AN: Breakdowns for everyone! Wheee!

The sticky blood on her hands was something she had sworn to herself she would never have to see again. She'd hoped and prayed she would never have to see it again. And yet here she stood. All she'd done was a favor for Sam, who she owed so much, and now here she was. How had she slipped this far? How had she gotten into this? Her kill count had more than doubled in a matter of minutes. Not only that, but she'd never wanted to go back to her medic days. She wasn't in a good enough mental state to handle the stress right now, and the breakdown she felt coming on was enough to prove that.

She stared at her hands, which were now shaking violently. The adrenaline had completely left her body, and now she was left with the aftermath.

There was so much blood.

She turned on the sink, (Stark had set her up in a room, said they would talk after she cleaned up) hands fumbling so badly that it took her a few tries to get it right, and she let out a frustrated, muffled scream as she did so. She pitched forward, head down, hair a mess, the blood flaking off into little flecks on the white sink. She licked her lips and tasted blood, her stomach churning when she realized she wasn't sure if it was her own blood or Bucky's.

Most of the blood was Bucky's.

She jammed her hands into the scalding hot water and scrubbed furiously. The sink went red immediately, but no matter how much she scrubbed she couldn't get it out of the crevices, out from under her nails, in the little cracks and divots in her skin. She scrubbed until her hands were numb, teeth gritted, tears in her eyes, letting out another frustrated cry. She removed her hands from beneath the water, but there was still blood. She stared at them, panting, her head swimming. She was losing track of where she was. In the back of her mind, there was gunfire, soldiers shouting; the hot Afghanistan air burned in her throat and lungs.

"I'm in the bathroom," she gasped, squeezing her eyes shut, putting her hands back under the water flow. "I'm in New York."

She was neither here nor there. She spun away from the water and turned on the shower, stripping off the bloody white shirt, stripping naked. She stared at herself in the full body mirror and didn't like what she saw; her thighs were smeared with blood, and there was one of Bucky's bloody handprints near her butt from where he'd tried to throw her off; there was a spray of blood on her face from when he'd been shot; his blood in her hair; bloody handprints, her own hands, on her face; a stream of dried blood up to her elbow from stabbing the man in the throat. The edges of the shirt on the floor were also the rusty color of dried blood.

The wounds could have been worse, and for that she was grateful. There was a cut between her eyes that still dripped blood, which wasn't unusual for a face wound; her jaw and cheekbone were badly bruised and her nose was sore, and her upper lip was swollen and split; her ribs were the worst part, and when she turned to look, they were already a deep, splotchy purple, tinged with red and green. It hurt a little to breathe, and the bruising on her lower back from being slammed into the counter didn't help, but overall things could have been much worse. She'd suffered far worse; this was child's play. It would hurt for a while, but she hadn't been shot or stabbed, and all her limbs were still intact.

When the steam from the shower had fogged up the mirror she stepped beneath the water and took to viciously scrubbing her body. The water that ran down the drain was red, her hair was crusty, and the taste of blood seemed constant in her mouth. She spit and rinsed, but it wouldn't go away. She felt panic coming on and she struggled against it, but it wasn't long before she was overwhelmed and she lost it. She dropped to her knees and began to sob, curling up into a ball, sobbing until she was breathless. Her ribs hurt, which made it worse, and she stared at her body, still smudged with watery blood, and she cried and cried until she couldn't breathe.

A wave of nausea hit her and she vomited, the shower washing it down the drain. She rinsed her mouth, her chest hitching as she breathed, and she rested her forehead on her one knee and curled into herself as tightly as she could, rocking back and forth.

"I can't do this," she gasped. "I can't do this."

She didn't want to o this. Not anymore. Everything inside of her screamed to go home, go back to California. This wasn't her fight. And although the situation had been handled, she hadn't enjoyed being used as a human shield by the last man. She hadn't enjoyed being shot at. She'd been shot at before. That wasn't her life anymore. She'd agreed to help Sam's friend; she hadn't signed up to be shot at and beaten. She hadn't signed up for emergency surgeries.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there, giving in to the fear and the self-pity. She sobbed the loud, ugly sobs for a good while before she finally found herself again and pulled herself together, taking deep, determined breaths. Pull it together, Fox, she thought sternly. Don't be pathetic. No more pity-parties.

It took some time, but finally she stabilized her breathing. She knew from experience that it might take a while before the trembling subsided, so she worked around it, breathing deep, scrubbing the blood and the sweat away. Finally, she stepped out of the shower, wiping the condensation off the mirror and inspecting her body. The blood was gone. Her skin was an angry pink from the hot water. Her lip was still swollen and the bruises remained, but the blood was finally gone. She wrapped a fluffy white towel around herself and sat down on the tile floor, reaching for her prosthetic, scrubbing the blood off of it before she strapped it back on and stood.

Stark had left a first aid kit and some clothes in the bathroom for her. The cut on her head was leaking again, so she cleaned it, pinched the skin together, and bandaged it, then slid on the clothes Stark had provided; black sweatpants and a snug red top with STARK written across the breasts. Hands still shaking, she tied her hair up and washed her face with cold water, urging away the puffiness in her eyes. It was still obvious she had been crying; her eyes were red rimmed, her lips bright red, her cheeks flushed, but she knew it wasn't getting any better.

She rolled her shoulders, took a few deep breaths, and left the bathroom, looking around her room with little interest. She still felt numb; she barely knew what it looked like, and didn't take the time to inspect it. Stark had wanted to speak with her, but she knew she should check on Bucky, and she was ashamed to admit that both options sounded equally unappealing at the moment. Visiting with Stark, she knew, was necessary; she was staying in his home. Visiting Bucky was also just as necessary, incredibly important, because there was no telling what his mental state was. But she wasn't sure she was ready to deal with that now.

She left her room and stepped out into the hall, still debating, and it wasn't without shame. She hated herself for it, felt disgusted, but she barely could handle herself. She didn't want to handle anything or anyone right now; she wanted to curl up and sleep forever.

"Jarvis," she rasped, her voice hoarse from all the crying. Tony had told her about Jarvis on the way. "Where's Tony?"

"Downstairs, miss," he said. "Take the elevator down three floors."

"And how's Bucky?"

"Mr. Barnes hasn't left his living quarters."

That decided it. She took a breath and braced herself, looking down the hall, heading toward Bucky's room. There were locks on the doors that could only be opened by hand scanners, but Tony had quickly programmed it so that her hand, Tony's hand, and Bucky's hand could open Bucky's door. He would be allowed no privacy, Tony said.

She scanned her hand.

She stopped dead as soon as she flicked on the light—the room was trashed. The nice, expensive, beautiful room that they'd been so generously offered had been destroyed. The table had been flung across the room; one of the legs was embedded in the wall, the glass top shattered. Her bare foot crunched on glass, pricking her, but she ignored it, her heart pounding. There were a few holes in the wall, a couple of them smudged with blood, indicating that he'd punched the holes with both his metal and his flesh arm.

The dresser was broken, the nightstands overturned, the mattress on the other side of the room. There was broken glass everywhere, presumably from the vases with fake flowers in them. She stepped deeper into the room and heard a scream from the bathroom—not a frightened scream, a broken, lost scream, and she ran for the bathroom.

It was just as trashed as the rest. The mirror had been shattered, the door ripped off the hinges, and Bucky was on his knees surrounded by glass. He had pitched forward, gripping the sides of his head, and he was just as bloody and hurt as when she'd left him; he'd obviously made no attempt to clean up.

"Bucky," she gasped, and she felt herself start to shake. She couldn't handle this. Not now. "Bucky, please get up." Her voice broke and she squeaked, choking on the plea. He had gone very still. Too still.

Hot tears slipped from her eyes as he looked up at, his face blank. She should have called for Jarvis, alerted Tony, but she didn't. She backed up, covering her mouth, shaking her head. He stood smoothly, gracefully, and hovered over her, advancing on her. She grabbed a shard of glass.

"Bucky, please," she sobbed. She knew it was no use. She should have known the Winter Soldier would have been triggered. He'd had to fight for his life; it was his ultimate survival mode. She'd been fooled because he'd seemed so in control earlier, but she should have known that one good moment was meaningless. She continued to retreat until he lunged forward, seizing her by the throat, as always, and slamming her back into the wall so hard that she felt it buckle beneath her. She was winded. His was face contorted by rage, hate, and she wondered what he was seeing, wondered who he thought she was that could elicit such a reaction from him.

"Stop it!" she screamed, kicking her legs wildly. The glass cut into her palm and she stabbed him, burying the shard deep in his bicep. He screamed; she screamed. She jerked her leg up and kneed him between the legs and he buckled forward. She dropped to the ground and took off, but he was right behind her. She felt his hand in her hair and snapped her neck back, then forced her into the wall, drew her head back, and slammed her head into the wall.

She went limp.

When she came to again, her head was pounding. She curled up in a ball, mouth open in a silent scream, lifting a hand to her head. It came away bloody. Her vision swam and was dark around the corners. She let out a squeak of pain and raised herself into a sitting position, feeling the blood slide down the side of her face and neck; it had pooled, so the entire side of her head was damp.

There was no sign of Bucky, and that frightened her. She got to her feet, swaying and dizzy, her head feeling like it was about to split open. But she used the wall for support, stepping over the broken glass. For a moment she considered stopping, letting someone else handle it. But she pushed the thoughts away. He needed her now; she was no better than he was.

"Jarvis," she squeaked when she entered the hall. "Where's Bucky?"

"Mr. Stark has him detained in a testing room, Miss."

"How do I get there?"

"Take the elevator down five floors."

She got in the elevator, placing a hand to her head. "What happened?"

"Mr. Barnes and Mr. Stark had an altercation. Mr. Barnes was neutralized."

It was like being in a maze at first, but all she had to do was follow the blood and she found him. He was behind glass and he was frighteningly still. She staggered forward and hit the glass, pounding on it; he had been strapped down to a metal table. She pounded on the glass, placed her hand on the pad to scan herself, but she was denied access.

"Jarvis!" she cried, "Let me in!"

"I'm sorry, Miss, but you don't have access."

"Bucky!"

"Oh, good, you're here." She whipped around and found Stark walking down the hall toward her. He had an ice pack pressed to his cheekbone. "Your man has a wicked right hook. Where have you been?"

"Unconscious," she snapped.

"Ah." He came to a stop in front of her. "Long time no see, Tiny Dancer," he said. "You know, at first I wasn't sure if it was you, because, you know, I was told there were no survivors, but a quick search cleared that right up. You and I need to talk."

She stared at him. "I need to get in there," she said, her voice hoarse. "I have to get to him."

"Yeah, maybe not the best idea."

"He's having a flashback," she said desperately, and Tony's eyes looked her up and down.

"I like my shirt on you," he said, "it's a new design. Came up with it myself. It's flattering; red is really your color. And, no, he's not having the flashback anymore, I knocked him out of it—or choked him out, to be more accurate, but who's keeping track—"

"What did you do to him? You can't just—"

"Calm down," he said with a roll of his eyes, "your boy's fine. No permanent damage. I'd like to be filled in, you know; Steve didn't tell me much, and I don't like being out of the loop; I feel like there's a story behind this—"

"Let me in there!"

"Touchy," he said, sauntering past her. He scanned the door open, snagging her wrist as she went to move past him. He gave her a serious look. "I'm not a babysitter," he said. "He's a friend of Steve's, I get that, but you let him off that table and any damage he does is on you. Cap trusts you with that mess, but I don't. Handle it. I'll be out here."

"You're not coming in?"

"I'll keep watch, but I don't think he'll appreciate my presence." His eyes looked over her body again, lingering on the leg. He gagged. "That has to go," he said, pointing at it. "It—it's insulting. Good God."

She shook her head at him, disgusted. "You haven't changed at all."

He winked at her, but there was something in his eyes, something dark, and it was a look she recognized. "I really do want to talk to you. Don't let him kill you."

Then he stepped back and the door sealed between them.

Bucky's chest rose and fell steadily, and he was a mess. His hair was all over his face, his body was damaged and filthy, his shirt was gone. The bullet holes had started to close, and they were a deep, ugly purple, the skin around them violently bruised. She trembled a little, skittish, and watched him for a few moments. His lips were slightly parted, the lower one split right in the center—Tony's doing. A lot of these fresh bruises were Stark's doing, but the deep puncture in his bicep was hers.

She was angry. She was scared. She started to cry again and leaned her elbows on the steel table beside him, her face in her hands. A few tears slipped from between her fingers and splattered on the steel. Bucky's arms were stretched out, held down by multiple steel clamps; the same could be said for his ankles, and another one around his waist. It was clear that he wouldn't be going anywhere.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped, sniffing, pushing her hair out of her face. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I can't—I can't do this anymore. I can't."

Her breath hitched and she lifted her face a little to stare at his face. "One favor—that's all, one favor for Sam, and now look at us. You—you deserve so much better than me, someone who knows what they're doing, someone stronger. I can't do this."

Her legs threatened to give out and she leaned heavily on the table, her forehead brushing the skin at his ribs. "I thought I could handle it," she said, "even after everything that happened, but—but—I thought I was strong, but I'm not, I'm not…

"It's okay," she went on, "you're going to wake up and apologize and you're going to feel awful, but I forgive you, I do. I've done it too. I've hurt Sam. There's a reason I don't have friends. I hurt everyone. It's okay. But I just—I need someone right now, and Sam isn't here, and I need Sam." The realization hit her like a train and broke her. "I need Sam, and I don't even know if he's alive, but I need him, I need him, I—"

She took a breath, straightening up and wiping her face. She moved closer to his head. "I'm a nutcase," she told him. "So are you." She laughed a watery laugh. "I hate myself for being so weak."

She looked at his face; some stubble had grown in. His full lips were slightly swollen. There was blood leaking from his nose. She scanned him; she hadn't realized it before (probably because he'd always worn slightly-too-big clothes and had been getting skinny) but he was muscular, well-built, designed to kill. Her eyes traced the scars on his body, noting the four new ones he would have, one of them her doing. "I'm sorry," she breathed. "I never wanted to hurt you."

She touched his chest, the skin around one of the bullet wounds; the skin was searing hot, and his skin glistened with sweat. She looked up and found Tony watching them intently, and she was ashamed to admit she was more than relieved to have the backup—just in case. She looked away and shook her head, trying to clear the drowsiness, the pain. Her back screamed in pain from where he'd nearly put her through a wall.

Her hand moved up to touch the scars where the flesh met his metal arm, her instincts screaming against it, but she refused to be afraid. "You don't scare me," she lied, tears slipping down her cheeks. She shook them away. "I will not be afraid of you."

As she said it, her fingers slid between his, and she held the prosthetic for a while, calming herself. She gave it a little squeeze, and a few moments later his muscles spasmed, his breath hitched, and his eyes opened.

AN: I thought things could maybe be a little bit worse for them, because who doesn't like conflict? I'd love to know your thoughts! I really appreciate all the lovely reviews and support – nearly 200 reviews! Let's get past that mark!

Excited for the next chapter. Tony and Mo finally talk!