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A Man Worth Fighting For- 16

Summary: Seventy years has passed and the world has changed. You thought you were moving on until Steve Rogers asks you for a favor which leads to a discovery that will change everything. So much for retirement. Sequel to “A Girl Worth Fighting For.” Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 3373 Warnings: Language, blood. Tags at the end

Part 15 Masterlist

Inhale. Exhale. Don’t hold your breath. Inhale, count to three. Exhale. Just breathe.

It repeats in your head, skipping like the cassette tape playing static through the speakers. The car rumbles as you keep your foot pressed on the gas, clutching the steering wheel with bloodied hands. Panic creeps through your every thought, planting seeds of doubt with each turn.

The neighborhood you’re in looks like the slums. There’s very few cars and no pedestrians. Everywhere you look, the ground is littered with garbage. The street is littered with piles of brick, trash bags split open with their contents spread across the ground. Ahead, you spot a house with boards over the windows and doors.

The beaded necklace hanging from the rearview mirror swings as you throw the car into park. Glancing back, you feel an instant wave of nausea at the sight of the white leather tainted darkly with Bucky’s blood.

“You’re okay,” you mumble, shoving the door open. Quickly, you make your way to the house and manage to break the door handle without injury, clinging to one of Bucky’s guns as you scope out the house. There’s still furniture, though it’s ripped and torn, and it’s clear no one lives there anymore. Satisfied, you scour the house for whatever you can find. Sheets from the bed upstairs, a wool blanket with a hole in it, and a half bottle of vodka from under the sink.

Bucky’s barely clinging to consciousness when you come back for him. He groans, head hanging as you carefully ease him inside and into the couch, his body falling heavy on the broken cushions.

“Okay… Okay,” you mumble, tearing Bucky’s shirt away from the wound. Hands shaking, you try to see the bullet still lodged in his side, but it’s dark and the bullet is buried deep. “Shit. Shit, shit.”

The bathroom light buzzes when you flick on the light, digging through the cabinet frantically. There’s a first aid kit behind the cracked mirror. Grabbing it, the mirror swings shut and your reflection stares back at you.

You don’t mean to stop. Bucky’s life depends on this moment, right here and right now. He needs you. Except, looking at your bloody, tear-stained face and puffy red eyes, you’re not sure you can. Another sob crawls up your throat and you almost drop the kit in the grimy sink. You put it down and grip the ceramic bowl, knuckles burning as your mouth falls open and a loud cry shakes your shoulders.

Bucky’s death in 1945 was your fault. He never would have fallen from the train if you wouldn’t have let him take your place. It should have been you, zip lining to the train to retrieve Zola. It should’ve been you who fell into the icy depths of the mountains, who never came home to your family. You should have become the Winter Soldier. It should be you lying on the couch, dying from a gunshot wound. But that was the thing- you’d been shot four times. Stabbed numerous times. Had fingers cut off. You had been mutilated, but your wounds always healed. You were still here. Living. Breathing.

“Do you have what it takes, soldier?”

You shook your head, tears dripping into the sink. Colonel Phillips leered down at you with disgust. Subconsciously, you knew he wasn’t really there, but the memory of his doubt, his annoyance and downright shame of you felt so real, he could have been right behind you in the bathroom.

“I can’t do this,” you heave. “I can’t do this.” Colonel Phillips sneers, and you can see his reflection in the cracked mirror.

“Not with that attitude. What the hell do you think you’re doin’, cryin’ like a baby and feelin’ sorry for yourself when one of your men is out there, fighting’ for his life?”

“I can’t.” Your pleas go unheard, face screwed up as you try to make sense of the illusion in your head. “You were right. I can’t do this. I can’t save him.”

“Horseshit!” Colonel Phillips is commanding, intimidating, the way he was the first time you met him. “That man put his life on the line for you. That man was the reason you made it home after the war. You would’ve died if it weren’t for that man.”

“I can’t!” Your shout radiates in the bathroom, hand slamming down on the sink. It shakes and the first aid kit clatters to the floor. Sinking, your forehead presses against the cabinet under the sink and another low sob falls from your lips. Eyes squeezed shut, you swear you can feel breath on the back of your neck, like Phillips is kneeling behind you.

“A platoon is only as strong as it’s weakest man.” His words, one of the first things he ever said to you, sends shivers up your spine. “Sergeant Barnes believes in you, Corporal. He faced his fears so you wouldn’t have to. Now it’s your turn to pick up the slack. Your husband is dying, now get out there and give him a reason to remember you. Save his Goddamn life.”

When you were in the army, a Howling Commando, people said you were brave. You always thanked them with a smile and said you never felt brave. People would say, I could never do that. I’d be too afraid. They didn’t want to get shot, to fall to their deaths or get blown up. They were afraid of what lurked in the jungles, of what was standing on the other side of the gun. But courage wasn’t fearlessly jumping off cliff sides or mowing down Nazis. You never told them the secret- that you were afraid too.

Being in the army was not easy. Fear lived in your heart each and every day. The same fears civilians had belonged to you and your comrades, too. You were not fearless. You were not without worry and your actions often came with hesitation.

The thing about being brave wasn’t that you were unafraid; it was that, despite being terrified for your life and for the lives of the men at your side, you did what you had to do. There was always the threat of death hanging in the balance. There was always the chance that every day, every moment, could be your last. There was always the possibility that you might never come home. For some of you, this much was true. Loving Bucky came with the same risks; there was a chance one of you would not make it.

But you had not allowed your fears to stop you. You did what you had to do. You fought back. You loved back.

And now, with Colonel Phillips’s voice ringing in your head, you grabbed the first aid kit and scrambled into the living room, landing hard on your knees at his side. His eyes were closed, one reddened hand covering his wound. Carefully, you poured the vodka onto some torn sheets, moved Bucky’s hand, and set to work cleaning around the wound. The tweezers shook between your fingers as you held a lighter on the end. Luckily for you both, finding the bullet was relatively easy. Bucky gripped the couch with his metal fist, pained grunts escaping him every few moments as you dug out fragments of metal with the tweezers.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.” It was difficult not to offer him comfort- to push the sweat-soaked hair back from his face, to hold his hand. But you needed both of yours to get the bullet out and hold the wound open enough to peer inside. His breathing became more labored, coming in weaker and shorter as he struggled to keep awake. Bits of metal pinged on the floor as you dropped them out, but it was like uncorking a bottle. Each bit of bullet released a little stream of blood. It soaked the sheets clean through and stained the mustard-yellow couch, but there wasn’t much you could do before you could suture the opening.

You worked quickly, but when the last bit of bullet came out, so did a gush of blood. Almost panicking, you tore the shirt over your head and used it as a last ditch effort to stop the bleeding. It soaked through almost instantly and you left it against the wound as you ran to the bathroom, grabbing at torn towels and even ripped the shower curtain straight off the rod. Bucky’s eyes remained closed as you tossed aside bloodied garments in exchange for clean fabrics, reminding yourself that you still needed to breathe or Bucky stood no chance.

Minutes ticked by, your hands sliding against blood and sweat as you finally got the bleeding to slow enough to stitch him together. The thread you’d found was yellow, but turned orange as you pulled it through his skin, pinching the wound closed. It was uneven, but tight, and when you cut the thread after you’d finished, your hands could not be shaking more.

You held your breath, glancing at Bucky’s face. “Bucky?” Heart thundering, you sat up over him and peered down at his face. He looked so relaxed and at ease, and it scared the shit out of you. “Bucky?”

His face was covered with sweat, specks of blood across his cheeks and nose. Pushing the hair back from his forehead, you felt for his temperature. He was on fire, all the color drained from his face. Carefully, you leaned down and pressed your ear to his chest.

Thump.

Relief washed over you and you collapsed down from your knees, butt hitting the floor as you kept your ear over his heart. Thump. Thump. The hand on his forehead slid down over his neck and stretched across his chest. Your fingers grazed his other side as you relaxed into him. Moments ticked by as Bucky slept, his heart continuing to beat softly in your ear. The world became hazy as your own pain caught up to you. It shot up your spine and burst in your head like fireworks. Broken bones had already healed, along with any of the claw marks or bruises you might have had, but there was still pain lingering throughout your body. The room got darker, so it seemed, as your eyes fluttered shut, and you fell asleep with your head and arm on Bucky’s chest.

The first thing Bucky noticed as his mind drifted into consciousness was the weight sitting on his chest. His instincts told him to shove it away, fight or flight, but the pain in his side made it difficult to move at all. The events leading up to his fainting rushed through the fog of his memory on fast forward. Being attacked from behind after sliding quarters into a vending machine. Killing three men. Being shot and bleeding on the laundromat floor. Watching you slam a man’s head in a washing machine until all that remained was blood and fragments of bone.

Bucky shuddered and blinked his eyes open, squinting through the darkness. He didn’t recognize the room or the ugly couch he was on, his neck twisting as he took count of the entire room. Boards over the windows. A television with a broken screen. Newspapers piled in corners. The bloodied sheets and clothing adorning the floor beside the couch and pressed against his side. He took account of all the entrances and exits in the room.

Then, perhaps the most surprising, you, draped on him with your ear against his chest and your arm across his torso. Fingers twitching and eyes fluttering with some distant dream, your breath tickled Bucky’s chest as you slept. Bucky swallowed upon realizing that his only source of warmth was your bare skin on his, aside from where your bra covered your breasts, and he frowned when he spotted your shirt draping over his side, soaked in his blood. Carefully, he peeled it up and peered beneath. The bullet wound was stitched shut, though he knew it was only a matter of time before he would need antibiotic and anti-inflammatory medicine to keep it from getting infected. A huff of air escaped your nostrils as you sighed in your sleep, and he let the shirt fall.

Bucky took a few deep breaths and looked back down at your sleeping face. Dried blood caked your skin, aside from where tracks of tears had wiped your cheeks clean. Hair stuck to your face with blood and sweat and there was a small cut across your forehead you probably didn’t even know about. He reached down, his thumb barely grazing over it as his tongue poked out, wetting his overly dry lips.

You had saved him. Bucky was almost certain, as he laid in the back seat of the stolen Impala, that he would bleed out before either of you could do anything. Hospitals weren’t an option, and he wasn’t sure how much medical experience you had. Clearly he’d underestimated you, and a swelling sense of pride nestled deep in Bucky’s chest.

He told you to run. He distinctly remembered yelling for you and shoving you toward the door, but you had disobeyed and gone back to fight. Bucky wanted to be angry that you hadn’t listened, that you had put yourself in direct line of danger, but at the same time, he never expected you to listen anyway.

The first time Bucky saw you fight, you were barely a private and you couldn’t shoot for shit. It was barely a scrape, when Private Holmes decked you across the cheek and tossed you in the dirt. He barely knew you then, but there was an overwhelming need to protect you in Bucky that, after all this time, still hadn’t died out.

Smiling to himself, Bucky reached up with his right hand, cradling the back of your head. His fingers slid into your sticky, messy hair and brushed his thumb under your ear. He really should wake you up, get moving. Staying in town wasn’t safe now that they knew where you were, but this was probably the first real rest you’d gotten in days. He knew that you lay awake, staring up at the ceiling or sneaking out for cigarettes while he dozed. He knew that sometimes, when you thought he was deep in slumber, you would sit at the foot of his bed and watch over him. The only reason he didn’t tell you was because he was afraid you would stop doing it.

Your cheek brushed against his chest and Bucky held his breath, silently hoping you wouldn’t wake up just yet. But your eyes cracked open and you slowly looked up at him, blinking the sleep out of your eyes. He was alive, and you sat up immediately when you realized he was looking back at you. “Oh my God,” you breathed, your hand drawing back towards you. “Oh my God, Bucky.”

Bucky sat up, cringing slightly, and without thinking you threw your arms around his neck. He froze, unsure how to respond before his arms slid around your back, pressing you against his torso. He buried his nose in the crook of your neck as you sobbed against him, his hand stroking the back of your head gently. His metal arm was cold against your bare back.

You drew back slowly, trying to wipe the tears away from the corners of your eyes with bloody fingertips. Bucky kept his arms around your waist, your legs on either side of him, one caught between his body and the couch and the other toeing the floor.

Bucky cleared his throat, realizing how close you were. He could see his own reflection in your eyes, the blood sticking to his jaw and the stubble kissing up his throat and jaw. Nose to nose, he could feel the heat of your breath and shuddered. Your pain stung him, the feeling of almost losing him again too potent.

The dog tags dangling from your neck caught Bucky’s eye and he reached between you, plucking them from where they hung between your breasts and held tightly to them. They slid, bloody, between his fingers.

He still loved you. He wasn’t sure, at first, because all he could remember was fragments of who he used to be. The memories were still unclear, still hazy and full of doubt. He didn’t know for sure that some memories weren’t just elaborate dreams, manifestations of his fears. His brain felt like mush, but images of you were burned behind his eyes. Your smile, your laugh. The way you looked underneath him. The way your eyes welled with tears when he asked you to marry him. The fear and doubt when you were standing on the mountain top, promising to see him again soon.

Overwhelming need to keep you safe sat heavy in Bucky’s chest. He didn’t have anything in the world but his name. His family was gone, the life he could have had forgotten. He’d lost his mind, his memory, his soul. Everything had been ripped away, leaving him naked and terrified. All he could do now was start over, build a new life as whoever the hell he was now. He didn’t know who the man reflected in your eyes was, but he was determined to find out. And it all started right there, with you.

“Bucky?”

He blinked, a tear rolling over his nose as his hand squeezed the dog tags. He looked back into your eyes again, a warmth radiating in his chest. Your brows were pulled together with worry, a soft frown sitting heavy on your lips. Bucky’s breath caught in his throat and he tugged, as gently as he could, on the tags, pulling you closer to him.

It was not a perfect kiss. There was blood on both of your chin and lips, smearing on each other’s faces, and too much teeth. His lips were chapped and yours were cracked from being punched. There was no softness, not like you had imagined it would be. Not like the way it was before, when the snow made for peaceful atmosphere and there was a tender, loving notion behind it. All there was now was fear and need. You were in far more danger now than either of you had ever been, and there was every possibility that Hydra could come knocking. It was a risk you were willing to take.

Your hands grabbed either side of his face, clinging to him. He slowed his pace, lips melting against yours. They were sticky and wet with blood, and the longer you kissed him, the more he felt like Bucky. He tasted like Bucky, kissed like Bucky.

Bucky’s hand remained wrapped around the dog tags, even after he eased his head back and his lips pulled away from yours. Your chest was heaving as his forehead pressed against yours, the tip of your nose brushing against his.

“I missed you,” you say. “I almost thought you weren’t gonna make it.”

“I’m here.” Bucky tips forward again, his lips brushing your cheek at the corner of your lips, regardless of the mess of blood between you. Then, it was gone, and he left your skin cold as he let the dog tags drop to your chest. “We need to get moving, before they catch up.”

“You got shot,” you argue, sitting back. Bucky eased you off his lap and you frowned, arms over your chest as you clamored to your feet. “You need to take it easy.”

“I can manage.” He tried to stand, wincing as he moved. Your brows raised, and he shot you a glare as he pulled the shirt up over his head and looking at the soaked fabric. “You’re driving, though.”

Leaving him leaning on the couch, you take the stairs two at a time to the bedroom and raid the closet, having just lost most of your clothing, and shoved it into a bag before rushing back downstairs. Bucky’s holding the first-aid kit when you come back down and trades it to you for a too-small shirt. Carefully, with the bag over your shoulder, you helped Bucky to the car and you were on the road again.

Part 17

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