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whatiswhump · 3 months

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Bucky Barnes, What am I Now

Part I

July 4, 2024.

After CAWS, Bucky is free and receives help from the character "The Nurse" (who is from this fic) to set up a quiet life in the English countryside. For years I've had this vision that Bucky is alone and at peace with his own little corner in the world. It is bitterly sweet for a short time though only to be tracked down by SHIELD... (I love a capture sorry!)

---

It hadn’t felt real for the first few months. That there were no masters….

…And what the Nurse had arranged for him. The cottage with a bit of land well out of the way in the English countryside.

She said no would bother him here. She was devastatingly effective at everything she endeavored.

For the first few months the Soldier slept on the floor and often starved himself for days or weeks before going out for food. She had arranged an account with a modest income, a passport too. The kind of things easily sorted if you were in the right business. He could purchase the necessities with his trained ghost-like anonymity with ease if he chose to.

But when hunger made him too weak to think straight, he only went out to dig for roots or dandelion greens to eat raw. And when his coat and boots sprung holes and left him to the elements, he did nothing to remedy them, preferring inaction.

The first year he never even bothered to build a fire in the bricked hearth which the tired cottage was built around. No amount of cold or damp was sufficient cause to motivate him.

Self punishment might have played a role but so did sheer lack of inertia, if it was not strictly necessary to not perish, he could not bring himself to. He told himself it was to keep off the radar but logically knew that if Hydra was looking for him, fires in a cottage wouldn’t make a difference.

With logic aside however and fear held on fastly, that first year was spent mostly shivering on the damp floor of the old cottage, waiting for them to come, because they certainly would.

But after a year, the oddest thing happened. They didn't.

One day, in late spring when the wild and long overgrown brush around his dwelling was well on its way into greening and tangling itself for another year, he stepped outside and realized it was time to purchase a new pair of boots and jacket.

He didn’t need the jacket that day, nor it would seem, for another week or two after, but it hung on a hook by the door for when he did. It was a comfort, he realized.

The next week he recognized there were roses along the garden wall that were being smothered by vines. He uncovered and trimmed the bushes and then some of the pervading fear in his chest loosened a bit too.

He didn’t notice right away but he started to build a routine.

He began sweeping out the cottage every morning with the windows open. He had seen attendants doing it in the lab around the scientists often. Then a walk through the fields, listening to the bird calls, taking mental notes on the flora and the weather.

In the afternoons, he began to cultivate the plants in his garden. Some vegetables and herbs planted from seeds, but mostly flowers. He found purpose in finding the existing flowers and then coaxing their ailing or overgrown plants back to life and bloom.

He had a “green thumb” as Murray, an old handler, had called it. The Soldier still remembered following his keeper around the base fence as the man pointed out the various wild flowers. He also remembered Murray’s bloodied skull after he was forcibly removed from office.

None of those flowers he had seen here yet. That base must have been in a different country. How long now had Murray been dead? It was anyone's guess. A few handlers before Pierce, but definitely after Zola’s experiments had ended. He had a notebook now that he had begun writing these things down in, trying, often in vain it seemed like, to get his memories organized.

One afternoon, he was working on the bluebells under a gnarled pear tree in the corner of the garden when his mind regurgitated Murray’s voice as clear as day, “Most people go wrong with sunshine, they think all flowers like full sun. It’s much easier to kill than to grow though, but of course you’d know that Lazarus.”

The Soldier had paused where he was kneeled above the ground, glitching. Stuck in the memory with his handler convinced that in the next moment that one of the Strike boys would call out from their baseball game or Murray would tell him it was time to go back into base for another wipe.

But neither ever came. The Soldier just stayed there until it grew dark and the warm garden hummed with the residual heat of the day. When he at least moved and the plates on his arm clicked and whirred with him, he reminded himself with rounded shoulders, he was just broken.

But even though he was broken, he no longer wished he was dead every time he closed his eyes.

He had diversions now. He could move so silently as to observe foxes with their cubs in the field, or sit and watch the blooms develop on a plant for an entire day if he chose. He didn’t have to kill anyone anymore. No more missions.

He also appreciated the solitude, no more fear or dread of the actions of others. He liked it so much he couldn’t imagine any situation in which he would be happier with someone else.

Until he was surprised.

It came up to him as he was washing his hands in the outside tap. He jumped, surprised by how quietly it approached, so unused to contact with anything living of its size.

It was emaciated and gray and wanted a drink of water. And most importantly it was decidedly unimpressed and unafraid of the Soldier.

He quickly understood what she was asking for and poured water into the trough. When she had her fill, she looked up to him as if to ask, now what is for dinner?

After that day, Cat never left. Soldier never thought to give her another name because he didn’t realize it was within his purview to name another living thing, he didn’t have a name himself after all.

So she was Cat.

One day on his trip into town, he inexplicably stopped at the art supply shop. He wasn’t sure why. He had never tried to draw that he remembered, nor did he feel any keen desire to.

But when he saw the water color palette in the window, he felt certain it was important, that maybe he had bought one before. On a mission perhaps? He couldn’t imagine a situation where it could serve a tactical purpose. He felt like he needed to buy it however.

He did, along with some paper, two brushes and an HB pencil all of which were recommended by the patient lady.

When he sat down with them all at home, they did not feel like his, which he was not surprised by. It wasn’t like when they’d give him a new gun and he could disassemble and reassemble it in seconds from innate muscle memory even if he had no actual memories of it.

So he wrapped the supplies up with a string and placed them in the pie cupboard. Unsettled by the unknown connection.

He didn’t exactly gain weight but he was no longer as gaunt as he had been and his days spent outdoors gave him a color he didn’t ever remember having. In the evenings if he didn’t write, he read books mostly. Cat’s favorite place was on his chest.

The first time she settled there he had felt pinned and claustrophobic, quickly veering on panic. But not wanting to disturb his newfound friend and with the surprisingly pacifying effect of her purr, he soon grew to welcome her when she came to curl up.

It was the presence of his new friend that encouraged him to light the first fire on a chilly night.

***

He didn’t hear them. He still doesn’t know how. One moment it was him, Cat, and the dying embers of their evening fire, and the next moment, the door was flung open and there were twelve more people in the cottage.

His first thought was of Cat, they would surely put her down if she made a fuss. She yowled in annoyance at the sudden disturbance and, to his relief, took quick cover under the bed.

Their sight lasers were trained on him. Voices yelling while he remained frozen.

They were speaking english. All in tactical gear, night goggles, red lasers on their rifles. He had been on their side hundreds of times. He already knew he was not going to win.

Not that he was going to fight.

He had been found, they were going to catch him. Like they always did. Every time.

One in particular was speaking after the yelling died down, Head of Command. But the Soldier wasn’t able to listen. All of his senses other than touch were dulled as they grabbed him, tore him to the ground and then cuffed his wrists and ankles with something that were not regular bonds. They had read his file then.

On the ground he could see Cat cowering furiously in her hiding place. He wondered if she would be able to get into the crate of cat food on her own tomorrow when he was gone. He hoped they would leave the door open.

“Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Barnes-”

“Forget it- maybe they messed up his programming and he doesn’t understand English anymore.”

“Alright, he’s cleared for transport then.”

Someone swiped his neck with something wet and cold. Then a prick. The Russians had liked sedating him for travel too. Keep him untethered and unable to pinpoint base locations. He kept watching Cat until he could feel his body betraying him and then the Soldier closed his eyes, only hoping he wouldn’t be there for whatever came next.

—

Steve stopped at the garden gate. It was old but someone had re-oiled the hinges. Beyond it was a tidy garden. Late summer blooms were dying and needed to be dead-headed soon. Had Bucky really been taking care of this place?

Shield agents were milling around the cottage when he stepped in.

“What’d he do, kill someone’s grandma to get this place?”

The other agent snorted, “All he needed were some doilies.”

The both became aware of Captain Rogers and went silent, likely silently cursing themselves for their comments.

“Captain Rogers… We are just finishing up here.”

“Did you find any weapons in your sweep?” Steve hated to ask but…

“Not unless you count garden shears sir, no.”

Steve nodded and left them in silence to gather their things and high tail it out. It was only when they were gone did he feel more free to look as well.

There wasn’t much. Tidy. One plate, one bowl, one set of silverware. No whiskey, no television, no things a normal man would have.

A few books… The Hobbit, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, White Fang. Interesting.

Does he remember Brooklyn? Steve felt a twist in his chest at the thought.

He hesitated in front of the cabinet, already unlatched, already searched, his tactical side informed. There was not going to be anything of note, there was no reason to feel odd about looking a little more closely.

He wouldn't have even needed to if they had brought him in on the mission to begin with. The hell he raised when he found out what had happened.

... And the tears he dry sobbed when he got alone after they confirmed they captured him alive.

One finger pulled the old tin door open. Again, it didn't have much. Some dry goods, linens, cat food, and... was that an un touched set of art supplies?

Steve thought for the first time since he was a skinny kid in Brooklyn, he might be sick.

—

The Soldier doesn’t know what they gave him but it’s different from Zola’s finely tuned formulas. When he comes to on a plane, locked into a box, he feels muddled and confused. It’s freezing, he realizes he must be in the cargo hold. He is used to cold, he thinks.

It’s only when the door to the container he is in is open and there is someone with a syringe kneeling over him that he realizes just how out of it he is.

“Shhh- it’s alright.” The smell of antiseptic alcohol, “Yeah. This dose will keep him out until we reach the destination. His metabolism’s faster than I expected.”

The Soldier isn’t sure why he tried to reach up at the man to steady himself. He couldn’t anyway, his wrists and ankles were still restrained.

The man just pressed him back to the floor gently, “Don’t worry, you’re going to a good place. They will take care of you.”

—

He was no longer in a plane, he knew this. Everything else was unclear. The concrete room he was in was bare and similar to his Hydra holding cells except this one had a mirror. He was surprised they hadn’t wiped him yet. Why hadn’t they wiped him yet? Or more to the point, punished him?

They had changed him into a gown before he was conscious and done away with the ankle restraints. They didn’t think he was that dangerous then. Maybe they hadn’t gotten Pierce’s files then.

Pierce insisted on full restraints the first few decades while the Soldier was being wiped and reprogrammed to his standards. They were necessary for how many times the Soldier had tried to rip his throat out.

They were right though, he wouldn't try that now though. Pierce was dead, at least he thought. And he was tired. If he had to kill again he just hoped they wouldn’t make him be there for it.

The door to his cell opened then. First an armed guard filed in, then a man in a white coat with a second guard behind. The scientist. He appreciated the cruel familiarity.

“Sergeant Barnes, glad you’re finally with us. Trust me, Shield Agent Hall got a stern talking to from me for that dosing.”

The Soldier stared back blankly, he only responded when ordered and he did not remember the “Sergeant Barnes” alias.

“You were out for the first day and a half once you arrived. We’ll have to get some fluids in you now that you’re awake.”

The Soldier just stared from where he sat on the ground, his cuffed wrists limp in his lap.

“James, do you remember English? The team that rescued you weren’t sure if you understood them.”

Rescue?

The Soldier understood the question was directed at him but he was confused by the names and the direct questions.

“James?”

“How soon can we get a Russian interpreter in here?” The man looked at the mirror.

“I speak English.” The Soldier whispered. He didn’t want to make the new handlers mad. He didn’t want it to be hard anymore.

The scientist looked back at the Soldier, clearly a little surprised, “Oh well, well done,” He said genially, “Just a little slow to start it seems,” He smiled a bit at one of the guards, “James, do you know where you are?”

James… but he looked at him. Perhaps it's an alias from a forgotten mission the Americans had known him from. The scientist had mentioned Shield.

He shook his head, preferring that to his voice.

“You are in the United States of America at a special institution for those most unwell. A maximum security psychiatric hospital, the Redford Institute. You will be taken care of here.”

Another front? What was the purpose? Why didn’t they just wipe him already?

“Do you understand?”

“There was a cat… She will be hungry.” The Soldier looked at their feet.

“A cat?”

“Back-” He trailed off… his home? No he was foolish to ever think he could have that. He couldn’t call it that.

“Where you were found? Oh. Did you hurt it? Yeah, I can ask someone about that. They’ll take care of it.”

The Soldier wasn’t convinced. The man was speaking like one did to a child when you say a quick fib to get something bigger accomplished like bathtime or a meal finished.

“It's okay. I can tell you need some more time to settle in so perhaps we can discuss this again tomorrow. For now, I want you to go with the nice nurses for a shower.”

He must have still been groggy because there were two men in green lifting him by the arms rather suddenly before he even registered they had entered the room.

The Soldier was familiar with this. He let them drag him stumbling to a gleaming tiled room where they asked him to undress. When he didn’t, he allowed them to remove the gown and guide him underneath the showerhead.

The spray was freezing and only when one nurse tested it with his hand and recoiled in surprise, immediately guiding the Soldier back too, did he realize they didn’t mean to use it as a punishment.

“God! That’s freezing! He didn’t even react! Let’s wait till it warms up some more. I’m sorry, normally it doesn’t come out like that-”

The Soldier just stared straight ahead. Bad things came from interacting with techs.

He remained the same when they cut his hair off, shearing off the inches in dramatic sheafs.

“I feel like it’s those videos you see of groomers shaving matted dogs-”

“Cut it out- he’s not matted- Anyway, he can hear you.”

And when they put him back in the cell, he swallowed their cupful of pills and turned away from the food that came soon after. Unable to entertain anything that wasn't a direct command or action.

Hopefully they would wipe him soon.

---

To be continued.

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #psychiatric whump #psych whump #forced drugging #fluff #hes safe #he has a cat!!!#even though he doesnt know why he buys the art supplies for steve!!!#captured by shield #alternate universe #alternate timeline #steve rogers #poor steve #happy birthday steve!#4th of july

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