Avengers: Search for the Winter Soldier

Chapter 22

Title: Times to Remember

Summary: Banner's drug reduction therapy starts taking a toll on the Winter Soldier as they try to wean him off his addiction. His confused brain mingles past and present and tries to unfold a past that is fragmented at best in his memory.

Notes: I'm dedicating this chapter to Rainlovers on AO3 for your support. This one is especially for you… you'll know why.

WARNINGS! – This chapter (and those following it) contains some very dark imagery of forced imprisonment, physical torture, abusive contact and emotional and psychological collapse. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. If you cannot bring yourself to read this chapter in detail, please contact me for a summarized version of what happens in this chapter. I'll be more than happy to tell you how we're moving ahead, without you having to face what's contained here.

As they entered the Soldier's room Natasha caught up to them and moved to assist Steve in laying him down. She went ahead of them and to the far side of the bed in order to be out of the way as she lowered the head of the bed so he could lie safely supine.

When Steve made it to the side of the bed, he hefted the soldier's weight again to keep their shoulders at an even level to make it easier to line him up with the height of the bed, Natasha realized it needed to be lowered. She stomped her foot onto the lever near the base and the entire bed descended toward the floor. She stopped it before it got too low so Steve wouldn't have to drop the Soldier an unnecessary distance.

The Soldier had managed to stay on his feet; just barely, but enough so that the American only had to drape his right arm over his shoulders; hefting his whole weight onto himself. At Hydra base it had always taken two wranglers to carry/drag him to the chair when he couldn't get his feet under him after he'd been thawed; and even with two, it was often a struggle for them to bear his weight, so this American must have superior strength, maybe even equal to his own.

That thought came to him clearly even with his brain mired in fog. The vision of those moments were so vivid that he felt it was happening now and then it crumbled around the edges and became brittle before it flittered away, much like a dried up leaf on a strong autumn wind.

He lifted his head trying to see where he was being dragged, but the bright walls under bright lights pained his eyes and he closed them again. His vision was blurred anyway and he couldn't make out anything ahead so he simply relinquished his attempts to make sense of what was happening to him. He knew it didn't matter anyway.

He heard Mouse's voice floating around him and a mechanical hum that made him think something was being elevated nearby or maybe lowered. The American's voice close to his ear drowned out and mixed with Mouse's as his head swam in a dense fog.

He couldn't think; he couldn't move; he couldn't breathe. It was a struggle to breathe, and his mind flashed him an image; a plastic bag shoved over his head and held there by the hands clamped around his throat. He couldn't reach for it, to pull it away from his face because his arms were restrained behind his back. He was helpless. His attempts to breathe despite the bag only caused the plastic to be sucked into his gaping mouth as he tried desperately to find air.

Steve was relieved to have made it to the bed without dropping the Soldier and tried to spin him around enough to get him down onto his back. Natasha did her best to try to guide him from behind, but the Soldier's weight was simply too much for her to have any affect on where he landed as Steve dropped him carefully atop the bed.

As Natasha reached out to help, her hands made contact with the Soldier's torso and her breath caught in her throat. To feel his solid form against the palms of her hands brought memories flooding back to her. She took a deep breath to steady the rush of emotions that almost betrayed her in front of Steve and then let go of him so she was clear as he dropped heavily on the mattress.

Steve kept the Soldier's arm tight around his shoulders as he made certain most of his weight was actually on the bed before easing out from under his arm and draped it across the Soldier's chest. He then wrapped his arms around the Soldier's thighs to hoist him higher onto the bed and then under his knees to lift his legs and position him more in line with the bed. His hips were at an angle though which made the position look extremely uncomfortable so Steve hooked his fingers into the belt loops of the Soldier's jeans and lifted his hips to swing them in line with the rest of his body.

That's better," he thought and took a deep breath before letting it out. He had to admit that that had been quite a workout, even for him. The added weight of the metal arm was quite apparent as he struggled to keep the Soldier upright. It also served to make his upper body off balanced when the arm was dead weight. Steve vaguely remembered having that same revelation when he had thrown the Soldier over his shoulder in Croatia to get him back to the Quinjet.

The Soldier felt himself descending in a controlled fall. He braced himself mentally to take the solid hit as he impacted the ground or whatever hard surface might stand in the way, but he landed on something soft. There was no pain – well, no new pain – and no injury. Maybe that was planned for later. His head had begun to ache right after he awoke that morning. It was a dull, throbbing ache that became extremely distracting as the day wore on and the pain got stronger. It ached in a familiar way but not like the pain caused by the lightning. He hadn't seen the chair in weeks – at least that he could remember.

There were gaps in his memory and that wasn't unusual either. Throughout the day he'd blacked out and seemed to have lost track of the time here and there. It was as if he'd been sleep walking and kept waking up in a new place, on his feet, in a shower, on a pier and in a gym. He wasn't sure if the altercation in the ring had been real though. Images of the Kill Room invaded his vision and – that had to be it. He'd been in the Kill Room, pitted against an opponent in a fight-to-the-death. But he couldn't remember going in for the kill. He must have though because he was still alive.

The Soldier began to slide into unconsciousness, feeling as though he was sprawled out haphazardly on the bed; worn out physically from the effects of the drug therapy or, more specifically, the effects caused by the reduction of his doses. The blond man had to nearly carry him the last fifty feet or so down the hall from the elevator. His weight seemed immense and unfamiliar to his handler, evident by the way he had to keep adjusting his hold and hefting him up higher as he began to lose his grip. The blond man was not like other handlers, he talked to the Soldier as if trying to ease any fears or concerns he might be having about his present condition. The man's tone was oddly familiar but he couldn't place it.

Natasha raised the bed rail on the far side before moving to the foot of the bed to remove the Soldier's boots. As she stood at the foot of the bed, she tried to keep her eyes on the laces as she untied them. Her fingers moved slowly over his boots, feeling the leather against her finger tips and letting the laces slide through her fingers. She wasn't in a hurry and recognized the sudden urge to just stay by his side. She kept her head down and glanced at Rogers; he was focused on his friend, so she chanced a look.

She let her eyes roam over him from head to toe. She smiled a bit sadly. She loved that he was wearing clothes she'd bought for him. They'd talked about that once; doing normal things when they got free. But they'd been caught talking to each other in that way; the way people do when they are attracted to one another. Fraternizing was the word they spat at her before pushing her to the ground. James had tried to defend her, actually taking on the wranglers by himself, and the controllers realized that the Winter Soldier still had an ounce of free will and his defiance would not go unpunished.

They were torn away from each other and separated. That was actually the last time she'd seen him… before they put his brain back in the blender and destroyed him. She hadn't been dragged so far away that she couldn't hear his screams. She knew they had deliberately kept her close enough so she would never forget that she was the reason for what he went through. She could still hear his screams in her nightmares.

Natasha was pretty sure that must have been when they decided to chemically castrate him. She hadn't known that had been done to him until Bruce found large doses of the chemical in his system. Natasha knew, without a doubt, that he'd suffered so much more because of her. They took everything away from him: including any urge or desire he would have had to be with her. It was because of her.

Yes, he remembered her – as a young Widow trainee who had finally grown up - and Nat had been stopped in her tracks when he spoke the nickname he'd given her. She was thrilled that he remembered her at all…at first. But the realization that he remembered her only as a child, and not as his - .

She couldn't say the word, she couldn't even think the word, and it was taking a toll on her that she would not show… she could not show. Not to him and not to Steve. Not to anyone.

Steve raised the rail on his side of the bed in order to keep the Soldier from falling out if he began to flail in his confused state or had another seizure. He stood over the Soldier deep in thought and only vaguely aware of Natasha removing the Soldier's boots.

Steve couldn't get the image, or the sensation, out of his head of Bucky convulsing in his arms. He'd never felt so helpless in his life; there had been nothing he could do for his friend but hold him and try to ease his fears.

The manner in which the Soldier had cowered against the wall that day when Steve approached him still haunted Steve's memory. He'd never in his life seen Bucky Barnes trembling in outright terror or so fearful of a beating that he couldn't function.

Bucky was always the one standing up to bullies to protect Steve when he was smaller and even if the bully got the better of him, which didn't happen often, Bucky always walked away from it as if he'd been victorious. He always managed to smile for Steve, flashing blood-stained teeth in triumphant glee, even through swollen bloody lips.

How many times had they returned to Steve's apartment, where he lived with his mom, so he could clean up Bucky's injuries; Steve's mom had been a nurse and had taught Steve everything he knew about first aid and cleaning wounds. Steve recalled how he'd dab Bucky's split lip with a cold compress to try to stop the bleeding long enough to see how bad it was. He remembered how he'd tried to stay focused on the bloody wound on Bucky's lip while Bucky sat there grinning like a loon, staring at Steve's face as he tended to him.

Steve had felt that there was something slightly... odd... in the way Bucky would stare at him, as if he was studying Steve's face – committing it to his memory. He'd tell Bucky to stop smiling because it only made the split open up, as he tried to distract his friend. Steve was already self-conscious about the way he looked, but he never had to ignore his stares for long. His mom would always come in with a chilled tea bag for Bucky to press to his lip while he sat on the edge of the tub regaling Steve's mom with his fighting prowess.

Mrs. Rogers would stand patiently in the doorway politely listening to Bucky's story about how he and Steve took on the bad guys with a soft smile on her lips. She knew the truth, but she loved how James would always include her son as part of his team and not the victim he had to defend. He never left Steve out of the action, because usually Steve was the action until Barnes swooped in out of nowhere like his knight in shining armor. Bucky always seemed to believe he was the victor, even when he lost a fight. He figured, if he was strong enough to walk away at the end of it all, it meant he won.

Bucky didn't lose too many fights back then as Steve could recall. Steve was certain that James "Bucky" Barnes had been born a scrapper. He'd never seen Barnes as anything but healthy, strong and defiant…

Except for that moment in Zola's lab in 1943 when Steve had found Bucky alive; being held as a prisoner of war and not having been killed in action as he'd been told.

Sgt. Tim Dugan had told Captain Rogers that they'd tried to hide Sgt. Barnes from the Germans when he became seriously ill with pneumonia. When the German guards spotted him unconscious on the floor behind the group of POWs trying to shield him from view; they entered the cell to collect him. The Commandos could only watch from behind the bars as they dragged Barnes down a corridor from which no one had ever returned. They'd pointed out the correct corridor when Rogers asked and Steve left them to free the others as he went in search of his friend.

It had been the sound of Bucky's voice coming from the torture chamber; repeating his name, rank and serial number - that led Steve to find him. Steve knew, as a soldier himself, that there were only two reasons for a soldier to repeat that information over and over again – when he was under duress or being tortured.

He remembered the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach even as he broke away the leather restraints to free Bucky from the table. It'd been obvious to him that Barnes had been mistreated in that lab, and perhaps in general as a POW. He showed mild evidence of having been ill and he was bruised and battered, weak and confused, when Steve found him. Steve had learned later, from the Howlers, that the Germans mistreated the lot of them; forcing them to perform intense manual labor, in inhumane conditions while starving them until they fell into sickness.

The Germans would come for the sick to use in secret experiments while the healthier prisoners continued their labor. That's how Hydra found Bucky to begin with.

Knowing now what eventually became of Barnes after his fall, Steve had to wonder if the memory erasures and attempts to brainwash Bucky hadn't already begun at that time. Perhaps Bucky had been repeating the information for himself… trying his best to keep his memories from being taken away and fighting so hard not to forget who he was.

Steve took a deep breath and tapped his earwig.

"Dr. Banner," he said quietly, "we need you in the infirmary."

"Yes, Nat found me. I'm on my way."

He couldn't move or open his eyes, but he was sure he was awake; pretty sure, anyway. He lazily followed his thoughts as they moved in close where he could see them and out again before he could grab hold of them. The pain in his head kept chasing them away.

He was exhausted in the wake of the constant tremors and the sustained muscle cramping caused by the misfiring of his brain synapses as they tried to communicate with other nerve endings. His brain had been reconfigured by decades of forced drug applications and electro-shock that it was, literally speaking, "stuttering" as it tried to make sense of the strange and alien signals being transmitted.

His brain had been modified into a powerful machine; able to solve complex problems quickly and create strategic plans on the fly in order to get himself to his target or to extricate himself from a dangerous situation or impending capture. Now, it was taking him full minutes to just comprehend the meaning of words spoken to him or a question being asked. It didn't matter whether the language being spoken was English or Russian or Dutch, or any one of the thirty languages he knew, because he was fluent in all of them, but now the words just sounded like white noise.

He tried to keep hold of these thoughts even as he felt his consciousness sink into darkness as if it had been tied to an anchor and dropped over the side of a ship. Panic set in for a moment and he forced himself to rise to the surface so he could claw his way out of the darkness. The Soldier was sure he could open his eyes now, but the sensation lasted only seconds before he was dragged back down and swallowed up in the depths of his own darkness.

In the darkness, he became aware of a solid surface under his feet. He was upright now and standing solidly on his own two feet. The Soldier opened his eyes and looked straight ahead. He took a breath and got his bearings. He recognized this place. This was where he belonged. This was where he lived… where he was given life.

This was Hydra.

This was… home.

That word reared up in his mind and he didn't know from where it came. The Soldier thought about it and decided perhaps the word did describe Hydra base. It's where he was born and where he lived. That was the definition of home – wasn't it?

A sound pulled his attention away from his thoughts and he turned his head to see the Broken Man kneeling on the cold cement floor. The Soldier realized that's where the Broken Man had lived for a long time. He had spent decades watching the man fighting for his life and his freedom to no avail.

The Soldier wondered how long it was going to take to subjugate the prisoner. The prisoner hadn't been born here, like he had. But he lived here now and the Soldier didn't understand why the man fought so hard against the attempts of his handlers and controllers. Life was easier, it wasn't ideal… and the pain doesn't stop, but it was easier somehow when you got past the need to fight them. It was easier to fight the world outside than to fight Hydra. And Karpov was here. Karpov had been wherever the Soldier had been. He went where the Soldier went. The Soldier respected Karpov and did as he bade him.

The Soldier stood in the corner of the man's cell watching the activity happening all around them. There was activity outside the cell; technicians scurrying about like bees, while the controllers watched them in their work. No one was speaking to him; no one giving him orders or telling him to leave. He was being allowed to stay and to watch.

The prisoner was strong even in his weakened state. He was kept in a constant state of starvation and when he was actually given nourishment there was very little of it and the shock to his system often caused his stomach to revolt and he'd throw it up moments later. The cell smelled unclean, rank with the odor of vomit and urine and sweat and feces.

The Soldier considered that it was very possible that the little food the captive was given may have been tainted or poisoned in order to make him vomit and cramp his bowels. Puking was a quick and easy way to sap a person's strength and diarrhea was a fast way to cause dehydration which, in turn, could lead to systems failure, including brain malfunction... and that was Hydra's specialty.

This particular prisoner caused his handlers and controllers a lot of headaches. If he'd just succumb to the glory that is Hydra, the pain would be eased and the torment would… well, it wouldn't end, it couldn't end. Not completely. Even the Soldier knew that.

The Soldier looked to his left to see a slab of concrete sticking out from the wall about three feet off the floor. It was about six feet in length and only two feet wide. That was where the prisoner would sleep, he knew… if and when he was allowed. He remembered there had been one just like it in his own cell. So long ago, in fact, that he had forgotten all about it until now.

The Soldier tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling. The single yellowed bulb barely illuminated the cell. The prisoner was kept naked in that cold dark cell, with no comforts to give him respite. There was no pillow to rest his weary head upon, if he was ever allowed to rest; no blanket to curl up into and chase away the chill and damp from his cold flesh.

The prisoner would not know warmth or sleep or a full belly until he complied. All he had to do was submit, but no matter what they did to him he fought to keep his identity and his free will.

He was kneeling on the cold cement floor on bare knees, facing to the Soldier's right in order to keep the cell door in front of him. He couldn't stop them from coming in or doing what they would to him, but he would at least see them coming.

The Soldier stood quietly in the corner studying the man on the ground. He was folded in on himself as if trying to find any ounce of warmth from within, but his own body betrayed him. He was thin with starvation and covered in bruises and lacerations; some cuts were deep and stood open like a gaping maw. Some looked red and hot to the touch – infection setting in. The medical staff would tend to him when and if they were allowed.

A sound outside the cell pulled the Soldier's attention to the squad of shock troopers and wranglers approaching. The shock troopers carried stun batons and the wranglers carried ropes and whips. There were other items that the Soldier couldn't quite see from his position, but he had a good idea as to what those items could be.

They stopped outside the cell as one of them produced keys from his pocket and unlocked the cell door. The others waited, glancing inside the cell to briefly study the prisoner and his condition.

The squad entered the cell and surrounded the prisoner. Two of the wranglers reached down to pick him up. The man's legs unfolded beneath him as he was lifted off the ground. The prisoner tried to get his feet under him, but it took a moment for him to get any feeling in them. His muscles were cramped from sitting in the same position for hours and his bones ached from the constant cold.

The cold was never ending and the man thought he'd go mad from it. His thoughts when he was left alone with them focused mostly on the memory of what being warm felt like. He yearned for that; warmth. The thoughts of it consumed him and sometimes he screamed – not because of the pain of the cold but in frustration of knowing he might never again feel warmth against his skin.

When the man was finally able to get his feet flat on the floor, the hard hands eased their grip on his bones. His body remained curled forward with his arms wrapped around himself still trying to ward off the cold that surrounded him.

Correction, the Soldier realized - his right arm was wrapped around his chest, his right hand gripping the stump of his severed left arm as if holding it against his body would help stave off the cold.

The Soldier had noticed the prisoner had only one arm when the wranglers turned the prisoner around to inspect his cuts and bruises. His left arm was missing from the elbow down with only a stump remaining. The Soldier tilted his head as he studied the one armed man and then looked down at his own left shoulder. Perhaps this prisoner will get a shiny new arm just like he did, he thought.

One of the shock troopers produced a leather strap but the prisoner wasn't aware of it. He was standing, barely, with his head hung low as if in despair and his long tangle of hair served to hide his face from them.

The squad of men manhandled the prisoner, pushing him back and forth between them as if testing his strength or his balance, or maybe just to see if he'd fight back.

He didn't.

He kept his head down as the leather strap was held horizontally at his back and two of the others pushed the man's arms behind his back. They couldn't put cuffs on him; he needed two hands for that, but they could tie both arms behind his back by pulling the strap tight around his biceps.

The strap was pulled tight enough to force his elbows to nearly touch behind his back and a sound of pain escaped his lips before the man quickly clamped his jaw shut.

The Soldier watched with disconnected interest.

The prisoner stood between his captors and the Soldier noticed that his legs were shaking violently as if from the cold or perhaps from the strain of trying to remain standing. Then he noticed that the man's entire body was trembling. He hadn't noticed that a few moments ago. Perhaps he was shivering from cold… or more likely, he realized, the man was trembling in unadulterated fear.

That was one thing the Soldier understood.

The Soldier knew that the mental and emotional toll of prolonged torture could often be greater than the physical aspect of it. He knew intimately that this kind of torture; the kind that causes extreme pain for extended periods of time… leaves a mark on you.

It's a deep scar that never heals. And you learn over time that the fear of torture… the absolute terror it produces with just the anticipation of it… becomes worse than the torture itself.