Sam Wilson
“I went to your funeral.”
Steve wants to take it back the moment Bucky clenches his jaw, a muscle jumping. “I can’t find it in myself to apologise, somehow,” Bucky bites out.
“No, I don’t - I don’t expect you to. It wasn’t your fault. I just...I went to your funeral and you were still alive.” Steve sucks in a breath through his teeth, looking away from the cold intensity of Bucky’s stare. “I’m still expecting to wake up and for this to all be some dream,” he admits.
Bucky doesn’t say anything and when Steve looks back up he finds him blank-faced, a thousand-yard-stare making his features look hollow. When he speaks, it’s so quiet Steve almost goes to turn his hearing aids up. “I don’t have any memory past 2010.” The pause afterwards goes for so long Steve wonders if he’s going to speak again. “I get these...dreams. I know they’re memories. Some of them are hazy, some so vivid I wake up screaming with a gun in my hand. I don’t remember how, but I know over ten languages and how to shoot a man from one hundred yards. I know over twenty ways to kill someone in under two minutes with no weapon other than myself and I know how to walk down a street without anyone noticing I’m there. I don’t know how I know any of this, but I do. And I know you.” Bucky’s gaze cuts to Steve’s, sending chills down his spine. “Somehow, I know you.”
Steve swallows dryly, feeling cold. He’s flailing through muddy waters, here, not sure where to put his foot next. He reads in between the lines; he knows Bucky’s killed people before - he’d gone to war - but now Steve knows it’s so much worse than that. “What...what did you do when you got out?” he asks.
Bucky gives a dry laugh. “You have to understand that I didn’t even know my own name. I was meaningless and when someone eventually took advantage of the one-armed homeless man, I discovered just how good I was at staying alive. I went from there. Found Clint. Made connections. Jobs started rolling in.” He shrugs like everything that’s happened to him is no big deal.
“What do you remember about me?” Steve asks, steering clear of the direction the delicate conversation has taken.
Bucky leans back, the dark body language slipping away like a shawl. “You were smaller and your hands were always covered in paint and charcoal,” he says immediately, surely. His face turns downwards into a frown. “There was a woman and...we both loved her very much. She made us breakfast, sometimes,” he murmurs.
It’s like a dagger twisting in Steve’s stomach. “Sarah Rogers,” he whispers. “She was my mum.”
Bucky looks at him, searching. “Do I have any family?”
His voice is so flat Steve wonders if he really wants to know. “No, you were an orphan,” he says.
Bucky nods like it’s something he was expecting. “You left me,” is what he says next and Steve’s heart plummets. “It was cold and there was snow and I didn’t want you to but you left. You said that love wasn’t enough and then you left and I had to go.” A dark smile twists at the corners of Bucky’s lips. “I remember that.”
“I regretted it the moment I woke up the next morning,” Steve whispers, body frozen and heart thumping wildly. He wonders what this conversation feels like for Bucky, who barely remembers them ever being in love.
Bucky looks at him sharply. “You never made contact, did you?” he asks. “And then I died and you thought you’d never get the chance.” All Steve can do is nod. Bucky purses his lips. “Why are you here?”
It’s the last thing Steve expects. “What?”
“You haven’t seen me in twelve years. Why are you here?”
Steve fish-mouths, caught. His head’s spinning. “I -” Steve’s phone chooses this moment to start ringing and he can see Bucky shutting down, face going blank and body becoming tense. Steve swallows and checks the caller ID, wincing at Sam’s name shining up at him. He answers it, sending Bucky an apologetic look. “Hi, Sam,” he says.
“Rogers, where the fuck are you? We have plans tonight,” comes through the phone, Sam’s voice annoyed.
Steve’s still looking at Bucky, torn. “I got caught up with an old...friend,” he admits.
“Steve...do you think you’re with Bucky right now? Where are you?” Sam’s tone goes from annoyed to concerned and panicked.
“Sam, it’s not - it really is him, this time,” Steve immediately insists, looking down at his knees and frowning.
“Where are you, Steve? I’ll come and get you.”
Steve bites his lip, about to reply, when Bucky’s taking the phone and hanging up. Steve gapes, a scowl taking over his face when he takes in Bucky’s face, which is distracted, eyes sweeping over the apartment. He looks at Steve, holding one finger up to his lips, telling Steve to be quiet. Steve shuts up. He looks around the apartment, skin crawling suddenly. Bucky’s standing, tensed and coiled like he’s waiting for something.
Steve’s phone goes off again and all hell breaks loose. The door is on the floor of the apartment, cracking at the hinges, and people are pouring in, guns leveled at them. Bucky moves like lightning, pushing Steve to the floor and grabbing something from under the couch. Steve’s heart rate goes up several notches as the sound of gunfire pierces his ears.
He can’t see Bucky but he above the gunfire he can hear bodies hitting the ground. All Steve can do is stay shielded by the couch and try stave of the panicking. His phone is still ringing but he can’t even think about answering it. The thought of calling the cops goes through his mind but - but he’s pretty sure that’s the wrong thing to do here.
He sees the feet a second later, moving past the couch and pausing, before there’s a gun pointed at his face. Steve can’t even blink before the guy goes down, a hole in the side of his head and blood gurgling out of it. He claps a hand over his mouth, stomach turning over and shock making him freeze up.
The gunfire stops a moment later. He stays where he is, breathing heavily and trying not to have a full-blown panic attack right here. Maybe he should have listened to Sam and stayed on the anxiety meds. He’s not sure he’s even seeing things right, what with all the unrealistic things happening - maybe he really is having hallucinations again, god, maybe he’d imagining all of this and -
“Steve, it’s clear,” comes from behind the couch. It’s Bucky’s voice but Steve’s still trying to breathe goddamnit. A shadow falls over him and he flinches, but then Bucky’s crouching in front of him, hand hovering over Steve’s. “Steve, hey, I need you to get up, okay? We need to get out of here,” Bucky says, eyes searching his.
Steve swallows, giving a jerky nod. Bucky nods back and offers his hand to Steve’s, helping him up. “Try not to look at the bodies if you’re feeling sick,” Bucky says suddenly and Steve keeps his eyes firmly on Bucky’s face, knowing he’s pale.
Bucky nods again and takes his hand from Steve’s, picking up a gun. Steve feels his stomach lurch, but he holds everything down. Bucky’s got a backpack over his shoulder and he seems to be searching through the papers on the coffee table. He moves confidently and it hits Steve that this - this - is most likely familiar to Bucky. It’s a far cry from the fist fights in alleys they used to get caught up in. From the fights he gets into now.
Bucky’s set the gun down and is shoving files and other papers into the backpack, muttering to himself under his breath. He doesn’t look fazed by the blood pooling around his boots and the - Steve looks up at the ceiling, breathing in through his mouth and out through his nose. “Who were they?” he asks, cursing inwardly as his voice shakes.
“Possibly Hydra. Possibly Pierce’s men. Might have been the Mafia Clint’s pissed off and it could have been any number of assholes after my head,” Bucky spits. “Either way they want to kill me and I need to get you out of here before they try kill you, too.”
Steve finds that none of that helped his panicking. “I know a place we could go,” he offers.
“Where’s that?” Bucky asks, slinging the backpack over his shoulder again and grabbing a pen. He’s writing on the wall when Steve remembers he needs to reply.
Bucky’s just putting dots on the wall in an order that looks like morse code. “Uh, my friend’s. No one would expect you to go there, right?” Steve replies.
“Correct. How far away is it?” Bucky moves away from the wall, stepping over a body with a carelessness that has Steve squeezing his eyes shut.
“It’s in Park Slope.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything and when Steve opens his eyes to look at him, he’s rifling through a bag still on a dead guy’s back. Steve huffs out a breath. “Alright, c’mon,” Bucky says and heads for the door, a keychain tucked into his pocket and a handgun visible through his shirt tucked into his waistband. Steve walks after him, stomach churning again as he has to step over several bodies. Bucky looks at him, face strangely white. “I’m not going to judge you if you throw up, you know. I’d rather you do it here than in the car.”
Steve throws up in the hallway.
They get downstairs eventually, Bucky checking every possible place someone could be hiding in. He unlocks a car that’s parked haphazardly on the street and instructs Steve to get in first while he’s looking across the tops of buildings and around the street. “How are you feeling?” Bucky asks, taking the car out of park and peeling out onto the road.
Steve looks down at his hands, which are shaking. “How did you…” he trails off, head reeling.
“I don’t remember learning how, but I could have taken down far more than that,” Bucky informs him.
When Steve looks over at him he sees Bucky’s not entirely unharmed. He’s got a stripe of blood across one cheek and his top is ripped and Steve can see blood through it, painting his left side. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’ll have a look at it when he get to your pal’s place. What’s the address?” Bucky brushes it off, eyes not straying from the road.
Steve tells him. His phone goes off a moment later and he flinches. He ignores the concerned look Bucky gives him and answers it. “Sam?”
“Steve, I am this close to getting the cops involved again, do you know how worried I am? Where the fuck are you?”
“I’m, uh, on my way to your place, actually,” Steve admits, glancing at Bucky who simply takes a sharp left, face blank.
“Are you driving?”
“No, um. I’m bringing someone with me.”
“I swear to god Steve, if your dumb ass -”
“I’ll see you soon, Sam,” Steve cuts in, heart thumping uncomfortably. He’s dug himself into a real mess here. Sam mutters something else about idiots before hanging up. Steve locks his phone and stares down at the black screen, feeling oddly calm all of a sudden. He’s probably gone into shock. “What’s going to happen to your friends,” he asks.
“They’ll be fine. They’re survivors. Natalia probably already knows what’s happened, honestly.” Bucky says, pulling over all of a sudden. “Come on, we’re getting another car. There’s probably a tracker on this one.”
Steve follows him to a car parked on the side of the road, feeling hollow. He keeps a lookout as Bucky efficiently hotwires the car after somehow getting it open without the alarm going off. They drive from there to Park Slope, stopping a few blocks from Sam’s. From there they walk to Sam’s apartment building, going up the stairs when Bucky mutters something about not liking elevators.
Steve finds himself knocking on Sam’s door hesitantly, Bucky’s eyes burning into the back of his head. Sam opens the door, looking both relieved and angry, but freezes, eyes snapping to Bucky. “Steve, who is this?” he asks.
Steve feels Bucky move, sees him offering a hand to Sam. “The name’s apparently Bucky,” he says.
Something wild leaps in Steve’s chest, choking him. Sam glares at Bucky, suspicion bleeding from him. “Sam, can we just come in? I’ll explain everything once we’re all sat down,” he pleads.
Sam looks Steve over, concern etched into his face as he takes in the state Steve’s in. “Alright, but you better start talking,” he says, stepping back to let them in.
The first thing Bucky does is take in every inch of the place, stalking over to the windows and pulling the curtains shut. He locks the door behind them and only then does he come to stand still, looking at Sam silently. Sam scowls at him, but Steve doesn’t miss the way Sam’s eyes flicker over the rip in Bucky’s shirt and the blood there and on his face.
“Who are you?” Sam asks.
Bucky narrows his eyes, clearly thinking about how to answer that question. “I am Steve’s Bucky, I just don’t really remember being him. Right now my name is James.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Steve, this guy is -”
“Look, Sam,” Steve cuts in, offering his phone to Sam.
Sam purses his lips, taking the phone and looking down at Bucky’s facebook profile. Steve watches the way Sam’s scowl falls right off his face as he looks from the phone to Bucky and back again. “So they look alike, you went to Bucky’s funeral, Steve,” Sam says.
“I know, but the army made a mistake, Bucky was -”
Bucky steps forwards, silencing Steve with a sharp look. “You trust this guy, Steve?” he asks.
Sam looks like he’s going to punch someone but Steve just nods. Bucky sighs and swings the backpack around to his front, pulling a folder out from it. Steve feels the nausea build up again as he recognises the same folder Clint had given him, the one that had the information about the Winter Soldier.
“Look through that before you make any assumptions,” Bucky says, offering the folder to Sam.
Sam takes it warily, glaring at Bucky before looking down at the folder and frowning at the Chair on the front page. Half of the words are in Russian, but some are English. Steve watches the frown deepen as Sam flicks to the next page. Sam’s grip on the folder tightens as he reads and he doesn’t notice Bucky moving over to the couch and sitting down.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes, closing the folder and looking up at Steve, eyes wide.
Steve just nods, but it’s Bucky who speaks. “Far from it,” he mutters. “Sorry for barging in, but I needed somewhere to drop Steve off out of the line of fire,” he says.
“What? Bucky, you can’t go back out there, you’re hurt and there are people trying to kill you,” Steve sputters.
Bucky raises an eyebrow, looking up from where he’d been checking out the wound on his side. He drops his shirt back down, scowling. “There have always been people trying to kill me. I know how to handle this, Steve,” he says.
“Okay, I’ve clearly missed something here,” Sam speaks up.
Bucky closes his eyes. “Fucking - okay. Here. Can I borrow your bathroom to clean this up? Steve can fill you in. Steve, drink some water and put your feet up, you’re still in shock,” he says, standing up and moving stiffly in the direction of the bathroom. Sam nods at him and Bucky disappears, muttering something under his breath.
Sam turns back to Steve, raising an eyebrow. Steve huffs a sigh. “You might want to sit down,” he admits.
<>
James doesn’t bother trying to listen in on the conversation, shutting and locking the bathroom door behind him. He strips off his shirt, hunts down a flannel and wets it, washing the blood on his side away. He finds a shallow graze, nothing to worry about, so he reaches into the bag Clint always keeps packed for emergencies and sticks a bandage over the wound. The cut on his face is from a goddamn knife being thrown at him - a knife that he used to end the guy who managed to hit him.
It’s deeper than the one on his side and still bleeding. He wipes away most of the blood even though he knows it’s just going to irritate it and make it bleed more. He searches through the bag and finds what he needs before setting about putting in a couple of messy but efficient sutures in his cheek. He puts on a few butterfly closures as well before deeming it good enough and washing the rest of his face.
He sinks to the ground and, using the untraceable phone from the backpack, calls Clint. The call connects immediately. “If you’re not James I don’t give a flying fuck, but if you are please be alive,” is shouted in James’ ear.
James winces, but finds a smile curling on his face. “It’s me, asshole. Are you guys alright? Have you been back to the apartment yet?” he asks.
“Oh thank fuck. Nat! He’s alive!” Clint shouts away from the phone.
Something is yelled in the background before James is listening to a brief squabble and the sound of a fist connecting with a gut and a body hitting the floor. “James,” Natalia breathes, sounding, for once, flustered.
“Natalia, are you guys alright?” James repeats, finding himself smiling even wider, pulling at the sutures.
“Clint and I are fine. Deke came up when he heard us coming home, told us he saw you and Steve getting away in one of the bastard’s cars,” she informs him.
James closes his eyes, relief flooding through him. “Okay. Okay. Do you know who they are?”
“They’re sort of Hydra, that’s for sure. But it’s a little more complicated than that. Nothing to do with Clint or me, though, so they’re definitely after you. Where are you?”
“I’m in a secure place, pauk. Don’t worry. What can you give me about them?” he asks, looking around the bathroom as he speaks.
Natalia sighs. “Not much. From their belongings they’re American, but they’re not the authorities. Who’ve you gotten tangled up with this time, kotik?”
“Not sure at the moment. Thank you, Natalia, keep in touch, okay? I’m still in Brooklyn. Sorry for making a mess of Clint’s apartment,” James says sincerely.
Natalia scoffs. “It was a mess anyway. You have enough supplies?” she checks.
Once he’s assured her that everything is under control, they hang up. Immediately, James dials another number, anger building in his gut. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. And - connects. “Who is this?” is growled into the phone, the voice gruff and a distracted, like the phone call has interrupted something on their end.
James finds himself smiling. “Why, I’m offended. I would have thought you’d be expecting a call from me,” he purrs into the phone. He’s already slipped into another personality like a second skin.
Rumlow is silent for a moment before cursing. “Winter. To what do I owe this honor?” comes the shaky question.
James scowls. “You know very well why I’m calling, scum. You’re lucky that it’s just a call at this point. Did Pierce sic his men on me or not?” he demands. “And don’t hesitate, Rumlow, it’s one of your tells.”
“Fuck you, zimniy.”
James suppresses the urge to lash out. “Don’t make me hunt you down, Rumlow. Don’t make me force you to tell me. Do this the easy way,” he offers, even though he’s already imagining all the ways to make Rumlow tell him what he wants.
A pause. “Fuck you. Yes, okay. Pierce didn’t want any witnesses to your job, even you. He’s a cautious man,” Rumlow admits.
James smiles. “Thank you, Rumlow, for your cooperation. Remind Pierce who I am and that those men were more than a pathetic attempt on my life,” he says, hanging up the phone before Rumlow can speak again.
Pierce. Alexander Pierce. One of the most powerful men in the underground drug and weapons cartel - someone you really don’t want to get on the bad side of. Someone that, if you manage to do just that, won’t hesitate to get you six feet under by morning. Someone that used to hire James a lot, but only just recently found reason to get James killed. Someone who will now be on James’ tail until James is really dead and buried this time.
James drops his head into his hand and takes a deep breath. He texts the newfound information off to Natalia and takes a moment to settle back down into a state of utter concentration and calmness. Only then does he start making a plan. No one was left at the apartment to tell Pierce about Steve, so the guy’s in the clear. That’s one thing James doesn’t have to worry about.
Now there’s the matter of getting out of this, which. Is going to prove incredibly difficult, but not impossible. James is still frowning down at the tiles when someone knocks on the door. “Hey man are you alright in there?” Sam asks.
James stands up, grabbing the backpack and cringing at the flannel covered in blood. He opens the door to Sam’s concerned face and raises an eyebrow. “Fine, just making some calls. How’s Steve doing?”
Sam takes a step back, eyes flickering over the sutures in James’ face before pressing his lips together. “He’s still in shock. I made him go lay down with the promise that you’d stay to talk to him in the morning.”
“You’re alright with that?” James asks, surprised.
Sam shrugs. “Dude, you’re Bucky. Do you know how much I’ve heard about you? Steve needs you to at least talk to him. He’s...he’s been through a lot.”
James winces. “Uh, okay. Did he tell you about the memory thing?” he asks, and Sam nods. “Yeah. I don’t really remember him, which means that I’m not going to be able to live up to his expectations. He’s going to be disappointed and left worse off when I eventually disappear. Which will be soon,” James tells him.
“You’re really gonna do that to him?” Sam asks, voice betraying his surprise.
James looks at him, deadpan. “I don’t remember being in love with him. To me, I first saw him a couple of days ago. But yeah, I’m going to do that. I’ll be back before I disappear for good, though,” he says.
“What? Where are you going?” Sam frowns as James steps around him.
James grabs the file he’d given to Sam and tucks it back into the backpack. He pats down his legs, making sure the knives are still all in their holsters and that the small handgun is still in his boot. He checks the stolen gun is tucked securely into his waistband and deems himself set to go. “I’ve got to deal with this thing. It’ll take a few days, but I’ll drop by afterwards, if I’m still alive.”
Sam sputters and when James looks up he sees the look of shock on his face. “What thing?”
“Trust me, the less you know the better,” James snorts, already calculating the amount of favors he can call in.
Sam shakes his head. “Look man, I’m not so sure -”
“Sam. Everything you’ve heard about me? I’m not that guy. I switch identities at least once a year and everyone that’s important to me is wanted in more than a few countries. I’m not that guy,” he stresses, thinking about how long it’s going to take to get to his apartment and the chances of him getting what he needs from there without dying.
Sam scrapes a hand down his face. “I really think you should just...pause a moment. Steve’s not the same guy either, he’s just too modest to say anything about it.”
James frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Steve’s not some helpless guy. He said you remember him being smaller, right? You saw how big he is now. How do you think he got like that?” Sam asks.
James shrugs. “Magical puberty?”
“Funny,” Sam rolls his eyes. “No, Steve found a hobby in different fight styles, found out he was scarily good at it and has been doing something with his skill ever since.”
James narrows his eyes. “So he’s not an artist?” He’s not entirely sure why he thought Steve would be an artist, but it fits, somehow.
“On the side, yeah, but. You know the name Captain America?” Sam prompts.
James can feels his mouth drop open. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he chokes out.
Captain America, Brooklyn vigilante, saviour of the Brooklyn streets. Wears a cowl and is insane at hand-to-hand combat. Has brought in more street thieves, would-be-rapists and other criminals in the past six months than the damn cops. James had heard of him in passing ever since he started thinking about dropping the name Winter. The name Captain America had been passed around the type of people he worked for with respect for his style and an irritated tone at how good he was.
And he was Steve Rogers.
“No kidding here, man. But I’m just warning you that once Steve’s got his head on straight he’s going to help you whether you like it or not,” Sam shrugs.
James grits his teeth and sighs. “Well I’ll just have to get it done before he wakes up, won’t I?” he says, heading for the door.
“And if you don’t make it?” Sam challenges.
For some reason, James finds that incredibly funny. Maybe it’s just how tired he is. A slow grin slides across his face and he turns it on Sam. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, Sam. I’ll even make pancakes.”
He closes the door behind him and pulls his phone out to make a few calls.