Work Text:
Bucky didn’t know where he was when he woke up, only that he was back in his own body with no idea what had happened.
Shit.
He tried to sit up but quickly found that he couldn’t, the metal arm attached to him pulling at his shoulder and keeping him stuck in a sitting position, the arm itself trapped in a way that he couldn’t move it.
Double shit.
It has to be purposeful, that at least became very clear to him. Someone was trying to keep him restrained, which either meant that he had just done something very bad or was about to be forced to do something very bad. Likely both, the way his life was going.
Either way, it didn’t matter. He had to get out, had to escape, had to get away. Away, away, far away.
He started tugging harder at the arm, but it wouldn’t budge. Instead, it only served to cause pain to rip through his shoulder. Nothing he wasn't used to before. Okay, so he just had to loose the arm. What was a little more flesh off his shoulder in the grand scheme of things?
Grunting in pain, he reached for his knife. Pat around. It wasn’t in his belt. It wasn’t in his belt or his lower pant pocket or his boot or sleeve or anywhere.
The only weapon left on him was the one that was currently restraining him.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
With a pounding heart he pulled harder at his arm, scratching against his left shoulder with his other hand right where flesh and metal met. It didn’t matter how much it hurt, whether his shoulder was bleeding or not, and if the scarring on his shoulder was opening up again he didn’t know.
The only thing on his mind was escape.
When he couldn’t feel his shoulder at all anymore, Bucky pulled harder, not caring what it did to him; the arm didn’t budge.
He was going to be a puppet again. Bucky had no way of escaping and they were going to take him, use him, force him to do things he wouldn’t remember and would have no control of. All because he wasn’t strong enough to resist, too weak to rip off his own skin even if it meant saving himself and countless others.
A broken sob escaped him. He couldn’t escape, couldn’t even cut his own throat to save himself from their control. He was entirely at the mercy of whoever had captured him.
Steve. It turned out to be Steve who captured him.
Bucky nearly tore his arm off so that he could escape his own best friend.
“Steve?” he whispered, his voice coming out broken. Broken, just like him.
“Which Bucky am I talking to?”
And, his own best friend restrained him because he didn’t trust Bucky. Right. So that was how it was gonna be.
The broken one? The trapped one? The weak one who couldn’t push out the voices in his head? Who murdered and maiamed and manipulated? That was the Bucky he was talking to.
“Your mom’s name was Sarah,” he said instead. He liked Sarah– loved her. She was like a second mom to him, growing up. He remembered that much. “You used to wear newspapers in your shoes.”
He smiled slightly at the memory, momentarily forgetting about his arm and his current situation. Steve used to be tiny. Just this ninety pounds of pure feist. And Bucky knew at the time that there were other reasons for the newspapers other than just making him taller, but it usually added about an inch and Bucky would always tease him about it.
‘Oh, look, Steve, you’re so tall now.’
‘Fuck off, Buck.”
“You remembered?” Steve asked him quietly, a tiny grin spreading across his face. His eyes were light, sparkling in a way that Bucky had thought he would never see again.
He nodded slowly. “How could I forget you, Stevie?” He said softly.
Bucky may not remember everything at times, sometimes he wouldn’t even remember who he himself was, but he would always remember Steve.
They were best friends after all. ‘Till the end of the line.