@formerlyfalcon
That was a lot of blood.
Things were a bit of a blur after that realization hit him, and after what felt like a few seconds he was stumbling across a familiar tiled floor. He was glancing behind him, eyes struggling to focus as they followed the path of blood droplets back to the elevator where he came from. He blinked, hard, brows furrowing together before he opened he opened his eyes again with a groan.
Bucky knew where he was. Getting himself here hadn't even been a conscious thought— as soon as he found himself flat on his back on the pavement, ears ringing and nose broken and stomach slashed open, he knew he had to get himself somewhere.. not here. There were unanswered calls and texts from Val and the team waiting for him, practically burning a hole in his pocket, but he ignored them all and limped his way through the streets towards the only safe landing his rattled brain could think of.
"Shit.. I'm making a fuckin' mess.." He sucked in a sharp breath, keeping one arm wrapped over the gash on his abdomen as he started fumbling around for the key. Not his key, just the key. The one that he knew he shouldn't be using. The one that he desperately hoped Sam hadn't moved.
All he needed to do was rest for a bit. Clean himself up. Maybe slap on a bandage or two. He would be fine. Sam wouldn't have a clue. They could stay at arm's length, avoid any awkwardness. Bucky would be out before Captain America had any idea that he had been there. That would be best for the both of them.
Bucky's forehead was resting against the door as he finally found the key and made a few unsuccessful attempts to fit it into the lock. "C'mon.. c'mon! Shit!"
It took a lot of balls to break into Captain America's office. That was Sam's first thought when he heard the door rattle. He didn't have the serum, but he was still Captain America. New Avengers mess aside, that still meant something.
It was late in the night — too late, actually. He should have been back in his apartment in comfortable clothes with the television droning in the background. He was too high strung at the moment to pay any attention to it, but at least the soft chatter broke up the silence of living alone. If there was one thing that Sam had learned, it was that being alone with his thoughts wasn't always a good thing. There were a myriad of problems to fixate on. They seemed to be stacking on top of one another at an alarming rate, and as he lay awake at night watching his ceiling fan cut slow rotations through the night, he knew that something had to give.
It was with a sigh that Sam switched his monitor to the camera that guarded the entryway to the building. He was expecting some stupid teenager there on a dare or, if he was unlucky, some low level thug. It felt bold to come in through the front, but overall, IQ's were on the decline. His headquarters wasn't entirely secret, and people were getting bolder. Why not attempt the front door?
Whatever annoyance Sam had growing died when he made out a familiar face in the grainy black and white image. He'd recognize that hair anywhere, even without the glint of the metal arm registering in the darkness. Although he'd later come to regret it, the first thought that crossed Sam's head was to turn the camera off. Pretend Bucky wasn't there. Things had been tense between them — to say the least — and where there was once easy camaraderie and affection now there was terse silence and unspoken words. It was easier to be angry than face how betrayed Sam felt.
Still, something felt wrong. Bucky knew where the key was, and Sam hadn't moved it. Why was he just standing out there, form haggard and dragged down? Why would he show at Sam's door now, after months of hurt and awkwardness? He had a way to let himself in, but he hadn't. It was those questions that pulled Sam from his desk chair and towards the door, a feeling growing in his gut that something was wrong.
When he opened the door, it was quick instincts that led to his arms quickly moving to support his friend's frame. Bucky had been leaning against the door, it seemed, and Sam steadied him with strong hands. It took only a second to take in the pale face, the line of sweat on the brow. The blood.
"Jesus Christ, Buck."
The words were a quiet hiss born out of concern, not anger. In that moment, it didn't matter that Sam was hurt. It didn't matter that Bucky had hurt him. Something had clearly gone wrong and Bucky had come to Sam's place. Sam would never leave him out in the cold. Wordlessly, Sam slung Bucky's non-vibranium arm around his shoulder. He managed to carry the bulk of the injured man's weight as he led them into the building.
There was a couch that Sam sometimes crashed on when he couldn't bring himself to return home to his empty apartment. He deposited Bucky onto it (gently, of course) before turning to grab the emergency kit that he kept there at all times. Gauze, needles, scissors, bandages. It was all there. Sam just needed to see what he was working with here.
He wanted to crack a joke. Make a snide comment. Nothing would have made Sam happier than for the two of them to slip into their signature banter, but the concern was overwhelming. Sam had spent a decent amount of time with super soldiers, and it took a lot to wound them with any severity.
"We gotta get off your jacket," Sam finally said. Bucky's hands glistened with blood, and the slash mark through the New Avenger's uniform top seemed like a good place to start. And then, because he couldn't help it, he asked, "Do I want to see the other guy?"


















