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Things changed after Azzano. Shifted. Moved everything two paces to the left, apparently, because Bucky felt like he was being thrown off kilter one way, just to be thrown back the other.
A slight breeze probably could have knocked him over if Steve wasn’t there to pick him right back up. Strong, healthy, big Steve. No longer the little guy. He had to keep reminding himself every time he turned around and had to look up at his friend.
Maybe it was actually the drugs.
Maybe he just needed a detox, get everything out of his system, and he’d be back in his cell trading for scrap-bars and socks.
Except when he woke up, he was still propped up against the fuck-ass tank they'd commandeered.
He felt somewhere on the scale between the flu and shoved in a jar and thrown down the river. That's what he told the impromptu medic of their squad (really, he was just a soldier, another poor soul that happened to have some experience with open wounds). Pins and needles all over and shaking like a leaf, full-body shudders that took over at random times. His fingers and toes were freezing, no matter how many layers he put on. His skin burned and itched at the same time, and it was all so awful.
The medic didn't have anything to say to that other than can you walk?
And walk he could, so he did, because there were other men who needed Sergeant Barnes right now. The goal was survival. To get everyone through the long hike back to base.
Not everyone made it. Succumbed to injury, sickness, or just plain exhaustion. Their bodies couldn't take it anymore. They couldn’t bury them; they had to keep moving, so their bodies were put in the tank. It was the best shot they had at getting home.
Bucky didn't envy the poor guy driving the thing.
He wasn't too surprised when he got back to base and was immediately thrown back into the fray. It was partly Steve's fault, but, admittedly, mostly his. He and the other men who were too stupid to take the opportunity to go back home. Leave the fight behind.
He could have. Honestly thought about it. Going back to Brooklyn with Ma and Pa and the girls.
But Steve was here, picking fights with the international bullies. So Bucky stayed, and when Steve started talking about putting a team together, Bucky said yes before he could finish umm-ing and uhh-ing his way through I'm glad you're okay Buck.
“You should go home.” Steve had said, pleading.
I should be going…
Bucky had scoffed, “Like hell I’m leaving you alone with these brutes. They’ll destroy you.” It was funny because nobody could touch Steve anymore, but Bucky could see through all that super-serum; he was still just the little guy. He wasn’t about to leave ‘em by himself in the middle of a war.
And so the Howling Commandos were born. A rag-tag group of nobodies following the star-spangled lunatic into battle.
The thing is, Bucky was used to fighting. Has been on the other end of somebody's brawl since he was six. Didn't mean he liked it. Fighting meant bullies, meant someone (Steve) getting hurt. He was used to cleaner fights, backstreet brawls where the injuries ranged from bruises to knocked-out teeth if you weren't careful.
Out here, if you weren't careful, you ended up with a bullet in your skull. A fact everyone was always painfully aware of, practically resigned that yeah, one of us might end up in a grave tomorrow, and we'd have to move on lest we be next. It was nice knowing you.
The first time he killed someone after becoming a Comando, shot clean through the man's head, he was reminded of the feeling.
Oh, right. This is what that felt like. The unease that twisted in your gut. The fear. Guilt.
He thought he'd never stop feeling guilty. Turns out, when the blood on your hands builds up enough, it all eventually starts to mix, all of it just red and messy. He didn't talk about it. Not with the others, at least. But he couldn't keep anything from Steve.
"I'm gettin' tired of washin' blood out of everything." He'd admit quietly, when it was just them.
Steve would frown and confess back, "I'm gettin' tired of cleanin' the shield."
Then Bucky would joke, make some quip about how it was more of a target than a shield, and they would repeat the cycle until they were swept away to another camp, territory, or battlefield.
It wasn't the only thing wrong, though. There was… a lot wrong. With him.
After Azzano, he just… didn't feel right. Out of place in his own skin.
Whatever Zola did, it changed things.
He was starving all the time. The boxes they loaded onto the trucks were easier to carry. Every cut or scrape he got would become itchy and red hours later, then just be gone.
There was one time his whole chest was bruised after Steve threw the shield at him with a tad too much force, hitting him square in the chest and knocking him on his ass. It had yellowed out in the next few hours and was nearly gone the morning that followed.
He didn't know how to tell Steve.
He'd been a lab rat, testing who-knows-what for who-knows-why for the better part of a month, but he had to push that away now. Bury it deep in the back of his mind because it didn't do him any good to worry about it now. What's done is done. Just put one foot in front of the other. March, soldier.
It was all he could really do at this point. Pick himself up and keep going until they either drop dead or win. Hope and pray that this will all be over soon, so he can go back home with Steve in tow and drag him through the whole city to do all the stuff he couldn't before.
He'd like that.
I had him on the ropes.
I know you did.