AN: The referenced Billie Holiday song is "They Can't Take That Away from Me," which is now one of my official Bucky songs. Darcy references one of my favorite lines from The Empire Strikes Back.

And The Wounded Sing

Part Four

By: Wynn

"Sergeant Barnes?"

Zola leans over him, smiling. Light reflects off his glasses, obscuring his eyes. Bucky shivers at the sight and tries to ease away.

"Sergeant Barnes?"

The voice whispers from the box beside his head, proclaiming victory for Hydra. Hail! Hail!

"Sergeant Barnes, excuse me, but are you awake?"

He is now, waking with a shudder to the sharp prick of glass beneath him and tacky globs of blood drying on his skin. Opening his eyes, Bucky finds himself on his back on the bathroom floor. He doesn't recall passing out. The realization that he had, that he had lost control so thoroughly, alarms him. His stomach churns and his breath quickens, and he—

"Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky flinches at the voice, though no pain follows. Jarvis is not Zola. This is not Moscow or D.C. or Berlin, and he lies on the floor not in a chair. Still, he has to swallow twice before he can speak. "Yeah?"

"I apologize for the intrusion, Sergeant Barnes, but Sir, Mr. Stark I mean, wishes to fix your door. Ms. Lewis informed him of it yesterday. May he enter to do so?"

"Uh…" Bucky sits and takes in the devastation around him. A gaping hole now exists above the sink where the cabinet used to be; a new hole from the thrown cabinet punctures the shower stall. The cabinet itself lies warped and crumpled in the cracked basin below. Under the pull of the snapped frame, the shower doors hang off the wall like broken wings. Swallowing again, Bucky glances to the side and finds the already cracked toilet lid gone, wrenched from the bowl and thrown somewhere from the bathroom.

"Sergeant Barnes?"

He starts again, as much from Jarvis as from the shame flooding him at the extent of the destruction. His destruction. He lifts his hand to his mouth and wipes blood and spit from his lips with trembling fingers. He considers for a second telling Jarvis that Tony can't enter, but the door needs to be fixed so he can hide this ruin from Steve. At least until he figured out how to explain what happened, to both him and to Darcy. The thought of her reaction to this causes his throat to seize, and he—

"Sergeant—"

"Yeah, Jarvis. He can, uh…" Bucky pushes to his feet, wincing at the screech of glass between the plates in his left hand. He stares at the knuckles, at the grooves along the back of his hand. How was he going to fix this? He knew nothing, nothing about himself, about—

"Sergeant?"

"Yeah. Just… just give me a minute, and I'll go."

"You do not need to leave, Sergeant—"

"No. No. It's okay. It's—"

He should go. He needs to go. He stumbles over the glass and out of the bathroom into his bedroom. Bright mid-morning light illuminates the room, the one that Tony had given to him, that Steve had shared with him, that he had now destroyed. Blinking in the light, he picks at his torn and bloody shirt. The box still sits on his bed. He sees the toilet lid hanging from the wall inches from the corkboard. Had he thrown it at them? He doesn't remember. Why? Why would he do that? Turning around, he pulls the bathroom door closed, grateful at least that he didn't raze this to the ground along with everything else. Spinning again, he leaps over the bed to yank the lid from the wall. Paint and plaster fall on his head, and he curses, shaking it off as he jumps back over the bed to throw the lid into his closet.

"Barnes?"

Bucky freezes at the sound of Tony's voice. He hadn't heard the apartment door open. Moving faster, he grabs his hoodie from the hanger and throws it on. As he races from the room, he hears Tony start down toward the living room.

"You don't have to go," he says to Bucky now, trying for light and breezy with his tone. "In fact, I thought we could talk. Or something."

Bucky stumbles at that. He can't talk, not now, not to him. Zipping his hoodie, he darts down the hall and is inches from the freedom of the living room, from the ability to circle around Tony without engaging him in direct conversation, but then Tony pops his head around the wall and Bucky stops, so suddenly that his hood flaps up around his head.

They stare at each other, silent and wide-eyed, and then both attempt to speak at the same time.

"Sorry. I was just—"

"Why are you bleeding?"

Bucky tenses again and ease back a step. "I…" But he flounders in his explanation, looking anywhere in the hall but at Tony, who frowns at him as the seconds pass.

After fifteen, Jarvis saves him. "Apologies, sir. I had intended to inform you about the gym, but Dr. Banner asked me to wait."

At that, Tony steps into the hall. He carries a toolbox, a battered green monstrosity at odds with the sophisticated man before him. Bucky straightens his shoulders and tries to smooth down his hair, perpetually disarrayed since— He shakes his head and tries to banish the thoughts, though they're why he's here. From the corners of his eyes, he sees Steve smile. Bucky shoots him a glare before turning to Howard, Howard fucking Stark, the man who invented flying cars, who made what others could only imagine, the man who had flown into enemy territory in the middle of the goddamn night against orders to help Steve save his sorry—

"Don't worry about it, Barnes."

Bucky twitches, torn once more from the past. Tony, not Howard, not Howard, stands before him, the toolbox, perhaps the same one, in his hands. He stares, blinking, and the frown deepens on his face.

Twitching again, Bucky takes another step back. "What?"

"The mirror," Tony says slowly. "In the gym. Don't worry about it."

"Oh. I… Sorry." His face heats at the reminder of his earlier destruction. The mirror. The bathroom. The door to his bedroom and a pale, soft sweater. Bones of collars and of cheeks and three bullets through a wall. And all, all because of him. Bucky feels his hands start to tremble and he closes his eyes. "I'm sorry…"

There's a beat of silence and then Tony says, "It's okay. We can replace it."

The man bends over Bucky, who looks around but he doesn't know where he is. He only recalls Steve on the train, reaching, reaching, and then— The man holds a metal rod. Bucky tries to evade as he brings it closer, lowering it toward his arm— toward his stump, his stump, oh god, how would he dance— but he can't, his body strapped to the table. The rod touches his arm and Bucky flinches at the cold press of metal. Then he starts to scream as electricity sizzles up his arm and into his chest, the nerves still functional, still—

"Barnes."

Bucky starts. His shoulder collides with the wall, denting the plaster. Howard holds out a hand, his palm out. "Easy now. It's all right."

For a second, Bucky can't move, relief bubbling within him at the sight of Howard. But then he remembers, he remembers, and dread swoops down, cold and heavy and stealing all his breath.

"I killed you…"

Howard's eyes go wide. The blood drains from his face. He stares up at Bucky as he approaches. In the car, the woman hangs, caught in the seatbelts, her eyes blank and neck broken. Glass crunches beneath his boots from where the car flipped and tumbled down the embankment. He stops beside the target, no threat now, his left femur broken and right wrist shattered. He expects begging, many do, but nothing comes from this target. He only stares, tears in his eyes. Reaching for his knife, he feels something, a whisper in the back of his mind. His hand stills at the— at the memory, it's a memory, the target, younger, smiling at him. He closes his eyes, trying to block the thought, to stop it before the pain comes. But the whisper is spoken, wavering and bloody but clear.

Barnes?

"Shit. Jarvis?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get Cap. We got a Lucy."

"Right away, sir."

Bucky opens his eyes. He remembers. He knows. He killed him. Howard. They made him. Put a gun in his hand and made him forget. This man… He's not Howard. He looks like Howard like the other looks like Steve. But they're not them. He remembers. He knows.

The man who looks like Howard licks his lips. Bucky eases upright from the wall, eases his left foot behind him. The man watches him, tensing as Bucky tilts his head to the side, as he says softly, "You're not Howard."

He knows this. He remembers. They tried with the other, the one who looked like Steve, but he knew then too. He had snapped his wrist and bloodied one eye before they took the imposter away.

Now, they try again.

The man who looks like Howard sighs and his shoulders slump, seemingly in relief. A test, an act, to draw Bucky in. He starts to smile, but he stops when Bucky reaches for his knife.

"Barnes… Bucky." The man swallows and lifts his eyes. "You know me."

He's not afraid, which makes Bucky grip the knife tighter in his hand. "You're not Howard."

"No," he says. "I'm not. You're right. I'm Tony, his son. Remember, Tin Man? You're here in my Tower."

Bucky clenches his hand into a fist. He wants to punch Tony, punch that smirk right off his face as he swivels on his stool and stares at Bucky, but Darcy's here and Darcy likes him, maybe. She turns around then, and he tries to relax, finally feeling it with her, standing beside her as they gazed into the icebox, but then he entered and rattled off words. Meeting her eyes, he watches as her face heats. Her cheeks flush pink like in the motel when he looked at her and when he stood close. His body responds at the sight, his core temperature rising, his breath quickening, more so when he sees her lick her lips a moment. Bucky stares, remembering, or almost remembering, feeling the absence of a memory and wanting, wanting… something. Her, he thinks, as he lifts his eyes. Wanting—

"Barnes?"

Bucky lurches then, staggering back into the wall. Tony holds out his hand again, his eyes not on Bucky, but his knife.

His knife that he pulled on Tony.

"Oh god." Bucky drops the knife onto the floor. He hunches back and closes his eyes and tries, he tries to breathe. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"Sir, I believe Sergeant Barnes is—"

Bucky turns away from the voice, stumbling back into his room, trying to get free. But it's there, always, always, always whispering to him, always lurking in the cold. Zola leans over and injects fire into his blood, whispering, whispering, the procedure has already— He leans close to him, older now and frailer, but still whispering, whispering, about a parade now and the new world—

"—part, having a few of them myself, you know. I don't think you're helping though, so go—"

The crash startles them both. Bucky leaps to his feet, tense and ready, and Tony raises his hand, but before either of them can move, they hear from the hall, "Bucky?"

"Thank Christ," Tony says, sagging in relief.

Bucky looks at the door. "Steve?"

Steve appears, flushed, breathing hard. As he does, the strings cut and Bucky falls. He falls and Steve rushes to catch him. They collapse onto the floor, Steve with a hand on Bucky's chest as Bucky clings to him, his fingers digging into his shirt so hard that the fabric begins to tear.

"I can't… I can't…"

Steve nods. "Yes, you can. Breathe with me, Buck. Come on."

Bucky shakes his head, his thoughts slipping hold.

"You can," Steve says, his brows drawing together. "In and out. In and—"

"I killed him."

Steve stiffens. From the corners of his eyes, Bucky sees Tony do the same. He remembers the road and the car and walking forward. He remembers the blood and the glass and the sharp smell of fuel. He remembers Howard. He remembers leaning down—

Steve shakes him, bringing him back, making him focus again. "That was Hydra. Not you."

But he leaned down, the knife in his hands.

"Bucky. Listen to me—"

"I did it. I shot the tire—"

Tony closes his eyes.

"—I followed through. I set the fire. But I didn't… I didn't know," he says, clutching at Steve. "I didn't. I thought— But I couldn't, I couldn't remember. I knew I didn't…. that I didn't know. But he did. Zola. I remember. He knew, and he—"

—smiles. Bucky can't see it, he can only hear the voice, whispering, whispering, but he knows that he smiles, pleased at this, wielding Bucky in vengeance against—

"Bucky."

Bucky starts. He looks at Steve then leans in and grips down harder, and the words come, frantic and fast. "He's gonna come, he will, he talked about you, I remember, he did— he'll want, he'll want to— Darcy…" Panic seizes hold of Bucky, burning, writhing in his gut. The plates of his hand grind as he bears down onto Steve. "They saw her. At the diner. They might have told him. Or at the motel. I tried to tell her, I tried, but I couldn't…"

Steve shakes him again, once, hard enough to still the flow. "Zola is dead."

Bucky shakes his head.

"He is. I found him, or what was left of him. At Lehigh. Pierce blew him up, trying to get to me."

Laughter bubbles out of Bucky. "You think he let himself die? With the technology available now?" He shakes his head, tears pooling in his eyes. "He won't. He's waiting. Waiting for the Skull. It's a door. He told me, Stevie. He always does. He tries— I hear him—"

"Here?"

"Jarvis, run diagnostic."

"Bucky, is he—"

In the dark, whispering. In the cold—

"Bucky. Stay with me."

Bucky looks at Steve. "I can't. I want to, but I... It's all… Everything's here and I can't. I can't, I want to, I want—" He wants to. He wants. Darcy, Steve, peace, sleep, love, quiet, warmth, life. He wants. He wants. "I want. I— You… and Darcy… The chair… I thought... I thought it…" He looks at Tony, looks away again, unmooring at the glimpse, Howard rising on a wave of blood, all his kills, dozens of them, men and women, kids too, collateral, necessary for peace, lies, lies, all lies, everything a lie—

"Bucky…"

Grief cracks his name in two. Bucky shakes his head and closes his eyes. His body shivers and his lungs shudder as he tries to breathe.

"I'm sorry, Buck."

His hands tremble. He needs… What? He needs to leave. But where? Where can he go? Where can he—

The needle pierces the back of his neck. Bucky jerks his head up and meets Steve's eyes. They're red and bright, shining with tears. Bucky holds on, he tries to, but he's tired, so tired, so— and they deserve, they do— The world wavers before him, beginning to dim, and Bucky lets it, finally, he lets go, relaxing his grip on Steve, falling into the dark, down into the black, where he should have stayed, alone and cold and—


Warm summer night envelops Bucky. He lays on the roof, staring up at the stars, the great expanse of the universe so close to him that he can almost touch it. He tries, lifting his left hand. Moonlight ripples across his skin, cool, like cream, as his fingertips skim the iridescent heavens. A soft sigh sounds to his right. Bucky turns his head. Beside him Darcy lies, Vega in her left eye, Altair in her right. He smiles and she does too. They clasp hands and breathe, safe beneath the shimmering sky.

"Bucky!"

He peers down the street, sees Steve waving from the corner. Smiling, he starts toward him, Darcy in step, gorgeous in blue. Bucky hooks an arm around Steve and pulls him along, whisky warm and ready to dance. Stevie too, Darcy teaching him. He spins a lady in red away from them, nimbly avoiding her toes. Bucky pulls Darcy in close. He breathes in her smile, brushes his lips against her brow. They move to the music, something slinky and sweet from Billie. No, they can't take that away from him, the way her smile just beams, the way she haunts his dreams. They can't. They can't. The silk of her dress slips across her skin as he palms the small of her back. Darcy leans into him. Fingertips like flower petals glide across the back of his hand. Their eyes meet and Bucky grins and she flushes, high on her cheeks, a delicate pink. Her lips part, and Bucky dips his head, his heart racing.

"Bucky!"

They stand on the shoreline, glowing in the summer sun. Steve toes at the sand. Darcy peers at the horizon. Bucky starts to run, gathering speed, grinning as Darcy turns and catches his eye. She jumps back and Steve stills, realizing, but it's too late. With a bellowing cry, Bucky plows into him and they plunge into the waves. Steve surfaces with a yelp, his arms akimbo, looking like a bedraggled cat. Behind him, Howard snaps a picture. He snaps another as a mound of seaweed plops onto Bucky's head. Bucky spins and scoops Darcy out of the water. Laughing, she mashes the other handful against his head. Warm in his hands and soft, he catches her eye, and she clings to him as he tips them back, laughing, into the sea.


Bucky wakes, swimming to consciousness in a slow, easy stroke. A blanket cocoons him, something thick and squishy, nothing like the worn cotton and drab wool of his childhood. He feels warm and soft in its depths. He feels safe. He burrows into the sensation, deeper into the comfort. As he does, he tugs on a hand, the one holding his. Slim fingers tighten upon him. Bucky feels the frayed edge of a sweater tickle his palm, and he smiles, recognizing Darcy.

"Steve! I think he's awake!"

He is so he does, opening his eyes. The world flutters and threatens to retreat again, but after a moment, it resolves around him. Evening darkens the world beyond the windows. The chair that had been by the view now sits to his left facing the bed. Darcy curls up in it, her legs drawn in and her knees propped against the armrest. She lowers them as he turns toward her. Even in the dim light, he sees the redness of her face, swollen and blotchy from crying, and the sight makes him frown.

"What—"

Motion by the door distracts him before he can complete the thought. Looking over, Bucky sees Steve ease into the room, and the loose, loopy grin breaks out across his face again.

"Stevie!"

Steve pauses in his approach. The look of concern on his face softens, and something like a smile wobbles upright. He perches beside Bucky on the bed, a frying pan in his left hand. "Hey, Buck. How you feeling?"

"Great. Good. Good. But…" He swivels his head around toward Darcy and his frown returns.

Darcy squeezes his hand. "I'm fine."

Bucky shakes his head. She's not. He can see it. And he remembers— something…

"I am," she says, leaning toward him. "Really. I—"

"Where's your picture square?"

Darcy cocks her head to the side. "My what?"

"Your picture square. For the cats." Bucky pulls his hand from hers and tries to push himself upright, but the room begins to spin around him and he stills. His eyes go wide as, despite his stillness, the room continues to revolve like a gramophone needle. "Whoa."

Darcy snorts as Steve reaches out to help ease Bucky back down. "Whoa indeed."

Laying his head back on the pillow, Bucky looks at Steve. "What— what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing," Steve says quickly as the revolutions begin to ease down. "At least nothing bad." He pauses then, searching for something. A second later a small smile appears on his face, and Bucky feels the harsh edge of his panic abate. "You remember when Bruno Monteverde pushed me down the stairs?"

Bucky makes a sound of disgust. "Goddamned punk. I wanted to smash a brick against his fat face."

Darcy snorts again and Steve's smile widens. "I know you did. Remember how Mr. Warner gave me some laughing gas to pull my broken tooth?"

It takes a few seconds to process. When it does, Bucky's jaw drops. "I'm high?"

Steve nods.

"The Lucy special," Darcy says. "Or at least that's what Tony's calling it. Never pegged him for a Beatles fan."

Bucky grimaces and squirms in the bed. "Beetles are gross."

Darcy's eyes widen and her whole body puffs with glee.

"The Beatles are musicians, Buck. A music group."

Darcy huffs out a sigh and glances at Steve. "Spoilsport."

Bucky frowns at them. "Who the fuck names themselves after bugs?"

Darcy shrugs and pats his hand. "The British."

"Oh."

"Yep. Just wait until I tell you about the Barking Spyders."

Bucky grimaces again. He opens his mouth to respond about the ridiculousness of modern music and how she needed to listen to some Jimmy Dorsey, but it snaps shut half a second later and his head jerks toward Steve. "Wait. I'm high?"

Steve blinks at him, and Darcy starts to giggle. Bucky frowns again and says, "Wait. I just said that, didn't I?"

Steve nods. His eyes are wide and his lips pressed together, his laughter barely held at bay.

"I— How?" Bucky says. "How? I don't—" His chest grows tight and his eyes dart from Steve to Darcy and back again.

The laughter fades from both Steve and Darcy. Leaning forward, Steve says, "Bruce. He made it for Pepper to help keep her calm so she wouldn't, uh, so she wouldn't—"

"Explode," Darcy says for him, smoothing a hand up and down Bucky's forearm.

"Oh." The sensation of her palm soft across his skin lights his brain up like fireflies. He tries to focus on what they said, on the doctor helping him, or helping Pepper and that helping him, but his brain catches on the image of Tony's gal dame boss exploding and he bursts out laughing.

Darcy shakes her head. A hint of a smile appears on her face again. "Laugh it up, fuzzball. It looks good on you."

Bucky blinks once, slowly, then sends her a saucy grin. "Everything looks good on me."

"Does it now?" Darcy reaches out and tugs on the end of his beard. "I'm not so sure about that."

"You like it." He reaches up and snags her hand, clasping it to his chest. His grin turns sly as he turns to Steve. "She tell you how she took a peek at me in the motel?"

Her shriek starts him laughing again.

Steve fights off a grin as he turns toward Darcy. "Why no, Buck. Darcy didn't tell me that."

Her face flushes crimson. "He walked out of the bathroom naked! What was I supposed to do?"

Bright, bright, so bright, and warm, Bucky whispers at Steve, "She also bought me shirts that were too small so I'd have to walk around without one."

Only dogs and supersoldiers can hear the sound Darcy makes in response. She tries to tug her hand free from his grip, presumably to smack him on the chest, but Bucky holds firm. She settles for a glare instead. "I did not. You were the one who decided against the hoodie so you could air out your man nipples."

At that, Steve's shoulders start to shake.

"And," Bucky says, his grin again sly, "she tried her best to get me to speak in profanities. Told me to tell people to fuck off. Can you imagine, Stevie? Me, a good Catholic boy, saying such fucking filth?"

Steve manages to hold on for another few seconds. "No, Buck. I really fucking can't."

Darcy closes her eyes and sighs. "Jesus Christ." The two burst out laughing at her muttered curse, prompting Darcy to sigh again. "I'm going to hit you both with this frying pan if you don't fucking stop."

Bucky turns toward her to leer. "That's kinky, doll."

Steve shakes his head. His muffled giggling undercuts the seriousness of his expression. "You should probably use your own frying pan for that, Darcy."

"Oh my god," she says. "You two are the worst." She stands now and tries once more to pull her hand free. "Make your own damned grilled cheese. I'm going—"

Bucky lifts his head, as intent as a dog with a scent. "Cheese? Sandwich? Shut up, Steve." He knees Steve in the leg, so hard that he knocks him off the bed, which makes Steve stop laughing but causes Darcy to start, which makes Bucky start again, and he feels, he feels, he feels so bright. "Oh god, Stevie. Your face. Where's my camera? I need—"

Faster than he can process, Darcy's whipped her phone out of her sling and taken a picture of Steve pouting on the floor. When the image resolves, she shows it to Bucky, who laughs so hard he brings tears to his eyes.


AN: Thank you so much to everyone who has commented, followed, and favorited this story. I appreciate it a lot, especially at the end of a long, hard week. I hope to have the next part finished by next Friday, but it may take a bit longer as work is in full swing and my writing time has been reduced. :(