History and Future
History is a funny old thing. Ain’t a lick of it, either remembered in memory or written word, that was fully true. ‘Specially the written stuff.
There’s a quote he remembers reading somewhere – where or when he read it, he doesn’t recall. Really, he doesn’t even remember the full wording; but he knows the sentiment of the thing - the meaning of it.
History books are always written by the winners.
And ain’t that a thing? You’d think it was probably something done only with the big stuff. A little re-wording here and there, and suddenly the bad guys are lookin’ mighty bad while the good guys are smelling of nothin’ but roses. Don’t matter that the good guys introduced just as many bodies to bullets as the bad guys. Because they’re the good guys, right?
It ain’t even the big stuff, though. It’s hard to remember that sometimes historians change the little details too. Just a small twinge here or there to make everyone on the right side of the fight look just a little better. Make what happened have a little more meaning, like it hadn’t been mindless bloodshed for the sake of ego and pride.
Like for example, changing the story of two boys from Brooklyn who signed up because it was their utmost honour to do their duty. Whose friendship was so strong, they went and followed each other onto the front lines to fight the good fight. That followed that same war across Europe, making a name for themselves as they cut through enemy bases with heroic deeds and nothing more than a handful of men, sheer daring and nerve. Those same two men who’d gotten on a flying ship and stoically rode it to the bottom of the Atlantic all in the name of saving the world.
History books did like to romanticise it all.
Truth is, while there were two boys from Brooklyn that were closer than brothers; only one of ‘em signed up for the war. The other was drafted at seventeen. The boy not drafted did just about anything – including lying on enlistment forms and signing up for some shady government experiments – to follow his friend onto the front line. History books didn’t like to focus on this aspect, but the two boys were still only the tender age of seventeen, a few months shy of their eighteenth birthday, when they were reunited behind enemy lines; one of them larger than life intended, looking fierce and worried even as he disobeyed direct orders on the chance his friend might still be alive; the other strapped to a table, feeling older than he had any right to, sore and so goddamn relieved to see his best friend.
Together they did cut a swath through Nazi Europe, but at the time they weren’t being praised for daring or nerve. Their commanding officers cursed them for their reckless and insane methods, while also acknowledging their effectiveness and pointing them to new and bigger targets. They even went so far as to throw a handful of equally reckless soldiers under the boys’ command to get the job done. On the front they were known as the Invaders – taking missions no one else wanted and getting them done right fast. The history books tweaked the name and made it something more inspirational while still holding mostly true to the spirit of the squad. And while The Howling Commandos might be a nice name for the books, the squad never could inspire any of their fellow, right-minded, soldiers to follow them into battle.
At the end of the line, two kids, still shy of their twentieth birthday, stood at the helm of a flying ship, filled to the brim with nukes, and aimed it at the water. But they didn’t do it with heroic poses or thoughts of duty in their heads. They clutched tight to one another’s hands, terrified and scared, as the water rushed toward them; thoughts only on what would happen to the friends and family they’d left in Brooklyn if this flying ship didn’t go down.
History switched the story around. Made it a sacrifice for country and honour rather than one carried out with one small block of Brooklyn in mind. It made older men from boys; and reckless deeds into heroics.
Spread that story so thick that when the flying ship was uncovered and the two soldiers were found alive inside (if slightly frozen), that not a single person in the retrieval team were expecting to find anything other than two heroic and stoic men.
SHIELD, the organisation that found and defrosted them, had a hell of a time when they found two teens, still clutching at each other, instead of the men they expected.
Against all odds, Bucky Barnes blinked open his eyes to see the light of another day. He was warm and comfortable; feeling cleaner than he had since he first shipped out. For a second, he could almost convince himself that maybe a sinner like him had managed to sneak his way to heaven. The comforting thought lasted right up until he realised he was alone.
Ain’t no way a guy like him made it to heaven and didn’t find Steve Rogers waiting for him.
No way, no how. Bucky had never met a person more suited to joining the heavenly host than Steve ‘do-the-right-thing’ Rogers. And if some how the stupid punk hadn’t made it up here, well, Bucky would raise enough Hell that Steve would get in anyhow.
Sitting up, Bucky looked around the mostly bare room.
There was a window to the left of his bed, sunlight drifting in even as the radio sitting on the window ledge rang out about some ball game or another. Only, wait a second, was that-? That was the ballgame from 1941, wasn’t it? That couldn’t be right. Bucky had been at that game in person alongside Steve. They’d cheered and shouted until their voices went hoarse. Then they’d pooled the little change they had left after paying rent and for Steve’s medicine, together to buy a pair of the best goddamn hotdogs.
Bucky had been freshly turned sixteen and it had been the best day of his life.
It was fair to say he remembered it well. Enough to know that it was impossible that the game was being broadcasted live on the radio. Which meant that for all this place looked nice and inviting – it was nothing more than an elaborate trap.
Well, Bucky had been a prisoner of war once before. He had no interest of playing that particular part again.
The second the door opened, he pounced. He didn’t let the nurse serve him whatever crap 'n’ bull story they’d cooked up for him. One time or another he might have felt bad about hittin’ a dame. That was before he’d met Agent Carter, though. That woman terrified him in ways that his own Ma never could. She alone made him realise that it didn’t matter what a person was packing beneath their clothes; an enemy was an enemy.
He took the dame down and danced sideways to avoid the hands of the guard that tried to grab his shoulders. Bucky spun on his heel to get behind the man before planting his foot firmly in the guard’s rear. He didn’t stick around to watch the man embrace the floor.
“STEVE!” Bucky shouted loud and hard enough that it ripped at his throat. He did it a second time, feet carrying him at a sprint down an unfamiliar hallway.
“BUCKY!” A familiar returned shout had him changing course so fast that his shoulder slammed hard into the wall. He paid no heed to the way the wall crumpled around the hit, already letting his feet carry him toward Steve’s voice. They played on odd game of Marco Polo, taking down any guards in the way, until they quite literally slammed into one another.
The impact sent them both to their asses.
Only, neither of them minded as they grinned all too wide at each other. Exhilarated beyond belief to find the other alive and well.
“I’ve been lookin’ for ya!” Bucky announced, scrambling to his feet and sticking his hand out for Steve to take; hoisting him up the second his palm hit Bucky’s own.
Steve slapped Bucky’s shoulder, grinning so wide that Bucky was sure he could see his molars. “Well I was lookin’ for you! Didya wake up in a weird room, too?”
“Yeah! With the game from ’41 playin’?”
“Staged just like a set from Hollywood.” Steve agreed with a nod even as he threw an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. Together they began down the hallway. Neither felt the need to rush now that they were once more reunited – though they did stop long enough to arm themselves with the weapons of one of the felled guards.
“Didn’t think we’d be wakin’ up again, Stevie.” Bucky commented. He turned the weapon in his hands over, eyeing it. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen before but that didn’t stop him from pointing and firing the damn thing at the next guard they passed. Both Steve and Bucky blinked when they realised the weapon was shooting non-lethal rounds.
“Huh.” Steve shook his head, turning away from the downed guard. “Thought it was the end of the line myself there for a while.” Steve said in response to Bucky’s previous comment.
Any further discussion was interrupted by the sudden high-pitched wail of alarms. The hallways winked angry red lights at them.
“Think we best be getting out of here, Cap.” Bucky said, shrugging off the arm from his shoulder in favour of holding his acquired weapon more at the ready.
“Follow my lead then, Sarge.” Steve said, readying his own freshly liberated gun.
“Always do.” Bucky could do nothing about the grin that stuck to his face even as he followed close on the heels of his running best friend. They took corners sharply, firing non-lethal rounds at any guards that had the misfortune of being in their way. The poor guards clearly hadn’t been briefed on who it was they were trying to hold captive – most of them fell before they had time to do much more than notice Steve and Bucky barrelling toward them
Steve threw his whole body against a set of doors, bursting them open and leading them into a large, exceptionally clean, open space. It looked a lot less like a HYDRA base and a lot more like the foyer of one of those fancy high-rises in the heart of New York city. Especially with all the well-dressed fellas and dames – all of whom turned to face them in surprise but made no effort to reach for weapons.
Bucky caught sight of a window comprised of a full height pane of glass that led to the outside world. He wasted no time in running toward it, appropriated weapon hilt in the lead. He brought the hilt down against the glass once and then once more until it shattered. Cool air greeted him, ruffling his hair and tingling his skin.
“After you, Captain Rogers.” Bucky said with a magnanimous sweep of his hands.
“On my six, Sergeant.” Steve quipped back before leading the way outside. Together they pumped their legs hard, sprinting barefoot through unfamiliar streets and pass gaping people.
Bucky kept his eyes locked on the back of Steve’s shoulders but even still he couldn’t miss the wrongness of the world around them.
They came to a skidded stop in a spot that looked an awful lot like Times Square from back home, if it weren’t for all the too bright flashing screens and too sophisticated buildings. They were surrounded on all sides by gaping civilians dressed in unfamiliar clothes and pointing little tiny machines in their direction. The same crowd gave muted cries of alarm when Bucky brought his weapon up to sweep around.
“Steve?” He said, voice shaking something fierce, though he’d never admit it.
“Yeah?” Steve’s sounded just as shaken, just as distant.
“Where the hell are we?”
“The question isn’t so much where you are as it is when.” A new voice announced. The crowd split apart as a dark-skinned man, with a patch covering one of his eyes, stepped closer to them. His entrance must have been some kind of signal because more of the heavily armoured guards peeled themselves from seemingly nowhere.
Bucky scrambled back until his shoulder’s were pressed against Steve’s. He kept the weapon up and in a constant sweeping pattern so as to keep all of the guards in his line of sight. A part of him wanted to believe Steve was doing the same thing behind him but he just knew he wasn’t. Even without looking, Bucky could picture the exact jut of Steve’s chin as he stared the dark-skinned man down, shoulders back and fists balled tight at his side.
“And who the hell are you?” Steve said in his patented fight-me-punk tone of voice. The tone of voice made Bucky want to goddamn weep just as much as it made him want to bare his teeth and soothe the sudden itch of his knuckles off some poor schmuck’s face.
Bucky settled for grinning ferally at the assembled guards even as he kept his weapon sweeping.
“My name is Nick Fury. I’m the director of SHIELD.”
“That supposed to mean something to us?”
“No.” Fury snapped, sounding just a touch annoyed. “Fact is, Captain, that you and your Sergeant have been asleep a long time.”
“What’s that suppose’ to mean? Huh?” Bucky called over his shoulder. He wanted to turn and face the man himself, but he couldn’t leave Steve’s back exposed like that.
“When you crashed the Valkyrie, the ice swallowed you both. You’ve been asleep a long time, Sergeant.”
“You keep sayin’ that.” Steve noted in that slow drawl of his that meant he was quickly losing patience and fists were seconds from flying. Almost instinctively, Bucky found his whole body tensing up in anticipation. “Why don’t you get to the point.”
“It’s been seventy years, Cap. You’ve both been in the ice seventy years.”