Chapter 3
Through his blurry pain-filled haze, Bucky saw Sarah’s face. Her kind eyes scanned him, riddled with an uncharacteristic fear that he had never seen in them before. He felt her hands cupping his cheeks, turning his face to meet hers with the blurred ceiling directly above.
He watched her mouth move, a muffle of all the sounds around him bombarding his ears. Then everything shifted and her voice finally cleared.
"Buck? Can you hear me? Please say something."
He could feel his eyes dialling in and out of focus. He bent his vibranium arm, trying to push himself up but his hip refused to let him. Or was it Sarah’s hand on his chest that kept him still?
Where was Sam?
"No, Buck. Please just stay where you are. I need you to stay where you are."
His eyelids drooped with a heavy weight as he sunk back onto the floor.
"S’rah." He mumbled, barely audible.
"Hey, hey Buck. Stay with me, stay with me." He could see her hands tremble as they hesitantly reached for his hip. His right hand reached out weakly to try and stop her.
No more pain. No more pain.
"I need to apply pressure. You- you’re bleeding out, Bucky." Sarah sniffed, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand- already bloody from the pool on the floor. "I know it hurts, I know."
The world around him shrunk down, feeling cold and distant. Everything darkened, morphing into a deep, silent abyss of black.
For a moment, nothing hurt. No blood. No screams. No tears. No guns.
No more pain.
Then a voice grew louder… louder…
"Bucky."
Louder… louder… louder… until, "JAMES."
His eyes snapped open, chest heaving with thick breaths. Clarity hit him like a… like a bullet.
Everything was too much. The overhead lights. The hands on his hip. The searing, blinding pain coursing through him.
Sarah’s hands were coated in a deep, vibrant red as they pressed into his side. Her cheeks was tear soaked and her face a deathly ashen compared to it’s usual warmth.
Bucky turned his head to the side, able to see most of the room clearly now.
Sam stood at the far side, hands raised in surrender.
The intruder stood directly between them, facing Sam and pointing his weapon at him. Bucky’s eyes lowered to the man’s boots. He was only a foot or so from his own extended leg.
The man wasn’t looking their way, too busy trying to argue with a peacemaker.
This was it.
This was their only chance.
Bucky kicked his leg out viciously, twisting his hip as he jerked his body. He howled in pain from the movement, before his shoe collided with the man’s shin and sent him hurdling onto the tiles.
Sam bobbed down and then up again, the gun now safe in his hands and pointing down at Rumlow’s brother.
"Get up, now." Sam’s voice was flat and frankly, pissed.
Something’s not right.
The man pushed himself up to his feet, seeming a little unsteady.
Bucky couldn’t shake that dreadful feeling…
Something’s NOT RIGHT.
The man let an evil grin spread – smug, sinister – as he stared back at Sam.
NOT RIGHT.
Bucky analysed the man’s figure. How hadn’t he seen it earlier?
The gap between the man’s glove and his sleeve.
THE BOYS.
There were wires. Wires.
SARAH.
Bucky watched the man’s hand twitch with a glint of sliver.
"SAM, run!" His voice was hoarse but booming as he threw himself over Sarah, shielding her as much as possible with his vibranium arm.
There was nothing he could do as the room splintered into a flurry of red and yellow and black, before disappearing altogether.
Where am I?
Sam flared back into a hazy reality, his eyelids heavy and fighting against his attempts to open them. Blinks of brown and white and red flashed across the inside of his eyes. There was a dense weight pressing down on his chest, combining with the dryness of his throat. His lungs forced him to let out a hoarse cough, battling with the smoke in the air around him.
Why is my head pounding?
His eyes slit open, the dark orange of the setting sun swirling with the brown of splintered floorboards and the silver of morphed metal. Smoke fluttered through the air, the smell of burning invading his nose.
Sam’s eyes fell closed again as his memory tugged at him from the depths of his mind. The creaking of the kitchen door. Sarah’s smile transforming into her tear-stained complexion, blood soaking her hands and dampening her clothes. Bucky’s there. He’s on the floor. He’s… he’s…
What happened to us?
Sarah’s voice called out to him from somewhere far away, creeping closer and closer. Calling his name. Screaming for him. Screaming for him to-
"WAKE UP, SAM!"
His eyes snapped open. His sister’s face loomed over him with wide, terrified eyes. Her mouth moved in a blur. He was sure she was saying words, but his brain just couldn’t latch onto them. His eyes shifted down to the scene in front of him.
"Your shl’der…" Sam groaned out. It was unnaturally bent, poking forward and angled much lower than her other side. There was red everywhere, dark and bright – covering her hands, her forearms, her clothes.
He reached weakly for her soaked shirt, pointing haphazardly. Sarah’s head followed his movement.
"It’s not mine – it’s not mine." She rushed out in response. Her good arm cupped her brother’s cheek to force him to look at her. "You need to get up."
Sam blinked hard and opened his eyes wide, fighting back his urge to keep them closed and fall into the bliss of sleep. He gave a short nod, and Sarah was on her feet. She held her good arm out for him. He took it, and she yanked him up, grunting with the energy it took.
Why is my head pounding?
The world spun as Sam’s hands fell to his knees, bracing himself from the onset of nausea that threatened to consume him. His heart throbbed against his chest as he fought to keep his lunch inside his stomach.
What happened to us?
Sarah grabbed his face again, her usual gentleness absent. She was a few inches from his nose as she uttered, "Sam, where are my boys?"
Sam’s eyes shot around the room, confusion overwhelming him as words caught in his throat.
The boys.
The boys were with Bucky.
Everything’s okay.
Bucky was looking after the boys.
Bucky got shot.
Sam’s hands pushed into his forehead as memories came flooding back to him.
Cass running up the stairs.
Sarah hiding behind the door.
Bucky’s blood pooling onto the kitchen tiles.
Rumlow had a- Rumlow’s brother had a bomb-
"SAM!" His attention snapped back to his sister, who’s eyes were pleading with him to give her an answer. "Where. Are. My. BOYS!?’" she screamed at him, animalistic and broken.
Sam’s head clawed at the inside of his skull, begging him to rest as he took in the surroundings again.
He was standing in Sarah’s kitchen. In his old family home.
In what was left of it.
The explosion had taken out most of the wall behind Rumlow’s brother, leaving the roof and frame to cave in around them. The sun, though almost gone had filtered into the room, giving an uneven orange striped effect to everything he could see. There were dabs of red all around the room, the cracked white tiles most noticeably stained with colour. But those tiles… they were completely re-
"Bucky!" Sam found his voice and screamed out hoarsely. He moved past Sarah, her anguished screams falling to the background of his mind.
Bucky was propped up against the remnants of the kitchen wall, head hanging forward and limbs outstretched and limp. Sam clambered his way over the mess of rubble and dropped to his knees.
"Bucky… Buck please." Sam muttered as his eyes scanned his friend’s unconscious body. There was barely any visible skin, with dried blood and dark soot covering most of his clothes, face and arms. Bucky’s clothes were burnt and mattered, tearing at the seams and seemingly melted in some patches.
Sam’s heart throbbed against his chest as he reached for Bucky’s wrist, fingers pressing onto the inside. His pulse was barely there, and if Sam didn’t know about the serum coursing through Bucky’s veins, he might have given up altogether.
Bucky screamed as the heel dug into his…
Sam’s hands hesitantly shifted to hover over Bucky’s hip. He knew there was something more underneath the crusty, blood-soaked clothes. He slipped his fingers underneath the corner of the hardened shirt, and gingerly lifted it. He cringed as the fabric peeled off Bucky’s skin, the old blood trying to keep it down.
Sam’s eyes watered as the putrid smell of gore and pus slammed into him. His face jerked back and he closed his eyes, taking a second to regain his composure before returning attention back to the mess of flesh in front of him.
Oh god.
Clumps of red bordered the rim of an inky crimson crater, a watery yellow liquid oozing out from inside it. Sam could’ve sworn he could make out the white of bone amongst the tangled strings of insides that were making his stomach churn.
A deep ache pulsed from behind Sam’s eyes. He pinched them closed, trying to block out the gnawing pain. When they reopened, his eyes landed on the scattered array of silver poking through the material on Bucky’s torso and chest.
He gripped Bucky’s shirt, tearing it open down the already partially split centre seam. As he dragged the fabric back, Sam could finally see it.
Bucky’s chest was littered with shards of jagged metal- shrapnel. It didn’t look real. It didn’t feel real. It shouldn’t be real. It can’t be real.
How is he even alive?
Sam’s breathe caught in his throat. He couldn’t stop the violent shake through his body as his hands hovered over each piece of metal protruding from his best friend’s limp body.
His vision blurred, stress stomping down on his heart, his mind, his chest. It refocussed on his hands, covered in blood.
Bucky’s blood.
There’s screaming. Bucky is screaming. Strangled, horrible, animalistic screams-
Bucky lay lifeless on the floor. Head hung. Back resting against what’s left of the kitchen wall. Siren’s sounded off in the distance. There’s red and white and yellow and black and pink and- Bucky needs help. Smoke maliciously crept into his lungs. Movement whirled in his peripheral vision. The world was spinning.
A hand gripped Sam’s shoulder, making him flinch aggressively. He raised his fists but had to stop himself from taking it any further. His chest heaved with unsteady breathes as he locked eyes with a man he knew to be familiar, but couldn’t find the calmness he needed to place him.
The man’s mouth was moving, but Sam couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own wheezing and the ringing that refused to cease inside his skull.
A white cloth appeared in his hand. Muscle memory from years of medical training had him pressing it into Bucky’s bullet wound without hesitation. The white instantly flipped to a murky yellow, then red, before finally landing on black.
The man held his hand out, offering another strip of white bandage. He was also on his knees now, on the other side of Bucky’s body.
Sam lowered the fresh strip of white onto his best friend’s hip and prayed for a reaction. Something to reassure him that he was still alive. Nothing.
At least he could put pressure on it. At least he could help. At least he could stop the bleedi- the white bandage morphed to black once again.
Sam screamed. He screamed at the bandage. At his hands. At the bomb. At Rumlow. At the man across from him. At his sister. At his nephews. At his dying best friend. He screamed at all of it.
He screamed atBucky.
Sam felt hands latching onto him then. Onto his shoulders. Dragging him backward. Dragging him away from Bucky.
He didn't want to go. He tried to fight, but he was just so tired. His head wouldn’t stop ringing. He can’t leave Bucky. He won’t leave Bucky.
But the force tugging him back was relentless.
Everything hurt. Everything was wrong.
The entire world caved in around him and he couldn’t do anything to stop it.