Chapter 3: Benevolent Captors

Bucky stayed in his corner of the Quinjet, the thick blanket wrapped around him. Rogers remained on the floor next to him, a solid, watchful presence. The metal floor and wall were both unforgivingly hard, but he was warm, amazingly warm.

The metal of the plane vibrated softly against his shoulder, butt, and legs, aggravating the slice in his arm and the ache in his head caused by the bullet's near-miss.

He trembled at the thought of how close he'd come and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He had been sure it was all over for him—that Hydra had captured him and would turn him into a slave again, a monster that knew only how to kill. If Steve hadn't….

"Are you okay?" Rogers asked, his voice low.

Bucky looked over at him and nodded. He took the opportunity to study that face—the one on the helicarrier, the one in his dreams, the one that he saw over and over again hanging off a train far above as the mountains careened toward him. The one that came with a sense of home, of city streets and stairs leading up to square brown buildings.

"Bucky, you okay? Do you need anything?"

It was a question he wasn't used to being asked. He wasn't sure how to respond. There were several immediate needs—clothes, hydration, nutrition, and a scrub down. He assumed those would be procured for him in whatever priority they deemed appropriate.

The other man's brow furrowed with deep lines, and he shifted on his rear for more direct visual contact.

"Bucky?"

Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. The pain in his skull flared. He flinched.

Soldat. Soldier. That's what he was used to being called. Asset. The Fist of Hydra.

He could tell the other man was getting anxious. Worried.

He blinked and took a breath, suddenly remembering that a response had been requested of him. He kept drifting, slipping under the veil of Hydra's conditioning like a blanket he'd worn for the past 70 years, but more and more often these days, he felt a specter of the person he used to be emerging from his mangled brain, fighting to take form. Sometimes it succeeded, and he almost knew who he was—really knew, not just facts memorized from a museum, but felt it inside.

It was that specter that had asked Steve for help. Something inside him knew he could trust that man.

Rogers was staring at him, still expecting a response.

"I'm fine." Bucky knew it was something that normal people said, so he said it.

Rogers seemed unconvinced.

The three others whispered around him—Romanoff, Maximoff, and the winged man Rogers had called Sam back on the helicarrier. He listened to their plans about what to do with him. New York. The Avenger's complex. Someone named Tony. Veronica. They were arranging a special room for him. Reinforced. Secure.

Another prison.

"So, we just take Robocop here and stick him in a room?" Sam whispered to Natasha.

"You know he can hear you?" Natasha said.

"Yeah, so?" Despite his defiant tone, he lowered his voice even more. "Dude tried to kill me twice."

He could still hear them.

"I know we made nice with his future…you know…but this guy ain't that guy."

Whatever code they were talking in was becoming indecipherable. It was evident, however, that the winged man still held a grudge about the previous attempts on his life.

"ETA is 70 minutes, Steve," Romanoff announced.

Seventy minutes until he learned exactly where they'd be keeping him.

The plane touched ground 66 minutes later. Bucky remained wedged in the corner, silently observing the resulting activity. The ramp opened. Romanoff and Maximoff descended onto the landing pad. Rogers rose to his feet but stayed close. The winged man stood sentry at the open hatch.

"The Veronica room is ready," a polite British voice sounded in Steve's earpiece. Bucky could just pick up the faint sound.

"How do you want to play this, Cap?" Sam asked, then he turned and raised his hands, gesturing for someone outside to stop. He disappeared momentarily and reappeared with a bundle of folded clothes and a pair of black slip-on shoes in his arms.

"Wide perimeter," Rogers replied. "No engagement."

Sam placed the bundle of clothes on the deck a couple of feet in front of Bucky. The winged man's eyes held his for a moment, then darted away. Bucky tracked his movements—the stiffness of his shoulders and the tension in the ligaments along the side of his neck. He was anxious, despite the casualness of his tone.

"You want to get dressed, Bucky?" Rogers asked. "The clothes are all new, purchased for you."

An order phrased as a question. Bucky wasn't sure how to respond to such an odd thing. He pulled his arms from beneath the blanket to pick up the neatly stacked bundle. He rose, and the blanket fell to the floor.

Sam turned his back to them, standing sentry at the top of the ramp. Inside it was just him and Rogers. Bucky dressed quickly. The sweats fit perfectly. The short-sleeved gray T-shirt was slightly loose on his right shoulder but tugged slightly against the metal of his left one. He slipped his feet into the shoes. They fit well.

Rogers knew his size, apparently.

A memory teased at his brain.

"James Buchanan Barnes, get your big feet off my coffee table!" A woman's face. Blue eyes. He'd seen her before, but he knew who she was now, suddenly.

His mother.

The memory elicited a flash of pain in his skull and a swell of warmth in his eyes that caused his vision to blur. He looked for his backpack. He'd seen Romanoff searching it earlier. He needed his journals.

"What's wrong, Buck?"

He spotted the discarded back on the floor of the aircraft, resting against a wall near the cockpit. Rogers followed his gaze and retrieved the pack, then handed it to him.

Though he hadn't voiced his desire, Rogers had sensed it and fulfilled it. This was new to him, as well. He took the pack that now had only one functional strap and retrieved the journal. He sat on the bench inside the aircraft, the pack at his side, and recorded the latest memory after the last entry.

'The woman with the blue eyes was my mother. She called me JBB and told me to get my big feet off the coffee table.'

He avoided the legal name that had once been his. It always evoked pain and the memory of electricity.

"Cap?" Bucky heard Romanoff's voice in Rogers' earpiece.

"Give us a couple of minutes," Rogers responded.

"Acknowledged."

Bucky slid the journal back into his pack, slung the bag over his right shoulder, and stood at ready.

Rogers raised a hand to his ear. "Coming out now."

Sam disembarked. Steve glanced at Bucky and gestured to the ramp. With a curt nod, Bucky complied, stepping onto the ramp and into the sun. He descended with long, measured steps, surveying the expansive grounds. A building made of glass and cement stood several yards away. Romanoff and Maximoff stood at the edge of the landing pad, near a wide walkway that led to the building.

Bucky passed Sam at the base and gave him a quick glance. The man still seemed uneasy. Rogers' firm steps clanked on the ramp behind him.

Bucky scanned the roof of the two buildings. One appeared to be a type of aircraft hangar. The other was a large industrial building with many windows.

He spotted a silver robot on the roof of the industrial building, facing his direction. A large weapon was mounted on the machine's right shoulder.

"Rhodes, stand down," Rogers commanded.

Instantly, the robot vanished from view.

"This way, Buck." Steve walked past him and led the way into the industrial complex. The winged man took up the rear, and Romanoff and Maximoff walked on either side of him.

He was effectively blockaded.

His heart began to race. The idea of being a prisoner…of being kept…stirred an emotion deep in his brain, one he felt in his chest. He recognized it as fear.

But he remembered enough to know the man in front of him was his friend. He trusted Rogers. The others around him, he wasn't sure about. If one of them was a double agent for Hydra and knew the code words, they could activate the program inside his head and gain complete control over him.

They entered the building. A man in a suit with dark hair and dark eyes walked up quickly, then fell into step alongside Rogers. "I've got Steve Austin's room all ready. It's nice because Pepper, obviously. Not me. My job was in the walls. Reinforced. Should stand up, not quite to a Hulk, but at least to a garden variety super strong cyborg."

Bucky wasn't sure who Steve Austin was. He thought perhaps it was a code phrase. As he scanned the interior of the sparsely furnished building, he wondered how long it had been occupied. It had the air of a new building, freshly occupied.

He followed Steve into a large elevator. Sam, Romanoff, Maximoff, and the dark-haired man all entered. He was aware of their glances toward him.

The doors opened, and Steve exited first. The dark-haired man took the lead, however, and stopped at the dead-end at the end of the hall. A large set of double doors faced them.

"FRIDAY…" the dark-haired man said, but Bucky had no idea who that was.

"Access granted." A female voice with an Irish accent responded. Her voice came from the ceiling.

The doors parted. The dark-haired man entered. Rogers followed. The others herded him inside, and he yielded.

He walked into a large, windowless room. There was a small kitchen to the left of the door with a refrigerator, sink, small stove, and the appliance he'd never used but recognized as a microwave. A large screen was embedded in the wall adjacent to the kitchen. A long, brown sofa with three seats faced the screen. Two matching armchairs flanked it. A metal coffee table sat in front of the sofa. A record player cabinet rested against the far wall, opposite the kitchen. A sizable bed sat in a recessed part of the wall next to a wide doorway, and a small dresser sat on the wall on the other side. A thick, blue comforter and several large pillows covered the mattress.

As far as prisons went, it was quite an upgrade, and filled with a variety of potential weapons. That confused him. Clearly, they saw him as a threat—the reinforced room, the surveillance, the escort. They obviously intended to keep him contained, yet they furnished him with unnecessary items that he could use in a variety of ways against them.

He moved into the kitchen near the door, inspecting the small area. It was functional. He was not sure what he was expected to do in it.

"Fridge is stocked with foods we hope you still like. Cap texted a list. Bathroom's through there," the dark-haired man pointed to the doorway to the left of the bed. "And, uh, yes, there are cameras in there, but I promise only FRIDAY views that footage. Just to make sure, that, uh…" The man eyed him uncomfortably.

To make sure he didn't try to end his captivity, Bucky surmised. He was accustomed to surveillance and expected no less from his captors.

Suddenly a figure glided through the walls, blue and red with a gold, flowing cape.

Bucky was in the air immediately, reflexes taking over, sailing over the small kitchen island and somersaulting backward. He landed crouched on his feet, his left hand on the floor, his right reaching for the gun…

…that wasn't there. He realized the second his fingers found the empty spot where the firearm should be how useless bullets would likely be against something that could float through walls.

"Vision, we talked about this!" Rogers was in front of the thing immediately, then he turned and looked at Bucky. "It's okay, Bucky. This is Vision. He lives here. He's a friendly."

"My apologies, Captain Rogers." The Vision thing turned to the dark-haired man. "Sir, the guest has arrived."

The dark-haired man nodded. "Thanks. Coulda simply called it in, you know?"

The thing had just floated through a wall. "What is that?" Bucky's chest was tight, his muscles poised.

The thing bowed its head at him. "I am Vision, an artificial intelligence lifeform."

Bucky understood those words individually, but not in succession. He still had no idea what the thing was.

"He's an android," Rogers explained.

"That floats through walls?" Bucky straightened slowly, his eyes never leaving the android.

"It's a long story," Rogers answered. "It's okay, Buck. I'm sorry. I can imagine how overwhelming all this is to you."

Bucky relaxed. The Vision thing was no longer floating. It stood, looking relaxed and even a tad apologetic. If they had Maximoff and something like Vision on their side, perhaps the Avengers really could take on anything Hydra threw at them—assuming of course, that neither one of those two were double agents.

"So, uh, back to the tour? That's a television," the dark-haired man said. "You know what that is right? I mean, I know they were invented before your time, but I don't think they were around much, right?"

"We had televisions in the 40s, Tony," Steve said. "They weren't common in homes, and neither of us had one, but we knew what they were. We saw a few."

Bucky pulled his gaze away from the android thing and looked at the large screen, then nodded his concurrence. He didn't remember if he'd seen one in that city—Brooklyn—but he had seen them during his time as the soldier. "I've seen televisions." Some of his targets had been watching them before he ended their lives. "They looked different than this one."

"Ah." The dark-haired man he now knew was named Tony grabbed a control stick from the coffee table. "This is the remote. Power button at the top here. Volume. Channels. Or just ask FRIDAY to help you if there's something specific you want to watch."

He knew people watched televisions, but he had no idea what they watched. One of his targets had been watching a sports match. Baseball. He remembered baseball.

The Brooklyn Dodgers. Ebbets Field. 1940. They finished the season in second place. He needed to remember to write that in his journal. He hoped they would not be confiscated. Rogers seemed content to let him keep them.

He was curious about the new guard or handler they had assigned. "Who is FRIDAY?"

"A computer. A.I.," Tony replied. "Artificial Intelligence."

Bucky didn't understand. "Where is this computer?"

Tony raised a hand toward the ceiling. "Everywhere. In the building. All around. She can control and access everything. If you need anything, just ask her. She's programmed to be very intuitive."

"Indeed, Sargeant Barnes," the Irish voice spoke again, "I have accessed your complete file and have all your known history."

Bucky's head snapped up. "All of my history?"

The thought of how much they might know elicited a mixture of worry and hope within him. Could FRIDAY assist him with filling in the gaps of his memories?

"All of your known history," she answered. "There is, of course, quite a lot of information that was never recorded, has been lost, or still remains in unknown files."

"How can I access this history?" Bucky looked at Tony. "And who are you?"

Surprise flickered over the other man's face. "Oh! Yeah, I guess we haven't officially met yet, from your end, anyway." He tilted his head. "Tony Stark."

Stark.

Something shifted in his brain, a memory he couldn't quite grasp.

"Oh, yeah, um, look, if you're worried about…things," Stark began, "Don't be. I know that you killed mom and dad. I've dealt with that already. I don't blame you. We're good, okay?"

Killed Stark?

The memory came forward so suddenly, it swallowed him, vivid like a dream. December 16. 1991. A dark night. He was on a motorcycle. His mission, sanction and extract.

Howard Stark. His wife, Maria Stark.

'Howard.' He remembered her voice, calling her husband's name from the passenger seat as he'd bashed in the front of the man's skull. Then, he'd walked calmly over to the passenger side of the crumpled vehicle, reached in, and wrapped his hand around Maria Stark's fragile neck.

Howard was a good man. A pilot. He'd flown Steve behind enemy lines, helped Steve save…save him. Save them. So many men. The Howling Commandos.

Howard Stark had recognized him. Crumpled on the ground, Stark had looked up at him and called out. "Sargeant Barnes?" A question, a surprise, a glimmer of hope in that recognition.

Howard Stark had been his friend. How many other friends had they made him kill?

"Bucky…Bucky…" The voice came from far away.

Other voices emerged, distant, but he was barely aware of them.

"Oh, hell, he hadn't remembered this yet?"

"I guess not. Bucky. Bucky, take it easy."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. I thought that's why he was looking at me."

"Shall I summon medical personnel?"

"No, no, not yet. Bucky, it's okay. Look at me. Can you look at me?"

Firm pressure on his shoulders brought him out of the memory.

Steve.

Steve was in front of him, gripping his shoulders, like so many other hands that had pushed him back into the chair and brought electricity. He recoiled against the wall reflexively. The hands released him.

They were in a corner of the room. The couch was tilted backward. Bucky's right shoe was gone.

And he wasn't breathing, he realized, as his lungs screamed. He sucked in a deep, greedy breath.

"That's it," Steve encouraged. "It's okay, Buck. It's going to be okay."

"He was my friend." Bucky gasped. "Your friend. I killed him. He knew me. He said my name." He looked right at me. Saw my face. Did he think I was there to help? "He helped save my life, didn't he? And I killed him."

He couldn't process the assault of images and feelings they evoked. Emotions overwhelmed his brain. He fell back on conditioning, automatic, reflexive. Self-preservation.

Rogers was talking to him. Stark was standing near the door, shoulders hunched, looking smaller than his 6"1' height. Romanoff, Maximoff, the winged man Sam, and the android Vision were all staring at him. He scanned the room. The shoe he'd been wearing was on the floor by the overturned couch.

He turned his gaze back to Rogers and rose to his feet. Rogers moved with him, tensing slightly as if ready for further action, but then moved back a few steps. Bucky walked to the couch, reached down with his right hand, and pushed it upright.

"Bucky?" Rogers held his position.

Bucky turned to him.

"What's going on right now in your head? Are you okay?" Rogers asked.

Bucky nodded curtly. "I'm fine."

He looked at Stark for several long seconds. He thought he should say something to the man. An apology seemed woefully inadequate and hollow. He'd had no choice in the matter, and even if he had, an apology would do nothing to rectify the situation. Howard and Maria Stark would still be dead. He could not bring them or any one of his other victims back.

It was appropriate that he remained confined. He presented a significant danger to those around him. He could do nothing about the soldier's victims, but he could offer his captors compliance.

Stark held his gaze for several of those seconds, then his eyes slid to the side, and he scratched the base of his neck.

Bucky clasped his hands behind his back and stood at attention. "I am ready to comply with whatever consequences you deem appropriate."

Something indecipherable flickered across Stark's face.

From behind, Bucky heard Steve murmur, "Oh no, Buck."

Stark's head came up and he looked straight at Bucky. "It's not going to be like that here. I'm sorry about before. I didn't realize you hadn't remembered that yet. Hell of a way to find out. We're messing this up a bit. It's the first time for something like this for any of us. Help is here, and hopefully we'll get better at this. In the meantime, just relax, and if you need anything, let FRIDAY or any one of us know."

Relax? He couldn't remember how to do that. He couldn't even remember the last time he had.

-0- -0- -0-

Steve sat at one end of the table in the freshly furnished conference room with the others. A briefing table was in the middle, along with a clear screen on the wall. An armchair sat in one corner.

Stark was next to him, the others were clustered around, with the two scientists at the other end of the table. Dr. Helen Cho sat at the head of the table, shifting uncomfortably in her seat and looking anxious. Steve couldn't blame her. After what she'd been through with Ultron only a short time ago, he was grateful she agreed to help them.

A newcomer, Dr. Malec Abodon, took the chair to her right. The man appeared to be in his 70s, with bushy white hair and black-rimmed glasses. Steve had never met the doctor, but both Stark and Romanoff vouched for him. Steve didn't like bringing in someone he didn't know personally, but they were out of their league with Bucky and needed expert advice.

Steve leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. "Thank you for agreeing to help, Dr. Cho, especially after what you've been through recently with Ultron."

Dr. Cho nodded. "I hoped I'd never have to use the regeneration cradle on myself, but" she raised her right arm a bit gingerly, "it's done a decent job. I'd like to help Sergeant Barnes if I can. I know he was a close friend of yours."

Steve sighed heavily. "I've known Bucky my whole life. He's in there, I know it. I see glimpses, but he has these—swings in personality. Back there, when he remembered," Steve gave an apologetic look at Tony and then continued, "Howard and Maria Stark, he broke down. That was Bucky, remembering. But then it was like a switch, and he was…emotionless."

Dr. Helen Cho looked somber, her gaze holding a hint of sympathy. "This isn't my area of expertise. I can leverage my knowledge of cell regeneration and genetics to gain information about what Hydra did to him. Dr. Abodon is the expert on trauma."

Dr. Abodon leaned forward. His expression was flat, but his eyes keen as he met Steve's gaze. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Rogers. I just wish it were under better circumstances. I know you've seen my CV, but if there are any questions you have, I'd be happy to answer them."

Steve nodded. "Thank you. You're a neurosurgeon?" His gut twisted at that implication.

The man nodded. "I spent 15 years as a neurosurgeon, most of that time with John Hopkins. I hold an M.D./Ph.D. and I've spent the last 35 years studying how the brain reacts to and recovers after traumatic brain injuries and psychiatric trauma. I know this is incredibly difficult, watching your friend struggle through this recovery. I'll be honest, I've treated hundreds of people who've suffered serious trauma, but what was done to Sergeant Barnes is uncharted territory. He's the longest held POW in history, and although I've been informed about a few of the things they did to him—the cryo chamber, the chair to wipe his memory, the experiments and sketches detailed in the book Ms. Romanoff recovered—we have to assume that, over the past 71 years, he's been subjected to abuses we can't even fathom. Is there anything else in the book?

"Can we see it?" Dr. Cho asked.

Steve shook his head. "Not an option."

That book contained the code words to control Bucky. Only he, Natasha, and Tony had ever laid actual eyes on the book. It was under a very strong lock and key.

He knew it was likely that, eventually, they'd have to give someone else access to the code words if they had any hope of freeing Bucky from them. First things first, however. Right now, they needed to focus on helping Bucky remember and deal with the trauma of those memories.

The experiments Natasha had translated were…brutal. Inhuman. They'd kept Steve up for three solid nights, his mind conjuring up images of the abuses Bucky had endured. A collar. Conditioning sessions. Neural implants. A list of subjects they compelled him to kill…torturing each one in front of Bucky until either they or Bucky killed the subject, timing how long it took him to end their suffering each time, until, eventually, he stopped hesitating. Sessions in the chair. The notes were abbreviated, so some of their interpretations were guess work. Shorthand had been used. The notes referenced videos, and Steve was grateful they didn't have those videos. He didn't think he'd be able to stomach watching them.

"What you got was a translated copy of the experiments detailed in the book," Natasha informed Abodon. "There's nothing else relevant in the book."

Abodon nodded. "Understood." He sighed, apparently considering his words before continuing. "The experiments reveal that Hydra conditioned him over those seven decades to comply with any order given and, in the process, they suppressed his memories and emotions. They utilized a combination of classical conditioning, operant conditioning, and experimental methods that I've never heard of before. A lot of it appeared to be trial and error. I saw the photos of the electrical device they used from the file you had, Captain Rogers. I have no video to see it in action, but assuming it's an enhanced form of electroconvulsive stimulation, that alone would lead to a variety of adverse side effects, such as the memory loss. In ECT's early use, patients often suffered cracked vertebrae and other broken bones resulting from their violent convulsions. That would be the least of Barnes' problems, though, given his enhanced healing capabilities. Other side effects are retrograde amnesia, confusion, and cerebrovascular events."

Steve tried to maintain a neutral expression. What he really wanted to do was put his fist through the newly-painted wall.

"In essence," Abodon continued, "ECT destroys brain cells. In modern ECT, 180 to 460 volts of electricity are used. According to the notes in the file, Hydra used anywhere from 700 to 3,000 volts of electricity. That type of shock would be fatal to most normal human beings, of course. At the very least, it would cause irreversible brain damage."

"Jesus Christ," Sam whispered.

Steve clenched his hands into fists beneath the table. Was it possible that Bucky's brain was so badly damaged he'd never fully recover? The version of his friend from the future seemed…mostly Bucky. A bit more stoic, depressed, sadder, but still Bucky.

"But, Sergeant Barnes isn't a normal human," Dr. Cho interjected. "We'd need neural scans to know for sure, but from I know about how the serum affects you, Captain Rogers, it's likely that the protective system of regeneration and healing allowed Barnes's neural network to withstand that treatment. I doubt there's any significant loss of brain cells."

"He didn't get the same serum," Steve said. "But his abilities seem on par with mine, strength and speed-wise, anyway. On the other hand, we know there are differences. I got a lot bigger. He didn't – some muscle mass, of course, but not much height-wise."

"We'll know a bit more when we can get some scans of his brain," Dr. Abodon responded. "In fact, I'd like to start with full body X-rays. We won't be able to do an MRI with that arm, unless it happens to be MRI nonreactive. Do we know if the arm is titanium or something else?"

"It's titanium," Stark said. "Nonmagnetic, at least the exterior plates, anyway. And we can do better imaging than old-fashioned X-rays in the labs here. You're in for a surprise, Doc."

"Well, that's something at least," Dr. Cho interjected. "We may need to do a variety of imaging techniques, but we'll start with the basic scans to determine whether the cranial implants diagramed in the book are still in place, and if so, how many we're dealing with and how far down they go. We'll also want make sure there are no other problematic implants we don't know about."

"Wait? Cranial implants?" Disbelief permeated Sam's question.

"Yes." Steve closed his eyes briefly against the mental images the diagram in the red book and the doctor's explanation evoked. "Several of them."

The clinical way the doctor talked about things being forced into Bucky's head turned his stomach. He willed himself to calm the anger in his chest.

"What about his emotional state?" Steve took another, calming breath, trying to focus on next steps. "Back on the plane, he tried to kill himself. He put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger." His voice caught on those last few words.

If he'd been a second later, they wouldn't even be having this conversation. Bucky's body would be somewhere else, no doubt under examination by a team of scientists.

"Then back in the room, when he had that episode—" Steve didn't know what else to call it when someone went into what looked like a flashback-induced emotional breakdown and then suddenly came out of it and acted like he was ordering a drink at Starbucks. "— one minute, he was a complete wreck in the corner of the room, and the next he's on his feet calmly agreeing to submit to whatever punishment we deem appropriate."

"I understand the room is under surveillance," Dr. Abodon began, "is there footage of the incident we can review?"

"Yes," Stark said, giving Steve a quick glance, "it's all recorded."

Steve held his tongue. He knew the surveillance was necessary, especially given Bucky's previous suicide attempt, but he still didn't like the idea of stripping him of all privacy. It made him seem more like an animal in a zoo than a traumatized human being needing a safe place to recover.

"Dr. Cho and I will review the footage later after this meeting," Abodon said.

"What should and shouldn't we do in the meantime?" Steve asked. "The last thing I want to do is step on anymore landmines."

Dr. Cho nodded sympathetically. "For now, we think it's best if you don't bring up anything in the past. We don't know what he does and doesn't remember, and it's best he be allowed to remember the way he has been—at a gradual pace, with time to write the memories down and process them. I understand he's already written quite a bit in the journals. Do you think he'd consent to us copying them? I don't want him to think we're taking them from him, because it's important that he be allowed whatever freedoms we can safely give him. But knowing what he does and doesn't remember would be helpful."

Steve glanced at the light blue digits of the clock set into the wall near the ceiling. Bucky had been alone in the room—with FRIDAY monitoring his status—for almost an hour. Steve knew the A.I. would alert them if there was a problem, but he'd still feel better if he were in the room with Bucky.

"About the episode you mentioned," Dr. Abodon began, "my best guess at this point is that his emotions have been so suppressed for so long, his brain just doesn't know how to deal with them. The resurgence of traumatic memories that he's experiencing would be hard enough for even the most emotionally stable, well-adjusted person to deal with, yet alone someone whose had their emotions shocked out of them for the past 70 years. The stoic state you describe sounds like a shutdown of those emotions. He's falling back into the Hydra conditioning—compliance and affectlessness—likely as a defense mechanism."

Dr. Cho shifted uncomfortably in her seat and cleared her throat. "It's also important to remember what he's used to. Based on the notes, lack of compliance led to severe punishment, both for himself, and uh, others they used when direct punishment wasn't having the desired effect. You mentioned he was willing to submit to some kind of punishment earlier. Try not to react adversely to those type of things, no matter how shocking. He'll need calm and confidence from us. Can we see how he's doing now?"

Stark swiveled in his seat toward the screen. "FRIDAY, bring up Barnes."

The transparent panel sprang to life with a view of the kitchenette. Bucky was standing at the counter in front of a Keurig machine at the counter coffee station, his head cocked quizzically. He seemed to be inspecting the buttons at the front. Then he found the lid and lifted it, then closed it, then lifted it again. He pressed a button on the front, and, after a moment, water poured down, cascading through the cupless space below and spilling onto the counter and the floor.

Quickly, he lifted the machine and set in the sink next to it, then searched the cabinets above. He found the mugs, eyed the machine, and opened more drawers and cabinets. Steve wasn't sure what Bucky was looking for, but it was obvious he'd never seen a Keurig machine before, which wasn't at all surprising being that they were a recent invention, and he was pretty sure Bucky wasn't hanging out in some Hydra break room pouring coffee and talking around a water cooler.

No, he spent his breaks in a cryogenic chamber.

"Okay, well, we could have done a better job on the orientation," Stark admitted. "Also, the Keurig was my bad. Potts wanted eco-friendly. We can break down the pods into reusable materials, though, so I call it a compromise. We did think about giving him a 1940s room, but he's not Cap waking up as a 70-year old ice sculpture. Barnes knows what year he's in. I thought it might be condescending to just put him in some 1940s aquarium without the benefit of modern luxuries. Who wants to spend that much time in some room with only a bed, couch, and vinyl record player?" He snapped his fingers and looked at the ceiling. "I forgot to show him the gaming system."

A hint of a smile played at Dr. Cho's lips. "Well, he's exploring. That's a good sign."

"FRIDAY," Bucky's voice sounded from the screen, "what is this machine?"

"It is a Keurig," came the accented reply. "I believe you would know it as a coffee maker."

Bucky cocked his head and lifted the lid of the machine, peering inside. "Is this little area where the coffee grounds go? Why is it so small?"

"The machine uses pods designed for single serving use. I can play a video on the screen to show you how to use the device, if you'd like?"

"I remember what coffee is," Bucky muttered, almost as though it were a surprise, then he seemed to hesitate. "Do I drink coffee?"

"The information I have from Captain Rogers is that you did, in the 1940s. Shall I play the instructional video?"

Bucky shook his head. "No."

He turned and grabbed the black journal from the top of the refrigerator and opened it. A pen was stashed inside, and he jotted something down quickly, then closed the book and placed it back on top of the refrigerator.

"After we review the footage from his earlier episode," Dr. Abodon said, "I'd like to arrange an initial session with him. Tomorrow perhaps? He's had a lot thrown at him today. I don't want to throw anymore his way right now."

"How are his physical injuries?" Dr. Cho asked. "I understand he sustained three GSWs? One serious, two minor?"

"The most serious one in his abdomen," Steve answered, "A graze to his arm and another graze to his head. He also stopped breathing for over 12 minutes and, of course, there was the hypothermia. He seems to be recovering as quickly as I do. I don't think there's anything urgent we need to deal with….FRIDAY, kill the Barnes feed."

The image vanished. Steve didn't think it right to continue to invade Bucky's privacy any more than necessary. He wondered how the other Bucky had managed to recover. Stark had mentioned help from another country—experts in Wakanda, but he knew nothing more than that, or at least, Tony wasn't telling if he did.

From the little bit of research Steve had done, he knew Wakanda was a reclusive, agricultural country. He'd have to have a conversation with Tony privately, not in front of Cho and Abodon. Neither of the doctors knew about their time travel excursion.

"Okay, so first thing tomorrow morning," Dr. Cho concluded, "I'll pay a visit to Barnes, do a medical exam if he'll let me, and talk to him about some of the imaging tests we'd like to run."

"Thank you, Doctors." Steve rose from his chair. "The Bucky I knew used to stay up late and rise late, so let's make it a late morning, just in case. Say, ten?"

AUTHOR'S NOTES

I posted a bit early this week - I figured no one would mind (It's Saturday somewhere). As always, I appreciate hearing from you. I'll take any comments you're willing to give.

Shout OUTS to:

AshaCrone – for making a comment in one of my fics about Bucky being the longest serving POW.

KLeCrone – She uncovered a canon-compliant sketch of interior pages of the Red Book that showed cranial implants (check out her wonderful Winter of the White Wolf story). I was already writing this story when I saw it and thought, "Well, dang! Now it's canonnish and I have to include it". My spin is slightly different (studying the book, looking at whether they intend things to be drawn to scale, and basic science-feasibility), but the horribleness behind it really does pack an emotional wallup.

Fictitious - Thanks for Beta Reading!