"There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize."
- The Grapes of Wrath
PROLOGUE
"You up for a little tough love?" Bucky hesitated at the door as Sam's words came back to him. "You wanna climb out of that hell you're in, do the work. Do it!
Could he do this? Could he look into Yori's eyes and confess to killing his son?
"You go to these people and say 'sorry' because you think it'll make you feel better, right? But you gotta make them feel better. You gotta go to them and be of service. I'm sure there's at least one person in that book who needs closure about something, and you're the only person who can give it to them."
Legs weak, chest tight, he knocked on the door. It opened to Yori's round face and kind eyes. The shrine was on full display, as always, tendrils of smoke curving upward. A photo of RJ's smiling face was front and center, a stark contrast to the memory Bucky held in his mind—RJ's dark eyes drowning in fear, hands trembling as he tried to unlock the door in time.
Not that it would have saved him.
Yori stared up at him. "Hey, what are you doing here?" His voice was gentle. "It's late, come in before someone call the cops."
Bucky forced his legs to move, and Yori closed the door behind him. RJ's smile mocked Bucky, accusing. Yori didn't know the truth yet, but RJ always had.
"What are you doing here?" Yori asked. "It's not Wednesday."
There wouldn't be any more Wednesday lunches.
"I, uh, I have to tell you something…about your son."
I murdered him. Put a bullet through his head while he stared at me, begging, promising he hadn't seen anything.
Yori was silent, following Bucky's eyes to the shrine with a puzzled frown. He gestured to a chair. Bucky gratefully accepted, unsure if his legs would hold him steady much longer.
He slipped the glove off his left hand. The glove was a lie he walked around with to hide himself. It couldn't be a part of this conversation.
Yori looked at him, patient, trusting.
Bucky's mouth was suddenly dry. "He was murdered."
"What?"
"By the Winter Soldier."
Yori's head tilted with confusion.
Bucky's insides were shaking, his face hot. It felt like someone was sitting on his chest as he forced the next words out. "And that was me."
There was only a subtle dipping of Yori's head, a lowering of his eyes, then a glint of tears. "Why?"
The air rushed from Bucky's lungs, and he clenched his right hand into a fist to keep control. This wasn't about him. Yori asked a question. He deserved the truth.
"I didn't have a choice." He needed a moment away from Yori's devastated face. It didn't matter if Yori believed him. Bucky wasn't here for forgiveness.
He couldn't expect that from Yori, or anyone. It was selfish to hope. He remembered Tony's reaction and braced himself.
He looked back to the raw grief in Yori's eyes, the crumpled shoulders, the trembling hands.
"They told me..." Yori's voice faltered as a tear dropped to the floor. He looked directly at Bucky, the gentleness in his glistening eyes replaced by grief. "You?"
There was something wrong with Bucky's throat. He nodded.
Yori sat rigid, then turned to look towards the shrine, his eyes unseeing. He didn't look back.
The Hotel Inessa. His metal hand squeezes the Russian's neck. The eyes look into his. He recognizes fear. Terror. He sees fear most frequently, but the rest means nothing to him. The body goes limp, and he unclenches his metal hand, dropping the old man to the floor.
Metal jangles to his left. The witness—the trembling man. He stares at the trembling man trying to get the key in the lock. He is no threat. He is nothing to Hydra. Nothing to the mission except a witness.
Hydra leaves no witnesses.
He walks slowly toward the trembling man as the jangling of the key grows louder and the man's breath comes in short, quick gasps. There is no need for speed. There is no one and nothing left to stop him.
"Please." The trembling man gives up on the lock, presses his back to the door. "I…I didn't see anything."
The trembling man knows it is a lie. The soldier knows it, too.
"I didn't see anything! I…didn't…see anything." The man's voice breaks.
He raises the gun. He fires. The bullet goes through the center of the trembling man's forehead, spraying blood and brains on the ornate wooden door. The body crumples to the floor, trembling no more.
They were both frozen in memories until Yori broke the silence.
"Did he…suffer?" Yori turned back to Bucky, his voice barely audible.
Dragging himself out of the past, he looked at Yori. The man deserved an answer.
Yes, he suffered. He was scared. He knew he was going to die. I was quick. He didn't feel a thing.
Bucky swallowed, forcing his throat to work. "No." The word was as shaky as RJ in his memory. "He died instantly."
It was a half-truth, but a kindness. What good would it do Yori to know that his son pleaded for his life?
"Why are you here?" Yori asked.
Bucky dropped his gaze to the floor. "You didn't believe the story the authorities told you. Leah said not knowing made it harder for you."
Yori shook his head. "Why are you here, in my life, having lunch with me on Wednesdays? Each time we ate together, you knew you killed my son, but I did not know that I was sitting next to his murderer. Why?"
Murderer.
It's what he was, not by choice, but a murderer nonetheless.
Yori waited. Bucky knew the words would sound hollow, but they were the truth. He couldn't hide the truth. That's not what he was here for.
"I was trying to make amends."
"There is only one way to make amends for taking an innocent life."
It was a punch to the gut. One he deserved. He nodded, forced his weak knees to push him up. He stumbled out, abandoning Yori alone in the apartment.
He walked on autopilot down the hall to the staircase, leaving his friendship with Yori behind. His legs carried him as far as the door. He shoved his way into the stairwell, his back to the wall as his legs gave way. He slid to the floor. His hand couldn't scrub away the images playing behind his eyes, but he tried.
They were fresh, vivid, unrelenting. Bringing up the past resurrected the ghosts that haunted him. He had looked into so many eyes as life faded from them, and they had looked into his…the only part of him visible over the mask.
The mask. He rubbed at his jaw, feeling the warm flesh, the stubble. The mask wasn't there. It hadn't been for a long time, but he could still feel it.
His fingers touched flesh, not Kevlar. I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James Bucky Barnes and you're part of my efforts to make amends.
James Buchanan Barnes. Once a son, a brother, a friend, and an army sergeant on the side of good. Now, a murderer.
No matter what he did, he'd always be a murderer. Something he could never change. There'd always be blood on his hands, a dark mark on his soul.
He was supposed to be strong. Strong as the Winter Soldier. Strong as Bucky Barnes. Strong as Steve.
But he wasn't, and that was something Steve never understood when he dragged him out of the bunker or when he said goodbye for the last time. Had there always been a weakness—a darkness—in him? Is that why Hydra was able to twist him, to use him?
Helpless.
It's what he'd been most of his life. Helpless strapped to Zola's table. Helpless to save the ones who'd been strapped there before him. Helpless when the railing on the train gave way. Helpless when the Russians dragged him out of the ravine.
Helpless to stop his finger from squeezing a trigger, or his hand from throwing a knife. Helpless when they shoved him into the cryo chamber or the chair that would steal his memories.
He was helpless now. Helpless to change his past, to make amends, to not have the legacy of the Winter Soldier in every cell of his body, every corner of his mind, every clench of his metal fist.
And helpless to stop the sobs that tore from his throat and the tears that spilled from his eyes.
CHAPTER 1
"James Buchanan Barnes?"
He turned, tense, hand on the doorknob, metal fist clenching. "Yes."
The man walking down the apartment hallway was barely in his twenties, wearing a long sleeve shirt, no obvious weapons, a wariness in his eyes. There weren't many people who would use his full name. The kid looked too young to be former Hydra, but that didn't mean he wasn't. Hydra may be battered, but it wasn't completely broken, and it would need new recruits.
Or maybe the kid was a victim's son, a reporter, or even a Winter Soldier groupie. He hated the groupies. Who could possibly idolize the things he'd been forced to do?
The kid stopped five feet away. "Um." He took a breath and held out papers, folded in half. "You've been served."
Bucky blinked as he took the paper. Served?
"Sorry. Don't kill the messenger!" The kid spun and ran down the hallway, ducking into the staircase.
Unfolding the papers, Bucky skimmed the headers and legal boilerplate, then turned the pages until he saw the pleadings.
"Wrongful Death…Emotional Distress…Personal Injury…Property Damage…"
His stomach churned as he read through the complaints by three different parties. How could…? Were they…?
They were.
Suing him.
For things he did as the Winter Soldier.
-0- -0- -0-
"Um, Sam, look at this," Sarah called from the living room.
Sam put the last dish in the dishwasher and strolled into the other room. His sister pointed at the TV, grim lines around her mouth.
"What-?" The words hung in his throat as he read the headline on the ticker. "James Buchanan Barnes, former Winter Soldier, sued by victims and families."
An anchorwoman prattled in a no-nonsense tone, "The spouse and son of Bryce Thomas are two plaintiffs. Thomas was killed by Barnes outside of the Triskelion in April of 2014. The other plaintiff is a driver who was injured during the Winter Soldier's freeway attack against Captain America."
"That's impossible." Sam sank on the couch next to Sarah. "That was ten years ago." He glanced at his sister. She looked as shocked as he felt. "They can't sue for stuff that happened that long ago. He was pardoned."
"I don't think the pardon has anything to do with the lawsuits. Remember OJ?"
Shit. "But ten years? That's too long. Surely there are limits on those things? A deadline?" What was the term? "Statute. Right? There's a limit for each thing?"
"James Barnes has not responded to requests for comment. The plaintiffs' have an uphill battle overcoming the statute of limitations on the causes of action…"
That was it! "Statute of limitations." Sam slapped his thigh. "That's what I was trying to come up with. It's too late." He gestured to the TV.
"You don't have to convince me," Sarah told him. "But obviously some lawyer thinks they can make it stick."
"Attorneys representing the plaintiffs argue that any statute of limitations was suspended during the blip, pursuant to the Blip Equity Act. Attorneys also allege that the statute of limitations should be tolled further because plaintiffs did not learn of James Barnes' identity as the Winter Soldier until the UN Bombing in 2016, after which, Barnes disappeared. It was unknown whether he was alive or dead until he returned with the vanished."
"That's some creative bullshit." Sam pulled out his phone and shot to his feet.
A still image of the Winter Soldier on the street beneath the overpass came onscreen. The mask covered his face, leaving only his focused, emotionless eyes. He held an assault rifle, obviously on the hunt, and, if Sam remembered correctly, Natasha was the prey at that moment.
That day was the first time Sam came face-to-face with the Winter Soldier, though he hadn't known the man's identity at the time. He'd never forget driving toward the unyielding figure standing in the middle of the road, expecting to hit him, only to have him leap effortlessly on top of the vehicle and rip the steering wheel through the windshield.
The mask, goggles, and metal arm, combined with the assassin's strength and agility, made him seem more machine than human. Sam remembered every terrifying detail of the chrome-plated specter of death. At the time, he saw a monster.
Now, staring at that same figure on the screen with wiser eyes, he saw a man deeply violated in ways no other human had ever been.
"Let him know we're in his corner," Sarah said, pulling Sam from the memory of that terrible day.
He nodded, throat tight, and dialed as he walked onto the porch.
-0- -0- -0-
Bucky's phone was sitting on the kitchen counter when it vibrated again. Calls had been coming in all day. He had no idea how reporters got the number, but they had, and they kept trying…over and over. When they weren't calling, they were knocking on his locked door while he sat inside with the TV on mute, watching the news with closed captions and playing "not home."
He tensed when someone pounded on his door—hard, impatient. Enough. He flicked the remote and turned off the television, then retreated to the bedroom. When he first moved in, his bed had gone unused most nights. He felt as though he was sinking into the mattress and the covers were too restraining. On bad nights, and most nights were bad, he slammed awake on impact with the floor. The tenants downstairs made their displeasure known with a broom handle to the ceiling.
Now that he'd gotten rid of the box spring and placed the mattress on the floor, he could sleep on the bed. His back also approved. It was too early for bed, so he grabbed the novel he'd managed to plod halfway through, flicked on the table lamp, and dropped to the mattress to resume his journey through Frank Herbert's universe.
After a few hours, he felt himself fading but didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke up to light streaming through the window and a pounding at his door. The book was on the floor, and he was still propped against the wall. The right side of his neck ached, and he groaned as he rubbed at the stiff muscle.
The pounding continued, and he pushed down on the anger. How long would it take the reporters to give up? He padded toward the bathroom to relieve his bladder and brush his teeth, ignoring the pounding. Whoever it was wouldn't go away.
When he turned off the faucet, he heard the familiar voice.
"…in, damnit, Bucky. Are you in there?"
Sam.
Bucky closed his eyes, splashed water on his face, toweled off, and gave himself a once-over in the mirror. He almost looked his age. Bags hung beneath tired eyes despite a decent night's sleep…he was pretty sure, anyway. He couldn't remember his dreams, which was a blessing.
"All right." He hurried to the door, undid the locks, and cracked it open.
"Finally!" Sam threw his hands out.
Bucky looked down the hall, relieved to find it empty, and opened the door all the way. Sam pushed in.
"What are you doing in town?" Bucky asked, locking the door.
"Answer your damn phone, man." Sam eyed the offending device on the kitchen counter briefly, then gave Bucky an appraising look. His eyes softened. "I heard about the lawsuit. You okay, man?"
"Fine." Bucky grabbed two beers from the fridge, handing one to Sam.
With a shake of his head, Sam said, "It's 8 a.m."
Bucky shrugged, placed one beer on the counter, opened his, and took a long swallow.
"Does it help?"
"Nope." It never did. He missed the ability to get shit-faced.
Bucky gestured Sam to a yellow chair while he straddled a wooden one and sipped the beer.
"What are you going to do?" Sam asked, dropping into the chair.
"Nothing. I did it. Not much I can do to be of service to them, but if money helps, they can have it." All of it.
He was tired of fighting, tired of trying to convince the world he wasn't a danger, tired of seeing the fear, loathing, or pity in people's eyes when they recognized him in public.
He was just plain tired.
"Hey, hey," Sam huffed, leaning forward, "when I said 'be of service,' I didn't mean let people drain you."
Bucky thought of Yuri. He should set some money aside for him. Bucky didn't have much, just the army benefits and a bit Steve left him. It wasn't anywhere near enough to pay all the survivors of his victims, but he might as well put it to good use. He sure as hell didn't need it. He'd lived for years with far less.
But would Yuri take the money? Probably not…unless he didn't know where it came from. Yuri didn't want to see him again, ever, and Bucky understood. He killed the man's only son and lied to him, as well. A lie of omission.
Bucky insinuated himself into Yuri's life, hung out with him, had lunch, listened to him talk about his son and lay his grief out on display. Yuri hadn't known he was baring his soul to the man who put a bullet in his son's head simply because the kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The financial gift would have to be anonymous.
"Hey, Earth to Bucky," Sam interjected. "Where is that brain of yours right now?"
"Nakajima." Bucky took another swig.
"The name on your list?"
Bucky nodded. "I took your advice and gave him closure."
"I can only imagine how difficult that was. How'd it go?"
He didn't want to think about the look on Yuri's face, but it sprang to the front of his mind—the devastation, betrayal, and finally anger. The tremble in his voice when he asked "Why?" Watching the emotions play across the face of the man he'd come to think of as a friend gave new life to his nightmares, but this time from the perspective of the victims he'd left behind.
The grieving father. The heartbroken mother. The inconsolable spouse. The child who grew up without a parent.
And the children who had the misfortune of being witnesses.
The Winter Soldier never thought of such things. Bucky Barnes couldn't get them out of his head.
"That good, huh?" Sam answered as the silence lingered.
Bucky sighed heavily, weary to his soul, and met Sam's gaze. "How would you take it if someone murdered Cass or AJ, and years later, they got friendly with you, then one day confessed to being the guy who murdered the person you cared most about in the world?"
Sam's face crumpled in horror, and he sank back in the chair. "Jesus, man, you had to go with Cass or AJ?"
Bucky pushed those images straight out of his head and took another swig of his beer. "Sorry."
"Look, I don't know…I imagine I wouldn't react kindly."
"He reacted more kindly than I would have thought possible, but the look on his face said it all. At least now he doesn't have to wonder, anymore. I gave him closure."
"What about you?"
Bucky set the beer on the floor and scrubbed at his face. "It's not about me. You were right about that."
"Shit, that's not exactly what I mean. Of course, this is about you. It's about you recovering, moving forward, and you can do that by helping people."
Moving forward. It's all he ever did. Year after year. Decade after decade. He moved forward through time, while everyone and everything else faded away.
"Have you talked to a lawyer?" Sam asked.
"No. My money's either gonna end up going to lawyers or the victims' families. I'd rather it go to the victims."
"Bucky—"
He'd had enough talking. "Sam, why are you here?"
"Because you wouldn't answer your phone, and I'm worried about you."
Bucky managed a small, grateful smile, but it took everything he had. "Thanks. I'm okay."
"Yeah, right." Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You don't look it, and you sure as hell don't sound it. I thought you were getting to a good place, but from where I sit, you're not. I know this is rough—the lawsuit, the press—but it'll pass."
"Eventually, everything does," Bucky muttered, thinking of the War, Hitler, the Nazis—everything that had seemed so dire back then was just paragraphs in the history books now.
"Shit, I think you need more therapy man."
He huffed a half-laugh at that. "There's not enough therapy in the world to fix me."
"Look, I know the court made you go to Dr. Raynor, and I only met her that once, but I have to say, I don't think she was the best therapist. That whole couple's session she forced on us was awkward as hell."
"You can say that again." It had almost destroyed their fragile relationship and taken away the only thing resembling a friend that Bucky had—Sam Wilson.
"Find another one," Sam insisted.
"Talking about the things I've done doesn't help. It was bad enough going through it the first time. I sure as hell don't want to keep reliving it." The only thing that had ever helped was spending time in a calm place where he could drop his guard, and where people really knew him and accepted him, without judgment or pity.
"What does help?"
"Wakanda was nice." Peaceful. Quiet. People let him do things at his own pace. When he needed to be alone, they left him alone, but when he sought out friendly faces, they gave him their warm companionship.
"Maybe it's time for an extended vacation there."
He shook his head, a sharp chest pang stealing his breath for a moment. "That option's no longer available," he forced out, "at least for a while." Ayo had made that clear, not that he blamed her. He was lucky they hadn't taken the arm back after he freed Zemo.
"Shit. Sorry, man."
"Not your fault." I made my bed, and I can lie in it.
Sam pushed to his feet and grabbed the unopened beer from the counter. He opened the fridge, set the bottle inside, and leaned on the door for several seconds as if trying to find something that enticed him.
Good luck, buddy. If I knew I'd be a forced shut-in for a while, I'd have stocked up.
Sam heaved a loud sigh and closed the door. "I take it you're staying in for a while? How about I make a grocery run for you?"
That would be useful. "Thanks, man. Hang on." He went to the bedroom and pulled two hundred-dollar bills from his nightstand drawer, then hurried back to the kitchen and handed them to Sam. "Get anything. I don't care, as long as there's fruit, protein, and maybe a couple more packs of beer, not the German stuff."
Sam raised his eyebrows. "Germany's still on your shitlist, got it, man. You know they're cool now, right?"
"Yeah, I've heard."
Sam flashed a mischievous smile. "Plums?"
Bucky held back the retort on his tongue. Sam was doing him a favor, after all. But, damn, if he wasn't reminded that he'd left a bag of perfectly ripe plums on the newsstand in Bucharest…before the fight, Zemo, and more fights. He hoped someone enjoyed them.
Sam slapped him on the metal arm. "I'll be back in a bit. Charge your phone."
-0- -0- -0-
Inside the cab, Sam dialed Sarah. He'd promised her an update, and he knew better than to renege.
"How is he?"
"Not good. About as bleak as he was after…." He almost said 'after Steve left.' "…well, after the battle, and before the pardon."
"Did you tell him we're all thinking about him?"
No, he hadn't, but he would. "Yes, and he says thank you."
"Anything we can do?"
"I don't know. I'm getting him groceries so he doesn't have to go out. I'm not sure I'm the best one to help him, though. I gave him advice last time, but I don't think it helped."
In fact, it seemed to make things worse.
"What advice?"
It was private, and he didn't want to break Bucky's trust, but Sarah sometimes had unique insight. "He was working on making amends to the Winter Soldier victims, and—"
"Amends, how?" she interrupted.
"I'm not sure about the details. Going to folks, apologizing."
"Apologizing?" She sounded indignant. "I thought he didn't have a choice when he did those things? Isn't that what you said?"
"Yeah."
It was all over the news, so everyone knew. James Buchanan Barnes had been taken prisoner around New Year's 1945, experimented on against his will, subjected to memory wipes, torture, repeat cryo freezes, and programming that let ten words turn him into a compliant, deadly autobot.
"So…what is he apologizing for? Getting captured?"
Sam sighed. "Of course not. I get your point, but it's something the therapist had him working on…making amends. Though, I think part of it was him avenging, taking down people he helped put into power as the Winter Soldier."
"I can see that. I mean, I can only imagine what I might be feeling if I went through half of what he did, but yeah, I'd probably want to do that, too. I'm no therapist, but that other part—apologizing. That sounds like bullshit, Sam."
"Ooh, mom!" Sam heard AJ in the background.
"Go in the other room," Sarah shouted. "Sorry, Sam. Go on."
"I suggested he find a few people who needed closure and go to them, be of service. Make it about helping them, not just going and saying sorry so he'd feel better."
Being of service always helped him through rough patches. He'd hoped it would do the same for Bucky.
There was a long pause. Had the connection ended? "Sarah?"
"Um, sorry, Sam," she said, an undercurrent in her voice that he couldn't quite put his finger on. "Am I understanding right? You told him to find the families of people he'd been forced to kill and tell them how he murdered their loved ones
Well, when put like that, it sounded like…
I'm an idiot.
"It sounded better the way I said it…okay…. It was crap advice. Sure, I counsel veterans, and I've lived through some terrible things myself, but Bucky's dealing with things on a scale I can barely comprehend." Not even barely. He couldn't get close to comprehending what Bucky had gone through.
Hell, could anyone? If there was some poor bastard out there that could, Sam sure as hell didn't want to meet them.
"You process things by talking about them, Sam," Sarah told him. "That's great. It's healthy, and it works for you, but maybe there are some things people can't talk about, and that's okay, too."
He knew that, of course. He'd worked with enough traumatized vets, and one thing he should have thought about before bestowing his woefully underqualified perspective was that sometimes talking about things was re-traumatizing. Even therapy could be re-traumatizing.
Telling someone how you killed their loved one sure as hell had to be re-traumatizing.
"Shit," he muttered. "I was out of my league and shouldn't have opened my mouth. I fucked up."
Her voice softened. "Maybe you did, but everyone does. Just keep being a good friend to him. From what I've seen on the news, he needs one."
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This story is complete and incorporates real psychotherapy principles related to re-traumatization by trauma therapy. Thank you to fictitious for beta-reading. All mistakes are mine, of course (I often re-tweak). Feeback appreciated!
