This is a story about the friendship between a retired librarian, Joyce Franklin, and Bucky Barnes, an old soul in a younger looking body. Although there will be mild flirting and occasional frank discussion about sexuality as Joyce helps Bucky learn about the evolution of social behaviour from the 1940s there will be no romantic relationship between them. It will simply be a story of how their friendship evolves from Joyce helping Bucky achieve some goals to Bucky helping Joyce through her own challenges. I do have a sequel of sorts planned, where Bucky will put into practice what he's learned from this retired woman, realizing she had another goal in mind all along. Although set in the same time as the Falcon and the Winter Soldier series there will be differences.
She had seen him around the neighbourhood for some time. His solitary figure was easy to spot, even from a distance as he stood ramrod straight, except for the odd times she saw him browsing the secondhand book tables at the street market in Brooklyn. At those times, his head would be bent over the titles as he browsed the selection looking for something that interested him. Whenever someone stood near him to look at the same selection, he would glance furtively at them and step away, just one or two steps, far enough away to reestablish his personal space. The woman who watched him couldn't tell if he was bothered by their interest in the same books or if he was just terrified of being in close proximity to anyone.
Terrified was more likely as he seemed to have a habit of checking his environment carefully before giving his attention to the task at hand. She had seen the same thing in people that had served in the military; more specifically, in a war zone. On their return to "normal" life they had this air of hyper-awareness about them, as if their life depended on it. Some were able to discard this self-protective habit sooner than others. This guy, who she called the Staring Man, had the same sense about him, multiplied. By his stature and extreme awareness, she guessed he was a veteran, a traumatized one at that.
He always dressed in similar clothing; black or dark wash jeans, usually a black or blue shirt, with an occasional grey one thrown in for variety. The shirts were usually T-shirt style, although he would wear a Henley from time to time. He always wore a jacket, usually a black leather one although he had a black cloth one he wore on warm days. His feet were always in the same black lace up boots, military style. The final part of his wardrobe were the black leather gloves he wore, every single day, since she saw him at least once every day. Even when it was a hundred degrees outside, he wore those gloves. She couldn't tell if it was a germ phobia thing, a mental health issue, or something else that she just couldn't figure out.
You might wonder how it was possible that the woman had the time or inclination to study the Staring Man on a daily basis. That's what happens when you retire from being a high school librarian for 35 years (she took leave when she had her kids), and have little to occupy your day, other than reading, and observing the people who flitted in and out of her part of the neighbourhood on a daily basis. She had tried the language courses, the craft courses, and the coffee gatherings that her adult children suggested, finding them all lacking. Her time was more enjoyable when she spent it watching people, using her deductive skills to figure out their lives. There were lots of different people to watch in the Brooklyn neighbourhood where she lived but the Staring Man intrigued her the most. He was an enigma, a handsome one at that, with his muscular build, thick dark hair and blue eyes. Even his persistent five o'clock shadow was sexy. As she often joked to herself, she was old, not dead.
He was usually alone, although he did have a friend, a Mr. Nakajima. That gentleman had been at one of those coffee gatherings she tried attending. They would say hi to each other on occasion but didn't really know each other. The Staring Man seemed fond of the old fellow, who was a sweet man by all accounts. The younger man appeared to be a little more animated around the old man, solicitous and even deferential. They would often have lunch at the local sushi bar and were often heard talking about films and music from the 1930s and 1940s. That was surprising; the Staring Man seemed to be a fan of old films and music. He must have been exposed to it through his parents as she found most people his age had little to no clue to some of the better older movies, although some singers covering some of the old standards like Diana Krall, Tony Bennett (through his collaborations with Lady Gaga) and Michael Bublé were appreciated by a younger audience. Occasionally Mr. Nakajima would make a remark to the Staring Man that embarrassed him, especially when Leah, the sushi bar manager, walked nearby. It was obvious the older man was trying to set them up, but the younger man resisted the overtures. Maybe he was gay, which would have been a waste of a good-looking man, speaking for straight women in general.
Occasionally the retired librarian would see the Staring Man sitting on a park bench, going through a small notebook, making notations. She was never close enough to see what was in it, but it seemed important to him. There was the theory that he had PTSD issues and was writing down affirmations. Maybe he was observing people himself and writing down what he saw. He had a cellphone, an older flip style, which was a little odd but not entirely weird. As a person who used to work in a high school the woman knew people had varying degrees of comfort with technology, although most people his age did have smart phones. He did have a tablet with him once and seemed comfortable using it, so he wasn't a complete Luddite. In case you're wondering they were anti-Industrial Revolution types back in the early 1800s who saw industrial machines as threats to their livelihoods. These days it's used to describe anyone who has issues with advances in technology. That didn't seem to fit the Staring Man. Instead, she thought he embraced certain technologies while keeping those that he found comfort in, like print books instead of an e-book.
The thought occurred to her once that he was maybe one of the returned, one of those who disappeared for five years who suddenly reappeared when the Avengers found a way to undo that madman's devastating finger snap. That could explain some of the technology reticence as five years technology-wise is a lifetime. It might also have accounted for some of his introversion. Perhaps, when he returned, his family were all gone, strangers were in his house, and his life couldn't return to normal because it didn't exist anymore. The woman herself was fortunate, if you can call it that. Her husband was already dead at the time of the Snap, heart attack at 66, just after he retired, and none of her kids or grandchildren turned to dust. But friends did and some neighbours. They did struggle after their return, trying to adjust to all the changes that five-year gap imposed on their lives.
When she watched the Staring Man it wasn't done in an obsessive, creepy way. She respected his privacy. There were days when he seemed preoccupied or anxious and although she was concerned whenever she noticed it, she never saw a reason to insert that concern into his life. His issues, when they appeared, often seemed self-directed. Occasionally she would glance at him at those times just to keep tabs on him, but her attention was also divided on others, or she would read her book, which she always brought with her. That was on the days when it was nice enough to sit outside. On rainy or cold days, she would go to the local coffeehouse and order a large coffee, taking her time to drink it. It was easier to read when she had the relative safety of a table to sit behind, offering her a degree of anonymity. She liked the coffeehouse because it also offered her the opportunity to see people in a controlled environment.
It was interesting the things you could discern about an individual while they stood in line at a coffeehouse, waiting for their turn to order. Some people buried their faces in their phones, scrolling through their feeds, or checking their emails. When it was their turn, they would place their order then return to the safety of their phone. Others, usually new to the location, would focus on the menu board, trying to decide if they wanted oat or soy milk with their order, or they would openly speculate with their friend (if they were with someone) about trying something different than their usual café lattes. They would always hesitate while placing their order, often changing their mind which would bring a sigh of impatience from the person at the till, not to mention the people in line behind them.
Staring Man always knew what he wanted, just a regular black coffee but she never heard him give his name as he never seemed to be there while it was too busy. With just a plain black coffee the staff could just pour and serve his order immediately. While he waited in line for his turn to order he would turn and look at everyone who was already seated, then watch everyone who came in the door. It was as if he was assessing them upon their entry, possibly determining if they were a threat ... part of that hyper awareness that had been noticed by the woman.
There were all types of people that stayed inside the coffeehouse to satisfy their caffeine habit. The retired librarian liked watching the young couples the most. Presumably on their first date, they would sit across from each other, full of the anticipation of making a connection, doing their best to give all their attention to the person across from them. If it was a successful date both of them would be animated, having this easy back and forth connection that indicated they had found common ground. If it wasn't successful, then the tension was palpable as if both were going through the motions of giving it a try before one or the other would look at their watch or pretend to feel their phone vibrate and pull it out to look at a non-existent text that would give them an excuse to leave.
Occasionally an acquaintance of hers would come in the door, see her sitting there and bring their coffee over after picking it up from the barista. They would call her by name, "Joyce!" Then they would hug, catch up for a few minutes, or longer if they were both in the mood. On those days Joyce Franklin, widow of Bob, mother of Bob Jr., Tara, and Hope, grandmother of four, would feel like it had been worthwhile to get out of the house. Of course, on the days she saw the Staring Man she would feel like it was worthwhile as he was definitely worth looking at.
Sometimes he would stay in the coffeehouse to drink his coffee but only if he could have a table in the corner, not near a window, and only if he could be located where he could look out over everyone else in the place. When he did stay, he made notes in his notebooks, or occasionally would read a paperback that he pulled out of his inside jacket pocket. Sometimes he would read texts on his phone, but he never seemed to answer very many. Avoiding someone, perhaps?
One time, as he was reading in the coffeehouse, a man came in who was obviously in a hurry. Why he joined a long lineup when he was in a hurry was beyond comprehension, but he did, and he made sure everyone knew he was in a hurry. His complaints about the slow service were rude and just loud enough in volume to be disturbing to those who used the coffeehouse as a sanctuary. On this particular time, Joyce watched as Staring Man stood up, leaving his book and coffee at his table then leaned in front of the complaining man to grab a stir stick from the counter. In the process he murmured something audible only to the impatient man then sat back down. The man who was in a hurry seemed paler but never said anything more as he waited for his drink. When it was ready, he quickly left without a word. No one heard what was said but there was a bit of a smug smile on the Staring Man's face afterwards.
On other scattered occasions Joyce also noticed Staring Man at the bodega in their neighbourhood. He would wander in, sometimes acknowledging the person behind the counter, grab a basket and pick out some foods. Nothing really healthy either from what she could see on her brief glances into his basket, microwave meals, packaged dinners, cereal, and beer, mostly. Sometimes he came in while she was buying her little item, usually something she forgot to buy at the bigger grocery store. Patiently he would wait behind her, then drop his selection off on the counter while somehow getting to the door before her to open it for her. It was good manners in her opinion although occasionally another person in line would breathe a little sound of irritation as if his ten second moment of being a gentleman was personally inconveniencing them. Sometimes Joyce wondered if she should pretend to forget something and tie up the cashier a little longer just to see if he handled that person like the impatient man in the coffeehouse. Instead, she usually thanked him then walked out the door leaving him to finish his purchase.
At home during dinner time Joyce would sit at the table in her dining room, reading a book, or more likely a newspaper before watching the early evening news. Of particular interest to her were the news reports of another prominent politician, businessman or even the occasional military leader at the Pentagon being exposed as a HYDRA supporter. Someone, likely a former undercover operative from SHIELD, was going to a lot of trouble to find these people, then releasing footage of them at a past HYDRA function; even occasionally posting video or audio files of them trying to leverage their previous association with those fascists for personal gain. The look on their faces when they were finally revealed and arrested was always satisfying to Joyce. As a former librarian the availability and distribution of information was seen as a right, as important as the freedom of thought. To her, HYDRA seemed to be about keeping their activities hidden in the shadows, never exposed to the cleansing light of day. She often wondered who the mysterious vigilante was finding these people.
She noticed that Staring Man often seemed to have a bit of a spring to his step whenever those cases hit the news. Perhaps he'd been affected by decisions made by a general who had been a HYDRA supporter and was cheering on whoever this helpful vigilante was. There were other days when he wasn't around much and when he appeared briefly at the coffeehouse or bodega seemed irritated and stressed, frowning at everyone and everything. Those were the days Joyce wanted to reach out to him, touch his arm, and tell him it would get better. But she never did, not wanting to invade his privacy and possibly colour her own opinion of him if he rejected her overtures outright.
On one such day when Staring Man wasn't around Joyce was in the coffeehouse when she got a notification from a news app on her phone that Sam Wilson, the man handpicked by Steve Rogers to be Captain America had chosen to give the shield to the Smithsonian, saying that he couldn't accept the mantle, apparently holding the opinion that no one could replace Rogers as Captain America. As she watched the accompanying video of the ceremony of the shield being integrated into a secure display case at the institution, she couldn't help but feel disappointed by the man's decision. By all accounts he was a man with high ideals, and as a black man, could have used his position as Captain America to combat racism. For a moment Joyce wondered if he had already experienced more racism in the short time he had been in the position since Rogers stepped down and promptly disappeared. There were always lots of people willing to tear people down. Perhaps it just became too much responsibility for him take on.
The next day she saw the Staring Man sitting on a bench in the park, glowering at everything. He never said a word, but it was obvious he was angry about something and even though she didn't think the news story had anything to do with it there was nothing else going on that seemed to fit as a reason for his anger. For a moment she considered approaching him, but he suddenly stood up and stalked away, his anger still evident on his face. Joyce didn't think he would hurt anyone, but for the first time she was concerned that he would hurt himself. Perhaps it was mother's intuition or just the ability she had from her years working in the school district to sense when a student was going through a difficult time. Either way she felt helpless about not being able to offer support. That was the first day she felt angry at herself for not having the courage to approach him. He looked to be the same age as her oldest, Bob Jr., and she felt somewhat motherly towards him that day, wanting to offer some sort of support to him.
Just a few days later she glanced at the TV just as the government announced a new Captain America. She watched, appalled, as they gave the shield to an Army Ranger Captain, John Walker. She almost felt sick, knowing that Sam Wilson had declared the shield should be retired. What a betrayal of that principled man's wishes. Everywhere she went people were talking about the new Captain America, with some criticizing how quickly they handed it out to the new guy. It certainly seemed that some kind of fix was in, almost as if they were looking to replace Sam Wilson before he even announced he wasn't able to accept the mantle. Perhaps that's what rankled Joyce the most; how fast they found a "suitable" replacement and how quickly propaganda (that's what it was) appeared all over the place saluting John Walker as their new saviour. It left a sour taste in her mouth, even with the knowledge that Walker had three Medal of Honour citations. There was something about him that she just couldn't quite reconcile. He was too smiley, too friendly, reminding her of students who knew how to present themselves as good people while secretly bullying the skinniest kid in school. It was a terrible thing to think about a person, but it just nagged at her.
After that announcement she didn't see Staring Man at all for some time. A part of her wondered if he had gone off the deep end. Having had some experience with men of her generation and friends of her kids going through war-induced PTSD, she knew it was a long-term struggle for those who were afflicted by it. Some, after years of seemingly handling it, would shock everyone with either a sudden act of violence or worse, to ending it completely by suicide. That week, even though she wasn't religious, Joyce hoped and prayed that the Staring Man was alright, that his demons weren't getting the better of him.
With all that was going on in Europe, especially the Flag Smashers getting bolder in their thefts from heavily guarded facilities, Joyce wondered if that had driven the man into seclusion. Some people took the weight of the world on their shoulders, and she could see something that like affecting a person emotionally. Then came news of a prison riot in Germany that resulted in the escape of Helmut Zemo. He was the man behind the UN bombing in Vienna in 2016, that killed a dozen people, including the King of Wakanda, and injuring dozens more. What was the world coming to? Was he behind the Flag Smashers? Had he found some misguided displaced persons to wreak havoc on a world still coming to terms with the Snap and then the Blip? It was all so confusing, even for someone like her who considered herself fairly knowledgeable about world events.
On one of the days after these events unfolded Joyce was sitting outside the coffeehouse, enjoying the warmth of spring when she was surprised at being interrupted by a man's voice. She looked up to see Mr. Nakajima with a coffee cup in hand.
"Mrs. Franklin, may I join you?"
"Certainly," she replied, moving her things off the empty chair next to her. "How are you, Mr. Nakajima?"
"Please, Yori," he said. "We've waved hello at each other enough to be on a first name basis."
"Alright, Yori," she answered. "My name is Joyce. How are you?"
"Feeling my age," he replied. He waved his hand towards the sun. "But this helps me feel better. Even with all the troubles in Europe."
She nodded her head in agreement. "It's a bad business," she said. "I haven't seen your young friend recently. Is everything okay?"
"Bucky? He's off somewhere seeing a friend from his military days."
He was former military. Check one correct assumption.
"How did you meet him?" asked Joyce. "He seems to enjoy your company very much."
The old man smiled. "I was putting my garbage away and that Unique ... you know who I mean?" Joyce nodded, knowing exactly who Yori meant. "He was putting his garbage into my bin. He's always doing it. How someone can have so much garbage is beyond me."
She listened patiently as Yori vented his disgust at the even younger man who didn't seem to understand how to think of others. Then he took a breath and looked at Joyce with some confusion.
"What was I saying?"
"You were telling me how you met Bucky."
He smiled and nodded his head. "When I get too angry or excited, I start talking in Japanese," said Yori. "I'm swearing at Unique in Japanese and Bucky just comes up to me and in flawless Japanese says Ochitsuke Ojīsan. That means "Calm down Grandfather." I was so surprised to hear him say it that I almost fell over and he helped me stay upright. He told Unique to stop using my garbage bin, then offered to buy me lunch at Izzy's. We've been friends ever since."
The Staring Man spoke Japanese. Interesting fact that wasn't evident before.
"Where did he learn Japanese?" asked Joyce.
"In Japan, when he was stationed there," replied Yori. "He was a sergeant in the army. Said he has always been able to pick up languages easily. Mr. Rostikov in the Russian tearoom says Bucky has spoken Russian to him before."
Russian? The man also spoke Russian. Maybe he was more than military. Military intelligence, perhaps? Staring Man was even more interesting a subject than Joyce originally thought. She didn't quite hear what Yori said next and had to ask him to repeat it.
"When Bucky returns would you be able to help him?" he repeated. "He needs the help of someone who knows how to use computers. I remember you saying you worked as a librarian in a high school. You must have computer experience."
Joyce was puzzled by this request. "Yes, I know how to use them, but not how to program them or anything like that," she replied. "What does he need help doing?"
"I'll let him ask you," smiled the older man. "He finds it hard to ask for help sometimes and I want him to work on that. You'll help him, won't you? He's a good man; very kind but he's had a hard life and finds it hard to trust people."
Yori either wouldn't or couldn't tell Joyce anything more about Bucky, as he apparently wasn't very forthcoming with the older man about his past. Other than the fact that he was former military, was living on his military pension, and knew at least two foreign languages, the Staring Man was almost as much a mystery as he was before. But at least Joyce had a name to attach to the handsome, dark-haired man. His name was Bucky.