Chapter 6: giving blood, keeping faith
Summary: In which there is violence, Bucky's PoV, and some conflict.
Notes: Chapter title from "The Patient" by Tool.
He tasted blood in his mouth.
His movements were swift, efficient, brutal.
Legs, arms, fists, blades, guns, moving with the speed and purpose of a machine.
He was a machine, meant to fill a purpose.
The impact of his fist against flesh and bone met with a slap and a crunch, a twist and a crack; threw the inert body down, impassive to the grunt of pain morphed into a scream.
Crowbar to the ribs; a stagger morphed into a pivot, then a grip on Kevlar, fabric tearing; one strike, two. Armbar. A snap.
Next.
The chaos was intentional, a distraction. But he had to get through the chaos to get to the source, to put it down. Civilians were men possessed, but civilians on the offensive were combatants.
There was a mission.
His eyes were on the target. Moving. Creating distance.
He started to run.
Gunfire; he used his arm as a shield. A car barreling toward him; vaulted onto the roof; the car crashed behind him as he leapt off.
Night stick to the face, blocked by his flesh arm.
Blue. A badge.
A thick throat in his grip; a slam to the ground. A crunch.
A female voice in the distance. Ignored. More gunfire. Blocked with the vibranium arm.
The woman was between him and the target.
Running. Again.
Gunfire. The arm. He was almost at the woman.
"Barnes!"
A different voice. That voice.
It was sudden, breakneck, the shift in him. His singular focus shattered by her sudden presence, her scent, her voice, her eyes, huge and disbelieving, her palm against his chest, his chest heaving, breathing ragged from the adrenaline, from the force and velocity and momentum of him suddenly stopped by her.
What the ever-loving fuck.
He didn't speak. His jaw was clenched, his pupils blown, his hands balled into fists. His gaze flickered to the empty space where the target had been. Gone.
Fucking. Gone.
Suddenly, the scene around him started crashing into his consciousness; screams, groans, sobs; terrified voices trying to make sense of the nightmare they'd just awakened from.
"… gotta get him the fuck outta here, Claire," the woman said. The woman Claire was standing in front of.
Claire's gaze was trained on his face, and it wasn't moving as she responded to the other woman.
"Do you need him to go down to the station?"
"I'm not going to the station," he said, his voice low, even, and very, very clear.
"Um, you sure as shit will," the woman said. "Best case scenario, you're gonna have to give a statement –"
"I'm not going to the station," he repeated, his gaze trained on Claire now.
"Maybe not right now, Misty," Claire said, still looking at him. "I'll get him down there, OK? But right now –"
The other woman – Misty – huffed a breath, looking around at the carnage.
"Just get the hell out of here and don't let him leave town, you heard?"
"I got you, girl," Claire said. Finally, she turned away from him to reach out and touch the other woman's arm. The other woman nodded, reached out, squeezed her hand.
"Call me, OK?"
"I got you," Claire said again. He watched her, felt her hand on his, felt her pulling him. He moved with her until they turned a corner, then began pulling her in another direction.
"Hey," she said. He ignored her, picking up the pace. She was nearly running to keep up.
"Hey!" she repeated, more emphatically. "Where are we going?"
"To your mother's house," he said, his gaze fixed on the street, not slowing down.
"What – I'm not sure this is the best time for you to meet my damn mother, given that you're covered in blood, you look like you just got into a barfight with Yankee stadium, and I think you may have just had a psychotic break," she retorted, gripping his hand tighter, digging her short nails into his skin. A pause. "And how the fuck do you know where my mother lives?"
Now he looked at her – a sidelong look that communicated the obviousness of the answer to the question.
"Oh get the fuck out of here with all your crazy superanti-hero I-can-find-out-anything-I-want-about-some-regular-ass-people-like-you mean mugging!" she sniped at him. "You are not going to my mother's house looking like that."
"I'm not going to your mother's house," he told her plainly. "You are."
She stopped. He did, too. Dragging her down 145th Street seemed like it might have been a bad idea on a number of levels, and while he wasn't the best at sussing out the nuances of human relationships these days, he was able to gather at least that much.
"So," she said slowly, something glinting in her eyes that belied the slow draw of that syllable, "you think you're gonna drop me off at my mother's after you just went on a rampage in the middle of Harlem, while you look like somebody just tried to put you in a blender? Good fucking luck, cabrón."
He turned to face her fully, expression neutral, a little tight around the lips.
"I need to go," he said evenly.
"No, you really don't," she said, taking out her phone. "You need to tell me what the fuck is going on while I patch you up."
She let go of his hand to tap out a text.
"What are you doing?" he asked, looking sharply at the motion of her thumb.
"Texting my mom to see if she's working tonight. If she is, then we can go to her place for as long as it takes to take care of –" she motioned up and down with her free hand in his general direction "—all this."
He looked at her for a moment, disbelieving, not quite sure what to make of her. Before he could decide, she was sliding her phone into her pocket.
"OK, she's working late. Now we can go. Come on," she said, taking her hand.
"Right," he said, jaw set, but not releasing her hand.
Notes: Next time: Bucky needs patching up, and Claire needs some damn answers! This is a thing that will happen, though possibly not tomorrow? Thursdays are hella busy for me, so I'm not making any promises, but soon. SOON!
Notes: As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!