Chapter Text
The cold night air accompanies her home, soaking her to the bone. Precisely that night, she had decided that she would only wear a jacket. How she missed her gloves and wool hat at the moment.
It was still mid October, Winter had yet to arrive but it was already starting to be colder than usual.
Isn't it always cold in New York?
She shoves her freezing hands inside her pockets as she tries to walk home alone after work through the cold street.
It had been a rough night at the club. Some asshole who had clearly drunk too much, thought it was a brilliant idea to climb the bar and show everyone else in the club his skinny white ass. She sighs at the memory knowing it was going to be an image hard to forget.
She's only a few blocks from her apartment building when she hears what sounds very much like a gunshot. Then she hears it again.
Yep, definitely a gunshot
If living in the city for the past eight months had taught her something, it was to run away from a gunshot, so she took a retour that would take her more time but better safe than sorry.
What if someone is hurt?
What if I get hurt?
She knows that if she walks away from the possibility of helping someone she wouldn't be able to live with herself, so with a loud tired grunt, she turns on her heels and walks towards the sound of the gunshot.
She walks cautiously, looking behind her back and keeping an open eye to her surroundings. The street is quiet besides the laughter of some prostitutes and drunk men as they sing along to a Christmas song.
A little early for that but that's the spirt, I guess
She sees a metal crowbar over some bags of trash and grabs it like a weapon. She hears movement from the corner behind the containers, like winces and grunts. Whoever was behind them, was in some serious pain.
She lifts her improvised weapon and faces the injured person: it's a young man, probably in his thirties, with long dark hair cut to shoulder length. He is wearing a black leather jacket and is dressed in all black from head to toe. But what catches her attention is the mask that covers his mouth and nose. She can't help but think it looks like a muzzle.
He has a hand pressed to his side, and even though it's hard to tell due to his dark clothes, she notices his clothes are soaked in blood. She can even smell it from where she's standing.
When he notices her presence he immediately lifts his gun towards her, like a reflex he couldn't help. Despite being wounded and vulnerable, his eyes were cold, emotionless and disturbingly empty.
So she takes a decision: slowly, drops the crowbar, lifting her arms in surrender "I'm not going to hurt you.”
After quickly analyzing her, he realizes that she is not a danger, but he doesn't lower his weapon. She tries to take a step forward, worried his wound might get infected. He moves backwards, pointing his gun higher, but the sudden movement makes him groan with pain.
“You're hurt. I can take you to the hospital-”
The man groans in pain, but she is able to catch an undertone of desperation in his voice when he speaks “No hospitals.”
Seriously? You are bleeding so much you can barely move but you refuse to go to a hospital?
“Alright, no hospitals.” Her mind races with ideas. There must be something she can do to help. An idea crosses her mind, but it's a terrible idea. Too reckless and definitely too stupid.
But it's the only idea she has. And when the only idea you have is a terrible idea, it's a great idea. Cursing underneath her breath she decides she will deal with the consequences later. “I have medical supplies in my apartment, is not too far from here-”
“Who sent you? Are you one of them?” He doesn't lower his gun, squinting his eyes suspicious.
Them? Who's them? she is dying to ask, but her curiosity can wait. “Nobody sent me. I work at the supermarket a few blocks away.” Lie “Let me help you.”
“No.” He growls. He can't understand why someone would be so selfless with a total stranger who’s bleeding on the street. It makes her suspicious under his eyes.
She groans exhausted “Look, if you don’t want to go to the hospital, I get it. They can be entitled assholes.” Her expression is determined and he realizes she sounds even mad? “But if you don’t get that wound cleaned and stitched, it’s going to get infected. And I think we both know it.”
He stares at her, his eyes showing no sign of understanding what she is saying. She straightens up, thinking how to make up her mind with a man dying for his stubbornness when she hears him weakly calling her “wait-“
She turns to look at him and notices the reluctant acceptance in his eyes, as if accepting help was a terrible sin he was forced to commit. She has learnt that you can’t save people who don’t want to be saved, but something about this man, how he was grunting like a wounded dog, made her walls fall.
So she leans down and helps him get up without a word. He is heavier than expected but she can tell how he does his best to try to hold on his own. They both get out of the dark alley at a steady slow pace, careful not to hurt him or force him into pain.
The way back to her apartment was initially a ten minute walk, but with an injured limping man it ended up being almost twenty minutes. She gets more and more anxious as she approaches her apartment.
What if he dies in my apartment? Do I call the police? What if he is a wanted man and they think I’m his accomplice?
With a turmoil of thoughts they arrive at her apartment building. She can’t back up now. When they finally arrive at her front door, he leans against the wall, clearly in pain but not making a sound. She struggles with her keys, her hands shaking with anxiety. He notices it but remains silent.
When she finally manages to open the front door, she helps him get inside and quickly closes the door behind her before any nosy neighbor decides to ask her what she’s doing with a wounded strange man in her apartment at two in the morning.
She finds him collapsed on her couch, finally allowing himself to groan in pain. She rushes to the bathroom and brings back the first aid kit. When her hands grab the edge of his shirt, he grabs her hand pulling it away.
She keeps a determined look “I can’t treat a wound I can’t see.” And with that, he reluctantly let go of her hand, allowing her to lift his shirt and properly examine his wound. It's a bullet wound. “You have been shot.” He looks at her like she ´s an idiot for stating the obvious. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”
Her face changed with a focused frown and her hands immediately started working. She helped him lay down and placed a pillow under his lower back, lifting his wound, to slow down the bleeding. Once she feels satisfied, she gets off her knees “I have painkillers, do you need some-”
“´m fine.” His voice is deep, intimidating, but she can hear how pain paints his words. With a sigh, she goes to the bathroom and thoroughly cleans her hands, drying them on her way back. She is now wearing a pair of gloves and a mask, making him feel like he is actually in a hospital.
“Alright. Ready?” He gives her a simple nod as she grabs the small bottle of alcohol. “This is going to hurt.” He doesn't acknowledge her. Perhaps ignoring her, perhaps bracing himself for the imminent pain. “Okay, on the count of three I'll pour it, okay?” He nods curtly and breathes in, waiting for her to start counting “Okay, let's count together…” the stinging pain of the alcohol takes him by surprise, ripping a groan out of him and maybe a curse in something that sounded like Russian. “Sorry, I thought it would be better if you didn't expect it.” He looks at her with something that she can't quite understand.
He was surprised by her. She definitely wasn't what he expected. His eyes —that were previously on her hands to make sure she didn´t try anything— were now fixed on her face, never looking away. He was analyzing her
Bucky had met enough people along the years to be able to trust what his gut told him about people. If he thought of a person in a certain way, he was always right. Or at least he was.
She was something new, he couldn't understand her quite yet. He looked at her deeply, trying to read into her intentions, but he couldn't get anything from her focused expression.
She bites the inside of her cheek when she is focused, he noticed. And keeps her eyebrows furrowed. It was almost cute. Bucky gripped his gun tighter.
Had she noticed this, she would have probably told him to leave and refuse to help him. Luckily for him, she didn't. She was too busy thoroughly cleaning the wound. She slid her hand under his back, searching for the exit hole. There wasn't. The bullet was still in. “Fuck.”
That pulled Bucky out of his deep thoughts. He frowned at her. “There's no exit hole…” she whispers to herself, thinking out loud. It would have gone unheard were he a normal man. But Bucky was not a normal man. He hadn't been in a long time. He heard perfectly clear.
He immediately brings his hand to his abdomen, with the intention of putting his fingers into the open wound to get the bullet out himself. But she reads his intentions before he can do anything and quickly grabs his wrist. “No! Are you crazy? What do you think you´re doing?” He frowns at her, not expecting her to scold him like a misbehaving child. “You can't take the bullet out just like that! You have to be careful or the bullet could break —if it's not already broken— and it would get infected. Besides, I already cleaned the wound and sterilized the tweezers, so the only thing you have to do is stay still and let me treat you. Understand?”
He keeps his eyebrows furrowed, never actually answering her, but she is already looking for something to illuminate the wound.
She points the lamp on the table next to the couch towards the wound. "That'll have to do it. Now, don't move and don't talk.” She doesn't actually expect him to answer him. She breathes softly and slowly inserts the tweezers into his open wound.
She can see how he tenses, and she remembers that his life is on her hands. The thought somehow grounds her, not allowing her to wonder about how surreal the whole situation is, or how scared she is of him and the gun that keeps pointing at her, or about a thousand other things that run through her mind. It all fades into one single thought, more like a promise: I can't let him die.
Not can't. Won't.
Her breath is so steady that from Bucky's perspective it looks like she isn't breathing at all. One thought keeps her going.
I won't let him die. I won't let him die. I won't let him die.
She feels like she was on a wild goose chase. If the bullet was broken, or if she breaks the bullet it could cost this man's life.
If he dies, it'll be your fault.
No. I'm trying to save him. I'm doing a good thing.
A good thing for a selfish reason is not good enough. At the end of the day you're still a murderer.
She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. She shakes her head, her knuckles white. She felt like she was going to throw up.
Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer
The voice grows louder and louder. The words echoing inside her head like a cruel echo. She looks down at her hands. They are dripping red. Stained with blood. She knows it won't come off.
Her breaths become laboured, hard. Her chest aches, her vision numbs.
A warm hand on her arm pulls her back to the Earth, grounding her. She looks down and sees Bucky's bloody hand on her arm. His eyes are still cold, but they are no longer empty. Whatever is that she finds in his eyes is enough to remind her where she is.
She clears her throat, blinking through the tears, and mumbles an apology. Bucky observes her. How quickly she puts herself back together and focuses on the task ahead.
She is certainly something.