Chapter 8: The Hospital
Sam woke to the ringing of his cell phone. Snatching it off the nightstand, he looked bleary-eyed at the caller ID. A New York number. He sat up, suddenly awake with a surge of adrenaline, hoping for news of Bucky.
Not bad news, please.
He answered it. "Wilson here."
"Captain Wilson, Matt Murdock here." There was a pause and a breath that made Sam's stomach heavy.
He closed his eyes, bracing himself. The man wouldn't be calling at this hour with that tone to deliver good news.
"I got word that Sergeant Barnes is in Metro-General Hospital."
"How bad?"
Another pause, then. "Bad."
"I'm on my way." Sam hung up, dressed, and was out the door, phone in hand, texting Shuri with the news as he slid behind the wheel of his car.
-0- -0- -0-
The heart monitor beeped steadily. The man in the bed was attached to a variety of tubes. IV. Drains. Catheter. Ventilator.
Sam shifted on the hard hospital bench along the window. Murdock had visited, arm in a sling, with Nelson and Page. Rhodey stopped by, offering well wishes, asking if Sam needed anything, then going for a coffee run. A DEA agent even stopped by, which sent Sam into an almost panic until he realized the guy was there to thank Bucky.
One eight-hour surgery and two days after the battle with Fisk, and Bucky still hadn't woken. The closest he'd gotten was a crinkled brow, a spike in his heart rate, and a turn of his head that had the medical team upping his pain killers, trying to find the right dose for a supersoldier. Bucky's face wasn't as pale as it had been when he got out of surgery, but it was still far too pasty. Ash gray circles hung below his closed eyes, and his lips were almost as colorless as the rest of his face. His right hand was bandaged around a palm splint, leaving an opening for the IV line.
For someone with enhanced healing abilities, Bucky wasn't making the progress Sam hoped for. Maybe it was the drugs being dripped into him by the IV? The doctors weren't sure of the dose, so they might be overdosing Bucky.
Sam reached into the duffel full of cash and other odds and ends that Murdock brought with instructions that Bucky wanted it distributed to the girls he rescued in San Francisco. Pulling out the black journal, Sam flipped through the pages again. He'd read every entry from the last four months. Dates and numbers, and all it took was a Google search to match each one to a news story.
The number six below the date April 5, 2024, representing the six women rescued in Florida.
May 1, 2024 and the number three. That tied to a news story in Arkansas about three immigrants found chained in a basement, two boys and one girl, forced into labor and sexual acts. Sam hadn't connected that one to Bucky before. The news story mentioned the victims heard a commotion with sounds of a struggle and assumed it was a home invasion. None of the victims got a good look in the middle of the night at the figure that entered the dark basement and freed them.
There was no mention of a one-armed man, so it never popped up on Sam's keyword news alert.
July 17, 2024, and the number 30. The teenagers and young women rescued in San Francisco.
It wasn't hard to see the pattern. Bucky was hunting people who enslaved human beings. In between, he broke up a drug or weapons ring here and there, according to the news alerts, but every entry in the journals was tied to lives saved, all of them related to human trafficking in some form. Sex slaves. Forced labor.
Yeah, there was a theme alright.
"Sam Wilson."
He looked up to see Ayo standing in the doorway, her arms at her side, unusually weaponless, a black case clutched in one hand.
He managed a small smile as he slipped the journal in his back pocket. "They wouldn't let you in with the spear, huh?"
She tilted her head, eyebrows raising. "No one commands the Dora Milaje. I chose to honor their customs."
"Of course."
She walked in and set the case on the floor next to Sam, out of the way of the machines and floorspace medical personnel would need. "What is his condition?"
Sam took a deep breath. That was the million-dollar question. Would Bucky pull through? It sure as hell didn't seem like he was fighting his way back. "He was skewered all the way through, side to side. Nicked his liver and tore through his intestines and stomach. He lost a lot of blood. Almost too much. They used every compatible pint they had available to keep him alive."
Maybe that was why Bucky wasn't recovering like he should. Had the new blood diluted the effects of the serum?
"He is strong," Ayo said. "He has survived worse."
Sure. The fall from the train. Probably North Korea. Sam didn't know all of Bucky's history, mostly because Bucky didn't talk much about it, but he knew the type of missions Hydra sent the Winter Soldier on. No one would defrost a brainwashed supersoldier for a garden-variety mission that any operative could easily accomplish.
Odds are, Bucky had survived worse than this.
Sam eyed the black case. "That the arm?"
Ayo nodded.
"You here alone?" Usually she traveled with other Dora Milaje.
"The others stand guard outside this facility."
Right. They couldn't all leave their spears propped against a wall, and it would create an international incident if Wakandan warriors bulldozed their way through nurses and orderlies in a New York hospital.
"If you leave me a way to contact you," Sam began, "I'll let you know if there's any change in his condition."
Ayo sat on the other end of the bench, her back straight, shoulders back. "I will wait with you, for a little while."
Sam gave a grateful nod. He didn't know how long a wait they were in for. Two days was more than enough time for Bucky to at least open his eyes…if the serum was working and he wanted to.
Maybe the guy really did have a death wish.
Sam rose and walked up to the bed, on Bucky's right side. He only had one arm for the IV, wrapped around a splint. Sam was careful when he placed his hand on Bucky's, not wanting to jostle the tubing or aggravate the battered knuckles. Whatever or whoever Bucky punched hard enough to bust his knuckles must be in even worse shape than he was.
"Hey man, I know what you were doing. You were trying to make amends, right? Save lives to make up for the ones you took as the Winter Soldier? Free people used as slaves, like you were." A lump rose in his throat, and he swallowed it quickly. Seventy years a slave was too damn long. Hell, one day was too long. "I don't know why you didn't talk to me. You helped me. I would have helped you."
Ayo came up next to him and placed her hand on Bucky's arm. "White Wolf, if you can hear our words, follow them. You have much yet to accomplish."
Sam sucked in a hard breath to push down the tears that threatened. He was grateful for her support. She and Bucky hadn't exactly patched things up after the Zemo thing, but it was obvious she still cared for their wayward headcase.
"You hear that, White Wolf," Sam said, doing his best to inject a teasing quality to his tone. "Ayo says you're not done yet, and you know better than to argue with a Dora Milaje." The heart monitor continued its slow, steady beat as the rhythmic swish of the ventilator announced each lungful of air. "Come on, man." Sam slid his hand to Bucky's wrist and squeezed gently. "I know you're…tired." He swallowed hard. "You've lost a lot, maybe more than anyone ever has."
Shit. As far as pep talks went, this sucked.
Sam was beginning to realize how much the man lying in the bed had to be hurting. Oh, he'd had a vague idea. No one could go through what Bucky had without suffering deep psychological scars, but with that damn supersoldier stoicism—or maybe it was something of the Winter Soldier stoicism still left inside him, courtesy of Hydra's damn brutality—it was hard to tell at any given time what was going through Bucky's brain. He rarely talked about any of it, except when forced to do so by a therapist not-quite-cut-out for 70-years-of-Hydra trauma.
"I'm screwing this up." Sam lowered his head.
Ayo's warm hand gripped his shoulder. "James needs to hear the voice of a friend. The words do not matter."
He gave her a grateful smile and hoped she was right. "Okay," he nodded, giving Bucky's wrist another squeeze. "You know we care about you, right? Me. Ayo. Sarah. The Boys. Hell, even Rhodey stopped by." There was one person who couldn't visit. One person Bucky needed right now—maybe the only voice that could pull him out of whatever dark hole his mind had crawled into. "I know I'm not Steve, but I am your friend. I need you, partner. You refused to let me give up the Shield. Come on, man. Don't you give up now."
-0- -0- -0-
Beeping was the first thing his brain registered. The second was low snoring to his right. He became aware of his body in a vague sense, the heaviness of his legs, right arm, an unnatural pressure in his chest, something hard in his throat, a kiss of pain with each rise and fall of his breath.
His skull felt two sizes too big, and thick, like the whole thing was filled with sand.
What happened?
A fat man in a white suit. The chair.
The chair.
The chair.
He tried to move, but pain shot through his center, snaking around his chest, and into his back. Light danced behind his eyelids, and slowly, he opened them. Fluorescent panels loomed overhead, their faint hum tickling his eardrums.
Where was he?
The beeping increased. A shuffling from his right, the movement of fabric and flesh.
"Bucky, hey." A familiar, dark face. A bright smile. Sam. "I'll call the nurse. You're okay. Don't try to move."
A moment later, a woman appeared, light brown skin, dark hair. "Hello." Another white smile. "I'm Claire, one of the nurses here, Sergeant Barnes. You have a tube in your throat helping you breathe. Don't try to fight it. I'll get a doctor."
He closed his eyes. His body was heavy, and the hum of the lights morphed into an annoying ringing in his ears.
Sometime later, there was another voice. Male. Unfamiliar.
"Sergeant Barnes? I'm Doctor Matthews. Are you awake?"
It took a monumental effort to open his eyelids and see the gray-haired man standing over him.
"Hello," the man said. "Sergeant Barnes, you're in Metro-General hospital. You've been unconscious for four days. We operated on you, had to give you 10 units of blood. It diluted the serum in your system and made it difficult for us to find the right dosage for the medications, the painkillers in particular, but we've sorted it out, and you're going to be okay. Blink if you understand."
Bucky managed a blink. He slid his gaze to Sam's face, noted the lines of worry in the brow, the crinkle of fear at the edges of his eyes. That look told Bucky just how close he'd come to never opening his eyes again.
But he felt weak…weaker than he could remember feeling in a long time. And tired. So tired. His lids were heavy. The light tormented his eyes. He closed them and fell back into the darkness.
When he woke next, sunlight was streaming into the room and Sam was sprawled on a bench beneath the window, typing on his phone. The hard tube was still in Bucky's throat, so he tapped his hand on the mattress.
Sam's head shot up, and he was on his feet instantly, phone discarded on the bench. "Hey, Bucky, you're awake again. That's great news. Do you remember what happened?"
Fisk. The auction. The chair. The DEA agent. Murdock.
The chair.
Smashing it. Destroying it so it could never be used again.
He blinked. He mostly remembered. There was a fight. A pain in his side. Fisk was strong. Too strong.
Another white-clad figure walked up to the bed. A doctor. Stethoscope around her neck, long blonde hair pulled back in a bun. A smile. Still, his heart fluttered faster as his eyes danced around the room—fluorescent lights, tubes, machines.
Scientists. Experiments. Saws. Needles.
The warmth of a large hand descended on his forearm.
"You're going to be okay, Bucky," Sam said. "They had to give you a massive transfusion that diluted the serum in your bloodstream. It's why you're taking longer to heal. That, and they accidentally overdosed you on painkillers because they calculated a supersoldier sized amount, but your organs are still protected by the serum because, you know, DNA and all. Shuri consulted remotely, worked it all out with the medical team here. You're going to be fine. It'll take about two to four weeks, depending on how fast your metabolism works in this condition, until your body replenishes its own blood and you're back to full supersoldier annoyingness."
Bucky tried to process the barrage of words with a brain that felt like cotton candy. Was he not…enhanced anymore? A normal guy for a couple of weeks?"
"Sergeant Barnes," the doctor began, "I'm going to hold up fingers. Blink for however many fingers you see. One blink for one finger. Two blinks for two. Do you understand."
He gave as much of a nod as he could with the tube in his throat, and she held up three fingers. He blinked three times.
"That's good." She gave a wide smile, a man appeared alongside her, dressed in scrubs.
He hated hospitals. Hated doctors. Needles. Tubes. People hovering over him. Lights in his eyes.
"We're going to take the tube out. Nurse Pierce here will assist."
Pierce. Alexander. The bank vault. The chair. The chair. The chair. His heart pounded, the beeping of the machine increased, and a hand squeezed his wrist.
"Sergeant Barnes?"
"One minute, please. Bucky." Sam's face slid into view. "Hey, man, look at me and lose yourself in my soulful, brown eyes." A white smile with a glint of wetness in the eyes.
Sam Wilson, not Alexander Pierce. A hospital. Not the bank vault. He was safe. He wasn't the Winter Soldier. The chair was destroyed. He'd destroyed it. It wouldn't hurt anyone ever again. No more memories to erase, no more minds stolen.
"If you're ready for us to proceed," the doctor began, "blink once."
Bucky blinked. He wanted the tube out. The head of the bed rose with a mechanical hum. The doctor leaned over him. A pair of scissors in the air. Sam's hand gave a squeeze.
He closed his eyes. If he didn't see the things above him, the tubes, the sharp objects, he could make believe that he was somewhere else. A song his mother made up to comfort him played in his mind, but the beeping was there, intruding, keeping him tethered to the reality of the hospital room.
A hiss of air from behind him.
Sam's voice. "She's getting the nasal canula ready," Sam said. "It helps if you tell him what you're doing right before you do it. He hasn't had the best experience with doctors."
"Understood."
Bucky made a mental note to upgrade Sam's Christmas present.
"Sergeant Barnes, I'm just going to check for leaks around the tracheal tube , and you'll feel a cold object as I place the stethoscope on the side of your neck. I want you to take some nice big breaths."
The cold metal pressed along the left side of his neck, and he couldn't quite stop the flinch. "You're doing great, Sergeant. No signs of edema. Everything's looking good."
"Fi02 still set to one," the nurse said.
"Thank you. Sergeant, take big, big breaths, and when I tell you, hold it. I'm going to pull the tube out right when you're holding that big, deep breath. Just breathe deeply right now, but don't hold that big inhaled breath until I tell you."
He sucked in a few deep breaths through the tube . Cold metal slid beneath the tape holding the tube into place, then the tape tugged, and a hand came behind his head.
"I'm pulling the tape off," the doctor said. "I know it isn't very comfortable. Now, take a deep breath in."
He sucked in air.
"Another deep breath in…. Then hold it. I'm taking the tube out." The hardness slid from his throat. "Cough it out! Cough it out!"
Then pain in his throat, a feeling like his lungs were being turned inside out. He coughed, and fire erupted through his abdomen. The room spun. A bead of sweat snaked down the back of his neck.
"I'm going to put a suction tube in your mouth just for a few minutes to get all that gunk out."
The tube slid into his mouth. It was too much. He pulled away, ignoring the pain, his hand coming up.
"Okay, easy buddy." Sam again. "I don't want to get in the way of what you need to do, Doc—"
"It's okay. I understand his history, and you do whatever you need to to help keep him calm."
"Maybe see how he does, forego the nasal canula and suction right now?"
"Okay we'll play it by ear. Sergeant Barnes, can you open your eyes for me?"
He lifted his lids, squinting against the light, seeing her face and Sam's. "How does your chest feel? Do you feel like you're getting enough air?"
He nodded, mouthed "Okay."
"You've been out for four days, as I mentioned," the doctor said, "and we've had you on IV support, but I'm putting you on clear liquids for the next few days. Lunch will be in half an hour or so. Take in what you can slowly, even if it's just a few sips."
The doctor hovered over him for a few more minutes, and the stethoscope returned, cold on his chest, as he took more deep, painful breaths, his insides stretching, groaning, protesting the movement.
Then the nurse and doctor left, and Sam remained, eyes glistening, smile faded. "You scared the hell out of me, man."
Sorry.
Sam gestured toward the floor. "Ayo brought your arm back. Whenever you're ready, I can reattach it. I texted her to…" his head came up, "…and there she is."
Bucky swiveled his head to see Ayo walk into the room, tall and proud as usual. Her eyes met his immediately, and she bowed her head in a gesture of respect. "It is good to see you awake, White Wolf."
He swallowed, his mouth felt dry and gross, and he was pretty sure there was a glob of something on the right corner of his mouth.
"Hey," he managed, but it came out mostly as a croak.
"Shuri and the King send their regards and wish you a speedy recovery. Shuri has made minor upgrades to your arm and repaired the damage caused by the electrical surge."
The arm. Bucky raised his head to see the duffel bag of cash and a black case that looked the right size and shape to hold one vibranium arm.
"Thank you." He said, or thought he said. He wasn't sure if the sounds coming out of his throat were decipherable as words.
"You are welcome, White Wolf," Ayo said.
Good. She'd understood him. Then she walked closer, and her hand was on his left shoulder, where the metal met flesh. "You have much healing to do, both body and mind, but you will have help from those of us who have faced the darkness with you and wish to walk beside you into the light."
Her words were absolution and a promise that he didn't deserve. His vision blurred, and warm tears spilled from his eyes, falling down the sides of his face. The gentleness in her eyes threatened to undo him, and he closed his.
Sam's hand wrapped around his wrist and gave a firm squeeze. "Rest, Bucky. I've paid the rent on this hospital bench for the week. I'm not going anywhere."
