I Know What You Did in the Dark ch 10
Bucky
The subway cars were new, but the street names were not. Memories swirled around me like smoke and fog as I paid the fare and entered the glorious system that was the New York City subway.
Taking seat, I kept my head down and just listened to modern New York. The accents were just as varied as they were when I was a boy, but now the tones were different, less Irish, German and Italian and more every where else. Somewhere in my heart, I was glad New York was still a melting pot of people and maybe if we listened enough, we'd all get along.
There were young people playing music too loud, strong bass beats marking time with the click clak of the car, and people with kids, noses buried in cell phones. I almost lost track of time just letting the sounds of the train wash over me, until an older voice spoke, " 'Scuse me. You work for Amtrak?"
I jumped slightly and then looked to my left at the passenger. Briefly puzzled, I remembered I was still wearing the Amtrak worker's shirt and pants and there was a patch on the shoulder identifying me as such.
The old wizened man had thick glasses and a wispy comb-over. His beige sweater hung, wrinkled over his age-bent frame. "Um, yeah. I do." I replied quietly, hoping that was the end of the conversation.
"That is curious! I used to work the rails back before the war. Employed on the Royal Blue line from New York to Washington. Loved that job. I was the porter on the train." He paused looking distantly across the cabin like he was reliving his memory. I tried to politely ignore him but he continued his tone changed, "But then I was drafted."
I felt like lightening was gathering in my bones when he said he was drafted. I was no genius, but I could figure out which war he was talking about. Not here. I didn't want to talk about it here, my mind reeled. Steve, I focused. Keep the mission in your head. The old man prattled on as if he didn't sense my discomfort.
"And I was sent overseas. And I work'd the rails there. Serious work that was. Making sure our boys got their supplies and blowing up those German tracks." He paused again but for a shorter time, "Then, it was my turn to have my train blown up. Germans took us prisoner. " I noticed a hard line form across his mouth, "They found out I was Jewish."
Bursting into my head, the HYDRA train snaked through the Alps during a storm. A zipline pulled me like a Coney Island roller coaster down to the roof of the train and I followed the man in red, white and blue. Fast-forwarding, we were in the ammunition car, Steve one ahead of me when that thing with tesseract fueled guns came at us. Moments blurred and I had Steve's shield in my hands. Why? Next a blast hits me and throws me out of the train car, with half the car itself.
I hear his voice and feel wind beneath my feet. I am terrified as my fingers slip… slip … and falling… falling.
ASSET, the evil sibilant hiss of my training came back into my mind like a cobra. It has been silent for so long, I was hoping it wouldn't come back.
Screwing my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my hands to my eye sockets, I didn't care if other passengers saw me and thought me odd. NO, I replied.
Asset, you think Rogers will really care about you? The voice askedsarcastically. No one cares about you. You are nothing.
NO. Get out of my head! I yelled at it. Distantly, I still heard the old man's voice just chattering away about World War II.
Kill Steve Rogers. Kill Captain America, the training chanted. Kill him. Kill all.
The lightening was collecting for a strike. The power building as my mind swirled around the memories of sniper missions, assassinations, freezing cold, and periods of amnesia. Sucking me down into black vortex within my mind, I was helpless and in a subway with no way out. If I didn't leave people were going to die. My vision began to tint red, muscles cramping and spasming with no one taking any immediate notice.
But the old man's voice said two words that was a ray of light into my maelstrom, "- Captain America!"
Blinking, I looked at him and forced my mouth to form the words, "Who?"
The old man looked mildly surprised I asked him a question as he was in the middle of his reminiscing narration, "Captain America. He saved us from the Germans after our train was blown up. The Howling Commandos too! Oh what a sight they were. Took those Nazis out lickity split." A triumphant smile lit his face making the wrinkles on his cheeks fold inward.
Steve… Captain America. A train in occupied France and the Commandos. I focused on that memory like a lifeline to pull me out from the dark. The killer instinct began to subside slightly. The Nazis had bombed a rail line that the air strikes missed. It was a small group of them, no more than about a hundred and our orders were to get rid of them and rescue the train operators. Nighttime was when we struck and while it wasn't easy, I didn't recall it being too difficult either.
"I was set aside from the other prisoners because I was Jewish." The old man continued, "And Bucky Barnes rescued me. Saw him take on five Germans single handedly. A sight to see and boy was I glad to see him!"
I looked at the man closer, now feeling slightly more in control, but the face wasn't coming to me. Waves of darkness were still crashing at my spider silk thin thread of sanity.
"All said and done, I got a picture here." Reaching into his cardigan, in his shirt pocket, he pulled out a very well worn black and white photo. "I never married or had kids, but if I did, I'd show them this every day and tell them to say 'Thanks' to the Howling Commandos for saving my life."
In the photo Steve stood to the right, I stood to the left of this soldier I was speaking to. We were grimy and dirty but genuine smiles were on our faces. A virtual typhoon of sadness consumed my brain and snuffed out the vortex of hatred. As if this sign of goodness was light, the training voice slithered back into the dark void leaving an oily mental trail. Gently, I took the photo from him and studied it. Youth, friendship, adventure looked me back in the face and I began to mourn in my heart for what was lost.
"Ya know, you look an awful lot like Seargent Barnes. You got longer hair, though. " He remarked, looking at me closely through thick glasses over rheumy eyes.
" I get that a lot- a familiar face. Thank you. This is my stop." I said quietly, returning the photo to him. He took it back and returned it to his shirt pocket over his heart. Before I exited the train, I felt the urge to salute him and so I did. A shocked look passed over his expression as I think he believed he saw an apparition. In a way he did, and saved the lives of everyone on that train from me, just like I had saved him, apparently, years ago.
Bolting up the stairs, I needed air again. I kept running for blocks and blocks until I lost count how far I had run. Slowing to a jog and then a stop, I looked around to see I was on Steve's street. How that happened, I'll never know, but it was like a homing beacon had drawn me there.
The brown brick building was inconspicuous, which apparently was a rare thing in this twenty first century New York, where bigger and flashier is better. I opened the door to the small lobby and saw the mailbox bank set into the wall. An inconsistently flickering florescent light overhead was like a camera flash. Old brass cubbies each bearing the name of the tenant on scraps of paper stuck to the small doors met my eyes and I scanned them for his name. Getting the apartment number, I contemplated how ludicrous it would be for me to just go up and knock on the door.
Equal parts of excitement and revulsion filled me at that prospect. What would he say? How would he react? Does he really want to see me after everything I've done? The sick feeling of knowing I shot him and nearly bludgeoned him to death oozed forward and my stomach turned.
No. I cannot just knock on his door. I need to gather information. Yes. That's it, I convinced myself, I need information. Exiting the small lobby, I circled around the back of the building where the pretty face brick gave way to rougher, less refined brick and the mortar wasn't as neatly laid. How many alleys had I been in over the years? Unbidden, my brain began to tick off how many fights I had saved Steve from in back alleys. Too many alleys, but they were so useful.
Taking a vertical leap, I swung up on the fire escape, staying low to avoid anyone seeing me from the opposite building; glad the sun had gone down. Skirting the stairs, I climbed up to the third floor. Slowly, I peaked above a few windowsills thinking in my mind where would his apartment be? A cat surprised me and hissed. Ducking, my heart pounded in my chest. Once again, the amazing Barnes frightened …of a housecat.
Finally, I found the window I wanted and cupped my hands around my face to see in from the grimy exterior. There was a picture of Peggy Carter I could see partially on a table facing the apartment door and that confirmed this was the place.
With a knife, I popped the old window lock and let myself in. Silently creeping through the window frame, I avoided the couch. Standing up, I couldn't believe I was in Steve's apartment for a moment. It was too surreal. Days gone by vaulted over themselves in my mind of us as children, my family and the times we all spent together. I could smell Steve's classic Old Spice, just like our dads used to wear. His presence was very easy to feel, knowing him as long as I have.
Looking around the place, I picked up Peggy's picture and looked at it. His compass had this same photo. Called her his "Compass Rose" to always lead him home. I used to tease him that he was so whipped by this dame. He'd get all-serious and tell me to knock it off because he was in love. After a while, and a few knuckle sandwiches later, I learned not to tease him about her. Looking back, I suppose I was jealous he'd found that one thing I never could despite my knack for picking up the ladies.
Moving around the living room, I noticed what general disorder it was in and my urge to tidy up after him was almost overpowering. It was like an instinct because I did it so much for him through our younger years. Wisely, I left everything untouched because who knows what he'd do if he knew I'd been in his apartment.
Only having the alley lights and what little moon there was to see by, I glanced around to see nothing else in particular until I peeked into his bedroom. The punk didn't even make his bed, saw and snorted with disgust. A bureau was to my right and I glanced at it. Freezing, I stared at the photo framed and sitting upon it. Steve and I, mid laugh looking at the camera, standing by a map table, was encased in a black frame. The day was immediate in my mind. We were the newly minted Commandos and going over our next assignment. James and Jacques had gotten in some silly argument over the pronunciation of a German town and then Gabriel made a very ungentlemanly comment about the word. He had alluded to something that embarrassed Steve. Good old Steve… always the goodie-two-shoes. So we all enjoyed a decent laugh for the moment while the Army photographer snapped stills of us for the papers. Guess Steve had gotten the photo from that file.
My left hand traced the outline of us, the stark contrast of then and now sharp as a knife blade. Half a laugh and a sob rose in my throat and caught me off guard. My goodness, how far have I fallen? I asked myself. Blinking back tears, I tore myself away from the photo. A thought dropped on me like a rock. I was still wearing the Amtrak clothes and that made me easier to identify. I think Steve wouldn't mind me borrowing some of his, would he? After all, he was my best friend.
With great care, I found an Army t-shirt and a pair of jeans that were slightly too long for me, but it would do. I bundled up the Amtrak clothes and set them outside the window on the fire escape to take later. Placing every thing back where I found it, I moved to the kitchen, which was attached to the living room. Grabbing a banana and a glass of milk, I chewed thoughtfully about how man meals Steve and I had shared over the years; home made ones, MRE's and even some around the campfires of our liberated hosts. Each was always richer not for the food, but for the company.
Mid-gulp of milk, I heard two sets of feet in the hallway. Seconds later, a key in the lock. A heartbeat after that, I was out the window. Steve and Sam were back.
A/N my grandfather (A WWII vet, and my own dad) wore/wear the Classic White Porcelain bottle Old Spice. Not that funky stuff. It wasn't a bad cologne. Not sure if they make it any more but it seems like the kind of thing Steve would wear.