Steve Rogers. Captain America. The names rang in his mind like coins being tossed onto an empty dance hall floor, like they should mean something, and yet they didn't. He turned his attention to the drink, ran a finger up the side of the label.
He isn't staring long before a memory hits him. Someone's voice, deep and gravelly, yelling for Rogers and Barnes, that they didn't have all day--that they had to move soon. Such a small snippet of memory, but it gave him an image of blue and red and--Steve. Big guy. Didn't used to be that big.
"The man from the bridge." He tightened his metal hand into a fist, shattering the glass of the bottle. "I am not friends with targets." Whoa, hey, yes you are. "He is a target." And Clint said to stand down. That mission is dead. No, he had failed that mission. And it's over. SHIELD and HYDRA have bigger problems than whether you took down the man from the bridge.
He released his fist, shaking away the moisture of the spilled drink. "No. He's not a target. But I failed. How would he be my friend?" Jefferson wanted you to make friends, remember. And that had not gone well, had it? Okay, no, but Steve has been your friend forever. Since you were kids.
His head had begun to thump dully, reminding him that the more he 'remembered', the more complicated his mind became. He preferred it when it was fleeting images and emptiness. Or he thought he did, anyway.