Eyes of Fire | Bucky Barnes

55

Ice wrapped around Bucky's spine.

"That's all I have," he lied. He pulled his hand away from hers forcefully. "That's all there is. I don't remember anything else."

He looked around quickly, made sure no one was aware of his impending breakdown. Bucky had appreciated her attempt to delve into this more traumatic events away from her home, away from the one place that let him feel whole and human, but right now he would give anything to surround himself in the comfort it brought him.

"Why don't you remember?" Uxolo phrased her question innocently enough, but Bucky sucked in a harsh breath. Shocked by the frost that hit his lungs, he gasped again and tried not to cough.

She wasn't interrogating him, he reminded himself. She was helping him. Her questions were worded to guide him along as he told his story, pointing him in the right direction. Not to accuse him. Not to corner him. But Bucky's heart was still pounding like he had been running for miles, and he swallowed roughly around the lump in his throat. He glanced toward her as his jaw clenched, then lowered his eyes.

"I don't remember anything else," he repeated through gritted teeth. But that wasn't true.

Bucky's thoughts whipped through his head, moving so quickly that he could only catch glimpses here and there— but each glimpse sent him reeling backward. He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to remember any of that. It was pointless, anyways. Remembering these details wouldn't help him— if anything, it would make things worse. It would give them new reasons to persecute him, more proof that he deserved to be punished.

He refused to unravel that thread, and tried to pull away from those memories— but he couldn't. The thoughts hurtled by whether he wanted to see them or not, spinning round and round through his brain, behind his eyes, and his only solution was to keep stepping back, further and further away.

He remained seated, but backed away from his own mind until it felt like he was looking at the table from afar; he saw himself sitting there in that plastic chair, his legs bouncing nervously under the table. He watched Uxolo shift in her seat, turning toward him with worry on her face. He saw the way his shoulders trembled, metal and flesh alike, while he tried to suck in shallow, rattling breaths.

Bucky was silent for a long while, just watching the scene. She tried to give him space, let him come back on his own terms, but eventually she relented to her own anxiety; she reached out to touch his left forearm. Instantly, he was warped back into his body, because no— he flinched away from her like her touch had stung. When his breathing finally slowed and he managed to look down at her, her eyes were glistening with tears.

"Yes, you do," Uxolo said quietly. Bucky stared at her; he couldn't remember what they had been talking about. "You remember more than that," she insisted.

She lifted her hand again, and Bucky shook his head, leaned away— he didn't want her to touch him, couldn't let her touch him.

But she wasn't reaching for him. She raised a steady hand to her own temple, and Bucky's breath caught. She dragged her fingers across her forehead, then under her eye along her orbital bone, before they jumped across to rest on her opposite cheekbone.

Bucky's blood ran cold. How did she know about that?

Her guilt was plain on her face; she never intended to mention this. She never wanted to put him in this position. But stronger than her guilt was her determination, and she answered his unasked question, apologetic but firm.

"You talk about it in your sleep sometimes. The chair."

Fear rose in him, sudden and sharp, changing to poison in his bloodstream. "I don't see why it matters." His voice came out low, but it rumbled like quiet thunder, warning of danger on the horizon.

How dare she bring this up. How dare she know about this. He didn't even know about it, not consciously, until just now. He couldn't decide if he was more furious because she betrayed him, or because she was keeping his own secrets from him.

Despite the anger in his eyes, Uxolo didn't back down. She stared right back at him, but not in a challenge; she was impassible, a shelter in the storm. "I want you to tell me about it, Bucky. I want to help you."

Bucky sighed and relaxed his gaze. He knew that. He knew it. God, it was hot. He tugged the collar of his shirt away from his neck and shivered.

Uxolo didn't know what she was getting herself into by bringing up the chair. Sure, maybe he dreamed about it sometimes. And maybe she heard him talk about it; maybe she heard him beg. But Uxolo didn't know. She didn't know how bad it was. If she did, she wouldn't have made him remember. He risked another glance toward her; she was watching him intently through the tears in her eyes.

Her hand crept toward him again, and this time he allowed it to fall on his forearm. He closed his eyes.

"When my arm was... healed enough," he said haltingly, "they started training me. And I would resist, because it— it was awful, what they wanted me to do." The memories swirled around him, slipping from his grip as he reached for them, leaking out like water from his cupped hands.

He wrung his hands, tugging at them, attempting to ward off the rising hysteria that had tightened around his chest. It was of no use; that crackling current kept building and building, until it became a dull roar inside his skull. He felt weak. Leaning forward, he covered his face with his hands, resting his elbows on the table to support himself.

After a long moment of silence, he shuddered out a sigh. "They had this... machine." He moved his right hand to rub along his hairline, then under his eye. "If I was too defiant, or if I started remembering too much."

He could almost feel it, the damp metal pressing into his skin, and he had to take another slow, deep breath to settle his racing heart.

"I don't know exactly what it was," he mumbled. He hadn't remembered it at all until he saw the photos in his file— the ones Steve had tried so desperately to keep him from seeing. But it all made sense when he did. "Electricity, obviously."

He could remember the pain, the white-hot jolts that burnt his skin and scrambled his brain, sealing off all the memories and thoughts that Hydra didn't want him to access.

He was buzzing. The vibrations rumbled deep in his chest, flitted across the surface of his skin like heat lightning. He felt it in his bones, the ghost of that ceaseless electric current— and he wasn't even in the fucking chair yet.

But the Soldier knew what was coming. His body knew. He couldn't remember why he was filled with dread at the sight of those big double doors, but his breath caught as soon as he stepped over the threshold and saw the chair. His arm knew, too, in whatever way those faulty neural pathways worked— it whirred nervously as the silver plates shifted.

Even his memories from earlier that day were foggy. He must have misbehaved, he decided. Resisted. Otherwise he wouldn't be here, in the chair, while handlers tightened restraints around his limbs. It was for the best, probably. He was malfunctioning. He needed maintenance.