Trigger warning: Mentions of blood and killing, mentions of canon typical violence.
He looked down at the blood on his hands as it flowed into all the crevices and lines that mapped his palm. Blood shouldn't be touching his hands. Only a lover should touch his hands, hold them gently and in a way where it makes him feel light. Only fortune tellers should be able to trace the lines of his palms, not the warm red liquid currently resting there. Already drying, hardening, sickening. Harder to get off, harder to wash away.
Bucky's weeping. More like sobbing, gasping and clutching at nothing, flexing those hands open and closed, open and closed. Preston- Was that his name?- Looked down and him before crouching. "Hey," He says, and it's soft. His voice has the same affect as feeling the sun's warmth on your face when you close your eyes and you breathe deeply and take it in. "You okay?"
Bucky shakes his head as sweat drips down his temple, as it dampens his hair. Pooling at his underarms and lower back, drenching his shirt. He probably doesn't smell too good, most definitely doesn't look too good. "I've- I've never-" Oh God, he can't even say it. He took someone's life. Took a few people's lives. What's wrong with him? It was in self defense, sure, but still, he did that- He's the reason they're no longer breathing, their hearts are no longer beating, he's a-
"Hey, shhh..." Preston coos gently, hesitantly resting his hands on each of Bucky's wrists, stopping them from shaking. It makes Bucky flinch, but then he feels the muscles in his body start to untense, relax ever so slightly. Preston must just have that affect on people.
The man takes a worn cloth out of his pocket and wets it from a carton labelled 'dirty water'. Lovely. He also runs an old, small bar of soap over it a bit. Just enough to clean something. Rationed, it seems. Rationing is nothing new to Bucky, he knows it when he sees it. Soap must be a rarity, or perhaps their circumstances have led it to be. Hard to shop when running for your life.
He takes the cloth, more like a rag, if anything, and softly clenches it over Bucky's hands, letting some water drip onto them, before running the cloth over his palms. Sturges gets a bucket and places it between them to catch any water. Preston nods to him in a silent thanks.
The others seem to take notice and each leave, choosing to explore the neighbourhood to give Preston and Bucky some privacy. He barely notices, watching as Preston cleans his hands, as the water turns red and drops into the bucket, as his hands slowly become cleaner, the layer of red being wiped away to reveal his pale, soft hands. Hands that weren't made for fighting, not like Nate's. Not like his brother. Who's missing. Bucky bites his lips, tears falling from his eyes again. "I can't do this." He whispers.
Preston's dark eyes shoot up to his worriedly, hands gipping him slightly tighter. "Yes, you can."
Bucky shakes his head again, shivers running through him. Preston continues, "If you can save us, you can save yourself. I'll be with you every step of the way. I owe you that much." He shifts closer, voice growing quieter, more delicate. "You're not alone." And for a moment, Bucky believes him.
