If Only In My Dreams

Sometimes it is the bitter cold that wakes Bucky, not anything else. Not the screaming of the other men. Not the sting of the scalpel or the jab of a needle. Not the discordant voices, speaking some foreign language, or the shine of light directly into his pupils.

Sometimes, Bucky jerks awake because of the feel of soul-baring cold and his clammy skin stuck to the freezing metal table. Frigid air whistles in through the holes in the walls, scratching over him. The only things warm are the thick leather bands cutting into his wrists and ankles.

In the cold, time is of no importance. There is only the cycle of pain, prodding, repeat. There is only the cycle of worn words tumbling over, and over, and over, from Bucky's numb lips. If he screams- well, as long as it doesn't give anything away, Bucky holds onto that. He holds onto the words and even to the cold. At least the cold is there for Bucky, something he can cling onto- at least the shivers that wrack his body are familiar and the cold reminds him of what else he has to keep in sight.

Icy fingers and chapped lips. Chattering teeth and the most slender limbs. Piercing eyes and the smallest snowflakes dusting pale lashes. Spiderwebbing of faintly blue veins. Puffs of breath, never enough, float into the air-

"So- Sergeant Barnes, you are awake I see?" Zola's high reedy voice faintly registers past the hoarse muttering from Bucky. He only sees the brief reflection of the short man's spectacles, the slight shine of his forehead.

It is so cold that Bucky barely feels the thermometer as it plunges into his mouth- it slides too deep for a second and there's is only a slight convulsion- nowhere near close to a gag. The way it's been, Bucky can't remember details, much less the last time he'd actually flinched from pain.

Bucky knows someone who swallowed pills without gagging once, and himself knows the familiar weight of a thermometer in hand to check for fever.

"You are doing well- better zan I expected," Zola whistles as he fiddles with something out of Bucky's field of vision. "Vitals strong, healing faster zan ever..." He trails off with a pleased tone of voice, then re-emerges foggily above Bucky. There's a small needle in his hand.

A dull snap of rubber wrapped around Bucky's arm and tied off.

A warm prick at Bucky's inner elbow when Zola draws blood.

Bucky is caught in the ghost sensation of thin fingers gripping his in the face of countless blood tests, countless injections; in comparison to that, this is nothing-

"Do you know vhat day it is, Sergeant Barnes? I'm sure you are aware of ze winter creeping on us, eh?"

The constant shivers through Bucky are enough indication of that.

"Do you celebrate Christmas holiday, Sergeant Barnes? I am hearing it is almost zat time of ze year now, your American comrades will be having a good time, yes?" Zola hums what might be a twisted attempt at a Christmas tune, butchered by his creaky voice and breathy exhalations. He is documenting something now, scratching away at a pad of paper.

Bucky knows he is still muttering his mantra, to keep himself from spilling anything else and to keep himself sane, but his mind drifts to somewhere else, to a place of thin sheets in the winter, windowpanes frosted over, and a broken radiator, there is heart-rending coughing-

"I myself vill take a couple days off, how about that?" Zola shuffles closer, "Maybe a relief to you?" There's a faint clatter, but Bucky has memorized that sound. Maybe the words fall from his lips faster. Maybe he bites his near-senseless tongue in the involuntary rush. Maybe he trips over the fourth number, and the fifth, before catching onto a faster rhythm, maybe his breath comes in harsher pants now-

The syringe only stings the slightest, but it's what comes after that has Bucky faltering. The rush of warmth- of fire coursing through his veins. It blossoms like a flower at first until it isn't- it's a wildfire roaring, the flower shrivels and Bucky is faintly aware of the animal sounds escaping him- the flames are jagged and they soar through him- he's arching his back off the table, trying, writhing, the leather burns as it digs deeper into him-

"Unfortunately, and I truly regret this, Sergeant Barnes, I'll have to administer anozer dosage of ze serum- can't have you slacking off over holiday-"

Maybe Bucky is whimpering, the burning in his flesh has not subsided yet, no- they regulate their dosages, they don't do this, where is the cold that he craves? Where- "Here we are," Zola is holding another syringe now, Bucky's numbers are faint, he can barely breathe past the fire in his lungs- "Now, now, stop struggling, I might miss the optimal injection site-"

The pinch of the needle makes Bucky bare his teeth at the grimy ceiling, scalding tears prick at his eyes- the surge of searing heat is nearly instantaneous now, combined with the fire that was already raging under his skin- Bucky is screaming now, he knows he is- his mouth tastes like ash and he wonders if he would find blisters inside his skull- there's the rush of boiling blood in his ears and the flames pull his muscles taut, until they are screaming as Bucky screams, until they are bleeding like Bucky bleeds-

Where is the numbing cold he wants, where is the freezing nothing, where is Steve, oh God, Bucky wishes he could feel the relief of cool fingers on his forehead, the steady timbre of Steve's voice, please, Bucky wants him here but he wants him safe and this fire hurts so goddamned much, Stevie-

"Buck!" Steve opens the door with little flourish, but much enthusiasm, and the heater is rattling away for once but, of course, Steve's hands are still cold when he pulls Bucky inside.

"Merry Christmas, Stevie," Bucky holds out the wrapped parcel, stepping into their room, "I got this on the way home."