It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
The Germans had been systematic with their torture. It’d been organized, and everything had a purpose. Hell, they’d made torture an art. What these guys were doing paled in comparison. It was crude, disorganized, sloppy. If Bucky had to choose between being tortured by these men or the Nazis, he would choose the Nazis any day. At least the Nazis made it seem there was a reason behind his torture besides their own amusement.
His metal arm had been removed and was being poked at and prodded by someone who was trying to figure out how it worked. His fleshy arm had had the word “FAGGOT” carved into it. Deep bruises marked his body, physical evidence of the times he’d refused to divulge information. The man who’d carved that humiliating word into Bucky’s skin was now lifting the man’s shirt.
“I’ll ask you again: where’s your partner?”
Bucky spat his name, rank, and number at the man in return.
The man pressed the Exacto knife to Bucky’s stomach and cut a letter into it. B. “Feel like talking now?”
Bucky just repeated his name, rank, and serial number. This was proof that the man was doing this for his own enjoyment; if this strategy hadn’t worked the first time, anyone with any sense would’ve tried something different. Unless they enjoyed it.
I.
Harsh fingers brushed gently against Bucky’s face, and for the first time, Bucky flinched away. He tried to, at least.
“You know,” the man said, “you looked awful pretty in that dress. If only you were a real girl. But I guess your boyfriend would be the one to ask about that.” He withdrew his hand and carved yet another letter.
T.
Getting tortured gives you a lot of time to think. It’s the only thing you can do to stay sane, between chanting your name, rank, and number like a mantra. Unsurprisingly, his thoughts wandered to the last time he’d been captured, and how Steve had pulled him off of that slab when he was so far gone he could hardly comprehend what was happening. There would be no Steve to rescue him this time. Steve...there were a lot of regrets there. But, perhaps a little more surprisingly, his thoughts started to stray to Daken.
Name, rank, number.
C.
Daken. That beautiful, deadly man with a smirk made of acid and a tongue that could cut through diamonds. That man who he had hurt, and who had hurt him. That man who had held him gently and calmed him down when he felt like he was about to break. That man who as of late had inspired in him things he hadn’t felt in decades. That man he would hold on to see again. That man who wasn’t coming for him, just like Steve wasn’t coming for him.
Name, rank, number.
H.
The knife dug deeper. And Bucky screamed.