First Impressions and Second First Impressions and First Second Impressions
When you spoke with Steve the next day he was damn near ecstatic, which was almost worth the atmosphere of nervousness that awaited you at home.
“Suck it up, Barnes.” You told James, and “How bad can it possibly get?” and “You are the bravest person I know.”
He’d just look at you with bloodshot eyes, then go back to giving Becky scritches behind the ears. He didn’t sleep at all anymore, nightmares keeping him awake until he couldn’t take it any longer. Thursday evening, less than half an hour after you’d retired for the night, there was a timid knock on your bedroom door.
“Come in.” you called out softly, too lazy to move since you’d just found the perfect sleeping position. The door swung open slowly, revealing James looking sheepish with his blanket in tow.
“Can I …Can I stay here with you tonight?” he asked quietly, blanket bunched in his hands. This was probably a bad idea, you thought absently.
“Yeah, sure, come on in.” You said instead. You could put your emotions on the back burner for him. You had to. His face lit up in a small, grateful smile.
“I can take the floor.” He offered conscientiously.
“Don’t be daft.” You drawled tiredly, patting the empty space on the mattress beside you. The double bed was large enough for two after all and it wasn’t like you hadn’t done this before. It’d be fine.
He hesitated, busying himself with shaking out his blanket. You rolled your eyes.
“Lie down, dipshit. Don’t make me make you; I just found a comfortable position.”
After a moment, the mattress dipped and there was some rustling and shifting, at the end of which James reached for your hand, loosely lacing your fingers together.
“Thank you.” He whispered, already sounding much more at ease.
“No problem. Good night, Jamie.” You yawned.
“Good night, ________.”
You awoke due to something hitting you in the general kidney area.
“Oof.” You said, eloquently. According to the bright numbers on your alarm clock you still had almost half an hour before you had to get up. Fantastic.
“Becky no.” James groused next to you, swiping an arm lazily across your back to dislodge the cat that had woken you so unceremoniously. She hissed half-heartedly before jumping over to him and curling up half on the pillow, half on his head, her tail curling gingerly along his throat.
“Fantastic.” He muttered flatly. “Much better. This is exactly what I had in mind.”
The deadpan delivery makes you giggle softly. The arm that de-catted you remained slung loosely around your hips, but it’s still so goddamn early so you decide to indulge a bit until you’re both more awake. Eye-opening optional.
“How you holding up, champ?” you drawled sleepily, words half swallowed by the pillow your face is smushed against.
“Much better now. Thanks for letting me stay.”
“Don’t mention it.”
You dozed off again for a while, nice and warm and the rhythm of your breathing aligned, the sound of the cat purring ever so softly. The small weight of James’ arm around you was comfortable and comforting, throwing into sharp relief how lonely you’d been since your previous relationship ended. Your first serious long-term relationship as a responsible adult, too. You’d met him shortly after moving to DC, had dated for almost a year when you’d walked in on the bastard literally mounting another woman …your only comfort had been that the woman in question hadn’t known he was in a relationship and had broken it off immediately. Like on the spot immediately. With a selection of curses so colorful your head had started spinning. Before that, during your time in New York you’d dated a bit. It never went anywhere, but at least the cute lawyer was still a friend of yours – and, well, your lawyer now, too.
“Do the nightmares ever stop?” James asked quietly, voice morning-rough and earnest. Very earnest. You figure he’s only asking you this because he has no one else to confide in – another reason to reconnect with Steve – and maybe because of how closely your work with veterans.
“No.” You say slowly, finding his free hand, the metal one, and squeezing lightly. “No, the nightmares never stop. There’ll be less, fewer and farther in between, and then you’ll think you did it, you’re free, you finally worked through it, and then they come back, suddenly and with a vengeance, and you wake up panting and shaken and with your heart racing, wondering if all you did was suppressing it.” You sigh deeply, wondering if he can even feel your fingers tightening around the metal. He’s silent for a moment. You still haven’t opened your eyes so you can’t tell whether he’s doing the same or looking at you. It doesn’t matter and your eyelids are so, so heavy you couldn’t lift them if you tried.
“What happened?” James asked, both hesitant and inquisitive, needing to know why you can tell him that like you know.
“I …told you about the mugging, how I got that scar on my leg. The mugger – he had that gun pointed at me. I stared down the barrel of that gun, trying desperately to think of something to say so he’d let us go. We were just two orphan girls on our way home from school. We didn’t even have lunch money, just books and pens. When he pointed that gun at Skye I threw myself at him, knocked him clean to the ground, too. Gun went off, my leg was in the way. I managed to wrestle it out of his hand and Skye kicked it away, but he caught her ankle and it didn’t go far enough so before I know up from down he’s back on his feet, running for the damn thing and the next moment it’s pointed at me again. And at that point my blood’s pooling underneath me and all I can think of is ‘shit shit shit we’re both gonna die because of some junkie and loose gun regulation and I don’t want my last thoughts to be about gun regulations’ – “ your voice had started to tremble. This was probably the first time you had recalled that incident in such detail since giving the police your statement, back then, but somehow you can’t stop; it’s like a floodgate opened.
“So I’m staring down the damn barrel again like I’d never even moved at all, when Skye tackles the bastard from behind and he drops it, and goes for Skye like something wild, so I crawl over and take it, and I don’t know to this day whether I actually fired it intentionally or if it just went off. Right through the bastard’s knee. I had nightmares pretty much every night right after for months; it only got better after I convinced the detective who’d handled the case to teach me how to shoot, but I still wake up sometimes seeing that damn gun pointed at me.”
James was stunned into silence for a moment, flesh hand rubbing soothingly along the small of your back, which was nice but also really unhelpful in regard to your unresolved feelings.
“Is that what happened the other night? When you had a nightmare, was that what it was about?”
You nodded slowly, eyes still closed, reflexively swiping your free hand in front of your face as if swatting something away. Your accursed alarm clock would ring any moment now. There are tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, so you will them back and sniffle a bit, clear your throat and steady your voice.
“There is no easy fix for this.” You decree solemnly. “There’s only learning to cope, not letting it own and consume you. It’s like a scar – those stay with you for the rest of your life, too.”
“My Pa used to say that scars were the marks of survivors.” James whispered lowly, voice deep and morning-raw, hand splaying across your lower back, fingers curling gently around your hip. You moved your free hand to reach for him, needing the contact, his warmth; it was so very soothing to have someone to hold on to when you felt like slipping away.
“Was he… did he fight in the war?” Becky gave a lazy little chirp of protest, presumably because James had just nodded in answer to your question. Which you obviously couldn’t see since your eyes were still closed, though maybe you could open them now if you tried.
“Yeah, he did. We called it the Great War, then.”
“It’s the First World War now.” You supplied, earning a hum of acknowledgement.
“He had scars, too. From the shelling. Shrapnel mainly, and then a few from the machine gun fire.”
“Sounds like he knew what he was about.” You replied, shuffling around a bit so you were lying more on your side than your front. It was definitely easier to talk without half your face squashed into the pillow. You opened your eyes at last, unable to suppress a giggle at the sight of Becky draped haphazardly over James’ head.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Good morning.”
“Yes, good morning.”
---
“Yeah, I’m there now.” Steve said into his phone while locking his bike and making his way over to the building.
“No, it’s fine Sam, really. You were right, she seems great actually. …Yeah, exactly. I’m glad your dad’s gonna be okay. I’ll be alright here on my own for now. Don’t …no, don’t worry, Sam. …Yes, of course I’ll call you back after…yes, right after …Okay, bye. Say hello to your family for me. Yes, bye.”
Steve disconnected the line and checked the address again before walking up the few flights of stairs, counting off the apartment numbers in his head. Despite his reassurances to Sam, his heart was high in his throat, beating rapidly. He stared at the door for a full five minutes, nervously fidgeting with the bouquet of flowers and the wine bottle, because his mother hadn’t raised him not to bring a gift when he was invited somewhere, but her education had fallen short on the finer points of what to get for your brainwashed childhood friend and the woman who saved his life. Steve felt that daisies and Sauvignon blanc fell awfully short, but what was he to do?
He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He’d brought Sam around, he thinks, but Natasha would probably tell him that this might well be pointless, that he’s being stupid. But then again she did give him Bucky’s file. At the very least, the Widow would caution him. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the concern, but she’s not here and caution was never really Steve’s forte. Also, he doubts that his worst case scenario is the same as hers, or in fact anywhere close. The Russian spy is unexpectedly protective once she lets down her guard and allows herself to care. Steve had jokingly called her ‘Mother Russia’ once because of that, only once though. The look he’d gotten in return had made him genuinely fear for his life.
Which is, peculiarly, not even close to the utter trepidation he feels at this very moment, fingers hovering over the doorbell and listening intently to the slight clinking noises and footfalls on the other side of the door. Steve takes what must have been the ninth or tenth deep breath in half as many minutes and presses down. The melodic ‘bing bong’ makes him jump even though he expected it. There is a muttered curse to be heard on the other side of the door, a few shuffling steps accompanied by a hushed ‘No, I’ll get it, it’s fine.’, and then the door opens to reveal the young woman he’d met that same week, dressed in a truly gigantic MIT sweater rather than the smart business casual look she sported at work.
---
“Oh hey, there you are!” you beam up at the good Captain, self-consciously fiddling with the rolled up sleeve of your sweater. You had meant to be ready and changed by now, but the day had begun with you oversleeping and you’d only just gotten the cake out of the oven some ten minutes ago.
James gave a choked little noise behind you, out of sight from the apartment door, and you threw him a look over your shoulder before returning your attention to Steve, who looked half frozen and half like he was about to weep.
“Please, do come in.” you said, taking the flowers and bottle thrust at you awkwardly along with a mumbled apology. You led him down the short hallway and into the main living area of your apartment, nearly tripping over an orange blur.
You barely had time to give an irritated sigh with how quickly a mismatched pair of hands shot out to steady you, so at the very least James wasn’t hiding in the kitchen anymore.
“Thanks, champ, but I’m fine.” You murmured distractedly, receiving no reply or indeed any kind of reaction out of him. In fact he stood rooted to the spot, staring straight at the Captain without moving a muscle, with you sandwiched awkwardly between the two very solidly built men. Steve had stopped dead in his tracks not two steps behind you, one hand still half outstretched to catch your fall. Aftereffects of being frozen for most of the previous decades, you thought absently. James stared right ahead, unblinking and unmoving but for a sharp inhale and some miniscule flitting of the eyes.
“Jamie?” you prod him quietly, nudging a bit at his side as well as you can with full hands. He did have these small episodes, sporadically, just freezing up for a couple of minutes while his tattered mind sought to connect things. It had started shortly after the trip to the museum you explained to Steve, throwing an apologetic look over your shoulder.
“Just give him a moment, okay?”
The Captain looked dubious, but nodded, retracting his hand and holding himself still.
James looks at the man in front of him intently. He is so familiar, it feels like he knows him by the way his lips curl into smirks and his brows furrow, by how his voice rises and falls (or would, anyway, since the man is rooted to the spot with a watchful expression on his face now), but it's all wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. He is too tall and too healthy and he dropped his shield and refused to fight. He dropped the shield. He refused to fight. He didn't exactly back down amid the falling burning pieces of debris while the Helicarrier they were on dropped out of the sky, but he let his shield fall through the ground and didn't fight back. That's not right, and he doesn't understand it. The man he thinks he knows would never do that, he always fought tooth and nail and beyond. It's not right it's not right.
“Steve?” he eventually can bring his mouth to form the word, cautious and hesitant like the other is a specter that will disappear if acknowledged.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.” He says, daring to smile just the tiniest bit. And just like that the world around James slides back into place and he becomes aware of how he has essentially trapped you in place. He back stepped quickly, giving you an opening to put Steve’s gifts away.
“Don’t just stand there!” You called from the kitchen, poking your head back out especially for the remark. Steve snapped to attention like he was being addressed by his drill sergeant.
“So, um, how have you been, Buck? Is it okay if I call you that?” James threw a surreptitious glance in your direction at that, but you had already vanished deeper into the kitchen again to cut the cake and pour the coffee. You’re on your own now, champ.
“Yeah, sure, why not …I’ve been …I’ve been alright I think. I still have lapses, and large gaps in my… in my memory…” he trailed off, leaving a very conflicted looking Captain America standing in your small hallway area. “It’s a slow process, apparently, and some days are better than others. ______ has been helping me a great deal with…everything basically.” James concluded, somewhat deflated at first, but beamed up again when praising you. Good thing you were out of sight for that because you blushed around 20 different shades of pink at that.
“And what have you been up to?”
“Looking for you and bearing down on HYDRA, mostly. Not much else, really.”
“And now hug.” You muttered into the following awkward silence, quietly but loud enough to hear, for their enhanced hearing anyway. Steve gave a nervous chuckle. You brought out the coffee pot and set it on the otherwise set table. James gave you a look like a cry for help which you were not going to indulge at present. Instead you drew out a chair demonstratively and told them that you’d be back in a moment with the cake. The proverbial ice hadn’t really been broken yet, but there were definite cracks in it. Small steps, you reminded yourself and set about dividing your masterpiece of bakery into generous slices, all the while trying to gauge the atmosphere in the room. This turned out to be ill-advised, you realized, as the sharp knife bit starkly into your finger, drawing blood.
“Motherflipper!” you cursed, more from surprise than pain.
“That was pathetic.” James’ voice called from the living room. In it you could hear worry, and no small amount of relief, as he quickly rose, shooting Steve an apologetic glance, and padded over to see what the matter was.
“All of us weren’t in the army, you know.” You berated him wryly as you held your bleeding finger under the running tap.
“I think I recall you telling me that you grew up in a rough neighborhood. In the light of this information, I am just a little bit disappointed.” He shot back with mock haughtiness, and no small amount of it. You swatted him on the arm lightly and told him – employing a choice array of rather colorful curses, because you do know them but you weren’t raised in a barn nor a world war trench goddammit – that if he was going to continue being so objectionable he should do it quietly.
You heard a faint snicker from Steve, who had also gotten up and was hovering vaguely at the edge of the kitchen behind James. “Are you alright, ma’am?”
You nodded firmly as James pulled your hand close to inspect the cut with furrowed brows, ‘tsk’-ing quietly to himself. You shot Steve a long-suffering glance while he regarded the scene unfolding before him with wonder.
“Will I live, doctor?” you queried dryly. James seemed to have utterly forgotten your guest, as he single-mindedly set about mending your cut finger. You signaled Steve that everything was fine and he should just sit back down, with which he, albeit haltingly, complied. James meanwhile wrapped a paper wipe around your hand and went for the first aid kit, studiously going about cleaning your very, very minor wound with disinfectant and taking a comically long time to select a fitting band-aid. You knew better than to make any comments beyond ‘You’re stalling.’ in a mildly chiding tone, and therefore didn’t resist when you were ushered into James’ previous seat at the table while he finished up the cake, drawing another chair for himself when everything was in place.
“So, where were we?” you asked over the sounds of chewing, “Ah yes, awkward silence.” You gave James a pointed look. He withered a little while he pretended not to notice.
“So,” Steve chanced, taking the reins after sweetly and sincerely complimenting your cake, his tone trying hard and failing to be light and small talk-appropriate, “How did you even wind up here with ________?”
“That’s kind of a funny story actually.”
“It’s not that funny.” James objected, otherwise for all intents and purposes very invested in his cake.
“It is, kinda, in retrospect and an absurd, satirical way.” You argued, turning towards Steve. “This is a cautionary tale about opening your windows in times of acute crises…”
It was slowly getting dark outside, the considerable amount of cake was all but vanquished and you were on your fourth round of coffee, for as it turned out once you actually got those two going it was almost impossible to stop them again. So far, you had regaled Steve with the story of how the former Winter Soldier had come flying in to quite literally fall at your feet, followed by an earnest exchange that was mostly James interviewing Steve in regards to the memories he had already regained as he sought to confirm them. He zoned out again a few times, getting lost in his mind, sometimes mid-sentence, but managed to pull himself back to the present more quickly each time. They carefully did not touch upon any subjects related to the war, you noticed, and even less on the more recent events, with the notable exception of James being very invested in how, exactly, they were dealing with Hydra.
“This might help you.” James said seriously, handing Steve a list he’d compiled over the last few days and weeks. It contained, he explained, things that he could remember about Hydra that he was fairly sure about – people, names, facilities, structures. Missions.
“You’d do well to cross-check, but I didn’t include anything I wasn’t reasonably certain about. Then again I’m not the most reliable source, exactly, so…” James trailed off, hesitant. Steve looked at him very earnestly and took the few loose sheets of paper with a steadiness that did not betray his inner turmoil.
“I’m sure this will be invaluable in taking them down.” He said in the kind of tone that brooked no doubt.
“It’s not much,” James said. It was, in fact, six pages covered from top to bottom in his sharp, precise script on both sides. It was quite a lot. Considering that he shouldn’t have been knowing any of it, it was a treasure trove. “I just want to help as best I can.”
James, after a pointed look at your bandaged finger and a furtive and apologetic one at Steve, offered to take care of the dishes. You, sensing that he needed a moment alone to clear his head, offered in turn to walk Steve back outside. You also had an ulterior motive in catching the Captain alone.
“I don’t want to give you any illusions,” you began as the elevator doors closed, “This has been an exceptionally good day. He isn’t always this well. Most days he isn’t.” Steve nodded gravely, no surprise and yet all shattered hope.
“He needs more and better care than I can give him,” you continued, shushing Steve with a look as he moved to interject, “No, really. It’s nothing short of a miracle that this has gone comparatively swimmingly so far. He needs professionals looking after him, proper doctors, therapists. You can probably figure. It needs to be someone trustworthy, above reproach. I don’t have these kinds of resources at my disposal.” Steve nodded levelly, the glint of determination in his bright, earnest eyes.
“I will see to it.” He promised.
“Good.” You exhaled, satisfied. The elevator pinged and the doors opened. You hesitated to move, chancing a furtive glance up at Steve, who was fidgeting with the buttons of his jacket, equally apprehensive to leave.
“I cannot possibly thank you enough.” He said quietly. You waved it off reflexively.
“There is… there is one more thing I want to ask you, and I’m kinda scared of what the answer might be.” You admitted to your shoes. “Was he… anything like he used to be? Before? Even if it’s just a tiny little glimpse, was there anything you recognized at all?”
“Why do you care so much?” Steve responded instead of answering your question. His voice was all quiet wonder. You gulped, feeling yourself stiffen a bit. It wasn’t something you liked to talk about, especially not to strangers, even if those strangers were Steve Rogers, aka Captain America – possibly, you thought, the most trustworthy person you’d ever met. The only other person you’d ever met to radiate that kind of integrity had been Sam, at the hospital. You briefly wondered how he was doing, but turned your mind back on track, clearing your throat while lining up the words in your mind.
“Um, I guess it’s just, I know what it’s like not to have a history, having nothing to base your identity on. I mean, my situation was different, sure, I don’t know who my parents were or where I came from, and I never will. He can still get that back, he can reclaim himself, I hope. But for the moment; I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to have nothing.” You played with the elevator buttons absently, keeping it in place even though the doors had closed again in the meantime.
“You didn’t answer my question.” You pointed out after a moment. Steve gave you a short glance full of apprehension. “I just need to,” you started, but then cut yourself off, steadying your shaking hands on the rails. “When I go back up there I need to know whether or not I can give him hope. He’ll never be exactly the way you knew him, I don’t think. There’s just…too much in between. You can’t go through that kind of stuff and not expect it to leave a mark.” Steve nodded again, evenly, regarding you with clear blue thoughtful eyes as you rambled. “So, um, yeah…what do I tell him?” you finished lamely. Steve straightened, weighing his words carefully before beginning to speak with a tentative tone.
“I was surprised myself,” he started thickly, but had to clear his throat. “He is certainly more reserved, not as open and outgoing as he used to be, but then again that started during the war already. Perhaps the most obvious thing was when you cut your finger. For a moment it was like nothing ever happened, because that was 100% the Bucky I grew up with. He was always taking care of everyone, always helping, looking where he could be useful. It wasn’t just being the oldest of four and having that responsibility; it was an innate part of who he was. He helped his mother with the household, helped his siblings with their homework, helped me with …well, everything basically, I can’t even begin to count the number of times ...” Steve’s voice caught in his throat again as he lost himself in his reminiscences.
“You're doing right by him, and I can never thank you enough.” He concluded. You felt your face redden. By now the elevator door had opened again, since you were no longer worrying the buttons. Steve cleared his throat, shifting in his spot uncertainly. You should probably wrap this up now instead of standing around all awkward; it was selfish to keep him here. He probably had hundreds of places to be, being Captain America and all. You straightened up to say your goodbyes, only to find Steve already offering you his hand. You took it gladly.
“Goodbye, ________. It was such a pleasure meeting you; and an honor.” He said sincerely.
“Goodbye.” You mumbled numbly, at a loss for words.
“You can always call me, no matter what it is or what time. Either of you.” He said, placing a little card with his contact details in your hand before exiting the elevator at last.
“So, that went well!” you exclaimed cheerfully once you were back in your apartment and closed the door behind you. James was sitting on the couch with Becky in his lap, petting her distractedly while he chewed on his bottom lip.
“Did it?” he asked somewhat glumly; full of doubt.
“Yes.” You affirmed, sitting next to him and curling your feet up so you could lean onto his shoulder. “Yes it did, and you’re gonna be okay.”
“I’ll never be the same again.” He murmured thinly, his hand burying itself in the soft fluff of Becky’s tummy. “I’ll never be who I was before.”
“Jamie, listen to me,” you said earnestly, cupping his cheek so he would look you in the eye, “You are under no obligation to be exactly who you used to be. No one in their right mind would expect you to just bounce back; Steve won’t be exactly like he used to be back then either. Hell, you can’t go through a life-changing experience and expect it not to have an effect – that wouldn’t be natural, or healthy, in fact. But that doesn’t mean you won’t be able to work this out. So, if you want it – and I know that you do – you are going to be okay, understand?”
His inner struggle was evident on his face, or perhaps you had just gotten that good at reading him by now. You could tell he wanted to believe you, but was reluctant to place that kind of hope in himself. You placed your forehead to his, willing him to accept that getting better was a real prospect.
“Come on, you said you trust my judgment.” You cooed, patting the arm that had somehow found its way around you.
“I do,” he smiled hesitantly, “You have this way of making these things sound so plausible.”
“It’s my superpower.” You declared smugly.
---
The phone’s ring cut through the evening calm like a knife through butter, startling Agent May though there was barely any outward sign of that. Coulson didn’t even react, frantically carving at the wall of his office. It was one of the emergency phones, which meant that May would have to take the call. She picked up tentatively, quietly receiving the report from the agent on the other end of the line, left them with a few instructions and set the receiver back down. Coulson took another agonizing twenty minutes to finish his alien writings. When he was fully in possession of his wits again, May handed him the notes she’d made while taking the call. He read them over quickly, his eyes widening then narrowing.
“This just came in?”
“Less than half an hour ago.” May nodded. “I gave instructions to continue observation and report hourly or in case of any developments.”
Coulson sighed, rubbing his burning eyes.
“What could possibly be of interest in Bethesda? A Stark Industries employee you said?”
“_________ ___________, branch manager of a research facility. They specialize in prosthetics.” May supplied conscientiously. “Whoever she is, she’s important enough for Captain Rogers to go visit her at her home address. I can only assume that he wasn’t aware that HYDRA has eyes on him.”
Coulson sighed deeply. Outside the office, Skye stood frozen in shock.