ohnofeelings | no faith in brooklyn

One thing life was good at was throwing Steve Rogers curveballs that he never even expected. If anyone asked him twenty years ago where he expected to be, a lab experiment turned war hero would not have been among that list. Neither would have sacrificing his life only to be found frozen but alive two years later. He never thought he'd dance with the girl of his dreams, much less marry her and be blessed with the most wonderful son.

Twenty years ago, Steve didn't know what he wanted out of life other than to serve his country like every other man. Needless to say, he'd come a lot farther than he imagined. But none of this wasn't without its price. Becoming someone who was physically able to stop one of the biggest threats during the war allowed him to save his best friend's life, only to have him ripped away from him simply because he couldn't reach him in time. And now he'd lost his wife.

The earth above Peggy's casket was no longer freshly turned; the soil had had time to settle and grass started to grow away from the patches placed on top of it, but Steve was still grieving. After watching his wife slowly waste away and lose her battle against cancer for two years, it was still understandable. It'd been hard on him, watching helplessly just like he had to with his mother as a child. It had been hard on James too, and the months since the funeral hadn't been any easier. James was doing better, but Steve knew what it was like to lose a mother.

What he needed to do was be with his son. Unfortunately, there were sometimes differences in what he needed to do and what he had to do.

The war might've been over, but the threat against freedom was still there. If the tensions after the war hadn't been enough, the wall built in Berlin two years ago solidified it. The iron curtain was up and everyone feared the reds. Steve was aware that a lot of it was needless paranoia. What was disconcerting were the number of paranoid people with political and military power who had access to nuclear weapons.

He was still obligated to serve- not that he would've objected to the idea anyway. He knew there were things that only he could do. In the past, any time he was needed for an extended period, even just for a consultation at the capitol, Peggy had always been there to look after James. He didn't have to worry about him. Technically, he didn't have to worry about leaving James with Howard and Maria, but he did anyway.

Especially since this was the first real action he was to be seeing since he crashed the plane in '44.

The morning he left, Steve knelt before James and held each of the eleven year old's tiny hands in his own. He told him to be on his very best behaviour for Uncle Howard and Aunt Maria, for if he did, they'd go to the drugstore to get chocolate milkshakes when Steve returned. And for his son, Steve would make sure he returned.

For him to be called in, the Winter Soldier had to be formidable, but Steve had faced tough enemies before. This was confirmed when he finally engaged the Russian operative in combat. What he hadn't expected was to come to a standstill shortly after his face was revealed. Twenty years ago, if anyone asked him when he expected to see his best friend again, after being irritated by such an asinine question, he would've firmly responded that he'd see him in Heaven.

This wasn't Heaven. There was no mistaking this man's identity, either.

"Bucky?"

Edited 2013-06-16 04:58 (UTC)

Bucky still didn't have his memories back, but he was starting to remember things, little things a bit at a time since the folder showed up. The picture of him with the American Soldier Hero. It threw off everything he had been told and left too many questions in his head. Questions he never asked for the answers to. He was smarter than that.

But then he had come face to face with the man and there had been no talking, no pause, because Bucky was a trained killer and a survivor and he was not going to lose just because of a potential past connection. He didn't know what his relationship with Steve had been like. So they were in the same company. Didn't mean they had been friends. He wasn't risking his life on a weak potential like that.

But Steve got the upper hand and Bucky fell. Blood was spreading across his leg. He couldn't see the wound but it was deep, he could feel that much. His leg was nearly useless.

Somehow his mask been dislodged, he was having a hard time getting his head back together. He groaned, his hand reaching for the wound, that and the knife concealed in his boot.

"Bucky?"

One thing Steve learnt a long time ago was to not pull punches. He have this fight his all, just like he did any other time he got in a fight. The difference was, now that he knew what this masked assassin looked like, he was conflicted. This was Bucky and he wouldn't be convinced otherwise, but that didn't explain why or how any of this was possible.

"I thought you were dead." The words come out uneasily, Steve's voice shaky. He was aware of the wound he'd inflicted, but he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to offer help just yet. He had to do something and he would. It was imperative that he made sure that Bucky had his senses about him enough that he wouldn't try to attack him again.

Thing was, Steve didn't know when that would be. The only information he had on the Winter Soldier was the briefing prior to this. Considering that Bucky had been able to see his face the entire time and still engaged in fighting- well, that meant it would take more to get through to him.

"I saw you fall. I couldn't reach you. How--how are you even here?"

The Winter Soldier had been trained to work through pain worse than this, but he knew the damage done. If the wound was as deep as it felt, he could bleed to death. He needed this to end, and fast. That meant either surrendering, something he had been effectively trained to never consider as an option, or reaching that dagger and ending his attacker.

If he killed Steve now, he would never understand those photos. Never find out who he might have been before he was their assassin. Had he been a killer for the US as well? Traded hands and 'reprogrammed' to use against them? Steve fought like a soldier, not an assassin. It should have given him the edge but Steve was stronger and faster than any human Bucky had ever fought. A super soldier.

If he let the man take him in, he could gather intel from the inside. No torture they inflicted on him would get information to leave his lips, the Russians knew that. They had made sure of it. But there, if they did not kill him. Maybe he could get answers.

His hand squeezed at his wound, cold metal gripping tight over the deep, wide gash, thick red-black blood staining the metal and the glove. The knife was an easy reach. He should have grabbed for it.

In a Russian tinged accent, the wounded assassin forced a few words out.

"There is a knife in my boot."

He would let Steve decide if it was a threat, a warning or a surrender. At least the Russians would never be able to prove which it was.

The accent alone, which was much clearer now that he'd spoken more, took Steve aback. If it looks like a duck, but doesn't quack like a duck, is it still a duck? He'd leave that up to someone else to decide. He didn't have time to think about that, even if it didn't stop him from it. Too many questions came to mind now. Bucky had always been brilliant and gifted with languages, sure, but Steve had still expected to hear a Brooklyn accent. The one he grew up hearing.

He also wasn't sure how to interpret that statement. In any case, his instinct to look out for his best friend took over. Even if this really wasn't his best friend. Steve slowly walked toward the assassin, careful not to make sudden movements that would startle him- yes, Steve was treating Bucky as if he was a wounded animal, and for good reason. He didn't know what to expect just yet.

"That's going to need stitches. We need to get you to a hospital." He stepped a little closer, holding his hand out for Bucky to take. He was still aware of the knife's presence, but he planned on jumping back if there were any sudden or unexpected movements. "Let me help you."

Bucky was still debating with himself, whether to take the chance or wait it out. With his leg wounded, there was no way he could get the upper hand or more than one chance at taking Steve down. The man might have been confused and confusing but he was obviously not an idiot.

His still flesh and blood hand grabbed Steve's after some hesitation. He was at a disadvantage, making himself vulnerable against all of his training. Every fiber arguing with his decision as he gave up the opportunity and let it pass.

"I was trying to kill you."

There was unguarded confusion in his voice this time. Confusion at his own hesitance and reluctance to take the window or die trying. And confusion at Steve for helping him after they had both all out been going at one another.

"Was. Past tense." This was sound reasoning, right? Steve might've verbally implied that he didn't expect another attack from him, but that wasn't true. He knew he was taking a huge risk with this. His objective was to neutralise the enemy, but in the loose definition that Steve was going with, this still counted as neutralisation.

It was possible that he'd be more useful alive.

Steve couldn't kid himself though, he was rationalising for the sake of his own actions.

He leaned down, setting his free hand on Bucky's shoulder to steady the other man as he pulled him to his feet. It was a swift movement, but he did his best to not cause any unnecessary pain. Easier said than done.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" It didn't take much to come to that conclusion, but he needed to hear it from the other man.

"Captain America. SSR. Decorated War Hero Steve Rogers."

It was rattled off in the style of a memorized file, and Bucky was still regarding him with a look like he had two heads. Why was Bucky still conscious? Hell, why was he still alive? He had practically bared his neck for the killing blow with the risk he took, and even if it was an educated risk, even if he was confident the other man would not kill him-

It didn't explain why he wasn't dead already. Information was the only option. And information was the reason Steve didn't have a dagger to his throat.

"Advise you remove my weapon if you want it to stay that way, soldat."

He wasn't keeping as much weight off his leg as he should have been and he hadn't moved his arm either. He wanted to test how useless his leg was while he had the chance.

That answered everything right there. If Bucky remembered, the answer would've differed. It would've been less impersonal. The fact that he was cooperating had to count for something, though.

"And you're the Winter Soldier. Formerly Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 107th Infantry. Born and raised in Brooklyn."

For a moment, Steve regarded the other man, looking for any sort of trace of recognition. Without saying anything else, he reached down and pulled out the knife from Bucky's boot. He didn't have a place for it on his person, so he chucked it into a dumpster that was a considerable distance away, although a straight shot from where they were.

James Buchanan Barnes. He had a name. A real one. It could easily have been a lie. His back had been to the camera. His name could've been anything. It didn't feel right. But something had. Bucky.

"Bucky." He repeated the name out loud again, watching Steve closely. His head was heavy and light all at once. He'd be useless soon.

"They sent you to kill me."

Steve nodded slowly, offering the other man a careful smile. "Only friends can call you that." They weren't just men who happened to be in the same unit. He wanted him to know everything, but if there were only a few things he could mention, that had to be one of them.

"They sent me to neutralise the enemy." He tilted his head some, looking the other man over. Unarmed and wounded. "You look neutralised to me."

Steve was playing with fire if he thought the Winter Soldier was neutralized. But Bucky had laid down his gun, so to speak. In this case, at least, Steve was right.

Especially given he nearly fell back down when his weight settled on the bad leg, dizzy with exhaustion and blood loss but shouldering through it.

"I need to make a tourniquet."

Steve did his best keep Bucky steady, but he frowned. He didn't come with medical supplies, obviously, but the other man had a point. Nothing good would from more blood loss.

He nodded curtly and eased Bucky back to a sitting position on the asphalt. It would be easier to do it this way. Steve ripped the sleeve of his own uniform, figuring his government could afford a replacement. The fabric ripped just shy of his shoulder, so with a swift movement he tore it off completely.

There was enough to make a decent tourniquet, one that would at least make due until he could get Bucky to any sort of medical facility.Bucky might've said that he needed to make it, but Steve went ahead and did it himself. After all, he was the one who caused it anyway.

"That'll work."

Bucky never took his eyes off Steve. How many times had he pulled that faded, folded photo from his pocket and stared, trying to read from their postures, their faces, every little possible clue he could get. Never had he expected the stern and focused soldier to be this... person. Soldiers who had seen war did not spare their enemies. They did not patch up the wounded so they could put a knife back to the throat of those who saved them.

But Winter Soldier had been on this job a week. That meant a week of covering his tracks, running on only his determination and training.

He moved to get back to his feet. Every intention of trying to make a run for it. What was he thinking letting Steve take him prisoner? The Russians would terminate him in hours.

Unfortunately for Bucky, the sudden movement coupled with blood loss and the pain of weight on his leg all slammed into his exhausted brain and the trained assassin lost consciousness.

That wasn't necessarily surprising, but it definitely made things more difficult. The dead weight wasn't anything that Steve couldn't handle, but with the other man unconscious, there was more stress in getting him to the hospital. Steve shifted, catching Bucky at the waist and hoisting him over his shoulder.

There was a worry that something worse would happen to Bucky en route, but the wound wasn't that bad. Steve had seen guys come through with worse.

As soon as he got him to the hospital, the nursing staff helped Steve get Bucky into a rolling bed and into the ER itself for the stitching, due to the amount of bloodloss and the severity of the wound. Steve couldn't follow, so he waited in the waiting room until the doctor was done.

Afterwards, Bucky was given a room to recoup overnight. Steve, who'd already been vague in answering questions about the injury, doubted that Bucky would be allowed to stay there. He still had to report in, after all, and SSR would want the Winter Shoulder in custody.

But for now, he was allowing Bucky to rest. As far as he knew, the other man hadn't woken up yet, and he hadn't noticed stirring yet. Though to be fair, Steve was distracted staring at the photo that had been on Bucky, which one of the nurses had handed him before leaving the room.

It was dangerous, being in a room with an unconscious assassin. The moment Bucky woke, with no concept of where he was or who currently held possession of him, his hands shifted, feeling the surface, eyes closed and breathing remaining even.

He cracked his eyes just enough to be able to see to his side, searching for an exit and a weapon, muscles slowly tensing across his body in preparation to fight his way out.

As soon as he thought he was awake he shoved off the bed, bolting for the hospital window as fast as he could move. The moment the stitched leg took his weight he stumbled, catching himself on the equipment, but he kept going, or did his best to try to.

The Winter Soldier was trained to get out alive or die trying. He was mentally conditioned to it, and without the shock and confusion of the previous fight, it was the default he fell into.

Steve might've been distracted by the photo, but the moment he saw Bucky getting out of bed and trying to make an escape, he set it aside and followed after him. The last thing anyone needed was a fight in the hospital, but Steve was prepared for it, assuming Bucky would retaliate against him the second he tried to stop him from leaving.

"Bucky. Bucky." He reached out before he was even in enough range to do anything other than grab his shoulder. As much as he doubted it, he hoped it would at least be enough to keep him still. "You're going to tear your stitches. Get back in the bed."

So maybe he should've phoned Stark sooner. Oops.

Bucky froze at Steve calling him by that name again. He let Steve grab him, resisting the strong urge to slam his elbows into the man and fight to incapacitate him.

It wasn't easy.

Slowly sinking down to sit on the bed, he eyed the window quietly before turning a blank stare on Steve, trying to keep the American soldier from reading anything in his expression.

A hospital was not where he had expected to wake up, let alone with his wound all stitched up. Like they cared about whether or not he healed from this.

Back to confusion, then.

Steve wasn't sure what to make of this. This was good, of course, but it seemed like it was too easy. This was Bucky, but this was also an apparently brainwashed Russian assassin. It didn't make sense for Bucky to be so compliant.

If anything, it made Steve more wary. He wasn't going to let that show, however.

"You had a photo on you." Now seemed like a good time to bring that up. He stepped away from the bed to fetch the photo, only to return and hold it out to the other man. "Do you remember this?"

The photo made Bucky tense up. It was the only thing he owned and if the Russians discovered he had it, it would be gone for good. He snapped it out of Steve's hand too fast with his metal arm, tearing it just a shade and pulling it in, eyes suddenly cold and harsh.

"How long have I been here?"

It was important. It would let him know how long ago he had missed his communication rendezvous. And whether or not he was already being sought out.

"Why did you bring me to a hospital."

While Steve was confused by Bucky's compliance, the assassin was confused by his helpfulness.

Steve's eyes narrowed at Bucky's reaction to the photo. It seemed odd, and it only made him want to find out why he'd reacted in such a manner. He was determined to find out why, and figured if he answered these questions, maybe he could get something more out of him.

Possibly unlikely, but he couldn't let them go unanswered either.

"About three hours, and remember the gaping wound on your leg? That didn't just go away because a tourniquet was wrapped around it. You needed medical attention. Unless you would've preferred I left you to bleed to death."

He paused. "Why is this photo so important to you?"

Bucky grit his teeth. This was a harmless question. It would reveal nothing about the Russians, his purpose, or anything else of significance.

It would reveal, likely, nothing Steve didn't already know.

What it would reveal was weakness and the extent to which The Winter Soldier was a fabricated being.

He watched Steve, matching the look he was being given with one in return.

Then, without pause and with as little emotion as he could manage, he replied.

"It's all I have." All he had, possession wise, and all he had to help him figure out who he was. Who he really was.

After a moment, Steve nodded. He pulled up a chair from the corner of the room and sat down, just a foot or so away from Bucky. Personal space wasn't happening, not when there was a possibility of him making an escape again.

"Italy 1943." He couldn't give specifics, because the photo reminded him of something that happened regularly in different locations. "After I saved you from the Hydra Compound, we started taking out other Hydra facilities across Europe. You, me, and the Howling Commandos."

New York City, August 1966

It was anywhere between midnight and three in the morning, but Steve didn't feel inclined to turn on the bedside lamp to check to time either way. He should've been fast asleep; he had to be up early in the morning but he found himself incapable of being anything but restless.

He could've blamed it on the heat; it was still sweltering despite the sun setting hours before. It would've been a valid reason, too. He ran hot ever since he took the serum and he could hardly feel the ceiling fan blowing air on him. But that wasn't it at all. Ordinarily, he could sleep with all the blankets tossed over in Bucky's direction with just the sheet over him when it was this hot.

It was his thoughts that kept him up, that kept him tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling. Sometimes Steve took work home with him. It was impossible not to, especially when work was also plastered all over the news. When there were protests everywhere. It put him in an extremely difficult position. He was a soldier- not a good one, but that's what he was at his core. But he didn't agree with it.

Not this war.

He'd been born at the tale end of the Great War, the War to End All Wars. Grown up during the Depression and nearly gave his life during the Second. Between those two wars, generations were lost. Millions of people. But for what price? Immediately after the war, the two major powers of the world rushed into an arm's race. There was stability in fear, in mutually assured destruction.

But there was also war still. Instead of encompassing the entire globe, it was reduced to civil wars in far off places, with the United States and the Soviet Union egging warring factions on like pawns. That was all painfully obvious to Steve and he didn't like it.

He wasn't concerned about being drafted. His talents were reserved for emergencies, but he mostly served as a tactical consultant when he was needed. There were two things that concerned him: that this war wouldn't end before the entire country was drained, or it would still be continuing by the time his son turned eighteen.

It was hypocritical, perhaps, to not want his son involved at all. He'd been willing to do anything to get directly involved in the war effort when he was younger. Somehow it was different. It was legitimate. This wasn't, and he wanted more than anything to keep James sheltered from it. War was gruesome. It was hideous in all its glory and it changed men. Made them violent, made them compromise their morals. He didn't want his son to experience any of it.

There were nearly four years before it would even be a real concern, but it kept him up anyway. Finally aware that he was potentially disrupting Bucky's sleep by shifting so much, Steve quietly got up and left the bedroom. There wasn't any point in causing anyone else from losing sleep over his own fretting.

Steve's movements did not wake Bucky up nearly as fast as the disappearance of his warmth at Bucky's side. He shifted and dragged his arm across his eyes before looking toward the empty space that belonged to Steve, his arm lying on the warm space left behind.

He laid there a few minutes before slowly sitting up, staring at the floor. Everything was sluggish for him when he woke like this. From a nightmare, everything was sudden, explosive, but dragged from a deep sleep half his brain was still reluctantly expecting a mission and a new mark.

Running metal fingers through his hair he pulled his hand away and stared at his arm, flexing the fingers that weren't really his. Howard had made improvements, but still, it was an uncomfortable reminder.

By the time he finally made it out of the bedroom he was awake, his hair up at all ends and dressed in nothing but the pants he had slept in.

"Steve?"

He kept his voice soft and low to keep from waking James.

By the time Bucky made it out of the bedroom, Steve was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of milk. The only lighting came from the small overhead light above the sink. The intent was drinking a warm glass and hoping that relaxed him enough to sleep. It honestly never worked, but that had always been his mother's suggestion when he was a child.

It was still far too early for coffee, and a nightcap wouldn't do him any favours either. That was one of the downsides to being a supersoldier.

Due to the layout of the apartment, Steve was able to see the other man without having to get up. He rubbed his face slowly before responding, speaking just as quietly. "Couldn't sleep. Didn't mean to wake you, too."

Bucky shook his head, moving over to Steve and going to the fridge to pour himself a glass of milk as well.

"I wasn't sleeping that well."

He set the glass on the table near Steve and wrapped his arms around the super soldier from behind, his good arm a buffer between Steve and the cool metal of his other arm.

"Thinking about James again?"

Steve didn't feel tense, but the moment he felt Bucky's arms around him, he relaxed considerably. Being worked up in one regard or another was just something he was used to. Bucky had a habit of being able to take at least some of that away by just being nearby.

He nodded, reaching up blindly to set his hand on Bucky's shoulder. After taking a sip of milk, he sighed. "I've lost more shut eye over that boy than I care to admit, and he hasn't even done anything."

James was a good kid. Steve just worried about him. A lot.

Edited 2013-06-16 13:20 (UTC)

"Pretty natural, Steve-o. He's your son. It's his job to make you worry and yours to be paranoid and worried about him."

Bucky might never be a father, and he didn't remember his own, but he knew what he always thought they should be like, and Steve was everything a good father was supposed to be.

"It's a long ways yet until he's 18, Steve. This will all blow over before then."

He rested his forehead against the back of Steve's head, closing his eyes.

"Then you can go back to worrying about whether or not he goes through with the Fed thing.

Bucky had a point, that was for certain. It likely didn't help that Steve had put more pressure on himself to be a good parent ever since Peggy passed. He had to look after James the best he could, not only for his sake, but for her memory as well.

He'd never admit that he thought he was doing a good job, because even if he only thought that to himself, it would be an indicator that he was doing something wrong. Parenting wasn't supposed to be easy.

"What if it doesn't? It's already gone on for so long and no one has the intention of backing down."

Four years seemed like a long time, but he knew it wasn't. Fourteen had passed in a blink of an eye and Steve was constantly left wondering how his child grew up so fast.

He slid his hand up from Bucky's shoulder to rest on the back of his neck. It was a weird angle, but Steve was working with it.

"I wish he'd just chosen to be a musician."

"There's still hope. He's not half bad on those drums."

Bucky was trying to lighten Steve's mood, shifting his head, his lips finding the corner of Steve's jaw. James may not have inherited Steve's drawing skills, but he had inherited the man's stubborn streak, and his heart. Bucky worried about him, too. Constantly.

He just never felt it was his place. James was not his son, no matter how much he might have treated the boy like he would have treated his own kid. And even with him and Steve being covertly together now, he knew he would always be Uncle Buck to James.

It made a small part of him sad, but it had been over two decades since Bucky ever saw himself becoming a father. Once he imagined himself and Steve, together in some white picket neighborhood, raising their kids together, next door neighbors in a duplex. It was a domestic fantasy that had always involved two faceless women in a world where two men couldn't be together. And when he had pictured them growing old together, it wasn't the way he did now.

But later in the war he had given up those fantasies, and he had never quite recaptured them.

"It will end. Just look at all the protests going on, Steve. The nation is in an uproar. Johnson will straighten up and realize that they don't want us there and we don't want to be there soon enough. He can't ignore this much civil unrest."

To that, Steve managed a small chuckle. "Maybe the Beetles will need a new drummer." He knew it was completely implausible, but he enjoyed the thought while he could. Just a moment of pretending that his son wouldn't wind up in some dangerous career as he had was enough for now.

He tilted his head to the side, partly in acknowledgement, partly allowing Bucky better access if he wanted it. Worries about the war in regard to James aside, Steve was happy, definitely a lot more than he thought he'd be capable of. Finding Bucky alive and him eventually remembering everything had been the turning point for that.

It was nice having his best friend back, and a lover in him as well. A partner in every way that mattered, especially with looking after James, even though it was never explicitly stated as much. Steve never intended to replace his mother, and James adored Bucky and wasn't bothered by the living arrangement. Steve couldn't ask for more, and he didn't.

"With as strong as our industries are, and as vastly populated as the country is, he could afford to keep the war going longer. It's not an election year." He wasn't as naive about these things anymore. He knew how the world worked well enough, and he disliked it in this regard. "I hope I'm proven wrong."

Edited (typoooo) 2013-06-16 18:06 (UTC)

no faith in brooklyn

How many deaths will it takes til he knows that too many people have died?

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The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.

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