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You can feel his eyes on you. You try not to look, keeping as distant as possible, as you've always been instructed.
"Ignore the subject. Never interact with the subject beyond job requirements."
But that's never so easy to do. Not when you can see him out of the corner of your eye, his head turned toward you now as you set out the assortment of injection needles and surgical tools for the Hydra scientists to use on their operation this evening. It's quiet down here in the dungeon - the only way you can describe this underground laboratory. You hate it down here for many reasons; the cold chill always clinging to the air and the smell of mildew and sterile metal overpowering anything else. But you mostly hate it because of what you know goes on down here - what you're a part of. You try to get in and get out as fast as possible whenever they send you down. And the feeling of the subject's gaze on you now is yet another reason to hurry.
"Another mind sweep tonight?"
You nearly jump at the sound of his voice suddenly breaking the dense silence of the atmosphere. It's low vibrato echoes against the stone walls and causes you to stop what you're doing, the cold steel of a needle plunger stiff in your hand. You swallow hard as you ignore his question and eventually continue your work. But he speaks again.
"It's because of what happened today, isn't it?"
You hate when he speaks. It's only happened a few times like this, where something he experienced out on an assignment triggered what little remains of emotions or slivers of recollections that he has left. It's rare when he tries to interact with you and you wish he wouldn't. It only makes it all so much harder.
After a long moment of silence, you finally look over. His eyes watch you with great intensity, searching your face for something. Answers? Reaction? He sits in the operating chair, his top half bare, exposing the fusion of metal and flesh where his robotic arm connects to his living shoulder. His body is rigid and strong, scars and welts decorating his skin. His dark hair hangs long, touching his shoulders.
You take a breath before reluctantly replying. "I don't know."
He peers at you as you walk around the chair. "You do," he says. "They're mind sweeping me because I'm remembering, right?"
Your body tenses as you stop on his right side, his eyes following you the whole way. You avoid them as you press a button on the side of the metal chair that slowly reclines it back farther. You gently place a hand on the subject's right shoulder, his skin cold against your fingers and causing them to tingle. His muscles flex under your touch and you finally meet his eyes again. They're color is bold in this darkness, green like the sea after a storm. And it certainly is a storm that brews behind those eyes tonight,
Your voice barely musters a whisper. "Lay back, please."
The subject still watches you, his eyes even glancing at your hand touching him. You're not supposed to touch him. You hold your breath in the next moments as he watches your hand on him. His eyes close for a moment, his expression almost pained. But he doesn't move your hand. He only does as you say and lays back. You breath heavily when you finally withdraw your touch. In just an instant, you both share a glance and you know he wishes your hand was still there as much as you do. That makes this worse.
"He called me Bucky," he says to the ceiling as you tighten the restraints around his wrist, securing him to the chair. Although you both know these restrains wouldn't stop a thing if he really tried to get out of here. "I recognize him. I knew him before, didn't I?"
You can feel your chest tighten at the desperation beginning to grow in his voice. You have finished strapping his ankles before moving back around to his right side, bringing the last restraint around his metal wrist, it's coldness biting at your fingers. You've finished your task and the others will be in soon to take over. The guilt you feel in your stomach clenches as you step away, but his eyes still cling to you like a sailor's to a lighthouse.
You turn to walk away but stop when he says, "Just tell me please - is Bucky my name?"
His voice cracks at the end, so raw with emotion it make you clench your jaw. His usual robotic and hard demeanor has completely fallen away now, and the machine soldier strapped to the operating chair before you has been replaced with someone entirely different. Human. And it makes you sick with yourself.
"Just tell me. I won't remember tomorrow anyway." His fists ball up tightly where they're tied to the chair and the storm in his eyes threatens to spill out and break through the walls of this room.
You let out a shaky breath as you stare sadly at him, a desire to take him in your arms suddenly so strong now you have to physically fight it. You can't stand to see him like this another minute, so you tell him. You go against every order from your superiors.
Your voice quivers as you say quietly, "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. I'm so sorry this happened to you."
You turn away before he can say anything else or before his eyes completely wash over you with the power of the raging waves that crash behind them. Your hands shake and your eyes well with hot tears as you slam the door behind you, leaving him in the dungeon alone. He won't remember this conversation after tonight. The scientists will be in there soon to wipe his brain of this memory, but not yours. You will remember all of it. You always do.
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