iii. YOU
iii. YOU
It may have better for them all if he had fallen off the train platform. If he had done what he was supposed to do and stayed dead.
He mentions this to Steve, who blanches as if he’s been slapped. It becomes just another thing he can’t say to Steve because it makes him sad. Somehow he doesn’t like to make Steve unhappy because when Steve is unhappy, he is too. He calls himself Bucky now because that is what he is supposed to do. It sits easier than winter solider. And a small gleam of approval always appears in Steve’s eyes. That makes the name worth it, more familiar.
Bucky can’t say anything to Steve and he can’t say anything to the shrinks, who have become progressively uncomfortable by his overall presence. He doesn’t know who he can speak to so he simply stops talking, just sits on the bed and stares out the window at the New York City skyline.
He sits quietly for Tony when he comes to fix his arm. Tony stands in the doorway, frowning at him.
“What’s with the mime impression?”
Bucky turns his head. Is that the best you got?
“I know, bad joke, but to be fair, it’s hard being funny when 200 pounds of All-American beef is worrying at you night and day. His mother hen impression is exhausting.” Tony stands with his hands in his pockets, rocks back and forth on his heels. “But this is an improvement on your Exorcist impression…”
Bucky turns away. He still screams at night. They both know that.
“Steve tell you why I’m here? Of course he did. What else are you two going to talk about? Anyway.” Tony eyes the arm. He inches forward and flutters his fingers like a child reaching for a toy, visibly switching gears. In a more businesslike tone, he says, “I’d like to get a look at your hardware...”
Bucky proffers the arm for inspection. He doesn’t feel like a science experiment with Tony’s steady stream of chatter puttering on in the background. In Tony’s eyes, he’s something to be improved upon, a machine. Which means he can be fixed.
“Yeah,” Tony says finally, rotating the arm. His fingers pause over the red star and he taps it thoughtfully. “I’m gonna make you a new one. A better one. How do you feel about red and gold?”
Bucky shakes his head. No. He doesn’t need to stand out any more than he already does.
“Something more patriotic? Red, white and blue? Stars and stripes forever?”
The blithe way he says it triggers something in Bucky and he yanks his arm out of Tony’s grasp. He stands up and strides away from Tony. There is nowhere really for him to go, so he settles for standing by the window. The skyline beckons and so do the streets below. They are very high up in the building. He wonders how long it would take for him to fall.
“You can’t leave that way. I had JARVIS lock all the windows.”
Bucky doesn’t know what a JARVIS is, or how he could have gotten in the room. Another doctor? He doesn’t care. He slides down against the wall, rubbing his left arm.
“Hey,” Tony says, nervous. “I’m sorry; I don’t know what I said. But I didn’t mean to offend.”
He just stares up at Tony, mouth working furiously. He clenches the metal hand in a finch. Could punch him. Doesn’t.
“Tony!” The shout comes from outside. It’s Steve’s voice. Bucky can see his angry eyes through the window.
Tony opens the door. Steve rushes in, takes in his sitting position and turns on Tony.
“What did you say to him?”
“I—we were just talking about colors for the arm. For once this situation is not my fault.”
“You should go.”
“That’s fine. I’ve got all I need for the specs, anyway. Bigger and better, Barnes!” Tony calls before Steve pushes him out of the door.
“You okay?” Steve asks. He crouches down on the floor. Something about his big bulk in the tiny cramped squat makes Bucky smile. “I’m sorry about him. He can be an ass.”
I was one, too, Bucky thinks and this knowledge startles him. He has a flash of his own face, giving that same cocky smile, taking pleasure in his ability to charm. He inhales, wide eyed.
“You remember something?” says Steve, eager.
Bucky nods, slow.
“Something good?”
Bucky hesitates, then nods again.
“You want tell me about it?” asks Steve gently.
“There was a dame,” Bucky starts. “No, two of them.”
“Ah,” Steve smiles. “Figures.”
“I think I was taking them out? I dunno. You mighta been there?” he says, then stops. “That’s all I got.”
“Well, it’s something,” says Steve diplomatically, trying to hide his disappointment.
“It’s nothing,” Bucky snaps. “It’s a smile and a feeling and then it all goes away. All I get are these fragments, Steve, pieces. And I don’t know how you can keep looking at me as if you like me when all I’ve got to go on is that. I can’t remember me. And it don’t seem fair that you get to. What I do know about me, I don’t like. And if all I have to go on are the bad parts, what the hell does that say about me, huh?”
“You don’t want to be a bad guy, Buck. To me that says everything about the kind of man you are.”
“You’ve got too much faith in me, Steve.”
“No, I think I have just enough,” says Steve, smiling faintly.
Natasha comes back to visit even though he doesn't expect her to. She wears what he thinks of her civilian clothes now: dark blue jeans and a slouchy sweater, one hand tucked in the back pocket.
“More questions?” he says. The tile is cold against his bare feet. They still aren’t letting him have real shoes.
She spins her chair around and rests her arms on the curved back. “No polygraphs today.”
“I didn’t think you were the kind of gal to do social visits.”
“I thought you could use a little company.”
“Yeah, all Stark does is take measurements of my arm and talk at me about science,” Bucky says. “I’m getting damn tired of staring at these walls.”
“I could arrange for you to have access to the entire floor,” says Natasha. “We’re fairly certain that you no longer pose a threat.”
He leans his chair back. “Might be nice to stretch my legs a bit.”
A light knock on the door. It is not quite a prison, even though the door locks from the outside. He still can have the illusion of privacy, of granting a visitor entrance. Tony just lets himself in. Bucky figures that he’s used to owning every room that he walks into. And he does, technically, own this one. Bucky likes that Steve always makes a point of knocking first.
“Come in,” he says.
But his visitor is neither Steve nor Tony.
It’s the friend—from Zurich. Sam. His arm is still in a sling. Bucky’s pulse jumps. With wary eyes, he watches Sam approach the table, trying to decipher the other man’s intent.
To his surprise, Natasha greets Sam with a kiss to his cheek. Bucky is saddened by that. He has wanted so badly to trust her.
Sam stares back, seeming discomforted by his attention. “What's up, dude?”
“Sam, you've met Bucky before.”
Sam snorts and sits in the chair next to Natasha. “We've met, alright.”
Bucky surveys him uncertainly. Sam’s tone seems jocular, his body language relaxed, but Sam has to only want one thing. “Are you here for retribution?”
Sam turns to Natasha. “Nat, what's he taking about?”
“I shot you,” says Bucky blankly.
Sam tugs at the strap of his sling. “Yeah, Steve and I had a good long chat about that. Don’t get me wrong—I’m still pissed. But I’ll let you off the hook…if you play a game of poker with me.”
“Poker,” he says flatly.
Sam’s sincerity remains intact. “You play? Natasha tells me your lying face is horrendous. I'm thinking maybe you can pay me back through a few rounds of cards. No playing for money, though or Natasha will clean both of us out.”
Natasha shrugs. “True.”
Sam surveys the collection of knickknacks on top of the bedside table. He swipes the pile of chewing gum. “How about these?”
Steve has brought him seven or eight packs of gum, all different flavors. Enough for a sizeable pot. They rip open the packs and spill small squares and flat rectangles into the table. The sugary smell of artificial watermelon wafts up.
“That's a lot of Double Bubble,” says Sam, grinning. “Do you even like gum?”
Bucky shrugs. He still can’t figure Sam out, why the man would possibly be friendly to him.
Natasha unwraps a square and pops it into her mouth. She chews quickly and blows a large pink bubble that explodes stickily into her nose. She smiles.
“Stop eating the poker chips,” scolds Sam. He shuffles the deck and begins dealing the cards. “Aces are high, deuces wild. You need a refresher course, Barnes?”
Bucky flexes his fingers. “Something’s starting to come back to me.”
They play two games and Bucky finds that the rules surface easily in his mind. Strategy comes instinctively; he finds himself watching for facial tics that spell a bluff. Natasha’s face is smooth as sea glass and any crack is intentional, designed to throw them off. Sam is an emotional player, who scratches his fingernail against his cheek when he has a good hand. At the end of both rounds, Natasha has amassed four full packs of gum, Bucky two and half packs, and Sam a measly two pieces.
Sam hangs his head. “Man, I’m not playing with you guys anymore.”
“Aren’t you glad we stuck to gum?” says Natasha, grinning mischievously.
“My bank account is.” Sam turns to Bucky. “You’re secretly a card shark.”
“Your tells speak very loudly,” he replies.
“Damn. I might have to come back just to work on my game.”
Bucky lowers his eyes as he sweeps the cards into a pile. He recognizes the hint for what it is—an invitation of friendship, which both pleases and confuses him. He’s not sure what Sam sees in him, but he’s not going to debate the finer points. Sam had walked in here with both eyes opened; he knows exactly what he’s getting.
“So what do you say?” Sam asks. “Seems to me like you could use a couple more guys on your side.”
“My dance card’s not very full these days,” says Bucky. “Yeah. Come back any time.”