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“I don’t know.” “Good,” the ghost replies. “Good, that’s perfect.”
Bucky can't remember! Damn you evil people, taking advantage of that. :(
He isn’t afraid of Rostova. He has no reason to be. He’s at least a decade younger than she is, as well as six inches taller and likely fifty pounds heavier. He has a bionic arm.
The nurse snaps the latex, and his muscles tense in anticipation of pain. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, though he isn’t sure why.
The body keeps score. Goodness! He may not remember all that they've done to him but his body sure does.
Check your copious notes and tell me. He blinks. He was not made to be insubordinate. He was made—trained—to be compliant and obey. The thought had flashed through his mind like a hidden frame in a film reel, gone before he had the chance to properly examine it.
Just let me sleep, he thinks. He doesn’t care what they do to him. Let them pump him full of sugar. Let him freeze to death. He doesn’t have enough energy to wonder why those two things are related. The current is already pulling him under. Then someone slaps him across the face.
She helps him pull his shirt over his head, and he rests his forehead against her shoulder. “I want to sleep.” “No you don’t. You’ve just been drugged so you think you do.” His head lurches up. “What?”
“You can add it to your tactical gear. Think of it as an upgrade.” Upgrade. The hair on the back of his neck rises as he unlatches the case. Inside is a dome, curved like the top of a clamshell. It feels like it’s made of the same materials as some of his tactical gear, tough but breathable.
She reaches over and fastens it for him, two straps around the back of his head so that it covers his face from the eyes down. He can breathe through it, but he can’t. It feels like a muzzle. His chest constricts, some wire tripped inside him at that feeling of the mask against his skin—fight it. He wants it off, and he hasn’t even put it on properly.
I hated this for him. When I read this it felt like I was being suffocated as well. My poor Bucky!
“Who the hell is Bucky?” he repeats. “You are,” the woman replies. “Or you were. There’s less and less of you every time we meet.”
This made me cry, oh my god
She keeps her hand beside his face, hovering inches from his skin for a moment before she reaches forward and hooks her fingers under the edge of his mask. Gently, like she’s removing a bandage, she pulls it free. He takes a breath, like the first gasp after a long swim. “Hello,” she says quietly.
She slots her finger around his on the trigger. “Do you remember the one about the nightingale? Something about a kiss and a good-bye. I can’t recall it anymore.” She leans into him, keeping the barrel of the gun pressed to her own forehead as she rests her head on his shoulder. When he closes his eyes, he remembers—he remembers!
Her head slams against the metal.
Good! Effing die already, b**** (though honestly she's probably the only KGB member to treat him decently. I still don't like her)
“No…it says ‘Hail Hydra.’” “Hydra?” she repeated. “Are you certain he didn’t simply misspell Hitler?”
Sad that THAT would be preferred in this case.
“I have a hunch that the first requirement for being a Nazi is knowing how to spell Hitler.”
Probably!
• Arm, left, missing below the elbow, extensive bone and muscle damage between elbow and shoulder, amputation at humeral head recommended • Broken back • Fractured clavicle • Fractured femur, right • Fractured ulna, right • Fractured tibia, left • Fractured knee, left • Fractured skull, parietal bone • Punctured lung • Ruptured spleen • Frostbite, extensive tissue damage • Hypothermia He winces in sympathy. What poor soldier had been brought to this place with their body so uninhabitable? And what psychopath had decided to try to save them? It must have only been prolonging the inevitable,
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Oh my god, my poor broken man...you don't even know :(
