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rolandtowen · 10 days ago

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Chapter Five is here! Steve and Bucky finally reunite for some calming hobby time - read on Ao3 or under the cut!

chapter warnings: reference to Sam & Bucky's conversation from the previous chapter

Steve's heart is pounding as the elevator makes its way to Bucky's floor. It's been over a week since the fight on the Helicarriers, and while Steve's body has healed, his mind is still reeling.

There'd been a moment of lucidity, Bucky on top of him, hesitating–and then Steve felt the cold of the Potomac consume him. Sam told him, when he regained consciousness the next day, that they'd found the two of them side by side on the shoreline. Bucky had still been conscious, looking like he was standing watch over Steve. Maria Hill had to coax him into the back of a SHIELD van with a promise of water and a blanket in order to get a look at Steve.

And since then, Steve has been watching Bucky's slow, painful recovery from the other side of a camera feed. Try as he might, he can't get the sound of Bucky screaming while his bones snap out of his head. So on the nights he's lost sleep (every night, really), he's been watching the feed to Bucky's apartment.

He sees Bucky sleep on the floor every night, clutching a blanket to him. He watches the way Bucky's body changes from curled in on itself to painfully straight when Natasha enters his apartment. He holds back tears when Bucky screams himself awake and quietly asks JARVIS to play the rain sounds while he rocks back and forth on the floor.

Steve will never understand the seventy-plus years of horror Bucky endured, but he knows PTSD. It'd been Bruce, surprisingly, who'd seen it first in Steve. He'd given Steve the contact for his own therapist after the Battle of New York, and Steve learned he had PTSD, ‘shell-shock’, as he'd known it before the ice. Even after years of therapy, even after meeting Sam, a fellow soldier who gets it, and tries to help as well, Steve still doesn't sleep very well. His nightmares are too real, too vivid. He can feel the ice on his skin, smell the jet fuel, hear the ticking of bombs.

He's sure it's the same for Bucky, night terrors made all too real by supersoldier senses. Steve wants his best friend back, but most of all he wants to help this guy. Wants to see him sleep through the night for once, see the tension lifted from his shoulders. Even if his Bucky never comes back, there's still a man suffering in front of him, and Steve is determined to do something about it.

He buys a coloring book. They make those for adults now, he's learned. He grabs it during his record-buying outing with Sam. He sees the words, “The Hobbit”, and grabs it immediately. Bucky had loved that book, had bought it special-order from England with every penny he could scrape together for six months. “People still like this book?” He asks Sam, showing him the cover.

Sam's eyes light up. “Yeah, man! Actually, they're releasing the last movie based on it later this year. They made a whole trilogy from one book.” Sam helps Steve pick out a box of colored pencils, and on their way to check out, he stops dead in his tracks. “Oh my God, hold on.” He runs to the book section, coming back with a bundle of four books. “The Hobbit had three sequels,” he explains. “These came out after the war. There's movies of these ones too.”

They spent a lot of Stark's money on books, music, and art supplies that day. All of which Steve has loaded into a duffel bag to bring to Bucky’s apartment. The elevator dings, and Steve steps forward, his heart pounding. Somewhere, on this floor, is Bucky. “Hello?” He calls, trying to contain the waver in his voice. “My name’s Steve, JARVIS let me know I could come visit?”

A mop of brown hair emerges from the puddle of blankets on the couch. “Hello,” comes Bucky’s voice, and damn, it’s rough from sleep and disuse, but it’s still Bucky, through and through. More of Bucky emerges from the blanket puddle, and he looks a bit panicked. “I’m so sorry, I set an alarm, I swear.” Bucky tries to sit up quickly. “Rebecca said it was okay if I wanted to sleep more,” he offers, like a child justifying his actions.

“That’s alright,” Steve cracks a smile. He's actually overjoyed to see that Bucky feels safe enough to sleep on the couch. “Ain’t in any hurry.” He crosses into the living room, setting down his duffel bag, settling into an armchair next to the couch. He extends a hand instinctually. “My name’s Steve.”

He regrets it, when he sees the look that crosses Bucky’s face. It’s not fearful, not quite a flinch–but something more akin to dread. “I don’t–I’m sorry,” Bucky looks at Steve’s extended hand. “What do you want me to do?”

Steve blinks. “Oh. It’s a handshake. People do them when meeting new people. You don’t have to shake mine, though, I get it.” It hadn’t taken a Tony Stark level of genius to piece together that something happened during Sam’s first visit with Bucky, not after Sam came back to their apartment with a distant look on his face. Steve had begged him to say something.

“ Servicing,” Sam had hissed at him. “They assaulted him and called it servicing. ”

Steve wished Alexander Pierce had died a little slower. Okay, a lot slower.

He’s surprised, then, as Bucky extends his right hand out to grasp his. He shakes their joined hands jerkily, once, twice, and then releases his grasp. “I don’t have a name,” Bucky murmurs. “But it’s nice to meet you, Steve.” Bucky narrows his eyes at him. “You’re familiar, too.”

Steve nods, pulling his hand to rest on his thigh, trying to think of anything other than the familiar heat of Bucky seeping into his skin through his jeans. “You were assigned to kill me, before you defected from HYDRA.” Steve cocks his head. “Do you–do you remember? You pulled me from the river, after the Helicarriers went down.”

Bucky looks him over, then makes an aborted moment with his head. Neither a nod or a shake. “It’s–it’s all jumbled. I’m not quite sure what’s real and what’s dreams–and I don’t know what’s recent or what’s past either.” He peers at Steve more closely. “And–the faces. I can't quite…remember the faces.”

“That’s alright, we're going to try and help with that,” Steve assures him, sure that Bucky's describing a symptom related to his brain damage. “I just–wanted to thank you, for that. Haven’t had the opportunity to do it yet.”

Bucky looks at him like Steve’s grown a second head. “Why are you thanking me? I almost killed you–at least, I think I almost did, but it looks like you’re a tough son of a bitch.”

“Well, that I am,” Steve can’t help but laugh, because Bucky’s Brooklyn accent has slipped in on a few words, fallen through the cracks of the Soldier’s facade, and Steve drinks the syllables in like cold water on a hot day. “But, you didn’t have to fish me out–that’s the bit I’m thanking you for. And I wanted to apologize too,” Steve gestures towards Bucky, “for breaking your arm.”

Bucky looks down at his right arm. “It wasn't that bad. I've had worse.”

That does nothing to assuage Steve's guilt, but he chooses to nod in understanding. “Still. I'm sorry.”

“Did–” Bucky starts. “Did I know you? Before my assignment?”

Steve wants to blurt everything out, but keeps Rebecca’s advice in mind, and toes the line a bit. “What makes you ask?”

Bucky shakes his head, thinking. “On the Helicarriers, you–you called me something, you had given me a name , and it made me wonder–if we’d met before.”

“Yeah, I guess I did,” Steve rubs his palms along his jeans, trying to figure out how much to say. He may as well confirm what Bucky already knows, no sense in hiding that. “We knew each other before HYDRA. Your full name is James Buchanan Barnes. I called you Bucky, or Buck, for short.”

Bucky nods once at his name, stares at his blanket-covered lap, before bringing his eyes to meet Steve’s. “Can I–the name–” He breaks off, flesh hand twisting up in the blankets before finding his voice again. “May I keep the name, please?”

Steve feels like he’s been slapped, because Bucky is asking for permission to keep his own name, and looking scared out of his mind while doing it. He forces his face to stay neutral, warm, and says: “‘Course, Buck. It’s your name.”

***

A name.

The Sold– Bucky has a name. He’s called Bucky. He even has a nickname, Buck. He likes the way it sounds on Steve’s lips, clipped but soft. Steve’s hands are soft, too.

Steve gestures to the duffel bag at his feet, asks the–Bucky–if he wants to listen to some music. Music? Bucky nods, having no idea what that means, but wanting to do whatever makes Steve happy. The man who gave him a name.

Steve shows him how to work a new machine, a turntable, he calls it–and he pulls a large square package out of his duffel bag. Out of this package, Steve pulls a large black disk, a record, and the image of it stirs something deep in Bucky’s mind. He gets a whiff of cigarette smoke, feels warm bodies pressing up against his, but not–not in the bad way. This memory is gentle, this memory is happy .

The sensations only intensify when Steve hits “play” on the turntable, and the record crackles to life. And it’s–it’s music. Bucky gets a flash of words, all at once–trumpet, piano, Harlem, Duke, foxtrot, orchestra, Cotton Club–and though his memories are jumbled, he knows one thing for certain–he wants the music to continue. He reaches his flesh hand out to the turntable, placing it against the wooden stand, feeling the vibrations travel up his arm and into his body, where it feels like they burrow and nest in his chest.

“Like it?” Steve asks. “This one’s Duke Ellington. I got a few more I thought you might like,” Steve gestures to a stack of records he’d pulled from his duffel bag. “Sam said music was good for, uh, memory. Thought it might help you–untangle things.”

Bucky nods, slowly, still taking in the sounds and the vibrations coming from the turntable. “That’s–real nice of you.” He takes a deep breath in. “Is this something people enjoy?”

Steve finds the emphasis a bit odd, the way Bucky had said ‘people’, but he shrugs. “I figure so. Never met a person that didn’t like some kind of music. Why you askin’?”

Bucky looks deep in thought. “Sam told me–everyone’s helping me, just because I’m a person. I’ve got a bet going with him that I’m not–and I’ve been collecting evidence for either side. If I like music, I guess that’s another point in the ‘person’ column.’”

Oh. Oh God. That…explains some things, Steve thinks. It’s not just that Bucky doesn’t remember who he is, he’s not even convinced that he’s a person. “Well, you got a name now, too. Another point in that column.”

Bucky nods at this, finally pulling himself away from the turntable. “I should write that down, before I forget.” He gets his notebook from the kitchen table, and adds two points to the ‘evidence that the Soldier is a person’ column.

The Soldier enjoys music

The Soldier is called Bucky/Buck

He turns to another page, one he’s titled ‘memories’ and writes down furiously:

Trumpet

Piano

Harlem

Duke (Ellington?)

Foxtrot

Orchestra

Cotton Club

The music has permeated his brain, and he snaps his notebook shut just as the record shifts to a new song, a slower one. He feels a phantom hand at his waist, a chin resting on his shoulder, but he shakes it away. He takes in Steve’s form, sprawled back out on the armchair. “Was–did you have any tasks for me?” He asks, because Natalia had given him tasks, Sam had given him a lesson, and Steve…Steve has only given him music. Expected nothing from him.

“I mean, my plans are pretty plain, Buck,” Steve sits up a bit more. “I thought, you must be bored out of your mind up here, no hobbies or nothin’.” Steve takes in a breath, lets it out like a sigh. “I used to be a soldier, too, and I damn near lost my mind trying to be a civilian. Must’ve gone through a dozen punching bags in a week, because I didn’t know what else to do with my time.” Steve leans over as he talks, picking up his duffel bag again. “So I got you a bit of everything to try.”

Bucky watches, enraptured, as Steve pulls things out of his duffel bag and places them on the coffee table while listing each item’s benefits. “Coloring book, and pencils, that’s supposed to be calming. Books, nice long fantasies in case you’re really bored. Have you used the TV yet?”

Bucky shakes his head, and so Steve walks him through turning on the big black screen facing the couch, a television, shows him some of his favorite shows, which are mostly about nature and art. “So that’s my plan, basically.” Steve says, after he’s certain he’s fully exhausted his crash course on hobbies. “Thought it might help, just to have someone to hang out with you for a few hours every day, doing something fun. We don’t even have to talk, if you don’t wanna.”

Bucky stares at the pile of items on the coffee table. “And…when do I give these back?”

Steve’s smile falters just a bit, but he thinks he hides it well. “They’re gifts, Buck. They’re yours to keep.” And Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, just keeps staring at the kitchen table, because he’s never had his own things, let alone things designed just for pleasure.

“Thank you, Steve. Could we just–just keep listening to the music, for now?”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve murmurs, taking in the sight of Bucky relaxing into the couch, drumming his fingers softly on his thigh in time to the music. “We got all the time in the world.”

***

Steve stays for his whole two hour time slot, eventually flipping over the record, then changing it altogether to one from Ella Fitzgerald. He'd chosen Duke to start with, because he remembers one night, a few weeks before Bucky got drafted, going to Harlem, to the Cotton Club, and seeing the king of swing live. It had been their last time together, untainted by the war raging across Europe.

And now, here they are in the future. And Steve can’t help feeling like the war meant…nothing. He hadn’t destroyed HYDRA, far from it–he’d worked for it. For the same organization that had tortured Bucky into compliance. For the same organization that wanted total, absolute power over the world’s population. He’d laid down his life, gone into the ice, and none of it mattered.

Steve knows he should be making another appointment with his therapist–it’d been kinda hard to get in while a fugitive–but it feels like he’s been pulled in every direction. Bucky needs him, Maria needs him, America needs him. He watches as Bucky tentatively colors a page, one with a dragon in it, and he knows where he’s needed most. He texts his therapist, schedules an appointment for next week, and settles in. He’d brought his own sketchbook, one he’d bought himself, because the Smithsonian still had his original, and he starts to draw.

They sit in companionable silence until JARVIS speaks softly: “Sam would like to know if he can come for his visit, Soldier.”

Bucky startles (and so does Steve, he still hasn’t quite adjusted to JARVIS), but tells JARVIS Sam can come. Bucky opens his mouth to say something else, then appears to think better of it, closing his mouth, shaking his head, and returning to coloring.

“What is it?” Steve pries gently.

“Will–will only you call me Bucky? Am I still the Soldier to everyone else?”

“Oh! No, everyone can call you Bucky, if that’s what you want.” Steve understands immediately. JARVIS hadn’t been updated on his name change yet. “Do you want JARVIS to call you Bucky?” A nod. “What about everyone else?”

Another nod. “I don’t…want to be the Soldier anymore,” Bucky says, curling in on himself, like he’s bracing for a blow.

“Hey, I’m glad you told me,” Steve assures him, trying to contain his excitement. “You just have to let him know–like this,” Steve offers to demonstrate. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, Captain?” Comes the AI’s soothing voice.

“Change of protocol: please refer to the Soldier as Bucky now.”

“Very good, Captain. Shall I inform the rest of the team?”

“Yes, JARVIS. Thank you.”

“Of course, Captain. Welcome, Bucky.”

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #the winter soldier #captain america #avengers #catws #tower fic #recovery fic #jarvis #avengers tower #fanfiction #bucky and steve #gen #omgkmfgl #char writes

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marishoodie7 · 1 year ago

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the girls in season 3 when Shauna challenges Nat for aq:

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breckstonevailskier · 1 year ago

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The parallels between Soldier Boy and Captain America go a lot deeper than I expected

Yeah, "Soldier Boyfriend" was introduced with an imitation of Cap's theme there. 😂😍

Makes sense considering Cate probably envisions Soldier Boy as being much like Captain America. When in reality, the real Soldier Boy was more like Gilmore Hodge.

#soldier boy #soldier boyfriend #jensen ackles #the boys #gen v #cate dunlap #steve rogers #bucky barnes #captain america #captain america: the first avenger #chris evans #sebastian stan #maddie phillips

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paulinawoodpecker · 4 months ago

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Marvel next gen 🇺🇸

Mark: (9)

@loki104-uwu

#steve rogers #marvel #captain america #peggy carter #steve x peggy #next gen #next gen oc #next generation #oc #fanart

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crossthread · 10 months ago

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This is just a thought, a random ass thought, but I know a lot of queer people. Even when I was living in a majority muslim south asian country, I knew queer people. Since I've moved to Europe, I've had the pleasure of being acquainted to so many more queer people. Its not everyone I meet, not even 50% of people I know, but from the top of my head I can name at least 5 people. If given time, I can name a hell of a lot more.

It means something. That I know so many queer people, despite not going to any bars, or joining any lgbtq+ clubs. Just random ass people I've met in everyday life. And these are just the queer people that I know. I'm well aware there's more people that I don't know of.

Just. Suddenly it means a lot to me that there's a sizable amount of us. It means something. And it means something when I watch a movie, or a TV show, and I don't see a single queer person in it. Rather than it being that there's no representation, what bothers me is that it's unnatural.

It's unnatural to see no queer people in a movie. And that is such a gratifying realisation to me right now because for the longest time, everyone's been rubbing it in our faces that what's unnatural instead is being queer.

And as someone who's still growing up in so many ways, it is so gratifying to have real proof that they're wrong.

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cherry-shake · 2 years ago

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A buckynat OC

Alyona (A-lona) Romanova-Barnes

Alias: Wolf Spider, Brown Recluse, Subject 3, Lonnie

Age: 18

Place of Birth: South Siberian Mountains

Parents: James Barnes, Natalia Romanov

Affiliations: Russia, Red Room (defunct), U.S. government

Abilities: super spy, super soldier, red room serum

Universe: Earth 616

Origin:

Alyona's creation start well before her time with the start of the Wolf Spider program by the Red Room. The Winter Soldier was used to train Constantin and was punished greatly when he failed. Dimitri Petrov was the scientist in charge and knew he would be next. Dimitri stole his unstable red room serum and gave it to his oldest son Sergei at 9 years old. The Winter Soldier killed both Dimitri and his wife leaving their two sons in care of the state. Sergei, much like the wolf-spider volunteer, was hostile and full of rage. Yet he was able to pull it together in order to get his doctorate.

The Russian Government became tired of the failures of the Red Room and largely stopped funding. However, they turned their interest to the young Sergei Ivanov (who changed his name in his youth). He proposed the idea of a soldier who was given no identity and knew nothing but Russia. It was a way to keep the Red Room in check and kill anymore subjects who went out of line. Of course, Sergei had his own plan in mind. Alyona's targets would be anyone associated with the Red Room.

Using D.N.A. from both Natasha Romanov and James Barnes, Sergei made several attempts to grow a child and eventually was successful. However, a girl was not pleasing to many funders. Alyona was dubbed subject 3 and was fed Russian propaganda from the moment she could breath. Isolated deep in the mountains of Siberia, Alyona was given no name, no parents, no background. She learned to talk from the history videos and Sergei barking orders. As soon as she could walk, she started training and had schooling by several child specialist one of them being Nikita Alexovna. Alyona started killing at a young age and was adept at hand-to-hand combat, espionage, and weapons. Her targets she was forced to kill were mainly red room survivors or retired government officials who approved the program. What Sergei did not plan for was Alyona's temper and stubbornness. She was often punished harshly by Sergei himself or left outside with nothing but her tanktop in the Siberian winter. After a particularly harsh beating, Nikita bandaged her wounds. This was one of her first kind memories.

Alyona was able to sneak into Sergei's private quarters with Nikita's key and read his files on her parents. She kept her head down and behaved herself. Soon she was on her first kill outside of the base. Her target was Katerina, a KGB agent and one of the founders of the Red Room. She wasn't able to pull the trigger and went on the run. Wanted by not only Sergei's guards but also the Russian government once they discovered their plan. She went into hiding deep in the forests at the edge of Moscow.

Hydra also heard of the opportunity to steal a Russian asset. Alyona was swarmed by Hydra agents that Captain America and Black Widow were tracking. Black Widow helped to guide her to cover. Sergei arrived with his personal soldiers. While fighting, Sergei yelled out "Laika". Alyona's main mission was started and immediately started to fight Bucky. He avoided her blows the best he could and was able to talk her down. Alyona was able to resist her programming albeit painfully. Natasha and Bucky were able to get her out before Russian forces came. Sergei was arrested by Russian forces after discovering his long list of government officials killed by Alyona. The officials still have a watch out for Alyona. Alyona was rendered unconscious and was unable to be awaken. SHIELD doctors discovered a chip in her neck that allowed them to control her, make her unconscious, and even had a kill switch. They were able to remove it safely leaving a small scar on the back of her neck. The relationship with her parents was rocky at first. She refused to trust Bucky until he showed her his red star. Bucky proceeded to train her and nickname her "Lonnie" and she got extremally close to her mom

Other Comic Tie-ins:

During the Siege of Asgard, Alyona watched her father be killed on T.V. and struggled while he was in the hospital.

The Breakup - When Leo kidnapped and brainwashed Natasha, he also targeted her daughter and wanted her to call him "dad". When Bucky left, Alyona was raised by Natasha and solely used the last name of Romanov. Natasha believed that Alyona was created from her DNA and a random red room donor. Bucky regularly called and checked on his daughter despite the face she often told her she hated him.

Captain America going Hydra: Alyona joined the army at 18 wanting to find herself and truing believing that her only point in life is to be a soldier. Once Captain America took over as a Hydra agent, Alyona abandoned the army not wanting to help Hydra and joined the underground. She spoke at her mother's funeral.

Afterwards: Alyona began her own vigilante work and really became her own person. Without Shield, the U.S. government hired Alyona and a few other military personnel to be trained to handle espionage and Hydra. This included working largely with the OFU along with Ian Rogers.

Natasha's revival: Alyona struggled to bond with her mom after she was cloned because she felt she wasn't real. When Natasha was brainwashed into her life with Stevie and James, Alyona was pulled in from a mission by her aunt Yelena and told the news. She was hesitant but agreed to let her be happy. After all, it’s been a rough few years. Albeit, she still felt hurt that she was not included in her mom’s perfect life. This was purposeful in the plan because Madame Hydra did want her daughter’s namesake to affect the brainwashing.

#buckynat #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #captain america #winter solder #winterwidow #natsha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanov #oc #marvel oc #marvel next gen

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pineapple-loving-veyniac · 1 month ago

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Harley, another gen z kid: matches are in the junk drawer if you want to go that route

Peter Parker, a Gen Z kid, screws up: Fuck, guess I’ll kill myself.

Steve Rogers, an artist during the 30’s and a soldier during WWII who knows full well what Dadaism and fatalistic humor are: There’s bleach under the sink–

Bucky Barnes, the guy who listened to Steve’s art rants in the 30’s, watched his back in WWII and went through 70+ years of shit: –And a rope in the supply closet if you want options.

Rest of the Avengers: ?????!!!!!!!?????

#let’s be honest every one of these guys are traumatized #avengers incorrect quotes #avengers #steve rogers #peter parker #bucky barnes #captain america #spiderman #the winter soldier #fictional men #black panther #princess shuri #harley keener #gen z #the vision #gen z humor

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seringaza922 · 1 month ago

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Hello my friends

I hope that you will stand by me and support my campaign and help me reach my goal. I am now in dire need of help to save my family from the danger of death in Gaza, provide the necessities of life and livelihood, and reach safety. Your financial support and sharing our story is our only hope for the family’s survival and to save our lives. Your kindness and generosity can make a difference🙏🍉

https://gofund.me/67576423

#free plaestine #islam #palestine genocide #university #captain america #el shab hussie #214 on the vetted fundraisers spreadsheet created by nabulsi and el-shab-hussien #fairuzfan #mcl new gen #inanimate insanity #free gaza #free palestine #freedom #gaza genocide #gaza strip #gazaunderattack #save gaza #gaza

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brunchable · 4 months ago

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Language Lessons || Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Pairings: Steve Rogers x f!reader

Themes: Funny? Steve trying to relate to you more

Summary: Steve wanting to impress you, goes on a little lesson about Millenial/GEN Z slangs.

A/N: AGAIN, my sense of humour is shallow. . . I was crying when I read the full story because I find my own thing so funny welp. But hey, I finally wrote a Comedy for Steve 😅

Steve stands in the hallway of the Avengers Tower, a crumpled piece of paper clenched in his hand like it’s a mission briefing for a covert op. The words "Intro to Modern Slang: How to Speak Like a Millennial and Gen Z" are printed at the top of the flyer, making him sweat more than when he faced the Chitauri. He takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of your mocking laughter echoing in his ears.

“I’m serious, Steve,” you had said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You can’t just say ‘groovy’ and expect people to take you seriously.”

Steve had taken that challenge to heart. He fought in WWII; he could conquer this.

As he steps inside the classroom, his eyes dart around the room. It’s filled with a gaggle of twenty-somethings, some in beanies and oversized hoodies, others with hair dyed in colors that defy nature’s palette. They’re staring at him like he’s a grandpa who wandered into the wrong building and refused to leave.

Steve steels himself. He’s Captain America. He fought Hydra. He faced Thanos. This… this is just another battlefield. He slides into a chair that creaks under his weight, pulling out a notepad and a pen like he’s preparing for combat.

“Welcome, everyone!” chirps the instructor, a guy named Dylan—according to his tag—who’s sporting a neon hoodie and a chain necklace that spells out ‘YOLO’ in gold letters. Earbuds dangle around his neck like he’s afraid to be without them for too long. “I’m Dylan, and I’ll be helping you unlock the wonders of modern communication.”

Steve nods seriously, his brows furrowed in concentration. He’s missing the confident nods and murmurs of agreement from briefings with the Avengers. Here, all he gets are side-eyes and a few raised eyebrows. But he ignores them. Focus, Rogers.

“Let’s start with something basic,” Dylan says, gesturing dramatically like he’s presenting a spell. “Say you’re excited about something… You might say, ‘that’s lit.’”

“Lit?” Steve repeats, his expression somewhere between confusion and fascination. It’s like he’s hearing about the Tesseract for the first time. He scribbles it down in his impeccable handwriting.

Dylan nods encouragingly, like Steve’s a kindergartener who just figured out the alphabet. “Right! And if something’s really cool, you can say ‘that’s fire.’”

“Fire…” Steve’s voice trails off as he writes that down too, then looks up, eyes narrowed like he’s running a complex equation in his head. “But… why would fire be a good thing? Fire’s dangerous.”

One of the teenagers snickers, and Steve glares, the kind of stare that once sent grown soldiers scrambling for cover. The kid immediately shuts up.

“It’s not literal fire,” Dylan explains gently, as if to a particularly stubborn toddler. “It’s metaphorical fire. Means something is awesome. Or really good.”

“Got it. Fire is good.” Steve nods firmly, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Okay. Fire.”

“Great!” Dylan claps his hands, clearly thrilled that Steve hasn’t run out the door yet. “Now, if you want to show support or agree with something, you can say ‘that’s a vibe.’”

“A vibe,” Steve repeats slowly. “Okay. That’s a vibe.” He pauses, trying to wrap his head around it. “So, like, if Hulk is calm for once and not smashing things… I could say ‘that’s a vibe?’”

The room falls dead silent. A couple of the students are desperately trying not to laugh. Dylan blinks, then flashes a thumbs-up. “Sure, man. That’s totally… vibey. Now, when you’re leaving somewhere, you might say you’re going to ‘dip.’”

“Dip?” Steve murmurs, brow furrowing deeper. He’s trying so hard it’s almost painful to watch. “Like, uh… salsa?”

“No, man.” Dylan can’t hide his grin. “Like… you’re leaving. You’re out.”

“Oh.” Steve nods slowly, the gears turning. “I’m going to dip. Got it.”

“Yeah!” Dylan cheers, as if Steve’s just managed to take his first steps. “That’s a start.”

Steve looks down at his notepad, where the words lit, fire, vibe, dip are scrawled neatly, underlined for emphasis. “So, if I’m excited, I say something’s lit or fire… If I agree, it’s a vibe… and when I leave, I dip.”

“That’s the gist of it!” Dylan says brightly.

Steve’s head is spinning with unfamiliar terms. ‘Drip,’ ‘stan,’ ‘flex,’ ‘ghosting’—it’s all a blur of confusion. He gives himself a mental pep talk. He’s Captain America. He’s taken on gods and monsters. He can do this. He straightens in his chair, determination blazing in his eyes.

Dylan eyes him warily. “You, uh, feeling okay there, Steve?”

Steve looks up, a bit wild-eyed. “I’m Gucci, fam.”

There’s a strangled cough from the back of the room. One of the teenagers actually falls off his chair. Dylan just blinks at him, speechless.

“Good… job?” Dylan offers hesitantly.

Steve beams, mistaking the stunned silence for approval. He’s got this. For you.

× × × ×

The next day, Steve stands in the Avengers kitchen, carefully stirring his coffee. Bucky trudges in, still half-asleep, grumbling about the mission report he was up until 3 a.m. finishing. Steve looks up, a determined look in his eyes.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says with forced casualness. “What’s up, king?”

Bucky freezes mid-stride, one eyebrow shooting up so high it nearly disappears into his hairline. “What did you just call me?”

“King. Like… uh… ‘go off, king.’ It means… good job.” Steve’s expression is so earnest that Bucky can’t even bring himself to laugh.

Bucky blinks once. Twice. He glances around, half-expecting a hidden camera crew to pop out and shout, Gotcha!

“Uh… Thanks?” he manages, voice thick with confusion. “You good, man?”

Steve’s smile is too wide, too tight. “Oh, yeah, I’m vibing. Just… vibing hard.”

Bucky stares at him, “Right. You want breakfast?” He starts moving cautiously toward the stove, not breaking eye contact with Steve.

“Nah, I’m good.” Steve waves it off with the confidence of someone who has no idea what he’s doing. “Not gonna lie, your last cooking attempt was kinda sus.”

Bucky stops again, brows furrowed, “Sus?”

“Yeah, like… suspicious.” Steve taps his chin, as if that’s going to clarify anything. “You almost burned the Tower down, Buck. That’s not very poggers of you.”

“Poggers?” Bucky repeats slowly, the word foreign and clunky in his mouth. He squints, searching Steve’s face for answers. “Steve, are you having a stroke?”

“No, I’m just being vibey.” Steve shrugs, like that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. “You know, staying on fleek.”

Bucky’s face contorts like he’s bitten into a lemon. “Steve, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but it’s stressing me out.”

“Okay, boomer,” Steve mutters, rolling his eyes with all the sass of a TikTok teen. “Whatever, I’m gonna yeet outta here.”

And with that, he picks up his shield, and with the gravitas of throwing a grenade, he yells, “Yeet!” as he hurls it at the training dummy across the room.

Bucky watches the shield ricochet off the dummy, his mouth hanging open.

“He’s completely lost it,” Bucky mutters, rubbing his temples. “This man went into the ice for seventy years and came out with a mid-life crisis.”

From the hallway, Sam pokes his head in. “What’s with Steve?”

Bucky gestures helplessly at Steve, who’s now muttering “That’s so fire” under his breath as he fidgets with his coffee. “I don’t know, but if he says ‘poggers’ one more time, I’m gonna throw him out the window.”

Steve glares at Bucky, “Weird flex but okay.”

“The fuck?”

× × × ×

Steve finally spots you in the living room, sprawled out on the couch, engrossed in a TV show. He straightens his shoulders, trying to channel the cool, easy-going energy he’s practiced in front of the mirror for an embarrassing number of hours. He saunters over—or what he thinks is a saunter—and stops right in front of her, hands on his hips like he’s about to deliver a speech.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, voice a little too loud and too intense, startling you.

You blinked up at him, surprised. “Uh, hey? What’s going on?”

Steve grins. He’s got this. “That outfit you’re wearing? It’s straight bussin’, no cap.”

Your mouth falls open, and you stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “I—what did you just—?”

“Bussin’,” Steve repeats confidently, though there’s a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. “You know… like, it slaps.”

“It slaps?” You echo weakly. yousets down your water glass, fully focusing on him now because this—this has got to be a fever dream.

“Yeah, like… it’s on fleek.” He tilts his head, assessing your expression. “It means you look really good.”

Your lips twitch, desperately holding back a smile. “And where did you learn all these… colourful words?”

Steve shuffles his feet, looking almost bashful.

“I’ve been educating myself,” he says, clearing his throat. “You know, so I don’t sound like such a boomer.”

You lost it. You doubled over, laughing so hard you nearly slipped off the couch. “Steve, you do know boomer refers to the generation born in the mid 1940s to 60s, right? You’re more like—”

“I know!” Steve cuts in, hands waving frantically. “But the class said I could use it as, like, a joke.” He leans in conspiratorially. “It’s ironic.”

“That’s not what irony means, babe.”

Steve frowns, clearly frustrated.

“Well, I still think it’s valid.” He straightens again, as if recommitting to his mission.

“Okay, let me try something else. Uh… Oh, right—” He points dramatically at the TV. “That show you’re watching? Total banger.”

“Banger?” Your eyebrows shoot up. “It’s a cooking show.”

“Exactly!” Steve exclaims, clearly not getting it. “All that fire food they’re making? It’s bussin’, right?”

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your burst of laughter. “Oh my gosh, you really did take a class. What else did they teach you?”

Steve brightens, as if she’s finally taking him seriously.

“Well, if something’s bad, I can say it’s cringe.” He gestures to himself, a little sheepish now. “Like how I was talking before. But now? I’m all vibes, right?”

Your shoulders are shaking as you try to keep a straight face. “You’re definitely… a vibe.”

“Yeah, see? I knew I was getting the hang of it.” Steve nods sagely. “And if I want to agree with something, I just say ‘bet.’ Like—” He looks around the room. “—this whole conversation? It’s bet.”

You snorted. “It’s bet?”

“Yeah, like, I agree. It’s fun. And you know what? I’m not being sus, okay? I’m just being real. Keeping it 100.”

Your vision is starting to blur from the sheer force of holding in your laughter. “Uh-huh, sure you are.”

Steve leans in a little closer, voice dropping conspiratorially again. “Also, I’m totally shipping us right now.”

You choke. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” he gestures between the two of them. “Like, us together? It’s goals.”

“Oh my gosh, please stop.” you cover your face, both mortified and utterly charmed. “You’re not allowed to ship us. You’re in this relationship.”

Steve’s face lights up, triumphant. “So you admit we’re a ship?”

You throw your head back and groan dramatically. “Yes, fine. We’re a ship, Captain Cringe.”

Steve takes a moment to bask in his victory, looking immensely proud of himself. He’s practically glowing. Then, with all the suave energy he can muster, he smirks and says, “So, what you’re saying is… I’m the GOAT?”

You let out a cackle. “Yes, Steve, you’re the GOAT.” you paused and then added, just for kicks, “But only if I can be the MVP.”

Steve’s grin widens, looking like he’s just won a war. “Bet.”

And with that, he whirls around, strides confidently to the door, and as he opens it, he throws over his shoulder: “Anyway, I’m gonna dip before I embarrass myself further. Catch you on the flip side, Y/N.”

“Wait, where are you going?” You call, struggling to catch your breath. “You live here!”

Steve freezes mid-step, looking like a deer caught in headlights. “Uh… Well, I’m still gonna yeet.”

“Yeet where, exactly?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he awkwardly side steps out the door and half-jogs down the hallway, muttering, “This was not poggers…” as your laughter echoes behind him.

#steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers imagines #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x female reader #captain america x reader #captain america fanfiction #captain america x you #captain america imagines #captain america x y/n #captain america x female reader #steve rogers #captain america #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x you #steve rogers fanfic #captain america fanfic

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rolandtowen · 18 days ago

Text

oh - my - god - keep - me from going lunatic, chapter three

Chapter Three is a CHONKER.

Read on Ao3 or under the cut!

warnings: non-graphic discussion of the Winter Soldier's torture and abuse at HYDRA, discussions of calorie intake, discussions of dementia

Sam steps into the room they’ve reserved for Bucky on the medical floor. He’s acutely aware that he’s the first man to have significant contact with Bucky since he came to the Tower, since Bruce noticed the anxiety his presence caused.

He gets it. If he’d gone through the things he’d read in the Winter Soldier files, he doesn’t think he’d trust another man easily again either. It seems that HYDRA tried for a few years to get Bucky to break with the usual methods – waterboarding, beatings, starvation – but they never got anywhere until they started breaking Bucky’s brain. The Chair, electrocution, drugging – even with those it took another decade before the Winter Soldier appeared on the world stage.

Bucky’s a strong son of a bitch, then. Good.

“Hey,” Sam greets. He pulls up a chair to sit a distance from Bucky, trying to make himself seem as unthreatening as possible. “My name is Sam, I’m one of Natalia’s teammates.”

The man in front of him is a mess. Gaunt, face several days unshaved, hair oily and slick against his skin. Now that Bucky’s in a hospital gown, and not tactical gear, Sam understands what he means about Bucky being underweight. Sure, there’s muscle mass – but there’s nothing else – just skin stretched tight over cords of drug-induced muscle. Bucky nods his head at him, his face neutral but his hands shaking.

“Is there a name you’d like to be called?”

Bucky shakes his head. “The Soldier does not have a name.”

Okay, talking in the third person. Some serious dehumanization happening here. Sam takes a breath. “I have something for you,” he reaches into his backpack and sees Bucky flinch instantly. “Easy,” he murmurs, pulling out the notebook slowly. “It’s just a notebook, see?”

This does nothing to ease Bucky’s anxiety. His eyes take in the notebook, and all hell breaks loose. “I’m sorry, please don’t make me do it. I can be good without it, I promise,” he pleads, panic clear on his face.

“Hold on, what do you think I’m going to do to you?” Sam raises his hands in attempt at a calming gesture.

Bucky just flinches away from him again, then lifts his face to the ceiling as if in prayer before looking back at the notebook. “You have the codewords. You’re going to send me the Chair again and reprogram me.” Tears gather in Bucky’s eyes. “Please don’t send me there, I can be good, I’ll do anything you want – I promise.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Sam mutters, dropping the notebook as if it had burned him – stupid, he should have known better after reading the files. “Hey, listen, buddy – we don’t have the codewords. We don’t have a Chair. You’ll never go back there again. We won’t hurt you, okay?”

Bucky nods slowly, like he doesn’t fully believe Sam yet. His body is shaking.

“Here, look,” Sam hands him the notebook. “I just wanted to give you a notebook of your own – it’s blank, see? So you can write things down.”

Bucky’s shaky hands tentatively flip through the notebook, confirming each blank page. “What do you want me to write?”

“You could write things like, if you have a dream and want to remember it? Or, you could use it to keep track of your day. Track how much sleep you get, what you do during the day, that sort of thing.”

“You want me to write mission reports?” Bucky runs his flesh hand over the leather cover of the notebook before examining the ballpoint pen Sam had attached to the notebook with an elastic loop.

“Oh, no – whatever you write in there is for your eyes only. We won’t look at it unless you want us to,” Sam clarifies. “I’m giving it to you because writing can be very helpful for your memory. And also because I’d be bored out of my mind sitting in my apartment all day just focusing on eating and sleeping.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Bucky says with sincerity. His anxiety stayed, he examines Sam’s face more thoroughly. “We…have met?”

“We have,” Sam admits. “You kind of pushed me off of a Helicarrier.” Bucky winces at his words.

“I am sorry.” Bucky hangs his head. “You can…” Bucky doesn’t finish the sentence, but holds out his metal arm to Sam, like an offering.

“What are you expecting me to do?” Sam asks evenly, not liking where this is going.

“The Soldier’s arm is equipped with pain sensors,” Bucky says, as though that explains anything about this situation.

“Are you expecting me to hurt you?”

“The Soldier hurt you. You are now part of the team in charge of the Soldier. It is your right to take revenge.”

“Okay, well, fuck that, ” Sam says with emphasis. “It’s all in the past, okay? We all just wanna help you get better.”

“Why?” And damn if that isn’t a question way above Sam’s paygrade, but Bucky’s looking up at him with those sunken blue eyes, and Sam has to try.

“Because, people deserve help when they need it. And that’s what we do, the Avengers, we help people.”

“People,” Bucky murmurs. “But I am not a person.”

“Sure you are,” Sam says, moving his chair closer to Bucky’s bedside. “What makes you say you’re not?”

“I have only ever been the Soldier. The Soldier is not a person – it is a weapon.”

“How ‘bout this?” Sam proposes. “I’ll make you a bet – I say that the Soldier is a person, and you say that the Soldier is a weapon. I bet you twenty dollars that the Soldier is a person, and I can find a way to prove it to you.”

Bucky’s ears perk up. “Twenty whole dollars?”

Sam nods. “You bet. There you go, that’s the first thing you could journal about – why you think you’re not a person.” Bucky nods and immediately opens his new notebook, clicking the pen Sam gave him. Sam stands, giving Bucky a nod, and letting him journal in the quiet of the room. Once in the hallway, Sam makes a call to his Army reintegration contact.

“Hey, Jason, you get those files I sent you?”

“Could’ve used a bit more warning, Sam,” comes a rough voice from the other end of the call. “That was not the reading I wanted to do over my morning coffee.”

“Do you think you can help?” Sam asks, wincing at how underprepared his friend must have been for the contents of the files.

“I can’t make any guarantees, but I’m happy to consult on this case. It may be a new century, but Barnes is still an Army soldier. He deserves the best.”

“Can you make a video call, today, maybe 1pm Eastern Time? That’s when we’ve been having our team meetings – you’d be able to talk to everyone who’s involved in Bucky’s care.”

“Send me the details, I’ll be there,” Jason says, and hangs up.

***

Once Sam leaves the room, the Soldier opens the notebook to the first page, clicking the pen open and writing at the top of the page: evidence that the Soldier is not a person.

The Soldier does not have a name. People have names.

HYDRA created the Soldier. People are born, not created.

HYDRA told the Soldier it was not a person.

The Soldier pauses. It…can’t think of any more reasons that it is not a person. Twice now, it has been asked for a name, once by Handler Natalia and once by Sam. But the Soldier cannot remember having a name, and it does not even know how someone would go about choosing a name. Names are given, the Soldier thinks. It cannot just choose. The name is a gift. A gift only a person can give.

As for reason two—the Soldier has no concept of life outside of HYDRA. Surely that means that it was created by HYDRA, with the sole purpose of being a weapon. Can a weapon become a person? Unclear. The Soldier leaves a question mark by reason two.

Reason three seems trivial now. HYDRA is no longer in control of the Soldier, and by the way that Handler Natalia and the others talk, HYDRA seems to have been destroyed. Possibly by the Soldier’s own doing. This reason is not convincing either.

One the same page, the Soldier starts another list, drawing a line down the center of the page and creating two columns: evidence that the Soldier is a person.

The Soldier has been asked for a name (twice).

Sam told the Soldier that it is a person.

A short list. Sam will have to provide more evidence to win this bet. The Soldier falls asleep, notebook in hand, dreaming of what it could buy with twenty dollars.

Maybe another blanket, like the one in its quarters. A blue one.

***

“Hi, everyone, let’s go ahead and get started,” Sam takes a seat at the head of the conference table, pulling up a holographic screen. “Today, I want to introduce you all to Master Sergeant Jason Sykes from the Army Medical Corps. We worked together in Afghanistan when I was a pararescue – he’s the reintegration specialist I mentioned earlier.”

“Good to meet you, Master Sergeant,” Steve inclines his head at the hologram of Jason’s face.

“Jason, please,” he laughs. “When Sam told me he had something that would pull me out of retirement, I never expected this. But I’m more than happy to help. I read over the Winter Soldier files and would like to give my thoughts as both a neurologist and reintegration specialist.”

Everyone nods for Jason to continue, Steve pulling out a legal pad to take notes.

“We can’t treat this like amnesia,” Jason explains. “Given what we know from the files about the Chair, Sergeant Barnes has been subjected to systematic brain damage over the last seventy years, targeting his temporal lobe, and thus, his visual memory. The most analogous condition I can think of is Alzheimer's disease.” Steve nods gravely at that—Peggy has started developing dementia in the last few years, and he can’t imagine how Bucky must feel to have completely lost connection to his memories.

Jason continues. “I understand you’re still working on a non-invasive way to scan Sergeant Barnes’ brain, yes?”

Tony nods. “We should have a prototype ready next week. Something where he can stand for just a few minutes and have the scan done without the metal arm being a problem.”

“That’s great,” Jason says. “Normally, with this level of brain damage, I’d be drawing up a plan for management, and not recovery—but I believe that since Sergeant Barnes received a serum enhancement, he may be able to recover some, if not all, of his visual memory and independent functioning. HYDRA had to continually wipe him—that indicates to me that his brain is capable of healing in some capacity.”

“That’s good,” Steve breathes. Better news than he could have ever hoped for. Usually, he curses that serum—but perhaps there is a silver lining to it.

Bruce looks up from his own notes. “How would you recommend we go about treating the brain damage considering Barnes’ conditioning? For example, how can we differentiate if a symptom is a result of his trauma and conditioning or of his physical brain damage?”

“In my view, the conditioning was reliant on the brain damage in order to function—so treating one should treat the other. Our end goal here is to rebuild the neural connections that Sergeant Barnes has lost, to set him up for deprogramming successfully. Sam tells me he’s given Barnes a journal, and you plan on introducing him to music from before the war?” Steve and Sam nod. “Those interventions are a great starting point. I also have a contact for a therapist I’d recommend. She’s incredibly knowledgeable about both counseling and neuroscience, so I think she’d be a good fit for your, uh, unique situation. And once you get some scans of Sergeant Barnes’ brain, I can give some more specific recommendations.”

“That would be fantastic,” Sam nods.

“And if you have any further questions before then, I’m happy to help. Like I said, once a soldier, always a soldier. Anything I can do to help with Sergeant Barnes’ recovery, you just let me know.”

Sam thanks Jason and ends the video call. His phone pings a moment later with a text from Jason: the phone number for one Dr. Rebecca Abbott. “Break for lunch?” He asks the team.

“God, yes please,” Tony groans. “All this brain talk has me starving.” He winces a bit at his choice of words, but no one has it in them to rib him for it.

Helen excuses herself to head back to the medical floor, Bruce assuring her that he’ll bring her favorite falafel in about an hour. Tony heads to his lab, placing an order with the kitchen for a mountain of burgers that JARVIS will deliver to him. That leaves Sam, Natasha, and Steve for lunch.

“I can cook up some gumbo,” Sam offers. Natasha and Steve nod, and they take the elevator up to Sam and Steve’s floor. “How are the two of you doing?” Sam asks as soon the elevator doors close and they’re in the privacy of their apartment.

Neither Natasha nor Steve wants to speak first. Finally, Steve acquiesces. “Like shit,” he says with a shrug. “You know, normal day at the office – my dead best friend is actually alive but also not my best friend anymore.”

“That about sums it up,” Natasha nods. “You know, I thought I was working for the good guys, but it turns out I just went from one terrorist organization to another.” She shoots Sam a sarcastic smile.

“O-kay,” Sam draws out the word. “Coming right up, some gumbo and peer counseling. Yall need it.”

That, at least, brings a little bit of a smile out of both Steve and Natasha.

***

After two days on IV fluids, nutrition, and electrolytes, Mandi declares that Bucky can be discharged from the medical floor and continue his recovery back in his apartment. She’s drawn up a plan for Bucky’s feeding schedule: several vitamins to be taken orally in the morning, plus a revamped version of Steve’s protein shake, formulated with the minerals and electrolytes that Bucky was deficient in. She’s also given the team a two-week plan that gradually works Bucky up to his optimal 5,000 calories a day, starting at 1,000 and increasing every three days.

“I’d recommend still running blood tests after each increase to make sure he’s trending in the right direction,” she tells Bruce and Helen. “And of course, if you have any issues, you have my number and know I’m nearby.”

Sam sets up a day for Dr. Rebecca Abbott to come to the Tower after Pepper completes a thorough background check of her: her father had been held as a prisoner of war in the Vietnam War, which inspired her research into the unique effects that captivity has on both military personnel and civilians. She’d worked on several high-level cases, from American journalists who had been detained for several years to kidnapping victims held by an abuser for several decades. Sam can’t think of anyone more qualified to work with Bucky.

Natasha and Steve opt to be the ones to brief her on Bucky’s state.

“So currently, Barnes thinks that I am his handler – he refers to me as Natalia. I’ve been trying my best to not confirm that I’m his handler, but we have had to order him to do things like eat on his own,” Natasha explains.

“We wanted to make sure he wasn’t actively starving before his first therapy session,” Steve adds. “And we ran into more problems than we expected on that front. So that’s why it’s taken so long to have someone brought in.”

Rebecca waves her hand. “You’re more competent than most police forces I’ve worked with. You got me here within five days of him defecting and you figured out how to get him to put on some weight? Gold stars all around.”

Natasha shoots Steve a look that means I like this lady.

“I trust you’ve read the files that we sent over?”

Rebecca nods. “It is certainly the most severe case I have ever seen, but I think I can help. When can I meet Bucky?”

“Whenever you feel ready,” Natasha says. “Would you like me to accompany you? I have been introducing him to new people, but I would feel comfortable leaving you two alone together.” She gestures around the surveillance room they’re sat in. “We’ll be able to keep an eye on everything from in here. Or I could sit in on the session with you. But I see how that might impede the therapy process, having his “handler” there.”

“I would like to be alone with him, thank you. You could still do the introductions; I think he would appreciate having that routine.” She turns to Steve. “And what is your role here, Captain?”

“I haven’t actually seen Bucky since he pulled me out of the Potomac,” Steve says, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. “We weren’t sure if that would be—advisable. For him to see me, I mean. On the one hand, he recognized me as Steve for a moment, but on the other hand, he has been ordered to kill me. We also noticed that he seemed more distressed around men, so for a while only Dr. Cho and Natasha were interacting with him.”

Rebecca smiles sadly. “That must be very difficult for you, Captain. I will work to ensure that you can interact with Bucky soon. I have a feeling you’ll be key in his recovery.”

***

On the morning of the sixth day, the Soldier receives a notification from JARVIS.

“Natalia is on her way to your apartment with a guest, Dr. Rebecca Abbott,” the disembodied voice says.

The Soldier appreciates the heads up. It goes to the living room and stands at parade rest, in the sight line of the elevator, but not so close as to block entrance to its quarters. When the elevator doors open, the Soldier sees Handler Natalia and another woman. She looks older than Natalia, with dark skin and her hair held back in tight braids.

“Good morning,” Handler Natalia says. “I would like to introduce Dr. Rebecca Abbott, she’s a psychologist who we have assigned to assess you.”

“Hello, my name is Rebecca,” the doctor extends her hand, and the Soldier stares for a moment before shaking it gently. “Like Natalia said, I’m a psychologist. I help people with their minds. Where is the most comfortable place for us to sit for, say, an hour?”

The Soldier blinks. Comfortable for her? Comfortable for the Soldier? Both?

“How about the kitchen table?” Natalia suggests. “That would be most comfortable for you to take notes, Rebecca.”

The Soldier nods. Its handler is wise. It stands behind one of the chairs at the kitchen table, only sitting down once Rebecca is seated. Handler Natalia nods at them. “You may end the session at any time,” she says to the Soldier. “I will leave you two alone.”

And then she’s gone.

Rebecca pulls out several sheets of paper, shuffling until she finds the one she wants. “I'm going to start by assessing what we call ‘activities of daily living’. I’m going to ask some questions. You can refuse to answer at any time, and the answers you give will not be shared with anyone aside from me and your team, okay?”

The Soldier nods. It has been assessed many times by its handlers. Tested on handling different weapons, speaking different languages, fighting different assailants–

“Are you able to bathe yourself completely without assistance?”

…what?

The Soldier blinks. It…does not know. “Define ‘bathe’, please.”

The doctor looks shocked. “I guess, I would say: are you able to use soap and water to cleanse your body in a bath or shower?”

“I have not been permitted soap before,” the Soldier offers, hoping that answers the strange question.

Rebecca must accept that as an answer, because she checks a box on her paper and moves to the next question: “Are you able to dress yourself without assistance?”

The Soldier nods, looking down at its clothes today as an answer. Another pair of soft pants and a dark blue t-shirt. Rebecca checks another box.

“Are you able to go to the restroom without assistance?”

“Yes, this has been permitted.”

“What about before this team? Was that permitted at HYDRA?”

The Soldier looks down at its lap. “No. The Soldier had to ask. To beg,” it explains. “The handlers liked that.”

That must answer multiple questions that Rebecca has, because she makes several checkmarks in quick succession before scribbling something harshly in the margins of the page.

“Are you able to feed yourself on your own?”

“Here, that is permitted. Previously, the Soldier had to ask. It was also fed through a tube.” The Soldier does not understand why the doctor looks so sad when it answers her questions.

“Okay, next bit of the assessment: can you prepare food on your own?”

The Soldier shakes its head immediately. “Forbidden.”

“Here, and before?”

“Here…instructions have not been provided. Before, it was forbidden explicitly.”

“Are you able to drive on your own?”

This the Soldier smiles a little at. “Very well. Cars and bikes. The Soldier can fly a variety of aircraft as well.”

“That's good,” Rebecca returns its smile. “If I were to give you this,” she slides her smartphone across the table. “Would you know how to operate it?”

“Yes, the Soldier has used such technology before.” It slides it back to the doctor.

“One more of these activity questions: are you able to complete housework without assistance? Cleaning, dishes, stuff like that?”

The Soldier stares at her blankly. “Okay, that answers my question.”

Rebecca shuffles her papers again and pulls out a legal pad and pen. “I’d like to end today by identifying some thinking errors you may have.”

The Soldier nods. So, Rebecca is like a technician. It feels relief—finally someone will fix its malfunctions.

“What can I call you?” Rebecca asks softly.

“I have not been given a name,” the Soldier explains. “Names are gifts. They cannot be chosen.”

“What do people here call you, then?”

“The Soldier.”

“Do you like being called that?”

The Soldier pauses. “I – the Soldier does not like or dislike.”

“Why?”

“Only people like or dislike. The Soldier is not a person.” The Soldier opens its notebook, which had been sitting on the kitchen table, showing it to the doctor. “See, I have collected evidence.”

Rebecca studies the page intently. “Well, you have now been asked for a name three times,” she offers. “I agree with Sam, too. I think you are a person as well.” She hands the notebook back to the Soldier, who appreciates that she handles it with care. “What other sorts of things do you think people do that you don’t do?”

“People eat solid food. People sleep on beds. People are not handled,” the Soldier lists off easily.

Rebecca writes something down, then asks: “Do you truly think you are being handled?”

The Soldier blinks. “What do you mean? I have a handler—Natalia.”

Rebecca nods. “Well, you have identified Natalia as your handler. Has she ever identified herself as such?”

The Soldier thinks about this for almost a full minute. “No. But she has given me orders.”

“People can follow orders, too,” Rebecca says. “Can you tell me why you don’t sleep on the bed?”

“It’s…beds are only for handlers.”

“But do you have a handler here?” The Soldier shakes its head again. A thinking error, error, error—

“Hey, you still with me?” Rebecca is leaning across the table, concern etched on her face. The Soldier realizes that it’s breathing heavily. “Apologies,” it manages. “I can continue with maintenance.”

“It’s alright,” Rebecca gives him a small yet warm smile. “The work we’re going to do together isn’t going to be easy. You will feel challenged. You will feel confused. That is to be expected. You may find yourself wanting to sleep more—that is good. Should you experience any other physical changes, those should be noted. Now,” she leans back in her chair. “I am going to see you again in one week, and I have some homework for you.”

“Homework?”

“Think of it like exercising, or maybe—self-maintenance. I am going to give you some tasks to do before our next meeting, and while I hope that you complete them, there is not going to be a punishment if you don’t, okay?”

That throws the Soldier for a loop, because it has never, ever, been in charge of its own maintenance before, but it nods. “I am capable.”

“Good,” Rebecca gives the Soldier that warm smile again. “Today we discussed and identified some of your ‘inner rules’—things like “beds are for handlers” and “names are given”. For the next week, I’d like you to try and write down any of those ‘inner rules’ that you think of for the next week, as well as the reasoning behind the rule. We will discuss these further at our next session, but remember,” she looks the Soldier intently in the eyes. “The reason for you noting these rules is not for punishment. The reason you are noting your inner rules is to heal, okay?”

The Soldier looks down at its notebook. It can do this. The doctor had called it good.

It wants to be good.

***

“Well, I have a plan,” Rebecca explains at the all-team meeting later that day. “The most pressing psychological issue is the cognitive distortions Sergeant Barnes has developed—’inner rules’, as I called them. He’s gone through seventy years of trauma—and these cognitive distortions are his brain’s attempt to create some sort of reasoning, a framework he could stay within to remain safe. I also think we should consider the possibility that Barnes himself created this persona of ‘the Soldier’.”

“Like, he dissociated?” Tony asks. He’s all too familiar with that.

“To an extreme degree, yes,” Rebecca agrees. “It’s much less psychologically taxing to believe that you aren’t human than to hold onto your humanity when forced to carry out acts of violence.”

Steve’s stomach flips at that. How bad had Bucky’s captivity been, that believing himself to be subhuman became somehow protective? For the umpteenth time in the last week, Steve mentally kicks himself for not pushing harder to find Bucky after the fall from the train.

“You said ‘most pressing psychological issue’,” Natasha is talking now. “Does that mean there’s another pressing issue?”

Rebecca nods. “There is, of course, the issue of brain damage. But until we can get some brain scans, I can only speculate based on the Winter Soldier files. I agree with Jason’s assessment about Alzheimer’s being the most comparable condition. I understand you already have some non-medical interventions in place, like the journaling?”

Sam nods. “Steve and I picked out some music for him to listen to—pre-war stuff—but then the refeeding issue derailed our plan.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Rebecca smiles appreciatively. “As for visits, I don’t see any reason why we can’t start introducing him to more people. He’s exhibited no desire for violence, or for continuing to carry out his previous missions. I think him seeing more faces would be good too—get away from that idea that his only human interaction comes from his handler or his technicians.”

“Any hard ‘no’s’, doc?” Tony asks. “Stuff we should be avoiding at all costs.”

Rebecca thinks for a second. “Don’t try to force his memories to return by telling him about them. Give him sensory experiences and let things come naturally,” she pauses. “He needs a solid routine, too. Something more than eating and sleeping.”

“We can work something out.” Sam agrees.

***

They draw up a plan.

Bucky already had a routine—a very minimal one. Waking at 7am, breakfast and vitamins at 8am while talking with Natasha, lunch at noon, medical visits in the afternoon if necessary, dinner at 5pm, and bed at 10pm.

“So, what I'm thinking is, we add in some sort of hobby or activity after dinner,” Sam says, pointing to the whiteboard. “Something relaxing.”

“I can take that slot,” Steve offers immediately. “I can do the music, maybe even some art?”

“Art! Great idea, Cap.” Sam writes in Steve's name from the hours of 6:00 to 8:00. “Based on both Jason and Rebecca's assessments, Barnes is going to have some trouble with ‘activities of daily life’.”

“Remind us what those are again, Woodstock.” Tony says.

“Bathing, hygiene, and eating are the most basic ones,” Sam lists on his fingers. “More advanced ADLs are things like preparing food, chores, cleaning, and shopping. I did a rotation in a dementia center as part of my Master's, so I was thinking I could take over that area.”

Natasha nods. “So maybe you do an afternoon and evening visit?” Sam puts himself on the whiteboard schedule from 1:00pm to 2:00pm and 8:00pm to 9:00pm. “I can keep doing my morning visits, too. Put me down at his breakfast time.”

“Do you want to be in charge of introducing new foods to him?” Bruce asks. “Breakfast might be the easiest time to do it. We can then monitor his reaction over the course of the day.

Natasha nods. “I can do that.”

“There's still a lot of time in that schedule when he's alone,” Tony notes. “I know he'll have music and journaling, but what about books? Puzzles? I think I'd be going stir crazy sitting in the apartment all day with only records and a journal.”

“That's a great idea, Tony,” Sam says, adding that to his growing list of items to pick up on Tony's dime. “When he's more regulated, I think we should ask if he wants you to look at his arm, Tony. There's no way that's not causing him some mobility issues or chronic pain.”

“You got it,” Tony agrees.

“And you've got Helen and myself still for general medical, plus Mandi for nutrition, Jason for neurology, and Rebecca for therapy,” Bruce lists. “Quite the team.”

“Quite,” Steve agrees.

And so, Team Bucky was assembled.

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