A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, and Captain America: Civil War.
As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.
Note 1: I know it's been a while since this story was updated, but it couldn't be helped. Not only is my muse a fickle little scamp, my family has been experiencing a great deal of emotional turmoil that may not get better any time soon. Such is RL.
Note 2: This story is being revamped. Some scenes will be removed completely. Others will be changed to better conform to the MCU movies. Also, parts 2 and 3 will be eliminated and the chapters posted all under one title.
Namaste,
Sunny
"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems
Winter Soldier
And You Will Know Me Still
Chapter 3
As James carried the cat across the yard and into the kitchen, he felt a vibration all along the area where her side pressed against his chest. When he rubbed her head, it didn't seem to matter which hand he used as long as he didn't stop until she wanted him to. He stroked a finger over the top of her head. She closed her eyes and the rumbling got louder.
He set her on the floor, took down a small plate and opened the refrigerator to search for something to give her. There was leftovers from the night before. He broke the meat up into smaller chunks and set the plate on the floor. The poor thing had to be starving because she gobbled up the food, making sounds of pleasure in her throat that sounded like nom-nom-nom.
Crouched next to her, James involuntarily smiled. It was a reflexive response to something that amused him. It also gave him cause to wonder how long it had been since he felt genuine happiness. Possibly a very long time ago.
When she'd finished eating, the cat looked up at him, her pink tongue licking her whiskers to get all the bits of meat that clung there. As if reading her mind, he took out a bowl and filled it with water from the tap. She lapped it gratefully then sat down with her tail curled, licking one paw and swiping it over her face and ears. When she finished, she looked up at him. "Now what?"
He rubbed her ears, along her cheeks and under her chin. Once again, he felt and heard the vibrations. Touching her neck showed him that the source was somewhere inside her chest. She didn't seem to be in distress so it had to be a natural phenomenon.
His host said he would be cleaning the vestibule to make it ready for something called a mitzvah. According to Norman, it was a rite of passage for Jewish boys and girls on their thirteenth birthday. James pushed open the door that led to the hallway, making certain it was closed behind him so the cat wouldn't roam around. Exiting the front, he crossed the small garden to the rear of the synagogue. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard the electric crackle of com chatter.
Creeping silently to the corner, he peeked around and quickly retreated. There were about a dozen armed men and women in black uniforms standing guard. Returning to the door, he eased it open and slipped inside, his footsteps making no noise on the carpeting. His enhanced hearing picked up the murmur of strange voices mixed with the pleasant croon of Norman's throaty tones.
~~O~~
Without showing any sign that he knew the man in the photo, Norman handed it back to Simms. However, it was Altman who took it. "Haven't seen him. What's he done?"
"That's not important." Simms tucked both hands behind his back. "No offense, but we'd like to search the premises." Norman could see from the look in the other man's eyes that denying access would be futile. That assessment was proven at the Colonel's next comment. "It's not a request, rabbi."
"By all means, help yourself. There's no one here at the moment, though I do have a mitzvah this evening. I trust you'll be done by then."
"Of course. Altman?"
The major nodded and touched the com in his left ear. "We have a go."
Picking up the broom, Norman went back to sweeping, giving the men a pointed stare when they stayed. Simms turned and left, followed by Altman.
By the time Norman finished sweeping, the squad had completed their search of the synagogue and Simms returned. This time without his lapdog Altman. "We'll need to search your residence as well."
Norman led the way through chapel and out the back. Several of the others were already stationed at the door, and presumably in the back as well. The woman standing to the right entered with two men. "Just don't break anything," he called out.
A few minutes later, a crash sent Simms and Altman inside. "Stay!" Simms shouted the order at Norman as if he were a dog. The military men had their weapons out as they burst in through the door.
Against the Colonel's order, Norman followed them inside. Sitting beside a small pile of ceramic shards amid a puddle of water and wilted flowers was a white and black cat, the end of her tail twitching. Norman pushed his way through the group. Stooping, he picked the cat up. "Lucy! You're such a vida chaya. I told you to stay off the table."
Simms and Altman holstered their weapons, nodding to the squad. To Norman, Simms said, "Sorry we disturbed you, rabbi. If you do happen to see the man in the photo, don't approach him. Call 9-1-1 immediately. He's armed and extremely dangerous."
"Of course, Colonel." He ushered the soldiers to the door, more to make certain they'd gone than out of good manners. After they drove out of sight, Norman walked through the house peeking into rooms and closets, carrying the cat over his shoulder like a baby. A light thump came from the hallway, and when he returned, James was standing there. Above him, the attic access was still ajar. James held a finger to his lips then cupped a hand around his ear to let him know that someone could be listening. Pointing at the back door, James silently asked Norman to step outside while he searched the house. Given that surveillance equipment was so small, Norman didn't know how James would find them. Though the soldiers hadn't had much time, he supposed they could've left listening devices.
Doing as James asked, Norman left by the back door, taking the cat with him. Once outside, he scratched the top of her head and she rewarded him with a loud purr. "Don't know where you came from, girl, but you're welcome to stay. We'll fix you up a box, food dish and some water. So you like the name Lucy?" The cat purred louder, giving her approval. "It's settled then. We'll just wait out here till the coast is clear."
Norman put the cat down in the grass. First, she twined herself around his legs, meowing. Then, she scampered back and forth, chasing a butterfly and a grasshopper, making Norman chuckle.
~~O~~
When Norman and the cat were safely out of the house, James removed the glove used to cover his metal hand and slipped out of his jacket. Flexing his fingers in a particular order, he made a slow and methodical search of the house for any surveillance equipment. When he neared such devices, a sort of tingling began in the palm of his hand. He didn't know if it had been programmed or was an unintended side-effect. He'd never mentioned it to the doctors who tended him when he was out of stasis or they would surely have disabled that function. They were never interested in anything he had to say that didn't involve his missions. He couldn't remember all of them, just the most recent ones when the man in the suit had slapped him and said, "Wipe him, and start over." Those words struck fear in his heart, because he would forget everything he'd learned about his former life.
He left the living room and inched down one side of the hall then back the other way. Next he entered Norman's room. The bed was neatly made, an ancient robe tossed on the end. A sweater was hanging over the back of a cushioned chair pushed under a table with a laptop, paper, pens, and a lamp. He obviously sat here to compose his sermons. The closet was the last place James checked, and as in all the other he swept, it was free of electronic surveillance.
James ended his scan with the kitchen. The door to the basement was closed and locked. From his vantage point in the attic, he would've seen and heard if it had been opened. He silently thanked the cat for the distraction she provided, though he had no idea how she'd gotten out of the kitchen with the door closed.
Going to the refrigerator, he took out the pitcher of lemonade and poured two glasses. He put the jacket and glove back on, and motioned to Norman. The clergyman came in, closely followed by the cat. He sat at the table, and James sat across from him. Before he could stop her, the cat was in his lap, patting him on the cheek with a fuzzy paw. He obeyed the not so subtle demand for attention by rubbing under her chin.
"You find anything?"
"No."
Norman sipped the lemonade and set the glass on the table. "Good." He nodded at the cat now pawing at the ties on the hoodie. "You made a new friend."
Taking a long gulp of the cold drink to stall, James worked out how to explain the cat's presence, but could only come up with, "She was hungry, so I fed her."
James supposed that the reason he took the cat in was because they were kindred spirits. Both alone, and in need of a friend. Perhaps that's why he'd been drawn to her. For some reason, the face of the woman, the one with red hair, floated through his mind. He sensed that they were connected in a way that many would not understand.
"Seems to like the name I gave her."
"Lucy?"
Norman chuckled. "She reminds me of the young woman in this movie Lucy. Now what was her name? Had such a shayna punim."
James didn't completely understand, so he just smiled and drank down the rest of the lemonade. He set the cat on the floor and stood. "I'll go finish the fence."
"While you do that, I'll work in the garden a bit then make us lunch."
He closed the door behind him and crossed the yard to the pile of wood, picking up the hammer and several nails. With his metal arm, he held a board in place, and went back to work. While his hands were busy, his mind thought about the events of the day. Just because he hadn't found bugs didn't mean there weren't any to find. It's possible he could've missed something.
The time for him to leave or risk causing trouble for Norman and the cat was drawing near. But there were things he had to do before he moved on. The most important was visiting the Howling Commandoes exhibit at the museum. He needed to know how his team had fared in the years since he'd last seen them. From there, he'd decide where to go and what to do.
Soon, Steve would come looking for him. Trouble was, James wasn't certain he wanted or deserved to see him again.
Thoughts of Steve brought more brief glimpses of his past. And while the memories were there, they didn't mean as much as he felt they should. There was little or no emotion getting through. He tried not to force it, but he wanted answers, sooner rather than later. He also knew that the memories would come back when his brain let them and not before. His trip to the Smithsonian should help with that.
Putting his questions aside for now, he turned all of his attention to his task. A couple of hours later, Norman called out to tell him to get washed up for lunch. Brushing the dirt from his hands, James packed the tools away, picked up the unused boards and returned it all to the storage shed.
Afterwards, he passed through the kitchen to the bathroom. Examining his face in the mirror, he decided not to shave again. The same with cutting his hair. Less attention would be paid to him if he didn't do anything to stand out, and from what he'd seen, he could even go out in just his skivvies and not draw curious looks.
Running his wet hand through his hair, he wondered when he'd started worrying about his looks. Then, in his head, he heard Norman telling him outright that he had to work on his hygiene.
Returning to the kitchen, he slid into a chair and lay a napkin across his lap before pouring refilling their glasses while Norman brought them each a grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches, and small bowls of Cole slaw.
After grace was said, the men ate in silence. And for all that time, Norman kept his eyes riveted on his plate. An unusual occurrence, to be sure. Norman was always studying him, though not in a way that caused concern. More out of curiosity, the way the cat was staring up at them from the floor right now.
She meowed, and Norman glanced down as if he'd forgotten she was there. He pulled a piece of cheese from his sandwich and tossed it to her, smiling when she gobbled it up and waited expectantly for another. Instead of giving her more, he looked at James, his blue eyes filled with sympathy and caring.
~~O~~
Norman let the smile slide from his face. "Something on your mind, son?"
James swallowed before replying. "I have to go out."
His brusque statement was accepted without offense or asking for details. "You can use the car. If you want, I could maybe go with. Promise not to kibitz."
Confused by the last word James wiped his mouth and lay the napkin beside his plate. His companion's silence told the older man what couldn't be put into words. Picking up the glass, Norman used it to gesture toward the living room. "Key's by the front door. You'll need to gas up, so grab a few bills from the cookie jar."
The sounds of the city seeped into the room, too far away to be really annoying. Norman finished his drink, pushed the empty plate away, wiped his mouth and hands, and clasped his fingers together on the table. Tilting his chin down, he peered at James over the tops of his wire framed glasses. "Anything you want to talk about, James, come to me. I won't judge or criticize."
The rabbi could see that his guest was genuinely touched by the offer. James looked down at the floor as if seeking answers in the tile pattern. Lucy took that as a signal and jumped into his lap, impatiently awaiting the ear and back rubs that were her due as the resident cat. Absently, James answered her unspoken command, using the uncovered hand, digging the ends of his fingers into her long fur. The boy seemed to weigh each and every word that came out of his mouth, as if he were concerned he'd say the wrong thing. Finally, their eyes met.
"It's best if you don't know."
"I'm not just a shlemiel, boychick. Keeping secrets, it's what I do." He gave the boy's arm a quick squeeze of reassurance. "Let me help."
Setting the cat on the floor amid screeched protests, James got to his feet, picked up the dirty dishes, and set them in the sink.
~~O~~
James stood and looked down at the man he was beginning to think of as a friend. "Trust me, Norman. You're better off not knowing."
He continued toward the door that led to the hall, and though he couldn't see it, James felt Norman's eyes on him. And though he wanted to take the man into his confidence, as far as James was concerned, the subject was closed. Turning away from the eyes that saw more than they should, he strode down the hall to his room, softly shutting the door. From the closet he took clean clothes, tossing them on the foot of the bed. They were faded yet still wearable. Then, he went to the dresser for a T-shirt, socks and boxers. He quickly changed his clothes, put on his boots, and stuck a plain ball cap on his head, tugging the brim low to hide his face somewhat.
Lucy elected to stay with Norman, and he could hear the old man talking to the animal as if she understood. As Norman shuffled down the hall, James cracked the door enough to see the cat walking alongside the elderly man, hanging on his every word. Good. That would make it easier to leave her behind.
The sofa creaked as Norman settled down, and a moment later, the television came on. James waited another few seconds then passed through the kitchen and slipped out the back door to the garage.
Hands in his jacket pockets, he touched the pad where he'd written thoughts and questions that had plagued him since the fight with Steve on the helicarrier. When he thought of himself as Bucky, it was only because that's what Steve had called him. It was the same with the name he'd given Norman. James Barnes. They were convenient labels he used to make communication easier. Maybe today, he'd find out who he really was. After that, who knew what would happen? The only thing he knew for certain is that he would no longer be a tool, an implement of death.
He backed the car out of the garage, shifted into drive and headed for the Smithsonian, parking on a public street several blocks away.
Moving with the flow of humanity into the vast open area that showcased the history of aeronautics, James stopped front of the Spirit of St. Louis, the custom-built monoplane that had been flown solo by Charles Lindbergh on May 20–21, 1927 from New York to Paris.
Suspended from the ceiling was a boxy, robot-like apparatus with legs and a lower half that looked like crumpled gold Christmas paper. The Apollo Lunar Module was used from 1969 to 1972, and was designed to ferry astronauts from moon orbit to the surface and back to the capsule, then return the crew of three to Earth. Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collinson were the first Americans to attempt such a feat. That they'd returned home alive amazed James.
Ignoring the other examples of man's ingenuity, James ducked into another room. Sepia colored films drew him into the room dedicated to The Howling Commandoes. Screens set into the walls showed incidents from a past that seemed familiar, as though he were seeing it through a foggy window. If he could just wipe away some of the mist, he might be able to see the past a little more clearly. Moving to one side, he allowed most of the others to pass then followed.
Scanning the walls, James looked for something without knowing what it was, exactly. Off to the right, he spotted a display. Beside it, a video played without sound. Steve, another man with dark hair, his face hidden as he leaned forward, and several others, studied a map laid out on a wooden table, their expressions intense. The scene changed, replaced by James standing beside Captain America, both men smiling, their life-long friendship apparent in the ease with which they made each other laugh.
A few more steps and he was standing in front of the centerpiece of the exhibit. Six mannequins in the brown, green and blue uniforms worn during World War II. Conspicuously absent was their leader. Closing his eyes, James let his mind go where it wanted, and soon, he had a name: Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America. He could see him as clear as day on a stage with pretty girls in short skirts, dancing around, and encouraging the American people to buy war bonds.
For the most part, James ignored the press of humanity swirling and eddying around him until someone moved into his personal space. Slanting a glance to the right, he saw a man, bent with age, and dressed in a security uniform. His arms were crossed over his boney chest, and he too stared at the mural behind the mannequins. He inhaled and exhaled loudly. "Shame."
James kept his face averted and didn't respond, which he apparently he took as encouragement to continue.
"I met him a few times. Captain America." He pointed to another part of the exhibit. "He'd stand right over there and stare at the picture of Barnes like he expected to see something different, and was disappointed when it was all the same. Then he'd go into the video room and watch the presentation. Again. Lost count o' how many times he's seen it."
Nodding as if he empathized, James searched for a way to leave without appearing rude. The guard himself solved the dilemma by clapping him on the shoulder. "I've got to get back to my rounds. Pleasure talking to a fellow fan."
In moments, the man had been swallowed up by the crowd and James was alone again. Moving over the display indicated by the guard, he stopped in front of it, quickly reading the message.
The words "A Fallen Comrade" were captioned above a brief history of the life of the only Howling Commando to die in service to his country, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. One paragraph told of how he'd been drafted into the Army.
A black and white photo etched into Plexiglas caught his attention. He moved closer, his eyes darting over the features that had become familiar over the past few days. Prior to arriving at the synagogue, he'd only seen his face in reflective surfaces, distorted and unrecognizable. The hair was shorter, and only a day's growth of beard marred the baby-faced cheeks. Below that was the more recognizable name of the man, and a set of numbers.
James's lips parted as it all came together.
James Barnes
1917-1944
He wanted to turn away from what he was seeing, deny that it was true. Such an act would be futile because no matter where or how fast you run, the one thing you can't escape is the truth.
Forcing his feet to move, James returned to the tour group, always at the back. He never spoke to the others, responding to comments with a nod or a shrug.
The tour ended and the others rushed into the gift shop to purchase souvenirs while James let himself out the main entrance. He stood on the top step, hand shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, the wind ruffling the long hairs that hung over his collar. Then, he trotted down to the bottom and jogged up Madison. This time in the opposite direction from which he'd come. He jogged across the street and found a place in the park, away from prying eyes, to wait for the museum to close.
Later That Night
Flashlight in one hand and the other swinging at his side, the security guard cast the bright beam around the room, briefly illuminating the objects hanging from the ceiling, attached to the walls and setting on pedestals behind clear protective cases. As always, he spent more time in the room where memorabilia from the Howling Commandoes was displayed, shaking his head at the idiocy of those who'd decided that Captain America should be removed. He didn't care what the news agencies reported. Steve Rogers wasn't a traitor to the US government, and there was nothing anyone could say that would convince him otherwise. To go by the number of people who still came to the exhibit, most of the American people agreed with him.
He shone the flashlight over the case where photos and documents were kept under lock and key. The beam flickered over shards of broken glass. Stepping carefully over the mess, he peered into the case to see that several of the photos and documents were missing. A long groan echoed in the vast room, and ended on a snort. "What the hell. This gig was getting boring anyway. Might as well clean out my locker and head home."
The light snapped off, and the old man made his way to the security office to turn in his resignation and clean out his locker.
~~O~~
James returned to the synagogue long after dark had fallen, slipping quietly in the back way so he wouldn't wake Norman. He found a note on the front of the refrigerator letting him know there was leftover pizza in the refrigerator. He carried the box with him as he tiptoed to his room, and got ready for bed.
James's only purpose for eating was to appease the grumbling in his stomach. He took a huge bite, chewing without tasting as he looked through the photos he'd stolen from the exhibit.
The first photo was a group of men in leather jackets and khaki uniforms, holding weapons and glaring into the camera. They were standing on a dirt road that ran through a forest. They looked familiar, their names staying just out of reach. He set it aside and picked up another.
This one had a familiar face, the one he saw in the mirror every day, when he bothered to look. The hair was short, clean and neatly combed. And as in the previous photo, he was wearing a double breasted dark blue jacket, a rifle slung over his shoulder, one foot perched on a rock and the thumb of his right hand hooked into his belt. Standing next to him was the man he knew as Steve. He was wearing the same red, white and blue uniform as in the first picture, and holding what looked like a helmet. The date on the back indicated it had been taken in the spring of 1944. Again, images fluttered and flitted, never staying still long enough for him to bring them into focus.
The last photo was a full body shot of himself alone, head tilted to one side, a grin that was almost a smirk curving his lips. In this one, he was in uniform, cap perched on his head and three stripes on the left sleeve, the rank of Sergeant in the Army.
Going to the mirror, he held the photo up so he could see both faces side by side. One image was clean shaven, smiling, neatly groomed, and wearing an Army dress uniform. The other was bearded, with long hair and a frown, the clothing wrinkled and a size too big. Raising his left arm, he examined the metal, flexing the fingers, a glaring contrast between who he was then and now. Before, he'd killed because it was what his country had asked of him to ensure their freedom. A few days ago, he'd killed because it was what he'd been conditioned to do by unscrupulous individuals who were trying to reshape the world with them in charge. The helicarrier platforms were the weapons they needed to enforce the law, to guarantee obedience. And anyone who opposed them would be removed, starting with those most likely to be able to defeat them as well as individuals or groups around whom the populace would rally in a rebellion.
A mixture of embarrassment and anger at his unwitting part in advancing HYDRA's plan made it unbearable to look at himself. James hung his head, the long hairs falling forward to brush his cheeks and the sides of his neck.
How did his captors expect him to live with the horrible things he'd done on their behalf? The answer was simple: They didn't. He'd gone off the grid, and was being actively hunted, but whether it was HYDRA, the United States military, or both, he didn't know or care, as long as those around him stayed safe.
He lay the photo on the dresser face down. Tonight, instead of his regular patrol, he would stick close to the synagogue.
The padding of tiny feet stopped in front of his door, and James looked down to see a white furry paw waving to get his attention. He let the cat in and she sat looking up at him expectantly. When he didn't say anything, she hunched her shoulders and jumped into his arms, purring happily when he held her close. He carried her over and sat on the side of the bed, his right hand rubbing her ears. Strange how something as simple as stroking her soft fur and listening to her purr helped calm his agitated thoughts.
When James had lost the urge to hit someone or something, he put the cat down and went to the door to let her out. Looking back, he found her curled up in the middle of the bed. "Go sleep with Norman, girl."
She looked at him, made a slow blink, then laid her head on her paws and closed her eyes. Apparently, she had no plans on leaving any time soon. Resigned, James turned out the light and left the door ajar as he went down the hall and let himself out into the garden.
Scanning the outside of the synagogue, he chose a spot, and using the strength of his metal hand, climbed up to the roof. Surefooted, even shoeless, he walked the edge around to the front, his eyes roaming over the darkened neighborhood. A couple of cars cruised through without stopping or seeming to be interested in their surroundings.
Taking a seat, James bent his knees and rested his elbows on them, hands clasped together. He took a deep breath of the cool air, and exhaled.
As the sun was just touching the horizon, James climbed down and returned to the house. The cat was still on the bed, stretched out on her back with her belly exposed. He set her on the floor amid sleepy protests, pulled back the covers and lay down. Just as he was about to fall asleep, the cat jumped up and lay down next to him.
~~O~~
Early afternoon the next day, James was in front of the synagogue trimming the bushes growing along the fence. Norman knelt on a thick cushion, weeding the flowers. Far away, James could hear traffic, car horns and the almost musical refrain of children laughing and playing. Across the street, a young mother pushed a stroller, a little girl skipping alongside, bouncing a ball. The child had obviously dressed herself. Black leggings and flowered top were worn under a bright pink frilly tutu. Sneakers that lit up as she danced and twirled, and a headband with ribbons hanging down on both sides seemed the perfect accessories.
He gathered the cuttings he'd trimmed from the bushes and shoved them into a plastic bag. His head came up sharply as the harsh sound of tires screeching burst the bubble of suburban serenity.
The mother crouched next to the stroller to tend to the baby, and the girl stayed with her, holding the ball and twirling. She tossed the ball into the air and missed the catch. It rolled into the street, and the girl chased after it just as a car came into sight.
At first, James thought nothing of it as there was a stop sign on the corner. He picked up the bag and headed for the compost area in back. The tires screeched again, and James spun around, his eyes wide with alarm. The sedan kept coming, swerving erratically as it passed through intersection without slowing down, headed for the girl still standing in the middle of the street.
TBC
Lucy is a 2014 English-language French science fiction thriller film written and directed by Luc Besson and produced by his wife Virginie Besson-Silla for his company EuropaCorp and stars Scarlett Johansson, Morgan Freeman, Choi Min-sik, and Amr Waked. Johansson portrays the title character, a woman who gains psychokinetic abilities when a nootropic drug is absorbed into her bloodstream.
Shayna punim = Pretty face