[He makes eye contact again when she talks about the Red Room. He can't imagine this is easy for her by any stretch of the imagination. It's not like she had a lot more time than he did to work through... everything. But he does have bad habits of sweeping everything under the rug and saying everything's fine over and over again like a broken record until nobody questions it anymore. She's probably a little less inclined to stick her fingers in her ears and do the same.]
Yeah. [He doesn't even know where to start, really. He knows this isn't transactional - it's not like she offers him something and he's obligated to give her something back. It doesn't work that way.]
It's just. [His face scrunches up and his other hand moves, grabbing the fabric of his pants over the top of his thigh, pulling down a bit before letting go again.] Telling you won't fix anything. And then you have to live with it, too.
[It's never easy. But it's...different than it used to be. When she first got out, it was like her teeth were stuck together with taffy. Couldn't form her mouth around the words. Bizarrely, it had been reciting her service record for Fury in a sterile little SHIELD interrogation room that had unlocked her jaw. Facts came first. The feelings had been a slower trickle.
The movement of his body is increasingly restless - though still constrained. She leans back for a moment to give him a bit of space, pulling some of the slime off the toothbrush so he can have a moment without asking for it. His words tumble over in her head so she can figure out the best way to answer.]
We can't change the past. But can find ways to live with it. Something doesn't become mine just because I hear it. It just means I'm there for you while you're finding ways to live with it. Whatever that looks like.
I don't even know how to write this content warning
We're living with it. Aren't we. [Maybe he's not dealing with it in a healthy way by any means, but. He's going through the motions of the day each day, through the good days and the bad days. The nightmares have been getting less vivid. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, isn't it? One day he'll just. Wake up and feel fine. Or however that works.]
I'm not sure, if I. Survived the war, came home. That I would have turned out... [Bucky purses his lips and frowns, tilting his head and eventually shrugging. Although he's careful not to move his metal hand so he doesn't disturb what she's working on. He doesn't know how to say what's on his mind that wouldn't come off as dismissive and disrespectful of veterans who've lost their limbs and their sanity and years of their life they'll never get back. But he sees what's become of many of them today, and he knows, Uncle Sam wouldn't have given him any of the things HYDRA did. Best case scenario? Quiet life, American Dream. Permanent disability, minimal PTSD. He's not sure what the worst case scenario looks like. Pawning medals for food, bouncing between homeless shelters, a healthy dose of public humiliation and unbearable chronic pain?
Isn't it abhorrent that he would have chosen the Winter Soldier over taking his chances coming home? Knowing it gave him purpose. Knowing they-- brought out the best in him. Knowing it made him as invincible as the 25 year old him felt when he was staring Nazis down the barrel of his sniper rifle, picking them off one by one, heady and dizzy from the rush of each trigger squeeze, each swipe of the knife, cool and calm like this was always something he was meant to do.]
...I liked the attention. I'd let them break my bones, after. Months in solitary. I could've fought back, but. Then nobody would come anymore. [And he didn't like most of the scientists that worked on him. The way they looked at him. How they treated him. But some of them were surprisingly gentle when they were mending his fractures and putting splints on. And they never forgot to feed him if he was a slab of meat on their operating table as opposed to a rusty old farm tool they forgot about in the corner of their shed.]
I miss it. The beatings. [It probably doesn't make any sense. Nobody craves beatings. And he seems to love his solitary existence - even chooses it for himself now. And yet.]
i suggest "beautifully written deep russian trauma" because that was a wonderful/heartbreaking read
There's living and there's existing. [It's a subtle difference, but an important one. And likely not one he's going to be able to sort through just yet. But if it's a seed she can drop into the ground, it'll at least be there if and when he's ready to start watering the soil. His thoughts about the past are left abandoned, and though she doesn't look up from what she's working on, she's paying attention to his body language.
She doesn't say it, because it's not what he needs to hear. But she knows there doesn't exist a world in which Steve Rogers would have given up on his friend. Even in some alternate world where Steve still went down in the ice but Bucky didn't get pulled in by HYDRA, that spirit would have been carried like a torch by Peggy Carter. And if not Peggy, Dugan - all the way down the line of the Howling Commandos. She's listened to Steve talk about them often enough to know that without a doubt in her mind.
The problem, she suspects, is twofold. That he doesn't feel he deserves living, and that he likes being a soldier. It's possible to go through the worse conditions imaginable and to still feel like it's the best possible outcome you could hope for.
The air in the room feels close and heavy as he continues, like the shadows are gathering to bear witness to whatever comes next. Natasha recognizes that she's on a tightrope with him. Push forward too hard and he'll fall off. Don't push enough and he'll never keep walking over that chasm that yawns underneath him, threatening to swallow him whole.
In the Red Room, the end goal had been to make the widows unbreakable. And so they'd broken their own bones, danced on bloody feet, submitted themselves to torture. All in service of hearing their handlers tell them that they'd done a good job. That when they were sent out in the field, nobody would be able to break them, because they already knew intimately what it felt like for someone to try.
Madame had called Natasha unbreakable. Marble. There's widows left from Melina's generation, countless from Yelena's, but she's the only one left from hers. A ring of young women dropped off in Siberia at the heart of winter and left with enough gear for only one to survive.
She does pause for a moment then, her hand shifting around to give his metal hand a brief, supportive squeeze before she continues working on the slime. When she answers him, it's only one word. He'd said he liked the attention. Let them break his bones. That he missed it. Her voice is low, but her tone is even - there's no judgment there, just curiosity. An offer to show him how to take another step out on the tightrope.]
Why? [Isn't it obvious why? He almost seems a little miffed, except. When his lips part, no words come out. Maybe it's not as obvious as he thought. Maybe he struggles with his words. Or maybe he just-- assumes everyone knows without having to say anything out loud. Whatever the case, it takes him a little longer to lick the taste of ashes off the roof of his mouth and try again.]
Because I-- needed to know. Someone was there. [Ultimately it had nothing to do with the pain. Does it make him sound needy? It certainly sounds like they broke him in solitary. The hallucinations from the sleep deprivation, the dehydration and starvation, he tolerated, but lock him alone in the dark listening to the sound of his own breathing and he starts squirming. It's like a dirty little confession he feels awkward making. Nobody likes to talk about their vulnerabilities. But also, it doesn't make sense. Because try and keep him company now and he would run for the hills. He doesn't actually want anyone there bearing witness to the way he hobbles along, struggling down this long road to normalcy most others take for granted.
That it was by design and fully intentional that textbook trauma bond-forging tactics were inflicted upon him, that he started associating negative consequences nobody in their right minds would ever want with positive attention, that it cultivated within him a burning desire to seek approval and made him pliant and become eager to please never really factored into his self-appraisal. Only his self-perceived weakness makes him feel ashamed that they're even talking about this.]
[Many think that her value to Fury is her fighting prowess. Her willingness to do whatever's necessary to get the job done. But it's her ability to read people that makes her a dangerous asset. A tool that the Red Room honed to a knife sharp point, the same way they'd whittled the rest of her skills to lethality. As he answers her question, she can see the shape of it crystal clear, as if the past is in the room with them, just out of sight over his shoulder.
They'd found the button to press to break him and they'd held it down until it stopped working. Held it down until he craved any kind of human presence. Held it down until they didn't have to hold him down so they could start building their weapon on top of the torment. She can see too how this would make him easy to manipulate. If she were still with the Red Room, she could have reported this to her handlers and brought him under her thumb.
Thankfully, she's a long way from the Red Room now. There will be no report on this delivered to Nick Fury. No observation shared with his therapist, or even with the other people in his life. This is his story to share. His path to walk.
It's quiet for a moment as she considers this information. Her hand rests on his metal arm, and after a moment, she looks up to take in the expression on his face. Part of him is still there, in the dark, alone, desperate for any sign that he's still a person, that there are still other people in the world.
The same way that there will always be a part of her stranded shivering in Siberia, waiting to see which of the widows will make the first move.
Her gaze is understanding. It's a close neighbor to sympathy, because there's still sorrow in her - for the way they've both been treated by the world - but sympathy isn't what he needs. He needs to find his way out of the dark.]
HYDRA took you out of your life and made you a weapon the same way the Red Room did to me. We both did what we had to do to survive. And we both have to live with what that means. I think there's probably still a part of you that's waiting for that cycle to start over again. After every deep cover mission the Red Room sent us on, they cycled us back through. The selection process. The conditioning. It made it so that it took time after I got out to believe that I really was out. Is there anything that helps you feel safe from that?
[There are only so many ways you can control someone who is too strong, too fast, too resilient to be restrained. If they had treated him kindly in between the long stretches of isolation and despair, they wouldn't have even needed the chair. He would have stayed loyal enough well beyond his reset timer to finish his mission and come home to roost, to get pets and treats and lavished with praise. But they only knew to twist the knife where it had hurt him the most, so they lost him.
And now he bounces like a hot potato, from a new handler capable of kindness to another. First Steve, then Wakanda, then Sam. And he waits to be fetched, to be reclaimed, to be reset. She knows what the cycle starting over again looks like. She knows how to steel herself against it. He doesn't. It catches him offguard every time. He doesn't know if she's really touching his hand. It's not like he can feel it. He doesn't know what year it is, or where he is. He relies on her or whoever else happens to be in the room to tell him. He doesn't know if he really got out. Or if he'll wake up from a deep cryo-induced slumber at the touch of a button and realise that some or all of this was just noise in what's left of his brain trying to protect him from HYDRA.
Bucky is a happy memory that Steve carries - carried - from before the war when they were still just boys in Brooklyn believing they knew anything about what was right and wrong with the world. Bucky is a perspex stand in a museum depicting a dead soldier and the feats he did in an impossible time of hardship and suffering fighting another man's war. Bucky isn't real, hasn't been real since they left him to die in a ravine in 1945.
So, no. He doesn't feel safe from anything. Or anyone. He's borrowing somebody else's name, wearing somebody else's face that he doesn't recognise in the mirror. Tilting his head watching the reflection copy him, taunt him, remind him that he's an inferior copy of somebody else's memory of who and what Bucky is supposed to be. Touching his cheek with cold metal fingers and thinking - finding out, in almost slow motion - oh my god. That's me. He's not even safe from himself. With himself. If he can't understand such a simple concept as what reality is, he's not sure he'll ever be remotely in the same headspace she's currently at.
But. She doesn't have to worry. He's become very good at wearing Bucky's skin. Even when he's shutting down a conversation, he knows how to keep his head down and toe the line and keep the concerned faces at bay.]
[Of course he can't see the forest for the trees yet. It's all still too close. The phantom hand is still at his throat, threatening to drag him back. And no wonder - HYDRA had him for decades, and he hasn't aged decades. It means all of his time since 1945 has been torture, conditioning, and missions. There's no start or end to the cycle because the cycle is all that there is.
She wonders briefly if it would have been kinder to rehabilitate him slowly. Present Fury as his handler for SHIELD. Give him missions. A bunk. But in her heart of hearts, she knows the answer is no. That the only way forward is making choices of his own.
His answer is a deflection - or more accurately, an answer from an oblique angle. And it's more or less what she's been expecting. She studies him in a thoughtful silence for just a moment before she speaks again.] Nothing makes you feel safe, because HYDRA could still be in the world. Still be in you. Why did you come over here to let me help with your arm? [It's another oblique angle. And the question isn't curiosity for her own sake. She's trying to map a pathway, for as long as he'll let her. See where his connections have been crossed and rewired.
She's not sure if he'll ever let her help untangle them. But there's worse places to start than having a map.]
I am HYDRA. [This much he won't dispute. Just as he won't dispute that the Soldier isn't some grotesque monster they bred that took over the wheel during that time. He's always believed there was-- something inside. Something they had awoken in him, or something they were able to lower his inhibitions enough to let loose. He blinks a couple of times, watching her cradle his metal hand, idly wondering what that might feel like. It's taken him years of practice to learn exactly how gentle he needs to be using a limb that can't feel when he's gripping too hard or throwing wall-demolishing punches. But he'll never know touch the same way he does with his remaining hand.]
I don't feel unsafe. [Just so they're clear. He's as paranoid as she is, to be fair. But he doesn't think she'd say she's paranoid because she feels unsafe. And it doesn't seem like she feels unsafe being around him, which he appreciates. Although sometimes he wonders if they all take his sanity for granted. That's a little dangerous when he doesn't always trust himself.]
...not really familiar with slime. [And there was no way in hell he was going to run back to someone from Wakanda with his tail tucked between his legs in case he messed up the electronics onboard somehow. Which might not be the whole truth of the matter. Maybe he wanted to know someone was there, like he used to. But it is also true that slime wasn't invented until he was in HYDRA's possession, and the resurgence of it as An 'In' Thing didn't happen until recent years. She seems very capable of dealing with it.]
[Natasha understands the concept. The Red Room didn't leave her with any choices. The missions she went on, the things she did. Someone stronger than she did might have opted to refuse a mission and be killed. But Natasha wanted to survive. Part of her had liked being the best. She's still glad she walked away.
She won't contest her paranoia. He might find it comforting to know that she doesn't take anyone's sanity for granted. Her apartment is littered with hidden weapons. Several of which are within reaching distance right from where she sits on the couch. She's been taken by surprise in the past and she likes to reduce the possibility of it happening again when she can.
Her mouth curls in a little smile when he says he's not really familiar with slime.] Well, I'm glad you're letting me help. This would've been a pain in the ass to do one handed. [She picks the toothbrush again so she can get back at it, but it's clear that she hasn't dropped the subject yet.] So, you're still HYDRA. Should I be worried about you trying to kill me or Steve? Passing intel back that way next chance you get? [It's a practical question, both to assess exactly how HYDRA he thinks he is and if she's about to have to turn this night into a fight.]
Yeah? [He wouldn't know but considering how meticulous she's being, how it's not a five minute job, he's quietly relieved that she's willing to help him.]
I'm not-- HYDRA like that. [He's not connected to HYDRA anymore. Not right now, anyway, and he has no intention to go digging even deeper, even if it might bring him more peace of mind to try and eradicate every single trace he might be able to dig up. They haven't reached out to claim him or anything either.]
I just. Don't think I can stop being HYDRA, just because I walked away. [What Isaiah said - that he can't just decide he's not affiliated with his old handlers, burdened by his previous sins and try to make amends overnight on a whim, just because he said so - weighs heavily on his mind.]
[Natasha hums a note of agreement.] It kind of...seeped in. I could probably get Tony to make a compound to break it down if this happens again. [She'd like to say he probably won't encounter slime like this again. But Rocket is kind of a pain in the ass. If he knows that the slime works to reduce the functionality of Bucky's arm, it's absolutely something he'll make note of.
She takes a quick glance up at his face when he explains what he means. It makes sense. Sometimes she feels like she could run forever and the specter of the Red Room would still be right over her shoulder. Just a step behind, reminding her of all the things she's capable of.] Because even though you didn't have a choice in what you did, you still did it?
[Bucky almost pulls his arm back at the mention of Tony Stark. Eight parts guilty conscience, two parts feeling burdensome, one part distrust. She trusts him, and Steve too despite their differences, and that helps of course, but. Bucky finds it difficult to bridge the gap between them. And he doubts Tony wouldn't feel the same way about him.
He doesn't quite wrestle his arm away but he does bristle, and flinch.]
You won't ever not be a Widow. [Just as he won't ever not be HYDRA. Forged in their fire. Nurtured under their watchful eyes. Regardless of how he feels about what he did, HYDRA is dirty ink in his water. He will never be rid of them. Never be clean again.]
Thanks for your help. [She's done poking and prodding at his arm and at him, right?]
[She can fell the way he shies away a little when he mentions Tony, and she spares only a quick glance up when she does so. She's coming to the last of the slime.] I won't ask if you don't want me to. Or I can ask and not tell him the specifics. [She's flexible. And she knows there's a lot of...history between the two of them. Bruce could probably work on something too, but he's a little harder to pin down than Tony.
One shoulder lifts in a shrug when he points out she won't ever not be a Widow. It's true. And she could have chosen to take on a new moniker when she left the Red Room.] I'll always be a little something more, too. [Her mouth curls in a little smile as she says it. So will he, when he's ready.
Finally, she scrapes free the last of the slime and lets out a triumphant little 'ha!' Tossing the brush down on the paper, she flexes the hand she's been using to hold it.] Any time. You want a drink, or have you had enough of me for the day?
Don't worry about it. [Bucky doesn't want to say something unnecessarily dramatic like Tony doesn't want to have anything to do with him. They're not twelve year olds in the schoolyard. But he doesn't want to put her in a tough spot either. It's easier to just leave it.
He never said she was just a Widow. He thinks she's definitely a little something more. Not so easy to quantify what, exactly, but he does respect her in ways few others can appreciate. Maybe one day he can tell her as much, although. Often he doesn't have to say anything, and he thinks she knows anyway. She makes it easy for him to settle in his bad habits.]
I can stay for a beer. [He's relieved to be able to pull his curled metal hand into his lap, finally able to reclaim his limb and close his posture off back to his usual reserved state. It doesn't matter what he drinks, he won't feel it anyway, so. He might as well not waste any of her good stuff. But hey, he might even stay for two beers if she doesn't ask him too many prying questions.]
[Natasha does have a strong suspicion that he wouldn't even consider accepting her help if he didn't respect her. Being able to voice things is certainly an important step. But those actions have to come first. They're like putting a foot out on the ice first to make sure it's going to hold.] Good. Can you ball the paper up? I'll bring a bag back out to put it in.
[So it doesn't get all over the trash. She gets up off the couch and disappears into the kitchen. Only gone for a moment, she returns with two bottles of beer in one hand, a tube of pringles in the crook of her arm, and a plastic bag in her other hand. She hands the bag off to him as she returns to her seat on the couch, passing his beer over once he's done with the bag.] Ever tried Fiery Sweet BBQ pringles? [She pops the lid off the tube and peels the seal back before tilting the canister towards him to offer a sample.]
Yeah. [He's careful wrapping up the papers, from the untouched ends and crushing inwards. He's been more reckless handling C4 and claymore mines than he is with this, which is probably unwarranted. It's just remnants of stubborn goop. But that's probably more indicative that he should be more careful around explosives.
She doesn't have to bribe him with treats for being a good boy, but he's not going to say no to a cold beer and some strange new flavour of Pringles. He doesn't want to shove his hand right up in there so he holds his hand out, signaling wordlessly to her to pour a few chips out into his palm.]
No, haven't tried it. [He inspects the small pile visually and resists the urge to sniff at it before popping one into his mouth. The burst of artificial flavours and salt is actually pretty good going hand in hand with the beer.] Not that fiery. [Not that he's complaining. He's too manly to even talk - he's definitely completely incapable of crying on her couch.]
[Don't worry, Bucky. She's not that unsubtle when she decides someone deserves a treat. It's just that beer is beer, and it always tastes better when you pair it with a salty snack. Maybe also that she figures he's probably been too preoccupied with goop to eat enough that day and this is a decent side door. Dutifully she shakes a few chips out into his hand before she takes a few out herself and pops one into her mouth. She lets out a hum of agreement.] Yeah, it's a nice balance. There's this place nearby I get wings from sometime. They've got about two dozen flavors. A couple of them have the hot/sweet combo like these. I like the Hawaiian BBQ ones best, though.
[She takes a sip of her beer, settling back on her couch cushion as she props the canister up on the seat between them.]
How is Hawaiian BBQ different from normal BBQ? [Does 'Hawaiian' just mean pineapple or...? Pineapple and wings. Hmm. Could be nice if it's mostly just sweet and juicy and not too tart or got that distinct overwhelming pineapple flavour.]
We should go out. For wings or. Pizza. [Apparently this is how Bucky asks people out. So much for needing to ease into it. Apparently with someone he's more familiar with, he doesn't fuck around and maybe doesn't really appreciate the value of being subtle or dragging out this kind of... courtship... game?
Anyway, he's thinking about food now, and more about filling his tummy and not particularly worried about getting pringle crumbs inside his hand, so. There's probably a bit of overlooking the necessary dance here.]
The sauce has a little bit of pineapple juice in it. And I think some ginger. It's a nice flavor. [Sweet but not sugary. Natasha is by no means a BBQ expert, but she likes American food. There's fond memories somewhere in her mind from her mission to Ohio - mac and cheese, hamburgers, potato chips and ice cream cake. Nothing they were ever allowed to eat in the Red Room. Every flavor a treat in its own way. When she finally defected, got settled in at SHIELD with a bank account, she'd enjoyed picking her way around the city's takeout menus.
Here's the good news, Bucky: the suggestion apparently doesn't strike her as strange. In fact, she looks over at him with a half smile. The pringles had been a side door, and he'd walked right on through it. Unfortunately, despite her keen powers of observation, she's not a mind reader. The suggestion is so focused that she doesn't pick up on the other meaning of going out. But her response is easy, agreeable. Pleased for the opportunity to get him to try something new.]
Yeah? We can walk to that wing place now if you're hungry. It's five, maybe ten minutes.
Yeah. No rush. [They should finish their beer first at least even if they might leave the pringles for later. Wings are another kind of food that comes in a variety of flavours, some more polarising than others, and bone in or boneless although he's pretty sure boneless wings aren't actually technically wings. Bucky isn't particularly fussy other than maybe a face he might make at blue cheese sauce.
He thought he would enjoy food more since leaving HYDRA. And it's not that he doesn't, but. He can also settle comfortably into self-neglect and go for days without eating, too. Doing wings together at least will hold him accountable for today, even if keeping a regular cadence to anything needs more work than it initially looks.]
Steve and I put a hundred wings away once. People still came up asking for photos even with buffalo sauce all over his face. [And she can bet Bucky gave him a lot of shit for it too.]
Just let me know when you're ready. [She's not in a hurry. Especially since they're talking about food, she figures it'll be a reminder of what's waiting for them a few blocks away. She can understand the temptation to fall into utilitarianism. In the Red Room, food had been about optimal nutrition. Not so much about flavor and enjoyment. And old habits are very, very hard to break.
She takes a sip of her beer, glancing over at him as she listens. When her bottle lowers, she's grinning.] Captain Buffalo Sauce reporting for duty. [It's good natured teasing - Steve is one of her closest friends.] How'd you manage to keep it off your face?
I tried to use a fork. He gave me shit for it, but. I've been an animal for eighty years. I don't have to be anymore. [Of course, that didn't stop buffalo sauce getting on his lips, but it was a much more controlled mess than trying to deal with excess sauce when there's already excess sauce all over his hands.]
You're not that famous are you? [He loves Steve, don't get him wrong. But being a world famous celebrity, it's stressful going out anywhere with him. There's always a crazy mob and Bucky finds the attention a bit overwhelming. He doesn't envy Steve at all - sometimes he sees that smile crack with the occasional twitch of frustration. But somehow he's never snapped - at least, when they're out together.
Right now he just wants to eat without all that fanfare.]
[Typically she'd say something like the dignity is in the choice. But when it comes to sauce smothered wings...yeah, the dignity kind of is in the fork. More people would probably be better off if they didn't try to go into a plate of wings without utensils.] It's a better solution than wet naps.
[His question earns a quick laugh, and she looks over at him with a smile.] Me? Nah. Maybe a little more before I dumped my service record on the internet, but never on Steve's level. [It's clear she doesn't regret it. The kind of work she does isn't suited for bright lights and parades.] People recognize me more when I'm in my tac gear. It's pretty easy to convince someone I'm just a random redhead otherwise.
We'll see. [He's joking of course. He trusts her. Bucky is fairly inconspicuous himself, despite the infamy. If he's relieved at all that it's going to a quiet kind of night out, he's doing his best not to let it show on his face. To be fair, it's New York - most people don't give a shit. They're either too caught up in their own world or too in a rush to get somewhere else that they'd only notice if someone was getting in their way.
He sits with the patience of a pup blissfully unaware that they're going to go out for a walk soon, aware that putting on makeup and getting dressed could take an hour or more. There's a chewtoy of a beer to keep his mouth busy. Someone's trained him well.]
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no subject
Yeah. [He doesn't even know where to start, really. He knows this isn't transactional - it's not like she offers him something and he's obligated to give her something back. It doesn't work that way.]
It's just. [His face scrunches up and his other hand moves, grabbing the fabric of his pants over the top of his thigh, pulling down a bit before letting go again.] Telling you won't fix anything. And then you have to live with it, too.
no subject
The movement of his body is increasingly restless - though still constrained. She leans back for a moment to give him a bit of space, pulling some of the slime off the toothbrush so he can have a moment without asking for it. His words tumble over in her head so she can figure out the best way to answer.]
We can't change the past. But can find ways to live with it. Something doesn't become mine just because I hear it. It just means I'm there for you while you're finding ways to live with it. Whatever that looks like.
I don't even know how to write this content warning
I'm not sure, if I. Survived the war, came home. That I would have turned out... [Bucky purses his lips and frowns, tilting his head and eventually shrugging. Although he's careful not to move his metal hand so he doesn't disturb what she's working on. He doesn't know how to say what's on his mind that wouldn't come off as dismissive and disrespectful of veterans who've lost their limbs and their sanity and years of their life they'll never get back. But he sees what's become of many of them today, and he knows, Uncle Sam wouldn't have given him any of the things HYDRA did. Best case scenario? Quiet life, American Dream. Permanent disability, minimal PTSD. He's not sure what the worst case scenario looks like. Pawning medals for food, bouncing between homeless shelters, a healthy dose of public humiliation and unbearable chronic pain?
Isn't it abhorrent that he would have chosen the Winter Soldier over taking his chances coming home? Knowing it gave him purpose. Knowing they-- brought out the best in him. Knowing it made him as invincible as the 25 year old him felt when he was staring Nazis down the barrel of his sniper rifle, picking them off one by one, heady and dizzy from the rush of each trigger squeeze, each swipe of the knife, cool and calm like this was always something he was meant to do.]
...I liked the attention. I'd let them break my bones, after. Months in solitary. I could've fought back, but. Then nobody would come anymore. [And he didn't like most of the scientists that worked on him. The way they looked at him. How they treated him. But some of them were surprisingly gentle when they were mending his fractures and putting splints on. And they never forgot to feed him if he was a slab of meat on their operating table as opposed to a rusty old farm tool they forgot about in the corner of their shed.]
I miss it. The beatings. [It probably doesn't make any sense. Nobody craves beatings. And he seems to love his solitary existence - even chooses it for himself now. And yet.]
i suggest "beautifully written deep russian trauma" because that was a wonderful/heartbreaking read
She doesn't say it, because it's not what he needs to hear. But she knows there doesn't exist a world in which Steve Rogers would have given up on his friend. Even in some alternate world where Steve still went down in the ice but Bucky didn't get pulled in by HYDRA, that spirit would have been carried like a torch by Peggy Carter. And if not Peggy, Dugan - all the way down the line of the Howling Commandos. She's listened to Steve talk about them often enough to know that without a doubt in her mind.
The problem, she suspects, is twofold. That he doesn't feel he deserves living, and that he likes being a soldier. It's possible to go through the worse conditions imaginable and to still feel like it's the best possible outcome you could hope for.
The air in the room feels close and heavy as he continues, like the shadows are gathering to bear witness to whatever comes next. Natasha recognizes that she's on a tightrope with him. Push forward too hard and he'll fall off. Don't push enough and he'll never keep walking over that chasm that yawns underneath him, threatening to swallow him whole.
In the Red Room, the end goal had been to make the widows unbreakable. And so they'd broken their own bones, danced on bloody feet, submitted themselves to torture. All in service of hearing their handlers tell them that they'd done a good job. That when they were sent out in the field, nobody would be able to break them, because they already knew intimately what it felt like for someone to try.
Madame had called Natasha unbreakable. Marble. There's widows left from Melina's generation, countless from Yelena's, but she's the only one left from hers. A ring of young women dropped off in Siberia at the heart of winter and left with enough gear for only one to survive.
She does pause for a moment then, her hand shifting around to give his metal hand a brief, supportive squeeze before she continues working on the slime. When she answers him, it's only one word. He'd said he liked the attention. Let them break his bones. That he missed it. Her voice is low, but her tone is even - there's no judgment there, just curiosity. An offer to show him how to take another step out on the tightrope.]
Why?
we only serve trauma here!
Because I-- needed to know. Someone was there. [Ultimately it had nothing to do with the pain. Does it make him sound needy? It certainly sounds like they broke him in solitary. The hallucinations from the sleep deprivation, the dehydration and starvation, he tolerated, but lock him alone in the dark listening to the sound of his own breathing and he starts squirming. It's like a dirty little confession he feels awkward making. Nobody likes to talk about their vulnerabilities. But also, it doesn't make sense. Because try and keep him company now and he would run for the hills. He doesn't actually want anyone there bearing witness to the way he hobbles along, struggling down this long road to normalcy most others take for granted.
That it was by design and fully intentional that textbook trauma bond-forging tactics were inflicted upon him, that he started associating negative consequences nobody in their right minds would ever want with positive attention, that it cultivated within him a burning desire to seek approval and made him pliant and become eager to please never really factored into his self-appraisal. Only his self-perceived weakness makes him feel ashamed that they're even talking about this.]
and it's piping hot!
They'd found the button to press to break him and they'd held it down until it stopped working. Held it down until he craved any kind of human presence. Held it down until they didn't have to hold him down so they could start building their weapon on top of the torment. She can see too how this would make him easy to manipulate. If she were still with the Red Room, she could have reported this to her handlers and brought him under her thumb.
Thankfully, she's a long way from the Red Room now. There will be no report on this delivered to Nick Fury. No observation shared with his therapist, or even with the other people in his life. This is his story to share. His path to walk.
It's quiet for a moment as she considers this information. Her hand rests on his metal arm, and after a moment, she looks up to take in the expression on his face. Part of him is still there, in the dark, alone, desperate for any sign that he's still a person, that there are still other people in the world.
The same way that there will always be a part of her stranded shivering in Siberia, waiting to see which of the widows will make the first move.
Her gaze is understanding. It's a close neighbor to sympathy, because there's still sorrow in her - for the way they've both been treated by the world - but sympathy isn't what he needs. He needs to find his way out of the dark.]
HYDRA took you out of your life and made you a weapon the same way the Red Room did to me. We both did what we had to do to survive. And we both have to live with what that means. I think there's probably still a part of you that's waiting for that cycle to start over again. After every deep cover mission the Red Room sent us on, they cycled us back through. The selection process. The conditioning. It made it so that it took time after I got out to believe that I really was out. Is there anything that helps you feel safe from that?
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And now he bounces like a hot potato, from a new handler capable of kindness to another. First Steve, then Wakanda, then Sam. And he waits to be fetched, to be reclaimed, to be reset. She knows what the cycle starting over again looks like. She knows how to steel herself against it. He doesn't. It catches him offguard every time. He doesn't know if she's really touching his hand. It's not like he can feel it. He doesn't know what year it is, or where he is. He relies on her or whoever else happens to be in the room to tell him. He doesn't know if he really got out. Or if he'll wake up from a deep cryo-induced slumber at the touch of a button and realise that some or all of this was just noise in what's left of his brain trying to protect him from HYDRA.
Bucky is a happy memory that Steve carries - carried - from before the war when they were still just boys in Brooklyn believing they knew anything about what was right and wrong with the world. Bucky is a perspex stand in a museum depicting a dead soldier and the feats he did in an impossible time of hardship and suffering fighting another man's war. Bucky isn't real, hasn't been real since they left him to die in a ravine in 1945.
So, no. He doesn't feel safe from anything. Or anyone. He's borrowing somebody else's name, wearing somebody else's face that he doesn't recognise in the mirror. Tilting his head watching the reflection copy him, taunt him, remind him that he's an inferior copy of somebody else's memory of who and what Bucky is supposed to be. Touching his cheek with cold metal fingers and thinking - finding out, in almost slow motion - oh my god. That's me. He's not even safe from himself. With himself. If he can't understand such a simple concept as what reality is, he's not sure he'll ever be remotely in the same headspace she's currently at.
But. She doesn't have to worry. He's become very good at wearing Bucky's skin. Even when he's shutting down a conversation, he knows how to keep his head down and toe the line and keep the concerned faces at bay.]
I don't think HYDRA will ever be completely gone.
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She wonders briefly if it would have been kinder to rehabilitate him slowly. Present Fury as his handler for SHIELD. Give him missions. A bunk. But in her heart of hearts, she knows the answer is no. That the only way forward is making choices of his own.
His answer is a deflection - or more accurately, an answer from an oblique angle. And it's more or less what she's been expecting. She studies him in a thoughtful silence for just a moment before she speaks again.] Nothing makes you feel safe, because HYDRA could still be in the world. Still be in you. Why did you come over here to let me help with your arm? [It's another oblique angle. And the question isn't curiosity for her own sake. She's trying to map a pathway, for as long as he'll let her. See where his connections have been crossed and rewired.
She's not sure if he'll ever let her help untangle them. But there's worse places to start than having a map.]
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I don't feel unsafe. [Just so they're clear. He's as paranoid as she is, to be fair. But he doesn't think she'd say she's paranoid because she feels unsafe. And it doesn't seem like she feels unsafe being around him, which he appreciates. Although sometimes he wonders if they all take his sanity for granted. That's a little dangerous when he doesn't always trust himself.]
...not really familiar with slime. [And there was no way in hell he was going to run back to someone from Wakanda with his tail tucked between his legs in case he messed up the electronics onboard somehow. Which might not be the whole truth of the matter. Maybe he wanted to know someone was there, like he used to. But it is also true that slime wasn't invented until he was in HYDRA's possession, and the resurgence of it as An 'In' Thing didn't happen until recent years. She seems very capable of dealing with it.]
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She won't contest her paranoia. He might find it comforting to know that she doesn't take anyone's sanity for granted. Her apartment is littered with hidden weapons. Several of which are within reaching distance right from where she sits on the couch. She's been taken by surprise in the past and she likes to reduce the possibility of it happening again when she can.
Her mouth curls in a little smile when he says he's not really familiar with slime.] Well, I'm glad you're letting me help. This would've been a pain in the ass to do one handed. [She picks the toothbrush again so she can get back at it, but it's clear that she hasn't dropped the subject yet.] So, you're still HYDRA. Should I be worried about you trying to kill me or Steve? Passing intel back that way next chance you get? [It's a practical question, both to assess exactly how HYDRA he thinks he is and if she's about to have to turn this night into a fight.]
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I'm not-- HYDRA like that. [He's not connected to HYDRA anymore. Not right now, anyway, and he has no intention to go digging even deeper, even if it might bring him more peace of mind to try and eradicate every single trace he might be able to dig up. They haven't reached out to claim him or anything either.]
I just. Don't think I can stop being HYDRA, just because I walked away. [What Isaiah said - that he can't just decide he's not affiliated with his old handlers, burdened by his previous sins and try to make amends overnight on a whim, just because he said so - weighs heavily on his mind.]
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She takes a quick glance up at his face when he explains what he means. It makes sense. Sometimes she feels like she could run forever and the specter of the Red Room would still be right over her shoulder. Just a step behind, reminding her of all the things she's capable of.] Because even though you didn't have a choice in what you did, you still did it?
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He doesn't quite wrestle his arm away but he does bristle, and flinch.]
You won't ever not be a Widow. [Just as he won't ever not be HYDRA. Forged in their fire. Nurtured under their watchful eyes. Regardless of how he feels about what he did, HYDRA is dirty ink in his water. He will never be rid of them. Never be clean again.]
Thanks for your help. [She's done poking and prodding at his arm and at him, right?]
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One shoulder lifts in a shrug when he points out she won't ever not be a Widow. It's true. And she could have chosen to take on a new moniker when she left the Red Room.] I'll always be a little something more, too. [Her mouth curls in a little smile as she says it. So will he, when he's ready.
Finally, she scrapes free the last of the slime and lets out a triumphant little 'ha!' Tossing the brush down on the paper, she flexes the hand she's been using to hold it.] Any time. You want a drink, or have you had enough of me for the day?
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He never said she was just a Widow. He thinks she's definitely a little something more. Not so easy to quantify what, exactly, but he does respect her in ways few others can appreciate. Maybe one day he can tell her as much, although. Often he doesn't have to say anything, and he thinks she knows anyway. She makes it easy for him to settle in his bad habits.]
I can stay for a beer. [He's relieved to be able to pull his curled metal hand into his lap, finally able to reclaim his limb and close his posture off back to his usual reserved state. It doesn't matter what he drinks, he won't feel it anyway, so. He might as well not waste any of her good stuff. But hey, he might even stay for two beers if she doesn't ask him too many prying questions.]
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[So it doesn't get all over the trash. She gets up off the couch and disappears into the kitchen. Only gone for a moment, she returns with two bottles of beer in one hand, a tube of pringles in the crook of her arm, and a plastic bag in her other hand. She hands the bag off to him as she returns to her seat on the couch, passing his beer over once he's done with the bag.] Ever tried Fiery Sweet BBQ pringles? [She pops the lid off the tube and peels the seal back before tilting the canister towards him to offer a sample.]
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She doesn't have to bribe him with treats for being a good boy, but he's not going to say no to a cold beer and some strange new flavour of Pringles. He doesn't want to shove his hand right up in there so he holds his hand out, signaling wordlessly to her to pour a few chips out into his palm.]
No, haven't tried it. [He inspects the small pile visually and resists the urge to sniff at it before popping one into his mouth. The burst of artificial flavours and salt is actually pretty good going hand in hand with the beer.] Not that fiery. [Not that he's complaining. He's too manly to even talk - he's definitely completely incapable of crying on her couch.]
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[She takes a sip of her beer, settling back on her couch cushion as she props the canister up on the seat between them.]
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We should go out. For wings or. Pizza. [Apparently this is how Bucky asks people out. So much for needing to ease into it. Apparently with someone he's more familiar with, he doesn't fuck around and maybe doesn't really appreciate the value of being subtle or dragging out this kind of... courtship... game?
Anyway, he's thinking about food now, and more about filling his tummy and not particularly worried about getting pringle crumbs inside his hand, so. There's probably a bit of overlooking the necessary dance here.]
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Here's the good news, Bucky: the suggestion apparently doesn't strike her as strange. In fact, she looks over at him with a half smile. The pringles had been a side door, and he'd walked right on through it. Unfortunately, despite her keen powers of observation, she's not a mind reader. The suggestion is so focused that she doesn't pick up on the other meaning of going out. But her response is easy, agreeable. Pleased for the opportunity to get him to try something new.]
Yeah? We can walk to that wing place now if you're hungry. It's five, maybe ten minutes.
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He thought he would enjoy food more since leaving HYDRA. And it's not that he doesn't, but. He can also settle comfortably into self-neglect and go for days without eating, too. Doing wings together at least will hold him accountable for today, even if keeping a regular cadence to anything needs more work than it initially looks.]
Steve and I put a hundred wings away once. People still came up asking for photos even with buffalo sauce all over his face. [And she can bet Bucky gave him a lot of shit for it too.]
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She takes a sip of her beer, glancing over at him as she listens. When her bottle lowers, she's grinning.] Captain Buffalo Sauce reporting for duty. [It's good natured teasing - Steve is one of her closest friends.] How'd you manage to keep it off your face?
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You're not that famous are you? [He loves Steve, don't get him wrong. But being a world famous celebrity, it's stressful going out anywhere with him. There's always a crazy mob and Bucky finds the attention a bit overwhelming. He doesn't envy Steve at all - sometimes he sees that smile crack with the occasional twitch of frustration. But somehow he's never snapped - at least, when they're out together.
Right now he just wants to eat without all that fanfare.]
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[His question earns a quick laugh, and she looks over at him with a smile.] Me? Nah. Maybe a little more before I dumped my service record on the internet, but never on Steve's level. [It's clear she doesn't regret it. The kind of work she does isn't suited for bright lights and parades.] People recognize me more when I'm in my tac gear. It's pretty easy to convince someone I'm just a random redhead otherwise.
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He sits with the patience of a pup blissfully unaware that they're going to go out for a walk soon, aware that putting on makeup and getting dressed could take an hour or more. There's a chewtoy of a beer to keep his mouth busy. Someone's trained him well.]
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