*waves* And a third Marvel fic - 'Thin Ice'
Hullo! Suddenly, we are in 'homg, it's freakin' cold out there!!' mode. While my work's thermostats are like some kind of insane roller coaster. I wear fleece leggings and a skirt and two or three layers of shirts and fuzzy socks and boots and *freeze*, and the next day i'm sitting there wondering if i can go in the bathroom and strip off a layer or two.
Just *leave the thermostats alone*, guys. Sheesh. No wonder I keep getting sick. (Well, that and the fact that the 'cleaning crew' they hired don't actually *clean anything*, as witness the little bits of paper and things i put in random places around my desk/shelf. Four days later, they are still there, in plain damn site. And wow, is that the little drift of pencil shavings someone spilled two weeks ago? Yup, still there. ARRGH.
Anyway - herein is part three of the 'Bucky is back and recovery is not linear' fic i work at on and off. Again, many thanks to darkhavens for her excellent and effortless beta-ing. Thanks, bb! :)
Also at AO3.
'Cause you were bred for humanity and sold to society
One day you'll wake up in the Present Day
A million generations removed from expectations
Of being who you really want to be….
Jethro Tull - Skating Away on the Thin Ice of a New Day
Steve had, in retrospect, just been waiting for it to happen. For something to happen. No matter how thorough - how determined - Bucky, and Natasha, and even Steve and Sam had been…. Steve knew they'd never find every Hydra agent; knew they'd missed some. It was inevitable.
But he still wasn't prepared; none of them were. They'd gone out, he and Bucky, Sam and Natasha. Just...walking. The air was still mild; the brutal heat of a summer in New York hadn't come, yet, and they were just strolling along the sidewalk, in the mellow-gold light of a late May afternoon, blue shadows slowly creeping in. They were admiring a series of intricate, colorful chalk drawings someone had done across the rough concrete. Mandalas, Natasha said they were; symbols of the universe, a cosmic diagram of the infinite.
Steve didn't know about that, but they were beautiful, already scuffed, fuzzy at the edges. Steve thought that was a shame, that they would be erased by hands and feet, dew and wind. Natasha said that was the point.
Ahead of them, a couple of young men came out of a little store, bodega, talking loudly in what sounded like Greek. They were jostling each other, laughing and horsing around, but it made Bucky jerk - instant attention, instant tension.
Steve quickened just a half-step, putting himself between the men and Bucky, and Sam dropped back to guard his six, giving him a buffer without really doing anything, just giving him a minute to assess the situation and reassure himself there wasn't any danger.
The men, oblivious, slung arms around each other's shoulders and strode off, grinning, plastic bags dangling from their fingertips. By the time their little group was walking past the same store, Bucky was okay, relaxed enough to point out the shockingly lurid - and essentially ridiculous - poster in the window for 'personal lubricant'.
"Jesus, could'a used that a time or two," Bucky said, and Steve snorted noisily while Sam looked over at the ad with a grin, and Natasha half-turned, walking sideways to make some comment about watermelon flavor. Which, to Steve, sounded completely disgusting.
The mandalas had run out, and now they were passing a half-empty deli, with signs up in Hebrew and English advertising goulash and stuffed cabbage, gefilte fish and pastrami. It smelled good, mellow and spicy, and Steve thought maybe they should get something. For later, on the way home. Behind them, the door to the bodega chimed again, someone going out, someone coming in and then...and then….
And then a voice - a man's voice - was speaking in Russian, clear and clipped, a little breathless, as if he was trying to say what he was saying quickly, get it out there before someone stopped him. And Bucky just froze, one foot slightly lifted, his expression going from amusement to shock to an utter, eerie blankness in seconds. A blankness Steve hadn't seen since the first month or two of Bucky's return.
Steve had felt the blood drain from his face, felt his heart stop as that voice rang out again, the same words, repeated. And then Bucky had screamed, his hand coming up to his head in a clawing motion as his whole body twisted down, hunching in, going to one knee hard enough to make a solid crack on the sidewalk. Eyes wide, breathing hard - no, hyperventilating - his breaths going choppy and too fast, little rasping whines that sounded like they hurt.
Sam went down with him, not touching, just talking, low and slow and calm, and thank God, thank God for Sam Wilson, Steve had thought, even as he'd pivoted on his toes, zeroing in on the man. Tall and thin, in a rumpled city suit, with a briefcase and curly, light-brown hair and a beaky nose. And an obscene look of triumph on his face. Of manic glee.
His mouth was still open, to say more, maybe, but Steve had already been moving, launching himself directly at the man, dimly aware of Natasha right there with him, moving in tandem. Steve had shoved him back two, three, four stumbling steps, right into the plate glass window of the store, hard enough that it cracked as the man's head bounced off it. The briefcase thumped to the ground.
Steve’s fist was twisted in the man's shirt front, the tie and button-down crumpled in one hand, his other on the man's throat, shoving his head up and back, rigid fingers sinking into the flesh just under his jaw. And oh, how Steve had wanted to just squeeze, just shove harder and snap that spine; shove and twist and watch the feral, hungry gleam drain out of those wide, hazel eyes.
But Natasha was right there, too, barking words into her phone, calling for backup, calling for containment, and Steve had squeezed just a little harder, just enough to cut off the man's air, close enough to see the wild dilation of his pupils and the little nick from shaving, the dark spot of clotted blood on his jaw.
"If you open your mouth - if you say one more word, I swear to God - I will rip your throat out with my bare hands." Steve had gritted his words out through clenched teeth, his belly churning and heart pounding as Bucky was making this sick, animal noise, keening like a gut-ripped dog. Steve thought he might throw up.
Natasha had reached over, then, and slapped her hand into the man's neck, right under Steve's hand, a little bubble of sedative between her fingers, with a tiny needle that slipped right in, and the man shuddered all over and went limp.
Steve had stepped back and let him fall, crumpling sideways, and Natasha had stepped up, plastic ties in her hand, her jaw set. One twitch of her head toward Bucky - go - and Steve went.
"What, exactly, did you think was going to happen?" Natasha asked, and the man - Daniel Ellicot, 57, Neurobiologist, American citizen...Hydra agent - didn't reply. He just shifted minutely in his chair, the steel shackles around his wrists, waist, and ankles slithering a little, giving a muted clink.
"You said - "Архангел , семь, запрос , разорвать , Люцифер , закончить его", Natasha repeated, Russian rolling easily off her tongue. "Archangel, seven, query, sever, Lucifer, end it. What were you expecting that to do?"
Ellicot shifted again, his jaw bulging a little, swollen. Ten minutes' hasty dentistry had removed a hollow, poison-filled molar from his mouth; there would be no untimely, Hydra-exhorting suicide here. His hazel eyes shifted left and right, skimming the scratched surface of the matte stainless table that sat between them. A folder was open on it, various papers laying in a fan, mostly papers on Daniel Ellicot. Tony had trawled a hundred-thousand words and numerous photos on Ellicot in a handful of minutes, eyebrows drawn down and his mouth set in a thin, hard line.
"Did you think the...Asset would salute you? Say 'What is my mission, sir?'. Start executing civilians?"
Standing at rigid parade rest in the adjoining room, watching it all on a huge CCTV screen, Steve winced. Asset. Fuck them.
Ellicot's throat bobbed as he swallowed. Natasha gave him a minute, and then she sighed softly. She shuffled the papers back into the folder and squared it on the table, gave it three little taps. She looked tired, a little sorrowful. She looked up at Ellicot, fingertips resting lightly on the folder.
"Do you know who I am, Danny?" she said, and Ellicot glanced at her and then away, clenching his jaw and then wincing. There was a slight sheen of sweat along his hairline. "You do know," Natasha said. She rose, and then placed her hands on the table, leaning in toward Ellicot just the smallest fraction. Steve was gratified to see the man flinch backward, even though Natasha had done nothing more than smile at him.
A spider's smile, all tucked fangs and hidden poison.
"You know what I can do to you, don't you, Danny-boy. With the cameras turned off." He looked up and around, a startled, reflexive search for evidence of said cameras, and Natasha's smile quirked, showing a flash of white tooth. She leaned forward another few inches, and when she spoke again, her voice had dropped, slow and low and husky. Intimate. "With the lights turned down real...low…."
Ellicot was breathing a little harder now - a little faster - and Steve could see a bit of dampness creeping out from under an armpit.
"Do you know, since the Asset came in from the cold," Natasha said, playful little tip of her head, "he's taught me so many new things. It's been a real revelation." She slapped her palms down, bang, on the table, and Ellicot jerked, gasping. Natasha straightened, her smile smoothing out, all business now. She picked up the folder and tucked it into the crook of her arm. "It's going to be extremely interesting to see all his lessons demonstrated live, don't you think?"
She turned on one heel and walked to the door; knocked once, and the lock disengaged, worked from the outside. Steve could see the guard in another screen, rifle slung on his shoulder, anonymous in black tactical gear. Natasha stepped through the door, calling out in Russian, and the guard shouldered in, pulling it to - almost, not quite - and Ellicot broke.
"Hey- hey, wait!" he called, and the guard shut the door, lock clicking into place. He settled with the rifle in his hands, casually not-quite pointed at Ellicot, and Ellicot shot the guard a pleading look. "Hey, get her back here, I want- I want to talk to her!" His voice was a little slurred, mouth still a little numb. The guard didn't move, didn't say a word.
It was Clint, Steve knew. Clint, hidden behind goggles and helmet and an obvious little blob of fuzz for a mic. Clint, who could appear to be just another flunky, the kind of low-level, anonymous Agent that Hydra had probably perfected turning.
Natasha slipped into the observation room, putting the folder down and turning to look at the various screens on the table. The main screen showed Ellicot, pale and sweating and visibly agitated, talking to Clint. The other, smaller screens - special ones of Tony's design, flat and thin and practically invisible until light touched them - showed different views of the room, of the hall, and Ellicot's vitals. Another screen - small, portable - showed occasional glimpses of Tony up in his workroom. He was running all their electronics - well, he and JARVIS. Recording, researching, making suggestions. A second portable monitor was off to one side. In it was a dimly lit view of Bucky. At the moment, he wasn't moving, but a steady pulse showed his heartbeat, his respiration, his temperature.
"How's he doing?" Natasha asked, and Steve forced himself to relax, at least enough to bring his clenched fists out from behind his back.
"He's...coping." Steve said. "He threw me out," he added, and then shut his lips tight, and Natasha gave him a tiny, soft smile.
"It's everything you fight; everything you've been crushing down, trying to suffocate out of existence. Your worst - first - nightmare." She tapped her fingernails on the folder, quick little onetwothree, her head bowed for a moment. Then she looked up, some far, cold space behind her gaze. "For Bucky right now, it's all coming back on him, all of it, right in his face." She laughed, but it was bitter. "Like bad vodka; worse coming up."
"Is it?" Steve asked, and she lifted an eyebrow at him. "Worse coming up."
Natasha shrugged, stared first at Bucky's immobile figure and then back up at Steve. "I dunno. Pretty damn bad going down."
Steve could feel himself flinch from that, and he looked away, gaze fixed on Ellicot, on Clint, anywhere but Bucky. For just a moment.
"He didn't- You know it's not that he doesn't want you there…."
"No, he doesn't," Steve said, and sighed. "He's scared he'll hurt me. Any of us. I know why he doesn't want me there, up here," Steve said, tapping his temple as he gave Natasha a brief, crooked smile. "But in here," - his finger moved down, and touched his chest briefly - "in here, I just...want to help."
"He knows," Natasha said. "Sometimes, anybody else's stuff, no matter how well intentioned…it's just too much."
Steve nodded. "I know it's not about me."
"It is about you, though, at least a little," Natasha said, and Steve turned his gaze to the big screen, where Ellicot was now talking urgently to Clint, his face flushed, mottled in bright pink across his cheekbones, sweat standing visibly on his skin. He seemed to be trying to rock the chair off its bolts or something. Clint looked appropriately freaked, his body language twitchy.
"I know neither of you sleep through the night five nights out of seven," Natasha said softly, and Steve stretched his neck and decided to ignore that.
"So, how long do we let Ellicot try to bribe Clint into letting him go? He looks like he might do himself an injury," Steve said, as Ellicot wrenched at the shackles.
"Oh, long enough to get a cup of coffee, at least," Natasha replied, graciously not pursuing that line of conversation. She put her hand up to her ear and spoke, ordering them both coffee. "And try and find some doughnuts or something. Coffee cake; anything," she added.
"I'm not-"
"We both need some carbs, Rogers. It'll keep us steady."
"Natural tranquilizer," Tony said, whirling past the camera on his end on what Steve devoutly hoped was a wheeled chair and not one of his robots.
"Sugar, fat, and grease - basic food groups," Natasha said, and Steve sighed out a faint laugh.
"Yeah, sure. Is-? Make sure Bucky and Sam and Bruce have...something," Steve said, knowing Sam and Bruce were right outside Bucky's door, watching just like Steve was; kicked out, just like Steve had been.
"Taken care of!" Tony shouted, his voice tinny, as one of his little robots poked a three-pronged 'hand' into the camera view. "U! Don't touch that. You're on cable duty, get busy, shoo, shoo," Tony said, and the robot chirruped something and withdrew, out of frame.
In the other small screen, Bucky stirred. Lifting his head, he looked around the room, his hair falling lank into his eyes, his gaze fixed. Empty. Steve froze, staring down at the image, willing Bucky to say something - do something - to show he was okay, that he was still there. After a long moment, Bucky shook his head, a sharp snap, as if throwing off water. Gracefully- that long-legged grace he'd never lost, not even strapped tight into Kevlar and nightmare - he turned to the wall of built in shelves and cabinets and began to demolish them with scything blows of his single arm.
Steve watched as long as he could, jaw clenched tight and fingernails gouging into his palm, every muscle trembling with the supreme effort of just being still. Then Maria came in with a briefcase of documents and an intern loaded down with coffee and danish and bagels, and Steve resolutely turned his shoulder to the screen, to Bucky. He had work to do.
"They were terrified of him," Ellicot said, looking earnestly at Maria Hill, who was turning pages in a series of folders, smudged print-outs and newer, crisper copies. She didn't look at him. Natasha, however, kept her gaze - her slight smile - fixed on Ellicot, and Ellicot avoided looking at her with a flinching aversion that Steve might have found amusing, some other time.
Now, he simply wanted to slam his fist into the man's face.
"It was obvious. The guards tried to hide it but, if h-he so much as coughed, they would...get all tense. You could see the barrels of their guns come up, just for a-a moment."
"But you weren't?" Maria said, idly turning to a page that Steve knew had an image of Bucky. Steve had seen them all, he didn't need to scrutinize them.
Ellicot gave a huffing, nervous little laugh. "Course I w-was. He was…." Ellicot paused for a moment, seeming to consider his words. "He was unstable, a lot of the time."
"What do you mean by 'unstable'?" Maria asked, and Ellicot licked his lips, his gaze skittering over Natasha's slim fingers as they idly tapped and turned a shiny, silver pen.
"He- If P-Pierce kept him...on a mission for too long, or if he was...out of cryo for more than four or five days, he'd start to get...confused."
"Confused," Maria repeated flatly, on a long beat, and Ellicot shifted in his chair, his hand coming up in an aborted attempt to touch his swollen jaw.
"This is really sore. Could I get some- some Tylenol or something?"
Maria shuffled papers, ignoring his pleading look, and when Ellicot slid a quick, flinching glance at Natasha, she smiled at him with all her teeth.
"No."
"Explain to me what you mean by 'confused'," Maria said, as if the word were something in an obscure dialect.
As if he'd said nothing at all about his jaw.
"He didn't know where he was. He would...lose track of the mission, his target."
In the observation room, Steve became aware that he was grinding his teeth, and forced himself to unlock his jaw. He looked away, to the monitor where Bucky's image was, and saw he had abandoned the rubble of the cabinets. He was leaning against the wall, saying something, his fingers twisted in his hair. He looked…. He looked so lost, and Steve felt his throat tighten, a sharp ache that he tried to swallow away. Jesus, how he hated this. All of this.
He looked back to the interrogation, where Maria was looking at Ellicot now, her fingers tapping lightly on the papers in front of her.
"And why would that be frightening, to the guards? To you? His being...confused," Maria said. Natasha tapped the end of the pen on her lips, then let it slide down, to rest in the hollow of her throat, and Ellicot’s eyes tracked it. In a single, fluid movement, Natasha leaned forward and brought her hand around in a sharp slap to the swollen length of his jaw.
"Ow, fuck, fucking bitch!"
"You were frightened?" Natasha asked, little smile on her face, unruffled, and Ellicot stared at her for a long moment.
"Look, he- he got violent, okay? He would...be in a daze, you could see him trying to...figure out things. If somebody moved too fast, or came up behind him, or-or touched him unexpectedly, he'd lash out. He would question," Ellicot said, and Steve saw the little tremor that ran through Clint - still standing guard - at that.
"He seemed to remember...things. And that made him react unpredictably. He killed a doctor, one time, and some of the guards." Ellicot licked his lips, his gaze skittering over Clint, over Natasha, before focusing back on Maria. "Pierce could talk him down, sometimes, but usually we just...we just wiped him. Started all over." Maria and Natasha both just looked at Ellicot, and he opened his mouth, then shut it. Then went slightly green as the words he'd just said seemed to percolate through his brain.
In the observation room, Steve put his fist through the wall and then stood there, breathing hard, not noticing what Natasha and Maria were doing next. Not really caring. Feeling the rage and the grief and the guilt rising up through him like a sick, hot tide. God, he wanted...wanted them to scream. Wanted to scream, himself; to howl out all the black, bloody emotions that were boiling inside him. Just like Bucky was.
On the monitor screen, Bucky was moving now, swinging a piece of debris he'd picked up, wild and uncoordinated. Shouting, incoherent, English and Russian, too fast for Steve to sort. There was blood running in thin lines from his palm and down his wrist, blotted up by the sleeve of the Henley he wore. Blood trailed in a scarlet thread from one nostril, and Steve felt himself go hot and then cold, and he hit the switch - sent the pulse to the women, alerting them via a little chime through the com sets.
Steve watched Bucky stagger and go to one hand and knee, his back arching and shaking as he heaved, coughing. And then Bucky pushed himself upright, panting, and Steve heard him, heard him say Steve's name - heard him ask - and he spun around as the women came into the observation room.
"I gotta go. He's- He's asking- He needs me."
"You sure?" Natasha said, and Steve pushed past them, not even pausing to consider.
"I'm positive. I don't care what Ellicot has to say. You don't need me here."
But Bucky did. Bucky did.
Bucky uncurled himself from his crouch, staggering on numb legs to the wall, to lean in the corner and just...breathe. Fist clenched in his hair, eyes shut, he tried not to slam his head into the wall. Because every few breaths, his brain just...misfired - white-noise static, a sand-storm hiss, a hundred-thousand bees.
And somehow, inside that buzzing, hissing nothing, were images. Memories, Bucky knew, but memories like a worn-out movie reel: hitching and fuzzy, over-exposed or under, shadow and light and blood. So much fucking blood. He swore he could smell it; that butcher's reek of viscera, iron and rot, tangy in his nostrils, at the back of his throat.
"Not real, not real, notreal," Bucky muttered. But it had been real, once upon a time. Blood, blood, always blood….
Blood on Steve's face, split lip, bruised cheek, bloody knuckles that his mother clucked over, disapproving. Blood on Bucky's knuckles, backing Steve up, always backing him up, always at his back...his back...blue suit, long legs, shooter, sniper, danger, but blood fixed it, bullet to the brain, blood on blood, blood on snow, numbing cold, cold makes the pain easier to bear, cold like knives, ice in his hair, ice in his blood, his blood, his blood-
"Stop it", Bucky shouted, and whipped his head sideways - crack against the wall - and everything...stopped. Pain radiated out in sickening throbs, but, while it lasted, Bucky could think, even as his knees gave out and he slid down, crumpling against the wall, shuddering from phantom cold.
"My name...is James...Buchanan Barnes...three, two, fi-five...suh...sssev...en…." No, no. That was...that wasn't now, that wasn't…here, he was sure of it (oh, please, let him be sure of it). He was…. "I'm- James Barnes. This is...is the year...two-thousand and...fifteen...I'm in...in New York, in...the t-tower, in...New York. I'm James, I'm...Bucky, Steve is, Steve…is...."
The throb in his head was nearly gone and the staticsnaphiss was back, flaring through him, drowning his sight, thick in his lungs, a tidal wave of nothing and then of everything; blood and bones and cold and pain, all pain, no I, no me, no will, no thought, no thing, nothing, nothing-
"No," he whispered, and twisted his hand sharply in his hair. (One hand, just the one. Different. Not two, one hand, this is after, after, after, not before, not then, not...no…no!)
"I sssaid no, I said no, I, I, said no, I fought...them. I have to...fight, I have to-" Bucky shoved himself upright and staggered away from the wall, out into the room (void), fist clenched, head down. There was...debris; bits of metal and wood, something demolished. He kicked a long bar of metal free and picked it up, ignoring the sting of something cutting into his hand.
He stood, legs braced, the impromptu club raised like a bat, breathing too hard, too fast, too loud, fuck, he had to...get a grip on himself, he had to...had to be calm, don't show fear, don't...let them see.
Because he had said no. He'd said no and he'd fought through it all, through everything. Screamed it in blood and spit and, once, fragments of a tooth; through electric shocks and beatings bad enough to make him piss blood; through repeated almost-drownings; through vivisection, Christ, the stink and steam of his own innards, unseamed like a rag doll, just as helpless. But he'd fought, until one day, one day….
He walked in. Tight little smile on his fat little mouth, round face and round glasses shining in the blinding overhead light. And behind him, the machine, A hulking scaffold of steel and glass and quivering hoses, dials gleaming. It had hummed and clicked and whirred to itself, idiot noises, and they'd got the cables around his throat, dog-catcher's loops, throttling them down to vicious, pinching nooses. They’d yanked him up and forward, the disabled, hateful arm a dead weight at his side, throwing him off balance as he'd lunged first to one side and then the other.
But his air was gone, his chest hitching and burning, blood roaring in his ears and black spangles rushing in from all sides, blinding him. His hearing going muffled and tinny, he'd gone down to one knee, then both, clawing at the cables, blood under his nails, only to be suddenly lifted up and flung down, his too-thin body hitting unpadded metal, ice-cold. Steel clamps bit into his arm, legs, ribs, throat, and then the strangling cables finally loosened.
He'd dragged in a cawing, burning lungful of air and someone had shoved a piece of something (rubber? leather?) between his teeth, too quick for him to bite. Cold, prickling fingers of steel clamped around his head, across his eye, cupping his cheek, and Bucky arched and twisted and fought, but he couldn't move, he couldn't move-
"Now we shall see," he'd said. That voice. That lisping, prissy voice that Bucky wanted to tear from the thick, pale throat with his bare hands. And then, and then...and then.
The machine came to life, throbbing vibrations running through it - through Bucky - with a low hum, growing to a piercing wail, worse than the shrieks of falling bombs. Drilling into Bucky's head like a frozen spike, shattering bone and brain, cold and shiny as a pane of ice. Driving in; twisting, shredding, howling through his brain, a scouring, agonizing storm of hail and snow and icicle shards, dazzling bright.
Erasing it all, erasing him, taking the 'no', taking I, me, Bucky and leaving...nothing.
Bucky screamed, and Christ, his throat hurt, his hand did, everything hurt, and he swung the metal bar wildly, connecting with nothing (nothing nothing no thing). "I said no! Fuck you, you shit-eating fucking bastards, you fucking cocksuckers, I said no, I fucking...beat you, I f-fucking beat you!"
He swung the bar, again and again, until he lost his balance and dropped to his knees and his hand, the bar clattering away. Bucky curled over, his belly heaving, dry retches that brought up strings of bile, the stink of his own sweat and blood making him gag, again and again. He was dizzy, panting, freezing to his core. Chills shuddered through him, wringing his muscles, a fever-grip he'd helplessly watched Steve live through and now he was- Now he was the fucked-up one, now he was drowning, and he needed, so fucking desperately, for something to hold on to. Needed a toehold, a lifeline, something. Anything to keep him here, in this decade, in this moment. In his second life.
"Steve," he croaked, then coughed and spat, pushing up and back until he was kneeling, his hand leaving a smear of blood on the floor. He didn’t bother to look around, sure that, somewhere, someone was watching. "Steve? I- I need...need a little...h-help, pal. I could really...use your help."
Steve wanted to run, but he knew the elevator was faster, taking him from the Security level on three to the living quarters on eighty-seven in under a minute, accelerating so smoothly it barely felt like it was moving at all. Technology that was unsatisfying in its sleek perfection. The doors hissed open on eighty-seven and Steve stepped out, moving fast.
This floor was his floor - his and Bucky's floor - and one section was deliberately empty, unfinished. Bare, because Bucky had needed that, sometimes - a blank palette to hammer his fear and grief and rage onto. At first, the walls had been gouged and scored and dented on a regular basis, marked with a dense scribble of fury and mute, bewildered horror. Blood and ink and fingernails, tears and sweat and graphite.
They'd painted it over, smoothed the holes and wiped it all clean four, five, six times, but Bucky had stopped Steve from going that last little way, from making it into a living space, or training, something. With just a slow look around, and that little, crooked smile, a shake of his head. "We'll just leave it for now, huh, Steve? No hurry," he'd said, and Steve had opened his mouth to protest, and then he’d looked at Bucky and closed the words he wanted to say tight behind his lips.
(Because not all of it had been Bucky, not all. Some of Steve's blood lay under those layers of paint, too. Blood and tears, rage and grief. They had to see it, sometimes, cut it loose from them and put it out in the light, in order to be free of it. Because you never forgot, the first time a man died by your hand. You never forgot, the way the steam would rise out of a body ripped open by a bomb's concussion. You never forgot, the first week your dearest friend in all the world was returned to you, sitting in a corner with a bit of toast in his fingers and tears making silent, silver runnels down his face, utterly undone by simple kindness and warm bread.)
Steve strode toward that hallway - that door - and Sam was there, standing with his arms tightly crossed and his chin tucked, looking furious and more than a little freaked out. Bruce stood between Sam and the door, his attention firmly on the screen in his hands, his hair looking as if he'd spent the last hour pulling on it.
Sam's head snapped up when he heard Steve's tread. Relief and guilt slid across his face in seconds before being smoothed away by force of will, and his arms came loose, fists still clenched.
"Hey, Steve. Sorry, I'm- I'm sorry, man, I wanted-"
"No, it's okay," Steve said. "Bucky didn't want...he wanted us to keep out."
"Yeah, well, sometimes what a person wants isn't exactly what they need."
Steve stopped, and put his hand on Sam's shoulder, feeling the shiver of muscle there, the tension and exhaustion. "I know. But Bucky...he'd never have forgiven himself if he'd hurt you, Sam. You know that."
Sam's mouth was a thin, hard line, his gaze as fierce as his namesake. And then he sighed, his shoulders coming down, fists unfurling. "Yeah, I know. It's just...not what I trained for. I'm supposed to be helping, not...watching."
"He's fine," Bruce murmured, and when they both turned to stare at him, Bruce's distracted gaze lifted from the screen and his mouth curled a little. "I mean - for a given value of fine. But we're monitoring him. He's not- Physically, he's not in any danger."
"Thanks, Doc. I appreciate what you're doing. But-"
"You need to go in, now. I know. We'll..be here," Bruce said, and Steve nodded. Sam's hand came down on Steve's shoulder, and his fingers were warm, squeezing tight.
"Just go slow, man. Don't creep, but...don't get right up in his space right away, okay? Make sure he knows...knows you're there, first. Okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Steve said, offering a little smile, and then JARVIS unseamed the door, and Steve went cautiously in.
The room beyond was dim - Bucky had asked for that, one of the last things he'd said before he'd become completely incoherent. Something about the light hurting, or making too much noise. Steve shook that thought away and moved forward slowly, his hands out a little from his sides, harmlessly open as he scanned the room for Bucky. To the right was blank wall, windows; left, the scarred niche where the cabinets had been. And there was Bucky, on his knees, shattered wood and plaster and plastic around him.
He was hunched over, right hand splayed and tensing on the gritty floor, his head down as he breathed in hard, rapid bursts, almost a hollow bark, painful to listen to. Steve checked his immediate impulse to rush forward, to fling himself down beside Bucky and help him, somehow. Instead, he walked forward, five or six slow and careful steps, and then crouched down, a good three yards away.
"Buck?" he said, softly, his voice as even and calm as he could make it.
After a long moment, Bucky shifted ever so slightly, his head coming up a little. Strings of sweat-lank hair tangled across his eyes, and he squinted at Steve.
"Bucky, it's me; it's Steve. I'm here."
"Вы сказали, что , прежде чем," Bucky whispered, Vy skazali, chto , prezhde chem.
"I- I don't understand that," Steve said, his heart pounding, and Bucky shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, his hand curling into a fist, leaving a smudge of blood. Steve started to reach out, and then stopped himself on a twitch, gritting his teeth together.
"You...ss-said that. Before. In- not you, but...fuck, fuck-" Bucky's voice was going up, agitated, and Steve went down on his knees, twisting his fingers together, hard, in an effort not to touch.
"Buck, c'mon, I'm right here, I'm here. Tell me - what you need. Tell me what to do," Steve begged, and Bucky's head went up and back, his mouth twisting in a snarl, a coughing rasp of a laugh coming out of his throat.
"I don't... know, I cuh-can't...keep it…." Bucky blinked up at the dim vault of the ceiling and then down again, at Steve this time, his winter-blue eyes like glacier ice, clear and pale and sheened with salt-water, startling in their red-rimmed sockets. "Steve, am I here? Is...is this here? I can't...keep it ss-straight."
"Yeah, you're here, you're here with me." Steve edged closer, freezing when Bucky flinched, wild-eyed. " We- This is Stark Tower, this is the year two-thousand and fifteen, and you're free, Bucky, you got out, I'm here and it's over, it's over."
"Christ, you...don't nuh-know that, you can't ssay that-"
"Yeah, yeah I can. It's over, Bucky. God, I finally got you back, I ain't letting you go again, just- tell me what you need. Tell me... how to help you."
Bucky looked helplessly around the room - featureless, shadowed - and lifted his shaking hand to shove clumsily at the hair that was webbed over his face, leaving a tacky smear of drying blood on cheekbone and forehead. "Fuck, I- T-tell me...anything. I ku-keep losin'...track, I can't- Tell me how it's now, tell me...stuff that's...not then, not- Fuck, fuck!" Bucky's hand, still shoving at his hair, twisted in it suddenly, pulling hard, and he curled down over his knees, gasping.
Steve slithered forward, heart in his mouth, and leaned as close as he could, still not touching, not yet, not yet, knowing if he did it might just send Bucky over the edge; might get him a broken nose, a cracked jaw. Wouldn't be the first time. "Okay, okay, I can- Did you know, we went to the moon? An American walked on the moon. And- and we sent a submarine down to the bottom of the ocean, down six miles...and...there's a vaccine for polio now, nobody gets polio anymore, Bucky, can you just imagine that? Nobody gets polio, or...measles...they can- There's even a vaccine for TB now, Buck…." Steve's voice faltered for a moment and he stopped.
Bucky was breathing a little slower now - still choppy, still wrong, but slower. Steve watched as his screwed-shut eyelids relaxed a little, as his hand loosened its hold on his hair, sliding open a fraction. There was blood in streaks down his wrist, and Steve wanted to shout for Sam, wanted to cradle Bucky's wounded hand in his own.
"They got vaccines for- for everything now, kids don't, it's...and...we've sent out- all these...ships, like...little ships, into space, they call them probes. They took pictures of all the planets, God, Bucky, I've seen what Mars looks like, I've seen- Did you know-? They say Pluto's not a planet anymore, but...they have pictures of them, and- there are so many more out there, millions, and...there might be life out there, they think there's life out there."
"Little...green men," Bucky said, on a breath, and Steve laughed softly.
"Yeah, but, they say probably not green. But out there, for sure, because...because when I- The first thing I did, after the ice, when they w-woke me up, the first thing I fought was...was aliens. Space aliens."
"S'why...all the stuff...fixing it? In the streets?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's why, they really did a number on the 'ole Big Apple." Bucky's hand slid lower, down and out of his hair, falling to his thigh and curling there, and Steve peered through the lank strands at Bucky's face. His eyes were open - a little distant - but they flickered to Steve when Steve rocked forward slightly. Not so panicked, now.
"And...gods. You know, we...know gods?"
"Alien space gods, I guess," Steve said. "I mean - Thor," Steve snorted, and Bucky's mouth twitched, faint smile. "But, yeah. Gods. And there's about a million flavors of ice cream now. Tony wants me to try horseradish but I don't see why in hell anybody'd want to eat that."
"Tony...would," Bucky said, and he straightened a little, eyebrows drawn down. "Tony, he's...that's Stark? Howard's- Howard Stark's boy."
"Yeah, Howard's son. He built...all of this. This tower. He built a flying suit of armor."
"Did he-? Was there a...car?" Bucky looked up this time, all the way up and straight at Steve, the confusion in his gaze making Steve's throat ache with emotion, fiercely withheld.
"Yeah, a flying car. But that was...back in 1943. At the Expo. That was Howard. It didn't fly, it kinda crashed. Good thing Tony's armor doesn't crash."
"I brought you a date," Bucky said, gaze still searching Steve's face, and Steve nodded.
"Yeah. She was kinda disappointed."
"She should'a...waited a few weeks," Bucky said, thread of anger in his voice, and Steve grinned.
"Didn't your ma tell you, never keep a lady waiting?"
Bucky smiled, crooked and fleeting, and looked down into his lap, at his hand, which was smudged and streaked with blood and plaster dust. His eyes went wide and he gave a breathy, wheezing gasp, looking up and around, frantic. "Steve, fuck, did I-? Who'd I hurt? Who did- who did I hurt? Fuck, fuck-"
"No, no, Bucky, nobody, you didn't, that's yours, you hurt yourself, it's okay, nobody's hurt." This time Steve did reach out; caught Bucky's wrist and pulled his hand close, enfolding it in both of his. "You didn't hurt anybody. You kicked us all out and you just...you were okay."
Bucky's arm was shivering with tension, his hand curled into a rock-hard fist in Steve's grasp, but he was looking at Steve - he was hearing Steve - and gradually his breathing slowed down again, and his wide-eyed gaze steadied, the panic ebbing.
"Cuh-Christ. Jesus...Christ, Steve, I'm...fuck, I'm sorry, I-"
"Hey, this isn't your fault, pal. You know it's not. You know it's not." Steve made a little face, looking at their clasped hands. Blood had started to ooze from Bucky's cut palm, seeping out from the tight clench of it, and Steve could feel it, warm and slick; could smell it, and it was making him a little sick to his stomach. God, how he hated to see Bucky bleed.
"Can I-? Would it be okay if Sam came in?" Steve asked, raising his voice just a little, knowing it was being transmitted outside, to Sam and Bruce. "Let him show off those fancy First Aid skills?" After a long moment Bucky nodded jerkily. The door behind Steve opened slowly, and Steve heard Sam come in, walking louder than he usually did, walking slower. His position was obvious to Steve because Bucky, for all he'd said yes, was watching Sam over Steve's shoulder like a wary animal.
Sam came up on Steve's left, and settled down on his knees, his oversized gear bag next to him. "First Aid skills? I could do open-heart surgery on you on a ledge in a thunderstorm. First Aid," Sam scoffed, and Steve grinned.
Bucky smiled, too, just a little, but his gaze was intent as Sam opened the bag and took out supplies one at a time, laying them out on a pastel-blue square of plastic and paper that Sam had previously told Steve was a dental bib. He put down scissors, and gloves, packets of gauze , a tube of some kind of cream, a couple of squeeze bottles full of liquid, forceps, a suture kit, a roll of white cloth tape. Bucky was breathing hard again, and Sam put down a little packet of butterfly bandages and leaned back, hands on this thighs. Bucky twisted his wrist, pulling, and Steve let go, let him pull his arm in close, tucked against his ribs, hunching over a little. Protecting it.
"Okay, so, you can see everything here I might need. Not hiding anything, okay? And no drugs unless you want. I got a spray that'll numb anything if you need stitches." Sam looked calmly at Bucky, his dark eyes alert - kind - and Steve felt a low, warm rush of affection for the man; for his gentleness and care and just…goodness. "I won't start until you're ready, Barnes. Promise."
Bucky huffed out a strangled laugh, looking away, looking on the verge of panic, blotches of color in his cheeks. "Fucking...ss-stupid," he muttered. He sniffed, and wiped his nose on his shoulder, then jerked his head to the side, flicking strands of hair out of his face. They slipped right back. "This is- I sh-shouldn't-"
"Hey," Sam said, his voice calm and low, but it made Bucky stop, made him look over at Sam, his mouth twisted in a grimace of anger. "You got nothing to be ashamed of, man. I seen lots of guys - some women, too - have issues with this kind of thing. Nobody likes havin' a medic poke and prod around, 'specially if they've already been hurt." Sam reached into his back pocket, casual and slow, and slid his phone out, holding it up for Bucky to see. A few touches later, there was music playing.
Marvin Gaye, Steve thought, recognizing it, and he laughed softly. "Is this your official convalescent music?"
"It's good for what ails ya," Sam said, smiling, and he laid the phone on the gear bag. "You're not stupid, man," he said to Bucky. "This is normal. We got all night, so just take your time. If you'd rather Steve do it, that's okay too."
Bucky snorted, looking from Sam to Steve. "You ever s-seen a sock he darned? Like somethin' outta...Frankenstein's labs."
"Hey, now," Steve protested, "it was a war. We had to all do our part." Bucky shot him a look, the effort it was taking obvious, but it didn't matter, it didn't, because he was trying so hard, and he was doing so good. Steve was so damn proud of him, but he kept every trace of that off his face and out of his voice. It'd only embarrass Bucky.
"His buttons were always crooked, and his patches always cu-came off and his hems-"
"Thought you were a soldier, man, not a seamstress," Sam said, grinning, and Steve huffed.
"Bucky knits," he blurted, and Sam let out a startled snort of a laugh.
"Knit one, purl two?"
"At least my socks didn't give you buh-blisters from the lumps," Bucky said, and Sam laughed again, his grin wide.
"You learn something new every day. Guess I know what certain octogenarians are getting for Christmas."
"You dare," Steve warned, and Bucky took a long, deep breath and let himself come up out of his hunch, untucking his arm and holding it out. They all ignored the fact that it was shaking.
"Okay, I'm...good. Let's do it."
"Okay, then," Sam said, and he picked up the gloves. Steve watched as Sam cradled Bucky's hand in gauze and washed out the cut on Bucky's palm. He dabbed it carefully dry, and then swabbed it with something he called Betadine, that looked like plain iodine. Sam said it was new-and-improved, though it smelled just as nasty.
The cut was deep, and inconveniently placed, but Bucky's hand jerked, hard, when Sam suggested stitches. Sam sat back a little, looking at Bucky, and Bucky looked helplessly over at Steve, his eyes wet.
"Sorry-"
"Nah, man, I got this," Sam said. He rummaged in the gear bag and came up with a foil packet. "This powder'll stop the bleeding and seal the cut, and then we can just cover it, keep it clean. From what I've seen with Steve, this should probably be healed in a day or two, huh?"
"Yeah," Bucky said, and Sam nodded.
"Okay, then. We don't need to do stitches, this'll work just fine. I'm gonna dump this powder on, and then...then I'm gonna have to press down with my hand for a minute, okay? It's gonna get a little warm, but it won't hurt."
"Okay," Bucky said. Steve watched Sam strip off a glove and wipe his fingers down with an alcohol wipe; watched him snip a corner from the little packet and dump a fine, brownish powder all over the cut. Then he was pressing two fingers down firmly, glancing at his phone, timing himself as Marvin crooned softly.
Bucky watched, as well, his arm still shivering in Sam's grip but not quite as bad, his breathing steady, now, normal, his face not quite so ashen.
"Had a...little stick in my shave kit...for when I nicked myself," Bucky said, as Sam slowly let up the pressure and took his fingers off the wound. The powder had turned into a dull sort of scab, the bleeding completely stopped, and Sam carefully dusted away loose powder and then settled a gauze pad over the cut, fixing it in place. "You remember that, Steve?"
"Yeah, Buck, sure. 'Cause you would never stop using that damn cut-throat razor of yours. Scared the hell out of me with that thing."
"Ss-safety razor didn't give you that close shave the girls liked," Bucky said, and Christ, there he was, little grin, little sparkle in his gaze as Bucky smirked up at Steve, and Steve wanted to reach out and just…grab him.
"I wouldn't know about that," Steve said, and Sam took up a length of gauze and wound it around and around Bucky's palm, taping it down firmly and then holding Bucky's hand up for inspection.
"Good as new. How's it feel? Not too tight?"
"No, no, it's fine, it's...good." Bucky flexed his fingers, out and in, and then looked up at Sam. "Thanks, Sam."
"All part of our friendly service," Sam said. He tapped his phone, shutting the music off, and started clearing up, putting unused items away, piling all the debris in the center of the bib. Steve reached out and carefully put his hand on Bucky's left shoulder, lightly squeezing, and Bucky looked up from inspecting the bandage, quick wipe of his knuckles under his eyes.
"You hungry? I'm hungry," Steve said. "Could eat a damn horse."
"Two horses," Bucky said, and Steve grinned. "Remember that stew Dernier made?"
"Oh, geez, don't remind me."
"Dum-Dum called it 'Old Grey Mare stew-"
"She ain't what she used to be," Steve sang, off-key, and Bucky grinned, hard, and Steve did, and Sam made a noise of pure disgust.
"You ate a horse?"
"Well, it was that or shoe leather," Steve said.
"Not much difference, at that point," Bucky said, and Sam made that noise again.
"And I thought pacha was weird. Well, it was weird."
"What's pacha?" Steve asked, watching as Sam zipped up the gear bag and then lifted the corners of the bib, wadding all the trash into the middle and compacting it.
"Sheep's head, boiled. They fix it with all the spices and stuff but it's still got the teeth in it and the eyes are all-" Sam waved his hands. "All googly."
"It sounds…." Steve wasn't sure how it sounded, and 'googly' kept sticking in his head.
"Sounds like head cheese," Bucky said, and now it was Steve's turn to make a noise.
"Hey, man, ain't nothin' wrong with head cheese," Sam said, and Bucky made a small, rusty sound that was close to a laugh, and Steve wanted to hug him.
"Everything is wrong with head cheese! Your ma always got those pig's heads from the kosher butcher, remember, Buck? And then she's have them boiling in that washpot in the back yard…." Steve could, in that strange way of memories, almost smell the thick, ripe stink of a pair of boiling pig heads, skulls softening as the water slowly steamed away. And Bucky standing there with the big wooden paddle, prodding at them. "Oh, jeez," he muttered, and Bucky did actually laugh this time, right out loud.
"You got sick," Bucky said, slightest hint of a question in that, and Steve sighed, grinning.
"Yeah, I got sick. I mean, I was already sick, we'd had that bad can of beans, remember? Me and mom both sick and then I just had to go find you and there were those damn pig's heads…."
"Got sick all over ma's potato hills," Bucky said, something like pride in his voice. Remembering, and so damn happy to be remembering.
"Just, the smell-" Steve said, helplessly, and Sam snorted.
"You think boiled pig head smells bad, you ain't never smelled a big pot of chitlins on the boil."
"Chitlins?" Bucky's voice sounded as bewildered as Steve felt.
"Chitlins. The innards, you know, the guts. Intestine."
"Who the hell would eat pig intestines?" Steve asked, standing up and offering a hand to Bucky and Sam alike. Sam declined, pushing easily to his feet, all grace and muscle. Bucky reached up after a moment's hesitation, and gripped Steve's forearm, and Steve leaned back a little, pulling.
"Poor folk that don't have anything else," Sam answered, as Bucky came up stiffly, stumbling slightly. Steve caught his shoulder and they both leaned there a moment, just...resting.
"Same as pig's heads," Bucky said into the space between them, smiling a little,
"And sheep's heads, I'm guessing," Steve said.
As they kicked their way out of the debris field of the destroyed cabinets, Bucky had a moment of freefall, where everything for the past - how long, hours? days? - cascaded through him, a stutter-fall of monochrome images and blood-soaked ones. The street, the mandalas, the bodega boys, the snake-hiss of the Hydra trigger, spilling like acid sand from the mouth of a man all angles and malice. The Tower, the room, the noise....
"How...long's it been? Since- since he-?"
"Almost seventy hours," Steve said, low, and Bucky had to stop dead and close his eyes for a moment, just...breathing. Wiping angrily under his eyes with his palm, he sniffed hard, because for fuck's sake, he was alive, he was safe, Jesus.
"Hey, Barnes, hey," Sam said, right there, the faint alcohol-and-spice of his scent mingled with Steve's; sweat and bay rum and exhaustion. "You did good. You kept yourself safe, and you kept us safe. You did real good."
"I-" Bucky sniffed again, dragging in a long breath, and blinked up at the shadowed ceiling. "I think...I need to have Tony give me that arm, now. I don't...want to be so fucking...helpless if...if that happens again."
"If you want, Buck. It's your choice."
"But you gotta tell him when I'm in the room," Sam said, and Bucky looked at him. Looked at the gleeful smirk that was curling Sam's mouth. "'Cause I'm bettin' it's gonna be better than a six year old on Christmas day. I gotta YouTube that shit."
"It is gonna make his year," Steve said, smiling as big as Sam, and Bucky smiled back, feeling a little lighter, suddenly, like he was letting something go from a fist clenched too tight, for too long. It felt good.
____________________
"Вы сказали, что , прежде чем" - "You said that before."
Originally entered at http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/188996.html - comment where you please!
Just *leave the thermostats alone*, guys. Sheesh. No wonder I keep getting sick. (Well, that and the fact that the 'cleaning crew' they hired don't actually *clean anything*, as witness the little bits of paper and things i put in random places around my desk/shelf. Four days later, they are still there, in plain damn site. And wow, is that the little drift of pencil shavings someone spilled two weeks ago? Yup, still there. ARRGH.
Anyway - herein is part three of the 'Bucky is back and recovery is not linear' fic i work at on and off. Again, many thanks to darkhavens for her excellent and effortless beta-ing. Thanks, bb! :)
Also at AO3.
'Cause you were bred for humanity and sold to society
One day you'll wake up in the Present Day
A million generations removed from expectations
Of being who you really want to be….
Jethro Tull - Skating Away on the Thin Ice of a New Day
Steve had, in retrospect, just been waiting for it to happen. For something to happen. No matter how thorough - how determined - Bucky, and Natasha, and even Steve and Sam had been…. Steve knew they'd never find every Hydra agent; knew they'd missed some. It was inevitable.
But he still wasn't prepared; none of them were. They'd gone out, he and Bucky, Sam and Natasha. Just...walking. The air was still mild; the brutal heat of a summer in New York hadn't come, yet, and they were just strolling along the sidewalk, in the mellow-gold light of a late May afternoon, blue shadows slowly creeping in. They were admiring a series of intricate, colorful chalk drawings someone had done across the rough concrete. Mandalas, Natasha said they were; symbols of the universe, a cosmic diagram of the infinite.
Steve didn't know about that, but they were beautiful, already scuffed, fuzzy at the edges. Steve thought that was a shame, that they would be erased by hands and feet, dew and wind. Natasha said that was the point.
Ahead of them, a couple of young men came out of a little store, bodega, talking loudly in what sounded like Greek. They were jostling each other, laughing and horsing around, but it made Bucky jerk - instant attention, instant tension.
Steve quickened just a half-step, putting himself between the men and Bucky, and Sam dropped back to guard his six, giving him a buffer without really doing anything, just giving him a minute to assess the situation and reassure himself there wasn't any danger.
The men, oblivious, slung arms around each other's shoulders and strode off, grinning, plastic bags dangling from their fingertips. By the time their little group was walking past the same store, Bucky was okay, relaxed enough to point out the shockingly lurid - and essentially ridiculous - poster in the window for 'personal lubricant'.
"Jesus, could'a used that a time or two," Bucky said, and Steve snorted noisily while Sam looked over at the ad with a grin, and Natasha half-turned, walking sideways to make some comment about watermelon flavor. Which, to Steve, sounded completely disgusting.
The mandalas had run out, and now they were passing a half-empty deli, with signs up in Hebrew and English advertising goulash and stuffed cabbage, gefilte fish and pastrami. It smelled good, mellow and spicy, and Steve thought maybe they should get something. For later, on the way home. Behind them, the door to the bodega chimed again, someone going out, someone coming in and then...and then….
And then a voice - a man's voice - was speaking in Russian, clear and clipped, a little breathless, as if he was trying to say what he was saying quickly, get it out there before someone stopped him. And Bucky just froze, one foot slightly lifted, his expression going from amusement to shock to an utter, eerie blankness in seconds. A blankness Steve hadn't seen since the first month or two of Bucky's return.
Steve had felt the blood drain from his face, felt his heart stop as that voice rang out again, the same words, repeated. And then Bucky had screamed, his hand coming up to his head in a clawing motion as his whole body twisted down, hunching in, going to one knee hard enough to make a solid crack on the sidewalk. Eyes wide, breathing hard - no, hyperventilating - his breaths going choppy and too fast, little rasping whines that sounded like they hurt.
Sam went down with him, not touching, just talking, low and slow and calm, and thank God, thank God for Sam Wilson, Steve had thought, even as he'd pivoted on his toes, zeroing in on the man. Tall and thin, in a rumpled city suit, with a briefcase and curly, light-brown hair and a beaky nose. And an obscene look of triumph on his face. Of manic glee.
His mouth was still open, to say more, maybe, but Steve had already been moving, launching himself directly at the man, dimly aware of Natasha right there with him, moving in tandem. Steve had shoved him back two, three, four stumbling steps, right into the plate glass window of the store, hard enough that it cracked as the man's head bounced off it. The briefcase thumped to the ground.
Steve’s fist was twisted in the man's shirt front, the tie and button-down crumpled in one hand, his other on the man's throat, shoving his head up and back, rigid fingers sinking into the flesh just under his jaw. And oh, how Steve had wanted to just squeeze, just shove harder and snap that spine; shove and twist and watch the feral, hungry gleam drain out of those wide, hazel eyes.
But Natasha was right there, too, barking words into her phone, calling for backup, calling for containment, and Steve had squeezed just a little harder, just enough to cut off the man's air, close enough to see the wild dilation of his pupils and the little nick from shaving, the dark spot of clotted blood on his jaw.
"If you open your mouth - if you say one more word, I swear to God - I will rip your throat out with my bare hands." Steve had gritted his words out through clenched teeth, his belly churning and heart pounding as Bucky was making this sick, animal noise, keening like a gut-ripped dog. Steve thought he might throw up.
Natasha had reached over, then, and slapped her hand into the man's neck, right under Steve's hand, a little bubble of sedative between her fingers, with a tiny needle that slipped right in, and the man shuddered all over and went limp.
Steve had stepped back and let him fall, crumpling sideways, and Natasha had stepped up, plastic ties in her hand, her jaw set. One twitch of her head toward Bucky - go - and Steve went.
"What, exactly, did you think was going to happen?" Natasha asked, and the man - Daniel Ellicot, 57, Neurobiologist, American citizen...Hydra agent - didn't reply. He just shifted minutely in his chair, the steel shackles around his wrists, waist, and ankles slithering a little, giving a muted clink.
"You said - "Архангел , семь, запрос , разорвать , Люцифер , закончить его", Natasha repeated, Russian rolling easily off her tongue. "Archangel, seven, query, sever, Lucifer, end it. What were you expecting that to do?"
Ellicot shifted again, his jaw bulging a little, swollen. Ten minutes' hasty dentistry had removed a hollow, poison-filled molar from his mouth; there would be no untimely, Hydra-exhorting suicide here. His hazel eyes shifted left and right, skimming the scratched surface of the matte stainless table that sat between them. A folder was open on it, various papers laying in a fan, mostly papers on Daniel Ellicot. Tony had trawled a hundred-thousand words and numerous photos on Ellicot in a handful of minutes, eyebrows drawn down and his mouth set in a thin, hard line.
"Did you think the...Asset would salute you? Say 'What is my mission, sir?'. Start executing civilians?"
Standing at rigid parade rest in the adjoining room, watching it all on a huge CCTV screen, Steve winced. Asset. Fuck them.
Ellicot's throat bobbed as he swallowed. Natasha gave him a minute, and then she sighed softly. She shuffled the papers back into the folder and squared it on the table, gave it three little taps. She looked tired, a little sorrowful. She looked up at Ellicot, fingertips resting lightly on the folder.
"Do you know who I am, Danny?" she said, and Ellicot glanced at her and then away, clenching his jaw and then wincing. There was a slight sheen of sweat along his hairline. "You do know," Natasha said. She rose, and then placed her hands on the table, leaning in toward Ellicot just the smallest fraction. Steve was gratified to see the man flinch backward, even though Natasha had done nothing more than smile at him.
A spider's smile, all tucked fangs and hidden poison.
"You know what I can do to you, don't you, Danny-boy. With the cameras turned off." He looked up and around, a startled, reflexive search for evidence of said cameras, and Natasha's smile quirked, showing a flash of white tooth. She leaned forward another few inches, and when she spoke again, her voice had dropped, slow and low and husky. Intimate. "With the lights turned down real...low…."
Ellicot was breathing a little harder now - a little faster - and Steve could see a bit of dampness creeping out from under an armpit.
"Do you know, since the Asset came in from the cold," Natasha said, playful little tip of her head, "he's taught me so many new things. It's been a real revelation." She slapped her palms down, bang, on the table, and Ellicot jerked, gasping. Natasha straightened, her smile smoothing out, all business now. She picked up the folder and tucked it into the crook of her arm. "It's going to be extremely interesting to see all his lessons demonstrated live, don't you think?"
She turned on one heel and walked to the door; knocked once, and the lock disengaged, worked from the outside. Steve could see the guard in another screen, rifle slung on his shoulder, anonymous in black tactical gear. Natasha stepped through the door, calling out in Russian, and the guard shouldered in, pulling it to - almost, not quite - and Ellicot broke.
"Hey- hey, wait!" he called, and the guard shut the door, lock clicking into place. He settled with the rifle in his hands, casually not-quite pointed at Ellicot, and Ellicot shot the guard a pleading look. "Hey, get her back here, I want- I want to talk to her!" His voice was a little slurred, mouth still a little numb. The guard didn't move, didn't say a word.
It was Clint, Steve knew. Clint, hidden behind goggles and helmet and an obvious little blob of fuzz for a mic. Clint, who could appear to be just another flunky, the kind of low-level, anonymous Agent that Hydra had probably perfected turning.
Natasha slipped into the observation room, putting the folder down and turning to look at the various screens on the table. The main screen showed Ellicot, pale and sweating and visibly agitated, talking to Clint. The other, smaller screens - special ones of Tony's design, flat and thin and practically invisible until light touched them - showed different views of the room, of the hall, and Ellicot's vitals. Another screen - small, portable - showed occasional glimpses of Tony up in his workroom. He was running all their electronics - well, he and JARVIS. Recording, researching, making suggestions. A second portable monitor was off to one side. In it was a dimly lit view of Bucky. At the moment, he wasn't moving, but a steady pulse showed his heartbeat, his respiration, his temperature.
"How's he doing?" Natasha asked, and Steve forced himself to relax, at least enough to bring his clenched fists out from behind his back.
"He's...coping." Steve said. "He threw me out," he added, and then shut his lips tight, and Natasha gave him a tiny, soft smile.
"It's everything you fight; everything you've been crushing down, trying to suffocate out of existence. Your worst - first - nightmare." She tapped her fingernails on the folder, quick little onetwothree, her head bowed for a moment. Then she looked up, some far, cold space behind her gaze. "For Bucky right now, it's all coming back on him, all of it, right in his face." She laughed, but it was bitter. "Like bad vodka; worse coming up."
"Is it?" Steve asked, and she lifted an eyebrow at him. "Worse coming up."
Natasha shrugged, stared first at Bucky's immobile figure and then back up at Steve. "I dunno. Pretty damn bad going down."
Steve could feel himself flinch from that, and he looked away, gaze fixed on Ellicot, on Clint, anywhere but Bucky. For just a moment.
"He didn't- You know it's not that he doesn't want you there…."
"No, he doesn't," Steve said, and sighed. "He's scared he'll hurt me. Any of us. I know why he doesn't want me there, up here," Steve said, tapping his temple as he gave Natasha a brief, crooked smile. "But in here," - his finger moved down, and touched his chest briefly - "in here, I just...want to help."
"He knows," Natasha said. "Sometimes, anybody else's stuff, no matter how well intentioned…it's just too much."
Steve nodded. "I know it's not about me."
"It is about you, though, at least a little," Natasha said, and Steve turned his gaze to the big screen, where Ellicot was now talking urgently to Clint, his face flushed, mottled in bright pink across his cheekbones, sweat standing visibly on his skin. He seemed to be trying to rock the chair off its bolts or something. Clint looked appropriately freaked, his body language twitchy.
"I know neither of you sleep through the night five nights out of seven," Natasha said softly, and Steve stretched his neck and decided to ignore that.
"So, how long do we let Ellicot try to bribe Clint into letting him go? He looks like he might do himself an injury," Steve said, as Ellicot wrenched at the shackles.
"Oh, long enough to get a cup of coffee, at least," Natasha replied, graciously not pursuing that line of conversation. She put her hand up to her ear and spoke, ordering them both coffee. "And try and find some doughnuts or something. Coffee cake; anything," she added.
"I'm not-"
"We both need some carbs, Rogers. It'll keep us steady."
"Natural tranquilizer," Tony said, whirling past the camera on his end on what Steve devoutly hoped was a wheeled chair and not one of his robots.
"Sugar, fat, and grease - basic food groups," Natasha said, and Steve sighed out a faint laugh.
"Yeah, sure. Is-? Make sure Bucky and Sam and Bruce have...something," Steve said, knowing Sam and Bruce were right outside Bucky's door, watching just like Steve was; kicked out, just like Steve had been.
"Taken care of!" Tony shouted, his voice tinny, as one of his little robots poked a three-pronged 'hand' into the camera view. "U! Don't touch that. You're on cable duty, get busy, shoo, shoo," Tony said, and the robot chirruped something and withdrew, out of frame.
In the other small screen, Bucky stirred. Lifting his head, he looked around the room, his hair falling lank into his eyes, his gaze fixed. Empty. Steve froze, staring down at the image, willing Bucky to say something - do something - to show he was okay, that he was still there. After a long moment, Bucky shook his head, a sharp snap, as if throwing off water. Gracefully- that long-legged grace he'd never lost, not even strapped tight into Kevlar and nightmare - he turned to the wall of built in shelves and cabinets and began to demolish them with scything blows of his single arm.
Steve watched as long as he could, jaw clenched tight and fingernails gouging into his palm, every muscle trembling with the supreme effort of just being still. Then Maria came in with a briefcase of documents and an intern loaded down with coffee and danish and bagels, and Steve resolutely turned his shoulder to the screen, to Bucky. He had work to do.
"They were terrified of him," Ellicot said, looking earnestly at Maria Hill, who was turning pages in a series of folders, smudged print-outs and newer, crisper copies. She didn't look at him. Natasha, however, kept her gaze - her slight smile - fixed on Ellicot, and Ellicot avoided looking at her with a flinching aversion that Steve might have found amusing, some other time.
Now, he simply wanted to slam his fist into the man's face.
"It was obvious. The guards tried to hide it but, if h-he so much as coughed, they would...get all tense. You could see the barrels of their guns come up, just for a-a moment."
"But you weren't?" Maria said, idly turning to a page that Steve knew had an image of Bucky. Steve had seen them all, he didn't need to scrutinize them.
Ellicot gave a huffing, nervous little laugh. "Course I w-was. He was…." Ellicot paused for a moment, seeming to consider his words. "He was unstable, a lot of the time."
"What do you mean by 'unstable'?" Maria asked, and Ellicot licked his lips, his gaze skittering over Natasha's slim fingers as they idly tapped and turned a shiny, silver pen.
"He- If P-Pierce kept him...on a mission for too long, or if he was...out of cryo for more than four or five days, he'd start to get...confused."
"Confused," Maria repeated flatly, on a long beat, and Ellicot shifted in his chair, his hand coming up in an aborted attempt to touch his swollen jaw.
"This is really sore. Could I get some- some Tylenol or something?"
Maria shuffled papers, ignoring his pleading look, and when Ellicot slid a quick, flinching glance at Natasha, she smiled at him with all her teeth.
"No."
"Explain to me what you mean by 'confused'," Maria said, as if the word were something in an obscure dialect.
As if he'd said nothing at all about his jaw.
"He didn't know where he was. He would...lose track of the mission, his target."
In the observation room, Steve became aware that he was grinding his teeth, and forced himself to unlock his jaw. He looked away, to the monitor where Bucky's image was, and saw he had abandoned the rubble of the cabinets. He was leaning against the wall, saying something, his fingers twisted in his hair. He looked…. He looked so lost, and Steve felt his throat tighten, a sharp ache that he tried to swallow away. Jesus, how he hated this. All of this.
He looked back to the interrogation, where Maria was looking at Ellicot now, her fingers tapping lightly on the papers in front of her.
"And why would that be frightening, to the guards? To you? His being...confused," Maria said. Natasha tapped the end of the pen on her lips, then let it slide down, to rest in the hollow of her throat, and Ellicot’s eyes tracked it. In a single, fluid movement, Natasha leaned forward and brought her hand around in a sharp slap to the swollen length of his jaw.
"Ow, fuck, fucking bitch!"
"You were frightened?" Natasha asked, little smile on her face, unruffled, and Ellicot stared at her for a long moment.
"Look, he- he got violent, okay? He would...be in a daze, you could see him trying to...figure out things. If somebody moved too fast, or came up behind him, or-or touched him unexpectedly, he'd lash out. He would question," Ellicot said, and Steve saw the little tremor that ran through Clint - still standing guard - at that.
"He seemed to remember...things. And that made him react unpredictably. He killed a doctor, one time, and some of the guards." Ellicot licked his lips, his gaze skittering over Clint, over Natasha, before focusing back on Maria. "Pierce could talk him down, sometimes, but usually we just...we just wiped him. Started all over." Maria and Natasha both just looked at Ellicot, and he opened his mouth, then shut it. Then went slightly green as the words he'd just said seemed to percolate through his brain.
In the observation room, Steve put his fist through the wall and then stood there, breathing hard, not noticing what Natasha and Maria were doing next. Not really caring. Feeling the rage and the grief and the guilt rising up through him like a sick, hot tide. God, he wanted...wanted them to scream. Wanted to scream, himself; to howl out all the black, bloody emotions that were boiling inside him. Just like Bucky was.
On the monitor screen, Bucky was moving now, swinging a piece of debris he'd picked up, wild and uncoordinated. Shouting, incoherent, English and Russian, too fast for Steve to sort. There was blood running in thin lines from his palm and down his wrist, blotted up by the sleeve of the Henley he wore. Blood trailed in a scarlet thread from one nostril, and Steve felt himself go hot and then cold, and he hit the switch - sent the pulse to the women, alerting them via a little chime through the com sets.
Steve watched Bucky stagger and go to one hand and knee, his back arching and shaking as he heaved, coughing. And then Bucky pushed himself upright, panting, and Steve heard him, heard him say Steve's name - heard him ask - and he spun around as the women came into the observation room.
"I gotta go. He's- He's asking- He needs me."
"You sure?" Natasha said, and Steve pushed past them, not even pausing to consider.
"I'm positive. I don't care what Ellicot has to say. You don't need me here."
But Bucky did. Bucky did.
Bucky uncurled himself from his crouch, staggering on numb legs to the wall, to lean in the corner and just...breathe. Fist clenched in his hair, eyes shut, he tried not to slam his head into the wall. Because every few breaths, his brain just...misfired - white-noise static, a sand-storm hiss, a hundred-thousand bees.
And somehow, inside that buzzing, hissing nothing, were images. Memories, Bucky knew, but memories like a worn-out movie reel: hitching and fuzzy, over-exposed or under, shadow and light and blood. So much fucking blood. He swore he could smell it; that butcher's reek of viscera, iron and rot, tangy in his nostrils, at the back of his throat.
"Not real, not real, notreal," Bucky muttered. But it had been real, once upon a time. Blood, blood, always blood….
Blood on Steve's face, split lip, bruised cheek, bloody knuckles that his mother clucked over, disapproving. Blood on Bucky's knuckles, backing Steve up, always backing him up, always at his back...his back...blue suit, long legs, shooter, sniper, danger, but blood fixed it, bullet to the brain, blood on blood, blood on snow, numbing cold, cold makes the pain easier to bear, cold like knives, ice in his hair, ice in his blood, his blood, his blood-
"Stop it", Bucky shouted, and whipped his head sideways - crack against the wall - and everything...stopped. Pain radiated out in sickening throbs, but, while it lasted, Bucky could think, even as his knees gave out and he slid down, crumpling against the wall, shuddering from phantom cold.
"My name...is James...Buchanan Barnes...three, two, fi-five...suh...sssev...en…." No, no. That was...that wasn't now, that wasn't…here, he was sure of it (oh, please, let him be sure of it). He was…. "I'm- James Barnes. This is...is the year...two-thousand and...fifteen...I'm in...in New York, in...the t-tower, in...New York. I'm James, I'm...Bucky, Steve is, Steve…is...."
The throb in his head was nearly gone and the staticsnaphiss was back, flaring through him, drowning his sight, thick in his lungs, a tidal wave of nothing and then of everything; blood and bones and cold and pain, all pain, no I, no me, no will, no thought, no thing, nothing, nothing-
"No," he whispered, and twisted his hand sharply in his hair. (One hand, just the one. Different. Not two, one hand, this is after, after, after, not before, not then, not...no…no!)
"I sssaid no, I said no, I, I, said no, I fought...them. I have to...fight, I have to-" Bucky shoved himself upright and staggered away from the wall, out into the room (void), fist clenched, head down. There was...debris; bits of metal and wood, something demolished. He kicked a long bar of metal free and picked it up, ignoring the sting of something cutting into his hand.
He stood, legs braced, the impromptu club raised like a bat, breathing too hard, too fast, too loud, fuck, he had to...get a grip on himself, he had to...had to be calm, don't show fear, don't...let them see.
Because he had said no. He'd said no and he'd fought through it all, through everything. Screamed it in blood and spit and, once, fragments of a tooth; through electric shocks and beatings bad enough to make him piss blood; through repeated almost-drownings; through vivisection, Christ, the stink and steam of his own innards, unseamed like a rag doll, just as helpless. But he'd fought, until one day, one day….
He walked in. Tight little smile on his fat little mouth, round face and round glasses shining in the blinding overhead light. And behind him, the machine, A hulking scaffold of steel and glass and quivering hoses, dials gleaming. It had hummed and clicked and whirred to itself, idiot noises, and they'd got the cables around his throat, dog-catcher's loops, throttling them down to vicious, pinching nooses. They’d yanked him up and forward, the disabled, hateful arm a dead weight at his side, throwing him off balance as he'd lunged first to one side and then the other.
But his air was gone, his chest hitching and burning, blood roaring in his ears and black spangles rushing in from all sides, blinding him. His hearing going muffled and tinny, he'd gone down to one knee, then both, clawing at the cables, blood under his nails, only to be suddenly lifted up and flung down, his too-thin body hitting unpadded metal, ice-cold. Steel clamps bit into his arm, legs, ribs, throat, and then the strangling cables finally loosened.
He'd dragged in a cawing, burning lungful of air and someone had shoved a piece of something (rubber? leather?) between his teeth, too quick for him to bite. Cold, prickling fingers of steel clamped around his head, across his eye, cupping his cheek, and Bucky arched and twisted and fought, but he couldn't move, he couldn't move-
"Now we shall see," he'd said. That voice. That lisping, prissy voice that Bucky wanted to tear from the thick, pale throat with his bare hands. And then, and then...and then.
The machine came to life, throbbing vibrations running through it - through Bucky - with a low hum, growing to a piercing wail, worse than the shrieks of falling bombs. Drilling into Bucky's head like a frozen spike, shattering bone and brain, cold and shiny as a pane of ice. Driving in; twisting, shredding, howling through his brain, a scouring, agonizing storm of hail and snow and icicle shards, dazzling bright.
Erasing it all, erasing him, taking the 'no', taking I, me, Bucky and leaving...nothing.
Bucky screamed, and Christ, his throat hurt, his hand did, everything hurt, and he swung the metal bar wildly, connecting with nothing (nothing nothing no thing). "I said no! Fuck you, you shit-eating fucking bastards, you fucking cocksuckers, I said no, I fucking...beat you, I f-fucking beat you!"
He swung the bar, again and again, until he lost his balance and dropped to his knees and his hand, the bar clattering away. Bucky curled over, his belly heaving, dry retches that brought up strings of bile, the stink of his own sweat and blood making him gag, again and again. He was dizzy, panting, freezing to his core. Chills shuddered through him, wringing his muscles, a fever-grip he'd helplessly watched Steve live through and now he was- Now he was the fucked-up one, now he was drowning, and he needed, so fucking desperately, for something to hold on to. Needed a toehold, a lifeline, something. Anything to keep him here, in this decade, in this moment. In his second life.
"Steve," he croaked, then coughed and spat, pushing up and back until he was kneeling, his hand leaving a smear of blood on the floor. He didn’t bother to look around, sure that, somewhere, someone was watching. "Steve? I- I need...need a little...h-help, pal. I could really...use your help."
Steve wanted to run, but he knew the elevator was faster, taking him from the Security level on three to the living quarters on eighty-seven in under a minute, accelerating so smoothly it barely felt like it was moving at all. Technology that was unsatisfying in its sleek perfection. The doors hissed open on eighty-seven and Steve stepped out, moving fast.
This floor was his floor - his and Bucky's floor - and one section was deliberately empty, unfinished. Bare, because Bucky had needed that, sometimes - a blank palette to hammer his fear and grief and rage onto. At first, the walls had been gouged and scored and dented on a regular basis, marked with a dense scribble of fury and mute, bewildered horror. Blood and ink and fingernails, tears and sweat and graphite.
They'd painted it over, smoothed the holes and wiped it all clean four, five, six times, but Bucky had stopped Steve from going that last little way, from making it into a living space, or training, something. With just a slow look around, and that little, crooked smile, a shake of his head. "We'll just leave it for now, huh, Steve? No hurry," he'd said, and Steve had opened his mouth to protest, and then he’d looked at Bucky and closed the words he wanted to say tight behind his lips.
(Because not all of it had been Bucky, not all. Some of Steve's blood lay under those layers of paint, too. Blood and tears, rage and grief. They had to see it, sometimes, cut it loose from them and put it out in the light, in order to be free of it. Because you never forgot, the first time a man died by your hand. You never forgot, the way the steam would rise out of a body ripped open by a bomb's concussion. You never forgot, the first week your dearest friend in all the world was returned to you, sitting in a corner with a bit of toast in his fingers and tears making silent, silver runnels down his face, utterly undone by simple kindness and warm bread.)
Steve strode toward that hallway - that door - and Sam was there, standing with his arms tightly crossed and his chin tucked, looking furious and more than a little freaked out. Bruce stood between Sam and the door, his attention firmly on the screen in his hands, his hair looking as if he'd spent the last hour pulling on it.
Sam's head snapped up when he heard Steve's tread. Relief and guilt slid across his face in seconds before being smoothed away by force of will, and his arms came loose, fists still clenched.
"Hey, Steve. Sorry, I'm- I'm sorry, man, I wanted-"
"No, it's okay," Steve said. "Bucky didn't want...he wanted us to keep out."
"Yeah, well, sometimes what a person wants isn't exactly what they need."
Steve stopped, and put his hand on Sam's shoulder, feeling the shiver of muscle there, the tension and exhaustion. "I know. But Bucky...he'd never have forgiven himself if he'd hurt you, Sam. You know that."
Sam's mouth was a thin, hard line, his gaze as fierce as his namesake. And then he sighed, his shoulders coming down, fists unfurling. "Yeah, I know. It's just...not what I trained for. I'm supposed to be helping, not...watching."
"He's fine," Bruce murmured, and when they both turned to stare at him, Bruce's distracted gaze lifted from the screen and his mouth curled a little. "I mean - for a given value of fine. But we're monitoring him. He's not- Physically, he's not in any danger."
"Thanks, Doc. I appreciate what you're doing. But-"
"You need to go in, now. I know. We'll..be here," Bruce said, and Steve nodded. Sam's hand came down on Steve's shoulder, and his fingers were warm, squeezing tight.
"Just go slow, man. Don't creep, but...don't get right up in his space right away, okay? Make sure he knows...knows you're there, first. Okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Steve said, offering a little smile, and then JARVIS unseamed the door, and Steve went cautiously in.
The room beyond was dim - Bucky had asked for that, one of the last things he'd said before he'd become completely incoherent. Something about the light hurting, or making too much noise. Steve shook that thought away and moved forward slowly, his hands out a little from his sides, harmlessly open as he scanned the room for Bucky. To the right was blank wall, windows; left, the scarred niche where the cabinets had been. And there was Bucky, on his knees, shattered wood and plaster and plastic around him.
He was hunched over, right hand splayed and tensing on the gritty floor, his head down as he breathed in hard, rapid bursts, almost a hollow bark, painful to listen to. Steve checked his immediate impulse to rush forward, to fling himself down beside Bucky and help him, somehow. Instead, he walked forward, five or six slow and careful steps, and then crouched down, a good three yards away.
"Buck?" he said, softly, his voice as even and calm as he could make it.
After a long moment, Bucky shifted ever so slightly, his head coming up a little. Strings of sweat-lank hair tangled across his eyes, and he squinted at Steve.
"Bucky, it's me; it's Steve. I'm here."
"Вы сказали, что , прежде чем," Bucky whispered, Vy skazali, chto , prezhde chem.
"I- I don't understand that," Steve said, his heart pounding, and Bucky shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, his hand curling into a fist, leaving a smudge of blood. Steve started to reach out, and then stopped himself on a twitch, gritting his teeth together.
"You...ss-said that. Before. In- not you, but...fuck, fuck-" Bucky's voice was going up, agitated, and Steve went down on his knees, twisting his fingers together, hard, in an effort not to touch.
"Buck, c'mon, I'm right here, I'm here. Tell me - what you need. Tell me what to do," Steve begged, and Bucky's head went up and back, his mouth twisting in a snarl, a coughing rasp of a laugh coming out of his throat.
"I don't... know, I cuh-can't...keep it…." Bucky blinked up at the dim vault of the ceiling and then down again, at Steve this time, his winter-blue eyes like glacier ice, clear and pale and sheened with salt-water, startling in their red-rimmed sockets. "Steve, am I here? Is...is this here? I can't...keep it ss-straight."
"Yeah, you're here, you're here with me." Steve edged closer, freezing when Bucky flinched, wild-eyed. " We- This is Stark Tower, this is the year two-thousand and fifteen, and you're free, Bucky, you got out, I'm here and it's over, it's over."
"Christ, you...don't nuh-know that, you can't ssay that-"
"Yeah, yeah I can. It's over, Bucky. God, I finally got you back, I ain't letting you go again, just- tell me what you need. Tell me... how to help you."
Bucky looked helplessly around the room - featureless, shadowed - and lifted his shaking hand to shove clumsily at the hair that was webbed over his face, leaving a tacky smear of drying blood on cheekbone and forehead. "Fuck, I- T-tell me...anything. I ku-keep losin'...track, I can't- Tell me how it's now, tell me...stuff that's...not then, not- Fuck, fuck!" Bucky's hand, still shoving at his hair, twisted in it suddenly, pulling hard, and he curled down over his knees, gasping.
Steve slithered forward, heart in his mouth, and leaned as close as he could, still not touching, not yet, not yet, knowing if he did it might just send Bucky over the edge; might get him a broken nose, a cracked jaw. Wouldn't be the first time. "Okay, okay, I can- Did you know, we went to the moon? An American walked on the moon. And- and we sent a submarine down to the bottom of the ocean, down six miles...and...there's a vaccine for polio now, nobody gets polio anymore, Bucky, can you just imagine that? Nobody gets polio, or...measles...they can- There's even a vaccine for TB now, Buck…." Steve's voice faltered for a moment and he stopped.
Bucky was breathing a little slower now - still choppy, still wrong, but slower. Steve watched as his screwed-shut eyelids relaxed a little, as his hand loosened its hold on his hair, sliding open a fraction. There was blood in streaks down his wrist, and Steve wanted to shout for Sam, wanted to cradle Bucky's wounded hand in his own.
"They got vaccines for- for everything now, kids don't, it's...and...we've sent out- all these...ships, like...little ships, into space, they call them probes. They took pictures of all the planets, God, Bucky, I've seen what Mars looks like, I've seen- Did you know-? They say Pluto's not a planet anymore, but...they have pictures of them, and- there are so many more out there, millions, and...there might be life out there, they think there's life out there."
"Little...green men," Bucky said, on a breath, and Steve laughed softly.
"Yeah, but, they say probably not green. But out there, for sure, because...because when I- The first thing I did, after the ice, when they w-woke me up, the first thing I fought was...was aliens. Space aliens."
"S'why...all the stuff...fixing it? In the streets?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's why, they really did a number on the 'ole Big Apple." Bucky's hand slid lower, down and out of his hair, falling to his thigh and curling there, and Steve peered through the lank strands at Bucky's face. His eyes were open - a little distant - but they flickered to Steve when Steve rocked forward slightly. Not so panicked, now.
"And...gods. You know, we...know gods?"
"Alien space gods, I guess," Steve said. "I mean - Thor," Steve snorted, and Bucky's mouth twitched, faint smile. "But, yeah. Gods. And there's about a million flavors of ice cream now. Tony wants me to try horseradish but I don't see why in hell anybody'd want to eat that."
"Tony...would," Bucky said, and he straightened a little, eyebrows drawn down. "Tony, he's...that's Stark? Howard's- Howard Stark's boy."
"Yeah, Howard's son. He built...all of this. This tower. He built a flying suit of armor."
"Did he-? Was there a...car?" Bucky looked up this time, all the way up and straight at Steve, the confusion in his gaze making Steve's throat ache with emotion, fiercely withheld.
"Yeah, a flying car. But that was...back in 1943. At the Expo. That was Howard. It didn't fly, it kinda crashed. Good thing Tony's armor doesn't crash."
"I brought you a date," Bucky said, gaze still searching Steve's face, and Steve nodded.
"Yeah. She was kinda disappointed."
"She should'a...waited a few weeks," Bucky said, thread of anger in his voice, and Steve grinned.
"Didn't your ma tell you, never keep a lady waiting?"
Bucky smiled, crooked and fleeting, and looked down into his lap, at his hand, which was smudged and streaked with blood and plaster dust. His eyes went wide and he gave a breathy, wheezing gasp, looking up and around, frantic. "Steve, fuck, did I-? Who'd I hurt? Who did- who did I hurt? Fuck, fuck-"
"No, no, Bucky, nobody, you didn't, that's yours, you hurt yourself, it's okay, nobody's hurt." This time Steve did reach out; caught Bucky's wrist and pulled his hand close, enfolding it in both of his. "You didn't hurt anybody. You kicked us all out and you just...you were okay."
Bucky's arm was shivering with tension, his hand curled into a rock-hard fist in Steve's grasp, but he was looking at Steve - he was hearing Steve - and gradually his breathing slowed down again, and his wide-eyed gaze steadied, the panic ebbing.
"Cuh-Christ. Jesus...Christ, Steve, I'm...fuck, I'm sorry, I-"
"Hey, this isn't your fault, pal. You know it's not. You know it's not." Steve made a little face, looking at their clasped hands. Blood had started to ooze from Bucky's cut palm, seeping out from the tight clench of it, and Steve could feel it, warm and slick; could smell it, and it was making him a little sick to his stomach. God, how he hated to see Bucky bleed.
"Can I-? Would it be okay if Sam came in?" Steve asked, raising his voice just a little, knowing it was being transmitted outside, to Sam and Bruce. "Let him show off those fancy First Aid skills?" After a long moment Bucky nodded jerkily. The door behind Steve opened slowly, and Steve heard Sam come in, walking louder than he usually did, walking slower. His position was obvious to Steve because Bucky, for all he'd said yes, was watching Sam over Steve's shoulder like a wary animal.
Sam came up on Steve's left, and settled down on his knees, his oversized gear bag next to him. "First Aid skills? I could do open-heart surgery on you on a ledge in a thunderstorm. First Aid," Sam scoffed, and Steve grinned.
Bucky smiled, too, just a little, but his gaze was intent as Sam opened the bag and took out supplies one at a time, laying them out on a pastel-blue square of plastic and paper that Sam had previously told Steve was a dental bib. He put down scissors, and gloves, packets of gauze , a tube of some kind of cream, a couple of squeeze bottles full of liquid, forceps, a suture kit, a roll of white cloth tape. Bucky was breathing hard again, and Sam put down a little packet of butterfly bandages and leaned back, hands on this thighs. Bucky twisted his wrist, pulling, and Steve let go, let him pull his arm in close, tucked against his ribs, hunching over a little. Protecting it.
"Okay, so, you can see everything here I might need. Not hiding anything, okay? And no drugs unless you want. I got a spray that'll numb anything if you need stitches." Sam looked calmly at Bucky, his dark eyes alert - kind - and Steve felt a low, warm rush of affection for the man; for his gentleness and care and just…goodness. "I won't start until you're ready, Barnes. Promise."
Bucky huffed out a strangled laugh, looking away, looking on the verge of panic, blotches of color in his cheeks. "Fucking...ss-stupid," he muttered. He sniffed, and wiped his nose on his shoulder, then jerked his head to the side, flicking strands of hair out of his face. They slipped right back. "This is- I sh-shouldn't-"
"Hey," Sam said, his voice calm and low, but it made Bucky stop, made him look over at Sam, his mouth twisted in a grimace of anger. "You got nothing to be ashamed of, man. I seen lots of guys - some women, too - have issues with this kind of thing. Nobody likes havin' a medic poke and prod around, 'specially if they've already been hurt." Sam reached into his back pocket, casual and slow, and slid his phone out, holding it up for Bucky to see. A few touches later, there was music playing.
Marvin Gaye, Steve thought, recognizing it, and he laughed softly. "Is this your official convalescent music?"
"It's good for what ails ya," Sam said, smiling, and he laid the phone on the gear bag. "You're not stupid, man," he said to Bucky. "This is normal. We got all night, so just take your time. If you'd rather Steve do it, that's okay too."
Bucky snorted, looking from Sam to Steve. "You ever s-seen a sock he darned? Like somethin' outta...Frankenstein's labs."
"Hey, now," Steve protested, "it was a war. We had to all do our part." Bucky shot him a look, the effort it was taking obvious, but it didn't matter, it didn't, because he was trying so hard, and he was doing so good. Steve was so damn proud of him, but he kept every trace of that off his face and out of his voice. It'd only embarrass Bucky.
"His buttons were always crooked, and his patches always cu-came off and his hems-"
"Thought you were a soldier, man, not a seamstress," Sam said, grinning, and Steve huffed.
"Bucky knits," he blurted, and Sam let out a startled snort of a laugh.
"Knit one, purl two?"
"At least my socks didn't give you buh-blisters from the lumps," Bucky said, and Sam laughed again, his grin wide.
"You learn something new every day. Guess I know what certain octogenarians are getting for Christmas."
"You dare," Steve warned, and Bucky took a long, deep breath and let himself come up out of his hunch, untucking his arm and holding it out. They all ignored the fact that it was shaking.
"Okay, I'm...good. Let's do it."
"Okay, then," Sam said, and he picked up the gloves. Steve watched as Sam cradled Bucky's hand in gauze and washed out the cut on Bucky's palm. He dabbed it carefully dry, and then swabbed it with something he called Betadine, that looked like plain iodine. Sam said it was new-and-improved, though it smelled just as nasty.
The cut was deep, and inconveniently placed, but Bucky's hand jerked, hard, when Sam suggested stitches. Sam sat back a little, looking at Bucky, and Bucky looked helplessly over at Steve, his eyes wet.
"Sorry-"
"Nah, man, I got this," Sam said. He rummaged in the gear bag and came up with a foil packet. "This powder'll stop the bleeding and seal the cut, and then we can just cover it, keep it clean. From what I've seen with Steve, this should probably be healed in a day or two, huh?"
"Yeah," Bucky said, and Sam nodded.
"Okay, then. We don't need to do stitches, this'll work just fine. I'm gonna dump this powder on, and then...then I'm gonna have to press down with my hand for a minute, okay? It's gonna get a little warm, but it won't hurt."
"Okay," Bucky said. Steve watched Sam strip off a glove and wipe his fingers down with an alcohol wipe; watched him snip a corner from the little packet and dump a fine, brownish powder all over the cut. Then he was pressing two fingers down firmly, glancing at his phone, timing himself as Marvin crooned softly.
Bucky watched, as well, his arm still shivering in Sam's grip but not quite as bad, his breathing steady, now, normal, his face not quite so ashen.
"Had a...little stick in my shave kit...for when I nicked myself," Bucky said, as Sam slowly let up the pressure and took his fingers off the wound. The powder had turned into a dull sort of scab, the bleeding completely stopped, and Sam carefully dusted away loose powder and then settled a gauze pad over the cut, fixing it in place. "You remember that, Steve?"
"Yeah, Buck, sure. 'Cause you would never stop using that damn cut-throat razor of yours. Scared the hell out of me with that thing."
"Ss-safety razor didn't give you that close shave the girls liked," Bucky said, and Christ, there he was, little grin, little sparkle in his gaze as Bucky smirked up at Steve, and Steve wanted to reach out and just…grab him.
"I wouldn't know about that," Steve said, and Sam took up a length of gauze and wound it around and around Bucky's palm, taping it down firmly and then holding Bucky's hand up for inspection.
"Good as new. How's it feel? Not too tight?"
"No, no, it's fine, it's...good." Bucky flexed his fingers, out and in, and then looked up at Sam. "Thanks, Sam."
"All part of our friendly service," Sam said. He tapped his phone, shutting the music off, and started clearing up, putting unused items away, piling all the debris in the center of the bib. Steve reached out and carefully put his hand on Bucky's left shoulder, lightly squeezing, and Bucky looked up from inspecting the bandage, quick wipe of his knuckles under his eyes.
"You hungry? I'm hungry," Steve said. "Could eat a damn horse."
"Two horses," Bucky said, and Steve grinned. "Remember that stew Dernier made?"
"Oh, geez, don't remind me."
"Dum-Dum called it 'Old Grey Mare stew-"
"She ain't what she used to be," Steve sang, off-key, and Bucky grinned, hard, and Steve did, and Sam made a noise of pure disgust.
"You ate a horse?"
"Well, it was that or shoe leather," Steve said.
"Not much difference, at that point," Bucky said, and Sam made that noise again.
"And I thought pacha was weird. Well, it was weird."
"What's pacha?" Steve asked, watching as Sam zipped up the gear bag and then lifted the corners of the bib, wadding all the trash into the middle and compacting it.
"Sheep's head, boiled. They fix it with all the spices and stuff but it's still got the teeth in it and the eyes are all-" Sam waved his hands. "All googly."
"It sounds…." Steve wasn't sure how it sounded, and 'googly' kept sticking in his head.
"Sounds like head cheese," Bucky said, and now it was Steve's turn to make a noise.
"Hey, man, ain't nothin' wrong with head cheese," Sam said, and Bucky made a small, rusty sound that was close to a laugh, and Steve wanted to hug him.
"Everything is wrong with head cheese! Your ma always got those pig's heads from the kosher butcher, remember, Buck? And then she's have them boiling in that washpot in the back yard…." Steve could, in that strange way of memories, almost smell the thick, ripe stink of a pair of boiling pig heads, skulls softening as the water slowly steamed away. And Bucky standing there with the big wooden paddle, prodding at them. "Oh, jeez," he muttered, and Bucky did actually laugh this time, right out loud.
"You got sick," Bucky said, slightest hint of a question in that, and Steve sighed, grinning.
"Yeah, I got sick. I mean, I was already sick, we'd had that bad can of beans, remember? Me and mom both sick and then I just had to go find you and there were those damn pig's heads…."
"Got sick all over ma's potato hills," Bucky said, something like pride in his voice. Remembering, and so damn happy to be remembering.
"Just, the smell-" Steve said, helplessly, and Sam snorted.
"You think boiled pig head smells bad, you ain't never smelled a big pot of chitlins on the boil."
"Chitlins?" Bucky's voice sounded as bewildered as Steve felt.
"Chitlins. The innards, you know, the guts. Intestine."
"Who the hell would eat pig intestines?" Steve asked, standing up and offering a hand to Bucky and Sam alike. Sam declined, pushing easily to his feet, all grace and muscle. Bucky reached up after a moment's hesitation, and gripped Steve's forearm, and Steve leaned back a little, pulling.
"Poor folk that don't have anything else," Sam answered, as Bucky came up stiffly, stumbling slightly. Steve caught his shoulder and they both leaned there a moment, just...resting.
"Same as pig's heads," Bucky said into the space between them, smiling a little,
"And sheep's heads, I'm guessing," Steve said.
As they kicked their way out of the debris field of the destroyed cabinets, Bucky had a moment of freefall, where everything for the past - how long, hours? days? - cascaded through him, a stutter-fall of monochrome images and blood-soaked ones. The street, the mandalas, the bodega boys, the snake-hiss of the Hydra trigger, spilling like acid sand from the mouth of a man all angles and malice. The Tower, the room, the noise....
"How...long's it been? Since- since he-?"
"Almost seventy hours," Steve said, low, and Bucky had to stop dead and close his eyes for a moment, just...breathing. Wiping angrily under his eyes with his palm, he sniffed hard, because for fuck's sake, he was alive, he was safe, Jesus.
"Hey, Barnes, hey," Sam said, right there, the faint alcohol-and-spice of his scent mingled with Steve's; sweat and bay rum and exhaustion. "You did good. You kept yourself safe, and you kept us safe. You did real good."
"I-" Bucky sniffed again, dragging in a long breath, and blinked up at the shadowed ceiling. "I think...I need to have Tony give me that arm, now. I don't...want to be so fucking...helpless if...if that happens again."
"If you want, Buck. It's your choice."
"But you gotta tell him when I'm in the room," Sam said, and Bucky looked at him. Looked at the gleeful smirk that was curling Sam's mouth. "'Cause I'm bettin' it's gonna be better than a six year old on Christmas day. I gotta YouTube that shit."
"It is gonna make his year," Steve said, smiling as big as Sam, and Bucky smiled back, feeling a little lighter, suddenly, like he was letting something go from a fist clenched too tight, for too long. It felt good.
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"Вы сказали, что , прежде чем" - "You said that before."
Originally entered at http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/188996.html - comment where you please!