“Just because the government is paying for it doesn’t mean I’m staying there,” Tony says, pacing in the hallway. “No, I know— OK— Pepper, don’t even go there, I’m not staying in a Marriott.”
“Get a load of this guy,” Natasha says, leaning forward on the table and pointing down towards Tony, half a smirk on her lips. “Tony, I know you’re not complaining about a weekend stay in a Meridian,” she says, voice raised.
Bucky smiles tightly, watching the people that move around him, feeling like some sort of man in a snow globe. It feels like for him, time stays still.
He likes to think he’s good at noticing things others might not. Like the way Tony isn’t really engaging with everyone else, after he gets off the phone with Pepper, staying off to the side. He stares at his phone blankly, and then up at the wall, not really moving, just thinking. Bucky watches him, across the room, through the chatter and the crowd of his friends, until eventually he figures he should probably ask him what’s up.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he says to Tony, standing by the coffee table. Something shiny catches his eye, a small metal figurine of an iron man helmet, and he picks it up with his metal hand.
Tony looks up, and Bucky knows he startled him, even if he’s concealed it well. Bucky can see these things in people.
Tony sighs. “Tired, that’s all.”
“Yeah.” Bucky traces he lines on the iron man figurine with his metal fingers, through the thin black glove, feeling the ridges and curves, like a fidget toy.
“We have an early flight,” Tony says. “And a big weekend.”
“Big weekend?” Bucky echoes. “This is just a conference.”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Bucky says, but it sounds more
“I’ve had a long day,” he answers, guarded.
Bucky, of all people, understands the need for boundaries.
“Okay. Get some rest, then,” he murmurs after a moment, taking a step back.
“It’s you, James,” Tony says tightly. “This conference, they’re targeting you.”
Bucky blinks. “What?”
“Pepper just told me and— it’s not good. It doesn’t look good. I’m sorry.”
Bucky feels his nerves jump, but he doesn’t show it. “What are you talking about?” he says, as his mind races.
“It’s too late to brief everyone,” Tony mutters. He glances at the group, laughing around the table. “But it will be okay, I’m just… warning you.”
“What do you know?”
Tony hesitates. “Nothing. Just that they’re going after you.”
“Why? What?”
“I don’t know, James.”
“Are you serious?” He snaps. “You have to know more. Tell me what Pepper said.” Something uneasy buzzes in his stomach, crawling up his throat. He keeps his voice low, and tense, but he can sense the others in the room grow quiet. Eyes turn to him and Tony.
Tony exhales. “She doesn’t know much. And it’s going to be fine.”
“Tony—“
“Okay, fine. Fine. She said they’re going after you to open a case. To undermine the Sokovia accords.”
“Jesus,” Steve says, and Bucky flinches.
“So I don’t go,” Bucky murmurs.
“It’s not that simple,” Tony says. “There’s politics. If you don’t go, then they’re already winning.”
“Wait, who wants to open the case?” says Natasha.
“It doesn’t matter,” Tony snaps, “because it won’t happen. It won’t. We just have to sit through this conference.”
—
Later that night, while he’s packing, he gets an anxiety attack. He’s had them before, even prior to the war, but the thing about anxiety attacks is that no matter how much you’re aware of the fact that you’ll be okay, you still won’t believe it. You’ll think you’re dying, until you’re not, but it doesn’t even matter. And it doesn’t even have anything to do with the conference, just that the tensions are high. It’s not something he’s used to, though.
It starts as a succession of heartbeats that go too fast. He’s reaching for a shirt to fold, and all of a sudden this heart starts racing, as fast as it does when he’s running. He freezes, panic thrumming through his veins, making him tense up, and he inhales sharply, waiting for his heartbeat to slow.
Except it doesn’t slow, it continues at that terrifying rate, and the shirt in his hand falls to the floor. His skin crawls, but mostly he’s just hyperventilating, holding his hand on his chest, or behind his jaw to try and find his pulse. With every inhale, he can hear the way his heart races out of time, and it feels like he’s having a heart attack.
His stomach feels sick, like there’s something dark roaming about inside, coupled with the too-familiar net of anxiety that has him tangled like a fly in a spider’s web.
They way he takes a seat on his bed resembles a graceless fall more than anything else. His head rests in his right hand, palm pressed firm against his forehead, in some desperate attempt to ground himself, while his left hand is placed on his chest. Blood roars in his ears.
And then, almost as quickly as it came, the panic leaves, and Bucky lifts his head and rubs his eyes.
He swallows, a seed of fear rooting itself in his chest. What does it mean if he just doesn’t get better, even after all these years?
—
Tony refuses to fly private jets when they can avoid it, so he’d booked them a commercial flight to London.
He’s nervous, Tony’s words repeating in his head. With these things, usually he just lets Tony and Steve talk, but this time he had to prepare for the focus to be on him. Because when the UN asks you to do something, you do it, like a soldier— no questions asked. Especially if you are a category-one lethal weapon.
The airport is a sort of hell scape, with paparazzi and civilians alike taking photos of them. They try to keep their sunglasses on, and hats and jackets, but it’s still so overwhelming.
They get to their seats on the plane, and Bucky downs something like four sleeping pills, and the last thing he remembers seeing before he blacks out is the city of New York slowly growing smaller, like some little model city in someone’s art studio.
And then he’s awake in London.
The four pills may have been overkill, because when Steve taps him on the shoulder, his head feels heavy like he’s swimming.
In a blur, he’s at their hotel. They all have separate rooms, and he’s grateful for that little dignity. He lays back on the soft bed, almost sinking into it, breathing in the distinct smell of hotel laundry. He doesn’t know if it’s the jet lag or the fact he might still be drowsy on prescription sleeping pills, but he knocks out again, and doesn’t wake until 12 hours later to the sound of his phone buzzing next to his ear.
“Have you even left your room yet?” Steve asks, voice crackling through the cell lines. Bucky can’t help but to notice the disappointed way he says it, like he knows Bucky’s struggling.
“No,” he answers, sitting back against the headrest, glancing out the window between two white linen blinds.
A second of silence confirms the condescending tone of Steve’s words. Bucky knows Steve doesn’t really understand mental illness in the way he does— he never really had, because that’s just who he is. It doesn’t mean he isn’t a good friend, it just means he sees the world a little differently than Bucky does, and Bucky knows it.
“Well, we’re going out for dinner.” He says they’re going to some place fancy that Bucky’s never heard of.
Bucky says yes, but that seed of worry grows larger. When he dresses up, and looks himself in the mirror, he doesn’t recognize his own face.
He decides to text Steve: ‘I don’t feel like myself.’ His head still swims.
He swallows, shutting his phone off and running his fingers through his hair again as he looks himself in the eyes, unfamiliar, like he’s staring at someone else.
—
“Are you okay?” Steve says cautiously, as they hang behind the group as they walk through the parking lot.
“Yeah,” Bucky answers, guarded. “I’m fine.”
“So what was your text about?”
“I don’t know,” he says quietly, looking up ahead. “It’ll be fine.”
Steve seems to get the message, but sticks by Bucky’s side either way. He’s a good friend.
—
Bucky’s seat is near the front of the conference room. It’s probably the largest meeting he’s ever been to.
He can count maybe twenty rows of desks, stretching out the length of the conference hall, and it unsettles him to see such a large sea of people behind him.
Steve is to his left, and Bruce to his right, who’s flipping through the little packet they had printed on the desk.
“I wonder what they’re going to come up with.”
“What?”
“I mean, about the accords. The deal was signed two years ago.”
“I don’t know,” Bucky says.
“Well, what I don’t understand is—“
“Would you stop the chit-chat?” Tony interrupts Bruce from his seat in front of them. He’s all put together, professional and suave, and Bucky finds it sort of amusing. But he understands; there’s a certain way you have to present yourself sometimes. Tony’s probably learned it the hard way.
Bruce just rolls his eyes.
These kinds of things stress Bucky out. He understands that it’s just the UN’s formal way of letting them continue to work as part of the US defense, and that they have to be here so that they can be judged. After all, they do have to make sure no more Sokovia’s happen.
Either way, they stress him out, because he knows his track record may be one of the worst on the team. Also maybe the most classified.
And he has to prepare himself for his past to be torn apart by skeptics who think he deserves to be in prison or worse.
Once they start talking, though, it all goes downhill, and the sticky black feeling in his stomach comes back, slowly at first, throughout the first half of the meeting, all the way until intermission.
—
He leans against the wall of the hallway, holding his water bottle in one hand, which his other hand monitoring his heartbeat. He’s too afraid to breathe deeply, because he might trigger the palpitations and that’s the last thing he needs right now, to have an anxiety attack.
And yet, deep down, he feels it’s inevitable, he just doesn’t want to admit it.
The crowd is gathered by the tables, in the informal room outside of the conference room. He’s still in the hallway, but he notices Steve look at him and he knows by then it’s too late.
Bucky swallows, turning around, even though he knows that there is nowhere to go. Anyways, Steve has already picked up that something is wrong.
“Are you okay?” He asks, with that look of genuine concern, and Bucky can’t even be mad, because Steve is just good, and he’s so lucky to have a friend like this.
And something about those three little words almost want him to break down. Because he’d gone so long, through this long, long life, without ever hearing it— without anyone caring.
He swallows thickly, regaining his composure. “No,” he says honestly, voice raw. He re-checks his pulse.
“What’s wrong?“
“I’ve just been on-edge, and—“ he inhales, shutting his eyes for a moment. “I’m not sure I should go back in.” He can hear how shaky his own voice is.
“Is it because of what Tony said?”
“I don’t know. A little bit.” He swallows, gripping the little table he’s leaning on, still keeping his breathing shallow.
“Well… it’s okay. It’s all talk. They can’t do anything about the accords.”
“I know,” whispers Bucky. “I just don’t feel good, that’s all.”
“I…” Steve doesn’t really know what to say, but Bucky can tell he’s trying to be helpful. “I’m sorry. I know this is stressful.”
“I just hope it’s over soon.”
—
Once the officials start talking, Bucky instantly knows that he shouldn’t have stepped back in.
His skin crawls when they play some film of Sokovia and New York, of all the destruction they caused. He knows it’s an intimidation tactic, to make them back down and give up some of their rights, but it doesn’t make it any less cruel. He can almost feel the static tension in the air.
“Jesus Christ,” Bruce mutters. Bucky can see the way Tony’s almost shrunk into his seat, and the way Steve shifts uncomfortably, trying not to watch. He notices the way Natasha’s frame stiffens, and how Rhodes glares angrily at the projector screen.
Because the issue is that this is real footage; there isn’t any way to deny the damage they have caused, except to maybe compare it to what could’ve happened if they never stepped in.
But that’s the big question, isn’t it? Which is worse, unrealized loss of life, or blaming a few dozen vigilantes for what actually happened?
Bucky keeps his frame still, breathing slow.
He can see Steve stiffen next to him as the UN member starts his spiel, but oddly, Bucky just feels numb.
Nearly a hundred pairs of eyes burn holes into his skin, but for some reason, he doesn’t care about that. He’s just listening to the words.
He’s thrown back into visions he never wants to relive, of himself killing people in more ways than most can imagine. It’s something he doesn’t think most people could ever understand, the disconnect between mind and body that you just couldn’t overcome.
They call Bucky a lethal weapon. A ticking time bomb, an unstable killing machine.
And the sad part is that to him, it’s all true. He sets his jaw forward, eyes fixed on the politician in the middle of the floor, preaching electric about all the reasons he should be in a category 12 prison cell. And he almost believes it.
“Alright, enough,” Tony interrupts loudly, firmly, standing up. The room falls silent. “This isn’t necessary. We’ve already had this fight,” he says, pointing his finger, “and you lost.”
“Mr. Stark—“
“We did not come here to discuss things we’ve already covered,” he snaps. “Barnes is a civilian now. He’s doing the court ordered sessions, the integration that you asked for.”
The politician says something irrelevant, about how this topic relates to the integrity of the Avengers program.
Bucky almost wants to give in, then and there.
“Full stop,” Tony shoots back. “We are not having this discussion.” He turns towards the panel, who gives him nothing. He turns around, cursing bullshit. He put up a good fight, but Bucky knows what has to happen.
“Tony, it’s fine,” Bucky mutters. “Just let them.”
“No, it’s not fair. They shouldn’t be allowed—“
“We are the United Nations. We will not be overthrown by anyone,” says the politician, in some sort of preachy tone, standing at his podium. The rest of the hall goes silent, almost as if in shock.
Bucky thinks, did he really just say that? How much do you have to hate superheroes to even think that?
“We’re not overthrowing you,” Tony cries indignantly, spinning back around. “We’re standing our ground. We settled this two years ago, and everybody knows it.”
“So what will you do? Walk out?”
“If we have to,” Tony responds, and Bucky hears shuffling around him as the team prepares to get up.
“Tony, don’t—“ Bucky murmurs.
“This is exactly what I am talking about,” the politician says, a sickening smirk finding its way into his words. “They have no regard for protocol, or criticism. These are not the people we can rely on.”
It’s then that it hits Bucky— if they leave right now, they’ll be doing exactly what the opposition wants them to. They’ll be ostracized, or at least have a stain on their name.
“We can’t,” Bucky whispers. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
“That’s not the point, though. It’s the principle—“
“He said he’s fine,” Steve interrupts, sending Bucky a reassuring glance. “Let’s just get on with it.”
Tony pauses, then nods curtly, giving Bucky one last look before turning around and sitting back in his seat.
And so the show goes on, Bucky thinks numbly, as he waits for the politician in the center of the floor to rip into him again.
But he doesn’t, not really. Not until the very end, when he says he’s going to do a demonstration, to see if Bucky’s really fit to lead a civilian life. His stomach turns, and he glances as Steve.
And then the politician turns the page in his packet, and all of a sudden Bucky knows what’s happening. He can feel his heart rate pick up, and his lifts a hand to check his pulse, instinctively. He shuts his eyes, waiting for it to start, feeling just as helpless as he did that day in the fiberglass cage as Zemo spelled out those words to turn him into the soldier.
The last time he felt like this, ready to hear the 12 words, he was in Wakanda, sitting in a cold plexiglass box for Shuri’s own safety, as she ran the tests to make sure, once and for all, that he doesn’t respond to the words anymore. But that time there were no risks, no UN leaders he could harm, no civilians right outside. Besides, he trusted Shuri. But this hall is full of liabilities.
“Longing.” It was said in Russian— broken Russian, sure, but Bucky still understood. He inhales sharply, sick to his stomach, but refuses to back down. Shuri ran the tests; he knew he would be fine.
“You’re kidding,” Bruce says under his breath. “Tony, you’ve gotta say something.”
“Do you want me to, Bucky?”
Bucky feels black tar swirl in his stomach, fear crawl up his throat, almost paralyzing him as he glares down at the man.
“I’m— I’m just—“ his breathing is shaky now, and he tries to keep it under control. He shakes his head slightly, keeping his eyes shut.
“Rusted.
Furnace.
Daybreak.”
“Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters. Finally he stands up. “You need to stop this. Now.”
“So you admit?” The politician says, words dripping with contempt. “He’s still a threat?”
“No,” Tony says firmly, stepping into the isle. “What you’re doing is cruel.”
“It’s necessary,” he says airily. “This should’ve been done years ago, to reassure the public—“
While they argue, Bucky can feel Steve’s nervous eyes on him.
“I know I don’t respond to the words anymore,” Bucky mutters quietly, to Steve. “But what if—”
“No. You’re okay.” Steve seems to be convincing himself more than Bucky.
“I can’t,” Bucky whispers, voice cracking. He couldn’t ever go through it again, living through a haze as his body functions without his control. A sharp, sinking feeling settles in his stomach, and he stiffens, fingers curling into his palm.
“Seventeen.”
He can’t leave, though, or else the opposition would win. He has to stick through it, no matter how much it hurts.
“Benign.
Nine.”
Bucky takes a deep, trembling breath, trying to keep still so that nobody notices how fazed he is, even though all of their eyes are on him.
He says a word of affirmation under his breath, so quiet that nobody else could hear. “Ya’v poryadke.” I’m okay.
Sometimes, it helps to speak in Russian— it normalizes those years of his life he lost, almost like he’s reclaiming a language that’s caused him to much anguish. It makes the next few words less scary, and he mouths along with the politician as he continues.
“Homecoming. One.”
Bucky keeps his eyes fixed on the man speaking while fear seems to crawl up his throat, until he can almost taste it.
He says the word for freight car— tovarniy vagon just as the politician does, as it drips out of his cruel, conniving mouth. Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, he just stays perfectly still as his heart seems to race out of time.
He lets his eyes fall shut in the crashing relief that he’s still himself.
Then, he looks back up. “Is that all?” He says quietly.
The politician seems to know this is how it would end, because there isn’t any smirk of success or detectable look of distaste on his face, just a bored expression, almost like he just wants to move on. Bucky’s at least thankful for that.
“That’s all,” he says curtly.
Bucky nods and stands up. “Thank you, for that, then.” He quietly excuses himself, making his way down the isle and into the hallway, feeling a hundred eyes burn into his back as we walks away.
And as he walks away, he hears the politician say one last thing.
“And it should have been done years ago. Now the public can have some peace of mind.”
—
The countertop of the restroom is cold on his palms, but it somehow roots him down, reminding him that he is still a person. Empty eyes stare into empty eyes as he looks himself up and down in the mirror; his suit is expensive, his hair is combed back, he wears one black glove on his metal arm. But he doesn’t feel like him. He’s still struggling for oxygen, taking quick breaths, not quite hyperventilating but somewhere in between. The skin around his eyes are already red and puffy, and a layer of sweat covers his forehead, combed hair becoming disheveled.
That’s when he realizes that his nervous system hasn’t yet recovered, even though the threat has passed. He remembers the anxiety attack from the other day, and the way he’d been on edge all day today. He recalls the way he’s leaned a little too hard on sleeping pills, on the crutch that is substance use.
He tilts his head back, trying to keep scared, frustrated tears from falling.
The seed of doubt that had settled in his chest has taken root, because he finds himself thinking, what if he never gets better? What if he has to live the rest of his life like this, afraid of another attack, drowning himself in sleeping pills? He can’t live in fear again. He would rather die than live in fear.
Dark anticipation thrums in his veins, because he knows that once these thoughts start, he can’t stop them. It makes him feel weak, like a deer in the headlights. He thinks his heart is about to crawl up his throat.
And then someone knocks on the door, almost startling Bucky out of his skin.
“One moment,” he forces out weakly, shutting his eyes. Metal and flesh fingertips alike grip the countertop, in some feeble attempt to ground himself as he feels his pulse pick up.
“It’s Steve,” comes the gentle response. “Would you let me in?”
Bucky reaches his hand out, turning the handle slightly to unlock the door, other arm supporting his body weight by leaning on the counter. He knows he looks like a wreck right now, but he’s grateful for Steve’s presence either way.
“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs. “We didn’t know he would do that. Tony’s taking it up with—“
“It’s fine,” Bucky forces out, but he hasn’t moved from the hunched over position because he’s terrified to set off the panic, even though he knows it’s coming. With every second that passes, he’s more sure.
“Are you okay?”
Bucky shakes his head, taking a shuddering breath. “I can’t, Steve,” he whispers. “Please, I can’t.” It’s an awful scene, he knows.
“You can’t what?”
“I can’t breathe,” he chokes. His hands are starting to tremble, almost violently. He pulls at the collar of his undershirt, a stretchy material, and lifts it up with both shaky hands to wipe at his face. “Please,” he whispers, eyes darting everywhere, looking for anything to stop the feeling. He has to back up against the wall, sinking down and putting his face in his arms. When he opens his blurry eyes, all he can see is the shadowed tiles of the bathroom floor between his feet.
He doesn’t care what he looks like anymore, he just knows that all he wants right now is for this feeling to stop.
“I can’t breathe, I—“
“Hey, hey. It’s okay, I promise, alright?” Steve is doing his best, and his presence is helping, but it’s clear he’s nervous. “That was a really shitty thing for them to do, okay?”
Bucky doesn’t answer. Instead, he holds his face in his hands as his nervous system picks up speed. Blood rushes in his ears, and he hears his own strained breathing become even quicker.
Because what Steve’s saying doesn’t really matter. Sure, it was cruel for them to put him on the spot like that, and say the words, knowing his past. But the part that terrified him more was that he just couldn’t gain control of the panic that came afterwards.
And how in a twisted way it reminded him of being the winter soldier, the way he can so clearly recognize what he’s doing, but he has no control over his form.
He knows he’s panicking right now, but he just can’t find a way to control it.
“Can I bring Tony here?” Steve asks Bucky softly.
“Why?” Bucky asks between shuddering breaths.
“Because I think he knows how to handle this,” he explains, stumbling over his words. “At least better than I can.”
Bucky inhales deeply, trying to regain some control. “If he can make it stop,” he whispers. “Please.”
“Okay, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “I’ll be back.”
In the four minutes Steve’s gone, the panic only subsides a little. Bucky can only compare it to the feeling of missing a step on the stairs, or the feeling of hitting a patch of unexpected turbulence on a plane, except while those are momentary, this lasts longer.
Nauseous, he keeps his face hidden in his crossed arms, knees drawn up. He knows it’s a sorry sight.
After a while, he’s aware that Tony’s sitting next to him, down on the cold tile floor.
“You’re doing fine, Barnes,” Tony murmurs. “It’s just me and Steve here. No one else.”
Bucky wants to respond, but he can’t find his voice.
“You’re safe. There’s no one else around. Can you feel the tiles on the floor?”
Bucky nods.
“That’s good. Everything is okay.”
“Okay,” Bucky whispers, when he feels stable enough to speak.
“That guy— Freedman— he knows he’s in the wrong on that one,” Tony says, about the politician. “You don’t have to worry about him. Everyone in that hall knew what he did was wrong.”
Bucky thinks about that for a minute, still not wanting to lift his head, still struggling to keep his breathing even.
“That’s not it,” Bucky says, forcing it out.
“Hm?”
Bucky struggles to get a deep breath in, but he’s finally able to sit back and lift his head up.
“That was politics,” Bucky murmurs. “I get it.”
“Still, it’s not right, what they did.”
Bucky swallows, lifting his metal hand up to feel his pulse. It’s slowly decreasing in pace, and he feels like he can finally exhale.
He looks up at Tony, pressing the heels of his palms under his eyes to wipe any moisture.
“I’m losing control again, over myself,” Bucky whispers, feeling a lump form in his throat. “I spent too long like that, I can’t—“
“With the panic attacks, you mean,” Tony clarifies gently.
Bucky presses his lips together. “It feels like… like what being under felt like. I can’t control anything.”
Tony sighs. “You handled today well, though.”
“No, I didn’t,” Bucky scoffs. “It didn’t feel like I did.”
“I lived this, Bucky,” Tony murmurs. “There are much worse ways to have an anxiety attack.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Tony sighs again. “Yes.”
Bucky watches as Tony studies his fingertips, chewing on his cheek.
“Look, I know with things like this you just have to figure it out yourself,” Tony says quietly. “But if there’s any way I can help, I’ll try.”
Bucky swallows. “Thank you.”
“I know it hasn’t been easy for you lately.”
Bucky looks up at Steve, who’s still standing there, leaning against the wall.
“I’ve lasted this long, haven’t I?” Bucky says, a hint of humor creeping into the inexplicably sad words.
“You sure have.”
“You get these? The anxiety attacks?” Bucky asks, and the words feel clumsy in his mouth. These things can be hard to talk about.
Tony just nods. “Less now. You learn to live with it.”
“Well, that’s not very reassuring,” Bucky whispers, a hint of humor in his voice.
Tony cracks a half of a smile. “It’s the best I can do.” He checks his watch, and starts to stand up. “Ready to go?” He asks Bucky, extending a hand.
Bucky looks up, at Tony, at this battle-weary man he’s known for years, now a stitched-up human of proof.
Proof that it’s possible, that he can continue living despite all that’s happened in his hundred past lives, despite the shame and the regret and the emptiness.
He takes his hand, and when he stands up it feels like a step in a new direction, like he might feel okay again soon, and he exhales slowly. He looks at Steve, who’s got some sort of guarded expression on his face.
“What?” He asks, watching Steve’s eyes jump up.
“I knew you two were a lot more similar than you thought,” he says softly. “I just wish— I mean, I’m sorry. It’s not fair, what you go through.” He’s talking to both of them.
Tony just shrugs. “No time to think about it,” he says, and with that comes a sense of lasting optimism.