Chapter 17: Brain Scans & Coffee Pods

Steve knew by the tone of Bruce's voice that the scans wouldn't be good news. There was a heaviness in his stomach that wouldn't settle, and an ache in his chest that made it hard to breathe. Being so close to Bucky and yet so very, very far away from the man he once knew hurt like nothing he could have imagined.

Bucky hadn't moved, other than his blue eyes, which tracked them through the strands of his hair. He was in some ways like a feral animal—skittish, aggressive, distrustful; but there were flickers in his expression and an occasional shift in his gaze that gave Steve hope.

The "soldier" was off-balance and confused, maybe because, deep down, James Buchanan Barnes was poking through. Bucky had responded to his mother's lullaby. He was still there, somewhere beneath everything Hydra had done to him. They hadn't been able to completely erase James Barnes.

The scans would have to wait. Part of him never wanted to know what they showed, and yet another part of him couldn't wait to get it over with, rip off the bandaid and find out what the wound looked like beneath.

"We met when we were kids," Steve began, voice low and soft, hands on his knees as he sat facing Bucky. "Vinnie and Johnny were beating me up after school. They tried to steal my money. You fought them off and got my money back. They told Mr. Anderson that you were the instigator and that you gave me a bloody nose. He wouldn't listen to me when I tried to tell him what really happened. He used the ruler on your knuckles. I always felt bad about that, but you never blamed me."

The only indication Bucky gave that he was listening was a slight crease that formed between his eyes, barely visible beneath his hair.

"We walked to and from school every day after that. I told you I didn't need you walking with me, but you said you liked the company. Really, you were just making sure Johnny and Vinnie left me alone. I knew that, and for a little bit, I thought that's all it was—that you felt sorry for me. Except that you never treated me that way, and you were the first person other than my mother who saw me and not just a scrawny, sick kid. You were the only person who never coddled me, even when you were helping, like that time you carried my book bags when I was sick, you did it in a way that was different from everyone else, like this was a give and take between us, as if I helped you in ways and you were just returning the favor. My mom was always so worried about me getting sick or hurt, but you did things with me, taught me how to box, got me to ride the Cyclone, which my mom never found out about, by the way."

Steve smiled at that thought, imagining the tongue-lashing both of them would've gotten had she learned about that incident.

"Do you remember my mom? Her name was Sarah. You moved in with me after she died. I was sixteen, and I had no one except you. You were always there for me, even when I didn't make it easy for you." He blinked several times against the sudden heat behind his eyes. "Bucky, you know me. We've been friends our whole lives. You saved my life, on that train, with Zola–"

Bucky coiled even tighter into himself, gaze dropping to the floor.

Zola. The name had an impact. Steve let the silence linger, afraid he went too far, not wanting to risk stepping on a landmine that could provoke another outburst from Bucky.

-0- -0- -0-

The song. The song. The melody. A woman's voice. Familiar. Oh, so familiar, but how did he know it? An ache in his chest; he couldn't pinpoint the source. A tightness in his gut. A sting in the center of his brain, like the butt of a cigarette pressed against flesh.

"Bucky….No!"

The train. It was the train again, in his head, over and over again, each time in greater detail, like the unwrapping of a bandage that revealed more and more of the wound beneath, and as the pressure gave way, pain took its place.

Icy cold wind. White mountains. The bite of a freezing rail in his bare hands. The creak of metal.

Fear.

He remembered the fear. The man's face was there. He knew him. Steve. That's what everyone called him, what he called himself. The name was like a splinter in his brain, stabbing, almost as sharp as the other name—Bucky.

The sound of it, spoken in that voice, poked the mutilated thing in the Deep, made it writhe, twist and then scream.

The three words the Steve spoke brought more pain—a burst of fire and lightning in his skull. James….

James….

The Steve had used the names together, and they coursed like lightning through his brain—an agony so hot and bright, it drove out everything else for a moment, then gave way to the image of a round face and round glasses.

"You saved my life," the Steve was saying, "on that train, with Zola–"

"Sergeant Barnes…." The phantom voice echoed through his skull, twisting his insides, driving a cold spike through his chest. It was a voice that hurt…always hurt.

Barnes.

It's one of the words the Steve said. Barnes.

Bucky.

James.

Different words. Designations? Identifications?

Names.

So many. Why so many? Each one poked something in his brain, made the mutilated thing in the Deep twitch.

He stared at the Steve. Blue eyes. Strong brow line. Solid jaw. Thick bottom lip. Sandy hair.

He saw those same features, but on a different body. Small. Narrow shoulders. Softer jaw. Head too big for the body, eyes large on the face.

Something was wrong with him. Terribly wrong. They always dragged him to the chair after waking up, but they hadn't put him in the chair, and now there were things rattling in his brain that made it difficult to focus. If they were Hydra, they'd have put him in the chair after waking him up…

…but they weren't Hydra.

Heil Hydra!

They were enemies.

Heil Hydra!

Yet…he knew the man sitting on the floor in front of him.

He knew him.

How?

We've been friends our whole lives,' the Steve said.

The words rattled in his brain without meaning. He knew the definition of the word 'friend,' though he wasn't sure how. It was nothing that ever applied to him.

What did the man mean by 'our whole lives?'

He had no frame of reference for those words.

'We met when we were kids….'

Kids.

Children.

Small. Weak. No threat. Potential witnesses.

'...when we were kids….

Had he ever been a kid? The song tickled something in his brain in a way that was painful but just out of reach.

The edges of his memory were fuzzy, but they brought him in circles when he pushed their boundaries. Waking up from cryo. The chair. Pain. The book. A man's voice.

Colonel Karpov.

A mission. Cryo. The chair. The man's voice. A mission.

Another Colonel. Yellow teeth. Graying temples.

Arms around him.

Clammy. Restraining. Pressing.

He shuddered, flinched away from the flash of a face with yellow teeth. The mutilated thing howled.

Shut up! he commanded the thing. Shut up! He had to focus. There was more. There had been a train. Mountains. A demon with a beak. Snow. Cold. A man with round glasses.

Then there was the man named Steve, two versions. One tall with wide shoulders, the other short and thin. The mutilated thing inside kicked, screamed, and clawed from below the surface of the Deep.

-0- -0- -0-

"Easy with that Dum-E." Tony eyed the robotic arm as it picked a round silver ball out of the box. "If you blow me up, I've left instructions for you to be sold for scrap parts, even if you did save my life."

Dum-E wasn't the most sophisticated AI, but it had its charm. What the world really needed was an AI that could handle whatever threat was coming next. Aliens were out there.

Dark. Cold. A void of eternity, the breath pulled from his lungs, knowing he had mere seconds of life left, with the image of a massive ship burned into his dying brain.

He jolted out of the memory with a gasp, chest tight, heart…lungs…was he having a heart attack?

"Jarvis–" he croaked.

Suddenly he could breathe. He folded forward in his seat onto the table, gasping, heaving, sweating, trembling. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

Get it together, man. He pushed away, straightened, and focused on the task at hand. Work. Work. Work. It would keep him functional, and once he figured out Ultron, he'd be able to sleep at night, knowing that when the aliens returned, the Earth would be protected.

He glanced over the boxes stacked against the wall. He'd spent hours sifting through the Hydra goodies taken from the Bunker. He worked methodically through each one, cataloging files, weapons, and pieces of mystery technology Jarvis got to analyze and play with—carefully, of course. What SHIELD didn't know, wouldn't hurt them, and they had enough leftovers to keep them occupied, especially the good stuff—like five frozen super soldiers and a pile of Russian Hydra agents.

He pulled out an older file folder and a black tape with a date in Russian. 16 декабря 1991.

"What horrible home movie are you?" He scanned it with his phone and projected the translation.

16 December 1991.

He knew that date.

He had a machine around here somewhere that would digitize the tape. He scrounged around in the lab until he found it, set it up, and placed the tape inside, then called the image up for display.

It was a car crashed on a dark road. He knew that road. He knew that car.

What was this?

He saw the figure with the long hair and unmistakable metal arm and watched as Barnes slowly and methodically ended two lives.

Mom. Dad.

Murdered.

His mother. Oh God, his mother had been aware the whole time, watched Barnes murder her husband, knew she was next.

"Howard?" Her broken cry undid him.

Rage. Pure. Hot.

He'd fought with his dad before they left. His mother was the one who was always there for him, understood him, accepted him, loved him.

Barnes.

Whoever he once was, Hydra had turned him into something else, and here they were, stupid and irresponsible, keeping him in a room — like a rabid lion caged in a spare bedroom.

He picked up his cell phone and dialed Nick Fury.

-0- -0- -0-

The day was fading, and Bucky hadn't moved. Neither had Steve. He was aware of the others in the room, keeping a respectful distance, talking softly amongst themselves. They couldn't all stay here like this overnight.

Bucky needed basic care, soon—food, water, the bathroom—but what should be simple things in any other circumstances were potential landmines.

"Are you hungry?" Steve shifted, stretching one leg and glancing at the other Avengers. Nat and Clint were now sprawled in the arm chairs. Banner was perched on a stool by the monitors, and Thor was sitting on the counter peeling open the top of one of those weird coffee pods.

"Can we bring in food?" Steve asked. "Water?"

"On it," Clint said, then cocked his head at Nat. "Wanna come? I'll take a look at your back."

She gave a lopsided smile. "Sure, thanks."

They left, and Bucky still didn't move. Twenty minutes later, Steve heard the footsteps in the hallway the same time Bucky did. They both looked in that direction a moment before Natasha entered, easing the door open, a bag in her hand. Clint followed, carrying another bag.

"From the place across the street." She smiled as she and Clint set the bags on the counter.

"We didn't know what you might like," Clint said, eyeing Bucky casually, "so we got a little bit of everything." He started pulling out cartons. "There are sandwiches, wraps, soup, chips."

"Flatbread and hummus," Natasha added. "Mashed potatoes."

"You, uh, demolished the only table in here," Clint said, pointing to the debris against the wall. "Nice throw, by the way."

"I guess we'll be roughing it," Natasha said.

Steve studied Bucky but tried not to look like he was staring. There was still a disconcerted look in his eyes, a mixture of skepticism, confusion, and even, maybe, fear. He wished he could do something to ease Bucky's discomfort. He could always reach out and touch Bucky, offer a reassuring hand on the shoulder, a clasp on the back of the neck, or even a pat on the cheek, but he didn't dare risk such a gesture now.

Bucky didn't know him. Hydra had stolen their friendship, taken everything away from Bucky. Steve only hoped it wasn't forever. He didn't know what he'd do if it was.

"Why don't you take a look, and pick out what you like?" Clint said.

Steve felt a twinge of regret that he hadn't thought about food earlier, but his stomach had been in knots. Now, his hunger was making itself known.

The only indication Bucky gave that he heard Clint was a subtle shift of his head as his gaze clung to the food spread on the counter.

"It's not drugged," Steve said.

"We had you drugged," Bruce added. "We undrugged you. If we wanted to keep you drugged, we'd have kept you on the IV."

Even though Bucky gave no sign he was listening, Steve knew he was. That much had become obvious over the course of the past couple of hours. Bucky was very much alert inside his head, surveying, calculating, assessing.

"I'll go get a few things and bring them to you," Steve said. "Pick whatever you want, as much as you want." He grabbed a sandwich, wrap, and stacked the container of soup on top of the mashed potatoes, then brought them as close to Bucky as he dared, setting it all carefully on the floor.

"Here you go." Banner took a few steps closer, an uncapped bottle of water in his hands.

"Thank you." Steve set that down next to the food, then backed away and lowered himself to the floor, hoping the vulnerable position would put Bucky at ease.

Maybe this was all too much, and they needed to keep things simple. Bucky was probably used to being directed, given clear instructions. Ordered around.

But he didn't want to order his friend, so he said firmly but softly, "Eat, Bucky. If you don't trust it, give me anything you want from there, and I'll eat it."

Bucky eyed the food through his hair, and his nose twitched. Finally, he lifted his head, and his hair fell away from his face, revealing a clear view of eyes Steve grew up looking into almost every day. Hope sparked in Steve's chest, warm and bright, but he kept a lid on his reaction, afraid that anything other than absolute calm might provoke a reaction from Bucky.

Bucky locked his gaze on Steve, reached forward, slid one of the wrapped sandwiches to himself, then ripped off the paper to inspect the contents. He glanced at it for a mere fraction of a second before discarding it and moving to the container of mashed potatoes. With a cautious survey of the room, he removed the lid and raised the container toward his head, taking a tentative sniff.

He dipped a finger in and scooped up a glob of the white mashed potatoes, then put it in his mouth. The shifting of his expression was subtle, but definite. Surprise maybe?

"There's a plastic spoon—" Clint began, then trailed off when Bucky dug his fingers into the mashed potatoes, scooped out a generous mound, and shoved it into his mouth as he eyed the Avengers warily.

The potatoes vanished in seconds. He licked his fingers clean and went for the soup next, draining all of it straight from the container.

"There are utensils, Bucky," Steve said.

Plastic ones, of course, that would make pitiful weapons.

Bucky set the empty container on the floor and glanced at the counter.

"More?" Nat asked. She grabbed some chips and the plate of hummus and flatbread and brought it over, moving slowly and carefully as she set it down.

Bucky ignored the chips and went for the hummus.

Steve pointed to the triangles of pita bread. "You can use the bread to scoop it." He felt silly stating something so obvious, as if Bucky were a toddler, but he seemed to have no interest in using anything except his hands.

What the hell had Hydra done to him? How had they fed him?

Bucky responded, though, and that was reassuring. He grabbed a piece of bread, eyed it curiously for a moment, then used it to scoop up the hummus. The hummus went down. The bread did not. Once it was licked clean, Bucky used it to finish off the rest of the dip, then dropped it back to the container.

They were definitely not sharing the rest of the pita bread, and even though he knew times had changed, it still bothered Steve to see it go to waste.

Steve's stomach grumbled with the promise of food, and he tentatively reached out, touched the edge of the wrapping, and slid the sandwich toward him. Bucky tracked him but didn't seem inclined to move.

"If you don't mind, I'm kind of hungry." Steve hoped that by eating some of the sandwich, he could entice Bucky into trying it. "You used to love hoagies back home. After a boxing win, you'd treat us both to Paddleworth's."

He lifted one half of the sandwich and bit into the end. The bread was fresh, the salami bursting with flavor. Italian was a good pick. He didn't know which of the two picked out the sandwich, but they'd chosen well.

He was a few bites in, watching Bucky watch him, when he decided to slide the second half toward Bucky. "You wanna try it?"

Maybe the taste of it would jog something in his friend's memory. Bucky had always been partial to salami.

Bucky didn't move, didn't so much as blink. Okay, it wasn't going to be that easy, but at least Bucky had gotten some food in him. The soup probably counted as liquid, but he'd feel better if Bucky got more into his system.

"Water?" Steve asked, relieved when Bucky went for it, downing the contents in several large gulps, then dropping the bottle on the floor.

Delighted by the progress, Steve figured it best to take advantage of the situation and encourage Buck to take care of any other bodily needs. "Do you need the bathroom?" He gestured to the open doorway on the other side of the room. "I'm going to ease myself to my feet."

Bucky's eyes tracked the movement.

"Do you want the bathroom?" Steve backed up a step and swept his arm out to the doorway. "It's all yours. I won't go in there with you, as long as you leave the door open."

Bucky put his hand on the wall and pushed himself to his feet.

More progress! Finally! Steve gave into a relieved breath and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he took a few more steps toward the bathroom. Bucky followed, his steps slow, a slight grimace crossing his face.

Bucky was definitely still hurting, probably stiff and sore from being in one position for so long. They hadn't had an opportunity to tend to his wounds, though Dr. Banner had at least inspected the damaged tissue. Surgery hadn't been required, thank God, but Bucky was still healing, and his metabolism had obviously burned through whatever sedative / painkiller combination Bruce had pumped into his enhanced system.

Bucky's eyes swept the room, hovering on Thor perched on the kitchenette counter, obviously considering the Asgardian the greatest threat. Thor popped the contents of an open coffee pod into his mouth and grabbed another, meeting Bucky's gaze as he held it up in a silent offer.

Bruce grimaced, looked at Bucky, and gave a quick shake of his head.

The exchange seemed to confuse Bucky. His brow furrowed and he looked at Steve with a slight tilt to his head.

"This way." Steve gestured toward the bathroom, clamping down on the hope vibrating inside him now that Bucky seemed less combative and even a tad curious.

Maybe Bucky was starting to remember their friendship—or at least remember that there had been trust between them. He followed Steve to the bathroom, and Steve stopped at the doorway, then gestured inside. With a slight hesitation and cautious survey of the room, Bucky walked in.

"Well, that's good progress," Bruce said, then turned to Thor. "Do you really like those?"

"Indeed!" Thor tossed another empty packet into the sink and pulled the last pod out of the organizer carousel. "I must bring some of these delightful morsels back to Asgard." He tore open and downed the last one and tossed its carcass into the sink as well, then hopped off the counter. "With victory behind us, I must search for the Tesseract or find another way to return to Asgard. You will see me again, however, as we have unfinished business with the Scepter."

"Thank you for your help." Steve gave an appreciative nod.

Thor lifted his hammer and headed out.

Steve remained near the bathroom doorway, close enough to keep an ear and, if necessary, an eye on Bucky, but positioned in a way to give an illusion of privacy. He listened as Bucky finished his business and flushed the toilet, then ran the faucet. Those small acts fueled Steve's hope that Bucky still retained enough mental capacity to take care of the basics, which was stupid, in a way. Of course, Bucky had to be able to function on a basic level. He wouldn't make a good soldier or assassin if he couldn't.

The faucet turned off, and the bathroom was silent for several moments, broken only once by the subtle clink of metal plates shifting in Bucky's arm. An anxious feeling tingled the base of Steve's skull, and he popped his head through the doorway. Bucky was staring at the mirror over the sink. His gaze shifted to catch Steve's eye in the reflection, and he stiffened, turned, and marched toward the doorway.

Steve backed away, giving Bucky room to exit without crowding him, but Bucky continued forward, tracking him until Steve had a choice to make—let himself be pressed against the wall or hold his ground.

He planted his feet, and Bucky stopped just before his chest made contact, his gaze solid, searching Steve's face for something… Steve had no idea what was going on in Bucky's head. Was this a challenge? A test?

From the periphery of his vision, he saw Banner observing, still and silent.

"What do you want, Bucky?" Steve asked, doing his best to keep a casual tone.

The Bucky he knew had never intentionally hurt him, but this wasn't exactly the Bucky he knew. Sure, somewhere, deep down, that guy was there. Steve was sure of it. Mostly sure.

Bucky's eyes narrowed slightly. "Who are you?"

Steve took a breath. Finally, a question. "I'm Steve. I'm your friend."

The tilt of Bucky's head told Steve the answer wasn't sufficient. How could he make Bucky understand, remember who he was, where he came from?

He needed photos, but the few photos taken during that time were probably long gone. Now, everyone had phones and thousands of photos. The technology was everywhere.

Then it occurred to him, and he felt stupid he hadn't thought of it earlier. They'd gotten him a phone, showed him the Internet. All the information he could dream of was at his fingertips, larger than any library he or Bucky could have dreamed of in their time. He pulled it out of his pantleg pocket–slowly–and raised a hand as Bucky tensed.

"Just getting my phone," Steve explained, holding up the device. "I'm going to show you who you are, who I am." He had to take his eyes off Bucky long enough to unlock the device and bring up the Internet, then he typed in 'James Buchanan Barnes and Captain America.'

He went to the images. One of the first ones was of him and Bucky, laughing, a still frame taken from a film reel. He turned the screen toward Bucky.

"Here, see. That's you and me in 1944. You made a joke about fondue, teasing me."

Bucky was riveted by the photo, his brow creasing, then flattening, and his eyes went wide, almost wild. He stumbled back a step, then stiffened, walked to the armchair, and sat down, back ramrod straight, gaze ahead.

Steve clicked off the phone and crouched in front of Bucky. "I know this is confusing."

Was he making things worse? Maybe he was pushing too hard, too fast. They needed to bring in help, someone trustworthy, a professional who could help Bucky. Dr. Banner was a brilliant medical doctor and scientist, but he wasn't a psychiatrist. He'd have to talk to Tony, get some recommendations, find a way to bring someone qualified in on this.

"They erased your memories. I'm your friend. I always have been. We grew up together, right here in New York. In Brooklyn. You left for the war. I followed a little later. We ended up in the same unit together. Is any of what I'm telling you familiar?"

"Steve," Bruce intruded, "give him some space right now. I really think we should go over the scan results."

Bruce was being insistent for a reason, but Steve wasn't sure he was ready to hear what he knew could only be bad news. Still, nothing good ever came from putting off the inevitable.

"Okay." He walked over to the monitor, and Bruce pulled up a CT image of Barnes' heart that showed a small round device. Clint and Natasha clustered around.

"This is the implant," Bruce said, adjusting his glasses nervously. "Sorry, Cap. We can remove it, of course, but it's not the only one. There's something in his thigh, too. I doubt it's a backup GPS. Tony would have found it. Might be monitoring vitals or maybe a less lethal way of disabling him."

"Okay." Steve took a breath. All that was manageable. Fixable with surgery. "What else?"

"I'm sorry." The doctor cleared his throat and pulled up another image. This one was of Bucky's brain, and Steve didn't need a medical degree to know how wrong it looked. A thick white mass occupied the lower center of the brain and branched in multiple directions, like a tree. There was no coming back from that, Steve was pretty sure, even with what he knew of modern technology.

His eyes traced thin lines that jutted inward from the surface of the brain. They were barely visible, but definitely present.

"This is scar tissue, and you can see how significant it is." Bruce traced the thick white lines. "These hair-like things are implants. My guess is they used them to focus the current when they wiped his memories so that the procedure would erase his formative and episodic memories but have less of an impact on his implicit memory, the stuff that's involved with motor skills and muscle memory. This isn't my area though. We need to bring in a specialist to remove the implants. Frankly, I think it might be best to leave the cranial implants alone rather than risk doing any more damage to his brain."

Steve's knees threatened to give out. He leaned against the bed, put a steadying hand on the mattress, and glanced at Bucky, who was still a statue in the armchair.

"I'm sorry, Steve," Nat said, brushing a hand on his arm.

"I did this to him." He gripped the bed tighter. The truth was there, on the screen. He'd led the Russians to Bucky, told them where to look for him. Somehow, they found him, even when Steve and the Howlies couldn't.

"Don't do that to yourself, Steve." Nat leaned against the bed next to him. "War is hell. People die or get hurt in missions, and–"

"I told the Russians where he was." There, it was out in the open, for everyone to hear. He met their gazes. He wouldn't be a coward, not about this. He deserved to watch their faith in him crumble. Bucky had faith in him, and look where it got him. "We searched for his body but couldn't find it. Phillips wouldn't authorize an extended search, not for a dead man, so we spread the word to other Allies, including the Russians. If they came across his body and could return it, it would be appreciated. I even offered a small reward. I just wanted his family to be able to bury him at home."

"Hey, you couldn't have known the Russians had anything to do with Hydra," Clint said. "Don't beat yourself up for something no one knew back then. You were trying to get your buddy home. You thought he was dead."

"I should have searched harder, longer. I should have had my head on a swivel on that train." Steve shook his head. "No matter how you slice it, this is on me, and that–" he flung a hand toward the brain scan he could barely look at, "–is the result."

Bucky's brain was irreversibly damaged. What did that mean for his quality of life? Would he ever be able to function independently in society? He went over the possibilities in his mind, the various outcomes, levels of functions.

What if Bucky was always violent? The conditioning too ingrained? What if he wasn't safe? The thought of Bucky behind bars or in an institution for the rest of his life was unbearable.

But if Bucky wasn't dangerous, just impaired, there were better options—like Bucky living with him. Steve had been the one sick and in need for so many years, it was high time he took care of Bucky.

He'd been stupid, naive, and Bucky paid the price.