He’s bound and restrained where he’s being held, a menace to not only himself but everyone he contacts. The programming that holds his consciousness in check is splintering slowly, destroying him from within, and all the Winter Soldier can do is fight uselessly against his restraints as he endures the agony of a shattering mind.
When he arrived he was a fearful figure, eyes as cold as the metal of his arm and the gun he gripped like a lifeline, but now he’s reduced to sitting in a chair, head bowed and suspicious eyes gazing out of a face that’s still superficially young, but looks haggard in this light. Stasis has taken its toll.
The commander feels it is wrong to simply stand before Barnes when the captive is in this state. Doctors and scientists are rushing around in a whirlwind of lab coats and clipboards, hooking up the Soldier to wires and tubes as the healing medicine begins to flow into his veins. Curing this will be an agonizingly slow process that takes weeks, if not months. Rebuilding a mind is not instantaneous procedure, nor is it an easy one. Nonetheless, Schmidt sorts his way through the hushed chatter and steps over wires and under cords until he’s in front of the figure in the chair.
He kneels, gloved hand outstretched, and lightly touches the man’s shoulder before pulling away again. For an instant, the Soldier’s eyes open slightly and his face softens into a tiny smile, a hidden corner of his mind recognizing the man in the leather coat.
Then he cries out and wrenches away and grimaces, every ounce and inch of his programming fighting against the touch, body straining against the restraints but he is useless. His hands clench weakly into fists and he slumps back against the chair, eyes squeezed shut, a defeated murmur leaving him. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I know who you are. Beneath the damage that has been done to you, I see your true identity. My—” He hesitates. “My Bucky.”
Written by - kommandanthydra -