Old Ghosts

Chapter 1

This was a hall of ghosts. People thronged around him, a blur of motion and wordless chatter, of life and warmth and even stranger things. They crowded together, talking and pointing, paying no attention to the stranger hunching in his jacket and tugging down his cap. A child brushed past him, rushing wide-eyed toward the next exhibit, and he flinched instinctively away. Two exits, three guards. If he had to run, they wouldn't be a problem. He drew a ragged breath, willing himself to stay calm. These were just people, families. They wouldn't hurt him, couldn't hurt him. No one even knew he was here.

No one but the ghosts. They'd followed him here, whispering in his ear, the cold creeping up his spine as he made his way through the museum. Always, they brought the cold. Always, they stared, angry and accusing, an endless parade of fractured memories and nameless faces. He didn't know them, not really, but he knew how they had died. His fists clenched in his pockets, remembering. He'd stopped trying to block them out, stopped trying to shut his eyes to the horrors that they had to show him. Because that was the point, the only thing left that made sense. He deserved this.

Is that why he'd come? Had they not punished him enough? He could tell himself that he was looking for answers, but that was only half true. He wanted to feel this. He wanted it to hurt.

Someone laughed in his ear and he whirled, shoulders tensing. It was only a group of teenagers, moving onto the next display, paying no attention to him. He checked his exit again. People were starting to step around him, to cast curious glances his way. He'd been standing here too long.

Because he'd found the ghost that he was looking for. It had started with the man on the ship, the man who had hurt him, the man who had saved him. He shouldn't have, but that was the man he was. A hero, the signs called him, a patriot, a soldier. But the ghost that whispered to him now was something else. He stood beside him, staring up at the video screens that flickered from one newsreel to the next. He was so small, just a skinny kid. Steven Rogers, who had become Captain America. Steven Rogers, always too damn stubborn to back down from a fight. How did he know that? It wasn't written on the walls, wasn't in the videos. But as they watched the old footage together, the instinct returned in force, the same instinct he'd felt when he plunged into the water and dragged the man to shore. So small, so good. He needed to be protected.

The exhibit explained how the tiny boy beside him had become the man that he had fought, how the war had changed him. No, not war. It had been the work of men, of science. Rogers had been chosen because of what they saw inside, a hero who just needed a little push. They'd taken the best and made him even better. But men had changed him, too. They'd fused him into something new, used their machines to scar his mind. And what had he become? What sort of monster must he have been to end up like this?

Looking up at him, the ghost smiled. "You're not a monster, Buck."

He turned away, panic tightening his chest. He'd been wrong to come here. None of it made sense, not the things the man had told him, not the details recorded here. But another ghost was waiting for him, looming ahead, etched into a wall of glass. Frozen. Lost. Just like him. A ghost with his face.

The glass threw back his reflection. He forced himself to study it, to look past the shadowed chin and hollow eyes. It had been a long time since he'd seen himself for what he was, since the concept of self held any meaning. He was a tool, an instrument of war, of terror made flesh. Or mostly flesh. He reached out instinctively, foolishly, nearly touching the glass before he could stop himself. Adjusting his glove, he shoved his hands back into his pockets.

They shared certain features, this dead man and the face that must be his - the chin, the brow, a slight downturn at the mouth. But there were video screens beside the glass that showed something else, something that stunned him. The man was the same, but he was smiling, laughing, marching with an easy sort of confidence, clapping a hand fondly on the shoulder of the man standing at his side. His face on a stranger, a stranger who had died. And that was the difference. This man had lived. But he had always been a ghost.

He read the words etched into the glass, muttering beneath his breath, tasting them. He'd never had a name. The man on the ship had tried to give him one and it was his voice that he heard now, echoing, pleading, reaching for something that wasn't there. Reaching for him. James Buchanan Barnes. Other voices joined the first, the memories coming in quick succession. A man calling him "kid" and ruffling his hair. A laughing girl calling him "Sarge." A red-haired woman calling him "James," her whisper warm against his ear.

It was a lie. It had to be. Rogers had only been trying to distract him, to get the upper hand. But then why hadn't he fought back? Why had he let him...? Why had he almost...?

He stared down at his hands. There had been so many missions, so many ghosts. Why was this the one that haunted him? Why did the thought of what he'd almost done hurt just as much as all the things he had?

It was his fault, his fault the memories had come rushing back, his fault the ghosts had come to collect their due. He shouldn't remember. It wasn't allowed. They would come for him, put him back in the chair, make him forget again. And suddenly that thought hurt more than anything.

"Excuse me, could you take our-?" Someone touched his arm and he whirled with a snarl, shoving them away.

It was only a woman, a stranger. She staggered backward into the arms of the man behind her, her camera falling to the floor.

"Hey, what the hell?!"

But he was already bolting for the exit, avoiding people where he could, pushing them out of the way where he couldn't. One of the security guards spotted him, but he was an old man, too far away to do any good. Dashing down the stairs, he choked on a wild laugh. If he believed all this, he was an old man, too.

It was stupid to draw attention, stupid to come here. He knew better. He'd been trained better. He slowed down as he approached the exit, blending back into the crowd as it filtered outside. People were dispersing, going back to their homes, their lives. He tried to think like they did, to remember what that meant. But the memories he found were broken, full of blood and smoke. That was all he had left.

Shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, he walked, letting his feet carry him where they would. The steets were empty, but he wasn't alone. He felt the ghost before he saw him, knew that he had never left.

"Where we headed, Buck?"

He shook his head. "You tell me."

"You know I can't." The ghost stopped, staring up at the front of the nearest building. After all of it, he was still calm, still smiling. Just a skinny friggin' kid who couldn't see that everything had gone to hell. "I'm not real, Buck."

"Yeah, I got that." He followed his gaze, looking at the sign above the door. It was as good a place as any, a place where people wouldn't ask questions, a place where maybe even the ghosts would leave him alone. Pushing open the door, he squinted into the darkness of the bar. "But if we're doing this, I think I'm gonna need a drink."