{ 3. Art Therapy }
"If I had a clue I'd know exactly,
What to do,
If I were the wiser of the two
And if I saw it all so clear,
I'd write it down and bend your ear,
If I were the clearer of the two"
-'If', Red Hot Chili Peppers
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They were out the door at 10AM. That was long enough in this dump.
None of them had eaten a decent meal since yesterday and Steve was feeling it the most. Sitting down at a restaurant was a no-go, so Tony called in an order and Sam briefly ducked in the diner to pick it up, identity obscured by a beanie and sunglasses. He pulled both off his head as he climbed into the back of the van with the others.
Tony had the windows tinted and went under the hood with his own hands before he took this van on the road. It may have been a clunker, but it was a reliable clunker. Now it was sitting in a park, no cameras to be found as far as Tony could see, and no civilians out today as rain splattered against the windshield.
Four bags of food were divided between them. Of course Bucky didn't voice a preference, so Steve ordered for him. Simple French toast and bacon, and Steve even drowned it in butter and syrup for him because that's the kind of shit Bucky Barnes did to his food—at least back in the day.
"Look at us," said Tony, "eating peasant food out of Styrofoam containers like cavemen. You think we'll get food poisoning?"
"I think that's the least of our problems right now," replied Sam. He stabbed his fork into a hashbrown and glanced at Bucky to his right. Steve cut Bucky's food into small bits and placed a fork in his hand, guiding his arm through the motions of eating.
After a while, Bucky repeated the action on his own. He ate methodically, mechanically. At least he was eating, Steve thought.
"Oh," Tony began, quickly scrubbing his hands on a napkin, "before I forget, Pepper sent us a little present." He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a second-hand wallet. Flipping it open, he pulled out three cards and tossed them on the floor between them.
Sam squinted at the portrait that looked identical to—but not exactly like—himself. It was a fake driver's license with the name "Pearson, Wayne S." in the name field. Steve picked up his and Bucky's, named "Liam R. Walsh" and "Nathan T. Price", respectively.
"This guy's fatter than me," mentioned Sam. Tony shrugged.
"You lost weight. Good for you! My name's Richard, by the way."
"Well, you are kind of a dick."
Steve held back a snort and slid the IDs in his pocket. "Tell Pepper I appreciate it," he said. They returned to their breakfast and Bucky was still cramming it down, one bite after another until every crumb was gone. Before long they were back on the road, heading west while avoiding major highways as much as possible. It was Sam's turn to drive, Tony decided, and played with his phone in the passenger seat while Steve and Bucky sat on the floor in back.
Steve took the opportunity to check on Bucky's surgery wound. He pulled up his (stupid) t-shirt and peeled back the gauze, stained with faint pink spots. The skin had already closed itself under the scabbing. Steve let out a sigh of relief and pressed the dressing back into place. "It's healing clean, Buck. That's good, it—"
His words trailed off when he noticed the look on his friend's face. Bucky's skin flushed white and his eyes looked panicked, drool pooling at the corners of his mouth.
"Sam," Steve turned to the front, "pull over. Quick." His tone was urgent and Sam didn't question the order.
He drifted to the shoulder and Steve was wrenching the door open before the wheels had even stopped, dragging Bucky's torso outside just before half-digested French toast spilled from his mouth.
Tony winced and said, "Nice. See, I knew that food was bad news." Bucky leaned out of the open door and heaved over and over. Steve held him steady with one hand and pulled his hair back with the other, a deep, apologetic frown creasing his face. It was just like old times, when Steve led a wasted Bucky back to their apartment every Friday night and he left a trail of puke the whole way. Only this time, Bucky wasn't drunk and no one was having fun.
When the mess stopped flowing, Steve cracked open a water bottle and rinsed Bucky's mouth before pulling him back into the van. Their head and shoulders were wet with rain. Sam twisted around in his seat, eyebrows raised. "Is he okay?" he asked. Steve just sighed,
"I don't know."
"Better not puke in my new van, Barnes," warned Tony. After a pause, he offered some sage alcoholic advice, "We should, uh…Get him a sports drink or something."
Steve agreed, and the van was back on the road. They stopped at a rural convenience store and once again, Sam was sent in to pick up supplies. He wasn't quite the celebrity Steve and Tony were. He preferred to stay out of the media circus, so he was the least likely to be recognized by nosy civilians. Tony loved to see his face plastered on everything from TV to product endorsements, and now his vanity was coming to bite him in the ass.
Sam returned with some Gatorade, saltines, and medicine which probably wouldn't do anything for the soldiers, but it didn't hurt to try. Tony slipped him an extra 20 for some booze too. He had a briefcase stuffed with cash stored under the driver's seat, so they didn't have to be frugal any time soon.
Bucky obediently consumed the crackers and Gatorade. They were ten minutes down the road before he heaved up blue saltines in Steve's lap. After a change of pants and some arguing, Sam was sent into a GNC. He came back with a tub of protein powder, which Steve shook into a bottle of water and Bucky drank that too, despite how miserable he had to be feeling at this point. He didn't complain.
The van rolled down a backwater road, nothing but forests on either side for miles. A low-traffic route, not a place where cops were likely to linger. An hour passed and Bucky's protein drink stayed in his guts. "Liquid only, I guess," Steve told the others. He didn't know what S.H.I.E.L.D did to cripple his friend this way.
Or maybe this was Hydra's doing. S.H.I.E.L.D had become a monster of its own, but destroying Bucky's digestive system seemed too sinister even for them. That was some Hydra-style bullshit, probably another way to keep Bucky under their thumb. Keep him helpless and dependent on Mother Hydra.
Steve's fists quaked at the thought. God, he wanted to see them burn, and he wanted to light the fire. S.H.I.E.L.D, Hydra, anyone who had ever done Buck wrong could burn in Hell. He looked over at the brunet, sitting in the back corner of the van. His knees were pulled to his chest as he stared out the window above Steve's head.
At least he had shoes on his feet now, thanks to Sam. White and black high-tops. Steve thought they looked ridiculous, but the others assured him that these shoes were considered very stylish in the future, especially with track pants and a hoodie.
"It's what all the kids are wearing," Tony told him. Steve was unimpressed. Why were kids dressing like bums these days? Bucky wouldn't be caught dead wearing this back when. He was the kind of guy who spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror trying to get his hair to look just so.
5PM came and went. Now they were well into rural Pennsylvania, where the gray sky opened with patches of blue. Sam handed the wheel over to Steve, who was apparently the official Bucky-sitter, so the brunet took Tony's place in the passenger seat.
They crawled along in the afternoon traffic. Steve pulled the brim of his ballcap low. Tinted windows or not, it wasn't worth the risk. Sam and Tony reclined on the floor in back, well out of sight as they looked up at the sky through the rear windshield.
No one was feeling chatty and they moved at a snail's pace, so Steve turned on the radio. He skipped over a dozen fuzzy stations before settling on a baseball game. He still wasn't accustomed to modern music—it was all noise to him, and the radio rarely played tunes from his time. So fuck it, it was always news or sports with Steve.
Sam closed his eyes, leaning back on his duffel bag. He drifted in and out of sleep, the sharp scent of alcohol snapping him awake every time Tony opened his flask. God, that guy could drink. Sam woke with a start once more, but for once it wasn't Tony's fault. Metal music suddenly blasted through the sound system, vocalist growling like an animal over squealing guitars.
Sam and Tony glanced at eachother, then sat up and turned to Steve. They could see his face in the rear-view mirror. He looked just as confused as they did.
"Why'd you change it to this?" asked Sam, raising his voice above the noise. Steve looked back at him through the mirror and replied,
"I didn't." He nodded his head towards Bucky, leaning back in his seat as he stared at the traffic ahead.
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Tony searched for motels from his phone. It wasn't his Starkphone, but a clunky brick from the grocery store that, for all its problems, was at least untraceable. After an hour of metal, Steve cautiously turned off the radio. Bucky's eyes were closed and he didn't seem to care.
They stopped at the next motel and Tony donned his hat and glasses, stepping out to check the security situation. The decent places had high-definition cameras and police patrolling the area, and those were risks they weren't willing to take. In their case: The shittier the motel, the better.
Tony ended up booking a room. Half of the cameras he saw were fake and the others were so cheap that it didn't matter. Separate rooms would be preferable, but Steve suggested that splitting up may not be the best idea right now. They checked the room for bugs—electronic or otherwise—before settling in.
It was nearly identical to the last room they stayed in, only a little less grungy and with an actual bathtub. The walls smelled faintly of cigarettes. Steve sorted out the fast food they picked up earlier and cracked open a nutritional drink for Bucky, which was the closest thing to food he could tolerate.
"This is gross," Tony griped over a soggy chicken strip. "You're not missing anything, Bucko." Bucky's eyes flicked to him for a moment, then he finished the last of his drink and dropped the empty bottle on the floor. Steve picked it up as he walked by and shoved it in their designated trash bag. He hadn't sat down since they arrived, peeking through the blinds every few minutes. Sam finally had enough.
"Steve," he held up a palm, "you gotta relax, Man. You're acting like a tweeker." Steve sighed through his nostrils and forced himself to plant his ass on the bed next to Bucky.
"Sorry," he apologized. He didn't even know what a tweeker was and he was still offended. Across the room near the TV, Tony was boozing it up straight from the bottle. There wasn't much else to do, but Steve wished he'd be a little more responsible. What happened when S.H.I.E.L.D or Hydra or whoever the fuck busted the door down and Tony was too sloshed to stand?
Sam anticipated the boredom and planned ahead more constructively. He picked up an adult coloring book during their last stop, fishing that and a box of 24 colored pencils from his duffel bag. Steve watched as he casually folded the cover back and began to color in an intricate mandala.
"Are you coloring?" The blond man quirked an eyebrow. Sam never took his eyes off the page as he replied matter-of-factly,
"It's called art therapy."
"I thought those were for kids."
"They're for adults now." Sam paused. "Seriously, they're all the rage right now. Wanna join me? Not much else to do but drink, and we know how that works for you."
The corner of Steve's mouth curled. He contemplated it for a moment, then shrugged and said, "Alright." Sam moved to the center of the other bed and queried,
"Tony? How about some art therapy? More constructive than…Liquor therapy, or whatever you're doin' over there." Tony paid him a little sneer and scoffed.
"What am I? Five?"
"I wonder sometimes…" Sam shrugged. "Offer still stands."
Steve used a hardcover travel book as a surface, placing a coloring page over top. He put it in Bucky's lap and held out 23 pencils.
"Pick a color," he said. Bucky's eyes scanned back and forth over his options, then back at Steve. Finally his hand reached up, hesitating for a second before plucking the dark blue pencil from Steve's grip.
Back in their day, therapy was for 'crazy' people and no one liked to talk about it. Now it seemed everyone 'saw somebody' for their problems and spoke about it as casually as the weather. If this was a type of therapy, Steve figured, maybe it would help Bucky.
The brunet watched Sam for a moment. Then he flipped his own page to the blank side and set it on the bed, holding it in place with his socked foot as he scrawled something there. Steve silently observed. The lines seemed formless at first, unsteady, abstract. But as Bucky filled the page, they took shape into a somewhat competent drawing—at least competent enough for Steve to recognize what it was.
It started with a rectangle in the center of the page. That was meant to be a table. A one-armed person was lying atop of it, unclothed with straps on its ankles and remaining wrist. The figure was drawn in a basic, childlike way, but all the anatomy was there. Genitals, two dots for nipples and one for a naval, five fingers on its hand and five toes on each foot, with long strands of hair coming down from its head. The figure had dark circles for eyes, a triangle-nose and a big frown.
Steve rested his chin on his hand, furrowing his brow as he watched Bucky continue. Two more figures were added, about twice the size of the first and though they were drawn from the front, Steve got the impression they were meant to be standing and not lying down. They stood on either side of the figure on the table, wearing long coats with what looked like syringes floating above their hands. They did not have hair or faces.
Bucky handed the drawing back to Steve, along with the hardcover book beneath it. Steve took it gingerly, throat tightening as he stared at it for a long moment.
"Sam," he said, cursing the little quiver that crept into his voice. Sam looked up from his page and saw Steve offering him the drawing with anxiety on his face.
Carefully examining the artwork, Sam cracked a smile at Steve and told him, "This is progress."
Steve couldn't believe what he was hearing. It didn't look like "progress" to him. It looked like "another reason to burn S.H.I.E.L.D to the fucking ground". Then again, he wasn't the mental health professional here.
Sam turned to Bucky and tapped his finger on the lying figure. "Is this you, Bucky?" he asked. The brunet still held remnants of vacuous confusion on his face, but it seemed to be fading over time. He didn't nod or speak, he just pressed his finger over the figure's face, and Sam took it as a safe 'yes'.
Tearing another page from the book, Sam flipped it to the blank side and gave that and the hardcover back to Bucky.
"Draw something else for me," he requested. He and Steve watched. The product was another naked, one-armed figure, this time sitting in an oddly-shaped chair. Either Bucky forgot to draw its head, or just decided it shouldn't have one.
The third drawing depicted the figure inside of a square with three other figures surrounding it. This time it was wearing clothes. All four were wearing U-shaped smiles. Two had short, straight hairs sticking up from their heads, one with a beard and one without. The other had dark, curly squiggles for hair.
The final drawing was a cheeseburger. He drew a fucking cheeseburger. Probably the one Sam was eating earlier, Steve assumed, and then Bucky decided he was done with this activity because he dropped the hardcover on the floor. Tony meandered over as Steve gathered the drawings off the questionably clean carpet. He wobbled a bit, breath reeking of alcohol as he leaned over and pointed to the bearded figure in the square.
"Is that supposed to be me?" he asked. Steve shrugged.
"It must be."
"Terrible likeness," Tony slurred. "F-minus." Bucky curled up on the bed and closed his eyes. It wasn't that late, but then again, his body was trying to heal after S.H.I.E.L.D ripped a bunch of trackers and bombs and God knows what else out of his spine, then he hiked through miles of forest and nearly bled to death. He was out like a light in minutes, on top of the blankets as usual.
Tony was next to pass out, followed by Sam. They shared a bed again because Bucky was 'weird' and 'pukey' and though he was probably harmless, they didn't trust him 100% not to choke them in their sleep yet. Not like Steve did. Sam wasn't awake to scold him, so Steve loitered by the window with his finger parting the blinds just enough to peek through.
He took note of every vehicle in the parking lot, observing other guests as they came in and out of their rooms. A couple SUVs and a red car in the lot. A bald man and a blond woman stepped out of one of the SUVs and entered a room. No familiar faces. They weren't being followed. Yet.
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[Notes:
-"Dick" is a nickname for "Richard". Yeah, I don't know why either.
-Gatorade in particular is supposed to be helpful for dehydration/vomiting because it has electrolytes.]
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