I do not own Falcon and the Winter Soldier.
I do not own Seb or Bucky.
Bucky Barnes, As Such
Zemo
"Longing."
He didn't even bother to get mad.
"Rusted."
Bucky Barnes knew there was no way in hell Zemo wouldn't have figured out his brain had been fixed.
"Seventeen."
So to speak.
"Daybreak."
The guy was just doing it to mess with him.
"Furnace."
To gauge his reaction.
"Nine."
And because the bastard knew it twisted his guts, made him want to panic.
"Benign."
Always had and always would.
"Homecoming."
Because he remembered.
"One."
He remembered the liquid burning fire in his veins.
"Freight car."
The pounding in his head, like his brains were being stirred with a fork.
"Soldier?"
Gasping for air like he couldn't breathe. Like his lungs were squeezed empty; hot rocks of pain roiling in his stomach.
And the scientist, Zola.
That weasley little toad. Watching him, observing, without a drop of humanity or compassion.
Taking notes on his little clipboard.
Watching him. Like he was a rat in a trap.
And Bucky, flailing with skittering, screaming fear.
The fear of what they were doing to him, what they were injecting him with.
The fear that he would die.
The fear that he would not die.
And all this would all continue on and on and again and again.
Then it ebbing away, draining out of him slow.
Leaving him coated in sweat, weak, unable to rise.
Thinking this couldn't be it. This couldn't be all.
Being left alone to wait, to worry, to stew.
Managing somehow to sleep, sheer exhaustion overwhelming him.
Dark, formless, nightmares.
Soundless terrors.
Hopelessness.
Helplessness.
Awakening.
Two guards with guns. Two more men in white coats.
And the little toadie. And his little clipboard.
Hearing the words for the first time.
"Longing."
Feeling confused, not understanding.
"Rusted."
Then suddenly, being . . . not him anymore.
"Seventeen."
Not a him that was in control of his own actions, his own words.
"Daybreak."
That was even before the arm.
"Furnace."
That big metal thing they'd soldered on to him.
"Nine."
Wanting to see if their monster could be controlled, wanting to test it out.
"Benign."
Before they made him the monster that he could be. Would be.
"Homecoming."
The first time he'd heard the words.
"One."
And now.
"Freight car."
Again.
"Soldier?"
And just like always, every single time he'd heard them and felt the sheer blinding panic of nonononononotagain.
Twisted guts, burning with acid.
No.
And though he was unable to form any sort of Sam Wilson-esque smartass response.
Sorry, pal.
He was still the one in control of his body.
I'm not your circus monkey.
His mind.
I'm James Buchanan Barnes.
His mouth.
And . . .
That he opened now.
"Those days are over."
And spoke.
Asshole.
Ooooh, I sooooo wanted him to say something badass and snarky!
But then I realized he probably couldn't.
Not a snark moment for him.
Oh well. That's okay. ;)
Thanks to DinahRay for reviewing the previous chapter. :)