Disclaimer: Just for fun, not for profit. This is Marvel's universe. I'm just playing with some of the characters.

"We'll have Barnes taken to an American psych facility rather than a Wakandan prison." – Tony Stark

Committed

Day 1

The bars and reinforced glass on the high security vehicle they were transporting him in made it difficult to see his surroundings, but Bucky was somewhat reassured by the fact that it also made it tough for others to look in and see him. The hard plastic seat and the modified handcuffs that sent electrical impulses to keep his metal arm immobile didn't help to make him comfortable, but he wasn't anticipating comfort. Nobody spoke to him on the journey. He didn't really expect them to. The two deputies in the front seat spent the trip chatting about their home lives and bitching about their coworkers, while the one sitting facing him spent the ride with one hand on his gun. He'd learned more about the interoffice politics in the local sheriff's department than he really cared to. In his head, he'd dubbed them Larry, Curly and Moe. He'd also spent the long drive contemplating the events that got him there.

An errant housekeeper at the hotel that Helmut Zemo was staying at had ignored the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door and discovered the dead psychiatrist in the bathtub while Bucky was being transported to Berlin. The Sokovian hadn't even had a chance to look at him, much less use the trigger words, although the presence of the red book was still enough to make Bucky's gut churn. With the master plan revealed and Bucky's innocence in the Vienna bombing proven, the authorities were left with the question of what to do with him. He was too dangerous, they argued, to just be released. And just because he hadn't been in Vienna didn't exactly make him innocent of all his other crimes. Finally, they had struck a deal: Steve Rogers would sign the Accords in exchange for a pardon for James Buchanan Barnes, and he would go to an American psych facility rather than a prison somewhere. Steve had tried to argue for unconditional release, promising he would watch him, but even Tony Stark was hesitant to make that deal.

They pulled up to a nondescript brick building, and Curly and Moe got out to escort him inside. At the reception desk, a pretty blonde woman nodded at them.

"Here's the paperwork," Moe said, handing her a pile of legal documents three inches thick. Bucky eyed the stack of paper with a scowl. He had his own copy. The paperwork contained all the reasons why he was being committed to a forensic hospital – the reasons he was a danger to others and could not be allowed to remain free in society. He happened to agree, but that hadn't made it any easier to listen to in court. His lawyer had assured him that the proceedings were civil, not criminal, but that didn't help him to feel like less of a criminal as they were announced and discussed. Despite his request otherwise, Steve had been there for all of it, hearing his shame read aloud to all present. He spent most of the hearing staring down at his interlocked hands, metal fingers interwoven with flesh ones, and when they had given him the opportunity to speak on his own behalf, he had only shaken his head. That had been two days ago. Now he was standing in the entrance to the facility that would become his home – at least for the next six months. Then there would be another hearing, presumably to see if he was "safe" yet. He had his doubts the time would make any difference.

"He'll be going to Delta Unit," the pretty blonde said. "You can lock your guns up here. They aren't allowed on the units," she replied, sliding a lockbox across the desk. Moe frowned at her and shoved the lockbox away.

"We're not putting our firearms away, sweetheart," he told her.

"Then you can't go down to the unit," she replied coolly. "And I'm not your sweetheart." Moe shrugged.

"Then I guess once the nurse gets here, he's not our problem anymore," he responded. She leveled an exasperated look at him for a moment, then picked up the phone with a sigh.

"Yes, your admit's here," she said into the receiver. "They won't bring him down, so you'll have to come get him." She glanced over at Bucky. "So far he's been calm…. Okay." She hung up the phone and addressed Bucky directly. "The nurse will be here in a few minutes. You can sit down if you like." She gestured to one of the couches around the perimeter of the round entryway. Bucky considered it for a moment, but decided to remain on his feet.

"No, thank you," he said quietly. Her eyes widened slightly, and she shot him a furtive half-smile. He looked around the room, taking note of doors and windows. It was nicer than he had expected, but Siberia hadn't exactly set his expectations high. The double doors opposite the ones they had come in beeped, then opened. A slim woman with short brunette hair wearing navy blue scrubs opened the doors, flanked by two security guards. Both of them were average build, at least a couple inches shorter than Bucky, and if it came down to it he was pretty sure he could take them in a fight.

But he wasn't here to fight.

Curly deactivated the handcuffs, then unlocked them and tucked them into his belt. Bucky's shoulders relaxed visibly without the constant electrical current running through one arm. The brunette nurse smiled and nodded at him. "My name is Hannah, and I'll be the nurse getting you admitted today. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the unit." She picked up the bag of his belongings – the back pack, the bugout bag, everything in the world that he still called his – and started back towards the door. She waved a small, rectangular card over a little square panel on the wall. The tiny light on it went from green to red, and it made the same beeping sound he had heard before. She pushed on the doors as she slipped the card back into her pocket. Bucky took note of this and followed her silently through the doors. He heard the automatic lock as they closed behind him, a sound with unnerving finality. At the base of the stairs was another set of double doors that Hannah opened in the same manner.

Once on the lower level, Hannah began a running commentary of everything they walked by. To his left was a set of windows overlooking a courtyard area, with trees and a few stone picnic tables, walking paths and a small basketball court. To his right, she pointed out doors leading to an exercise room, a gym and something called "The Mall." "General store is open Wednesday and Friday mornings, snack bar is open Tuesdays and Thursdays from 10 to noon, we have library time Monday, Wednesday and Friday in the afternoon, and the beauty shop is by appointment only, so you'll want to sign up on the unit for that. Oh, and the vending machines are always there. You'll have to earn your privilege level to go, though." An incentive economy, then. Bucky eyed the courtyard. The building was built around it, so it appeared to be closed off, but the one-story roof was low enough he could probably jump to it if he had to.

They reached the unit, and he was shown first to a tiny room with a bare floor, cinderblock walls and a heavy door that only had a handle on one side. He had been thinking maybe this wouldn't be so bad, but the tiny room set him on edge. He didn't want to be locked inside. Hannah explained it was just for a search, "for safety, to make sure you didn't smuggle anything in with you, checking for contraband." She held up a black rod about two feet long, and he flinched. Was it a weapon? Electrified? She caught the wince.

"Metal detector," she explained, waving it back and forth. He smiled grimly.

"Oh, that thing is not going to like me," he said softly, holding his arms out obediently. The rod shrieked as it came near his left side, then again on his head and his back. Hannah took a step back and looked him over. She handed him a set of green scrubs to change into and took his clothes.

"Remove your prosthesis, if you please," she requested. "We'll have to check with the doctor to see if you can have it on the unit." He blinked at her in confusion.

"You want me to do what?"

"Your prosthesis," she repeated. "Your arm. Remove it, please."

"It doesn't come off," he said. She looked at him skeptically.

"Are you sure?" she asked. No, lady, I've lived with it for longer than you've been alive, but it never occurred to me it might be able to come off. Rolling his eyes, he pulled the scrub top back off and stood before her bare-chested.

"If you can figure out a way to do it, be my guest," he said in exasperation, raising his left arm out to the side. Her eyes widened, and she stood completely still for a moment, her shocked gaze traveling slowly over the gleaming appendage and the scarred seam where metal met flesh. He was surprised when she took a step forward, her fingers following the same path her eyes had, occasionally pressing on the scar tissue to search for a gap but finding none. He held very still as she stepped around him, her hands running along the plate embedded along what would have been his left shoulderblade. The touch was impersonal, but gentler than he had been expecting. She circled back to face him, her expression perplexed.

"Wait here," she said. "I think… I need to talk to my supervisor." She turned and left him in the tiny cement room, the security guards standing just outside, watching him. He debated whether he should bother putting the shirt back on or not. If she was bringing more people to stare at him, er, inspect him, then he would only have to take it off again. Instead, he draped it over his fleshy shoulder and folded his arms over his chest. The minutes ticked by, the two guards watching him carefully, the tile floor cold under his bare feet.

Hannah returned, bringing with her another woman dressed in slacks and a blouse – he assumed the aforementioned supervisor – and two other people, who hung back but peered through the doorway at him as the two women again inspected, poked and prodded at his metal arm. He stared back at the four sets of eyes watching him. A memory rose, unbidden, of him and Steve as boys, visiting the World Circus Sideshow at Coney Island, peering through the crowd at the freaks lined up for them to gawk at. He could almost hear the barker now. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, to see the man with the metal arm! He can perform daring feats of strength and endure inhuman amounts of pain! Perhaps that was where he belonged now, right alongside the bearded Lady Olga and Forrest the armless wonder. He set his jaw and dropped his gaze to the floor as his inspection continued.

"Consult with the doctor, get an order for it," the supervisor finally decided. "I don't see that we have any options, though, really."

"You can go ahead and put your shirt back on," Hannah instructed. "I guess no MRIs for you, huh?" He glanced at her quizzically, not getting the reference, but obediently pulled the scrub top back over his head and followed her out of the room with a sense of relief. As they passed the nurse's station, he saw one of the staff going through his backpack full of belongings and paused.

"What are you going to do with that?" he asked.

"We have to go through everything that comes on the unit," he explained. His name badge said his name was Ted. "Things that are safe, you can keep. Some things you can have access to but you have to return them when you're done with them. Some things just aren't safe to be out on the unit at all. They get locked up in back, and you'll get them back when you're discharged."

"Which category do those fall into?" Bucky asked, nodding to the pile of notebooks and worn backpack sitting next to it. Ted shook his head.

"Backpack you can't have because of the straps. Notebook because of the spiral binding. You'll get them back when you leave." He felt a pang of disappointment, but wasn't entirely surprised. I could kill you with either of those things. I could kill you without them, too. He glanced around the unit, eying the layout. Three hallways stretched away from the desk, studded with doors every few meters. At the end of each hall, an exit sign by a door and a window-encased lounge. Not far from the nurses' station was a large room with chairs and tables, surrounded by far too many windows. Beyond that, a parking lot and grass. The glass had some kind of wire embedded in it, presumably to make it stronger, but he doubted it would be much of a deterrent to his metal arm. Now that he had come up with several different escape plans and was confident he could leave if he wanted to, he relaxed slightly.

"If you'll come this way, we'll finish getting you admitted," Hannah said, clasping a pile of paperwork to her chest and gesturing with her head towards a room near the unit entrance. Through the many windows, he could see a long table with chairs around it. He followed her into the room and settled into one of the slightly uncomfortable chairs. "So… James, is it? Do you go by James, or Jim, or do you have something else you prefer to be called?" He contemplated Hannah's earnest expression for a moment. Nobody had asked him his preference in a long, long time. His friends – mainly Steve – called him Bucky, but he wasn't sure he was among friends here.

"James is fine," he said quietly. She nodded and shuffled through the forms and questionnaires in front of her. She paused for a moment, frowning down at something on one of them.

"Well, James, it looks like they may have made a mistake on your birthdate. Can you tell me the correct one?" she asked.

"What do they have written down?" he asked in return.

"Um, March 10th, 1917," she answered with a little laugh, as if inviting him to share in her amusement at the error.

"That's accurate," he said, and the smile slowly faded from her face as she stared at him.

"But… that would make you a hundred years old," she protested, almost more to herself than him.

"I was frozen for a lot of it," he offered. "If that helps." Her expression brightened.

"Oh! Like Captain America!" He scoffed a little.

"No, I… Well, I guess, yes. Like Captain America." The ghost of a smile flickered around the edges of his mouth. She shuffled through the papers again and picked up a pen, sitting poised to write.

"Okay. What is your reason for being here today?" He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Because I'm a danger to other people. Says so right there in the paperwork." She jotted something down on the paper.

"Any allergies?"

"No."

"Any medical concerns? Respiratory issues? Cardiac issues?"

"No."

"Any thoughts to harm others?" He stared at her. He always had contingency plans, how he could incapacitate someone if needed. It was ingrained at this point.

"I'm not going to hurt anyone."

"Have you ever attempted suicide?" He blinked and looked down at the table.

After several failed escape attempts that always ended with him returned to their facility and more lengthy torture sessions, after he had been fitted with the monstrous metal arm that would mark him forever as something not quite human, he had tried for the only method of escape he could see still open to him. Death was preferable to letting them turn him into a weapon for their own ends. Shivering in the cell they had locked him in with only a dirty mattress on a metal frame and a thin, ratty blanket, he had made his final escape attempt. There was no window, and the door was a heavy, reinforced monstrosity with no handle. The concrete walls were smooth and completely bare. They thought he was safely contained. They underestimated the ingenuity of James Buchanan Barnes. Braiding the shredded blanket into a rope, he tied one end to the metal leg he had snapped off the bed and the other in a noose around his neck. Jumping off the now-unstable bed frame, he had launched himself as high up the wall as he could, thrusting the metal leg into the wall with his left arm like a spear. It had stuck there, sunk deep into the concrete, and he felt a brief flash of triumph, before the slack ran out on the rope. The momentum of his body, augmented with over fifty pounds of metal arm, focused to a point on his neck, and darkness quickly enveloped him…

…only to be revived on a cold metal table, limbs restrained and Zola tut-tut-tutting over him like a disappointed parent.

"You represent a significant investment of our resources, Sergeant Barnes. Surely you didn't think we would allow this sort of behavior? It seems your old memories are causing you some distress. Don't worry. It will become significantly easier once they are gone."

And then they wiped him; the first complete wipe where he had awakened not knowing who or where he was, or anything beyond the pain in his shoulder where the metal plate was imbedded and the throbbing inside his head. Took him apart like a jigsaw puzzle and then put him back together all jumbled up, twisted and wrong, adding pieces that weren't really him, taking away ones that were…

"Not in a long time," he replied softly. There were nights he had considered it, after Steve reminded him of who he was. Nights when sleep eluded him, leaving him alone with the thoughts and the memories and the guilt of what he'd done. He'd sat at the table in his tiny apartment in Bucharest, gun gleaming dully between his hands, and contemplated putting an end to it all. He still wasn't sure why he hadn't. Sometimes, it seemed he could almost hear Steve's voice at the back of his mind, telling him to keep hanging on, not to let Hydra win once and for all. And so he kept on. He glanced over at Hannah, who sat quietly, still watching him, waiting for… details? He looked away. She took the hint and moved on to the next question.

"Are you currently having thoughts to kill yourself, or harm yourself in any way?" It was never really all that far from his mind, the struggle between his self-preservation and the deeply-felt guilt and shame at the things he had done. Thus far, self-preservation had won.

"No." It wasn't exactly a lie. Right now, he had a lot of other things on his mind. The unfamiliar place filled with unfamiliar people, the knowledge that he was locked in with all of them, that legally now he was supposed to stay here… None of these things were exactly reassuring.

"How's your appetite?" A shrug. He had learned long ago to ignore hunger, to eat only to fuel his body. The serum had increased his metabolism, so it was important that he eat, but it was also important to not let hunger distract him.

"How do you sleep?"

"Usually, lying down." It was a luxury for him now, after so many times being sent to cryosleep standing up. Her chuckle caught him off guard. He'd mostly just been trying to dodge the question, but apparently, he'd made a joke.

"No, I mean… Do you have any trouble falling asleep? Staying asleep? Do you wake up feeling rested?" Yes, yes and no. He certainly wasn't ready to describe the nights lying in bed, staring at the ceiling as his slowly surfacing memories replayed decades of carnage in his head. Missions gone wrong, hell, missions gone right, dead eyes staring at him, pleading voices begging for their lives, red blood splattered everywhere, invisibly staining his hands… then letting sleep claim him, and everything starting over in his dreams, only this time with stunning color and details, waking in a cold sweat, chest heaving.

"No." She looked for a moment as if she was going to pry more, to ask which question that was an answer to, but then shook her head slightly and moved on to the next one.

"Do you drink? Alcohol?" The last word was tagged on, added hastily in anticipation of his response. He shook his head.

"Doesn't do anything for me. Too expensive anyway."

"Do you use any other chemicals? Street drugs? Heroin, cocaine, marijuana, methamphetamines?" HYDRA had, for their part, used many different cocktails on him throughout the decades, but he had never known what was in them. He had felt pretty rough after he had left, for a long time. Withdrawal symptoms, someone had mentioned once. Not rough enough to try to find something to take the pain away.

"No."

"Are you sexually active?" The question caught him off guard, and he looked at her sharply. Her expression was carefully neutral, and she didn't seem to be making a pass at him. "These are standard questions," she reassured him. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Not lately," he grunted, grudgingly answering the query.

"Male or female partners?" came the next question.

"Is that relevant?" he asked with raised eyebrows. Hannah met his gaze coolly.

"It's part of your social history," she informed him.

"Female," he answered, eying her warily. What was next? Was she going to ask him about masturbation habits? Personal fantasies?

"That's the last of the really personal questions," she reassured him. He took a deep breath, letting himself relax incrementally. This turned out to be a mistake, as the next question caught him off guard.

"Do you have any pain?" Hannah asked. His expression became wary. The last time someone had asked him if he was experiencing pain – long, long ago – their only purpose was to taunt and inflict more. During his training and torture, responding to pain was seen as weakness, and any acknowledgement of it was punished. Her question seemed like a trap.

"Why?" he asked cautiously. She smiled at him.

"We always ask about pain, because if you have any, we want to help you keep it to a manageable level." She studied him for a moment. "I can't imagine that metal arm is comfortable to wear. It must be very hard on your back." Muscles had long ago adapted, and the constant fire along his spine was something he had learned to ignore. It was easier to ignore it.

"Nothing I can't handle," he said, looking back down at his folded hands. Hannah looked as if she might try to argue with him, but then shrugged and turned the paper over. The rest of the questions were mostly about his living situation, learning preferences, information about the unit. She then showed him to his room. It was nicer than he'd expected. A desk with a chair and drawers, a captain's style bed, a closet that was basically a tall cubby, and an adjoining bathroom with a shower. The window was tall but narrow, with blinds set between two panes of glass. Hannah left with the promise to check in with him later. It took a few moments for him to find the little dial on the window that closed the blinds inside the glass, shielding him from outside eyes. Taking a deep breath, he sat down on the bed, looking around at the room that was to be his… well, home of a sort, at least for the next few months. It had been a long time since there had been anything in his life that felt like home. Bucharest had probably come closest, but even there he was always looking over his shoulder, waiting for HYDRA to find him again, waiting for someone to recognize him. Waiting for the day when his cover was blown, and he would have to face what he had done.

And now here he was. If this is was to be his purgatory, it certainly was… not what he'd expected. The walls were painted a soft ivory, trimmed with a blue stripe around the ceiling. The floor was carpeted. The room was small and impersonal, but somehow cozy. It didn't feel like a hospital, at least not what he remembered of hospitals.

"Mr. Barnes?" He looked over to the doorway, and his heart began to pound. White lab coat, white lab coats meant pain and forgetting and darkness and cold. He didn't even realize he'd backed up against the wall, muscles tensed and eyes wide. The man in his doorway disappeared, and he started to relax, unclenching hands that had balled into fists. A man appeared a moment later – was it the same man? He had no white lab coat. Bucky focused this time on his face, and found the man had a kind expression, with eyes that saw a person, not a weapon. "Mr. Barnes, my name is Dr. Greenmyer. Do you have a few minutes to meet with me?" He had six months, according to the court. But he had nothing else to do at the moment, so he followed the doctor into a small meeting room. This room had more comfortable chairs, and no table. He settled in, eyeing the doctor warily.

"You aren't required to answer any question you don't feel comfortable with, James. Do you mind if I call you James? But keep in mind, the more honest with me you are, the better I can help you." Do I deserve to be helped? More questions. Some of them were the same questions Hannah had asked, so he was at least somewhat prepared for that. The questions about his childhood caught him off guard, partially because he couldn't answer some of them, and partially because he really didn't see them as relevant. I know why my brain is broken, and it isn't because my father wasn't affectionate enough. He kept his answers short, but truthful. There was no point in hiding anymore. The doctor had him count backwards from 100 by sevens, repeat some words, follow some simple directions, remember the words. He did not have any trouble with this. At least the short term memory is intact. He wondered what it was the doctor was writing down.

"What do you remember from your time as prisoner of HYDRA?" Dr. Greenmyer asked. Bucky looked at him, then looked away. "We don't need to get into details," the doctor said, his tone reassuring. "You can talk about whatever you are comfortable with. I have quite a bit of collateral information from S.H.I.E.L.D. They felt it would be important for me to be familiar with your history in order to come up with an effective treatment. I'm not asking you to tell me about the traumatic things you experienced. I simply am trying to gauge how much of your memory has returned."

"I remember…a lot of it," Bucky admitted. "Most of it is kind of... fuzzy. Jumbled. Blood. Pain. Killing." He heard the quaver in his voice, swallowed down the lump that had appeared, tried to focus on something else. "Steve… I remember Steve." Those memories were a little sharper than others. He had pages and pages in the notebooks that had been swept away into a secret locker in the back. He was a scrawny little bastard that couldn't walk away from a fight. Then he was a big, strong bastard who still couldn't walk away from a fight. Got into bigger fights. He saved me from Zola. He saved me from myself. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him.

"Do you feel safe here?" Dr. Greenmyer asked next.

"I don't feel safe anywhere," Bucky responded, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Are you worried that someone is going to try to hurt you again?"

"Can't rule it out," he mumbled, glancing out the window.

"Are you worried that you might harm someone else?"

"Can't rule that out either." The carpet in the room had threads of reds, browns and yellows, he noted, studying the patch of it between his feet.

"Do you hear voices that other people seem not to? See things that others don't seem to see?" He glanced up at the doctor and shook his head. "So, no command hallucinations. Why are you worried that you might harm someone?"

"I don't want to hurt anyone."

"I can see that. So why would you be concerned that you might?" Bucky was silent for a long moment, debating whether or not to reveal this particular truth to this particular doctor.

"Who do you work for?" he finally asked. Dr. Greenmyer seemed surprised to have a question directed at him.

"The state of New York," he answered. Bucky continued to regard him somewhat suspiciously. "I can assure you, James, I am not a secret agent. I do not work for HYDRA. Or for S.H.I.E.L.D., for that matter." Bucky sat back in the chair, folding his flesh arm over the metal one.

"But that's probably what an agent of HYDRA would say anyway, isn't it?" he pointed out. Dr. Greenmyer looked at him for a moment, then to his surprise, chuckled.

"I'm not expecting you to trust me right away, James. I suspect you've had no reason to trust anyone for a very long time." He regarded Bucky with a thoughtful expression for a long moment. "Tell me, have you ever taken any medication?"

"Nothing I'd like to repeat." Needles full of mysterious fluids, injected into his unwilling body, sometimes bringing pain, sometimes hallucinations, sometimes compliance, sometimes blessed temporary oblivion.

"Do you know what you've tried?"

"No." It wasn't that he'd forgotten, not this time. They'd never bothered telling him.

"Okay. I'm going to prescribe a medication called Zoloft. It can help with depression symptoms, anxiety, and PTSD symptoms." Bucky didn't say anything, but frowned. "PTSD is post-traumatic stress disorder," Dr. Greenmyer explained. "In your day, I believe they called it Combat Stress Reaction or battle fatigue. In World War I, it was called Shell Shock. We don't use those terms anymore. We know more about it. And we have better treatments for it. The medication can help with the hyperarousal, insomnia, irritability, those kinds of things."

"I'm not a fan of needles," Bucky said shakily.

"Oh, it doesn't come in an injectable form," Dr. Greenmyer replied. "Just a pill. It works best if you take it every day. Usually takes four to six weeks for full effect, but we can see how you're doing after a couple weeks and adjust the dose if you want to. I also would encourage you to go to groups, get used to being around… people. We also have an excellent therapist on staff. I don't usually refer patients to her because a couple months isn't long enough to develop a therapeutic relationship and make any real progress, but in your case, I think it might be helpful." Bucky stared at him, unconvinced. Dr. Greenmyer stood. "I will be meeting with you regularly while you are here. If you have any questions before I see you again, let the nurses know. They can get a message to me." Bucky nodded slightly, and Dr. Greenmyer left. Bucky sat for a few minutes in the room, surprised that they had left him alone and unsupervised. There were a couple other patients wandering up and down the hall, occasionally peering in the window at him. He grew uncomfortable enough to leave the little lounge and return to his room. He had just gotten there when Hannah appeared in the doorway. Even though the door was open, she stopped outside and knocked. He looked inquiringly over at her.

"I brought you a journal," she offered, holding it out towards him. "No spiral binding, so you can have this one on the unit." He raised his eyebrows and took the journal. It was nothing fancy; just a thicker weight paper bound around simple lined pages. Despite the simplicity, it was now all he had, and he appreciated it.

"Thank you," he said quietly. She nodded.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked. He shook his head, still looking through the blank pages of his new journal. She left. He noted her departure, but most of his attention was still trained on the precious diary. He hadn't had access to anything to write with since his desperate escape attempt in Bucharest, and much had happened since then. He sat down and began to write.

He kept track of the distractions in the back of his mind. Every fifteen minutes or so, give or take about ten, someone poked their head in his room, saw that he was there, and made a mark on the clipboard they carried. Mostly he was able to ignore them. Nobody spoke to him again until several hours later, when a petite girl wearing scrubs and badge that said her name was Michelle informed him it was time for supper. He set his pen down and ventured out of the room. He could smell food, and his stomach growled, reminding him how long it had been since he had eaten a proper meal. He reached the common room, where they were handing out trays.

"Barnes, James Barnes," the girl by the tray cart read off.

"Here," he said quietly, coming up next to her. She jumped as if she hadn't noticed him before he was beside her, and held his tray out. He took it with a frown. Some kind of meat, mashed potatoes with what he assumed was gravy over the top. Green beans. Pudding. Plastic cutlery. Institutional food at its finest. But he was in no position to be picky, and he was hungry. There were only a few tables available, and most of them were already occupied. Some of the other patients were eating on the seats in front of the television, the trays balanced on their laps. There were a few seats in the far corner that remained empty. He chose one in the middle, putting as much space as he could between himself and everyone else. He had just started to eat when someone abruptly plopped down in the seat right next to his. A woman who appeared to be in her early to mid twenties grinned at him speculatively, though there was a slightly unstable gleam in her eyes that made him even more uncomfortable than her proximity did.

"Hi, I'm Megan," she introduced herself, though she didn't stop to hear what his name was before rambling on. "You're cute. Way cuter than most of the people here. Do you have a girlfriend? I have a boyfriend, but we're kind of broken up right now. We had a fight on the phone a couple hours ago and he still hasn't called me back. I hate it when he doesn't call back, you know? Like, he knows I'm bipolar but he still picks these fights with me over really stupid things, like me calling his mom a bitch, and then we fight on the phone and I hang up on him but he's supposed to call me back so we can work it out, you know? But he hasn't yet so I guess we're broken up for now. Maybe he'll call back tomorrow. But anyways, maybe you and I could…" Her words came tumbling out, almost seeming to trip over each other in their haste to be heard, and he wasn't certain that she had even paused to take a breath. She was leaning against him, practically sitting in his lap, and he suddenly decided that it was a much better idea to eat his tray in his room, where it was quiet. Standing up, he exited the dayroom. He could still hear her chattering behind him, as if he hadn't even left.

He'd half expected to get in trouble for bringing his food to his room, but they didn't say anything about it to him, and just collected the empty tray after he was done. He went back to writing in the journal. A couple times, one of the staff poked their head into his room and mentioned a group that was going on, but he didn't much feel like leaving the relative safety and peace of his room. There was no clock here, but eventually the noises in the hall and on the unit tapered off, and he decided it was time to sleep. He lay in bed for a long time, staring up at the ceiling and pondering what his life had become. Eventually, sleep came.