Who Killed Jack Thompson?

Chapter 17

"This is a Danish," Dottie said, handing one to Bucky at the breakfast table. Throughout his time at the mansion, he had grown quite fond of them. He smiled, a certain complexity in his eyes. He was becoming comfortable there, and was regaining his memories slowly. He read a lot in the library, and asked Daniel to describe the war. Sometimes, they could even convince him to watch a movie in the screening room. His favorite was the Wizard of Oz. "I remember watching this with someone," he said once.

One evening, Bucky had wandered into Howard's study and came across some notes and plans. With a closer look, he saw a familiar face, and and even more familiar shield. "Is he— is he dead?" Bucky asked, trembling. Howard cleared his throat, "Yeah. Sorry, pal." Bucky stood staring at the picture on Howard's desk, remembering the friend from a past life. "You can keep that if you want it," Howard said. And Bucky did.

Most things were normal, but there came the sleepless nights and fitful nightmares. They could often hear Bucky cursing in Russian in his sleep, and saying the most chilling things. "I don't want to," and "I have to," and also, "I killed him." It bothered Dottie so much that she moved into the room beside his.

It was extremely hard on Dottie. She had never known Bucky— just James Sokolov. Sokolov never existed, though. She was seeing his face, but he didn't remember.

There were nights when Bucky would sit up at night drawing to jog his memory. More times than not, he found himself drawing the man they called Captain America. However, he drew them as the small Steven Rogers he had grown up with. His best friend. The little guy who always seemed to get his butt kicked, who always got his pride handed to him on a silver platter. Bucky remembered patching him up after a particularly rough fight— holding a steak to his eye to take the swelling off of the shiner, making sure he hadn't broken any of his fragile bones, and keeping an inhaler somewhere near him just in case. Of all of those times Bucky saved him, Steve came to his rescue appearing so much taller. Perhaps the two of them would still be living happily in Brooklyn had they not joined the army.

Bucky's pencil moved to the bottom of the page, scribbling, "'til the end of the line."

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"I never would have imagined things would be like this," Peggy said to Daniel one night as they walked through the garden. "I know what you mean," he answered. He so wished he could reach out and hold her hand, but he was afraid that his awkward stride would make things difficult for her. "I guess that's what comes with the job, though," she said. Roses and gardenias framed either side of the trail in the garden, and fireflies rose from the earth and did a little dance around them. "I know that things are hard. I completely understand being a step behind and trying to get a step ahead," he said, lifting his crutch slightly off the ground for emphasis. Peggy smiled at his acceptance of his own setback. "I don't know about being chief, Daniel," she said. "The S.S.R needs a strong leader, and it would be stupid to have anyone else," Daniel answered.

"I've always dreamed of being the chief, but now that it's an option, I don't know what to do," Peggy revealed. This was the most she had opened up to anyone in a long time, and she had to admit that it felt nice. Daniel stopped walking, and looked in her eyes, saying, "Whatever you choose, I believe in you."