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It was bound to happen at some point.
Really, it was John's fault for not being better prepared.
He'd ended up rather battered after a mission — unfortunately, he survived, but maybe next time would be successful — and Barnes was, like usual, nagging him. Something something, "you're a reckless idiot", something something. John was only half listening, more focused on the small stab wound that might actually be a medium-large stab wound and how blood stained his right hand as he put pressure on it. He idly wondered if he'd remember to restock the medical kit in his room.
But then he felt bruising metal fingers digging into his left arm—
agony warm liquid soaking into his sleeve bone peeking out from the skin need to set it now now now before it heals like this
"Don't you fucking touch me!"
He barely stopped his bloodied fist from hitting Barnes by an inch. His left arm was tucked into his chest, away from that vibranium thing still outstretched toward him.
Cold blue eyes.
John pushed down the terror manifesting in an elevated pulse and quickening breaths. He grit his teeth until they hurt. "You don't get touch me, Winter Soldier," he hissed. Barnes' flinch, only noticable due to John's enhanced senses, sent a thrill of sick satisfaction through him. "Try that again, and it'll be my turn to snap your fucking arm."
If his hasty exit was more frantic fleeing than a strategic retreat, then John didn't notice. The voice in his head that sounded like Lemar (he called it his common sense) screamed at him to run. John compromised by speed walking as fast as his sprained ankle would let him. He didn't stop until he reached the safety of his room.
Lemar's eyes glared at him from the single picture frame on his nightstand.
