( so it turns out that not all your problems go away with a presidential pardon.
bucky's been trying to make ends meet, scraping and picking up odd jobs for a local restaurant. immersing himself in normalcy as if rubbing shoulders with regular citizens is contagious; as if he could catch some semblance of a regular life if he just stayed near them long enough, followed the rules, talked to his stupid court-appointed therapist, and all-in-all tried his best to prove that his winter soldier days are long, long past.
but tonight, that past follows him home. it's not a gigantic alien invasion and it's not the end of the world, but it is this: the prickling between his shoulderblades, that familiar sawing on the edge of his nerves telling him that something is wrong. so move. faster. now. he breaks into a faster walk, his stride lengthening even as the shadows break into movement behind him.
anyone who tries to mug the winter soldier would be an idiot. but these aren't robbers, are they?
bucky looks at the approaching men, and notes the physical details in quick succession: military buzz-cuts; broad shoulders; their english is russian-accented. they might as well bark hail hydra at him when they come closer. he can guess what they want: it's him. recovering their prized asset.
it's the middle of the goddamned street in new york, but it's also past midnight. there aren't many civilians around to hear the crunch of bone as bucky slams one man into the wall; the staccato ping as he deflects some bullets with his arm and the fabric of his leather jacket rips; the howl of pain from the hydra operative as bucky snaps his hand. same shit, different day. and it's almost a relief: getting to cut loose, warm up these long-dormant muscles and hated instincts.
but he's outnumbered, and it's dark, and the twentieth bullet hits its mark. and then the twenty-first. the bullets lodge in his side and he jack-knifes over them, the breath driven out of him. another man uses some kind of goddamn high-tech taser on his metal arm and it short-circuits; it catches, the hinges creaking and the whole thing becomes dead weight hanging off his shoulder. by the time bucky ends the fight — and he ends it, hard, — he's stumbling and he can't move his arm. the sound of the gunshots still ringing through the neighbourhood.
he slumps against a brick wall, letting it prop him up.
you should call sam, he thinks. and then a second later: i will literally die before i call sam for help.
it's hyperbolic, sure. but he's gonna be okay. he thinks. or he's pretty sure. his healing is faster than the average human's. he just... needs to rest.
the thing he isn't counting on: the strawberry-blonde reporter, and the last man, coming in late to back up his buddies. )
a promise to herself, to check off every little god damn thing a man had told her not to do. it's foolish, she knows it is, knows that a chance to bite back at all of the chauvinists out there wouldn't really resolve to much more than a heightened chance at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. potentially putting herself in harms way for a point that'd never get across. hell's kitchen was full of those wrong places, and it's not so much that she has something to prove so much as it is her attempts to stubbornly paint a reality that isn't really there. one where a woman can walk home on the streets of manhattan, where she doesn't have to hold her breath between the halos of rusty-orange glaring down from the street lamps.
one where that .380 in the innermost pocket of her coat was nothing more than dead weight. unnecessary; just a precaution.
the clear coat of her fingertips finds the brisk steel of the barrel, arms crossed over her chest, thumbing over the safety the moment a shot resounds nearby, echo close and succinct enough that it feels as if it'd passed through her chest, rattled through flesh to the cage of her sternum where her heart lurches. breath fogs out before her, blonde strands tussling with the wind as she idles there, front of her heels teasing the crosswalk that'd land her no more than a block away from her apartment if she just kept going. and she should, tuck her head down and make it back to that tired building where scattered files and case notes wait for her in disarray on that kitchen table rather than inserting herself where she shouldn't.
but there's a howl in pain, a crippling sound that's swallowed by another succession of shots that seem to be the only catalyst limbs need to urge her toward the source. the moment she rounds the corner the mouth of that pistol sets it's sights on the male slouched up against the bricks, opposite hand lifting to support her wrist—and despite the tremor to her breath her aim is a hell of a lot steadier than it should be given the number of bodies scattered and unresponsive around her.
she does the math, hues flitting one by one over each of them and it doesn't take her long to realize that one of them is certainly not like the other. it's a safe bet who'd come with who, and almost as if directed by her gaze alone that gun's glare averts to the sound of approaching steps, boots meeting the quiet slap of puddles. it's evident that she's caught him off guard, taking a step closer the moment he so much as attempts to reach for his waistline. that tell tale hollow click sounds as she tabs the safety from it's place, encouraging him to take pause as tongue presses taut to the roof of her mouth. )
Walk away.
( it's spoken between her teeth, and a mocking chuckle rouses from him, eying the length of her figure, lingering on her heels before his sights drift back up to that pistol in her hands. ) You sure you know how to use that, милый? ( he raises his hands but he doesn't stop, drawing nearer in a calculative drawl of steps; calling her bluff.
her response comes with the shift of an eager trigger-finger, breath stammering, and that digit's just about to curl around that crescent piece when another shot speaks for her, coming from the man barely bracing himself upright against that wall behind her, and every bit of air within her lungs compresses with a single exhale. ) Shit.
( a swallow lodges in her throat, pressing off any acknowledgement of the tremor that's taken to her fingers as she crosses back towards him, tucking that gun into one of her pockets hastily. instinctively she reaches out a hand to support him, but it dawns on her that she doesn't know where he's hurt, so she merely settles for the outer round of his shoulder, ducking down a bit to get to his eye level as she scours him intently. )
Shit. ( it's not difficult to see that one of the many bullets in the chorus she'd heard had met it's mark. )
You need to get to a hospital. I can—it's not far.
( manhattan's a shitshow these days, and the defenders probably have bigger fish to fry. which just leaves these two to clean up this particular mess: when the woman approaches and her gun goes up, bucky raises his hands as if to gesture that he's harmless (even though the painted scene around him shows quite the opposite).
but then there's the new russian arrival and she moves the muzzle of the gun. just a couple inches over, but it's enough level it at the HYDRA agent instead.
bucky takes advantage of the distraction to end the confrontation, again, and this time he purposefully aims for the gut. it drops the other man like a stone anyway. a few moments later the woman is hurrying over to bucky and he tries to straighten himself, shoving up against the wall to get back to his full six-foot height, although it mostly just leads to the scrape of brick against his leather jacket. )
No. It's fine.
( it is very much not fine, but there's also a sudden clarion realisation rippling its way through his thoughts, like a roiling earthquake. don't do anything illegal. no one gets hurt. 'i am no longer the winter soldier; i am james "bucky" barnes and you are part of my efforts to make amends.' except these guys absolutely were not part of it, and so he's pretty sure he's broken the rules.
he scrabbles against the wall some more and then finally shoves himself up. he's not on parole, exactly, but whatever he's on, this battle is probably a violation of it. the pardon's in jeopardy if he's found out. he just hurt a lot of people, even if he aimed for nonlethal damage. because he might have missed. these hands were built for murder; hardwired for it; he's not entirely sure he walked that balance successfully.
and then his gaze clears as he looks closer at the woman beside him. he literally just shot a man in front of her, and yet she isn't running screaming from him. she very easily could've left him behind, but instead she seems to have decided he's the one in need of help. (a good judge of character, or a terrible one?) his gloved hand catches at her sleeve, bracing himself, startled blue eyes meeting hers. )
This probably isn't gonna sound believable. But they came after me first. I'm not—
( i'm not that man anymore. )
You're in no danger. You should keep going. I can take care of it.
( it doesn't miss her that she's developed a stomach for this sort of thing. men who can't seem to keep themselves out of trouble and the tangled webs they weave, a saga. she seems to have walked into exactly that, and she makes an incredulous sounding scoff that's almost dry when he insists he's fine. she thinks to make a remark on how the bullets that've cut through that leather jacket of his say otherwise, and given the fact there's no indication quite yet as to whether there was an exit wound, she knows the window of opportunity for the small talk wasn't incredibly wide, either. teeth catch at the tip of her tongue, and a glance down to the entry sites should speak for her. )
Yeah. ( it's almost sardonic. an i hear you, but i'm not buying it.
when he straightens up against those maroon-wash bricks she mirrors him, remaining eye level with thumb gingerly pressed at the front of his shoulder where she holds him. something tells her he's not exactly shaken up about the whole thing, either; so fittingly, it's neither of their first time.
on the contrary, she can believe it, and all it takes is a quick study of their surroundings to assure her. if the lack of prominent russian on the bed of his tongue wasn't a tell, the fact that they were all down and he's (barely) up and standing there before her was enough. hues are electric as they meet with his after a brief glance down to where he clasps at her for stability, recognizing the familiar, promising hue that's taken to the orbital bone beside his eye.
she's shaking her head before he can even finish his attempt to shrug her off. he's giving her an out, she understands, but she's not taking it. )
And who takes care of you?
( if he can hardly keep his own body weight upright, there's a small chance he'd able to do much else, certainly not at the level of action she must've just missed him in. there's another look around the alley, sloshed with puddles, and honestly... she's seen worse. what's another crime-ridden alley in the heart of manhattan? when sights return to his there's a slight furrow to her brows, and if he hasn't picked up on it by now, she didn't plan to leave there without him. )
I'm not asking for the story. ( does she want to know? without question, but her priority right now was making sure he didn't wilt in front of her. ) But if you won't go to the hospital, at least let me look. I don't live far. I'm no doctor, but I'm willing to bet that's a better alternative. ( for him, because going to the hospital meant giving answers she assumes he's none too willing to open up about. )
that's the million-dollar question, isn't it? but even if it strikes bucky the wrong way, like a knife between his ribs, he keeps his expression still and neutral and doesn't give it away. there's a taut tension in his shoulders, the wariness of a wild animal staring down the lights of an oncoming car, uncertain what it means and ready to bolt. she doesn't seem dangerous, as such, so presumably he wouldn't be at risk if he went with her—?
but he's accustomed to pretty redheads whose exteriors disguise a deadlier capability. she could be a trap. an assassin.
then again, if she'd wanted to kill him, she could've just shot him already.
a muscle works in his jaw, and she can watch him almost literally chewing over the question. her hand's still against his human shoulder (thankfully missing that tell-tale firmness of the metal). and bucky has to admit, the offer is practical. efficient. it's better than anything he could do for himself; he can't go to a hospital and his own apartment on the lower east side is too far away.
finally, his jaw loosens and he asks: )
Why are you sticking your neck out for me?
( the man's voice is rough, questioning, but also a little disbelieving. his time as the winter soldier had been brutal, and even the years since regaining his memories have been strained. so much of it spent on the run, scraping by, where kindnesses are few and hard to come by. the man frayed around the edges, like a wild dog unaccustomed to a gentle hand outstretched. )
( it's not as if he doesn't have a choice—he does, but she's a pillar of stubborn standing there and she's offering him a reprieve from it all without a catch. if the authorities were to get involved by him either sticking around too long or checking in to the emergency room, he might have a difficult time explaining himself. she doesn't need to hear the why to know that much. if she was wiser she'd bring him to claire, clean her hands and know that she at least hadn't left him in the mouth of that alley, refrain from opening up another rabbit hole that was caring too much about someone that was hellbent on giving her every reason not to.
once she's involved it's difficult to take her teeth out, yet here she is, baring them wide and willing.
sights sweep along the frustration of his jaw, and he asks a question that should be easy to answer. should be something she can graze over just like everything else, but it causes her to take pause. she doesn't have anything to hide, but she holds on to stories that aren't her own to tell, and eventually she quells that slight hesitation with a resolved sigh. )
You remind me of someone.
( someone who refused to ask for help no matter how dire the circumstance, who would first look at her with their own flesh marred with blood and dirt. she recognizes that look, and her heart curls to a fist in response. she knows it doesn't provide much, but to be fair, they're both going out on a limb here. if she had a rational explanation to give him, she would, a way to assure him this wasn't like her, that she didn't typically run into the gunfire rather than away from it's garish echo.
she can't do that. not honestly. there's a stillness there between them that doesn't fit, shouldn't be within reach given the unconscious bodies around them, the plum-tones taking to his skin. she should leave.
she wont.
pink tongue crosses over her lips, eyes flitting between each of his own. )
I'm a block away. We just have to get there. Okay?
( they're balanced on a knife's edge, the decision teetering back and forth, before he finally seems to make up his mind and it settles like a weight on the scales. fuck it, bucky thinks, and he lurches back to his feet and away from the woman's touch, but he nods curtly. )
James. My name is James.
( not technically a lie. but also not the entire truth either. his gloved right hand grazes against his side, comes away damp and red, and he swears low under his breath. )
Lead the way.
( when the woman inevitably reaches out to steady him again, he finds himself grudgingly taking the arm, and they move down the street like they're a couple just taking an evening stroll through the neighbourhood. and he remembers one too many days as soldiers staggering out of the field in austria together, the howling commandos leaning against each other like drunken men, propping each other up. you had to trust the man in the ditch beside you, to drag your half-breathing corpse out of the line of fire, pull you along, keep you walking, just one step more, just another until you could get to the medic's tent. a band of brothers.
(all of his comrades are dead and gone. there's the problem.)
but karen is a more-than-decent substitute, it turns out. she's all steely nerves and not flinching away from the smell of gunpowder or blood on his jacket, just marching them along and away from the scene of the crime, where the police will eventually gather and puzzle over the chaos, unless HYDRA comes and clears out their dead and injured before that happens. they're good at cleaning up their messes.
one foot in front of the other, sergeant barnes. bucky's attention drifts a little, but snaps back into focus as they're climbing the steps to an apartment building. he takes another shallow breath, cataloguing what he can tell of his body. the injuries aren't bad — he's sustained worse over the years, so much worse — but they're not good either, and it'll be good to sit down and catch his breath. get patched up. let that healing factor kick in and work on him overnight. while she's going for her keys, he speaks up again: )
( her palms withdraw a beat as he's pressing himself up ruggedly from the bricks, and it takes her a minute to process when he speaks the name, to attach it to him, and well — it's certainly an introduction she won't forget.
she notes the palm that withdraws from his side, the way leather glimmers with a slick crimson, and it only spurs her forward, helps her tuck down all of that outside noise and know better and help get him back to her place. from there it was a shot in the dark, but she'd at least have him off the streets, be somewhere a little more familiar where she could attempt to put two and two together without the concern of him bleeding out. he takes her arm but she makes to carefully slide it around him instead, allowing him to shift what weight she could reasonably handle as they crossed, the dull blinks of the cross walk signal requesting their pause.
it's late enough that there isn't much traffic, and she tries to make as short a walk of it as possible, wincing a little as they adjust about a block or so deep, his shoulder hitched over hers tugging at blonde strands that've gotten lost in his lean. she can feel his blood dampening her shirt, the slick feel of it getting through the gauze of her blouse but she's not fussed. it seems trivial compared to the fact that she hasn't any idea just how many of those bullets he hadn't managed to avoid, and she's mentally filing through the various first aid kits she's got tucked around her apartment when they reach the front steps, the promising red of the building's entry staring back at them. )
Easy.
( she can feel the sharp intake of breath as she keeps pace beside him, taking one step at a time and letting him stagger in first. for a tired building, it at least offers the convenience of an elevator, it's light flickering with a stale buzz above them as it climbs. the scatter of their breaths is only made all the more evident by the small space, and there's a muted ding before it's opening to her hall. she's blindly digging pockets for her keys, and she's steady to slow him once they've made it to her front door. )
Just don't pass out on me and we'll call it even, yeah?
( handle and the deadbolt unlocked, she's kicking the door open with her heel, and even though she hadn't left a light on she knows the space well enough to navigate it for him, guiding him to one of those benches at her dining table. )
( it takes a lot to knock him out — other superpowered fists or alien warriors, more often — but he's not sure how to even begin to explain that, to try to assuage this woman who's showing him such kindness. hey i know this looks really bad, but i'm a super-soldier so don't worry about it?
bucky settles on the bench like a tonne of bricks, his back against the kitchen table, head tipped back and focusing on his breathing. in and out through that pinched nerve in his side, the feeling of the metal bullet grinding against his good ole human organs. mulling over the fact that he doesn't really have anyone he'd have felt comfortable calling for help, even if he'd swallowed his pride enough to do so. it doesn't feel great. knowing how cut-off and alone he is.
he waits, and while he waits, he takes in what he can see of the apartment. his night vision is better than most, so he's automatically sizing up the entrance, the windows, the fire escape, a potential second exit through the bathroom beyond the kitchen. doors and corners, angles and escape routes. potential weapons: the knife block on the counter. the kind of cold calculation that he'd been trained to do over so many decades, the winter soldier's instincts still living somewhere in the back of his skull, a hyper-awareness of combat variables that he can't turn off.
it's fucking astounding that she's trusting him this much, not knowing the kind of man she's brought home through her doors. even he's not under any delusion of what he really is, a monster with its teeth filed down.
he hears her clattering around, and when she returns carrying a first aid kit: )
( she digs the first kit out from one of the cupboards, popping it open atop the counter and singling out the gauze, bandages, a sterile stitching needle that's still wrapped in thin, translucent plastic and a bundle of nylon thread. if she hadn't been through... well, everything she has, she'd find it difficult to get past the dried blood on the tips of her fingers, under her nails, not to mention the man propped at her dining room table that'd just managed to take out at least six other men and lived to tell the tale. as it is, for the wounds he's harboring, he's taking it a lot better than most would, too — which leaves her to think it's not exactly new for him, either.
realistically, neither of them should be as comfortable as they are.
she's toeing out of her heels en route, tugging open the medicine cabinet in her bathroom to grab for the alcohol and snatching a few freshly-washed cloths to clean the sites on her way back towards the kitchen. the last thing she ventures to carry is a bottle of aged whiskey set beside her coffee pot, for good measure, hugged beneath her forearm. even if he's the type to shrug it off as if it's 'just a scratch', digging the bullets out without causing any further damage to the surrounding tissue was't going to be pretty for either of them. honestly, the whiskey's just as much for her as it is for him.
when she's back beside him she's leaning down to settle everything atop the table, cheeks carrying a slight flush — she stretches over to toggle on the nearby lamp, and it's the first time she's afforded an honest look at him without the grim shadows of that alley painting over his features. a breath eases from her, as if lungs were finally afforded a moment to catch up. )
Karen.
( the edge of her jaw flutters — standing before him with a suggestive point of her chin, shrugging out of her own wool jacket. )
Do you need help? ( she assumes he'll understand; she can't exactly get to the wounds with all of those layers in the way. )
( bucky's recouping on the bench gave him enough time to gather himself again, work up an unflinching determination for the step that has to come next. once upon a time, he'd been pieced back together often enough by battlefield medics and nurses that he's not self-conscious about that part, about his blood on someone else's hands, and the prospect of the pain that comes with it. so he nods curtly, and then leans forward enough to work the jacket off his shoulders. it's large enough that it slips off easily, puddling on the bench beside him — the fabric's torn through from the bullets, though, and he frowns at the sight.
and then he realises what actually comes next.
shit, he thinks. he's wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but the injury is high enough that he can't just roll it up for her to get at the bullet wound. so the man hesitates, while karen's standing there waiting for him, and his hand's at the neck of his shirt. and it's a bashfulness that doesn't seem to match the soldier's crisp businesslike demeanour of just a few moments ago.
he girds himself again, catches at the neck of his rumpled shirt, drags it over his head in one fell swoop. fabric crumpled in his hand. his movement reveals the shape of muscles rippling in his back, his shoulderblades, his chest, as he exhales again.
and there's all that black-and-gold metal. you can't even pretend it's a gauntlet or metal glove of some kind; she can see the spot where it's neatly welded to his shoulder, bound to the sinew and tendon somehow, an elegant construction of wakandan model. the plates slide elegantly when he moves, a delicate artistry in it.
there's two bullets in his side, the skin ripped open and still-bleeding. he stands up to give her better access, leans his metal hand against the kitchen table. his gaze is locked forward, staring straight ahead and not meeting her eye. there's a giant metal elephant in the room now, and the man seems to be biting down on it, not wanting to see whatever expression is crossing her face at the sight of him. horror. disgust. aversion.
( she's vigilant — she always has been. it's not just the pain splicing through him every time he moves which way, there's another hesitancy there, living within him, having taken refuge somewhere it didn't belong. she wants to comfort him, wants to tell him it's alright, whatever it is, but does she really have the right? she knows the answer. she doesn't know him, and so she couldn't possibly understand, therefore rendering anything that left her mouth the sister of pity, even if it wasn't her intention. she watches him ache to pull off that last layer and it's not the bullets that make him heavy, not the lulling demand of a body to rest.
he stands before her and he doesn't bother dropping the layer, just props himself there like a soldier following orders, and the first place her eyes fall is to the glint of tags dangling beneath his collar. feather-light, she's reaching forward to take that shirt from his grasp, setting it off to the side beside leather jacket. a breath in.
what she wants to say: nothing has changed. she can pick up on notes she remembers from various case files, photographs of him clipped to the top of reports, a side profile far more distinct as it stands before her now, gaze sweeping his features with a delicate read. she remembers knees curled beneath her on the floor, holding up the transparent image of that skull, a daunting hole like ink burned through the film. people had thought they'd known frank, knew what he stood for, what he'd done — her teeth grit, and there's a twin frustration, there. in the way he refuses to meet her gaze, the way shame dims him.
a breath out. she reaches for one of those cloths, douses it with some of the peroxide, and the first thing to touch him isn't the fabric, but her fingertips. tracing the round of his shoulder — shaky, as if he'd swat her away at a moments notice, as if he could possibly feel the touch mirrored on his opposite side; she doesn't linger where she doesn't belong.
she ducks down a little, splaying her palm at his abdomen, careful not to brush up against the ripened flesh, and she knows it's like ripping off a bandage — that cloth soaked in the alcohol palms over the wound, a practiced delicacy met with necessary contact. a few dabs, making sure to clean any residual dirt that'd found it's way.
as she prods, she looks up to him; to him. a man. a body. him. and while she speaks softly, it's not patronizing. )
( he's a cacophony of tension as she takes him in, his sinews a set of vibrating strings, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
but then it doesn't come, and doesn't come. instead, it's karen's fingers against his right shoulder. she feels bucky tense beneath her touch, a stiffening of all his joints and levers, but once he realises that she's not reaching for the metal arm or gravitating towards it like the anomaly it is, he seems to breathe a little easier. still not meeting her eye, instead keeping his gaze riveted on the shelves across the room, the flourish of greenery in the kitchen, as he leans against the table and lets her work. the houseplants are thriving. he's never actually kept plants before.
he knows he's dissociating a little, leaving his body as he so often did whenever he retreated to a small and safe corner of his mind, but then that bright flare of pain at his abdomen is scouring, clarifying. like a hot bright sun burning hot inside him and this, this is familiar. he knows this part. his muscles tighten like twisting a set of screws and he breathes through the pain of the alcohol, as his expression turns even emptier and stonier.
bucky finds himself stupidly, sickeningly grateful for the fact that she's not pointing it out or demanding answers. it had been easy enough to not recognise him, out on the street. his hair's been cut short and he looks less haunted, less haggard than the face that hit the newsfeeds, but there's really no mistaking the arm anymore. not after the winter soldier had come out of the shadows, started gunning down cars in the middle of the freeway.
(he remembers everything.) )
Most of the time, yeah.
( his jaw almost hurts with how much he's working to not look at her. but then he finally moves, just a few inches' turn in order to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. her blonde hair drifting into her eyes; the quick, careful, practiced movements of her hands. she's done this before. maybe not as steady as a trained nurse, but there's an unflinching competence to the way she cleans the wounds. he wonders who it was. where and why and how she'd needed to pick up the skills of impromptu ad hoc medical treatment in the middle of the night.
you remind me of someone. )
How about you? You do this often?
( as if it's something normal, like running into her at a carnival or a woodworking class or something. you come here often? )
( she'd known the answer before he offers it. no one takes two bullets — now that it's evident just how many had burrowed within him — and expresses a vehement disinterest in going to the hospital. for most, it's that first instinctive reaction. he'd been more startled by her shadow veering that corner and another barrel pointed at him that wasn't russian than the bodies he'd left heavy on the concrete, so it's looking like it might've been yet another meeting between friends, only it's a fairly lose term where 'catching up' meant he had something they wanted. she knows the breadcrumbs well; personally. people did desperate things when it came to money, power, and perhaps most notably, the truth.
the corner of her lips tip upward, and really at this point they've both committed to checkmate. her asking him any questions would just open the floor for him to dig right back, and while she likes to think of herself as an open book, sometimes it's nice to meet someone as the uncut version of themselves — not what you've heard, not the name they've made for themselves either pretty or sharp.
a sole hum is let up in reply; considering. she doesn't make any further comment because she doesn't really feel she needs to — if he wanted to tell her what'd landed him there in the first place, he would. otherwise her hands are busy and she's got two bullet wounds to dedicate herself to, folding the cloth in on itself before she's dabbing at the second site. she can smell the pungent, metallic notes of blood and while she's managed to clean a majority of it from his skin, it's claimed the thick denim of his jeans and those shirts are worse for wear. he'd gotten lucky, an inch further to the left and it could've easily punctured a lung, hit something far more vital, but he doesn't seem too concerned with the severity of it all.
tit for tat, he's tossing the question back to her court, and when she looks up beneath her lashes she catches that side-long glance of his, holding it a moment with palm pressed to the site she's currently tending. )
Every now and then.
( there's a bit of misplaced humor given the circumstance, but her nonchalance says it all, attention once more stolen to her efforts. her primary concern is to stop the bleeding, and fortunately the bullets weren't too deep, keeping pressure to one while she reaches with her free hand for the tweezers. head nods in a gesture to the whiskey at the edge of the table — he doesn't have to take it, but the offer's there and recommended, given she wastes no time to divvy out the bullet glimmering back at her. )
This city has a way of keeping things interesting.
( her warm hands press against him, working quickly. he can't even remember the last time someone's touched his bare skin. not like this. the hard, clinical contact of the scientists swarming over him in HYDRA— that doesn't count.
his right hand reaches out, catches the whiskey, takes a startlingly deep swig straight from the bottle. she doesn't know about his metabolism yet, but it'll need to be that much to even make a dent in him. and when the tweezers dig in and latch around the first bullet and yank it out, he doesn't make a noise, not a hiss of breath or a gasp of pain even when the blood spills over in its wake; he's eerily silent, because years' worth of brutal training has drummed that particular reaction out of him. he might make frustrated noises or startled yelps during combat, but pain was always to be weathered and bitten down in silence. to not show that weakness. )
The city does do that. I've wondered for a while why—
( the second bullet, the second twist of the tweezers like a knife being twisted in his side, and his words strangle. his left hand digs in deeper to the kitchen table, almost enough to splinter the wood, while his back arches towards it. this woman's hands are on his body and he knows it's the cool, dispassionate touch of a medic, but just for a moment, he hates how unaccustomed to this he's become. the way it makes his stomach turn over even when it's a complete stranger. it's this vulnerability, of being stripped down and in the dark and his blood on her hands while she's digging inside him. where was he? oh, right. )
Why there's such a concentration here. Crime. Vigilantes. Superpowers. West coast's practically deserted in comparison.
( poor lang, holding down the fort.
his thoughts are drifting again. he bows his head, now looking down towards the kitchen table. his next words are less accusing, more weary: )
( there'd been a time when she'd wondered the same thing. and what'd started as a normal job at some high-end company after a college deferment turned into her becoming just another statistic in that concentration. there were two types of people, here in this city, the ones that kept their eyes open and the ones that didn't — but she'd never changed. hues glaring back at the dark, blinking back at every harrowing visitor. she tries to think of her life before that city had touched her; before matt, before frank. before fisk and bullseye. there was nothing left for her, there. just an endless grief that waited at the border of state lines, a guilt that'd created a well within her. )
Like attracts like.
( it's a simple statement for a network that's far from it. but he knew that, didn't he? after all, they were here talking about it in murmurs like it was common tongue, so in a way, they'd recognized each other.
still, there's a delay in her response, and once she's managed that second bullet out of him she's setting it atop the dirtied cloth alongside the other. by now, her own digits are stained with the blood she's attempted to keep in, keeping a single-handed pressure against the wound she'd most recently fussed within as she's reaching for that nylon thread, the small package of a sterile needle. the plastic is torn open with her teeth, and after a beat, she realizes she's going to need both of her hands to tend to him properly. )
Hold this. Right here.
( an unwavering tone, calm and hushed, as if she's placing a bandage at the knee of a child who'd just skinned it, thumbing away their sniffling tears. it's only when he obliges that his words come back to her, threading that needle and giving a precursory glance up. )
Not at first. ( even now, she's not so sure it's a fitting phrase. you recognized me. it assumes some layer of knowing, a familiarity, like they've been here before. she doesn't pretend to know him merely because she'd heard of a james barnes, a winter soldier — nor can she assume the man that'd been defined within those tabloids was the one that stood before her now. she doesn't know that the stitches might be a futile effort, doesn't know that they'll heal over by morning, that that hearty swig from the bottle was only a sample of what he'd need to dull it all. )
Even now... I know what the news has said. The stories they've told, everyone spinning their own versions of it. ( it only takes a few cross-stitches, and each time she waits for any shift of his ribs around a terse breath, lacing him back together again. ) Usually, there's some truth there. ( emphasis on the 'some.' )
Turns out you never know just how much unless you go looking for it yourself. ( a knot's tied in the nylon, leaning in to give the excess a snap with her teeth. )
( bucky obeys silently, hands going where she needs them to: clutching the cloth, applying pressure, holding the equipment so she can work. he's used to taking orders, used to being patched up on WWII battlefields and clandestine HYDRA missions alike. the only ever difference was the scale and the scope of it. blood and bone was blood and bone, and bodies had to cobbled back together somehow.
his gaze is still distant, faraway, retreating from himself while karen works. the bite of the needle into his flesh, that surreal little tug of the thread as she laces his skin back together. he doesn't really seem to notice it. he's been through much worse.
he does crane his head, though, glancing back over his shoulder to squint thoughtfully at her while she keeps talking. )
So this is, what, you going digging? You gonna want an exclusive afterwards?
( he's half-joking — a bitter, mordant kind of humour — but there's also a thread of curiosity and faint suspicion humming beneath it all. because maybe it explains some things. why a woman might take in a strange man and then, more importantly, still be fine with him in her presence even after learning who he really is. that metal arm like an identifying badge stamped on his flesh, and which he can't get rid of.
honestly, as far as payment for rescuing him goes, an interview wouldn't even be too terrible. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
→ a perilous meet cute.
bucky's been trying to make ends meet, scraping and picking up odd jobs for a local restaurant. immersing himself in normalcy as if rubbing shoulders with regular citizens is contagious; as if he could catch some semblance of a regular life if he just stayed near them long enough, followed the rules, talked to his stupid court-appointed therapist, and all-in-all tried his best to prove that his winter soldier days are long, long past.
but tonight, that past follows him home. it's not a gigantic alien invasion and it's not the end of the world, but it is this: the prickling between his shoulderblades, that familiar sawing on the edge of his nerves telling him that something is wrong. so move. faster. now. he breaks into a faster walk, his stride lengthening even as the shadows break into movement behind him.
anyone who tries to mug the winter soldier would be an idiot. but these aren't robbers, are they?
bucky looks at the approaching men, and notes the physical details in quick succession: military buzz-cuts; broad shoulders; their english is russian-accented. they might as well bark hail hydra at him when they come closer. he can guess what they want: it's him. recovering their prized asset.
it's the middle of the goddamned street in new york, but it's also past midnight. there aren't many civilians around to hear the crunch of bone as bucky slams one man into the wall; the staccato ping as he deflects some bullets with his arm and the fabric of his leather jacket rips; the howl of pain from the hydra operative as bucky snaps his hand. same shit, different day. and it's almost a relief: getting to cut loose, warm up these long-dormant muscles and hated instincts.
but he's outnumbered, and it's dark, and the twentieth bullet hits its mark. and then the twenty-first. the bullets lodge in his side and he jack-knifes over them, the breath driven out of him. another man uses some kind of goddamn high-tech taser on his metal arm and it short-circuits; it catches, the hinges creaking and the whole thing becomes dead weight hanging off his shoulder. by the time bucky ends the fight — and he ends it, hard, — he's stumbling and he can't move his arm. the sound of the gunshots still ringing through the neighbourhood.
he slumps against a brick wall, letting it prop him up.
you should call sam, he thinks. and then a second later: i will literally die before i call sam for help.
it's hyperbolic, sure. but he's gonna be okay. he thinks. or he's pretty sure. his healing is faster than the average human's. he just... needs to rest.
the thing he isn't counting on: the strawberry-blonde reporter, and the last man, coming in late to back up his buddies. )
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a promise to herself, to check off every little god damn thing a man had told her not to do. it's foolish, she knows it is, knows that a chance to bite back at all of the chauvinists out there wouldn't really resolve to much more than a heightened chance at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. potentially putting herself in harms way for a point that'd never get across. hell's kitchen was full of those wrong places, and it's not so much that she has something to prove so much as it is her attempts to stubbornly paint a reality that isn't really there. one where a woman can walk home on the streets of manhattan, where she doesn't have to hold her breath between the halos of rusty-orange glaring down from the street lamps.
one where that .380 in the innermost pocket of her coat was nothing more than dead weight. unnecessary; just a precaution.
the clear coat of her fingertips finds the brisk steel of the barrel, arms crossed over her chest, thumbing over the safety the moment a shot resounds nearby, echo close and succinct enough that it feels as if it'd passed through her chest, rattled through flesh to the cage of her sternum where her heart lurches. breath fogs out before her, blonde strands tussling with the wind as she idles there, front of her heels teasing the crosswalk that'd land her no more than a block away from her apartment if she just kept going. and she should, tuck her head down and make it back to that tired building where scattered files and case notes wait for her in disarray on that kitchen table rather than inserting herself where she shouldn't.
but there's a howl in pain, a crippling sound that's swallowed by another succession of shots that seem to be the only catalyst limbs need to urge her toward the source. the moment she rounds the corner the mouth of that pistol sets it's sights on the male slouched up against the bricks, opposite hand lifting to support her wrist—and despite the tremor to her breath her aim is a hell of a lot steadier than it should be given the number of bodies scattered and unresponsive around her.
she does the math, hues flitting one by one over each of them and it doesn't take her long to realize that one of them is certainly not like the other. it's a safe bet who'd come with who, and almost as if directed by her gaze alone that gun's glare averts to the sound of approaching steps, boots meeting the quiet slap of puddles. it's evident that she's caught him off guard, taking a step closer the moment he so much as attempts to reach for his waistline. that tell tale hollow click sounds as she tabs the safety from it's place, encouraging him to take pause as tongue presses taut to the roof of her mouth. )
Walk away.
( it's spoken between her teeth, and a mocking chuckle rouses from him, eying the length of her figure, lingering on her heels before his sights drift back up to that pistol in her hands. ) You sure you know how to use that, милый? ( he raises his hands but he doesn't stop, drawing nearer in a calculative drawl of steps; calling her bluff.
her response comes with the shift of an eager trigger-finger, breath stammering, and that digit's just about to curl around that crescent piece when another shot speaks for her, coming from the man barely bracing himself upright against that wall behind her, and every bit of air within her lungs compresses with a single exhale. ) Shit.
( a swallow lodges in her throat, pressing off any acknowledgement of the tremor that's taken to her fingers as she crosses back towards him, tucking that gun into one of her pockets hastily. instinctively she reaches out a hand to support him, but it dawns on her that she doesn't know where he's hurt, so she merely settles for the outer round of his shoulder, ducking down a bit to get to his eye level as she scours him intently. )
Shit. ( it's not difficult to see that one of the many bullets in the chorus she'd heard had met it's mark. )
You need to get to a hospital. I can—it's not far.
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but then there's the new russian arrival and she moves the muzzle of the gun. just a couple inches over, but it's enough level it at the HYDRA agent instead.
bucky takes advantage of the distraction to end the confrontation, again, and this time he purposefully aims for the gut. it drops the other man like a stone anyway. a few moments later the woman is hurrying over to bucky and he tries to straighten himself, shoving up against the wall to get back to his full six-foot height, although it mostly just leads to the scrape of brick against his leather jacket. )
No. It's fine.
( it is very much not fine, but there's also a sudden clarion realisation rippling its way through his thoughts, like a roiling earthquake. don't do anything illegal. no one gets hurt. 'i am no longer the winter soldier; i am james "bucky" barnes and you are part of my efforts to make amends.' except these guys absolutely were not part of it, and so he's pretty sure he's broken the rules.
he scrabbles against the wall some more and then finally shoves himself up. he's not on parole, exactly, but whatever he's on, this battle is probably a violation of it. the pardon's in jeopardy if he's found out. he just hurt a lot of people, even if he aimed for nonlethal damage. because he might have missed. these hands were built for murder; hardwired for it; he's not entirely sure he walked that balance successfully.
and then his gaze clears as he looks closer at the woman beside him. he literally just shot a man in front of her, and yet she isn't running screaming from him. she very easily could've left him behind, but instead she seems to have decided he's the one in need of help. (a good judge of character, or a terrible one?) his gloved hand catches at her sleeve, bracing himself, startled blue eyes meeting hers. )
This probably isn't gonna sound believable. But they came after me first. I'm not—
( i'm not that man anymore. )
You're in no danger. You should keep going. I can take care of it.
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Yeah. ( it's almost sardonic. an i hear you, but i'm not buying it.
when he straightens up against those maroon-wash bricks she mirrors him, remaining eye level with thumb gingerly pressed at the front of his shoulder where she holds him. something tells her he's not exactly shaken up about the whole thing, either; so fittingly, it's neither of their first time.
on the contrary, she can believe it, and all it takes is a quick study of their surroundings to assure her. if the lack of prominent russian on the bed of his tongue wasn't a tell, the fact that they were all down and he's (barely) up and standing there before her was enough. hues are electric as they meet with his after a brief glance down to where he clasps at her for stability, recognizing the familiar, promising hue that's taken to the orbital bone beside his eye.
she's shaking her head before he can even finish his attempt to shrug her off. he's giving her an out, she understands, but she's not taking it. )
And who takes care of you?
( if he can hardly keep his own body weight upright, there's a small chance he'd able to do much else, certainly not at the level of action she must've just missed him in. there's another look around the alley, sloshed with puddles, and honestly... she's seen worse. what's another crime-ridden alley in the heart of manhattan? when sights return to his there's a slight furrow to her brows, and if he hasn't picked up on it by now, she didn't plan to leave there without him. )
I'm not asking for the story. ( does she want to know? without question, but her priority right now was making sure he didn't wilt in front of her. ) But if you won't go to the hospital, at least let me look. I don't live far. I'm no doctor, but I'm willing to bet that's a better alternative. ( for him, because going to the hospital meant giving answers she assumes he's none too willing to open up about. )
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that's the million-dollar question, isn't it? but even if it strikes bucky the wrong way, like a knife between his ribs, he keeps his expression still and neutral and doesn't give it away. there's a taut tension in his shoulders, the wariness of a wild animal staring down the lights of an oncoming car, uncertain what it means and ready to bolt. she doesn't seem dangerous, as such, so presumably he wouldn't be at risk if he went with her—?
but he's accustomed to pretty redheads whose exteriors disguise a deadlier capability. she could be a trap. an assassin.
then again, if she'd wanted to kill him, she could've just shot him already.
a muscle works in his jaw, and she can watch him almost literally chewing over the question. her hand's still against his human shoulder (thankfully missing that tell-tale firmness of the metal). and bucky has to admit, the offer is practical. efficient. it's better than anything he could do for himself; he can't go to a hospital and his own apartment on the lower east side is too far away.
finally, his jaw loosens and he asks: )
Why are you sticking your neck out for me?
( the man's voice is rough, questioning, but also a little disbelieving. his time as the winter soldier had been brutal, and even the years since regaining his memories have been strained. so much of it spent on the run, scraping by, where kindnesses are few and hard to come by. the man frayed around the edges, like a wild dog unaccustomed to a gentle hand outstretched. )
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once she's involved it's difficult to take her teeth out, yet here she is, baring them wide and willing.
sights sweep along the frustration of his jaw, and he asks a question that should be easy to answer. should be something she can graze over just like everything else, but it causes her to take pause. she doesn't have anything to hide, but she holds on to stories that aren't her own to tell, and eventually she quells that slight hesitation with a resolved sigh. )
You remind me of someone.
( someone who refused to ask for help no matter how dire the circumstance, who would first look at her with their own flesh marred with blood and dirt. she recognizes that look, and her heart curls to a fist in response. she knows it doesn't provide much, but to be fair, they're both going out on a limb here. if she had a rational explanation to give him, she would, a way to assure him this wasn't like her, that she didn't typically run into the gunfire rather than away from it's garish echo.
she can't do that. not honestly. there's a stillness there between them that doesn't fit, shouldn't be within reach given the unconscious bodies around them, the plum-tones taking to his skin. she should leave.
she wont.
pink tongue crosses over her lips, eyes flitting between each of his own. )
I'm a block away. We just have to get there. Okay?
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James. My name is James.
( not technically a lie. but also not the entire truth either. his gloved right hand grazes against his side, comes away damp and red, and he swears low under his breath. )
Lead the way.
( when the woman inevitably reaches out to steady him again, he finds himself grudgingly taking the arm, and they move down the street like they're a couple just taking an evening stroll through the neighbourhood. and he remembers one too many days as soldiers staggering out of the field in austria together, the howling commandos leaning against each other like drunken men, propping each other up. you had to trust the man in the ditch beside you, to drag your half-breathing corpse out of the line of fire, pull you along, keep you walking, just one step more, just another until you could get to the medic's tent. a band of brothers.
(all of his comrades are dead and gone. there's the problem.)
but karen is a more-than-decent substitute, it turns out. she's all steely nerves and not flinching away from the smell of gunpowder or blood on his jacket, just marching them along and away from the scene of the crime, where the police will eventually gather and puzzle over the chaos, unless HYDRA comes and clears out their dead and injured before that happens. they're good at cleaning up their messes.
one foot in front of the other, sergeant barnes. bucky's attention drifts a little, but snaps back into focus as they're climbing the steps to an apartment building. he takes another shallow breath, cataloguing what he can tell of his body. the injuries aren't bad — he's sustained worse over the years, so much worse — but they're not good either, and it'll be good to sit down and catch his breath. get patched up. let that healing factor kick in and work on him overnight. while she's going for her keys, he speaks up again: )
I appreciate it.
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she notes the palm that withdraws from his side, the way leather glimmers with a slick crimson, and it only spurs her forward, helps her tuck down all of that outside noise and know better and help get him back to her place. from there it was a shot in the dark, but she'd at least have him off the streets, be somewhere a little more familiar where she could attempt to put two and two together without the concern of him bleeding out. he takes her arm but she makes to carefully slide it around him instead, allowing him to shift what weight she could reasonably handle as they crossed, the dull blinks of the cross walk signal requesting their pause.
it's late enough that there isn't much traffic, and she tries to make as short a walk of it as possible, wincing a little as they adjust about a block or so deep, his shoulder hitched over hers tugging at blonde strands that've gotten lost in his lean. she can feel his blood dampening her shirt, the slick feel of it getting through the gauze of her blouse but she's not fussed. it seems trivial compared to the fact that she hasn't any idea just how many of those bullets he hadn't managed to avoid, and she's mentally filing through the various first aid kits she's got tucked around her apartment when they reach the front steps, the promising red of the building's entry staring back at them. )
Easy.
( she can feel the sharp intake of breath as she keeps pace beside him, taking one step at a time and letting him stagger in first. for a tired building, it at least offers the convenience of an elevator, it's light flickering with a stale buzz above them as it climbs. the scatter of their breaths is only made all the more evident by the small space, and there's a muted ding before it's opening to her hall. she's blindly digging pockets for her keys, and she's steady to slow him once they've made it to her front door. )
Just don't pass out on me and we'll call it even, yeah?
( handle and the deadbolt unlocked, she's kicking the door open with her heel, and even though she hadn't left a light on she knows the space well enough to navigate it for him, guiding him to one of those benches at her dining table. )
Just, ah—wait here.
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( it takes a lot to knock him out — other superpowered fists or alien warriors, more often — but he's not sure how to even begin to explain that, to try to assuage this woman who's showing him such kindness. hey i know this looks really bad, but i'm a super-soldier so don't worry about it?
bucky settles on the bench like a tonne of bricks, his back against the kitchen table, head tipped back and focusing on his breathing. in and out through that pinched nerve in his side, the feeling of the metal bullet grinding against his good ole human organs. mulling over the fact that he doesn't really have anyone he'd have felt comfortable calling for help, even if he'd swallowed his pride enough to do so. it doesn't feel great. knowing how cut-off and alone he is.
he waits, and while he waits, he takes in what he can see of the apartment. his night vision is better than most, so he's automatically sizing up the entrance, the windows, the fire escape, a potential second exit through the bathroom beyond the kitchen. doors and corners, angles and escape routes. potential weapons: the knife block on the counter. the kind of cold calculation that he'd been trained to do over so many decades, the winter soldier's instincts still living somewhere in the back of his skull, a hyper-awareness of combat variables that he can't turn off.
it's fucking astounding that she's trusting him this much, not knowing the kind of man she's brought home through her doors. even he's not under any delusion of what he really is, a monster with its teeth filed down.
he hears her clattering around, and when she returns carrying a first aid kit: )
You didn't tell me your name.
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realistically, neither of them should be as comfortable as they are.
she's toeing out of her heels en route, tugging open the medicine cabinet in her bathroom to grab for the alcohol and snatching a few freshly-washed cloths to clean the sites on her way back towards the kitchen. the last thing she ventures to carry is a bottle of aged whiskey set beside her coffee pot, for good measure, hugged beneath her forearm. even if he's the type to shrug it off as if it's 'just a scratch', digging the bullets out without causing any further damage to the surrounding tissue was't going to be pretty for either of them. honestly, the whiskey's just as much for her as it is for him.
when she's back beside him she's leaning down to settle everything atop the table, cheeks carrying a slight flush — she stretches over to toggle on the nearby lamp, and it's the first time she's afforded an honest look at him without the grim shadows of that alley painting over his features. a breath eases from her, as if lungs were finally afforded a moment to catch up. )
Karen.
( the edge of her jaw flutters — standing before him with a suggestive point of her chin, shrugging out of her own wool jacket. )
Do you need help? ( she assumes he'll understand; she can't exactly get to the wounds with all of those layers in the way. )
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( bucky's recouping on the bench gave him enough time to gather himself again, work up an unflinching determination for the step that has to come next. once upon a time, he'd been pieced back together often enough by battlefield medics and nurses that he's not self-conscious about that part, about his blood on someone else's hands, and the prospect of the pain that comes with it. so he nods curtly, and then leans forward enough to work the jacket off his shoulders. it's large enough that it slips off easily, puddling on the bench beside him — the fabric's torn through from the bullets, though, and he frowns at the sight.
and then he realises what actually comes next.
shit, he thinks. he's wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but the injury is high enough that he can't just roll it up for her to get at the bullet wound. so the man hesitates, while karen's standing there waiting for him, and his hand's at the neck of his shirt. and it's a bashfulness that doesn't seem to match the soldier's crisp businesslike demeanour of just a few moments ago.
he girds himself again, catches at the neck of his rumpled shirt, drags it over his head in one fell swoop. fabric crumpled in his hand. his movement reveals the shape of muscles rippling in his back, his shoulderblades, his chest, as he exhales again.
and there's all that black-and-gold metal. you can't even pretend it's a gauntlet or metal glove of some kind; she can see the spot where it's neatly welded to his shoulder, bound to the sinew and tendon somehow, an elegant construction of wakandan model. the plates slide elegantly when he moves, a delicate artistry in it.
there's two bullets in his side, the skin ripped open and still-bleeding. he stands up to give her better access, leans his metal hand against the kitchen table. his gaze is locked forward, staring straight ahead and not meeting her eye. there's a giant metal elephant in the room now, and the man seems to be biting down on it, not wanting to see whatever expression is crossing her face at the sight of him. horror. disgust. aversion.
or maybe even worse: recognition. )
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he stands before her and he doesn't bother dropping the layer, just props himself there like a soldier following orders, and the first place her eyes fall is to the glint of tags dangling beneath his collar. feather-light, she's reaching forward to take that shirt from his grasp, setting it off to the side beside leather jacket. a breath in.
what she wants to say: nothing has changed. she can pick up on notes she remembers from various case files, photographs of him clipped to the top of reports, a side profile far more distinct as it stands before her now, gaze sweeping his features with a delicate read. she remembers knees curled beneath her on the floor, holding up the transparent image of that skull, a daunting hole like ink burned through the film. people had thought they'd known frank, knew what he stood for, what he'd done — her teeth grit, and there's a twin frustration, there. in the way he refuses to meet her gaze, the way shame dims him.
a breath out. she reaches for one of those cloths, douses it with some of the peroxide, and the first thing to touch him isn't the fabric, but her fingertips. tracing the round of his shoulder — shaky, as if he'd swat her away at a moments notice, as if he could possibly feel the touch mirrored on his opposite side; she doesn't linger where she doesn't belong.
she ducks down a little, splaying her palm at his abdomen, careful not to brush up against the ripened flesh, and she knows it's like ripping off a bandage — that cloth soaked in the alcohol palms over the wound, a practiced delicacy met with necessary contact. a few dabs, making sure to clean any residual dirt that'd found it's way.
as she prods, she looks up to him; to him. a man. a body. him. and while she speaks softly, it's not patronizing. )
You usually get yourself into this much trouble?
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but then it doesn't come, and doesn't come. instead, it's karen's fingers against his right shoulder. she feels bucky tense beneath her touch, a stiffening of all his joints and levers, but once he realises that she's not reaching for the metal arm or gravitating towards it like the anomaly it is, he seems to breathe a little easier. still not meeting her eye, instead keeping his gaze riveted on the shelves across the room, the flourish of greenery in the kitchen, as he leans against the table and lets her work. the houseplants are thriving. he's never actually kept plants before.
he knows he's dissociating a little, leaving his body as he so often did whenever he retreated to a small and safe corner of his mind, but then that bright flare of pain at his abdomen is scouring, clarifying. like a hot bright sun burning hot inside him and this, this is familiar. he knows this part. his muscles tighten like twisting a set of screws and he breathes through the pain of the alcohol, as his expression turns even emptier and stonier.
bucky finds himself stupidly, sickeningly grateful for the fact that she's not pointing it out or demanding answers. it had been easy enough to not recognise him, out on the street. his hair's been cut short and he looks less haunted, less haggard than the face that hit the newsfeeds, but there's really no mistaking the arm anymore. not after the winter soldier had come out of the shadows, started gunning down cars in the middle of the freeway.
(he remembers everything.) )
Most of the time, yeah.
( his jaw almost hurts with how much he's working to not look at her. but then he finally moves, just a few inches' turn in order to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. her blonde hair drifting into her eyes; the quick, careful, practiced movements of her hands. she's done this before. maybe not as steady as a trained nurse, but there's an unflinching competence to the way she cleans the wounds. he wonders who it was. where and why and how she'd needed to pick up the skills of impromptu ad hoc medical treatment in the middle of the night.
you remind me of someone. )
How about you? You do this often?
( as if it's something normal, like running into her at a carnival or a woodworking class or something. you come here often? )
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the corner of her lips tip upward, and really at this point they've both committed to checkmate. her asking him any questions would just open the floor for him to dig right back, and while she likes to think of herself as an open book, sometimes it's nice to meet someone as the uncut version of themselves — not what you've heard, not the name they've made for themselves either pretty or sharp.
a sole hum is let up in reply; considering. she doesn't make any further comment because she doesn't really feel she needs to — if he wanted to tell her what'd landed him there in the first place, he would. otherwise her hands are busy and she's got two bullet wounds to dedicate herself to, folding the cloth in on itself before she's dabbing at the second site. she can smell the pungent, metallic notes of blood and while she's managed to clean a majority of it from his skin, it's claimed the thick denim of his jeans and those shirts are worse for wear. he'd gotten lucky, an inch further to the left and it could've easily punctured a lung, hit something far more vital, but he doesn't seem too concerned with the severity of it all.
tit for tat, he's tossing the question back to her court, and when she looks up beneath her lashes she catches that side-long glance of his, holding it a moment with palm pressed to the site she's currently tending. )
Every now and then.
( there's a bit of misplaced humor given the circumstance, but her nonchalance says it all, attention once more stolen to her efforts. her primary concern is to stop the bleeding, and fortunately the bullets weren't too deep, keeping pressure to one while she reaches with her free hand for the tweezers. head nods in a gesture to the whiskey at the edge of the table — he doesn't have to take it, but the offer's there and recommended, given she wastes no time to divvy out the bullet glimmering back at her. )
This city has a way of keeping things interesting.
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his right hand reaches out, catches the whiskey, takes a startlingly deep swig straight from the bottle. she doesn't know about his metabolism yet, but it'll need to be that much to even make a dent in him. and when the tweezers dig in and latch around the first bullet and yank it out, he doesn't make a noise, not a hiss of breath or a gasp of pain even when the blood spills over in its wake; he's eerily silent, because years' worth of brutal training has drummed that particular reaction out of him. he might make frustrated noises or startled yelps during combat, but pain was always to be weathered and bitten down in silence. to not show that weakness. )
The city does do that. I've wondered for a while why—
( the second bullet, the second twist of the tweezers like a knife being twisted in his side, and his words strangle. his left hand digs in deeper to the kitchen table, almost enough to splinter the wood, while his back arches towards it. this woman's hands are on his body and he knows it's the cool, dispassionate touch of a medic, but just for a moment, he hates how unaccustomed to this he's become. the way it makes his stomach turn over even when it's a complete stranger. it's this vulnerability, of being stripped down and in the dark and his blood on her hands while she's digging inside him. where was he? oh, right. )
Why there's such a concentration here. Crime. Vigilantes. Superpowers. West coast's practically deserted in comparison.
( poor lang, holding down the fort.
his thoughts are drifting again. he bows his head, now looking down towards the kitchen table. his next words are less accusing, more weary: )
You recognised me.
no subject
Like attracts like.
( it's a simple statement for a network that's far from it. but he knew that, didn't he? after all, they were here talking about it in murmurs like it was common tongue, so in a way, they'd recognized each other.
still, there's a delay in her response, and once she's managed that second bullet out of him she's setting it atop the dirtied cloth alongside the other. by now, her own digits are stained with the blood she's attempted to keep in, keeping a single-handed pressure against the wound she'd most recently fussed within as she's reaching for that nylon thread, the small package of a sterile needle. the plastic is torn open with her teeth, and after a beat, she realizes she's going to need both of her hands to tend to him properly. )
Hold this. Right here.
( an unwavering tone, calm and hushed, as if she's placing a bandage at the knee of a child who'd just skinned it, thumbing away their sniffling tears. it's only when he obliges that his words come back to her, threading that needle and giving a precursory glance up. )
Not at first. ( even now, she's not so sure it's a fitting phrase. you recognized me. it assumes some layer of knowing, a familiarity, like they've been here before. she doesn't pretend to know him merely because she'd heard of a james barnes, a winter soldier — nor can she assume the man that'd been defined within those tabloids was the one that stood before her now. she doesn't know that the stitches might be a futile effort, doesn't know that they'll heal over by morning, that that hearty swig from the bottle was only a sample of what he'd need to dull it all. )
Even now... I know what the news has said. The stories they've told, everyone spinning their own versions of it. ( it only takes a few cross-stitches, and each time she waits for any shift of his ribs around a terse breath, lacing him back together again. ) Usually, there's some truth there. ( emphasis on the 'some.' )
Turns out you never know just how much unless you go looking for it yourself. ( a knot's tied in the nylon, leaning in to give the excess a snap with her teeth. )
no subject
his gaze is still distant, faraway, retreating from himself while karen works. the bite of the needle into his flesh, that surreal little tug of the thread as she laces his skin back together. he doesn't really seem to notice it. he's been through much worse.
he does crane his head, though, glancing back over his shoulder to squint thoughtfully at her while she keeps talking. )
So this is, what, you going digging? You gonna want an exclusive afterwards?
( he's half-joking — a bitter, mordant kind of humour — but there's also a thread of curiosity and faint suspicion humming beneath it all. because maybe it explains some things. why a woman might take in a strange man and then, more importantly, still be fine with him in her presence even after learning who he really is. that metal arm like an identifying badge stamped on his flesh, and which he can't get rid of.
honestly, as far as payment for rescuing him goes, an interview wouldn't even be too terrible. )