A few quick notes: there are mild mentions of religion in this chapter. At a loss for what else to do, Bucky is going to pray for Steve. It's not super detailed, so if it's not your cuppa, you can just skip it. Also, there is one use of the f-word in the sixth paragraph, which may or may not describe how some of you feel about our own situation.
Thanks for all your support thus far! Cue the comfort and recovery, which, remember, are marathons, not sprints.
Life functions critical, they'd said before sticking Steve full of needles.
We can't explain it, they said of Steve's brain scans which looked more like burning wildfires than the ones Bucky had seen before.
We don't know, they said, when asked what Steve's chances were.
Steve had been moved back to Manhattan General after he'd crashed for a third time in SHIELD medbay. Now that he'd been stabilized, he was hooked up to more monitoring equipment than Bucky had ever seen in one place at once: a ventilator because he wasn't breathing on his own, dialysis because his kidneys had shut down, IVs full of nutrients and liquids to combat the fact that you could see Steve's ribs if you looked at his chest just right. No matter how many nutrients Steve had been given intravenously during his bouts of unconsciousness, it hadn't been enough to counteract the toll the symbiote was taking on his system, and the fact that he hadn't eaten much the first week of his recovery. Steve was thinner than Bucky had ever seen him, and his sickly pallor was bringing back memories Bucky would have been perfectly happy never remembering.
To top it all off, Steve was in fucking quarantine, as if whatever had happened to him was somehow contagious, and none of the Avengers had been cleared to sit with him. Undeterred, Bucky had been ready to tear through the double sliding doors and into Steve's room when Tony caught his metal arm. It throbbed painfully, from the plates Steve had dented during their fight, but Bucky didn't allow the expression to show on his face.
"You'll just make it worse," Tony said. "Steve can't afford that."
Bucky shrugged off Tony's grip with another bolt of pain, and stormed away before he said or did something he would later regret—or worse, that would get him kicked out of the ICU. If that happened, he had five pre-established routes that would bypass security and get him back here, but he didn't want to resort to them today, not when Steve's life was hanging in the balance.
Bucky wasn't sure where he was walking, just that he was walking, and breathing, and focusing on not tearing the whole ICU down to its studs.
When he came back to himself, he was in the main wing of the hospital, being given a healthy berth by the staff who were going about their everyday business. He oriented himself, noting the signs for the cafeteria off to his left, and the hallway back to the ICU on his right. Across from him however was a room Bucky usually avoided with a ten-foot pole.
After everything that had happened to him, Bucky wasn't sure he still believed. He hadn't really given it much thought over the last year, and the few times he'd dabbled back in it, no one seemed to have the answers he was looking for. He wasn't even sure if Steve believed anymore either. They hadn't talked about it, except for last Christmas when Bucky asked if Steve still attended midnight mass. The answer had been yes, and Bucky had had every intention of going along until the day of, which was a massively awful day from start to end, so Steve had ended up going by himself.
After all Bucky had done, he wasn't sure he wouldn't get smote by setting foot inside the chapel. But this whole situation was way outside of anything he'd ever experienced, so if it had the smallest chance of helping, he was willing to give it a shot.
Before he changed his mind, he crossed the hallway and entered the chapel. Thankfully, the ceiling didn't split open and he didn't dissolve in a bolt of lightning. In fact, he found it rather peaceful in the small room. There were four rows of pews, two on each side of an aisle, that ran up to a small altar, which had a cross hanging on the wall behind it.
Bucky walked down the aisle, fully aware of his soft footfalls in the utter silence, and sat in the closest pew. He pulled the kneeler away with his foot and had knelt before his mind had registered what his body was doing. It was obviously some latent muscle memory from his years attending church as a child.
It took a bit more effort to get his metal arm up so it could rest on the back of the pew in front of him. Each small motion sent a lance of pain through the damaged plates and into his shoulder. But he managed.
He then interlaced his fingers, which sent his injured arm ablaze again, and looked up at the cross. In that moment, he had no idea what to say. His brain ran the gamut of 'this was wrong', 'he shouldn't be here', 'he was tarnishing the space with his reputation', but eventually landed on the fact that this felt a tiny bit right.
So he stayed.
Tony was sitting next to Natasha outside Steve's quarantine unit when his phone rang.
He checked the Caller ID, saw it wasn't a saved number, then denied it. His phone had been ringing off the hook for the past three days with media requests: interviews, sound bytes, whatever. Though the Avengers' PR had made a statement that Captain America wasn't responsible for Wednesday's events, the public wasn't buying it; the fact that Steve hadn't been seen since his initial injury two weeks ago wasn't helping either. As the days had passed, the news cycles had only gotten more outlandish, spouting that Steve was secretly Hydra, Steve was a Red Hawk, he and the rest of the Avengers were anti-American, and more. The White House spokesperson, a mousy man who could somehow command a room, had even gone on record stating Captain America was not at fault, but the public could not be satiated. They'd seen the video, and they were out for blood.
"Press?" Natasha asked, as Tony slipped his phone back into his pocket.
He nodded, then returned to staring at Steve through the glass wall of his quarantine unit.
"Why don't you let me handle that?"
Tony looked over at her. "I've been informed they need to remain alive," he said dully.
Natasha didn't rise to the bait. "Let me help."
Tony didn't want to lose his already tenuous grip on the situation, but he was drowning beneath the sheer number of requests from the media; SI, whose stock price was oscillating like a kid on a sugar high; and, more importantly, the hospital staff who were double- and triple-checking his findings. While the intent was good, each new doctor was apparently incapable of reading the last doctor's report and wanted to talk to Tony about the data themselves. Needless to say, he was the type of exhausted no amount of sleep was going to fix.
"Okay." Tony tapped on his watch, then ordered, "Transfer all blocked calls to Natasha's phone."
"Yes, sir," JARVIS said.
"When was the last time you went home?" she asked, after JARVIS was finished.
"This morning?" He'd technically been at the Tower while figuring out how to get the symbiote out of Steve.
Natasha shot him an unimpressed look. "It's Saturday afternoon. Try again."
What? Tony looked down at his watch, and sure enough, she was right. Before he could spiral on where all that time had gone, Natasha cleared her throat, refocusing him on her question.
It took much longer than it should have for his brain to throw out, "Wednesday." Before Steve had tried to assassinate Garcetti. When they'd hoped he was just recovering more slowly than usual. Before they'd known what was really happening.
"You need to get some sleep," she said.
"I can't."
"You can, and you will." With great effort, she lifted herself from her seat, clanking slightly because of her knee brace. "You will go home right now. You will get at least five hours of sleep. You will shower and eat a meal that isn't from the freezer, and you will spend some time with Pepper. Am I making myself clear?"
Tony hated being mother-henned, especially by Natasha, and wanted nothing more than to turn her down… but he was so tired—past tired, actually, and close to not being able to see 'exhausted' in his rear view mirror—that he couldn't make his mouth form the words. His eyes felt like someone was rubbing sandpaper against them and his brain physically hurt when it was required to think. Perhaps taking a few wouldn't be the worst idea.
"Who is going to send you home in an hour?" he asked, half snarkily and half genuinely, as he stood.
"I've had more than six hours of consecutive sleep."
"You were unconscious."
"It's still more than you've had." Her eyebrow quirked up, then she looked at her phone. "JARVIS?"
"Yes, Agent Romanoff?"
"Make sure Tony stays away for at least eight hours, an emergency notwithstanding."
"I think that is an excellent idea, Agent."
"This is mutiny," Tony protested, glaring at his watch.
"You'll get over it." When Tony turned his glare to her, Natasha only smiled, soft and warm, which somehow had the effect of reminding Tony that this was out of concern for his own well-being, and not because she doubted his ability in any way. "Now," she said, making a shooing motion with her hands, "get out of here before we make it nine."
"Going," Tony was quick to say. To protest the coup though, he walked much slower than usual away from Natasha and out of the ICU.
By the time Bucky was done praying—only about Steve, nothing about himself—a good chunk of time had passed. He wasn't sure exactly how much, but from the stiffness of his knees and the ache in his arm, it had been quite a while.
He made the sign of the cross, then stood. His flesh arm fell to his side as normal, but his metal one stuck about halfway down. It took some minor manipulating of the elbow joint before his metal arm snapped slack. The quick movement sent fire racing through his shoulder and into his chest, bringing pain so sharp that it stole the breath from his lungs. He had doubled over before he'd realized it, and was gripping the pew in front of him so tightly he'd cracked the wood.
His arm had been bothering him periodically since his fight with Steve, but he hadn't had a chance to fix the dented plates yet. He still didn't trust the doctors at SHIELD with his arm, the only exception being him camped out on death's door, and there hadn't been time between DC, the Tower and here to find the tools necessary to make the repairs.
The pain hadn't been bad to start with, but had been progressively worsening as the days passed. Still, it wasn't even close to the worst pain he'd felt in his arm, which he'd used as leverage to convince himself that he'd be fine until he was sure Steve was okay.
As Bucky straightened up in the chapel though, he knew that was no longer the case. Every jolt—almost every breath—was magnified through his arm. It was a red-hot fire from fingers to neck, whereas before it had only been a dull ache.
He needed a janitor's closet or the IT department STAT.
He tucked his left arm against his chest, then hurried out of the chapel. The pain was ratcheting up now and darkness was tinging at his vision. He jumped slightly as a door slammed down the hall. It only jarred his arm a bit, but the corresponding pain was enough to almost drop him to his knees.
As intense nausea washed over him, he dimly realized he wasn't going to make it to anywhere that had tools. The best he could do was find somewhere empty to hole up until the pain subsided.
"Hey, are you okay?" someone asked, but Bucky ignored them.
Just then, he saw a bathroom sign sticking out of the wall and swerved into it, leaving a trail of angry passersby in his wake.
Not caring if the men's room was empty, Bucky kicked the door closed and slammed the deadbolt into the wall with his other hand. Again, despite his best efforts, the movement travelled through his entire body, setting his metal arm ablaze.
His stomach lurched and he raced into the closest stall.
Tony had just made it down to the main floor when his phone chirped. Given that Natasha was now handling all the media calls, Tony answered it without checking the display.
"What?"
"It is me, sir. I did not believe it was prudent to relay this information publically."
Tony stopped just outside the elevator and turned into the wall, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "What information, JARVIS?"
"I do believe Sergeant Barnes requires your assistance."
It really showed how far their relationship had come that Tony didn't just end JARVIS' call right then and there. "What did he damage?" It was only logical, given the state Barnes had left in. Tony could hardly blame him for tearing some room to shreds, as long as no one was hurt in the process.
"Nothing, sir. He was experiencing extreme distress leaving the main-floor chapel half an hour ago. I believe he is ill."
Tony swore under his breath. He should have known Barnes wouldn't have seen a doctor after his fight with Steve. It was usually Steve who dragged him there, and in Steve's absence and everyone else's injuries, it appeared Barnes had been more than happy to allow himself to slip through the cracks.
"Where is he now?" Tony all but groaned.
"The main-floor bathroom."
"This is extremely important, JARVIS. What kind of distress?"
"Not the kind you are thinking of, sir, but I cannot reveal any more information without violating Sergeant Barnes' privacy."
Tony exhaled, then turned away from the wall. "If you're wrong about this, J, I will be sending you to a local grade school for the week."
"I would love to be wrong about this, sir."
Well, shit.
That sentiment in mind, Tony quickly hurried down to the main floor bathroom, which was lacking its usual flow of people entering and exiting. When he got closer and heard the sounds of someone emptying their stomach, he knew why.
He tapped on the door. "Barnes, it's me."
He didn't get a clear answer, just something that sounded like a muffled groan, before a toilet was flushed.
Damn JARVIS. Didn't he know Tony wasn't good with sick people? Natasha, though seemingly colder and more reserved, was actually surprisingly soft with her teammates when they were under the weather. She was the much better choice.
As if reading his mind, JARVIS' voice drifted out of Tony's watch. "You were the closest, sir. And I believe Sergeant Barnes needs immediate assistance."
A series of stronger words left Tony's mouth, but then he pulled in as deep an inhale as he could manage, and said, "Barnes, I'm coming in."
"I'm fine," Barnes rasped, sounding anything but.
Undeterred, Tony pressed his watch to the lock. Within seconds, he heard the deadbolt click back into its sheath. He then pushed open the door to find Barnes staggering to the sink. His left arm was tucked against his ribs, he was visibly shaking, and his face was an ashen gray. The last time Tony had seen Barnes look this bad, he'd literally collapsed outside the door to the Tower, while trying to turn himself in to Steve.
"What's wrong?"
Tony then heard a humming sound and Barnes' back stiffened, arching slightly. His flesh hand grabbed at the counter, cracking it with his strength.
"What is it?" Tony demanded again, envisioning situations where the alien hadn't been totally destroyed and had somehow transferred itself to Barnes when he'd been performing CPR on Steve.
As he stepped closer, Tony tapped his bracelets, activating the suit in the nearby janitor's closet. He didn't call it to him yet, not until he had a better grasp of the situation.
"Barnes, what's wrong?"
The spasm stopped and Barnes lurched forward, barely catching himself against the counter.
"Scan," Tony ordered, tapping the side of his glasses. Within seconds, he saw the spots of red lighting up Barnes' arm in the HUD. It was experiencing some sort of malfunction, most likely/definitely caused by his fight with Steve.
Though his chest was still heaving and his skin tinted green, Barnes pushed himself upright and reached for the faucet handle again.
"There's something wrong with your arm, isn't there?" Tony asked. He suspected as much, but given that he'd never scanned the arm before, there was the slight possibility that those data points were normal.
"I can fix it," Barnes ground out, confirming Tony's theory, while throwing water on his face and rinsing out his mouth. His movements were fast and efficient, as if he was trying to get as much as possible done before his arm spasmed again.
"Yeah, it really looks like it."
"Need tools."
"Or I could look at it for you." The words were out of Tony's mouth before he even stopped to consider them. Though he definitely wanted to see just how Barnes' arm worked, he'd steered clear of both the arm and its owner while the situation between them was settling down. Right now though it seemed like the right thing to do, especially if he just performed the immediate maintenance and didn't look too far elsewhere.
"Got it, thanks."
The arm lit up again in Tony's glasses and this time, Barnes actually groaned as he doubled over, his forehead almost touching the counter. Whatever was wrong with his arm was clearly getting worse. "J, find me some tools. IT should have what we need."
There was a pause, then JARVIS said, "Agent Barton is on his way with them now."
"Barton?" Wasn't he at the Tower? Shouldn't he be resting? Where was he when JARVIS had said Tony was closest?
"He just arrived to check on Steve," JARVIS replied, to which Tony pulled a face… not that his AI could see.
"Help is on the way," he then informed Barnes, who might have shaken his head. Either that, or it was just shaking like the rest of his body. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"
Barnes was quiet for a moment, then gasped out, "Bent plates. Damaged servos. Pro'ly stripped wires." Then he rolled his head so he was facing Tony. "I can fix it."
"I see that."
Barnes just closed his eyes as another spasm rolled through his body.
There was a rap on the door a long few moments later, then Clint walked in, holding out a bag of tools. He quickly assessed the situation then hurried over to Barnes, placing the tools on the countertop within Barnes' reach.
Without saying a word to Tony, Clint engaged Barnes in a quick sign language conversation. Tony wasn't clear how Clint understood any of what Bucky signed, given how badly his flesh hand was shaking.
Then Clint snapped twice and turned so Tony could see his hands, which were moving rapidly.
"Translate," Tony instructed JARVIS.
"He says he'll let you do it," the AI reported. "But be quick."
Tony nodded then walked over to Barnes, who had shifted slightly so Tony could see the damaged panels on the side of his arm.
"What do I have to do?"
"Pliers, pull up and to the right to free," Barnes ground out. "Have to do the whole row."
Tony threw open the lid to the kit Clint had brought, rummaged through it, then pulled out the smallest set of pliers. He made the motion Barnes had described in the air, and when Barnes responded by closing his eyes, Tony chose to interpret it as agreement that he was doing it correctly.
"Starting on the first plate," he said as he reached into the inner side of Barnes' arm, where a small vertical seam could be found. He grabbed onto the plate then repeated the motion. With a click, the plate came free. Moving outward, Tony freed the other two damaged plates, which required quite a bit more force before coming loose. With all three gone, Tony had visibility inside Barnes' arm. There were vertical structural components, servos, and the like, which were dented, but the most obvious problem was the stripped wires that were rubbing together just behind them.
There was a small roll of electrical tape in the kit Clint had brought. It would be a patch at best, but Tony used two sets of pliers to wrap the tape around each of the stripped wires. The second they were no longer touching, Barnes let out a deep sigh and sagged into the counter.
"Thank you," he grunted as his breathing started to even out.
"You're welcome," Tony said. He finished up the tape job then turned to the plates. Using the opposite end of the pliers, he banged them against the counter until they were marginally flatter.
"Do you want me to reattach them?" he asked, to which Barnes actually lifted his head from the counter and nodded.
When Tony was done, he quickly pulled away, giving Barnes some space to regroup. Suddenly, Clint's hand was on Tony's shoulder, and with his free one, he signed a phrase Tony recognized: 'thank you.'
You're welcome, Tony signed back. It was then that he realized his own breathing was coming fast and his heart was pounding against his chest. It was the closest he and Barnes had been since, well, ever really, but especially since Barnes had revealed that he'd most likely killed Tony's parents.
Tony shoved that thought back deep in his brain before it turned into a full blown panic attack.
"Anything else you forgot to mention?" he asked Barnes, who slowly shook his head. "You'll forgive me if Clint takes you to see Dr. Han, just to be sure." Barnes looked like he wanted to object, but Tony cut him off. "I can't be watching over you and Steve and, no offense, but he needs me more."
Clint then signed something furiously, that Tony didn't catch because Clint's shoulder was in the way. Probably by design.
After a moment, Barnes nodded. "I'll go see Dr. Han."
"Good. Now I really have to go." Before he lost what little bit of composure he had left. "Come find us when you have a clean bill of health."
Tony didn't wait for either of them to respond before he walked out of the bathroom. It was only once the door had swung shut behind him that the magnitude of the previous situation set in, pressing down on his shoulders like a physical weight.
"Happy's here, right?" Tony asked JARVIS, not bothering to pick up his phone.
"Yes, sir."
"Have him bring the car around, please. I need to get out of here."
Up next: we wrap up some loose ends; someone holds a press conference without consulting the rest of the team; and Steve comes around, but it's not quite the happy reunion the team was hoping for.
See you then!