make_it_hurt | Closed RP with [Punched-Hitler]

Closed RP with [Punched-Hitler]

He woke up slowly. It was an unusual feeling, to wake to nothing more than his body's own sleep cycle, instead of being woken up by harsh hands and pain. He honestly hadn't been expecting to wake up, sure that he was dead, sure that the bullet they had put in his chest should have killed him.

Instead, Bucky Barnes woke up in a hospital bed, oxygen line hooked over his ears, the steady beeping and whirring of machinery all around him. Everything hurt - his broken ankle, the bruises on his legs from beatings, the lash marks over his back. It is nearly torture to breathe, his chest wrapped tightly in bandages. This wasn't the dark, dank cellar he had spent (as close as he could figure ) six or seven months in. He looked around, head tilting from side to side listlessly, looking for family or a nurse or something.

His attention was caught by his left arm - or, rather, what was left of it, which wasn't much.

Days into his capture they'd started cutting off his fingers, one at a time, and sending him to his mother - to the President - in an attempt to get her to give in to their demands.

Then they'd started working their way up his arm, more as punishment than anything, before infection had set in and they had kept cutting back and back and back in an attempt to keep their bargaining chip from dying.

The stump of his left arm was wrapped in neat cotton bandages and Bucky swallowed hard, lifting his other hand to his lips, feeling them quiver against his fingers.

He finally asked, voice trembling, "Mom?"

She had to be here. She had been there for him his entire life growing up, there every time he got sick, even when she was on the election trail. If she couldn't get to him, they would talk over the internet for as long as it took until he fell asleep.

Bucky looked around, digging his ragged nails into his lower lip. "Mom?" He shifted, trying to sit up, and was instantly caught by the mess of wires and tubing around him. He laid back, blinking back tears.

She came almost at a run, heels clacking, the door swinging shut behind her. "Bucky!" She nearly collapsed onto Bucky's bed, grabbing his hand in both of her own. "You're awake, thank god." She reached forward and ran her fingers through his hair and he was suddenly aware that it was long enough to touch his chin.

He smiled up at her, feeling the knot in his chest ease. Bucky sagged back against his pillows and sighed slightly, letting her rub her thumb over the back of his hand. "I missed you, Mom."

"I missed you, too. Here, are you comfortable? Do you need another pillow?" She let go of his hand and started to fuss with his blankets and pillows, adjusting them around him nervously.

"I'm fine. Tired, but fine." He closed his eyes for a long moment then asked, opening them again, "I'm really here, right?"

She nodded. "You're really here, Bucky." She folded her hand over his. "Get some rest, I'll be right here, okay?" She smiled and watched Bucky drift off again, body falling limp. But it wasn't the same sort of boneless as before, the unconsciousness after being brought in, after all the surgeries. It was the unconsciousness of somebody asleep of their own volition.

She looked up once she was sure Bucky was asleep and stood back up, placing his hand on his stomach. President Barnes crossed back over to the door and pulled it open. "I'm sorry, Captain. Maybe you should come in and we can continue our discussion?" She stepped back.

Bucky drifted awake for just a moment, long enough to see his mother across the room talking to somebody that looked vaguely familiar. Before Bucky could place the face, he was asleep again.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Steve winced at the little jerk, figuring maybe he should just stick with Bucky. Maybe Bucky didn't want to be very close friends. He couldn't blame him. Even so, if Bucky wasn't pulling back, the Steve would make no move to let him go, although when Bucky said he wanted a nap, Steve nodded. All that pent-up tension had to be getting to him. And it had to be exhausting.

"Sorry. I'll let you get some rest," he said, finally loosening his grip so Bucky could pull back. "You want me to stay outside?"

They'd secured the room enough, by now, that Steve was okay with taking a seat at the door in the hallway, when Bucky wanted some privacy. Besides, now he had Penny. She wasn't exactly a guard dog, but it anything happened, Steve was sure she'd start barking. Or at least making some kind of noise. So it was like having an extra alarm system.

Bucky sat up after a few minutes. He looked at Steve then down at Penny. Then he shook his head, "No, you can stay if you want. Maybe I'll watch some tv..." He pulled off his socks and shoes and moved his laptop out of the way.

He opened it and rested it on the floor next to him, slipping under the covers. He laid down and started up a movie. Penny immediately moved to lay down behind him, resting her head on his side.

Bucky looked up at Steve. "Thanks for taking me to get Penny, Steve. Next time we go out I promise it won't be to get a dog." He managed a small smile.

"Okay." Steve nodded, figuring Bucky could do whatever he wanted to relax; Steve snagged the desk chair, and reached over to where he kept a few things in the room, for times like this - a couple of books, and a sketchbook. He pulled out the latter, figuring maybe he could practice dogs, with a model ready and willing right here.

Steve laughed softly, flipping to a blank page. "That's good to hear. I think one giant dog is enough, you know? But we can go out whenever you want, okay? Wherever you want. We'll work you back up to being okay in public."

Bucky nodded, but didn't find Steve telling him he could go wherever he wanted very comforting. He started playing one of the movies on his laptop - he didn't care what he was watching, he just wanted to watch something, to distract himself from his thoughts.

Still, he finally said, "I'm sorry I flinched when you called me Buck." His voice was quiet, just loud enough to reach Steve. "They used to.... call me that." He pulled his blanket more tight around himself, his hand sliding down to his leg. He could feel his scars through the thick fabric of his sweatpants.

"How much do you know about what they did to me?" He couldn't look at Steve, couldn't look at his face.

Steve worked in silence until Bucky spoke - he'd figured Bucky probably wanted some time alone with his thoughts (or maybe not to think at all), even if he didn't want to be completely alone. He'd finished a sketch or two - rough ones - of the dog when Bucky did finally speak again, making Steve glance up, pencil pausing.

"No, it's - I'm sorry," he said earnestly, quietly. "I wasn't thinking. I won't call you that again." No, especially not if it brought back unpleasant memories. The point was to avoid that.

Though when Bucky asked how much Steve knew, he frowned. He looked back down at the sketchpad, thinking over his answer for a moment. Finally, though, he decided to be honest. That really was the best policy, wasn't it? "I've seen the pictures," he said, quietly. "All of them." Or, at least, most of them. Everything Bucky's mother had shown him. "But you should know, it doesn't change my opinion of you. Of what you're capable of. Or how strong you are."

If anything, it had made that opinion stronger.

"Did you see the videos?" Bucky refused to look at anything other than the far wall of his bedroom. He took in a shaky breath then let it out, tried to focus on his breathing and nothing else. He closed his eyes but immediately opened them again. The rough laughter echoed through his mind as soon as he did, breath hot on the back of his neck, dragging his head around by his hair.

He had never seen the men that had taken him. He had been blindfolded the whole time, isolated in darkness. So he knew their voices, knew who was who by how they breathed against his ear, the feeling of their lips on his neck, their teeth on his throat, claiming him and hurting him. Until he felt like nothing more than an object for them.

Bucky's only consolation had been that, with the blindfold, they at least intended to keep him alive. They would torture and beat him to within an inch of his life, but never kill him. He was too useful as a bargaining tool, a ransom chip for them to kill him, but they didn't want him to be able to identify him.

Edited 2014-06-27 03:02 (UTC)

"No," Steve said quietly. Part of him didn't want to. Part of him felt he should. And a third part of him simply wished, briefly, that he could take the men who'd done this, and crush their skulls with his hands.

Bucky didn't deserve this. And suddenly, Steve wondered if he needed to hear it. "Bucky," he said slowly, "You didn't do anything to deserve this. I hope you know that. But they weren't people. They were animals, and -" His jaw set in a line. "It's not my job to hunt them down. But if I ever meet them... they're going to wish they hadn't met me."

Bucky let out a slow breath. He pulled his hand up to his mouth, digging his nails into his lower lip. "They treated me like I was an animal. I was in darkness for eight months. Never saw them, just.... felt them. Heard them."

He sat up suddenly and turned to Steve. He took in a deep breath then said, "I need to tell you the truth, Steve. I need you to sit there and just listen and not talk." He shoved the blanket off his legs, fingers hesitating on the waistband of his sweatpants.

Bucky took another deep breath. He knew the doctors and his mother knew he'd been... assaulted. Knew that they had probably scraped him dry looking for remnants. Had probably found plenty. He looked up at Steve. "Promise me, Steve. I need to tell you something. Something they... did to me."

He started to shove down his sweatpants, kicking them off, then nervously pulled up the hem of his boxers, exposing the cuts on his thighs. Now that they had healed, it was obvious they were tick marks, like those used to count items.

Bucky looked up at Steve, watching for his reaction. His mouth was dry, his heart feeling like it was about to burst out of his chest.

Honestly, the more he heard about this, the less he liked it. And Steve hadn't liked it in the first place. He knew people were capable of things like this, of using people like they were commodities, and not people. If anything... that was why he had been made. To stop one person who saw himself and a few select others as better than everyone else, who saw everyone else as animals that needed to be put down.

But he'd never come face to face with that person, really, nor anyone who had suffered directly at his hands. he'd been an icicle in the North Atlantic months before the Americans had stumbled upon the camps. But right here, right now, he felt like the very first Army man who'd walked into a camp like that, and saw what had been done to the people there.

"Buck - " For a minute, it was okay that Bucky didn't want him to say anything, because he didn't know what to say. His fingers flexed, clenched into fists - and the pencil he'd been holding snapped, although he didn't notice it. He glanced up at Bucky's face, and he wasn't even sure where to start. I'm sorry couldn't possibly be enough. But Bucky had to see that just knowing what had happened made Steve feel like someone had punched him in the gut - with a knife, and then twisted the blade.

Bucky looked down again, running his thumb over one of the marks. "The... The first time... was on my birthday. Only reason I knew was because they told me. Before that, I didn't know."

"Once every time..." He swallowed hard. "Started out with just one of them. I didn't know they were filming it, until later. Didn't realize what was happening at first, thought it was one of their little games. They liked to make a game out of making me do things. By that time, they were taking my clothes, piece by piece. After that, I was naked."

Bucky looked up, unaware of the tears in his eyes. "It got easier, in time. Only physically. Every time I thought I could get used to what they were doing to me.... it got worse. Raping me became part of their daily games. If I wanted to eat, they made me do things. Before, it was just degrading. Afterwards... it was dehumanizing. I was 'Buck' to them. No-Buck, sometimes. Like I was less than a whore, just some slave, something to stick their dick into."

Bucky shuddered. "I can't even bring myself to count them. I know they did it every time." The marks covered the insides of his thighs, the hatch marks rather small. "You keep telling me this wasn't my fault, but... It's hard for a few nice words to overwrite eight months of torture." He pulled back down the hem of his boxers and lifted his hand to his forehead.

He leaned forward, curling up and pressing his face into Penny's side. He started to cry, the relief of telling Steve almost outweighed by the memories of pain and utter, debilitating fear.

Steve winced a little - but it was because he'd just promised not to call Bucky Buck, and then he'd done it again, not because of what Bucky was saying. Even so, he did Bucky the courtesy of listening to him, like he'd asked, even if it was hard to hear. Very hard. It made him want to get up, to run out of there, and find these animals - because they were the animals, not Bucky - and make them pay. Bring them to justice. Or maybe just kill them.

For a long moment, he sat, not wanting to get up, to move toward Bucky. He was afraid that even that would scare him - he didn't know what touching him would do, even if his first instinct was to put a hand on his shoulder, his back. Even so, after a minute, he couldn't sit there while Bucky cried. He set his sketchbook and broken pencil aside, moving to crouch next to Bucky and Penny, without actually touching him.

"Bucky," he finally said, quietly, "It's not your fault. If I have to tell you that for eight months - or eight years - to make up for it, then I will. Whatever it takes for you to start believing me."

He knew he probably didn't have eight months here, let alone eight years. But that didn't mean they couldn't stay in touch. And it didn't mean he wouldn't keep his word. "Bad things happen to good people. Sometimes horrible things. That doesn't make you a bad person. That makes the people who do them monsters."

Penny looked up at Steve, obviously worried then turned, pushing her nose against Bucky's cheek. He sniffled and sat up a little. He looked up at Steve then asked, voice weak and shaking, "Will you hug me?" He wanted to be touched, wanted human contact that wasn't demanding or painful or anything.

"I-If you want to, I mean, you don't have to..." He couldn't blame Steve if Steve didn't want to touch him after what Bucky had just told him. He was less than worthless, good for nothing at all. Of course Captain America wouldn't stoop so low.

Steve blinked, a little confused by the request - but only for a second. "What? Of course I don't mind." He just hadn't wanted to make Bucky feel uncomfortable, or trapped, or anything like how those people - those monsters - had made him feel. But if he was here, asking for some contact... Steve wanted to give it to him.

He moved, carefully, slowly, just to make sure Bucky wanted this. But if Penny would let him, he'd get in close enough, to put his arms around Bucky, maybe encompassing the dog a little, too. "Bucky, this is about what you want. And what you need. I'm here to give it to you. I'm... I'd like to consider myself your friend."

Edited 2014-06-29 23:42 (UTC)

Bucky almost flung himself into Steve's arms, grabbing him tightly. They hadn't managed to corrupt this, at least. Having his arms around somebody else wasn't bad. He clung to Steve, putting his face into Steve's shoulder.

The tears returned in full force and he started to sob into Steve's shirt - the full-body, heaving sobs of somebody beyond controlling themself. It was hard to breathe and Bucky was choking for breath, but he couldn't help himself.

Penny sat up with a whine, obviously worried. She was already attached to Bucky, already saw him as something she needed to protect. But Steve was somebody who was protecting Bucky as well and they needed to work together.

Steve almost wasn't prepared for the force with which Bucky threw himself at him - not that he couldn't handle it, though, and he stayed steady as a rock as Bucky squeezed him tightly. He didn't mind if he hid his face against his shoulder... hell, he didn't mind if Bucky cried and made a mess of his shirt, except for the fact that Bucky felt like he was only half-crying, and half-panicking. Even Penny the dog looked worried - she sounded it, for sure.

"Bucky," he murmured softly, moving to carefully put one hand on the other's back, palm flat, and without much force so Bucky knew he could get away, if he wanted to. "Bucky, it's okay. You're okay here. You're safe. That's what I'm here for - me and Penny."

Bucky sagged against Steve, not able to tell Steve to squeeze him tightly, hold him so close it hurt. He yanked on the back of Steve's shirt, continuing to sob and panic. He needed to comfort Penny and hold onto Steve and he was reliving it again and he couldn't shake himself out of his memories.

Finally, his body wouldn't let him continue punishing it and he finally fell into breathless gasps, tears still soaking into Steve's shirt. He rocked against Steve, body trembling all over. He turned a little, curling in the circle of Steve's arm. He stared blankly. His hand moved from Steve's back to the inside of his thigh shoving the hem of his boxers up, his sweatpants still abandoned. He palmed bare skin, the tick marks on his thighs both a relief and an unbearable memory. He shuddered and said, "I can't do this, Steve. I can't live like this. I don't want to." He dug his nails into his own thigh, determined to make his own mark on his body. "I want to hurt myself. I want to take what they did to me and.... make it mine."

He wanted to scratch out all the scars, dig them out by their roots, replace with something solely his. Even if it meant bleeding out, dying, he wasn't going to let them do this to him anymore. He could feel pain in his thigh, blood being drawn from the cuts he was making in his own skin.

"Oh, no - " Steve reached out automatically, gripping Bucky's wrist and pulling it away as soon as he started to draw blood. "Bucky, that's not the way to do it." Not that he had a real answer, admittedly, but he was pretty sure that wasn't it.

He couldn't scar - not really, not anymore. His advanced healing generally fixed him up good as new, with no marks to let anyone know how much punishment he'd really taken. But he had a perfect memory, and he remembered where every little mark should be, whether they were there or not. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse, but it at least meant he sort of knew how Bucky felt. Even though his scars - mental scars, really - had all been gotten in battle.

"Bucky, maybe you can't live like this, but hurting yourself isn't going to make it better. It's going to land you somewhere you don't want to be." Like a hospital. Or a mental ward. And how was he supposed to recover in there? "You want to hurt someone, you hurt me," he decided. After all, he'd heal, wouldn't he? There'd be no trace, and no one could say a thing. "But don't hurt yourself."

Bucky jerked when Steve's hand closed around his wrist and fought it. But Steve's superhuman strength won out over his weak body and he let his hand be pulled away. He shook his head and turned into Steve's chest again. "No.... No, I can't hurt you. Steve, please, just let me..." The dull throb of pain in his thigh, though, didn't feel any different than the hundreds of cuts already there. It didn't feel any different than what they had done to him.

There were no more tears left in him. All Bucky could do was push his face into Steve's chest, sobs hiccuping ineffectually out of him. Every breath hurt, his lungs seizing up and making it painful to get any oxygen in at all. He coughed and sagged, shoulders slumping. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, but the stubborn determination that had been his life since the kidnapping kept him from going still and compliant.

Bucky turned his face away from Steve, coughing into the sleeve of his shirt, hand curling into a fist, his wrist still in Steve's grip. He felt himself hack up something wet and was afraid to pull away to see what it was, but he had a feeling it was blood.

Edited 2014-07-03 00:50 (UTC)

Steve wasn't about to let Bucky go back to hurting himself, and so he didn't let that wrist go. It didn't mean he didn't keep Bucky close with his other arm, though, even as he kept sobbing - although he was starting to get worried at the sound of those sobs. And then -

"Bucky - Bucky, hey," Steve said urgently. Bucky might not want to look, but Steve had, and he didn't like what he saw. "Hey, look at me. Come on. Take a deep breath. With me."

This was a panic attack, not an asthma attack. But Steve had had plenty of the latter, and he was hoping that maybe the same strategies would work. Because he needed to get Bucky some help, but he needed Bucky to calm down, first. "It's okay. Come on, you're okay."

Bucky couldn't help but obey, turning his head to look at Steve without looking at the splotch of red on his dark shirt. Breathing hurt, but he knew as well as Steve did that the best thing Bucky could do was breathe. His chest was a clutch of panicked breathlessness and he wasn't sure how much was his chest wound and how much was his looming panic attack.

He looked at Steve with wide eyes, shoulders heaving with every breath.

But as much as breathing deeply hurt, it did help. Bucky kept his eyes on Steve's chest, trying to match their breaths instead of letting himself hyperventilate. Deep breaths hurt, but quick, shallow ones just made his panic worse.

"That's it, buddy. Come on. Eyes on me. We'll do this together." Steve could imagine breathing hurt, for any number of reasons - the top one being that bloodstain on his shirt. But they'd deal with that in a minute. First, they needed to get Bucky calmed down.

He waited until he was sure Bucky was watching him, then took a deep breath, encouraging him to do the same. Hold if for a few seconds, then breathe out. Then again. And again. "You're doing it. Just keep it up. It'll hurt less, okay? Trust me." He wanted to say they'd get him looked at in a second, but he wasn't sure that was a good thing to say. He'd tell Bucky when he called for help, but he was getting ready to, slipping his phone out of his pocket but not dialing yet.

Bucky nodded. His panic was easing, but it still hurt to breathe. He had to break the cycle of breathing to cough some more, and felt more blood come up. That made it start to hurt less, though, and he sagged, pushing his left shoulder into Steve's for support. He said, weakly, "I think I got it all out," and continued to focus on his breathing - watching Steve for the pattern, still not calm enough to hold it on his own or stop completely. "Doesn't hurt as much..."

As Bucky calmed down, Steve's heart stopped pounding quite so hard, although he was still concerned. He nodded, although he was still watching Bucky closely, trying to keep his own breathing slow and steady so Bucky could mimic it. If he stayed calm, it would help Bucky. Slow breaths in, slow breaths out. "Good. That used to work for me," he said, with a small smile.

"I want to call you a doctor. But we're going to wait until you're okay, okay?" Because he didn't want to panic Bucky all over again. But he did want to get him looked at. "I promise, I won't make any calls until you're ready." Or until he passed out, but Steve was hoping that wasn't going to happen.

Bucky swallowed hard around the taste of blood but nodded. "Okay." A doctor. He could handle that, he thought. "Not in here, though. I don't want them coming in here." But this was the only place he felt safe. He wanted to keep other people out of here, but if he was somewhere else, would he have another panic attack?

He cut off that train of thought and continued to focus on his breathing. He finally managed to get his hand free from Steve's hold and wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. His hand came away red and Bucky grimaced at the blood on his skin and also under his nails.

"Okay," Steve agreed, because it was such a simple thing to ask, how could he deny Bucky that? "Not in here. It's a deal. And I'll be right there, how about I throw that one in, too?" Because like hell is he planning on going anywhere, or leaving Bucky alone with anyone, even a doctor, right now.

He sees that grimace, and pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket, offering it over - if Bucky agrees (or at least doesn't look like he's disagreeing) Steve will wipe off his hand for him.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject