Steve and Bucky-the prized assets of HYDRA

Chapter 11 Home at HYDRA

Tony's yellin' again," Steve groaned, shoving his face into the pillow. "Therapy time, Buck. Don't wanna be late."

"Ugh," Bucky mumbled, a sound like a bear waking up from hibernation. He was sprawled across the bed, limbs tangled in the sheets like a shipwreck. Steve nudged him with his shoulder. "C'mon, Buck, get up."

"Nah," Bucky grumbled, not even opening his eyes. "Tell 'em I'm sick."

"You ain't sick," Steve said, rolling his eyes. "You're just being a pain in the rear."

"So?" Bucky mumbled, still refusing to move.

Steve sighed, then a mischievous grin spread across his face. He grabbed the nearest pillow and whacked Bucky upside the head. "Get up, ya lazy bum! It's just talkin', then you can go back to sleepin' for a week."

"Why don't you go talk to 'em?" Bucky grumbled, finally cracking an eye open. "If it's so easy."

"You know why," Steve said, the grin fading. "You gotta tell 'em, Buck. You gotta start... gettin' it out."Bucky looked at him, a flicker of something like fear in his eyes.

 "Fine," Steve  said, grudgingly. "If you go to this therapy session, and actually say somethin' real, then I'll tell the avengers the truth about me." 

"Deal," Bucky said, holding out his hand. They shook on it, a silent agreement passing between them.

"And," Steve  added, a sly grin spreading across his face, "if you tell 'em any half-truths, I'm gonna tell everyone about that time you tried to make pancakes and set the kitchen on fire."

Bucky's eyes widened. "That was one time!" he protested, Steve threw his shirt at him. "Just get dressed, ya big baby."

Bucky shuffled into the stark, sterile room, the familiar dread settling in his stomach like a lead weight. The chair, the restraints, the humming machinery – it was all too reminiscent of places he'd rather forget. He eyed the technicians, their faces impassive, their movements precise and clinical. He knew this wasn't the same HYDRA setup, not really, but the echoes were there, a chilling undercurrent that made his metal arm twitch.

He sat down, stiff and wary, and allowed them to secure the restraints. He hated this part, the feeling of being trapped, vulnerable. He could feel Steve's gaze on him, a silent promise hanging in the air. He knew Steve would hold up his end of the bargain, but that didn't make this any easier.

The machine whirred to life, a low, ominous hum that vibrated through the floor and into his bones. He closed his eyes, bracing himself. He knew this was supposed to help, to unlock the fragments of his past, but all it did was dredge up the nightmares, the screams, the cold, metallic taste of fear. 

The whirring machine settled into a steady hum, a low drone that vibrated through Bucky's bones. He kept his eyes closed, trying to block out the sterile, clinical atmosphere. He could feel the restraints biting into his wrists, a familiar, unwelcome pressure.

Then, a voice, smooth and deceptively gentle, broke the silence. "So, James," it began, a slight, almost imperceptible shift in tone that made Bucky's hackles rise. "How are we feeling today?"

Bucky opened his eyes, his gaze snapping to the figure seated across from him. It was the therapist, or at least, the person he'd assumed was the therapist. But something was off. The posture, the subtle shift in the eyes, the way the light glinted off the rim of their glasses. It wasn't the same person.

"Fine," Bucky rasped, his voice tight. "Just... fine."

The figure smiled, a thin, unsettling expression that didn't reach their eyes. "Fine. Such a... vague term. Are we fine as in 'I'm coping,' or fine as in 'I'm about to tear this room apart?'"