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„Can’t sleep?“
The Asset is on its feet immediately, analyzing the situation: The potential threat is standing in front of the kitchen counter (the Asset hasn’t heard or seen them enter the room, failure failure failure), seemingly unarmed, seemingly in average human physical shape, an easy target to take out. The Asset comes up with a quick plan to neutralize it, ready to strike at any given second ---
The target raises their hands in defense. “Please don’t. This won’t end well for any of us.”
The Asset --- Bucky freezes. Then he blinks. He must have been drifting away on the giant sofa in the common space while he has been waiting for his tea to cool down, and now he’s standing in front of Bruce Banner, in full-on Winter Soldier pose – and Banner doesn’t even look startled.
“I …” Bucky swallows. “Sorry. I think I …”
He doesn’t really know what to say, how to explain that he sometimes slips back into this state of mind, ready to follow orders, ready to attack. So he just tries to relax his muscles, tries to appear less threatening, but he doubts that this will change anything.
“I’m not green yet, so I think we’re good.”
Banner looks tired, as if he also hasn’t slept tonight, but he still manages to give him a half-smile and drop a witty line, and Bucky again wonders how he does this, how he shares a body with that monster, and still manages to be so calm, and so kind. They don’t talk much, neither to each other nor in general, but Bucky knows that Banner has understood something he has yet to uncover, but he doesn’t dare to ask.
“I just wanted to make some tea,” Banner explains calmly. “I’m out of chamomile. I’ll be gone in a second, okay?”
Bucky nods, absent-mindedly, and watches Banner take a mug and a tea bag out of the cupboard, and putting the kettle on. While he waits for the water to boil, he leans against the counter, looking over at Bucky, a little wary – but he can’t blame him for that, he’s used to this by now, everyone eyeing him like he’s about to snap at any given second. And maybe they’re right to do that. Too much of the stuff HYDRA has put into his brain is still there, and some nights he finds himself standing in a corner of his bedroom for hours, waiting for orders, only breaking out of this when Steve shows up to look for him, reminding him of who he is. There’s always a glimpse of disappointment in Steve’s eyes whenever he has to pull him out of this state, and he has every right in the world to be disappointed – Bucky has been freed of HYDRA’s control, he’s here now, he’s safe. He shouldn’t act that way, he shouldn’t feel that way. But his brain somehow hasn’t gotten the memo.
“You want one too?” Banner asks.
It takes Bucky a while to fully understand the question; he has already made himself some tea, the mug is even still standing on the counter.
“It’s cold,” Banner elaborates, as if he’s read his mind.
Bucky just nods, and while Banner grabs another mug and a second tea bag, he realizes that he’s still standing in the middle of the room, still ready to attack. There are not threats in this building, that’s what he’s been trying to tell himself, that’s what everyone’s trying to tell him, and he wants to believe them, he really does. But his brain doesn’t get the goddamn memo. He’s so tense all the time, so wary of every little detail around him; there could be a hostile agent behind the door or a grenade in the drawer, poison on the doorknob or a sniper on the roof across the street. This whole tower and its people could be a hologram, a simulation, a dream, a sadistic test they put him through just to tear it to pieces and laugh at him when he realizes that he’s still in their hands, still in a cryo chamber, still HYDRA’s property ---
“Hey. Bucky. Please breathe.”
The words make Bucky flinch, but it’s still just Banner, still leaning against the kitchen counter, voice calm and soothing. Bucky realizes that he’s breathing too fast, that’s not good, so he tries to focus on his breath, slowing it down as best as he can, and then he lets himself fall back into the soft leather of the sofa.
He’s tired. He’s so, so tired, and he just wants to sleep, but sleep, if he can find any at all, is always paid in nightmares. It’s exhausting, existing is exhausting, and he just wants ---
“How do you do it?”
His voice is so hoarse that he doesn’t even know whether Banner can understand him – hell, most of the time he doesn’t even know whether anything he says makes sense, but Banner just gives him another sad smile.
“Do what, exactly?”
Bucky doesn’t know how to phrase it so it doesn’t sound hurtful; he doesn’t want to rub salt into his wound, not when he knows how that feels like, and Banner is too good of a scientist, too good of a human being to deserve that. But he has to ask.
“How do you … get along with … with the other guy?”
Bucky has heard him refer to the monster like that, the other guy, like it’s someone he doesn’t have anything to do with – and maybe that’s a good strategy. Maybe he should do that too, but there’s a knot in his stomach whenever he thinks about referring to that one part of him as the Winter Soldier or the Asset. It feels like there’s someone else living under his skin, instead of himself falling back into the old patterns, and, for some reason, this seems much scarier.
Another sad smile. Banner doesn’t look at him as he says, “It’s not like he’s giving me much of a choice. Didn’t even ask nicely. But it is what it is, so …” He shrugs. “I’ve learned to deal with it, somehow. Get used to his presence in the back of my head. We’re not BFFs, but he leaves me alone most of the time.”
That’s not what Bucky wanted to hear, because it doesn’t help at all, and Banner seems to notice that.
He sighs. The smile has disappeared from his face.
“I’ve tried to get rid of him. At all cost. Didn’t even care about my own life, but it didn’t work. No matter what I tried, the other guy would always … prevent my death. His own death, in a way. So I had no choice but to move on.”
“You tried to kill yourself.”
Bucky doesn’t even think about it before he says it out loud, and he regrets it immediately, but now it’s too late, he cannot take it back.
There’s a moment of silence, then Banner says, “Yeah,” and then the water is boiling, and Banner pours it into their mugs, but he makes no move to take his own and leave.
Bucky stares at the blue carpet, and something’s prickling in his eyes, making his surroundings blur as he thinks about the time he has tasted the metal of a gun, finger on the trigger, so desperate to end it all, and he just --- He just couldn’t. It would have been one small move of a finger, but he just hasn’t been able to do it. He just couldn’t pull the trigger.
“I tried, too,” he says – no, he isn’t even sure whether he actually says this out loud, everything is just so blurred and his heart is racing and he hates it, he feels sick and he’s sweating and he wants to hide and ---
“Bucky. You’re with me?”
Bucky presses a hand on his mouth to suppress a sob, but it doesn’t work, he can’t keep the noise inside, and he hates it, he hates all of this, why can’t he accept that it’s over now, why can’t he ---
“Bucky. Please breathe.”
He tries, he tries, but he can’t, he can’t, everything is too much and too overwhelming and too painful and too ---
“Please breathe with me, okay? In … and out. And in … and out. And in …”
Bucky tries to focus on Banner’s voice, tries to follow his commands (he can do this he can do this that’s what he’s been trained to do), and he slowly manages to match his rhythm, slowing down his breath, until he feels like he’s back again, drenched in sweat and utter exhaustion.
“Sorry,” he mutters as he manages to speak again, wiping the tears from his face in shame. His cheeks are burning, probably flushed, and he’s embarrassed that he’s been losing his composure like this.
“It’s okay.” Banner has taken a seat on the sofa next to him, but he still keeps his distance, and Bucky is grateful for it. “I know how that feels like.”
No, you don’t – but Bucky doesn’t say that out loud. He knows what has happened to Banner, that’s its own kind of terrible, but that doesn’t mean he understands what it feels like to be one’s worst enemy’s puppet for seventy years.
“They … programmed it into me, somehow,” he says before he can even think about it; it’s just bursting out of him, something he hasn’t told anyone yet, because he damn well knows that this is the kind of thing that makes Steve’s soft smile vanish. “I can’t … I cannot inflict harm on myself. It just … doesn’t work. I’m physically incapable of hurting myself.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Bucky already fears that he has scared Banner away, but then he finally says, “You know, I keep calling him the other guy, like he’s some sort of … parasite in my body. Most people believe that the … Hulk … is not me. That I’m just sometimes turning into something I’m not. And that’s … that’s not true.”
His voice calms Bucky, but he also has his attention.
“What is it?” he asks, voice barely a whisper. He’s still shaking, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to lose his mind anymore.
Banner has been looking at his hands while talking, but now he looks up. “You know how the serum works, right?”
Bucky nods. “It … enhances.”
“It’s a lot more scientific than, but, essentially, yes. But not only physically. Simply speaking, the serum accesses the brain and translates key information into physical traits. So it basically turns us inside out.” He pauses. “And that’s the point. The other guy is not just some other guy. It’s me.”
Bucky frowns. This doesn’t make sense.
“I don’t think you’re …”
Another sad smile. “I used to be an angry child, an angry teenager. But I knew that I wasn’t allowed to show any of it, so I tucked it away. Swallowed it down. I didn’t even realize how much anger I’d collected inside of me, until …” He adjusts his glasses. “People think that the other guy is the result of an experiment gone wrong. They believe that my attempt at recreating the serum failed. But it didn’t. It worked like it was supposed to. Enhancing what’s inside.”
Bucky tries to take it in, but he can’t fathom how that matches up, how this shy, friendly, composed doctor can mainly consist of anger. And then another thought hits him, and it is so terrible that he involuntarily clenches his fists. He knows that the Winter Soldier and him are not two personalities that can be separated; it’s just himself occasionally falling back into the patterns that have been ingrained in his head over the course of several decades. But if the serum turns people inside out, reveals their true selves, makes them show their true faces ---
“So that’s just who I am?” He laughs bitterly. “A killer for HYDRA?”
All the times Steve has tried to soothe him, It’s not your fault, This wasn’t you, They did this to you – he’s always known that this isn’t entirely true, that he’s still done all of it, fired all the guns, thrown all the knives with his own hands.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Banner looks up, and Bucky swallows. It feels like he can see right through him, knows what he’s thinking, but it doesn’t feel invasive, it feels like --- It feels like he could understand.
“Before Steve found you, he talked about you a lot. Showed us documentaries and articles about the Howling Commandos. As far as I know, you were a good man, loyal and dedicated. A good soldier. And if that’s who you are at the core, it makes sense. The serum just gave you more of that. It’s not your fault that HYDRA brainwashed you into devotion to them.”
Bucky looks down at his hands, one warm flesh, one cold metal. It makes sense, but there is still a lump in his throat that just won’t disappear. Because he knows that he could have fought back. If he has really been such a good man, he wouldn’t have let HYDRA succeed. He would have fought back. Because physically, he has always been stronger than them, so why would he have given in if that’s not what he’s been wanting deep down?
“I could have taken them down. Before they could even rise again. But I didn’t.”
And that’s the truth, that’s the thing he’s been too scared to admit to anyone until now – but maybe it’s better if he talks. Maybe now everyone will see that they’ve had every right to be wary of him.
But Banner doesn’t seem startled at all. He just smiles his sad smile again.
“And I could have surrendered myself to General Ross, so he could vivisect me. Weaponize what I’ve become.” He pauses. “Some things that appear to be choices aren’t choices at all.”
He lets it sink in, and Bucky tries to understand, but it doesn’t feel like it applies to him.
“I didn’t get to that conclusion myself,” Banner continued. “People told me over and over again. Well, mostly Tony. He can be … pretty persuasive. And on some days, I even believe it.”
Bucky feels like there’s a sudden block of ice in his stomach. Stark is the one who is most suspicious when it comes to him, and Bucky knows that it’s because of Howard and Maria. He still hasn’t had the guts to say an apology to his face, because maybe this would just make everything so much worse, and so they keep their distance. Bucky is convinced that he only puts up with his presence in the Tower for Steve’s sake, and that’s why he only shows up in the common spaces when Tony’s not there, because he fears that he might kick him out if he just has to look at him after accidentally crossing his path.
“Bucky?”
Bucky flinches, and he looks over at Banner again, who has a concerned expression written all over his face. He must have been drifting away again.
“Sorry, I …”
“Is it because I mentioned Tony?”
Banner seems to be reading his mind. He nods slowly. “I don’t think he wants me here.”
Banner shakes his head. “Hey. Listen. Tony tells me all the time that I should stop putting myself down. That what the other guy does is not my fault. And yes, he’s still mourning his parents. But he can make that distinction. He knows that none of this was your fault.”
Bucky doesn’t really know what to say, he’s just certain that there’s still a distinction between him and Banner – Banner at least makes up for all the destruction he has caused, trying to help making the world a better place, as a scientist, as a doctor. Bucky has tried to join the Avengers on a mission, and immediately panicked at the first gunshot, not even useful as a quinjet pilot after that.
“Here.”
Bucky looks up. He hasn’t even noticed that Banner has gotten up and picked up their mugs from the kitchen counter. Gratefully, he takes the cup of tea Banner hands him, and wraps his hands around it, feeling the warmth from the porcelain flooding his body.
“Thanks,” he says hoarsely, and he doesn’t just mean for the tea.
He knows that he should say something else, but Banner doesn’t seem too upset that he doesn’t, so he just looks into his mug and takes a sip of the hot chamomile tea from time to time. The smell alone soothes his stomach, and the tea warms him from inside, making him aware of how cold he’s been before. And he wonders. Again. He wonders how Banner can still be so kind, so calm and caring, after everything that has happened, with the knowledge that the worst of him is still sitting in the back of his head, ready to make a move at any given time. He wonders how he does this, how he doesn’t have nightmares or panic attacks or days that make him feel unable to move.
“How did you make it stop?”
“Huh?”
Banner is now sitting on the sofa cross-legged, his hands wrapped around his mug just like Bucky, probably having drifted off for a second too.
“The nightmares,” Bucky adds.
Banner stares into his tea again. “I didn’t,” he says quietly, and Bucky just now realizes how exhausted he looks, and that he’s been a fool thinking that he can just sleep like a log.
“Then how do you …”
How do you still do so much. How are you so gentle. Why aren’t you as bitter as I am.
Another sad smile. “I got used to it, in a way. Breathing techniques and tea keep the beast in check, so I at least don’t wreck this place. And the rest …” He shrugs. “It just takes time.”
Time is still such an odd concept – Bucky is over a hundred years old, and still he has so much of it left, so much he could fit an entire life into it, a life he doesn’t even want, at least not most of the time. But now he has it, and it belongs to him. Not to HYDRA, not to anyone else.
The common room is quiet, the light is dimmed, and Bucky doesn’t know if he’s brave enough to lay himself to sleep later, doesn’t know if he can work up the strength to deal with the nightmares that will make their way through the darkness. But for now, he can just sit in silence for a while, drinking his tea, on the sofa next to Banner.
“Doc?”
“Mh?”
“Thank you. I think … I think this helps.”
Banner smiles and shyly looks into his mug. “Glad it does.”
The tea has warmed Bucky from inside, and he closes his eyes for a second. Maybe he can be like Banner one day, maybe he’ll learn to be kind and gentle and accept all the nightmares and bad days and guilt as something that’s just there. Maybe one day he doesn’t have to fight it anymore.
He has an entire lifetime ahead of him, and maybe he’ll get better, step by step.