Chapter Text
The body has seen better days, and that was putting it lightly.
That wasn’t to say it didn’t work, because it did, everything shifted and moved as it was supposed to, on paper it could be marked fully operational. This however left out integral parts. Machinery could still run even if not properly oiled or lubed, only that it would grind and creak, wearing down faster over the years.
The body worked, but it protested each step. Muscle and ligaments put in extra effort, mitigating the pulling weight of forty pounds of titanium that hung from points of scapula and clavicle. The weighty appendage pulled at abhorrently scarred flesh, only adding to the tension around the connections. Unwanted super soldier serum had its silver linings in that it prevented non stop irritation, or worse, but even that could fail depending on severity of outside force enacted. Scarred skin could tear open, healing over into thicker tissue, longer to heal each time. It looked like a marred mess, the worst scar he sported, as well as the largest.
Some days, even the fabric of a shirt was enough to feel like fiberglass.
There were nerves too. Severed horribly, attached to artificial ones within the casing of the prosthesis to make it function as fluidly as it does. Crudely done, but he’d remain thankful he had a prosthetic to begin with- not many were as lucky. The pain was tolerable, or so he would think. Pain was a never-ending constant, always there, always lingering no matter how good of a day it was. The only measurement was whether it was bad or worse. He’d experienced much, much worse, so he was inclined to say this wasn’t bad at all.
The body was operational, so it wasn’t so bad. He’d been out of commission before, and that was bad on multiple fronts.
A weapon is only allowed so much maintenance before the cost outweighs its worth.
He was sure to always be of use. He didn’t survive this long to be turned into scrap parts for some other monstrosity. If it was him, at least it wasn't anyone else. The others who had signed up for it were left stored away in cryo freeze, which was laughable considering they had actually signed up for this. Of course the world would spite him, the only who didn’t, by somehow making him the best to be shoved forward.
Being present within the skin felt strange, pulled too tight yet hung too loose all the same. Awkward. He didn’t know where he belonged in it, and didn't feel as though it was truly his anymore. The man he could remember was not this. Did not have metal attached to skin in a hack job, did not look so devoid of life, pale skin with red rimmed eyes. No longer was the soft skin of a lively young man, nor full cheeks and fresh shaven face. Not polished. He was roughened, stubble and scars, with stormy eyes. Hair that was once short and well-kept was now long and wild, greasy from lack of care, and was another annoying reminder that he actually existed within this prison of flesh.
Muscles never relaxed, tensed for one reason or another, tangled in hardened knots that physical therapy could only do so much for. The body had to compensate for the weight of the arm, of their arm, the quite literal fist of HYDRA itself. It was heavy, physically and emotionally, tugging at the meat of him to enforce the rule to bend to their whim. The body had to compensate, always forced more to the right to help carry it, tension held in each muscle group connected to the shoulder to keep metal from pulling at bone.
Agonizing, but he wasn’t allowed to say as much. No. He was in current company, encouraged to do so in fact, but pleasantries would not so easily erase years of training.
The body was working and it could handle the ache. It always has, and it always would. There were just some things that were innate.
The brain hurts, too. There was only so many shocks, brainwashing, programming, and conditioning the meat could take before it would begin to fail. Failing, yet still writhing within constraints in an attempt to flee. It had hurt worse back then, electroconvulsive therapy weaponized, utilized while he had been fully conscious and feeling enough to taste ozone in the back of his throat.
Now? The effects were lasting, however duller. The headaches ran rampant, the fog was hard to see past, and the scalp was sensitive like sunburn to the touch. That made maintaining hair rather difficult.
The hippocampus had been physically damaged from the decades of abuse, as well as the frontal lobe, kneecapping his ability to link memories together. It further strained his ability to hold on to new memories, as well as bottle necking his ability to process emotion. Pathways were severed, free hanging like a bowl of spaghetti, crossed like wires with no certainty of where they plugged in. A downright mess. Maybe the serum could heal that, too.
It was easy to take advantage of, to make him so suggestible with a loss of self. He hadn’t been human anymore, merely a weapon with a pulse, and they’d do everything in their power to ensure it stayed that way. Not only did they contain the body and brain with an invisible leash, using it as an electric fence to keep him from straying far, but they also weren’t afraid of using their asset to further their experimentation if it meant yielding results. It wasn’t a risk of expending him. They intimately knew what his limits were.
Being stubborn as a mule to the very core was what kept him going, or so he could assume as his psyche rebelled. Flashes of a past life would always filter in, slipping past the conditioning as if to personally spite it for not being airtight. It was never any less confusing when he’d bring it to his handlers attention, the way they’d flash with anger and frustration before hauling him back off to be thrown in the chair or frozen over.
He would always remember the punishment, but never what he did to deserve it.
The body always remembered, though. It always braced for it. No longer did it have to, the flesh was healing, the brain miraculously too. These were good things. The physical was always the easiest, healing factor and modern medicine; not to mention actual geniuses that somehow had their hands buried in superhuman bodies inside and out. He’d been placed in good hands, even if said hands were weary.
It was reasonable, though. He was but a tool with a pulse. He’d heal, traces would be smoothed out, and maybe being fully operational wouldn’t feel as much of a lie.
Steve unarguably made it easier to do just that.
The one thing that finally broke through to him, lifted the veil, was the picture perfect image of America incarnate. An image he hadn't cared much for in former years yet was understanding more in the current.
Without the stars and stripes get-up, Steve was still a hero. It wasn't Captain America who clasped a stable hand on shaking shoulders, it wasn't him who tried and failed to make breakfast when Bucky would have a particularly rough night with himself, it wasn't him who sat picking up shattered porcelain with unwavering certainty despite it not being his mess to clean.
It was Steve Rogers who did that day in and day out. It was never overbearing nor suffocating, always handled with the same ease that they'd handle most things between them. Teasing, or downright compassion that left no room for fear of being oneself. Even fresh off the press, Steve trusted him, and it was that unbreakable connection that ultimately led to the screws in Bucky’s brain being gradually knocked into place.