He makes me shoot again, slow repetitions until I empty a magazine and he makes me learn how to load that with new rounds. Then it's two more times through the process until my target is littered with holes, I chalk that up to statistical probability that eventually I would hit it, more than an advancement of skill. We stop when I start to complain that my arms are hurting from holding up the weapon. My wrist has been bearing the brunt of the pain and when my whole arms are getting tired and strained from the effort I beg him to let me stop. I can tell it's on the tip of his tongue to say something about learning to work through pain, but he finally relents.
We leave the range and head back up to the daylight in the glass elevator in relative silence. Sometimes I think he prefers it that way. I lean against the glass that has some degree of warmth from the winter sun but is still cold to my touch, and stare at his profile as we rise above the city.
"You know," I say. "Now that I've done something for you, it's time that you did something for me." He looks at me with that lopsided grin and moves closer to me.
"And what would that be?" he drawls out as he stands in front of me and puts a hand on either side of me. I stay still, wanting to draw out his suspense. When he leans in and places a kiss on my neck just below my ear lobe, I close my eyes and tilt my head back to better reveal the soft skin to him. He plants tiny kisses just below the line of my jaw until I have to turn my head to give him access to the other side.
"It's something I've been asking for," I whisper. "For a good while."
I can feel his smile against my skin and that's when I put my fingers on his chest and push him back away from me a little so that I can see his eyes. They're burning for me and I give him my best mischievous smile.
"I want you to show him," I say and that's when the elevator comes to a stop at our floor and I duck under his arms and exit into the hallway. I turn and for a second he's frozen with his arms still apart, but his fingers are pressing against the glass and he pushes himself back towards where I am. When he turns to look at me the frustration knits his brow and he runs his hands through his hair, pushing it away from his face with a big draw in and exhale of breath. I just smile at him.
"It's time," I prod him.
"Will you be there?" he asks, his hands are laced behind his neck and with his elbows jutting out in front of him he cocks a hip and the way his body bends makes me regret my teasing of him for the effect it had on me.
"I will, but not in the room." I answer and he purses his lips to keep whatever response he has inside.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he finally says.
"No," I answer him honestly. "But it's time."
"How do you know we won't kill each other?"
"Because I know you, and you didn't kill him before, so what makes you think it'll happen now?" He shrugs his shoulders and gives me my little bit of logic. I step towards him and put my arms around his waist, raising myself up to kiss his cheek.
"Trust me," I say and the tension leaves his body while I hold on to him and his silence lets me know that he has agreed. I kiss him again and then back away, leaving him standing in the hall and following me with his gaze while I walk away backwards from him.
"I'll meet you at the map," I say and more than fear, there is worry in his eyes when I turn the corner and leave him alone.
I head back to the common rooms where people gather during down time, hoping that I won't have to search too hard and make James wait. But I don't have to prolong my search, in the main living room I find the person I am looking for.
"Steve!" I say and the blonde on the couch looks up from his newspaper with a warm smile at me.
"Alina," he says, raising a mug of coffee in greeting. "How are you?"
"I'm well, thank you," I say, taking a seat near him on the couch. "And you?"
He tilts his head just slightly, a gesture of so-so and I can understand. There have been few updates for him in the few weeks since I declared to him that I was staying. I don't know if he's kept his distance on purpose or if I just haven't noticed him circling around. Either way he's been more than patient with me and it's time that we bring him in.
"Steve," I say. "It's time that you saw what he's been working on." I don't need any preamble, he seems to pick up on who I'm talking about with little encouragement. He sets the paper down on the coffee table and runs his thumb along the rim of his cup, staring at the motion before he speaks again.
"Does he want me to?" He asks.
"Yes and no," I tell him. "He knows it's what's best, but I think he's afraid that he'll have been wrong about some parts of his memories. But you were his best friend, he needs you now. Just come see, don't tell him he's wrong about anything, because this is what he remembers and what he's been able to piece together on his own. Just, let him guide you through it."
"You know, I've been thinking," he says. "There's a lot I missed those years in the ice, and I thought it was bad enough to have to take it all in. But this, this is much worse."
Steve is quiet for a moment before he slams back the rest of his coffee and picks up his paper and folds it under his arm. He stands and holds out a hand to me and I take it so he can pull me gently to my feet. I don't sway like I did the first day we met, instead I give him a reassuring smile.
"You can only help him now," I tell him and put a hand on his arm.
I leave Steve outside of James' room, telling him that I will be on the other side of the one-way glass listening to the conversation. I ask him to wait a minute, to give me a chance to settle myself in the viewing room before he knocks. He nods and doesn't turn his gaze, which has taken on a new kind of resolve, and I slip into the observation room. It's padded, sound-proofed walls close me in and muffle the noise from me moving a chair around and shuffling my pad of paper and pen. I click on a speaker below the window and it crackles a little before a quiet hum settles.
James is pacing in front of the memory map, rubbing his hands together and I tap on the window to get his attention. He looks right at where I'm sitting and moves over quickly to the window.
"Hi," I say and he smiles.
"You found the speaker system," he murmurs. He puts his hand against the glass and I put mine up, matching my fingers to his.
"Yes," I answer. "I'm right here. Don't be scared." He smiles and then there is a knock on the door, pulling us away from each other and James turns towards the door and takes a deep breath, steadying himself. I draw in as much air as I can and hold it in while he goes to the door and hesitates for a second with his hand on the knob. He looks over at the window, gives me the tiniest of nods, and opens the door.
Steve stands with his hands in his pockets, his body is relaxed but his eyes are alert. James holds the door open for him, and for a second I think that they are going to launch into one another. But Steve moves into the room cautiously, seeming to understand the gravity of the situation and the fact that the two haven't been alone together like this since DC. He stays in James' line of sight, shuffling his feet as he walks. His eyes go straight to the wall covered in index cards that have been connected now with bits of string, pulling all the bits and pieces together into a web of a life.
James watches him from the door, leaving it partially open, a possible escape for either of them. He lets his hands drop to his sides and stands at a kind of parade rest with his feet shoulder width apart, attempting to let his upper body relax. The only tell is that every so often his metal hand will clench briefly and then return to a relaxed state. Other than that subtle movement, he appears calm. I slowly let out the breath I had been holding.
"This is what you've been working on?" Steve asks, keeping his voice neutral. He turns his full attention to the wall and from where I sit I can see the impressed look on his face, but James cannot. Steve moves closer to the center card, the one with James full name on it, and reads the cluster surrounding that. Those first cards were mostly single words, names of places, or an event or descriptive word that were then used to launch into longer stories or more elaborate memories that could be pieced together later. But Steve seems focused on the very first card, the name card, and the picture of a smiling and James in his uniform.
"It's hard to believe you're the same person, Bucky," he says, his voice so low that I can barely hear him.
"I don't know if I am," James says. Steve looks back over his shoulder at him and the tension between them begins to crack.
"This is you," he says and points to all the cards. "There's a whole life here and you can put it back together. Whatever you need from me, I can give it to you." He points to the card with his name on it and moves close enough to the wall that he is touching it.
"We're friends. We always will be. You're going to have to do a lot better than throwing me off a helicarrier to get rid of me."
James smiles, and I feel a flood of relief. The crack in their separation widens and I can sense it beginning to break apart. They start slowly, Steve tells him why he calls him 'Bucky', James tells him he remembers Brooklyn, an apartment, schoolyards, but the memories are hazy and not very well defined. Steve picks up the cues and fills in some gaps, pausing when James sits at the table to fill out another card, or goes to the wall to add things to the ones that are already there.
I listen from my little observation room, letting the two work through the childhood portion of the map. What I'm watching is an incredible act of trust for the two of them. What James and I had spent weeks, almost months, collecting were the building blocks for the foundation of who he was and who he can be in the future. What Steve is now is the map for putting those blocks in place, the voice of real memory and fact that James can use as the guide to really coming back to himself.
The afternoon wears on and while they are cautious with each other, they eventually move the chairs to sit side by side and gaze at the wall, at all the new cards and details that they have added.
"It's a great piece of work, Buck," Steve says and with the slightest of hesitation, he reaches over and puts his hand on his friends shoulder. James visibly tenses up but nods in response. Steve leaves his hand there for a few more seconds and gives James a squeeze before he removes it.
"Thanks," James says, his voice tight but still him, no hint of the soldier, just the friend. I make note on my papers and flip off the speaker, my body feeling lighter than I have in a long time. All will be well, I think to myself.
All will be well.