v. REMEMBER
v. REMEMBER
Sam drops by the next day. His eyes skim the stacks of photo albums and film reels on the coffee table, and pause on a sack of marbles. He laughs, turning the package over in his hands.
“Do you think he just wandered into a store, saw this and thought, ‘Sure, Bucky’ll like that’?”
“He’s trying to jog my memory,” says Bucky shortly.
“With aggies and cat’s eyes?”
“Used to play as a kid. You’re one to talk, anyway.” Bucky motions to the backpack Sam is carrying. “More films?”
“So to speak.” Sam upends the bag over the living room carpet. Thick, battered books and a few DVD cases tumble out.
Bucky inspects the collection. Acquired secondhand, he supposes. Captain America and Nazi Germany: How Super-Solider Serum Turned the Tide of War, Allan Reed Millett. HYDRA and the Third Reich, William L. Shirer. Captain America’s Brothers: Howling Commandos of the 107th, from Italy to the End, by Stephen Ambrose.
“They made a mini-series out of that one,” says Sam. “It won a couple of Oscars. I think Ron Livingston played you.”
Bucky nudges the books away with his foot. “I’m not much for reading.”
“There are pictures.”
He glares.
“No, dude. I mean that literally.” Sam picks up Captain America’s Brothers, and flips to the middle and a spread of glossy photos. “Look. Before missions, after training in England...they even have Steve’s publicity posters from his time as a chorus girl.”
Bucky squints at a formal squad photo. Stiffed back poses. No smiles. The man with the very large mustache is wearing a Sergeant’s cap, and no bowler hat. This is significant. Because? Because…nothing. He is identified in the description as Dum Dum Dugan. Very strange name.
“I think I remember him,” says Bucky, tapping on Dugan’s spectacular facial hair. “He smoked a lot of cigars. And I lost a lot of money playing poker with him.” He points out Gabriel Jones.
Sam grins widely. “Aw, man, that is cool. Stories about Jones right from the source.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. The condition of the well-loved books is starting to make sense to him. Sam didn’t just run out and buy them. “Are you one of those collectors Steve was talking about?”
“I dressed up as Gabriel Jones for every single Halloween and that man is a personal hero. The Howling Commandos mean something to me.” Sam blushes a little. “Sorry. I mean, you were in them, and actually there.”
“It’s nice to see that someone still cares about all this.”
“You know that your unit was the only integrated company during the war?”
Bucky shrugs. “I’ll bet Steve didn’t care what anyone looked like as long as he could shoot.”
“Steve’s a good man,” says Sam. “Except for his taste in presents. I had a cat once who used to bring me dead mice and birds. Similar principle.”
“Well, there’s something to be grateful for. No dead rats.”
The lift pings sharply and Tony steps out on the heels of Bucky’s sentence. He stops in his tracks, and coughs sharply. “I feel like I came at a bad time.”
Sam winks. “Bucky was just telling me about eating conditions during the war.”
“You can get good eating from a rat,” says Bucky solemnly.
Tony makes a moue of disgust. “Of all the things to stick with you.”
“Guys in the Pacific ate cats.”
“Still do,” says Sam.
“Yeah, if we could move on from culinary discussions, that would be great. I brought you a present.” Tony pulls a long, rectangular box from behind his back. He rattles the contents and waggles his eyebrows.
“Hope it’s better than Steve’s,” says Bucky.
“Is he still trying to woo you through gifts? I’m telling you—Capsicle is one cheap date. Don’t put out until you get flowers at least.”
“What’s in the box, Stark?” Bucky says impatiently. He’s fairly certain that he knows the answer anyway.
Tony opens the top with a flourish. The arm (his arm) looks as human as anything metal can hope to look. Carved flesh like an ancient Greek sculpture. Beautiful, really. Metal craftsmanship at its finest. He decides not to tell this to Tony and swell his head even more.
“Same metal alloy as Cap’s shield,” says Tony. “I kept it simple because certain parties thought you might want that. But I can modify it to add a flame thrower if you want.”
Sam rolls his eyes.
Bucky strokes the hand. The adamantium is cool to the touch. Sleek and hardly ostentatious. Not what he was expecting from the way Stark put on flashy airs.
“You want to take it for a test drive?”
“It’s not a simple as unscrewing it,” replies Bucky.
“Uh, I’m a genius—I know what I’m doing,” Stark says. “And I’ll have you know that Stark Industries is the leading producers of prosthetics and we donate regularly to the Yinsen Fund For Victims of War.”
He holds his chin up, face set defiantly. Bucky can see now how Steve can like this guy.
“Sure,” he says. “Fit me up.”
Tony rubs his hands together, looking a little too excited for Bucky’s comfort.
The lift is comprised of shiny, reflective panels and it is impossible to avoid seeing his face mirrored back. He has used the mirror in the bathroom only to shave, and focused on the parts required for the task at hand, ignoring the left side entirely. Florescent lights cannot disguise the dark hollows under his eyes, emotional shadows brought to physicality. There is a sort of grim misery about his mouth. But he possesses a certain gaunt handsomeness not dissimilar to some of the later photographs.
Bucky sees his own body, with his left arm finally his own, and for once is not actively disgusted by it. The new arm was built for him. And even though Bucky suspects that arm was made on Steve’s command, Tony still poured himself into the project. It has Tony’s genius imprinted on every inch of the design and Tony had spared no expense in the quality of the construction. That makes the guy all right in his book.
“The arm should hold up under testing conditions,” Tony says, rocking up on his heels. “It is considerably stronger than your old one, so keep that in mind when you’re jerking off.”
“Why?” Bucky deadpans. “I’m sure you can build me a new dick.”
“You know, I’m a huge fan of cybernetic engineering, but I’d be the first one to tell you that man-machine love ends badly.”
“I hope that’s not first-hand experience,” Sam groans. “Tell me you did not fuck those robots of yours, Tony.”
“All I will say is that some objects can’t be improved upon, and it’s best to leave design to the professionals.” Tony glances back. “It was a dildo. I was trying to build a better dildo.”
The lift doors open, and Tony steps out to Sam and Bucky’s chorus of hysterical laughter at his back. He snaps his fingers impatiently.
“I want to see how that beauty works,” Tony says. He points to the far corner and directs, “Head over to that heavy bag.”
The basement of Stark Tower has been turned into a quality gym. Bucky notes the wide expanse of mats for sparring, the speed bag and boxing ring. The space is clearly made for the use of professionals, and a large group at that.
“Feeling homicidal today, Banes?” Tony says.
“Let’s find out,” Bucky shoots back.
He slips on a red boxing glove onto his right hand, wrapping his wrist with tape mostly on instinct. Sam positions himself on the edge of the sparring mat, nearer to the entrance. Tony stands to the left, for the best observational vantage point.
“I reinforced this for the Capsicle,” says Tony. “You should watch him work the bag. Each ass cheek flexes individually. Even those godawful khakis can’t camouflage the perfection that is Steve’s ass. Mm-hmm.”
He glances meaningfully at Bucky, who is not entirely sure how to take this. He finds that his mouth has gone suddenly dry.
“Can’t say I’ve noticed,” Bucky replies, looking away.
“Don’t worry,” says Sam, cheerfully. “Steve is just as oblivious as you are.”
Bucky stands in with his left foot in front of his right, feeling the balance in the stance. He clenches his left fist and heaves it as hard as he can. The power behind the arm pleases him. He throws another jab, close and quick. And then a right cross, because why not? He falls into a rhythm, finding the footwork easy, breathing lightly through his mouth. He forgets the presence of both Sam and Stark, and lets them melt away as insignificant. Takes all the focus into allowing his body to be a machine under his control. The arm seems to respond to his pleasure.
Jab. Cross. Jab. Hook. Anger builds. Bucky lets it flow through his knuckles, pushing the force into the bag. Nothing feels as right as this. The bag rattles on its chain.
Finishing a fight is natural. But who is he supposed to finish it for? For the cause, not for the handlers. A blond boy, trembling with bravery and nerves. The little guy. His vision swims with tears and sweat.
Fuck the scientists. Fuck Zola. He’d rather be dead than be this…this…experiment.
The bag swings off as he delivers a forceful left cross. He doubles over on his knees, breathing heavily.
A water bottle appears on the edge of his vision. Bucky takes the bottle and squirts water on top of his head. He straightens. Sam looks impressed.
“This bag has been tested by a demi-god. But it’s your robotic arm that does it in.” Tony kicks the bag with the toe of an expensive Italian loafer. “Damn, I am good.”
“Guess art therapy might not be the best thing for you,” says Sam.
A sweeping, melancholy orchestral theme plays over title credits and frozen images of young men at war. It cuts to a group of elderly men, sitting in chairs in front of a black backdrop. The camera zooms on a white haired Asian man. Jim Morita, identifies the caption. When he speaks, his voice is strong.
“The Howling Commandos were an elite fighting force charged with hitting HYDRA, part of the Nazi deep science division. We were led by Captain Steve Rogers, and our second in command was Sergeant James Barnes.”
Bucky finds that he is holding his breath. He forces himself to exhale and relax.
“We didn’t just fight for the mission,” Morita says. He blinks and he quavers a little. “We fought for each other.”
The screen flashes back to black. White letters bright: CHAPTER 1. TWO KIDS FROM BROOKLYN.