Didn't expect that this chapter would be as long as it is, but I surrendered to a self-indulgent, post-World-War-II flashback, and I loved every second of it. :)

Hope you enjoy the whump! More to come... :D

Disclaimer:

I do not own The First Avenger, the Marvel franchise, or any of the characters. That all belongs to their original makers. Everything to them. Any added dialogue, plots, or characters are mine, but nothing else. I don't own it.

Chapter Two - Bloody Smiles Make For Good Stories

"You need a doctor fast." I fold a strand of sweaty hair from his face.

Bucky's eyes glaze over and he somehow blanches even whiter. "C-can'…I'm…'m not…" His legs give way and he collapses.

"Bucky!" I catch him as he falls and lower him to the ground. "Bucky, hey!" Kneeling at his side, I lean over him and check his pulse. The beat of his heart stutters at a rapid, almost inhuman pace. His entire body is drenched in sweat and his skin is cold and clammy. I lift his head onto my lap and brush the hair out of his face. "Come on, buddy, wake up."

"Rogers!"

I glance to the right and see Gabe approaching with medics right behind him, carrying a stretcher. Relief cycles through me, but is quickly soiled when I brush against Bucky's suture wounds and he whimpers.

The medics haul him onto the rickety stretcher and start hauling him away.

I follow them into the tents and watch with a stab of helplessness as they hoist him from the stretcher to the bed.

Bucky goes limp on the mattress, his head lolling to the side. He's deathly still; no movement at all. When earlier his cheeks had been flushed red from his bout of vomiting, now they've returned to their sickly-pale appearance. His stray hairs are glued to his forehead, sticky with sweat, and the front of his tattered sweater is drenched.

I was so happy to get back to camp with the soldiers that I didn't even pay attention to Bucky. He seemed fine, but I didn't look under the surface… God, I'm such an idiot! My friend needed me, and where was I? A nauseous feeling gurgles in my stomach and, for a moment, I think I might be sick. When before, I'd been stupid and oblivious to my friend's struggle, now I'm noticing even the tiniest evidence of sickness: dark bags under his eyes, slight hitches in his breathing, bruises spotted all over his skin, ribs jutting from his chest, knife marks all over his arms and legs, and my GOD, he's so thin… Bucky's frail body is bone-thin, like every muscle has been scraped out of him, leaving only a shell of withered bones and flesh.

A medic with a clipboard addresses me. "Captain Rogers?"

I stand at attention. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Some questions, if I may. Relationship to the patient?"

I glance at Bucky, who's now moaning desirously. "O-oh, um…" Brother. "Fam-family friend."

"Are you his emergency contact, should anything happen?"

I swallow hard. "Yes."

"Do you know of his injuries?"

"He-he was drugged, cut open," another wave of nausea; I swallow it down, "electrocuted, isolated…"

Her pen stops on the paper. "Beaten? Did he sustain trauma to the head, any vital organs harmed?"

"I-I don't know…"

"Symptoms so far?"

"Um… Excessive vomiting, throwing up blood, dizziness, sweating, confusion, u-uh…" I blink sluggishly, struggling to focus.

The medic's face softens and she lowers the clipboard. "That'll be enough. Thank you, captain." She returns to Bucky's bedside and hands the information over to a doctor.

Dugan walks up, hands on his hips. "Barnes stop pukin' his guts up?" He chuckles.

I glare at him.

His face falls. "Right. Not the time. Sorry."

I cross my arms over my chest. "How could I let this happen? How could I be so stupid?"

Dugan quirks an eyebrow. "Whoa, slow down, partner. You can't be responsible for every single soldier in the– ."

"Bucky's had my back my entire life. He always knew when something was off." I clench my fists. "And now, when he's the sickest I've ever seen him, I don't notice?" I clamp my jaws so hard I might break a tooth. A seething whisper cuts through my gritted teeth: "Damn it!"

Dugan cross-examines me.

I glance over at him, scowling. "What?"

He inhales deeply. "Look, man. It's not your fault."

I purse my lips. "Yep. Heard that one before."

"I'm serious. What you did in Austria was unheard of. It was incredible; my hat's off to you." He tips his bowler hat.

I stare at him, silent.

"You took on a hell of a lot, physically and emotionally, these past couple days. Don't beat yourself up for not noticing. In a casual setting, you probably would've. But this wasn't casual." He shrugs. "Hell, it was smack in the middle of a war, for God's sake. You freed all of us. You've never done somethin' like this before, I take it. So of course you're gonna read things differently when the terrain is different."

I work my jaw. "But why– ?"

"Not another word against yourself, captain." Dugan thumps me on the back. "I'm gonna go wash up, but don't be a stranger, okay?"

I watch him leave and join the group of soldiers hovering outside the shower tent, my spirits a tad higher than they were earlier.

Bucky's alive, at least. That's what matters most.

I pull up a chair and sit at Bucky's bedside, pulling out my sketchbook and a pencil. But just as I'm about to touch lead to paper–

"Hello, Steve."

I recognize the British accent at once and turn to see Peggy stepping into the tent. "Hey."

She nods at Bucky's gaunt frame on the bed. "I heard about our most recent casualty."

I heave a large sigh. "Yeah. I've-I've never seen him like this. It's always been me that's the sick one, the one that he has to look after, but now that the roles are reversed…"

Peggy perches on the edge of his bed, facing me. "Are you afraid?"

The simple question cuts right through me. Watching my best friend twitch on the blankets, I purse my lips and nod. "Y-yeah. Yeah, I am."

Peggy rests her hand on mine and massages the back of my palm. "It wasn't your fault."

My lips tighten over each other. "People keep sayin' that."

"Because it's true."

I shake my head. "It is my fault, Peggy."

"Steve– ."

I whirl on her. "HYDRA was trying to recreate the serum!"

She gapes at me, then stares at Bucky. "Do-do we know if they were successful?"

Tears burn behind my eyes, but I blink them away. "I don't know. There are so many unknowns right now, I… All I know is that I feel terrible." My voice breaks on the last word. "Bucky's always been the strong one. He used to get into fights at school, but, unlike me, he knew when to walk away. Every time he sustained what his mother would say a dangerous injury, he'd stand up, smile, and walk it off. He's always been really tolerant of pain and nothing ever seemed to faze him. But if he's this sick, then…" I push down a sob, "I can't imagine what they must've had to do to him."

Peggy hums in agreement. "I wish I could've known him before the war. He sounds lovely."

"Yeah." I scoff. "He's a jerk."

"It seems like you two have quite the sibling dynamic." She crosses one leg over the other. "And he sounds just as stubborn as you."

I give into a wistful smile. "There was one day where, on the way back from working at the docks, some bully made fun of him for liking dancing. I caught the end of the fight. He came home that night bleeding from the mouth and nursing a dislocated shoulder. Yet he still insisted on making dinner."

"Really?" Peggy raises her eyebrows and leans in. "Tell me the story…"

I pull my oversized clothes tighter around me, shivering in the evening air. My fingers throb from the cold and I stick my hands under my arms to try and consolidate a little bit of warmth.

I pass an old diner and catch a bit of old jazz music as I walk by. A group of drunk men hang in the alleyway beside it. A few of them are singing with their arms slung over each other, while the rest are doubled over, fountains of liquor spewing from their mouthes.

I grimace and keep walking. New York can be disgusting sometimes.

I turn a corner towards home. The diners and shops and bars start to disappear as I make my way into the slums of back-alley New York. My little house comes into view and I sigh in relief. Soon…I'll be able to take a bath, rest my aches away, and sleep with the stereo on… I step up to my door and fish through my pockets for my key. My fingers go all the way down and–

–through a hole at the bottom.

Shit.

I tilt my head back, groaning.

Bucky's got my spare key…

Flashing a look at my watch, I prod the inside of my cheek with my tongue. He should be done with work by now… Why isn't he home yet?

Cursing my luck, I descend the steps and head off toward the docks. After a few minutes of walking, I round a corner and see a crowd of dirty men, their fists raised and their voices directed inward.. As I get nearer, I realize that it's a fight they're cheering on. I'm about to swerve around them when I hear Bucky's grunt from inside the circle.

I curse under my breath and push through their ranks. When I reach the middle, the scene unfolds before me:

Bucky, his face smudged with dirt from the day's work, is locked together with a muscular brute. His left arm hangs at an awkward angle from his shoulder, probably dislocated.

I grind my heels into the concrete to stop from being bowled over by the surrounding crowd. "Bucky, what the hell?"

My friend glances my way and his eyes widen. "Steve?"

The bully seizes the opening and cracks his fist into Bucky's jaw.

The mob of onlookers collectively flinches as Bucky staggers, then drops to the ground, unconscious.

The bully whoops, laughing. He prods Bucky's limp body with his boot, then shoves himself through the crowd and leaves.

The observers disperse, muttering about their bets on the fight.

I watch until the brute disappears around the corner, then drop to my knees at Bucky's side. "Bucky!"

A giant bruise darkens the right side of his face.

"Bucky, wake up!"

His eyebrows twitch and he moans.

"That's it. C'mon back."

His eyes flutter open and blinks a few times. "Steve…?"

I nod. "Yeah, hi."

Grimacing, Bucky turns his head and spits a gob of blood onto the ground. His teeth are stained red. I reach forward to help him get up, but he waves my help away. "Don't worry 'bout me. I'm fine."

As Bucky sits up, blood trickles from his mouth, dripping down his chin.

I roll my sleeve over my hand and wipe some of the blood from his face. "Bucky, what the hell happened?"

My friend shrugs, wiping his mouth. More blood drools over his lips, running down his cleft chin. "I was on my way home and that jerk– ," he spits more blood on the concrete, "made fun me for liking dancing, of all things. He wouldn't shut up about it."

I quirk an eyebrow. "So you hit him?"

"He hit me first. Before I knew it, there was a crowd around us, and I wanted to show him up."

I shake my head.

"I had it under control, Stevie."

"Clearly."

I stand up and offer Bucky a hand. He wobbles to his feet and sways, groping for something to hold onto. "Wh-whoa…"

I come to his side and steady him. "Hey, you okay?"

Bucky blinks hard. "Yeah, I'm just…dizzy."

I grumble to myself. "Yeah, of course you are. That punch to the face was rough."

My best friend massages his jaw, grunting.

Frowning, I watch him hold the end of his shirt to his mouth to soak up the blood. "You're-you're bleeding a lot, are– ?"

Bucky mumbles through his shirt. "I'm fine." He turns to me. "Why did you come for me anyway? You should be back home."

My cheeks heat up and I duck my head. "My pocket has a hole."

"And let me guess: you need me to get into your own house?"

I elbow him in the ribs. "Shut up, jerk."

We wander home together, and all the way, I'm lecturing Bucky about getting into fights being my job and Bucky shrugging it off while blood's dripping down the front of his shirt. At one point on the way back, he tries to tilt his head back and stop the flow like one would with a nosebleed, but instead he ends up choking on his own blood and coughing it up on the side of the street. When we get home, the blood flow has lessened somewhat.

Bucky unlocks the door and we clamber into the house. He immediately heads for the kitchen, using his uninjured arm to grab a pot from an overhead cabinet.

I toss my work clothes onto a chair. "What are you doing?"

"Making dinner."

"Not with a dislocated shoulder, you're not."

"I can try."

"Bucky, you're outta your depth."

"Says the punk who's allergic to dust."

I pull him away from the stove and sit him on the couch. "Let me set your arm right. How do I do it?"

Bucky chuckles, disturbingly unconcerned that one of his arms is literally hanging half-connected to his body. "Get a good grip and twist it up into the socket."

I swallow hard. "Um, o-okay, uh…" Plunking myself beside him, I take his arm, positioning it accordingly, and wet my lips in anticipation. "Countdown?"

"Sure."

"Three… Two… One!"

I wrench his arm up and– POP!

Bucky yelps, doubling over.

I yank my hands away. "Oh, God. I'm-I'm sorry, I– ."

"'S fine." Bucky bites his lip, white-faced. After a few seconds, his face brightens. He rolls his shoulder, hops to his feet, and retreats to the kitchen to make dinner.

When I finish the account, Peggy's watching me with a bright smile on her face.

I stifle a yawn and lean back in the chair. "I have plenty of other stories like that… Just le me know if you want to hear more."

Peggy beams. "I would, but you look about ready to drop on me." She rises and pats me on the shoulder. "Will you be joining us at the barracks?"

I inch my chair closer to Bucky. "I'll stay here, at least until the medics kick me out. I want to with him."

Peggy nods. "All right, then. Sleep well, Steve."

"You too, ma'am."

"Oh, Steve, lose the ma'am, please. You know me well enough by this point."

Drowsiness already getting the better of me, I surrender to a sluggish laugh. "Copy that, Peggy."

When the tent flap folds back and I hear her footsteps on the grass, I know she's left.

I fall asleep to the crickets and to my best friend's ragged breathing.

Author's Notes: I'll be writing at some point a pre-First-Avenger fanfic about Bucky and Steve's lives post 1943, so follow for that! Really excited for the research to come :)

Anyways, what did you think? Bucky suffer enough for you? :P

Read and review!