20th Century Limited
by Speranza a Stucky work
Chapters: 1/1 (52010 words) Fandom: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Additional Tags: Trains, Telepathy, Grand Central to the Grand Canyon, what are we to each other, 85 years, reality is full of elbows
Series: Part 1 of Speranza Sampler
Summary:
"Where am I? Where is this?" and he was in Brooklyn, he was on a beach, the train was shaking around him. He was in the plane, ice splintering up onto the windshield. He was in a tank, tubes trailing from his face, from his groin. Christ, he was cold. There was still ice on his fingers. He was in the Grand Canyon. He was in Times Square. This couldn't be Times Square. Where the hell was this? "Tell me! Where am I, who are you, where's—" —Bucky?
Snippet:
The asset shakes his head.
The man in the wide tie lets out a sigh; he looks almost petulant. "I haven't got time for this," he snaps at the doctors, who are crowding around him: Eyelid strength—normal. Eyelid function—normal. Visual function—normal. "I need him to do his goddamned job," but he won't do it; they can't make him; Steve wouldn't—Steve.
One of the doctors looks up unhappily. "Increased activity in the hippocampus; he's rerouting." They push him back into the chair and the clamps seize his arms. "We'll have to run him through the machine—"
The man interrupts, looks at his watch. "How long will that take?"
"Not long," the doctor replies. "He won't need any physical re-conditioning," and he has fierce and terrible deja vu: he has been here before, ten times, a hundred, and the metal circlet coming down around his head used to have a wet sponge in it but it doesn't anymore, and a computer system has replaced the thick white switches and knobs on the machine that controls what he remembers, and they can make him do things, they have already made him do things he doesn't remember, because he is nothing inside; a hollow man. He won't remember this, or any of it. This has all already happened. He bites down on the metal bit between his teeth, tears stinging his eyes as his soul rips apart—
"Eyelid strength—normal. Eyelid function—normal. Visual function—normal. Pupilary light reflexes—normal. Eye muscle movement—normal." A click, and the white light vanishes. Behind the doctors, a man in a suit, a wide-tie; blue with white dots. "Good to see you; you're looking well," and then, "How long till we're mission ready?"
The mumbled answer: "Not long, perhaps 45 minutes."
@speranza (@cesperanza) ♥♥♥
(A classic from an AO3 founder! @smlmsworld)
