( it's not as if he doesn't have a choiceβhe 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β now that it's evident just how many had burrowed within him β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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. )
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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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
( 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.
no subject
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 β 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 β 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. )
no subject
( 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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.
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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 β 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. )
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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. )