Chapter I
James Barnes had never been a judgemental man. He had come across all sorts of people during his life, in college, during the war, and even in his years spent at home in the West. However, there was one particular breed of man he despised.
Those wealthy, gaudy men, who spent their days wandering around their too large mansions and driving their shiny cars with that certain sense of serenity that few possessed. James saw them as the antithesis of all that he believed in, floating above reality in a decidedly selfish way.
Of course, there was an exception to this hatred. One who had inspired the opposite. The only one.
Tony Stark.
He had never expected to be so fully enveloped in Stark’s world, that glimmering image of paradise that seemed so unattainable for someone like James. But the unexpected seemed to follow James wherever he traveled, and in no place was it so prevalent as New York, during the vivid summer of 1925.
***
James had lived in the West his whole life, with his family on their small farm. He had gone to college, of course, at Yale. He had never particularly enjoyed spending time around the people there—they were too pretentious for his taste. He fought in the Great War, and things had happened that he didn’t like to dwell upon. It had changed him, and he could no longer stand being alone with his thoughts. So he moved somewhere loud enough to drown them out.
James lived in a small house in a particularly strange area near New York City called West Egg. There were two eggs, East and West, separated only by a small bay. West Egg was the less elegant, so James’ reclaimed groundskeeper’s abode felt doubly inferior. This feeling was increased by the ostentatious manor that James lived next to. It was always alight, with parties that seemed to span for days and a constant rotation of guests. James had never seen its mysterious owner.
His childhood friend, Steve Rogers, now Rumlow, lived across the bay with his husband. James knew Brock Rumlow from his years in college, and had never been particularly fond of him. He’d always gotten the sense that Rumlow wanted James to approve of him. James had never given him the satisfaction.
Steve invited him over for dinner one evening, so James took a cab over to Steve and Brock’s mansion in East Egg. It was a looming palace of white and red which dwarfed Bucky’s home.
As James stepped out of his cab, Rumlow stepped out of the front door.
He was wearing riding clothes, which clung to his muscular arms and chest in a way that James tried not to find attractive. Rumlow was a degree of arrogant that James had never seen before, and this dampened his physical appeal significantly.
“Hello, Bucky. It’s been too long,” Rumlow said with a hardly masked insincerity. James winced at the use of his old nickname. “You look,” Rumlow shamelessly raked his eyes across James’ body, “Well.”
James tried not to physically recoil. Any hope he had held of Rumlow changing for the better evaporated. Steve, apparently, had abysmal taste in men. “As do you,” he replied with forced courtesy. “Shall we go in?”
They walked into the enormous living room, which was currently filled with curtains streaming from the open windows. Two figures clad in white sat on the couch. James recognized Steve’s yellow hair and blue eyes, but he only had some faint familiarity attributed to the redhead sitting next to him.
“Close these windows,” Rumlow ordered a servant. One by one the curtains stopped billowing.
Steve pouted momentarily. “There’s never any fun around here,” he huffed. Upon seeing James, his face lit up. “Oh, Bucky! It’s been ages! You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I was fighting in the war then.”
Steve huffed, but changed the subject. “Do they miss me in Chicago?”
“The whole town is desolate. They looked like they were all attending a funeral, every day.”
Steve laughed. “Bucky, this is Natasha Romanov,” he said excitedly, gesturing to the red haired woman.
Her mouth was set in a smug line as she nodded at James in acknowledgement. “You live in West Egg.” She said this with a sort of casual disdain. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single—”
“You must know Stark.”
“Stark?” Steve demanded. “What Stark?”
James almost mentioned that Stark was his neighbor, but hesitated, and before he could say anything dinner was served. Rumlow wedged his arm imperatively under James’ left elbow and led him out to a rosy-colored porch. James winced at the pain that shot up his arm.
Steve frowned upon seeing for lit candles. “Why candles?” he objected, and snapped them out with his fingers. His eyes fastened with an odd expression on his little finger.
“Look!” he complained. “I hurt it.”
His knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it, Brock,” he said accusingly. “I know you didn't mean to, but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man.”
Rumlow scowled. “I hate being called a brute. Even in kidding.”
“Brute,” insisted Steve.
He and Miss Romanov bantered casually, politely acknowledging Rumlow and James with only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. It was different from the rushed sense of urgency James was used to from evenings in the West.
“You make me feel uncivilized, Steve,” James confessed. “Can’t you talk about farming or something? I’m afraid the best conversational partners I’ve had until now have been goats.”
Unfortunately, this set Rumlow off on a tirade. “Civilization’s going to pieces!” he broke out violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you heard of HYDRA?”
James tried to keep a neutral face. “I have,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“Ah, wonderful. Great mission they have. Keeping us pure. We are the superior race, after all.”
James felt his muscles tense up. God, he knew Rumlow was an idiot, but his complacency in all of this was pathetic. It made James wonder if he even knew how horrible HYDRA truly was, or if he was too blind. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.
Suddenly, the telephone rang inside and the butler went to take the call. Rumlow continued his tirade about HYDRA, but James stopped listening after the first few words.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Rumlow’s ear, at which he frowned and stood to go inside. As if Rumlow’s absence had quickened something within him, Steve leaned forward.
“I love to see you at my table, Bucky. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose”
This was untrue. James was not even faintly like a rose. He might have been once, before the war. But not now. Suddenly, Steve threw his napkin on the table and went into the house.
James looked over at Miss Romanov, who turned up the corner of her mouth without mirth. He was about to make an attempt at conversation when she shushed him. Rumlow’s muted conversation was audible, and she leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear.
“Is something happening?” James asked innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” she asked incredulously. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
Miss Romanov arched an eyebrow. “Brock’s got some man in New York.”
“Got some man?” I repeated blankly.
She nodded.
“He might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
As James grasped her meaning, Steve and Rumlow approached the table.
“Isn’t it beautiful out here, Brock? It’s so romantic outdoors,” Steve said with tense gayety.
Rumlow made some sound of dismissive agreement. “If it’s light enough after dinner, I’d like to take you down to the stables, Bucky.” The statement was accompanied by a suggestive smirk that made James want to go far away from him.
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Steve shook his head decisively at Rumlow the subject of stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into the air.
The rest of the evening seemed to pass in strange fragments, and James spent its entirety longing to return home.
After dinner, Steve swept him aside. “Let’s go for a walk, Bucky,” he said with bright eyes. So James followed him along a well-groomed path.
“You know, it really has been too long since we’ve seen each other. I’ve had a very bad time, Bucky, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
James waited for him to continue, but Steve just kept walking in silence. When they reached the front of the house, Steve stopped and sighed.
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” he said in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know, I’ve been everywhere and done everything.” His eyes flashed around him in a defiant way, rather like Rumlow’s, and he laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
And suddenly, James could detect the basic insincerity in all that Steve was saying. He had detected the insincerity of the whole evening, and he did not know if he could take any more.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you for inviting me, Steve, but I must be going. It’s late, and I want to make sure I get enough rest before work.”
Steve pouted. “You’re sure, Bucky?”
“Quite.”
“Well, goodbye then. You must come over again sometime.” Steve smiled with a saccharine sheen.
James gave a polite nod, daunted by the prospect. “Goodnight, Steve.”
James took a cab back to West Egg, savoring the silence after the night at Steve’s. It had been a long time since he had felt so trapped by the past. There had been too many people calling him Bucky and acting as if he was the same as before.
James took a shaky breath, stepping out of the cab. He made his way to his rickety porch swing and sat, trying to clear his mind. It wasn’t helping, as his eyes darted after every shadow. He was about to just give up, go to sleep, and face the nightmares, when he realized that he wasn’t alone. A lone figure stepped out of the neighboring mansion, and James knew it was Stark immediately. He projected an air of casual confidence, but James could see his tension even in the dark of night.
He was staring out to the sea, and when James looked seaward he could only distinguish a single green light. When he shifted his gaze back to Stark, the man noticed his presence. They locked eyes for an infinitesimal instant, then Stark seemed to vanish into the night and James was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
When James finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Stark’s whiskey eyes staring back at him.