Chapter 2
When I wake up, the name he said is clear in my mind. A bright piece of certainty in the middle of the dark mess that it is my brain.
James Buchanan Barnes. I used to be this person. I used to be someone. I take a couple of minutes to process that fact, letting it sink in while I look at the worn down wallpaper. I slowly realize that I don't really like it's color. Too yellow, too many dark flowers on it. I try to remember if I used to have a house, if my walls used to look like these ones, or if they were completely different. I search in my memory for a while, but there's nothing there. It's like I'm empty inside.
A bit frustrated, I put on the hat and jacket to walk around the city again. I drink the rest of someone's cold coffee, and take the money a woman left as a tip on one of the outdoor tables of a coffee shop. It'll be enough to get some food later.
The city doesn't feel so cold anymore, so I roam a bit more. I listen to the people that pass me by, and I understand that this is my language. It feels familiar, comfortable. I'm sure that I've heard soft, tender words in it, although I can't actually remember someone saying them. The realization comes, and I feel like it should've been really obvious: I'm not Russian. Far from it. How far gone do you have to be to forget your own place of birth? I hadn't really stopped to think I had one.
After a few hours, a newspaper near a dumpster catches my attention as I walk by it, and I get into an alley to look at it. The name looks familiar, but the year written on the front page makes me tremble while I crouch on the dirty floor. It brings a certain uneasiness to my head. Like I needed more of that. I don't know the exact date, but that one certainly doesn't seem right. It can't be right.
And then I remember myself buying a newspaper like this one, and I know the memory's from a long time ago. The same name written on the top of the page: 'New York Times'. The first words of the title underneath the name are clear as water in my mind: 'U.S. declares war'. I remember reading it on a crowded sidewalk, and the shame that came right after the fleeting fear of knowing that I would fight.
I walk a little faster after that, trying to make sense of it all. My heart is trying to push its way out of my chest. The title I can see in my head is wrong, and the year has to be wrong too. I was born long enough to be dead. I know that.
My breathing is getting too jacked up. The streets are too crowded, the sounds are too loud, the voices are too many. I barely make it to the building before I'm losing control. I can't keep my breathing calm nor my heartbeat steady. It feels like I'm drowning, like I can't breathe or think properly.
I remember.
I remember, and I can't keep the tears from silently running down my face. Something gets in my way as I walk and I hear it crush against the farthest wall long before realizing I'm the one who threw it.
Bucky. I'm Bucky. I fall to my knees as little pieces of my life start coming back to me. They're out of order and in a clouded mess, but they're there. Sitting on the sidewalk watching the cars passing by. Eating a cookie from a glass jar. A young girl wearing a blue dress. Running down a street and into an alley after hearing something that catches my attention, the panic I feel because someone could be hurting him. Him. Steve. The man's name is Steve. I remember him saying my name, and talking to me in a park. I remember eating a sandwich with him while we talk about something he did earlier. I remember his voice, and his eyes. God, how did I forget Stevie?
I'm clinging to the floor, desperate for something to hold on to while my head spins wildly. I feel like I'm back in that ride I got on to with Steve, in that fair we visited so many years ago. I could throw up. I feel like I'm about to.
What the hell have I done?
Stevie's hurt, and it's all because of me. My damn fault. I hurt him. I almost killed him. The weight of that statement settles on my shoulders, bringing me a bit closer to the ground. What kind of monster would do something like that?
I force myself to breathe and calm down. Steve's ok. That chopper took him, he'll be fine. He has to be. I'll give myself a heart attack if I keep thinking about that, but I can't seem to stop.
The memories feel disjointed and somehow hollowed, but they do start to come back to me in the days to follow. Anything feels important: the rules to a board game, the lyrics to an old song, the taste of something sweet…
On one of my scavenger-walks through the city, I hear some people talking while they pass me by. Captain America is recovering in a hospital nearby. My heart jumps at the information, but I can't ask them for more. They don't seem to have insights, anyway. It just sounds like something they've heard from someone else. Like a rumor or just gossip.
I ask someone for directions and go to the hospital either way. I can immediately tell it's the truth because of the guards posted outside of the building. Too many. I would get caught in seconds if I'd tried to get in there. At least if I'd tried to do it without killing or hurting anyone.
I honestly don't trust myself to keep control being in a situation like that. I don't want to know what would happen if someone threatened me or pointed a gun at me right now. So going in is not even an option, I know that… but I stay hidden outside anyway, looking at the windows and trying to imagine which room he's in. I wish I could know if he's alright, I wish I could tell him that I'm sorry.
A few days later, I'm exploring the city again when I walk past a museum that announces an exhibit about him. I go inside almost without a second thought. I'm wearing the hat I stole, and my arm is safely hidden under the jacket, so it should be just fine.
The voices are too loud, and the pictures are too bright, but I want to see him. I want to know what happened.
There's old movies of us, and my breath gets caught in my throat. It's so weird to look at myself, it almost feels like it's someone else.
I keep walking and find a small screen where we're both standing side by side, talking and laughing. How can I look so happy in the middle of a war? And then Steve -the one on the screen- puts his hand on my shoulder and I know it's because of him. I remember how it feels. The camaraderie, the trust, the feeling of being comfortable with someone. The feeling of knowing he's got my back.
I keep walking because I think I might start crying if I don't. The longing for that feeling is too much for me to handle, so I push it aside, try to ignore it as best as I can. My feelings are all over the place.
My eyes catch a huge picture of myself in the middle of a room and I walk towards it. I start reading the text on its side as I approach. It says I was born in 1916, and that I was the oldest of four siblings. Their faces flash before my eyes, but their names remain a mystery. It's pointless to focus on that.
I scan through the rest of the memorial. It says I was captured and tortured by Hydra, but I already knew that. I remember those days almost too well, although they're scrambled with the tortures that came after. I remember fighting alongside Steve, and how safe I used to feel when I knew he was by my side in the battlefield.
The name of our team brings back memories of the others. The Howling Commandos. Their laughters, and the way we used to talk about our missions during the nights, sitting around improvised bonfires. I sigh and walk away. Everything I get to remember is just another thing that I have lost. Every piece of information is about things that time has already taken from me.
I walk past the hospital on my way to the building, and the guards are still posted there. They don't see me, but I know I'm pushing my luck showing up every day, so I decide to wait a little longer next time.
Big mistake.
When I go back a couple days later, I immediately understand that Steve's no longer there. There's no more surveillance, not one guard or agent to be seen. The fear creeps up on me, leaving me gasping for air. What if he didn't make it? What if my mission was successful after all?
When I start walking down the street I realize that I'm scared. Completely terrified. I can barely control myself enough to keep my feet from running. The address written on the back of the picture is still edged into my brain, and my body takes me straight to that place with no hesitation. I don't have any cards in the matter, any objection or logical words. I just need to know if he's alive.
I give up after a few blocks and start running, trying really hard not to exceed the limits of normal humans. I don't want to draw attention, but it's almost beyond my control. The adrenaline caused by the fear is pushing me forward, relentless and unstoppable.
When I get to the address, I can see that there's people inside the apartment, but it gives me no comfort whatsoever. The curtains are closed, so it might be someone else, someone in charge of arranging his belongings, sorting them out before the news is made public. Please don't let that be the case.
I wait, hiding on the sidewalk, watching the building. I know I've seen it before, but I can't quite put my finger on it. It isn't until a few hours into my surveillance that the thought crosses my mind like it's someone else's:
'I killed someone here'. The memories are blurry, but I know they're real. My throat closes up with the certainty of that fact. I killed someone in Steve's apartment. I hide my face on my hands and try not to freak out about it, but the heat crawling up my chest is almost unbearable.
I try to calm down so I can remember the target. Who they were, what their name was… not a single fucking fact comes to mind. Did I kill someone he cared about? Did I kill someone from his team? One of his friends? His girlfriend?
I remember him running after me, and that I wasn't supposed to kill him, but everything else is a lost cause.
By the time someone I recognize comes out of the apartment, it's already nighttime and I'm a frustrated panicking mess. I can't remember the guy's name, but I know that he had a suit with wings, and that he must not be too fond of me right now. I don't blame him.
I wait for a little while longer and then break into the building. I can't handle the fear anymore. Wondering if he's ok, if he's even alive… not knowing is killing me.