Chapter Text
Pain.
When Bucky regains consciousness, it’s the first thing he registers.
He’s bleeding. Or maybe he’s not. He’s in a pool of— blood? Water? Or… no. He’s…
He’s in pain.
He should be dead.
Breathing is a challenge. His ribs are broken. Or, at least, they feel broken. He’s never broken ribs before. Is this what it feels like?
Is this what it feels like to die?
A minute passes, or an hour. A day. A week. No, not a week. But long. Far too long.
Bucky fades in and out of consciousness, so often he can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. If the war and imprisonment hadn’t been enough to drive him crazy, this was.
He wondered if people would remember him— remember him, not some warped version they constructed in their mind. Steve would remember him. Rebecca, if she could still remember her older brother when she grew up.
Bucky closed his eyes and hoped they wouldn’t miss him too much.
Footsteps, crunching on snow, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. A voice— a man. Talking to someone slowly. “—е дышит."
Russian? Whatever language it is, Bucky can’t understand it. A boot nudges his thigh, sending a jolt of white hot pain through him. Bucky lets out a strangled gasp, causing the man to quickly withdraw his foot, as if he didn’t expect him to move.
Another voice. "...Не, не он жывой."
Bucky forces his eyes open, but the men are nothing more than vague blotches, a stark contrast to the white landscape behind them. Snow. So much snow. Drowning in white.
"Так что нам с ним делать?"
Are they talking about Bucky? A scoff. "А хули я знаю?"
"Может понесём его обратно?"
They fall silent, and an arm wraps around Bucky’s neck.
He wakes up in a room of concrete. Walls, cracked and worn, dark, suffocating concrete. No windows. Floors and roof of the same material, illuminated only by a singular flickering fluorescent light.
A metal door.
There’s no handle.
His pain has somewhat subsided— someone has bandaged him and removed his uniform. His shirt is gone, but he now wears a pair of drab gray pants. They’re worn and itchy and unfamiliar.
It’s cold. It’s empty.
He has never felt so alone before.
He wants to go home.
He wants Steve.
The door pulls open with a loud screech that does nothing to help the pounding headache Bucky has. He winces, stepping backwards as a tall man in a dark uniform steps closer. His brain tries to run through his past training for something— anything that could help him escape.
He fails.
His arm is cut lean off while he’s lucid and awake. The pain is indescribable, terrible in a way his mind blocks out and turns into a fuzzy haze of endless pain.
They speak to him rarely, and only in Russian.
They call him ‘солдат’ and glare at him like he’s vermin.
They keep him locked in his cell, no water, no food, no sunlight, no way to track the time.
They open the door and bring in men in white coats who stick him with needles and monitor his vitals.
They feed him rarely, with mere scraps that make him lose weight, that turns a once healthy man into one with sunken cheeks and ribs that stick out.
They treat him like an animal, but they refuse to put him down.
He tries to starve himself to death. He is starving already, so it’s an easy enough task. At one point they seem to realise what he’s doing, and they change from food to an IV drip that leaves him alive. He despises it.
They pull his nails out to prevent him from hurting himself, leaving his fingers raw and bleeding.
His hair grows long and matted, and they shave it again. And again. He doesn’t know why they keep him alive, and he doesn’t want to find out.
His name is James Barnes. He was born on March 10th, 1917. He has a younger sister named Rebecca. She’ll be mad at him for taking so long to get home.
His best friend is Steve Rogers. He wonders if Steve misses him as much as he does. It seems improbable. He wonders if Steve knows that Bucky loves him. He wonders if Steve would care.
If Bucky had told Steve the truth, would he be here? If he had confessed his love, if he had begged Steve to stay away from the army, would Steve become Captain America? Would he be safe?
Would Bucky be safe?
His name is James Barnes. He will not lose himself.
There’s a man with black hair and cold eyes hidden behind thick wiry glasses. He speaks English with a strong American accent, and he asks Bucky questions. Bucky is so desperate for someone to hear him, for a conversation after days months years so long without human connection.
Arthur, as he introduces himself, is kind to Bucky in a way the others aren’t. He says please and makes eye contact and makes sure Bucky’s injuries aren’t infected.
“What is your name?”
“James.” The word sounds strange. He has not said his name in so long.
Arthur frowns, displeased, and Bucky feels a surge of panic and he is eager to correct himself.
“Bucky.”
The frown remains, and Arthur pulls his gaze away from Bucky’s and continues stitching the gash on his arm. Bucky’s right arm is still gone. He feels it, sometimes. It burns with a dangerous pain that makes him want to claw it off, but there’s nothing to remove.
“Cолдат?” Bucky tries.
Arthur smiles faintly and pushes up his glasses.
The final time Bucky sees Arthur, the man is giddy, almost ecstatic.
“It’s almost ready,” he tells Bucky, patching up a cut on his chest. “You’re almost ready.”
For what? Bucky wants to ask. He stays silent, observant.
He secretly hopes they have finally grown tired of him.
He hopes they will kill him.
Arthur finishes fixing the cut and steps back, his gaze analytical.
“You will be perfect.”
Bucky doesn’t feel perfect.
His name is James Barnes.
His name is James Barnes.
His name is…