Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"You enjoyed this. Admit you enjoyed it,” Steve says, out of breath, grinning.

Bucky shakes his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. "Doesn't mean I enjoy waking up early."

Steve has been pushing him to go jogging with him in the morning. In the very early morning. It's Steve's favorite hobby, apparently. And of course, Bucky enjoys it, he would enjoy doing anything with Steve, really. Does he enjoy waking up at six in the morning, though? Definitely not. Although he tends to forget about it once the adrenaline hits.

It has been over a year since he came back from Wakanda, and there are certain, very small things that give him the sense that he really is free. Waking up whenever he wants is one of those things, and it took him some time to get used to it. He used to wake up— gasping or screaming from a nightmare, and just feel incredibly anxious. He would feel like there was something he should do, like it wasn't right to return to sleep again. So when he woke up from a nightmare, there was no returning to sleep again.

More recently, though, he has been training himself to get back to sleep, regardless of whether he woke up in the middle of the night because of a nightmare or because he can never have a normal, uninterrupted night's sleep. He convinces himself that he can do that. He has free will now. He can do anything he wants.

And he loves it. He loves staying in bed—though it is not really the bed, he still sleeps is on the floor—until he feels like he has had enough. One time, he didn’t move from the floor and stayed under the cover until 1PM, and had felt like a rebel. It was almost as if he was proving something to himself. You can do that now, see? he would tell himself. No one is going to electrocute you, wipe you, or beat the fuck out of you.

After seventy years of being with Hydra, the freedom is still mind-blowing to him that it gets overwhelming at times.

Steve pats him on the shoulder. "Still won't give up until you come with me every day."

Bucky opens the door to his apartment, still smiling. “I can do two or three days a week, that's all. You know how much I enjoy sleeping now."

He has his own apartment, which is also something that he needed some time to get used to. When he first got back, he stayed with Steve in his place in Brooklyn for about a week before he finally got his apartment. And having his own place was also overwhelming, in all the good ways, at first. After all that he had been through, and after all the pardon procedures, he really needed a place that was just his. He needed the quiet and the silence. He needed to be alone. 

Steve still stays over most times, though, but that is something he can never complain about, even though he didn't like it in the beginning. He wanted him to leave once they slept because he knew what was going to happen when he closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness, and he didn't want his friend to witness that.

They got into fights about it all the time, of course. When the nightmare was really bad and Bucky woke up screaming his lungs out, he would grow distant the next morning, staying quiet and barely even meeting Steve’s eyes. He knew that hurt Steve, but he did not do it willingly. So they fought. And in their last fight regarding this, Bucky had came so close to punching Steve in the face with his metal arm.

Bucky knew that all Steve wanted was for him to open up and tell him about his nightmares, his burdens, and the weight he carried, all of it. But all Bucky wanted was for Steve to ignore his nightmares, and leave him be when he was having one of his bad days. He was used to the darkness that settled in his mind long ago, and a part of him knew it wasn’t really going to go away. He just wanted Steve to get used to it, too.

So they established a routine regarding the nightmares without really noticing that they did, and it had begun after the last fight they had. When it was a normal nightmare and Bucky would just wake up gasping for air, Steve would act like he didn't hear or witness anything. When it was a terrible, horrible nightmare, and Bucky would wake up screaming, Steve would ask him once “You alright, pal?", to which Bucky would always reply saying "yes" in a voice that was very shaky and barely audible. Bucky was also fine with Steve waking him up from these kinds of nightmares, he was fine with him bringing him water and making him feel grounded. Because they are that bad, and most times, he would wake up incredibly disoriented, unable to figure out where he  is, and sometimes, who he even is. 

He just wasn't fine with Steve asking him if he wanted to talk about it afterwards and pushing him to open up. How could he? Anything he would say was going to make Steve miserable, and opening up wasn’t something he thought he was capable of doing, especially with Steve. 

He can’t  talk about the lives he took. He can’t tell Steve that the people he killed haunt his dreams, that it feels like they will haunt him all his life. Some days, he feels like his heart is going to get crushed from the weight of it all. They were too many. And when he dreams about them, he wakes up wishing he were dead.

He can’t tell Steve that once, he didn’t kill a young man quickly enough. He should have done it instantly, as required by his handler, but for some reason, it took him twenty seconds to do it. For that, they tortured him for twenty hours. They divided the team and each one of them got two hours, so they wouldn't get tired. He didn't get to rest for even a minute. It was twenty hours, full of waterboarding, electrocution, flogging, beating, and many other creative ways that each individual came up with.

And when Bucky dreams about the torture, he always wakes up horrified and frightened that he is back with Hydra again. These nightmares leave him unfocused and disoriented for a while, and waking up and not knowing where he is always leaves him unsettled.

He can’t tell Steve that sometimes, as punishment, he wasn't allowed to sleep. Each time his eyes would close, the collar around his neck would beep with electricity that tore through his whole body. One time, they kept him like that for four days, and he thought he was going to lose his mind.

When he dreams about the wipes or the electrocution, he wakes up feeling like his body is burning, and it takes him a very long while to not feel like every muscle of his body is on fire. And then he has to go through his memories, to remind himself that he remembers, that he has his memories back.

For Bucky, there is stuff that is so much worse. Stuff he could never say out loud. Stuff that he doesn't even allow his mind to think about. And if he can’t think about them without feeling like he wants to shred his own skin, how could he ever tell Steve about them?

Steve chuckles. "Oh, I know, and yet you only get what—three hours of sleep?"

"Very funny," Bucky replies, pouring down water for both of them. "I got five hours of sleep yesterday actually."

Steve drinks it all in one gulp. “And how many times did you wake up in those five hours?"

Three times. He kept count.

"Doesn't matter," Bucky tells him. "What matters is that I slept for five hours."

"See, I’m not sure that's correct, what matters is—"

"The quality of sleep. I know. God, it's like you and Dr. Raynor have your own sessions together," Bucky says, walking over to the kitchen counter. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please," Steve replies. “What’s that?" he asks, holding a large white envelope in his hand.

Bucky turns on the coffee machine, then glances at the envelope in Steve's hands. "I’ve no idea," he says, his eyebrows furrowed. "Is that mine?"

"Uh, yes? It was on the kitchen table. It says to James Buchanan Barnes. That's you, isn't it?"

He walks over to Steve, taking the envelope from him. "Unfortunately," he says, ignoring the scowl on Steve's face in response to his words. "It was on this table? I didn't notice it. I never get any—"

He feels Steve getting slightly nervous at what he just said. "Someone broke in?" Bucky feels nervous too, when the realization hits him.

"Seems like it," he says, opening the envelope.

And inside the envelope, is only a picture of someone.

Anna.

She is tied to a chair, her hair falling over most of her face. Her eyes are not looking at the camera, but they are filled with anger. She doesn't look harmed, but she is in a Hydra base, because he would know these walls anywhere. Whoever took the picture made sure he would know exactly where she is.

He feels the world collapsing around him. "No," he chokes out. "No. God, no—”

"What is it?" Steve asks, his voice terrified."Oh, God."

Bucky turns the picture around, to see if there's anything written, and of course, there is.

You know where she is, soldier. If you come, we let her go. If you are late, we are going to begin the three-phases punishment on her. You remember that, don't you?

Come alone or we put a bullet through her head.

It’s Hydra. It’s fucking Hydra.

He knows it is them. Even if it makes no sense, even if it’s against all logic. He knows, in his heart, that this is Hydra. 

His shaky hand drops the photo. He can’t breathe. His lungs are collapsing and he can’t get any air inside. His whole body is shaking and trembling, his knees buckle and he falls to the ground.

The three phases punishment.

Steve tries to hold him as he falls. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he says. He kneels in front of him and places his hand on his arm. "Breathe, buddy. You know how to do it."

He knows. They have done it countless times before. He counts on his fingers, breathing with each one. He reminds himself that he is free. He is not a killer anymore. He is not the Winter Soldier anymore. He is not with Hydra. He is with Steve. He is with Anna. He is with Sam.

But it is not working, because Anna is with Hydra. Hydra, which they believed to be gone, who are threatening to use a messed-up method of torture on her. A method of torture that was made for him, a super soldier. How can he ever get any air inside his lungs when she’s with them?

"Bucky, Bucky, look at me, please," Steve urges, holding his shoulders. "We’ll figure it out, I promise. We’ll save her. Nothing will happen. We’ve the Avengers, remember?"

Still not working, because he knows he can’t take anyone with him. He knows he can’t risk it. He can’t risk her life. He can never do that. 

"Breathe, buddy. It’s okay,” Steve says, and Bucky can feel Steve’s hands shaking while holding him. "Breathe."

He tries to, he really tries to, and it comes out as a horrible gasp for air. He closes his eyes and tries to focus. He has to get it together for Anna. He has to control himself. 

There's no time, he tells himself. He can’t be late.

He can’t be late. He can’t be late. He can’t be late.

He lets that ground him. He opens his eyes, and tries to breathe again, and it's working. He is getting air inside his lungs. He holds Steve's arms strongly as he tries again and again, until he can finally breathe without gasping for air. 

But it takes him five seconds, he remembers the three phases punishment, and then gags and runs to the bathroom to throw up.

When he’s done retching, he flushes the toilet and washes his face. He takes a deep breath and leans over the sink, staring at his right hand as he struggles to make it stop shaking. 

Steve is standing by bathroom door, looking at him with concern and waiting for him patiently to finish. “I’ll call Tony," Steve says. "I’ll tell him to gather whoever he can and we’ll meet them at the Tower."

“No," he says, his voice shaky. He closes his eyes and rests both his hands on the sink, trying to calm down so he can think clearly. "You— you read what they wrote, Steve. I’m going alone."

"You can’t go alone, Bucky," he tells him. "We don't know who those are and we don't know—"

"Hydra. It's Hydra," Bucky says. He opens his eyes and looks at his friend. His best friend, whom he has to convince to let him go. 

Bucky continues talking before Steve replies. "I know what you are going to say. Hydra is gone. Pierce is dead. But I don’t know….maybe they’re not entirely gone, maybe there’s still some of them left. And maybe we were wrong. She's in a Hydra base. The three phases of fucking punishment was a torture method used by them. It's Hydra."

Steve breathes, his eyes are filled with sadness. "On you."

Bucky looks away. He focuses on the sink instead of Steve's eyes. "Yes," he says. And now he has to leave before they do it to her. "I’ve to go."

He can’t let anything happen to her. Not her. Not the warmest, most beautiful person he has ever met.

What has he done?

He tries to walk out of the bathroom, but of course, Steve blocks his way. “Buck," Steve pleadingly says. "I’ll come with you. Just me. I can’t let you go on your own, even if no one can’t control your mind anymore. I can’t leave you again, you know that.”

Bucky doesn't want to fight with Steve, not when he doesn't know what's going to happen, so he tries to be calm. He tries to breathe, reminding himself that Steve must be terrified too. 

"Steve," he says, his voice unsteady. He looks into his eyes, even though he would rather look anywhere else at the moment. "If you were in my place, you would have gone alone. You know what they’re capable of. I can’t….you don't know what sort of fucked up torture that is, and normal human beings would never—“

"Well, what is it exactly?" Steve asks. "What are they threatening to do to her?"

They are standing too close. He can’t do this. "Let me go, Steve.”

Steve slams the bathroom door with his hand. "Put yourself in my place too, Bucky! How am I supposed to just let you go there alone? We don't know what they want. And what are you going to do anyway? Are you going to just hand yourself over to them? We’ve to think clearly, please.”

Bucky can’t stay calm anymore. "What the fuck do you want me to do, huh? Should I let you come and then once they know I’m not alone I find Anna's brains blown off? Or how about we just stay here and make a plan, and by the time I go, I find her destroyed by their torture, which is really going to be worse than death for her. So what exactly do you want me to do?"

"We should’ve a plan and even if you want to go alone, we could—"

“What plan are you talking about?” he asks, frustrated. “What fucking plan, Steve? They said they’ll start torturing her if I’m late. We don’t have time for this.”

“You know these are probably empty threats. If they want you, then they’re not going to hurt her.” 

“And that’s a risk I’m never going to take.”

Steve sighs. “Look, at least let me call Sam. We are not thinking—“

Bucky runs his hands through his hair and explodes at Steve. "For fuck's sake, Steve! Do you know what they’re going to do?” he snaps, his voice shaking from all the anger tearing through him. “They’re going to break her body over and over again. She might not even survive that, or she might get lucky and end up with a broken body. Then, they’re going to flog her—no, hang on a second, they’re going to cut her back first, then flog her on her—her already bleeding back, because this torture wasn’t meant for a normal human being, it was meant for a super fucking soldier, so normal flogging would never work, would it?" He is struggling to breathe again, and his eyes are getting glassy with angry tears.

Steve flinches, looking horrified. And that makes Bucky even more angry. “What? You didn't think it was that bad? What exactly did you think they were going to do?"

Bucky knows that’s not fair. He knows it's not Steve's fault. He knows Steve's heart is already breaking. But he is so, so fucking angry.

Steve gulps. "Bucky—"

"I didn't even tell you what the third part is," he is still breathing heavily. His heart feels like it's going to explode. "But you really should have guessed it by now."

But of course, Steve looks at him like he is still trying to figure it out. "What?"

He wants to throw up again, but he swallows and tries to hold it in. "They’re  going to—,” he tries to say it but fails and his breath gets stuck in his throat. “They’re going to—fuck, fuck," he fails again, and his hands angrily go over his face. “I need to go, Steve.”

Somehow, the realization finally hits Steve. “No,” he says in horror. “No, Bucky, no—please say that you don’t actually mean that.”

Bucky rests his arms on the wall and tries to breathe, he tries to let his anger go. He just broke Steve, he knows that. He always told himself, and even told Sam, that he was never going to tell Steve anything, and now he threw everything in his face in the worst possible way.

He wants to cry. He wants to sink into the floor and just cry, because he can’t believe he just told Steve that. Steve, who he  always struggled to open up to, just because he never wanted to burden him with everything that happened to him. And he knows this moment will haunt him all his life, he knows he will drown in guilt because that’s how Steve found out in the end. 

So he places his hands on Steve's arms and takes a deep breath. "I’m sorry," his voice trembles. "But now you understand why I’ve to leave. Now. I can’t take you. I can’t take the Avengers. I don't know what they want. I—I don't think they want me dead, they would’ve tried to get that over with before if that's the case. They need me for something. Maybe they want to recreate the serum, maybe they want to test the new arm or take it, I’ve no idea. But they need me alive, Steve, so I guess...there's that. I won't surrender until they let Anna go. Once she's out, you can do whatever you want to get me out, okay?"

Bucky knows Steve is trying not to cry, because it takes him a couple of seconds to say anything. "Okay, buddy," Steve finally says. "It’s the one in D.C., right?”

"Yeah," he replies. "But Steve, you can’t even think of doing anything if Anna is not out. You can’t risk her life. Understood?"

"Yes, understood."

Bucky grabs Steve for a hug. "I’m sorry," he says. He doesn't exactly know what he is apologizing for, but he knows he is mostly apologizing for telling Steve stuff he knows is going to haunt him.

"What are you apologizing for, Bucky? I’m the one who is sorry. I’m so sorry. I can't even….” Steve trails off, unable to finish his words. He wraps his arms tighter around him. "You’re going to get her out. It's going to be okay."

Bucky’s throat tightens. "I hope so."

He heads out after changing his clothes and doesn’t bother to take any weapons with him. He doesn’t even take his phone, he knows they will search him once he gets there anyway. He does not look back at Steve, who is standing by the entrance of the building. He gets on his motorcycle and drives away as fast as he can.

He tries not to think about what they could have done to Anna, or what they might do to her.

He tries not to think about the fact that he is going back to Hydra, willingly.

But the one thing he can’t stop his mind from thinking about is the fact that Hydra will have leverage over him now, and he can’t even begin to imagine what they might do with that.

Chapter Text

One of the things Bucky discovered helped after having nightmares was walking. He would just walk and walk for several hours. It helped him clear his mind and at least not think about the past for a little while. Instead of all the darkness that usually dwelled in his head, his mind would be filled with thoughts about all the new places he saw—shops, bookstores, restaurants, coffeeshops, and food trucks. 

Then he also discovered how many choices there were of everything, and it got a bit much at times, and he wasn't sure what he liked and what he didn't like. He did have his memories back, but it often took certain triggers, conversations, smells, and food, to realize that this was something familiar or something he used to love or hate. 

He also wasn't really allowed to eat real food when he was with Hydra. In the beginning, they gave him bland meals in very small portions. When he became the Winter Soldier, and they wanted him to become nothing but a weapon and a machine, they stopped bothering altogether. It was either IV drips or force-feeding through a tube. So realizing what he actually liked in food and drinks took some time. 

Today was one of the bad days for Bucky. He had an awful, very vivid nightmare and woke up disoriented and had absolutely no idea where he was. He felt terrible afterwards, and it took him a two-hour shower to feel somewhat okay again. But even then, he wasn't able to stay at his apartment by himself. It felt like the walls were closing in on him. 

So he walked for hours, with the headphones Steve had gotten for him in his ears, listening to forties music. He was trying to clear his mind, and forties music always helped with that. And whenever something crept into his mind related to the Winter Soldier or Hydra, he would try to shove it far away and cling to any other distraction in the streets. 

But that doesn't always work, because sometimes, everything reminded him of his time with Hydra. People in the street sometimes looked too alike to people he had murdered before or Hydra agents. Some perfumes reminded him of past handlers, and the worst smell of all for him was the smell of cigarettes, which reminded him of one particular handler that tormented him, Kaprov. The one that came up with the three phases punishment. 

He recently also discovered he had a zoning-out issue. When he remembered something out of nowhere, or when something reminded him of a certain someone or a certain memory, he would just zone out, even if he was doing something or having a conversation with someone. It started when he got his memories back, because there were so many, the ones from before Hydra, and the seventy years with Hydra. They resurfaced at random times and brought back things he hadn't even realized he remembered. 

After a while, he found himself stopping at a bakery. He hadn't had anything to eat since the morning, and the smell was what stopped him. When he looked at the place, he decided he liked it. It was small, warm, and cozy, and there weren't many people inside. 

So he walked inside and stopped by the display case, sighing. Again, so many choices. He was also very hungry, the smell was amazing, and everything looked incredibly delicious, especially the croissants. So he stood there, his hands in his pockets, trying to decide what he felt like having today.

And then a memory hit him out of nowhere. 

His handler, Kaprov, was sitting by his desk, he was having a meeting with a Hydra agent about an upcoming mission. Bucky—the Winter Soldier, was standing by the door. They were having coffee and some bakeries.

The Hydra agent took one of the croissants and dipped it in the coffee, and the Soldier couldn't help but wonder if that was normal, it didn't make sense to him. He didn't know what coffee tasted like, but he never saw someone take solid food and dip it in liquid before, at least he thought he didn't.

"Is he looking at my food?" the agent asked, like the Soldier was a piece of furniture that wasn't supposed to do anything at all. 

His handler looked at him, assessing. "No, it can't be possible. His mind is blank, there's nothing there." 

But there is stuff in there, the Soldier thought. The wipes erase his memory, but they don't erase his mind. 

The agent wasn't convinced. "Hey! What are you looking at?" 

The Soldier straightened his back. That was a question, he reminded himself. He had to provide an answer. "Nothing." 

Then so many questions filled his head: Was that a lie? Should he be punished for that? But what could he have possibly said? Why are you dipping food in your coffee? 

"Maybe he is hungry," the agent said, taking a sip of his coffee, ignoring the Soldier. 

His handler smiled. A cold, wicked smile. "Also not possible, he doesn't eat solid food like us."

But he was hungry, he thought. Most times, he was always hungry.

"But even if he was hungry, it wouldn't matter." He shifted his gaze to the Soldier. "Because a machine doesn't eat, correct?"

He wasn't sure if that was a question directed to him. Yes, his handler was looking at him, but his conversation was with the agent, not him. And fuck, he hated when this happened. He hated it when he got confused, when he didn't know what was the right thing to do. 

In the midst of all this confusion, he hadn't noticed that his handler had gotten up. He was definitely going to get punished now, he thought. His handler was looking at him, but the Soldier knew he had to look anywhere but his handler's eyes, so he averted his gaze.

He slapped him. That was expected, he deserved it. "Answer me." 

He kept a blank face, not showing any reaction. "No." 

"No what?"

"Machines don't eat."  

He slapped him again, and that one stung. "And what are you?" 

"A machine." 

Another slap. He wasn't confused now, because he was not that stupid. He knew his handler was trying to prove a point to the Hydra agent. He loved doing that sometimes. "And?" 

"An asset." 

And of course, another slap. "And?" 

"No one." 

His right cheek was burning now, and he had to fight every urge in his body not to touch or itch it. 

"See?" he proudly said to the agent.  

Fingers snapped in front of his face, bringing him back to reality. He was back in the cozy bakery again. "Hey, you have been standing here for like five minutes," a woman said. 

He felt confused, but he knew he must have zoned out. He really needed to fix that. Asset malfunctioning, a voice in his head said, and he almost laughed at the absurdity of that. 

He looked at her to apologize, but she was smiling, and she was so, so beautiful. He had thought she would be angry at him, assuming she was waiting in line or something, but she had an apron on. 

"I mean, I know they look really good, but not to the point where you stand silently gazing at them for five minutes," she told him, a warm smile on her face. 

"Sorry, I—I zoned out," he said, and then realized how lame that sounded. "They do look delicious, though." 

She looked at the display, a proud look on her face. "I know, I made them," she told him, still smiling. "Most of them, at least."

"Are you okay?" she asked. "Not because you zoned out, zoning out is fine. I zone out all the time. But your eyebrows were pinched together like you discovered something very terrible all of a sudden." 

His lips curled very slightly. "That's just my face."

She faintly smiled. "No," she said, studying his face. "I don't believe you.”

He sighed. "Well, I-" he started, and then realized that he didn't have anything to say. Was he going to tell her that he was thinking about that one time—during which he was being mind controlled by an evil organization—he saw a man dip a croissant in coffee and thought about how weird that was? 

One of the things that astonished Bucky when he got his memories back was remembering his own thoughts in certain situations from when he was the Winter Soldier. He was supposed to be a machine, an asset, no one. But he had so many thoughts, and most of them were out of confusion. He was almost confused all the damn time.

In the end, he ended up telling her exactly what he was thinking, without Hydra and the mind controlling part. "I was thinking about that time I saw someone dip a croissant in coffee." 

That's it, he thought. She was going to kick him out. He sounded like a drunk. 

Her gaze lingered on him, like she was studying him again. Then she laughed, and he looked at her like he was trying to figure her out. "Would you like to try?" she asked, a smile playing on her lips. 

Would he? He didn't know. But he found himself saying “maybe?" nonetheless.

"Well, we don't sell coffee, but I can make you one. It won't be the best coffee in the world, but it will do, if you want. Or you can—" 

"No, of course not. You don't have to, this was stupid, I just—" 

"Just sit over there," she pointed at an empty table for two. "I will be right back." 

She didn't really give him any chance to reply to that because she left quickly. He felt very stupid, shy, and anxious all of a sudden. He was seriously considering leaving, because what the hell was he doing? But he knew it would be rude, especially when she was probably making him the coffee now, and she genuinely seemed like a nice person. 

So he took a deep breath and went to sit at the table. 

She came back after five minutes with a tray that had a croissant, and he was so relieved to see that she had decided for him. There was also a cup of coffee in a white mug, sugar, and milk on the side.

"There you go," she told him, setting the tray down. "I didn't know what you wanted, but I figured that chocolate croissant would go best with the coffee, but if you want—" 

"It's perfect," he said. "Thank you."

He thought she was going to leave, but she sat down. "Well, go on, try it." 

"Okay," he said with a small smile, stirring milk and sugar into the coffee. He was going to take his gloves off to eat the croissant, but decided against it and picked up the knife and fork instead. "Here goes nothing," he said, eating the bite that was dripping with hot coffee. 

She was resting her face on her hand and looking at him with anticipation, a grin on her lips. "So?" 

It was good. Really good. "I like it," he told her. "It's not—I thought it would be a weird combination, or—I don't really know what I thought, it tastes very normal.” 

Everything that came out of his mouth did not make sense, he knew that. What he really wanted to say was that his mind was getting wiped for seventy years and he did not have any memories. There were lots of things he did not understand and there were lots of things he did not know. He did not know what coffee tasted like, even though he had had it before Hydra. He did not know what all food tasted like, really. So yes, seeing someone dip a croissant in coffee was something that did not make sense to him back then. 

"I never tried doing it," she told him. 

His gaze drifted to her. "Never?" 

A soft smile spread across her lips. "Never," she replied.

He smiled in return and cut off a piece of the croissant, dipped it in the coffee, and gave it to her.

She laughed. "Thank you," she said, taking the fork from him. "Okay, yeah, that's actually good. I approve. Maybe we should start making coffee here." 

His lips turned into a small grin. "Yeah, run the idea by the owner," he said. "Am I— am I keeping you from your job by the way?" he asked, looking around the place. There were only two customers standing in line. 

"Well, I am the one who came here, remember? You are not keeping me from anything," she said. "Also, I am the owner."

Bucky felt impressed by that. "That makes sense," he stated. "You look young, though." 

She brushed her hair away from her face, smiling. "I am not that young, actually. I am twenty-eight."

And he was—fuck, he thought. 

"Why the hell did that make you so disappointed?" 

God, nothing was getting past her. 

He took a sip of his coffee, trying to do anything else instead of looking at her. "Oh, no. I just—I remembered something."

"What?" 

"It's not important," he told her. "Thank you for this." 

He meant it. What she did meant a lot to him for reasons he can never tell her. 

"I am glad to be of service," she told him. "I still—" 

She was cut off by someone calling for her from behind the counter. "Hey, Anna! Can you come quickly for a second?" 

Anna. 

"Yeah, coming," she replied. "Give me a minute," she told him.

He was just reaching for his coffee as she pushed back her chair. She got up too quickly, though, and bumped the edge of the table with her knee. The cup jolted, and hot coffee spilled across his left arm.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. 

"Oh my God, I am so sorry!" she gasped, hurrying over to him. "Are you okay? Are you burned?”

"No, no, it's fine," he said, shaking his hand dismissively. "Really, it’s my fault. I wasn't paying—" 

"No, we have to—can you come with me inside, please?" she asked. 

"No, really, it's fine—" 

"Just follow me," she said, not giving him a chance to object or say anything. "Come on." 

"Shit," he muttered to himself, getting up from the table. 

He should have just left, he thought. He should actually leave right now.

She led him into the kitchen, where a single staff member stood near the back, not paying attention. Anna moved straight to the sink, flustered. "Does it hurt? It must have burned you,” she said, worried. “You should run cold water on it. I am really sorry—wait, take off your jacket.”

"I—" he hesitated. He didn't want to shock her, but taking his jacket off would be easier than explaining it. "Fine," he said, taking his jacket off.

She caught sight of his metal arm and froze. 

"Oh," was all that came out of her mouth as she glanced at his arm. "Uh, well...did it burn you? Do you need to like—wash it or something?" 

"Not really, I am fine," he told her. "I will just rinse it, for now.” 

He stepped past her, turned on the faucet, and held his arm under the water. She handed him a towel when he was finished. 

“Thanks,” he said. “You probably need to go back to work. I will just pay and leave." 

"What? You are not paying for anything," she told him. "I am making you another cup of coffee and getting you another croissant." 

He shook his head. “No, no, you really don't have to—" 

"Sit on the counter," she ordered him. "I will go see what Jenna wanted and come back." 

For the third time this morning, instead of leaving, he stayed. 

He was left with the other staff member, who was busy cleaning the kitchen. When Anna came back, she told him he could go and have a break for now. 

She turned on the espresso machine. "So," she said, glancing over her shoulder, “a metal arm." 

"Yeah," Bucky sighed, absentmindedly brushing his right hand over the vibranium plating. "A metal arm." 

She turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, a grin forming on her face. "Where the hell did you get it?" 

He gave a half-tired smile. “It's a long story."

An extremely long story.

She leaned her back on the counter, crossing her arms "You know, it actually reminded me of someone who has a metal arm as well, he's pretty known for it, I think. He is one of the Avengers, right? And he was Captain America's best friend when they were young...some crazy shit like that. His story was really crazy as well, if I remember correctly, it was all over the news when—" 

He really wasn't listening to anything she said after the "one of the Avengers" part. 

"He is not one of the Avengers," he stated. And again, immediately regretted saying anything afterwards. 

"What? No way," she said. "Let me google it. What was his name?" She asked, taking her phone out of her pocket.

He ran his hand through his hair. "You really don't have to.."

Her eyes were locked on her phone. "I am pretty sure he is an Avenger."

"Uh, he is really not," he told her, scratching his neck nervously. "And what exactly are you googling? Who is Captain America's best friend?" 

"Yeah? That's exactly what I am googling," she stated. "Ah, got it. The Winter Soldier."

"Not an Avenger." 

Then her gaze shifted from her phone to him. 

Her eyebrows were furrowed, and she looked like she was studying him, again. "Your name doesn't happen to be James Buchanan Barnes, does it?" 

He let out a deep sigh. "Just Bucky." 

She pressed her hand to her face in exasperation. "Oh, fuck. I am so stupid." She removed her hand from her face and stared at him. "Not an Avenger, really?" 

"Really." 

"But that does not make any sense." 

"Well," he said, exhaling. "It kind of does, if you think about it." 

She turned to the espresso machine, pouring their coffees into the mugs she had washed, then she silently prepared a new tray for him, placing a new croissant on it. 

He tried not to think about all the thoughts that must be going through her head at the moment, because he couldn’t bear any more nervousness than what he was already feeling.

She gave him his tray and sat on the counter opposite to him. Her cup of coffee was in her hand and a croissant was beside her. She fixed her eyes on him, making him shift uncomfortably where he was sitting. "This is not how I expected my morning to go." 

"I can imagine," he commented, adding the milk and sugar to his coffee. 

She took her croissant and dipped it in her mug. Bucky couldn't help but smile at that. He did the same, and now that his gloves were off, he just took it with his hand. 

She was smiling, too. "So, when I asked you about the arm and you said it was a long story," she paused, taking another sip of her coffee. "How long is it exactly?"

"Very long." 

"I can listen." 

His eyes darkened, and he kept his gaze away from her. "You don't want to know, trust me.”

"How bad can it be?" she asked. 

"Bad," he replied. 

She shrugged. "I don't mind." 

He tried to look at the coffee in his hands instead of looking at her. For some reason, he did not want to ruin this—whatever it was. "Fine," he breathed. "What do you want to know?" 

"Everything.” 

— 

Well, he didn't exactly tell her everything. 

But he told her who he was, what happened to him during the war, and where he was for seventy years, then he explained the story behind the croissant and coffee, and surprisingly, this was the only thing that got her eyes to widen. 

She didn't ask questions, didn't ask for more details, she just looked at him as he was speaking.

Bucky, on the other hand, was looking anywhere but her. 

“So,” she breathed out, “is that why you looked disappointed when I told you my age?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “It was that obvious, huh?” 

There was a faint smile on her lips. “A bit.”

“Well…,” he started, sighing, “hundred years old is a lot.”

After a couple of seconds, she said, “I don’t mind old dudes, if that was your concern." 

He burst out laughing, then she looked at him and laughed, too. And Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed like this—couldn’t even remember the last time he felt remotely normal. 

Months from now, when he is going to remember this moment, he will realize this was when he started falling in love with her, though it will take him a very long time to understand it, and even longer to ever say it. 

——————————————————

Bucky cannot believe he is back here again.

He takes a deep breath and steps inside the bank, and already finds two guards waiting for him. “Welcome back," one of the guards greets him. "You are alone, right? If we find anyone lurking around, then that's it. For both of you." 

He wants to kill them all, slowly, in the worst possible ways. Instead, he forces himself to stay calm. "I am alone," he  flatly replies.

"Great," the guard replies. "Let's get you inside then." 

They don't knock him out, tie him, or do anything to restrain him. They just let him follow them to the base, and he does. He tries to breathe, but his chest is tight and his heart is pounding so fast.  The uncertainty of what's about to happen is terrifying for him. He doesn't know what they want, he doesn't know where Anna is, and he doesn't know if he will even succeed in getting her out.

They stop when they reach the gate to the base. "We have to search you," one of the guards tells him. 

Bucky glances around. At least five more guards are here and their guns are already pointed at him.  

“Strip,” the guard orders. 

He breathes, his jaw tight. It's fine, he tells himself. They are just going to search him. That's fine. He can do that. 

So he complies and takes off his clothes. When he only has his boxer briefs on, he stands still, hoping that it will be enough. 

"I said strip, soldier." 

He swallows, taking them off, and then the guard begins his search. "Turn around, hands behind your head, you know that." 

He does know that. He had to actually fight his instincts and not do it before the guard gave the order.

He clenches his jaw and stares blankly in front of him, hands behind his head, as the guard completes his search, and when he asks him to open his mouth, he opens it. When he asks him to spread his legs, he does that, too. He complies, even though every bone in his body is screaming at him to snap the neck of that guard. 

They search his arm as well, he has no idea what they were searching for or expecting to find, but he lets them. The guard steps back from him. "You can put your clothes back on," he says. "Stay shirtless, though." 

Just like old times, then.

Then they bring him metal, magnetic cuffs. “Hands behind your back." 

He complies silently, again. When the guard clasps it in, he tries to move his hand in them to see how strong they are or if they are specially made for super soldiers like him, and it feels unusually strong, but he has a feeling he could be able to break out of them with his vibranium arm. 

"Let's go,” the guard says, pushing him to walk. 

They walk straight ahead until they reach the room where the chair used to be, which he destroyed with Steve. The base has been cleaned up, though, and parts of it were reorganized and restructured, which means they have been here for a while. He tries to take in his surroundings to see if there's anything different, but there isn't much.

Then he sees the chains. There are chains fixed to the floor on the side, and there are chains fixed to the ceiling. He tries to breathe, telling himself that these aren't for him. That at least the chair is not here anymore, not even its remains. 

He hears a couple of footsteps coming in. When his eyes dart from the chains hanging on the wall to those who just entered, his breath almost leaves his lungs.

Anna.

His gaze scans her from head to toe to make sure she is alright. She looks fine, her hands are tied with ropes in front of her, and he feels slightly relieved at that, knowing how uncomfortable it would have been to have them tied behind her back.

Her eyes widen when she sees him. "No," she gasps, looking frightened. "You shouldn't have come, Bucky. You shouldn't have come." 

He doesn't focus on what she said. He wants to run to her and hold her in his arms. He wants to take her far, far away from here. "Anna," is all that comes out of his mouth. "Anna—God, are you okay? Did anyone—" 

"James Buchanan Barnes," a voice greets him, a familiar voice. "You are back home." 

Pierce. 

It can't be, he thinks. Pierce is dead. 

His eyes move from Anna to the figure behind her, entering the room. "How?" Bucky asks, confused. 

"I would have expected you to be more welcoming," Pierce tells him. He is standing in the centre of the room now, Anna behind him, and Rumlow by his side, half of his face is burnt. "It's been a while after all."

It has been. The last time he saw Pierce he had ordered him to be wiped and he was going to kill his best friend. He had asked him about Steve, he had told him he knew him, and Pierce's reply was that he had met him on another mission. He was going to kill Steve because of him. 

If Bucky's rage is starting to show on his face, he does not make any attempt to hide it. He wants to strangle Pierce with his own hands. 

"You are angry," Pierce states, studying his face. "I would be if I were you, honestly. But your anger, James, is nothing compared to mine." 

James. This is the first time Pierce has ever called him by his name. He wonders if he now sees him as a person, but he highly doubts it. 

Bucky's jaw tightens. "What do you want?" 

Pierce smiles. "You, of course." 

"Well, here I am," he tells him. "Let her go. Now." 

Pierce's smile only grows wider. "You’ve become fierce," he says. "But we will work on that, don't worry. As for Anna," he states, returning to face her. "She will have to become our guest for a while." 

"No," Bucky says, his voice sharp with anger. "No, don't even think about it. I came, so you let her go. I won't comply with whatever it is you want if you don't let her go." 

He returns to face Bucky again. "Well, that's the thing, James. What we want won't be achieved without her," he tells him, crossing his arms together. "You are Hydra's property, you know that, right? We spent so much time and money on you. Your conditioning, your metal arm, the experiments, the medical procedures—our own serum is running through your veins."

Bucky curled his cuffed hands, he doesn't think he will be able to control his anger any longer. "What the fuck do you want, Pierce?" 

Pierce starts to slowly walk over to him. The guards cautiously step closer to Bucky, afraid that he might make an unexpected move towards Pierce. "I told you, we want you," he replies. "But the thing is, you don't work without the wipes and the words and all the incredible work we did to control your mind. That's what made the Winter Soldier. But you...you went ahead and destroyed all of that, didn't you?"

He is now inches away from Bucky's face. "We can't start all over again, of course. So we had to figure out a way to get you to comply. We have been thinking about this for way too long, actually. It helped that you thought we were gone...made you prone to making mistakes, and then you made the biggest mistake of all, you met her." 

Bucky is glaring at him, waiting for him to conclude what he really wants, as he tries to ignore the frightening sensation creeping in his skin. 

"To sum up, Anna will be our guest for two weeks. Just two weeks. A guest, not a prisoner. She will be fed and well taken care of. She will just be our guarantee that you will comply, that you will surrender, completely. Because we need our Winter Soldier back," Pierce says. "To do that, we need you to surrender. There are no words to control you anymore, but you will let us control you nonetheless....think of it this way, Anna is just a replacement for the words," he pauses, looking between Anna and Bucky. "And then, James, we are going to implement the three phases punishment on you, over and over again, until it sinks in that you are property of Hydra, until we are sure that you will comply, that you will do the job, that you remember who you are.”

Bucky tries to say anything, but no words come out of his mouth. 

Pierce sighs. "You know I am not a sadist. I never was. When you fucked up, I had the team give you a good beating, chain you up, leave you to rot for a couple of days, and that was it. I knew there was nothing painful like the wipes, so I didn’t see the point in any other form of punishment or discipline. When I saw the reports of your past handlers, I did not understand why some of them went into such extreme measures with you. Especially Vasily Kaprov, of course. I remember reading about the three phases punishment, and I truly did not understand why they thought something like that was necessary. They did that for their enjoyment, I am sure," he is standing very close to Bucky again, a thin smile on his face. 

Bucky tries to fight the urge to spit in his face. 

"In the absence of the methods we used to have to control you, however, methods like that are necessary. Breaking you again is necessary. You know why, James? Because you forgot your purpose, you forgot who you are. You thought you could be a normal person, have a normal life...and what? Date a simple girl and live happily ever after? In what world would that happen? You are an assassin. A murderer. A weapon. A machine. You are ours. We spent years working on you. Making you who you are. You don't get to quit, not when you are our only successful super soldier." 

"So that's your plan?" Bucky finally asks. "You think I am going to kill for you again?" 

Pierce puts his hands in his pockets. "You tell me," he says, smiling. "If you say no, we kill you both now and we are done with all of this. It ends right here and now.”

"Let her go first," Bucky says, fighting the urge to break the cuffs around his hands. "Let her go and we will discuss whatever it is you want." 

"We will let her go, when you have proved your compliance." 

Bucky takes a step towards Pierce, but the guards grab him by his shoulders. "No, fuck you, Pierce. Let her go. Now.”

Five guns are now pointed at Anna. 

"It's not an option," Pierce calmly says. He hasn't moved from his place. "Two weeks, that's all." 

Bucky's eyes burn with rage. "And then what? What kind of stupid plan is that?" 

"You don't need to think about that," Pierce tells him. "All you need to think about is that in two weeks, she will get to leave." 

His anger is making his body shake. He wants to scream. He wants to bang his hands against the wall, to break something, or to set the whole world on fire. But he has to think, so he tries to breathe. 

He doesn't know how he is going to do this. He doesn't know how he will be able to let Anna stay here a minute longer. He doesn’t even understand why they want her for just exactly two weeks, he doesn’t understand their plan, but he is starting to realize that he doesn't really have any other options. Anything else would involve risking her life, and he can’t do that, not when they are giving him a safe option. He just hopes they keep their damn word. 

"Fine," Bucky finally says. "Fine, do whatever you want. She stays unharmed and safe. She eats, she drinks, and—" 

"She is not a prisoner, I already said that. We will even untie her. She will have to stay for most of your punishments, though. That is not an option, but that's really for you, not her.”

He shakes his head fiercely, remembering what they might do to him. "No, of course not. What is wrong with you? She is going to stay away. I won’t let you—"

"It's not for her, I said, and that's non-negotiable. She will eat, drink, shower, and we will provide her with clean clothes. Of course, if you don't cooperate, we might take some of these privileges away from her—" 

"And what about him?" Anna asks. 

Pierce turns his gaze to her. "Him?" he asks, laughing. "He does not get any of those things, of course. We will provide him with the nutrients needed, in a different way, though. He knows that." 

"Then I don’t want anything from you. Kill me and get it over with, you will not use me to torture him, you sick fuckers.”

Before Pierce can say anything, Bucky speaks. “She is not going to watch any fucked up thing that you do. Do you hear me?”

”Well, as I said, that’s non-negotiable,” Pierce replies, and his calmness makes Bucky so angry.

“What’s even the point, huh?” Bucky asks, and he is a second away from breaking out of the restrains and strangling Pierce. “You want me to comply, I said I will. What else do you want?”

“You will understand what’s the point when we get there. You will understand everything, don’t worry,” Pierce explains. “Now, we will start right away, actually. We can’t wait waste more time. Rumlow will take care of you. He will—" 

"Wait," Bucky cuts him off. And he gives up on trying to convince him to not let Anna watch. "I need to have a call first, and I want five minutes with her before you begin whatever fucked plan you have." 

"A call?" Pierce asks, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

"Yeah, a fucking call," Bucky replies. "Unless you want the Avengers banging on your door." 

"Fine," Pierce says after considering for a couple of seconds. "Give him the phone. He has thirty seconds."

The stupid guard hands him the phone like his hands aren't tied behind him. "How?" Bucky flatly asks. 

"Give him the number and he will put him on speaker,” Pierce says. 

He wishes he had more privacy. After their last conversation, there are lots of things he wants to say to Steve, and so many things he wants to apologize for. 

"Hello?" Steve answers, almost immediately. His voice is tired, like he has been shouting or crying. 

Bucky gulps. "Hey, pal." 

"Bucky!" Steve shouts. "Where are you? Did you—" 

"Steve, listen to me. There's no time," he tells him. "Two weeks, Steve," he says, looking at Pierce. "Two weeks, if Anna is not back, you kill them all. Every last one of them." 

Pierce smiles widely at that. 

"What? What the hell is—" 

"End the call," Bucky tells the guard, his heart breaking over his friend. 

"Leave them," Pierce tells the guards. "Five minutes." 

When they all exit the room, he walks towards Anna, but all he really wanted to do was run over to her and wrap his arms around her, and both are not possible with his arms behind his back. He seriously considers breaking out of the cuffs around his hands, but he doesn’t want to risk it. 

Anna is crying. "Bucky," she breathes, and she is the one who is hurrying towards him, her tied hands curled in her chest. She throws herself against him. "Don't do this, please. I don't care. I don't fucking care. Killing me is better than whatever is going to happen. Please. You can’t allow them to do this.”

He badly wants to hold her face in his hands. "Hey," he says, his voice threatening to break. "It's fine. I survived this for seventy years, remember? Seventy years, Anna. I can survive this too. That's nothing in comparison to what I have been through." 

She rests her face against his forehead. "For how long, Bucky?" 

"You will get out in two weeks," he says. "Then Steve will come and get me. He has the Avengers, they can do it. They will find a way, but only when you are safe." 

"I don't want to be safe, what’s even the point of those two weeks?” her voice breaks, choking on a sob. "And what kind of stupid plan is that, anyway? I don't want them to use me to torture you. This is fucked up. Death would be better, you know that."

He closes his eyes. "It's just two weeks, Anna," he says, almost pleadingly. "Two weeks and then Steve and Sam will figure it out, I know they will. We will be okay. Pierce's plan is shit. It is not going to work. I am sorry you have to stay in this shit hole for two weeks. I am so sorry, Anna. I never—" 

"Stop," she says, moving her head away from his. "This is not your fault," she pauses, studying his face. "You know that, right?" 

He knows one thing for sure, and that is, this is definitely his fault. 

"It doesn't matter," he tells her. "Anna, the things you are going to watch—" he pauses, he doesn't even know what to say, but he doesn't have much time left. "Just know that I have had it happen before, okay? It's fine. I will be fine." 

He is not going to be fine. He knows he will wish he were dead, over and over again, but his only worry is Anna right now. His only worry is that they will make Anna watch.  

She rests her head on his chest. "You don't deserve this," she says, and he feels her tears on him. "You don't deserve to have this happen to you again." 

He doesn't know that, he wants to tell her. He closes his eyes and tries to hold in all the tears that are threatening to spill. He rests his head on hers. "It's fine," he says. "It will be over soon." 

He hears their footsteps coming back inside.  "Hey, look at me," he quickly tells her. She moves her head away from his chest, and he leans in to kiss her. She cries even more but kisses him back. "I love you," he whispers against her lips, and he hates himself and the entire world that this is where he gets to tell her that for the first time. 

She was about to say it back when they pushed them away from each other. 

"I bet that was emotional," Pierce says. "But it's time, I am afraid. I have to go. Untie her, she sits over there," he says, pointing at the left side of the room. "Of course I don't have to say that any disturbance from your side will just lead to more pain for him," he tells Anna, then he turns to Rumlow. "Rumlow, he is all yours."

And with that, Pierce leaves the room. 

They untie Anna and make her sit on the ground.

The smile on Rumlow's face makes Bucky's stomach clench. "We will have so much fun together, Barnes," he tells Bucky, and he feels his breath on his face. "On your knees." 

Bucky closes his eyes for a second and breathes. This is it, he tells himself. He is going to relive everything over again, but for Anna, he knows he would relive it for another seventy years if needed, just for her to be safe.

He gets on his knees. 

"Give me the collar," Rumlow tells one of the guards. 

And Bucky knows exactly what collar that is. The slim, metal band that choked him endless times before. He stares at the ceiling and tries not to shudder when they place it on his neck. He tries not to have a panic attack, like when he wakes up from his nightmares and thinks he is back with Hydra. 

But he is back with Hydra, and this is a nightmare, one he is not entirely sure he will be able to survive. 

"Look at you," Rumlow tells him, his voice filled with excitement. "How do you feel being back home?" 

A muscle twitches in Bucky's cheek. He stares in front of him, trying to focus on regulating his breathing so he wouldn't do anything stupid to Rumlow. He doesn't get a chance to, though, because the electric current courses through his body and he falls to his side. His body feels like it is on fire. He clenches his jaw as hard as he possibly can, already feeling the copper in his mouth. He tries to hold his screams and they come out as muffled grunts. When Rumlow removes his finger from the button of the remote control, Bucky gasps for air. There's blood on his lips and his head feels like it's going to explode. 

Rumlow is standing above him. "That was a question, dickhead," he tells him. "I said, how does it feel to be back home?" 

He knows he should answer, but he can't. He can bear the physical torture, but he is not sure he can bear the humiliation, the questions, and the rules again. He is still lying on the ground, and he tries to look anywhere but Anna's direction. 

The collar starts again, and Rumlow must have adjusted the voltage because the pain is unbearable this time. He wishes his arms weren't behind him, he would have rested them on the ground and tried to take in the pain. His throat is burning and he is gasping and no air is getting inside his lungs. He is not even aware when it stops, because he is feeling the unbearable pain all over his body. He tries to breathe, but fails and keeps coughing up blood instead. 

Rumlow gets on one knee in front of him. "Do you miss the mouth guard?" Rumlow asks him, pushing Bucky's hair away from his face. Bucky looks at him, his eyes blazing with fury. "It seems that you have forgotten, soldier. You are not allowed to look us in the eye, remember?" 

He remembers, but he holds Rumlow's gaze nonetheless. 

Rumlow grabs him by his hair and makes him sit on his knees again. "I miss your long hair, Barnes, we have to let it grow again. I am not used to you like this,” Rumlow tells him. Bucky is not able to hold his balance, though, with the pounding in his head and with his arms behind him. Before he falls to the ground again, Rumlow throws his fist in Bucky's face. He feels his ears ringing, his head pounding even more, and he coughs up more blood. 

Rumlow is back in his face again. "You also have to answer when questions are directed to you. I am sure you remember that one. But otherwise, you are never allowed to talk, not even to her," he says, pointing at Anna. 

He is already sick of them telling him over and over again I am sure you remember. You know that. He remembers. He knows. They haunt his dreams every day, how can he ever forget? 

"She can talk, cause she is a person. But you? You only answer the questions we ask. So for example, if she asks you a question, you are not allowed to respond. You are not even allowed to nod or shake your head," he says, standing up. "Let's give it a try. Anna, look at me." 

Fuck, he should have just answered him.  

Bucky tilts his head up from the floor and looks at her. She is hugging her knees, her eyes are filled with tears, and her hands are shaking badly. He never saw Anna's hands shaking before. 

"Ask him a question," Rumlow tells her.

Anna just stares at him. "What?" she asks, her voice shaky. 

"Ask him a question," he repeats. "Now, or I turn on the collar." 

She gulps, looking at Bucky, but then the confusion and fear on her face vanishes and her gaze hardens. 

Fuck, Bucky thinks. He looks at Rumlow, his back to him. So he risks it and slowly, very slowly, shakes his head at her, hoping none of the guards will notice, but it doesn't work, he knows it doesn't before the words leave her lips. 

"Rumlow is a sick, son of a bitch. Isn't he, Bucky?" 

He closes his eyes, his heart about to explode from his chest. They said they won't harm her, and he really hopes they keep their fucking word. 

Rumlow laughs loudly. "I like her," he states, turning to look at Bucky. 

"You are not going to answer her?" Rumlow asks, walking over to Bucky. "I mean, that's rude, ignoring your girlfriend like that." 

He grips Bucky's face in his hands, and Bucky winces, because his tongue and throat are already hurt. "Answer her," he hisses in his face, and Bucky tries to focus his gaze on the floor. "Come on."

He tries so hard to stay silent, even though his mind is screaming at him to tell Rumlow that he is, indeed, a sick, son of a bitch. He lets go of Bucky's face, and Bucky lets out a gasp, trying to breathe.

"Now, for the last fucking time," Rumlow says. "How does it feel to be back home?" 

For Anna, he tells himself. 

For Anna. For Anna. For Anna. 

He swallows, feeling the wounds in his tongue and mouth. "Great," Bucky finally says, his voice raspy. "It feels great."

Chapter Text

The first time they slept together, Anna woke up at dawn and found Bucky awake, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. She smiled, her hands moving to his cheek to caress it. "Hey," she said, her voice sleepy. "Why are you awake?"

He turned his gaze to her, a small smile creeping on his lips as well. "Hey," he breathed out. "Why are you awake?"

"I am a light sleeper," she told him, resting her hand on his bare chest. "But I go to sleep right after I wake up, that doesn't stop me. Now tell me, why are you awake? Did you sleep?"

He moved to his side, facing her. "I was—I was afraid I might ruin the night," he told her. "I wanted to remember it this way."

Her chest tightened at that. She had a strong feeling that was the reason. "But we had such a wonderful night that I doubt any nightmare would ruin it."

He smiled weakly. "Wonderful, huh?"

"Yeah, pretty impressive for a guy who didn't have sex for over seventy years, really,” she said, grinning. 

"Well, you were impressive too," he teased, leaning in to kiss her on her neck. 

She laughed as he kissed her. "Thanks," she said. "Question— were you that good before the super-soldier serum? Be honest."

He was the one laughing now. "That's not the serum, I am offended."

"Well, I mean, you could lie to me all you want and I will never know the truth. That was in the forties." She was smiling as she looked at him, and she couldn't help but think about how beautiful he looked like that.

Usually, when they were laughing or joking and Bucky's eyes didn't look haunted by everything he had been through, she always thought that this must be what he was like when he was young, before everything, light-hearted, sassy, and effortlessly funny—no darkness, trauma, or nightmares.

She thought about young James Bucky Barnes a lot, actually. The other version of Bucky that had hopes and dreams for the future. The light in his eyes never dimming, even after being experimented on by Hydra for the first time, because it wasn't too late and he still had Steve.

"You could ask Steve." 

She gasped at that, teasing him. "Bucky!" she exclaimed. "You never told me that you and Steve—"

"Oh, come on," he said, laughing. And God, she could listen to him laughing all day and wouldn't get bored. She never thought that the sight of a man laughing would fill her heart with such indescribable warmth. But he wasn't any man, he was Bucky.

She didn't notice that she was staring at him with a stupid smile on her face. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she quickly replied. "You really should sleep. It's morning already, so night is technically over. You can still keep tonight's memory untouched, although I truly believe it can’t get ruined by anything."

"Okay," he simply said. "Let's sleep then."

They were still sleeping on their sides, opposite to each other. She kept her eyes fixed on his for a little while, then took his left hand in hers. "I will wake you up if I feel you moving."

He smiled slightly.  "Okay."

When she woke up again, he was still awake, but he tried to make himself look sleepy and act like he had just woken up. She realized he had never intended to sleep in the first place.

That's how she knew the nightmares were really, really bad.

——————————————————

This is the worst day of her life.

It can’t get any worse than this. She can’t comprehend how she is just expected to stay here and watch Bucky get tortured. For two weeks. Two fucking weeks.

She thinks it would be better if she were dead, or if she were being tortured as well, because then at least she would be tired and exhausted. Instead, she is painfully, excruciatingly aware of every sound and breath that comes out of Bucky's mouth.

She had hoped Rumlow would do anything to her after she insulted him, even though she knew that would make Bucky go mad, but to sit here completely unharmed to watch the man she loves get tortured is something that she doesn't think she could bear. She doesn't think anyone could bear that. She wants to hit her head against the wall, she wants them to knock her out, she wants anything other than to sit here with her mind fully awake.

They are chaining Bucky up, each of his arms is hanging above his head, and she knows that must hurt badly. There's blood around his lips and he already looks tired. He looks tired and they haven't even started yet, and he is looking anywhere but in her direction. He is staring at the floor, leaving his body go limp so they can chain him however they want. She is not sure if these chains are doing anything, and if Bucky can break out of them if he wanted to.

When they are done, Rumlow takes a step back, looking at Bucky like he is admiring the view. "Perfect," he murmurs. "How do you feel, Barnes?"

Bucky keeps his gaze on the floor, almost like there's a specific part on the ground he chose not to take his eyes away from. "Fantastic.” 

A cold smile spreads across Rumlow's face. "How do you feel about the fact that we are letting you keep your arm?"

She sees the very small, almost unnoticeable, hint of a smile on Bucky's face. "Oh, I am grateful," he replies, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Incredibly grateful."

Rumlow doesn't look angry at that, he is still smiling. He stands closer to Bucky, but Bucky still keeps his gaze on the floor. "Don't you think you should thank me?"

Bucky doesn't utter a word, and she wants to tell him to just thank him and get it over with, but she also knows how humiliating this must be for him, so she doesn't really blame him. Rumlow crosses his arms, the remote controller of the collar in his hand. "I asked a question."

Bucky is biting the inside of his mouth. "Thank you,” he tells Rumlow, finally.

"For what?"

Bucky closes his eyes for a second and opens them again. "For—," he pauses, swallowing, "for letting me keep my arm."

Rumlow throws his hands in the air. "There you go, that wasn’t so hard!” he exclaims. "Progress before we even began. Good boy,” he says, ruffling Bucky's hair and making it messy. Bucky closes his eyes again and inhales.

"Now," Rumlow says, a thrill coating his voice. "Let's begin, shall we? You are my workout for today."

And then he throws a punch in Bucky's face.

Anna doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to watch this happening. She looks in front of her instead of looking at Bucky, and she hears Rumlow punching him in the face again and again. Her own body jumps with each punch.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees Rumlow flexing his fingers and shaking out his hand, and there's already blood on them. It hasn't even been a minute and there's already blood. She doesn't dare to look at Bucky. She drops her head between her knees, feeling her chest getting incredibly tight and her breathing heavy.

She can’t block out the sounds, the brutal thuds of fists and boots slamming against Bucky’s body. Then Bucky exhales with a harsh, wheezing gasp after one of the hits, and when she turns her head to look at him, Rumlow instantly gives him a violent, viscous kick to his ribs. Then his kicks shift lower, to his stomach, and Bucky swallows hard, trying not to make a sound. He keeps his head hung low, and his forehead and lips are bleeding.

Rumlow takes a couple of minutes to catch his breath and drink water. When he is done, he takes a telescopic baton from one of the guards. When Bucky sees it, he takes a sharp intake of breath, preparing for what is to come.

Anna drops her head between her knees again and covers her head with her hands, but it does not stop her from hearing it against Bucky's ribs. It doesn’t stop her from hearing the awful grunts that are coming out of him.

And Rumlow doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even take pauses. He hits him over and over again. She hears his wheezing gasps and hitching breaths and knows that they are definitely not normal now.

Her breathing is getting heavier, and she feels her tears falling, so she blinks her eyes repeatedly, trying to make the tears stop. She does not want Bucky to see her crying, this would even be more unfair to him. She has to get it together, she tells herself.

But the voices stop all of a sudden, and all she can hear is Bucky's painful breaths.

"Hey Anna," Rumlow says. She raises her head slowly and finds him crouching in front of her. She feels Bucky raising his head, and this might be the only time he has attempted to raise his head since they have chained him. "Oh, fuck. You are crying."

She looks at Bucky, his ribs and abdomen are bruised, the baton has caused bleeding cuts all over his body, and he looks like he is struggling to breathe properly. His eyes meet hers and they are filled with worry and fear. She knows he is terrified of Rumlow being too close to her, but it doesn't look like anyone is planning on harming her anytime soon.

"Leave her alone," Bucky rasps out, struggling with every word that comes out of his mouth.

She looks in horror at Rumlow, hoping that he is not going to turn on the collar.

"Fuck," Rumlow mutters, shaking his head at Anna. "He doesn't learn, does he?"

Rumlow places his hand inside the pocket of his pants and turns it on.

"No, no…no," Anna whispers. "Please, stop, please."

Rumlow doesn't stop, and she can’t listen to the sounds coming from Bucky any longer. She covers her ears with her hands and squeezes her eyes shut, but she knows it is over when the chains stop making any sound. She looks at Bucky, his chest is heaving uncontrollably and his eyes are closed.

"Look at me, Anna," Rumlow quietly tells her. She turns her gaze to him. "You know this is the least painful part of the three phases punishment, right?"

"What else—," she pauses, her voice breaking. "What else are you planning to do to him?"

Rumlow smiles when she asks that. "You have no idea, don’t you?" he asks. "He never told you what they did to him."

Yes, Bucky never really told her any details about the torture he had to endure, and she never asked. She always believed that this was one of the reasons why Bucky allowed himself to be with her. She knew that Bucky wasn't the type of person to open up when one asked him to or when he is told it's the right thing to do. Even though, sometimes, her brain screamed at her to tell him to talk to her when he wasn’t feeling okay or when he had a terrible nightmare, but she knew that would only make him shut her out more.

Giving him space actually made him tell her stuff, sometimes. It never happened right after a nightmare or on the same day when he was feeling unwell, it usually happened afterwards, when he had time to be by himself, and then, out of nowhere, he would share small stuff with her. Sometimes it was related to missions or the people he worked with. And sometimes, very rarely, he would tell her about some of the punishments he took—the ones that weren't too horrifying or violent, of course. She knew what happened to him was far more horrible than the things he told her about, and she only realized that when she saw him having nightmares, months after they had been together. 

Most of the time, though, he shared with her his own thoughts from when he was the Winter Soldier. After all, that was what had started this relationship in the first place.

Rumlow stands up, looking at Bucky. Bucky's gaze is wearily fixed on Anna. "I actually feel bad for you. Can you believe that?" he tells him. This time, there's no sick or twisted smile on his face. "I truly feel bad for you. She has no idea what's going to happen. You must think she would want nothing to do with you afterwards."

What the fuck was going to happen? she wants to ask. She can't believe that there is anything worse than what is already happening.

Bucky's eyes move away from Anna and are back to being fixed on the floor again.

"What are you going to do?" she finally manages to ask. "Isn't this enough?" 

Rumlow turns to her. "Enough?" he asks. "Anna, your boyfriend is a super soldier. You know he will heal, right? We haven't even begun."

"He can't even breathe!"

"He will heal," he tells her, grabbing Bucky's chin and tilting his head up. Bucky keeps his gaze away from Rumlow, and it breaks her heart. "You always heal, don't you?"

Bucky does not answer. She assumes it's a hypothetical question and Rumlow is not really waiting for an answer, but she is wrong, because the chains rattle all of a sudden and Bucky's head falls back when Rumlow turns on the collar. He is shaking and his muscles are spasming. There's a muffled, silent scream stuck at his throat, and she feels her heart tightening in her chest.

"Stop, please stop, you just activated it minutes ago," she pleads. But he doesn't stop, this is the longest he has kept it on and it terrifies her. She stands up, her instincts taking over her as she attempts to run over to Rumlow and do what—she has no idea, but she knows she has to stop this. She takes only one step forward and the guard next to her holds her back. "Stop!" she screams. "I beg you, please. Please."

Rumlow stops.

Bucky gasps for air, his breathing is ragged and hoarse, barely coming out, and his mouth is filled with blood. His body is trembling violently, the chains clicking with every movement. He is no longer standing, his knees buckled beneath him, his arms still held firm by the chains. His eyes are closed and there's only a faint movement behind his eyelids.

She is not even sure he is completely conscious.

Rumlow grabs Bucky's face and shakes him. "I asked you a fucking question."

But Bucky looks like he can't even open his eyes. He blinks a couple of times and tries to, but fails. There are still tremors in his body and his breathing is heavy. "Open your eyes," Rumlow orders him. "Open your fucking eyes."

Bucky coughs out the blood in his mouth away from Rumlow, then gulps and tries again. It takes him multiple tries to be able to just have them half opened, but he looks dazed and unfocused.

"It's a simple rule. When we ask a question, you have to provide a fucking answer," Rumlow snaps at him. "Do you even remember what the question was?"

Bucky tries to speak but all that comes out is a sharp, hoarse exhale, so he shakes his head instead.

He doesn't even remember. He is so exhausted and unfocused that he doesn't remember what the question was, and her heart feels like it's being squeezed out of her chest.

Anna remembers the first time she saw Bucky having a nightmare. His body was trembling and he was letting out horrible, muffled screams. He was so pale and sweat was dripping down his forehead. After she woke him up, he had stayed unfocused for a very long time. It almost felt like he was nothing like the Bucky she knew. Later, he explained that he was usually unfocused and confused afterwards because he would think that he was back there again. 

She is looking at him now, and all she can think about is that this is a nightmare, and they are not going to be able to wake up from it or escape anytime soon. She saw how unfocused Bucky looked after the last shock, and she knows that for a second there, he was thinking that this must be one of his nightmares. She knows this will happen every time he loses consciousness, or every time he gets electrocuted a little too much. He will wonder where he is, and he will realize that this is reality and not a nightmare. Every single time.

The thought that breaks her the most is that when—and if, they escape from here, and Bucky has his nightmares again, it will take him an incredibly long time to realize that he is not with Hydra, and she is not even sure he will be able to survive those nightmares this time.

She lies on the ground and bends her knees to her chest. She curls her fists tightly, making her nails dig into her hands as hard as she possibly can.

"You are pathetic," Rumlow says to Bucky and resumes hitting him with the baton.

He hits him on his knees repeatedly until Bucky's legs start shaking. He hits him on his back, and although she can’t see it, she knows it must be a bloody mess by now. He hits him everywhere, even his right arm. He then presses the baton as hard as he could into Bucky's chest, and Bucky screams, it's the first time he has let out a scream like that since Rumlow put the collar around his neck.

His ribs are probably already broken, Anna thinks, and she digs her nails, until both her hands are bleeding.

Rumlow is sweating and breathing heavily. He drops the baton to the ground. "Fuck, that felt like a heavy workout," he says, stretching his arms. "How do you feel, Barnes?"

Bucky's eyes are barely open and his legs can no longer hold his weight. His body is trembling. She doesn't think he will be able to speak, but he has to, he won't tolerate getting shocked again.

He sucks in a deep breath. "G-great," he replies, the words leaving his mouth in a faint whisper.

"Did you hear that, Anna?" Rumlow asks her. "I didn't hear anything."

"I heard him loud and clear," Anna sharply says. "That's enough. He—he needs to see a doctor."

Rumlow laughs. "He doesn't need a doctor now. It's too early," he tells her, his gaze moving to her hands. "Oh, Anna. What did you do?"

Bucky tilts his head up and looks at her, trying to figure out what Rumlow means. Rumlow drops to one knee on the ground in front of her. "Your hands are bleeding," he states. "Now, why would you do that?"

She lets out a shaky breath. "Fuck you,” she forces the words out, her lips trembling. 

She feels Bucky's body tensing, his body moving against the chains. She knows he wants to speak and shout at Rumlow, but he can't. He is not allowed to and he can't get electrocuted again.

"Don’t stress yourself out, Anna. I told you we don’t really consider him a person. You will come to believe it soon enough," Rumlow says, standing up. "He was a killing machine for over fifty years. Do you know the things he did? The people he tortured? Do you know what was done to him to make him like that? It's the kind of things that don't make someone a person anymore. And he was a compliant motherfucker. He couldn't defy orders, it wasn't possible with what we did to his brain."

He lets one of the guards hand him a chair and sits down, facing her. "Do you know what happened when he met Steve Rogers for the first time after seventy years? He came back here, unstable and confused as hell. He asked Pierce who Rogers was and told him he knew him. Pierce gave the order for him to get wiped. Do you know what your boyfriend did?"

Anna doesn't reply, she stares blankly at Rumlow.

"You would think he destroyed this whole place, right? Burnt it all to the ground. After all, Rogers was his best friend, they grew up together and went to war together, and when he saw him, he knew he meant something to him," Rumlow pauses and turns his gaze to Bucky. "But no, he let them strap him to the chair, and when they were holding the mouth guard to place it inside his mouth, he opened his mouth like a good dog and let them put it inside. He didn't do anything. He knew he was going to get wiped and forget everything again, and he didn't do a single thing."

Bucky's eyebrows are drawn together, his eyes glistening. He looks like he is back there in the memory that Rumlow is talking about, and she is worried Rumlow is going to succeed in messing with his head.

Rumlow looks back at her, like he is waiting for her to say anything. "You don't believe me? Let's ask him," Rumlow says. "Did I say something wrong or did I say the truth, Barnes?"

Bucky takes a breath, and he looks like he is trying to gather all his strength to reply. So Anna talks instead. "I don't want to know what—"

"Don't speak," Rumlow sharply tells her, but his eyes stay focused on Bucky. "I am waiting for him to answer."

"You—," Bucky tries to talk, but his voice gets cut off. He coughs and then tries to clear his throat. "You said," he says, pausing, because he is out of breath, "the truth."

Fuck, she thinks. She feels a sharp pressure in her chest and without even noticing, she feels her tears falling. "You were—you were controlling him," she blurts out, voice trembling. "He didn't fight you because it would have been pointless, because he was confused and he didn't even know who—"

"It doesn't matter," Rumlow says, throwing his hands in the air. "I almost felt bad for him that day, you know? It was the first time he remembered something this strong from his past, at least while I was here. But, Anna, the point is, when you lose yourself and become something resembling a machine, there's no coming back from this. He was stupid to think he got to come back from it."

"This is all his fault. He should have killed Steve fucking Rogers. He should have completed his mission, like he always does. He shouldn't have had the audacity to live a normal life, after all the lives he took. He shouldn't have been in a relationship with you, because he is the reason you are here, Anna. And trust me, he knows it. He knows this is all his fault," he tells her. He looks at Bucky, and she knows he is going to direct another stupid question at him. "Is this all your fault, Barnes?" he asks. "You can say no, if you want. I won't punish you. I genuinely want to know."

Bucky swallows, and it looks like the simple act of swallowing is extremely painful for him right now. "Yes," he admits, his voice low and scratchy.

Rumlow shrugs, getting up from the chair. "Told you," he says. "Get him down, we don't want his shoulders to dislocate too early, there's still much to do, and here's the remote controller, in case he talks," he tells one of the guards, handing him the remote. Another two guards move forward to bring Bucky down.

"Can I go to him?" Anna asks Rumlow before he steps out of the room.

He glances at her over his shoulder, considering. “You can go," he says, a smirk curling on the corner of his lips.

They unchain Bucky from his arms, and he falls to the ground the instant they remove the chains. They leave him on the ground, his cheek pressed to his floor. He doesn't move, doesn't even shift, the only movement visible is the twitching of the fingers of his right hand.

She runs to him, then gets down on the floor and takes his head in her hands. His face is bloody and bruised, and there's blood running down his nose and around his mouth. She looks down at his chest and abdomen and finds it a horrible mess. She knows his back must be messed up just the same. And there are his legs as well, she knows he is hurt badly in them because towards the end of Rumlow's beating, he was not able to stand, and his pants are already cut above the knees from where he was hit, revealing bloody gashes on them.

She gulps down the knot forming in her throat. "Bucky," she shakily says. "Can you hear me?"

He blinks a few times, then opens his eyes. She places her hand on his mouth before he says anything. "Don't talk," she says, pushing his hair away from his face and letting her fingers go through it. He widens his eyes, probably afraid that she is not supposed to be by his side. "It's okay, it's okay, he said it's fine. Don't worry, just don't say anything, please."

He swallows, his muscles relaxing, and closes his eyes again. She looks around to see how many guards are around. There’s one by the door behind them, and there’s the one was by her side, still standing by the wall where she was sitting. If she lowers her voice just a little bit, they might not hear her.

"Bucky, can you—can you blink one time if it's a yes and two times for no?" she whispers, her voice is so low she's not even sure he heard her. "Very slowly though, so no one notices." 

He blinks once. Yes. 

"Good," she breathes. She takes the sleeves of her sweatshirt and tries to clean the blood around his mouth. "How long is it gonna take you to heal from this, you think? More than two days?"

He waits for a couple of seconds, then blinks once. The hitch that is in every breath he takes is making her nauseous.

"Fuck," she says. She doesn't ask anything else right away so no one notices. She waits for a few minutes, then leans forward just a little bit. "This second punishment—are they gonna wait till you heal?"

He blinks, and she is almost going to sigh in relief, but then the second blink comes. "No," she mutters in disbelief, her hand that was cleaning his face starts shaking, and her tears just start falling then.

She doesn't know how he will be able to take it. She knows he told her that he had this happen to him before, for seventy fucking years. She knows Rumlow keeps saying he will heal. But right now, he can’t even stand and he can’t breathe, and her mind is truly unable to comprehend how he is going to take any more pain.

He opens his eyes when her tears fall on his face. "I am sorry," she says, sniffling. "I am sorry, I just—you are already hurt very badly."

He opens his mouth for a split second, then closes it again—and this just makes her want to scream. He wants to tell her something but he can’t say anything. He brings his right hand up to her face, and that's when she notices how his arm is bruised as well. Rumlow did not leave a single part of Bucky's body unharmed. His hand caresses her cheek lightly, and that makes her break into tears more.

He is trying to make her feel better. He is the one who is hurt and he is trying to make her feel better.

"Oh, Bucky," she softly says, crying and leaning into his hand.

He gulps, then winces slightly and brings his hand down. It was probably hurting him to raise it like that because of how he was chained.

She lies on her side on the ground, opposite to him, and intertwines her hand with his, and imagines it's just them here. No guards and no Hydra.

"I...I didn't say it," she says, her voice quiet and breathy. "But I—I love you too. I have realized it for a very long while actually, but did not want to shock you or make you feel taken back. I was afraid I would ruin what we had," she says, biting her lips and closing her eyes for a second so her tears won't fall again.

"And I am not here because of you. None of this is your fault. Remember the first time we met? It was me who sat with you and it was me who nagged you to tell me your story. Your eyes were screaming help, I need to get the hell out of here," she tells him, and the tiniest, weakest, and saddest smile is almost visible on his face.

"It's not your fault. Rumlow wants to mess with your head. You know that, right?" she asks, hoping that she would somehow convince him, because she knows how Bucky always feels guilty when it comes to her. 

She waits for him to blink, but he never does. His gaze is fixed on her hands, tracing with his fingers the cuts from where she had dug in her nails. Her chest tightens at that.

"You are not just a person, Bucky," she says, her voice breaking because she can’t believe she has to say that to him, to remind him of who he is and to make sure Rumlow really hasn't fucked up his head. Because the way Bucky's eyes look now—hollow and devastated—is terrifying her.

"You are an incredible human being," she tells him, wishing he would flick his gaze up to her, but his eyes stay fixed on her hands. "You have been through hell—hell that's unimaginable to anyone, and yet you are there for the people you love, always. You care and love so deeply, and it fucking blows my mind sometimes, because I don't think I would have had it in me to give the slightest fuck about anything or anyone if I were in your place, but that's who you were, before Hydra and before everything, and that's who you will always be."

She tightens her grip around their intertwined hands. "It's why I fell in love with you."

His glassy, slightly opened eyes are still not meeting hers. She rests her hand softly on his face. "Try to get some rest, you need it.” Because there is an upcoming torture session, she thinks, and it makes her feel sick. "I will stay right here."

He closes his eyes, and she stays awake, watching him and making sure he has gone to sleep. She hopes and prays that a miracle happens and Rumlow at least leaves him for the day.

She tries hard not to think about what they are going to do next. Later, she will realize that all the possibilities she thought about, did not even come close to how bad and horrifying it actually was.

Chapter Text

"James," Dr. Raynor said, sighing. "We have been doing this for months now, and not once have we discussed what you have been through during those seventy years. You do realize that troubles me, right?"

Bucky’s eyebrows were furrowed. "Why would that trouble you?" he asked. 

"Because believe it or not, that's what therapy is," she told him. "You talk about your trauma, you open up, and we discuss it."

"I just—I don't see the point," he said, fiddling with his fingers. "And we have been making progress."

"We have, yes, in certain things, but all we discuss is the future, we discuss what's happening now. We never discuss what happened," she stated. "And I see it in your eyes, James. You look tired and exhausted, and when I ask you if you are still having nightmares, you tell me no. Why would you even lie about that?"

"I did not lie."

"James," she warned.

He huffed out a breath. "Fine," he said. "Alright, I still have nightmares. Now what?"

"Now you tell me what the nightmares are about."

If only it was that easy, Bucky thought. He hadn't really discussed with anyone what his nightmares were about since he has been back, except for Sam.

"But that would take us forever."

Her expression tightened. "Alright. How about you tell me about your nightmare from last night?"

Last night, Bucky had an awful, messed-up nightmare that made him feel sick to his stomach. 

Before he became the Winter Soldier, they were still trying to break him, and were fed up with him, so they decided to try something new. They had already tried all kinds of torture and had abused his body in all possible ways. He had reached a point where when they told him that he wasn't a person anymore—he believed them. He started feeling like maybe a body that was abused to that extent really should not be considered a person. Just a living creature, waiting for the day the torture would exceed his body's limits and then cease to exist once and for all.

One of the Hydra agents who was trying to get him to comply had stabbed Bucky that day. He was talking to Bucky, his face so close to him that Bucky had felt his breath on his face, and was telling him that he won't be given any water or food for the next three days, and Bucky spat in his face. He had gotten really angry and stabbed Bucky in his lower abdomen. It wasn't too deep, but it was a stab nonetheless, and it needed stitching.

Instead of stitching his wound, they had chained him to the floor with his knees bent, his forehead almost touching the ground, and his right arm behind him (he didn't have his metal arm yet), connected to his shackled ankles. 

The wound kept bleeding more because of how his body was positioned, and the pain was searing and unbearable. It was one of the worst and most uncomfortable positions they had ever left him in. He had thought they were only going to leave him like this for a couple of hours, but they left him like this for two days. 

He was sure the wound had gotten infected by the second day, even though he thought it would eventually heal because of the super soldier serum. And for the first time, he started to worry that they had forgotten about him, because not a single person came inside his cell in those two days. His entire body ached, and the way they had immobilized him made him feel like he was slowly suffocating. Afterwards, they realized how chaining him in this position always had the worst effect on him, and they used that to their advantage.

In his nightmare, Hydra had left him like this for a week. Instead of waking up frightened that he was back with Hydra, he woke up frightened that Hydra had forgotten about him. 

He had a feeling that if he told Dr. Raynor that, she would have him admitted to a psych ward. 

"I didn't have a nightmare last night, no one has nightmares every single day.”

She started fidgeting with her pen. "I am pretty sure you have nightmares every single day, James."

"I do not."

"Fine, if you won't talk to me, then at least talk to your friends. Talk to Steve. Would that be so hard?"

That made him laugh. "Great, will definitely do that. Thanks for the advice."

"James," she sharply said. "Why do you think it's important you talk about it?"

"I don't think it's important I talk about it."

She sighed and leaned forward. "When someone goes through something difficult and traumatic, he could either act like it never happened, or talk about it, acknowledge that it happened, and try to heal.."

"I know what happened very well."

"And I know you do," she said. "You just decided it would be better for you, and everyone around you if you never talk about it and keep shoving down all the horrible feelings and thoughts you get as a result of this trauma instead of actually dealing with what happened. What’s the result of this? You get panic attacks. You have nightmares every single day. You get triggered easily,” she paused. “And your trauma is not normal. I don't think it's something anyone has ever been through before—for this long, at least. It's more than seventy years. It has to be too much, you have to feel like the weight of it is going to make you drown one day."

So far, he was fairly calm during today's session, but she was starting to make him feel nervous, and it unsettled him. "I am fine."

She ignored what he said. "You don't have to drown yourself in it. You can process it and you can heal. But you can't do that if you refuse to acknowledge that there is even a problem."

"And to process it and heal, I have to talk about it?" he asked.

"That's what I am trying to say."

"Then drowning sounds good to me."

"Well, now it feels like you are just trying to make me mad."

He shook his head. "No, I am not trying to make you mad. I just truly cannot understand how you think it could be helpful. It's more than seventy years, as you said, so where should I even begin?" He stopped talking, his jaw clenched as he tried to keep his anger at bay.

"I am not saying you should tell us every single thing that happened during those seventy years. I am just—"

"Then what? Should I just pick and choose some traumas for you? Do you want me to pick some random people I killed and a couple of torture methods Hydra used so you feel satisfied?" he asked her, his voice shaky with anger. "You know the facts already. Can it not be enough? They mind controlled me, they made me kill people, they erased my memory, they tortured me, they fucking—" he abruptly stopped, his chest heaving.

His gaze dropped to his gloved hands. He really did not want to have a panic attack with Dr. Raynor in the room.

Dr. Raynor looked calm despite all of this. "They fucking what, James?"

When he looked at her, it felt like she had seen him naked. And maybe that was his imagination, maybe she was just asking a normal question anyone in her place would have asked, but he couldn't stay in this room a minute longer, so he stood up and stormed outside.

——————————————————

Bucky wakes up gasping for air.

Anna, is the first thing that comes to his mind when he opens his eyes. He doesn't know why, though, but he knows he should be terrified for her, and he doesn't know if that is because of a nightmare he had or if something happened.

"Bucky," a voice says to him. "Are you okay?"

Anna is in front of his face. Which doesn't make sense, because it suddenly looks like he is in the Hydra base in D.C. 

He is about to ask her what is happening when she presses her hand to his mouth. "No," she quickly says. "Don't."

Blink one time if it's a yes, and two times if it's a no, he remembers.

It hits him and he remembers all of it.

He nods, trying to tell her that he remembers. "Shit, no. Don't nod either," she presses her hand tighter on his mouth, even though he wasn't going to say anything. She looks around nervously to make sure no one noticed, and it seems like no one did. He winces because his tongue is still hurt, so she removes her hand from his mouth. "Sorry."

He exhales and realizes that it hurts so much to breathe, he is not able to take a full breath. Every inch of his body is hurting and he knows he is not going to heal anytime soon. He also wants to reset his vibranium arm, which probably needs resetting because of all the electricity he took, but can’t find the energy to do so.

He looks at Anna. How the hell did he drift into unconsciousness and leave her? He shifts his gaze to the ceiling, unable to bear her gaze at the moment. 

And the fact that she is right here, inches away from his face and he cannot speak to her is killing him. He wants to tell her he is sorry. He is sorry she is here, he is sorry she had to witness everything that happened, and he is sorry she is about to see everything else, too. He is sorry he walked into her life, because he came into her calm, quiet life and turned it upside down. 

And thinking about how he caused this to happen to her is making him feel like he’s suffocating. He knows that if he thinks about it any longer he is going to have a panic attack, because his mind won't be able to handle that. So he closes his eyes and gulps down the knot in his throat.

He knows Rumlow was right. Rumlow, the son of a bitch, was right about everything.

"Hey," she softly says, wrapping her hand around his. "You should continue to rest, you have only been out for a little while."

When Kaprov used to implement the three phases punishment on him, Bucky used to dread the hours in between each punishment, and sometimes there were days between each one, especially when they went too far. The dread of what was coming, of knowing how bad it would be, was almost worse than what they actually did to him. He just wanted it to be over as quickly as possible, and he always wished they would do it all consecutively, but he  knew they loved the psychological impact the waiting and the dread had on him.

Now, however, he is filled with dread for what it is going to be like for Anna. He wants to beg Rumlow to take her away, and he would beg for that.

She should have been in her bakery now, he thinks, and it makes his heart feel like it's getting crushed.

He still doesn’t understand Pierce's plan, and that frightens him. He doesn't know what will happen after those two weeks. It doesn't make any sense to let Anna go, but he is also pretty sure they won't kill or harm her because otherwise, he wouldn't have a reason to submit to them.

The pain he is feeling everywhere is also not helping him think properly.

You are not tired yet, he tells himself. Not yet. It's too early for that.

He feels Anna's hand softly going through his hair, her touch soothing and gentle. "Stop thinking, it won't get us anywhere," she tells him, trying to give him a weak smile. "Just rest."

She keeps brushing her fingers through his hair, and he doesn't want her to stop. He closes his eyes and she leans closer to him. "I know you told Steve to wait for two weeks," she says. "But I really hope he doesn't follow your plan and comes to take us out of here. Do you think he is stupid enough to do that?"

Steve was stupid sometimes, but he had given him his word. He knows Bucky won't be able to bear it if he is the reason something happens to Anna, and Bucky doesn't think Steve would ever risk it.

He slowly opens his eyes and blinks twice.

"Shit," she mutters under her breath. "And Sam won't act without Steve, of course."

He hopes so, he thinks, and blinks once.

"Great," she says, absentmindedly trailing her fingers on threads of his hair. "We were supposed to go with him to Louisiana next week."

He closes his eyes again and gulps. He almost forgot that. Anna was so excited for this trip, and now they are stuck here, and he doesn't know if it will be possible to still be with Anna if he ever gets out of here.

He wonders if Sam wants to kill him now.

"But we will get to go, when we are out of here," she quickly says, like she read his mind and wants to make him feel better. "Together."

When he closes his eyes, he dreams of Sam, Louisiana, and the boat.

—

Rumlow walks inside, announcing his presence with a loud clap that echoes in the room. Bucky feels Anna’s body flinching hard against his body at the sound and opens his eyes.

"Aren't you both romantic?" he asks, a smirk on his lips. One of the guards moves towards Anna and takes her away from him, leading her to sit where she had before. 

"New rule," Rumlow says, addressing Bucky, who is still lying on the floor. "When I walk into the room, you get on your knees. Is that clear?"

After a few seconds, he realizes that was a question and he has to provide an answer, so he nods, hoping that's enough. He pushes himself up using his right hand, while trying to ignore the pain that courses through his arm when he does that, and then finally resets his left arm. He looks at Rumlow, his knees bent beneath him and his back straightened.

And despite following Rumlow's orders, he feels the electricity coursing through his whole body. It takes him by surprise and he lets out a grunt, but at least his arms are not tied behind him now, so he rests both arms on the floor and tries to take in the pain. With his whole body already hurt, the level of pain he is experiencing right now is so bad that for a second, he genuinely thinks he is going to lose consciousness.

"Stop!" Anna screams. "He didn't do anything!"

Rumlow still keeps it activated, which is longer than usual. It finally stops after a several seconds, but he has already collapsed to his side, and his left hand has stopped working. He stays there, trying to breathe through the pain he is feeling everywhere, and Rumlow lets him.  After a minute, he pushes himself up and resets his metal arm once again. 

"He knows what he did. He ignored an important rule," Rumlow crosses his arms and moves towards Bucky. "Tell us, Barnes. What did you do?"

Fuck, Bucky thinks. What the hell did he do now?

Maybe he shouldn't have nodded and he should have spoken instead, but he only got electrocuted after he had sat on his knees—and then he remembers. He made eye contact with Rumlow. And now Rumlow wants to hear him say it out loud, and he would really rather die.

But Anna is right there.

Bucky clears his throat, it has been several hours since he last used his voice, and he also really needs water. He clenches his fists, his arms still on the ground, and sees Rumlow's combat boots right in front of him. "I looked at you," Bucky says, his voice hoarse.

"See, Anna? I told you he knew," Rumlow says, he takes a step further and steps on Bucky's right hand. "Now, what do you have to say?"

He tries not to wince in pain or make any sound, but he can feel his hand getting crushed by Rumlow's weight.

And fuck, his arm is already hurt badly.

He fights the urge to grab Rumlow by his left arm and break his leg. When he doesn't reply, Rumlow pushes himself more on his hand, and he grits his teeth, his breath catching in his throat. "S-sorry," Bucky rasps. "I am sorry."

Rumlow removes his leg, and Bucky takes his swollen hand away from the ground, his fingers throbbing with pain.

"You will learn again," Rumlow tells him. "You learned once, I am sure you will be able to learn again."

"Now," Rumlow says, taking off his jacket and stretching his arms. "It's time for the part I have been waiting for. Let's get started, shall we?"

Rumlow takes a knife out of his pocket, and Bucky already knows what's going to happen. He also knows that the knife is not the worst part. "Stand up and face the wall."

He breathes and uses his left arm to lift himself from the ground. He had almost forgotten that Rumlow had beaten him on his legs, and because of all the pain he was feeling in his entire body, he didn't know where the pain was coming from. But he feels his thighs burning with pain the moment he stands up, and he almost falls back down. He hisses in pain and leans on his knees for a second, then straightens his back.

He allows himself to take one quick glance at Anna before he goes. Her eyes are already on him, frightened.  She has her left hand placed on her chest and her breathing is heavy.

He stands in front of the wall and rests his forehead on it, and swallows hard, bracing himself for what is about to happen.

He also realizes that Rumlow is about to hurt his already wounded back. That is something new, because Kaprov usually kept his back unharmed till the second phase.

When Rumlow's knife touches his back, he flinches—the coldness of the knife biting against his skin that’s radiating heat, every muscle aching. Rumlow presses it deep into his skin, by his right shoulder, and he feels the blood oozing out. Then very slowly, Rumlow drags the knife diagonally across his back. He keeps his eyes closed, biting the inside of his mouth so no sound would escape his lips. 

"You know," Rumlow says, dragging the knife to Bucky's lower back. "I am actually not sure if in the reports they did one or two slashes, but I am going to do another one just in case."

It was only one, Bucky wants to tell him. Instead, he presses his forehead more into the wall.

Rumlow starts at Bucky's other shoulder, moving the knife diagonally as well. Bucky knows that the knife is going to meet the other bleeding cut, and tries to prepare himself for that, but his back is already stinging with pain from the knife's very slow drag, tearing through his skin. When Rumlow reaches the point of overlap, he digs the knife deeper and it sends a jolt of hot agony through his spine. Despite all Bucky's efforts, a sharp inhale of pain leaves his lips.

Rumlow takes a step back when he's done, looking at Bucky's back. "Yeah, I think this will do."

He can feel the blood soaking his back, seeping down his pants. The two wounds are throbbing and burning with every heartbeat. 

They haven't even started yet.

"Chain him up," Rumlow orders the guards.

They drag him to the centre of the room, and when they take his right arm to chain it, he almost screams in pain. And he wants to look at Anna but can't find it him to do so. He knows she will panic and scream once she realizes what's going to happen, and he is so tired of hearing her screams and cries.

Rumlow approaches him with a thin, very long cable cord in his hand, and Bucky tries not to flinch at its sight. "Ready?" he asks.

"What?" Anna asks, her voice is horrified. "What—what's going on? Are you not finished?"

Rumlow smiles. "Finished? You are kidding, right? This was only the preparation."

Anna stands up and the guard beside her immediately shifts to her side. "No," she says, her voice shaky. "No, you can't. You are not going to—you are not going to use this on his back, right?"

Bucky wishes anyone would just make him unconscious, then they could proceed in and do whatever they want to do with him. He can try and take in the pain, he is starting to think that given what's going on at the moment, maybe he deserves it anyway. But listening to Anna and thinking about how she must be feeling is worse than all the torture they did and will do.

He knows this is why they had planned that she stay and watch. This is their way of tarnishing and ruining whatever normalcy he had. Their way of telling him that there's no escaping who he was. 

And they are succeeding.

For Bucky, bringing Anna here to watch was the most evil, cruel, horrifying thing Hydra ever did to him. 

"Where else are we going to use it?" Rumlow asks, moving behind Bucky.

Bucky was so lost in his thoughts, he didn't even get a chance to prepare himself for the snap of the cord against his back. A choked grunt escapes his lips, the pain agonizing and blinding against the open wounds on his back.

"No!" Anna shouts, running towards Rumlow, but the guard grabs her arms, forcing her to stay back. She thrashes against him. "Stop, stop! Please!"

Bucky tries to stay alert this time and hears the whistle of the cable before it lands on his skin. He draws in a sharp breath, biting the inside of his mouth until he tastes the copper on his tongue.

Anna is still fighting the guard, and whenever Bucky tries to look at her to make sure no one is hurting her, Rumlow snaps the cable against his back again and again. He doesn't stop. 

The blood is starting to be everywhere. He sees it splashing in the air. He sees it on the ground. On his pants and shoes. He knows Rumlow must be covered in it as well.

Anna’s shouts and screams are filling the room, and he can’t bear hearing them anymore. "Leave her," Rumlow says to the guard holding her, moving to stand in front of Bucky. 

And the minute the guard drops Anna, she runs over to Rumlow and grabs his arm. "Stop, stop—there's so much blood. Please.."

Bucky's only thought at the moment is how close Anna is, and how there is now blood on her shoes. And all he wanted to do was tell her to move away because she was getting blood on her. He is also trying so hard to stay alert and be aware of what's happening around him, and it takes all his energy because he can barely keep his eyes open from the agonizing pain on his back.

Then Anna does something that breaks Bucky's heart in a way he had never felt before. She drops herself at Rumlow's feet and begs him. "Please," she says, sobbing. "Stop, this is enough. He is bleeding out. Please."

There's blood all over her now, Bucky thinks. And he knows that the sight of Anna kneeling in front of Rumlow, his blood covering her, is something he won't ever be able to erase from his mind.

He has been able to shove away horrible memories before, to stop himself from thinking too much about them because it felt like otherwise, the memories would kill him. But this—this is something else. This is something that will stay in his head forever.

And it is all his doing. All his fault. And he wishes Rumlow would continue torturing him instead. He wants to lose consciousness. He can't bear the thoughts going through his mind and he can't bear to look at Anna, and she is right beneath him. That's when he realizes he can't stay silent anymore, and he doesn't even care about the collar around his neck. He thinks that maybe the shock of the electricity with him already bleeding would do the job.

"Let her leave," Bucky says, his head hung low, his eyes away from Rumlow. His breathing is heavy and his voice is incredibly shaky, "the room," he pauses, clearing his throat. "Please." 

He waits for the electricity, but it doesn't come.

Rumlow kneels in front of Anna, and tilts her head up with his hand. "Anna," he says, attempting to sound gentle. "You are making this worse for him. This isn't the first time he has gone through something like this, his body is used to it."

"Please," Anna chokes. "This is too much, please."

"But it's not nearly enough," he tells her. "We can't control his mind anymore, this form of controlling is necessary."

"He will comply," she says. "He will have to comply because you have me."

Rumlow shakes his head. "You still don't get it," he tells her, standing up. Anna stays on the floor. "And I understand, you did not see the Winter Soldier. You did not see how efficient he was. He wasn't a normal assassin, he was something else entirely. If you had met him before, you would have been frightened to the core. When we say he was a machine, it's not an exaggeration. He was a machine—the way he moved, the way he fought, and the way he killed—he was the best goddamn killing machine. You don't know how many men he could take all alone, or how long he could keep fighting for, and the efficient, incredible way he carried out his kills."

He pauses, grabbing Bucky's chin, who has his eyes slightly closed. "You are with me, aren't you, Barnes?"

Bucky nods.

Rumlow shifts his gaze to Anna. "The secret was compliance. I already told you that he was a compliant motherfucker. And to make him comply, he has to remember who he is, because he has fucked up everything since he got away," Rumlow says, then he raises the cord, and Bucky opens his eyes, alert. It hits him across his chest and abdomen, and a scream gets stuck in Bucky's throat, because his ribs are already broken.

They only flogged him on his back, he wants to tell Rumlow.

"This was for speaking without permission," Rumlow tells Bucky, and swings the cable cord across his abdomen one more time. This time, his skin breaks and he starts bleeding.

Anna's body jumps with the sickening sound of the cord. "No, no, no..." she keeps muttering, her body trembling.

He squeezes his eyes shut, biting his mouth so hard that he starts feeling the blood dripping from his lips.

He opens his eyes, and finds Anna still on the ground, her arms covering herself, shaking. She raises her head to look at him, her eyes filled with tears, defeated, and helpless.

When he sees her like this, he decides a few more hits won't matter. "It's okay," he tells her, his breathing ragged. And Rumlow, who has started moving to stand behind Bucky, returns again to face him once he hears him speaking.

"Anna," he breathes, ignoring Rumlow, "it's—"  before he could finish the sentence, Rumlow drops the cord on his stomach again, and Bucky raises his knees slightly, attempting to take it in, a strangled grunt forcing its way through his throat.

Anna flinches, and he sees her whole body shaking violently. "Stop, stop!" she tells Rumlow, leaning back on her arms and pushing herself backwards.

Rumlow continues, until there's so much blood on the ground and Bucky's feet start slipping on it. Until he starts feeling dizzy and is barely even conscious. He doesn't know if there's any remaining skin Rumlow is hitting, it feels like his whole back has been torn open and there's not a single inch that hasn't been sliced.

He finally loses his consciousness at some point, but wakes up after a few minutes to cold water being splashed over his face, gasping loudly. Rumlow stops in front of him, covered with his blood from head to toe.

“We are not done yet," Rumlow tells him, taking a towel from one of the guards to clean the blood on his hand.

“For the last punishment of this second phase, we are just going to chain you over there. This is an addition from our side. I know it's not a part of the three phases punishment, but they used it on you separately a lot," he says, pointing to the floor by his side, where there are chains anchored to the ground, the ones Bucky noticed when he first walked inside the room.

Bucky wants to tell him that there have been a lot of additions from their side so far.

"In the reports," Rumlow says, "it was stated that there was a particular position that deeply disturbed you and caused you anxiety."

The air leaves Bucky's lungs, because he knows exactly what Rumlow is talking about. He cannot imagine being in this position when he is bleeding this heavily.

"Don't know why we have never tried it with you, honestly, but here we are," he states. "Chain him," he orders the guards.

He feels like every part of his body is being torn apart when they lift him. They drop him to his knees and lock both his hands behind him, using the same restraints they used when he first arrived. They use similar restraints for his ankles as well, then they connect his restrained hands to his ankles with a chain that locks to the floor behind him. The stretch pulls back at the open, bleeding wounds, sending fresh stings of fire up his back and chest. One guard grabs the back of his neck and forces his head down until his face nearly touches the floor, then grabs the collar around Bucky's neck, and clips it to the chain anchored to the floor in front of him, locking him in place.

He sees Rumlow’s feet in front of him, and he knows he is taking in how he is chained, with his knees bent beneath him, his arms bound behind him, and his neck forced down. "Perfect," he says. "If you try to break out of the chains, you know what will happen."

Bucky feels like he's going to have a panic attack. 

How is this happening to him again? 

"Now, as promised, we are going to take Anna to her room to rest and eat,” he tells him. “Rest, Barnes. I want you to be awake and energetic when the next phase comes, otherwise, it will be no fun.”

He hears their footsteps walking away towards the exit door. 

And he is only inches away from the floor, his breathing is getting heavier and heavier. He tries to control it but fails, and he begins gasping for air. His lungs and chest burn severely with every gasp that comes out of his mouth.

“Stop, stop," he hears Anna shouting. "He can't breathe," she says, her voice frightened. "You can't leave him like this, please—"

“Take her out," Rumlow says.

He hears her shouts and screams as she gets dragged outside.

Rumlow drops to his knees in front of him, and Bucky's breaths are still coming out in fast and shallow gulps, and his vision is starting to blur from the dizziness.

Rumlow grabs Bucky's hair, forcing his head up, the chain around his neck rattles in return, and the burning around his neck hurts. "God, this position really does disturb you, doesn't it?" he asks, and Bucky hopes he is not expecting an answer in return because there's no air in his lungs. "Breathe, Barnes. You can take it," he lets go of his hair and stands up. "And do try to rest."

"Make sure he doesn't die," Rumlow tells the guard on his way out. 

Bucky rests his forehead on the floor, still unable to breathe, and he doesn't think he has ever had a panic attack this bad before. The position he is forced into is not helping. His broken ribs are not helping. His bleeding back, abdomen, and chest, are not helping. Anna being here is not helping.

None of the methods he usually uses to calm down is going to work. And he is too close to the fucking floor, he feels his breath in his face, and it feels like he is suffocating. The more he tries not to move and fight the urge to break out of the cuffs and chains, the more it feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest. His body is shaking, and he starts thinking that maybe he is going into shock.

He reminds himself that Anna is here. So he keeps telling himself that he is not tired yet, over and over again, like maybe that would do the trick.

But in the end, he fails, because his breath wasn't coming. There is no way he could have successfully grounded himself when everything is falling apart. When he is positioned like that, again. When they are torturing him, again. Because there is no escaping who he was. Maybe he actually was stupid. He thought he had a chance at life, but people like him don't get that. He doesn't get that.

When darkness swallows him whole, he surrenders and lets go.

Chapter Text

Steve woke up suddenly in the middle of the night. A faint sound had stirred him from his sleep. "Bucky?" he asked, looking around the living room. 

He glanced at his phone to check the time, and when he didn't get any answer back, he pushed himself up from the couch to see where Bucky was. He found him near the bathroom, sitting on the floor with his knees bent. Even in the faint lighting of the apartment, Steve could tell he looked very pale. 

"Buck?" he asked, but Bucky's gaze did not move from the wall in front of him. His breathing was heavy and his eyes looked clouded. 

Steve dropped to his knees next to him. "Hey," he gently said. "Everything alright?" 

He still didn't receive any answer, Bucky's mind was elsewhere completely. Steve placed his hand on Bucky's arm. "Bucky—" 

Bucky flinched, almost like Steve had burned him. Steve looked at him with worry, knowing that he must have had one of his terrible nightmares. 

He shifted his gaze to Steve, and it felt like it took him a moment to realize who Steve even was. "Steve," he rasped. "Sorry—um," he stopped talking, letting out a breath. "Did I make any noise?" 

"No, I don't know what I heard, maybe I just felt some movement," Steve told him. "Are you okay?" 

Bucky had been back from Wakanda for three weeks, and he wasn't doing okay. Shuri had told him that he won't be alright for some time. She didn't even tell him that it could be a possibility, she had told him that Bucky definitely wouldn't be okay.

"I have come to know him a bit during this period, and I know he will push you away," Shuri told him. "But I have seen how he has been ever since we finished, it's like the darkness is swallowing him whole, slowly. Every day a part of him just...dims more. When we realized we had succeeded in removing the trigger words from his head, he was really emotional and happy for like—a day and a half."

"His only focus since he left Hydra was to have his memories back. Then, his only focus became to fix what's in his head. Once those two issues got fixed, and no specific goals were filling his head, I think he started processing the past seventy years," she paused. "You may feel like he is calmer, and it's because he loves it here. He's experiencing a quiet he has never had all his life. But you will understand what I mean when you see him." 

"So we solved a problem, and that started another problem," Steve commented. 

Shuri sighed. "It was inevitable," she said. "He will be fine, eventually, but it could take years. He just needs you, and I know you already know that. But he's so good at acting like he's fine all the time he could actually make you doubt yourself. You want my advice?" 

"Please." 

"Try to stay over with him most days, if you can," she told him. "I think he has nightmares everyday and they are really awful—it's almost terrifying. They aren't normal nightmares. My point is, he won't have to act like he's okay around you if you already know he is suffering. And most importantly, I think the nightmares are his biggest issue at the moment, he is going to need someone to be there for him when he has them." 

So Steve tried to stay with Bucky as much as he could, while also giving him the space he needed. Bucky barely left the house, he had told Steve he needed some time, and then he would try and find out how to live normally again. Everything related to Bucky's pardon also started since he was back, and Steve knew it was taking a toll on him. He wished they could have delayed it all for a while, but they had to get it over with once he was back.

He was also supposed to start meeting with his court-mandated therapist next week, and Steve knew Bucky already hated being forced to do that, but it wasn't really an option. 

Bucky gulped. "Yeah," he breathed out, pressing his fingers to his eyes. "I am fine. You can go back to sleep.”

"And you?" Steve asked him. 

Bucky's eyes darted over to him, still looking dazed. "Me?" he asked, confused.

"You are not coming back to sleep?" 

Bucky shook his head. "No," he replied, his voice still raspy and hoarse. "I have to—uh, I need to take a shower." 

Steve was the one who was confused now. "What, now?" he asked. "It's three in the morning, Buck." 

Bucky stood up and almost lost his balance as he did, Steve quickly reached out to his arm to support him. And again, Bucky flinched and took his arm away from Steve. "Sorry, I just—I have to...," Bucky murmured, trailing off. "It will be quick. Go back to sleep, please." 

He didn't wait for Steve to reply or say anything, he entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him. 

It wasn't quick. Steve stretched out on the couch and waited for Bucky for one hour. He knew Bucky now took so long while showering most of the time, which was unlike him—or just unlike the Bucky he used to know, because when they were young, he used to shower in only a few minutes. He also wasn't sure if it was normal for him to take that long at three in the morning.

He couldn't go back to sleep, not when Bucky looked so terrible, and he started getting worried, but also didn't want to bother him and didn’t want to push himself on him. When another half an hour passed, however, he couldn't stay still anymore. He got up and knocked on the bathroom door. "Bucky?" he asked. "All good?" 

Again, no reply. 

"Bucky?" he called him a little louder this time, but there was still no answer. He heard the water running but did not hear anything else. 

He was feeling nervous and couldn't wait any longer. He slowly opened the bathroom door,  and there was Bucky, sitting on the shower floor, his knees bent and his head bowed, the water trailing down his long hair.

His skin was extremely red, and Steve couldn’t tell if it was from the heat of the water—because the bathroom was thick with steam—or if Bucky had scrubbed himself a little too hard.

He didn't know if he should leave him be or check if he was okay, but he already knew he wasn't. Not even close. So he stepped back, decided to give him some space, and quietly closed the bathroom door. 

He couldn't get back to sleep from the nervousness he had felt, and it took Bucky more than half an hour to finally get out of the shower. When he did, he didn't get back to sleep. He got dressed, made some coffee, and sat by the window. 

Steve acted like he was asleep, so Bucky wouldn't feel guilty that he had woken him up. But after a little while, he couldn’t stay still anymore. So he got up, pretending he had just woken up. "Hey," he said, stretching his arms. 

"Good morning," he smiled weakly, looking exhausted. "You didn't sleep well, did you?"

"What? No, I slept for several hours," Steve replied, rubbing his neck. "Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry. I am okay,” he told him. 

“Do you want to—uh, talk about it?" he asked, feeling nervous. 

Bucky's expression faltered for a moment. "No, I am fine," he replied. "Steve, I—I don't think you should stay over again, to be honest.”

Steve's chest tightened. "What?" he asked.  "I told you I slept well." 

"And I know you are lying," Bucky stated. "I don't want to worry about waking you up in the middle of the night on top of everything else." 

"Bucky, I am the one who is worried. It's not you who has to worry about anything." 

Bucky tilted his head back, looking already tired from having this conversation with him. "Well, you don't have to worry. I said I am fine." 

Steve sighed. "You are not fine. You have nightmares every single day and you don't sleep. You are exhausted." 

"And what? You are helping me by making me feel guilty about the fact that you are not sleeping as well?" he sharply asked, tossing his hand up in frustration. 

"I said you don't have to worry—" 

Bucky slammed his hand against the window. "But I do, Steve. And I am sorry, but I don't want to worry about you hearing me scream in my fucking sleep, or having a panic attack. I just—I want to be alone. I can deal with this better on my own." 

He let out a tired breath. "How is it better for you to deal with it alone, Bucky? And you are already dealing with it on your own, actually," he told him. "You don't tell me anything, and you know you have to talk about what's happening inside your head at some point." 

Bucky gave a humorless laugh. "Yeah, right." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

Bucky's jaw tightened. "It means," he said, exhaling sharply, "that I don't have to talk about it, and trust me, you don't want to know what the fuck is happening in my head." 

"You don't get to decide that—" 

Bucky threw the cup of coffee in his hand across the room, and the sound of the glass shattering echoed in the apartment. "No, maybe I do, Steve,” he said through clenched teeth. “It's my fucking head." 

"And I am your friend, Bucky. I am your best friend. I have known you your whole life—" 

Bucky lunged at Steve, gripping the edge of his shirt. "No, fuck you, Steve. There are seventy years you know nothing about. You don't know my whole life. You don't know anything." 

Steve could feel Bucky's breath in his face. "Well, fucking tell me then!” he shouted at him, his voice desperate. 

Bucky punched the wall beside Steve's head with his left arm. Steve flinched, and he knew there has to be a large hole in that wall now. "Get out," Bucky spat, his breathing heavy. "Now, Steve." 

Steve couldn't find it in him to be angry at Bucky. He just felt an overwhelming amount of sadness at that moment. His eyes burned and his throat tightened, but he managed to get up. Bucky kept his gaze away from him. "Fine," Steve said, his voice trembling. "I will be there when you need me, Buck."

——————————————————

Steve Rogers did not cry easily. 

And right now, he cannot cry either. 

He really feels like he wants to cry, like he should cry. But ever since Bucky walked out of the apartment, the shock of what happened engulfed him and he hasn't been able to move. 

He doesn't know how long it has been, but he hasn't moved from the floor of Bucky's apartment since the morning. 

"Two weeks, if Anna is not back, you kill them all. Every last one of them."  

He doesn't even know what that meant. Why are they keeping Anna for two weeks? Why did Bucky agree to this? And what do they even want from him? Endless questions are running through his head, and he has no answer for any of them. 

He also took one hit after another and did not know what to process from the magnitude of it all. It is too much, and he doesn't know what's happening to either Bucky or Anna right now. 

"You really should have guessed it by now."  

And he feels so stupid, so naive. All the evidence was right in front of him. Bucky's nightmares were right in front of him, and he never even thought it could be a possibility. 

Imagining Bucky helpless, being controlled and used like this, makes him want to go on a killing spree. He doesn't know who was involved, or if that was something that was done during Pierce's time, but he would kill them all, regardless. This is the first time Steve feels at peace with the idea of killing, and it doesn't scare him. What scares him is those people never getting what they actually deserve, because the gravity of what Bucky had gone through is beyond what his mind can imagine. And yet, Bucky had gotten out, fixed his head, and gone to therapy. Bucky had tried, every day. Every damn day, even when his head was killing him, or when his nightmares were slowly destroying him. He woke up every day and tried. He did not want to let Steve down. And he tried and tried. 

And now Bucky is back there again, and it feels as if someone carved out Steve's chest, took his heart, and crushed it. And they took Anna to do it. He knows Bucky will feel guilty about this for the rest of his life, he knows this will be another addition to the list of things he's guilty about. 

Anna was the one normal thing in Bucky's life. Steve always felt so grateful for her. She came around and made Bucky feel like he had a chance in life. And now she is there, with Hydra, and he cannot do anything. The helplessness is killing him. And he can’t risk Anna's life, because Bucky will never forgive him.

But he can’t risk Bucky's life either.

He knows he will never be able to survive losing Bucky again. He grieved him once. He can’t do it one more time. 

He doesn't know how long it has been, but he still can’t move. Something has happened to his body and he feels like it can’t function, like it has shut down and forgotten how to work. He can’t even bring himself to go to the bathroom. 

Several hours later, when the dawn of the next day starts breaking, he realizes that he didn't tell Sam anything. Shit, he thinks. He forgot about Sam. He was so caught up in his thoughts and the mess he is in that he forgot to tell him, and Sam has to know, but Steve doesn't even know how he will be able to tell him. 

With shaky hands, he takes a deep breath and calls him. 

"Hey, man," Sam sleepily answers. "Why are you calling me this early? I am definitely not going for a run if that's—"

He gulps. "Sam," he says, his voice shaky. "Sam, something has happened." 

"What?"

"It's Bucky," he says. "Can you—can you come to his apartment?" 

"Okay, I will be there right away," Sam quickly replies, his voice nervous. "Steve, is he okay?" 

Steve replies, feeling a hard knot in his chest. "Just come over and I will explain." 

He is still not able to move from his place, and he thinks about how he has to explain everything to Sam now, when he barely even understands anything himself. 

Sam had grown to care for Bucky a lot recently. He is the closest person Bucky has after Steve and Anna. He knows this is going to destroy him as well. 

Before they became close, Sam and Bucky's relationship mostly revolved around them getting on each other’s nerves and pissing each other off. Most times, Steve had felt like he was hanging out with bickering, immature children. Then Steve and Bucky had a fight, a bad one, and that was when Sam and Bucky got close. Sam had initially gone to Bucky to fight with him, because he saw how devastated Steve was afterwards. Then, somehow, a bond was formed between both of them that day. 

Steve doesn't exactly know what happened, but he knows Bucky confided in Sam that day in a way he never did with him. And somehow, he was completely fine with that. 

After the fight he had with Bucky, Sam had told him why it was especially hard for Bucky to open up to Steve. He told him he was the only person who knew Bucky from before. He was his best friend and his brother, and they only ever had each other. And none of that made it easy for Bucky to share anything with him. 

"He is not just being hard and thick-headed for no reason," Sam had explained. "Although, trust me, I know he is a pain in the ass. But he cares for you so much, Steve, that's why he doesn't want you to know too much. He already thinks you know too much. And you knew him from before, and he was just a normal guy back then. Now, he has seventy years full of murders and traumas. He's not the same person, but he doesn't want you to see him as a pathetic, broken person." 

"But I would never—" 

"I know you would never think of him like that. But if you were in his place, you would probably think the exact same thing. I know I would." 

After that, he tried not to ask Bucky about anything. So sometimes, Bucky would have a panic attack, and Steve would know that something must have triggered it, and normally, he would ask if him if he wanted to talk about it or ask if something had happened, but now he would just help him through it and sit with him in silence afterwards, and that would be it. 

It got better between them after that, and sometimes, Bucky would share the tiniest things with him, and Steve would feel like he won the lottery. Even though most times, it felt like Bucky had shared those stuff with him just to make Steve feel better. But the only thing that mattered to Steve ever since he got Bucky back was to be there for him and help him get through what he is dealing with. Knowing that he is not a total failure at it made him feel slightly better. 

At the sound of the doorbell, Steve finally pulls himself from the floor he has been stuck to all day. He draws in the deepest breath he can, and opens the door. 

"Is he okay?" is the first thing Sam asks when Steve opens the door. He looks frightened, his eyes scan the background behind Steve. "Where is he, Steve?" 

"Not here," Steve replied, his voice breaking. "He is not here." 

And then finally, he cries. He cries for his friend, who has been suffering for so long.

—

Steve and Sam sit in silence for a very long time after Steve explains everything that happened.  

After a while, Sam breaks the silence. "That doesn't make any sense." 

Steve's eyes are still glassy with tears and his throat l feels tight. “Yeah," he says, letting out a sigh. "Whenever I try to find any reason or anything that makes sense behind their actions, I just fail miserably." 

"I can't believe they took Anna," Sam states, staring blankly in front of him. "This is—it's going to kill Bucky. If they won't kill him, then this definitely will," he sighs. "And the three phases punishment—shit. That's fucked up." 

Steve moves his gaze from the floor to Sam. "You know what it is?" 

Sam looks nervous when Steve fixes his stare at him. "I—well, I just know one particular phase," he says, dropping his gaze. "The last one." 

Steve has always been fine with the friendship Sam and Bucky had, it made him so happy, actually. He never had an issue with Bucky sharing some stuff with Sam, and Sam had already explained before why it was impossible for Bucky to share anything with Steve, and it made sense to him, but he can't help the sting he feels in his heart, knowing that Sam had known. "How?" 

"I kind of guessed it actually," Sam replies. "But I wasn't surprised, Steve, to be honest. An organization that has no moral compass whatsoever has full control over a man. Complete control. They literally say a couple of words and he complies with whatever the hell they want. This kind of control and power—it is not surprising that it reached this point, not with them." 

Steve clears his throat and blinks his eyes repeatedly, trying not to cry. "For how many years did it go on for, do you know?" 

Sam looks at Steve with empathy that Steve cannot tolerate right now. "All the period during which Kaprov was with Hydra. It got especially worse when he was his handler, I think," he replies.

Steve rests the back of his head on the wall and closes his eyes. "God."

"Did he tell you about it?" 

"Yeah," Steve replies. "Before he left, he was trying to convince me that he had to leave right away and he was explaining why he couldn't risk them using that method of torture on her. He said it out of anger, actually. I am pretty sure he regrets that now." 

"What are the first two?" Sam asks. 

Steve feels like he wants to throw up just thinking about what Bucky had told him. "He said they would beat her—so much that she could end up being dead. Then—the second one, they..." he stops, feeling his heart beating quickly in his chest. "They, uh—they would flog her, but only after they slash her back open. They would flog her wounded back, because—he said it was a method of torture intended for a super soldier.”

"Fuck," Sam mutters, covering his face with his hand. "Then they—," he tries to say it, but fails. "They do it while he is already ragged by their torture." 

Steve swallows. "And now he is back there with them." 

"Yeah, but that was in the past. They can't do that now. They can't control him," Sam says. "We have to focus on what we are going to do. We have to make a list of everything they could want him for. Even if we are going to wait, we need to have a plan. We need to do something. Anything." 

Steve sighs. "I can't think. It's like my head stopped working. I don't know what to do." 

Sam stands up, his hand going through his face. "It's cause we're emotionally involved," he tells him. "We need someone who is not." 

Realization dawns on Steve's face. "Tony." 

He doesn’t think about how things are still rocky between both of them. It has gotten slightly better recently, but nothing has been really the same after everything that happened. Still, he knows that he needs him in this. And there’s no one less emotionally tied to the situation than Tony anyway, because even Natasha will be devastated when she knows what happened. 

Sam nods. "Yeah," he says. "Let's go."

Chapter Text

"Bucky," she said, amusement coating her voice. "How many of those do you think you can eat till you start feeling full?"

He was sitting on the floor of her bakery's kitchen, a plate filled with the day’s leftover baked goods on his lap. "I don't know," he replied, his mouth stuffed with food. "Ten? Twenty?"

She looked at him in disbelief. "Wow," she muttered, taking a seat on the floor next to him and resting her back on the counter behind her. She had closed the bakery for the day, only both of them remained. "Do you know that is going to be extremely helpful to me? I don't know why I never thought about it before. I can make you eat all the new stuff I fail at, too."

He stopped eating, and looked at her, his eyebrows furrowed. "I am not a garbage can, Anna," he told her. "And when did you ever fail at recipes?"

"Oh, sometimes I do, trust me," she said. "I try to make new stuff sometimes, doesn't always work." 

"Like?" he asked. 

"I tried to make some kind of savory roll before, it resembled a cinnamon bun. I failed miserably," she told him. "It was too big and the filling was so little."

He finished eating and placed his plate on the counter. "That doesn't sound too bad," he said, resting his back next to hers. "Cinnamon was one of the smells that drove me crazy when I was with Hydra."

Her gaze shifted to him. "Cinnamon?" she curiously asked.

"Yeah," he breathed, a faint smile on his lips. "There was this doctor in the Siberia base who had a cinnamon drink all the damn time, or a drink with cinnamon on it—I am not sure. Are both a thing?"

She chuckled. "Yeah, kind of. Both are normal."

She was used to this by now. Determining what was normal and what wasn't was a usual thing with Bucky.

"Well, I don't know exactly what this drink was. And I didn't know what cinnamon was, either, but it was familiar, I think. It made me crave food—I think it made me crave sweet stuff, desserts."

"That makes sense," she commented. "Did you remember what it reminds you of when you got your memories back?"

"Not really, no. It will come to me one day, probably,” he turned his face to the side to look at her. “I tried cinnamon rolls with Sam before."

The simplest stuff Bucky said always made her smile the hardest. "And? Did you like it?" 

He smiled too. "Yeah, it was great, but Sam said it would be even better if it was hot," he replied. "You should make me a batch."

She tried to stop herself from smiling. "No, no, I am not falling for this trap again."

He held back his grin. "What trap?" he asked, trying to act innocent.

"You tell me a sad story about smells and foods and I go and make you the dish or drink you talk about right away. You are using me, Bucky."

She was teasing him about it, but cooking food for Bucky made her the happiest. When they met for the very first time, Bucky had explained why certain things didn't make sense to him before, like someone dipping their croissant in a cup of coffee. He also told her that he didn't eat real food for so many years, because he wasn't allowed to. She knew that Bucky had gone through unspeakable things, but this—it troubled her deeply.

And perhaps that was because Anna was someone who loved food and loved cooking. After all, she literally had her own bakery. Her mother had always expressed her love to everyone around her through food, and Anna grew up to be exactly like her. So it broke her heart, more than anything, to know that it was something he was deprived of for so long.

So she kind of tried to make up for the seventy years of hunger he went through, in her own way. Not only did she cook for him food that he was curious about, but she also cooked for him food that would have been new to him.

It was her love language to him, before she ever realized that she was in love.

He laughed. "I would never," he said. "And hang on a second, I share with you my traumas and that's how you respond?"

"I don't think the smell of cinnamon qualifies as a trauma."

"I had no memory, I am pretty sure that's a trauma. Dr. Raynor confirmed it."

Sometimes, she wished she could take those happy moments with Bucky, especially the days when he was really doing good, and store them forever. They were too valuable to her. They were everything.

He was starting to be her everything, too.

"Fine, fine," she said, rolling her eyes. "I will make you the damn cinnamon buns."

He leaned in to kiss her, still laughing. "Ah, what would I ever do without you?"

“Starve to death, probably,” she replied, leaning forward to bring his lips back to hers.

But they both broke the kiss, laughing. Their laughter echoed loudly in the empty kitchen.

——————————————————

She had shouted and screamed her lungs out at them so they would unchain Bucky. She tried to hit them, she tried to stay on the ground and not move herself. She tried to beg them. Nothing worked, because they truly did not see him as a person.

They took her to some kind of office first and made her wait there for about thirty minutes. Afterwards, a man came inside and gave her back her phone. She had her own phone in her hands but couldn't do anything. He ordered her to message her friends and family and tell them she is on a trip with Bucky, and told her to choose somewhere that would be believable.

She wished she had Steve or Sam's phone numbers, but even if she did, it wouldn't have mattered. She had to do all of that with him standing over her shoulders anyway. He threatened her, of course. He told her that any messed-up action from her side would lead to more harm for Bucky, and she knows that if Bucky hadn't been here with her, she probably would have taken her shot at choosing the least sensible place and tried to hint that she was kidnapped in any possible way.

But Bucky was here, so she chose the most sensible place—Louisiana. Her mother and friends had known she was going to go with Bucky there already, so it did make sense that they have decided to go there a few days earlier.

She asked Jenna to keep the bakery open until then, because asking her to close the bakery would have made no sense. She had to explain that to the man, who also told her this was going to be a procedure every day or every few days, so they don't face any disturbance whatsoever. 

They are now leading her down the hall toward the room where she will be staying. When they arrive, they shove her inside and lock the door behind them. She looks around, expecting to find herself in a cell, but it is a normal room. It's small, there's a bed in the centre, a narrow table at its side, and a wooden chair tucked beneath it. Across the room, there’s another door that is slightly ajar, revealing a small bathroom.

On the bed, there are folded clothes waiting for her.

They have given her a bed, clothes, and will probably give her food and water, too. Meanwhile, Bucky is tied to the floor, bleeding and unable to breathe. She cannot take the image of him having a panic attack while being chained in that position that left him completely immobilized out of her head. It's probably the most horrible thing she has ever seen in her life.

She cannot breathe either, because suddenly she is down on the floor, sobbing loudly. When she looks down on herself, she realizes that her clothes are all covered in blood. His blood, and it makes her panic even more when she sees how much of it is on her.

After Rumlow was done, the ground underneath Bucky had turned red. It almost looked like an animal had been slaughtered. It was too much. His back had looked horrible, the flesh was torn open, with layers of skin hanging off his back, revealing open lacerations.

And they have left them tied like that.

She hurries to the bathroom and throws up. There's nothing in her stomach, so she keeps gagging and only burning stomach acid comes out of her mouth, and her stomach muscles hurt in return and her throat burns. When she is finally finished, she stays on the bathroom floor, resting her head on the wall.

She is so tired and drained. Her crying and screams have given her a terrible headache, and it feels like her head is going to explode. Her chest hurts as well from all the anxiety and nervousness. And she feels incredibly guilty for just thinking about how tired she is, which makes her cry even more.

The door of her room suddenly opens and a guard steps inside, he places a tray of food and a bottle of water on the table. He's the same one who is always beside her when they torture Bucky. His eyes scan the room until he finds her on the bathroom floor. "Rumlow is telling you to finish all of this," he says, gesturing to the food, "or he electrocutes the fuck out of your boyfriend—his words not mine," the guard tells her. "We will keep the door open until you finish." 

And the food reminds her of Bucky. It reminds her that they will starve him, again.

She remembers every time he shared with her something related to certain foods, and every time she cooked for him. And she feels like she is seeing all their memories flashing before her eyes, all their laughs and all the time they spent in the kitchen together, and now they are stuck here, and they will fucking starve him.

It makes her so angry and heartbroken. She can't even look at the food without feeling nauseous. "I just threw up," she says, her voice trembling. “I can't. It will come right out."

"You have one hour," the guard tells her.

She let out a shaky breath. "What about Bucky?" she asks. "Is he going to have at least water?"

"Just enough to keep him alive, only when necessary," he replies. "For now, at least. That's how it was during punishment periods—normal ones, though, not this one."

"You were there?" she asks. "When he was the Winter Soldier, you were there?"

"Yes."

The extent of their torture and dehumanization of Bucky breaks her, it breaks her even more when she thinks about him going through it all those years and then having it happen to him again. Her stomach tightens and she feels the weight of her rage pressing down on her. She stands up, her chest heaving, and grabs the edges of the sink. She doesn't know what's happening to her. Anna has always been a calm person, she doesn't get angry easily. But she tries to control it, because her breathing is coming out in unsteady and fast breaths.

Then the guard decides to speak. "You know he is a murderer, right? It would be easier if you just accept what they are saying. Accept that he is not a normal human being and move on. Otherwise, you will just torture yourself. They’re not going to stop.”

Something happens to her then.

She knows she should stay calm, she shouldn't do anything that could make them do more harm to Bucky, but what happens is out of her control, because all of a sudden, her entire body is shaking violently, and she loses the ability to hold her anger and rage inside.

She snaps and storms outside the bathroom, hurrying towards the guard. Her hand flows up, aiming for his face, but of course, he grabs her wrist mid-air and shoves her to the ground.

She screams in frustration, tears falling down her face.  "You sick motherfuckers," she hisses, her lips trembling. "You are all sick."

She takes the chair that’s in front of her and throws it in the guard’s direction, but he steps away and it doesn’t hit him. And she needs to feel anything other than the helplessness and anger that's choking her. She slams her fist against the wall in front of her repeatedly out of desperation, choking sobs and guttural cries pouring out of her. It hurts her, but it's not nearly enough. 

"Stop!" the guard shouts, closing the bedroom door. "I said that because they are really not going to stop. It’s only going to get worse. You are just going to make it harder for yourself—"

She can't hear him. She is just focused on feeling enough pain to numb anything else. She remembers how Bucky's back looked and knows it's just not enough yet. She hits the wall again and again, until she sees the blood dripping from her knuckles, and that satisfies her somehow and makes her punch the wall even harder.

The door opens. "What the fuck is happening, Luke?" someone asks. "Grab her!"

The guard—Luke, grabs her from behind, making her unable to move her hands. And she screams, a trembling scream muffled by her sobs. She tries to break free from his grip, using her legs to kick and thrash, but something gets injected in her neck. Her legs stop moving and she slowly stops fighting, losing her strength and force.

“No.." she says, trailing off. A quiet sob comes out of her mouth as she falls to the ground. Her eyes are still open, dazed and distant.

"So if we decide to travel next summer," Anna said, her head resting on Bucky's lap. "Where would you want to go?"

He looked at the ceiling, considering. "I have no idea," he said after almost a minute. "I think anywhere that's not cold?"

She chuckled. "I just said in the summer, Bucky."

He tilted his head to look at her. "Well, where do you want to go?"

"I am the one asking."

He sighed. "I don't know, Anna," he said, brushing his hand through her hair. "It still surprises me that that's even an option. That I could travel freely and go wherever I want."

"I know," she softly said. "It's why I am asking. You have your whole life ahead of you now. You can dream, Bucky."

He considered her words, a faint smile on his lips. "I can, can't I?"

"Yeah," she said. "You are free now."

His eyes shifted away from hers, his fingers still brushing her hair. "It doesn't—it doesn't always feel like this."

"That you are free?" She asked.

"Yeah."

She raised her hand and brushed her fingers across his forehead. "Just because you are haunted by what happened doesn't mean that you are not free," she gently said. "But you are free, Bucky. Hydra is gone. You are not the Winter Soldier anymore. You are never going back there again. You are not on borrowed time, and this freedom won't end anytime soon." 

He didn’t reply to what she said. But after a couple of seconds, he said, "Italy."

She grinned. "What?"

"I think," he said, a weak smile tugging at his lips, "I would like to go to Italy."

She couldn't help it. She needed to kiss him. "Come here," she whispered, wrapping her hands around his neck and pushing him towards her.

Her eyelids flutter and her fingers twitch slightly. The pain and ache that come with the memory make her thankful for whatever they injected her with.

"You are never going back there again."

Tears fall silently down her face as she stares blankly in front of her, unaware of her surroundings. She closes her eyes and allows her consciousness to finally slip away.

Chapter Text

When Bucky was on the run after escaping Hydra, one of the very first things he explored was having a shower—all by himself. It fascinated him, and the scents of shampoos and soaps fascinated him even more. He loved how he smelt afterwards, the way his long hair carried that that lingering scent. It almost felt like an otherworldly experience, one he was denied of for so long because Hydra only ever used a hose to wash him, and that was torture.

Not only that, but he was alone when he showered. He had his privacy, there weren't people watching and there weren't people doing it for him. He could stay under the water for hours and no one would care. So showering became his new favorite thing. Most times, he would shower multiple times a day.

After a while, however, when he started having his memories back, showering when he had certain types of nightmares became a necessity.

Hydra had known how much it bothered him to stay dirty and unclean. Kaprov, specifically, had known. So the third phase of three phases punishment did not really end with they were done abusing his body. They usually left him for some time with the dried blood, sweat, urine, and all their filth from the third phase. The duration usually varied depending on how long Kaprov wanted him to suffer for, so it was either a couple of hours or a couple of days.

When they left him like this, he would be so disgusted by himself that he would struggle with trying to keep his nausea under control so he wouldn’t throw up, because if he threw up, then it would be even a more horrendous mess. He learned this the hard way.

When he had those types of nightmares—the ones that would wake him up feeling the same way he did when he was left to rot after the third phase, he would need to take a shower immediately once he opened his eyes. It didn't matter if he was extremely tired or if he didn't have the energy for it. It wasn't an option. He had to get under the shower and he had to clean every inch of his body. He had to keep washing his body and hair with the shower products until the scent filled the bathroom.

After he was done cleaning himself, he would sit under the water and try to calm himself down and steady his heartbeat. It was only a nightmare, he would repeat to himself. Over and over again. And he is free now. He will always stay clean. 

——————————————————

Bucky's body is burning. His right arm is numb. His neck is throbbing with an overwhelming amount of pain and he cannot move it without feeling a sharp ache. His back is on fire, he doesn't think it even started healing yet, and it is probably not going to until he receives any kind of medical attention. 

He still cannot inhale too deeply, so he tries his best to control his breathing and keep it shallow. After he had regained consciousness, his ribs felt like they had been broken all over again. His panicked breaths had made it much worse, and each breath now comes with a splintering pain in his chest.

He tried to tell them he needed to go to the bathroom, but only got shocked in return, which was the last thing his body needed. So now they are back to leaving him in his own waste. They are back to treating him like an animal.

After he had the panic attack, he realized that he had to at least try to stop them from continuing to the third fucked up phase. And not only because of Anna, even though she is the main reason. But he is scared he won't be able to handle Anna watching. If he lost it—if he lost himself, he wouldn't be able to do anything to protect Anna. He is already doing a terrible job at it, but he can't fuck it up any worse than this.

And Anna can't watch what they are going to do. He would rather they do anything else, even if it is the most horrifying, painful method of torture, but anything else would be better. Anything else he can tolerate. This, he probably wouldn't. This would break him, once and for all.

He doesn't know how long he has been chained like this, but it feels like it's been so long. The guards have taken breaks, have also shifted about twice now, so he thinks it must be about halfway through their second day, which means he has been chained like this for more than half a day.

He tries closing his eyes, almost begging his body to drift into unconsciousness again, but he can't. He is painfully aware of how every part of his body hurts, how every nerve screams, and how every muscle aches. Not to mention how immobilized he is, which he tries not to think about too much, out of fear that the panic will break him again.

After a while, he hears footsteps stepping inside the room. "How is he doing?" he hears Pierce asking.

Spectacular, Bucky wants to tell him. He sees his shoes in front of him, and that's about as far as his neck would allow him to see.

"Shit, Rumlow took his job too seriously," Pierce says, a hint of a smile in his voice. "Unchain him."

Bucky wants to sigh in relief, but he is not sure if they are going to unchain him for the third phase or for what exactly. He can't hear Rumlow, though, and he usually announces his presence very loudly, and he doesn't think Anna is in the room either.

Now that they have freed him, it feels as if his bones are being torn open from within. The stiffness and ache of his body are unbearable, and the slightest movement sends a painful throb through him.

When he looks around, he only sees Pierce and two other guards. Pierce orders them to put Bucky on the ground against the wall, his back upright. When they push him against the wall, a cracked groan comes out of him, his back pulsing with agony. He can feel the warm blood trickling down his back again.

Bucky can barely breathe or keep his eyes open, and he wishes they would leave him, even if only for a little while. He now feels like he can finally close his eyes, but he also really wants his pants off him. He will not mind the pain of being hosed down—even now, and dread fills him when he thinks about whether or not Rumlow knows how they used to leave him without washing him after the third phase. He already needs a shower right now.

Pierce sits down on a chair in front of him. "You had a panic attack, I heard," he says, studying Bucky's face. "How do you feel now?"

He can't find it in him to answer. He doesn't have an ounce of energy left.

But he has to try now, it can be his only shot.

His gaze stays blankly fixed behind Pierce, his head resting on the wall. He clears his throat and tries to swallow. "Fine," he says, and he doesn't even recognize his own voice. "The third phase..." his voice gets cut off, because he really needs water and his throat is dry.

Pierce folds his hands together on his lap. "What?" He asks, almost gently. "What do you want to say?"

He licks his lips, breathes, and tries again. "The third phase," he tells him. "Don't do it. Anything else—anything else is fine. Whatever it is. Anything. I won't fight."

Pierce sighs. "It will happen. It has to, I told you."

"It doesn't," he says, each word heavy. "You know it's not necessary."

"No, I know for a fact it is necessary," Pierce tells him. "We can compromise, though, if you want."

"How?"

Pierce bends forward slightly. "I can let Anna skip watching that phase. It will happen, there's no escaping that. But I can do you a favor and make her not watch."

His eyes shift to Pierce. When no shock comes from the collar, he speaks. "What—what do you want?" He asks, a slight tremble in his voice, because he knows it's not going to be something easy.

"I want you to do what you were made to do," Pierce replies. "Hydra has been weak since the failure of Project Insight. Everything went to hell after that, S.H.I.E.L.D went down, and we have been working so hard to rebuild ourselves," he explains. "I have only started getting back on my feet recently, by the way. I had lots of surgeries and was not expected to survive. We also had to keep my survival undercover of course, after everything that happened. You have seen how Rumlow looks....all of Hydra has been affected. But we are too many, all around the world. Destroying us once and for all would have taken a lot more than what happened. You had to have known that."

Now that he thinks about it, he realizes that Pierce is right. But still, even if he had known Hydra was not completely gone, it never would have occurred to him that they would want him again after he had fixed his head. Killing him would have made more sense.

"To regain our strength, we also need the world's deadliest assassin back. Our deadliest assassin. I know the words no longer control you, but you can't tell me that you magically removed the Winter Soldier from inside you, because it doesn't work like that. You can’t detach yourself from someone you have been for seventy years,” he pauses, intensely locking his eyes with Bucky. “I was your handler, James. I know you, more than you realize. There's no way you can convince me that just like that, you are no longer him. That there isn't even the tiniest part of him inside you. You would be lying to yourself."

Pierce’s words unsettle him, because he was starting to come to that conclusion himself recently, and he had talked about it with Sam. They were talking about his nightmares and Bucky had told him that a part of the Winter Soldier will always remain inside him, and he was trying so hard to be okay with that. And the way Pierce is looking at Bucky, it feels as if he can see right through him, and he can't bear that, so Bucky closes his eyes and tilts his head back. 

"I know in my heart that you can jump back into character right away, if given the right encouragement. I know you know it, too."

Bucky swallows against the rising panic in his chest. He opens his eyes slightly, trying to ignore the pressure he feels in his head when he does that. He is in so much pain and all he wants is to just close his eyes. "What do you want? Just—," he pauses to breathe, "say it."

"I will let a man come inside," Pierce tells him. "And you will shoot him. A quick, painless, shot in the head."

Despair washes over him, he knew this is where the conversation will go. He lets out a weary breath. "I can't do that."

Pierce does not look surprised. "So you want Anna to watch?" He calmly asks, holding Bucky's gaze. 

"No," he replies. "I will do anything else," he tries to reason with Pierce. And then—just because he is really fucking terrified, he adds, "please."

"It's just a man. What's another man to your endless list of victims?"

"I am not the Winter Soldier anymore, Pierce," he tells him, his fists clenched. "I can't—I won't do that. And this plan of yours? It won't—," he hates how he has to stop to breathe, how drained he is. "It can't work."

Pierce leans backwards. "So Anna will watch," he states. "Which is unfortunate, really. For both of you, but especially for her. She had a nervous breakdown earlier, they had to sedate her."

Bucky's eyes widen. "What?"

"Yes, and if we hadn't sedated her, she would have broken her hand," he tells him. "If that's what she did after what she saw, can you imagine what she will do next? Are you really going to do this to her?"

Bucky feels dizzy. He tries to draw in a deep breath, but then the sharp pain he feels in his chest reminds him that he can't. He ends up coughing, and that sends an even sharper sting of pain that rips through him.

"Do you want me to bring you the man?" Pierce asks him. "It will be over in a second. And Anna will not watch—ever, not just this time. She doesn't even have to know about the third phase."

Bucky's eyes burn and he blinks hard against the sting. "I am not—," his voice breaks. "I am not a killer anymore."

Pierce quietly laughs. "That's a pathetic lie that you tell yourself," he says. "You can't possibly believe that. You killed over a hundred people, not to mention the collateral deaths. That's not something you escape from." 

"I can't," he rasps. "Please."

"You are going to destroy her. Because that will kill her too, you know that, right? At least the other death will be quick," Pierce presses, still not giving up.

And for a second there, Bucky is almost about to feel like his words make sense.

Pierce sighs when he doesn't receive an answer from him. "That's a pity," he says, getting up. "We will try again next time. I am sure you will change your mind by then."

He closes his eyes and feels the tears silently falling on his face.

Before he leaves, Pierce orders them to bring him half a cup of water, nothing more than that, and tells them to wash him after a couple of hours, so he doesn't smell disgusting when Rumlow comes.

He swallows the bile rising up his throat when he hears that.

Sorrow fills his heart—fills all of him, until it feels like he's going to choke from all the despair, sadness, and simmering anger.

He knows there will be no turning point after this. His life has always been marked by before Hydra and after Hydra, and he knows, now it will be marked by this.

He could have handled it when he was the Winter Soldier, when he had no name, when he was no one. When there were words that controlled him. When he had no memories.

But now he is not the Winter Soldier anymore, he is James Bucky Barnes. There are no words to control him. He has memories and he has people he loves.

And when they do it, his mind won't be blank. No, his mind will be filled with memories and with people. And they are going to destroy it all. They are going to destroy everything.

So Bucky sits there, and in the time he has until Rumlow comes back, he mourns his relationship with Anna. He mourns everything they could have been. The future they could have had. He mourns it all.

He thinks about Dr. Raynor, and how she was always so upset with him because he didn't talk about what happened to him. He thinks about how it's a good thing he never did. Because to talk about what happened and then have it happen to him again? Now, that—he couldn't have possibly been able to bear.

Chapter Text

Anna wakes up and finds herself in bed. Her head feels so heavy, and it takes her a while to realize where she is and what happened. Once she realizes, she considers asking them to inject her with whatever sedative they had used again. She doesn't want to open her eyes. She doesn't want to remember.

She stays on the bed without moving or even shifting for a long time. Her hand is neatly wrapped in a bandage, which means they must have sent someone to check it out. The irony of that, given what's happening to Bucky, doesn't escape her.

After a while, the guard who is always with her—Luke, she remembers his name, comes inside. "Good, you are awake," he states. "You have to eat. I have orders." 

She pushes herself up in the bed. "I can't," she weakly replies. "I am so nauseous. How long have I been out?"

"A few hours," he replies.

He looks fairly calm considering that she wanted to hit him earlier, so she takes her shot at asking him about what will happen. "When are they going to start the— uh, the third phase?"

He folds his hands behind his back. "You don't have to know that."

"Please," she pleads. "I need to know."

She doesn't think he will actually give her a reply, but she had to try. He is also still talking to her, and he doesn't seem like an awful person. He's probably awful because he is with Hydra, she reminds herself. But he's not Rumlow-level bad.

"Tomorrow night, probably," he says. "I have to go. Finish your food, please."

Her eyes feel so heavy, probably from the sedative, and her mouth is cotton-dry. She takes the glass of water and drinks all of it in one gulp, then she immediately thinks about how Luke had told her they would only give Bucky enough water to keep him alive and feels incredibly guilty. But she does her best to try and keep the food inside her stomach, which wasn't too bad, she had thought it would be tasteless and bland. She is still not able to finish more than half the plate, not only because she is nauseous, but she is also so tired and her eyes are heavy.

When she starts slipping into unconsciousness, the image of Bucky having a panic attack while being chained to the floor comes to her mind, and she remembers that she has had food to eat, water to drink, and is sleeping on a bed. The food immediately comes back up her throat, she opens her eyes and hurries to the bathroom, throwing up everything she has forced herself to eat. 

She stays on the floor of the bathroom for a while afterwards, because she was already lightheaded and tired from the sedative. Now, she feels like she is going to faint. She is thankful that they have left the door of the room closed, so no one will probably know that she threw up the food.

When she finally finds the energy to get up, she realizes that she won't be able to sleep in the bed. So she takes the covers off of it and sleeps on the floor instead. She remembers when Bucky had told her before that beds are too comfortable for him and it's why he slept on the floor. She hadn't really understood him back then, but she definitely does now. 

————

"Come on, it's time," Luke announces when he walks into the room. "We need to go."

She doesn't know how long it has been, but she has been lying on the floor for so long. She woke up in the morning and couldn't move herself. She felt empty, too drained to even cry. She tried not to think about Bucky or about what's going to happen, because whenever she did, she lost herself and fell apart. So she kept lying where she was, staring at the ceiling, as if she had slipped outside her own body. Her mind stopped working, leaving only suffocating numbness she had never felt before, but she didn’t try to fight it, because she could no longer scream, and could no longer cry.

They brought her another plate of food and water a few hours ago, and had watched her patiently this time to make sure she ate everything. She couldn't risk throwing it up because they threatened her with Bucky again. Afterwards, she had taken a shower and changed into the new clothes they had left for her. The pants and the sweatshirt were a bit bigger than her size, but they were definitely better than the clothes that were all covered with Bucky's blood.

Anna takes a deep breath and bends her knees towards her. She doesn't have any fight left in her. And even if she does, they would drag her there forcefully anyway. She looks behind Luke to see if anyone is standing by the door, and she finds no one. It's only him. "Do you know what they will do? This third phase?" she asks him, hoping that he will give her an answer like he did yesterday. She knows it will be better if she walks in prepared, she is so tired of being repeatedly shocked by their brutality.

"I don't," he replies. "I have my guesses but whatever it is, it will be very bad. That's what I was trying to tell you yesterday. They are not going to stop, and they are still going to do much worse stuff."

"What—what are your guesses?" she asks, ignoring the rest of what he said. She can't believe they are guessing what kind of torture Bucky will experience next.

He seems to consider for a few seconds. "You don't want to know, trust me," he replies. "I really hope I am wrong, though. For your sake. Now, get up," he orders. "We can't be late." 

She sighs in disappointment and pushes herself up from the floor, following him as they walk towards the room where Bucky will be waiting. The room that will haunt her nightmares for the rest of her life.

Rumlow is already there when she arrives, his arms are crossed and he is pacing the room. He stops when he sees her. "Anna!" he shouts in his excitement. His loud voice makes her head hurt and she winces. "We have been waiting for you. Please, come," he says, gesturing to her designated place on the floor.

Her heart skips a beat when she sees Bucky. He looks terrible. He is on his knees again, his arms restrained behind him. The wounds on his chest and stomach have started healing very slightly, but his ribs still look awfully bruised, they look even worse now. She can't see his back, but she knows it will be far more horrible. His hair is slightly wet, and he has new jeans on, instead of the pants he came in with. They must have let him shower then.

Bucky doesn't look at her, he doesn't even glance her way. She was worried that when he sees her hand wrapped in the bandage he would get angry at them or do something stupid, but it is like she is not even here. He usually avoids her gaze when Rumlow is torturing him, but this is different. She just walked into the room, and their eyes had to meet for at least a second. 

His eyes look incredibly tired and drained, he doesn't look like he's even aware of what's happening around him. She looks at him with worry, something is wrong—she feels it. He is not just hurt and tired.

Rumlow places his hand on Bucky's damp hair. "What do you think?" he asks Anna. "He looks cleaner now, right? We even gave him new underwear and pants."

Anna doesn't pay him any attention, she can't take her eyes off Bucky. Her stomach twists with fear and dread, something is definitely wrong.

"He pissed himself, you see. And we can't have him smelling like a dirty little shit today," Rumlow taunts Bucky. "Maybe afterwards, that will be fine. But not now."

Something falters in Bucky's expression at that, she's sure of it, even though it is only for a second. Then she notices how he gulps, very slowly. 

And her chest tightens at what Rumlow says. She knows how much Bucky must have suffered when they left him like this. He sometimes showered three times a day. If they were out during the day, and he broke a sweat, even just a little, he would head straight to the shower once they got back home. She knows he usually can't stand the feeling of sweat on his body or his hair, and that was just sweat, not urine. She used to tease him about it and about how long he took in the shower. 

"Did you see what she did to her hand?" Rumlow asks Bucky.

Bucky doesn't say anything. "I asked you a question. Don't let me turn on the collar when you can barely stay on your knees."

After a couple of seconds, Bucky speaks, his jaw tight. "I saw it," he says, his voice so hoarse and scratchy it barely even sounds like him.

Rumlow shakes his head. "No, I don't think you did," he retorts. "Look at her."

"I said I saw it," he replies, and there's slight nervousness in his voice, despite his eyes looking like he is so far away. She can see his chest rising faster than before.

What the fuck is happening?

"And I said,"  Rumlow says, grabbing Bucky's face with so much force that Anna winces, "look at her."

Bucky moves his gaze slightly, only glancing at her hand. His lips twitch, and a shadow of emotion passes over his face before he quickly narrows his eyes.

Was it the panic attack he had? Did it affect him that much?

She is starting to feel really terrified. "Bucky," she says, even though she knows he can't respond to her. "Look at me," she urges. "What's happening—what's going on?" she desperately asks, her gaze shifting between Bucky and Rumlow.

Nothing happens. There's not even a flicker in his eyes.

"Bucky," she presses again, her voice thick with emotion, and all the numbness she had felt in the morning is suddenly gone, replaced by an aching urge to cry. "What did you do?" she asks Rumlow, her voice shaky.

"Don't look at me, I didn't do anything," Rumlow tells her, raising his hands up in the air. "You know what? Barnes, you have permission to reply to Anna now, if you want. No, wait, scratch that," he says, a grin on his face. "I am feeling generous today, so I am giving you permission to reply to Anna all day."

And Anna wants to beg him to talk to her. But if Rumlow gave him permission to speak to her, he must have known that Bucky didn't want to talk to her. Which makes sense, because he can't even look at her.

Rumlow gets down on his knee so he can track Bucky's gaze. "You are still not looking at her," he says, letting go of his face, and grabbing him by his hair instead, tilting his face in Anna's direction. "Come on, you can do it."

"Stop," Bucky says, his voice slightly trembling and breathy, and his eyes are still away from Anna's. "Stop."

"I am only asking you to look at your girlfriend," Rumlow quietly tells him. "Is there any particular reason why you can't?"

"Leave him," Anna quickly says. "I take it back—I don't want him to look at me. Just leave him, please."

"You see her hand? You did this," Rumlow hisses near Bucky's ear. He finally lets go of his face, and Bucky lets out a small breath. "And what's about to happen now? Also your damn fault. You had a chance to stop her from being here."

She wants to tell him that it's not him. None of it is his fault, but she can't. Her words are going to be useless against the state Bucky seems to be in.

"Now, Anna, let's do a quick recap," Rumlow says, pacing the room. "Do you remember why I said implementing the three phases punishment is important?"

Anna's gaze snaps from Bucky to Rumlow, sharpening into pure disgust. "No, I don't fucking remember.”

"What?" he asks, acting surprised by her answer. "Anna, have I been talking to myself all this time?"

She doesn't reply, but keeps her eyes on him.

"Still no answer?" he asks. "Let's ask him, then," he says, moving towards Bucky. "Why is it important?"

It takes Bucky a few seconds to reply. "Compliance.”

"Well," Rumlow sighs. "At least he pays attention. Excellent, Barnes. Correct answer." He stops pacing and stops in front of Anna. "I want you to answer me this time, Anna. What do you think is the importance of the first and second phases of the punishment?"

She is so tired of hearing him speak, and she has no idea what's even the point he is trying to make. "I don't know," she replies, sighing. "Please enlighten me."

A slow smile spreads across his face. "I will tell you a story then," he says, "one inspired by the reports we have on him."

"As I have told you before, your boyfriend was compliant as the Winter Soldier. Kaprov required total and utter compliance from him, and that's what he got. There were the words, of course. That did the job. Punishments were required when he messed up in missions, which was almost never, actually. They just had to make everything his responsibility so he gets the job done in the way they want no matter what. So if someone from the team died because of their own stupidity? He got punished. If something didn't go as planned because the plan itself was flawed? He got punished. And that's part of the reason why he had to get the job done, to the best of his ability, no matter what....why he truly resembled a killing machine."

Rumlow sits down, his eyes still on Anna. "He continued to comply and took his punishments obediently. They order him to stand still while they burn his flesh? He stands fucking still."

Anna flinches. She hates how Rumlow is telling her awful stuff about Bucky as if he is not in the room, when he is right there.

"There was one thing they couldn't get him to comply with, though," Rumlow tells her, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees. "And it drove Kaprov crazy, it seems. He enjoyed tormenting him, that much was obvious. But for Kaprov, the Winter Soldier's non-compliance with that meant that he was still someone—meant that his mind still couldn't comprehend that he had no say in anything, that he was theirs, in every way." 

She glances at Bucky. His face is still expressionless and he looks withdrawn. But there is something behind his eyes. She knows him and she is sure that there's the faintest, quietest tremor of panic flickering behind his eyes. He is not actually mentally detached, but he is trying to be, she realizes. He is trying to drift away, to force his mind to be anywhere but here.

"Focus, Anna," Rumlow says, snapping his fingers. She moves her gaze to him. "They had to figure out a way to make him comply with that. And that's where the three phases punishment comes in." He exhales deeply and looks at Anna with anticipation. "So can you now guess the purpose of phases one and two?"

She would do anything to make Rumlow stop talking.

"I don't fucking know!" she shouts, feeling overwhelmed between worrying about Bucky and trying to process whatever Rumlow is trying to say.

"No, Anna," he calmly says. "You are gonna have to answer this one, I think you wouldn't want him to get electrocuted when he is about to faint. I told you all the facts, you just have to connect the dots."

She can't bring her mind to reach any conclusions. All she knows is that she is terrified. There is something wrong with Bucky.

"That's enough," Bucky says. She snaps her head in his direction, terrified of what Rumlow will do. "Leave her. Just—" he pauses, letting out a breath he's been holding, "fucking get it over with."

Then, Rumlow spins sharply, his boot connecting with Bucky's face. She sees the blood bursting out of his mouth before he collapses to his side. Her heart jumps in her throat, and Rumlow doesn't even stop there, he walks over to him and drives another kick into Bucky's wounded stomach, and he lets out a deep, pained groan.

"There are lots of ways I can make what's going to happen worse for you. Do you hear me? I can make it worse while also making sure that you are awake through it all. So don't fucking push it, Barnes," Rumlow barks at him, his eyes fixed on Bucky like he is contemplating whether or not he should give him another kick. "Now get back on your knees." 

Bucky exhales and tries to move, his breathing is heavy and there's so much blood all over his mouth. He uses his legs to move himself, since his arms are restrained behind him, and it takes him a while to be able to do that. He sits again in the same position, with his knees bent beneath him. But he sways, struggling to maintain his balance.

"Bring me a wet towel," Rumlow orders the guard by the door.

Rumlow doesn't do anything until the guard comes back, he doesn't even speak. And Anna can't do anything but look at Bucky, he looks like he's going to fall on the ground at any minute. When the guard comes back and hands Rumlow the towel, he moves over to Bucky and holds his face, and Anna is not sure if he's going to wipe the blood all over Bucky's face or if this is something related to another fucked up torture method. Then, Rumlow suddenly stops and turns to Anna. "Come here, Anna," he tells her. "How about you do it instead? Clean the blood on his face."

Bucky's eyes are wide open now. "No," he tells Rumlow, his voice coated with fear. Fear. And that sends shivers down her spine.

"Anna, come here, now," Rumlow sharply orders.

She gets up and walks over to him. "Go on," he tells her, handing her the towel, and then he takes a few steps back away from them.

Anna gets on her knees, and Bucky is right in front of her, inches away from her face, but his eyes are still far away from her. She moves the towel to his chin first, and she notices that his lips are trembling and his chest is almost heaving.  She swallows the knot in her throat. "Bucky," she softly whispers. "What's going on? Please talk to me." 

He closes his eyes, inhaling and exhaling, probably trying to steady himself. But what is he trying to calm himself from—her? She continues to gently clean his mouth, and she feels like she is going to cry at any minute now because she truly has no idea what's going on.

She hears Rumlow's footsteps getting closer to them until he stops by their side. "I am still waiting for an answer to my question by the way, Anna."

She doesn't remove her hand or her eyes away from Bucky. "I don't know," she replies, her voice quivering because she is about to cry, and she doesn't even remember everything Rumlow said at the moment. She just wants Bucky to look at her.

"I will help you out," he says. "I said there was one thing they couldn't get him to comply with."

What the hell could that be? He had killed for them, had taken their punishments, and had complied in every way. What else could they have possibly wanted from him?

She removes the towel from Bucky's face, having cleaned all the blood. She dabs at the traces of blood that remain on his neck and feels his extremely fast pulse under her fingers. She stops where she feels it, her own pulse quickening too. "Bucky," she tries again, whispering. He exhales shakily, the breath brushing against her face, but his eyes remain closed.

She still can't take her eyes off him, but she knows she has to try and focus on what Rumlow is saying so they get this over with.

Rumlow continues, "I said they had to figure out a way to get him to comply."

She can't, for the life of her, figure it out. She helplessly looks at Rumlow. "I don't know," she desperately tells him. "I-I am trying to but—" 

"Okay...okay, don't worry about it," Rumlow says in a gentle voice that only unsettles her more. "Answer this instead, what's the one thing Barnes wouldn't have complied with?" He asks her. "He would be under the words, under their control. And he would still lash out. He would still find it in him to fight and try to stop them. What did they want him to do, Anna? What did they want him for?"

She looks at Bucky, trying to think about what Rumlow said. There are some strands of his messy hair that have fallen on his eyes, she moves her hand to brush them away from his face, but Bucky opens his eyes and flinches when she touches him with her fingers.

And then suddenly, Anna feels a sharp, breath-snatching panic in her chest.

"Bucky?" she asked, worried. "Are you feeling better?"

He had woken up from a nightmare, a terrible one. She brought him water and stayed by his side, but he still looked awful.

"Yeah," he breathed out, his gaze down, fixed on the glass of water in his hand. "Go back to sleep. I am fine."

She reached to touch his hair, attempting to run her hands through it. He leaned back before she could. "I am fine," he repeated. "It's okay, just go back to sleep."

That worried her even more and she felt her throat tightening up. "Bucky.." she started, but he got up and left the bedroom. She didn't follow him, but she heard the water running after a couple of minutes. By the time he had finished, it was already the morning.

Her vision blurs, and the panic pressing on her chest feels unbearable. 

She gripped the bed sheets tightly with her fingers. Her breathing was heavy and her face was flushed. She had never felt like that before, it felt like her heart was going to burst out of her chest—in a good way.

Bucky tilted his head from between her legs, his face flushed as well and his hair messy, and trailed kisses all the way to her neck. She grabbed his face and kissed him. "It's my turn now," she said, slipping from underneath him.

"What?" he asked. When he realized what she meant, he grabbed her hand and gently pushed her back on the bed. "I am not done yet,"  he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

"Bucky!" she exclaimed, biting back her smile. "No, let me go. You never let me do anything for you. Come on."

Her hands tried to reach for the zipper of his pants, so he grabbed both her hands and held her arms above her head, still smiling. "I just want you."

"Come on, Anna. You are smart. You will get it," Rumlow taunts.

There are tears falling down her face, the tears she has been trying so hard to hold. Her whole body is shaking and her heart is beating loudly in her chest.

She looks at Bucky, and he finally looks at her. His eyes are no longer distant, they are faintly glistening, broken, and heavy with devastation.

"Anna, the things you are going to watch—just know that I have had it happen before, okay? It's fine. I will be fine." He had told her on their first day here.

Her gaze is still focused on Bucky's eyes. She wants him to tell her that it's not true, that her mind has gone too far and what she is thinking about can't possibly be true.

But Bucky holds her gaze. "I am sorry," he croaks.

Why is he apologizing? How is he the one apologizing? And her breath hitches in her throat. She cannot breathe.

"I actually feel bad for you. Can you believe that?" Rumlow had told Bucky. "I truly feel bad for you. She has no idea what's going to happen. You must think she would want nothing to do with you afterwards."

She lets out a loud gasp for air, her eyes meeting Rumlow's, realization dawning on her face. "No," was all that came out of her mouth. "No, no, no...this can't be—you can't—" she trails off, unsure of what she even wants to say.

The ground is giving way beneath her feet. This is another level of torture. This is hell.

Bucky looks away from her, like he can't bear to meet her eyes at the moment. He is right in front of her, and she wants to hold him and keep apologizing —for everything, for not realizing sooner, for being so stupid. And her mind is still in shock about what happened to Bucky, unable to process that this is the third phase, this is what's going to happen.

Rumlow's smile makes bile rise up her throat. "There you go!" he exclaims, sick excitement coating his voice. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He moves over to Bucky and drops to one knee next to him. "Look at me, Barnes," he tells him, his voice quiet and calm. Bucky's gaze is far away from him. "Come on."

Bucky directs his gaze at him. "You could have stopped this. We gave you a shot and you threw it away. This," he says, pointing to where Anna is, "is your fault. You should have just killed the man. Being stubborn won't get you anywhere."

This is what he had meant when he told Bucky that he had a chance to stop this from happening, she realizes. They really are trying to make him a killer again. Her stomach churns violently and she feels so dizzy. She rests both her arms on the ground by her side, trying to keep her balance, and she feels Bucky's body tensing when he notices that she's barely holding it together.

"How did you never tell her?" Rumlow asks him. "How did you even allow yourself to be with her?"

There are so many things she wants to say. She knows she should respond, she should not allow Rumlow to say fucked up shit that will mess with Bucky's head, but she can't find her voice—she can't even find enough oxygen to breathe.

Bucky doesn't reply. Because how can anyone even reply to that? And she hopes Rumlow is not expecting an answer. But it turns out he is, because his palm strikes Bucky's face, snapping his head to the side. Her whole body flinches hard because they are so close. They are so fucking close and she can't do anything. "The only reason I am not using the collar is because I know you won't fucking tolerate it right now, and I need you awake."

He stands up, his gaze turning to Anna. "Do you get the importance of the first two phases now?" he asks. "They realized that the only way to make him not lash out or do anything stupid is for him to be already beaten down and worn out, because then he wouldn't even have it in him to fight. His only wish would be for them to get it over with as quickly as possible."

"So," Rumlow breathes out. "Phases one and two ultimately serve the third one. It all leads to this," he explains. "You heard Pierce the first day. We never did this to him. But how do you get him to comply again when you can't control his head? How do you remind him of who he is? You break him down, until he remembers what he used to be, and who he will always be."

"Take her back to her place," Rumlow tells Luke.

And she is not ready to leave Bucky yet. They are so close and she should kiss him, she should tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, and she should tell him that she is the one who is sorry. She should hold him and she should prevent this somehow, but her mind and body aren't working. And she can't do anything as Luke grabs her by her arm and leads her back to where she usually sits.

Rumlow moves towards Bucky, and Anna hears the sound of a belt getting removed and a zipper opening. She thinks this is it, her heart will stop beating now or her mind is going to shut down. Surely her body will give up and won't be able to handle what happens next.

"Open up," he tells Bucky. "You know what to do. And don't you even think about doing anything stupid or not complying, or I swear to God, we don't let her eat or drink till the end of the week."

And why is she still breathing? How is she still alive? How is her heart still beating in her chest?

Bucky's throat bobs and he inhales deeply, his eyes no longer filled with emotions, they are back to being vacant and distant. He leans forward, slowly, and takes it inside his mouth. Rumlow roughly grabs his head and pushes him even further.

She cleaned his mouth for this.

The food she had eaten a few hours ago rises up her throat, and she feels the acidic burn and metallic taste in her mouth. She throws her hands over her mouth before she covers herself with puke. She helplessly looks at Luke, she wants to tell him that she needs to go to the bathroom but can't even speak, and she can't move from her place. Luke's eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks like he actually feels sorry for her.

And then she realizes that she can't throw up. She can't do that to Bucky. She knows that will only lead Rumlow to tell him that she is disgusted by him, and he will continue messing with his head. So she tries to ignore what's happening in front of her, she tries not to focus on how Bucky's face looks. Her eyes water, she locks her teeth, and fights to keep it all from spilling out. It all almost comes out again, but she closes her eyes, clenches her jaw as hard as she possibly can, and swallows. Anna swallows back her own puke. A shudder goes through her, and then she fights with all her power to suppress the gag rising up her throat.

She shakily exhales. She doesn't know what to do. It won't matter if she screams or fights. They won't stop. Rumlow won't stop. But she still has to try, she knows there’s only one thing that she can do.

“Stop!" she shouts, but her voice is so weak, she is not even sure anyone heard her. "You can have me," she says, her voice breaking. She tries not to look at Bucky. "Leave him, please. I will do whatever you want."

"That won't be necessary," Rumlow tells her, without even looking in her direction.

"Please," she begs between sobs. "I beg you. You have made your point. It's enough, please."

"She still thinks you are worth saving," Rumlow says, looking down at Bucky. "But she will come to realize how wrong she is soon enough."

She is not even sure Bucky can hear them. He doesn't look like he can breathe, and Rumlow is holding his head and isn't giving him any chance to catch his breath.

She can't watch this. Whenever she looks in their direction, her stomach lurches. She drops her face between her knees and tries to breathe. There's a sharp pain in her chest—a pain she has never felt before, and she tries to focus on that pain instead of what's happening in front of her. And it almost works, until she hears the muffled sounds coming out of Bucky.

Then, she hears a slap. She tilts her head up immediately. Rumlow has slapped Bucky on the face, he is breathing heavily, and ragged gasps are coming out of him, like he has been underwater for so long. His eyes are slightly open, but they are so terrifyingly hollow, almost as if he is drugged and is drifting somewhere far away. Rumlow grabs Bucky's face. "Look at me, Barnes," he orders. Bucky's eyes don't even flicker, there's nothing there.

Another slap, and a small breath comes out of Bucky at that. "Look at me," he sharply says. Bucky slowly turns his eyes towards Rumlow, reluctant, like he is following orders he does not fully comprehend. "You are not allowed to dissociate. You are not even allowed to close your fucking eyes. Do you hear me?"

Bucky doesn't reply or nod, so Rumlow slaps him again. "Do you fucking hear me?" he asks loudly again. Bucky's jaw tightens and he blinks repeatedly, as if forcing the world into focus. "Answer me."

It takes Bucky a while, but he finally nods.

Rumlow's fingers leave Bucky's face, and he almost falls to the ground. "I want your eyes sharp," he tells him. "Sharp, Barnes. Focus." And then he grabs Bucky's neck and pushes him against him one more time. 

She doesn't know how long it goes on, only that the pain in her chest is agonizing, and she doesn't think she will be able to handle it much longer. She forces herself to exhale and inhale through it, rocking in place, her head bowed low. But she can hear Bucky’s strangled gasps and muffled gagging. He is choking. He is fucking choking. And it doesn't stop and she feels like it goes on forever. She doesn't even know how he is still breathing.

The pain in her chest increases and she thinks that maybe her heart will finally stop. Maybe this is actually something her body physically won't be able to handle, and she will miraculously have a heart attack.

She then hears a loud gasp for air, Rumlow must have let go of Bucky's head, but she is not able to raise her head and look. She doesn't want to see his face. He is still gasping loudly, drawing in shuddering gasps over and over again.

"Don't you fucking dare gag or throw up," she hears Rumlow say.

She slowly raises her head, afraid that Bucky might do the opposite. His hand is on his throat—it must be why Rumlow gave this warning, which Bucky does not follow. He keeps gagging, but he looks like he’s forcing himself not to vomit, then he coughs violently and spits his saliva on the floor repeatedly.

Rumlow grabs him by his hair. And Anna is so sick and tired of him doing that. She thinks about all the times she ran her own hands through it, all the times Bucky loved her doing that. "Why are you acting like this is new to you, huh?" Rumlow hisses. "If I tell you not to gag, then you fucking control yourself and don't gag."

Bucky speaks then, and her heart almost stops when he does. "It's not like I can fucking control it," he says, each word dragging and heavy.

Rumlow lets go of Bucky's hair and laughs. "You want me to electrocute you," he states. "You want to lose consciousness, don't you? You don't get that. Not yet."

Bucky's breathing is still very heavy. He rests both his arms on the ground and breathes. "It doesn't—it doesn't matter anymore. Just do whatever," he says in between breaths, "the fuck you want. Get it over with, Brock."

"We are in no rush," Rumlow says. "Call in the team," Rumlow tells the guard behind him. "And chain him."

Bucky closes his eyes when he hears that. She notices how his right hand is shaking so hard. He lifts it from the ground, clenching it in a fist near his chest, leaving only his metal arm resting on the ground.

They chain him differently this time. He is on his knees on the other side of the room, where they had chained him before on the ground. They only chain his arms to the wall in front of him, stretching them above his head.

Her stomach drops as her eyes fall on his back. The skin is still torn and raw, and it shows no signs of healing. Most of the wounds remain open and some of them are still dripping fresh blood. He shouldn’t even be conscious.

She hears several footsteps entering the room and turns her head towards the sound.  Three men step inside. They aren’t wearing the same uniform as the guards, and she has never seen them here before.

"He is all yours," Rumlow tells them. "We usually electrocute him when he misbehaves, but we can't use it now or else he loses consciousness....you can see how he looks. But I don’t think he has any power to do anything anymore. The most important thing now is that he is not allowed to dissociate. Don’t only make sure that his eyes open at all times, make sure that he is present. All clear?"

"You got it," one of the men says to Rumlow.

Rumlow pats Bucky on his head. "Behave, Barnes," he tells him, before he walks out of the room. "Don't embarrass me."

They are going to take turns.

The knife-edge pain she feels in her chest sharpens, and she lies face-first to the ground. Her chest constricts so violently it feels like it’s about to burst. 

She hears them, in the corner. She hears a man asking for a baton, he says that this is not his thing and he has got to improvise. She hears them talking about how his back looks. She hears them laughing. She hears the chains rattling so hard.

And then, all the air leaves Anna's lungs, because Bucky screams—a deep, guttural scream that rips through the air in the room.

At this point, she is starting to think that maybe they both should just die. She has never had suicidal thoughts before, not even in the most depressing periods of her life. But now she's thinking about all the ways she could kill herself. Bucky wouldn't have to comply then and he would either kill them all or kill himself—and maybe that's not so bad in comparison to what's happening right now.

But it would be too unfair for Bucky to die when he has never lived. When all he's had happen to him was mind-control, abuse, and torture. When it's all happening to him again. He doesn't deserve that.

She had a good life, she would welcome death with open arms. But Bucky never did.

"I have got to give credit to whoever came up with the idea of bringing your girlfriend here to watch," one of the men says. "If that doesn’t break a person, I don’t know what does.”

She can't stay on the ground, the pain in her chest worsens and her lungs feel like they are collapsing. She gets up from the floor, gasping for air. She rests her arms on the wall, trying to shut down all the sounds coming from behind her. Her heartbeats pound in her ears, too loudly. She hears Bucky's painful groans from behind her, and it only makes her unable to reach for her oxygen more.

"Hey," someone loudly says from behind, clapping his hands in the air, "eyes open!" he shouts.

Her vision swims and she falls to the ground. She doesn't try to fight the pain and she doesn't try to breathe this time. She curls onto her side, her knees drawn to her chest and her arm stretched out in front of her. Her vision is blurry, but there are things she is still able to make out. The man behind Bucky throws a baton on the floor—the telescopic baton he used. It leaves traces of blood where it lands, and it's a lot.

Another man moves closer to Bucky from behind and she is not sure if he really pushed himself into him or if she's imagining things. But he is bleeding—how is that even possible? she thinks. He is being torn open. She hears the sick sounds that come out of the man and she hears Bucky's breaths and muffled screams and knows she is not imagining anything.

Choked, uncontrollable gasps keep coming out of her mouth. She is shaking and now she can no longer see anything. Someone approaches her and checks her pulse. "Anna?" he asks. It's Luke. "Anna, I will sedate you—just a little bit," he whispers. "It's okay," he says, keeping his fingers pressed against her neck, concealing the syringe as he injects the sedative just behind them.

A strangled sob breaks out of her lips. And she doesn't know if she's crying because she will finally escape this, or because she feels guilty that she gets to escape and Bucky doesn't.

The sound of Bucky's scream doesn't escape her mind, though, even when darkness swallows her, and she knows that it will haunt her all her life.

Chapter Text

Sam banged on Bucky's door as loudly as he possibly could. He already rang the doorbell twice and he hadn't opened. He did not think he would be anywhere else, since he rarely ever left the house. He knew that information from Steve, of course.

He was with Steve a few hours ago, and Steve was devastated. He had never seen Steve like this, not even when they found out Bucky was alive. This devastation was different, it was heavy with overwhelming helplessness and guilt. All he wanted to do was help Bucky. It was practically the only thing he had been focusing on in his life right now. Sam knew he didn't deserve to be treated like this.

Bucky opened the door, and he looked like a complete mess. He looked worn-out, like he hadn't slept in days. His eyes were glassy and rimmed red, with dark shadows beneath them.

Sam tried not to feel bad for him and held on to his anger instead. "What the fuck, man?"

Bucky's expression remained dull and exhausted. "What?"

"Why would you do that to Steve?" Sam asked.

Bucky didn't even bother to reply to that. Instead, he moved to shut the door in Sam’s face. Sam held it back and stopped him, but he knew that if Bucky really wanted to close it, he would have.

"What do you want?" Bucky asked, his jaw clenched.

"Talk," Sam replied, still holding the door. "You can do that, can't you?"

Bucky threw him a sharp glance before he finally left the door open and walked back into the apartment. Sam stepped inside and found the apartment upside down. Bucky did not really have much furniture, but now, whatever he had, was either upside down or on the floor. And there was also a lot of glass on the floor, it seemed that Bucky had taken whatever plates and cups he had in the kitchen and shattered them all. "What the hell happened here?"

"Anger issues," Bucky flatly replied.

"Ha," Sam said. "So you know you have a problem."

"I have lots of problems," he said over his shoulder, "in case you haven't noticed"

"Oh, trust me, I noticed," then Sam realized that Bucky was walking around with only socks, and there was glass on the floor everywhere. "And how are you walking around like that if you didn't bother to clean up?"

"What?" Bucky asked, looking genuinely confused by Sam's question.

"There's glass on the floor," Sam explained.

"Good thing you are wearing your shoes, then," he said, moving to the kitchen counter to pour some water. "What do you want, Sam?" he asked, his voice rough with exhaustion. 

Sam tried to gather his words first before he said them out loud. Now that he has seen Bucky, he couldn't find the same anger he had come in with within him, but he was still mad at him nonetheless. "He is devastated," he told him. "He was only trying to help, you know that."

Bucky's expression wavered for a second, then it was quickly gone. Sam had a feeling he already felt guilty but tried not to show it. "And he came to you to complain about me?"

"What? How is that relevant?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed. "And no, he didn't come to me to complain about you. I called him and when I heard his voice, I realized something was wrong."

"Great," Bucky muttered under his breath, then drank the water.

Sam leaned back on the wall behind him, his hands in his pockets. “What happened?"

Bucky's gaze shifted to Sam, finally. "We fought," he replied. "Didn't he tell you that already? Or no, actually, let me rephrase that—I fought with him. But I mean, after all, I am an unstable person and I need someone to look after me 24/7. So are we really surprised?"

"No one said that you are unstable—"

Bucky let out a dry laugh. "Now, that's funny," he commented. "Why do you think Steve stays over all the damn time?"

"Because he is worried about you," Sam replied.

"Why?" Bucky asked. When Sam didn't reply, he said, "exactly.”

Sam wanted to tell him that there was nothing wrong with being unstable after what he had been through, but he had a feeling Bucky would punch him in the face if he said that.  So instead, he tried to calmly advise him. "Look, he was only trying to help. Don't push those who want to help you away, man."

Bucky shook his head. "You don't get it."

"Maybe I don't, I won't lie. Because what you have been through is a lot," he told him, trying to soften his voice. "But opening up and accepting help when you need it? There's nothing wrong with that. That's how we survive."

"So we open up to solve our issues and destroy others in return?" Bucky asked, fixing his eyes on the kitchen counter.

"What?" Sam asked, confused. "What the hell does that mean? You think you are going to destroy Steve if you don't push him away?" 

"Sam, look," Bucky said, tilting his head up and closing his eyes. "You have made your point. I will try not to push him away next time. Can you leave now?"

"Just tell me what you meant."

"I don't want to tell you what I meant," he said, looking over at him. "Frankly speaking, I don't even want you in my apartment."

Sam ignored him and moved over to the couch that was thrown across the wall and was now lying upside down.

"Leave my damn couch, Sam,” Bucky snapped at him.

"It's a very sad couch, by the way,” Sam retorted, gripping the couch from underneath to haul it upright.

"Well, it's my damn sad couch. Leave it."

Sam didn’t do that, of course. "It would have been better if you just gave me a hand, you know,” he said, pushing the couch back to the other side of the room. 

"No one asked you to do that,” Bucky flatly said.

"Look around you, is there anything else I can sit on?" Sam asked, waving a hand at the room. "You broke the only chair in the whole house."

Bucky’s gaze moved to the broken chair, and he looked like he was discovering he had broken it for the first time.

Sam finally sat down. "The difference between me and Steve is that you can be an asshole to me all you want and I am still not going to get upset," Sam told him, running his hand over the couch to wipe away any dust. "So just tell me what you meant. I will listen. You can take all the time you need."

"I don't want to talk," he said, moving away from the counter.

"Come on, man," Sam tried to persuade him. "Just—"

Bucky stopped moving. "Stop, stop!" he shouted. "I am tired. So just go, please."

Sam crossed his arms, not intending to give up anytime soon. "You know you are going to your therapist next week, right? You are gonna have to let someone in at some point." 

That made Bucky very angry. "Fuck you," he sharply said. "You are all acting like you are experts. Everyone is suddenly an expert in trauma and feelings and shit. You don't know anything. What you are saying is bullshit. If you knew what some of the nightmares are about, Sam. If you knew what's in my head—fuck," he stopped, biting the inside of his mouth and looking like he was angrily blinking away tears in his eyes. Shit, Sam thought. It really is that bad. "You would beg me not to tell Steve about it. You would beg me to push him away." 

Sam was speechless, but he had to say anything. "I wouldn't—I would never do that." 

"You would," Bucky rasped out. "Because then Steve himself would need to go to therapy."

Sam felt so much sadness all of a sudden for Bucky. "What did they do to you, man?" he asked, pushing himself to the edge of the couch. “I know not everything was in the reports we had. There is worse stuff."

"I—I am not just talking about what they did to me," Bucky shakily said. "There is stuff I did, too. There are people I killed. And Steve—Steve always talks like the person who did all of this stuff was someone else entirely. But it's not—it wasn't. It was me."

"Okay," Sam breathed out. "Let's start with what they did first. What are you so afraid of Steve knowing about?"

"I am not...” he trailed off, looking nervous. "We are not going to start with anything. It doesn't matter. Look, I will just call him tomorrow..."

Sam was not really interested in that anymore. He hadn't realized how much Bucky was suffering, and he felt really guilty about coming in here to fight with him, when the man seemed to be fighting his demons all the damn time. "You fought with Steve because of your nightmares," Sam stated. "What was your nightmare about last night?"

Bucky looked at Sam, confused, but his eyes also held a trace of fear. "Sam, you are not my therapist. I am going to her next week, as you said. So you can fucking relax."

"You are not going to tell her anything," Sam said matter-of-factly.

"Not your problem," he sharply said. "All I wanted was for Steve not to stay over. I just wanted to have my stupid nightmares in peace. I didn’t realize it was such a difficult thing to ask," he told Sam, his breathing started getting a little heavier.

"But that's not what made you lose your temper with Steve," Sam said. "What made you get so angry with him?"

Bucky swallowed and moved his eyes away from Sam. "He said— he said he has known me my whole life," he said, his voice shaky. "And he—he doesn't. He—“ Bucky stopped because he was struggling to breathe. He tilted his head down and rested his hands on the edge of the kitchen counter. "He doesn't know what I did, he doesn't know what they—what they did. He doesn't know anything and I can't fucking—" he stopped, trying to catch his breath. "I can't look at him...I am tired. I wake up from these nightmares and the last thing I need is Steve looking me in the eye and asking if  I am okay or if I want to talk about it."

Sam quickly got up and went to him. "Hey, it's okay. Just try and calm down, alright?"

"No, it's not—it's not okay," he choked. "I am so fucking tired. It's too much—it's all too much and I don't think I can—" he stopped, unable to breathe.

He was having a panic attack, Sam realized.

And Sam was starting to have an awful feeling that he knew the extent of what actually happened to Bucky. Because most of the stuff Bucky went through with Hydra was in the reports they had. Whatever other awful thing they did that wasn't there, only pointed in one direction. Steve had told him lots of things that also supported this, including stuff from what happened today. He told him that it took Bucky two hours in the shower to calm down and that he couldn’t bear Steve to touch him. He hadn’t thought much of it then of course, but now he was starting to realize that Bucky probably went through something more horrifying than they could have possibly imagined.

Bucky leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, breathing in and out rapidly "I told you to go," he said in between breaths.

"And I told you I am not going," Sam shot back.

"Well, now is—" he stopped, trying to catch his breath, "a very good time—for you to, uh...go."

"I actually think that now is a very good time for me to stay."

"Please go," Bucky said. "I can," he stopped and gasped for air, "manage."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, clearly."

Sam had never seen Bucky like this. The Bucky he usually dealt with rarely showed any emotions and always kept a blank stare on his face. He would smile and joke when Steve was around, but he never showed any vulnerability. So for him to break down in front of Sam, meant that he was really not doing okay. 

"Bucky," Sam gently said, placing his hand on his arm. "Look, count on your fingers," Sam instructed him. "With every finger, just try and breathe, okay?"

Bucky nodded and tried to do as he said. He tried to count, but at some point, he lost control of his breathing and couldn't focus. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

"It's okay, open your hand again," Sam told him. But Bucky didn't pay him any attention, he was still struggling to breathe. Sam grabbed his hand and gently forced his palm open, Bucky let him. "Again, come on," he kept instructing him. "Slowly. Remind yourself that you got out. That's what matters. You are in your own apartment. You're with your friends. You are safe. Whatever is troubling you, we will figure it out."

Bucky couldn't do anything besides managing to nod, following Sam's instructions. After a couple of minutes, he was finally able to breathe without gasping for air. He stood straight and exhaled. 

"There you go," Sam said, feeling relieved. "Better?"

Bucky nodded, looking down at his shaky right hand, trying to steady it.

"Does it happen often?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Ever since I got back," Bucky closed his hand in a fist, and it seemed like he was still not able to control the shakiness in it. "I—I didn’t know how to control it actually, I came close to fainting once before because of how dizzy I got.”

Something tightened in Sam's chest at that. "Well, go and sit over there, I will bring you water."

Bucky looked like he no longer had the energy to fight or argue, so he thankfully just nodded and went to sit down.

Sam brought him the water and then they sat next to each other in silence for a couple of minutes. When Sam felt that Bucky had calmed down, he decided to speak. "So, I will say something and you will try not to get mad at me, okay?" he gently asked. Bucky hesitantly nodded.

Sam sighed and gathered up his courage to say it. "If it's something they did to you, and it's not the mind control, the wipes, and not the physical or psychological torture either, you know that kind of only leaves one thing out, right?" he asked, feeling nervous that Bucky might lash out at him. But he looked drained, like he didn't have any energy to even be angry anymore.

Bucky immediately shifted his gaze to Sam, looking terrified. "What?" he asked, his voice slightly shaky.

Sam let out a breath he had been holding. "You know what, Bucky."

Bucky looked away. He stayed silent for a little while, and Sam wanted him to take his time in absorbing what he said. "How did you—uh," he stopped, clearly at a loss for words. He pressed his fingers to his forehead. "Is it—is it obvious?" he nervously asked.

"No," Sam quickly replied. "No, it's not, or else Steve would have guessed it ages ago. I am just smart that's all. And you always forget that I am a counselor, man."

Bucky smiled weakly at that. "For veterans, not murderers."

Fuck. Bucky was making him feel speechless a lot today. "You are a veteran," he stated. "And you’re not a—never mind, you are not going to listen to me."

"What makes you think that?" Bucky sarcastically asked.

"Look, I am not Steve," Sam told him. "I didn't know you before. You are not going to like destroy me or anything if you talk about it. I will be devastated, yes, because you are a good person and you never deserved to go through this. But I can survive it. You can talk to me, man."

Bucky didn't say anything for a little while, and neither did Sam, he realized that Bucky was probably considering whether or not he wanted to talk. Then, Bucky took a deep breath and leaned forward on his knees, his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him, and finally opened up to someone about his nightmares for the first time since he left Hydra.

"My nightmares—they are....” he trailed off, looking like he was trying to find the right words. “They feel real, frighteningly real. Everything is so vivid, and even smells—“ he paused, closing his eyes briefly. "I smell everything, like I am actually there, I don't know if that's even normal, but sometimes that's not too bad, they are just stupid smells, you know? Like the smell of Kaprov's disgusting cigarettes, the chemical smell of god knows what they used to inject me with, and the medical supplies, Zola and the surgery room, that's all fine. I can tolerate all of that, but sometimes—"

He stopped, running his hands through his hair. "They came up with something fucked up called the three phases punishment. It was Kaprov, of course. He wanted to make sure I could not and would not fight anything, no matter what it was. So the third phase it was them..." he exhaled, looking down at the ground, “it was them doing it—doing whatever they wanted with me, really, and I had to—I had to comply. I used to fight, I swear I—“

"You don't have to—" Sam started but Bucky cut him off.

"No, no, I kind of do, actually," he explained.  "Because I wasn't supposed to, Sam. The words—they shouldn't make me able to fight or not comply, ever. But even under the goddamn words, I would fight. Or I would comply in the beginning and then I would just snap. I killed one of them once, that's how the three phases punishment started, and because of what they did beforehand, it didn't make me able to fight anymore," he didn't elaborate more on that, and Sam didn't ask him to.

"And they would leave me afterwards, without allowing me to get cleaned…for so long. Sometimes it was for a couple of days. And the smell—“ he stopped, swallowing. "It was a nightmare—just the feeling of everything on my body, my own waste, and their—“ he stopped again, took a deep breath, and continued. "I know I have escaped now but God, I wake up from these nightmares sometimes and I smell it, and it makes me confused because I—I become unable to figure out if I really do smell like this or if it's just a fucking dream. It doesn't feel like I have escaped anything when that happens."

If Sam had felt guilty earlier, he now felt like he was the worst person in the world.

Bucky took a breath and continued. "So I wake up, horrified and confused as hell, feeling like I want to....burn my skin, and then Steve is there. How the fuck am I supposed to deal with that?" he asked, his voice starting to get shaky. "And I can't bear anyone looking at me or touching me when I wake up, but it's Steve, and I know I hurt him but it's better—it's fucking better than him knowing about anything. Because it's not just those kinds of nightmares, there's a lot more, but that's just—that’s what happened today."

"What else?" Sam asked. "What other nightmares do you have?"

Bucky leaned back on the couch, resting his back. He tilted his head up and stared at the ceiling. "There are the people I killed, of course,” he told him. "Those started when I was on the run, when I started slowly regaining my memories. And even after I had regained my memories, there is still stuff I remember only when I dream about them or if something triggers the memory. It started to be horrifying when I realized…how many they were. How many begged and cried before I pulled the trigger…I mostly dream about those," he paused for a moment and exhaled. "The best nightmares are the ones about the torture, the usual torture and punishments. It's not as horrifying as the others....except when I dream about the wipes, that gave me a panic attack once because I thought I lost my memories again."

Sam stayed silent and didn't say anything yet, just in case Bucky wanted to continue. And despite all the sadness Sam was feeling, he couldn't believe that Bucky told him all of that. He couldn't believe that he came here to fight with him, and now they were both sitting on a couch that could barely fit them both, and Bucky actually talked.

Bucky moved his head to the side, still resting it on the wall, and looked at Sam, like he was trying to find out if Sam was okay with what he shared or not. Sam got nervous and cleared his throat, and tried not to look like he was devastated. Bucky spoke then. "But it is not always nightmares. Sometimes I dream of the past, before Hydra. I dream of Steve and my family, sometimes even the army and the war, which shouldn't be the best kind of dreams, I know, but when compared to everything else...they are a blessing," he told Sam, still holding his gaze. "I dreamt of my sister two weeks ago, I woke up really emotional, but in a good way—kind of."

And fuck, Sam realized that Bucky was probably telling him this because he got worried he told him too much dark stuff. Because the way he was looking at him—holding his gaze, it was almost as if he was trying to make sure Sam was okay, and he was trying to convince him that it was not always that bad, after all the horrors he had shared. And that made Sam feel like he wanted to cry. He was holding it together so far, but it hit him how good of a person Bucky is, how big his heart is, and how he was the biggest asshole because he came here to fight with him instead of helping him.

Bucky started bouncing his leg. “Uh, you said you weren't gonna get destroyed and devastated, remember?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light, though he still looked worried and nervous.

Shit, Sam thought. He made him nervous.

"I am definitely not destroyed," Sam said, trying to hide the faint quiver in his voice. "Do you see a single tear on my face? And I did not say that. I said I won't be destroyed, but I will be devastated. Because again, you are a good person and you didn't deserve this to happen to you."

Bucky huffed out a sigh, looking disappointed, and turned his gaze away from Sam.

Sam placed his hand on Bucky's arm. "Hey—no, that's okay, there's nothing wrong with the people who care about you being sad for you," he told him. "You can't bear all of that weight on your own because you don't want to upset those around you. We might actually want to bear it with you. And you said it yourself, Bucky. You said it's too much. Of course it is. Of course you had to feel like you can't bear it anymore. How can anyone?"

Bucky shifted in his place and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's not that bad all the time, it's just yesterday—" 

"Oh, shut up," Sam said.

"What?" Bucky asked, confused.

"Don't do that, do not belittle your problems, man. It is that bad."

"Not all the time."

"Did you look in the mirror? You look like you haven't slept for a week."

Bucky held his hands up. "Okay, fine. It is that bad. I am miserable,” he said. “Does that make you feel better?"

Sam tried to hold back his smile. "Yeah, thanks."

There was a faint smile on Bucky's face. "Anyway," he sighed. "Steve still can't know anything."

"That's your call. Do whatever you want. You don't have to tell him anything, but you need him. And everything you said about your nightmares? You can't convince me that you would rather wake up in this empty apartment all by yourself. You can tell Steve not to ask and not push you to speak, in a normal, quiet conversation, though. But don’t push him away, Bucky. You need him,” Sam told him, hoping he would actually take his advice. "Also, how do you feel after you have talked?"

"Uh, lighter?" Bucky replied. "Like, I think I actually want to sleep now."

"Are you trying to kick me out again?"

Bucky chuckled softly. "Well, it’s not going to work, is it?”

“Not really no,” he said, draping his arm over the back of the couch. "This couch is not so bad, by the way. It's growing on me.”

"It just needs to be a little bit bigger," Bucky commented, pointing at how his leg and Sam's leg were almost touching. "Steve sleeps on it."

"What? How the fuck?" He asked, surprised.

“No idea," he replied, then his face turned serious all of a sudden. "I—I feel guilty by the way, because I fought with him. It's why I shattered everything. I am not angry at him, he did nothing wrong. I am the one who is angry all the damn time.”

Sam nodded. "I know."

Bucky's eyebrows were pinched together, but a very small smile was almost visible on his face. "Right, forgot you are a counselor," he said, "again."

Sam huffed out a laugh. "You underestimate me," he told him. "You look tired. How about you go inside and sleep, and I will clean everything up?" 

Bucky shook his head. "No, definitely not. You can go, I will clean everything."

"So remember when I told you it's okay to accept help?" Sam asked. "It's about damn time we start somewhere. Go inside and sleep."

"Well, I don't sleep inside. I sleep here," Bucky said, pointing to the floor.

"I know, but in case you haven't noticed, there's glass everywhere, thanks to you, so that's going to be a problem," Sam told him, standing up and stretching his legs. "Go inside, even try the damn bed for once."

Bucky ran his hands through his face. "Fine.”

Sam reached out a hand to Bucky, and he grabbed it. "Go on," Sam told him, patting his shoulder.

"Thanks, Sam," Bucky told him, looking at him with gratitude. "Thank you."

When Bucky went inside, Sam sat down again and took a deep breath. He needed to have a minute to recompose himself after his conversation with Bucky before he started cleaning everything.

He tried not to think too much about the fact that he had come in here to fight with him because he hurt Steve or else guilt would eat him alive. Because it seemed like Bucky had only been trying to protect those he cares about from the weight of all the darkness he was dealing with.

——————————————————

"He did what?" Tony asks, looking at Steve like he is mad. "And Hydra? That's not possible. How the hell is that possible? He was probably just scared for—," he tries to remember Anna's name but fails, of course. "her, and jumped into a stupid conclusion without really thinking properly."

Steve sighs. "No, Tony. I don't think so. First of all, the picture was taken in the Hydra base in D.C.,I wouldn't have know for sure of course that's where it was taken, but Bucky knew immediately—"

Tony shakes his head. "Please don't say that's why he decided it was Hydra." 

"No," Steve firmly says. "It wasn't just that. That's what I was gonna say. They left a note on the picture. They threatened him that they would start something called the three phases punishment on her if he didn't come quickly. That's a—it was a method of torture that they created for Bucky….one of his handlers did, but it wasn't even in the reports we had on him. No one would know it unless they are Hydra."

Tony stops pacing the room and sits down. "Wait, hang on a second—"

Natasha walks inside the room then. "You all better have a very good reason to bring me here this early in the morning."

“I said the exact same thing,” Tony tells her, “but they have a good reason, I am afraid.”

She has a smile on her face. She doesn't know how bad it actually is. And Sam knows Natasha has a soft spot for Bucky, he knows she is another person who will be devastated by this. "What is it?" she asks, standing at the centre of the table and resting her hands on it.

Sam can't get himself to talk, to explain, or to do anything. He hasn't really had time to process what Steve told him yet, so he left it to Steve to explain everything.

When Steve first told him what happened, he couldn't stop thinking about what Bucky must have felt when he saw the picture of Anna. He knows all his thoughts at this moment would have been directed at blaming himself. And it broke his heart, that right when Bucky started to get a little bit better, everything went to hell like that.

He also can't stop thinking about the fact that Bucky told Steve about the three phases punishment, he told him everything he always told Sam that Steve could never know about. It's another thing he will blame himself for, another thing that will haunt him.

And he knows that even if Bucky and Anna make it out of there unharmed and well, Bucky probably wouldn't be able to stay with Anna. He is going to think she will be safer and better without him in her life. This whole thing will probably take Bucky back to square one.

What he tries not to think about, however, is if they come out of there harmed and not well. This won't just take Bucky back to square one, it will drag him down to the bottom of all the darkness and despair of the world. 

Steve swallows. "It's Bucky, he—" he starts, but then he groans and covers his face with his hands. "God—I am tired of saying what happened over and over again."

And he definitely does look tired, because he hasn't even slept since Bucky left.

Sam is about to explain what happened when Tony starts talking, thankfully. "I will give you a quick summary. Someone kidnapped Barnes' girlfriend—and I know, Barnes has a girlfriend. Can you imagine? I had no idea, did you know about this?"

Sam is now regretting not speaking and letting Tony explain what happened instead.

Natasha nods, looking terrified. "Anna?" She asks, looking at Steve and removing her hands from the table.

"Honestly, was I the only one who did not know?" Tony asks, shaking his head. 

"Continue, Tony," Natasha says.

"Well, I mean you can guess what happens next, right? They ask for Barnes in return to release her, Barnes of course acts like a hero and goes there alone. And now you are gonna ask, who the hell kidnapped her, right? These two," Tony says, pointing at Steve and Sam, "are convinced it's Hydra, apparently. Just because their friend believed it's Hydra." 

"What?" She asks. "There is no Hydra anymore."

Tony gestures with his hands. "Exactly what I have been saying."

So Steve explains to her everything he said to Tony a couple of minutes ago. He tells her about the picture, the three phases punishment, and the call he had with Bucky. Natasha sits down, looking horrified, and covers her face with her hands. 

"So," Tony sighs, "what I was gonna say is, first of all, who the hell names a punishment? Second of all—"

Natasha removes her hands from her face. "Hydra? The Red Room?" she says, as though Tony couldn’t possibly have said anything more ridiculous.

Tony ignores her. "Second of all, what even is it?"

"It's—" Steve starts, but is unable to say anything.

So Sam finally speaks. "It doesn't matter what it is. It’s just a method of torture, and any sane person who gets threatened that it will be used on their loved ones would go surrender himself without thinking twice.”

"But I don't think it's Hydra," Natasha says. "It could literally be anyone who has this sort of information. Remember Zemo?"

Sam internally cringes at the mention of his name. It hasn't been that long yet to forget about Zemo and everything that followed.

"Unfortunately," Tony replies. "So it's either Hydra, or someone, or some people who have really good intel about Hydra. Now, what would they even want with Barnes?"

"The most basic answer would be to recreate the serum," Natasha says, looking at Steve. "But they would have probably asked for you too, right?"

That makes sense, Sam thought. He hadn't really thought about that. And now the possibility that they could scratch this answer off the list scares him. Recreating the serum is better than many other worse stuff, at least he thinks it is. 

"I guess," Steve replies. "Unless it's Hydra and they want to stick to their own serum? I don't know. Honestly, nothing makes any sense."

"So we are putting recreating the serum down the list," Tony states. "What else?"

"Revenge?" Natasha asks, looking between Sam and Steve. "If it's Hydra, then I don't know—it wouldn't make sense to be honest. They would expect him to want to take revenge. But if it's anyone else, then it could make sense if it's something Barnes did as the Winter Soldier." 

“And they would want to—what? Take their revenge out on him and Anna?” Sam asks, feeling terrified. 

"I don't know," Natasha replies. "The whole two weeks thing makes everything complicated."

"Okay, so we have recreating the serum and we have revenge," Tony says like he is adding them to a mental list of his own. “What else?”

"Bucky had mentioned that maybe they wanted to test his arm, before he left," Steve tells them. "Or maybe whoever it is actually wants the arm. It's vibranium after all."

Sam shakes his head. "No, that doesn't make sense with the two-week period."

After a couple of seconds, Tony speaks. “So, uh—I hate to say it but,” he says, pausing as he looks at them, “what are the odds that whoever it is might want to turn Barnes into an assassin again?" he asks, looking aware that he just said the worst and craziest scenario of all.

"What?" Steve exclaimed. "How would they even do that? No one can control him anymore, Tony."

Something inside Sam's stomach churns. This is a possibility that had crossed his mind for a split second when Steve first told him what happened, but he pushed it far away and did not allow himself to think about it again.

"But they have Anna," Natasha says, fear creeping into her features. "Shit." 

Steve still doesn't look convinced. "No, that doesn't make any sense," he says. He turns his gaze to Sam. "Right?" he asks, looking as if he is begging Sam to agree with him.

Sam takes a deep breath. "I hate to say it...but it could make sense, Steve.”

"How?" Steve asks.

"Because he was literally an assassin," Tony replies. "A talented, ruthless assassin. He was programmed to kill. I mean, do I even have to explain this? He can't be controlled anymore, I know. But what if that's why they took his girlfriend? Like Natasha said."

"And the two weeks?" Natasha asks.

"Well, it always comes back to those two damn weeks, doesn't it?" Tony says. "For now,  I think we will need to watch over the base in D.C. See who goes in and out, it will give us an indication as to who they are. And then—well, I guess it's up to you," he directs his words to Steve, "if you want us to wait for two weeks or not."

"I want to go there right now, but we can't risk Anna's life. I promised Bucky," Steve tells him. "And it's Hydra we're talking about. They won't hesitate to kill her."

They sit in silence for a little while, each one of them lost in their own thoughts until Tony breaks the silence. "So how did Barnes meet her exactly?"

Steve's gaze is fixed on the table. "At a bakery," he replies, his voice slightly trembling. "She has a bakery. They met there for the first time."

"Man," Tony says, amused, "who would have thought Barnes of all people would get a romcom love story this quick?"

"Bucky was always good with girls, actually," Steve says, smiling weakly. "Before, I mean. It was me who was a total failure."

"You still are," Natasha lightly adds. 

“Does he love her?" Tony asks, but there’s no amusement in his voice anymore.

"So you are suddenly interested in Barnes' love life now?" Natasha tells Tony. "I thought you couldn't stand the man.”

Tony keeps his gaze fixed on Steve, his expression is unusually serious. "Just answer my question."

"Yeah," Steve shakily breathes. "He does."

Tony almost looks at Steve with sympathy. Almost. He takes a deep breath before he starts talking again. "So if they want Barnes to be their assassin, whoever they are," Tony says, looking between Steve and Sam. "And they use her for that. Would he do it? Would he kill for her?"

Steve and Sam look at each other, trying to find an answer to Tony's question, but neither of them is able to say anything.

Tony is still looking at them, waiting for an answer. Then Steve finally speaks. "If it was Pepper," Steve says. "What would you do?"

Tony’s face falls. "I wasn't an assassin—"

"Just put yourself in his place," Steve urges, and there's a slight quiver in his voice. "I am genuinely asking. I don't think I have an answer."

Tony doesn't answer immediately, it takes him a while to consider. "I—I actually don't know," he finally says.

But Sam has his answer. He knows what Bucky would do. He also knows that he would want to kill himself afterwards.

After a little while, Natasha speaks and says out loud what Sam was thinking but was too afraid to actually say. "You probably would, Tony—at least until you figure a way out," she said, looking down. "And I think Barnes would too."

Well, shit.

Chapter Text

Anna stood over the stove in her kitchen making them pancakes for breakfast. Bucky was listening to her as she told him about something she read in the news this morning, something about a new bill that got approved by the president and was getting enforced. He lost his focus halfway through her story, his thoughts drifting to one of the assassinations he had carried out. The most important one, probably.

And it hit him that he never told her about it, and it felt like this big secret that wasn't right to keep. Although he didn't really understand why he felt like that, since he mostly kept everything that he did and happened to him from everyone around him. But this felt like something he should say, he just knew he had to tell her. "Hey Anna?" he said, stopping her mid-sentence.

"Yeah?" she replied, her back to him.

"I—I killed John F.Kennedy," he blurted out. 

He could have told her in a better way and at a better time, he realized that two seconds after the words left his mouth. He didn't have to choose a random Saturday morning, when she was happily making them breakfast, to drop on her such random, extremely shocking information.

She laughed. "What?"  She turned to him, still smiling. When she saw his facial expression, the smile disappeared from her face. "Oh," she said. "Oh." 

"Yeah," he breathed out.

They stayed in silence for a couple of seconds, and he wanted to give her time to absorb what he said, but then he smelt something burning. "I think the pancake is burning."

"Shit," she muttered under her breath, turning around to remove the pancake from the pan. She turned off the stove and looked like she was taking a breath, then turned to face him again. "John F.Kennedy," she stated, like she was still taking it in.

"Yes," he said. "I just—I thought you should know, I guess."

She came over to the kitchen counter and sat beside him. "Well, I already knew you—uh, you killed people when you were the Winter Soldier, and John F.Kennedy is a person so..."

"You are allowed to be shocked," he gently told her. "It shocks me all the time."

She took a deep breath and stayed silent for a few seconds, then asked him, "Do you remember it? How it happened?" 

"Yeah," he breathed. "I remember everything. Everyone..." he trailed off, knowing that she understood what he meant.

"I know," she told him, resting her head on his arm. "How's the list by the way?" she asked, referring to his amends list.

"Good, I think," he replied. "Crossed someone off two days ago."

"And do you actually feel better or are you just convincing yourself that it makes you feel better?"

His eyes flicked towards her. "I feel like that's you informing me that I am not feeling better. It didn't feel like a question."

She let out a nervous laugh. "Well..."

"What?" he asked. "Say it."

"You still have the nightmares." 

"Yeah, but the nightmares—"

She cut him off, removing her head from his arm. "Are about all sorts of things, not just the people you killed, I know," she told him, her eyes fixed on him. "But I—don't get mad at me, okay? I have sort of categorized your nightmares in my head. I know when you dream about them...the people you killed as the Winter Soldier."

He gulped, feeling exposed and nervous all of a sudden. "How?"

"It got obvious after a while, kind of," she replied, looking nervous herself. 

"How did you, uh—categorize them?"

She looked down and fiddled with a loose thread in her shorts. "You are not mad?"

"No."

"Bucky.." 

"I am not mad, Anna," he said, trying to sound gentle but probably failed because of how nervous he was. "Just tell me."

"Well," she said, inhaling and exhaling. "There are times you wake up disoriented and shocked. You stay unfocused for a long time and sometimes you take very long showers afterwards. I think that's when you dream about—everything they did to you, the torture and everything," she nervously explained, avoiding looking at him. "And sometimes you wake up really sad and devastated. You don't scream or anything, you just wake up gasping. Most times you stay upset all day, when it's really bad, I think. That's when you dream about the people that you... you know."

The uneasiness and nervousness Bucky was feeling suddenly shifted into overwhelming guilt when he realized that this was all probably too much for Anna.

He had realized recently that his relationship with Anna entailed him feeling a lot of guilt most of the time. They met at a time when he was just starting to get his shit together and was trying to heal from everything he had been through, when it didn't make sense for him to be with anyone. But Anna was different, and she made everything in his life easier and lighter. But still, being with her filled him with a lot of guilt, because he always felt like he was bringing this heavy package of darkness into their relationship, and he knew that Anna deserved better than that.

He placed his arm around her and grabbed her near him. "I am sorry," he said. "I didn't realize you—you shouldn't have had to categorize or think about any of that stuff."

"What?" she asked, confused. "Bucky, no. Don't make me regret telling you. You always refused to sleep when you stayed over and now that you finally do, I don't want this to change."

He rested his head on top of hers and decided not to argue. "Okay," he simply said.

"Okay?" she reluctantly asked, like she wasn't sure if that was it.

"Yeah," he replied, breathing out. "Okay.”

"Okay then," she said, sighing. "So what I was saying is, I don't think you are really doing better in dealing with that part of the past. You have been having these nightmares a lot recently. I think they increase the more you think about the list and the whole making amends thing."

That is something that made a lot of sense, he realized, though he hadn't noticed the pattern himself. He was dreaming a lot about them lately, to the point where he started hoping he would have any other terrible nightmares instead, but he didn't realize it was connected to him thinking about the list and making amends all the time.

"Where did you go?" she asked, tilting her head up to look at him.

He blinked, trying to focus. "Sorry, I was thinking about what you said," he told her. "I didn't notice that—that it could have been connected to the list and everything."

"You still don't talk to Dr. Raynor about the nightmares?"

"No. I don't think I ever will," he honestly replied. "But you know, I am trying to be—to get on terms with it all. I am trying."

"I know you are," she softly said. "And making amends is great, it's a good step, if it makes you feel better and helps you, and Dr. Raynor obviously thinks it is..."

"But?" he asked.

"But," she started. "I just...I don't think what you did is something that should be fixed. I always feel like the world should be making amends to you."

"No, Anna," he told her, smiling sadly. "No one should be making amends to me. It's a miracle they even decided to give me a pardon."

"A miracle? You think they should have imprisoned you instead?" she asked, her eyebrows pinched together, looking at him like he was saying something absurd.

"It doesn't matter—"

She stopped him from speaking. "Bucky, you were a victim. You have to realize that. You literally had brain damage from what they did to you."

He wished, with all his heart, that it was that easy.

"You can't say that—you can't call someone who murdered people a victim," he said, wishing this conversation would end already, then he remembered that he practically brought this upon himself. "And I know I had no memory, I know they controlled me, but it doesn't work like that."

No one understood that it wasn't just that he killed people, it was how he did it. How he never gave it a second thought and rarely ever hesitated. How cruel and emotionless he was. They used to say he was a killing machine, and he knew, he literally was exactly that.

Because when he got his memories back, it was utterly horrifying to remember how his mind worked when he killed people. When he was the Winter Soldier, all he would think about was that if the person was a threat, then he had to die. Any collateral deaths never mattered to him, he didn't even think for a split second. Witnesses died instantly too, and it didn't matter if they were men or women, or even children—once.

There were many other horrible details he remembered, including how he had to torture some people before they died sometimes. Because whilst most of his kills were instant, since the goal was to just get it done, sometimes he would have orders to make the deaths of certain people slow and painful, and even though that wasn't really a frequent order that he used to get, it wasn't just horrifying to remember, it was mind-wrecking and made him terrified of himself.

So of course he would never see himself as a victim, if all that haunted him all the damn time were his own victims.

"Bucky," Anna called, placing her hand on his arm. "Where do you keep going?" she asked, her voice worried, because he kept zoning out.

He tried not to look clouded by everything he was thinking about. "I am here, sorry," he apologized. "Did you say something?"

She sighed. "I was saying that everyone you killed when you were the Winter Soldier will keep haunting you all your life if you continue to believe it was your fault somehow, and you will always feel guilty."

"Yeah, but I don't know, Anna," he told her. "Maybe that's just something I have to live with."

"But you don't have to," she said, her voice emotional. "I know it's gonna take you some time to realize that, maybe even years, but I hope you realize it eventually."

"Maybe," he said, running his hand along her arm. "Now are we gonna have those pancakes or not?"

"Fine," she said, getting off the counter stool. "Now tell me all about that name you crossed off the list until I finish," she said, turning the stove back on.

So he told her all about Senator Atwood, and didn't leave out the details he hadn't told Dr. Raynor about.

——————————————————

He is tired, he finally admits it to himself. He is so damn tired.

But he has to open his eyes. He had an order. They told him he's not allowed to close his eyes. They told him not to dissociate....but that has never happened before, he thinks. He was always allowed to close his eyes. He always dissociated. He remembers now. He didn't realize it before, had never given it much thought because he thought that was a normal physical reaction to something like this. He knows that even if he had no control over his mind back then, he should have at least been allowed to do that. 

Now, he thinks it must have been a mercy, to allow him to close his eyes and disconnect from his body. Kaprov had been merciful, he just hadn't realized it. 

Someone's hand is suddenly around his throat, squeezing out air that isn't even in his lungs. "I will say this one last time," he hisses loudly in his ear. "Open. Your. Fucking. Eyes."

But he is not dissociating, he wants to tell him. Or at least he thinks he isn't. He is just slipping into unconsciousness because his body can no longer tolerate what's happening. The pain is everywhere, and his back is bleeding so much again. He can't open his eyes. He's drifting off and it's out of his control.

The man lets go of his neck and Bucky coughs and gasps for air.  Then, he slaps him so hard his lips split open. "Your girlfriend fainted. Don't you want to look at her?"

Anna.

He had heard her gasping for air a while ago, he got terrified and tried to look in her direction, but they stopped him and forced his neck down, so he wouldn't know what was happening to her. He was almost going to break out of the chains until they hit him with something—probably the baton, on his torn-open back. He's been in agonizing pain since and hasn't really been aware of anything that's happening.

He tries to look at her now, and they let him. She is lying unconscious on the ground, and that makes him feel terrified and relieved all at the same time. He wants to ask them if she is okay and if she is breathing, but he is barely even conscious himself.

His eyes shut down despite himself again, and no one says anything this time. The man behind him finally leaves him, and he hopes he can finally be allowed to close his eyes now. He is fading in and out and is only dimly aware of the sounds around him, but he hears their footsteps leaving the room. Then the guards finally move forward to unchain his arms, leaving him lying on the ground. They don't restrain his arms or anything, which is the only good thing they have done differently from Kaprov's punishments.

He tries with all his power to open his eyes and see Anna, and he finds her opposite to him, on the other side of the room, lying unconscious from the shock of what she had seen.

He gathers all his strength and pushes himself with his metal arm to the corner and finally throws up. He doesn't stop. Whenever it feels like there's nothing to get out anymore, he keeps gagging and throws up more. He knows he should have tried to hold it in, it's one of the things he hadn't realized he remembered too. It was a rule he had for himself when he was the Winter Soldier. He shouldn't throw up because they were going to leave him like this for a very long time. But he is not restrained now, so he has better control. He also feels like he wants to wash his mouth with soap, and keeps spitting his saliva, hoping the shudders of disgust going through his body would go away.

He drags himself as far away as he possibly can from his puke and lies on his side, unable to exert any additional effort.

It looks like they are going to leave him alone too for the first time since he got here. The guards are leaving. He sees one of the guards carrying Anna away, and feels immense relief knowing that she won't be here when he wakes up. But he has to make sure she is okay, he reminds himself, so he tries to ask the guard carrying her if her breathing is okay, but he can't find his voice, he can't find the power to let anything come out of his mouth.

And everything suddenly seems so absurd, so horrifying, like it's one of his messed-up nightmares. Because he is lying on the ground, unable to move. He is bleeding. He can see his blood across the room and fails to remember how it got there, until he realizes that they have thrown the baton afterwards, he had heard it echoing as it fell. There's puke behind him. He feels blood and other things between his legs that make him want to claw at his own skin. And Anna is here—Anna was here while it all happened, which is where all the absurdity lies.

What has he done?

—

Something is happening to his mind. 

Like a switch has gone off, and now he's left with unbearable darkness that's going to swallow him.

He only thinks about Anna when he first wakes up. Not what happened to him and not the unbearable pain he is in. Not that he is unable to move or that he needs to shower. He thinks about what she was forced to watch, how he is the reason she will be traumatized all her life. And how it's all his fault, all his doing. He was naive and stupid to let himself believe that Hydra was gone, to let himself believe that he had a shot at life. He let himself have hope and destroyed someone's life in return. 

He doesn't think he will ever be able to look her in the eye again. He already hadn't been able to look at her today. And Rumlow had known. He had known the moment Anna stepped inside the room and made sure he would torture him with that knowledge.

And it had killed him. She begged him to look at her, begged. But how could he even glance her way when he knew what was going to happen and what she was going to witness? He felt like he had betrayed her, because he kept this awful thing from her for so long and that was how she got to find out in the end, through Rumlow's fucking riddles.

He also knew he had to distance himself from his mind and detach himself from her, because he had to try to not feel anything to be able to get through what was going to happen and not lose himself completely. He couldn't bear to look at her because of how agonizing it would be, and that pain would never allow him to dissociate from anything.  But in the end, that didn't matter, because he wasn't even allowed to close his eyes.

He remembers how pained she had looked when he flinched from her touch and feels indescribable, overwhelming sadness. He doesn't know if he will ever bear her touch again, and it feels like no amount of showers is going to fix that this time, because he hadn't even been able to tolerate it before Rumlow started anything.

But these thoughts are unbearable. Knowing that this is all his fault is unbearable. He ruined Anna and destroyed her. She had looked at him with shock he will never forget, and he will never forget her choking gasps either, or how she looked unconscious on the ground, and worst of all, how she begged Rumlow to have her instead.

He had once told Sam that Steve would need to go to therapy if Bucky told him what his nightmares were about. And Anna—Anna had watched. Had watched everything. He doesn't think there's any therapy that can fix that.

He can't bear these thoughts. He can't. He wraps his hand around his throat, as if that's going to help with feeling like he is choking on his own misery and hopelessness. He is not going to be able to live knowing all of that, knowing all the suffering he had caused her. He doesn't want to live knowing any of that.

He had felt like he was suffocating before. A lot, actually. When it all got too much and he felt like he would rather not be here at all than deal with everything. But then he would realize that not being here is not actually an option and he has to try. He is suffocating, but he has to try and find oxygen to breathe somehow, and he always ended up finding it, one way or another. He found the surface and he breathed. And even if his mind told him he was probably going to drown tomorrow again anyway, it didn't matter. He would do it all again tomorrow.

But it's different this time. This hasn't happened before. 

There is no surface and there is no oxygen. It's an endless state of suffocation.

And when he realizes that not wanting to be here isn't an option, because Anna is not safe yet, he feels horrified. It crushes him. His eyes burn and his right hand clutches at his throat more, trying to fight this unbearable suffocation. But there's no surface, there's nothing to push against, so he can't fight it. He can't fight anything anymore.

What has he done?

—

He is trying to breathe slowly.

He needs to shower, and if he thinks about it more than he should, he is going to have a panic attack, even though he thinks that's going to be hard to happen with all the blood that he has lost and his slow heartbeats.

So he stays on his side, his mind and body stuck in a silent state of panic. Tremors keep going through his right hand, and that's about as far as his panic reaches, the rest of him is stilled by the exhaustion and damage that has been done to his body.

He doesn't know how long it has been, or how long it will be until they decide he can be cleaned or how long it will be before Rumlow comes back here again. And he knows they will probably do it all over again. Pierce had told him that they would try again next time, he also told him when he first came here that they were going to implement the three phases punishment on him over and over again.

And if they keep using Anna to get him to comply, then he’s not going to be able to do anything. He still has no idea what's going to happen after those two weeks, but they seem pretty certain that he will comply afterwards, and even though that doesn't make any sense, it's starting to terrify him.

He longs for the cryosleep. At least Kaprov never did this repeatedly, he always got to be put back in cryosleep afterwards. No matter how bad it got, the nothingness of the cryochamber eventually came. And that's another mercy he is going to be deprived of.

He has also wanted to shift to his other side for a while now, his right side has been pressed against the ground for so long and is completely numb. But he can't get himself to move, he can't even get himself to do it using his metal arm. He forgot how hurt he was a while ago and was going to turn on his back, and that resulted in a scream that got stuck in his throat. He tries again now but ends up with a searing pain in his back and just...everywhere. Which reminds him of the blood between his legs, he feels the dryness of it, and everything else too.

Shallow breaths, he reminds himself. He can't panic more than this, because he can't even move his eyes without feeling like his head is burning.

But how is he here again? How is this happening to him again?

He swallows, feeling the panic increasing. But his heartbeats never quicken. He clenches his left hand in a fist and holds it against the ground, exhaling and inhaling slowly. 

There's a muffled sound stuck in his throat. His right hand trembles more and he knows he is losing control. Slow breaths, he says over and over again. 

It doesn't work. 

And how had it come to Anna watching something like this?

Now, there are quite, broken breaths coming out of him. He takes in a shaky inhale, and when he attempts to exhale, all that comes out are silent tears instead.

What has he done?

—

He doesn't know how long it has been. A day or two? But he knows that he should start to panic when he hears footsteps walking inside the room. He should be alert. He should try and tilt his head up and see if Anna or Rumlow are there, but he can't find it in him to feel or do anything. He can't even move.

Someone stops in front of him. "It's truly unfortunate that this is where things went," he hears Pierce say. "I never wanted it to reach this stage. You shouldn't have messed with your head, James."

He is right, he thinks. He should have just put a bullet straight into his head the moment he got away from Hydra. Goddamn him for never doing it. Goddamn him for thinking that he had a shot at life.

"We have to let the doctor check you," Pierce says. "And we are going to get you cleaned too. Don't worry."

"But," he sighs. "I wanted to give you one last chance. Rumlow wanted to wait until we do it all over again. But I disagree, I don't think there's a better time to give you another chance than right now."

"Barnes," he hears Rumlow calling. So he is here as well. "You are listening, aren't you?"

He knows he should nod or reply. He can hear them. But he really can't bring his body to move or speak. He even tries to swallow but fails due to the dryness of his mouth.

"Bring me a glass of water," Pierce orders. "And make him sit against the wall. Place the chair next to him."

"He can do it himself," Rumlow tells him, his voice carrying a mocking tone.

"No, actually," Pierce says, looking at Bucky. "I don't think he can."

He can't tolerate anyone touching him right now, he is in so much pain it's almost unbearable. But they grab him from his arms, and his breath leaves his lungs from the intensity of the pain he feels everywhere as they push him against the wall. He didn't realize that lying on his side had actually dulled some of the pain, because now the weight of it is tearing through him all at once. He tries to breathe again, and a loud, pained exhale comes out of his mouth.

He tilts his head up but avoids looking at anyone. They are all looking down at him like they are watching a wounded animal. It makes him feel sick.

When they hand Pierce the water, he takes it and moves forward towards Bucky, and one of the guards follows him but Pierce stops him. He sits down on the chair and looks down at Bucky, placing the glass of water to his mouth, and Bucky doesn't waste a second in drinking it, his senses coming to him.

He takes only a few gulps before Pierce removes it from his lips. "Easy, easy," he coaxes. "Breathe, James."

Bucky breathes, and then Pierce allows him to drink two more sips before he removes it again. "There you go," he tells him. "I will give you more later, but now I need you to listen to me."

And Bucky of course, is still thirsty as hell, but he knows it's better than nothing. He licks his lips and rests his head against the wall.

"You are focused, right?" Pierce asks him, studying his face. He must really look like shit it Pierce is not sure if he can actually hear him or not. "Nod if you are not able to speak." 

He slowly nods his head.

"Good," Pierce says, breathing deeply. "First of all, I want you to know that Anna hasn't been feeling well since she watched what happened..."

His heartbeats finally catch on to the panic he's been feeling and he feels his breath catching in his throat. He looks at Pierce with fear and panic in his eyes.

"She has a fever. The doctor is saying it is a psychogenic fever, as a result of being exposed to highly stressful and traumatic events. Don't panic, we are taking good care of her, I promise," he tells him. And Bucky, who had stayed in a silent state of panic for almost two days, starts breathing rapidly.

"Here, let me show you actually," he says, opening his palm towards Rumlow. He hands Pierce a tablet, which Pierce holds up for Bucky to see. The screen shows Anna, from a security camera, asleep in bed and tucked beneath the covers. There's an IV taped to her arm, and her eyes are slightly open. "She's been given the necessary medication and she's already starting to feel better now, yesterday was a lot worse."

He did this. This is all him. She's not just emotionally and mentally not well, she's physically not well.

"Now," Pierce breathes, handing Rumlow the tablet back. "This could have all been prevented if you just did what I asked you to do. She wouldn't have even known about this. But do you see what you have done?"

"I told him being stubborn won't get him anywhere," Rumlow added.

And Bucky knows they are right. He had told Anna on their first day here that he would be fine, that he had this happen to him before and he had been through worse and it would be okay. But he was fucking stupid, because he hadn't been through worst. This is one of the worst things that has ever happened to him in his incredibly long, miserable life. He doesn't know how he thought he was going to survive this. Deep down, he probably never even thought it would actually happen—that they would reach the third phase.

"She is no state to watch the third phase happening again, is she?" Pierce asks. "Because we will start over when you are better, and she is not going to handle that again. You know she won't."

He won't either.

He rests his head back on the wall and tries to keep his breathing steady.

Pierce motions for them with his hand, and one guard steps outside the room. "She is not going to watch the third phase again," he tells him. Then the guard steps back inside, dragging a man who looks like he's in his fifties inside the room. He has his hands tied behind him, and a piece of cloth is tied around his mouth. He looks worn out and filthy, like he's been imprisoned here for a while.

Bucky's stomach sinks when he realizes what Pierce is going to say next. "And you know what you should do to make that happen."

They push him to his knees, and his eyes dart around the room in panic, filled with fear and dread.

"You are going to comply either way, James. Whether it's now or a month later, you know this will end with you complying," Pierce says, placing a gun on Bucky's lap. Bucky's eyes drop to it, and he forces down a swallow. "You could just save her the misery. She is already hurt and in pain. Him?" he says, gesturing at the man. "He is a dead man anyway, if you won't kill him, we will, at least after he has rotted in his cell a bit more, which will only be more torture for him. But he will die, that is inevitable."

The man whimpers against the cloth wrapped around his mouth and starts sobbing.

And Bucky tries to feel the panic he was feeling earlier but can't. He should be afraid, because he is considering doing it. Because there is a voice in his head telling him that he should have actually done it the first time and gotten it over with.

But he still wants to use his voice, to beg one more time, to tell them to ask anything else of him. He attempts to open his mouth and speak, but only small breaths come out of his mouth. He still doesn't have the energy to speak, his throat feels too heavy, and nothing comes out.

He had fought before, for so long. When Hydra first captured him and wanted to break him, when he still had his memories, and when they wanted him to kill for them. He never complied, even when it resulted in him being tortured in all the worst possible ways. But everything is different now, not only does Anna's safety depend on him, but he also won't be able to fight like that again. 

He is so tired.

His fingers graze the gun, and he thinks about the relief he would feel if he just pressed it into his own head. And thinking about that—about all the relief and freedom that would bring him, makes him want to cry. He would do anything to end it all, once and for all. And if Anna wasn't here, he wouldn't have hesitated for a second. 

But Anna is here, and he has already damaged her enough. And the man was going to be killed either way. And him? There's no hope for him anyway, not anymore. 

He picks up the gun with his left hand, thinking about his amends list, the rules Dr. Raynor established for him, and feels like he wants to laugh.

"I am no longer the Winter Soldier."

Bucky turns his gaze to the man, and the man's eyes are filled with tears and are begging him not to do it, just like so many terrified eyes before him.

He slowly raises the gun, aiming at the man's head. The man closes his eyes, his whimpers are so loud now. And Bucky thinks about how that's another person he is going to have nightmares about, another person who is going to haunt him.

"I am James Bucky Barnes.."

But the only difference is that this time, there won't be an amends list. There's no one controlling his mind right now, and what he is about to do cannot be atoned for.

He had tried. God knows he tried. He tried so hard to heal, to fix what he did, to make amends, but it never mattered in the end. Nothing mattered. 

This is who he was. This is who he is always going to be.

"and you’re part of my efforts to make amends."

Bucky pulls the trigger. 

What has he done?

What has he done?

What has he done?

Chapter Text

After nearly four months of being together, she realized she was in love with him, and it hit her at the most random, unexpected moment.

She was standing in the bakery's kitchen, pacing back and forth while waiting for the cookies in the oven to finish. She was tired, she hadn't slept well, and it just wasn't her day. Her gaze moved to the transparent glass panel of the kitchen door, and she saw Bucky standing outside the bakery. She couldn't see him clearly, but he looked almost hesitant to enter. After a couple of seconds, he opened the door and stepped inside.

He stopped by the entrance door, taking a deep breath. He closed his eyes for just a second, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and then exhaled. Calmness washed over his features then, which made her heart warm. She knew how much he loved her bakery and loved coming over all the time. He looked at Jenna, who was standing by the counter, and gave her a small smile. She couldn't hear what he told her, but he probably said hello and asked where she was.

It hit her then, as she stood behind the kitchen door watching him, because all of a sudden, the tiredness she had been feeling vanished, and her heart started beating rapidly the moment she saw him standing outside.

She had dated someone in college once and was confused about her feelings, when she asked her mother—which seemed like a good idea back then since her mother and father had a great love story—she told her that she would know it, she would know when she's in love. She wouldn't need to ask, she wouldn't need to wonder, she would just know it in her heart. And back then, she was so mad at her mother afterwards because she felt like that didn't help her with anything, it only made her even more confused.

But she was feeling it now, deep in her bones, in the way her heart jumped when she saw him and the way she was feeling all sorts of things at once. She knew it. His gaze moved to the kitchen door, and met with hers, right in the middle of her realization. He smiled, and goddamn his perfect, handsome smile that she really couldn't bear at the moment. She inhaled deeply and swallowed, then smiled back, her hand reaching for the counter behind her to steady herself.

She is in love with him.

And nothing had ever felt more terrifying and beautiful than this.

"Hey," he said, stepping toward her and pinning her against the counter.

"Hey," she smiled, wrapping her hands around his neck. She hoped he wouldn't sense how quick her heartbeats were, but Bucky had great hearing abilities, so it was very unlikely.

"Did you look shocked when you saw me or was I imagining stuff?" he asked, pressing his lips to hers.

She kissed him back, then stopped to reply, even though all she wanted was to keep kissing him. "You were imagining stuff," she lied, but there was a grin on her face. "I am so happy you came actually, I was having a terrible day," she paused, taking in his face. "You look like you were having a terrible one, too."

"A bit," he murmurs, brushing his lips back against hers. "Why were you having a terrible day?" he asked, his voice low and his face close to hers.

"Just tired," she breathed. "You?"

"Just tired," he replied, smiling. "What's that smell?"

"Cookies," she said, trying to hold back her grin because she knew what he was going to ask next.

He pulled back slightly. "The chewy, chunky ones?"

"Yes," she replied, laughing.

"I am so happy I came," he said, smiling as his lips found hers once more.

She would realize later that loving him intensified everything for her. There were the good feelings—happiness, excitement, warmth, and safety. That was all incredible to feel. But it also made thinking about his past more crushing and overwhelming than before. And Anna was an empath, so it broke her heart and shattered it in ways she never thought were possible, because while everything was in the past now, that knowledge still didn't do anything to lessen the pain.

And all of that was before she realized how bad it actually was.

——————————————————

When she woke up, she threw up everything she had been trying so hard to hold. It went on forever. Whenever she would stop, she would remember something, see Bucky in her mind, remember his scream or the blood on the floor, and her stomach would heave again, uncontrollably. Her abdominal muscles were aching, and her whole body was trembling with exhaustion. She knew that something wasn't right.

She couldn't get back up, couldn't even get up to wash her face, so she stayed on the ground for a long time. After a while, Luke came inside to bring her a bottle of water and probably check if she woke up. When he saw her lying on the floor, he came over to help her get up.

“I think you are burning up,"  he said when he touched her hand.

She swallowed, her hand coming up to her forehead. Her temperature was definitely up. "Yeah, I think I am," she said, standing over the sink and turning on the faucet. She splashed the cold water across her face and let it run over her neck.

"They—they left him, right?" she managed to ask him.

"Yes," he replied, extending his hand to help her walk, but she didn't take it. "Go and stay on the bed. I will bring someone to check on you."

"No," she said, dragging herself to the floor with all the power that she had left. "I want to be alone."

"Stay on the bed. You are sick," Luke tried to convince her, his voice gentler than usual.

She brought the duvet over to her chest, shivering. "You sedated me," she stated, bringing up the topic she had wanted to ask him about since she woke up. "You weren't supposed to do that, right?"

He kept his expression blank. "No," he replied. "I wasn't."

"Why?" she asked. "You must have had it planned to, if you took it with you."

He put his hands in his pockets and narrowed his eyes. "No one should witness something like this, no matter what," he told her. "And you were having a never-ending panic attack."

"That was a panic attack?" she asked. "I thought I was going to die."

She hadn't really known what was happening to her, and she had never had a panic attack before, so she wouldn't know. All she knew was that her chest had felt like it was going to explode. She had seen Bucky having panic attacks before, so she should have known, but because of how horrifying everything was, she really thought she might be dying from the shock of it all.

"Yes, I think so," he replied. "I will go get the nurse."

He left the room before she could tell him not to bring anyone, and drifted to sleep only minutes after he left. When she woke up again, she found herself on the bed, with an IV taped to her arm.

The first thought that came to her mind was that she had to get off the bed, so she tried to move herself while being lightheaded and drowsy, but Luke was there and stopped her. "You can't, there's an IV in your arm," he told her. "Please, just— stay where you are. Don’t cause any issues. When we remove it, you can get back to the floor."

So she dropped her head back to the pillow, unable to fight or do anything. They later told her it's psychological, her body’s response to extreme stress and what had happened.

She tried not to think about what happened, because whenever she did, horrific images of Bucky came into her head, and she wasn't ready to face everything yet. So she forced herself into sleep, pushing herself into unconsciousness whenever she woke up. She started getting better the next day, she was still feverish but not as bad as the day before. By the afternoon, they had her back on the bed again for the IV medication, and then she drifted to sleep for a while.

Now, they are finally removing the IV and leaving her alone. She hasn’t had a moment to herself since yesterday, Luke or the nurse has been with her most of the time. And it’s all starting to sink in now, her mind clearing. She gets off the bed with a shaky breath, her whole body trembling, and drops to the floor and cries.

She doesn't know if it's possible to tolerate the pain she is feeling, because it's too much, and it hurts badly. She is crying for everything that happened to him in the past, and everything she was forced to witness. And her mind can't comprehend the cruelty of that—the sickening evil, because they knew making her watch would break him. The image of how his eyes had looked lingers in her mind, and she is not even sure he can ever be okay again. She doesn’t know if he will be able to survive this. 

And he was getting better, the thought chokes out sobs from her. The Bucky she had first met was a lot different than how he had been recently. It was all small, unnoticeable changes, but she had noticed. She knew. Sam and Steve also knew. Anyone close to him would have known. Now, he is probably going to be even worse than before.

Her chest keeps heaving, and her sobs are so loud now. She remembers how he had avoided her gaze and how he flinched from her touch and feels like she wants to burn this place to the ground, because she realizes that Bucky might not want her to touch him again, he might have messed up thoughts in his head and he might think that she doesn't want him, and that makes her unable to breathe.

The sounds coming out of her must have been so loud and horrible because Luke comes inside, along with another guard.

She is gasping for air and loud sobs are coming out of her. "I have to—I need to see him. Please, I have to—“ she whimpers, her hand on her chest, trying to breathe. She knows her words are not making sense from her uneven breaths and sobs, but she has to try and tell them. "Please." 

"I don't think we can do that," the other guard tells her.

She shakes her head fiercely. "No, no, you have to let me, please. You have to let me see him, I can't—I can't....please.”

"I will see if it's possible," Luke says, "but don't get your hopes up."

So she tries to calm down and breathe, just in case they come back and tell her she can go, and she can't imagine any other scenario happening, she can't imagine them telling her that she can't see him. She won't be able to tolerate that, she won't be able to sit here any longer without seeing him.

Five minutes later, Luke opens the door. "They have permitted it," he tells her. "You can go."

A cry escapes her mouth, and tears keep falling uncontrollably down her face again. She gets up, wiping the tears on her face with her sleeve. She wants to wash her face first but she doesn’t want to waste any more time, so she just follows Luke outside. 

They don't go to the same room Bucky has been in since they got here. Instead, they stop at one down the hall from hers, and for some reason, that makes her stomach tighten with nervousness.

Luke opens the door, and the first thing she sees is Bucky's bare back. It takes all the breath out of her lungs. 

He's in some kind of medical exam room, lying on his side with only his boxer briefs on, on a hospital bed that's raised upright. There's a woman—a doctor probably, sitting on a chair, stitching up the wounds on his back, which is mostly covered in gauze and bandages now, and it shocks her how some of the wounds are still open despite a few days passing already. She doesn't know how he was left all this time without any medical treatment, how he was able to bear it. 

She is still standing frozen by the door, unable to move forward. "Come on," Luke tells her.

She takes a deep breath and steps inside. Luke stays outside by the door.

They have cleaned him, she realizes, because his boxer briefs are clean and his hair looks washed too, slightly damp.

"I am finishing up," the doctor tells her. 

She walks around the bed and sees him, and her breath catches in her throat. She bites the inside of her mouth so she won't cry again, but her eyes are filled with tears. There's an IV taped to his right hand. His eyes are sunken and hollow, staring ahead and not focused on anything.

"H-how is he?" she asks, her voice shaky.

She keeps her gaze on him, and his eyes blink at the sound of her voice, his fingers twitching slightly. 

The doctor tilts her head up, sighing. She looks somewhere in her thirties, her eyes are heavy and troubled, but her gaze seems to soften slightly when she meets Anna’s. “He's a bit drowsy because of the medication, so he will probably not be able to talk much," she tells her. "But he wasn't even speaking before that. I tried to ask him questions when they first brought him here and he wasn't able to speak, or didn't want to…I am not sure." 

"And uh, his back? Is there anything else that's badly hurt?" 

The doctor returns to working on his back. "I understood from the guards that the wounds on his back happened a few days ago, so it should have started healing slightly….at least some of the wounds, considering the super solider serum, but they kept reopening repeatedly, apparently, so he caught an infection in two of the deep wounds, which is something I didn't even think was possible, but it was that bad, I guess," she explains, cutting another bandage to use. 

“All other open wounds have been cleaned and stitched, but he shouldn't put any strain or pressure on his back. He wouldn’t bear the pain and it would just slow the healing. His broken ribs caused a small pneumothorax, but that’s slowly healing. He just needs monitoring and rest. If it had been any worse, we would have had to place a chest tube...there are some other injuries of course, but that's the worst of it."

Anna returns her gaze to Bucky, hoping she would get any reaction from him. 

"Anyway, I am done," she says, getting up. She pushes the chair she was sitting on in Anna's direction. "Here, take it.” She looks at Bucky, though Bucky’s eyes still remain away from both of them. “Please stay on your side and rest. I will speak to the guards about what needs to be done. He should rest and stay here for a few days, if they want him to heal."

And then finally, Bucky and Anna are left alone.

She lets out a trembling breath, drags the chair next to the bed, and sits down.

"Bucky," she shakily says.

His distant and heavy eyes shift slowly around the room, never settling on her. She wants to hold his face and tilt it in her direction, but she can't do that, not after everything that happened.

She reaches to touch his hand, knowing that he might not allow her to. She connects their fingers together, and his gaze moves down. He gulps and tries to take his hand away. "No," she says, shaking her head, biting her lips so her tears won't fall, and gripping his hand tighter. "Please, no."

His eyes still for a moment, and he glances at their hands again, shifting his fingers around hers in a slow motion. "A-are you—" he tries to ask, but his voice is so hoarse and broken it breaks into a cough. His gaze turns to the bottle of water on the table next to her, and he tries to reach for it.

She takes the bottle of water immediately before he makes any effort. "Stay where you are," she tells him. She opens it for him and presses it to his lips, and he doesn't try to take it away from her. He drinks almost half the bottle, and then leans back on the pillow, exhaling loudly. She puts the bottle of water back on the table and brings her hand back to his.

He closes his eyes for a few seconds. "Do you still....have a—a fever?" he finally asks.

And it breaks her heart, hearing how exhausted and weak his voice is.

Her throat tightens even more when she realizes that he was moving his fingers against her hand to check if she had any temperature. She didn't know they told him about that, but if it would have upset him, then of course they must have told him. She realizes now that they must have told him about her hand when she had a nervous breakdown as well, which is why he wasn't surprised when he saw her.

She smiles sadly. "Did you hear what the doctor said about your state, Bucky?" she asks. "That's nothing, it was just a stupid fever."

His eyes are half-opened. "You are feeling.....better?" he still asks, each word heavy. "N-no fever?"

She swallows the knot in her throat. "There's no fever," she replies. "Here, actually," she says, bringing his right hand to her face. She feels him tensing, and his fingers tremble against her face. "I am fine," she says, her voice breaking.

He turns his eyes slowly to her when he hears her voice cracking, and her heart almost skips a beat. "Hi," she says, her voice emotional. She brings his hand down, but keeps their fingers intertwined.

His gaze is heavy, burdened with the weight of everything that happened. “Hi," he croaks.

Tears fall down her face then. "I am sorry, Bucky," she says, crying. "I am sorry about everything that happened."

He looks gutted that she is bringing it up. His jaw tightens and he shuts his eyes.

"I am sorry I never realized—" her voice cracks and she breaks into a sob. She removes her hand from his and covers her face.

"No," he says, breathing shakily. "It's me who is..." he blinks slowly. "I am sorry—f-for everything."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she says. "I know you will keep blaming yourself, but Bucky..." she reaches out to touch his face, despite herself.

He stops her with his metal hand. "Don't," he mutters hoarsely. "Please."

"Bucky," she chokes out. "I am not—you shouldn't be thinking about me right now. You shouldn't apologize and you shouldn't blame yourself. This happened—this happened to you, not to me."

His eyes stay away from her again. "You were there," he says in a heartbreaking voice that makes her heart feel like it's getting squeezed. "And you shouldn't have—“ he pauses, looking tired from trying to speak. "You shouldn't have ever....watched this, and you don't have to—you don't have to make me feel better. You should be..."

"I should be what?" she asks, sniffling.

He sighs in exhaustion. "Angry...repulsed—" he stops talking and closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, she finds them glistening. He looks like he's on the verge of saying something else. He parts his lips, his expression shifting as he considers what he wants to say, then he closes his mouth again and lets out a weary sigh. "Just go, please. I can't..."

"What?" she asks, feeling frightened, because she has a feeling she knows what other words he wanted to use to describe how she should be feeling. "If there's someone I am angry at then it's those sick people. I would never—" she feels a sharp pain in her chest just thinking about what he just said. “You don't seriously think I would feel that way?" 

"Anna," he breathes out. "I am tired." 

"I—I know you are," she says, her tears falling again. "But I don't know if they will let us speak again. I don't know what will happen and I am terrified. I am terrified for you. You—you weren't looking at me, Bucky," her voice breaks and a trembling sob comes out of her mouth.

"You weren't looking at me, and you couldn't bear me to touch you—and you can't even bear it now, and I am fucking terrified. I know what happened was the most horrifying, awful, terrible thing that could have ever happened, but you can't push me away, please. You can't—" she stops talking, trying to inhale and exhale. "I thought about killing myself," she tells him, her voice steadier.

That makes him look at her. Panic sweeps into his extremely tired eyes, but she's the one who shifts her gaze away this time. "Anyone in my place would think the exact same thing. They are using me to make you not fight...to do this to you. And Bucky, I wouldn't mind dying. Truly, I—I am not just saying any nonsense. I lived, and I almost had an incredible year with you, and I could happily die with that. But I am terrified of what you would do then. You are already blaming yourself for what happened now." 

She turns her eyes to him. "If I am not going to do it, even though I doubt they would even let me go through successfully with it, I need to know you won't push me away," she says, her voice quivering again. "I know we are going through a horrible nightmare right now, but I won't be able to go through it if you do this. And I don't think you would either."

His eyes are still on hers. "No, I—I have to," he tells her, his voice almost breaking. "I don't know how to..." he trails off, his voice fading, too worn out to continue speaking.

She pushes the chair closer to his bed, until there's no space between them, and leans closer to him, until she feels his breath across her face.

He closes his eyes. "Anna.." he pleads, his body tensing. She knows he's trying so hard not to flinch away from her because she just cried telling him about how he couldn’t bear her touch.

"Please," she says, resting her forehead against his. Her tears are falling and she is not able to make them stop, so she closes her eyes as well. "If you don't know how to, then you have to know that all that happened would never change—it would never change anything," she has to pause for a second or else she will break into an uncontrollable sob. "I don't care that I am here—I don't care about anything that happened. I just care about you," she leans forward and presses her trembling lips to his—for only a second, and she feels his lips quivering against her too. She just needed to prove her point. She needed him to know it. She needed him to feel it.

"You don't know...what I—" he tries to say, his breath hitching in his throat. "You don't know what they want—want me to do."

She gulps. "No I—I know," she almost whispers, remembering what Rumlow had said about how Bucky could have stopped her from watching. She pulls back a little. "We will try and find a way, just try not to give in to—"

The door snaps open, and she tilts her head up and sees Rumlow stepping inside, a smug smile on his face.

She turns her gaze down, wiping with her hands any tears on her face.

"I just thought I would check up on you both," he tells them. "Since you both needed to see doctors recently, but it seems I have interrupted something rather emotional."

Bucky's body stiffens, and he tries to turn on his back. She presses her hand to his chest and stops him. "Bucky, the doctor said you should stay on your side," she tells him. She knows he is probably uncomfortable lying on his side, his back to Rumlow, but he shouldn't risk the wounds opening up again, and it would hurt him like hell.

He still doesn't listen and rolls onto his back, forcing himself upwards with visible strain. A hiss of pain escapes his mouth as he does, and his gaze stays wearily fixed ahead of him, his head resting on the pillow.

"Why are you not listening to your doctor's instructions, Barnes?" he asks. "We need you to get better soon so we are able to start over again," he then turns his gaze to Anna. "How's the fever, Anna? Feeling better?"

Anna doesn't reply or even glance his way, she keeps her eyes on Bucky. She can't look at Rumlow without remembering what he did to Bucky, and she is already starting to feel her hands shaking from the anger coursing through her body.

"I will take that as a yes," he says, walking in front of the bed. "Do you know it used to be the chair before that? The chair where he got wiped. He rarely ever got to be on a bed like this, unless there were surgeries, that's quite an upgrade," he tells Anna.

She has to remind herself to breathe and not give in to all the violent thoughts storming through her mind at the moment.

"So the doctor told us you need at least four or five days of rest, Barnes. We're gonna have to take one day from them, though, unfortunately, even though she highly advised against it. She even got angry at us, can you believe that? But it's not in our hands," he tells Bucky. "We can't have you miss your court-mandated therapy sessions now, can we?"

Bucky's gaze shifts from the ceiling to Rumlow. "What?" he asks, looking at him in disbelief.

She doesn't know how the rules apply with Rumlow, but she doesn't think he will turn on the collar when Bucky is in a hospital bed.

"It's been two weeks," Rumlow simply replies, a smile playing on his lips. "Do you want the police to be looking for you? We are not going to let anyone mess with our plans. Didn't Anna tell you we made her text her family and friends on her first day here? They will let her do that today as well by the way. We thought about this plan thoroughly, Barnes. We're Hydra, did you forget that?"

Bucky glances at Anna in confusion, looking unaware of what Rumlow just told him. She nods her head at him, confirming what he just said. 

"We can call her," Anna tells Rumlow, her jaw tight. "We can postpone it. He can't go—not now. He is badly hurt, and what the hell do you want him to say to her?"

Rumlow shrugs. "I don't know," he replies. "What the hell do people talk to their therapists about anyway? Maybe he could tell her that he's being tortured to become a compliant little dog again. How about that, Anna?" he says. "Or wait," he turns his eyes to Bucky. "I bet you tell her all about those people you killed. You tell her about how guilty and bad you feel, don't you?"

She feels Bucky's breathing getting heavier, but he doesn't move his eyes away from Rumlow, and there's a familiar flicker of fear in them that she is so tired of seeing.

"That's—," Bucky starts, but his strained voice breaks off. "That's enough."

Rumlow's smirk only grows bigger. "Maybe you could talk to her about that tomorrow," he leans back and crosses his arms together, looking at them both like he's watching some entertainment. "Tell her about your most recent victim for example, maybe that will make you feel better and just make this whole process easier for us. We will save a lot of time."

Bucky tilts his head up and closes his eyes.

No. It can't be. 

"W-what?" she asks, her voice frightened.

"You also didn't tell her?" he asks, walking over to Bucky. He stops when he is by the other side of the bed. He rests his hand on its edge, leaning closer to Bucky. "Why the hell did I leave you both alone then? Why do you always have to keep stuff from her, Barnes?"

There's a hard lump in her throat that makes it impossible to swallow. She wants to ask what happened but can't utter a single word.

"You won't be watching the third phase again, Anna," Rumlow tells her.

She is not aware that there are tears falling from her eyes until she feels the tears on her hand. She is so tired of this. She is so tired for Bucky, who has been through so much in just a couple of days.

"He took care of it," Rumlow says, turning his gaze back to Bucky.

And then suddenly, Bucky's right hand is around Rumlow's neck, choking him. His jaw is clenched, his glassy eyes are glaring at him, burning with anger.

"I said that's enough," he hisses through clenched teeth. Rumlow is struggling to breathe, but still manages to smile. "There's a limit—there's a fucking limit."

"Bucky!" she exclaims, her hand reaching out to his arm. "Stop, stop."

There's nothing she would like to see more than Rumlow struggling, even if only for a little while, but this will only lead to more harm for Bucky.

"Come on," Rumlow chokes. "Do your best."

"Bucky!" Anna shouts again, gripping his right arm tightly.

He looks at her, his chest heaving, and then finally lets go, his senses coming back to him. 

Luke steps inside at the same moment, holding his gun in the air, aiming at Bucky. "What's going on?"

Rumlow is holding his chest, coughing. "Get out," he hoarsely says. "Now."

Luke looks around the room reluctantly, his eyes meeting with Anna for only a second, before stepping outside again.

Bucky's chest is heaving, and Anna can barely breathe herself. She is terrified.

Rumlow shakes his head. "You are going to regret this," he says, smiling bitterly. He moves closer to Bucky, until their faces are inches apart. Bucky's left hand is clenched in a fist, and it looks like he's fighting with all his power not to strangle Rumlow with it this time. "I swear to God, Barnes. I am going to make you beg me to kill you. Do you hear me? I will show you the fucking limits."

Anna's heart is pounding so hard, she has to grip the edge of the table next to her, afraid she might lose her balance. Rumlow leaves the room after that, and she knows they are not going to have much time now.

But she doesn't know what to process first or what to do.

Bucky is going to his therapist tomorrow.

Bucky strangled Rumlow, and Rumlow will never let that go.

Bucky killed someone.

For her. Bucky killed someone for her. Just so she wouldn't watch what's going to happen again.

She lets out a trembling exhale, Bucky looks at her then. His eyes are still burning with rage, but they soften just a little when they land on her. "I-I am sorry," he rasps out. He closes his eyes and rests his head back on the bed, looking even more exhausted than when she first came in. "I shouldn't have...done that."

Luke opens the door and comes inside. "We have to go."

"No," she loudly says. "Please, just give me a minute."

He looks between her and Bucky, hesitant. "Hurry," he urges.

"Bucky," she says out of breath, holding his face in her hands, sitting by the edge of the bed. He leans back but she holds him firmly, and his eyes look like he's fighting with all his power not to get as far as he possibly can from her. "Look at me....don't come back tomorrow. Please. They can't hurt you again. They can't make you kill someone again. They are not going to stop. I beg you. Don't come back."

"I can never leave you—" he says.

She is already crying again. "You won't. You will let Steve and Sam come and get me. If they succeed, then great. If they don't, then I swear it's better, Bucky....it's better than you getting hurt again or killing someone—" she fights to hold back a sob. "Please don't come back."

"It's okay," he says, almost whispering. "It will be okay."

He is not going to listen to her. He's never going to listen to her.

And it's not going to be okay. Nothing might ever be okay again. She knows he knows it, too.

She rests her head on his shoulder, sobbing. "I love you," she tells him.

The door opens, and she knows it's Luke. But she's not ready yet, she is not ready and she needs to stay by his side. She needs to be with him. She doesn't want to leave him with the horrible darkness that's going to be in his head.

"Go," he gently tells her. "I will be okay."

That only makes her cry harder. She knows that tomorrow will be another thing that destroys him. She removes her head from his shoulder and looks at him. She thinks about how Bucky wouldn't have let her go without kissing her. He would have kissed her—he would have kissed her forehead or he would have kissed her lips. But now Bucky's body is stiff against hers, and it's breaking her heart in all sorts of ways.

How are they ever going to heal from this?

She can't say anything else as she gets up to leave. She can't even look at him again or she will never stop crying, so she follows Luke outside right away.

When she goes back to her room, she realizes that she still has to do something. Bucky will be leaving this fucked up place tomorrow, and she is not willing to give up yet. Someone has to stop him from coming back.

She keeps pacing her room, waiting for Luke to enter the room again. After about an hour, he knocks on the door and comes inside to bring her food and water.

"Luke?" she asks.

"Yes," he replies, placing the tray of food on the table. "Do you want something?"

She takes a deep breath. "I need your help." 

"What do you need?" he asks, confused.

"Do you remember the person who gave Bucky the phone to call Steve Rogers when he first got here?" she asks, feeling her heart about to burst from her chest. 

"Uh, yeah?"

"Okay," she breathes. "Can you get his number from that phone? Can you call him, please? He needs to know they will send Bucky to his therapist tomorrow. He needs to stop him from coming back here."

"What?!” he exclaims, his eyes immediately turn to the security camera in the ceiling, then nervously turn to her again. "I can't do that—"

"Please," she pleads. "They made him kill someone. He can't get back here. I don't think they would even kill me right away if I am the only thing they can use to control him. I won't ever ask anything of you again."

"I work for these people. Do you realize what you are asking me?" he asks, his voice tense.

"I know. I know it's too much," she tells him. "All I am asking is that you deliver a message. Just say to him that I am telling him they can't, under any circumstances, let Bucky come back here. They will have to make him lose consciousness, they won't be able to do it otherwise…they have to do whatever’s necessary. But he can't—you saw what happened to him. You were there. They are not going to stop and they are going to continue using me. He has a chance tomorrow."

Luke shakes his head and turns his gaze to the floor. "I don't think I can do it," he says. "I have a family, Anna."

Then what the hell are you doing with Hydra? she wants to ask, but instead she tries to convince him. “There's no way they could connect something like that to you. If you can get the phone of that person without raising any suspicions, then they would never know." 

He considers, his expression tight. "I will think about it, but don't expect anything of me."

"Thank you," she says, her eyes filling with tears. "And Luke? You, uh—you can't tell them about what they did to him. That's not—I can't say that. He may never want to—"

"I understand," Luke says, his gaze shifting away from Anna. "You know that could get you killed, right?"

"Yeah," she sighs. "I know."

But she doesn't care. Nothing is more important to her than Bucky not coming back here again.

Chapter Text

Bucky was heading home after spending some time in the afternoon with Anna, he had wanted to stay longer, but he knew Steve was coming over for dinner. He had told him he was going to bring Mexican food from this new place he had tried recently, and he also mentioned that he would try to bring Sam along.

When he got inside his apartment, he found Steve and Sam already inside, watching television. He wasn’t sure if he mixed up the time they had agreed on— he had thought he was right on time. 

"Where the hell have you been?" Steve asked. "We are starving."

Bucky placed the stuff he got from Anna’s shop on the kitchen counter. "Didn't you say you would be here by 6PM?" he asked him. 

"Yeah? It's almost 8PM now," he replied.

"What?" Bucky asked, confused. He checked the time on his phone and found that Steve was correct. He hadn't noticed the time passing with Anna, it felt like he had sat with her for only thirty minutes.

"You are smiling," Sam stated, looking at him curiously.

Bucky hadn't noticed, but he immediately bit back his smile. "I am?"

"Yes, you are," Sam said. "And are those bakeries from the same place you have stuff from all the damn time?"

"Yeah," Bucky quickly replied. "I like the place."

"You like the place," Sam repeated, raising his eyebrow.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. "Y-yeah, it's a very nice place."

"Is it now?" Sam asked, a sly smile on his face.

"What's going on?" Steve asked, completely unaware of what was happening.

Sam looked at him. "I don't know, you tell me," he said. "Don't you feel like there's something weird going on with him?"

"Oh, that," Steve replied, smiling as well. "Well, I have noticed, but didn't want to say anything," he paused, his eyes turning to the bakeries on the counter. "I didn't notice it was connected to the bakeries, though. That's a good observation."

Bucky started feeling nervous. "I don't know what you are both trying to say, but I am hungry and I want to eat," he dragged the chair by the counter and sat down.

Sam and Steve went over to the counter as well. "Come on, man," Sam said. "Tell us about her."

"Why do you think I am meeting someone just because I usually have lots of food from the same place?"

"Oh, it's not just that, my friend," Steve said, leaning over the counter. "You are smiling more than usual, and that's not exactly something that you do often, so it was easy to notice. You tell me you are going for a walk and then come back five hours later, looking like a different person. And you've been spending a lot more time outside the house, unlike before, and if it's not with me, and not with Sam either, then you really can't be out there all by yourself for that long, can you?"

Shit.

Bucky hadn't told either of them about Anna, simply because he didn't know what to say, and he felt like he needed more time before he said anything at all.

They had been meeting for over two months now, and she was starting to become one of the very few things in Bucky's life that made him want to wake up in the morning. He realized it when he caught himself looking for reasons and excuses to pass by her bakery, or how he hadn't felt so miserable going to his last two appointments with Dr. Raynor because he knew he would see her afterwards.

He didn't know if what they had qualified to be called a relationship, he had almost forgotten how relationships even work, and they had only just kissed a couple of times until now. They had their first kiss three weeks after they had met for the first time, and things had grown to be just a little more intimate after that. He forced himself to take things slow with her, holding back because he always felt like he wasn't supposed to jump into any kind of relationship when he was still such a mess, but it was almost impossible to stay away from her. Whenever he tried to distance himself from her, she always found a way to slip through his walls, and he always ended up feeling a guilty sort of relief that she had pulled him back to her.

"If you noticed, why didn't you say anything?" Bucky asked him.

"I figured you would tell me when you are ready."

"Ha, so there's someone!" Sam exclaims. "Can you explain what she has to do with all the croissants and pastries?"

Bucky sighed, resting his head on his hand. "She owns a bakery."

They were both looking at him with huge smiles, and he was starting to feel creeped out by them. "Well," Sam breathed, “that explains a lot," he said, gesturing at the stuff Bucky had brought.

"Why did it take you so long to tell us?" Steve asked, a grin playing on his lips.

He sighed. "Because I don't actually know what I am doing, or if I should be doing it at all," he told them. "I mean, I have court-mandated therapy because I used to be a brainwashed assassin. I finish my appointments with Dr. Raynor and then go meet her at her cozy, nice bakery and it sometimes feels like those two things happening together don't make any sense."

He hadn't really thought about saying that before he said it out loud, but now that it was out there, he actually felt relieved.

"You are overthinking it. Which isn't surprising, you overthink every damn thing," Sam said. "You have a dark past. We know that, but that doesn't mean you should have a dark future as well. Maybe her sweet little bakery is what you actually need right now, maybe this is all happening at exactly the right time, because you needed that. Doesn't she know everything, your past and all?"

"She does," Bucky said. "From the very first day, actually. She asked me to tell her about—well, everything that happened, and I told her about my past...just a little bit and—"

Steve had a shocked look on his face. "You told her about your past from the very first day you met?" he asked. "And I beg you to talk to me, and you never tell me a thing, and I have known you since you were a child," he looked at Sam, shaking his head. "I can't believe it," he told him, trying to hold back his grin.

Sam laughed. "Well, he is not in love with you so..."

Bucky pressed his palms against his face. "Now I regret telling you both anything."

"You didn't tell us anything, as usual," Steve said. "We figured it out."

"But hey, jokes aside," Sam said, placing his hand on Bucky's arm so he remove his hands from his face. "She is making you happy, and that's actually incredible."

"Yeah," Steve agreed with him. "You have no idea how great it is to see you just—experiencing normal stuff after all that you have been through. And you have been feeling better. They are small improvements, sure, but they are still improvements,  and it seems she has been helping a lot with that. So don't overthink it, like Sam said."

Bucky looked away from both of them, feeling overwhelmed, thought not in a bad way. "Her name is Anna."

"Anna," Sam said, testing the name on his lips. "So when are we going to see her?"

Bucky laughed at that. "Never."

——————————————————

"James," Dr. Raynor says a little louder this time. "What's going on? You are completely elsewhere today."

What's going on?

He's back with Hydra. He's been getting tortured for a couple of days. Anna had watched everything.

He killed someone, and it probably won't stop at just one.

His back is burning. He is lightheaded. He is so fucking tired.

And what is he supposed to do now? What is he supposed to tell her?

He tries to breathe, tries to convince himself that she doesn't know anything anyway. He can lie and get through this. "Sorry," he mutters. And what the fuck is wrong with his voice? He sounds like a pathetic, sick person who's taking their last breaths. He clears his throat and licks his lips. "I am just tired."

"Why? Is everything okay?" she asks.

Everything is great, he wants to tell her. His life is falling apart. He is falling apart. Anna is falling apart. The whole world is collapsing around him and he can't do anything about it.

"Yeah," he replies. "I just—I didn't sleep last night," he says, then realizes that this might not be enough given how he looks and decides to add another lie, "and I hadn't slept well the night before either."

"Nightmares?" she asks, looking at him with hope that he might actually talk this time.

Nightmares, he thinks and he has to resist the urge to laugh at that. He would do anything to be back when his nightmares were all that he had to worry about.

He's now living in a nightmare.

And his own head is becoming a nightmare of all the ugliness that he has been through and it feels like it's going to be the death of him. Not Hydra, not Rumlow, just his head.

He reminds himself that he's losing his focus again and she's going to notice that something's wrong. And they had warned him about that before he got here.

They had given him the jacket and shirt he had come in with on his first day and took off the electric shock collar, so he hoped he would look somewhat normal, but when he looked in the mirror of the exam room he was staying at, he saw a pale, hollow eyed person, looking like he could barely breathe, staring back at him. And all he could think of was fuck, how was he supposed to convince his therapist of anything if he looks like this?

And then the drive here alone was torture. He had felt every bump in the road in his back. By the time they arrived, he felt like he was already drained and tired from all the pain. He wasn't even sure he would be able to make it up the building.

"James!" she exclaims, waving her hand in front of him.

He has to talk, he reminds himself again. Which has actually been an issue he's struggling with lately. He's so tired that every word that comes out of his mouth takes all his energy. If it were up to him, he wouldn't have talked at all. But it was Anna who got the words out of him, because he had to ask her if she was feeling better, and if it weren't for her, he probably wouldn't have uttered a single word until he sat with his therapist here today.

"Yes," he replies. "Sorry, uh—what did you say?"

She sighs. "I said, is it the nightmares?"

Right, he remembers.

"No," he gives her the automatic reply of their every session. "Just can't fall asleep easily."

"James, you look like you could fall asleep right this minute," she tells him. "Did you wake up from a nightmare or did you not try to sleep at all?"

He truly can fall asleep right now. His eyelids are so heavy, but he can't mess this up. He's already messing up everything else. He blinks and tries to focus. "Uh..." he trails off, his eyes shifting uncomfortably around the room. "No, I just didn't feel like sleeping."

"You were doing really good last time,” she tells him, studying his face. “Did something happen in those two weeks?"

"No," he quickly replies, his voice shaky. "Nothing—nothing happened."

"Are you sure?" she asks. "You look....you look like you are physically ill. What's going on?"

Fuck. He takes a deep breath, ignoring how his chest still hurts terribly. He leans back on the couch and shuts his eyes while trying not to wince from the pain in his back. "I told you, I really just haven't slept, and I have a terrible headache, I don't know why."

That wasn't completely a lie, because he doesn't just have a headache, his head feels like it's burning. He can try and convince her of that. He knows he looks like he's struggling to keep his eyes open, and she already said he looks sick, so maybe that can convince her.

"Well, you could have just called, James. We could always postpone or change the time as you wish, as long as there's actually a reason," she tells him.

Rumlow didn't allow it, he wants to tell her.

"Yeah," he sighs. "I know. I will do that next time."

He starts bouncing his leg, feeling nervous and extremely exhausted. The burning in his head, the pain in his back, and the pain in his chest are all too overwhelming. Him being here with Dr. Raynor after everything that happened is overwhelming. He hasn't been sleeping well and he is physically drained, every movement feels heavier than it should, and it feels like the grip he has on himself may slip at any moment.

She tilts the pen with her fingers, looking at him carefully. “Is everything alright with Anna?" she asks.

That makes his throat tighten, and his eyes immediately start to fill with tears...and what the hell is happening to him? He knows he is losing it. And he can't, under any circumstances, lose it now.

He presses his fingers to his eyes, forcing down the knot in his throat. "Anna is fine," he replies, his voice raspy. "Everything is fine between us."

He almost chokes on the last words. And he remembers Anna trying to touch him and him fighting not to move away from her just so he wouldn't break her any more than he already had. He lets his head fall back and fixes his eyes on the ceiling, his leg bouncing harder.

He has to get out of here.

"I have to go. Would that be possible?" he tells her, trying to steady his voice. "I can't focus. I shouldn't have come, as you said. There's nothing much to discuss this time anyway."

"Yes sure, but I am worried," she says. "Are you sure you are just tired?"

"Yes," he replies. "I think it's obvious."

"It is," she states, breathing. "Okay, just one last question then, any updates about the list?"

That is the one question he wasn't going to be able to bear.

There's suddenly a ringing in his ears, and he hears a gunshot going off, blood spilling from the man's head on the floor—his amends list gone to dust and with it everything he tried so hard to fix.

He rests his arms on his knees and presses his hand to his forehead. "Great," he mutters. "The same as last time...nothing new."

"Do you need water?" she asks, placing her notebook on the table beside her and looking concerningly at him.

"No," he replies.

"Well, are there even any painkillers you can take for this that would work with you?"

"There is some stuff, I guess. I will check with Steve. I probably just need to sleep," he tells her. He removes his hands but his right hand is shaking uncontrollably, so he puts both his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "I can go?" he shakily asks.

"Yes, of course," she tells him. "I will call you this week to check up on you."

Shit. "Okay," he replies, getting up.

He almost loses his balance when he gets up. He's sweating, his breathing is heavy and his heartbeats are so fast. And there's still an unbearable ringing in his ears that's going to drive him crazy. He opens the door of the office and steps outside, feeling like he's going to fall to the ground.

He knows he won't be able to make it downstairs until the dizziness gets better. He rests his hand on the wall by his side, taking one step at a time. When he lifts his head to find a place where he can sit, he finds Steve and Sam in front of him.

Steve and Sam are in front of him.

Is this another nightmare of his?

"Shit," he mutters under his breath.

The ringing in his ears is suddenly louder, and the only thing he can see is the blood spreading all over the ground the moment after he pulled the trigger.

"Bucky," Steve breathes, hurrying over to hug him.

Bucky is not able to stop him before he grabs him in a tight hug. A very tight hug. He pats his back, and the pain is blinding. He is already dizzy and his legs are unsteady. And he doesn't want anyone to touch him or get near him, not after what he's done.

"Steve," he says, letting out a sharp breath. He meets Sam's eyes and knows that Sam immediately realizes that something isn’t right. "I can't—I need to sit down."

Steve pulls back. He places his arm on Bucky's shoulder, and Bucky clenches his jaw and swallows down the hiss of pain that was going to slip out of him. "Are you okay?" Steve asks.

Bucky nods. "I—I need to sit," he tells him. His vision is turning black, and he is breathing heavily. "Quickly," he says, because he can't even look around to find an empty place.

"There's an empty office here," he hears Sam say. "Can we use it? He just needs to lie down for a moment," he asks, he must be talking to the receptionist.

"Yeah, sure," she replies. "Do you need anything?"

"We will take care of it, thanks," Sam tells her.

"Come on, buddy," Steve says. He places his arm around Bucky's shoulder and Bucky, despite himself, lets out a pained breath.

He takes a step back from Steve, blinking to clear his vision. "It's fine, I can walk."

He keeps his hand on the wall, so he won't lose his balance. When they finally enter the office, he looks around for an empty chair, but he can't take any further steps. His vision has turned completely black now, so he drops himself to the floor against the wall.

"Bucky," Steve says, his voice worried. "What's going on?"

Bucky bends his knees and rests his head on the wall, his eyes closed. His whole body is shaking, and he tries not to focus on the pain in his back and how he is resting it against the hard wall. "I just—" he says, breathing heavily. "I need a minute."

"Okay," Steve tells him.

They give him some time. No one says anything to him. There's a horrible pounding in his head and his whole body won't stop shaking. He keeps inhaling and exhaling, hoping it will make his heartbeat steadier. He tries to open his eyes, but dark spots still cloud his vision. After a little while, he asks them, "What are you doing here?" His eyes are still closed. He stretches out one leg in front of him and keeps the other one bent, resting his hand on it.

"We knew you were coming," Steve tells him. "We've been waiting for you."

That makes him open his eyes, despite the sharp pain he feels in his forehead. "What? How?"

They are both standing and looking at him with concern.

Steve looks at Sam hesitantly. "We received a call," Sam says. "It's someone who is with Hydra, a guard, we think. Anna made him call Steve."

He's so confused right now, and his head hurts so bad to try and understand what's happening. "Who?"

"We don't know, he didn't say of course," Steve replies. "He just told us that he's doing this because Anna asked him to. He said she wanted to inform me that they will be sending you to your therapist tomorrow, because it's court-mandated and they don't want any issues. Anna told him to let us know that you can't go back there, no matter what happens. He didn't elaborate more on that, we tried to understand but—"

"Shit," Bucky mutters. He has no idea who that person even is, but he suddenly remembers the guard who is responsible for her. When Anna was with him yesterday, she had asked him for more time with Bucky and he let her stay. He remembers that.

"What do they want, Buck?" Sam asks. "What happened? We've been watching the base and tried to follow some individuals, and it's Hydra, we have known that for certain for about two days now after tracking one of them.."

"I already told Steve it's Hydra," he says.

"Well, we couldn't be one hundred percent sure," Sam explains. "But we still don't know what they want or what's been happening…”

The ringing in his ears is back again. He throws his head back, stretching his neck as far as he can, a loud breath breaking out of him.

"And what's happening to you, man? What's wrong?" Sam asks.

"Nothing," Bucky replies. "They are waiting for me down there. You know that, right?"

"Yes," Steve says. "But you finished your session about thirty minutes earlier anyway, so we have time."

Bucky brings his head down and looks at Steve. "Time for what, Steve?"

"Tell us what's happening."

From where exactly should he begin to explain that? But he knows he has to give them something. He also knows that they must have been worrying non-stop for the last couple of days, but he has nothing to say to make them feel better.

He takes a deep breath. "Pierce is alive," he starts.

"What?" they both loudly say at the same time.

"Rumlow too. Most of Hydra is still very much alive, and they are trying to regain their strength. They—they want me back. It's why they took Anna," he explains. "I don't know what they are planning to do after those two weeks, though. I have no idea."

"What do you mean they want you back?" Sam asks.

He is so tired, and even if it was alright to tell them everything that happened, he still wouldn't have the energy to say anything. "I don't know, Sam. It's Hydra—they think I am their property. They have invested time, money, and effort in me and they are not willing to let that go. They can't control me, they know my head got fixed, which is why they took Anna."

Sam and Steve exchange a look. "What?" Bucky asks them.

Steve's throat bobs. "Nothing...it's just one of the possibilities we considered," he replies. "Did they hurt you or Anna?"

He shifts his gaze away from them. "No."

"So they have just been holding you both prisoners?" Steve asks.

God, he is so tired. He needs to get up and leave but he doesn't even know how he is going to do that. "Kind of," Bucky replies. "All I want from you guys is to make sure Anna is out by those two weeks, if she's not, then do whatever needs to be done. Just make sure she gets out alive."

"Bucky," Sam says, stepping closer to him. "Why did Anna say you can't go back there? Why do you look like that? What's happening?"

Bucky tries to look anywhere else but in their direction. "Nothing is happening," he tells him. "I need to go," he says, leaning on his metal arm to push himself up, and everything turns black once he does. He rests his arm on the wall and tries to breathe.

"No, Bucky. You have to tell us what's happening," Steve says. "Something happened, or something is about to happen. Something frightened Anna enough to make someone from Hydra call us."

"Well, she knows what they want, Steve, so of course she is frightened."

"Your whole body is shaking, Bucky, and you look pale as hell. Did something happen with Dr. Raynor?" Sam asks.

They are asking too many questions, and he can't even keep his eyes open. "Nothing happened, I told her I have a headache, which is why our session ended early. She said she's going to call me by the way...to check up on me, so keep my phone with you and come up with anything if she calls. Don't make her sense that there's anything wrong, please," he tells them. "I really have to go."

He tries to walk over to the door, but of course, they stop him. They are both standing in front of him now.

"Bucky, listen to us," Steve tells him, looking nervous. "Natasha and Tony are in D.C., along with some men Fury sent with them. They can take Anna out. You just have to come with us and—"

"What?" he looks at them in disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? Why the hell would you do that?"

"There's something happening, Bucky, and you are not telling us anything," Sam says. "They will be able to do it. You don't have to wait for another week."

"They are not going to do anything. Do you hear me?" he snaps at them, his voice shaky with anger. "Fuck, Steve. I told you not to risk Anna's life. I told you to wait for two weeks. What the hell were you thinking? Both of you?"

"Then tell us what's happening," Steve urges. "Please."

Bucky shakes his head. "Call Stark and Natasha—and shit, Steve, why would you even include Stark of all people in this? Just—call them, cancel this stupid plan. I am not risking Anna's life. Did you think I was going to thank you and tell you yes please let them save her? While I am not there?"

"No, we did not think that," Steve says, exchanging another weird look with Sam, like there's a silent plan between both of them. "But we thought we should try first before we..."

"What?" he impatiently asks. He then notices how Steve's hand is placed over the pocket of his jeans. "Before you what, Steve?"

"Bucky, please just come with us—" Sam tries to say.

"You are planning something," Bucky states, feeling scared, his gaze fixed on Steve. "You have planned something. What is in your pocket?"

"Nothing," Steve replies, and Bucky knows he's lying. "Just come with us, Bucky."

"What's in your damn pocket, Steve?" he asks again.

"We have to take you," Steve says. "We are not going to leave you, especially after you confirmed why they want you...we can't, Bucky—"

"What do you fucking have?" he asks, throwing his hands up in frustration.

Steve gets a syringe out of his pocket. "It was just in case you—"

"Fuck, Steve," Bucky mutters. "I need to go. Now. Get out of the way."

They stand still, blocking the exit. "Sam," Bucky pleadingly says, he can't believe that Sam will stop him too.

"What do you want us to do, Buck?" he asks, his voice desperate. "How the hell do you want us to let you go?"

And Bucky starts feeling frightened. He's not going to be able to fight both of them. He can barely breathe or stand and he's in so much pain. If they want to take him, they will.

He lets out a shaky breath and takes a step back, feeling the world swaying beneath him. "You have to let me leave," he tells them, and he hates how his voice trembles. "It's Hydra. You know what they are capable of."

"Yeah, and we also know they want to make you their killer again," Sam says. And Bucky's head feels like it's going to explode from all the ringing. "We know you look like shit. We know Anna practically begged someone to let him tell us that you can't get back there. If there's something else you think we should know, then tell us."

His heart is beating so fast. There's blood on the ground in his head again, there's a man with a bullet in his head—the bullet he had fired.

"There's nothing—" he tries to say but his breath hitches in his throat. "They are going to hurt her....they could kill her," he snaps angrily at them. "What the hell is wrong with both of you?"

There's no air in his lungs. He's going to lose it. He's going to explode right here and now.

His chest constricts painfully, and he starts gasping for air. "You should—" he gasps. "You should have...let me go. I will be late and—and they will.."

"Shit, Bucky," Steve says, hurrying over to him.

Bucky moves back from him. "No...no, don't fucking touch me, Steve," he keeps moving further until he hits the wall again. And the agonizing pain in his back along with everything else is just too damn much. "Fuck!" he shouts.

He takes his jacket off, his body is burning up and he needs air. He rests his arms on the desk in front of him, making sure his back is not to either Sam or Steve because he can't trust both of them right now.

"Just let us help you, man," Sam tells him, and he's suddenly standing by his side, and Bucky has to move a step further away from him.

He is feeling dizzy again, and he has just started feeling better minutes ago. "You can help by letting me go," he manages to say in between gasping breaths. "Now, you are just...making it worse."

"Look, we just knew it could be the only way to bring you with us, Anna even told the man that called us that, because she knew too," Steve tells him, standing by the desk next to Sam. "She said we have to do whatever is necessary, Bucky. She never would have said that unless it's really bad."

They are too close to him, and he already feels like there's no air in the room.

"And we would never risk her life, you know that, but her life is already at risk. We don't know what's going to happen. Those two weeks can end with them still keeping her or doing something worse," Steve keeps his gaze on him, probably waiting for Bucky to meet his eyes but he can't do that at the moment. "So just help us understand what's happening at the moment, otherwise we won't be able to leave you again."

He's still hyperventilating and breathing rapidly. His vision blurs, so he sits on the chair behind the desk, pressing both hands to his forehead as he struggles to steady his breathing.

"Did they do something to you, Buck?" Sam asks.

Horrible images come into Bucky's mind—images he probably wouldn't have been able to remember this clearly if they had just allowed him to drift away from his own body and close his eyes.

"Or force you to do something?" Steve asks.

And it's the blood, the man with the hole in his head, and the ringing in his ears again. It's Pierce telling him he will comply either way and Rumlow telling him to tell Dr. Raynor about the man he killed.

"Get out," he gasps.

Sam places his hand on his arm. "Bucky..."

Bucky pushes his arm away. "I—I said get out," he repeats, his voice breaking. "Please," he pleads. "Please, I don't want to—I can't do this."

"We can't, man," Sam gently says. "Talk to us. Tell us what's happening."

"I already told you," he rasps, his chest heaving.

"Bucky," Sam says, his voice off. "What is that?" he asks, and Bucky feels his hand on the bandage on the top of his back, right beneath his neck.

Fuck, he forgot he took off his jacket. They will never let him get out of here if they know about that.

"N-nothing," he stutters, jerking away from Sam's hand, and the terror he feels from Sam's question somehow makes him able to have better control of his breathing, because they can't ever find out about that. If Sam's hand moved along his back, he is going to feel all the other bandages as well, so he gets up from the chair, despite his body still shaking.

"What is it?" Steve asks, confused.

"There's a bandage beneath his neck," Sam answers. "Did you get hurt?"

He keeps his gaze down on the floor for a moment, trying to control himself and his breathing. And he knows he has to come up with any lie to convince them, he's spending the whole day today lying to everyone he meets. "I fought with one of the uh—guards and fell. Something stupid. It already healed, I forgot to take the bandage off."

Sam doesn't look convinced. "They haven't—they haven't hurt you, right?"

Bucky runs his hands over his face. "No, why would they do that? They need me, remember?"

"Right," he murmurs, still looking a bit unconvinced.

He doesn't even try to look at Steve.

He puts his jacket on, fighting with everything in him to hide the pain that tears through him when he does that. "I really have to go," he says, his voice still shaky. "How long has it been since my session ended?"

Steve looks at his watch. "Less than fifteen minutes," he replies.

"Okay," Bucky breathes. "I need to go. Can I trust that when I move right now you are not going to do anything stupid?"

Steve looks devastated. "Buddy, your state has only confirmed to us that there's something terrible going on, something you haven't told us about," he tells him. "How the hell are we supposed to let you go now?"

His heart hammers loudly in his chest. He can't believe they are still not going to let him leave. "No," Bucky says in disbelief. "No, you have got to be kidding me. I have to fucking go!" he shouts. His gaze immediately turns to the door of the office, nervous that his voice could have been too loud. If Dr. Raynor finds out that something is wrong, everything will truly go to hell.

Sam stands next to Steve. "Look, just tell us what's happening and we will—"

Bucky lunges for the door. He can't tolerate being with them any longer, and he is terrified. Steve stops him immediately, catching him from behind, grabbing his arms, and locking him in place. Sam steps forward and stands by the door.

"Steve," Bucky hisses in anger. "I swear to God, if you inject me with that thing I am never going to forgive you," he threatens, his breathing heavy. And pain flares across his back, a sharp, stinging fire. He shuts his eyes for a second and breathes through it. He can already feel some of the wounds splitting open again, his damn back would never heal at this rate.

"Just fucking talk, Bucky!" Steve snaps at him.

But Bucky would rather try and fight, even if he is in an unbearable amount of pain, than talk about what happened. So he slams his metal arm as hard as he possibly can into Steve's stomach. Steve winces, but doesn't let go, still gripping Bucky from his right arm. He knows that if he were in his full strength he would have sent Steve across the room, but he is so weak at the moment, and he has never been this frustrated with himself before.

"Bucky, stop," Sam firmly says. "Now we are just wasting time—"

"How the hell are you okay with this?" Bucky snarls at him.

Sam looks heartbroken, and Bucky knows what he is doing to his friends isn't right, isn't fair. He knows they are only worried, but he genuinely has no idea what he's supposed to do. He feels trapped and powerless, because he has no energy left, and he knows none of that is their fault. But he also doesn't know what to do with all the anger, frustration, and fear that are pressing down on him at the moment, because they can't take him. And they can't take a shot at Anna's life. They are desperate, and they think they can save her, but it would take half a second to kill her, he knows that every guard there has an order to kill her if it all goes wrong, and even if they can save her, he would never let them do it without him.

He drops his head down, trying to manage the pain, because he is starting to feel lightheaded again. His back is throbbing with pain that twists his stomach with nausea, and feeling trapped like this isn't helping, it's only making his breathing worse, and he has never felt so vulnerable around Steve and Sam like he does right now.

Steve takes advantage of him trying to steady himself and holds him tighter this time. "We could have let them attack the base long ago, Bucky, but we wanted to wait for you and take your—"

Bucky laughs hoarsely. "How kind of you," he tells him. He stays still for a moment, then takes a deep breath and slams all his weight back into Steve, the movement is unexpected and makes Steve let go for just a few seconds before lunging back to pin him.

"Goddamn it, Bucky," Steve angrily mutters, holding tightly him from both his arms again. 

But the pain in his back is so horrible after that, and he can't bear it all this time. He can feel the nausea rising fast. "Stop," he chokes. Steve doesn't let go, so Bucky drops to his knees, unable to stand anymore. "Steve," he forces the words out, struggling against the bile in his throat. "Let go of…me. Stop."

"Steve," Sam says, his voice concerned. "Let him go. Something's wrong," he tells him, but Steve doesn't let go. "I am by the door, man, just let him go."

When Steve finally does, Bucky drags himself to the garbage bin against the wall and throws up. There's nothing in his stomach of course—there hasn't been anything in his stomach for many days now, and they have only provided him with IV fluids last night. All that comes out is acidic, burning water. He heaves once more before he is finally done, every muscle in his body trembling with the effort.

"Shit," Steve mutters under his breath. He walks over to Bucky and hands him the box of tissues that was on the desk. Bucky takes it, his eyes slightly open, and wipes his mouth then throws the tissues in the bin.

He leans against the wall and wraps his arms around his stomach, shivering. "I am tired," he tells them, his voice hoarse and raspy. "Please, you have to let me leave."

"Bucky, what the hell is going on?" Steve softly asks, he sits on the floor in front of Bucky. "What did they do to you?” 

And there are tears forming in his eyes. But he can't cry. He can't fucking cry right now, he tells himself, resting his head on the wall and closing his eyes, hoping that he would be able to hold them in.

Steve sits next to him, and Bucky suddenly feels his arm around him, and all he wants is to shrink away. He didn't know it would be this difficult to bear even his friends' touch as well, but that's because they don't know what he did. He feels like he has let them down in the worst possible way. He remembers how Steve always told him that it wasn't him who did the things he did when he was the Winter Soldier, but it really is him this time. Steve won't be able to tell him otherwise. Which is why he wants to move away from him, he wants to push him and never have to look in his eyes again. But he is so fucking tired. He has been fighting his body since they left the base in the morning, and he doesn’t have any energy anymore.

And it's all coming up to the surface—all of it. Anna being with Hydra, everything she had to watch, and everything that happened to her. All the torture and humiliation he had to suffer from the last couple of days. Reliving all of his past trauma. Rumlow leaving him chained in that godforsaken position that always gave him nightmares. The third phase happening to him again, the one thing he thought he truly had escaped. Giving in to what they wanted and becoming their murderer again.

The weight of it all is going to crush him.

So Bucky breaks into tears, and whenever he tries to breathe, tears and choking sobs keep coming out of him instead. Steve pulls him further to him, and Bucky doesn't fight him. His whole body is trembling violently and he is gasping again.

He wants to explain that he is not just crying because he is tired or because he is panicking. He is crying because they have ruined him. He wants to tell them that Hydra has broken him for good this time, that he may never come back from it. They have destroyed Anna and destroyed everything they both had together. But he can't say anything, he can't explain anything. He thinks about how he would even phrase it—how he would tell them what they made Anna watch, and it makes him tremble with disgust.

And so he stays silent, knowing that he won't he able to say anything, and lets the violent, wrenching sobs break out of him. He lets Steve, whom he was just fighting minutes ago, hold him through it all.

"I am sorry, Bucky," Steve says, his voice breaking. He tightens his grip around Bucky's arm. "I am so sorry."

He fights to hold the tears back, but every attempt only makes the sobs erupt out of him uncontrollably. After a while, he realizes that he is going to be late, and he can't get in the car with them looking like he had a breakdown with his therapist. So he pulls away from Steve, and finds Sam sitting on the floor across from them. He meets his eyes, and Sam looks like he is on the verge of crying himself. Bucky rests his head on the wall and focuses on the ceiling instead, keeping his eyes open, because he is not able to hold his tears when he shuts his eyes.

"I will go," he tells them, his voice faint and unsteady. "And you will let me."

"Bucky—" Steve starts, but then his phone rings. "One second," he says.

Bucky takes this opportunity to get up from the floor. He straightens his back and wipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

"What?!" he hears Steve shouting. He turns his gaze to him and finds Steve staring in horror between him and Sam. Steve gets up, looking nervous and terrified. "What do you mean they— "he pauses, listening to whoever it is on the other line. "Fine, fine."

He ends the call and doesn't say anything, looking taken aback and frightened.

"What is it?" Bucky asks, his stomach tightening at the sight of Steve's expression.

Steve meets Bucky's eyes, grief and fear written across his face. "Go, Bucky," he says, his voice cracked and devastated.

Sam stands. "What? What happened?"

"Nothing," Steve quickly replies. "Go, Bucky. Leave."

"Did something happen?" Bucky asks, frightened.

"No. We just...we are not going to be able to move along with the plan, there's something—something we didn't take into consideration," he explains.

"Steve," Bucky warns, unable to believe him. "They didn't do anything, right?"

"No, Bucky. They didn't," he says. "Go. You are free to go."

Bucky looks at Sam reluctantly, he wants to press further and understand what actually happened, but he is probably already late. He swallows hard and heads for the door, and no one stops him, no one says anything, not even goodbye.

He should have realized then that something was terribly wrong.

Chapter Text

Anna

She can't fall asleep from all the anxiety she's feeling, she had also tried so hard to sleep last night but couldn't. Luke came inside her room in the morning to bring her breakfast and informed her that he was able to call Steve last night. And for the first time since they got here, she started having hope. She knows he had told her not to expect anything of him, but a part of her knew he was going to do it. If he had already risked it to sedate her in front of everyone during the third phase, then he would have done this. She just doesn't understand what the hell he's doing with Hydra.

She has no idea what will happen after they take Bucky. If they do it without his consent—which will definitely be the case—he won't just be angry, he will be enraged and furious, but all of that can be resolved later on. What can't be resolved is Bucky getting tortured again, or killing someone one more time. He won't be able to get back from that, she already thinks there are lots of things he won't be able to recover or come back from.

But Anna isn't stupid, she knows that if Hydra killed her, Bucky might not be able to get back from that either. The guilt would eat him alive, and she knows he is already feeling guilty for everything that happened. But the likelihood of Hydra killing her immediately afterwards is very low. The possibility of them hurting her or torturing her to bring Bucky back is what's likely to happen, and she is fine with that happening, just as long as he isn't here.

After what Bucky had gone through, she doesn't think anything would hurt her more than what she had already witnessed.

But she also knows that Steve and Sam will probably plan something to get her out, she doesn't know how long that will take, but she hopes that at least for now, all their priority will be fixed on getting Bucky away from Hydra and keeping him under control.

Her thoughts stop when Luke enters the room. It's an unusual time for him, because he already brought her breakfast a few hours ago, and she has come to recognize the general timings of his visits by now, even without a watch or clock, but she has a rough estimate of the time in between each one. Her heart jumps in her chest when she sees him, hoping he might have an update.

"Please tell me they took him," she desperately says.

He has a bottle of water and a small paper cup in his hand. "Take this first," he tells her, handing her the paper cup. "They are watching the security camera to make sure you take it. It's for the fever you had."

She looks inside the cup and finds a pill. "But I am better now. I don't have a fever.".

"Just take it, Anna. You have been extremely tired lately, I guess it will help with all the exhaustion." 

She doesn't comment on how stupid and absurd he sounds in light of everything happening and swallows it with the bottle of water he hands her. "So?" she asks.

"I don't have any updates," he replies. "I think he's still at his therapist. If I know anything, I will let you know, if I can."

She sighs. "Okay."

When Luke leaves, she gets up and starts walking around the room. The nervousness she is feeling in her stomach won't let her sit still any longer. She needs to hear that Bucky escaped. She needs to know that he's not coming back here. And maybe then, finally, her heart will stop aching.

After a little while, a wave of lightheadedness hits her, forcing her to stop pacing. She is not able to keep walking anymore and has to sit down, so she sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for the room to stop feeling like it's spinning. She rests her elbows on her knees and covers her face with her hands, hoping it will pass quickly. 

But it gets worse, and she is not even able to keep sitting. She lies on her back, still on the bed, unable to get to the floor. Then she hears the door opening, but she is not able to see who it is.

"Anna?" she hears Luke asking.

"Y-yes," she replies. She wants to ask him if he has an update but she is not sure if he is alone. "Sorry, I can't open my eyes. I am so dizzy, I think my blood pressure is low."

She hears his footsteps getting closer to the bed, so she fights the dizziness and opens her eyes, and finds that it's only him. "Did you know anything?"

But Luke looks sad for some reason, almost guilty. "I am sorry, Anna," he tells her. "They couldn't take him."

The despair she feels at this moment is worse than anything she has felt these last couple of days. She shuts her eyes, unable to keep them open because the room keeps swaying. "Why?"

"I didn't know this was going to happen," he says, his voice low.  "I am so sorry."

"What...are you—you talking about?" she asks, forcing each word out.

He doesn't reply, and she is not able to open her eyes to see if he's still there. "Luke?" she asks.

She tries to get up from the bed but he forces her to stay back. "What—what is..." she tries to ask, but the words slip from her mouth, and then everything turns black. 

—

Steve

Bucky is crying, shaking, and trembling in Steve's arms. And all he can think about right now is how he had known Bucky since they were children, and how Bucky had only cried in Steve's arms once.

It was the first time he stayed over with him when he got back from Wakanda. His very first day back, and it was the first time Steve saw Bucky having a nightmare. He remembers how horrifying it had felt. He had stayed frozen for a while, his mind unable to comprehend that the person who was letting out guttural, heart-wrenching screams in his sleep was actually Bucky. His Bucky. His best friend.

It was one thing to see the reports and know what happened to him, and it was another to see the aftermath of it all, to know how it changed him, to see his best friend, who had been full of life, become someone almost unrecognizable from the weight of everything he went through.

And he had gone through this shock at the beginning of course, when they first found out that Bucky was the Winter Soldier and when he knew Bucky was alive, but this was different. Shuri had told him that he has horrible nightmares. He had known. But to see it, to hear the sounds coming out of him, was something else entirely. He had almost felt like maybe he was dreaming as well, like it was a nightmare of his. A nightmare where his heart would just keep breaking and breaking, where his mind would keep repeating: This is Bucky. This is Bucky. This is Bucky. Even if it made no sense, even if it was against all versions of Bucky he had seen in his lifetime.

Steve couldn't wake Bucky up that day. He couldn't do anything until Bucky woke up on his own. When the gasps tore through his heavy breathing, Steve had finally moved, hurrying over to him.

"Hey, Buck," he quietly said, his voice shaking as well, barely able to hold his tears. He gently placed his arm on his shoulder.

But Bucky couldn't even recognize him. He looked at him in horror, pushed his arm away, and kept pushing himself back against the wall, looking around Steve's apartment, unable to recognize his surroundings. Steve held him by his shoulders firmly, and Bucky's gaze turned to him, still terrified. "Bucky, it's Steve," he said. "I am Steve, buddy. You are safe, I promise." 

Bucky's breath hitched in his throat. "S-steve?" he asked, confused, his voice was hollowed out by the hoarseness from his screaming.

"Yes."

He placed his hands on Steve's arms, like he was making sure he was real. "Steve," he said, his voice shocked. 

"It's me, pal. It's me," he told him, almost whispering the words. "It's okay. You are okay."

"Oh, God. Steve," this time, he said it with relief. Relief that tore Steve from the inside. Relief he knew Bucky had been waiting to feel for so long. "Steve," he choked, before breaking into sobs in Steve's arms.

Steve remembers how he had broken down, how he held Bucky through it, and how he cried along with him. Because sometimes, Steve felt like he was equally responsible as Hydra, although he knows that there was no way to know that Bucky would survive the fall, because he couldn't have known that Hydra's experiments on him had succeeded and Bucky never said anything, but he also knew that Bucky, for the longest time, had hoped that Steve would get him out of there.

Bucky never cried like this with Steve again, even if he had worse nightmares and panic attacks. He would usually distance himself and deal with it on his own. So right now, Steve knows in his heart that something awful has happened. Bucky never would have broken down like this unless he really couldn't bear it anymore, and he knows that Bucky has been trying to keep it under control ever since they saw him.

They also probably stressed him out badly while trying to convince him to come with them and by not allowing him to leave, but what can he possibly do? He is terrified of making the same mistakes again, of letting Bucky go like he did before, and the outcome of what that would be.

So as he sits holding Bucky while he breaks down, he knows he really can't let him go. They did something to him, he just has no damn idea what it is, and it seems like Bucky isn't going to tell them anything at the moment.

"I am sorry, Bucky," he tells him, because he has nothing else to say. "I am so sorry."

He looks at Sam, who is now sitting opposite to them, looking terrified. And the glance they silently exchange acknowledges that something horrible happened, that they can't let him leave, even if they have to use the sedative. He doesn't even know for how long that sedative would work, but according to Tony, it may only last for ten minutes.

He will hate them, but it's better to hate them than leave him to Hydra. 

He pulls himself away from Steve and tries to calm down. When he's finally able to talk without crying, he tells them that he will go, and that they have to let him leave.

“Bucky—“ he starts, but his phone rings right when he is about to try and convince him one last time. "One second," he tells him.

He immediately feels nervous when he finds that the person who is calling is the one who gave him the call yesterday about Bucky. "Yes?" he answers.

"Listen to me, I don't have much time, but I—I think you have to let Barnes come back. You shouldn't take him," he anxiously says. "They are doing something to her, some operation. I still don't understand what's happening, but that was their plan all along. There's a doctor from Syberia who came here to do whatever it is they are going to do."

Steve's heart almost stops. "What?!" 

"I think whatever they will do will allow them to control her—or him...through her, when she leaves. They will let her go after those two weeks, I am sure of it. But they will have control—"

"What do you mean—" 

"I said I don't have time," he says, his voice tense. "Don't ask me how, I still don't understand. They are operating on her at the moment. If you had a plan to attack the base and get her out, which I think you must have planned, then you are not going to be able to take her. Do you understand?"

"Fine. Fine," Steve nervously says. The man hangs up the phone, and Steve sits there, feeling shocked and frightened from what he just heard.

"What is it?” Bucky asks, looking nervous.

Steve looks at Bucky and feels immense grief and sadness. He's going to let his best friend go again. How is he going to live with himself after this? How does he keep failing in protecting the one person who means the world to him— the person who has truly been through enough and doesn't deserve this to happen to him?

Bucky is still looking at him, waiting for an answer, and he can't let him know about what he just learned. If Bucky knew, he wouldn't be able to control himself or his anger, and they would know that there's someone from the inside they have been in contact with. It crushes Steve to just think about it, but he knows Bucky has to be shocked in front of them when he learns about what happened. He can't tell him anything.

So Steve tries to hold back his tears and tells Bucky the one thing he never thought he would say today. 

“Go, Bucky.”

—

Sam 

Sam knows from the look on Steve's face that he just learned something terrible. He watches Bucky walking out of the room and stays frozen in his place, unable to stop him or do anything. They are letting him go again. How the fuck are they letting him go again?

He swallows the knot in his throat. "What happened, Steve?" he asks, his voice unsteady from all the nervousness. "Who called?"

Steve drops back to the floor, looking like he is on the verge of crying. "Something horrible is happening," he replies. "The man who called me yesterday—that's the person who called. He said they're operating on Anna, they're doing something to her...he doesn't know what it is, but he said it will allow them to be in control afterwards."

Sam's heart drops. "Jesus," he mutters, feeling horrified. "What do you mean they will be in control?"

"He doesn't know—I don't know," he replies. "He said if we had planned to attack the base and get her out, we wouldn't be able to take her because they are operating on her now."

Sam's knees buckle, so he sits in the chair and looks at Steve. "That's why they will let her go after two weeks?"

"I think so, yes," Steve quietly replies. "He said he is sure they will let her go."

Sam's initial thought when he first learned about what happened in the very beginning was thinking about how Bucky is going to blame himself, how it's going to kill him, and that was just because Anna got kidnapped because of him. But how is Bucky going to survive knowing about this? How is he going to survive knowing that they have operated on her? And they won't even be there to help him through everything he is going to be feeling, he will be all by himself.

It makes it even more heart breaking knowing that Bucky was already always blaming himself for being with Anna. He was happy with her, he loved her, and she made him better in so many ways, but he knows the guilt Bucky felt while being with her never went away.  He remembers how one time, Bucky almost left her because of all the guilt he was feeling towards her, and because he was terrified he would end up hurting her. 

"Are you going to say what the hell is wrong with you?" Sam asked Bucky, handing him a bottle of beer.

He was sitting on the porch of Sam’s house in Delacroix, gazing ahead of him, looking wearily lost in his thoughts. Sam had known there was something burdening him since they got here, and he also had a feeling it was why he wanted to come to Louisiana.

Bucky smiled faintly and took it. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

"You tell me. I waited for several days, hoping you might actually say anything," he told him, taking a seat beside him. "But of course you didn't."

He glanced down at the bottle in his hand. "A part of me was hoping I could actually fix whatever it is I am feeling and never have to speak of it."

"Well, it seems you didn't fix it. So talk."

Bucky breathed heavily, then turned his gaze to the view in front of him. "I think I should leave Anna."

Sam expected many answers, but that was definitely not one of them.

"What?" he asked, a little too loudly.

"What am I doing, Sam?" he asked, turning his head to the side to look at him. "I took things very slow with her because I thought I needed time to get my shit together. It's been over seven months, and I am still a fucking mess. I still can't stay over at her place or actually sleep when we're together because of the damn nightmares,” he paused, taking a sip from the bottle of beer.

"We were in California recently, she was visiting some friends, and we—we passed by an area that had someone's house I killed before. He was an ex-Hydra agent. I think he had threatened them that he would release some stuff, and they had given me the order to make the kill slow. You have a full day to make it as slow as you possibly can, then burn the house, they said. And I—I did exactly that. I just remembered everything clearly—way too clearly and I couldn't. I was literally seeing blood everywhere and incapacitated body parts, hearing screams....and then I looked by my side and saw Anna, and I felt so stupid and selfish. Because really, what the fuck am I doing?"

"Shit," Sam said, unable to hide how shocking it was to hear what Bucky said.

"Yeah, shit," he murmured. "It gets even worse....I left her. I told I have to go, and I am sorry, and I just left, because I couldn't look at her and it was all too damn much."

"When was that?" Sam asked.

"Last week," Bucky replied. 

"And let me guess, you haven't talked to her since."

Bucky glanced down, his eyes filled with so much guilt and sadness. He swallowed. "No."

"That's why you wanted to come here, you wanted to escape," Sam said, because Bucky was the one who suggested they come here.

"Maybe?" he said. "I know running away from our problems is unhealthy now, apparently. Dr. Raynor tells me all the time."

Sam actually laughed at that. "I wasn't going to say that," he told him. "Bucky, you do realize you love Anna, right? That's not exactly something you can escape from."

He started grazing his fingers around the bottle of beer, avoiding Sam's eyes and looking a little bit nervous. "I know," he quietly said. "Otherwise, I would have left her long ago. It would have been a lot easier. But—but maybe it's time I do, Sam, before she starts feeling the same."

Sam looked at Bucky like he was insane. "You are joking, right?"

"What?"

"She's in love with you, Bucky. Don't you see the way she looks at you, man?"

Bucky tried to object. "That doesn't mean..."

"Do you know when I realized it?"

Bucky sighed. “When?"

"When Steve showed her the pictures he had of you guys when you were young and she cried," he told him, smiling. "I know we all laughed then, but that's when I knew. Any blind person would have known."

Bucky smiled sadly, but didn't say anything.

"So that should actually make you happy," Sam teased. "I don't know why you look like I said she wanted to break up with you."

“Because that makes it harder. I should have never been in a relationship when I was—and still am, so messed up. But she made me feel so normal, Sam. And what does that say about me? Doesn't that make me a selfish, greedy person?" he asked. "I don't want to hurt her. I have already hurt so many people. I would rather be all alone than hurt anyone else."

"What are you thinking about?" Steve asks Sam, bringing him back to reality.

Sam doesn't want to burden Steve with his own heavy and overwhelming thoughts. He knows what's happening is more than enough.

"Nothing, just thinking," he replies. "So that's it? We are not going to be able to do anything?"

Steve inhales and exhales, looking like he's about to panic. "Something is wrong with him. They did something."

"Yeah," Sam quietly says. "He—he knew he wouldn’t be able to fight us, Steve. I saw how he looked. He would try to hit you and then he would look like he was going to faint afterwards. He was pale and shivering...he threw up for God’s sake. What could they have possibly done?"

And it terrifies him, knowing that they let him get out of here, and that he would probably be getting back to whatever it is they were doing to him. How are they even supposed to continue living? What are they supposed to do? It feels like they should be turning the world upside down, instead, they are sitting here, helpless and unaware of what's actually happening to Bucky.

"Do you think it could be medical tests? For the serum?" Steve asks.

"But he didn't tell us that," Sam says. "He said they just want him back, he never said anything about recreating the serum."

Steve drops his head back on the wall. "Maybe he didn't want to tell us because he knew how we would react....I don't know, I am tired of trying to guess what's happening. I just want to attack the damn base and get them both out of there."

Sam sighs in exhaustion. "Are we just going to wait for Anna to get out then?" he asks, feeling his heart sinking.

"It's going to kill us, but I don't think we have any other option," Steve replies. "We are going to wait, and we have to figure out how we're going to survive until then."

—

Bucky

He should be nervous, he should be worried and he should think about what actually made Steve let him leave. But he is so incredibly tired, and he can't bear the stinging fire in his back, so he falls asleep the moment he rests his head on the car's window. He sleeps the whole way back to D.C. and doesn't even wake up once.

When they arrive, he nearly asks them to remain in the car a little longer. He is still so exhausted that he could easily sleep here for another five hours, but he pushes himself to leave, leaving the quietness and the brief peace he had during the ride.

They place the electric shock collar back on his neck when they reach the base, and he is so tired he doesn't even feel anything when they put it back on. Instead, he thinks about how great it is that they are letting him keep his shirt and jacket on, because he's still cold.

They don't take him back to the medical exam room where he was staying, or the other room they usually leave him in. They lead him to a room guarded by the man who is assigned to Anna, and Bucky feels certain that this is the person who called Steve. Their eyes meet for a moment, before he opens the door of the room, revealing Anna inside.

She is sitting on a bed, her head resting against its headboard, her eyes closed and her legs stretched out beneath the duvet. She's wearing a hospital gown, he realizes. Why the hell would they let Anna wear that?

He looks at the guard by his side. "Why—why is she wearing that?"

She opens her eyes at the sound of his voice. He thought she was asleep, but it looks like she isn’t. "Bucky," she almost gasps. She looks like she's been crying, her eyes are bloodshot and her skin is a bit pale. "I—I told you not to come back."

And then Rumlow walks inside the room, passing by Bucky. He stands next to her bed. "Not come back?" he asks. "He let us fuck him—literally, so nothing would happen to you, Anna. You thought he would leave you?"

Bucky clenches his jaw, fighting against the shudders of disgust crawling up through him. "What's happening, Anna? Are you okay?" he asks her.

"Oh, she is fine. This is the room she has been staying in by the way, do you see how she is well taken care of? She even has her own bathroom. She just gives us trouble about the bed and always wants to stay on the floor instead. She feels guilty, I think, because she gets all this comfort and you get tortured. Did I get the reasoning right, Anna?" he asks her, but she doesn't look at him. She keeps her gaze on the edge of the bed, and she looks so devastated, even more than she did yesterday.

"Anyway, we couldn't let her sleep on the floor today," he says, turning his gaze to Bucky. He walks closer to him and stops by the edge of the bed, his hands in his pockets. "She had a very small, quick surgery this morning."

Bucky feels a sudden, violent jolt in his heart. "W-what?"

"Do you remember the other super soldiers, Barnes? The ones that got injected with Howard Stark's serum?" Rumlow asks.

Bucky's head hurts. He is confused and terrified, and he doesn't understand how Rumlow's question is relevant to Anna at all. "What is wrong with her?" he asks, his voice shaky. 

"Patience, we will get there," Rumlow replies. "They were a bunch of unstable individuals, weren't they? You would know that more than me, I only got the debriefings and the reports. They had tried to come up with a few solutions to keep them under control, things like chips in the brain or neural implants. The most practical solution, however, was a small little device that gets implanted above the heart....this small," he pauses, demonstrating with his fingers its size.

"The doctors explained it to me, they said it works like a pacemaker or an ICD, except instead of regulating the heart or shocking the heart back when it stops, it does the exact opposite. It can send shocks in the chest—excruciating ones, that almost mimic a cardiac arrest. Use it many times in a row and it won't just make the man drop to his knees, it could kill him. And it doesn't stop here," he adds with a smile, "there's also a failsafe. One click, and the heart just....stops."

Bucky's head feels like it's swimming. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks, hearing his loud heartbeats in his ear. 

Rumlow continues and doesn't answer Bucky's question. "That device was actually very successful. It was going to get implanted on all of them, even you, but then, as you know, they paused the whole project. But, you see, we couldn't use the device that was made for them, because they were super soldiers, so the doctors in Siberia made one just for your Anna, one that would work for a normal human being," he told him, his eyes flickering with amusement. "We implanted it earlier today. It was a small surgery, really. She is all fine now."

"No," is all that comes out of Bucky's mouth. The world is spinning and the air is leaving his lungs. "This is—it's a sick joke, right? This can't be—"

"Show him, Anna," he cuts him off.

Anna takes a shaky breath and pulls down her medical gown. And Bucky sees it, he sees a fresh scar beneath her left collarbone, and the small bulge underneath her skin, where the device sits. She lifts her head and looks at Rumlow, even though his back is to her. "You know I can kill myself, right?" she asks him, her voice quiet and detached.

The ringing in Bucky's ears is so loud it feels like his head might shatter completely. He is on the verge of collapse, barely holding onto what's left of his sanity.

Rumlow laughs, turning to face her. "Do it, Anna. It will be a fun experiment to see how his mind deals with that," he tells her. "You know, I actually thought about this, and I think the only solution both of you would bear is if you both agree on dying—a Romeo and Juliet kind of scenario, but you both love each other so damn much to agree on letting the other person die, don't you?"

All reason abandons Bucky's mind. His head is on his fire. He's losing control, and he wants to kill them all.

They operated on her.

They opened her up.

They put a device inside her.

A device that can torture her. That can kill her.

Bucky lunges at Rumlow, but the guards instantly hold him back, and before he can fight them, he feels the electricity surging through his body, bringing him down to the floor. He tries to fight it, tries to claw at the collar with his metal hand, but the voltage only increases. Blood fills his mouth and he feels the pain tearing through every nerve in his body. His back burns even more with every movement, and he feels the nausea and the dizziness he had been feeling when he was with Steve and Sam again.

It finally stops after a couple of seconds, and he breathes loudly, hissing in pain as he tries to clear his vision.

"His back is already a fucking mess," he hears Anna say, her voice trembling, but she is not screaming or shouting. "What else do you want to do?"

"Right now, I really don't want to do anything, Anna. I just need him to be obedient," Rumlow replies.

He keeps breathing heavily as he sits with his knees bent beneath him. His left arm is glitching, but is still working. And he has to take the damn collar off. He has to take it off. So he quickly lifts his left hand to the collar, but doesn't even get a chance to try because he is back on the floor, grunting loudly in pain. His back is being torn open again. And his head, which was already hurting him badly, now feels like it's going to explode. He knows the intensity of all the pain he is feeling should make him unconscious, but he keeps fighting it. He blinks furiously, dragging himself back from the edge of the darkness, refusing to give in to the unbearable pain he is feeling. 

It takes him a few seconds to realize that the electricity stopped, because the pain is everywhere. The aftermath of it is so horrible this time, he thinks it's going to take him a very long while to be able to get up from the floor, but he gives himself a couple of seconds to breathe, then tries to get up. The rage he is feeling will kill him if he doesn't do anything. So he rests his right arm on the ground and resets his left arm, then tries with any power left in him to stand.

He hears Rumlow’s footsteps approaching him, and tries to use his metal arm to push himself up faster, but then Rumlow pushes his combat boot on Bucky's back, forcing him to lie on the ground, his face pressed to the floor. He tries to force his mouth shut to hold his scream, but it comes out anyway, an awful sound that slips past his clenched teeth.

"Stay there," Rumlow says, his boot still on Bucky's back. "We weren't supposed to implant it now, Barnes. It was supposed to happen by the end of the two-week period. The plan was to break you, then control you. But then you had to do what you did yesterday, and I realized that everything we did still wasn't enough to get you to comply. And I told you you would regret it, didn't I? So we thought...why not install it now, before we start the three phases punishment again before Anna leaves? That way, we have more fun, and you also get to see what your non-compliance going forward will do to her.” 

Bucky still tries to use his arms to lift himself up, even though he probably won’t be able to, but Rumlow presses his leg even harder into his back, resting his weight down, until Bucky’s fists clench and a loud, strangled groan bursts from his throat.

“I said stay there,” Rumlow calmly says. “Look at the bright side, at least she gets to leave soon, right? We might even make her leave a little early because we have already implanted it now." 

He removes his leg, and Bucky lets out a painful exhale, finally releasing his held breath. His body trembles, and he knows he won't be able to get up from the floor again.

"But just so you know how serious the situation is, because what you just did made me realize you are probably in denial and haven't taken in what I actually said. Let's give it a quick try. Hold him up," he says to the guards.

They push him from each side, holding him by his arms, and Bucky gasps in pain, unable to hold in any sounds escaping him anymore. He stays on his knees as they hold him upright, and he fights to keep his eyes open.

"Are you ready?" Rumlow asks.

And then Anna screams, before the sound shifts into sharp, horrifying gasps.

"No, n-no, stop," he tries to say, but he doesn't think anyone can hear him. He wants to cover his ears, but he can't even do that because they are holding his arms. This is the worst sound he has ever heard, and he thinks about how this must be what Anna was feeling when he was getting tortured, and realizes that this is worse than all the torture that was done to him. "Stop—fucking stop," he tries to loudly say. "Stop!" he hoarsely shouts this time.

Her screams stop, and he feels like he can actually breathe now. His vision is still blurry, but he sees Anna bent forward, her hair falling over her face. Her chest is rising in harsh, quick breaths with her hand clutching at it.

Rumlow stands in front of him and tilts his face up so he looks at him."Did it sink in now?" he asks. "That will happen every time you don't comply. Even when she leaves. We have been merciful, you must know that. We could have kept her imprisoned here, for as long as we wanted…we could have actually tortured her, Barnes, but we did not do that. When we thought about it, we realized that this would be the most effective solution, because we need you to know that you are giving yourself up for something valuable, not to just prevent harm from happening. She will actually get to live. She can go back to her job and she can continue having a normal life, and we’ll be able to monitor the device wherever she is."

He lets go of Bucky's face and turns to Anna. "And of course, Anna, if you so much as tamper with the device or allow someone to get near it, the internal sensors will register an interference and transmit an alert right back to us," he gestures with the touchpad in his hand, which has several data displayed on it but Bucky is not able to read what it says. Rumlow glances at it, then turns his gaze to Anna. "Your heart rate is 150, Anna. Are you feeling alright?"

"Stop talking, stop," she snaps, her voice exhausted and furious. "I am fucking tired of hearing your voice. Get out."

"Whoa, Anna. You are acting like this is really your room. Maybe we should extend your stay then," he says, smiling. "But I will let it go. You just had surgery and you must be tired, so no hard feelings."

He is back in Bucky's face again. "As long as you do what is asked of you, and as long as you're a good boy, all will be well, Barnes. Don't worry," he tells him, slapping Bucky's face lightly. "God, you look like shit. Take him back to the exam room and send for the doctor, she's going to give me a fucking headache about his back now," he says before he leaves the room.

Bucky tries to stand up but ends up falling back to the floor, so they drag him to the exam room while he is still on his knees. He shuts his eyes, unable to look at Anna again.

He had previously thought that everything that happened was the worst that could ever happen to them, but now, he thinks this must be it. They will be trapped in this endless cycle of torment. Anna will be stuck with a twisted device in her body, and he will be stuck here, back under Hydra's control.

So he buries his anger deep inside him, because he won't be able to control himself otherwise. He had been feeling like he was struggling to breathe and drowning ever since the third phase happened, but he's not suffocating anymore. He has hit the bottom, where endless despair closes in around him. It engulfs him, leaves him hollow and empties him, with no energy left to make plans, to hope, or to fight. He gives in. He finally surrenders.

And now he knows that he will do whatever they want, without hesitation. He won't fight. He will comply. He will be obedient.

He will be their Winter Fucking Soldier.

Chapter Text

She opened the door of her apartment and found Bucky standing in front of her, after nearly two weeks of not seeing him. 

He didn't look fine, but she wasn't fine either. 

"Hi," he said, guilt written all over his face. 

The expression on his face was enough to make her let go of all her anger, because being angry at Bucky was always complicated. She would know she had every right to be angry, and he would know it too. But then at the same time, she also knew how everything was hard for him sometimes, and that whatever he did was just because he was having a really hard time. 

She tried to hold on to her anger, though, because she had been really heartbroken for two damn weeks, and he hadn't called once. 

"Hi," she replied, her tone flat. She left the door open and walked to the living room, and he followed, closing the door behind him. 

She lowered herself onto the far end of the couch, and he sat on the other end.

Bucky took a deep breath, then said, “I am sorry.”

She kept her eyes in front of her, knowing that if she looked at him she would probably feel guilty too. "For what, Bucky?" she asked. "For leaving me all of a sudden in the middle of the street or for disappearing for two weeks?" 

She was supposed to fly out to California for her childhood best friend’s engagement party. When she mentioned it to him, saying she would only be gone a day, he told her he had never seen California either before the war or after he got his memories back, which meant he had only been there when he was with Hydra. So she suggested he come along, and that they stay there for a few days together. She didn't actually think he would agree, because he hadn't been feeling well for a while. But he had agreed, surprisingly, so they booked the flights, the hotel, and arranged everything, and she was so excited for it, because it would have been their first time doing anything outside of Brooklyn or New York. 

They had been walking to get coffee when it happened. Bucky suddenly stopped walking and had a horrified look on his face. He was somewhere else in his mind, and she knew what the look meant.  His breathing was heavy, he looked shocked and unfocused, then he looked at her, and the horror in his face only intensified. She tried to tell him that they could get back to their hotel, or find somewhere quiet where they could sit, but his chest kept rising, looking like he was on the verge of having a panic attack, and then he apologized and told her that he had to go. Before she could react, he had already walked away, and by the time she forced herself to follow, he was already gone. 

"Both," he replied. "I—what happened...it messed up with my head." 

"I don't even know what happened," she said, turning her eyes to him. "You just walked away and disappeared." 

"You know,” he sighed, his expression heavy. “You know what happened.”

She knew, she just wished he would say it instead. She wished he would talk to her. 

She rested her elbows on her knees and looked away from him. "Okay," she heavily breathed. "I know you probably remembered something terrible. I know it was really bad. I know it shook you. I know you couldn't bear to look at me. I know you couldn't bear to talk to me for two weeks either. I know you must feel guilty about not talking to me, and I know you must feel guilty about lots of other things too since that day." Then she turned her gaze back to him "What? Am I close? Should I just keep guessing because you won't talk?" 

"It's not that I don't want to talk," he argued. 

"Then what?" she asked. "Because you know damn well that I never press you to say anything, Bucky. I never do that. But this is different, I have the right to know why you disappeared for two weeks." 

He didn't reply, he just exhaled and leaned back on the couch, staring in front of him. 

"Wonderful," she murmured. "That was a really great conversation. I will go to sleep now," she said, getting up. 

"Anna," he protested. 

She sighed in exhaustion, stopping in her place. "What, Bucky?" 

"You are right, I remembered something," he admitted. "And yes, it was bad. It was so bad I had to leave. I know I shouldn't have, but my—my brain doesn't really work when that happens," he explained. "I feel guilty. I feel guilty all the damn time, because I..." he trailed off, looking like he was trying to find the right words to explain what he was feeling. She knew it must be difficult, because talking about his feelings wasn’t something he did often. 

He took a deep breath. "I was—I was torturing someone, Anna, that's what I remembered," he said, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Torturing someone to death." 

Anna gulped, feeling shocked and taken aback, because Bucky never told her anything about what he did, and she wasn't expecting him to, really. She just wanted to know why it took him two weeks to talk to her. "You don't have to tell me that….if you don't want to. That's not what I meant when I said I want to know why you disappeared." 

"It's fine," he said, still avoiding her gaze, his thumb running over his knuckles. "It was—I spent a whole day doing it...so however bad or horrific you think it was, it was worse. And I remembered that when we were together, we were near the area where it happened—the house of that person. And I—I already knew I did that, because I remember everything. Some of the memories just...hit vividly sometimes. I know I tortured someone, I know I killed him, but it takes some things to happen sometimes to remember the details, how I did it, how long it took...and just—all of that," he paused, inhaling and exhaling. 

Anna felt a pang in her chest, because she knew how hard talking about this must be for him. She rested her back against the wall, crossing her arms, waiting for him patiently to say everything he wanted to say. 

"I am not telling you that as an excuse. I am telling you that to explain that yes, Anna, I feel guilty, because I am having this great thing with you, and sometimes it almost makes me forget about the past seventy years of my life, even if just for a few minutes. But sometimes—sometimes it also feels like you have no idea what I did, or how bad it was, or how many they were....and I feel like—" he stopped abruptly, his breath uneven. "It doesn't make sense in my head sometimes, being with you while also having been that person. So, uh—to answer your question, I disappeared for two weeks because it just hit me hard this time, I guess. I felt like a fraud. I felt stupid, like I was using you to..." his voice faded, unable to finish what he wanted to say. "I went to Louisiana with Sam, I needed to be somewhere quiet and calm, because it felt like I was losing control. That's where I was." 

She took a deep breath, trying to control herself, because everything Bucky said was making her have a very hard knot to swallow in her throat. "And uh—did going there make you feel better?" she asked, her voice slightly quivering. 

"A bit," he replied. "It helped me think."

She walked back to the couch and sat down, looking at him. "And?" 

He flicked his eyes to her. "And," he breathed out. "I tried to come to terms with some things. I—I realized I will never be able to tell you everything I did, or everything that happened to me, and you already knew that. But that's not fair to you either, because you should know—you should know the extent of it and then decide if that’s something you can accept, but talking about everything is hard for me, Anna, and I won't be able to—" 

"Bucky," she said, cutting him off. "You think I don't already know that?" 

He shook his head. "You don't. That's exactly what I am trying to tell you." 

"And you think if you gave me the details of how you killed and tortured people that would change things?" she asked. "I don't care, Bucky. You were brainwashed. It wouldn't change a thing. We can sit here until the morning and you can tell me all the horrific details you think are going to make me change my mind, and it still won't change anything. You always feel guilty, and I just wish you would realize that I chose this. I am a grown-up woman, and I chose you, while knowing your past and present and everything. Why would you feel guilty for something that was my choice?" 

He rested his forehead on his hand. “I will mess things up eventually, Anna, or I will end up hurting you…and I already did that, because I am a long way from fixing anything and I know that lots of things will never even be fixed, and you don't deserve that. You know you don't deserve that." 

"But it’s a lot simpler than that, Bucky," she told him. "I am not mad at you or hurt because you left me while we were together, I am hurt because you could've just let me know that you will be in Louisiana, that you need to clear your mind, or that you are not okay and you need to be alone for a while. I would have understood," she explained. "And I won't even start on how stupid the you don't deserve that argument is. I know what I deserve and I know what I want. And I know that, with every fiber in my being, I really just want you…and I don’t want to argue about this anymore, please.” 

He looked like he was considering saying something, but then he let it go with a sigh. “Okay," he said. "Come here." 

At that moment, she almost forgot what she had been angry about. She got closer and sat right next to him. "Hi," she softly said, meeting his eyes. And God, she had missed him. She had been so wrapped up in her anger that she hadn’t realized how much she missed him in those two weeks. 

“Hi," he smiled faintly, placing his hand on the back of her neck as he pulled her closer to kiss her. "I missed you." 

"I missed you too, you asshole," she whispered against his lips. 

He pulled back slightly. “I am sorry.” 

She smiled then, an idea coming up in her head. "Do you want me to accept that apology?" 

He blinked, looking confused. "I guess?"

"Stay over and sleep. Actually sleep," she told him, hoping with all her heart that he would agree. 

His expression faltered. "Can I not just stay over?"

"No," she replied. "You have to sleep." 

He considered for a couple of seconds. "Okay…I—I will try." 

She looked at him in disbelief. "Really?" 

"I said I will try, I didn't say I will sleep," he clarified. "And I don't know why you're so excited, you will be the one who ends up not getting any sleep if I wake you up." 

"I don't care." 

"I know you don't," he murmured, running his hand through her hair. "We should probably get to the bedroom then, shouldn't we?" He didn’t wait for an answer, he dragged her closer to him, and stood, lifting her against him with his left arm. 

She laughed softly, wrapping her legs around his waist. "I missed this. I missed you." 

"Me too," he whispered, before finding her lips again, keeping them pressed to hers until they both landed on the bed. 

——————————————————

Anna's fingers can't stop tracing the device underneath her skin. 

She is sitting curled beneath the shower, letting the hot water fall over her body. She knows she should feel angry and furious that they have violated her body like this, but all she can feel is just the crushing weight of despair. 

She had woken up terrified and confused after the surgery, and she only remembered Luke apologizing to her before losing consciousness. When they explained what they did, she felt like she was being swallowed by a void, with no way out, no escape. Because if she remains alive, Bucky will be stuck with Hydra, under their complete control. And if she kills herself, this would destroy and wreck Bucky forever. 

She finally realized then why they had always said they would let her go after those two weeks. They had undermined their plan, they said it was stupid and that it would never work, when they were the ones who were stupid all along. But how could it have ever occurred to anyone that they would do something like this?

And Bucky....God, thinking about Bucky makes her feel like someone is tearing her apart from the inside. She doesn't want to go. She doesn't want to leave him. She saw the look of defeat and devastation he had on his face after Rumlow shocked her using the device, and even though she had felt as if her heart was going to stop, the look in Bucky's eyes was what made her heart feel like it was getting crushed, and any shock of any device would have never come close to that pain. 

She wants to have hope that Steve and Sam will figure something out, they have friends and connections, and they can try and get this thing out of her, if it could be done without triggering whatever sensors Rumlow talked about. But she can't even have hope anymore, she is currently just trying so hard to shove away any thoughts of killing herself until she gets out of here and finds out if there's any possibility of removing the damn thing. 

She doesn't know how long she's been under the shower, but she knows it’s been a few hours. That’s how she's been spending the last couple of days, either sleeping or showering. She spends hours under the shower, hoping the warm water would do anything to ease the tension in her body or distract her from all that's been happening. 

It doesn't always work, though. She stayed under the shower for a long while two days ago, and remembered how she always teased Bucky about how long he took in the showers sometimes, and her sobs had come so hard and sudden that she couldn't catch her breath. She cried until no tears came anymore, until she felt drained and emptied out. 

That was the first time she cried since she had the surgery, because ever since that day, she didn't have any energy to cry. When they took Bucky and left the room, she wanted to cry because of how Bucky looked. Not just because of how devastated he looked, but because he also looked worn out and extremely tired. He had tried to get up more than once, he tried to fight, he tried to take the collar off, but he couldn't do anything. 

The doctor had told him the day before that he should stay on his side, that he shouldn't put any pressure on his back, and Rumlow had pinned him down with his foot. He pressed his damn boot on his injured back. And she knew Bucky was in a tremendous amount of pain, she heard the sounds that tore out of him, and she had seen the pain etched across his face. So she really should have cried afterwards, but she had nothing left in her. Instead, she had buried her face in the pillow and screamed until her throat burned. 

The second time she cried was yesterday. They gave her the mobile phone to reply to the text messages and call her mother. It was the first time she had called her since she got here, and the minute she heard her voice, she just couldn't stop her tears from falling. She had to place her hand over her mouth, so she wouldn't hear her sobs, and was only able to force out a few words during the call. 

Then her mother asked about Bucky and about how their trip was going, and she couldn't control herself anymore and broke into loud sobs, so she hung up immediately and texted her that there's a problem with the connection and that she would call her later. She couldn't even leave the office they had brought her into because of how hard she was crying, and after a couple of minutes, Luke had to drag her outside back to her room. 

She finally gets out of the shower and starts getting dressed in the bathroom, and her heart almost skips a beat when she realizes that the clothes they have left for her are her clothes, the ones she had come in with, that later got stained with Bucky's blood, but there isn't any blood visible on the sweatshirt or the pants now. They cleaned them. And she has a terrible feeling that she knows why they have returned her clothes, so after she gets dressed, she impatiently waits for Luke to come inside her room. She knows he should be here soon to bring her the lunch meal. 

When he finally comes, she asks, "How many days has it been since the surgery?" 

"Six days," he replies. "Today is your twelfth day here." 

She can't believe that this all happened in less than two weeks, it feels like it's been a month. 

"They will do it today, won't they?" she asks, despair seeping into her bones. 

Luke's expression answers it for her before he utters a word. "Yes, and you are leaving afterwards." 

She gulps and steps back until her shoulders hit the wall, needing its support. "Did he even heal?" 

"The infection is gone. It didn't heal completely of course, but Rumlow said they waited long enough.” 

She tilts her head up to the ceiling, fighting the tears in her eyes. "So it's probably going to get infected again." 

Luke doesn't reply, instead, he turns around to walk outside the room, but she stops him with her question. "Luke," she says, her gaze turning to him. "Since I am leaving, what the hell are you doing here? What are you doing with them?" 

He stops, his hand around the doorknob. "I wish we had the time for that kind of conversation," he tells her without turning to face her. "But I was young and angry at the world, for so many reasons. It made sense then." 

"Does it make sense now?" she asks. 

He looks down, his back rising while taking a deep breath. "No," he quietly says. “It doesn't." 

—

She walks into the room of her nightmares one last time. 

The moment Luke opens the door, her eyes instantly shift to where they had Bucky chained last time. The memory hits here all of a sudden— the baton, the blood on the floor, the acidic taste of the vomit she hadn’t let out. She squeezes her eyes shut, shivering, feeling like the walls of the room are closing in on her. 

"Anna," Luke says, pushing her gently from her back. "Walk." 

She blinks and tries to block all these memories from her head, walking with Luke to where she usually sits. Bucky isn't here yet, and neither is Rumlow. She sits on the floor and bends her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. Her body is already starting to shake and nothing has even happened yet, but being in this room is enough to make her have a panic attack, nothing needs to happen. 

After a few minutes, Bucky walks inside with two guards behind him.  His arms aren't restrained, and he is shirtless like before, wearing only black pants. He doesn't notice her in the beginning, his eyes are drained out and are just fixed in front of him, but then his eyes turn to her, like he has just sensed her presence. His gaze remains on her for only a second before they turn to her chest, probably remembering the device underneath her skin. 

He swallows hard and turns his eyes away. And then she sees his back, which is no longer covered in bandages. It's covered in faint, messy red slashes scattered everywhere. There aren't open wounds anymore, but they still don’t look completely healed. She knows that if Rumlow puts him through the same hell again in the second phase, Bucky's back will definitely be filled with scars.

Bucky gets on his knees and sits in the centre of the room. He keeps his arms by his side, fixing his tired gaze on the floor.

After a couple of seconds, Rumlow walks inside with a smile on his face.  “Welcome to your last and final day with us, Anna!” he exclaims, facing her. “You will finally get to leave in a couple of hours….we  decided to let you go two days earlier, since the device has already been implanted. So we’ll finish the first two phases and let you go, you just have to get through them first.” 

He walks towards Bucky and places his hand on his chin, tilting his face up. "Hello, Barnes. I haven't seen you in almost a week. You look better than when I last saw you," he says. Bucky keeps his eyes away from him. "Great, you have remembered the rules. It almost felt like you forgot everything these last couple of days." 

He lets go of his face and walks away, pacing around the room. "And because of that, there are a few things we need to remember together before we begin," he tells him. "First of all, just to make sure you remember, because I have let the rules down before at times but you didn't deserve that. You are not allowed to speak with Anna, and you are not allowed to answer her questions. However, if you are good and compliant throughout the two phases today, I will let you say your goodbyes, I promise." 

Goodbyes. Anna's heart aches. How is she ever supposed to say goodbye to him?

"You answer when questions are directed to you, always, even if you think it's a stupid, hypothetical question, you still answer. Otherwise, I really have no interest in hearing your voice. Is that clear?" he asks, stopping in his place and looking at Bucky, waiting for his answer. 

"Yes," Bucky replies, his voice low and hoarse. 

Rumlow shakes his head. "No, I didn't catch that."

Bucky swallows and clears his throat. "Yes," he says again, his voice clearer. 

"Great," Rumlow says. "You are not allowed to look us in the eye, you have broken this one quite a lot lately and I let it go. But it seems you remember now. Nothing I have said should be hard, Barnes, considering that these were the rules you spent seventy years following. So from now on, I expect full obedience. Clear?" 

"Yes," Bucky replies again. 

“Ah, I almost forgot,” he adds. “When you’re here during punishments, I expect you to get on your knees when I walk inside. It seems you remembered that too today, but I am just reminding you.” 

He stops directly in front of Bucky, a faint smile on his lips. “Now, I have to remind you of your mistakes, because most of what's going to happen today is your fault. For starters, Anna wasn't supposed to attend today with the device implanted in her…also, remind me again, what did you do? The day I visited you in the medical exam room." 

Bucky's gaze is still fixed on the floor, and his eyes are truly empty and hollow today. His expression doesn't change, and even his breathing stays the same. "I strangled you." 

"And what did I tell you would happen?" 

Bucky's eyes slowly shift around the room, like he's considering his answer. "You will make me regret it." 

"And?" 

"You will make me beg—," he pauses, and his expression falters for only a second, "beg you to kill me." 

She feels sick to her stomach. That's how they are always going to deal with him, and Bucky will remain like he is now— silent and compliant. It hasn't even been a few minutes and he is already tormenting him with his stupid, humiliating questions.

"Indeed," Rumlow comments. "Which hand did you strangle me with?" 

"My right hand."

"Extend your right arm in front of you then, keep your hand flat on the ground," Rumlow says, walking towards the guard by the door. He takes his baton from him, then walks over to Luke and gives him a touchpad device that almost looks like a mobile phone. "Use it when I tell you to, you should press...right here, and stop it after ten seconds," he tells Luke, pointing at the touchpad. 

He walks back to Bucky. "You are not allowed to move your hand, no matter what, even your fingers. If you do, Anna gets shocked."

Shit. That's why Rumlow was telling him that what's going to happen today is his fault. And he will not only be tortured, but he also has to hold himself still while being tortured. That’s also why they didn’t restrain his arms today. 

Bucky tenses, his gaze shifting between Anna, Luke, and where Rumlow is standing.

"I am waiting," Rumlow says, standing in front of Bucky, resting the baton on the floor while leaning on it. 

Bucky swallows and rests his right arm on the ground, and Rumlow doesn't waste a second in hitting him, the baton comes down immediately against his arm. 

Bucky curls his left hand in a fist, keeping his gaze focused on the arm stretched in front of him. Rumlow strikes again, each blow landing on the same exact spot on his arm, but Bucky stays still, holding his breath each time the baton hits him.  

When Bucky’s arm is completely reddened, Rumlow pauses and takes his breath, resting the baton on his shoulder. "How long does it take you to heal from broken bones, Barnes?" 

Bucky's gaze moves away from his hand. "I don't know," he replies, his breathing is a little heavy. "Sometimes a week, sometimes two weeks or more. It depends." 

"Good," Rumlow says. "We need to send you on your first mission in about two weeks anyway." 

That makes a knot form in her stomach, and she doesn't know if it's because they will actually be sending Bucky on missions, or because Rumlow will definitely break Bucky's bones now. 

Bucky looks like he's thinking about what Rumlow said as well, but then he feels Rumlow moving and tries to focus again by taking a deep breath and fixing his gaze on his hand. But the baton comes down on his hand too fast, and Anna sees his fingers moving slightly.

He realizes that he moved his fingers and looks at Luke, like he's unsure if this movement would count or not, but Rumlow nods in Luke's direction, and Anna tells herself that she will not scream this time, she will not scream—but the pain is so sharp and sudden it takes all her breath away. She lets out a small scream in the beginning, but then attempts to muffle any sound that comes out of her. It doesn't last as long as it did last time when Rumlow first tried it, so the pain is not as bad. It's almost similar to the pain she had in her chest when she had a panic attack, only a hundred times sharper, piercing right through her. 

She gasps when it's over and immediately looks at Bucky. She wants to reassure him that she's fine, that it's nothing in comparison to what he is enduring, but his head hangs low, and his eyes are shut. 

"I am sorry, Anna," Rumlow smugly says. "It's his fault, I apologize on his behalf, since he can't speak." 

"Fuck you," she spits out, nearly gasping. And for some reason, she can't stay quiet anymore. It doesn't matter if her words won't matter to Bucky, or to Rumlow, but she has to say them. And Bucky has to hear them. "Nothing is his fault. Nothing..." she pauses, her chest heaving. "I know I will leave and you—you will continue to tell him it was his fault, you will continue to try and make him feel guilty for everything, but fuck you, Rumlow. You know deep down that none of this..." 

Rumlow is smiling. "No, Anna. I—" 

"I am not finished," she cuts him off, her voice and breathing are better now. "None of this is his fault, you know it…I know you do. You know that he will blame himself and he will feel guilty because he's a damn good person, and you are using that. But you should know, I don't think any of this is his fault. I don't blame him for my presence here, I only blame you and your stupid Hydra. I don't regret knowing him and loving him, I would do it all over again. All of it, even if it makes me end up here with that device inside me.” 

Rumlow places the baton beneath his elbow and claps his hands. "What a speech," he says, still clapping. "Did you hear that, Barnes?" 

Bucky's eyes are open now, fixed in front of him. His eyebrows are pinched together, and she wishes she could know what he's thinking about. But she also knows, that it would take a lot more than just a few words to convince Bucky that nothing is his fault. She knows he will never believe it. 

"Y-yes,” he replies, his voice unsteady.

"I must admit, that's quite a lovely relationship. I am almost sad we are going to ruin it.” He takes a few steps closer to Anna. "I have a question, though. Are you going to continue seeing him as a good person after we send him on missions and when he's back being who he was? Because he's going to become a killer again. If we tell him to slit someone's throat, shoot someone in the head, torture someone, bomb a building...that's what he's going to do. You understand that, right?" 

She hasn't really taken all of that in yet, but it wouldn't change her answer. "I know he's being forced to do it." 

Rumlow chuckles. "There are no trigger words anymore, so no, he's not forced to do anything. If he wants a way out of this, he would say so, and we would kill you, but he is not going to do that, is he? He's choosing your life over the lives of so many other people. So are you sure that makes him a good person?" 

"It certainly doesn't make me a good person, does it?" she asks him. 

Bucky looks at her, his face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers on her for a few seconds. And she wants to tell him that it's fine. It's against everything she has ever stood for, every belief in her bones, but she loves him, and if that makes her a bad person, then so be it. 

"You are right," he states, looking amused by their conversation. "But," he sighs, walking back to Bucky, who turns his gaze back to his hand, "again, if you are not a good person now, then it's because you fell in love with who?" he asks, his back to her, and then he slams the baton on Bucky's hand. 

Bucky lets out a pained exhale, but not a single finger moves this time. 

"It's because of who, Barnes?" Rumlow asks him. 

“Me," he almost gasps. "It's because of me." 

"That's correct," Rumlow says, then he drops the baton on his fingers. 

Bucky grunts in pain and rests his metal arm on the floor as well, like that might help him tolerate the pain. Rumlow keeps hitting him over and over again, and Bucky is not even able to keep his eyes open anymore. He drops his head and shuts his eyes. She sees blood on his lips and knows he's biting his mouth from the inside so hard to try and endure what’s happening.

The sound of the baton suddenly stops. "Your arm is shaking," Rumlow tells Bucky. "Is the pain tolerable?"

Bucky opens his eyes. "It's fine,” he forces the words out. 

Rumlow’s lips curl into a thin smile. "That's what I thought," he says. "How many fingers do you feel are broken so far?" 

Bucky glances at his hand, looking like he's assessing his answer. "Two.” 

"Point to me which ones," Rumlow says, looking at Bucky's hand. 

Bucky points with his metal hand to his index and middle fingers. 

He's planning on breaking all of his fingers, she realizes a bit too late, feeling her heartbeat racing in horror.

"Thanks," Rumlow says before dropping the baton on Bucky's thumb. He then presses down the baton with all his strength on his thumb, and Bucky hisses sharply. He maintains the pressure, relentless, until Bucky lets out a muffled scream. 

But Anna was just focused on looking at Bucky, she didn't notice that he moved his finger, so the pain she feels right now is really sudden this time. She screams despite herself, unable to hold it back. The pain is even worse the second time, because the shock from the first time left an aching pain in her chest. When it’s over, she leans her head against the wall, struggling to draw in any air inside her lungs. 

"Concentrate, Barnes. You can do better than that," he taunts. "Only two to go."

Bucky's eyes are glassy, his chest is heaving and his arm is shaking. She doesn't know how he is going to tolerate it. And she also doesn't understand how he knows that the baton will hit him, but still keeps his hand this steady against the floor. She knows damn well it's a miracle she only got shocked two times. 

But she is not able to look again, even if it will make her unprepared when the next shock comes. She buries her head between her knees, as she usually does, and covers her ears. She wishes every bone in her body was getting crushed instead of what's happening in front of her. 

Her heavy breathing, along with the panic and fear she is feeling for Bucky, almost feels enough to make her have a panic attack right now, but she would never bear the pain of that with the pain that's already in her chest from the shocks. So she tries to stop herself from crying, she tries to hold her tears. If Bucky can keep his hand steady while it gets crushed and broken, then she will control herself. 

"Anna," Rumlow loudly calls.

She lowers her hands from around her ears and tilts her head up. Bucky's hand is red and swollen, and she knows that all his fingers are definitely broken now, and yet she didn't get shocked, not once after those two times. 

Her heart aches, it aches so terribly when she realizes that he didn't move his fingers or his hand when all his fingers were broken. He kept it steady— he is still keeping it steady, even though his arm is trembling.

"I know….astonishing, right?" Rumlow says, like he read her thoughts. "He is a tough motherfucker."

He turns his gaze back to Bucky. "You can move your hand from the floor." 

Bucky exhales and tries to carefully and slowly remove it from the ground. He keeps it awkwardly resting on his lap, his fingers twitching and his arm still shaking. 

Rumlow walks towards the exit door of the room, and she thinks that he's finally leaving, but it turns out he isn't. He takes the chair next to the door and drags it to where Bucky is, placing it in front of him. "Put your hand on the chair," Rumlow orders him. "Your right hand, of course." 

Bucky's gaze stops moving, he stills and it feels like he almost stopped breathing as well. He gulps, turning his gaze to the chair. She doesn't understand what's going to happen, but Bucky's expression makes her realize that whatever it is, it will be very terrible. 

Bucky lifts his hand, wincing as he does, and places his forearm on the chair in front of him. 

She is so terrified that she is not able to stay seated anymore, so she stands up, wrapping her arms around herself because she's shaking. "What are you going to do?" 

"I told him he would regret it, didn't I?" Rumlow says. "That's exactly what I am going to do, Anna." He takes a knife out of his pocket and stabs it into Bucky's hand, near his fingers. The blade pierces his hand and sinks into the chair. 

Bucky lets out a choked gasp, his eyes snapping shut as he drops his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Anna feels her pulse in her ears, and her body trembles even more. "Oh, God," she mutters in horror. She rests her forehead against the wall, the tears silently falling down her face. She can't even look at his hand. 

"Come on, Anna," Rumlow says. She hears his footsteps approaching her. "It really is his fault this time." 

He stands in front of her, and she is so angry. She is violently angry. She pulls her head from the wall and faces him. They are standing too close now, and she should do something—anything to release the fire inside her, even if just a little. "We talked about this," she says, drawing a deep breath. "And I told you none of it is his fault." 

She keeps her eyes locked on his. Then, as quickly as she possibly can, and without looking anywhere else, she drives her knee upward and kicks Rumlow in the shin. 

Rumlow winces loudly and takes a few steps back, bending on the knees. He laughs, shaking his head. "Oh, Anna," he says. 

Bucky's eyes are on her, frightened. His body tenses and the chair in front of him creaks as he adjusts his weight. 

"Don't you dare move or I will shock her until she has a fucking seizure," Rumlow warns him, standing straight again. 

"Now, Anna, today is your last day here, and I keep trying to make excuses for you all the time, but if you do something like this again until we're done with the second phase, I might just….” he says, gripping the knife in Bucky's hand and twisting it. Bucky grunts loudly, and then gasps when Rumlow stops, his chest heaving, "make everything worse for him. So get back on the fucking floor and stay silent." 

Anna takes a step back, holding back whatever reply and insult she wants to say to him, and drops herself to the floor.

"I will come back in an hour for the second phase," Rumlow says. He brushes Bucky's hair away from his face. "If it makes you feel better, Barnes. There won't be a lot of waiting this time, because we're going to need you to start your healing process right afterwards. So we will start the third phase as soon as Anna leaves. Then you'll have a long break to heal...so hold on to that." 

He starts walking away, leaving the knife in Bucky's hand. And Anna can't imagine that he's going to be left like this for an hour. The wooden chair has already turned red with Bucky's blood, dripping onto the floor. "Remove the knife," she says, her voice shaky and scared. "Please, you can't leave it—" 

"Weren’t you angry and violent a minute ago?" he sarcastically asks, turning over to her. 

"Please," she pleads. 

"That knife is not coming out for a very long time, it's his punishment," he tells her. "He has to learn from his mistakes. How else is he going to become our compliant Winter Soldier again? Am I correct, Barnes? You deserve this, don't you? Tell Anna you deserve it so she stops talking."

Bucky lifts his head. "Yes," he replies, his voice heavy. "I—I deserve it."

"Happy now?" Rumlow asks Anna. "I will see you in an hour, and no, you are not allowed to go to him this time," he tells her before he walks out of the room. 

So Anna stays where she is, helpless and powerless. Her chest constricts and her heart breaks over the sight of Bucky's hand. 

Bucky keeps his eyes fixed on the chair and the knife for a little while, his breathing heavy. Then, he drops his head back and stares at the ceiling. He keeps inhaling and exhaling slowly, his chest still heaving, keeping his eyes away from her and away from the knife in his hand. When he stays like that for some time, she finally realizes that he's trying to regulate his breathing. He's trying not to have a panic attack. After a while, his breathing gets a little bit better. He closes his eyes and remains just as he is, his head still tilted back. 

For an entire hour, Bucky stays exactly like that, unmoving. His head back and his eyes closed, with a knife stuck to his shattered hand. 

Chapter Text

He woke up to the sounds of his screams.

Ever since he started going to Dr. Raynor, his nightmares had only grown worse. He didn't understand why, he had thought going to a therapist would have made things slightly better, as everyone was telling him, and as the internet was saying as well. He specifically remembered reading an article that had a list of reasons why people go to therapy, and one of the reasons was ‘to heal from the past’. He didn't understand how being forced to go to someone to talk about his issues for two years was supposed to help with that. And yet, when he read that, he couldn't help the very small glimmer of hope he had felt.

Then he went to Dr. Raynor, and she started their first session lightly, not asking too many questions or any overwhelming ones either. She was just trying to get to know him and know how he had been spending his time since he came back. That was fine, but he still wasn't used to talking with her, and sitting there for forty-five minutes still made him uncomfortable. Then, on their second session, she started asking some questions to get him to open up, and he didn't like that. He wasn't going to talk with a stranger he had just met, and was forced to meet, about what he did or what happened to him. And he sure as hell wasn't going to tell her about his nightmares.

So he didn't actually know if going to Dr. Raynor did contribute to him having worse nightmares or not, but it certainly felt that way. He was already feeling nervous about their upcoming session this week, and he kept thinking about all the questions she might ask, and all the ones he wouldn't be able to answer. The nervousness and the constant thinking about that probably made his nightmares worse.

He got up and washed his face, trying to shake off the nightmare he had. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep again. His chest was tight and it felt like there was no air in the apartment, and he really needed to get out. Walking usually helped with that, and it always helped him breathe better. So he pulled on his clothes and stepped outside, even though it was two in the morning.

His feet couldn't stop moving, his pace restless, almost like he was running away from something. The air was crisp and cold, there was a steady breeze brushing against him, but it wasn't enough, his lungs still felt tight. And even though the streets were mostly empty, and the quietness should have been calming to him, there was still an overwhelming uneasiness in his chest.

After a while, he found himself standing in front of Anna's shop. He hadn't meant to go there, but he went there often enough that the route was probably etched in his mind, and his feet just seemed to carry him there. He drew in a long breath, thinking about Anna and about how much he enjoyed her company. They had first met a week after he had started going to Dr. Raynor. He had begun leaving the house more and started exploring the streets of Brooklyn again, and that was when he realized how much he loved walking. And although making new friends was definitely not something he wanted— especially since he had a fight with Steve quite recently, which only meant he wasn't in a good mental place to meet any new people. But with Anna, it just happened. He hadn't been able to help it.

She was easy to be around, and he loved going to her bakery. He had even thought about bringing Steve there, mostly to prove to him that he has been getting out, discovering new places, and meeting new people, but then he felt like he wanted to keep their friendship away from his other world and life. Later, he realized that probably meant he liked her, but tried to push all those feelings aside, because it would be a very long time before he could ever be in a relationship.

He sighed and started walking away from her shop, his hands in his pockets.

"Bucky?" he heard Anna calling from behind.

He turned around and found her standing inside the shop, holding the door open.

"Anna?" he asked, confused. "What are you doing here now?"

She let out a small chuckle. "What are you doing here? I saw you from inside, but it was dark, I wasn't sure if it was you."

"I, well—" he nervously started, aware that standing by her bakery at three in the morning was probably weird. "I went for a walk, and I think I have memorized my way here now, so I just took the same route I take when I come here."

"It's three in the morning," she said, smiling.

He smiled too. "I am aware, so what are you doing here now?"

He knew she got here early sometimes to prepare everything, but definitely not that early. Her eyes also looked heavy, lacking the usual spark she had. "I needed to distract myself a bit, so I baked a whole bunch of new stuff."

"Are you okay?" he asked, feeling concerned.

"Yeah," she replied. "Would you like to come inside? There are so many things you can try."

He laughed softly. "That's a very tempting offer," he told her. "But you probably want to be by yourself. I can come in the morning."

"No, I actually think having some company would be better. Come in," she said, stepping aside.

"Okay," he breathed, stepping inside the bakery.

The smell filled his nostrils as soon as he got inside, it was incredible. He took his jacket and gloves off, placing them on one of the tables. Then they got inside the kitchen, and it was an absolute mess at the moment. "Who the hell made you angry?"

"No, I am not angry," she replied, chuckling. "Don't worry, I will clean now. Everything I made is in the oven at the moment, which is why I stepped outside the kitchen for a while.”

"Then what is it?" he asked, leaning by the counter behind him.

She inhaled deeply, shifting her gaze to the mess around her. "It's my father's death anniversary," she admitted. "I don't usually like to stay in the house alone that day. So I never left the bakery today actually, just thought I would keep myself busy instead."

"Oh, I am sorry, I didn't—"

"It's fine," she cut him off, a small smile on her face. "It's been a while. He died when I was seventeen."

"That's not a while back."

"It kind of is," she replied, starting to remove all the dirty dishes that need to be cleaned. "Feels like it is. But anyway, why do you look like this?"

He stepped forward and began helping her. "Like what?"

"I don't know," she stopped moving for a second, and looked at him, searching his eyes. "You look tired."

He moved the dishes and the kitchen tools in his hand to the sink. "Yeah, I didn't get much sleep."

"Hey, what are you doing?" she asked. "Leave everything. I will do it. Just stay there."

"I want to help," he argued, still moving stuff from the counter. "It would distract me too."

"So you are not okay."

For some reason, that made a small laugh escape his lips.

"What?" she looked at him with amused curiosity.

"Nothing," he replied, a faint smile on his lips.

"No, I need to know what was so funny about what I said," she put back the dishes in her hand on the counter and crossed her arms, biting back her smile.

"It's not important."

"Come on," she pleaded.

He sighed. "I just—I don't remember when I was last okay, really,” he paused for a few seconds, remembering the very last time he was even remotely okay, before everything went to hell. “I think it must have been in 1943 with Steve. We were in a pub in London, having a break from duty before we returned to the war again."

Anna had a shocked look on her face. "Shit."

"Yeah," he said, laughing softly.

"That's not funny," she said, even though she looked like she was holding back a smile as well.

"I mean..." he trailed off, wiping the flour on the counter. "It kind of is."

And suddenly, he realized his chest wasn't tight anymore. He was actually laughing.

"What now?" she asked, because he stopped moving and looked like he zoned out.

He shook his head, smiling weakly. "Nothing."

She didn't press him like last time. "So ever since you came back," she said, moving to the sink to wash everything. "It's been that bad?"

He opened the dishwasher and took what she was done rinsing and placed it inside. "It depends on the day," he explained. "But I am grateful of course. I am having a second chance, and Steve is here...I don't even know if I would have wanted a second chance if he weren't here. But it just seems like being okay will take some time."

"And that's fine," she told him. "You should take all the time you need."

His eyebrows were pinched together. "Dr. Raynor said that."

"Dr. Raynor?"

"Uh—my court-mandated therapist," he elaborated.

"Yeah, right. You mentioned that before," she said. "How is that going?"

Terrible.

"Fine," he simply said.

She turned off the faucet, having washed everything, and looked at him. "Sometimes, you are a very good liar," she said, her eyes fixed on him. "And sometimes, Barnes, you're a very bad liar."

A small spread across his face, but he didn't say anything.

She walked over to the oven and pulled out a tray of something that looked like muffins. "There is still a bunch of stuff inside, but that's done," she told him. "So...let's eat."

After she had quickly swept the floor, they sat down opposite to each other, leaning their backs against the counters and stretching their legs. "So what exactly am I eating?" he asked her.

"Caramel apple muffins," she replied, taking a bite. "My mother's recipe, but we don't sell it here."

"Well, you should," he told her. "It's amazing."

There was a small grin on her face. "Honestly, sometimes I am not even sure if I should take your opinion seriously, it feels like you are amazed by everything I let you eat here."

He shrugged. "Well, you are the one who bakes great stuff. What can I do?"

"Thanks, I am flattered,” she laughed. "So, why do you not like your therapist?"

"I didn't say I don't like her," he clarified. "It's just very uncomfortable, I—I can't get used to it yet."

"That's understandable," she commented. "My mother went to a therapist after my father died—I mean, she did it a bit too late, but when she did finally go, it really helped her."

He was going to take another bite, but stopped. "It did?" he asked, unsure of what to say. He really needed to work on his social skills.

"Yeah," she sighed. "They had a great love story, and they were so in love. They were each other's everything, and I grew up thinking that's normal, that all married couples were so in love all the time. Then I went to school and discovered divorce and messed up relationships...it was a huge shock," she chuckled softly, then took a deep breath. "It was sudden, he died in a car accident, and it was really bad. So we were both destroyed afterwards, but she just kept getting worse. She couldn't go to work and couldn't do anything. And I had to take care of her. I delayed starting college for another year to stay with her. Then, I think she realized how that was unfair to me and finally started getting her shit together, so she decided to go to therapy and deal with her grief. That's what really helped her to be honest."

Bucky's gaze stayed on her, his heart heavy because of what she just told him. "And what about you?"

She smiled sadly. "Well, I kind of had to delay feeling my grief for a while to take care of her. So I think I stayed in denial for a very long time…. I didn’t quite comprehend it. She still feels guilty about that of course, but I am not angry at her anymore. She's always been a great mother, so I couldn't really stay angry at her for long," she told him. "I only got to deal with it when I went to college, and that was another hell—to go through something like this there. But I had my friends, and I dealt with it, eventually. I guess that's why his death anniversary is always so hard for me."

"I am sorry," he said, because again, he had no idea what to say. "I am sorry you had to go through this."

"It's fine," she breathed out. "I had seventeen years with him, I am grateful for that now."

And that made him blink and swallow down a knot that suddenly formed in his throat. Bucky always felt bitterness and so much anger because his family had been alive at the same time as him, but he never got any more time with them. He was thankful they thought he died in the war, but they hadn't been gone back then, and neither had he. He had just been forcefully deprived of being with them, and it broke his heart. And yet he had never thought about it that way before. He never thought that he was grateful for having the time he had with them. Anna had seventeen years; he almost had twenty-eight years with them.

He knew he still had the right to be angry, but thinking about it like that certainly made it all less painful.

"What is it?" she asked.

He blinked again, trying to focus on their conversation. "Nothing, I am just...thinking about what you said."

"Anyway," she sighed. "Therapists are not so bad. It just seems like you're not giving her a chance."

Right, that was how the conversation got here.

"Well, being forced to do it isn't really helping with that," he continued eating the muffin in his hand.

"Just give the poor woman a chance," she argued. "I know therapy wasn't exactly a thing in the forties, and going to a doctor to talk about your issues might've sounded insane. But we have come a long way since then, and I really hope you are not avoiding talking about your issues because of some toxic masculinity thoughts."

He stopped eating, halfway through the next muffin. "What the hell is that?"

She laughed. "God, you are so old."

He stayed there for a while. She took out the rest of the pastries from the oven and had him taste everything, and then they organized the kitchen again, since she was about to start on the day's baked goods. He decided to leave at around five in the morning and let her get to work.

She walked him outside and stood by the door. "Thank you for staying," she said, a grateful smile on her face.

He smiled. "No, actually, thank you for inviting me inside. I feel better."

That made her smile wider. "Yeah, me too.”

And Bucky suddenly felt like he wanted to kiss her, which is something he hadn't felt in so long—for so many years, and that made the need to kiss her all the more intense.

But he really shouldn't. So he started repeating to himself every reason why he shouldn’t kiss her. He was an ex-assassin, he was brainwashed, he had so many things to heal from and so many issues, and there were things he wouldn’t ever heal from— things that really shouldn't even make him think about being involved with anyone romantically.

So he really, really shouldn't.

Bucky let out a nervous sigh. "Goodbye."

"Bye," she said, smiling, closing the door behind her.

He started walking away, but all he could think about was her eyes, her braided hair, and her lips. And fuck, he really needed to kiss her. So he pushed all the previous reasons away from his mind and returned to walk back to her shop, his heart beating so fast. Feeling her lips on his was all he wanted and needed at the moment.

He opened the door of the bakery and found her in front of him in the dim light, leaning by the display case, as if she had been waiting for him. She straightened her back when she saw him, looking nervous.

He approached her, taking off his gloves, then held her face with both his hands. He was breathing heavily, and he felt her breath across his face. "I am going to kiss you," he told her, his voice breathy and raspy.

She inhaled deeply. "Okay."

He pulled her lips to him, gently and slowly in the beginning, and she lifted her hand to his neck, pulling him closer. His right hand stayed on her face, and his left hand pulled her waist against him. But this wasn’t enough anymore, he needed her more than this. So he kissed her harder, with hunger, and with urgency, until their bodies slammed hard against the display case.

He lifted her, effortlessly, his lips still connected to hers, and placed her on top of the counter by the cashier.

She pulled back slightly, catching her breath, her hands around his neck. "Was that your first kiss since—"

"Yeah," he breathed, a small smile on his face, because he knew she was going to ask this.

"Unbelievable," she said, smiling and shaking her head, then grabbed him back to her.

He remembered what he had told her earlier, that he hadn’t felt okay since 1943. But right now, he realized this might be the first time in decades he felt even slightly okay.

——————————————————

The guilt he is feeling will be the death of him.

Rumlow said that the knife will stay in for a long time, and that they will proceed with the second phase in an hour. And he's terrified that Rumlow might leave the knife in for the second phase as well and require him not to move again, because his arm is trembling badly, and he doesn't know if he will be able to do it.

He won't be able to bear Anna getting shocked again either.

"It can send shocks in the chest—excruciating ones, that almost mimic a cardiac arrest. Use it many times in a row and it won't just make the man drop to his knees, it could kill him."

A cardiac arrest, he kept reminding himself when Rumlow was hitting him, so he wouldn't move. The pain is like a fucking cardiac arrest, so control yourself, he told himself again and again, and yet he had failed. He heard her screams and he knew she was trying so hard not to scream loudly, but the pain she was feeling didn't seem like the kind that could be held in.

Anna was getting hurt because of him, and she might still get shocked again, even after she leaves. Because of him. And the pain of that was nothing in comparison to her watching the third phase. Knowing that she doesn't believe that it's his fault doesn't do anything to lessen the pain, because even if he believed that it's not his fault she's here, it's still his fault Rumlow came up with this sick idea, because of what he did to him, because he couldn't control his anger.

Bucky had gone through unspeakable things, he knew that. He had done unspeakable things, too. Everything he went through has its own kind of pain and heaviness. But Anna has a device above her heart, she is being hurt because of him, she can die in an instant—even if she's far away from here, because of him. So all the pain that he had gone through during his lifetime doesn't even come close to knowing he caused what's happening to her.

And it's going to make him unable to breathe.

On their first day here, he had woken up after the first phase and found Anna by his side, and he remembers how he thought about how his mind wouldn't be able to handle that Anna's presence here was his fault, so how the hell can his mind handle what's happening right now? 

His breathing is already heavy, and there's a fucking knife stuck to his hand, and she's right here, and he knows she must be looking at him, he knows she's worried, he knows the sight of his hand is terrible, so he can't have a panic attack. He would only be making it worse for her and he has to get a fucking grip on himself.

So he throws his head back, his eyes lifting to the ceiling, his chest rising and falling as he forces the air in slowly. He does as Sam taught him, he counts each inhale and exhale.

"Remind yourself that you got out. That's what matters. You are in your own apartment. You're with your friends. You are safe. Whatever is troubling you, we will figure it out," Sam had told him.

He shouldn't have remembered that.

He hasn't gotten out, he's back here again, and it looks like he will be for a long time. He misses his sad, empty apartment. He's not safe. Anna is not safe. He's not with Steve and Sam. And it doesn't look like anyone is going to be able to figure out anything anytime soon. What's troubling him won't ever be fixed, and he may never survive this.

Get a fucking grip, he tells himself. He is not going to have a panic attack when Anna is right there. He shouldn't have a panic attack when there's a knife stuck to his broken hand, he would look like a fucking mess. And he already must look like a mess when he's sitting like this, and it's only going to get worse after a little while.

So he tries to think about the throbbing pain in his hand instead, he tries to move his fingers, knowing that the pain of that would be intolerable. And it helps, because the pain makes his breathing stop, and for a second, it makes any thoughts about Anna and the device inside her stop as well.

Closing his eyes, he starts counting each inhale and exhale again, only this time he does it without remembering what he used to say to calm himself down, without remembering Sam, and without remembering everything he lost. He focuses on what's happening now, and that he should just go through the second phase, and then he will manage anything else, even if it's the third phase.

It takes all his power, all the energy he doesn't even have, but he does it. He controls himself and controls his breathing. And he stays like that, not moving or opening his eyes, terrified that the control he has on himself may slip at any moment if he sees Anna.

"Wake the fuck up, Barnes!" he hears Rumlow shouting.

It's been an hour already?

He tilts his head down, wincing from the ache he feels in his neck because of how long he has kept it like that, and opens his eyes. Rumlow is approaching him with another knife and the same cable cord as last time.

He sees Bucky glancing at what he is holding in his hand. "I had to get another one," he says, gesturing at the knife he's holding. "How is your hand?" he asks, leaning over the chair where Bucky's hand is pinned with the knife.

"Fine," he replies, his voice barely coming out.

"It looks really awful, I have to say," Rumlow says. "But yeah, let's move on to your back then and get this over with."

His back had healed significantly. There are no open wounds anymore, but there's still a faint stinging and any movement causes a dull throb across his back and shoulders. He had stayed in the medical exam room for six days, spending most of the time just lying on his side. The pain during the first two days was terrible, because the day they sent him to Dr. Raynor had been filled with events that only worsened his back. It started hurting him in the morning during the car ride, then there was everything that happened with Steve and Sam, he had felt some of the wounds slightly opening again when he was fighting Steve, and he was shivering and nauseous. And then Rumlow electrocuted him and pinned him down with his combat boot, and it had felt like it was completely torn open again then.

He found out that he had a really bad fever afterwards, because of the infection, which explained the exhaustion and the coldness he was feeling. The fever was another thing that shocked the doctor who was treating him and made her curse every single person in the base, because she had told them that he should rest for several days. Instead, his state was even worse than it had been the day before.

He doesn't understand who that doctor is, he was always treated and operated on by male doctors and surgeons when he was with Hydra, there were nurses of course, but he never had a female doctor before. He doesn't know who she is, but it almost feels like she's here against her will, yet still not to the point where she would be considered a prisoner.

He had lost his consciousness at some point when she was treating his wounds again that day, and had woken up to her shouting at Rumlow, because the guards explained what he did to Bucky. She was almost screaming at him, not just shouting. Which doesn't make any sense to him. No one has ever cared about the state he was in, they treated him like he wasn't really a person, even most of the nurses, so he knows she is definitely not Hydra.

Rumlow presses the knife underneath his right shoulder. "I know they told me you needed more time to heal completely, but I thought it would be better than this," he tells him. "But you had six days of rest, it felt like it was too much, especially in light of what you did."

He presses the knife deeper and does what he did last time, dragging it across his back, and Bucky tries to focus on his breathing again.

"Do you know I checked the reports again? Turns out it was only one slash, not two. You never said anything," he says, stopping at his lower back. "Should we keep at one, considering your state?"

He should answer all questions, he reminds himself, even if they are stupid or hypothetical.

"Do whatever....you want," he replies, his words heavy with exhaustion.

"Thought so too,” he presses the knife against his left shoulder. “Two it is."

He hears Anna's shaky breath from here and tries so hard not to look at her.

When Rumlow is done, Bucky is left with a throbbing, awful pain in both his hand and his back. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for what's about to happen.

Rumlow gets up, walking in front of Bucky. "So here's what's going to happen." He shoves the chair a few inches to the right, and Bucky lets out a strangled groan, the movement wrenching at his hand. "This chair shouldn't move from its place," he says, crouching slightly, tapping the floor. "See the tile? The chair stays in this square. It doesn't cross that white line. And your left hand stays by your side, don't hold the chair. It shouldn't move a centimeter, Barnes, or else...well, you know what's going to happen. Clear?"

Bucky closes his eyes in despair. This is even worse than what he thought might happen, because this is not something he will have control over like keeping his hand steady. The chair is too light, it already shifts with the slightest movement, and his hand is pinned to it with a damn knife.

"I said, clear?" Rumlow asks, pressing the knife in Bucky's hand deeper.

His breath hitches in his throat. "Y-yes," he replies. "Clear."

"God, you are terrified," Rumlow tells him, studying his face. "And honestly, you should be," he says, moving to stand behind him.

Bucky rests his metal arm on the ground as strongly as he possibly can, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

The first hit comes so hard he almost jerks forward with all his weight, but he keeps his balance, using his metal hand to steady himself. Rumlow doesn't even give him a few seconds before the second hit comes, and Bucky takes it, he doesn't move. He doesn't even breathe.

And each hit makes the knife in his hand bite more into the wound, and then the blows keep coming repeatedly, strong enough to make him tremble from the pain, but not so strong that he can't hold himself still.

Then Rumlow pauses for a few seconds, Bucky hears the cord whipping in the air and knows that Rumlow gathered all his strength for this one, and it comes so strong and violent that he jerks forward only slightly, hissing in pain through his clenched teeth. He is not even sure if the chair moved or not. He looks down at the floor and finds that it crossed the white line, just barely.

Fuck.

Anna screams. He looks at her this time, and she's clutching at her chest, leaning forward with her eyes closed. She gasps loudly when it stops, and looks at him right after, and he's almost going to tell her he's sorry. He hopes she can read his eyes and understand what he wants to say.

"It's okay," she tells him, out of breath. "I am okay, I—I promise."

His eyes glisten and he bites the inside of his mouth, but he got distracted with Anna, and isn't prepared at all when the next hit comes. He jolts forward, a strangled cry escaping him because the movement tugged violently at the knife in his hand.

"No," he mutters in horror under his breath. He turns his head to look at Rumlow, forgetting all the rules. "Please don't—don't do it. I am sorry,” he gasps, panic seizing him. “I am sorry. I won't move again."

"Shit, Barnes. You just broke all the rules," Rumlow tells him. He then turns his gaze to the guard beside Anna. "Make it fifteen seconds this time."

"No,” he says in desperation. “Please..”

And Anna screams again, the sound tearing his heart open. His body trembles, and it feels like his chest might split apart. Rumlow can spend the whole day doing that, and he won't be able to do anything.

He's never had control when it came to Hydra, but it was just him. It was always just his mind, his body, his pain. But this is something else. This is a cruelty beyond anything he believed possible. Pierce had said that instead of trigger words and the wipes, they would just use Anna to control him, but that isn't just control. They will break him over and over again, until nothing remains—until there's no difference between this and the wipes, because this will hollow him out until he no longer remembers who he is.

Anna keeps gasping for a while after it stops, and Bucky is breathing heavily too, his chest tightening with every inhale. But her gasps sound even more painful this time, so he looks at her, and she is gripping her chest with both hands, her face pale and stricken.

"Your body is almost shaking, Barnes. This is even worse than the third phase, isn't it?" He tauntingly asks.

Bucky lowers his gaze to the ground, tightening his grip on the floor. "Yes," he quietly replies, his voice quivering.

"That's good." He continues snapping the cord against Bucky's back. Bucky keeps his balance, his metal hand clenching the floor with all his strength.

But then he starts feeling lightheaded, probably from all the blood loss, his head sways and he has to wrap his metal arm around himself to stop himself from dropping on the chair. He blinks rapidly, his heart racing, knowing that Anna can't get shocked again. But Rumlow must have noticed he's barely holding it together, because the next strike lands even harder. Bucky jerks forward uncontrollably, the chair creaks from the movement, and the knife wrenches in Bucky's hand. He feels a surge of pain so sharp it almost blinds him.

His eyes widen in horror, because there's nothing that he can do. He can't talk, he can't beg, he can't cover his ears and stop himself from hearing Anna's screams. He just places his left arm on the chair's leg, and rests his head on the edge of the chair, his body trembling. Anna lets out a muffled scream, and he knows from the sound he is hearing that she is covering her mouth.

He holds his breath until it stops, then he lets out a loud, trembling exhale. He's going to lose control. He's going to remove the knife from his hand and he's going to kill Rumlow. He can do it in a couple of seconds anyway. He can kill them all.

But there's a collar around his neck, and there's a failsafe in the device inside Anna.

And he is going to panic again. He can't hear anything happening around him, only a loud ringing in his ears. His body is still trembling, and his heart is going to rip out of his chest.

Then Rumlow's leg slams into his split-open back, and the pain is so brutal it brings him back to reality. His body moves against the chair, and the knife tugs at his hand again, the wound feels like it's getting ripped open wider. His eyes sting, watering from the pain, and he forces himself to blink, trying to focus on what's happening.

"I said remove your fucking hand from the chair," Rumlow snaps, his voice loud.

Bucky removes his left hand instantly. His gaze moves to Anna, just to make sure she's conscious. She's looking at him with a horrified look on her face, her chest heaving.

He has to focus. He has to fucking focus.

Rumlow moves to stand in front of him. "You are not allowed to rest your left hand on the ground anymore, Barnes. Keep it on your lap."

"No," Bucky says, terrified. This is the only thing that's been helping him stay upright. “Please, I won't be able to—"

Rumlow slaps him. "Keep it on your lap, and don't let me repeat myself. I would have made you take it off altogether, but I can't remove the knife from your other hand now."

Bucky removes his hand from the ground and does as Rumlow ordered.

"Focus, Barnes. We're almost done." Rumlow drags the chair back to the same square it was placed on, and Bucky shifts forward slightly, trying to ignore the pain he feels in his hand from the movement.

Rumlow continues, and Bucky's hand is gripping his knee so hard he knows it will be awfully bruised afterwards. And there's a lot of blood, spilling faster with every jerk of his hand and from the torn mess of his back. It won't stop. It runs beneath him, around him, until the floor is slick with it, which makes it easier for the chair to move on the red-stained tiles.

It moves only slightly once, so slightly that Rumlow doesn't notice. But his head swims again, and he is not able to hold himself when the next hit comes. He hits the chair so hard, his whole body jerking forward. And Anna screams again.

He’s going to lose his mind if she screams one more time. And he won't be able to hold himself still again, not without his metal arm on the ground and definitely not with the dizziness he's feeling, he already thinks he’s going to lose his consciousness, but the shuddering breaths breaking out of him make him realize he's still horribly awake.

So when Anna stops screaming, he starts to beg. "S-stop," he forces the words out, his gaze lowered to the ground. "Please, don't....do it again. Please, I will..." he trails off, his vision blurring.

Rumlow moves in front of him and drops to one knee on the ground. "What, Barnes? You will what?"

"I will do...whatever you want," he wearily tells him.

"But you're already doing what I want, " he states. "What's in it for me?"

"Please," he begs again. "What—what do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?" he asks, his voice hoarse. "I will do whatever...you want. Do you want me to beg you to fucking kill me? I wish I could. You know I am not exactly interested in living at the moment. But you won't do it....unfortunately, and I can't ask you to do it either, because you—you put a damn device inside her,” he pauses, his eyes burning because he never wanted to say something like this in front of Anna. “So just— please...for the love of God, tell me what you want and I will do it."

"Jesus, Barnes," he says, almost surprised. He holds Bucky's chin, tilting his face up. "Look at me."

Bucky turns his eyes to him, barely even able to keep them open.

"In a little while, when we start the third phase, will you do anything I ask of you?"

"Anything," he says,  desperately.

"And if I tell you not to gag, not to throw up, not to spit anything, not to close your eyes for even a second, not to dissociate. You will do that too?" he asks, still holding his face.

"I will do—I will do whatever you want," Bucky tells him, even though he doesn't know how he will be able to do any of this when he feels like he's going to faint right now.

Rumlow considers for a few seconds, then says, "Okay, we have a deal," he lets go of his face. "Did you hear that, Anna?" he asks, approaching her. "Amazing what a small little device can do, right?"

Anna doesn't reply to Rumlow, and he has a feeling she's looking at him, and once again, he can't bear her gaze on him after what Rumlow just said.

He lets go of the restraint he had forced on his body and relaxes his muscles, taking a deep breath. He closes his eyes and rests his head on the edge of the chair, ignoring the fact that his hair will now be matted with blood.

"Actually, since you are leaving, do you know why we chose to do the three phases punishment, Anna?" he asks her. "We could have done anything else, we could've just tortured him without any specific plan, and that's what we were going to do by the way. But then Pierce brought up the three phases punishment, and his idea was that it would have been something that traumatized him when he got his memories back. He was sure of it, but honestly...I wasn't. Because we knew he got his memories back, but that didn't mean he remembered everything that happened, right? Then Pierce brought up that we're going to use it on him when you first got here, and I saw how his face looked, and I knew it must have been one of the things that haunted him everyday."

"So we are using it again for the psychological effect, really, because it's not just happening to him again, it's worse—it's a lot worse, because you are here. And the plan worked, didn't it? We broke him. We had already broken him since the third phase happened, I knew that, but after today, I think we've destroyed something in him....we didn't just break him," he says, a hint of pride in his voice. "And it only took a couple of days. I know that if you weren't here, it would have taken us ages, because it took them ages before. Years. But you just made everything incredibly easier, Anna. Thank you."

It had worked. It was a great plan, he had to give them credit for it.

"Go to hell," Anna snaps. "You will get what you deserve one day, Rumlow. All of you will. And I hope you die a slow, horrible death. I hope I see it happening with my own eyes."

Rumlow chuckles. "This could be the last time I see you, Anna. So that's unlikely," he says. "Unless, of course, you try to tamper with the device or do anything. We'll either kill you right away or bring you right back here. And when you come? You might find him barely alive." 

"Anyway," he sighs, standing in front of Bucky again. "Barnes, are you still awake?"

Bucky tries to gather any energy to reply to that. “Yeah,” he replies, tilting his head up.

"Good," he murmurs, his hand reaching for the knife's handle. "Did you learn your lesson?"

"Yes," he rasps out.

Rumlow grips the knife in Bucky's hand and removes it, and a hoarse, guttural cry comes out of his chest. "Bring him a towel or any piece of cloth to contain the bleeding, quickly," he says to the guards. "Wrap it tightly around your hand when they bring it, Barnes. That's an order. You can't bleed out, there's still the third phase."

The blood gushes from his hand in sudden bursts. He was going to use his metal hand to remove it from the chair, but he doesn't want to splatter it with blood. It will already need to be cleaned from all the blood on his back. So he very slowly removes it, and the movement makes the pain unbearable in all his arm, not just his hand.

"As promised, you'll have a couple of minutes to say your goodbyes, so we will leave you now...I am not always so bad, Anna, see? I keep my promises," he smugly says. “I would have told you we're going to miss you, but it doesn't feel like you're really going away when we have control over the device in your chest."

And then Rumlow finally walks out of the room.

He can no longer sit with his knees bent beneath him, so he uses any strength he has to drag himself with his metal hand to the wall, across Anna. He rests his head on it, keeping his bleeding hand by his chest.

The guard returns right away and gives him a towel. He takes it, placing it on his lap, and then the other guards leave the room, leaving him and Anna alone.

Anna gets up and walks over to him. "Bucky, I will do it."

He uses his left hand to fold the towel. "No, it's okay."

She sits in front of him, close enough that he has to swallow the knot in his throat. She tries to reach for the towel, but he grips it tightly with his left hand. "Give it to me."

He places his right hand on the folded towel on his lap. "I can do it, Anna," he says, breathing heavily. "It's fine."

"You will get blood all over your left hand," she argues.

"And you—you will get blood all over yourself," he retorts, but he feels lightheaded again and is not able to keep his gaze down. "I just...need a second," he says, resting his head on the wall and shutting his eyes.

She tries to take the towel from underneath his hand. "You're losing a lot of blood. Please just—”

"Stop, Anna. Just give me a second," he says, frustrated.

"Just let me do it, Bucky. You can't open your eyes. What are we even arguing about?"

"Fine," he breathes out, giving up, removing his grip on the towel.

He feels the pressure as she presses the towel to his palm, wrapping it in place, and he forces himself not to flinch. "I will have to tighten it now," she warns, her voice shaky, and he feels her tears on his hand.

He opens his eyes and finds tears silently falling down her face. "I am fine, Anna. It's not as....bad as it looks."

She doesn't reply to him and says, "Take a deep breath."

"Okay." He inhales deeply as she tightens the towel around the open wound. His breath catches in his throat, but she is finally done.

"I am okay," he reassures her, though his voice is not helping with that. "It will heal."

She lowers her face to his bloodied hand and presses a soft kiss to it.

"Anna," he chokes. 

"You are not okay, you don't have to convince me that—" her voice breaks, unable to talk. She reaches for his hair to run her hand through it, but notices that her hands are filled with blood and stops herself.

He wants to tell her that his hair is already filled with blood, but he is too disturbed by the sight of both her hands covered completely in it.

"It's—it's fine," she says when she sees him looking at her hands. She wipes the blood on her clothes. "We don't have much time."

"I know," he shakily says. He bends his knees to his chest, lifting his left hand to her face. Then, he lowers his hand and wipes with his finger the small traces of blood on her lips. "Hi."

Tears gather in her eyes again as she smiles sadly, leaning into his hand. "Hi."

He lowers his hand to her chest, pulling her sweatshirt down to see the scar and the device underneath her skin. The skin surrounding it is reddened, probably from all the shocks she took today. Her heartbeat quickens, he can feel and hear it.

He swallows when he sees it, feeling like his heart is being torn apart. "I am sorry," his voice breaks, placing his hand lightly over her chest. "I am so sorry. I tried to stay still but..." his voice cracks again, and he bites the inside of his mouth to stop himself from crying.

She places her hand on his face, and he tries not to move away from her touch, because he doesn't know when he will see her again. He doesn't know if he will ever see her again. "It's okay. The pain only lasts for a couple of seconds anyway, it's nothing—absolutely nothing, compared to what happens to you."

His eyes burn and he lets out a shaky breath. "No. It's not a comparison...there shouldn't be a comparison. They opened you up, Anna. They placed a fucking device that was meant to control super soldiers—"

She places her other hand on his face as well, holding his face in her hands. "Bucky, I am fine," she tries to reassure him. "I am fine. I am alive. They are never going to kill me because they need you. And if every now and then I feel a pain in my chest for a couple of seconds...then I can live with that. I just need you to hold on until we figure out what we're going to do. Hold on, please. We will get you out of here."

"No, no, don't worry about that. Anna, look," he pauses, because he needs to be closer to her, even if his mind is screaming at him that he shouldn't even touch her. "Wait," he says, shifting himself to sit with his knees bent beneath him, just like she's sitting.

"Take care—your back," she tries to warn him. "God, you're bleeding from your back so hard, Bucky...you had just started healing, and your fingers are broken…”

"It's okay. I am fine." He holds the back of her head with his left hand and rests his forehead against hers, keeping his injured hand by his chest, though he knows he will get even more blood on her now. "Anna, try to get the device out, if possible. Steve and Sam will take care of it. I know you will be haunted by everything that happened for a very long time," he pauses, feeling overwhelmed by the dizziness, so he closes his eyes. "But you have to get back to your life. Don't wait for me, because I don't know what's going to happen and—"

"I will always wait for you," she says, and he feels the tears that are falling down her face. "Always."

And then, even though his head is in the darkest place it has ever been in, and even though his heart is aching and his body is about to collapse, and even though the third phase will start after she leaves, Bucky still tries to lift the heaviness between them. She's been through so much here, she has seen the worst of him, and she can't leave carrying only this broken version of him.

He opens his eyes, despite the burning and ache he feels in his head. "Hey, look at me," he softly says. She opens her teary eyes and looks at him. "You will get out of here, take some time to get better—to get over what happened. Don't think about me too much and don't worry about me, I will be okay. I will manage. I have always managed. Keep the bakery open. I love that place so damn much, Anna, so you've got to keep it open....it's where I first met you and where I first kissed you. I love everything you do there....even your failed recipes that you forced me to eat. You have no idea how many times I came to your place with a heavy heart and left feeling like I could breathe again. Promise me you will go there all the time like you used to. Promise me it will stay open."

She places her hand on his face. "And you," she whispers, her lips quivering. "Promise me you will get back to me."

He gulps. He can't promise her that. For so many reasons, and because even if they do find a way to remove the device and get him out of here, he knows he may not be able to continue living anyway. "I can't," his voice trembles. "I can't promise that. I don't know what's going to happen."

"I heard what you said to Rumlow, Bucky. I know that you want to—" she stops, unable to say it. She bites her lips, trying to hold back her tears and then closes her eyes. "Please....promise what I want and I will promise you what you want."

"Okay," he shakily breathes, because there's no time to argue. "I—I promise I will try. I will try and get back to you."

"Fair enough," she says. "I promise I will keep the bakery open. And if I go, it will be only for you."

He smiles faintly, pulling back just enough to see her face. "Open your eyes."

She opens them but keeps her gaze lowered, as if meeting his eyes would make her break into tears again. 

He has to take her in. He has to remember. He has to remember everything about her. So he moves his hand from the back of her head to the loose strands falling across her forehead, brushing them gently away from her eyes. He tells himself he will remember her dark brown hair, and the way the short layers always fall over her face. His gaze fixes on her eyes— hazel, edged with sharp green, always shifting into something different under the sun. She finally meets his eyes and holds them, her gaze burning through his. And his hand moves lower, brushing against her lips, and he aches to use his right hand. He needs to feel her more than this.

And he needs to kiss her, even though touching Anna has been hard after everything that happened. His mind is already reminding him of every reason why he shouldn't touch her, why he shouldn't even be near her.

But this is goodbye. And he needs to kiss her.

So he presses his lips to hers, pulling her close. He feels her tears falling even more, mingling with his own. He moves his lips against hers slowly, taking his time. And the kiss is painful, filled with both their tears, trembling, and drenched in grief. He doesn't want to let go, he doesn't want to pull away. But he stops, his breath shuddering against her mouth, and her sob catches in her throat. Then he kisses her again, only this time he doesn't move his lips against hers. He just holds her mouth to his, clinging to this one last moment, and to every last bit of her.

"I love you," he breathes against her lips. "And I am sorry—," he stops, his head is swaying and he feels the pull of the unconsciousness ready to take him. He holds her arm to steady himself.

"Bucky," she says, sniffling. "You are exhausted, rest yourself against the wall."

"No, I am okay," he tells her, pressing his face against hers, his jaw brushing against her cheek. "I am so sorry, Anna, for telling you this for the first time when we got here. But God, ask Sam when you get out of here how long I have known that I am in love with you...he will tell you."

"I know," her voice is heavy with emotion. "I know, Bucky."

He hears footsteps about to step inside the room, and feels his heart breaking all over again. "Thank you," he hoarsely whispers. "You made me feel like I was myself back in the forties again sometimes. Thank you for that. Thank you for everything."

She chuckles softly while crying. "Thank you for everything too," she tells him. "We will get you out of here, I promise."

"Anna," the guard calls, the one responsible for her. "I—I am sorry about the shocks and—are you alright?"

She pulls away from Bucky. "I am fine," she replies, turning her gaze to the guard. "You didn't have a choice, it's okay. Uh—Bucky, this is Luke. He helped me a lot."

"It was you, wasn't it?" Bucky asks him. "You contacted Steve."

"Yes," he replies.

"Thank you," Bucky tells him, even though he has no idea what else he helped Anna with.

He gives him a short nod. "It's alright. Come on, Anna. They're waiting outside."

She looks at him, her eyes filled with tears again. "Hold on, okay? Hold on until we figure this out."

"Okay," he says, grabbing her face and pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Go," he whispers.

She gets up, still crying, and walks away with Luke. He watches her as she goes, and feels relieved knowing she will never walk into this place again.

He rests his side on the wall and finally gives in to the lightheadedness he's been feeling, though he knows he will be woken up shortly after to go through another unbearable hell.

Chapter Text

"So since we've finally established that you have nightmares, can we—" 

"I am not going to talk about my damn nightmares, doc." 

"I know you won't," she said. "I am not going to ask you what they're about." 

He sighed. "What are you going to ask then?" 

It had gotten significantly better with Dr. Raynor. And it was bound to get better, eventually. He was meeting her two times a month, and it had been almost six months now, so he had to get used to her. They discussed stuff and talked, or at least she had a way of making him talk, sometimes even when he didn't want to. There were still lines they never crossed and questions she didn't ask anymore, because they both knew that if she did, he would just shut down and retreat a hundred steps, and it would be like they never made any progress. And it had happened quite recently, he stormed out of their session over a very simple question she had asked. He knew it wasn't really her fault, but he couldn't control himself or his anger. 

"I just want to talk about how you feel afterwards." 

"That sounds a lot like talking about my nightmares." 

She ignored him. "I know you will not tell me what you have nightmares about, that's fine, but I can guess a few. Can I do that?"

"No." 

"I will guess anyway then—" 

"Then why even ask?" he asked her, irritation lacing his voice. 

She continued. "There are two types of nightmares I am certain you have all the time. You must have nightmares about the people you killed, because that's always been your number one issue, right? And you must have nightmares about all the traumatic events they put you through during your time with them, like the brainwashing and the wipes. Now—"

"Technically, all my time there was traumatic so..”

"You know what I mean," she told him. "What I want is simple. I just want to discuss how you feel when you wake up, that's all." 

"No." 

"James," she said, her tone edged with warning. 

"Doc," he shot back, mocking her voice.

"Just make some effort and try. Can you do that?"

He really wanted to say no, it was at the tip of his tongue, but he didn't want to be an asshole, and he was an asshole most of the time with Dr. Raynor. "Fine." 

"Okay then," she said, drawing in a small breath. "Nightmares usually leave people with lots of different feelings afterward—especially with PTSD. Some feel scared, frightened, on edge. Some could feel, shaken, sad, disturbed...how do you usually feel?”

He kept his gaze away, twisting his hands together nervously. Was it okay to feel all of that?  "I don't know, it depends." 

"It depends on the nightmare."  

"Yeah." 

She gave him a moment, then spoke. "Well, most of the time—in most of the nightmares, how do you feel?" 

"Really shitty?" 

She nodded. "Okay, really shitty is better than nothing," she told him. "Do you feel scared?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Sometimes."

"What do you feel scared of?"

"Is that a trick to get me to talk about my nightmares?" he asked, his eyebrows pinched together.

"No, it's not a trick. Aren't you a hundred-year-old man? It wouldn't be that easy to trick you, would it?" 

"Well, I am technically in my thirties, so I am really not that smart or wise." 

She didn't smile. Her gaze stayed fixed on him, patient. "Can we get back to the question now?"

He exhaled. "I don't know. I usually wake up confused, so uh—maybe I get scared that I am...back there again, that's one of the reasons."

"Okay," she breathed out, looking at him carefully. "Do you feel angry when you wake up?"

He swallowed. "All the time."

"Do you feel angry at yourself?" she asked, her tone cautious, as though she knew this was a question that could easily make him shut down. 

"Sometimes," he hesitantly admitted. "I mean, I did kill people. I have to feel any kind of anger, right?" 

"What about Hydra? The people who did that to you?" she asked. "Do you feel angry at them?" 

He inhaled and exhaled, leaning back into the couch. "Shouldn't I?" 

"You tell me," she said. "I am asking about how you feel." 

He turned his gaze to her, feeling frustrated. "I feel like we've been talking about my feelings for a while now." 

"I always keep telling you that's the point of therapy," she stated. "Now answer my question." 

"Yes, of course I feel angry," he told her. "Sometimes—sometimes it feels like I could choke on all the anger I am feeling when I wake up, because I relive it all again, and knowing that—" he stopped, feeling like he said enough. 

She waited for a couple of seconds, and when he didn't say anything, she asked, "What?" 

He hesitated, but eventually talked. "Knowing that there's nothing that can be done about it all doesn't make it better. Hydra went down, yes, but it.." he trailed off, struggling to say what he wanted. 

"But it doesn't feel like they got the justice they deserved?" 

Especially certain kinds of people, like Kaprov. 

"Yeah," he sighed. "And some of them have been long gone. They probably lived long, normal, calm lives. They had families and their lives just went on till they got old. It's just—it's not right. And they were a lot—there were a lot of horrible people, especially the ones from before—before Alexander Pierce and all that." 

"Would it have helped, do you think? If they got what they deserved?" 

He smiled faintly. "Nothing would've been enough for them to get what they actually deserved. It never would've been enough, but..." he trailed off, lost in his thoughts, because while he believed that nothing would have been enough, that didn't mean that sometimes, Bucky had nightmares where he dreamt about killing Kaprov. Where he killed them all, and where he tortured them, slowly, and as painfully as possible. He didn't wake up satisfied when that happened, he woke up terrified, which was why he considered them nightmares. 

But he never woke up angry when he had those dreams. And of course, he would never tell Dr. Raynor that. 

"But, yeah, I guess," he finally added. "It would have been better than nothing."

——————————————————

"Where the fuck is my husband?" a woman is shouting loudly, her voice comes from outside the room he's in. 

Where the fuck is he?

He's lying on a hospital bed in the base's medical exam room, and he doesn't remember getting here. He doesn't remember anything. 

And who the hell is screaming outside?

There's an oxygen mask on his face, an IV drip in his right arm, and there's an unbearable pain everywhere, even his hand is—he glances at his right hand and finds it wrapped in thick bandages, and it looks horrendous. 

Anna had wrapped it in a towel before that, he remembers. He remembers what Rumlow did to his hand and what he did to his back. 

He doesn't remember what happened after he said goodbye to Anna. Had he lost his consciousness after she left? He doesn't—

"Barnes, look at me," Rumlow said, giving him a light smack on his cheek. "Concentrate. I will tell you what's going to happen," he gripped his jaw, and Bucky turned his eyes to him. "I can shock Anna for fifteen seconds only, and we won't have to begin this, there won't even be a third phase. She won't know that you chose this. She will never know, she is not even here. She is on her way home. No one will touch you, you have my word. You just have to decide what you want."

Bucky was struggling not to fall on the ground, he was only keeping his balance because Rumlow was holding his face. But despite himself, a breathy chuckle escaped his lips. "You think I am going to choose to let you torture her?" he asked him. "Just do—do whatever you want," he hoarsely forced out.

"Are you sure?" Rumlow asked, smiling. "We're not going to stop until you give up and let us shock her instead, so you can save yourself the torture and let us do it now. It's only fifteen seconds." 

"The answer will remain unchanged....you know that," Bucky said. "So again, do whatever the fuck you want." 

"Fine," Rumlow sighed, taking his belt off. "Let's see how long you'll be able to hold on for." 

The oxygen mask makes him nauseous, it traps everything inside. There's still a foul, metallic, salty taste in his mouth, every inhale he takes drags the smell deeper into his lungs, and he's going to drown in his own puke if he doesn't take it off. He claws at the mask and rips it away, gasping loudly. 

And Bucky knows that for him to feel like this, only means that what they did went on forever. He just doesn't know how long.

He clenched his jaw as hard as he possibly could, fighting against the bile rising up his throat, while keeping his left hand locked tightly in a fist. His abdomen spasmed, but he forced it down. He will not gag. He will not spit anything. And he will not throw up. 

"Well done, Barnes," Rumlow said. 

Someone walked inside, but Bucky was lying on the ground, unable to look up. He was still trying to concentrate on not letting anything come out of his mouth, because he wasn't going to let Anna get shocked again because of him. 

This, unlike what previously happened, he probably could control. 

"He still didn't give up?" the person who walked inside asked. 

"No, it's probably still too early. It's going to take him some time," Rumlow replied. "You didn't use his mouth last time, did you?" 

"No."

"Give it a go then," Rumlow told him. "We have all the time in the world. Unless, Barnes, you would like us to stop. Should we stop and shock Anna?" 

"No," Bucky breathed heavily, his chest heaving. "Don't stop." 

He feels like his face is sticky with—blood, probably. His head hurts terribly, and it feels like it's badly injured. He is about to bring his right hand up to his face but remembers that he can't move it, so he resets his left arm, and he doesn't even remember why it needs resetting. He uses his thumb to drag it along his forehead and finds blood. He wipes his finger on the bed sheets, then presses it around his mouth and near his nose, and there's also blood. And he has absolutely no idea when and how that happened. 

The woman outside is still shouting, and it's the doctor who treated him last time, he recognizes her voice now.

He needs to throw up. He has to throw up. And he's suddenly worried that maybe he is not allowed to. Did Rumlow only want him to hold it in for the punishments? Will he know he threw up? And he feels a horrible pang in his chest then. The confusion is all too similar to how he got confused sometimes when he was the Winter Soldier. 

Someone is slapping him on his face and shaking him. 

"Wake up, Barnes," Rumlow said. "We're not done yet." 

Bucky opened his eyes, confused. When did he lose consciousness? He was so dizzy, and his hand was throbbing with unbearable pain. 

"How long has it been?" someone asked. The person who had walked in earlier. 

"Almost an hour," Rumlow replied. "Barnes, it's only going to get worse. Just give up. You won't handle it." 

He would handle it. He would handle anything this time. 

He inhaled deeply, then shakily exhaled, and got back on his knees, waiting for whatever they were going to do to him. 

"Still no?" Rumlow asked. 

"Yeah," Bucky breathed out, keeping his gaze on the wall behind Rumlow. 

"Did you use the baton the last time, Mike?" Rumlow asked. 

Mike, Bucky repeated in his head. 

He had to remember their names, just in case they ever removed the device from Anna's chest. 

"Yeah, got him to scream so hard his girlfriend couldn't handle it," he proudly said. 

Mike, Bucky repeated again. 

Rumlow. Pierce. Mike. 

Last time, he was just focused on trying to survive while Anna watched. This time, he will remember.

He will remember all of them. 

Rumlow walked away to get the baton that was thrown away in the corner, the one that broke his fingers. And Bucky’s body tensed and his heartbeat got quicker. He was already in an overwhelming amount of pain, so he couldn’t help but feel terrified of what was about to happen.

"Hold him, we don't have to chain him this time," Rumlow told Mike. 

Mike stepped forward, got on his knee, and grabbed Bucky's neck, forcing his face to the floor. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together. 

Rumlow. Pierce. Mike. 

There were another two from the last time, he will know who they are too. They would probably show up again today. 

Rumlow dropped down Bucky’s pants, and he gulped. He tried to keep any pressure away from his right hand, which was so close to the ground, but it was impossible once Rumlow started. Then he screamed, a hoarse scream that tore out of his gut. A scream he didn't even have enough voice for. 

“What? Does it hurt? Should he stop?” Mike asked. 

When Bucky didn’t answer, because he wasn’t even breathing, Mike slapped him. “I said, should he stop? Are you going to give up?” 

He fought against the burning in his eyes from all the pain he was in. “No,” he whispered. 

He must have lost his consciousness then, he tells himself. That has to be the last thing that happened.

He rips the IV out of his arm and tries to get off the bed. And then realizes that he's naked, so he looks around for his clothes but finds nothing. 

His breath catches in his throat. He doesn't remember. He doesn't remember taking his clothes off. If his pants and boxer briefs aren't here, then he must've taken them off in the room where they had him. He only has his socks on.

He drops himself on the ground, unable to stand, and the impact of the fall makes him groan loudly in pain. And he knows that the pain he's feeling is more than just what he remembers. This is more—this is a lot more, because the pain is unbearable. And along with his hand and his back, it was all excruciatingly, overwhelmingly painful. 

And despite all the pain he's feeling, the panic still seizes him as he thinks about his clothes. Which he knows is stupid, considering everything that already happened to him, but he doesn't remember, and they haven't cleaned him this time. He should have at least had his boxer briefs on. 

He woke up to electricity coursing through his body. It didn't stop even when he opened his eyes. His nerves, muscles, brain, and everything were on fire, and it almost felt like he was going to black out again. He was so confused in the beginning, and almost started panicking from how confused he felt, but then he saw his right hand and started remembering. 

"It worked, I told you!" someone exclaimed. Not Mike, and not Rumlow either.

"Well, that's interesting," Rumlow commented. "Welcome back, Barnes. We almost thought you weren't going to wake up again." 

If he wasn't giving up, why weren't they giving up? There was no way they could keep this going for too long. He felt like he was going to die. His body wouldn't be able to handle this for long either, he knew it. He had lost a lot of blood and was still losing a lot of blood, and they were pushing him to limits beyond what anyone could ever bear. 

He blinked and tried to bring himself to see anything, but black spots were still clouding his vision. 

Then his vision started to slowly return, and two people were standing in front of him now. Had Mike left? When did that happen?

"Is it still a no?" Rumlow asked. 

Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but a hoarse breath came out of him instead. 

The other man got on his knee and gripped Bucky's hair. "Talk," he commanded. And Bucky's vision was getting better, so he saw his face and his eyes clearly, before averting his gaze quickly. 

Bucky cleared his throat. "No," he replied, and he could barely hear himself. "Still a no."

Rumlow sighed in disappointment. "Do whatever you want, man," he told the other guy. 

He let go of Bucky's hair. "Stand up and take your clothes off," he ordered him. 

Bucky froze, not just because of the order he got, but because he genuinely had no idea how he would be able to stand up. His left arm needed resetting and his right hand was completely useless. 

But he had to do it. So he tried to use his feet to get himself on his knees at least, but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. He was too exhausted and dizzy to gather any kind of strength to push himself without both his arms. 

"You have to help him up, John. His metal arm isn't working because of the electricity, and his head has to be swimming right now."

John. That brought more focus to Bucky's head. 

Rumlow. Pierce. Mike. John. 

John dragged him from his right arm, which made Bucky hiss in pain because of his crushed hand. 

"Oh, shut up," John said, holding Bucky upright. 

He will remember that too, Bucky told himself. He will make sure that John has no voice when the time comes. 

John rested his knee against Bucky's bleeding back, clearly not giving a fuck that it was torn open. Bucky closed his eyes and held in the gasp that was going to break out of him. He reset his left arm quickly, then leaned on it on the ground, moving away from John's knee. 

He stood up and tried to inhale and exhale as he did, so he wouldn't drop back to the floor. His breath was already leaving his lungs again. He took a few steps backwards, resting his left hand against the wall as he took his clothes off, so he wouldn't fall to the ground. 

When he was done, he couldn't wait for any further instructions from them. His head swam and he fell back down, despite all his efforts. 

"Are you happy?" John asked him, holding his jaw tightly. "You're being humiliated just because you're too stubborn. Say the words and we let you go." 

Bucky didn't say anything, he kept his left hand on the floor, trying to breathe. 

"You have nothing to say?" he asked him. "You will regret it, I swear to God. So think about it carefully." 

Bucky exhaled. "I have nothing…to say." 

He was taking his belt off, so any attempts Bucky was trying to make to breathe steadily went in vain. "Spread your fucking legs then." 

Rumlow. Pierce. Mike. John. 

He gags against the bile rising up his throat. 

He hears the door opening. "Oh my God, what are you doing?" the doctor asks, her voice shocked. 

Bucky ignores her and drags himself on the floor using his left arm to the garbage bin across the bed, and he had crawled like this earlier, he realizes. He had—

Rumlow was sitting on the chair that Bucky's hand was pinned to earlier. “Come here, Barnes," he told him, his voice bored or exhausted. "Don't stand up, you'll faint." 

He was lying on his side, clenching his stomach and trying so hard not to gag. He couldn't even spit, and that was all he wanted at the moment. He had to keep reminding himself to breathe. And he was almost going to tell himself to count his breaths but immediately stopped— he was not going to remember Sam here and now.

At least Anna wasn't here anymore, watching him like that, so there was that.

"Jesus, what a fucking mess," the new person said. He had been here for a while and had taken all the breath out of him. Bucky wasn't sure if he was the third remaining person from last time, but it was probably him. He still didn’t know his name, though. He also didn’t know when John had left. 

Bucky dragged himself on the floor to where Rumlow was sitting, half crawling up with only his left arm. And it hurt to move, every movement burned. It hurt so badly. He knew it would take him so long to heal this time. He exhaled loudly when he finally reached the chair, keeping his left arm pressed on the ground.

Rumlow leaned forward and tilted Bucky's face up. "For God's sake, just give up. She already got shocked several times today, what would another time do?" 

Bucky swallowed. "You said it, she already—" his voice cut off. He licked his lips and continued. "She already got shocked several...times today. So how do you expect me to—to tell you to shock her...again? How the fuck...do you think I will agree to that?" 

"You're going to kill yourself," Rumlow told him. 

Bucky laughed. "That...would really—really be fucking great."

Rumlow shook his head, letting Bucky's face go. "Goddamit," he muttered. 

Bucky dropped his head down, keeping his left arm steady on the ground. 

"Maybe you should just let it go, Brock," the other person said. "This is a waste of time." 

"I would have let it go long ago, trust me, but this was Pierce's order. He wanted to see how long he would hold on for, he said it was important," Rumlow explained. "I don't think he thought he could hold on for that long, though. Or maybe he did...and that's exactly the point of all this. I don't know."

Pierce. Fucking Pierce, Bucky thought. He definitely knew that he would never give in. He knew he would hold on. He just wanted to prove a point. He was being torn apart and humiliated because Pierce wanted to prove to him that he was in control, even though he already knew that. 

"Leave him to me," the other guy said. "Give me an hour." 

"I will just tell Pierce he held on for that long. He needs to see the doctor, he will bleed out." 

"Just give me an hour," he told him. "He's barely conscious anyway. He will have to give up."

Rumlow stayed silent for a few minutes, then said, "Thirty minutes. You only have thirty minutes, Darren."

Darren, Bucky told himself. 

Rumlow. Pierce. Mike. John. Darren. 

"Forty-five," he argued. 

Rumlow huffed out a chuckle. "Fine."

He keeps throwing up only bile and stomach acid, and even though there's nothing to puke anymore, he keeps violently retching, his whole body shaking. And he can't stop gagging. He keeps spitting, coughing, and then gagging again. His chest heaves, but every gasp for air only triggers another spasm in his stomach, choking him on his own breath. 

The doctor throws the bed cover over him, but he doesn't shift or move. He stays bending over the bin, because his stomach is still clenching and spasming. "You have to stay warm," she tells him. "I will bring you water." 

He rests his head on the wall, his body shivering. There's an awful pain he’s feeling from the way he's sitting, but he can't bring himself to shift. He glances down at his body under the cover she placed over him and sees the blood between his thighs, all the way to his knees, and he knows that blood is not from his back. 

His body trembles and he feels his pulse pounding in his ears. He’s only remembering bits and pieces, and that terrifies him. What have they done to him? 

He kept using the baton. Over and over again. He would ask him "Did you change your mind?" And Bucky would shake his head. So he would continue, and Bucky didn't understand how there was any oxygen left in his lungs, or how he hadn't snapped and crushed Darren’s head with the baton in his hand. 

They had come up with the three phases punishment to make him unable to fight when they do this to him. But there were limits—time limits, and pain limits, because exceeding those limits would make anyone go mad. And even though they controlled him back then, and even though he was ragged and worn out by the time they got to the third phase, they would have been out of their mind to do what was happening to him now. 

It was unbelievable to him, that they had now come up with something to control him worse than the wipes and the trigger words. 

Then he mercifully lost his consciousness at some point, but woke up again from the electricity. And he thought about how that was another new level of cruelty, to lose consciousness from all the pain and blood loss, only to wake up to electricity coursing through his body.

His metal arm wasn't working. His right hand wasn't working either, it was useless by his side. And the man was in his face, slapping him over and over again. He was frustrated at him. He wanted to make him give up in those forty-five minutes in any way. It felt as if he was going to win a medal afterwards if he succeeded. 

"Are you enjoying this?" he asked him. When Bucky didn't answer, he kicked him in his face with his leg, and his lips split open. "Provide a fucking answer." 

"No," Bucky choked, spitting blood. "N-no." 

His arms weren't working. He was paralyzed. And he was going to panic. 

Bucky tried to push his legs and move, so Darren pressed his leg on his right shoulder. He groaned in pain, attempted to curl his left hand in a fist but then realized he can't do that. 

"It seems like you are. Why else are you not giving up?" 

Bucky didn't answer, so Darren pressed his leg harder on his shoulder. 

"Because I-I can't," Bucky finally replied. "I can't let you hurt her." 

"And you think that makes you a man?" he asked him. Leaning forward and gripping Bucky's face, his leg still pressed to his shoulder. "They already hurt her, and you already failed. So what are you trying to do?" 

Darren, Bucky recited to himself. 

Rumlow. Pierce. Mike. John. Darren. 

He didn't answer again, so Darren pressed his leg on his wrist. "S-stop," he said, hissing in pain, because his hand was already heavily bleeding. 

"Should I shock her and stop then?" 

Bucky closed his eyes. This will never end, he thought. "No...no."

Darren pressed his leg harder, until Bucky screamed, and that satisfied him somehow, so he removed his leg. 

Bucky tried to move so he would be able to reset his arm, even though he had no idea how he was going to be able to do it. "Stop moving," Darren ordered. "Where exactly are you going?"

"I need to reset my arm," he replied.

Because he was going to really panic otherwise. They were already doing whatever they wanted to his body, but that was going to make him have a panic attack for some reason. It was worse than being chained, because even with the chains, he knew he could break out of them most of the time if he wanted to, and his arms were always working, and even if his left arm needed to be reset, then there was always his right arm. But now his arms were just hanging by his side while he was getting attacked, and he couldn't do anything. He couldn't even crawl. 

"You are not allowed to reset it. Stay like that." 

"I can't—" 

Darren swung his fist into his face, and he felt a lot of warm blood spilling from his nose. His chest started heaving uncontrollably. He needed to feel any movement in his left arm. "Please—" 

He grabbed his head with so much force and slammed it to the ground, and pain exploded in his skull. He felt the blood running down the side of his head. Why was he so angry at him? It almost felt like this was personal. 

Bucky used his legs to try and push himself backwards, away from him, but he grabbed his legs and stopped him. "I—I can't breathe," he gasped. "Stop. I need to—"

He didn't stop.

And then his heart started beating even faster, like it was going to rip out of his chest, and his vision went black. The man was shouting, and Bucky couldn't hear anything, the sound felt like it was coming from far away. He kicked him again and again, but he barely felt anything anymore. 

He was slipping away, for good this time. 

"Here," the doctor said, handing him a bottle of water. 

He takes it, rinses his mouth, and then spits into the bin. He does it repeatedly, like he could wash it all away, until his jaw aches and he can't do it anymore. Then he drinks the remaining water. 

"Can you get back on the bed, please? Or should I bring the guards to help you, if you can't?" she asks, standing by the wall in front of him. 

"No," he replies, his voice is hoarse and harsh. "How….did I get here? I—I blacked out for how long?" 

"You didn't just black out, you went into shock," she replies. "Because of all the bleeding. I checked your hand while you were out, and you need surgery. The knife severed an artery, we have to repair it. We also need to fix the fracture in your thumb. Do you know all your fingers are broken?" 

"Yeah," he breathed out. 

"Your head needs stitching too...there's—there's a lot to do."

He rests his head against the wall, feeling completely and utterly drained. 

"Uh—I didn't know last time...they had you cleaned so I didn't know they did that to you. When they brought you now and found me so angry, they told me they did it last time too and I am sorry...I should have—I can check on you, if you want, I have to, actually. I should—"

"No," he instantly replies, though it took him a while to understand what she meant. "Are they going to clean me before the surgery?" 

"What?" she asks, confused. When he doesn't say anything, she says, "There's no time, you've lost a lot of blood. We should have started long ago—" 

He shakes his head. "No,” he firmly says. “You have to—you have to let them wash me first." He cringes at how pathetic he sounds, but it's really bad this time, worse and longer than any time before, so he can't imagine being left like that for long.

"Oh my God," she mutters under her breath. "Sorry—I am sorry. This is just..." she trails off. "It's a lot."

He shifts his gaze to her, realizing he doesn't really remember what she looks like. He probably didn't look at her once the last two times she treated him. She looks like she's in her mid-thirties. Both her hands are resting on her waist, her eyes are a little bit glassy, but she still looks so furious and angry. 

He clears his throat, forcing himself to speak. "They didn't....kidnap you, right?"

She lets out a humorless chuckle. "No, I am not kidnapped," she replies. "My husband...he's a fucking Hydra agent. I didn't really have a choice." 

That explains a lot, Bucky thinks. He brings his head back to the wall, already feeling tired from talking to her. "Please just...let them wash me before the surgery."

"Fine," she sighs, dragging her hand over her face. "But you have to let the IV finish first, so can you get back on the bed?"

He wants to just stay here, he has no energy anymore, but she will just ask the guards to help him if he doesn’t get up. So he nods and prepares himself to stand, wrapping the bed cover tighter around himself. 

"Hang on, I will bring you a medical gown." She moves to the cupboard and gets him one. 

She keeps her back to him until he finishes. He knows he won't be able to keep his balance if he stands up, so he just tries to put it on while he's on the floor, using his left arm. Then he gets up slowly, keeping his left arm on the wall. 

"Done?" she asks. 

"Yes," he replies, his voice shaky, reaching for the edge of the bed. 

She reaches for his left arm to help him onto the bed, but he keeps his hand resting on the table beside it, using it to steady himself as he lies back down. 

"Slowly, don't lie on your back," she instructs, watching him carefully as he sits. He brings his knees up, then rests his head on the pillow, staying on his side. 

She brings the bed cover from the floor and drapes it over him. "You must feel cold, right?"

"A bit," he replies. 

She reattaches the IV to his arm again. "So uh—when you said they're going to wash you, what did you mean exactly? They don't let you shower?" 

He's so tired, and he has no energy to speak. But she said she will have him cleaned, so he owes it to her to answer. "No," he rasps out. "They—they use the hose."

He can't see her facial expression, because his gaze is not on her, but she stays silent for a couple of seconds, and he knows she's probably shocked again. "That can't happen, your body can't bear that at the moment," she says. "You'll have a normal shower, you need warm water too. I will make sure of it, but you have to get it done in a few minutes only. Alright?" 

He nods, unable to speak again. 

"Rest until the IV finishes, so you have energy for the shower. I will go and speak with them." 

When he drifts back to unconsciousness, he dreams about everything that happened. They keep abusing his body, relentlessly, never stopping, and never giving up, waiting for him to tell them to shock Anna instead. 

In his dream, however, he never loses his consciousness and his body never goes into shock, so it never stops. The abuse never stops. 

But his mind tells him to hold on, and recites all their names for him, one by one, over and over again.

Chapter Text

Steve kept watching Anna and Bucky, who were standing next to each other by the counter next to the display case, feeling a mix of shock, awe, and overwhelming happiness.

"His eyes are shining," he told Sam, almost whispering.

"His jaw will stop from all the smiling," Sam whispered back. "Who even is that?"

"I have no idea," Steve replied. "You know what, though?"

Sam looked at him, averting his gaze from Anna and Bucky. "What?"

He was smiling, but also felt really emotional all of a sudden. "That's almost what he was like...before."

Sam smiled too. "I think that's one of the reasons why he fell in love with her," he quietly said. "Although I am not sure he even knows that yet."

Bucky placed the lasagna on the table. "Can you both stop whispering? I know you're talking about me."

"How do you know? Maybe we're talking about Anna," Sam replied.

"What?" Anna asked, still standing by the counter. The food and dishes were laid out there, ready to be carried to the tables they were going to dine on. When he and Sam offered to help, Anna had insisted they stay in their place.

"Nothing," Bucky quickly replied, then pointed his finger at both of them. "Stop talking about me."

After more than six months of Bucky being with Anna, he finally agreed to let them meet her. The initial plan was to have dinner at any restaurant, but Anna decided that since they had never been to her bakery, she would invite them over for dinner at her shop instead. So she had closed the bakery early, cooked everything herself, and lined up some of the small tables in a row for them to dine on.

"I can't believe you never brought us here before," he told Bucky when they started eating.

"Yeah, me neither," Sam said. "So, for context, Anna, whenever Bucky discovers a new place that he really likes, he always has to tell one of us about it, and we have to go there with him again. And he gets really excited and happy if he finds out that it was a place you did not know existed."

He let out a small laugh. "Yeah, I had to act like I didn't know a famous hot dog truck once so he wouldn't get disappointed, but he figured out I was lying afterwards."

"Oh my God," Bucky murmured. "Stop talking."

Anna laughed. "In all honesty, he's been wanting to bring you here since forever."

"Can we not talk about me?" Bucky asked them, looking irritated. "We can talk about how great that lasagna is, for example."

"We are going to talk about you," Anna told him, turning her gaze to him. "I am with your best friends…your best friend who has known you since you were young is here. Of course, we're going to talk about you. Do you know the number of questions I have?"

Steve was grinning, because he had been waiting for this moment since forever. "Ask all the questions you want. I will gladly reply to all of them. What do you want to know?”

"Everything," she replied with a wide grin on her face. “What he was like back then, your friendship, and..”

"I will just get up and leave then," Bucky told her.

"Don’t be dramatic,” Steve told Bucky, who already looked like he regretted ever agreeing to this. “I will tell you everything, Anna.”

Anna leaned forward, resting her arms on the table, and looked at him in anticipation.

He took a deep breath and started speaking. “So I know Bucky and I are best friends, but the truth is, we were complete opposites. And, well…I actually think that's exactly why we were so close. I was always getting into trouble, and he was the one dragging me out of it and protecting me all the time. Even when we got older, he was still the one looking out for me. I was a lot quieter than I am now, he was outgoing and a damn extrovert. He was the one who dragged me everywhere..."

Anna laughed softly, shaking her head as she looked between them. "No, I can't possibly believe that. You dragged him everywhere?" she asked, turning to Bucky.

Bucky slowly turned his eyes to her, his mouth twitching, looking like he wanted to deny it but couldn't. "Kind of, yeah," he admitted.

"Oh, he dragged me to all the parties, bars, festivals—Coney Island of course..."

"Yeah, he told me about how much he loved Coney Island before," Anna commented. "Never took me there, though."

"One day, I promise," Bucky told her. "It's just—there are lots of memories there," he said, smiling as he looked at Steve.

"Yeah," Steve smiled wistfully. "He was charming—still is, I am sure, but back then? God, he was such a flirt, he could flirt his way into or out of anything."

Her lips curved as she looked at Bucky. “That's not hard to believe, even though he was a bit shy the first time we met actually."

"Him? Shy? No way,” Sam said, laughing.

"No, that's not fair, come on," Bucky protested, looking at Anna. "I had no normal social interactions for over seventy years, and I only met you a month after I got back here."

"I know, which is why I said it's not hard to believe."

Steve leaned in, grinning. "Would it be hard to believe that he was a great dancer?"

Anna leaned back, eyes widening. "No."

"Yeah, trust me, it shocked me too," Sam told her.

Bucky was glaring at Steve. "I hate you."

"What? I am just talking about your talents."

Bucky glanced at Anna. "Long-forgotten talents, Anna. Just so you don't expect to see anything interesting, if we ever dance."

"Don't you know? They say muscle memory could last a lifetime," Sam teased.

"I haven't danced since 1943.”

“No, I am sure you remember a thing or two,” Steve told him. “He used to drag me to all these things, but honestly, no one really stood a chance if Bucky was around."

"No, see, that's not correct," Bucky quickly countered. "Because then you took the serum, and remember how everything changed then?"

Steve was the one who looked almost shy now. "It was just one time, don't exaggerate."

"And the last," Bucky said, a weak smile on his face.

"Yeah," Steve heavily breathed.

Anna looked between Steve and Bucky. "The pub in London?"

Bucky turned his gaze to her. "Yeah."

Then Anna rested her chin on her hand and looked at Steve. "So you said that you and Bucky were the opposite in everything. Is that still the case now?"

The question took Steve by surprise, and Bucky too, it seemed, because he looked at Steve like he was trying to figure out the answer himself.

"Yeah, I guess," Steve finally replied.“Just...probably not the same differences I mentioned earlier. Now I am the one who drags him everywhere."

Bucky smiled, almost sadly, then glanced down at his plate.

"Anyway, Anna, I wish I was able to make you watch everything I told you about, especially the dancing," he told her. "But I have a few photos actually, did you see them before?"

"She didn't see those before, no. She only saw the famous ones,” Bucky told Steve. "Don't make her see them, though. She gets emotional."

"What? No, that was one time only. Show me, Steve."

Steve got his phone out and showed her the only three pictures he managed to get hold of a few years ago. One of them was back in the army, and two of them were from before, when they were in their early twenties.

"Oh my God," she said, staring in awe at his phone. "How did you never show me those?” she asked Bucky.

"Because you cry," Bucky said, watching her with a small smile on his face.

And there were actually tears gathering in her eyes. "Ah, shit," she muttered, lifting her head to the ceiling and blinking rapidly.

Bucky let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "See?"

"I can't help it," she laughed while tears fall down her face. "I don't know why it makes me emotional."

"Shit, Anna, why are you acting like he's dead? He's right next to you," Sam told her. "I know he was probably more handsome, but..."

"Shut up, Sam," Bucky said, trying to hold back his laughter.

But Anna laughed, and then Steve couldn't help but laugh too.

"Now, for the love of God, can we talk about anything else other than myself?" Bucky asked.

"Fine, fine," Sam said, sighing. "I think it's time we talk about you, Anna."

And then Anna and Sam got caught up in a conversation about God knows what, with Sam asking her one question after the other. Steve, however, barely concentrated with them at all. His gaze lingered on Bucky, absentmindedly, his chest warming as he watched him.

Bucky caught his gaze and mouthed, "What?" Steve only shrugged, smiling, and mouthed back, "Nothing." But the look in Bucky's eyes told him he understood anyway, because a faint, almost shy smile tugged at Bucky's lips before he turned his gaze away.

——————————————————

"Hey, Steve," Sam says, taking a deep breath. "I know we have lots of questions, but we should take it easy. She's probably going to be mentally not well and we don't know what she's been through. I am reminding myself before I remind you. We have to give her time if she's not feeling well."

Steve nods. "Yeah—yeah, of course. You are right. We will take it easy."

They have been sitting in the car in front of Anna’s building for nearly an hour, waiting. The guard who had contacted Steve before—who finally told him his name is Luke—called Steve a few hours ago and told him they are letting Anna go. He also told him that someone should be there when she arrives, which only meant that she definitely won't be okay.

And right now, the fear Steve is feeling is heavy and nauseating, his heart is hammering wildly against his ribs. His breaths come loud in his ears, his hands won’t stay still, and his legs keep bouncing against the floorboard. And he knows Sam is nervous all the same, because he makes no attempt to calm him down.

When a black SUV finally stops in front of the building, they both immediately stiffen, knowing that it's them. "Here she is," Steve mutters when he sees Anna, and both of them immediately get out of the car. The vehicle drives away as soon as Anna gets out, and she walks slowly towards the building, her gaze on the ground, unaware that they are here.

"Hey, Anna," Sam calls.

She stops, turning to them. She looks incredibly pale, her eyes look tired, and she looks completely unfocused. "Sam," she says, then turns her gaze to Steve. "How—how did you know?”

"Luke," Steve replies. "Are you—" he starts, but the words die on his lips as soon as he sees the blood. Her hands are covered in dry blood, staining her skin and clinging underneath her nails. Her sweatshirt and pants are also splattered with blood everywhere. "Anna," he says, terrified. "What's—what's all this blood? Are you hurt?”

She looks down on herself, confused. And Steve feels his stomach clenching. "That's not—" she stops, taking a sharp intake of breath, her gaze fixed on her hands. "That's not mine."

Sam looks at him, frightened, and neither one of them can say anything. Then Anna falls on the ground, lets out a gut-wrenching, loud sob, and completely breaks down.

It takes Steve and Sam a while to be able to help her get up, because they both know whose blood that is. 

———

"I will get something to clean her hands," Sam tells him.

Steve nods and helps Anna to the couch. She lies on it, bending her knees to her chest. She is not crying anymore, but her whole body is trembling, and Steve has no idea what he should do to help her calm down, because he's panicking himself.

He sits, glances down at his own hands, and finds them shaking. He's not prepared for what they're going to hear. Part of him dreads what they're going to learn, but another part feels relieved that they're finally going to know what's been happening, because then maybe they can actually do something about it.

Sam returns with a damp towel and sits beside her on the couch. "Give me your hands, Anna."

She snaps her attention to him. "What?" she asks, then notices the towel in his hand. "Thank you, just...give it to me," she says, taking it from him.

She begins rubbing the towel over her fingers. "I know you have lots of questions," she tells them, her voice shaky. "But I—I don't know from where to begin."

"The blood?" Steve asks, almost impatiently, and he forgets everything Sam told him earlier.

She swallows. "The blood," she starts. "It's uh—it's Bucky's. They allowed us to have a few minutes together before I left, and he—he was hurt. His hand was injured."

His gut twists painfully. “Why—why was his hand injured?"

Anna doesn't lift her eyes away from her hands, moving the towel around them. "He got angry about a week ago and strangled Rumlow," she explains. "So that was...his punishment. Rumlow broke his fingers and…”

Steve doesn't think that either he or Sam is breathing at the moment. "And what?" he asks, his voice tight, because he doesn't understand what can possibly come after that.

"He stabbed his hand with a knife, it was stuck to a chair—" she stops again, drops down the towel, and presses her fingers to her eyes. "It stayed in for a while...a long while."

"Oh my God," Steve mutters, standing up and covering his face with his hand.

The world tilts underneath Steve’s feet. And he is tired—he is so goddamn tired of being so helpless all the time when it comes to Bucky.

"Why did he wait a week to do it?" Sam asks.

Steve turns around, and Anna looks like Sam caught her off guard. "What?"

"You said he strangled him a week ago, why did it take him a week to do what he did to him?" Sam asks again, looking tense and nervous.

She looks away from both of them. "Because a week ago—“ her voice breaks, and she wraps her hands tightly around each other. "A week ago, he was—he was already injured, so he couldn't...he had to wait.”

Steve looks at Sam, on the verge of crying himself. "We—uh, didn't we see him a week ago?"

"When he went to Dr. Raynor?" Anna asks.

"Yeah," Steve replies.

"He was injured then," Anna tells them. "They—Rumlow tortured him."

"No," Steve almost chokes. "So when we saw him…” His knees buckle and he isn't able to keep standing anymore, so he sits down and tries to breathe through the panic he's feeling.

"He was badly injured, yes," Anna says. "And then it got even worse when he came back. He didn't tell you anything when you saw him?"

"No," Sam replies. "He only said that they want him back...to kill for them again, and that he didn't know why they would let you go after two weeks. He said they didn't hurt you or him."

Steve fixes his gaze on Anna, and for some reason, what Sam did appears to have made her more nervous. "What happened that day? Why couldn't you take him?" she asks, her lips trembling.

So Sam explains to her everything that happened, he tells her about their plan, how Bucky tried to leave, and that he looked unwell, the panic attack and the breakdown he had, and the call Luke gave them.

Anna drops her gaze, her eyes glassy with tears. “And you didn't tell him about the call," she states, her voice cracking. "So he can...be shocked in front of them."

"Yeah," Sam replies, looking devastated. "But that's all we know, Anna. We have no idea what they did to you or what they—"

But Steve remembers what happened that day, how Bucky tried to fight him and how he struggled, and his heart skips a beat. "Where was he injured?" he abruptly asks.

She takes a breath, hesitates for a moment, then finally replies to him, reluctance written all over her face. "His—his back...he had two wounds in his back that got infected...it's why he probably looked sick."

Steve gets up and storms out of the room, his throat closing up and his chest tightening. He makes it to the bathroom and fumbles with the faucet to wash his face, but his hands are shaking too badly. He can't hold back the sob rising in his chest, so he sinks to the floor and starts crying.

"Hey," Sam says, out of breath. "You didn't know, man. I didn't know either."

"He kept telling me to stop," his voice quivers and his tears keep falling down his face. "And I—I kept pinning him from his arms and he tried to—"

"Steve," Sam says, crouching and holding Steve’s arm. "We didn't know. And maybe we should've, because there was the damn bandage which I ignored as well, and chose to believe him instead, but thinking about any of that wouldn't change things. We need to focus on what we're going to do. We also have to make sure Anna's alright. She won't have anyone else to speak to, she won't be able to talk about what happened to her friends or family, and Bucky isn't here, and she was kidnapped from her own house. So we need to be there for her, for Bucky's sake. Alright?"

Sam's words make him able to control himself, so he takes a deep breath and wipes the tears on his face with his hand. "Yeah, alright. I am sorry."

"No, it's okay, man. We're not exactly going through something normal at the moment," he tells him, patting his arm. "Wash your face and come, I will go to her."

Steve nods and gets up. He splashes the cold water against his face and takes slow, deep breaths. He keeps imagining Bucky's broken hand with a knife stuck in it—his only remaining flesh hand, and it makes his stomach twist and his nausea rises, but he tries to steady himself, because if he's that affected by what Anna said, then she must be feeling a lot worse, having actually seen Bucky like that, so he leaves the bathroom and goes back into the living room again.

"I am sorry, Anna," he apologizes. She looks at him, her eyes bloodshot. She definitely cried her heart out while they weren't here. "I am sorry. The day we saw Bucky...it was hard. We didn't know what was happening, he looked terrible, and like Sam told you, he broke down...he was crying and shaking and—you know, Bucky. He would never break down like that in front of us unless it was really bad. Then we received the call from Luke and we couldn't do anything. And that day, I—I tried to hold him to stop him from leaving and he was fighting me, but he was obviously struggling and I didn't..."

She wipes the tears from her face. "It's okay. I know how hard this must be for you both, trust me."

"Anna," Sam sighs. "We need to know everything, starting from your first day there and we need to know what they did to you, but we know you're exhausted...emotionally and physically. If you want, you can sleep and we can—"

"No," she immediately says, straightening her back and bringing her bent knees down. "No, you deserve to know what happened. I will tell you what I can."

She draws in a deep inhale, then exhales loudly. "They want him back, as Bucky said. On our first day there, Pierce told him they would use me to make him comply, instead of the trigger words and the wipes. But Bucky lied to you, of course, because they—they started hurting him from the very first day actually. Pierce had said that they would torture him and that I would...watch. Their plan was to break him in those two weeks, before they did what they did to me...which I will explain, but that was their plan. Rumlow, do you know him?"

"Yeah," Steve replies.

"He's the one in charge of Bucky...torturing him. They placed some kind of electric shock collar on him on the first day, and when he does something that Rumlow doesn't like, he would just—that was how it started. He tortured him on the first day, his back was flogged—that's how the infection happened, because afterwards they..."

She pauses, a hitching breath escaping her lips. "Uh—they—they chained him in a really fucked up way, it left no room for any kind of movement and it was just...it was awful. Rumlow said that they knew from the reports they had that chaining him like that always made him anxious and nervous, so when they did it he—he had a panic attack, while being chained like that, and his back was soaked with blood, and I think he was left there for quite some time....more than a day probably, and—" she stops again and closes her eyes. "I am sorry—sorry, just give me a second."

And neither he nor Sam is able to calm her down. Steve keeps forcing himself to breathe, to stop his tears from falling, because if he lets himself feel everything now, he may not be able to compose himself again.

"I had a room, they brought me food, water, and even clothes. Bucky had no food and barely any water. They only treated his back after three days, I know that because they allowed me to see him that day, and that's when I learned that he..." She looks nervous and reluctant, her gaze shifting between Sam and Steve. "They made him... kill someone. He—he did it to protect me."

Steve feels like he can barely draw the air into his lungs. His thoughts fail him, he can’t process anything, and it feels like the floor can drop out from underneath him at any moment. He knows that Bucky had told them that they wanted him to become their killer again, but he thought there was still time, that it would be a long time before that happened.

And then he remembers Bucky crying in his arms. "Anna,” his voice cracks, breathless. "That was before we saw him?"

"Yeah, I think it was the day before—before you saw him."

He looks at Sam, and Sam isn't even looking at them, he is staring down at the floor in shock. "His amends list," he says, like he has just realized something. "Jesus, his amends list..." is all that comes out of his mouth, and then all of them just sit there in silence, their hearts breaking, grieving everything Bucky tried so hard to recover from.

After a couple of minutes, Steve finally gathers up the courage to ask her about what happened next. "What happened when he got back that day? What did they do to you?"

She tells them about the device they implanted inside her, she shows them the bulge in her chest, and explains to them what it does. Steve sits frozen, his mind struggling to comprehend what he’s hearing, because this is a horror beyond anything they have ever imagined. She tells them that Rumlow electrocuted Bucky, who was already in agonizing pain, several times, because he was trying to fight them, until he couldn't get up anymore. And Steve’s throat burns, his fists clench, and he feels the guilt, fear, and helplessness crush him all at once.

"Did they use it on you?" Sam asks.

"The first day, only one time...briefly, to show Bucky what it does," she replies. "And today...or it's yesterday now. He used it multiple times when he was torturing Bucky. He would order him not to—it doesn't matter now, he just used it a lot....to torture Bucky more."

“So he was torturing you both at the same time?" Steve manages to ask while trying to control the quiver in his voice. 

"No, it wasn't like that," she says. Then she takes a deep breath and just stares at her hands for a couple of seconds. Steve knows she's overwhelmed from talking about what happened and from answering all their questions, but he needs to know what's been happening. "Uh—for example, when he broke Bucky's hand—fingers, he told him to rest his arm on the ground, his hand flat on it, and ordered him not to move his hand or his fingers...while he hit him with the baton. If he moved it, or moved his fingers, then I would—I would get shocked."

He rests his arms on his knees, burying his face in his hands, trying once again to hold it together. The world feels frozen, the air heavy and still, and it feels like he shouldn’t even be breathing.

"What's the pain like? Are you alright now?" Sam asks.

"It's tolerable, I am fine," she replies. "I—I have had the last couple of days to think about what happened, and I know the right thing to do is to kill myself. It would—"

Steve looks at Anna, fear and panic coursing through him. "What?"

"Just listen to me, please," she urges. "It would prevent Bucky from getting tortured, from being under their mercy, and from having to comply with whatever they want. Because I know I told you most of what happened, but you would never actually realize how bad it was unless you were there. Bucky is not okay. He is really not okay. Their goal was to break him first, so he could be compliant. That's all Rumlow was talking about all the time...compliance and compliance. And they—they broke him. They used me and they succeeded in doing what they wanted."

"And then...besides all of that, it would prevent Bucky from killing anyone else. No one would have to die again. Rumlow said yesterday that they will need to send him on his first mission in about two weeks, and I won't be able to—I don't want to be the reason he kills again. And…killing several people just for me to live doesn’t make any sense. You know very well that it doesn't."

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but she continues. "However," she says, exhaling sharply. "I also know that Bucky won't be able to live with himself if I do that. He's already been—it's clear he's not that... keen on living after everything that happened," she pauses, glancing between Steve and Sam, as her words settle down on them, heavy and suffocating.

Steve has to clench his hands as tightly as he possibly can, until his knuckles whiten. “How do you know that?"

"I just—I know it, and he said something like that to Rumlow on my last day there. And I know he feels so guilty and I know it's killing him, so if I do that—I don't even know if he can get any worse than he's right now, and I don't know if he will—" she stops, unable to continue. "And I love him, and maybe that makes me a selfish, awful person but I can't, for the life of me, think that it would be alright for me to—to put him through this after all that happened to him, even if...people will get killed or hurt," she closes her eyes, biting her lips as she tries not to cry. "So, anyway...since I have had time to think. We're going to try and get that thing out of me, but if we fail, then we can't—we can't let that go on for long, but I just—I don't know how long we should wait before we give up and..."

"Anna," Sam gently says. "He's not going to kill people because of you. If he does that—if we even reach that stage, then it will be because of them, Hydra. You have to understand that first. If we need to kill someone, then it's them we need to destroy, not you."

"And how are we going to do that? We're not going to be able to do anything with that thing inside me, because they can order him to do anything, anything, Sam, and he will comply with whatever it is, just to protect me. As long as they control him, we won't be able to do anything."

"We never should have waited for two weeks, Anna, I am sorry," Steve apologizes. "I should have gone with Bucky and we should have gotten you out on the very first day. Bucky had every right not to allow me to come with him when he first found out, but I—"

"You were with him when he found out?" Anna asks.

"Yeah," he sighs. "We came back to his apartment after jogging in the early morning and found a letter. It had a picture of you tied to a chair... they had written a note on the back."

"What did it say?"

He swallows, remembering how Bucky had a panic attack that day and how he puked afterwards. "It said that they would let you go if he comes, and that...if he is late, they will begin torturing you...they said they would use a torture method that was used on Bucky before, something they call the three phases punishment, that’s how Bucky knew for sure that they were Hydra. They also said—"

But Anna freezes, her chest barely moving. "You—you know what that is?"

Steve stills too, because he knows Bucky would never tell her something like this. "Uh—"

"Do you?" Sam asks, looking at her carefully.

Then her breathing suddenly gets a lot heavier. "They mentioned it...there, but Bucky never—" a quick, sharp hitch in her breath makes her stop mid-sentence. "Sorry, I—I need to..." she trails off as she gets up and walks out of the room.

"Anna..." Steve says, following her, but she hurries through the hallway and closes her bedroom door behind her before any of them can stop her.

He looks at Sam, his stomach twisting as dread and devastation settle over him. His heart shatters and breaks, and a feeling of overwhelming anguish and grief threatens to crush him. "She knows," his voice trembles.

It would have destroyed Bucky to have her know about this, and he can’t even begin to imagine how he must have felt if she learned about something like this from them. And it terrifies Steve, how he is starting to lose count of everything that could have broken Bucky so far, all the ways they have destroyed him.

They hear agonizing, muffled screams and cries coming out of Anna's room, and they just keep standing where they are in front of the door, shocked and frightened.

"We learn something new every couple of minutes and I tell myself, this is it, that's why he broke down in front of us," Sam says. "But it keeps getting worse. It keeps getting much worse."

———

Bucky

He sits on the wet shower floor, resting his head against the wall, and then closes his eyes.

He managed to stay on his feet for a few minutes before his knees gave out, but by then he had cleaned most of his body. He watched the blood swirl through the water on the floor, and he didn't care about how every open wound was stinging or about the throbbing pain in his split-open head, or even his damaged hand, because for the first time in twelve days, he was finally having a shower.

He wishes he had more energy to clean every part of his body fiercely, over and over again, like he used to when he woke up from his nightmares, but he was only able to quickly get it over with. And he thinks about how much he misses this, even though it hasn't even been two weeks yet. He misses having showers whenever he wants, for however long he wants.

And right now, Bucky doesn't think about how his body is bruised and injured everywhere, how damaged it is. He doesn't think about everything they forced him to do, and everything they did to him. How his stomach spasmed and twisted, how he held down his puke, and how hard he clenched his teeth together so he didn't gag, or how he tried with all his power to force his eyes to stay open, even when he was on the verge of losing consciousness. He doesn't think about the terrifying confusion he felt every time they woke him up with the electricity. He doesn't even think about their names, or how much he wants to kill Pierce.

Because that will come afterwards. Later, he will think about everything, and he will be horrified.

He will think about how his body has never really been his body, and how he had control over it for only twenty-eight years of his life. He will start having worse nightmares than before, which is something he didn't even think was possible, and they will feel never-ending, an endless loop of the same torture and abuse, different faces and different names, but always him, always his body. He will wake up checking that both his arms are working, that he's not paralyzed and getting violently attacked by a maniac. He will realize that what happened went on for much longer than he thought it did, and it wouldn't make sense with what he remembers, there will be countless gaps, which he will be forever haunted by, and his mind will keep trying to fill them in his nightmares.

But for now, and as he keeps his head tilted back to the warm water falling over his face, the only thing he thinks about is how relieved he is that he got to clean himself right afterwards—alone, not while being hosed down like an animal.

"Hey," the doctor calls from outside the shower stall. "It's been a couple of minutes, are you done?"

He doesn't want to leave. He just wants to stay here under the water and let it wash everything away. It is so calming, so soothing, after everything that happened to him.

He drops his head down. "Almost," he says, unsure if she heard him, his voice is only getting worse and more hoarse. He also kept rinsing his mouth with soap suds repeatedly, and he definitely swallowed some, because his throat is burning.

"I said you have to get it done in a few minutes. Please, we have to start the surgery and we still need to prep you. I didn't let the guards check on you, because they would drag you outside. I wanted to make sure you finished first."

"Five minutes," he rasps out, because he doesn't know when he will get to shower again. When he hears no reply from her, he desperately adds, "Please."

"Alright," she finally says, sighing. "Would you like me to send the guard to help you when you're done?"

"No," he replies, almost urgently, because he doesn't want to waste any more time.

"Fine," she says. "Just take care. I will be back shortly."

He brings his head back under the water, relishing those final moments, the silence, and the calmness.

This is a blessing, he tells himself. And maybe that's something else that can help him hold on—small blessings and small acts of kindness.

Chapter Text

"Pierce's betrayal really messed up with Fury, you know," Steve told him.

"It did?" Bucky asked, because there were so many things he didn't know about, and he and Steve never got a chance to actually talk before he went to Wakanda.

"Yeah, and it makes sense, of course. The man declined a Nobel Peace Prize, Bucky. Do you know about that?"

"No," he replied. "Why? Was he feeling guilty?" he asked, smiling faintly.

Steve laughed. "No, Fury told me that he said something like....peace wasn't an achievement, but rather a responsibility. I don't know, something like that."

Bucky was the one laughing now. "He really said that?"

Steve nodded. "He did," he said. "What was he like with you?"

"Would you believe me if I told you he wasn't so bad?"

"I wouldn't."

Bucky breathed. "Well, he wasn't. Those before him were supposed to be worse." 

"Supposed to be?" Steve asked.

"It's complicated," Bucky told him. "He wasn't—he wasn't violent, like those before him. No one was violent like Kaprov, for example. He was a sadist. And no one tortured me medically like Zola. So technically speaking, Pierce should be the least worst."

"But he's not?"

"I think he was the most dangerous," he explained. "Because he successfully stayed undercover for so many years, Steve. Do you know the amount of skill it would take to achieve that? He deceived everyone around him. He deceived the whole world," he paused, moving his gaze away from Steve. "But as for me, I realized when I regained my memories that Pierce was, in a way, the worst, actually."

"Why? Did you remember something?"

He shook his head. "No," he murmured. "But he knew who you were to me, Steve, and I—I asked him about it. That's uh...that's what Rumlow told you about, when I remembered you. He knew, and he knew I almost remembered, and still ordered me to kill you."

——————————————————

"...do whatever the fuck you want."

"Fine," Rumlow sighed, taking his belt off. "Let's see how long you'll be able to hold on for."

"Should we stop and shock Anna?"

"No," he breathed heavily, his chest heaving. "Don't stop."

"I said, should he stop? Are you going to give up?"

"No," he whispered.

"Is it still a no?"

"No," he replied, and he could barely hear himself. "Still a no."

"You have nothing to say? You will regret it, I swear to God. So think about it carefully."

He exhaled. "I have nothing...to say."

"Did you change your mind?"

He shook his head.

Again and again and again.

"Should I shock her and stop then?"

He closed his eyes. "No...no.”

He jolts awake, gasping for air. He tries to let any air inside his lungs, but it only makes him suffocate more, his chest burns, and even his eyes burn too. He doubles over, his chest heaving, trying to drag any air inside his lungs.

"Hey, hey," someone says, their hand on his arm. "Get back on the bed."

He turns his eyes to the person speaking, and it's the doctor who's been treating him.

"You are fine, it's okay," she tries to help him calm down. "Now lie back down, slowly."

He slumps back against the pillow, his breathing still heavy. She pours some water for him in a plastic cup,  then gives it to him, and he drinks it all, his mouth and throat were incredibly dry.

"All good?" she asks.

He tries to inhale and exhale slowly, forcing himself to forget about what he just dreamt about. He gulps, then gives her a nod.

"The surgery went well," she tells him. "It would have been really bad if not for the super soldier serum, you could have had nerve damage, but it should be fine...if they leave you to recover normally for once, of course. We repaired the severed artery, then stabilized the fracture in your thumb with pins —they had to get an orthopedic surgeon for that," she pauses, adjusting the pillow behind his head. "And as you know, all your fingers are broken, so normally, your hand should be in a full cast, but we can't do that yet with the wound. For now, the splint will keep your fingers in place, and hopefully, your healing takes care of the rest. If it doesn't improve within a week or so, we'll switch to a proper cast."

He glances down at his hand and sees the splint that runs halfway up his forearm, with thick bandages wrapped around his palm. His fingers are slightly curved, held together in a padded brace that keeps them from moving.

She sits down on the chair next to the bed. "I wish I could give you an accurate time estimate for when your hand will be better, but I still don't entirely understand how your healing works, however, I would say maybe...two to three weeks."

"The open wounds in your back got stitched, hopefully it won't get infected this time. The wound on the side of your head was deep, it needed eight stitches. There's some swelling and bruising around it, and you probably have a concussion....but you should be fine, and I will keep monitoring you, just in case," she pauses, sighing. "You also have a broken rib, and some other minor injuries that will probably not take long to heal. But yeah, that's about it."

She keeps looking at him, probably waiting for him to say anything, but he can't even focus entirely with her. He's still so shaken by his nightmare, and his heartbeat is still racing.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

Bucky reminds himself that she made him have a warm shower before the surgery, and forces himself to speak. "Fine," he hoarsely says.

"Do you have any questions?"

"No."

"Okay," she breathes. "You need to rest, you should probably get back to sleep," she tells him. "I will stay here at the base until tomorrow. I won't leave, to make sure everything is fine."

He nods and closes his eyes again, drifting into another horrible nightmare. 

———

He was unable to breathe. And when they would finally let him breathe, it was never enough. He never had enough time to let the air fill his lungs. So for what seemed like forever, his chest stayed tight, his lungs seizing as if they were getting crushed.

But he had to find a way to make it work with the little oxygen he had. It wasn't an option to give up or to panic. And he told himself he would get his revenge once he got out of here anyway. He would make sure their breathing is a fucking struggle then.

So he kept his face on the ground like they asked, he fought to keep his eyes painfully open, he tried to stay still, even when every muscle in his body screamed to move and to fight and to kill. He opened his mouth. Wider, they demanded, so he opened it wider. Not yet, they ordered, so he choked and didn't do anything to push himself away, even though he wasn't restrained. He let himself choke.

Because he will get his revenge. He will get his revenge. He will get his revenge. He will—

He heard someone crying and gasping, and he knew that voice. He would always know that voice.

Anna.

Hadn't she left? Hadn't she gotten out of here?

She wasn't here when they started this. He was sure of it.

But he couldn't let that happen again. He had killed someone to not have her watch this again. He wouldn't allow it to happen. So he tried to fight them, but his right hand was injured, and for a reason he couldn't remember, his left arm had stopped working, which only meant they had electrocuted him for a while. He could only use his legs, but he was on the ground, lying on his stomach, and they were forcing his face to the floor, and someone was behind him, and—Anna was still gasping. And she can't watch this again, he tells himself. She would never get back from it if she watches this one more time.

So he tried to move, he bent his knees and tried to push himself away, but they grabbed his legs and forced him to stop, they threatened him that they would shock her until she loses her consciousness, so he returned to being still again while his body trembled, just like they wanted him.

He shut his eyes, hoping that he wouldn't hear the sound of her cries and gasps again. And once more, he tried to tell himself that he would get his revenge, that he would kill them all, but it didn't work. Of course it didn't.

What revenge in the world could ever fix something so fucked up?

He opens his eyes, almost crying in relief when he realizes it was just a dream. But chills run through his whole body, and he's trembling violently. Then the nausea hits, and he rolls onto his side, clutching the edge of the bed with his left hand as he retches, dry heaving until his throat burns.

He falls back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, forcing himself to breathe, and the ceiling blurs above him as he forces the air into his lungs. He just needs to stop shaking, and maybe then he can actually control his breathing.

He tries to forget about his messed-up nightmare, because he really doesn't want anyone to enter the room when he's shaking and gasping for air like this. So he breathes in slowly, then out. He thinks about Anna, Steve, and Sam. Not the guilt and not the harm he caused. Just them—their voices, their faces, and the sound of their laughter, everything that doesn't belong in this place.

He remembers Anna's eyes smiling at him as he enters the bakery's kitchen, the grin on her face, and the way she would always wrap her hands around his neck. Steve's face when he turns his head to him while they jog together in the morning, and how he always looks at him like he can't quite believe they get to do stuff like that together now, after all these years. Sam sitting next to him on the boat in Delacroix, the sunset, the calmness, and the comfort he always found in Sam's presence.

And he breathes.

He removes the IV attached to his arm and swings his legs off the bed, pushing himself up, ignoring the pain that flares through his body and the dizziness that follows. He walks to the small bathroom inside the room and turns on the tap, leaning over the sink, and lets the cold water run over his head, dripping down his face and neck, and he stays there, hoping the cold water will steady him and wash away the shaking and the fear.

When he finally straightens, he goes back to the bed and sits on the edge. He is exhausted, his eyelids are heavy, and his body is begging for rest, but he's just as tired from waking up like this, to constant nightmares and panic attacks.

The door opens, but he is unable to turn his head and see who it is.

"James," Pierce says. "Good, you are awake. I needed to speak with you before I go."

Fuck.

This is the last thing he needs right now. And everything that happened is still so fresh in his mind—he literally just had a nightmare about it, so he doesn't trust himself to be left with Pierce alone. But he reminds himself of Anna, he reminds himself that it's not even an option now.

He hears the chair being dragged to where he's sitting, and tries to force himself to breathe.

"but this was Pierce's order."

Breathe, he tells himself, as Pierce places the chair in front of him.

"He wanted to see how long he would hold on for, he said it was important."

Breathe, he repeats. Just breathe.

"I don't think he thought he could hold on for that long, though. Or maybe he did...and that's exactly the point of all this. I don't know."

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, but he clenches his left hand in a fist. He will control himself. He has to. There's Anna. There's a device inside Anna. He already held on for so long just for her, and it can't be for nothing.

"You are angry," Pierce states, he feels his eyes glancing at his clenched left hand, but isn't sure, he keeps his gaze fixed on the bathroom door. "And I understand. It went on for too long, I know. But it was necessary, you had to understand the extent we're talking about, the extent of control we have—we will always have. If you weren't hurt, if you hadn't gone into shock, this could have gone on for days. And you weren't going to give up, I know that."

"I already knew," he says, barely above a whisper, his voice rough with strain.

"You didn't, trust me, or else you would have thought a hundred times before strangling Rumlow," he says. "I will never be able to trust you out there if you are not compliant and obedient. So you had to see what the device did to Anna, repeatedly, and how her state would be then. You had to know it would be your fault, if you don't follow orders. You had to know that if we want to discipline you, if you ever mess up, then it could go on forever. You had to take in and realize all of that."

Breathe.

But despite everything, deep down, Bucky knows Pierce is right—partially right, at least. He will think a thousand times before doing something like this again. He knows he will be more obedient, and it's that suffocating knowledge that stops him from lunging at Pierce at the moment.

"It was still remarkable, admirable even, that you held on for almost five hours. I knew you would—"

He's swallowing when Pierce says that, and what he says makes his breath stop. He chokes, coughing again and again, his eyes watering as he tries to breathe.

Five hours. 

"You didn't know," Pierce says, amused. "You didn't know it went on for that long."

Because that's not what he remembers. What he remembers is definitely not five hours. 

Why doesn't he remember?

He is still coughing, and Pierce hands him a bottle of water. He takes it and drinks, and then tries to let any air inside his lungs.

"That's interesting," Pierce comments. "It really was that traumatic then." 

Compliance, he reminds himself. Be fucking obedient.

"I guess it's different, to go through this when your mind is intact. It must be different from how it was back then." 

They never did this to him for five hours.

"Anyway," Pierce sighs. "I believe Rumlow told you we will send you on your first mission soon, and I need to talk to you about that," he tells him,  and Bucky never feels Pierce's eyes leave him for even a second, but he still keeps his gaze away. 

"I have already explained to you Hydra's state and position at that moment and why we need you. Now, I need to explain to you how we will start your missions," he says. "We'll move in stages. Stage one is the simplest, and might not even be that hard for you, because we will start with the defectors. Former Hydra personnel—agents, operatives, scientists, and medical staff. All of those are liabilities and will always remain a threat to us. They have to be neutralized."

“We know what you did to Senator Atwood. It was smart. However, if I am being honest with you, she wasn’t someone I would have wanted to be eliminated. But anyway, there are many like her, embedded across governments, intelligence services, defense contractors, major corporations….everywhere, really. Some are still loyal to us, some aren’t. And those who aren’t, will have to be dealt with, quietly and permanently.”

"You don't have to know the details of the other stages, but you can pretty much guess it, I believe. After that, our concern will be reclamation. Money, materiel, and critical technology. We lost so much, as I have told you. We'll recover what was taken...targeted raids, discreet extractions, and operations carried out quietly through our insiders," he stops for a few seconds, then continues. "And then finally, we return to our core mission. We impose order and reclaim control. I don't have to talk about this stage much, you already understand what that entails very well. Clear so far?" 

Bucky feels like he is watching everything happening from somewhere outside his own body. His eyes are fixed on the bathroom door, but he doesn't actually see it. Instead, he sees himself and Pierce, like he's watching a movie—or a nightmare. And for a split second, he gets so lost and confused in his head, and almost doesn't understand the scene he is watching. His hair, he thinks. Shouldn't his hair be long?

"James, can you hear me?" he asks. "Did you understand what I told you?"

He brings himself back to reality, blinking. "Yes," he replies. "I heard you. I understand."

"Good. I need to tell you something else very important," he tells him. "I know we already control you with the device inside Anna, but I also know how hard this must be for you. I know you got to taste what freedom is like, you got to experience love, and you reunited with your friend. I understand that Rumlow already explained to you that we wanted you to know you're giving yourself up for something meaningful and valuable, right? You are not just sacrificing yourself so we don't torture her or keep her imprisoned, because we could have done that, if we wanted to. You understand that?"

"Yes." 

"Well, I have something else to tell you in this regard," he leans forward on his arms, making Bucky feel more uncomfortable. "You know that the failure of the biggest project we worked on—Project Insight, was your friends' fault, don't you? Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers, Nick Fury...all of those were the reason this happened, especially Romanoff, of course..."

He wants to tell him that Fury is not really his friend, but he keeps his mouth shut, because he feels his heart racing again, and he is terrified of what Pierce is going to tell him.

"Just like we're going to start our plans to get rid of the defectors, there are also people like your friends, those who caused our downfall. And while we don't usually indulge in petty revenge, because our aims are larger than spite. Still, what they did cannot go unanswered. So, there's been a plan, a plan that's not merely about getting rid of them—it's about utterly destroying them, ruining their names until there's nothing left for them to stand on."

He swallows, feeling his pulse in his ears. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," Pierce flatly replies. "Obedience and compliance, James. That's all I want.  I will even give up my claim on Romanoff, I promise you. You just need to prove yourself, prove that we can rely on you. I know you will already comply, it's not an option, but I want you to be efficient, to do everything to the best of your ability, just like you used to. We don't have the same team as before, you must have noticed. So many left, some died, and some got arrested. We're not like before, so I will need to count on you, because I can't afford to lose more men, and I definitely can't afford more losses. Is that clear?"

He nods, unable to say anything. He is so exhausted, and for some reason, the pain he's feeling everywhere only increases whenever he gets nervous or panics.

"One last thing," he says, getting up. "We're going to move from here. Your friends know where we are, of course, and they have been tracking us, but we knew this would happen, we had planned our move before you ever got here. And we definitely can't stay in this old, exposed base any longer..."

That makes him panic again, because despite himself, Steve and Sam not knowing where he is makes him feel scared.

"The new place we're going to go to will be bigger and better equipped. Now, as I told you, I know how hard this must be for you. And I know staying alone with your head for long periods of time—without the wipes, could actually destroy you, and I need your mind to work," he pauses, taking a few steps closer to him. "I can have a cryochamber installed for you, James. Would you like that?"

He should panic more, his heart should feel like it's going to rip out of his chest, he should dread the coldness, the pain, and confusion that come with it, but all Bucky feels is a terrifying, overwhelming amount of relief.

"Yeah," he whispers, his voice shaky, because he never thought he could ever say yes to that.

"Good," Pierce tells him, and Bucky is still not looking at him, but he knows he's smiling. "They have already started working on it long ago, I just wanted to be sure."

He almost laughs, because Pierce is treating him like a child, acting like he can give him a choice, when Bucky doesn’t really have a say in anything anymore. He used to do that a lot before, too.

Pierce stops before walking out of the room. “Rest, James. I am sure I have tired you. You need rest in order to heal."

When Pierce leaves, Bucky keeps sitting where he is, frozen, for a long while, even though every fiber of his body is screaming at him to lie on his side because of the pain. There are so many things Pierce said that he should be processing, but he can't think about anything. He is swallowed whole by panic, shock, and a crushing, extreme exhaustion.

He lies back on the bed, forcing his eyes shut. But the moment his eyelids start to close, he remembers Pierce telling him that what happened had gone on for five hours, he remembers what he told him about Natasha and Steve, so he snaps his eyes open, and his chest tightens with overwhelming anxiety and nervousness.

"Hey," the doctor says, who he didn't even hear entering the room. "Why are you awake? It hasn't even been more than two hours, you need to sleep and rest."

He clears his throat. "Are you all gonna keep saying that?" he asks, and his voice almost breaks off. 

She stops shifting. "All of us? Did someone come in?"

"Yeah."

"What?" she almost shouts. "You have got to be kidding me, did they wake you up?"

"No, no...I was already awake."

"Okay," she says, sighing. "Well, why aren't you asleep? You shouldn't be awake at all right now."

"I can't," he tells her. "I keep waking up."

"Shit," she murmurs, sitting down in front of him.

"Is there—uh, anything you can give me, to stop me from...waking up?" he hesitantly asks. He had to try and ask that of her, because his head is killing him, and his body is on fire from pain, but he can't sleep if he is going to wake up every hour having a panic attack.

"Yes, actually, I can," she immediately says. "I should have thought of that, I am sorry."

She rises and starts sorting through the vials and packets on the table beside him. "I am not sure how effective it would be with you, but I will give you a high dosage. And I will be here anyway, like I told you.  I will keep monitoring you."

"Thanks," he mutters, feeling relieved.

She reattaches the IV to his arm and draws a syringe into the port. "This will take a minute or two, just relax."

After a little while, he starts feeling himself drifting. And he hopes and prays that he won't wake panicking to more of those horrifying, twisted nightmares. 

Small blessings and small acts of kindness.

———

When he wakes up the next day, he doesn't wake up gasping or panicking. There's no violent jolt, no ragged breath clawing at his throat. Instead, he wakes to a crushing stillness, a weight of sorrow so heavy it fills his chest before he's even fully aware he's awake. He knows he dreamt of Anna, he's sure of it, but he can't recall a single detail, all he's left with is just the echo of her name. 

He realizes, with a kind of distant shock, that he hasn't had time to think about her since she left. So now he thinks about her. He thinks about whether she went home to an empty apartment after she left, or if someone was there for her. He wonders if she has contacted Steve or Sam yet. He is terrified for her, terrified of what all she had gone through here might do to her mind. He is terrified she might think about killing herself again because of the device inside her, although deep down, he knows she wouldn't do this to him, and he tries to cling to that belief, but he also knows how unbearable and horrifying it must be for her, to know that he's trapped here, only to keep her safe.

And then his mind shifts to Steve and Sam. He can't help thinking about what Anna will tell them, and how devastated they will be. He knows she will tell them enough to make them understand what is happening, but not everything—at least he tries to convince himself of that. She knows him too well, and he is sure she will leave some things out, because she will want to save him whatever scraps of dignity he still has left.

And thinking about Steve makes his heart aches. He remembers how he tried to fight him the last time he saw him and feels like he wants to break down again, the same way he did when he held him. He knows Steve will keep blaming himself, he knows the guilt will gnaw at him, and it will be as heavy and as unrelenting as the guilt Bucky feels for Anna. And he wants to see him again, to tell him that this isn't his fault, that if this is anyone's fault, then it's his own fault, because he didn't listen to him when he begged him to come with him when they first found out. He wants to apologize, over and over again, for everything.

And then he thinks about how much he will definitely need the cryosleep, because otherwise, with everything crashing through his head and with everything he is feeling, he might actually go mad.

Pierce had told him before that he knew him, and horrifyingly, it seems that he really does.

Someone enters the room, and he shifts his head to see who it is. "Hello, Barnes," Rumlow says, smiling.

He moves his head back, keeping his gaze focused on the ceiling.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, standing in front of the bed.

"Great."

"You don't look great," he tells him. "You look like a damn mess."

"Then I don't feel great, I feel like shit," Bucky flatly says. "Does that satisfy you?"

"Whoa, feeling a bit snarky today?"

"No," he replies, his voice low. "Just trying to see what's the answer you want. Obedience and compliance, right?"

"Right," he answers. "I am sorry about what Darren did, that wasn't supposed to happen. That wasn't a part of the third phase."

Obedience and Compliance, he tells himself. But it's useless, he can't help it, something snaps, and before he can stop it, he breaks into laughter, like a part of his mind has fractured. His chest aches, because of his broken rib, so he places his left hand on it. "Sorry," he manages between breaths, still laughing. "I am sorry, I don't know what—"

"What the fuck did they give you?"

Bucky breathes and drags his left hand over his face, stopping himself from laughing again. "Uh—can I not be obedient for just a second?" he asks, his gaze back to the ceiling.

Rumlow lets out a breathy chuckle. "Go ahead."

He lowers his gaze to Rumlow. "It would have been alright for him to fuck me but not hit me? How does that work?"

There are words Bucky never uses in the quiet corners of his own mind when he thinks about the three phases punishment and what Kaprov made them do to him. Words he would never, under any circumstances, let escape any speech or thought. And yet, somehow, the words had left his mouth, for the first time in his life. What the fuck is happening to him?

"He was going to beat you to death, Barnes. He almost did, actually," he tells him, stepping closer to the side of the bed. "We want you compliant and obedient, we don't want you dead."

He clenches his jaw and brings his eyes back to the ceiling.

"I know that's all you want, but life is unfair, isn't it?" he asks, but Bucky doesn't say anything. They have passed this being just "unfair" long ago.

"Anyway," Rumlow exhales. "Isn't there something you have forgotten about?"

"What?" he asks.

Rumlow sits down. "Think."

He thinks, and it takes him a couple of seconds to remember, because they had this conversation before, in the same place. "Dr. Raynor." 

"Yes, thank God, your brain is still working. I was worried there for a second," he says. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to go with your hand like that, and your face is a mess, too. The wound in your head will also definitely still be visible in five days. So what do you think? You are the one who knows her. It isn't a good idea, right?"

In light of how their last session went, it definitely won't be a good idea.

"No, it isn't."

"Okay, so can you come up with any excuse and reschedule or are you going to fuck it up?"

"I can, yes," he replies, because he had told Dr. Raynor a few weeks ago that he and Anna were planning on going to Louisiana with Sam soon, and she knew he went there a lot, and actually encouraged him to go there all the time, because she knew going there always made him feel better. "I will need my phone."

"That's easy, it's in your apartment?"

He gulps. "With Steve, probably."

Rumlow laughs. "That's even better."

"Why?" Bucky asks as he lowers his gaze from the ceiling, feeling scared.

"It doesn't matter," he tells him, getting up. "Now rest, get some sleep."

He's going to lose his mind if he hears someone telling him to rest and sleep again.

———

"Hey," Luke says as he enters the room. "Are you alright?"

Bucky is sitting on the bed, his head resting on the wall behind him. "Better," he replies, bringing his head down.

Luke is holding some clothes in his arm, and he notices Bucky glancing at them. "Rumlow wants you to get dressed," he tells him. "He won't harm you, but wants you to follow the rules you normally follow when—you know."

Bucky swallows, dreading what Rumlow might want him for. "Okay," he says.

When Luke gets out of the room, he takes a deep breath, the deepest breath he can draw inside his lungs, and gets off the bed.

They got him pants, boxer briefs, socks, and no shirt, as usual. It's still agonizing to move, his back still hurts terribly with every shift or movement, but he definitely feels a little bit better than yesterday. Getting enough sleep could have helped with that, because the doctor gave him something again yesterday at night, and it helped him sleep.

It seems like everyone probably had a reason to tell him that he had to rest and sleep.

He looks at his reflection in the small mirror in the bathroom and realizes that he really does look like a damn mess, just as Rumlow told him yesterday.

"Ready?" Luke asks as he opens the door.

"Yeah," he sighs, walking after him.

When they get inside the room, he does what he usally does every time. He walks to the centre, gets on his knees, and keeps his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him.

He tries not to think about what happened the last time he was here, but it is impossible not to. And he finds himself thinking about mundane things, like whether they cleaned the room right afterwards, whether they threw away the chair that was pierced with the knife and stained with his blood or not, or whether they might keep it for future punishments, perhaps.

Then his gaze lands on the spot where Anna usually sat, which makes a knot tightens in his throat, and he has to blink rapidly, fighting back the sting he feels in his eyes.

"I called Rogers when she was on her way home," Luke tells him. "They must have been there when she arrived. She wasn't alone."

That makes him feel so relieved, but also makes the urge to cry even stronger. He bites the inside of his mouth, turning his gaze to Luke. "Thank you," he says, and there's a slight quiver in his voice. 

Then he hears the footsteps approaching the room, so he inhales and then exhales slowly, shifting his gaze back to the wall in front of him.

"Barnes," Rumlow calls, his voice excited, just like it usually is in this damn room. "I brought you an old friend."

He doesn't move his eyes from the wall, forcing himself to just focus on each slow and deliberate breath. 

"Bucky," he hears someone say—not just someone, not anyone. 

Steve.

He still doesn't move his eyes. And just like that, the air he was forcing himself to draw inside his lungs vanishes, and he is unable to breathe at all.

Chapter Text

She woke up to frightening, horrifying sounds coming out of Bucky in his sleep.

This was the second time he agreed to stay over and sleep with her, and the first time she ever saw him having a nightmare. And she always knew that it would be bad, very bad, because otherwise he wouldn't have insisted so hard on never falling asleep with her.

He didn't have a nightmare the first time he fell asleep with her, and she knew he felt so relieved that day when he woke up, and even though it made her feel happy too, it also made her feel incredibly sad, because she knew that some day, he was going to wake up to nightmares while sleeping with her. And although all she wanted was for him to feel relaxed and comfortable enough with her to always fall asleep when he stayed over, she didn't know what she would do then. She didn't know if she should just act like she was still sleeping and give him space, or wake him up and be there for him.

But he was trapped in a nightmare right now, and she knew she could never ignore what was happening in front of her. Bucky's body was trembling, and his face was pale and damp with sweat. His jaw was clenched, and there were strangled, muffled sounds coming out of him—choked and desperate groans, that made her heart clench and ache. And she knew, that was the sound of someone being hurt and tortured in all the worst possible ways. The sound of someone trapped in his own hell, being broken over and over again.

She felt her heart in her throat, and tears started blurring her vision. She didn't even want to imagine what he was dreaming about, but whatever it was, she knew he was in pain. This was a nightmare filled with violence and pain. And this was Bucky, the man she fell in love with, who did everything in his power to hide all this darkness from her.

But she had begged him to sleep with her, she wanted this, she wanted him not to be afraid or uncomfortable around her when it came to his panic attacks and his nightmares, so she told herself she wouldn't cry. She would help him, and she would handle this.

She placed her hand on his forehead. "Hey, Bucky," she softly said.

But he was still shaking, and even his lips were trembling. She placed both her hands around his face, trying to control how her hands were shaking as well. "Bucky, wake up. This is just a nightmare," she tried to raise her voice louder, but still kept it gentle. "You are okay, just wake up, please."

He opened his eyes, looking dazed and unfocused. His gaze darted around the room nervously before it landed on her, and even then, he still looked lost. His breathing was rough and uneven, and his chest was rising and falling too fast.

She touched his forehead gently. "It was just a nightmare," she whispered. "It's okay. You’re okay.” 

But he still looked disoriented, like he couldn't quite understand what he was doing here, and she thought that maybe he had forgotten that he had agreed to sleep with her. After a few seconds, he let out a shaky exhale and pushed his legs off the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.

She moved closer to him, her hand sliding through his hair slowly. "I will bring you water, alright?"

He removed his hands from his face, and looked at her, faint confusion still flickering in his eyes, like he was trying to piece something together. Then, slowly, the confusion shifted into something that almost looked like relief, and he finally gave her a small, tired nod.

When she came back, he was still sitting where she had left him, his gaze fixed somewhere in front of him, distant and weary. "Here you go," she told him, handing him the glass of water.

He took it with his left hand, and she noticed how his right hand was clenched in a tight fist. He drank all the water in one gulp, then placed the glass on the nightstand. "Thank you,” he murmured, his voice rough and hoarse. "Go back to sleep."

She reached for his right hand, gently prying his fingers open, and realized that he was trying to make the shakiness in his hand stop. She wrapped her hand around his, her thumb tracing slow circles on his skin. "Do you feel better?"

"Yeah," he replied. "I am fine, there are worse—much worse nightmares. Don't worry."

How can there ever be anything worse than what she had just seen?

"Are you going to sleep again?"

He sighed. "I have been trying to get back to sleep after I wake up recently, actually, even if it doesn't work most of the time. So I think I might try."

And she felt incredibly relieved that he wasn't thinking of leaving and distancing himself from her. “Okay.”

He went to the bathroom first, stayed there for a few minutes, then came back with his hair damp, like he had run water over his face, and lay down beside her.

She rested her head on his chest and wrapped her arm around him. "Thank you for not leaving."

He placed his hand around her, caressing her arm. "Did I scare you? I don't really know what—what I do when I am sleeping. Steve looks frightened sometimes when I wake up, but I just know I wake up gasping or screaming most of the time."

"I was just worried about you. It looked like you were in pain," she told him. "Do you remember the dream when you wake up?"

"Most of the time," he replied. "It's hard not to, they are frighteningly vivid."

"What helps you calm down afterwards?"

"I walk sometimes, that really helps, but you already know that. Sometimes—sometimes long showers help."

"Does having someone with you help? Not being alone when you wake up?"

“I think it's always better to have someone when I wake up, but it makes me anxious before I fall asleep, because I know I will probably wake the person up and they will just be scared and horrified," he explained. "That someone, most of the time, is Steve, of course, although it took me some time to be okay with him staying over. I told you about the fight I had with him before, it wasn't easy in the beginning."

"Well, it took you some time with me too," she told him. "More than seven months."

"I know," he sighed.

"You looked confused when you woke up," she said. "Did you not recognize me?"

He drew in a long breath. “Sometimes when I wake up I feel….disoriented and confused about where I am, because I would think that I am back there again.  But what you saw? That was nothing, really. Sometimes it lasts a lot longer, long enough to trigger a panic attack. It’s usually worse when I am alone,” he paused for a moment. “You helped me get my focus back. That's why I said it's better to not be alone."

"God, Bucky, then why did it take you so long to finally agree to sleep with me?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I didn't—I didn't want you to see me like this."

"Do you regret it?" she asked, because she was scared he might not sleep over again after today.

"No," he said, leaning closer and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I don't."

——————————————————

"Anna!"

She gasps loudly, opening her eyes, and finds Sam in front of her. And she feels like her eyes are filled with tears, as if she's been crying, so she brings her hand over to her face and actually finds that her face is wet with tears.

"Finally," he exhales loudly. "Are you okay?"

It takes her a couple of seconds to remember why it looks like she's in her room, and not the room in the Hydra base, or why Sam is in her apartment, and why she just woke up screaming her lungs out. 

She nods, still feeling shaky and frightened. She pushes herself up, resting her back against the wall.

Sam sighs and sits in front of her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She lets out a shaky breath. "Is this how Bucky felt every time he had a nightmare?" she asks, her voice hoarse. “And his nightmares had to have been a lot worse. They can't even be compared to this."

"This was almost as bad, Anna, actually. You were crying and screaming.”

She turns her eyes to him and notices how terrified and worried he looks.

“And you just kept saying stop, over and over again,” he continues, his voice gentler now. “Do you remember what you dreamt about?"

She remembers, because the dream wasn't something her mind came up with. It was something that had actually happened. She had begged Rumlow to stop, and she begged him to have her instead. She had heard Bucky's muffled chokes, she heard his scream, she heard them ordering him to keep his eyes open. She heard everything.

"Yeah," she replies, her voice quivering. "And I don't know how I will ever fall asleep again if that's what I am going to see every time I close my eyes."

"We will be here with you," he tells her. "Not waking up all alone helps."

She stills, feeling a knot forming in her throat. "He told me that before."

Sam glances down at the bed cover on the floor. "Did you fall asleep here on purpose?"

"Yeah, I don't think I can sleep on beds anymore," she replies. "It started when they gave me my own room there, and at the same time, they had left Bucky chained....like how I told you, and he was bleeding. He was bleeding so much that he lost consciousness before they chained him, Sam. They woke him up by splashing water on him," she grips her hand tightly, trying not to break into tears. "I had a breakdown that day and they sedated me. When I woke up, I found myself on the bed, and I had to eat the food they brought, because they threatened me with Bucky. Then I remembered how he was chained, and I—I felt incredibly guilty. I puked everything I ate, and just—couldn't sleep on the bed."

She has been thinking about lots of other things recently that make her feel guilty as well, things she hadn't realized or taken in before she knew about the three phases punishment. And every realization usually left her drowning in guilt. Sometimes, it was guilt for not seeing it all sooner. And other times, it was the guilt of knowing that Bucky was complying only because of her. That he had killed—and would kill again for her.

She thought about how Bucky knew from the very first day that they would do it, how terrified he must have been the whole time. How his gaze faltered sometimes when Rumlow spoke about what they did to him. How he refused to kill the first time, even though he knew this would result in her watching, and how he had given up the next time, how he killed and did what they wanted so she wouldn't watch again.

She thought about that, specifically, a lot. How it might have happened, how they made him do it, how long it took him to decide to do it, or how he felt afterwards. And worst of all, that he did it—not to stop her from getting murdered or tortured, but just to prevent her from watching the third phase again.

Sometimes, she wondered if that was her fault, she thought that maybe if she had stayed silent, if she hadn't gasped and panicked, then maybe he wouldn't have given in the second time. And she also realized that Bucky probably thought she fainted that day, because she had never told him that Luke sedated her.

"But you shouldn't feel guilty for anything, Anna. You have been through so much. I know Bucky has been through a lot of horrifying stuff there, and will probably still go through more terrible things, but what you faced is still traumatic and horrible. You were kidnapped, and you had a device implanted inside you. They tortured you with it, and they can still do that, that has to be frightening."

"Nothing was more frightening or traumatic than seeing what they did to him, or how they treated him," she says. "Where's Steve? Is he okay?"

"He couldn't sleep, so he went for a run instead."

"And what about you?" she asks.

He lets out a small chuckle. "You are asking me if I am okay?"

"Sam, last night I dropped on you both a whole ton of traumatic and horrible stuff that happened to Bucky. Your best friend. I know I was there, but you have been nervous and in the dark this whole time, and then you just learned everything that happened all at once. You must feel like shit."

And it had made her feel like shit, too. On her way home, all she had thought about was two things only: what they were going to do to Bucky after she left, and everything she had to tell Steve and Sam about, everything she had to explain. And she didn't know how she would do it, from where she should start, and what she should and shouldn't say.

She knew in her heart that she shouldn't tell them about the three phases punishment. That she shouldn't tell them about the third phase, in particular. She couldn't do that to Bucky, she couldn't be the one to tell his friends that they did that to him, in front of her. And she didn't even know if they knew about it from before, so when she found out that they knew, it broke her even more, because they would never even think that it was being done to him again. They hadn't even guessed it.

However, when she told them everything, she had kept in mind that they might know about it, so she tried to keep what happened as vague as she could. She didn't tell them that there were any stages or phases, and she didn't tell them that they flogged him again before she left either. But it was the hardest goddamn thing she had to do, because she told them that they broke him, but they would never understand how they did it, or how they utterly destroyed him. They would never understand unless she told them exactly what happened, and even then, it might not even be enough.

And despite leaving so many things out when she told them everything that happened, she still brought their whole world down. But she had thought about it carefully, and telling them all the other details wouldn't make any difference, because they were still going to do their best to save Bucky, and that was the only thing that mattered.

Sam turns his gaze to his hands. "Yeah, of course I feel like shit," he tells her, his voice heavy with devastation. "My heart breaks for you, for him, and for all the progress he worked on last year. And I have never felt helpless like this before," he runs his hand over his face, exhaling loudly. "Steve is breaking my heart, too. He's going through this for what—now? The third time?"

She tries to recall the number of times, starting from when Bucky fell off the plane, and then when Steve figured out that he was alive, but then she remembers—she remembers the very first time Bucky was taken by Hydra.

"Fourth," she corrects him. "He's going through this for the fourth time."

"God," he mutters. "I am going through it for the first time and I—I feel like someone ripped my fucking heart out."

She rests her head against the wall. "What are we going to do about the device?"

"We will go to Stark. Tony Stark," he replies. "But you need proper rest first. So rest, and when you feel alright, we will go."

Her mind drifts to how Bucky would feel about that. He told her before about all that happened with Tony Stark. She knows he wouldn’t be happy about her going there, but he would also know and understand that Tony is the best option they have got. 

“No, I won't be able to rest until we do anything about that thing in my chest," she finally says. "I will take a shower and then we can go."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," she breathes. "We can't waste more time."

———

"Shit," Tony mutters when he sees the bulge underneath her skin. "How did they even come up with this idea? To use this to keep Barnes under control?” 

"They're Hydra. Are you surprised?" Sam asks.

"Actually, yeah. A bit," he replies, crouching to get a closer look. "So, other than telling you that it's similar to how a pacemaker or an ICD works, the sensors, and the fancy touchpad device they control it with, do you know anything else?" he asks, sitting in front of her.

"Not really," she quietly says. "I know they can see my heartbeat, as I told you. They can control the duration of the shocks. The longest they have ever done it was fifteen seconds."

Tony's eyebrows knit together. "If fifteen seconds is the longest they have ever used it for, that means the pain is really bad, though, right?"

She can’t really tell how intense the pain was. It always happened to her while Bucky was hurt or getting tortured, so it always felt like whatever she was experiencing, was nothing compared to him.

"I don't know," she hesitantly admits. "It's like—I had a panic attack there before, and I never had panic attacks before so I....didn't know what was happening. But—uh, the pain I felt in my chest during it was similar to the pain I felt from the shocks, but the shocks were a lot worse."

"How worse?" Tony asks.

She thinks, but is still unable to provide an answer. When he sees that she's struggling with answering, he asks again, "On a scale of one to ten, how worse?"

"Ten," she says with a sigh.

"Shit, Anna," Steve murmurs. "You didn't tell us it was that bad."

She drops her gaze, feeling the heaviness pressing against her chest. "Because it's nothing. It's really nothing compared to what's happening to him," she says. "Now, what can we do about that thing?"

Tony leans back in his chair. "Well, step one would normally be an X-ray, to see what we're dealing with, and then..."

"So let's do that," Steve urgently says.

Tony gives him a look, and she doesn't know if that's because he interrupted him, or because they can't do an X-ray. "Yeah, sure, let's just fire up a radiation machine next to the mystery device we know nothing about. What could possibly go wrong?"

"So you're saying we can't do it?" she nervously asks.

"I am saying if there are sensors, and I am betting there are. They could definitely freak out over electromagnetic waves. And maybe they won't. But who knows? We can't know for sure."

"What do we do then?" Steve asks.

"Well," Tony says, sitting forward, "we could do an ultrasound, but that won't really be helpful. I can already tell its shape and size from here. What might help is trying to pick up whatever frequency it's transmitting on." 

"To find out if they're bluffing about the sensors?" Sam asks.

"I don't think they're bluffing," Tony tells him. "If this thing was initially made for their super soldiers, it almost definitely has sensors. Those soldiers were unstable, weren't they? Hydra would have definitely wanted an alert if anyone tried tampering with them. And come on, this is Hydra we’re talking about. It seems like they planned everything to the last detail, and it looks like they are way too confident that we won’t be able to do anything about it. They wouldn’t have been so sure unless extracting was well….really not easy.”

"So what do we do?" Sam impatiently asks. 

Tony exhales. "We’ve got two categories. Risky options and non-risky options. The risky ones are all fast, useful things I would absolutely love to do, but any of those could trip the sensors."

"Non-risky options are slow, but safe. We can try and track down a replica of the device. You said he told you the doctors in Siberia did it, right? Maybe we try and find out anything about that. Or we go old school, and sneak a peek at their controller. If that guard of yours decides to actually help, he can check for a power-down or maintenance mode in the controller—something like that, anything that shuts it off long enough and gives us time to extract it.”

Anna's pulse quickens, she can feel her heart thudding against the device in her chest. Everything Tony is saying feels like it's going to take forever.

"We start with the non-risky options," Steve says, looking at her for confirmation.

"Yeah," she replies.

"Do you think Luke will help?" Sam asks her.

"I honestly don’t know, but I hope so,” she tells him. “Before I left, I asked him what he was doing with them, because he—he helped me sometimes, he did stuff other than just contacting you guys, and he told me that he was angry at the world, when he joined them, and that it made sense back then. When I asked him if it makes sense now, he said that it doesn't."

“We can ask him to meet with us tomorrow. We can go to D.C. and meet him somewhere,” Steve says.

"You can take the jet," Tony says to Steve. "And I will try to figure out anything here."

Steve gives him a nod. “Thanks, Tony.“

She takes a deep breath, looking at Tony. "Do you think we can do it?"

He sighs, running his hand through his hair. "We can….just don’t expect it to be fast. So you all need to be really patient.”

———

"You don't have to come, Anna," Steve tells her. "It won't take time, and we will be back right away."

"No, it would be much better than just sitting here," she says. "Plus, I am the one who knows him. I think it will be better if I am there."

Luke had agreed to meet them tomorrow night, after his shift ended. Steve had called him yesterday, right after they met with Tony, but he didn't answer. They tried again today, and he finally picked up. His voice was strained, not exactly welcoming, but in the end, he agreed to the meeting.

"What if he doesn't agree to help us? What do we do then?" Sam asks.

"I don't know," Steve says, resting his forehead on his hand. "How do we even find out anything about those doctors in Siberia?"

"Maybe look through all records and information we have, all the information that got leaked," Sam replies. "But that would take forever. They would have definitely sent Bucky to missions by then."

Anna sinks more into the chair she is sitting in, feeling frightened by the possibility that this might take too long if Luke refuses to help them.

"Let's think about that after we—" he stops, interrupted by his phone ringing.

"Is this Bucky's phone?" Sam asks.

She lifts her gaze to Steve, and finds that it is indeed Bucky's phone. She didn't know Steve had it.

"Yeah," he replies.

"Dr. Raynor?" she asks.

"No, I don't know who that is. Should I answer?"

"Yeah, I guess," Sam tells him. "Put it on speaker."

Steve answers, putting the call on speaker. "Hello?"

"Rogers," and she knows that voice. It's been haunting her dreams. It will haunt her all her life. "It is so good to hear your voice."

Steve glances at her, looking nervous. "Rumlow."

"I was just sitting with your best friend," he tells him. "He misses you. I think it would be good for him to see you."

"What do you want?" he asks, his jaw tight. 

"I want his phone. He needs to have it to contact his stupid therapist," he replies. "So we will be waiting for you tomorrow morning. Bring his phone, and I might make you see him. How does that sound?"

Steve looks at her and Sam, but doesn't wait for confirmation from anyone. "Okay," he says, almost desperately. "I will be there."

"Perfect," Rumlow says. "Oh, how is Anna, by the way? Is she doing okay?"

She gulps, her chest tightening.

Before Steve can say anything, Rumlow continues. "Tell her I said hi, and tell her that Barnes held on for more than five hours right after she left. It could have been over before it even started, but he refused, he held on just for her."

Then, Rumlow hangs up. And Steve and Sam look at her, waiting for her to explain.

Bile rises in her throat, and she has to clamp her jaw as hard as she can to stop herself from gagging. She feels frozen, paralyzed, and swallowed by the shock of what she just heard.

She should kill herself, her mind screams at her. She should rip that device out of her chest right here and now.

"Anna," Sam says, crouching in front of her, his voice worried. "Hey, breathe. Take a deep breath."

She isn't having a panic attack, she thinks it would be better if she were. This is worse, it’s a pain so fierce and sudden it feels like her body might just shut down. Her hands are closed in tight fists, nails digging deep into her palms, her whole body trembling. Her heartbeat pounds loudly in her ears, and she can feel her throat closing, refusing to let any oxygen inside.

Steve and Sam, she reminds herself. They don't know, and she can't let them find out. They can't find out like this, not by knowing that it went on for five hours.

She has to breathe, she has to get her mind to work, and she has to get her mouth to speak.

She lets out a shaky exhale. "I am okay," she breathlessly says.

"Are you sure?" Steve asks.

"Yeah,” she replies.

And she waits for their questions. She wants to get it over with so she can get away from them and then let the shock of what she just heard hit her for real.

"What did he mean, Anna?" Sam asks. 

She avoids their gazes, which feel overwhelming and unbearable at the moment. "I don't know. They—they must have continued torturing him after I left. I thought they were going to....stop, because he was badly injured. It looks like they didn't," she pauses, hoping they don't ask her more questions. "He said that it could have been over before it started. So they—they obviously gave him the option to shock me instead, and he refused."

"Jesus," Sam mutters.

Her lips tremble, and her hands are still clenched in tight fists. "We have to get that thing out of me. I won't be able to bear it any longer."

"We will," Steve says, his gaze down. "But it might take time as Tony said, Anna. We have to be patient."

She nods. "I—I will go and take a shower."

She leaves before they can say anything. She turns on the shower, just to make some noise, then leans over the toilet and throws up. She retches, over and over again. Her mind replays everything they did last time, and she imagines what it must have been like if it had gone on for five hours. What they made him do, how many they were, and if they made him bleed like last time. She hears the sound of his scream in her ear again and almost screams herself.

She steps into the bathtub with her clothes still on, sits underneath the running water, and wraps her arms around her knees.

She remembers how Bucky had looked before she left. He was barely able to maintain his balance, he couldn't keep his eyes open, and he was bleeding heavily from his back and from his hand. There was blood splattered everywhere in the room. She doesn't know how his body was even able to bear this for five hours, and he must have lost his consciousness at some point, he was already almost losing it when he was with her. He might have even blacked out repeatedly, which means that they would have woken him up every time.

And she hopes the sound of the water is loud enough to cover the awful sounds coming out of her throat. She is not even crying, there are just broken and sharp whimpers tearing out of her. It hurts to breathe, everything hurts, because he is destroying himself for her, and there is nothing she can do about it.

But despite herself, despite how heartbroken she feels for him, she can't help but feel angry at him, too. It would have been over in a couple of seconds if they had shocked her. It would have been nothing. But instead, they used him, tortured him in the most sick, horrifying ways, for five fucking hours. And this will destroy her as well, this might make her unable to hold on until they figure something out, because she is terrified and frightened that by the time they do, it would be too late, and he might not even be himself anymore.

"You should have just made them shock me, Bucky," she whispers to herself, her voice cracking. "You should have just let them—" and she breaks into a loud sob. She rocks back and forth, under the running water, trembling so violently it feels like her body is breaking apart from inside.

"Why did you make them do this? Why did you make them do this to you?" her voice breaks again, rising, hoarse and desperate. And she folds in on herself under the water, choking on the endless why’s that break out of her, until the only thing she can hear is the sound of water, and the quiet, shattering breaths coming out of her.

Chapter Text

He was jogging early in the morning when he found Bucky standing by the sidewalk, his back to him, hands in his pockets, staring blankly ahead. He had recognized him instantly, several meters away. His long hair would always give him away, though he had trimmed it a little since he got back from Wakanda.

Steve swallowed as he slowed to a stop. He hadn't seen him since the fight they had two days ago, which only meant that he was probably here to talk to him.

He approached him slowly, taking a deep breath. "Bucky?"

He turned around, looking exhausted, like he hadn't slept in a while. "Hey," he said, giving him a tired smile, but his smile barely even held up with the heaviness in his eyes. "I have been waiting for you."

"Yeah, I figured," Steve said.

"Can we sit?"

"Let's go over there," he told him, nodding towards a bench a few steps away.

They walked together in silence. He could tell that he was nervous, and he wanted to tell him that it was fine, Sam had already told him he went to him and that they talked, he explained lots of things Bucky was feeling, and Steve understood. He wasn't mad or angry at him. He was just sad—so incredibly sad for him. But he wanted to give him the space to talk first, so he didn't say anything.

When they finally sat down, Bucky exhaled and leaned forward on his elbows, his hands fidgeting together as his gaze stayed averted from Steve. "I am sorry," he said. "You were trying to be there for me and I—I almost hit you, and I kicked you out. I shouldn't have done that."

"It's fine, Bucky," he told him, placing his hand on his back. "I shouldn't have pushed you to talk like that, too. I shouldn't have—"

"No, Steve," he cut him off. "You did nothing wrong. I know you are actually trying to give me space. You haven't been pushy or anything. I just...." he trailed off, looking like he was trying to find the right words.

"What I said, about you not knowing me...that's not true. You are the only one who truly knows me. And I think, that's what makes it all so hard," he paused, dropping his gaze to the ground. "You weren't there when I was on the run, when I started regaining my memories. You don't know how horrifying it was, Steve, to remember every single life I took. How the numbers kept increasing every day, and I would tell myself...that's probably it, there couldn't possibly be more, but there was always more. And there were always more horrific details to remember about it all."

He turned his head to the side, looking at Steve, his eyes faintly glistening. "Other than the guilt that I was always drowning in, do you know what would usually come to my mind first when I remembered those things?"

"What?" Steve asked.

He shifted his gaze back in front of him. "What would Steve think?" he told him. "I would remember something horrifying and all I would think about was...what would  Steve think? Would you understand? Would you forgive me? Were you going to think that I should have fought harder? Were you going to think that, surely, throughout those seventy whole years, I must have remembered something— that I must have had a chance to snap out of this, somehow?"

Steve felt his throat closing up, because Bucky never told him any of that before.

"I knew you already knew who I was back then, but I didn't know how much you knew, exactly. I knew you tried to make me remember, but I was alone with my head most of the time during that period, and my mind just kept telling me that you would definitely want me locked up somewhere," he took a long breath, and looked like he was considering saying something, but seemed hesitant. "I also—that applies to some other things, which I don't want to talk about. It wasn't just about what I did. There were other horrible things that I remembered and I...."

"What I want to say is, you are too important to me, Steve. And now that I know you are not angry at me and that you don't blame me for anything....I sometimes wish you did. Sometimes, I—I don't feel like I deserve that. And I am not telling you that so you can tell me shit that can make me feel better, I am just telling you so you can understand how my mind works. So...most times, when you try and calm me down and tell me that the person who killed all those people wasn't me, it—it makes me so fucking angry, Steve," he stopped, letting out a breath he had been holding. "Mostly, it just—it makes me angry at myself."

"I know you think I should be able to open up to you and tell you everything, that it should be alright for me to be vulnerable with you because you're the closest person to me. But I can't, Steve. I can't talk about what happened, and I can't talk about what's happening inside my head. For so many reasons. Maybe someday I will be able to. But I already feel so much guilt towards you, and I feel like I am….constantly disappointing you—"

"No, Bucky. God, is that what you think?"

"Steve, I—I feel like I came back, and made your life miserable. That's one of the reasons why I wanted you not to stay over anymore. I was so tired of the guilt I am feeling towards you and I am already—I am already so fucking tired."

Steve tilted his head up to the sky, letting out a deep breath. "Oh, Bucky."

"What?" he asked.

He brought his head down, looked at him, a faint smile on his lips. "I woke up several decades later, completely alone, in a world I didn't recognize anymore, and for the longest time, it was an incredibly lonely life. I never, in a million years, thought I would ever have you back. And miraculously, I did. I know there's a lot of pain associated with that, but I got you back. You, Buck. The only person I ever had. How can that ever make me miserable?"

Bucky looked taken aback by Steve's words, but tried not to show it. "Well, I am not exactly a ray of sunshine to be around, you can't convince me I have made your life any better."

"I am not expecting you to be a ray of sunshine. I don't expect anything from you, Bucky. I just wish you would allow me to be there for you, I don't want anything else.”

Bucky sighed heavily. "I woke up yesterday alone and frightened, Steve. It was—it was very bad. I had a panic attack and I felt like I was going to lose my mind," he admitted, his gaze lowered. "So I need you. I know I do. It just…might take me some time to learn how to let you in, and I need you to be patient with me, because I know I will be a dickhead sometimes.”

“You can be a dickhead all you want. I don’t mind,” Steve told him. But despite the relief Steve felt at Bucky's words, his chest still tightened at the thought of him waking up alone and frightened like this. "What did you do when you panicked? Were you able to calm down?"

"Eventually," he breathed. "Sam was at my apartment the day before, he must have told you. He made me learn how to control my breathing if I get a panic attack. That helped. Otherwise, I think I would have stayed panicking for a very long time. It just took me a while to remember it. It took me a while to remember who I even was."

"He told me you guys talked," Steve told him. "It made me feel relieved."

Bucky smiled. "Yeah, turns out he can actually give great lectures."

"Oh, I know," Steve said, almost laughing. "Come here," he told him, grabbing him for a hug.

"Sorry," Bucky muttered, his head over Steve's shoulder. "I am really sorry."

Steve pulled away, patting Bucky on his back. "You don't have anything to be sorry for, and I mean that literally, Bucky. After what you have been through, you really have nothing to be sorry for."

Bucky didn't reply to that, he just sighed and stared in front of him. They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the cold morning breeze wash over them, enjoying the quiet after the heavy conversation they had.

After a while, Bucky decided to break the silence with something completely unexpected. "I think I should cut my hair."

Steve couldn’t help the grin that formed on his face. "About damn time."

Bucky laughed, and Steve felt like he could finally breathe again for the first time in two days.

——————————————————

"Bucky."

His best friend—the closest person to him, and the one he would sacrifice everything for, is right in front of him, in the middle of the room, sitting on the ground, his knees bent beneath him, with a metal band clasped around his neck. His right hand is in a splint, his chest is faintly bruised, and his face is terribly injured. He can also see bandages on his shoulder, which means his back is also hurt.

And Bucky's eyes, worn-out and exhausted, get filled with fear and panic when he hears his voice, but still stay fixed in front of him. He swallows slowly, his eyes shifting on the wall in front of him, looking like he's quietly panicking, but they never turn to Steve or to Rumlow.

"He can't talk," Rumlow says. "Sorry about that. But at least you saw him, right?"

"What?" he asks, completely confused. "What do you mean he can't—"

Rumlow crosses his arms. "He's not allowed to. Didn't Anna tell you? We have this rule, he has to answer any questions we ask. Otherwise, he shouldn't really talk. When Anna was here, he wasn't allowed to talk to her or answer her questions. But I was kind sometimes, and I let them talk about three times with each other."

"I didn't—"

"Wait, there was another time I forgot about. I gave him permission to reply to anything Anna asks, but he didn't feel like talking that day and completely ignored the poor girl. Couldn't even look at her. She was devastated," he says, looking at the ceiling like he's remembering a distant memory, then lowers his head. "Do you remember that day, Barnes?"

Steve feels like he doesn't understand what's happening in front of him. Anna had told them horrible things, but he still doesn't comprehend how this is happening, or how he is allowing it to happen.

"Barnes!" Rumlow shouts.

Bucky flinches.

Bucky flinches.

He's still frozen. He can't do anything.

Someone has to wake him up from this terrible nightmare.

"Yes," Bucky mutters, his eyes fixed downward.

"Do you remember why you didn't want to talk to her?"  Rumlow asks.

Bucky gulps, closing his left hand in a fist. "I—“ he stops, letting out a breath. “I remember."

Rumlow exhales, looking at Steve. "Do you recognize him? You must admit, we did quite an achievement in a very short amount of time."

He tries to control himself and his anger, reminding himself that they can torture Anna. "You said you will let me speak with him."

"Patience, we have to speak first," Rumlow says, gesturing at him and Steve. "And I said I will let you see him, I don't recall saying anything about letting you speak with him."

"No, I said—"

"You don't seem to understand," Rumlow cuts him off, his eyes fixed on him. "In my left pocket, there's the device that can shock Anna. In my right pocket, there's the remote controller of the collar around his neck. And just so you know, I have an order from Pierce to shock the fuck out of him if you cause any trouble. So, we will do as I say, Rogers. You will listen to what I want to say. And maybe, just maybe, I might allow you to have a couple of minutes with him afterwards, but you have to listen to me first."

"What do you want?" Steve asks, and he can't even hide how unsteady his voice is.

"What I want," Rumlow starts walking, his hands clasped behind his back, "is for you to forget about him. You and all your friends. You have been hovering around us, watching the base, we also know you tracked some of our men, and we have been silent so far, but that can't continue. You need to forget about him, Rogers. There's nothing that can be done, accept it and move on."

"Accept it and move on?" he asks, his voice trembling from the anger he's feeling. "Accept that you are torturing him? That you are keeping him locked up here? How on earth do you think I should accept that?"

And Steve hates that they are talking about Bucky like that when he is right in front of them, unable to speak, and unable to move. And he worries that he is not looking at them because of another messed up rule. He feels like someone is tearing him apart from the inside, and it makes him so nauseous.

"He accepted it," Rumlow says. "Truly, he did. He has learned his place, and he does whatever we ask of him now. Don't you see how he's sitting like an obedient little dog? If he can accept it, then you will. You are never going to be able to remove the device inside Anna. So lurking around and following us won't get you anywhere."

"Fine," he mutters through clenched teeth. "Fine, we won't follow you, Rumlow. Now can I speak with him?"

"I don't think you understand how serious we are regarding this," Rumlow says. "We are moving from here. So if any of your men follow us, it won't just be fast shocks for his girlfriend. I will take it out on him, too. Do you see how he's looking now?" he jerks his head towards Bucky. "It will be so much worse, I promise you, Rogers. You won’t even recognize him. And trust me, I will make sure you know it was you who caused it. Do you understand?"

Steve is terrified, because he knows they won't be able to follow or track them now, and he won't be able to bear not knowing where Bucky is. He doesn't know how he is going to be able to breathe without knowing that if they ever succeed in removing the device inside Anna, they can save him in an instant.

But right now, there’s nothing that he can do, and he has to speak to Bucky. "Okay, we won't follow you. I give you my word."

"Good, now it feels like we understand each other," Rumlow tells him. He crouches in front of Bucky, whose gaze is still fixed on the floor. “You can look at your friend if you want, Barnes. This rule doesn’t apply to him, you know that.”

So there’s a fucking rule regarding this, too.

But Bucky only swallows, and doesn’t turn his eyes to Steve.

Steve remembers Anna telling them that their goal in the beginning was to break Bucky, and she had told them that they succeeded. Steve hadn't really believed that, because it didn't make sense to him, or maybe he simply just didn't want to believe it. After all, Bucky had gone through seventy years of hell, had survived them somehow, and Steve didn't want to believe that it took two weeks to break him, to ruin all the progress he had made this past year.

He is looking at Bucky now, and he knows Anna was right. He knows they have broken him.

And it makes him want to burn this whole base to the ground.

“Tell me then, do you miss your friend?” Rumlow asks him.

Bucky still doesn't look up, his eyes stay on the floor, jaw tight. "Yes."

"I will give you a chance to speak with him, one last time," he says. "And after that, that's it. When you're out on missions, you're not allowed to even think about contacting him. You're going to forget about him. Is that clear?"

Bucky parts his lips slightly, like he's almost going to speak, but he breathes and doesn't say anything. And then, Rumlow's hand strikes Bucky's face. His head snaps to the side, and the sound echoes through the room.

Bucky doesn't do anything, and Steve is the one who flinches this time.

Before he even realizes it, he finds himself on Rumlow. He grabs him by his shoulder, slamming him to the floor, but before he can swing his fist in his face, Bucky's left hand clamps around his arm, stopping him.

"Steve, stop," he says, his voice frightened. "Stop," he repeats, almost breathlessly.

And Bucky is looking at him for the first time since he got here, which makes him forget about everything, even about wanting to kill Rumlow.

He has also just realized that there's a gun pointed at his head by the guard who is here.

"You just made him talk without permission, Rogers. Are you happy?"

Steve lets go of him, and then suddenly, Bucky's body is spasming and convulsing. His forehead is resting on the ground, his metal hand gripping the floor like he's trying to anchor himself, and he hears the terrible, loud groans that Bucky lets out through clenched teeth.

And his breath catches when he sees Bucky's back for the first time, it's filled with layers of bandages all over, there isn't a single part of his back that isn't covered.

"What—what are you doing?" Steve can't breathe. He shouldn't breathe. "Stop it. Stop, he's fucking injured and hurt everywhere."

"I warned you when you first came inside, Rogers. Didn't I? I fucking warned you," Rumlow angrily snaps.

"Fine, I am sorry. I didn't—just fucking turn it off. Now, Rumlow!" he shouts, breathless.

Rumlow shakes his head. "Not yet."

And Steve finds himself thinking about how there are two super soldiers in the room. How they can take down this whole base, if they wanted to, and how they still can't do anything.

How he can't do anything.

Bucky is lying on his side now, and there's nothing left of the control he had a few moments ago. His body is jerking hard against the floor, the sounds he has been holding back break free, and there are hoarse and strangled screams tearing out of his throat.

He drops to his knees next to Bucky. "What is—did you increase the fucking voltage?" he asks, frightened.

"I did. I got orders," he says, tapping on the earpiece he has on. "Should have told you Pierce is watching." He tilts his head towards the security camera on the wall.

"Well, tell Pierce to come here and not hide like a fucking coward," he spits.

The corner of Rumlow's mouth turns into a smile. "You're lucky he did not hear that."

If this goes on for more than this, he might act without thinking again, risk it all, and actually kill Rumlow, because Bucky looks like he is going to pass out. The screams that are coming out of him are now starting to turn into desperate, gasping breaths, his voice cracking and giving out from the pain.

"For God's sake, just—stop it. Stop. This is too much, he can't—he can't take any more of this."

After a few seconds, he finally stops it, and Bucky drags in a loud, pained breath. His whole body is shaking, his muscles twitching without control. This has gone on for long—far too long, perhaps longer than what's even tolerable or usual.

Steve holds Bucky's face, his fingers shaking. Bucky's eyes are only half-open, fluttering like he's fighting so hard to stay conscious. And the room is now silent except for Bucky's loud breathing, his breaths come out of him in broken sounds tearing out of his throat, as if every breath burns its way out of him, and Steve's chest seizes just hearing him.

Rumlow steps closer to them. "Cherish those last couple of minutes, because trust me, Rogers, if I ever find out you two contacted each other, or that you tried to reach him, or that you still followed us, I swear I will make everything much worse for him,” he looks down at Bucky, who is still not able to open his eyes properly. "You can speak, Barnes. I will leave you with him for some time, since it will take you a while to get up. Enjoy this last conversation with your friend." He walks out of the room, followed by the guard who was here as well.

Bucky leans his head back on the ground, wincing in pain as he pushes Steve's hands away from his face. He keeps it on the ground for a couple of seconds, his eyes shut, before shifting onto his back instead of his side. His chest is still rising and falling rapidly, and there's a lot of blood on his mouth from where he must have bitten his tongue and mouth too hard.

"God, Bucky," Steve says. "Are you alright?"

Bucky nods, but looks like he's still not able to talk. There are tremors going through his whole body. He opens his mouth to speak, but what comes out is a rough, pained breath that catches in his throat.

"It's okay," Steve softly says. "Just try and breathe."

He closes his eyes, trying to inhale and exhale, but he can't even manage that properly. Each attempt just ends in an exhausted gasping sound.

Steve waits for almost a minute, staying silent, giving him time to breathe, then asks, "Did Rumlow keep that thing on longer than usual? Or is that how it is every time?"

"Longer," he breathlessly says, his voice barely coming out. "Anna?" he forces her name out through heavy breaths.

"Just take your breath first," Steve tells him. "I am so sorry. I didn't feel myself—"

"It's fine," he mutters, his voice worn out and incredibly hoarse. He breathes in and out slowly for a couple of seconds, then clears his throat. "I—I lost control with him before," he pauses, catching his breath, "and look where...that got me," he says, glancing at his right hand. "But I learned...my lesson, I am all obedient now."

When Steve doesn't say anything, Bucky turns his slightly opened eyes to him. "That was a...joke," then he adds, "Kind of. I am honestly really obedient now."

And he doesn't know if he should feel relieved that Bucky still has any sense of humor left, or feel enraged that they have made him as obedient as they want him to be.

"No, I am sorry, Buck. I am stupid. I should have known he was going to do this.”

"It's my fault," he says, breathing out. "I was—I was contemplating whether or not I should tell him that they fucking wiped my memory and I...still remembered you. So how could he ask me to forget about you? I could never."

"Thank God you never said anything then," he tells him, a weak smile on his face. “Your left arm isn't working?"

"I will reset it now," he says, his voice still incredibly weak.

He rests himself on the elbow of his right arm, staying on his side, taking a deep breath as he resets it, then pushes himself up using his left hand, exhaling loudly as he drags himself to the wall behind him.

Steve can see the effort this all takes him, the tremors going through his body, his chest heaving like every breath hurts. When he finally slumps against the wall, his head falls back on it, eyes closed, his face pale and exhausted. He wraps his left arm around his stomach, as though it might stop him from trembling.

Steve moves closer to him, his stomach twisting painfully at how Bucky looks. "I am so sorry," he apologizes again, but the words are empty and hollow, not nearly enough for what has been done to him.

And now that he can properly see his face, he realizes just how badly he has been hurt. His lips are split open, though they look like they have almost healed. There is a faint bruise along his cheek, a thin cut above his eyebrow, also nearly closed. But the worst is the long gash by the side of his head, stitched and deep. He doesn't even want to imagine how his face looked when it first happened, but he knows it would have been a bloody mess.

He figures it probably happened the same day Anna left, the timing makes sense with the way the wounds have healed now, so he can't help the overwhelming anger that courses through him as he thinks about how they hurt him everywhere—his hand, his back, his face, even his chest too, which means his ribs are probably broken. Bucky can very well have many other injuries he knows nothing about.

Bucky opens his eyes. "I told you, it's—" he stops, his voice breaking. He coughs a few times, then spits away the blood in his mouth. "It's my fault."

His eyes shift to the heavy blood around Bucky's mouth, and then drop lower to the thing around his neck, the redness and the burning around it, and he feels bile rising in his throat. "Bucky, if it hurts to speak—"

"It’s fine," Bucky rasps out. "They don't use it a lot...actually. What happened today never happened before—not like that, usually it's just a few seconds," he stops, closing his eyes and swallowing, almost wincing as he does. "They just did that for you."

"I know, Rumlow said Pierce was watching, so I am not surprised. I know he definitely wants me dead," Steve says.

"He said that?" Bucky asks, his hand rising toward his throat, hesitating as if to scratch it or brush it, then falling back as he remembers what’s around his neck. "I didn't hear anything."

"Yeah," Steve breathes. "Your mouth and throat are badly hurt, aren't they?"

There's a very small, hint of a smile on Bucky's face. "It's okay, Steve. Can't you see how I look? That's nothing. I am fine," he replies. "How's Anna? And what the hell are you doing here?"

Steve gulps, because Anna hasn't been okay. Ever since she heard what Rumlow said in the call yesterday, she has been a lot worse. They tried talking to her, but she kept lying on the floor of her bedroom all day, silent and just staring ahead. It was like she had been engulfed by a shock so deep it emptied her out completely. And maybe she is only now beginning to process everything that happened, and he knows it is all far too much for anyone to endure.

She still insisted on coming with them to D.C., since they are going to meet Luke tonight. Neither he nor Sam argued about it today, they knew it would be better to bring her along than leave her alone in that state. So they got to D.C. together, and they are both waiting for him in the car nearby. And he hopes Sam can get her to talk while they wait, because she needs to talk to someone. It's a burden so heavy, what she's carrying, and he doesn't know if he would have been able to bear it if he were in her place.

But Steve can’t tell Bucky any of that. He can't worry him more than he is already worried. They have also decided that he shouldn’t tell him that they're meeting Luke. They don't want his mind to be busy with what they are doing and they also don't want to bring his hopes up, because they don't know if Luke is going to agree to help them or not.

"She's okay. We're trying to be with her most of the time, we don't want to leave her alone. Sam is with her right now. We went to Tony yesterday to see what we can do about the device, so we're working on that, too. And we will take care of her, I promise. Don't worry," he tells him. "And I am here because they wanted your phone, so you can contact Dr. Raynor. That's what Rumlow said."

"Right," Bucky mutters. "I told him you probably had it yesterday."

"They will let you postpone the next appointment?"

"Yeah," he replies. "Did she call after last time?"

"She called the following day, I told her you're out with Anna and forgot to take the phone with you. She just wanted to make sure you were fine. I don't think she doubted anything, but I told her you would call her back. I hope she forgot about that."

"She doesn't forget anything," a small, fragile smile tucked at the corner of his lips, but it barely even reached his eyes. "But it's alright, I will deal with it."

He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for what he wants to ask next. "Bucky, when Rumlow called yesterday, he told me to tell Anna that it went on for five hours after she left. That you could have stopped it, but you refused. They did all of that to you in the same day? Did they do anything else?”

Something in Bucky's face stills, and he seems to shudder, just barely. "And surely you didn't Anna tell that, right?"

"She—she heard what he said. We were with her and the call was on speaker so—"

Bucky drops his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. "No...no. Fuck," he murmurs, his chest rising and falling faster. "How—how has she been since?"

"She's fine, Bucky," he tries to assure him, hoping he will believe him. "And I told you we—"

He opens his eyes, and they're faintly glistening. "Steve," his voice trembles. "Tell me the truth, please."

He sighs, hesitating. "She's trying to hold herself together, but she's been distant.....more quiet and silent. It must have made her devastated, Bucky, knowing that they are using her like this, that it could've been stopped if you had let them—"

He turns his head to the side, his jaw clenching hard, closing his eyes as if he can't even bear to hear Steve's voice. "Stop—stop."

"What?"

He breathes out, swallowing. "Sorry, I just..." his voice falters, his gaze falling to the floor. "She's thinking about killing herself," he quietly says. "I know you said you won't leave her, but tell her I know that she heard what Rumlow said. And tell her—" he pauses, his breath catching. "Tell her, that if she does anything to herself, then I swear to God, that's it for me, too. She won't be freeing me from...anything. And I am so fucking tired anyway."

Steve gulps, feeling horrified. "Bucky, it won't come to this. She talked with us about it when she first came back, she said she knew that it was the right thing to do, but also said that she wouldn't be able to do that to you."

Bucky shakes his head. "That was before she knew about this. They didn't—they never did this before. So just tell her, please."

"Okay, I will. Don't worry," he reassures him. "Was it Rumlow who did this?"

"My hand and back are Rumlow's doing," he tells him. "The rest is someone else. Uh, I—I made someone else angry," he replies, moving his gaze to his hand.

"Who is he?"

"I am glad you asked," he says, sighing heavily. "Steve, if you ever—by some miracle, succeed in removing the device from Anna. I want you to know that I won't be able to—we can't turn them in, or even kill them. I need some of them alive."

"What?" Steve asks, confused.

"They hurt Anna. They humiliated me. They did—they did everything in front of her, you don't know what—" his voice breaks, and he stops for a few seconds, drawing in a sharp breath. "They destroyed everything, Steve. And they will make me their goddamn murderer again. They already—they already made me kill someone.” He glances at him, his eyes searching Steve’s like he is trying to figure out if he already knows.

"I know," he gently says, his voice trembling, and he tries to hide the shock and the awful fear seeping through him, because he now understands what Bucky wants. "It's okay, buddy. You did what you had to do."

"They can't die, Steve,” he mutters, his voice unsteady, shaking with anger and grief all at the same time. “That would be a fucking mercy. They have to be alive. That—alongside going through this to keep Anna safe, is the only thing that's going to stop me from going mad."

It shatters him, knowing that they pushed Bucky this far. He doesn't even want them dead—he wants to make them suffer for what they did. He swallows hard, but the lump in his throat only grows. And for a second there, he sees his best friend in his sergeant uniform from the forties, with blue eyes that always looked like they were smiling, even if he wasn't. And he thinks about how they ended up here. How they utterly ruined him—not once, but twice.

"Okay," he says, reluctant.

"Promise me, Steve," he desperately says. "Promise me you won't stop me, no matter what."

And how can he ever stop him from taking his revenge if it's going to stop him from losing himself? How can he ever say anything when they are doing this to him? He doesn't even have the right to have a say in this, not when he always fails to protect him.

"I won't stop you, I promise. When the time comes, we will take them in," he says, though he's unable to hide the quiver in his voice. "Who do you want? You said some of them."

"There's Rumlow and Pierce of course," he tells him. "And then there are another three. I only know their first names, uh—Darren, John, and Mike. Remember them, actually. I don't trust my head at the moment."

"Okay," he breathes. "Do you have any idea where they will take you?"

Bucky closes his eyes, looking exhausted from talking. The tremors going through his body haven't stopped, and Steve knows he's still in so much pain. "No, it's a new place," he replies. "But you can't continue to follow and track them, like Rumlow said. Take care of Anna and just focus on trying to find out everything about that damn device. I will figure it out there."

He lets out a long breath, opening his eyes. "The new place will have a cryochamber. They will put me in cryosleep between missions."

Steve feels his heart drop. "What?"

"Yeah, but believe it or not, that would be better actually. My head is a fucking nightmare now," he tries to convince him. "It will be better. Tell Anna—tell her I will be in cryosleep most of the time when I am at the base, let her know I will be okay, so she won't worry."

Steve attempts to say anything, but his mouth goes dry, and nothing comes out.

"I am so sorry, Steve,” Bucky says, his voice heavy with guilt. “I should have listened to you when I first knew she was kidnapped. I never—I never should have agreed to wait for those two weeks. And I am sorry about the last time I saw you, but I was terrified and I couldn't just let you attack the base while—"

“No, Bucky. How could you have known that they were going to do this to her? You were just trying to keep her safe,” he tells him, horrified at the thought of what must constantly run through Bucky’s mind, and he realizes that this is why he said that being in cryosleep would be better.

“And I am the one who is sorry. I didn't know you were hurt and unwell, even though it should have been obvious. I am sorry about….everything. But we will figure it out. We always figure it out, right? We will figure this out, too."

When Bucky doesn't say anything, he asks, "Did they tell you anything about what they want you to do?"

"A bit," Bucky replies. "It will start with ex-hydra personnel, important people they used to work with....those who refused to come back. Then they will try to rebuild whatever they lost. Do you know Pierce told me there's been a plan to take revenge on you, Natasha, and Fury?"

"I would be surprised if there wasn't. I told you he definitely wants me dead," Steve says. "Why did he tell you that?"

Bucky's gaze drifts absentmindedly past Steve. "He said he will stop the plan if I am...efficient. He wants me to be as efficient as I was when I was the Winter Soldier. He said they have lost so much, can't risk more...shit like that. But anyway, you know I will do whatever they want, right?"

"Do whatever needs to be done, Bucky. I know it's going to be the hardest thing you will ever have to do, I know it will kill you, but you don't have a choice. And if they're going to start it with ex-Hydra people, like you said, then maybe that's not too bad. Better than actual innocent people, right?"

And Steve doesn't believe that he is actually saying that—that these words are leaving his mouth, but Bucky's guilt will probably destroy him anyway, and he needs to know that there's nothing that can be done. Steve knows that Bucky needs to hear him say that it's okay, that he doesn't really have a choice.

Bucky nods, but his gaze still seems distant, like his mind is elsewhere. After a moment, he asks, "How's Sam?"

Steve feels his heart twisting. "He told me to tell you that he won't go to Delacroix until you come back."

Bucky smiles sadly. "Tell him that I am—“ his voice breaks, and he bites the inside of his mouth, fighting the tears that are gathering in his eyes.

Steve feels a choke rise in his own throat when he sees him like this, and he doesn't know when the tears start falling down his face. "Bucky..."

"It's fine—I am fine," he says, pressing his fingers to his eyes.

"Hey, it's okay," Steve reaches out, trying to pull him close to wrap his arms around him, but Bucky leans back, pressing his left hand firmly on Steve's chest, stopping him.

“No, I—I can't. Sorry….I am sorry,” he says, his voice trembling.

"Bucky," he pleads, because God, his heart cannot break more than this.

He lets out a shaky breath. "Uh—tell him I am sorry. I was—I was an asshole last time. And tell him I always count my breaths....when I panic. So technically, he's always here with me, in a way."

He hears someone entering the room, but doesn't turn his head to see who it is. "Hey, time to go now," he says, and it's not Rumlow, probably just a guard.

"Hold tight, Buck. And don't worry about Anna, we're not going to leave her. She will be fine," his voice is shaking badly, because he can't believe he is actually going to leave him now.

"Thank you," Bucky says, his voice barely above a whisper.

And Steve doesn't know how he should leave without hugging him. He can't, so he has to try again, and he hopes Bucky only resisted the hug to keep himself from crying. He reaches out, but Bucky presses his left hand against Steve's arm, stopping him once more. "Bucky, come on," he says, his voice breaking.

Bucky gulps, his eyes heavy with guilt. "I am sorry," he breathes, his voice cracking. "Go ahead, go."

The guard grabs Steve's arm, pushing him up. "That's enough."

Steve walks away, feeling like his heart is being wrenched and torn open. It makes it hard to breathe, his chest hurts, and his jaw aches from trying to hold back the tears, because he is leaving Bucky. He is leaving him while he is hurt, while he's being controlled, and while he's being treated like he's not even human.

He will leave Bucky to them. To Hydra. The same Hydra he saved him from decades ago.

And nothing has ever pained him more than this. Not even when Bucky fell off the plane, because he got him back. He just got him back. So how can he lose him again so quickly?

Chapter Text

His head rested on Anna's shoulder as her hand moved slowly through his hair. She always did that when she sensed something was off, without asking any questions or pressing him about it. And he loved it when she did that. He wouldn't want her to stop. 

But he also needed to tell her he was fine, just in case she was worried. "Anna?" 

"Yeah?"

"I am fine." 

"I know you are." 

A small smile tugged at his lips. “If you say so." 

He was really fine, though. His mind had just been thinking about lots of stuff recently, reaching realizations he didn't quite know what to do with. He had already discussed some of them with Dr. Raynor, who had helped him make better sense of what was going on in his mind.  

"What do you want to eat? I will order takeout." 

He gave her the same reply as always. "Anything you want." 

She chuckled. "For once in your life, give me a different answer."

"Why would I? I trust your choices." 

"I want you to choose. You must have a couple of favorite places by now." 

"I don't like to choose," he argued. "And I am fine with all the options you usually get." 

After a moment, she said, "Wanna hear a confession?" 

"I am listening." 

"When you first started coming to my bakery, sometimes, I would see you glancing at the display, and I would know that you were totally lost about what to pick and hesitant. And I wouldn't offer you any help. I would just watch you."

He moved his head away from her shoulder. "What? Why would you do that?"

She tried to hold back a grin. "I loved seeing you so indecisive, and you always look really adorable when you can't decide."

He groaned and shut his eyes. "No, please tell me you did not just say that." 

"But it's the truth," she teased. 

"This is so evil," he said. "Now I am remembering all the times I was hesitant about anything and I can't trust you at all right now." 

She laughed. "I stopped doing it. Haven't you noticed? I just nudge you to choose now, that's all." 

He shook his head. "Still don't trust you." 

"Oh, come here," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him closer. She eased his head down on her lap. "Now how about you tell me something too?"

"About what?" he asked, adjusting so he could see her face. 

"Anything you want." 

"Anything?" 

"Anything," she repeated. "I know it takes a lot for you to say anything at all. So yeah, anything would do, really. You can confess anything, no matter how stupid." 

He wanted to confess the most important thing of all, and tell her that he loves her—that he had been in love with her for so long now. They had been together for more than ten months, but he still didn't have the guts to do it yet. He felt like she already knew, though, but neither of them had said the words yet. 

A part of him believed that he should only do it when he had truly gotten better. When he had healed, even a little. He was doing a lot better than before, but he knew he still needed more time. 

Sam, of course, had laughed at him when he told him that. “Bucky, man, I love you, but I am sorry, this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. What’s next? Should you get a note from Dr. Raynor that says you’re cleared to be in love?”

But even Sam’s persistence and nagging weren’t enough to force him to do it. 

So he considered, thinking about what he could tell her instead for a couple of seconds, and his mind drifted to everything he had been discussing with Dr. Raynor lately. "How about something a little bit...fucked up?" 

"Go ahead. "

"I know I did lots of horrible, unforgivable things when I was the Winter Soldier," he told her, taking a deep breath, "but I—you would think I hated the person I was then, right?" 

She blinked, caught off guard. She probably thought he was going to tell her something silly. "I don't know. Do you?" 

"No," he replied, staring ahead. "I think I—I feel sorry for the person I was, sometimes." 

She went back to running her fingers through his hair. "How couldn't you, Bucky?"

"I have been thinking about certain things recently," he went on, "and they have made me feel that way, which is....a very new feeling to me," he explained. "Because whenever I thought about who I was, I would always be filled with so much anger and hatred....towards myself, which is normal, because I did all these horrible things. And I was also always so furious and enraged—still am, about all the terrible things that happened to me as well. But I never felt....that." 

"What have you been thinking about?" 

"Lots of things. Not the wipes or the torture or anything like that, actually. Just feelings and thoughts I struggled with back then," he replied. "The confusion I always felt was one of the worst things, for example. Especially if they left me out too long without cryosleep. Being confused always made me nervous. Sometimes, things just didn't make sense in my head, and I was almost frightened all the damn time of doing or saying the wrong thing, because that would result in endless misery.” 

He exhaled slowly, his eyes distant. “I wasn't stupid, I understood the plans, the orders I got, the missions. That was all fine. That was all I was good at. I was just mostly confused about the small, insignificant stuff." 

"Like someone dipping their croissant in their coffee." 

He smiled, remembering the first day they met. "Yeah," he sighed. "Exactly like that." 

"What else?" she asked. 

He didn't reply right away. He tried to think of an example that wouldn't be too terrible. "They always said that I was no one, not a person, just an asset...or a killing machine. Whatever it was...it wasn't something entirely human. And I was asked to repeat those words all the time, and I believed them, to an extent. But it didn't always make sense. I would come back from a mission injured, there would be blood, and I would look at it and just....it felt like that made me human. Humans bleed, don't they? And I bled all the time, I was injured all the time. My healing abilities are so much better than the regular human being, but I would still die if I got shot in the head. That had to count for something." 

"But it would feel wrong to have these thoughts, which made me even more nervous. I know it's stupid, but sometimes, it felt like they even had access to what goes on in my head.....so that was another thing to be confused and anxious about. I would always try and put an end to that confusion, though. I would look at my metal arm, the way it's connected to my shoulders, and I would tell myself...that must be it. That must be why you're not human." 

He didn't say anything for a little while, but then continued, "Sometimes, they would make me wait for a while when I came back injured from a mission. Even if I had....a bullet somewhere, or any grave injury in general, and no one would give a shit, as long as it wasn’t going to kill me right away. Which isn't surprising, I wouldn't have expected anything different. But I would also see this sense of urgency around everyone else—if there were others injured from the team, even if it was a very minor injury, they would make sure they're comfortable and give them medications, IV, whatever they needed right away, and waste absolutely no time in treating them. But I could sit there, for hours, bleeding, going in and out of consciousness, and no one would give a shit. And when they would finally give a shit, it always felt like they were trying to teach me a lesson for getting hurt in the first place. "

"And a lot of them used to get frustrated at me sometimes, if I made any sound, or showed any signs of being in pain, I think—I think that reminded them that I am still human, and they did not like that. And that was when I had to get treated from an injury, getting treated from punishments was always worse, because that would definitely be considered my fault. Which is—it's sickening to think about. I know I was a killer. I know I truly was...no one, but still.”

"And I never thought I deserved to be treated any better, even when I regained my memories. But recently, I have been thinking about some of my memories, and I just...I felt bad. Really bad, Anna. I think I— I actually feel sorry for him—for me, I don't know...that part is always complicated. And then I felt guilty about feeling bad, because why did I think I should have been treated any better? Why did I even deserve that?"

"That was how they treated you all the time?" 

He turned his gaze to her, sensing the sadness in her voice. "Yeah," he breathed. "I don't recall ever being treated by someone differently. Maybe in the very beginning....before I lost my memories, there were a few people—guards and nurses, who weren't completely terrible. But I think it all got worse after wiping my memories started. Maybe I lost all my humanity then, and that made everyone lose their humanity around me too." 

"You didn't lose your humanity, Bucky," she softly said, brushing his hair back from his face and caressing his forehead. "Everything you just said makes you more human than anything."

He brought his hand up to her face, letting his finger brush against her cheek. "Hey, I am okay now. I have just been thinking about that recently," he told her, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Dr. Raynor said in my last session that coming to that realization is actually a good thing. So it's a progress, I guess." 

She smiled, but her eyes still looked heavy. "It is. I am glad you are talking to Dr. Raynor about that stuff now. Who knows….maybe you will even tell her about your nightmares one day." 

"Maybe," he said, even though he knew that day would probably never come. 

——————————————————

His lips tremble and his throat closes in until it's hard to breathe. He grits his teeth, his left hand curling into a tight fist, fighting to keep himself from breaking before they reach the medical exam room. He can feel the control slipping through his fingers, and maybe it's about damn time anyway. He needs to let it all out. 

Since getting here, he had only truly broken down once—when he was with Steve and Sam. And that had made everything worse, and only left him hanging by the edge again. And all that happened before that day was one thing, and everything that happened afterwards was something else entirely. He has been trying so hard to hold it together ever since. 

"Hey, the doctor is coming soon to check on your hand," Luke says as he pushes the door open. "Thought I should let you know."

He doesn't acknowledge what he said, he just walks past him, straight into the bathroom, and shuts the door behind him. His left hand grips the edge of the sink, because he's shaking too hard to be able to stand. 

He is angry. He is so fucking angry. 

Because Anna knows. She knows about the five hours—the five hours that he can't, for the life of him, remember completely. And it's unbearable, thinking about what that could have done to her. He knows she is going to be thinking about killing herself all the time. He knows she won't be able to continue living normally like he asked her to. And how is she ever supposed to live normally when there's a torture device inside her anyway?

He destroyed her life. And they destroyed everything they ever had. 

And Steve. Steve, who had to watch him being silent and obedient. Who had to watch him getting electrocuted. He had thought they broke everything inside him when they made Anna watch, but turns out there is more. There is always more to break, more to tear apart. 

And God, he is so angry at himself, for not being able to let Steve pull him close, even when he saw the look in his eyes. He saw the hurt and the confusion. He saw it all. But his body had already decided on that, long before his mind could even process what was happening. He just…couldn't. 

He had felt like that the last time he saw him and Sam, too. He had felt like that with Anna. But now it's all worse, his body doesn't feel like it's even his anymore. And he's filled with a crushing feeling of guilt for everything that's happening. And beneath all of that guilt is a burning rage at them, for what they have done, for ruining him like that. For tearing him apart until all that's left is just the unbearable ache of being who he is. 

And then there's Sam, whom he hadn't even gotten a chance to talk to or to apologize. Who he misses, deeply. Who he knows will be there for Steve and Anna through all of this, but will have no one be there for him in the same way.

A shaky breath escapes him first, followed by another, louder, sharper, breaking halfway through. And then another, trembling and almost painful. His anger is pressing with unbearable weight against his chest, suffocating him from the inside out. 

So he doesn't even feel himself when his right hand slams against the mirror above the sink. The pain should be blinding, but he doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel the burning around his neck, the excruciating ache in his muscles, or the fire in his nerves. He feels nothing except for the rage shaking through him. 

And he is not thinking either. He is not thinking about whether or not they will punish him for what he's doing. He is not thinking about the device inside Anna. All he knows is that he can't breathe from the anger rising in his throat, and he is not able to control or hold it in this time.

He had tried to bury it, to shove it all down, but it's too much. It's all too much to control. 

"Hey!" Luke shouts, bursting through the door. "Stop. Stop it. They heard that!"

He doesn't care. He slams his fist into the wall, again and again, right hand first, then his left. The noise drowns out the loud sound of his own breathing, each hit louder and sharper. 

"Barnes!" Rumlow's voice cuts through the air. 

He should really stop now. He knows he should. But he can't. He can't stop. 

His breaths are loud and uneven, and a hoarse groan escapes him between punches, frustration ripping out of him as his anger threatens to crush him completely. He keeps hitting the wall, until chunks of it crash down in front of him. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Rumlow angrily mutters. "Stop, Barnes. That's an order. Fucking stop."

He doesn't stop. He slams his fist again, harder, until the sink rips free from the wall and crashes to the floor.

And then the shock hits him, electricity surging through his body, pulling him down, reminding him of all the pain that he was in, all the pain that he was trying not to feel. He drops to the floor on the dust and debris scattered all over the bathroom tiles, keeping his left hand pressed against the shattered ground as his body spasms and breaks from the jolts of electricity. 

After a couple of seconds, Rumlow stops it. "Get out, all of you," he orders the guards, his voice flat. 

Bucky's breathing fills the silence, harsh and loud. He tries to steady it, but his lungs ache, and each inhale shudders out of him. The sound is too loud, almost desperate and helpless, but he can't stop it. Not after his outburst and the electricity that tore through him. 

The burning around his neck stings worse now, and every nerve is screaming at him to rip that fucking collar off, to do anything to stop the burning pain. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Rumlow snaps. "I allow you to see your friend, and that's how you act?" 

He is trembling badly again, this time from pain, not rage. The tremors start in his arm, then spread until his whole body feels like it's breaking apart. His right hand throbs with a pulsing ache, and when he looks down, he finds it smeared with blood.

Rumlow crouches in front of him. "Show me your fucking hand." 

Bucky doesn't do anything. He's still trying to breathe, and he isn't even sure he will be able to move it again. 

Rumlow leans in, grabs his wrist, and yanks it towards him. He lets out a sharp breath, the pain shooting up in his arm. 

"Fucking hell," Rumlow mutters. "How did you even manage to move it?" 

He doesn't reply, even though he knows he should. He just sits there, shaking, every breath burning his throat more. 

Rumlow drops his hand, then grips Bucky's jaw, forcing his face up towards him. "Look at me, Barnes."

Bucky obeys, his gaze lifting slowly to meet his. 

"Do you know why we let you keep your left arm?" 

"No," Bucky manages to reply, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"Because you needed to learn to surrender. To obey and comply, completely, even while knowing you had the power to fight. And that knowledge," he says, tightening his grip, "is worse than being completely helpless, isn't it?" 

He doesn't reply, but he knows Rumlow is right. It is suffocating to be aware of that all the time. 

"Isn't it?" he asks again. 

"Yes," he breathes. 

"I did not allow you to keep it so you can do this," he tells him. "You pull this kind of shit again, and I will make you give it to us. Clear?" 

Bucky swallows, feeling terrified of that ever happening. "Clear."

Rumlow finally lets go of his face, and Bucky exhales, dropping his head. 

Rumlow stands up. "As for your right hand," he says, sighing, "what you just did? You don't have the right to do that. We can do whatever we want, because you are Hydra's property, Barnes. Don't ever forget that. But you don't get to hurt yourself. You don't get to even think about it. Your body belongs to us. It's not yours. Do you fucking hear me?" 

He shakes with anger again, he feels it rising in his throat, stealing all his breath. He digs his left hand into the ground so hard it feels like it might snap under the pressure. He tries to say anything, to force out any answer, any empty words that might satisfy Rumlow, but nothing comes out. 

He sees Rumlow's boots step closer. "I asked a question." 

"I heard you," he says through clenched teeth, making no effort to hide how his voice is trembling with anger. 

Rumlow exhales loudly through his nose, irritated, before gripping a fistful of Bucky's hair, jerking his head up. Pain shoots up in his skull, his head had already been throbbing from the electricity, and now it feels like it might burst. "I don't like how that sounded," he tells him, his tone sharp. "Do you have any objections?" 

Bucky's eyes stay closed for a second, steadying himself through the pain. "No," he mutters, his breathing heavy. 

"So you know you're ours?"

"Yes."

"Does your body belong to you?" 

He moves his gaze away from Rumlow, his breath catching. He is trembling. And a hard knot rises in his throat, making it burn even more, and his eyes sting as he blinks, desperate to hold himself together.  

Rumlow tightens his grip, yanking his head back further. The pain in his neck flares, and he grits his teeth, wincing. "What's the matter with you? Why are you so fucking slow today?"

Should he really answer that?

"Barnes," he warns, slapping Bucky's face lightly. "Eyes up here." 

He turns his eyes to him. 

"I will ask one last time," Rumlow says, leaning closer. "Does your fucking body belong to you?"

He knows the answer. He has known it for a long while now, and maybe that's what makes it all too painful.

"No," Bucky whispers, his voice almost breaking. "It doesn't." 

"Good," Rumlow lets go of his hair, shoving his head back. "You are not allowed to do shit like that ever again. If what you did delays the healing of your hand, I will still send you on your next mission with it broken. So think twice before you act like this again. Do you understand?" 

"Yes."

Rumlow straightens, gives him one last glance, then walks out. The room's door slams behind him, leaving Bucky on the bathroom floor, shaking, hollow, and barely breathing. 

He drags himself away from all the mess around him, until his back finds the wall. He pulls his knees close to his chest, and for a moment, he only hears his own uneven breathing. 

And then he breaks. 

A strangled sound escapes his mouth, tearing out of his wounded throat. Followed by a loud sob, then another, until they come in uncontrollable, violent bursts. His body trembles with each one, his chest heaving as he gasps for air that won't come. He can't even catch enough air between each cry that tears out of him, and the sounds coming out of him are all guttural and wounded—the sounds of someone losing himself and everything all over again. 

He thinks of Anna, Steve, and Sam. He thinks of how much they are hurting, how he has hurt them, and the grief and guilt of that shatters him, it rips through his body, sharper than any wound, and worse than any pain he's feeling. He can feel the tremors in his muscles, the ache in his chest, and the pounding in his head. But he still can't stop. 

When his body finally gives out, his ragged breathing turns into hoarse gasps. He lets his head fall back against the wall, breathless and drained.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, unmoving, staring at nothing. The tremors turn into a shaking that doesn't stop. His chest still rises and falls too fast, and the burning in his nerves only keeps spreading. 

"Hey," a voice breaks through the silence. It’s the doctor, standing at the bathroom door. "Shit. You did all of that?" 

He keeps his head back, eyes unfocused, saying nothing. 

"I came to check on your hand,” she says, stepping closer. “The guard outside also said you hurt it again just now, and that they electrocuted you. He told me to check on your neck. Are you okay?"

He clears his throat, trying to force himself to speak. "Fine," he replies, and he doesn't even know if she can hear him from the hoarseness of his voice. 

"I told them a million times that your body can't handle anything for a very long time. Why the fuck did they do that?”

He wants to tell her that that's precisely the issue. His body would always handle anything, and that's his damn curse. 

"You are trembling," she states, her voice concerned. “How long did they electrocute you?"

He doesn't reply, because he doesn't know, and "I don't know" seems like an awfully long sentence to say at the moment. 

When he doesn't say anything, she sits in front of him on the floor. "Hey," she says, her voice gentle. "Are you alright?" 

He keeps his gaze away, feeling uncomfortable by how she is looking at him. "Yes." 

"Goddamnit," she mutters. "Did you see how your neck looks?" 

"I know there's a fucking collar on it, if that's what...you are asking." He brings his head down, feeling bad for snapping at her. "I am sorry. I am just…tired." 

"It's okay. You have the right to be angry at all of us," she sighs. "Your neck is badly burnt, and your throat must be hurting you, too.”

"It will heal." 

"No, your neck needs to be treated first," she tells him. "And…oh my God, what did you do to your hand? How did you even—what happened?” 

When she receives no reply from him, she asks him, “What did they do to you?" 

He rests his head back again against the wall. "What didn't they do?" 

"Did something happen today?" 

He ignores her question. "Do you want me...to get inside?"

She sighs, giving up on him telling her anything. "Wait," she says, getting up. "I will be back in a minute. We have to remove that collar." 

"No," he tries to stop her, but his voice barely comes out of him. "Fuck," he mutters to himself, closing his eyes as he hears her shouts coming from outside the room. 

After a short while, she comes back inside the bathroom with Luke by her side, and he knows it must be him who told her that they electrocuted him. "Okay, come on now, get on the bed," she tells him. "We will take that collar off." 

He hadn’t expected them to agree so easily, so for a moment, he’s caught off guard. He gathers what little strength he has left, takes a slow breath, and pushes himself up from the floor. His legs nearly give out halfway, and he steadies himself against the wall with his left hand.

Luke extends his arm to him. "Hey, let me help you." 

"No," he replies. "I can do it." 

He exhales as he lowers himself on the edge of the bed, the room tilting faintly around him. His eyes drop to the floor, heavy with exhaustion, as he waits for them to do whatever they want. 

The doctor moves closer, her gloved hands inspecting the collar. "Come, unlock it," she says to Luke. 

Luke steps to Bucky's other side, his fingers reaching for the lock, and the faint tug against his neck almost makes him flinch. 

"Sorry," Luke mutters. 

"It's fine," Bucky rasps. 

"Tilt your chin up a bit," the doctor tells Bucky. 

He lifts his chin, eyes turning to the ceiling as Luke's unlocks it. When the doctor hears the small click, she slides her fingers carefully between the collar and his skin, and his breath catches as it shifts against his burned flesh. 

"I will take it off as slowly as I can," she murmurs. “You never got burned from it like that before, right?” 

He closes his eyes as he feels the wet pull of skin peeling away, stuck to the inside of the collar, but he doesn't look. “No, I don’t think so.” 

“Rumlow kept it going for about a minute straight,” Luke explains to her. “Probably at maximum intensity. You should have lost consciousness, actually. I don’t know how you managed to stay awake,” he tells Bucky. 

“Steve was there,” he murmurs, unsure if that would make sense to them. “I had to.”

“I know,” Luke says. “Rumlow shocked him again as well, just a little while ago, but it wasn’t for long.”

He wants to thank him for explaining on his behalf, because he never has the energy to explain anything to that doctor.

“He’s a fucking dickhead,” she mutters under her breath. “There you go," she says, removing it completely. "Breathe." 

He lets out the breath he has been holding, lowering his head forward, his breathing uneven, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the collar in her hand, the inside of it smeared faint red, with thin bits of skin still clinging to the edge of it. 

She sets it on the table beside the bed. "Can you pour him some water, please?" 

"Sure," Luke replies. 

Bucky rests his forehead against his left hand, eyes closed. He is so tired, and all he wants is to be by himself. He doesn't care about his neck or his hand. He just wants to be left alone. 

"Here," Luke says, handing him the water. 

He removes his hand and takes the cup, drinking all the water until it is empty, only then realizing how much he needed to drink. "Thank you." 

Luke nods, taking the empty cup away. 

"Do you need anything else?" Luke asks the doctor. 

"No, I will let you know if I do." 

Before Luke steps outside, she says, “Hey, actually….there’s something,” she says. “For God’s sake, can you bring him a damn t-shirt?”

“I will see what I can do."

“Thanks,” she tells him. 

She hands Bucky wet tissues. “To clean the blood around your mouth, there’s no sink now, as I am sure you have noticed.” 

He takes it from her. “I have noticed.”

Once he’s done wiping his lips and mouth, she sits beside him on the edge of the bed, a small case by her side.

"Are you okay?" she asks as she begins to clean the burn on his neck. "It's a stupid question, I know, but....did they do anything else?" 

The liquid stings against his skin, but he doesn't move. "No." 

“The person he said was there—Steve. That’s Steve Rogers, right?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. 

“I don’t know why he was here, but I am sorry they did that in front of him,” she softly tells him. “Now I understand why you have destroyed the bathroom. You have every right to destroy this whole place.” 

She exhales when she hears no reply from him, wetting the gauze again. "I wish there was something I could do. I feel so fucking useless whenever I come here." She shifts to his other side to clean the other part of the burn. "And after last time...I tried to threaten Darren—my husband. I tried to—"

He moves his gaze to her, his pulse quickening. "That's—that’s your husband?" 

"Yeah," she replies. "Do you know him? He told me he has nothing to do with anything related to you....said it's all Rumlow and Pierce." 

He gulps, and a tremor runs through him as he remembers. He opens and closes his left hand, which has become a grounding habit now. He does it whenever he wakes up from a nightmare with that man in it, just to remind himself that his arm is working. 

He knows that telling her anything would probably just get him into trouble, and what is he going to tell her? Her husband is the one who made him get into shock last time? That now he has a new kind of nightmare—one where he is naked and helpless, his hands frozen, forced to watch himself being used, torn apart, and viciously attacked, over and over?

"No," he finally says. "I don't really know him." 

She almost looks relieved. Before she can continue speaking, the door opens, and Luke steps inside with a grey t-shirt in his hand. “There you go,” he says, placing it on the bed. 

“Thank you,” she tells him. 

He nods and steps outside again.

“You can wear it after I change the bandages on your back,” she says, pressing a salve gently against his skin. “I am not here by choice, in case that's not obvious. They threatened me that they would take my colleagues at the hospital instead of me, and I couldn't let that happen, of course. And then there's fucking Darren, he threatened me with our kids," she tells him.

"I hate being a part of this, but I want to help. Although it feels like there's nothing I can do sometimes. I tried to convince them to give you food, but they said you will get fed through a tube soon, and I swear, I just felt like I was talking to lunatics. Their cruelty doesn't make sense to me." 

He tries not to react, but the thought of the feeding tube makes his stomach turn. He doesn't mind that they haven't given him anything to eat since he got here. The IV drips have been keeping him barely standing, but he would rather starve than have that thing forced down his throat. 

"You let them allow me to have a shower," he says after a while. "That was a lot, actually." 

She tapes a fresh bandage on his neck. "That's not a lot. That’s the bare minimum."

Bucky tilts his head slightly, closing his eyes. "If it makes you feel any better," he tells her, his voice rough, "throughout my seventy years with Hydra, the doctors were always....as bad as the rest of them. You're the only doctor I have had who has ever given a shit." 

Her hands still for a moment. "How is that even possible?" 

He sighs heavily, feeling too tired to explain. "I don't know. Maybe if I wasn't so..." he stops, searching for the right word, "human, like I am right now, you wouldn't have given a damn either." 

"What?" she asks, confused. 

"Never mind," he mutters, lowering his head. "It doesn't matter."

She removes the gloves from her hands. "You think you weren't human back then?" 

"It doesn't matter," he repeats, exhausted.

"Weren't all those people aware that you were being tortured? That your memory was being erased? That you were being controlled?" she still presses. 

"Yeah, but—" 

"Then they are all monsters," she cuts in, anger lacing her voice. "And I definitely would have given a shit." 

———

He's been drained out ever since his breakdown yesterday. There are no thoughts in his head, no crushing or unbearable feelings either, just overwhelming, heavy exhaustion. 

So when the guard hands him his phone right now to call Dr. Raynor, he wonders if that will bring out his emotions rushing back, and he hopes it doesn't, because he really needs to make her feel like everything is okay. 

The guard leaves him and tells him he will be back in five minutes. He stares at his phone for a moment, his breathing unsteady. He knows they are probably monitoring the phone now, and he tries to ignore how uncomfortable he feels when he thinks about the possibility of them listening to his conversation with Dr. Raynor. 

He opens his contacts to call her, and of course, the first name that appears is Anna's. He breathes in, then out slowly, forcing the ache he feels back down before he loses control again. 

When he feels like he can breathe again, he finally calls Dr. Raynor. 

"James," she answers. 

He gulps hard. Why the fuck does Dr. Rayor's voice make him emotional? 

"Hey, doc,” he says, hoping she doesn't notice how unsteady his voice is. 

"Steve told me you would call," she says. "You never did, of course." 

He almost smiles, despite himself. He knew she wouldn't forget. "Yeah, sorry. He told me you called, but I forgot."

"How have you been since last time? Sleeping any better?" 

He sighs, closing his eyes. "Yeah," he lies, and his mind flashes with all the new, terrible nightmares he has been having lately. "Much better." 

"The nightmares?" 

Goddamnit. 

"The same," he quickly says. "But I am sleeping more easily now. I—I don't know what was wrong with me before....why I had trouble falling asleep." 

"There must have been something on your mind," she tells him. "Maybe we will discuss that when I see you." 

He draws in a slow breath. "Yeah, about that....would it be possible to postpone our next appointment?" 

"Why?" 

He clears his throat. "Uh, remember when I told you Anna and I are planning on going to Louisiana with Sam?" 

"Yeah, you were excited about that." 

He tilts his head back, closing his eyes as he remembers Steve telling him that Sam won't go to Delacroix till he comes back. "I am always excited about going to Delacroix." 

"I know," she says, and he can almost hear the smile in her voice. "When do you want to go?" 

"Well, Sam has got something to do there tomorrow. So we were thinking of just going with him instead of waiting till the weekend. If that's okay, of course. If not, then we will just—" 

"You can go, James," she gently interrupts him. "It's fine. When will you be back?" 

He feels so bad about lying to her like that, because she never would have agreed to something like this when he first started seeing her. But she trusts him now, which makes him feel sick, because she has no idea what he's about to become again. 

"Next week," he manages to say. "By Thursday, probably. So we can have our appointment on Friday?" 

"Alright, no problem," she says. "They will call you to confirm the time." 

"Thanks, doc.“

"You're welcome. But I expect some talking in our next session, James. I want to know what was bothering you last time." 

"Sure," he says, swallowing. "I will try to talk." 

"Good," she murmurs. "Well, have fun. And if you need anything—" 

"I can call you whenever I want, I know," he cuts in quietly. "Thank you." 

"Goodbye, James." 

He hangs up, exhaling shakily. He leaves the phone by the table next to him, then leans forward, resting his forehead on his left hand. 

He doesn't know how he will be able to do this while going to Dr. Raynor. It doesn't seem like something that's possible. Because what the hell is supposed to happen now? He will kill people and then go to her and pretend he's been working on his amends list? And if she ever finds out about what is happening at the moment, then that's it for him and Anna. He will get locked up for his entire life, and Hydra won't waste a second in killing Anna.

The guard comes back inside. "You have called her?" 

He removes his hand from his face. "Yeah," he replies. "Let them know that the next appointment will probably be on Friday next week, they will call to confirm.”

"Good," he says, taking the phone away. 

Then someone opens the door, just as the guard was heading out. "James.”  

It’s Pierce. Bucky closes his eyes, breathing out in exhaustion. There's nothing he dreads more now than Pierce talking with him. 

Pierce walks inside, his shoes clicking softly against the floor as he walks towards the bathroom. "I heard about your tantrum yesterday," he says, glancing around. They have cleaned it a bit, but it's still half-destroyed. "You know we could have punished you for what you did, right?" 

God, he is tired of this. Tired of their questions that are never really questions, just repeated, rehearsed humiliations. He's tired of being forced to answer. It feels like every time he does, a part of him just withers away. But he is also scared it won't be tiring one day, that he will answer them easily, without thinking, and he will be so emptied out that he won't even feel any shame or resistance anymore. 

He drifts away in his thoughts for only a moment, but a sudden sting snaps him back to reality. Pierce slaps him. He hasn't done that since Bucky got here. "I am talking to you," he says, leaning close to him. "Where did you go?"

And what was the question again? He doesn't remember. 

"Sorry," he quietly mutters. 

He straightens up, stepping away from him. "I don't like what you did," he tells him. "But I also understand—I understand how overwhelming all of this is, as I told you before. All this anger inside you, however, only tells me that you haven't completely accepted being here yet, and that worries me." 

"I accepted it," he says. "What else should I do to prove it?" 

"Then why did you do this?" Pierce asks, tilting his face towards the bathroom. "That doesn't look like acceptance to me." 

He would have been angry if he had the energy to, but he's tired, and there's nothing left to feel. "Rumlow made sure Anna knows about those....five hours,” he says, his voice low. "So forgive me if that was a bit overwhelming. My head isn't wiped. You are not controlling me with trigger words. But I accepted that I am here. I gave myself up. Just don't expect me to be emotionless. I am not the Winter Soldier." 

He feels Pierce's eyes studying him for a long moment. "True," he finally says. "You are not the Winter Soldier, but I expect you to become him. I expect you to try." 

Bucky doesn't respond. He keeps fiddling absently with the splint in his hand, trying to anchor himself, to stay somewhere near reality. Something about talking to Pierce always makes him want to drift out of his mind and body. 

"Anyway," Pierce exhales. "I will be away for a little while, so I won't be here when we move to the new base. I know there is still some time till you go out on your first mission, but I wanted to let you know who your first targets will be."

Bucky feels his pulse quicken, a cold tightness rising in his throat. 

"Remember the doctor who was responsible for you?" Pierce asks. "He's one of the people who refused to come back. A coward, but apparently one with enough guts to keep certain files and records hidden. When everything went down, he took some things with him, and it's mostly related to you. We need those. His refusal to come back is why we had to bring Rebecca in as your doctor, but she doesn't fully understand how your healing works. We still have some copies of the old records, but these are the updated ones." 

"Get those documents, then kill him. Take as long as you want. You want to just shoot him in the head? Fine. If you would rather make him suffer, also fine. It's your call. Do whatever you want. Take your anger out on him, I don't care. But I want you calmer when you return." 

There's a faint ringing in his ear, and his heart pounds so hard it almost hurts. 

"Then there's another one," Pierce continues. "Another Hydra operative who escaped. Rumlow will give you all the details beforehand, of course. He's in the same state. Do whatever you want to him too. Consider it a gift, actually. How does that sound?" 

Bucky swallows, forcing his voice out. "Great." 

"Good," Pierce says. "When you come back, you will be put into cryosleep. Something to look forward to, I suppose."

He turns and starts walking away, then adds, "Don't disappoint me, James." 

And for the first time in his life, Bucky truly, completely, achingly longs for the freezing cold. 

Chapter Text

Something about Bucky's favorite place being Delacroix always filled Sam with a strange mix of pride and an indescribable kind of happiness.

Bucky was sitting on the boat, alone, his gaze fixed on the sea. He had been out here for over two hours, and Sam had left him, thinking he would come back long ago, but it seemed like Bucky had no intentions of leaving anytime soon.

"Thinking about moving out here?" Sam asked, stepping into the boat.

Bucky turned, slightly startled to see him. That could only mean two things: either he had been lost so deep in his thoughts that the world around him had gone quiet, or he felt so at peace here that, for once, he had completely let his guard down. Both were rare for Bucky Barnes.

"I thought about it," Bucky said after a moment, a small smile tugging at his lips. "But I love the house, too."

Sam huffed a laugh, sitting beside him on the edge of the boat. "I am flattered.”

Bucky took a deep breath, and there was a calm, small smile forming on his face. "I could stay here forever, Sam."

Sam had absolutely no idea how his friendship with Bucky shifted from near-constant agitation and frustration, to feeling this quiet warmth that seemed to settle in his chest whenever Bucky said things like that.

"You could," he told him. "We will find Anna a shop, shouldn't be hard. Then get you a small, cozy house, wherever you want, shouldn't be hard either."

Bucky looked at him. "Think we could find one near yours?"

"You are in a relationship with Anna, man, not me," Sam teased.

"Right, I forget sometimes," he said, holding back his laugh. "And what are we gonna do about Dr. Raynor?"

"We will find her an office too."

That made Bucky laugh. "Great. That's a solid plan."

"You are welcome," he said, grinning. "There's only one remaining year you gotta do with her now, right?”

"Yeah," Bucky nodded. "Can't believe it's been a year."

"Me neither," he said, glancing at him. "You have changed so much, Buck. Do you realize that?"

Bucky almost looked shy. "I did?"

"Yeah, man," he said, half-smiling. "Do you even remember how you used to be? You were so sad all the damn time," he told him. "We would be sitting with you, you would laugh at something, and then the next minute you would look like you were carrying the whole world on your shoulders. You barely talked and were distant all the time, always zoning out. And when you would finally snap back, you looked like you would rather be dead."

Bucky let out a small breath. "Well, the things that made me zone out weren’t exactly delightful," he leaned back with a faint smile on his face. "I still blank out sometimes, but I don't feel like I would rather be dead afterward anymore."

Sam smiled. "I know. I always notice."

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. "Of course you do," he said, then looked away, his eyes tracing the water. "It was all just too much when I got back—too many realizations and memories. Everything was hitting me all at once. A part of it had already started when I was in Wakanda, after they fixed my head. But coming back here...." he paused, letting out a sigh. "It made everything too real. There was a kind of peace in Wakanda, even if it was only for a very short period of time. But there was an escape there. Here, I had to face everything."

Then Sam quietly said, "I never told you this before, but I was...genuinely worried about you sometimes, especially after the very first time you talked to me about your nightmares. I worried you would....do something to yourself, if it ever got too bad, but I never said that to Steve."

Bucky's gaze fell to his hands, his fingers absently fiddling. "There were so many days when it felt like that would have been the only thing that could bring me out of my misery," he admitted. "But...there was Steve."

"And then," Sam breathed, "there started being Anna, too."

"And you," Bucky said, lifting his eyes to him. "You are the only person I ever truly talked to about my nightmares. You know that, right? Amongst other things as well....you are the only one who knows, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I would always choose to open up to you over anybody else."

Sam smiled, caught off guard by how emotional he felt all of a sudden. "Damn, Buck. You trying to make me cry?" he said with a laugh. "We should have just swapped me with Dr. Raynor. Although I have no idea how you have managed to stay a year in therapy without talking about any of those things."

Bucky chuckled. "Perks of having endless issues, there is always a bunch of other fucked up things to talk about."

"Dr. Raynor must get so frustrated sometimes."

"All the time. But we have come a long way, though. You have no idea."

"I can imagine," Sam said. "So the nightmares?"

Bucky sighed. "I don't think they will ever go away," he replied. "But I have gotten better at dealing with them. It's just—I think there are things I will always carry with me. And who I was.....the Winter Soldier, that's always going to be a part of me as well. It's who I was for decades, Sam. A part of him will always be in there."

"And you are fine with that now?"

"I am trying to be," Bucky replied after a few seconds.

"That's good," he softly said. "And everything else?" he asked, knowing Bucky would understand what he meant.

Bucky's eyes drifted ahead. "I don't know. Dr. Raynor still keeps telling me that to move on and heal, I have to talk about my past, that I have to truly face everything that happened. But, like I told you, I think there are some things I will have to live with. And maybe where I am now is as far as I will ever get, and maybe that's okay. I don't know....I don't want to talk about anything anymore. It feels like if I do, everything could crumble again, and I—I don't want to deal with that. I know you will tell me that's not right, like you always do. But I also know you will understand."

They had had this conversation before, a few months ago, after one of Bucky's sessions with Dr. Raynor. He had stormed out of her office, angry at her, at himself, and at everything. She had pushed him to talk, and Bucky almost panicked because of it. Sam had told him then that she was right, that if he didn't face his past and everything that happened to him, he would never completely heal, and all the anger inside him would never truly go away.

"I understand," Sam nodded. "I won't say anything this time. You already know what’s the right thing to do. You're more aware now, of yourself, and of how you feel. So....I will just leave it at that."

"Thanks," he said, smiling faintly. "Anyway, the offer still stands, right? About me living here?"

"Always. Just say the word," Sam replied with a grin on his face. "But right now, we gotta head home before Sarah kills us both. Dinner's been ready for a while now."

"Oh, good. I am starving."

"Then why have you been sitting here for over two hours?"

"I lost track of time," he said, standing. "I always lose track of time here."

They started walking away together. "Just to be sure, that's a good thing, right?" Sam asked.

"Do you really need to ask?"

"No," Sam laughed. "I don't."

"I want to bring Anna next time," he told him. "I mentioned it once, and she seemed excited about it."

"Yeah, that's a very good idea, actually. Sarah would be delighted," he said. "We can start planning your move and convince her to open a bakery here."

Bucky chuckled softly. "Sure....why not."

——————————————————

They have been waiting for Steve in the car for over half an hour, and neither he nor Anna uttered a single word to each other. They were both nervous and anxious about Steve being there, and they were trying to brace themselves for Steve's return, and what he would tell them.

Anna had gotten a lot worse since she heard the call with Rumlow yesterday. Something happened to her, and he wanted to do anything to help her, but nothing was working. He tried to speak with her yesterday, but she didn't want to talk. She only spoke when she begged them to leave her apartment, which of course, they didn't do.

"Anna," he finally says, breaking the silence. "Do you want to talk about what's going on in your head?"

She keeps her head leaned against the window, her eyes fixed outside. "It wouldn't change anything that's happening."

"Yeah, maybe not," he says. "But we might have a long way ahead, and it's going to be shitty and hard. We need to talk to each other, or else we're all going to lose it, and if we lose it, then we won't be able to help Bucky."

She stays silent for a little while, then finally speaks, her voice trembling, "I can't breathe without feeling like....there's a knife stuck to my chest all the damn time," she pauses, exhaling sharply. "When they left us to say our goodbyes, he made me promise I would keep the bakery open, that I would keep going there like I used to. I won’t be able to do that, of course. I asked Jenna to shut everything down as soon as I came back. I woke up today and I….I wanted to cry and scream, just because I woke up, because I would rather not wake up at all, than be painfully aware every second of everyday that he gave himself up completely to them just so I can be safe."

His chest tightens, sorrow washing over him as he realizes just how much she is suffering. "We will get him out of there, Anna. It's just a matter of time."

She finally turns her head to him, her eyes glassy and tired. "But even if we do, he is not going to be the same after this. He's never going to be the same. Everything's going to be different."

"I know," he breathes. "But we will be there for him through it all, just like before."

She hesitates, looking like she’s weighing what she wants to say next. "Do you know if he—uh..." her voice fades, like she can't bring herself to finish the sentence.

"What?"

She glances down at her hands, looking nervous. "Do you know if he ever had thoughts about....killing himself when he got his memories back? Or after he got back from Wakanda?"

Sam blinks. That is not a question he was expecting.

"He did," he replies after a few seconds, his voice low. She sucks in a deep breath in response to his words, so he quickly adds, "But they were just thoughts, he was never going to act on them. That much, I am sure of."

"And now?" she asks. "Do you think they will remain only thoughts?"

The question terrifies him. He doesn't even want to think about it. He doesn't want to go there. But he forces himself to reply anyway. "Honestly, you're the one who was with him there, Anna. You would know how bad it was more than I. But I know his guilt will destroy him, if it hasn't already. I also know that being forced to kill people again will definitely make him wish he were dead."

She nods, taking in his words. “I know there's still time till we get him out," she says, "but I am really terrified of how bad it will be, Sam."

"Me too," he admits. "And I don't know what we're going to do about Dr. Raynor. He is a human being, he will never be able to keep up lying to her for long. He is going to break at some point. It must be killing him already, having to lie to her like that. I can't even begin to imagine how hard it is for him."

"Do you think we can tell her?" she asks. 

"What? That's he's being held by Hydra?"

"Yeah." 

"She was a soldier, Anna. I don't think she's someone who can ever cover for this, especially if she finds out they made him kill someone, or that they will send him out on missions. Everything might blow up if she knows what's happening."

"But so were you," she counters. "Steve is Captain America, Sam. She has to understand. And if we tell her about the device they implanted, she will know he had no choice."

"It's not that simple," he tells her. "And it's too dangerous and risky."

"I know, but thinking about him sitting with her while this is happening is nauseating."

“Let's wait for a while, just to get a sense of how long this would take, and then decide on that." 

After a long pause, Anna is the one who breaks the silence this time. "He told me he loved me on our first day there....right before they started torturing him."

Sam swallows hard, remembering all the times he tried to get Bucky to say it.

"Then, on my last day, when they allowed us to talk, he apologized for saying it too late. He said he has known it for a long while, and that I should ask you how long he has known....a part of me already knew, honestly. But I also knew that he hadn't been in a relationship for more than seventy years, so there is stuff I never expected to happen easily."

"God," he mutters. "Yes, he has known it for so long, Anna. I have been trying to get him to say it since forever, but he was convinced he should tell you when he's really doing better—mentally. He didn't want to feel like a messed-up person with endless issues when he did it," he explains. "I told him this was bullshit all the time, of course. But you know Bucky, and he always felt guilty about so many things when it came to his relationship with you—you know that too, although it had....gotten better recently."

"Now it's all worse." She brings her gaze down, her lips pressed together. "I....don't think Bucky is ever going to want to be with me again, Sam. I made him promise he would get back to me, because I felt like he wouldn't want to be alive when all this is over. And he—he was only able to promise that he would try, and I don't think he's even going to do that. He will want me to be as far away from him as possible."

He stays silent, unsure of what to say, because he knows this might be true. He knows Bucky's guilt will probably make him terrified of ever being close to her again, and it shatters him just thinking about it.

"He won't break his promise," he eventually tells her, trying to keep his voice firm. "If he said he will try, then he will try."

She doesn't say anything. So he takes a deep breath, then says, "Anna, I have been wanting to ask you this for a while," he starts, hoping he wouldn't cause her to burst into tears, "but you weren't okay. You still aren't, I know. But I need to know."

"What?"

"How did you know about....the three phases punishment? Who told you?"

She doesn't look surprised by his question, but she lets out a shaky exhale. "Rumlow," she answers, staring out the window. "He taunted Bucky all the time by telling me terrible stuff about him when he was the Winter Soldier. That was one of those things."

Sam feels his heart seizing. "So it was in front of him."

"Yeah," she shakily replies. "Did you know from the reports you had or did Bucky tell you?"

"Bucky told me."

"He did?" she asks, surprised.

"Yeah, did he tell you about the fight he had with Steve when he first got back?"

She nods.

"It was afterwards," he says. "I pressed him to talk about what's going on, which led him to have a panic attack. After I helped him calm down, we sat down and spoke, and Bucky told me about his nightmares....which made him tell me about three phases punishment, because he had nightmares about that all the time. He didn't tell me everything, just told me about what they did in the end. That it was all to make him comply with that, without being able to fight." 

"You're the only one he spoke to about his nightmares," she says, a sad smile on her face. "He always told me he felt better when he talked to you."

Sam swallows, his eyes burning. "Yeah, I know. And....I won't lie, it always made me feel special."

She smiles, her eyes tearing up. "It should," she breathes. "But how did Steve know?"

Sam's chest tightens as he remembers. "The day you were kidnapped. Steve already told you he was with him that day, and that they had written a note that they would start the three phases punishment on you. So Bucky had to tell him what it was to convince him he had to do this alone, that he couldn't risk it," he explains. "He never wanted to tell Steve about this, specifically...ever. He always told me that. He never wanted him to know."

They sit in silence again. After a while, Sam’s nerves get the better of him, and he finally decides to call Steve.

The phone barely rings before Steve picks up. "I am on my way," he says, his voice strained. 

Sam sighs in relief. "How is he?" is the first thing he asks. 

Steve lets out a shaky, loud breath. "Not okay," he replies. "They ruined him, Sam."

———

Sam listens to Steve, just like he listened to Anna when she first came back. 

It's the same story all over again. Bucky is being hurt, controlled, and humiliated. 

But Steve tells them stuff Anna hadn't said, he says that Bucky is not allowed to talk— that he should only speak when he has to answer their questions or when Rumlow gives him permission. He says that Bucky is not allowed to look at them. And Steve tells them those things while looking at Anna with an expression that's heavy with blame, a silent accusation that says how could you not tell us? How did you not tell us everything?

Sam knows that there must be a lot of other stuff that Anna did not say as well. He doesn't blame her, though, because he can't even imagine it. He can't imagine the Bucky he knows, being controlled like that. Because this is not the Winter Soldier. This is Bucky—really Bucky this time. With his thoughts, feelings, and everything that makes him who he is.

And yet, what unsettles Sam even more is the look on Steve's face. That pained, heavy look that tells him there are some things Steve is not saying either.

Steve looks between him and Anna, then says, "They will put him in cryosleep between missions."

"What?" Anna asks, her voice breaking, horrified.

"Yeah," Steve sighs. "I don't know why, he didn't say. It made sense when he was the Winter Soldier. It doesn't now, I don't think there will be long periods of time between missions. But....he said it would be better. He said his mind is a nightmare at the moment," he pauses, as if trying to convince himself. "Maybe it is actually better. It means they won't be tormenting him all the time at least. He would be safer that way."

And Sam feels the same cold, paralyzing shock that hit him when Anna first told them that they made Bucky kill someone. "I think they don't want him to lose his mind," he says after a little while. "Because anyone in his place probably would." 

"Maybe," Steve murmurs.

After a while, Anna quietly says, almost to herself, "So now, if Luke refuses to help us, then we might never know where he is."

"Yeah," Steve responds, his voice low.

He can't even think about that right now, his mind keeps circling back to Bucky and everything he's going through, and he almost feels like he wants to cry. And Sam doesn't even remember the last time he cried.

They wait in his house in D.C. until nightfall. No one speaks. No one suggests getting anything to eat. The silence sits heavy between them all, thick with dread and nervousness. Everyone knows what is at stake if Luke refuses to help, and none of them are ready to face what that might mean.

When it's finally time to leave, he drives them to the meeting point Luke chose, a garage in a nearby almost empty building. Not an ideal place to meet someone who works with Hydra, but Anna insisted she trusted him. And Sam, of course, is nervous about the fact that they're bringing Anna with them to this, but he reminds himself that this man called them just so they could be there for Anna when she got back, without anyone asking him to do it. It wouldn't make sense for him to set up a trap for them when he has been trying to help them so far.

Luke is already there when they arrive. Alone. He looks younger than Sam expected, and he also doesn't look like a person who would be working for Hydra. But then again, so did half the people at S.H.I.E.L.D.

"You," Steve says, surprised, his eyebrows pinched together.

"Yeah," Luke sighs.

"What?" Anna asks. 

"He was there today," Steve replies. "He held a gun to my head."

Sam tries to think of the context that would result in that happening, and he has a feeling it could be related to something Steve had left out when he told them what happened today.

"Sorry about that," he apologizes to Steve.

Steve gives him a short nod. "It's fine." 

"Hey, Luke," Anna says. "Thank you for coming today."

He tilts his head slightly, giving her a small smile. "How have you been?"

"Trying to survive," she replies. "Was Bucky okay after Steve left? Where are they keeping him now?"

Luke hesitates, his gaze flicking to Steve before he replies. "He wasn't okay, to be honest. But he is better now. He was sleeping when I left, and he has been staying in the medical exam room this past period."

No one dares to ask how Bucky wasn't exactly okay.

"Okay. Look," Steve says, letting out a breath. "We appreciate what you've done so far. Anna told us you helped her, that you were the only person who showed her any kindness there. So thank you for that, truly. She also told us that you don’t want to work for them anymore, that you regret it. Is that true?"

"What do you want?" Luke asks.

"We need your help," Steve replies almost immediately. "We want to remove the device inside Anna. That's the only way we will be able to save Bucky. To do that, we need someone to get access to the control device, the one Rumlow has. At the very least, at the moment, we just need to know if certain options exist in the controller," he explains. "We also need to know where the new base will be."

Luke’s gaze drops for a moment.  “Do you know the sort of missions they will start sending Barnes to in the beginning?"

"He told me today." 

"So can you imagine what they're going to do to traitors?” he asks, his voice tight. “Traitors who work on taking away their most valued possession at the moment?"

"They won't find out, we will make sure of it," Sam firmly says. "We are not stupid. You will be working with the Avengers. We will take precautions and if anything happens, we will protect you."

"I have a family," he tells them. "I agreed to meet you because I knew you wouldn't stop asking. I didn't know what you would request exactly. I had hoped it wouldn't be a big demand, but this....I can't do it." 

"We will protect them," Steve tries to assure him. "They can stay in one of our safe houses. We won't let anything happen to them, I promise."

Luke shakes his head. "I want to help him. Trust me, I do. But helping him beyond the basic things I can do at the base...I can't. I can't risk my family. Not when I saw what they did to Anna, or to him...in front of her."

Sam feels his stomach drop. Luke is not going to help them, and nothing they are going to say will convince him to do it. He looks like he made up his mind long ago. And that means they won't be able to get Bucky out anytime soon.

"Luke," Anna pleads. "You’re our only hope at the moment. Without you, we won't be able to do anything. Please….help us. We can't leave him there longer than this. Any more than this and he won't even be—there won't be anything left of him to save."

"I am sorry," he says, his eyes flickering with guilt and sorrow. "I will try to help him there, if I can. But other than that, there isn't much I can do."

"Then at least tell us where the new base is," Steve urges, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Please."

Luke shakes his head. "I can't."

"Please, man," Sam still tries to convince him, even though he knows it will probably be in vain. "We understand that you're scared, but we're also fucking terrified. Do you know how hard it is to know that they're destroying him and not be able to do anything about it? We are completely helpless. And there's a device that could torture or kill her inside her chest. So if you won’t do it for him, then at least do it for her."

Luke turns his eyes to Anna. "I…I am sorry, Anna. I hope you figure out a way to remove it. If I ever find something out, I will let you know."

He starts walking away, but Anna stops him. "Wait!" she shouts. "You held the device when Rumlow made you shock me. Do you remember anything?"

Sam feels shocked, because Anna never told them that it was Luke who had shocked her.

He turns around, barely able to meet her eyes. "There was only the time duration for the shocks, and your heartbeat. That was all that was visible to me. I am sorry…I didn’t notice anything else. I wasn’t concentrating.”

And then he leaves.

They look at each other with terror when they finally realize that saving Bucky will take far longer, and will be so much harder, than they had ever imagined.

————

He stands with Steve in the balcony of Anna's apartment.

Anna had wanted them to leave, saying they had to get to their houses at some point, but Steve strongly refused, and after everything that happened today with Luke, Sam knows they really shouldn't leave her.

"Are you going to tell me everything that happened now?" he asks Steve, resting his hands on the balcony railing.

Steve meets his eyes briefly, eyes heavy and clouded, but doesn’t say anything.

"You have looked like shit since you got back," he says, his voice gentler. "Talk to me, man. Tell me how bad it really was. It's okay. I can take it."

Steve sits down, and the strain he has been trying to force on himself finally fades away. "He got electrocuted because of me," he admits, his voice cracking. "Rumlow slapped him and Bucky—Bucky didn't do a damn thing when it happened. I know that's what I should have expected, but I just couldn't—I couldn't control myself. I suddenly found myself on top of Rumlow, about to hit him, but Bucky was the one who stopped me," he pauses for a few seconds, then continues, "But he spoke, he told me to stop, and he shouldn't have spoken, because he is not fucking allowed to," he buries his face in his hands. "It went on for so long….he was screaming."

Sam lowers his head down, eyes shut tight, his body shuddering.

"His face was badly bruised, his back was covered in bandages....Rumlow must have flogged him again," Steve continues. "Not to mention his hand, of course."

"Jesus Christ," Sam mutters, curling his fist tightly. He moves away from the railing and sits next to Steve.  "But that wasn't your fault, Steve. I probably wouldn't have been able to control myself either." 

Steve looks at him, his eyes filling with tears. "He apologized to me. In the middle of all that— of everything they’re putting him through, and all the pain he was in, he told me he is sorry. He feels guilty for trying to fight me last time, and for not listening to me when we knew Anna was kidnapped," his voice breaks again. "He didn't let me hug him, Sam."

A hard knot tightens in Sam's throat. "Why?" he manages to ask. 

Steve shakes his head, wiping his face with his hand. "I don't know. But God, he looked so heartbroken and guilty. But he didn't allow me to—" his voice falters and he trails off, falling silent.

After a moment, when Steve looks like he has finally managed to steady himself, he says, "I told him what you said. About Delacroix. He was holding himself together the whole time, but that—that was what made him break into tears. He asked me to tell you that he's sorry. That he was an asshole the last time he saw you, and that—" he breathes, trying to keep his voice from breaking again. "He counts his breaths whenever he panics. So technically, you are....always with him."

Sam stands abruptly, unable to bear this anymore. He knows Steve needs him. He knows he said he could take it. But the truth is, he can't. Not anymore. "I am going for a walk."

"Sam..."

"I just need some air," he tells him, before stepping off the balcony and leaving the apartment.

Sam keeps walking, his heartbeat racing, trying to blink back the tears that are threatening to fall. He doesn't know what to do with everything he's feeling. He's always been good at controlling himself and his emotions. He knows when it's time to break and when it's time to get his shit together. And he had told himself it's still too early to fall apart over what's happening to Bucky. It hasn't even been a month.

And then, Sam finds himself thinking about what he told Bucky the day he opened up to him about his nightmares.

"Look, I am not Steve. I didn't know you before. You are not going to like destroy me or anything if you talk about it. I will be devastated, yes, because you are a good person and you never deserved to go through this. But I can survive it. You can talk to me, man."

He had meant it then. That he wouldn't be so affected like Steve would. But now everything is different, because Bucky has become so close to him. He is not just his friend. He is family. So what's happening right now might very well destroy Sam.

And thinking about everything Anna and Steve said about Bucky, about what's being done to him, tears through his chest, and the pain is so deep it feels like he can no longer breathe at all. He can't even calm down by repeating what he told Anna in the morning, that they will get him out, that it's just a matter of time. Because right now, there's no plan. They don't even know where Bucky will be. Everything is shattering around them.

So Sam stops walking, sits on the sidewalk, and finally cries.

Chapter Text

Bucky and Steve were standing in the living room of the apartment that would be his new home, staring out of the small window.

"You really like it?" Steve asked.

It wasn't about liking it. It was about having a place that belonged to him. And it didn't matter if it was small or empty, all that mattered was that he now had a place of his own. He had been staying in Steve's apartment since he got back, and while he was fine with that, having his own home was still an entirely different thing.

"Yeah," he breathed. "I know you think I should get someplace bigger, but I am more comfortable with that now."

"I know, buddy," Steve said. "So…want to look for some furniture today?"

"No," Bucky replied, his gaze distant and fixed outside. "Later, maybe."

"Well, until then, I am at least getting you a television,” he told him. "We can put it right here," he said, pointing to the empty wall in the living room.

"No, you don't have to. I don't even—"

"It will help," Steve interrupted him. "The background noise sometimes helps, trust me. It can get....too quiet."

Bucky turned his eyes to him. "Okay," he sighed. "Thank you."

Steve patted his back. "You okay?"

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. I just—it's overwhelming a bit."

"I can tell," Steve said. "But you lived on your own for a while, when you were on the run. What was that like?"

"Nerve-racking," he replied, a small smile crossing his face. "I jumped between different apartments and places all the time. No place ever felt like it was mine, of course. I was hiding. But...I remember the very first time I stayed alone and it was strange—so strange. I was never really alone in those seventy years. There was never any privacy or anything. I was only truly alone when I was in cryosleep, but that hardly counts."

He paused, staring at the floor as he remembered. "Anyway, I just stood there by the door, and I kept staring ahead of me, unsure of what to do. It was a very small apartment, much smaller than the one you found me in. Just one room and a bathroom. And I—I didn't know what to do with myself. There were no orders. No instructions. I felt lost. No one was there to tell me go over there, do that, take off your clothes, lie over there....nothing. I could sleep, stay awake, take a shower...Jesus, Steve. I have to tell you about the first time I had a warm shower when I got away."

Steve gave him a small smile, but his eyes were heavy with sadness. "You take so long in the shower now."

Bucky gulped and looked away. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice unsteady. "I know. I was just...hosed down all the time, you know that. They did everything for me, cleaned me themselves. Except when they were too busy and needed to get it over with quickly, they would allow me to get it done myself.....but still, I was never alone and I was always rushed to get it over with, and that was only during Pierce's time. So yeah, showers are great. Warm water is—"

"No, what you use isn't warm water, Bucky," Steve said, chuckling. "It's burning hot water. I feel like I am going to suffocate from all the steam when I go into the bathroom after you."

A reluctant smile pulled at Bucky’s mouth. "Sorry."

Steve gave him a gentle nudge with his shoulder. "So? Go on, you were saying....you didn't know what to do."

"Yeah, I didn't. It was amazing and terrifying at the same time. Then I just sat on the floor and kept watching the door, waiting for someone to storm inside and take all of this away. It was weird—still is, sometimes, to be honest...to go from having no choices for so long, to having nothing but choices. And now," he breathed, pausing for a few seconds, "for the first time, I.....I don't just have free will, I have my own place. Truly mine. And no one is going to take it away.”

He looked down, swallowing hard. "At least…I hope no one will."

"No, no one is ever taking it away, Buck. You just have to do this therapy thing, and then it's all going to be okay."

He nodded, but didn't say anything to Steve. Nothing was ever that simple.

"But you're sure you're alright?" Steve asked.

"Yeah," Bucky faintly whispered. "I think I might need a moment....alone. Just to—to take it in."

"Okay," Steve smiled, squeezing his shoulder. "I will go get you that TV."

The door clicked shut behind Steve. Bucky took a few steps forward, then stopped in the centre of the living room. His chest felt tight, like it couldn’t take in everything he was feeling. He let his eyes slowly wander around him as he took in a deep breath. The apartment was empty and quiet, but it was his. Not borrowed, not temporary, and not someone else’s.

His home, he repeated to himself, and the words still sounded unbelievable each time they formed in his mind. His.

Bucky didn't watch the door this time. He didn't wait for someone to come and take it all away. Instead, he lowered himself to the floor, his legs folding beneath him, unable to carry him any longer, and then started to cry. The tears were immediate and loud, like something suddenly cracked open inside him. He didn’t stifle the sounds, and didn’t force himself into silence the way he always did— always was trained to do.

He let it all out. Every shaking sound and every breath. And that was fine, because this was his home. He could do whatever he wanted in it, and no one was going to take it away.

——————————————————

Bucky doesn't know where the new base is, and that unsettles him. The drive from the old base had taken about an hour, and the black curtains in the SUV had been drawn the entire way. He doesn't know if that was meant just to keep him in the dark, but he will have to know where they are eventually anyway, it's not something that can stay hidden for long.

He can tell that the area seems industrial when they arrive, surrounded by distant buildings that look like warehouses and factories. The base itself is not closely surrounded by any buildings. It looks as though it might have once been something like a military storage facility, or perhaps an old, abandoned S.H.I.E.L.D outpost, repurposed and completely rebuilt from the inside. It reminds him of the Syberia base, but this one is still different. Larger and more industrial. The building rises in stacked floors, each corridor flooding with bright, fluorescent lights, the hallways lined with countless doors.

The guard walking ahead of him stops before a large steel door. "Wait here, Rumlow will come."

So he waits, still standing. He doesn't move, and Rumlow doesn't come. People keep passing, talking, disappearing through the doors, and he stays where he is, like he is not really there at all. He knows that more than an hour has passed, and maybe even longer.

And he is tired. His body is exhausted and his mind is heavy. He's been sleeping less and less, his mind relentless in turning against him. He's been dreaming of his victims a lot lately. A blur of pleading eyes, blood, and screaming that never ends. Last night, they all came at once. Hundreds of them—crying and begging. He couldn't wake up, it just went on and on, like his mind wanted him to drown in all the horrors he had done. When he finally did wake, he was shaking and drenched in sweat, and by the time he managed to calm down, his chest had felt hollow, like there was nothing left of him inside. And maybe this is all he will ever be from now on. An empty shell of a person, waiting for the next order, the next punishment, and all the new ways they will find to break him even more.

"Barnes," Rumlow calls, walking towards him.

He lifts his eyes from the floor, almost looking at him without meaning to. But he stops himself, forcing his gaze back to the door in front of him.

"I kept you waiting for long, didn't I?" he says, but thankfully, doesn't wait for an answer. "Anyway, I wanted to take you on a quick tour. Follow me."

He follows him through the large entrance door, into a spacious room that feels eerily familiar, even though he has never been here before. There's a chair, one that's very similar to the chair. The one where he got healed and wiped, all at once. There are people walking around, arranging things, some of them wearing lab coats.

He can't help his heartbeats that start to quicken. Ever since he's been back with them, they have done everything to make him feel like the person he was, the version they created and built. The rules, the torture, the humiliation—it was all meant to drag him back to that place. But now, being here, it is all familiar in a way that's frightening. Everything suddenly feels so real. The cryochamber stands to his left. Ready for him, cold and waiting. He wishes they would just throw him in there now, freeze him, and stop his mind from tearing him apart.

"Pierce told me you wanted to be in cryosleep," Rumlow tells him, standing beside him, looking at the cryochamber as well. "Surprising, but also not, in a way. I guess it's as close to death as you will get, right?"

That's a question. He tries to bring his mouth to move, but no sound comes out. So he only barely nods, and isn't even sure if Rumlow saw it.

"I also guess you will be spending a lot of time here," Rumlow continues. "I will bring you back here again after we finish this little tour, because you will finally be fed today. Excited for that? You haven't had anything to eat since you got here. It's almost been a month."

His stomach sinks. He wants to tell him that he would rather stay hungry, starving, and aching, than go through that again.

Rumlow snaps his fingers in front of his face. "Barnes," he sharply warns. "I asked you a question. Are you daydreaming?"

He blinks. "No, I am sorry," he says, his voice dry and hoarse. It's the first time he has spoken all day.

Rumlow’s eyes linger on him for a few seconds before he finally says, "Follow me.“

They walk towards another door at the far end of the room, leading into a narrow hallway with a few rooms on each side, much smaller than the wide corridor that led to the main entrance they walked into.

Rumlow opens one of them. "This is where you will be staying, when you're not in cryo," he tells him, stepping aside. "Go on, take a look. Don't be shy."

Bucky steps closer, his gaze sweeping over the small, dimly lit room. The air feels cold, carrying a faint metallic scent. A thin mattress rests against the bare wall, a metal bucket sits at the other end, with a small roll of tissue paper nearby.

"Don't worry, you'll get to use the bathroom twice a day," he says. "Nice, isn't it? We even left you a mattress."

Bucky only nods, his mind distant. He feels nothing. No shock, no anger, no disgust.

"Great," Rumlow murmurs, closing the door behind him. "Now let's head to another interesting place."

He leads Bucky down the hallway again. Before opening the next door, he pauses, "You won't like this one."

Bucky already has a feeling he knows what's behind that door.

Rumlow pushes the door open.

The room is bigger, much bigger than the other room in the old base, where they used to torture him. It's almost empty, the walls concrete and grey. At the far end, there's a large glass panel, transparent, probably one-way, which he thinks allows them to see from the other side. Chains hang from the ceiling. A small metal table sits in the corner, a chair beside it. There's a metal collar on the table, he hasn't seen one since the doctor removed it to treat his neck. There are more cuffs, restraints, and chains stacked nearby. Enough to immobilize a person in a hundred different ways.

Rumlow steps behind him, his hand grasping Bucky's neck lightly, pressing just enough to push him forward. "What is this room, Barnes?" he asks, his voice low."Who is it for?"

Bucky clears his throat. "For me."

"And what's its purpose?"

He would have felt any flicker of defiance at the words he would have to give Rumlow. But he can’t feel anything at the moment, not after he told him the other day that his body doesn't belong to him.

"For my....punishments," he says, his voice hollow.

"That's right," Rumlow says, and his hand tightens abruptly, fingers digging into Bucky's neck. His muscles tighten, but he doesn’t move. “Remember, what we previously did was for specific purposes only. It wasn't actually meant to punish you for something you did. Not most of it, anyway. But this—" he squeezes harder,  just enough to force a painful swallow from Bucky, "this will be different. When you end up here, it will be because you messed up. This will be punishment. Actual punishment. And you will pay with it with your body until we decide you've paid enough. And I promise you, Barnes, it will be much worse than anything we ever did. So don't you fucking dare make a mistake. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," Bucky forces out.

"Yes what?" Rumlow presses, clearly savoring every moment of Bucky’s discomfort.

"I won't make a mistake."

He removes his hand from Bucky's neck, stepping back. "And don't forget Anna. When you have to be punished, Anna will get punished, too. Every mistake you make, she will also pay. You didn't forget about that, right?"

Bucky tries to swallow, his throat dry. "No," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. "I—I didn't,” his voice wavers, betraying him despite his attempt to keep it steady.

“There it is. There’s the fear I love seeing in your eyes,” Rumlow says, excitement coating his voice. “Do you know I sometimes worry that these punishments would stop working on you? I feel like you will keep telling yourself that it’s better….whatever happens to you is better and easier to bear because she is not here anymore to watch, and you will just use that to comfort yourself while we break you apart. Do you do that?”

He should say something, but he doesn’t know how to reply to that. He tries to think of the right answer, the one that would satisfy Rumlow, but he doesn’t think there’s one.

And then, of course, before he can even form a word, Rumlow’s hand strikes his face.

“You have been getting more distant, and I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing,” he tells him. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Again, he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to reply. His mind is blank. So another slap cuts through the silence, sharper and harder this time.

“Wake the fuck up, Barnes,” Rumlow snaps. “What’s the last thing I said?”

Fuck, Bucky thinks. What was the last thing he said?

But before he can respond, Rumlow moves behind him and drives his boot into the back of Bucky’s knee. His leg buckles instantly, and he crashes down onto both knees.

Rumlow grabs his jaw tightly, forcing his head up. “What’s going on with you?”

“N-nothing,” Bucky breathes out.

“Then why the hell aren’t you answering my questions?” he asks, shoving his face away.

“I—“ Bucky begins, trying not to waste time answering this time. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Rumlow sighs and turns toward the table. “The collar has to get back on, Barnes. I don’t care what your doctor’s going to say tomorrow. It seems you always need a reminder to stay in line, don’t you?”

Maybe he does, actually. Maybe otherwise he won’t be able to stop his mind from drifting away like this.

But he didn’t say this out loud.

“Goddamnit,” Rumlow mutters, frustrated. He snatches the collar and comes back to him. “I really wasn’t going to make you wear it today, not before your feeding session anyway.” He snaps it around on his neck, and the pressure hits his still-tender skin from the last burn. “But you deserve it.”

He breathes and closes his eyes, bracing himself and waiting for it to begin.

The shock drops him instantly, his body spasming against the ground.

“Do you always need a reminder to stay in line?” Rumlow repeats his previous question when the shock stops.

“No,” he chokes out, his voice barely even there, though he doesn’t know what the right answer is. Yes might mean he needs more punishment. No might still be wrong—might be defiance or disobedience.

“Then why the fuck are you only answering me now?”

So it was the wrong answer.

The second shock hits him again, his metal fingers gripping the floor uselessly as his muscles seize.

It doesn’t last long, but Rumlow only gives him a couple of seconds to breathe, then says, “Why are you not focused? How are you going to go out on missions like this?”

His left hand claws at the ground, trying to steady himself. “I am not—“ he tries to say, but his voice breaks. “I am not unfocused.”

Rumlow crouches in front of him, looking like he’s studying him. “Then what the hell is happening with you?”

“Nothing,” Bucky whispers, breath still uneven, his shoulders trembling. He pushes himself upright from the ground, remaining on his knees.

“I will only let it go because you’re going to your therapist tomorrow,” he tells him, leaning forward and yanking his jaw towards him. “But the rules should be followed at all times. You answer at all times. I don’t give a damn what mental state you need to be in to get the job done, but that doesn’t mean you get to act like a clueless dickhead. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” he heavily breathes.

He lets go of his face, and Bucky exhales, trying to breathe. “Alright, then. Get up. Let’s get back to the other main room. You must be starving."

He forces his shaky legs to stand, and walks back with Rumlow, his heart hammering painfully in his chest as dread coils in his stomach, twisting tighter with every step. The nausea rises long before anything even happens.

"Go ahead," Rumlow says when they get there. "You know where to sit."

Bucky forces himself to step forward, each movement heavy. He lowers himself into the chair, his body rigid, and his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He doesn't look at any of them, just tries not to panic before it happens.

Rumlow steps closer, standing by his side. “I know how much you hate this,” he tells him. “And we just needed to remind you of how much you do hate it, before you go out on your missions. Because if you complete your missions successfully, Barnes, without messing anything up, you won’t need to go through this. It will be your reward. How does that sound?”

“Great,” he mutters, but for once, it isn’t a reflexive answer. He really means it this time. It does sound great.

"Should we restrain him?" someone by his side asks Rumlow.

"No, it's not necessary. He won't cause any trouble," Rumlow replies. “Right?”

Bucky closes his eyes. "No," he breathes. "Do it. Restrain me."

There's silence for a couple of seconds, then Rumlow says, "Fine. Do it. Get him in his room when you're done."

The restraints snap into his wrists. The one over his right hand is far too tight because of the splint, sending sharp pain up his arm, but it’s nothing compared to what’s coming. Every instinct screams at him to recoil and to push himself away, but he doesn’t. He lets it happen.

His eyes water, and his mind drifts despite himself and finds Anna, though he would do anything to think of anyone or anything other than her at the moment, but he can't. He seeks her warmth, the smell of her kitchen, and the sound of her laughter every time he compliments her failed recipes. He squeezes his eyes shut, and she’s there again. Her gaze fills his mind, the way she would stare at him in quiet anticipation as she makes him taste something new.

Tears are blurring his vision now, and he doesn't know if it's from the suffocating helplessness, or the agony of being able to see her in his mind when his body is getting violated like this. And maybe it's all at once, the torment happening to him, and the desperate way he's still clinging to her in the midst of it all.

————

"How was Louisiana?" Dr. Raynor asks.

Bucky forces himself to sit straight, pretending he’s fully present when his mind keeps drifting no matter how hard he tries. "Great."

Dr. Raynor lifts an eyebrow. "Then why do you look like someone let you out on bail this morning?"

A small sound escapes him, something between a breath and a chuckle. "No, it was good. Anna—" he stops, his throat closing over the mention of her name. "Anna enjoyed it. She loved it there."

Dr. Raynor studies him for a long moment without speaking. He drops his gaze to his hands, tracing with his cold metal fingers the red scar that stretches across his right palm.

The doctor took the splint off this morning. She hadn't wanted to, though, and argued with Rumlow about it for quite some time, because she also saw the collar around his neck again. But in the end, they had taken the collar off before he left the base today anyway. His hand is mostly better, and the wound across his palm is nearly healed. There's only a dull ache that tugs whenever he bends his fingers, and his thumb still remains stiff. They gave him a high-neck sweatshirt to wear under his jacket to hide the faint ring of bruised skin around his neck, with long sleeves that stretch just enough to cover the healing wound in his hand.

"Then what is it?"

He has to give her something. This won't work otherwise. He is not going to be able to pretend everything is fine when they're sending him to kill two people tomorrow. And he actually has stuff he wants to ask her about, it's just a matter of how to phrase them without giving too much away.

He rubs the side of his neck, inhaling deeply. "I wanted to ask you about something, actually."

"What?" she asks.

"I have been trying to....remember something,” he tentatively says, “and I haven't been able to remember that day completely....just bits and pieces. I can't remember exactly what happened. And I—" he stops, his breath hitching. "I think I need to remember."

Dr. Raynor stays silent for a few seconds before saying anything. "When you were with Hydra?"

"Yeah," he replies with a slight quiver in his voice.

"Well, it's seventy years, James. Even if you got your memories back, there has to be a lot that you won't be able—"

"No," he quickly interrupts her. "No, it's not like that. There's stuff I remember very clearly, and that—I should have been able to remember."

"Okay," she slowly says. "What do you remember from that day?"

He blinks, forcing the horrible flashes that burst through his mind away. "It doesn't matter what I remember," he murmurs. "They just—they tortured me for a while. It went on for a long time. What I remember is barely half of it."

Dr. Raynor's expression doesn’t change, but he knows she is surprised. He rarely ever tells her things like that. “But why does this day specifically matter to you?"

In other words, he knows she wanted to say "you were probably hurt and tortured all the time. What could they have possibly done differently this time?"

"Please just—" he pauses, closing his eyes, his voice almost cracking. "Tell me…tell me what I can do to remember."

"James," she says with gentleness in her voice that he has never heard before. "I need more information. I can’t help you if I don’t understand what you’re looking for or trying to remember."

He runs his hand over his face. "Never mind. I shouldn't have—it's fine. Forget about it."

"No, hang on," she quickly says, stopping him before he withdraws. "Alright. I will ask you questions and you answer if you can, alright? Let's see if we can get somewhere."

He nods, though his leg already starts bouncing uncontrollably.

"When did you start thinking about this?"

Irrelevant question, he wants to tell her. But he knows he has to come up with something. "Recently," he lies. "I tried to ignore thinking about it before, but I just—I tried to remember and I failed. I remember almost everything that happened when I was with Hydra."

"Okay," she exhales. "And how do you know it went on for longer than what you remember?"

"I...." he starts. "I just...know."

She doesn't look pleased with that answer, but lets it go. "You said they tortured you, so I assume you must have been badly injured that day, right?"

His fingers subconsciously drift back to the wound on his palm again. "Yeah. By the end, I....went into shock."

"Which means you were probably not even fully conscious the whole time.”

"No, they actually—they made sure I would be."

"What do you mean?"

His hand almost goes up to his neck. "They woke me up every time I....blacked out."

She sighs heavily. "Well, that could still be why the memories are fragmented. You were barely holding yourself together, even if they forced you to stay awake and...." she pauses, almost looking like she's choosing her next words carefully, "your mind could have also blocked out parts of what happened that day. That’s not uncommon."

"Alright," he impatiently says. "How can I remember?"

"Why is it so important for you to remember that day?" she asks again. 

"You know I am not going to answer that." He lets out a breath, fixing his eyes on the floor. "So just tell me, please," his voice trembles with desperation.

"I can help you remember," she says, gently and firmly, "but I won't be able to do that if you don't even tell me what happened. We have to talk through that day at least."

Dread settles heavily over his chest. "Is it possible that I might not...ever remember?"

"Yeah," she replies. "It's possible."

He leans back on the couch, his breathing unsteady. "But I...." his voice breaks. "I need to know."

"Well, we have to talk about your past, James. I always tell you that," she reminds him, her voice still unusually gentle.

And for the first time since he started seeing Dr. Raynor, Bucky feels like he wants to tell her everything—everything they did to him, everything he did, and everything that's happening right now. He wants to confess everything to her right here and now, just to tell her that it wouldn't have mattered anyway. It never would have mattered. He would end up right back where he was in the end.

————

When Bucky wakes, he buries everything good and warm in his life in the farthest corner of his mind. He pushes any thoughts of Anna, Steve, and Sam away—far away. He doesn’t allow himself to think of them. Doesn’t allow a flicker of comfort. He lets the isolating emptiness seep into him. It’s the only way he can survive what he has to do today.

It's the same outfit. The same tactical black suit. The same gloves.

The same mask, which his breath catches at its sight.

And even though he wishes he were dead, and even though he doesn't know if he will ever make it out of here, the thought of getting caught or recognized still terrifies him. The possibility of his pardon getting stripped away, getting locked up and truly losing everything, fills him with a cold, dreadful fear. But he also pushes all of these thoughts and fears away. There’s no room for them now.

He slips his gloves on after putting on his clothes. He breathes in slowly, then out, trying to settle into the awful coldness that has sat in his chest since the morning.

The door of his room opens, and he knows who it is from the loud, amused inhale that precedes him. "Christ, you are just missing the long hair," Rumlow says as he steps inside. "How does slipping back into your old suit feel?"

"Great," Bucky blankly replies as he tightens the last strap on his boots.

"You have to admit,” he says, exhaling slowly, “there has to be the smallest, tiniest spark of excitement inside you."

"Sure," Bucky mutters. When he finishes tying his boots, he picks up his mask and stands, waiting for Rumlow's instructions.

"You are not going to fuck this up, right?" Rumlow asks, stepping closer to him.

"No."

"Good.” Rumlow’s hand rises, adjusting Bucky’s collar. "They're both in Ohio. You will fly with two men from our team. Once you land, they will give you the addresses, a phone, and a motorcycle. After that, you're on your own. You will have three hours, just in case you decide to take your time, like Pierce told you. Don't forget the records we need from Dr. Anderson, these are vital, Barnes. He will probably want to shit himself once he sees you and will give you anything you want right away. We don't need anything from the other target, so handle him however you see fit. All clear?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any questions?"

"No."

"Alright then.” Rumlow takes the mask in Bucky’s hand and begins setting it over his face, and Bucky’s throat tightens as he forces his breathing to remain steady and quiet.

“Remind me to let you shave when you come back," Rumlow casually says. The mask presses against his face, trapping him in its familiar suffocating weight.

Rumlow takes a step back, and though Bucky’s eyes remain fixed on the wall in front of him, he can feel the weight of Rumlow’s gaze lingering on him. “Off you go, Barnes. This should be fun."

Chapter Text

"You fucking deserve this," someone said, pressing the tip of a wooden stick into the torn flesh of his arm. He shut his eyes, his whole body shaking as he forced himself to hold the pain inside. "What? Have you had enough?"

He had killed someone from his own team, so he knew he deserved everything they were doing to him. He deserved it all. He didn't need them to tell him that he did. He didn't need them to repeat it over and over again. He knew it. He believed it.

He no longer knew how long this had gone on for. Days, he thought. He wasn't even fully conscious anymore. His hearing was muffled from a blow someone had landed on his head earlier. His throat was so dry that he couldn't swallow, and he couldn't remember the last time he had been given water. He couldn't see properly either, every attempt to keep his eyes open burned his skull even more. His hair had fallen over his face, matted and stuck with blood to his skin, it itched and fell into his eyes, but his arms were chained high above him, so he couldn't do anything to move it away. And no matter how long it had been, or how many men came in to torture him, no one had bothered to remove it from his face.

The Soldier sometimes wished so desperately, with all his heart, that it would all just stop and end. That they would get too far with their torture and accidentally kill him. He didn't know if wishing this counted as an act of defiance, it certainly felt like it did, but he just hoped it would be over, one day, somehow.

It got especially bad after some kinds of punishments, when his body had had too much, when the pain was a never-ending burning beneath his skin, endless and indistinguishable. Like how he was now unable to tell which agony belonged to which injury or wound anymore; whether it was cracked bones, burnt flesh, torn muscles, or skin that had been opened too many times, left bleeding and exposed for too long. All of it was starting to distort into one merciless tormenting pain. He never knew—never knew where it started and where it ended.

And it always felt like this had been happening to him for far too long. Like his life had started here, inside these bare walls and on these harsh floors, under heavy chains, buried in commands and orders, surrounded by death and punishments he could never escape, and a relentless, freezing cold. It felt as if he had been born into all of this pain and hollowness, into these bases, and would always end up dying in that same agony, too. As if there would never be a point where any of it would ever end.

Because once—years or decades ago, he didn't know anymore—someone had promised him that it would end. He was promised that after a few more missions or a couple more years, they would leave him be. It would stop and they would let him rest. He couldn't remember the exact promise or the exact words, but he remembered the echo of that hope, faint and distant. He remembered the way it used to make him hold on when it was all unbearable.

But it never ended.

And now he knew, deep down, that it never would. People retired, left, aged, died, or disappeared— and he stayed. He remained. He always remained. When he let himself think about it for too long, something sharp and crushing would happen to his chest, squeezing it until breathing felt impossible, and it would feel as though there wasn't enough air in the entire world capable of making his lungs work again.

Despite knowing all of that, despite knowing what his purpose was, and that compliance was the only thing he was ever meant for, and despite knowing why he was being punished, why he deserved it, why he had to endure it—today, more than any other day, the Soldier felt it. That desperate wish for it all to end, deeper and more consuming than ever before.

But he knew that if he was always going to be here, if it was never going to end, then non-compliance should never be an option. Non-compliance brought pain without any limits, making it all worse. It didn't matter if he hated the way they invaded and controlled his body, hated the agony that followed, or the sickening wave of disgust that always urged him to empty his stomach— because it made his handler so angry and furious, there's nothing he hated more than the Soldier being disobedient, so he suffered for it until he lost his consciousness, until his eyes refused to open no matter what they did.

It was always out of his hands, though. He didn't know what to do about the wild, untamed animal inside him that broke loose sometimes.

And it terrified him. He often felt like he wanted to dig his metal fingers into his own chest, tear through skin and bone, and rip that creature out of himself once and for all, because it always made him disobey. And he knew compliance was the only thing he was built for. The nerves of his mind allowed for nothing else. He constantly felt it—felt the way they pulled him into the orders he received, pushing him towards obedience like they were holding his skull with strings, like he had no autonomy, no ownership over any actions he took.

And who was he anyway if he didn't comply? What was he without the orders he executed?

But his handler had promised him to find a solution for it, to fix it, and he desperately wished he would. So for now, he would cling to that promise.

The stick slammed against his chest, and pain shot sharply through him. "I said, have you had enough?"  the man shouted.

He tried to breathe and speak, even though it felt impossible. "That's not—" his voice broke. "Not my call."

"I know it isn't," he said, hitting him in the same exact spot again, and a stifled whimper escaped the Soldier's mouth despite trying to stay silent. "Forget about what you have to say. Do you think you have had enough? I want to know what you think."

He tried to swallow his nervousness and fear, because he hated these questions, and his mind was barely even working at the moment.

"Hey!" the man snapped. "He was my friend, you idiot. So tell me, do you think you have had enough?"

He wanted to tell him that he was so unbearably tired. He wanted the freezing dark. He wanted the ice, the solitude, and the emptiness where nothing hurt and no one demanded anything from him. But he knew the answer that person wanted. He was starting to be really good at that—at anticipating the responses they wanted and offering what would please them to hear. He didn't know if that was considered disobedience, since his handler always told him he had to answer him truthfully, but these answers also kept them satisfied, so he did it anyway.

"No," he whispered. "I haven't."

"That's what I thought," the man said, then proceeded to force a scream out of him, over and over again. The Soldier screamed until his voice shredded and broke entirely.

A while later, they finally unchained him. His body was aching and trembling so badly that he couldn't even stay on his knees and had fallen on his side. His handler stood in front of him, waiting, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He had no ounce of strength left and was barely even breathing.

"Hold him," his handler ordered the men.

They pulled him and shoved him down on his knees, holding him by his arms and keeping him upright. He closed his mouth shut until his jaw ached, trying not to let any sound escape him. Then Kaprov stepped closer, his hand lifting toward his face. He closed his eyes and forced himself not to flinch, his muscles tightening in anticipation of a strike or another punishment, but Kaprov's hand only moved through the hair that had dried to his face with blood, he tugged slightly as he pulled it, brushing it all away from his face.

Finally, he thought. He had been waiting for someone to do it for him for so many days now.

"How did you do it?" Kaprov calmly asked him. He wasn't that calm a few days ago when he had killed the man. "It shouldn't be possible. What were you thinking when you did it, do you remember?"

"N-no," he croaked. "I am...sorry."

"I know you are," he said. "But I need to know, Soldier. What was going on in your head when you did it? Were you aware of what you were doing?"

He didn't know. He didn't understand it. All he knew was that he wasn't in control when it happened.

"No."

"I don't understand. Do you know how much that unsettles me?" Kaprov asked. "Why—why is this the only thing you can't comply with? Your mind shouldn't be able to fight. Your body, too. You shouldn't even think of it."

"I—" he started, his breathing heavy. "I don't know."

Kaprov placed his hand on his chin, tilting his head up. "What if you were too tired to fight? Do you think that would help?"

His mind fought to reach an answer, but he had no idea what it would take to make him unable to fight with what they wanted from him in these punishments. "I don't know," he said again, hoping his repeated answer wouldn't make his handler angry.

"Let's give it a try, then," Kaprov said, letting go of his chin and gesturing to his men to come forward. "I have a feeling this would work this time."

"Sir, we don't want him to kill another—"

"Do it," he firmly demanded. "Can't you see how he looks? He's wheezing like a broken animal."

His eyes widened as he realized what was going to happen, and fear followed instantly. It wasn't only the pain that terrified him, though the pain alone felt like it could kill him with the current state of his body. It was the possibility of losing control again. He was so terrified of disobeying and of the consequences that would follow.

But his body was so broken and wrecked by the time they started. He felt the creature inside him stir, trying to rise and stop what was happening, but there was nothing left in him. He was so tired. Too desperate for it to end.

So he didn't fight. He never did again. Because after that, the three phases punishment started. Kaprov, finally, had found a way to make him comply with everything they did to his body and everything they ordered him to do to theirs. After that happened, there was nothing Kaprov wasn't able to control about his Soldier anymore. He had reached his goal. The Soldier was utterly his, and there was never an order that he didn't comply with.

The untamed animal inside him—the very last piece of him that ever resisted, never came out again.

 —————————————————

Bucky had always been quietly curious about all sorts of things when his missions took him into people's homes. It was the normal life, the ordinary world he never got to see. For seventy years, his world began and ended inside bases that all felt exactly the same. He knew the people at the base, unlike him, had homes to return to. He heard conversations and talks about children, dinners, vacations, and angry wives. So being inside real homes, where all those conversations belonged, had to make him curious.

Outside of his targets, the only other house he had ever entered was Pierce's. He had allowed him to get inside his house and report to him there, especially after urgent and critical missions. That was how much he trusted him, because Bucky was that good. Too good.

The first time he stepped into Pierce's home, he didn't allow his mind to wander toward the curiosity tugging at him. It lingered in the background, quiet, persistent, urging him to look around for just a second, to see even a glimpse of what his handler's life was outside Hydra. But he shut the curiosity down. When it came to his handlers, even his thoughts had limits. He always stopped them before they asked too much, before they became dangerous. Curiosity could get him hurt. It always did.

Now, standing here, Bucky isn't curious anymore. Not really. What fills him instead is something he can't quite name—a dreadful kind of wonder. A hollow disbelief at how ordinary the people who tortured him truly are. There's a photo of Dr. Anderson with two young men on a small table in the living room. His sons, maybe. The walls of his office are covered with framed certificates. On his desk, he sees a few patient files and documents from a hospital, where he must be working now.

It makes him feel sick.

He searches the house thoroughly for a while, looking for the records and documents he is supposed to retrieve, but finds nothing. No devices either. So he goes upstairs to wait inside the main bedroom, sitting in a chair facing the door. His gun rests on his thigh, his hand steady around its grip, waiting for Dr. Anderson to arrive.

He knows Pierce had told him he could do whatever he wanted to him, but he is not planning on torturing him. His focus is on getting the documents, and he has a feeling that won't require much persuasion. After that, he will decide what to do with him. But he has no desire to satisfy Pierce. Killing Dr. Anderson slowly and hurting him would only serve them. He will obey their orders. He will do what they want. But if they give him options, then he doesn't plan on satisfying them.

A while later, he finally hears someone entering the house. He hears the keys being set down and a few sounds from the kitchen. Then, eventually, footsteps coming upstairs. He doesn't move from his seat. He stays exactly where he is, waiting.

The bedroom light flicks on, and Dr. Anderson lets out a shocked sound when he sees him, stumbling back and nearly falling. "Jesus Christ," he says in horror.

Bucky doesn't say anything, but keeps his stare fixed on him.

He breathes rapidly, one hand pressed to his chest. "H-how?"

Bucky looks at him in confusion. "You thought I was dead?"

"No, I—they told me they will get you back. I didn't believe them."

"Well, that was a fucking mistake, doc," he flatly says. "You should have believed them."

He fixes his gaze on Bucky, as if examining him and searching for something. "You're not....him."

Bucky tilts his head slightly to the side. "I didn't curse before?"

Curiosity is all over his face now. He takes a few steps closer to the bedroom door. "How?" he asks. "They left you without messing with your head. How are you working with them?"

He huffs out a small laugh. "You wouldn't believe it even if I told you."

"They sent you to kill me?"

Bucky leans forward on his knees, his gun in his hand. "They said you have reports."

"If I give them to you," Dr. Anderson says, swallowing, "you'll let me go?"

"No," he calmly replies. "I will still kill you."

He takes a step back, and Bucky knows he's going to attempt to run. So the minute he shifts his weight, Bucky shoots the floor beside him. Dr. Anderson lets out a strangled sound that almost turns into a scream.

"Where the fuck are you going?" Bucky asks. "Get inside."

"Please..."

"Get inside," he repeats, still calm.

His legs tremble as he drags himself back inside, stopping next to the doorway. "I kept those files because it was my leverage," he explains. "I would never give them to you if you're going to kill me in the end."

"Well, see," Bucky breathes, "that's not how this is going to work. They gave me permission to do whatever the fuck I want to you. Pierce literally asked me to take my anger out on you. And trust me, you don't want that to happen. So hand over what you have, or I will drag your death out for hours."

"I will come back," he breathlessly says. "Tell them I will come back, and I will bring everything with me."

"That's not how this works, you know that. You got your chance, and you blew it. You don't get another one."

"How long have you been with them? It can't be long." 

"Where are the documents?"

"How many people did you kill again so far?"

Bucky ignores him. "Where are the damn documents?"

"I said I won't—"

Bucky fires again, this time into the wall right beside his head. "The documents. Now."

He covers his ears with his hands, eyes wide with terror. "Let me talk to Pierce first, please. I will tell him—"

"You think Pierce will have you back again?" he asks. "You worked for them. You know how this ends."

"He would have me back. I am important. I was your doctor for—"

Bucky shoots his right knee, and Dr. Anderson collapses to the ground, screaming.

"I won't ask again," Bucky warns, his voice quiet.

"Fine...fine!" he gasps.

"The documents?"

"M-my laptop. It's—it's downstairs...in my bag."

Bucky stands up and steps toward him. "Get up then." 

He's leaning forward, breathing heavily. "That's going to be a problem, in case you haven't noticed."

Bucky sighs, then gets on his knees in front of him. "Several years ago, I came back from a mission with a bullet in my stomach and a stab wound in my thigh, among a dozen other injuries as well. It was probably the worst I had ever been injured on a mission....in recent years, at least. Do you know how long you kept me waiting?"

"No," he heavily replies.

"Three hours," Bucky tells him. "I remember because I was starting to feel like I was going to die. So I tracked the clock on the wall, something I rarely ever did. I wanted to know how long I could hold on for. When the nurse asked a guard when you were going to come, he told her that you were finishing some stuff in your office....so you were in the damn base the whole time. I had initially thought you were out and still on your way. But no, you had decided I should just wait for a while. Do you remember that day?"

"Y-yes," he hesitantly replies. "You were never going to die. You're a super soldier. You know that." 

"I know," Bucky says. "But I was still bleeding out for three hours. Do you know what that feels like? Bleeding from your fucking abdomen for that long? It was longer, really, if we count from the moment I got shot," he leans closer to Dr. Anderson's face. "So maybe, we can treat this as a lesson for you, doc. Because apparently, all the fucking research and reports you did on me, didn't stop you to think for a second about the pain I was feeling."

"You were trained not to feel pain like a normal human being would, don't act like you—"

"No," Bucky firmly says. "I was trained not to show it. There's a difference."

Bucky stands and grabs Dr. Anderson by the front of his shirt. "Now get the fuck up."

He stumbles, resting himself on the wall as he breathes heavily. He lets out a pained breath as he puts his weight on his leg. "At least let me....wrap it with something."

"No," Bucky says. "Walk."

They move down the stairs. Dr. Anderson takes each step slowly, dragging his injured leg, and Bucky patiently waits for him each time he falters.

"It's by the door," Dr. Anderson murmurs when they reach the ground floor. "The laptop's in the bag."

"Sit on the floor."

Dr. Anderson does as he's told, lowering himself to the ground as he winces.

Bucky moves to the table by the door, grabs the bag, and drops it in front of him. "Here," he says. "I want everything you have."

Dr. Anderson pulls out the laptop, his hands shaking. "You know this is all information about you, right?"

"I know."

"So why would you satisfy them and give them what they want?"

Bucky stares down at him. "Do you want me to shoot your other leg?"

He exhales shakily as he starts navigating through his laptop. After a few seconds, he silently holds it out for Bucky.

Bucky takes it and sits on the table in front of him. He goes through the files, and it’s all records, reports, and photographs. All filled with pictures of his body, his wounds, notes on his injuries, his performance, his reactions. Bile rises in his throat, and he forces it down, his jaw tight.

When he reaches a folder titled psychological reports, he looks up. "Psychological?"

"Assessments from before and after the wipes," Dr. Anderson says, pulling his injured leg closer. "They noticed sometimes that you would get... dazed and unfocused when you've been out for a while. It never affected your missions, though, and that was all they cared about. We compared them to your older reports."

"And?" Bucky asks, scrolling through the documents.

"It was....worse before. The older ones indicate you were sometimes almost unreachable, when you were out for a while. You got better over the years. Still distant...sometimes, but not like before," he explains. "They are not planning on messing with your head again, are they?"

"They already did."  Bucky's eyes stay fixed on the screen. "They care more about the physical reports now."

"What did they do to you?"

Bucky doesn't answer him. He sets the laptop aside, reaching for the bag as he goes through it until he finds a flash drive, then plugs it into the laptop and starts transferring everything to it.

"Whatever they did, I can help you. I can try and—"

"Do you know anything about the devices they worked on to control the other super soldiers?"

He blinks. "What?"

"You don't," Bucky states, his eyes fixed on the laptop. "So you can't help me."

"They installed something in you? I...I can try and help. What is it? What did they do?" he desperately asks. 

"They didn't install anything in me," Bucky says as he takes the flash drive out. "And you can't help me."

"Please," he begs, his breath catching. "You don't want to do this. How can you work for them after what they did to you?"

Bucky places the flash drive inside his pocket and finally looks at him. "You were a part of them. Have you forgotten?"

"But I got away. I left," he says. "I am just a surgeon at a hospital now. I do my job, I get home, and that's it."

"You got away because you're a coward, not because you regret what you did. You were a part of them, you probably still believe in their ideology, too. Don't act like you're innocent. And no, you're not just a surgeon at a hospital now. You're a piece of shit doctor who instead of doing his job, enjoyed making me suffer."

"I didn't enjoy it," he argues. "I did what I had to do....and it's not my fault they....dehumanized you to that extent. That was how everyone saw you, not just me."

Bucky draws his gun slowly, not pointing it at him yet. "You're not helping yourself with what you're saying. You do realize that, don't you?"

Dr. Anderson looks at him, frightened. "How are you doing this? You—you got a pardon," he stammers. "I saw it on the news, and I couldn't believe it. I didn't believe the government agreed to that, because it meant that you…were someone again. It meant you remembered—“

Bucky meets his eyes. "And I wasn't someone before?"

"You were just a tool," he replies, almost too quickly. "A weapon. You probably still are, if they are using you again. You can't be surprised by that, you know it very well."

Bucky nods. "You're right, actually," he says. "I shouldn't be surprised. Especially since that’s coming from someone who went to medical school to save people, but ended up frying my fucking head instead."

"I told you it's not….my fault what they turned you into. You were the way you were long before I came. And we didn't….think that way around you—"

"But I fucking did," Bucky sharply interrupts him, his voice quivering. "You did everything you did to me, and I still thought about why I was the way I was. I thought about why I was the only one, through different decades, countries, and Goddamn bases, who was always treated differently. Why it was always me. I thought about the wipes and why I needed them to function. I wondered which part of me made you decide I wasn't a person anymore. Was it my damaged mind? My metal arm? Or the fact that I kept surviving what should've killed me?" he stops, stepping toward him slowly.

"Every time you left me out of cryo, thinking was all I fucking did. I would lie there in whatever cell or corner you threw me into, and the thoughts would attack me. And the worst part, doc?" he says, his voice dropping. "I would then think about how wrong it was to think like that. About how these thoughts meant I was disobedient. About how maybe I really needed the wipes, because disobedience wasn't supposed to be possible, was it?"

Dr. Anderson looks at him in disbelief. "What? You....did? How? This—this shouldn't have been—"

He shakes his head. "What? Does that fucking intrigue you now?"

"We didn't think you had thoughts of that nature. After Vasily Kaprov, we assumed—"

"What did you know then? What the fuck did you know? You studied me, wrote your reports and charts, analyzed them, compared them to old data like I was a damn lab rat. So tell me, what exactly did you know, huh?" he hisses, his voice louder than before.

Dr. Anderson swallows, his expression tightening. "I know very well that whatever we did to you was nothing compared to what Kaprov did," he says, his voice a little higher. "And you know that, too."

Bucky lets out a hollow laugh. "That's what you tell yourself to sleep at night? Your torture was better?"

"That wasn't torture!" Dr. Anderson says, his voice rising. "There is no comparison between what we did and what they did. Do you even remember it? They broke your body over and over again..."

"Stop," Bucky snaps, his voice unsteady with restrained rage. "I remember. I know exactly what happened."

But Dr. Anderson keeps going. "They did everything they wanted to you while making sure that you would never resist. And you didn't, right? You used to, in the beginning—I remember that...clearly. Then Kaprov made you sure you would never resist again. They fucked you. Made you do whatever they wanted. Used your body like you were their —"

He doesn't hear what he says next.

He doesn't hear anything. There's only a very loud, deafening pounding in his ears, followed by a sharp, painful ringing. His right hand starts trembling uncontrollably, and his lungs tighten.  He presses his fingers to his eyes, trying to force himself to breathe as his mind attacks him with everything terrible that's been happening ever since he gave himself up to them, but he can't do anything about it. He crouches on his knees, runs his hand over his face, and breathes in and out.

He turns around and finds Dr. Anderson staring at him with a look that's far more terrified than before. "What? You—you knew what Kaprov made them do to you, right? You said you...knew," he says, frightened, as if he has suddenly realized he should have never said anything regarding this.

Bucky can still hear his own heavy breathing, and the awful pounding in his ears is still relentless, but he rises anyway—steady in a way that doesn’t match what was happening to him seconds ago. "I know," he mutters, grabbing him by his shirt and pulling him close. "I fucking know."

His metal hand slams into Dr. Anderson's face with a force that sends blood spraying across the floor. "Because I remember everything."

"S-stop...stop," Dr. Anderson pleads, letting out a strangled, broken sound. "Please."

Bucky doesn't stop. He can hear the man's painful breaths, pleas, and gasps, but none of it registers.

Because he has been stopping himself for weeks now, forcing himself to control every instinct and every bit of rage, and he is so sick of it—so tired of holding himself back. He let them torture him. Let them make Anna watch. He let them hurt her. He let them use him and degrade him. He let them fuck him, like Dr. Anderson said. He had allowed it all.

And when he had attempted to let it out, without harming anyone but himself, he was humiliated for it, forced to repeat that he belonged to them, that his body wasn't his. Then they reminded him that they could have punished him for it, if they had wanted to, as though he should be grateful that they chose to let it go. So right now, he finally doesn't hold himself back and doesn't control himself. The restraint snaps. He has been stopping himself from indulging in his rage for so long, and he is fucking tired of it.

Dr. Anderson tries to scramble away, but Bucky presses his knee against his wounded leg, and a broken sound escapes him as he stops fighting. Bucky keeps slamming his fist against his face, over and over again. He doesn’t hear his cries and gasps anymore, all he hears is every reply he was forced to give those past few weeks. He hears Rumlow’s voice asking Anna what the purpose of the three phases punishment is. Anna’s screams as they shock her. The voices of four men, asking him over and over if they should stop and shock Anna instead.

And then, her voice again, soft and shaking and desperate, asking him to promise he will get back to her.

His breath hitches in his throat, and he suddenly becomes aware of all the blood that is around them, coating his metal arm. Dr. Anderson is barely breathing, barely alive. His chest shudders as he gasps for air. Bucky has ruined his face, it's now only a mess of torn flesh and blood.

He lets go of him and staggers backward. His body shakes and the blood—the blood is too much. He had meant to make it quick. He had decided he wasn't going to make him suffer, because he wasn't going to give Pierce what he wanted. He was going to make it a quick death, even if that man hurt and tortured him.

But instead, he had shot his leg, crushed his face, and did everything he wasn't supposed to do.

His knees buckle as he sits on the floor. He tries to force air into his lungs, his whole body trembling. He knows he might have had to hurt Dr. Anderson before killing him if he had refused to hand over the reports. Pain was always a possibility. So that's not what's terrifying him. What terrifies him is how everything went white— the absence of thought and control, and how he didn't feel himself doing any of it.

And worst of all, the sick, horrifying relief of finally letting go.

Dr. Anderson whimpers painfully as he starts dragging himself away from him, leaving a smear of blood behind him across the floor.

Bucky lifts his head. "Stop moving," he orders, his voice low and shaky.

"Just...leave me," he begs, still dragging himself away. "P-please."

Bucky drags in a long breath then forces himself up, holding the gun in his hand. He walks over to Dr. Anderson, whose body stills at the sound of his footsteps. He winces as he slowly turns on his back, his face not recognizable anymore beneath all the swelling and blood.

Bucky finally raises his gun. He doesn't want to prolong this any longer.

"I once had a—" he coughs, choking on his own blood. He wheezes, trying to force out the words. "A conversation with Pierce...he—he wondered how you always fought before—snapped and fought like an animal…when they raped you and shoved themselves down your throat..."

Bucky swallows, his fingers tightening around the gun.

"And how you...never fought like this...when you had to—to kill people," he pauses, blinking as he tries to find Bucky's eyes through all the blood. "Maybe you enjoyed it. Enjoyed killing....doesn't look like you—you hated it this much now. You probably—"

The gun goes off.

Bucky steps outside without looking back.

Chapter Text

She glanced past Bucky at the wall behind him, thinking. "How about a bookcase?" she eventually asked him. He was sitting on the couch next to her, and her legs were draped over his lap. "Over there, maybe. It will encourage you to buy more books, and you love reading anyway, so it will be practical and decorative." 

Bucky leaned his head back against the armrest, eyes drifting to the wall. "That's actually..." his gaze followed the empty space till the ceiling, "not a bad idea."

She gasped, almost dramatically. "I can't believe it. Finally."

"What?" he laughed. "I haven't been that negative about your furniture and decoration ideas."

"Please. I can tell when you're interested and when you just say anything to avoid disappointing me," she told him. "But I am sure going shopping alone will spark more ideas and make you buy more stuff. We definitely need a bigger couch."

"We?" he asked, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

She rolled her eyes. "You need a larger couch. Steve definitely does. He stays here more than me, and he still doesn't use the bed inside, right?"

Even though Bucky was finally fine with sleeping with her, it still didn't happen often. Most of the time, he preferred his apartment instead, where Steve would stay with him most nights. It had become routine for both of them by now, and she knew Bucky needed Steve to be there when he woke up, even if he insisted he was better at handling his nightmares now.

"He uses it sometimes, when he's tired."

"Maybe you can get another one besides this one, if you're too attached to it."

"I might be attached to it, actually." He patted the back cushion. "Lots of important talks happened here."

"And let me guess....half of those talks were with Sam."

He paused, thinking for a moment. "Uh—yes, actually."

She shook her head, chuckling. "Of course," she said. "So...we will go tomorrow to look for a bookcase?"

"If you want, yes."

"If I want?" she scoffed. "I would go right now, if it weren't too late. You have been here for almost a year, Bucky, and the place has nothing that makes it...yours."

She had been nudging him for months now to get things for his apartment. She knew once he did, it would make him happy. She had even thought about bringing a few things herself, but she wanted him to do it, wanted him to choose and decide on all of it, because she knew how much having his own place meant to him.

"I know," he sighed.

"So what's been stopping you?"

"Lots of things that are very depressing, which is why I am not going to talk about any of them," he told her, "because, we're going to fix that, right?"

"Right, so think about all the books you want to get."

"I will," he exhaled, "but right now, I really need to sleep." He did look sleepy and tired. He didn't get much sleep yesterday, he had told her.

She stretched. "Let's go then."

"You don't want to try the floor?" he asked as he stood up.

"Why would I want to try the floor when there's a perfect, soft, comfortable bed inside?" 

"Which you have tried before, several times. You didn't try the floor before. It's really nice."

"I will try it for five minutes," she said, giving in, just because he looked like he would rather sleep here than in the bed today. "If I don't feel comfortable, I will leave you and go inside." She wasn't going to do that, of course. She didn't really care about the floor or the bed. She just wished he would use the bed inside more.

"Fine," he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He brought an extra bed cover and a pillow from inside and extended his sleeping space on the floor to fit them both. He lay on his back, and she curled onto her side, letting him wrap his arm around her.

"It's nice, isn't it?" he asked.

"It's okay."

"If you are not comfortable, we can—"

"Bucky," she said, smiling. "It's nice, I promise. I wouldn't be able to fall asleep if I wasn't comfortable anyway."

"Okay," he sleepily murmured. "If you don't fall asleep, we'll go inside." 

She fell asleep before he did. 

—————————————————

When Anna wakes up from horrible dreams now, she tells herself it wasn't real, it was just a dream. She looks around her bedroom, reminds herself she is safe, that she definitely isn't in a Hydra base. Then, every time, it takes a few seconds for the truth to hit her—to realize that whatever she dreamt did happen, or some version of it did, and that horrifying realization always leaves her lungs empty, unable to draw a single breath.

But despite all of this, and despite knowing she will wake up to horrible nightmares, she still spends most of her time sleeping. It's the only escape she has. It's been three days since their meeting with Luke, and sleeping, even with all these nightmares, is easier and better than sitting awake and thinking about what might be happening to Bucky now.

She keeps replaying in her head the last time she saw him— bleeding, barely conscious, yet still managing to say goodbye to her properly. He had kissed her, made her make promises to him, thanked her, and told her he loved her. She remembers the way he looked at her, and she realizes that he had known. He had known this would take time. Back then, she had felt like they might get Bucky out of there right away. Saving him had felt so close. But he had known. She realizes that now.

Sleeping is also, undeniably, better than thinking about killing herself, because her mind has been consumed by nothing else since Rumlow called Steve. All she can think about is how this is all happening because of her. That it would stop if she were gone. And she knows it would destroy him, she knows it would make everything much worse. But she also doesn't know how much more he can take, and what will be left of him by the end of all this.

So she keeps sleeping instead, slipping into whatever horrible dreams that wait for her, because it's the only way to stop herself from thinking about it too much. But even in sleep, her nightmares leave her almost no room to breathe, let alone escape.

A knock on the bedroom door brings her out of her thoughts. "Anna?" Steve asks. 

Steve and Sam have been taking turns staying with her, which she appreciates, because Bucky had been right, waking up alone after having nightmares is always worse. However, she also desperately needs to be alone. Even with her bedroom door closed most of the day, it isn't the same as having the apartment to herself. And she feels guilty, too. They are struggling and hurting just as much as she is, so they shouldn't have to take care of her on top of everything else.

She drags her hand over her face, trying to pull herself together. She has been awake for about an hour now, but hasn't even managed to get up to use the bathroom. She's sure she looks awful. "Come in."

"Hey," he says, trying to give her a small, tired smile as he steps inside. "Any nightmares?"

She wraps her arms around her knees. "It's okay, I am fine. I am used to them now."

He sighs, sitting by the edge of the bed. "None of us is fine, Anna," he says, his gaze fixed wearily ahead. "Even Tony is...acting weird."

She looks up, surprised. "He is?"

She knows he went there yesterday to meet him. She had waited patiently for him to come back with an update. However, the only update they got was that Tony was trying to work on something that might help them, but it wouldn't be a permanent solution. He still insisted they needed to figure it out with Luke because he would be the fast solution for everything. He didn't tell Steve what exactly he was working on, though. He said he didn't want to get any of their hopes up, because he didn't know if it was going to work.

But all their hopes had gone up anyway. Tony is the only one who might actually come up with a solution at the moment, especially with Luke out of the picture.

"Yeah, I think he's stressed. He looked very anxious yesterday, we only talked for a few minutes before he practically kicked me out. I didn't think this whole situation would cause him this much trouble, given....well, everything," he explains. "But I think after what happened with Luke, he knows we're all now waiting for him to figure something out. That's a lot of pressure, I know, but I was still surprised to see the state he was in yesterday."

"But it's not really surprising, is it? I mean, Bucky had told me that things got better between you two, and that Tony was the one who helped you all with the Sokovia Accords mess with the government." 

"He helped us, yes, but not Bucky," he tells her. "Tony was just focused on the Accords. After everything that happened between us, once he finally cooled off, he started digging into everything he could against Ross and some governmental officials. It began with the arrests that happened—those who were thrown into the Raft with no due process. Then he uncovered old scandals Ross had buried, cover-ups, and a handful of officials under him with their own agendas against enhanced individuals. They were parts of groups and organizations whose goal was to bring people like us down and were hostile to superheroes. So they absolutely had no right to have any authority over us."

"The UN backed off once Tony exposed all of that. They announced a formal review of the Accords, but that hasn't happened yet. The Accords still exist on paper, but no one's enforcing them," he pauses, letting out a breath.

"Then, our names were cleared. Bucky, though...that was all me, and everyone else who helped, of course. But...I guess none of it would have been possible without Tony. Without what he did, I wouldn't have been able to work toward Bucky getting his pardon. Still, it's never been the same between us. Better, sure, but not the same. And him and Bucky....that's a whole other thing. I never even tried to fix that, even though I always wanted to. I knew the murder of Tony's parents was one of the things that haunted Bucky more than anything else, you must know that, of course." He lifts his gaze from the floor to her.

"Yeah, I know. He told me."

"Anyway, Anna. We're just waiting for Tony now," he says. "Nat, Sam, and I are checking anything we can find on potential locations for Hydra in Syberia. But since there's nothing else to do at the moment....don't you want to leave the house? I can drive you to the bakery if you want. You haven't gone anywhere since you got back except to Tony's and D.C. when we met Luke."

"What bakery, Steve?" she murmurs, glancing down. "I asked them to close it. I can't—I can't deal with that at the moment, even though I..." she trails off, feeling overwhelmed by having to say it again, after already telling Sam.

"What?" he gently asks.

She releases a shaky breath. "I promised Bucky I would keep it open....when we said our goodbyes—he asked me to. He even wanted me to go there."

"Then you have to go," he tells her. "It's your business. Or at least keep it running normally. Can't your staff manage?" 

"They can," she replies. "They already did, actually, when I was there. I asked them to, when they gave me my phone, because they didn't want suspicions from anyone. But it seems so absurd to do that now with everything happening."

"But you have to try and keep that promise, Anna. Bucky already knows your life will be on hold until this is all figured out, but it would devastate him to know that you've stopped living completely, you know that."

She swallows. "I know."

Because he had wanted her to move on entirely. He had told her not to wait for him.

"Do you want me to take you there today?"

"No, thank you," she replies. "But I will arrange with Jenna to reopen it." 

"Good," Steve comments, but it looks like he hasn't told her everything he wants to say yet. "I....wanted to tell you something else as well. I should have told you a while ago, actually, but I needed some time after that meeting with Bucky."

"What?"

He only speaks after a few seconds. "When I saw Bucky, I asked him if his injuries were from that same day—your last day there," he starts explaining. "I told him about what Rumlow said, the day he called me, when he told me to tell you about those five hours. So Bucky—he knows that you have heard Rumlow say that..."

She freezes.

Steve pauses, watching her. "You're shocked."

Oh, Steve. She thinks. He has no idea what he has done. And how could he? He doesn't know anything.

And Bucky.

She shuts her eyes and clenches her hand.

She is so tired of crying.

"How did he react?" she quietly asks, her voice trembling. "When you told him?"

There's faint confusion behind Steve's eyes, like there's something he's missing. "The same way you're reacting right now."

She looks away, struggling to breathe. "I told you, they never....did that before—never used me like that."

"I know," he says, emotion flickering through his face. "He is scared for you, Anna. He said you are thinking about....killing yourself."

She can't stop her tears this time. They fall silently.

"Shit," Steve mutters. "You are thinking about it."

"You would have been thinking about it too if you were in my place, Steve," her voice quivers, but she continues, "it's impossible not to."

"But when you first came, you told us—"

"I didn't know they were going to use it like that," she cuts him off. "They could torture him for days just because Bucky won't let them shock me for ten seconds. So it's not just the fact that he's being tortured, it's that it could—it could fucking end if he just lets them shock me for a few stupid, fleeting seconds," she stops, her voice cracking. "That's a horrible thing to live with."

"Anna," Steve says, his voice gentle and careful. "He asked me to tell you that if you do it—if you ever....kill yourself, then that's it for him as well. He swore to it. He said that....he is so tired anyway."

"Damn it, Bucky," she whispers, her tears falling harder. "But this—this is too much, Steve. We don't even have a plan anymore and they are destroying him...and it's all because of this thing inside me. What the hell am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to even breathe?"

Steve gets on the floor beside her. "Hey," he says, placing a hand on her arm. "We will figure it out. We will save him. I am sorry you have to carry this burden, Anna. I know it's unbearable. But you have to hold on for him, just like he's holding on just for you."

"But I don't want him to hold on for me," she cries. "I want him to stop complying. To kill them all and get out of there."

"We will make sure they get what they deserve when all this is over," he tells her. "Trust me."

She tries to believe him, because she had told Rumlow that she hopes she would see him die a slow, horrible death.

And she really needs to see this happening.

————

After several uneventful days, she finally tells Jenna to reopen the bakery, and even though Jenna is worried and has a feeling something is wrong, because Anna never stayed this long without going there herself, she couldn't provide her with any real comfort or reassurance. She only told her not to worry and that she just needed a break.

Tonight, she feels restless, more than she has in days, and she already knows she won't be able to fall asleep easily. They're finally going to Tony tomorrow, and all of them are extremely anxious about whatever solution he has been working on.

So she decides to do something she has been thinking about since she got back.

She goes to Bucky's apartment.

Neither Sam nor Steve insisted on going with her. They understood that she needed to do this alone, which means, for the first time since returning, she will be truly by herself. She isn't sure whether being there will comfort or shatter her further. But she misses him so much it makes her feel sick, so maybe being there would ease even a fraction of that pain.

She sucks in a deep breath, turns the key, and pushes open the door of his apartment.

Once, what now feels like another lifetime ago, her biggest issue with Bucky's apartment had been how empty it was, how Bucky stubbornly refused to make it his, though that had finally begun to change over the last two months and there started being a few additions here and there.

Now, Bucky isn't even here anymore.

It's been twenty-six days since Bucky has been in his own apartment.

She walks inside, dropping her bag on the ground. There's an envelope and a picture on the kitchen floor, and she already knows what those are. She steps forward, picking them up with her reluctant and trembling fingers. She places them on the counter, and after letting out a deep breath, forces herself to look.

She looks at the picture of herself, tied to a chair, then turns it around and finds the note Steve had told her about.

You know where she is, soldier. If you come, we let her go. If you are late, we are going to start the three phases punishment on her. You remember that, don't you?

Come alone or we put a bullet through her head.

Her breath catches in her throat. Hearing about what happened is one thing, but reading it with her own eyes, here, in the same place Bucky had, is something else entirely.

He had thought they were going to do it to her.

He came back from the run with Steve and walked straight into hell.

There's an empty glass on the counter. Behind her, two empty mugs sit next to the coffee machine, clearly abandoned once the chaos began. She moves them to the shelf above, rinses the glass and sets it aside, then she takes the picture and the envelope, tears them into pieces, and throws them in the garbage.

She walks into the bedroom, where she used to beg Bucky to sleep instead of the floor in the living room. The bed is perfectly made. His clothes from that morning lie on the floor. A grey t-shirt and black training pants. She gathers them with shaking hands, ignoring the way her chest feels like it's being torn open, and then goes and puts them inside the washing machine.

She steps back outside and finds Bucky's sneakers kicked off near the door, so she takes them and lines them up neatly. 

Then she moves toward the bookcase, the very first thing Bucky bought for his apartment that wasn't out of necessity. It's still only half-filled, because they had planned to buy many more books. She runs her hand over the shelves and finds a bit of dust, so she decides she will clean the apartment when she wakes up in the morning, before going to Tony.

When she sees the bed cover and pillow arranged on the floor beside the couch, the tears she's been holding spill over.

She sinks to her knees, sobbing. "I miss you," she chokes, clutching the cover to her chest. She pulls it around herself and lies down, curling on her side and resting her head on the pillow. It still smells like him, or maybe it's just her longing making her think so, but she can almost swear that the faint trace of his shampoo and cologne still lingers in the fabric.

"I hope you're okay," she whispers. "I hope no one is....hurting you."

When sleep finally drags her under, she dreams of him. And for once, they are not nightmares.

————

Bucky

He follows them and obeys their orders automatically, without thinking twice. His body feels distant and remote. The world around him is muted, as if his senses are not working anymore. 

Something has happened to him. A freezing, creeping cold has seeped through him and settled in his mind. It started slowly, after he left Dr. Anderson's house. Then, after he was done with his second target, it engulfed him entirely. A hollow numbness that had made everything quiet —so quiet. It froze out any emotion that threatened to break him completely.

And the quiet, despite its hollowness and emptiness, almost feels so peaceful. So Bucky welcomes it, because anything is better than the way he felt when he was with Dr. Anderson.

They tell him to strip so they can hose him down, and he does. He doesn't flinch or curl in on himself, even though he has been shivering slightly and has been feeling an unexplainable, strange cold ever since he was on his way back to the base. There's no shame and no hesitation. He closes his eyes and lets them do whatever they want.

They don't feed him through a tube. He has completed his two missions successfully, so this is his reward, as Rumlow had said before. They hand him a heavy, blended drink that tastes terrible and thick, but anything is better than the tube. They order him to finish it, every last drop, and he complies, swallowing through the overwhelming nausea he's feeling.

Now, they are cleaning his arm, picking at all the dried blood caught between the vibranium plates. He doesn't look at the blood, and doesn't feel anything either except gratitude that no one asked him to take the arm off entirely. He would have asked them to do it himself, but he can't even bother with anything at the moment. 

The IV is attached to his right hand while they work, prepping him for cryo. But the cold he's been feeling hasn't stopped, and his right hand hasn't stopped shaking either.

Then, Rumlow comes. He hears his voice before he sees him. He is asking some of the people standing how much longer they need.

Bucky blinks, trying to bring any focus into his head, without snapping himself out of this detached state he is clinging to.

"You did well, Barnes," he tells him, standing by the chair. "And you had to do well. I mean, these are just warm-ups, aren't they? Missions a lot beneath your capabilities. The real work begins later. So if you mess up at this stage, we can never trust you when the real work starts, right?" 

He is shivering.

Why is he getting colder?

Rumlow leans closer. "Right?"

He has no idea what the question was. "Right," he answers anyway. 

He moves his head to the side and glances at the IV bags.

Can it be something they are giving him? He doesn't remember ever feeling this cold before cryo.

"What is it?" Rumlow asks.

Rumlow's questions make him want to laugh sometimes. "Why are you not focused?" "What the hell is wrong with you?" "What is it?"

He often feels like he genuinely wants to ask him if he's being serious. If he actually expects answers or if he just likes hearing himself talk.

"What?" Bucky finds himself saying.

Fuck, he thinks. He closes his eyes, realizing the reply he just gave.

"Oh, fuck me," Rumlow mutters. "You're back to being a clueless dickhead again?"

"No," he replies, almost a little too quickly this time.

Rumlow leans back, sighing. "They showed me pictures of the bodies," he starts. "You didn't bother with the second target, seems like it just took you a few seconds. Dr. Anderson, however..." he pauses, and Bucky knows he's smiling. "The poor man has no features anymore, Barnes. Was that personal? Or did you just do as Pierce told you?"

His heartbeat picks up. He exhales and looks at the IV bag again, and it's almost empty. The man cleaning his arm looks like he's about to be done, too.

He will be in cryo soon. Where he won't think and won't feel. Where it will all stop.

But he shivers again, his toes curling inside his socks. He's so cold. He rarely ever gets cold like this, unless something is wrong.

"Barnes!" Rumlow barks. 

He brings his gaze to the ceiling. "Yes."

He wants Rumlow and his questions gone. The collar is not even around his neck, so he tells himself Rumlow won't punish him—not right before cryo anyway. He completed his missions successfully, so punishing him now would be too unfair.

Rumlow only gets closer, grips his face firmly with both his hands, forcing his attention. "Look at me." 

He swallows, still not moving his eyes from the ceiling above him, terrified of letting go of this frozen numbness. He can't allow that to happen.

He can't think about what has been said to him, what he did, and what he has become again.

"I will shock Anna."

He exhales shakily, then turns his eyes to him, his lips quivering.

He is so fucking cold.

"Good boy," Rumlow murmurs. "What's happening?"

He really, really wants to ask him if he's serious.

"Nothing."

"You're not even here," Rumlow says, searching his eyes. "You're what...dissociating? Haven't you killed someone when you first got here? Haven't you killed many before? What did you expect—"

"Rumlow," he cuts him off, his voice hoarse and rough. He doesn't care about any of the rules now. He's just terrified of losing control if Rumlow keeps pressing him. "Put me in cryo, please."

Rumlow looks startled by what Bucky just said, but quickly recomposes himself. "That's not an answer.”

"Please," he pleads, his lips trembling harder from the cold now. "I did what you...wanted, and I will continue doing whatever you want. But for now, just—put me in cryo."

Rumlow looks down at his shivering, shaking body. "You're...cold?" he asks, confused.

"Yeah," he breathes, his voice only a fragile whisper. 

"Why? Do you feel sick? Do you even get sick?"

"No, I—I don't know what's wrong."

Rumlow turns around, looking for someone. "Hey," he says. Bucky doesn't see who he is speaking to. "Is that normal? He's shivering."

Someone approaches him. A nurse. She places her hand on his forehead. "There's no temperature."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know," she replies, and he feels her gaze on him. "Could be psychological, I guess. He doesn't look well. Do you want me to call Rebecca?"

"Damn it, Barnes," Rumlow says under his breath. "No, it's fine. Go ahead and put him in cryo if you're finished."

He breathes out.

Finally.

Rumlow takes a step closer to him. "The next time you wake up, you'll be going to your therapist. So you better pray to God that whatever is wrong with you is fixed by then."

He's definitely not going to think about that either.

He allows himself to think about only one thing right before they lock the cryo tube, because he knows he will be confused as hell when he wakes up. He knows it will be a nightmare that will take him a long while to understand.

So he reminds himself that he's in love with a woman named Anna before he slips away. He pictures her face in his mind. Her eyes.

He reminds himself of why he's here—why he's letting them do this to him. That it's to keep her safe. That he would endure anything if it meant keeping her safe.

The cold crawls through him, a brutal shock that pulls all the air from his lungs. He tries to hold onto her name anyway, praying it will be the first thing that finds him when they wake him up.

And then, finally, there is nothing.

Chapter Text

"Sam?" Bucky answered the phone.

"Hey, man," Sam said. "Have you finished? I will be there in five minutes." 

"No," Bucky replied, his voice sounding unsteady. "I am not coming. I am sorry, I am tired."

That had to be complete bullshit, because Sam had called him a few hours ago, and his voice was nothing like the one he was hearing right now. They were going to meet Steve and Natasha for dinner. Bucky hadn't seen her in a long while and was looking forward to it, so Sam knew something must have happened.

"What?" Sam asked. "Didn't you finish your session with Dr.Raynor?" 

"Yeah."

"Have you left already?" 

"Yeah," he said, breathing out. "I am heading home."

"What's wrong then? Did you not—" 

But Bucky hung up the phone without allowing Sam to say anything further. 

"Shit," he muttered to himself. 

He drove back to Bucky's house instead of Dr. Raynor's office and texted Steve that he and Bucky would be late, because he still hoped he could get him to change his mind.

To Sam's relief, he spotted Bucky halfway up the block, heading toward his building. His eyes were focused on the ground, his hands were buried in the pockets of his jacket, and his pace carried some kind of urgency. Sam also realized that if Bucky had walked all the way from Dr. Raynor's office and was already back, that meant he couldn't have stayed there longer than ten minutes. Either the session never really started, or it ended disastrously fast. 

He parked as fast as he possibly could and then sprinted after him

"Bucky!" he called, louder than he meant, trying to stop him before he went inside. 

Bucky stopped and turned around, eyebrows furrowed when his eyes landed on him. "What are you doing here, Sam?" 

"Seriously? Did you think I was just going to ignore how shitty you sounded?" 

"I am fine."

He wasn't fine. Sam could see it instantly. His breathing was heavy, his pupils looked unfocused, and he was almost shaking. Something had gone very wrong. "What's going on, man?" 

"I need to—" Bucky's voice faltered as he fumbled through his pockets for his key. "Go, Sam. I need to get inside."

Sam ignored him and followed him inside, going up the stairs. When they stopped in front of his apartment, Bucky huffed out a frustrated sigh and turned to him. "Sam," he said, his voice strained. "I said I am fine. Please, go. Steve and Nat are going to be upset."

"You know I am not going anywhere."

Bucky looked irritated at him, but seemed to be too shaken to argue more about this.

When they got inside, Bucky took his jacket off, then sank to the floor in front of the couch. He bent his knees, his hands hanging over them, then kept staring at his shaky right hand. He clenched it, pressed his thumb to the centre of his palm, and looked like was he trying to do anything to stop it from shaking. 

Sam walked over to the wall opposite him, and sat down on the floor under the television, giving him space but also making it clear he wasn’t going anywhere. He could see from here just how badly Bucky’s hand was shaking. He had noticed this before, and it usually happened when he was extremely nervous, about to have a panic attack, or after he had a panic attack. 

They both stayed silent for a while, then Bucky swallowed hard when it looked like he realized he couldn't control the shakiness in his hand. He let out a loud, helpless breath. “Fuck," he muttered. 

His breathing grew heavier, and he tilted his head up, his eyes panicked, as if he would rather face anything than have a panic attack at the moment. 

"Buck," Sam finally said. "Talk to me. What’s going on?”

"No," he heavily breathed. "I don't want to talk about it." 

"You look like you're going to explode." 

"I am not," he argued. "I—I have it under control." 

"Doesn't look like it from where I am sitting." 

"Well, that would be an issue," he said, his voice shaking. "Because I really....really need to have it under control." 

"You don't actually," he told him. "I am here. You can lose control if you want, man. It's fine." 

Bucky closed his eyes, and his hand started shaking even more. "No, I—I can't." 

"Why?"

He didn't answer, and his lips started slightly trembling. Sam was feeling genuinely worried now, and he started thinking that maybe Bucky and Dr. Raynor had talked about stuff they had never discussed before today. 

"What happened with Dr. Raynor?" he carefully asked. 

Bucky didn't provide any response, only squeezed his eyes shut harder at the mention of Dr. Raynor's name. 

"Okay," Sam sighed. "I don't mind sitting in silence. Silence is great. But you look like you’re losing your shit over there. Why are you nervous?" 

"I am not...nervous." 

"Then what, Bucky?" 

Bucky opened his eyes, and Sam's chest twisted painfully when he saw that they were filled with tears. 

"What's going on, man?" he asked, his voice worried. 

"I wish I was just nervous," he finally said. "I am—I am so angry, Sam. I am so fucking angry, it feels like I am going crazy—like something is...sitting on my chest and I cannot move or breathe or do anything. It’s awful and—and I don't want to..." he trailed off, closing his right hand into a fist tightly. "I don't want to lose control. Not like this. I was doing better and I don't want everything to fall apart again." 

"Shit," Sam murmured. "What the hell happened with Dr. Raynor?" 

"She did this," he responded. "I was really doing okay today. She fucked it up. And that's—that's the opposite of therapy, isn't it?" 

"What did she do?"

Sam, of course, knew that Dr. Raynor did not fuck anything up. She just hit a nerve, and she probably meant to. 

"She keeps....pushing me to talk about my fucking past," he said, his chest rising and falling faster. "And I started getting angry. Because I am not going to tell her pathetic, messed-up shit to entertain her, not —not when things have been getting better. What's the damn point if I am doing better?" 

He wanted to tell him how that was wrong on so many levels, but didn't even know where to start. 

"You know she is not asking you about your past to be entertained, Bucky," he tried to gently reason with him. "And you might be doing better than before, but you still have terrible nightmares and—"

"Stop," Bucky snapped at him. "I know. She already said that. She said that because I don't talk about my past, I still have fucking nightmares and panic attacks. But where do we even start, huh?” 

His breath was now coming too fast. “Which decade? Which version of me? Do we start with me falling off the plane, losing my arm, staying in the cold all alone, bleeding out, to finally think I am going to be saved, only to be taken and experimented on for years? Do we start with....Kaprov and him making it his fucking life goal to make sure I didn’t have a single nerve left that could think for its own?" he stopped, looking like he was struggling to continue. "Or maybe we start with the very first person I killed—" 

"Bucky," he cut him off. "It's too much. I know. It's too many years, too much pain. But you don't have to start somewhere specific. That's not how it works."

Bucky gulped, clenching and unclenching his right hand. “I stormed outside her office because I got angry and was about to tell her what they did to me—the three phases punishment, it was just going to—to slip out,” his voice cracked, so he took a shaky breath and then continued. "And I never—I would never say it out loud. Even in my head I never even..." His gaze dropped lower, unfocused. "And she asked what I was about to say, and it felt like….she knew. Even though that doesn't make any sense, but maybe she's smart like you and figured it out. Maybe she figured it out long ago….I don't know, but I couldn't stay in her office a minute longer."

His lips trembled, and there were silent tears falling down his face. "There's this..." he said, his hand reaching for his throat. "Fire burning inside me. It's usually...quiet. I can keep it under control, but when—when something triggers it, I don't know what to do with it. It feels like it's going to swallow me.” He lowered his gaze, his metal hand reaching for his right one, gripping it to still the shakiness. "And it feels like I want to..." he didn't finish, but kept his gaze lowered.  

"Burn this whole world to the ground? Kill someone?" Sam asked. 

Bucky turned his eyes to him and almost looked ashamed. "Yeah," he shakily said. "That's....bad, isn't it?" 

Sam gave him a small, pained smile. "You weren't allowed to feel angry for everything that happened to you for seventy years, Bucky. They denied you that, along with every other emotion as well," he told him. "I would have been worried about you if you weren't angry." 

"But it feels like it's going to kill me. The more I try to control it, the more it feels like this," he admitted. "I don't want to feel that way. It almost makes me feel like I am....him again."

"That's why you're panicking?" 

"Kind of," he replied. "And because I am really terrified of feeling like everything is worse again, like there hasn't been any progress at all." 

And Sam knew that Bucky’s fear of everything falling apart was mostly tied to Anna. 

Bucky lowered himself down more and rested his head back on the couch behind him, his eyes fixed upwards, letting out a loud breath as his hand rested on his chest. "I have been feeling like I can't breathe since I left her office....it's not going away."

Sam moved closer and sat next to him, letting his back rest on the couch. "It's because you are trying to hold back too much all at once. It's okay to lose control sometimes. It's okay to break, Bucky. That doesn’t erase any progress you made." He kept his gaze fixed on him, but Bucky's eyes were still on the ceiling. 

He continued, "And you are going to hate what I am going to say next, but you have to talk about your past, man. She is right. You have to face your trauma in order to heal, and you are not facing it, you are running away from it all the time." 

His eyes stayed on Bucky’s, watching his reaction, bracing himself for anger, but all he saw was a brief flicker in his eyes.

"But,” he gently added, “I think it should also be clear that this is your choice. It will always be your choice. Dr. Raynor isn't going to make them take away your pardon because you didn't talk. She's pushing you, but you can always decline. Her pushing you to talk doesn't mean you have to, but it means that it's what's best for you." 

"So as long as I don't talk about it," Bucky started, his voice low and quivering. "This....anger will always be there? It's going to always feel like this?" 

"Probably," Sam honestly replied. 

"Shit," Bucky muttered. 

"Yeah."

"It's so messed up, Sam," he told him, "thinking about how they took away more than seventy years of my life, and now that I have it back, they are still taking away from it, even if they don't exist anymore." 

"I know," he softly said. "Trust me, I know." 

Bucky shifted his head towards Sam, still keeping it resting on the couch. "Did you feel angry when Riley died?" 

The question took Sam by surprise, and he had to pause for a moment. "Yeah," he replied, his voice slightly less steady. "Of course I was, and grief and anger together….that’s an awful combination." 

"And you had someone to talk to?" 

"Why else did you think I decided to become a counselor?" he asked. "It helped me, and I realized I wanted to help others, too." 

Bucky let out a soft exhale, his breathing seemed to be easing slightly, and then turned his head away. "I don't mind talking to you," he said, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. "We can't exchange you with Dr. Raynor?" 

Sam chuckled. "I mean...that, coming from you, is one hell of a compliment," he joked. Bucky’s faint smile deepened just a little. "I am your friend, Bucky. I can listen to you all day. But she is also your therapist, and she's supposed to be a damn good one. You don't have to dive into all the terrible stuff….just start somewhere." 

When Bucky stayed silent, he asked him, "Does your chest still hurt?" 

"It's better," Bucky rasped. 

They sat together for a while longer. Sam just focused on Bucky's breathing, making sure it was slowing down and steadying after the panic he had been feeling. 

After a while, Bucky cleared his throat and lifted his head from the couch. "Sam?" 

"What?" he asked, looking at him.

Bucky’s eyes were heavy and thick with exhaustion. "Thank you....for not leaving." 

Sam wanted to tell him that by now, he would drop everything right away and be there for him if he wasn't okay, always. But all he managed was, softly, “Of course, man."

——————————————————

"So," Tony finally starts. "I have been working on something. And before anyone gets a little too excited—no, it will not allow us to take him out of there," he says, waving a hand at all of them. "But it will help. If it works correctly. Which we won't know until..." 

"What is it?" Steve asks, impatient. 

"After we first met and she told me about the device," Tony says, glancing at Anna. "I did something—something that was very terrible." 

"What, Tony?" Natasha asks. 

He looks at Steve. "I put myself in Barnes' place," he says. "Let's just say it wasn't a fun experience. Zero out of ten. Wouldn't recommend." 

Sam shifts uncomfortably and glances at Anna, worried she will be upset at Tony's words, but she is only staring at him, focused. 

"If I were in his place—which, thank God, I am not—my biggest issue would be the device in her chest," Tony goes on. "The fact that they could shock her whenever they feel like it. That they could do it for fun and I wouldn't know anything about it...which they haven't done, I am aware, but that's just how far my thoughts would take me. Then, there's the option that can kill her instantly. Just a click and...I am sure that's fucking horrifying," he pauses and starts pacing around the room. "You asked me before what I would have done, if it was Pepper, do you remember?" he asks Steve. 

"Yes." 

"Done what?" Anna asks. 

Tony shifts his gaze to her. "We were guessing what they needed Barnes for, when they first took you both. We were discussing the possibility of them wanting him to become their assassin again, which of course, Steve here couldn't really believe. But I am always right, aren’t I? Anyway, he asked me what I would have done, if it was Pepper. Whether I would have complied with what they wanted for her or not." 

"Well, that's how I ended up putting myself in his place, imagining it was Pepper instead, and...I would go insane. I would absolutely lose it," he tells them. "So he must be going mad over there, in addition to everything else they're doing to him as well. Honestly, it's a miracle he hasn't broken someone's neck yet." 

"Sam said that he thinks that's why they're putting him in cryo," Steve tells Tony. "So he wouldn't break completely and lose his mind." 

Tony nods in Sam's direction. “Yeah, that could be a possibility, and based on everything you have told me, it seems like they are also trying to make everything the way it was before. The same Winter Soldier system—same structure and rules. Trying to get him into character and force how he obeyed and followed their orders. Without what they did to his head, they might need all of that to push him into that mindset." 

"Rumlow always said stuff similar to that," Anna adds. "How they have to do all of this…torture him and break him, so he can be reminded of who he was and become that person again. He talked non-stop about how he has to be obedient and compliant like he was before."

"Fucking Rumlow," Natasha bitterly mutters. "In my opinion, it's a mix of both. Not wanting him to lose his mind, because he would be useless if he did. And the cryo, everything else…it’s all designed to shove him back into that role, to fit him back into the old system.”

"Yeah," Steve sighs heavily. "That makes sense." 

"Anyway," Tony continues, his gaze fixed on Anna. "I tried to work on something that would take the hit for you—absorb the power of the shocks, so you wouldn't feel pain. Something like a pain dampener," he pauses, bringing something out of his pocket. A silver circular band. "It should sit on your forearm. Last time you were here, I asked you to rate the pain difference between a panic attack and the shock of that implant, and you told me it was ten times worse, right?" 

"Yeah," she replies. 

"Well, that's really bad. I would know. And I ended up thinking about it a lot," he says, keeping his eye on her as he twirls the band between his fingers. "So this little thing will intercept the electrical signals sent from Hydra's device before they hit your nerves.  You will still feel something, because we can’t block them completely, but what gets through should just feel like a faint ache. Nothing serious.”

"That's brilliant, Tony," Steve says. 

"But my heartbeat," Anna quickly says. "If I don't feel pain, then my heart rate will stay the same, Hydra monitors—" 

"Do you honestly think I forgot about that?" Tony asks her, a smile playing on his lips. "Absorbing the shocks? That part is finally done. Now, I am working on a tiny pulse generator to be installed inside it, which will get activated the second Hydra's implant does. I should be finished with it in a few days. It will kick the nerves that control your automatic stress response. It's safe, but it will feel like you suddenly ran up a flight of stairs or jumped off a cliff….something like that.” 

“Will it be painful?” Sam asks. 

“Not really, but it won't be pleasant. It will feel like a jolt, but definitely nowhere near torture, and Hydra will look at her vitals and see exactly what they would expect...a perfectly normal pain induced heart rate." 

Anna exhales. “Thank you," she says, her voice soft and sincere. 

Tony gives her a small nod. "You're welcome," he replies. "After I am done, we will just have to inform Barnes of that, that's the important part. I don't know how we're going to do it, but our best shot is that guard. He will just deliver a message, so nothing heroic is required of him. That will give Barnes some peace, and it will give him enough room to fuck up—strategically, though. He has to be smart about it so they wouldn't suspect anything. But I believe it would be better than the complete helplessness he has to be feeling." 

Steve’s voice is filled with relief when he speaks. “Thank you, Tony. Really.”

Sam also feels relieved. He lets out a long breath, something tight in his chest easing for the first time in days at the thought of Bucky getting even the tiniest bit of relief. 

"The only problem is, him fucking up will make them torture him more," Anna says.

"To him," Tony tells her, “that will be nothing compared to you getting shocked."

Anna looks at Sam and Steve, hesitating, then looks back at Tony. "And the permanent solution? We can't do anything without Luke?" 

"No. We need access to their controller in any possible way," Tony replies. "I thought about every possible solution. Anything that can be done is risky, even a one percent chance is too much. And Hydra aren't idiots. Pierce isn't an idiot. They knew you would come to me once you're out of there. They knew you would try and figure something out, but they let you out anyway. They wouldn't have done that unless they were sure we wouldn't be able to do anything without triggering the sensors. They have gone through all this trouble, made this whole plan and kidnapped you both, moved to a new base, installed a cryo tube for him...they wouldn't have done any of that unless they were absolutely confident in that device."

He hates how right Tony is at the moment. 

"There's something you should all know," Steve says. His gaze flicks between him and Anna. "I didn't even tell you both yet."

Sam can immediately tell by Steve’s voice and the way he’s looking at both of them, that whatever is coming won't be any good. 

"What?" Sam nervously asks. 

"When they allowed me to talk with Bucky, he asked something of me," he says. "After we remove the device from Anna and when we get him out of there, he doesn't want to turn them in or just...kill them—not all of them, just Rumlow, Pierce, and three other men. He told me their names, but I don't know them. He wants them, he said death would be a mercy." 

Sam isn't sure whether he's shocked, or if something heavy just broke inside him. His chest tightens painfully, because this isn't the anger Bucky feared. This is something much darker and far worse.

He always knew that what happened to Anna and what she had been through would break Bucky and shatter him, but he realizes now that he never really grasped the severity of it. Bucky has gone far past the point of breaking, farther than he has ever realized.

The room stays silent, until Tony speaks. "I understand Pierce, he's the one behind all of that. Rumlow is the one who tortures him, understandable, too. Who are the other three?" 

They all look at Anna, who looks like she's in shock herself, almost like she's reliving something she doesn't want to remember. 

"Anna?" he asks her. 

"Y-yeah," she shakily replies. "There are three men who tortured him...once. I was there. I don't know their names, but it's—it's probably them."

"He told me....told me they destroyed everything, humiliated him...and hurt Anna, and did everything in front of her…” he pauses, looking like he's trying to pull himself together. "He was so tired, barely holding on, and still—still looked so damn angry." 

"Bucky was always angry," Sam quietly says. "Long before any of this, he had so much anger buried deep inside. And he never—because he never talked about it the way he was supposed to and just tried to shove it down and ignore it all the time, it was always just...there. I genuinely don't know how he's able to keep it all under control with everything they're doing. I know he has to, because of Anna, but still—knowing Bucky, it's a fucking miracle he's keeping it together." 

"He did lose it and strangled Rumlow once," Steve says. 

"And then they made sure he would never lose it again," Anna adds. 

"When they broke his hand?" Natasha asks. 

"Yeah, his fingers," Anna replies, her voice barely out. "There was another time, when he first learned about the device, he wanted to attack Rumlow, but he was hurt—his back was injured and he had an infection. Rumlow electrocuted him with the shock collar when he tried to move….but Rumlow wasn't even angry at him that day, he was strangely calm. He knew Bucky would react that way." 

"Yeah, but like Stark said, it's still a miracle he hasn't snapped and killed one of them. If he wanted to, he would have," Sam says. "I know what Bucky wants is against everything we stand for. To be honest, it might not be right for him either, to let himself be consumed by his anger and need for revenge like this. But I don't actually think Bucky will survive if he doesn't find a way to let his anger out. Not this time. It will eat him alive, because Anna was involved in all of this, too. And what he has been through is too much—it's too damn unfair." 

Steve meets his gaze. "He asked me to promise him that I won't stop him, no matter what, and I did. I told him we will take them in when the time comes." 

Sam nods. "You did the right thing." 

"I agree," Natasha says. "I would have wanted the same thing, if they ever forced me to go through all of it again." 

Tony clears his throat. "I know there's still some time until then, but when it's time, I will give you an empty warehouse. Fully secure. He can use it for however long he needs."

"Thanks, Tony," Steve tells him. "For everything."

There's only one person who is still silent. 

"Anna?" Sam asks. 

She raises her head, her eyes are glistening with tears. "Uh—it's...terrifying," her voice quivers. "And heartbreaking, to think of Bucky doing...that. But what's happening to him is a lot more terrifying and heartbreaking as well. I know he has the right to do it. I know it more than all of you...I was there. They all deserve much worse than whatever he intends to do to them." 

"I know," Sam tells her. "There's something else I think we should discuss, just to keep it in consideration," he pauses, meets Steve's eyes, then says, "Dr. Raynor." 

Steve huffs out a sigh. "I have been trying so hard not to think about that."

"That's the court-mandated therapist?" Tony asks 

"Yeah," Sam replies. 

"I have no idea how they are doing this," Natasha says. "It's incredibly risky and stupid." 

"Yeah, but what's the alternative? Make the whole country look for him?" Steve lets out a breath, then continus. "Letting him go under these circumstances is...it's another form of torture, and they will make him go no matter what. The day we saw him there? We found out from Anna that he had an infection that day from the wounds in his back. It’s the same day he found out about the device. He was barely holding himself together and could barely breathe properly or even stand. And they let him go anyway. They only made him postpone last time because he looked terrible and his hand was still injured and in a splint, he needed more time to heal."

"Jesus," Tony mutters. "She's a good therapist or a shitty one?" 

"A very good one. He's been seeing her for over a year," Sam replies. "Bucky will have to crack at some point. He will do his best to lie and put on an act because of Anna, but they might send him there after his missions, and how the hell is he supposed to do that? I mean, for God's sake, he talks with Dr. Raynor about his amends list."

Before Tony asks what that is, he explains, looking at him. "That's a list of people Bucky wants to make amends to. People he hurt or families of victims he killed as the Winter Soldier...things like that." He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. "You were on it, Tony." 

Tony blinks, caught off guard. He almost says something, but instead looks down and breathes out slowly. 

Then, Anna's voice breaks the silence, thin and exhausted. "I always told him he didn't need to make amends to anyone. He was a victim." She lifts her eyes to Tony. "No offense."

Tony raises his hands. "None taken." 

"The point is," Sam breathes out. "He can't kill people and then sit across from Dr. Raynor and pretend everything is normal. I think Hydra probably think these sessions are just meaningless protocol or some routine formality."

"And what do we do if she finds out?" Natasha asks. 

“I have no idea, to he honest, but we need to keep it in mind for now. There's a chance she might figure it out, and we need a plan." 

"She was a soldier," Steve murmurs, "she could report it immediately."

"Well, Anna actually raised an important point when I talked to her about this." 

"What?" Steve asks. 

"She said, if she was a soldier, then so were we. You're Captain America," he tells him, giving him a small smile. “And yeah, it's different, because we're his friends, but she's also been seeing him for over a year, and even if he's been a pain in the ass and fought her every step of the way...she knows him. She knows the kind of person he is, and she definitely knows that the horrors he's been through are beyond anything imaginable. Reporting him wouldn't be that easy for her.“

"But if she does report what's happening?" Natasha asks. 

Steve's expression hardens. "She will risk Anna getting killed, it won't be this simple. But she might report it afterward, if she knows Bucky killed people. I don't even know if they have made him kill again...after that person.” His eyes go distant for a heartbeat before he adds, “But I won't allow it. I don't know what we're going to do then, but I can't let her do that. If it comes down to it, I will get him out of the country. I am not allowing anyone to take him or lock him up again. Ever." 

Neither will he. 

————

They're all still struggling, but ever since their meeting with Tony, a small, fragile hope has sparked among them. Which they desperately needed after their failed attempt with Luke. Sam can see it in the way they move around each other now. Steve keeps talking about what they could do next, what comes after Anna starts using Tony’s device, and how they might get Bucky out of there. It eases something in Sam, because Steve had looked hollow ever since he saw Bucky.

Anna still hasn't gone to her bakery, even though Sam tries to convince her to go every day. However, when she gets nervous now, she cooks. She leaves food out for them all the time, batches of things she barely tastes. Sam sees how she hesitates, how she stares at any food before eating it for a few seconds, and he knows she is always thinking of Bucky, but at least she isn’t shutting herself away in her room anymore. They no longer stay over at her place, giving her the space she needs, but they’re still with her nearly all the time. 

Tony finishes working on the device six days after their meeting with him. Anna starts putting it on right after that, never taking it off. 

They keep searching for any potential sites in Syberia, but they don't reach anything groundbreaking. Whatever faint leads they have managed to find, they decide that Natasha and some of Fury's men will go and check soon. 

They keep trying to call Luke, but he never answers. So they start digging about his family, history, and background—anything that might give them any leverage or direction. When they find out where he lives, they consider going to his home, but they know it could end badly, so they keep it as a last resort. 

Eight days after Anna starts putting on Tony’s device, what little peace they thought it could bring them vanishes when she actually gets shocked. 

They will know the device worked. Perfectly worked. For a couple of minutes, it will feel like a success—a small, desperately needed victory. And then, any trace of relief will disappear, because Anna will get shocked fifteen times in the span of an hour, something that has never happened before. 

They will try to call Luke again. He will not answer. 

They will know something is terribly wrong, and they will be unable to do anything about it.

Chapter Text

He never understood why heights scared him. It didn't make sense with who he was or what they had made him. He was a soldier, a perfect one. His targets feared him the second they saw him; he could always see it in their eyes, right before they started to whimper, plead, and beg. Pain didn't frighten him. Punishment barely made him blink—most of the time, at least. He endured and tolerated whatever they threw at him.

There were only certain things that ever made his pulse climb. Specific things he knew by heart. Heights were one of them. He hated missions that took him to rooftops and high balconies.

He knew he should also hate it when he was in an aircraft. But sometimes, if they used the quinjets with those narrow window slits, and he was lucky enough to sit facing one, with no one sitting directly in front of him, then he didn't hate it at all.

His pulse would always rise at takeoff, and it would remain that way for a while. He would be on edge, hands clenched and shoulders locked with tension. And when he would turn his gaze to the window in front of him, his heartbeat would spike again. Then, slowly, as he lost himself to the world beneath him, it would start going down, settling into a steady rhythm.

Over the years, he realized he only ever felt the urge to lose himself in the outside world on his way back from a mission, but never on his way there. When he was on his way to a mission, his mind was always razor-sharp, entirely focused on the objective. There was no room for anything else. But on his way back, it was always different. If the world outside the window wanted to pull him in, then he would let it.

The ocean was one of the things that intrigued him the most. Always had. Whether he was up in the air or down on the ground. Something happened to him sometimes at the sight of it, but it wasn't a feeling he did not like—it was a tightness that wasn't unpleasant at all. He always wished that feeling would linger, even when, for reasons he never understood, it sometimes made his eyes burn.

He was on his way back from Germany now. Another mission completed, all by himself. He was exhausted and his eyes kept slipping shut, heavy after nearly two days without sleep, but it was almost dawn now, and the world below looked too magnificent to look away from. He had rested his head against the wall behind him to drift off for a little while, but got caught up by the view of the sky and the ocean.

Sceneries like these always brought him back to the very old, distant promise of getting to rest one day, the one he knew would never happen. Though that didn't stop him from thinking about it when he saw the ocean. He liked to think that one day, he might get to stay somewhere quiet by the water, or maybe just anywhere out in the open.

The bases he was usually in were all the same. No sunlight, no breath of real air, and no glimpse of the sky. Just cold, concrete walls and darkness. Which is why he always longed for the air outside, the openness, and the sky above. It made his breathing different. He always felt it in the first inhale he took when he stepped outside the base.

He tried to keep his eyes open again, fighting the pull of sleep, just to watch the world outside some more, before he got locked up again below the ground, before there was nothing but darkness and freezing cold.

He imagined staying by the ocean, all alone—no handlers, doctors, technicians, nurses, soldiers, or agents. Just him, all by himself. And yet, even that thought made his chest tighten for an unknown reason. Was he scared of being alone? It should be a relief, and it definitely shouldn't scare him. But as much as there was comfort in thinking about it, it still carried with it a hollow ache, a painful emptiness that seemed to grow deeper the more he thought about it.

"Hey," the man sitting opposite him said. He only had two members from the team with him today. "What do you look so sad about?"

Shit, he thought. They were in the mood to mess with him. They always did this when they were bored, picking him apart with questions and forcing answers out of him, then twisting those answers into something that would make him suffer in the end.

He should have just slept.

He dragged his gaze away from the window. "Nothing," he rasped.

"Wrong answer," another one said, the one sitting next to him. "Do you even feel sad?"

"No," he automatically replied.

"Do you know what being sad means?" the one in front of him asked.

His eyes shifted on the ground beneath him. He was too tired for this. Too tired for their games and their boredom.

God, he should have just slept.

"He asked you a question."

"It's not a...good feeling," he muttered.

They laughed, and then he smelled the alcohol in their breaths. They had been drinking. That meant that this would drag on, and when it dragged on, they usually took it too far. They would push and corner him until they forced a wrong answer out of him. Then they would go and report that he said something, or asked something he shouldn't have asked. Which would result in him getting wiped, punished, or both.

He had tried defending himself once, long ago, by explaining what had actually happened, and how they had manipulated him into it, but it had only backfired on him terribly. So now he silently takes whatever they do to him afterwards.

"Tell us the truth," one of them said. "You never feel sad?"

He didn't know. He shouldn't feel anything, for that matter. Even though....no, the voice in his head stopped the thought from even forming. You don't feel anything. You shouldn't feel anything.

"No," he said.

"Come on," one of them prodded. "That can't be true, you’ve got very sad blue eyes."

He looked away, back to the narrow window in front of him, foolishly hoping that they would lose interest.

The one next to him kicked his leg lightly with his boot. "What the fuck are you so focused on outside?"

He was so exhausted.

"Nothing," he said.

"Then keep your eyes on the floor."

No sky or sea until they arrive then. He obeyed and turned his gaze down.

"Did that make you feel sad?" the other one asked.

Did it? He thought it might have, actually. He wanted to keep watching. He wanted to enjoy every bit of it before he got locked up again, and what little time he had with the sky was now gone. They had taken it from him, just like they took everything.

But that was fine. They could do whatever they wanted with him. He belonged to them.

"It didn't," he finally responded.

"I think he's lying. Do you think he's lying?"

"I think he is."

"And that's just not acceptable, is it?"

"Not acceptable. No."

"It's okay," the man beside him said in a gentle voice that carried no gentleness at all. "It's okay to feel sad. I'd feel sad if I were you. It's a miserable life, isn't it? You get your brains electrocuted on a regular basis, you get frozen, go on missions, get punished sometimes, then have it happen all over again. That's a miserable life."

"It doesn't matter," he argued, his response came quickly. "I serve Hydra. That's my purpose."

"You can serve Hydra and also be sad."

He should have fucking slept.

"I serve Hydra and get sad sometimes," he said. "I’m sure Alexei here feels the same, right?"

"Of course."

They were talking to him like he was a stupid person, taking advantage of his confusion and the fuzziness that sometimes happened in his mind. He always hated it when they did that.

"I—I’m not like you," he told them.

"Ah, you're so good, aren't you?" he asked. "Kaprov's little dog. You don't feel sad when Kaprov punishes you?"

When that happened, he would feel....so many things. Things he didn't even have names for.

"Hey," the man loudly said, smacking his thigh. "Don't ignore me."

He exhaled. "I don't. I deserve it...when it happens."

"You have strong misconceptions. You can deserve it and still feel sad. So do you?"

"No."

"So you don't feel sad when the men shove their dicks inside your mouth?" the other one—Alexei asked. "Because you look pretty sad when it happens."

His heartbeat picked up. He wanted to be back at the base now. He wanted the cryo. He wanted to disappear.

"Come on. Just admit it. You feel sad when it happens, don't you?"

"It's a punishment," he tried to say. "It doesn't matter what I—"

"Not what he asked."

"You said feeling sad is a bad feeling. You feel bad when it happens, don't you?"

He was feeling bad now. His throat was closing and he felt so trapped. "Yes," he finally replied.

"Ha! But I thought you weren't supposed to feel anything?" Alexei asked, trying not to laugh.

Oh, dear God.

He nervously moved his eyes away, glancing out of the window for just a split second, but the man next to him slammed his elbow into his ribs. "What did I say about looking outside?"

"I’m sorry," he quickly said.

His rough hand clamped around his neck, forcing it down. "Stay like that. No fucking distractions that way."

His throat clenched tighter. He swallowed again and again, trying to keep it working as his gaze stayed pinned on the ground.

"Now you have to admit, that definitely made you sad."

He needed them to stop. The pressure in his chest rose so sharply that he almost spoke and asked them to.

"He does look sad," Alexei said. "Like a dog when you take his toy away."

"What else do you think he could feel?"

"Angry," Alexei replied. "Remember what he used to do? But that doesn't happen anymore, so maybe that's gone."

"Lonely?" the other one suggested. "Do you feel lonely, Soldier?"

What?

"No."

"Ask him if he knows what it means first."

"He's not that much of an idiot, Alexei."

Great. So they considered him an idiot, but not a complete one.

"You know what it means? What it feels like?"

He thought he might, just not completely. He understood it was tied to being alone, but didn't quite grasp it as a feeling.

"No."

"So," the man said with a sigh. "It's like...you feel you have no one. Completely alone. No friendships. No relationships. Basically...you’re the embodiment of loneliness, actually."

His eyes shifted on the floor. So when he imagined living by the ocean, and thought about himself being completely alone, then felt something twist inside him, that was…loneliness?

Was he lonely?

But he had always been that way. He wasn't supposed to have anyone. He was just a weapon, and yet....the painful ache in his chest, the one he had felt earlier, was only growing sharper now.

"I’m not," he firmly said, his voice slightly trembling. "I don't feel like that. I’m not—" He breathed out, forcing the next words through. "I’m not like you."

"Oh, we know you're not," the man beside him said. "But you're lonely as hell, Soldier. And you’ll always remain like that. I almost feel sorry for you. But what can you do? It's your destiny, there's nothing you can do about it."

They fell quiet after that.

And until they arrived, he kept reminding himself that everything they said didn't matter. They just liked to confuse him.

He wasn't sad. He wasn't lonely.

He was a Soldier. He was a tool. He was a machine. He was an asset.

He was no one.

Still, until they touched the ground, he had to blink hard, again and again, clenching his left hand and biting the inside of his mouth. His eyes were burning again. And that always, always terrified him.

——————————————————

He's cold and panicking.

His body jerks, his lungs stuttering against the sudden pressure of air. He hears voices, too many of them, and is only able to see outlines and shapes moving around him.

He knows this cold. He knows what it feels like to wake up from it. He dreams of it constantly, because his dreams of what Hydra did to him were either a burning fire of pain and electricity, or ice freezing cold that crawls up his spine and forces him awake.

He doesn't understand. This isn't supposed to be happening to him anymore. He is James Bucky Barnes now. He is James and he—

Anna.

He tries to drag in any air inside his lungs but fails.

"Hey," a gentle voice says. A voice he knows. A voice he trusts. "You're awake. You're okay. Stop trying to move. Just breathe with me, okay?"

It's the doctor. Rebecca.

He tries to breathe with her, but it's too damn hard. His breath staggers. And why are there so many people around him? There's a nurse, techs, guards—all too close to him.

"Okay, everyone, can you take a step back, please?" Dr. Rebecca says, her voice loud. "He's calming down, so give him room to breathe. Go and find something else to do. All of you."

There is a beat of hesitation, and then they all finally step away.

She moves into his line of sight, hands warm on his right upper arm. "Breathe now," she murmurs. "I’m sorry. They shouldn't have had this many people in here."

He gets a few breaths down, then finally asks, "Anna?"

"Anna?" she asks, confused. "That's the woman you're with, right? The one they brought in with you?"

He nods.

She looks at him with concern and sympathy at the same time. "Anna left long ago, remember? She's safe and far away from here."

He closes his eyes.

And it all gradually comes back to him.

"You remember, right?" she asks, her voice worried.

"Yeah," he breathes.

She sighs, leaning back. "I know nothing about cryosleep. They just had a feeling you'll panic when you wake up and thought I should be here when you do, in case something happens. They said you weren't doing well before they put you in cryo, too," she explains. "I've been reading those reports you got from that doctor—I forgot his name, along with some old ones they provided me with. So I’m trying to learn more."

"Dr. Anderson," he says, his voice hoarse and shaky from the cold.

The name sends a shiver down his spine, reminding him of everything he did before they froze him.

She studies him. "Are you in pain? Dizzy?"

"How long has it been?" he manages to ask.

"Twelve days. You're going to your therapist tomorrow," she replies. "How the hell do you manage that by the way?"

He's been with Hydra for almost forty days now, he realizes.

He shifts upright on the chair. "I don't exactly have a choice in the matter."

"I know, but....she hasn't suspected anything?"

He clears his throat. "I wouldn't be here if she did."

She nods. "I'll send the nurse for your IV," she tells him. "Do you need anything? Maybe a few minutes alone before I get them back inside?"

"Just a minute," he murmurs, closing his eyes. "Thank you."

She gives him a small smile before she leaves. "Of course."

After they are done with him, they finally leave him alone in his room—which is more like a cell, really. He changes into the clothes they provided him with, throwing away the damp clothing he was wearing.

He lies down on the mattress, feeling foggy and bone-deep tired. At least they are leaving him to just rest today, so there's that.

The detachment he tried to cling to before cryo is now gone. He remembers the cold. He remembers what he did. All of it. And there are so many things he's feeling at the moment, he doesn't even know what to process first. But there's something distinctively painful. A hollowness that cracked open inside him, leaving a void that feels like it can swallow him. It's not guilt. He knows that one too well. It's not just emptiness either. This is something else. 

His hand moves to his chest as he forces a small breath out. His chest has hurt and ached for all sorts of reasons since he’s been back with Hydra, but this is a hollow ache—so hollow it feels like if he took his hand away from his chest he might not be able to breathe at all. It's similar to the cold he felt before they put him in cryo, but deeper, seeping through his bones, and it feels like nothing will ever be enough to make him warm again.

His eyebrows furrow as he presses his hand harder against his chest.

What is wrong with him?

The door opens and someone steps inside. He blinks, suddenly aware that his eyes are glistening, then moves his head to the side to see who it is.

"Welcome back, Barnes," Rumlow greets him.

He rests his head back on the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He doesn't move. Rumlow only ever told him to get on his knees when he entered during punishments, not at usual times.

"Feeling better?" he asks.

"Yeah," he replies.

"I know there's no rule for that, but you could at least sit properly when I’m talking to you. Let me see your face."

He sighs and pushes himself upright, sitting by the edge of the mattress.

"What was wrong with you before they put you in cryo?" he asks, leaning against the wall.

"I don't know," he replies, his voice exhausted. "I’m fine now."

"You still look like shit."

"Sorry about that," he murmurs, even though that wasn't a question.

"We'll let you shave before you see your therapist tomorrow. Maybe that'll make you look better. Your hair, though? I’m thinking we should keep it like that...let it grow more. What do you think?"

"Whatever you want."

"Great," he sighs. "Anyway, you’ve a quick mission tomorrow after your therapy session, I'll give you the details before you head out, but it's pretty simple," he says. "You won't, unfortunately, be put in cryo when you come back. You'll have another mission the day after tomorrow."

He pushes himself away from the wall and paces around the room. "We'll have another mission. There's some S.H.I.E.L.D property that was taken by the government after everything fell apart. Tech, weapons, and files. It's all locked in a secure warehouse—though not everything, of course. There’s still some stuff we’re unable to locate, but we’ve finally got a verified location for some of the things they took."

He stops in front of Bucky. "This is the first time we send a large part of the team back out there since, well... you know. So the team is rusty, nervous, and honestly? A pain in my ass. We need a win here, so everyone can remember how to act again. "

"And for that, I’m relying on you. We'll go through the plan in detail beforehand, but I wanted to speak to you alone first before we meet with the team. We’ve a solid plan, and we’ve gone through every small detail, but I need you sharp, Barnes. I need you clearing the path, watching their backs, and keeping them alive. We can’t, under any circumstances, lose anyone, and you’re the only one I can depend on for that.”

He breathes out, his gaze fixed on him. “You’re not gonna let me down, are you?"

"No," he replies.

"Good," Rumlow mutters. "That's what I wanted to hear," he says, walking towards the door. "Rest today as much as you can. You’ve two busy upcoming days."

He stops before walking outside. "Oh, and Barnes?"

"Yes?”

"Try not to fall apart again after your missions."

—————

He can't meet Dr. Raynor's eyes. It feels like something sharp gets snapped inside him whenever he does. 

He knows he should do anything to get this over with and not make her suspect anything, but he can't, especially today. This is too much. This is beyond anything he thought he could tolerate.

He would rather go through the three phases punishment than sit through this.

"You're still thinking about what you asked me last time?" she asks.

"What?" he replies without thinking.

"You wanted to remember something."

He moves his eyes to the ground, traces the tiles, counts them—anything instead of looking at her. "Yeah," he says. "I don't think I’ll remember."

"And you're fine with that?"

He forces himself to swallow. To not allow his breath to stop in his throat. "No, I'm not," he replies. "I know it may seem stupid, because they did a lot of terrible things, but I still—I feel like I should know." 

"It's not stupid. It's far from stupid, James. It has to be unsettling to realize that there are gaps like this in a certain memory," she tells him. "Is there...something in particular you think they could've done?" 

He moves his eyes to his hand, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket. "Something like what?"

"I’m asking you. Are you worried because you think there's something they might've done that day?"

He almost smiles. If this conversation was happening before he was back with Hydra, he would have been so angry at her. He knows she is expecting it, he can sense the careful way she’s asking her questions. He knows she’s watching him carefully, keeping an eye on each reaction of his.

He doesn't feel any anger at her now, however. He doesn't feel anything except an overwhelming guilt for being a liar and a fraud. 

"I…don’t know," he replies after a couple of seconds. His voice low and very quiet.

"Yes, you do."

If this was also before, he probably would have stormed outside by now.

But this is not before. Not anymore.

"Does it matter?" he asks her. "They could've done anything anyway."

"Of course it does."

"No, I don't think so," he honestly tells her. "I was theirs, doc. They are—" he can't stop his breath from catching this time. He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. "Uh—they were free to do with me whatever they wanted. It could’ve been anything."

"Like what?"

"Anything."

He almost feels like she wants him to say it.

And he is thinking that maybe he should. Maybe he can use that as something that has been troubling him a lot lately, and that would make her satisfied that he has finally opened up about his past, and she wouldn't suspect that something is horribly wrong—wouldn't suspect that he is their assassin again. 

He just doesn't trust himself to hold it together.

"You haven't looked at me once since you've arrived," she comments. "What's wrong with you, James?"

He can almost hear Rumlow's questions ringing in his ear. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He presses his metal fingers around his right hand as hard as he possibly can. "Nothing."

"Okay," she breathes out. "Can you look at me?"

His pulse starts climbing, but he reluctantly moves his eyes to hers, his jaw clenched. 

"There's been something happening for a while now and I'm starting to get worried. Is it related to what we've been discussing?"

"There's nothing happening. Maybe, I've just been—"

"Oh, cut the crap, James," she cuts him off. "I've known you for a while now. You think I wouldn't know when something's wrong? You look like you're one step away from a breakdown."

He starts bouncing his leg. At the moment, he hates her questions as much as he hates Rumlow's, only hers are worse. With Rumlow, he knows the punishment waiting for him is just the shock of the collar. Here, his punishment is her unyielding stare and determination to get anything out of him, and he can't deal with that right now.

"Well? Are you going to say anything?"

He shifts his eyes to the side of the room, glancing at anything that can grab his attention. "What do you want me to say?"

"James," she says in a very serious tone this time. "When you asked me to postpone our session to go to Louisiana with Sam and Anna, did you actually go there?"

Fuck.  

"Yes," he quickly replies. "Why would you think I didn't go?"

"Maybe because this is the only time you ever went there with Sam and came back in the state you're currently in."

His heart is about to start racing. He looks at her, nervous. "That's unrelated."

"Fine. So tell me what's wrong."

"I don't have to tell you everything."

"And we both know that I'm okay with that, because you rarely say anything. I'm just asking you to share with me what's been troubling you. I can help you." 

"You can't help me," the words slip out before he can stop himself.

She exhales slowly, looking like she's almost on edge herself, but her voice remains calm. "James, I don't want to upset you, but I think it might be better if we meet every week instead of two. At least for now."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He opens his hand in frustration. "What? Is that some kind of...punishment because I didn't talk?"

"No, of course not," she quickly says. "I'm truly worried about you, and if I've enough grounds to make me do that, then I'll do it. It might be better if we change the frequency of the sessions, only for a brief—"

"I said—" his throat closes. "I said I'm...fine."

"Hey, James, calm down..."

"There's nothing—" but he can't control his breathing anymore, "nothing wrong. I..."

He's fucking this up. He's fucking it up like he fucked up everything else. If she forces him to come every week, then they're going to make it hell for him. They're going to torture Anna.

"James, I didn't say I'll throw you in jail. I didn't realize our sessions were such a heavy—"

His chest seizes, and he starts gasping for air.

He should breathe and calm down and try to convince her of anything. And damn it, he should have just told her about the three phases punishment. He should have told her anything to make her get off him, but he is gasping for air now, and it's too late for that. 

He's never had a panic attack with Dr. Raynor before.

She gets up and sits on the couch. "James, look at me."

He doesn't want to look at her. All he sees is blood and three dead bodies when he looks into her eyes.

He drops his head forward, leaning over his knees, his arms clamped around his head. His breaths are loud and hoarse and shaking, and knowing he’s only making things worse makes his heart race harder. 

"James. It's fine," she gently says, placing her hand on his back. "Just count and breathe as you usually do."

He can't even think about doing that. His breath is still coming in heavy, shallow gulps.

"How about this....I'll count and you breathe with me, alright?" 

She gives him a moment, then starts.

"One." 

He forces himself to breathe.

"Two." 

He holds it, then lets it out too quickly. 

"Three."

It comes out as a sharp, painful exhale, but it’s still a breath.

"Four." 

Again. He does it again and again. He follows her voice until they reach ten. Until he's not gasping anymore.

After giving himself a few more minutes to breathe, he slowly raises his head. His right hand is trembling badly, so he places it in the pocket of his jacket. His chest is still heaving, but he can breathe now, at least.

He keeps his gaze in front of him, fixed on her empty chair.

"James..."

"Can I go?" he asks, his voice low and worn out. He knows he won't be able to remain seated here a minute longer.

"Can we talk first?"

"Please let me leave," he tells her. "I'll...talk next time."

"I’m worried, James," she says. "Where are you going to go if you leave?

He runs his hand over his face. "I’ll be with Anna. I won't be alone. It's fine."

"Fine," she says after a moment. "You can go."

He pushes his trembling body to stand, trying to avoid looking at her as he goes.

Before he pushes the door open, he asks her, without turning around, "This every week thing?"

"We'll talk about that next time."

He steps outside without saying anything else.

————

They leave him to finish his mission after his session with Dr. Raynor, which he tries so hard not to think about and shoves to the back of his mind in order to focus on what he has to do.

The target is in New York on a brief political trip, a governmental official Hydra used to work with.

There's no tactical suit tonight, only normal clothes. He moves through the hotel quietly, like a shadow, muscle memory taking over. The lock on the hotel room is nothing. It takes a few, swift movements using his metal arm, and then it yields. And God, he hates how automatic this feels. How easily his body slips back into all this. Within a few seconds, the man barely has time to register what's happening before his metal hand is around his throat. Hydra wanted it clean. So no gun and no mess. 

The entire mission takes less than thirty minutes. He finishes earlier than expected. Nothing else is required of him beyond neutralizing the target, and Rumlow had said they will handle the security cameras.

He gets on the motorcycle and starts driving towards the meeting point. He forces himself to breathe as the cold air whips across his face, shoving away any thoughts about everything that happened today and everything he did. 

And then, Bucky realizes that he still has some scraps of free will left.

There were so many things he wished he could do as the Winter Soldier, but was never able to bring himself to do any of them because his mind couldn't bring him to do anything that could be considered disobedience or defiance. He was terrified even of the thoughts in his head. But he remembers now, more vividly than ever, how he always wished to stop by the ocean when he was on his own.

He is not the Winter Soldier now, however.

So today, Bucky stops by the cliff.

Maybe he does it just to remind himself that he is still James Bucky Barnes—whatever left of him anyway. Maybe it is to remind himself that they didn't control his mind. That they didn't control him to that extent. His thoughts are his. His mind is his. 

He slips his hand inside his pockets, closes his eyes, and inhales. He draws in the deepest breath that he can manage inside his lungs, pulling in the salt of the sea and the cold air.

And it's only now, standing here completely alone, that Bucky realizes that the haunting hollowness that feels like it's going to devour him is loneliness.

Bucky is feeling more lonely than he ever had all his life—well, in his life as James Bucky Barnes anyway, because he must have felt lonely when he was the Winter Soldier, too. But if it took him a while to figure it out now, then he definitely wouldn't have understood it back then.

He always had Steve, before Hydra and everything that happened to him. He knows he must have tasted loneliness somehow when he was on the run, but his mind was too fractured back then and he was too consumed by survival to feel anything like this.

He had also felt empty and alone when he got back from Wakanda, because it felt impossible to make anyone understand what was happening to him, but Steve's presence was always a constant, grounding warmth in the midst of all the chaos in his head.

Now, the difference is, he had it all. He had his friends and he had Anna. He was never alone this past year. He was always surrounded by people he loved. And once again, it all got taken away from him. Bucky is alone. Utterly alone. In an unescapable hell that might ruin him forever. 

It shouldn't be unfamiliar, and it certainly shouldn't hurt like this, because he's been alone almost all his life, but this feels different. This is an ache he's never experienced before. It feels like someone threw him into a  bottomless pit and left him to sink alone.

He suddenly remembers a quinjet, two Russian men, a tiny window that made him able to breathe, and words that he is only now remembering. 

"You're the embodiment of loneliness, actually."

He swallows hard, trying to keep his chest from tightening even more.

He tries to think that this might end one day. It will have to end at some point. The device inside Anna can't possibly remain inside her forever, they will have to figure out something eventually. But the thoughts of the future do nothing to make him feel better. He can't see himself slipping back to the life he once knew. He can't imagine any normalcy after this, and he definitely can't imagine himself being with Anna again. 

He tries not to think of anything at all, but it's impossible with his mind these days. 

Still, he forces himself to just focus on the sea stretching out beneath him, the breeze, the calming silence and stillness of the night.

The ocean, he tells himself as he draws in a long breath. Just focus on the ocean and nothing else.

Tomorrow, Bucky will think about this moment. He will remember that, of all things tearing his life apart, he stood here thinking about how lonely he felt. He will remember the brief taste of fresh air, because tomorrow he will desperately long and pray for any air at all.

He will remember how he stupidly thought he had any traces of free will left, and he will cry until his body gives out.

Chapter Text

"How was it?" he asked Steve, noticing how drained he looked.

"A failure," Steve replied, pouring himself some coffee. "The intel they had was wrong."

“That’s why you look like shit?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Steve said, sighing.

“Sam was with you?"

"No, just Nat and me," he replied, walking over to the couch. "We're gonna hit another spot next week. Do you want to join us?"

"Sure, let's make Dr. Raynor lose her mind," Bucky told him. "She said at least one year off, subject to her assessment."

“And since when do you follow her orders?"

"Hey, I do follow her orders and instructions," he defensively said, then added with a small grin, “sometimes." 

“Almost never, you mean,” Steve said. “But you seem fine with it….most of the time at least."

“With what? Following Dr. Raynor’s orders or not getting back out there?”

“Not getting back out there.”

Bucky breathed out. "Yeah, it depends on the day, I guess. Sometimes I know it's the right thing. I deserve a break after all these years."

"And other times?"

"Other times the quiet messes with me," he admitted. "I’m not used to it. Makes me restless."

However, Dr. Raynor had told him he needed to get used to it. He had to learn how to sit with himself, his mind and thoughts, without a constant noise to keep himself distracted and shove everything down.

"But you know I’ve certain things in mind for the amends list. So I won't be completely off duty."

There was a grin on Steve's face. "Well, at least come and train with me, so you don't forget what you're good at." 

He snorted. "You know damn well that's not possible."

"You're too confident."

"No, I'm just too good."

"Oh, trust me, I know," he said. "Do you know I thought about that a lot? After I saw you again, the very first time."

"Thought about what?" Bucky asked, letting out a quiet laugh. "How good I am?"

"Yeah," Steve said. "Not right away, of course. At first, there was just...shock. And grief." He paused, the words settling between them before he went on. "Then my mind caught up that it was actually you. Last time I'd seen you, you were just a good sniper and..."

"I was a damn good sniper," he corrected him.

Steve held back his smile. "You were a damn good sniper," he repeated. "Better?"

"Better. You made it sound very lame."

"Punk," Steve muttered, shaking his head. "Anyway, I thought about how damn good you'd become, at everything, really. Every weapon, every move, every stance. You were relentless. Barely gave me a chance to breathe. All of us, actually. You were like..."

"A killing machine?"

Steve hesitated, like he was afraid he might cross a line. "Uh—"

"It's fine," he said, giving him a small smile to put him at ease. "I know what I was like. I remember it. If I had a mission, then there wasn't room for anything else in my mind. I was never going to stop before the mission was done. I wasn't allowed to mess up as well. And that," he stopped, letting out a breath, "required lots of training and punishments."

"But you told me you rarely ever made mistakes, why would they punish you?”

"Yeah,  but their idea of a mistake was a bit different. I almost never actually messed up, but do you know I didn't realize that? I was so fucking programmed that even when I escaped, it took me a while to realize that most of these failures or mistakes they kept throwing in my face were absolutely nothing."

"How come?"

He took a long breath. He usually avoided going this deep with Steve, because he hated putting that weight on him, but he also knew it mattered to him to listen and to understand. He knew he appreciated it when Bucky told him stuff like that. So he pushed himself to keep going.

"Sometimes, it was about efficiency," he told him. “The mission could be a success, everything completed exactly as ordered, but they'd still say it should've been faster. Cleaner. Fewer casualties. They wanted perfection, and eventually….they got it. I kept getting better over the years. Toward the last two decades... I barely fucked up at all, at least by their standards." He paused. "Other times, it wasn't even about me. It was their own failures, their bad intel, their mistakes. I'd still be punished, either to remind me that everything in the field was my responsibility, or because they were angry and needed someone to take it out on.”

Steve stayed quiet, listening.

"But it was always worse in the beginning. I hesitated sometimes before their orders. I always ended up doing it, but sometimes it wasn't instant. That got me into trouble a lot."

Steve looked like he was trying to hide the sadness that settled behind his eyes. "When you tell me things like that, it makes me think that you should never have to fight again. And not because of anything other than the fact that you deserve peace and calmness. At least for a while—a very long while. As much as I'd love to have you by my side, wherever I go."

"I know," he softly said. "But other than fighting, what else do I know?"

——————————————————

They head out before midnight. The warehouse is only a one-hour drive away from the base.

The plan starts with him taking out the two men by the entrance door, and another operative from the team will be responsible for sneaking from behind the building, slipping through the security room, and taking control there. After he has it under control, they are supposed to enter the warehouse. The focus is all about eliminating everyone there as quickly as possible before any outside contact is made.

Their own team consists of eight individuals, the only two people he knows are Rumlow and Darren. He barely recognizes the rest, and some he can’t recall at all.

Rumlow had told them that there might be fifteen to twenty people, some of them armed and some aren't, and Bucky hopes it's fewer. There will be far too many losses, and he doesn't want to think about how many he will be responsible for.

When they arrive, it takes him two minutes to take down the guards by the door. He grabs the first one from behind, locking his metal arm around the man's neck. The guard claws at him, his boots scraping against the ground. The second guard lunges toward them, but Bucky kicks out with his right leg and sends him stumbling.

The man in his grip goes limp, and Bucky lowers him quietly before turning to take down the second guard with a single, sharp punch to the face. He drops instantly, and Bucky snaps his neck before standing again.

He searches their pockets and finds the access card to the entrance. "I got it," he murmurs into the comm to Rumlow.

Once the operative inside confirms control of the security room, Rumlow and part of the team arrive. They take positions on either side of the entrance as Bucky swipes the card and slips inside first, the others following immediately behind him.

The warehouse is massive, bigger than what he imagined from Rumlow's description. Rows of metal crates stretch across the floor, stacked sometimes three high, and that's just the ground level. A metal walkway circles a second floor above them, lined with even more crates.

He takes cover behind a wall, glancing back to take in the full space. From here, the mezzanine floor is in clear view. Several men are still moving equipment toward crates, packing away stacks of tech. They must have pulled everything out of storage recently, and that sudden movement is most likely what allowed Hydra to pinpoint their location in the first place.

He turns his back to Rumlow, catching his eye and giving a quick signal that he's about to push forward. Rumlow returns a nod, and then Bucky moves. He takes down the first man before the guard even registers his presence, and the instant the body hits the ground, the warehouse erupts. Gunfire bursts through the space in ricocheting echoes, filling the air with noise he hasn't heard in a long while.

The rest of the team stays low, working through their assigned positions. Bucky drops the next man with a clean shot, clearing enough space for two of the operatives to push inside and take positions behind a stack of crates. Fire rains from the upper level, and that pushes half the team to begin shifting upward.

He moves through the team, keeping his eyes on everything around him. He spots a guard about to ambush one of the operatives and hooks an arm around the man’s shoulder, yanking him back and slamming him to the floor just long enough for the operative to finish the job. He doesn't pause, he keeps moving until he finds Rumlow inspecting one of the opened crates.

"I'm going up," he tells him.

"Yeah, go ahead," Rumlow says without looking up.

He takes the stairs slowly. The sounds of fighting echo around him, but he has no idea how many of their own have made it to the upper level, or how many of the others are still standing. When he reaches the top, he flattens himself behind a wall, waiting for a moment when the noise quiets enough for him to peer out.

When he looks, he finds Darren on the ground getting strangled by someone. He tries to kick and thrash, his hand clawing desperately at the arm choking him. Bucky glances to the side and finds another operative from their side lying slumped nearby, bleeding from his leg.

And he freezes.

His throat tightens. He knows exactly what he should do right now, especially since Rumlow knows he is up here, but he can't do anything. His body refuses to move. Darren's eyes lock into his while he's getting choked, wide and frantic, begging for help.

But this man haunts his nightmares in a way worse than any of them, even Rumlow. He has carved new fears inside him. Fears that never existed before. So he wants to let it happen. He wants him to choke, to go away like this—gasping, terrified, and panicked, just like he made him feel.

But then there's Anna.

And there's the revenge that he needs—desperately needs with every broken part of him. And this way out is not it. It is not enough. This is a damn quick escape and Bucky knows Darren doesn't deserve that.

He finally moves, catching the attacker by the back of his shirt, wrenching him away with his metal arm, and throwing him hard against the ground. Darren drops forward, hitting the floor as he coughs and gasps for air. Bucky gives him the briefest glance to confirm he's fine, but that moment is all the attacker needs to lunge at Bucky, pushing him to the ground.

They crash to the floor. Bucky twists, trying to steady himself, but before he can gain control, a gunshot cracks through the air. Darren.

The man on top of him jerks, then collapses limp across Bucky's chest. Bucky exhales and shoves him aside, pushing himself upright.

He barely gets to his feet before Darren grabs the front of his jacket and slams him backward into the wall.

"Why the fuck did it take you so long?"  he snarls at him.

"It didn't take me—" 

"What's going on?" Rumlow asks from behind.

He lets go of him and turns to Rumlow. "Your fucking pet saw me getting strangled and hesitated to help me. He just kept watching."

Bucky takes his mask off and exhales. God, he hates that damn thing.

”It only took a few seconds," he tries to argue, though he knows any arguing won't help him at the moment. "He's fine."

Darren turns again and punches him in the face. 

"Hey!" Rumlow snaps. "There's no time for this here. We'll deal with that when we're back. We need to clear out the place as soon as possible."

"Fine," Darren mutters, moving away from them.

Rumlow approaches Bucky, a look of disappointment etched across his face. "You were doing so well," he tells him. "Why did you have to fuck it up?"

Bucky doesn't answer. He turns and heads back down the stairs before he says something he's going to regret. He's already going to regret so much now as it is.

————

When they arrive at the base, they don't take him to the room where the chair is, they don't hose him down, and they don't prep him for cryo. 

Instead, they lead him to the room meant for his punishment.

"Wait inside," the guard says, pushing the door open.

He steps inside, and the door closes behind him. The room is cold, and the chains hanging and stacked by the side make his stomach tighten.  He glances at the panel glass, wondering if anyone's watching. They are probably thinking about how nervous he is, but he is just nervous and worried about Anna. He hopes they would only take it out on him, even though he knows Rumlow had told him that Anna would get shocked if he fucks up, but technically, he didn't fuck up. He ended up saving Darren and the mission was a success, but he knows he's only saying this to himself as an attempt to not panic about what's going to happen.

He sighs and sinks to the floor.

He doesn't know how long they leave him. After some time, sleep starts to tempt him, exhaustion pulls at his eyelids, but every time they start to close, his heart leaps as panic floods him. The dread coils tighter in his stomach with each hour that passes, his body stiff and nervous, waiting for a punishment he cannot predict.

After what feels like a few hours, the door opens and two people step inside. He brings his head down from the wall, blinking as he tries to wake himself up and focus. He doesn't glance up, only moves to sit with his knees folded beneath him at the centre of the room, like he usually did before.

He tries to breathe. Tries to convince himself that he didn't fuck up that badly. That they won't torture Anna.

"It looks like Rumlow trained you well."

No.

Fuck.

He looks up without meeting his eyes, but Rumlow doesn't even seem to be in the room. Only one guard and him.

Darren. 

He hates how his heart immediately starts racing. He hates how he's now curling both his hands and opening them. And he fucking hates that his punishment is going to be left to this man.

"But still not well enough," he says, walking around the room. It is only now that Bucky realizes he's holding an actual whip in his hands.

Fucking great.

"You hesitated, you piece of shit. You left him to strangle me and stood there watching, didn't you?"

Bucky clenches his jaw. "All I remember is that I saved your—" he stops himself before saying something that would make everything worse for him. "Saved you."

He approaches him, then backhands him sharply across the face. "And how long did that take you?"

"I don't know."

"I was choking," he says. "So it was for quite some time, wasn't it? I fucking saw you standing behind us."

"I don't know," he repeats.

"Well, we have to make sure that doesn't happen again, because that undermines our trust in you. And we can't use you if we can't trust you, can we?" He doesn't wait for an answer like Rumlow usually does. "And I promise you, by the end of this? You'll never hesitate again."

"This is for you by the way," he says, holding the whip loosely. "Whatever Rumlow used won't work for me, if I’m being honest with you, and I don't need to warm you up with the knife beforehand with this."

This man is like Kaprov all over again. They both share the same twisted satisfaction and enjoyment they draw from torment.

On the bright side, he hasn't mentioned doing anything to Anna yet, so hopefully she won't be included in any of this, and if she isn't included, then he can take whatever comes next.

How the hell did Dr. Rebecca marry this guy?

"Well, go ahead. Do you need me to say it? Take off your jacket."

Bucky obeys, taking it off and placing it by the side.

"Now," he says, letting out a breath. He walks towards Bucky again, stopping in front of him. "We're going to work on your fears today. Unfortunately for you, everyone here knows what scares you and makes you nervous. Fortunately for us, we'll use that to discipline you today."

Darren takes another step towards him, then leans on his knees, his face so close to him. "Do you remember how you kept begging me to allow you to reset your arm? How you couldn't breathe and kept crawling away from me?"

Bucky swallows hard, trying to keep the air from catching in his throat.

"Answer me," he demands, his voice low, face still inches away from his.

"Y-yes," Bucky stammers, feeling frightened of where this conversation will go.

He leans back. "Good," he murmurs. "Now hand over your left arm."

His stomach drops. "What?"

"What? Are you fucking deaf?" he asks, sarcasm lacing his voice.

"No," he finds himself saying, his gaze flicking briefly towards him. "No, Rumlow said—"

Darren throws his fist in his face, splitting his lips open. "Did you just say no to me?"

He clenches his teeth, forcing a controlled breath in and out before trying again.  "Rumlow said it will be taken if I use it to cause disturbance here. He didn't say—"

"Rumlow is watching, you idiot," he tells him, tilting his chin towards panel glass.

Of course he is.

This can't be happening. He doesn't want to give it to them, even if he will still have his right hand. Surrendering his left arm in a Hydra base, and to this man of all people, twists his stomach with terror.

He wants to fight to keep it, but he knows they have decided among themselves long ago. If he fights, they will use the device on Anna.

"Your metal arm. Now."

He takes a deep breath, though it doesn't do anything to ease the tightness in his chest, and detaches his left arm, extending it over to Darren. He takes it without a word and moves to place it away.

Darren stops behind him, and Bucky feels him so close to him. His hands are around his neck, clasping the shock collar around it. He closes his eyes, forcing himself not to shudder.

"Go ahead," Darren says to the guard, who moves toward Bucky at Darren's order.

Bucky realizes it's Luke when he glances up.

He hears the scrape of metal first, the sound of a chain being lifted, and then Luke is behind him, locking it into the collar. "Your arm," he says to Bucky.

"What?" Bucky asks, lost and unfocused.

"Put your hand behind your back," he demands.

Fuck. He thought, stupidly, that they were going to leave it unrestrained.

His heart is racing as he obeys, bringing his arm back. From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the restraint Luke is holding. It's similar to the magnetic cuffs they have used on him before, only this one is designed for a single wrist.

He hates how utterly vulnerable he feels at the moment.

He swallows, trying not to panic. He tells himself he can try and break out of it if he wants. He is not alone with this man this time. Luke is here. Rumlow is watching—and he can't fucking believe he's using that as something to help him calm down. 

He is not naked. He is not bleeding and barely breathing. He hasn't been fucked and assaulted.

He is fine. He will be fine.

Luke tugs the chain at his neck from behind, pulling it as he secures it to the cuff around Bucky's wrist.

"If you try to break out of the chains, I will shock your girlfriend until I get bored," Darren calmly says.

The air feels thin in his lungs. His balance is already off, his body pitched forward by the way they've restrained him, and they haven't even started yet.

Darren pulls a thin piece of cloth from his pocket. "This is because I want the noises you're going to make muffled," he says. "And I know how much you like to whine and beg."

He puts it in front of his mouth, but Bucky keeps it tightly pressed. "Open your mouth."

His muscles are not working, unable to obey the orders he is taking. Something about all of this happening from this man makes it worse than having it happen from Rumlow.

"I can force it open, if you want," he tells him.

Bucky swallows hard, then slowly unclenches his jaw and opens his mouth just enough. Darren doesn't wait. He shoves the cloth inside, wraps it around his face, and secures it behind his head, not tight enough to fully silence him, but tight enough to make every swallow difficult, and every breath a struggle.

"You'll still be able to talk, because you'll be required to, actually."

He moves and drags the chair at the back in front of Bucky. Placing it a couple of steps away from him, and sits down.

"Go ahead, start," he tells Luke, leaning back on the chair and crossing his arms.

Luke moves to get the whip, and Bucky feels bad for him. He knows he doesn't want to do this.

He closes his eyes, inhales and exhales, and prepares his body. 

The crack of the whip splits the air with brutal force, violent enough that his entire body pitches forward, his balance immediately wrecked without his left arm and with his right restrained behind him. The blow lands between his shoulder blades, the pain sharp and blinding. He locks his jaw as he forces himself upright again, swallowing the sound that wants to tear out of him.

"Start counting," Darren orders.

No. God, no.

He would do anything instead of counting for this man. He would take every strike in silence, let Darren tear him open until he couldn't stand or breathe, if it meant not giving him this.

He can't give him this. He can't.

"I said count," he orders again.

How is he even supposed to speak around the cloth in his mouth?

Luke snaps the whip again and it lands off to his side. Bucky stiffens, his jaw clamped hard on the fabric to keep any noise from coming out of him.

"Count," he repeats.

He tries to bring his mouth to move, but he can't. All he sees is himself, getting violated in every way. Naked, crawling, bleeding, breathless, begging him to allow him to reset his arm.

The whip falls on his back again, and he feels the skin tearing open, warm blood sliding down his spine.

"The controller for your girlfriend's device is right here," he says, bringing it out of his pocket. "So I'd start counting now, if I were you."

He drops his head, dread sinking into him. He wants to resist. He wants to stubbornly refuse to utter a single word no matter what they do to him. He doesn't want to satisfy him.

But he forgets, sometimes, that he doesn't get to choose anymore.

"One," he forces out at last, the word mangled around the gag.

"I didn't hear you."

Luke strikes again, hitting the centre of his back.

"One," he repeats, louder this time. 

He realizes now that this is why he gagged him. Making him count isn't enough for him, he wants the act to feel even more demeaning than it already is.

"Go on," Darren tells Luke.

He hits again, and this one slams into the back of his arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, drawing in a broken breath. "Two."

The next hit comes lower, almost like Luke is deliberately avoiding hitting his arm again.

"Three," his voice cracks, the world muffled and dissolving behind the wet gag.

Again. The same side. His body jerks involuntarily.

"F-four," he stammers, the word barely making any sense this time.

The fifth hit doesn't come, the shock does. His body gives out and he collapses forward as the collar floods him with electricity. His breath is trapped behind the gag, and he can't breathe at all. When it finally stops, he's gasping, swallowing against the cloth, and trying to force air into his chest.

Luke grabs the chain around his neck and hauls him back up. His legs buckle and stumble under him, refusing to work.

"Sit properly," Luke tells him.

He tries, breathing loudly through the gag, his whole body shaking. He doesn't know if he did something wrong or if Darren's just having fun.

As soon as he's upright again, the next strike lands, knocking the breath out of him completely.

"Why are you not counting?" Darren asks.

What? Where did they even stop?

Darren leans forward. "Do you remember where you stopped?"

A hoarse gasp rips out of him as he tries to think and remember, but he can still barely breathe and his head feels swollen with too much pressure and pain.

"Hey," Darren says. "Look."

He glances up and finds him holding the controller of the device inside Anna. He's holding it for Bucky to watch.

He presses on it. 

"No.." he says, panicking. "No...no. Stop..." the words tumble out of him, incoherent and frantic. 

He sees Anna's heartbeat spiking up on the screen and panic tears through his chest, worse than the shock. "I'll...count. I'll count..." he keeps repeating, though he's barely making any sense at all. "P-please."

He stops it after ten seconds, then grabs the gag from behind Bucky's head, yanking him forward, bringing his face so close to his. Bucky's breath catches, strangled by the cloth, the pain, and the terror.

"That's why I said I didn't want to hear the noises you're going to make," he tells him, his grip tight on the cloth and his face so close to Bucky's. "Focus on your counting. Every time you fail to remember where you stopped, she pays for it. Do you understand?"

He nods, too quickly, terrified of him shocking her again.

"Start over," he orders Luke, pushing Bucky away.

He exhales, his chest rising and falling too fast.

"Let's see how long it's going to take us to reach fifty."

Luke swings again, hitting him near the space where Bucky's left arm used to be.

"One," he breathes out, feeling his pulse in his throat.

"Harder, man. He can handle it."

The next hit knocks him forward.

"Two," he quickly says, gasping, then tries to drag himself upright. Luke yanks him back halfway through his try.

"Quicker, too."

Luke obeys. The next strike lands before Bucky even fully braces himself for it. He hadn't clenched his hand in time, so terrible pain explodes in his palm, but only a muffled breath escapes him. "Three."

He clenches his fist hard now, feeling the blood dripping from where the whip sliced him.

Luke goes lower, catching only the edge of his hand.

"Four," he grits out.

Again, he keeps it at his lower back, and Bucky tries to focus on remembering the numbers, just in case the shock comes out of nowhere.

"Five."

His chest is painfully constricting and seizing like there's a full-blown panic attack trapped inside him. He keeps trying to brace himself for either the next strike or the burn of the electricity that will inevitably come, but the anticipation alone is torture.

And then there's the touchpad device sitting on Darren's lap, the device that has more control over him than anything else. It forces him to stay sharp and alert in the midst of all his anxiety and pain.

"I said harder."

He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing himself, but it doesn't help when the strike comes. His knees buckle and he collapses, slamming into the floor. His mouth opens against the cloth to count, but only a cracked gasp slips through.

Still, somehow, he forces the number out. "S-six," he whispers.

Luke doesn't force him up, because the shock starts again. A brutal wave of pain that tears through every nerve. His body shakes violently on the floor as his throat seizes around a scream he can't even push. He doesn't know how long it goes on for, but it's definitely not just a couple of seconds like Rumlow usually uses it, and it feels like every nerve has gone far past breaking, like his body can't contain this any longer without something in his body giving out completely.

Then it finally stops. 

He crumples, breathing loudly in broken bursts through the cloth. There are pathetic, raw, broken sounds slipping through him with every breath. He is unable to bite them back with his ragged breathing, and blood starts to trickle down the corner of his mouth, soaking into the gag.

He doesn't even understand how he's supposed to get up again, but they leave him for what feels like two or three minutes to breathe, then Luke moves towards him and pushes him up from the chain.

A muffled grunt tears out of his chest as the metal moves around the scorched skin of his throat. He blinks hard, trying to bring his eyes and mind to work, though everything is on fire.

Six, he reminds himself. He stopped at six.

The whip hits his upper back, and Bucky's clenching his right so hard he can feel the blood soaking it. "S-seven," he hoarsely whispers, and he's fairly sure the word made no sense coming out of his mouth. So he says it again, scared that Darren might use that as an opportunity to shock Anna. "Seven," he tries to say it clearly this time, though it barely makes any difference.

He hears Darren chuckling and sees him from the corner of his eye nodding in Luke's direction. He bites on the cloth in his mouth and clenches his injured hand even harder, bracing for the next hit.

The whip lands across an open slash on his back, and blinding pain shoots through him. No sound escapes him, only a strangled whimper trapped inside his throat.

"Eight," he forces out, teeth clenched against the gag, blood and saliva mingling as the words come through with effort.

The next hit snaps across his hand, breaking it open again, and he feels the warm blood dripping, coating his fingers. "N-nine."

After that, he is back on the floor once more, with terrible sounds escaping the gag in his mouth. He isn't aware of anything when it stops. All he knows is that he’s in sharp and relentless pain, especially along his back, and there's no air at all in his lungs.

Coughing violently, he chokes on the blood pooling in his mouth, his raw throat burning with each desperate breath. He feels a hand pressing against his face, lifting the cloth. He turns to the side and spits, then gasps for air. Seconds later, the gag is forced back between his teeth and secured in place. 

It's probably Luke, he thinks. Darren wouldn't have been silent while doing any of that.

He's being pushed up again, but his eyes still aren't working. His mind is on fire and his back is—the whip slams into him too fast, forcing him back down.

His body trembles violently, but he forces his mind to work. There is something that he should do after the hit, he reminds himself. He should do something.

What the hell is he supposed to do?

His mind isn't working. He can't bring himself to think.

Then he finally remembers. He remembers that he should count.

For Anna—he has to do it for her. But before he can bring himself to say anything or remember where he stopped, Darren's hand is on his hair, pushing him up while he remains seated.

He squeezes his eyes shut, wincing from the pain.

"Open your eyes," he orders him.

Bucky blinks, each blink sparks an awful burning in his head. He knows it's too late to count now. Darren forces his head down, making him watch as he presses on the damn thing. He watches Anna's heartbeat climb again, and feels his own painfully racing. He shuts his eyes, like that could stop him from hearing her screams in his head—the sound that still hasn't stopped haunting him.

"S-stop," he stutters, his voice breaking. "Please...please."

He opens his eyes, just to make sure it has stopped, and it has. He only kept it going for ten seconds. Her heartbeat starts slowing down, and he breathes, trying to get his own lungs and heart to work.

"How did you fuck up if you knew she was going to get shocked as a result of what you did? Huh?" Darren hisses in his face.

"I—I’m sorry," he hoarsely whispers, his voice scraped. "I’m sorry. Take it out....on me. Do—do what—whatever you want. But not....not her."

He wants to say more, to beg more, but the words are a struggle to push out of his mouth.

"I’m sorry, I didn't understand a single word you just said,” Darren tells him. "Did you understand what he's saying?"

After a moment, Luke says, "No."

Darren shoves him back, and he almost falls to his side, but Luke yanks on the chain, sending a fresh pain through his neck again. 

They don't stop. 

His body is now shaking so hard and every part of it is burning. His mind is a haze of agony, yet he forces himself to count. "Ten." 

He falls forward again from the whip, blinking through the pain. He doesn't even try to bring himself up, he waits for Luke to do it. "El—eleven," he harshly stutters. It feels like his heart might stop from how hard it is racing in terror.

Luke pushes him from the chain, and the pain around his neck ignites in burning agony. The whip strikes again, slashing him across his arm. "Twelve."

He feels the electricity coursing through him again. When it finally stops, he is unable to open his eyes, it feels like his mind could fracture if he does.

He has to get up, though. There is something he should—

"Open your eyes."

No. No.

Where the fuck did he stop? 

He blinks, breathing loudly. He can't see properly, only black spots fill his vision, but he knows Darren is in his face. He's holding the damn controller again.

He tries to beg, but whenever he tries to speak, only broken breaths come out of him. He shakes his head, frightened.

"In case you can't see. She's getting shocked at the moment. Her heartbeat's at one‑thirty‑four. No, wait, it’s climbing…one-forty.”

His eyes burn, tears spilling over despite him biting down hard. He's so tired of being helpless. He's tired of being trapped here. He's tired of it all. 

When Luke tries to force him upright, his knees give out immediately because his muscles won't stop twitching. So they leave him on the floor.

Luke reminds him where he stopped, but he barely gets two numbers out before the shock hits again. Then Anna gets shocked. Again and again. He is no longer aware of anything. Only that Anna is being tortured because of him, and that he can't do anything about it.

"Do you know how many times she got shocked so far?" Darren asks.

Bucky is barely holding himself together. He is shaking uncontrollably, blood smeared across the floor beneath him.

"Eight," he says. "The poor girl has to be screaming her lungs out at the moment."

Bucky tries to open his eyes. He bites down on the cloth as hard as he can, but it doesn't stop the tears from falling down his face. "Stop," he whispers, broken. "She won't...bear this.”

He grunts as the whip falls on his body again. He doesn't remember the number. He doesn't remember anything.

“Stop," he chokes on the cloth. There's no way he's going to be able to keep up. "Please...stop. I can't—"

Darren crouches in front of him. "Where did you stop?"

"I—" he starts, trembling. "I don't know," he desperately says.

Darren's hand moves towards the device. 

"Wait...wait!" he gasps. "Seven—seventeen?" he struggles to push the word out. All the numbers have gotten harder to say after ten.

He grips his jaw, and Bucky forces his eyes open. Darren is holding the screen in his face, and Anna is getting shocked once more.

"You—you're going to..." he tries to speak through the gag, but his voice keeps cracking. "To kill...her. Stop..."

"You will be the one who kills her," Darren says. "Not me."

He is unable to stay like this without doing anything anymore. He pushes against the chain around his neck, but agony shoots through his body, refusing to let him move. He uses his legs, trying to force himself up, only for Darren to kick him in his side. "What did I say about breaking out of the chains?"

He gasps against the cloth, a strangled, panicked sound, and still tries to move even though his body is refusing to cooperate. Darren drives his boot into his stomach again, knocking him back, then grabs his jaw, forcing him to be still.

"She got shocked nine times so far. Let's make it ten, shall we?" He lets go of his face, then presses on the touchpad once more.

The sound Bucky makes isn't a scream—it's an animalistic, helpless, torn cry tearing out of his chest until his breath collapses into uneven, loud breaths as his body shakes.

"You stopped at eighteen," Darren tells him. "Proceed."

Bucky forces himself to keep counting, but the numbers don't feel like proper numbers anymore, they scrape out of him in heavy and unsteady breaths.

By the time he reaches twenty-one, the world turns white again. His body jerks violently as the shock tears through him. Then, they hit him, then shock him again. And again. Each one lands before he even comprehends what's happening, before he can bring himself to count. His own voice doesn't even sound human anymore, just a slurred, fragmented mess of pain.

After that, everything blurs together. He can't track what's happening. All he knows is they keep shocking him. They keep shocking her. And he can't stop any of it.

At some point, Bucky opens his eyes and doesn't know what is happening. He doesn't know why he is here. He only knows that his body feels like it's breaking apart, and when he tries to move his hands, nothing moves.

He looks at his left side and doesn't find his metal arm. He tries to move his right hand, but it's chained behind him, and any tug sends blinding pain through his neck.

He blinks repeatedly, wincing with every small movement, and sees Darren sitting across from him, calm and patient, watching as though he's waiting for something.

And then, Bucky starts hyperventilating. He tries to command his legs to move, but they only tremble violently beneath him, betraying him. He doesn't understand why every single part and nerve of his body aches so unbearably or why there's blood coating his mouth. Nothing inside him feels like it will ever function properly again, like his body has become something so fragile and broken, barely holding together.

And Darren is still here, in front of him. 

This is one of his nightmares.

He can't breathe, the gag around his mouth is making his unsteady breathing worse. His breath catches on it, returning to his throat in broken gasps. His heart hammers so violently it feels like it might burst from his chest.

"Should I shock her for the fifteenth time?"

He chokes on another gasp. His lungs aren't filling with any oxygen.

"He's...confused. I don't think he's aware of what's happening."

He wants to get out of here. He wants his arm. He looks around frantically, like he might find it somewhere, but then a shadow of someone in front of him, striking him across his face so hard his head snaps sideways.

"What exactly are you searching for?"

His arm. His arm. His arm. 

Where the fuck is his arm?

He can't be left like this with this man again.

This can't happen again.

He pushes against the chain, but a sharp, searing pain shoots through his neck, making him wince as if it's being sliced open.

"You're trying to find your arm?" he asks, a smile in his voice. "We took it. You're not getting it anytime soon." 

He looks down at himself and finds that he has his pants on. He is not naked. That grounds him and makes him able to think, allowing him just enough space to bring some air into his collapsing lungs.

When he sees the touchpad device in Darren's hand, he eventually starts remembering. It doesn't start with the events of today, it begins with Anna. He remembers the device inside her. The understanding that he should do whatever they ask of him, no matter what.

He was going to shock her for the fifteenth time.

Fifteenth.

Anna.

God, Anna. 

She's been getting tortured this whole time.

He looks at him. "Don't—" but his voice snaps apart, and the sound that comes out isn't even a word.

His chest is still rising and falling rapidly, but he breathes out and clears his throat, though the gag in his mouth isn't helping.

Darren steps toward him and removes it, leaving it hanging below his chin.

"Don't do— do it..." the sentence breaks apart as his throat gives out mid-word, "again." Forcing the words from his mouth takes all his strength, it feels like he hurts his throat more with every word that comes out. "She—she won't...handle anymore...of this."

"Well, if you're going to beg," he says, pushing him up from the chain around his neck, and the sudden flare of pain makes his eyes burn, "then at least do it properly."

He stays on his knees, his body twitching and shaking uncontrollably, but he forces himself not to fall.

His voice is barely audible and broken. "Please..." he whispers. "Don't...shock her again." 

"That's not convincing. Lower your head."

He swallows hard, then does as he is told, because he would do anything at this point to stop this from happening again. He lowers his head, eyes fixed on the floor as his messy hair falls forward.

"Don't—don't hurt...her," he says, his voice quivering, the words shredding out of him. "I'm begging you."

Darren clicks his tongue. "Come on," he says, patronizing, almost bored. "You can do better than that."

He drops his head further, his breath shaking like he’s freezing. “Please,” he repeats. His voice desperate—so fucking desperate. “Do whatever you…want to me. Anything. I’ll take it. I’ll take all of it. Just not…not her. Not again.”

Darren exhales. "Alright, that's enough," he says. "Man, John should have been here to see this. Anyway, I’ll shock her one last time, just to make it an even fifteen. And then I’ll stop, and you..." he says, tilting his chin up. "You’ll thank me because I’ve stopped."

"No," he says, terrified, turning his gaze to him. "That's too...too much—"

He strikes him across his face. "Do you want to make it twenty instead?" he asks. "I want your agreement. You agree I shock her one last time, and that you'll thank me afterwards because I've stopped. So what's it going to be?"

He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight as he tries so hard not to let the sob stuck in his throat break out of him, but his tears betray him and fall down his face. "O-okay," he whispers, the word barely there. He gives in, breaks open, and hears himself agreeing to let him hurt her. "Okay."

Darren moves closer and brings the gag up in his mouth. "That's because you argued," he tells him, then presses firmly on the back of Bucky's skull, forcing his head down towards the device. "Now, here we go...one last time. Open your eyes."

He sees her heartbeat spiking up again. He hears her screams in his head again. And everything inside him breaks and shatters and tears apart again and again—non-stop, until it feels like there's nothing left of him at all.

When it stops, Darren keeps standing in front of him. "I'm waiting."

"Thank you," he hoarsely says, the gag muffling the words, "for...stopping."

"Well done," Darren says, ruffling his hair. "Now, we stopped where exactly? Thirty? We gotta continue to fifty."

Since Bucky can no longer hold himself upright, they drag the chain connecting his neck and cuffed hand to the wall, locking it in place and forcing him to stay on his knees. His head drops forward, eyes closed as Luke resumes. The whip keeps landing across his back, steady and relentless, and he keeps counting even though the shocks don't come anymore.

Somewhere near the end, the numbers start to slip away from him. It feels like he blacks out in the split second between the pause of the whip and the next impact, his body jolting awake only to be hit again, his eyes never opening.

When they are finished, they unchain him from the wall and leave him lying on the ground, but still keep his arm chained behind him. And even though his arm and hand are slick with blood, he can no longer feel any pain from the numbness in them.

"This isn't over, we're coming back in a few hours, but we won't stay for long next time, don't worry," Darren tells him. "Your body needs time to loosen up first. So try and get some sleep. You will need it."

"Take his metal arm with you," he tells Luke before they step outside.

He remains on the ground, lying on his side, unable to move with his trembling body.

The panic never leaves his chest, and his heartbeat refuses to slow down. He tries to think of anything other than his missing left arm and his chained right one, anything other than this suffocating helplessness, but it's nearly impossible.

He thinks of Anna, of how scared and worn down she must be right now. He doesn't know where she could have been when the shocks began or whether she was alone. They have never done this to her before—not like this, and he doesn't even know what condition she would be in after it all. He prays she wasn't alone. He prays that Steve or Sam was with her.

His tears fall uncontrollably as his lips tremble on the gag in his mouth. He doesn't care about the fact that anyone could be watching him through that glass, they have seen worse anyway. He cries, silently, because there's no voice or breath left in him. He cries for Anna and for what he has done. He cries until sleep drags him under.

When he dreams, there's no torture, no blood, no screams, no darkness. He dreams of the very first day he saw Anna. He sees himself walking inside her bakery, meeting her for the first time.

There's no darkness here. Only light and warmth. A woman who made his heart feel something for the first time in decades.

But it all starts here.

This is the day he walks into her life. This is the day he turns her world upside down, in all the worst possible ways.

This is not a nightmare. There is no torture, no blood, no screams, no darkness.

This is worse.

The tears don't stop even in his sleep.

Chapter Text

He woke up gasping for air, his chest incredibly tight, like something was pressing down on it. 

His breathing came fast and heavy, his body slightly trembling. He looked around the room, feeling nervous and on edge, until he saw Anna beside him, still asleep. 

He exhaled, the panic loosened its grip on him just a little, but his chest remained filled with pressure. The walls felt too close, the air thin, like the room was closing in on him. He swallowed, dragged a hand over his face, then carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He tried not to make a sound as he stood and left the room so Anna wouldn't wake up. 

Once he was out of the room, he breathed loudly, repeatedly, hoping the tightness would ease. He pushed open the balcony door, stepping inside as he continued to focus on his breathing. He moved quickly to the railing, desperate for fresh air to fill his lungs. He gripped it with both his hands, dropping his head down as he tried to breathe properly. 

He wasn't trapped, he told himself. He wasn't in chains that made it impossible to move. He wasn't getting tortured. He was free. He had been free for a very long while now. 

After a few minutes, when his breathing was better, he lifted his head and looked out at the city. Dawn was starting to break. There was a cold breeze in the air, the streets below were quiet and still, and he took a few seconds just to absorb it all. To appreciate it. 

Then he grabbed the chair from the side, pushed it closer to the railing, and sat down. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, inhaling properly this time, letting the air fill his lungs completely, then exhaled very slowly, like he had all the time in the world. 

Because, in a way, he did. He had time. He could sit here and breathe until the morning or until the next day, and nothing would happen. He always loved to remind himself of that.

So he kept doing it. Again and again. Focusing on nothing but the rise and fall of his breathing.

After a little while, he felt Anna's warm hands slide around his neck from behind. She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "Hi," she murmured, still half-asleep.

He smiled and opened his eyes, his head still resting back. "Hi," he said. "I woke you up?" 

"No, I woke up to use the bathroom," she replied. "What are you doing?"

"Breathing," he simply replied, knowing she would understand. 

She brushed her thumb gently over his neck. "Can I breathe with you?" 

"Come," he said, reaching back for her hand.  

She took it, and he drew her closer. She settled herself on his lap, arms looping around his waist as he wrapped an arm around her in return.

She rested her head against his chest, then after a couple of seconds, she said, "Your heartbeat is steady."

"Yeah," he rasped, his voice still rough with sleep. "I've been out here for a bit. It's better now." 

"If you’d woken up in your apartment, you’d be out walking the streets right now, wouldn’t you?" 

"Probably.”

After a moment, she said, “You know, sometimes, I think you belong in a cabin in the woods, or maybe a farm. Anywhere that's out in the open," she told him. "But you also love Brooklyn." 

He smiled. She didn't know how much he thought about that before. How it felt like an impossible dream. How he ached for anywhere that wasn't underground, anywhere with open sky and space to breathe. 

"Well, I got to stay somewhere like this in Wakanda, but it was only for a very little while." 

"I know you loved it there," she said, lifting her head to look at him. "I can picture you waking up and just throwing yourself outside to breathe."

He let out a quiet chuckle. "Yeah, that's actually what I did all the time. It grounded me, almost immediately. It was enough to see the lake and the sky. It was everything." 

“Maybe we could have something like that,” she said. “A place of our own. Somewhere we can go whenever we want.”

The thought settled warmly in his chest. He swallowed, struck by how it wasn’t an impossible dream anymore. A lot of his dreams weren’t now. 

He tightened his arm around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'd like that very much."

——————————————————

He wakes up to someone kicking his leg. "Hey," Darren says. "Up you go." 

He opens his eyes, and the agonizing pain he feels everywhere makes him want to close them again. His neck is burning, the muscles of his body feel so fragile, still twitching uncontrollably. His back makes it hard to shift even slightly, and his arm aches terribly. 

A pained exhale escapes him as he tries to move, but his body isn't helping him, so Luke pulls him up by the chain. And God, the blinding, burning sting in his neck is truly unbearable. 

"Feeling good?" Darren asks.  

He works his throat, which is incredibly dry at the moment, and the damn gag that's still in his mouth isn't helping. "Great," he hoarsely forces out. 

"Do you miss having your arm?" 

There's nothing left in him to resist answering these kinds of questions. Absolutely nothing.

"Yeah," he replies. 

"God, you look like a mess right now. I wish I could make you see yourself," Darren tells him. "Anyway, I told you we're going to work on your fears today, right?" 

He wonders what else he could possibly do after what he did today and after what he did to Anna. What other fears haven't they used yet?

But he nods anyway.

Darren continues. "I heard about the panic attack you had on your first day here. Everyone did, actually. It was quite the story. The man who was once the perfect soldier panicking only because he was chained? All the guards were talking about that. No one had seen you completely break until then, so it must’ve been surprising to everyone." 

They are going to chain him like this again.

The realization settles heavily in his chest as dread fills all of him. He is so exhausted. So worn out. The panic is already there, waiting and familiar. Ready to tear him open again. He doesn't know how he is going to survive it. Not with his breathing already fractured and his body shaking like this.

But at least Anna won't be involved this time, and maybe that can help him endure it. 

"So that's what we're going to do today," he announces, his voice excited. "We're gonna leave you chained like this for a few days. Hopefully, that'll give you enough time to think about your mistakes, and how you can avoid them in the future." 

Few days. 

Days. 

He gulps hard as the panic surges higher. 

Darren walks towards him, and that's when Bucky sees it. 

He is holding the Winter Soldier mask in his hand. 

Bucky raises his head, his heart slamming violently against his ribs. "What—" his voice immediately cracks. "What are you going to do?" he asks, frightened.

"Didn't I tell you? We're using your fears to discipline you." 

"No," he says, almost too loud, even with the gag in his mouth and his wounded throat. "No...no. You can't—you can't do that."

"I can't do that?" Darren repeats, his voice dripping with mockery. "You're joking, right?"

He starts pushing himself away instinctively, dragging himself across the floor with his legs and shoulder. The movement is clumsy and desperate, but he doesn't stop even as his back tears open further. He barely registers the pain, all he knows is that he needs to stop this from happening. 

Darren only smiles more, moving toward him. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"S-stop," he forces out through the cloth, still moving himself back with his feet, his wounded back scraping across the floor. "Please—do anything..." and Goddamnit, the gag reduces everything he says to slurred and meaningless sounds, "anything else." 

Darren is still moving towards him, and Bucky feels like his heart won't tolerate this panic, like it truly might give out this time. 

"Please," he tries again. 

His back hits the wall, and when he suddenly feels trapped like this, all reason abandons him. He pushes the chain around his neck, yanking wildly and irrationally to make it break. The metal bites deep, slicing into his already ruined throat, and he feels the warm blood dripping into his collarbone, but that doesn’t stop him. He still tries to pull, but his right arm is too weak and numb from the shocks and from being restrained like this. It barely responds, but he tries anyway, and every attempt to free himself fails, over and over again. 

Darren is right in front of him now, and Bucky is shaking and hyperventilating, but he still tries to slide sideways, tries to escape even when he knows there's nowhere left to go. 

And Darren isn't even angry. He is watching with open satisfaction. This is a chase he has already won. He could easily shock Bucky and force the mask on his face, but he is having fun watching him like that. 

That realization, however, does nothing to make Bucky stop moving. 

"Look at you," Darren says, stepping towards him as he keeps scrabbling backwards. "Do you honestly think you're escaping that way?" He presses his boot on Bucky's leg. 

Bucky shoves at it with everything he has left, even though his legs are barely responding and his muscles are screaming, and the movement actually knocks Darren off balance for a split second.

"You fucking piece of shit," he mutters, the amusement on his face vanishing. 

Before he can advance again, the door opens and Rumlow steps inside. 

"Barnes," he says, his voice sharp but controlled, not angry. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

He steps towards him, slowly, then gets on his knees and pulls the gag down from his mouth. 

Bucky exhales loudly, his chest heaving uncontrollably. "Don't make him...do it," he says, his voice ragged and scratchy. "Please." 

"But you told him you would do anything if he stopped shocking Anna, didn't you?" he quietly asks. 

"Anything else. Anything—"

Rumlow ignores him and continues. "And I took you here when you first arrived, didn't I? I fucking warned you, Barnes. I told you that if you fuck up, then this will be real punishment. I told you it’ll be worse than anything we've ever done. So why are you shocked and fighting us now?" 

"I saved him," he rasps. "I fucking...saved him in the end." 

Rumlow raises an eyebrow at him. "So you're not denying that you hesitated." 

"Chain me," he says, desperate. "Chain me for however long you want, just not—not with that.. thing." 

"That won't be possible."

He can feel the tears pricking his eyes. He's not going to win this. "I won't be able to—" his voice breaks. He licks his lips and tries to drag in a breath. "I won't be able to breathe...please." 

He has begged so much. He has been doing nothing today except beg and panic and tremble with helplessness and pain. 

Rumlow sighs. "You should’ve thought about that before you hesitated. I told you several times we need you to be the person you were before. And before? No matter what they did to you, and no matter who it was, you never hesitated. Not when you had to protect someone from the team. You know that. And we told you we can't afford to lose more men. I told you I’m relying on you. You had all the warnings, all the prior instructions—everything, and you still messed up. So whose fault is it?" 

He rests his head against the wall, trying to breathe again. "Mine," he says, exhausted, finally giving up.

"That's correct," he tells him. "I’ll give you a minute to breathe, and then this mask will be put on, and you’ll take your punishment like you always do. Alright?" 

He nods as he bites the inside of his cheek, trying to hold himself together. 

Rumlow stands up and steps away, and Bucky sees him taking the mask away from Darren. "There's a water bottle in the room behind," Rumlow tells Luke. "Bring it."

He closes his eyes and starts inhaling and exhaling as he forces the air inside. The panic is clawing at his chest and throat at the moment, and he knows, once he's chained, it will consume him entirely and he won't be able to do anything about it, because he will gasp and choke and hyperventilate once he feels trapped in the chains.

Rumlow returns and crouches again, the mask in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. He unwraps the blood-soaked cloth from around Bucky's head, taking the clean part that isn't around his mouth and dampening it with water, then cleans the bloody mess around Bucky's mouth and upper line of his neck.

"I know you must want some water, but you won't be allowed any for some time, I am afraid," Rumlow tells him, throwing the cloth aside. "Ready?" he asks, lifting the mask slightly. 

He doesn't answer, just closes his eyes, bracing himself for all the air that's about to be taken from him. 

For days. The thought makes a strangled breath escape his mouth as Rumlow puts it on and fastens it from behind.  The mask presses against him, hot with his own heavy breathing, and every shallow inhale reminds him how limited his oxygen will be over the next days

"Go ahead," Rumlow tells Luke. "Chain him." 

He is dragged again. He tries to keep his breathing slow, tries not to breathe too fast even though the pain in his body and neck is enough to make all the breath inside his lungs disappear.  

It takes a while, because Luke is doing it all alone. He leaves him on his knees and starts by restraining his ankles, then connects the chain in his right arm to his ankle, locking it to the ground. Then comes his neck, which is not connected with a chain to his right arm anymore. "Get down," Luke tells him. 

He complies, leaning forward in the position he knows too well. Luke secures a new chain around his neck and locks it to the ground. And Bucky can now see nothing but the floor beneath him.

He can hear the footsteps of someone walking towards him. "As I told you, I want you to think about your mistakes." It's Darren. "Think about how you fucked up and about the torture you caused your girlfriend to go through. Use this time to do something useful. Alright?" 

He can't possibly expect an answer from him. 

Darren nudges his arm with his boot. "Answer." 

He only nods, forcing himself to hold his breath, battling the panic clawing at his chest.

"No, I want to hear you say it." 

He closes his eyes, trying to pull any air inside his chest. “Okay," he manages to whisper. 

They walk outside. All of them, he realizes after a while. They don't leave a guard with him because they can watch him through the glass panel. It's a fucking entertainment show for them.

He rests his head against the floor, closing his eyes again. The tiny slits in the mask do nothing to make him breathe, the air barely reaches him. 

But he has to control his breathing. If he gets a panic attack with this mask on, it will be horrendous. He can already feel it in his chest, a tightness creeping upward, curling around his throat. It's right there, waiting. One slip and it will become endless, suffocating agony. He won't be able to tolerate it. Not with this fragile, worn-down body of his. 

He is not here, he tells himself. He is not in a Hydra base. He is not chained to the floor, bent forward until his lungs can't expand. He is not trapped.

He is not here. He is not here. He is not here.

He is with Steve. They're in Brooklyn. Steve's taking him to his favorite falafel truck. He's excited because he always loves learning more about Steve's favorite places in Brooklyn. He's also so excited about the food and Steve had reminded him about three times since the morning that he really shouldn't eat anything until they go there, so he's starving. They are almost there, though. Steve says they might wait for a while because there's usually a line, but says the smell will make him able to tolerate the wait. Bucky argues that the smell will only make the hunger worse. He knows that too well from Anna's kitchen. Steve laughs and—

The air he breathes comes straight back at him. It's one of the worst parts of being forced into this position, how close his face is to the floor, but now it's even more unbearable. Every breath hits his skin and rebounds, hot and trapped, making the next one harder. His breathing grows heavier, more frantic, and he can feel his face flushing with it. 

But no, he is not going to focus on the way the air keeps returning to him, or on the echo of every breath he takes. Because he is not here. 

He is not here. 

They are in Delacroix. Sam is making fun of him because Bucky is trying to convince him that he has enough patience for fishing. Why wouldn't he? He loves the quiet. He loves the sea. He would definitely have the patience for it. Sam is still not convinced, which of course, only makes Bucky more stubborn. He tells Sam to take him there right now to prove to him that he can be pretty good at it. Sam just laughs harder and promises another day—

His missing left arm is throwing his balance off, and he desperately wants his body to stop shaking. His knees aren't just unsteady, they feel hollow, like the bone inside them has turned to dust. He doesn't know how they thought leaving him for just a few hours would make his body feel better. If anything, it feels worse. His back is bleeding more and the wounds are tearing open from the strain of being positioned like this. 

And it hits him now, that he won't be put in cryo after this. He will still need time to heal, and he will be awake through it all. 

His breath stutters. 

No. No. 

He will not lose control. 

He tells Anna he will take her to Coney Island. For real, this time. She says she doesn't believe him. He's been saying they will go for a while now. So he promises—really promises that they will go after their upcoming trip to Louisiana with Sam. She believes him this time. He sees the way her eyes light with excitement. He brings his lips to hers and kisses her as he thinks about how badly he wants to tell her he loves her. She asks if they should tell Steve and says it feels like he should come when it's Bucky's first time to go there again. He tells her maybe next time, because they can go whenever they want. They have all the time in the world. 

He never took her. 

His body is violently shaking. He can't tolerate being positioned like this. His fingers are badly twitching. Pain tears through his neck, sharp and blinding, and the burned skin there sends fire through his head with every breath he takes. It radiates into his jaw, into his ears, leaving behind a deep, stinging burn that he knows won't begin to heal without medical treatment. It will only get worse.

The mask is hot with his breath. He can feel his pulse in his ears. Everything is spiraling. 

And God, he remembers, absurdly, how lonely he felt yesterday. How his biggest worry was figuring out why his chest was aching. And it almost feels like they know what he did. Like they know he had tried, for just a moment, to convince himself that he wasn't entirely theirs. They know he allowed himself a moment of quiet and peace and now this is his punishment for it.

He presses his forehead harder into the ground until the pressure hurts, squeezing his eyes shut as he prays for a God he isn't sure has ever listened to him at all, because he has prayed so much, in similar positions, trapped in chains like these, in places just like this. He has prayed and begged and pleaded. But there's nothing left to do now. So he prays.

God, he repeats desperately in his head. He doesn't want to lose control. He doesn't want to panic. He knows what will happen when he does and he won't be able to tolerate it, not with the mask stealing what little air he has and his body already pushed past its limits. 

And they are watching him and he is so tired of being ruined and broken as they watch. He is tired of being torn and destroyed and then being put together just to be ruined again. 

He prays for a miracle. For a way to let his lungs expand. He prays he loses consciousness. Anything—anything other than a panic attack. 

But praying makes him start to cry. It starts with a few tears that he doesn't even notice at first, slipping down his face and falling on the floor. Then a sound tears out of his chest before he can stop it, and suddenly he's choking on a sob so loud it feels like it will break him apart. 

His body starts shaking so uncontrollably that he thinks he might break out of chains without even meaning to, though he knows his body is too fragile and damaged to break out of one single chain even if his life depended on it. 

He doesn't know how he still has a voice, but there are hoarse, guttural, very loud sobs echoing in the room at the moment. And then of course, he loses control of his breathing. 

He is crying and gasping at the same time, choking on his own sobs. His breath comes in uneven and ragged pulls that never give him enough air. His chest feels like it's getting crushed, like his lungs are failing. 

He needs this mask off. His chest isn't just tight, it feels like one more failed breath will cause it to split open. 

He can't do this. He can't.

"Take it....take it off," he begs whoever is behind the glass with the last scraps of strength he has left.