It has been a long, long time ago since we roamed on the streets, your arm swayed along with your boogie movement. I remember how tiny your hand was and how that long white fingers of yours intertwined with mine. You were always cautious of how bony you were; no matter I reminded you that you are just fine to me. If I close my eyes I could see how the wind cruelly tousled your hair. As if in slow motion, like letting me to savor every movement you made to smooths your hair.
By the dock we sat, shoulder to shoulder, and you’d mention again how different we were.
We’re not; I rebuffed your opinion for the hundredth time. You always marveled why we were friends, why I continued to be with you while I can be friends with someone else better? The truth is, you're the best. I just never said it out loud. So I just huffed and said, we're not so different, would you ever stop questioning me, punk?
Without a word you’d held my hand, caressing the calloused fingers with your soft ones. A quick look to the left and right before you brought it to your cheek. I should have burned with embarrassment, should have frozen of fear… yet I let you be. I don’t give a damn about people opinion as long as you are happy.
See? you asked. When you’re big and strong and so confidence of the world, then there was I.
I always drawn to your eyes, the way you licked your lips. The things I’ve imagined to do with you every time you sighed on our shared bed, you’ll run away screaming. I see it now, I feel it in my bones. I think the place we used to sit by the dock is now gone, replaced by some brick building or coffee shops. Well, I have not had the chance to come back and see it myself.
I take a stroll down the path of our memories, slowly put my feet ahead another. Our dreams were flawless; I forgot how beautiful it could have been if not for the war... But sometimes, some people lived for it.
To me, I just wanted to be with you. Now I know that for sure.
Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commandos to give his life in service of his country…— the recording echoed in the exhibition hall, piercing through my senses. I turned my back from what used to be ours, the lives we knew.
Bucky, I hear you call my name from distant memories, choked by the blood. You are my friend.
I think I stood the last twenty minutes staring into your black and white photo like an idiot, because the lady behind me nudged impatiently.
"You are blocking the view."
“Sorry,” I mumbled as I retreated.
Smithsonian was packed during this hour. I pulled my cap downwards as I walked passed security patrolling the exhibition. Your face, your smiles, your laugh were all over the place. They too, came in my dreams since that day above the burning helicarriers in Potomac.
You’re my mission; I kept on reminding myself as I refused to stop beating you. But you never fight or hitting me back, not even when I stabbed you multiple times and buried a bullet in your stomach. Captain America, my mission; my head started to spin but I refused to give in. Captain America, my mission! I saw how you took those beatings silently, only to whispered “You are my friend,” before you lose consciousness.
And then it hit me. Not Steve Rogers. Not Stevie. Not my Stevie…
I supposed you remembered those back alleys they used to beat you up, didn’t you, Steve? What imbecile you were, standing up to someone three times bigger than you! I don’t think I could recall how many times I advised you against doing something heroic that cost you your health.
Heroic. But that was always been you, wasn’t it?
So you made sure to take off your goddamn helmet, threw away the shield and let me beat you into pulp. Just because I regularly saw you that way, when I had to rescue you from those bloody bastards. I hate you for that, Steve. Goddamnit. You knew I hated it.
You know me, you insisted. You’ve known me your entire life.
It seemed so, doesn’t it? All of materials I’ve read about Steven Grant Rogers always led me to… me. The James Buchanan Barnes before the war, before HYDRA and before… whatever this assassin inside of me.
And your carefree laugh started to come in my dreams, calling me. The fragments of faraway moments, little by little started to formed inside my head. The dock where we watched sunsets, noisy firecrackers on the fourth of July, sketches of random passerby in the park... a pair of skinny arms flung around my neck as I carried you on my back.
I was afraid of those memories; for a while I didn't know what was real and what was not?
Am I imagining things? Was it real when I saw you got angry as I pulled you from the back of a diner, blood spurting from your broken nose yet all you've got to say was: Bucky, I had him on the ropes!
I saw an afternoon by the windowsill of lousy apartment, two mugs of coffee (I know it was unsweetened) on the floor... I sat with my back on the wall as I let a skinny boy leaned against my chest. What we'd do once the war has been won, I think I remembered he asked.
Just stay together okay? You and I against the world, eh punk?
I liked it, the boy turned and grinned. But don't win the war til I get there, jerk.
That same blonde skinny boy got teary eyed as I appeared in my uniform, ready for my first assignment abroad. No jealousy or resentment, just plain worries that he won't be by my side anymore. I will come back to you, I told myself then and thousand times as I was tied on that chair; stabbed, cut, and whatever things they did to my mind and body to wipe you.
Those fragments were not from the exhibition, for sure.
I’ve memorized all those lines, all the smiles and information I could gather from another life I’ve forgotten. There was no information of how the skinny boy wore yesterday papers into his shoes. No writing about how he cried himself to sleep for weeks after Sarah passed away. Or how I’d gathered the boy in my arms, whispering assurance that I was with him no matter what, never leaving him… You, that skinny boy with dirt on your baggy clothes and scrapped knees.
I did leave you, though, when I fell from that train.
One time after I write down what I could gather from the museum and my dreams, I recalled a midnight ride back in a truck. You were freezing, even decades later I thought I could feel your cold skin against mine. We’ve blown all our money for… hot dogs? I guessed… and our only ticket home was by hitchhiking. Using my wool brown jacket I hulled you close for warmth. It was one of the sudden memories that brought smile to my face. Looking back you used to fit to me perfectly, but maybe with your new superhuman enhancement you won’t need me anymore. Because, why would you? Decades later we met in the new century and who would've thought that the table had turned.
I left America as soon as I can, taking only some journals I’ve filled with scattered memories. From the back of my head I sensed the assassin talking in some language I wouldn’t know if not for HYDRA experiments. As if by muscle memory, those languages come out fluently when I needed them. French, Russian, Romanian and one time I caught myself listening to a group of Chinese tourists in Piaţa market. It was… weird, to put it mildly.
Most nights when I didn’t feel like myself, I curled up on the makeshift bed, praying to every God I know to take away the headache. The journals stacking higher each passing months, I wrote on every piece of paper I could find. When it was not about Steve and our life back then in the 40s, it was screaming faces, blood and tears that I could only assumed the proud works of the assassin. Whenever I could, I write down their names and burned the paper, praying for forgiveness I didn't think I deserve. Forgive me, will you? I tried to remember all of you. I tried…
Last night I’ve the sweetest dream, for I don’t know how long it had passed without feeling at ease and happy. I put the journal on the table along with some chocolate bars, reaching for a pen to write down every detail before it was gone.
You were in that dream, Steve. We were back at that forsaken little apartment when we were… sixteen, if I guessed correctly. My mind was hazy but I know for sure that look on your face when I squeezed your shoulder, letting you know that I was standing behind your back.
Look what I’ve bought, I heard myself say to you. Plums, am I not your best bud?
Bucky, you shouldn’t have, you said, smiling all the same. I brushed a strand of your blond hair off your eyes.
It’s sweet, give it a try, I urged.
Why you always take care of me, you mused but took a plum from my hand.
Because I love you, punk, I rolled my eyes.
In that dream you were happy. We were happy. It was real, wasn't it? I wanted it to be.
I woke up with tears in my eyes, hoping it would last longer.
Steve loved plums, I wrote hastily in the journal. I made sure Steve only ate a piece a day because of his diabetic traits.
Yesterday I saw a seller with cart of plums in Piaţa market. I might not really know myself right now but one thing I was sure as hell was that I cared about you. That skinny little boy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight, I’d follow him anywhere even to death. Wait, I’ve said those lines before, a very long time ago… haven’t I? Growing up, you and I were all each other had. We didn’t have money and had to lean on each other for support especially during tough times. And boy, we did grow up together with many fond memories.
I put on my cap and jacket, bracing the cold zephyr as I took a short walk towards the market. The chatter I heard around me was at ease, talking about daily life. Two young boys running along their mothers and I couldn’t help but felt a pang of longing.
It has been two years now since Potomac and I tried to gasp the life I’ve been robbed of while living a new one… I consider myself lucky since no sign of HYDRA catching up.
Until I saw flash of recognition turned to fear in random guy at the market.
He was practically running away from his news stall after I met his eyes. I braced for the worst as I walked to the now abandoned stall, easily picked up today’s paper about some bombing in Vienna.
What the hell?
The assassin in me stirred to see his name. The Winter Soldier is Responsible for the Terrorist Bomb Attack in Vienna Convention, Twelve Dead — the headline said.
Another word caught my eyes and it feels like the world stopped spinning. Twelve dead, including King T'Chaka of Wakanda. So they lured me to come out of hiding, using false accusations to gained the help of millions people around the world. That was smart.
The walk back to my apartment was spent with me looking back through my shoulder, making sure I was not being followed.
Did they already know I am in Bucharest?
How much time do I have to pick up my things and disappeared again? Fortunately I prepared for this long time ago, already hiding a bug out bag stuffed with important journals. Silently I stalked into my room... and stopped dead on my track.
He was waiting for me in the apartment. One of my newest journal, opened on the page where I've tried to sketch his face. He used to draw better than me, the thought came unbidden.
“Do you remember who I am?” he asked softly.
“I read about you in a museum.” was my reluctant answer.
“I don’t want to fight you, Bucky. I know you’re nervous and you have plenty reasons to be. But don’t lie.”
“It wasn’t me. I was not in Vienna. I… I don’t do that… anymore.” I clenched my fist so hard I wished it’d break. The look he gave me was that determined look I fondly remembered.
“The people who think you did are coming right now. They’re not planning on taking you alive.”
“Good strategy.” I looked down to the glove that covered my metal hand. I hate to use it, but what other option do I have?
I played with the idea of letting them to shoot me, to kill me and be done with it, ending the pain inside me… when I heard the intercom in Steve’s ears buzzed.
“They’re on the roof, I’m compromised!” a guy’s voice.
“Buck,” Steve called. “Why did you pull me from the river?”
“I don’t know.” Of course I know. You are my friend and I've loved you my entire life.
“I think you knew.” He said stubbornly, no wonder.
I take off the glove, staring at the metal hand that flexes knowing battle is near. I sighed.
“This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.”
I turned my gaze to him, wanting to just pull him to an embrace. But I can’t. I couldn’t. Instead I stared at his half hidden face, trying to focus on his bright blue eyes. If I am not to survived today, I prefer to die with those eyes in my mind. Those eyes have not changed, not even after more than six decades. His body might, but not his heart and especially not his mind either.
The voice from Steve’s intercom intervened again. “Five seconds, Cap!”
“That train... I should’ve jump after you, Buck. I should have…” Steve broke the silence.
“You did the right thing. You survived. It is what matters most...,” ...to me, he added silently.
“It doesn't change the fact that it hurt when I lost you. Twice. Now that I’ve found you again I will never let you go.”
“Now you should have… Just go, Steve.” I hesitantly said his name for the first time.
“Cap, they are coming in! Breach! Breach!”
“No.” I heard him replied sternly. I saw how his muscles flexes with me, as in unison. The red and blue shield was raised to his chest. He was ready to fight. For a split second I thought he was gonna attack me, but the doubt evaporated to thin air as he pushed himself in front of me to block the first shot. “No, Bucky. Even if I had nothing, I always had you.”