if you can hold on, hold on

This isn't a scene I ever wanted to witness.

The run to the Compound was brutal, and Tony was on his way out to get Xavier when I was on my way in. At some point, I took the Shield off my back and set it on an unoccupied bed.

There are doctors moving deftly from the table Bucky's stretched out on to the sink, or trays of gauze and utensils and back again. I didn't let anyone get near the arm until Dr. McCoy was there. I know the kind of technology he's worked with. He removed it, and I felt something wrench in my gut. I was vaguely aware of someone at my elbow speaking with concern before I shrugged them off and went around to watch them peel away the Winter Soldier's uniform. It would take a soldering iron to cut through it. He's covered in superficial wounds- severe bruising, mostly, damage to his ribs. With the arm gone, they manage all right.

Oh, God, Bucky.

I beg off questions, agree to let McCoy take care of the knife wound in my side after another reprimand I barely register. I'm numb to it, whatever he's doing. I don't bring up the gash on my leg. There's enough blood and dirt that I can't imagine anyone noticing for a while, anyway.

"...you'll want to restrain him," I say, as the thought occurs, though the words are hard to get out. I catch Rory frowning in my peripheral vision, bagging the ruined and blood soaked t-shirt I'd been wearing before depositing it in the trash.

"Just- until-"

There's a sound in the hallway of heavy metal on flooring and I'm up, off the spare bed, ignoring Dr. McCoy's curse of frustration.

"Professor?"