AN: Flashback! I love this chapter because we get to see Mo in action. Gosh, I love her, and I loved writing her as she dealt with the situation. I hope you like it! I've learned about PTSD and the methods she uses are all suggested methods to helping someone with a flashback. Also, Bucky's reaction afterward is also common. :) Character development yay! We also get some nice Steve/Mo interaction.

Chapter 5

Steve hadn't felt this useless in a long, long time. Bucky had had flashbacks before; they were a fairly common occurrence. But it never got any easier to watch him go through it. Sometimes he would move around, convinced he was somewhere, sometime else, doing things Steve couldn't begin to imagine. On those instances, Steve felt slightly less useless; he and Sam would corral Bucky, keep him inside, and make sure he didn't hurt himself or anyone else. These flashbacks were much worse; Bucky didn't move or try to run away. He stayed where he was, sometimes standing, sometimes on the floor. Sometimes he cried out; sometimes he was silent, vacant, and those were the scary times.

This was one of those times.

Steve didn't know what to do, and Sam wasn't an expert in any sense. The worst was that Steve could not begin to imagine the visions going on behind Bucky's blank eyes, but he always emerged worse for wear: sweaty, pale, shaking. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he withdrew into himself, or got angry. Steve never knew what to expect. But at least when Bucky tried to get out of the house, Steve could stop him. He could be useful. But when he was like this, all he could do was stand there like a fool, or sit beside him, entirely helpless.

Steve's heart pounded in his chest as Bucky went to his knees, clutching his head, then, grimacing, slumped back against a cabinet. His palm stung slightly from where the glass had cut it, but it was a vague sensation, far in the back of his mind.

"Bucky," Steve gasped as Sam surged forward, attempting to catch Bucky but failing. He heard Mo gasp and he dropped the glass that had cut him, rushing to his friend's side. "Bucky?" Steve called, dropping to his knees beside Bucky, who had drawn his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and pressed his chin to the tops of his knees. Steve reached out to touch him, but hesitated.

"Don't," Mo said. "Leave him. Steve, back away."

"But," he started, glancing over his shoulder at Mo. He found that her face was set, her eyes hard, her lips a thin line. Her shoulders were straight; she looked entirely different than she had a few moments ago when she had teased him.

"Just don't," she ordered. "Get away from him." Sam came up behind Steve and grabbed his shoulders, hauling him away. Helpless, Steve could only watch as Mo seemed to come alive again, and the transformation really was something to see. Before his eyes, she became a soldier again, her voice hard and firm, commanding.

"Sam," she said, stepping up to Bucky. "Make sure Steve stays over there."

"I'm his friend," Steve argued, and Mo spun around, her eyes hard.

"You triggered him," she said. "Steve, I need you to stay away for now."

"It's okay, man," Sam said, thumping his chest.

Mo threw an arm out toward the kitchen sink, using it for balance as she tried to sit down in front of Bucky's form. Steve watched as Sam stepped forward and helped her, and she didn't brush him off, only mumbled "thanks." When she was situated, her legs curled beneath her, she spoke again.

"How long does this normally last?" she demanded.

"It varies. Seconds, minutes," Steve said, shaking his head wildly. "Who knows?"

Steve took a step closer, but Mo threw her arm out, fixing him with a hard glare. "I mean it. Don't make me ask Sam to escort you out." Sam looked at Steve with wide eyes, eyebrows raised. "Right now, I need you to do exactly as I say. And I'm telling you to stay there. Do you understand me, Rogers?"

"Yes, ma'am," Steve replied. He responded as a soldier; she had addressed him as a soldier. He swallowed, left to watch the scene as it played out. Mo inched closer to Bucky.

"Is he going to hurt me?"

"Not when he's like this," Steve said.

"Alright. Sam, get me some ice cubes," she ordered, and it was like he was getting a glimpse into what she had been like when she had been a medic. Sam ran around to the freezer and withdrew a few ice cubes, wrapping them in a napkin. Mo was speaking to Bucky.

"You're in the kitchen," she was saying. "You're in the kitchen. This isn't real. You're safe." Steve watched as she reached out a hand to touch him, then hesitated, her fingers wilting slightly. She blinked, shook her head, set her jaw, and placed her hand on top of his head. "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. I need you to look around for me, can you do that? Look around for me."

Bucky didn't respond. Sam handed Mo the ice cubes and she placed them in her lap without acknowledging him. Sam came around to stand by Steve and watched as Mo worked. "James," she said, "Bucky, you're in the kitchen. You're safe." Bucky's lips draw back from his teeth in a grimace and he squeezed his eyes shut with a sound something like a scream. A vein stood out near his temple. The look of pain on his face was too much. Steve had to look away for a moment, pace in a circle, but refused to be weak for his friend; he had to watch.

"Look around the room. Can you tell me what you see?"

None of it seemed to be working. Steve couldn't stand it. "It's not working!" he shouted. "What are you trying to accomplish?"

"It's called grounding," she snapped back, bristling. "And it is working."

Just as she said it, Bucky croaked out a word: "Table."

"Very good," Mo said, and her voice was soothing, gentle. He hadn't heard her speak like this before. "Can you tell me your name?" When he didn't respond, she seemed to tuck herself closer to him. She lifted an ice cube in her free hand, the other still on top of his head. She slid that hand down his shoulder and over his flesh arm, maintaining contact with him, her hand finding his. She gently worked it loose from his other hand and cradled it carefully, turning his palm up and placing an ice cube in it. She folded his fingers around it and squeezed.

"Can you feel that?" she asked. Then, to Steve, she said, "I'm giving him the ice because it's an intense sensation. It'll give him something to focus on. It'll draw him out." Bucky's breathing was labored. Mo kept his fist between her hands, still squeezing, and continued to speak to him gently. "Focus on the cold," she urged him. "I know you can hear me. I know it's hard, and I know it's scary, but you're safe, I promise you. Just come back. Look at me. Look at my eyes." Bucky's eyes flicked up to her face. He was shaking, his eyes wild. He looked petrified. "Good," she soothed. "There you go. Do you remember where you are?"

And all at once, it was like Bucky's whole body drooped. His eyes closed, his forehead fell against his knees, and his shoulders slumped. He seemed to shrink.

"Bu—" Steve started, but Mo whipped around to glare at him.

"Rogers," she hissed. "Give him a minute. You can't overwhelm him."

She was still cradling the hand with the ice in it; water was leaking from between his fingers, dribbling down his arm. Bucky made a strange wounded sound, one that tore at Steve's insides, but Mo held him at bay. Steve took a deep breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet, remembering that this was why she was here. Steve had had no idea what to do, but she did. And he'd be lying if he said it didn't irk him a little, that she'd known what to do and that he had been entirely useless.

"Where'd you learn that?" Sam asked softly as they waited for Bucky to recover. Mo rubbed Bucky's shoulder with one hand.

"School," she said, and her voice was infinitely gentle, as though she was speaking around an upset child. "Reading."

"Nice," Sam said, and Mo smiled a little.

"Don't—touch—me." Mo's hand stilled. Bucky suddenly thrust the ice cube away and jerked away from her touch as though he'd been burned. Steve saw Mo's eyes widen, watched as she glanced at Sam, then at Steve, as though reassuring herself that they were there, close behind her. She flinched slightly as the ice shattered on the floor, closing her eyes a little.

Bucky straightened up against the counter, and Steve was suddenly struck by the sight in front of him, and he understood Bucky's harsh words: "This is who you brought to meet me?" Because Mo suddenly looked very, very fragile beside his friend, which was saying something, because Mo had never struck him as a fragile woman. The way she had handled the situation had earned his respect; the way she had shouted at him and taken control told him that she was more than capable of handling herself. But then, he knew what Bucky was capable of as well. Yet there she sat, folded on her knees, her hands in her lap, beside the man who seemed to dwarf her, who could suddenly lapse back into the Winter Soldier and snap her neck.

It was like watching a songbird sitting beside a hawk.

Bucky lifted his face. His head swam. He could feel himself shaking. The terror was still there, still very real. Steve made a move toward him, but Sam stepped between them. Bucky looked away. His hand was freezing and he looked at it, trying to focus on the feeling rather than the memories that fought to take him over.

He noticed blood dripping from Steve's fingertips, splattering on the floor, and felt the edges of his vision start to blur. He blinked heavily a couple of times, heard Sergeant Fox's voice distantly: "Steve, go clean your hand. We're losing him again." And then there was a hand on his again, squeezing the wrist; his hand was suddenly intensely cold again, and his brow furrowed. He looked down at his hand; two smaller brown hands were folded over his, squeezing it tightly, intensifying the cold.

"You're in the kitchen," a feminine voice said again, and his brow furrowed. He wasn't in a kitchen, was he? No, he was—a very cold hand touched his chin and he started at the sensation. "What is your name?"

His name? He was the Soldier. He didn't have one.

"Yes, you do. What's your name?" Had he said that out loud? He wasn't sure. He thought again, struggling against the visions that threatened to overtake him, and then it clicked: "James."

"James what?"

"Barnes."

"Good." The voice was warm, soft; he wanted to wrap himself in it. He was reminded of a time when he was very small and sick, and a woman had cared for him; she was warmth and kindness and good things, and nothing bad would happen while she was around. He blinked a couple of times and the visions melted away. He shook his head, to clear the images in his mind and to remove the hand that had gripped his chin.

He flexed his fingers, dropping the ice, and stared at his hands; the metal one was steady as ever, while the flesh one was pale white and shook violently. His entire body shook. Sweat dripped from his chin and he pressed his palms to his eyes with a groan and a grimace. His head felt like it was splitting open. Panic fluttered in his chest. He was breathing heavily. He looked up; Sam was standing a few feet away, eyes watchful but sympathetic; Sergeant Fox was just beside him, on his right side, the side with his real arm. She was quiet, watching his face, and he snapped his head to the side to look at her, noting that she started slightly at the motion. Aside from that, however, her face was calm, serene.

"Welcome back," she said. He looked away, avoiding eye contact; he didn't like the way she seemed to see right through him, like she knew everything he was thinking, everything he was hiding. It was unnerving. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cabinet with a low thud. He swallowed, trying to calm his nerves. His breathing was shaky, his heartbeat erratic.

"Did I… do anything?"

"Nah," Sam said. "Well, you screamed once and threw some ice, but that's about it."

"Ice," he repeated, flexing his hand.

"You had a flashback," Sergeant Fox explained, and he rolled his eyes.

"You don't say."

Her voice hardened. "And the ice helped bring you back." There was an implied jackass at the end of her statement, but she was kind enough to leave it out. He blinked open his eyes and looked at her from the corner of his eye, his head still tilted back against the cabinet. He thought he should have said thank you, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words. He was completely humiliated. He wanted to hide. He wished they would stop looking at him.

"What are you looking at?" he finally snapped. "It's not going to happen again."

"Alright," the sergeant said, raising her hands to say that she didn't want to fight. He was aware that she was alarmingly close; she was lucky, he thought, that he hadn't hurt her. Sometimes, when he was lost, when his mind was somewhere else, he didn't have control.

The room tensed suddenly and he looked up; Steve had just reentered the room, his hand bandaged. He met Bucky's eyes and Bucky looked away quickly, the humiliation intensifying. But all Steve did was give him that encouraging smile, the little nod that said he wasn't disappointed, that he understood. Bucky's lip curled. If Steve had seen what Bucky had seen in that flashback, that faith would vanish. None of them understood. Perhaps he had been a fool to think that he could be fixed. He was definitely a fool.

Steve offered Bucky his hand to help him up, but Bucky ignored it, standing upright, trying not to stagger. He was a damned fool. They all were.

"Leave me alone," he spit at Steve. It had been the sight of blood and glass that had brought the flashback on. He hated himself for being so weak as to lose himself to it. He hated that Sergeant Fox had been able to help him; he hated the kind, non-judgmental look on her face as he came out of it. He rounded on all of them. "Stay away from me, all of you." He didn't know why he kept saying that. He hated being alone just as much as he craved it.

"Bucky," Steve said, and Bucky rounded on him.

"Especially you," he snarled. He wasn't sure why he was doing this to Steve, or to any of them. He was crazy, that was why. He wanted to push them away; he wasn't worth their time, and what the new visions had revealed only engrained that in his mind. A lump formed in his throat; he wanted to cry. The sensation made his voice raspy. He hated the look on Steve's face at his poisonous tone. But he couldn't undo it. He stalked past them, leaving the blood and ice on the floor, crunching glass on his way and shouldering Steve out of his way.

"Buck," Steve tried again, one last time, but Bucky ignored him, stalking back to his room and slamming the door.

The adrenaline rush was slowly fading, and she started to shake. Still on the floor, she took a deep, steadying breath and looked up at Sam. She wiped her sweaty palms on her pants and closed her eyes for a moment, centering herself before she tried to stand. And maybe it was the intensity of the situation, but her real leg was shaky, a little weak, and standing was harder than she thought it would be. She was discreet about it, but she thanked the heavens for Sam, who stepped up and helped her to her feet, wrapping her in a hug.

"You okay?" he asked softly, and she nodded against his shoulder and pushed away with her usual smile.

"I'm fine."

He rumpled her hair, then glanced around the kitchen and let out a low whistle, hands on his hips; the ice was melting on the floor, Steve's blood was scattered about in little droplets, and the glass hadn't been picked up yet. Steve was still looking in the direction of the bathroom.

"Sergeant Fox," he said suddenly, and his voice was hard. It was his soldier-voice.

Mo felt guilt prick at her mind. She bit her lower lip. She was kind; she tried to stay kind, and she hated slipping back into the role of Sergeant Moriah Fox, ordering people about. And she hadn't missed the look on Steve's face, either, especially after she had said that he had triggered Barnes. And Barnes's specification that especially Steve should stay away probably hadn't helped much, either.

"Yes, sir?" she said, trying to keep her voice steady, slipping seamlessly back into military mode. Captain was a higher rank than sergeant, she thought. Captain America. Why was she suddenly so nervous? He turned his attention from down the hall to focus on her. His expression was hard, which only served to spike her nerves. It was the Captain America face. She swallowed and met his gaze. All these years out of the military, she thought, and it never really left you. You were never done being a soldier.

"I'd like a word," he said, and she followed him into the living room, away from Sam.

"Oh, don't worry," Sam called. "I'll clean up!"

Her heart pounded against her ribcage. Oh, she was nervous; her stomach was in knots. He was going to chew her out. What had she been thinking? This was Captain America. She shouldn't have spoken to him the way she had. She shouldn't have tried to order him around. She was tempted to speak first, to apologize, but she didn't; when someone wanted a word with you, you shut up and took whatever it was they had to say. She was suddenly a private again; she was back in boot camp, a man shouting in her face, only inches away.

She stood in the living room as Steve paced in front of her, his expression hard as ever, his hands behind his back. She stared straight ahead, wondering what kind of person got themselves yelled at by Captain America. Her heart stuttered as he finally stopped pacing in front of her and faced her. Their eyes locked and his widened fractionally, his eyebrows drawing down.

"What's wrong?" he asked suddenly, his face concerned. She frowned.

"What?"

"You look upset. Is it because of Bucky? I'm sorry you had to see that—"

"What? No, that's why I'm here. I just—" she laughed abruptly, but it was a nervous, skittish laugh. "You're not angry?" He looked at her blankly. "I thought—I thought you called me in here to chew me out…"

"You just helped draw my best friend out of a flashback," Steve said.

"I yelled at you," she countered.

"You made the right call," he replied with a little smile.

"No, but I shouldn't have spoken to you that way."

At this he grinned, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. "Do you want me to be angry with you, Sergeant Fox?"

She ducked her head and smiled, shaking her head. "No, but I did want to apologize."

"There's nothing to forgive," he reassured her, placing a hand on her shoulder and meeting her eyes; he was very tall, and she had to look up at his face. "What you did in there was really something," he said, and she smiled; she could hear traces of the way he would speak in the 40s. "I should be thanking you. I was useless, but you knew what to do. If I had any doubts about you before, you proved them wrong."

She narrowed her eyes playfully. "You doubted me?"

He shrugged one shoulder and she laughed a little before he went on. "I understand that I triggered him," Steve said. "And sometimes he's so hostile toward me…"

Mo gave him a gentle smile. "It's not your fault," she soothed. "Think about it. You were his target for a while, right? So he was brainwashed to the point where killing you was basically his reason for existing. And now here you are, and you're friends. That's got to mess with his head, even if he doesn't really understand it." Steve nodded, then scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I hate feeling to helpless," he said. "I just want to help him, but I don't know how."

"Keep him in a safe environment," Mo offered. "Keep triggers to a minimum."

"We do our best," Steve said. "We try to keep it quiet; no loud sounds, no sudden moves, no shouting."

"That's good," Mo replied. "You've been helping him more than you know. All you can really do is be there when he needs you." Steve nodded. "Look, Steve," she sighed. "I know you love him, and I know you'd do anything for him. The best thing you can do is just treating him like normal. Don't push him. Because as much as you love him, you could be setting him back, given your… history."

"I understand," Steve said, sounding tired.

"Hey," she said, reaching out and swatting his massive bicep with the back of her hand. "We're going to get him through this, okay? I promise."

AN: Next chapter, we'll officially meet the Winter Soldier. And the details of the flashbacks will be revealed as well, in time. So I figure we'll have maybe a chapter or two more of Bucky being as bad as he is before we really kick it in gear and get his recovery started, which means improvements, setbacks, more flashbacks, etc. But I feel like I needed to set all the groundwork first, which means establishing just how bad he is. I really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter; I know I did! I loved writing Mo and Steve in this one.

And don't worry, it won't all be intense and heavy (though I do plan on having it get VERY INTENSE at one point in his recovery). We'll have some light, fun moments as well. So like I said, maybe another chapter or two of groundwork before we get this rolling, including Sam/Mo history, a deeper look into Mo and her personal struggles with PTSD, etc. It's gonna be good!

Your reviews give me life, people, thank you so much!