Thanks for clicking on my fanfic: The War Changed Us Both! Let me tell you a little bit about the book.

Synopsis:

"Out of the corner of my eye, Steve's expression drops and his eyebrows scrunch together. He leans in. "Hey, you all right?"

I nod and focus on cleaning the gun rather than answering. If I open my mouth, the contents of my stomach might come out instead."

Zola's experimenting catches up with Bucky after Azzano. Things are changing, and now it's Steve's turn to worry.

Excerpts:

Unavailable at this time.

Foreword: I've always wondered what Bucky's experiences were both on the table in Azzano and afterward once he came to terms with everything. And you can bet Steve would be stressed out of his mind... :) Basically a shameless whump story about First Avenger Bucky :P

Onward!

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So, I think that's it! I hope you will stick around, review, favorite, follow, all that cool stuff. :D

Without further ado, please enjoy this little thing I've cooked up!

TW: mentions of human experimentation, descriptions of vomiting, and thoughts of suicide.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer:

I do not own The Falcon And The Winter Soldier TV show, the Marvel franchise, or any of the characters. That all belongs to their original makers. Everything to them. Any added dialogue, plots, or characters are mine, but nothing else. I don't own it.

Chapter One - Throw Up Your Hands…And Everything In Your Stomach

I raise my voice to the crowd. "Hey! Let's hear it for Captain America!"

The surrounding soldiers erupt into deafening applause.

Steve glances over his shoulder at me and I wiggle my eyebrows at him, forcing a smirk.

When he looks away, my smile dies. My head feels like it's splitting down the middle and my stomach is contemplating whether or not to heave right then and there. The applause and cheering fades into white noise like a radio fizzing out. I grit my teeth as my legs tremble, threatening to collapse from under me. I peer over the heads of the soldiers and see dozens limping off toward the medical tents, leaning heavily on nurses with limbs wrapped in bloody gauze.

Despite my pounding temples and dizzying nausea, I know I'm not worth it.

Better to leave the beds for people who actually need them. I don't feel that bad, right?

As I step out of the crowd, my migraine shoots down my neck and I suck in a breath, doubling over. The world starts to tilt off-center and I grab a nearby rock to steady myself.

One breath in…

Another out.

I retreat to the tree-line to clean my rifle, despite the fact that my hands are shaking so badly that I can barely hold it. Whatever Zola had shot into me had started taking its toll hours ago. A memory from last night surfaces:

Dugan slaps his knee, laughing. "And so I said to him, 'get your maggoty hands off me, you Nazi, or else I'll snap your neck like a pencil!' "

The rest of the Howling Commandos gathered around the little fire burst into laughter.

I fake a smile and give a half-hearted chuckle to the matter. Despite the cold breeze blowing through the ravine, every inch of me is dripping sweat. I keep shifting my position on the ground, trying to eliminate the aching in my muscles. Laughter and chattering penetrate the evening air in the wake of our escape, but I can't bring myself to join in. I can only grit my teeth and force a smile to try and hide the fact that I feel like utter and absolute shit.

Jim whacks Dugan's arm. "And then what did that Nazi do?"

Dugan shrugs. "He kicked my ass back in jail!"

Steve beside him cackles with laughter, lending him a pat– a quite aggressive pat– on the shoulder. "You couldn't stay away! You had to aggravate them!"

Dugan scoffs. "Of course! I'm in my prime when I'm yelling at people."

Gabe snickers. "Man, you're one to talk. I wasn't the one pacing around the cell, complaining about– ."

"You don't need to disclose that information, Jones!" Dugan raises a finger.

I stare into the fire, fiddling with my dog tags, as the gang continues to banter. I can still feel the contraption pressing against my skull, the electrifying agony, the sound of my own screams bouncing off the walls, choking on my own tears as the pain grew and grew and grew until I wished I was dead and that they would just kill me instead of coming in and treating me like some lab rat, injecting flaming poison into my veins–

"Barnes!"

I jerk to attention.

The soldiers have gone quiet. And they're all looking at me.

I realize that I'm panting and I'm gripping my dog tags so hard I'm bleeding. Pulling my hands away from the metal, I rub the blood on my pants. "S-sorry. Got…lost in my thoughts."

No one says a word. Steve's furrowed brow and narrowed eyes pierce right through me.

"I'm gonna go get some sleep. G'night." I avoid my best friend's gaze as I stumble to my feet and walk off in the direction of the tents.

The silence from behind me remains long after I've settled down for the night.

After about an hour or so of dozing on and off, I hear the tent flap rustle and open my eyes to find Steve stripping off his uniform.

"Watch out, punk, you'll catch cold."

Steve jumps, whipping around to face me. He relaxes, chuckling. "God, don't scare me like that." He tosses his hat into the corner. "And for your information, I won't catch a cold. For once, it would actually be you."

I surrender to a sad smile.

Steve lays down on his blankets, facing me. "What is it?"

"I just realized…you don't need me anymore."

Steve's eyebrows crunch together. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean, look at you. You can take care of yourself now. Out here, in the world, fighting for your country… You don't need me. You're okay on your own."

"I'll never stop needing you, pal." He adjusts his position. "And by the way, what was that back there? You…zoned out. You didn't acknowledge us at all."

"Forget about it. I'm fine."

"I'm worried about you."

I roll my eyes. "You have the life you always wanted. Don't waste it worrying about me."

"But you're a part of that life."

This shuts me up.

A wave of agony from my head brings me back to the present. I wince and focus on cleaning the rifle. After a few minutes of scrubbing away at the barrel, I hear a familiar voice:

"Hey, Buck!"

I look up to find Steve strolling toward me with a tired smile on his face, so I force one onto mine. "Hey, punk."

Steve smirks. "Thanks for embarrassing me back there. You didn't have to rile everyone up like that." He gestures to the crowd, which is finally beginning to disperse.

I shrug. "Yeah, you're welcome." My temples pulse like someone's smashing them with a hammer and my blood roars in my ears so load that I can barely hear him.

Steve pats me on the back. "Come on, let's head back to the tents. Get some food, some rest, a shower, and some new clothes. Then maybe…we can rest easy for a little while." He beams. "I think I scared ol' Schmidt off, don't you?"

I chuckle half-heartedly and hold back a shiver. When did it get so cold?

Out of the corner of my eye, Steve's expression drops and his eyebrows scrunch together. He leans in. "Hey, you all right?"

I nod and focus on cleaning the gun rather than answering. If I open my mouth, the contents of my stomach might come out instead.

Steve is silent for a few seconds, but I can tell he's watching me. His gravelly voice drops at least an octave like it always does when he's worried. "Buck, you're shaking. And you're as white as a sheet…" He lays a freezing hand against my neck.

I recoil, groaning. "St-steve, don't."

"And you're boiling up– Bucky, why didn't you tell me?" Steve's eyes search my face like the scope on a gun.

I give him a sidelong glance.

"Oh, Buck, you look terrible…"

I stare at the ground.

"Wait, hold on." He scoots closer and pulls the collar of my shirt down. His breath flutters on my neck as he exhales, trembling. "Bucky, there are punctures and suture marks running all down your neck…"

I blink, and in my memories, I'm back on the table. Doctors leaning over me, plunging needles and knives into my flesh. Turning and writing notes on paper while I'm bleeding out, delirious, on the table. Shoving food into me with tubes sprouting from my throat. Contraptions locked to my temples and and pain so intense that my body convulses and seizes against the bindings and I'm shrieking, screaming, choking on my own tears and my own saliva and gasping for breath that I don't have and clawing at the straps for hours upon hours upon hours until my nails break and my fingers bleed and I'm pleading for death–

"Bucky!"

I jolt back to reality, disoriented. The world spins, and at this point, I'm dangerously close to keeling over.

"Bucky, you almost passed out– What the hell happened to you…?"

I rub my itchy eyes.

Steve practically springs off the log. "Let's get you a medic."

I don't make a move to follow.

My best friend cocks his head. "Bucky. Come on. You need medical attention."

Grinding my teeth, I shake my head. "No."

"No? What do you mean no?"

"There are dozens and dozens of men," I swallow hard against the rising nausea, "that need the medics' attention way more than me. I'll just w-waste their time." I don't even try to hold back the shudder.

"Bucky, that's ridiculous."

"And besides, I don't know if they'd b-be able to f-fix me anyway."

"What? What does that mean?"

I absentmindedly scratch at my left arm and a scab bursts opens. Blood trickles down my forearm. "They were t-trying to recreate the serum…"

Realization dawns over Steve's face like a shadow. "Oh, my God, they… What did they do?"

"Steve– ."

"What," he clenches his jaw and his fists, "did they fucking do to you?"

I flinch at his language. Steve's not one to curse, and when he does, he's either angry as hell or worried as hell. I'm inclined to believe the latter. "Um…" I run my tongue over my cracked lips. "Everything's…kind of blurry, but…lots of shots, drugs, cutting into me, electrocution… The serum wasn't complete, so I was their test subject. Someone to-to throw away if something went wrong."

Steve looks as if he might be sick himself.

"The soldiers, they… I g-gave them quite a concert. What, with m– ." I cut myself off with a wet gag and retch up a stream of bile.

"O-kay, okay– ." He kneels in front of me and rubs my shoulder. "You could've at least told me you were feeling nauseous, if nothing else."

I grumble under my breath.

"I mean, after Coney Island, you kinda had it coming."

My laugh is real this time.

"Really, though. You need a medic."

"Don't-don't worry about me. It's not that bad."

Steve's eyebrows shoot sky-high. "You're really gonna come at me like that?"

I glance up at him.

"You just admitted that Zola experimented on you like a lab rat for God's sake, and you're gonna sit there and say that it's not that bad? Are you serious right now?"

"Hey, Rogers!"

We both look up to see a group of soldiers approaching us, led by Dugan. Everyone has a smile on their face.

Steve finally rips his eyes away from me and stands. "What's the report?"

Gabe snickers. "Shake off that captain attitude and come with us to the bar!"

Dugan slaps him on the back. "It's about time we taste some good liquor again, huh?"

The crowd cheers.

Even the thought of alcohol churns my stomach. I bite back a groan.

Steve gestures to them. "Don't you think you oughta hop in the showers first? You guys reek!"

The entire party bursts into guffawing laughter.

One of the soldiers notices me and his face falls.

"Damn, Barnes, you look terrible. You okay?"

A rush of vertigo, and–

Right in the middle of everyone, I lurch forward and vomit heavily into the grass, the contents of my stomach spilling out of me in one giant heave.

"Oh, shit!"

"Whoa!"

"Jesus, man!"

"Oh, my God!"

I'm doubled over, panting, the world spinning so fast I can't make sense of anything.

Someone– probably Steve– orders to grab a medic, then comes and sits next to me. His gravelly voice rumbles by my ear. "Not that bad, huh?"

"Shut up…"

A hand rests on my back, rubbing up and down, up and down.

Hugging my stomach, I bend over and grit my teeth, moaning. "St-Steve…"

"I'm here."

"I don' feel good…" My words come out slurred.

"I know, it's okay."

I cough twice–

"You're okay. You're– ."

–then throw up a mess of hot liquid at my feet.

"Oh, God, Buck…"

Spitting into the grass, I clutch at my dog tags and hug my stomach. "I'm s-sorry…" My voice falters. "I'm s-so pathetic…"

"Bucky, you're sick." Steve shakes his head. "And you were drugged with God knows what. Of course your body's gonna react."

"I don't kn– ." I break off and dry-heave into the grass. Even as I'm crying and panting and trembling like a leaf, my stomach doesn't stop heaving. And afterward, when there's nothing left in my body, I'm left gagging on air until a bit of bile fires its burning path up my throat and comes rushing out to add to the mess.

When I'm finally done, my stomach throbs like I've just been punched and my entire face is numb from crying.

"Bucky…"

Steve's voice quivers and I open my eyes. In the grass below me are specks of blood. I'm too out of it to react, but distantly, I know that's serious.

Steve takes my arm and lifts me to my feet. "You need a doctor fast."

White overwhelms my vision. I mumble something unintelligible and my legs crumple beneath me. The last thing I hear is my best friend's panicked voice yelling my name before I pass out cold in Steve's arms.

Author's Notes: MWAHAHAHA! Not regretting anything :P

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