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JamesBarnes · M
Barnes steeled for his next sarcastic comment as he noticed that what he had first mistaken for blush on her cheekbone was actually a fresh bruise. Signs of the previous fight were starting to be visible on her. And suddenly he didn’t feel so much like having the confrontation that was brewing in search for answers.
There was a silence as he waited for the tectonic plates to either begin to shift or stop shifting when he asked about the comb. The curly-haired was once again avoiding his questions, and before he could stop her she was jumping and disappearing through one of those portals again, not giving him further explanation of anything.
James was left in that room exasperated and with no answers. He would spend the next minutes roaming the space with his phone in hand, trying to get any signal. No use. The abandoned safehouse seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods only. It was either leave that place and find himself a way back, or wait for the strange woman to comeback— like she said she would.
In the meantime he’d been trying to piece together the last hour through hazy images, and the cocktail of drugs that was still running through his system. Whatever it was, it must have been hella strong, since he was now remembering the foggy image of a talking lizard.
The place was also full of curiosities and the soldier kept rummaging through them. A vast collection of trinkets and more drawings. He knew what it was like to plasm memories onto paper to avoid losing them— or to revisit them again. He had written his in a dozen of journals because of the fear of having them taken from him. His life, his real self -not the weapon- was tied up in memory. And memories were a fickle thing to toy with.
His first impression had been that the woman knew him from some books, or the internet, or the news… maybe the museum? It wouldn’t have been a first to bump into obsessed strangers calling themselves fans of Steve Rogers.
But this was different.
It’s said that smells are closely linked to memory compared to other senses. But images trigger buried memories faster than words. These all flared in the soldier’s mind looking at those sketches for a second time, and now finding portraits in charcoal of Manami.
The memory of her wasn’t worn smooth, like others in his store.
Vivid images of himself and the Japanese girl seized him. Conversations and moments they had shared together. They way she called him James and not Bucky because it sounded dumb and it wasn’t proper for them to use it, in her own words.
Now, it had been a process, a recovery one. It had taken him years before feeling something close to his former self again. After the helicariers fell, once freed from his handlers, when on the run… he used to feel like a thief every time he’d heard his real name applied to him. James Buchanan Barnes. At first it was like a bittersweet feeling, like it didn’t belong to him but to the man with his face that he’d read about at the Smithsonian. The one portrayed in those sketches. Like a rank he had taken his time to earn back.
And it made no sense, because he had never mentioned Manami to anyone else. Those memories had been buried for about 80 years.
There was a silence as he waited for the tectonic plates to either begin to shift or stop shifting when he asked about the comb. The curly-haired was once again avoiding his questions, and before he could stop her she was jumping and disappearing through one of those portals again, not giving him further explanation of anything.
James was left in that room exasperated and with no answers. He would spend the next minutes roaming the space with his phone in hand, trying to get any signal. No use. The abandoned safehouse seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods only. It was either leave that place and find himself a way back, or wait for the strange woman to comeback— like she said she would.
In the meantime he’d been trying to piece together the last hour through hazy images, and the cocktail of drugs that was still running through his system. Whatever it was, it must have been hella strong, since he was now remembering the foggy image of a talking lizard.
The place was also full of curiosities and the soldier kept rummaging through them. A vast collection of trinkets and more drawings. He knew what it was like to plasm memories onto paper to avoid losing them— or to revisit them again. He had written his in a dozen of journals because of the fear of having them taken from him. His life, his real self -not the weapon- was tied up in memory. And memories were a fickle thing to toy with.
His first impression had been that the woman knew him from some books, or the internet, or the news… maybe the museum? It wouldn’t have been a first to bump into obsessed strangers calling themselves fans of Steve Rogers.
But this was different.
It’s said that smells are closely linked to memory compared to other senses. But images trigger buried memories faster than words. These all flared in the soldier’s mind looking at those sketches for a second time, and now finding portraits in charcoal of Manami.
The memory of her wasn’t worn smooth, like others in his store.
Vivid images of himself and the Japanese girl seized him. Conversations and moments they had shared together. They way she called him James and not Bucky because it sounded dumb and it wasn’t proper for them to use it, in her own words.
Now, it had been a process, a recovery one. It had taken him years before feeling something close to his former self again. After the helicariers fell, once freed from his handlers, when on the run… he used to feel like a thief every time he’d heard his real name applied to him. James Buchanan Barnes. At first it was like a bittersweet feeling, like it didn’t belong to him but to the man with his face that he’d read about at the Smithsonian. The one portrayed in those sketches. Like a rank he had taken his time to earn back.
And it made no sense, because he had never mentioned Manami to anyone else. Those memories had been buried for about 80 years.