Till the End of the Line

During the development of the Captain America exhibit, the Smithsonian contacted those who had either been close to, or worked closely with the Captain to contribute any memorabilia they might have. Most of the people who had actually known the Captain during the war were, of course, either disabled by old age or deceased, so it was up to their relatives to help out.
As a freelance conservator-restorer and granddaughter of one of the Captain's Howling Commandos, Sarah Falsworth was very involved in the exhibition. She had moved to D.C. the year before, for another restoration job for the museum. A week before the exhibition launched, however, Sarah had to return to England to attend her grandmother's funeral. Out of courtesy to her family she stayed for two weeks before returning to the States.

She came back early on Saturday morning, tired from the plane ride, but excited to finally see her work on display. When she had dumped her bags at her apartment, she made her way to the museum as quickly as possible.
Saturday was always a busy day. Sarah manoeuvred through the crowd, moving slowly to take everything in properly. She lingered for a long time in front of the mannequins displaying the uniforms worn by the Captain and his men. Sarah smiled proudly at her grandfather's uniform, on which she had done a lot of work. The other uniform she'd been assigned was that of Sergeant Barnes, which was placed next to the Captain's.
Behind each mannequin hung a large portrait of the man the uniform belonged to. Fascinated, Sarah studied the faces for a while before turning round to head for the exit. But something made her pause; a face in the crowd caught her eye. She stared at a man who was examining the memorial for Sergeant Barnes, the only Howling Commando who died during the war. She had read a lot about him, in her grandfather's letters from the war which were now in her possession. What struck her was that the man, underneath his baseball cap and stubble, was the spitting image of Barnes. Intrigued, Sarah made her way over to him. Anyone who looked so much like the man in the picture on the memorial had to be related to Barnes. She'd never met another relative of a Howling Commando and she was very interested in meeting someone to maybe swap stories with. Before she could reach him, however, he was already weaving his way through the crowd towards the exit. Sarah decided to go after him, hoping to catch up with him once they were outside.
She followed him, and it wasn't until they were out on the sidewalk that she found the courage to actually tap him on the shoulder. He turned around, eyeing her anxiously. Sarah felt like she was staring the actual James Barnes in the face. "Hi," she started awkwardly, "I'm sorry to bother you... My name is Sarah Falsworth," he blinked at her, still looking rather nervous, "and I know this might be a bit odd, but I was wondering whether you are perhaps related to Sergeant Barnes… You see, my grandfather, Monty Falsworth, was one of the Howling Commandos and…" while she was talking his eyes shifted between her and the street behind her, growing larger every second. Before she could finish her sentence, he suddenly turned around and ran.
Sarah looked around wildly to see what had caused him to take off like that. By the time she turned her head back to where he'd been standing, he was already gone. She sighed, shrugged, turned round and started making her way home. She had hardly taken two steps when a man in a black suit appeared from between the crowd on the pavement. Within a few large strides he was right in front of Sarah, taking her aside by her arm. "What the-," Sarah struggled while he pushed her into a black car that had just pulled up beside them. He slammed the door shut as soon as she was inside.
"Hey!" she exclaimed, trying, but failing, to open the door.
"Sarah Josephine Falsworth?" a voice said. Sarah looked up. In the seat opposite her sat another man in a suit and glasses. When Sarah didn't reply, the man continued: "Miss Falsworth, let me cut right to the chase," the man took his glasses off and started polishing them, "what did the man you were talking to just now want from you?"
Flustered, Sarah blinked back at him. "He.. he didn't want anything," she said stiffly.
"What, then, did you want from him?"
"I.. Who are you?"
"That's not relevant right now."
"It is to me."
"I am interested in the man you were seen talking to before you entered this car."
"Well, I don't blame you, he's very handsome. But maybe a little young for you, don't you think?"

The man cocked an eyebrow at her, evidently not amused by her cheek. He leaned forward, "Miss Falsworth," he continued impatiently, "let me make myself very clear: if you continue to evade my questions you can and will be charged with obstructing justice, withholding evidence and aiding a dangerous fugitive. We know your grandfather was acquainted with Barnes, so we'd like to know why you are trying to contact him."
Sarah gaped at him, "That was him? But how could he be, Sergeant Barnes died, didn't he?"
The man pursed his lips, apparently he had said too much. He didn't reply, evidently Sarah was still required to answer his question first. She sighed, "I 'contacted' him because I thought I recognised him, that's all."
The man eyed her suspiciously for a minute, leaning back into his seat. "Alright," he said, "thank you for your time, Miss Falsworth. If you see the man in question again, please contact this number," he gave her a small card with a telephone number on it. Before she could say or do anything else the door was opened from the outside. Sarah hadn't noticed the car stopping. Casting one more look at the man with the glasses she got out. The driver shut the door, walked over to his side of the car again and Sarah watched them drive off with a very uncomfortable knot in her stomach.

Although she was jet-lagged , Sarah couldn't sleep that night. She was too confused about everything that had happened that day. Apparently James Barnes was not only alive, but he was dangerous and on the run. And not only was he still alive, he looked about the same age as in all the pictures she had seen of him. What had happened to him? Had he been frozen, like Captain Rogers? Sarah tossed and turned, trying to clear her head, but in the end she gave up. She got out of bed, picked a large knitted jumper off the floor and pulled it over the t-shirt she used as pyjama's, and went down to the kitchen to make cup of tea.
Sarah lived in a two-storey apartment, her bedroom and bathroom upstairs and a living room with open kitchen downstairs.
The kitchen opened up to a small balcony, where Sarah grew a variety of herbs and flowers, and leading off the kitchen was another room she used as a makeshift workshop and study, where she kept all her grandfather's things she had collected for the exhibition.
Sarah leaned against the wall, careful not to touch her bare legs to the cold stone, while she waited for the water to boil. Suddenly she heard a shuffling noise coming from inside the study. She froze, listening closely. As a precaution, she quietly took a frying pan out of the cupboard, holding it tightly in her hand, drawing closer to the door. Again she heard shuffling coming from inside, and she felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. The door stood slightly ajar, and she gripped the frying pan more tightly, and counted to three in her head.
On three she pushed the door open, brandishing the frying pan over her head, but dropped it almost immediately when she got a clear view of the room. The study was dark, but a little light flooded in from outside, and she could see a tall, broad figure standing in the middle of the room with a gun pointing straight at her face.
The figure advanced, driving her into the living room with his gun, until Sarah almost collapsed over the couch. They stared at each other. It was him: it was James Barnes. Sarah felt dizzy with shock.
He took off the baseball cap, wiping some of his long hair out of his face with a gloved hand.
"You know who I am," it was a statement, not a question. Trembling a little, Sarah nodded. Slowly he lowered the gun.
"Why did you come here?" Sarah asked when she finally found her voice.
"I recognised the name.. Falsworth," he said, "I remember him."
Still thoroughly confused, she frowned at him. Next moment they both jumped when the kettle started whistling.

Sarah rushed over to the stove to turn the heat off. He followed her, looking at her as she turned back to him, still feeling rather nervous.
"Look, I'm sorry for breaking in to your home," he began quietly, gingerly placing the gun on the kitchen table, "but I'm trying to remember… And your grandfather knew me, he knew who I was, and I thought…"
Sarah shook her head a little, "My grandfather is dead, so I'm afraid he's not going to be much help to you."
He hesitated, then said: "No, but you might be," he pulled a pack of letters, tightly bound together with a piece of string, out of his pocket with an apologetic look in his eyes. "You kept most of his things from the war," he placed the letters next to the gun on the kitchen table. Sarah crossed her arms over her chest, scrutinising him.
"I'm not sure if I should help you. I've heard you're a dangerous fugitive, and I'll get into a lot of trouble if anyone found out I've been helping you."
He looked at her, a little guiltily, "I am and you probably will, if anyone finds out," he took a few steps towards her, "but I promise to help you if they do, if you help me remember. I have nowhere to start, but I'm sure I can find something about myself in your grandfather's things…" There was a plea in his eyes that made Sarah's heart flutter a little bit. He took another step towards her, "Please, I have to.. I need to remember who I was."
They looked at each other for a moment, his blue eyes burning into hers. Sarah thought she saw a shadow in them, as if a part of his troubled mind was showing through them. Now that the initial fright of his sudden appearance in her home had ebbed away, her curiosity was piqued. She wanted to know how it was possible that he was still alive; how it was possible that he didn't look a day over twenty-seven; and why he couldn't remember who he was. But aside from that, she felt sorry for him. Even though he seemed so strong, he looked so vulnerable. This was not a dangerous man: this was a man in pain. He was asking for her help. And she was going to help him as best she could.
"Okay," she muttered, "I'll help you," she yawned, feeling more exhausted than ever, "but let's continue this tomorrow."
She sauntered over to the couch, pulling a basket from underneath it, taking out a pillow and a blanket.
"What do I call you?" she asked, arranging the blanket on the couch. He ran a hand through his hair, apparently thinking.
"Bucky, I suppose."
"Alright then, Bucky," Sarah said, stepping away from the couch, "you can sleep here, if you want."
He came up to her, his eyes wide and grateful.
"Thank you, Sarah," he muttered. Sarah felt another flutter, for some reason the sound of her name on his lips made her nervous. She tore her eyes away from his, cleared her throat and walked to the stairs.
"Yes, well… Don't kill me in my sleep, please," she said, her foot on the first step. While she started going up she saw Bucky's lip twitch, as if he was about to smile.