#c025

The query persisted throughout the evening, following me doggedly as I unpacked my meagre possessions from a tatty holdall. My belongings were limited to a few sets of clothes, some basic toiletries – and a handgun that had me lay on my back in the dust beneath the bed, tongue between my teeth as I fitted the holster to the wire frame.

Maybe I was paranoid – but I’d rather be paranoid than dead.

One of my biggest concerns about being back in the ‘wider world’, as Steve called it, was just how wide – and, more importantly, unprotected – it really was. The list of people who would like my head on a pike was far from short, with Steve’s own teammate being one of them.

Things had been complicated since I’d last seen the team; while the divided factions had eventually come back together, there was still tension at times, particularly when the Accords came up. The majority were working to get through it, making their peace with the eventual conclusion that the conditions laid out in the Accords would work in a perfect world – but this world wasn’t perfect. It was messy, and chaotic, and unpredictable. While the Avengers could – and would – make mistakes, they wouldn’t make choices based on politics or power. Their only interest would always be minimising harm.

But Tony was the outlier.

While the others worked to overcome their animosity, seeing the clear need for peace, Tony stayed angry – at both sides of the schism, but particularly with Steve. He’d never forgiven my friend for defending me, and since learning that Steve knew of my whereabouts, his fury had only grown.

In Wakanda, I found comfort in the knowledge that the country’s location was a well-guarded secret, with a barrier surrounding the nation obscuring and protecting it from anyone who may stumble across it by chance. For all his intelligence, even Tony hadn’t known the real nature of Wakanda before they were ready. If there was anywhere in the world I couldn’t be found – by both Tony and others alike – it was Wakanda.

I at beans cold from the tin, leaning against the bedframe, settled with my arms on my knees in my nest on the ground. One of the first things I’d done had been to take Steve’s carefully made sheets from the bed and rearrange them on the floor, an irrational pang of guilt pulling at my gut.

Steve had worked hard to set it all up for me – especially without Tony knowing – and had seemingly thought of everything, from basic furnishings to a few home comforts. But I didn’t have the energy or motivation to cook, despite the food in the fridge, and I hadn’t slept in a bed in longer than I cared to remember; the knowledge that it was a comfort I didn’t deserve was far too ingrained in my mind to allow such behaviour.

It was after I’d set the empty tin on the floor, letting the shifting colours of a kid’s movie lull me, that I dared to acknowledge the other reason that I’d felt safer in Wakanda.

It wasn’t just that I was protected from the outside world in the secluded African nation; perhaps more importantly, the outside world was protected from me. Even after my apparent deprogramming, I fought vehemently with Steve about leaving Wakanda, citing my concerns about being a target – and potentially putting the rest of the team at risk, too. When he came back to me, having secured an apartment and a new identity for me, I’d reluctantly admitted that I feared what I may do without the advanced technology of Wakanda to defend innocent people.

But Steve had simply parroted my activation code, despite my shaking and pleading, and beamed broadly when I remained in control of my facilities.

How can I explain that I’m afraid of myself?

How can we explain that we are many?

That we don’t know what we’re capable of, even without someone else controlling us?

Where do we even begin?

I sighed, grimacing as I settled deeper into my nest. The voices in my head had always been there, in one way or another, but ever since I’d had my deactivation confirmed, they’d become louder and more conversational, their personalities shining through as they chimed in.

“I’m losing my mind,” I murmured to myself, eyes flicking to the screen as I laid my head on a folded-up sweatshirt.

It’s possible, agreed the first voice readily – ever the stoic voice of reason of the two.

But at least you’re not doing it alone, soothed the second, his soft voice and endless optimism wreathing around me comfortably.

“That’s true,” I replied, smiling tenderly.

… Hey, Buck?

“Yeah?”

Thanks for the movie.

My smile spread a little wider, and I pulled the blankets closer with a contented sigh.

“You’re welcome.”

I woke to my cell buzzing insistently, the harsh summer sun streaming through a chink in the curtains directly onto the black metal of my left arm. Drawing it back quickly, I winced as my other hand brushed over the scorching vibranium tentatively.

It was easier when it had no feeling…

True, but it was awful smart of Shuri to be able to do it!

I hummed in agreement as I flexed my uncomfortably hot fingers, grimacing, and reached for my cell, the vibration still sending it shifting across the floor slowly.

“Yeah?”

“Bucky, I’ve been trying to reach you for almost an hour!”

My eyebrow arched of its own volition, drawing back to glance uncertainly at my screen.

Eight missed calls.

And twelve messages…

“What is it? What’s happened?” I snapped, slamming the phone quickly back to my ear as I darted about my space, stuffing only the barest of essentials into my holdall.

Nothing that will weigh us down.

Or draw attention.

“Bucky – calm down,”  Steve interjected, the panic evident in his voice. “I-I’m sorry – everything is fine. I just wanted to remind you about your appointment, and I worried when I couldn’t get through…”

I couldn’t help but wince at his palpable guilt, settling back on the ground with a heavy sigh. “It’s okay. Thanks, Stevie.”

“It’s important you go, Buck.”

“Yeah, I know,” I muttered. We’d already argued – more than once – about me needing to see a doctor. I said I was fine; Steve disagreed, talking about anxiety and depression and trauma, telling me about the therapies he’d done since he came out of the ice. He talked about the men who used to come back different – angry, or unable to get out of bed, or living life at the bottom of a bottle - and how it had a name now. He told me I didn’t have to live with those things.

How was I supposed to tell him that we deserve it?

It’s a poor repentance for our crimes, but it is the only one we have.

It would break his heart, to know the things we’ve done…

So in the end, I’d let him win, and he’d made the appointment, gushing about what my life could look like if I put in the effort. I figured I’d go to this first appointment, just to get it done and get Steve off my back; I didn’t need – or deserve – anyone’s help. I had my apartment and my solitude, and that was enough. With my fake documents, I could get a job and pay my own way in the world; I wouldn’t be reliant on Steve anymore.

I wouldn’t be putting him in danger.

But first…

“I’m heading out in a few, Stevie. I’ll let you know how it goes, okay?” My voice had softened at the distress in his own, and he let out a quiet, relieved exhale.

“Thanks, Buck. I just… I really think that this will help, you know?”

I nodded to myself, looking around my sparse apartment, fingers curling in my blankets unconsciously.

If it were anyone else… We’d think they deserved help, the softer voice pointed out gently, and I let my eyes close with my own sigh of resignation.

“Yeah. I hope so.”

This is why I hate people.

I fought the urge to snort as the doctor took our blood, gawping openly at our left arm, the black and gold shimmering under the florescent lights each time I moved.

He’d deemed us in peak physical condition, and allowed me to shrug my shirt back on, sitting on the opposite side of his desk as I rolled my sleeve down – clearly, the limb was proving too distracting from him.

“So, Mr. Smith,” he started, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes at predictable alias Steve had chosen for me, “now that your first appointment baselines are out of the way, what can I help you with? You don’t strike me as someone who particularly struggles with his health,” he added, offering me a broad – and somewhat unnerving – smile.

“My friend thinks I need help,” I offered uncertainly. The aging, grizzled physician simply watched me curiously, head cocked to one side.

“You seem to have a good life,” he noted, eyes flicking once more to my arm. “That’s a high-quality piece of kit if ever I saw one. You’re in great physical health. I’d say you’re pretty lucky. What could you possibly need help with?”

I blinked in surprise, dumbfounded into silence.

Fucking hell.

I was born over a hundred years ago, and even I know better than that.

That was pretty ignorant…

Clearing my throat, I raised a finger to tap at my vibranium shoulder pointedly. “D’you wanna know how I got this?” I offered quietly. When he simply nodded, I rolled my jaw, leaning forward. “I was in the war. A sergeant. There was a… Train accident. Most of my arm was ripped from my body, and the part that wasn’t was later cut away – without anaesthetic,” I added, my gaze locked on his. “I’m in constant pain. I was held captive for a long time, and forced to do horrible, awful things. I barely sleep for nightmares. Every time I leave the house I’m on high alert, waiting for something bad to happen. I never want to get out of bed.”

He watched me for a second longer, his jaw hanging half an inch before snapping shut with the distinct click of ceramic on bone. “I-I- I had no idea. I’m sorry- Sergeant Smith, Sir. My mistake. Of course.”

It shouldn’t take pointing out our service to make this man flounder and treat us with respect.

No, but… I’m quite glad that Steve made us those papers saying we fought in Afghanistan.

It’s not really stolen valour, is it? I mean, we are veterans, and it’s not like we can be honest about which war we fought in – not without drawing a lot of attention and probably putting ourselves in danger… We didn’t even specify, it’s only on the paperwork…

Seems little Stevie knew what he was doing.

“The local VA has excellent facilities for-”

I interrupted him with a quick shake of my head, hand raising. “I’d rather go mainstream, if that’s okay.”

Knowing my luck, I’d end up bumping into someone who really was in the unit I’m supposed to have been stationed with…

He nodded again, head ducking graciously. “Of course, Sergeant.” Hesitating, his eyes flicked away, a minute grimace pulling at his lips. “But… The VA would see you in a matter of weeks. The wait for our own referrals is currently up to a year.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach, and I felt nauseous. While I’d little intention of working with the resources offered to me, the idea that the support was there, should I want it, was more comforting than I’d realised; now, however, my breathing came a little too hard, vision darkening around the edges, my palm tingling. “And in the meantime?” I pressed, the steadily increasing panic making the blood in my ears roar, my own voice sounding faded and far away.

The doctor simply gazed at me sadly, offering me a weak shrug. “It’s an underfunded and undersupported system. That’s why I would recommend contacting the VA, and-”

“I’m not going to do that,” I snapped, eyes narrowing in annoyance before I let out a sigh, pushing away my irritation stubbornly. “Look, being around other veterans – it’s not good for me. I don’t want to be treated like a soldier; I just want to be a regular guy.” The excuse was thought up on the fly, but he nodded sympathetically, turning to his computer and tapping at the keys slowly.

“Our trauma team is currently fulfilling referrals from eight months ago. That’s the most accurate time frame I can give you, I’m afraid; it entirely depends on how many they’ve had in the meantime. It could be less, or it could be more.” He looked to me again, his smile strained. “I think that’s the best we can offer, if you’re reluctant to-”

“What about pills?”

I blinked in surprise, more startled by the words that left my lips than he was. It happened, from time to time – I spoke without intending to, with no plan or consideration, to the extent that the words often didn’t even feel like mine.

He cleared his throat, humming under his breath, considering me for a moment. “Well, I mean… I suppose I could offer you something to ease your anxiety, though I don’t particularly like prescribing medication…”

I couldn’t help myself – I arched an eyebrow, eyeing him curiously. “… Interesting approach…”

He shrugged minutely, turning back to his screen and tapping a few keys passively. “The younger generation are being mollycoddled. We didn’t have all this ‘anxiety’ and ‘depression’ when I was a boy. It existed, of course – but it was a serious condition, not these children who feel a little blue sometimes.”

My mouth moved wordlessly, utterly dumbfounded, annoyance boiling under my skin.

We can’t. The medication…

Fuck that. Screw this guy. Break the callous bastard’s goddamn nose.

I paused for a moment, then nodded once, closing my mouth with a soft click and a terse smile, humming non-committedly. “So… The medication?” I prompted, earning a quiet sigh – which I ignored – as he offered me the script.

“This should only be an interim stop gap,” he warned, finger extending to point at me when his hand was free. “Just until your referral has been actioned, okay? And I really think you should reconsider getting in touch with the VA. The sooner you’re off the pills, the better, in my opinion.”  

I don’t give a fuck about your opinion.

I simply nodded once more as I pushed myself to my feet, reaching down to grab my bag as he extended a hand to me, pretending I hadn’t seen the motion.

What the hell are you doing? The fiercer of the two voices had a snarl in their voice as they snapped at me, but I continued to exit the room. He can’t get away with that!

He won’t, I soothed, following the short corridor absently. He won’t, I promise.

He continued to object quietly – but when my steps turned away from the exit, he immediately fell quiet, watching curiously as I approached the reception desk.

“Hi! Can I help you?” The man behind the counter offered me a reassuring smile, and I felt my muscles unclench infinitesimally as I offered a tentative grin back.

“Hey – I, uh… I’d like to register a formal complaint, and request a change in GP.”

I spun the card thoughtfully between my fingers, staring up at the store sign uncertainly.

‘Paws for Applause’.

Oh God. Puns. Why puns…

It’s cute!

It is quite charming, I admitted with a chuckle, humming as I considered my next step.

The receptionist had been endlessly helpful; he led me away from the main room, carefully noting every detail of my complaint with a sympathetic grimace, admitting there’d been some issues with that GP in particular as of late. He’d arranged another appointment with a different doctor he was sure I’d get on far better with – a young woman with significantly more progressive views. When I’d lamented the wait time, he’d pursed his lips in thought, offering me the card I now held.

“The thing that made the biggest difference to my husband – he’s a veteran, too… It wasn’t the VA, or therapy, or medication. We actually got a dog. She gets him out of the house and out of his own head, and helps him feel safer when he’s in public.”

That was how I’d found myself here, chewing on my lip nervously.

I’ve never looked after anything alive before…

We’re going to be terrible at this. Our whole life has been about killing.

No. We’re going to be awesome at this. We can ask for help if we need it. We can do this!

I inhaled deeply, metal fingers forming an anxious concealed fist in the pocket of my sweatshirt as the other hand tugged my headphones out – the sound of songs from my own era was one of the few things that kept me from being entirely overwhelmed when I went out in public.

There was no bell as I opened the door – instead, I was met with a distant but multi-layered series of tweets and chirps, punctuated by one intimidating scream as something loud and green swooped over my head.

I nearly turned right back around and left again.

“Denzel! Shit, sorry about him; he can be a right arsehole sometimes. Dezzie, come here, you gremlin!”

I turned toward the voice, startled – and charmed, despite myself, by the presence of an English accent in the Pacific Northwest – as a thirty-something person appeared from behind a box on the counter, the green parrot-looking thing flapping down to settle on their shoulder with another abominable shriek, earning a wince from his owner. “Jesus, Denzel – put a sock in it, would you? How can I help, other than providing free earplugs?” they added, looking to me once more.

“I- I, uh…” My voice failed me as I looked around, panic rising as I took in the endless pet supplies in infinite materials, breath hitching unsteadily.

Their head cocked minutely, and they glanced at the bird once more. “Denzel, go home,” they murmured. To my distant surprise, he obliged immediately, flapping off through a narrow hole in the door behind them, which they slid shut in his wake, cutting off the quieter series of tweets and whistles before rounding the counter, palms raised imploringly. “Hey. You’re okay. It’s a lot, huh? But you don’t have to do that right now. Just look at me, okay?”

My eyes found theirs desperately, focusing on the chocolate depths, flecked with mahogany and sand. Their hand reached for mine, and I baulked instinctively, jerking ack, wincing guiltily at the brief look of hurt that flickered across their face. “Just take a few deep breaths, okay? You’re safe here. I promise.” The anxious, rejected expression had passed already, leaving only a soft worry, and I forced myself to breathe more evenly – even if it did hitch a little in the process.

But they simply stood with their eyes on mine, smiling gently, murmuring encouragement and reassurances as I fought to control my spasming lungs.

By the time I was calm, red-faced and sniffing intermittently, they were humming quietly – a song I didn’t know, but the gentle, lilting melody smoothed the raged edges of my mind. “Thanks,” I murmured, my cheeks flaming, and I looked away in shame.

God, we’re pathetic.

Fucking disaster.

We shouldn’t have come here…

“Sorry,” I muttered, rubbing my hand roughly over my face. “W- I shouldn’t have come here. It was a stupid idea.”

They frowned, head cocked slightly, hand extending as I took a stumbling step backwards. “Hey- it’s okay! You’re doing really well. Look, I’ll flip the sign and we can take it easy – we’ll take a seat and just talk, okay?”

I swallowed again, nauseated by the pounding of my heart in my chest, coupled with the undeniable urge to bolt. But eventually, I  offered them an uncertain nod, watching nervously as they stepped away to flip he sign in the window and turn the catch with an apologetic grimace. “People don’t always bother to check the sign,” they offered with a guilty shrug, and I nodded stiffly, clammy hand rubbing against my thigh in a display of anxiety. They turned over a couple of crates and settled on one, a foot tucked beneath them, and indicated to the other. “Join me?”

I settled nervously, fidgeting and shifting as they watched me with a gentle gaze. “I’m- this isn’t necessary, really. I’m okay.”

They smiled weakly, shrugging a shoulder and gesturing around themselves. “Hey- it’s a hectic job. Maybe I just wanted ten minutes break, hm? I mean, you’ve met Denzel, right?” I chuckled quietly, and they grinned. “There you go! It’s not so bad, huh? So – how about we try this again?”

I watched them for a moment, unable to shake the last of my suspicion and anxiety, but eventually let out a soft sigh. “I… My name is B- … James. I… There was a guy at the doctor’s office, I guess, and he…”

They listened politely the entire time I spoke, grimacing sympathetically as I briefly mentioned the intensity of my nightmares. I found myself divulging details I’d never shared with anyone before – the way being in public made my skin crawl and heart pound, the way I was movement and faces in shadows, and the way I lay awake at night, eyes open and ears pricked for every minute sound.

Through it all, they never looked away – not even when the metal of my arm flashed between glove and sleeve, simply keeping their eyes on mine, gentle and warm.

“You can call me Mars,” they began, leaning forward to rest their forearms on their knees. “And it sounds like you’ve had a really tough time of it, huh?” I shrugged and nodded, and they gestured around the space once more. “I moved here from the UK a few years ago. I did all the therapy and stuff, but…” They offered me a shrug of their own, eyes flicking away. “Sometimes there needs to be some distance, y’know?” Humming, I nodded sympathetically, and they looked back to me with a soft smile. “But yeah – I get it, and I’d be honoured to help. I know a shelter about ten minutes outside of town – how about you meet me here tomorrow morning, and we can head over, see what’s what?”

I hesitated only briefly, their dark eyes locked on mine drawing me in despite myself, and I nodded.

“I’ll be here.”

Mars sat with me for over an hour, discussing training methods, common problems, and where to find help, should I need it.

I slowly found myself relaxing in the unusual company – they were certainly an odd one, from their flickering gaze unable to hold mine unless they put in conscious effort, to the unique way they settled with one leg curled beneath them with a youthful flexibility.

They were… Quirky.

Genuine.

Even as I left the store, heading back out into the mid-afternoon crowds, I couldn’t help but feel elated and optimistic, weighed down with a bag full of goods to welcome my new housemate. The occasional glance rolled off me, my mind occupied with thinking through the training exercises Mars had given me, committing them to memory.

As soon as I got home, I emptied out the contents of my heaving bad on the floor, settling on my nest to sort through my supplied. Absently, I wondered if they’d been taking advantage of my naïveté, pushing products on me, as I weighed three different leashes thoughtfully.

 But they didn’t push anything; they just explained the different options.

Yeah. We’re the ones who decided to buy, uh… Well, everything. And they did give us a pretty generous discount.

I hummed in agreement as I set up the bowl stand – to stop an overeager pup from catapulting them across the floor - settling the matching bowls inside with a soft smile. “Yeah – they were pretty open about how useful this stuff was really likely to be,” I agreed. They’d steered me away from a lot of the things with premium price tags, pointing out that the cheaper versions were often exactly the same.

I set up the bed next to mine, then stopped, gazing at my nest thoughtfully. It had been drilled into me that the dog deserved their own space, and I’d opted against the crate because of my limited space – perhaps the pup would appreciate having the floor to himself…

I fell asleep curled around a bottle of whiskey – my first, rather than third. I never slept well, and the soft cradling of the bed around me felt foreign and unearned, but I managed to force myself between the sheets, even as my muscles clenched in anticipation of a  pain that wouldn’t come. I knew I was safe here, but that didn’t stop me from reliving the fear of punishment, every inch of my body aching at the memory of the abuse.

But sleep I did, clinging needily to the hope of a better future moving forward. Distantly, I marvelled at the knowledge that I’d been certain this morning that the appointment was purely practical – a way to get Steve off my back, with no real consequences. And yet here I was, planning to start the next stage of my life with significant long-term effects.

Maybe everything really would be okay.