Written for Whumptober Day 16: No Way Out (Mind control, paralytic drugs, "no one's coming") and Day 23: At the end of their rope (Forced to kneel, tied to a table, "hold them down"). I tried to not get too detailed with the torture description, but this is whumptober, so there is some talk of needles, human experimentation, and being tied down, basically what we saw in The First Avenger, just as a warning. Thanks for reading!
Don't own anything, as is the usual.
The first day they tie him to the table in the isolation ward, James Buchanan Barnes fights with all the will and strength he has left—not that he has much to give after being held in a prison cell and barely fed for weeks. Here's what it gets him: strapped so tight that his lungs can hardly expand, stuck with needles filled with varying liquids, and knocked out by a fist to the cheekbone.
When he wakes, there are four silver machines stationed around him and an IV line going into his elbow. He can't see what the line is connected to. Bucky strains as hard as he can, but the restraints don't budge. His limbs feel rubbery and heavy, bones connected by putty instead of ligaments.
"While I admire your tenacity, Sergeant Barnes, there is no way out," says a balding man with glasses. He stands above Bucky's head behind him, an upside down face that seems to frown as the man smiles.
"The hell did you do to me?" Bucky grits out through a swollen throat and heavy tongue. Pins and needles dance in his fingertips.
The man—a poor excuse for a doctor or scientist, judging from his lab coat—pulls a syringe out of his pocket and flicks it where Bucky can see. "The more essential question is what we can yet accomplish."
"You keep that thing away from me," Bucky growls and tries to twist his arm away when the doctor moves to stick him with the needle. A soldier in all black with a strange helmet materializes from the shadows. With one hand he forces Bucky's wrist to the table and the other pins his head back.
"Your vigor will serve you well for as long as it lasts." There's a searing pinch as the needle makes contact. "Perhaps you will live longer than your comrades."
Fire spreads through his veins, gets pumped by his heart, and circulates throughout his body. There's nothing to do but scream.
…
Bucky thinks it's day two judging by how muted sunlight limps in through the glass windows. Foggy outside, still. Something mechanical hums in the room. Down the hall, a man screams and it echoes off the bricks.
His mouth tastes like blood.
"Still with us! Marvelous!"
One of the large silver contraptions rolls over to his bedside and the next thing Bucky knows, blinding light is shone in his face. He tries to struggle against the restraints, turn his head away, anything to escape, but his body doesn't respond. There's a disconnect between his thoughts and his brain, it seems.
He's awake. He's in here. But he can't do anything about it.
The doctor leans over him, partially blocking the light. He's wearing darkening shades over his glasses and holds a scalpel. "We can't have you squirming and interfering with my handiwork. The immobilization is…unfortunate but necessary if we are to continue."
Bucky wants to tell him to go to hell and take his men with him. The second he gets off this table, he'll send the doctor there himself. But his mouth doesn't open, his vocal cords don't work, and so the doctor goes about his business in excruciating silence.
…
The drug wears off eventually and he can move fingers and toes. Bucky thinks it's day four. Maybe three? Hard to tell. He's blessedly alone in the room.
They don't want intel, not that he would give up anything even if they wanted it. He's not a bargaining chip for a prisoner swap. He's not in this room for a purpose. Just random, unlucky chance, he guesses, and ain't that a kicker? Sure, he stopped a guard from breaking more of Private Richardson's ribs—the kid's only nineteen and doesn't deserve any of this, certainly not under Bucky's watch—but that's not reason enough.
He's just human experimentation subject number who knows what. Nameless, faceless, another body to be used for whatever they deem fit. A rat, stuck in a metal and brick cage, halfway around the world from home.
Bucky tries to think of how many acts of the Geneva Convention are being broken in this building alone and it almost makes him laugh, how high his count gets.
…
"The second I get outta here, you're dead," Bucky says, and wishes it didn't come out as a rasp. The doctor is holding another syringe filled with the temporary paralytic, and Bucky wants to speak his thoughts while he still can. He can't remember the last time he was vertical or the last time he could take a full breath unhindered. Whenever he's conscious, he stares at the same speckled ceiling tiles for hours on end. He's started naming his own constellations on them, maybe the only expanse of "sky" he'll ever see.
"And how do you plan on escaping, Sergeant Barnes?" the doctor looks at him curiously, as if he's actually interested. Bucky's continued defiance is a comedy to him, Bucky's already learned that, but that's not going to stop him. "It would be a fascinating attempt to watch, but ultimately be futile."
Bucky grits his teeth as the needle goes in and any agency over his body goes out.
"No one is coming, Sergeant, making your only other option of escape null and void." The doctor says it like he's delivering a diagnosis. Bucky's fate, scribbled on a blood-soaked piece of paper, and only the doctor can read the handwriting.
There has to be something, someone, somewhere.
The light flicks on again and that's all there is.
…
Day…is it even daylight? Or has the manufactured light burned so solidly into his retinas that everything appears brighter than it should be?
So maybe he can't escape.
Maybe he just has to wait it out. Yeah, he can do that. Steve always did love calling him stubborn, after all. Something will change, eventually.
It has to.
…
In the short hours where the drug wears off and the isolation ward is quiet, Bucky recites the only information he is bound to give as a prisoner of war. It's nice to hear something that isn't German, to feel something moving in his body because he decided it should move.
…
The clouds outside are ever-present. Daylight never comes.
…
There's heavy boots outside, running down the hallway. He keeps up his litany and intends to do so until whatever drugs they give him next take hold. The footsteps stop outside the door before they creep in behind Bucky's head where he can't see.
There's hands on him then, and he tenses. Maybe that'll make it harder for them to get the needle in so he can get another few seconds anchored in his body. His muscles contain a raging furnace; he's surprised the person doesn't burn their fingers on him.
"Bucky?"
The doctor doesn't call him that.
He opens his eyes, bleary and unfocused. There's a figure above him, hands on him.
No.
And then the straps are being ripped off him. For the first time in who knows how many days, he can draw in a full breath. He relishes in expanding his lungs even though the air tastes like copper and disinfectant. When Bucky looks to the side he squints in confusion, because there's no way in hell…
"It's me, it's Steve," the apparition, his six foot tall guardian angel, says.
"Steve," Bucky says with a smile. Wouldn't that be nice? Nice to see him one last time. Not nice that Bucky's been followed into the war he had so hoped to keep Steve from.
'Steve' lifts him up from the table and he's finally vertical. His blood begins to flow properly, and even though it makes his head ache something awful, it's a relief. His shins feel like they'll splinter under his weight and he wavers where he stands.
'Steve' props him up, puts a hand to the side of his face, and makes sure that he doesn't fall over. In what world has Steve ever been able to do such a thing? "I thought you were dead," 'Steve' says, filled with relief and anguish. He has to look down to meet Bucky's eyes.
Bucky stares back up. The doctor must have been testing some type of hallucinogenic drugs because Steve has never, not once in his life, been taller than Bucky. He's never filled out any clothing he's ever worn, let alone a leather jacket. But still, there's something about his eyes, the way he looks at Bucky, like he's found a missing puzzle piece. There's something real and tangible about it that Bucky latches onto like a life preserver. "I thought you were smaller," Bucky replies, and his voice sounds stronger than it has since he can last remember.
He keeps staring at Steve as Steve surveys the isolation ward, trying desperately to get something to click in his brain, get some answer to how the hell Steve grew a foot in a matter of months. He comes up with nothing.
Steve practically drags him off the raised platform towards the door as Bucky's brain tries to remember how to coordinate with his legs. The pins and needles are back, a sensation he remembers from when he would finally start to get warm after a too-cold night in their little heater-less apartment in Brooklyn.
That's exactly how it feels. Steve pulling him from numbing water, through a sheet of ice, and back into his body. The connection hurts something awful, but it's worth it.
He stumbles but stands, nearly trips but manages a slow jog as Steve, miraculously, finds them a way out.
