Solnishka...
“Solnishka, get up.”
There’s a buzzing in his ears, insistent and irritating. Somewhere in some deep, forgotten memory he knows that if he doesn’t do as the voice says, the buzzing will turn to screaming. It’s already climbing in pitch. He forces his eyes open, forces himself to look up at his opponent. The Spider stands there, deadly and poised as ever, ready to strike the moment he does as she says.
He meets her gaze, avoids diving into the emotion there. Instead, he coils up and twists quicker than her eyes can follow, taking her legs out from under her. She goes down, body already moving to catch herself, but he’s on her before she even hits the concrete. He can practically feel the satisfaction oozing from his handlers as they watch on.
He has the Spider pinned, elbow at her throat, and all she does is glare up at him. She bares her teeth, still wild and unbearably young, but all he can do is stare blankly. When she starts turning blue, the order to release her is barked from the sidelines. He’s on his feet in an instant, still spinning from the hit in the temples he’d taken from the Spider.
The Spider’s handlers gesture for her to go to them, and she does without hesitation. She will be reprimanded for her defeat, but not harshly. She still took him down, if only for a moment. The Soldier, on the other hand, faces far worse punishment. He left her slip past his defenses, let her take him to the ground.
He faces his handlers, not daring to even twitch. They share looks, sneers, and the Soldier wants to run. He always wants to run. But running isn’t allowed. Instead, he waits for his punishment.
The morning is cold. There’s a thin layer of snow on the windows, piling on the window sills. James is on the floor and him falling off is probably what woke him. The dream is already fading from his mind and he doesn’t bother trying to remember it. It never does any good. Instead, he gets up off the ground and takes a look around the apartment.
It’s two bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen and living room taking up the majority of the space. It’s cozy, not quite something he figured Natalia would look into buying. Either way, he’s grateful she had. He tries out the shower before making breakfast, finding a pleasant surprise of the cupboards being stocked.
He dressed in his new black jeans, a white shirt and throws on a dark jacket before gathering his new wallet full of his new identity and heads off down the the mechanics, locking the door behind him. Clint had taken the liberty of crafting a CV for him, something James needed to thank him for at some point.
It’s early still, but the shop is open. The sign on the front reads, simply, ‘Stark’s Mechanic’s’. James peers in through the window, seeing no one, but goes in anyway. A bell connected to the door signals his entry, but no one appears. There’s a ‘hiring’ sign on the noticeboard, asking for someone good with engines. James doesn’t remember how or why, but he knows his way inside and out of vehicles.
He goes up to the reception, finds various cold, half-drunk cups of coffee. He wonders briefly if whoever owns this place knows Clint. As he’s about to head out and come back later, there’s a loud bang from the workshop. “Fuck!” follows the noise, and James finds himself smiling.
He opens the door separating the front of the shop from the garage and finds the place full of gutted vehicles. He surveys the room, looking for the source of the noise and his eyes land on a dark-haired man hopping around holding his foot, mumbling ‘fuck fuck fuck fuck’ under his breath repeatedly.
“You alright there?” James asks, announcing his presence.
The man freezes up for a moment, tilting to the side before catching himself on a workbench. He spins around, eyes wide and taking James in. “Shit - I didn’t even hear you come in, what can I -” he cuts off as another piece of the motor he’d apparently been working on falls to the floor. “Ignore that, that doesn’t usually happen, seriously, I just picked up the wrong tool and it was too big and then the bolt went on wrong and I was taking it off and it wanted to take my goddamn eye out, but what can I do for you?”
James blinks at the man, head spinning suddenly. That was a lot of words. “Uh, you’re hiring?” He says it like a question, simultaneously wondering when the last time this guy got some sleep was.
“Oh, oh yeah - look, if you can fix up this motor by four o’clock today, you’re hired,” is his answer.
James frowns, already walking forwards. “What’s it come from? What’s it need done to it?” he asks.
“A ‘72 Ford Fairmont, fuckin’ beauty of a thing, needs tuning and also a couple of the cylinders are playing up - or at least that’s what the guy said - so just, fix it up as best you can and if it’s not great I’ll just say I need more time on it or something,” and there he goes rambling again.
James takes his jacket off, undoing the pin on the left shoulder and settles down on the seat in front of the engine. He takes a moment to just look over it before he figures out what he needs to do. “Give me four hours,” he says, and buries himself in the work.
He can hear the guy - who he guesses owns the place or something - moving around him, working on other things, but he’s mostly just engrossed in the engine. It’s gorgeous - clearly the original motor, but it’s been done up, some of the parts custom made to be replaced brand new. He’s guessing the thing runs clean as a whistle most the time, but whoever had sent it in was right - the second cylinder wasn’t working smoothly. By James’ guess, it didn’t need replacing, just fixing up.
It takes the full four hours. When he’s finished, he sits back and grabs the rag he’d been using, attempting to wipe oil and grease off his hand. “Hey, Tony,” he calls. During the four hours the guy had barely stopped talking, eventually introducing himself and just generally chatting away.
“You finished?” Tony asks, shouting from the front of the shop. He comes in a moment later, a grin on his face. “Let's have a look,” he says, rubbing his hands together and grabbing a chair, sliding over next to James. He whistles, long and low. James feels pride well up in his chest. “Alright, you are so hired. I pay bi-monthly and I can have the contract delivered to you by tomorrow. When can you start? We can discuss your pay whenever you’re free.”
James stretches out his legs, wincing at the cramping in one of them. “I’m free now, and I can start as soon as the contract’s signed,” he says.
Tony grins. “Fantastic. Hey, I never did catch your name.”
“James Barnes,” James tells him, offering his hand. Tony takes it, and his grip is firm, steady. They shake and James stands up, grabbing his jersey. “What time do you want me in the morning?” he asks.
“Nine am sharp,” Tony says, still looking over the engine.
James just nods, gravitating towards the front door. “I’ll see you then, boss,” he calls, closing the door behind him.
Tony doesn’t reply, but the sound of him working starts up again. James heads out of the shop with a satisfied smile on his face.
*
The walk back to the apartment is freezing, the cold sinking through his clothes and into his bones. He hunches his shoulders against it, frowning at nothing. He looks at everything as he walks, getting an idea of his surroundings. When he gets to the street his new place is at, he pauses, then just...keeps walking. He has no need to go home just yet.
He takes a left and just keeps going. He’s looking at all the shops and houses, keeping an eye on the people who walk and drive past. He turns another corner, already looking past it and just. Freezes. That’s the only way to describe it. He’s looking at some sort of dock, old and looming. He wets his lips, wondering about the way his heart is suddenly hammering.
There’s something about the place that makes his feet carry him towards it. He stops at a tall fence, looks through the bars and grips one of them with his hand. Suddenly, he isn’t looking at a building with nothing in front of it but machinery, he’s observing shadows of people bustling around, laughing and talking. They’re hauling boxes, crates, loading and unloading ships. His heart tugs, like he should be in there with them.
One of the guys - tall, bowler hat on his head like some kind of statement and a moustache that near covers half his face - catches James’ eye. The guy is lumbering around with a crate that should really be carried by two guys, but he’s handling it with ease. He looks over at James, grins wide. There’s something about his smile that makes James think he should have a cigar in his mouth.
Timothy ‘Dum Dum’ Dugan.
The name hits him right in the gut, sucks the air out of his chest and forces him to his knees. The bustling docks blur in front of his eyes and when he blinks trying to clear his vision, everyone disappears. The men’s boisterous voices still echo in his ears. He sinks down, looking at the concrete in front of him, his hand curled into a fist.
What the fuck was that?
He squeezes his eyes shut, heart hammering in his chest. He tries to suck in a deep breath, but it’s not really working. He shudders, forcing himself to look back at the docks, just to check, just to see. There’s still no one there. There’s a buzzing in his ears that makes him flinch. He gets the urge to look around himself and finds two security cameras mounted on the wall.
He grits his teeth, forces himself to his feet and hauls ass. This time he heads straight home.
*
He locks the door behind himself, unsure as to why but it seems like a necessity. The buzzing hasn’t left his ears and his head is spinning so hard all he can do is fumble along the wall, heading for the closet bedroom. He tugs his jeans off and collapses into the bed, heart still pounding in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut and curls into a ball, teeth clacking together as he shakes.
What the hell had that been? He tries to make sense of it, but he can’t come up with anything other than memory. It had been a memory. It had to have been. Had he lived in Brooklyn before? Had he been born here? God, were there people here who knew him? He’d never tried to find out who he was before, he’d just accepted that this was his life. He hadn’t even known his own name, where the hell would he have started, anyways?
A thought comes to him. He has a place to start, now. With a shaky hand, he reaches for his phone and types a message to Clint. He sends it, puts the phone back down and tugs the covers of the bed up. He’s exhausted. He doesn’t even take a moment to wonder what dreams will come to him tonight.
*
There’s snow falling outside and it’s the dead of winter. He knows this because there’s the sound of hacking and desperate gasping coming from the body he’s holding. His heart wrenches with each shudder that goes through the golden-headed man, tugging in his chest. He wants to say something, do something to help ease the pain he knows this man is in. But he knows he can’t; they go through this every year.
Santo and Johnny Farina is playing softly from the other room, crooning through the open bedroom door. Another cough hacks its way through the man’s body.
“I’m fine -” he croaks out, just before another coughing fit hits him.
James clenches his jaw. “You’re not, let me at least go to the doctors and get you something,” he insists.
“No, no, you do this every year, you know it’ll pass in a week or two,” the man rasps, looking up at him with forget-me-not coloured eyes.
James mouth twists into a frustrated scowl. “And what if it doesn’t this time?” he snaps. The man just glares at him and James feels his anger immediately dissipate. He slumps, burying his face into the crook of the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m just - worried,” he sighs.
“I know, but I’m going to be fine -” he breaks off again, huffing and squeezing his eyes shut.
James can do nothing but watch on, his heart breaking.
He wakes up in a haze of worry, still disoriented from the dream. Memory? Whatever. He reaches for his phone to check the time and finds a text from Clint. He checks it in a hurry, remembering his request from last night.
From: Clint
Your boy was born in Red Hook and left to join the army at twenty. He was apart of the 107th before being moved to a specialised group called the Howling Commandos. Full name; Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader "Dum Dum" Dugan. Sorry man, I’m not sure why you wanted the info but he passed away in 2006, accompanying a special ops mission. IED, it says. Was there anything else you wanted to know?
Strangely, James feels like he’s going to pass out. Instead, he swallows dryly and texts back a simple ‘thanks man, that’s all’ and gets up to shower and get ready for work. He doesn’t have the energy to eat, but he forces down some toast and a coffee since he hadn’t managed to have dinner last night before crashing.
He gets ready mindlessly, brushing his teeth and throwing on some clothes before heading out and locking the door behind him. When he gets the to shop he and Tony go over a contract and a tour of the place, with Tony explaining how everything was run. It’s all fairly simply and James is left to work on a few more motors.
The day passes quickly, filled with motor oil, coffee and the weird smoothies Tony keeps appearing with. Before he knows it, it’s time for James to head home. He waves goodbye to Tony, who’s engrossed in a new car they got in that day, AC/DC blasting through the workshop. James isn’t really sure if the guy actually ever sleeps.
The night is as cold as yesterday and snow is drifting down from the sky. James grits his teeth eyes watering at the sudden change of temperature from shop to street and begins the walk home. He has no want to go wandering again after what’d happened yesterday. He turns down the street that will take him home and instantly gets that prickling feeling on the back of his neck that tells him he’s being watched.
He slows down, looking around himself inconspicuously. There’s not many people left of the streets, everyone is hurrying back to the warmth of their homes. No one sticks out as suspicious, until James’ eyes fall on a tall, broad-shouldered man standing still across the street, staring at him. James narrows his eyes at him, wishing he still had his long hair to hide behind.
The man’s face is what stops him from turning and disappearing. He looks shocked; lips parted, eyes wide, face pale. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. James looks him over, but nothing tips him off as to who this guy is. He frowns, focussing on the guy’s features and - forget-me-not coloured eyes.
James swallows, throat dry suddenly. The guy seems to shake himself and takes a step forwards, glancing around for cars. James does the only thing he knows how to do in this situation.
He runs.
He goes the opposite way of his apartment, darting down a sidestreet and calculating all possible escape routes. He’s leaping up and gripping a fire escape before he can think about it, hauling himself up and continuing upwards onto the roof. He thinks he head someone shouting after him, but what with the howling wind, he doesn’t catch the words.
He leaps to another roof, landing perfectly and circling around the block that way. He makes it back to the ground when he’s sure he’s lost the guy, but he can’t help but end up where he left him. The man is still there, looking around himself like he’s lost. His eyes are still wide, shocked, and his fingers are threaded through his hair, tugging at the ends like he wants to scream.
James hovers in the shadows, staring at the man in the middle of the street who looks like he’s just had something precious ripped away from him. He looks like he’s moments away from collapsing to his knees. James frowns, simply observing. Something doesn’t sit right with him about this. Something is very, very wrong.
He leaves the man, taking the back streets to his apartment.