BUCKY

He doesn't notice the small unassuming doctor he's already met until they're about to strap him down to a leather-lined slab, eyes instead catching on another prisoner shivering on the other table, whose obviously been there a while. There's spots of blood, old and new, on the floor beneath the guy. He bucks, trying to get away, but they'd clipped some kind of collar around their necks, his and McNair's, and then latched the clip of his to a guard's metal rod as tall as Steve. He'd been dragged and maneuvered bodily by his neck, two other guards taking him by the arms once the cell door was shut and McNair's shouts had faded. He does notices the doctor when they heave him up onto table, frowning down at a brown leather records book in displeasure. He turns to look at him and looks even less pleased as Bucky fails to kick a guard before they strap down his thighs, tight enough to cut off the circulation, his nose running.

Wriggling helplessly against the straps the guards force him down by his neck, yanking at the restraint collar until he chokes, shocked, and lands hard on the metal table. Pain rockets from the tips of his broken fingers to his knuckles as his other hand scrabbles at it pointlessly. He feels more leather and buckles strap him down at the shins, stomach, chest, shoulders and wrists.What did they think he was, some kinda superhero from the comics, to be able to get out off this? As his coughing subsides, the man slides his thumb under the leather to press against his good wrist, counting his pulse while looking at a battered watch.

"You a doctor?" Bucky coughs; would spit if his mouth wasn't so dry. "Yeah you. Get away from me, I don't need no Kraut doctor near me, you hear that, you Nazi Fuck? Get away-"

A gloved hand backhands him across the face, and Bucky bites back from crying out. He licks his lip, tastes blood and glares at the guard, "That the best you god Stinzel? My sister can hit harder than that."

He hears the doctor vaguely snap in German at the guard when he raises his hand again. The guard responds in a rapid-fire that Bucky can't follow, but manages to grasp the doctor ordering the guards to get out. The man obeys, if grudgingly. Huh, Bucky thinks, who would have thought this smuck was in charge?

He releases Bucky's wrist, the spot clammy and uncomfortable when he does. The doctor turns away for a long moment, doing something with his hands that Bucky can't see - he turns back holding a syringe, something yellow inside. It doesn't look like medicine.

"What the hell is that? What the hell is that - get away-"

The doctor ignores him, and sticks him with it. It burns with cold, like when he used to stick his bare hands in piles of snow until they went tingly and numb to see which of his cousins would last the longest, but it starts from his elbow and moves to his fingers instead of the other way round. He doesn't make a sound through it, just feels his whole body start shiver as it spreads. His silence changes as the doctor pulls out another, filled with a milky liquid and moves so Bucky can see a whole tray of them - vials, needles, forceps and shiny scalpels. Bucky snarls and wrenches against the straps, starts snapping and shouting in all the German he does know. The Nazi quack rolls his eyes, like he's bored by Bucky's violent struggle - Bucky can't imagine it's all that impressive - but he puts the milky-filled needle down, picks up another one and jabs it hard into his thigh. Bucky half yelps out a curse, still slamming his body and head against the table until he nearly gives himself a concussion trying to flip it over.

His tongue abruptly goes thick in his mouth, and for a moment Bucky thinks it's swelling up before he realizes it's just numb and sticking to the roof of his mouth. His head rocks back, and he slurs out a "Fuuucc' 'ou"; feels his mind go cloudy and his muscles slacken. The doctor hums in triumph and turns him at the neck so his cheek's laid out against the padded table. Bucky's eyes drift until he's staring at the other solider shivering glassy eyed across from him, and feels the doctor slide another needle home into his jugular vein.

He moans softly as the doctor does it, and thinks that's not going to happen to me.

. . .

. . .

He drifts awake again; concrete under him, a Scottish voice above him as someone - McNair? - drags hims across the floor and onto a springy cot.

"Huh?" he mumbles in-comprehensively and swings his arm out.

"Relax pal, relax. 'is me, McNair, tak' it pumpin' easy, Christ."

Bucky stops swinging out, his vision blurry, and curls his hand around his dog tags and presses, as he usually does. Someone's splinted his broken fingers.

"What did thay do tae ye in there?" McNair asks seriously, once Bucky's sat up, more awake and not coughing his lungs out of his own throat. Bucky wipes the blood from his mouth, lip stinging, and pushes out the words McNair needs to know; his tongue still thick. The red-haired prisoner is still curled in the corner, in the same spot, slurring to himself.

"They-the doctor, stuck me with needles." He says, rubbing at the most painful spot on his neck "He said-knew I was sick, said as much when they brought us here. But it wasn't medicine I don't think, not any kind I ever saw before - and I saw a lot with Ste-with my pal back home, he's sick a lot. It wasn't medicine." He finishes, sure of it now.

"Just wi' needles? Nothin' else? They ask ye anythin'?"

Bucky shakes his head, still feeling a little fuzzy. "No . No. He, the doctor didn't say anything to me anyway. He stuck me with something that made me sleepy when I started fighting…I don't remember anything after that, must have passed out."

"Huh." The guy says, "I thought fur' sure they'd ask questions. G't intel. That's what they always say will happen."

"I dunno pal," Bucky says, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, starts silently counting how many holes he can feel in his elbow.

McNair curses quietly, as he usually does Bucky's come to learn, and says, "A'd offer ye a cuppa but I'm all out, 'm afraid. Gotta hauld yer horses for the Jerry fuckers tae feed us."

Bucky huffs, half hysterical. "Where've you been the last few weeks? No way out outta' here unless you wanna' top yourself."

"Bugger that shite. I ain't dying 'ere, n', ye ain't either."

Bucky glances at their delirious cellmate, the what about him, clear. "You really believe that? That other fella strapped down out there, you'll see -it'll be us - you - next."

"I ain't dying 'ere." He repeats, "Ye start thinking that n' ye'r lost already- Barnes. I ain't dying 'ere."

. . .

. . .

The second time Bucky's taken to the lab McNair's been in there three times. They ask him questions on the third, but none before that, just like Bucky. Like Bucky, he's given several shots, but no yellow vials - and they keep him awake, so he knows exactly what's gone in him. Unlike Bucky he's given a vial with green serum that burns hot when it goes in, not cold, and makes his heart pound and his blood rush straight to his brain until he feels almost dizzy with energy.

"Huh." Bucky says when he tells him, watching his blown pupils warily. They studiously ignore the prisoner in the corner, the way he does them.

When they do ask McNair questions, about the British Army and British formations; it's the type of questions they did expect, which is and isn't a relief. It's SS officers in all their medal-led glory that ask the questions while their lackeys administer punishment; not the doctor. They cover McNair's face with a towel and pour water onto his face until he thinks he's drowning, which is horrifying even if it again, is expected. The doctor, whose name is Zola, Bucky finds out, apparently seems to be extremely unhappy and more than a little annoyed by the officers' presence and stops them when they go to cut off McNair's little finger.

Bucky feels ill and frightened, not at all mollified when McNair comes back with four fingers splinted instead and a tale of how Doctor Zola stopped them because he was a test subject first - and if they cut off his finger it could skew his results somehow.

"Maybe he only cuts off parts wh'n they're already dead, lik' yer French guy said," McNair says, scratching at a new rash on his arm with his unbroken fingers. "So it doesn't skew his test results."

"That's not any better."

"Can't feel it if ye'r already dead," McNair quips back.

Eyes closed, Bucky retorts, "Thought you weren't dying in here."

.