Bonus bonus! Nervous as FUCK about this chapter. It's the one you've all been waiting for. BONE APPLE TEETH
Chapter Forty
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The Winter Soldier extended a hand out towards me. "Are you okay —?"
"G-get away from me!" I gasped, choking on my words. Scrambling up to a standing position, fear giving me the adrenaline to move, only for my back to hit the wall again. The impact was small, but it quite nearly knocked the wind out of me.
He came to a stop, arm half-raised, still reaching out. Then a step back. Hand lowering. Just the faintest hint of metal in the dim light. Rain plinked audibly against it.
"I… I'm sorry," he said. Low, faint under the stormy onslaught. For a second, I thought a caught a tremble his voice — it had to be my imagination. He'd stepped out of the cone of light. The darkness made it difficult to read his expression; I caught the glimmer of his eyes and the shadow of his brow but little else. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm not — I won't hurt you. I swear."
A laugh escaped me, sarcastic and terrified. Looking around for an escape, but there was none. I was stuck in a dead-end rooftop. He was blocking the only way out. There was a chance I could slip past him… Pain shot up my left leg and I had to clamp down on a whimper climbing up my throat. Pulling my weight off of it. That fall had injured me worse than I thought. I looked down, running my hand over my thigh, but found no open wound. My jeans were completely soaked, the warmth of my skin making it impossible to tell if there was any bleeding. The pain was most intense right above my knee, where I had taken the brunt of that fall. Definitely a broken bone. Fantastic.
Because of the aching waves rippling up to my hip, my response came through gritted teeth; taut, restrained. "You've already hurt me enough."
He seemed to flinch at that. A sudden tensing, a jerk of his head as if he'd been slapped. Then, he whispered. "I know."
Still searching for a way out, I paused ever so slightly. The urge to run was stronger than ever, but for a multitude of reasons I couldn't go anywhere. For one, my leg was broken. I wouldn't be able to outrun him. The injury held me trapped in this conversation. If I had a weapon, a gun, that would change the game. But I didn't, so the odds remained against me.
But, just for the briefest of moments, my curiosity overpowered my fear. I cut him a skeptical look, rainwater dripping from my eyelashes. "You know? You mean, you remember?"
"S-some," he stammered, his hands coming together in a nervous gesture. Unsure of himself, maybe. The way his head was tilted, he wasn't looking at me. "But not all of it. Not everything. But I know what I was, from… before. I know what I did to you." He paused. Lifted his head up "And I knew your mother."
I swallowed. Didn't say anything. My mind was going a million miles an hour. The fear, and the intense questions building up in my head. He knows. He remembers. For some reason, my own compassion betrayed me, when I realized I felt sorry for him; didn't have to ask how he only remembered some things, not others. I'd already been there. I knew exactly what it was like. It hurt, more than I wanted it to, knowing what he was going through.
I hated it. I didn't want to feel sorry for him. I wanted to be angry.
But I didn't sound like it when I finally said, "That was you in the graveyard, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
A huff of air left my chest. Well, that answered that. A part of me was strangely relieved, knowing that my instincts were right. Which came the next logical conclusion: "You've been following me."
Now it was his turn not to say anything. He just nodded. Shoulders hunching up, turning slightly away from me. Ashamed? "I had to make sure it was you. I thought — I thought you were dead, after…"
"After you threw me out of a helicarrier?" I asked, cold and scathing.
"Yes." he repeated. His volume dropped to a mumble. "That."
A long silence fell; the only sound passing between us was the drumming of rain on brick and concrete. It beat down on us, heavy and unrelenting, but neither of us moved. A stalemate.
"I was afraid — " he suddenly broke the silence again, lifting his head to study me. The flashlight rolled in the wind, casting light upon him — for a split second, his face was revealed — Gaunt, hair dripping down his face, two-day-old beard. Eyes wide, unblinking, staring at me. Searching. Open. Earnest.
Human.
The flashlight continued rolling, and darkness fell on him again. His face once more hidden behind shadow. He seemed to have lost his nerve, then tried again: "— I was afraid that if you survived, that… that they might've got to you again."
"They didn't." I said, not having to ask who he meant. HYDRA. My eyes took him in again, starting to sense that something was inherently different. My neck and shoulders were still tense, and I still held on to my urge to run. But my hands were no longer curled into fists. I braced my palms against the brick behind me. "You?"
He cocked his head to the side. "No. I won't be what they made me. Not again."
"The Winter Soldier."
Almost immediately, I regretted saying that. His reaction was instant; entire body going taut, ramrod straight, sudden intake of breath. Shoulders going back, hands clenching at his sides. Even the very air changed, thickening with hostile energy. I shied away, suddenly terrified at the thought of making him angry. God, what was I thinking, poking the bear like that, had I lost my freaking mind —
But then his hands released. His voice was firm, but hoarse. "I'm not him anymore."
If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was trying to convince himself more than me.
There was no answer to that. None that I had, at least. A part of me believed him; but the other part of me also knew that it could change. It was the same for him just as it was for me. Just because we were free, it didn't mean we were safe.
He could be the Winter Soldier again. All it would take was one bad day. Just a little bad luck. It didn't matter if he didn't want to be that person. If he hated that person.
What HYDRA wanted, HYDRA got.
It didn't matter that the organization fell with SHIELD. The protocol was still in my head. His head. If some bastard got their hands on the right phrase, that was it. We could be activated again.
Just being in his vicinity felt like a risk. The Winter Soldier wasn't an actor of any sort; I didn't believe that this was a front, or a facade. But I also had no idea what his temperament was. What kind of person James Buchanan Barnes became once out of seventy years of brainwashing. Just because he wasn't the Winter Soldier didn't mean he wasn't dangerous.
Maybe he could tell I didn't believe him, or didn't trust him. He shuffled on his feet, a little awkward, a little anxious. At the very least, he didn't approach me again, stood in that same spot he'd been standing this entire time. I was scared that after everything that had happened to him, he'd be out of control, or out of his mind; insane. But this person before me seemed surprisingly constrained, even timid.
And the Winter Soldier was the last person I'd ever considered timid.
But something in his demeanor changed, leaning forward slightly. "Are you hurt?"
I shifted backwards, more instinct than a conscious reaction. Again, he saw this and hesitated, but didn't pull back this time. Just didn't move when I muttered, "I'm f-fine. My leg hurts, that's all."
As if to prove that it wasn't as bad as he thought, I took a step forward, then another. There was no way I could hide the limp, or the fact that I had to lean against the wall nearest me (and furthest from him) in order to keep standing.
I made for the set of metal stairs, leading down to the street below.
That was a mistake.
I'd made it to the edge of the roof without incident, and it had given me too much confidence. The rain had turned the metal slick, and my footing had been rendered awkward and unsure with the pain and the limp. I was more focused on putting up a brave face and making a point (and getting away) than anything else. As soon as I put my bad foot down on the first step, it slipped right out from under me.
My whole body lurched forward. A gasp flew from my mouth and I grabbed the railing — but it was slippery, too. My grip meant nothing, and just as I thought I was about to go ass-over-teakettle down this flight of steps and into empty air below, a pair of arms wrapped around me and pulled me back. "Hey, easy!"
Instead of landing on my face, I was set down gently, out of breath, and dizzy with pain.
"You're okay, you're okay..." He said quietly, although his voice was tense. It was obvious I wasn't, or maybe he wanted to soothe me. If only he knew he was part of the distress. He scanned me up and down. "How bad is it? Can you move your leg?"
The instinct to push him away was strong, but the pain was even stronger. My back and shoulders seized up and I had to fight with the simple instinct of curling into the fetal position. My eyes burned, and I managed to smother a sob, but not the whimper that followed. God it hurt. Of all the things I've endured, a simple broken leg was the one thing that almost put me down. While my heart pounded from the fact that he was still holding me — I couldn't stop myself from gripping onto his coat for support, fingers digging into his shoulder. If it hurt him, he didn't complain.
Still, I couldn't answer him right away. I had been suppressing, swallowing the pressure for so long that I finally couldn't take it anymore. The instant I took that step, all that weight compressed the fracture in my femur. Bone grinded against bone and agony wracked up and down the entire left side of my body.
First the pain, now the fear, was getting in the way of me talking, and I grimaced, trying to think through it all. The only sound my throat wanted to make was crying, and that was neither dignified or helpful.
"I don't know," I said, breath hissing sharp and fast through my teeth. My hand was clamped over my leg, as if holding it would make it hurt less. "C-can't move my knee or my foot. It all hurts. I think the femur is broken."
The femur. Like it didn't belong to me.
"You shouldn't have fallen like that."
I threw him a look with tears in my eyes, rankled by his tone. Was he really going to admonish me right now? "I didn't do it on purpose!"
"Clearly."
Casting my gaze upwards, I wondered if I was actually getting sassed right now. By the Winter Soldier. By my own father.
"You can't go anywhere with that leg," He said, completely oblivious to my reaction. I could see his face much better now — he met my gaze unflinchingly, serious as a heart attack.
I opened my mouth to argue, but realized my only input was to agree. So instead, I said, "I need to go home."
"You want to go home with a broken leg?" he sounded skeptical.
"N-no, I just —" I started, my voice trembling with uncertainty. I didn't want to freak Aunt May out. I definitely didn't want to go to the hospital. By all rights, my leg would heal within the week. Most importantly, I didn't want to bring him home. I deflated, helpless. "I just don't want to worry them."
He made a noncommittal sound. He seemed to be on the same page. "I can't go there."
"No, you can't."
We were silent for a long moment. I thought about asking him to let me go. Make some excuse, go home anyways, alone. Aunt May knew I was a super soldier, I could probably convince her not to take me to a hospital. Home care could be manageable, right? How hard could it be to set a broken bone?
But that left out the fact of me explaining to May about: A) How I broke my leg to begin with, and B) why the fuck I got myself into that situation when I promised her I'd stay out of trouble.
This was going to be bad no matter how I spun it.
"I have a place."
"What?" I blinked in surprise, startled out of a reverie.
"I have a place," he repeated. "You can stay there. If you want."
I stared at him, speechless. His expression did not change. He was completely serious. Although his tone was commiserating, I knew it wasn't really a question. I replied, deadpan, "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
"To be honest?" He raised one eyebrow. "No."
"You really can't just get me a little bit of the way home —?"
"If there are more of those guys out there, do you really want to lead them back to your family?" He cut me off before I could whine any further.
It effectively ended that line of thought. Hell no. Still, I was rather overwhelmed by his proposition. "And you're okay with leading them to your place?"
He shrugged slightly. "If they do, they won't live to find my next one."
Well, then. My mouth snapped shut, more than a little impressed, and not necessarily in a good way. There was no arguing with that. I tried to think of something else, something that didn't immediately make me want to dive off this rooftop, but there was nothing. I swallowed, fighting another wave of pain. "What happened to the others in there? Are they— ?"
"Dead? Yes." He confirmed without blinking. Like it wasn't even a question. "But it's still not safe for you here."
I could hold his gaze only for a moment, before looking away. The sight of Cathcart flying over the edge of the building had been firmly imprinted in my mind forever. Of course they were all dead. He wouldn't make any mistakes. "F-fine then. We'll go to your apartment. Just for tonight, though."
He nodded once in agreement. Same page.
I didn't know what got me to actually trust him enough for me to not immediately want to yeet — but I did. I didn't like it, but I did. I was starting to believe him, for better or worse. There was no doubt in my mind that, even if he wasn't the Winter Soldier, he was still a complete stranger. This was happening only out of complete necessity. I was still tense in his arms, in this weird embrace that both scared and surprised me. Scared, because I thought he'd hurt me; surprised, because he didn't.
He hunched over my body, as if trying to shield me from the rain. I realized then I was shivering; the pain made the cold temperature all the more prevalent, and my teeth were chattering. Or maybe it was nerves.
I hated it, the helplessness I felt in this situation. I was angry, but not at him — at myself for getting hurt like this, at needing help at all.
"Can you stand up on your own?"
"Y-yeah, I think so," I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, steeling my nerves for what I wanted to do next. "Just help me up and I'll be— "
He began to straighten up, bringing me with him. I attempted to put my feet under me, but yelped when he lifted me right off the ground. " — That's not what I meant!"
"You can't walk on that leg," he said with absolutely no change in tone.
I huffed. "Then why did you ask?"
"Dunno. Guess it was just polite." He shrugged, which made me hiss in pain. Wincing, he muttered a quick apology.
There was no convincing him out of it, so I had no other option but to suck it up as he started down the fire escape steps. No ladders, thankfully, but each metallic footstep jarred up through my leg. I took deep, slow breaths to measure myself, remained composed even though I still sorta felt like crying again. The pain was a little better now, but only just.
It was several long flights of steps, all made in silence. He said nothing, perhaps focused on his footing than anything else. The rain continued to pour down, and I tried to focus on the drops hitting my face instead of the throbbing in my thigh.
When we were finally on the ground, I breathed a sigh of relief. His gait became less unpleasant for me, and I was able to string together a coherent line of thought again.
"So if you're not him, then," I broke the silence first, if only to distract myself from my current situation — the pain — and get back to the topic at hand. "What do I call you?"
It was an honest question that I genuinely didn't have the answer to. This man, who was once Sgt. James Barnes, was once the Winter Soldier, was now someone else entirely. It definitely wasn't the man I used to know, but it didn't seem like the one Steve had known, either, if the stories he told me were anything to go by. Even in my head, he didn't really have a name or title.
"Hmph," he made a grunting noise, sounding mildly annoyed by the question — like he didn't know himself, and was being rushed for an answer. He ruminated on the question for a long minute, before finally answering, with reluctance: "...Bucky's fine, I guess. That's the name they gave me, anyways."
Bucky. For some reason, I was utterly convinced he was going to say 'Dad' instead. I'd been so obsessed with that aspect of his identity that I just expected it now, to some level of dread. Thus, his answer surprised me so much I started laughing. Maybe the pain was making me delirious, or the exhaustion, but I couldn't stop.
"Is that… funny?" Bucky cast me an odd look, clearly startled by my reaction.
"No!" I wheezed between laughter, shaking my head.
Bucky continued to frown at me for a long moment, looking like he wanted to say something — then thought better of it and switched his gaze forward again.
After that I fell silent; the pain overtook my thoughts again, and as much as it made my leg hurt even more, I couldn't make myself relax. Every muscle tense, wound up like a spring, as I was carried through the dark, rainy streets by a man that had once terrified me. Still terrified me. I probably would've been more comfortable if I just let myself settle as he carried me, but I couldn't. My neck and shoulders ached from keeping my head up, when it would've been easier to lie back, rest against his shoulder. But I couldn't do that. I didn't want to stay in contact any more than I had to.
If Bucky noticed this at all, or if it bothered him, he gave no indication. He said nothing at all, in fact, which I appreciated at first. I didn't really enjoy talking to him and even now I was overthinking our last conversation, wondering why I said what I said, if it was too much, et cetera. But as the minutes drew on, and he continued to remain silent, it started to disconcert me.
But I wasn't saying anything either, so I guess that made two of us.
I kept my gaze focused somewhere over my knees, watching the scenery pass by. Not looking at him, not looking where we were going. Just focusing on my breathing, on the pain in my leg, and hoping I didn't pass out.
The walk was long. A good twenty, thirty minutes had passed and I wasn't quite sure how far we'd gotten. It looked like we were still somewhere in Brooklyn but I couldn't be sure, the discomfort and the rain and his rhythmic, silent gait lulled me into a dazed state where nothing felt quite real. Like I was being carried through a dream, drifting from one distant thought to the next. Hanging in the moment for too long brought the sharp reality of my broken leg back, so it was easier to slip into a reverie.
Only vaguely did I think to have any curiosity. Where was he taking me? Where did he live? I didn't have the energy or wherewithal left to ask.
At last, we seemed to reach our destination. I felt his pace slow and lifted my head, blinking owlishly and trying to focus again. The neighborhood was different — dingy, dark, quiet. No construction zone in sight. We stood in front of an old apartment building, the little sign with its street number hanging by one nail. The windows on the bottom floors had bars over them. The light over the stoop was broken.
I flashed Bucky a doubtful look. He returned it with half a shrug (not jostling my leg): "Guy rents by the month. Takes hard cash. Doesn't ask questions."
"Oh," I said, nodding slowly as he carried me up the steps. Tried to find the bright side in all this. "No questions is... good. But where do you get the money?"
Bucky glanced at me. Away again. Didn't answer.
He finally set me down so he could open the door. I tried to lean against the door but he didn't actually let go of me, keeping his arm around my shoulder while punching in a code on an ancient keypad. It let out a feeble buzz, followed by the click of a lock. As soon as the door was open, he picked me right back up and carried me through the threshold.
"Oh, this is stupid," I said under my breath, more whiney than I cared to admit.
"I live on the third floor." Bucky told me, his tone flat as we went down the narrow, musty hallway. "And there's no elevator. You really want to walk those flights of steps yourself?"
I glared at him, but couldn't hold his gaze. Scowled at my hands instead. Probably pouting, like the child I was. "...No."
He hummed in reply, and for a second I thought he sounded amused. But when I glanced at his face, it remained entirely unchanged. Deciding once again that I'd only imagined it, I continued to be angry at my hands while Bucky carried me into that last stretch.
Once more, I was set down so he could open his apartment door. Although the place made my skin crawl, I had to admit it was cheap and seedy enough that no one would ever think to look here. Easy to blend in, go unnoticed. No one around to care. A neighborhood where everyone kept to themselves.
The perfect hiding place. If a little moldy.
When the door opened, I peered in, letting him enter first before stepping inside. Bucky still kept a hand on my arm, helping keep my weight off my leg. Although I was still uncomfortable with him, I didn't shake his hand off. Not when I was leaning on it so much.
The place was completely dark until he turned on a floor lamp, and dim yellow light filled the room. And I saw just how small the apartment was. Basically one room divided into two, with a closet and a narrow doorway leading to what was likely the bathroom. A kitchenette with a meager but clean array of food across the countertops. No room for a dining table. Just a ratty couch with some blankets folded on top, a pillow. A rickety coffee table. On the wall near me, an old CRT television stacked on top of a milk crate. The wood floor creaked beneath us as he guided me to the couch. When Bucky closed the door behind us, I noticed the five different locks installed in the jamb — all shiny and new, noticeable compared to the rest of the place.
The one feature of the entire place was the view. There was a glass sliding door on the far wall, at the end of the couch. It opened up to a tiny balcony and vista overlooking Brooklyn. It served as the only window in the apartment. I could see the river from here, all the distant, sparkling lights of the city. It was actually… kind of nice. Up until Bucky closed the curtains. Long and heavy, impossible to see through. The rainy night disappeared from view and I was left to stare at the peeling wallpaper.
Bucky continued on, moving back into the kitchen on some mysterious task. I heard the sound of ripping fabric, and when he came back, he had shed all his upper layers except for a flannel shirt. I watched in mute surprise as he took up the coffee table and snapped it in half on the long side.
The crack of wood was so loud it made me jump. "...W-what are you doing?"
"It's for your splint," he said, breaking the half of the table again to create a long, thin piece of wood, which he held out against my leg. It almost matched in length. "You can't move it once its set."
"I know how a splint works."
The look he gave me was almost grim. "If you say so."
I didn't know whether to be confused or offended, so decided to say nothing at all as he broke the second half of the table, making fourths and now having two useful pieces that did not have legs attached. I frowned to myself, wondering if it was really necessary. "You're really going to wreck your furniture for me?"
He just shrugged again, looking at the two pieces of wood in his hand, holding them together for measurement. "Might as well put it to good use."
"What will you do with the rest of it?"
Now it was his turn to look confused. He frowned at me. "Does it matter?"
Realizing I was going to get nowhere with him, and feeling a little stupid, I wilted a little, looking away. "Guess not…"
Distracted by my thoughts, I realized I was still wearing my coat. It was soaking wet and seeping into the couch, although Bucky hadn't said a thing. Still, I felt a little bad, and took it off. Draped it over the back corner of the couch, where it could dry safely without getting me wet.
Bucky eventually caught my attention again when he held something out to me. A wad of sticks — tongue depressors. Where the hell did he get these? Why did he have them? When I didn't take them right away, he sighed and said, "It's to put in your mouth. So you don't bite off your tongue."
That was a sobering thought. I took the flat sticks tentatively — there had to be at least six — my mind now filled with whatever was going to happen that would need this kind of preparation. How bad was this going to hurt? What I'd been through already sucked enough.
"You're actually going to set the fracture?" I asked, my tone a little nervous, guessing at his intent. We hadn't even discussed going to the hospital or not — it seemed Bucky already knew I didn't want to go, or decided for himself it wasn't an option.
"If I don't do it now, it'll only get worse," He replied in that same noncommittal tone he'd had this entire time — and completely missing the point.
I just shook my head. "No, I mean, you know how to reset a fracture?"
"Oh," Bucky said, and tilted his head in thought. "Yes. I've done it before."
"On who?"
"Myself."
My hands clenched in my lap, and I tried to maintain composure. He could only have meant as the Winter Soldier. How many times could he have broken a bone and have to set it himself? It was too cruel a thought for me to fully understand. "O-oh."
In an effort to distract myself from such fun, happy thoughts, I put my attention back on the tongue depressors. Pulling the paper wrappers off them, I stacked the depressors together (pretending like this was normal, like Bucky wasn't staring at me this whole time), and carefully wedged them between my teeth.
"This is going to hurt," He said, as if I hadn't already guessed. Bucky held out his hands, and for a moment his expression flickered, appearing nervous as he gauged my reaction. "Are you sure you want to do this now?"
Well, I already had the damn things in my mouth. I just nodded. Might as well get it over with.
"Alright." Bucky said, carefully finding the fracture by touch — his right hand was warm and gentle. But my eyes were focused on the metal one, cupping under my knee, cold even through my jeans. How easily he could crush my bones in his grip if he wanted to. Once he'd found the fracture, he looked to me. His eyes meeting mind, unblinking. "On the count of three. You ready?"
Another quick nod. My back straightened, shoulders rising. Closed my eyes and only too late I had nothing in my hands to hold onto when he reset the bone.
"One." His voice intoned. "Two —"
He didn't even reach three before both his hands clenched around my leg, jerking apart then together. Bone grinded against bone, sliding into place with an exquisite clicking noise.
The spasm that followed was severe. My vision went white. I gasped, jaw clenching automatically — all six depressors instantly snapped apart between my teeth.
Bucky released my leg almost immediately but I was already spitting out splinters. "Motherfuck —!"
It was over in less than a second, but it had fired off every synapse in my brain in a symphony of torture. I was still cursing up a storm, trying not to keel over as Bucky went about framing my leg with the two planks of wood, then tying it all together with strips of fabric — completely ignoring me as if I wasn't currently contemplating homicide right then. I was still trying to catch my breath,
"There," He said finally, when the splint was finished, pulling his hands back and eyeing me warily. "All done."
I took the pillow behind my head and threw it at him, utterly furious. "You went on two!"
The pillow hit his face and Bucky didn't even blink. "If it was on three, you'd be tensed up. It would've hurt more. Been harder to fix."
I was starting to feel woozy, the aftermath of the pain subsiding. It felt… better now. Not overwhelming so, just barely noticeable. But it didn't feel wrong anymore. He must have set it correctly after all. A relief. I didn't know why I wanted to keep arguing, but I could find no reason to; Bucky was right, he'd caught me off guard, while I was still mostly relaxed. It worked.
The splint felt a little weird, considering my jeans were still wet and I wondered if that would be an issue. Not that I was willing to take them off for any account. Nope, pants staying on. They'd dry eventually, and I wasn't worried about catching a cold. Had other things to worry about.
Deciding to admit defeat, I just sighed, shoulders drooping and falling back on the couch. A piqued spring dug into my shoulder, but with my growing exhaustion I was too tired to find a more comfortable position. With my leg tied down the way it was, I couldn't move much anyways.
"It should start healing soon," Bucky said, his voice drawing me back to the present. I lifted my head to blink at him. His gaze was focused somewhere on the floor, like his thoughts were elsewhere. "Takes about ten days to fully mend. You'll be able to walk by the third or fourth day, if you can stay off it till then."
"Third or fourth day…" I repeated blankly. When the words finally settled in my noggin, my eyes flying open and I shot straight up into a sitting position. Bucky jolted in alarm, leaning back, but I was only scrambling for my coat pockets, pulling out my phone. I was lucky I hadn't dropped it in the fight. "Shit shit shit!"
"What? What's wrong?" He jumped, suddenly alert, eyes wide and flicking between me and the phone.
"I have to call my aunt — and MJ!" I cursed again, smacking my temple for forgetting — and immediately regretted it. I'd also forgotten where I'd been struck by the brick, and now the memory came back with a vengeance. I groaned, falling to the side with my head against the back of the couch. "Oh, I'm so screwed…"
Bucky seemed to relax, his expression fading again. I imagined him to be more annoyed that I got him all worked up over nothing. Instead, he said, "...I'll get you an ice pack."
Then he got up and left without further comment.
As Bucky headed back into the kitchen, I squinted at my phone, fighting against the new ache in my head. There were a number of missed text messages and a few calls — from MJ. Aunt May wasn't expecting me home just yet, but I probably had a few minutes at best before she got worried and started to call, too. I had to decide quickly who I should contact first. Aunt May or MJ? MJ or Aunt May? There was a lot of explaining I had to do either way, but considering the current state of my life, there only so much I was willing to tell one person, and I really didn't want Aunt May to know about all of this.
Not yet at least.
(Not when my leg was still broken).
So I made the executive decision, and punched in MJ's number.
"Mia, what the fuck!" MJ's shout came ringing through the speaker at high volume, and I quickly turned it down before it earned Bucky's attention. I brought the phone back to my ear, wincing as MJ's tirade continued. "I've been losing my shit! I called you three times! Why didn't you answer? You know May is going to kill me if anything happens to you on my watch!"
Oh boy, here we go. In hushed tones, I quickly tried to squeeze a reply, "I know, I know, I'm sorry, MJ! I didn't mean to scare you."
"Well, consider me truly and thoroughly scared shitless! What the hell happened? Are you home? Please tell me you're home."
I opened my mouth, but no answer came out. I didn't know how to describe where I was. If I could at all. I didn't want to.
MJ, smart as a whip, knew exactly what my silence meant. "Oh my God, you're not home, are you? Mia, where the fuck —?"
"I'm safe, okay?" I said, cutting her off before she could get any further. I needed her help and I wasn't sure if I could convince her to do it. "Please, trust me when I say I can't tell you where right now, but I'm safe, I promise. And I need your help. Aunt May can't know about this."
Something cold pressed against my head, and I jumped. Looked up, to see Bucky standing over me — I hadn't even heard him approach. He was holding a cloth-covered ice pack to my head, his face blank. Maybe a little awkward. Still somewhat shaken, I raised my free hand up to hold the ice pack in place, and he pulled back. Sat on a stool in the corner of the room, next to the TV. Studied his hands, in lieu of watching me, I supposed. Most certainly listening to our conversation. At this point I made no effort to really hide what we were saying.
MJ was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was careful, concerned. "... Mia, what's going on?"
"I'm kind of… fucked up right now," I said, not able to think of a better way to say it. "And I need you to help me convince Aunt May that I'm sleeping over at your place. For the whole weekend."
"For the whole —" MJ sounded completely aghast. "Wait, wait, Mia, that is incredibly out of character for the both of us. You sure May is going to buy that?"
"I mean, she would, if it's in the name of…" I grimaced, struggling to find the right phrase to call it. "Friendship? Sisterly bonding?"
MJ audibly shuddered. "You disgust me."
"I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have asked. Just forget about it —"
"Excuse you, I didn't say I wouldn't do it. Would I have a multi-night sleepover with my best friend entirely on a whim? Hell no. But will I lie to authority figures in order to protect valued cohosts and their secrets? Absolutely." MJ said without a break in confidence. "But you so owe me one, Fletcher."
"Understood."
"I wanna know everything when you get back."
I winced internally. That was going to be a long talk, but one that I'd probably have to do eventually. MJ deserved to know, after all this. "And I'll tell you everything. I promise."
After that, it was just working on our cover, making sure we had all the details, weren't going to tell different stories. She'd asked about Peter and I told her I'd handle it; Aunt May was our biggest concern. It was a lot of effort that amounted to very little — my initial plan was to text Aunt May of our "last minute" plans, and run interference when she called us — but she never did. The text had been enough and she didn't call or ask further questions. Just wanted to know how it goes, with a little smiley face.
She trusted MJ. She trusted me.
My gut twisted with guilt and shame. Aunt May didn't suspect a thing.
Peter I also ended up handling with a phone call, although he certainly got more of the truth than May or MJ did. All I could explain without getting too serious was that I'd been in a fight and gotten hurt, but I was holed up and safe. Couldn't come home yet, not until I knew what was going on. Like MJ, I promised to tell him everything when I got back — it would be difficult and unfair to him to have to explain it over text or phone. The hard part was convincing him that I was okay. I had to use our alien imposter codeword just to prove that it was really me. It wasn't until I assured him that he could call me anytime he got worried, and that I'll check in every so often with a text, did he finally start to relax a little.
The guilt returned with a vengeance, because it felt like I was lying to him, too. This was like an echo of DC, and I'm sure Peter knew it. But the last thing I wanted was for Spider-Man to come busting in, ready to pick a fight with an ex-KGB assassin.
To be honest, I wasn't even sure who would win in that fight. I just didn't want anyone to get hurt.
"Sounds like you have good friends," Bucky finally said at last, breaking the silence and making me jump. His brow was furrowed slightly when I looked at him again, and he nodded towards the phone. "You really going to tell them everything?"
"Yes," I said, spinning the phone between my fingers. My other hand was still busy keeping the icepack on my head. "Yeah, I think so."
His hands rubbed together slowly. "Even me?"
"Maybe," I admitted. He tensed, ever so slightly. A flick of his eyes, a rigidness in his shoulders. He stopped moving entirely, so I quickly added, "Just a little. Just that someone helped me. I won't tell them about you, if — if you don't want me to."
It's not my secret to tell.
Bucky considered that for a long moment, eyes drifting across the room. At length, he finally nodded, "A little is fine. Just… not my name."
I blinked, more surprised than I wanted to admit. Just his name? That's it? I could think of more pertinent details that he might also not want to be shared. Maybe those were supposed to be obvious. I didn't know. "Okay."
A silence fell in the small apartment. Neither of us looked at each other, our eyes fixed into different points in space as if lost in thought — yet there was a kind of charge in the air, unspoken words. A million questions were burning in my mind, so many things I wanted to ask him. So many things I wanted to know. What else he might have remembered. How he survived the fall of HYDRA. What he's been doing since then.
Why he was helping me.
It was almost midnight now. I fought with my exhaustion, not wanting to fall asleep yet. There was so much left to do. So much left to say.
I'd opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Bucky frowned at me, and when the silence extended, he finally said, "What?"
"N-nothing," I stammered, losing my nerve at the last moment. His gaze was piercing and turned my voice meek. Looking at my hands was easier. Tried to come up with something else, fast. "...Lights just hurt, that's all."
Apparently taking that as some sort of request, Bucky stood up without a word, his hand drifted across the wall, flicking off the ceiling light. Into the kitchen, to do the same, with only the small bulb over the stove remaining lit. His silence disconcerted me. There was no argument, no questions; Bucky just seemed to know what to do, what was best without asking. I couldn't decide if that was comforting or creepy. Then he walked back, bent to pick up the pillow, the one I'd thrown and had been lying on the floor since.
He handed it to me. "Try and get some sleep."
With that, Bucky reached up for the floor lamp, the last light in the room, pulled its cord — and the apartment blinked into darkness.
