The side of the train wall ripping open is like knives in his ears. The shrieking metal makes him wince before he glances up to see Bucky get blasted backwards. His shield gets thrown to the side and he grabs at it, taking the Hydra agent down before tossing it aside and running towards the gaping hole.
Bucky is there, face lit up with fear and hands clenching at the metal railing.
He reaches, their hands almost grasping.
The metal tears free, and there's a split second of Bucky's scream that spurs him to action.
In that split second he replays every moment that Bucky has saved his life. In Brooklyn at every sickbed, from almost every bully, working extra shifts to have money for medicine, just by being his friend when no one else wanted to be around the sickly, scrawny kid.
It's not even a question what he's going to do.
He throws himself forward, using his enhanced senses and strength to grab Bucky's arm and yank it backwards.
He feels the reversal of their directions, Bucky goes flying up, arching back towards the hole in the train, while Steve feels himself get propelled down faster by his own momentum. He shifts in the air, his eyes meeting Bucky's.
A feeling of relief floods him as he calculates the arc of Bucky's trajectory and knows he's going to land in the train.
Saving Bucky's life this once won't make up for everything Bucky has done for him, but it's all he can offer. A chance for Bucky to go home. He smiles as the wind rushes past him.
—-
He remembers hitting the rocks below, the way his spine snapped when he landed on a particularly sharp outcropping and his body bent over it like an upside down U.
He remembers losing feeling in his legs after that, and when he finally hits close to the bottom, his uniform catching him on something and stopping his descent abruptly, he remembers thinking that he should feel cold. Snow envelopes him and even the ghastly amount of blood pouring out of his body and melting the snow around him into puddles of red mush shouldn't be keeping him from feeling cold.
He blinks slowly, the blood dripping into his eyes and stinging. He's telling his arm to move, to use his hand to wipe it away but there is no response. His body ignores his brain's commands and soon, his brain gives up, slipping into unconsciousness.
—
His brain can't really process what's happening. His whole body feels stiff, like he's been frozen into place. He feels the pressure of something, like someone is touching him, but he can't feel it. It's like a ghost.
A ghost that whispers.
Капитан Америка
Captain America
Это он.
It's him
Что мы делаем?
What do we do?
Maybe there's multiple ghosts, his brain offers.
Maybe.
—-
He feels warmer. The crackling sound registers as a fire, but he can't see it.
He still can't move. He's been laid flat, but he can feel the way his spine is shattered, jagged bones stabbing into him and his hands and arms and legs still won't respond.
He groans, and there's a squeak of someone small and then the rush of other voices.
Он будет жить? О ... Его сердцебиение вернулось!
He's going to live? Oh— his heartbeat is back!
Я слышал истории, я просто не верил!
I've heard stories, I didn't believe!
Папа, он ранен, нам нужно ему помочь!
Papa, he's hurt, please we have to help him!
Сынок, он американец, нас убьют за помощь, особенно этого американца!
My son, he's an American. We will be killed for helping him, especially this American!
The louder sets of boots disappear and he knows its just him and a kid in the room.
Only one word rings in Steve's mind. American.
He's suddenly very glad his shield is safe with Bucky.
Bucky.
Peggy!
He's alive! He can get back to them. He will get back to them. He just has to wait and let his back heal, then he can escape. He doesn't care if he has to run across the entire European continent, he will get back to them.
A small hand rests on his cheek, it wipes away moisture that he hadn't realized had fallen from his eyes.
Stuttered English, in a voice that's too young to be seeing his broken and bruised body says, "It is o-okay, Капитан Америка. It is okay."
The comfort spurs fresh tears.
—
It's two days later and his back still hasn't healed. He can feel his toes again, and he can barely shift his fingers, but he's still helpless, laying on a stranger's floor next to a fire.
He can move his head, but refrains from doing so when he hears other heartbeats nearby. He has yet to speak or open his eyes to them. He's hungry, and thirsty, but they are minor discomforts.
The small hands had taken a cloth to his face, wiping away what he assumes was blood and grime.
The first night, he'd heard the swish of skirts and the surprised gasp of a woman.
Mama! The little voice had called, Смотреть! Это Капитан Америка!
Look! It's Captain America!
There had been an argument. He didn't know about what, he couldn't understand it, but hushed worried tones had filled the next room as the little boy sat next to him, tracing the star on the front of his uniform.
The little boy speaks to him, says things in Russian that Steve doesn't understand. But it's said in comforting tones. Childhood innocence and optimism. He'd never had that, he's glad this kid does. Even in the midst of a war. There's a few phrases that the kid repeats often enough that Steve gets the gist of.
Вы меня слышите?
Can you hear me?
Все нормально.
It's okay.
Не плачь.
Don't cry.
Sometimes the tears are from the excruciatingly brutal process of his spine knitting itself back together. Sometimes they're from the fear of never healing correctly, and sometimes it's just exhaustion. But the kid can't tell the difference and the small fingers that wipe them away whenever they appear usually makes more appear. That small kindness overwhelming Steve's emotions.
Every so often he feels the heavier warmer touch of the woman. She feels for his pulse, checks under his eyelids, puts a hand under his nose to check his breathing.
Что мы будем с ним делать?
What are we going to do with him?
он не может оставаться здесь вечно
He can't stay here forever
Я знаю, но ... я не хочу отдавать его патрулю
I know, but... I don't want to hand him over to the patrol
Мы рискуем всем, когда он здесь.
We're risking everything with him being here.
Давайте дадим ему вылечиться, я думаю, что он есть, тогда он сможет уйти, и никто не узнает.
Let's let him heal, I think he is, then he can leave and no one will know.
Если он не вылечится в ближайшее время, нам придется унести его и где-нибудь спрятать. Патруль должен быть меньше чем через неделю.
If he doesn't heal soon we will have to carry him away and hide him somewhere. Patrol is due in less than a week.
К тому времени он уйдет.
He'll be gone by then.
He feels them remove his uniform. As much as he hates the thought of losing it, he agrees with him. Bucky always groused that it made him the most recognizable target on earth, but it had been good for morale. Not so great in enemy territory, all alone, with a broken back.
The hands are gentle and quick, untying his boots, removing his pants and gear. Warm, wet cloths wipe him down, removing the grime, dirt, blood, and anything else from his skin. The young boy is lifting his head gently to set it into a shallow bowl, cleaning his hair with small fingers scrubbing at his scalps. He's crying again and this time the mother is there and he hears her worried voice.
Почему ... Почему он плачет? Ему больно?
Why… Why is he crying, is he in pain?
Нет, он просто иногда так делает.
No, The boy responds calmly, He just does that sometimes
He doesn't know what was just said but, the woman's hands become even gentler, and a hand stays against his cheek, wiping the tears away with her thumb.
Once he's clean and dry, they change him into soft woolen clothes. He's much warmer and there's a significant amount of relief by not being trapped by his own blood and grime anymore. It's at that moment he decides to trust them. Whatever happens, he can never repay these people the kindness they've shown to him. But he'll try.
He blinks his eyes open, catching their attention. They freeze, staring at him in shock. His voice is barely audible, and he thanks his lucky stars that the woman who lived three floors below him had an old Russian grandma because he remembers one phrase.
Спасибо
Thank you
The boy lights up like a firework on the Fourth of July.
—
He and the boy have one sided conversations the whole next day. The boy rambling to him in Russian, and Steve trying to copy the words back to him. The kid laughs at his attempts but is patient and excited to have a basically captive audience. Then Steve, rasping a bit, speaks to him in English, letting the boy repeat the words when he wants.
The mother is never far away, looking worried and anxious, but she feeds him soup and gives him water and the small amount of calories make him feel infinitely better. He thanks her, multiple times and she just nods.
—
"Friend." Steve repeats pointing at himself, "friend."
"F-friend." The boy repeats shakily, and Steve smiles encouragingly, "that's right, you got it! We're friends."
The boy smiles back, timidly, "friends."
Steve hears him whisper the word again after the boy thinks he's fallen asleep.
—
It's on the fifth day that it goes wrong. They're speaking in rapid fire Russian and he doesn't catch a word.
Спрячь его! Спрячь его быстро!
Hide him! Hide him quickly!
Куда вы положили форму?
Where did you put the uniform?
Я похоронил! Под сибирской сосной. Они его не найдут. Они не могут понять, кто он!
I buried it! Beneath the Siberian Pine. They won't find it. They can't figure out who he is!
His body is being moved, shoved underneath a bed. His back twinges and he stifles a groan. That probably will set back his healing a week, but he doesn't know what's happening and he's not in a position to argue.
Где он? Американец?
Where is he? The American?
О чем ты говоришь?
What are you talking about?
Односельчанин сказал, что четыре ночи назад он видел, как в нее затащили американское тело.
A fellow villager said he saw an American body being dragged into here four nights ago.
Должно быть, они ошибались.
They must've been mistaken
Обыщите дом.
Search the house
It doesn't take them long to find him. He's yanked by his legs out from under the bed and they point their pistols at him. But when he makes no move to fight, they stare at him oddly.
The man points his pistol at the father,
Ты лжец
You're a liar
"No." Steve says, as loudly as he can, still laying on his back on the floor. "I held them hostage. Told them if they told anyone I was here, that my team would find them and kill them."
"And why wouldn't they just kill you?" The man says in heavily accented English. "You're helpless, they could dispose of you easily."
"True, I'm helpless now. But my team will come searching for me. I'm their Captain. They know where I fell."
He's bluffing now. But he can't let this family suffer for helping him. He can't.
"Oh? Fell from where?"
"The train, in the gorge."
The man scoffs. "If you fell from that train, you'd be dead."
"Like I said. I'm their Captain." His voice shifts, deeper and more commanding. Mimicking his USO voice and he glares at the man, daring him to understand.
It only takes a second.
"You lie!"
Steve scoffs, wincing at the pain it brings his lungs, "you think I'm an idiot? Why would I lie and say I am your worst enemy? How would that help me?"
The family is staring at the exchange, unsure of what's happening, but Steve sees the fear in the boy's eyes and knows he'll do anything to keep them from hurting him.
"Maybe you are who you say you are. If so, I will be rewarded greatly. If not, what is one more dead American soldier burnt on the piles?"
Steve grits his teeth.
—
He's carried out the door, his back spasming from the rough treatment. He glances back, catching the boy's anxious expression and he mouths the phrase again.
Спасибо
Thank you
The boy just stares, eyes wide as Steve's thrown into the back of a truck.
The man in charge grabs another villager.
"When does the next post come?"
The terror on the guy's face is clear. "Not for another two weeks."
"Perfect. When it arrives, you must send a letter to this man." He hands over a paper. "And you must write these words exactly. Do you understand?"
The man doesn't respond.
"I said, do you understand? This whole village will be razed to the ground if these instructions are not followed exactly."
The man nods.
"Good."
The truck pulls away and Steve watches as the few people standing out in the snow start to fade from sight, but his eyes are on the boy, who's running after the truck. Steve feels a jolt of fear before he watches the mother catch him, and haul him back.
Steve feels the same relieved smile from five days ago cross his face that
—
It's an incredibly long journey in the back of the truck. He tries to keep track, but after the 13th day of no food, no water, his back in agony and his fingers covered in frostbite, he loses track.
What does it really matter anyways?
He'll get back home.
That's the thought that keeps him warm. He's gunna get back home.
His body can't heal. It's trying, he can feel it trying, but with the constant movement, shifting, being kicked by passing soldiers, and no nourishment to feed his body, his healing goes stagnant. Focused on keeping him alive.
That's fine.
Alive is enough. For now.
—
He's strapped down on a metal table.
It's cold and man does he hate the cold. Even now, with extra muscle and body fat to spare, he's shivering. Sometimes it's mind over matter and sometimes it's the mind that matters.
Right now, his naked body is laying on a freezing metal table, strapped down in an enemy base.
But all his brain can say is: cold, cold, cold, cold.
Priorities.
—
It takes the main leader of the base, some guy he's never even heard of, to come look at him to decide whether he is who he says he is or not.
Steve's almost embarrassed at himself. He'd assume they would know who he was right away, not because he's prideful, but because in America and even the allied part of Europe, his face on the newsreels and posters and newspapers had been pretty constant. Annoying, but constant.
Apparently in enemy territory this was not the case. And it makes sense, it really does. It's just annoyingly inconvenient.
"I'm Captain America." He says for the 40th time. The leader stares at him. "Hell, cut my arm, see how fast I heal. That will tell you."
They do. And it takes only about 2 and a half hours for the cut to disappear.
They stare at him in shock and he shrugs. "I literally told you 40 times."
"Why would you tell us?"
"Because I didn't want you hurting those people for no reason. They're innocent. I don't care what you do to me, as long as they didn't hurt them."
He's not sure exactly why he is so honest at that moment, maybe it's his exhaustion rattled brain, but the leader stares at him in surprise.
"Well." The man says, a smile on his face that Steve doesn't like. "I guess I'll be being promoted earlier than I thought."
"Happy to be of service," Steve quips, mumbling as the man walks out.
—
He's transferred to a base in Siberia. He sees only one map, but he memorizes it and tracks his route mentally. They start feeding him. It's not much and it's not good, but it's calories and he's not exactly picky at the moment.
He feels his back start to heal again and his other systems pick back up. His frostbite starts to fade and although he's far from being able to do anything physical he's starting to feel a little bit more on solid ground.
He doesn't mention this. And he lies still, except to groan or shift in pain. Just to keep them believing he's helpless.
—
He's starting to do really well. He doesn't have his strength back, but he can feel all his limbs, and he just knows that if he tried to move them, he would be able to.
I can do this. I can do this.
It's his mantra.
I can do this all day, everyday just to get home. I will get home. I can do this.
—-
Except today.
The man in charge, well… Steve assumes he's the man in charge as the others tend to listen to his orders, comes in with a shit-eating grin on his face.
Steve's still strapped to the table, clothed finally, and they have his wrists and ankles chained tightly, just in case.
"Well, Captain." The man begins, "we're a bit behind the world events out here so far from humanity, but the news does usually reach us eventually."
Steve doesn't respond. The man loves to play mind games.
"What was your team called? The famous Harping Commandants?"
Steve doesn't take the bait, knows the man is trying to goad him.
"Well… Maybe you don't remember their name, but you must indeed remember the name of your second-in-command…?"
His heart speeds up, Oh no, did they have Bucky too?
"What was his name? Hmm… oh.. here let me look." He snaps his finger and someone appears, holding a scrap of paper, handing it to the man.
"This message just came through our telegraph." He says, grinning, "Sergeant James Barnes honored."
His blood runs cold, honored?
"Do you wish to know what he was honored for?"
There's not enough breath left in his lungs to respond.
The man reads off a headline, in an imperious voice, "Sergeant James Barnes, of the Howling Commandos and the 107th regiment, died heroically, commandeering an enemy plane filled with bombs headed for the United States and crashing it into the arctic. Expeditions by Howard Stark to locate his body and the plane have been unsuccessful, but will continue."
He hadn't even noticed he'd started crying until the man walked over and slapped him. "Tears are for children!" The man said gruffly, "how can a grown man cry! You are weak!"
The slap doesn't register, the pain nothing compared to the gaping hole now tearing through Steve's heart.
"When." He rasps out, "when?"
The man looks at the paper, "it doesn't say, but does it matter? Your second in command is dead because you weren't there to save him."
Not just his second in command.
His friend.
His brother.
His only family left.
He's crying again and the man is looking at him disgust.
And the worst part is he wishes that the man was wrong. He hates that it is Steve's fault Bucky's dead. He shouldn't have been smarter, faster, a better captain on the train. Bucky should never have had to block him, never had to pick up the shield to protect Steve.
Bucky protecting Steve put him in the position to get knocked off the train… If he hadn't had to do that… Steve could have flown that plane instead.
The man must read his thoughts because he says with a pointed glare, "he needed you, and you weren't there."
He feels a building sob in his throat.
Another slap.
It doesn't stop the tears.
—
He floats through the next couple of days. Grief flooding his mind and blocking out all else.
It briefly occurs to him that the man could be lying, but something in his gut tells him that he isn't. That Bucky really is dead.
Grief overtakes him again.
—
He focuses on one goal. Escaping.
Blocking everything out of his mind, except the thought of getting the hell out of there. He has to go to Bucky's ma and pa and sisters and tell them he's sorry that he failed him. He has to tell them it was his fault.
He has to ask Peggy what happened, he has to help Howard search for his body, to bring him home.
But first he has to get home first.
Almost a month after he fell from the train, he knows his back is healed.
So the minute the guards aren't paying attention, he rips his arms up, shattering the shackles and then ripping the ones off his legs. They don't know his strength, they've never seen it, so they didn't know what level to restrain him at. They've underestimated him.
Perfect.
He slams the two guards heads together, knocking them unconscious and grabbing their weapons. He rips the door of it's hinges, and races through. He bursts through another set of doors, sending them sprawling out in front of him.
All the hallways look the same, but he takes note as he runs through them, alarm bells ringing. He can't afford to waste time, so he has to avoid getting lost in the maze of hallways.
He can sense the shift in air, he's getting towards where it's colder, closer to the outside. He spurs onward, ignoring the groans in his unused muscles and empty stomach.
He feels the disturbance in the air as a bullet races towards him. It's his exhaustion that causes him to forget the shield isn't on his arm when he raises it to block the bullet.
The sharp burst of pain as the bullet tears through his forearm, exiting the other side almost makes him stumble. But he can't, can't waste time. He ignores the shattered arm bones and blood dribbling out of his arm. He continues running, further from the guard who shot it.
He reaches doors that have ice around them. The outside.
He shoves and tears and rips at them, acting like a wild animal trying to escape it's cage. When they don't move more than an inch, he looks up. There's a hinge up there… another exit.
He leaps up, grabbing at the metal grate sticking out of the wall, hoisting himself up.
He's halfway up when the bullets start flying in earnest. One hits the bottom of his bare foot, and another enters into his thigh, hitting his femur.
He's panting and huffing, still climbing, ignoring the rising dizziness and nausea at the blood loss.
He's at the top, pushing on the huge metal door. He doens't have the strength to lift something this heavy. Not right now. But all his heart and soul and every ounce of that blinding determination that everyone always made fun of him for,he channels into his muscles, willing them to open the door by the sheer force of his will, not by the range of his strength.
The hinges creak.
It spurs him on, bellowing out in rage and grief and determination that he will not die like a rat in a cage. He pushes harder, pulling strength from every fiber of his being and hearing the metal begin to shriek.
Another bullet from below hits his right upper arm, and another his chest. But they mean nothing. Bullets are flies and he knows that they're minor inconveniences.
With one last bellow, he shoves upward, causing the metal to separate, ripping the hinges and shifting the huge door.
He lets the half he's holding up, fall, slamming downwards and crashing and crushing all the way down. He hears screams below and he ignores them. Using his now shaking muscles to climb out into the blinding snow and freezing wind.
He hates the cold.
But it's better than in there.
—-
He lasts about 9 days in the frigid Siberian environment before they catch up to him.
He's barely able to stumble. His fingers and toes and the tip of his nose are black from frostbite. His muscles haven't stopped shivering since the second day in the snow, and his skin is dry and red and cracked from the sun exposure and the reflections off the snow.
He's been able to have water, melting it in his hand and drinking it, but with no shelter, no place to hide or sleep, his back still not perfect, and he hasn't had sufficient nutrients since a month and a half ago… even the serum has limits without him taking care of his body.
He hears them, and he buries his body into a snowbank, unwilling to give in.
He hopes it hides his heat signature.
They pass by and he tries not to shake, not wanting them to see the movement.
—-
14 days after his initial escape, he sees a town. He would cry if he had any moisture left in his body.
He crawls into an outcropping barn, shivering and hauling his numb legs onto a bed of hay.
He sleeps. He doesn't know for how long, but he sleeps. His brain not even having the strength to dream.
—-
He wakes and his entire body revolts at the thought of moving, but he must.
He uses whatever he can to pull himself up. He makes it to his feet, his sheer force of will doing most of the work.
He peers out the barn door and doesn't see anyone. He steps out, still using the barn wall as support.
He makes it to a house, trying to decide whether to knock when he's spotted. A woman, bundled up, steps around a corner, freezing at the sight of him.
"Please." He rasps out, his lips cracked and bleeding, "please, help me."
She gasps. "American?" She asks in her Russian accent.
"Yes." He answer, "please, I've been taken hostage, is there a phone in this village? Or a place I can hide?"
She looks torn, and he doens't know if that's because she doesn't understand him, or if she's hesitant to help him. His legs shake and he coughs, his chest rattling in the cold.
"Please," he tries again. "Please, anything you can do."
She opens her mouth to respond when he hears a whistle blow, the sound sharp and slicing through the quiet air.
The woman startles and takes off, leaving him alone, shaking against the building.
—
He's beaten to a pulp before they tie his ankles together and then tie that rope to the back of the truck.
They drive fast, dragging his body all the way back to the base.
—
He's not sure, but he thinks it's been a very long time before he regains enough brain power to be conscious.
—
"Why don't you guys just kill me?" He offers calmly. "You know I'm never going to do what you want me to do."
The man in charge looks at him. "We have many ways of breaking a man down. You are physically broken, yes, but not mentally. Once we break your mind down to mush, we will be able to build you back up. To do our bidding."
"Never going to happen."
"So you say."
They glare at each other.
—-
He's given absolutely no information about the outside world or time or anything that will give him a basis of measurement about how long he's been there.
Except they don't understand him. They don't know the years he's spent studying faces and angles. The artist in him screams details about them that he stores away.
He studies them.
Their hair. How long it grows until he sees it's been cut again.
Their beards, mustaches, tell him how many days they go before trimming it.
Then the most disheartening but descriptive measurement of time.
"My wife is expecting!" One of the guards says in a whisper outside of the door.
He says it in Russian, but Steve's fluent now. He's been listening to every word that has been spoken, repeating it in his mind and working backwards through context and whenever the man in charge is there to speak English.
He's fluent and they don't know it.
"Congratulations!" The other guard says, his voice quiet as well, "do you know what it is yet?"
"A boy!"
They talk in whispers that might as well be screams to Steve's enhanced hearing.
—-
So when the guard in question comes into his cell to take him to the bathroom, and there's a tiny, minuscule drop of spit-up on the cuff of the man's uniform, Steve knows.
It's been almost a year since his capture. Maybe longer.
Shit.
—
Ever since his initial escape attempt, they've kept him weak.
One very poorly balanced meal, twice a week.
Water, twice a day.
The door and walls are thick metal, and maybe if he was at full strength, he'd be able to bust through. But he's not. Far from it.
While dragging him back to the base his back was rebroken, and it didn't heal right. He can tell. He'll have to have someone re-set it eventually if the serum doesn't work to heal it over time. He's never gone too long with an ill-broken bone, so he doesn't know what to expect. The serum is working just to keep him alive and functioning. It can't focus on extra stuff.
And the worst part?
His cell is the freezer.
He hates the cold.
—
6 Years Later
Steve is sitting there groggy. He hates the new machine they've invented. They haven't worked out the kinks and it's brutal on his body.
Cryogenics.
He hates it.
His body feels numb and prickly and like it's being burnt. His brain is barely catching up.
"I understand your concerns, Doctor." A man who must have arrived at the base while he was frozen, says, "But a normal man would be dead. The only reason he still lives is because of the serum. But even that will probably give out eventually if he's not fed or nourished."
"If he gets nourishment, he gets strength. Last time he—"
"Yes. Yes I understand. But then you must choose. Give up your ambition of him being your attack dog, or give him food."
There's a sigh and Steve can't decide which one he hopes the guy will choose more.
—
He'd never admit it out loud. Ever.
But a little bit of his hope dies when he hears the guard outside say,
"Yes, he turned 10 yesterday, we're very proud."
He cries and the man in charge keeps asking why but he doesn't speak. Just cries.
—
15 years After Capture
He's positive that he doesn't exist fully anymore. That if he'd been normal he would have died 100 times over.
Someone comes in with a metal clipboard and holds it at just the right angle for him to glimpse his reflection. His heart stills at the sight.
His hair is matted and falling out in places. His skin is sallow and translucent, gaunt against his bones. It makes his eyes appear huge and alien.
He hasn't seen himself this skinny since before Erskine. He looks down at his hands and arms and really takes in how frail his body is.
He wonders how long the serum can hold out.
He can't decide if he wants it to.
—
He's worked out a time system in his mind.
He's 99% sure he's only a total of 8 biological years older than when he was captured. They keep him in Cryo almost constantly. It's effective as it keeps him subdued and weak. Plus they don't have to feed him.
Every time he comes out of cryo he shakes for days, and they leave him to defrost on a metal grate that leaves imprints on his skin and bruises on his bones.
—
He's tried to escape on 6 different occasions and each time, the Siberian wilderness has been wielded against him like a knife. He's never been able to find another village since his first attempt and their trucks and motorcycles always manage to catch up to him on the flat snowy planes. He hates how weak and frail his body is. He wills it further, faster, run, run, run, run, run.
But they always catch him. His body too weak and broken to get away fast enough. Dragging his body by his feet back to base, each time. Now his back is just a muddled patchwork of scars and bumps and knots that have been skinned off from the snow and dirt roads and healed poorly 7 times over. The hair on the back of his skull has stopped growing.
He's good at blocking out the torture though.
They've cut him and burned him and drowned him and shocked him. Drained his body over and over of the majority of his blood. Leaving just enough to keep him alive. He hates that. Hates they could be getting the secret to the serum through him. BUt they don't seem to get any further on that side. So he's grateful.
But…Honestly, the physical torture is probably the easiest part to ignore.
So he gets cut again? Okay.
They drown him until his lungs fill with water and then they pump it out again? Okay.
They shock him so hard that his heart stops and his skin sizzles. Not great, but hey. What can he do?
But the constant clawing of thirst in his stomach? That's a desperate feeling.
Hunger just feels hollow.
His mind feels fuzzy and dry and the constant throbbing is eternal. Every second he's out of cryo there's a stabbing or a painful pulsing behind his eyes.
He's skin and bone. The only difference between him and the man he was before the serum is height. That's it.
Oh yeah, and asthma. He's thankful he doesn't have asthma.
—
He thought the war had to be over. The war has to be over right?
But then the man in charge states that a Hydra operative was able to kill the president of the United States.
It hits him suddenly that Bucky's sacrifice might have stopped Hydra's endgame, but did the war end then? Or sometime in the last 20 years? He assumes so. It has to have. Right? A desperate feeling that the people alive, the people he loves are still having to fight. Have the commandos gotten to go home? He hopes Peggy and Howard and Phillips are all alive and got to go home.
Home.
He'll get back there someday.
Probably.
Maybe.
He's not sure.
—
He tries one more time.
They're about to put him back into cryo and he ignores every warning sign in his body. He shoves against the guards, surprising them and stumbles away. Not running, he can't run, but clawing and shoving and stumbling and dragging himself into room after room into hallway after hallway. He doesn't make it outside. Someone comes and shoots him in the gut. Then the shoulder. Then in both his feet.
Even then he grits his teeth, bleeding all over the floor and using his arms to drag himself to whatever door his pounding mind can see.
A boot kicks him, crumpling him. He doesn't feel the boot come cracking down on his skull.
He just knows the world goes black.
—
The man in charge is significantly older the next time he's out of cryo.
"Your commander." The man says, "Colonel Phillips?"
Steve doesn't have any facilities to respond.
"He's dead now."
—-
They accidentally break his arm transferring him from cryo to the surgeon's table.
He stares at his arm, hanging off the side of the table at an awkward angle.
He knows it's bad that the pain of a broken arm barely registers over the throbbing in his brain.
They don't set it right and they shove him back into cryo when the device they try implanting in his arm doesn't do what they want it to.
He doesn't know what they want it to do.
When he comes out of cryo, the next time, his arm is healed at a wrong angle making the arm useless.
The man in charge stares at him.
"Are you ready to behave?"
Steve looks at the man. Genuinely confused.
"Behave how?"
—
He's just a ghost.
A pale, sickly, shivering, skinny, frail, empty, hollow, numb ghost.
—-
He hears the date. He hears them say a date. It's while they think he's still unconscious from cryo. His naked body a puddle of bones on the metal grate.
"Happy New Year. Can't believe it's 1975!"
"I can't believe this piece of garbage is still alive."
The other guard laughs.
30 years.
It's been 30 years.
The part of his brain that held hope, held joy, remembered the muscles used to smile, remembered the look on Peggy's face as she eyed him, the smile on Bucky's face when he would laugh at Steve's fumbling attempts to have any sort of conversation with her, the way his ma used to smile and cup his cheek when he was sick…
That part in his mind quietly dies.
—
They are all cheerful when they pull him out of cryo for what he'll eventually learn is over 4 years later. His vision is only so so, the lack of nutrients causing them to degrade over time.
But he recognizes their voices and smiles as being cheerful.
Great.
They dump him on the surgery table, flipping him onto his stomach and strapping him down.
They've done this before.
But they've never been so cheerful.
An emotion rises to the surface. He can barely register emotions anymore, but this one sits heavy in his stomach.
Dread.
—
"Asset. Awaken."
He feels his eyes open.
He looks out with eyes that feel out of his control.
"Asset. Snap your fingers."
He feels his hand moving. He hears a snap. He cries.
—
They get better. Each time they take the asset out of cryo, they've made adjustments.
Improvements they call them.
The Asset still isn't sure about that.
—
They tell the Asset to eat.
The Asset wants to.
The Asset really really wants to.
The Asset feels food in his hands. He feels it rising to his face.
Don't.
An internal voice. Quiet and Skinny and 19 years old. Determined and desperate and the only part of him that still isn't broken.
Don't.
Why?
If they control you, they'll make you do things. Don't eat. You're close to dying. You can feel that right? If we die, then we can be free and they can't use us.
I'm hungry.
You've been hungry for 34 years. The internal voice chokes up. And the Asset for some reason sees an angular face that frames large blue eyes. He doesn't really recognize that face. You can last another couple. We havta die.
Die?
Yes.
Why?
I refuse to be a weapon in their hands.
I?
Yes. I. You. Us. Don't eat.
The Asset trusts this voice. It may be quiet. It may be sad. But it's true. And it's strong.
He sets the food down.
The Vagues go quiet.
That's what the Asset calls them. The Vagues. They're around. Vaguely. When he tries to ask them questions they answer vaguely. He doesn't know them. Their names. What they do. Why they're here. What they mean. Vague. They're vague. What do they want. What do they want from him?
"Asset. Eat."
Don't
He doesn't.
They don't like that.
—
The Asset finds himself in cryo again.
The Asset finds himself on the surgeon's table again.
—
"Asset. Eat."
The Asset waits. Waits for instructions from the small voice. From the steady, true, quiet voice.
But all the Asset hears is silence.
"Asset. EAT."
He eats.
—
*Okay. I definitely meant to only have them each have one chapter.. but Steve is too hard to write in the sense that he would never give up easily. He just wouldn't Not that I think Bucky did. i don't! But Steve's always been so headstrong that I don't think brain washing would have worked as well and I didn't want to copy the machine that is used on Bucky. So I wanted to write a 'realistic' decent into them breaking him down and implanting the device. So hopefully it reads well. I'd love to hear your thoughts!