AN: (24.9.14) For Winterhawk Week again! Was going to post this on the AU day, but I got excited and decided it could fill the 'any day' category of brainwashing. It was also inspired by the latest episode of Doctor Who...

Control, Alter, Delete

Bucky comes to slowly, sense by sense. He hears a low rumbling first, changing in pitch occasionally, and voices engaged in conversation; a rusty taste grows in his mouth, strong enough to make him think there's metal inside; the scents under his nose are a mixture of leather, sweat, and something artificial trying to be natural; he realises he's lying down, and awkwardly – his body's twisted, knees bent, feet pushed up against something, his shoulders elevated a bit; as the talking stops, he drags his eyes open, muted shades of light and dark grey sharpening into a window and seats, and a fast-moving world-view.

A… car?

Something warm brushes through his hair over and over again. He wants to know what it is, because it's soothing his sore head, but the more he thinks the more tired he becomes. He lets the motion of the car push him back into unconsciousness, even as someone above him says, thickly, "You are an idiot… Such a fucking idiot."

The last thing he feels is a drop of warm water landing on his cheekbone.

Once he has his breath back, Clint says, "As great as that was – and, you know, why can't we do that more often – I'm curious as to why it happened? I mean, we're more… night people, if you catch my drift."

Lying on top of him, face pressed into his chest, Bucky grins, not bothering to open his eyes. "I needed to make a memory," he says, and finds the energy to lean up over Clint, smiling down into his beautifully flushed face. "I've exceeded my last data storage figure."

Clint's brow furrows as he tries to understand. "You mean…"

"I haven't had this many memories since my last wipe."

"Oh." And if Bucky thought he was beautiful a moment ago, it's nothing compared to when Clint smiles at him like that.

"Bucky… Bucky?"

He comes around quicker this time, and when he opens his eyes there's some colour above him: a man with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, streaks of brown and a patch of dark purple on his face. Bucky works out he's lying in the man's lap, but he doesn't have the strength to move himself.

"You're alright, Bucky," the man tells him gently (and he has his hand in Bucky's hair, stroking slowly, carefully, making the pain bearable). "You're safe. We're going to look after you. Get you better again." Light spills over his face and his eyes dart up. "That was quick."

"They were expecting us."

"Right. He's awake again."

"We'd best get him inside, then."

A look of concern passes over the blonde's face, but Bucky loses his focus on it as another pair of hands loop under his arms and pull, dragging him out into the light – and it's too bright, too painfully bright, and his head throbs and his eyes sting even though he closes them, and more hands are on his legs, at the back of his knees, and he can't breathe through his nose and he's so confused and sore, he just wants to sleep –

"It's alright, Bucky," he hears the blonde say after he lets out a whimper. "You'll be better soon, I promise."

"Careful what you promise," a second voice behind him says. "Jesus, he weighs a tonne with this thing."

"It doesn't come off."

"I know, I was just… Never mind."

Bucky slips back into oblivion.

The lab is full of cybernetics – from tiny augmentations meant for eyes and ears, bone support, fingers and toes to full limbs, spinal supports, and artificial organs, each taking up a desk or two at random parts of the room. Bucky watches Clint inspect parts for the inner ear, studying them with a look of such deep concentration that Bucky finds it slightly funny. Clint hears his muffled chuckle, and looks around sharply. "What?"

"Nothing," he replies, ignoring the twitch of his fingers as Fitz tests the impulse connections in his shoulder. "You just look very studious."

Clint snorts. "Studious. Don't make me throw this at you."

"Don't make me deafen you," Fitz mutters, and Bucky has to bite his lip so he doesn't laugh and disturb him further.

Gently putting the ear parts back down, Clint sighs and gestures at them vaguely. "I never knew what they did to fix mine," he explains. "Wondered if it was anything like this."

Bucky watches him closely, tuning out the feel of Fitz poking around his mechanics. "And?"

"And what?"

"Do you think it might be?"

He shrugs. "Guess it must be. I'll never know, but…" A smile tugs the corner of his mouth up. "It's pretty cool." Turning to Bucky, he points at his arm. "Not as cool as that though."

"I disagree," Bucky mumbles.

"Course you do," Clint says with a smirk, stepping closer to the workbench Bucky sits on. "You wouldn't know cool if it bit you in the ass."

"Definitely not you then."

"Funny, gramps. And was that a reference to last night?"

"I wouldn't use the word 'cool' to describe last night at all."

"No, you're right there. Completely the opposite."

"Think we could try set number two soon?"

"Set number two?"

"Yeah, where I'm at one end of the bed, you're at the other –"

"Oh, and I try and lick your – ow!" The metal arm shoots up suddenly, the hand smacking Clint square in the jaw.

"Oops," Fitz says loudly. "So sorry. Wrong reflex cable. Hard to know what they all do sometimes." There's not a drop of remorse on his face.

"Can you tell me your name?"

Bucky blinks, forcing the words out for the messy-haired doctor. "James Barnes." It even sounds like his throat's been skinned.

"Do you know how old you are?" He nods. "Can you tell me?"

Talking hurts so damned much. "Twe- twenty-six."

"Clint, some water please?" Clint is the blonde man, the one he was lying on in the car. The one whose ears seem 'off' in some way. The one who hasn't stopped watching him for a second.

Bucky takes the water eagerly, devouring it. Swallowing hurts, too, but he needs the water – it helps somehow, and abates the taste of metal slightly. It does nothing for his head. He reaches for more anyway, a second cup waiting for that exact purpose, and drinks it just as quickly as the first, despite the doctor's warning to take it steadily. When that cup is gone, he finds himself gasping for breath, coughing a bit and holy shit, that makes his throat even worse, he needs more, has to soothe the rawness –

The doctor hands him a third cup, but holds on after he grasps it eagerly. "Slowly," he says sternly, and Bucky listens this time. "Better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Don't mention it." He smiles. The blonde man – Clint – doesn't. "I have a few more questions left to ask you James, then we can see about restoring your memories. Is there anything you want to ask before I continue?"

Bucky thinks about how his head hurts, the strange taste in his mouth and the fact that he woke up spread out on the backseat of a car, half draped over Clint's lap. He's about to ask why he woke up like that when the doctor's words catch up with him. "What do you mean by restoring my memories?"

The doctor frowns. "I'm sorry?"

He swallows. "You said: 'we can see about restoring your memories'. What did you mean?"

The face before him goes slack. "Oh no."

Clint steps forward. "Bruce –"

"Steve's here," a third voice – one Bucky heard earlier – announces. "He wants to come down after…" The man who enters is black with short black hair and a pack of some sort strapped to his back. He looks between Clint and the doctor and frowns. "What's wrong?"

The doctor leaves his chair and the three of them huddle together just out of earshot. All Bucky glimpses from the conversation are odd words that don't seem to make sense; words like "computer", and "past records", and "base settings". He's confused, bordering on cross. He gave answers to the two questions he was asked, now he wants one in return. They don't whisper for long, and when they finally stop, the black man leaves after giving Bucky a worried look. Clint leans against a metal support post, scowling, and the doctor takes up his position again, expression too calm.

"Okay James, I'm afraid we're going to have to skip the questions," he begins.

"Why?"

"There's been a complication."

"What does that mean?" he asks, frustrated. "Does it have something to do with my memories? With restoring them? Do you need a computer or – or records for them, or – or is it – am I –" Grimacing, he grips the side of his head, grits out, "Why does my head hurt so much?"

Alarmed by something, Clint stands up. "Bruce!"

"I know, Clint." The doctor has a syringe. He's drawing a clear liquid from a bottle. The last thing Bucky wants is for it to be put inside him.

"No!" he yells, lashing out and knocking it out of Bruce's hands. "No needles! No needles, I don't –" His left hand still hangs in mid-air, and Bucky stares at it.

"James?"

"Bucky?"

Metal. His hand – his entire arm – is made of metal. Why does he have a metal arm?

Steve is a solid weight against his side, grounding, and through his general confusion Bucky is glad for his friend's presence. He still doesn't know how he ended up here, but if Steve is there it can only mean he's safe, that the rest of the team is here somewhere, and that the Red Room do not have their claws in him again.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Steve asks.

Bucky closes his eyes, lets Steve support him as they try to walk, and searches through his more than patchy memories. "Uh... Clint and I were... having dinner..."

"When was that?"

"I don't - I'm not sure."

"Anything before that?"

"... Yeah - me and you had a sparring match, and... I broke your... your ankle?"

Steve exhales. "That was two months ago, Bucky."

"Huh?"

"Bucky!"

Clint's running towards them, and Bucky instantly reaches for him. Steve steps aside, letting him stumble straight into Clint's arms, where he feels waves of relief radiating off him. He struggles to understand what's happening, but after Steve's minor bombshell, Clint is exactly the person he needs right now.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm not hurt."

"Thank God - I thought they got you for good."

"They nearly did." Steve's voice is grave enough that Clint pulls away. Bucky keeps his hold on him. "He was being wiped when I found him, Clint. I stopped it, but he's lost the last two months from his memory banks."

"What?" Bucky flinches. "Two months? How do you know?"

"I remember breaking Steve's ankle during training and having dinner with you after, then my next memory after that is waking up here, with Steve," he explains. Clint holds him tighter, and panic starts seeping into Bucky's mind. He can't remember the last two months; what if something important had happened? What if he'd done something enjoyable with Clint and now couldn't tell someone else about it? What if there had been a change to something and he needed to know? What if, what if, what if... Hating the Red Room has been constant since the Avengers had freed him. Now he hates them more.

Clint looks just as upset. Seeing so pains Bucky, because it confirms the fear that he has forgotten a treasured memory, something wonderful that passed between them, and while he's sure Clint will tell him everything he's lost he knows it won't be the same. Somehow, though, Clint manages the tiniest of smiles. "Well at least that's all they took."

By the time the others arrive, Bucky just wants to sit with Clint, away from their pity, and try to recover his memories. "You can always find them somewhere on a computer," Tony tells him. "Files are rarely deleted for good." It's a nice sentiment, even if that's all it turns out to be.

He comes to - and, alright, that's getting old now. But, thankfully, it's a lot more comfortable this time round. He's on a makeshift bed, his head isn't pounding particularly hard anymore, and he recognises his surroundings. Strange to think that, besides the car, this warehouse is the only place he's ever known.

A blonde-haired man is sitting by the bed, frowning at the floor. He's handsome, even if the frown lines are a little too deep, and something clicks in Bucky's memory. He lets a deep breath out through his nose as he stretches gently, making the blonde turn to look at him, and the sense of familiarity shatters. "You're not Clint..."

"No," he confirms, also appearing sad. "I'm Steve."

"Steve?"

Nodding, he now looks hopeful. "Your best friend?"

"Oh." What else is he supposed to say? Sorry? He doesn't know the guy. "Where am I?" he asks instead.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Bucky concentrates, ignoring the flaring ache in his head. "I... I saw my arm -" He represses a shudder. "Did I pass out?"

"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Bruce, the doctor, said it would be a good idea to let you sleep for a bit. Said you'd been through a lot."

"I have?" This might be the time to ask questions. Steve seems very forthcoming.

And he is; Bucky learns that he's actually a cyborg, hence the arm, and is equipped with a memory drive that was used, for a long time, to manipulate him "in a nasty way". He prods, but Steve refuses to tell him any more than: "They made you do awful things, Buck." 'They' are the Red Room. Just from the way Steve says the name Bucky knows they're seriously bad people. Apparently they captured him again recently, and Steve says Clint found Bucky after they'd managed to wipe his memory again. "Bruce thinks they managed to push you all the way back to... 'factory settings', or something. Where you remember how to function and who you are, but nothing else they deemed important." Like friends.

"How do I know you guys?"

Bruce and Sam are members of their team - the Avengers, an underground resistance movement against the allies factions of HYDRA and the re-formed KGB. "We thought they'd kill each other off, but no such luck." Steve he's known since childhood, and Clint -

"What?" Bucky asks when he hesitates.

A different look settled over Steve's face: fond, yet slightly resigned. "Clint means a bit more to you than the rest of us."

Later, when Bruce returns - Clint trailing behind him - to ask if Bucky's ready, he doesn't hesitate to say "Yes".

The grass feels wonderful against his exposed skin, even if it isn't as soft as he remembers (but is that a legitimate memory, he wonders?). It presses into the back of his neck, his arm, tickles his ears and fingers where they're linked with Clint's, and as the sun bathes him in a sweet blanket of warmth, he closes his eyes and smiles.

Hearing birds singing, a sound he's definitely never heard before, he tips his head sideways and murmurs into Clint's ear, "How does that sound to you?"

Also with eyes closed, Clint hums appreciatively. "Kinda seductive," he mumbles, "like you're gonna promise me dirty things and then take me right here, on actual fucking grass."

"What?"

Clint opens one eye. "What?"

"I asked you how the birds sounded..."

Both eyes open and both eyebrows shoot up. "You mean you weren't talking about your sexy voice?"

Bucky laughs. Hard and loud. Clint splutters on the ground next to him, trying to mask his embarrassment, and Bucky laughs harder still. He presses his face into Clint's shoulder, feels it shake with with laughter too, even as Clint swats ineffectively at him. He's rolled into his back, another body pressed on top of him, but he can't kiss for laughing, and tries to calm down as he's kissed everywhere else instead. Finally, he drags Clint back to his lips, holds him close as they enjoy the moment. It's un-rushed, undemanding, tender.

"It sounds nice," Clint says, "in answer to your earlier question. But not as... pure as I know it used to be." He smiles, brushing their noses as Bucky threads his fingers through his sun-kissed hair. "I don't mind so long as I get to hear you laugh like that, though."

A device is attached around his head, like some perverse mockery of a crown. He's strapped (apologetically) into a chair, the restraint on his left arm doubly secure. Bruce and another man - Tony, Steve said - are standing by a series of computer monitors, pointing to this and that and muttering to each other in long, unintelligible streams. Steve, Sam, Clint, a younger man and woman, and a red-haired woman he probably knows are all there too, silent 'support' - for whom, he isn't sure.

After a long stretch, with more wires attached to his bare chest, Bruce and Tony nod, and Steve steps up. "You ready to get back what the Red Room stole, Bucky?"

Bucky's afraid. He doesn't want his head to hurt the way it did before. He's not sure he wants to remember the things the Red Room supposedly made him do (he's been imagining - what if reality is worse than what he came up with?), but at the same time he wants to remember these people. They're all so concerned about him. Hell, they staged a (too-late) rescue mission for him. That's to say nothing of how Clint watches him, with such a desperate longing that makes Bucky himself desperate - desperate to know how deep their relationship went that this man would go so far to help him and be so saddened by what he sees.

It's Clint he looks at now. Their eyes lock, and the corner of Clint's mouth lifts by a millimetre. Bucky takes a deep breath. "Yeah."

The guards are taken care of easily enough. Just two of them, which sparks something in Bucky's warning sensors, but he brushes it off in favour of looking for the alteration room, Lukin's words still circling round his head.

Speed is crucial. An alarm sounds above him, probably an alert to his escape, and Bucky throws himself into the room of his nightmares. He quashes his fear, wiring himself in as if he'd been doing so his whole existence, setting up the computer for a very specific wipe. Stomach churning, heart threatening to rip his chest open, he settles back into that chair, gripping the armrests and bracing himself.

"We're not going to delete your memories, Winter Soldier, not right away. You see, what my predecessor failed to realise is that you have information stored in your data files that can help us deal with your little band of vigilantes. You can tell us what makes them tick, where they're hidden, what their plans are... No, you will not be remade yet - only when you've surrendered their secrets will we make you kill them."

The machine whines, louder and louder. He thinks of Clint, knows he won't tell the others what he finds (if he comes in time), and whispers, "I'm sorry."

AN: If you don't hate me at all, prompt me, maybe? ^_^