Disclaimer: I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Artie.
17. Recovery
Artie's eyes slowly cracked open and were greeted with the sight of a hospital room. Monitors were beeping, the lights were bright, and the room smelled sterile. The scent instinctively caused her nose to crinkle in distaste. Her eyes slammed back shut to block out the light. She hated the smell of hospitals. It was too sterile. It made her feel like the building was unlived in and, to her, that was the scent she would fear the death would smell like. It was a cold kind of smell that stung the nose, and it made her face scrunch up whenever she stepped into a hospital. It made her feel uncomfortable; like she was trapped and unable to protect herself. She believed it was her time spent in Schmidt's captivity that made her feel such a way. Because the room she had been confined in had smelled like sterilized metal and the cold of the mountain the facility was hidden in. It was a smell that she hated waking up to.
There was an unignorable soreness in the back of her throat, as though something had scraped against it. Not only that, but her mouth was dry, uncomfortably so. The fabric beneath her hands was scratchy and paper-thin; it was a blanket, which tightly encased her body and seemed to discourage movement. Artie groaned quietly, a hand rising to touch her ribs, which ached, but not as bad as she remembered them aching.
"You're awake! Oh, thank god, you're awake," exhaled a relieved voice.
There was a sudden pressure against her forehead, which tempted a small sound from her. What felt like a hand cupped her cheek, the pressure returning to her forehead a second time––a kiss.
"S'that you, Ken…?" Artie slurred, the muscles in her face heavy. The short stint of speech was followed by a cough, which caused a swell of aching. But it wasn't as sharp or debilitating as she had remembered it being.
"Yes, it's me, Artie, it's me…"
Artie pried her eyes open, and, sure enough, was greeted by the sight of her brother, leaning over her with concern pinching the space between his brows. His eyes were glassy with tears and the most blissfully relieved smile was pulled across his lips. Groggily, she noticed a tear roll along his face.
"S'okay, Ken… I'm okay… I think…"
"You are, you're doing just fine." Kenny seated himself in a chair beside the bed, and his hand found hers. He squeezed it incredibly tightly for a moment, just staring at her like he wanted to memorize every bit of her. There was a smile on his face, one that crinkled the corners of his teary eyes. Artie grimaced at the feel of her throat, which was unignorable at that point. She weakly gestured towards her throat with a floppy hand.
"Water… s'there water?" she croaked out.
Just as Kenny scrambled to fill a cup with water, which sat in a pitcher on a rolling side table, Artie's eyes slipped closed again. It felt like she was about to fall asleep again, but the feel of a cup being pressed into her palm woke her back up. It was a flimsy thing, brown in color and too small. Artie brought the cup to her lips, and tilted it back, the water passing between––and over––her lips. Some of it dribbled over her chin and onto the top of her hospital gown; she made a displeased sound, but thankfully gulped down the rest of the water.
"They brought you in, and you were barely breathing. Your skin had gone blue… thought I was gonna lose you for good this time," Kenny told her, taking hold of her hand again. Artie squeezed his fingers as much as she could, as her own were stiff from disuse. Her joints creaked as they squeezed.
"Can't get rid 'f me that easily," she promised groggily.
Kenny snorted and shook his head, crowding himself closer to the edge of the bed. "Someone certainly tried." There was a beat before Artie felt him lift her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. "I love you, Artemesia."
The corners of her mouth quirked up. "Love you too, Kenny."
"Had us all scared to death when we couldn't find you," he informed, tone light, though it was clear from his expression that he was telling the truth.
"Now be honest with me, Ken…" Artie weakly gestured upwards again, like she had when asking for water. "How bad is my hair?"
The laugh that Kenny laughed was a little wheezy, but amused and light. It caused a warmth to grow in her chest, a comfort that was much welcomed. It was what she wanted out of him, to make him feel something other than worry. "You were always quite particular about your hair… it looks better now that it's been brushed; looked like a rat's nest when they found you."
Confusion crinkled her features, and she lifted her free hand to touch her head. Sure enough, her hair felt smooth and untangled around her shoulders. It was a limp and felt stringy, but it wasn't tangled at all. When last she'd seen or felt it, it had been a certifiable mess.
"Who brushed it?" she asked.
"Steve did. Once the doctor figured you might come out of anesthesia, he allowed us to come see you. Your hair was still a mess, and Steve didn't want you to be anymore uncomfortable than you were going to be. I think he bought a cheap brush from the gift shop. Was real sweet," Kenny explained. "Had to send him home to rest, he'd been up and awake for almost thirty-six hours by the time you were out of surgery. He put up a fight, though, wanted to be here when you woke up; your friend Sam convinced him he'd be no good to you dead on his feet."
Artie felt her eyes prickle, tears brimming at the corners. The hair brushing gesture was sweet; and in her just-awakened haze, the emotion behind it was almost overwhelming. Her fingers threaded through the bottom few inches of her hair. It hit her then just how much she'd feared she might not have seen him again. That every day in captivity she had tried to think of him less, so if things went south, the sting of losing him wouldn't have been as bad. How she had stopped thinking about everyone––Kenny, Sam, Natasha, everyone––in case it didn't end well for her. It caused her chest to clench tightly, painfully almost. She didn't realize that a tear had escaped the corner of her eye till Kenny spoke.
"Are you alright? Are you in pain?" he asked.
Artie cleared her throat and shook her head, dashing the tear away with a knuckle. "No, no, just, uh…"
"I can get the doctor." Kenny was already up and out of his chair, concern gripping him.
"No, Ken, really––"
"I'm getting the doctor." He was out the door before she could say anything else.
"––I'm fine," she finished under her breath. But a smile quirked at one corner of her mouth, fond and gentle. Kenny's concern warmed her heart. Family meant so much to him, and Artie could only imagine the worried pains that he'd put himself through while she'd been missing.
One of her hands rose to massage the bridge of her nose, her thumb and second finger stretching out to rub the corners of her eyes. There was a slight pull at the skin on the back of her hand. With the tightening of her jaw, Artie became keenly aware of that sensation––the sensation of a needle inserted under her skin. A long, steadying breath escaped her mouth, actively reminding herself that the needle was attached to an I.V., and that it was there to help, not to harm. But, regardless, she lowered her hand without stealing a glance at the needle. That hand rested atop the bed and scratchy sheets with fingers stiff and splayed, subconsciously afraid that one wrong move would rip the needle right out of her skin.
There was a click as the door to the room opened. The first thing that Artie noted wasn't the doctor that stepped through, it was the two armed guards standing outside the door. They were dressed all in black and posted at either side of the door. Her brows furrowed slightly, but her attention was drawn suddenly to the man who had entered the room.
"Your brother mentioned that you were hurting?" he asked, approaching the bed. He sat himself on the stool that Kenny had previously occupied; there was a furrow to his brows, as though concerned, but there seemed to be more inquiry in his gaze than worry.
Artie waved a hand dismissively. "It's just an ache, he's just overly concerned. I'm fine."
The doctor placed a clipboard he'd been holding on the side table and brought his hands to clasp and hang between his knees. He appeared young, though his hair was greying at the temples, a look that altogether suited him well. The furrow between his brows lifted as they rose towards his hairline.
"You don't need any more pain medication?"
"I think I should be fine."
The doctor turned to the monitors positioned just beside the bed, eyes dancing over vital signs and readings. "Vitals are good… Everything seems normal… But don't hesitate to mention if you need any. I've been told you can be quite stubborn," he informed, the startings of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Artie snorted gently, though it caused another swell of aching in her ribs; she could just picture Kenny issuing the warning. The doctor beamed a closed lipped, but still incredibly bright, smile at her; he offered a hand for her to shake. "I'm Dr. Strange, I was your attending surgeon."
Artie accepted the handshake, bobbing her head in greeting. "Artemesia Knoll. Pleasure to meet you, Doctor."
"They flew you all the way to New York for me to operate on you. You are a very special woman," he teased with a smug smile and a wink. She smirked and offered a tired laugh. Her face twisted a little at the stiffness in her ribs.
"You must be a very special surgeon," she replied.
"I am."
Art arched her brows a little at the self-affirming response. It came off cocky, almost. But there was an almost strange sort of charm about it. It became clear very quickly that this man knew that he was good at what he did; and he was not shy about talking about it. She quirked an eyebrow and cocked her head to the side.
"Well, you've gotta be if you got me all fixed up. I can't imagine I'm the easiest patient to operate on."
Strange chuckled, head bobbing in agreement. "The rapid healing, while truly remarkable, did prove to make things more difficult than usual; but I was more than up to the challenge." This was said with a proud smile, which crinkled the corners of his eyes. He snagged his clipboard off the table and skimmed the information on the front page. "Three broken ribs, punctured lung… your tissue was pretty beaten up, bruised pretty badly. It's an honest to god miracle that you lived with those injuries for two weeks."
"Yeah…" she agreed quietly.
Strange held an incredibly steady hand over her ribcage, as though visualizing what he'd worked on. "Pieces of your broken ribs had punctured your lung, which healed around those pieces––again, truly remarkable… Your body healed wrong to save you. Unfortunately this meant that any time you moved in just the right way, the tissue would rip again and the healing process restarted. The surgery took longer than typical, but I reset your ribs and patched up that hole in your lungs."
"So I'm guessing I should refrain from getting into anymore fights?" Artie joked wryly. A smirk crawled across the doctor's face. He bobbed his head in a nod and dropped his hand back into his lap.
"It would be to your benefit, yes," he chuckled. Both his brows arched inquiringly, then. "Do you have any other questions for me?"
Artie furrowed her brows and tried to sift through the mess of thoughts in her head. Eventually, she shook her head and pressed her fingers against her eyes. "Not at the moment. Brain's still… fuzzy."
"Perfectly understandable. But, should you have any questions later…" Strange dipped his hand into the singular pocket situated over his heart. He extracted a small rectangular card, pinched it between steady fingers, and proffered it to the bed-ridden soldier. "Don't hesitate to make a call."
Artie reached up and took possession of it; it was his business card, which stated two phone numbers, his full name, and his specialty. He was a neurosurgeon. Art could feel the heat leave her cheeks. If he was a neurosurgeon, that meant he operated on the brain. Her teeth sank into her lip and she glanced up at the beaming, self-confident surgeon stood beside her. The brain––specifically hers––was a sensitive subject. What with Loki having played around with it like a cat with a catnip mouse; and the newfound information regarding HYDRA having tried to brainwash her, turn her into a Winter Soldier replica. Art cleared her throat and flashed a not-so-convincing smile.
"I, uh, actually do have one for you right now––neurosurgeon?" She flipped the card around so he could see the text written on it. Strange either didn't notice the worry on her face or chose to ignore it. Instead, he laughed and waved a hand.
"I specialize in neurosurgery, though I am a rather accomplished general surgeon as well. When I had Tony Stark's people calling me at my office, I couldn't really say no. You were a special case––you're Lieutenant Liberty for god's sake! So, don't worry," he winked playfully, "I didn't tamper with your brain."
Art toyed with the business card and tapped it against her blanket clad leg. She considered the words typed out on the cardstock and pursed her lips. Strange was still standing at her bedside, his attention focused on the clipboard in his hand.
"The problem is, Dr. Strange… people already have," Art told him, a concerned crease forming between her brow. Strange looked up from the files, letting the papers flop back into place slowly. He puckered his lips and narrowed his eyes curiously. "And… Um… Since you specialize in… brains… if I were to call on you to have some tests done…" The question was implied, not spoken. Slowly, the surgeon began to nod.
Strange took the card from her hand, extracted a pen from his breast pocket, and scrawled something across the blank side of the cardstock. "This… is my assistant's number. Her name is Emily Fairchild; if you call her, you'll get to me faster than if you call the office phone. Any tests you want to have done, I'll be happy to consider. I'm sure I'll be able to answer any questions you may have."
"I hope so…" Artie muttered, taking the card back. She stared down at the handwritten phone number, thumb ghosting over the last few digits.
"Now I think I'll leave you to rest some more. If you need anything, press the call button and a nurse should stop in. Oh, your brother is out in the waiting room; I'll let him know that he can pop back in."
"Thank you again, Dr. Strange. For everything."
"You're very welcome."
OOOO
Steve was worried.
Kenny had called––and left a voicemail when Steve had turned out to be asleep––to let him know that Artie was awake. That she was bleary and barely coherent, but she was awake. That, in itself, was a relief. The state that they'd found Artie in had not been favorable; she'd been bloodied, bruised, and barely breathing. The prevailing theory was that someone from HYDRA had snatched her up and dragged her off; and from that theory, the worry was born. They'd all seen what HYDRA had done to Bucky––addled his brain, edited his memories, deleted who he had been. And if they had been intending to do that to Artie, who was to say that in the nearly two weeks she'd been missing, they hadn't succeeded? Kenny had mentioned that she wasn't terribly coherent upon waking up. He hadn't elaborated, and had, instead, insisted that Steve return to the hospital as soon as he woke up from his nap. That was enough to intensify Steve's worry.
Steve stood outside Artie's hospital room door, staring at it like it was one of the most dangerous obstacles he'd ever faced. Because he didn't know what he'd do if he opened that door and found a cold, vacant expression staring at him. He didn't know how he would react if the woman he loved had become HYDRA's play-thing. It had torn his heart asunder when they'd realized Bucky was alive, though forever changed; he was sure it would shatter if that fate had befallen Artie. So, when he opened the door, he did it fast, like he was tearing a bandaid off a papercut. When the door had opened, Artie––who was reclined in bed––snapped her attention towards it in an almost defensive manner. That defensiveness had tensed her shoulders and caged her fingers over the blankets, as though searching for the gun usually strapped there. Her expression was tense, nearly wild with frantic anticipation. This froze Steve. It caused his heart to lurch.
"Artie?" he asked slowly, eyes lingering on where her hand had tensed against her thigh.
That hand suddenly slackened. Her expression softened drastically, brows scrunching together upon meeting Steve's gaze. The tension that had seized her body suddenly disappeared and let her muscles fall slack. Her face crinkled in exhaustion and a trembling breath tumbled from between her lips.
"Steve," she breathed, voice croaky and tired.
No words were exchanged as he approached the bed and perched himself on the edge of it There was nothing more that he wanted to do than scoop her into his arms and hold her as tight as he dared. But he couldn't do that. Not with her injuries. So Steve bent forward and pressed a fierce kiss to her lips. His brows scrunched together over closed eyes as he tried to convey every emotion through that kiss. The fear, the relief, the love. It was all so overwhelming and there was no possible way to express it all. But he felt Artie's hand come to cup his cheek, which he clasped there, almost desperately. When Steve broke the kiss, he pressed his forehead against hers, his thumb sweeping across the back of her hand, careful to not dislodge the I.V. needle.
"You scared me," Steve breathed.
"I know," Artie replied, voice watery.
Steve drew back far enough to press a firm kiss against her forehead. He still grasped her hand in his own, her fingers grasping right back. "I thought I wouldn't be able to find you."
There was sniffling, and when Steve opened his eyes and sat back, there were tears on Artie's cheeks. He was quick to wick them away with a knuckle. He smiled down at her gently, eyes roaming over the face that he thought he might not see again. Artie looked a world better than when she'd been brought in. Her skin was a normal pallor, for one, and the tired bruising under her eyes had seemed to have lightened up. She smiled up at him tearily and shifted restlessly in her bed.
"But you did."
"I tried. You're the one that made that call."
"Yeah, but you're the one who got to me," she pointed out.
Steve looked down at their clasped hands and brought hers up to his mouth. He pressed a kiss just below the swath of medical tape that held the needle in place. He then kissed several of his knuckles, a crinkle forming between his eyebrows. The gesture was almost reverent, and, from the corner of his eye, he could see Artie staring at him in what could almost be described as bewilderment.
"When I got to you… I thought you were dead," he admitted solemnly. He didn't meet her eyes, he just started at her hand, gently running his thumb across war-scarred skin. "You were draped over that bench like a broken doll. I couldn't tell if you were breathing. There was blood at the corner of your mouth. Your skin was turning blue. I thought I'd lost you…"
With a slight pull on his hand, Artie brought it to her lips. She grazed a kiss against his fingers, so light it almost tickled, and then nuzzled her cheek against it. "But you didn't." Steve nodded and sniffed, hoping to keep the onslaught of tears that stung at his eyes at bay. A smile briefly pulled across his face, before it dropped. The first tear fell, hot and fast, down the length of his cheek. He heard Artie tut and felt her drop his hand. That hand appeared at his cheek and swiped at the trail of wetness. "None of that, I'm still kicking. I'll be up and about before you know it."
Steve smiled crookedly and laughed under his breath. He looked up at her from under his lashes and clasped her hand beneath his again. "Don't be dashing around on your feet too soon, we don't want you back in this hospital bed." Artie laughed, though gently and softly, likely trying not to cause herself any pain. Everything was quiet for a moment, Steve bringing their hands to rest comfortably in his lap. "I love you."
"I love you, too," she replied, giving his hand a squeeze.
"How do you feel?"
Artie shrugged and shifted in the bed a little uncomfortably. "Sore, but in significantly less pain that I'd been in." She sighed and dropped her head back against the pillows, which puffed out around her head. "I don't think I've ever felt so continually exhausted. Every move I made was excruciating, and I felt like passing out half the time. Breathing hurt. Coughed up enough blood to give someone a transfusion…"
A furrow formed between Steve's brows as he considered the image her words presented. The image of her in pain, painted on a black backdrop of mystery. When they'd found her on that bench in Baltimore, it was clear that she hadn't just been sitting there for two weeks. She'd stumbled there from somewhere else, but where they hadn't been able to determine. The man whose phone Artie had called them on said she'd come out of nowhere. Shuffled down the path and fell onto the bench. Where she had come from was a mystery, how she had got to Maryland was a mystery. It was clear that she had been in no kind of condition that would have allowed her to get to a different state––be it by foot, car, or bus.
"How did you end up in Baltimore?" Steve asked. "It's almost forty miles from Washington, we can't figure out how you got there."
The gentle smile on Artie's face faded, and she turned her head away slightly. Her gaze became distant, like she was recalling previous events. A glassiness returned to her eyes and she wet her lips with a quick dart of her tongue. Her silence worried Steve. His immediate guess was that HYDRA had gotten to her and dragged her off somewhere. He worried that they'd done something to her, but the doctor had said that the only injuries or ailments she had were the broken ribs and punctured lung. There was no evidence––through x-ray or otherwise––that anything else had been done to her. But Steve's worries still persisted, and the almost pained look on Artie's face did nothing to quell it.
"Bucky," was all she said. Steve felt the beating of his heart freeze briefly, expression sobering. "He, uh… said that he dragged me from the river. Took me away. He kept me in some kind of… old safe house."
Steve asked the question that he had to ask. "He didn't hurt you, did he?" The Bucky that they'd been reacquainted with was not the one that they'd known. He had cold eyes and a mechanical manner about him. HYDRA had messed with his head so awfully that he lived to do their bidding. It was a painful question to ask, but it was necessary. Much to his relief, however, Artie shook her head.
"He didn't hurt me once we were in Baltimore. He helped, actually, just a little bit. Practically carried me to the bathroom three times a day. Gave me food, water, medicine…"
Steve stared at Artie with parted lips and wide eyes. Bucky had saved her from the Potomac. He'd taken her to Baltimore. The doctor had mentioned that it looked like, at one point, someone might have tried to set her ribs; a rudimentary process had clearly been taken, and it was likely they'd just wrapped bandages around her stomach. But someone had done something––and that someone had to have been Bucky.
Those thoughts were intruded on by a squeeze of his fingers; Artie had closed her grasp around them, drawing his attention back to her. A breathless, teary kind of smile appeared on her lips, eyebrows furrowed over glassy eyes. "He started to remember, Steve. Bits of things––scraps of memories, tiny details, but he was remembering. That's why he kidnapped me… to help him remember…"
"Bucky remembered you?" Steve asked quietly. She nodded, a thumb sweeping over his knuckles. "Did… did he remember me?"
"He was starting to, yeah. Whatever HYDRA did to him… it was vicious. It's like he's trying to piece a life together out of torn photographs. He's only got partial glimpses, but he knows they make something bigger; and it's frustrating him that he can't remember."
Steve nodded, a grim look pulling at his brows and lips. He thought of the look on Bucky's face when he said the words 'till the end of the line.' Thought of the shocked horror that had flitted through his eyes, that had halted the last blow. A strange sense of melancholy relief swept through Steve; if he was remembering, that meant that they could get him back. But it also meant that something very awful had happened to him––something to make the memories of his life look like torn photographs.
"Where is he now?" Steve asked. His voice was almost a whisper, faintly reminiscent and gently hopeful that there was an answer.
Almost helplessly, Art shrugged, sighing quietly. "I don't know. I… woke up and Bucky was gone. It was like he'd never been there––all his things were gone."
They were quiet for a moment, the information sinking in for Steve slowly. They had to find him. Or keep tabs on him some how; HYDRA had had its fingers deep in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s system, and he wasn't dumb––there were bound to still be branches of it out there. And, surely, they would be looking for their greatest weapon. But that was a bigger issue that they needed to parse out carefully. And it wasn't time to discuss that, not while Artie was in the hospital.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, didn't it?" Artie asked. She jutted her chin towards the door. "The men standing guard outside don't have S.H.I.E.L.D. insignias on their uniforms." Steve nodded to confirm her suspicions. It was quiet for a moment. Artie's gaze became mildly distant and she started to drum her fingers. "But HYDRA is bound to have other cells out there; if they've stuck around since the forties, they've gotta have other networks. We're gonna have to figure out a way to track them down, how to––"
"Yes, we will have to, but not now," Steve said firmly. No captain voice, just firm. He knew that Artie overworked herself and often put others before herself and her own well-being; and he wasn't going to let that jeopardize her recovery process. "You need to focus on getting better. HYDRA is gonna be slipping back into their respective holes, and they're gonna be hiding out for a while. And while they're hiding, you are going to be healing."
The corners of Artie's mouth pulled downwards briefly, as though she were about to contest the request. But then Steve raised his eyebrows pointedly––a reminder that she wouldn't be able to do anything from a hospital bed. Her lips rose into the smallest of smiles. She squeezed his fingers again and sighed through her nose.
"Is that an order?" she asked, a tired playfulness in her voice.
Steve chuckled, smiling down at their clasped hands. He looked up at her with a charming curl to the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, it is."
"Well, I can't disobey orders, so I guess I'll listen. Besides, hospital jello isn't too bad. I'll see if they'll give you a bowl."
OOOO
Smithsonian, Washington D.C.
There were too many people for his liking.
There were too many people that could potentially recognize Bucky, now that his face had been plastered across televisions across the nation. Across the globe. People buzzed around him, moving from artifact to artifact in order to drink in what information they craved. It would seem that the exhibit on Captain America and Lieutenant Liberty, especially in light of what had just happened, was of particular interest. It was a risk for Bucky to go, but it was something that Bucky not only needed to do, but wanted to do. It was the first time in his current state of memory that he could ever recall wanting to do something. So he braved the crowds with a baseball cap pulled low over his face, and hoped that no one would look too closely.
With both hands shoved into the pockets of a non-descript grey jacket, the collar of which was up-turned, Bucky slowly made his way through the exhibit. His eyes drank in every word on every wall, lingered on every face in every photograph. Pangs of recognition thumped deep in his chest, just as they had when Artie had regaled him with story after story. The recognition was foggy, like he was remembering something obscured in fog. Bucky––who was still getting used to the fact that was his name––stood before a pane of glass, on which was frosted an image of himself. Younger. Innocent enough for there to be fear behind his eyes, but battle hardened enough for those same eyes to be guarded. His hair was shorn short, but it was messy, possibly from the wind. It was the picture of a man with a life and with memories. Someone who didn't know the horrors that were going to happen to him. The image stirred something in his chest; it felt like something––or, more aptly, someone––was trying to burst forth and break free.
Best friends since childhood, James Buchanan Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable, on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes and Knoll, who met in basic training and rose to the rank of sergeant side-by-side, were equally as inseparable. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service to his country.
The only one to give his life.
And there was an acrid twist in his stomach at that sentence; for while Bucky Barnes was, indeed, alive, his life really had been taken in the process. He'd lost all these memories, the ones frosted into glass, that lived in the memories of Artemesia Knoll and Steven Rogers. Ones that thousands of strangers knew, but he didn't. His life had been taken from him. All he was left with flashes of memories, fragments––a skinner, smaller Steve stumbling out of an alley with a black eye and a bloody nose, Artie half-covered in mud and yelling at him to stop being a 'fat-head,' gunfire cracking through a misty forest.
Bucky stared at the image of himself for what was probably longer than was typical. People would step up beside him, read, then walk away, and there he would remain. Eventually, he turned away and wandered to the next glass panel. He spent an ample amount of time reading about his own life, jotting notes down on a small notepad that had been hidden away in his pocket. He had taken Artie's advice, followed her lead. Bucky had come to realize that there wouldn't be a keystone of information that would send the floodgates open. So he gathered up facts that he hoped would help him piece everything together bit-by-bit. He'd practically filled the notepad with how much he'd been copying down from the exhibit. If he didn't remember his life immediately, he'd just memorize it like a mission brief till he did.
There was one artifact that he passed by that caught his attention so suddenly, it nearly gave him whiplash. Housed in a glass box atop a podium was a letter. His eyes fell to the information plaque inside the case, his lips parting slightly upon reading what it said:
A Letter from Sgt. James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes to Artemesia "Artie" Knoll
Copy graciously provided by Artemesia Knoll
It was an authentic copy of a letter that he no longer remembered writing, but certainly had. It was his handwriting. It looped the same way he wrote now, slanted at the same angle. Bucky's eyes jumped to the letter, reading over what it was he had written all those years ago…
Artie,
You know, I always thought that your idea of writing a letter for your loved ones in case you died was kind of macabre, but I think I see the point of it now. So, yeah, this makes you one of my loved ones. This is also the first letter I'm writing. And hopefully you'll never have to read it. Now I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to say, but… I guess I'll give it a shot.
After the first paragraph, Bucky's eyes went wide as he, quite suddenly, remembered. He remembered sitting out in the sun, basking in it, with Artie at his side as he wrote this letter to her. How she asked him who he was writing to, how he dismissed it, then playfully wrestled her to the ground. He remembered as he…
… looked down at the now sealed letter in his hands. It felt like it weighed a ton––but it was just paper and the tin of his spare set of dog-tags. Artie's name was scrawled across the front. Bucky pursed his lips as he considered its contents; the out-pouring of his heart and appreciation. Because as this war wore on, he came to realize just how important it was for one's loved ones to know that they were loved. He didn't tell Artie or Steve that he loved them enough. Hell, he wasn't sure he'd actually ever said it. He'd conveyed it in playful jabs, one-armed hugs, heart-felt compliments. But never exclusively said it.
Tears welled in Bucky's eyes as he considered the letter, and it's counterpart labeled with Steve's name. When Artie had told him that she had a stash of letters for her loved ones, he'd thought she was battle fatigued, shell-shocked. It was a crazy idea to him, writing for the possibility of one's own death. But then, suddenly, it made sense. That night they all went to the pub, with Artie all dolled up, with the whole team together––he knew why. Because it would be a damn shame to leave the people you loved without a word. Without getting to say that you loved them, appreciated them, wanted the best for them. So he'd done it. Wrote out letters for friends and family, stashed them away just in case. Death was a scary thing. He didn't want to die, not yet. But it was a price he signed up to potentially pay. It was the least he could do to make sure his loved ones knew he appreciated them.
There was a swish of the tent flaps.
"Y'know I've been looking for you all over camp?" It was Artie.
Bucky was quick to grab the letters and shove them into his rucksack. He glanced over his shoulder to find Artie arching her brows at him, shrugging off her olive-drab jacket. He cleared his throat and tried to shrug nonchalantly. "Sorry to go AWOL on you, pretty boy," he said. He gestured to his Commandos jacket, and pulled a smirk across his face. "Had to get dressed before my beautiful tent-mate required the space to change."
Artie rolled her eyes at him and then smiled. She slung her jacket down on her cot and started to work on the button of her trousers. "I've been changing in the same tent as you for years, Buck, I'm not shy."
"And that makes you one tough broad," he chuckled. Regardless of her claim, he looked down at the pistol in his hands and started to load it. They would be rolling out in a bit, ready to infiltrate Zola's train and wrestle him out of it. It should be an easy mission, so long as everything went to plan. Behind him, Bucky heard Artie let out a low, slow breath––something she did when she was anxious. With a click, Bucky loaded his pistol
"Nervous?" he asked.
Artie snorted. "Not particularly."
A shuddering breath fled from Bucky's mouth. He stared at the letter, eyes having filled with tears on their own accord. His fingers trembled in his pockets, shook worse as he fumbled to pull the notepad out of his pocket. The hand that cradled the pad was his metal one, which was bound up in bandages to hide the unnatural gleam. His flesh hand shook as he jotted down the memory with as much detail as he could. Bucky looked back up at the letter, at the heart-felt words he wrote––at how he'd signed it with 'all the love he possessed.' It rattled him. It reminded him that, yes, there had been a life before all the killing he'd done. Before all the missions he'd been put on. And it has been precious. So beautifully precious. It was memories like the one that had just come to him that made his drive to remember stronger.
It made the dog-tags around his neck, the ones he'd taken from Artie while she slept, heavier around his neck. He'd taken them as a reminder of what he was trying to get back to––the life he was trying to remember. And he was sure that, one day, Artie would get them back. But he needed them, now, just as she once had.
Bucky spent the remainder of the day at the exhibit copying down, word-for-word, everything he could off the exhibit panels. And when he left, he left with a pocket full of memories––and with some photographs, books, and recreation of Steve's dog-tag he'd liberated from the gift-shop.
Afterword: It's been a year, and I feel awful, but here's this chapter finally; I struggled with how to conclude this chapter. Originally it was going to be Artie leaving the hospital, but then it just… didn't work remotely as a closer. So I decided we'd have some time with Bucky, and that hit me with a good dose of writer's block, but here we finally are! Quarantine has really kicked my creative drive into gear. Got lots of spare time to take up.
I would also like to note that I am aware that Dr. Strange is just a neurosurgeon, but I fudged his medical degree a bit so I could include him. I figured if he's so brilliant and gifted, he's gotta have poured those talents into more than just neurosurgery. Bear with me as I bend a bit of the fiction! xD
Review Replies!
lydiavip: Steve would do anything in the world to get to Artie on time; if that man could've run to Baltimore, he would've! I'm having fun getting to write Bucky's internal conflict––maybe I'll even cut away to him now and again to see how he's getting on. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
weasleylover10: We got a Steve reunion AND a Kenny reunion this chapter! And next time… we get a Tony reunion. Will it be more emotional than one might think? Probably! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
BeccaSco: Bucky got away, but we'll see him again soonish. And we got a lovely little reunion between Steve and Artie and Kenny! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
Nina fo life: So, the reason why Artie wasn't healing up––her body would start to heal, but because of the extent of the injuries (punctured lung, broken bone), the wounds kept reopening, so the healing process kept starting over again. So it was like she was constantly being reinjured and having to start the healing process over. The reunions were so much fun to write; and I want more Steve and Kenny bonding time. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
LoveFiction: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
anonymouscsifan: Steve and Kenny bonding and getting closer is a great joy to write; 'cause they're already pretty close, but this'll bring them even closer together. Bucky definitely did the right thing in letting her go, even if the Winter Soldier programming told him not to. He's starting to fight back! I'm sorry to have left you hanging––and for so long––but I'm happy to be back! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
Natalie Jarrett: I write a lot of things simultaneously––so I've got this story going, one for BBC's Sherlock going, one for Star Wars, as well as one for Jurassic Park. It's a lot, but I love doing it. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
Henry: Thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
Lmv16: I'm happy that you found these stories and have been enjoying them! But I'm sorry it's been so long since I've updated. I love these characters, they just… end up being difficult to write, sometimes. Like I know the trajectory everything is going in, sometimes things just stall for a little bit. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
BlueGreen216: I'm really happy that you enjoy this story so much! Steve definitely was tentative about seeing her again, upon realizing that something real bad could've happened in her absence. And we'll probably even see people being tentative with her as she recovers. Artie told Steve about Bucky right quick––because knowing that he's kinda on the mend? That's good news for them. I'm excited for Age of Ultron! I've got loads of stuff planned, and a LOT of relationship development––mostly between Steve and Artie, but with a couple of other characters, too! I… adore the party scene. Adore it. It's nice to see them having fun and be kinda normal for a change––drinking beers, having fun, being playful. It shows that they're not just superheroes; they're people, too. I have plans for the worst nightmare scene, for both Artie and Steve, so buckle up!
As for a song, I do have one! OAR has a song called Peace, which, when I heard it, I immediately went––oh my god, it's them. Other popular picks from my playlist for this story (which I do have) are The Art of War by We The Kings, It's Been a Long, Long Time by Harry James and His Orchestra, and the Postmodern Jukebox cover of Still Into You. And, fun fact, I picture Artie loving the 40s playlist from Postmodern Jukebox, she'll play it around the apartment sometimes.
I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
Guest: There's more, there is! I just… hit a real bad stint of writer's block. But I've seem to have overcome it! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thank you for being so patient!
And thank you to all those who have added this to their favorites/follows; it means a lot!
We're now in the uncharted territory between WS and AoU. So we'll have leeway chapters, and I'll have to figure out what that includes. I've got some fun MCU cameos to pop in there… I love a good MCU cameo in this story, if you couldn't tell with Matt/Foggy/Dr. Strange. Thank you, again, for everyone being so patient! I've been wanting to get back into this story since I finally got to visit the National WWII Museum in NOLA this past August––I was struck with ideas, but couldn't get them down on paper. Thanks again,everyone!
~Mary