living_proof | [For Bucky] Look, he's having a breakdown

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[For Bucky] Look, he's having a breakdown

Wakanda is a blip. Were it less so, I might be more ashamed to admit that I couldn't even remember at first what continent it's on. (What? It could have very easily been a Pacific island, okay?) The really shameful part came later, when it took me a full five minutes to find the place after putting it into Google maps. And sure, maybe that's more a reflection of Google's inadequacies than my own, but I still felt a little bad about it. Like it was Mrs. Foster delivering me this letter straight from sixth grade geography instead of the mailman, sliding it into the mailbox with that look she got like she'd just eaten a whole box of Lemonheads.

...damn, I miss Lemonheads.

But I digress. The place is miniscule, and everything I could find about it was pretty vague. Apparently self-sustaining, no real trade happening. They have a lot of goats. Well, a moderate amount of goats. An appropriate amount of goats for a country that size. Definitely not a bastion of medical science. You can see how I might be skeptical.

I spent almost a week thinking I was being scammed, and I don't think anybody could blame me. The letter came off more than a little like that one Nigerian Prince got sick of the internet and decided to kick it old school, tactile-like. The seal looked legit, though, and that's the only reason the offer escaped the trash. Or at least the main reason, just ahead of my dubiously-piqued curiosity.

But of course, the letter was just an opening salvo. Day six I got a phone call, right to my personal cell — Not the one I use for work, which is the number I give out to patients and their family members. No, they called the one that has Candy Crush and that good picture of my cleavage. Do you know what the caller ID said? "Wakanda." Like the whole country was on the line.

In actuality, it was just one person. A woman. A woman who knew that I was a zombie. And that? That was a teensy bit more concerning than her having my personal number.

Virtually no one knows I'm a zombie. Not even my best friend knows I'm a zombie. But apparently Wakanda knew, out in the middle of Africa with their goats, and by golly gosh did they have a dilly of an offer for me.

I said no. Of course I said no. It was crazy! There are reasons — Very good reasons — why I keep my affliction to myself, and not ending up a test subject is right on top of that list. I had no way to know if the offer was genuine — Maybe I get there, give a little blood, do a few tests, get to notch some interesting medical experience on my belt and it's a grand ol' time. Or maybe I end up in a cell. With the goats.

Except the next day, the woman is there at my door and she's like hey, check out my sweet-ass ride, and her sweet-ass ride is a hoverplane that looks like what Tony Stark thinks about when he's jerking off. Hell, I might think about it next time I jerk off, that's how impressive it was. Is. Because I am in it now, flying to Wankanda after lifting off from the dog park down the street from my apartment.

Yeah, I don't know whose life this is, either.

"There's no name on this," I say as I glance up from the tablet (also sweet-ass) poised across my lap. Seems like a strange omission on medical records this thorough.

"James," I'm told with a backward glance from the pilot's seat.

Biting against my bottom lip, I look down again, flip past a few pages with a sigh. "Alright then, James," I murmur to myself. Better than calling him Hot Mess, probably, even if it's technically accurate.

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It could almost be audible, the click when he corrects his name, because anyone could be named James, anyone in the world, but Bucky isn't one you hear very often, not outside the narration in the Smithsonian or the urgent warnings on the TV. I don't keep up with the news much, not like I probably should with everything that's been going on the last several years, but some things are hard to miss. You know, helicarriers falling into the Potomac. Bombings at the UN.

My gaze bounces from his face, apple pie perfect under the stubble, to the place where his arm used to be.

The breath holds in my lungs as I falter and then finally hold up a finger. "I'm sorry, just—" And I duck out of the room with my heart thudding in my chest like a frightened bird.

It's only once I'm out in the fortifying air of the hall that the discrepancy tugs at me. All that seemingly-pointless research I'd done on Wakanda included that bombing, the death of the king. That isn't something you just forgive, never mind hire a private specialist for.

A tremor in my fingers, I tap through to the psychological profile, only skimmed yesterday, too much of my attention usurped at the time by medical peculiarities and jet lag. The picture is grim but vague, and before I really think about it, I've pushed my way back inside.

"Why are you here? Not here like this room, here like Wakanda."

Ah, okay, yeah, that'll pretty much cement it-- it being his utter lack of a chance to hook up with the hot doctor that'll be poring over his severed arm, like that wouldn't be enough in and of itself. She might be doing her best to hide it, but he can see that look on her face when she recognizes him. He's gotten it a hundred times before, from passers-by on the street to people he'd built a tentative budding relationship with. Roommates in hostels, the lady who bagged his groceries in Poland, a sweet neighbor in Kansas. Inevitably they recognize his face from the Helicarrier incident or, far more recently, the U.N. bombing. He's accustomed to the feeling by now and he doesn't blame her, but he does dip his head in a sort of weary resignation the second she steps out of the room.

He could defend himself. He could explain.

He won't, though, unless she pushes.

Eyes flick up when she ducks back in sooner than expected, though there's still a little tremor in his jaw, a thumping stress-muscle that he can't quite school in certain situations. He thinks that might be a physical lump of guilt pulsing there, but he's no doctor.

"Guess you could say I'm a refugee," he answers, and though it's flat and hard to read it might come across as dry. "Political asylum. Friend of the guy in charge."

With friend being sort of a... loose word, really.

That makes no sense, and I falter again, trying to weave together what little I know about this place, about him, and almost utterly failing. It doesn't escape me, though, that maybe that in itself is telling.

"Refugee," I softly echo, and glance down to the chart again, my finger tapping against its smooth edge. This isn't the first time I've had this feeling, anxiety and curiosity feeding off of one another, and when I glance up again, I know I've got that very particular gleam in my squinted eyes, the one that signals to the people who know me they need to gird their loins.

"Or prisoner?" I ask, watching him carefully. Because I don't know this guy and I in no way think blowing people up is cool, but if this is about getting someone healthy just so they can be torn down again, I'm out.

...or not, now that I consider it. Wakanda's got the world's number one fugitive sitting all sad and hunky in its big shiny tower, and gee, now I know that. Could be just a tiny liability if they let me go.

My eyes fall closed as I huff out a muttered, "Fuck." Guess I'm a Wakandan now. Here's hoping they have a Starbucks.

He can't parse out what it is she's feeling as she asks it at first, as she surveys him. Can't figure out if it's pity or regret or fear, if she's one of those nuts who thinks he did it and wants to marry him for it (he's gotten a few letters). He does shift a little more upright, though, with a furrow in his brow as he studies her.

"Refugee," He repeats slowly like he's doubling down to make it abundantly clear. "I'm not-"

And then he thinks he kind of sees what her fear might be, some kind of doctorly compassion like the field medics get when they work on a fallen prisoner of war. Try to keep them alive just to have them turned around and tortured for information. War was a hell of a time, and he steered very clear of the medical tents after a firefight.

"They're not fixing me before they hang me, if that's what you're worried about." He says skeptically, fingers twitching, dropping to his side to curl around the edge of the examination table. "They're-"

And then he breathes, an exhale because it's such a long story at this point that rehashing it seems like a chore in a way. "They didn't give you- I don't know- some kinda file with the history?"

Seems a little thoughtless. He can at least clarify one little fact:

"It was a frame job, the bombing thing. King T'Challa knows about it, think he feels bad for me taking the wrap so-"

Free medical care.

I want to make clear from the jump that I'm not a sucker. Yes, this whole situation was dubious from the start, and one could probably argue that I could have exercised a degree more caution before plunking myself in the middle of it. They knew I was a zombie; I was thrown. Also, who thinks to ask if their new patient is the frickin' Winter Soldier? Excuse me, Wakandan dignitary with your exceptional manners and magical hover vehicle, will I be working on a one-armed man from World War II? Nobody even considers that.

But the point is, I'm not an idiot. I'm not in my feelings, as the kids like to say, or swooning or scared or just really gullible, despite the face of all this — It only takes me a moment to decide I believe the guy because it's the only thing that makes sense. Seriously, though: Does Steve Rogers suddenly condoning terroristic violence parse for anyone not wearing a tinfoil hat?

"Yeah, they left a few salient bits out." Because they knew I'd balk. Because telling me without a commitment would be a risk. Because it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

"Well, at least I can stop feeling conflicted about my crush on Captain America now," I add, and tug the stethoscope from where it's looped across the back of my neck. It's my own, the one I packed — I'm sure they've got one that can give 50 kinds of readings while whistling 'Yankee Doodle,' but I'll stick to the classics while I'm on this learning curve. Besides, right now I need to keep some kind of forward momentum if I don't want to end up completely stalled, and I can't do that if I'm fumbling over new tech.

"Bucky," I say, and pull in deep breath. "I'm Liv. Hello. You look tired. Did you have breakfast today?"

They left a few salient bits out, she says, and go figure. They'd have to, right, in order to get any sane person here in the first place. First off, you couldn't just advertise to anyone they'd be working on the Winter Soldier - that's how you get a fucking Hydra operative with a red book inside your super secret castle and accidentally everyone's dead. More than that, anyone who didn't want to use him thought he was a homicidal terrorist, good luck getting a willing doctor on that mission. Yeah, he's not so surprised they chose to take this route to get him treatment. It's fair enough, it's smart.

He breathes out a soft chuckle when she mentions her crush on Steve- no, on Cap, which is totally different. It warms him up to her a bit, the bare and blunt honesty of it, the subtle dry humor. He'll definitely take it over the judgment, the fear, the hesitance, the leaving the room and coming back a minute later. Anything to get past that part and into something functional.

Anything to keep her from looking at him like the rest.

Straight into the doctor shpiel, though, and he can't help but feel mildly amused by that.

"Um-" He starts, fighting the age-old instinct to lie to his physician. Probably better to not. "No. Kind of... slipped my mind."

And in the interests of rapport building, he'll go out on a limb here with, "Someone offered me an apple, but I didn't want you to have to reschedule."

"Oh wow, he has a sense of humor to go with the broody, smoldering thing," I say with a snort, and drop the tablet beside him on the bed so that I can notch the stethoscope into my ears. "Let's get that shirt off, and maybe I'll even warm this up ahead of time," I add with a flip of the diaphram end before I press the cold metal against my palm.

"When's the last time you ate?"

"Couple years ago?" He answers, sounding amused with himself even as he says it. Starts to explain as his right hand curves up behind his head to grab his shirt between his shoulder blades. He tugs it up and forward over his head, a hell of a lot easier this way one-handed. "They had me in cryo."

It peels away, and he settles it in a crumpled ball off to the side. The shoulder cap is still there, covering up some (but not all) of the gnarly scare tissue at his shoulder. The stub of it is at least covered in black protective sheeting, but it's still not a fun sight to behold.

"Guess if you don't include that part- maybe lunch yesterday?" Yesterday being... relative, obviously. He doesn't sound so sure of it, though. In his defense, it'd been a hectic time. Lots of getting his arm blown off, a few secret jet rides. Trips to McDonalds tend to fall by the wayside.

First time he's ever been called smoldering though, and he'll keep that firmly lodged in his brain for a while.

I rear back, tugging the stethoscope from my ears. I don't actually think I misheard, but just in case. "No, I know that—" That much had actually been on the chart, the cryo — It was one of the things that had made the case so compelling. "Are you saying you only came out yesterday?"

Anyone else would not be sitting here so soon after. Okay, so most anyone else wouldn't have survived the process at all, and I get the whole super soldier thing, but he looks tired and a little depressed, and that's about it. That kind of turn around time is staggering. Enough that it distracts me from his glorious, god-like chest right there in front of me.

Mostly.

I pop the earpieces back in and step forward, pressing the diaphragm square in the center of that chest, over his heart. The beat is strong, steady, even — Nothing even approaching a stutter or hiccup. After a tick, I drop the bell down and over, pressing just under his left pectoral.

"Breathe in," I pointlessly direct. There's not going to be anything wrong with him, not in that way.

He shrugs a shoulder, and his aborted nod is about as much confirmation as he gives that it's the truth. If he has strong feelings about it, he doesn't display them. Popping in and out of cryo is sort of becoming rote for him, he's had plenty of experience in it. It always leaves him tired for days, a little groggy, a little mentally overloaded and underwhelmed by the world. Probably explains the hunch in his spine right now, or maybe that's just the oppressive weight of being alive for James Barnes.

Chilled stethoscope presses against a pec, he breathes in slowly and fully. She's right, there's not a single hitch or murmur or wheeze to his lungs. His heart rate is perfect and resting. His entire cardiovascular system seems to be picture perfect, and if she draws bloodwork she'll find much the same. Not a singular fleck of high cholesterol or blood sugar or blood pressure, nothing but that trace chemical of something keeping him plugging away long after he should have been done in.

He's content to let her go through the motions, though.

Like I said: Pointless. And sure, I can plug the completely predictable numbers into the chart for the sake of being thorough, but a physical is really not what this man needs. I don't doubt that he's been poked and prodded half his life, and here I am, one more doctor in a never-ending line of them. That's not the role I'm looking to play, here.

"Alright," I begin, mouth tugging down as I step back and loop the stethoscope back across my neck. "I'm not going to look at the arm today, if that's okay. What I want is for you to get some rest and eat. I don't really see any reason to rush. The average human body already does a pretty good job of recovering from trauma when left alone, and obviously you've got a very impressively-muscled leg up in that regard."

I reach for the tablet and tug out the stylus. "You can put your shirt back on. Or not." The corner of my mouth hitches up as I open a new document. "No— You know what? I gotta recommend shirt on, as a physician, because there's too much potential for concussion, all the people that would be swooning in the halls. I really just don't have time for that. Now—" I glance up, stylus poised over the tablet. "I do have a few questions for you before you go. They might seem a little Buzzfeed quiz-y, but bear with me. I want you to answer without really thinking about it, okay? Just whatever comes immediately to mind. You with me?"

He's a little surprised by the brevity of the session. He'd been expecting something exhaustingly thorough, had been bracing himself for removing the arm cap and disassociating as someone tore into the fibrous muscle tissue surrounding it. Had been braced to distance himself from the sensitivity embedded in gnarly ugliness. Instead, what she offers him is a reprieve. Eyebrows creep up of their own accord.

Sleep. Eat. Both things sound god damn amazing, frankly.

Despite his oppressive exhaustion, she earns herself a breathy chuckle. It's incredulous, punctuated by the shaking of his head like he can't believe she's actually going there - not that he's complaining. He's a little too far gone for snappy rapport, though, so no witty retort is forthcoming today.

He shifts to snatch up his shirt, to identify the neck hole and hang it around his shoulders like a necklace before he bothers pushing his right arm through. He's gotten trapped in the confines of a top far too often to make that mistake again.

"Um." He mutters, gently tugging the hemline down, clearly skeptical. He's not a fan of the whole inkblot test thing, they all just end up looking like dicks or frogs or something. He scratches at his eyebrows with his thumbnail, but finally consents with a nod. "Sure."

"Alright," I say with a decisive nod. "And seriously, there aren't any wrong answers. Just the first thing that pops into your head, even if it makes you what-the-fuck a little." And with his history and his current mental state, gray matter probably still coming back online, there's really no telling what's going to pop out of his mouth.

But it's okay; it's a good exercise, and I swear I have a point here somewhere.

And so, stylus poised over the tablet to scribble hasty notes, in quick succession I ask: Favorite food? Favorite color? Dessert? Flower? Scent? Breakfast food? Drink?

What-the-fuck a little has his eyebrow tugging up again, some sort of amused and concerned all at once. Been a while since he's seen a doctor, but he vaguely remembers them being a little stiffer and more professional than this. Not that he's complaining, sort of takes the edge off when she acts like a human being.

Favorite food: "Um-" He blanches because the first thing that comes to mind is just. Nothing. A little shake to his head clears it, and he mutters, "Thai. Or- Pizza. Maybe... spaghetti. I don't know."

Favorite color: "...Blue." Uncertain until he says it, and then positive.

Dessert: "Chocolate. Chocolate anything. All of it." Always had a sweet tooth, practically all of his molars were made of sugar.

Flower: "...I don't... " He doesn't have one, but his mother did. "Calla lily."

Scent: "Bleach," like Steve's apartment in the 30s. His ma was always trying to keep out the next virus that might kill him. Stark contrast to the mildew and blood of the bunkers Hydra ran.

Breakfast food: "Bacon." Obvious answer, it feels like. Can't go wrong with it.

Drink: "Whiskey." And a lot of it, not that it works anymore.

The bleach is the only answer that gives me pause; it seems an odd choice until I take a tick to consider it, my pinched brow smoothing with a considering hum. Like fresh linen and clean floors, homey. I can dig it.

"Pretty sure somebody out there makes bacon-flavored whiskey," I absently reply as I finish my notes and tuck the stylus away. "There were a few years there where people were making bacon-flavored everything, I don't know if you were... on the internet then," I settle on as I glance up, as polite a phrasing as I can make it, I think.

"So," I pick up almost immediately, bulldozing right over any potential awkwardness about brainwashing and murder, "the plan is, relax. You don't have to sleep the whole time, do what you want, just take it easy. I'm on level 26 if you need anything or have questions or just can't resist my animal magnetism. Otherwise I'll check in... let's say two days? Sound good?"

His lips curl in disgust and surprise at the idea; bacon flavored whiskey. You people in the 21st century, Christ, you really do make an abomination out of damn near everything. Some things are sacred, some things don't need to be smashed together like Frankenstein's monster.

He's shaking it off in a hot second, though. Breathing out a laugh as he does, eyes dipping, chin bobbing toward the floor. Relax, yeah, he can probably do that. Even though he's been knocked out for so long, he doesn't psychologically feel like he's had any rest. Blink yourself to sleep, blink yourself awake, it's been maybe a day from his perspective.

But such is the passage of the last seventy years, so at least it isn't a new feeling.

"Think I can do that," He agrees easily enough, flicking his eyes back up. Not even her animal magnetism will drive him up to her floor, but he does at least hop off her exam table. Hmm. She seems a hell of a lot shorter when he's standing.

He is a very large person. I'm not intimidated, I spend an inordinate amount of time around very large people, but it does kind of diminish my brisk-yet-sassy doctor routine to have to suddenly be looking up at him when I speak.

"Good, I'll send you a message or owl or whatever they do here so you know when I'm coming." I squint briefly at my turn of phrase. "To see you," I plow on, a lot less mortified than I probably should be. "So it's not a surprise. And again, if you need anything before then, let me know."

He probably won't. He has that look, like he expects life to shit in his cereal, and I can't really blame him. But I have a little bit of a plan percolating. Just a small one.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go harangue some very serious-looking dignitaries." As you do.

As it turns out, though, there's very little haranguing involved, although I do get a teensy bit of confounded pushback from the people in the laundry room. In the end, though, there's very little trouble getting what I ask:

1. Classic American breakfast: Scrambled eggs (a safe guess), toast, OJ, coffee, and lots of bacon. Like six pieces of bacon. The man has no cholesterol, he can handle it.

2. Fresh calla lilies, in the room. Do not let them wilt, do not let them die. Not tiger, not stargazer, not Easter; Calla.

3. All the linens — Sheets, towels, all of it — washed with bleach. Full cup like they tell you to do in the commercials.

4. Rotate the dinner menu between international classics.

5. A gift basket, filled with a bottle of top-shelf whiskey, a bevy of primo chocolates, and apples. All kinds of apples. See? I'm funny, too.

6. A massage table, delivered to his room two days from now. We're not doing that clinical exam room again.

It's like having a fairy godmother, I just get what I ask for. And let me tell you, that goes a long way toward soothing the bitterness over Wankanda's little bait-and-switch operation. Not that I'm walking away now regardless, obviously. I'm a full-tilt sucker for an underdog.

The day we agreed to meet, I send Bucky a message, having been assured he will in fact get it: I'll be at your door after lunch. And so I am, wearing a blue shirt, thank you very much, but leaving the stethoscope in my luggage.

The way these things manifest in his life isn't all at once, but rather a series of small surprises that he seems to happen on intermittently over the course of two days. He suspects nothing at first when someone brings him the best god damn breakfast he's had in literally years (considering most of them had been cereal bars and beef jerky). Thinks maybe it's just that T'Challa is kind, that they eat well here, and he straight up devours the bacon.

The flowers are next, absent when he leaves the room for a meeting and present when he returns. They bring him up short, eyebrows flying up, and it takes him a minute to place who might have sent them to him. Right. The only person on the planet (aside from Steve) who knows he has any association with them. It earns a little something from him, some small semblance of a smile, and he glances at them every time he passes through.

He suspects nothing of the dinner he's given later, but when he collapses on his bed and it smells of bleach so pleasantly it punches him in the chest, the pieces start to fall together. They'd been scentless before, hypoallergenic and empty, but when he sleeps that night he dreams of Brooklyn.

It's nice. It's good. By the time the gift basket arrives he's in good enough spirits that the apples actually draw a laugh from him, and Liv being so positively extra does not go unrecognized. She's buttered him up quiet thoroughly, and it's with great regret that he realizes even if he wanted to thank her he knows nothing about her aside from her profession. No way to reciprocate, and no money to do it with.

When he opens the door for their afternoon appointment, it's with a sort of knowing, amused look. He does look more rested, better fed, nobody can say she's not good at her job.

To top it off, the first thing he does when she walks in is to nod at the basket of apples and say, "Thought those were supposed to keep you away, like garlic does to vampires or something."

God, I really miss garlic. Garlic shrimp, garlic mashed potatoes, whole cloves baked on artisanal pizzas—

I blink away the images of Italian food dancing in my head and lift a shoulder in an insouciant shrug. "Maybe I'm here to test the theory," I say, smiling as my eyes skip quickly around the room, picking up little details, confirming at least some of what I'd asked for had been delivered. The decor is a lot like mine: Beautiful and impeccably done, but impersonal. I'm glad to see the lilies on the table.

"How's the head?" At a glance, the last couple of days have done a world of good — Physically there wasn't anything specifically wrong with him before, but weariness translates in ways beyond sluggishness and circles under the eyes. He's more alert now generally, carrying himself like maybe he's only got part of the world on his shoulders today instead of the whole thing and then some.

"Still on my shoulders," He answers blithely, nodding her a little further into the apartment. The couch may be what the cool kids are calling minimalist these days but it's at least comfortable — and one of the only things not made out of fucking metal in the joint, apparently.

If he's honest, he's glad to be doing their session here rather than in an exam room. He's got a sort of thing about people in coats in clinical settings, so the familiarity (slight though it may be) does take the edge off.

"You want a drink? I've got water they apparently add electrolytes to and bacon flavored whiskey."

Okay, so good on the erstwhile Winter Soldier — I actually do a double-take, because I know for a fact I did not ask for the whiskey to be bacon-flavored. I falter, brow briefly pinching, and then huff out a soft laugh through my nose with a roll of my eyes. "You do not. Unless you shoved your breakfast in the bottle." And god, what a tragedy that would be, considering I requested the really good stuff.

"I see they brought the table," I say, stepping over and giving the padding on top a little pat. "You feel like jumping up here and we can see what we've got?"

His lips twitch up a little when she calls him out, because she's right, he's a hundred percent joshing her. No bacon whiskey, but he's got to admit whatever she picked is good — even to him, something of a picky whiskey drinker. He takes her answer as a no and ambles over toward the table, scrutinizing it somewhat warily.

He gets what it is and what it's for, it's just... you know. A little intimate, a little vulnerable, and he stalls a little by asking, "Shirt on or off?"

Wouldn't want to assume and look stupid in front of a hot doctor.

"Off would be helpful, but I can work around it if you'd rather leave it on," I say as I pull the strap of my bag over my head and drop it next to the table. "One thing that has been made abundantly clear to me is that we have all the time in the world, and you're my only patient, so we're going at your pace." Granted, shirt on might be better for my personal sanity and the sanctity of the doctor-patient relationship, but I might as well just gird my loins for that inevitability now.

"I thought today I could get a look at your arm, and maybe do a little massage. Nothing too intense, just getting the lay of the land, and then we can go from there. Sound okay?"

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[For Bucky] Look, he's having a breakdown

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