ii. WILL
ii. WILL
He screams sometimes (most of the time) in his sleep. He wakes himself up with his own voice echoing in the small space, the white hot heat of his own terror. He brings two doctors running into his room, nurses in blue scrubs, who try to soothe with words. And when words don’t work, they use tranquilizers that keep him dazed but compliant. He has spent a lot of time with the tranquilizers.
He makes them afraid, the doctors that come around to help. They flinch when he raises his metal arm, or if his voice gets a little too loud. He is afraid of himself and what he can do. He welcomes the way the meds dull everything to a dull roar, so he feels like he is sleepwalking underwater. When Steve comes to speak with him, his words always fade out into a buzz before they reach his ear. Steve’s smile never does, though.
He finds himself unused to holding conversations. Before, They only wanted to hear him scream. They were Hydra. They were the ones who rid him of his memories. He knows that now, because he has been told that. This, he is told by Steve, makes him a victim. But he saw the truth in Sam’s eyes when they were standing on the train platform. Monsters are murderers. They do not have the luxury of sympathy.
He is starting to know more things about himself. Just the basics. He knows that he has killed a lot of people and that he was very good at it. He knows this means that he is a bad person. He knows Steve thinks he is someone else.
Steve thinks he is good. Steve brought him here, to this room, to be helped. Steve brings little doodles and little knickknacks he thinks he might want. Packs of gum in strangely sweet flavors. A yo-yo, still in its packaging. The most help Steve could give him would be a bullet to the brain. He tells him this on the fifth day, doped up to the gills.
“Do you need anything?” Steve says.
It is the question that he always asks, usually followed by, ‘Have you remembered anything yet?’ There are only two topics of conversation that are relevant to Steve, and that he could possibly answer. He usually says no to both, but he finds himself considering the question now. The drugs unlock his tongue and the honesty comes flowing, making it easier for him to speak.
“I need a gun,” he says.
Steve’s helpful smile dampens. “Oh. Well, I can’t give you that. Uh…why do you want a gun, if I may ask?”
“Do you think this is helping me?” he demands. His tongue slurs around the words, skating on unsure footing. “It’s not helping. I can’t remember, I’m never gonna remember. I’m never gonna be the man you think I am, because whoever he was is dead. And I should be too. Just give me a gun, Steve. I’ll make it quick outta respect to your friend.”
“Don’t talk like that,” says Steve, fierce. “I’m going to heal you up, Bucky. I swear to God, I will.”
He is being kept on a floor in Stark Tower, and his nurses and shrinks are all former SHIELD and all paid for and vetted by Tony Stark himself. The cost is expensive and everything is out of pocket. He hears the argument out in the hallway, despite the thickness of the doors. Tony Stark likes to hear himself talk, and Steve can be loud when he’s angry.
“I said that you could keep him here for a few days, not two weeks,” Tony says.
“You wanted to help,” Steve snaps. “You said you had the resources and the money to do this. What are teams for? Your words.”
“Yeah, that’s before I knew you were bringing the Exorcist home. He may be in the floor below us but sound travels through air vents.”
“Is that a movie reference?” Steve asks blankly, his anger momentarily stymied by confusion.
“Look, I’m sorry this isn’t working out with your friend the way you wanted it to. I really am sorry.” Tony’s voice softens and lowers. “But honestly, you weren’t setting yourself up for a win in the first place. He’s probably going to be permanently unstable. Having your brain fucked with tends to do that.”
Permanently unstable. He flexes his metal arm and stares at the ceiling. He already knew he was beyond hope.
“And what do you propose I do?” Steve says through gritted teeth. “SHIELD’s been gutted. I can’t take him to a civilian hospital, Tony. They’d have no idea what to do with him.”
“There are some good private care facilities,” says Tony, subdued. “I know he’s family, I know it’s hard to lose your brother again but somebody’s gotta make a move here, Steve.”
“Give me another two weeks,” says Steve, finally. “Natasha is looking into some memory re-conditioning programs she thinks might help. And tell Clint to stop hanging out in the air vents.”
Steve opens the door with such force that the wood rattles in the hinges. He smiles ruefully and makes a point of closing the door gently. He takes his usual seat by the bed.
“I forget sometimes how strong I am,” Steve says.
“Stark’s right, you know,” he says.
Steve frowns. “How much did you hear of that?”
“Enough to agree with him. I know I’m completely fucked up. Why are you wasting your time with me?”
“Because you were there for me, once upon a time. And even if you never become that guy again, I’ll still be here. You can’t fight that off, Bucky,” says Steve earnestly. “I’ll be around bugging you for life, even if you think you don’t deserve it.”
A red headed woman comes to visit the next day. She is dressed sleekly in a white shirt and black skirt, her hair pulled back into a professional bun. The packaging seems intentional, to make her less of a threat. Clothes may make the man, but it cannot change this leopard into anything less than a skillful hunter.
He feels undressed in his t-shirt and sweatpants. No sneakers, because of the laces. He sits at a plastic table, hands folded in front of him. The chair across from him is empty, waiting for her arrival.
“I'm Natasha, and I’m a friend of Steve’s,” she says, sitting down. She sets a computer bag down on the table next to her. “I'm here to help you remember.”
“You're not a doctor.”
“No,” she agrees, opening up the computer. The blue glow illuminates her pretty, youthful face. “I'll be much more helpful than that. You don't recognize me?”
“The way you're asking that makes it seem like I should.”
“We knew each other, in one of your past lives.” She dimples a smile at him, their little secret.
He has a flash of red hair and muscular thighs griping his neck. Wishful thinking, maybe.
“I think I’d know a pretty girl like you.”
“So you understand Russian, then," she says, dipping her head. She uncaps her pen and makes a little note on her pad.
“Russian?”
“We had that entire conversation in Russian.” She glances up. "You didn't notice?”
He shrugs, a little helplessly. “I just knew the words.”
She surveys him. "Hmm. What do you know about what happened to you?”
“Steve told me about the conditioning, the brainwashing.” He looks down. “I read my file; I know about the kill count.”
“You were one of their best assets,” Natasha says simply, as if this is something to be proud of. “I’d like to ask you some questions, and measure your responses on the computer.”
“A polygraph,” he says.
She nods, and begins to unpack a roll of wires from the computer bag. The polygraph machine seems bulky compared to the slim laptop, but everything hooks up nevertheless. Natasha slides blank paper under the row of needles. She is careful when she attaches the electrodes, gently tightening the band around his chest. Her fingers are slight but feminine. He has the sudden urge to kiss her hand.
“Please answer yes and no to all questions,” says Natasha. Her eyes are on the needles scratching across the paper. He stares at the white part down the middle of her hair. “Part of why they’re keeping you here is because they think you might be a danger to other people. Are you?”
“No,” he replies.
“Or yourself,” she adds.
He shifts in his chair and remains fitfully silent, but she doesn’t push him for an answer.
“Are you working for HYDRA?”
“No.”
“Do have any intentions to harm Captain Rogers and his associates?”
“No.”
“Is your name James Buchanan Barnes?”
He hesitates. That's what they tell him. “I don’t know.”
“Yes or no?”
If he says yes, he feels like a liar. If he says no, he is lying.
She taps her finger to her chin. “Do you believe your name is James Buchanan Barnes?'
He believes Steve. “Yes.”
“Let's start with what you do remember. You don’t have to stay with yes or no answers. Just talk, free form."
“Nothing specific. I can finish a fight, but I don't know where I learned to do it. I can shoot out a straggler's eye from a hundred yards away yet I don't remember learning how to fire a gun.”
“That’s the nice thing about muscle memory,” says Natasha. “It never goes away. How would you say your short term memory is? Events, names from a few days ago?”
“Patchy. At best. It's hard to keep anything in my head right now.”
“That should even out, as you move further and further away from the conditioning. The dominant hardwired personality will always strive to assert itself, especially if the conditioning happened as an adult.”
“The meds aren't helping me with my memory.”
“Those are meant to treat anxiety and depression. Even out your moods.” She raises an eyebrow. “From what Steve says, you could probably use them.”
“He talks about me to you?” he asks. He's not quite sure how he feels about that.
“Call me an invested party. I know how it feels to feel out of control in your own skin.”
“Did someone brainwash you too?”
Her eyes shutter and she looks at him coolly. “We're similar, that's all I’ll say. Memories can be triggered by almost anything--faces, words, scents, sounds. Do you recognize Captain Rogers as a friend?”
“I think he's the only friend I’ve got right now. He seems more and more familiar every time I see him.”
“But you don't remember anything of your friendship pre-1945?”
“I get flashes. Little bits. A lot of blonde hair. Could be him.”
“And of your life after HYDRA took you? Close your eyes. Try to concentrate.”
He shuts his eyes, scrunches up his face. He can only see the darkness in the back of his eyelids. He pushes for the blanks, grabs and pulls.
Small round window like a sub....
....the sensation of being closed in a tiny box
A woman's stomach giving in to the thrust of his knife...
He opens his eyes. He's panting heavily. Sweat drips into his mouth.
“You remembered something,” says Natasha shrewdly.
“No. I didn't.”
“The Winter Solider might have been a good liar, but James Barnes certainly isn't,” says Natasha. “What happened?”
“I think I mighta been buried alive. And I killed someone." He shakes his head. "I’m done with this.”
“Remembering those memories is a good sign.”
“Is it?' he snaps. He rips the electrodes off, and shakes himself free of the wires. “I'd be fine not knowing what I did, ever. It's one thing to know that I killed people, to know how to do it. It's another thing altogether to relive the experience.”
“Your conscience is bothered by the deaths of innocent civilians,” she says.
“Yeah, it fucking is. Knowing I caused them.”
“That doesn’t seem like something the Winter Solider would say,” says Natasha.
“If you’re trying to make the distinction between him and me, forget about it—there is none.” He shoves the table away from himself, and goes to stand by the window. “You can go, now.”