8. Learned

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

'It is time to—

He stirred back to consciousness, slowly. The world was a blur.

—wake up, soldier.'

He blinked, then startled. A blanket had been thrown over him. The sensation was so unfamiliar he'd tried to fight the thing off. There was a needle taped to the back of his hand. He made a motion to shake it off.

'Don't do that. The medicine is to help you.'

The doctor sat on a chair by his bedside, keeping watch, papers folded on his lap.

Of course. Bucky—that was his name; it felt as alien as a word in a language he'd never learned—should have remembered the doctor knew everything. The doctor saw everything. The doctor was everywhere. The outside shell changed, grew lines, lost hair, but underneath there was the carved statue of an idol, pupil-less eyes always watching, never sleeping.

You did not escape the doctor.

You did not escape the room with the tiles and the fluorescent lamps and the blank white walls. It stretched forever like a field of ice.

The blade.

A thick rubber sleeve had been placed around his left shoulder, but still the metal hand snaked across the bed before he could stop it. He couldn't control it well. It reared and flopped.

(Yes, it was better like that. To think it had a mind of its own.)

'Are you looking for this?'

He looked back at the doctor, who had pulled a small plastic bag out of his pocket: inside there was a ragged-edged sliver of metal, stained with rust and blood.

Bucky didn't answer. He couldn't stop a lick of fear somewhere in his chest, but on some level he wasn't surprised. Of course the doctor had known all along.

It was reassuring, almost. He stilled, numbness spreading through him.

'Oh, and I have these too.' The doctor reached into his pocket again and retrieved a clear screw-top flask holding several pills. A few of them were half-chewed. The plastic made them look spotted with mould.

'When—' Bucky whispered, then trailed off. His voice was hoarse with disuse.

It didn't matter. The doctor filled in the rest himself, as though he could read Bucky's thoughts. That, too, was unsurprising.

'From the very beginning, soldier,' the doctor said, then folded the objects in a handkerchief before returning them to his pocket. He brushed a piece of invisible lint off his sleeve. 'While you are resting in cryostasis or having any accidental injury repaired, we of course clean everything in your room and carry out any replacements as necessary. It is done for your comfort and well-being. Of course, since you suffer from what is termed paranoid delusions, you, ah, think no doubt it's all part of some sinister plot. Poison under the bed.' He shook his head. He sounded more disappointed than angry. 'By the by, these pills you went to such lengths not to take? They were only mild analgesics and muscle relaxants. To help you feel better after coming out of cryostasis. I do not know what you were hoping to accomplish by not taking them. You do have a perverse drive to injure yourself, though.'

Bucky dry-swallowed, said nothing.

'In any case, once we realised you had stopped taking your medicine,' the doctor went on, 'I convinced my colleagues that it was better to wait and see. There was probably some kind of purpose to your actions. I said nothing when I noticed that you were trying to smuggle that little piece of metal into your room. Very clumsily too, I might add. Of course we noticed the injury right away, too. We had to work very hard to prevent it from healing without—ah, precipitating an episode of your persecution mania. I think it is rather impressive.

'Did you like the vial, incidentally? I started thinking about the correct moment to leave it out as soon as I understood your plan—it did not take me very long, soldier, I am afraid!' He let out a neat little chortle at that before he turned serious again.

'It would never have worked, mind you. In the end we had to give you a little infection, or the symptoms of one, at least. I myself was the one who put the vial out to see if you would steal it. I thought, in all honesty, that you wouldn't. First, I did not take you for a common thief. I guess one does never know, hmm?' His expression made him look like he was not terribly surprised by this revelation. 'Second, I thought you would see it was a ruse. How convenient that that vial had been left out for you so you could pretend to be unwell like a little child who does not want to go to school. But you never suspected a thing, it seems. Incidentally, the contents of the vial only raised your heart rate a little, made you a little nauseous, increased your temperature. Nothing that did any damage. Of course, we also carefully arranged everything around your "escape" itself. You were never in any danger, fortunately.'

Swell. What a relief that is. He had to swallow a laugh. Except it wasn't a laugh, it was a howl. A scream.

The doctor rose from his chair and stood by the bed, looking down at Bucky. 'One hopes that you have learned your lesson. But I must wonder, though, what was the plan after that? I am very curious, soldier. I would very much like to know. What were you going to do once you were away from the facility? What did you think was going to happen? Were you going to try to walk to the nearest city? How would you even find it in the first place? Which way would you go?'

Bucky couldn't turn his eyes away from the doctor's. 'I—I'd work it out,' he muttered. The doctor's expression, which had hovered between blankness and faint amusement, turned icy. He leaned down. Bucky's body shrank a few inches away.

Yes! said a tiny voice inside him. Yes, let him come closer! Put the metal hand around his neck and squeeze, so what if he has things to stop you he can't be that fast he can't he fucking can't but the voice was high and thin and fevered, and was quickly drowned out by everything inside him crying Be good Be good Be good.

'Oh, you would.' The doctor spat out the words. They were acid-etched with contempt. 'Let us say you arrive at this city, what happens then? Hmm? You were too stupid to think that far, were you not? Did you even stop to wonder if you could speak the language? Or who you would talk to even if you could make yourself understood? What would you tell them? Talk about your training, how you are capable of snapping someone's neck with your bare hands, or stab someone in the heart with a throwing knife?' His eyes were two steel spearheads, pinning Bucky in place. 'And then maybe you could tell them you think you are an American? What would happen then, do you think you can figure it out? If you are so smart? They would arrest you. Take you at your word and treat you as a spy, a criminal, a ruthless murderer. And that is if you were lucky, very lucky. If you were not, they would see that you are a lunatic. Take your arm away, shave your head, and lock you up forever in an asylum. Is that what you want? It sounds as though it is what you want. No, tell me. You must tell me. You want to leave so badly, so what is it you think, exactly? That everything is wonderful outside?'

'No, I—I don't know!' Bucky cried out. He hadn't meant to speak and his stomach knotted with terror, but the words were spilling out now, whether he wanted them to or not, so fast they nearly stuck together in his throat. 'I don't know, OK? I don't know! I don't know what I was thinking. I know it was a stupid plan. I know I didn't think it through. You're right. I'm not smart. I'm not like you. I know I can't stop you from doing whatever you want to me. All right? I know that. I can't even keep you out of my goddamn head. And I know that this is the most clear-minded I've been in who knows how long and I can barely remember my own name. But I can hold on!' His voice was strained.

'That's all I can do, all right? Whatever you do, whatever you dish out, I can take it, and I can hold on, and wait—'

The doctor frowned, straightened up. 'Wait? Wait for what?'

Bucky didn't answer. The words had dried up. All he could do now was lie down in silence and exhaustion. His eyes stung. He wanted be very still and have everything go black (he never slept). He wanted the punishment to start. He wanted it to just be over and done with. He would feel better afterwards. Less scared. Scrubbed clean.

'What are you waiting for? For him?' When the doctor had stood up, he'd tucked his papers under one arm. Now he grabbed them and threw them at Bucky's face. They struck the bridge of Bucky's nose with a soft thwap before falling to his lap. They weren't a weapon, or an instrument, just exactly what they looked like: a bunch of papers. They hadn't hurt him when they hit him. Humiliated him, maybe, but he was far beyond that by now.

He leaned forward, slow as he could make it, as though the doctor might have hidden some biting thing inside the papers, and spread them out. At first he didn't understand. They were mostly clippings from what he was quite sure were newspapers, American newspapers. Some of the running heads said things like New York Times and Washington Post and he knew those were cities in the United States.

One clipping had a list of numbers, something about stocks. He turned it around. On the bottom half of the paper there were two pictures in bad black-and-white newsprint.

Bucky wanted to think that was why he took several seconds to recognise the blond man.

That wasn't the real reason, though. The pictures might be of mediocre quality, and the paper itself a little yellowed, but one of the photos had the costume, the stars and stripes. He remembered it now, like a clap of thunder in his head.

It was just that he'd forgotten what Steve looked like. Almost forgotten. Almost completely.

10 Years Later, the headline said. It wasn't much of a headline, even. The type was very small. He scanned the lines, eyes moving so fast his brain struggled to keep up. Discussions regarding the planned memorial continue… after Rogers was killed in action on May 6 1945… a retrospective of his WWII career…

After Rogers was killed in action.

Was killed in action on May 6 1945.

Killed in action.

His hands shook a little as he flipped through the rest of the papers. There was that date again, over and over. May 6 1945. And the word, killed. It was so odd-looking when you saw it written out, the k's arms parted like the jaws of a bear trap.

One newspaper clipping had a date that had been partly cut away, but he could tell it was April 16 1955. (Ten years? Maybe one hundred. Maybe a minute.) There was a playbill for something called The Last Flight, and the date on that was 1946. The cheap paper was yellowed with age.

Bucky looked up. The doctor's expression had remained placid. 'It's a lie,' Bucky said, feebly. It could be, couldn't it? Words, whole lines in the clippings had been redacted with black ink. Maybe Steve was alive under that.

It wasn't a lie. The doctor never lied.

His eyes were cloudy. After he blinked several times, he could see again and there were fat, ungainly splotches on the papers on his lap.

'Come now, soldier,' the doctor said. 'What must you think of me to entertain the idea that I would do such a thing. No, it is all very real, I assure you. Do you really think I would forge so many newspapers and things so convincingly? I am almost flattered.'

Bucky didn't answer. He looked down at the clipping again, the one with the pictures. One of the splotches had blurred a line in the last paragraph, the edge of a photo. Everything else remained solid, immovable.

Killed in action.

'He was dead even before you joined us, do you know?' the doctor went on. 'Perhaps I should have told you straight away, that you were never going to see him again. All this time, holding on to that delusion. It can only have caused harm.' He shook his head. 'Oh, don't look so sad, soldier. It is rather embarrassing. Clean yourself up.'

That was an order. Bucky ran the back of his flesh hand over his face, smeared it wet. He couldn't be crying. He wasn't sniffling, his nose wasn't running. He was just leaking, like things had leaked out of his head until there was nothing left. 'How?' he managed to squeeze out.

'How did he die? Does it matter? It is not like it concerns you at all.' The doctor paused, shrugged, then went on. 'He went down with a plane. Not a very interesting story. But you…'

He trailed off. Bucky stopped dragging his hand across his face, stopped seeing the pinpricks of black ink on paper. Stopped.

'You are lucky, soldier,' the doctor said, softly, gently, even. He picked up the papers and folded them, then placed them in one of his pockets. That was good. Those things should be out of sight. Tucked away. 'Most people never get to find out who they really are.

'Not you, though. Think about it. What kept you going, before? What was your purpose? Following orders, yes, doing as you were told. Whatever you were told, no matter what. But who gave the orders? A man in a—a fancy-dress costume? Do you know what he would say to you, this delusion you were holding on to? If this man were still alive and somehow still remembered you and came here and saw you. He would be…' The doctor paused for a split-second, brow furrowed in thought.

'Disgusted. Yes, that is the right word. Disgusted. Like any friends and family, if you had them, would be disgusted. He would tell you he isn't like you, that he would not have given in, not have said yes to all this like you did, he would rather have died. Of course, that is only because he would understand nothing of our work, isn't it? All those stars and flashes but just another sad and dull little man with a sad and dull little mind.' His tone brightened a little. 'I wish you could see your face right now, soldier.'

'Why?' Was he supposed to sound defiant? Instead he sounded like something who didn't want to be hurt any more. Disgusting, yes. He no longer cared.

'So you could see how right it is. Do you not understand yet? You were holding on to illusions, and now you have finally let go. And what are you when that is gone? When you realise that there is nothing left? When all those fragile little lies of yours just… float away? No one. No one at all.'

No one, Bucky repeated to himself.

The doctor started to turn away, stopped, faced him again. 'It is good, you know. What you have just learned. It is perhaps a little painful, but just like in nature, once the old skin has shed, you can become your true self. You were dead, do you know that? That captain of yours let you die without a care, but I brought you back. I understood your value. I am perhaps the first person in your life who did. And when I asked you if you wished to be made into something, something better, you agreed. Perhaps you do not remember it in words, but you remember it where it matters. You even took to your new arm so quickly. Like a child pulling wings off flies.'

Did he remember it? There was something very faint, lights, nodding a yes. A ghost-memory. An insect trapped in amber.

'We all have a nature, you know,' the doctor said. 'And without all this you would have never discovered yours. And now you will embrace it. You have begun already. You killed that poor guard so efficiently. Don't worry yourself about it, he was no one. And there is nothing more at peace than something which has accepted its purpose. The mind…' He nodded to himself, then looked at Bucky (was that really his name was that another lie). '… The fist. We all have our parts to play. You have been so tiresome sometimes, you have required so much correction. But often the hardest victories feel the best.' He sounded pleased. 'You will accept it now, I am sure. Understand that it has always been inevitable. You are what you are, soldier, and what you were always meant to be. By blood, by temperament, by inclination. What the ancients called fate. There is no escaping it.'

There was no escape from this. There had never been. If he had jumped off the shore, he'd have tumbled into a hole cut into nothing and woken up in his room.

The doctor took another few steps towards the door before he halted and looked back over his shoulder. 'I am responsible, you know. For your so-called friend dying. I helped design that plane.' He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 'Of course, that is not my main expertise. I am a biochemist, a geneticist. No, don't trouble yourself with that, those are scientific fields, you wouldn't understand. But I have always had a keen interest in robotics and engineering. I told Schmidt not to put in any parachutes or any of those, what do you call them, ejecting seats. Why would he need them for victory? Of course, I was hoping I might be lucky and it might get me rid of him! Odious man,' he added, with a small shudder of repulsion. 'But instead, your captain went on the plane and then went down with it. I supposed that if I had done things differently, in a way I would have saved him. But I didn't. I chose not to. I would still choose not to. For your sake, above everything else. I want you to know that.'

He turned away again. Bucky said nothing, made no motion to stop him. He could always put his metal hand around his own neck, hope he would be able to control it enough and be fast and strong enough to crush the windpipe and the vertebrae before he saved his own worthless hide by passing out. But what would be the point?

'Thank you,' he said instead, his voice hoarse. 'Thank you for… showing me. For telling me.'

He meant it.

The doctor stopped but didn't turn around. 'You are very welcome, soldier,' he said.

The doctor meant it too.

'Do you want to forget?' the doctor added, after a short while. Still he didn't turn around.

He was silent for a moment. In a way he didn't believe it. He couldn't be that lucky, surely. To be allowed to forget. 'Yes,' he whispered.

'It will be as you wish. Just rest for now. Let the medicine have its effect. And then, afterwards, when everything is gone… the rest will be just a formality. I hope you realise how fortunate you are, soldier.'

The lock on the door slid shut with its usual metal clang. He no longer minded it. It meant everything was in its right place.

He stayed on the bed, motionless, glancing once in a while at the plastic tubbing and the medicine dripping inside it. Maybe soon there would be the mazes, the guns, the targets. He wouldn't mind that. Things were quieter, inside. The fog became more bearable. Maybe a bullet would hit him, or he would break his skull. He couldn't die, but maybe it would happen.

First the chair, though, to bleed his memories away.

He supposed he should hate himself, but he was too tired even for that. More tired than any person could be, he was sure. The doctor had been kind enough to leave the blanket behind, but he couldn't cover himself with it and close his eyes. He never slept. He liked—no, he couldn't feel anything. He didn't dislike the idea of burrowing, going deep inside the flesh of a creature that had been dead long enough to be cold. He didn't dislike the idea of being left alone there.

(He could have made himself die a thousand times by now if he'd really wanted to. If he'd really put an effort into it. He could have curled up in a corner, refused to move, refused everything. Then they would have put a bullet in his head. Write him off. Useless. But he hadn't. He had gone along with it, given up, given in. Maybe he hadn't exactly volunteered, but he hadn't exactly been forced, either. You did not have quiet conversations with your enemies. A lot of people would not let have this happen to them. They just had to not really want it, even in the deep-down places only the doctor and his machines could see.)

(He wanted them—he wanted the doctor to tell him he was not useless. That he had done well today. Didn't he? Maybe. He must.)

He didn't care how much time passed. He lay on the bed, staring at the lights, blinking, he supposed, once in a while. He knew he should look away, that soon (when?) his eyes might burn, but it didn't matter. They would be fixed. Everything could be fixed.

It was good that he no longer felt hungry or thirsty, didn't even remember what that felt like. He didn't eat, didn't drink, didn't sleep. When he finished peeling his skin off his whole body would be metal, diamond-hard and unbreakable and beautiful.

The doctor had been wrong, it wasn't a little painful. It wasn't painful at all. He felt nothing. Just numbness. Ice.

You were dead.

It was better that way.

There was an itch on his right arm. He looked at it and saw an insect crawling about, brown and sluggish. It was fat with something, venom, maybe.

It must have crawled out of his skin.

You will like it down here, the girl in the walls said.

Good.

TBC…

Author's note: Bucky's "all I can do is wait" speech comes once again from Breaking Bad, from a similar speech by Skyler White (speaking of characters Bucky would have much to discuss with…) in Fifty-One (season 5, episode 4). And, again, some of Zola's lines are paraphrased from similar lines in the Cold Case episode The Road (season 5, episode 15) with a few lines also from Breaking Bad, specifically from The Best TV Episode Ever, Ozymandias (season 5, episode 14). Also, um, on another note, I feel I should just… provide an infinite supply of Emergency Puppies/Kittens to go along with this fic, I think… :(