Stop, Breathe, Count to Three

Her stomach clenched painfully, her face grew warm, and she knew she was about to be sick. Chills shook her body despite the sweat accumulating on her brow. She bowed her head and placed her hand over her mouth in hopes of holding back whatever was going to come up.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, taking his eyes off the road to look at her in the passenger seat. He took in her pale face and sickly body language. “You’re not about to hurl are you? I’d rather you not do it in the car.”

“Pull over,” she gasped out.

“Right,” he answered. He put on the blinker and moved over to the shoulder of the road. Before he could reach his destination, a force slammed into the side of the car. Her eyes widened at the sight of the male figure out her window, holding on to the still moving vehicle. He grasped the handle but didn’t open the door, instead he pulled it off its hinges and tossed it to the side.

“Shit!” Sam shouted, slamming on the breaks. “Not again!”

The powerful metal arm reached in and grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and hoisted her out. With the car safely standing still, he jumped off and picked her up and held her in his arms bridal style. Pressed against his chest, she felt the twisting of her stomach suddenly dissipate. And with that, he took off running.

***

I am sure, dear readers, that you are very confused and possibly wondering if I posted the wrong chapter, but I can assure you that I did not. The prologue was strange enough and is a fraction of the future to come. This beginning, however, is in the much nearer future.

I think it’s time I finally started at the true beginning.

She had found him an alley of all the pathetic places. It was his pain that called to her, tapped on her shields and begged for the suffering to end. She had first reached out with her mind to find no one else but him and her on the street. With the coast clear, her feet guided her to the dark crevice between a restaurant and watch repair shop. Nicky’s Bar & Grill and Gray & Sons’ provided a poor haven for the lost man.

She placed the plastic bag of groceries on the ground and kept her hands in her pockets, one hand on her cellphone, and the other on her pepper spray. She touched him with her mind, feeling the rough edges of his unconscious pain. It was his helpless stupor that put her at ease. He had no way of hurting her in his current state and he couldn’t fake those emotions.

The tall street light on the sidewalk provided her enough light to look at him. He was slouched against the brick wall with his head bowed and his chin resting against his chest. He wore a dingy jacket despite the warmth of the late spring night, making her wonder if he was homeless. His dark brown hair was greasy and tucked underneath a baseball cap, which shadowed the top half of his face. Scruff was starting to grow into a beard. His lips were nicely shaped even though the bottom one was split open and scabbing with dried blood smudged through his facial hair on the side of his chin. The heaving of his chest and the gasping sounds that passed through his chapped lips showed his shallow breathing.

She knelt down by his side and pressed a hand to his forehead. The skin was clammy and much too warm. She pulled her hand away and wiped the sweat off on her jeans. She didn’t want to touch his feverish skin, but she knew she had to in order to do this thing right.

Sitting on her heels, she placed each hand on either side of his face. She dropped her shields and reached into his mind, touching and testing. She was no mind reader, but she could easily shuffle through his emotions. He was like a blank canvas that had been recently splashed with black and grey paint, but the fabric of the canvas was bleeding red.

She had been able to read emotions since she was twelve years old, right after she had gotten her first period. It had taken her months to learn how to use her shields so she wasn’t constantly drowning in what other people felt. She had also discovered the colors. They were connected to what people were currently feeling and she suspected that it was where the idea of auras came from. She didn’t see the color as much as she felt and tasted it. This man was black with low energy, grey with exhaustion and sadness, and very red with anger and fear.

It was while she was reading the colors that it happened. Something snapped into place and it was like her shields had been blown to smithereens in that moment. She was hit with the full brunt of his emotions. She could feel all his pain; a gash opened along her hairline, her split lip stung with every breath, the side of her stomach bloomed in pain, and while her left shoulder was sore, there was nothing beyond that. She couldn’t feel her arm.

The sensation was enough to knock her on her ass while the man gasped awake, but it only lasted a split second. These was a warmth running through her veins that was like liquid sunshine. It rebuilt her shields and stopped the pain that nearly sent her body into shock.

Rising on trembling legs, she caught the dazed look in his steel blue eyes. She pondered leaving him, but the feeling of guilt and pain smacked her across the face and she quickly dispelled the idea. She gripped the bicep of his right arm, knowing something was off about the left one, and hoisted him up. “Come on,” she urged him. He instantly complied and went with her, but stumbled on his own feet and almost knocked them both over.

“Steady,” she said, trying to balance him out. She placed his right arm around her shoulders while her arm would around his waist. She held her breath for a second and consciously stopped breathing through her nose, not wanting to take in anymore of his ripe smell. She took part of his weight for him and remembered to grab her bag before limping down the street with him. He mumbled incoherently on the short walk to her apartment building. She leaned him against the brick wall to unlock the door. Taking hold of one another again, they stumbled inside and then into the elevator. While ascending to the third floor, his head fell limp against her shoulder. Once the doors slid open, she nudged him to keep him awake as they finished the final leg of their journey.

Once inside, she deposited him in the double bed of the guest room and went back to lock the door behind her and put her things away. Back in his new room, she saw that he had dozed off again. His mouth was agape and he made a whirring noise in the back of his throat that she didn’t think fully counted as a sore. In the new light, she could see a bruise along his jaw that had been hidden by his beard. It was splotched with purple and yellow. She took off his hat and placed it on the nightstand. She noticed his brows were thick in shape but light in coloring. His greasy hair shone in the light, making her scrunch up her nose a bit. It reminded her of how dirty he was and the fact she would need a shower to get rid of his nasty scent and probably wash the comforter he was on.

She gingerly brushed back his hair, not really wanting to touch him in this state. She inspected the cut on his hairline that thankfully wasn’t bleeding and looked like it was starting to scab. She paused, not really sure what to do first. Deciding he couldn’t stay in those clothes, she started with his jacket. She quickly identified him as soon as she saw the metal arm with the deep red star with a thin black outline. Her breath caught in her throat as she thought back to watching the news, videos of this man carrying large guns, jumping on top of cars, blowing them up, trying to kill Captain America.

Any other person would have instantly called the police and turned the terrorist in, but to her it was out of the question. The idea of parting from him was revolting and she knew it was because of this strange bond she accidently formed. She was constantly aware of what he was feeling and she knew it was a two way street. The shields she had put up stopped her from crumbling to his pain.

Stripping him of his jacket, she saw that his shirt was just as dingy, even worse though as blood was soaked on the side of his stomach. “Shit,” she cursed. She slowly pulled away the fabric with a bit of resistance as the blood had dried it to the wound. He goaned, but did not awake. The touch of his firm stomach was hot and she knew he had a fever. From the looks of the wound, this was causing his infection. It was a struggle to lift the T shirt over his arms and head, but she finally managed even though he was moved about like a rag doll.

Thick scar tissue outlined where metal met flesh as the bionic arm engulfed his entire shoulder. More scars stemmed from the area of contact and spread across part of his breast. Most had turned white over time but some were still pinkish in color.

Finally taking her eyes off his deformity and resisting the urge to touch, she went to the foot of the bed and started to untie his black combat boots. She added his gross socks to the pile of dirty laundry. She eyed his dark washed jeans before shrugging and unbuckling his belt. She had unbuttoned them and had her fingers on his zipper when she felt him wake up. If it wasn’t for the bond, she probably would have screamed when a metal hand gripped her wrist.

Confusement and caution struck their bond and made her tense up. Large green eyes with flecks of brown around the pupil stared at him. He could feel the pressure of her tiny wrist in his metal hand. He became aware of how dry his throat was and licked his lips. There was a feeling inside him that was not his own, one of fear and something he couldn’t identify. He reached out, testing this feeling. Red and pink danced across his tongue as he searched the bond unknowingly.

“Who are you?” he croaked. “Where am I?”

She trembled slightly and the red taste in his mouth grew as fear blossomed in her. “I-I’m Isabeau,” she stammered. “Isabeau Jordan. You’re in my apartment.”

“Why?” he growled, tightening his grip on her wrist. As soon as the pain hit her senses, the feeling hit his. Actually feeling something within his missing limb other than basic pressure was jarring to him. He instantly let go and snatched his hand back. He examined it, turning it over, but found no difference and the pain was gone as if it never existed.

“I, uh,” she stuttered, making his eyes return to her. They were cold, harsh, and empty. But she knew he wasn’t empty, she could feel the grey and red inside of him. She swallowed before answering. “I found you. You’re, uh, pretty badly beaten up. I-I just wanted to help,” she squeaked out.

He studied her, observed her body and made all the calculations of where she was the weakest the most. It was a normal thing for him to do and was ingrained in him. Strangely, finding her vulnerabilities made his stomach turn a little bit. He could break her like a twig and the thought struck his solar plexus enough to make his throat clench shut.

“What did you do to me?” he growled. He shouldn’t have had this weakness; he shouldn’t have been able to feel her without touching her, sensing her presence in more than just the way he was trained to do. There seemed to be a string, a ribbon, tied to his core and extending to hers.

His growl sent a touch of fear through her, which he instantly felt. It made him realize how scary he sounded and an emotion built in his gut, one he hadn’t felt in a long time: guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I was just trying to help!” He watched her tongue wet her lips before she continued. “I’m an empath, see, and I was using my powers to read you and make sure you were alright. But then something snapped. It was like we, we connected.” She ran her fingers through her hair, his eyes watching her movements. She sighed, “I don’t know how to explain it and I don’t know how it happened. But I constantly feel you, and not just in a normal reading way, it’s much deeper and…” She trailed off not sure what word to use.

“Intimate,” he supplied, causing her to nod in agreement. “I feel you too,” he confessed, his voice dropping as if being too ashamed to admit it. The truth was, though, that he wasn’t ashamed, he was afraid that someone could overhear his new weakness. And that weakness was her.

He tilted his head that was still propped up against the pillow. “Will you turn me in?” he asked.

She froze, her eyes widening. “No! No, of course not. I couldn’t do that to you. Honestly, the idea of betraying you makes me sick.”

He nodded slowly. “I have the same nauseous feeling at the thought of anything hurting you.” He gritted his teeth together; it pained him to get these words out.

“I guess we really are bonded,” she chuckled without humor. She carefully reached out to grab his hands, not wanting to make him nervous. She could feel his hesitation to to touch her with the fake limb, but she squeezed it gently to give him reassurance. “Listen, I’m going to take care of you, okay?” she promised. “I’ll get you back on your feet and then we can figure this thing out.”

“You mean breaking the bond?” As soon as the words left his lips, a shot of pain flashed through their chests. They simultaneously flinched and tightened the grip on each others hands.

“It’s the logical thing to do, but just the thought of it hurts us, so I don’t know if it’s possible.” Her thumbs stroked his knuckles absentmindedly. “Don’t worry, dear. You can tell I’m being genuine because of the bond. We can’t lie to each other, I don’t think.”

“You’re… pink,” he said, not sure if that was the best way to describe it.

She smiled warmly at him. “Yeah, the colors. They represent different emotions and take a while to fully learn.”

“What am I?”

“Grey and red, mostly red though.” He noticed this made her lips turn down a bit and he decided he didn’t want to know what they meant.

“What does pink represent?” He enjoyed the feeling of her touching him, even if it was just the brush of her thumb.

“Sincerity, friendship,” she paused and blushed, “love.” He felt her realization of something. “I just noticed that I don’t know your name.”

He looked away from her warm hazel eyes. “I don’t know.”

She frowned and her confusion brushed his mind. “You don’t know your name?”

“I-I don’t remember,” he confessed. “But I think it’s Bucky.” He thought back to the blond man from the helicarrier, the one whom claimed to know him. “He said my name was, was James Buchanan Barnes.”

She was tempted to ask whom “he” was, but knew not to press. “Well, Bucky/James, what do you want to be called?

“James,” he said. Bucky was a lost friend to Rodgers, his mission. He was a completely different person now. Bucky was dead and only James the Winter Soldier remained.

***

Several hours later found Bo, as he learned she liked to be called, spoon feeding him broth. She denied him anything solid when she found out that HYDRA kept him alive with nasty protein shakes and IV fluid. She told him that even though she was not a medical doctor, she wanted to go slowly with his food just to be safe. As soon as the liquid touched him tongue, she felt his hunger surge, but she insisted on going slowly.

She was worried about his fever. She refused to go with the old age technique of starving it, remembering how her grandmother had done that to her once when she was little and it was miserable. She had inspected the wound in his stomach, which he told her was a bullet wound, but he had already removed the slug. They discussed how to clean the infected wound and they were both were thankful for his field medic knowledge and the internet. Pus had been found inside the wound which had to be squeezed out. Bo had to stop several times through to prevent herself from vomiting. Once his blood ran pure red, she cleaned it with soap, water, and alcohol. He had instructed her how to properly tighten the bandage around him.

After he eagerly finished off the broth, she placed the bowl on the nightstand and dapped the paper napkin on the side of his mouth to clean up what had been spilt. As she tried to wipe underneath his bottom lip, he turned his head away from her and denied her access, refusing to be treated like an infant.

“Alright,” she sighed, “have it your way.” She crumbled the napkin and dropped it in the bowl then picked up the dishes and rose from the bed. He kept facing away until she finally left the room. His attempt to bottle the frustration was futile as he knew they both felt it.

While Bo put the bowl and spoon in the dishwasher and switched James’s clothes into the dryer, she felt him fall asleep. When she got back to the room she was surprised to find him actually unconscious with vomit covering his chest and chin.

“Fuck!” she cursed, running back to the kitchen to get a washcloth to clean him up. While she was thankful he hadn’t choked, she still wasn’t happy about having to wipe him down and get familiar with what used to be inside his stomach. With the puke gone for the most part, she thought about how dirty he was. She went into the guest bathroom and started running water in the tub. She kept it lukewarm, not wanting to overheat him on his fever.

Dragging him into the bathroom was a difficult task and one that caused her to strain herself. James weighed enough as it was with his serum-induced muscles, but the metal arm made it worse. While vibranium was quite light, especially for its durability, Bo didn’t see it that way.

Leaning him against the side of the tub, she got to work removing his bandages across his stomach. Once they were off, she paused, looking at his dark grey boxers. Should she remove them? It seemed too intimate, but she was playing the role of nurse and nurses did this kind of stuff. Besides, she was sure she could keep it professional.

Deciding that his hygiene was more important than her embarrassment, she slipped his underwear off of him. She avoided her eyes, determined not to look though she was curious. Fuck it, she thought, he’s unconscious anyway.

Bo had seen her fair share of dicks, so she figured her opinion was a sound one when she considered him well endowed. “Is that you or the serum?” she asked, praying he wouldn’t wake up at that moment and answer her. He didn’t. “Well, you know that size isn’t everything,” she grunted as she hoisted him into the tub, being mindful of his arm and especially his wounds. She paused and looked at his peaceful face. “Or did the serum help you with that as well? Okay, wow, not being professional like I promised,” she scolded herself.

His knees were forced to slightly bend as the tub was not long enough, though she was sure if he sat up straight then he would have just the right amount of legroom. She placed his metal arm on the side of the tub and out of the water, not sure if it could be soaked or not. She would probably have to ask him about that later. After turning the faucet off, she started with his hair. She gently massaged his scalp with shampoo and was surprised to feel his constant red turn white and pink. It was rare to find white within a person, and she had only ever found pure white while a person was meditating. It represented perfect balance, so finding it in James, with all his baggage, was unexpected.

She poured water over his hair with a plastic cup to rinse out the suds. It was while she was lathering conditioner into his locks that she felt him flutter awake via the bond. His eyes blinked open and locked onto hers. She froze, hovering over him with her hands in his hair.

After a moment of silence and a staring competition, she awkwardly said, “Hi.”

His brows drew together in a frown. “What are you doing?”

“Um, helping you get clean. No offense, but you’re smellin’ pretty ripe.”

His frown deepened and that grey and red was back. Frustration built up in his chest, so she pulled her hands out of his hair and leaned back a bit to give him some space. His eyes slid shut and he tried to calm his breathing to fight the emotions in him. They were usually so easy to put aside for his missions, but he had gone rogue and with this bond with Bo, the feelings were a lot stronger than before. He wasn’t sure how to properly deal with them.

Hazel eyes watched him carefully, taking in the red that soaked the majority of his being. He was always so red; red with fear and anger. Black was starting to spot through and that’s when she realized what was wrong with him; he felt ashamed. He hated feeling weak with her having to spoon feed him, and now she was bathing him and he had no choice in the matter.

“James,” she called to him. He ignored her, but he couldn’t hide because he didn’t know how to use the shields like she did. “James,” she repeated, placing her hands on either side of his face, making his eyes open to look at her. He noticed how smooth and slick her hands felt since they were covered with the conditioner that was still in his hair.

“Look,” she swallowed, “you may feel weakened at this moment, but that’s okay. You don’t have to worry. I told you that I’m going to take care of you and I mean it. HYDRA,” he tensed at the word, “doesn’t know you’re here. No one but you and me do. And yeah, I do know about them, SHIELD too. Everything is on the internet now, which means we’ll have to be careful, but they’ll be too busy with themselves to come after you, okay? It’s just you and me and nothing is going to change that.”

He nodded slowly, making her smile. “I hope you don’t mind the fact that I stripped you down, do you?”

“No,” he said softly. And it was true, he didn’t mind. There was no embarrassment on his part as he felt natural in his body with only some exceptions to his missing arm.

They watched each other for a moment before she continued to untangle his hair. He moved his arm so she could sit on the edge of the tub which gave her better access. He looked up at her as she hovered over him, focusing on the feeling of her fingers in his hair. Her soft caresses slowed his heart rate and settled him into the most relaxed position he believed he had ever been in. He allowed her to move him about when she rinsed out his hair.

Bo gently scrubbed him with a washcloth. The water quickly became murky, making her empty it and refill it with James sitting there patiently. She was careful to skirt around his stomach wound, watching his face and checking the bond to make sure she wasn’t hurting him, but he remained completely loose. She smiled at the yellow that warmed his edges, showing just how relaxed he truly was. She suspected it was more than just the bathing, but also the bond that put him in this state.

“Alright,” she said, pulling him back to reality, “I’m only going to wash so much of you.” He quickly understood what she meant. It put thoughts in his head and before she could pull away, his hand snatched her own that held the rag. He brushed his ring and pinky fingers against the fabric, taking in the texture and imagining it running along his length, Bo’s hand touching him through it.

Her eyes widened at the yellow-turned-orange-red that flickered through him. She threw up her shields, stopping the desire from bleeding over to her. She dropped the wash cloth, allowing it to land in her water with a soft “plop.” The tiny splash surprised him enough for her to yank to hand away.

Bo quickly stood and took several steps back to put some distance between them. She swallowed thickly and said, “You can finish bathing and… whatever else you need to do. I’ll get you some clothes.”

He watched her dash out of the bathroom, feeling a mix of guilt and shame. He wasn’t used to the bond, so he didn’t think about hiding his desire. And she had been so gentle and promising with her touches and words. He could vaguely recall times of stress in HYDRA when they had given him prostitutes to vent his bodily frustrations to, but none had shown the care Bo did.

James was in way over his depth.