ohnofeelings | Memories of how it used to be painted thick on the walls

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Memories of how it used to be painted thick on the walls

Content Warning: Semi-graphic suicide attempt behind the cut

The file had been sitting there waiting for him when Bucky finished class. Glaring manilla on his navy blue sheets, mocking him with the voice of that crazy conspiracy theorist's words and daring him to take another look. The pictures had been burning at the back of his mind all through Post Civil War American History, made worse by talk of World War II. The longer he sat in class, the more the nagging voice at the back of his mind twisted and burrowed, sinking those ridiculous notions in further.

He told himself it was all in his head. Ideas his mind latched onto and began to twist until he believed them, like ghost stories in a 'haunted' house. Never really all that frightening until the creaking of old timbers and the paranoia of gullible minds was filtered into it.

But then he had actually looked. He had gone and looked at the file against his better judgement when he should have written Steve off for the lunatic he clearly was. Desperate to believe in some ridiculous and psychotic idea. He had even tried to laugh about it at first. Shrug it off and press on through the files. But then he began to remember names and places before he read about them, recognize faces he shouldn't, know details they would never have covered in class. Never could have.

It started slow, a trickling of holes poked into the dam, and then one picture... one stupid picture where the guy who wasn't him wasn't even looking. He nearly had his back turned, half a profile, staring at a map, and the dam broke and hit Bucky with a torrent of memories, too hard and too fast. Nothing holding them back anymore and no way to prepare himself.

He was drowning in the sudden memories of battle plans, hours spent building strategies for taking out hydra. The commandos infiltrating bases. Bucky slipping ahead in dead silence to take out the outlying guards before they stormed the place. Steve and Stark going over equipment for the boys, reverse engineered from Hydra's own personal stash.

And further back still left him shaking with a cold sweat as memories of the dark isolation of the Hydra base crashed over him and the folder dropped to the floor, pictures and articles scattering across the room, his hands going to his head as if he could block the memories out, physically. A shudder ran up his spine and his lip was bleeding from the force of the sudden bite of his teeth sinking into it. Reliving his time as a prisoner there in painfully perfect detail, the memories burned into his mind so deep that it was a wonder he had ever forgotten them once, let alone a second time.

It might have been fine, had it ended there. Bucky could have pulled himself together again enough to try and make sense of this. Maybe try to find Steve when he stopped shaking like a leaf on the wind. But it didn't stop there. The instant replay of his life had no pause or stop buttons. It just kept going regardless of how much it was destroying him. The fall from the train should have been an end to it. There was even a momentary choked sob of relief when he remembered falling to his death. It was just a past life, right? So that would be the end of it and he could move on and pretend it had never happened. Just a bad and emotionally draining war story from class. Not his own life, revisited.

But then the memories shifted to a horror film of blood red in his mind. Life after life snuffed out through a scope or by his very own hands. It wasn't like the war, where he was fighting for a cause and fighting for his life. Two things he believed too strongly in to step aside, even if it meant killing the other guys. War was kill or be killed.

This wasn't war. It was large scale murder under the whims of the Russian KGB. Innocent or guilty, bad person or unfortunate enemy of the Reds, it didn't matter. Get a mission, execute a clean kill and get out. There was little more to it, and when there was more to it than that, Bucky had the opportunity to revisit his evening dinner. It was too much and with no concept of when it would stop and barely able to pull himself back to the reality of the present, Bucky took putting an end to the movie version of his life into his own hands.

He ended up slumped against the bathroom wall, staring at his arms and the growing pool of crimson spreading outward with ripples from the steady drip. It seemed fitting to him, as he stared, unfocused, the memories dying down to sparks of pain and a numbing sensation of cold settling in, that he'd end up like this, the blood on his hands fittingly his own for once. The roar of memories had died down to the back of his mind, equating the gradual eb away of his energy and warmth to each time he had gone back into cryo after a successful mission.

He leaned his head back and listened to the steady drip of blood to the floor, arms limp at his sides and the movie still on autoplay behind closed eyes.

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Steve knew he wasn't crazy. This was all strange, seemingly impossible and off the wall, but he knew there was more to his life than he initially thought. He remembered more than he should, of a time long since gone by. Remembered the sounds and smells of war, things they couldn't have possibly have taught in school. That was why he did his research. Why he was convinced that he was Captain Steve Rogers. His best friend had been Sergeant James Barnes. Bucky.

Long before he was ever Captain America. Before the atrocities of the Winter Soldier were ever committed.

He might not have known how any of this came to pass, how either of them lost their memories. He just knew that psych experiment earned him more than fifty bucks for an hour of his time.

Maybe he should've dropped it, left it alone and written it off as psychological pushing instead of feeding into this growing obsession. But he had to know. Had to know why it always felt like something was missing. Like his life had always been too superficial.

When he stopped by Bucky's place for the second time that day, the intention wasn't to make sure he'd looked at the file. He wanted to apologise, if Bucky was still refusing to look. If he had? They had a lot to talk about. A lot to figure out. As convinced as Steve was that this memories, that this life was real, it was still distant.

He was met with no answer when he knocked, and he almost left. For some reason, there was this nagging urge for him to stay there. So he knocked again. Tested the doorknob. It was unlocked, which meant that Bucky had to be home. People didn't leave their doors unlocked if he wasn't there.

Going against his better judgement, he twisted the knob and stepped inside. "Hey, Bucky. It's Steve. Are you in here?" He looked around for a moment before the smell caught his attention. Blood and bile.

"Bucky." The moment he made it to the bathroom doorway, Steve's phone was out and he was calling for an ambulance. He discarded it after he was told it would arrive within ten minutes. He just had to make sure Bucky held on that long. There was enough blood everywhere for Steve to question probabilities.

Grabbing a nearby towel, he dropped to his knees and wrapped it as tightly as he could around the wound. It wasn't the best material to make it tight, but he did his best. He then shifted Bucky to lean against him while he added pressure with his hand. "It's going to be okay." It had to be.

Slipping in and out of consciousness from the blood loss, Bucky had no real concept of when or where he was. His head lolled weakly back against Steve's shoulder when the other man moved him, a groan leaving his lips, too weak and quiet to be reassuring in any way.

Still, some strange excuse for a crooked smile showed for a moment when he saw it was Steve who had him. It was like the Hydra base all over again as the former super soldier's name left his lips in a surprised, pleased tone.

"Steve." For a few seconds Bucky was happy to see him. Armed with memories of their past together. But too soon the rest of his memories rolled to the surface and that smile faltered and faded, replaced with dread and regret. His voice was thin and raspy, and he reached up with his prosthetic arm to try to grab Steve's.

"'M sorry." He sounded almost desperate. So many things to apologize for and so little time. He had tried to kill Steve. He had succeeded in killing so many people. And worse he had left Steve feeling guilty about his death for who knows how long only to be taking his own life the moment they wound up potentially reunited again. He had memories nearly crystal clear of all of it. This wasn't how regaining memories was supposed to be. Some violent flood striking painfully fast and all at once. That was never how it happened except for in the movies. Yet here he was.

"I'm so sorry, Steve."

Edited 2013-06-29 17:32 (UTC)

This was familiar, but different entirely. Steve remembered the Hydra base. Remembered the determination to get Bucky to safety. He'd been clearly out of it, not all there. Weak. But it wasn't like this at all. He knew once he got Bucky out of there, everything would be okay.

There was no telling with this. He'd seen wounds worse than this, he knew that. Seen men pull through with worse. At this point it was completely dependant on Bucky's determination. If he could hold on until paramedics got here, it would be fine. But if he gave up? There was nothing anyone could do.

"It's okay, Buck. The ambulance will get here soon. You're going to be okay." His grip tightened on the other man. If he lifted his hand from the towel, it'd likely be covered in blood already. "Just hang on. Please." He probably sounded completely desperate, but that was because he was.

If anyone but Steve had been the one to find him, it was likely Bucky would have let the dark and the cold pull him away. He had had an intent with doing this to himself. He had meant to make it all go away when it became too much for him to handle. But then Steve was there and it all seemed so much more selfish to take the easy way out and not face the things he had done.

Could anyone really have expected different from him? Hours ago he had just been a college student struggling to ignore the ski accident that had left him with only one arm. Pretending that it didn't bother him, pretending that it hadn't happened at all.

There was pain where Steve was applying pressure but he was too weak to really care about it, focusing on the warmth of Steve at his back, instead, and trying to keep his eyes open, half-mast though they were.

"I'm sorry." It was the third time now in a row he had just barely managed to coherently mutter the apology. After everything, Steve shouldn't have had to find him like this, but it was too late to take any of the things he had done back. Not this, not his time as a KGB assassin, not even leaving Steve behind to go off to war

He didn't think he was going to be okay. He had known what he was doing when he had cut into his arm. The pool of blood on the floor was a grim reminder of that and he knew by now the towel was stained a deep crimson with it. But he'd try to fight through the painful regrets and gut wrenching memories to find a reason to want to survive.

Right now that reason was the same one it had been in the Hydra base.

He couldn't let Steve down.

"I know." Steve swallowed thickly, doing his best to keep himself together. He had to be the stronger of the two of them. If he continued to act as if this wasn't that bad, maybe Bucky could believe that too with the same confidence. It wouldn't be long until help would get here. He had to keep himself together until then. If he was going to allow himself to break down, it would only be when Bucky couldn't see him.

"I'm sorry too." For more than he ever would say now. Maybe he would later, maybe he wouldn't. He was sure Bucky had to know all the reasons why. Not being able to reach him in time. Bucky losing his arm, becoming the Winter Soldier. Steve blamed himself for all of that. Steve's hands were just as red as Bucky's, even if just indirectly.

But the most direct thing, the most relevant thing right now, was ever bringing any of this up to Bucky. At this point, he'd take it all back if he could. He would've preferred to live with this knowledge alone, these memories, if it meant that Bucky wasn't hurting like this. Having him in the dark was so much better.

Steve fell into silence, listening to Bucky's breathing. Making sure he stayed breathing. This changed when he heard the sirens, heard the paramedics enter Bucky's room. "In here." His voice was hoarse, but Steve didn't notice that.

He only moved away when the men came in to get Bucky on a gurney, only when he had get up and move. Telling the paramedics he was Bucky's brother got him a ride in the ambulance, but with as desperate as he was, they might not've turned him away to begin with.

While Bucky's wound was examined and sutured, the drive spoke into the radio in a code Steve didn't understand en route to the hospital. All the while, Steve kept his hand on Bucky's shoulder. Out of the way, but nonverbally letting Bucky know he was there.

The trip to the hospital was a hectic one, and try as he might to fight it, Bucky lost consciousness halfway there. The paramedics tried to get him to wake back up, but once they made it to the hospital there was a mad rush to the emergency room, and brother or not, Steve was forced to wait in the lobby, forms shoved into his hands and no amount of arguing or pleading would get him back there until Bucky was stabilized.

It was an hour later before they agreed to let Steve into Bucky's room, and it was with grim faces and serious, somber tones that they warned him there were no guarantees he would wake up any time soon, if ever at all. He had lost a lot of blood and his system had gone into hypovolemic shock. He was covered in blankets to keep his body from going into hypothermia as well, hooked up to multiple IVs and machines with his arm wrapped up tight in bloody bandages.

They let Steve stay with him, with few questions as to who he was. It was always better to have an emergency contact around in case his conditioned worsened. Other than a nurse stopping in to check on the machines every couple of hours, Bucky and Steve were left alone in the Intensive Care Unit.

The hour in the waiting room was the longest Steve had in his entire life. It was made worse by the stresses related to the paperwork and questions. He could explain how he found him, what had happened, could verify that last time he'd seen him, Bucky hadn't seen off. He couldn't tell them he had aggravated Bucky into doing this, intentional or not. Just like he couldn't write down Bucky's real birthdate on the forms. Eyebrows would be raised if they noticed the twenty-something in the ICU was born over ninety years ago.

Some of the questions were let slide for now. Triage nurses understood details were hard to come by under intense stress at times. They'd simply promised to stop by later for him to fill out the insurance information.

That was the last thing on his mind, and would be until he knew that Bucky was going to be okay. It didn't matter that there were odds against the other man recovering; Steve knew he was going to pull through one way or another. This was Bucky, after all. He couldn't lose him again, not after he'd just barely gotten him back.

For the first several hours he was allowed in the room, Steve simply sat by Bucky's side, not saying anything. He didn't do anything at all except for glancing between the machines and Bucky. If he didn't know any better, he'd just assume he was just sleeping. That illusion lasted for a split second, until the beeping of the machines offered an unneeded reminder.

As it became later and later at night and all that was left for Steve to do was wait, he found himself resisting sleep. He couldn't; he had to be alert, in case there was a change. In case Bucky woke up.

In the end, fatigue caught up with him completely and he fell into a light sleep, resting his head on his arms, which he had folded on the mattress near Bucky's prosthetic arm. It was a light enough rest that the slightest disruption would wake him. Either way, he wasn't leaving Bucky's side.

When Bucky woke, the sun was starting to rise outside, not that he could see it. There were no windows in this section of the ICU. But it didn't matter because the first thing he noticed in his groggy, waking state, still heavily sedated and exhausted, was Steve laying next to him.

His sleep had been too deep for dreams, which, given the state of his mind was probably a good thing. But it left his head heavy and his mind foggy, struggling to piece everything together.

He couldn't find words to speak, yet, so he just shifted his prosthetic arm a bit to see how deeply the other man was sleeping.

The small movement was enough to rouse Steve. He glanced to the clock on the wall briefly then looked to Bucky. He was still exhausted and obviously hadn't slept well, but he was smiling regardless. Seeing Bucky awake was the best thing. He knew he'd pull through.

"Hey. How're you feeling?"

Bucky slowly lifted his prosthetic hand to his head, rubbing at his forehead with a low groan and lifting the blanket to stare at the medical nodes attached all over his chest before his eyes drifted to the machines giving a slow steady stream of beeps.

"Like I jumped out of a moving truck."

He almost said train but a mental grimace had kept the word from escaping his lips.

"How long have you been sitting there."

He couldn't really remember how he ended up here. He knew why, but the memories of Steve finding him were still slow to reach the surface again.

"That'll pass."

It might take a lot of rest, but Steve didn't doubt Bucky would make a full recovery. Waking up was the one big step. Everything else would come easily in comparison.

He intended to be there to see Bucky through all of it.

"Nine or ten hours." He straightened some, trying to ignore the stiffness of his muscles. "It took about an hour for them to let me back here. Otherwise I would've."

Sitting up, slowly, Bucky rubbed his face carefully with his bandanged hand. His entire arm wrapped up in linens and ace. Were they going to hold him here for observations? He wasn't sure he could handle staying in this place. It was too bright, too sterile and there were sounds he couldn't quite handle from all directions. It made his head pound and his adrenaline race.

"They gonna let me leave?" He had heard of people being forced to spend time in psych wards until they were no longer a 'danger' to themselves, and he wasn't sure how that was supposed to help. It would just make everything worse. He had just been trying to make it all stop. All the noise. The memories. It had been too much to take.

It still was, but the medicine they had him on had made his head quiet, heavy and thick with mental fog.

"I'm sorry."

He stared down at his prosthetic arm when he said it, feeling like he couldn't say it enough.

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Memories of how it used to be painted thick on the walls

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