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“No one will find you. You are going to die in there.”
The door clanged shut with an ominous finality, taking all of the light in the room with it. Bucky had excellent night vision, but there had to be some light to work with, and there was none. He couldn’t remember ever being in darkness like this.
Bucky struggled against the ropes binding his arms and legs, tied so tight they were cutting into his flesh. He could feel them burn where they crossed bare skin, rubbing it raw. While he worked on the ropes he tried to remember if he and Steve had made plans to meet up; he wanted to scream when he realized he had blown off Steve’s suggestion of attending movie night. He berated himself for being so antisocial over the several agonizing minutes it took until he was able to snap one section; from there the rest of the ropes were easier to manage.
Despite being free to move he continued to sit where he had been thrown as he replayed what little he had seen of the space before the door had been shut. There hadn't been much, rough finished concrete walls and a bucket in the corner. The glance he had gotten of the door as he was thrown through it had given the impression of thickness.
The room hadn’t been very large; Bucky crawled forward on his knees, one arm outstretched, until he felt the wall beneath his fingers. He traced his hand along the wall until he reached the door; he proceeded to feel every inch of the door. What he felt didn’t bode well for him. The door felt solid, the seam around the edges found no space for his fingertips to wedge in, the hinges were on the opposite side and inaccessible.
Bucky wound back, then slammed his metal fist into the door, where it bounced off with a loud clang. Bucky ran his hands over the door again and didn’t feel a dent where his fist had landed. This was not good. Not good at all. It might be days before anyone realized he was missing—he needed to get out.
He turned his attention to the rest of the room.
He found a small grate, roughly the size of his palm in one corner near the ceiling; presumably that was providing the ventilation. There was also a grate of equal size in the opposite corner, near the bucket he had knocked over during his search, that he assumed was a drain.
That was it. There was nothing else in the room. There was nothing for him to use to his advantage, nothing that would enable escape. Nothing.
He half collapsed into a sitting position on the floor, and drew his legs into his body, thunking his forehead onto his knees. Bucky tightly squeezed his eyes shut, trying to pretend the all-encompassing dark was by choice.
He could feel the panic building in his system. His captors had made it clear they intended to leave him to die . They were tired of the Winter Soldier fucking up their plans but it would be too much effort to recondition him for use.
He wasn’t sure if this was some bitter offshoot of Hydra or if the bad-actors had approval from whomever was leading Hydra these days, but in the end it didn’t matter. They intended to leave him in there and throw away the key.
Bucky noticed his breathing becoming shallower and faster, and tried to slow it down. Tried to force more air into his lungs on the inhale. Everytime he started to get control the words, “You are going to die in there,” rang through his mind, interspersed by memories of being left for dead in the Alps, and ruined his tenuous improvement.
There was no way his teammates were aware he’d been snatched yet. Clint, who had just gone dark for a long undercover mission, wouldn’t be there to notice Bucky was missing. Steve, so used to Bucky sulking and not answering his phone, probably wouldn’t notice unless he decided he needed Bucky for something important enough to bodily drag him along.
When they did realize, would they have any idea where to look for him? He thought the vault he was inside was below ground level, but hell, he wasn’t sure where he was. He had found himself in a trunk after the tranqs had worn off and they had driven for hours after that.
His chest felt so tight he knew he wasn’t getting enough air. He tried again to take slow breaths—in through the nose, out through the mouth—but couldn’t stop the rapid panting.
The walls were closing in. How was it possible that the walls were closing in when he couldn’t see any of them. Hands clutched around his head he chanted, “They’re not, they’re not,” to himself, faster and faster.
When he was unable to sit still any longer he launched himself to his feet, eyes snapping open to nothingness. Without any conscious input he found his body pounding on the steel door, mind screaming with the need to get out.
Blood was dripping from his right hand by the time he ran out of energy and slid down the door to curl on the floor.
At some point he had started sobbing.
There were no lights and no hope. He was going to be stuck down there for days, until he died. Regrets washed through his system as he lay there. Thoughts of Clint and Steve whirled through his mind.
Had he told either of them how much they mattered? Steve, who had been his anchor and brother throughout his long storied life? Clint, who had given him motivation to work on his depression and reclaim a life for himself? Who had been proof positive it was possible to recover, mostly, from being a brainwashed tool?
He knew he hadn’t told Clint the full extent of his feelings, worried even after a year of living together that Clint would find it too intense or exhaustive. Now he wasn’t going to get the chance.
Time melted away while Bucky worked through his breakdown. Eventually he ran out of tears, ran out of energy and fell asleep on the cold concrete floor.