James Buchanan Barnes 40s (3)

Bucky enters the medical tent supported by a soldier's shoulder, dragging his right leg as if seriously injured. But, the moment he realizes you're busy changing another patient's IV, he lets out a loud, pained sigh, sitting heavily on an empty stretcher with a dramatic groan.
When you finally walk up to him, his expression changes to a huge pout. He points to a tear in his uniform pants, a cut that, honestly, barely needs two stitches.
'Took you long enough, huh, doll?' He grumbles, crossing his arms and looking at the tent ceiling with feigned indignation. 'I'm out here, serving as a target for the Germans, and my best friend is too busy giving Corporal Smith an IV to notice that I'm bleeding to death down here.'
You start cleaning the wound and he lets out an exaggerated 'Ouch!', shrinking his leg like a child afraid of a shot. He kicks his free foot in the air, restless.
'Careful! You want to kill me? I'm a decorated soldier, you know? I deserve special treatment.' — He glances at you sideways, his pout fading only slightly as you gently touch his skin. — 'In Brooklyn, when I got hurt in a fight, you'd give me chocolate and let me lay my head in your lap. Here I only get alcohol and gauze? What kind of service is this?'
He turns his face away again, hiding the smile that insists on appearing because he's loving having your hands taking care of him, but he keeps kicking his foot in the dust under the stretcher, hoping you'll calm him down with a caress.