A/N - This is just a quick one-shot inspired by the end-credits scene of Ant-Man. Thank you for reading and I hope it's okay :)

Disclaimer: I still don't own Marvel

Bucky's arm was burning.

He could feel tendrils of fire slipping from the mechanics into his bloodstream, making his body alternate between numb and gripped by agony. This was a fairly recent problem; the arm was heavy and caused pain whenever it got too hot or too cold, but it had never before made him so desperate to tear it from his body. Until a week ago the prosthetic had been nothing but a mild annoyance to be hidden away, or a reminder of his past actions as he was startled awake by yet another flashback. Now, Bucky feared it might kill him.

He doubted it was a coincidence that the pain had started after the news outlets had been rocked by stories of a masked attacker killing civilians out in the open. Government theories and misinformation had turned the largely forgotten Winter Soldier into a prime suspect and Bucky had been forced away from a relatively comfortable homeless shelter to hide in the streets.

Then the pain had started; spreading through his body at first as a mild ache before bringing with it a fever and the sensation of knives tearing into his flesh. He imagined the remnants of Hydra had been reminded that their old pet was still at large and had activated a kill-switch to stamp him out before he dissolved what remained of their empire. Or perhaps the arm simply had an expiry date that had been designed to take him with it.

Either way his old handlers must be sitting content, safe in the knowledge that within days he'd be lying dead on the streets. The thought would have made him burn with rage if he had the energy.

Bucky was faintly aware that he was slipping in and out of consciousness. The dreamless state was almost a comfort before the pain of waking crashed him back to earth. His head rested against the cool metal surface of the vice and he vaguely remembered locking his arm in place before the fever had claimed him. Instinct told him to wake up, to operate the machine and tear the abomination from his body but the time to do so was long overdue. He was too tired, and too weak besides, and likely the poison had spread beyond its source to such an extent that he was doomed regardless.

Voices broke through his daze. He wanted them to go away, but when he tried to speak, it merely came out in a breath. He opened his eyes a fraction and was relieved to find it was dark – his head was swimming enough without sharp light making it worse. Two figures he vaguely recognised stood before him and he cringed away on instinct before finding himself trapped in place by the vice.

His mouth was forming words again. Repeating a plea, over and over, but no sound came forth. The voices were also distorted and far-away; perhaps he was screaming and he simply couldn't hear.

One of the figures stepped forward hesitantly while the other stood guard, and Bucky was struck by how powerless he would be against them should they wish him harm. To his relief, that did not seem to be their intention as the approaching man knelt before him but kept a safe distance. He was a familiar sight, with his blonde hair and blue eyes filled with concern, but in his current state Bucky could barely remember his name.

The man on the bridge his mind supplied, but it had been so long since their last encounter that the title felt wrong.

The man was trying to capture his attention, but every time their eyes met, Bucky felt the urge to drift off to sleep again and he resigned himself to a few precious seconds of darkness before the voice broke through. He noticed that it grew more panicked each time he was forced to wake. At the fourth mention of his name, Bucky groaned and leaned his head against the metal of the vice as if its cold surface could stop the fire in his veins. His plea came back to him and he finally managed a weak whisper.

"Help me."

He didn't see the reaction of the man in front of him, but he heard a soft gasp, and a warm hand came to rest against his forehead. The contact burned but it was the first offer of comfort he'd received in months and Bucky leaned into the touch like he'd been craving it. There was something that struck him as strange about this, as if their roles were reversed and he should be the concerned observer, but the notion vanished as quickly as it occurred to him. He opened his eyes, looked into a concerned face and remembered a name. Steve. His name is Steve.

Steve removed his hand from Bucky's forehead only to let it rest on the shoulder of his good arm, squeezing it lightly as he attempted a reassuring smile.

"I will."