"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."
-Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
"I really hate to put the kibosh on this painfully overdue reunion, but we ought to get Barnes to that safehouse, Steve. I think his sutures will hold, but this is hardly the environment a person should convalesce in."
"Right," Rogers says, shaking his head and breaking the spell woven by Barnes' lapse into his former speech patterns.
"I'm not sure how long I can hold on," Barnes mutters. "Being lucid, I mean. It comes and goes." He wrinkles his brow like his own words have left him confused.
"I suppose the vodka doesn't help," you observe, toeing one of the many empty bottles scattered around the room. You stop to pick up your medical kit, zipping it closed before slinging the strap around your shoulder.
"Actually, the vodka is the only thing keeping me from putting a bullet in my mouth," he snaps.
Steve flinches and takes a step back. "Buck…"
"I didn't get the same dose as you, Rogers," he continues. "Whatever they shot me full of in that prison doesn't work quite as well as your version. It takes a lot, but I can get drunk if I really try."
"Your metabolism may be enhanced, along with your ability to heal, but your liver and kidneys can only flush your system so fast," you reprimand. "That said, I'll gladly take failing but salvageable organs over a gunshot wound to your head," you challenge.
He sneers at you. "Look, lady, you don't know shit about me, and neither does he," he says, jerking his head towards Rogers. "I told you before, but you wouldn't listen. That guy he's been chasing, James Barnes, he's dead. I killed him, and he ain't coming back."
"Whatever you say, jerk," Steve counters, before striding forward and pulling the other man up from the floor. "You gonna walk out or do I have to carry you?"
Barnes tries to shove him off but only sets himself to stumbling into the nearest wall. He braces himself there for a moment, furious, before relenting. "I can walk, but not on my own," he says from behind clenched teeth.
You motion for Steve to stay where he is and get your shoulder under Barnes' good arm, helping him off the wall and back on both feet.
"You can insult me all you want," you warn him. "You're hardly the scariest or meanest person I've ever dealt with, so good luck putting me off with all that barking. Now let's get the hell out of here."
He just snorts and pulls you along with him, leaning on you like he would a crutch. Slowly but surely, you all shuffle out of the brownstone, Steve trailing behind like a deflated balloon.
"I'll get him into the car, you follow on the bike," Steve says, walking ahead to wait at the bottom of the stoop, ready to catch either or both of you should anyone's balance be lost.
"Can you handle him on your own, if he—?"
Barnes tenses and then hangs his head. "Not even on your best day, Rogers."
You sigh and carefully navigate the steps leading down to the sidewalk. Once you've got Barnes steady, Rogers takes him from you and half-drags, half-carries his exhausted friend the last few feet to the curb. You help load the blessedly silent Barnes into Rogers' waiting car; a nondescript grey Buick with Oklahoma tags.
You lean in over the open passenger door as Steve gets Barnes' belt across his chest and buckled.
"What I saw in there," you begin, shaking your head. "I get the impression that was a memory."
He looks away, confirming your suspicion.
"I know they're only words, and if I could do more to—I'm sorry that happened to you, Barnes. Inadequate and flimsy, I know, but it's all I have to offer. Aside from sloppy sutures and painkillers."
"Those don't work on me," he says with a slight shrug of his shoulders, which causes his entire body to seize up as he inadvertently moves the damaged muscle. Steve pulls back but doesn't comment, and both of you allow Barnes to get his breathing under control as the pain subsides. "I burn through 'em too quick."
"They found a combination and quantity that works just fine on Rogers, so I'm fairly certain we can sort something out that'll be effective," you assure him. "If HYDRA never did, it's because they're animals, not because you're immune to opioids or alternative pain blockers. We'll figure it out."
He looks at you like you're talking about conjuring up a unicorn, like you're insane or deeply stupid.
"I mean it, Sergeant. You are not nearly as mysterious and unknowable as you think," you add, throwing him a lopsided smirk to take any sting out of the remark. "Try not to kill Rogers en route, okay?"
A shallow nod is all you receive before you shut the door, huffing quietly as a knot of tension that had settled somewhere beneath your breastbone slowly comes undone.
"I'll meet you over there," Steve says before walking around the front of the ugly little car and sliding into the driver's seat.
"Try not to take a sodding hour to get there this time," you warn, only half-jokingly, before heading back down the street toward the coffee shop you'd left your bike parked in front of. It seems like a lifetime ago that you'd spoken to the neighborhood kid about real estate and gender roles in immigrant communities. A quick glance at your watch shows that only a few hours have passed.
As promised, the Superleggera remains unmolested precisely where you left it, along with your helmet. You get yourself sorted quickly, jamming the depleted kit back into the storage compartment before roughly pulling your helmet on. Once the engine is humming, you peel out into the street, heading back toward Steve's car. He's already at the end of the block, idling at the corner, but hits the gas when he catches you in the rearview.
It's not a terribly long ride to Queens, even with evening traffic starting to build up, and Rogers seems to know a few shortcuts. You still pull ahead of him, your own (bad) driving habits superseding the noted benefits of sticking together. Cars are so slow.
When you reach the safehouse, you can't help but wonder how much the purchase had cost S.H.I.E.L.D. and how they managed to keep it under their ownership once the agency had been broken down to its component parts. Probably something Fury and Romanoff arranged under several false names and phony deed transactions. Bloody spies.
There's no driveway or garage to speak of, so you mount the curb and bring the bike around the side of the house, behind a long, well-maintained hedge. You dismount, stash your helmet, and meet Rogers and Barnes a few minutes later at the front of the house. Apparently Rogers took your warning about punctuality to heart.
Barnes is starting to resist Rogers' assistance, swearing at him in a mix of Russian and English. Steve is struggling to keep him moving up the short walkway leading to the front door, clearly distressed as his friend continues to deteriorate.
"Quickly," you hiss at him, propping up Barnes on the other side. The pair of you manage to get him inside the house without things devolving into an outright brawl. Thankfully, he's still weak and isn't able to do much except squirm and curse.
"Bucky…" Steve starts, trying to keep the situation under control as Barnes twists against you both. "Buck, come on."
"Kitchen," you direct, pulling them both to the back of the house, where you'd spotted the gleam of stainless steel appliances.
"Shouldn't we get him into a bed?" Steve asks, pulling his head back just in time to avoid an elbow to the face.
"No. Kitchen table will be easier to examine him on, and we'll have a close supply of water, and heat," you explain, grunting as Barnes manages to twist your arm the wrong way, snapping your ulna in several places. There's a short burst of intense discomfort before you turn your pain receptors off. A few seconds more, and the damage has been erased; arm good as new.
"I heard that," Steve says, referring to the sound of the bone breaking. "You okay?"
"Perfectly fine," you reply, and cast a sidelong glance at the spitting, swearing, struggling Barnes. "Не сделать это снова," you tell him in Russian.
He balks, staring at you, shocked at the unexpected order and the language it was delivered in.
"We're trying to help you, remember?" you finish, before finally reaching the kitchen.
"Делай что хочешь," he snarls. "Я не ваша собака больше."
"He thinks we're HYDRA," you tell Steve. "That we're bringing him in to be wiped."
"Jesus, no! Buck, never. We're not—"
"Who knows how many times he fought them off while they dragged him to one of their secret bunkers or labs to torture all traces of James Barnes out of his head?" you snap, disgusted and furious. "Do your people have an estimate on how many of them are still active?"
"Too many," Steve answers. "I'll get him on the table. I don't think there's anything in this house that'll keep him restrained, though."
"Just hold him down for a moment," you instruct, pulling your phone out of your jacket once more.
A minute ticks by and you're back on the line with Ana.
"We've taken him to a safehouse, but he's combative and slipping," you explain. "I need another push to bring him out of it. We can't have the Winter Soldier rampaging through Queens."
"I'd stop him if—" Steve argues before you cut him off.
"And if he needed to be brought down permanently, if he threatened the lives of civilians, could you do that, Captain?" you growl.
Steve claps his jaw shut and shakes his head. "No."
"Back to Plan A then."
"You're sure?" Ana asks, and you can clearly hear the exhaustion in her voice. This is the most she's ever flexed her psychic muscles, but you're proud that she doesn't complain.
"Positive. Do what you can."
There's no delicacy in her push this time; she's more confident of her abilities, of what to do, and in a fraction of second, you're outside yourself being funneled towards Barnes and then you're in.
You take a moment to look around, momentarily confused until you finally recognize where you've seen a setup like this before. You're in a bank vault, of all places. You raise a brow at the walls of safe deposit boxes, the reinforced cage and thick steel door beyond. In the center of the room is a row of computers and their corresponding monitors, bio-metric tracking programs blinking on the screens. And a chair. A very distinct chair.
"Oh no…" you breathe, and then The Winter Soldier appears, seated and half-naked, his metal arm being prodded by a technician holding what looks a lot like a soldering iron. Without warning, the Soldier throws the other man across the room. Multiple figures manifest themselves in a circle around the chair, each one in head-to-toe tactical gear, and each one with an assault rifle aimed at the Soldier's head.
He doesn't make another move, seemingly oblivious to the panic he's caused.
A voice buzzes in your ear, and a new form rises up out of the swirling, amorphous dreamscape. An older man, wearing a sharp suit and too-shiny shoes.
Alexander Pierce.
"Mission report."
Barnes doesn't answer.
"Mission report, now!"
Still no answer.
Pierce stalks forward and backhands the Asset hard across the face. Slowly, deliberately, the Soldier rights himself, though he looks no more coherent now than before as far as you can tell.
"The man on the bridge," he says quietly. "Who was he?"
"You met him earlier this week on another assignment," Pierce answers, matter-of-factly.
"I knew him," Barnes continues, more to himself than anyone else.
"Your work has been a gift to Mankind. You helped shape the century."
You see doubt flicker across Barnes' face.
"Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos," Pierce drones on, deeply in love with the sound of his own voice. "Tomorrow morning, we're gonna give it a push. But if you don't do your part, I can't do mine, and HYDRA can't give the world the freedom it deserves."
"But I knew him," the Asset says again, finally lifting his eyes to look at Pierce. Something like a smile twists his mouth before quickly fading away.
"Prep him," Pierce snaps, drawing away from his human weapon. He looks annoyed that his monologue hadn't inspired more compliance in its intended audience.
One of the technicians protests, noting that the Asset has been out of cryo for too long, that he's too unstable.
In the most infuriatingly nonchalant tone, Pierce says, "Then wipe him, and start over."
The man in the chair looks gut-punched as he's offered a bite guard, and you can see the anger growing in his eyes as he accepts it, can feel the panic as they push him back, as he's locked in place. He remembers this part of the process and is terrified. His chest heaves as both halves of an evil-looking mask sizzling with arcs of blue electricity slide into position over his head and face.
He screams. The smell of burning hair and skin sets you stomach churning. You let the horror wash over you, allowing it to build into a dangerous wrath. You want to hurt the people who did this, who are capable of doing it to another human being.
With a start, you realize all the men in the room—except for the one in the chair—are looking at you.
"Who…?" one of them asks, but he chokes on the rest of his question as you snap a hand forward and break his windpipe.
How this is possible is not important. Whatever the reason or explanation, you can interact with this memory, you can change it. You practically crow with satisfaction.
The room erupts into gunfire and bedlam, because even though this didn't actually happen, Barnes' brain is filling in the gaps. The mind's capacity for self-deception is astounding.
You move; kicking, breaking, tearing open and crushing the fragile bodies of your enemies with an almost unnatural economy of movement. You feel triumphant, untouchable as you reach into the genetic memory of an untold number of apex predators, perfect killing machines, until the line between your instincts and theirs begins to blur. Moments like this are rare. The animal part of your brain revels in the freedom you've allowed it, but you've been taught that indulging the savage part of your psyche is dangerous; a trump card best left safe in the deck unless no other options are left. You hold on by the barest margin, riding the crest of the storm, hyper-aware that it could swallow you up at any moment.
Suddenly, and without fanfare, the room falls silent; the still-warm bodies of your opponents lying broken and crumpled from one end of the vault to the other. You're breathing hard, trying to quash the giddy joy fizzing through your system, making it that much harder to retain control, to stay mostly roll your shoulders and find your center, thoughts finally clearing enough for you to remember yourself and where you are.
The machine is still frying Barnes' brain, and he's still screaming, so you grab one of the hydraulic arms and yank it back, off of his skin, then do the same to its opposite on the other side. You turn and face the computer, selecting a command prompt that releases the restraints on his arms.
"Barnes?" you ask, adjusting the controls and bringing the chair back upright.
He's lying perfectly still, save for the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest as he breathes. Slowly, groggily, his eyes open. He spits out the bite guard, breathing hard behind bared teeth.
"Where?" he croaks.
"Just a nightmare," you tell him. "A bad memory."
"I don't remember anything like this," he says, finally absorbing the scope of the damage to the vault and its former occupants. The place looks like a slaughterhouse. "How did you—?"
"I wouldn't go looking for a logical explanation," you offer. "This is happening largely in your subconscious. I don't think there are any concrete rules about what can or can't happen."
He's shivering, still fighting to catch his breath. "I gotta get out of this chair," he gasps, lurching forward. "I gotta—I can't. This goddamn chair." He turns away from you and his stomach heaves. You reach forward and slowly press your fingers against the sweat-slick skin of his back. He doesn't flinch this time.
"C'mon, I'll help you up," you say, circling around to his front and holding out both hands. "Promise I'm stronger than I look."
"Clearly." Slowly, he reaches out for you and with a bit of effort, you get him on his feet. "I refused at first," he says, and you're not sure what he means. He's resting his chin against your forehead, leaning forward and transferring some of his weight to you. "In the early days, when the Russians had me. I swear I held out as long as I could. They broke me, but I didn't make it easy for 'em."
"I believe you, Barnes."
"How are you even here?" he asks, shivering and jumping at every little sound. You try to will the room into silence, but it doesn't work.
"That's a bit difficult to explain," you warn. "Short version is that my sister is capable of something akin to astral projection. In this particular case, she's projected me into your head."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Bullshit."
You can't suppress the laughter that manages to sneak past your lips. "Would 'magic!' be a preferable answer?"
"Would make more sense," he counters, turning his head to rest his cheek against your hair. "I'd apologize for having my hands all over you, but I'm too fuckin' tired to move."
"Don't worry about it."
"Thanks," he says after another long pause. "I never expected a rescue."
"Well, you make a terrible damsel-in-distress," you chuckle darkly.
He glances down at you. "I mean it. I stopped hoping Steve or the Commandos would find me within weeks of being captured. Not that I blamed them for moving on. They had a war to win."
"It wasn't—He didn't abandon you, Barnes. He crashed Schmidt's plane into the Arctic not long after you died. Or after he thought you'd died."
"I know," he admits. "I saw the exhibit at the museum in D.C."
"You went to the Smithsonian?"
"After the battle over the Potomac. I had to know if what he'd told me was true; that he'd known me my whole life, that we were friends. I got to the museum and just kept reading the information over and over, the facts and dates, I saw the photos, and newsreels, even a few of the letters I'd sent home to my sisters. They told me—" he swallows hard and you can feel his throat working as he moves closer, as if trying to reassure himself by proximity. "My handlers told me that I was nobody. That they made me. And I was stupid enough to believe them."
"Stop that," you warn. "They didn't sit you down and have a chat over afternoon tea. I've seen your file. I probably know more about what was done to you than you do, and Steve knows more than me. It was not that simple."
He stiffens and fails to suppress a full-body shudder.
"It's over now," you soothe. "Everything gets better from here."
"I don't know how to be the guy he remembers. The guy from the museum," he admits.
"He doesn't expect you to be," you tell him. "No one does. He's not the same person from before either. The war changed you both, and then what happened after changed you even more dramatically. People don't survive those sorts of traumas and come out the other side unaltered."
He grunts and takes a step back, looking down at your hands resting in his. "So how do you get out of here?" he asks. "Last time you sort of vanished and then I woke up."
"Bit fuzzy on the particulars myself," you answer. "I imagine Ana is waiting for some sort of psychic signal that will let her know things have calmed down. When she knows it's safe to yank me out, she will."
"Does it hurt?"
"It's extremely unpleasant," you admit with a shrug. "Nothing I can't handle, though." As if that had been the signal she was waiting for, you feel Ana tugging at the edges of your mind. "Speak of the Devil and he shall appear," you groan. "Time's up. Catch you on the other side."
The last thing you see is the momentary look of panic on his face, knowing he's about to be left behind again. But then you're back in the safehouse kitchen, and he's relaxed on the sturdy chef's island in the center of the room.
"Welcome back," Rogers says, looking at you and then to Barnes. "You okay?"
"No," Barnes says. "Not remotely."
"But you're here, and you know us, right?"
"Yeah," he sighs. "I know you."
The look of relief, of unadulterated happiness, on Steve's face is so saccharine, you think you might go into diabetic shock just for having witnessed it.
"Rogers, if you could fetch whatever medical supplies are available, I'd appreciate it," you interrupt. "I especially need clean gauze, isopropyl alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, a transfusion kit if you can find one and an IV kit if you can't, saline, and half a liter of O-negative donor blood if it's kept in stock. I'm not sure if he can even develop infections, but a round of strong antibiotics would be helpful, too."
Steve drags the back of one hand across his eyes and Barnes looks away.
"On it," the Captain says, before slipping out of the kitchen.
Once he's clear of the room, you shuck your riding jacket off and drag the light sweater you'd worn underneath up over your head. You have a white camisole on underneath and after a quick check to confirm it isn't soaked in blood as well, you tossed the ruined outer garment into the trash. Damn, but you'd really liked that sweater.
"We need to get you out of those clothes," you say to Barnes as he slowly props himself up on his good arm. "After I clean up your sutures, we should try to get at least half a liter of blood back in you. Think you can drink some water in the meantime?"
"Yeah," he nods. "My stomach is pretty bad, but I can keep most liquids down."
"You were having trouble with solid food?" you ask, padding across the tile floor to the refrigerator.
"I almost always get sick," he answers, watching your every move.
You pull a large bottle out of the fridge. "I suppose your handlers weren't particularly concerned about a balanced diet, so we might need to do some work rebuilding your digestive system."
You return to his side on the island and hand him the water. "Drink slowly. May I?" you motion to the hem of his shirt. He must have ripped the left sleeve off before cutting into his arm, but the rest of the shirt has been left unmolested. Aside from being filthy, that is.
He narrows his eyes at you and shrinks back.
"I need to make sure you're okay aside from the knife wound," you tell him. "I promise I'll tell you everything I'm going to do, and I'll wait for you to give me permission before I do it, okay?"
You watch his Adam's apple bob before he nods.
"Thank you. Let's get you sitting upright first." You help him adjust his position, swinging his long legs around to hang over the edge before his feet hit the floor.
"Is it okay if I cut the left side open? I don't want to have to move your arm if I can avoid it."
"Why?" he asks, his head listing slightly to the side.
"Because it'll hurt, and you could pull your stitches."
He stares at you then finally shakes his head. "I don't care what you do with it. Burn it if you want."
You make a non-committal noise and rummage around in several drawers before finding a pair of scissors.
"I'll do my best not to disturb your shoulder," you tell him, pulling the bottom of the garment taut before sliding the scissors forward and sheering the material apart in a neat line. You glance up and see that his gaze is locked firmly on the blades, mouth pressed into a thin, strained line.
"Breathe, Sergeant," you remind him, carefully setting the scissors aside and peeling the shirt back away from his skin.
There are scars, as you'd expected, and not just the thick, ropey keloids branching out from the prosthetic (and you can't help but note the likelihood that HYDRA mounted it while the metal was still hot enough to burn). Small puckers of raised flesh indicate old gunshot wounds, and slashes of rough, raised skin mark the places where a knife or some other edged weapon had parted skin and muscle.
"Your digestive issues may be compounded by a build-up of internal scar tissue," you mutter, drawing your fingers away from his skin. "Is it all right if I inspect these with my hands?"
He nods again. You should probably wait for Rogers to come back with the requested supplies, amongst which you're sure you'll find medical gloves, but there's no guarantee that Barnes will remain this agreeable much longer. He seems very nervous about any direct physical contact.
Gently, you press your fingers against his lower abdomen, making mental notes of each mark that might be a likely candidate for sub-dermal scarring. You can't ignore that he's quite a bit underweight for someone of his size and body type. You can clearly see each rib and the outline of his sternum. His hip bones jut out from behind the waistband of his pants.
"We can break a lot of this down with massage therapy when you're ready for it. The deeper damage may need laser treatment, or surgery. We can also discuss using broad spectrum systemic enzymes that will do the same, but you might not need anything that serious given the serum's augmentations."
"Yeah, sure," he breathes quietly.
"I'm sorry, I know this is uncomfortable," you apologize, pulling your hands away. "But I want you to know you have options, so that when Steve gets you to a proper doctor, you'll have some basic knowledge of what to ask for, or ask about."
"Just keep waiting for the pain to start," he tells you, head hanging low. "Not used to being molly-coddled like this without it being a trick or a trap."
Without thinking, you reach up and press your hand against his cheek. "Hey…"
He doesn't recoil or try to pull away, but his breath hitches at the contact.
"I know you have no reason to trust me. You don't know me. But I need you to hear what I'm saying, Barnes. I will never hurt you if I can help it. Some of the things I have to do—from a medical perspective—may not be entirely pleasant, but I'll still do everything I can to minimize the pain I cause."
"But why?" he asks. "Why make that much effort? It's all the same in the end."
"Because you're a person. Because I don't want to hurt you and you shouldn't expect to be hurt."
He glances up at you from behind the hair that has fallen forward over his brow.
"I know you've been conditioned to expect punishment and pain for no better reason than because it amused them, or because it was an expedient way to develop obedience," you continue. "But you're not with those monsters anymore."
"That's what you don't get," he says, shaking his head and pulling away from the hand against his cheek. "I'm the monster."
"Barnes, that isn't true—" you begin to protest, before the rest of your argument is interrupted.
"Everything okay in here?" Steve asks, slowly re-entering the kitchen, carrying a crate full of jumbled medical equipment and supplies.
"I asked for, like, five things, Rogers," you scold, taking the crate from him and shoving it onto a nearby counter.
"I got to the supply closet and panicked," he answers with a shrug. "I can't pronounce half the words on the labels in there."
You explore the contents of the crate, pulling out the items you need most.
"I see she couldn't wait to get your shirt off, Buck," Steve chuckles, though it sounds a bit forced to you.
"We can look for clean clothes once you've had a chance to scrub down," you tell Barnes over your shoulder. "I'd be happy to let you soak for a few hours, but I'd rather you abstain until your wounds are closed."
He doesn't respond, so you turn around to ask him if he's heard you only to see that he's shaking hard, from head to foot. Steve is already moving to hold him steady on the island, afraid he'll fall off.
"What the—?"
"No cold," Barnes stammers. "Please. I can just—I can… It's okay, I don't mind being dirty."
"What are you afraid of?" you ask, flanking him; standing by should Steve's grip on his good arm not be enough to keep him from toppling over as he continues to tremble.
"De-con-tam-in-ation," he manages, teeth chattering hard.
"Is that what they called it when you were sent to shower? After a mission?"
He nods, goose pimples stippling along his skin like a wild rash.
"They used cold water?" You throw a sidelong glance at Steve, who once again looks angry enough to commit bloody murder upon the first person who so much as sneezes in his friend's direction.
"Y-yes," Barnes confirms.
"We're not going to do that," you explain. "Warm water only. Hot, if you prefer."
His eyes focus on you before he switches his gaze to Steve, as if looking for assurance that you're telling the truth.
"I'm going to get the rest of the shirt off, okay? Steve will go find a blanket or a towel so you don't get too cold while we finish up in here," you tell him. The shaking subsides a bit, though he still looks haunted by the prospect of a sponge bath. Fucking HYDRA. Probably hosed him down right before returning him to cryo. Just another tool to be disinfected and put away when they were done using it.
Steve makes sure that you've got a solid grip on Barnes before he slips out of the kitchen again, mumbling about a linen closet upstairs that should have extra blankets.
As if he were actually hypothermic, you rub both palms against his good arm, hoping it'll help counter the phantom chills that have him shivering despite the relative warmth of the house. Once he settles down again, you finish removing the rest of his clothes (and a disturbing number of knives strapped and taped to his body), save for his underthings, tossing all of it into the corner to be thrown out later. He doesn't seem body-conscious, which you're grateful for. Enough of what you're doing seems to have him on edge already.
"How bad is the pain?" you ask him.
"S-still functional," he says.
"Okay, but if it gets worse, you need to tell me."
Steve comes back shortly thereafter with a down comforter that looks very warm.
"See? Much better," you croon softly, helping to drape the blanket over Barnes' shoulders. He takes a deep breath and nods.
After thoroughly washing your hands in the kitchen sink, you snap on a pair of gloves and pick up the bag of donor blood. You check the labels for the expiration date and note that it's relatively fresh and O-negative, as requested, so you're not worried about compatibility. You open up the transfusion kit, relieved to find it's a brand you're familiar with, and line up the components.
"What's the difference between one of these and an IV?" Steve asks, watching as you set everything up.
"Mmm, a transfusion kit has a double chamber and a mesh filter. Both keep micro thrombi—those are very small blood clots—from being infused into the patient. Start warming up that blood, would you?"
"How?" he asks, picking up the bag with a barely hidden look of revulsion.
"Just hold it between your hands. We don't want it to reach room temperature, but it can't be that cold either. We should really be using a warmer, but—" you make a vague gesture. "I'm thrilled you lot keep these kits stocked. This would be dodgy to do with a regular IV."
After about five minutes, you take the bag back from Rogers and check the contents for any signs of large clots or haemolysis. Spotting none, you prepare the transfusion line with the ease of dedicated practice, before returning your attention to Barnes.
"I'm going to clean the inside your elbow with antiseptic," you tell him, waiting for his nod of permission before doing so. "Steve, cut me a few pieces of medical tape, please."
Rogers does as you ask, watching with barely contained anxiety as you prep the cannula—the "needle" that slides into the vein.
"This is going to sting a bit," you tell Barnes. "Still okay to proceed?"
He chews on his bottom lip and stares at the small spot you'd wiped on his arm. You wait, giving him as much time as he needs.
"Yeah, I'm okay. This isn't as bad as… as I remember."
"Flatterer," you tease, sticking your tongue out from between your teeth. "One, two…" you slide the thin tube into the vein, feeling the subtle 'pop!' as it moves into place. "Perfect. Well done."
Barnes exhales suddenly, letting go of some of the tension he'd been allowing to build.
"Easy," you murmur, patting him on the shoulder. "You're doing fine, and we're almost finished."
You quickly secure the transfusion set and the cannula with the strips of tape Steve prepared earlier. You raise the bag above your head and watch as the contents slowly make their way down the line at an acceptable rate.
"How long will this take?" Barnes asks, following the arc of your arm.
"About three hours for the whole bag," you tell him. "But I doubt we'll need that much. You're remarkably resilient."
He huffs.
"Why, you have somewhere you need to be?" you ask with a crooked grin. "You severed an artery in that brownstone, Barnes. You're lucky you didn't bleed out."
"Wasn't thinkin' clearly," he grouses, looking away.
"You did that to yourself?" Steve asks, shocked. "I thought—I figured you took a bad hit in a fight, Bucky. Jesus Christ…"
"Your ma would make you eat half a bar of soap if she heard you swearing like that, Rogers," Barnes replies.
Steve covers his face with his hands and turns away.
"Take a break," you suggest to him. "This is going to be a long night."
"Copy that," he says, before slowly wandering out of the room, doing a bad job of hiding the way his shoulders shake as he tries not to sob.
"Fuckin' kid always was too—" Barnes starts.
"Don't," you hiss, narrowing your eyes. "Don't you make fun of him. He loves you, you big idiot, and he doesn't know what the hell he's doing, except that he has to help you somehow."
He opens his mouth as if to protest but then clamps it shut.
"You—You're right," he admits. "But I don't want him to think… This isn't permanent."
"You'll get better, it'll be a slow and difficult process—"
"That's not what I mean," he says with a slight shake of his head. "I can't stay with him. You get me fixed up so I'm not about to keel over, and then I'm gone. As far away from Steve and his new friends as I can get."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you ask, unable to check your own irritation.
"It's not safe for me to be around him."
"Being around him is the only way you are safe," you correct. "If you run off again, do you really think he won't chase after you? That he won't be hunting HYDRA down regardless? Do you think he's spent the last few years doing anything that one might consider remotely safe? For fuck's sake, Barnes. Get over yourself."
He gapes at you.
"You are quite possibly the most important person in the world to Steve, but you're hardly the most dangerous. He fought off an alien invasion masterminded by a Norse god. He beat them. He'll beat HYDRA, too."
"You don't know what they're capable of," he snaps. "Anyone he's close to—"
"He's not close to anyone save the other Avengers," you inform him. "He doesn't socialize, or date, or do public appearances, nothing. Not since S.H.I.E.L.D. fell."
"Doesn't change what I have to do. I'm broken. You're a doctor, or close enough, you really think I'll get to a point where I'll be anything but a problem he needs to handle? What's he gonna do when Uncle Sam figures out who I am and what I've been doing for the last seventy years? He supposed to fight that battle for me, too?"
"What makes you think he wouldn't have to do any of that just because you're not around? Besides, you're talking about the man who has Tony Stark on speed dial. Do you have any idea how many lawyers that man keeps on retainer? The Avengers destroyed half the damn city fighting Loki and his hoard. Can you guess how many people—how many important, well-connected people—tried to sue them, hold them responsible, tried to have them locked up on federal charges, after all that?"
He just stares at you, eyes softening around the edges.
"Want to know how much time any of them have spent in jail or even in federal custody for questioning?"
He looks away.
"None, Barnes. Stark had all that nonsense put to bed in a matter of days, and slapped more people and government agencies with legal injunctions and counter-suits than the American legal system had ever seen before. He had Pepper Potts on every major news network doing damage control, and a small army of PR drones flooding social media and television with support for the Avengers. It was incredible to watch."
"I'm not an Avenger. I didn't save the world," he protests.
"You're Steve's best friend. You're a war hero, a Howling Commando; you absolutely saved the world. Whatever happened after you fell was not your fault. You are not responsible for your own kidnapping, torture, and captivity. If anyone wants to argue otherwise, they won't just have Steve Rogers to answer to."
He sighs and holds his forehead with his good hand.
"You're safe with him," you finish. "No more running. Your war is over. Now's the part when you get to go home."