V.

Bruce was the only one home when Jarvis informed him that Steve was on his way, with Bucky Barnes in tow. The physicist wasn't exactly sure what to expect; Steve had found Bucky and brought him back to the Tower several months earlier, but the former assassin had had a lot of difficulty adjusting to his new life without Hydra controlling him. He would lash out or break down or disappear, and sometimes Steve would go after him or try to help him only to be refused and return empty-handed. Sometimes, he was successful at getting through to Bucky and could bring him home. Sometimes, Bucky came back on his own, drowning in guilt and confusion, clinging to the lifeline that was Steve.

This time, Bruce wasn't sure what had transpired. As far as he knew, Steve had gone out on a made-up recon mission with his friend to try to give something Bucky to do. Clearly, something had gone wrong, if they were rushing back in the middle of the afternoon and Steve was telling Jarvis to have Bruce meet him outside the Tower's infirmary.

"What happened?" Bruce asked the captain immediately, the moment he rounded the corner.

Steve looked terrible. He was filthy from head to toe, bruised and bloody, and his uniform was scuffed and ripped. At Bruce's questioning glance, Steve gestured to the infirmary, where Bruce could see Bucky sitting on one of the beds far towards the back, hunched over.

"Steve, what happened?" Bruce repeated, worry fluttering in his chest.

"We were—it was fine, and then he…" Steve shook his head and scrubbed his hand over his face. "The mission was fine, and then something—I don't know—he was triggered, and he lost it." He shook his head again, exhaling a shaky breath. "He was doing so good, he was fine—for months, he hasn't—and then he…"

"Slow down," Bruce said softly. "Are you both okay?"

Steve tossed an anxious look over his shoulder at Bucky, then nodded. "Now, yeah. We barely made it out of there."

Bruce couldn't recall seeing Steve more agitated and upset than this moment. The captain paced and struggled to find the words he wanted before giving up and sighing instead. As he turned on his heel, Bruce saw a deep red gash cut into the captain's back. His uniform was covered in dirt, grime, and rust-colored stains.

"Whoa, Steve, are you—" he began, but Steve hastily waved him off.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he promised. "I kind of got dragged, and the blood smeared—it's not deep. I'm fine." Steve was pacing again, unable to stand in one spot, unable to keep his hands still.

Bruce stepped in front his friend and caught his anxious gaze. He was going to need a whole lot more details of what exactly went wrong on the practice mission, but first they needed to deal with Bucky. "What about him?"

Steve sighed through his nose. "The cut on his head needs stitches. But I couldn't—he wouldn't let me—" He clenched his jaw and glanced away from Bruce. "I got him back here. I didn't know what else to…"

Bruce nodded in understanding. "Okay. What do you need me to do?"

"Can you… could you…" Steve waved one hand around helplessly and raked the other through his filthy hair. He was at a complete loss and visibly shaken.

Bruce swallowed. What the hell happened out there?

"Help him," Steve managed, his voice small and hurt and scared. The physicist's heart ached to hear that voice coming from Steve, one of the strongest men he knew.

He reached out and placed a comforting hand on the captain's shoulder. "I'll do what I can."

Steve nearly buckled right there, but instead he gave a nod and eased into the nearest chair. Bruce took a deep breath and into the Tower's infirmary.

For the most part, Bruce supposed, Bucky had been doing well. Of course, "well" was a relative term when it came to a former assassin, who'd been brainwashed to hell, cryogenically frozen periodically, tortured, and psychologically manipulated for decades.

In the last couple of months, according to Steve, Bucky was getting back to his old self most of the time. There was still an obvious and understandable heaping amount of PTSD and sudden violent outbursts accompanying that old self, but after the literal hell the guy had been through, no one blamed him. Tony had taken to affectionately calling him Scrambled Eggs, and Steve glowered and ordered Tony to stop, but Bucky seemed to actually find it just as funny as Tony did.

And yet, every once in a while…something broke. Like today.

Bruce eased open the infirmary door. Bucky was seated on one of the beds, holding a bloody rag to his head. He looked up at the physicist but didn't appear to be angry or scared. Still, from previous experience, Bruce felt it was better to be cautious. He advanced slowly.

"Bucky, it's Bruce. You remember me?" Bruce held his hands out, palms up and open. "Bruce Banner."

Bucky heaved an exhausted sigh that seemed to scrape the very bottom of his soul. "Yeah, 'course I remember you." His smile was empty and sharp as razors when he added, "Right now, at least."

Bruce walked towards Bucky slow and casual, but he was alert and ready to react should Bucky abruptly lash out. "Heard you needed stitches."

Bucky nodded sullenly.

The physicist moved to the cupboard and gathered up the necessary supplies. He set them out on a small table with wheels and rolled it over to where Bucky sat. Every move he made was slow and deliberate; he'd seen the former assassin fully coherent, he'd seen him when he was the deadly Winter Soldier, he'd seen him when he was screaming and broken, and everything in between. Especially after a violent episode (which, Bruce could only assume, given the condition Steve was in, had occurred earlier today), Bucky was often confused, nervous, and off-kilter. The question was which state he was in now.

Bruce took a seat next to Bucky on the bed.

"May I?" The physicist gestured to the bloody cloth Bucky was still pressing to his head.

Bucky nodded again and peeled the soaked rag from his skin.

The wound was deep enough to require a handful of stitches. It ran along close to Bucky's hairline, but luckily it seemed to have stopped bleeding for the moment.

"Are you feeling okay? Dizzy, nauseated?" Bruce asked as he prepared the tools he needed to stitch Bucky up. "You probably lost a lot of blood."

Bucky shook his head and mumbled, "Fine." He chewed his lip and seemed to be on the verge of saying something more, but apparently he thought better of it and swallowed the words down.

Bruce reached for some anesthetic, but Bucky shook his head.

"Don't bother."

"Are you sure? This is going to hurt," Bruce warned, as he held up the alcohol soaked cotton he needed to clean Bucky's injury.

The other man gave a terrible, bitter laugh. "No, it won't."

Bruce went about cleaning and stitching Bucky up, and the other man remained still and silent. The only indication that he was in any sort of discomfort was the way his hand would occasionally tighten on the edge of the bed, and he trailed his thumbnail back and forth against the white sheets. He kept his eyes cast down almost the entire time.

"I couldn't stop," Bucky croaked, his voice quiet and raw, when Bruce was nearly finished. "I could feel it…but I couldn't stop it. And it took over. It took over like it used to when they would…when they'd put me in the chair. I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop."

Bruce's hands stilled as he listened to Bucky's pained confession. His stomach churned because he knew, he knew exactly how that felt—how to be present and not in control. Terrified and buried in your own skin, feeling horrible things happen because of you.

"How do you…" Bucky swallowed and fought for the right words, still not looking at Bruce.

The physicist took his hands away from Bucky's head and took a deep breath. "You have to separate 'you' from…'not you'. You are not the one who killed and murdered. You aren't the one who caused destruction and pain. They created something that did that, but it wasn't you."

Tears shimmered in Bucky's eyes as he raised them slowly to meet Bruce's.

"You are the guy who went for beers with Steve Rogers and went to war with Captain America. You are the guy who had a family, and a sense of humor, and who stands for something," he continued softly. "The thing inside that comes out is what does those horrible things, not you. Somehow, someday, you'll find a way to control it—conquer, master it. In the meantime…you just have to understand, really understand, that it's not really you."

Bruce thought his advice was probably a little rich coming from a guy who fought his own overwhelming self-loathing, guilt, and anger pretty much daily, but it was true and something they both needed to hear. Something they both needed to be reminded of, often.

Bucky turned away, and Bruce waited for him to absorb his words. He hoped they helped, but it was hard to forget just how messed-up Bucky was. Words, however well-meaning, seemed far too small and paltry to be any sort of help in this situation. Bruce could only relate so far with what Bucky was experiencing.

Bucky turned back, and Bruce gently resumed his work on the injury. After several moments of contemplative silence, he snipped off the thread.

"It's not…really me," Bucky finally echoed. He faced Bruce, and the other man was struck by how lost and frightened Bucky looked in that moment—and how young, for everything he had been through. "Does he know that too?"

Bruce glanced past Bucky to where Steve was peering in the infirmary window, his dirt-smeared face lined with anxiety and exhaustion.

The physicist cracked a small smile. "Believe me, he knows that more than anyone."