I do not own Captain America: Civil War.
But I gotta stop watching it at four in the morning, man.
The Belly of the Beast
The deep Siberian air was cold, freezing, even through the protective shell of the smoothly descending Quinjet.
And Bucky Barnes refused to shiver with it.
He did not want to go down there.
He most definitely did not want to go down there.
He was in a cold sweat.
Stubbornly attempting to ignore the crippling fear eating away at the soft tissues of his brain.
And low grade panic constricting in his chest, filling up his body to overflow as the frozen ground rose up to meet them.
Down there, under the snow and ice, was a maze of hallways, offices, storage.
Cells.
Infirmary.
And The Room.
The place where he was, had been, kept.
James Buchanan Barnes' own private sector of Hell.
Reserved with his cryofreeze chamber.
The Chair.
And The Device.
He did not want to come face to face with The Chair.
The Device.
None of the other operatives had required The Chair. The Device.
Because they had chosen their participation in the project.
They had chosen the serum.
They chosen.
Bucky Barnes had been taken.
Restrained.
Guinea pigged.
Tortured into submission.
And methodically, systematically brain-washed to be The Asset.
The first Winter Soldier.
And after it was all over, the killing, he had always had to be returned to The Chair.
The Device.
To be wiped.
Rewritten.
Reprogrammed.
In flashes of repetitive, blinding light.
And torrents of searing pain.
Even unto the core of his very synapses.
It haunted his dreams, chased his waking hours.
And threatened to overwhelm his sanity.
Almost as much as the atrocities he had commited at the merciless command of said brutality.
And he did not want to return to the facility where it had originated.
Even free and armed to the teeth.
He did not want to be there.
And he did not want Steve to see it.
The dusty remnants of own personal Hell.
The place where it had happened.
His debasement. Dehumanization.
His shame and humiliation and pyschological dismemberment, psychological rape had occurred there.
Over and over and over again.
With no reprieve.
No escape.
No help.
He was terrified of it.
Even now.
Abandoned. Empty.
Forgotten.
By everyone.
Except him.
And Zemo.
And any other hidden agents still drawing breath.
But had to be done.
Zemo had to be stopped.
The Winter Soldiers could not be set free to wreck havoc on the world.
He was not strong enough to stop them.
He had never been.
He would fight them if they were awake.
And he would die.
Steve would fight them if they were awake.
And Steve would die.
And all who opposed them.
But they had to try.
Bucky inspected and grabbed most lethal weapon at his disposal.
Other than his Winter Soldier alter ego.
Set himself.
And began preparing to go back into the belly of the beast.
On legs made of determined jelly and a stomach full of churning acid, he stood beside the man who had brought him here.
The man who remembered him as somebody else.
And prepared to force himself to face his terror.
It has to be done.
It has to be done.
It has to be-
"You remember that time we had to ride back from Rockaway Beach in the back of that ice truck?"
What?
Then it surfaced. Muddled and foggy.
But there.
My butt's cold, Steve.
Yeah, you're sitting on a block of ice, Buck.
James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes momentarily broke through the suffocating black dread in which he found himself drowning.
Steve.
Steve.
The message was loud and clear.
You're not alone.
You're still my friend.
And I got your back.
The corner of his mouth curved up just a little.
"Was that the time . . ."
Thank you, Steve.
If I wrote this properly, then I just stomped all over your feels.
And I'm sorry.
So is Bucky.
But I hoped you sort of enjoyed it anyway. ;)
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