a lion among wolves, bucky barnes (hiatus)

thirty-three.

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
2015

"TEN minutes," Tony said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Change. Patch up. Meet back in the lab."

Bucky had June back in their room in seconds. He guided her to the bathroom and had her sit on the edge of the tub, careful not to touch her mutilated hands or brush against her bloody knees.

"James," June tried to protest. Her voice was slow and muddled. "It's not . . . it's not about me. I have to go help. I have to go help . . ." She tried to stand, wobbled, and Bucky eased back down.

"Ten minutes," he reminded her. "Ten minutes are about you. Can I see your hands?"

June didn't look at him. She whispered, "I dunno, can you?"

"June, really—"

"Okay, all right. Shh. Shut up." She held out her palms. They were worse than she thought, flayed and dripping with blood. Shards of glass protruded from the soft skin and stung like a dozen hornets had used her as a pincushion. Bucky had gathered together the first-aid supplies June kept under the sink and busied himself with a pair of tweezers and carefully extracting the glass. It hurt more than June wanted to admit. "I'll do my knees," she said a little more firmly than she'd meant to.

Bucky eyed her but conceded. "All right. I'll be right back—don't go anywhere, okay?"

June lifted her shoulders lamely in reply.

He was only gone a moment and returned with a small ice pack from the kitchen. As June dug glass out of her legs, Bucky stood beside her and held her near him, pressing the ice to a purple knot that formed on the side of her head. "Why does this bother you?" he asked gently.

June remained fixated on her painful task. "I'm sick of being nursed," she mumbled.

"Well," Bucky shrugged, "stop getting hurt."

June lifted out the last glass shard she could find. She doused her wounds in hydrogen peroxide, then took the roll of white cotton bandages that Bucky offered and carefully dressed her hands and knees. "C'mere," she sighed, beckoning Bucky to switch places with her. "You're not looking too hot, either."

She cleaned the gash on his cheek and determined it wasn't quite deep enough for stitches, they just had to keep the bleeding controlled. The cut in his mouth was minor. June did realize, however, that a decent-sized piece of shrapnel had been imbedded behind his shoulder.

"How did you not feel this?" she asked as he unbuttoned his bloodied shirt and tossed it to the floor.

Bucky shrugged. "I've had worse."

June shook her head and rinsed off the tweezers with alcohol. "I know. That's what's so awful."

"You're one to talk," Bucky said. June got a firm hold of the shrapnel—which she realized to be a chunk of the shattered coffee table—and slowly wriggled it out of his shoulder. He winced and hissed sharply with the pain of it, but kept still enough for June to splash the rubbing alcohol over the wound and wrap it up tightly.

"I'm fine," June said as she gingerly tied off the bandages, inhibited by her own. "You know you had it worse."

"That means I can't worry about you?"

With a sigh, June stroked his face, kaleidoscope eyes churning with sadness and gratitude. Sometimes she wondered if Bucky even allowed himself to understand the magnitude of what he had suffered. "You're too good, James," June whispered, fingertips moving to his hair, petting him gently. "How have you stayed so good?"