34

(Bucky's POV)

Rumlow tilts his head analytically, eyes boring into my soul as he runs his hand through my hair and establishes a firm grip on my head.

"It's been a few years," he observes. "We missed you. I missed you." He laughs. "Well... not you. We missed a more useful version of you. Don't worry, though. We're gonna get him back."

"The Winter Soldier isn't useful anymore," I spit, trying my best to stop my body from shaking. Out of all of the handlers that I've ever had, Brock Rumlow has been the worst. He's the most sadistic and cruel man to have ever been assigned to my project. Where others have been only willing to hurt or subdue me if necessary, he wants to hurt me.

He sighs, false remorse painted on his scarred face. "I know. Your little vacation to Wakanda made sure of that. Your trigger words might not work anymore, but that won't stop us from trying other things." 

Rumlow stands and steps back, still eyeing me like a hungry animal. I hold my gaze on him, refusing to show any fear whatsoever.

I can feel a tired sort of itch scratching at the back of my brain, beckoning me into the comfort of absolute nothingness. Whispers in my ear tell me that I don't have to be here for this, that I can just relinquish control and fall back into that nothingness. I ignore it.

If I let myself become him while I'm here, then I'll never be able to be myself again.

So I clench my jaw and pull slightly at my restraints, just trying to stimulate feeling and stay grounded.

Rumlow rakes his gaze over my entire body, an almost undetectable smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "How many years has it been? Six? Seven?"

"I haven't been keeping track." 

He circles me predatorily. "You've changed a lot." He stops behind me and leans down so his face is right next to my ear. I try not to squirm away from the feeling of his breath on my neck. "You know... there once was a time where I knew every inch of your body. Every measurement, I had memorized. But now, we're gonna have to take all those measurements again." He stands up straight again and completes his circle, coming to stand in front of me once again. "All of them." 

He used to have a lot less to say, but maybe that's changed because he's in charge now. I've always noticed that the one who's in charge is usually the one that never shuts the fuck up. 

Sometimes it's like that with me and Steve. Sometimes I can never find anything to say, while he can never find a good place to stop talking.

I wonder how he's doing. I don't think I've been gone that long, but I know he'll be a wreck the moment he finds out that I've been taken by HYDRA.

"You," Rumlow turns away from me and picks up something that had been discarded by the door, "need to be punished. We can't have you thinking that your disobedience is okay." 

"Don't know why you're bothering." I roll my shoulders in an effort to alleviate the ache from the position my arms are being held in. "Pretty soon, you won't have me thinking at all." 

I identify what he's holding only when he chooses to use it. He only cracks the whip as a warning, but I still feel the sharp sting of it lashing my face.

"A whip? That's a little primitive." You'd think that with all of their scientists and all of their technology, HYDRA would be able to develop more sophisticated means of torture. 

"Yeah, well, you're a little old." He pulls a knife from his belt and returns to his place behind me. "I thought you'd appreciate something primitive." 

He cuts the back of my shirt open in one clean slice, exposing my back to the cold air in the cell. I imagine he's grinning madly as he finally gets to hurt me the way Pierce would never let him. 

I hear myself grunt in pain before I even feel the whip come down on me. I grit my teeth and steady my breathing as I try not to get pulled under. I will not be displaced by this.

"Tell me, Soldier," Rumlow commands. "What are you being punished for?" 

I am not the Winter Soldier.

My name is James Bucky Barnes- 

He hits me again. And again. And again. Each blow serves only to prove that this was not a rhetorical question, and that he's waiting for an answer. 

"For-" I feel the whip slice through my skin before I can get the answer out. "For running away."

My name is- No, I don't have one.

I'm walking away from the shore of the Potomac, away from the unconscious body of a man who would not fight me, who would not kill me. Who I would not kill. This mission was too important to fail, and I have failed it. I can't go back and tell my owners that I failed. So I run away.

Rumlow hits me again, and I'm in a dark cell. And my name is James Bucky Barnes. 

"And?" he demands, making it very clear that he won't stop beating me until I've given him a satisfactory answer. 

"And-" And what? 

And I've been through so much worse, so why do I feel like I'm slipping away?

And I'm standing in the middle of the road, and I don't have a name, and I don't have a voice. A solid mask restricts any movement in the lower half of my face.

I step to the side as a car comes skidding down the street and flips upside down. I investigate the scene of my crime. No one is inside the car.

And I'm on a rooftop in the middle of the night, and I have no name and no voice. Breathing steadily, I look through the scope on my sniper rifle. I shoot a man through an apartment window. I will later learn that he survives this shot.

And he hits me again, and I'm in a dark cell, and my name is something Bucky Barnes.

"And?!" Rumlow roars, his voice becoming lost in the ringing of my ears.

I can see the blood that has run off my back pooling on the floor, the lack of light in the cell making it look black. How long have I been down here? How many times has he hit me? 

"And I-" My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. "I did not kill Nick Fury. I... I failed a mission." 

Maybe that's wrong, because he brings the whip down again. 

"And?" 

"And-" There's absolutely nothing else. "And..." It feels like I'm only still making noise to delay being hit again. "And..." 

And the panic is starting to set in and replace any cognitive function. I've been able to keep my cool up until now, but now things are really starting to feel heavy. 

I can hear myself continuing to ramble, but I'm not actually saying anything. I'm just making noise. I might be crying. He's still hitting me. 

I will not be returning from this. 

I hope I bleed out and die now, saving Steve the grief of finding me wiped and frozen. 

I flinch when Rumlow drops the whip on the floor. He crouches down in front of me and I recognize my own blood splattered onto his face and clothes. 

And I'm in a dark cell, and my name is Bucky, and I don't know how long I've been down here. I feel my mouth stop moving and I hear the ceasing of my nonsense sounds as he takes my face in his hands.

"And you failed to kill Captain America." 

He releases me, leaving bloody handprints on my face, and stands up. He unlocks and opens the door, and I squint against the sudden light infiltrating the room. 

 "I'll come back for you in the morning," he promises. 

"What-" I run my tongue over my dry lips. "What happens in the morning?"

"I think you already know the answer to that." He steps out, slamming and locking the door behind him.

And I am alone.

And my name is James Bucky Barnes, but by tomorrow, it won't be.

(Writing makes me really tired, especially writing more serious/darker scenes. I don't know what's up with that, but it makes the process pretty slow)