James Buchanan Barnes climbed the steps to his apartment building on leaden legs, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Cuts and bruises from the battering his body had undergone over the last few days were healing quickly, thanks to the serum that coursed through his veins. But no painkillers, no hot shower or muscle massage, not even the serum would be able to touch the bone-deep weariness that had settled onto his frame. Sam's words echoed in his ears: "You wanna climb outta that hell you're in? Do the work. You gotta be of service. Make them feel better."
How, Sam? Bucky wondered as he stood at the door of the apartment that belonged to Yori Nakajima. The old man had been a friend, but that was bound to change once he heard what Bucky had to say. How is telling Yori about his dead son going to help? He'd backed away from this once before, but as he had walked away from Sam in Louisiana, he had vowed he'd go through with it this time. The only way out is through. With a deep breath and a firm nod of his head, he rapped on the door of the old man's apartment. Closure. That's what he was going to give to Yori. No matter what happened after that, Yori had a right to know how his son died, and who had killed him. And James Bucky Barnes, formerly known as The Winter Soldier, was going to tell him what happened – and then deal with the consequences.
The door opened slowly, and the old man peered out. A wide smile lit his features. "My friend! I have not seen you in many days! Where have you been? It is good to see you again! Come in! Come in!" Yori pulled the door open wider and motioned for Bucky to enter. The shrine to the younger Nakajima was still in the corner of the hallway, glowing with burning candles. A delicate sweet fragrance of incense swirled throughout the rooms. Bucky averted his gaze, focusing his eyes on the floor, hoping his resolve would remain firmly in place. He followed Yori further into the apartment to the living area where Yori motioned for him to be seated. "I will make some tea, you will drink with me and tell me why you have not been around lately!"
"If it's not too much trouble," Bucky began, only to be shushed by the older man.
"Sit," Yori invited. "Please."
Bucky nodded and gave the old man a half smile. He took a seat, looking around the room as Yori hurried into the kitchen. The Winter Soldier programming had already scanned the room, cataloging entry and exit, and he was keenly aware of the layout of the apartment. He squeezed his eyes shut and cursed the old habits, focusing his attention on the sounds of tea preparation. Yori appeared with a small tray a few moments later. Bucky helped him settle the tray and watched as the older man deftly filled two cups with steaming liquid.
They drank the tea in silence. Bucky wondered if there was some ceremony that would have accompanied the tea in the past, wondered if perhaps he should have asked. Yori remained quiet, apparently waiting expectantly for an explanation of Bucky's recent absence.
"I – I've been out of the country, helping a friend deal with – a situation," Bucky began. "And this friend – well, we talked, and he thinks – and I think, too – that – that I need to share…" his voice cracked and he swallowed another sip of tea. "There is something – you need to know, something I need to tell you." He set his cup back on the tray and pulled a set of folded papers from his jacket pocket. Unfolding them, he smoothed them out and looked at them before handing them to Yori. "You should read this."
Yori took the offered papers, looking puzzled and hesitant. The papers were copies of files pulled from the internet, with titles in bold, titles that spoke of the handiwork of someone called The Winter Soldier. "What is this all about?" the older man asked.
Bucky pulled the glove off his right hand, and then proceeded to remove the glove from his left. Finger by finger, the vibranium limb was exposed. Pushing up the sleeve of his jacket, Bucky displayed the black and gold of the arm. The metal caught and reflected light from Yori's son's shrine.
Yori's eyes grew wide and his mouth opened, but no words found their way out. He glanced back at the papers in his hand, and studied the black and white photographs that accompanied the text. There was a metal arm attached to a young bearded man with dead eyes in a sullen face and long greasy hair. "This? This is…"
Bucky folded his hands and stared at the floor. "That is the assassin known as the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier was there – on a mission, when your son was killed. It was a mission to eliminate a high-ranking Serbian official, and your son – he was truly in the wrong place, at the wrong time." Bucky had to pause, swallow against the dryness in his throat. "The Winter Soldier was never allowed to leave witnesses. Your son - was… was collateral damage. The Winter Soldier killed your son, Yori. The Winter Soldier – is me."
Bucky watched the myriad of emotions play out on Yori's face. Shock. Horror. Fear. Disgust. Anger. Tears formed in the old man's eyes, trickled down his cheeks. Yori's gaze went back and forth from the papers in his hand to the black and gold arm, finally settling on the face of the younger man drinking tea with him.
"I. I am sorry," Bucky bowed his head. His voice came out barely above a whisper. "So, so sorry. It's all I have to offer. You said - you said you wanted to know. There is nothing I can say, nothing I can do to change what happened. To make it up to you. All I can offer is – the truth. I didn't have a choice," Bucky's own eyes burned, threatening to spill tears that matched the old man's.
As much as it hurt, and as difficult as it was, Bucky looked up, caught and held the old man's gaze, unable to hold back the tears finally spilling down his own face. There were no more words, nothing left to say that could absolve him of his actions. Pulling the coat sleeve back over his arm, he brushed the moisture from his face and picked up his gloves.
"It's not… there's not…" Bucky stood to leave. "I'll let myself out. Just. All I can say is, I'm sorry. I don't expect anything from you, I don't deserve forgiveness, I just hope I brought you some – peace." He turned toward the door.
"Wait," the word was barely above a whisper, but it was a command that Bucky could not ignore. "It says here that you were a soldier, a POW from World War Two, tortured and forced to do things against your will?"
"Yes."
Yori shook his head in disbelief. "Before you go. You must tell me – tell me how he died."
Bucky took a deep breath. "Hydra made me very good at what I did. My orders were to eliminate the official. I took him out after disposing of his bodyguards. Your son was in the hallway. He saw what happened. He was scared. Trying to get his key in the door. My gun was up. I pulled the trigger."
"So – so he did not suffer?" Yori's voice was a whispered plea.
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut against the sting of more tears, as the memory of his actions played with stark clarity in his mind. But he was determined to answer whatever questions Yori had. "It was a clean kill. He – he was dead before he hit the floor. I didn't even know who he was then. After…after I escaped from Hydra, I spent a lot of time in Bucharest, and read all the reports I could get my hands on regarding the victims of the Winter Soldier – me. Some deserved what they got. Others... Your son…" Bucky shook his head slowly.
Yori sat quiet as Bucky spoke, eventually motioning toward the wall where a decorated sword held a place of honor. "In my younger days, I would have felt compelled to pull that off the wall and use it to avenge the blood of my blood."
Bucky stared at the sword, not quite sure how he'd handle any attempt at retribution from Yori. He heard Yori continue, "But I am an old man now, and have seen and heard many things." Yori paused, allowing silence to fill the room, finally clearing his throat before speaking again. "I am not sure what I should do now, how I should feel. You should go."
"I understand," Bucky replied, nodding as he made his way to the door. A glance back at Yori revealed the old man slumped in his chair, head bowed. There was nothing left to say or do. He left the apartment and headed for his own place. Sam, he thought, I did the work. I gave him closure. Doesn't feel like it helped. Now what?
He made his way back to his apartment, let himself in, checked the refrigerator for something cold to drink. Beer in hand, he settled on the one chair that occupied a space in his living area. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and downed the contents of the can in several large gulps. He had long ago come to terms with the fact that alcohol had no effect on his body, but it did ease his thirst. He willed himself to relax, eventually falling into a fitful sleep. Gray and murky images rose and fell in his dreams, old man Steve, the shield, Sam's boat, Walker, Lamar, Karli and the flag smashers, Zemo, Hydra.
A loud rapping at his door roused him from his doze. He got up and answered the door, dumbfounded to see Yori waiting expectantly. "Yori, is everything…are you okay?"
"I have read the papers you left with me. You must come with me, now, to my apartment. I have something to show you."
Bucky obeyed, unwilling to deny his friend anything he asked. He pulled the door shut behind him and followed the old man down the hall. As they entered Yori's home, the old man again motioned for him to take a seat. Sitting opposite, Yori picked up a book from the table between them.
Bucky held his breath, waiting for Yori to speak, prepared to accept wrath and righteous anger from a man he had hurt so deeply.
When Yori spoke, it was a soft sad whisper. "I am pleased that you have chosen to share the details of my son's death. You should have said something sooner, but I understand how difficult this was. I have spent time with you. I have seen your true heart in the way you deal with people, how much you are always willing to help. Revenge is not the answer. An eye for an eye – leaves us blind. I cannot comprehend what you have been through. I do not hold you responsible. You were the gun in someone else's hand. The gun is not the problem, the one who pulls the trigger is."
Bucky let out the breath he'd been holding, eyes wide and wet.
"My son was a good man, he would always call to check on me, but he rarely came to visit. I think my son – may have been taken away – to make room for you," Yori opened the book and placed it on the table between them. It was full of photographs and newspaper clippings. "I have seen how much it cost you, how much it hurt for you to admit the truth. I would like to share my memories of my son with you. The two of you might have been friends if circumstances were different. Now you must get to know my son, so that neither of us will forget."
Bucky scrubbed his face with his hand, tried to calm his racing heart. Nothing he could do would bring the younger Nakajima back to his father. If listening to stories of the old man's son was what Yori wanted, James Barnes would listen attentively. He could do this, to help his friend cope. And as Yori talked, Bucky realized that this was making both of them feel better.
Thanks, Sam.