Disclaimer: The Winter Soldier does not belong to me. I suppose I had the thought that being famous can be a bit like a prison. Then the story bunny started to hop...and I decided to start writing.

"Your work is a gift to mankind!"

James Buchanan Barnes stared at himself in the mirror. After two hours sitting still, he could finally move. He began to turn. "Thanks, Alex."

"You know I wouldn't say it unless it were true." An older man, whose slightly weathered appearance was belied by his charisma, smiled at him. "Seriously, James. hen I spotted you in that shopping mall ten years ago, I knew that you would be perfect. And you have been. Grunge and the 90s waif look was over. We needed someone strong, heroic looking. A symbol for the new world."

James sighed. "If you say so."

"The shoot starts in twenty minutes," Alexander Pierce intoned, standing up. "The photographer will be here soon. And, also, I spoke to Rumlow. He's planning on working you hard for the next couple of weeks. No drinking, no partying. Understand? You turn up to the Clotier shoot looking 10lbs overweight and everything goes to pot."

James shook his head. "I understand, Alex. I understand completely."

"Good." Pierce smiled. "Remember, this Fashion house is one of the biggest in the world. Exposure everywhere. Its impressive how you've been at the top for ten years. Let's try and keep it for at least another five, ok?"

Barnes nodded, mutely. Suddenly, the photographer's assistant arrived. "James?"

Getting up, he walked into the studio.

"It'll be fun. Trust me, man!"

Steve Rogers smiled as he took a sip of coffee. It was the staff break, and he was wholeheartedly embracing it. Four classes back to back, plus the prospect of two meetings tagged onto the end of the afternoon...he shook his head. He sometimes wondered how he kept up with the demands of teaching English in a High School, but, as his friends Sam and Natasha kept reminding him, he had been in the army.

"Should be easy for you," Natasha had twinkled when he'd been at the school a couple of weeks.

"Says you," Steve had retorted. "What's better - the enemy standing there armed to the teeth, or twenty tired, hormonal teenagers facing you at 2pm on a Friday afternoon?" He looked at her. "I think I'll take the former."

"Not in six months you won't," she'd said, grinning. A Phys Ed teacher, Natasha was regarded as formidable throughout the school. He blinked as Sam, who taught Psychology, brought him back to the present.

"It'll be good."

Steve pulled a face. "A nightclub?!"

"Think about it." Sam leaned forward. "Its Tony Stark's new club. It'll have the works. The whole Faculty's going. Its nearly the end of the Semester, we all deserve a break."

Steve shrugged. "Hmmm..."

"Seriously, you need a break." Sam stretched. "I'm going, Nat's going to bring Clint...what's wrong with some downtime?"

Steve smiled. "OK, you got me. We'll go. And we'll have a good time."

"That's the spirit." Sam clapped him on the shoulder, then looked at him more closely. "You ok, man?"

"I'm fine." Steve looked a little pensive. "Its...no, its silly."

"Nothing we feel is ever silly," Sam said, his tone grave. Steve shot him a look. "Sorry. Amateur counsellor there."

"No, its fine. Its just..." Steve bit his lip. "Yesterday was an old friend of mine's birthday." He rubbed his forehead. "I realised the only way I could get hold of him was to tweet him, along with all his other groupies." He smiled wryly. "And ten years ago I would send him a card. The personal touch."

"He famous?" Sam asked, picking up his cooling cup of black coffee.

"Heard of James Buchanan Barnes?"

Sam's eyes widened. "The model? Part time actor?"

"That's him!"

"Wow!" Sam's eyes were the size of Jupiter. "You knew him?!"

"Since we were kids." Steve sipped his coffee. "In fact, we went to the same college, roomed together, and even enlisted together."

Sam blinked. "I-"

"And then he was spotted by some talent scout when we were at home after a tour of Afghanistan," Steve said sombrely, "and that was it. He and I-" he clicked his fingers - "living in different worlds."

Steve remembered the day clearly. They'd gone to a mall, both wanting to experience something glossily vacuous, after the scenes they'd witnessed in Afghanistan. As they'd left Starbucks, a man had approached them. An older man, whose greying blonde hair and expensive suit demanded attention.

"Can I talk to you?" he'd said to Barnes, completely ignoring Steve. "I'm scouting for a model agency. You're the type we need for a new male star. Alexander Pierce. Here's my card."

He and Barnes had argued about it.

"Modelling?!"

Barnes shrugged. "Its money, Steve. You know that. I really don't want to serve another two tours, and I'd like to finish college. Single mom, remember? I'd like to be home for her."

"But still..." Steve couldn't believe his best friend was seriously contemplating Pierce's offer. "I-"

He hadn't made any impact. A couple of days later, Barnes had packed up and left to go on a shoot. Discharged himself.

Sam sat quietly and listened. "Woah."

"Yep." Steve rubbed his face. "And after that - I was only in touch with him by looking at magazines and pictures." He shook his head.

"Don't you want to get in touch?"

"With Bucky? Yeah. But where do I start?"

James - Bucky - sighed as he got back to his hotel. The anonymous blandness of the room was both soothing and irritating. He collapsed onto the bed. Six hours of standing like a statue. He rubbed his eyes.

"At least I get to fly back to LA tomorrow," he muttered. Rome, he'd decided, wasn't quite to his taste. Suddenly, the phone rang. He pulled it out. "Hello?"

"James?" It was Alex. "Listen, I need yo to start packing. Tomorrow we have to get you to New York."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up. "New York? What?"

"We need to re-do the shoots from a couple of weeks ago. No excuses. Start packing. Oh, and don't eat anything on the flight. You're looking bloated."

Bucky opened his mouth to protest but the phone went dead. Moodily, he clicked it off. "No better than a prisoner," he muttered. Getting up, he started packing.

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