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It should be simple. After all, it’s one of the first words every child learns, right after “mama” and “papa”. Hell, it had been Becca’s favorite word when she was two or three.
But he couldn’t say it. Not as a shout, not as a whisper, not as a prayer or a curse. It’s as if it got stuck somewhere between his throat and lips - it just wouldn’t come out. And it wasn’t just that word - it was all its synonyms, too. He even tried the languages they’d seared into his memory: French, German, Russian, Arabic, Chinese, Romanian (and when the hell had he been in Romania?) Same result.
He knew they had scrambled his brain, tried to eliminate all memories of who he was and what he had believed; but this seemed particularly cruel and controlling. After all, he’d had to communicate with his support team on missions, and would speak when he was spoken to back at base. Maybe there was a codeword, a passphrase he couldn’t remember that would unlock his tongue.
He could communicate well enough otherwise; though he did best with simple sentences and responses to questions. Yes, he wanted something to eat. Yes, his shoulder felt better. Yes, another blanket would be nice. Yes, he knew he was somewhere safe, that no one was going to hurt him here. Yes, Steve, I know you. Yes, I remember more every day.
It was the other questions he had trouble with: Did he want something to help him sleep? Could Stark take a look at his arm? Was he ready to leave the secured area, maybe go outside? Buck, can I please come in and just sit with you? Those questions reduced him to a mute shake of the head. He tried tracing the letters on the glass - but his right hand shook too badly and he was afraid his left would punch right through.
It was on the third or fourth day when Steve brought someone new to see him, a stocky man in his late thirties or early forties, who he introduced as Clint Barton. “Clint’s got an idea that might help you when you have trouble talking. Want to give it a try?” Steve asked gently.
He shrugged - not like he had anything better to do.
“Okay, hold your hand up like this.” Barton held up his right hand with the first two fingers extended. He followed suit. “Now take your thumb, and touch it to the tips of those fingers.” He did so, trying not to roll his eyes. Yes, he’d had the shakes when he first came in, but his fine motor skills were just peachy now. He repeated the motion when asked.
“That’s sign language - how deaf people say ‘no’,” Clint explained. “Try it again.” He did, not quite thinking about what it meant. “Let’s test it out. Is Steve an asshole?”
A loaded question, but he answered using the sign. “No.” Holy hell... it worked. He had no idea how, when he couldn’t write it or say it in any other language. but it worked.
“Want some cabbage soup, Buck?” Steve asked, a hint of humor in his voice.
Again, he responded with the sign: “No” and smiled, just a little. They’d eaten enough of that awful stuff back in Brooklyn to last them the rest of their lives - he’d (almost) rather starve.
“Did you ever try to make time with Myrtle O’Malley?” Steve asked, this time with a broad smile; a smile he hadn’t seen since he couldn’t remember when.
“Monkey-face Myrtle?” he replied, making a face along with an emphatic “no” sign. All three of them laughed at that, Steve’s eyes growing bright.
“You doing okay, Buck?”
Oh, don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, Steve. He sighed, slowly replied with a “no” sign, and added, “ But I’m getting better.”