iv. THAT.
iv. THAT
The sea falls in along with the chains and the black box has cracked. He can only think of shipwreck metaphors and crushed junk to describe how his mind is moving right now, livewire and alive. Energy thrums under the skin and pools at the base of his fingertips. He could light the world on fire in a heartbeat, destroy them all and he would not give a damn to who survived as long as they are all gone. They could be HYDRA or they could be innocent. He wants this city to burn.
Bucky prowls around the apartment floor. He hates to admit that it is prowling, but his steps come light and quick, with balanced footwork alongside the walls of the living room. Once he has set into these old patterns, instinct is hard to break, and he finds himself appraising the strength of the lift doors (locked by the mysterious electric presence above). Easy to pry open with the metal hand. The metal hand wants to get out. It can remember scaling buildings and crushing the delicate muscles of the throat. They talk about phantom limbs, but his is a fucking poltergeist and it has a mind of its own. He wants it off of his body now. But Stark dawdles and lingers with the designs, and he refuses to beg at Stark’s feet for the new one.
He can feel a thread tugging at his mind like an old forgotten itch, throbbing at the base of his skull. He is moving in his own skin, pent up with it, writhing, clothes sealed hermetically. And Bucky leans one hand up against the glass, the real hand (human? no only half human robot, you’re not a real boy), and flexes and tries to breathe. His chest is too tight, and he is very aware of how much air is rippling in and out of his lungs. And once that awareness has sunk its teeth into him, all he can do is count breaths and try not to pass out.
Today is a bad day.
There is not enough air in this room. Some motherfucker has filled it with mustard gas. The Nazis have taken Manhattan. Hail HYDRA and Hitler. You were never a good American in the first place; please take me into your ruling class. I did so much work for you before. Bucky grips the neck of his T-shirt and drags it down past his collar bone. No, that is a lie (you said you hated lies), he is panicking. Over nothing. Over a plate of meatloaf at dinner. He is simply alive and anxious about it. There is nothing to be afraid of.
Did someone tell you that the war was over? Are they keeping more secrets from you?
“Nothing to be afraid of, Buck.”
And he must be truly far gone because he can swear that feels like Steve’s voice. And Steve’s hand on the back of his neck.
He rolls his head on his neck, from side to side. That is Steve’s big dumb blonde head, frowning down at him in concern.
“You’re doing okay. Everything’s fine.”
He knows this. But knowing this means nothing, logic flies in the face of the body’s rebellion, and no amount of rationalization can drive a panic attack away. Steve’s hand moves down to the planes of his shoulder blades, in circular patterns. He should resent this petting of temper and smothering concern. But it is home and it is the only time he has really felt safe since Zurich. He would drift away back into the despair that creeps over but Steve would never let him do that. Steve makes himself Bucky’s anchor, whether Bucky wants him to or not. He wonders if Bucky Mach 1, the original model, (see, Stark, he can make robot jokes too) ever felt this way. He thinks about what Natasha said about the dominant personality reasserting itself. Old familiar patterns, indeed.
The constriction in his chest eases as the attack passes. His breaths come easier as his mind eases and the thoughts stop. Bucky comes back to himself via the candles Steve has lit along the way.
“Okay?” says Steve simply. It’s matter of fact, almost like they’re doing a check before a mission. Bucky has heard him say that before. He is sure of it.
“Yeah,” he says gruffly, embarrassed now. “Just…cabin fever. Haven’t been outside in a while.”
He reaches up to tug at the ends of his hair and stops when he reaches nothing but soft stubs. Natasha had cut it, day before yesterday. Something about disliking prison chic. She had also picked up him up a real wardrobe—denim jeans, striped shirts and oddly colored sneakers. He can have shoes, now. Baby steps.
Bucky straightens, and brushes past Steve, careful not to touch him. He flops over on the couch, deliberately sprawling to cover the space so Steve will pick up his legs. But Steve doesn’t move, just stands by the window with a thoughtful expression and a cardboard box by his feet.w
“I guess you haven’t. Bet you must be pretty sick and tired of this place.”
He is. And yet, it is a haven, with people he recognizes even if he doesn’t trust them. He still can’t bring himself to face the outside world. He both aches for and shies away from more human stimulation. Being surrounded on all sides by unfamiliar people is enough to make the thoughts (bad, dark, don’t) come racing back.
“Stark’s made it a pretty swanky cell.”
Steve sinks into the armchair opposite Bucky. “You’re not a prisoner.”
They’ve had this conversation before, but Bucky’s spoiling for an argument. A fight with words that might lead to fists and help him forget his embarrassment. Brawling makes him feel competent, gives him strength. No one’s thinking of how weak you are when your fist is punching their face.
“Mm, I can leave now?” he drawls, sarcastic. He knows exactly which buttons to push to get a rise out of Steve. It’s not fair to Steve, (helpful goddamned patient saint) but he’s here to make himself happy and so. Go on, Captain America. Give me a taste of that shield.
Steve’s face darkens. “Those locks are for your protection.”
“And Natasha still thinks I’m a threat. After all, we wouldn’t want the good people of New York City to be murdered alive in their beds.” He flexes the arm, a promise. “If I escaped tomorrow, you’d have what’s left of SHIELD out after me, and not because you’re worried about my poor old brain messing me up.”
“You were a dangerous asset, once.” Steve purses his mouth. “If your tactical training is still intact as Natasha thinks it is, then you have the capabilities to run far away and go to ground forever. No one could catch you.”
“I knew you agreed with Natasha.” I know you still think of me as the Winter Solider. As a target to be eliminated. Euthanized nicely and humanely.His belligerence gives way to a sadder kind of fear. The black box is in need of repair.
Steve looks up at the ceiling. “JARVIS, remove all security measures on this floor and unlock the lift doors.”
The pleasant English accent echoes back. “Confirmation required.”
“Captain Steve Rogers, requesting. Password is MYSEXYPATRIOTICASSROXX.” Steve sighs a little before responding. He glares at Bucky, who snickers before he can stop himself. The levity lightens the tension in the room. “Tony made it and I don’t know how to change anything on those computers.”
Bucky is on the edge of making a smart reply when the lift doors spring to life and open. They stay that way for a full minute before Bucky sits up and stares at Steve. “What are you doing?”
“If you wanna run, run. I’m not gonna try to stop you or go after you.” His voice has thickened and slid into his own Brooklyn brogue. The pitch and mimicry of Bucky’s own inflection does something to the base of his throat.
“Steve…”
“I don’t want you to feel like a prisoner, cause that means you’ve done something wrong. And you’ve spent enough of your life being locked up for someone else’s whims.” Steve’s face gets big and fierce, like his emotions are too much for a single expression to encompass. “And I especially don’t want you to feel like you’ve got to stay for me. Even if you don’t remember me.”
“But I am gonna stay because of you,” Bucky says roughly. “Because you’re the only goddamned guy that believes I’ve got something good in me. And if I am ever gonna get my memories back, it’ll be thanks to you. My mind works better when you’re around, pal.”
Steve swallows. “You could start over, anywhere in the world. We’d give you a different identity so you’d be someone brand new.”
Bucky shrugs. “I kinda feel like I already got my second start. On a train platform in Zurich.”
Steve’s smile swells. He blushes a little. “I was kinda thinking that too.”
“Hey, what’s in the box?” Bucky says, forcibly changing the subject.
Steve looks down. “Some odds and ends I found. But we don’t have to look at it right now.”
“Not more gum.”
“You didn’t like the gum?” says Steve.
“I got one mouth, not seven. So what is it?”
“Some photo albums. And a few films from Tony’s father. Howard really liked any newfangled invention.”
Bucky smirks. “Apple doesn’t fall far, huh?”
“Tony’d be the first one to tell you how different they are,” Steve replies. “Howard was…an interesting guy. You two…didn’t quite take to each other.”
Bucky leans over and lifts the first album from the pile. He flips through the pictures slowly at first, waiting for a lightning strike of recognition. Some photos are sepia, the others black and white. He runs a finger over a summer holiday picture—the skinny white chest of an underweight Steve, stomach nearly concave, and the boy who looked like him. It feels like a stranger’s life, like he’s treading on someone else’s grave. He feels contempt for the fresh-faced boy in the photographs, ignorant of all the hurt in the world, pleased with himself and cocksure about his ability to conquer everything. He suddenly has no patience for the younger incarnations of himself, for the identities he has shed long ago. He snaps the album closed.
"Where'd you get these?"
"Bruce found em on The E-Bay. People collect these kinda things now,” says Steve. He looks a little baffled. “Just because it’s related to the Howling Commandos.”
“They buy it for Captain America,” Bucky corrects him. “Everything else is just a sideshow.”
“I’ve seen your ugly mug on a lunch box,” retorts Steve.
“Everyone likes a good tragic death. It’s heroic.”
“You’re not dead anymore,” says Steve.
“Yeah, Lazarus ain’t got nothing on me.”
“You gonna perform miracles?”
“I’m still walking around and breathing. That’s miracle enough.”