The End of the Line: James 'Bucky' Barnes x Reader

   The End of the Line

   The Winter Soldier/James “Bucky” Barnes x Reader

   Part I, Chapter 2.

   ---

   “Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence.”

   -Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

   ---
   

   “Oh no…” you breathe, as the chair is suddenly filled with The Winter Soldier, his metal arm being prodded by a technician in a labcoat. Without warning, the Soldier is throwing the technician across the room and every gun is raised at his head. He doesn’t make another move and seems oblivious to the panic he’s caused.

   A voice buzzes in your ear, though no one in the room seems to be speaking.

   “Mission report.”

   Barnes doesn’t answer.

   "Mission report, now!"

   Still no answer.  Then he’s thrown in the chair, head snapped to the side like he’s been struck.  Slowly, deliberately, he rights himself, though he looks no more coherent now than before as far as you can tell.

   “That man on the bridge,” he says quietly. “Who was he?”

   “You met him earlier this week on another assignment,” the voice answers.

   “I knew him,” Barnes says, more to himself than anyone else.

   “Your work has been a gift to Mankind. You helped shape the century.”

You see doubt flicker across Barnes’ face. He’s starting to dismantle the false identity of The Winter Soldier. Things aren’t making sense, these people aren’t making sense.

   “Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos,” the disembodied voice says. “Tomorrow morning, we’re gonna give it a push. But if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine.”

   Barnes continues to stare at nothing, and you’re not sure he’s even hearing this faceless lunatic.

   “And Hydra can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

   “But I knew him,” Barnes says again, finally lifting his eyes to stare at an empty space in the room, where someone must have once stood, someone who is missing now, for whatever reason.

   “Prep him,” the voice says.

   One of the technicians, doctors, whatever they are, protests, saying he’s been out of cryofreeze too long.

   In the most infuriatingly nonchalant tone, the voice says, “Then wipe him, and start over.”

   Barnes is offered a bite guard, and you can see the anger in his eyes as he accepts it, can feel the panic as they push him back in the chair, as he is locked in place. His chest heaves as a mask sizzling with arcs of blue electricity is lowered over his head and face. He remembers this and is terrified of what's to come.

   A man wearing a bow-tie enters a command into the bank of computers and the Soldier starts to scream. The smell of burning hair and skin makes you want to retch, but more than anything, you’re consumed with the desire to hurt the people who did this, who are capable of doing it to another human being.

   But this is only a memory, not much different from a dream or a nightmare; just a series of images and impressions drawn up by the subconscious and strung together in a somewhat coherent order (and sometimes not). You can’t change what really happened, but you can change this. Not permanently, you can’t rewrite his memories, but you can end this particular recollection.

   With a start, you realize all the men in the vault are looking at you.

   “Who…?” one of them asks, and in a second, he’s dead, after you pump a round into his chest and two to the head with the gun you didn’t have before.

   The room erupts into chaos, because even though this didn’t happen, Barnes’ brain is filling in the gaps, continuing the memory with what probably would have happened if this were real. The mind’s capacity for self-deception is astounding.

   You move, snarling and shooting, kicking, breaking, tearing open and crushing. There is nothing beautiful or delicate about this. This is all savagery and skill, and it’s what you were born to do.

   Moments tick by and the room finally stills. They’re all dead, and you’re left breathing hard, trying to quash the giddy joy that always seems to bubble up when you fight like this, when the shifting is totally instinctive and you stop trying to undo what your body knows it has to do to survive. It’s so much neater, and less terrifying, when it’s a controlled change, a movement from one form to another, complete and fully-realized.

   But left to its own devices, your body rarely completes a shift. It draws on what it needs, nothing more. Pinned to the ground by someone bigger and heavier? Grow venom glands in the roof of your mouth and spit a blinding cocktail of chemicals into their face. Someone trying to drown you? Grow gills. Starving to death and can’t find any food? Develop chloroplasts and chlorophyll to convert sunlight into energy. There is no limit to the genetic bag of tricks your body can tap into.

   If evolution has encountered it, you can use it to your advantage.

   Others with similar abilities are content to change their face, or their voice, but you? You are a master artist, sculpting your own genetic code however you need or want to.

   The gun is forgotten, either lost in the scuffle or disappeared when your subconscious remembered that you didn’t need a firearm to bring your enemies down. The machine is still frying Barnes’ brain, so you rip it off of his face, shove it to the ground in a shower of sparks and billowing smoke.

   You face the computer and release the restraints on his arms, turning to find him lying perfectly still, save for the shallow rise-and-fall of his chest as he breathes.

   “Sergeant Barnes?” you ask, gently pushing the chair back up so he’s mostly upright. “James?”

   Slowly, groggily, his eyes open. He spits out the bite guard, panting behind bared teeth.

   “Where…?” he croaks.

   “Just a dream,” you tell him. “A bad memory.”

   “I don’t remember anything like this,” he says, finally absorbing the scope of the damage to the vault and its occupants.

   “Well,” you start, trying to think of a way to explain this without totally overwhelming him. “Because this is only a memory, and because I’m aware that it’s a memory—and not real—it can be changed, at least long enough to pull you out of it. I’m afraid this version won’t supplant the original.”

   He’s shivering, still fighting to catch his breath.

   “It was always like this. Always this bad,” he observes. “I didn’t always remember Steve, but other things… Brooklyn, the war, the Howling Commandos. I’d start to remember, and they—“ He turns quickly in the chair and you can see his stomach heave as it tries to empty itself of what isn’t there.

   “I refused at first,” he continues, still turned away from you. “The Russians tried to make me forget the old-fashioned way,” he says, his voice quiet.

   “The beating I saw earlier…” you supply, feeling your own throat constrict at the memory.

   “That and worse,” he says, finally lying back in the chair. “How do we get out of here?”

   You sigh. “We wake up. We have a roughly 15 minute window, but it’s hard to keep track of time here. We’ll be in this place, and then we won’t be.”

   “How are you here?” he asks, eyes closing against the harsh overhead light.

   “My sister can… well, it’s sort of like astral projection, I suppose.”

   “That’s not real,” he grumbles.

   “Oh, it’s real. And hardly the weirdest ability around,” you inform him. “Anyway, she escorted me here, in a sense. She’s too young to see this kind of stuff, so I insisted on doing it myself.”

   He’s quiet for a long moment, considering your words.

   “Thanks,” he says. “I never expected to be rescued.”

   “Well, you make a terrible damsel-in-distress,” you chuckle darkly.

   He glances at you. “No, seriously. I stopped hoping Steve or the Commandos would find me within weeks of being captured. I gave up.”

   You look over at him, profoundly sad at the admission. “It wasn’t… He didn’t abandon you, James. He crashed that plane into the Arctic not too long after you died. Almost died.”

   “I know,” he admits. “I saw the exhibit at the museum in D.C., read a few books about it too. Thought they might jog my memory.”

   “Did it help?”

   “Not really. Things sort of… come back in flashes.”

   You study the apparatus that had been used during the “wipe.”

   “I bet if we did a CT scan of your brain, we’d find a lot of neural scarring,” you offer. “If you can heal even a fraction as quickly as Rogers, your body is repairing the damage. Though…” you trail off, trying to recall your coursework in brain imaging techniques and traumatic brain injury symptoms and reparative processes.

   “What?”

   “It probably won’t ever be completely back to normal,” you finish. “Even Captain America has scars that don’t fade.”

   He swallows hard. “Fair enough.”

   You feel a tug at the corners of your mind.

   “Time’s up,” you tell him, recognizing Ana’s touch. “See you on the other side.”

   The last thing you see is the momentary look of panic on his face, knowing he’s about to be left behind again. But then you’re back in the kitchen of the safe house, and he’s stopped struggling against Steve, relaxed on the sturdy chef’s island in the center of the room.

   “Welcome back,” Rogers says, looking at you and then to Barnes. “You okay?”

   “No,” Barnes says. “Not remotely.”

   “But you’re here. You know us. Right?”

   “Yeah,” he sighs. “I know you.”

   The look of relief, of unadulterated happiness on Steve’s face is so saccharine, you think you might go into diabetic shock for having witnessed it.

   “Rogers, if you could fetch whatever medical supplies are available, I’d appreciate it,” you interrupt, shattering the moment. “I especially need clean gauze, suturing supplies, and disinfectant. A round of antibiotics would be useful, too.”

   “On it,” he says, dashing out of the kitchen on his new mission.

   “You a doctor or something?” Barnes asks, turning his head to look at you.

   “Technically, no. But I’m the best you’ve got for now,” you reply.

   “Perfect,” he groans, loosening the belt around his shoulder.

   “Leave that,” you scold. “You might not be spraying blood all over the appliances, but we need to keep as much of the red stuff inside as possible. I don’t know if this place stocks any plasma or donor blood.”

   “It does!” Steve chirps, bounding back into the kitchen, his arms laden with medical kits and boxes of sterile bandages. “Pretty sizeable stock of O-Neg in the basement’s cold storage unit,” he adds. “How much do you need?”

   “We’ll start with half a liter, so bring up a bag. He’s not bleeding too badly anymore, but it’ll help replace what he’s lost,” you say, considering a few other items you’ve made mental note of. You notice a portable blood warmer in the pile of equipment and set it up.

   “How much of that vodka did you drink the last 24 to 48 hours?” you ask, grabbing a pen light out of Steve’s mountain of supplies and checking Barnes' pupil reaction. They’re a bit sluggish, but that’s to be expected.

   “I wasn’t keeping track,” he grouses, pulling his head away from your grasp.

   “Educated guess,” you retort, grabbing his chin more firmly and turning his head back toward you to continue your examination.

   “A lot,” he hisses.

   Steve slips out of the room to fetch the donor blood, and your expression softens.

   “I’m trying to help you, Sergeant. I’m sorry if you find all this intrusive, but I’m only here because I want to be.”

   “Why?” he demands.

   You click the light off and drop it back down on the counter.

   “Because you need the help,” you shrug. “It’s that simple for me.”

   “Liar,” he accuses, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Fine. I already told you that I don’t believe anyone deserves what was done to you. I also know that Rogers is a good man, maybe one of the best, and he believes that you’re the best he’s ever known. You’re family to him, and I get that, I understand how desperate a person can become when they think they’ve lost their family. When they believe they failed to protect the people they love.”

   “Your sister,” he says, brow crinkling in thought.

   “All I have left,” you explain. “And I would do anything to protect her. That’s how Steve feels about you. I understand that, maybe better than anyone else, save for yourself.”

   “Okay,” he nods, finally resigned to cooperate, to trust you.

   Carefully, methodically, you begin to peel off the layers of Kevlar and tactical gear he’s wearing, tossing it all in the furthest corner of the kitchen, much to Barnes’ annoyance.

   “Don’t start,” you warn, cutting him off before he can complain about the rough treatment of his gear. “It’s all filthy and ought to be burned.”

   “You’re not burning my stuff,” he grumbles, sucking in a little breath as you start to wipe down his arms and chest with a damp bit of towel.

   “Should have treated it with a bit more care, then,” you snap back. “Instead of rolling around in that pit. I have to get you cleaned up first, or I’ll run the risk of all kinds of nasty infections.”

   You finish quickly, deciding he can have a proper scrub once all his wounds are closed and dressed. The more shallow slices from the broken glass are already scabbing over, but some of the knife wounds near his metal arm look inflamed and a bit yellow around the edges.

   “What were you trying to do?” you ask, preparing your suture kit to close the worst of the wounds first.

   “I don’t know, I was drunk,” he answers. “Maybe you should wait for Steve to come back. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t always control my reactions.”

   You smirk, shaking your head. “You can’t hurt me, not really.”

   There’s a long, awkward pause and then he finally asks.

   “Mutant, huh?” and despite listening for it, you don’t detect any hint of revulsion or fear.

   “10 points,” you answer dryly, nodding at Rogers as he re-enters the kitchen with a bag of blood. “You don’t sound particularly incredulous.”

   “Read some newspaper articles about you people,” he says, wincing. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

   You shake your head, “I’ve heard worse. And we are ‘a people.’ Sort of.”

   “Your sister is too?” he asks. “That’s why she can do… whatever it is that she does?”

   “Project,” you supply. “That’s the technical term. It’s falls into the telepathic family of psychic abilities.”

   “Jesus,” he breathes. “The world got a lot weirder—no offense—while I was… You know.”

   “Winter Soldiering?” you ask, and Steve shoots you a disapproving look.

   Barnes laughs a little. “Yeah, I guess.”

   You put the suture down and show Steve how to use the warmer to make the blood useable. A few minutes later, everything is set and you start an I.V. line into his flesh arm, satisfied when the color starts to return to his face.

   “We’ll get some fluids and electrolytes into you, too,” you explain. “You don’t seem intoxicated, but if you did actually drink as much as I suspect, your kidneys and liver can only do so much before they start to fail… When was the last time you urinated?”

   “Seriously?” Steve asks, embarrassed by the question.

   “Yes, seriously. It’s medically relevant. I’m not asking out of personal curiosity, Rogers.”

   He just shakes his head and leans back against the granite-topped counter behind him.

   “I don’t know that either,” Barnes answers. “I was so out of it, I probably just… Y’know. Right there.”

   You nod, once again finding yourself feeling sorry for him.

   “Well, let’s get you stitched up, get a round of antibiotics in your system, and then we’ll try water and sports drinks. If you can urinate normally within a few hours, I don’t think we’ll need another I.V.”

   “That word again,” Rogers mutters, and you swear you can see him blushing. He catches your critical look and shrugs. “Sorry. I’m still not used to hearing women talk like that.”

   “Like medical professionals?”

   “Like… I don’t know. Sometimes I have to force myself not to break out into a nervous sweat when I talk to Natasha about stuff. It’s just…”

   “Different,” Barnes injects. “Carter was an oddball in our day, and she’s practically Sandra Dee compared to modern dames.”

   “Wow, you just used that word in a completely non-ironic way,” you drawl, filling a small syringe. “I’m impressed.” You lean in to inject a few spots around his shoulder before catching the panicked look in his eyes.

   “Just a local anesthetic,” you assure him. “To take the sting out of the sutures.”

   “Okay,” he breathes and closes his eyes.

   You look up at Steve. “Your people hunting these pricks down?”

   “Yep,” he says, nodding. “Every day.”

   You begin applying the anesthetic, careful not to probe too close to the wounds themselves.

   “How does one get in on an operation like that?”

   “Just ask,” Rogers answers. “But you told Fury that you aren’t inclined to go looking for fights.”

   “No,” you correct, finishing the last few injections. “I told Fury that the organization I belong to doesn’t go looking for fights. I wouldn’t be
   representing them or their interests.”

   You toss the used syringe in the sink.

   “This would be for my own personal satisfaction.”

   “Well, I’d be glad to have you along. You’re certainly useful in a scuffle,” he says, offering a lopsided grin.

   “You’re not too bad yourself,” you return, unable to suppress your own smirk.

   “God, get a room,” Barnes groans, starting a little as you begin the first set of sutures. Your stitches are small and neat, drawing the gashes closed in quick succession.

   “Don’t be a child,” you huff, tying off the third set and starting the fourth. You look back up at Rogers. “I’ll ask for an extended sabbatical. Charles will know what I’m up to, but I don’t think he’ll object. He has a thing about people who use manipulation and fear to control others. Kind of a sore spot.”

   He nods watching as you continue to repair some of the damage Barnes had done in his drunken rage. Finally, all of the major injuries have been sorted well enough for his own system to catch up and heal him completely. It’ll probably take a few days, but once you get him rehydrated and eating proper food, who knows? It might take no more than a few hours.

   You apply a thin layer of antiseptic gel over the sutures and cover them with clean gauze and bandages.

   “We’ll change these a few times in the next 24 hours,” you tell Barnes, snipping several pieces of white medical tape to keep the bandages in place.

   “Okay,” he breathes, and you can tell he’s spent, utterly exhausted.

   “There are a few sedatives here… They can’t stop the nightmares, but they can help put you under deeply enough that you’re not actively aware of them.” You place your hand on his uninjured shoulder as he flinches in response.

   “No, no more drugs.”

   You nod, “Okay. We’ll get you upstairs into a proper bed so you can rest. We won’t leave you alone.”

   He looks at you, then at Steve who nods in agreement. The promise seems to calm him slightly.

   “And if you get lost in the memories, Ana is only a phone call away. I can pull you out again.”

   He relaxes completely this time and slowly sits up, swinging his long legs over the edge of the island. Steve scrambles to keep the I.V. from getting tangled.

   You grab several bottles of water out of the enormous fridge and a Gatorade as well. “Drink one of these,” you hand him the water. “Then half of this,” you hold up the Lime-flavored drink. “Then you can go lie down.”

   Steve tosses you a small pill bottle.

   “Antibiotics,” he says.

   You portion out a proper dose and fold the pills into Barnes’ metal hand. You can tell that he’s studying you carefully, and you imagine he’s expecting some kind of reaction to it. Disgust or fear. Something. You don’t react at all, wondering what he would say if you informed him that you know a damn-near indestructible Russian kid who can turn his entire body into organic steel.

   “Swallow these,” you say instead, canting your head to the side as you watch him do as instructed.

   He chugs the entire bottle of water like a man dying of thirst, so you give him another, which he gets halfway through before stopping.

   “Didn’t realize how much I wanted that,” he remarks, screwing the cap back on. “Thanks.”

   “Not a problem. C’mon, let’s get you upstairs.”

   A few minutes and one ridiculously long flight of stairs later, you and Steve have helped him into the largest of the bedrooms. There’s a brief argument about helping him change into the sweatpants and t-shirt Steve procured from the dresser before you decide to let him go ahead and struggle on his own. Might teach him to stop being so stubborn about accepting help.

   You and Rogers wait outside the closed (slammed shut) door, listening with increasing concern over the swearing and crashing coming from the other side.

   “Should we..?” Steve asks.

   “Let him do this,” you answer. “I don’t think he’s ready for his best friend or a dame he just met to see him without a stitch of clothing on.”

   There’s also a reasonably good chance that he’s ashamed of what his body looks like now, with all the grafted metal and mechanics, the scars, but you don’t mention that to Rogers.

   The door clicks open and Barnes leans out. He’s still bare-chested, but he’s gotten the sweatpants on. “Couldn’t get the shirt over my arm,” he explains, shrugging.

   “Good enough,” you assure him. “We can pile blankets on if you’re cold.”

   “I don’t get cold,” he says, turning back into the room, staring at the massive California King-sized bed like it might rear up and devour him at any moment.

   “This isn’t going to work,” he states, matter-of-factly.

   “Why not?” You ask, pressing both arms down on the deliciously soft bed.

   “Not hard enough,” Steve explains, throwing in a shrug of his shoulders at your look of incredulity. “People like us… soldiers… We’re used to sleeping on the ground. Dirt, concrete. It sounds crazy, but this much comfort is uncomfortable.”

   “It’s just unfamiliar,” you challenge. “I’ve slept on my fair share of floors, but you can be damned sure I enjoy the shit out of my Tempurpedic every night.”

   He shrugs again. “It’s different.”

   You roll your eyes and throw up your hands. “Fine, suit yourselves. Sleep on the floor.”

   Barnes nods and slowly lowers himself to the floor at the foot of the bed, careful to keep the I.V. line stretched out. He shoves Steve off at an attempt to help.

   “Not even a pillow?” you ask, staring at the veritable mountain of them piled at the head of the bed.

   “Not necessary,” Barnes grunts, slinging his good arm over his eyes to block out the light.

   “You’re both insane,” you state, watching as Steve settles into a leather club chair in the corner of the room.

   “Just damaged,” Barnes says, and Rogers can’t hide the wince in his face at the words.

   “It’s gonna be—“

   “Don’t say it again, Steve. Just don’t. You can’t know that it will be, so don’t say it.”

   A long silence stretches in the room, almost palpable.

   “I’m gonna go take a walk,” Steve says, standing up from the chair. “You okay to stay with him until I get back?” He’s angry, and you’ve rarely heard this tone in his voice so you just nod.

   “Good. I won’t be long.” With that, he leaves the room, shutting the door a little too hard behind him.

   “Jackass,” Barnes mutters.

   “Yes,” you snap. “You are.”

   “Me?” he asks, lifting his arm from his eyes.

   “All he’s done is try to help you. What did you expect him to say, ‘Yeah, Buck, you really are fucked up. Ha ha.’?”

   He scowls and replaces the arm.

   “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

   “Oh, what, because you had it hard, because they hurt you, no one else is allowed to talk about how bad their pain is? He can’t possibly be suffering as much as you are so he should just shut his mouth and bear it?”

   “Yes.”

   “That is so unbelievably selfish,” you say, turning away to draw the curtains across the window. The last light of the sun is fading, but you can tell it’s bothering him. The room is fairly dark now and you wait as your eyes quickly adjust, their internal structure shifting slightly, and then plop yourself down on the edge of the bed.

   “Get some sleep, Sergeant.”

   He grunts again and you lie back, annoyed and tired. You should call Ana before drifting off, but get the sense that she’s checked in on you a few times already.

   You’re only just starting to fall asleep when Barnes arches off the floor, choking on a scream of pain and terror.

   “Shit!” You jump off the mattress and reach for his convulsing form, careful of his bandages, and holding on to the back of his head, pressing down with your other arm against his as he tries to tear at himself.

   “Barnes! Barnes!”

   His eyes flutter open and for a second, he doesn’t know you.

   Then his breath comes out in a rush as he relaxes, sweaty and dazed.

   “Nightmare…” he explains, trying to sit up and only managing to lay his head between your neck and shoulder, holding on to you with his good hand. “Goddamn. How long was I out?”

   “Minutes,” you inform him quietly. “Maybe five or ten.”

   He says nothing in response, just breathes—unsteadily--against your shoulder.

   “Is this why you started drinking?”

   “Partially,” he says. “If I was drunk enough, I could sleep without remembering anything. And I could be awake without remembering anything either.”

   You shake your head. “That’s no way to live.”

   “Wasn’t trying to live,” he hesitates, pressing further into your shoulder. “Was trying to die.”

   “I know,” you bring your other arm around to rub gentle circles between his shoulder blades. “You said as much the first time we met, remember?”

   He nods. “I just want it to stop. All of it. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

   You pull back from him and lift his head up, ducking yours down to make eye contact. Standing up, he’s tall enough that you feel as though you’re craning your neck to look him in the face, but crumpled on the ground like this…

   “Well, life isn’t always about what you want, or what’s easiest for you,” you tell him. “And Steve is right. This will get better. We can’t fix all of it, or make it go away, but we can repair some of the damage. Enough that you can have a life, James. A real life, whatever kind you want.”

   You can tell he doesn’t believe you, but he nods anyway, pulling back. He’s suddenly uncomfortable with the physical contact he was clinging too so closely moments before.

   “You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t going to end well for you or for Steve.”

   “Why are you so determined to do this alone?” you ask, settling back on your heels.

   He shrugs, leaning his head back against the end of the bed and staring up at the ceiling.

   “I guess I don’t think I deserve the help,” he says. “Do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed? How many lives I’ve ruined?”

   “That was The Winter Soldier, not you,” you say sternly.

   “No, don’t do that. Don’t try to separate us. They might have screwed with my memories, but it was still me. Those were my skills, my shots. Even when I thought I recognized Steve, I still wanted to follow through with my mission. I beat him half-to-death on that helicarrier.”

   You sigh, turning his words over in your head. “They turned you into a thing, Barnes. They tried—very hard—to take away your ability to reason, to question, and in many ways they succeeded.”

   “But—“

   “Let me finish,” you reach out for his metal hand, holding it gently. “But. But, despite all of the brain-washing, and torture, and threats of torture… Despite years in cryogenic suspension, you—the real you--still kept coming through. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have had to wipe your mind over and over.”

   You can tell that hadn’t occurred to him, and the look of genuine surprise on his face is nothing short of tragic.

   “You fought back. And you won: You’re here, and you know who you are.”

   He nods slowly. “I owe you an apology.”

   “None needed,” you tell him. “I’ve got deep reservoirs of patience yet to be tapped.”

   He snorts a little. “That’s a valuable skill.”

   “More like a byproduct of raising a teenage girl,” you retort. “You may want to apologize to Rogers, though. He’ll appreciate it, and you’ll probably feel better.”

   “When he gets back, I will,” he says. “I really hate to use them, but can I get some of those sedatives you mentioned?”

   You nod, “They’re downstairs in the kitchen, but I can go grab something and bring it back up… as long as you promise to still be here when I get back.”

   “I’m not running,” he says, settling back against the bed a bit more. “Too tired.”

   “Alright. In the meantime, drink some water since you’re awake,” you tell him, standing smoothly from your crouch. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

   A smile flickers across his face at the phrase and he nods.

   You try not to be overt in the quick pace you set to retrieve the requested meds. No point in making it clear how little you really trust him not to bolt at the first opportunity. With barely a thought, you lengthen and widen your ears—it’s an atrocious look, but you can hear much more and will be better able to catch any sound of movement upstairs—and remind yourself to undo the change before re-entering the bedroom.

   “There are pills,” you explain, producing another empty syringe once you’re back at Barnes’ side, ears returned to their normal shape and size. “But an intravenous sedative will work faster. You’ll be asleep before you know it.”

   You draw the proper dosage from the small glass vile containing a clear liquid. Barnes offers you his good arm and looks away as you swab a small patch of skin with disinfectant.

   “Don’t like needles?” you ask.

   “Never did, but after what happened, I really dislike them.”

   “Sorry,” you offer, finding a healthy, plump vein and sliding the needle in. “Little pinch, and then a bit of a burn from the medication.”

   He sucks in his breath a little and the muscle in his forearm jumps.

   “Christ…” he swears as you withdraw the needle.

   “Yeah, I know it’s uncomfortable, but…” You look up and watch as his pupils constrict to pinpoints. “It works like a charm.”

   He takes a deep breath and seems to melt against the bed.

   “You ain’t kidding,” he slurs, and you help him back into a prone position. Once he’s settled, you start to stand, intending to return to the bed or the chair to keep an eye on him, but he grabs your hand and holds you in place.

   “Stay. Just until I’m out,” he requests.

   “Okay,” you cover his hand with your own, patting it reassuringly. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

   He nods and you wait for his breathing to even out, for the stress lines in his face to fade. His grip on your hand remains though, and you don’t have the heart to disentangle it. You fold your knees against the floor and get as comfortable as possible.

   Closing your eyes, you let your mind drift; a sort of pseudo-meditative state that you’ve been using since you were a kid as an escape, a way to check out without actually leaving home.

   An hour-or-so later, Steve returns, entering the room as quietly as possible.

   “Hey,” he whispers, after noticing that you’re awake, though groggy.

   “Mmph. Walk help?”

   He nods, “Yeah. Had to think about some stuff.”

   “He’s sorry for what he said,” you tell him. “We had a bit of a chat not long after you excused yourself.”

   “I know he is,” Steve admits. “I know he doesn’t mean a lot of it, maybe any of it. It’s just hard. I remember how he was. We grew up together and he protected me. Always protected me.”

   “And you feel like you failed to protect him?” you ask, one brow arching in the darkness of the room.

   “Yeah, maybe. I guess.” He perches on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. “I just wish I could fix it.”

   You shake your head, “Not that simple, I’m afraid. Though I understand the desire to do so. It’d be easier on everyone.”

   He nods and jams his hands into the pouch at the front of his hoodie and slumps forward.

   “I guess I had some unrealistic expectations when I set out to find him with Sam,” he says, brooding.

   “You’re human. Who amongst us doesn’t do that from time-to-time, especially when we really care about the outcome of our efforts?”

   He laughs a little. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

   “I have an infuriatingly clever little sister. I have to have an answer for everything, even if what I’m saying is absolute crap,” you laugh in return.

   Barnes mumbles in his sleep and both you and Rogers watch him intensely for several minutes, waiting to see if the disturbance becomes more severe.

   “What you saw when you went in there,” Rogers says, motioning to his friend. “Was it--?”

   “You don’t need that on your conscience,” you warn. “And I won’t be the one to add it to your concerns. It was bad, but he survived. Leave it at that.”

   “You should get some sleep,” he supplies after a long pause. “I can keep watch.”

   You nod and stretch out on the floor across from Barnes.

   “What are you--?”

   You point to where Barnes’ hand has captured yours.

   “I told him I wouldn’t leave, so I’ll sleep down here. On the floor. Like a bloody savage.”

   He laughs again. “Sorry. Pillow?”

   “Please,” you respond, catching the one he tosses down to you with your free hand and stuffing it under your head.

   “Anything else?”

   You feel your metabolism crank up a bit and the barely noticeable chill you’d been feeling fades. You’ll be hungry when you wake up, but at least you’ll sleep soundly.

   “I’m good, thanks.”

   “Pleasant dreams,” he says, and it’s so like him to say something that corny with such sincerity. You’re still snickering when you finally drop off into a deep, restful sleep.

   -To Be Continued-