SUMMARY: The story of Bucky's capture, and everything that followed.
CW for blood, vomit, discussions of death, discussions of Nazis, and mild violence.
When Bucky Barnes fell off of the train in 1945, HYDRA was quick to pursue him.
This pursuit ultimately led to the demise of James Buchanan Barnes, and in turn allowed for the rise of the Winter Soldier.
What could have possibly happened as to cause one of the Army's strongest soldiers, Steve Rogers's best friend of countless years, to crack underneath the grasp of Hydra and allow them to turn him into nothing more than a pair of hollow eyes and an unhinged mind?
Unspeakable things occurred in that chamber in Siberia - things that S.W.O.R.D., and the Avengers, and the world still don't quite understand. He refuses to talk about it, because when he does, it's like being back there all over again, and he can't stop seeing the faces of the scientists who broke him, and he feels as helpless as he did the day they dragged him through the snow. But he remembers it... some of it, anyways. He may not remember every last second leading up to the moment where he finally cracked, but he remembers the pain. He remembers the pain, and the feeling of hopelessness, and the final realization that he would never make it out. He'll never be ready to tell everyone what truly happened, but he remembers.
And he wishes he didn't.
This is the story of the death of James Buchanan Barnes as it deserved to be told.
✯ ✯ ✯
When his eyes first opened, he thought he was dead.
He had no memory of hitting the ground - wasn't even sure how much pain he had been in when he'd finally given in to the jaws of death - though it was probably better that way. Weird that he couldn't remember dying, but he wasn't complaining.
Here he was, dead on the floor, and all he could think about was Steve still up on the train. God, he hoped he was safe.
Where was he, anyways? All he could see, for miles and miles above him, was white. In the corners of his eyes, he could have sworn that there were little slivers of black too, looming above him as though ready to attack. Maybe he'd gotten into hell, but he couldn't think about that right now. Couldn't think about all of the terrible things he'd done in his life that caused him to end up here.
Or maybe he was a ghost - that was more plausible. It would explain why his brain was still intact, yet his body didn't feel like it was his. He didn't feel entirely there, not enough to actually stand up and move around. Did he have to wait a certain amount of time to be able to do that? Or was he supposed to wait for some God-like figure to come and find him, and show him into the afterlife? Was there some sort of principle to the whole death thing, some sort of rule that it followed?
He supposed the only thing to do right now was to wait and find out.
It was just like Steve had said all those months ago: You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?
Well, here he was, and Steve wasn't with him.
Bucky almost resented that.
But Steve deserved better than he ever did. Since the war had started, Bucky had always been kept here... right on the verge of death, but the trigger never actually pulled. He'd been captured by those damn Nazis over a year ago and he thought he'd die then, but instead they slammed him onto a cold metal table and tortured him to the point where he didn't recognize his own name. He'd tried dying a few times then - that was what the leather straps that restrained his hands and waist were for. So that he wouldn't claw at his own throat and choke himself to death like some sort of wild animal, though that was really what he was. Or what they made him feel like. Still, even then he hadn't thought enough about death to wonder what it actually felt like. He wouldn't have supposed it would feel like this. He'd thought more about trying to die than he did about what came after it, and all he was thinking as he lay here now was that maybe he should've committed to an actual religion while he was alive. To him, there had never been a God. No higher up being, nobody who was always watching over him. What was the point in believing in one? Not like God was always looking out for him, anyway. If there was one out there, somewhere, it had been a real bitch to him. But maybe that was why no one was coming for him now - because he hadn't believed enough. Because he'd cursed God's name many times in life, never thinking about what that would mean in death. And what was the point in saving one's soul if the soul had never repented for his sins? Bucky didn't deserve the afterlife, whether that be heaven or hell... he wasn't good enough for either. He'd never had enough faith for either, anyways. It wasn't like any of it mattered now - he was already dead and it was too late to start praising God in hopes that they'd take him somewhere. Really, anywhere was better than this.
After another minute of thinking about the whole thing, Bucky decided that he must've been a ghost. Oh well. He could manage, he supposed. It really did suck that he couldn't move, though. Was that supposed to be a normal thing for ghosts? It wasn't like he would know - he'd never been dead before.
He'd also never be alive again.
Alive. What did it mean to be alive?
Alive, alive, alive.
Being alive meant summers swimming in those waves at the beach, ice cold water splashing over his head as the ocean tried to take him in. He never let it do so - he always swam back out to shore just before the undertow could take him. Being alive was spending days at Coney Island, spending all of his lunch money on ride tickets instead so that he and Steve could take the Ferris Wheel. Being alive was like those harsh winters, so helpless and bitterly cold that Bucky had thought neither of them were going to see spring. Being alive meant all of those sleepless nights in Brooklyn, when Bucky had saved Steve from fights with bullies twice his size and had to patch him up afterwards. Being alive was the feeling of adrenaline in his veins as he ran laps during military training, those hot, summer days nearly being enough to make him pass out. Being alive was like flying - being so high above the world, the wind whistling in his ears as he looked towards the ground, that no one could touch him.
For a second as Bucky had fallen, he'd thought that he was flying.
As he remembered what it meant to be alive, he tried with everything in him to get himself to move.
His right fingers twitched, and his head tilted in the same direction.
He couldn't feel his left arm - that was strange. But he'd worry about it later.. for now, at least he knew that he could somewhat move. His strength would come back with time, he was sure of it.
And then he realized why his hand was stuck - it was buried right in a pile of snow. Fuck, that was cold. If he could move the muscles in his face, he would've grit his teeth together, or made a complaint about the cold. Instead, his lips barely opened, and he watched cold breath fly out of them as he tried to speak.
He felt like he was being stabbed by a thousand needles below him as he tried to twist his head, tried to make some sense out of why he couldn't feel his left side. He could hear the sound of snow crunching below him, but couldn't see any of it. All he was looking at, still, was the train tracks above him.
Train tracks.
Something clicked within his head, and he promptly realized that death must have started where it all ended. The beginning of the end.
Steve was still up there somewhere.
Maybe if he hurried, if Steve had been able to stop the train, he could-
All at once he was scrambling to get up out of the snow, to go see Steve complete his mission to capture Zola before they disappeared off to another continent and Bucky was left behind to haunt the woods. He could make it in time, he just knew it. He always seemed to make it in time when it came to Steve.
He pulled his right arm out of the snow and thrust himself forward against the cold and the wind, trying to use it for support as he attempted to stand up.
A wave of pain was sent through him instead as he realized his arm was completely limp, and that his legs were caving in underneath him.
He fell back to the ground just as quickly as he'd tried to stand up, and when he landed, it was in a puddle of red.
Red, red, red. Just like the blood of all those men he'd killed while serving.
How many times had he killed while in service of his country? How many times was he willing to do it again?
Didn't matter, now he was the one who'd bled out to death. Dammit, the Nazis had gotten the last laugh there. He wondered if they'd be there to haunt him in hell - every single man that he'd killed, all taunting him for the rest of eternity. Somehow, he thought he deserved it.
But where was all of the red coming from?
His left cheek began to sting, and it didn't take him long this time to realize that he'd fallen over onto the other side of his body. If his vocal cords had been working right, he would've screamed. It hurt, oh god, everything hurt so badly and he wanted to get the fuck out of here. He just wanted it all to be over already, why was he being put through this pain even after his life had ended? Hell must have had it out for him. Death was supposed to be peaceful, yet all he'd received in turn was pain. He couldn't even see anymore, his vision had become so blurry and nothing was coming into focus, and if he could just attach his fucking body to his brain then he could cry out for God to come and find him before...
Before what?
Before someone else did.
When he could finally see again, he was still in the same place. He'd been here too long already. He wasn't sure if it had been thirty seconds or thirty years since he'd first arrived - he didn't care. He just wanted to get out of this damned snow nightmare and get a move on with whatever he was supposed to do now.
Maybe... maybe this was hell. Maybe it was being forced to live out your worst nightmare for all eternity. And Bucky was damn well sure he'd dreamt about this far too many times before, wishing it to never come true.
He was alone. In the cold. Where no one could find him and he couldn't move. Couldn't think, couldn't control his own body. He just had to sit out here and wait. God. He hated waiting.
And he had to do it all without Steve.
That alone was far worse than any nightmare he'd ever had.
Hell really did have it out for him.
He tried moving his eyes now - at least those were still intact. At least he could still see, if anything else. His eyes trailed down his body, trying to make sense of exactly what the hell was going on and why his left arm-
His left arm.
Oh god.
Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god-
He'd seen blood before, but never anything like this. And it was coming from his own damned body.
The bottom half of his left arm had been ripped clean off by the fall, and the red that he'd been caught in a sea of had come from him. It had all come from him.
He was still bleeding out now. The red was still coming from him, and it was beginning to seep so far into the ground that the snow was melting underneath him.
The stump where his elbow used to be had never burned this much before.
He couldn't think clearly enough to wonder why the hell he was still bleeding out even though he was dead. Shouldn't it have stopped long ago? Shouldn't the pain have ceased? He only pondered it briefly, just for a second. Maybe he was still alive, but he didn't even want to think about what that meant for him right now. So he quickly glossed over that thought, pushing it to the back of his mind.
He hated blood. Oh god. He hated blood.
Apparently his body and mind were still connected enough for him to pass out.
✯ ✯ ✯
When he woke up again, he thought it had all been a horrible dream.
But the snow was still nipping at his face, his left arm (or what was left of it, anyways) was still stinging, and he quickly realized he'd been sorely mistaken.
So he was dead, after all.
And still, no one had come for him. No angel or demon came - apparently he hadn't done enough to even get into heaven or hell or wherever he was supposed to be going now. He hadn't made enough of a difference.
That was fine, he guessed. But he still couldn't even move, and it would be really convenient if he could. He'd rather not spend the rest of eternity in some bitterly cold forest in a country that wasn't even his. And the ring of blood around his body had only grown and grown. He could almost taste it in his mouth, if only his mouth had been working right. Probably better that it wasn't.
Not much had changed around him - it was hard to tell whether it had been a year or a day - and Bucky could hear the sound of something in the distance. He closed his eyes the best he could and attempted to listen to what was going on around him.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The sound of footsteps making their imprint in the snow as something made its way along the side of the ravine. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The sound of somebody hollering, and Bucky's entire chest tightened.
Someone was in the forest. He was not alone.
When they yelled, it was in a language that Bucky didn't understand - even worse, a language that he recognized. The voice belonged to a person who was screaming in German..
The language of the Nazis.
He felt sick as he lay there, still as could be. Maybe it was one of the many Nazis he'd killed during the war - maybe they were coming to show him what he had done, maybe they were coming to escort him to the depths of hell for the terrible things he'd done. He'd killed so many of them without a second thought, and never felt remorse. He didn't have the time for things like that, not when there was a war to win.
Besides, the Nazis had done unspeakable things during the war. Rumor had it they'd shut Jews in concentration camps, they enslaved thousands of Slavs, they teamed up with Japan to try to take over the world. Bucky had done awful things, he was sure, but how could that compare to what they'd done? Compared to them, he damn well deserved heaven. Back in Brooklyn, Bucky had never thought anyone was terrible, just misled - but they were truly evil people, and all Bucky had ever done in his life was try to stop them. He couldn't see how something like that had landed him in hell, though maybe other things had.
Either way, he wasn't going to sit back and rethink everything he'd done wrong in his life when he was about to be escorted to hell by a Nazi soldier. That was unthinkable.
The voice was getting closer, and Bucky reopened his eyes, trying to see where the person would be coming from. Did he even remember the faces of all of those people he'd killed? He knew that he probably wouldn't recognize this soldier, and he felt evil for even thinking that. He'd done terrible things. Oh god, he'd killed people. He'd killed them and didn't remember their faces. He'd killed them and if he'd survived this mission then he would've killed hundreds more, and when would it ever stop?
He really was better off dead.
And the footsteps were still getting closer. He shut his eyes again - he didn't think he could bear looking into the face of someone he'd killed as they took him down into hell. It was the most cowardly thing he'd ever done, and Steve would be disappointed in him... but Steve wasn't here anymore. He'd never know what Bucky had done, and he'd never find out. Steve was getting into heaven, after all. And for once, Bucky couldn't follow him.
At long last, the soldier yelled out again. And it appeared that he'd reached Bucky.
What he was speaking in was German, alright.
A pause. More footsteps. The sound of leaves rustling and snow crunching. Bucky quickly realized that the soldier hadn't come alone. There were more of them, God knows how many, and they'd all be people that Bucky had wronged in his life.
He definitely wouldn't be opening his eyes now.
The second voice was higher, more hesitant as he seemed to ask a question.
Now he was really wishing he'd opted to learn German. He wasn't sure when the hell he'd have had the time for it, but it would be damn convenient to know what these Nazis were saying.
But then there was a sharp pain in his side as a shoe made contact with his ribs, and Bucky flinched - they'd kicked him. Actually kicked him, like he was some sort of ragdoll. He couldn't tell which was more humiliating - the fact that every person he'd killed was about to drag him off to rot in hell, or the fact that they kicked him. Right in his ribs, too.. As if they'd been aiming to break them. He flinched at the contact, curling in on himself like it was instinct.
The first soldier spoke again. "Ja."
He knew at least enough German to know that Ja meant yes. As in, "yes, this is the bastard that killed all of us. Do with him what you please."
Another voice spoke again, and Bucky braced himself for whatever was to come next.
The next thing Bucky knew, they'd grabbed him by his right arm and the bottom of his foot - using both hands. Like they needed four arms to drag one man into hell.
One of them screamed right by his ear, and the sound of what must've been a dozen more pairs of footsteps abruptly announced themselves to Bucky, reminding him of a herd of elephants. So many of them...
So many of them, and they were coming for him.
All to drag him into the pits of hell, because a stupid fall had killed him.
And suddenly, it all hit him, all at once.
He was dead. Bucky Barnes was dead, and he would never get another chance at life again. He was dead, and he was going to hell. And no one was there to save him now, because Steve was too good to ever be reunited with him in the afterlife. He was dead and there were so many things he'd never gotten to do, so many things that he'd never do now. Instead, he'd be left to rot in hell forever. And the strangest part was, somehow Bucky thought he deserved all of it.
But he hadn't even gotten to say goodbye to Steve.
That wasn't fair.
So many things, so many things he'd never told Steve, so many things they had left to do together before they died. They always talked about what they'd do once they were both married and had children, about how their children would grow up the best of friends... who would be there for Steve's children now?
No one.
They began to drag him, and his eyes flew open at last. And maybe he was hallucinating everything, because none of them looked the slightest bit familiar. None of them even so close as resembled all of those men Bucky had killed. Or maybe he was dreaming it. Wasn't like he paid close attention to all of the men that he'd killed. As far as he'd been concerned at the time, they'd all deserved what they got. Only now was he questioning it.
But that didn't change the fact that they were all dragging him to a fate that he'd gotten far too early. He should've at least lived to see the end of the war... right? Should've at least seen if all that he'd fought for was for nothing?
He looked down to the stub of the arm he had left, still making trails of blood against the otherwise clean looking snow. He almost felt sorry for ruining such a beautiful forest with the marks of battle.
When he looked up to the face of the men above him again, he quickly realized how familiar the situation was. Like being back on that torture table in Austria all over again, except somehow worse.
Oh god, they were going to torture him. And since this was hell, and no Steve Rogers was coming to save him, it would last forever.
He couldn't have that. Not when he'd been trying so hard to rid himself of the memories.
No. No. No. No. He couldn't do this.
And almost as though it were instinct, Bucky found himself able to move again, able to struggle against the strength of the two men carrying him. He thrashed and thrashed against them, using every single bit of power he had within him.
Just like being back in Brooklyn, saving Steve from a fight again.
He yanked his right arm out of the clutches of one of the men, and when he did so he had to stop to scream. Fuck, that hurt. His elbow was completely limp, and his arm bent at a weird angle when it fell to the ground. Still - he was halfway free. Just needed to get his foot loose, and then he could run as far away from these men as possible. Right back to Steve. Even if he wasn't with Steve anymore.
He tugged his foot away with everything left within him, and when it didn't work the first time, he tugged again. It took a few tries, but finally, he'd done it, he was free. He just needed to get the hell outta here now.
One of the other soldiers who'd come to escort him was running towards him, but Bucky swung his arm as hard as he could and he was already on the ground. He used his foot to kick the knees of the soldier that had been dragging him, and in one swift motion he'd also been knocked down. He scrambled to his feet with a new sense of energy he'd not had in months. He could do this. He could do this. He could-
Someone was screaming, and the next thing he knew, he'd been whacked on the head.
His world went black yet again.
✯ ✯ ✯
The first thing he noticed when he drifted back into consciousness was that it was a hell of a lot warmer.
It was darker here, though. Wherever here was. It reminded him of Austria, but he tried his best to push the thought aside.
The lights were turned off - that was probably why it was so dark. But the walls around him were green, and the floors were made of white tile. It wasn't a pretty room.
Whoever ran hell must have made interesting design choices.
He was in a chair of some sort. Must've been made of wood - it wasn't exactly comfortable. And Bucky hated sitting down.
There was nothing around his neck anymore - no cold metal pressing into the back of his shirt. They must've finally taken off his dog tags, back in the land of the living. The last piece he had of himself, the last proof that he'd ever lived, stripped away from him without a second thought. But who'd found his body?
His stomach dropped as a thought crossed his mind - it might've been Steve.
And for the first time in years, he found himself praying to a God he wasn't even sure existed, not even now. Please, he begged, fear filling him up and drowning him in large waves, please don't let it be Steve who found my body.
He wanted to get out of here.
When he attempted to stand up, however, something tugged at both of his legs and he would've fallen over, if the chair hadn't been bolted into the damn ground.
He was strapped in. Dammit, they'd strapped him in here and he had no way of escaping. He noticed that his right arm was also tied into something, though he couldn't really feel it anyways. It must've been broken. And of course, a leather strap wrapped around his stomach, securing him to the chair so there was no possible way of escaping. His body jolted again, like it might make a difference, but he was strapped in too tightly. He thought he might be sick, it really was like Austria all over again.
A bright light turned on overhead, and Bucky thought for a second that he preferred the dark to this. He squinted against the light, and if his hand was free he would've used it to cover his eyes.
A loud voice spoke from somewhere within the room, but Bucky didn't see the person who was saying it. He was looking right through a window though, he noticed. And on the other side stood at least four people, all watching him with notebooks in hand.
He hated when people watched him.
"Sergeant Barnes," the voice spoke, sounding anything but gracious. "Welcome."
The voice was still thick with a German accent, but at least he didn't have to hear the damned language anymore. He smiled to himself at that.
"Wow, first person to speak English since I've gotten to this shithole," he said, laughing even though nothing was funny.
The speaker ignored him.
"Do you know where you are, Sergeant Barnes?"
Okay, that was just insulting. Bucky pursed his lips together as he answered. They didn't think he was that dense, did they? He wasn't stupid - just American. "Pretty obvious, ain't it?" he scoffed. "Gone to hell." Everything was quiet for a few seconds.
"That's incorrect, James," the voice said, and for a second, it sounded nearly guilty. "You'd have to be dead to go to hell."
"Oh, I'm dead, alright," Bucky replied. "Didja not see the height I fell from? It would've killed anyone."
No one spoke for quite a while. Until finally...
"Anyone but you."
"Come on, you don't think I know I'm dead?" Bucky shot back. This was beginning to get annoying now, actually. He didn't have all day for this.
"Sergeant Barnes, that fall would have killed anyone. You and I both know this. But it didn't kill you, and we need to figure out why. I will repeat my question: do you know where you are?"
"Told ya already, didn't I?" he snapped again. "Piss off."
"James..."
The next four words changed everything.
"You are not dead."
He didn't think much of it at first - he only chuckled to himself. Yeah, right. Hell knew him too well. They knew his worst nightmare would have been surviving that fall, how could they not? "No, no, no, that's.."
Except, when he'd been found in the woods he'd still been bleeding out.
He'd still been in pain, unable to move.
And as he looked to his left, his arm was still missing.
Further beyond that, though, was one of the walls of the room. And on the side of it, painted in bright red color...
A Hydra logo.
His entire body froze over, and his stomach twisted into thousands and thousands of knots. "Oh god."
He couldn't breathe. The world around him was spinning too much for him to do so. "Oh god, oh god, no, please.."
Surely nothing could get worse than this. Nothing could be worse than surviving when he'd been meant to die. But still, every time the voice spoke, he found himself wishing more and more that the fall had been fatal.
"You belong to Hydra now."
No... no, it couldn't be. His worst nightmare had come true.
When Steve had first rescued Bucky, nearly a year ago by that point, he'd told him that he was safe. He'd told him that he'd never go back to them again, he'd told him that if Hydra so much as lay a finger on him they'd never live to see the light of day. He'd told him that, and he'd made a promise.
Apparently promises weren't meant to be kept.
Soon, he couldn't even bring himself to talk. He was trembling all over, and before he knew it vomit was flying out of his mouth without him even realizing it, landing all over his body as everything became all too much for him.
He'd survived, and he grimly thought to himself as the smell of the spew rose that he'd much rather be dead right now.
✯ ✯ ✯
He wasn't sure how long they kept him in that damned room like that, but it didn't matter. Every single second spent in there was a second too long - he needed to get out of there, and he needed to do it now. Yet, as time passed on and it became stuffy, smelling of electricity and of his own vomit, he found himself quickly losing hope. This was Hydra, after all - they wouldn't be holding him here if there was any chance of him being discovered and set free. Steve probably thought he was dead - that had been a hell of a fall, and even Bucky hadn't known how he'd survived the fall. Evidently, Hydra didn't either.
He really did wish they'd tell him what they were doing - after they told Bucky that he now belonged to Hydra, nothing else had been said. It really was starting to get annoying. They were probably letting Bucky sit with the information, trying to see how long it would take before he finally cracked and went insane before their very eyes. It was almost definitely a part of the experiment, and that thought was the only thing keeping Bucky from breaking down. He couldn't let them know how terrified he really was, he couldn't let them win. He'd done that last time, and it hadn't ended well.
Because then the nightmares came. And along with them, the feeling that he would never be himself again. When he had first been captured by Hydra, he'd been someone entirely different - someone happier, more youthful, maybe. Someone whose future hadn't been ripped apart by the reality of war. And when Steve had rescued him, he'd brought a new person out of that facility without even knowing it.
Steve didn't know that doctors had surrounded him day and night, injecting liquids into him that made his body ache and his head throb. Steve didn't know that they'd put him in and out of countless machines that had put him in so much pain that he'd thought he'd rather die. Steve didn't know that they hit him and cut him and beat him senseless, and that if he screamed through it they would only make it worse. Steve didn't know that the metal table he'd rescued him off of had been the same one where they'd cleaned up the blood staining it just hours earlier. Steve didn't see the cuts they'd inflicted all over his back and chest and legs, just so that they'd made it clear that he was theirs now.
And Steve sure damn wasn't going to find out.
Bucky would've rather pretended to be the person that he was than to face the reality of what he had left.
But of course, Steve wasn't going to know that. Worse, Steve was actually going to care about him. He would try to hug him and be a source of comfort, and he'd try to understand him. He'd probably pat him on the shoulder and tell him to go to a doctor, except thanks to Hydra, Bucky now hated the doctor. All they'd do was put more serums into him. They'd try to kill him again. Steve didn't know that either. And so Bucky awoke from the nightmares with no one beside him, never having felt more lonely despite the fact that he'd chosen to be so.
It was fine, though. It was better like that.
Still, he often found himself missing the young boy he'd used to be. Sometimes he thought that was a foolish thought - he was only twenty-eight, after all - but then he remembered that this was war, and no one was allowed to be young anymore. At the end of the day, they were all soldiers, soldiers who were meant to give their lives for their country. They were one in the same, marching in olive drab unison on trails that led to battlefields, and it didn't matter if they were twenty-one or fifty. They were all there to die.
And other times, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he was still the same man that he'd been before the capture. He just had to look harder for the pieces of him that he'd forgotten. But it was crazy to think like that, and he had more important things to focus on anyways. He ended up pushing everything that had happened to him aside, shoving it into a separate place in his mind, as he'd fought alongside the Howling Commandos.
Being back here in this room, however, was causing everything to come back. Every memory he'd tried so desperately to forget, every ounce of pain and hurt they'd ever caused him, every single moment of loneliness that he'd experienced as the hours dragged on and on. All of it was flooding back in, and he could do nothing to stop it. There was no way to snap back into reality now, because this was reality, and it certainly wasn't anything like hell. It was far worse.
Despite the hopelessness overtaking him, he kept his composure as hours and hours dragged on and on. They'd take him out of here eventually - probably to lay on another table. Bring it on, he thought bitterly as it crossed his mind. Not like he hadn't gone through this before. He'd always end up back on a table, it seemed. Maybe it was just destiny. It would be a pretty fucked up one, but there had to be a reason that he was going through the exact same hell twice and no one was questioning it. It was like his fate had been written in the stars, but the stars had now become a supernova of destruction and death.
It wasn't until nearly 48 hours later that someone finally entered the room, letting the lights overhead nearly blind Bucky as they clicked on within an instant. Not even a second later, the straps holding him down had become undone, and he was being yanked out of his chair so harshly that he stumbled over within seconds. He didn't even try to get up again, not until he was forced to by whoever was in the room with him. A voice with a heavy German accent spoke, and Bucky thought bitterly that he wished it was still last year, when he hadn't known how to decipher the accents and had no idea what those Germans had been saying. "This way, Sergeant Barnes."
And then he was being tugged out of the room, too weak to even argue and too dazed to say anything.
✯ ✯ ✯
He can't remember much of what happened from there - but he thinks that's where they began to mess with his mind. That would explain the memory loss. And the nightmares he still has about the place - the nightmares that are far more detailed than he can ever recall. A part of him is glad he can't remember much. Probably better like that.
Yet, another part of him wishes so desperately to remember everything. He still can't understand what broke him. He can't understand why he ever complied with HYDRA, or why he didn't just let himself die. And he wants to know the answer. He wants to be able to understand himself again, to feel like he knows himself. He wants himself back.
The only vision that resurfaces of that godforsaken place, of all of the brainwashing and torture, is a nightmare he isn't even sure is real.
And the pain. He can recall the amount of pain he was put through in an instant, even if he isn't sure what was causing it. Memories flash through his mind - small moments, maybe - where he can feel the pain coursing through his body all over again. Sometimes he can still feel the bruises on his back, or the cuts on his legs as they were etched into his skin, or the burning pain in his left shoulder as the rest of his arm was sawed right off and a metal one took its place. He's always hated that damn arm - it just makes him feel less human than ever, if there was even a possibility of that. The only thing it's ever been good for is to hurt people. And that's not who Bucky is. Or at least - who he thinks he is. Again, he's not sure of it anymore.
He isn't sure of anything, except for the one memory he does have. Even if it's more like a nightmare, he intends to hang onto it like it's the last thing he has - because it is.
✯ ✯ ✯
Twenty days ago.
They'd handed him the newspaper article proclaiming the news twenty days ago.
Yet there had been no second article to come in, to tell him that it was all fake and that there'd been a misunderstanding. There had been no one to come in and tell him that there hadn't been a plane crash, no one to say that Steve Rogers was alive and well.
And it was finally beginning to sink into Bucky's mind - maybe they hadn't been tricking him after all. Maybe Steve really was dead, and he wasn't coming back to rescue Bucky.
That thought had crossed Bucky's mind many times before - but now, it was beginning to feel real. Now, it felt true.
Steve Rogers was dead, and he wasn't coming back.
And despite all of the pain he'd endured over the past several months - maybe years by this point - none of it mattered. None of it felt as real, or as heart wrenching, as the realization that his best friend was dead. He would go through that torture a million times over again if it meant he never had to lose Steve. The unthinkable had somehow happened, and Bucky suddenly collapsed to the floor of his cell as the news truly hit him for the first time.
His hands were shaking as his fist closed around the newspaper article, around that damn picture of Steve in his stupid Captain America costume. It was the last bit of his best friend he would ever get to see, and yet he didn't care.
The thing was, everybody around the world knew Captain America. They knew him as a symbol of American patriotism, as a national hero, as the man who hunted down Hydra to help win the war. But Bucky was the only one who would ever know Steve Rogers.
Steve Rogers, the man who took beatings in alleyways because he stood up for girls getting howled at on the streets. Steve Rogers, the man who wanted nothing more than a sliver of a chance to serve his country despite the fact that he couldn't even breathe right. Steve Rogers, the boy that Bucky had once comforted as he sobbed over his mother's death. Steve Rogers, the young kid that Bucky had snuck out with on the Fourth of July to go and look at the fireworks.
No one had known him like that except Bucky - and now, no one ever would.
And those little parts of Steve that made him human, the parts that made him Steve, were about to die along with him.
Bucky was beginning to feel it, to a point where he couldn't ignore it anymore. His mind was slipping more and more by the minute. It was taking him longer to remember the smallest things, and a few times he'd found himself forgetting his own name. Sometimes, he wasn't even sure of where he was anymore. The only thing he was sure of - he had to wait it out. He had to be strong, so that Steve and the rest of his Commandos could come and get him and it would be just like old times. He had to keep holding on, for Steve.
But Steve was gone now. And now, there was nothing left to hold onto.
Several tears slipped down Bucky's face, and the sounds of his sobs echoed throughout the empty chambers of his prison. He buried his face in his hands, closing his eyes and begging God to let him forget everything. Soon, those quiet sobs turned into howling screams, so loud that eventually he watched several scientists rush towards his cell to see what was going on. He continued to scream anyways - he wasn't getting out of here, so why the hell did it matter? It was all going to lead to the same fate.
And finally, he heard the creak of the cell door as it swung open. He wasn't sure if it was pure fear or his raspy throat that finally caused him to stop screaming, but he forced himself to look up at the person entering the room and crawl to his knees. Another damned scientist, coming to shut him up. And this time, Bucky let him.
A burning pain suddenly announced itself in Bucky's lower leg, and he let out a cry with what little voice he had left as he realized he'd been kicked.
And so he fell down to the floor again, helpless to move as he was slapped across the face by the same scientist.
"Are you quite done yet, Sergeant Barnes?"
His tears disobeyed him as he nodded, biting his lip so he wouldn't make any more noise. By that point, he'd bitten so hard that he could taste blood.
And in the next moment, Bucky said the most cowardly thing that he could've ever said. Not a moment goes by where he doesn't regret it, where he doesn't regret what he said. He wishes he didn't remember this moment - he wishes he doesn't remember the words that came out of his mouth. But it's too shameful of a moment for God to ever let him forget it.
"Make me forget it," he begged, nearly in a whisper.
The scientist simply furrowed his brow, a small gesture of utter confusion. "What?"
"I want to forget it," he said, clearer and louder this time. "All of it. You guys, this place, Brooklyn, the war..."
He mumbled the next part, so softly that if the scientist hadn't been listening intently he would've missed it.
"And Steve."
He waited another moment before speaking again.
"Every last bit of it."
He sounded determined now - determined to leave everything behind, to leave this world and to leave this place.
"Make it go away."
It took a few seconds - or a few hours, for all Bucky knew - for the scientist to reply to his request. But when he did, he seemed nearly gleeful. Almost like he'd been waiting for that exact moment for lifetimes.
"As you wish, Sergeant Barnes."
The last thing Bucky remembered was getting dragged down a dark hall, ready to be taken to his imminent death.
And as he lay there on a metal table in the middle of a science lab, ready to forget everything and everyone, he found in the face of death that he wasn't afraid.
Strangely enough, he was at peace.
In his final moments before his memories deceived him, he had a premonition - one that he knew would come true, one way or another.
Someday, somehow, he and Steve would find each other again. He just knew it.
✯ ✯ ✯
If only Bucky had known what Hydra had planned for him.