Steve heard the rapid tap of heels stalking toward him before she appeared in the hallway.
"Have you lost your bloody mind? I mean it, Captain Rogers, I know you were taking the loss hard, but surely at some point the stakes of this war become high enough that you follow the sense of duty you have so ardently espoused instead of waltzing out there for cowboy heroics whenever it suits you!" Peggy seethed, her anger somehow exponential when forced out in a kind of stage whisper. She hadn't even bothered to change into her combat zone uniform yet, which explained the louder footwear.
"That must have been a record flight," Steve noted by way of greeting. As if it was possible to sway her mood, or the subject. "I take it that means Stark's here too—"
"I wouldn't be concerned with how I got here so much as why. You've gone entirely too far this time, directly defying your commanding officers, the whole SSR—"
"With all due respect, we still don't have a firm location on the HYDRA base, or mission orders. My team is at the ready, as promised, for the day that information arrives. If there is to be disciplinary action, I will accept it. No one else was involved. I won't regret what I did, though."
"What if you had been seriously injured, stranded, killed in the process?! What if you had brought that patrol to the field base's doorstep, and they had caused damage to operations? Three infantrymen are dead, several more injured in that impromptu engagement, not to mention the ammunition used. What does that do to your readiness?"
"The way they were armed and the trajectory they made, that enemy patrol was going to be a problem for the base one way or another."
"Or they might have skirted the installation altogether, if they weren't looking for a fight."
"They were out there for a reason, and frankly I have to wonder if it wasn't the same reason I was. They combed that debris field, Peggy. I watched them completely pass the cave where we sheltered, and yet they went back and managed to pick up the trail. They were hunting."
Peggy said nothing. She was still fuming, but Steve could also see the worry, the sleeplessness, and relief beginning to show as she vented her bottled up feelings. A medical orderly, uncomfortably aware of the tension in the darkened hallway, tried to slip by them as unobtrusively as possible.
"I can't help but wonder if you have a death wish," Peggy commented at last, rhetorically. "If only you weren't also one of the most effective assets in this war."
"Somebody's got to do it, and if this is what I can do to help, then I will gladly serve my country," Steve replied anyway. "Better to stick to your guns and possibly—possibly—get bested by the enemy, than to back down and have them walk over you for sure. But I appreciate your concern." He ventured a cautious smile. It didn't help that there was something about Peggy when she got all fired up, a particular allure…until she noticed that he noticed.
"Eyes front, solider. That's not the only battle you have to reckon with."
Steve sobered up, and returned to gazing through the window in front of which they stood. Peggy followed suit.
"Remarkable, no less than a miracle…" her voice dropped to a less-edged hush.
"I'm still amazed myself. All the more reason I don't regret my actions. I just hope what I did was enough."
"How bad is it?"
"Their main concern is exposure, and lack of treatment until now. He was out there for a long time. Open wounds. Blood loss. Shock. Then there was the weather to contend with. I could tell he was getting worse the longer it took to get back here."
"It tracks with what we've been able to glean from interrogations. Looks like Dr. Zola was indeed attempting to recreate Dr. Erskine's serum for Schmidt."
"He must have done it, then. That's how Bucky survived the fall from the train with so few injuries," sighed Steve.
"More than that, Sergeant Barnes is the only known survivor of Zola's experiments. Extraordinarily fortunate. You two are quite the pair, it seems." This time Peggy was the one who couldn't entirely suppress a smile.
"So it would make him more or less like me now."
"They'll still have to analyze his blood to see how close Zola got; it's doubtful your friend received the complete treatment that you did."
"He's not going to turn red and go homicidal, is he?"
"Also not likely, based on our current evidence, but they will want to make a thorough assessment. And let's be honest…by any reasonable standards, the prognosis is far from certain."
"Bucky's a good man, super soldier or not. A strong one, too. Nothing will change that."
Peggy let the conversation lapse into silence. On the other side of the window, Bucky lay asleep surrounded by a white room, white furniture, right down to the white linens and bandages. His expression was troubled, flinches of pain, or something else, crossing it from time to time.
Steve hesitantly opened the door, a move Peggy didn't challenge. Closer view revealed the patchy flush breaking up Bucky's otherwise pale, clammy skin. Terrible bruises, those that weren't hidden by bandages, lingered like shadows of the blood that had finally been cleaned off. What remained of Bucky's left arm was completely encased to the elbow, the gunshot wound above it covered as well.
His movements became increasingly fretful despite his unconscious state, to the point where a gravelly, dry moan began to surface. His eyes rolled under their lids. Steve floundered a bit between wanting to calm Bucky, and not wanting to cause him more pain than he was already in (which was almost certainly playing into the nightmare).
"Hey, Buck, can you hear me? Listen, whatever you're seeing is just a dream. Nobody here except me. You can wake up, it's okay."
He gingerly shook his friend's good shoulder. The agonized whimper that answered Steve cut right to his heart.
"No…no no no no no…can't go back again, please—"
"You're not going anywhere. This is an American post, you're safe. Pretty banged up, but safe, and alive."
Bucky wasn't hearing it, or couldn't. His panic began to spiral as he fought Steve's attempts to hold him down. His left arm clipped the metal frame of his bed, the jarring impact eliciting a raw yelp. Medical staff hurried in through the door behind Steve, while Bucky wildly begged, "Please, I'll do anything, don't put me on the table again! Just kill me like the others, do it already!"
"I found you, remember? You escaped, everyone got out! Listen to me, we caught Zola, he's in custody, just like we set out to do. You don't have to worry about him doing anything to anyone!" Steve tried to reassure him, without getting too much in the doctors' way. The attendant holding onto Bucky's good arm was slammed into the wall at the head of the bed. Personnel scrambled to pin him—Steve was the only one with enough strength and weight to make much of a difference.
An injection went into Bucky's thigh, Steve could only guess as to what they gave him. Thankfully it did the trick. Bucky's struggling quieted to a semiconscious stupor, though he didn't go out completely. Breathing hard, the lead doctor motioned toward the supply cabinet.
"I want a set of restraints and headbar padding, while we have the chance—"
"Doctor, forgive my bluntness, but did you not just hear him? He's delirious, thinks he's a prisoner again and about to be subjected to who-knows-what. Are you sure restraints are the best plan?"
"Forgive me, Captain, if I put everyone's physical safety first. We don't know what we're dealing with yet. If he can throw a full-grown man like that in his current condition, I can't risk what else might happen. We'll see if we can get through to him, catch a lucid enough moment so he understands what's going on. Until then, this is the only way we can ensure he gets treatment without harming anyone, including himself. That's my decision."
Steve's heart clenched watching the leather straps close around Bucky's battered extremities. The left wrist cuff had to be adjusted further up his friend's arm in order to avoid the infected area or risk slipping off. During the whole proceeding, Bucky hovered somewhere around pained resignation, or just being too weak to resist. His face shone with sweat. Fever chills ran up and down his limbs, spurred on by adrenaline. A nurse wrung out a fresh cold compress to put across his forehead.
Despite a less-than-pleased glance from the doctor, Steve found a nearby chair and even a couple old magazines with which to sit vigil. There wasn't really anything else he could do, but he wasn't going anywhere.