Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bullet tore through him with a white-hot finality.

It was a sniper's round, perfectly placed just below his body armour. The air left his lungs in a strangled gasp, pressing a hand to the spot on instinct. For a moment, the Winter Solider stood frozen on the rain-slicked rooftop. The pain hadn't hit him yet.

He stumbled back, his gloved hand came away slick and dark with blood. Not a target's blood. His blood. His. The Asset's. A malfunction.

His knees bucked and the cold gravel of the roof rushed up to meet him. A strange thought cut through the fog of his mind.

This is it.

The adrenaline was wearing off. The pain was a distant, throbbing thing. Secondary to the warmth spreading outwards from his core. He stared up at the cloudy sky, the lights of the city blurring into starbursts.

Freedom.

The word was a ghost in his mind, one he hadn't ever dared to consider. Freedom from the mission. Freedom from the cold. From the pain. The endless cycle of wake and fight and freeze. This wound was the key. The blood pooling beneath him on the rooftop was the price. He could pay it. Gladly.

An exhaustion pulled at him. He didn't fight it. He let his head loll to the side. His gaze fixed on a distant, steady star peeking through the fog. Maybe he would get to see the blond-haired man who haunted his dreams again? Figure out who he was.

Peace.

His eyes closed. The world faded to a soft, welcoming silence.

Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn. But a sledgehammer of agony and sound.

The first thing he registered was the smell. Antiseptic. Old blood. And the unique, oily scent of HYDRA machinery.

A guttural, choked sound escaped him. His eyes flew open to a world of sterile, blinding white. Straps bit into his wrists, ankles, and forehead, holding him down to a metal table. The glare of the operating light haloed the faces leaning over him. Faces obscured by surgical masks. But he knew their eyes. Cold, clinical, devoid of everything but a detached interest in his suffering.

A fresh, searing pain erupted his side as they probed the gunshot wound, digging for the bullet. He arched against the restraints, a silent scream locked in his throat.

This wasn't peace. This wasn't freedom. It was the opposite of death. It was the one thing he could never escape.

Chapter Text

The howling wind stole the warmth from a man's bones long before it stole his life. Bucky knew this, intellectually. But knowing and feeling were two very different things.

Their mission in the French Alps had gone sideways - a HYDRA patrol had forced them to abandon their escape plan to flee higher into the mountains. Now, a sudden, vicious blizzard had descended, turning the world into a swirling, white hell.

The initial, biting cold had faded some time now, replaced by a deep, unsettling numbness. His fingers, even in their gloves, felt like clumsy blocks of wood. A dangerous lethargy was creeping into his limbs, making each step an enormous effort.

"Barnes, you're swaying," Dugan's voice behind him was muffled by the scarf over his face.

"I'm fine, Dum Dum," Bucky tried to quip, but the words slurred together, sluggish and thick.

Steve dropped back and was at his side in an instant, his enhanced body making the cold more of an annoyance than a threat. He gripped Bucky's arm, his eyes wide with alarm. "Buck? Your lips are blue."

"M'fine, Stevie," Bucky mumbles, trying to shake him off, but his coordination was gone. The motion just made him stumble, only Steve's firm grip kept him from pitching face-first into the snow. "Jus'… tired. Need a minute."

"You don't get a minute in this," Morita said, his voice grim. "That's how you die."

Steve's command voice cut though the wind. "Find shelter. Now. A cave, an overhang, anything."

Bucky's world began to narrow. The frantic searching of the Howlies, the sting of the wind - it all started to feel distant, like a radio playing in another room. The shivering that had been wracking his body began to subside. A small, logical part of his brain screamed that this was a very, very bad sign. But a larger, more enticing part whispered that it would be so easy to just… stop. To sit down. To sleep.

"Steve…" He slurred, his legs finally giving out.

Steve caught him before he hit the ground, scooping him up as if he weighed nothing. "I've got you, Buck. I've got you."

Shock was setting in. His skin was pale and clammy, his breathing shallow and erratic. His gaze was unfocused, drifting past Steve's worried face to the white void beyond.

"Don't you dare check out on me," Steve commanded, his voice tight with fear as he carried Bucky towards a small, dark opening in the rock that Gabe had frantically signalled. "You hear me? That's an order."

Inside the cave, it was only marginally better - sheltered from the wind, but still freezing. Steve lay Bucky down on a groundsheet, stripping off his frozen jacket while Falsworth worked off his sodden trousers, their movements quick and efficient.

Dugan and Morita began piling spare clothes on him, creating a barrier of warmth. Steve stripped his own jacket off his back and pulled it around Bucky's body.

"C'mon Bucky," He murmured, his voice dropping from Captain America to the skinny kid from Brooklyn. "You gotta fight this. You're too stubborn to get taken out by the weather."

Bucky was only half conscious, mumbling incoherently. A full body shiver suddenly seized him so hard his teeth rattled. It was agonizing, but it was a good sign - his body was fighting back.

Chapter Text

The jet's ramp lowered with a hiss, the smell of smoke and ozone clinging to their gear. Bucky stalked down, his movements coiled, lethal grace. The world was sharp, hyper-detailed - the hum of the engine, the scuff of his boots on the floor, the distant sound of Sam shutting down the systems. Everything was dialed to eleven. 

He was aware of the warm, sticky feeling soaking through the left side of his tac-suit, just above his hip. A graze. Or maybe something a little deeper. It didn't matter. It was a distant thrum in the Symphony of adrenaline still roaring in his veins. 

“You good man?” Sam’s voice cut though the buzz, laced with a familiar, weary concern. He was already eyeing the dark stain spreading on Bucky's suit. 

Bucky didn't stop walking, barely glancing at Sam. “I'm fine. Barely felt it.” His voice was a low, steady rumble. 

Sam moved to intercept him, a medium in his hands. “Yeah, well, ‘barely felt it’ usually means you need stitches. Lemme have a look.” 

A flicker of irritation, sharp and hot, sparked in Bucky's heart. The offer felt like a challenge, a demand to stand down. “I said I'm fine, Sam. Drop it.” He brushed past him, his shoulder deliberately clipping Sam's. 

Sam held up one hand in a gesture of surrender. “Alright, your funeral.” 

The crash, when it came, didn't happen gradually. It was like a switch had been flipped. One moment he was unloading his heart in the locker room, the next, everything tilted. The thrill thrumming in his bones melted away, leaving a leaden exhaustion. 

And pain. 

It slammed into him, a white-hot, searing agony radiating from his side. The “graze” was a deep, angry gash, now agitated from how long he'd left it untreated. His knuckles were swollen and split from where he'd punched through a dozen helmets that day. A hundred other cuts and bruises that he hadn't even registered, aches and pains of varying degrees, announced themselves in symphony. 

He braced himself against the lockers, his arm landing against them with a metallic clang. He tried to stifle a sharp, pained noise rising in the back of his throat. 

Sam appeared, leaning against the doorway, still holding the medkit. He hadn't been following, but he hadn't gone too far away either. Waiting and watching. 

“Adrenaline's a hell of a drug, huh?” Sam said, his voice quiet. No “I told you so” tinging his tone. 

“I'm fine.” Bucky grit out again, the words now a transparent lie. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam scoffed, still in the doorway. He didn't move forward or try to force the medkit on Bucky. Sam knew that pushing his way though only made Bucky fight harder. 

Bucky's knees buckled, and his hand tightened on the lockers to try and pull himself back upright. Sam let out a deep breath and stepped closer, placing the kit on the bench. Still not forcing himself in. Just making help available. Bucky glared, then a moment later, reached for the kit.

Chapter Text

The world was saved. The dust had settled. And Steve Rogers sat on a park bench, old. 

He came back with a lifetime in his eyes and a wedding band on his wrinkled finger. He came back with stories Bucky wasn't in, with a peace he had earned by leaving him behind. He came back, but it wasn't Steve. Not Bucky's Steve. Not the man who'd fought a war across time to bring him back and still chosen a different ending. 

Bucky nodded and smiled, a thin, brittle thing. He'd said “I'm gonna miss you,” and he meant it with a depth that hurt his soul. And then he was alone. 

At first, it was manageable. There was chaos to clean up, apologies to give, a new world to figure out. But then the quiet came. And with the quiet, the ghosts. 

It started subtly. A loud noise would make him flinch too hard. The smell of gunpowder would send a cold break snaking down his spine. His court-mandated therapist called it PTSD. She said it was the mind's way of feeling safe enough to process the unthinkable. 

He called it drowning. 

In the dead of night, in the silence of his apartment, he'd be fine, then a memory would detonate in his mind - the cold of the cryo-chamber, the smell of HYDRA's antiseptic, the sound of Steve's voice as he walked away towards a different life. His heart would become a frantic bird against his ribs, his lungs refusing to fill, the world narrowing to a pinprick of terror. He rode each one out alone, clenched and silent, until he collapsed, sweating and shaking. 

He was at Sam's place in Delacroix, helping fix up the boat. It was a good day. The sun was warm, the work was simple. For a few hours, he felt normal. 

Then Sarah called them in for lunch. As Bucky turned, his metal arm caught the edge of the old radio on the dock post. It hit the surface with a loud crack and died with a fizzle of electronics. 

The sound was wrong, too sharp, too loud. It wasn't a gunshot, it wasn't an explosion. But his brain misfired. 

The world narrowed, his breath trapped in his chest. He was on his knees before he even realised he was falling. He couldn't breathe. His vision swam, spots dancing before his eyes. 

“Bucky? Hey, Bucky!” He didn't hear Sam at first, his voice a distant echo. 

Then he was there, in front of him, on his knees, hands up, not touching. “Woah, easy, man. Easy. You're here. You're in Louisiana. You're safe.” 

Bucky tried to speak, to tell him to go away, to save himself the spectacle. But all that came out was a strangled gasp. He squeezed his eyes shut, humiliated, exposed. 

Sam didn't try to tell him to snap out of it, didn't try to touch him. He just stayed. 

“Just breathe, Buck. Match me, ok? In… and out. C'mon. In… and out.” 

It took long, agonizing minutes. But his breathing evened out to a shaky rhythm. The tremors subsided to a small shake. 

He finally risked opening his eyes. Sam's expression wasn't pity, but a grim understanding. 

The first thing Bucky managed to rasp was an apology. Sam's face softened and he shook his head, he stood up and offered Bucky a hand to pull himself up too.

Chapter Text

Disobedience had been a spark. A brief, glorious flare of something that had been his own. A handler's touch had landed on his body one too many times, too rough, too painful. And the Asset reacted with the violence of a cornered animal. He'd broken the man's arm. 

The consequence was not the usual “merciful” oblivion of cryo-freeze.

They strapped him to the chair. The world dissolved into searing, white-hot static. The memories - the flash of anger, the break of bone beneath his fist - were scraped from his mind, leaving raw nerve endings in his psyche. When he came to, he was hollowed-out, empty. The chair had taken the why, but the punishment was just beginning. 

He was dragged to a cell, a small grey box. Before the reinforced door was sealed, they injected him with a serum that burned through his veins. A chemical suppressant. The effect was immediate and terrifying. 

The constant, low-level hum of supersolider serum in his body… faded. The enhanced strength that was as natural as breathing became a distant memory. The vitality that allowed him to heal from near-fatal wounds in hours vanished. He felt… frail. Human. His body was suddenly weak, sluggish, and vulnerable. 

This was his punishment. To be conscious. To be aware of his own weakness. To be trapped in not only a cell, but a body that had become prison. 

Days bled together. They provided barely enough nutrients to keep him alive, a tasteless slurry slid through a slot. The serum was regularly replenished, bringing a fresh wave of weakness with each shot. He was never strong enough to even consider testing the door. He could hardly stand up straight without his legs trembling. 

Without the serum, the cold of the cell seeped into his bones, a deep, aching chill that he wouldn't have even felt before. A minor cut on his knuckles - from the slot in the door - festered for days, a red, throbbing line of infection. He was plagued by hunger, by thirst, by exhaustion. Everything he could never remember feeling before. 

He would sit against the wall, curled in on himself, the concrete leeching what little warmth he had, and try to remember what he had done to deserve this. But the chair had taken it. There was only the emptiness, the weakness, the crushing certainty that this was his life now. A weak, trapped, conscious thing, waiting for a forgiveness he didn't remember needing.

Chapter Text

By the time the Howling Commandos stumbled back to the Allied base, hollow-eyed and covered in frost and blood, Steve was silent. The roar of the wind, the screech of the train, the terrible silence after Bucky’s name tore from his throat had all been scraped away, leaving a numbness that encapsulated his body. 

They debriefed Philips. Steve stood ramrod straight, his Captain America posture a brittle shell over a shattered core. The moment they were dismissed, the paralysis broke. A frantic, desperate energy seized him. He turned to Dugan, his eyes wide and unnaturally bright. 

“We need to go back. Now. We lost daylight, but we can be there to start at the first light.” 

Dugan’s jaw was set, his eyes filled with a grim pity. “Steve…” 

“The ravine,” Steve pressed on, his voice gaining a near unintelligible speed, “It’s deep, but we have ropes. We have climbing gear. He could be stranded down there. Injured. Waiting for us.” He was already moving, grabbing a map off the table, his hands trembling. “We’ll need a full team. Divide the area. Morita, you can manage comms-” 

“Steve.” 

Peggy’s voice was quiet, but it cut through his delirium like a knife. She stood in the doorway, her own grief held tightly in check. 

He didn’t look at her, his finger jabbing at the map. “Peggy, good.” We need more men. He’s out there, I know it. He’s a survivor.” 

“Steve, stop.” She stepped forward into his space, forcing him to see her. 

“We don’t have time to stop! Every minute we waste, he’s down there alone.” The words were a desperate plea, his composure cracking. 

“Steve,” She said, her voice low, firm, and unbearably gentle. “He’s not stranded.” 

He shook his head. “You don’t know that. You didn’t see-” 

“I do know.” Her grip on his arm tightened. “There is no search and rescue because there is no one left to rescue. Barnes is gone.” 

The words landed as a physical blow. He flinched back as if struck. 

“No, he’s not, my Bucky isn’t-” he whispered, his words breaking. 

“He fell from a moving train into a frozen ravine thousands of feet deep.” She insisted, her voice softening further, her hold remained firm. She was the only thing keeping him upright. “No one could have survived that. No one. Bucky is dead.” 

Dead. 

The frantic energy drained from him all at once, leaving him boneless and empty. The map fluttered from his numb fingers. 

A sound tore from his throat, a raw, wounded sob. It was the sound of every promise of “‘til the end of the line” breaking at once. 

His knees buckled. Peggy guided him down, not stopping his fall, but joining him in it, kneeling on the hard ground as he collapsed into her. The great Captain America, the super-soldier, crumbled into a heartbroken man, his face buried in her shoulder as he wept. 

Chapter Text

First, they took his weapons. Knives, pistols, the garrot wire woven into his suit. They catalogued each and put them into plastic evidence bags. Next, they took his suit. Cutting the advanced tactical fabric from his body, leaving him in a standard-issue, grey jumpsuit. It was thin and scratchy, and made him feel exposed. 

Then the physical exam. Hands in thick gloves poked and prodded at the scars littering his torso, took scans of his brain, vials of his blood. He was being treated like a specimen. He endured it with a cold silence, his mind racing, calculating angles of attack, weaknesses in their formulation. The Winter Soldier was still online, a coiled spring waiting for a moment of inattention. It never came. 

The head technician, a woman with a stern, tight face, gestured to his left side. “And the arm,” 

That was when cold dread pooled in his gut. Two guards moved in with heavy duty clamps, securing the arm to the table while another technician produced a set of specialised tools. 

“Technically, it is a weapon,” she said, as if reading his frantic thoughts. 

Then he fought. A surge against the heavy restraints on his wrist, ankles, and chest. It was useless. The metal groaned but held fast. He was forced to watch, jaw clenched so tight it ached, as they accessed the ports at his shoulder. There was a series of clicks, a hiss of releasing pressure, and then a final, sickening thunk as the connection severed. 

The weight was gone. 

The constant, grounding pull of the metal arm vanished. The sudden, shocking lack of it left him feeling horrifically lopsided. His shoulder, for the first time in seventy years, felt terrifyingly light. 

They left him in a cell, the door sealing with a hiss. He was alone. 

He stumbled away from the door, his gait immediately awkward and unbalanced. He instinctively tried to brace himself with an arm that was no longer there, then his right hand flailed for the wall. He was a marionette with a cut string. 

HYDRA had never let him feel this. After the fall, he'd woken from one nightmare to another, but the metal arm was already there before he could even process the loss. It was a weapon, a tool, a chain - but it was also his body. He had never, not for one conscious moment, had to just be a man with one arm. 

Now, he was. The left arm of his jumpsuit hung flat and empty. He felt… useless. The Winter Soldier's primary weapon was gone, but so was Bucky's ability to stand straight without feeling like he was about to fall over. 

A shadow fell across the reinforced glass wall. Steve. He started talking, a deep sadness in his eyes, his voice muffled by the glass. Apologies and promises, about it being over, that he was coming home. 

Bucky barely heard him. He just stood there, swaying slightly, his right hand clenched into a fist and his left shoulder too light. He was declawed, defanged, and disarmed in the most literal sense. Forced to conform to a disability he'd never truly been allowed to feel. The soldier was muted. The man was maimed.

Chapter Text

The city lights of New York blurred past the elevator glass, a streaking river of gold against black. Bucky leaned his forehead against the cool metal wall, his entire body humming with exhaustion. It had been a day. 

In therapy, Dr Raynor's questions were like surgical probes, digging into memories he'd spent years burying. He'd sat in silence for most of the session, the words stuck in his throat, the ghosts of his victims crowding the small office. 

Then Steve. Ever hopeful, ever patient Steve. Over dinner, he'd tried to gently direct the conversation towards Brooklyn, towards silly pranks they'd pull as kids. But the memories, once bright and warm, now felt like artifacts from someone else's life, viewed through a dirty pane of glass. He pushed his good around his plate, jaw tightening. 

So he'd fled to the gym. For hours, he'd pummeled a heavy bag until his knuckles were raw and the bag split. He'd run on the treadmills until his lungs burned and his legs trembled. It was the only way to quiet the noise in his head. To replace the mental static with physical pain. 

Now, all he wanted was the blessed silence of his dark room. The elevator dinged, the sound abnormally sharp in his ears. He shuffled down the hall, his movements heavy and slow, every muscle screaming in protest. 

He pushed the door open, hoping for darkness. Instead, the living room lights were on, casting a warm, gentle glow. Steve was on the sofa, looking up with a soft, concerned smile. 

“Hey Buck,” He said, his voice a low rumble in the late night hush. “Was getting worried. You ok?” 

Bucky just grunted, a non-committal sound, and made a beeline for the hallway, for his room, for the void of sleep. 

He heard Steve get up, his footsteps approaching. A hand, gentle and familiar, landed on his shoulder. 

It was the final straw. 

The hum of the refrigerator became a deafening roar. The city lights outside the window flared like flashbangs. The feeling of Steve's hand on his shoulder was a brand, a trigger, the grip of a hundred handlers. The smell of Steve's soap, the soft glow of the lights, the taste of blood on his tongue from his split lip - it all crashed into him, a tsunami of input with no filter. 

He didn't scream. He didn't fight. He simply… shut down. 

The world didn't go black, it jusy stopped nattering. The overwhelming sensation was replaced by a hollow silence. His body went rigid for a moment, then all the tension drained out, leaving him utterly still. His eyes were open, but vacant, fixed on a point on the wall a thousand miles away. His breathing swallowed to near-nothingness. 

“Bucky?” Steve's was filled with sudden alarm. He moved around to face him, his face paling when he saw the vacancy in Bucky's eyes. “Buck? Talk to me pal,” 

There was nothing. No recognition. No response. 

Steve's hand hovered uselessly in the air. He knew better than to touch him again. 

Bucky had pushed himself past his limit, and his mind, to save itself, had simply flipped the switch and plunged itself into darkness. Bucky was stranded in the terrifying space between the Asset and the man, and there was nothing Steve could do but watch, and wait, and hope for him to come back.

Chapter Text

After months of searching, Steve finally found him. In a safe house, a trail of blood leading to a crumpled form in the corner. The Winter Soldier, the ghost who'd tried to kill him; he looked small. A deep gash across his torso was steadily weeping blood onto the floor boards. He was unconscious, his breathing wet and ragged. 

Steve's heart hammered, logic warring with instinct. This was the enemy. This was his Bucky. 

He made a choice. 

He didn't take him to a hospital. He couldn't. Instead, he brought him home, to the place he hoped would be safe: Avengers Tower. 

The medbay was sterile and silent, the air thick with tension. Tony, after getting over his initial, explosive shock, was now in a cold fury. “You brought a mass murderer into my tower.” 

“You know as well as I do he had no control over himself. He's dying, Tony,” Steve said, his voice hollow as he watched Bruce work on Bucky's stitches. “What was I supposed to do?” 

“Not this!” Tony hissed. But he didn't call Bruce off. 

When Bucky woke, he was very still for a moment, then everything crashed down. He threw himself off the cot, IV lines tearing out of his flesh, monitors crashing to the floor. He barely stood, swaying, before he lunged - not at Steve, not at Tony or Bruce, but for the door. 

“Bucky, stop. You're hurt.” Steve moved to intercept him, hands up. 

A metal fist, weak and uncoordinated, swung for his head. Steve caught it easily, his heart breaking at the sheer, desperate terror in Bucky's eyes. This wasn't the face of the assassin. 

“He's going to rip his stitches,” Tony said, his voice dangerously calm. He was holding a syringe, already filled with a clear liquid. “We need to sedate him.” 

Steve's stomach twisted. “No, Tony, don't. You'll terrify him.” 

“And what he's doing right now isn't terror?” Tony shot back, his eyes hardened. “This isn't a debate, Steve. He's a danger to us and himself. This is the only mercy you can give him right now.” 

Steve looked at Bucky - panting, blood already soaking through his bandages, his wide eyes seeing nothing but threats. 

Steve's shoulders slumped. He hated it. It felt like betrayal, like siding with the people who had kept Bucky drugged and controlled for decades. But Tony was right. 

“Make it quick,” Steve whispered. He moved forwards, drawing Bucky's attention. “It's ok, Buck. I've got you.” 

As Bucky focused on him, Tony stepped in from the side. It was over in less than a second. Bucky flinched, his hand flying to his neck. He stared up at Steve - betrayed, scared. For a split second, it looked like he was about to fight again. 

Then his eyes rolled back and he slumped forward against Steve's chest. Steve held him for a long moment, then lowered him down, back into the cot. 

Steve sat heavily in the chair beside, head in his hands, watching the steady rise and fall of Bucky's chest. It had been mercy. It had been necessary. But all he could feel was the weight of having helped cage the man he swore to set free.

Chapter Text

The rebar was cold. 

That was the first, absurdly detached thought that registered in Bucky's mind. The jagged piece of steel, exposed by the crumbling warehouse wall, was cold inside his thigh. 

In the fight with the Flag Smashers, he'd been grappling with one of Karli's lieutenants, when a shockwave from an explosion sent them both flying. He'd twisted mid-air, a lifetime of training and muscle memory trying to land him in a roll.

Instead, he landed with a sickening, wet thud, driven down by his own momentum. 

There was no immediate pain. Just an impact, a jolt that rattled his teeth, and the feeling of being anchored to the spot. He looked down. 

A rusted length of rebar, thick as two of his fingers, protruded from the meat of his upper thigh, just to the side of his femur. His pants were already dark with blood at the point of entry. 

“Bucky,” Sam's voice crackled over the comms, tight with urgency. “Status!” 

“I'm… incapacitated.” He gritted out, his hands moving on instinct as he tried to push himself off the bar. A white-hot lance of pure agony seared up his leg and into his spine. He gasped, his vision spotting. 

The Flag Smasher was getting to her feet, rattled but otherwise uninjured. He raised his right fist, vibranium plates shifting into place. She took one horrified look at his leg and stumbled back. At least she had the decency to look sorry as she ran away. 

“Sam,” He said, his voice tighter. “I can't move my leg.”

That was the terrifying part. He tried to shift his foot, curling his toes. Nothing. It was as if the connection had been severed. Everything below the wound was shut down. 

He heard the repulsors before he saw Sam. He landed in a crouch in front of him, his face etched with concern. 

“Oh hell, Bucky,” He breathed, his eyes zeroing in on his thigh. 

“Don't just stand there,” Bucky snarled, panic and pain making him lash out. “Pull it out.” 

“Are you out of your mind? I pull this out and you bleed out in sixty seconds.” He was already pulling the compact medkit from his belt, ripping open a gauze pack. “The only thing keeping you from spilling all your blood onto the floor is that rusty piece of crap.” 

He tried again, to move, to push up with his arms. His voice broke in a strangled cry, he hated the sound. 

“Stop moving, you idiot!” Sam barked, packing gauze around the entry and exit points as best he could. “You're gonna make it worse.” 

Bucky stopped, letting Sam work, letting out a few ragged breaths. “I can't feel my leg, Sam,” He said, his voice small. 

“I know,” Sam's voice softened just a fraction. He finished his hasty patch job and stood back. Bucky could hear the gears turning in his mind. “We need to… detach the rod somehow. Somehow that won't injure you more.” 

Sam was clearly stumped on ideas. And Bucky was tired of waiting. He gripped the rebar in his metal hand and tore it straight from the wall. It hurt like a bitch. Bucky roared, the world dissolving into a universe of pure fire as the metal shifted inside him. He fell forward, his paralysed leg folding without the wall holding him up. 

Sam caught him before he could face plant the floor. “What the fuck, Bucky!” He yelled, trying to pull him as upright as he could. 

Bucky managed a shrug, his chest still heaving. “The rod's out of the wall. Let's go.” 

“Okay, okay, fine,” Sam grunted, hefting Bucky into a fireman's carry. “When this is out, we are having a serious talk about your masochism issues.”