When he woke up, it was bright out. There was a window right beside his bed, a big, tall window, the kind with those little fold out doors in the sides - a sash window, that was it. It was painted white, shiny in the light, the same as the walls and the ceiling. The floor was wood, what of it he could see over by the door, and his sheets were white, as were the bandages wrapped around his hand and arms and probably his head.
James. That sounded like a name. His name. James… Something something.
Su? Steve? Those sounded like names, too. Not his name, but names that were important. They meant something, something big. He just couldn't quite put his finger on what they meant.
"Hey, Barnes," someone said - a guy standing in the door, built like a brick shithouse and with the kind of moustache that he'd seen once or twice before on… Posters? Or in books? He wasn't sure. "Good to see you finally getting your lazy ass outta bed, Sarge."
James - Barnes? That sounded right, too. A little guy with a voice too deep for his body saying Thanks, Mrs. Barnes , after a familiar lady with dark hair and bright eyes. James Barnes. A good name. Solid, kinda. He could live with that.
Why did Bucky sound right, too? Where did Bucky come from, outta James Barnes?
"You know me?"
The Moustache's face fell, and he looked a little confused.
"C'mon, Sarge," he said. "I know you bumped your noggin when ya fell, but you gotta know me. You spend half your time taking me down a peg or ten."
"He more than bumped his noggin, Mr. Duggin, and you know it."
The new voice was even more familiar than Moustache's, and when the tall dame with all that shiny black hair piled up on top of her head slipped past Moustache, James' heart stopped for just a second.
"Hey, Queenie," he said. "How've you been?"
She smiled, red lipstick and shiny teeth, and there might have even been a tear or two in those big, dark eyes of hers. James didn't know how, but he knew that those tears were rare. Queenie - no, Su, Susan… Something beginning with P came next, he knew it, remembered scrawling SPB on the edge of a dinner plate and passing it over to those pale, calloused hands.
"Better than you, I dare say," she assured him, looking as fine in that olive drab as any showgirl ever had in her sequins, and perching primly on the edge of his bed. "What do you remember, James?"
Bucky's knees give way just as he makes it to the med tent, and instead of one of the guys it's a pretty brunette who catches him. She's stronger than she looks, and beautiful in a way Bucky ain't used to seeing on the front.
Not that the nurses ain't beautiful - they are, but it's a different kind of lovely. The nurses remind him of Steve's ma, good ladies with sad, tired eyes and strong, gentle hands. This dame is fancy, without a hair outta place and a slick of lipstick the colour of a strawberry highlighting her pretty smile.
Bucky's always liked a little bit of fancy. The kind of fancy that goes well with olive drab and sensible lace-up shoes. Practical fancy.
"Let's get you to a bed," she says, and her accent makes his brain fizz - she sounds like those fancy English dames they met while they were stationed in London, or the rich girls who used to come in with the guys who brought their fancy cars in to be tuned up. She doesn't seem fancy how they did - there ain't nothing fragile about this one, not with how easily she heaves Bucky upright - but there's something about her that wouldn't fit on the dancefloor of the Stork Club.
"Sergeant, is it?" she asks cheerfully, having dragged him all the way to an empty bed
"Sure is, Queenie," he says, sliding down her arm and onto one of the shaky little trestle beds they have set up as a triage unit. "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107."
"Ah," she says, laughing a little. "One of our brave Allied boys, trapped by those nasty Gerrys. Tell me, Sergeant, are their boots really so shiny as everyone says?"
He laughs so hard at such a silly question that he doesn't even notice the nurse coming for him with a big ol' syringe until she has it stuck in the cheek of his ass.
He sees Queenie grinnin' like a clown when he swears out loud, and she settles down on an upturned bucket at his bedside with a little notebook he hadn't noticed before perched on her crossed knee.
"Well, now that we have all that unpleasantness out of the way," she says, all smiles and laughing eyes, "I am Agent Susan Pevensie, and I'm going to need you to tell me all who else was with you during your captivity, if you don't mind, Sergeant. You seem to be the highest ranking soldier we've come across so far."
"It was cold," James said, shrugging - his left shoulder felt strange when he did it, too light, like he was more used to the weight of an arm pulling it down - and shifting a little more upright in the bed. "I remember that. And… There was blood, I think. Maybe mine."
"Some might have been mine," Queenie said ruefully, patting her side. "Let one of the buggers catch me with a bullet, of all things - still, could have been one of those nasty blue shots of theirs, in which case I wouldn't be here to nurse you back to health and sanity."
"What, leavin' me with Mister Moustachio over there?" he teased, wondering how come he was so easy with such a pretty dame, and then deciding not to question it.
Moustache looked half insulted, but more amused, so James figured he was right to leave things be without thinking too hard on them.
"Tell me more, James," Queenie said gently, pressing her hand over his and nudging a little closer, until her hip was against his through the blankets. "Do you remember before the cold?"
"I- not really," he admitted. "I know you're Susan, though, and I'm James, and there oughtta be some punk named Steve hangin' around like a bad smell-"
"He won't thank you for that, James," Queenie admonished him. "Steven has been beside himself since you fell, you know. In fact, I've been quite lax in not fetching him right away, after I saw you were awake."
"I'd rather look at you than any guy, if that's alright," James said easily, unable to keep from smiling when she blushed. "Aw, c'mon, Queenie, ain't I been through the wars?"
"We all have," she said, but there was no censure in her fancy voice. "But you've come through with rather more obvious scars than the rest of us, I suppose."
"So the short arm is new, then," James said quietly. "I thought so."
"You've been asleep for some days now," Queenie said. "I found you ten days ago, and it took me a day to get you out, and four days to haul your arse back to safety."
"I love it when you curse," he said, turning his hand over under hers, so he could hold tight to her fingers. "How come you came after me?"
"You'll remember why I volunteered soon enough," she promised him, blushing again. "As to why I was allowed to stage a one-woman rescue mission to rival Captain America's infamous rescue of the one-oh-seven, well, let's just say that I have a unique skill-set."
Queenie's got a reputation among the British boys as a crackshot, but Bucky's not ready to believe something like that without proof.
Carter's made a name for herself as a relentless hardass who's better than anyone else at getting her job done, and Queenie's her second-in-command - they kinda remind Bucky of himself and Steve, now that Steve is Captain America, and Bucky's just Sarge.
That's why he challenges Queenie to a shoot off - he's made a name for himself, too, and he can handle a sniper rifle better than any man he's met since joining up, so he figures he ain't gonna embarrass himself against Queenie.
Then she steps out onto the shooting range, and all the assholes who've gathered to watch go quiet. There's something about that red silk scarf against that pale neck of hers that'd silence any man, though, so Bucky can't blame them.
"Sergeant," she says, gun balanced jauntily over her shoulder, and a big old quiver full of arrows and a goddamn longbow hanging from her hip. "Fine morning for it, isn't it?"
"I'll say," is all he's got to throw back. "What's with the old school, Queenie? Ain't we a little past that?"
Queenie's smile is all a secret, especially when she shares it with Farnsworth's sidekick, who just shakes his head, like they've been here before.
Bucky knows how that is. He's been friends with Steven G. Rogers for most of his life, after all.
"Shall we, Sergeant?" she says, motioning for him to take position. "I understand that you prefer the advantage of the high ground, but-"
"I can shoot any old way you like, Agent," he promises. "Ladies first, huh?"
"You are too kind, Sergeant," she laughs, managing to swish in her jumpsuit and boots as she drops to one knee, bracing the butt of her rifle against her shoulder and smiling like a razorblade. "Best of ten, eh?"
"Best o'five," Phillips shouts from the sidelines. "We ain't got all day here, English!"
Susan waves him off, still smiling as she sights along the barrel, squeezes off a shot so casually it's just gotta go wide, and then-
"One down," she says, winking at him over her rifle. "Four to go."
"I'm gonna marry that girl," Bucky says, drawing a laugh from Steve and Gabe Jones, who're hanging about close enough to hear him. "You see if I don't, punk, I'm gonna make a Barnes of her."
Moustache had disappeared at some stage, closing the door behind him, and James found he didn't mind at all. Queenie was more than enough for him, just now, would've been even if she weren't so damn fine a lady, because he couldn't remember ever being so tired.
Then again, he couldn't remember a lot of things, so maybe that wasn't saying much.
"What happened before the cold, James?" Queenie pushed, her hand warm and strong around his. "Do you remember anything?"
"I had a gun," he said. "I had- a gun, and a fancy jacket. And I- I fell. I think I remember that. The sky was kinda white. Was it snowing?"
"Hence the cold, James," Queenie said, encouragingly. "What else? Do you remember what happened to your fancy jacket?"
"It- I fell in a river. Right down the bottom of a… A ravine? Is that right?"
Queenie was nodding, so he thought, hell, maybe he wasn't so far wrong. Maybe he should keep going.
"There was a train, before that," he said, less sure of that than the river. "And after… It was so cold, Queenie. Couldn't feel a damn thing except the cold. Think I lost m'arm in the fall, maybe - it was… Blood on the snow. My blood, not yours."
"No, James," she said softly, "definitely not mine."
"Some… Jackboots. Black uniforms and funny-lookin' masks. They found me, pulled me outta the river."
"How long were you in the water, James?"
Thinking hard, he could remember seeing the sun, just a little, in all that grey sky.
"I got out around sundown," he said, "but I dunno when I went in."
Queenie's face had gone pale and hard, and James didn't really know what to make of that.
"After they found me," he said, "I think… Maybe I was out for a while? I don't really remember, Queenie, I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, James," she assured him. "You've never forgotten anything much before - I think you're allowed this one lapse."
"There ain't many of us," Bucky said, nudging Steve along ahead of him. "But you gotta get the names right off, okay? Else they'll get insulted."
"Aw, hell, Buck, you know I'm bad at names-"
"You've got a superbrain now," Bucky said firmly. "So we're gonna stop here, and you're gonna remember your men's names, okay?"
The guys were huddled around a firebarrel a little away from everyone else, which Bucky got - people looked at you funny, when they knew you were friendly with Captain America.
"So the black guy, that's Gabe," Bucky said. "Private Gabriel Jones, US Army. He's from Georgia, so you gotta excuse the accent sometimes. Moustache is Duggan - real name is Timothy, but the asshole lets people call him Dum Dum, of all the damn things. Sergeant, same as me, real asshole but exactly who you want at your back in a tight spot."
Steve was watching them hard, so Bucky figured the kid was following.
"Little guy in the hat is Dernier," Bucky went on. "No idea what his first name is. Pro'lly somethin' French. He can make a bomb outta a tin can and a length of twine. We just call him Frenchie, he doesn't seem to mind. Tall guy in the hat is Monty - James Montgomery Falsworth, if you don't mind. He's a Brit, solid guy, likes his grenades a little too much."
"And the other two?"
"Little guy is Jim Morita," Bucky told him. "Good guy, but he takes some flack for being a Jap. I've taken to punchin' anyone who tries anything with him, but he can look after himself, mostly. Amazing with a wire, though, from what I've heard he could patch Washington through to China in his sleep."
Steve was grinning now, the little fuck, and Bucky knew that he already knew about the last member of their happy little family.
"Yeah, okay," he said, "Big Petey is Queenie's brother, but the kid can fly anything, so shut your fuckin' piehole, Rogers."
"Feel bad, forgetting things," James said, frowning now. "I just - I think they tied me down to a table, but on the train, there was… A shield? And… Was that Steve?"
"Tall, blonde, perfectly beautiful?"
James thought about it for a minute, and found he couldn't disagree.
"Wearing a goddamn flag," he agreed instead. "Taller'n me, too. That him?"
"That's him," Queenie agreed, nodding. "What else is there?"
"I had… We had a mission. Find some little fat guy. Glasses. Doctor something. I dunno, Su, it's all fuzzy. I can remember how heavy my gun was, and the box of smokes in the inner pocket of my jacket, and… Boxes? Blue guns?"
"HYDRA," Susan said, shaking her head. "Nazis within the Nazis, do you remember that?"
"Doctor Zola," he said, remembering suddenly. "Before- when we were prisoners, they put something in me, Su, I remember it now, he hooked me up to a needle and a tube and said… Something about a serum? Said it was killing everyone else, or drivin' 'em mad. Why aren't I dead or mad, Su?"
"Because I'm far too sensible to ever allow you to go mad," she said firmly. "What else do you remember, before you fell?"
"Listen," Bucky says, shoving Steve away with a laugh. "All I'm sayin' is, no man's gonna let himself be called Dum Dum unless he knows it's true."
"Maybe it's all part of the act, eh?" Duggan jokes, scritching at his moustache so loud they can hear it over the chatter in the mess. "Maybe I'm twice as smart as Stark, I just hide it behind the face of a dashing rogue."
"Do you know," Farnsworth says, twirling one end of his own moustache, which is about as far from Duggan's as it's possible for two moustaches to be, "I have never understood bowler hats to be particularly dashing. "
"Cultural differences, English," Duggan says, waving an airy hand that gets another laugh. "Whaddya think, Cap? Am I a dashing rogue?"
Steve looks around from where he's talking with Stark and Agent Carter, already rolling his eyes.
"A rogue, sure," Steve agrees easily. "Think I might have a different meaning for dashing, though."
"Alright, alright," Duggan says, smacking away Dernier's poking hand. "C'mon, who else has a bad nickname to share?"
"As of your return to camp, I believe that I do," Agent Pevensie says, appearing from nowhere and settling down beside Bucky. "Thanks to James, every nurse and doctor and corporal in the entire army seems to know me only as Queenie."
The look she throws over the table to the blonde kid who came in with Farnsworth is too familiar for Bucky's liking, but he lets it slide. He barely knows Queenie, after all, and even if he's pretty sure she's the best looking girl he's ever met, well, it's not his place.
"Look, I was pretty shook up," he says, grinning over Duggan and Jones' guffawing. "I promise, Queenie, I'll chase down every little punk who calls you anythin' but Agent P, okay?"
"You're too gracious, Sergeant Barnes," Queenie says dryly, but she's smiling, even as the others laugh louder.
"Nothin' right before," he said, biting his lip. "I remember the guys, though - and you, kinda. I dunno why I can only remember bits and pieces, Su, I should be able to remember more."
"You should be dead, James," Susan said, her smile grim and shiney-eyed. "While I'm glad you are not, in fact, deceased, I would like to know why. You fell several hundred feet into a frozen river, and should have died from blood loss and shock if not from hypothermia."
"Maybe it's that serum stuff," he said, feeling a little sick at the idea. "Maybe it's something like Steve's?"
Susan pressed her free hand over her eyes with a sigh.
"Just what we need," she said, sounding a little pissed off and a lot hot. " More idiot supersoldiers."