Sebastian Stan Short Stories

Bucky Barnes [13]

"I Can Help"

Post Winter Soldier

*

Before Captain America was thawed, the Smithsonian was as popular as it had always been. When he sprinted through New York, a sudden interest in the Second World War began to bloom. Naturally, my bosses took advantage of this, and the Cap exhibit opened. Archives were raided, historians consulted, eye witnesses tracked down.

It became as much a fixture in the Museum of American History as the collection of dresses written by First Ladies. People came and made a b-line for the Steve Rogers showcase. They gawked at him and the Howling Commandos. The children measured themselves against his pre- and post-serum body. The old men and women who grew up in the shade of the Cold War carefully read every word on each display. There were elementary school field trips and university students using our research as references for American history assignments.

And then SHIELD fell from the sky. Captain America fought his best friend. A man that had been dead for seventy years reappeared.

The exhibit didn't change immediately, but meetings were held and plans were made to correct the displays regarding one James Buchanan Barnes.

The people did change. Field trips were canceled and assignments changed. Those old men who saw their brothers or fathers in the history of it all would sit in silence while trying to process what they saw on the news. Sometimes young men would stand and stare as well.

"If you come back in two days, everything about Sergeant Barnes will have been corrected," I told one of those men. He jumped in the slightest as I spoke to him but quickly regained his composure. "It's a bit hot for a jacket, isn't it?"

He looked down at his outfit then slowly back up. Surely he wasn't drunk. I had only seen drunk people move like he did, as if his body was new to his brain.

"I seem to always be cold," he explained. There was the slightest trace of an accent in his voice, something Eastern European. Maybe he came here out of curiosity; simply trying to figure out how this sort of thing had happened. I was wondering the same thing.

"They keep the museum pretty cold. I understand," I said. I held my cardigan covered arm up for him to see, and he tilted his head minutely to see. His baseball cap covered his eyes. I didn't even know if he really looked. "I always bring a jacket to work."

There was another quiet moment as he processed what I said. It was a if he needed to thaw out the connections in his head.

"You work here?"

"Yeah. I could recite every word in this exhibit. I could even tell you what's wrong," I bragged. I caught a very small smile from him.

"What's wrong then?" he asked, a challenge.

"Jacques was the explosives expert, and he has a French EOD patch on his arm. World War II formed the concept of explosive ordinance detonation. He shouldn't have had a patch yet on that uniform, but it came from a family member who inherited his war memorabilia. The working theory is that he added the patch once it was issued," I explained, pointing to one of the mannequins.

"One fluke? Good job," he congratulated dryly.

"Barnes has the wrong rifle," I added.

"What? How do you know that?"

Suddenly he was fully thawed. His head snapped to the side, and I knew he was staring at the side of my head.

"His uniform is a replica, unfortunately. We weren't able to get the original. But the rifle in the display is standard issue for any American soldier, but he was the sniper of the Howling Commandos. He had a specialized rifle, which we have in the archives but didn't put out for some reason," I told him.

"What else do you know about him?" the man asked.

"Just what we knew from his service record and friends and family we could track down," I said. "Birthday, biographical facts, military information."

He nodded more steadily, and I knew I had struck a chord with him.

"I know one more important thing," I began. He tilted his head a bit, listening. "I know you didn't come through the metal detectors at the main entrance."

Once again his posture changed dramatically. He went from a forcefully casual pose to the wide and powerful stance of a fighter. His shoulders were pulled back, and his gloved hands became fists.

"I saw you on the security feeds, sneaking in a back door. I recognize you, Sergeant."

"No one calls me that anymore," he said plainly.

"Fine then. Bucky," I corrected.

"Did you tell anyone?"

"No. I was the one who kept the alarms from going off," I informed him. He relaxed by a millimeter. He was measuring my worth.

"Who do you work for?" he checked.

"Neither friend nor foe. Consider me an ally who knows you're in danger and need to get away," I said. "I can help."

He faced me, watching as I pulled a plain leather wallet from my messenger bag. I unfolded it casually, showing him the contents.

"Five hundred in US dollars, a fake driver's license. No debit or credit cards. Use the cash," I advised. "The business cards are for allies too. They'll get you more money in varying denominations with non-sequential serial numbers, a passport if you need it, a ride across the Atlantic if you want it."

I held the wallet in front of me. Anyone watching our conversation would see a museum employee doing their job with a guest.

"Do you want my help?"

"I think so," he said hesitantly.

"I'm going to laugh like we're old friends who happened to run into each other. I'll tell you I need to leave, you'll say it was good to see me again. Got it?"

"Got it."

I put a happy smile on my face and turned to completely face Bucky.

"I really hate to go, but I've got plans for tonight," I pretended. He caught on right away and with minimal awkwardness.

"That's alright. It was good to see you thought," he repeated back to me. I went in for the misleading hug and slipped the wallet into his jacket pocket. He very gingerly returned the hug, using only one arm and leaning back slightly.

"My contact information is written on a bar napkin folded in with the money, so stay in touch," I told him. He quickly caught the new information. "I can get you intel. About yourself, about people hunting you. Just call."

"Thanks," he told me cautiously. He was still unsure of me. It was obvious. I had no doubt he would ditch the wallet, keep the information, and exchange the cash somewhere. That would be the smart thing to do.

"Good luck, Bucky Barnes."

*

Author's Note:

First off, I am very sorry about disappearing for nearly a month. Between some real world activities and my fickle inspiration, I've found it hard to write on these one shots. I have a few ideas, thanks to some writing prompts.

Now, my fickle imagination has been somewhat kind to me though, and I'm happy to announce a new, full length story based on this very one shot. If you're interested in reading it, Through the Shadows can be found under my works.