Chapter Fifteen

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It took a long time before Bucky was ready for Stark and a doctor to look at his arm.

It didn't come easy. The minute the doctor entered the room, Bucky stiffened, bristling, and backed away. For an instant, Steve saw pure murder in his friend's eyes, quickly flickering into horror.

"Wait." Steve seized the doctor by the arm and promptly marched him back out. In the hallway, he faced the startled man. "Please take off your white coat."

The doctor sputtered, surprised.

"My friend's had a bad experience with doctors," Steve said, and suddenly he wasn't sure what words he could use to explain this. The terms he'd learned in his counseling sessions at SHIELD and in conversations with Sam wouldn't be used for years to come. "He—he thinks you're an enemy when he sees it," he managed at last.

To his credit, the doctor didn't protest, immediately shucking off the coat and draping it over a chair. His eyes softened in instant compassion.

"I understand," he said. "I worked with camp survivors."

Even without the coat, things were difficult. Bucky sat shirtless on the bed, his good hand knotted into the covers, breathing hard and flinching every time anyone touched him. Steve sat by his friend's side, both to provide support and to help ensure nobody got their head accidentally torn off.

The doctor was horrified at what he found. Howard was awed.

"It's incredible," Howard marveled, sticking his face so close to the metal plates that they fogged up from his breath. "They're going for a bio-mechanic interface, and they nearly managed it! Seems to run on self-winding clockwork and just a speck of…" he trailed off, mumbling incomprehensibly.

"Inhumane, you mean," the doctor snapped. He wiped his hands on a cloth, looking ill. "And you say this was done without your consent?"

Bucky nodded jerkily. He was shuddering, muscles jumping and twitching beneath his skin, and his sweat-beaded face was ashen. "Yeah," he confessed, breathlessly, "...yeah."

"I can repair it," Howard volunteered. "I mean, you did a number on the clockwork, and your muscles tore loose from a few places they were fastened in, but they shouldn't be too hard to anchor in again. I could probably even come up with some upgrades that would make it easier to move."

The doctor looked even more ill at the thought. "Or we could remove it entirely," he offered. "It appears to be bolted to your clavicle—" Bucky looked unsurprised, "—but if we needed, we could saw the metal off short and let you heal over any remaining pieces."

Bucky remained silent, head down. With his good hand, he reached across his body to touch the plates experimentally.

Steve leaned down to get a better look at his friend's face. "You wanna think about it a while, Buck?"

Bucky shook his head, with a firmness that surprised everyone. "I want it off," he breathed, and then his voice strengthened. "I want it off."

"You sure?" Howard asked, clearly disappointed, but there was no doubting Bucky's sincerely.

"I want it off," he begged again.

Steve nodded, and exchanging a look with the doctor, shifted his grip to Bucky's good shoulder.

"We'll get it off, then," he promised.

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In the end, they got the arm off.

It took hours of surgery. Bucky had asked, hesitantly, if he had to be awake for this operation too. The remembered pain in his eyes had made Steve want to go smash things, but instead he'd promised Bucky that they would put him out if at all possible. That feat alone had left Howard something to do, since Bucky's metabolism ate up the anesthetics faster than they could be administered, but finally the inventor had come up with something.

Steve was at his side when his friend finally regained consciousness. "Hey," he said, smiling as Bucky's eyes opened. "How do you feel?"

Bucky blinked at him—and then his hand darted across his body to grope at his left side, where the metal arm had been for so long.

For as long as he lived, Steve would never forget the expression on Bucky's face at the realization that the painful mark of his captivity and abuse was gone.

"Swell," Bucky whispered hoarsely, and smiled—a real smile, big and wide and honest. "Feelin' swell."

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The days and weeks that followed were a time of rest and recovery. One by one, the Commandos departed for home. Morita left first, accepting the flight to California that Howard so thoughtfully offered.

"Faster than a train," he pointed out, face glowing. "And it'll get me home that much quicker. I can't wait to see my kid."

Shortly afterwards, Jones departed for Maryland. Dugan hung around for a few days longer before announcing that he'd found himself a place in Queens.

"Thought I'd stick around for a while," he confessed. "And I can't sleep with Stark staring me out of countenance through the night, so I'm getting a place of my own."

"Don't be a stranger," Steve said, shaking his hand.

Dugan slapped him jovially on the back. "I'll stick closer than a tick," he promised, grinning beneath the huge mustache.

Neither one mentioned (in Bucky's hearing, anyway,) the real reasons behind Dugan's sudden decision to stay in New York. But Steve talked it over with Peggy that night, as she packed her suitcase. None of them knew for certain whether their ruse had worked. Falsworth and Dernier reported that all was quiet overseas, that nobody seemed to be on Bucky's trail, but even so it was impossible to know for sure.

"Either way, Buck's gonna need all the support he can get," Steve said quietly, and Peggy understood.

She herself was dividing her time between New York and Washington D.C. They'd been gone in Europe longer than expected, and she simply couldn't take any more time off.

"I'll be back every weekend," Peggy promised, between kisses. "Stay with him for as long as he needs."

Steve hadn't said anything in response; simply kissed her harder and longer than he ever had, holding her close, lingering on her lips until there was no time left. Even without words, she knew why. The last time they had parted for any length of time, they'd nearly lost each other for good.

"I'll be back," she promised fiercely, drawing back just far enough to whisper the words against his skin. "It will be fine, Steve; I promise. And it's not for forever; just until Bucky gets back on his feet."

He pressed his forehead against hers, and nodded.

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Peggy was good as her word. Late every Friday night she arrived on the express train from Washington, and at an impossibly early hour every Monday morning she would drag herself from her husband's arms to take the train back.

For Steve, life fell into a routine. Every day he helped Bucky with his therapy, using the kimoyo beads along with everything he'd ever learned from his time in the future. He wasn't a therapist himself, but he'd seen people for his own PTSD, and helped with Sam's group sessions before eventually leading sessions of his own, and now all that was coming in useful.

As the bead therapy increased, there were days and even weeks that left Bucky (and by extension, Steve) feeling as though they had been dragged through hell itself as repressed memories surfaced and were dealt with one by one. Stark suddenly found himself spending an exorbitant amount on punching bags, which Bucky systematically and grimly destroyed. There were nights filled with screaming nightmares, days when Bucky couldn't get out of bed or sat staring silently at the wall with eyes full of horror.

He would never understand how human beings could do such atrocities to other humans, Steve thought, holding a shaking, retching Bucky as they huddled on the floor. And he found himself grateful, all over again, for the advanced therapy techniques of the future. Because awful as this process was, he clung to the hope that they were, slowly but surely, progressing towards healing.

Jarvis, Stark's frighteningly efficient butler, materialized in the breakfast room the morning after one particularly difficult session. Neither Steve nor Bucky had got any sleep the night before, and now Steve blinked somewhat dazedly at the prim and proper butler before him.

"I was wondering," Jarvis began, addressing Steve formally, "whether either you or Sergeant Barnes have any skill with automobiles. I'm afraid there's a problem with the Rolls that is quite beyond me. Would you mind taking a look at it this morning?"

Howard, with his mouth full of toast and jam, popped up from behind the oversized coffee pot, where none of them had realized he was lurking. "Why didn't you say so, Jarvis?" he demanded, spraying crumbs. "I'll be right down to—ow!" He jerked back in his chair as the immaculate Jarvis adroitly managed to drop an entire sunny-side-up egg on his head.

"Beg pardon, sir," Jarvis apologized, assisting the irate inventor to his feet and wiping yolk solicitously out of his eyes. "An accident, sir; I did not see you there. Let me draw you a bath, sir."

"Accident my sainted aunt," Howard was spluttering, when a choking sound at Steve's elbow made him turn to see Bucky hunched over his plate, gasping. For a heart-stopping moment Steve thought his friend was strangling or sobbing—and then, with a curious shock, realized Bucky was laughing—half-hysterically, it's true, but laughing nonetheless.

Steve felt tears gather in his eyes at the sound, even as his lips curved in an answering grin. It was the first time he'd heard his brother laugh in longer than he cared to remember. Even the Bucky of the future hadn't regained the ability to laugh like this.

"—drop an egg on my head?!" Howard continued to protest, blinking through the dripping egg yolk at his butler's bland expression. "You're a pilot, you have perfect vision, how could you not…"

Bucky howled feebly, dropping his head to the tabletop with a thud that made the silverware leap. "Ow, ow," he gasped, pressing his hand to the surgical site in his shoulder before going off in another fit of pained giggles. Steve found himself chuckling as well, the laughter hitching in his chest almost like a sob.

They would be okay. It would all be okay eventually.

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Howard's garage was a thing of beauty, and the cars in it were enough to make both boys from Brooklyn stop in their tracks with bulging eyes.

"You sure you want us working on these?" Bucky had asked hesitantly, but Jarvis nodded firmly. "I'm afraid I can't do a thing with them," the butler had intoned with such a patently regretful look on his face that even though Steve knew the man was lying, he was too grateful to call him out on it.

They needed this. Bucky needed it.

And the work was good for him. Bucky had been sitting too long with nothing to do but therapy. This gave him a chance to use his muscles, get used to working with a single hand, tinker with machinery that wasn't connected to his own body.

Steve never knew whether Jarvis had clued Howard in, or whether Howard had just forgotten about the cars, but he never came down to bother them when they were working. Slowly, one by one, they changed the oil for each car, rotated the tires, fine-tuned the engines. Steve had never been much good with cars, but once upon a time it had been Bucky's passion, and it was good to see him remembering and rediscovering those skills.

But there were more skills than just the physical ones that needed to be regained.

"How about we go out today?" Steve suggested once.

Bucky had declined then, but Steve kept asking. And when Peggy rejoined them that weekend, she added her persuasive powers to his.

"I'd like to see where you two grew up," she begged, conveniently not mentioning that Steve had already shown her around Brooklyn months earlier. "Perhaps we could go out for a bite to eat?"

It took a while, but eventually Bucky agreed. They worked up to it, first taking walks around the block, then going to sit in the back at church, and finally trying the subway system. It took time, and at first more often than not their outings ended with Steve helping a white-knuckled Bucky into a cab and skedaddling back to Howard's as fast as they could. But they made progress.

The first time they made it to Brooklyn, Steve steered them to their favorite old hot dog place. Bucky visibly balked at the crowd, so Steve left him with Peggy on the sidewalk and went in himself to place the order.

"Do you remember much of this place?" Peggy asked, seeing the way Bucky's eyes skittered across the crowd, darting from building to building. "Do you see anyone you know?"

Bucky shook his head, and then put a hand to his forehead as if in pain. "No," he said. "I—maybe. Don't think so."

Then Steve was back, hands full of hot dogs, three soda pop bottles dripping with condensation in the crook of his elbow. "Here you go," he said, distributing the food. "Peg, that one's yours. This one's mine, and—here, Buck."

Bucky looked down at the hot dog in his hand, nearly invisible beneath the mustard and onions and sauerkraut.

"That's the way you used to like 'em," Steve said. "Hope it's okay. I've got your drink here when you want it."

Bucky's breath was unsteady. He lifted the hot dog, hesitated, and then bit down. His eyes flew wide—then closed—and in that moment all Steve could see was his twelve-year-old friend savoring half of a five-cent hot dog because they were too poor to afford a whole one apiece.

Then sudden tears slid uncontrollably down Bucky's cheeks, and Steve dropped the bottles and his own hot dog, only just catching his elbow in time to help ease him down to the curb in a controlled collapse. They sat side by side, feet in the gutter, while Steve steadied Bucky's good shoulder and ignored the curious looks of the passers-by.

"Hey, it's okay," Steve said softly. Behind him he could hear the clinks of the pop bottles as Peggy picked them up from where he'd dropped them. "It's okay. Bringing back memories?"

Bucky hid his face in the crook of his elbow for a while, and then nodded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "Yeah," he gasped hoarsely. "Yeah. Good ones." He looked up at the buildings around them, and there was a light behind his eyes that Steve hadn't seen in a long time. "Guess we made it after all, Stevie."

Steve's grip tightened. "Guess we did," he managed. They sat in silence for another long minute before Bucky straightened and gestured with his hot dog. "Take half."

"No," Steve started, but Bucky shoved the food at him more urgently. "Take half," he insisted again. "I remember."

So they broke the hot dog in half, savoring each bite, eating slowly side by side in the city of their birth as they'd done since they were kids. And presently Peggy joined them, settling on the curb at Bucky's other side, close enough for him to feel her presence without being crowded. She popped the lids off the thick glass bottles, which had somehow survived being dropped, and even Bucky managed a shaky grin at the way the shaken-up soda pop foamed up and spilled over into the gutter.

Much, much later, Bucky would confess to Steve that during his darkest hours in captivity he'd clung to the simple memories of home—the taste of a hot dog, the companionship of a friend, the familiar streets of home—until even they were stripped away by pain and brainwashing. The taste had brought all those good memories sweeping back.

After that, they made a tradition of going to get hot dogs. The next time worked better, and the time after that, Bucky was even able to venture in to place his own order.

"Your usual?" the pretty server asked after a few weeks, and when Bucky actually grinned and winked at her, Steve could have leaped for sheer joy.

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"When would you like to see your folks again?" Steve asked.

They were wandering through Battery Park. The wind off the water blew Bucky's hair. The roughly-hacked hair had grown back to cover the burns left during his torture, and during Peggy's most recent weekend she had bullied him into letting her cut it.

"I'll have you know I'm a competent stylist," she had announced, brandishing a pair of scissors. Her touch was very gentle though, and Steve noticed how she telegraphed every movement so Bucky could see it in the mirror. They'd dragged a kitchen chair into the bathroom for the occasion, since Steve remembered well from the future how hesitant Bucky was around anything (including barber chairs) that reminded him of the mind wiping equipment.

Now the man walking beside Steve looked more like the brother he remembered. Regular meals and hours spent tinkering on Stark's cars had helped fill him out, and the long walks they took had darkened his skin to a healthy tan. Except for the shadow in his eyes and the empty sleeve, neatly pinned up, he could have stepped out of the days before the war.

"I don't know," Bucky answered after a long pause. His speech came easier now, though still less frequently than it once had. He touched the empty sleeve, dropped his eyes. "Think maybe they'd rather remember me how I was."

It was the most they'd ever talked about it, and the conversation left Steve's heart in pieces.

"They've mourned you as dead long enough," he said now. "Maybe it's time to come back to life."

They had reached the end of the park. Bucky threw back his head, took a deep breath of the salt air. Out on the water the great ships conducted their slow dance, moving in and out, up and down. Gulls squawked in the air, pestering a girl further down for the scraps of bread she tossed to them.

"I'm not the same guy I was," he said at last, looking back at Steve with eyes that had seen and endured more than any young man should ever have had to.

Steve held his gaze, and knew his own ghosts could be seen peering out. "Neither am I," he said. "But I came back anyway."

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Bucky nodded and turned back to the water. "Okay," he said. "Okay." And then the corner of his lips turned up. "Think she'll make apple pie?"

It was the first time he'd mentioned a memory of his home willingly, and Steve felt his eyes well up.

"I think she might," he said. "I think she might."

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Author's Note: Full credit for the hot dog scene goes to DocMui, who shared it on Tumblr and gave me permission to use it. Thank you, Doc! You can read his original post here (remove spaces): greenjacketwhitehatdocmui / 697414300236726272 / captain-america-hot-dogs-and-memories? source = share

I didn't want to get deep into the difficulties of therapy as that's not the main point of this story, but I didn't want to avoid them either, so this chapter touches on it as carefully as possible. I used a loved one's experience with EMDR as inspiration. Mental trauma is real, and so is healing. If you or someone you love is going through therapy, please know that I support and honor you. You can do the thing.

Guest Replies:

DBZfan45: Thanks so much for your comment! I agree that Bucky is a very compelling character—I wish Marvel had done more with him.

Ryn: Thank you, thank you for your kindness! Yes, my heart aches for Bucky too. I do have more stories in my head—the hard part is prying them out and getting them on paper :D

Guest (Jun 30): Yeahhh, I'm kinda avoiding the US government angle haha. Yes, they'll probably need to know, but hopefully Peggy's pulling some strings to make it as easy as possible for him. (And oh wow, that's so hard about your bio dad. Veteran mental care was sadly neglected then—and still is now, if I understand correctly.)

My-secret-garden: Thank you! And yeah, super rich friends like Howard are suuuper handy when it comes to making things happen in a fanfic. :D Also I'm not worried too much about changing history, since I'm approaching this story from the idea that Steve created an alternate timeline when he went back—so I can play in this sandbox all I like without messing up the main MCU arc! (though I do have other story ideas that go inside the main timeline that I hope to write later)