Stasis || Bucky Barnes (1)

Six

Basil heard the clanging of the steel doors as they bounced off of the walls behind. He stumbled as he was marched forcefully into a dingy lit cold stone room. It was on the ground level and was made out of concrete. Basil could feel the cold of the air pricking on his face. He had been allowed to keep his jacket and shirt but the hydra soldiers had searched every pocket. His bag had been left in the forest along with any weaponry and his coat. Only his little paperback remained. The outline of it pressed against his chest through the pocket he had stuffed it in. It was obviously nothing important, which was probably why the soldiers hadn't bothered to take it. The shoved him forwards, arms bent behind his back painfully.

The room, well the dungeon was a better name, was long and full of a small round barred cages. The cages are lined up in two even lines that covered the middle of the floor. A open drain ran between them. They reminded Basil of bird cages. The grimy gloom and cold of concrete felt suffocating enough without the bars. Each round cell had at least a man or two in them. They all shouted as the black soldiers patrolled along them. Their voices raised as Basil was manhandled down the room. Some faces he recognised from the tent back at base camp, most he didn't know. But they were all 107th men. All part of his platoon taken alive as hostages, or something worse.

"Parrish!" Some called, banging on the bars as he passed.

"Medic!" Others who didn't know him, shouted, recognising the threadbare white and red band round his jacket sleeve.

One of the men handling him shouted something and shoved him forwards. Basil stumbled, tripping over his own feet. He fell hard onto the stone floor. Shoulder first then his cheek. He barely had time to gasp in sudden pain at the impact before hands were pulling him up again. The prisoners were still yelling, outraged at Basil's fall. They quietened down as the hydra soldiers turned their guns at them. A guard unlocked a cage door and Basil was shoved inside. He shook slightly, steps still unsteady as the iron bars shut loudly behind him.

Hands caught him by the shoulders, helping him regain his balance. "God Parrish", Bucky grunted, peering at him. "You look like shit". Basil sighed in relief at a familiar face. The sudden feeling catching him by surprise. He didn't normally become attached so easily, he must be more terrified than he realised. The fear and anxiety eating at his gut.

Bucky was filthy and covered in mud. He was only in his undershirt but appeared unharmed, other than some darkening bruises on his jaw and cheek. His dog tags hung in loosely over the neckline. Tin a dim sheen. Basil grinned at him, lips and teeth still bloody. He was glad that Bucky was taller than him, not that he would ever admit it to his face. It meant that he could lean on him more. Which he did. He draped a arm round the other man's shoulder and let himself collapse into Bucky's form. "Aww Sarge, Miss me?" He drawled, eyes wide.

Bucky's responding grin was thin on pale skin and weakened from the battle. But there was still a teasing glint to his blue eyes. The colour bright and defiant. "Not on your life Parrish. I can't believe that I'm stuck in a cell with a little shit like you. Out of all the people they could have put me with, it had to be the Brit". Basil laughed as Bucky helped him sit down. He leant on the metal behind him, shivering at the cold. Everything ached. He pulled his knees up to his chest and huddled in. Around them, the murmurs of the men in the other cells fell into buzzing background noise. Basil couldn't concentrate on any of that.

"You okay Parrish?" Bucky's voice was concerned.

"M'fine", Basil slurred. "Have a concussion I think. It's hard to think with a concussion. Bruises. Lots of bruises. And shitty luck". He laughed again. Something about this was funny, or so goddamn depressing that he could only laugh. They were being held captive by mad rule the world Germans named after a Greek monster, for what? Obviously something horrible. He leaned his head back on the metal and closed his eyes.

"I bit the inside of my cheek", he realised, poking the area with his tongue. It stung and he winced. That explained the blood taste. "Glad you're here Sarge. Well, not really. Would prefer it if you were out there but I'm glad I'm in a cell with you. Fuck my ribs hurt". He pressed a hand to his chest and sucked in a breath. Bruised ribs definitely there. He had to be somewhat glad that they didn't feel fractured or cracked.

"Shut up", Bucky grumbled as he lowered himself to sit on the stone at Basil's side. "You're strangely talkative with a concussion Parrish". He grunted as tried to get as comfortable as he could. Neither the metal or the stone was very forgiving. His thigh and shoulder was pressed to Basil's side. The warmth comforting.

"Only in days ending with y. Extra durning shitty situations".

"Are you often this sarcastic?" Bucky snorted. "Or is it just a trait of all brits?"

"Definitely a national trait", Basil giggled. His head was fuzzy, ears pounding. "But, but I always had an extra large dose". He yawned and rested his head on Bucky's shoulder. The man didn't move, only continuing to watch the black clothed guards.

"You shouldn't sleep with a concussion", Bucky stated.

"Spoilsport", Basil groaned. He didn't move his head from Bucky's shoulder, or open his eyes. He could think clearer in the darkness. "Why do you think that we're still alive?" Basil voiced softly.

"I don't know", Bucky's voice was quiet.

"Tell me about your friend Steve, Bucky", Basil requested, yawning again. He half expected Bucky to ignore his request and tell him to shut up. Or shove him away and ignore him. Instead Bucky began talking in a low voice about a childhood memory of racing round the streets in Brooklyn. It was a nice story. Too nostalgic and hopeful for the current situation.

Basil fell asleep half way through, head resting on Bucky's shoulder.