I remember the cold more than anything: cold food, cold showers, cold temperatures-cold, cold! COLD!-cold feet, cold dread freezing the pit of my stomach. But the cryogenics unit is something I'll never forget. The frigid blast gushing into the chamber was like tiny filaments of ice gouging into my pores, rooting around under the skin like a novice phlebotomist unable to find the vein. That frenzy of sensation in the seconds before the sedative took full affect will haunt me until I die. It'll ride my shoulders as though some demonic entity that's latched itself to my spinal cord.
Hell, even my name is arctic and a constant reminder of things best forgotten: the Winter Soldier. Were I a dame, I would bring new meaning to the term "frigid bitch." No one can do cold the way the Russians can. Those Siberian bastards are Grade A badasses, and I thought I was one of them.
Entire decades of my life were flushed down the drain in Department X. They were wasted while I slumbered away inside my icy Hell waiting to be woken by my heartless masters for some special task requiring my particular skill set. See, most people think Hell is a place of fire and brimstone reeking of sulfur and burning flesh. They are wrong. Flat out, one hundred percent, abso-fucking-lutely wrong. Period. Full stop.
So once I was finally free of Lukin's control thanks to a truckload of help from Steve, I figured I was due a little understanding when it came to my singular hatred for all things winter. That first year (gonna refer to it as Year 1 PDX or Post Department X) between the months of November and March, I wasn't good for much more than insufferable brooding, vacant stares, and waspish grumbling whenever someone threatened my hot chocolate. Or Steve. Or the blanket I kept draped over the comfy armchair in Steve's apartment, or… Suffice it to say, I wasn't exactly a joy to be around.
And Steve-bless his giant heart-smoothed a lot of ruffled feathers whenever an Avenger took exception to said attitude. Trust me, that is a group no one wants pissed off for any length of time. Vicious bastards threatened me with a hug pile and an afternoon of some saccharine-laced, bullshit television show about puppies and kittens. As if puppies and kittens are the answer to the world's problems. They are sort of cute, though, when they're wiggling around in a fluffy pile.
Anyhow, back to that first afternoon when I walked off the lift into the communal lounge of Avengers Tower. Don't think I've ever been through such an awkward, uncomfortable situation before. Can't really be positive of my memories with the way the Russians messed with my brain, though. Hawkeye, Black Widow (not delving into that history at present, thank fuck), Iron Man, and Thor were lined up on the sofa looking intimidating, like they were ready to pounce on my head if I dared sneeze in their presence.
"You must be the infamous Sergeant James Barnes we've heard so much about," Tony quipped while rubbing at a piece of lint on his pant leg. Might as well have been an insect for all the attention Stark paid me.
A brief, charged silence was then punctuated by Hawkeye threatening, "You break Steve's heart, and we break your face. Capisce?"
Finding the right words after being disconnected from the world so long was difficult. Think I ended up stuttering instead of using my big boy words. After all, why was I entitled to bristle over their suggestion I might fail Steve? I'd already failed Steve, failed by not remembering my identity for all those decades, failed-stupid, inept failure… always letting Steve down when it counts the most… always a damned loser-by not fighting the Russians harder. What right did I have believing I wouldn't fail him again?
"I wouldn't," I croaked, finally able to manage some weak denial despite knowing they could see right through me.
"You try pulling a runner thinking you should make up for the Winter Soldier's actions alone and leave him here feeling jilted and abandoned, and we'll mess up your face, Barnes," Nat said in that husky, low tone I still remembered from the Red Room.
"Running will not solve your problems anyway," added Thor. "A true warrior, a man worthy of defending the innocent, doesn't run. Abandoning the people who count on you is a mark of cowardice, and Captain Rogers counts on you. The real question is whether or not you're a coward."
Definitely wanted to knock the Asgardians teeth down his throat for suggesting I might be a coward. Good thing I didn't. I found out during later sparring matches with the man that he can kick me through a wall without elevating his heart rate.
The odd duality of emotions experienced during that first meeting, though, remains a continued source of confusion. On one hand, that hyper-possessive part of me where Steve is concerned hated that those people felt they'd earned the right to defend Captain America. Especially against me. That was my job, my right, my privilege. How very dare they come at me like I was a threat to Steve Rogers? It left me feeling infuriated and repulsed at the same time. On the other hand, I didn't feel particularly worthy of being Steve's defender after everything. And if I couldn't, then who better?
Mostly, though, I was just fuck-all proud of Steve. Still am. The man he's become, the leader he's become? I saw that man and knew that leader when no one else had, way back when Rogers had been a buck ten soaking wet and barely tall enough to ride the Cyclone at Coney Island. Climbing onto the tallest skyscraper and shouting to the city that Steve has become everything I am not sounds like a plan most days. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Steve is the hero. Steve is the symbol. He has earned that right. I'm just the man who's been trained to make the sickening choices and do the dirty things Captain America can't without risking the symbol.
That's what I can't get Steve to understand about my desperation to offer recompense for what the Winter Soldier did. It's why Rodchenko's mental conditioning techniques worked so well. Bits and pieces of my personality, aspects that already existed in my psyche, were twisted and enhanced until they took on an identity of their own. I have to make up for the horrors, the atrocities, the Winter Soldier committed, because the Winter Soldier is-was-aspects of me.
So Steve, he really propped me up that first winter, and the Avengers watched me like hawks. Didn't expect them to be as open and forthcoming as they were. Wasn't looking for their acceptance or to be folded into the family, but you spend entire months living, sleeping, eating, fighting beside the same group of people, and bonds are going to be formed. Ended up forgiving them for jumping on my case anyway.
You know what? I think I've finally reached a point where I can even be grateful to them, because I had been planning to leave without warning. Leaving would have been easier. Being emotionally vulnerable? That's the hard part. Always has been. I'm much more of a punch-first-ask-questions-later kind of guy. Besides, I didn't want him exposed to the brutality and depravity I'd learned from Department X.
Didn't want him involved with the dark corners of the world I needed to mine for information regarding the KGB, either. It wasn't a question of if I would hunt down men like Lukin and much more a question of when. There were also the three agents I'd personally trained for Project Zephyr. Arkady, Leonid, and Dimitri were being kept in stasis last I heard, and they couldn't be left unaccounted for. The type of work necessary for finding them wasn't something Steve should take part in.
Some things, a symbol-a hero-shouldn't be a party to.
But because of their warning, I found the courage to stay. There was no way I was hurting or failing Steve again. Would have sooner cut off my other arm. I suppose I should work up the nerve to apologize to them for being such an insufferable prick. Soon. But not tonight. Tonight, I really need to get some sleep.
Despite the progress I've made with reclaiming myself, nights are still the worst. Too much time to think while lying there in a too-soft bed staring up at a too-white ceiling on sheets sticky with my own sweat. Unless I'm dreaming. Dreams are a whole different ballgame, and it's the world-fucking-series when I do manage to outsmart insomnia.
Finally, I drift off after a couple of hours trying to quiet my mind. God, please, don't let there be any nightmares tonight.
Seems like I've only been asleep a few minutes (probably longer in reality, though) when I surge upright suddenly with a violent inhalation. My entire body is shaking and heart slamming against the inside of my chest-knocking like the shoddy pistons on the old clunker I'd tried to fix up once so Steve could get to classes in the dead of winter without risking another lung infection-and breathing so harsh I would be hoarse in the morning.
"Breathe, Bucky," Steve, body silhouetted in the doorway linking my room to the living room in Steve's Avengers Tower apartment, croons in the stillness.
I don't register his presence at first, my eyes fixed instead on the middle distance where old demons dredged up by my most recent nightmare continue haunting me. Karpov's voice is in my ear shouting orders to Rodchenko. "Wipe him, and start again. We need him active in a week." And God, I know what horrors and pain are coming. Have to be brave, though, and fuel my ability to endure the conditioning by drawing on an internal wellspring of anger and determination. There's plenty of anger this time and a gleam of defiance in my eyes when I willingly accept the mouth guard.
Rodchenko settles the contraption over my head. Then a bright flash of light causes a searing sensation, and I wonder if this is the time I'll be left blinded from the intensity. Afterwards, it feels as though icy fingers plunge into my brain where they wiggle incessantly. There are worms in my head! There must be-wriggling things: writhing, SEETHING, and undulating-to produce such pain-clawing things, too, with RAZOR talons and sharp needle-teeth-and terror. God help me, I can't hold back the screams. The screams and the pain and the terror bleed together until they become a living thing. Pissing myself wouldn't be embarrassing given so much anguish and agony.
"Bucky, you're having a nightmare. Wake up."
I don't want to scream. Screaming gives them satisfaction. If I scream, they'll think less of me. If they think less of me, I won't be useful to them. If I'm not useful to them, they'll toss me to the scrap heap, and how will I ever get home to Steve-Steve! Oh fuck, help me!-if I'm left naked and crucified? But I scream and thrash and pull at my restraints until a bolt goes on the bond immobilizing my metal arm.
"Bucky listen to me," Steve says. "Do you remember that really hard winter we had back in thirty-nine? My asthma was so bad that year you were afraid I'd stop breathing. Do you remember what you did?"
"No," I wanted to scream. "Can't remember anything past the fear and the helplessness." But responding is impossible when I can barely draw breath past the hard ball of emotion lodged in my throat. It's also impossible when Rodchenko is hitting my metal arm with an electric prod. The limb goes limp and lifeless against my side when the surge of energy shorts out circuits.
"Don't you remember?" The bed gives beneath Steve's weight when the man settles himself on the mattress. A big, warm palm rests on my back. "You'd climb into bed beside me and pull my back flush against your chest. Your body heat helped loosen the tightness and gave me something to focus on besides the anxiety. Can you hear me?"
Some half-sentient part of me recognizes his presence. With anyone else, I may have gotten violent, but I remain frozen in the center of the bed even when he climbs behind me. Next thing I know, his solid arms are pulling my back tight against his chest.
God, why won't he let me go? Why won't he let me suffer this alone? I want to throw him off the bed, shove him from the room so he won't witness this frightened animal I've become. What if I hurt him? What if, unthinking and terrified, I lash out with my metal arm and seriously injure him? But my efforts to dissuade contact go unnoticed.
"Breathe with me," he whispers near my ear. "You can do this. Feel my chest rising and falling. Breathe as I breathe."
His chest sinks with an inhalation of breath. No, I catch myself. No, that's wrong. Steve's chest rises as breath glides into his blessedly-clear lungs, a long, soothing whisper of sound that eradicates the inner montage of screams.
Inhale, I tell my lungs, and breath slides in finally.
Steve's chest sinks as his exhalation stirs the hackles at the nape of my neck. The second whisper of sound obliterates Rodchenko muttering about a certain setting on his Hell device. Facets of my surroundings finally bleed through.
Exhale, I instruct my body, and breath whooshes free.
The air conditioning has kicked on and is stirring the curtains closed tightly over tall windows. Thor is thumping around in his apartment just above Steve's. Some late night infomercial drones endlessly from the television Steve has left on in the living room.
Inhale/Inhale.
Exhale/Exhale.
And finally, our chests are moving in unison, rising and falling as the last vestiges of the nightmare drain from off the inside of my eyelids. The painful tightness of my breathing loosens. My muscles finally grow lax. Weak and limp, I can do nothing but tremble and sink against the man behind.
"Are you with me?' Steve asks.
"Always," I finally respond.