Chapter Text
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“There’s just this silence, this wound, this senselessness of a wound—some nameless realization that something now is missing.”
--from Dan Beachy-Quick’s “The Fragile Bow: On Imagination and Atrocity.”
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It’s just a scraped knee. But Daddy loves him so much that he kisses it to make it better. His lips come away stained with Bucky’s blood. It would scare him if it wasn't Daddy.
“There. All better. See?”
Like a miracle the scrape is gone. “Thank you,” Bucky whispers. Reverent. Daddy fixes his little boy. He takes care of him no matter what.
“Of course. Can you show Daddy you’re grateful?”
Instinctively, Bucky knows that he is to kiss Daddy and the blood on his lips. It tastes familiar.
—
The asset has broken his kneecaps before.
(It was in England. He fell off St. Patrick’s Cathedral and onto his hands and knees. His wrists broke, too. But it was the knees that really hurt.)
He doesn’t remember how. But the asset remembers them healed before any handlers needed to extract him.
What the asset doesn’t remember is the pain. Perhaps this time amplified by the steel jutting from his left knee. His right knee has already healed, but his left knee cap is kept open by a steel rod that he cannot remove. His team and its doctors tell him it can bleed out. So he endures the bouncing two hour trip in the van. He doesn't know why they're going to the Hilton.
Neither does the team, it seems. They grumble and roughly force him into a trench coat and an elevator and finally a room.
The rod isn’t terribly big; it’s maybe a foot long and an inch in diameter. Only an inch or two protrudes from the middle of his knee. Just below the patella. The rod must have just missed his ACL because he can still walk. Barely.
It doesn’t even have an exit point and it feels like the biggest, most impossible intrusion in the world.
“What happened?” It’s Alexander Pierce and the sound of his voice sets the asset at ease. They're in Pierce's hotel and things will be taken care of. The pain is agonizing, but for some reason it’s worth it. Just to hear Pierce’s voice.
“Shrapnel. They threw grenades.” The commander sounds casual. But on the field he swore and hit the asset’s handler. “Some internal bleeding, too,” the commander adds.
Pierce looks on, face pulled into repulsion at the sight of the asset's knee. “I see. I’ll take him from here." He's been staring at the asset's knee for too long now. The asset doesn't know what that means. "You’re excused.”
The asset is dizzy with pain. The morphine they gave him in the van is wearing off, leaving him more dazed than he was when drugged. It's not pleasant.
When the team has left, Pierce removes the asset’s muzzle and dabs at his face with a warm wet towel. It feels like heaven.
“Look at what a mess you made. Silly boy.” He kisses the asset’s forehead once it’s clean. “Let’s get you into some nice pajamas.”
The asset can’t process what he’s saying. There’s no sense to it. His knee cap is trying to heal around the rod, nerves unwilling to give up. He can feel it trying to stitch itself together. Over and over.
Pierce must notice the asset’s silence because he says, “Of course after a bath.”
Then he bends down on one knee and kisses where the rod tears through the fabric of the asset’s pants and combat knee pads.
The asset hisses in pain and receives a slap across the face for it. The asset cannot fathom what he’s done to deserve it.
“Good little boys are grateful for Daddy’s kisses.”
Little boys. Daddy. The asset doesn’t understand. The mission involved an ambassador and his secretary. No families. “Sir?”
Pierce’s face goes hard, just a flash. Enough to pump adrenaline through one heart beat and nothing more. Then his face goes soft and open again.
“Be a good boy and get undressed while Daddy draws you a bath. Can you do that for me?”
The asset still doesn’t understand, but he nods. The asset has never had a bath before. He has the vague sense he’s not supposed to be here. Pierce is expecting someone else and the asset isn’t it.
But he dutifully strips and folds the clothing. Everything is at least sprayed with blood and his pants are drenched. Pierce didn’t say to remove the shrapnel, so he hobbles into the bathroom. His stomach lurches with each step.
“There’s my boy.”
The bathroom is warmer than the hotel’s living room. The wet heat feels good on the asset's skin. Is the asset meant to ever feel good?
“Look at you. You’re a mess.” Pierce turns off the water. Steam rises from the tub. There’s a rubber toy floating in the water, meant to look like a duck.
The asset really does not understand. But he lets himself be guided into the bath, his ribs and knees screaming. The water turns a pale pink as it lifts away the blood.
“Head under, little boy. We need to wash your hair.”
Pierce lays his hand on the asset’s head and forces him under. The asset exhales slowly and waits to be allowed up. One second, two, three, he’s out of air by six. Instinctive panic sets in, but he knows better than to thrash.
He just waits to be allowed to breathe and when he surfaces he’s little.
Daddy scrubs sweet smelling shampoo into his hair while Bucky touches the protruding nub of the steel rod. The pain feels distant now. A part of him.
Bucky is becoming all metal. Little boys are supposed to be soft.
Angry with himself, Bucky takes hold of the metal and yanks it out. Blood gushes from the wound and the water is now a deeper pink. Then it stops. Something deep inside rips open and knits together.
It hurts like being set on fire and Bucky can’t help but make a sound, which is a manipulation and so bad, but when he looks up to Daddy he doesn’t look angry. He looks proud.
Nothing matters but Daddy's pride. Bucky hands up the rod and gets a kiss on the head for it.
Bucky’s in a comfortable haze now as Daddy cleans off the rest of the blood with a wet cloth, wraps him in a towel, and then into his dinosaur pajamas. He wanted to play with the duck, but that’s okay. He can play later.
Before Daddy zips them up, he asks, “Do you have a boo boo, baby?”
Bucky nods. “Uh huh.” He gestures to his knee. It still hurts and he can still feel it healing. Something tells him it's more than a "boo boo."
Boo. I cry.
Daddy kneels so that he’s at the height of Bucky’s chest. Bucky's been there before for Daddy. Is he going to...
“I’ll kiss it better.” No. He's not going to. Daddy flutters a kiss over Bucky’s knee and Bucky can’t breathe. He’s so happy. “I have a present for you.”
Daddy takes out a box of colorful bandaids. A cartoon man with a star shield is on the box. He looks friendly, but the cartoon scares Bucky. He doesn’t want to upset Daddy so he says nothing.
Daddy kisses and presses a bandaid to the “boo boo,” his touch shooting between Bucky’s ribs.
“Come on, little boy. Let’s go to bed. You can thank me there.”
Bucky nods. He wants to thank Daddy. His stomach churns and his knee is bleeding through his pajamas, but he wants his Daddy. It’s okay if he doesn’t like thanking Daddy that way.
Daddy stands at the foot of the bed—king sized and soft looking—and pets Bucky’s hair. Soft at first, then he presses on his head again. Guiding him down. Bucky’s tummy churns.
“Daddy…can I thank you on the bed?” Bed means he can lie down with his Daddy over his head. Bed means no kneeling.
“No,” Daddy says and it's sharp. His face is turning pink--the way it does when he's about to get mad.
Panic forces Bucky to the ground. First to his good knee and then to his bad one.
Agony. He’s supposed to be unzipping. He’s supposed to be kissing Daddy down there. Thanking his Daddy.
But he can’t. He’s dizzy and his stomach is clenching and he would throw up, but there’s nothing there. He feels empty and scarred inside.
Daddy slaps him and his head knocks against his hips. Bucky blinks, dazed. Then he’s being lifted.
“You’re being ungrateful. Do you want to be ungrateful?”
“No, Daddy,” he whispers. But his eyes are watering. How can three inches of his body hurt so much? “It just…”
“It what?” Daddy is mad. Is so, so mad.
“My knee hurts, Daddy, please…”
But Bucky has been bad and he can’t manipulate his way out of this.
“Forehead on the bed. Bad boys get spankings.”
Bucky is trying so hard not to cry. He doesn't want to make Daddy sad, but this isn’t like the time he scraped his knee. It hurts so much more and he doesn’t know why.
Worst of all, Daddy is mad. Bucky messed up and made Daddy mad and sad when Daddy kissed him better and...
The first blow lands on both cheeks and it isn’t Daddy’s hand. It’s hard and thin and Bucky doesn’t need to look back to know what Daddy is spanking him with. It’s the rod.
“Count. Starting now.”
“One, two,” Bucky’s nose is dripping onto the blanket. He’s the worst little boy in the whole world. He doesn't deserve a Daddy that kisses him better. “Three.”
He gets to fifteen and Daddy stops. His bottom is sore and his tailbone feels tender. But it’s over now.
“Have you learned your lesson?”
“Yes, Daddy.” He's sniffing, but it's just to dry his nose. It isn't crying. It really isn't crying.
“Turn and look at your Daddy when you talk.”
Bucky swivels on his knee. The bad one because he's been bad. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
And Daddy is so good. He softens instantly. Leans down and kisses his forehead. “It’s alright, baby. That’s why I had to punish you. So it could be okay.” Daddy kisses each eyelid. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“That’s a good boy. It’s just an ouchie. It’ll be all better by tomorrow.”
“Because you kissed it all better, Daddy.”
It's the right thing to say and Bucky glows when Daddy smiles.
Daddy rests a hand on top of Bucky’s head. “Can you thank your Daddy for making it all better?”
Bucky nods and goes to unzip Daddy’s zipper with his teeth. The metal tastes familiar.