a lion among wolves, bucky barnes (hiatus)

thirty

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
2015

THE aftermath of killing was worse than June remembered.

She laid on the floor of the Quinjet, curled tightly into a ball with a heavy blanket tucked around her shoulders and bunched in her fists. She cried rivers. June remained as still as a statue and made no noise, but her cheeks glistened with rolling tears and her hair was lank with moisture. She felt physically ill, though that was likely because as soon as Bucky got her onto the ship she had lurched into the small bathroom and vomited until her insides we left a hollow web of catacombs and burning nerves.

Her body was dying but her mind was restless. June felt phantom hands touch her, seize her, throttle her. Her lips seared where Carpet had torn into them. Every time she closed her eyes, his hungry face filled her vision, and the agony June felt as she relived every horror linked to him was almost unbearable. Her only solace was found in remembering the fear in his eyes when she shot him, the shock of who she was whiplike in its bite. She revisited the image of his head bursting in a cloud of red over and over, trying to emblazon its truth into her brain. He's dead. He's gone and dead.

Bucky sat beside her, leaned back against the wall with his elbows on his knees, looking anguished and unsure. Her back was to him. He didn't dare touch her. She was inconsolable. But he wanted to do something.

He stayed near as if to keep the invitation for comfort open, and spoke to her gently, assuring her that they were almost back in New York, almost back to the others. June wanted to tell him he was enough for her, that his presence was enough and she would be all right without the rest of the team, but the words wouldn't come. Her voice was trapped beneath tears, all her courage and moxie having deserted, replaced with deep, carving fear. If she began to calm down, a vicious image of Carpet ignited her mind, memories from both the Hydra Underground and the gala. Blood beading down his lips, the stench of alcohol heavy on his breath. Always too near, and always too familiar. June had considered her job of repressing most of these memories a good one, and generally successful. The flood of what broke past that mental barrier was choking her.

"We're almost there," Bucky said softly, brushing a finger across her arm. June flinched. He pulled away. She felt her cheeks burn, and she turned her eyes into the blanket. It wasn't his fault, but June couldn't stomach human touch at that moment. It all felt like Carpet.

"Twenty minutes 'till we land," Jack Odion's voice broke their tired isolation. "How's she holding up?"

June though one look at her would be enough to tell. Bucky shook his head. "I dunno."

Having been so consumed with the mission, June had never introduced herself to Odion. He seemed kind, had found the shock blanket and even tried to hunt down something for June to eat. Amid her haze, she made a note to thank him.

June felt Bucky move, then rise to his feet. He began speaking, hushed as if to prevent her from hearing, but that was futile. June heard everything.

"Something happened," he muttered, and June realized he was talking through his comm. "Carpet . . . she knew him."

There was a muffled reply through the comm. "But we knew that. He was a sponsor." Steve.

"It's not like we thought . . . . Back in Moscow, he . . . hurt her."

"What do you mean? Was it assault? Did he—"

"Yes, like . . . that."

"Oh, God . . . did he know who she was?"

"No."

"Where is he now? I'll track him myself if I have to—"

"She shot him. He's dead, but . . . she's catatonic right now—won't talk." The worry was thick in Bucky's voice. June could tell he was pacing, dragging his hands through his hair, swinging his arms restlessly. "I don't know what to do," he went on, still hushed, but it still didn't matter. "This has never happened before, and I'm no good—"