Chapter 3
Now
“Take some deep breaths.”
Bucky breathed in. The doctor put the stethoscope on his chest and listened to his lungs. The government ordered health exams were yet another charming condition of his pardon and parole by the United States government. He wasn’t sure what they were looking for. The secret formula of how a super soldier stays young? Or maybe they just liked to poke him with sticks so that they could publish their findings in academic journals.
“Good, James,” said the doctor. “Very good. You can relax now.”
Bucky hadn’t even realized it but his shoulders were taut. Something about this facility struck a raw nerve in him. The smell of disinfectant. The windowless room with the buzzing fluorescent lights. It was just like so many rooms he’d been in before. And being examined, well…he was used to that too. Doctors and scientists examining every inch of his body, like it was their property. It was all familiar to him now. It was just that he was bracing himself for pain. Because traditionally, that was what came next for him.
He blinked rapidly and tried to suppress the feeling of dread that was clawing its way up into his throat. He felt that cold sensation in his spine, the one he’d felt a million times before. I’m safe here, he told himself. A lie, one that his therapist and his doctors and Sam kept telling him. He knew the truth: as long as he was alive, he would never be safe. He would never be normal. There would always be someone that wanted to use him for their own ends. And he had learned to stay vigilant.
“Now James — I want to talk to you about your lab results,” said the doctor, who didn’t appear to have noticed anything amiss in his patient.
He nodded absently. “Okay.”
“I noticed that a few of these markers of inflammation in your blood are a bit higher than what we would typically like to see. In fact, in a normal person, these numbers would be cause for alarm, but a person of your—well, a person who…”
“Is not normal,” Bucky finished.
“Right. Well. You understand, then. Have you had any recent injuries? Any fights? Perhaps something that hasn’t made it into your official reports?”
Bucky thought of the other night. He’d awoken from a dream, and had put his hand through the mirror in the bathroom. He hadn’t been fully conscious, or he wouldn’t have done it. There were no marks left on his hands and wrists. So…had Sam ratted him out?
“No sir,” said Bucky. “I’ve been living a normal life. Just as ordered.”
The doctor nodded once, scribbled on the sheet of paper. “And about your drug tests.”
Bucky stared at him. Drug tests? Fuck. He hadn’t known they were monitoring that.
“The levels of benzodiazepines in your blood, they are…high. And we also found evidence of oxycodone. Perhaps there was an injury, then? Something you failed to mention?”
Bucky shook his head, dumbstruck. Fuck. He’d have to be more careful. Maybe he should lie. But that would just lead to more questions.
“If you haven’t been injured, why are you still taking such powerful medications?”
Bucky could tell the truth. That when he woke up unable to think, unable to breathe, the pills were the only thing that quieted his brain, let him feel like a human again.
“The Xanax…it’s my prescription. Like you said. Normal doesn’t exactly work for me.”
“And the other?” The doctor peered at him over spectacles.
“I had a headache,” he said, lamely.
The doctor nodded. “Well. Just be sure to let us know if those ‘headaches’ become more frequent.”
The doctor’s tone was mocking. Bucky felt a wave of indignation rise up in him. But then he quelled it. He didn’t need any more trouble. He certainly didn’t need more medical intervention. He already felt like a prisoner.
“Yes sir,” he said. “Thank you doctor.” The words tasted fake even to him.
He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He mounted his motorcycle and tore out onto the road, feeling the wind whipping his face. He rode for miles on his bike, far past his exit. Road until he reached a smaller dirt road, which led to a “scenic overlook.” A place he often came to not be bothered. It may have been scenic once, but now it was little more than a group of gangly trees and a tiny river filled with trash.
It’d been here where he’d come to talk to Steve after one of the first times he’d been to therapy. Here where he’d told Steve his secrets. And where he’d felt some semblance of peace.
He took the bottle from his jacket pocket. Popped the top off one handed. Swallowed one pill, then another. Then he sat.
He wished he couldn’t remember everything that he’d told Steve that day. Sometimes, memory could be a curse.