'Hey, babe! I'm on my way home. Can you pull down the air fryer for me? I love you.'
Bucky smiles at Sam's text, getting up from his painting to head for the kitchen. He's been working on a new piece, trying out acrylics, and he doesn't mind them, but he misses watercolors.
Stepping into the kitchen, he goes to the fridge and reaches up to pull down the air fryer. He barely gets the fingers of his left hand on it before a sharp, electric jolt of pain flies up his spine, starting from right between his shoulder blades. He steps back, staggers, and drops onto one of the stools at the island, gasping in pain.
It takes a few minutes before he can catch his breath, even longer before his vision comes back fully. He swallows heavily and runs a shaking right hand down his face, feeling the sheen of sweat that's cooling on his skin now. After a couple more deep breaths, he rolls his neck, testing the motion, then rolls his left shoulder, hearing and feeling it click against its base plate in his torso. He winces softly, then stands and goes back to the fridge.
This time, he manages to pull the air fryer down without issue and he gets it plugged in and set up for Sam before pouring himself some water and sitting again. He sits and drinks his water, staring at his left hand until he feels Sam's hand slide along the back of his neck, followed by his lips.
"There's my man," Sam murmurs when Bucky looks up at him, smiling. "You hungry, Buck?"
Bucky nods softly, then looks at the air fryer on the counter. Sam follows his gaze, then looks back at him.
"Babe? Are you alright?"
Bucky takes a slow breath in and looks back at Sam. He shrugs softly, his expression mildly confused. "Not sure," he admits, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth and his head pounding. He can still remember the zing of pain that shot up his back and he doesn't know what to do with it. It's familiar and foreign at the same time.
Sam's hand comes up to Bucky's cheek. "Do you need a minute?" he asks gently. "Think you should head to the office and unload?"
Bucky nods slowly and reaches to Sam's arm, gently squeezing it as he stands. He sets his water glass in the sink and heads to their back office.
It's not so much an office as a quiet room to relax. There's a couple beanbag chairs, a few colorful lights, a sound machine Sam found at a yard sale, and a few other odds and ends that have proven helpful for static moments in the past, which Bucky realizes is exactly what he's experiencing right now; Sam could tell even if Bucky couldn't.
They call them Static Moments because Bucky's described it like the static TV feeling of a foot falling asleep, but in his mind. Parts of him shut down and he gets lost in thought. Sometimes, it dredges up bad memories. Sometimes, it's just a system reboot and Bucky has to let it do its thing.
They've found things, over the years, that help. Sam calls them stim tools. Bucky just knows sometimes they work and other times they don't. He never knows until he tries. When his mind starts to shut down on him like this, sometimes tactile helps. Sometimes he has to turn off all the lights and noise and pull the blackout curtains and curl up in a corner for a bit.
The number of times he's fallen asleep in the static room and woken up in their bed with Sam wrapped around him is both comforting and alarming.
He closes the door behind himself when he gets to the room and looks around, unsure what he might need right now. He's never experienced this before. At least, not that he can remember. He's gone static because of a taste or a smell. He went static for a day and a half once because of the sound of a truck backing up outside their house. That had been tough to reconcile with, memories of being pushed roughly into the backs of box trucks, loaded down with gear and made to sit uncomfortably among the other weapons.
Except he's not a weapon anymore. He has to remember that sometimes. He is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. He's married to Sam Wilson, the new Captain America. He helps out at the local flower and pet shops in their quiet little hometown in Indiana. He is safe now.
He moves to a shelf along the far wall, pulling a small basket off the third shelf and sitting cross-legged on the floor with the basket in front of himself. He sifts through the items in the basket, fingers of his right hand pulling back from certain textures as if stung. Finally, his hand lands on the wire of an original Slinky. He pulls it from the basket and pushes the rest away, shifting the toy between his hands for a moment.
He likes this one. Apparently it was first demonstrated the year he fell, and he wishes he could have been there for it. It's so simple, but the concept of a spring toy that brought so much delight to so many, to the point it's been around since 1945? That's something that makes Bucky smile.
His back still hurts, and he's not sure why. He didn't do much today. He helped unload some stock for the pet shop today, then came home to paint. That's it.
Though, he remembers feeling a pinch between his shoulders as he lifted one box. He usually had no issues lifting things, thanks to the strength he'd gained from the serum, but something about the way he'd lifted that one box had made him switch up the way he'd lifted everything after that.
Had he injured his back without realizing it? Stretching to reach the top of the fridge must have exacerbated it. That makes sense, in a strange way, but he's never hurt his back while lifting things. With a sigh, he rotates his shoulders, starting with the right. There's nothing when he does that.
Then, he rotates the left, hearing it settle and click again. Almost immediately, his back flares again and he shouts in pain, curling forward over his knees, which only stretches the pain further, but he's seeing stars again and he can't breathe and all rationality is out the window as the room around him fades to nothing but tile.
—
Every base has this room. The Soldier would hate it, if it knew how to hate. All it knows how to do is follow orders, though. So, for now it sits in the chair, watching the techs moving around with their tools, and waiting for it all to be over. Because then the Soldier gets to sleep again at least.
The room is nothing but tile. Floor, ceiling, walls. There's one big observation window. And the chair. There's also a drain in the middle of the floor, right under the chair. Anything else that comes into the room is wheeled in on carts or carried in by hand. Nothing is within the Soldier's reach, even with it being strapped down.
They learned that lesson in 1957.
As the Soldier casts its eyes around, taking in the nothingness that is always this room, a tech approaches. An order is given in Russian. The Soldier lowers its head and the tech brings his hands up to the Soldier's arm. There's the sounds of metal being manipulated, a drill, plates scraping together, and then the Soldier suddenly feels a lot lighter on the left side.
It looks over in time to see the tech walking out of the room with its arm. One of these sessions. With a clenched jaw, the Soldier looks up, toward the window, where it knows someone is watching. Someone is always watching. That's where the orders come from.
There's a strap across its chest, so it can't rock out of the chair in any way. It can't use this sudden loss to its advantage. And it's been commanded to sit still and deal with it, anyway.
Machines come to life. Techs move into the room again. The sound of metal scraping against bone meets its ears. Pain rockets up its spine-
—
"Bucky!"
Bucky gasps softly, the room coming into slow focus again as he looks to the source of the voice. Sam is crouched down next to him, a hand on his shoulder and a very concerned look on his face. Bucky looks at Sam for a second, then looks away quickly, rubbing his right hand down his face.
He looks around the room, taking in the soft floor, warm tones of paint, blackout curtains. Static room. He's safe at home.
But it felt so real. He could feel the pain of the techs digging into his shoulder and- why had he forgotten that? Now that he remembers, he knows they did it hundreds of times. A handful would have been enough, but they were brutal. They had dug into his shoulder, broken him, twisted him, cut up his nerves and left him in agony, slamming the arm back on and thrusting him back into cryo every time with no explanation.
The pain of the cold on his injuries might have been the worst, now that he thinks about it, but that zap of pain up his spine is something he can identify with absolute clarity now, and he hates it. He knows where it comes from and he can hear them digging in his bones still. Even safe at home, the techs still have him.
"Buck, babe?" Sam's voice is soft. "I'm really getting worried. You don't usually go this quiet."
Bucky looks back at Sam. He really hasn't said much since Sam got home, has he? He's been stuck in his head, stuck in the pain. He opens his mouth, but quickly closes it. The very thought of speaking right now feels painful. Instead, he shakes his head and looks down at the floor, at the Slinky that slipped from his fingers into a tangled heap during his flashback.
"Do you wanna write it?" Sam asks. "Or text me? You don't have to speak out loud if it's hard to."
Bucky takes a slow breath in and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He pulls up his texts with Sam, looking down at the keyboard, then frowns and locks the phone screen again. He can hear the soft breath that leaves Sam, sadness in it.
"You still need time," Sam offers. "Okay. But I'm afraid to let you be alone."
Bucky's jaw clenches. He understands. If Sam wandered off to another part of the house and suddenly screamed in pain, then wouldn't talk to him after a flashback, Bucky would be worried too. But he feels almost sick to his stomach.
"Gonna lie down," he manages, and it sounds mechanical. His mouth doesn't feel like his. His body doesn't feel like his. He still feels broken.
He goes to stand up, but as soon as he puts weight on his hand to push himself up, that pain returns and he drops, his body collapsing against Sam. Sam, for his part, wraps his arms around Bucky and holds him carefully.
"You're not doing anything right now," Sam sighs, kissing his temple. He rubs Bucky's right arm gently. "What hurts?"
Bucky shifts and groans, his vision coming back a little quicker this time. "Back."
Sam nods. "Did you hurt it?"
"They did," Bucky mutters, still feeling like the words aren't his. "Hydra did."
Sam goes quiet for a minute, then clears his throat. "Buck? Is this residual pain from something Hydra did to you?"
Bucky nods softly and sighs, the tension starting to leave his body as Sam makes it known he understands what Bucky is trying to say. He turns and presses his face into Sam's neck. Sam's hand comes up, fingers pulling through Bucky's hair.
"They really fucked with you, didn't they?"
Bucky gives a weak chuckle, but doesn't respond. Instead, he closes his eyes and just… rests. Sam is warm and safe and at this moment, he's not hurting, so he's going to take it. For right now, at least.
When he wakes up in their bed later, wrapped in blankets and hearing music downstairs, he knows Sam is definitely the man of his dreams.
He decides to try standing up, pushing himself to the edge of the bed and sitting up, putting his feet on the floor first. He feels a bit better, and his head isn't as fuzzy. The static is receding. With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself to his feet and nothing seems to hurt. That's a good sign.
By the time he gets down the stairs, Bucky is able to walk at his normal pace again. There's an ache still, but it's not threatening to spike anymore. At least not for now. He'll take it.
He can hear Sam quietly singing in the kitchen and he can smell something good cooking. Making his way into the kitchen, he steps up behind Sam, who's at the sink doing some dishes. Wrapping his arms around Sam from behind, he gently shushes the other man when he jumps.
"Just me, Sammy," he whispers. "Just me, doll."
Sam's shoulders go loose almost immediately and he turns in Bucky's hold. "No just about that," he says with a soft smile. "That's my husband again. That's my Bucky. I was worried about you."
Bucky gives him a soft smile, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth for a second and glancing away a moment. When he looks at Sam again, his expression softens further and he sighs. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."
Sam shrugs and leans forward, kissing him. "Worry comes with the territory. My mom used to say that if you didn't worry about the ones you loved, you didn't love them."
"Your mom sounds like she was a very smart woman," Bucky says with a chuckle. "Doesn't mean I like worrying you any."
Sam nods. "I know. But I'm gonna worry about you every day I love you. That's how this works, Barnes. You're gonna have to get used to that."
Bucky nods and ducks his head a little. "Fair."