Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Soldier stands on his toes, trying to relieve the pressure around his neck. There’s a chain tied around his wrists, bolted to the floor behind him, trying to pull him down again.

If he stands on his toes, he can breathe; the blood flow to his head is unencumbered. But it pulls painfully on his shoulders. Even more so on the metal one, where they had been doing maintenance before this. If he stands flat, he’s able to relieve the pain in his arms, giving his toes a break. But it’s harder to breathe, and after some time panic sets in. 

He mostly opts for standing on his toes, resting every now and again as his feet threaten to cramp.

The Soldier knew better than to fight during arm maintenance. Especially after a mission not quite gone right. 

The mission had been to make the target suffer. Make it look like a suicide. A hanging. But the Soldier hadn’t wanted to watch as the target struggled for breath. Struggling uselessly in the air, trying and failing to get a way. So he had made certain that when the target’s feet were taken from under them, they died instantly. 

Thus his own punishment of not quite hanging.

The target had also managed to do some damage to the upper plates of the arm, during their struggle. A letter opener between some of the plates. The techs were to see to it before his punishment. They had pried off the plates, and replaced them. They had used soldering irons inside the arm, torches to reattach the plates, and it had burned. The Soldier knew better than to protest, to try and get away, but he couldn’t stop himself as the pain spread up his neck and down his spine.

He had hurt three of the techs, severely injured one of the guards. 

A throbbing shoulder, and an inability to breathe properly is kinder than he deserves. 

His right foot cramps badly, and he falls. The rope around his neck prevents him from going far and he chokes. Unable to use his arms to push himself up, he struggles for a minute. 

Grabbing the chain between his hands, he uses it to pull himself back, into a standing position. Tilting his head back, standing on one foot, he breathes heavily.

Rotating his foot, he tries to stretch the cramped muscle, switching feet to do the same with the left. 

He settles back onto both feet, chin up, arms straining behind him, to wait.

Chapter Text

Steve looks around the room at the people in the room. None of them had met each other prior to being picked up off of the street and shoved into a van. 

Steve had been the second one to be shoved into the room. It was a dark and dirty concrete block with a heavy door. It had a slot at eye level, like you would see in the movies, where someone has to tell a secret password to be let in. 

Still woozy from whatever drug they had given him, he hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone, when he arrived. When he was feeling better, the first thing he had realized was he was wearing a collar with a little box on it. The next thing was that there was a girl, curled up in a corner. She hadn’t looked at him, refused to speak, shook harder when he got close, tried to talk to her. Get to know her a little.

Now there were five of them. Each of them was also wearing a collar, a shock collar, someone had said. There were locks on the attachment point, that they hadn’t been able to figure out and get off.

 It was impossible to say how long they had been here. There didn’t seem to be any reason as to how often their captor tossed water bottles into the room. 

The girl in the corner was still refusing to talk to anyone, shaking harder when anyone approached. 

Later, Steve will wonder if that’s the reason she was taken first. Her unwillingness to talk to anyone else. 

They were talking amongst themselves - about school, family, anything - when their captor came in. They brought someone else in with them, tossing the drugged boy carelessly onto the ground. But instead of leaving again, like usual, the masked man looked around until his eyes fell on the girl. He pulled out his gun, advancing swiftly on the corner. He grabbed her by the arm, dragging her out the door.

She screamed when he touched her, begged “No! Please, no! I can’t! Not again! Please!” As he pulled out the door, into the hallway. All in all, taking only a few seconds. 

Steve stared in horror at the door. Wondering how long she had been here. Wondering what it was that was going to happen. 

He turned his attention away, with a shudder, looking instead to the boy on the floor. 

Kiera was already there, looking him over. As  a nursing student, she had said it made her feel better. 

“He’s still out of it,” she whispers into the dark quiet of the room. “Collar like the rest of us.”

Steve swallows hard, nodding. A couple of the others do too. Steve and another one of the boys drag him over to a wall. And they wait.

“What do you think’s going to happen to her?” Eliza asks. 

“Nothing good,” Steve says. He looks around at the frightened faces in the room. At 22, he’s the oldest of all of them. The youngest barely 18. He takes a deep breath, and collapses against the wall. Tired, hungry, just exhausted , and he doesn’t know how to help these people.

“We need to be ready, when he comes back,” James says from the other side of the new boy. Steve nods, closing his eyes. 

“We should try sharpening the ends of the water bottles.” Steve says, eyes still closed. “There’s more of us, and we might be able to get the drop on him. When he comes back.”

The others murmur their assent, but they all sit for a while longer. 

Before they get up to start, before the boy wakes up, their captor is back. His gun is drawn as he steps into the room. He grabs Eliza, who is closest to the door, and she shrieks.

Catching James’ eye, they leap up, to defend their friend. Before they could grab the man, they fell to their knees as the collars activated. The man was gone before they recovered.

“I.. Am going to apologize to my dog,” Kiera pants, “if we ever get out of this.”

“We’re going to,” Steve says, without conviction. 

“Want to say that again, with feeling?” James asks.

Steve shakes his head, a small smile on his face. 

They get to work on the empty water bottles. Hoping that they can do something with them. 

The boy wakes up, introduces himself as Jason. They give him some water, do their best to answer his questions. They continue working until one by one, they’re too tired to stay awake. 

Eliza doesn’t come back. Neither does the other girl. 

They’re given water again, and they each fall asleep one more time before anything happens. 

The girl comes back. Awake, but dazed. Cleaner than she had been when she left, albeit with some bruises. Her eyes red like she was crying. Dark spots splattered on the front of her clothes.

She’s pushed into the room, and she stumbles into her corner, as the door swings shut behind her. The other four look at each other, eyes wide, and Kiera goes to talk to her.

She still doesn’t respond. 

They take Steve next. 

The four of them, Steve, James, Kiera, and Jason, sit close to the doors, waiting for their captor to come in and try to grab one of them. Waiting for a chance to fight back. 

It doesn’t make a difference. Their collars all go off as the door opens. By the time they can all breathe again, Steve is gone.

Steve tries to fight, but the combination of a lack of food, stress, and shocks from the collar prevent him from doing much. 

He’s tied into a chair in front of a couple monitors. They show inside the concrete cell. 

James is banging on the door, soundlessly shouting. 

“Shut him up,” someone drawls from behind Steve. Steve starts at the sound, but can’t see the speaker. The man next to him presses a button, and on screen, James jerks, falling to his knees, raising his hands to his neck as if he could stop the electricity. 

“Stop, leave him alone!” Steve cries, squirming against his bonds. 

His own collar goes off, and he stops. 

“Pick one.” The man behind him says. 

“What?” He stills. 

“Pick someone to die.” The man behind him says. 

Steve swallows hard.

“I can’t do that.” He says, voice shaking .

“You will.” The voice threatened. 

“I won’t.” The man in front of him hits him hard, across the face.

Steve tastes blood.

“ Pick someone.”

“You can’t make me kill someone!”

A gunshot.

Burning in his leg.

Someone screams.

“Make the choice, and we’ll give you medical care, a bed, something to eat.” The other man comes around to stand in front of Steve. The first man steps forward, pressing the barrel of the gun under Steve’s chin. He tries to flinch away from the hot metal, but there’s nowhere to go. His attempts juat spread the pain under his jaw.

He can smell his skin burning.

“This will end, if you choose someone. So choose. ”

Steve opts to remain silent. 

The first man pulls back, hitting Steve in the gut. 

He tries not to scream, as the blows keep coming. Sometimes they stop, demanding he choose someone. 

At some point he loses consciousness. 

“..friendliest to.”

“..bring him..”

When Steve wakes next, he’s sore all over, breathing hurts more than he thinks it should. It takes some time before he can pry his swollen eyes open.

He’s still in a chair. But his arm is extended forward, tied to a board. Something shiny by his hand.

He tries to look closer.

No. In his hand. A gun, his hand taped around the handle.

Steve looks up more to see James tied to a chair in front of him. Directly in the path of the gun.

He jerks around, trying as hard as he can to drop the gun, to point it anywhere but at his friend. He’s unsuccessful.

“ Jemth,”  he tries to say, “ momomo.”

“ Hey, Stevie.” James says, a tremulous smile on his face. His voice is rough, and there's tears on his face, making tracks in the dirt.

A speaker clicks.

“You refused to answer, so I thought you would like to see your friend.”

“ Mo, le’ hm go, ” Steve says, still struggling feebly, attention on his hand.

“Would you like to do the honors?” The voice says smugly.

“Hey, Steve, look at me.” James says. Steve looks up.

“It’s ok, huh? You just get out of here. You live, and go find my ma. Tell her I love her. I don’t hate her.” James says, eyes full of tears. 

“Jemth,”

“Call me Bucky.” He says with a sad smile, “My friends call me Bucky.”

Steve slowly shakes his head. 

“I’m not going to hold this against you. Promise.”

Steve looks Bucky in the eye. The voice starts counting down from ten.

“Close your eyes, Steve. You don’t need to see.” Bucky says, voice shaking.

“Mot leafin oo,”

Bucky’s smile shakes, tears running down his face. 

“Thanks, pal.” 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, bowing his head as the voice says one.

As a gunshot rings through the space, Steve shuts his eyes.

Chapter Text

“Stop.”

Bucky freezes as he feels a gun being pressed to his left temple, Left arm twisted painfully into his back. In front of him, Steve does the same, looking on in horror. 

They’re all breathing hard, the fight taking a lot out of each of them. Rumlow’s breath brushes his neck, and he shivers. Steve’s face hardens, and he steps forward. 

Rumlow takes a step back, pulling Bucky with him. Bucky suppresses a wince at the pull on his scars. 

“One more move, Cap, and your Bucky gets a bullet in his brain,” Rumlow says into Bucky’s ear. Steve stops. “Not that it would be the first time,” he smirks softly. Steve narrows his eyes, clenching his fists, obviously having heard the comment.

“I swear, Rumlow, if you hurt him-”

“Save it Cap. If you stay right there, and let me make my way out of here, you’ll see him again. If not, well,” He presses the gun tighter into Bucky’s head. “You’ll get the privilege of seeing inside his head personally.” Steve looks between Bucky and Rumlow, trying to figure out how to prevent Rumlow from getting away, and save Bucky. Bucky shakes his head minutely. 

Steve looks like he wants to argue, but he takes a step back. Trusting Bucky.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Rumlow pulls him backwards, slowly, out the door, down the hall. Bucky watches as Steve’s face falls into dismay and determination. With a look at Steve, Bucky reluctantly allows himself to be pulled down the hall backwards. They keep walking that way, until they reach the entrance of the building. 

Once they’ve stopped, and there’s no sound of pursuit from an angry super soldier, Rumlow lets out a breath.

“I didn’t think it would be that easy.” He chuckles.

Bucky refuses to comment. 

“What is it that you and that blond idiot of yours say? Oh yeah,” he cocks the gun, shoving Bucky roughly down to his knees. “End of the line, Soldier.”

“And here I thought that at least you were a man of your word,” Bucky said, hoping to distract him. Now that Steve was out of harm's way, Bucky could more easily try to get away. If Rumlow was going to kill him anyway, he had nothing to lose.

“I said that he’d see you again. Not that he’d see you alive. ” Rumlow grabs him by the hair, pulling his head back, so he can look him in the eye. “Good bye, Soldier.”

Bucky grabs Rumlow’s arm, where he’s grabbing his hair, pulling him over his shoulder.

Suddenly Steve’s shield comes flying down the hallway, and Bucky leans back a little, just to be certain it doesn’t clip him in the head.

“ Steve !” He bellows, angry, as Rumlow scrambles back to his feet, recovered from Bucky’s throw.

Bucky grabs the shield from here it’s landed, shoving into Rumlow’s face. 

He stumbles back, but raises the gun to shoot at Bucky.

Before he can get a shot off,  Steve barrels down, tackling him from behind. The gun goes off anyway, thankfully not hitting anyone. Steve wrestles with him for a moment, but ultimately gets the gun away from him. He hit’s Rumlow a couple times, until he’s unconscious. 

Once he’s certain that he’s down, Steve abandons Rumlow, running for Bucky;  scooping him up into a bone crushing hug, pulling him into a heartfelt kiss.

“Scared me,” Steve said, leaning into him.

“You need to watch where you’re throwing your shield.”

Steve huffs, and looks at him with a smile.

“If you hadn’t pulled him over your shoulder, I would have hit him. I was rescuing you.”

“If you had stayed where you were, I could have rescued myself.”

Steve shakes his head.

“See if I ever do anything for you ever again, Jerk.”

“Punk,” Bucky replies, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Now let’s wrap up our present for Shield, and go home.”

Steve kisses him back.

“Sounds like a good idea to me.”

Chapter Text

Steve! Watch out!”

Steve barely has time to raise his shield over his head as the building falls down around him. He does his best to run, but there’s not much he can do.

“ Steve! ” He hears in his comm, just as something clips his shield, knocking him back. Twisting and rolling, he does what he can to avoid being hit. Eventually something manages to get him just right, taking his legs out from under him. He hits his head against the ground, but curls under his shield, doing his best to prevent any additional injuries. 

It feels like an eternity before the building settles. Once it has, Steve tries to take stock of himself, assess the damage. 

He’s definitely going to be covered in bruises. Some of them are already making themselves known. His right leg was sticking out from under his shield, and is currently trapped under something. It’s certainly going to be broken. He’s grateful for the adrenaline that’s keeping him from feeling it at the moment. Something is poking into his back, and if he looks around, he can see a wall leaning over him.

Tentatively, he tries to move the shield a little. That causes the wall leaning over him to shift, and he stops.

Steve curses.

He’s not sure how long he’ll be able to hold up the concrete wall. But he absolutely does not want it falling on him. Nor does he like the idea of being stuck here for who knows how long.

He rests his left arm, the one holding the shield, against his side, wincing as his body protests the additional weight. Glancing directly upward, he can only see the shield, rather than the damage he was looking for. He shakes his head, using his right arm to touch his comm. It's not there.

Cursing, he looks around himself, hoping without hope that it's on the ground beside him.

It's not.

His head starts feeling fuzzy, and he tries to take in some deep breaths to prevent panic from setting in.

The adrenaline has finally worn off and all his aches begin to make themselves known.

His lower leg is definitely broken. He wonders if there's something wet down by that leg or if it's just going numb from pain.

The woozy feeling doesn't go away.

He looks around again and can see a small strip of light. He can't see where it's coming from, but he's certain it's daylight.

He blinks and it changes. It's further away now, as if the sun had gone down.

He curses again.

And again, when he realizes the wet cold feeling has spread up his leg, and looking down reveals a pool of blood spreading.

It also explains the persistent woozy feeling.

He breathes deeply, willing his heart rate to remain slow and steady. Panicking will make things worse.

He yells as loud as he can, hoping someone will hear and call back. After yelling for a minute, Steve waits and listens.

No reply.

He tries again. Steve loses count of how many times he calls for help. But the strip of sun is no longer in his field of vision, and the shield pressed into his side is now painful rather than annoying. 

Blinking slowly, he rests his head against the ground. He's so tired.

He closes his eyes, deciding to rest, just for a moment.

Going limp into unconsciousness, he misses the voice calling out to him.

" Steve! "

Chapter Text

The Soldier is being walked back to the maintenance room, skin buzzing. There’s something wrong, and he can’t quite grasp what it might be.

The whole mission had been like that. He had been assigned a target, but he didn’t understand why this man. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. They had put him on surveillance for a week, before giving the kill order. But the man had done nothing. He wasn’t meeting with enemies, he wasn’t planning the downfall of civilization. Why.

The Handlers hadn’t liked his questions. They had looked at him with cautious glances, through narrowed eyes, and ordered him to return back to base. The Soldier hadn’t wanted to go, but didn’t fight the guards escorting him. 

He stops dead in the entrance to the room. Everything screaming wrong, no, get away as he looks into it, seeing the chair there. One of the guards shoves him with the butt of his rifle.

The Soldier grabs hold of it, twisting it away from the guard and using it to hit him in the stomach. 

Everything happens quickly after that. 

Using the liberated rifle, The Soldier twists and spins away from the guards, shooting the guard who grabs his hair as a means to stop him. One of the guards tries to shoot him , only to miss as the Soldier turns; the bullet ricochets off of his metal arm, into the shoulder of one of his allies. One of them gets a lucky hit to the asset’s side, and he stumbles. The remaining guards try to take advantage, but don’t use their guns. The Soldier recovers quickly, knocking them all out within minutes. He’s breathing hard by the end of it, and he strides into the room. 

The techs aren’t in yet, waiting for the all clear that he’s strapped down, probably.

He frowns, trying to decide what to take with him, if anything. 

In the end, he takes a couple of the guards' guns, knowing that he doesn’t have much time if he wants to get out. 

After pulling all the unconscious guards into the room, he locks the door, hoping it will bide him a little more time. 

He wishes he knew the layout better than. He only knows the route he had been brought in by, but he can’t remember if he had ever been here before or not. That in and of itself bothers him. It adds itself to the list of things that shout wrong on repeat in his mind.

He ghosts down the corridors, stopping at every corner and doorway to listen for people. There’s a scare, when he turns a corner, and there’s a group of people in lab coats exiting a room. But he’s able to duck back around, before they notice him, and he believes he’s safe. 

He estimates he’s close, more than halfway out, when he hears a whine of something charging up. 

Something in the arm clicks , and he screams as electricity shoots down his spine. 

He crashes into a wall, tries to cover his mouth with his other hand to stifle his screams. He falls to his knees, listing to the side, trying to get away from the burning in his side. 

It does stop, before anyone else approaches him, but he can hear their footsteps pounding down the hall. He struggles back up to his feet, grabbing for the gun he had dropped. Before his hand can close around the stock, a bullet grazes his arm.

Cursing, he draws his injured limb in close. When he tries to stand, the new set of guards round the corners. He stumbles towards the exit, still shaking from the electricity. Another shot rings out, hitting him in the back of the knee and he falls. 

The guards are on him before he can try anything else, and he struggles until one of them shoves his head into the floor, causing him to see stars. By the time his head is clear enough to think again, he’s restrained. 

The Soldier tries to fight them, still trying to get away, anything to prevent them from dragging him into that room. He screams, tries to use his weight to knock his captors off balance. The one on his left stumbles, and he pulls away, only for them to shoot him in the right shoulder as well.

His struggles become slower, as he feels heavier and heavier. He doesn’t want to be strapped into the chair in the middle of the room. But by the time they get him there, he’s not strong enough to make any attempts at getting away. 

After securing him into the device, someone puts a tourniquet on his leg and a pressure patch on his shoulder. Someone else places a piece of rubber in his mouth. The contraption leans backwards.

He screams.

Chapter Text

Once the top half of the base has been cleared, Steve makes his way lower, to the holding cells; praying that this is the day they find Bucky.

There’s no guard on the door. Presumably called up during the fighting. 

Bucky has been missing for a month now. Hydra had captured him on his way back home from therapy. It had taken a couple hours for Steve to realize that he was missing, and wasn’t that just the worst feeling?

Bucky had been missing , and Steve had just assumed that he had decided to stop somewhere before going home. He should have realized sooner. Bucky always sent a brief message, saying he would be back later than expected. Steve just assumed he had forgotten this time.

Steve opens the door to the cells, and is accosted by the smell of old blood and unwashed bodies. 

Slowly, he walks down the hallway, methodically checking each cell.

It’s not until the fifth one, that he finds anything. 

At first, Steve doesn’t realize that there’s someone in the cell. Almost looks away, keeps going. But something loud thumps from upstairs, and the prisoner flinches. Noticing the movement, Steve looks closer at the shadows. Sees a figure with a mess of brown hair, shoved up against the wall, only wearing thin pants. Bucky. 

When Steve finally finds the door Bucky’s behind, he fumbles with the keys he had liberated from upstairs, trying to find the right one.  At the sound, Bucky flinches again, trying to push himself further into the wall, whimpering when he can’t.

“Bucky! Hang on, I’m coming.” Steve says, trying another key. This one works, and he bursts into the cell. Bucky sluggishly curls in on himself, shivering as Steve gets closer.

Steve slows and kneels down in front of Bucky. He doesn’t look up.

“Hey, Buck,” he says softly. “I’m here to get you out. I’m going to take you home.” Bucky doesn’t respond, just shakes harder.

Steve reaches out a hand, touching Bucky gently on the shoulder. Bucky recoils, jerking away, breathing heavily. 

“ Please, ” he whispers, “please.” Steve takes a moment to really take Bucky in. 

He’s bruised and battered, covered in dried blood, dirt, and burns. They took his metal arm, Steve realizes, and his remaining arm and fingers are bent unnaturally. He’s so much thinner than he was. Too thin. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, baby. Promise,” he whispers, reaching out to smooth back Bucky’s hair. Bucky shrinks away from his touch, and Steve pulls his hand back. 

Bucky tilts his head down, away from Steve. He’s shaking so hard, Steve is worried he’ll hurt himself.

“Please, please. Don’t, don’t hurt me. I’ll be good, I promise. Please don’t hurt me anymore.” Bucky’s voice cracks as he begs.

Steve feels his heart break.

“Bucky, it’s me, it’s Steve. I swear, I’m not going to hurt you. Can you look at me, sweetheart?”

No response. 

Steve wishes he had a blanket, or an extra shirt, or something to give to Bucky. He wonders how much of his shaking is from fear, and how much from the cold. 

Bucky whimpers again, barely perceptible, on his next exhale. He freezes for a moment, not even breathing, as he waits for something. When nothing happens, he loses some of the tension he was holding.

Steve activates his comm.

“I need medical to the basement.”

“Cap, there you are. Listen, we’ve got a situation..”

“We had it covered before I came down here, what could have happened,” he snaps. Not waiting for a response, he adds, “I’ve found Bucky, and he’s hurt.”

“The building's self destruct was activated. Grab Barnes, and get the hell out of there. A little more damage won’t be as bad as being dead.”

Steve curses, looking back up at Bucky. 

He’s curled in on himself, shaking harder than before. Steve feels bad for snapping. Tony is just trying to help, and he’s scared Bucky.

“We'll be there. Get the jet ready.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Steve sighs, gathering himself, before approaching Bucky. 

Bucky senses him getting closer, curling in tighter, trying to protect himself. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” he says softly, trying to keep his tone calm, “I know you don’t understand what’s going on, but we’ve got to get out of here.”

Steve scoops Bucky up, as carefully and gently as he can. It’s made harder by how Bucky screams, and struggles feebly as soon as he’s touched. 

“No, no, please ! Stop, please! Please don’t.. Please, I’ll be good, please, ” He begs, writhing in Steve's arms. Steve holds him tighter, trying his best not to hurt him. Heart breaking even more at Bucky’s screams.

Seeing Bucky’s face for the first time, he’s scared. There’s burns on his temples, down his face. He knows what that means.

“I’ve got you, you’re going to be okay,” he says thickly. He turns from the room, and runs, Bucky held in his arms.

Chapter Text

The whip falls again on Steve’s back.

He screams into the gag. Steve had tried to hold them in, for Bucky’s sake. But when he no longer could, it hadn’t taken long for their captors to tire of it, and order the Soldier to gag him. 

And he had. Mechanically, but roughly, stuffing a rag into Steve’s mouth, tying it there with an additional scrap of cloth.

Steve had tried to make eye contact with him, trying to get Bucky to recognize him. But the Soldier didn’t look at him, simply stepped back and waited to be ordered to continue. 

Steve wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or not. If it was kinder for Bucky to do this under the influence of the Soldier. 

He’s lost count of how many lashes Bucky has given him. He hangs his head, grunting at the next impact.

No. Not Bucky. Hydra. They activated the Soldier, and they’re doing this to him. To them.

The whip stops. Steve sways. He knows that if it weren’t for the chains holding him upright, he’d fall over. 

His chin touches his chest, and he breathes in shallowly, trying so hard not to do anything that might make this worse. 

Steve didn’t realize that the Soldier had walked away, until he returned with something in his hands. The Soldier places it on a cart to the side,  before turning to Steve.

His blood goes cold when the Soldier shoves Steve’s pants down.

Not this. Please, don’t make him do this he thinks desperately. Steve squirms, trying to pull away, despite knowing the futility of it. The Soldier grips him painfully by the thigh with his metal hand. He reaches to the side, grabbing something. Steve’s heart pounding, and the fatigue from the whipping preventing him from noticing what it is.

Something stabs into his thigh, and a trail of red starts.

Oh. Blood. They’re taking my blood. He thinks hazily, unsure if he should be relieved or not. 

A moment later, he passes out.

-----

Steve’s cold, when he wakes up. He’s lying on the hard ground, and his back aches.

Somewhere above him, someone is cursing.

He hears someone moving around, things clattering. But Steve is too tired to care. He lacks the energy to open his eyes and see who it is, what’s going on. 

Something cold and wet touches his back, and it burns . He moans in protest, feebly trying to twist away from it.

“Steve, Steve, it’s okay,” someone above him says. A hand gently runs through his hair. “It’s gonna help, I promise. We gotta take care of this. I’m not..” Their breath hitches, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Steve twitches as the stinging returns, but he doesn’t move; trusting the voice.

The voice continues a litany of curses, apologies, and reassurances. 

“You’re doing so good, baby. I’m almost done. I’m so so sorry..”

When the burning stops, there’s a rustle of fabric.

“Ok, Stevie. We gotta get that wrapped up. This is gonna hurt, I’m so sorry..” The voice says.

They grab him gently under the arms, turning him around and up into a sitting position, leaning against something warm and solid. 

Steve presses closer, realizing that he’s shivering. 

“Stevie, Stevie, doll, can you open your eyes for me?”

Stevie… He muses. Not a lot of people call him that. 

“Okay, okay, it’s fine..” The voice breaks off into more cursing, their voice raising in panic.

Steve flutters his eyes open, tilting his head to see Bucky’s panicked face.

“Hey, Buck,” he croaks.

“ Steve, I thought you weren’t, I thought that I..” Bucky closes his eyes, tears escaping.

Steve shakes his head slowly, lifting a hand to Bucky’s face, his back screaming in protest at the movement.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I hurt you,” Bucky whispers brokenly. He tilts his head to lay gently on Steve’s.

“Not your fault, you didn’t want to.”

“But I did it.”

“Not your fault.” Steve repeats, a little more firmly.

Bucky makes a pained noise, but doesn’t argue. He gently rubs a hand up and down Steve’s arm, trying to help warm him up. A moment later, placing a kiss to his forehead, Bucky leans back. 

“We need to get you wrapped up. Then I’m going to see if I can find a cup or something, because you really need fluids. And I’ll try and find you a blanket, they took your shirt, and..”

“Bucky,” Steve says, squeezing his neck. “It’s going..” Steve closes his eyes as a wave of dizziness hits him suddenly. “It’s going to be ok.” He forces his eyes open, to see Bucky’s skeptical look.

Bucky swallows hard, nods, and kisses him again. He leans back and grabs something off of the ground. He holds up a roll of gauze.

“Can you sit up by yourself for a minute?” He asks seriously.

Steve nods, and regrets it. He sways, but Bucky catches him, cursing.

He takes Steve’s other arm, resting it on his shoulder.

“Okay. Just hold on, okay.  I’ll be quick.”

And he is. The first wrap, Steve can’t help trying to arch his back away from the fabric, causing a chain reaction of pain. He gasps, and leans his head against Bucky’s chest. Bucky stops with a curse, apologizing, and runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. Promises to hurry, that he’s trying to be gentle. Steve taps his fingers against Bucky’s shoulder, but doesn’t otherwise respond. Bucky starts again, murmuring assurances and apologies, cursing and apologizing more when Steve can’t help but flinch. 

When he’s done, he helps Steve lower his arms, and scoots closer to hold him close, all the while apologizing.

“Not your fault.” Steve mumbles into Bucky’s chest.

“Kind of is,” Bucky says darkly.

“We’ll argue about it later.” 

Bucky humms, gently rubbing Steve’s arm. He rocks them a little, and Steve tries to burrow into Bucky’s warmth.

“You need to drink something,” Bucky whispers into the almost peaceful quiet.

“Nnnn.”

“Yes. I.. I took a lot of blood. Not to mention..” His voice breaks.

“Not you. ’m not going to hold it against you.” Steve mutters. 

“You should.”

“I forgive you.” Steve says tiredly, trying to slump further into Bucky without causing pain.

Bucky gives a pained chuckle.

“Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve listens to Bucky’s heartbeat. A little faster than normal. Bucky is scared.

Before Steve can say anything, Bucky pulls away. He lays him down, gently, despite Steve’s protests.

“Water, Steve.” He says.  He leaves, but is back quickly, guiding Steve back into a sitting position, helping him with the cup.

“I can do it, Buck.”

“Sure. But let me, please? It’ll make me feel better.

Steve finds he can still roll his eyes, but allows Bucky to help.

When he’s done, Bucky holds him close again.

“I should really find you a blanket or something.”

“This is fine,” Steve says, letting his eyes close.

“Okay, Stevie.” He feels Bucky’s lips again, as he gently rocks them side to side.

Steve allows himself to fall back asleep.

Chapter Text

Bucky stumbles into the room as he's shoved. He manages to not quite fall over, still getting used to his new balance. 

He shouts a curse, turning to show them just what he thinks of them, but the door is shut quickly, and he's alone. 

Rubbing his hand over his face, he allows the bravado to fade away. It was exhausting to keep it up. 

He hoped that Steve would come for him soon. Or at least, the war would end, and the Allies would find him and take him home. 

Steve would be preferable.

Bucky carefully lowers himself down, against the wall. He allows his arms to fall back, going limp. Only, he's forgotten he doesn't have two arms. His stump hits the wall, and he gasps, hunching forward. Pain radiating up and down the missing arm. He grits his teeth, fingers pressing into his shoulder, as if that would stop the pain.

There's nothing to do but wait and see what his captors want.

They push in a bowl of something at some point. But otherwise, they leave him alone.

They do the same thing, the next day. Leaving him completely alone, except for when they push something inside, probably once a day. 

Bucky walks around the perimeter of the room a couple times, for lack of anything else to do. Wanting to be semi fit when he gets out. SOmething about the room makes his head spin, after a couple days, and he doesn’t do it as often.

Bucky hums to himself, just to have some sound. He starts yelling at the guard every day when they bring him a bowl of something each day. He’s not certain it’s real food. He tries again when they come back  to retrieve the bowl from him. They never react.

When Bucky tries keeping the bowl away from the door, to make them come in, they don't. Nothing happens. They also don’t come the next day to give him a new one. Or the next. Bucky gives in first. They take the bowl, and it’s immediately replaced with one full of whatever tasteless gunk they’re feeding him.

No one talks to him. No one comes in.

It almost makes him miss those first few weeks where they were cutting off his arm, and roughly making sure he didn’t die.

He wishes he knew what for.

He’s bored, and every little sound makes him jump. His beard keeps growing. He has nothing to scrape it off with. Although he isn’t sure he wants to. 

And more time passes. 

He wonders if he’s going crazy. 

When he dreams, it’s of his family. Of Steve. What he would give to see them again. To hold them tight. 

Those dreams become almost as bad as nightmares; causing an ache that he can’t get rid of.

And he waits.

Until one day, the door opens, and someone steps inside.

Chapter Text

“Let him go. I won’t even fight you. I’ll-” Bucky's  voice breaks, but he steadies himself. “I already have the base programming, and my fighting skills are even better than they were before, since I’ve been training with the Avengers. If you take him, he’s gonna be a liability.” He can’t look at Steve right now, knowing that if he does, he’ll probably change his mind. Try to fight their way out, like he knows Steve wants to try.  He keeps his focus on the man holding him.

But they’ll lose. And there’s no way he’ll let Steve become anything like him. Not some programmed toy. Steve deserves better.

And Bucky survived it once, he can do it again.

“If you take him, it’ll take too long to break him. Too long to train and program him. Just take me, instead. Please.”

Bucky glances down at Steve.

Steve’s face is white, and he’s shaking with anger. He looks up just as quickly

“And why shouldn’t we just take both of you? He might cooperate better if we have you as an incentive.”

“Because then you’ll be fighting both of us,” Bucky says, lifting his chin slightly, faking bravado.

The agent looks at him thoughtfully.

“Very well,” he says. He takes a step back, but doesn’t put away his gun. “But just as a reminder,” he shoots Steve in the thigh.

Steve yells, hunching forward over his bleeding leg.

“ Steve! ”

“Don’t follow us Captain,” the agent says. He keeps his gun trained on Steve as he turns his attention to Bucky, with a hungry look. “Come on Soldier. It’s time to leave.” The man behind Bucky lets go of him, and he shakily rises to his feet. 

“No,” Steve grunts, looking up at Bucky, “Bucky, don’t. ”

He tries to give him a reassuring smile. He’s sure he fails.

“See ya later, Stevie. Don’t do anything stupid, huh?”

Bucky steps past him, walking with the agents.

“ Bucky!” He hears Steve call out to him, after they’ve already made it down the hall. “ Bucky, don’t! Run!”

Bucky trips, but keeps walking away.

Bye, Stevie. Please find me quickly.

Chapter Text

“.. easy in and out they said. The Soldier is a great stealth operative, he’ll get the mission done quick,” the handler rages on the phone, pacing. 

“And what does he do? He gets seen. And shot. And leaves a trail of blood, leading them directly to our safe house! ” 

The Soldier does feel a little bad about that. Although, in his defense, he hadn’t realized that he had been shot. Or that he was being pursued. (Probably poor thinking due to the blood loss.) It was an excuse, he should have been more diligent.

After he had returned to base, it wasn’t long until their enemies came after them. There was no chance to dig the bullet out, and he had sustained more injuries during the following skirmish. They were forced to relocate.

As punishment (the Soldier presumes. The Handler hadn’t actually said) they have not removed the bullets or tried to stop the bleeding. Although the bleeding has slowed.

He knows that if left alone long enough, so long as the injuries are not fatal, they’ll heal on their own. But he would prefer to be allowed to pull the bullets out, before they heal over. Being reopened to dig out metal always seems to be worse than the initial injury. 

Glancing up at the handler, who is still raging to the higher ups, he tentatively pokes at the bullet wound in his side. It’s barely bleeding anymore, thank goodness. But definitely healing. He hasn’t been told to see to it, but he also hasn’t been explicitly forbidden. Using metal fingers, he probes at it and..

“Soldier. ”

His head snaps up to look at the Handler. His gaze is cold. Heart pounding, the Soldier lowers his eyes. Moves his hands away from the hole in his side, feeling ashamed for trying.

“Is the bullet still in there?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The Soldier keeps his head bowed as the handler moves about roughly, looking for something. He comes back, wearing a glove.

The Handler orders him to sit up, and clasp his hands behind his back. The Soldier complies. With a warning look to behave, the Handler jams his hand inside the wound, making no effort to be gentle. The Soldier gags. He’s certain the handler is doing it on purpose, as punishment for ruining the op. He grits his teeth and bears it. 

After roughly digging around, the handler yanks out the bullet. More blood flows out of the wound. He inspects the bullet briefly, before pressing it into the soft part under the Soldier’s jaw. The Soldier tilts his head back slightly, but the handler follows the movement, pressing the bullet further.

“Do not,” growls the Handler, “ ever get followed again. Do you understand me?” The Soldier nods, shutting down a wince at the pain under his chin. “If it happens again, you’ll wish it was just a bullet.” The handler lifts a bloody hand to the Soldier's face, leaving a trail from his temples, across his cheekbones, to the corner of his mouth.

The Handler stands, moving the bullet away. The Soldier drops his head down. The bullet bounces off his chest. But he does not look up.

“ Tsk. Go clean up.” The Handler dismisses him.

Wordlessly, the Soldier complies, grateful it wasn’t worse

Chapter Text

Bucky’s still naked when they toss him back into his cell. 

He scrambles as quickly as his aching body will allow him to the corner of the cell.

The guards laugh.

He presses his back into the corner, bringing his knees up like a shield. He wraps his arm around it, lifts his stump to press into his head.

The locking of the door is almost a relief. At least he knows his tormentors are locked out. For now. Until they want him again.

He shakes with silent sobs.

There’s blood between his legs, and the feeling of phantom hands all over him. He’s filthy. Even if he had a chance to bathe, he doesn’t think that he could ever rid himself of the feeling.

“ Steve ,” he whispers between sobs, although this time the name brings him no comfort. Bucky doesn’t want Steve to see him violated and broken and disgusting. Steve could look past a missing arm, maybe, but there’s no way he could look past this.

Bucky hadn’t been able to keep track of how many people, how many things, had violated him.  How many had pulled on his hair, cut into him, snubbed out cigarettes on him as they used him.

His stomach revolts, as the event plays and replays. Kneeling to the side, his stomach tries to empty itself. But they hadn’t fed him today, and he’s grateful for it, even as he spits out bile. 

The horror and fear and loathing he feels turn his head. He presses himself back into the corner. 

And he can’t stop crying. 

He should have fought harder. He had let them take him out of the cell. Should have struggled more as they chained him bent over a table.

All these thoughts swirl, making him light headed. He tries to push them out. He doesn’t want to think about it.

About their hands and their teeth on his body. About how more people came in, only to join in. About their laughter as he begged. About any of it.

He tears at his skin, trying to get the feeling of them off. He leaves bloody trails all over his body, but the feeling doesn’t go away.

Bucky sobs, wishing for death.

Chapter Text

Bucky can feel the pull of consciousness, but he chooses to ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away if he keeps his eyes closed.

He fades away again.

The next time, he can’t fall away into sleep, but stays in his bed all the same. He doesn’t want to get up. He floats, listening apathetically to the sounds of his house. He can feel the sun on his bed, trying to coax him up. But his limbs are heavy and his eyes refuse to remain open. It’s easier to just lay here.

He wishes he could fall back asleep.

Bucky doesn’t know how long he lays there.  But eventually, there’s scratching at his door. With a whimper, he squeezes his eyes shut, hoping it’ll go away. It stops, briefly. Only to start again.

His eyes start to water as he thinks of getting up, facing the day. 

Gotta feed the cat, he tells himself. You just have to feed the cat. That’s all. You can do this. It doesn’t help much.

Alpine starts crying in the hall, and Bucky grips his hair, curling in on himself. 

You can do this. He tells himself again. Still laying there, he breathes until Alpine yowls, scratching more frantically.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows, letting his head hang down, already breathing hard. Slowly, he pushes himself up, and slides off the bed, so he’s kneeling on the floor, propped up by the bed. When Alpine yowls again, his breath hitches.

Please don’t make me. Please don’t make me. Please just let me die. Please.

He pushes himself up, urged on by the scratching at the door.

The blood rushes to his head, and he falls again.

He breathes. He’s not going to cry over getting out of bed. He’s not going to cry because he has to feed the cat.

He pushes himself back up, and gets to the door. He opens it. 

Alpine meows, runs in and winds around his legs. 

Shakily, Bucky makes the trip to the kitchen. He stands blankly, trying to remember why he came in.

Alpine meows.

Right… The cat.

He takes a couple deep breaths, and opens a cupboard. Closes it. Moves to another. Curses silently to himself and returns to the first one.

Taking out a random can, he opens it. He’s too tired to deal with mixing it with dry food, so he places it on the floor.

Alpine runs up and starts eating. Bucky stumbles back to his room and flops on the bed.

His phone starts buzzing, but he ignores it in favor of closing his eyes and unconsciousness

Chapter Text

It was dark, and everything felt...fuzzy. His nose and mouth felt dry. There’s a vague awareness that he is lying down. It’s soft. Something pressing into his face. 

Dread pools, and he begins to feel sick. He’s wearing the mask. He must be. What else could it be. He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want to be here. 

Please don't make me. Please don’t hurt me.

He clenches his fists, trying to ground himself. Pain shoots up his arm, and he gasps, eyes shooting open, as he tries to push himself up.  But they must have removed his metal arm, because it’s not there, to help push himself up. He brings his hand up to scabble at the mask, only to hit himself in the face with whatever they have encased his hand in. He manages to knock the hated thing off his face, ignoring the additional aches in his hand it causes

People come in to push at him. He doesn’t know them. He’s scared and doesn’t want to be here.  Recovery rooms mean experiments. And although they might be over, he doesn’t want them to poke at him, checking for the results. 

He’s managed to push himself half up, despite the hands. He’s gasping, but uses his elbow on anyone he can reach. 

A hand grabs him ( gently something in the back of his mind realizes) by the nape of the neck. They’re on his left side. It makes it harder to hit them, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

They grab his arm, holding it tight, yet not causing additional pain, like he would have expected. It’s enough to make him look up at them. 

It’s a blond man. His eyes are shining and blue, but concerned. The man. Is familiar. And that alone gives him pause. 

He stares into those eyes, so familiar, it takes him a moment to realize that the man is talking to him. Softly, gently. He can’t quite grasp the words, over the rushing in his head. But the man is comforting. He doesn’t fight when the man takes his trapped hand and places it against the man’s chest. He doesn’t try to take advantage.

Eventually, the rushing goes down, and he can hear the man’s quiet words.

“Bucky, you’re safe. It’s gonna be okay. Just breathe with me, pal, huh? Just like we used to. In and out, you’re doing so well. You’re safe here, Buck, it’s alright.”

“What..why..” He tries to ask, words barely making it past his lips.

Keeping hold of his hand, the man uses his other hand to brush the hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear.

“It’s alright. You’re gonna be okay. Can you lay back down for me?” The man asks. 

He allows himself to be lowered into laying down. He makes a noise when the man lays his arm across his chest.

The man frowns, and takes his hand again. He gives a pleased noise, only to frown and protest again when the man lays his hand by his side, letting it go.

“Steve,” he rasps. Then blinks. Because of course that’s the man’s name. How could he have forgotten? “Steve.” He says again.

“I’m right here, Buck,” Steve says gently. Steve picks up the thing laying on his chest, the thing that was pressing over his face earlier, and tries to put it back. 

He turns his face away, quivering, and waves his arm at Steve.

“It’s just oxygen, Buck. Promise. You need it for just a while longer. It won’t hurt.” Steve says, still in that gentle tone.

He refuses again.

“Here, I’ll show you.”

Steve lifts Bucky’s head, pulling a cord over it, taking the thing with him. He holds it over his own face for a couple of deep breaths, before holding it back out.

“See it’s safe. I promise. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

Bucky searches his face for any ill effects, any proof that he’s lying. But finds nothing. He allows Steve to put the mask over his face, trembling, but submitting.  Steve murmurs more assurances. Mask replaced, Steve sits in a chair that Bucky hadn’t noticed before, and places his hand on Bucky’s knee.

Bucky leans back into his pillows, and allows himself to fall asleep again.

Chapter Text

The Asset is led to a room. Upon stepping inside, the first thing it sees is a chair. It’s unlike the one it’s used to. The chair is still bolted to the floor, but the arm rests extend behind the chair, shackles to hold the occupant’s arms still. There’s a belt around the middle of it. Again, presumably to hold the occupant in place. 

There’s a fire in a fireplace, burning hot and bright. It casts strange shadows around the otherwise dim room. There are two pokers sticking out of it. Tending to the fire is a man. It looks up, seeing a single bulb overhead in the middle of the room. A pipe over the chair, and a drain in the ground, under it. The room smells like burning wood, but also piss and blood.

It takes all this in all the information in a matter of seconds. Licking its dry lips, it’s glad to not be wearing a shirt in the too warm space. 

Going complacently, it’s led towards the chair. It doesn’t protest as it’s put in, chest to the back of the chair, and it’s arms are stretched forward and locked in place. It doesn’t react as the other restraints are tightened around it’s waist and it’s legs.

“Why are we doing this again?” The tech locking it in place asks, still pulling on some of the straps.

“It’s being loaned out. Higher ups want it marked as ours in case anyone gets any.. ideas as to how it’s to be used or who it belongs to,” the man by the fireplace says, poking at the coals with one of the pokers.

“And it’s going to just let us do this to it?”

“Of course. It does anything we tell it to. Don’t you, Asset?”

“Ready to comply,” it replies.

“See? It’s fine.”

The men move around behind it. The Asset feels uneasy, being unable to see them. It turns it’s head to see what the man by the fireplace is doing. 

Someone cuffs it on the back of the head.

“Eyes forward, Asset.”

It does as it’s told. But it does its best to keep track of them all the same. The men are nervous about something, and that never bodes well. It waits for instruction.

More sounds from the fireplace.

“There we go, it’s ready.”

The tech holds out the rubber mouth guard from the chair.

It allows the tech to put it in its mouth. Maybe this is like the other chair after all.

“Asset, head bowed.” It complies. 

It jumps when a cool cloth is run over it’s back, between it’s shoulderblades. 

“Stay still.” The Asset tenses, but compiles.

Then pain.

It screams, trying to arch it’s back away. Trying to escape the awful burning. It can smell its flesh burn. Tears run down its face. Someone grabs it by the hair, forcing it’s head forward and down again. It chokes, and waits for it to be over. 

An eternity later, it feels the brand peel away from its skin. It shudders and gags again, tears still pouring down it’s face.

They let go of it’s head, but it remains where it is, breathing shallowly.

Cold water pours down over it, and it gasps, the mouth guard falling away. It’s shaking from cold, despite the heat of the room, by the time it stops. 

Someone pats at it’s back. When it tries to flinch away, despite having nowhere to go, they hit it on the head again. It’s nothing, compared to the burn, but it stills anyway. 

It barely notices when they unstrap it. It can hear the blood rushing in it’s head, and the pounding of its heart. 

It cringes, when they grab it and pull it upright. It’s legs threaten to give out. One of the techs holds it by the arm, and it sways.

Someone comes into the room with a bandage, and it takes the asset a minute to realize they want it to hold its arms up so they can wrap it. It does, and they do. 

When they try to escort it back, the Asset takes a step and falls. They pull it back into standing. It doesn’t fight when they assist it. They lead it down the hallway, and into a cell with a cot. They drop it onto the cot, and leave it alone. 

 It carefully lays on its stomach, trying to find a position for it’s arms that pulls the least.

When it finally does, it allows itself to rest.

Chapter Text

Bucky sits outside the building in his car. Steve had offered to come with, and while he had been tempted to accept, he had declined. This was something he wanted to do himself. Needed to do himself, he said.

But now, as he sits trembling in his car, watching the minutes tick by. Getting closer to the time of his appointment. He wishes Steve was here.

All the reasons he shouldn't be here play on a loop in his head.

Worthless

Can't be saved

Shouldn't be saved

You're making this up, there's nothing wrong with you

Beyond help

Good for nothing

Why even try

Too late

And on and on and on.

He feels like he’s going to be sick. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn't deserve to be here. Showing up at all, is taking away resources from someone else. Someone who actually needs them.

He didn’t want to. He had nothing to say. He didn’t know what to say. THere was nothing wrong with him.

So he was a little sad. So what? Everyone was sometimes.

It didn’t matter. He should go home, call and say he has changed his mind. Apologize for taking up their time. Bucky has made it this long without help. He can keep going. He’s fine.

Bucky pulls the keys back out of his pocket.

He realizes he had taken Steve’s keys. On his way out the door, he had just grabbed a set out of the bowl. Didn’t even notice.

When Bucky had tentatively brought up he might try therapy, Steve had smiled. Said that it might be good for him. But he radiated relief. Not said anything about how he had suggested it before. Asked if he wanted to talk about it, and respected when Bucky said no. Was supportive and listened and offered up information, when it was wanted.

He couldn’t give up on this. Steve deserved more what he was. 

Closing his eyes, he takes a couple shaky breaths.

When he opens his eyes, he leaves the care. He locks the door manually. He grips the keys in his pocket like a lifeline.

He steps into the building, gives his name at the desk. His heart thumping loud enough the whole room must hear it.

When he’s told to sit to wait, Bucky sits on the very edge of his seat, leg bouncing.

New thoughts pop into his head.

What if they think I’m faking?

What if there really is no hope for me?

Maybe I should leave. Tell Steve that they thought they couldn’t help me.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

I don’t need to be here, I need to leave.

There’s no hope, they’re gonna tell me I’m a lost cause. If they even think anything is wrong with me. There isn’t. THere can’t be.

It’s all made up. It has to be.

Before he can hump out of his chair and run, someone calls out his name.

“James Barnes?”

Bucky starts, but stands. Shoving his shaking hands into his pockets, as he follows the therapist down the hall.

Chapter Text

Bucky is making dinner when he hears Steve slip in the door and turn on the radio. He huffs when it’s turned to a news station, but doesn’t tell Steve to turn it off. Steve pulls out a chair and sits noisily, pulling things out of his bag. Bucky smiles to himself.

“Making soup. Should be done soon."

“Thanks Buck.”

Bucky nods, keeping his attention on the stove. 

The radio goes on about the war, as it’s going in Europe. Bucky muses that they’re lucky that their president isn’t going to get involved, although he knows that Steve thinks that they should be. 

Bucky’s not going to say anything about it, not wanting to fight about it again. 

“How’d class go today?” Bucky asks.

Steve pulls something out of his bag.

“Same as always.” Bucky can practically hear the shrug in Steve’s voice. He frowns.

“Something happen?” 

“No.” Is the reply, too quick.

Bucky turns off the stove, and crosses his arms, turning to face Steve.

“Steve,” he starts. And stops. 

In the corner is his mattress. A pile of pallets that he uses for a table. It's a small room, and he's been living here by himself for a few months now.

Steve is nowhere to be found. He’s off doing who knows what with the Avengers.

Bucky shivers, turning back to the stove.

He had imagined the whole conversation.

---

“Asset.. ” A voice whispers in his ear. Bucky whips around, looking for the speaker. There’s no one there. He grips the straps of his backpack, ignoring the glances of his fellow market goers. 

Uneasy, he returns to his apartment earlier than he had planned.

Music starts playing in the middle of a song, only to be shut off again quickly. Frowning at his neighbor's doors, he enters his apartment quickly. He goes over every corner, checks everything, to be sure nothing was disturbed. Nothing has been.

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief and drops into a chair, head in hands.

No one has found him. Least of all, someone who calls him Asset.

---

“Rebecca Barnes! You come down here this minute!”

Bucky winces and turns his face into his pillow. It’s too early for whatever Becca has done to make Ma mad this time. He has no idea what it might be, but whatever it is, it can’t be good. 

He hears a door slam, and feet stomping past his room, and Becca yells back. Their voices are raised, but he can’t make out the words. Bucky dozes off again.

“Bucky.” He hears outside his door. Ignoring Becca, he turns over. “Bucky.” She says again. He hears his door open, but he pretends to still be asleep. Maybe she’ll leave him alone, and get back to whatever it is that Ma had been yelling about. “I know you’re awake, stop faking.” 

Caught out, Bucky sighs.

“What?” He asks, rolling over and opening his eyes. Taking a look at the room he’s in, he blinks and sits up. His apartment in Bucharest.

“What?” He asks again.

---

Bucky is making dinner, a day later when it happens again.

" Report back to base, " a voice says behind him. 

He spins around, spoon ready to be used as a weapon.

Again, no one was there.

He doesn't want to turn his back to the room again, not when there's something out here, taunting him. But the stove is on, and the food needs tending; so he settles for looking around every few minutes.

When a girl starts laughing, he starts. She sounds young, and he frowns. There aren't any children living on this floor. And it's early enough they should still be in school.

When the food is finished, he eats it mechanically, knowing that he needs to. Any desire left when the voices started again. 

He's cleaning up when someone speaks again,

" Do you understand? " The voice says, deadly serious. Bucky shudders, grabs his backpack and runs out the door.

Running doesn't stop the voices. Most are taunting, or cruel. Demanding things from him. 

His blood goes cold and he stops suddenly when the voice starts saying those words that take him from himself.

Bucky falls to his knees, gripping his hair painfully.

“Stop! Just stop! Please just leave me alone.”

The voice laughs, but stops. 

For the moment.

Chapter Text

It’s well after midnight before Steve stumbles into his room, where Bucky is waiting. He had been at yet another strategy meeting - turned Captain America helps the war effort video - and it had gone late.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.” He says tiredly, as he begins to undress. 

Bucky sits on Steve’s bed in his trousers and undershirt. Jacket, shirt and shoes already laid out on a chair. He watches Steve, novel in his hands all but forgotten.

"Wanted to see you. We haven't had a chance all week since our last mission," Bucky points out, "and mission are…" he trails off. Steve nods. He knows. 

Depositing his clothes by Bucky's, he sits on the bed next to him.

“You can’t keep doing this, Steve. You hate all this propaganda crap, and you never get to actually use your down time. You’re always off doing something. You’re exhausted, doll.” 

Steve leans heavily on Bucky, pressing his nose into Bucky’s neck. Bucky tightens his arm around his shoulders.

“You gonna tell them that you’re not going on that mission in a couple days,” Steve mumbles. Bucky tenses. “you're tired too. Have the exact same problem. We’re doing what we have to Buck. If they turn us in..”

Bucky turns his head to rest against Steve’s, with a pained expression.

“I don’t like seeing you so tired.”

“And I don’t want you to leave by yourself and get killed,” Steve says hoarsely, opening his eyes, leaning back slightly to look at Bucky. “You almost died last time, You still haven’t told me what happened. I joined up because I wanted to keep you safe, and instead I got us caught. We were lucky the Commandos were considerate, and I should have been more careful while we were in camp."

"It's not just your fault, Steve." Bucky sighs. They've had this conversation before. Probably once a week. Or every time they were told just one more thing . "I was there too. I could have looked out more, if we're playing the blame game."

Steve pulls back, frowning at him.

"It wasn't your job to-"

"And it wasn't yours!" Bucky says, standing and throwing up his hands. "I know you think it is, but it's not."

Just as quick the fight drains out of him, and he sits on the floor, by Steve's knee. Steve carefully reaches out, smoothing his hair.

"After the war," Steve says slowly, "it'll be over. No more extra missions, no more Captain America, no more blackmail. Just you and me."

Bucky snorts derisively, resting his forehead on Steve's knee as Steve continues to run his fingers through his hair.

"You really think they'll let us just leave? You're Captain America , and apparently I'm the best stealth operative and sniper they've ever had," Bucky shudders, "they're not going to let us go. They'll hold this over our heads for forever."

"So we'll run. Moment the war's over."

Bucky huffs a laugh.

"You've never run from anything."

"I've gone AWOL before. I'll do it again."

Bucky slowly shakes his head. He sighs and stands, turning off the light and poking at Steve to lay down.

Steve does, but wraps himself around Bucky. Bucky elbows him, and Steve just holds on tighter, turning them so Bucky is slightly tucked under him.

"We'll be okay. We'll get through this somehow, together. End of the line, okay?"

"Whatever you say, Stevie."

Chapter Text

Glass shatters, and Steve is thrown forward by the momentum of the Valkyrie hitting the ice. He manages to land on his hands and knees, gasping as a wave of ice and water hit him, drenching him instantly.

He shivers and tries to breathe in the freezing air. It knifes down his throat, and his lungs don’t want to expand. 

Clenching fists, there’s a sharp pain as hands grip the rubble caused by the fight earlier, caused by the impact. The same pain in the knees where he had fallen into it.

The water swirls around him, pulling heat out from his body and he shivers. 

Steve can’t breathe, and he’s not even completely submerged yet. He considers swimming, wondering if he would be pulled down by the currents caused by the sinking machine.

He wonders if the drowning would be quicker than the freezing. Or if the serum will try to prevent that too.

Hours seem to pass as he stays there, gasping, slowly freezing. 

Something brushes his shoulder, and he startles, throwing himself back. He hits something, and maybe he's lucky nothing sharp was on it to impale himself on. 

Someone approaches, and for one hysterical moment, he thinks it’s the Red Skull, back from wherever the Tesseract pulled him. But no. They have dark hair, and a familiar face. Hands held where Steve can see them as they kneel down in front of him. 

“Buck,” He tries to say, through chattering teeth. Feeling relieved, Steve closes his eyes. He must be dying, and Bucky is here to take him home. He opens them when the water pouring into the ship slows and stops. It’s no longer swirling, he can no longer feel it. I must be dead, he thinks to himself. 

Bucky reaches out for him, but Steve needs to say something first. Before Bucky takes him. Although, once he says it, he’s not sure if Bucky will want to take him with him anymore. But he has to say it. He never got the chance, after Bucky died, and now that Steve is dead too, he can.

“I’m sorry, Buck. I missed you so much, I’m so sorry that I let you fall, I’m sorry that I let you die. I’m so sorry.”

The words don’t come out as well as he wants them too. He wonders if it takes practice, talking when you’re dead, since there’s no air. The words come out mumbled and stilted. Forced from numb lips, past the pain in his chest. 

Bucky frowns at him, and says something that Steve can’t understand. He wonders if he’s back to being half deaf. If it is part of his punishment, to go back to the weak thing he was in death. But if that’s the price he must face for his failure, he will gladly pay it. 

If that’s what it takes to be with Bucky again. 

Bucky reaches out and smoothes back the hair on his forehead, before firmly pulling him up. Steve stumbles, falling back into Bucky, who catches him around the waist.

Steve holds on tight, shaking.

“Are we dead?” He whispers into Bucky’s ear. It’s strange that Steve’s so tall, if he’s back to how he was before. “You’re dead. I'm pretty sure I am too,” he mumbles, letting his head fall into Bucky’s neck. Bucky is so warm, and Steve has frozen to death. Maybe he’s going to have to stay here after all. “I’m sorry you’re dead. It’s all my fault. I should have caught you. I should have, should’ve died, then. Not you. I missed you, I’m sorry I killed you.” Bucky’s shoulders hitch, and he walks backwards, pulling Steve gently away from the ruins of the ship.

Bucky grabs something, and wraps it around Steve’s shoulders. A few steps later, and he’s pushing Steve back and down. Steve falls gracelessly, still unable to breathe clearly. He must have asthma again. 

Bucky turns to go, to leave him again. Steve cries out, reaching forward to snag Bucky’s hand.

Somethings dig into his hand, but he refuses to let go. “ Please, ” he begs, “please don’t leave me yet.” He can’t breathe again. Only shallow breaths as he watches Bucky through blurry eyes. 

Bucky turns back, and kneels in front of him, eyes sad. He leans in and places a kiss on Steve’s forehead, before taking his hand and placing it gently over his heart. Bucky reaches out, gently wiping at Steve’s cheek with his thumb, fingers tucked under his ear. Bucky leaves his hand there. Says something , Steve still can’t hear past the wind, and breathes deeply. After a couple breathes, Steve copies. 

He closes his eyes, slumping against Bucky, exhausted. 

They breathe.

The rushing in his ears die down.

“There you go, sweetheart. You’re doin’ great,” Bucky murmurs, rumbling beneath Steve’s fingers. Steve opens his eyes again, and looks around. There’s Bucly, still kneeling in front of him, eyes sad, hair escaping the tail he had put it in. Glancing around the bathroom, he winces when he sees glass and water from the broken shower all over the room. Steve’s still in his soaking uniform. He must have stepped in the shower fully dressed still, after he returned from his mission. There’s a towel around his shoulders, and he’s still shivering from the cold water. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Bucky shakes his head, and gives Steve a small smile.

“Nothing to be sorry for. You with me again, doll?”

When Steve nods, Bucky kisses his cheek. 

“I’m going to get the tweezers from the first aid kit and get the glass out of your hands. Then, we’re going to get you out of those wet things and warm you up a little. Ok Stevie?”

Steve shudders, closing his eyes briefly, but nods.

“Ok, good. Wait here.” Bucky kisses his cheek again, and stands.

Steve watches him leave.

Chapter Text

Steve walks around in a daze for the rest of the mission. He doesn't even remember getting off the train, or helping to secure the rest of the train. He doesn’t remember giving orders, or taking Zola into custody. He's just blank for those two days.

When he finally does blink back into his body, he’s standing in his doorway, looking at the things Bucky had left in his room. He takes a staggering step into the room, falling to his knees.

Bucky is gone. Steve let him fall. He should have been faster. Should have been stronger. Should never have let Bucky on the mission. Steve should have paid more attention to their surroundings. Should have known that the man in the monster metal suit hasn’t been incapacitated. 

He’s failed Bucky, and now he has to live with his failure. 

Steve falls onto his bed and sobs.

---

After delivering his report, he makes his way to an abandoned bar. It’s the same one that Steve had asked Bucky to follow him to his death. 

He should have sent him home when they had the chance. Bucky would still be alive. Maybe he would hate him, but at least he would be alive.

Anything would be better than the truth. 

Bucky will never smile at him again, never tease him about his stupid Captain America routine again. Steve is never going to get to draw him again, while Bucky shifts and complains about sitting still, There’s going to be no more reading aloud to each other. There’s going to be no future together.

Peggy comes in, eventually and talks. Despair turns to anger, and he’s going to burn Hydra to the ground. It’s the last thing that he’ll do.

---

They successfully attack the last Hydra base. The Red Skull is gone, and Steve has a good reason to never go back. He can finally join Bucky again.

He pulls out the compass that Bucky gave him (a picture of Agent Carter inside as a joke between the three of them,) and promises her a dance. 

The Valkyrie crashes, and he drowns; Bucky his last thought.

---

But Steve doesn’t die. 

He wakes, and once he realizes that he survived, he despairs. 

Steve could have jumped after Bucky, and they could have survived. He could have saved him. If he had jumped and wrapped himself around Bucky so that he took the brunt of the impact, maybe they both could be alive today.

Here in the future, there were so many things Bucky would have loved. The foods, the stories, the new opportunities on every corner. The machines, the robots. Airplane and quinn jets. They had joked that Bucky should have been in the Air Force instead, but the Army was better. He would have loved to see everything.

It makes it harder to enjoy every new opportunity, when he’s constantly reminded that it was his fault that Bucky was gone in the first place. 

He takes comfort in being able to hide behind Captain America, certain that he would fall apart at any moment otherwise.

---

Then Bucky comes back.

Chapter Text

Bucky turns the knife around, tip over hilt, in his hands.

It’s been a bad run. He knows it.

Who was he kidding, thinking he could ever be a person? Someone with a life, someone people cared about. 

Everyone talks about how bright the future could be. Friends. A partner. A career, not necessarily as an Avenger, but as whatever he wanted. They talk like he could be anything but a killing machine. Like he could just be forgiven for all the terrible things that he had done. Steve might say it wasn’t him, and Bucky knows that. But he still did it. He’s taken so many lives, ruined countless others.

All the pain and torture he went through with Hydra is the least of what he deserves for it. 

He turns the knife, watching the light glint off of it. He swallows hard, tears prickling at his eyes.

Steve wasn’t here right now. He had gone on some Avengers thing that Bucky couldn’t remember exactly what it was. Just that it was a pre-planned thing, and Steve hadn’t wanted to go. Wanted to stay with Bucky.

Bucky had laughed and kissed his cheek, sending him out the door. As soon as he had been sure Steve was fine, he allowed his smile to drop, his shoulders to slump, and his whole being to sag.

He waited three days. Because that's a rule somewhere. He talked to Steve, brushed off inquiries about his own day. On the fourth morning, he had grabbed a knife and closed their bedroom door. He walked into the guest room and sat on the bed.

Now he sits here, watching the knife gleam as it turns. There’s still daylight outside, although the sun is going down now. Bucky has been staring at the knife for hours. 

It would be a relief to use it. No more pain, no more fear. No more would e fail and disappoint Steve. No more future. 

All Bucky can ever do is disappoint, it seems. 

And he’s tired. Tired of pretending to be okay. Of trying to be a real person. Of acting like he cares what happens to him. He’s tired of trying.

A car door slams outside, and it startles him out of his thoughts, away from the hypnotic gleam of the knife in his hands. 

He takes a deep breath, and lifts it to his throat. Pressing it in slightly, but just holding it.

Steve will miss him, he’s certain. But he’ll eventually realize that without Bucky around to drag him down, he’ll be much better off. Every bad thing that’s happened to Steve Bucky could have prevented, had caused, and it’s time he set things right. 

He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath. A tear escaping his eyes.

Bucky hopes that dying really is like falling asleep. That he isn’t about to curse himself to wandering the earth forever. Although it would be deserving.

He hears someone open a front door. The neighbors getting home, presumably. 

He presses the knife deeper, and feels a drop of blood roll down his throat .

Chapter Text

There was a split second, as he was waking up, that there wasn’t any pain. 

It was that split second, every morning, that made Bucky wonder if he was making this up. If it was just looking for attention from his peers. 

He doesn’t stand up, so much as carefully roll off the bed, landing on his good leg. 

He stands, most of his weight on his right leg as he considers his pain level, and what it means for his class schedule today.

The outer part of his thigh burns, there’s a sharp pain in his hip. Although it’s much better today than it was yesterday. The pain runs down then outside of his leg into his foot. Rotating his foot twinges, but ultimately seems okay. He considers it, and decides all in all, pain level is a three. 

Which means he’ll be going to all of his classes.

Hopefully. 

Bucky walks around his small apartment, roommates not awake yet, getting ready. Relieved as his pain doesn’t get any worse. 

He puts in his earbuds, and begins the walk to his first class.

The class schedule had sounded like fun. Yoga first thing in the morning, followed by an improv class. He would have a break for an early lunch, and go to his english class. A beginning dance class in the evening. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. 

Of course, he has made the schedule months before the semester started. Even after the semester had started, it had seemed like fun. But a couple weeks in, he fell asleep, legs aching, and the left one never really stopped. It only got worse.

He spent the last ten weeks limping around between classes, gritting his teeth. Determined to get decent grades anyway. In most of the classes.

He was half sure he was failing Yoga. Doing the poses tended to hurt more rather than loosen his muscles and allow him to go about his day. He felt bad about it, but he often skipped this class. 

He arrives, and chooses a corner in the back. He sets up his mat, and waits.

It is not a good day. 

By the end, he’s hurting worse, and wishes he had just skipped again. Taking a couple deep breaths, he gathers his stuff, and carefully makes his way to the other side of campus, to the improv class.

He’s only a couple minutes late.

Luckily, he had talked to the professor about the distance between classes at the beginning of the year, and he’s ignored as he slips inside. Bucky hopes that they’ll play a word toss game, or discuss the improv team's latest performance . He doesn’t want to have to stand back up. Everything definitely hurts more.

No such luck.

They’re going to start by playing marionettes. They get paired, and choose who starts what. So of course the boy Bucky has been paired with has him balance on one leg, his bad leg, hands close to his heart. He wobbles and topples over a couple times, feeling embarrassed. He is determined to make it through the three minutes though, so he says nothing. Just waits for the timer to beep.

Finally it does, and they move on. Bucky was never so glad for a pop quiz at the end of a class.

At the end of class, he went and sat on a nearby bench to wait out the crowds. The metal was uncomfortable, and it felt like the skin over his hip bones was pulling, making the aches worse. Shifting did nothing to alleviate it.

Eventually the crowds dispersed, and he makes his way painstakingly home. Once there, he grabs a granola bar from his cupboard, and sets up in his room. He props his pillows up straight on his bed, so they’re against the wall. He mounds up the blankets, and settles himself in.Leaning back against the pillows, he uses his hands to help guide his legs up onto the blankets, so that his knees have support while he sits. It helps. A little.

He grabs his laptop and starts on homework.

An hour later it’s time for the next class. He’s tempted to skip it, he aches and burns and doesn’t want to make the short trip. But he sweet talks himself into standing, getting ready, and leaving.

He's glad he went. The class was interesting today. 

Home again, he grabs another granola bar and an ice pack. He sits in his spot again, working some more. The ice packs help some.

His roommates stop in and say hi. He’s lucky that they’re nice enough to believe that he actually hurts, despite the fact he doesn’t know why.

Then it’s time for his dance class.

The sitting and the ice have helped enough that he thinks he can make it. He loves the class anyway, and really wants to be there.

He’s started limping a little as he arrives. And while he enjoys learning the new steps, he burns by the time class is over. It’s days like this he wishes he had a car. 

Slowly, he begins to drag himself home. He stops and leans against a fence a time or two, people muttering at him and walking around him when he does. He can’t find it in him to care.

The pain is radiating up and down his whole leg, every step jaring it more. He squeezes his eyes shut, determined not to cry. He’s gonna make it home. 

He does, eventually. He has no idea how long it took him. All Bucky knows is that everything hurts. Maybe an eight or a nine.

Hysterically, he wonders if it would hurt less to just chop off his leg.

That’s the teasing advice his sister would give. Won’t hurt anymore if you chop it off, Buck.

He makes it to his room. Doesn’t bother to change. Doesn’t have the energy to try. He shoves at his blankets and carefully lowers himself onto his bed. Twisting and turning, he tries to find a position that doesn’t put more pressure on his leg, but ultimately, can’t find one.

A couple tears slip past his shut eyes. Bucky’s not entirely sure if it’s from frustration or from pain.

Finally, he gives up. He’s laying on his stomach, slightly turned onto his right side. Good enough.

His last thought, before he falls asleep, is to wonder if he’s making this up.

Chapter Text

It starts off with just a slight woozy feeling. Like too much sun or not enough water. 

Bucky’s used to feeling a little bit off, especially during long missions, that he thinks nothing of it. He drinks some water, rests in his room a little longer than usual, and carries on. Steve, and the other Avengers, are none the wiser. 

The feeling doesn’t go away, though. 

After another week, his head starts aching. Sudden movements make it worse, so he starts doing everything more carefully. He’s a little more light headed than usual, feeling dizzy when his head doesn’t hurt, and he tries to work around that too.

Steve notices this, of course. But he attributes the special care to the arm, and Bucky not wanting to hurt anyone or break anything. To it hurting him.

So Steve spends time holding his metal hand, making sure that he knows that Steve cares, regardless of anything done to him. Checks in to make sure that Bucky is taking care of himself. Offering massages or oils or getting baths ready for him.

It makes his heart hurt that this idiot cares about him so much. He shouldn’t. Bucky tells him as much.

Steve tells him he’s the idiot for not seeing that he deserves all the care in the world.

They agree to disagree. For the moment. 

Another couple days go by and his chest starts getting tight. A cough develops, and he figures he’s just a little sick, especially when he also develops a fever. 

Bucky’s able to put Steve off for two days, after that. But each of those days comes with Steve’s bright blue eyes, shining with concern and care.

“Please, let someone look at you, Buck. You’re obviously not okay.”

Bucky shakes his head.

“I’m fine, Steve. It’s just a little cold.” 

“You’re a super soldier. You don’t get colds.”

Bucky grumbles around a coughing fit. It leaves him more tired than usual.

“ You don’t get colds. I have a knock off. Maybe I do.” He says, leaning further into the pillows on his bed. Steve sighs.

When Bucky starts coughing up blood, later that day, he reluctantly agrees that something’s wrong. He lets Stve call someone next time he insists. Steve looks so relieved that Bucky feels bad about worrying him.

Steve calls Bruce, who agrees to do what he can. 

A couple tests, a blood sample, and admonishments to get as much rest as possible, and Bruce leaves again.  He does mention that if Steve starts feeling sick too, that they need to let everyone know as soon as possible, just to be safe. 

Bucky is beyond exhausted by this point, and falls asleep.

He wakes up throwing up. He recognizes he’s lying on something soft, and he hurts. When hands come, touching him, he doesn’t recognize them and panics, trying to get away. But he’s weak, shaking and burning, aches and pains everywhere, that it’s ultimately ineffective.

Steve had jumped up to help as soon as Bucky woke, but his presence seems to be scaring him more.

“Hey, Bucky, You’re all right, it’s just me, it’s Steve, you’re okay.” But Bucky shows no signs of recognition, just cowers beneath his hands. “I'm going to call Bruce, see if he’s found anything, alright? Just hold on,” Steve says, panicking a little himself, as Bucky pants, unable to catch his breath. 

Luckily, Bruce comes up quickly. 

“Did you find anything?” Steve asks. Bucky’s still awake, but barely. He’s thrown up a couple more times. More than Steve thought he should, considering he hasn’t eaten much in days. 

Bruce nods and explains that there’s some sort of chemical deteriorating in Bucky’s bloodstream. And as it goes, it’s taking Bucky with it.

Steve’s hand tightens around Bucky’s. Bucky whimpers, and Steve tries to soothe him. He asks what the purpose of such a thing would be.

“My guess? They didn’t want their Soldier going off leash. It was developed to not start doing anything for a couple weeks, so that he could complete missions. After that, without more, it would start to deteriorate, and tear apart the host system. Bucky’s.” Bruce says apologetically.

Steve nods tiredly, and looks at Bucky’s pale face.

“So we need an antidote.”

“What we need is more of the same compound,” Bruce corrects. Steve looks up sharply, and Bruce holds up his hands, “Whatever it is, it acts as both the poison and the cure. It’s almost like an addiction. He feels fine on it, but take it away and it goes wrong. It’s a slow acting poison that causes the body to destruct. Just, faster than a normal addiction.”

“You can’t tell what it is just by looking at what’s there?” Steve asks desperately. Finding the same poison isn’t something he wants to do. Who knows what kinds of things Hydra had cooking up in their labs. 

Bruce shakes his head

“It breaks itself down, breaking anything it touches. And since it doesn’t do that for a couple weeks..”

“It has plenty of time to get into everything.” Steve finishes, tiredly.

“Like I said. If the Soldier were to leave, to run, a slow poison or self destruct switch is a great reminder to come back. If he didn’t, he’d be incopacitated, and they could retrieve him after a while.”

“So what do we do.” Bucky twitches.

Bruce sighs.

“For now? Make him comfortable.” Steve opens his mouth to argue, to insist that Bucky isn’t going to die yet. He  can’t. “We can try to alleviate some of the symptoms. But we need whatever it is they’ve given him. Then we can make an actual antidote.”

“Would we have to give him more of it?”

“Only if not doing so will kill him.”

“Alright. Thanks.” Steve runs his free hand down his face. 

Bruce lays a hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing gently. 

“Maybe take him down to medical, see what they can do there. I’ll let them know to expect you and go get the others, to see what we can find out. Come join us, when you get him settled?”

Steve nods slowly, and Bruce claps him on the shoulder again. He leaves, but Steve barely notices, focus completely on Bucky.

When Steve stands, and leans over him, Bucky flinches, whimpering a little.

“It’s just me, Bucky, you’re okay.” Steve’s breath hitches. “You’re going to be okay.” He amends, reaching out, and brushes the hair off of Bucky’s forehead. Steve frowns at the heat coming off of him. Slowly, carefully, he peels back the blankets that Bucky had swaddled himself in before going to bed.

Bucky makes another soft sound of protest, face scrunching up in distress. 

“I know, baby. You’re going to be alright. We gotta go, though, okay?”

Bucky opens his eyes, but shows no recognition. Steve’s heart drops. He had hoped never to see that look on Bucky’s face ever again.

“Come on, Buck, time to go.” Steve bends down and carefully gathers Bucky in his arms.

Bucky squirms, making soft panicking sounds. Steve sits down on the bed, Bucky in his lap, not caring about the smell of old sweat or the vomit as he tries to soothe him.

“Can you look at me, Buck? Come on, it’s just me, it’s Steve. I’m not going to hurt you, promise. Baby, please.” 

Bucky does, eventually locks eyes with Steve. It takes a moment, but he recognizes him.

“Stevie,” he rasps. 

“Yeah, Buck. It’s me.” 

Bucky nods once, shuddering. Then his whole body convulses and he leans away from Steve vomiting once again.

“Wha-, Steef, ” he gags and retches again. Steve holds him close. He’s not sure if Bucky’s shaking so badly, or if it’s his own shuddering that’s making it seem worse. He tries to offer assurances, as he waits for Bucky to be done. 

Once he is, Steve gathers him close and all but sprints to the elevator to take him to medical. Anything to help Bucky feel better. 

Bucky has his face hidden in the crook of Steve’s neck, his breaths coming too fast and wheezing. But it doesn’t stop him from noticing the change in smells as they step into the hospital room. Suddenly it’s harder to breathe. He doesn’t want to be here. Medical means pain, and fear, and he doesn’t want to be here. 

He realizes that the man holding him couldn’t be Steve, because Steve would never let him be experimented on again. He begins to struggle, determined to get away. He has no idea how he got captured again, or maybe he never left. But regardless of how bad he’s feeling, he will not let them hurt him again.

Steve, who’s only indication something was wrong is Bucky tensing in his arms, fights to keep hold of him as he walks in.

A nurse looks up in alarm, and several people come over to help.

Bucky screams, and Steve wants to cry at the look of pure terror on Bucky’s face.

Someone gets a sedative, and manages to get Bucky in the leg with it. 

Bucky jerks at the prick, scrambling backwards into Steve, who wraps his arms around him, murmuring gently to him as his struggles grow weaker.

“It’s a regular person sedative,” the nurse warns, “It won’t do much good for long.” Steve nods, and scoops Bucky up again. Bucky’s blinking sluggishly, still shaking. 

They walk to a room, and Steve gently deposits Bucky on the bed. As soon as Steve has stepped back, nurses rush forward to get him settled in. When Bucky flinches, and tries to roll away, they enlist Steve’s help in keeping him still. 

It breaks Steve’s heart, Bucky so obviously scared and in pain, but he does as he’s told.

Before long, they have Bucky set up. The painkillers and sedative developed for Steve taking effect and Bucky goes still.

Steve sits in a chair by his bed, for a long time. Hating seeing him here so pale and lifeless. Seemingly so small in the hospital bed.

He gently takes Bucky’s hand, careful of the IV and smoothes back his hair.

“I’m going to fix this. We’re gonna find something to help you. Promise.” 

He places a gentle kiss to his forehead, taking another long look at Bucky.

Steve squares his shoulders, and goes up to where the other Avengers are waiting.

Chapter Text

His eyes start to close, and the air raid sirens go off again. 

His heart beats faster, the urge to run, to find shelter coming over him. He groans. 

Bucky blinks against the harsh lights in the room. He has no idea how long it’s been since they put him in here. 

His captors had dragged him into this room, and chained his one arm up so he’s standing in the middle of the room.  The cuff is tight around his wrist, and the chain isn’t long enough for him to move about the room. He can’t quite fall to his knees. It jerks him a couple inches from the ground, when he tries to kneel. 

Every so often, someone comes in and injects something that keeps him feeling awake into him. The first two times, he tried to fight it. He stopped counting after that, and doesn’t try to stop them anymore. Too tired to even think about it at this point. 

The light in the room is glaring, hurting his eyes every time he opens them. He swears it keeps getting brighter. 

Every so often, they play loud music, or someone screams, or the sirens go off. 

He just wants to sleep . Bucky almost doesn’t care if he breaks his wrist, if it would mean he could fall down and rest. 

There’s no sense of time. He has no idea how long between visits. They haven’t fed him, though he has no appetite. His eyes are dry and burn every time he opens them. 

Bucky sways, the sirens still going, allowing his knees to buckle again.

Like each time this happens, it jerks his arm, stopping him from reaching the ground. This time, there’s a pop , and he cries out as pain rips through his shoulder.

He’s already tried to reach the walls, to rest against them. They’re too far away.

The sirens stop, and he wants to cry in relief, though his ears still ring from the sound. 

He’s so tired . He’s about ready to do anything, just for the chance to sleep, to rest, to close his eyes.

All he can do is wait.

Chapter Text

Bucky doesn’t talk.

At first, Steve thinks it might be shyness and wariness bled together. But after time goes by, and Bucky seems comfortable in the tower, still nothing happens. He still hasn’t said a word. 

Even at night, the only reason that Steve is aware that Bucky has nightmares is his tossing and turning. On a rare occasion, when Steve thinks the nightmares are particularly bad, Bucky will emit high pitched whimpers. He’ll stumble from his room into Steve’s, curling up in his arms. 

Steve tries not to look forward to those nights, knowing how much they hurt Bucky.

Not to say that Bucky can’t communicate. There’s smiles and frowns. Head tilts for curiosity. Bucky generally allows his face to be expressive; once he got to know everyone. 

When Clint and Bucky meet, Clint starts teaching him to sign, and slowly everyone learns. It becomes normal, and Steve almost doesn't notice the difference.

Almost.

The first time Bucky actually says anything, it’s six months after he arrived at the Tower. 

As Steve walks into the kitchen, he hears a glass shatter and a soft curse. Bucky’s standing by the sink, barefooted and staring at the broken cup in front of him. He’s shaking, eyes wide as he stares at the glass.

“Buck?” Steve says gently. “Are you okay?”

Bucky whips his head up and takes a step back, hands up defensively. Steve winces as Bucky steps into the glass.

Sorry, he signs, left hand still raised, sorry sorry please sorry

“It’s alright Buck, it was an accident. I’m more worried about you stepping in the glass.” Steve takes a step forward, and Bucky presses himself against the sink. Steve stops. 

“Bucky, do you know where you are right now?” Bucky shakes but doesn’t respond. He’s stopped signing, and watches Steve with fear in his eyes. Steve closes his eyes and exhales sharply, missing Bucky’s flinch. Steve lowers himself to the ground, out of the glass radius, sitting cross legged and looks up at Bucky. Hoping that if Bucky knows that he won’t get closer without permission, it will be alright. He begins to speak softly, reminding Bucky where he is, the date, what they had for breakfast. 

When Bucky’s face begins to clear, and he blinks a couple times, Steve asks again, 

“With me Buck?” Bucky nods his head slowly, and shudders.

Sorry, He signs again. 

“There’s no need to be,” Steve says standing, telegraphing his movements. “Can you stay right there? I’m going to get the broom.” Bucky nods again. Steve offers him a quick smile, before cleaning up the glass. 

“Are you okay Buck?” Steve asks again, once everything is cleaned up, and Bucky has been checked over. Luckily, Bucky didn’t get any in his feet. Bucky averts his gaze and nods. He fidgets a little, but Steve doesn’t press. Steve offers a hug, which is accepted. 

And they move on. 

The next time Steve hears Bucky, they’re sitting on the couch. Steve sketching, Bucky reading. Bucky laughs quietly at something, and Steve looks up briefly, smiling. Only Bucky’s no longer calm and content. He's sitting frozen in place, gripping his book. Steve gently nudges him and he flinches, eyes locking with Steves. Steve offers him a small smile, and Bucky releases a breath. He offers a shaky one back. 

Bucky scoots closer to Steve, leaning against him. Steve stops drawing in favor of wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and kissing the top of his head. 

It doesn’t happen often but when Bucky does make a sound, he goes still and tense, waiting for something. 

He won’t talk about it. 

Steve tries, after the third time it happens. But Bucky’s face goes blank, and there’s nothing Steve can do. Bucky pulls away from Steve and disappears for the rest of the day.

It happens again. And Steve does his best to reassure Bucky that he’s okay. He can’t help but wonder if there’s more to Bucky not talking than just not being used to it.

So he waits anxiously. Doesn’t ask every time, but lets Bucky know that he’s listening and wants to hear anything that Bucky might say. 

It’s another two months before Bucky shows up at Steve’s room, arms tight around himself, shivering a little.

“Hey Buck, you ok?” Bucky doesn’t say anything, just flicks his gaze up and away again. “Come in, come here,” Steve says, opening his arms. Bucky darts in, settling against Steve where he sits on his bed, shaking. Steve wraps his arms around him holding him close, rocking them back and forth. As Bucky stops, his breathing evening out a little, Steve asks, “Nightmare?” Bucky shakes his head, and pulls back from Steve a little, hands where Steve can see them as he begins to sign.

I can’t talk.

Steve frowns.

“I know that, Buck, and I-” But Bucky cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head.

They would hurt me, especially in the beginning. And when I begged them to stop, they’d laugh. And they’d hurt me worse, more. And one time, after the chair, Buckky stops, shaking violently again. Steve carefully wraps an arm around him again. Bucky buries his nose in Steve’s neck. I couldn’t beg. Or scream. And they still hurt me. But one said ‘it finally learned to just take it’. Tears begin to fall from Bucky’s eyes.

They hurt me, he says, still shuddering against Steve. He gently rubs Bucky’s back. If I talked or made any kind of sound when they didn’t want me to. If I, He stops. Steve pulls him closer, and kisses the top of his head. 

It was worse when I begged. If I said anything when they hurt me, when they didn’t want me to, it was always worse. So I learned to stop. I stopped, because it always hurts more. 

“I’m so sorry Bucky. You didn’t deserve that.” 

Bucky shrugs from his place on Steve's side. He doesn’t look up, but lets his hands fall into his lap. 

“Thank you for telling me, you’re so brave. Thank you.” Bucky shivers, but doesn’t otherwise react. “I’m sorry that they took that away from you,” Steve murmurs. Bucky wraps his arms around Steve, moving so he’s in Steve’s lap instead. Steve holds him gently, but close, continuing to run his hand up and down his back.

“I’m never going to make you talk if you don’t want to, but you know you can, right?” No reaction. Bucky was still trembling in his arms. Steve wonders if he’s even aware that Steve’s talking to him. So he holds him, and lets him cry, rocking them gently.

It’s several long minutes before Bucky stops shaking. He rubs his fist against Steve’s back. Steve doesn’t think anything about it, until Bucky pulls away, and repeats the motion on his own chest.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Buck.”

The look Bucky gives him is both exasperated and exhausted. 

“I’m glad you told me,” Steve repeats, “and if you never want to speak again, that’s fine.”

Bucky’s lips twitch in a sort of smile.

“But I also want you to know that if you ever do, I’m not ever going to hurt you or punish you for anything you might say. Alright?”

Bucky nods. Hesitates.

Someday. He signs and shrugs, looking down.

“That’s fine. I’m never going to push you. Whenever, and whatever. Ok?”

Bucky nods, and surges forward into Steve’s arms. Steve tries to arrange them so that they’re half lying down, and more comfortable.

They fall asleep like that, together. Bucky lying on Steve, as Steve holds him close.

The next morning, Steve wakes up with Bucky in his arms, legs tangled together. Neither of them had nightmares. He wants to do it again, every morning. 

Bucky stirs and when he opens his eyes, he smiles. 

“Good morning,” Steve says softly. 

Bucky’s smile wavers a little, and he closes his eyes, taking a couple steadying breaths. Steve frowns, concerned. He’s about to pull away, in case it’s him causing the distress, when Bucky speaks.

“Morning,” he says, barely a whisper. 

Steve smiles and hugs him closer.

“Good morning, Bucky.”

Chapter Text

The Soldier is led to the chair and sat down. The guards escorting him take up position by the doors. He doesn’t wait long before a couple of maintenance techs walk into the room talking to each other. 

“Won’t this make him go blind?” The first one says.

“Due to his serum, he won’t be blind, just not able to see clearly. But I think that’s the point.”

“Why?”

The second shrugs. They walk up to a counter in the room and place their supplies on it.

“Some sort of training exercise? Makes him a better assassin? Not entirely sure. That’s for the trainers to worry about. We’re just supposed to prep him.” 

They stop talking about him, and start pouring the liquids they brought into smaller vials. They each grab one and walk over to where the Soldier waits.

“He’s not going to lash out and hurt us when we administer it to him?”

The second tech curses. 

“We’ll restrain him. Good call.”

The first hands his vial to the second, and orders the Soldier to sit back. The Soldier does so, and sits still as the tech attaches the straps around his arms, legs and torso. He stands and takes his vial back.

“Head back, Soldier.” The Soldier complies. “No matter what, keep your eyes open, and your head back, understand?

“Yes, sir,” he says

“Really think that’ll work?” The man on the left says.

“Worth a try,” the other says. “He’ll at least try . They made him good at following orders.”

“Do I want to know how?”

“Definitely not.”

“Right. On three?”

They count down and pour their vials into the Soldier’s eyes.

The Soldier screams, turning his head away as it hits his eyes. They burn, like a thousand needles in his eyes. He tries to wrench his hands free, but they’re fastened tight to the arms of the chair. He throws his head forward, hoping that helps. Someone turns on a stun baton and hits him in the stomach with it, and someone wrenches his head back by his hair.

Someone shouts, but the Soldier can’t make out the words, distracted by pain.

Something rubber is shoved into his mouth and they hit him with the electric rod again. 

“Shut up,” whoever holds his head back yells in his ear. He tries. His screams turn down to pained whimpers as he blinks rapidly. 

“Automatic response,” one of the techs says to the trainer in the room, although the Soldier doesn’t hear them. Too focused on the pain and keeping his cries to a minimum, lest they hurt him more. “Unless we tape his eyes open, we can’t make him stop blinking.”

The trainer watches, and shakes his head.

“We just want his vision impared. Not have him completely blind.” At the techs questioning look, he adds, “He’s going to learn to fight when he can’t see. To shoot when there’s not a clear line of sight. Not having his eyes will do that.”

The tech holding the Soldier’s head back pours water into the Soldier’s eyes.

The Soldier coughs and splutters as the water gets into his mouth as well. The tech lets go of his head, and he spits out the water. The water in his eyes helped, but they still sting. Blinking, his vision doesn’t clear. Everything is shadowy shapes against the light. 

“Soldier,” the trainer says. But the Soldier isn’t paying attention, still panicking over his blurry vision. “ Soldier, ” he says more forcefully, jabbing him with the stun baton again. “Status report.”

“I-I can’t see,” The Soldier says hoarsely, “not functional, I can’t see.”

The trainer smiles sharply.

“We’ll teach you to be functional, even without sight, Soldier. Shall we begin?” He says. The Soldier knows that this isn’t really a question. 

He shakes, tears streaming down his face. Of course he wants to be better. And if this is how his masters deem it to be done, he will do his best.

“Ready to comply.”

Chapter Text

It starts as a bad headache, and mild nausea. Nothing too bad, nothing Bucky can’t handle. He skips breakfast, sips some water, and waves off Steve’s concern. 

He decides to stay home, rather than go train with the Avengers today. He’s not officially part of the team, and today is an optional training meeting anyway. Steve leaves, reminding him to call, or have Jarvis contact him, if Bucky needs anything.

Bucky agrees, and Steve leaves for the afternoon.

Reading is a no go. Five minutes after looking at a page, His stomach rolls and lurches. His headache gets worse too, so he puts it down. 

He breathes through the worst of the nausea. When he opens his eyes, the lights seem just a little too bright. With a sigh, he stands and turns off the lights, opening the curtains instead. The sun is shining bright, a clear cloudless day, and he squints. Turning his back to the window, he makes the short trip to the couch and plops down. He leans heavily into the couch, and on the arm rest. 

Bucky grabs the remote from the side table, and turns on some documentary; not even paying attention to which one. But even the soft sounds start grating after a while, and he turns it off. He lays his head back against the couch, and breathes, willing his headache to just stop .

Of course it doesn’t. 

It throbs, and he wonders if maybe he’s just hungry, or dehydrated. Nothing sounds good, but that’s about typical for him anyway.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight for a moment, before he levers himself up. His vision starts to go black, and he sways. His head feels worse than before, every beat of his heart a sharp pain behind his eyes. 

Ignoring it for now, he slowly makes his way to the kitchen. There’s something that just feels wrong about the textures of the cupboards, of the cup he pulls from it. He opens a bottle of juice, figuring he could use the calories. The smell of it hits him, and he gags a little, suddenly overwhelmed. He sets it down gently, so it doesn’t make any noise as it hits the counter. Maybe not, then.

He goes to the sink and drinks some water. As soon as it hits his stomach, it comes right back up, and he’s vomiting into the sink. 

“ Gah, ” he pants, full body gagging again. Nothing more comes up, and he slides down, covering his face with his hands. His arm whirs and clicks at his distress, and he wants to scream as the sounds pound into his head. Moving his hands reveals the light and it stabs into his eyes. Squeezing them so that they’re mostly closed, he stumbles to their room, breathes coming in quick little gasps, as he tries to lessen the input to his brain. 

Collapsing on his bed, Bucky buries his face in Steve’s pillow. But the usually comforting scent of his partner is too much for him right now, and he shoves it away, disgruntled. He squirms, trying to find a comfortable position. But the blankets are irritating, the bed too soft. 

With a high-pitched whine, he crawls off the bed, rolling under it. The carpet isn’t much better, but it’s cooler and darker, so he remains. Bucky presses his face up into the corner, the pressure and the coolness of the wall helping a very little.

At some point, Steve comes home. The door closes loudly, and Steve calls out for him. Bucky whimpers in distress, but doesn’t make any attempt to call back, His arm continues to click and whine, grating on his headache. Steve comes into the room, seemingly making more noise than usual, and Bucky winces, pressing his face further into the wall.

“Bucky?” Steve calls, dropping something onto the bed. Bucky emits another distressed sound; both because he can’t stop it and to let Steve know where he is. 

The floor squeaks a little as Steve, presumably, kneels down to look at Bucky. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, gently. Bucky whines again. “What happened, love?” Bucky doesn’t respond. Just wants Steve to be quiet. Every word is like another nail in his head. “Do you know where you are?” A shuffling sound, then a hand reaches out and touches his back. Bucky gasps, flinching away from the touch, setting off a chain reaction of pain as the movement makes him sick. The touch registering as more pain. He gags and hacks, groaning, and curling into himself.

“Bucky, what's wrong? What happened? Are you sick?” Steve’s panicking behind him, and Bucky doesn’t have the energy to even begin to deal with that.

“Head,” he mumbles, softly. 

“Head? Wha- oh. ” Steve blessedly goes quiet after that. He knows how bad Bucky’s migraines can get sometimes.

Their combined breathing in such a tight place bothers him, and he half considers swatting at Steve to make him go away.

If the movement wouldn’t make him feel worse. If he actually wanted Steve gone.

“Did you take anything for it yet?” Steve barely whispers. Bucky ignores him, trying to focus on his breathing instead of his headache. “I’m going to need an answer, sweetheart.”

 He almost shakes his head. Stops himself in time. “No,” he mumbles into the carpet.

“I’m going to get you an ice pack and some painkillers. Be right back,”

Don’t, Bucky thinks irritably. But doesn’t stop him. 

Steve comes back and cajoles Bucky into taking the pills. Places the ice over his eyes, when Bucky lays on his back instead. Bucky shivers, then sighs.

“Go to sleep, love. You’ll feel better later.” 

It takes a long time, but Bucky finally does.

Chapter Text

Bucky’s homeless, and the wind is biting cold. It screeches as it cuts through the air, shoving him along. 

It’s impossible to walk against it, takes more strength than he has. The wind pushes him, stumbling along, as he tries to get somewhere safe and out of the weather. It tears at his jacket, trying to take it away, despite how tightly he holds it to himself. Bucky’s glad the thought to braid his hair back today. Otherwise it would be near impossible to see. As it is, he can’t keep his hood up.

He hears something rumble and skid towards him. A glance over his shoulder shows a trash can. He curses and jogs a few steps to the left, out of the path. It spews trash as it goes and he wrinkles his nose, but glad that he wasn’t hit.

The sky is covered in rain heavy clouds, and it’s getting progressively darker. 

All around, there’s evidence of the violent winds. Trees are shaking, and loose branches fly away, carried off to who knows where. A wooden fence rocks back and forth, and Bucky worries it too will tear out of the ground and fly away. 

The sun is dropping, taking the temperature with it. Bucky curses, shivering.

He curses again, as the sky rumbles. The wind shrieks back in reply.

Moments later the clouds open up, and freezing rain pours down. Bucky is soaked instantly. As the rain bites at him, Bucky realizes there’s no way he’ll get much further. Not tonight. 

The wind, the rain, and the dark conspire against him, trying to prevent him from seeing anything as he stumbles down the street.

A car speeds by, spraying water into Bucky’s face. He splutters and shouts angrily at the driver.

Not that they hear him.

Bucky shivers harder, and he wonders if his soaking jacket is actually doing anything for him.

Lightning flashes, lighting the street briefly. The thunder booms in reply within seconds. Bucky dodges a skittering branch, and realizes there’s no way he can stay out here. 

He starts looking around to see if there’s something, anything, to hide by or under to wait out the storm.

A slamming door startles him, and he turns towards the sound, heart hammering. There’s a shed in someone’s side yard, the door banging in it’s frame from the wind and the rain.

Bucky hesitates, not really wanting to trespass if he can help it, but the weather decides for him as the rain shows that it can indeed come down harder. 

With another glance around, Bucky darts for the shed, tripping inside the dark room. He fights with the wind for a moment, before the door closes.

Shaking violently, Bucky fumbles in the dark, heart hammering. He removes his backpack and his wet jacket. Opening the back pack, he searches frantically for the flashlight he knows is inside.

Itstoodarkitstoodarkitstoodark repeats in his head as his numb fingers try to find it. When his hand closes around it, he breathes a sigh of relief. He flicks it on and looks around. 

The shed is cluttered with boxes and tools. There’s cobwebs and dust over everything. It groans as the storm does it’s best to knock it over.

He flicks the light over a high shelf and something glints back at him. Then blinks . Bucky startles back, tripping over his wet things. He falls with a yelp, dropping the flashlight.

It hits the ground and turns off.

The shed shakes as thunder booms outside. Bucky panics, searches for the flashlight. Another flash of light, barely visible inside the shed, and he sees it, lying a couple feet in front of him. He snatches it up, pressing the button over and over again, though nothing happens. 

The wind howls, and Bucky slumps against the wall, shaking, arms around himself as if that would hold him together and warm him up.

Whatever is in the shed knocks something off the shelf it’s on, and it clatters. Bucky whips his head up, trying to see in the dark, his heart continuing to pound. Thunder booms again. Another clatter and something jumps onto Bucky. He startles, hitting his head against the wall.

His cry of alarm turns into a groan of pain, and the thing is still on his lap. It vibrates against him, sharp points digging into his chest.

“ Mrrrow” it chirps, butting it’s head against his chin. He jerks his head away in surprise.

It’s a cat . Bucky chokes on a laugh that maybe sounds like a sob. He wraps his arms around it and it purrs happily. 

He’s still shivering and he’s no longer sure if it's because he’s cold or if it’s fear that the storm will bring the creaking shed down on their heads. 

Outside the storm continues to rage. He shakes around the purring cat in his lap. 

Chapter Text

Bucky screams as fire rips through his head. He struggles against whatever’s keeping him trapped, twisting and rolling, trying to get away.

A hand touches his shoulder, and he flinches away from the touch, lurching to get as far away as the ropes binding him down will let him. Something gives, ripping, and he tries to scramble away. 

He falls off the table that they had tied him to, scurrying away. But he trips and falls, landing hard. Unable to break his fall because the bindings are still around his arms, around his torso. 

Bucky strains at the ropes, still screaming, and feels them give. A moment later, he’s done his best to shed them and runs in the direction of the door. Falls again. 

They’re on him before he can right himself. Hands on his arms, pulling him back.

With a cry, he turns and punches at whoever is closest, determined to not be caught again. He won’t go back onto that table, they can’t make him . 

It doesn’t do much good. The hands remain, and are more insistent now. He shouts, and gets a solid punch in. Before his enemy can recover he gets his hand around the man’s throat, shoving him into the wall. The man hits at his wrist, trying to break the hold, but it does no good. Bucky bares his teeth at the man. Once he’s unconscious, Bucky will be able to run, to leave. 

But he made a mistake. Bucky’s too close to him.

The man brings his knee up into Bucky’s groin, and he falls. The man is on him in an instant, wrestling him until his metal arm is trapped between Bucky’s back and the man’s chest. Legs trap Bucky’s down. One hand grips Bucky's flesh hand around his waist, and the other, firm holding his head back, his throat exposed. That more than anything frightened him.

Bucky screams, trying to throw the man off, but it’s no use. They’re too strong. He wriggles, whimpering, knowing how this is going to end, but can’t help fighting it anyway.

But there’s no other hands on him. No one is shooting. No electricity. No needles. Just the man holding him. He slows his movements, but can’t help his frightened cries.

There’s a voice in his ear. Soft, calm, soothing. He recognizes it. 

“I’m so sorry, Bucky, but it’s okay. I promise it’s going to be okay. It’s just me, you're safe. I’m not going to hurt you. We’re in our room, it was just a bad dream, you’re going to be okay..” And on and on.

He wants to believe it, doesn’t know if he can. But he’s tired, and getting nowhere. He slumps and stops resisting. 

“Buck? Bucky, are you okay? Bucky,” the man says, frantic suddenly. He releases Bucky, moving around so he’s hovering over him, instead of behind him. Bucky doesn’t move. He starts shivering, probably from left over adrenaline. The hands move to his face, and Bucky flinches.

“Shhh, it’s just me, baby,” he says. Bucky looks up into the man’s face, and Steve looks back at him, worried.

Bucky, on the other hand, is horrified. Steve has a rapidly forming black eye, a swollen cheek, and Bucky’s hand print around his neck. 

He breaks Steve’s hold on his face, scurrying back until he hits the wall, breathing hard still. Steve holds his hands up where Bucky can see, heartbreak written across his face.

“It’s just me, it’s Steve, Buck. You’re safe. I’m-”

“You’re not,” Bucky croaks, throat raw from screaming. Steve looks back at him sadly.

“I’m Steve, I promise-” Bucky shakes his head. He knows that. He knows he’s talking to Steve. But Steve’s not safe with Bucky . He’s hurt him. And he promised himself he would never do that again.

“Can I come over there?” Steve asks, gently. Bucky frantically shakes his head. It doesn’t matter how much Bucky wants to have Steve wrap around him, hold him together, he won’t risk hurting him again.

“Alright, okay,” Steve says, hurt in his voice. Bucky flinches at it. Better sad than dead, though. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” Bucky snaps, then flinches back.

“Okay, good, that’s great,” Steve soothes, still holding his hands up slightly. “Do you know where you are?” Bucky nods. “Can you tell me?”

“Avengers Tower. Your floor,” Bucky mumbles, still shivering. He looks down.

“That’s right, sweetheart. We’re on our floor,” Steve says, putting an emphasis on our . Normally Bucky would roll his eyes, but he can’t right now. “Do you know who I am?”

“Steve.”

Bucky glances up, and Steve seems to deflate in relief.

“Yeah, yes, I’m Steve,” he starts to move closer, and Bucky presses himself further back into the wall. “Okay, okay, you’re alright Buck, I’m not going to hurt you, remember? You’re safe.”

“You’re not,” Bucky repeats. Steve frowns, lowering his hands into his lap. Bucky shivers again. Steve frowns harder, concerned.

“I’m safe too, Buck. No one’s going to hurt us. I promise. We’re safe here.”

Bucky shakes his head violently, rejecting the statement.

“I hurt you,” he says, voice quivering.

“Oh..” Steve says. He lifts a hand to his face, as if he had forgotten. “It’s alright, it was an accident.” 

Bucky shakes his head again.

Steve comes closer, and Bucky scoots down the wall, away. It doesn’t deter Steve, who slowly makes his way over, telegraphing his moves. Bucky’s in a corner now, and Steve is in front of him. He gently takes Bucky’s hands and places them on his face.

Bucky looks into his eyes, seeing trust and love. His own eyes fill, and he bursts into tears. 

Steve gathers him up, holding him close, rocking them back and forth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bucky sobs into Steve’s shoulder. He grips the front of Steve’s shirt, and Steve pets his hair. 

“It was an accident, Buck. It’s alright. You were scared, it’s okay. I promise.”

Bucky wants to point out how much of an idiot Steve is, remind him that he’s almost killed him before. But he can’t get the words out around his sobbing. And Steve holds him so gently, so much more than he deserves, and he can’t stop. 

He shakes and weeps, and Steve rocks them as he gently murmurs to Bucky that everything will be alright. Promising that they’re okay. That this was an accident, that Steve loves him.

It feels like forever before he’s done crying. When he is, he whispers, “I’m sorry,” one more time.

Steve just kisses the top of his head instead. 

“Getting your shirt gross,” Bucky mumbles, although he doesn’t move away.

“I don’t care,” Steve murmurs. Bucky nods. “Want to talk about it?” Bucky shudders and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers again.

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s hair. Bucky shudders again, but doesn’t argue. Too tired for it tonight. He’ll do it in the morning.

Some time later, Steve says, “In a minute, we’re going to get up and drink some water. Then we’re going to wash our faces and change into some different clothes. Then we’re going to go back to bed, ok?” Bucky nods. 

Steve pulls back enough to kiss Bucky’s forehead, before slowly pulling them both up. He wraps a comforting arm around Bucky’s shoulders and they walk into the kitchen. They both get a glass of water, although Steve insists Bucky drink two. Bucky does as he’s told. He’s got a lot to make up for, and doing what Steve says is the least he can do. They walk into the bathroom, washing their faces and brushing their teeth again. Steve sneaks away to grab some different clothes and they change there in the bathroom. When they're done, Bucky lets Steve walk into the bedroom first, standing in the doorway. 

Their sheets are ripped from where Bucky had struggled to get out of them. Their blankets are on the floor, and Bucky distantly wonders if that’s what he kept tripping on. 

Steve scoops up the blankets and drops them back on the bed. He tugs what’s left of the sheets out and tosses them in the direction of the hamper. Bucky watches him tug at the blankets to make them useful for the rest of the night. He stands in the doorway, arms tight around his waist. 

When Steve’s done, he turns back to Bucky with a small smile on his face. But Bucky can only see the damage he’s done. Both to Steve and to their room.

“Maybe I should sleep on the couch tonight,” Bucky mumbles, looking away. Steve crosses the room to him in a couple of steps. He carefully takes Bucky’s metal hand in both of his and raises it to his lips. 

“If you don’t want to go back to sleep, that’s fine, Buck. We can stay up and watch movies, or make breakfast, or anything,” he whispers against Bucky’s fingers. Bucky shivers, although he can’t feel anything more than the vibrations of Steve’s voice. “But I want to be here with you, I want you with me, tonight. If you want to go to bed, let’s go to bed, okay?”

Bucky doesn’t trust his voice, but nods. Steve smiles and kisses his hand again.

“What do you want to do, Buck?” Bucky looks at the ground,  flesh arm still wrapped around his waist, and shrugs.

Steve tangles his fingers with Bucky’s, and uses his other hand to rub gentle circles in Bucky’s neck. After a couple long minutes, he speaks up again.

“Why don’t we lay down? If you decide that’s not going to work, we’ll move to the couch, okay?”

Bucky closes his eyes and nods again. Steve leans in and kisses his temple, before gently tugging Bucky to the bed. He arranges them so that Steve is flat on his back, Bucky resting on top of him, his head over Steve’s heart. Steve still has his arms wrapped gently around him.

Bucky doesn’t tell Steve he doesn’t think he’ll sleep. Won’t let himself sleep. Not if it means hurting him again. But that sentiment is harder to hang on to as Steve gently massages his scalp, humming. 

Almost against his will, his eyes slip shut, and he falls into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

The Soldier sits silently on his gurney, unflinching as the nurse finishes stitching him up.

The Handler had been pleased with how he performed. A soft hand in his hair, a bottle of water, then he was sent to medical. They even used anesthetic when they removed the shrapnel. The Handler must be in a really  good mood.

But the Soldier is tired. This last mission was longer and somehow harder than any of the others he’s done recently. 

The mission report had been given, and now he sits, waiting for orders. He’s exhausted, and hopes he’s done enough to rest. At least for a night. It’s a luxury that he doesn’t often experience, he thinks. But a night to sleep, then a new mission the next day. That would be nice. 

When the Handler comes into the room, he sits as straight as he can. The handler looks him up and down, and the Soldier rounds his shoulders, just a little bit.

“You did well on your mission, Soldier. We’re one step closer to peace. You’ve been an asset to our cause.”

The Soldier preens. Perhaps he'll get something more after all. “You’ve earned your rest, Soldier. The techs will get you ready.”

Any hope of a cot in  a small room vanishes at the words. He had hoped that he wouldn’t be put under again so soon. That he would be allowed to sleep, like he’s seen the Strike members do, and be sent out again. He had been brought out specifically for this mission. The Soldier isn’t ready to be put back.

He shifts, uncertain.

“Sir..” He says hesitantly. 

The Handler shoots him a dark look, and he sits very still, skin buzzing. 

“Are you going to argue with me, Soldier?” He says very quietly. Voice laced with threat.

The Soldier ducks his head. 

“No, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

The Handler nods. He stands and pats the Soldier on the head, and leaves the room. 

Techs stream in a moment later. They begin to poke at the screens, add something to his IV line that gets him ready. It makes his blood tingle as it enters his system. 

It’s not long before they deem him ready, whatever they are monitoring reaching the correct levels. 

They remove the wires and lines attached to him. He sways a little as he stands, light headed from blood loss, from the adrenaline crash. The Soldier slowly follows the tech down the hall to his room. A guard follows. They step inside and the tech begins to program the cryo chamber.

He shivers, anticipating the cold. He doesn’t want to. Cryo will help him heal, he knows. But he hates it. He doesn’t want to. 

When the Tech finishes, they turn and order him to step inside. Slowly, the Soldier shakes his head, taking a step back. The guard presses his rifle into his back. 

Shaking, the Soldier takes the few steps into the chamber, submitting to the techs demands. Moving as they tell him to, and not fighting as they attach things to his skin.

“ Please, ” he whispers. The tech startles. “ Please, I’ll be good. Tell him, I don’t need this. I’m functional. Please.”

The tech hurries and closes the door on him. 

He shakes as the temperature drops. Grits his teeth against a scream as the burning cold envelops him. 

Then there is nothing.

Chapter Text

The Soldier retrieves the tossed aside gun, aims and fires. The final agent drops, bullet between his eyes. 

He breathes hard, takes a moment to regain his composure. Someone had gotten him with one of his own knives in the side. That more than anything makes him mad. He breathes out again, tossing the thought aside. It doesn’t matter.  

Standing and taking a step isn’t too difficult, so the injury must be okay. The Handlers are monitoring, so he doesn’t take long assessing. He has a mission to complete. With a grimace, he looks down at his clothes. They’re pretty wet. Getting out of the uniform is going to be unpleasant. Especially when the blood dries.

Shaking his head, he strides forward. He was sent to retrieve the information from the enemies safe house. The Soldier doesn’t fail his missions, even when they go wrong. Anything else is just a distraction. He doesn’t get distracted. (There’s a painful buzz in the back of his head reminding him. He listens, not wanting to find out what that might mean.)

Whoever had sent him hadn’t done their research well enough. There was only supposed to be two people in the building. All expendable. There had been twelve, all meeting in this room, looking at the very intel that The Soldier had been sent to retrieve. He had been as surprised to see them there as they had been to see him. 

He’s glad that it was part of his standard uniform to have a couple knives and a gun on him. Not that it would have been impossible to incapacitate all of them. Just, more difficult. Take longer. 

He stumbles as he approaches the table the group had been standing over. His side twinges painfully. He ignores it.

There’s papers spread out all over the table. A laptop with a drive in it. Carefully, he gathers it all together. He’s getting light headed, starting to feel dizzy.

He should have been out by now, that’s all. The Soldier doesn’t want to know what the punishment is going to be for being late. Hopefully, after his report, they won’t be too angry with him. He was sent in with bad intel. It isn’t entirely his fault.

Probably.

Heart beating faster, he fumbles with the closed laptop, almost dropping it. He doesn’t, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. 

A quick look around and he finds a laptop bag. He places it inside and grabs the papers, frowning at the splatters of blood on some of them. Too late now.

He’s shaking when he returns to base. Probably left over adrenaline. His Handlers don’t say anything about him being late. Good. 

He gives his report, trying to give the report objectively. Not wanting to be in trouble, not wanting to make it sound like any specific person’s fault. That just leads to trouble. For him, usually.

The Soldier is swaying on his feet as he finishes, though he tries to stand at attention. His heart is still beating quickly, and he feels tacky where his bloody clothes stick to him. His breathing is uneven, and his eyes start to droop. 

When the handlers dismiss him, he’s confused. Don’t they want his report? But they turn to the bag on the table, pulling out the contents, and someone leads him away. When he stumbles, feet not moving the way he thinks they should be, one of his guards prods him in the side. He gasps audibly, and stumbles again. Catching himself, they continue down the hall. 

He’s walked into the medical room, and told to remove his uniform. With unsteady hands, he does so. 

The room sways and the lights seem to turn on and off, although no one else in the room seems to notice anything.

It takes longer than it should, definitely hurts more than it should as he moves his arms around. But finally, he’s free of the top half of his uniform. It’s really wet.

Vaguely, he realizes that someone is speaking, a couple people shouting. The floor lurches, and he’s falling to his knees. Looking down at himself, his abdomen is painted red. More red spilling out of the hole in his side.

Oh, he thinks faintly, that’s not good.

And everything goes black.

Chapter Text

He's still woozy from whatever they did last.

He can’t remember exactly what it was. Just that he woke up shaking and his head hurting more than he can ever remember.

He’s having a hard time remembering anything. But he’s almost certain that he’s a prisoner here. But there’s someone out there that wants to help him.

He thinks. Maybe. 

There’s not much to the dark cell he’s in. There’s names, carved into the wall. When he reads them, they remind him of something, but he doesn’t know what. Maybe he was in this cell before. 

He traces the name Steve , then the one next to it, Bucky , wondering who they were. Maybe they were kept in this cell before he was. They left their mark, a testament to future prisoners that they weren’t alone.

It’s almost a nice thought. 

The door swings open and he looks up, leaving his hand (his only hand) on the last e of Steve.

Two armed guards walk in, another man waiting in the hall. The guards approach, and one grabs him by his right arm, pulling him up. 

“Let me guess, today’s special, more torture,” he quipps at the man in the hall. He blinks, not sure where the words came from, but the man scowls. The other guard hits him in the stomach, and he almost falls.

“You’d think we burnt that smart mouth out of him by now,” someone grumbles. He shudders, not entirely sure what was meant by that. They drag him out, and pull him along; hitting and cursing at him as he stumbles. 

The room they enter smells like chemicals. Reminds him of someone struggling to breathe, coughing like they’re dying. The thought makes him plant his feet best he can.

There’s a metal table with straps in the center of the room. A cart with all sorts of sharp things rests nearby. 

The table by itself, makes him sick with terror. He can only imagine what might happen if he allows himself to be tied down.

“ Nonononononono!” He cries, trying to wrench himself away. But the guards are stronger, and he’s tired and thin and not in fighting shape. Doesn’t mean he won’t try. Because there is no way he’s letting them strap him onto that thing.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. He screams, and pulls, and does his very best to get away, but they haul him up and strap him down, and he finds he’s too weak to resist much. 

He’s shaking, too hot and too cold at the same time. His stomach cramps and he wonders distantly if he’s going to be sick. His heart beating a hundred miles a minute. He’s lying on his back, his stump is held out away from his body. Though his other arm is down at his side. Several people come in, and he can’t see them all, doesn’t know what’s happening.

Someone touches him and he flinches, tries to get away from their hands, but of course he’s stuck.

They talk among themselves, murmuring too quiet for him to hear. 

“We are ready to begin,” Someone says after an eternity. One of the people, all of them in white coats, walks around to where he can see them, holding a syringe. 

Tenderly, they brush the too long hair off of his forehead, and he shakes. 

“Why so scared, Soldier? We’re going to make you better,” the man says.

“ Please, ” he begs, although he’s not sure what for.

The man above him tisks.

“None of that, now.” The man brushes at his hair again, away from his neck, and sticks the needle in.

He can’t contain the small yelp of pain at the prick.

The man tisks again, turning away.

He begins to feel heavy, and his tremors stop. But he still feels as alert as he was before. Just, unable to move. 

One of the doctors pokes at him, and he can’t make himself react, though he wants to twitch away from them.

“He’s ready,” someone says. 

He’s unable to do anything. He hears metallic things clink together. Something cold and sharp is pressed into his stump. When it begins to cut into him, he wishes he could scream, that there would be something to focus on rather than the all consuming pain eminating from where they are slicing into what remains of his left arm.

He has no idea how long it takes him to pass out.