fugue // stucky

26. Thirteen Percent

They took me off the medicine, my head pounding almost immediately after they slipped the needles out of my arm. Getting rid of the IV cart was a relief, though.

"There's a man made device lodged into the right side of your frontal lobe. It's a small and thin disc, some sort of steel. It has wires snaked throughout your brain. Once we get it out we will take a look at it, but it's highly possible it was planted there by HYDRA," Tony explains. Four of us sit around the end of a long, wooden conference table. Steve's hand rubs mine, his other around my shoulders. I stare at our entwined hands on the table and try to make my mind quiet.

"A sort of tracking device, maybe," Dr. Banner continues, "maybe something to," a pause, "mess with his brain."

My eyes trail up the wooden design until they land on his pearly white lab coat. I stare at a piece of lint clinging onto the sleeve. He notices and uncomfortably moves his hands under the table to avoid my gaze. I let my focal vision fall back to the small scratch on the table. It seems to be the only imperfection in this entire building.

"How long will the procedure be?" Steve whispers, looking up to the two who will be working on me along with a team of robots and second-hands.

"If everything goes perfectly, ten hours," Banner concludes and I bite my lip as another pound hits my skull.

"Okay. What are the chances of success?" Steve is the only one asking questions. All I'm doing is sitting here for legal reasons, trying to get my stomach to calm down. I feel like throwing up because I'm so nervous.

It's silent, except for the loud flowing of blood in my ears.

"It's a brain surgery, so it's very risky," Bruce explains. More silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

"We're looking at about a 13 percent success rate," Tony almost whispers. Steve's hand clasps down on mine, his arm tensing around my shoulders. I stand up, letting go of his hand and walking out of the room. My hands shove into the door, the metal making a loud scraping sound. A surge of pain lurches through my head. I wince and continue down the hallway.

Thirteen percent. I have a thirteen percent chance of surviving the next day. An 87 percent chance at dying.

My feet carry me, silently, through the halls. I ball my fists and purposely push my feet down harder to make stomps. He's not just in my brain, he's even in my actions. I yell as a wave of hot pain inflicts itself onto my body. I huff and push through a maze of doors until I end up alone in an empty closet. A rather big closet, this is Stark Tower.

With a small sigh, I slide down a wall and put my hands through my thick locks of hair. Of course I'm doing the procedure. I have to. Which means I have to take these chances. Which means I might die. Which means, I'll be leaving Steve.

A thirteen percent chance at a happy life with my soulmate. I know I love Steve, I have in other lives. He means everything to me, and I can't put him through something like that.

Footprints rumble down the hallway, "Buck? Bucky?!"

I know the sound of his footsteps before he even speaks. It's Steve. I want to tell him I'm here, but I can't look at him right now. All I would feel is guilt. I'm doing this to him. I'm hurting him. I wish I never found him again. All I do is make his life hard.

I sigh and let out a weak, "in here."

The steps turn around, getting louder as they approach my closet, "James?" The handle squeaks and I pick my head up out of my hands and look at Steve. The light from the hallway makes his hair glow. His angelic figure appearing shadowy.