Chapter Text
Bucky Barnes could say that being locked in a prison was terribly boring. At least in cryogenics, he didn't feel time. His brain simply shut down in a matter of seconds, every muscle in his body went numb, and when the last breath left his throat, his eyes simply closed and his mind went winter-white. When he woke up... It was like having cotton on his head, too heavy and confusing, but that was it, a blink of an eye, with no time to think or feel.
In his cell, he'd thought too much, there was enough time for memories to return, from the good years in Brooklyn with his family moving from Indiana, meeting Steve after his nose was broken at school, family dinners with his sisters, days at work in his father's shop, his job on the pier, Coney Island, the anguish of the war and the draft, the terror of being in Zola's clutches, the relief of seeing Steve again and knowing he finally had the health his heart could endure, the raw jealousy over Peggy and the screams from the train... Yes, then came the horror of his victims; the missions through the decades were something more vivid and complete, causing him nightmares that eventually woke the rest of the Raft's inhabitants.
The guards were tempted to soundproof his cell if it hadn't been for Ross's strict prohibition, who wanted to keep a close watch on him.
After losing the Battle of Leipzig-Halle, Secretary Ross had thrown them into a hole in the middle of the sea. There was no trial, no cameras, just reinforced handcuffs and electric shock collars. Shoving. A cold cell while the guards called them out and treated them like criminals. Bucky could accept that this was the treatment he deserved, because, Hydra controlled or not, it was his hands that pulled the trigger, threw bombs, and broke bones. They were stained with blood; he belonged there, and while selfishly he hated the idea of being locked up again... He could believe it was fair, but the others? They were heroes, having risked their lives more than once to keep the world safe, fighting terrorists, aliens, fascist cults, and killing machines.
Sam Wilson was even in the army, for God's sake, just like Steve and him... Oh, Steve. If there was anyone who had no business being on the Raft, it was Steve, and yet, Ross almost seemed happy to have him behind bars with that stupid, smug smirk as he wandered through the cells. Bucky just wanted his arm back so he could knock his teeth out. Because of course, after their stunt in Berlin, they hadn't been stupid again; they removed the metal arm before assigning him a number. One more for the list.
"It seems being a prisoner of war is already a bad habit of mine," he had tried to joke with Steve in the helicopter the night they were taken to prison. The sea was turbulent, and a part of them hoped that the thing would collapse in the whitewater that rose with large waves amidst the overcast sky, lit only by lightning flashes amid the torrential rain. It almost looked like Thor would emerge from between the clouds.
And to his surprise, Steve had smiled. It was a small grimace as he buried his head against the helicopter, but there was a sadness that broke his heart. After the adrenaline and rage that had been pumping through his veins in the last few hours, he looked exhausted and, to a certain extent, fed up, as if he'd stopped fighting when he realized no one would listen to him again. Bucky had sworn that position was so familiar, as was the anguish and concern he felt for him. It was a matter of minutes before his mind pieced together the image of a boy, thin and like an ear of wheat, short and with blond hair, who had Steve's face: that large, crooked nose, thick eyebrows, and piercing blue eyes that were impossible to forget.
Back then he would fight with everyone if he saw a situation of injustice: with the landlord if they raised the rent from one month to the next, with the neighbor next door when he hit his wife, with drunks if they tried to make a pass at a girl at night, with the police who arrested a black person accusing them of being lazy just because of their skin color, with bullies who beat up another boy just for considering him effeminate. Steve always started fights that he ended, but there were times when he wasn't there, where he would usually arrive at his apartment and find him sitting by the table with a bad face and a split lip (if he was careful, sometimes he had both eyes black) , cleaning the blood with a frown, but it was that look of resignation that Bucky hated as much as seeing him hurt, because whoever had done it had not only hurt him apparently, but in his morale, because Steve knew that not only had he taken a beating, but that whatever he claimed, would continue to happen.
"I'm sorry I failed you again," Steve had murmured in that booth, his voice breaking, his eyes clouded, staring at the wall. The two of them had been separated from the rest. Bucky shook his head, hating not being able to take his hand to comfort him in some way. It was certain he blamed himself for the whole mess, as part of his bad habit. Always carrying the weight of the world, believing himself to be Atlas until the weight crushed him.
"There was nothing you could do, Steve, but you should have left me in Berlin and stopped Zemo..."
"Where you go, I'll go, Buck," she cut him off firmly, her eyes having regained some emotion. A flicker of softness for him, as if Steve needed to see his eyes to relive the reason he kept fighting, as he straightened with a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as best he could thanks to the handcuffs and letting his body fill with determination.
He already wants to fight again, Bucky had thought, and for a second, he truly believed that the good luck that had always accompanied Steve would once again save them from ending up in a godforsaken prison, but not even a man with a plan can defeat the government when his hands are tied and his allies have turned their backs on him. Oh, they were so close to achieving it, at least the two of them, if Vision hadn't shot down his Quinjet after War Machine fell. The sacrifices of Wanda, Clint, Sam, and Scott were all in vain. Natasha was the only one who had managed to escape after her move against the King of Wakanda, landing a widow's bite that left him on the ground.
No one had found her to date.
"Even in that hole?"
Steve nodded, his voice unwavering "Even there, Bucky."
He was sure his eyes must have filled with tears, because there was only so much he could bear. Hydra had at least left him with a pain threshold that was too high and an emotional hold that was almost impenetrable. But if there was anyone who could break it, it was that skinny guy from Brooklyn he'd condemned himself to love decades ago. They were each other's deepest secret.
"I think sharing hell together was a risk Father Johnson warned us about on Sundays, wasn't it?" Bucky asked, not entirely sure why they kept going to mass when, from what he could remember, neither of them were very religious. Maybe it had something to do with their mothers. Especially with Sarah, Winnfred Barnes was Jewish, from what he'd read in one of her own biographies.
Steve snorted, his eyes closed. "She was an idiot, but I'm glad I didn't listen."
"My fried brain doubts you've heard anyone but yourself," he said wryly, and Steve chuckled, wincing at the bruise on the right side of his temple that was already turning purple and fading to a yellowish hue.
"I'm not usually wrong," he joked arrogantly, and god, Bucky missed that carefree, golden laugh.
It was cruel that their first moment alone together to talk without having to run for their lives and freedom was right before they were separated again. Because of course, Ross wasn't going to let them near each other to risk them hatching a plan. At least he gave him credit for not underestimating Steve, since the first thing the secretary did was put him in an isolated area on the second floor.
And according to the rumors he'd heard from Clint Barton, those cells were closer to the infirmary... and the lab.
"And why the hell would there be a lab here?" Scott asked. The guy who could make himself big and small in his suit seemed the most at ease with the idea of being arrested, assuring them it wouldn't be his first time serving time.
Wanda and Bucky didn't say anything, because they both knew why someone would have a lab near people with testing abilities. They weren't prisoners, but test subjects. The Raft was a front for the government to continue testing that benefited Hydra, because they weren't so different; they just wanted the biggest weapon, because it would give them power over others. Ambitious men running a country never ended well for anyone, but in this case, they would be the scapegoats. They and every man or woman with special abilities according to the Sokovia Accords.
"Don't be naive, Lang. This isn't a prison..." Barton told him with visceral bitterness, anger hissing on his tongue as he pounded on the glass of his cell. "It's a disgusting experimental camp!"
No one responded to the rogue avenger, but the silence was sometimes the worst part. It made the place feel claustrophobic. Because no one wanted to talk in the early days, Bucky had to look outside the cell to see Sam and remember he wasn't alone.
The sound of the water lapping against the metal of the structure was almost hypnotic, an irregular rhythm that seeped into his mind as a reminder that they were locked in a place from which there was no escape. Sometimes, when the waves grew stronger, they could feel the vibration in the walls, a slight tremor that ran through the floor and made the cell feel even more fragile, as if the sea might swallow them up at any moment.
At that point, Bucky didn't know if it would be a miracle or the cherry on top of his tragedy. Maybe it would be horrible for those who had someone missing them out there, those who'd lost a life, but people like him and a lot of the scum he knew that prison contained... It was an escape.
Although he sometimes doubted they were all bad guys, who knows, maybe there were more like Sam or Clint there, guys who had angered the government or knew too much to be free. The politicians' favorite term would be: A national security risk.
Yeah, right... Dangerous guys. That was the only thing they all had in common.
The flashing lights added another layer of torture. During stormy days —which was most of the time—they flickered at irregular intervals, leaving glimpses of light between periods of gloom that didn't last long enough to get used to it.
And the food wasn't so different from what Hydra gave him, perhaps a little more solid, but Bucky still missed the freshness of seasonal fruit.
The air had a metallic smell mixed with salty dampness, a combination that seeped into every breath, sticky on the skin, relentless in the throat. The prison was far from any civilization, surrounded by a sea that had no sympathy for those trapped there. And though the guards paced outside, murmuring orders in weary voices, they never entered more than necessary. As if they knew that this place, with its own pulse, its unpredictable darkness, and its relentless pounding water, was already slowly breaking those inside.
Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, trying to ignore the sound of the sea scratching the metal structure like a beast waiting to devour them.
For a while, Bucky felt stupid thinking he could have run away from Hydra and its control... To be free. But just as he stopped counting the days inside his cell, he understood that that chance of peace died alongside the man who fell off the train in the Swiss Alps, or even before that, there in Azzano, sinking in terror amidst the mud and explosions, longing to return home. Yes, the Winter Soldier no longer had that option—only run or fight—but now he couldn't do either of those things. He was still waiting for the day Ross or any of his officers would come in to utter the activation words, waiting for the damn day they'd force him to kill again... It was a torturous wait that, even within four walls of the same color, kept him awake. Why else would they keep him there?
From what he knew, when the guards started talking near the entrance and he was able to hear them with his enhanced hearing, they were constantly drawing Steve's blood, for who knows what purpose. Perhaps they were trying to replicate the super-soldier serum—again—while he had merely been pricked with a needle. Surely they had realized that the variant Zola injected into his veins was just a cheap version compared to Steve's, but that thought didn't comfort him at all; it made him feel sick and made his stomach churn. The thought of him being tied to a metal table while they poked and prodded him without his permission, poking and prodding him like he was just a voiceless piece of meat infuriated him. He hated not being able to do anything.
And all that helplessness had embittered him even more—yes, that was possible. Was it? A part of him would have been fed up and annoyed if he'd been the test subject again, even deserved the pain, but if it was Steve... That was worse.
The rest of him wasn't doing any better either, but Wanda was on the verge of catatonic due to the appalling conditions in which she was being held and the guards were idiots, as they kept muttering that she was crazy. Bucky could count on his one hand the number of times Wanda had spoken since they arrived at the Raft, and he had fingers to spare. She lived in a straitjacket and still had the electric shock collar attached to her neck, just like him.
Bucky didn't count his days, but Clint did, as he even had a calendar where he noted the birthdays of his children and wife. They talked a lot, though at first, it was just the archer telling her about his life on the farm or some pop culture joke that Bucky didn't quite understand, so Clint explained it to her. Finally, he gave in to talking as a way to keep from going crazy.
Scott carved the days in the classic way, under his bench, using a marker to mark the four lines and then closing the five days with a horizontal line. He even said he was a thief before meeting Hank Pym. Bucky remembered that name from the Hydra files; he was a SHIELD scientist, but according to Scott, he was also the first Ant-Man to discover the particles that gave him the ability to change size. It was fascinating to listen to him; Bucky always loved technology in its various fields.
If he'd had the money in his youth, he wouldn't have hesitated to study engineering, but yearning and regretting felt so hollow… What was the point of imagining what could have been? The present woke him up, and although it was a kinder hell for him, others didn't share his fate.
He didn't.
And if Bucky felt frustrated with the UN and all its stupid global security departments, he couldn't imagine how Steve must be feeling about it. Ironically, only a couple of doors separated them, and despite not having seen him in over a year, Bucky knew he was there, buried between those concrete and metal floors.
And what he wanted most every night wasn't freedom, but to never see him again, to talk to him, to touch him… He wanted Steve, he longed for him more intensely than he had in the past two years before finding him inside his apartment in Bucharest, but he was also terrified that Steve would blame him for being there.
Although his mind dismissed that idea as quickly as it came, Steve didn't break that easily. He hadn't done it before when his body was fragile, and Bucky bet he'd hold on knowing they were so few steps away from each other. Maybe the rest of them had lost hope that Steve or Natasha, or even Tony Stark, would get them out of there, but... Not Bucky.
"What are you waiting for, punk?" he muttered every night before going to sleep as he lay down on his hard bed, but on day 587 of his captivity on the Raft... The security alarms began to sound, waking everyone, both guards and prisoners.