Haven [Marvel | Bucky Barnes]

Chapter 8

"I had to," he murmured into her hair before pulling back to look at her again, his fingers coming up to brush across her cheek. Warmth fluttered in Iris' belly at the way he said it and a charged shiver went through her at his feather-like touch. She couldn't help the tiny grin that tugged at her own lips. She lowered her head to rest against his shoulder, her arm reaching out to curl around his waist.

But she froze as her fingers found a warm, damp spot in his shirt over his ribs just below his left arm. Her gaze shot up to James, eyes wide as she realized what that dampness meant. Especially when she pulled her hand back to reveal her fingertips painted nearly black. She knew if the room were lit by more than just the streetlights outside they'd be crimson. He grimaced guiltily as she looked at him in disbelief.

"You're hurt!"

"It's nothing," he reassured her calmly, pulling back from her a little to meet her worried gaze head on. "I was grazed, that's all." But Iris wasn't having any of it, her heart pounding anxiously at the idea that he'd been hurt protecting her.

"James—"

"I'm fine—"

"—you need to get it looked at!" A smirk spread across his face as she blurted that out, his eyebrows rising in challenge even as she realized what she just implied.

"The woman who insisted I hide from the police now wants me to go see a doctor?" Iris' cheeks flushed hotly but she didn't back down, staring at him intently before pulling out from under his arm and bee-lining for the kitchen. James looked genuinely amused right up until the moment she dropped back down next to him, lamp on the end table newly turned on and moved to the coffee table, her first aid kit in hand. Then apprehension began to grow behind his eyes, his grin fading. She fixed him with a demanding stare as she flicked the latch on the plastic case, pursing her lips in as stern a look as she could manage.

"Well, since doctors are out, someone needs to look at it, at least. And I'm the only someone here." He shot her a faintly exasperated look, his brow rising even as his eyes once again glinted with suppressed amusement. But she didn't back down, even going so far as to tug pointedly at the hem of his shirt. With a sigh he reluctantly shrugged the plaid shirt with its ruined sleeve off before moving to pull the tee off next. Iris fought back a flinch as she caught sight of the dark stain soaking the fabric from just below his arm nearly down to the waistband of his jeans.

"I told you it's fine," he muttered, though the pained grimace he tried to hide as he peeled the shirt away from the wound belied his casual assertion. When he didn't remove the shirt completely, only holding it up to reveal his injured side she glared at him. If he was worried about the secret of his metal arm, the cat was already out of that bag. On top of the stern look, now a glare, she added in a set of crossed arms.

He let out a faint chuckle, grinning down at her right before his shirt obscured his face from view. But it hadn't hid the trepidation in his eyes nor the way his whole body seemed to tense as though bracing against a physical blow. She nearly faltered at the look. But as the shirt slid free of his shoulders and head, Iris' glare faded and she nearly forgot he was injured.

It was the first time she'd actually seen the arm. She'd felt it that first day, when she'd tried to find out his name, but she'd nearly forgotten about it in the steady stream of days, weeks and finally months that followed.

Where it joined with his torso was hard to look at, the skin puckered and inflamed, nearly ridged where it met and overlapped with the metal, while angry, knotted scars marred and furrowed the surrounding flesh. But the arm itself...it was striking, even strangely beautiful. From shoulder to fingertips it was a metal she couldn't define—obviously strong enough to deflect bullets with only the barest of marks, her memory provided—with a bright mirror-finish that gleamed in the low light of her apartment with the faintest scuffs and imperfections only visible under close scrutiny. The length of it was broken up with what looked like seams or joins of some sort that created an intricate banded, almost mosaic patterning, some parted just enough to reveal the inner workings the outer plates hid. On the rounded curve of what would have been the deltoid on a flesh and bone arm was painted a vibrant red star thinly outlined in black. Something tickled in the back of her mind; a tiny, vague feeling of recognition that she couldn't place.