-- battle scars--
Okay, so he’d pushed it too far too fast.
Bucky grumbled to himself, hand pressed against the sharp pain blooming up between his ribs. It had been one thing to try and get back into shape before his first official mission back at S.H.I.E.L.D. He’d done the running, the same as he always had, weight training, boxing, pommel horse for core, and the whole nine yards. But no amount of cross training could ever account for the kind of fast-paced activity that real hand to hand combat required.
He winced.
It had been easy, at first. He’d soared through the paces just like always, ducking and dodging as necessary, his gun hand coming up to defend as his left arm took on the heavy lifting.
His muscles had moved fluidly, a shifting shelf beneath his skin. Dipping with the impact of his most recent blow, he was convinced that he was blowing the simulator away—
Until he’d missed the shard of shrapnel flinging straight for his hairline and he’d thrown himself out of its path. Bucky had landed awkwardly, the twinge in his side too severe to ignore. An embarrassed flush flooding up his neck like a rash, he found that though he’d passed the sim test, he would require a trip to the infirmary.
He gave a gentle rap on the door. Met immediately with the sharp sting of antiseptic, Bucky’s nose wrinkled in distaste. He’d never been overly fond of hospitals or doctors, but he wouldn’t be much assistance in the field with a torn tendon.
"Hey— Anybody here?"
Oh, the woes of an educational institute. Being attached to related buildings had a curse laid upon the morgue, even though it was the only building on a single floor. Much of the workspace lingered underground, anyway, the way anything that dealt with the dead should stay. None of its workers were dead, though, really, and some of them really did like to mingle with the living, on occasion.
It was what caught Waldo Butters on the ground floor of the building, wandering through a side hall that really was the best place to be for avoiding the stench of preservative and sterilizing supplies. Funnily enough, even those extremely used to all related scents and aromas sometimes found it difficult to put things into their mouths if it stank too badly. Coffee, even, was a fight, and this was balanced in the man's hand as he made his way down one of the more outer halls, where the stink was at least kind of dulled. It was late, only one other employee was in besides the security guard, so there wasn't quite anyone to complain to--
The sound against one of the outer doors (actually, the one he'd just been passing) made Butters freeze utterly, not after a slightly-embarrassing (manly) squeak of alarm, eyes staring with surprise and suspicion at the metal door. The words from the other side rang through just barely, enough so that the weariness underneath could be made out, and the mortician's hand very nearly creased against the locking mechanism to push it open.
It happened after a long period of careful consideration (opening a back door in the city at night = possibly bad idea), pouring the obnoxious chemical smell of the building's interior, and its light, over the alleyway. And its occupant.
"Oh. Crap." Was really all Butters could manage, blinking in surprise and uncertainty. "Look, this isn't a good place to sleep. The security guard likes to wander around the outside of the building sometimes.." His voice trailed off slightly, gaze becoming a bit more studious, taking in the apparent condition of this man-- the way he was holding himself, the way his muscles seemed to stay tense and stubborn, the expression on his face.
"..are you alright?"
