I was really motivated to get a chapter posted by today as a Christmas present to everyone who's been reading. Thank you so much for the favorites/follows/reviews. I can't thank you enough! The new chapter is my attempt to let you know how very much I appreciate you. :)
Fire and Blood, thank you SO MUCH for the comments on the last chapter. As always, it makes my day!
Chapter 10
Natasha shifted slightly. The hospital issued scrubs were at least more comfortable than the blue skirt and suit jacket she had worn at the Triskelion. And definitely better than the heels.
"He'll be ok."
Natasha didn't look at Sam. She didn't believe him.
"Did the doctor tell you that?" she asked, challenging his optimism.
There was a pause. Natasha figured that was her answer.
"He's not going to…He'll be ok," Sam said again.
"You keep telling yourself that." She hadn't meant for the words to come out so harshly. But she was hurting. The gunshot that hadn't yet healed burned through her shoulder. Her entire body ached from throwing herself from a burning and collapsing building. The doctor had declared her still in one piece, the nurse had given her clean scrubs and a pair of tennis shoes she had found somewhere, and Natasha had pulled her hair back with a tie. But it wasn't enough of a change. All her secrets were out there now and people would know who—what—she was.
And none of that mattered. Not really. Not when Steve was in surgery and no one could tell her or Sam what was happening. Natasha figured they had already gotten lucky with Fury surviving. And luck wasn't something that came around more than once in her life.
There were S.H.I.E.L.D. agents down the hall. Watching her. She met their gaze evenly. They looked away.
"What did the doctor really say?" Natasha asked. She turned slightly to face Sam, lifting her chin slightly.
Sam didn't flinch. He hadn't flinched once, not in the entire time since she and Steve had showed up at his door. She waited.
He sighed slightly and for the first time she saw a break in his military posture. "It's not good. Facial fractures, two gunshots, broken ribs, a collapsed lung, internal bleeding. That's the short list."
"He has the serum." Natasha said the words. She knew better than to try to give herself some pitiful amount of hope. She told herself she was saying it to reassure Sam.
"The serum makes surgery tricky," Sam said, a frown pulling at his features.
"The serum makes him heal," she snapped before she caught herself. She cut off anything else that may slip out and took a slow breath.
Two men in scrubs hurried past them and Sam took a step back to give them space to pass.
"The serum makes it hard to treat him," Sam said quietly. Natasha hated the sympathy for her on his face. "The medications they need don't work like they would on you or me."
She could tell he was choosing his words carefully. She squared her shoulders, let him see she wasn't fragile.
"Pain meds, they aren't going to work on him. They're not even sure about the anesthesia for surgery. He's going to metabolize right through normal doses."
Anger at the country they both served flashed through her. That's who had really done this to Steve. The government had pushed the serum through him, only thinking of the soldier they were creating, not what it would mean for his life. That wasn't any different from how the Red Room operated.
Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her scrubs. It saved her from trying to temper her response to Sam. She stepped away from him. Once she was in a quiet hallway, she looked at the phone.
Are you safe?
She finally let her guarded expression fall. She closed her eyes. She could picture Clint at home seeing whatever the news was showing about the Triskelion collapsing.
For now, she texted back to him. She didn't need him leaving Laura and the kids to come looking for her.
Stay that way, came his response. She waited a beat, then the next text came through. Laura said our door's open. Any time. Her lips twitched slightly before she slid the phone back in her pocket.
But then she started walking back to the waiting room where Sam was and her face tightened into a mask again. It was better than letting anyone see what she was thinking…feeling.
She didn't want to feel. Not this anger. Not this regret. Not this…worry about Steve. Steve didn't deserve to be the one in surgery while she and Sam sat out here with nothing more than bruises. He was a good man. How many times was S.H.I.E.L.D. expecting him to sacrifice himself for the greater good?
She felt eyes on her and saw Sam watching her. She looked down at her hands, curled into fists and forced them to relax. She moved to a chair some distance from Sam and took a seat. She would sit there and will Steve to survive surgery. Her hands curled into fists again.
#
Bucky hadn't heard helicopters for awhile. The night had passed with the occasional distant sound of military planes and helicopters, but none had come near the apartment building. The distant drone of helicopters had merged with the painful vibration in his head every time a memory threatened. His shirt beneath the leather vest and sweatshirt stuck to his back, sweat breaking out with the effort it took to press back the memories.
He curled his hand more tightly around the handle of his knife. He looked down at it. When had he pulled it? He didn't remember taking it from the sheath on his leg.
He forced his fingers to loosen their grip. Gave the knife a light twirl. Something familiar. Not a memory. He tucked the knife back against his leg. His hands free, he kept them loosely at his sides. Ready to fight.
Gray light started to come through the closed blinds. He needed to get moving before daylight.
He looked toward the bedroom. With another glance at the entry door, he moved to the bedroom and looked in at the young woman sprawled face down on the bed. Her dirty black fatigues were a stark contrast to the billowy white comforter. She hadn't moved all night. Other than breathing that changed from deep to shallow and irregular, nothing had happened. Her breathing was slow and regular now. He could leave her here. She was off the street. She would wake up and turn on the TV. Then it would be up to her to figure out her next move. His next move was decided for him. They would be coming for him, he needed to run.
He needed a change of clothes. Something less conspicuous. Judging by the photos in her apartment, there wasn't a man in her life who would have anything he could use.
Pulling the hood over his head again, Bucky tucked his metal hand into his pocket and slipped out the door. Watching for anyone, he went back to the stairwell, this time taking it down past the first floor, to the basement. He had studied floor plans of apartment buildings, hotels, anywhere a target was suspected to be, and the laundry was most often in the basement.
The corridor wasn't well lit when he stepped into the basement. But there was bright light coming from an open doorway. He made his way there.
Bucky glanced in. Washers and dryers lined the walls. He didn't see anyone, so he went into the laundry room.
Several washers were running, clothes sloshing around with suds. Just as many dryers hummed, tumbling clean loads.
He opened one dryer, ignoring the ache in his elbow, radiating up his arm. It was better than before he had reduced the dislocation.
The dryer had kids' clothes. A couple blankets. A set of sheets with Captain America's shield patterning the set.
The universe had a sense of humor even after everything that had happened yesterday.
He shoved the sheets back in the dryer and moved to the next one. This one had jeans, t-shirts, a jacket. They were close enough to his size. He pulled out what he needed and closed the dryer, making sure to restart it. Anyone that came down here would wouldn't know he had opened their dryer. Not until they noticed the missing clothes.
Back up the stairs, ducking out of the stairwell once on the second floor when someone came down the stairs.
In the apartment, he went to the bedroom and looked through the door. The woman was still asleep. Her respirations were slower now, long pauses between every breath. He watched, making sure she was breathing. Whatever Hydra had given her, he hoped her sleep was dreamless.
He quickly changed his clothes. The jeans felt foreign. The t-shirt comfortable enough, but unlike the leather vests he had worn for missions. He pulled the black hoodie back on, camouflaging what he could of his arm. Bucky kicked his cargo pants and vest aside. He needed to find a bag. He wasn't leaving without his guns. The knives he would strap on under the clothes.
He went to a closet in the hallway. He opened it, but before he could look for anything, a sound came from the bedroom. He moved quickly, silently to look in.
The sound came again. The woman moved violently, her entire body jerking with uncontrolled movement.
He started to her side.
"I'm not a medic," Bucky laughed. "I'm a sniper."
"All soldiers are taking the first aid training before they ship overseas," the unamused lieutenant said.
"Do the nurses teach it?" Bucky asked. "There's a blonde one—"
He was at her side. She was still moving like a ragdoll someone shook. His vision blurred, he could see the nurse in Jersey smiling at him while she taught the first aid class.
His hands shook as he reached out for the woman who was actually in front of him. First aid lessons from 1942 were hazy in his jumbled thoughts. He had to keep her from biting her tongue.
"Don't speak." He'd cut the man's tongue out if he had to. A warning to the others if they made a noise. He couldn't kill them, Hydra needed them and the information they had. But he could get them to cooperate.
Sweat beaded on his face. He needed to control the thoughts. Keep the memories out of his head.
The woman was choking. A strangled sound came from her.
Bucky turned her on her side, trying to keep her breathing.
The movements slowed. Stopped.
He quickly let her go. She fell over onto her back. Not moving.
He watched until he saw her chest rise…fall…rise…fall.
He stepped back from the bed. One hand went to his hair, shoving it back from his face while he watched her.
Her eyes opened slightly and she mumbled something incoherent. He watched her eyes fall closed again.
Right now the biggest threat was whatever was happening to her. Whatever those injections Hydra had given her were doing. Not anything coming down the hallway. So he positioned himself in her room.
"If my dad finds you here, you're dead. You know that, right?"
"Doll, if your dad finds me here, I'll die a happy man."
Pain like a vise squeezed his head from every side—front, back, sides, underneath. He wasn't remembering. He was going to stand guard. That was his mission. Memories had no place in his mission.
#
This hurt worse than a gunshot.
Steve fought against the pain in his leg. But it was his torso that hurt the worst. Like he was being cut open. He struggled to open his eyes. Pressure built in his abdomen. Something was warm. Like blood. All over his torso.
He gagged against whatever was jammed down his throat.
"He's waking. Increase the anesthesia."
"This should be enough propofol to kill him."
"I have him cut wide open, give him however much it takes."
Steve managed to get his eyes open. He made a strangled sound. His side felt like it was being sliced in two. There was a man, masked, surgical cap over his hair, scalpel in hand.
His breath caught in his throat and he fought again against the breathing tube they had placed there.
He tried to lift his head, but his muscles were sluggish. He got his head up, but couldn't break free of the hands on his shoulders, struggling to hold him down on the table. He looked down, trying to see what was wrong.
The entire side of his abdomen was slashed open, blood being blotted away by someone in a gown and gloves, their eyes hidden behind the glare of the overhead lights against their glasses.
"You're ok, Captain Rogers," the man with the scalpel said. "Calm down."
Steve grunted again. Everything in him struggled to move. To get free. He didn't understand what was happening. Where was he? He had been fighting Bucky, then…
Then warmth started to flow through him. His struggle slowed. His tight muscles relaxed. His eyes got heavy. The sounds faded.
Everything went dark again.
#
Bucky tried to keep the pain from taking over. His head hurt with every flash of light that exploded through it. Every flash of light brought another memory back.
Sweat trickled down his back. He had to focus. He had to stay focused. They could be coming.
His hands shook and he fisted them. Focus.
The girl on the bed let out a groan. It was the first sound she had made since her seizure. Bucky squinted at her, trying to see past the memories, the faces from the past, that were filling his mind.
Her dark hair was damp, half in her face. She struggled to push up from where she was lying on her stomach. Her arms quaked and she collapsed down, her face smashed into the bedspread. She didn't lift her head again, but she half rolled, half fell from the bed, landing with a soft thud in a graceless heap on the carpeting.
Bucky started toward her. She made an effort again to push up with trembling arms. She groaned again, her eyes half closed. She made it to her knees and started to inch her way across the room.
Bucky made it to her side. He grit his teeth against the chisel being driven through his skull. She stopped her pathetic crawl and swallowed hard.
"I…need…sick…"
She started to collapse forward. Bucky grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet.
"Please. Please let go of me. I promise I'll cooperate." The older woman's gray eyes said she was telling the truth. The Soldier didn't care.
Bucky grit his teeth and forced himself to see the apartment in front of him, not the memories consuming his mind. His hand completely encircled the girl's upper arm. She wasn't doing much to move forward. He pulled her along to the bathroom. As soon as she was in front of the toilet, he let go of her arm. She started to pitch forward. He grabbed her again and stopped her fall. He got her on the floor.
The man laid on the bathroom floor, blood flowing from the knife slash across his throat. His eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling.
Bucky released her and jerked away, crashing into the wall at his back.
She clutched at the sides of the toilet and leaned her head over the bowl, retching and gagging.
He let the wall hold him up while he tried to figure out where he was. Not on a mission for Hydra. Not with Hydra.
He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. Not with the Army. Not home.
"I think…" the girl mumbled. Bucky looked at her. She was seated, leaning back against the vanity cabinet, slumping like she might slide all the way to the floor. Her eyes were still barely open, unfocused. "I need my phone," she slurred.
Bucky squinted through the dim room at her.
"I need…to…to…call in sick. I can't…" Her words trailed off and her head lolled to the side.
He watched her slide down the side of the cabinet farther. She roused enough to speak again. "I can't work…today."
Suddenly she was reeling forward toward the toilet again, heaving whatever pitiful amount might be left in her stomach.
Bucky drew in breaths through his nose. A sound in the hall outside the apartment drew his attention. He listened. Footsteps came closer to the door. He waited, every muscle fiber completely still. Waiting. The steps didn't slow, they kept going and faded. His enhanced hearing tuned, he waited until he heard a door farther down the hall open and close.
"I wish…my grandma…"
He looked back at her. She was laying on the floor, eyes closed.
Her lips barely moved as she murmured the words. "My grandma…she always took care of me." She was so still he waited to see if her chest rose with another breath. It finally did and she spoke again. "I miss her." The words were so quiet he wasn't sure if he heard the words or just saw them formed on her lips.
A hundred memories of a smiling woman, face creased with laugh lines, flooded him.
"I miss mine," he heard himself say. His grandma, just a block away from the brick apartment building he and his sisters lived in with their mom, in a tidy little house, always ready to listen or scold, whatever he deserved that day.
The girl's lashes fluttered and her eyes opened just enough to look at him through dark lashes.
He met her gaze. Then her eyes closed again and she stilled, except for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Bucky let the slow rhythm of her breaths be his focus instead of memories and nightmares wreaking chaos in his mind. He kept some attention on the door, the only way to reach them in the bathroom. He catalogued his weapons again. He sat on the bathroom floor while she laid, passed out on the floor, as the sun rose high enough outside the windows inside the apartment to cast a feeble light through the drawn shades.
#
"You really are a mess," Natasha said.
She stood next to the hospital bed. She stared down at Steve. He didn't move.
"Was this your plan?" she asked. Too much. There was too much emotion in her voice. She pressed her lips together. When she spoke again, she was steady. In control. "Because getting beat and shot is a crappy plan." She glanced at the monitors. Then the IV pumps, the tubes going into his arms.
"I don't think this was his plan," Sam said.
Natasha didn't turn as he entered the room. "Sacrificing himself to save the day? It sounds exactly like the kind of plan he'd be enough of an idiot to try."
Sam's shoes made soft sounds across the linoleum until he was standing alongside her, looking down at the unconscious super soldier.
They stood in silence.
"Have they found his…" she didn't know what to call that man. That demon. The assassin Steve thought was still his friend under the menacing surface. "The soldier?"
"Nothing yet," Sam said. "It's going to be awhile before they get into the building and start identifying bodies."
Natasha thought of the young woman working with Pierce. The one spilling everyone's secrets. She had been off. On drugs maybe? If Hydra gained compliance by getting its operatives hooked on heroin or some other drug, it wouldn't surprise her. But it didn't inspire confidence that the woman had made it out of the building alive.
One less Hydra asset.
The thought startled her. She wrapped her hands around the side rail of Steve's bed. She shouldn't be thinking so callously about the loss of life. Steve would never think that way.
"He can't keep thinking the best about people," she said. From the other side of the bed, Sam looked at her. She felt his eyes on her, but kept looking at Steve. His high cheekbones. The no nonsense line of his brow. "It's going to get him killed."
She shouldn't have said it so starkly. But Sam didn't flinch. Just kept that even gaze on her. She stared back at him, silently challenging him to dare argue with her. They both knew it was true.
"He's not the kind of guy who's going to try halfway with someone."
She scowled at Sam's quiet assessment.
She didn't say anything more. Sam knew better. But he was too willing to just accept Steve's naïve optimism in people to agree with her.
"He doesn't have any pain meds, you know," she said.
What was wrong with her? She wasn't usually so dour. She accepted the facts and moved on. She didn't keep pointing out injustices.
"Serum doesn't let pain killers work," Sam said, repeating what he had informed her of earlier, when Steve had still been in surgery. "Something about his ramped up metabolism."
She tightened her grip on the bed rail.
"You should take a break. Get some air," Sam said. He didn't mention she had sat at rigid attention for the several hours his surgery took, but Natasha knew he was glancing at the clock to see how long they had actually been at the hospital.
"You've been here just as long as I have."
Sam lifted an eyebrow, but didn't argue. Instead, he moved back around the bed to her side and took one of the uncomfortable looking visitor's chairs. He pushed the other one closer to her with his foot.
Natasha sat in the chair.
They sat in silence, watching a man who didn't deserve the broken bones or bullet wounds.
#
The girl started to twitch. Bucky was aware of the movement through the haze dropping down on his mind. He tried to come up for air, but was mired with memories, too many memories coming all at once. He fought for a breath, tried to see what was really in front of him.
He could hear the girl, a light scuff against the tile bathroom floor, as she moved. But he could only see the dim light of the cryo suspension unit. Where he had spent years. Decades.
The noise grew louder, picked up in tempo and urgency. Bucky planted a hand against the icy metal of the cryo tank.
No. Tile. It was tile under his fingers. He was in an apartment. Wasn't he?
He grit his teeth and fought harder to gain control over his mind.
He could hear someone crying. A woman. He had killed her husband.
No. It wasn't crying. It was choking.
He cursed and clawed his way out of the sinkhole of memories.
The girl was choking. She was seizing again.
He lurched forward on his knees, his movements disjointed, still unsure of what was real and what was in his head. He grasped at her shirt and pulled her across the tile enough to get her head away from the cabinet it threatened to crash against with every tonic movement.
As soon as he got her out of range, he released her. Her head was jolting against the hard tile.
He let out another curse and grabbed a towel from the towel bar. He wadded it up and shoved it under her head.
He wanted to restrain her. Make her just…stop. But he wasn't about to lay his hands on her.
Her frenetic movements kept up, but at least she wasn't cracking her skull against anything. He watched until her limbs dropped to the floor, every bit of taut seizing drained from them. Her head lolled against the towel. Her chest moving again in that too slow rhythm.
He couldn't leave her on the floor if she was going to keep having seizures.
He wished he knew what Hydra had been injecting into her to keep her from falling apart.
No. He wasn't Hydra anymore. He didn't want any part in anything they did.
He slid his arms under her, ignoring the sharp ache in his right elbow from moving the bone back into place the day before.
He hauled her back to the bed and unceremoniously dumped her there. Far enough from the edges she wouldn't flail off with the next seizure.
He checked that the window was locked, the shades blocking any view in and headed back out to the dim living room. He needed to get away from here. Away from everything linked to Hydra.
Outside a helicopter sounded. He wasn't sure when the last one had passed by. What had been in his mind and what was outside the building. But this one was real. At least he thought it was.
Now wasn't the time to leave. He gathered his weapons. A couple guns and three knives. He paced to the windows, checking the security and privacy, before taking a seat on the couch where he could see both the windows and the door. He arranged his weapons in front of him, laying them out on the coffee table.
This was familiar. Waiting. Watching.
#