{ 4. Ammunition }
"Please don't strip my mind,
Leave something behind,
Please don't strip my mind"
-'Strip My Mind', Red Hot Chili Peppers
xXxXxXx
Steve was last to bed and first to rise. He woke at dawn, showered and shaved, was dressed and ready to go before anyone else even left their beds. When he left the bathroom, there was Bucky. He stood inches from the doorway and scared the hell out of Steve, like he'd been waiting there the whole time.
"Jeez, Buck," the blond man sighed and pressed a hand to his heart. "Made me jump! Oh, uh," he suddenly remembered, stepping back into the bathroom, "by the way, Sam got some stuff for you." He picked up individual items on the counter. "Toothbrush, deodorant, razor, comb. These are all yours."
Bucky stared at the items, then looked back at Steve. His eyes were expressing…Something. Steve couldn't tell exactly what, but they weren't dead anymore and for that, he was grateful. Bucky seemed to be here in the present, more awake and aware than he'd been since his rescue.
Bucky lurched forward slightly, hands grasping at the hem of his shirt. His gaze dropped as he made a sound from the back of his throat. Steve thought he might vomit or something, so he pulled him into the bathroom and queried, "You okay? Buck—"
"Mmmm…Mmm…" Bucky hummed, throat tense, shutting his eyes as if humming was the most difficult thing in the world. Steve's brows arched.
Bucky was trying to speak.
Steve planted his hands on his friend's shoulders. "Say it, Buck. Come on," he urged. He was not a patient man—never was and never would be.
"Mmm…"
"You can do it, Pal."
"Mmmmm…"
Bucky lurched again, voice breaking into a choking sound. He suddenly shook his head and turned against the wall, tangling his fingers in his hair.
Frustration. He was expressing frustration and that was new since the "hard reset". Steve still didn't know what the hell a hard reset was, but Sam was right. Bucky was making progress. He was becoming human again, feeling and expressing and doing things on his own volition. Weapons, tools, they didn't do that.
Steve tried to comfort his friend without crowding him, placing a hand on his flesh-shoulder. He assured him, "It's okay, you'll get it. You're doing so much better already." Bucky pressed his forehead against the plaster and groaned, dropping his hand to his side. Steve gently pulled him away from the wall and directed him to the items on the counter that apparently belonged to him.
"Let's try this stuff out, huh? We'll shave that animal off your face, get you lookin' sharp." Steve offered a weak smile and playfully scrubbed his palm over the brunet's short beard. Past-Bucky wouldn't have tolerated a beard like this. "Jesus, I look like a tramp," he'd say.
Present-Bucky didn't say anything. He stood there and looked vaguely miserable as Steve shaved his face smooth. Afterwards, he guided Bucky into the shower and waited with his back politely turned. He had the autonomy to wash himself now. He could use the shower and the toilet on his own. He could draw memories, even if he only had a handful to work with, and Steve was sorry they weren't even good ones. Hydra shattered those. Then S.H.I.E.L.D barged in and swept up the pieces.
Fucking vultures.
Bucky methodically washed his hair and scrubbed his body one section at a time. He stepped out of the tub, sopping wet hair hanging over his face, water pooling on the linoleum around him. Steve threw a towel over his head, helped him dry, apply deodorant and dress in clean clothes—blue jeans and another trashy novelty shirt from Tony. The fabric was bright green, with a graphic of a glass beaker and the text "Forget lab safety, I want super powers!" below.
Steve's eyes nearly rolled back into his brain when he saw it. Tony wasn't allowed to shop for Bucky anymore, he decided, even if Past-Bucky probably would have giggled. It wasn't nice to use him for their own amusement, dressing him like a damn clown when he was this compromised. Next time, Steve was picking the clothes and he'd choose something respectable.
Bucky brushed his teeth while Steve stood behind him, carefully working the tangles from his hair with his new comb. He wanted to lop it off so bad. Too bad none of them knew a thing about cutting hair, and they didn't feel comfortable in the close-quarters of a barbershop.
For now, Steve supposed he could just tie it back. He gathered the damp locks in his fist and wrapped a rubberband around the ponytail. Bucky stopped brushing, staring hard at his reflection. Toothpaste oozed from his slack lips. He held the toothbrush between his teeth as he reached back, pinching the rubberband and ripping it away.
Dark hair fell loose and free around his shoulders. Bucky dropped the rubberband on the floor and continued brushing. Palms up in surrender, Steve apologized, "Got it. Sorry."
xXxXxXx
This town was a cultural graveyard. Tony called in breakfast at some generic chain place and parked the van in an abandoned lot where a Sears used to be. No cameras, no civilians, an open space where no one could sneak up on them. The four sat in a circle in the back of the van with Styrofoam containers stacked between them.
Steve ate like a horse. Three of the containers were for him alone, and he felt guilty shoveling through them while Bucky was sentenced to a disgusting protein mixture. Sam and Tony argued over a map, discussing the most tactical route west. There was no particular destination in mind, they just had to keep moving until Pepper said everything was okay.
So far, nothing was okay. The plan was to straddle the north and south, stay on the back roads and out of areas where the patrol got ticket-happy. Tony was the worst driver—no one denied that except Tony—and Steve got impatient and road-ragey at the drop of a hat. It was up to Sam, as the designated Best Driver, to get them across Ohio today.
Cornstalks whizzed by at 70 miles per hour on either side of the van. There wasn't much else to see but a long, straight road and an endless blue void above. Tony couldn't stand the monotony. He sang along with the radio, bitched and moaned and monologued from the passenger seat, shallow banter pouring from his mouth like it always did. There was hardly a silent moment with him.
Meanwhile, Bucky was struggling to get just one word out. Tony prattled on and on up front and did enough talking for all of them. They got used to it. His voice became white noise after a while. Sometimes, when Sam was lucky, he got a word in edgewise.
The carpet in the van was disgusting. They draped a rug over it and now Steve felt better about Bucky lying with his face pressed to the floor. Steve removed the gauze from his back today. The wound mended itself, but it was still swollen and scabbed. He was sure it had to be sore, would probably leave a big gnarly scar to go with all the other scars on his friend's body. Wounds from hundreds of battles, none of which he fought willingly.
After a while, Bucky got up and started rifling through the bags. First he hit Steve's backpack, dumping everything onto the floor. His shield touched down with a heavy thunk, then ping ping ping as his toiletries and other items cascaded over it. Steve's first instinct was to stop him, but he forced himself to hang back and observe.
Bucky cleared the debris off the shield and cocked his head, examining it for a long moment. He reached forward, brushing his fingers against the smooth metal. Steve bit his tongue, tried not to ruin the moment…But he couldn't help it. He asked cautiously, "Is that familiar to you?"
The brunet's eyes flashed towards him, staring with the same intensity. He looked back at the shield, back at Steve, then at the shield once more. Then he lost interest, pushing it aside before moving on to Sam's duffel bag. Steve couldn't hide the disappointment on his face. He sighed as he swiped his backpack and began stuffing everything back inside.
Carelessly tossing clothes and clutter out of Sam's bag, Bucky didn't stop until he found what he was looking for at the very bottom. He pulled out the coloring book and the box of pencils, tearing out a random page and flipping it to the blank side. Once again, he held it down with his foot as he scrawled on the paper, this time with a red pencil. Steve watched, throwing a glance up front where the others were oblivious, Tony still blathering on about sloppy code or something.
The minutes felt like hours as Bucky made careful, deliberate lines on the page that still turned up crooked and unsteady. When the drawing was finished, he offered it to Steve. There was the naked figure with one arm again, trapped in a square and frowning as a larger, faceless figure sprayed him with hose. Chaotic scribbles depicted a harsh stream of water.
Decontamination. Steve felt his chest tighten. Bucky was already at work on a new picture, in which the naked figure stood with several t-shaped poles at either side of him. Squares were hanging from the poles, lines leading from the squares to the figure's mouth.
Tube-feedings. Jesus, did they ever clothe him? Did S.H.I.E.L.D treat him with any dignity at all, or was he just property to them—something to be maintained and repurposed? Fuck. Steve's face felt hot. He needed to punch something and there was nothing to punch. The drawings trembled with his hand.
If S.H.I.E.L.D treated him so disgracefully, he shuddered to think of what Hydra did to him before that. Bucky probably didn't remember Hydra now, not after the hard reset. That was the only favor S.H.I.E.L.D had done for him, then they went and pulled the same shit they just erased. What was the point? If they needed a weapon, why couldn't they build one that didn't breathe, love, hurt, feel?
Bucky was done drawing. He pushed the book aside and settled back onto the floor, lying among the mess he created from Sam's stuff. He just needed to express that—to get the bad thoughts out, Steve supposed. He couldn't tell, but he could show. He was sharing his memories with Steve; as intimately awful as they were.
Bucky's memories were Steve's only insight into S.H.I.E.L.D's true colors, and when Pepper got this whole situation settled and it was safe to go home, he didn't plan on sweeping this under the rug. Actions had consequences. He would give his friend justice or die trying.
Maybe Sam could analyze these drawings a little better. Steve folded them and placed them in his backpack with the others.
xXxXxXx
Tony felt like he hit the jackpot with this B&B. The old couple who owned it were bumbly and half-blind, there were no cameras or security whatsoever, and the place was in the middle of nowhere. Even better, there were two rooms available, both on the upper floor where they had a good vantage point from the windows.
The place was cozy and didn't reek like cigarettes or mold. Steve handed Bucky's drawings off to Sam before they split up into their respective rooms. Sam examined them as he reclined on the bed—which was way too soft—as Tony hovered obnoxiously over his shoulder.
The bag crinkled loudly as Tony grabbed a handful of chips. He sprayed crumbs over Sam when he spoke over a mouthful, "Whassat?"
Sam rolled his eyes and brushed orange crumbs off the page. He replied, "This is our evidence against S.H.I.E.L.D. Barnes didn't draw these from his imagination—they're memories. He doesn't have an imagination because they took that from him."
Sam paused, shuffling to the next drawing. It was the Bucky figure being force-fed through tubes. He shook his head and continued, "Bet they didn't expect us to bust him out in a million years. If they had it their way, I doubt he ever would have left that facility. He's got no social security number, no family, no ties…"
"Secret human experimentation," Tony crunched over a chip. "Sounds like Hydra to me."
"Exactly." Sam flipped to the next drawing, where the Bucky figure was lying on an operating table. "I'm amazed Barnes has the mental capacity to draw these at all. He must be, uh…Well, he's like Steve with the healing thing. I don't think his brain's an exception." Tony nodded. Sam continued, "He bounces back quick. That's good. The more he can tell us, the more ammunition we have."
He set each drawing to the side after he finished viewing them. Tony sat on the bed and picked up the cheeseburger drawing. "What about this one? Is this ammunition?" he asked. Sam cracked a little smile.
"Nah. I think that's just a burger."
"Damn," Tony snapped his fingers. "We'll never bust 'em for their crimes against food!"
Sam looked at the image of four figures smiling in a box. "This is us," he pointed. "And I'm pretty sure this box is supposed to be the van, or maybe a room. Whatever it is, it's small. He might be feeling caged."
"Hell, I feel caged." Tony rolled his eyes. Sam went on,
"Could be more symbolic than literal. Might be feeling trapped by his own limitations, but I think he'll make some big strides soon. S.H.I.E.L.D didn't want a vegetable, they wanted a clean canvas. He's still a threat in the wrong hands."
"Well, right now he's in our hands and all he does is throw up a lot and piss on the toilet seat. Look out, Da Vinci, we're making masterpieces!"
"He'll always be a target, Tony. For the rest of his life." Sam shook his head a little. "Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D, whoever—monsters like that don't see a human being. They just see a powerful Cap-proof weapon and they want a piece of it."
A sigh gusted through his nostrils. "He'll need to be guarded twenty-four-seven and the attacks will never stop. S.H.I.E.L.D knows that and their intentions were probably for the greater good, but…Well, he's the hill Steve's willing to die on."
A silence passed. Tony began spreading the drawings out on the bed, lining them up in a neat square. He leaned over and aimed his phone, snapping photos at various distances. Sam quirked an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"
Tony replied flatly, "Pepper could use some of that ammunition."
xXxXxXx
There were two beds in this room just like at the motels. But this time, Bucky got one all to himself. He sprawled his limbs out across the mattress, lying on his belly like a starfish as Steve unpacked some things. Tony deemed this place secure enough to stay a while. Might as well get comfortable.
It was dark now and the windows were nothing but a security issue, so Steve closed the blinds and checked the door for the third time to ensure it was locked. Bucky rolled off the bed and started digging through the bag of snacks. He found a nutrient drink and sucked it down, dropping the empty bottle on the floor.
"In the trash," Steve reminded him. Bucky glared back, then responded by kicking the bottle. It made a hollow sound as it hit the wall. Steve frowned, sighing as he crossed the room and picked it up for him. Losing his temper was pointless. Bucky was expressing something. Or trying to, in the limited ways he could. Steve couldn't scold him for that.
Bucky pressed his arm and forehead against the wall. "Mmm…Mmmmmm…" he hummed. The noise got louder and more frantic by the moment. Steve frowned, standing helplessly near the window. The hums got deeper, turning to growls, turning to roars, turning to choking, pathetic cries as teardrops hit the floor.
He pounded his fist on the wall. Half-hearted, but it still left a crack in the plaster and Steve winced. "Hey," the blond man said softly, slowly approaching from the side. "It's okay. You're okay, Buck."
Steve had never uttered such a bold lie in all his life. Bucky knew he was full of shit because he suddenly wailed, hunching lower against the wall. It was a sad, agonized sound that sucked the air from Steve's lungs, squeezed his chest like a vice. Steve didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do. Man with a plan, his ass.
It was instinct more than anything, when he pulled Bucky away from the wall and into his arms. He was crushing him, probably hurting the wound on his back, and he couldn't stop. Bucky didn't resist either way. The brunet leaned into the embrace and grasped the front of Steve's shirt in his fist, quaking with tears and fury.
This was new; this agony, these tears. As much as Steve's heart ached for him, he wanted Bucky to cry. He wanted him to express his pain over the injustices committed against him. He wanted him to express it as much as he wanted to protect him from it. Pain was a necessary evil of being human, and Bucky was long overdue for a complaint or two.
Steve guided him to the bed near the window, sat down beside him as he bawled. His sobs alternated between pitiful and angry, face streaming with tears and sweat and snot. Plucking a tissue from the box on the side table, Steve wiped his face dry but the tears just kept streaming. Bucky's breath was shallow and ragged. Choking on his own sobs.
The brunet's chest heaved with each labored breath. He leaned forward, hair falling over his head like a shroud as murky liquid oozed to the floor between his feet. Steve jolted upright and swiped the little trash can near the desk. He positioned it under Bucky's face and spared the carpet the best he could.
Bucky choked and sputtered, sobbing between breaks as the rest made its way out. Steve patted his back until the brunet's breath evened out and nothing but drool passed his lips. "Rinse," he said, passing Bucky an opened water bottle. Bucky did as he was told, swishing a few mouthfuls and spitting them in the trash can.
They sat in silence for…Steve wasn't sure how long. Bucky looked like Hell, hunched over with his head nearly between his legs, bits of vomit at the ends of his hair. At least he wasn't crying anymore. Too exhausted for that now, Steve was sure. He couldn't—wouldn't—let Bucky stay this miserable for too long. He never did, even back in the day when Bucky was drinking himself stupid because some dame said "goodbye".
After a while, he pulled him to his feet and led him into the bathroom for his second shower today. So Present-Bucky was a little sickly, a little gross, a little messy—whatever. Steve would deal. He helped him rinse away the worst of it, then filled the tub and poured soap under the running tap.
A bubble bath. Now that was luxury. The kind of luxury Bucky should have been experiencing weeks ago, Steve thought, if S.H.I.E.L.D didn't swoop in with their grubby talons and whisk him away to their bullshit facility. Bucky didn't deserve all that. If only the whole world could know James Buchanan Barnes the way he did.
Maybe Steve shouldn't have left him alone in the tub, but after seeing those drawings he thought he deserved a little privacy for once. He compromised by leaving the door slightly ajar as he cleaned up the mess on the carpet. Vomit, snot, tears. Puddle of misery.
There was a knock on the door a couple hours later. Sam came in to talk about the "ammunition" and their best course of action. Steve didn't like talking about Bucky like he wasn't even there, but Bucky was long gone into sleep now, so maybe that was good enough. Sam and Steve stood huddled by the door, Sam's voice barely a whisper as he said, "We gotta have more proof of his condition. Pictures, videos, stuff like that. As much as we can get."
Steve didn't like this. Recording Bucky in such a state, when the consent was dubious as best? He wore doubt all over his face, so Sam quickly added, "No one has to see it except the court and maybe medical professionals, if it comes to that. We need documentation, Steve, or we got nothing."
"We can't just shove cameras in his face all the time. He's already upset, we don't need to—"
Sam waved his hands and broke in, "No, no, I agree. Look, Tony's got a phone glued to his hand twenty-four-seven anyway. He agreed to record this stuff on the DL, but we wanted to run it by you first."
Steve furrowed his brow. "Why don't you run it by Bucky?" he snapped.
Sam looked back at him doubtfully. "We both know why, Man..." He clapped a hand on the blond man's shoulder. "Tony sent those drawings to Pepper. She said the odds aren't in our favor right now—S.H.I.E.L.D's really diggin' their heels in. She needs more evidence to bulk up our case, 'cause as far as S.H.I.E.L.D's concerned, they've done nothing wrong." He paused. "If we don't light a fire under their asses, they're not gonna move. Plain and simple."
Steve pressed his back against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. A moment passed as he stared up at the ceiling. Finally, he let out a sigh and threw up his palms. "Fine," he said. "Fine. Just do what you need to do." Sam nodded and assured him,
"It'll pay out in Barnes' favor."
Steve crossed his arms again, biting his tongue. Bucky gave one arm to Hydra and the other to S.H.I.E.L.D—why don't they just take his dignity too? As much as Steve wanted to bring them down, Bucky shouldn't be the weapon they use to do it. He'd been used enough. The whole situation left a bad taste in his mouth. Greater good, and all that.
xXxXxXx