A/N: Bit of a longer chapter for you here! Be warned, here thar be angst and hurt/comfort.

Special thanks to my reviewers and followers!

The "later" he had been promising himself for dealing with all of his thoughts came much sooner than he would have liked.

In all reality, he would have liked if it never came.

But, despite his hopes, it did, and it crashed over him with a turbulent velocity that left him staggering.

He had been standing in front of the sleek mounted screen in his room, mindlessly debating on asking Jarvis how to work it, when his focus slipped entirely from the apartment surrounding him and dove deep into his mind, wave after wave after wave of flashing images pouring over his vision mercilessly as he was betrayed by his own brain. His head felt like it had been rammed by a train as explosions of impossibly bright color burst in front of his eyes, and he dimly noted he was gripping his hair hard enough to yank it straight from his skull as pain prickled his skin.

His knees collided harshly with the floor as he grit his teeth against a yell of agony, and before he could try to desperately shove all of the raging emotions back into their place, he went under.

Anguish. Absolute anguish. Fear. Desperation. Freezing, burning at the same time. Shades of deep red, so dark, impossibly dark. So red they were almost purple, stark against the pristine white of the snow. It was puddled around him, and it was burning him, burning, no freezing, it was freezing, he could't feel anymore, he couldn't, it had to stop-

Faces. Names. No no no no, they couldn't be here, he had to get away, had to escape. Words, useless words, he couldn't tell what they meant. Didn't they know he couldn't hear them? He was already dead, he was certain of it. He felt it. He was numb, so numb, but he wasn't, he was in agony. Every cell was being tortured, every breath sending spasms of pain through his very core. He heard screaming, and he knew it couldn't have possibly come from him, because he was dead. He had to be dead. He knew he was dead. He had fallen. He'd fallen, down, and down, and down, and down, and it had hurt, oh god it had hurt-

There was a haze of nothing for the longest time, and then the agony escalated tenfold, and every nerve in his body was screaming, and he couldn't make it stop, he couldn't, and he never believed he would have wanted to die as much as he did then. Something was wrong, so incredibly wrong, he couldn't feel his arm, what did they do to his arm, why was it so numb? He needed to move, he had to leave, someone was restraining him, and someone was screaming, shouting, growling, and then there was a sharp pain to his neck and then nothing.

Cold metal glided smoothly over his shoulder, and he thought it was wrong somehow, but he didn't question it. He couldn't question it. He had a job to do. He had targets. Contracts. Missions. Orders. Obey the orders, just obey the orders, don't ask too many questions, they'll hurt you. He wasn't so sure that was a bad thing, though. He needed to feel.

He needed to feel.

Fire and heat. Rattling gunfire and silence. Explosions ripping lives apart, tearing them from their future. Leaving nothing but ash, nothing behind. It's what he did. And damn, he did it well.

A mission. A result. Freezing cold and nothing. Heat. A mission. A result. Freezing cold and nothing. Heat.

A mission.

But he knew him.

The man from the bridge- Steve, something inside of him had tried to scream out desperately. The man's stricken face when he saw what he had become. The give of his flesh as he punched him, over and over and over, because he was his mission, and missions needed results-

Steve's face, bloody and bruised and broken by his hand.

And he fell.

Guilt. Overwhelming, all encompassing guilt.

So many were dead because of him. He'd killed too many, snuffed them out like flames. And Steve. Steve. His best friend. He almost killed his best friend. So much guilt. Too much guilt, too much, he had to get away, had to make it stop, had to get away, oh god, what had he done-

"Sergeant Barnes."

Nonononono that wasn't him anymore, stop it, he was a monster-

"Sergeant Barnes, shall I alert Captain Rogers?"

Jarvis' low voice broke into his thoughts, and Bucky rose from the unexpected attack with a dry sob. He dimly realized he was curled on his side, his knees drawn taught to his chin and his hands fisted painfully in his hair. The AI spoke again calmly, and Bucky latched on to the voice like it was a lifeline.

"I can send for him immed-"

"No!" Bucky surprised himself with the vehement outburst, his voice strangled. With more effort than he would have liked, he unclenched his muscles, uncurling from his embarrassing fetal position and sitting up to lean against the edge of the couch as he sucked in a ragged breath. "No," he repeated, the word slightly stronger now that he could actually breathe. He tilted his head back to rest it against the couch as the sound of his breathing grew slightly more steady. He was still gasping, but the noise wasn't overwhelming his senses now. Jarvis was suspiciously quiet, and Bucky's muscles froze up again.

"Did you call him? Jarvis, don't call him, please-"

The AI interrupted his frantic plea, his tone oddly soothing. "I have not, Sergeant Barnes. Although I highly suggest it-"

Bucky shook his head hard enough to rekindle the explosive migraine that had started just before the attack. "I can't. I can't see him right now, I can't." He couldn't stop the stream of words, and before he knew it, he was babbling senselessly to the ceiling. "You don't understand, I could have killed him. So many times, I came so close, and I never would've known. I wouldn't have known. I would've kept killing, kept obeying, and I never would've known. His face, Jarvis. I can still see… I can… I can't, Jarvis, please. I can't do it right now. I can't, please, I can't…" He trailed off pathetically, the last stream of "can't"s ending in a whisper.

The sudden silence in the room closed in on him, and he was unsurprised to find his face wet from overwhelmed tears. He swiped them away distractedly, his ears straining for a response from the AI as his heart hammered rapidly against his ribs.

He had almost convinced himself Jarvis would ignore everything he said and call Steve anyways when the accented voice reappeared, the tone low and calm.

"May I suggest… the gym, then, sir. The thirty fourth floor is currently unoccupied, and the equipment is of the highest grade." There was a pause as he seemingly let that sink in. Then, he followed up with something that genuinely confused Bucky. "Mister Stark has just used it earlier this morning for testing. He… 'blew off some steam', as it were, and the floor was still intact. I doubt any damage could be done."

Bucky sat in silence for a moment, his body still as he processed just what Jarvis was suggesting. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping the last of the moisture away as he leaned against the couch to lever himself into a standing position. He nodded slowly before tilting his head back to address Jarvis in full, his voice steadier as he poured as much conviction as he could into his next words. He didn't have to try too hard, as they were well and truly genuine.

"Thank you."

Jarvis was silent.

And so Bucky found himself laying flat on the weight bench of the eerily quiet gymnasium, his arms working furiously to lift the free weight over his chest as his shirt clung to the sweat on his torso. He had stood for a long time at the entrance of the enormous room, his eyes roving over the equipment (and curiously taking in the charred remains of a pile of boxing dummies)before settling on the solid bench and the pile of weights beside it. It hadn't taken him long to stack on the heaviest of the weights and start lifting, his mind drifting into a hypnotic rhythm of the lift that was infinitely better than the chaos that had just exploded in his mind only minutes before.

He was recovering from the initial attack slowly, but surely.

Which of course meant round two was bound to happen sooner rather than later.

It all went to hell when some idiotic part of his mind decided to vent the tension of his muscles into a punching bag.

There was already a weighted bag dangling from a hook on the ceiling in the corner, and as Bucky wandered quietly over to it, he could feel his arms and shoulders tightening in preparation. Each step forward brought some new, tiny change in him, and by the time he was standing in front of the bag, he was coiled for attack.

He lashed out furiously, his flesh hand striking the bag with a satisfying thud.

The lack of any mental reaction to the feeling spurred him on, and he danced back away from the swinging bag lightly, his feet silent as they barely skimmed over the mats. He bobbed as he moved, his fists held high as he jabbed here and there, testing the bag's limits. After a minute or so of simple weaving and striking, he decided to test Jarvis' statement of the durability of the equipment and swung wildly with his prosthetic, locking the joints and adding as much extra force as he could to the hydraulics. His curled fist hit the bag solidly and sent it flying wildly into the air-

-but the chain did not break, and the bag swung back to smack him neatly in the face.

He stumbled back slightly, rubbing his smarting jaw as he eyed the bag appreciatively. Jarvis hadn't been kidding.

With the durability of the bag confirmed, Bucky rolled his shoulders and sucked in a deep breath.

Then, he released all of the hell he had been living for the past fifty years on the miserable sack of sand.

His fists and feet flew with lightning speed, his arms practically a blur as he spun and ducked around the wildly swinging bag. He held no force in, choosing instead to vent all of the emotion, all of the guilt, all of the pain and suffering and resentment into the bag. Each solid hit dispersed an emotion, and he pulled his mouth into a grim line of satisfaction as sweat broke out on his face and he fell into a hypnotic pattern of carnage.

Duck. Weave. Right hook. Uppercut. Block. Jab. Jab. Jab. Roundhouse. Duck. Weave. Left hook. Uppercut. Block. Jab. Jab. Jab. Roundhouse. Duck. Weave.

Right hook.

Uppercut.

Right hook.

"Then finish it."

Pull back for a left hook.

Pause.

"'Cause I'm with you to the end of the line."

And there was Steve's face, broken and bloody and resigned. His friend. His brother. Practically dead on the sand.

Because of him.

Bucky let loose a hoarse yell as he flung his flesh fist at the bag with more force than he thought possible, and he heard a sickening crack that reverberated up his arm. He ignored it, his teeth grit against the sudden flare of pain. The bag spun wildly, but it wasn't enough for him. He needed to see it in pieces. He had to do something, had to get everything out, had to vent it, it was destroying him—

He pulled back his prosthetic, ignoring the creaks and groans it gave as he locked the joints in place and shoved as much power into the thrust as he could. He let the fist fly straight and true, and it rammed into the bag with an enormous slam that echoed off of the cold walls of the empty gymnasium.

The chain didn't break.

But the bag did.

The canvas exploded, sand spilling out onto the floor in slowly growing heaps as Bucky sank to the ground beside it, his face buried in shaking hands. He sat like that for a long while, just listening to the soft hissing of the sand escaping the bag and shutting his eyes tightly, as if maybe he could just block out everything that had happened and pass it off as a really, really intricate, detailed bad dream.

Right.

God, he was such a child.

It wasn't until after the bag was well and truly empty that Bucky became aware of the stinging on the back of his hand. He pulled them both away from his face and rotated his flesh hand to find the source of the throbbing ache. He was vaguely surprised to find his knuckles a mass of slowly swelling, viscously bleeding gouges, his thumb dangling at an angle that definitely didn't look right to him. He stared down at them momentarily before a slightly hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest.

And suddenly, he couldn't stop.

He laughed until tears streamed down his face and his sides felt like they were on fire. He laughed until his throat went raw and his voice ran hoarse, and even then, he kept laughing. He laughed until he sobbed, and he knew Jarvis was watching, but he couldn't bring himself to give a damn.

He laughed more than he had in his combined week at the tower, and he hated himself for it.

It took a long while for him to regain his composure and trail off with a long whoosh of a hysterical, wavering giggle, and when he did, he felt more drained than he ever had after any mission.

Well, maybe not that mission.

When he finally found it in himself to scrub a hand over his face and stand, he made his way slowly back to the elevator. He stepped into the small space somewhat guiltily as he realized he would have to exchange words with Jarvis, and as the doors closed, he spoke quietly.

"Not quite as durable as you thought it was."

There was a moment of silence before Jarvis responded with a short, neutral "so it would seem."

Bucky found himself starting to appreciate the AI a bit more than he had initially.

He didn't sound too peeved, so Bucky let the matter drop. He ran his hand over his face wearily, wincing at the pull on the gashes and what was undoubtedly a broken thumb. He'd need to address that.

Or maybe he wouldn't.

Maybe he'd just go pass out and never leave his bed again.

He found himself speaking without fully meaning to, the words directed at the ceiling of the elevator. "Where's the first aid equipment, Jarvis?"

God, did he really sound that wrecked?

Jarvis' voice broke through his sluggish disgust, and he blinked as he strained to listen. "There is a first aid kit located inside the cabinet over the sink in every bathroom of the tower." There was a pause before the AI continued slowly. "Shall I call a doctor for you? I can recommend four in the immediate area who are sworn to silence."

Bucky was quiet for a brief moment before he shook his head slowly and scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Just…take me to my floor," he ordered, his voice toneless. The sooner he got back to his room, the sooner he could sort through his miserable life one disaster at a time. The elevator bobbed slightly before it began its ascent smoothly without a word from the operator.

Bucky wasn't sure if he appreciated or resented that.

The doors slid open much sooner than he had expected them to, and he stepped out distractedly as he tried to remember just which level his floor was actually on. He hadn't really taken the initiative to remember. It wasn't until the smell of incense and a muffled noise that sounded suspiciously like running water filtered through his awareness that he finally looked up from his tattered hand. He stopped in his tracks and blinked dully in confusion at the sight before him.

This wasn't the floor he shared with Steve.

This was someone else's floor entirely, and by the looks of it, the occupant wasn't too far away.

The short hallway that acted as the entrance tapered off into a small area that looked like a makeshift workspace of some sort, a stack of clipped papers and a ridiculously thick book balanced on the edge of a sleek counter alongside what looked like an incredibly high tech microscope of some sort that easily took up half of the desk. A small kitchenette wrapped around a pillar in the center of the room, and the candle giving off the tangy smell Bucky had only just noticed was the only object visible on the immaculate countertop.

Bucky had just opened his mouth to ask Jarvis why he had dropped him here when the inhabitant of the floor rounded the corner from the door leading to what had to be the main apartment.

The man froze in surprise at the sight of Bucky standing frozen with his hand cradled in the doorway, and the two stood staring awkwardly at each other for a long moment as Bucky's eyes rapidly scanned over the man's greying hair and thin glasses.

He had to be Banner.

Bruce Banner regarded him calmly, the slight raise of his eyebrows the only indicator that he was shocked to see a strange man standing in his apartment. The scientist stepped forward, lowering the book he had held in his hands as he did so. His expression was cautious as his eyes glanced around what little space was behind Bucky. He appeared to be more confused than anything, and Bucky found himself silently thanking whatever bit of dust remained of his lucky stars for that.

He did not want to meet his infamous alter ego right now.

When Banner spoke, his voice was light and slow. Bucky didn't miss the hint of suspicion layered beneath the easygoing tone, however.

"Can I, ah, help you?"

Bucky just blinked at the man as his hand throbbed, and suddenly, the pieces clicked into place.

His hand. He had mumbled in the elevator when he had been debating on what to do about it. And if what Steve had told him was true, then Banner was a certified doctor.

Jarvis had taken the initiative to fix it for him.

Sneaky bastard.

He started as he realized Bruce was still staring at him, his eyebrows furrowing deeper and deeper as he stood expectantly waiting for an answer. Bucky glanced down at his shredded hand awkwardly, tilting it so it wouldn't drip blood onto the man's carpet. That wouldn't make the greatest of first impressions. He almost started giggling like the madman he was at the thought, but he resolutely shoved past the urge and cleared his throat instead to anchor himself. When he spoke, his voice was scratchy and rough, and he was mildly surprised at the pathetic sound. Had he really been that hysterical?

""Steve… said you were a doctor?"

Bruce narrowed his eyes at that, his spine straightening considerably at the statement. His eyes roved over Bucky rapidly then, and after a long second of him searching from the sluggishly bleeding hand back up to the prosthetic arm, his expression cleared as realization dawned on him. He straightened his glasses as he stood even taller, a sad grin appearing on his face and catching Bucky off guard as he spoke softly.

"You're Bucky."

Hearing the nickname from a man like Banner was definitely odd, but he nodded anyways. He didn't quite trust himself to speak much.

Bruce's eyes softened considerably then, his face morphing into a gentler expression. With an extended hand, he beckoned him into the doorway he had just exited. He shut his book quietly and disappeared back into the room himself before Bucky could so much as blink.

Without much of a choice, Bucky followed with no small amount of hesitation.

Despite the late hour, the lights were on in the little living area, dimmed to a comfortable tone of watery orange. Bucky's ears perked up as a whisper of sound registered, and he dimly realized there was some sort of quiet music playing. It was oddly soothing, all flutes and some string instrument he couldn't place. Warm, oaky browns and deep emerald tones dominated the area, as a collection of large leafy plants practically swallowed one corner of the little living room opposite an enormous bookcase full to bursting with thick volumes. A sudden small tock noise drew his attention to the center of the room, and his eyes landed on a small fountain perched on the center of the low table set in front of a plush three seater couch. The wooden pipe in the fountain filled with water again, and the end dipped down to hit the base of the rocks it was set on with another quiet tock before it tilted back again. Bucky watched it fill and empty for another few revolutions, unintentionally mesmerized.

"It's a shishi-odoshi."

Bruce's voice startled him out of his reverie, and he tore his gaze away from the fountain to regard the doctor questioningly. He was standing in the doorway to what Bucky assumed was the bathroom, as his sleeves were rolled past his elbows and a wet washcloth was dangling from his hand. At Bucky's look, Bruce nodded to the fountain.

"A Japanese water fountain. They're a scarecrow, of sorts. For gardens. The noise scares away animals." He paused then as he watched the fountain complete a rotation. "I find them more relaxing than frightening. The repetition is…" He searched for a word for a short while before settling on "…nice, to have. Too much changes around here."

Bucky listened with half an ear, nodding numbly at the end of the doctor's explanation. He had seen the type of fountain before, many times in his previous life.

He'd killed a man in Brussels who had an entire room dedicated to an immaculate zen garden.

The authorities had found him with a bullet to the back and his head submerged in the water.

Tock.

Bucky forced himself to shake the image off, but he failed to be subtle about the effort it took. His breath shook audibly as he inhaled with a deep rattle, and Bruce regarded him with a more professionally apprehensive expression from across the room. He strode forward with the washcloth then, motioning for Bucky to take a seat on the couch as he did so. He flopped more than sat, and his prosthetic hand found it's way to his face without him prompting it. With a solid pinch to the bridge of his nose, he grounded himself as best he could. He couldn't have another attack in front of someone else.

Especially someone like Banner.

A sharp pain in his hand had him sucking in a rapid breath, and his eyes flew open to see Bruce sitting on the edge of a desk chair he must have pulled up in front of to him, his brow furrowed and his eyes inspecting the gashes with a meticulous professionalism that Bucky rarely even saw in most military doctors. He held the injured hand lightly in one palm, turning it this way and that with a slow precision as he dabbed away the clotted blood with the washcloth. Bucky watched in grotesque fascination as the white of the cloth ran red within minutes. Something dimly registered in his sluggish mind then, and he found himself blurting out words before he could stop himself.

"I'm sorry."

Bruce glanced up to his face, his eyes settling on Bucky's reverted gaze as he raised a brow. He was silent for a long moment before returning to his ministrations. His voice was quietly inviting. Open.

Genuine.

"No 'you should see the other guy'?"

Tock.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably at the doctor's light inquiry, the attempt at humor not going over his head. He was surprised to find he was grateful for the effort. Without fully realizing what he was doing, he found himself responding huskily.

"The… 'other guy' was a canvas sack that used to be filled with dirt."

Bruce glanced up. "Used to?"

Bucky just shrugged half heartedly and made a loose gesture towards the hand resting on the doctor's palm. Banner gave a long, slow nod of acknowledgment.

He stared down at the hand in question as the doctor inspected the busted thumb, the pain barely registering as his mind was gradually mobbed by the whirlwind of guilt he had felt earlier. He remained silent, and after a few minutes, Bruce glanced back up at him, his expression resigned and understanding. He stood from his seat then, the saturated washcloth hanging lightly over his forearm. He inhaled deeply as he caught Bucky's tired eyes.

"The scratches are superficial; they shouldn't take too long to heal. There's one that's going to need some stitching, though. I don't like how deep it is. It feels like you fractured your thumb at the base, but I can't be sure without a solid radiograph. I don't think that'll be necessary though, it feels unmistakably like an extraarticular break. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say it's transverse, too. Not too bad of angle, so it shouldn't be hard to treat." He paused, regarding Bucky, who was staring at the floor in earnest. When he continued, his voice was low. "It could've been much worse than what it is. We can work with this."

Bucky nodded numbly.

He doubted they were talking about his thumb anymore.

Bruce was quiet for another moment before he disappeared back into the bathroom, the distant sound of opening cabinets reaching Bucky through what felt like ten pounds of cotton. He'd started to block out the doctor about halfway through his explanation as a paralyzing feeling of fear had begun to sweep over him. All of his focus was reigned in on the inside of his mind as he shut his eyes tightly, mentally shoving the shadows away. They threatened to overwhelm him again, and he wouldn't let that happen. Couldn't let it happen. Not here, not now, not ever if he had the choice.

Tock.

He was so focused on breathing that he didn't notice Bruce reclaiming the seat in front of him with a small bottle of antiseptic and a package with a splint and a needle. The sting of the cloth he swept over the scratches didn't even register for him, and he kept his eyes resolutely shut for the fear of what he would find when he opened them.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that, his prosthetic fist clenched on the armrest and his muscles coiled so tight he knew he'd need one hell of a painkiller later. The battle in his mind refused to stop, but the longer he stayed in his thoughts, the more the shadows seemed to lessen. He had a handle on them. He could work through them.

He had to.

Steve's effort to save his useless hide couldn't be wasted.

A small tug on his hand prompted him to finally open his eyes, and he turned his face downwards to stare dumbly at the needle and thread the doctor had halfway through his skin. The gouge was more than halfway shut, and Bucky blinked at the small splint already attached to his thumb. He swiveled his head to stare numbly at the minimalistic clock Bruce had hanging from his wall above the plants.

Had it really already been twenty minutes?

He shot a slightly sheepish look to the doctor, but if Bruce noticed it, he made no sign of it. He gave one last, sharp tug at the stitch before snipping the thread and tying it off with an expert hand. He leaned back slightly, and at the glint of his glasses, something sparked inside Bucky's brain, and felt the pressure of another flashback pounding at the edges of his mind.

Tock.

And suddenly, Bucky was talking.

"I keep seeing their faces."

Banner looked up from the stitched hand to his face curiously at the quiet words, and he sat back slowly. After a moment, he gave an encouraging nod. Bucky inhaled deeply, already regretting his decision, but he plowed on anyways.

"The people I killed. The people I could have saved. Steve. Natasha." He furrowed his brow as a distant memory of sniping through a window resurfaced. "Someone I think might have been important to them both. To a lot of people. They're always there, and they just won't stop staring at me. I don't know how to make them stop. I can't make them stop. It's like… like they can't forget me, so they won't let me forget them." He stopped abruptly, the idiocy of what he was saying making his face flush. He soldiered on, though, and he couldn't stop his stammering no matter how hard he tried. "I caused all this… this pain, and I did so much that shouldn't ever be excusable, and now… now I'm back, and they expect me to heal. To heal. Like… like, like I scraped my knee or something and it'll just close right up on it's own. Like they didn't do anything to me. The things they did to me-"

He cut himself off when his throat suddenly closed in on itself, and he dropped his chin to rest heavily on his chest to avoid the doctor's gaze, his face flushed and his eyes prickling frustratingly.

A long moment of silence passed with the low thrum of the music being the only noise, and Bucky found himself fidgeting uncomfortably as the minutes stretched on with no comments from the doctor.

God, why did he say anything? He barely knew this man!

Tock.

The antiseptic wipe that was suddenly enveloping his hand lightly stung his skin, and Bucky glanced up as Bruce reached back silently for a roll of gauze at his feet. He watched tensely as he wrapped the entire gruesome package tightly with the bandages.

He sat staring at his dressed hand while Bruce stood to dispose of his tools. The steady tock from the fountain recaptured his attention, and he found himself glaring at the peaceful object as it refilled and emptied against the rocks.

Of course Banner returned just in time to see him eyeing it like it had personally spited him.

In a way, it had.

Bruce glanced between the fountain and Bucky before pulling the chair back away from the couch and sitting heavily in it once it was out of Bucky's personal comfort zone. The two stared at each other for another long moment, the tock in the background overtaking the sound of the music as it faded out.

When the silence finally grew to be too much, Bucky shifted from the couch and stood stiffly, his eyes glued to his hand as he addressed the doctor quietly.

"Thank you. For… I'll just…"

He trailed off lamely as words escaped him, and he glanced up to see Bruce staring at him serenely.

He turned on his heel to leave before he shamed himself any further, the sudden need to escape overwhelming him. He'd barely made it to the door when Banner's quiet voice froze him in his tracks.

"I couldn't look in a mirror for at least a year after… the other guy happened."

Bucky stared resolutely at the door, refusing to turn from his escape to face the man he'd just bared his soul to. Apparently taking this as a signal to continue, Banner kept talking.

"The memories were too fresh. Anything could set me off back then. It felt… like I was drowning, but there was a rope leading straight to the surface right next to me. I tried to grab it a couple of times." There was a pause. "Never tried to climb it, though."

Tock.

Bucky turned slowly then, his eyes riveted on Banner. The man was standing now, his hands in his pockets and an oddly haunted expression on his face. He wasn't really looking at Bucky. Rather, it seemed like he was looking through him. When he turned, however, the doctor's eyes refocused, and he regarded the man at his door with that sad grin of his.

"But I learned. It took me some time, but I learned." He tilted his head, his eyes never leaving Bucky's. "But then I got about halfway to the surface, and I stopped. I thought that was it, that was as far as I was getting. I couldn't go any higher, and I thought I was okay with that." He swept a flat hand out in front of him with a frown before tucking it back into its pocket. He rocked back on his heels slightly as he continued.

"And then I got a… house call, let's say. From SHIELD. And I let go of the rope. I lost it entirely, and I knew there was no finding it again."

Bucky turned to face the doctor in full, his curiosity winning out over his mortification. "But you're not…"

Bruce raised a slightly amused eyebrow. "Green?" At Bucky's horrified expression, he let out a huff of a chuckle. "It's okay, it takes more than that to offend me at this point. And no, I'm not green. Because I met someone who helped me figure out how to find the rope again and climb right past the middle to the top."

Bucky stared dumbly back at him as the seconds passed in silence.

Tock.

Banner inhaled deeply before letting it out in a heavy sigh. He took his hand from his pocket and ran it lightly over his face, his glasses pushing up over his hair as he did so.

"Look, I'm not very good at this. What I'm saying is, you can heal from anything. All it takes is some time and… the right kind of salve."

"Anything."

Bucky's voice startled him somewhat, and he looked surprised at the hesitant inquiry in his tone. Banner gave him a genuine, lopsided grin then, and he nodded with a resolute determination that Bucky didn't quite believe. He swiveled his gaze towards the floor, his metal fist clenched tightly.

He looked back up at the doctor as the music gently eased back into the room, and he nodded to himself before speaking quietly.

"Thank you."

He turned towards the door before he could say anything else he would regret, and as he stepped into the hallway and made his way towards the elevator, he sensed rather than heard the man following him. The voice that drifted out after him, however, surprised him.

"If you ever need a hand finding that rope… well, you know where I live."

Tock.

Bucky started before glancing over his shoulder. Banner was watching him with a slightly wry grin. Bucky just looked back at him for a long moment before turning to board the elevator.

He turned in time to see Bruce's smile through the closing doors turn back into the sad grin it had been before.

And some small bit of hope that had grown in Bucky's heart wavered.

It appeared not everything healed with treatment and time.

As the sudden silence filled the elevator, Bucky found himself leaning back against the wall, mentally and physically exhausted beyond his tolerance level. A sudden realization struck him as his thoughts swirled uneasily, and he cracked open an eye as he spoke with a weariness he knew he would be feeling for the rest of the week.

"Jarvis."

Silence.

Then,

"Yes, Sergeant Barnes?"

He shut his eye as the elevator began its upwards crawl.

"Thanks."

"You are most welcome."

The AI's tone was surprisingly warm, and Bucky almost grinned at the response.

Almost.