Lacrimosa, Dies Irae
You are tired,
(I think)
And so am I.
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)
E.E. Cummings – You are tired (I think)
James Barnes was beginning to suspect that he had a rather complicated relationship with pain when he couldn’t stop trying to put his fist through a very unyielding, reinforced wall even though he’d razed away the last slivers of skin on his knuckles about four punches ago. To say nothing of the way the bones in his hand and arm would shift and creak with nearly every movement now.
He’d let himself be herded back onto the Bus, ignoring everyone’s attempts to get him to respond and slipping away at the first opportunity. By the time Skye had noticed he wasn’t walking behind her anymore he’d already sealed the interrogation chamber from the inside and by the time the team had arrived at the door, he’d been too submerged in his own head to pay them any attention. He’d only meant to be alone for a while, away from sympathetic eyes and well-meaning words. But then the pain had become too intense and he’d just lost it. It was like his body couldn’t physically contain it, and without a release he’d explode on the spot, like a grenade. That might have been days or hours ago. He didn’t know, only knew that to replace the mental anguish with physical pain was cathartic at first and became addictive at some point. He felt like once he’d started screaming it was impossible to stop.
The walls were dented in places, the smooth matte finish scratched where he’d caught it with his left. Better the wall than a person.
There were smears of blood where he’d used his right. Blood. When had his life started to be steeped in blood?
***
"You look so handsome, my darling. I almost wish your father could see you now." Winnifred Barnes' eyes were definitely dewy as she fretted over her eldest son's uniform, smoothing out the lapels and collar as she had done countless times for her husband.
"He wouldn't really be pleased with me going to war though, Ma." Bucky pointed out, eyes scanning the crowd for a mop of blonde hair over bony shoulders. Part of him knew Steve wouldn't come, couldn't come probably, since they'd likely finally caught him falsifying his enlistment forms. Still, he hoped his friend would be there to see him off. After basically leaving him standing there the night before it was really the least he could do. There was still time, he tried to calm himself. If Steve didn't turn up he'd ask Becky to find out what had happened to the little troublemaker.
"He wouldn't be pleased that there was a war on again, and that you had to go fight it, there's a difference, James." his mother admonished mildly, brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from his shoulder. He stifled a sigh. Many of the other men at the dock seemed rather gung-ho about the prospect of dying in some muddy trench in Europe. If he were to be quite honest with himself, he didn't really want to go. At all. In his more solemn moments he'd heaped abominable curses upon the head of every statesman who had decided their nation ought to join this madness. Resentment wasn't one of his more charming features. He didn't want to go, but he had to, and James Barnes was nothing if not dutiful - a dutiful son, brother, friend, citizen. He didn't much like that he had to go either, and in a fit of misguided spite had tried to enlist to forestall the draft that was certain to arrive anyway, just to have that little illusion that he had any say in his fate. The drafting letter had arrived that same morning.
"You must write as often as you can, Bucky!" eighteen-year-old Rose implored him very earnestly, and their youngest, Julian mumbled that he'd miss him and how dare you leave me alone among all those girls, which earned the fifteen-year-old a smack on the arm. Bucky would never admit it to the boy's face but he was glad his baby brother was too young to be drafted, and since he was a bit of a late bloomer, also unlikely to be accepted should he try to enlist. This brought his thoughts back to Steve, still for all intents and purposes missing in action. He tried not to worry, he really did. In fact he was still quite mad about the previous night. But still...
“Jamie?” a voice called out behind him, making him turn his back on his family reflexively.
“________? How are you here?”
You looked sad, frowning a moment and crossing your arms. You were wearing the dress from the summer party again, with the skirt that twirled so nicely when you two danced.
“Jamie,” you said again, “I’m not really there. I mean I’m not where you are.” – No, of course not. Why would you be standing at New York Harbor in 1942? He wasn’t stupid –
“I’m just calling to check on you. I was told you weren’t doing too well at the moment.” You sighed and uncrossed your arms, seemingly oblivious to the way the wind whipped at your skirt and hair. He looked back at his family, then threw another glance over the crowd, still not finding the familiar blond head. When he looked down one of his hands was metal and the other bloodied, the knuckles bared to the bone.
“D’you wanna tell me what’s wrong, my darling?”
He almost let out a bitter laugh, tugging at the sleeves of his smart uniform and watching the fabric turn to shreds under his touch. He should have known it couldn’t last. It was foolish to hang on to hope still.
“I waited until the last damn moment for Steve to turn up, and he never did. I went to war …I was going away to war for fuck’s sake! I just wanted to say good-bye and he never even showed. I remember I was so mad I wouldn’t even write him the first three months. And then it turned out he had already followed me. I didn’t know that then, of course, not until he suddenly appeared at the Hydra facility where I …we …”
He looked up again, taking in your furrowed brows. He wanted to reach out and ask for comfort, to have you lace your fingers with his the way you used to, but shrank back. Not with his mangled, gory hands.
“That’s not all, is it?” you pressed on with a small sad smile. He shook his head. Stepped away from his Ma and closer to you and lowered his voice.
“I never wanted to fight.” He admitted, considering his maimed hands for a moment. You were leaning against a stack of carts and boxes, and he moved to your side, heavily sitting down on one. He felt too heavy suddenly, like the ground was pulling him down.
“All my life, I never wanted to fight, but there was always something to fight for, or against, always …somehow not fighting was always the worse option. Now I wonder whether that’s just a fiction I tell myself. Maybe violence is in my nature.”
He sighed wearily and let his head loll to the side until it rested against your side, his hat tumbling to the ground in the process. The seagulls screeched overhead as you began carding your hand through his hair soothingly. This was so nice, but he knew that within the next few minutes he’d have to get up and board that ship anchored some yards behind. The ship that would take him over to Europe so he could die in a war only to be born again, remade as death.
“I do hate seeing you suffer, especially when there isn’t anything I can do to help you, my darling.”
He smiled despite himself. Yeah, this was definitely some sort of day dream if you called him ‘darling’. He probably liked the sound of it too much.
“You already are, even if you’re not really real.” He mumbled nuzzling further into your side. Just a little while longer-
“Oh, I’m very real, I’m just not really there with you.” You replied, flicking his ear playfully. “You’re not alone though, but I need you to do something for me. You are the only one who can, okay?”
“What is it?” he mumbled unwillingly. This was nice, even if he was aching all over, even if it wasn’t real and even if in time his ship would leave.
“Look around,” you said, hand resting lightly on the base of his skull, “There’s a door. You need to unlock it, okay? You need to let them help you. Can you do that? For me?”
He pried his eyes open and looked around. There was indeed a door, just behind his mother. He looked back at the ship, its grey hull towering over the bustle of people gathered at the harbor. You tangled your fingers in his hair again, making him look up at you.
“Please, Jamie.”
“I can’t. I need to board that ship.” He didn’t want to board the ship. The ship would carry him to his death.
“Jamie, listen to me: You already did that. You got on board of that ship a long time ago. It’s done; no need to tread the same old path again. Look at the door.” He did so. The door was black and solid looked anything but inviting. He couldn’t tell what awaited him behind it. But if you said to go there it couldn’t be that bad, right? He trusted you. You wouldn’t send him anywhere if you knew it was worse there than where he’d been headed before.
“Please my darling, unlock the door.”
He frowned. At the rate this was going he’d rather stay right where he was. Wherever that was. But then again, how could he refuse you? He straightened up and rose to his feet. His mother caught his eyes when he approached, her gaze softening as she reached for his lapels again.
“You chose the right way, my darling boy.” She whispered softly, stretching to place a light kiss on his forehead. He gulped and turned towards the door. It was stuck at first, but when he pushed harder it budged and eventually swung open.
***
Skye had been tense from the moment she’d connected her phone to the cell’s speaker system. At least the screaming from inside had stopped fairly quickly, but then again it had before so she tried not to get her hopes up. Then the incessant banging ceased and she allowed herself a glimmer of it. Hope, that is. Faith in her best friend, too. She’d never told him that, of course, but you were her Bucky, her loyal friend from the time she was five years old and put into yet another foster home. Itty bitty middle school Skye could never have expected the actual real deal to drop around, much less envision becoming friends with him, too. But that’s what he was now, even more so than a valued and relied-upon partner. He was her friend.
So when her friend slowly pushed open the door and took a heavy, hesitant step outside looking about ten times worse than he had going in, she gasped. And swore. Loudly. He looked at her and quirked the wriest little smirk, like his face wasn’t half bruised and swollen and he wasn’t still covered in the crusted blood of at least three different people.
“Hey kid…” he muttered, breathy and voiceless, which shouldn’t surprise her since she’d been right there the whole time he’d been screaming himself hoarse.
“Dipshit.” She replied tearily, then slung his left arm over her shoulders. The right one looked oddly angled in places and his knuckles were raw.
He let himself be led to the infirmary, not even trying to resist when the medical team get to work on him. It’s an impressive list he’s managed to build up during these last few days. Apart from the dehydration and the injuries sustained courtesy of the Merry Murder Squid Club, he’s somehow managed to break his arm in two places and his hand in four, cracked some ribs and his collarbone, and then some. The skin adjoining to the metal shoulder was scarred before, but now he seems to have scratched it bloody and torn again, even through the fabric of his jacket and shirt. Both of which are ruined tatters now. He hardly reacts to the bones being set, even though the mere sounds of it make Skye’s stomach churn uneasily. It’s unsettling how calm he is now, though calm is perhaps not the right word. It’s more like he wore himself out. Skye retreated a little way while the medical staff patched him back up, hooked him up to an IV for fluids and another for pain killers.
By the time he’s finally all settled she’s so exhausted that the idea of a mid-morning nap sounds nothing short of exhilarating. But that’ll have to wait. She raised the phone to her ear again, finishing her report to you. She did owe you that much, even if-
“You can’t tell me why, can you? Some more of that confidentiality clearance level bullshit, right?” you muttered darkly when she was done rattling off the list of injuries. She really wished she could tell you everything then.
“It’s not for me to tell.” She said instead, hearing your hollow laugh from the other end of the line.
“I get it, really, I do. Besides, if it’s so secret I can guess. I’m not stupid, you know.”
“I do. I do know. I’m sorry.”
You sighed, already done with this day. You couldn’t get into this now, not when you were already an hour behind on your schedule and an unidentified number had been trying to reach you for the better part of that hour.
“We’ll talk later. Take care. I was supposed to be at work twenty minutes ago. Bye.”
“Yeah, bye. And _________? Thank you.”
The line disconnected and Skye stepped up to James’ bedside. He seemed to have already dozed off, and the doctor informed her that he’d been given a mild sedative and would have to stay for at least two days for observation. Skye nodded along reflexively.
“Blankets…” she murmured absently, “He …he’s gonna get cold, he needs more blankets.” The ones they had in the infirmary were way too thin. His now splinted fingers were already ice-cold. “I’ll get it. Don’t …don’t worry, I’ll get it.” Skye said to the doctor, who was already rummaging through a cupboard.
***
“You’re such an ass, Barnes.” Are the first words he hears when he comes back to.
“How do you feel?” is the second thing he hears, all before he’s even opened his eyes, so maybe if he just pretends…
“I know you’re awake, dipshit.”
Busted. He attempts to crack open one eye, which fails because that eye is swollen shut. He goes for the other, blinking slowly. Skye’s frowning face comes into view, albeit blearily.
“Hey kid.” He rasps, noting how his throat feels very dry.
“Don’t ‘hey kid’ me, dipshit. You don’t get to do that after that BS you pulled. You know, I made a promise to my friend and you’re making it very difficult to keep that promise. So, how are you feeling?” Skye stepped closer, thankfully looking more worried than genuinely annoyed. Which was fair enough, he supposed, even though he didn’t fully comprehend it. Quickly taking stock of his body and his injuries, he came to the conclusion that he hurt pretty much all over, the sensations dulled by painkillers. Most of it was his own doing.
“Like I got run over by a truck. Or a tank? Which is a legitimate comparison because I think that might have happened to me once. That or fighting a bear. I think I might have fought a bear once. In Siberia. Ha, Si-bear-ia …Don’t end up in a gulag.” He ended solemnly.
Skye’s lip twitched faintly at his drawled out and fairly rambly answer.
“No kidding. Your black eye has a black eye.”
He snorted at that, dizzy as the sedatives coursing through his bloodstream threatened to pull him back under. He blinked harshly, fighting to keep his eyes open. Skye had been hurt, too.
“How’re you doing, kid?” She looked mostly alright, though she held herself a bit stiffly if he was not mistaken.
“Just some bruising; nothing that rest, icing and time won’t fix. Don’t you worry about me, Sarge.”
“Can’t help it, partner.” He mumbled, eyes drooping.
“Rest.” Skye urged him, softer now as she stepped closer and pulled up the blankets a bit. It was warm, the blankets soft on his bare skin. And he was so tired, affected by such bone-deep exhaustion. Just this once, he didn’t have it in him to fight any more.
When he next awoke it seemed to be morning judging by the ratio of Dr Constantiniou’s yawns to the sips of coffee she took. She yawned her ‘good morning’ to him and checked his vitals and responses, then adjusted the cocktail of medication that fed into his arm through an IV. James felt clearer now, more alert. His eye wasn’t quite as swollen anymore. Even the howling inside his mind had abated somewhat. On the downside, his throat was drier than sandpaper and his stomach felt moments away from digesting itself.
“What time is it?” he asked the doctor, stuffily through his still broken nose. The infirmary has no windows, so he can’t take any clues from the position of the sun or moon outside.
“Tuesday, at the ungodly hour of 7:21 am.” Dr Constatiniou yawned, then jotted something down on the clipboard at the foot of his bed. That meant he spent at least two days locked in that cell.
“Okay, and when can I go?”
The good doctor stopped short, mouth twisting unwillingly a moment.
“Oh no, you’re not going anywhere anytime soon. For one, your blood pressure really worries me. And then there’s the obvious stuff.” She said with a pointed look at where he’d been absently picking at the bandaging on his left shoulder. He dropped his hand immediately, caught somewhere between guilt, anger and panic. He’s just about to voice a protest he knows will likely be futile when he sees Skye appearing in the doorway, followed closely by Jemma. The two girls shuffle in with a greeting towards the doctor and a steaming bowl of what smells enticingly like chicken soup.
“This alright, doc?” Skye asked as Jemma put the bowl down in front of James and he could have hugged her right then. Dr Constantiniou nodded, pouring a cup of water for him and setting it down next to the bowl.
“Slowly or you’ll throw up, Mr Barnes.” She warns, arms crossed and brows raised. He nods and rasps his sincere ‘thank you’s before taking a cautious sip of the water. It feels like a sharp nail scratching down the inside of his throat at first, but only shortly before the relief follows and he really has to pace himself in order to not just down the entire cup in one go. He feels like he could drain a large lake right about now. The soup is hot and he’s so famished that he neglects to let his first spoonful cool down a bit. Thankfully the good doctor has retreated into her office for now and the girls keep up a steady flow up light conversation or this would easily be far more awkward than it is. They’d also brought him a change of clothes, which he was incredibly grateful for – the metal of the arm chafed like something fierce – and a selection of books. Which was well enough seeing as he would apparently be stuck here for the foreseeable future. Well done, Barnes. Excellent work.
During the following few days he got other visitors as well. Mack smuggled in a bowl of mac’n’cheese and a deck of cards, distracting James from his boredom for a blessed few hours and releasing him from the tedium of bland hospital food. How did they even have bland hospital food here? He was currently the only patient. There was only the communal kitchen. It didn’t make any bloody sense.
“I really want to hug you right now.” James had confessed around a mouthful of cheesy pasta heaven, and the other man had laughed and squeezed the shoulder James hadn’t broken by trying to put his fist through a reinforced wall. And then he had destroyed him at skat.
Trip came by late every morning after the doctor had done her round. He had a true gift for story-telling and James found himself supplying details he hadn’t known he still knew to the stories Trip recounted as he had gotten them from Gabe.
Fitz typically stopped by around lunch with a bowlful of sweets pilfered from the kitchen. They didn’t talk much between the two of them. There was no need. Fitz would set up his tablet and they’d watch an episode of a show called the ‘Great British Bake Off’. Something about a variety of Brits scrambling for deadlines on tarts was oddly calming somehow.
May showed up late that in the evening when James, predictably, had trouble finding any rest over the turmoil inside his mind. Every time he attempted to close his eyes Owen Prescott’s pale face would look up at him from a backdrop of bloodied water.
“You look like shit.” Well, she was a blunt one when she deigned to speak. Then again more than half his face was bruised extensively despite the generous application of ice packs.
“I’m guessing the debrief can’t wait any longer.” He spat more harshly than he’d intended. His head hurt and his demons howled, not that this was an acceptable excuse. The look he got in response very eloquently told him to cut the crap or else. May took a seat in the chair that had already magically popped up at James’ bedside during the day. She regarded him silently for a moment before speaking.
“I’m worried about you, same as everyone else.”
His throat closed up which resulted in a strange, indefinable noise. The corner of May’s lips tugged up a moment in a wry smile before she continued.
“All of them came by today, didn’t they? Skye, Fitzsimmons, Trip, Mack-“ James nodded mutely, not trusting his voice. “That was when you were conscious again. They all came as soon as Skye brought you here as well. And we all tried to get you to open up that cell. I guess you didn’t quite catch that…”
He couldn’t flee, he realized with a jolt of panic. He couldn’t get away; he had to sit through it and listen to …whatever this was supposed to be. May was saying a lot of words at once with the obvious purpose of making him feel better and it was unsettling.
“Calling Miss __________ was a last resort really. If that hadn’t worked out either I don’t know what else we could have done.”
“_________? She …that was real?” he stuttered, suddenly having found his voice again. May paused to give him a strange look.
“…Yes.”
“Oh.” Frankly, he didn’t know what to do with this information. He’d thought he’d made it all up; just his fractured psyche longing to bring some peace. My darling.
May for her part seemed genuinely surprised.
“You thought that was all in your head?”
He preferred not to answer this.
“Is that a frequent thing?”
“Listen, I’m not going to admit to you that I hallucinate on the regular. You’ll lock me up.”
“We will do no such thing.” May interrupted, passionately by her standards, and he must have looked completely shell-shocked by the declaration because she proceeded. “You’ve had more than enough of that already.”
“But you still wanna make sure I won’t try to put my head through a wall when you let me outta here.” he gestured vaguely at the deserted infirmary. May smiled.
“Naturally.”
“I’m sorry…” he began, faltering quickly. May clasped her hands and looked at him expectantly, silently prompting him to continue.
“I’m sorry for what I said in Berlin …Potsdam …whatever. It’s not your fault I’m such an impossible situation.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” Well, somehow he hadn’t really expected that. “It’s not yours either, but nonetheless we are the ones left to deal with what happens to us. I supported the decision to let you come out into the field because I thought it was better than to wait until you crawl up the walls cooped up in here, or to risk you doing something stupid and reckless.”
“Like locking myself in an interrogation cell for days?” James interjected wryly.
“Or trying to leave. Trying to repay your debts by yourself. I thought it would be safer to provide a …supervised environment. I was aware of the risks, the possible consequences. I suppose I just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.”
“We rarely get what we want.” James concluded morosely. May nodded her agreement, lost in thought for a moment before she refocused on him.
“I want you to promise me one thing, Sergeant Barnes.”
“James.” he offered reflexively, surprising himself as much as Agent May.
“James, I want you to promise me that you’ll try to stop bottling up your struggles like you have been.”
A long moment passed between them. James appreciated the way Agent May was comfortable with silences.
“I’ll try. That’s all I can promise.”
“That’s good enough.” They shared a muted smile. James felt the pull of exhaustion mixed with the mild sedatives and pain killer still feeding into his bloodstream, although at a much reduced rate.
“Thank you, Agent May.”
“Melinda.”
“Thank you.”
“Good night.”
***
Towards the end of the week he was finally released from the infirmary, though going on missions was of course out of the question for the near future. During the day he could distract himself well enough by hanging around the labs or resuming his work in the archives. But at night the nightmares came back with a vengeance, and conclusively the sleeping pattern that barely existed as it was took a turn for the worse. James wrote a lot, trying to find an outlet like he had promised, but it was like his mind was a bottomless lake of misery and no matter how much he poured out the level just wouldn’t drop. How did I become this?
At night, when he felt too close to drowning, he would leave his room and go exploring. The Playground was a large compound, and there were even now still corners of it he hadn’t inspected. For example there was a corridor low on the underground levels. Heavy, reinforced
steel doors labelled with single blocked letters, A all the way through to J. Starting with A, he found vault-like rooms behind the doors. A through to C were empty as far as he could tell. The layout is the same in vault D as it is in the previous rooms.
There was a short straight flight of stairs leading down into a dark, oblong room bare except for a chair and some sort of control panel. There had been no chairs in A to C. James made his way downwards swiftly. The chair faced a wall that is opaque and a milky off-white in color, whereas all the other walls are black. With his enhanced hearing he picked up on a slight rustling noise on the other side of the opaque wall.