#and to my pal apollo for informing me that i was wrong with my first impressions of astarion

[pennamepersona]

ala doesn't stand for american library association, it stands for astarion lovers anonymous

[fanfic-scribbles]

On the Run: Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen: “What is Love” or “Baby Don’t Hurt Me No More”

Masterlist Here

Overall Story Facts:

Fandom: MCU Avengers; MCU Captain America

Adventure/Romance – James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes/Reader – Female Reader

Warnings: Violence, language, eventual romance, reader character with sassy/abrasive personality

Chapter Summary: You find yourself in a bad way, thanks to your new Hydra pal. He wants to be introduced to Bucky. He should be careful what he wishes for.

Special Chapter Warnings: Reader peril, described torture, violence being visited upon Reader, I don’t know how else to say ‘bad things happen to Reader’

Words: 5954

A/N: I would like to stress that the reader character does not have a super fun time in this chapter and dissociates during periods of torture/interrogation. I was descriptive of it so please take heed; if you need to skip this chapter that is a-okay. Now, that being said…everyone else, please enjoy. Long chapter is long.

    Chapter Thirteen: “What is Love” or “Baby Don’t Hurt Me No More”

You are terrified out of your mind, aching from whatever they had injected into you to knock you out, and in pain with a promise of more to come. However, some things just can’t be helped.

Your personality is apparently one of those things.

“Seriously? A dungeon? Do you LARP in your mom’s basement?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” says the wiry looking dork who has brought with him a rolling tray of assorted sharp and blunt objects. Some of them make you want to wet yourself, like the freshly sharpened knives, needles with who-knows-what in them, and a fucking mallet. However, some of them are sort of ‘eh’. Like that old rusted knife that probably can’t hack its way through butter. Ooo, tetanus. So scary. If you were under ten and couldn’t get a booster shot.

Wait, have you had your booster shot? Shit, that might actually be a problem.

But of course, it’s the long, thin, curved knife that the douchebag’s hand hovers over. “I have it on good authority that no, I don’t,” you say and damn it, you're pretty sure he can hear the quiver in your voice. His smile at you confirms it and you look away. Right at Steve, who is strapped down in some kind of tube thing and doing his best concerned face, so you look at the ground instead.

The others are like him too– Sam, Natasha, and even two people you didn’t really expect to be meeting like this: Hawkeye and Iron Man. Most of them are worse for wear and all of them are strapped to gurneys that slant upwards, enclosed in glass covers that you would compare to Snow White’s coffin if these things weren’t filthy with dirt and blood.

It’s hard to avoid looking at everyone when they’re in a half-circle around you. You’re standing, in your underwear, in the center of the room– well, sort of standing. Your wrists are cuffed behind your back and there’s a chain that is wrapped under your arms and shoulders and goes up to the ceiling, while your ankles are chained to the floor to keep you from…wandering, you guess. All that and the most annoying part of this is the grate you’re standing on. The holes are just big enough that if you don’t step carefully your toes get caught in them and that hurts like a bitch and a half when you don’t notice and try to move too fast.

On the plus side, you’re not in an enclosed tube. On the minus side, you’re pretty sure you’re going to be the lesson for everyone who is.

The DM grabs your chin and forces you to look at him. “Focus, sweetheart. I doubt you want to be here all day.”

Your blood rushes at the nickname. “I’m not your ‘sweetheart’, you sack of shit.”

“No, not mine,” he says, looking no less delighted. He purrs your name and you stare at him head on. You’re a woman in the world. If he wants to be the creepiest man you’ve ever met, he’s got some work ahead of him.

Unfortunately he seems to be up for the job, by how he leans in. “That is your name, right?”

“Ugh.” Your nose crinkles at the smell of…an everything bagel? Whatever it is, it does his breath no favors. “Can you breathe somewhere else? I don’t need to know what you had for breakfast. Also, why the rush? You can go brush your teeth; I’ll wait.”

He hits you so fast it stuns you. Your jaw aches and you blink away the stars and immediate pain. Still, at least it’s not a knife. You look at him, playing as cool as you can.

“We have to start slow,” he says and pulls back. “I don’t want to break you before I get my information.” Before you can ask what information you, the creaky fourth wheel on this hellish road trip, can possibly have to offer him, he starts pulling on a smock. “My name is Richard, by the way. I can tell we’re going to be here a while.”

You roll your eyes. Dick. Well, it’s appropriate. “Buddy, I don’t even know what I had for dinner last night. I don’t know what information you’re hoping to get when you probably have more of it than I do.”

“How about that chit chat you had with your boyfriend?” Dick leans in close again. “Hm?”

Well. Shit. Although you didn’t actually find out anything, other than you’d meet up in New York, which is a relief. Not that you’re planning on telling him that, but you figure the less you know, the better.

Dick punches you in the stomach. You gag and try to double over at the force of it. Try, because the chains keep you up enough and don’t give much slack for your effort to preserve those pesky things you like to call ‘internal organs’. You suck in a breath before Dick grabs your hair and yanks your head up. “Where is the Soldier heading?”

“There are a lot of soldiers in this world,” you wheeze. “Though I don’t think I know anybody on active duty.” You think of making a joke about Steve or Sam but ultimately quash it in case you draw Dick’s attention to them. They can probably take a hell of a lot more than you can, but the thought of anyone else being in this position because of you hurts your stomach more than that punch did.

Mother fucking conscience. The second science comes up with a way to surgically remove it you’re going to be first on the sign-up sheet. That thing is nothing but trouble.

Dick punches you harder, making you gasp and pant for air. “You know who I mean,” he says, still creepily level, like nothing about this bothers him at all. Mother fucking Nazis. If you surgically remove your conscience, can you give it away? They need it more than you do, you swear. “Where is the Asset?”

You take a few extra seconds to catch your breath. “You try putting your missing friend on a milk carton?”

Dick backhands you across the face right where he had punched you, only this feels impossibly harder, making you really see stars as a headache begins to swell. You can’t help the way your eyes tear up but you clench your jaw– ow, okay, bad idea. Still, you don’t cry out and that’s something.

“Where is your boyfriend?”

You spit out a little blood. “I don’t have one.” And a tooth. Oy vey; what a mess. “And, uh, if you’re looking to fill the position– buddy, you are going about it the wrong way.”

He presses his lips together into a tight, grim smile, and you weather the hits as they come the best you can. He keeps asking you the same question, ‘where, where, where,’ but you don’t even tell him that you don’t know. Avoiding the topic all together seems safest. As does denying all possible hints of whatever you and Bucky are to each other. You haven’t even gotten a chance to talk about it with Bucky; no way in hell are you talking it out with Dick. He is officially banned from Girls’ Night.

Thankfully, his hitting and occasional kicking is something you can mostly bear. Seriously, high school bullies are more inventive than this shit stain. You kind of sort of really hope it stays that way.

“All right,” Dick says, walking away and sounding as calm as if he hasn’t just been using you as a punching bag. The pain isn’t as bad as you might have thought. Less sharp, more of a constant ache all over, but you’re panting like you’ve gone a few rounds yourself. Fuck, does this make you Rocky? And is it hilarious or awful to cast the wiry white Nazi as Apollo? You’re gonna go with ‘awful’.

Dick comes back. Holding a tape player.

A tape player. Hydra, feared terrorists, ruthless assassins, and government infiltrators, are using fucking cassettes.

God, if Dick plays you his Excellent Eighties mix you’re going to throw yourself on his torture tray and hope something on there hits a vital organ.

“Please, no Air Supply, anything but that,” you say with as much drama as you can muster. It isn’t. Much, that is. You’re a little woozy.

Dick hits play. The tape is scratchy, but you can make it out just fine.

“Wanna tell us who your girlfriend is?” a raspy, strained voice asks. The person sounds pained to a point you can really relate with right now, honestly.

“No,” says your favorite deadly trash vermin. His voice lowers to a register and tone that, frankly, you don’t ever want to hear aimed in your direction. “And you’re going to regret ever finding out about her.”

Dick stops the playback and does an exaggerated shrug.

That’s…huh.

“But the important question is: did he post it on Facebook?” You ‘tsk’ even as that recording plays back in your head. And again. “Not official unless it’s up on the wall.”

Dick hits you again, and again, and again. You take it as well as you can but you’re still left dizzy and barely able to see, between the double-vision and the tears. He stops you from swaying and the weight of his hands on your shoulders makes you tremble. What is he going to do now? “This is your last chance before we get started,” he says, lowly. It’s pretty piss poor compared to Bucky’s looming voice, but Bucky isn’t here. This guy is. “Tell me what you and the Asset spoke about and I will show you mercy.”

Your stomach sinks. You think about feeding him some lies but he’d probably figure it out and then you’d be in even worse shape. Did Bucky even tell you anything of note? You’re pretty sure Dick doesn’t care about your shared emotional immaturity and Bucky only mentioned that everybody was supposed to be heading home. That he would be too. You almost tell Dick that– that Bucky’s going home where he’ll be safe and far the hell away from any Hydra douchebag who wants him– but would that give them a lead, an edge that they could use to hurt him? Is that something Bucky doesn’t want them to know? It’s best to keep quiet, in this case.

Dick pulls up his knife and holds it in front of your eyes. “Going once, going twice…”

You glare at him. “Going go fuck yourself.” You immediately try to brace yourself for the fallout but Dick doesn’t hit you. He does something worse.

He smiles.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says and presses sharp steel into your flesh.

 �� It’s a weird night. Bucky is silent, in one of his moods, and you’ve had a shit week so you’re not exactly Little Miss Extrovert yourself. Still, you’re going ahead with your plans to make a ‘decent’ dinner by foisting all the work on the guy who had the audacity to complain about the food you buy. Now maybe he’ll appreciate why you go for easy, oven-heated meals.

But as you walk out of your room after changing into something comfier, you find him standing completely still at the counter. As you move around him you see all of the potatoes have been peeled but only one has been chopped up, and another is gripped loosely in his left hand while he stares hard at the giant knife he holds in the other.

Great. This is totally reassuring. “Bucky?” you ask. He doesn’t budge an inch. Yep, totally great to have a former assassin holding a knife and probably having an episode. You take a small step forward, because nobody has ever accused you of being too smart and sensible for your own good. Bucky tells you the opposite whenever he can, in fact. “Bucky, seriously, if you want to check out your hair go use the mirror like a semi-normal person.”

He still shows no sign of life. It’s times like these you wish there was a manual– ‘How to Take Care of Your Formerly-Brainwashed Super Assassin.’ Granted, he’s not ‘yours,’ but he spends enough time at your house that you feel like you have to take partial ownership. Times like these you don’t really want to, but he’s still staring at the knife and you just hope he won't stick it in your brain. “Hey, Trash Panda!”

He flinches and turns his head to look at you with wide eyes. You find yourself a little helpless in the face of such blatant fear, but he schools himself back to his usual aloofness quick enough for it to be just a little blip. Thankfully. You are not good at feelings, though you sometimes try to make an effort at it.

“Geeze, we’re never gonna eat at this rate.” Your version of ‘try’ doesn’t mean you always succeed, but in this case you do get the knife away from him so you can start chopping the potatoes into mostly-okay pieces. Mostly. Bucky observes you quietly for a few moments as you struggle to keep the fucking food equivalent of a bar of soap in your hand without chopping your fingers off.

“That looks painful,” he murmurs.

“I haven’t cut myself,” you say. Yet.

“I meant for the potato.”

You give him the meanest look you can muster but he just looks smug which is totally unfair but even you won't joke about whatever dark place he just visited. So you punch him. Unfortunately, Bucky has turned and your aim is shit, so your knuckles collide with metal. Not terribly hard, but hard enough to cause a little pain, and hard enough to make you drop the knife in surprise, which you fumble to catch like the dumbass you are.

“Ow! Ow!” you whine to both hands, one aching, the other stinging. Bucky pushes you over to the sink to start rinsing the blood off and he quickly holds a kitchen towel to the cut. He’s shaking and for a moment you’re afraid the blood has triggered a bad memory, but when you look at him he’s silently ‘laughing’.

He’s laughing.

“You asshole!” You use your not-cut hand to punch his not-metal shoulder. Even on flesh it doesn’t go much better for you.

“Go sit down,” he chuckles as he bandages you up. “And try not to bludgeon yourself on the coffee table on the way, yeah?”

You’re set to argue out of sheer stubbornness but both of your hands are out of commission and at this rate you’re going to “Final Destination” your way into a truly ignominious death. A strategic retreat from kitchen hell might be in order. “I hate you,” you grumble and shuffle away.

Bucky ruffles your hair and flashes you a genuine smile you haven’t seen on his face before. “No you don’t.”

   Dick makes a small but deep cut in your neck that makes you gasp for how much blood flows out. It’s not technically as bad as some of the others he’s carved into you– that one on your leg is tough to look at– but going out via slit throat seems like a real bad time to you.

But Dick is there, with a cloth and, “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’d never let you bleed out so soon. We’re just getting started. Unless you want to cooperate and tell me where the Soldier– where your Sergeant Barnes is heading?”

The way he sneers, like Bucky doesn’t deserve a goddamn name, makes Rational Thought and Reasonable Discourse take a backseat. Right into the trunk. “Cancun. He needs a nice beach vacation.”

Dick slaps you. You give a half-hearted shrug. As much as you can while strung up, anyway. “Yeah, I told him the Bahamas look much nicer, but what can you do?”

He puts his fingers over a gash he made in your shoulder and pushes them in. You scream but he doesn’t stop and for seconds that feel like minutes that feel like hours you can only think I won't give him up I won't give him up I won't I won't I won–

But why? Why won't you? Not that you’ve ever made a habit of selling out people you care about, but you hate pain and you always figured you’d crack like an egg if anybody ever threatened you with so much as a papercut. The question is worth examining if only to find out why your sanity and self-preservation have left the building.

The answer comes in a flash of pain and isn’t that just the most appropriate thing ever? You actually laugh. Dick grabs a handful of your hair and yanks your head back. “What’s so funny?”

“Hell of a time to have a revelation,” you mumble, still chuckling. It’s sort of funny. You had assumed you care so much about Bucky because you can maybe, some day, sort of, perhaps, in the future, possibly, eventually, kind of come to love that insufferable asshole.

You hadn’t really stopped to consider that you’re already there.

Stupid fucking trash panda. But then what does that make you? Ugh. Best not to think about it right now.

Ice cold water is dumped over you and you yell out in surprise. Dick’s mom’s basement is already chilly but the arctic shower you just took is so cold that your body isn’t shivering so much as it’s spasming.

“Don’t worry,” Dick says, going through a toolbox he’s pulled up. “I’ll find something to warm you up.”

   It’s hot and miserable. You’ve been trying to sleep for hours, but the night is relentless and you decide to stop sweating through your sheets for a few minutes.

You get to the living room and jump about five feet. Wow, okay, Bucky’s home apparently. “I thought you said you weren’t a robot,” you say as you approach him. He continues to stare blankly at the window. Out of the window? No, definitely just at. Shit, but that expression is too familiar to be good. Still, you stand next to him. “But normal humans don’t sleep like that.”

He blinks. “What?” he asks.

“Where’s your head at?” you ask back.

  He presses the hot poker against your collarbone and you scream. It’s harder to tune this out when the cuts simultaneously burn. You’re starting to sweat.

“I told you I’d warm you up,” Dick says and pushes your head to one side, leaving a broad expanse of your neck wide open.

  Bucky shakes his head. “Nowhere good,” he mumbles. His throat pulses with a swallow. “I shoulda stayed gone. It’s too fuckin’ hot.”

“Man, you’re tellin’ me.” you fan yourself. “I didn’t know you got back already. You’re lucky I’m wearing clothes.”

“I don’t know if I’d call that ‘lucky,’ doll.”

You choke on air. “Well, Mr. Barnes, I do declare!” you manage to say as he chuckles. It gets quiet again and Bucky looks a little less unnerved, but still not quite relaxed. He’s still…

“What?” he asks you.

There’s no nice way for you to ask this question. So maybe you shouldn’t. But he’s staring at you and ugh, you might as well just ask and deal with the fallout. “Does your head ever go anywhere good?” you say and lean against the couch arm. “You remember stuff before Hydra…is any of it good?”

He looks thoughtful, not angry, so that’s something. “Sometimes.” He squints, like there’s something only he can see in the distance. His lips quirk into a slight smile. “Cool bottles, hot night. Steve laughing about something.”

From the way the smile molds to his face you assume there’s more to that than he’s saying, but that’s okay. He looks content so you go to the kitchen and turn the faucet on, letting it run until it’s cold while you grab a few things.

When you return to the living room it’s with two wet, cold dishtowels and fresh-out-of-the-fridge beer bottles. You’re already wearing your towel and when you drape the other one around the back of Bucky’s neck he lets out a satisfying little groan.

You plop down next to him. “Sounds nice, but it must have been hard not to actually get your drink while it was cold.” But as you hold the sweating bottle to your cheek, you can see the appeal.

Bucky grunts his agreement and holds up his frosty beverage. You hit yours to it and you both take long pulls, and settle in to suffer together.

   Dick drags the hot point down your back and you scream and try to pull away but he holds you steady. Your blood feels like fire, molten streaming down your back. He says “hm” in a pleased tone of voice, like his little lightsaber fantasy has been satisfied. Fucking thank god, though, he walks back around to your front and puts the poker down.

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” Dick says, pulling off his torture-approved oven mitts. “You’ve lasted almost six hours already.”

How is it possibly still the same day? You want to ask but all you can do is drool.

“What’s wrong? No smart comments?”

You roll your eyes and pull up some energy by the sheer power of your assholery. “Buddy…if I was…a…vegetable…I’d still be…smarter than…you.” You breathe deep and force yourself to stand upright. “No comments needed.”

Dick grins. “I’m glad to see you haven’t broken yet.” He smooths your hair back. “I’ll let you rest up a bit and we’ll pick this up later.”

You’re spent so you can’t even pretend to fight back when he has two of his buddies come in and unhook you. Everything is stiff and doesn’t want to move and you almost wish they weren’t taking you down. Almost. Though it’s not much better when they stick you in the most uncomfortable chair you’ve experienced outside of a Pier One or Ikea and strap you down.

You don’t realize you’ve dozed until you’re getting doused with cold water yet again and Dick says, “Rise and shine, sweetheart!”

“Buddy, words cannot express just how much I am not here for your “Flashdance” fetish,” you stammer through chattering teeth.

“It sounds like you had a nice nap,” Dick says and pulls up a chair. “I’m glad. Are you ready to chat, yet? If not, we can get started right away.”

This guy is such a tool. “What part of ‘fuck off’ confuses you?”

He holds his heart– or at least, the space where it should be– and mocks a sad expression. “Sweetheart, I thought we were friends. You keep calling me ‘buddy’.”

“You’re right, so sorry. It’s ‘Dick’, right?”

“Richard, actually.”

“Pretty sure that’s what I just said.”

He grips your thigh and digs his thumbnail into the long, jagged cut, dragging his thumb down and through, splitting the wound and making it bleed once more.

You don’t scream but you choke and gasp and hiss, “Son of a bitch!”

“I like that one. We’ll keep it open,” he murmurs. He smiles bigger and says, normally, “I prefer ‘buddy’.”

“Too bad, Dick.” Seriously, what does he take you for. Wait, it’s probably better not to know. “Though if you stop with the stupid nickname you have for me, I’ll consider dropping the one I have for you.” Unlikely to actually happen, but it seems charitable to at least offer to think about it. You’re nice like that.

“What, ‘sweetheart’? But you are one.” He leans closer. “Will you be my sweetheart?”

Your face almost twists right off your body, you’re so grossed out by the idea. “Ohhhh, ugghhhhh. Man, I’d rather sit through a six-hour lecture on safe sex as given by Captain America.” Actually, when you think about it, that sounds kind of hilarious. “Or I’d rather–” have Dick cut out your ‘sweet’ (gross) ‘heart’ out with the tetanus knife.

“You’d rather…” Dick prompts.

“Eh, I’m not gonna say it because you might actually do it.” Sick bastard.

“If it hurts, then it’s likely.” Dick smiles again and pats your cheek. The touch is light but it still makes you flinch. “It’s all right, I understand. You’re taken.”

You're not getting into that again, so you keep quiet. Dick stands up, looks at the ground, and nods his approval before going to the corner of the room to get something. You glance at the floor but it’s just the same old grate underneath you and flat floor everywhere else. Nothing special.

He rolls over a weird looking box-thing, with dials and switches all over the top and a bundle of wires piled on top. “I’m very excited to share this with you,” he says and starts untangling the wires, pausing to show you two circular pads. “It’s not the exact unit, but this treatment was your boyfriend’s favorite.”

You stare at them for a moment, until it hits you.

You’ve never killed anyone in your life, but if you had to kill him, you’d do it right now without hesitation, and you know it wouldn’t keep you up at night.

“Oh!” Dick laughs. That fucking monster laughs. “He told you about this.”

Not in so many words, which makes it worse. You’re not comfortable with this asshole knowing that, though, so you play it off with a little shrug. “Or I saw it on the news or in an interview or something. There was a lot about the Winter Soldier.” You look him right in the eyes. “Especially when he started kicking you guys right in the teeth.”

Dick smiles patiently and holds the pads up. God, is this how they looked when they hooked Bucky up? Did they smile, laugh, joke when they did this to him? You had a TENS unit, once. The day Bucky had seen you put it on your shoulders– well, it was the one time you had feared Bucky. Feared and been so sad for him. That expression on his face was not, is not, one you ever, ever want to see again.

Something that can hurt Bucky like that absolutely terrifies you. Is it just torture? Or will they do to you what they did to him? Will they strip you down and make you forget?

Also, fuck your life where you can think of anything as ‘just torture’.

As Dick is about to stick those wires to you, a door swings open in the distance. Somewhere over…fuck, you can’t even pretend to know. Or care. But some other guy calls out something in not-English and Dick responds likewise, and they converse for a few moments.

Dick sighs and puts down the wiring, and as much as you don’t want him to know how scared you are, you can’t help how your whole body sags with relief. “I have to go report in, but I’ll be right back,” he says and leaves.

You tug at chains and straps but they don’t get any looser and you certainly haven’t gotten any stronger in the past five minutes. Still, it seems better than sitting and waiting for Farquad to mosey on back.

You haven’t checked on the others yet– you’ve periodically forgotten that they’re there– and you still don’t want to. If they’re alive then they’ve been watching you get worked over and you’re not a fan of however they’re going to look at you. You don’t know how much they’ve heard but there have to get air in there somehow.

Unless they’re all dead…

Fuck it. You do a quick scan to make sure everyone’s alive and you ignore Steve’s attempt to keep your attention. Whatever he needs you to do, you don’t think you’re capable, and doesn’t that just suck. If Natasha and you were switched she probably would have snapped Dick’s neck by now. You’d be out of here, not getting–

Gunshots sound on the level above you and your heart leaps into your throat. You pull on the restraints– again, not any looser, but the thought of being trapped in the open while guns are going off is terrifying.

The door slams open and Dick runs in, blood on his face and looking alarmed. Well, that’s a sight. You don’t really get to enjoy it though; he scrambles behind you, grabs your chin and pins your head to his stomach as he presses his gun to your temple. And then you…wait.

Not for long, though. You didn’t hear anyone follow Dick down but there Bucky is, sliding out of the shadows like a ghost rematerializing. You’re speechless in the presence of him. He’s standing tall, suited up in all black, and already wearing what you assume is his best murder face. But then he looks around at his friends, trapped, and then at you, and if you were Dick you’d wet yourself at the look Bucky is giving him.

Then again, if you were Dick, you would have made very different life choices leading up to now, so, to each their own and all that.

“Put the gun down,” Bucky says, while wielding his own. At Dick. Who is right behind you.

Bucky’s murder face is suddenly way, way, way less attractive.

“No, that’s not how this is going to work.” Dick presses the gun even closer. “Stand down, Soldier.”

Bucky stares at him. This really, really sucks, but all you can do is hope it’s quick and…and…

Bucky unloads the ammo from the gun, letting it fall to the floor before he tosses the gun itself far away from him. But Dick doesn’t let up on you. “All of your weapons, Soldier. I’m not stupid.”

“That’s debatable,” you mutter as Bucky rolls his eyes. Well, at least you’re in agreement on that. But Bucky starts removing weapons from his person– knives, guns, holy hell are those bombs, clips, rounds, and things you’re glad you can’t identify. At the rate the pile of death is growing, you have to consider your trash panda is really more of a murder squirrel. The last thing Bucky throws on the pile is a knife smaller than the two Bowies already buried and it’s all so ridiculous you almost laugh. Almost, because Dick still has a gun to your head and that is not conducive to hilarity.

“Upstairs is almost cleared out,” Bucky says. “You should either try to kill me now or surrender already. You’re not walking out of here.”

“Well…not alone,” Dick says. He says a word in Russian that makes Bucky go stiff and wide-eyed. Dick says another and Bucky jerks, like he’s going for one of his weapons, but then Dick smashes your head with the gun and Bucky stops at your cry of pain.

You’re a little woozy but then Dick says another word and finally, finally you get it. And swallow your heart. “Bucky– no!” you shout over the next word, hoping Bucky will just fucking run or something, but he doesn’t, he stays where he is, why is he still standing there?! Dick grabs your head by your mouth and the silence is punctuated with the last few words.

Bucky goes slack– not falling, but he’s no longer so tense. His expression goes flat, and his eyes–

–you can’t look at them for more than a second. There’s nothing of him in there. No Bucky, no Trash Panda, no person.

The Winter Soldier speaks in Russian and you want to wake up now. Because this– this can’t be happening. Bucky can’t drop his weapons because of you. Bucky can’t be forced to listen to those words because of you.

Bucky can’t be lost because of you.

Dick takes the gun away from your head. You don’t feel any safer for it. “How many did you bring with you, Soldier?” he asks, breathing easier. You hate him with every part of your fucking salty soul.

“Twelve.”

Dick practically hisses. “Damn,” he says and walks around. You assume he’s looking at the others but you can’t stop looking at–…at Bucky. At where Bucky was. Still is. You feel dizzy. Passing out would be real nice right now.

“We have no time to take care of the rest. Shame. But…” Dick goes to stand next to Bucky. He puts his gun in Bucky’s hand.

“Let’s make sure you never want to come out of being the weapon you were always meant to be,” Dick says. “Kill her.”

Bucky takes aim and you can only stare dumbly at them. At Dick, smirking, and at Bucky, so cold and distant. Bucky never talked about what Steve did to snap him out of it. He only said that Steve had almost died because of it. And you don’t have that history. You don’t have that innate level of friendship and love. You have less than a year of memories, some good, some bad, and a lot of ‘maybe’s that could have been.

The shot rings out, and you wonder why you don’t feel any pain.

Until Dick crumples to the ground.

Bucky drops his hand, still holding the gun. “Moron,” he sneers at the body and then looks at you, back to his resting murder face and with life back in his eyes.

You…

You breathe.

Deeply.

Bucky is going to regret not shooting you because you are going to murder the FUCK out of him.

You keep the growing well of rage and upset down while he, with some effort, rips the lid off Natasha’s tube, unstraps her, and snaps something in Russian that has her running to Dick’s body. You even hold it together when Bucky puts his hands on you and braces you while he rips at straps and chains like they’re Silly Putty.

It’s when he’s helping you up and you start to fall, only for him to catch you by wrapping his arms around you, that you lose it. “You– you fucking jerk! You bastard!” You hit him. Not hard; you aren’t capable of it and you don’t really want to hurt hurt him, not really, but– “You asshole you scared the shit out of me!”

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair and, shit, he looks really good. Full-bodied and healthy, like he’s eating enough, and his hair is all soft, and is this some sort of weird halo effect from him saving you? Would you be eyeing Steve this much if he had shot the guy?

Ugh. That’s a gross thought.

“It was necessary.” Bucky is half carrying you because your body is in a state of ‘just don’t wanna’ that you feel you can’t be blamed for. “It’s good that you believed it, because he had to.”

It makes sense. It worked. Still. “You’re the fucking worst,” you mumble and lean into him, intending to rest your eyes for just a second. “Officially my least favorite trash panda. Even under that bastard that left a torn up garbage bag in the middle of the sidewalk.”

He chuckles. “I missed you too,” he says with a warmth that you’re convinced you’re imagining. Heroic rescue is a hell of a drug.

“No you didn’t.” Tears slip down your cheeks. “You weren’t ever going to come back. You would have stayed gone forever.”

He sighs. “It was better. Safer.”

After the past couple of days– actually, the past week plus, you have an itemized list on just how much bullshit that is. You can give a lecture on it, even without updating it to include right now. Luckily for him, exhaustion pulls you out of consciousness before you can start your presentation, but he is gonna fucking get it later.

Maybe you’ll make a PowerPoint.

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