Chapter Text
He woke up slowly. It was something that took some getting used to, being safe enough that he didn't have to be instantly alert, and after so long under the control of others or on the run it always set him on edge. Not a good way to start a day, he figured, wallowing about until your brain decided to pull itself up from sluggish laziness.
"Hey," came a voice from somewhere off to his right. He rolled away from it into a defensive crouch, stopping when the chain attached to the shackle on his wrist pulled tight. A band of carbon steel around his right wrist, he could crush it and pull it off, be free of this place.
"Hey," the voice said, softer this time. How dare it talk to The Asset like this? Kindness was rare, was dangerous. People who were kind to The Asset were the ones who had made him do the worst things. Who was this guy? What was he going to ask him to do?
"Bucky." He froze at the name. Right. Steve. How could he forget? Steve was here, Steve and his flying friend and they were trying to help him put his head on right. He took a deep breath and looked down, his metal hand had stopped, already gripping the handcuff, ready to twist it into wreckage. He let go and sat back, kneeling on the cold ground with his arms at his sides.
"You with me?" Steve asked. He stepped further into the small room but stayed close to the door in case he needed to back away. Bucky nodded without looking up. This was to him the ultimate debasement, all of his weaknesses and insecurities on display. He was restrained with a flimsy bit of chain that they all knew he could break free from if he wanted. Part of the humiliation was that he constantly chose not to, he let himself be brought low by weak metal and poor excuses. Every night he clasped the thing down on his wrist and every morning he let himself loose with the key nearby to give himself freedom to move about the dingy cell he was held in.
Without looking up he could feel the warmth where Steve was kneeling in front of him. Hands on his shoulders. Was it a blessing? A benediction? An old friend looking for whatever comfort he could find? He hardly felt worthy of even the least of these and yet Steve came back as often as he could, always in the morning, and always with this routine. Somehow having Steve around always made Bucky sleep better, more soundly, and wake up by inches rather than in one sudden jerk. And just as he did every time this happened, he leaned forward trusting Steve to catch him.
(Steve always caught him.)
It was the one indulgence he allowed himself. The other man wasn't allowed to catch him. Was only allowed to touch him on rare occasions, always impersonal, always with a clinical detachment. The need for physical comfort was a weakness, but Steve had always been his biggest weakness. He let himself be held for one minute forty seven seconds before pulling away. It had started out at one minute exactly, but each time Steve came back he allowed himself more time, an indulgence for both of them.
Hands returned to his shoulders. He pitied Steve's right hand, coming to rest time and again on unforgiving metal. At least there, close to his body, it retained warmth. He knew that hand, that arm. On cold mornings the fingertips would be half frozen. Depending on atmospheric conditions it could be expected to take up to three minutes of flexing artificial muscle to circulate enough fluid to unlock the joints.
Steve was talking. Of course he was. That's what Steve did. Talk. It was his job to listen, respond when appropriate, make progress. Begin the slow process of pulling himself together. There was a pause. Had he missed a question? What was the expected response? Perfection was expected at all times of The Asset, he drew himself in close to protect himself from whatever punishment was coming. He wasn't The Asset. He couldn't be as perfect as The Asset. Which meant reprogramming, it meant pain.
"Bucky, you're safe here. Nobody's gonna hurt you. Come on back to me, it's okay."
He hated the weakness. He hated the fear that settled deep into his spine and threatened to paralyze him, memories of shocks rippling through his body. Still, he could see the progress he had made. The Asset would not have flinched. He wasn't The Asset. Not any more. But he wasn't quite Bucky yet either. "What did you ask?"
Steve paused. His hesitation was physical, there was enough of a pause in his breathing. "I didn't ask anything. I said I wanted to bring someone in to talk to you."
"Don't need a damned doctor." He'd repeated the words often enough and hoped Steve would actually start to understand at some point.
"It's not a doctor, Bucky. It's just a man. No special education, no fancy degrees, just a really nice guy. You could use some company that's not me or Sam."
"And if I say no?"
Steve squeezed his shoulder gently. "Then I call him and say thanks, but my friend doesn't want company. Maybe another time. It's your choice, I'm not going to force you."
It was nice to know where the limits were. He'd be forced to eat, forced to drink, but not forced to wash and not forced to socialize. It was a matter, it seemed, of forced survival. And he wanted to be better, he really did, he was just so tired all the time from putting in the effort to get better. Constant heightened awareness, adrenaline surges for completely mundane things, visceral flashbacks of pain and cold wore him down and left him in constant fear of losing control, losing himself into the black swirling void of suppressed emotions that he held within him. He preferred the emptiness, the solitude. At least when he was alone he knew he wouldn't hurt anyone else.
"You'll be here? Keep him safe?"
Steve smiled. It was a nice smile. A calm smile. It soothed his nerves a bit. "Course I'll be here. If I try to leave the two of you alone you'll end up telling him any embarrassing story you can remember. Wouldn't put it past you to make some up, too."
This, Bucky thought, was what life should be. He reached out for the key to the handcuffs. It was a benefit that his mechanical hand never shook because the one that was caught in the cuff was starting to tremble. He was getting company. Steve was going to bring someone to visit him. "Wouldn't need to make up anything. You've gone and done enough stupid stuff on your own. I couldn't possibly make up anything more outrageous than some of it."
The cuff fell away with a soft click and he flexed his fingers. Steve's hand trailed down his arm and rubbed at his wrist. There were scabs again this morning. He was tossing and turning in his sleep again. His face twisted into something between a smile and a grimace.
"You okay?" Steve's hand stilled on his wrist.
"Yeah," he said. "Just..." Something twisted sharply in his chest, love and pain all twisted up together and he bowed his head under the weight of his memories. "Reminds me of when we were kids. You'd get into a fight, I'd come rescue you, my ma would be convinced that every damn scrape was gonna kill me, she'd go wash it off and make sure I was okay." He looked up at met Steve's eyes. "You got gentle fingers, just like her."
It was a start. Talking through anything was still hard for him. Sometimes enjoying the good was worse than enduring the bad, everyone from those stories was long gone or had given him up for dead. He had realized he'd lost his entire family, all of his friends, nearly everyone he ever knew. Steve was his only constant. Even then he still had all the memories of trying to kill him which liked to rear their heads at horribly inopportune times.
He stood and went over to where the food was kept. It was hardly a kitchen with only a mini fridge and camp stove. Dry foodstuffs were kept with the dishes near the spigot on the wall. It was the only running water in the cell, and it was waist high. It definitely made bathing an interesting experience.
"I gotta go," Steve said behind him. "Things to do. I'll be back this afternoon."
"With the guy," Bucky said.
"With the guy," Steve agreed. He stepped in close and put a hand on Bucky's shoulder again. There was a gentle pressure, a squeeze. "You'll like him. I promise."
Steve was gone, securing the door behind him. It would do little more than slow him if he actually decided to leave, but it was symbolic. Closed, not locked. He was free to leave at any point, but he chose to stay here and work on himself. He made a token gesture of eating, lost in the emptiness around him, and went to wash the dishes. No sense in letting water go to waste, so he washed himself as well, then crawled over to the bed that he never used. It was a good place to curl up under, give himself some physical protection for the onslaught of emotional pain that always came from the good memories. Metal fingers ghosted over the already healing scabs on his wrist, but it wasn't at all the same.