You good? Wilson asks him, after he fought against eight men. He nods then turns around and follows Zemo to find Selby. Yes, he’s fine. They have a mission, Wilson should hurry. The quicker they get out of here, the better. He hurt these people, but they’re all criminals. He doesn’t feel any guilt about that. He can’t really feel anything at the moment, with the adrenaline.
You okay? Wilson asks him, when they get into Sharon’s house. They’re slightly behind the two others, out of sight of the people in the streets. Yeah, I’m good. Pretending to be the winter Soldier isn’t pleasant, but it’s far from the worst that happened to him. He’s irritated that Zemo didn’t tell him how far his plan could go, lack of information is a liability. Other than that, he’s fine.
You hurt? Wilson asks him, when they get out of the car. No injuries, barely a scratch from the explosion, and he’s got the serum. Sam on the other hand… No, I’m fine. You? Sam shakes his head, and that’s as far as it goes. They’re both still pissed at each other and they board the plane in silence. Really, it’s both their fault, not that he would admit it to the other man. He had just acted on instinct; the soldier had always gone in first when a team had been needed.
Bucky, you okay? Sam asks him, as he’s slumped against the jet’s bathroom wall, in the middle of the night.
It’s an out, and they both know it. He could brush it as a stomach bug or air sickness. Bucky is backed up in a corner, the one closest to the actual toilet, arms wrapped around his knees. He’s shaking, his breathing is laboured, and he knows he must be very pale. His eyes stare absently at the wall in front of him, but his head snaps up as soon as Sam twitches. His mind goes in fight or flight mode, and in an instant, he’s reliving everything that happened during the day. The fight, the attempt at negotiation, the attack… How easy it had been to slip back into that mindset. The almost relief he had felt, not having to think. How easily Zemo had seen through him.
Bucky lurches forwards, and empties his stomach of the little food he managed to eat that day. The subconscious part of his mind hears Sam cursing then leaving the bathroom. The conscious part though, that one is trapped.
All he can see is the faces of the people he killed, their expressions torn by fear.
All he can hear is their screams, his own, and his handlers giving orders.
All he can smell is burnt flesh and explosives.
All he can taste is bile and blood.
All he can feel is the absence of his arm, pain, and hands touching him. They’re the wrongs hands. Wrong, wrong, WRONG. Too many of them, not at the same time, all different but all the same. Doing different things in different places, but they always hurt, whatever it is they’re doing. They’re everywhere, prodding, hitting, humiliating, violating. They’re the wrongs hands, they don’t have the right to touch him, but they take it. They take, take, take. They take what they want, when they want.
He whines and coughs. A sob breaks out of him and he dry heaves, only bile dribbling out of his mouth. His hands are about to break what is under them when he hears someone speak. He tries to focus on that, better than what’s in his head. Slowly, his surroundings become clearer and soon he realises it’s Sam who is calling him.
Bucky’s breathing is a bit better, and his thoughts a bit clearer. He flushes the toilet and closes the lid in a haze, then slumps back against the wall. Sam is back in the bathroom, sitting down in front of him and he closed the door. That’s not all. He brought blankets and pillows, and there’s a glass full of water by the sink.
“Can you tell me who you and I are, when and where we are?”
“My name is James Buchanan Barnes, you’re Samuel Wilson. Years is…” fuck “2023 and we’re on a plane for Europe.”
“Good.”
It doesn’t feel good.
“You should probably drink this.”
Bucky nods, then pushes on his feet only to reconnect with the floor a second later. His limbs feel like lead and jelly at the same time. Sam gets up and hands Bucky the glass, keeping his movements slow and obvious the entire time. He wordlessly lifts the toilet lid as Bucky rinses his mouth, then closes it and gets back on the floor.
Bucky takes measured sips, aware than he could choke if he drank too fast. When there is no more water, he puts the glass down and closes his eyes. When he reopens them, a few tears are still rolling down, but his heart rate is back to normal and a pillow and blanket have been pushed towards him. Shakily, he reaches for the blanket and wraps it around him. He hadn’t realised he was this cold.
After what feels like hours, Bucky looks up and calls Sam with a hoarse voice. The two men look at each other without any animosity, only understanding.
“I don’t think I’m fine.”
Sam nods. Acceptance is the first part of healing, after all.