A/N: Okay, so I promise promise promise (well, hopefully) that updates will be arriving a little faster. I had a tangled mess of scenes, objectives, and uncooperative characters to sort out, to the point where I'm not sure if they or I am in greater need of therapy getting through this. Good grief...
Bucky straightened in front of the mirror, using the hand towel to clear away steam. He underestimated the refreshing feeling of a real haircut. It was still longer compared to how he wore it back in the '40s, but cleaned up, a little more out of his face. He also felt much better having two hands with which to shave again.
He gave both shoulders an experimental stretch. As expected, the serum had done its job once the surgery site had been given some time to rest. It also prevented significant loss of physical fitness as well, though he wondered if there was a way to set up some kind of workout space, just to have something else to do.
The reflection in front of him could almost be just another ordinary soldier—dog tags resting over a scarred torso, prosthetic arm symbolizing both loss and a new start, hard stare attempting to mask the constant simmering emotions. If only that were the whole truth.
Stop messing around. Just talk to Steve about not being able to sleep, already. He was just in the kitchen a few minutes ago, so he can't have totally turned in yet.
Bucky paused in his room long enough to throw on a t-shirt, stepped out to the closed door not ten feet away, and knocked. "Hey, Steve, you got a minute to talk?"
No answer. The stove light still glowed in the kitchen, so Steve definitely wasn't asleep. He always left that light on as long as he was doing stuff around the apartment. But no light glowed under the bedroom door, either.
"Steve…?"
On edge, Bucky carefully eased the door open. Unbidden images popped up in his mind's eye, his friend sprawled on the floor, bleeding or dead, some dark assassin lurking in the corner. He shook his head. No, that wasn't a part of any of his memories. T'Challa would never allow such a breach, anyway. Merely anxiety trying to get the better of him. Still, he didn't know what he would find.
The room was deserted. Bathroom too. Bucky flipped on a light to at least be sure. Precisely made bed, a book on the nightstand, next to the clock and the old compass Steve always carried (the one with Peggy's picture in it, Bucky recalled). A few personal items on the dresser that had to have come from his previous living arrangements. Sam must have brought them on his visit. A standing frame displayed a set of vintage Captain America cards—wow, they really had gone all out—some stained with what looked like dried blood, along with a photograph of Steve with a shorter, smiling man in a suit. Bucky wondered about the story behind this, but suspected it was private for a reason.
Next to that lay a plain black folio with a worn binding. How could he forget Steve's penchant for drawing? He thumbed through the pages, trying to be as careful as possible. Various scenes of Washington, D.C., parks, other typical fare. Then there was a series of sketched portraits. Most were of the Avengers, which surprised Bucky. He didn't recognize a couple of them, such as the imposing figure of a Viking-like man with a hammer. Following those was a reproduction of Peggy's picture. A vista he guessed could be seen from somewhere here in the compound, judging by the tropical nature.
His heart jumped into his throat as he turned the next page. A yellowed scrap of telegram paper had been tucked there, adorned with a scene of the Howling Commandos relaxing around a campfire. The back of his nose began to sting. Underneath this was a second scrap depicting himself, a profile view as he sat with his old rifle at the ready, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Must have been on watch duty.
The folio page at which the old drawings were nestled was blank, but the last sketch in the book so far was on the page after that. Bucky again, only this time it was as he had looked a few months ago. Similar position, similar intense stare. He remembered this day, spending hours out on one of the balconies before deciding that he had to return to cryostasis. He never realized Steve had sat in the vicinity for so long without saying something.
A muted noise in the present snapped his attention back to his current surroundings. Still no Steve. Moreover, he was sure the sound had come from above. Having had no access beyond the secure apartment, he had no idea what floors might be above or below them.
Bucky reemerged into the main room, and that's when he spotted it. A sliver of dim light along the edge of one bookcase. Everyone swore there was only one exit to the rest of the compound, so what in the world was this, and why would Steve hide it from him?
His tactical training kicked in, every fiber on alert. He inched the hidden door open enough to slip through. A staircase went halfway up, then doubled back at a landing to reach the next floor. Sound proofing material covered the back of the door behind him, the walls and stair treads textured as well. This could work to his advantage.
A scream split the air despite the efforts to mask noise, startling Bucky into a defensive position. The voice was not live, rather a poor quality recording, in fact, yet it was undeniably raw, ripped from the victim's lungs. The kind of scream with which Bucky was very familiar. That wasn't the part that truly scared him, however. It was the second voice that followed the scream.
"Zedanye…rzávyj…"
No…nonononono, where the hell did Steve dig this up?! The near-mechanical words were not Zemo's inexpert attempt; they tugged at the more distant reaches of Bucky's memory. He pressed his back against the wall, trying to steady himself. The rage he could stuff down, that was nothing new, but real fear spiked through him when the telltale fuzziness began to set in. This can't be happening…please, just be another nightmare…
"Semnádtsaty…rassvet…"
The very howl he was fighting to contain erupted on the audio track, and it clicked that this wasn't just a tape of the sequence, it was actually being used on him at the time. His was the tortured voice as the words barked out relentlessly. The present him was shaking, bordering on hyperventilation. His cybernetic fingers dug into the wall.
"Pechy…devyáty…"
He had to stop it. No body restraints or reinforced cell held him back, he just had to keep a hold of his mind long enough to shut it off. Bucky stumbled forward up the rest of the stairs into a dim room. Screw covert movement, now that it took all of his effort waging the battle in his head. He glimpsed a hanging punching bag, a mass of boxes along the far wall, a shocked Steve next to a flickering projector setup, and then the open door swung too far, sending him toppling to his hands and knees.
Steve shouted something incomprehensible beyond the rushing in Bucky's ears, and leapt to one side. Bucky launched himself automatically, clinging onto the dual thoughts of shutting down the recording and heading off any potential attack. Was he under attack? Steve was his friend, he couldn't be doing this on purpose, or trying to hurt him. But why was he doing it at all?!
They both fell heavily to the floor as Bucky tackled Steve. The latter switched tactics, instead grappling for a secure enough hold to drag Bucky toward the stairs. Bucky's left hand clamped down on one of Steve's wrists, twisting. This elicited a sufficient cry of pain, and as Steve's grip loosened, Bucky flipped him into a set of weights.
"I have to—do this," he forced through gritted teeth. Then an unseen force yanked him back, lean, practiced arms pinning both of his, and countering his hand-to-hand attempts to break free. A momentary high-pitched electrical whine preceded his cybernetic arm locking up, the distraction allowing the assailant to execute a very similar flip to the one Bucky had just used on Steve. Except Bucky tried to redirect his momentum at the last second, stepped wrong, and careened face-first into a bench. White light blinded him, or was that just an overhead fixture snapping on?
"Stop!" a distant voice called out.
The pinch of a needle hit the vicinity of his right shoulder. He wildly smacked away the offending object as his senses muddied together, but no way could he continue to fight…
"Just hold on a minute!"
Everything halted in the cluttered room. Bucky registered somewhere in his overwhelmed brain that all sound had ceased as well, except for labored breathing. His built up agitation from the code words started to fade away. It was over. Suddenly the newcomer made another bid to restrain him, and a new terror struck Bucky. He was about to be wiped. What else would they do, after such egregious insubordination? "No, wait! Wait! I didn't mean to—I won't fight anymore—I'll comply, I'll comply!"
The hands froze again. Eyes streaming from the pain, Bucky made out something akin to a cream suit standing over him. This should mean something, he just couldn't think straight…warmth trickled down the side of his face and from his nose.
"See, we stopped before it finished, he's coming back out of it!" Steve's voice floated rapidly toward Bucky, knees crashing very close to him. "Bucky can you hear me? Do you remember where you are? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, this wasn't supposed to happen. I thought you went to bed a couple hours ago!"
"How do you know for sure?" asked a female voice edged like sharpened steel, which matched the figure's short, silvery hair. Sira?
"Because otherwise he would have responded in Russian. At least, he seemed to every other time. Thank you for your quick response, though."
"As soon as it began to affect him in the stairwell, I had to be sure."
Unanticipated pressure on Bucky's throbbing cheek drew a pained growl. He tried to reach for it, but was easily blocked.
"It's bleeding pretty badly, might need stitches," Steve explained. "And we should plug that nosebleed, too. Think you can do that, if we prop you up?"
"Couldn't…let it…again…" insisted Bucky. He eased, begrudgingly with help, into a sitting position.
"I know, and you didn't. Your whole demeanor changed as soon as I shut off the projector. We're having this conversation right now no problem, see?"
"Don't…let 'em wipe me…"
"Nobody's going to wipe you, not today, not ever. Here, hold that."
His right hand was guided to pinch a towel around his nose. The remnants of what had just happened continued to bombard his mind, however. "Can't get 'em…outta my head…"
"One step at a time. You're safe right now, they can't get to you. You're the one in control, and that's all that matters. Sira, can you get Dr. Khan, or whoever is on duty? He hit the bench pretty hard, should probably be checked before we move him too much. I can handle this for a few minutes. What did you stick him with, by the way?"
"Emergency dose of the adapted sedative, nothing more," Sira told them matter-of-factly. "He may not have gotten all of it, judging by his current state. Are you sure you will be all right alone?"
"Yes, just go."
The sound of heels retreated flatly down the stairs. Quiet descended once more. Bucky started to calm down little by little. His breathing was no longer so erratic, if only he could say that made him feel better.
"Did you know she could do that…?" he croaked.
"No idea. I can see why T'Challa trusts her, though, not just as a diplomatic advisor," Steve replied, still clearly rattled.
Also couldn't resist a bit of a cliffie, partly because I'm mean that way with some of my sequences, and partly because I've rearranged things so many times. This is me in late-night rambling mode, too, which I really should stop. Probably what got me into this mess. Bad writer, bad.