chuju | fighting for something

[ For a while, he dreams.

Bucky is entirely unconscious when they finally haul him out of the debris, and cart him back to headquarters for healing. His bones and muscles are stronger and sturdier than most; he can flinch off punches or deep bone-shaking impacts being thrown into a wall that would knock out other, unenhanced humans; he can just jump out of a plane at two hundred feet. He's durable.

But he's not indestructible. And maybe he's gotten too recklessly comfortable with it, too accustomed to heaving himself into danger because he's always come out of it unscathed (or near enough, because the things that hurt most were never the physical injuries).

For a while, he dreams.

Cold wintry snow. The trigger of a gun. The sound of a grenade ringing in his ears.

Bucky doesn't like sleep even at the best of times, under the best of conditions. Those murky dreams: watching his own memories through smeared glass, the faint twitches of muscle memory, the remembrance of his teeth biting down on a leather belt, shackles on his arms, wrists, legs, his free will being seared right out of him, his memories burned out of him. Waking up. Going to sleep. Waking up. Shackled. Again.

When he finally opens his eyes, bleary and with everything aching in a way it hasn't in literal years, he stares up and he sees a curved transparent barrier and he's already screaming. The chamber he's in is small, cramped — like a glass coffin — like the cryotubes HYDRA had put him down under, again and again and again — and his instincts react before he's even finished parsing through the sensory input, before he's groggily managed to consider where he might be. There's an animal yell throttled in his chest and his vibranium hand lashes out before he can think better of it. Metal fingers curled into a fist and smashing against the— plastic, whatever this is— and his human fist lashes out, too, bruising his knuckles, hammering against it in an unthinking bid to escape, a wolf throwing itself against the bars of its cage, unheeding of its injuries. ]

[ It's been too many hours. She knows it's a ridiculous worry, Simmons even walked her through how to read the screen to see that Bucky's condition is improving, but she's still to strung out with anxiety and fear that she spends half the time pacing the small medlab room and the other half trying not to have some sort of panic attack.

She'd asked him to have her back. She'd asked him and now he's lying there, unconscious and battered, and it's her fault. If she'd been paying more attention, if she'd spared the time to grab her suit, if she'd taken out their attackers sooner—

The screaming interrupts her spiraling thoughts and she spins away from the window she'd been staring out of without seeing the city landscape beyond. It's an animalistic cry of desperation and it tears into her more than any bullet ever has. ]

Bucky! [ She's calling to him even before her body catches up and starts moving, flinging her across the space between them and slamming her hand against the control that will lift the curved shell of the pod off of him. ]

Bucky, it's okay, you're okay. [ Without thinking of any potential consequences, she reaches into the open space as the shell rises, her bruised but still functioning hand moving to his face, attempting to press against his cheek and cradle his jaw, perhaps even turn his head so he'll see her. ]

You're safe, you're not back there. [ Because of course that's what he's thinking. Just like how her mind tricks her into believing she's back in that barn. ]

[ The cover lifts off the pod — it's horizontal, that's different, all his other cryostasis chambers have been vertical — and Bucky's trying to surge loose before suddenly Daisy's right there, in front of him, filling up his field of vision. His arm jerks, almost on the verge of lashing out and attacking the sudden appearance, but then her hand is against his face and his panicked blue eyes are staring blankly into hers, and he stops. Hearing her voice, her shouting a name.

Bucky. Your name is Bucky.

Another set of words come instinctively to mind, a mantra that had kept him sane once upon a time, murmuring it to himself in a HYDRA cell to remind himself: Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038. That's who you are.

He's not restrained. That's different, too. There's nothing stopping someone from just sliding right out from this pod and walking away.

His heart is pounding madly in his chest — which twinges with that familiar-now-unfamiliar sensation of broken ribs — and the skin on his face is split, stitched up, bruised. He's had black eyes since getting the serum, but it never lasts: a few hours or a full night's sleep and then it's gone as if it never happened. This one feels worse, his whole body like battered meat, although the time in the chamber had helped without his knowledge.

He's stopped himself just short of attacking her, in a rigid iron display of self-control; his right hand seizes Daisy's forearm instead as he hangs onto her, braces himself against her, leans his face into the touch. He squeezes her arm too hard, forgetting his strength for once. ]

Where— Where am I?

[ The words are strangled and he's still reeling. Trying to put the pieces together. It's a good thing there aren't any doctors in the room, no assessing faces over thoughtful glasses and clipboards and white labcoats. He's woken up to that view one too many times, a hundred. ]

[ His hand clinging to her hurts, his fingers squeezing against bruises and fractures, but she only tenses slightly in reaction, focusing on him instead because seeing him like this hurts far more than any physical injury ever could. ]

SHIELD. You kind of had a building fall on you, so we brought you back here for treatment. That's what this chamber does: helps you heal faster.

[ She explains it quickly and succinctly, keeping her voice low and calm, trying her best to soothe the fear that she can only guess is still roiling through him. It's why she'd insisted there be no one else in the room until he woke up; this would be bad enough without a bunch of strangers around. Smoothing her thumb over the stubble on his cheek, she offers him a slightly strained smile in an effort to hide just how anxious she is. ]

How are you feeling?

[ Bucky looks at her too long, through that bruised-meat face and the dried blood scabbing over on his cheek. It's an empty stare, as if the words don't fully make sense to him yet, as if it's taking a moment for him to come back to himself. Helps you heal faster.

His mouth is woollen, his tongue thick and clumsy, and for an irrational moment it feels to him like English isn't the language he should be speaking. The words sound alien and foreign on his tongue, but in the end he finally wrings out a reply. ]

Like shit,

[ he says, and there's that faint, anemic glimmer of humour. And then, noting the way she's stiffening beneath his touch, Bucky finally startles and loosens his grip. After having lurched up, he's perched sitting on the edge of the pod now, Daisy standing right in front of him and between his knees. He's glad she hasn't let go of him yet; that physical touch is an anchor, a way of keeping him rooted. ]

Didn't know this tech existed. Think I'm— out of the loop.

[ His gaze finally sharpens. Those pieces starting to click into place, the memory rolling back from before the roof fell in on him. ]

You were hurt, too.

[ It's not the first time she's had to help someone through a jarring situation like this. Between the head trauma and the PTSD, she knows better than most how hard it can be to make it back to yourself. Patience and a gentle touch go a long way and she'll give him as much as he needs of both.

Besides, it's a good thing for her, too — touching him reassures her that he really is safe. Her hand falls from his face down to his chest, the vibrating thud of his heart soothing away her anxiety in seconds. He's safe. ]

Yeah. [ She holds up her left arm, bruises visible between the end of her sleeve and the bandage wrap. They're twice as bad as the mottled assortment of colors on her right, thick black bands twisting up her arm. ] But I didn't get shot, so thanks for that.

[ Two can try playing this humor game. ]

Shit, that looks ugly. Are you okay?

[ Looking down, Bucky's hands drift to her arm and he touches her wrist more gingerly, fingertips grazing against the bandages but mindful not to apply any pressure. ]

Bullets, I can handle. I just didn't expect them to drop the fucking building while they were still in it.

[ But then again, never underestimate the desperation of fanatics.

Apparently Bucky gets more foul-mouthed when he's rattled, some of that old soldier's mentality creeping back in during and after a fight. He's still not fully relaxed; there's an unsettled patter to his heartbeat beneath her hand. Even now knowing where he is and why, he can't help thinking that the pod behind him feels like a coffin. That if he gets in there, he doesn't know when he's going to wake up again. It's a fear that straddles the line of completely rational but also irrational; he'd subjected himself to cryo in Wakanda, after all, and come out of it improved. But he hadn't liked it then either. He'd just done it anyway because there didn't seem to be any other option. ]

What's the prognosis, doc? Do I have to stay here?

[ She hates seeing him like this. He's had too much pain in his life, too much fear, and he doesn't deserve a single moment more, but there's nothing she can do to take it from him. Like everyone else, he's forced to carry all that trauma with him and all anyone can do is offer to hold him up while he does. ]

You probably should, if you can stand it. The hours you slept through took care of the internal bleeding at least, and your normal super healing will take care of the rest, so it's okay if you don't stay. [ Honestly, she's impressed he's still standing there. She wouldn't have blamed him one bit if he'd gone right out the door the second he'd gotten on his feet. ]

I'm supposed to spend some time in there myself, but I'll hold off until tomorrow. I'll be okay, this isn't the first time I've... [ She holds up her arm again. ] It usually happens a couple of times a year, so I've spent a lot of time in this thing and I know what it can be like. If you decide to stay, I'll stay with you. And if you decide to go, I'll take you home. [ She tilts her head in the best shrug she can manage with two banged-up shoulders. ] It's your call, Bucky.

[ He sits there and chews over it for a moment, weighing the smart choice between the impulsive call and what he wants to do.

And Bucky's never been particularly good at doing the smart thing. What he wants is to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible and back to familiar territory, even if his studio apartment is bare-bones and horrible. So he gently eases himself off the edge of the pod and back to his feet, wincing slightly as he moves. It puts him even closer into her personal space, but he braces himself against the cot rather than Daisy's shoulder, to avoid accidentally putting weight on any of her own injuries. ]

Alright. Then take me home, Agent Johnson.

[ There could be a winking joke buried in there somewhere, but he doesn't particularly lean into it. He's still too on edge, too tired, too concerned. ]

This isn't the first time... So you mean this always happens when you use your powers? [ He gestures to those dark mottled bruises, the mess of her arms. ]

Not always. [ She corrects him easily as if it's no big deal that using her powers can result in physical injury to herself. And it isn't, not really. Not anymore. It's something she's lived with for almost a decade now, just another piece of her messy life. ]

It happens when I'm not wearing my proper gauntlets, or if it's something extreme. The time I blew up a spaceship from the inside? Broke nearly every bone in my body. [ She tries to say it with levity, even a bit of pride at the achievement, though she feels neither. That particular time had also killed her, though technically it was more the freezing to death in space than the other thing. If Kora hadn't been there to warm her up... ]

But come on, let's get out of here. [ Stepping back from Bucky, she immediately misses the warmth she'd felt from being so close to him. It takes a lot of restraint to not move back, wrap her arms around him, and find out what a Bucky Barnes hug feels like. (She could really use a hug right about now.) But instead, she gives him a smile and grabs two opaque plastic bags from the chair she hadn't been sitting in for hours. ] I've got our goodie bags.

[ Daisy veers the topic away so quickly that he can't follow up on the broke every bone in my body thing, and Bucky shoots her a Look™, but he gamely follows her distraction. His combat jacket's not in the room, but he figures it might've gotten ruined, and he can deal with that later — he'll be back at this building eventually anyway. Maybe SHIELD has a tailoring department. ]

Aw, goodies. Which I guess means candy which I guess means painkillers.

[ He moves more slowly than he's used to, not accustomed to all those aches and twinges and throbbing pain. Recuperation's gonna be a bitch. As she accompanies him out of the SHIELD building, they don't bother with the subway, and just flag down a cab instead. It's a sign of how tired he is that he doesn't just stubbornly insist on doing it alone. He doesn't clamour against having an escort home, just tips his head back against the seat and almost dozes off again as the car gets stuck in inevitable Manhattan traffic, the humming of the engine practically hypnotic.

He doesn't complain when she hops out of the cab when they arrive, either, like he's some vulnerable invalid who needs to be seen safely all the way to his door. But standing on the front step of his run-down lower east side apartment building, he pauses while fumbling for his keys, and looks back at Daisy instead. Fuck it. He's not just going to take that plastic bag from her and shove her back in the cab on this cold winter night. ]

So, about that movie night...

[ Look, if she breezes right past an uncomfortable topic, then she won't have to deal with it. There won't be the memories of days of pain and exhaustion, of nightmares every time she was in the pod. They don't have to talk about those things; neither of them needs that in their lives right now.

On the ride to his apartment, she contemplates just dropping him off and heading back to her own apartment, but... she's not ready. It might be pushing in where she's not welcome but she wants to make sure he gets to his place safely, and she's not ready to be alone just yet. Not when she knows what awaits her. So here she is, following after him with their bags full of a rainbow of pills, looking around the hallway with moderate interest.

Except then he pauses, keys in hand, and something clicks. Oh. ]

Well, it definitely doesn't have to be tonight. [ She smiles reassuringly and holds up one of the bags, a sticker with Barnes pasted in the corner. ] I just wanted to make sure you got to your door okay. And here you are. Mission accomplished.

[ There's no reason for her to linger. She can just... go home and not acknowledge how distressed she is about it. ]

I mean, it doesn't have to be. And I'll probably fall asleep partway through. [ A tip of his head to the pills, which won't be as soporific on him as someone without a serum-enhanced body, but they'll still nip at the edges, drag him down even deeper into that exhaustion. ]

But if you wanna come in. I could probably— do with the company. Even if, fair warning, my place is a piece of shit.

[ The admission comes slow and halting. He's not good at admitting when he wants help, even when that help is something as simple as a little human company. If she weren't here, it would probably be an endless series of text messages bugging Sam, walking circles around the actual subject at hand, until the other man realised what was up and he would just up and come over without Bucky having to ask.

But Daisy, meantime, is already right here. And he's been wanting to see more of her anyway. ]

[ A tension releases in Daisy like a rope being cut, her sore muscles noticeably relaxing as he invites her to stay. He could be living in a dirty rat-infested shithole and she'd still stay. ]

I could do with the company too.

[ Since he admitted it first, it's easy for her to echo the words with her own, showing a bit of her own vulnerability in exchange for his. And maybe she lets a little desperation creep into her expression — or maybe it's just the exhaustion he'll see. Because she is completely exhausted, the stress and physical exertion of the day combining with her injuries to utterly wear her out. Honestly, she'd love to just curl up and sleep for a week, but she knows rest won't come easy. ]

[ He looks at her — that fragile, wrung-out, vulnerable expression on her face — and he feels something twist and lurch in his chest.

Before he can let himself examine that too closely, Bucky just nods, turns around, and then turns the key in the lock. Shoves the door open (it has a habit of sticking) and then leads them further out of the cold and into the apartment building, then up the stairs to his actual door. The realisation that, oh shit, of course this means Daisy's going to have to see his actual apartment, comes just a hair too late for him to do anything about it. He's never had anyone over and he's been avoiding having anyone realise how dreary this place is, but the cat's gonna be out of the bag either way. So he doesn't hesitate, just unlocks that last door too and lets her in.

And it's not even that it's messy. It's just that it's... empty. There's nothing there, barely any hint of personality in the studio. There's a kitchenette right by the entrance, a bathroom to the side, and the rest of the room only consists of an endtable, an armchair in front of a TV, and a mattress on the floor in the corner, by the door out to the balcony. There's no decorations, no personal touches, no real sign that it's an actual home.

The mattress is, at least, an upgrade compared to him sleeping on the bare hardwood; not that she knows it. It's made up military-style, sheets and blankets neatly tucked in at the corners despite the lack of a frame. He winces while he toes out of his boots and tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter. ]

Home sweet home. It's... yeah. Sorry.

It's not that bad.

[ Her smile and words are both genuine. It really isn't bad, and it's certainly not what she'd expected from his apparent reluctance at her seeing it. She'd expected... not this. It's bare-bones, to be sure, but it's clean, and it's his. ]

I used to be able to pack all of my belongings into a duffel bag, ready to move at a moment's notice. I still pretty much can. [ Leaning over with a wince, her good hand loosens the laces of her boots so she can step out of them as well before moving further into the small apartment. A mattress on the floor is a choice a lot of people make, and the lack of personal items is pretty damn understandable given his everything. ]

We'll get you a pillow for the chair. It'll brighten the place up. [ Yes, she's teasing him. Gently, of course. The only reason she has any decoration at all in her place is that Kora had taken over and Daisy'd had to stake her own claim to the space. ]

Think it might need a little more than just a pillow. I've come across those home improvement shows. I know what's up.

[ He was often up late at odd hours, which meant channel-surfing, which meant coming across HGTV. So sue him.

But a part of him seems to relax a little, too, exhaling, as he sees that she's not horrified or — even worse — pitying. Bucky heads straight for the kitchen first and pours them two glasses of ice-cold tap water, playing at being a good host since they'll need it for their painkillers anyway. He hands her one glass while he scrutinises his studio, taking it in from the perspective of a new set of eyes. And... the other shoe drops, as he realises the second half of the logistical problem here. ]

I, uh, don't have a couch, though. So we'll have to sit on the mattress to watch anything. If you're okay with that.

[ If this actually goes anywhere for any real length of time, she'll be half tempted to unleash her sister on poor unsuspecting Bucky and this apartment. She'd have the place decorated in no time, likely in some homage to the 1980s that would be the exact opposite of anything he'll have seen on those home improvement shows.

Something to think about. ]

I don't mind. [ Carefully maneuvering with water glass and bags of pills, she makes her way over to the mattress, eyeballing it for a moment before choosing a side. She sets her water glass down on the floor before dropping the bags in the middle and lowering herself to sit on the edge. Not even five seconds later, she's letting out a heavy sigh. ]

It feels good to sit. [ The cab hadn't counted. Out there was different than in here with him. Here, she feels... safe. ]

Tell me about it. Once I sit down, I'm not getting back up again. —Gimme a sec.

[ While he'd been unconscious, she'd evidently had time to change clothes back at HQ, but Bucky's shirt and pants still smell like gunpowder and debris. He digs around in the one closet and then meanders off into the bathroom. He normally sleeps in nothing more than a pair of boxers, but best not to go that far when he's got company.

When he slowly, carefully peels off his shirt, he hisses an indrawn breath in the mirror at the sight of the mottled bruises all over his body. The nicks and cuts are already scabbing over, but he's not used to the physical impacts leaving a mark like this. It feels like he got pummeled everywhere; tenderized. He hobbles into sweatpants, a sleeveless white undershirt, and then hesitates over a rumpled long-sleeved hoodie. They're not in public anymore. He's at home. If he can decide that he doesn't give a fuck about his arm being exposed around the Wilsons and around Helmut Zemo, then surely Daisy's okay too. (She won't stare. Probably?)

So Bucky leaves the hoodie behind and saunters back out: the vibranium arm fully visible, as are some of the injuries, although his flesh-and-blood arm isn't anywhere near the state of Daisy's — his ribs, black eye, and stitched-up cut on his face are his main problems. He grabs his water along with the remote and the chair's back cushion, and then eases himself onto the other side of the mattress. Stacks the cushion and the pillows behind them in some vague semblance of a headboard. It's like some college kid's cheap bedroom, if he knew what that was like. He exhales his own sigh of relief at being off his feet again. ]

Okay. Yeah. Sitting: good. We like sitting.

[ He kicks himself a moment later. Oh god, he hasn't even taken the pills yet and he is already an embarrassment. ]

[ If he's an embarrassment, then she is too, exhausting chipping away at her ability to form full coherent sentences. ]

Sitting very good.

[ Daisy would have offered Bucky some SHIELD-issue clothes if they'd stayed at HQ for another round in the chamber. They have a giant closet full of training gear and extra clothes for the inevitable mission that ends in textile destruction or the unexpected long stay in the building. (Getting stuck in quarantine sucks enough without having to do it in field gear or a suit.) But they'd come here and so she's glad to see that he's getting comfortable — including letting her see his arm this way. She doesn't stare but she doesn't avoid looking at it either, which might be equally as bad. She looks, notes the change, and then smirks tiredly at him. ]

Hey, think you and that fancy arm could help me out of this?

[ A zip-up hoodie had been added to her outfit before they left the building, a good enough effort against the cold city, but she's kind of over it now, the material rubbing against her sensitive skin the wrong way. She shrugs the hoodie off her shoulders but without the use of her left hand, she can't quite get the cuffed sleeve past her hand. (Not without looking like an idiot, anyway.) ]

Edited 2022-03-23 05:31 (UTC)

[ Bucky shifts on the mattress and obligingly takes hold of the edge of her hoodie, and gingerly works it down the line of her back, then tugs at the sleeves, around the bend of her elbow and then over her bandaged arms. He's the most careful when getting the hoodie off her forearms: trying not to bump those fractures or bruises, trying not to apply any pressure, trying to pull the hoodie loose with it barely touching her skin. At one point, when his hands curl against the fabric of the sweatshirt, his fingers — both the metal and the human — brush against her skin instead.

So he's slowly undressing Daisy Johnson in his bed. This is fine. Everything is fine. Jesus christ.

He tamps down on that entire train of thought, smothers it like a fire without any oxygen to feed itself any longer, and in the end he drops a crumpled hoodie in her lap. His eyes are riveted to her arms, now that he can get a better look at them. When he speaks up, his voice is low, worried. ]

You should've taken a turn in the pod.

[ The way he removes the article of clothing from her body, the extreme level of care he puts into each and every touch... it takes her breath away. He's treating her like glass, not because he sees her as breakable but because he's trying not to break her further. It's a fine distinction in her mind but it changes everything. There's nothing sensual about what's happening and yet this is the most intimate she's felt with anyone in a very long time. ]

I was more worried about you. [ She admits it quietly but without shame or regret. Because that's who she is: Daisy Johnson puts everyone else before herself, she always has and she always will. ] You needed to get out of there and I needed to make sure you were okay.

[ He tilts his head. Looks at her askance. They haven't known each other very long, all things considered, but he's already picking up on some things. Her perpetual concern for him, even when they were complete strangers. Always redirecting away from herself, and wheeling the attention back onto the other person instead. Daisy has this large found family in SHIELD, and yet he wonders— ]

You're always looking after other people. Do others look after you?

[ Daisy goes very still, feeling like a deer in headlights. Something in her wants to cry, to rage that no, no one ever takes care of her. She's Quake, she's the strong one, the heavy hitter, the best fighter SHIELD has. She wants to tell him that she can count the number of people who have ever taken care of her on one hand and still have fingers left over. But there's a part of her that's terrified of saying any of that aloud. What if it's too much for him to deal with? What if she doesn't deserve that? What if this is her role in life and she's not meant to have anything more?

So, after a long moment of watching Bucky with a conflicted mix of fear and longing, she lets it all fall away, pulling up her mask of being Okay because it's the only armor she has right now. There's even a bit of humor in her voice when she answers him, trying to make a joke out of something that's so important. ]

Come on, Barnes. Everyone knows the superhero's supposed to take care of herself.

[ Nevermind that she does a shitty job of it. Just look at the state of her. Which is a perfect way to deflect the conversation and move it past this very uncomfortable subject. Grabbing his bag, she moves it closer to him, the bottles rattling with the motion, and then picks up her own. ]

We should take these.

[ She dumps the bag's content on top of the hoodie in her lap, the three bottles clinking dully against each other. A white bottle with a complicated name she's never been able to pronounce and two prescription bottles: one with a pain killer suited to her injuries and the other with the equivalent of extra strength tylenol. It's the white one she goes for first, twisting off the cap and tipping a few out of the bottle directly into her mouth. She doesn't even go for the water yet. ]

[ And there she goes again, bricking up those walls. Bucky's a king of skittish avoidance himself — he hasn't even been telling his therapist the whole truth — and so he knows. He knows. He gets it. Probably more than he should.

And yet, even he knew that it was a back-and-forth. He'd looked out for Steve in all their youth, and then Steve had repaid the favour later, refusing to leave Bucky's side even when the whole world turned against them, even when Bucky himself didn't remember the man. How did that saying go— when you can't run, you crawl, and when you can't crawl, you find someone to carry you?

He fishes around in his plastic bag, although unlike Daisy, he does go for the glass at the same time. He takes a deep swig of the water and a mouthful of the pills (the dosage neatly typed up on the side of the bottle, carefully-measured and tripled against his metabolism, SHIELD doctors evidently on the ball). He tips his head back and swallows, letting the moment sink and settle between them before he eventually loops back. Quietly poking holes in her logic. It both was and wasn't a joke, and he could tell. ]

Y'know, being a superhero doesn't mean doing it alone. I mean, that was one of the very first things I learned. When Steve was Cap, he had me and the Howling Commandos with him. Then there were the Avengers later. When he went rogue — to help me out — others stuck by his side.

[ It's probably too serious. She probably wants to escape this particular topic — god knows he would — but he couldn't let it sit without saying something. ]

So, I mean, I'm just saying. People gotta help each other out, have each others' backs in the trenches. [ A flicker at the corner of his mouth. ] Annnnd now you're off the hook and I'm letting this drop.

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