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Chapter Text

Whumptober

1 gunshot/unconsciousness
2 hypothermia/shock
3 hit & run/adrenaline
4 came back wrong/PTSD
5 captivity/loss of powers
6 stranded/search and rescue
7 defanging-declawing/restraints
8 sensory overload/catatonic
9 mercy/tranquilizer
10 impaled/paralysis
11 blood trail/bleeding out
12 paranoia/hallucinations
13 demonic possession/faked death
14 sickness/withdrawal
15 memory loss/side effects
16 concussion/head injury
17 time loop/survivor’s guilt
18 accident/broken glass
19 intoxicated/drugged
20 outnumbered/overwhelmed
21 whiplash/passing out
22 exhaustion/forced bed rest
23 trapped with the enemy/becoming the monster
24 wounded caretaker/sleep deprivation
25 dehumanization/living weapon
26 makeshift splint/concealing injury
27 death wish/near-death experience
28 power instability/phobias
29 hypoxia/dizziness
30 losing faith/deal with the devil
31 last one standing/post-victory collapse

Seizures
Refusing aid
Left behind
Car accident
Final girl
Alternate timeline self
Major character death

Chapter Text

He doesn’t even realize he’s been hit.

Okay, that’s a lie. He knew he had been hit but didn’t realize it was that bad. He thought it might be a graze; it barely felt like a pinch. Whatever it was hit his upper back, nearly his side. He felt the rush of blood but was too busy fighting to check. The black he’s always adorned in comes in handy in times like this.

They fight their way through the throng of soldiers, several tackle John and manage to dislocate his shoulder. Once they get through everyone and retrieve what they came for, they are out quickly.

It’s a bit of a walk back to the small clearing the jet is in. Yelena is already fussing over John, as she usually does when anyone gets hurt, and honestly, he’s forgotten about the wound by now. It’s probably closed anyway. They’re about halfway back when the adrenaline wears off, and suddenly he has to stop.

The whole world tunnels, like something sapped all his energy. There’s pain radiating from his back. His steps stutter, and Yelena notices. “Bucky?” He goes to wave her off, but raising the arm causes the pain to spike, and his vision blacks out even further. He feels his knees weaken. Jeez, how much blood did he lose?

He feels her brace him, and she curses, her hand coming away slick with blood. His eyes find it, and he stares. “Oh.” It’s the last thing he says before his vision blacks out completely, and he fades into the abyss.

Yelena swears again as Bucky goes limp. Luckily, Alexei was already walking over and manages to catch them. “What is wrong?”

She pokes and prods. “Gunshot. Probably didn’t realize it was that bad. Him and his insane pain tolerance. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

John steps over. “Is he stable?”

She checks his pulse. “Yes. It’s fast but strong. Breathing is fine. Let’s get him to the jet. Dad?”

Alexei nods, carefully picking Bucky up. Yelena makes sure he’s situated properly. Ava watches. “I’ll run ahead and get things ready.” With a nod, she phases away.

It’s silent as they cross the rest of the distance. Bob and Ava are waiting impatiently, bandages ready. There’s a foldout cot for this very reason, and it’s ready for them. Alexei lays him down gently, his eyes crack open. “Wha?”

Alexei presses him down gently as he tries to sit up. "Расслабься, Зима, ты в безопасности." Relax, Winter, you are safe.

He seems to understand, letting Alexei settle him. Yelena packs the wound as Bob prepares for takeoff. Alexei takes over piloting, and Ava calls their medical staff to be ready when they land. The ride is quiet. Yelena stands right next to Bucky the entire time, watching him closely. His eyes crack again, and he looks at Yelena. He mumbles something in Russian that has her softening, replying just as quietly.

They’re all terrible at showing their emotions, but they have their love language. Yelena’s fussing over the injured shows hers, even as she steps away for a moment to press an ice pack to John’s shoulder.

Bucky doesn’t let many people in. And considering his best friend left the way he did, they don’t blame him. That’s not even touching on Hydra’s treatment. But when he relaxes at Alexei’s voice and settles when Yelena brushes a hand over his hair, they know it’s his way of showing that he’s letting them in and trusting them.

And none of them would give this up for the world.

Chapter Text

It’s been hours. It’s usually good at telling how long it’s been, but like the rest of its body, its mind is numb.

It’s been standing guard outside the Safehouse for hours. No one has come to relieve them, not that it expected anyone to. Usually, after so long, it’s given a short time to eat, relieve itself if needed, or take a break from the cold if it’s severe weather, like now.

The blizzard is in full force, and the wind is howling, chilling to the bone. The snow is so thick it’s nearly impossible to see further than about a foot. The snow is almost up to its knees now. There’s minimal cover here, snow piling on its head and shoulders as well.

It was given a bit more gear than normal, full gloves and thicker pants, but it’s not enough. It’s frozen. It stopped shivering, and a slow thought floats through its mind. Hypothermia, once shivering stops, you have limited time-

The wind howls again, the sound breaking the thought. It can’t move. It couldn’t if it tried. It hasn’t been told to leave its post. It doesn’t matter how cold it feels. If it leaves its post, it’ll be punished.

Rising voices inside grab its attention. The voice sounds angry, and fear rises unbidden as it’s concerned it’ll be the target of the anger, whether it did something wrong or not. The voices get closer. "Как это, никто его не снял?" What do you mean, no one’s relieved it?

The Russian is loud and angry. The response is quiet, and it can’t make it out. "Да, буря! Именно поэтому! Он не неуязвим. Лучше надеяться, что он там жив." Yes, it is storming! Which is exactly why! It’s not invulnerable. You'd better hope it’s alive out there.

The door swings open, and it doesn’t move as much as it wants to run into the heat. "Солдат." Soldier. It tries to respond, but it can’t seem to form the words. "Солдат!" Soldier! It’s going to get in trouble. Its handler hates to be ignored. He stomps closer and stops, eyes hard. He lets out a swear, yelling at someone inside.

Men rush around, a few tug it in while someone takes its post. The warmth. It almost hurts. They tug its gear. It almost wants to stop them. It’s the only warmth it’s got. But they get it off, then push it in front of a fire, and it’s cocooned in blankets. It’s not used to this.

It starts shivering again, clenching its teeth tightly to stop them from chattering. Its handler kneels in front of them. "Все в порядке, солдат, пусть будет так. Это не твоя вина. Ты выполнял приказ." It’s okay, soldier, let it happen. This isn’t your fault. You followed orders. Relief blooms in its chest. It did good, no punishments. "Как только согреетесь, покушайте и отдохните. Нам нужно, чтобы вы были начеку, когда будем выдвигаться." Once you’re warmer, you’ll eat and rest. We need you to be alert when we move out. It must have done really good if it’s getting rest before returning to base.

It doesn’t mean to fall asleep there; it’s not supposed to. But the warmth of the fire and the blankets lull it to sleep once the shivering slows. It snaps awake as its handler returns. "Вольно. Как вы себя чувствуете? " At ease. How do you feel?

Its brow furrows. “Оперативный.” Operational.

A nod. "Хорошо. Устал?" Good. Tired? It doesn’t answer. It’s not supposed to admit if it’s tired. "Солдат, ответь." Soldier, answer.

It’s not supposed to lie. "Да." Yes.

Another nods. “Неудивительно.” Not surprising.

It isn’t? Oh yes. It speaks without thinking. "Гипотермия?" Hypothermia?

It expects anger for speaking without permission, but it sees none. "Верно, солдат. Тебе тепло?" Correct, soldier. Are you warm?

Warmer than it’s been in a long time. “Да, сэр.” Yes, sir.

He passes over a bar. "Хорошо. Ешь." Good. Eat. It’s bland and chewy, a protein bar that they make to provide the nutritional intake it needs. It’s given water, then pulled to its feet. It’s taken to a room, and it expects the blankets to be taken and told to sleep on the floor. If it’s lucky, they’ll return its gear first.

Its mind is still working too slowly to understand, as it’s taken to a mattress with a pillow. It’s pushed down, the blankets left alone. "Спи, солдат. Я разбужу тебя, когда понадобится." Sleep, soldier. I will wake you when needed.

It shouldn’t ask. It’s stupid. It could ruin it. But it happens before it can stop it. “Сэр?” Sir?

There must be confusion on its face. "Здесь мужчины совершили ошибку, которая едва не стоила нам дорого. Ты выполнил приказ в точности, а они — нет. Так что спи спокойно." The men here made an error that nearly cost us dearly. You followed your orders perfectly; they didn’t. So sleep.

It pauses. “Спасибо, сэр.” Thank you, sir.

A nod and he’s gone, the door shut, and it’s alone. There’s still confusion, but it doesn’t matter. It’s comfortable, warm, and it’s so tired. What’s the saying it’s heard? Something about a horse giving gifts? It decides it’s not important as it drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

The thing about being Captain America is that it makes you a target. The thing about being a black Captain America is that the target gets even bigger. And some people, some stupid people, get really lucky.

He clocks the van as it whips around the corner, the story he’s telling Bucky pausing as the man’s eyes also flick to the squeal of tires. They had gotten coffee and are currently walking back to Sam’s apartment. It’s a normal day on a normal street.

Then the man leans out the window with a gun, some automatic rifle that sends fear shooting down his spine. Because he doesn’t have the shield, he’s out in the open, and there are civilians. Instinctively, he tries to find cover, but it’s too late, the bullets fly, and he puts his arms up in vain.

The sound of bullets hitting metal reaches his ears first, then the sound of flesh. He looks up, swearing.

Bucky.

He should have guessed. The man put himself in front of Sam, his metal arm up to block what he could. But the spray of bullets was too broad. There’s one in his right shoulder and one by his left hip. They’re lucky it wasn’t worse. The van’s tires squeal again as they take another corner and disappear. He should have tried to get a license plate, but he’s too focused on Bucky. “Buck.”

The man puts his arm down. “Are you hurt?”

Sam lets out a harsh laugh. “Am I hurt? You got shot.”

Bucky looks down at the blood spots growing on his shirt. “Oh. Right.”

Sam’s look turns incredulous. “Right? Right!? Man, you’ve got issues.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Sam scoffs, grabbing Bucky’s metal arm and hauling him along. They’re close enough to his apartment that he’s only freaking out a little. He’d rather go to the hospital, but he doesn’t need a panicked Bucky on top of a bleeding Bucky. He does not do well in hospitals.

He unlocks the door as his phone starts ringing. He digs it out, about to decline when he sees it’s his sister. “Sarah, can’t talk right now.”

Her voice is stern. “Too bad. There’s a news article about someone tryin’ to shoot you?”

How? It was barely ten minutes ago. “Well, news travels fast then. It like just happened. I’m fine.”

He pulls Bucky to the bathroom and pushes him to sit on the closed toilet. “You’re fine? I heard someone got hit.”

He puts the phone between his shoulder and ear as he digs out the first aid kit. “Bucky did. He shielded me. Got one in the shoulder and one by the hip. We’re in my apartment now. I’m gonna patch him up and then kick his ass.”

Bucky’s look is unimpressed, and he ignores it. “Your apartment? Go to the hospital.”

Sam opens the kit, grabbing bandages. “No way. Bucky and the hospital are not compatible.”

Bucky opens his mouth, and Sam glares hard. He thankfully thinks better of whatever he wanted to say and closes his mouth. “Well, kick ass for me too. And then hug him for me, for savin’ your dumbass.”

He rolls his eyes. “Love you too, sis.”

He grabs towels, running one under warm water. “Love you, dumbass.”

Sam puts his phone down, and Bucky smirks. “Do I get a hug then?” Damn his enhanced hearing. He glares, but that only widens the smirk.

It’s silent after that. He digs the bullets out; the one in his shoulder is deep but manageable. He’s simmering in anger the entire time. They were just having a nice day, they weren’t doing anything. He wasn’t. And those men decided to try to kill him. If Bucky hadn’t been with him.

He stops those thoughts. No point. He’s fine, thanks to the pain in the ass in front of him. “You’re angry.”

He pauses bandaging, Bucky having refused stitches. What makes him pause is the uncertainty in Bucky’s voice. Sam realizes that, as he’s been angrily silent, Bucky could have taken it the wrong way. “Yes. I am.” Bucky nods, a frown tugging at his lips. “Those bastards tried to kill me. It was a normal day. A nice day. And they opened fire on me, with civilians around, and you got hurt. Yeah, I’m pissed.”

Bucky nods again, slowly. Sam sighs. “I’d be angry at you, but I would have done the same. And, I do appreciate it. If you hadn’t been there.”

He stops and sees the slight tension leave Bucky’s shoulders. He gives a small smile. “Well, I was. And I’ll be healed in a couple of days.”

Sam finishes, moving to clean up. “Well, you’re gonna do nothin’ the next couple of days. You need to rest.”

Bucky opens his mouth as if to argue, but just nods. “Okay, for now. I’m tired. And sore.”

Sam is pleased he won’t have to fight the man on this right now. “You need anything? Something to eat?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not hungry.”

Sam nods. “Okay. How about a drink?”

Bucky perks up a little. “Hot chocolate?”

He almost laughs at the almost childlike demeanour from the former Winter Soldier. “I can totally do that.”

Bucky looks excited. Sam heads to make the hot chocolate while Bucky grabs a new shirt. A few of his items are already in the spare room. The hot chocolate doesn’t take him long; he could do it in his sleep at this point. He goes all out, putting on whipped topping, mini marshmallows, and even some chocolate sprinkles he has left.

Bucky steps into the kitchen, eyes immediately on the cup. Before he can grab it, Sam pulls him into a gentle hug. “Thank you.”

Bucky returns it. He feels the man leaning into the embrace a little. “Anytime.” They step apart, and Bucky smirks. “Who’ll make me hot chocolate if you’re gone?”

Sam chuckles, passing him the cup. “Here. Smartass.”

Bucky’s eyes sparkle with amusement as he takes a sip, nearly melting. “God, it’s so good.”

Warmth fills Sam’s chest. He wishes he could capture this moment, take a picture or something. The relaxed, happy look on Bucky’s face, a little whipped topping on the end of his nose and upper lip.

As he picks up his own cup, he knows this will be a time he’ll look back on fondly.

Chapter Text

The moment Zemo touched his chin was the moment he lost his control. Until then, he’d been teetering on a precipice. Ever since Zemo first said those words to him, he’d had a buzzing under his skin.

Then, becoming the Winter Soldier again, even with a different jacket and harness, nearly sent him spiralling. He constantly reminded himself that the programming was gone and it was all an act. Even in the bar, with eyes on them and whispers in his ears, he made sure he reminded himself he was free.

He did it by speaking, asking Zemo about the Power Broker. He wouldn’t have been allowed to speak without permission before. When he saw the man approaching, his heart sped up. He knew what would happen. Fighting is easy; it’s second nature now. He made sure to fight like he used to, using the metal arm more. Being brutal but not killing anyone. He lets his thoughts go, letting his body move. He feels the pressure of an arm on his metal one, but only Zemo’s words register fully. He lets the man go, not looking behind him, afraid of what he’ll find. “You good?” Sam’s words are quiet but concerned. He gives a sharp nod, following Zemo. He wasn’t okay, but now isn’t the time.

Standing still is a skill he’s perfected. No one can see the war in his mind or his racing heart. Can’t see the panic rising as Zemo offers him. He knows it won’t work, but he’ll have to do something if they want the information. And how is he supposed to get away?

Luckily, he doesn’t have to find out. Between Sam’s sister calling and someone killing Selby, they run. He focuses on getting away, trying to control his breathing. Seeing Sharon was a shock; the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew. She’s the Power Broker. But he keeps his mouth shut. Not his business, and she’s here because she helped him. Technically. Yes, it was for Steve, but Steve was doing it for him. So it’s his fault.

He wants to apologize, but can’t, his jaw clenched. Sam glances at him a few times as Sharon takes them somewhere safe, offering shelter and a change of clothes. He’s eager to be out of this. He grabs the first thing that looks like it will fit, rushing off quickly, missing Sam calling his name. He needs this off.

It’s different but not different enough. He can feel it tug when he moves, reminding him of times from before. When he was yanked around by the harness by his handlers. Or the feeling of it as he moved, crouching to hide or when he was bent over and-

His fingers scramble for the buckles, but his right hand shakes too much, his vision blurring with tears. He can’t break down—not here, not now. He considers ripping it off when suddenly someone is there. He flinches, but the voice is a familiar one, and he automatically relaxes. He feels a slight tug, and the panic rises again, but he stops when he hears the buckles being undone.

His vision clears enough to see Sam, his face focused but concerned, and he’s swiftly unbuckling the harness. It loosens, and he slides it off, letting it drop to the ground. His back hits the wall, and he bends some, trying to get enough air. “Bucky? Hey, I’m gonna touch you now. Okay?” What? Why?

Hands land on his shoulders, but they’re gentle. They push him up slightly, then, to his shock, he’s pulled into a loose embrace. “Breathe for me. Alright? Follow me.” Sam is taking deliberate, slow, deep breaths. He does his best to match it, but he is unable to at first. His mind is still going everywhere. He needs to focus.

Sam.

Sam is hugging him, one hand slowly rubbing his back, the other gently resting on the back of his head. Sam, who is breathing deeply against him. Sam, who smells like sweat and vanilla and something so unique to him. Sam, who isn’t judging him or laughing, but is helping. Sam, who isn’t afraid, who only asked if he was okay after he fought in the bar. Sam, whose eyes bore into him with understanding, when Zemo offered him up. Sam, who definitely knows now but isn’t disgusted, who is holding him softly.

He doesn’t know when, but his arms are around Sam’s torso, hands clenching the back of his shirt. His head has fallen to Sam’s shoulder, no doubt creating a wet spot with the few tears that are escaping. He feels a lot calmer, and his breathing is finally steady. “Better?”

He nods. He should move; they have things to do, and they’re barely friends. “Sam.”

The arms tighten a bit. “Hey, it’s okay. Take your time. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

He can only breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

The first time Bucky was in captivity was in 1943. He fights and yells, and he’s strapped down on some table and pumped full of something that makes his veins burn and itch. He’s reciting his rank and number just as they’re taught, knowing he’s likely never coming out of here. Many before him didn’t.

But then Steve is there—wonderful, kind, stubborn Steve. Who is now taller and filled out, and what the hell happened? But it doesn’t matter. It is definitely Steve, and he’s free, even if he feels like his limbs weigh a ton. Steve can do incredible things, jump over a huge gap, and lift people with ease.

He explains what happened on their way back, and while he wants to smack the man for being stupid and letting people experiment on him, especially considering what he just went through, a small, selfish part of him is so happy the man is here. He never thought he’d see the light of day again, but now he’s marching beside his best friend, pride in his chest.

It’s been too long. He lost count of the days between the torture and isolation. There are no windows here; he only counted days by meals until they stopped giving him food for a while. He knew the date at one point; they showed him paper after paper of Steve’s death. Even news recordings. All so he knew he was never getting rescued. They even showed him where they honoured him, calling him a hero for his sacrifice. He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg anyone who could hear that he wasn’t dead. Please god, just save him.

But he knows. This is it. Whatever it is they want. Whatever reason they took him, fused the metal limb to his body, they won’t be giving up until they get it. They ask all sorts of questions and tell him all kinds of things until he doesn’t know what is right or wrong, which thoughts are his own, and which are their voices. He’s hurt in so many ways he didn’t even consider before. He feels a hunger and exhaustion he’s never felt, not even when he was taken the first time. It’s literal hell.

They talk about a weapon, a soldier, something they want him to be. They say they’ll win, he’ll give it eventually. Perhaps he will. But he won’t make it easy for them.

The asset hated being isolated. Hated when they threw him in a small room because they didn’t want to deal with him. No windows, no bed or chair, nothing. He sits on the ground; at least this time, he wasn’t told to stand the whole time. He knows there’s a camera in here somewhere. They wouldn’t leave him completely unsupervised.

He didn’t even do anything wrong. His handler just wanted a break. Something about drinks. So he’s thrown in here until his handler decides otherwise. As much as he hated the isolation, in a way, he’s grateful. He gets a break from his handler, and he won't be punished if he doesn’t act up. He usually isn’t when he’s let out, his handler more relaxed or even drunk from whatever he was doing and not concerned with him. He can sit here and just exist.

He doesn’t want to remember and risk a reset, so he doesn’t let his mind wander; he shuts it off and just sits with his back against the wall, waiting for when he’s let out.

He lets them strap him into the chair, as much as his instincts scream at him to fight. They aren’t Hydra—at least these men aren’t. They aren’t taking him to be reset. Steve is here, and despite being unsure, he knows the man won’t let anything happen to him. The look he gets, of Steve silently begging him not to fight, makes him pause.

He’s put in a cage, metal and glass, reinforced, he knows. He could easily break out of these restraints, but he lets them think he’s held in place as much as his heart is racing, and he has to keep his eyes down, counting in his head to keep himself calm. This isn’t permanent. Steve will fix it. People talk to him, but he doesn’t hear them. Not until there’s only one in the room. “-James.”

James. Right. That’s him, isn’t it? He responds without thinking. “My name is Bucky.”

The next time he comes to, he’s trapped again, but in a different way. His arm is in a vice, and though he could probably get out, it would hurt, and he is still reeling from the head wound. His memories are intact this time and he’s able to tell Steve details about before. He’s rewarded with the vice being loosened and his arm freed. He’s not being actively held anywhere, but he still feels like a prisoner. He just wants to be free.

Walking back into the facility in Siberia is hard. It is nearly impossible, not that Steve knows that. The whole place makes his skin crawl. And seeing the cryochambers? He almost breaks down. Memories of being strapped in and frozen to his very core flood his mind. He pushes them aside and focuses.

This time it feels different. He’s choosing to be frozen, to go under. It’s safer, and he trusts these people. After sincere apologies, he agreed to let T’Challa help him, to make up for his mistakes, he said. It’s not necessary. He understands the man’s actions and isn’t upset, but the King insists. And knowing he can’t hurt anyone there makes it appealing. He sees the Dora Milaje fighting and knows how good the King is, so he knows they can stop him if needed.

The Princess, a loud and fiery woman who makes Stark seem dumb, is eager to help him. He doesn’t know why, but the prospect of truly being free, free from Hydra and its programming, is too appealing. But for now, he needs to go under. So that one day he can truly be free.