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

[living_proof]

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.

Comments

[living_proof]

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?"

[freightcars]

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."

[living_proof]

"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?

[freightcars]

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.

[living_proof]

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?"

[freightcars]

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.

[living_proof]

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.

[freightcars]

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."

[living_proof]

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.

[freightcars]

"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."

[living_proof]

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?"

[freightcars]

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.

[living_proof]

"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?"