AN: This chapter was super fun to write. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did! Keep in mind, Bucky has been through this sort of thing before, and we'll hear more on that later.

Warning for blood and gore.

Mo rushed through the upstairs bathroom, gathering everything she might need to do a bullet extraction, cursing the fact that she'd have to work with crude tools rather than anything designed for the task. She'd make do, she told herself. She was very calm; her heart pounded, adrenaline was surging, but her hands were steady and her mind was clear. She knew how to handle this. She'd done it a hundred times in Afghanistan.

One thought crept into her mind, and she brushed it away: I didn't sign up for this. Part of her was angry; she'd told Sam she was done with war, and yet here she was. But she banished the thought—nothing to be done about it now. She grabbed her backpack, already stuffed with a meager supply of clothes, and then took to piling the medical supplies in on top:

A bottle of rubbing alcohol, varying lengths of tweezers, cotton balls, cotton swabs, and it would have to do. She swept her hair up into a bun and removed the sock from her foot; she couldn't risk slipping and sliding. She didn't stop to put on pants, as it would waste precious time, and she slung the bag over her shoulder and called the emergency contact number Steve had left in her phone. It must have connected to Tony Stark's personal phone, because he answered himself.

"This is Stark."

"My name's Moriah Fox," she breathed as she met Bucky at the foot of the stairs. "I'm a friend of Steve's. There's an emergency—we're about to be attacked and we could use some backup."

"Say no more."

The line went dead and she put the phone away, looking at Bucky, who gave her an approving nod. There was an array of weapons lined up on the step at her feet and she bent down and picked up a handgun, nodding. In the back of her mind, she knew she should chastise him for hiding these weapons from them, but she would do that later, when they were safe. Bucky tucked a knife into a sheath on his thigh and strapped a couple of guns in different sizes to his body. The fact that he had no protective gear made her nervous.

"What's the plan?" Mo asked, her voice hard, her military voice.

"They must've been watching us for a while," he said. "We're trapped here; the second I step out, I'm hit, so—"

He wasn't able to finish. She let out a startled yelp as the front door crashed open and people flooded in. He glanced back at her once and she nodded sharply, and he was in motion. Before she could even step out to follow him, he had fallen; a spray of blood hit her face and he grunted and went to his knees, and she let out a startled yelp.

"Bucky!"

But there was no time. The men rushed forward and from his spot on the floor he fired a couple of shots, killing two of them, and he was on his feet again and she was sure she saw him get shot again, but there was no time to think, just to act, and she raised her gun and thank god she was a decent shot or things would have gone differently. She hit one man in the throat and another in the head, but there were more, and Bucky was fighting them, disposed of them easily with his hands and his knife.

Still, a couple of them slipped past him and Mo had no choice but to step into the line of fire, bracing herself, but the shot never came. One man lunged for her and she darted back, and the other snatched her waist and she threw her head back, breaking his nose and elbowing him in the jaw.

She was still feeling that odd sense of calm. She was a combat medic, yes, but she'd been trained in hand to hand combat, just like everyone else, and it was clear that these two men had underestimated her. They'd backed her into a corner, grinning, and she was pinned against the counter top, but she knew this kitchen well. She snatched a knife and held it with one hand, the handgun in the other, bouncing slightly on her feet, knees loose.

The man with the broken nose went for her with a knife, and though she'd never been good with a knife (it was too personal of an attack; she preferred the distance of a gun) she parried the blow and whipped him in the temple with her gun, where he dropped slightly and the other man came at her. As he did, she shot the man with the broken nose in the head and raised her gun at this one, but it was too late; he grabbed her arm and bent it sharply. She cried out, the gun falling from her grasp, and he slammed her against the counter, bruising her lower back.

He had her by the throat with one hand, his other arm twisting hers, then spun her around so that her back was to his chest. She stomped on his foot but his boots were steel-toed, and he grabbed a handful of her hair, kicked out the back of her knees, and slammed her to the ground. She snatched at her gun frantically but he kicked it away, laughing, and she snarled at him. He kicked her in the ribs.

She could hear the sounds of Bucky fighting, but she couldn't see him. There was blood on the floor, and for a moment it was all she could see.

"Oh, come on," said her attacker. "Is that all? This is almost too easy. Get up."

She got to her feet, knowing that with her one leg she didn't stand a chance. He toyed with her for a while, throwing little blows, grinning, cocky, and she took advantage, moving them toward the stove; they'd never turned off the fire, and the bacon was burning in its pan. He punched her in the face, blood flooded her mouth and her head snapped back, but she reached behind her, grabbed the handle on the pan, and tossed the bacon grease at him.

He covered his face and started screaming, and it was a horrible sound but she took advantage, hitting him across the face with the pan, kneeing him in the jaw, snatching up her gun and ending it.

Blood leaked into her eyes from a cut on her forehead and she spun around, looking for Bucky. There seemed to be blood everywhere. She checked her gun and had only two rounds left.

"Gotta make 'em count," she gasped, wiping the blood off her face and heading into the living room where Bucky was standing now, surrounded by four men. They looked uncertain, now, as though they'd realized they couldn't face the Winter Soldier, the weapon they had created. Bucky's torso was drenched in blood, only some of it his own, she knew.

They hadn't spotted her yet, so she took advantage, firing off a shot and hitting one man in the shoulder, taking out another man's knee; she didn't want to risk vital shots with Bucky so close. Bucky leapt into action, quickly snapping the neck of the man whose knee had been shot and slicing the throat of the other. The other two rushed him at once and he danced around them, his knife glinting, and it was then that she realized he wasn't Bucky anymore, but the Winter Soldier.

She understood what Sam had meant about him being a machine.

He was cold, menacing, brutal. One of the attackers managed to slice his bicep with a knife, but Bucky had him by the throat a moment later and tossed him across the room, focusing with intensity on the other man.

She was afraid she wouldn't get him back from this, but she went into the room anyway, knife in hand, and took on the one he'd tossed like a paper doll. Not that there was much to take on. The man was on the ground, clutching his wounded shoulder, gritting his teeth and gasping for air, but the whistling sound in his throat let her know that Bucky had crushed his windpipe. She stared at him for a moment, hesitated, and felt a presence behind her. She spun around, knife raised, snarl in place, but a cool steel hand fastened around her wrist before she could do any damage.

She uttered a little scream as he deftly tossed his knife at the dying man, hitting him in the forehead. His steel hand was still circled around her wrist and she hadn't dropped her knife, and she stared up into a pair of cold blue eyes. The apartment was silent, only the sound of their ragged breathing, and the face she stared into was a different face. It wasn't Bucky; it was cold, and hard, calculated and smeared with blood, and she watched him, suddenly very frightened. He raised his flesh hand to her face and she was reminded, suddenly, of that night he had attacked her and nearly snapped her neck, and she nearly flinched away.

But then he blinked, and when his hand met her jaw it was gentle, and when he spoke it was his voice:

"Are you alright?"

He tilted her face, eyeing the bruises on her jaw, and she was so relieved that she felt weak. "It's you," she breathed. "Oh, thank god." And then she snapped into medic mode; his breathing was labored, he was leaking blood.

"That's only the first wave," he said darkly. "We're not done yet."

"That was the easy part," she muttered, placing a hand on his chest. "Can you make it upstairs?"

He didn't look like he wanted to, but he nodded. She snatched his knife from the man's forehead and they hurried back upstairs, both of them weakened. She grabbed her backpack and dragged him into her bedroom, locking the door, though she knew it was pointless.

"Quickly," she urged, guiding him over to the bed and pushing him down against it. He fell easily with a groan. She dropped her bag beside him, her heart pounding, everything in her focused on the task at hand. He adjusted himself so that he was lying properly on his back and she climbed up beside him, her movements quick and urgent.

"This is gonna hurt," she warned. "I don't have any anesthetic."

"I've had worse," he gritted, breathing still labored. "Get to it."

She straddled him, swiped the scissors from her bag and emptied the supplies beside her, then proceeded to cut his t-shirt open, exposing his torso. There were three bullet wounds; one in the flesh shoulder, another slightly lower, and the last one at his hip. She moved the tatters of the shirt out of the way and leaned over him.

"None went through?"

"No," he said, and she nodded.

"Brace yourself." She reached for the alcohol, screwed open the cap, and poured some directly onto the wound, bypassing the cotton balls. His back arched beneath her and he screamed through gritted teeth, cursing violently, his hands clutching the blankets. She doused her hands as well and grabbed the tweezers, spreading the wound with her left hand, tweezers in her right.

"Hold still," she commanded. He was sweating, breathing heavily, his eyes red. He nodded and she went in with the tweezers. His muscles strained and he jostled her, and she pushed him back down more firmly with one hand. She felt the little scrap of metal and, thankfully, it didn't take long to get this one out. As soon as she did, she doused it with more alcohol and moved on to the one that was lower on his chest,

"Alright," she urged. "One down."

"Hurry!" he snapped, his tone vicious, ragged. She tried, but this time, when he screamed again and writhed, she stopped and leaned back, undoing his belt. He didn't question her, but lifted his hips when she asked. She doubled it up.

"Open up," she said, and he hesitated, met her eyes, then gave a jerky nod and opened his mouth before biting down on the belt. She went to work on the next wound and extracted the bullet. By the time she made it to the one on his hip, only a few minutes had passed, but she found herself grumbling, "Where the hell is Stark?"

Her hands were stained dark red with his blood; she was so lost in her work that when she shoved her hair out of her face, she didn't realize that she'd also smeared his blood on her forehead and into her hair. Her thighs, which were around his hips, squeezing and helping hold him down, were also smudged with it; he'd tried on a couple of occasions to throw her off, seizing her legs and coating them with blood.

They were a frightening image.

This wound was the most difficult. It had missed the bone, thankfully, but it was deeper, the bullet twisted inside of him. His muscles spasmed as she dug around and she made contact with the metal, but it kept slipping. Downstairs, they heard movement, and she swore and worked more quickly.

"Hurry, hurry," he said, his words muffled by the belt. She ignored him, finally got a grip on the metal, flinching slightly as there was a strange sound downstairs, a high-pitched whine, the sound of some sort of weapon charging up—and then it hit her.

"Stark is here," she breathed softly.

The fight downstairs seemed violent. There was a blast, a few cries, the sound of bullets pinging off the suit. Beneath her, Bucky's legs curled as she dug around, realizing that the bullet had fragmented into multiple pieces. But she felt more relaxed knowing backup had arrived.

Finally, she got the bullet pieces out. She braced her hands on his chest, both of them panting.

"Done," she said, and he spat out the belt and made to sit up, presumably to join the fight downstairs. Still straddling him, she placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back down. "Hold it," she said, but he ignored her. He made to push her off again, but she was pumped full of adrenaline and he was weakened, if slightly, with blood loss and she pushed him again.

And then the door banged open, shattering in the frame. Seated on top of him, she whipped her head around; a man stood in the doorway, gun in hand, aimed at them. They only had a split second to think; she made to cover him with her body, because in her mind she knew he was the most important thing, that he mattered, he was the one who needed to be protected. But at the same time he'd made to shield her, and he was stronger, and the gun went off and an instant later there was a loud THUD.

She didn't feel any pain, which made her panic. Somehow, Bucky was half on top of her, their lower bodies slightly twisted up, and he'd flung his knife at the man, killing him. But the man's aim had seemed true, and when she didn't feel the pain she knew Bucky had been shot. She pushed him off of her and he groaned, and she checked his body, searching him for a new, ragged bullet hole, her hands frantic, but she found nothing.

"You—you—"

She looked at his face and found that he was staring at her. "What?" she demanded.

"Did you really try to throw yourself on top of me?"

There was a sound in the doorway and they both whipped around, each of them with a gun in hand, and found that their weapons were pointed at Tony Stark, decked out in the Iron Man suit.

She was exhausted, mentally and physically. Her body was smudged with blood, and Tony Stark was standing in front of her and her gun was pointed at him and her arm trembled and she dropped it, covering her face with her bloody hands, ignoring the sticky sensation they left on her skin.

"So," Stark said, the face panel sliding up. "I'm down there fighting bad guys and you two are up here cuddling."

"Oh, my god," Mo breathed. "Oh, my god."

The adrenaline was starting to ebb. Reality was sinking in.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"We got attacked," Bucky snapped. "I got shot."

"Three times," Mo mumbled, lifting her head and looking at Bucky. She was shaking. "Can we—can we get out of here? Can we go? Please? I want to leave." She looked at Stark. "We need to get him somewhere safe. We can't let them get him."

"So I've been told," Stark said, eyeing Bucky. "We need to go. If they're here for you, I'm sure they've got more planned."

"We can't let them have him," Mo repeated, her voice desperate. Stark looked at her and quirked his eyebrows.

"Yeah," he said. "I get it. Let's move." He eyed Mo's legs. "Should you be wearing pants?"

She shook her head. "We need to go."

When they made it downstairs, Mo with a new magazine in her gun, her legs shaky, she found that they weren't alone. There were two men in their living room between them and the door, dressed in suits with no visible weapons. Mo's body, exhausted, went on high alert again. She pointed her gun at them, as did Bucky. Stark's mask slid into place.

"Relax," said one man. "No one has to get hurt."

He eyed Bucky's torn shirt and bloody, exposed chest.

"Just give us the asset," said the second man, and Mo stepped in front of Bucky. The man laughed. "How sweet."

"I don't think so," Stark said.

"You don't know what you're protecting, Stark," said the first man.

She felt Bucky's hand on her hip, urging her out of the line of fire, but she stayed where she was.

"Alright, look," the man said. "You've killed most of my men and I'm a little upset. Hand that over—" he nodded at Bucky "—and we don't kill the girl." Mo rolled her eyes. "Don't test me," he warned.

"Kill the girl," she muttered. "Original."

"Looks like he have the firepower, pal," Stark said, and the man chuckled. He reached for his belt and Mo couldn't take it anymore—they couldn't stand around bantering forever. She pulled the trigger and hit him in the stomach, and then Stark fired and Bucky was moving, and it was a blur of motion, of havoc, and of course the men weren't alone, they had reinforcements.

Mo wasn't sure how much longer she could keep fighting. She wasn't superhuman, and she didn't have a fancy suit. Her stump of a leg ached, her head pounded, her jaw hurt from the beating she had taken. It all came to a head when one man rushed her and grabbed her, pinning her arms down, his gun pressed to her head as Bucky and Stark finished off the remaining men.

"Stop!"

Bucky spun around and found Mo in the arms of the last man, his gun at her temple, using her as a shield. Mo looked furious as she squirmed, a snarl contorting her face. Bucky was startled by how well she'd handled herself through all of this, slipping seamlessly back into the role of a soldier, taking advantage and disposing of the men who underestimated her. Sure, maybe she was a little slower, but she'd handled herself well, and he hadn't felt as worried about her in the situation as he'd expected; admittedly, he'd been uncertain about her capabilities, had doubted. But he'd seen her handle herself. And, though he was always aware of where she was and what she was facing, he hadn't found himself needing to bail her out of anything.

Until now, and she looked none too happy about it.

But the man was a fool; he'd not only underestimated Mo, but Bucky as well. Mo struggled as the man tried to order them around, tried to order Bucky into compliance. He hated seeing her there; it infuriated him. But his eyes locked with hers, a dark, flat green, and she looked at the knife in his hand and nodded. He grinned. The man's face was behind her head, peaking out slightly. Bucky let the knife fly and Mo didn't flinch; it embedded in the man's eye socket and he screamed and released her.

Mo spun around, grabbed hold of the knife and with a snarl she yanked it out and then plunged it into his throat.

The man fell and Mo backed away, turning to Bucky, her eyes searching his face. "You're okay?"

"I'm fine," he grunted.

"Hooray," Stark drawled. "C'mon, we need to go."

But Mo reached for Bucky, panicky, and she fell into him as though her legs had given out, clutching the back of his shirt. "We're alive," she gasped. "We're alive."

"Yeah," he rasped, resting his chin on top of her head for a moment, staring at the bodies around them. "Yeah, we are."

AN: Feedback is always lovely. Let me know what you think! They'll have to deal with the aftermath and emotions in the next chapter…