Chapter 11
WARNING for themes of intense mental anguish and self harm. If this will trigger you, please stop reading after the line "he answered her with a kiss" and skip from there to the last eight paragraphs.
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It took nearly three days to reach Peggy's contacts.
The time wasn't wasted. Slowly, little by little, Bucky's comfort with the rest of the team seemed to be increasing. He was learning to accept food from any of them now and looked less wary when they approached him, though he still flinched violently when touched. Dugan was especially good at working with him. The second night out he even took the night shift, allowing Steve to sleep for the first time since they'd rescued Bucky.
"I got this," he reassured Steve. "Otherwise someone'll see those big circles under your eyes and think you're a raccoon and shoot you."
And although Steve had been concerned about leaving Bucky to someone else's care, he'd relented, and been grateful for the sleep.
Bucky hadn't bolted either, not since that first day, though the wild look had come back into his eyes more than once. After Dernier got a swift punch to the face that blackened his eye and loosened two teeth, the rest of the team had quickly learned to back off at such moments. Steve was the only one who could get close.
As for Morita—well. He got no better.
He gamely kept his teeth shut against the pain, but they could all see how much he was hurting. They kept the bandages fresh and the wound as clean as possible, but his breathing wasn't right, and they worried about infection.
Sometimes, lurching along in the back of the truck, Steve saw an odd look in Bucky's eyes as he watched their wounded friend. After all, the two men had been locked together in a cage at the prison camp during the war. Steve wondered if perhaps some of those memories were filtering through.
It was a relief when they finally reached Peggy's contacts.
The elderly couple's scowls melted into slightly less grim expressions of welcome as soon as Peggy hopped down from the first truck. A short exchange later, Peggy waved her husband over.
"They're willing to help," she translated as Steve joined her. "But the house isn't big enough for all of us. They'll only let Morita and I in."
Steve nodded. He had expected as much. "Thank you," he told the couple, groping for the correct word. "Ďakujem."
It was the wrong language—Sokovian, he immediately realized—but the couple nodded gravely anyway. Then the old woman looked at his hand, at the wedding ring that matched Peggy's, and smiled so suddenly that her face actually transformed. She said something, nodding.
Peggy turned pink. Steve nudged her. "What?"
"She's telling me it was about time," she answered. "She says I got a good looking husband."
Steve grinned and threaded his fingers between his wife's, nodding at the woman. "I got the better end of the deal," he told her, and even though she didn't speak a word of English, her answering smile conveyed her understanding.
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While the elderly couple didn't have much formal medical training, experience had proved a better teacher than most. They cleaned and rebandaged Morita's side with obvious skill and then forced a homemade remedy down his throat before setting to work with steam, wool, and hot and cold baths.
"How's it going?" Steve asked in a low voice, leaning in the window. The sun was beginning to dip low—they'd been working over his friend for hours.
"They're trying to break the fever and clear his lungs," Peggy explained, crossing the tiny room and reaching across the whitewashed windowsill to squeeze her husband's hands reassuringly. Steve nodded and leaned in to get a glimpse of his friend. Morita was grey, and his returning smile was more of a weak grimace than anything else, but it was a smile and Steve took comfort in that.
"They told me to tell you we can have the barn out back," Peggy continued. "They've been storing feed in it, but it's got a room on the ground floor where we can bed down for the night, and it's weather-tight."
Steve nodded. He was grateful for this old couple and their willingness to go out on a limb for himself and his team. "Sounds like a plan," he agreed. "One night under a roof certainly won't hurt, and it'll give Buck a chance to sleep somewhere other than a truck."
The place smelled like musty grain, but was indeed much better than a truck. The main floor consisted of a large room half-filled with sacks of feed, with a narrow hallway and shaky staircase leading to a darkened upper floor. As the evening got later, Gabe got a fire going in a scorched iron dish, and by throwing together sacks of feed, they were able to come up with passable mattresses. They even warmed up a bucket of water, indulging in a much-needed wash and a cursory attempt to rinse the worst of the dirt out of their clothes for the first time in days.
It was high time, too. No wonder the couple hadn't wanted them in the house.
Tugging on the last clean undershirt he had left, Steve tossed his damp shirt over a rafter to dry and then turned to paw through the general litter of backpacks and feed sacks, growing more and more annoyed.
"Hey, Dum Dum, where's my pack at? It was right here."
Dugan shrugged. He was busy putting together sleeping accommodations for Bucky, who stood still just inside the door, eyes fixed on nothing. He'd be taking the first Bucky-watch, they'd agreed. "Not sure. Think it's upstairs."
Steve was quite sure he hadn't put it up there, but nobody offered an explanation. Looking around, he suddenly realized that none of the men would meet his eye—and Dugan's mustache was definitely curling up at the edges.
In fact, except for Bucky, they all seemed to be hiding a smile.
"Okay," he said at last, suspecting a trick, and climbed the rickety flight of stairs.
The second level consisted of a narrow loft littered with farming equipment. Light shone beneath a door at the end—probably some sort of living space for a hired hand. Steve crossed the small landing and turned the handle.
He'd been prepared to laugh or yelp. He did neither.
Instead he caught his breath.
The room was small and the ceiling sagged suspiciously on one side, but it was neat and meticulously swept. On the table a candle burned, the glowing candlelight illuminating the freshly made up bed. He recognized his own army blanket and hers doing duty as the coverlet, and his missing pack leaned innocently against the wall, but all of that only registered vaguely in his subconscious, because Peggy was there, perched on the edge of the mattress, brushing her hair.
Steve stared. Then he crossed the threshold and shut the door behind him. If any of his men had followed him up the stairs, he didn't want them seeing his wife like this. Peggy laid down her brush. Her red mouth curled into the mischievous smile he loved so much. "You'll catch flies if you're not careful, Darling."
He shut his mouth as an afterthought. Then, "Shouldn't Morita get the bed?"
"Oh absolutely," Peggy agreed. "But he's sleeping in the house tonight. And the rest said something about it being our honeymoon, which, in fact, it is. Did you know you have a team of romantics, Captain?"
Her question didn't register. Steve was too busy looking at his wife. Her peignoir set would probably have been considered downright old-fashioned by the standards of the century Steve had so recently left, but it was more than enough to strike him both deaf and dumb.
"I didn't know you'd packed that," he managed at last.
Peggy looked down at herself. "It packs down very, very small," she admitted. Rising, she approached him slowly, tracing his collar with one finger. "And you know, it is our honeymoon."
He devoured her with his eyes. "Bucky?" he rasped, torn between desire to be with his wife and concern for his friend.
"Dugan will rap on the door when it's your watch," she promised. "And he's under strict orders to report if anything goes wrong. But you know how good he's been with Barnes—and besides," she dropped her voice, eyes dancing, "I wanted my husband all to myself at least once on our honeymoon."
He looked down at her, at her dark curls and bright eyes, at the secret smile that was for him alone. She was beautiful. She was so, so beautiful, and she was his, and in that moment it was almost more than he could believe.
"Why, Mrs. Rogers." He grinned, suddenly too joyful to contain himself. He raised a teasing eyebrow. "Are you suggesting something?"
Peggy rose on her toes, her face an inch from his. "Is it working?"
He answered her with a kiss.
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The feed sacks were comfortable. Which was why Dugan desperately wanted to go try his out and get some shut-eye.
First, though, he had to get Bucky settled.
At some point in the evening, Barnes had moved from his place by the door to a shadowed corner, sitting cross-legged on the ground. He rocked back and forth, and as Dugan approached him, he realized the younger man was fidgeting with his arm again.
No—that wasn't what was happening.
With a cold chill of fear, Dugan suddenly realized that it wasn't a shadow coating Bucky's flesh hand. It was blood—Bucky's own blood.
The man was tearing at the shoulder connecting to his metal arm with a dogged ferocity that he hadn't shown since his rescue.
He was trying to pull his metal arm off.
"Hey, Sarge." Dugan's voice sharpened. "Don't—don't." He reached for Bucky's arm, but Bucky shrank back, snarling almost savagely. He was shaking, Dugan realized—shaking violently from head to toe. Shining trails down his cheeks betrayed tears, but the man didn't seem to realize he was crying.
"It's okay," Dugan tried to soften the alarm in his tone so he wouldn't spook the young man. "Just let go of your shoulder."
Bucky's scrabbling fingers caught at the edge of his metal arm where it joined the flesh. He yanked hard—skin tore. Dugan reached for his arm again, and got a blow to the wrist that left his hand numb and tingling.
By that point, the others were aware of the problem. Gabe approached slowly, hands held low. "Barnes," he said gently. "Barnes, it's okay. Take a deep breath for me, okay?"
Bucky didn't take a deep breath. Instead he yanked at the arm again, hissing with unconscious pain.
Gabe went to grab his arm. So did Dugan.
It didn't work.
Bucky yanked away—and then in one fluid movement, reached for the gun at Gabe's side. Shocked, Gabe only barely managed to jerk away in time.
For a horrifying moment, Dugan thought Bucky would keep grappling for the weapon. Instead, he wrenched again at his arm. More flesh tore, painting his hand and his chest with fresh blood. Whimpering deep in his throat, he turned and bashed his own head savagely into the wall.
"Get the Captain," Falsworth ordered, standing as though he were about to march up there himself.
Dugan shook his head. "Have a heart, man. It's their honeymoon, and we just got Steve upstairs."
Bucky bared his teeth in what could only be a sob of sheer agony, and tried to ram his head into the wall again. Gabe grappled with him, successfully pausing Bucky's attack on himself for only a moment, before being thrown back bodily with a snap of bone and a cry of pain.
"Okay, okay." Never let it be said that a Dugan didn't know when he was beat. "Keep him from killing himself until I can get Steve down here."
He made as much noise as he could going up the stairs, and knocked at the door above.
No reply. He knocked again. If he strained his ears, he could hear indistinct murmurs, but nothing addressed to him.
"Cap," he said loudly. "We need you downstairs. Barnes is trying to put his head through the wall."
A shocked exclamation—a thump—and then Steve yanked open the door with such strength that it nearly came off its hinges. Dugan was relieved to note he was still fairly decent, though telltale lipstick stained his face and his hair looked as though someone had been running her fingers through it. "He's what?"
"Ramming his head into the wall and trying to tear off his metal arm," Dugan repeated. "It's not a pretty sight."
Five words into his explanation, Steve spun on his heel and sprang across the room, upending his pack where it lay against the wall and pawing through the contents. Dugan risked a glance around the room and discovered Peggy was nowhere in sight. Process of elimination dictated that she must be behind the door.
Steve snatched up a small black case from the jumble of gear he'd shaken out of his pack. He swore softly under his breath as he stood and turned. "Peggy…"
"Go," she ordered, and Dugan had been right—she was behind the door. "I'll be right down."
Steve cleared the flight of stairs in one jump, his momentum slamming him into the wall below as he skidded through the turn in his stocking feet and burst into the main room.
The sight that struck his eyes nearly broke his heart.
Bucky seemed to be bent on either beating himself into unconsciousness, or breaking his own skull, whichever came first. He was keening, blood streaming down his bruised face, still wrenching at the plates in his left arm with his right hand. Dernier was unsuccessfully trying to get him into a headlock to keep him from hurting himself more, but he wasn't strong enough. Gabe cradled what looked like a broken arm. The other members of the team were dragging sacks of feed to stack against the bloodstained wall in an attempt to provide padding.
"Back off," Steve heard himself order. "Give him space."
Dimly he saw the rest of the team draw back, but his attention remained focused on Bucky. Crouching, he made his way carefully closer, trying to keep himself as unintimidating as possible. Bucky's head smacked again into the wall, and Steve winced on his brother's behalf.
"Buck," he said softly, kneeling and edging forward until his knees were only a few inches from his friend's crossed legs. "Bucky, can you hear me?"
Bucky's breath was uneven and ragged, each exhale coming on an unconscious moan between clenched teeth. Every tendon, every muscle stood out. Tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting trails through the blood that flowed freely from his forehead. He was clearly in both mental and physical agony.
Steve had been warned this might happen. The papers in his slim file included reports of self-harm and erratic behavior during the early years of Bucky's torture. His captors treated it with restraints and increased wiping, and eventually it had all but vanished as Bucky lost more and more of himself.
Steve prayed he had a better solution.
Moving slowly, forecasting each movement, he reached out and settled a hand on Bucky's good shoulder. "It's me," he whispered. "It's Steve."
The sound of his name triggered something in Bucky's brain. The hand yanking at his metal shoulder stilled, though he still rocked back and forth. Bloodshot blue eyes slowly raised until they briefly met Steve's own—tortured eyes that begged for help he could not put into words.
"Can you let me know what's wrong?" Steve asked softly—not because he didn't know, but because he needed to know Bucky's level of responsiveness.
It took several minutes and a few repetitions, but at last Bucky's flesh hand travelled up and clenched a handful of his own hair in a white-knuckled grip. He tried to look Steve straight in the eye, almost succeeded, and then wrenched at his hair hard, twice. Harsh, shallow exhalations shook his body in what sounded very like a series of sobs.
Then he turned and tried to ram his head into the wall again. Steve interposed his hand instead, and the impact nearly broke a few of his fingers.
"Hey," he soothed, cupping his brother's head in his hands and feeling his heart split open. "Hey. It's gonna be okay, Buck. It's gonna be okay."
When he was fairly sure Bucky wouldn't try to brain himself for the next couple moments at least, Steve undid the zipper on the small black case in his lap, and flipped it open. The specialty kimoyo beads Shuri had put together as one of Bucky's many therapy tools gleamed up at him. He picked up two, detaching them from the bracelet.
"Hey, Buck," he said gently. "I got something that might help. Will you let me try?"
The Bucky from before had worked hard to develop personal autonomy. This Bucky didn't seem to understand the idea of permission, but Steve persisted. "Is this okay?"
Bucky's shuddering gasps increased, involuntary grunts forcing their way between his teeth, and Steve decided to count that as sufficient.
Carefully, he reached out, one bead in each hand, and pressed them gently but firmly against Bucky's temples. He felt the vibration as they recognized the other man's genetic signature and activated.
Bucky froze in place. His eyes flew wide, his face slackened.
Then a long, slow breath escaped him, and he closed his eyes in unmistakable relief. Fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. Trembling, he reached up and flattened his palm over Steve's fingers even as he leaned into Steve's other hand, pressing the beads closer against his head.
Steve felt his own eyes grow damp. "It's okay, Buck," he whispered. "I got you."
Slowly, the tension left Bucky's shoulders, and then his back. He sank forward to drop his face against Steve's knee, good hand still clamped over Steve's fingers.
The room was very quiet.
Steve didn't want to look up. He knew every man in the room would be staring at him. He'd hoped to be able to use the kimoyo beads someplace private, without the others to look on and ask questions, but that hadn't been a possibility. The beads in his hands remained cool, vibrating softly against Bucky's skin. From what Shuri had said, they were mapping and repairing neural damage, capable of gently soothing or stimulating targeted parts of the brain. They'd been programmed with over 120,000 programs that, over time and coupled with other therapy, should help aid Bucky's recovery both short- and long-term.
But that was all in the future. For now, he was just incredibly grateful that he could offer his friend relief.
Fabric brushed his arm, and Peggy knelt at his side. She was wearing his greatcoat, cinched at the waist to fit her, and carried a bowl of steaming water. Wordlessly, she began to sponge the blood away from as much of Bucky's head as she could reach around her husband's hands.
Steve Rogers wasn't sure he'd ever loved her more than at that moment.
"He'll have a concussion," Peggy warned, wrapping a clean bandage around Bucky's bleeding head. It was somewhat awkward, given the placement of Steve's hands, but she managed.
"I only hope he didn't crack his skull," Steve responded, keeping his voice low. "How's his arm?"
Bucky's arm and shoulder were, if possible, worse than his head. He'd dug great gouges out of his own flesh, and the plates of his metal arm were wet and slippery with blood. They stuck out at odd angles, providing glimpses of broken gears and bent cogs and something pink and quivering that Steve suddenly knew he did not want to see.
Peggy's voice was filled with horror. "There's—Steve, they've stretched his muscles down into the arm."
He swallowed against sudden rage and nausea at the constant pain his brother was undergoing. The arm he had been familiar with hadn't had that feature. "Let's bend the plates back into place at least, and find a sling for him. Tony will have to take a look at it."
Peggy's hands paused ever so briefly before she dropped the bloody rag into the bowl and reached for a fresh bandage. "Howard," she corrected softly.
Steve opened his mouth and then closed it. He'd made that same mistake so many times the other way around. Evidently he was doomed to forever confuse the two Starks. "Howard," he agreed.
They all bedded down at last, the rest of the Commandos retiring silently to their makeshift beds. Bucky stayed on the floor, his head in Steve's lap, the beads still pressed to his temples. Steve shifted to look inquiringly at Peggy as she draped a blanket over Bucky and another around his own shoulders, but she shook her head.
"I told Falsworth to help Gabe up the stairs once they set his arm," she said, and sat beside him, dragging half of his blanket around herself and snuggling into his side. Then she licked her thumb, rubbing at the lipstick on his face. "He'll rest better in a real bed."
His hands were busy holding the beads in place, so Steve dropped his head to brush his wife's cheek with his nose. A glimpse of lace caught his eye, peeping from under the collar of the greatcoat she was wearing. "I'm sorry about tonight," he whispered, softly, so only she could hear. He had very much wanted to spend time with his wife.
"It's all right," she whispered back. "We're a family, Steve. We do things together, and that includes taking care of the people who are important to us."
He nodded, eyelashes fluttering as he bent to kiss her fervently, not caring who else might see. "Thank you," he breathed, and felt her smile against his lips as she warmly returned his kiss.
She dozed off against his shoulder a few minutes later. Steve's bruised hand grew stiff as he held the bead to his brother's temple, but he didn't dare readjust it. Instead he laid his cheek against Peggy's hair and closed his eyes, listening as his men dropped off to sleep one by one, their breaths growing longer and deeper.
They were alive. They were safe. Morita was getting the care he needed.
For tonight, it was enough.
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Just a reminder: if you are dealing with mental distress or self harm, know that you can get help. Please, please, please reach out to a trusted adult or call or text a local hotline (findahelpline . com). Just like Bucky, you are worth it. *hugs*
I really stressed over and delayed posting this chapter for thematic reasons. I don't want to trivialize the courage and strength of those who put in the work to recover from mental trauma, and I am aware that introducing kimoyo beads as a potential tool to help Bucky may come across as a bit of a handwavey solution. But remember—many of the therapy tools and techniques of today weren't developed yet when this story takes place. So, in the interest of helping Bucky someday attain the recovery so many of his fellow WWII veterans struggled to reach, I felt this would be appropriate. Besides, I am 100% sure that Wakanda, with their advanced techniques of healing the body, would also develop advanced tools to heal the mind as well.
Here's hoping that the real-life future will continue to bring better and more effective ways of treating and healing mental trauma and illness.
(Oh, and speaking of medical techniques: the elderly couple is practicing hydrotherapy on Morita. it went out of date with the advent of penicillin, but WWII medics and others still used it when they ran out of drugs.)
Guest reviews:
my-secret-garden: awww, thank you so much! And I'm glad Peggy's approach to handling Bucky rang true to you. I am not a mental health expert or therapist by any means, but I'm trying to handle the topic sensitively. Thanks so much for your kind review!
