A/N: Please read and review :) Only two more chapters after this one.
13. I'm a Catastrophe
He wakes violently, out of his bed and standing by the window before he is aware of what he is doing. He is breathing hard, his muscles ache from tension. He leans against the glass on his right side, pressing a cheek against the coolness. It is dark outside. The stars aren't out yet. He presses his right hand against the surface and focuses on the feeling. Not on what was passing through his mind. He wraps his left arm around his chest, grasping the cloth on the other side to anchor it.
His fingers wrapped around the man's wrist, bones breaking under his grasp, then swung him against the wall with enough force to cause him to lose consciousness.
Eventually, his breathing slows. Eventually, he can release his grip on both the window and his shirt. Eventually, he sits down and removes his boots. They are becoming uncomfortable. He leans against the wall, stretching his legs out. He stretches his arms above his head and suppresses a yawn. Holding still is difficult. He hasn't held still without being frozen there for a long time. The training sessions were always on his feet and fairly rigorous, unless it was language acquisition. That usually occurred when he was injured and needed to keep still to heal.
He was laying on his back, on a gurney. He began to struggle and had to be restrained. A man appeared above him, near his face, speaking to him calmingly in an unknown tongue.
He climbs to his feet and pulls off his shirt. There is no reason to waste this time. Part of him aches to be asleep again, to be the Soldier again, so he could be unaware of all that has happened. But that isn't an option he'd be willing to accept. Being more than a machine is a challenge, sure, but he hates the thought of losing more of himself. He hates how much is already lost, and may not come back.
He works hard to build muscle. It is necessary, to keep the functionality of his prosthetic, for his shoulders to be strong. The metal can absorb a great deal of stress, but it is still attached to flesh and blood. There are scars all along where flesh meets metal, some caused by his overestimation of what the connections could take. He isn't sure exactly how it is connected; doesn't want to know. But he needs to stay active so he doesn't injure himself.
He ripped the door off of the vehicle, wincing as the torque makes itself felt in the flesh on his left side. He ignored it, focusing on his target.
Most of the other scars on his body are less noticeable. He doesn't know where many of them are from. Quite a few are thin slits, caused by knives, most likely when he was training with these. None, he is pretty sure, were caused by bullets. A small number may have been caused by shrapnel. He has been reckless with grenades from time to time. His concern was always getting the job done, not worrying about minor wounds.
Satisfied that he has made up for his days of idleness, he paces patiently around the room until his heartbeat has slowed to a resting rhythm. He uses his shirt to wipe off sweat, lacking another option. He stops and stares at it, thinking. He has other options, he remembers suddenly. He has a place where he can clean himself, whenever he wants. The thought energizes him and he enters what is apparently his bathroom to take a shower.
The rain was pouring down around him. He was soaked through. It was cold and he could feel himself struggling to remain motionless. But to move would be to fail the mission, so he remained still, watching.
When he is done, he dresses in the loose pants he can wear for sleeping and a loose shirt. He is hungry, he finds. He wonders if Sam is still out there. He pushes his hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ears, and leaves his room. The corridor outside has a dim light to mark his path, but otherwise there is no sign of life around him. He walks to the kitchen, enjoying the cool tile on his bare feet. When was the last time he wasn't wearing boots?
He stands in front of the kitchen counter, thinking. He doesn't know if he remembers how to cook. Did Bucky cook? He must have. The Winter Soldier didn't. Well, not food; there were plenty of missions involving fire. He swallows and forces his mind to focus on the task at hand. A sudden noise behind him causes him to reflexively drop to his knees behind the counter, out of anyone's sight, and crouch, motionless as he listens.
"I got us back here as soon as I could," Natasha is saying in annoyance. "I didn't know Tony was going to accost us in the elevator."
"I know, I know," Steve replies impatiently.
He could hear knocking. He supposes they are outside his door. He stands up slowly, considering whether or not to seek a different hiding place. At least for now.
"Hey, James, you up?" Steve asks. Natasha stands next to him, arms folded over her chest, most of her weight on her right leg. She looks at ease, but is clearly ready for anything that may come out of his room.
"Yes," he says quietly. They both turn to look in his direction, surprised.
It is a few yards from his door to the kitchen. Steve closes the distance quickly, Natasha less so. The emotions flickering on Steve's face are hard to look at. Natasha is looking at him without pity, which is preferable. He turns his gaze back to Steve, who stops on the other side of the counter in the center of the kitchen.
"Did you make it back okay?" Steve asks. It seems like he has other questions he would have preferred.
"Yes," he says again.
"Are you hungry?" Steve asks, looking around the room as though just realizing where they are.
"Yes," he repeats, glancing at Natasha, who smiles.
"Maybe you should try some different questioning tactics, Rogers," she advises. Steve looks at her in surprise, then smiles hesitantly, self-effacingly. "Well, if you two relics don't need anything, I'm going to head downstairs."
"Yeah, that's fine," Steve replies absently.
"Thanks for the help, Barnes," she calls back as she walks back toward the elevator.
He watches her go, then turns to Steve, who has been watching him. "What?" he asks.
Steve starts to answer, then stops. "What do you want for dinner?"
He shrugs, walking out of the kitchen to the window. He looks out silently, jaw clenched. He wants to close his eyes, but doesn't, not sure what he'd see. He can hear Steve doing something in the kitchen. At length, he comes and stands next to the soldier.
"I didn't know where she was taking you," Steve says quietly.
"Me neither," he replies emotionlessly.
"You're a hero. Nothing can change that."
He turns to look at Steve, at Captain America. How can he say such a thing? "Nothing?" he asks harshly, his voice betraying his thoughts.
"Nothing," Steve affirms, brow furrowed, looking angry. Angry at him?
"Do you have any idea what I've done?"
"I know what's been done to you."
"That's not the same. I've killed a lot of people, Steve. Some in horrific ways," he adds softly, turning his face away from his friend.
"Bucky, that wasn't you," Steve begins, reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder.
Angry, he reaches out with his left hand and pushes Steve, hard, on the chest. Steve is thrown back but recovers quickly. His face shows his determination, and he wonders vaguely how he can be so stubborn all of the time. Steve closes the distance between them, but doesn't try to touch him again.
"It was me. It was more me than Bucky is," he snaps, frustrated. Steve opens his mouth to reply, but he continues. "I remember bits of things all the time. I remember when I sleep. I remember when I hold still for very long. How many of those memories do you think are Bucky's? How many do you think are the Winter Soldier's?" he snarls.
"I don't know," Steve begins, but he cuts him off.
"I'll tell you. I'm killing people. In most of them, I'm destroying lives, sometimes with my bare hands. Or I'm training to be better at killing people. Even when I do remember things as Bucky, I tend to be killing people. So don't try to tell me that I'm some kind of blameless hero, who just suffered at the hands of fate. They chose me because of what I was already capable of. They didn't make me a killer; they just made me better at it."