Command • T'Challa

Lost, Part 2

I missed him.

That's why it hurt.

his hand in mine, the concrete room, the evil man behind the desk with the red book; it all melted away to nothing, because I remembered.

And he did too.

My Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes, my best friend in the whole world. Here, in this space, everything was right, just as it should be- why couldn't I remember my own life?

My life.

My life.

.......

Brooklyn, New York, July 3rd, 1942.

James Buchanan Barnes wasn't supposed to be up this side of Brooklyn. He was half a mile from his family's apartment, several blocks to the south of where he was now.

He didn't belong- that was evident, not by the looks that the shopkeepers were giving him at this hour of the night, as he strolled through the streets at a brisk pace, as if he belonged, as if he knew exactly where he was going.

This was entirely due to the fact that James, a young white man, didn't belong in the black neighborhood across from his own. The neighborhoods were segregated, just like the Jewish neighborhood, and a few others. That's how it was done in New York- you rubbed elbows with people of every race and color, but you didn't associate with them- especially not blacks and whites.

His hands were shoved in his khaki pockets, his hair slicked back as usual, but he was a little nervous. Scared, even, hoping, praying, keeping his fingers crossed that she would be there when he arrived.

A moment later, he was ascending the stairs, running his hands through his hair, wishing he could runs hands through her beautiful, thick curly hair. He liked it better when she didn't try to straighten it- when she kept it just the way it was, just as she was.

His heart beat a little faster as he got the fourth flight of stairs, checking behind him and at the window nearby to see if anyone was watching him- the coast seemed to be clear. He hopped up, swinging his leg over the side of the railing, gently landing on the fire escape that snaked around the building.

"One of these days, you're gonna break that metal with all of your jumping." she'd scolded him a few weeks ago. He smiled at the memory as he stepped carefully, until he was at her window. She'd said her parents were supposed to be out tonight, but it was her twentieth birthday, so maybe they whisked her away for something special.

He heard a fake cough through her window, as he tried to suppress a laugh. Only she would try to pull something off like this- he would too, but that's what made them so alike.

Her curtains fluttered, and he put his head in slowly. She was wearing that pink swing dress she liked so much, the one with the full skirt that twirled so wonderfully when they danced. She looked perfect as always- a laugh on her lips, as she faked another cough.

"You'd better make the latest lie worth it." she said in a low voice. "Because I convinced them to go out, to postpone my birthday until Sunday night."

"Doll, it's Friday, let's go out and have some fun." James said, crawling in through the window.

Grace loved the way that James towered over her, but not too much, not so tall that he couldn't lean his head down to kiss her and tell her how much he loved her.

You see, James Buchanan Barnes was madly, hopelessly in love with Grace Lorraine Alburn. Standing before her now, he recalled the time that she'd first come into his sights- she'd moved up to Brooklyn from Washington D.C.. Her papa was a skilled mechanic who designed cars and worked in the back of a white-owned garage in the upper crusty part of Brooklyn. It paid well enough, and her mother had a job as a seamstress. James nearly ran into Grace one night when he was walking home from school when they were fifteen going on sixteen. It was a warm spring night, and he was smitten with her the moment he saw her, an old raincoat pulled over her frame, her beautiful brown eyes looking back at him- the drenched boy from the opposite neighborhood, looking longingly at the beautiful girl with the raincoat and umbrella.