garbage all the way down (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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hydratrashmeme2018-05-26 03:51 pm
trashmod) wrote in hydratrashmeme2018-05-26 03:51 pm
Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire
Welcome to the latest, greatest, scummiest iteration of hydratrashmeme. Come on in and please check your sense of shame at the door.
Rules in brief: Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because this is emphatically not a safe space. Link your fills on the fill post. Unprompted fills: make a prompt or a header comment and reply to it with the full text. Continuations of fills from earlier rounds: just make sure you link in both places.
What's on-topic: Filthy and perverted twists on all the quality whump served up by Cap: Winter Soldier. Noncon, aftermath, uncomfortably sexualized violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves.
What's off-topic: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, shippy/romanticized noncon, MCU heroes repurposed into OOC or edgydark delivery vehicles for your fave's suffering. If you've got a prompt for one of those burning a hole in your brain, head on over tomcu_trash.
[Rules in full] [Round 1] [Round 2] [Round 3] [Round 4] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive] [Round 5 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]
hydratrashmeme. Come on in and please check your sense of shame at the door.Rules in brief: Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because this is emphatically not a safe space. Link your fills on the fill post. Unprompted fills: make a prompt or a header comment and reply to it with the full text. Continuations of fills from earlier rounds: just make sure you link in both places.
What's on-topic: Filthy and perverted twists on all the quality whump served up by Cap: Winter Soldier. Noncon, aftermath, uncomfortably sexualized violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves.
What's off-topic: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, shippy/romanticized noncon, MCU heroes repurposed into OOC or edgydark delivery vehicles for your fave's suffering. If you've got a prompt for one of those burning a hole in your brain, head on over to
mcu_trash.[Rules in full] [Round 1] [Round 2] [Round 3] [Round 4] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive] [Round 5 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]
Re: FILL - Contact - Part Four
(Anonymous) 2018-07-13 03:15 am (UTC)(link)Strapped to a table and presumably immobilized by whatever was in the IV attached to his right arm, a fully conscious Bucky screamed as a surgeon made an incision across his abdomen.
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Strapped to a table and presumably immobilized by whatever was in the IV attached to his right arm, a fully conscious Bucky screamed as a surgeon made an incision across his abdomen.
<<Commencing vivisection. Dr. Kozlov has requested no anaesthetics, just immobilization, for research purposes…>>
Steve doubled over and struck the television.
*
*
*
Bucky’s barricaded himself in his bathroom, which is just as well because it gives Steve time to wrap his wrist enough to keep it somewhat in place.
“Buck?” Steve stands outside Bucky’s bathroom. “Can we talk?”
“Fuck off.”
“Can I at least keep you company? Sit outside the door? I’ll shut up.”
“Fine.”
This is what passes for comfort now, sitting with a door, or a wall, or several feet and a coffee table between them. Fuck Hydra for everything they did to him.
*
*
*
The seventh and eighth and ninth and tenth cassettes weren’t labelled in English, and they’ve bled together in Steve’s memory. An afternoon spent watching horrors for Steve, decades of living them for Bucky.
Bucky was hosed down in an industrial shower with freezing water, vibrating from the cold as men off-camera laugh.
Bucky, skin so badly sunburnt that it’s raw, peeling and split, lips dry and cracked, was berated by a commander as two officers strip him down; another officer entered with a jar of coarse salt, and Bucky cried as the salt’s scrubbed into his raw skin.
Bucky forced to count as he’s lashed, his back a grid of blood and welts.
Bucky caged in a crate meant for a dog, kneeling on all fours, crouched low. A man in tactical boots taunted him. <<Act like a dog, we’ll treat you like a dog.>> The man rolled the cage to one side, tipping it so that Bucky tumbles, unable to keep his balance.
*
*
*
Four hours later, and they’re still separated by the bathroom door.
Four hours Steve spent reliving those God damn tapes.
Four hours Steve spent wondering what the hell Bucky was thinking in the room next to him.
Four hours Steve spent rehearsing what he’d say, how he’d plead, when Bucky inevitably tried to leave.
It’s Bucky who breaks the silence as four hours turn to five. “Were the tapes from when I was with the Soviets? Or the Americans?”
“Soviets.” Steve clears his throat, “Late ‘70s to ‘91, as far as I can tell.”
Steve hears a shuffle from the other side of the door, Bucky readjusting for the first time since retreating to the bathroom. And then, “I’m sorry you saw them. At least it wasn’t the Americans; they were worse. I wouldn’t want you to see what they did.”
Mother of God. What the hell could be worse than what he’d already watched? Steve searches for words and finally manages, “You have nothing to apologize for, Buck. I’m the one who’s sorry. They weren’t mine to watch. I had no right.”
“Now you know why I’m so fucked up. And hey, I don’t have to feel shitty about keeping you in the dark, so bonus.” A hollow laugh; he sounds so incredibly tired, Steve thinks.
“You’re not fucked up.”
“Liar. I’m fucked up and you’re here doing your Captain-America-patriotic-best to fix your sick war pal.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Fix your old fuck buddy then?”
“Buck, you know we were -”
“What were we?”
“- more than that.”
“At least you know why I won’t let you fuck me now.”
They relapse into silence.
Another shuffle from from the other side of the door, a deep inhale, then, “Did you watch that time with the attack dogs? I remember they had a camera.”
“Bucky, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“The truth would be nice.”
“Yes, I watched the first ten minutes.” The runtime had been over an hour. Bucky, left arm removed, fought off several vicious dogs in a pen, while drunken Hydra officers laughed and placed bets. Steve had turned it off after Bucky was bitten so badly on the calf that muscle showed through.
“That’s good you didn’t see the ending.”
“Buck -”
“And the times with the other Winter Soldiers? You see any of those?”
“No.”
“Are you lying?”
“No. I didn’t see any with them.”
“Good.”
“Buck -”
“Don’t.”
“None of it was your fault.”
“I know, but I still let it happen.”
“No, Buck -”
“Why didn’t you just tell me you found the tapes?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Good try.”
*
*
*
Steve didn’t count the rest of the cassettes. He watched bits and pieces in some sort of guilt-ridden frenzy to satisfy his need to know just why Bucky’s like this, how badly he failed him by letting him slip through his fingers into Hydra’s grasp, how much he needed to atone for.
Bucky, naked in the Siberian snow, shivered uncontrollably as doctors in snowsuits took notes.
Bucky, skin an unnatural grey hue and eyes unfocused, strapped to an operating table as a doctor adjusted his IV. <<...keep him nice and compliant for tonight…>>
Bucky screaming while the soles of his feet are burned in a fire pit. A commander forced his hands in next. <<Fail us again and I’ll burn your pretty face off next time.>>
Bucky swaying in the ECT chair as he’s fed a new drug cocktail. His Russian slipped and he’s blinking stupidly at the doctor, slurring, “Help me.”
*
*
*
A few hours later, still outside the bathroom door, and Steve realizes his wrist must have set wrong; not surprising given the amount of time that had passed since the break. This sort of thing happened occasionally during the war, and Bucky was always the one to readjust Steve’s shoulder or knee or fingers back to their proper place, hands lingering a touch too long for a public display, a promise of something later in private.
Steve wraps his wrist tighter with the same bandage, and puts the pain from his mind, leaning back against the bathroom door. “You want something to eat?” It’s the second time Steve’s asked.
“No.”
“Do you want anything else?”
No answer, but Steve hears Bucky get up from the floor, feels the weight of the door shift as Bucky’s no longer pressed against it.
Steve stands hurriedly and clears the doorway, stepping back to give Bucky the space he needs. When Bucky emerges and walks past Steve to his bedroom, his face is wet and the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced.
“Buck -”
“I can’t. I’m going to bed.”
The exhaustion hits Steve with the thud of Bucky’s door closing. He hadn’t realized how tired he was, how boneless he feels. Steve retreats to his room, lays on the bed, closes his eyes, and listens to Bucky’s breathing, a familiar rhythm.
Hydra took so much from Bucky, Steve thinks as he presses his good hand against the wall that separates them, but here is the true, lasting damage. Hydra stole his ability to be comforted, to have intimacy, to recover from all they put him through.
“I love you. I’m so sorry,” Steve whispers.
“I know. I love you too, Stevie. I’m sorry I let it happen to me. I’m sorry I’m so fucked up. I’m sorry I can’t be who you want.”
“No, it’s not like that -”
“I need to sleep.”
“Buck, don’t think that I -”
“I need to sleep.”
“Please, just let me say -”
“Let me sleep.”
But Bucky doesn’t sleep for hours. It’s after three in the morning when Steve hears changes in his breathing, and well after four when Bucky finally falls into a restless doze. Steve doesn’t bother trying to sleep himself, despite his exhaustion; Bucky’s breathing is uneven, erratic even in sleep, and Steve needs to be alert, just in case the nightmares hit early, just in case Bucky asks for him this time. Instead of sleeping, he lays awake, drafting and redrafting one-handed texts to Tony to convince him to leave the tapes be. He doesn’t send any of them; there’s nothing he can say to Tony to convince him to stop without violating Bucky’s privacy more than he already has. Steve tosses his phone down and decides he’ll figure out what to do about Tony after he’s had some coffee in the morning. He focuses again on Bucky’s breathing.
He wants to remember Bucky as an eight-year-old, all gangly limbs and wild hair, grabbing Steve’s hand and excitedly leading him down the fire escape to play with his new baseball. Instead he remembers Bucky strapped to an inclined chair as a team of doctors pull broken teeth from his mouth, blood dripping garishly down his chin.
He wants to remember Bucky as a thirteen-year-old, pressing a cool cloth against the shiner Steve got from Jack Campbell two floors up, his fingers fluttering against Steve’s orbital bone, face flushed as he says that Jack’s going to get it tomorrow. Instead he remembers Bucky gagged with rope, pleading nonsensically as a hot brand of the Hydra emblem is pushed against his inner thigh to a chorus of <<Hail Hydra>> and searing skin.
He wants to remember Bucky as a sixteen-year-old, drunk off the cheap whisky stolen from his father’s stash, clumsily kissing Steve as he fumbles with the buttons on Steve’s trousers. Instead he remembers Bucky being injected with some experimental drug to make him more submissive. He seized violently on the floor, foaming at the mouth, before regaining consciousness only to hallucinate past tortures, sobbing for mercy in both Russian and English.
He wants to remember Bucky on any given Friday night, dressed up and impossibly charming at that week’s dance or social or movie, the dames trying and failing to be coy with him. Instead he remembers Bucky with both tibias broken, the bones set and healed at odd angles, dragging himself across a gymnasium floor as Hydra agents in lab coats time him.
He wants to remember Bucky later on any given Friday night, not long before midnight, jacket off and once slicked hair now tousled, as he and Steve press desperately against one another in the privacy of Steve’s apartment, Bucky repeating a familiar refrain, “Wish I could take you out, wish I could show you off.” Instead he remembers Bucky slumped against a wall of a filthy cell, shirtless and with deep, unhealed lacerations across his chest. He’s slick with sweat, his face pallid, body shaking with mild tremors. A voice off-camera narrates <<Day twelve of sepsis. Subject is running a fever of 41 degrees Celsius…>>
He wants to remember Bucky in his army-issued briefs, stretching languidly on the his bedroll in a tent pitched in God-knows-where Germany, head against Steve’s shoulder as he traces lines on Steve’s bicep, smiling like the cat that got the cream. Instead he remembers Bucky being led into a room with a trembling elderly man, whose aged eyes widen as a commander tells Bucky <<Make him talk.>>
Steve closes his eyes and longs for morning.
Bucky’s nightmares hit just before six; the depressingly familiar writhing and crying devolves quickly into screaming and hoarse sobs, then panicked pleas for help. Steve presses his palm against the shared wall and whispers, “Buck, it’s a dream. Try and wake up. You’re safe,” But the thrashing worsens, and there’s a loud thump as Bucky presumably falls from the bed. After several cracks and what Steve thinks may be a bedpost breaking, Steve hears glass shattering, and he’s out of his bed, down the short hall, and standing outside Bucky’s door. A deep breath in, and Steve opens the door as quietly as he can.
Bucky’s broken the window. He sits underneath it, shaking, surrounded by jagged shards of glass, a detached bedpost nearby. His eyes are open but blank, dead and unseeing like in so many of the videos Steve shamefully watched.
Night terrors, the doctors had said, no evidence of sleepwalking or severe parasomnia symptoms now, but it’s something you need to watch for. They’d wanted to set up a camera in Bucky’s bedroom so FRIDAY could monitor the situation; Steve had declined in the interest of Bucky’s privacy.
“Bucky, can you wake up?” He’s so close to the broken glass. “Buck, please, it’s Steve. Can you wake up for me?”
Bucky doesn’t hear him. He’s still shaking, his fingers scrambling against the floor, against the glass, droplets of blood trickling onto the carpet from his right hand.
Steve startles forward at the sight of the blood. He needs to move Bucky, but he can’t touch him. He feels helpless, small, incapable in a way he hasn’t felt since before the serum, and as Bucky clutches a piece of glass in his right hand, squeezing it so that blood now streams from his palm, Steve launches himself towards him, knocking the bloody shard away. He recognizes the recklessness of it, but he can’t let Bucky hurt himself.
Bucky’s reaction is immediate. Steve feels the first stab in his right deltoid, the second in his left pectoral. He scrambles to push Bucky away, to retaliate without causing him any real harm, but the third stab punctures his lung, Steve thinks, and the world dims as he gasps desperately for air that seems thin and insufficient. He tries to say something, say anything to wake Bucky, but his voice is weak; there’s no air to support it.
He feels the blood soaking his shirt, and he’s vaguely aware as he surveys the sheer amount of blood draining from his body that there’s more than three shards of glass sticking from his chest and abdomen. Bucky’s stabbed him many more times, but he didn’t feel them. That’s not good.
The carpet is wet with his blood. When did he fall down? The world goes black.