Chapter 4

When I wake up, I realize that part of the pillow underneath my mouth is soaked. Of course, being the sophisticated lady I am, I drooled all over my pillow.

It's not that surprising though. Slumber had overtaken my body like a flood after reading Mr. Barnes file until three. Exasperation that floods me every time I read it

Every single assassination, kidnapping, and theft he had ever performed was recorded in the file. Details could be vague at times, but to be honest, I didn't think Mr. Barnes would remember any of this. Because of his memory loss and all.

But if there's one thing I've found out through all my workings with soldiers young and old, is that they never forget the people they killed. And Bucky is no exception. Most soldier aren't as intimate though. War and shooting off with a gun at a few hundred men isn't like looking someone in the face and killing them.

Despite it all, a plan has formed in the old coconut. But you always have to gauge a person's mental state before the course of procedures can be determined. Most likely, after the trigger words are erased, it will start with me just getting to know him. That's simple enough. Hopefully.

And though they are in dire need of help, not all people are willing to have help and their participation is absolutely necessary. I can't just magically make the pain go away.

I wipe any saliva off my mouth and head to the small bathroom in my room, carrying my clothes for with me. Having taken a shower yesterday, I get dressed than stare at myself in the mirror. Hughm.

My brown hair is terribly messy, and my bangs got swept to the side in an awkward way last night. Now the wisps lay funky on my forehead. Looking at my face makes me wish desperately that I had some makeup; I hadn't brought any with me to the refugee camp. I'm about to see an incredibly handsome and muscular super solder, two actually, and I look a little like trash.

I'm not that kind of girl who likes a ton of makeup, but when you have incredibly bad under eye circles, sunburned skin, and squinty eyes, it would make anyone half mad for some. Maybe Wanda will have makeup. Since Natasha had left, (some secret mission in Russia they said) me and Wanda are the only two girls on the compound. Not that I really mind being surrounded by a bunch of hot men, but another female's comradery is appreciated.

After I get dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a black button up shirt with golden doves on it, I go down the hall to Wanda's room. The door cracks open slightly when I knock, and she peeks out at me. Half her hair messy and the other smooth and straight, she looks a little wild when she says, "Oh, Ella. Can I help you?"

"I was just wondering if you had any makeup I could borrow. But if you're busy…" I say, stepping away from the door a little, but she stops. "No, no, please, I was just flattening my hair. Come in," Wanda gestures to the inside of her room.

It would be bright in here like the rest of the compound, but Wanda has the heavy curtains pulled shut. The whole room is dark albeit for the small amount of sunlight that made it's way through the curtains veneer. But room is absolutely flawless; the bed is made and not a thing is out of place. I would want to show that off.

Wanda goes back into her bathroom, and I hear her rustling around. A picture on her nightstand catches my eye. The frame is battered and the glass is covered in scratches. I pick it up and see a family on it, one is Wanda. I can tell from her pretty, long hair. They seem happy, despite looking slightly underfed and wearing clothes stitched one time too many.

When Wanda comes out of the bathroom, carrying some products in her hands, she catches me studying the image. I quickly set it down, sensing it's personal. "That was my family," She says softly.

"Their beautiful. Is that your brother?" I ask. I already know the answer, but I'm hoping to prompt her to open up.

"Yes," Wanda replies, taking the picture from my hands. "He died."

It's hard to even imagine what that would be like. My worst fear has always been that someone in my family might die, but all of Wanda's did. "I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it with every inch of my being.

"It's okay," Wanda says in her heavy Sokovian accent. She softly caresses the picture, tracing her finger along every splinter and chick in a way that proves it's a motion she does often. Wanda places it on her nightstand. A forced smile forms on her lips. "I'm healing. And he died saving Clint and a little boy. It's good knowing that."

"Yes. But it's still not easy, is it?" I ask. Rather declare. Wanda looks away and sits on her bed. "I once watched this show," I sit on the bed next to her, "and they proclaimed that we 'live together, die alone'. But that's never true. No one is alone. Nobody dies alone, Wanda. Your brother knew that, thanks to you. And now you are not alone; you have people who love you, who care about you, would live or die for you." I place my hand in hers, letting the mascara fall to the floor. Her beautiful, almond eyes brim with tears.

"No matter what you've done, these people, these crazy Avengers," One of those random, sporadic laughs, erupts from my mouth, "will love you. Please don't ever forget that."

All this is true. I didn't know her brother, but I know that someone who holds so dear the memory of her dead family, must have been close to them. And I'm sure they loved her. Of course, this small speech is only the beginning of a long road to recovery. But it's a start.

Wanda wipes her eyes with her long sleeve pulled over her hand. Voice shaky, she replies, "Thank you Ella."

"Of course," I say gently. "And, um, thank you for the makeup!" Wanda looks down and realizes she dropped it all to the floor.

"Oh! Sure. Here," She gathers all of the things into my lap and does a small laugh. "I'm going to go finish my hair," Wanda points her thumb towards the bathroom, where a yellow light emits. While she scrambles off to finish flat ironing, and possibly to finish wiping her tears from my heartfelt dialog, I go back to my room. The foundation, mascara, and a little lip stick thankfully make me look less like a Pretty Girl garbage can and more like an actual pretty girl. We meet up outside her room and chat as we head towards the dinning room. It looks as if I've made a friend.

Steve is making coffee in the kitchen that's off the dining room, and I pull out a chair at the white marble island. "You mind if I have some of that?" I ask.

Wanda lets out a scoff. "You won't want any of his coffee," Her chair screeches as she slides it out. "Steve uses the filter that lets grounds get into the coffee because it's how they made it in the war."

"Now Wanda," Steve starts, pointing the scoop at her face, "There wasn't much coffee during the war. So when we got it, we weren't worried about making it perfection."

"But you can now," Wanda sarcastically remarks. We burst out laughing at Steve's exasperated sigh. I get up to make myself a pot. There are actually three: the one Steve is using and two others, one really fancy.

I begin to make myself a cup using the deluxe machine but Wanda and Steve both shout at the same time, "STOP!"

"Why?" I ask, confused.

"That's Clint's coffee machine," Steve answers. Wanda adds, "And nobody touches it, or Clint might," She uses her hands to make an exploding motion. Small tendrils of red light up in a firework like display in the air between her fingers. Her powers are freaking awesome.

"Geezers. I guess I'll use this machine then," I reply. Steve starts making some eggs while I brew a pot, and the small talk continues cheerfully until Bucky is brought up.

"Will it hurt?" Wanda asks of the procedure to remove the trigger words.

With a sigh, Steve replies, "Probably, yes. The machine we made takes the neurons in the brain that control the actions and floods them with electric signals that reverse the brainwashing effect. Apparently that hurts." My brain just hurts thinking about how the procedure hurts.

"At least he'll be himself again and not a zombie assassin," Scott comments simply, shoveling eggs into his mouth. So glad he joined us, blessing us with those honest words of wisdom.

"True," I say. "Still bad though."

We all finish eating in silence; nobody wishes to talk more of the dire subject. The operation is this morning and I won't see Bucky until this evening, after he has rested. The whole day is mine to waste watching Lost (I couldn't get it out of my head after the speech earlier with Wanda), until Steve catches me in the hall after breakfast. "Hey, Ella. I wanted to know if you would come. You know, to the procedure. I'm just… worried something might happen and your the brain expert."

I'm not really sure I want to watch. But it's selfish to only think about myself when it's the least I could do. Mr. Barnes is my patient, after all, and it's my duty to go. "Um, sure."

A look of gratitude washes over Steve's face. "Thanks. It's in the medical room at 10:00 o'clock. I really appreciate it Ella."

I nod in response and head back to my room. Every piece of paper in the file I have read twice over, but I still feel the need to reread it all. Today is the day I'm going to meet this man and I need to be ready.

The first part of my plan for him is almost complete: music. All last night I spent picking out soothing spa-like music, and they are almost finished downloading on an ipod I asked Sam for. It's relatively new science actually, and results are being proven as true. The brain and nervous system can be unbalanced after traumatic situations and the songs will Bucky reorient himself before we start our sessions. It is hard for people to speak of their experiences when the part of the brain that affects the connection of speech to memory is impaired.

Sometimes hypnosis and massaging are used, but considering I'm not a magician or masseuse, downloading music is the best I can do. Aside from the songs, the aspect of him missing an arm is going to be a challenge too. Physical can affect the mental just as much as anything. I haven't been trained very much in the way of physical therapy or creative techniques with which to help people with disabilities adjust, but I did have to take a course on it. I'm not sure how much it will help, but I can be pretty creative if I want to be. Not that knowing how to make an origami crane will help much.

And the more I think about helping Bucky, the more I want to succor him. Somewhere deep inside me is the feeling that I won't leave this place an unchanged women.

I'm so immersed in the account of a breakout from Alcatraz that Bucky conducted flawlessly, that I don't realize the procedure has started. Like an Olympic sprinter, I race down the hallway, all the while trying to figure out where the medical rooms are. Then I hear the screams. Like bloody murder is occurring, they echo down the halls and can be heard throughout the entire compound. Panic fills my veins, and it seems as if my heart beat has sped up to a hundred and twenty. Even though my body wants to run away, I race toward the source and only stop short when I see T'challa, king of Wakanda, staring through the one sided glass window.

Steve is there to, but all his focus is on Bucky, a look of complete fear covering every inch of his face. I think about bowing before T'challa, but he is too preoccupied by the yells coming from within, that I don't waste my time.

Inside sits a doctor staring at a computer screen. And then there's Bucky. Seated in a metal chair, restraints around his one wrist and ankles, the Winter Soldier is writhing as if on fire, sweat pouring down his red hot face. A metal helmet is strapped upon his head, with wires going down to the computer, along with small patches attached to his chest with more small wires leading to a monitor. Since his shoulder is not strapped down (since he has not left arm), Bucky's upper body bangs up and down against the metal chair, like a fish out of water. The sight might look hysterical if it weren't for the look on Bucky's face. Complete agony. This must have been what it was like all those times Hydra washed his memory.

This Bucky and the man I saw on the file's picture look so different. All I see is pain here. Messy hair and missing an arm, his physical appearance has changed too. Whereas the Mr. James Buchanan Barnes I had seen on the file was all confidence, this man is just pitiable.

Everything about this situation strikes me to the core with horror, and I stand there frozen. I glue my brown irises to a bar slowly loading on the computer screen. Only half way. I can tell Steve is disturbed, but when I rip my eyes away from the scene before me, I see T'challa with an unflinching reprose. It almost disturbes me more.

A cranium splitting screech emits from the room, and the glass does little to block the noise. Bucky's eyes are squeezed tightly shut and he never stops yelling. I want to cover my ears but instead stand there staring with all my concentration at the small bar moving across the screen. I imagine it as a slow moving caterpillar inching it's way across the screen, and the screams as the noise it makes when it moves. Focus on your heartbeat. The sporadic beating distracts me slightly. But nothing really works; nothing can block what happening before my eyes.

Suddenly, Bucky starts shouting out words that sound like Russian.

"Желаниe!" Bucky shouts loudly. A sort of growl escapes his chapped lips. He continues spouting out the Russian words, and I look over at Steve, who answers my questioning look. "His brain is fighting back. Those are the trigger words." Steve flinches as Bucky yells between the words.

"Oh," Is all I say in reply. The piercing screams are kind of hard to yell over.

Then, as if someone flipped a switch, all of the Winter Soldier's body goes limp in the metal chair. The doctor removes the helmet and wire patches, clicks a few buttons on the computer, checks Bucky's vitals, then beckons us in. The tall doctor with little round glasses, who reminds me of a black Mark Greene, starts removing the restraints. Bucky remains completely limp until all the ties are removed. Then, like a panther and with a wild, glazed look on his face, he leaps forward and grabs me around the neck.

All thoughts of ER quickly leave my brain as his brawny arm wraps around my throat. He drags me away from Steve and T'Challa, shouting, "Get back!" In a gravelly and hoarse voice. T'Challa springs forward as I gasp for air. Bucky tries to fight back, but seems to have overestimated his powers: he forgot about missing an arm. The strong triceps cutting off my breathing, slips easily when I pry the arm off my neck, trying to get out of the way before T'Challa punches my gut.

With a sickening crack, the king of Wakanda pouches Bucky's face, and he crumbles to the floor. As Bucky sinks to his knees, a look of realization, then horror passes over his features. I stand there panting, as Steve rushes to Bucky's form. He's still just staring at me. T'challa comes to my aid, asking, "Are you ok?", in a heavy Wakandan accent. But nice English. I respond by choking out, "Yes," and keep rubbing my bruised neck, coughing. When I glance at Mr. Barnes, he is on all fours, heaving.

With a warm hand on my back, T'Challa leads my from the room, sitting m on a cold chair. "Why did he attack me," I wheeze.

"When Hydra had him, they would wipe his memory using a painful procedure similar to this. I think he thought we were them." He replies, his dreamy brown eyes glancing between me and Bucky through the glass.

It was a flashback. They can sometimes happen when you have PTSD, but usually chokeholds don't occur. Of course, I don't hold any hard feelings against Bucky: he seems more upset than me. I gaze through the window, trying to calm my breathing. He looks up through his curtain of messy, brown locks, straight into my eyes and I can see the deep regret.

"We want to read the words just in case," I can hear Steve's muffled voice say to Bucky.

T'Challa goes back into the room with a leather book with a red star on the front cover. Bucky looks up widely and shouts "NO!" forcefully. But T'Challa just raises his eyebrows. He starts reading out-loud the Russian words.

Bucky closes his beautiful blue eyes, tight, and curls into a ball with a hand over one ear. I move closer to the glass, something compelling me to witness this strange sight. I can hear Bucky whispering "No" at differentiating volumes, but the same amount of misery. "Желание," T'Challa reads with perfect diction. I suppose the princes of Wakanda are taught many languages. I could never even master Spanish.

"Pжавые," He says. Bucky whimpers ever so slightly. Fear courses through me: what if the words have not been erased? Mr. Barnes seems to be fighting them, but the words might just be triggering terrible memories, not brainwashing.

"Cемнадцать," Wakanda's king continues. Bucky starts breathing heavy, tears trail down his face. "No… I'm sorry," He mumbles through his breath. I jump when the winter soldier slams his palm onto the floor in distress and anger. I have been so focused on Bucky, that I didn't notice Steve.

Teeth clenched, knuckles white from his balled fists, emotion is threatening to flood onto his face. This is his best friend. What I had never thought about until this moment was the Avengers' lives. They spend their days kicking butt, that they never get to actually live. All Steve has from his old life, the only time when he had a true home, is this Mr. James Buchanan Barnes. Clint is the only one I know of who has been able to have a family despite this job. And even that he is losing.

And then this all becomes that much more important. Not only am I here help rebuild a life, I'm here to rebuild a family. The Avengers will probably never be able to lead a normal lives. But that doesn't mean they can't be a family.

"Rрузовой автомобиль," T'Challa proclaims monotonously, the last of the words. I sigh, then inhale, determination filling my lungs. I can do this. I can help break the spell these words still hold over Bucky. Because even though they hold no real power, aka he won't turn into an assassin if read them, it's obvious they still have a hold over him. Bucky is still curled up on the concrete floor.

When Steve and the doctor begin guiding the Winter Soldier out of the room, I take it as my cue to leave.

Wanda is sitting in the rec room, a large windowed area complete with a snack bar, foosball table, a plasma flat screen with a million movies, and a ton of board games, when I arrive. She sits on the white leather couch, staring blankly at a book. I can tell she is distracted by the procedure that just occurred, thus just seeing the words, not reading them.

"Hey." I sit on the couch next to her. "Hi," She reply's. Skipping straight to the point, Wanda asks, "How is he?"

"Not good. It worked, but he's pretty shaken up." The sheer amount of concern on her face leads me to ask, "Did you and Bucky get pretty close?"

"I barely talked to him," Wanda admits. "But everything he went through... And those screams." She shakes her head, looking back at her book. "I really hope you can help him."

"Me too," I say, "Me too."

/