William Jonathan Beckham
Nick Fury is an incredibly high-up lawyer with enough money to live in an apartment building with high security. He’d based in upper Manhattan and had been seen eating out in a high-end restaurant that night. Under the cover of night, James positions himself on the roof of the building across from Fury’s. He can see the exact apartment Fury lives in, although he can’t see in. The windows are mirrored.
This is a minor frustration, but just that. Minor. There’s a crane across from the building James is setting his rifle up on, lights flashing as it works. The lights illuminate the window every now and then, showing James the shadows of the things in Fury’s apartment. James settles on his belly and hunches behind the scope, watching and waiting.
Time passes. He doesn’t remember how he got so good at being a sniper, but he is. He can make this shot easily. He just has to wait - and that’s something he’s very good. He can slide into a silent and still part of his mind while he waits, focus trained entirely on the mission. This time, he doesn’t have to wait that long.
Fury moves across the living room half an hour later.
Without hesitation, James takes the shot. He watches Fury go down and stay down. James stays low and packs up before high-tailing it out of there. It takes him hours to get back to Red Hook, what with his outfit and the rifle across his back - he has to stay out of sight. This is a high-risk mission and when someone finds Fury, realises he’s missing, there’s going to be a man-hunt. James has to be careful. He can leave no evidence. Even thinking about keeping the identity he has now is a risk, but one he’s going to take.
He’s good. He gets back to the apartment without trouble. Without being seen by human or camera. He ducks back in through the window and makes quick work of packing his rifle away, hidden. He checks his phone, finds a message from Clint reading, simply, ‘what?’. James rolls his eyes and ignores it, sending off a ‘done’ to Rumlow.
He feels. Better.
And yet, he feels guilty about that. He shakes his head as if to clear his conscience before removing his mask and putting it on the coffee table. He’s tugging at his glove when someone knocks on the door. He freezes, narrowing his eyes at the thing. He can come up with no idea as to who it would be. He gives up on the glove and just leaves it on walking over to the door and unlocking it, pulling it open.
He has a brief thought of ‘oh shit what if it’s the cops’, but that would make no sense. He’d only just gotten back from the job and he definitely hadn’t been seen. But. The moment he opens the door, he finds that the person behind it is much worse than the cops. Because. Looking at him are wide forget-me-not coloured eyes.
James grits his teeth and goes to slam the door in a panic, to pack up and get the hell out of here, but the guy’s foot is suddenly in the door and he looks - he looks desperate. “Bucky,” the guy breathes.
James glares at him. “Who the hell is Bucky? Who are you? Why are you at my apartment,” he bites out, anger overtaking fear.
“I -” the guy looks crushed. “You really don’t remember me? I - you’re Bucky. I’m...I’m Steve.”
Past the pounding of his heart in his ears, James can hear Steve’s breath hitch. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here. How do you know me?”
Steve’s eyebrows draw together and he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “God, you really don’t remember me. Okay. Okay. Um.” He seems to take a moment to gather himself. “This is probably going to sound crazy. Uh, we...were together for six years. Before you joined the army. Before that - we’ve been friends our entire lives,” he says.
James just stares at him. His head hurts. “What year was this?” he croaks.
Steve looks at him like he’s crazy. “You left for the army in 2005, Bucky. Don’t you remember?”
“You keep saying that - who the hell is Bucky?” James forces out, hand tightening on the door knob. 2005. He doesn’t remember anything before 2010, when he’d stumbled across Clint and got his head to stop spinning and forgetting.
Steve looks almost desperate. “It’s you,” he says, softer this time.
James grits his teeth and restrains the urge to slam the door again. “Fine, fine. Maybe that’s me. Why are you here? You still haven’t answered that.”
“Uh, you - you ran from the hospital. I got your address from your wallet,” Steve says, looking down sheepishly. James closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. When he opens them, he finds Steve frowning at him like he’s finally taking in something other than James’ face. “What’re you wearing?” he asks.
James raises an eyebrow, personality shifting into territory he knows. He’s pratisced this with Natalia far too many times. “You into leather, or something?” he murmurs, voice turning sultry even as he subtly shifts his weight into a position where he can shut the door at the same time as removing Steve’s foot from its path. He’s so going to have to leave Brooklyn. He’s somewhat surprised at the flush that goes down Steve’s neck. James narrows his eyes, watching it spread over his cheeks before sighing. “Look, man, I’ve had a really, really long day, and I just want to sleep.”
“You really don’t remember anything?” Steve whispers, looking defeated.
James shakes his head. “No. I’ll let you in on a secret - I have no memory past 2010,” he says, and goes to shut the door. Steve’s moved his foot, relaxed his stance.
“That doesn’t explain how you’re alive,” Steve says in a rush, looking up from where his gaze has dropped.
James freezes. “What?”
“I got an official letter saying you were killed in action. In 2007.”
James lets that sink in, swallows past a dry throat. He looks away from Steve, stares unseeingly at the floor. That was - that meant there was three years in between when he supposedly died and when Clint found him that are unaccounted for. He doesn’t think about what that means, doesn’t think about the dreams - the memories - he looks up, eyes turning to steel.
“I think it’d be best if you left now,” he spits.
Steve looks crestfallen again, but he takes a step back. “Bucky - do you...do you remember anything? At all?” he asks.
“My names not Bucky. My name is James,” James replies, answering Steve’s question at the same time. Why hasn’t he closed the door yet?
Steve’s chewing on his bottom lip, searching James’ gaze like he’s going to find something there. “Your name is William Jonathan Beckham,” he whispers.
James pauses like he’s waiting for something to happen, waiting for the name to settle some of the questions inside of him. Nothing happens. He doesn’t remember that name ever being his. He narrows his eyes, takes a step back and goes to close the door. Steve looks crestfallen and goes to speak, but James is already locking the door.
He takes a deep breath and waits for the knocking or the yelling to start, but nothing comes. Instead, all he can hear is Steve walking away, footsteps heavy. James takes a moment to breathe, the conversation reeling in his head. He grabs his phone, considers texting Clint, but instead goes to google and types in William Jonathan Beckham.
He clicks on the first link - because there are many - and finds himself sinking to the floor, legs weak. It’s a facebook page, but the profile is private. The only thing he can see is the profile picture and a couple cover photos, but that’s enough.
The profile picture is a picture of him. It’s not of him now, but take twelve years off his face and it’s him. He swallows, feeling sick. He clicks onto the friends list, finds Steve right at the top. Steve’s profile isn’t private, but there’s hardly anything on it. He scrolls through the posts, feeling wrong-footed, like he’s stumbling. Because there’s no way…
But at the same time, it’s all there in front of him.
He can feel tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He grits his teeth and puts the phone down, looking up at the ceiling like he’s going to find something there. Instead, there’s nothing but the paint. He chokes out a strangled sound, rocking forwards on his knees and getting up. He grabs a piece of paper and a pen and writes down what he knows.
- William Jonathan Beckham
- Steve Rogers?
- I died in 2007
- I left for the army in 2005
- There are three unaccounted for years in between my death and Clint finding me in 2010
- Steve Rogers
He stares at the list for a long, long time.
He’s going to find out more. Steve Rogers knows more. Tomorrow, he’s going to ask Steve Rogers some questions.