Archive of Our Own ^beta

The ride to Sharon’s is a blur of twisting streets and neon lights. By the time they arrive the adrenaline has begun to ebb and Bucky is starting to feel a little sick, the place where vibranium arm meets skin aching. It's not a new sensation, every high has its fallout, and today has been...a lot. He can feel the old muscle memory still thrumming through his body, the familiar rhythm of blood and bones and death. It left him feeling shaken and hollow. This was all much easier as the Winter Soldier. There had never been time to think, to feel the repercussions of the battle’s he’d fought, or if there was, he couldn't remember it. Now he just wants to be anywhere but here.

Sam’s been watching him out of the corner of his eye since the bar fight and it’s starting to get on Bucky’s nerves.

‘Don’t break cover.’ Zemo had told them, and he’d been right. But Bucky can’t seem to shake how easy it had all been, like shrugging on a well worn coat. Sam can see it, damn him, the man is too observant for his own good. He hasn’t said anything yet though, with any luck he’ll just let the issue drop, Bucky wouldn’t even know how to begin explaining that he’s fine.

They make it to Sharon’s place without incident, and after a brief introduction she ushers them into a room with a surprisingly well stocked closet.

“Get changed.” Sharon says, “I have guests coming in an hour.” Then leaves them to it. Bucky knows they’re going to need to unpack whatever the hell is happening with her soon, but he’s too fried at the moment.

Zemo moves to the racks of suits immediately and begins sifting through them, humming softly to himself.

Bucky contemplates the clothes in front of him with sinking dread. He’s just so damn tired. But it has to be done, they aren’t finished yet. Slowly he unzips the leather jacket and shrugs it off, making a face as his shoulder pulls uncomfortably. Across the room Sam makes a startled sound.

“What is that?!” Sam’s voice is sharp and worried and Bucky’s pulse begins to pound as he tenses for action.

“What?” he snaps, eyes scanning the room and seeing nothing out of place.

“That Bucky.” Sam says, but he’s already crossing the space between them and reaching for the hem of Bucky’s shirt. For one wild moment Bucky’s mind spins at the possibilities, then he glances down and catches sight of the strip of his skin between his shirt and belt, the left side of which is streaked with blood.

“Oh.” He says.

“OH?” Sam echo’s, his voice tight with something not quite anger. “Is that yours? What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know.” Its the truth, he has no memory of being hit. It explains why his shoulder has been hurting though…

“You don’t--let me see.” Sam has his fingers bunched in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt, his skin is cold to the touch.

“Sam it’s fine.” Bucky tries to say, but the other man is persistent. For a second they both struggle with the shirt, one to pull it off, one to keep it on, then with a sigh Bucky swats Sam’s hands away. He takes a step back, feeling flushed and unsettled, his shoulder throbbing in earnest now. Sam lets him go but crosses his arms, scowling.

“Bucky, take the damn shirt off.” Sam’s face is all angles and lines and displeasure and Bucky feels his own irritation rising to meet it. Who the hell is Sam Wilson to be ordering him around like this? He feels like just turning around and walking out, but then he catches a glimpse of Zemo over Sam’s shoulder, watching them with something like amusement. Fucking creep.

“Fine.” Bucky grinds out, better to just get this over with, he’s tired of being a side show exhibit every second of his life. He pulls the black tee over his head, only just managing not to let the grunt of pain slide past his lips. The fabric of his shirt is damp with what he’d assumed was sweat but now his hand comes away red. That’s admittedly, not great. He tosses the garment onto the floor and glances down but before he can even process exactly what he’s looking at, Sam is back up in his space, brow crinkled in concern as he takes in the damage.

“Shit Buck.” He says, voice softening. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?”

The gouge under his left collarbone is long and deep and still sluggishly weeping blood, his torso streaked with the stuff. It's only when he sees it that he has a vague recollection. The fight in the bar. One of them had come at him with a knife. He’d thought it had deflected off his metal shoulder, but it must have skittered right, sliced through his jacket without his notice. That sucks, it's a good jacket.

“I didn’t realize.” He says vaguely, his voice sounds strained to his own ears.

He really shouldn’t be surprised, the entire fight had been a howling frantic struggle trapped inside a void as smooth as glass. The empty, easy rhythm of the Soldier so close, so tantalizing, and the screaming panic in the back of his mind, don’t kill, don’t kill, don’t kill. Not unless you have to. Only if you must. The Soldier could always see the weak points, he was a master at sliding in through the smallest of gaps to land the killing blow. It was so much harder to ignore the kill shot and find another way to put an attacker down, but not out. It took every ounce of his concentration sometimes to keep from ending a life. Tonight it would have been easier than breathing, easier than it’s been in months. His focus had been split from the beginning. No wonder he slipped up. What happens next time? When he can’t keep the leash on the darkness any longer?

“Bucky?” Sam’s voice echoes from a million miles away. “Hey, you with me?” A hand lands on his right arm and he can’t keep himself from flinching back.

“Sorry.” Sam breaths, and Bucky finally drags his eyes up to meet the other man’s gaze. Sam’s face is pinched with worry, but as soon as he sees Bucky looking at him he smooths his expression into a wry smile.

“You’re a mess, you know that?’ He says, and there’s an edge of fondness in his voice that Bucky knows he hasn’t earned. “Come on, let’s clean you up so you don’t bleed all over Sharon’s fancy upholstery.” He walks off without looking to see if Bucky will follow. Bucky does. Zemo watches them go without comment.

There’s a bathroom just down the hall, all black marble and chrome. Sam is already digging through the drawers when he arrives.

“Sit.” He says, waving Bucky toward the edge of the clawfoot tub and Bucky acquiesces without saying anything. It's quiet for a few minutes while Sam cobbles together a first aid kit. The porcelain of the tub’s edge is cool under his hands.

“It's really ok.” He says at last. “Super Soldier, remember? It’s already healing.” It is, he can feel a deeply unpleasant itching sensation beginning to spread through his upper chest.

“Yeah. Well.” Sam says, turning toward him with his hands full of alcohol and cotton balls. “Let’s clean it up anyway, that bar was disgusting.” It's hard to argue with that and Bucky really isn’t feeling up to another fight so he let’s Sam fill the space before him, the sharp astringent smell of rubbing alcohol stinging his nose. Sam waits until Bucky is looking at him before raising one eyebrow, asking for permission, he’s always doing that, reminding Bucky he has a choice. Bucky nods, his throat too tight and Sam gets to work. It stings enough and he’s tired enough that he has to look away as Sam cleans the wound.

“I’m sorry Bucky.” Sam says, his voice low and steady, his hands careful.

“I’ve had worse.” Bucky huffs out, and it shouldn't be funny maybe, but it is.

“I mean all of it.” Sam says quietly. When Bucky looks up he finds Sam looking at him with serious eyes. “Zemo shouldn’t have asked that of you.” he says. “I shouldn’t have gone along.”

It takes him by surprise, he’s not used to people considering his wellbeing in their plans, even after all this time.

“Its fine.” he says, even though they both know it isn’t true. “But thanks.” Sam holds his gaze for a long moment and Bucky is suddenly, painfully, aware of how close they are, Sam’s fingers still warm on his skin, its all becoming too much and Bucky can’t stop the shaky breath that escapes his lips. Whatever spell is holding them in that moment shatters and Sam blinks once before studiously turning his attention to the flimsy adhesive bandages he’d found, gently pressing them to Bucky’s skin.

“I’d rather stitch this up.” he says, “It’ll scar.”

“Probably not.” Bucky says, and he is both relieved and bereft when Sam steps away and begins to clean up.

“Right.” Sam laughs, and if its a little strained, well neither of them are exactly in top form. “Super Soldier.” There’s an awkward beat and then Bucky pushes himself up off the tub with a grunt.

“I should go change.” He says, suddenly reluctant to leave, which is ridiculous. Its cold in here anyway.

“Yeah.” Says Sam, not looking at him, sweeping discarded bloody gauze into the trash can. “Right behind you.” He doesn’t seem inclined to leave anytime soon though so Bucky moves past him to the door then hesitates.

“Thanks.” He says quietly, feeling the inadequacy of the word. Sam doesn’t turn around, but he meets Bucky’s eyes in the mirror.

“Anytime Buck.” He says, and there’s such sincerity in his voice Bucky can’t help the little flair of warmth that blooms in his chest. That’s almost certainly trouble though so better to just ignore it. He gives Sam a stiff nod then heads back to the other room. He’s almost fully changed by the time Sam reappears, and even though there’s no reason for it to be weird, he’s relieved when Sharon shows back up to distract them all.

They still have a long night ahead of them, and Bucky can’t afford to be focused on anything except the end goal. Still, when Sam comes to stand in front of him and offer him a hand up off the plush yellow couch Bucky accepts. Maybe, he tells himself, they’re going to make it through this after all. Probably not. But maybe.

Its enough for now.