Chapter Text
The mission had been so simple. Take out the head, leave the rest to be handled by the others. He had never expect it to end like this. The threat had been neutralized but the team, they are all gone. Bucky had to finish the job on his own. His handler had been there that time. He is gone, dead like the others. All communication with the agency is lost. No way back home.
Bucky clutches his left side. Blood pools under his hand. The wound will heal soon enough, but if he doesn't get it fixed he could bleed out by the time morning comes. There isn't much blood compared to other injuries he's had, but it hurts far too bad, there has to be internal bleeding. He needs help before it's too late.
Bucky can't help but think of his cat, Alpine. She is being taken care of for the time being, but what would happen to her if he never returned? Would they hold on to her? Would she be kicked to the side once word got out that he was gone? Alpine is all he has. He can't bare the thought of anything bad happening to her.
He's holding the bullet wound as he stumbles down the sidewalk. His steps begin to falter more and more as he walks. It takes all the strength he has left to keep from collapsing into the puddles below his feet. Strength alone isn't enough when you can't keep your feet straight. Bucky's foot caught on the back of his other boot and before he can register what was happening he found himself on the wet concert.
He has to get up. He has to keep going. Find somewhere he can get help. At this point he'll settle for a hospital, even if he hates them to the point of avoiding them like the plague. But his body won't cooperate with him.
"Come on." Bucky grits his teeth and pushes himself up with his metal arm, grabbing onto the nearest object he can find to keep from falling over again.
Bucky looks up, finally really taking in his surroundings. The street is quiet, but Bucky recognizes it. He is in luck. There is a chance he can find help without a damn hospital.
***
Sam is pulled out of sleep by a loud knocking. He groggily stumbles out of his bed. He is certainly no stranger to late night visitors, and when he got them it was always important. It still made it no less annoying. The knocking grew more frequent, only making Sam more annoyed.
When Sam opens the door he is met with an all too familiar pair of brown eyes. Far more tired and blood shot than he is used to. It's unsettling in a way. They were always tired, and often a little red, but never like this. It was unnerving
Sam reaches out for the man, "Bucky!"
His hands are swatted away weakly as Bucky leans against the door frame. Bucky's legs are shaking and it feels like his head is going to explode.
"Sam..." Bucky's voice trails, he keeps his focus on trying to stay upright, "I need help."
"What the hell, Buck! What happened?" Sam asks.
Bucky winces, gripping his side, "Please. I just need a place to crash, and first aid kit or something."
Sam quickly slings Bucky's arm over his shoulder, "You need a hospital."
"If I wanted a hospital I would've gone there myself." Bucky says.
Sam doesn't argue. He knows Bucky is stubborn, if the man is insistent on not going to the hospital trying to take him would be a fight that certainly isn't worth risking. Instead he leads the soldier back to his laundry room, where he keeps the largest first aid kit. He has many throughout the house but he assumes that if the Winter Soldier is pounding on his door at two in the morning, he needs more than a little more than a Band-Aid.
Never before in his life has Bucky been more grateful for being smaller than Sam. Carrying the near dead weight of a man, is not an easy task, even for a man in Sam's condition. Sam is a strong man, but Bucky knows that it would not be so simple for the man to drag him inside if he were nearer to the same size or larger than Sam.
Before he can register much of his surroundings Bucky finds himself leaning against Sam's washing machine. He stares as Sam digs through the red first aid kit, his memory faulty even simply of the walk to the small room. Sam pulls on a pair of gloves and begins removing Bucky's coat to better examine the damage. Bucky doesn't look down to see what is happening, he would much rather focus on anything else.
"So where's Misty?" Bucky asks, gripping the washing machine to keep from falling over.
"Her apartment. We broke things off a few weeks ago." Sam replies.
"Sorry." Bucky mumbles.
"It's alright. It was mutual." Sam shrugs, "Guess we both just felt there was someone else out there for us. It was good while it lasted."
Sam lifts Bucky's shirt to investigate the wound. Bucky winces again when the other man's gloved fingers graze the injury. His grip on falters and he finds himself loosing his balance, but Sam's arm are wrapped firmly around his body before he can hit the tile.
"Fuck-" Bucky's words are cut off by a small squeak that he is ashamed to admit came from his own mouth.
Sam's hands are resting on the backside of his thighs. Before Bucky can register what Sam is planning to do he is being lifted into the air, and set on top of the washing machine.
"Sorry." Sam apologizes, "I just can't have you falling over."
" 's fine." Bucky mumbled.
Sam's eyes narrow as he looks over the bullet hole. He is no doctor, but in his time as a hero has seen enough to know a thing or two, and Bucky certainly isn't bleeding out. If left untreated it is still a possibility, but whatever the issue is in the current moment, it isn't blood loss.
"The bullet didn't hit anything major. Blood loss isn't even that bad." Sam explains.
"The hell it isn't. I collapsed on the way here!" Bucky snaps, he nearly loses his balance again.
Sam tried to be gentle and steady the man more if possible, "It's definitely not because of where you were shot."
"Then what the hell is wrong with me?" Bucky asks.
"I think it's poisoned," Sam says, grimacing at the way the tissue around the bullet discolored.
Bucky pauses. It does hurt far worse than what he is used to from a gunshot. If it is poisoned then why didn't they lace it with something lethal. Unless they wanted him to suffer. Maybe it is more simple and he just isn't dead yet, but would be soon.
"Buck!" Sam's voice calls him back to reality.
"Hm?" Bucky looks up again to meet Sam's gaze.
"I know you're tired, this has taken a lot out of you, but I'm taking a huge risk by not taking you to a professional. I need you to stay with me and cooperate." Sam says, offering his old friend a sympathetic look, "What symptoms have you been experiencing?"
"Fatigue. Blurry vision..." Bucky's voice trails off, his head pounding, "... Head hurts."
"What else?" Sam asks, receiving no answer as Bucky clutches his head, "Any nausea? Vomit?"
"Not yet." Bucky mumbles, lowering his hands to steady himself again.
"So you haven't been sick yet, but you do feel nauseous?" Sam clarifies.
Bucky nods, "Yeah."
Sam rips open the package on a cheap set of forceps, sterilizing them with alcohol as quickly as he could, from the first aid kit, "Anything else?"
Bucky shakes his head. If there is anything else he hasn't experienced it yet. He hopes that there is nothing else. He feels far too weak to deal with anything else.
Bucky grits his teeth and groans as the forceps reach the bullet.
"Sorry. Once I get this out you should be fine." Sam says, "It'll take a few days for you to fully recover but this won't kill you. Probably."
Bucky won't let himself make another sound. He bites back a wince as Sam pulls out the bullet. He's had worse, he tells himself. One poisoned bullet isn't the end, he is going to be fine. He can make it through the extraction, and the cleaning, and stitching. Never before have any of those things sounded more miserable.
Sam pulls off the gloves and begins cleaning up the area, placing all of the tools back in their proper place. When he looks back to Bucky. the man hasn't moved. He is sitting still, staring blankly ahead. Sam places a hand on the side of Bucky's head, gently rubbing over his hair with his thumb. Bucky leans into the comforting touch.
"You still with me?" Sam asks.
Bucky nods, his mind is wandering but he is still there, for the most part. He grabs Sam's wrist and lowers his hand. Steadying himself as best he can, he begins to ease himself off of the machine.
"Thanks. I should-" Bucky's legs give out the second he slides off of the washing machine, and he collapses into Sam's arms.
Sam grabs Bucky under the armpits to hold him upright, "Whoa, slow down. You can barely sit up on your own, you aren't going anywhere."
Bucky blinks frantically, trying to keep himself awake, " 'm tired Sam..." He slurs, his vision growing increasingly dark.
"I know." Sam says, "Come on, you need to get to bed."
Sam slings Bucky's arm over his shoulder, and half carries him out of the laundry room.