Bucky Barnes Oneshots

wounds: blurb (fluff/angst)

You looked up as you heard a noise behind you. You turned to see the soldier on your small porch, leaning against the railing. Dark hair fell in his face, and his body was covered in black leather.

You stilled, looking at him through your kitchen window. Your fingers closed around the handle of your knife, your heart racing in your chest. You recognized the soldier from the news– the russian assassin that the entire world was after.

He was doubled over, gripping his side, hardly able to stand. He looked up, revealing silver eyes that locked on yours through the glass. He grabbed the railing for balance, swaying a bit.

You walked to your front door, pushing it open with the knife still in your hand. His breathing was ragged, and he was clearly injured. His eyes held a shaken gaze, making him look almost afraid.

"Why are you here, James?" You asked, holding the knife out in a shaking hand. He winced and looked back up at you, hardly glancing at the knife pointed at him.

"Please, I need help."

"I could call the police."

He stared at you in silence, and you looked around your normally quiet neighbourhood. Nobody was outside, and no cars passed on the street. You grabbed him and dragged him inside your home, locking the door. He groaned in pain as he bumped the wall, and you shook your head with a sigh. You led the injured man into your bathroom, and he watched you in silence. 

You pulled off the black mask, setting it aside. The familiar face was bleeding, his lip and eyebrow split. He was silent, watching as you worked, helping him out of his clothes so you could assess his wounds. He sat on the counter in front of you, and you stood between his legs.

"Who did this to you?" You whispered quietly, and he swallowed.

"Presidential SWAT team and the CIA."

You sighed, looking at the slice over his side, surrounded by bruises.

"Did anyone see you come here?"

"I don't think so."

You shook your head at his answer, and you carefully cleaned some of the blood from his skin. You looked at his metal arm, a red star standing out against the silver vibranium. His head fell back, and you immediately grabbed his jaw.

"No, no, James, stay with me!" You panicked, and a choked laughter shook his chest.

"M'sorry," he held his head up and you glared at him.

You grabbed a bottle of alcohol, and you poured it over the slice across his side, and a strangled noise of pain left his lips. He squeezed your thigh, his eyes shut as he leaned forward a bit at the intense sting. It felt like fire blazing in the wound, and you apologized softly, laying your hand over his on your leg.

When he released his grip on you, you finished cleaning it before grabbing a needle. You had two years of medical school training before dropping out, though you were confident in your ability to close the wound. He looked at you with anxiety in his gaze, and you gently laid your hand on his chest.

"I have to, or you'll bleed out."

You felt his muscles tense as you carefully began to stitch him, closing the wound that was causing him so much pain. His breaths were shallow, and you winced, hurting for him. Once you were finished, you bandaged his side and cleaned the smaller cuts and scrapes, noting to get ice for the bruising.

You got a clean washcloth and gently tended to his face, trying not to sink back under his heavy silver gaze. You held his jaw in one hand, keeping him still. His hands rested on your hips, and you felt like you could melt into the floor.