Chapter Text
“Bucky.”
The sun is sweltering above them, blazing down on the sandy landscape. Sweat drips from Sam’s forehead, evaporating quickly in the heat. There’s no shade this time of day, and they really should be going.
“Bucky,” Sam tries again. He approaches his partner, who is crouched near where the fenceline meets one of the small, deteriorating brick sheds, murmuring in indecipherable, low tones. Bucky doesn’t acknowledge him.
“Bucky,” Sam sighs, resting a hand on Bucky’s left bicep, which is surprisingly cool under the desert sun. “Come on, man, we gotta go.”
“Gimme a minute,” Bucky murmurs, remaining in his crouched position. Before him, in the corner where the fence meets the building, Sam hears a low growling noise.
“Oh no,” Sam says to himself.
“We got any water?” Bucky asks.
In front of him is a dog - some kind of shepherd mix, if Sam had to guess - backed up against the fence with the fur on its neck standing up straight. Its tail is tucked between its legs, and its ears are pressed against its head. There are ropes around its neck and middle connecting it to one of the fencelines. A plastic muzzle is fixed too tightly over its snout.
Sam sighs. “Yeah, but-”
“Give it to me.”
Sam walks over to their jeep and grabs one of the canteens. When he gets back over to where the dog is, Bucky’s managed to get a little bit closer.
“I need to get that thing off of his face,” Bucky spits with more venom than Sam would expect, even given the situation.
“Okay,” Sam says warily. “Don’t get bit, okay? We don’t know if that thing could have rabies or something.”
“He doesn’t have rabies,” Bucky dismisses. Softer: “He’s just scared.”
The muzzle has straps going over and around the dog’s head. Bucky unfastens them with a lot more gentleness than he uses when giving Sam first aid, and tosses the black, plastic contraption aside with an air of disgust.
“Water,” he says, holding out a hand. Sam hands him the canteen.
The dog isn’t trying to attack them; it seems more interested in stretching its (presumable sore) jaw. It opens and closes its mouth a few times, licking over its lips and nose.
When Bucky moves the canteen closer to it, it scrambles backward a bit and bares its yellow teeth. Even from here, its breath is terrible, smelling of rot and sickness. Sam resists the urge to gag.
“It’s okay,” Bucky says softly, splashing a few drops of water near its forepaws. It stares at the wet sand, then back up at Bucky.
Bucky cups his left hand and slowly lets the water drip into it. At first, the dog stares distrustfully, but soon its thirst wins out and it laps at the water with a dehydrated pink tongue.
When the canteen is empty, Sam takes it back from Bucky.
“I need to cut the ropes,” Bucky says, more to himself than to Sam. He grabs his boot knife and moves toward the dog in as unthreatening a manner as a six-foot supersoldier is capable of moving.
The dog snarls and snaps its teeth, but it seems too tired to attack. Sam grimaces when he sees how tight the ropes are tied around its neck and stomach; the bloody brown fur has matted over it. It must be very painful.
Bucky has a stony expression on his face when he moves to cut the ropes, one that Sam has come to associate with an extreme feeling of disappointment in humanity. That someone could do something like this is very saddening.
Bucky cuts the ropes free from the fence first before going to examine where they’re fastened around the dog. He makes a face.
“You need me to hold him still?” Sam asks.
Bucky nods wordlessly.
Sam moves over to the dog and holds it as gently as he can as Bucky begins to work on the ropes. The dog snarls and kicks a bit, but Sam manages to hold him still. He looks over to see how Bucky’s progressing, and bile immediately makes its way into his throat.
Bucky’s cut away some of the matted fur around the ropes, and underneath, the raw, open flesh is infested with maggots and flies.
Finally, all of the ropes are removed, and Bucky takes the dog from Sam’s arms and settles it in his lap. Sam goes over to the jeep to get the first aid kit.
Neither of them speak as Sam cleans and disinfects the wounds. When he’s done, they take a moment to rest in silence. Bucky absently strokes the dirty fur on the dog’s head.
“We should get going,” Sam says “We can bring him with us.”
Bucky nods.
“I can grab him if you wanna drive?” Sam continues. He’d driven on the way there, and he’s tired as fuck. This is usually what they do, anyway; one of them drives to the location, and the other drives back.
“Okay,” Bucky says. His voice is hoarse; he might be dehydrated. Sam makes a mental note to remind him to drink some water on the way back.
“Let me grab the muzzle,” Sam says, moving to grab the plastic piece, “It’s a little hot from the sun, so we can let it cool down before-”
“No.”
Bucky is staring at him, eyes wild and posture tight.
Sam blinks. “Bucky, we don’t know if he’s aggressive or not. We need to be safe. It won’t hurt him.”
Bucky glares, cold as ice, and gently sets the dog at his feet. He marches over to Sam, rips the muzzle from his hands, and throws it as hard as he can into the horizon (which is pretty far, considering the fact that the man’s a supersoldier).
“Whoops,” Bucky snarks. “Let’s go. Grab the dog.”
He stalks his way over to the jeep and starts it, leaving Sam gaping in his wake.
***
They drop the dog off at a veterinary clinic once they get back to civilization, and the vet says that he has a good chance at recovery.
“I’ll talk to one of the local shelters and see what we can do for him,” she says with a kind smile. “Don’t worry. He’s in good hands.”
Bucky is distant for the rest of the day, going off to do his own thing once they get home. Sam lets him have his space, getting the impression that he isn’t in a talking mood at the moment.
***
That night, as Sam’s lying in bed, waiting for sleep to overtake him, an image comes to mind: a black leather-clad figure with long hair and a gleaming silver arm standing before him, black plastic obscuring the nose and mouth, tight over a square jaw.