"It's a start." Her words were soft. Bucky waited to hear more, but only heard the sound of breaking glass and started, jerking back around to look at her, assuming the worst. Her body was slumped against the wall, her eyes shut with a deep red liquid pool forming around her. His mind played a game against him and again, he'd assumed the worst as he ducked low underneath the cover of the wall, out of sight of anyone that could see him. He checked her body for some kind of wound from a gunshot, he knew what to look for, because the crimson pool around her wasn't clicking right in his head. His breath short, he stared down at her, unconscious and slumped, and his mind saw what it wanted.
His eye caught sight of his metal hand, gleaming from the sun, and it actually brought him back to reality, a harsh one as he realized there was no danger around them. The only danger she was ever in was from him, standing before her, the only thing that had ever threatened to bring her harm. It was true, confirmed by her still black eye he always tried to ignore when looking at her. Something else caught his eye, the broken bottle of wine she'd let fall from her fingers not too far away.
Bucky let out a breath, shaking his head in disgust. She'd passed out, from drinking, from exhaustion, he didn't know, but he had to remind himself of the fact to try and calm down. He sat beside her and focused on her torso, watching it ever so faintly rise and fall. It calmed him, more than he realized, until he noticed he was breathing normal.
The wine had soaked into her white shirt and began to stain the concrete of the roof. She wasn't stirring and Bucky realized he couldn't let them stay out here, no longer covered underneath dawn. His hand hesitated in front of her face, trying to figure out a way to wake her, but it seemed too…unfair. He'd been unfair to her, to say the least, most of her life.
His eyes focused away from her and to his hand, his normal one, the one he could look at and tell himself he was once someone else. Destruction and unknown were his right and left, one cold and one warm. So much damage had been caused by the metal left, the right hand didn't matter. But he stared at it now and realized maybe destruction didn't have to be the majority of his work.
As lightly as he could, he moved his right hand underneath her shoulder, sliding to the middle of her back and pressing as firmly and gently as he could. With his other, he tried to be almost a nonexistent presence as he slid his arm underneath her knees, and lifted. Her shirt was in fact wet from the spilled wine, and he glanced over his shoulder at the scene they left behind them as he carried her back down the stairwell.
Her body felt so light in his arms and he tried his best to balance her in a way that her head wasn't tipping backwards in an uncomfortable manner. He froze as she stirred and mumbled,
"I'm sorry," he immediately blurted out, but her eyes never opened. She only adjusted in his arms with her head now resting against his chest. Out again. Standing still, he could feel his heart pounding.
It was cruel to think she'd been his target, surreal as he felt her in his arms. So defenseless, borderline fragile. Her face now, as he looked at her, at peace. The stern lines always on her face were smoothed away, and her resting face didn't include a frown. The tears she'd cried all morning were gone, and left her eyelids puffy.
She'd been nothing but fair to him in their brief time together. Everything she did, fair. Even the lies she told him, the times she tried to make herself sound forgiving and compassionate. He didn't buy it, he didn't deserve it. But she tried. She was hurt, but she tried and he didn't deserve the way she tried to mask her resentment towards him with mercy.
Back in her apartment he hesitated, looking for a place to put her. He occupied the loveseat, the rest of the furniture was broken. Of course, he realized, she belonged in her bed, where she could finally perhaps rest. But, again, he remembered her soaked shirt. There wasn't much he could do.
At her bed, he pulled the covers back, crisp and clean white sheets, and hesitated at the sight of them. Quickly, still with her in his arms, he walked back to the bathroom and retrieved a long towel and brought it back to spread on the bed, before he finally placed her down on top of it. There she rested, still unmoving. He stared at her for a moment, before his fingers grabbed the sheets and pulled them up to her neck. He stared a second more, trying to swallow but feeling it get stuck in his throat.
"I'm…I'm sorry." He whispered to her unmoving body. He stayed a second more, before he left the room and cracked the door behind him.
Back in the living room, he gazed around, considering sleeping too. But he passed the broken chair, and the painting broken on the ground next to the broken lamp. He couldn't sleep.