"Acid," Doc Goldie gave a squeaky grunt. "Chloric acid. Oh that's a nasty piece of work, and one of the reasons you're in a bit of pain," she added to James. "That's a game-changer all right."

"Doc," Steve looked at her. "What do we do?"

She gave a sigh. "We have to take the arm off."

Nobody said anything for a second; we were all in shock I guess. James gave a little groan and when he looked up I could tell he was definitely hurting. "Part of it's grafted. I know that much. I also know there are rods holding it to what's left of the bone, sort of like bike spokes."

"That's a start," Doc Goldie told him. "All right. X-rays-at least conventional ones-are out. Melora, I'm going to need you to search through the rest of that file and see what you can find about the structure of arm and whatever surgeries attached it. Captain, if your friend Mr. Stark has any helpful suggestions now would be the time to call in favors."

"I know at least one person who might be able to help," Sam spoke up quietly. "Doctor Ali Attah, over at the VA. Works with prosthetics."

"Excellent," Doc Goldie nodded. "Probably up to date on the latest techniques. Morty—"

"Getting Streiten on the line now," he told us from around his cell phone. "What else you need, Doc?"

"Fire extinguishers and sand bags," she replied. "For all we know, Hydra may very well have included explosives or incendiary devices within the arm as well and I'd rather be safe than sorry."

And here I thought I'd hit my top freak-out level already, but apparently not. I clutched the file and stared at James, feeling like I wanted to throw up. This could not be happening. No. Nobody would stick a bomb in someone's artificial arm! We were supposed to be safe now!

"Mel." That was Steve, getting my attention. He came up and put an arm around my shoulders, squeezing gently and making me look up at him. Hard to focus because my eyes were filling up, but I tried. "We need your skills. The doc needs you to be able to read what's in that file, okay? Nobody else here can translate Russian, so this is critical. Can you do it?"

I nodded, but I was looking at James when I did. He managed a sickly little smile back and that was pretty much all it took for me to get my shit together. I cleared my throat. "I'm pretty sure I love you," I told him.

"The feeling's more than mutual. Fell for you after that second beer." James replied, and I blushed. God, we were flirting like idiots here but it told me he was okay for the moment and I needed that, I really did.

I read the file aloud to Doc Goldie and James while everyone else took off to carry out their orders and get things in place. Periodically the doctor would ask me to repeat something, or check on James, but for the next hour and a half it was mostly me, struggling with weird medical terminology and formulas. I understood about a quarter of what I was talking about, and occasionally there were bits in other languages—German mostly—but the more I talked, the more Doc Goldie relaxed.

"All right . . . so far it seems that they haven't implanted any explosive for the arm, which is good. I suppose it's because it would be too difficult to stabilize, given the amount of hand-to-hand combat you do," she told James. "So I'm sure we can rule out any overt or aggressive form of self-destruct. That leaves the far more passive acid wash." She was standing behind him, looking at his shoulder, touching the edges of metal and flesh. "I can see a mesh here, just under the skin, very flexible . . . looks like protein-enhanced strands. How do you feel?"

"Like my arm is on fire," James told her, his voice tight. "It's getting worse."

She rubbed his forehead with one of the ice cloths clucking a little at his temperature. "I know, I know. Give me a moment to check on something . . . Melora dear, if you'd come with me please."

Outside the exam room, Doc Goldie put her arm on my shoulder. "I'm going to do something Hydra wouldn't," she murmured. "I'm asking you for your help, sweetie. Melora, are you willing to donate blood and tissue if necessary?"

I nodded without even having to think about it, giving her my own sickly smile. "How bad is it, with the arm right now?"

She shook her head and took her glasses off to clean them. "Hard to say, but not good. I'm no engineer, but I suspect the acid may have been at the joints, eating through those first—I'm sure you've noticed he's having trouble bending his wrist and elbow—and the problem is that it's burning through the inner chambers outward. We need to keep the arm slowly moving so it doesn't allow the acid to pool up and we certainly don't want to lift it over his head and risk having the corrosive drain towards the living tissue of his shoulder."

"And if we don't get it off in time?" I asked.

Doc Goldie pressed her mouth into a thin line and put her glasses back on. "Then surgery won't be necessary because the acid will have dissolved whatever bone and tissue are still connecting the prosthesis to Mr. Barnes. He will probably die from blood loss and shock when it burns away from his stump."

Yeah, there it was-the worst case scenario I'd been trying to avoid. I bit back my nausea and nodded again to Doctor Goldie. "Whatever you need from me," I told her, "take it."

"Okay then. I'm going to have Harriet sit with Mr. Barnes while we'll get you prepped then. And Melora? Thank you. He's got a much better chance because of this."

A chance. That was the hope I needed to hang onto at this point.

-oo00oo-

So I was prepped. I donated blood, and stood by—or rather waited by—as other stuff started happening. Sam told me later that a bunch of S.H.I.E.L.D. loyalists showed up about half an hour later, including their head doctor and a pair of surgical nurses. I didn't know much about that since I was confined to a hospital bed with nothing but my cell phone for company. Harriet came in and told me that the head doctor felt it would be best to remove the arm immediately before it did anymore tissue damage to James. Doctor Goldie told him I'd volunteered for donation of my own free will; then he finally agreed.

"Stubborn son of a bitch," I grumbled, but I had to admit I was touched.

Harriet nodded. "That he is. I'm telling you, the Grotto hasn't seen this much action in forever. We've got people keeping an eye out above for our security, we've got the surgeon prepping, and Steve's got some VIP making his way here too . . . As it is, looks like the two docs are going to start in about half an hour, so you and I will be on stand-by."

"What happened to the chicken?" I asked, aware of my stomach rumbling again. In all the hubbub we'd missed the meal and it had to be sometime after midnight now.

"Morty took it out and we've been noshing on it every time we pass through the kitchen. I'd offer you some, but Doc Goldie says it would be a bad idea," Harriet told me apologetically.

I shrugged. "I can always make more. And at least the coffeemaker's clean."

She laughed and patted my arm. I liked Harriet; she reminded me a little of my Aunt 'Milla. "And it's getting used big-time, sweetie. Anyway, I'll be back in a while."

About an hour later, Doc Goldie came in and gave me serious news: They needed bone tissue. Bone tissue! All I could do was look up at her and croak, "Ah, okay. Take it."

And they did.

I was out after that for a long damned time, and when I finally opened my eyes I had no idea what time it was, what day it was or even quite where I was. Then Harriet came into view, looking a little concerned. "Hey honey, how ya doing?"

"O-okay," I told her, not really sure I was. My shoulder hurt, and when I tried to look down I saw a big bandage all along my collar-bone. She understood my question and spoke up.

"That's where they took the graft from you. Bucky's doing good," Harriet reassured me. "Steve said you'd want to know that. They got the arm off and there was only a little bit of, ah, damage."

I glared at her, because even as out of it as I was, I could tell she was holding back something. She tried to hold my gaze and look innocent, but couldn't do it long.

"What . . . damage?" I demanded.

"Mel, it's okay," she repeated. "Doc Goldie and Doc Streiten were able to neutralize the acid and save a lot of the neural connections. I don't know all the technical stuff honey, but the gist of it is that Bucky's going to be okay."

"Wanna . . . see him."

"You can't just yet," Harriet murmured, and she brushed my hair back to soften the denial. "He's in a sterile room getting some ultra-fancy treatment, and you're not in any shape to go anywhere yourself right now, you know?"

So I said a lot of very bad Russian words, and Harriet just nodded, squeezing my hand and letting me run down until I started to cry. She stayed with me and I know I fell asleep because later I woke up again, this time hurting a little, and embarrassed by my jag and feeling drained in a lot of different ways. I looked over to see Sam sitting there, and he smiled at me.

"Wanna talk about it?" he murmured.

I smiled at him and closed my eyes. "Sam, who are you?"

"A soldier," he answered quietly. "A survivor, a city boy trying to make his family proud, a kick-ass Frisbee golf player and the only person in all of downtown DC who likes brown sugar poptarts right outta the box."

I laughed and while it hurt my shoulder, it felt good too. "Poptarts. See if I cook for you again."

"Oh you will, you will. Now you're gonna spend days trying all kinds of breakfasts on me. Morty and I have a bet going on how soon you'll be heading for the kitchen again."

I opened my eyes again and watched his grin fade into a more serious look as he leaned back in his chair. I cleared my throat. "Sam-how is he? Really?"

"He's . . . okay," Sam told me, not smiling now. "Not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot, but the surgeon and Doc Goldie are optimistic. Having your . . ." he waved a hand at my shoulder, "donations really helped things."

"So . . . what happened?"

"They took the arm off," Sam sighed. "Cut through the mesh and got down under it with little laparoscopic cameras. Apparently the acid took out a lot of the fancy biochips and nanites there and was dissolving whatever muscles he had left inside it." He shook his head. "Pain had to be incredible, but he never said a word. They couldn't risk putting him under for the operation."

I blinked away tears. "Shit."

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "If I thought Hydra were motherfuckers before, it's tripled now. Doing that to a person, a living being . . ." He looked away and I knew he was trying to control his anger. I've done that myself at times, although at the moment I was too wiped out to do more than sigh.

"And the arm?"

"Packed up in a safety locker, waiting for Tony Stark to look at it," Sam replied. He leaned forward again. "Steve says he'll probably build Bucky a better one, too. So, how are you doing, Mel? Really?"

I thought about his question and bit my lips. "I could be better," I admitted finally. "It's been . . . a hell of a week for me, you know?"

Sam nodded. He didn't say anything, and then I just started talking, letting it all sort of pour out of me while he listened, paying attention to everything I had to say. I told him everything. Told Sam about my family, about that awful night Uncle Mischa died, about running off to the lake with James . . . and when I was done about an hour later, I felt utterly drained. Peaceful, though. Kind of . . . emptied out.

"Damn, woman," he half-smiled. "You have been through the wringer."

"And then some," I agreed, accepting the glass of water Sam handed to me. After I'd had a sip, I closed my eyes again. "Thank you. That really helped."

He knew I didn't mean just the water, because he grinned again. "Anytime. Get some sleep now, okay?"

"Okay. But the next time I wake up, I want to see James. And cook."

"I'll see what I can do," Sam told me.