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Summary
"You were on the floor," he says flat. "Struggling to stand. That’s not ‘handling it.’"
"Fuck you," Sam snaps, almost automatic. But there’s no weight behind it. Just exhaustion. Just embarrassment. His hands are curled tight on the towel in his lap, knuckles taut.
Bucky bites down on what wants to come next, because it’s not about the bath. It’s not about the fall.
It’s about Berlin. The mission that went bad two days before the summit. The one Bucky hadn’t been briefed on until the aftermath—until a red folder showed up in his office while he was smiling through committee testimony about global stabilization efforts. One of his aides had slid it across the table during a break, whispering something he doesn’t remember now. The word explosive stood out. The words head trauma and unconscious at the scene followed.