"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."
-Richard von Wiezsaecker
"He's getting worse," Steve texts you. It's been four days since your adventure in the city and almost none of Rogers' updates have been good. "Three of Stark's doctors have quit already."
"Why?" you text back, leaving your phone where you can see it next to the stack of term papers you're determined to finish grading before the week is out.
"He scares them. He either refuses to speak or threatens them with violence."
You sigh, tapping your pen against the surface of your desk.
"You have to give him time, Steve. He has to give himself time. This isn't going to be solved in a week."
"I know," he answers immediately. "But it's like he's checked out. He locks himself in his room. I have to practically break the door down and drag him to his appointments."
You pinch the bridge of your nose and toss your pen clear across the room.
"… You should hear the things he says," Steve continues. "The Bucky Barnes I knew would never talk like that."
"He's not the Barnes you knew," you remind him. "He's not sure who he is anymore. That won't be an easy thing to figure out, not after what they did to him."
"I know that," he responds, though you get the feeling he had a much longer answer typed out before replacing it. "I'm afraid he's going to bolt the first chance he gets."
"He might. I did, when I first moved to the U.S. to dorm at Xavier's."
"… What about Ana?"
"She wasn't like me. Still isn't. She barely remembers our lives before Dr. MacTaggert or Professor Xavier, before the school. I thought she'd be better off without me around to screw it up."
"But you went back… for her?"
"No. I went back because I had nowhere else to go. Also, Logan can be very persuasive when he's spent the better part of his weekend tracking you down," you explain. "Anyway, has Tony's team learned anything we didn't already know about Barnes?"
"The arm is damaged internally, though he won't let Stark get close enough to do a full scan. We know it has to be worked on, maybe removed and refitted, but if anyone so much as mentions it, he starts yelling in Russian and we have to get Nat to talk him down."
"Is he eating?"
"Not enough," Steve texts. "Banner has him on a 6000 calorie per day nutritional plan, with a dietician to monitor his intake, but mostly he pushes everything around on his plate. What he does eat, he usually throws up."
"Banner read my report? I noted the likelihood of a compromised or damaged digestive system. He needs probiotics, easily digested foods, and probably something to help break down all the scar tissue as his body catches up."
"He did read it," he answers. "He's Bucky's primary doctor. We have him on a ton of pills and he hates all of them."
"As long as he takes them, I don't care how cranky he gets," you text back. "But seriously, Steve, it's only been a few days. Let him settle in, get used to the routine. Don't let this shake you. Or him."
"Copy that," he responds. "I asked if he wanted to talk to you. He stormed off and slammed his door."
"When was this?"
"Just now," he says. "He was in here, trying to read over my shoulder."
"Keep me posted," you finish. "I've got to get through these papers or I'll be dealing with them into the weekend."
"Okay," he says. "Thanks for listening. Texting. Whatever terminology is correct."
"Dork," you accuse.
"Only for my whole life!" he agrees, adding a smiley face at the end.
You flip your cell phone over and focus on the stack of papers spread out on the desk. After a few seconds rummaging in one of the drawers for another pen, you get back to the task-at-hand, making notations along the margins regarding sentence structure and how to properly frame a hypothesis.
You're only a few minutes in when a set of hairy knuckles rap against the frame of the doorway leading into your classroom.
"What?" you ask, not bothering to look up from your work.
"Team meeting," Logan growls around an unlit stogie. "Your presence is required, Duchess."
"Don't call me that," you sneer, circling an entire paragraph and questioning it's germaneness to the paper's established topic. "You've got more blue blood flowing in your veins than anyone in my family ever did."
He snorts, and pops the cigar out of his mouth. He's chewed the end to tatters and you know he'll be picking out bits of tobacco from his teeth for the rest of the night.
"Yeah, but I don't have the fancy accent," he says, smirking at you from the threshold.
"What's the meeting about?" you ask, refusing to let him bait you into another argument about pedigrees or which of you had the more fucked up childhood.
"Like you gotta ask," he says, turning the cigar over in his hand. "Scott's pissed."
"Because I got involved in 'Avenger's business'?" you ask.
"Because you got Ana involved in 'Avengers business.'"
Shit.
"She's fine," you note, finally settling back in your chair and abandoning your apparently doomed attempt to get ahead of your workload.
"I know," he says, slotting the end of the stogie between his teeth once more. "You're her guardian, not me, or Summers, or Chuck. What you and your family get up to is your business."
"Then why the meeting?"
He shrugs, "Scott's pissed."
You roll your eyes and push away from the desk, resigned to your fate.
"C'mon, Duchess. Let's get this over with," Logan drawls, heading down the hallway toward the Professor's office.
"How could you be so irresponsible?" Scott fumes, stalking in front of the lead-lined windows set into the wall behind Charles' desk, where the man himself is sitting, allowing the others to speak before adding his own opinion into the mix. The entire team hasn't been assembled, thank God, just whomever happened to be on campus when the call went out, that being Scott, Jean, Hank, and Logan.
And the Professor, of course, but that usually goes without saying.
"Because I wasn't being irresponsible," you snap. "If you think I would ever willfully put Ana in danger-"
"You did put her in danger," he argues, looking to Jean for support. Instead, she sighs and looks away. "Am I the only one who sees how obviously stupid this whole fiasco was?"
"The Winter Soldier isn't exactly the kind of person a teenager should be poking at with a stick," Dr. McCoy observes. "Though I'm sure he'd make a fascinating case-study."
"It was risky," Jean agrees. "And speaking as someone who has worked closely with your sister as she develops her gifts, I would have never allowed her to get involved. Not only could he have hurt her, she could have easily hurt him. Or you. Perhaps especially you, considering what you two did."
"I made a call," you defend. "You weren't there. You didn't see—"
"He's not our problem," Scott seethes. "What happened to him is horrible and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, but we have enough to worry about—"
"That's all we ever seem to do anymore. Sit and worry. Worry and sit."
"So your solution is to go looking for a fight? Do you have any idea how much of our own blood we had to spill to find a little peace? A little solitude?"
"Excuse me while I go fetch my smallest violin, Summers," you growl. "If I wanted peace and solitude, I'd move to a deserted island, like Lensherr did."
"I'd hardly call Genosha deserted," Jean observes. "Regardless, you should have told someone what you were planning. I can understand not telling Scott—"
"Excuse me?"
"—But if something had gone wrong, it would have been wise to have one of us standing by to help Ana regain control," she finishes, shooting Scott a disapproving look for interrupting her.
"I agree with Jean," Charles says, calmly steepling his fingers together in front of him. "I appreciate the bond that you and your sister share—you trust her, perhaps more than you'll ever trust anyone else—but she's a minor, and she would do anything you asked, even if she had her own reservations or fears about your request. You need to understand the influence you have over her…"
"I do," you admit, ducking your head deferentially to him. "And you're right. I should have told someone what was happening. That was poor judgment on my part. It's just… things moved rather quickly after we found him in Brooklyn. If you could have seen—"
"I believe you," he nods. "We don't have much information about HYDRA, but what we do know is a testament to their willingness to abandon all moral and ethical considerations toward their fellow Man in pursuit of their goals."
"Nazis," Logan mutters, staring out one of the windows at the long stretch of verdant lawn leading towards the woods. "Of every enemy I fought in every war they dragged me into, it was the Nazis I hated most."
"Yes, I think we can all agree that HYDRA is bad," Scott snarks. "But that doesn't make what she did—"
"She already apologized, Cyke," Logan snaps, ripping the stogie from his mouth, jabbing the air with it as if punctuating his words. "What the fuck else you want? Pound of flesh? Firstborn son?"
Summers pauses, jaw clamping shut and his right fist curling into a club. He looks like he's actually considering throwing a punch before Jean clears her throat and he's called back to reality.
"Scott," you start, dropping your hands to your sides in defeat. "I screwed up. But I would never deliberately put Ana in danger. Please tell me you know that."
He huffs and plants his hands on his hips, glancing to Jean before looking back at you.
"I know," he finally admits. "I just—You're both so young. The world's not all sunshine and rainbows, but I was hoping that you two wouldn't have to see how ugly it really is for a bit longer."
You look down at your feet, shaking your head slightly.
"You know what happened in Edmonton, before Dr. MacTaggert showed up," you remind him. "I was already well acquainted with how unfair and unjust the world can be."
Scott blows out his breath and heads for the door, pausing next to you for a moment. He puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently.
"Don't do it again," he says, mouth twisting into a half-smile. "Or I'll ground you for a month."
"Yes, Dad," you deadpan, chuckling softly as he sees himself out of the office.
"I'm going to talk to Ana," Jean tells you, following Scott. "I want to make sure she's okay. Has she talked to you about anything she might have seen?"
"She told me she didn't look," you supply. "Just figured out where he was and got me inside his head when things went pear-shaped."
"Understood," she says, stepping out of the office, hands clasped behind her back.
"I'm curious," McCoy starts, turning slightly in his chair. "What is your professional opinion on Sergeant Barnes?"
"He's a mess," you reply with a slight shrug. "If he's ever able to live independently it'll be a small miracle. From what I saw in the file Romanoff procured for Rogers, he's lucky to be forming coherent sentences."
"He's augmented, like Captain Rogers," Hank states, brushing some imaginary dust or fuzz from the cobalt fur of his arms.
"A knock-off serum cobbled together by a man named Arnim Zola. They killed dozens of POWs at a HYDRA factory near Klagenfurt, Austria, before getting to Barnes. They made the prisoners work on weapons production and other tech, and when their bodies finally gave out, they'd send them to some kind of isolation ward. Zola would inject them with whatever combination of drugs and chemicals he was working on and document the results. As far as the records indicate, Barnes was the only one to survive."
"Stars and garters," Hank mutters, delicately plucking his glasses from the bridge of his nose and polishing them with his shirt. "That poor boy."
"It gets so much worse," you tell him. "You have no idea."
"I'd like to meet with him," he says. "When he's ready, of course. I understand from Charles that both Barnes and Rogers have an… understandingof what we are. I assume my appearance wouldn't be too jarring?"
"I'm not sure how much of that information Barnes was able to process," you caution. "He was pretty out of it, and Rogers has since told me he's deteriorating further. Granted, it's only been a few days, but his memory is shot as it is. I can always ask if he minds having another doctor from the school consult on his case, though."
"I would appreciate that," Hank says, smiling and rising from his seat. "And not just because I'm intensely curious about what's been done to him. Ido hope that I can help him in some way."
You could hug Hank in that moment, but you know it'll only get him flustered and tripping over his own tongue so instead you return his smile and tell him you'll make the suggestion the next time you see or speak to Barnes.
"Well," he says, clapping his hands together. "I should probably get back to the lab." He sidles out of the room—an impressive feat for someone so large—and you're left in the office with the Professor and Logan.
"This ain't gonna end well," Logan says, still staring out the window.
"God, you sound like Barnes," you groan, slumping into the nearest chair. "Always so negative."
"Just sayin'. Someone like that… there's no putting it all back together. His story doesn't get a happy ending."
"You think he's a lost cause?" Charles asks, turning slightly to face the surly Canadian.
"Yup. And I think she's a sucker for lost causes," he says, pointing at you with his cigar.
"Like this is an established pattern of behavior or something," you scowl. "What other 'lost causes' have I attached myself to?"
He just stares back at you, one brow arching almost comically in a severe angle that distorts his whole face.
"What, you?"
He shrugs, popping the stogie back in his mouth.
"Oh for pity's sake, shall I fetch that tiny violin after all?"
He flips you the bird and heads out of the room, probably to go smoke that sodding cigar within the safety of the boathouse or the woods.
"He cares a great deal for you and Ana," Charles lightly chides. "You in particular. And his concern isn't entirely unwarranted."
"I promise I'll be careful not to over-commit," you reassure him. "And Ana stays out of it unless I discuss it with you and Jean first."
"When do you think you'll see them again?"
"Rogers and Barnes? Whenever the medical team clears him for visitors, I suppose. He'll have to want me to come, of course. I won't impose where I'm not welcome—"
"Oh, I don't think that will be an issue," Charles says, eyes creasing at the corners.
"Don't know what you're implying," you sniff, turning to the door.
"Youth," the Professor says to your back, "is wasted on the young." He laughs to himself as you shut the door behind you, biting back a retort about old people and their desperately needing hobbies.
You briefly return to your classroom to gather up your things (term papers included) and then retreat to the suite you share with Ana in the upstairs residential wing. A few of the students call to you as you pass by, and you answer with a wave or a nod of your head.
Finally, blessedly, you reach your room and quickly shut the door behind you, throwing the bolt against any overly-excited students rushing in to ask you a question, or looking for Ana. During the day, when you're not teaching or training, you leave it open, allowing the kids to drift in and out as they please, sometimes with questions, concerns, or idle conversation; sometimes just to sit quietly with someone else, sharing the space.
With an exaggerated sigh, you flop down onto your bed, dropping the stack of essays to the side. You'll get to them later. Probably. Maybe.
You drag your cellphone out of your pants pocket, checking for any texts or missed messages. There are a few from Steve regarding Barnes, who apparently emerged from his room not long after locking himself inside, immediately demanding to know what you two had been talking about.
"What'd you tell him?" you text Rogers.
"The truth."
"How'd he take it?" you ask.
"About as well as you'd expect. Said if you had any questions about his progress, you should ask him," he answers.
"Then he should get on the goddamn phone. I have lots of questions."
A moment later, your phone vibrates softly, the screen lighting up with the goofy selfie Rogers had sent Ana a few days ago. You'd set it as his contact picture after swiping Ana's cell and sending the picture to yourself.
"Hello?" you chirp, stretching back against the bed far enough that your head tips over the edge.
"… Your voice sounds weird," Barnes grumbles. "I hate these things."
"What? Cell phones?"
He grunts and you hear a door close in the background.
"Five minutes," he says. "Then I'm hanging up."
"You told Steve you wanted to talk to me," you remind him.
"I—I do. Just… ask whatever you want to ask," he stammers.
"How're you doing?"
"Shitty," he answers immediately. "Feels like… like I'm gonna crawl right out of my own skin."
"Rogers tells me you're not eating. Or cooperating with your medical team—"
"They're not my medical team—" he interrupts, but you plow right on ahead, because the man said five minutes and you've no doubt he means exactly that long and not a second longer.
"—or allowing Stark to check out your arm. You remember what you told us about it, right?"
"I can't help it," he sighs. "He's sitting there, with that goddamn music blasting, and his stupid t-shirts, and he won't shut the fuck up, and just keeps poking at me like I'm a robot, like I'm one of his cars. He won't even look at me, and he talks to Steve the whole time like I'm not there, like I'm not a person."
"Does it hurt?"
"I ain't that fragile," he gripes. "I'm not about to let the spawn of Howard Stark shred my precious feelings."
"Not that," you huff. "The arm. Does it hurt when he's inspecting it?"
"Of course it hurts," he says, the unspoken you idiot ringing rather clearly across the line.
"Have you told him that?" you continue, already sure of the answer.
Silence, and then: "Can't. Want to, but can't."
"Why?"
"Nggh," he groans. "Conditioning. No speaking when the techs are—are doing work. Repairs. Upgrades. Have to be quiet and still."
"Take a deep breath," you tell him, the strain in his voice reminding you of how he'd wind himself up tight as a drum while beginning to hyperventilate.
"You should be here," he finally says, though the words still seem hard to get out and he's breathing harder than a man having a simple conversation with a sort-of associate ought to be.
"You need to try to trust people other than just myself and Steve," you tell him.
"Natalia—Natasha—isn't bad. She has the good vodka, the real stuff. And Wilson is tolerable. Talks too much, though. Likes the sound of his own voice. Always with—with the jokes."
"I told you I'd come to visit when you'd made enough progress with your doctors," you remind him, once again picking up on his fluctuating struggle with words. "You're not holding up your end of the bargain."
Another long pause.
"Sorry," he finally exhales. "I—I forget, sometimes, and I'm back with them, and you and Steve being in Brooklyn, finding me, it's like a half-remembered dream. Too good to be true. I don't mean to forget," he admits, clearly frustrated.
"I know; no one is angry with you because you're struggling. We anticipated this, remember? We talked about how this was going to be messy, about how the bad days would outnumber the good by a significant degree."
"Yeah," he says. "I know, I do. Really. I just think this would be easier if you were here to remind me. I hear you better than Steve."
"Not talking any louder or saying anything different," you counter, a bit confused by that last confession.
"Not what I mean," he grumbles, and you hear another door shut.
"Where are you?" you ask, sitting up on the bed.
"Closet," he tells you. "It's dark and small. Feels familiar, safe. How fucked up is that?"
"Pretty fucked up," you agree, brow furrowed with concern. "Why would—"
"You know why," he says, voice dropping to something just above a whisper. "They didn't put me up in a five star hotel for 70 years."
"Barnes…"
"You gotta come to the Tower," he says. "I know I'll be better if you're here."
"The earliest I can come down is this weekend," you tell him. "And I still want Dr. Banner's approval before I pack a bag."
"This weekend?" he asks. "Tomorrow is Friday. You could come down tomorrow night."
"Saturday morning," you correct. "A lot of the students go home on the weekend and staff is needed to help greet parents, arrange taxis, drop the kids off at Amtrak, and so on. All hands on deck, as it were."
"When will you talk to Banner?" he asks.
"Tomorrow afternoon, and I will abide by his decision. No arguments."
"No arguments," he concedes. "Can you text Steve after you know what you're doing?"
"Do you have a phone of your own?"
"I broke it," he says. "Grabbed for it with the wrong hand."
"I can text Steve," you tell him. "I'll tell him to buy you a burner."
"A what?"
"A burner. A cheap cell phone with basic features that is made to be used and discarded."
"Your generation," he grouses, "doesn't make anything to last."
"Oh my God, don't start," you groan. "Any more appointments for today?"
"No," he says. "Steve will try to get me to come out and watch a movie or something. Probably as soon as I get off the phone with you."
"What've you been watching lately?"
"He keeps putting on cartoons," he sighs. "They used to show a few before the movie, and those were only a five minutes long. Now they go onforever."
You laugh a little, eyes snapping over to the doorway that adjoins your room to Ana's. She's hovering just outside of your direct line of sight, but you know she's there.
"Before I forget," you lead, "one of my colleagues here at the school would like to consult on your case, if you'll allow it."
"That's Dr. Banner's call," he answers, words clipped.
"Well, yes, I'll be asking permission from him as well, but I'm not going to invite anyone else to look through your information without clearing it with you first."
"Another doctor?"
"Technically, he's a biochemist, but he's been our team medic and in-house physician for years. He's the whole reason I want to become a doctor," you explain. "He's a really good person, Barnes. He'd like to help."
"He doesn't know me," he presses.
"But he knows me," you insist. "And he knows that I care, so he cares. That's how families work."
"Fine. You have my blessing," he huffs. "Anything else?"
"See you Saturday," you reply. "Pending Dr. Banner's approval."
You listen as he exhales slowly, then hear the closet door open.
"Thanks," he says. "Gonna go watch that movie with Steve. You ever see The French Connection?"
"That's… not a cartoon," you observe.
"No shit. If I have to sit through another two hours of talking lions or enchanted castles, I might actually shoot someone."
"Good night, Sergeant," you chuckle.
"Night," he says, then disconnects.
Ana peeks around the doorway, drumming her fingers against the wall.
"So…?"
You pat the end of the bed, inviting her in to sit down.
"Dr. Grey spoke with you earlier," you note. "I'm not going to pretend like this isn't a very serious situation, with potentially dangerous ramifications should things go south, so I need to know how involved you want to be."
"You're asking me? Not just telling me to stay out of it?"
"The only reason Barnes is alive is because of you, Ana. We wouldn't have found him without you, and I don't think he had much time left with that laceration. Even if he'd survived it somehow, he was hurtling downhill in terms of his physical and mental condition. It was only a matter of time."
"I want to stay involved," she says firmly with a single nod of her head. "You don't have to tell me everything—I don't think I want to know everything—but I can handle this."
"I know you can. That's why I called you in the first place back in Brooklyn," you answer, then pause while you mull over what needs to be said next. "He's not in good shape. We knew this would be difficult, but he's worse than I expected."
"So you're going back to the city this weekend?"
You shoot her a look, lips pursed. "You know I am. You listened to most of the conversation."
"All of it, actually," she admits with a slight blush. "I'm glad you're going. He needs you."
"Not sure about that," you huff. "But if I can keep him steady long enough for Stark to examine his arm properly, disengage whatever it is that HYDRA built in as a killswitch, it'll be worth the effort."
"God, you can be a proper idiot, sometimes," she sighs, sliding off the bed and shuffling back to her room. "He needs you. You. Not whoever happens to be around, and not just to hold his hand."
"Don't be absurd," you snort. "Even if that were the case-that Barnes has some particular attachment to me-he's an absolute tragedy in human form. I'm going to help, not to flirt, you little scoundrel."
"Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep at night," she snarks over her shoulder. "I know you've seen the photos of him from before the war. He was a fox."
"He's old enough to be our grandfather," you remind her, throwing a pillow after her retreating form. "Go to bed!"
"The first step is denial!" she shouts back, before shutting the door behind her.
You sit up on the bed and scowl at your shared wall for several minutes before finally dismissing Ana's suggestion as being utterly insane. Not to mention inappropriate. Even if Barnes' physical state wasn't in shambles, even if he had his head on straight, the idea of you and him is ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
You shake your head and gather up the scattered papers off your duvet, tossing them onto the desk against the adjacent wall. They'll have to wait until tomorrow. Suppressing a yawn, you lie back down, burying your head into the veritable mountain of pillows piled up against the headboard.
Just before you drift to sleep, your phone buzzes again. You grab it, swipe your finger across the screen and squint at the image displayed there, several seconds passing before you realize what you're looking at.
"Ana!" you shout, tossing the wretched bit of technology onto your nightstand. The archive photo of Barnes in his Sergeant's uniform is still lit up, his smile—and he really needs to smile more, goddamn—beaming at you from the screen.
She cackles wildly, the sound slightly muffled through the wall.
"Love you!" she singsongs, before devolving into another fit of laughter.
"Brat!"
"Product of my environment!"
You swear into one of your pillows before swatting a hand at the light switch next to the bed, plunging the room into darkness.