On the drive to Avenger's Tower, he rode in a short limo provided by Tony, with Natasha, a paid security guard to drive, and a med-tech who worked in the Avenger's Tower infirmary. The windows of the limo were blacked out so that Buck couldn't see outside and no one else could see in. He was wrapped in a blanket, which was pulled up over his shoulders and covered his eyes. Natasha held his hands steady as the med-tech used tweezers to remove the bits of rubble and metal, knowing that the cuts would heal fine on their own, due to the bastardized super serum.
"Just a few more, Sergeant Barnes," muttered the woman quickly pulling a sliver of metal out of Buck's flesh hand as he
winced. Natasha held his hands gently, but had him pressed into the seat with her body weight. Even though it was a measure to make sure he didn't hurt the poor girl, Bucky appreciated the feeling of human touch, and he focused on the weight and the light hands, realizing that he hadn't been handled with such care in over seventy years.
"Gahh... You're a brave little thing, you know that?" he breathed, focusing and trying not to think of the medical instrument or the inclosed space.
"I specialized in enhanced humans in my schooling, I wanted to help the world's defenders," she whispered, clearly new and scared.
Even though Buck couldn't see her face and kept his eyes covered by the blanket, he gave her a brief smile, a rehearsed, fake feeling gesture, but it ellicited a laugh.
"Okay," she said, more confidently than before. "hand is done. Now for your knees."
Natasha gently pulled his hands back and pushed his knees a bit forward. By the time all the debris was removed and band-aids placed over the cuts to keep blood from getting everywhere, they had arrived.
Natasha pulled the blanket over Bucky's head and said to him, "we're going in through the loading bay. There's still going to be some press. Do you want ear plugs?"
Bucky took the ear plugs and put them in, snug. He pulled the blanket back up over his head and shut his eyes, and the door to the limousine opened. He didn't so much hear the press as feel them, felt a cacophony like the wind, but unable to make it out. He didn't like it. He was being pulled by Natasha, who held his hands in hers as the walked, the med tech following behind and guiding him with light pressure to his back, the security guard leading the way and making sure no press crossedthe ropes. As soon as they were in the large loading bay doors closed from above, and Bucky felt himself being lead into a cool room. He heard a ding and figured that was an elevator, and he was proven right when he was ushered into a small room and suddenly felt them being propelled upward.
Reaching out slowly with his flesh hand, Bucky felt the walls on one side of himself, and then the other. He sucked in a
breath, at which Natasha gently grabbed his flesh hand again and whispered in Russian. Bucky focused on that until the
elevator dinged, and she let him off of the elevator, taking his hands in hers.
'Easy,' she said, pulling the blanket down again. Bucky blinked as the light hit his eyes. He looked around at his surroundings suspiciously, gritting his teeth at the newness of it all. It smelled strange, like the place had been well dusted and kept but not sterile or dank, two smells he was more used to.
"This is your floor. You only have access to a few of the rooms right now," said Natasha, apologetically. "Banner suggested not overwhelming you,"
"He's my doctor?" asked Buck, pulling in on himself as he suddenly did start to feel overwhelmed. Aside from missions, the only time he was ever let out of the tank was for experiments. His association with space and torture making him feel queasy, like he was falling through space all of a sudden.
"whoa... easy there," said the red head, taking his wrists and leading him to the couch. It was an old fashioned leather couch, sitting on a plush rug and with a few throw pillows resting on it. In front of the couch was a coffee table, a tv, and a few books off to the side on a sparse shelf. Bucky was anxious, and quite frankly felt sick, but he also still found himself filled with curiosity.
The security guard left, and that elevated a tiny bit of Buck's tension, and he looked about a little bit more boldly, noticing the next room.
It was a bedroom with the door open, a thick futon mattress on the floor, with a folded quilt and covered in a blue blanket resting on top. He couldn't see the rest of the room since the door was only cracked, but it looked normal enough.
"Steve said when he came out of the ice, the weirdest thing was his bed, how thick it was. I suggested the floor futon as a compromise," smiled Natasha, letting Buck have his hands back.
"We're going to leave you soon, so you can settle in. There's clothes, food, and tomorrow I'll come by at o-eight-hundred for breakfast."
"Where's Steve?" inquired Bucky, looking as if he didn't hear any of Natasha's words.
"He's going to visit soon," ventured the med-tech cautiously. "We were worried if you saw him too quickly..."
"I'd hurt him," finished Buck, as if accepting this state of affairs for now.
"We're going to go in a moment, but we have one last thing first," said Natasha, standing up.
Suddenly, a large brown German Shepherd padded slowly into the room.
"This is Sasha, she's a therapy dog," explained Natasha, reaching out and petting the large canine behind the ears.
Bucky cooked his head to the side at the strange sight of the black widow petting the dog, which gently approached and put her snout in his lap. He stared at the dog as if she were an alien, and after a minute reached out and pet her squarely between the ears.
"Good dog," he stated, as if making more of a descriptive declaration than a praise.
"She's trained to stop panic attacks," explained the med tech, standing up. "we're going to give you some privacy now. Try to take it easy, and here, if you need anything, use this." She handed him a small round remote with a single button to press if there was an emergency.
"We're here if you need us," said the black widow, smiling again at Buck and nodding, before she and the med tech left through the elevator door.
Bucky stood alone for a few minutes, breathing slowly. After a minute of the dog padded at him with her paw, he stood up. Slowly, he did a security check of the apartments. There were security cameras in the elevator door, a webcam like device on top of the VCR (who even had one of those anymore?) and several more in the wall along the corridor, in the door frame of the bedroom, and the kitchen.
When Buck got to the bathroom, he paused. He hated tight spaces. Bathrooms were usually small, porcelain... He stepped away from the bathroom door, stepping on a white pad on the floor. He figured that was for the dog to go on, and stepped of, thinking of what to do.
"I know you're watching me," he said, surrendered to that reality. Mere hours before, he probably would have debugged the place. Now, however, he decided to leave the devices for now.
He ventured to explore his bedroom, and found a closet full of neat clothes, a writing desk with paper and pens, a journal, a bed side table, even a small basket of dog toys.
Sasha entered the room after him; he sat down at a desk before he noticed her, sitting next to him with a ball in her mouth. He reached out and took the ball, gave it a toss, and ignored the dog as she went to go chase it. He opened the journal and begun to write
Sargeant Barnes' log, 001. I don't know what day it is. I miss Steve. Cooperating. I have a dog now.
He looked and noticed that the dog had brought back the ball. She held it lopsided in her mouth and clearly wanted him to throw it again. He obliged, turned back to his journal, and then decided he had nothing else to write at this point.
Not really knowing who he was except for fragmented memories, a baseline personality held under constant siege of triggers, brainwashing, and stress, and a new state of being that resembled that of a feral animal, that last one feeling the safest and most natural at this point, and he figured it was better to sort out his thoughts slowly.
After a rather mechanical game of fetch with his dog, he walked into the kitchen and looked around. A note on the small refrigerator read 'hot meal in the oven.' Opening it he found a mug of creamy tomato soup, and a plate with a slice of roast chicken, mixed vegetables, a bread role, and mashed potatoes with pork gravy. The smell was strange, and he looked around for something more like what he was used to. Peering to the side of the oven, he noticed a dispenser in the wall above the dog's food bowl. He carefully pulled the mug and plate out of the oven, setting them on the counter and then grabbing the bowl of kibbles. He found an extra plate after a moment of rummaging through the cabinets, and poured the kibble from the bowl onto the plate. The dog stared at him with her head cocked to the side as he scrapped the mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, and chicken breast into her bowl. He then poured the tomato soup over his plate of kibble, set the potato-veggie-chicken bowl on the floor under the table, and sat down. He ate his food like that, chewing the kibble quietly and occasionally taking a bite of bread. The dog inhaled her dinner, but Bucky took his time, contemplating how to avoid getting chewed up for this, worried about explaining that his stomach hurt and soft foods and muted flavors were what he was fed whenever out for the past seventy years.
After eating, he realized that he needed to go to the restroom. Sitting there starring at the bathroom door for a long time, he finally decided to take action. He walked over to the kitchen sink and pissed into it, not wanting to think about when he had to do other things later.
He decided not to think about how inhuman he felt. Instead, he sat down on the couch and decided to see if he could have a smoke. He searched drawers of the coffee table, but instead found a box of something called 'nicotine patches.' He read the directions and the note that read 'sorry, you can't have matches or a lighter,' and slapped several on his flesh arm.
Finally, he laid back on the couch, and the dog jumped up on top of him. He regarded her for a moment, but decided that she felt nice on top of his chest and that she was warm, and petted her gently as he laid back. "Good dog," he said again, and the dog seemed to like the dull statement, because
she licked his face then laid her head down. Bucky went to sleep like that, lying on the couch, still in his clothes, with an arm covered in nicotine patches, and a protective dog on his chest.