Part II: Real Man, Always Thinking With My Fists

Real Men, Always Thinking With Our Fists

Trapped.

He was trapped.

An electric current went through his left arm to keep it from ripping through his bonds. He was in a box and clamped down to a chair as thoroughly as he ever was with HYDRA. So much for the good guys.

Steve might rescue him again. But he wasn't going to hold his breath. He was aware that Steve saved his life from the man in black – who was royalty of some kind? – and kept the special forces from killing him. And now Steve was a criminal. So it seemed unlikely that he should hope for any other gestures from his once best friend.

He was resigned as they took him away. Steve met his gaze, trying to be reassuring, but he didn't respond. They thought he'd planted a bomb in the UN. It was worse than anything the Winter Soldier had done before. It was enough to make the whole world look for him. And they'd found him. So what would they do with him?

Lock him away, more than likely. It wasn't ideal, but he couldn't say it wasn't for the best. Even if he was innocent of this crime, there were plenty more to choose from if they wanted a reason to put him away. Steve might argue about whether it was what he deserved, but he'd seen all the faces. All the blood and screaming and dying. For seventy years, that was all he knew. So maybe this was the best place for him. Maybe it was the only place he'd be safe from HYDRA.

He was taken down to a subbasement and plugged into the wall of a large room containing only his cell and a table and chair. Not long after, a man came to question him. He wasn't physically imposing, but carried himself with a sense of assurance that seemed a bit out of place. There were any number of reasons for that, though, so he didn't think anything of it.

"Hello, Mr. Barnes. I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you. Do you mind if I sit?" the doctor asked with a slight accent. He paused politely after each sentence, waiting for a reply that did not come.

He was aware that they were watching this – any number of people would be gathered around monitors, listening in to what the Winter Soldier might have to say for himself.

"I'm not here to judge you. I just want to ask you a few questions."

He doubted that.

"Do you know where you are, James? I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."

That was a fast change. Most interrogators didn't resort a line of questioning that sounded like writing the other person off until later in the process. When someone was nonresponsive for a while. It was... suspicious. But what could he do about it?

"My name is Bucky," he answered tiredly. Because he didn't want to make this worse for Steve, if he could avoid it, so he could at least answer. And Steve would... would want to hear that he knew his name.

The other man wrote something down. "Tell me, Bucky. You've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

"I don't want to talk about," he replied, staring intently at his interrogator for the first time.

"Do you feel that, uh, if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop?" He wasn't looking at him, he was looking at a tablet. Its light reflected on his face, reflected a look of victory. "Don't worry. We only have to talk about one."

The power went out suddenly, and red emergency lighting was all that remained. The electricity stopped going through his arm. "What the hell is this?" he asked warily.

"Why don't we discuss your home. Not Romania, certainly not Brooklyn. No, I mean your real home," the doctor continued, pulling off his glasses and pulling out a small red book with a black star. "Longing," he said in Russian.