Chapter Text
Gently, as if coaxed awake by the kindness of a sunrise as it peered through the gap between curtains, a burning red light rose you from sleep. You rubbed at your eyes, squinting at the strange glow of crimson seeping in under the door from the hall and invading into the room. In your stomach, a dread began to coil – sharp and heavy, sinking.
Bucky shifted to your left and the tug of the mattress under his weight pulled you towards him. A groan whimpered past his lips as a steady pressure sank into his left shoulder. It had been too long since you’d worked on the nerve endings to alleviate his discomfort and you were sure it must be acting up on him again. You nearly placed your hand to the tender muscle but you’d made a promise not to take on his pain without his consent.
Instead, you brushed your fingers along his cheek to wake him. The soft scratch of stubble tickled along your knuckles as he leaned against the touch. Something kind amongst the intrusion of burning red light into your room – a terrible warning approaching like a feathered touch.
“Bucky?” you whispered, cautious of the sudden influx of steps racing outside the door. His lids began to flutter, sleep still heavy in his eyes but then – the door burst open.
It slammed against the wall, echoing so loudly that you could feel the sharp vibration of it in your chest. Bucky lunged for the gun secured under the nightside table, the safety unlatched before he could even aim, only to find Steve on the other end of the barrel. His chest heaved with every breath, sweat dampening on his forehead.
“Compound’s been breached,” Steve panted, glancing back over his shoulder. “They must have found a way to disarm the alarm. The lights are supposed to be FRIDAY’s secondary defense. It’s the only reason Nat woke before they made it to her room, otherwise she’d be—”
“Who’s behind the attack?” Bucky was already halfway across the room, yanking on a pair of jeans and pulling a t-shirt over his head to cover his exposed chest. He slid the magazine from his weapon to check for bullets before locking it back into place.
“No idea,” Steve confessed as he ran a tired hand through his unkept hair. “Took down six already and there’s more on the lower levels.”
You were still laid in bed, covers pulled up tight to your chest as you watched the two super soldiers lay out a plan of attack. Steve was dressed in sweatpants, his tank ripped at the edge where a knife must have nicked the fabric. Bucky’s hair was messied and unruly, the imprints of pillow marks on his cheeks.
They looked so terribly human; vulnerable with the lingering draw of sleep still present on their bodies, their reflexes moving just a little slower under the pale glow of moonlight through the window.
“Sweetheart,” Bucky called gingerly, his hand slipping along your arm. You startled at his touch, surprised by the sudden contact, but he didn’t pull away. “I have to go, but I need to know you’ll be safe here. Tell FRIDAY to lock the door behind me, okay? No one will be able to get in. Don’t open it for anyone. Not until I come for you.”
You nodded numbly as Bucky eased you from the bed and to your feet. He handed you a sweatshirt that had been hung over the chair – an old SHIELD crewneck he’d worn the day before. It hung loose again your frame, covering the majority of your exposed skin. A glimpse of your sleep shorts peaked out from the bottom. Gently, you brought the collar up to your nose and inhaled the lingering scent he’d left behind – a desperate attempt to ease the panic coursing through your veins.
Steve pressed his lips to a thin line, giving you a solemn look as he handed Bucky a second gun. You weren’t trained the way they were. You weren’t a field agent. It didn’t matter whether Bucky had taught you a few things in the ring or that you’d been working on building your endurance with Nat around the track down by the lake. You were only an engineer. Your ability to heal would not serve to protect you or the people you loved. It could not spare them from harm before it happened.
Bucky and Steve turned to the door and a jolt of panic cursed in your chest.
“Bucky, wait!”
You leapt into his arms, desperate to hold him just once more. His hands coaxed down your spine, steadily and even. It wasn’t the first time he’d left you to face certain danger, but it was the first time it was happening on your own soil, under your shared roof. The middle of the night and he was ripped from your arms. It was worse than the nightmares you’d learned to fight off.
His lips pressed to your collar. “I’ll be back for you. Stay here, sweetheart.”
“Be careful,” you warned, reluctantly prying your arms from around his neck, “or we’ll have to redraw the conditions of our deal.”
He chuckled at the memory of the night you spent laid up in the hospital room days after you’d nearly died to save Steve’s life. Bucky had sworn off your abilities to heal his injuries outside of his shoulder and that, too, he regulated fiercely to ensure you did not take on more than you could handle. You’d spent hours going back and forth, arguing the injuries you felt were worth taking on to spare your friends and the injuries Bucky couldn’t bear to watch you suffer.
It was a warm memory, a pleasant one – the first one you could recall where someone had so stubbornly argued to spare you of the pain that came along with your gift. Bucky was determined to keep you from the sacrifice it demanded; never intending to use you as a means for power and authority the way your parents had. He would have been happy to never see you use your gift again if it meant you never suffered from a pain that was not meant for your body again.
That feeling he elicited in you – the feeling of safety and security, of ease and comfort – was not one you’d known well before. Your parents had drained you of every drop your body could manage and even then, they worked to bleed you dry all in the name of a sacrifice they deemed the world entitled to. Bucky worked every day to undo the damage they’d done, to remind you of your worth beyond your abilities.
But it was in moments like these – moments when he was about to rush into enemy lines and would certainly come back torn and battered that you resented his desire to spare you of foreign pain. You wanted to heal every last injury that dared touch his body. You wanted to take every burden he carried before it could drag him under.
Screw your deal. Screw his conditions.
But he was smiling at you – beautiful and kind and loving despite the glow of crimson lights from the hallway. Danger on his back and he still took the time to smile for you.
“Deal stays in place, sweetheart. I’ll come back whole, I promise,” Bucky winked, stealing a final kiss from the corner of your mouth before he followed Steve out into the sea of red, glowing light. The door closed behind him and you were left with a terribly unsettling silence.
“FRIDAY?” you called nervously, glancing up at the ceiling. “Please lock the doors.”
“Of course, Miss Y/l/n,” the AI replied, and then, the sharp clicking of several locks secured you in the room. You winced at each one as they settled into place. His bedroom was a fortress on par with the cells held in the basement of the compound. You didn’t dare wonder whether Bucky’s was the only room with such protocols in place, if he’d once used them to allow himself to sleep at night even when he feared the monster might return in his slumber.
In the far distance, the echo of a gunshot clipped through the air. You sank down behind the bed, clutching your knees to your chest. Your palms pressed against your ears in an effort to drown out the sound.
Helplessness was not a trait you cared to hold, and yet, when your friends faced the cruel edge of enemy lines infiltrating their own doorsteps, you could do nothing to protect them.
Some gift you had… The ability to heal what had already been destroyed. To only relieve the burden of pain that had already been cast. Never to protect them from it in the first place. Never to ensure they did not feel an ounce of the suffering they would come to endure.
Perhaps it was a selfish thought. Perhaps you were asking too much.
But for those who gave everything to protect everyone else around them, could you not wish that they be spared? Could you not hope that a scratch never cut their skin? A bullet never grazed their bones? Their blood never dropped thick and heavy from their fingertips?
It was foolish to ask for such things and you supposed it didn’t matter much anyway.
You’d be there when the blood exposed in dangerous lines upon their skin. You’d take away the destruction these invaders dared to cast. It will be as if nothing had ever touched them, no harm had ever laid waste to their bodies. To undamage the skin and mend what was once broken.
You’d find a way to work within the confines of your deal with Bucky.
Until then, you’d wait.
***
You could not hope to know how much time had passed while you listened to the gunfire that threatened your friends’ lives. Each shot caused such a violent jolt in your body it might as well have pierced through your own skin. Each echo could have ended Steve’s life, or Natasha’s, or Sam’s, or Tony’s or… or Bucky’s.
Still – you waited.
Your fingertips grazed over the scars on your stomach. Raised edges from the bullet wounds you’d sustained from the bullets that nearly killed Steve and the stab mark from the stranger in the alley. The only injuries that nearly cost your life to heal. The warnings to remind you just how close to a sacrifice your gift was meant to be.
Then, silence.
You peered at the door, heart pounding on par with the lingering echo of the final shot. Slowly, you pulled yourself to your feet, fingers grasping at the excess fabric of Bucky’s sweatshirt at the sleeves. Under the door, the red glow began to fade until it was nothing at all. Relief sank deep into your chest as an exhale carried away the weight sitting upon your lungs.
It was over. Bucky would come for you soon and—
A deep black smoke began to spill from the vents. Darker than what could have been drawn from a fire – so impossibly onyx in color that it could only have been made of something from inhuman abilities. You sprinted to the door as if you could outrun the influx of smoke to the room. It coated the gentle glow of starlight from the window and darkened the single lamp at your bedside until you could see nothing at all. Pitch black darkness and you fumbled with the doorknob, hands shaking, before you remembered FRIDAY’s protocols.
“FRIDAY! The door! Open the door!” you coughed violently as you shoved your shoulder against the impenetrable surface. Smoke filled your lungs, burned into your eyes and you covered your nose and mouth with the collar of Bucky’s sweatshirt. It wasn’t enough.
Then finally the door swung open and you fell out into the hallway, scrambling on the cold wooden floors to escape the smoke.
“Kid!” Tony shouted, racing towards you. The nanoparticles on his suit dissolved to expose his face, barley a scratch despite the deep bruising on his cheekbone. “FRIDAY deploy purifying protocols on Barnes’ room!”
The door slammed shut, trapping most of the black smoke inside. A whirring sound screamed from beyond the doors, as if a vacuum had sucked the air dry. You stared at the lingering smoke hanging along the ceiling above you, terrified it might have a mind of its own and plunge down into your lungs. But then it too was sucked back into the vents at FRIDAY’s command.
“Are you alright?” Tony asked, though his voice was tense. It sounded more like a demand to cover the panic and concern etched into his tired eyes. “What the hell is my top engineer doing out here in the middle of a raid?”
“Running from whatever the hell that was!” you grumbled back, coughing so violently blood spilled from your lips. A remanence of the smoke filtered in faded clouds in your exhales.
“Remind me to find a way to blame Barnes for this,” Tony huffed, though a teasing grin peered through. He extended his hand to you, the nanoparticles of his suit retracting back into the plate on his chest.
“I guess this means the threat’s been eliminated?” you questioned, eying the absence of his armor. You placed your hand into his grip.
“You expect anything less from Earth’s Mightiest—ah, shit!” Tony hissed, yanking his hand back from your grip and cradling it to his chest. He stared down at his palm, a stunned expression stealing away the lighthearted teasing from his features.
“Tony? What is it?” you asked cautiously, moving closer, though he took a step back before you could reach him. You couldn’t tell whether he was trying to shield you from what had caused such pain in his hand or if it was an involuntary flinch – the kind you’d make out of hesitation, out of fear.
Slowly, Tony turned his palm to you and you gasped at what you saw. Along his lifeline drew a deep, bloodied laceration that had not been there moments before. It cut into his skin as if a blade were held to it, sliding over the surface and bubbling crimson down his wrist. Blood dripped over the edge and onto the hardwood floors.
You blinked. “I don’t– I don’t understand…”
Tony stared blankly back at you. He couldn’t seem to find an explanation himself.
“Y/n!” Sam skidded in from the stairwell, Natasha hanging in his arms though she looked rather annoyed to be in such a position. She was gripping a wound on her left side, a knife still embedded between the ribs. Blood pooled from between her fingers. It was enough to draw your attention away from the strange anomaly on Tony’s hand.
Natasha grumbled under her breath as Sam swung her around the furniture in his path, her position jolted with every step. He grimaced as she gripped a pinching handful of shoulder until he yelped and finally slowed his pace.
Sam placed Nat on the couch to your left, panting heavily as he wiped his brow. “It’s bad down there. Steve and Buck are handling the last of them but Nat got jabbed pretty good.” He turned to you. “Helen won’t be able to break through the security channels to get inside for another hour. Any chance you could—”
“You don’t have to ask, Sam,” you replied easily, offering him a smile that eased the weight off his shoulders in an instant.
Sam’s hand grazed over your spine as he gestured you towards the couch Natasha was laid up on, when suddenly he out a terrible cry. He jolted away from you, nearly collapsing to the floor if not for his catch on the edge of the couch. He nursed his left ankle, pushing the entirety of his body onto his right foot. Then, he shifted his weight, testing the pressure, but the tension in his breath and the tight grip of his jawline was enough to tell you that the pain was excruciating.
Your heart was pounding. “Sam…?”
“I’m fine,” he strained as he forced out a smile. “It’s my ankle. I… I must not have felt it with the adrenaline rushing.” He gritted his teeth, barely able to put any pressure on it at all. “Help Nat. I’m okay.”
Hesitantly, you nodded. Tony was gripping his hand, watching you as if he were studying something in his lab, an equation written on a whiteboard and a marker in his hand, tapping the cap against his teeth. A shiver carried up your spine under his stare.
Slowly, you knelt beside Natasha. “Hey Nat, how are you feeling?”
“Never been better,” she gritted back through a hardwired jaw. She still managed a grin as she met your eyes. Sweat beaded on her forehead and you brushed it away with the edge of Bucky’s sleeve. She eyed her open wound. “Thought you had a deal with Barnes, huh?”
“Bucky’s not here right now, is he?” you teased, knowing full well he wouldn’t be happy if you took on an injury like this. You knew enough that it would hurt, might take longer than a few minutes to heal, but it wasn’t life threatening, not with the rate in which your body could mend the broken pieces back together. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but you’d survive it. It would spare your friend from suffering unnecessarily as she waited for Helen to arrive.
“Ready?” you inquired, hovering your hands over the hilt of the knife. She nodded and you yanked the blade from her ribs.
Your hands quickly replaced its intrusion. Closing your eyes, you felt for the tears in her muscle, the veins that had been cut, the skin marred from the blade. You waited for the warm, gentle glow to emit from your palms, but you found yourself dragging your nails at the bottom of a well; dried dirt all that remained.
You pushed past it, desperate to draw on your gift, but the more you looked, the more a heaviness weighed against your palms – a resistance to your own power. A chill swept through you; ice pressed your skin.
Something was wrong.
“Y/n…” Tony warned, but you could barely hear him.
You shook your head, losing your grip on your connection to Natasha’s injury. It should have begun to transfer by now. You should have felt the sharp pain of the knife slide in between your ribs, should have felt the trickle of blood down your stomach. But now—all you could feel was bone.
Wait— Bone?
You could feel it as if your hands had wrapped around the bone itself. Something so strong and still impossibly fragile within your grip. Your power flooded along the surface, dipping into the memory of old cracks and held on as if it had dug claws into surface. You gritted your teeth, trying to pull away from your power’s fixation upon Natasha’s clavicle.
“Y/n, step back, now!” Tony’s voice rang out and your eyes blew wide.
Under your palms was not the golden light you’d known all your life, but instead a deep black shadow. You tried to jump away but the darkness had coated around Natasha’s bone. The shadow sunk deep into the crevices, slithering through each dip and into the crack of the year-old fracture.
It snapped. Natasha began to scream.
You scrambled to the floor, kicking yourself as far away from her as you could manage. Your breaths were coming in too quickly – rapid and heavy and threatening to drown you under the weight of the tension. Tears spilled down the side of Natasha’s face and you froze – body stilled as stone as she bit down hard enough on her lips to draw blood in an effort to muffle the agonizing cries.
Sam was putting new pressure on Natasha’s open stab wound, blood pooling around his fingers, as Tony paced back and forth with a cell to his ear in an attempt to page for medical. Blood from his own laceration spilled down his wrist and trailed along his forearm like raindrops over a windowpane. Sam shifted to relieve the pressure on his left foot as he grazed a gentle finger over the break along Nat’s collarbone. She hissed at the touch.
Your hands were trembling as you struggled to keep yourself grounded, gripping into Bucky’s sweatshirt, knocking against the cold steadiness of the floors, brushing over the edge of the doorframe against your back. Natasha’s blood coated your palms and spread with every new touch.
Nothing made sense. Injuries didn’t just occur out of thin air. Tony’s cut appeared as though it had been carved by an invisible blade. Sam’s broken ankle snapping only at the moment he was clear of danger. Natasha fractured clavicle…
You froze.
They were all injuries you’d healed before. You’d once felt Tony’s cut on the center of your palm as if glass had shredded through it. You’d known the pain of Sam’s broken ankle as you’d once gritted your teeth in an effort to hide its claim on your own body from Bucky. You’d stuffed a towel in your mouth to keep from screaming as Natasha’s fractured clavicle healed under the surface of your own skin. You’d healed these injuries before. Only now, your power was transferring them back.
Bile retched its way up your stomach and you heaved its contents onto the floor beside you.
“Y/n!” Bucky’s voice echoed from down the hall as he and Steve rushed out from the stairwell.
Your eyes widened at the sight of him and you did not allow yourself not a single ounce of relief to see his body clean of the blood and ruin that usually laid waste upon his skin after heavy combat. You started to scramble backwards against the floors, desperate to keep him out of your reach, but Bucky was too quick for that.
“No! Don’t touch me!” you tried to warn him, but Bucky’s hands were already on your shoulders, drawing you to his chest. You pushed against him, sobs racking through your spine.
“Sweetheart! Hey, hey, it’s alright!” Bucky hushed; the relief evident in his body as he held you in his arms. “It’s just me. You’re okay.”
You shook your head rapidly, pressing your hands against his chest to push him away. “I’m not—I’m not, Bucky! Something’s wrong!”
Bucky narrowed his eyes, confused, before a hiss drew from his breath. He lifted his right hand in time to watch as blisters formed against the knuckles, skin tearing away as if he’d ruined them against the punching bag in the gym himself. His lip twitched as he tried to hide the sting of it but you could see the pain on his face. You took advantage of his hesitation to pull yourself from his grip before you could do more damage.
Steve started to approach, worried. He reached towards you, fingertips nearly grazing your skin. “Y/n, are you—”
“Get back!” you screamed, jumping far out of his reach. Steve retracted his hand, startled. “You can’t be anywhere near me! I could kill you, Steve. I–” you glanced down at your own hands in horror, “–I could kill you…”
Bucky moved to comfort you, but you flinched before his hand could touch the exposed skin on your shoulder. Hurt washed over his features as if he might actually believe it was his touch you were afraid of; the hands of the Winter Soldier, the hands of a killer, of Hydra’s enforcer. But it was never him. Never him.
“The smoke,” Tony said at last as the room turned to him, a defeated sigh on his breath. “It messed with her powers. Reversed them, by the looks of it.” He held up the laceration on the inside of his palm. Blood dripped from the gashing wound. “I got this from a lab accident not long after Y/n was hired here. It was how I learned about her abilities.”
Sam hung his head in realization. “I broke my ankle last year and Nat—” He sighed, adjusting his stance. Blood spilled from between his fingertips as he added pressure to her wound. She was barely conscious. “Y/n healed Nat’s fractured collarbone not long after.”
Bucky held his breath, his gaze still fixated on his knuckles. It took him a moment as his stare drifted from the pebbled blood on his hand up to you. A sinking weight build of agony and grief upon his features. “This was the first injury I let her heal.”
“Steve, you need to keep your distance at all cost,” Tony warned, pointing a finger in Steve’s direction. “If she gives those bullet wounds back… you won’t survive it.”
Steve took a cautious step backwards despite the fact he was already half across the room from you. He winced as he looked down at his feet, guilt pressing into his features. You were trembling across the room from him and still—you posed a threat to his life.
Fear was not a casualty you were used to be on the receiving end of. Pity, gratitude, awe, excitement, wonder – sure. Your gifts granted absolution from pain, stole the wounds that would surely scar, eased the discomfort from those who had suffered. You’d seen plenty of emotion in the eyes of those you touched. But not fear. Not like this.
You were shaking, staring helplessly at the people you would have given your life to heal as they now carried the injuries you had given back to them, winced and ached from pain you caused.
“I’m…” you gaped, slipping your hands behind the protective layer of fabric of Bucky’s sweatshirt and folded your arms over your chest, “I’m so sorry… I didn’t… I didn’t know…” You looked to Natasha who was barely clinging to consciousness, a whimpered groan escaping from her lips as Sam pressed her wound. “Nat… Nat I’m…”
“Sweetheart, it’s not your fault,” Bucky urged, instinctively moving closer but you pulled sharply out of reach. You didn’t dare allow yourself to witness the hurt upon his features, the desolation warped into such beautiful lines upon his face. He let his hand drop back to his side, defeated.
“We’ll figure out a way to reverse it,” Tony promised, eyes darting between you and the distance you settled away from your friends. “FRIDAY should have a sample of the smoke that dosed you in Barnes’ room.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow at that, horror flashing over his face, but you nodded weakly before Bucky ask.
“I’ll need a place to stay,” you said meekly. “Somewhere isolated.”
“No,” Bucky shook his head defiantly. “No, that’s not necessary. You’ll stay with me. You haven’t healed any other injuries of mine. There’s nothing to give back.”
You clenched your jaw. “Your shoulder, Buck…”
“I don’t care about my shoulder!” Bucky’s voice broke in the effort, the intensity startling you. “I’ve dealt with that pain for decades. So go on and give it back to me, sweetheart! I don’t care. I won’t let you be alone through this.”
You stilled, heart sinking down into your stomach. When had he become so willing to endure such pain to keep you from the isolation you faced? Was it long before he first showed up in your lab, weakly leaning against the wall and massaging the tender aches in his arm, finally working up the courage to ask for the aid of your gift? Was it back when he refused to allow you to heal his injuries, long before he knew what they would do to you in return?
He inched closer to you; steadily, gently, as if approaching a frightening animal. He held out his hand, offering it to you.
“Please, Y/n…”
You stared at his hand, unable to tear your eyes away from the cuts on his knuckles. You remembered how they’d felt as they broke open upon your own hand the day you’d healed him. Curled up on the floor of the gym, nestled against his side, your hand shoved deep into your pocket to shield him from the truth as you swallowed back the sting of its pain.
It took everything you had to turn away from him.
“I’ll be on the lower level until it’s safe to return,” you said flatly, the emotion void from your voice. It was all you could manage. “There’s still lab equipment there from the remodel last year. I know I’m a mechanical engineer, but Tony, if you could send a sample there it could at least keep me busy until—”
“Done,” Tony agreed eagerly. “I’ll send some to Fitzsimmons as well. They’ll want to take a look at it.”
You nodded. “Please make sure FRIDAY secures the floor so… so I don’t hurt anyone else.”
“This is ridiculous! We’re not going to isolate you in the fucking basement!” Bucky sprang forward, his chest heaving so rapidly he looked close to a panic attack. You wanted to lunge towards him, to absorb the frantic beating in his chest and the fire in his veins, but you wouldn’t dare touch him again, not knowing what kind of damage you could do to the nerves in his shoulder.
“There’s no other choice,” Tony said, guilt sinking into his features. “Y/n has healed hundreds of injuries in her time here. If every touch can bring them back, even when she’s not consciously trying to heal… It could be disastrous. Imagine if she gave back every injury you ever sustained in the last five years all at once. It would kill you.”
“I never used her powers at every inconvenience, Stark,” Bucky snapped, venom dripping on the edge of his tongue.
Tony stilled. “I didn’t know what it did to her at the time, Barnes. None of us did.”
“Bucky, please,” you reached towards him, almost to set a hand against his forearm but quickly smothered the instinct. You clung your covered hands against your chest. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“So let me come with you,” Bucky begged. His legs appeared weak, like he might sink down to his knees in front of you, his pride lost to the smoke that had burned to your lungs. His hands clenched to fists; his breaths heavy inside his chest. “Keep yourself away from everyone else if you have to, but don’t do that to me. Please… not me, too.”
Tears stung in his eyes. Wet and red and clouding over the blue you’d come to adore. Pain drenched into his body and you didn’t have to lay a single hand upon him.
“I’m sorry…” It was barely more than a whisper, your voice threatening to give out entirely. Bucky’s chin fell to his chest, defeat sinking low into his body as if weights clung to his limbs and dragged him down into the hardwood floors. You wouldn’t dare a glance in his direction as you turned your shoulder. It was the only way. Tony understood. Maybe in time, so would Bucky.
It was what you told yourself anyway as the stairwell door closed behind you and you descended into the closed off level in the basement. Bare footsteps through the silence and the heavy exhale in your breath all that kept your company as you turned on the lights.
Cobwebs hung against the ceilings. Exposed beams and furniture covered in sheets. Not even FRIDAY was hooked up on this level so you would have to lock the doors manually. Your fingers grazed over the locks as you stole one last look into the hall, wondering if Bucky or any of your friends might chase after you, might try to convince you to stay. But you were only met with more silence.
Fear was a powerful emotion, after all.
***
“It’s been three days, Y/n,” Fitz’ voice drawled through the speaker. “Maybe if you could just try the gloves I sent you, it will—”
“I can’t risk it, Fitz.” You raked your fingers through your hair, nails digging into your scalp enough for the sharp sting in follow in its wake. The burn of it settled you back into your body. “I mean… who am I supposed to test it on? I’ve healed more than just a minor papercut for these people. I’m talking major field injuries and you want me to just see if I… I don’t know… puncture their lungs? Or shred a bullet through their torso? Or reintroduce a blade to their throat? I could throw all three at once if I’m not careful and I could end up killing an Avenger!”
“Alright, alright,” Fitz sighed. You could hear him tinkering in his lab through the soft crackling in the speaker. The glass of test tubes clinking as he swiveled around the room in his chair. A moment of silence passed, which could only indicate that he was hesitating before he spoke. There was rarely room for much silence at all when it came to Fitz.
He cleared his throat awkwardly. “There’s always Sergeant Barnes.”
You flinched, nearly dropping the sample of smoke as you adjusted its position under the microscopic lens. “No. Absolutely not. Don’t bring him up again.”
“I’m serious, Y/n!” Fitz huffed rather dramatically, his thick Scottish accent curling on his tongue. “You haven’t healed anything for him that could be life threatening, nothing that is any more pain than the man is already used to—”
“I said no, Fitz!” you snapped, a stray vial falling to the floor at your feet. The glass shattered onto the tile floors. In the lingering emptiness, you could feel the weight of the last few days sinking onto your shoulders; heavy and dragging along muscle and skin and bone until your feet had burrowed into the ground.
You knew Fitz was only trying to help, that he was working around the clock to help reverse whatever this smoke had done to your abilities. He didn’t deserve the blunt end of your frustration.
“I’m sorry,” you sighed, covering over Fitz’ muttered apology. “I just…I can’t be another person that causes him pain. There have been so many and I can’t add myself to that list. I’m supposed to heal his pain, Fitz. I’m supposed to take it away. I can’t… I can’t give it back.”
Fitz’ exhale fluttered through the speaker. You could hear the clock ticking from across the room, the roar of the quinjet’s engines outside Fitz’ lab 30,000 feet in the sky. If you listened hard enough, you might be able to hear the fracture inside your chest as you glanced back to the window along the locked door to the lab, half hoping to find Bucky waiting for you despite your desperate pleas for him to keep his distance, despite the fears you held of your own powers, despite the lingering words of your parents mocking you in the back of your head – ‘sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.’
“We’ll sort it out, Y/n, I promise,” Fitz said after a moment. You weren’t sure whether you believed him, but it was a nice thought to have.
Through the speaker, you hear the soft tap of shoes clicking over the tiles before the voice of a feminine English accent added, “I won’t rest until I isolate the variables in this sample. You know Fitz and I… can’t stop until the problem’s solved.”
You could hear the smile in Jemma Simmon’s voice, could practically picture the nervous glance she would share with Fitz before you could find the strength to respond. If anyone could figure this out, you knew it was them. Even with the slight waver of uncertainty in their voices, it was nice to know they meant well, that they were trying.
“Thank you,” you managed to mutter back.
“Of course, dear,” Jemma replied cheerily. You could tell it was forced and a little strained, but you appreciated her effort.
You glanced up at the clock. “I should probably go anyway. Don’t want take up more of your time.”
“Oh, it’s no bother—!” Fitz tried to interject.
“Just find that cure for me, will you?” you replied instead, faking your way through a moderately convincing laugh.
Fitz paused, likely sharing that knowing look with Simmons. “We will.”
“Take care of yourself,” Jemma chimed in before you could manage to end the call. “I know you’re holing yourself up in that basement but it doesn’t mean you have to be alone. Precautions can be taken. That door has a window, you know.”
You nodded, glancing back at the door and the unanswered reflection. “I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.”
You ended the call before their reply.
***
“This is what you were made for,” your mother cooed as she slid a comforting hand along your hair. Tears spilled down your cheeks as your Achilles tendon fused itself together. Tissue and muscle and agony with every new fiber – snapped and mended in a matter of minutes. You were eight years old.
“You are exceptional,” she praised, lifting a hand to bring forth the next in line as you finally caught a full breath again, just as the pain subsided. Only a moment of recovery. Only a glimpse of what it felt like to live inside your own body without the intrusion of pain that should not have been yours to suffer.
“This is your purpose, my love.” She guided your hand to the stranger’s chemical burn along his forearm. You whimpered as your skin began to bubbler and blister, all while the man glowed in awe of your gift. Such wonder. A miracle within itself.
He bowed. Your skin sizzled.
“This is how you will change the world.” You mother brought forward the next stranger. One after another. Endless. She spoke to you as if you were more than a scared, young girl; as if your pain was a simple side effect of such a magnificent gift.
“It hurts,” you whimpered before the next woman in line could approach. The burn hadn’t had a chance to heal yet and it was still bubbled along your skin. Oozing and angry in its color.
Your mother didn’t look in your direction, instead she beckoned the woman forward. A broken hipbone, by the looks of it. She couldn’t stand from her wheelchair, but she looked to your mother in gratitude, as if she were the one offering salvation and not the whimpering child upon a makeshift throne.
“Please,” you shook your head, trying to squirm out of reach, but your mother held you firm.
“We talked about this, my dear,” she replied with all the comfort of a mother’s voice though her eyes were cold and distant. “Your gift comes with a cost and you must bear it. It is a sacrifice for the good of the world.”
Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice.
You nodded, brushing the tears from your cheeks. The burn had cleared on your skin and slowly, you reached towards the elderly woman. The warm light glowed along your palms as you hovered your hand along her hip. When you could not bite back the scream as your bone cracked under the surface, your mother scowled.
Jolted awake, you flung the thin sheet from your lap and quickly pushed yourself to your feet. Rubbing deep pressure into your temples, you tried to find space to ground yourself amongst the unfamiliar room. Memories of your time as little more than a wishing stone in your mother’s hand usually left you feeling unsettled for hours.
You took in a deep breath, holding it until you felt the pressure sting against your lungs, and exhaled long enough to lose the tension burned to your chest. Your hands gripped along the counter tops, feeling for the cold, hard surface. The dips in the metal. The bump of paper along the path. Feeling, feeling, feeling. Grounding.
Usually, you had Bucky to bring you back from those dreams. His arms wrapped around your shoulders; his heartbeat nestled under your ear. Steady rhythm and the gentle coax of his hand along your spine. Hushed murmurs in your ear, praise and reassurance. Reminders that you were more than the false god your parents had deigned you to be. Bucky would pull you from their clutches even as you felt their claws sink punctured marks to your skin.
But you didn’t have Bucky. You’d made sure of that, hadn’t you?
You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, choking back the sob before it could manage to escape. The lump at the back of your throat was suffocating; burning and aching. It threatened to cut off your air supply entirely. Short, hollowed breaths followed.
How was it possible that you missed that feeling of helplessness you held just moments before the smoke? The sacrifice you’d finally learned to use as a gift in kindness had become a curse. It stole from you the one thing that you had to offer, the one aspect of your being that made your existence worthy and whole and—No.
Those were the words of your parents. Your sacrifice – your gift – was not your purpose.
You were a decorated mechanical engineer. You designed tech and suits and defensive armor for the Avengers. You were top of your class at the Academy. You were hired by Tony Stark before he had any idea of the healing power that you possessed; he’d seen your worth beyond the power that had once been a beacon for the sick and injured.
“You’re worth more than just a vessel for our pain, Y/n!”
Bucky’s voice still rang in your ear from the day you woke in the med wing days after healing Steve from the brink of death. You glanced down and lifted the edge of your shirt, fingertips grazing over the scarred bullet wounds you nearly didn’t survive. Raised edges of one of the few scars that remained on your body – unhealed. It was the last time you’d ever allowed yourself to use your gift in such a way – to endure the sacrifice it demanded.
But it was one thing to begin to find worth in yourself beyond the pain you suffered in the name of those you loved, another to be the cause of such a burden.
You had only started to learn how to live with yourself as you stood by and watched as Sam gritted his teeth through stitches on the open wound on his forearm, as Natasha limped on a sprained ankle for weeks, as Steve tried to hide the shortness of breath when a rib inched too close to his lungs. You had only begun to accept Bucky’s endless pain in his arm; the nerves he’d only allow you to heal once every few weeks when his will wore down.
But to know that for every injury you healed, every moment where they glowed in wonder and amazement at your gift, you could return it at the graze of your fingertips… It was unimaginable.
You could brush Natasha’s fingers as you reached for the same coffee mug and dislocate her shoulder. You could bump Sam’s hip in the kitchen and litter scrapes and bruises over his entire body. A quick hug from Tony and you could brand burn marks along his arms and legs. You could run into Steve in the hallway and put three bullet holes into his torso— a single touch and you could give back the night that almost ended his life. You could kill him.
You sank to the floor, arms wrapping around yourself, unable to hold back the tears any longer. Sobs racked through your body until they came gasping, until you were dry heaving, until you could barely catch your breath. Under the weight of such pressure, you hadn’t noticed the footsteps beyond the door, the press of a hand against the glass.
“I could break the lock, you know,” Bucky’s voice called from the hallway. Your eyes snapped up to find him watching you through the window by the door. Your vision blurred and you brushed your sleeve against your eyes.
“I haven’t done it yet because I’m trying to respect what you asked of me, to give you this space, but,” he sighed, dropping his gaze as another tear fell heavy against your cheek, “watching you like this is going to kill me. Please, sweetheart. Please just let me in.”
You shook your head, eyes flickering to the mess of scar tissue hidden beneath his thin t-shirt. “I’ll hurt you…”
Bucky held his ground. “I don’t care.”
“But I do!” you cried, pushing yourself back to your feet. You stumbled backwards away from the door until you felt the cold press of the wall against your spine. It was as much distance as you could safely manage and it wasn’t enough. You cornered yourself against the wall like a frightened animal.
Bucky gritted his teeth as you tried to muffle another sob. He disappeared from the window and without warning, the knob dislocated from the door and dropped to the ground. The door eased open as Bucky stepped inside, the lock broken under the pressure of vibranium.
“Please,” you begged, though it came out as barely more than a whimper, “please don’t come near me.”
Bucky took another step forward. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be!” you shot back. “I have no idea how this power works, Bucky. I could—I could give back all the pain I took from you at once and—God—I don’t know what that could do to you!”
There was not a single ounce of fear upon his face as he steadily repeated, “I don’t care.”
He was only a few steps away now. Your heels pressed against the trim at the edge of the floor, hands falling flat against the cold surface of the wall. You’d sink into the foundation if you could have, but Bucky inched closer.
“Nothing,” Bucky started, a desolate look upon his face, “could hurt me worse than seeing you like this. Nothing you could give me could hurt more than these last few days—of knowing that you’re scared and alone down here.”
Your lips parted, trying to find the words as Bucky stood within your reach. He stilled, watching as another tear slipped over your cheek, and his hand clenched as if he’d taken the effort to restrain himself from wiping it away himself.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you whispered, gaze dropping to his chest. “You asked me not to work on your shoulder without your consent, to not take on your pain unless you asked. You didn’t want to see me in pain so please… don’t make me return it to you like this.”
Bucky clenched his jaw, his hands curled so tightly you wondered how much he was holding himself back from pulling you into his arms anyway. He leaned towards you, like he might be considering it, but then—he stepped back.
“Let me stay with you, at least,” Bucky asked, putting distance between you. “You can’t hurt me if you’re standing across the room. This way, you won’t be alone. Let me do this for you.”
You paused, watching his stance as he gripped tight to the back of an old lab chair. It warped under his palms. Still, he evened his breaths, concentrated on you. His haze burned as you did everything possible for avoid his eyes.
“Would you leave if I said no?”
Bucky swallowed and reluctantly muttered, “yes.”
“I could put you through excruciating pain, Bucky. If you were to touch me, even by accident—” You shook your head, tears stinging against your eyes. You didn’t want to finish your sentence, but you both understood. It could be worse than the fall, worse than the surgery he’d gone under without proper anesthetic, worse than the decades of abuse and heavy metal pulling at his shoulder. “Being down here with me… it’s worth the risk to you?”
“Yes,” Bucky replied without hesitation. His hand twitched as if he had to restrain himself from reaching for you. “Trust me, sweetheart. Asking me to leave you again will hurt worse than anything you can dole out with that new shadow magic.”
He pressed a smile onto his face, teasing and gentle, though it ached in his eyes. You nodded, unable to return it.
“I’d like to not find out,” you said, but it was acceptance enough. Bucky nodded, grateful, and he pulled out the chair on the opposite end of the room. The silence hung heavy between you, but amongst the ticking of the clock over the door and the hum of the air conditioner, you could still hear his even breaths.
***
“I’m sorry, Y/n, I wish I had better news,” Fitz’ slumped into his chair. It rolled away from the video monitor as he hung his head.
Nearing a week since you’d been exposed to the smoke that reversed your abilities and you were no closer to an answer. Even the sample you kept locked behind the containment window within your own makeshift lab had proved worthless. The smoke rose and fell inside the vial, shifting as if itching for a way through the cracks – as if it were sentient.
“It’s not nothing!” Jemma popped on screen, still wearing her lab goggles over her eyes. She smiled at you as she always did – so bright in the face of the dark end of a tunnel – and still, you could not bring yourself to even mimic one in return.
“It’s altered my DNA, Jemma,” you replied flatly, repeating the findings they just presented to you moments earlier, as if any one of you could have forgotten. Across the room, you could feel the shift in Bucky’s tension as he watched from his distance.
“There’s always a chance you could learn how to control it,” Fitz offered timidly. He exchanged a worried glance with Jemma before continuing. “Think about it. As a kid, you didn’t have control over your healing ability. Any touch could set it off, right? Maybe this is the same thing. Maybe you could learn to—”
“What?” you scoffed. “Torture people? Be a more competent monster?”
Fitz froze, a stunned look on his face. “That’s not what I meant.”
Bucky crossed the room, careful to keep a full six feet between you as he approached the monitor. “Why don’t we touch base tomorrow, okay? Thanks for the update, guys.” The moment the camera went black, Bucky turned his attention to you. His jawline was hard-set as his hands gripped into the edge of the table. “What was that about?”
You shrugged. “What?”
Bucky bit at the inside of his cheek, watching you, as if he might be waiting for you to fess up. Hands planting on his hips, a tense exhale, and he finally grunted out, “you really think I don’t know what it’s like to hurt the people I love?”
The air stilled in your lungs as your folded arms slacked at your sides.
Bucky shook his head. “I know exactly how you feel, Y/n. I know what it is to have your body made to be a weapon, to have no fucking say when you hurt the people you care about. I know, Y/n. So hear me when I say you are not a monster.”
You tapped your fingertips against the edge of the counter. Nervous energy. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”
“Yes, it is!” He nearly crossed the room to you but you flinched the moment he took a single step. The motion forced his body to stone. Slowly, he forced a steady breath before continuing, “you told me a dozen times the pain I caused when I had no control was not mine to claim. How is this any different?”
It was. It had to be.
Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice.
You didn’t say a word as you turned your back to him, sinking onto the couch and pulling the sheet high up along your shoulders. You could only vaguely hear Bucky’s defeated breath as he turned back to his place at the opposite end of the room.
There was no glimpse of sunlight in the basement, no windows to watch the glow as it pulled behind the tree line. There were no shadows to hide behind as you burrowed behind the stone-built wall you’d placed in Bucky’s path. Your shame was littered upon your skin – vibrant under the florescent overhanging lights.
***
“I won’t do this anymore—I can’t.” You threw your belongings into the only duffle bag you could find; torn and ripped at the seams from its home at the edge of a dark alleyway. You’d scrubbed it clean four times in the dead of night before your parents could know you held onto it. Hidden away. Protected. Waiting until the moment the final straw had snapped.
“I told you this would happen,” you mother sneered toward your father. “We allow her to attend university, gain all these meaningless degrees, and now she thinks she can abandon her gods-given duty!”
“My degrees are not meaningless,” you snapped back. A pile of clothes shoved into the duffle in a messy heap.
“In comparison to the work you have done to heal—”
“The work?” you scoffed, a dead laugh bitter against your lips. “You mean the suffering you forced me to endure for the sake of your own goddamn egos!”
Your mother straightened her spine, the frown curving low upon her pink stained lips. “For the good of others, there is a sacrifice you must—”
“DO NOT SPEAK TO ME OF SACRIFICE!” You roared, stilling your movements as you faced her save for the heavy rise in your chest. Will and will. Stubborn and unrelenting as you stared down the hardened expression upon your mother’s face.
“Darling,” your father eased, “your power is a gift from the gods. We cannot ignore it.”
He always did believe in that crap. His belief in divinity is what allowed him to excuse the pain he’d put you through – to do so in the name of something greater than himself. Whether it was in fear or wonder, you never did know. It didn’t matter, you supposed. He still allowed his child to suffer broken bones, burns, diseases, and scars that were never meant to be hers.
You closed your eyes, clawing for the strength you’d gathered this morning as you tugged the duffle from under your bed.
“Tony Stark offered me a job. I’m going to take it.”
“Stark?” your mother scoffed; arms folded over her chest. “That arrogant bastard? What will you do for him, huh? Heal the Avengers? What a useless waste of such power—”
“He hired me as a mechanical engineer,” you shot back, pride swelling at the sight of surprise upon her features. Her brow raised in disbelief. You smirked. “He has no idea of my abilities. He hired me because I’m damn good at my job and I can use something other than this fucking gift to actually help people! I can make armor and defensive tech for the Avengers. I can save lives! I can help before there is even an injury to—”
Your mother slammed the door behind her as she left. Even in her absence, the room still felt heavy with the tension she left behind – thick, suffocating. Your chest rose and fell with the weight of each breath. Slowly, your gaze shifted to your father. He swayed in his stance, a helpless look back at the door.
“Dad…” you tried, but he held up a hand – silencing you. He did not speak another word to you as he turned his back to you. His head hung low, shame and disappointment at the free will of his only child, to go against the gods, to dare to ask for a life behind the pain they surrounded you in your entire life.
You woke gasping for breath; tears wet on your cheeks, soaking into your pillowcase. Sweat beaded along your brow, slick against your arms and legs as you kicked the thin sheet off of your body. You struggled to even take in a breath, hands trembling so violently you could hardly grab hold of the edge of the couch to pull you upright.
By the time you managed to find your footing, you spotted Bucky’s cautious, half sleep-ridden glance in your direction. He stilled, gaze flickering over the reflective lines on your face, the rapid rise and fall of your breath, and he was on his feet.
“What is it? What happened?” he urged, instinctively rushing across the room to you.
Even beyond the panic attack lighting like fire through your body, the dread as he closed the space between you drew the clarity back to your focus. You flinched out of his reach before he could lay a comforting hand against your forearm, before his hands could slide into your own. He stilled.
“Don’t,” you panted, taking a step back.
“You can’t keep up this wall between us forever, Y/n,” Bucky warned, his voice lacking the bitter resentment you expected it to hold. Instead, it carried a weight – a heaviness—a sort of agony you couldn’t understand. “What will you do if this doesn’t go away? What if Fitzsimmons doesn’t find a cure? Will you spend the rest of your life flinching every time I come near you? Will you never allow me to touch you again?”
Your gaze dropped to the floor, unable to answer his questions. Bucky narrowed his eyes, studying the hesitancy within your stance, the inability to meet his gaze. He shook his head, like trying to rid himself of whatever terrible thought had entered his mind. He gritted his teeth, hands curling to fists to keep from shaking.
“You wouldn’t…” he started, barely able to get the words out. “You wouldn’t leave me, would you?”
Your breath hitched and perhaps it was the guilt seeped deep into every pore upon your face that Bucky knew your answer before you could even hope to spare him with a desperate excuse. His shoulders slumped as if the wind has been knocked out of him, his stance swaying on uneven feet as he brought his hand to his eyes. Trembling.
“Bucky, please–” you begged, tears burning in your eyes as his face fell, “you don’t understand! The pain I could cause you—”
“Don’t understand?!” Bucky shot back, agape. The vein along his right forearm rushed to the surface as his fist met the table top with a loud BANG. “I love you! I understand perfectly fine! I know what the risks are! I know the pain you could give back and I don’t fucking care! I. LOVE. YOU.”
A throat cleared at the edge of the room. Both of your heads snapped to the window to find Tony standing on the other side, holding a vial in his hand. A bandage still remained over his palm from where you’d reintroduced the laceration from three years earlier. He clenched his jaw, gaze shifting between you and the obvious storm he’d walked in on.
“Priority express from Fitzsimmons,” Tony said slowly, setting the vial in the compartment below the window. Through the small opening, it would allow you access to the strange, amber fog contained within the glass without opening the door to the lab.
“Is it a cure?” Bucky dared to ask.
Tony shrugged. “Unclear. Simmons had it sent over for Banner to evaluate as well. It’s promising, but we don’t have any concrete proof that it could restore her power. I figured Y/n might want to examine it herself. Fitz is working on putting a trial together to test it safely.”
Bucky swallowed. “How long until we know if it’s the real deal?”
Tony must have replied an answer, but his words were lost to you as you crept across the room. Slow. Steady with every step as you approached the sample. Transfixed by the swirl of golden smoke as it gently lifted and sank within the vial – breathing, living. You reached a hand for the containment window.
“Y/n?” Bucky’s voice called from the edge of the room. It wavered.
Your grasp curled around the vial; cold within your grip, lighter than air.
Maybe it could end right here, right now. Maybe you wouldn’t have to face a future without your friends, without Bucky. You wouldn’t have to endure an endless, paralyzing solitude for the rest of your days – isolated from everyone you’ve ever cared for in fear of returning the injuries and wounds that may take their life. You wouldn’t have to endure yet another sacrifice – another burden – to protect the people you loved.
You could spare Bucky the pain of walking away, of protecting him beyond what he was willing to understand. You could hold him again. Love him again. Touch him.
Bucky was staring at you, studying the look upon your face. His brow furrowed, recognizing the desperation in your eyes. You thumbed the lid from the vial until it fell to the ground. Bucky lunged for you.
“Y/n, wait!” Tony’s hand slammed against the glass, but you’d already inhaled the smoke.
The room stilled around you. Bucky held his breath as he watched you from his distance, close enough to reach out and touch you if he dared and still—a thousand miles away. Tony gritted his teeth as he dialed a number on his phone, bringing it to his ear.
You’d barely registered the golden smoke as you breathed it in. It hadn’t burned, hadn’t felt it as it filled deep into your lungs. Only faded remnants of ambered air puffed from your lips in every exhale.
“She took it!” Tony snapped on the phone. “What are we looking at, Fitz?”
“Do you feel any different?” Bucky asked gently, inching closer. You drew your attention away from Tony’s hushed conversation behind the window. Bucky reached a hand to you but quickly withdrew it, as if he’d had to relearn each time that his touch was unwanted.
You shook your head. “I hadn’t felt a difference when it reversed, either.”
Bucky swallowed. He lifted his palm to you, holding it within your reach so that you might make the choice to take it. “We’ll have to test it somehow.”
You clenched your jaw, stealing a glance over at Tony who was mumbling into his conversation with Fitz. He met your eye for a second, a terrible mixture of frustration and understanding rolled into one – masked by the scowl upon his features.
Then, you turned to Bucky and his extended hand. “Okay.”
You knew it would come to this eventually – that you would have to learn how to touch him again without fear, without the belief that you could instill a year’s worth of nerve damage back into his shoulder—a pain worse than the surgery Hydra had done on him without anesthetic, worse than the fall that took his arm. You’d have to belief you could hold him without consequence again.
With a trembling hand, you reached for him.
But then – lightening sharp pain in your chest. You screamed, falling to your knees as a white-hot burning sensation lit fire inside your lungs. Bucky rushed towards you, hovering, unsure whether he could lay a hand upon you as he shared a panic look with Tony. The phone was hanging helplessly at the end of his hand.
“Get her to medical, now!” Tony ordered. “Fitzsimmons is on their way. That shit hasn’t been tested yet! It could do more damage than we know.” A flash of horror crossed his face. “She could take on every injury she’s healed at once!”
Bucky wasted no time as he threw his arms around you, but he was gone just as fast – burned as if the single touch to your skin had torn his arm straight from his body. He screamed as his right hand jolted to his shoulder, pressing into the tissue as if it might alleviate the pain.
You looked at him helplessly as your breaths came in heavy and labored. “Bucky… You can’t. Don’t do this to yourself.”
Bucky gritted his teeth, determination spurring him forward as you clutched at your chest, finger digging into your skin as if they could rip into your lungs. He ignored your objections as his arms circled around you; one hooked under your knees, the around wrapped behind your back as he hulled you into his arms. His face contorted in pain, skin burning red under the pressure, but he did not make a sound as he lifted you into the air.
The pain in your chest was excruciating; your breaths barely shallow enough to capture oxygen, and still – you begged him to leave you.
“Bucky, let me go,” you pleaded, hand gently running against his shoulder as if you still had the ability to take the pain for him. You longed for the golden glow under your palms, the burning ache in your own shoulder as his nerves repaired under the surface. Temporary but still meaningful.
“I say this with love–” Bucky exhaled tightly, sweat beaded on his brow, “shut the hell up, sweetheart.”
Bucky carried you up the stairwell, across the open floor and past the worried glances from your team. Even as the smoke pillowed into your lungs and every breath burned as if fire has manifested itself within your chest, as you whined against his chest, begged him to leave you behind, Bucky kept going. It didn’t seem to matter when tears were sliding down the sides of his face, his skin flushed and hot from the pain in his shoulder he refused to relent. With you hung in his arms, weight dragging down on nerves that were already lit aflame, his gaze losing focus as his vision began to tunnel, he kept going.
By the time Bucky got you to the med bay, Helen was there waiting. Her team was dressed in full hazmat suits – not a single recognizable face amongst the bunch. Another precaution, you assumed. It was difficult to return an injury you had never healed.
Bucky set you onto the gurney and promptly collapsed into the chair at the edge of the room as the medical team swarmed around you. Despite the smoke burning inside your lungs and the wires and IV being hooked to your body, you kept your focus on Bucky. You watched as he unlatched his left arm, letting it fall to a heap on the floor as the weight released from his shoulder. He winced, breathing through the pain as a trembling hand moved to massage the tender tissue. He swayed, even as he sat. The pain was drawing him under and he refused to let it.
Don’t fight it, you cried, but the words had not left your lips. You glanced down to find a morphine drip hanging above your bed. Eyes growing drowsy, you fought to stay awake, to make sure Bucky was okay, that he didn’t go into shock from the pain you’d given him.
Bucky’s eyes closed, his head falling back against the wall – the pain finally having rendered him unconscious. And then – the darkness pulled you, too.
***
“What in the hell were you thinking!?” Fitz flung his arms in the air, pacing back and forth along the edge of your med room. One hand came down to plant against his hip, the other rubbing circles against his brow. “We sent it over to you to examine! To discuss in the morning! To give you hope, dammit! No one told you to huff it, you idi–”
“Fitz!” Jemma warned, hitting him on his arm. He furrowed his brow at her, a silent look between the two of them speaking more than you expected they ever needed to say aloud, before he managed a half-assed grimace in your direction. Jemma sighed as she sat on the edge of your bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” you shrugged. The pain in your lungs had disappeared by the time you woke to find Fitzsimmons hovering over your bedside, their noses deep in your chart and tapping a finger to the monitor hanging over your bed.
“Fitz is right though,” Jemma admitted. “It was only a prototype. We hoped, certainly, but we still don’t know the implications of what it could do to you.”
“Has anyone tested it?” Fitz asked, his head popping up.
“There’s no point. I already know it didn’t work. Bucky’s still recovering from the nerve damage I returned to his shoulder when he carried me over here,” you muttered, gaze flashing over to Bucky as he sat propped up against the wall in the same chair he’d collapsed into hours earlier. Helen had managed to get an IV in to manage his pain, but no one dared to move him.
Fitz nodded. “Was that after the smoke had dissolved?”
You raised an eyebrow. “It still burned when he brought me in here if that’s what you mean.”
He and Jemma exchanged a glance. Another silent conversation. Fitz turned his head towards Bucky. He folded his arms over his chest, taking a swift step towards the opposing wall as if he were readying himself to retaliation.
“Sergeant Barnes!”
“Dammit, Fitz. Leave him alone,” you warned as Fitz shouted Bucky’s name again.
“You can’t test it on us,” Fitz told you, swatting away Jemma’s hand as she tried to smack his arm again. “You’ve never healed us before. But you can try it on him.”
“No,” you shot back as Bucky’s eyes fluttered open. “No way in hell. I’m not doing that to him again.”
“Do what?” Bucky questioned, rubbing at his eyes. He bent down and grabbed the metal arm laid at the floor by his feet and fastened it back into the socket. A few clips, a flexing of the vibranium plates, and he swung his arm in a circle for good measure to make sure it was secure. Slowly, he made his way to your bedside.
“Fitz wants to test the sample they made,” you explained, rolling your eyes. “Again.”
“No, not ‘again’,” Fitz argued, his Scottish accent punctuating every syllable. “It wasn’t in your system enough to work when Sergeant Barnes carried you here. Now that it’s cleared your lungs, it should have absorbed and restored your original power.”
You shook your head. “You didn’t see what it did to him, Fitz. I won’t–”
Bucky’s hand slid onto yours. You gasped, stunned by the contact as Bucky’s fingers curled under your palm. It was the first time you’d felt him – truly felt him – since the black smoke had punctured your lungs and stolen your healing abilities. You’d forgotten how calloused his palms were, the rough edges contrasted by how gentle he held your hand, as if it were something delicate to behold.
The room fell deadly silent – only the heart monitor’s gentle beep filled the room. Not even your shaken breath could be heard as you held it tight within your chest. You wouldn’t dare look up to watch the grimace upon Bucky’s face, his expression contorting into pain once more.
“Anything?” Jemma asked cautiously.
“Nothing,” Bucky replied and your gaze shot up to his. His rolled his shoulders, his face slack of the hard-set lock he’d worn when he’d carried you to the med wing. Instead, something beautiful sat in its place – a smile edging along his lips. “Well, no worse than it usually is.”
“What if I’ve already given back all the nerve damage? What if I can’t transfer pain to him because there’s nothing left to give?” you asked Jemma, concern quickly wiping away your relief. Bucky squeezed your hand, soothing a thumb along your palm. You held back tears as they threatened to break. “What if it’s not fixed? I— I can’t risk running into Steve. I can’t take that chance.”
Bucky nodded, his hand slipping out from your grip for only second. He nabbed the chart hung at the edge of your bed and slid his palm down along the edge of the paper. He hissed at the contact, shaking out his wrist.
“Here,” he offered his hand to you. At the center of his palm was a paper cut. The same affliction he once told you he would not allow you to heal for him had he known it would hurt you. He was resistant as he held his hand towards you, still reluctant to allow you even a sliver of his own pain, but he knew how badly you needed to test this – to make sure your friends were safe.
Your eyes flickered to his. He gave you a short nod, his breathing steady, a gentle smile upon his lips urging you to take his hand. Always so willing to put himself on the line for you.
Slowly, you hovered your hand over his, holding your breath. You felt for the tissue along his skin, the slight cut barely noticeable to the human eye. You imagined threading it back together, the skin fusing back into place. You waited for it come back to you – the ability you’d both loathed and craved your entire life. Waiting. Waiting. Until—
A warm, golden light brightened at the center of your palm. You gasped at the sensation, tears springing to your eyes as you felt the welcomed sting of the paper cut absorb into your right hand. Fitz and Simmons were gleaming from across the room. Bucky’s hand was gently brushing hair from your eyes, his smile bright across his face as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
As you pulled your hand back, you soothed your thumb over the healed cut along his palm. Perfectly intact skin as if it had never been broken. Your right hand held it instead, laid upon your body for only a moment before it too faded into the graveyard of foreign injuries. You choke back a sob.
“We probably should still run some tests,” Fitz started to say just as Jemma dragged him towards the door, kindly offering, “we’ll give you some space” over Fitz’s rambling. The two of them bickered sweetly all the way out the door and down the hallway.
The moment they were gone, you turned to Bucky. “How’s Natasha? We should get her in here so I can—”
“Can you not let yourself rest for even one moment?” Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. When you didn’t relent, he exhaled a tired breath. “Natasha’s okay. Helen was able to stabilize the stab wound. She’s got stitches and she’ll be good as new in a week or so.”
“But her clavicle—”
“–is not something she’ll agree to let you heal again given how painful it was for you the first time,” Bucky warned gently. You started to protest, but Bucky edged you towards the side of the bed, slipping in next to you. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, tugging you against his chest. “She doesn’t blame you, sweetheart. No one does. They know you had no control over it.”
You sighed, listening intently to the even thump of Bucky’s heart. “Do you think anyone will trust my powers again?” Bucky narrowed his brow and you added, “I saw the way Steve looked at me. I know I scared him and hell—he was right to be scared given what I could have done to him. It’s just… I know they’re the Avengers and this is my job—”
“It’s not your job to heal us,” Bucky reminded you gently.
You groaned, shoving him in his ribs playfully until he began to laugh. His hand settled over yours, easing away from the ticklish spot on his side. His touch turned gentle, his thumb stroking sweetly over your knuckles.
“I used to just be the girl who made your suits and your tech,” you whispered, lost in the way Bucky’s fingers danced along yours, how effortlessly he touched the woman who had rendered him unconscious from pain just hours earlier. “But then I was your healer. I know it was never required of me but that was my job, Bucky. That was what gave my life meaning for a long time. To heal the wounds of superheroes and to do it on my terms – because it meant something to me. Because I loved you all.”
You took in a careful breath as Bucky listened patiently, his left-hand running lines along your arm. “I don’t want to lose that, Bucky. I know we have our deal and I know I need to be careful about what I take on but… I don’t want to lose them over this. I don’t want them to be afraid of me, to be terrified I might accidentally bump into them in the hall and open up an old wound I healed years ago.”
“Fitzsimmons will run more tests,” Bucky assured you, his lips grazing over your forehead. “We’ll make sure it’s safe. Prove it to everyone and to you. I’m here through it all, okay? I’m laying right here with you and I’m just fine, aren’t I?”
You nodded, tears in your eyes. But still – “Fear can do a lot of damage, Bucky.”
You remembered how Tony had stepped back when he first saw the cut on his palm, how he flinched when he looked at you. You remembered the panic on Sam’s face, the unconvincing story of a broken ankle he hadn’t noticed until the moment you touched him. Steve inching back to the furthest point of the room. Natasha’s screams still echoed in the back of your mind—the snap of her bone breaking under the weight of your power still fresh upon your fingertips.
“If they’re scared of my power… If I can’t be the one who heals them…” You swallowed past the dryness in your throat. It burned. The next words left you in a hushed, broken voice, “I don’t want to lose my friends, Bucky.”
“You won’t,” Bucky was quick to reply. He twisted himself on the bed until you could meet his eyes. A new sort of pain burned into the pale blue of his eyes – a longing to bear the burden of weight carried upon your shoulders. “You are and always have been more than your powers, Y/n. I know you weren’t always made to feel that way and I promise, I’ll spend every day of my life convincing you it’s true. Your gift is incredible and it’s saved our asses a dozen times over, but if you decided to never use your powers again, no one would think any different of you, honey. They’re not going anywhere. This team loves you, Y/n – healing abilities or not.”
The weight of Bucky’s words settled over you as you curled in tighter to his side. This strange new feeling – to have a family who would not only seek to protect you from the dangers of your gift, but to entertain the possibility of loving you beyond it? To still want you even if your gift wasn’t on the table? It didn’t feel possible—though, you supposed, that was the lingering echo of your parents speaking. Bucky proved to you again and again how wrong they’d been, how cruel they were to convince you that your happiness and comfort was theirs to sacrifice.
“You know I love you, too, don’t you?” you asked carefully, leaning up against Bucky’s chest to dare a glimpse of his face. “You said it… down there when we were… arguing.” You sighed, heat burning against your cheeks under Bucky’s watchful gaze. He nodded for you to continue, giving you the courage to say, “I just… I want you to know that I do, too— love you.”
Bucky smiled sweetly. He peppered a kiss to your forehead. “I know, sweetheart.”
“Are we interrupting?” Sam grinned from the doorway, head peeking through from the side. Bucky rolled his eyes, but still gave him a short wave that signaled the all clear to enter. Sam wobbled into the room on crutches, his left ankle wrapped in gauze before he sunk into the chair Bucky had been passed out in hours earlier.
On his tail, trailed Tony who gave a short wave – showing off the stitches on his palm. Steve followed with his hands stuffed into his pockets, taking his place leaning against the wall with a leg kicked up to hold his balance. Natasha strolled in the rear, carrying a plate of cookies in one hand while the other was wrapped in a sling, protecting her fractured collarbone. The knife wound on her side was covered by her shirt, but you could spot the outline of the bandage against her ribs. She smiled at you as she set the cookies on the table.
Before the nerves could dare infiltrate your stomach, Sam was already telling you what you’d missed from the rookie SHIELD gossip corner in the kitchen. Laughter filled the room while Steve pretended not to be just as amused by the antics of freshmen agents. Fitz and Simmons returned shortly after, sneaking cookies as they huddled in the corner with Tony – both a little starstruck as he talked about his latest suit design.
You looked to Bucky, surrounded in a room of your closest friends – your family – who had not once even considered abandoning you in the worst of what your power could do. Grateful was not a strong enough word.
Bucky seemed to read what you could not begin to say, and he simply returned your smile and kissed the crown of your head. His arms wrapped around your shoulders and it was easy to fall in against him. Your comfort. Your safety. Sanctuary and home.
In his arms, surrounded by your chosen family, there was no burden upon your shoulders, no sacrifice calling your name and dragging you back into the shadows under the guise of love and honor. Only kindness. Only teasing jokes and laughter filling the room. Only the sweet smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies and the pressure of Bucky’s fingertips along your spine in gentle circles.
Only love.