It didn't hurt.
Why didn't it hurt?
Blue eyes snapped open, immediately narrowing in suspicion as they zeroed in on the plain white ceiling hovering above them. He didn't remember his make-shift cot lying underneath a clean roof – and he also didn't remember cotton and softness lying underneath him or covering his body.
And he definitely didn't remember the absence of pain.
Bucky grunted, pushing up onto his elbows with only a small sting instead of the agony he remembered from the previous night. His shoulder was still tender but it was usable; a pain that wasn't worth anything more than a quick once over and dismissing snort. The doctor did a decent job; he'd give her that much…
Maybe he wouldn't use his trusty blade to cut her open and leave her to try and stitch her own skin back together? Out of appreciation of a job well done.
Looking over the room once, he wrinkled his nose at the pale hues of blue and grey that decorated the walls and carpet; a lazy but peaceful theme that spread into the décor and art. "Feminine," he muttered, rubbing his flesh hand over his face. The movement caused a small speckle of pain to dance through his nerves, but he ignored it with another grunt, instead rolling out his metal limb in curiosity.
It didn't hurt…
He'd half expected it to slowly burn back into consciousness, but there was still a definite absence of the recent agony that had laced the silver connection. His head lolled over, studying as much of the scarred skin as he could from the awkward angle. Nothing seemed out of place, and there were no visible signs of any tampering on the – There.
A single pinprick of dried blood, near where the human ended and the monster began.
His eyes drifted over to the bedside table, narrowing in on the empty needle carelessly left there and the vial of clear liquid beside it. She'd injected him with something? Reaching out, he snatched up the bottle but didn't recognize the name of the drug, panic blooming in his chest. Was this medicine or poison? Something to help him or to hinder him?
Growling under his breath, Bucky pushed to his feet, staggering slightly as a wave of dizziness hit him. Shaking his head with a harsh and quick movement helped the nausea somewhat, and he rolled his eyes skywards for a few seconds, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. He had a mission – find the doctor and preferably throw her against something – and vomiting was not only loud, but time consuming.
If the woman – Samara, his mind supplied – didn't hear him throwing up, then by the time he'd finally finished, she probably would've already called the police. And that meant he'd be in trouble. He knew enough about this time to know that the men in blue were bad for business.
His business.
Of – of killing people.
Yeah.
Bucky stalked forward, blinking back any lingering exhaustion as he moved with graceful and practised ease towards the bedroom door. He reached out with his metal arm to try it, surprised that the knob turned easily under his hard grip. She didn't lock it? Almost distrustfully, he swung it open, peering out into the hallway.
No trap. No ambush. No men in blue.
The distrust flared for a few seconds, and he held his breath, almost waiting for the expected to happen despite the fact that it clearly wasn't. The doctor, the woman, had no reason to leave him be. To let him sleep in one of her beds after he pressed a rather impressive blade to her stomach in a threat to tear it open the night before. If she was in any way smart; she would've called for help.
Stepping further out, Bucky looked up and down the hallway again, trying to picture which way would lead him back to the kitchen. It was the way he'd gotten in before, and currently his easiest passage out – he knew where the cameras were and he knew how to rig the electronic lock. It was the safest option. Nodding, he started moving down the long stretch of corridor, snorting under his breath at the memory of the previous night. He may have known how to open the door, but he definitely didn't know how to stop the house from announcing he'd opened it.
This was why being back in the 1940's was so much easier.
There were no houses that had realised they'd been broken into back then, and – while his mind was on the topic – there were no female doctors with annoyingly clear consciences. Not that the opposite sex was any less of a person, or any less capable of doing the work. His arm was in incredible condition and he blamed – thanked, whatever – her for it.
Freezing in his fluid movements, he stared towards the ground in confusion. Why was he so sure about the 1940's? It was the twenty first century. And he wasn't ninety years old, was he?
"Welcome to the end of eras, ice had melted back to life…"
Bucky's head shot up, eyes seeking out the source of the lilted voice as his movements changed to a predatory gait. Now that he was paying attention to his surroundings, he could make out the slight clattering from the room he was headed towards, and the idle hum and beat that sounded suspiciously like music. He neared the room, straightening up as he rounded the corner in an attempt to make his form look bigger.
"Done my time and served my sentence. Dress me up and watch me die." The doctor was bobbing her head up and down, lips pursed as she sung somewhat decently to whatever rubbish was coming from the coloured chunk of metal on the counter beside her. "If it feels good, tastes – "
The woman spun on her heels with the last words, holding a steaming saucepan in one hand and wooden spoon in the other but faltered when she noticed him watching her from the doorway. Bucky quirked up a brow when her eyes drifted downwards, and he almost wanted to hide his arm, not so much as worried about her judgement as willing to avoid it if possible.
"Tastes good…" she continued quietly, before she roughly shook her head and let whiskey clash with blue. The smile she adopted almost made him want to look away, guilt curling unwelcomely in his chest when his mind flashed to the blade he'd left somewhere in her study. "Speaking of things tasting good; I made breakfast. Guess who's having oatmeal and kiwifruit?"
She was still smiling.
Why? What did he do to deserve that?
Eyeing her up carefully, he hovered in the doorway for a few seconds longer before trailing around the kitchen, keeping the table between them. He had a clear view of the archway he'd need to escape through, but the plan had changed the minute his mind registered there was now a person between it and him. As he thought about his next move, he noted the music was still playing from the shaped metal and she hurried to turn it down, still humming the beat under her breath.
"James? You okay?" The question was delivered alongside a frown as she idly scooped oatmeal into twin bowls, eyes flickering between the food and his features.
Now she was frowning? What did he do this time? Shifting his weight between his feet, he cocked his head to the side slightly and watched her for a few more seconds. The doctor was waiting for something, it appeared, one of her eyebrows near her hair line and eyes wide and expecting. The question was though, what the hell was she waiting for?
"James?"
Oh.
He took a deep breath in, stomach grumbling happily at the smell of cooked food. "What did you inject my arm with?"
The woman blinked in shock, carefully placing the hot pan onto a folded strip of material. "Antibiotics?" she tried, using one finger to force her dark hair behind one ear. "Last night, after you passed out – from sheer exhaustion and blood loss, I'm assuming – I noticed your arm was hot. And, pairing that with the inflammation and fact that you have prosthetic arm led me to believe your body isn't accepting the foreign material too well," she shrugged, like the issue was nothing before moving across the room. "I gave you something to fix it. Short term though."
Bucky watched her move for a few seconds, noting she was grabbing fruits and milk from the steel fridge. "Antibiotics," he tasted the word out, eyes dropping to one of the set out plates. His handler had ordered injections for the arm as well, most likely short term, so perhaps this was the same thing. "You made breakfast."
And the smile was back.
"Yes, I did," the female announced – Samara was whispered again in the back of his mind, more forcibly – with a smug look in place. "When I noticed said infection, my train of thought, which is spastic at best decided to snap to whether or not your immune system was where I'd like it to be."
Blinking back his confusion, he breathed out through his nose in hopes of eliminating the beginning of his hunger. "What does food have to do with my immune system?" he asked dryly.
Samara looked up, and annoyance was clearly plastered across her features. "What does food have too – Okay, let me tell you a thing," she started, pointing a spoon in his direction almost threateningly. "You need vitamins; so you're not gonna question the only one in the room with a medical degree and fancy letters after their name, sit your fine ass down, and enjoy your kiwifruit."
Bucky almost found amusement in the way she huffed out a breath, picking up a chopping board and knife from across the room. He couldn't explain it, even within the safe regions of his mind, why he found the angered way she started cutting up the green fruit entertaining, so he let it go in favour of a new objective. The desire to throw her against something was gone, and instead he decided to see if he could add an annoyed tinge of red to her cheeks.
"I don't like kiwifruit." A blatant lie, seeing as he'd never tried the fruit, but it had the desired effect.
Samara stopped all movement, like a video on pause, and her eyes slowly lifted up to his person. Almost like a tic, her cheek twitched upwards towards the whiskey orbs. "Pardon?
Bucky folded his arms, pleased when the action was virtually painless. "I said that I don't like kiwifruit," he repeated, and despite the internal amusement, his voice held nothing. If he was someone else listening in on the conversation, he would almost say he sounded bored of the woman and her mothering antics.
He wasn't, but it was still amusing either way.
"Okay." The word was carefully pronounced and clipped, like the female was trying not to scream instead. "You are a fussy child then," she murmured, and he didn't have time to understand the joke before she was speaking again. "Berries. Everyone loves berries. Do you want berries on your oatmeal?"
He let the silence grow, giving the appearance that he was contemplating the question before he snapped out; "No."
There it was again – the twitch of her cheek.
Samara slowly lowered the neat knife in her hands, chest heaving in a calming breath. There were clean piles of cut fruit in a bowl beside her, and while it looked delicious, he wasn't going to go back on the little game he'd started with the doctor. Test, his mind corrected. The Winter Soldier didn't play childish games. This was a test to see how far he could push her until the false, little happy façade faded into real anger.
As he'd said before, she'd have to be an idiot to not inform the authorities, and from what he'd seen; she was rather intelligent. Which meant this was either a ploy to earn his trust – like he'd give it so easily – or to distract him while the police and military arrived.
Samara let out a quiet sigh, and with a small start he realised the anger had drained into something softer. "Okay then, I should have some pills around here that'll do that trick," she murmured. "Do you still want your oatmeal?"
Testing her again, he murmured back, equally as quiet but unforgiving with his words. "No."
Nothing, not even a twitch or sigh of annoyance. The woman almost looked drained now, like all the strength had been sucked from her with every second he fought against her offers of help. Bucky shifted uncomfortably when he noticed the exhaustion and uncertainty lining her face, aging her youthful features, and the dark rings under golden eyes.
"What would you like then?" Samara tried, slowly picking up the knife again. She went straight back to cutting the fruits, even though there was no apparent use for them anymore. He wasn't sure if it was so her hands would have something to do, or so she had an excuse to hold the blade. "I'd like it if you ate something, James."
Bucky flinched at the gentle use of – what he was almost certain was – his name. "Or would you like it if I conveniently ate whatever poison or sedative you've blended in with the milk?"
Her eyes snapped up to him, fingers stilling, and he could've sworn the liquid irises took on a hurt edge. "I wouldn't waste sedatives on you," she answered shortly, and the expressive orbs shut down to something colder. "They're expensive and frankly, you're not worth it. Now, what do you want to eat? Hurry up; it's a limited time offer."
Frowning, he looked towards the floor, keeping the woman in his sight as he thought of his options. The doctor seemed genuinely upset that he had assumed the worst of her, and the offer for food was appreciated, if anything. He knew he needed to eat on occasion, he'd been told by his handlers that it helped his body to function or something similar.
But what to eat was the question? If he was going to risk it – which his stomach was insisting on – then he wanted to watch her make it; to appease the nagging voice in the back of his head claiming she was trying to hurt him with her care.
So the oatmeal wasn't on the menu, not when she'd finished making it long before he'd entered the room.
The frown deepened, lights and voices flashing behind his eyes.
The pan was sizzling, he could hear it from the couch, and the smell of cooking batter and butter was wafting through the small apartment; no doubt the reason why his body was waking up in the first place. He smiled automatically, a hand lifting to scrub the lingering exhaustion from his features as he pushed his body up into a sitting position.
"Hey punk, you cooking something in there?" he called out, leaning over to stretch out the aching muscles in his back. He could hear some movement from the kitchen not too far from him, and his smile widened even more when a smaller body blocked out the sunlight peeking through the archway.
Steve tried to look threatening, really he did, but with a tiny frame and too big eyes, he only managed adorable. "Yes," he announced firmly, nodding his head once. "And you're not leaving until you eat something."
The mothering instinct of the blonde was amazing. Bucky grinned and stood, moving closer to he could clap the boy's shoulder affectionately. "Why, I didn't know you cared so much," he cooed mockingly, dodging a wayward swipe as the youth swung at him with a weak arm and bad aim. "Come on Stevie, I'm just teasing you."
"You tease too much," Steve muttered back, shaking the man's hand away so he was free to move back into the kitchen. "I'm making pancakes. How many do you want? One stack? Two?"
Bucky was quick to follow the smaller form, already shrugging at the question. "I don't mind," he yawned, covering his mouth before slumping into one of the dining room chairs. He really had to stop sleeping on that ridiculously lumpy couch. "Don't wear yourself out on my behalf though."
Even though it was delivered in a teasing tone, the blonde nodded, understanding the underlying warning. "Already made three," he announced almost smugly as he took a small step to the side, revealing three plates loaded tall. "I forgot to measure out the batter, so I went a little nuts. There's still more to come though, so you might as well get started without me."
"I'll wait," Bucky decided.
"You sure? They'll probably get cold and – "
"Steve? I'm gonna wait for you, okay?" Bucky chuckled, leaning forward to rest his chin on his arms. "Man, I hate your couch, feel like I've slept on a bed of rocks all night," he complained, arching his back in a hope to alleviate the pain.
The blonde boy snorted, absently patting at a cooking pancake. "I thought the army barracks had rock slabs for bed?"
"I wouldn't know," Bucky wrinkled his nose, not keen to investigate the topic with his friend. "I have an idea! You're the one who wants to join the military so bad, so why don't we start trading places whenever I stay with you? That way, my back won't hurt the morning after and you can try getting used to army conditions," he offered playfully, winking when the smaller male turned to sigh in his direction. "What? It wasn't a bad idea."
"Not to you," Steve muttered, moving the pancake onto another stack as he too steered clear of the topic. "I can't be bothering cooking the rest," he decided. "Might as well eat what we've got now. I'll cook it up for dinner or lunch, maybe?"
Bucky smiled and stood, going to help him transfer the heavy plates to the rickety table. There was enough to feed a small army, but he'd easily be able to finish his portion, and if he had too – he'd help his friend with his. "Want me to stay again? I'm feeling a blanket fort tonight."
"Shut up and eat your breakfast."
Samara refused to feel nervous or threatened by the silence; instead she continued to absently cut up the fruits she'd gotten out before, pretending that all of her attention was devoted to the simple act. She didn't know what the man was thinking – and a quiet voice in her mind told her she probably didn't want to know – but the focused and almost wistful expression was making her insides churn.
Was he going through a mental list of breakfast foods, or the perfect places to cut a human being so they bled the most?
If it was the former, she had a recipe book right behind her he could borrow, but if it was the latter; she wasn't giving any of her medical advice towards the cause. If he was such a good killer person, then he'd already know where to slice, she wasn't helping him out.
Popping a cube of kiwifruit in her mouth, she chewed and swallowed; repeating the notion in a tedious loop. "I have a waffle maker?" she voiced into the silence, sighing when she noticed the words go in one ear and out the other. "And serious regret right now for making you food and acting like a damn smiling idiot. Did you seriously think I would poison you?"
Silence.
"I wouldn't," she muttered, frowning and stabbing a berry with the knife. "That's mean, and I wanna help you. I think? Maybe. I don't even know." Looking up, she caught him scrubbing at his face. "James?"
Finally, he seemed to hear her, head lifting and eyes flickering over her person. "Pancakes."
Huh?
Machete wielding, robot armed, hunky dude wanted pancakes?
Samara blinked in shock for a few seconds, staring at him with a dumb founded expression on her face. "You want pancakes?" she repeated, watching as he nodded shortly. "Pancakes. Okay, no, okay I can do pancakes, no problem," she grinned and started gathering ingredients, turning her back to the man before hesitating. "Hey, uh, do you want to watch me make it?"
The offer was met with an annoyed grunt, like he thought she was mocking him and she started to backtrack. "I'd want to watch if you made me food, honestly," she shrugged. "For all you know, I could be using salt instead of sugar. Watching might be in your best interests."
James studied her with the same quizzical expression he'd been using all morning – she'd be annoyed, but hell, even she didn't know what she was doing – before he gave a slow nod. "Make it on the table," he commanded lowly, gesturing to the empty space in front of him. "Show me what you use and how much you use. In case I'm ever tempted to make them in my own time."
Is that the most he's ever said at one time? I think it is. I'll be damned.
Gathering the things needed, she dumped them on the table before him like an offering, muttering under her breath as she went through a mental recipe. It wasn't too hard right? A little flour, baking powder, maybe some milk and eggs…
"I would sift the flour and all," Samara started, smiling again despite his unimpressed stare. "But I can't be bothered; so you can have lumpy pancakes because you're a little shit," she finished, the grin taking on an edge of humour as she started measuring out the white powder. Pursing her lips, she gently dropping it into the bowl, already reaching out for the next ingredient.
Blue eyes were unamused. "Or you could sift it, because I own a knife."
"Which is in my office," Samara continued, pursing her lips again as she concentrated. The desire to not muck up the simple meal was stronger than she thought, but she tried to smother it beneath a casual smile. "Which is locked, if you didn't already know."
"I broke into your house last night. You think I can't break into one room?" James demanded, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. It was almost like he was offended at the thought he couldn't do it, features twisting in slight distaste.
"That room holds drugs and medical equipment," Samara pointed out with a roll of her own eyes. "It's harder to break into than Fort Knox – trust me, I've had break in's before and that room is always left untouched. And I don't think it's because the thieves had no interest."
Her bantering partner fell silent, and she took it as a victory, grinning as she moved across the room to heat up a hot plate on her stove. The pancake batter looked smooth, not that it was missing any lumps, but she didn't think he'd toss the finished product across the room in disgust so she was calling it a win.
Because damn it man, she was a doctor not a five star chef!
"Any way you want these?" Samara inquired, peering over her shoulder in curiosity. A yelp built up in her throat when she met the blue eyes watching her, the intense scrutiny making her feel like a bug under a microscope. "Burnt? Not burnt? Raw?" she continued, voice weaker than before as she hurried to look away from the piercing gaze.
Tip number one – eye contact with machete wielding, robot armed, hunky dude is forbidden. Tip number two – pay attention to pancakes as they're cooking because cooking things are proven to burn.
"Shit," she hissed, hurrying to flip the cooked pool of batter. The cooked side was a warm brown and she felt her chest loosen in relief, safe in the knowledge that she hadn't burnt the man's breakfast.
An amused huff sounded behind her, and movement ghosted along the tiled floor. "Not burnt, but not raw either, please."
"I even got a please," Samara noted aloud, smiling slightly at the bubbling mass and flipping it onto a plate. The perfect circle made her inner obsessive perfectionist sigh in contentment, and she added another spoonful to the hotplate. "Maple syrup? Bacon? Bananas?" she questioned quickly, moving to the cupboards and pulling out different toppings. "I have honey even, if you're feeling adventurous."
Risking another glance back, her own smile widened when she saw the small flicker of amusement dance through blue eyes. "Berries," James murmured, and with the word she understood the mirth lining his features.
Turning, she pointed the dirtied spatula at him in feigned threat. "You, you are a funny man," she commented. "Which kind? If you haven't noticed, I've got quite the selection currently decorating my table. Take your pick while I cook up the rest of these."
She heard the male grunt an affirmative before more rustling sounded behind her, and as tempted as she was to look, she tried not to. She was sure that constantly watching him would make it look like she didn't trust him, and for some reason she wanted him to believe she did. It wasn't that there was actually any trust between them, because no, one half of her mind was currently screaming there was a blade about three inches from her lower spine while the other was crying and curled into a ball. But if he thought she did, then he might learn to trust a little more.
You're talking like you want him to stick around, Sammy… Don't. This is a bad train of thought. You should be wondering when you'll next be able to call the police. Not how he likes his pancakes.
It took a while for the pancakes to be finished, and with a muffled yawn, she carried them to the table; dumping it on the side she wanted her unwelcomed guest to sit. It was an impressive pile, enough to feed a small army, and she was tempted to see if he could eat it all.
"James, I had a banana, did you see where I put it?" Samara muttered, looking around for the dull yellow fruit. She'd put it right next to her bowl, hadn't she? To complete her usual tradition of bananas and berries with her oatmeal. "I could've sworn I had it somewhere and – and that is a banana peel. Dude, you actually ate my banana. That's not cool."
There was no sign of it, nothing but a peel and the man shrugged like he had no clue what she was talking about. With a roll of her eyes, she stood up and fetched another, noting he hadn't sat down or touched the food he'd demanded. "Sit down and eat up before it gets cold," she commanded absently, cutting up the banana and dropping it in her bowl. The berries were next and she clicked her tongue, grabbing a small handful of raspberries before pushing the rest in his direction. "I put a lot of effort into those things, so you better appreciate them."
It took a few seconds, the time seeming to stretch out painfully, before he sat down opposite her and picked up the fork.
Hey, this chapter is coming a little earlier because tomorrow I'm a little busy and wouldn't have the time to post until later in the evening. I figured that early was better than later? Eh, don't question it, just accept it children.
Taila xx
