Winter seemed to drag on much longer than usual. Nowhere near as bitter cold or harsh as ones you remembered from your childhood, though there were a few heavy snow falls here and there. Maybe it was Bucky leaving on missions that caused time to slip by so slowly. Even though you'd spent quite a few winters alone at that point, having him gone felt like forever. He hadn't been on many, and there were weeks when you both were together at home or the weekly trip to the facility, despite the few times he woke up in a cold sweat and needed your comfort more than usual. Yet he was still occasionally called out with some of the others to who knows where. The latest one had taken a small toll on him. You didn't pry too much, but had learned that there were some civilians injured, including a couple kids. No fatalities aside from some bad guys, but it was still the sort of thing that always hit Bucky a little harder.
It was only a few days after Bucky came home from this last mission when you woke up in darkness to discover he was no longer beside you in bed. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence after rougher mission. He would be up well before dawn and go for a run or do physical training in the yard. Bleary eyes registered the glare of the digital alarm on his side of the bed reading in the 5 o'clock hour. A few hair ties were piled up in the glow, something you knew was his little reassurance to you that he hadn't left like before. Still so early, though. You figured maybe it was him leaving the house that woke you in the first place.
You considered rolling over and just going back to sleep, but there was still a gentle voice of concern in your head. It always worried you when Bucky was so withdrawn after a mission. Certainly, he had eased up some in the last few days, but it obviously still bothered him if he was gone at such an hour. The least you could do was be up when he got back, maybe have something nice and filling for him to eat for breakfast. That always seemed to cheer him some; quiet meals shared together, sitting close at the small table. With your mind made up, you shoved the covers back to stand, grumbling faintly at the chill of hardwood on your bare feet.
Potato was standing inside the bedroom door, tail twitching in agitation, and she let out an annoyed mrrr before skulking between your legs and into the room that Bucky used to keep. Probably looking for him and his treats, albeit fruitlessly. The rest of the house was dark and quiet, save the silver glow of moonlight from the windows in the living room and kitchen, made more intense by a thick blanket of snow that had fallen the day before. You could hear and smell the coffee pot going in the kitchen, no doubt started by Bucky before he headed out. Yawning wide and stretching as you padded down the hall, a cup of coffee seemed like a good idea to help you wake up better, even if you still hadn't really acquired a taste for it.
Running on auto-pilot, you moved to the cabinet above the coffee maker to grab two mugs, one set aside for Bucky and the other getting a healthy, or probably unhealthy, dose of sugar in the bottom. Yet, when you pulled the carafe, it was heavier than you expected, almost completely full. Strange, since Bucky usually only started a pot right when he left so it would be waiting for him, ready to suck down like he'd never had anything so good in his life. No way could it be that full already if he just left a few minutes ago. Your brain was just starting to pull out of the fog of sleep when you heard movement close behind you, cold fear suddenly licking up your spine and flooding across your nerves.
Much later, once the dust had settled and your mind could try sifting through murky memories of what happened, you might have been able to say exactly what was off about the moment. Maybe you caught something in the reflection of the glass. Or there was a different weight to the footsteps behind you. No one else should be in the house that early. Bucky was always absolutely silent or absolutely deliberate, no false steps in between. But all your brain could process in that instant was the certain dread that someone was sneaking up behind you and meant you harm.
Moving before you could really think, your grip tightened on the handle and you spun in a quick arc, barely recognizing the angry, grunting shout you spat. The man behind you -at least that's what your mind was saying in that snapshot of time, a man in tactical gear, no helmet, no weapons drawn- looked slightly startled, but raised his arm in time to block your swing. Yet, it couldn't stop the hot coffee from sloshing out violently across his unprotected face. He screamed and grabbed at his burning skin and eyes, dropping something from his hand in the process, but the blood thundering in your ears dulled the sound as you brought the coffee pot down on him once, twice. The third time, half of the glass shattered on impact and you abandoned the makeshift weapon for the sudden erratic thought of fleeing. But the man lunged for you blindly, red-faced and growling, leaving you just enough time to hop out of his reach. This backed you into the corner and your hands scrambled behind you for anything else to defend yourself with. There wasn't even any time to think when your fingers grasped the handle of your cast iron skillet in its little cubby as the man lunged again. Swinging the heavy thing wide, you only managed to hit his shoulder, but it sent him stumbling back a few steps, still blinking against the damage to his eyesight. Just enough space to swing again, this time it cracked hard across his head, the momentum and gravity forcing the other side of his skull into the edge of the counter before he slumped to the floor like a ragdoll.
There was a sudden burst of sound from the living room, shuddering, splintering wood and the groan of the front door's hinges, followed by another man's voice shouting something that might have been a name. You started to bolt for the patio door, unthinking, only to be met with the jagged pain of broken glass biting into the soles of your bare feet, slipping on the pool of coffee until you tripped over the motionless body in front of you. It sent you sprawling across the floor, hitting hard and knocking some of the wind out of you and the skillet from your hands even as you heard loud boot falls approaching. You gasped, trying to fill your lungs, knowing you'd never be fast enough to get away. But just in your eyesight was the object the intruder had dropped; a syringe filled with a sickly colored liquid. The fingers of your right hand closed around it a mere second before footsteps hit the tile floor.
You stayed as still as you could, though there was no way to control your gasping. It must not have seemed strange to the new person, who only gave a disgusted grunt before moving closer. A noise of shuffling and creasing leather came before a hand gripped your upper arm roughly to haul you up. Just as you were being turned over, you twisted your arm around to grab his bicep and yanked at him hard with all of your weight. The action plopped you back on your ass, but managed to pull him off balance and onto his knees beside you, his neck meeting the syringe in your hand halfway as you plunged it quickly. His fist struck hard across the side of your face, sending you reeling, the taste of blood bathing your tongue from where your teeth cut into your cheek. He swore and insulted you, but it was muffled by the ringing in your ears as you tried to scrabble away across the tile. You were cut short by a hand closing around your ankle, trying to pull you back. The strange and distant sound of your own fearful keening finally registered in your brain as you kicked and fought against his hold. Another solid tug dragged you a foot closer, practically up under him, his fingers moving from your leg to the back of your shirt. But the grip there felt weaker and as you flipped around in an attempt to fight him off, you were met with the sight of his eyes rolling back in his head. With a sluggish pitch forward, he collapsed across you, unconscious, pinning you beneath him with a heavy exhale.
Laying there a few heartbeats allowed you to catch your breath despite the heavy weight on your chest; let you make sure he was truly out for the count. HYDRA. It had to be. HYDRA had shown up and they were after Bucky. Panicked, you started to shove at the body on top of you. He was heavy, even more so with all the tactical gear and weapons he was clothed in. And you were tired, so tired. Muscles ached and your face and feet burned. But they were after Bucky. They didn't have him though. No, if they had him they wouldn't have bothered with you. They would have left you alone to think he ran away again or they would have killed you instead of trying to drug you with whatever was in the syringe that made the guy crushing you pass out instead of keel over dead. They wanted you as leverage, as bait. They didn't have Bucky. That one thought rang through your head and with a surge of effort, you managed to push the intruder off of you and roll to your knees, then up to your feet, hissing at the pain.
Not knowing what to do, just knowing you had to do something, you shot toward the front door, standing wide open with the door frame splintered. The inches of snow on the porch numbed the sensation in your soles, even as your heart dropped into your stomach at the sight of a large black van in the driveway. A driver and passenger saw you, the latter turning to bang on the wall behind him. A split second later, the back doors swung open and more boots hit the snow. No way you'd make it to either vehicle or past them down the driveway. Hopeless and desperate, all you found yourself able to do for a moment was scream out as loud as you could, hear it echo across the farmland in the cold stillness of the snowy morning.
"BUCKY! RUN!"
The heavy crunch of snow behind you made you duck and spin with your fist raised, like Nat and Wanda had taught you once. You just dodged the arms meant to grab you, connecting with the groin of your attacker. No time for self-congratulation or a thought to the impact jarring up to your elbow as you tugged his shirt to dart around him, tumbling him down the porch steps in the process. Your snowy, bloody feet slipped on the living room's hardwood floor and you nearly wiped out rounding the corner down the hall, just caught yourself with your fingertips to gain leverage, pulse pounding in your ears. Your phone. Your phone was still in the bedroom. You had to get to it, call for help. Someone, anyone.
You threw the bedroom door closed behind you, but wasted no time in trying to barricade it. Instead, you scrambled across your bed to reach your nightstand. Jittery fingers pressed the buttons on your phone despite your mind racing and blanking at the same time. Somehow, the screen lit up with "Sam the Man" on display being dialed. You hit the speaker button to hear the ringing as you pulled open the drawer and began to rummage frantically.
"Please, please, please," you whispered over and over as the ringing continued and the sound of multiple people entering the house drew closer.
Your fingers closed around the handle of the knife Bucky had given you about the time you heard a click on the line and a familiar, winded voice asked "Hello?"
"Sam! Sam," was your relieved sob, as though hearing him alone could save you from the men approaching.
The door flew open behind you, two men barging in and quickly making their way toward you. You gripped the knife hard, backing up as much as you could, hoping Sam could make you out as you started yelling "HYDRA! HYDRA! SAM, IT'S HYDRA!"
You slashed fruitlessly at the first to reach you who easily deflected it with a swat of his hand before shoving you back hard enough across the night stand to break the lamp between your back and the wall behind it, knocking the phone to the floor. There might have been the sound of Sam calling for you through the receiver, but you couldn't say for sure as the man in front of you grabbed your wrist in one hand and your neck in another, forcefully pulling you away from the wall. He turned and began to drag you back toward the door and into the hallway. You struggled against his hold, feet fighting for purchase, until he squeezed tighter on your throat. It wasn't enough to choke you, but the promise was there in the action and the cruel twist of his face. Rounding into the living room, he took the time to beat your closed fist sharply against the corner, forcing you to drop the weapon in your hand with a loud clatter. Soon, you found yourself back outside in the cold, spots of blood lining the ruts your heels made in the snow.
A handful more heavily armed men stood around the front yard, but there wasn't a chance to count them before you were unceremoniously thrown into the snow at someone's feet. You gasped at the shock of icy wetness to your hands and knees, toes already aching. The figure beside you crouched down and you tried to scurry away only to be stopped with a rough hand on your arm, forcing you around to face him. A man with a military haircut and a worn face stared at you with his jaw clenched; the passenger you had seen in the van.
"Where is he," he asked simply, tone neutral.
You shook your head slightly, swallowing hard against your aching throat and the coppery taste lingering in your mouth. "I don't know."
"You can do better than that," the man countered with a smirk as chilly as the air around you. Suddenly, he was hauling you up to your feet along with him, none too gentle in the process. With a violent shake, he tried again, sounding more menacing. "Tell me where he is."
"I don't know," you ground out as you turned your face away from him. He had you too close, too tight, hot condensed breath puffing across your skin, and your heart was racing wild. "He... he wasn't here when I woke up."
He gave an annoyed grunt and grabbed at your face to turn it toward him. It flared the searing pain in your cheek; the cuts inside grinding against enamel. Every bit the scared and injured animal backed into a corner, you snapped at him, sank your teeth into the meaty part of his hand between the thumb and forefinger. This earned you a vicious growl and then his other hand fisted into your hair sharply to rip you loose, making you flinch and reach for his wrist on instinct. The cold press of metal under your chin a moment later could only have been the muzzle of a gun.
"Gotta whole lotta fight in ya, huh," was his dark snicker. You winced when he yanked at your hair again. "No wonder he likes you."
When his attention turned past you, you managed to squirm onto your tiptoes to relieve some of the scalp pain, though his vice-like hold never loosened as he barked out orders to the others. "Set up a tight perimeter. Both vehicles are still here. Doubt he would've wandered off from his pretty little plaything for too long."
From the corner of your eye, you saw the one who dragged you from the house turn around to start gesturing at the other men. Everything was interrupted by a crack of gunfire. A split second later, a mist of red and fine chunks exploded from the back of the same intruder's head before he fell to the snowy ground. It kicked up a flurry of movement and orders as everyone repositioned toward where the shot originated, apparently inside the house, and a few fired several shots back. You were being shuffled backwards by the firm grip of your hair, the gun pressed at the corner of your jaw while you tried to keep up with the man behind you. Two more of the group were shot dead, only about 4 now you saw, by the time their leader reached the van. You heard the driver's side door open and panicked for a moment that he was going to pull you inside to drive off. Instead, he wedged himself behind you and the door, both now makeshift shields to protect him. The gunfire from the house ceased suddenly, though the men in the yard popped off a few more rounds.
"Hold your fire," the man behind you called out, the commanding volume buzzing in your ears. One of the others held up a fist and all the rest pulled up slightly from their positions, weapons still at the ready. There was a sudden, searing twist to your hair that made you cry out despite yourself. "I know you're still alive in there, Soldier! Come out now or she's not gonna look much better than my second in command you just took out!"
Tension was stifling thick in the air despite the chill and the moments passed like molasses. And your brain was running wild in its fear; worry that Bucky was hurt in the house, hope that he'd just run away. That might give Sam and the others time to get there. You could survive this until then. There was a gun pressed into your skin and you were scared shitless, the adrenaline making you light headed and your face and feet beginning to throb, but you could do it, because you had to. Even if they didn't make it in time, even if it meant... Bucky couldn't go back. He just couldn't. You wouldn't let it happen. So, it was a strange mixture of relief and sadness to see the familiar figure emerge from the doorway; light winter running gear courtesy of the facility, tendrils of hair loose and plastered to his skin, a tight-lipped, angry expression to his features.
"No, Bu-" you began to call out, but were cut off by a sharp yank of your hair that made you hiss in pain.
Bucky's eyes flew to you and, for the barest fraction of a second, fear and hopelessness flashed there before a mask of resignation fell across his face. The few remaining men crowded around him when he reached the bottom of the steps, weapons still at the ready. Two of them forced him to his knees in the snow. There was no fight in him, just that look of self-loathing and defeat. And you knew in that moment he would let them take him as quiet and easy as possible; no doubt on the off chance they'd let you go free, or at least not make you suffer. The biting sting of tears in your eyes began to well up as the man shifted around behind you a bit until he finally pushed the both of you away from the van toward the small group.
You were shoved down to your ass with a heavy plop some yards from where Bucky knelt, but the tight grip at your scalp remained. The man jostled you until your gaze met his, and you noticed there was a red leather-bound book with a black star tucked into his tac vest now that hadn't been there before. Something he must have grabbed from the van. With a sneer somewhere between amusement and contempt, he said "Try to run, you'll be dead before you hit the ground."
Then, the hold on your hair was released as the man made his way closer to the others. His gun was still drawn, but his free hand worked the book from his vest. You rubbed at your scalp to ease some of the pain while moving to your knees in the shivering cold, despite the warning. Bucky, who had previously been staring blankly at the snow just in front of him, looked up at the approach. Bewilderment colored his features for a moment when the man waved the book back and forth in the air.
"You remember this, Soldier," the leader asked in a mocking tone, crooking his knee out a bit so he could open to a marked page one-handed, gun still trained at his captive.
Your heart clenched at the sudden look of horror that crossed Bucky's face. He lurched forward, gray eyes darting frantically to you and back again, but the men surrounding him grabbed him roughly and pulled him back down. A sickening snicker was heard as the leader brought the book up. "Yeah, you remember."
"Don't. Please," Bucky finally spoke in a strained voice. There was a fine trembling in the condensed puffs of his breath. Whatever was in that book had him scared.
"This is what happens when dogs run off and try to play house," the leader informed with a twinge of dark glee. "But since you were such a good dog before, instead of putting you down, you get sent back through obedience training. Of course, we'll just have to keep a shorter leash on you this time."
You thought you were going to be sick. Between the sound of that asshole's cruel words and the sight of Bucky so helpless, your stomach was roiling. Sam might have been on his way, but you didn't know how long it would take. You didn't know how much time you had. It felt like every inch of your body was throbbing in pain. You wanted to just double over and vomit right into the blood spotted snow. But you couldn't. Your eyes were glued to the scene before you. And when the leader spoke again, this time something in a foreign language -Russian maybe- Bucky's reaction had your veins running colder than your skin against the winter air.
Bucky flinched, face pale as he shook his head. You couldn't hear what he whispered over the distance or the sound of your own pulse. When he tried to bring his hands up to cover his ears, the two flanking him grabbed his arms to keep them down. He fought against their hold, nearly dragging one to the ground beside him, but one of the men at his rear lowered his weapon before producing a short rod that he shoved into Bucky's back. It must have been electrified, you realized, as Bucky's face twisted in pain, his jaw clenching hard to barely stifle an anguished cry. The others let their weapons hang loose at their sides in favor of keeping him stationary when another Russian word was spoken.
"Stop," Bucky shouted, ragged plea in his voice. Another jab of the rod in his back had his face turning feral, muscles straining against the four men surrounding him.
The words. There was something in the words that was hurting him just as much as the electricity they kept hitting him with. You couldn't understand what they were, but you knew enough to figure that much out. Tears were already trying to freeze to your cheeks as yet another word was spoken, making Bucky twist and writhe like he was being ripped apart. The sight of him enduring so much agony clenched in your chest and held tight; the knowledge that this had been his life before and they wanted it to be again flaring sadness and anger and outrage inside you. You didn't know exactly when you managed to get to your feet or started moving despite the wobbliness of your knees. All you knew for certain was that by the time the man's mouth opened again, you had more momentum than you thought possible. This time the vicious cry that cut through the moonlit pre-dawn scene wasn't Bucky's, but your own.
You launched yourself at the leader just as he was turning around, tackling him to the ground with the full weight of your body. His gun went off, firing wide, bullet catching the one to Bucky's left in the shoulder. The distraction was enough that you caught sight of Bucky starting to fight back as you wrenched back the arm of the man beneath you. He growled and tried to buck you off, but you jammed your knee into the side of his head to force it down into the snow. This seemed to disorient him slightly and you took the opportunity to yank his gun arm back again at the wrong angle. Holding his wrist, you cracked your thigh across his elbow, trying to wrestle the gun from his grip, only to feel the sting of pain jolt across your skin. Undeterred, you did it again and heard a horrible snap and the man's pained cry mixed with the sounds of a nearby scuffle you didn't have time to worry about.
Quick and frantic, you pried the gun and book from his hands. Yet, the shift in your weight allowed him to finally throw you off. Snow barely cushioned your hard landing and you had to gasp against the sudden sharp pain in your side as you tried getting to your feet once more. The man was already on his knees, right arm hanging limp at his side, left swiping at your legs and taking you down once more. Both gun and book went flying out of your grip to land a few yards away. You flipped onto your back to face your livid attacker as he tried grabbing at you. But unlike in the kitchen earlier, you were closer and had the presence of mind to knee him sharply in the jaw. When the impact jostled him, you kicked out from under him, managing to land your heel solidly right on his nose. The move rewarded you with a faint, squishy pop and a spray of blood against your skin.
The wet snow offered your feet little purchase, making you scrabble with your hands to try getting away. A desperate need to reach the book seized you, not just the gun for protection, not just to avoid the grasp of the man behind you. You had to keep the book away from him. Even if you had to claw the damn thing to shreds with your frozen, bare hands. There was no way you'd let him use it to keep hurting Bucky. Both book and handgun were within a few feet of each other, and after grabbing the weapon, you turned to lay yourself over the book, back pressing it deeper into the snow. If luck existed, maybe the melt would ruin the pages and render it useless, but you still brought the muzzle up with your trembling fingers.
He was several steps behind you, blood pouring from his nose as bruises started to form around both his eyes. It didn't lessen the look of rage on his face and he didn't seem to care about the weapon in your hands as he loomed closer. You pointed the gun and squeezed the trigger, but let out a high keen when your unsteady hands caused you to miss, just barely grazing the limp arm at his side. The slight injury didn't faze him and you took aim again. This time the shot struck him square in the chest, stopped by a bullet-proof vest. He slowed momentarily with a gritting of his teeth as he continued to advance. Pulse pounding in your ears, barely able to breathe, you blinked away the tears blurring your vision. He was so close now, a final lunge and he'd be on top of you. Before you could pull the trigger again, the man stopped suddenly with a jolt. His eyes widened in confusion, though not a moment later he crumpled to the ground. Sitting up, still clutching the gun, you surveyed the body before you and saw a familiar knife -the one Bucky had given you, the one you'd been forced to drop in the living room- embedded in the base of the man's skull.
Raising your eyes brought Bucky into view, chest heaving somewhat from exertion and blowing steaming puffs of air into the night. Four more bodies lay scattered around him with red blossoming across the surface of the snow. His intense gaze was focused on the form in front of you as he closed the distance to crouch beside it. Fingers brushed over the blood smeared throat, maybe searching for a pulse. Seemingly satisfied with what he found, it nearly startled you how swiftly Bucky was kneeling beside you. His metal hand grasped the gun you forgot you were holding and pulled it from you to tuck away on his person somewhere. His eyes and fingers gave you a quick once over, quick and efficient, searching for injuries, apparently taking mental note at any hiss or squirm you gave as you tried to catch your breath and calm your heart. It was a few long moments before you realized he never once made eye contact with you, same blank mask on his face. Or that you hadn't spoken a word to him, your mind still buzzing like static and just barely able to focus on the fact that he was alive. You both were alive. But by then, Bucky was scooping you up in his arms, pausing only a second, you realized, to grab the red book that had been partially buried beneath you.
You clung to him as he carried you into the house, still unable to form words. Just wanting to hold onto him and know that he was safe. But something felt... off. He was rigid and cold, not like the normal way the two of you melted together when you touched. Absently, your hand reached across his back, remembering the pain he'd been in, the rod scorching the fabric of his shirt, wanting to soothe what had happened. Muscles spasmed beneath your touch, though he never slowed his pace, and you let your fingers drop away from him. Soon, you were in the bedroom, where he sat you easily on the edge of the mattress and hesitantly deposited the book on the comforter beside you. Then he bee-lined for the closet where he pulled out a duffel bag, stuffing it with a few articles of clothing from the hangers before turning to rifling through the drawers.
"Bucky," you finally managed to speak in a hoarse voice while you watched him. He didn't pause or give any indication that he heard you, so you cleared your throat to try again, standing to move toward him. "Bucky? Bucky, please. Please, look at me."
"Глупо. Безрассудный," you heard him mumble gruffly, never pausing in his search and stash through the drawers. "Мы оба."
You crept closer, concerned by the sound of Russian on his tongue, ignoring the pain in your feet as feeling began to return. "Bucky, we're okay right now. We're okay..."
"Я должен защитить тебя. Ты моя миссия." There was a sudden stiffness in him that stilled his actions. The duffel bag plopped to the dresser top before he leaned some of his weight on his metal arm there, almost wilting a little, right hand buried in his hair as his head shook vehemently. "No... мое солнышко..."
Of all his muttering, that last part you remembered. It gave you a spark of hope while you reached out to press your fingertips to his shoulder. Lightning quick, Bucky spun on you, gripping your upper arms tightly, almost painfully, and you gasped despite yourself. The look on his face was every bit as fierce and menacing as that night at the bar, maybe even more so. His brows pinched in confusion, a minute twitch in his features, when you brought your hands up to splay across his chest. "Bucky, it's me. It's just me. We're home. We were attacked. But we're okay right now."
Something broke in his expression then; crumbled in a wash of pain and recognition like he was seeing you for the first time in ages. The hands on your arms loosened, holding you carefully instead of at bay. And when he breathed out your name, the tremble in his bottom lip made tears sting at the corners of your eyes. This was your Bucky. They had tried to take him from you, but he was still there, just under the surface, just needing purchase to claw his way free.
"Oh, sweetheart... baby..." he whispered, thick with sadness, as flesh fingers gingerly brushed at your swollen left cheek. The dull throb there had taken a backseat to everything else going on.
"The men in the kitchen," you told him quietly. The memory skittered through your mind. The loud clamor of cast iron on skull echoed in your ears. "I don't know if I..."
"They're dead," Bucky informed coolly, the tone of his voice telling you he was taking responsibility for it. Though whether it was the truth or him trying to ease your mind, you couldn't say.
Your mouth still tasted like old pennies as you carefully licked your lips with a nod. "I... I managed to call Sam before they took me outside. He answered. I think he heard me..."
"Good." Bucky smoothed a hand over your hair, nodding slightly in kind. There was the slightest tilt to his lips, a weak attempt at an encouraging smile that just couldn't fully seat itself. "Good. It's safer for them to come to us now. The vehicles could be rigged..."
His voice trailed off, eyes turning down from yours. More pain and self-loathing crept across his features. He was kicking himself in his head. It killed you, just killed you to see him trying to close in on himself like that. Your poor Bucky, blaming himself like always. As though he caused your wounds himself. Your hands moved to cup his face, forcing him to look at you again.
"Bucky, I love you," you said, pleading for him to listen, a frantic need in your heart for him to believe you as tears threatened to spill. He flinched like he'd be slapped, but you soothed your thumbs across his cheekbones until he begrudgingly met your gaze once more. "Now more than ever you need to know that. Please, Bucky, I love you. I love you..."
Slowly, carefully, Bucky's hands came up to rest over yours. He swallowed thick as he pulled out of your touch. Your heart sank, a stone in your gut. Though there was the barest glimmer of hope when he brushed his lips furtively at the inside of your wrist.
"Sam, probably Steve too, might be here soon. They'll take us to the compound," he swallowed thickly. His fingers lingered a moment at your hands before letting go. "You should gather some things together. We can come back for more later. I'll... I'll go find the cat so she doesn't get left behind."
And with that, he was gone, heading out into the hallway, just barely glancing back at the doorway. Once alone, you let out a shaky breath and didn't try to stop the tears that fell as you sank to your knees before the weight and pain you were feeling forced you down anyway.
Bucky sat in the quinjet's co-pilot chair across from Steve, watching silently as Sam patched you up in the back. Only the two of them had shown, both suited up for a fight that was already over by the time they got there. That probably irked Rogers to no end despite his silence on the matter, but he'd get over it. Right now, Bucky was more concerned about your well-being. And he felt more than a little helpless and a whole lot of self-contempt at the sight of you so beat up.
It was just a run, like any other day. Maybe this one somewhat more aimless than usual as he tried to work through the nastiness in his head. You were sleeping when he left, no need to wake you. Set the coffee pot, go for a run, be back in time to see the sunrise and you smiling at him sleepily from a mound of covers. Complacency. He'd slipped. He wasn't vigilant enough. And now you were sitting with bruises and blood covering your sweet skin. The sight of the black van in the driveway, the sound of you screaming his name, telling him to run, because you were dumb and brave and prepared to sacrifice yourself to save him; it all scratched at the inside of his skull until he could almost scream.
Sam seemed to be nearing the end of his ministrations, wrapping your feet in gauze and sterile bandages. That was another thing stuck in Bucky's craw. It wasn't until he came back to the bedroom to find you kneeling on the floor that he noticed the small knicks and slashes on your soles. Somehow he'd missed them while checking you over in the snow and in his haste to be away from you, just for a moment. He hid from you, from all that love shining through a half-swollen face that he didn't deserve, and left you in a pain that you never gave voice to. If he had known, he would have made you stay on the bed, would have tended to the lacerations then and there instead of letting you bleed. That was the least he could have done.
After fastening the bandages in place, Wilson gave you a comforting stroke of his hand along your forearm. You nodded, looking absolutely exhausted, before he stood up to approach the cockpit. Bucky expected anger from his teammate. Hell, he deserved, almost needed it even. Anger, a reprimand, a fight, to be told off for all the things he failed at, all the ways he should have protected you and didn't. While there was a tightness to Sam's features, nothing more than a concerned tone accompanied his sigh.
"It's mostly bruising. Face, ribs, thigh," he informed quietly as he rested his elbow on the back of Steve's chair. "Minor lacerations to the inside of her cheek, knuckles, and feet. We'll have Dr. Cho take another look when we get in, but she's probably gonna heal up just fine."
Bucky nodded in understanding, glancing back at where you sat, head resting against the wall. There was a thick blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Your skin had been so cold, nightclothes soaked through from snow and sweat. The specifics of what happened before he got back to the house were still a mystery, but judging from what he saw, you'd already been partway through hell by then. And yet you fought through it. You were still upright and conscious and held together. Shock, probably, and that would wear off, but it was still so damned impressive. You were more of a survivor than he ever thought, than he ever cared to learn.
"Your turn, Barnes." Sam's voice startled him out of his thoughts. "Let's check you out."
"I'm fine," he shook his head as he shifted in his seat. Truth was, his back ached where they'd shocked him and his head was killing him, but it was nothing. Nothing compared to how you were and what kind of cruel irony was that. They were there for him and yet you were the one they ran into first. You were the one to come out swinging. It almost could have been funny if it weren't so terrible. He doubted HYDRA ever would have expected so much hell out of a civilian like you.
"Bucky," Steve began to argue, giving him that stern, authoritative expression as though being Captain America meant shit to him.
"I said no," Bucky snapped gruffly. He didn't need to be tended to. He didn't deserve to be.
"Fine, but take your ass back there with her," Wilson ordered. His jaw was set tight, shoulders squared as if expecting blowback, but when Bucky shot him a questioning look, he softened just a bit with a shake of his head. "She needs you, man. You. Just go be with her."
This time, Steve's face held concern and sorrow as he inclined his head by way of gesture, telling Bucky to go ahead. It didn't make any sense. He was the reason you were back there all bruised and broken. Why would you want him with you? How could you possibly? But the silence of his two friends brooked no argument. They would wait him out if need be. And maybe a small part of him did want to go be by your side. No, that was a lie. A huge part of him wanted that, it was just getting smothered by everything else in his head. Eventually, he stood, moving to let Sam take his place at the co-pilot station.
"Hey," Wilson called out before he got too far. Bucky turned back to find him looking a bit torn, like he wanted to say something, but settled with "There's pain meds and water in the med locker. In case she needs to take the edge off before we get back."
Bucky swiped his tongue along his lower lip absently, giving a nod before he continued toward the back. His approach was slow, deliberate. Even more so when he realized your eyes were closed. If you were sleeping, he didn't want to wake you. You could obviously use the rest. Yet when he paused a little ways from you, your eyes fluttered open to give him a tired smile. God damn it. God damn it, how could you smile at him like that after all that had just happened?
"Bucky," you said quietly as you reached a hand out for him and made as though you might stand. He crossed the distance between in you two or three quick steps.
"Whoa, whoa," was his soothing reply, grasping your elbows gently to still you. He took a knee in front of you to help ease you down. "Just relax, kid. Take it easy."
"I'll be fine, old man. I told you before, I'm one tough cookie," you chuckled weakly, but let yourself settle back without a fuss. The bandaged hand you slipped tenderly across his jaw broke his heart a little more.
"You ain't lyin," Bucky tried to joke back. It sounded hollow in his own ears. Nothing to be done about that. His fingers slipped from your arms down to your feet, wanting to make sure you hadn't already bled through from your effort. Still clean, but your heels and toes were like ice. "You been tough enough for a lifetime, though, sweetheart. Just rest now, okay?"
After you nodded in acceptance, Bucky leaned over to search through your duffel bag of clothes, ignoring the questioning mrrr of the cat in her carrier nearby. A balled up pair of white socks sat near the bottom, just what he was looking for. He separated them before carefully slipping each one on over your dressings, muttering sadly to himself "Jesus, but you took a beating, doll."
"Yeah, well," you sniffled, wincing a bit when you lifted the foot with your bruised thigh. "I guess you should see the other guy."
Bucky sobbed out a broken laugh at that. The fact you would spit a witty cliché despite your red-rimmed eyes and the visible weariness of your body; it made his chest ache. Always so sharp, his gal. "I did see 'em, remember? Barely left anything for me to take care of."
You started to smile at that, but quickly dropped the expression with a pitiful whimper, closing your eyes to shift uncomfortably. Bucky nervously settled his hands at your knees and smoothed circles at the fabric there. "D'ya need me ta get ya somethin, baby? Help with the pain?"
"No. No, not yet," you shook your head slightly. When your eyes opened again, you brought your fingers to his face, trailed them easy along his cheek. "Have you let Sam take a look at you yet? Especially your back?"
"Nah, I'll be alright til we get to the facility," Bucky replied, swallowing against the lump that formed in his throat at the idea you were worried about him.
Pain flashed through your eyes, a gentle sniffle at your nose. "They were hurting you, Bucky. I saw it."
"I heal quick. You know that," he countered quietly with a twist of his head to press a kiss into your palm. "Only hurt I got now is knowin you're all banged up 'cause of me."
"Bucky," you breathed and the softness of it was the final crack in his resolve.
"I'm sorry," he croaked out, unable to look you in the eye anymore, to play along like he deserved your comfort. "This wasn't supposed to happen. I should have done better. I should have been there to protect you."
"Bucky," you attempted to soothe him, voice ragged, though he still refused to meet your gaze.
"The book, the words, the things they could have made me do," he finally admitted, as much to himself as to you. He slumped down on his heels, pressed his forehead to your knees, remembering the way his mind had frayed at the edges, knowing he would have had to obey any order they gave him. You sat in the snow looking terrified, too close, and he knew what they would do. "They were there for me and they hurt you, sweetheart. They hurt you because of me. Would have done worse because I love you. I'm so sorry."
There was silence for several long heartbeats as Bucky worked to compose himself. The position he was in struck him as surprisingly fitting, begging forgiveness at your feet like a damned penitent. And despite you always, always telling him to talk when he could, to share, it didn't seem fair to lay this all out on you like he had. That was never more evident than when he felt your trembling fingers card through his hair. It eased him some, lessened the pounding in his skull, but with it came the stuttering feel of your body starting to shake. No doubt a side effect of shock wearing off. He finally looked up at your face only to be stricken with grief at the sight of your trembling lips and tear-stained cheeks.
"Please don't run away, Bucky," you managed between sobs, a keen to your voice that twisted his gut. "It's- it's not your fault. I knew this- I knew this could happen when I took you in. Please don't run away from me again."
In that moment, everything else, every dark thing and every doubt in Bucky's head was temporarily swept to the side. Because Sam was right, you needed him. He could come up with a thousand excuses why not, why it should be someone else, but you still needed him, just as much as he needed you. Nothing else mattered. And if he felt wetness spill across his own cheeks, who the hell cared? Carefully, gently, he scooped you in close, maneuvering you both so he sat on the floor of the jet with you resting across his lap, cradling you to his chest as you clutched at him and sobbed into his shirt.
"Shhh, shhh," he cooed softly, running his hand along your back. "No way in hell I could give you up so easy, sweetheart. And even if I could, it wouldn't stop 'em. They'd still come for you to get to me. I won't let that happen, not again."
"It's not your fault," you repeated, muffled by your wracking sobs and your unwounded cheek pressed against him. "The things they did, what they made you do. None of it. They came to our home, Bucky. They drove us from our home! Tried to take you away again."
Petting gingerly over your hair, remembering the harsh treatment and how your scalp might hurt, he pressed his lips along your forehead to murmur quietly. "You're my home now, baby. So long as I got you, I'll always be home. That's why I gotta keep you safe. Even if it means..."
You didn't seem to notice how he trailed off in thought, just kept holding onto him for comfort and support and that was fine by him. He was content to just keep you close. But knowing you were at least momentarily protected in the quinjet and in his arms allowed him to wander down the path his words had been going. He had to keep you safe. That was the truth. Even if it meant taking the fight to them. Cut off one head and two grow back, but cauterize the stumps, burn the body to ash... Those kinds of things might still be locked away in his head somewhere. They had the notebook, a small triumph, but that probably wouldn't be enough. The decision was made to see you to the facility, checked by the doctor, and resting comfortably in his rooms before having a talk with Wanda. Until then, he held you as tightly as he dared while the sun began to rise through the windows of the quinjet.
