They shoved the newspapers under his nose and pressed his face into them. They played English-language radio broadcasts over and over until he sobbed and begged. They made him repeat it himself, using an electric prod each time he stumbled on the words. "Steve is dead."
But if Steve was dead, who had he dragged out of the river? He'd not even remembered the name until then. Who was Steve? HYDRA would know. It was worth any punishment to ask, any at all. He struggled to slow his breathing as his fist helplessly drummed the tabletop.
Ron folded his hands in front of his stomach. "I don't know him personally, of course. But I know of him. Captain America…Steve Rogers… was all over the news after what happened in New York. Seems like a real stand-up kind of guy." The old man's face was thoughtful, and he appeared to reach a decision. "He's looking for you, you know. He wants to help you."
Steve was alive. Steve was looking for him.
His ears roared; his body locked against a sickening sensation that he was falling. There should be snow, why wasn't there any snow? There was something on his face, and he raised his hand, expecting to see blood. His fingertips were wet but not red, and he blinked at them, not understanding. Tears were not unfamiliar. He'd cried before, but from pain, not from anything like this that he could remember. His chest felt tight. He'd forgotten to breathe.
Ron's warning seemed to come from far away. "He's going to pass out!"
The man who had been sleeping at the table swiped the cap from his face and sat up straight. "Bucky?"
He was on his feet in an instant. The chair squealed and clattered behind him.
Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE
Target Identifed: Kaptain Amerika.
Threat Estimate: Maximum.
Neutralization plan: Close distance to avoid thrown shield. Strike at known previous damage, estimate effect. Proceed with opportunistic strikes.
He stepped inside the target's arm span and pivoted, turning the narrowest part of his body to his opponent. The target deflected his first blow across a hastily lifted forearm. His followup strike with his prosthetic arm connected solidly with the soft tissue under Kaptain Amerika's ribcage. The target doubled over with a sharp grunt.
"Rogers!" he heard Ron shout. The name made him hesitate, and his next strike that should have been lethal only rebounded from target's raised upper arm. There was no shield.
"Don't, Ron," the target wheezed, clearly injured. "Buck, it's Steve. It's me."
He froze in mid-assault, arm drawn back. Steve? Kaptain Amerika was the target, not Steve. He had no instructions… The target was looking at him searchingly, both him and the double image of the much younger man. They looked different, but where their eyes superimposed, they were obviously the same person. I knew him. It had to be a trick, some sort of deception. He snarled and plowed his fist squarely into the middle of Kaptain Amerika's face.
The target was down. "I won't give up on you, Bucky," he groaned. He dropped his arms and lay flat on his back, exposed, completely defenseless. Blood gushed from the man's nose and flowed toward the floor.
He sagged in the chair, conscious but graying in and out. His face was bruised and swollen over fractured bones. His mouth was full of blood, and it streamed from his nose. The handler absently wiped the baton across his pantleg, adding an additional smear of red.
I can't I can't I can't…Help me, Steve
"Help me, Steve," he echoed softly. His words were little more than whispers, but Kaptain Amerika's…no, Captain America's…eyes brightened and he tentatively stretched out an open hand.
The doctor pulled the last stitch tight, and then caressed his sweaty face with a cool hand. "That's very good, you didn't make any noise at all."
Unable to endure more, he hurdled over the long table and fled. Reaching one of the kitchen's double exit doors, he slammed his shoulder into it and barreled through into the street. He sprinted hard, lungs burning, not counting the miles. Eventually he came to a dead end. A dumpster loomed to his left; he scrambled on top of it and leaped onto a nearby rooftop. He ran across the black asphalt as fast as he could, jumping over the gaps between buildings. The blank wall of an abutting taller row jutted into the space above him. He launched himself up, caught the edge of the roof and hoisted his body over the bevel. When he found the end of that row, he brought himself up short, panting, looking frantically for a way down.
"Bucky, we can talk here, or farther on, it's up to you."
He spun and faced Captain America. He couldn't run any more. His knees buckled, and he sat down heavily.
Steve dropped next to him, also catching his breath. They were silent for a few minutes. Finally, Steve said, "It's a good thing I had that time in the hospital after all, or I wouldn't have been able to keep up with you."