Chapter 9
He didn’t know what happened. Why he was wet and crusty with sand. All he knew was that he hurt, in a way that made him think of darkness, cruel fists and the crack of a whip. It sent something bolting through his chest, sending his heart rabbiting. His chest heaved as his breaths became ragged, hyperventilating in his panic as he lay there, drowning in his inexplicable, instinctive fear.
What happened?
Where was he?
Who was he? Why couldn’t he remember?
Breathe, Sweeting, breathe for me.
He gasped, eyes snapping open and back bowing as he tried to shoot up at the sudden invasion of the voice in his head. It sounded familiar, made him feel warm and safe. Who was it?
Breathe, there you go.
Slowly, his breaths became more even, less panicked. As calm as he could be, he pried open his eyes, wincing at the brightness of the sun, taking stock of himself.
His head was throbbing, and when he pressed his right fingers against his temple, they came back wet and sticky. That was probably why his vision was foggy and his head felt fuzzy and sore. He closed his eyes, groaning, as he wriggled his toes.
Not broken, he reassured himself, as they all moved within his boots, legs twitching. Sore, but functional. That was good. He ran his right hand down his side, wincing as he caught bruises and scrapes, but couldn’t find anything too bad.
You got lucky, he thought, grudgingly.
He tried to move his left arm, but he couldn’t. Oh God, he couldn’t movie it. Pushing down the panic, he turned his head gingerly to the side, sobbing as he saw it trapped underneath several wooden planks (where had they come from?) and tangled in a massive sheet of material and rope. He could see it, swollen and bent at an odd angle, the ropes cutting off the blood supply, turning it an angry red. He could almost see it pulsing. Dying.
Tears stung his eyes as he gritted his teeth, steeling himself before he gave it a vicious tug, pulling it from under the wood, screaming at the pain it sent burning down his arm, straight to his head and eyes. It made his vision darken, but he persisted; using his upper body to move it and pull the rope free, tears streaming down his face.
Oh, God, it looked awful.
Breathe, you’re okay. You’re okay. Always so strong, my heart, it’s okay to let it out.
He nearly sobbed at the comforting voice, the way it seemed to tug him from the darkness that hovered just out of his awareness; the darkness he knew he could sink into, easy as a dip in water, and let it pull him down. Surrender to its embrace.
Not giving up that easy, are you?
He groaned, clutching his head with his good hand against the invasion of the new, strange voice. It hurt, in a way that wasn’t physical, but like it sent a gigantic ache shooting through his heart.
If this is where the Lord intends us to fall, then we shall pass on fighting.
Get up.
Get up.
Get UP.
It was bellowing now, both of the voices, sending his head spinning.
GET UP.
“I can’t,” he cried, sobbed, sprawled on his back, chest heaving with the pain. “I can’t.”
Sweetheart, of course you can. Of course you can. You need to. You need to survive.
You’re a fighter. A survivor. If anyone could do this, it would be you, old friend.
“I’m a survivor. I’m a survivor,” he muttered, gathering his spirit. “I will not give up, I refuse to die here.” Wherever ‘here’ was, but that was a concern for a later time, it seemed. Now, he needed to fight.
“I’m a survivor, and I will survive.”
Everything’s going to be just fine, Sweeting.
Focus on us.
He gritted his teeth, leaning on his good arm and rolled until he was on his knees, braced by one hand, the other hanging useless, sending bolts of white hot agony through his veins with each jostle, with each movement. He swore weakly, pushing up onto his feet, stumbling.
One foot in front of the other.
He just had to keep moving, keep going. Keep fighting.
And figure out how the Devil he got here, and who the Hell he was.
His feet, one secure in a leather booth, the other bare, sunk into the wet sand of the beach, waves lapping at his feet as he stumbled on, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other. He made his way through the wreckage (did he get here on a ship?), towards the trees, towards shelter.
Safety.
And stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a man, face somehow familiar, at his feet, cheek bleeding sluggishly, eyes fluttering.
“Bucky?”
Steve’s whole body ached, but at least it felt whole. He groaned, feeling himself hanging onto consciousness by a thread. By the Lord, he was sore.
Goddamn Hammer; blowing up his fucking ships.
Fucker.
He forced his eyes open as he heard approaching footsteps, uneven and stumbling. Could it be one of Stark’s crew? Stark himself? Bucky? Hope, bright and sudden, burned within his chest, giving him the strength to turn his head, and lo and behold, that stumbling, injured figure was Bucky.
Bucky. Oh, God, his arm. His arm.
“Bucky?” He managed to croak, losing the fight with consciousness in time to hear his lifelong friend, his love, his other half, mutter a confused ‘Who the Hell’s Bucky?”’
He didn’t even have time to acknowledge the dread that instilled within him, deep and curling in his gut, before his world went dark.
Again.
Fucking pirates.
Hammer, Tony decided, as he lay draped over a barrel, clutching on for dear life in the choppy water, drifting further and further from the wrecked Ultron and his crew, his James, was a massive dick. Gargantuan, in fact. And a fool. He’d blown up his ship and crew (granted, Tony and his crew had pretty much already killed them all), but the slaves on board as well. (Surely Hammer wouldn’t have put the slaves on a doomed ship. Not even he would waste money so carelessly, surely).
He was going to kill him. He was going to run him through with his sword- well, maybe someone else’s sword. His was probably at the bottom of the ocean by now, damn it- and beat him black and blue.
And maybe burn the corpse.
Cursing Hammer, Tony kicked his feet as best as he could in his position on the barrel, directing himself to whatever shore he had floated to on the current. Hopefully he wouldn’t be the only one to wash up there; he was smart and resourceful enough to survive on an isolated island, but the company could be nice.
And if it were one of the Ultron’s crew, he could always eat them.
(Kidding! He’d never go within ten feet of those foul beasts; he would much rather starve.
And y’know, eating people was weird.)
At least he wouldn’t be covered in their blood, anymore, he mused, weary in the face of exhaustion. He was running on adrenaline, and was due for a nasty crash.
Focus, he scolded himself, feet kicking, and shore getting closer and closer with each minute. Eventually- finally!- he made it, swimming as best as he could the rest of the way, crawling out of the water, gasping for breath. May the Lord remind him to never go for a spontaneous swim again.
He groaned, panting, as he forced himself up, sitting down off the beach in front of a tree to catch his breath, just in time to see a figure stumbling past, looking worryingly unsteady on his feet.
Tony felt his breath catch as he recognised the shape of the figure, the broad shoulders he had many a time rested his head on, the narrow hips he would wrap his arms around, the hair he would run his fingers through. A body he had loved.
“James?”
There was a noise behind him, as he dragged the unconscious man away from the water and into the shelter of the trees with his good arm. A faint snap, like a twig breaking under a man’s weight. He twirled, instantly on the defensive, all but snarling.
“James! Easy, Love, it’s me!”
That voice.
That voice- he knew it. He knew that voice. Who was it?
He clutched his head, feeling a frission of pain lance straight through it as he tried to remember, tried to recall the man whose face seemed impossibly familiar.
WHO AM I?
Sailers, his family, hauling the masts, grinning as he stood beside a tall, blond man. Blood, crimson red, painting his fists as he knocked another hot-headed fool on his ass. “Pick on somebody your own size,” the jaunty suggestion to accompany the swagger, the bravado.
WHO ARE YOU?
Darkness, pierced by a single, bright light; it almost seemed to burn through the blackness, forbidding it to swallow him whole as he sensed it wanted to. “My star,” shining bright, protecting. Warm, safe.
Soft smiles, warm hands. Brown curls, sharp eyes. Wit razor sharp, heart of gold. Whispered promises, a flash of a silver bracelet. “Promise me.” “Sweeting.”
Sweeting?
He was the voice inside his head. The one who had told him to stand, to fight. But who was he?
He relaxed his hands, looking up to the man from where he had fallen to his knees beside the unconscious blond, whom the stranger’s eyes were flitting too, moving between him and the blond, looking concerned. Scared. His eyes widened as they caught sight of his mangled arm. “Your arm!” He moved towards him, but he ignored him, moving his arm slightly behind his back.
“I am James?”
It sounded familiar, but not wholly right.
He groaned through the confusement, frustrated.
The man bit his lip, offering a single nod. He didn’t move any closer from where he had stopped, raising his hands as he- James?- had snarled at him. “Yes,” he agreed, “But this one,” he nodded towards the blond, “Called you Bucky.” He tilted his head, curiosity blending with concern. “I never knew why,” he muttered, seemingly to himself.
He- James. Bucky- ignored it, instead standing and looking down at the unconscious man. “I know him.”
The man nodded. “You do. He was your Captain.” He lowered his hands, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don’t remember?”
Bucky shook his head. “I- no. Not really. It’s all,” he trailed off, waving his hands around his head, trying to convey what he couldn't describe. “Foggy. Distant.”
The man cursed, running a hand through his hair. “Do you remember me?” His voice sounded oddly choked and hesitant, like he didn’t want to know the answer.
Bucky shrugged. “No,” he admitted, “But I know your voice.” He wanted to cross his arms; he felt vulnerable and hated it. He was scared. Petrified, really. “Who are you? Where are we? What happened? Why can’t I remember?”
“My name’s Tony,” he provided softly, sorrow cut into the tense lines of his body. “My name’s Anthony Stark, and I’m your lo-friend,” he choked, almost a sob. “I’m your- I’m your friend.”
He took a deep breath as Bucky blinked, regarding him uncertainly, smiling widely, sorrow replaced with a brave, cavalier bravado that made some deep, instinctive part of Bucky ache and long to hold him close and kiss away his sorrows. He stumbled back a step, shocked at the sudden urge that gripped him. Why on God’s green Earth would he want to do that with this man? A man who claimed to be a friend.
Anthony seemed to wilt slightly as Bucky recoiled, before drawing himself up, determinedly looking him in the eye. “I don’t know where we are. Not exactly. You were with me on a ship,” he explained, slightly slower than his normal speech, as if he were choosing his words carefully. Bucky glared, sensing that Anthony was withholding information from him, missing out key details. “And we ended up overboard, drifting. He,” he nodded to the blond- Steve, his mind whispered, his name is Stevie- “Was with us.”
Bucky nodded. Yes. That felt right- distant memories of the man bellowing orders to his crew surfaced, but they felt… odd. Almost as if they were just under the surface of a body of water, not quite reachable. “He was the Captain,” he guessed. “I remember him being my Captain, I think.” He rubbed his temples, grimacing. “I don’t- I can’t recall properly,” he growled, frustrated.
Anthony hesitated. “He was your Captain, but you were aboard my ship. Well, kind of. That’s not important- what matters is that we obviously washed up here together, though where we are I cannot tell you, and I don’t know why you can’t remember.” Pain, real and raw, bled through, sending a visceral sliver of empathetic pain crawl down Bucky’s spine. “You must have hit your head.”
Bucky hugged himself with his good arm, sinking to the floor by Steve’s head, shivering. “Will I ever remember?”
Anthony shrugged helplessly. “I’m not a physician,” he apologised. “I simply don’t know. Head wounds are tricky. Your amnesia could be temporary, it could be permanent. It could be numerous, for all I know. Could repeatedly render your mind blank without warning. I don’t know.”
Bucky didn’t cry.
He didn’t, but it was a close thing.
Instead, he clenched his hand, gathering the overwhelming grief and anger that pierced him, sudden and leaving him choked, crumpling it into a small, horrid ball and locking it deep, deep down, for a later time.
Do not break.
Do not break.
It was a familiar mantra, one that reminded him of hoarse whispers, with darkness and pain his only companions. I will not break. My name is James Buchanan Barnes and I will not break. He found himself mouthing along with the memory, drawing a queer sort of comfort from it.
“I suppose it’s in the Lord’s hands, then,” he managed, swallowing down the urge to scream. His whole body tingled, restlessness urging him to move, to do something. Anything. “We need to get off this island.” He didn’t know much, but that he knew with a certainty he could feel it in his bones. This place wasn’t safe, wasn’t sustainable. “I- I’m from a mainland?”
Anthony nodded, lips pursed in a tense line. His hands were shaking, Bucky noticed curiously. He was panicking, and making an admirable effort to hide it. Perhaps he was as close to breaking, fracturing into two, as he was. It was a comforting thought. He wasn’t alone in his anxieties, then. “We need to see to your arm first, and make sure that he,” he glanced down to the unconscious blond, “isn’t in imminent threat of dying.” His voice sounded a hair’s breadth too tight, too high. “God, your arm- it looks like it’s dying.”
Indeed, it had already swollen massively, turning a deep, horrible purple that turned his stomach. “I think it’s infected,” he managed. It had massive, deep slices from something he didn’t remember, and the bone that peeked out was covered in grime.
“I think so, too.” Anthony’s voice sounded even more strangled. “James, I’m not a doctor, I don’t know how to treat it- a wound like that could kill you!”
Bucky winced as a sudden bolt of pain lanced through him. “It hurts,” he moaned through the haze of pain, eyes watering. It was all he could do not to scream.
“Hey, easy, we’ll get you sorted, alright? I promise- you’ll be fighting fit in no time, yeah?”
The promise, the gentle touch of Anthony’s fingers on his face eased something within Bucky’s chest, made him want to reach for the man’s hand. Made him want to kiss him gently, whisper soft nothings in his ear.
“Something tells me you’re a man of your word,” he managed, offering a weak grin.“If not a bit of an ass.”
Anthony grinned, eyes sparkling momentarily with something warm and joyous. “Sure am, Sweeting. Sure am.”
Neither of them even noticed the endearment; it felt natural, easy. Bucky was too busy screaming from a sudden flare of pain up his arm that burned like Hellfire itself.
Steve woke to a scream. Garbled, but a scream nonetheless. It shot off every warning alarm in his body, sending him up on his feet in an instant, searching for the threat. His eyes snagged on a form hunched over one propped against the trunk of a tall, slender and oddly bark-less tree.
Stark.
Stark? What was he doing here? And with Bucky, no less.
Bucky.
Oh, God, Bucky was the one screaming.
"Stark!" He snarled, attempting to leap to his feet, but instead stumbling and damn near falling face-first into the ground. "Get away from him!"
Stark shot him a scowl from over his shoulder. "Come here," he snapped, and it was only the glimmer of fear in his eyes that stopped Steve from socking him in the jaw. "I need you to keep him still." His tone was grave, far graver than Steve had ever heard him be, and it send true, primal fear shooting down his spine, turning his blood cold and dragging his stomach to the ground.
"What's going on, Stark?" He asked, cautiously approaching the two men, one groaning, eyes fluttering, arms pulling against Stark's hold, the other scared, trying to restrain the broken arm. Steve blanched. It looked awful. The bone that bad pierced the skin, normally snow white when he had seen it happen to his men in battles, was dirty with crusted blood, sand and dirt, the skin around it black and swollen.
"Steve," he heard Stark snap. "I can't hold him- I need you to help. He needs you to help."
Steve just stared, wide eyed and panicked. No. He couldn't. He couldn't. What Stark was asking him to do… Bucky would never forgive him.
"Steve! I need to take his arm or he'll die. Do you hear me? He'll die!" Stark was screaming now, tears cascading down his face, glistening and awful.
He couldn't.
But he couldn't lose Bucky.
“There’s got to be another way,” he insisted. “Stark, there has to be!”
Stark shook his head, lips a thin line, eyes haunted with sorrow. “There isn’t,” he denied, voice hoarse. “Rogers, there isn’t. We have to do this or he dies.”
He cursed, falling to his knees and gripping Bucky's shoulder. "Easy, easy," he murmured, determinedly not watching as Stark tied what was left of his shirt around Bucky's bicep, tightening it as much as he could.
"Do you still have my sword?" Starks voice was tense and brittle, like at any moment he'd just snap. "Steve! Do you have my sword?" He repeated, slower, each word emphasised. "I need you to think, Steve. Do you still have it?"
He shook his head. No. No, he didn't- he'd lost it when he was propelled overboard.
"Shit. Shit, okay. Okay," he cursed, gripping his hair. "What- oh." He moved back to where Steve had been lay, fumbling for the dagger he kept strapped across his chest, returning with it, white-faced, hand shaking.
“James, Sweeting, I need you to stay very still,” he crooned, gentle and pained. “I’m so very sorry, but you need to stay very still, Love.” He cradled his face in his hands, eyes watering. “God, I’m sorry,” he choked, releasing his face and grabbing the dagger so tight Steve could see his knuckles turn white.
“Easy, Buck,” he murmured, straddling his hips and pushing at his shoulders as he bucked, eyes glazed and distant. He was reacting purely on instinct, the pain reducing him to nothing more than a feral animal. Moving a knee to pin his left arm, determinedly keeping his gaze off it, he managed a terse ‘Now’ to Stark, feeling his stomach heave and twist in time with his heart as Bucky screamed. He howled, in rage, in pain, bucking wildly, almost catching Steve’s jaw with his head.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Stark chanted, over and over, with each sawing motion of the knife. “I’m so sorry.”
And then finally- finally- Bucky passed out, eyes fluttering shut and body slumping. Able to work quicker now, Stark continued with renewed vigour, until the limb was well and truly severed from its owner.
Steve barely managed to get off his unconscious form before he lost the contents of his stomach in violent heaves, eyes streaming. “Oh God,” he moaned, shuddering. “Oh my God.”
When his stomach finally settled, he turned to see Stark sat by Bucky, knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around them as he rocked, crying. “He’s never going to forgive me,” he wailed. “He’ll hate me for life.” He wept, wept for James’ loss, for the loss of what they had, of what they could have had, and for the pain James was doubtless going to suffer when he awoke.
Steve, face grim but determined, hesitated before dropping a hand on Stark’s shoulder. Something akin to respect flitted through him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said firmly, “Because he’ll be alive. And that’s all that matters.”
Because Stark had saved his life. Had saved his Bucky, the love of his life, his rock, his everything. And he couldn’t bring himself to care in that moment if he would hate them, because he’d be alive to hate them, and that was enough. He might lose him, but he wouldn’t lose him, all thanks to Stark. He gritted his teeth against the fresh wave of nausea as he thought about what he had done, what he’d had to do. Stark was a stronger man than him, he realised. If it were just Steve with Bucky, Bucky would have undoubtedly died, his wound turning septic and poisoning his blood until it killed him. His heart broke at the thought. Steve knew that he wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to do that, to sever his arm, cripple him.
Thank God for Stark.
“Thank you,” he choked, overcome with emotions he couldn’t even begin to untangle and identify. All he knew was the steady tattoo of Bucky Bucky Bucky in his heart. “You saved his life.”
Stark, still weeping, though they were silent sobs wracking his frame, moaned.
“You saved his life, Stark.”
He owed him everything.
Bucky woke to agony, true and debilitating.
Again.
“Buck?”
He groaned, even the soft, inquiring voice too much for his poor head.
“Buck, are you awake?”
He groaned, cracking open an eye to see an anxious, concerned blond head hovering directly in front of him. “Gah!” he groaned, trying to scramble back, instead finding himself flat on his back. “Stevie?” he asked hesitant, recognising the face. It belonged to the blond he dragged from the water, the man that seemed so familiar.
“Yes,” came the choked reply. It sounded like he was crying. “Yes, Buck, it’s me, your Stevie.” A hand gripped his, tight but reassuring.
“Stevie?”
“Yeah, Buck?”
He grunted, closing his eyes against the pain as he tried to sit up, grateful when Steve helped him. Panting, he gritted his teeth. “Why can’t I feel my arm?”
He swallowed, taking in Steve’s red, puffy eyes, the tear tracked cut through the dirt, sweat and blood on his face, and cursing. “I don’t want to look,” he admitted, feeling like crying himself. “Stevie, what happened to me? Why can’t I remember you? Why can’t I feel my arm?”
“Buck-”
“Why can’t I feel my arm?” He screamed, heart racing as he worked himself up, scared beyond belief. “What did you do to me?”
“It wasn’t him, James.” His head whipped round at the new, tired voice from a figure curled up in a ball on the ground far to his right. “It was me. I did it. I took your arm.”
Bucky started to hyperventilate as he looked down, seeing the bandages around a stump where his bicep used to be. He knew he used to have a full arm, he knew he remembered that. “You took my arm,” he whimpered, feeling the panic lap at his feet, threatening to drag him down into the abyss. “You crippled me,” he snarled, terrified fury blazing in his eyes. “I hate you.”
And he did. In that moment, his hate was a visceral, potent thing that wrapped around his throat, spewing fire. “I don’t know who you are but I hate you,” he snarled. “Damn you to Hell.”
The figure let loose a terrible, high pitched whine, full of pain and grief. “I’m so sorry,” it cried. “I’m so sorry, Sweeting.”
“Don’t call me that!” He bellowed, wanting to jump to his feet, wanting to throttle the man that could do this to him. “Don’t you dare.” In that moment his panic morphed, twisted into something bitter and burning.
The figure sobbed harder, whining and heaving, trying in vain to suck in air. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, over and over, voice hitching. He, Tony, Bucky remembered, stood, unsteady on his feet. “I’m so sorry.” He stumbled away, to where Bucky didn’t know, didn’t care.
Good riddance.
“Buck,” came Steve’s unsure whisper. “Buck, that’s a little harsh.”
“He took my arm, took my life.” And he did. Without an arm, who was he? How could a man do anything as a cripple? “It was his ship I was on when I lost my memory,” he snarled. “He brings nothing but pain.”
Steve flinched. “I said that to you once,” he said quietly. “And you fought tooth and nail to show me that I was wrong.” He looked down to his hands, clasped in his lap. “I didn’t see how wrong I was until he saved your life.”
Bucky snarled. “I don’t care what he did. He didn’t save me, he damned me.”
He should have let him die.