Silently, Invisibly
Chapter Ten
"I checked on your family," Steve was saying, "as soon as I was able. They're all gone. Dana died in 1945; scarlet fever. Charlie was killed in an accident on the docks in 1949; he lied about his age to get the job. Harriet got married in '61 to a guy from Jersey; both of them were killed in an auto accident the next winter. I looked to see if I could find any aunts, uncles, cousins, but I came up empty. The Commandos—only Gabe and Jim survived the war. Gabe had a stroke in '73 and died the next year. Jim died in 1980, of cancer."
He paused. There was no comment from the other bed.
"Peggy's still alive. In a nursing home in England. I haven't seen her."
"Barnes," said the Soldier's weary voice, "is tied to a hospital bed with third-degree burns, a wrecked prosthesis, a paralyzed leg, and a roommate who won't shut up. And at this rate, is likely to die of bedsores and boredom."
"You won't get bedsores," said Natasha from the doorway. "Even if you had a normal metabolism. The standard of care is pretty high."
"And you're here to take care of the boredom," said the Soldier, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well done, Natachenka. Your timing is exquisite."
"You're welcome," she said. "Don't get up, Steve. I'll move over here." She moved the chair to the other side of the Soldier's bed. Steve settled back in his own bed.
"So how long are you planning to keep me like this?" asked the Soldier. "More than three weeks, and you'll have to force-feed me."
"No, actually, we could put in a G-tube and keep you going indefinitely," said Natasha. "But I don't think that will be necessary."
"You think you can turn me."
"I know I can't turn you. But I also note that you're not dead yet, and that suggests there's still something you expect to gain from this situation."
"Rescue," said the Soldier.
"Unlikely," said Natasha. "It wouldn't be cost-effective."
"Maybe I just want to satisfy my curiosity before I die."
"All right. Ask away," said Natasha.
"How did he do it?" asked the Soldier, and the bantering tone was gone from his voice. "Barton. He's not—he can't have bribed you. He can't have seduced you. I can tell you're not mind-controlled."
"Maybe you misjudged me," she said drily. "Doesn't the record show that I was a double agent for months before I defected? That, let me see, Vanya found out and was going to turn me in, but I executed him before he could make the call?"
"Yes," he said. "That was the story."
"Your phrasing hints at a certain skepticism."
"Don't play with me, Natachenka. You owe me better than that."
"All right," she said. She glanced over at Steve. "Steve, excuse us a moment, because some of this you don't need to know."
"Want me to leave?" he asked, sitting up.
"No," she said. "Unless you've managed to learn Russian in the past few days."
"Not yet," he said.
"Khorosho," she said, and continued her conversation with the Soldier in her own language.
Steve settled back and watched them covertly. Natasha's tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a certain tension in her posture. The Soldier sounded skeptical, almost contemptuous; Steve caught the name "Barton" a couple of times. Then Natasha said something about "Vanya" and the Soldier stopped dead for a second and said something long that started with "Nyet." Natasha replied. And as Steve watched, the Soldier's demeanor changed. He seemed shaken, unsettled. They talked for a while longer, then broke off as the aide came in with Steve's dinner.
"I can offer you the dignity of feeding yourself, if you'll give me your parole," said Natasha to the Soldier, in English this time.
He was silent for a long moment.
"Damn you," he said at last. "Yes."
"Would you bring another dinner for Sgt. Barnes, please?" Natasha asked the aide.
"Don't call me that," said the Soldier.
"All right," she said. "Bring some food for the Soldier, please."
"Yes, ma'am," said the aide, and he left.
"Ask yourself," said Natasha, "Not just why they lied to you about your identity—that much is obvious—but why they sent you after Rogers, and especially, why now?"
"And if we're doing questions," Steve put in, "Did they order you to take me alive, or was that your idea?"
"You can't expect me to answer that," said the Soldier.
"Not really," said Steve, "but if Natasha can't tell by watching you while I ask the question, she's not the woman I think she is."
"He was ordered to kill you, Steve," said Natasha.
"Kind of thought so," said Steve.
"Damn you both to Hell," said the Soldier.
"It's good to have company," said Steve.
The aide returned with a dinner tray, and Natasha freed the Soldier's arm, raised the head of the bed, and pulled up a rolling table for him. He glared resentfully at the food (meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans—quite acceptable by Steve's standards), but ate it anyway.
"Me, on the other hand," said Natasha, "he was trying to kill. Did they blame you for my defection?"
"Standing order," said the Soldier. "Nothing personal, Natachenka."
She smiled. "The last time you lied to me," she said, "I was seventeen. And drunk. And you were trying to be kind."
"I liked you better when you were less competent," he said.
"Liar," she said cheerfully.
Dinner finished, she buzzed the aides. Steve noticed she kept a close eye on them as they helped the soldier to the bathroom and gave him his meds. She checked his restraints after he was put back to bed. A few minutes after that, Hawkeye showed up to take his turn at watch.
"Goodnight, Steve," said Natasha.
Steve yawned. " 'Night," he said drowsily.
"Spocoynoy nochi," Natasha said to the Soldier. He turned his face to the wall and didn't answer. Natasha nodded to Hawkeye and left. Hawkeye dimmed the lights, sat down and pulled out his phone and started typing. Steve lay still, listening to the almost inaudible keyclicks and the familiar sounds of the medical equipment until he drifted off.
He awoke to the sound of a klaxon and had rolled out of bed before his eyes were fully open. There was a dry-twig snap from his left foot as it hit the floor, but he was barely aware of it. A voice on the intercom was shouting "Security breach! Chemical—" and was cut off by gunfire.
"Go," said Steve to Hawkeye. Barton nodded and sprinted out the door. Steve levered himself back up to sit on the bed. He got his holstered pistol out of the nightstand drawer and strapped it on. Then, standing on his good foot, he stripped the sheet off his bed, stuffed it in the sink and turned on the tap. There was gunfire again, not on the intercom but down the hall. Steve hopped to the door and cautiously opened it a crack, then took a quick look out.
"Hell," he said. A yellow-green cloud was advancing down the hall and there was a body on the floor, half-hidden by the opaque billows. He hopped back to the sink, grabbed the soaking-wet sheet, and wrapped it around himself, covering as much of his face and body as he could. Then he made his way out into the hall, using the wall to stay upright, holding his breath till he could reach the body. It was the young aide who'd brought them their dinner, and he was dead. Steve hobbled back to the room as quickly as possible, closed the door, unwrapped the sheet and stuffed it under the door to seal out the encroaching gas. Already his eyes were streaming and he was coughing from the overpowering bleachy stench in the air. Clinging to the furniture, he struggled over to the Soldier's bed.
"Doesn't look like the rescue you were expecting," he gasped, and coughed wetly. He started working on the restraints. "They're using chlorine gas. And if you don't remember what that did to your dad, I do." His hands were clumsy, shaking; absently he noted the blisters that had begun to rise on his hands and arms. "Don't touch me," he said before unstrapping the Soldier's arm. "I'm contaminated."
The Soldier sat up. "Hand me that brace" he said.
Steve nodded, picked up the leg brace that kept the Soldier's knee locked so he could walk, and helped him strap it on, being careful not to touch his body. His hands were stiff with swelling now and he was coughing hard. The Soldier had started to blink and cough as well.
"Cap!" came Hawkeye's voice over the intercom. "Report!"
"Gray," said Steve, and coughed some more. "Soldier's yellow. 'S chlorine. Can you get through the vents?"
"On my way," said Hawkeye.
Steve was gasping for breath. He was nearly blind now, his eyes and exposed skin in agony, but the pain went almost unnoticed under the panic of suffocation. He reached for the bed rail, missed, and fell to the floor.
God, no, please, he thought as he fought for breath. Not again. Something touched him, pulled him off the floor to sit upright, and he arched his back, struggling to open his airway. A strong arm was wrapped around him, a warm body braced against his back.
"Steve. Stevie. Breathe, buddy. Breathe. Breathe," said Bucky's voice, and Steve passed out.
Khorosho (Хорошо): okay
Spocoynoy nochi (Спокойной ночи): goodnight
Note on chlorine: Wilfred Owen's poem Dulce et Decorum Est vividly describes its effects, and the CDC, among others, has more information than you really want. Horrible stuff.
Note on triage colors: The Avengers are using the SALT mass casualty triage system. Green means likely to survive without treatment; yellow, treatment can be delayed; red, needs immediate lifesaving treatment; gray, likely to die given the currently available resources; black, dead or effectively dead.