"I hear their screams, their demands, whenever I see shadow. They haunt me, scramble for my mind, wishing to claim my sanity." – Brandon Sanderson, 'Edgedancer'

Chapter 36: Names

With Wilson there and a bottle of water in his hand, the conversation was a little easier. Not by much, granted, but James felt a little more grounded and the questions felt more manageable. For a while, he simply explained to them what had happened before Steve came and got him out, most of which he remembered in a blur of one painful experiment after another.

"I didn't know it had worked," he said, staring at his knees. "They were talking about the last attempt more optimistically than they usually did, but I couldn't really register what was going on. Too out of it, I guess."

Murdock nodded slowly. "But it did work?"

James laughed humorlessly. "Well, I survived losing my arm and falling off a train into a canyon, so I'd say yeah."

"After you were captured the second time, did they keep experimenting on you?"

"I'm not sure." James didn't actually remember, or at least, he didn't want to. He knew the Russians had taken him after he fell, and that by that time they knew that he knew Steve, but what they did to him was still blessedly indistinct.

"Okay." The lawyer removed his glasses. His eyes, blank, drifted down as he folded up his glasses and pushed a hand through his hair. "Was that when they started brainwashing you?"

"No. They interrogated me first. About Steve." He had been avoiding that memory too, but there it was, heavy in the front of his mind. They'd continued with their experiments and they'd begun brainwashing him, and every day they asked him to tell them about Captain Steve Rogers and the other Howling Commandos. He'd retreated into his own mind and clung to the phrase "I don't know him" until that was all he let himself think. He told the lies until he almost believed them himself. Until they came and showed him a newspaper headline: "Captain America Gone Missing in Arctic Ocean."

"Your friend is dead," they said.

James remembered, too, the way that hurt more than anything else, the way that that American newspaper told him his best friend was gone.

"Did you tell them anything?"

Had he? He thought about it, flinching a little from some of the memories (they had wiped him for the first time, he'd laughed at the chair but his stomach hurt like no dinner, and when he woke up everything was blank until they asked him more questions). "Nothing important." That answer came with a great deal of satisfaction. "Even after they told me he was dead, I just coughed up old stuff. Or lies."

"Geez, no wonder he wanted you back so much," Wilson said, eyebrows raised. "You're a loyal best friend, man."

"If I had told them, it wouldn't have changed how they treated me any," James said shortly. It wouldn't have. Even if that logic hadn't really helped him when things were the worst, he knew they'd have kept on beating him and he'd have broken sooner than he did.

Because those memories were back now too, about when the cracks started appearing. He'd stopped physically struggling before he knew Steve died – once he knew that, though, it got harder to hang on. He didn't have anyone to defend anymore, just himself, and he'd never been the best at that.

James pressed his hands to his head, and Wilson touched his shoulder firmly. "You alright?"

He didn't reply to that – just shrugged.

"You still with us?"

"Yeah, I'll be good."

"So when they were brainwashing you, how long do you think it took before you stopped fighting back – from the time you were captured?"

James only had a vague idea of that – he'd had no way of telling time, and he wasn't sure what Murdock meant by fighting. He gave his best guess. His head hurt. "I remember a mission in 1950. It was a test mission, I think. I went out with a strike team, but when it came time to shoot the man, I don't know, I froze… They brought me back in and wiped me again."

Before that, he'd killed other people in controlled situations. They presented him with innocent victims and he shot them, stabbed them, choked them, whatever they told him. It was supposed to harden him but it didn't quite work that way. Until later.

"So five years after they got you back?" Murdock nodded slowly. James really didn't like the way his blind eyes stared.

"Yeah."

"Good, good. I can work with that. Now… I need to know this, but…Was there ever a time when your conscience told you to stop and you didn't?"

James looked down. "No." Yes. "I mean… I… It was…"

Everybody has a breaking point.

"James, stay with me. You're safe."

He wasn't. Not from this.

I'm Bucky, I'm Bucky Barnes, I can't, I, I, I…

"Kill her, Soldat."

I can't.

"Now!" He saw the stun baton out of the corner of his eye and flinched. He couldn't take any more of this, he couldn't. They would wipe him again. They would do everything over and over again no matter how many times he tried to fight them. "Zhelaniye." The trigger word helped. It dulled everything, numbed him so his name wasn't his anymore, just a concept. A concept that, finally, he couldn't bear to hold onto anymore. Not in the face of beatings and torture and memory wipes.

The gun shook, but he aimed it. The gun shook, but he tightened his finger on the trigger and painted the wall red. He was screaming again but he'd stopped being able to feel it or hear it because it hurt so badly. Like losing his arm again.

"James, man, come back."

James buried his face in his hands. He was shaking. "I killed her. I couldn't take it and I shot a woman. After that it fell apart."

Murdock was very gentle, more so than James had thought him capable of. "When?"

"I don't know." He really didn't. It was just something that happened. Something irreversible – when Bucky died.

"You want to tell me about it?" Wilson asked.

"No, I... No." James just wanted to see Steve, if he was honest. Right now, it felt as if the only thing that would really ground him was the Captain's solid, familiar presence. But he also didn't want to admit that, so he sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Can we take a break?"

"Of course. I could use some water myself." Murdock slipped his glasses back on and stood. "Mr. Wilson, would you direct me to the kitchen?"

"Sure," Wilson answered, standing. "You good, James?"

"Yeah. Thanks." James propped his head in his hands and closed his eyes. That was risky. Colors and screams echoed behind his eyelids. And faces. Why did the faces bother him so much now? They were people he'd killed, he'd decided that much a long time ago, but now they haunted him. Now they cried. He didn't want them, he never had. That was why he kept those memories out, because maybe then he could pretend that Bucky wasn't him. Maybe then he could pretend that he hadn't lost anything, that everything had started with Hydra. That he didn't care about everyone he killed.

He didn't. He couldn't. If he let himself care it would break him. James didn't care.

That had to be true.

He opened his eyes and looked over towards his kitchen. Murdock and Wilson were taking quietly, and James sighed. Undoubtedly they were talking about him. He stood, legs tingling from sitting so long, and strode over.

"I'm okay now. You got a lot more questions?"

"Several," Murdock said. "Our case is pretty good, I think – I'll just want to have clearer details on some points."

"Then let's get them over with," James said. He wanted to get out of there – or, really, get them out. This was his suite, after all.

They all sat back down, Murdock and Wilson on the couch, James on the armchair, and Murdock leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Why was it that Steve was able to remind you who you were and no one else could?"

That was easy. "I knew him. I hadn't seen anyone who meant anything to me, personally, in years, except him. Besides that, Pierce wasn't maintaining me correctly for some reason. He was never as good of a handler as the Russians, but around the time he first sent me after Steve he'd been ignoring protocol, wiping me when he shouldn't have had to, not feeding me, not giving me enough intel for missions... It was like he stopped caring if I worked right. So the programming was already suffering when I saw Steve."

"Why do you think he wasn't... maintaining you as he had previously?"

"I scared him." James remembered realizing early on that for some reason, the Russian branch of Hydra hadn't properly briefed Pierce. Possibly it was the result of a rivalry or simply an emergency transfer, but Pierce hadn't ever grasped the purpose or reliability of the Winter Soldier. He'd used the Soldier like just another operative, rather than the high-caliber machine he was. The Asset was supposed to be a ghost, but instead he was used for any and all missions Pierce thought him capable of. Pierce never seemed to quite trust his programming, and towards the end, as Project Insight loomed, he must have worried that the Soldier would ruin his plans and so tried to sabotage his own weapon. "He didn't believe I was really going to obey, so he tried to undercut my capabilities to protect himself."

"Should he have been afraid? Would you have turned on him, given the chance?"

"No. He was my handler." The Soldier had never had a choice.

"And you obeyed your handler absolutely?"

"Yes. Anyone else in Hydra could have ordered me to do something and I would've, but my handler was always the highest authority."

"Alright. Once they knew you were compliant did they continue with the poor treatment or ease up a little?"

"I... No. No, it got worse. I just stopped caring."

"Worse how?"

"More beatings. Training me not to hesitate or flinch, training me how to lie, training me to go undercover. There was always a mistake to beat me over. Then they found out they had to keep wiping me regularly because, Simmons said, my serum heals my brain better and faster than it'd do on its own. And, well, sometimes they just wanted to have some fun."

He really wanted Steve now. He still didn't say so.

"I'm sorry," Murdock said quietly. His jaw was tense, his forehead furrowed; James wasn't sure what to attribute that to. Anger at Hydra seemed the most logical assumption, but James didn't trust the man that much.

"Yeah, well, it happened." James swallowed a long drink of water and grimaced. "Can't do anything about it."

"Just a couple more questions for now, Sergeant."

James nodded.

"Did it ever feel good? Did you ever enjoy your missions?" Murdock almost sounded apologetic for having to ask that question, but logically James understood why he did.

The Soldier's only concept for something feeling "good" had been the rare praise from his handlers. Torturing prisoners, killing people, those things hadn't been good or bad. They just were. "No. I wasn't supposed to. I wasn't supposed to enjoy anything."

"Okay, in that case we can be done now, Sergeant Barnes. Thank you for giving me this time with you – I understand it was difficult. If it helps at all, I think that with proper evidence to back up your stories, we can convince everyone of your innocence."

"That would be good," James said, smiling a little.

Murdock stood, again retrieving his stick, and nodded politely. "Good evening, Sergeant."

Wilson stepped up and quietly offered his elbow, maybe sensing that James needed to be alone. "You gonna be okay, James?" he asked.

"I keep telling you guys that's a dumb question," he grumbled.

Wilson hesitated a long moment, then led Murdock out of the suite. James' door slid closed, and he slid down onto the floor, legs giving way.

"Shit," he mumbled. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his arms on them. His head was a mess. He knew if he started thinking about the memories, the flashbacks and the brainwashing and the beatings, he'd never stop. Something felt broken and wrong inside and he didn't know why and it scared him.

"Jarvis, can you get Steve?" he asked, uncomfortable. He felt stupid asking for Steve like they were still friends, like he hadn't been giving the Captain the cold shoulder for weeks now. But everything was falling to pieces and the one thing that he knew was the same anymore was Steve Rogers.

"Of course, Sergeant Barnes," Jarvis said. He sounded concerned again.

James didn't have a notebook nearby to help him sort his memories and he didn't want to get up and find one. He held onto his bottled water and stared at the clear liquid inside it, sloshing it around to distract himself from the faces.

There was a knock on the door that startled him to alertness just before Jarvis told him Steve had arrived. "Let him in," James said, setting down the water.

The door hissed open, then came Steve's usual concerned "James?" That name sounded wrong out of his mouth. "James, where-? Oh." He came around the armchair, scanned the area with a tactician's eyes, then crouched down next to James. "What's wrong? What'd you need?"

That wasn't a question James felt able to answer. "I..." He shook his head, hard. He felt stupid, that's what was wrong. He shouldn't have bothered Steve, this was all a terrible idea, what was he thinking, anyway?

"It's okay, James. Just take a minute, I don't mind," Steve said.

No, Bucky, I'm Bucky, that's my name.

I'm Bucky, I'm Bucky Barnes, I can't, I…

It was all wrong. All broken. He didn't want to be Bucky.

The trigger word helped. It dulled everything, numbed him so his name wasn't his anymore, just a concept. A concept that, finally, he couldn't bear to hold onto anymore.

It wasn't like that anymore, it wasn't.

The faces screamed at him.

He was screaming and he could never hear it anymore.

"I'm sorry, I'm just… Sorry, I'm sorry." He was aware he was ignoring Steve but everything was so confused and he didn't want it.

I'm not him. I can't be him. It hurts.

This was bad. This wasn't right. He was Bucky.

"You don't have to apologize, James, it's fine."

"I'm not-" He stopped. He didn't like the way his heart was beating, he didn't like the way he was thinking.

"Not what?"

"Not him." Not James. Not the Soldier. Not Sergeant Barnes. Bucky. He didn't want to be, he didn't want that guilt and pain and loss, but he didn't like who he was when he wasn't Bucky. He didn't like what happened when he ignored that part of his past.

"I know you aren't Bucky, you keep-"

"No, it's just, I…" He closed his eyes tight and shook his head, angrily pushing his too-long hair away from his face. "I'm Bucky."

"Okay…" Steve sounded really confused. That was kind of funny. Bucky couldn't find it in himself to explain. There was too much happening in his head and he thought he was going to cry. "What… Um, you want me to get you anything? Do anything?"

Bucky laughed shortly and then he was crying again, which was really stupid and really weak and he wanted to hide but there wasn't anywhere to go, so he just buried his face in his arms and tried to stop the stupid tears. Then Steve was awkwardly putting his arms around him, and that was stupid too, only it was also very Steve and just made everything better and worse.

He didn't cry for long – he at least had enough control over himself to manage that. He straightened and scrubbed his face with the heel of his hand, and Steve quickly backed off, looking so bewildered and worried that Bucky almost laughed.

"Sorry," he said.

"I told you, you don't have to be sorry," Steve answered. He shifted a little and rubbed the back of his neck. "So… um… You're Bucky now?"

Bucky shrugged. "Kinda. No. I mean… Yeah." It was too complicated to explain, even to Steve. "I didn't like being James, so I'm not." That was the best he could do.

"Okay." Steve didn't look any less confused, but he did look happier. "How did your talk with Matt go? I'm guessing not great."

"That depends on your point of view," Bucky muttered, picking up his water bottle and finishing the water in it in a few gulps. "It sucked. But now I might be able to survive witnessing in court, so that's great. And I switched names again. Just to confuse everyone one more time."

Steve nodded. He looked like he was barely containing a huge grin. "You want me to leave now, or-?"

"Nah, it's fine." Bucky stood, shakily, and went to throw away his water bottle away. "Clint gave me a laptop to use – I think he got it from Stark. I don't really know how to use it yet, but if you want you could help."

Steve blinked. "Yeah, yeah, I'd be happy to."

"You sure you know how?" Bucky asked, smirking a little. That felt good. A little bit like a lie, but not much. Not like everything else had.

His friend rolled his eyes and stood. "Yes I know how, Buck. I wasn't born yesterday."

"No, you were born one hundred years ago. It's a reasonable question."

Steve sputtered out an indignant reply, grinning, and Bucky let himself smile a little wider. This felt… good. It felt good.

Maybe not right, still, but good.

A/N: That's a wrap, folks!

That's right, Part 1 of this fic is OVER! Are you surprised? I am. There were supposed to be a few more chapters but nope, the timing felt right to me so here we are.

BUCKY'S BACK! This is awesome if psychologically sketchy - bask in the glory for a little while longer. Part 2 (The title of which I will announce once it's posted) will most likely pick up a few days or weeks later with Bucky's arm having been finished and preparations for the trial well underway. There will be at least two more Avengers introduced to our cast of characters and the mess that was Age of Ultron is being happily scrapped (adios Brucenat, OOC Natasha, and dead Pietro).

If this feels rushed to anyone do let me know - It feels right to me but I may have inadequately explained something or you may just be really confused. :)

Please review, darlings!