Chapter 5
He doesn’t wake up screaming.
He doesn't sit up with a shout, that standard Hollywood indication of a bad nightmare. With faux sweat that’s really water staining his skin, a perfectly rehearsed expression finding its way onto his face. The gentle hands of his actress wife reaching over and beginning to soothe him.
No, he doesn't wake up screaming. No echoes of words unsaid gracing his lips. But he does wake up alone.
Alone in this worn-down dance studio, with peeling wallpaper and a large hole above the godforsaken mirror that’s been crudely patched up with several strips of duct tape. At least the water-damaged ceiling is an entertaining sight. There are a few darker brown spots that play against the ugly off-white of the drywall, and he watches as they meld into incomprehensible shapes as his eyesight blurs.
There’s a sudden itching over his skin, burning, fingertips scorching marks across his arms like ants dancing over a mound of dirt. He’s stuck between wanting to claw his own nails into his flesh to relieve the feeling that crawls across it, and wanting to sink further into the hardened floorboards, a thin layer of plastic covering wood, never to be seen again by the outside world. Here, nothing can touch him anymore. Nothing, and no one.
It becomes unbearable quickly, though, the burning. An expanding sensation of wrong,this is wrong that creeps over him. Too much. Too many phantom sensations rolling across his skin, too many thoughts about it. Touch of times long past. And times more recent.
He stands up quickly, vision blacking out as the blood rushes through his body, and leans shakily against the wall. He stumbles out of the room, unable to bear the idea of seeing his reflection any longer, and into the hallway. There’s a side corridor that leads to a bathroom and changing room, with several showers lining the east wall. Again, there’s probably no running water, but it’s not like he’s really prepared (or capable) of stripping down and washing all the grit and dried blood away from his still healing injuries. Doesn’t want to see his marred skin, stripped away from the thin dirtied tank he’s worn for who knows how many days, smeared with reds and purples and blues in the shape of fingertips along his hips. Instead, he just drags himself over into a larger shower on the end, likely handicap accessible based on the size, and sits on the cool tile. Or, more aptly, crumbles down to the floor.
The shower, in keeping with the rest of the studio, is grime-encrusted, with grout exposed and sticking out in sharp points that dig into his skin as he rubs against the porcelain. He’s grateful the murky silver of the faucet is too covered in limescale to see his reflection.
He doesn't want to remember.
Which, of course, is ironic.
There’s something about the lulling emptiness, complete and utter lack of anything, that soothes his raging mind. Memories alway complicate things. Always. He’ll never be grateful for his time at HYDRA, but the simplistic way of living as a clean slate is something he often misses, much as he dreads to admit it. Being told what to do, not having to think about it or the moral complications, unfeeling, unseeing. Easy. The only thing he really dealt with in that state was the pain. And while he was operating at maximum capacity, while he was functioning exactly as HYDRA desired, well. There was no reason for pain if he complied.
Of course, there were always the sick fucks that just liked to torture him for the sake of seeing him squirm. And those who... Those who liked to see him squirm in different ways. But a quick session in the Chair absolved him of any of those details.
It’s only when he started remembering that things got complicated.
Because memory made the black and white of the world fade to red on his hands, and pink scratch marks on his back. Blood stained him from head to toe, and only half of it was his own.
So yeah, he doesn’t want to remember.
He doesn't want to feel the hands against his skin, the insatiable fingers that dig for more, more that he can’t give. Has long since given anyway.
He doesn't want to live with this mark branded deeply on both his body and his mind.
But what he wants doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change what happened. Doesn’t change what happens. Over and over and over again.
-
“Солдат.”
Dark eyes stare at the Asset. Awaiting a response.
“Я готов отвечать.” I am ready to comply. Ready to answer to you.
“У тебя на коленях.”
On your knees.
-
He’s tempted to lie here and never get up again. How easy it would be to sink deep into the ground, considering how heavy his body feels. The coolness of the shower welcomes him, a reprieve against his burning skin. It’s not like anyone would ever find him here.
Though, that’s not entirely true; there is someone that could find him here. Multiple people, in fact. Sam, for one. He has the skills and practice, from the years on the run. Searching for a man who couldn’t be found, wouldn’t, shouldn’t. That is, of course, if Sam decides he’s worth pursuing. Which he probably won’t after that whole little fiasco at the hospital he’s sure to have heard all about.
Which leaves the arguably less better outcome, but more realistic: HYDRA. Reclaiming their toy soldier again.
Because hell if it wasn’t a shock to see their stupid little octupus logo (becuase really it’s not even a hydra, quite the opposite) emblazoned on the uniforms of the idiots who captured him. And on the walls and crates lining the floors. A red symbol of a pest that just won’t die no matter how much bug spray you use. Until you end up suffocating yourself with the poison instead, heavy and ladden in your nostrils and into your lungs. Permeating your entire body till you succumb to its toxins.
He supposes, in a way, he could be described like that. A stubborn insect that always keeps buzzing in your ear. Just not dying. Regardless of how many times people have tried. Regardless of how much he wanted to. Wants to.
HYDRA will never die, because he will never die. He may be free, but the soldier is still inside of him. It just turns out that HYDRA is a lot more outside of him than anticipated.
It was dumb to ever let his guard down. To embrace the naivety of believing HYDRA was gone. That’s literally their slogan: “Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.” He should be better than this. Not taken advantage of in his unexpectant state. He shouldn’t have believed in the absurd lie promised to him by Steve and the others. Shouldn’t have believed in the idiodic, truly stupid hope that HYDRA was gone forever. Completely dismantled. Destroyed once and for all with a final public fall.
Because that’s what happened the first time, right? History is bound to repeat itself, and HYDRA is bound to recoup and reform. These are the constants of his world.
So, really, it’s his fault.
(Hasn’t it always been? The Winter Soldier could not say “no,” but Bucky Barnes could. Maybe “no” would have been more effective than the “three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight” he found himself able to mutter. It didn’t save his sense of self in the end.)
-
Some time passes, and he drifts in and out of consciousness, lying on the dingy bathroom tile in the dark.
His body is heavy, nailed to the ground. His skin still crawls, echoes of fingertips dancing upon his neck, and chest, and wrists. He doesn't want to get up. He does anyway. Pain radiates from every part of his body, but he knows he must move. Can’t stay in one place too long. Too much risk.
It feels like being on the run again. When he barely had an idea of who this “James Barnes” guy was. Who he was supposed to be. How he should act.
He just prays this time, Sam won’t want to follow him. Again, not like he even would. After all, Steve’s gone. There’s no reason to.
There’s a shadow encroaching on his vision, foreboding. The rational part of his mind begs himself to sleep, knows that this is stemming from the way his eyes droop but stay open, body curled on the floor, injured and tired. But he has never really listened to this supposed “rational” side of himself. After all, rational people don’t break their tormentors out of high-security prisons. Rational people don’t succumb to the need for orders. Rational people don’t let themselves-
Reality blurs with the dancing shadows of the studio’s bathroom, the darkness growing closer, looming. He wants it to take him. Envelop him and take him far far away from this hell he’s found himself in. Again and again and again. Constant number one: history repeats itself. It’s a lesson that HYDRA didn’t need to condition him into believing, because it engrains itself in the essence of his being. He will never truly be free. Someone will always vie for control of him. Control of his body. And they will inevitably get it, some way or the other.
No. Compartmentalize. He’s good at this, he knows. There’s more pressing matters to deal with. His little adventure to this ballet studio was nothing if not sloppy. It’s not like he was intentionally avoiding security cameras.
Maybe his paranoia is rearing its ugly head, but if the last few days haven’t proved it necessary, nothing will.
Because HYDRA is out there.
There are lots of implications about that statement, but what it means in simple terms is that he cannot stay in one place. Otherwise, they will find him. They already did.
Not again.
He honestly doesn’t think he could go through that again. But that’s what he thinks every time, and yet…
Well, he's still here, isn't he?
-
“The infamous Winter Soldier.”
A slim hand trails over the Asset’s back, long painted fingernails lightly dragging over the leather of its jacket.
“I’ve heard it can kill a man with its bare hands.” A sly smile, then: “I wonder what else its hands can do.”
“Солдат?”
It stares.
“Всё.” Anything and everything you want.
-
He quickly realizes that not having his phone on him is inconvenient. Or any form of internet, actually. Less trackable, sure, but certainly annoying.
Well, at least for looking up the train schedule.
There was a time in his life (long, long, ago) back when Steve was small enough to be blown over by a stray gust of wind and had stubbornness coming out his ears, where Bucky Barnes knew the train schedule by heart. At least on Saturdays. Sundays were church days for Steve, and the rest of the week he was working, so Saturdays were their only free days.
They’d take the subway wherever they wanted, wherever they could, and a young Bucky would impress Steve with his memory of the lines. It didn’t go many places, but it’s not like they had the money to go anywhere that wasn’t free afterwards, so more often than not they spent time sightseeing between stops.
Then Bucky’s mom died, and he had to pick up another shift for his sisters, working more hours at seventeen than what would be considered legal with later regulation. And he and Steve went out less.
Then Steve’s mom died, and he moved into the Barnes’ household. Which inconceivably meant they spent more time together. But less time traipsing the ever-growing city and more time spent at home, in Steve’s case, and at work, in Bucky’s.
He needs to focus now, though. Not reflect on a time long past. Memories are what got him into this mess in the first place. And there’s a lot to examine in the dichotomies of that particular statement, but now isn’t the time to pick apart his broken psyche. It never leads to good things.
With a groan, and a hiss of air through his grit teeth, he props himself up on his right arm. His left, the “impenetrable” vibranium one, well. It’s not as impervious as he had once thought. Because currently, its only contribution is a dead weight pulling on his left side, which does not pair well with his slightly broken ribs. Or more accurately, slightly broken everything.
It’s not something he wants to think about, so instead he’ll just contend with the problem on a surface level. He can’t move his left side, so he must be careful in his movements. Walk along the left wall, keep his vulnerable side hidden. At least he’s right handed?
His vision blacks out again as he pushes himself to a standing position, wrapping his right arm around his chest. After his sight comes back and the tingling feeling in his fingers stops, he gazes with glazed over eyes at the bright red of his shirt and the sticky feeling on his arm before realizing oh shit, he’s bleeding. Probably reopened some wounds with his movement.
Which is not good. Because losing blood really inhibits his capacity to pose as a normal person in the city, and it also makes his appearance very concerning. People might not think much of a crazed man stumbling along the streets of New York, but copious amounts of blood seems to turn people’s heads. For whatever reason.
Focus. Focus. He’s been through much worse with a better handle on the situation. He needs to stop getting lost in his thoughts.
Clinically, he breaks down what he needs to do:
- Get out of this building.
- Get to the train station while avoiding as much human contact as possible.
And
3. Figure out where he’s going to go from there.
That last step is a later problem. There’s an itch at the back of his mind that tells him he needs to leave, needs to get away, needs to get their hands off him. Retreat somewhere safe.
Unfortunately, the only place he’s ever felt truly safe, truly content. Well, that’s off limits. He’s not thinking about Delacroix, not thinking about Sam right now. Not thinking about the last conversation they had. Not thinking about how he didn’t hit “Delete” and begged Sam to do it for him.
Definitely not thinking about the possibility Sam didn’t do what he asked. Didn’t delete the footage.
Nope. Not at all.
(If Sam sees… no that’s not even a line of thought his subconscious wants to meander down. He can’t handle the possibility of Sam never wanting to see him again. Because he was too weak to fight back. At least until it was too late.)
Getting out of here. Right. Limping, he forces himself to move forward. Making his way slowly back into the hallway, leaving a bathroom smeared with his blood behind.
He spies a coat rack with a raggedy looking jacket hanging on it near the reception area, across from the broken down elevator. And isn’t that just his luck? The world decided to throw him a bone and said “here, you look like you could use some help.” A little too late.
He almost laughs, but it comes out as more of a wheeze. His throat is sore. He doesn’t think about it.
He struggles to shrug the jacket on, having to awkwardly maneuver his left arm with his right to fit it into the sleeve. It’s a bit dusty and ragged, but presentable, at least for the shadows of the city he plans to move in.
Slowly, painfully, he begins to make his way down the narrow steps he dragged himself up prior. How, he has no idea. He’s tempted to throw himself down the stairs, but ultimately decides that would do more harm than good.
It’s quiet as he descends, and he tries not to focus on the way his breaths wheeze and the drip drip drip sound as droplets of his own blood hit the floor. He has to pause a few times to recoup and reorient himself. His vision goes black occasionally as he moves, and his head aches, and more than once he finds himself slumped against the wall of the stairwell when moments prior he was walking and fine.
Eventually, he’s at the main floor, the “L” on a plaque against the frame giving it away easily. There’s a smear of brown, coppery dried blood against the sign, and once again he finds himself wondering how he got up here before and how long it’s been since.
Regardless, he pushes the door open by leaning his weight against it, and stumbles back into the main lobby. It’s dark outside, no light filtering in from the cracks in the bordered up windows. He has no idea what time it could be, though. His only insight on that is a vague recollection of it being somewhat bright outside when he left the hospital, but it’s summertime, so it’s hard to narrow down.
And even if he did, he has no clue how long he’s spent here. While he was sleeping, no, passed out in the dance studio upstairs. And god knows how long that was for. It’s probably the best night’s sleep he’s had in weeks. Which is saying something (about how fucking pathetic his life has turned out), since it was neither night nor what could be considered sleep.
He blinks open his eyes (why were they closed?) and tries to focus. Is it his imagination, or is the pain getting worse? His body aches, his head spins, there’s a sharp pain in his shoulder and burning in his chest, and below the waist-
No. Not going there.
(Hands, hands, fingers, nails against his skin, wanting more, why, why-)
He’s standing until he isn’t anymore, limbs splayed out against the unforgiving lobby floor.
-
Blearily, he comes to. Opens his eyes. Squints at the darkened surroundings.
Yup. Still hasn’t changed. Same ol’ torture dungeon.
“Зимний Солдат.” One of the men says shakily, struggling with the simple Russian. “Это твоя зовут.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Gotta work on your Russian. Твой. Not твоя.”
The man, who Bucky’s dubbed asshole numero uno at this point, seethes. So far, he’s been quick to anger, and it looks like that hasn’t changed yet. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up?”
And because he’s got not much else going for him- he’s already chained to a fucking wall and has been beaten past unconsciousness- Bucky eggs the guy on. “Why don’t you learn how to form a basic sentence?”
As a reward for his snark, he gets a punch in the face. Doesn’t do much, since his nose is already broken, but whatever. Coppery blood continues to drip past his lips.
“Okay, fine, you wanna be a smartass?” Asshole one growls, getting real close and personal so that Bucky can feel the heat of his breath. Someone didn’t brush their teeth today. “You’re gonna be begging me to tell you who you are and what to do very soon.”
He doubts it; this gangle of idiots doesn’t look like they’ve got the brains for anything worse than what HYDRA had done to him previously. The only thing they do have going for them is the violence. And it’s going to take a whole lot more than pain to get what they seem to want.
They’ve figured out by now that the code words don’t work, either. Which was only slightly amusing to watch. Because that seemed to be their plan. “You gotta update your sources, buddy,” He had said, after the ten words lay stagnant in the musty air of whatever dirty basement they tied him up in, “It’s 2024.” Usually he wouldn’t be so nonchalant about the idea of his trigger words still working, but seriously, they’ve been public knowledge for at the very least, five years.
So yeah, all they have is violence. And also vibranium cuffs. That too. That’s slightly more concerning. And also the only reason he hasn’t attempted a breakout yet. Conceivably, he could break his own wrist and slip out of the cuffs, but the timing has to be right for that. So far they haven’t given him an opening. But so far, they haven’t done anything other than scuff him up, so it’s not like he’s fumbling desperately for an immediate escape.
“Meyers, bring in the thing.” Asshole one decides eventually, gaze not leaving Bucky’s form.
“What thing?” Another man, presumably ‘Meyers,’ asks. Bucky refrains from rolling his eyes, not necessarily needing a concussion right now. But shit if this isn’t a fucking comedy.
“The thing,” Asshole one continues, gesturing vaguely with his right hand. “You know, the arm thing,” He adds condescendingly, like Meyers is an idiot. And well, he probably is, but that’s besides the point.
But… ‘arm thing’ doesn’t sound like it means anything good.
And nor does it look good.
Meyers comes in a few moments later (after Asshole one has gotten a few more punches in), body sagging under the weight of the massive device he’s carrying.
“Here it is.” He says, then adds, “I don’t know why we can’t use the dust stuff first. I mean he’s the Winter Soldier. Shouldn’t we, ya know, take advantage of that? I mean-”
“Shut up.” Asshole one doesn’t seem too pleased by Meyer’s babbling, and it’s probably the only thing he and Bucky can agree on. He leans in and smirks at Bucky, like it’s some sort of secret he’s sharing just between the two of them. “We’ll get to it, don’t you worry.” Wow. Ominous. He’s truly shaking in his boots.
Sarcasm aside, the machine that Meyers brought in isn’t looking to be a picnic. Giant metal contraptions generally never are, in his experience.
He’ll just have to tough through it. Again, it’s not like it can be worse than HYDRA.
But then suddenly the door on the far side of the room opens, and several soldiers come in. That’s not the problem though.
The problem is they’re all dressed in uniform, and that uniform just so happens to include a certain red armband with a logo he’d hope to never see again.
“Hello,” One of the soldiers in the front of the group says in a slight but recognizable accent.
Asshole one bares his teeth in a smile that Bucky wants to punch off his ugly mug.
“Ah, I’m glad you made it. Just in time for the fun to begin.”