The Red Soldier: Origins of the Red Soldier

ISSUE #11

About a week and a half later, as (Y/N) (L/N) fixed himself a scotch and placed a record on the turntable in his living room, a knock came from the door. Colonel Phillips stood on his doorstep, his hands clutching a brown A4 envelope. 'Might I come in?' asked the colonel, and (Y/N) nodded, leading the way into his cramped Brooklyn apartment. The flat was sparsely decorated, with only a single bed shoved into the corner away from the window, and a leather couch he'd paid two men to carry up off of the street the day he'd moved in.

'Drink?' he gruffed in the direction of Colonel Phillips.

'If you don't mind,' he replied, and (Y/N) poured another glass of scotch, handing one to his superior. Colonel Phillips took a sip and then rested the envelope in his hands on the kitchen bench. 'I assume you know why I'm here Dr (L/N).'

'I'm being fired, aren't I,' (Y/N) said, his eyes staring at the brown envelope. He wasn't surprised, in fact, he'd been expecting it. The bookshelf above his bed now lay bare as he'd packed away his work, and for the past week he'd been using up all the food in his cupboards. Leaving the hospital after Bucky's death meant he'd essentially abandoned his post, and the devastation he'd caused was not completely justified, meaning he'd practically committed a war crime.

The victory in Europe had been announced in the papers only a couple days ago, but (Y/N) hadn't left his apartment to join in the celebrations; instead, he remained at home, waiting for somebody from the US Army to come and reprimand him.

'Discharged,' corrected Colonel Phillips, 'although I wouldn't be expecting any medals.' (Y/N) shrugged his shoulders, it wouldn't have bothered him too much if they'd arrested him and threw away the key. He wanted to make Steve proud of him; leave the vengeful hatred for those who killed Bucky Barnes behind him and try his hardest to recover from his loss, but he couldn't deny that prison sounded a lot easier.

He opened the envelope and studied the letter before folding it up and chucking it into the open suitcase on his bed. 'Going somewhere?' the colonel piped up, finishing his drink.

'Home,' (Y/N) nodded, walking over to his narrow wardrobe, and pulling out what little clothes he owned. His hands found a brown leather jacket, the name 'Barnes' embroidered on the pocket in block capitals, three chevron stripes stitched onto the left sleeve.

'It's been a pleasure working with you Dr (L/N) Colonel Phillips said, 'take care.' With that done, he left. (Y/N) hadn't bothered saying goodbye, his mind was fogged with memories as he sat down on his bed and studied the jacket. It was one of the few things he had left of James Buchanan Barnes, along with a few photographs and an Ernie Burchill single.

(Y/N) slipped into the jacket, breathing in the scent, and searching the pockets. He found a carton of Lucky Strikes and a book of matches which he now held in his right hand. He replaced the Louis Armstrong record he was playing with the Ernie Burchill single, turning the volume up as high as he possibly could before pouring himself a second drink and lighting a cigarette.

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you'

Birds singing in the sycamore tree

Dream a little dream of me.

(Y/N) let the alcohol poison him, enjoying the way it numbed the pain inside his heart. He hadn't touched a cigarette in weeks, and now the smoke burned the back of his throat, but he didn't mind; it was a pleasurable pain which reminded him that he was alive. The doctor wondered what he had done to deserve life; he wasn't as strong as Steve, or as brave as Bucky; he wasn't as kind as his older brother, or as honourable as his father. Perhaps the men in my life are simply cursed, he thought.