Chapter Text
Bucky’s hand is trembling.
Ever aware of Bucky’s mental and emotional state, Steve eyes him with concern. Bucky’s time in Wakanda had painstakingly removed the last of the Hydra programming in his brain; after decades of Hydra brainwashing overriding his free will, he is no longer a slave. Even so, Bucky still gets caught in his own head most of the time. According to Sam, he suffers from good ol’ shell shock. But that isn’t right either—these days they call it PTSD. What is with this generation and abbreviating everything, anyway? Steve joked with him just last week that Bucky and Sam are frenemies.
“It’s slang, Buck. A mix of friend and enem—”
“I know what it means, you punk.” Truth be told, the term makes Bucky incredibly uncomfortable. His understanding of enemy is too steeped in blood and Hydra for him to ever be comfortable using that word as a joke, or to describe someone he cares about. Although Bucky and Sam don’t always get along, he really does appreciate Steve’s partner. It’s because of Sam that Bucky’s flashbacks have decreased in both intensity and frequency since moving to the tower. So if he still gets lost in his thoughts, swirling through his brain in a distracting, confusing tangle that refuses to come together, Sam just encourages him to have patience with himself. “Bucky, you’ve already come so far. Just take it one day at a time.”
Bucky knows that Steve and Sam have his back, and most often Natalia too. He also knows that their understanding and patience isn’t universal; things with Tony remain incredibly tense and awkward. Despite everything, Stark invited him to live in his tower when he was ready to leave Wakanda —“It’s really a public service; don’t want to leave Murder-Bot running around town unsupervised”—so Bucky knows that Tony has decided to put the past aside , at least for now. (Don’t think about Howard; can’t think about Howard.) He mostly tries to stay out of the other man’s way, and Tony does the same. Bucky does everything he could to give the other man some space, and they actually went his first month in the tower without seeing each other at all. According to Sam, the fact that he uses his assassin skills to benefit another person is a sign of progress, but Bucky has a hard time believing that anything from Hydra could ever be used for good.
Considering Stark’s opinion of Bucky, it comes as a surprise when he tracks him down in the common room. “Damn it Mega Man, do you know how hard it’s been to hunt you down? It’s a shameful waste of my Genius IQ, and my AI has better things to do than track your sneaky ass down.” Bucky just stares at him, not comprehending why Stark has sought him out after all this time. “What, are you nonverbal now? Wilson didn’t mention that in his weekly ‘How-likely-is-it-that-the-deadly-assassin-will-murder-us-in-our-sleep’ report to Pep.” Bucky’s blank expression doesn’t change; if Stark wants him to be upset that Sam is reporting on Bucky’s progress, he’ll be disappointed. Bucky is dangerous and it would be foolish not to monitor him.
“No response? Nothing? Tough crowd. Fine. I need you to come down to my workshop, now. That arm is a crime against humanity—” at that, Stark actually stops and winces, as if he has finally gone too far. “Okay, forget I said that last bit. But you’re living in my tower, and I can’t have you ruining my reputation with that arm.” Seeing that Bucky still hasn’t moved, Stark gestures impatiently toward the elevator. “Let’s go, Cyborg, I haven’t got all day.” And so begins Bucky’s infrequent visits down to the science labs.
Before his trip to Stark’s lab, when he was still avoiding the man, Bucky had stuck to the Avengers-only floors of the tower almost exclusively. He’s best known as the Winter Soldier, after all—the most terrifying and menacing assassin in recent public memory. His face had been plastered all over the news during the fall of SHIELD and then again when he was framed during the UN fiasco. He’s gotten used to the idea that he’s considered a menace to the public. That doesn’t mean he enjoys the fear he inspires when he runs into civilians, though.
The fear is pungent; it has a way of creeping through the halls like smoke as he walks, tainting the atmosphere and grinding conversations to a halt. It’s acrid and clogs his throat, choking him until he can’t breathe. Over time, he took to ignoring Steve’s blatant attempts to get him to venture into public places, and refused to feel bad about it. Until Stark. After Stark ambushes Bucky about his arm and it becomes clear that Bucky can’t just hide away in his and Steve’s apartment forever, he approaches Sam for help.
Utilizing some breathing and centering techniques (courtesy of Sam), Bucky and Steve slowly embark on short trips to the lobby. Once, they even venture to a Starbucks near the tower—though why people choose to pay that much money for a sugary caffeinated drink, Bucky has no clue. The future is strange. As uncomfortable as those trips make him, though, he’d rather make them every damn day than go down to the lab floor once a month. It isn’t even the discomfort of seeing Stark that is so awful, so much as running into the other scientists on the floor. Dr. Banner is fine and he hasn’t yet met Dr. Foster (the other part of the so-called “Scientists Three”). The other scientists on the floor are terrified of Bucky, though. On good days, they flee as he and Steve approach Stark’s labs and the halls are deserted.
On worse days, the people in the hallways try to pretend they aren’t scared out of their wits. They babble to each other while giving Bucky side-eyed glances, as if he is a dangerous beast ready to maul them at any moment. For his part, Bucky returns the scientists' suspicion with equal measure. It’s a primal feeling, one he isn't able to shake. He knows that Stark wouldn't hire those kinds of scientists, knows that they aren't Hydra. But there is something about the clinical white walls and gleaming appliances that sends him back there. There, where he is cold, lost, and in pain and doesn't know himself or his own goddamned best friend (Who was he? I knew him). Even worse, his hand trembles nonstop from the moment he steps out of the elevator to his arrival back on his own floor. The former sniper in him hates it—hates that he can’t control his own body, can’t hide his fear.
If he tells Steve, the punk would move heaven and earth to make sure he never has to step foot on that floor again. Steve would go to war all over again if it would mean Bucky never has another nightmare. But he won't tell Steve. His best friend almost died trying to save him from himself and then spent months of sleepless nights searching for him. Then he went and sacrificed one of his few solid friendships to help Bucky, to save him again.
It’s because of Steve that Bucky can't, won't give up. So he says nothing about the lab coats, the icy white walls, the cold marble floors. He struggles through each and every one of the lab visits. But those are his worst days. He gets so lost in his head that he stumbles through it all on autopilot, barely functioning, and it always takes several sleepless nights for him to recover. Steve and Sam have learned not to touch him unless absolutely necessary; his flinches are violent and unpredictable.
He can't say what it is about her that draws his attention; it’s a lab visit like any other. They’ve already done the awkward bit with Stark, which is made even worse when for all intents and purposes Bucky is mute during the trip. He knows his reactions are noticeable and alarming, because even Stark is concerned—the same tuneup process on his arm takes less and less time each visit. (Even lost in his own head, Bucky’s instincts ensure that he catalogs at least two things at all times: basic threats and the passage of time.) Steve’s worried glances get increasingly furtive as he ushers them toward the elevator.
All he knows is that one minute he’s lost in a tangled web of half-formed thoughts, trying desperately not to remember (those coats, that cold), and the next…he isn’t. It’s like he snaps back into himself, and he’s hyper-aware. What strikes him first is that the young woman just exiting the elevator isn’t afraid, even though she should be. She’s altogether oblivious as she stumbles out of the elevator. Fiddling with her Stark Industries badge, she doesn’t even look up as she enters the door to the labs. She just huffs a breath to push her long, curly brown hair out of her face, sloshing the liquid inside her portable travel mug. The logo on the side indicates that it’s from Starbucks (does the whole world run on that place these days?).
In a colorfully patterned (so bright it almost hurts) oversized sweater and skintight jeans, she doesn’t look anything like the other scientists who work on this floor. Bucky’s not sure he’ll ever understand the clothing that people wear these days, but he knows that agents don’t dress like that either. And her spatial awareness is pitiful—she still hasn’t noticed either Steve or Bucky, even though the distance between them has shrunk to less than fifteen feet. If they were Hydra insurgents, she’d be dead before she even knew they were there. Especially considering it’s clear that she isn’t trained in any sort of combat—she lacks the precise control of her body parts and movements required for that. She is all loose limbs and expansive motions as she moves down the hall toward them. Still, there’s something about her that draws his attention.
He recognizes the exact moment she becomes aware of other people in the hall; there’s a little stutter in her step and a slight hitch in her breath from surprise. Bucky wonders if she’ll react like all the others when she recognizes who he is; as much as he understands it, he’s so tired of the fear. She doesn’t, gracing both Steve and Bucky with a genuine smile.
“Good morning, Miss Lewis.” Steve, not yet noticing that Bucky is more engaged than usual, is still focused on getting Bucky to the elevator. But they both know his mama would’ve had his hide for being impolite and not greeting a dame, so he pauses for a second in his determined rush away from the labs. “Steve, it’s Darcy. And you won’t like how I remind you next time, so you better get it right,” she chirped, winking at him. “Sure thing, Darcy.” Steve’s face flushes a bit in response.
Remembering his manners, Steve adds, “I don’t think you’ve met Bucky yet, have you? Buck, this is Darcy. She works with Dr. Foster.” Bucky’s not sure if there’s a proper way to introduce one’s formerly-brainwashed amnesiac best friend, but Steve always gives it a valiant effort.
Bucky vaguely remembers that he used to be good at this, talking to pretty dames. She meets his eyes, says “Hello,” and smiles again, this time just for him. But though he’s aware and focused on her, his mouth just won’t come unglued. His lips twitch in something that passes more as a grimace than a smile, and he gives her a tiny nod of acknowledgment. It’s pitiful, but it’s the best he can do. Next to him, Steve looks as though he might burst from pride, so at least someone recognizes the effort. Miss Lewis doesn’t look phased by his less than stellar greeting, though. And she doesn’t reach out to shake his hand or touch him, which he appreciates.
She opens her mouth to say something, and for the first time in a long time Bucky finds himself looking forward to a possible conversation with someone who isn’t Steve or Sam. Before he can dwell on that revelation any further, and before she can express her thought, there’s frantic shouting from down the hall.
Bucky jolts, but Steve’s already got a firm grip on his shoulder and is talking him down. “Nothing to worry about, Buck. That’s just Dr. Foster. I think she might be looking for you, Darcy.” Miss Lewis rolls her eyes and nods. “Yeah, sorry about the shouting. I’ve been gone for over an hour but I’m pretty sure she just realized I wasn’t there. I better go see what the boss lady wants.” With a little half wave, she says goodbye. “It was great to see you again, Steve. Nice to meet you, Bucky!”
She sweeps by him with a parting smile, already calling out to Dr. Foster in reply. He absently wonders if his erratic behavior drove her away. But as she goes, she passes by just close enough that her oversized sweater brushes against his prosthetic arm. Close enough that he can smell her shampoo—a hint of rosemary.
He doesn’t flinch, and neither does she. And like an epiphany, he realizes he wants to know Darcy Lewis.
He and Steve take the last steps toward the elevator, though it doesn’t seem as monumental a task as it did before. As they step in, Steve murmurs “I’m glad you’re doing okay, Buck,” flicking a quick glance down at his hand. It had stopped shaking.