Eyes of Fire | Bucky Barnes

56

The Soldier's teeth chattered as the crown lowered onto his head, as a handler fit the conductive pads snugly against his face. He bit down on the mouth guard held in front of him without knowing why, but suddenly, there was a flicker of understanding— pain was coming—

"Please," he tried to beg, but it was unintelligible around the plastic in his mouth. "I'm sorry. Please, I don't want to, please, I'm so sorry, please..."

The machine clicked on.

At the first jolt, his mind went blank. No present, past, or future, only the white-hot fire in his brain, in his skin. And his arm. Conductive as it was, the current coursed through the metal, brighter and more intense than anywhere else. The plates reacted accordingly, slamming and shaking, rolling over the surface as his body convulsed. The arm itself didn't hurt, but the metal went deeper— waves of electricity sparked into the roots of him, followed along the silver tendrils embedded deep in his sternum, adhered to his spine and ribs and shoulder. What was left of his shoulder.

"Hang on," Bucky managed to choke out, his words muffled by his hands. His muscles were shaking then, too, there at the table they shared. He was vibrating with electricity or maybe panic, could feel it buzzing in his fingers and toes and teeth as he tried to breathe. In for four, out for eight, he knew what he was supposed to do. But it wasn't that easy— it took everything in him to keep his throat from sealing shut with terror.

The image of himself strapped down in that chair, the conductive crown sitting atop his head like a halo, was diabolically beautiful. The Winter Soldier fell from heaven like lightning, arrived to bring destruction and the end of times to anyone who crossed his path. To carry out the punishment of the wicked and blessedness of the righteous, as soon as his deification was complete.

"Bucky," Uxolo said softly, bringing his attention back to her. "Do you want to take a break?"

He shook his head; he had to keep going. The memories wouldn't wait. They were there, playing behind his eyelids, whether he wanted to see them or not.

The convulsions continued long after they pulled the Soldier's body from the chair. His muscles quivered with leftover electricity as they dragged him down the hall and threw him into a cell, where he would remain until the seizures ended. He was useless to them until they did. The concrete floor was cold and unforgiving as he thrashed, but he couldn't stop it. He succumbed to the torsion and torque, the seismic disturbances that felt like they would pull his body apart before his muscles and memory finally reset.

He'd wake up slowly, covered in bruises and contusions, smelling of singed hair and burnt flesh and piss. He was tame then, docile, weak physically and mentally. Perfectly malleable. Ready to be calibrated, automated, reprogrammed into the Fist of Hydra.

Bucky flinched at the grating noise— she pushed her chair back and hurried to her feet, the chair legs scraping loudly across the ground. She stood behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders— warm and cold, skin and metal, both engulfed and surrounded by her tenderness. His hands rose to grip her forearms as she hugged him; she was crying, he realized. It had been awful for him to revisit the memories, but it was awful for her to listen to them, too— she hadn't fully known. She buried her face in the crook of his neck to hide her tears, but he didn't have that same luxury; he had to lift a hand to wipe the moisture from his own cheek and hope that no one noticed.

Guilt pooled heavy in Bucky's gut— she was upset because of him. He could have, should have spared her from those grisly details. All he was doing by telling his story was spreading his pain around, making more people suffer.

He had to choke back another swell of emotion before he could speak.

"I didn't have a choice," he finally croaked. "I couldn't stop them."

"I know, Bucky." She said, and when he turned to Uxolo, she was giving him that look— that Sarah Rogers look he knew from so long ago that melted him to his core. Like he was good. Like he was loved. Like he was going to be taken care of.

****

Back at home, Bucky couldn't seem to settle down. There was an ache in him, like a rotten tooth, and he wanted nothing more than to find some pliers and start pulling— to yank and twist and pick out all the putrid pieces of his brain, his soul. It was irrational, he knew; he tried to take deep breaths, to get his thoughts under control. But there was still that voltaic static crackling through his brain, under his skin; no matter what he did, peace still sat just out of reach.

So, he paced.

Uxolo watched him quietly at first, her gaze caustic on his skin. It dissected him, deconstructed him down to his wires and bolts, his tin-man defenses. She clocked his reeling thoughts, that inner turbulence that was seeping out of his pores as a clammy sweat even as he tried to smile at her. She wasn't convinced. She knew, she always knew. It made him feel exposed and raw and combustible, being known like that. He hated it. He loved it.

After another lap around the apartment, she stepped up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist to stop him.

Bucky sighed. Her touch worked like a tranquilizer in his bloodstream, sedating him as she pushed in against his shoulder. She spoke into the seam of him, the fault line between man and machine.

"Bucky."

He knew. He knew. His voice sounded faraway when he spoke. "Can we lay down?"

They climbed into bed together and laid skin against skin. Bucky had stripped down to his boxers as soon as they reached the bedroom, but if she was surprised by his choice, she didn't show it; she followed suit and climbed under the blankets, wrapping herself around him.

Of course Bucky wasn't going to sleep. He wasn't even going to try. But the soft bed was a far cry from the concrete he kept feeling against his bones. His pillow was worlds apart from that metal halo around his skull.

Her touch was a different kind of voltage pulsing through his skin. She shifted against him, and he turned his head on the pillow to look at her. Her bright eyes searched his, and the wrinkles in her brow softened when she saw the tension in him had eased as well.

"I am sorry for bringing you pain," she whispered.

"I know," he whispered back, but his voice cracked. Her eyebrows furrowed again, her concern evident on her face, and he pressed a kiss between them to smooth the lines he had caused.

She sighed at that, a sound of relief, and stroked the backs of her fingers down his stubbled cheek. "But I am not sorry for allowing you to push yourself though it."

He nodded. She leaned in to kiss him.

Bucky almost gasped at the current that jumped through him when their lips met, jolting his muscles and erasing his thoughts. That distorted white noise that filled his brain left him blissfully blank. His hand flew to her hip, gripped her flesh roughly over the elastic band there. He murmured against her, "I know."

"I'm right here, okay," she murmured, still caressing his jaw. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, fingertips kissing away any thoughts of sorrow and misery with every swipe of his hair. "Not going anywhere."