Work Text:
Nowhere to Run (cornered/caged/confrontation)
***
Bucky wouldn't consider himself a claustrophobic person. Small spaces have never generally been a problem for him, nor is staying still for long periods of time a difficult task. In fact, it's part of what makes him a good sniper.
Knowing he doesn't have the ability to move or leave if he wants to…well, that's a different story. He doesn't like being trapped or feeling cornered.
Bucky yanks against the straps holding him down and sucks in a shallow breath, doing his best to stave off another panic attack. He's alone for the moment, and as much relief as that knowledge brings him, there's always that anxiety lingering under the surface as he waits for them to return.
Because they always return. And the experiments are getting worse. It's only his luck that out of all the prisoners in this place, they chose him as one of their guinea pigs. He's still not sure what they're doing, what they're trying to make him, but what he does know is that he wants no part in it.
Not like he has a choice.
He remembers a time not too long ago when he thought it can't get much worse than this. Captured in battle, dragged away to this giant bunker of sorts—caged like an animal in a tiny, cylindrical cell with about a dozen other soldiers, some sick, some wounded. It was a nightmare come true.
But the things they're doing to him now makes him wish he was back in those cages with the others. It was crowded and it stank, sure, but at least then he wouldn't be alone, drugged up to his ears ninety percent of the time. Wondering what sort of sick game these people are playing.
Bucky knows no one comes back from the isolation ward.
The guards thread their way through the rows of cages with a white-coated man who isn't a soldier, clearly on a mission. They stop in front of one, unlock the door.
Bucky stands to his feet, positioning himself protectively in front of the two injured soldiers on the ground. They're doing okay, but sometimes the enemy soldiers will pull the wounded and dying out if they deem them a lost cause. Where they bring them, what they do with them, well…no one's figured that out yet.
The man—doctor? Scientist?—steps forward, surveying each of the prisoners. His gaze meets Bucky's, and he moves closer.
The confrontation is silent and lasts for a good two minutes, neither man breaking eye contact. Bucky will never admit it out loud, but he's afraid. How can one not be, in a place like this?
The man finally steps back, nods. "This one. He'll do."
There's no time to process the implications of that assessment before Bucky's being cornered by the guards and roughly yanked from his cell. He tries to fight, but it's no use.
"Do not worry, my good sir," the man in the white coat reassures as he leads the way down the hall. The isolation ward looms in front of them. "You are about to become a part of history."
Bucky knew the risks when he got his orders and shipped out. When he was in the midst of battle and could hear every pop of gunfire and explosion. When he watched other men fall. Maybe it's a little conceited, but he always thought he'd go out in a blaze of glory, not as a prisoner in some dark, cold basement getting injected with who-knows-what and tested over and over again. No one would resent him for wishing that's what had happened, right?
And Bucky isn't one to give up. If there's a way to escape, he'll find it. But with each passing day, he finds his resolve wavering. And he hates that, because he can't give up. He won't. He has family waiting for him back home. He has Steve.
He can't leave them.
They're working on him again, stabbing him with needles and shining lights in his eyes and running test after test. He doesn't know what any of it means, and his brain feels like a giant puddle. Nothing makes much sense anymore, but the fear is there. It's always there, knotted in his stomach.
"Please," he tries to mumble. "Please…please."
They don't listen. If anything, they become rougher.
"None of the other subjects have survived past this mark," one of the men says, whether that's to Bucky or his assistant. "This one has performed remarkably better thus far."
There are more words exchanged, and then Bucky's eyes catch on the syringe in the doctor's hand.
"Make sure you record the immediate reaction," the man says as he leans over Bucky.
The needle comes down toward his arm and there's nowhere to run nowhere to run nowhere to run—
***
"Buck?"
Bucky wakes with a gasp, his mind working double-time as he tries to determine where he is.
Not there. Not there. He knows because there's sunlight. Down there, it was only dark and damp.
He rolls over on his cot and presses a hand to his face, trying to still the involuntary shudders that wrack his entire body.
"Hey, you okay?" The concern in Steve's tone is clear.
"Fine," he says shortly, peering at the other man from between his fingers. Steve's not in there, he got us out. We're okay. I'm okay.
Steve bites down on his bottom lip, and even three times bigger, he still has that kicked puppy look that could get anyone to give in. "Buck, you know you can talk to me—"
"I know, Steve." Good thing Bucky's had plenty of practice resisting that look. He plasters on one of his signature grins, standing to his feet and clapping his friend on the way-too-broad shoulder. Yeah, that's never not gonna be weird. "All good. I swear."
Steve probably—definitely—knows that he's lying, but doesn't press any further. Bucky is grateful for that. He makes up an excuse and leaves the tent, still attempting to gather himself. I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay.
But the invisible cage of memories closes in on him a little more.