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You really should have smelled the trap. Gifted with an enhanced sense of smell, enhanced eyesight, and yet you really just wandered straight into this trap. A nice room with metal walls, filled with the scent of machinery, gun powder, and goons surrounding you in a circle. The room is empty, with no sources of cover, a plain battlefield upon which to obliterate the enemy.
Letting out a laugh, your grip on the pistols in your hands tightens and you exhale deeply. Your muscles tense, gaze flicking around and your eyes turn gold. The goon at your nine will move first, followed by the goon at your two, so you plot a route around that and release your power, pushing off with your right foot.
A bullet whizzes past your ear as anticipated and you grin, feeling the adrenaline kick in. Raising the pistol in your left hand, you fire, putting a bullet between your target's eyes before moving to duck the next shot you know is coming.
Your powers flare once again the moment the bullet flies past and time comes to a standstill, golden afterimages shimmering into view. Quickly taking in the scene that will play out for the next two seconds, you release your powers before a headache can kick in and move accordingly. This time, you close the gap between you and the goon, pressing the muzzle of the gun to his forehead.
"So much easier to aim when I'm up close and personal." You grin, pulling the trigger. His face contorts into one of fear just before the bullet pierces through his skull, embedding itself in the brain matter beneath. Blood splatters across your face and you spit out the ones that got into your mouth, grimacing at the taste.
"Don't worry fellas, I'm not a vampire." Your words do nothing to reassure your foes. Instead, they seem to frighten them even further and you sigh. "You guys are no fun."
You turn around and lunge at the nearest goon, eyes flickering golden. The goon screams in terror, blindly firing the rifle in his hands but you dodge, your lips curling into a grin as you focus, aiming one of your pistols at his neck. Your index finger brushes over the trigger and squeezes it as you exhale, lodging a bullet in a major artery that sends more blood spurting all over the scuffed floor.
Turning your attention to the next goon, your eyes flicker golden but quickly turn back to normal as a bullet finds its way into your ribs. Blood blooms in the spot, staining your undershirt red, and now there's a hole in black leather jacket Bucky had gifted to you last year for your birthday.
Shit.
One of them cheers shakily but freezes the moment you growl in annoyance. Another one takes aim but he's too slow. You push the pain aside, focusing on your breaths and move, firing a couple of rounds with the pistol in your right hand before tossing the now empty weapon away, picking up a dead goon's gun as replacement. You would reload your beloved pistol, but there's no cover here to duck behind and buy time, so the only alternative is to pick up a gun that still has bullets.
Your eyes flicker golden for a split second, enough for you to tell where the next attack is going to come from and you exhale sharply, forcing your body to move despite the amount of blood you're losing.
Three more. Three more and you've won.
Another bullet lodges itself in your left shoulder and you grunt, hating the taste of iron in your mouth. It's one thing to taste the blood of your enemies, it's another to taste your own blood. Forcing your injured shoulder to move, you barely manage to hit one of the goons in the leg before you go down on one knee.
Breathing heavily, you look up, seeing a rifle pointed at you from a distance. Even greviously injured, they dare not come close to the Hunter, and it makes you laugh despite the pain.
"Still so afraid of a badly injured person?"
One of them, the one who cheered before, takes the bait and angrily charges at you, dagger raised but your eyes turn golden and your own dagger slams upwards into his chin first, his dagger clattering uselessly to the floor.
"Maybe you're right." Cough. "To be afraid."
The pointed rifle fires and you grin, silently sending an apology to Bucky.
Sorry handsome, guess I'm going first.
You stare straight at the bullet, willing it to hurry up and end your suffering when suddenly a shadow looms over you and the bullet collides with something metal.
"On the scale of 1 to 10, how much idiocy did you leave the house with today?"
"0?"
"The correct answer is 20!" The man known as James Buchanan Barnes, formerly the Winter Soldier closes the distance between him and the goon who fired their rifle, knocking them out with a single punch from his metal fist. He then whirls around, rifle in hand and lands a shot in the last goon's leg before angrily storming over to slam the butt of the rifle into the goon's head.
"Heh. I almost won." You laugh, blood bubbling from your lips.
"Almost won? What part of this do you call almost —" The last thing you see is the panicked face of your fiance before the world spins and turns black, but you're pretty sure he caught you before you hit the floor. He would. He's your overprotective and ever worrying fiance after all, the man called James Buchanan Barnes.
When you wake up, it's in a sterile white room and the sharp scent of disinfecting alcohol hits your nose. You wince, holding your breath for a bit before slowly exhaling, letting your senses adjust to the new environment. After blinking a few times, you notice the mop of brunette hair next to you and feel a warm hand resting in your left hand, left of the mop of hair. A metal arm rests on the other side of the mop of hair, metal fingers curled around the pristine white sheets.
"You're gonna crumple the sheets." You don't know why that's the first thing you say, but there's no taking it back now. Bucky's head shoots up, ice blue eyes wide and he lets out a sigh of relief when he sees you staring right back at him.
"You idiot!" He exclaims, metal fist clenching tighter around the sheets. "I — I thought I was going to —"
Tears stream down his cheeks, staining the white sheets and your heart aches at the sight.
"Buck —"
"I can't lose you! You don't get to die before me, you hear that?" His voice cracks, and so does your heart. "You — you don't get to die before me."
"Bucky —"
"I can't afford to lose you, not when I've already lost everything else. You're the only one I have left, you're my entire world, I need you." The words come tumbling out and he holds you as close as he can, forehead pressing against yours. His hair tickles your cheeks and you strain to raise your right hand to gently cup his face.
You feel terrible about what you've put him through, rightfully so considering how you promised never to hurt him.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm sorry for scaring you, for hurting you."
He breaks down sobbing, clutching you tightly. "I've never been afraid of anything until I saw you collapse to the ground, bleeding all over the floor. Don't you ever do that again."
"I promise," you murmur, gently kissing his tears away. He sniffles, nuzzling into your hair before pressing kisses all over your face. You hum softly, threading your fingers through his hair and smile at him, ignoring the burning pain in your side that has kicked in.
Right on cue, a doctor steps into the room and Bucky moves to make space for him. After administering some medicine and checking on your condition, the doctor leaves, informing Bucky that you should be discharged in a week or less. Bucky nods, thanking the doctor for his help and sits back on the stool.
"Hey, Buck?"
"Yes, love?"
"I'm sorry for ruining the jacket."
He raises an eyebrow at you. "You got shot multiple times, almost died, and you're apologising about the jacket?"
"Well it was a nice jacket and now it's ruined." You shrug, hissing when the motion causes a sharp twinge of pain in your injured shoulder. Right, yes, you have an injured shoulder.
"You're an absolute idiot, you know that?" He huffs in mock irritation.
"And yet you love me." You grin cheekily. He rolls his eyes, giving your cheek a poke.
"When you're discharged, you owe me a meal as compensation for scaring me like that." He gives your forehead a flick. "So hurry up and get better fast, I want the Italian down the street from the bookstore."
"So demanding," you snort. His lips curve into a split second grin as he turns away, heading for the door.
"No more trying to die, alright love?"
You watch as he leaves, closing the door behind him.
"I suppose not, sergeant."