. Asked him why he couldn't go feed orphans or something. Seems like hanging out with superheroes got to his head," Tony replies dryly. He pauses for a moment, and then adds, "It sounds like the guy had some baggage." Steve nods again.
"Thank you, Tony," he says. They stand on uneasy ground. Tony casts a glance at his drink, swirls it, and then looks back up.
"Is that the Falcon?" he asks, louder and clearer. They are back to reality.
"Yeah, that's Sam," Steve says. "You know he'd love to meet you."
"Of course," Tony says. He steps away from Steve, turns on his heel to face him. "Who wouldn't?" He leaves with a smirk.
Steve downs his drink.
Natasha stretches out like a cat, cracks her neck and places the elaborate earrings she wore to lunch on the dresser. The sun sets later and later every day, and now it is just peaking over the horizon. She can hear Bucky moving somewhere else in the apartment. She massages the side of her head and watches the city.
Her phone vibrates against the hard wood of the dresser. STEVE, it says. She lifts an eyebrow.
"Hallo," she answers.
"Hey Natasha," she hears from the other end of the line. His voice is casual, but brimming with emotion. There is silence in the background.
"Steve," she greets. "What's up?" she asks, placing her weight on his right hip and curling her left arm around her waist.
"Nothing," Steve replies. "Nothing important," he corrects. "How have you been?"
Natasha smirks. "I've been fantastic. I took a forty minute shower and had a fancy lunch. How about you?"
"I've been alright," he says with a sigh over the line.
"Gossip rags had you at a Stark fundraiser," Natasha says. She sits back at the edge of her bed, crosses her legs. She likes the smoothness of nylon against nylon. It is a strange comfort.
"Yeah, yeah," Steve says. "There was that."
"Who'd you talk to?" Natasha asks. "Without me there to save you," she adds. There is humor in her voice. She hopes the message comes across.
"Brought Sam this time," Steve replies with a chuckle. The sound makes Natasha smile. She slides further back on her bed.
"Why did you call?" she asks. There is no reply. "Text updates not enough?" she adds. Her voice is gentle, warm. Somewhere in the apartment, Bucky stops moving.
She hears a deep breath on the other line. "How's he doing?" Steve asks.
Natasha looks down at the floor, picks at the cotton of her bedspread. "He's been doing very well," she replies.
"Has he?" Steve asks. His voice breaks. You were lovers, she thinks. Bucky's confirmation is fresh in her mind.
"Yes," she responds. Her voice is hollowed, raspier than usual. She is far away. "He asked me to train him. We've been training." There is a moment of silence. "He's not…" She pauses, tries to think of the words. "He's not the same person that he was when he came to me," she decides upon.
"Is he happy?" Steve asks, and the question is so honest that it pulls at Natasha's heart. She frowns.
"You'll have to ask him that yourself, Steve," she answers, licking her lips.
"Thank you," Steve replies.
"Any time," Natasha says.
The conversation is over. Natasha places the phone at her side on the bed. Down the hall, she hears Bucky walk away.
"…The last known drawing by Rogers, 'March 7th, 1945' (pictured below, right) is a detailed drawing of his fallen best friend and fellow Howling Commando James 'Bucky' Barnes. While all of his wartime drawings were detailed, not a single drawing rivals the amount of time and emotion put into this portrait of Barnes. Barnes is shown looking to his left and smiling absently, every nuance of his expression accounted for. Finished days after Barnes' death, 'March 7th, 1945' shows the deep bond Rogers and Barnes shared through the care and detail put into the portrait.
It is considered to be Rogers' personal memorial for Barnes… "
When Steve gets the phone call, he is painting in the living room of his apartment. His hands are stained with vibrant colors, and he is humming along to a song on the oldies station.
"Hello," he answers, trying his best not to get blue paint on his phone.
"Steve Rogers," the voice on the other end of the line says. Steve furrows his brow.
"Fury?" he asks.
"I have a couple of questions for you," Fury says. Steve frowns. "Now before you get your panties in a twist, let me explain. Do you have a couple of minutes?"
"Is this the kind of conversation best suited to a phone call?" Steve asks, but it is also a challenge. On the other end of the line, Fury is smiling.
"It's about James Barnes," he says. Steve's heart drops.
He swallows. "What about him?" he asks. He feels cold. It's creeping up his spine.
"Have you spoken to him recently?"
Steve's lip twitches into a frown, he takes a deep breath. "No," he says. "Not in months."
There is silence from the other end, then grumbling. "That's what Natasha thought," Fury says.
"Natasha?" Steve repeats. He leans against the back of the couch, away from his painting (repaint of Ruth Mathers in a blue dress – experimenting with color).
"Yeah, she had a feeling you two hadn't been chatting. I wanted to see for myself," Fury explains.
"Could've asked Bucky," Steve points out.
"I wanted to ask you," Fury replies. His voice is stern. Steve realizes that he missed it.
"Why do you want to know about Bucky?" Steve asks.
"There's an initiative –" Fury begins.
"An initiative?" Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Let me finish," Fury growls. "It's ex-SHIELD. Same guys who fought beside you in DC. Independent agents working on contracts with big name intelligence agencies. CIA, FBI, etcetera. Rebuilt from the ground up. We'd love to have you."
"I'm not interested," Steve replies. "What does this have to do with Bucky?"
"We'd love to have Barnes, too," Fury says. Steve's gut reaction is to cringe, to freeze. Tony hangs at his side. Natasha whispers in his free ear.
"Listen to me," Bucky had said. "I am up here," he had pleaded, pointing at his head. "And I am trying to talk to you."
"Why did you want to talk to me?" Steve asks. His voice is hard.
"You know him best," Fury replies. No, I don't, Steve thinks. I don't at all. "I suppose you don't mind sharing why you two haven't spoken since February?"
"We had a fight," Steve answers.
"You fought?" Fury repeats.
"Not – not like that," Steve says. "We argued and Bucky left. He went to Natasha's."
"That's what I thought," Fury tells him. His voice is smooth, deep. Steve takes a deep breath.
"Fury, what do you want to know? Why did you call me?" Steve asks. His patience wears thin. His hands shake.
There is a moment of silence, and then Fury answers with "Rogers, I respect you. Dancing around an issue is not how I've made it this far, so I'm going to be frank. Do you think Barnes is suitable for intelligence work?"
Steve's heart sinks, and he swallows. "Isn't Natasha better suited to answer this question?"
"I already know Natasha's vote," Fury says. "I want to hear yours."
Is it terrible, or does it scare you?
Steve closes his eyes, shuts them so tight he can see the colors and patterns behind his lids. "He wants this," he says. "I'm not sure if he knows what he's doing, but –" Steve feels like he's falling apart. "But I think that he can handle it."
He can hear Fury take a deep breath on the other end of the line. "Thank you for your cooperation, Rogers," Fury says. "I hope we'll see each other around."
The phone clicks. Steve wishes the city would sink into the sea.
Here is a scene from January:
They are curled beneath the sheets. Steve runs a hand through Bucky's hair, longer now than it was, and presses a kiss against his forehead. Bucky nuzzles closer, places his head in the crook of Steve's neck until the only thing that he can smell is Steve, all fresh linen and cool cologne. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky, places one hand behind his heart. It beats strong, alive.
"Good night, Buck," he whispers.
There is April sunlight streaming through the window and Steve lets it warm his back and neck while he reads. Talk radio drones in the background. The morning is new, fresh. Steve takes a bite out of his toast and continues to scan the page.
His phone rings at his side, and he picks it up without thinking. It is only when it is too late; when he has already hit the answer button that he realizes its Bucky's ringtone.
"H-hello?" he stammers. Everything fades to the background.
"Steve?" he hears, and it's Bucky. Clear as day it's Bucky's voice through the phone, strong and vital and alive and saying his name.
"Hey, Buck," Steve says, but his voice is weak. "What's up?" he asks for lack of anything better to say.
"Not a whole lot," Bucky responds, and he sounds so casual, so fine. "How about you?"
Steve swallows hard, swallows so hard he thinks he might choke. "Nothing important," he says.
There is silence that stretches across the centuries.
"Hey, look, I was wondering you wanted to grab a bite to eat tonight," Bucky says. Steve thinks this is a dream.
"Yeah," he replies. "Yeah, sure. That sounds good. What time?"
"Seven, if it, uh, if it works for you."
"Yeah," Steve replies. "Yeah, that works for me just fine."
"Good," Bucky says. He is unreadable through the phone. "Good. I'll, um, I'll see you then."
"Sure," Steve says, but he wants to say 'I love you' and 'I'm sorry'. "Sure."
"It was, uh, it was nice talking to you, Stevie." Steve's heart leaps into his throat.
"It was good to hear your voice," Steve says, thinks for a moment that it might have been too honest and stops.
"It was good to hear yours too," Bucky says, and Steve thinks that he can hear a crack, a waver in in his voice.
"See you tonight," Steve says, but he wants to talk forever.
"See you at seven."
Art analysis parts done by tumblr user johnymarr.
Thank you so much for reading!