Words: 3.5K

Warnings: scenes with dead people and injuries (Reader has a healing power)

Car horns blare and children scream. The wails of sobbing, mourning mothers ring through your ears. You try to block it all out to focus on your job—healing the ones who are still alive. There's nothing you can do for the dead, despite how much their loved ones beg you. Their tongue is foreign to you, which leaves your friends Nat and Bucky to translate while they follow you from behind.

Kneeling down on the cement, you touch the cheek of a sickly looking boy. His skin is white as ash because the wounds along his chest have drained him of blood. He's on a medical gurney with a colored tag on his toe. It's black, which means there's no saving him. The first responders have been told to move on—to only make his death as painless as possible. But they're busy now with the red tags and the yellows: not worrying about someone who's practically already gone.

You know you're the only one who can help him now.

You touch his face with both hands. In the distance you hear sirens and screams, but it all becomes dark as you conjure up enough energy to heal this poor little soul. His heartbeat, frail and nearly gone, thumps between your ears. Eyes closed to the world you focus only on saving him and nothing else. You don't know his name, you probably never will, but you know that somewhere out here he has a mother or a father who will cry happy tears at a reunion that they pray to be blessed enough to see.

When you pull away from the boy, he's spluttering and coughing. It sounds awful, but it means his lungs are trying to work once more.

Nat calls over a few of the medics in the local tongue. They race closer, not saying a word to you—only focusing on the child, which is exactly how you want it.

"Y/N," you hear Bucky's low voice say your name as he helps you to your feet. His metal hand grips your elbow firmly. "Are you sure you're okay to go on?"

"Yeah, kid. You don't look too good," Nat comments.

You nod. "I'm fine." Your voice sounds a little croaky, but you excuse it as lack of sleep. But it doesn't quite matter. Ever since the attack yesterday, you've been needed here. So you plan to be here, using your powers just like your other team members used theirs during the war, to save people.

"You should take a break—" Bucky tries to lead you away from the stacks of sheet rolled bodies.

You jerk your arm out of his grasp. "I'm not going to "take a break", Bucky. I'm going to help as many people as I can."

"You're not going to be very much help to anyone at all if you pass out from exhaustion," Nat defends Bucky's statement.

"And I'm not going to be very much help to anyone if they're all dead: which, they will be soon if I don't get to them first. Death isn't going to wait for me to take a break," you snap impatiently. You push between your two team members—not at all missing the worried glances they share with one another.

You're making your way through the stacks of bodies and debris, searching for someone who needs desperately to be saved, when you feel the coolness of Bucky's metal arm touch the small of your back. Through the thin material of your ratty, bloody shirt you sense each of those shiny fingers and the cool, hard palm. His mouth appears above and beside your ear. He's a good bit taller than you, and slower as he walks, but he keeps up with your hurried pace as you maneuver through the street.

"I'm worried about you. Last time you worked this hard you were laid up in bed for two weeks." Bucky's voice is sort of hushed as he talks lowly into your hair. His hand still on your back, he aids you in moving out of the way of a rushing paramedic.

"And just four months ago, on that same mission, you got a bullet to the thigh and two black eyes." You stop on the sidewalk, creamy with blood and raw sewage, and look up into Bucky's face. His clean shaven look is marred by fresh cuts and scrapes from today's battle. The locks of long chestnut hair are greasy with all sorts of slime, yet it still endears you to see it so long. "We both have jobs to do for the greater good—no matter the cost," you remind him. "I'll gladly put myself in bed for the next year if it means I can save these people."

You try walking away once more. Bucky's hand latches onto your wrist. His touch is firm but soft all at once. "You can't save everyone, Y/N," he sighs with sad blue eyes.

You turn up your chin. "I can try."

Just now from the other end of what used to be a beautiful marketplace come three more Avengers. Tapestries of exotic blues and gold are spoiled with ashen black stains and tears that run for seam to seam. Rocky debris still sifts through as puffs of unbreathable air—clouds of dust and cement now rising up only to be brought back down onto the muddy ground again.

"How is the rest of the city?" you ask as soon as Steve is in earshot.

Tattered and worn, the tired super soldier gives his head a solemn shake. "Just as bad, if not worse. They wanted to see the world in ruins, and today they got a taste." He wipes his palms off on his tight blue-grey pant legs. His eyes scour around the market. "How many have you saved here?"

You shrug. "I haven't counted."

Nat fills in, "186."

Wanda's eyes widen, while Steve and Thor stare at you in disbelief.

"Not enough," you answer curtly. You start to turn at the sound of another wail when Bucky's hand lacing through yours stops you. You look to him, about to protest, when he gives a solemn shake of his head. You glance over at the source of the noise—a woman sobbing over the covered remains of a deformed child. One of the biggest casualties was at a primary school. Seeing the scene, your blood runs cold. Bucky must sense your heartbreak, because he's gripping your hand harder—tugging you closer to his side almost as if to keep you next to him.

"Excellent job, Lady Y/N. Your powers are truly a miracle." Thor bows his head in respect towards you. You normally would try to manage a smile in return, but you're just so exhausted.

Steve, looking around with a gnarl in his brow, nods in agreement of the Norse God. "You're going good, sport."

Bucky takes a step away from you into the circle of Avengers who now stand shoulder to shoulder. "She's done her part, Steve. She needs to go home." Hand still in yours; you're so annoyed you almost want to let him go... almost. The desire to keep him near is strange and addictive, so you grip him still.

"I don't want to go home, nor do I need to."

"186 lives, Y/N! You saved more people than anyone here today, I can promise you that." Bucky's facing you now—eyes firm and chiseled jaw set tight. Ash floats down from the heavens and settles onto his dark hair. It looks like snow on a muddy hill. "If you're not careful, you'll..."

You finally gather the backbone to tear your hand from his. "I'm not a child, Bucky. I can handle myself." You look around at the team members who have met now. The others, Tony, Clint, and Sam, must be out doing their jobs. "What are we all doing here? We should be out there," you point blindly behind you, "Where they need us."

Steve glances between you and his best friend Bucky. He's the one in charge here: he's the first Avenger. If he says you're to go home, then that's the end of it. He's making up his mind now; Steve is carefully but quickly thinking over the two options that have been presented.

Lips pursed, he nods in your direction. "Keep at it, Y/N." You hear Bucky curse under his breath and you fight the urge to triumphantly smirk. "But if you start feeling sick..."

"I'll stop, I swear." It's a lie, of course. You've felt sicker and sicker with every patient. It started after the tenth—you never go over four people at a time on a normal day.

"Wanda—you go to the partially collapsed buildings and help them move the rubble to rescue people inside. Thor will follow you to help bring them out. Anyone you find that can't be saved by medicine and needs a miracle, bring them here." He looks around to the team—including a grouchy Bucky Barnes. "We can't afford to have Y/N running around. She'll stay here, where she's needed most, and we'll use her only when necessary. I'll find Tony and—"

"Y/N! Y/N!"

The familiar sound of Clint's voice calling your name makes your whole body turn. Your eyes scour the chaotic scene for the source of his calls. Then you see him—there, about a block away, rounding a corner carrying a young woman in his arms. He's covered in blood, most of it hers, while a young man around the same age stumbles after Clint with tears streaming down his face.

Breaking away from the team, you run to meet Clint. On the side of the street he stumbles to a stop in front of you.

The man, with dark hair and olive skin like many of the locals, is rambling in the language you don't understand. He comes up to you—pulling on your limbs—and has the most desperate, begging sadness in his eyes. You try to gently coax him off of you but his cries become more adamant and louder—so loud you can't hear Clint trying to explain.

Bucky's come to your aid. He carefully, but with firmness, pries the sobbing man off of your already aching body. You blink rapidly to try not to become dizzy at the back and forth motion he was shaking you with.

"What is he saying?" you question to no one in particular.

"This is his wife—I found them on the street near the pier." Clint gestures to the bleeding woman in his arms. "She's nearly dead, Y/N."

"But what is he saying?" you demand. There's something else in this man that's making him this way. He keeps saying the same single word over and over again... dijete, dijete, dijete... Cried with such agony that it makes your eyes ache with tears.

Bucky, sucking in a breath, translates for you. "Baby. He's saying baby."

Eyes wide, you snap at Clint, "Put her down, Clint."

Careful not to disturb her wounds anymore, Clint lays the woman on his lap. He sits halfway on the curb with his legs out ahead of him.

You lay a hand over the woman's abdomen. Closing your eyes, you feel a second life.

"She's pregnant." You gape up at Bucky.

He takes a deep swallow and kneels beside you. "What can we do?"

"Get the husband out of here," you direct them.

Nat, who has followed, nods—speaking to the man calmly in Croatian to try and wheedle him away. When that doesn't work she physically pulls him around the corner. If this doesn't end well, he doesn't need to see this. And you work better without the sobbing in your ear. It adds pressure and distraction—as if human life isn't imperative enough.

First you have to inspect her wounds. Peeling back the torn shreds of her shirt you get a glimpse at the carnage underneath. It's a miracle her and her baby are still alive. But they won't be for long, not without you.

Blood all over your hands you close your eyes again. One palm presses to the woman's cheek while the other rests amidst all the gore of her pelvis. Her stringy black hair is tangled up in the wet blood and the red syrup drips steadily onto the pavement.

That familiar darkness envelops your senses again. You feel two fragile little heartbeats. Reaching out towards them, you struggle to come up with enough strength to grasp both... grasp them... they're right there—so close yet so far.

You can feel yourself slipping away. The darkness is getting too strong. You're losing your grip on what's real and what's not. If you don't pull out now, you wonder if you'll be able to root yourself again. But then you feel a small strengthening of one of the heartbeats and you don't care about the rest. You just need to save this mother and her baby—you need to save them, or you'll die trying.

And when the thin shell around the darkness cracks—seeping up into the crevices of your mind and sending your body down to crash against the asphalt—you wonder if you've done just that.

You don't wake up for thirteen days. Thirteen long, painful days for Bucky Barnes. He sits by your bedside, watching you in that daunting, dreamless sleep, and blames himself for it. He's mad at you, of course, and he's mad at Steve. But mainly, Bucky's mad at himself. He was right beside you the whole day. He could've stopped you at any time, but he didn't. And he should've convinced Steve to send you home—but he couldn't.

When you awaken it's with a terrible start. You gasp and claw at the tubes in your arms—mind whirring with confusions and questions as to why the walls are so white and why your skin so ice cold.

"Hey, hey, hey—it's okay. Calm down, Y/N, everything's okay."

You hear Bucky's familiar amber-toned voice and immediately calm. He's here—somewhere, although you're not entirely sure where. Your eyes aren't in focus yet. Everything is blurry.

You clutch at your head with both hands. "What the hell happened?" Your voice sounds even groggier than before.

"Take a second, Y/N, and then I'll explain." A hand is soothingly running up and down your thinly clothed back.

When you pull your hands away from your eyes, this time everything is clear. You're in a hospital. But not just any hospital—you're at the one in Stark's lab. You're in New York, not Croatia.

You look over at Bucky. He's no longer sitting, but standing, next to you. He wears a pair of dirty sweatpants and an unwashed shirt that hasn't been changed for a while. He hasn't shaved, or washed his hair even, for quite some time. He looks worse than you do, presumably—and you haven't seen a proper meal or the sun in almost two weeks.

"What... Croatia?" you can only say these two words.

Bucky's hand goes up your back to your head. He runs his fingers through your hair, seemingly without any thought. "It was thirteen days ago, sweetheart. You've been asleep for a while now." He smiles and you see that it's a mixture of both happiness and regret in those ocean eyes of his.

You reach up to lay your fingers over his as he keeps ahold of your head. You close your eyes, smelling the antibacterial soap on his warm skin, and breathe deeply. "I pushed too hard...." Eyes peeling open, you add, "Didn't I?"

Bucky nods softly.

After a hard swallow, you ask, "The pregnant woman?"

Bucky's thumb moves against your cheek. His head tilts to the side. The light from the window dances along his sharp, long nose. "She's alive, thanks to you."

Your heart swells with relief. "And the baby?"

Bucky's stoic face is all you need to know that you failed to save the child. Smile and relief faltering, you close your eyes. Your hands move over your face so that you can hide yourself if you start to cry. You never cry—not ever. Especially in front of your teammates, and especially in front of Bucky Barnes.

Bucky's shocked when he first hears your sad little whimper. He's never seen you like this. You always keep these feelings to yourself. But you're vulnerable—you almost died. You're not even all the way better yet. And now you've just been told that you've failed, even though you saved so many others—it doesn't matter to you right now. You wanted to give that woman the chance to be a mother, but you failed her and her husband both.

"No, no, no. Come here," Bucky hushes. He pulls himself up onto the bed beside you without a second thought. His arms go around your body until your face is against his breast and his hands can run up and down your back. "It's okay. They're okay—I promise." You cry a little harder and Bucky bites his cheek. He can't stand the sight of you so broken. You're so frail and small... he's never seen you like this. It's killing him. "Don't cry, please. Please don't cry." His voice breaks as he starts smoothing down your hair. His lips press to the top of your head and he rocks you back and forth on the bed—damp eyes staring at the ceiling tiles. "Please don't cry, sweetie. It's all gonna be okay."

You try and force yourself to believe his sweetly spoken sentiment. Into his breast you nod—dampening his shirt with your salty tears. Arms wrapped around his narrow waist you squeeze him tighter, relieved to at least be settled safely into his embrace.

Bucky breathes out a relieved sigh once you've stopped crying. He still combs your hair and holds you. His cheek turns to press tightly to the top of your head. He isn't sure how it's possible, but you still smell like you—like mint leaves and sunshine. A dreamy, relieved smile comes across his face when he feels your arms tighten and hands bundle his shirt. He's just happy to be holding you—happy to see you alive again. He thought he'd lost you forever when you fell all those days ago. He'd caught you in his arms, cradling you to his chest much like he is now, and begged you in twenty different languages to come back to him—not to die in his arms when he hadn't even had a chance to hold you in them while you were alive. With your beautiful eyes staring emptily up to the hot Croatian sun, he'd thought for sure you were gone forever. And he'd cried, god how he cried, and he screamed at everyone who he blamed—Steve being the first of them. Then every day that you were in this bed he stayed at your side. Bucky wouldn't leave, not even once, because he told himself that if you were going to wake up he didn't want you to be alone. But if you had to die... he wanted to spend every last possible moment with you—hold your hand as you faded off of earth.

But here you are.

"Bucky?"

Bucky's torn out of his mangled thoughts at the sound of your muffled voice. Looking down at you against his chest, he asks, "What do you need?" as tenderly as his voice will allow.

Not daring to look up at him, you beg, "Please don't let go of me."

Bucky kisses the top of your head once more. "I won't. I won't, I promise." He closes his eyes extra hard and then adds, "I missed you so damn much, Y/N. I don't know what I would do without you."

You stay rooted in his lap with your lips to his collarbone. Hugging him tighter, you feel his breath fanning the top of your head. "I should've listened to you, Bucky. You were right; I can't save everyone. I can't do it, I'm not strong enough."

Bucky pulls you back to arm's length. Your cheeks are red and stained with tears which he quickly does his best to soothe with warm fingers. "Bullshit you are. I saw what you did out there, and so did everyone else. You saved more people than any of us could've dreamed, and you risked your life for it. You're a godsend, Y/N. You're a hero and an angel." He cups your face with both hands on either cheek. Looking into your face with those pretty blue eyes, he says, "That's why I love you."

You stare wordlessly into Bucky's face after hearing those three little words. He stares right back, not sure if he should be expecting a response with the state you're currently in, before hearing you say, "I love you too, Bucky." Your voice is croaky and sore, and you cough a little after each word, but he understands you still.

Bucky pulls you back into his arms. You nestle farther into his lap, head now on his shoulder, and he presses you closer by the small of your back. Lips finding your forehead, Bucky smiles softly. And you close your eyes—drawing up enough strength to feel his heartbeat—and soothe yourself towards a smile of your own as you listen to the song of his heart that now beats in a frenzy just for you.