The Winter Wraith (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Chapter 19 - Gentle Lies

You are cradled against a warm chest, panting breaths brushing your cheek. Someone is carrying you. They hold you tenderly, but the rhythm of their running tosses you around, the wound in your side screaming in protest. Every rise and fall of your body summons a raging wave of agony, erupting in your side and undulating to lapse at your legs, arms, chest. The breath is stolen from your lungs, the blood from your veins as your very life force falls like raindrops to the pavement beneath you. A low moan is dragged from your lips, grating against your throat. "Shh," a gentle voice coaxes you to remain silent, and you wonder why before the muffled sounds of a distant conversation caresses your senses. You are not safe, not yet. Another tsunami of torment crashes over you. You drown.

~

Shadows, alleys, backstreets. Always in the darkness. Has it been hours or mere seconds since you last lost touch with the present? Doesn't matter, the only thing that matters is the hurricane slicing against your side, grating your skin, your bones, to shreds. Still, a scream never escapes the cage of your mouth. Hydra taught you better than that. Two steps forwards, halt, five steps back. You are crouched down behind a dumpster, the smell telling you what your eyes do not. "You'll be all right, okay? You have to be, you will be." The hushed whispers trail off, and you immediately miss the soothing sound, even if you can't quite work out who is talking. You've stopped, though you don't why. The throbbing pain isn't so bad when you are not running. Piercing laughter ringing like a death knell, reverberating within your skull. A family, perhaps, going for a midday walk. Oh, you are waiting for them to pass. As the echoes fade away, your world returns to motion. Rays of sun try to force your eyes open, but they are quickly consumed by yet more shadows. It must still be daytime, but you feel like you've been trapped in this hell for an eternity. You wait.

~

Something feels different this time. You are no longer being carried, no longer been thrown around in someone's arms. Which had its pros and cons.

Pro: you were no longer facing excruciating pain.

Con: you did not know where you were.

Pro: you had time to remember what had happened.

Con: you did not know if you wanted to remember.

You start counting backwards from one hundred, willing your head to clear before you alert anyone to your consciousness. 100, 99, 98. You were on an unplanned mission when Hydra agents showed up. 73, 72, 71. They started herding the citizens in the surrounding buildings, assessing them. 51, 50, 49. You had fought to get away when you had been injured and...

Oh. You had fainted, like a pathetic child, and the Winter Soldier had seen it all. Even better, it must have been him who had carried you here. You try to fight the flush creeping up your neck as you crack open an eye to survey the scene before you. You lie on a pile of bricks covered with a bedsheet. At least, there's no way any normal mattress could be as uncomfortable as the one you are on now. A scratchy, yellowish-cream bedspread that you had the sneaking suspicion might have once been white lies discarded by your feet, the stuffy room too hot for extra layers. Your eyes drift down to your side, where the tattered remains of your black shirt reveal a bandaged wound. Your shirt had been cut away, leaving your stomach bare, and you are thankful the Winter Soldier left you the slightly singed rags. You were already embarrassed enough you had foolishly gotten shot; the shame would have been unbearable if he had washed you as well. Your gaze travels further up to where the Winter Soldier stands by a grimy aluminium sink, the rusted tap choking up irregular spurts of water. The pipes protest loudly, their groans barely hushed by the frail walls gaudily dressed in yellow and green floral wallpaper. The water splashing over the Winter Soldier's hands is tinged red, and a small piece of metal – a bullet – sits on the bench. The Winter Soldier must have dug it out of you. Once, the thought of scraping under someone's skin to retrieve a bullet or piece of shrapnel, sometimes even with your bare hands, would have grossed you out. But that was a long time ago.