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I jerk awake at the faint, almost inaudible, sound of movement near me, and I am greeted by the sight of my boyfriend, James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes, lying in a hospital bed, with a white sheet covering him from the shoulders down. I immediately look around for the sound that startled me. I can see the edges of the white checkered hospital gown that matches mine.
A nurse is changing out his IV bag and checking his vitals, and I almost laugh as she holds her hands up in mock surrender for a moment before going back to what she’s been doing, just like Bucky does. Almost. The badge on her chest reads “Nurse Andrea Haven.”
So that’s what woke me up. I relax, the tension seeping out of my shoulders as I scan the small room purely out of habit: Just me, a sleeping Bucky, and the nurse. No threats.
His long, chocolate brown hair is done back in two neat French braids, probably courtesy of one of his nurses. Definitely wasn’t me. I can disassemble, clean, and reassemble a rifle in record time, but I can’t even do a basic three-strand braid to save my life. There’s an IV line taped down to the back of his right hand, and, much to my disdain, reinforced black restraints on his wrists and ankles. They’re starting to leave red marks. I don’t like it.
I can’t stand to see him like this. If this is how a civilian hospital treats him after a car accident, I can only imagine how much worse it was at HYDRA as The Winter Soldier.
We have a rule with each other. I don’t ask Bucky about his time as The Winter Soldier, and he doesn’t ask me about my past attempts or deployment history. We’ve both explained these topics to one another exactly once and then swore to never talk about them again. Ever.
Bucky and I both have our fair share of scars: Emotional, mental, and physical. His are on his right arm. Mine are on my thighs, easy to hide while in an inspection-ready uniform. He wears long sleeves, and I wear jeans to hide them. I hate shorts and skirts to begin with, so it’s not that hard.
According to Bucky’s medical chart, the doctor assigned to his case is Doctor Owen Hunt, another veteran. I’ve met him once or twice (past attempts), and he’d understood what I was going through. He’d almost done the same when he’d gotten back, he said.
Another staff member – Nurse Kathrine Hawkins, one of mine, walks into the room and gives me a scathing look that could melt steel. “You’re supposed to be resting in your room, Master Sergeant, not hanging out with your unconscious boyfriend. Back to your room. And maybe a shower is in order?”
She said, using my former rank instead of my name as she eyed my short, mussed-up, and greasy hair. Probably to make a point, which came across clear as day: I’m serious, do not mess with me.
Internally sighing, I stood up from where I’d been napping in the semi-comfortable plastic chair in the corner – I can sleep literally anywhere, a somewhat helpful skill I picked up in the Marines – and stretched, picking up my black backpack and slinging it over my left shoulder. I reached over and squeezed his left hand.
“James, I have to go. I’ll be back soon.”
Once I’m back in my hospital room, which is a few floors up from Bucky’s, having been tailed by Nurse Hawkins, I take an actual long shower for the first time in four days. I don’t really feel much of a difference, although this isn’t the first time I haven’t showered every day: it’s not really a choice when you’re in an active combat zone. No Navy showers today. Plus, I’d been restricted to sponge baths until now. Doctor’s orders. When I’m done, I change back into my clothes: straight blue jeans, a faded, collared, olive green drab USMC shirt, and black combat boots with the laces redone in the same manner that I’d gotten used to tying while on active duty.
I’m gone for about half an hour, forty-five minutes maximum, when I hear it over the intercom as I’m stepping back through the double doors of the Psych Ward wing, my backpack over one shoulder.
“Code White, Psych Ward, Room 218. Repeat, Code White, Psych Ward, Room 218.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, as it varied per hospital, but I knew that it wasn’t good and that it also had to do with Bucky. Without missing a beat, I shift my backpack to both shoulders and take off sprinting down the hall to Bucky’s room, watching as doctors and nurses press themselves against the wall to avoid being knocked over, the echo of my combat boots faintly thudding against the white-tiled linoleum floor.
When I walk into his room, I pause briefly at the doorway. There are four doctors in white coats attempting to restrain him, his enhanced super-soldier strength having broken the straps. I couldn’t help but chuckle softly to myself as I noticed that the French braids were still perfectly done, not a hair out of place. I found it mildly amusing.
“NO!! Let me go! Y/N!! Let me go!!”
I’m standing at the door, tapping my foot against the floor and my middle finger against the door jamb.
“James.”
No visible reaction. He’s still fighting them.
I step into his line of sight, switching from English to Russian, our shared private language, as I pressed against the wall so I didn’t accidentally get hit by either him or one of the doctors.
“Солдат. Посмотри на меня. Я в порядке, ты в безопасности. Расслабься. Это не ГИРДА.”
Instantly, I see the change. He stops struggling and relaxes; I can almost see the tension leave as he realizes I’m safe and here with him, not trapped somewhere else. He softly smiles at me, and I return it without hesitation.
I glare at the four doctors still trying to hold him down.
“Let. Him. Go. Now.”
Each word is punctuated by a step closer to his bed. Even though I’m wearing combat boots and not sneakers, my footsteps are completely silent against the linoleum tile as I move across the small room.
“But Mrs. Barnes, your husband is psychotic,” the tall blonde doctor says with a light scoff, still holding Bucky’s right wrist. I don’t bother to correct him on the fact that Bucky is my boyfriend, not my husband. Let them think what they want to think.
“He’s not psychotic. Just overly concerned for me, which, by the way, is completely and legitimately valid when one takes my and his past careers and their risks into consideration.”
I go over and sit on the edge of the bed, and my close and intimidating presence is enough to make them back off from where they’re still hovering.
I watch Bucky’s eyes widen as his left hand dips under the collar of his gown.
“My tags.” He quietly says. I immediately know what he’s talking about: his 1940s Army-issued dog tags from when he served in the war. He still wears them to this day.
I turn to the four doctors, who are now almost cowering in the corner by the door. Like they’re afraid he might suddenly become the Winter Soldier and kill them in a fit of rage. I have to suppress the urge to scoff. The Winter Soldier was long gone, thanks to Shuri and T’Challa in Wakanda. I make eye contact with the redhead, who is the only one not cowering like a scared animal.
“I know there’s a box with his personal effects in it somewhere. If you tell me where it is, I’ll go retrieve it. I’m not letting one of you lunatics go.”
The redhead sighs, then speaks. “I can get it. Based on Mr. Barnes’ reaction when you left for even a moment, I believe that it would be in his and your best interests if you stayed here, where he knows you are.”
I nodded. Her logic made sense. “Dismissed!”
Without realizing it, I’d switched back to my drill sergeant voice, the one I’d used on unruly cadets. They’d been acting a bit like some of the better ones, but still mildly annoying to me.
The rest of the doctors leave, closing the sliding window door behind them. About ten minutes later, the redhead returns with the box and Doctor Owen Hunt tailing her.
“Hello, Mr. Barnes. I’m Doctor Owen Hunt. How are you feeling today? Any pain anywhere?”
I shoot Bucky a look that says, “Be honest.”
He scowls at me in mock offense, then looks back at Doctor Hunt. “I’m not in a lot of pain. Call me James. Mr. Barnes was my father.” He still has a bit of a panicked/distressed look in his eyes, even though his body language is completely calm. I know it’s because of the tags’ absence.
The redhead hands me the cardboard box, and I immediately start rifling through it, finding the plastic baggie with the familiar notched metal dog tags in it. I pull out the bag and show Bucky, then open it and remove the chain, clasping it around his neck for him so he doesn’t move his right shoulder too much.
The panicked/distressed look in his eyes fades, and I watch as he rubs a finger over the lines of embossed text, which I know for a fact that he’s memorized at this point – I had also memorized my own tags’ details after wearing them for so long. I still wear mine to this day, and, again, seldom take them off.
“There we go. Better?”
Doctor Hunt notices the notches on the tags – which I know haven’t been used in over three decades -- and looks a little confused.
“I can’t help but notice that your tags are different than the kind I’m familiar with. If you’re comfortable, would you explain why that is?”
Bucky pauses, meets his kind gaze, then nods.
“This type of tag, the kind with the notch, was used back in the 1940s and '50s. I was in the Army then, so they reflect that.”