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mylovelymarvel · 6 years

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Paint My Sins Away (Part 2)

Pairing: au!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: She continues to paint, but what happens when she says Hello? Soulmate au

Warnings: brief mentions of sex (it’s like barely there and not at all explicit in any way), more angst, and swearing

WC: 2.4k

Part 1 Current Part Part 3

Six silent days pass before Bucky feels like he can breathe again. Recovery comes slow. He mopes around the tower, though he’d never admit he “mopes”, and there are bruise like bags under his eyes. The long sleeves have made a comeback and he tries his best to avoid everyone.

Steve doesn’t allow him to be alone for too long though. He quietly brings him food throughout the days and the occasional new book. He doesn’t pester him to talk or to explain his sudden regression, and for that, Bucky is grateful. The blonde super soldier is persistent though. He finds him no matter what inconspicuous room Bucky has tucked himself into into for the day.

Bucky has a hunch that FRIDAY has been tattling on him.

After a long day of training and therapy, Bucky finds himself nestled into bed, burrowed under a mountain of blankets with a novel in his hand. It’s nearly nine and the sun has long since set.

A thick book with a bright red cover sits in his hand. Outlander, it’s called. He’s only about 300 pages in, but he’s already enthralled by it. It whisks him away to another time, to a fantastical universe where he can lose himself. There are whisps of his own time sewn into the story, remnants of the 1940’s before the main character, Mrs. Claire Beaumont, is thrown 200 years into the past. The story is still violent, and he has to skip those parts, but he still loves it.

Reading has become another way to cope, though he won’t admit it. He has his own bookshelves set up in his room with hundreds of novels sitting on them. I’m trying to catch up on the modern world, he says. Everyone knows it’s bullshit, but they smile and nod and continue to find books they think he’d enjoy.

It’s sweet and he appreciates it.

He’s turning to page 332 when he notices the paint appearing again. It’s a sliver of green that tangles around his fingers and clenches painfully around his heart. He chokes out a strangled gasp and closes his eyes. He lowers his hands to his lap and it’s a few moments before he can open his eyes again. When he does, he tucks a Lord of the Rings bookmark between the pages of his book and sets it on his bedside table. With shaking breaths, he rips the blankets from his body and staggers into the bathroom to wash the paint away. Air can scarcely make its way through his constricted throat to his burning lungs.

His metal shoulder clips the doorway as he stumbles forward and a dull thunk echoes through the cold bathroom. He can barely breathe, but he is trying so, so hard to stay calm. He switches on the hot tap and holds his hand under the running water. He scrubs at his skin, scrapes at the paint, before returning to bed. He sits on the covers and reaches a quivering hand to his book.

***

His book sits abandoned on the comforter next to him. He has his arm laid out in front of him and his gaze is fastened to the scene being created on his skin. He tries to keep his mind empty, to focus on the art. He cannot think about the person poised behind the brush. He tries so desperately to forget about her, to keep his mind from the implications of what this means.

Instead, he focuses on the way she layers the paint on his palm, hues of blues and purples settling in the creases of his hand. Quiet breaths slip from his lips and there is a steady beat drumming inside his chest. It’s extraordinarily fascinating to watch, relaxing even. His eyelids are droopy and he’s yawned more times than he can count, but he doesn’t quite want to fall asleep yet. She continues the repetitive, calming brush strokes and he doesn’t remember when his eyes close, but suddenly he’s asleep.

***

The paint has disappeared when he wakes up.

The next couple of weeks follow the same pattern of training, therapy, and painting. He’s not quite sure when he becomes used to her painting. It slips into his schedule, quiet and relaxing, and suddenly he knows what to expect every night before bed. He is curled up in bed by the time she starts and she lulls him to sleep every night. The nightmares are still ever present, but for once, he wakes up well rested. He’s thankful she washes off the paint before he wakes. The long sleeves are still the only shirts he’s willing to wear, but he no longer needs the gloves. It’s progress.

He still forces himself not to think of her, to think of her as someone who actually exists somewhere out in the world. It is painful, but if he falters, it never fails to send him into an all consuming panic, a pathetic fit of weeping and shaking. He hates how weak he is. A fleeting thought of a girl and suddenly he’s crying. Pathetic. So he ignores it, forgets about her as best as he can.

***

He can tell she’s getting impatient. Nearly a month and a half has passed since she first felt him, but it still hasn’t gone further. He makes no attempt to contact her.

She usually sets aside a couple of hours every day before bed and paints for him, but today is different. Today she starts much earlier than usual, but balanced between her fingers is a pen rather than a brush. Today she writes on her arm, a simple hello in a pretty blue color. And then she waits.

***

Panic ensues when he notices the blue greeting inscribed on his wrist. Bile rises in his throat and it’s all he can do to keep from vomiting. There’s a gratuitous amount of unwarranted anger that flashes in his eyes as he stares. It was comfortable. It was peaceful. Why did you have to ruin it? Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone?

He licks his thumb and rubs it away, smudging the ink until he’s left with a blue smear on his skin. He yanks his sleeve down and tries to continue with his day.

***

There’s no paint that night and Bucky can’t find it in himself to blame her. It’s well into the early morning when he finally falls into a restless sleep. When he wakes, he wants nothing more than a steaming cup of coffee. It’s six in the morning when he wanders to the kitchen, stretching and rubbing his eyes as he goes. He’s clad in flannel pajama bottoms and a soft sweater that’s much too big for him.

Steve’s gloves are strewn onto the counter and one of Sam’s jackets are slung over one of the chairs, and it feels just a little more like home.

It takes a bit to work to fire up the coffee machine and although it can be frustrating, he finds it interesting. He adores these “high-tech gadgets”, as he calls them, and although Sam teases him over and over about that, he enjoys that too.

He’s leaning against the counter, a warm mug cupped between his hands when she writes again.

“Hello,” she writes in blocky script. His face crumples into a grimace as he wipes this greeting away too. He’s quiet the rest of the day.

***

For the first time in a long time, Bucky leaves the compound on his own. Within minutes, he’s walking into a building where the air is heavy with sweat and alcohol. He heads straight to the bar.

He drowns himself in a pretty brunette with green eyes that night. It’s the only way he knows to distract himself, and so it follows. She writes to him, every day now, about anything and everything, and every night he’s in a different girl’s apartment. The writing comes at all times of day. Sometimes she writes when he’s around others and he hurries to stuff his hands into the gloves he always has sitting in his pocket. Other times he’s buried in another pretty girl from the bar.

Sometimes the girls notice. Often times, they’re surprised or outraged at the ink that dances across his skin and they push him away. He leaves when this happens. On hard nights that he can’t get her out of his mind, he stops. He stutters to a halt and he can’t help the shudders that slide down his spine. On these nights, he apologizes, kisses the girls goodnight, and leaves. When he gets home, he curls into bed, clutching the blanket around him in hopes that the shaking will stop.

***

It’s 3 am and Bucky is in the kitchen. He’s shrugging off his jacket, tugging off his gloves, and his movements are choppy. He’s tired from his walk home after another rejection. She’s getting more persistent and frequent with her writing, and tonight she covered his arm in ink. He tosses his jacket onto the counter and stuffs his gloves into hi pocket. All he wants is his comfy pajamas and something warm.

He’s reaching up to grab something from the cupboard, and his sleeve is slipping down his arm when he feels a presence behind him. Bucky whirls around, a box of hot chocolate clutched to his chest with his metal hand already placed delicately on the knife strapped to his waist. He breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes it’s only Steve.

There’s a calm, calculating look plastered on Steve’s face that makes him uneasy. It’s only when he takes his hand off his knife that he realizes Steve’s gaze is fixed on his exposed arm. There’s a sharp inhalation, but Bucky pretends he’s fine as he tosses the box onto the counter behind him and yanks down his sleeve.

Steve is quiet. He’s leaning back on the kitchen island, arms crossed and he’s still staring. He waits, waits for Steve to yell or get upset, or really, to say anything at this point. But he stays in the same position, watching the way Bucky shifts uncomfortably. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Were you going to tell me?”

Bucky flinches at the sound of the blonde’s voice, too quiet and level. There is a small edge to it, a hint of anger and hurt. Buck averts his eyes, instead choosing to look at the floor as he shifts his weight.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, shrugging. “Probably not.”

“You have a soulmate, out of nowhere,” he replies, struggling to keep the quiver out of his voice, “and you weren’t going to tell me.”

Bucky gives a one shouldered shrug.

“Yeah, I guess.” His voice is low and there’s a note of uncertainty in it.

“What do you mean “Yeah, I guess”,” Steve bristles, pushing off the counter. Bucky’s eyes harden and he straightens up.

“What do you want me to say, Steve? ‘Hey, by the way, I suddenly have a soulmate after over 70 fucking years. I don’t know what the fuck to do and I don’t know why she appeared all of a sudden and I’m terrified and I don’t know what this means.’”-He takes a step closer to Steve- “Is that what you want to hear?”

“Jesus, Buck, no, that’s not what I want and you know it. You finally have a chance at your happy ending, at love, and you weren’t going to tell me? We’re best friends, man.” He stands his ground, unphased by the challenge in Bucky’s voice. He runs a tired hand through his hair.

“Come on, Steve,” he sighs, casting his gaze down with a flat chuckle. “You really think that’s how this works out? I get some “fairytale ending” with this girl who doesn’t know who I am or what I am? That’s not how this works, okay? I don’t get the happy ending, Steve. I shouldn’t.”

“Buck, stop it,” he demands in a hard voice as he steps forward. He’s met with a derisive laugh.

“You stop it. I don’t deserve a soulmate, Steve, it’s not that hard of a concept,” he taunts, a sneer in his words and on his lips. “But you wouldn’t understand that.”

Steve cocks his heads and narrows his eyes at the accusation that layers the brunette’s words.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, absolutely nothing.” His tone is mocking as he turns away and runs a hand through his hair. “I just don’t think you would understand, you know, with you being Mr. Perfect. You’ve got the perfect life and the perfect soulmate, right? I mean, Sharon’s just great, isn’t she?”

Steve knows, he fucking knows that Bucky’s just trying to get a rise out of him, but he can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes. It takes a few moments of silence and all his self control to keep from decking Bucky. There’s a deep sigh as he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and biting the inside of his cheek.

“Okay asshat,” Steve starts, his voice low. “I don’t know how you get off on being a dick and acting like a selfish asshole, but what about your soulmate? I’m not saying you don’t deserve one, because you do, but let’s say you don’t. Even if you don’t, what about her? Doesn’t she get a chance at a soulmate?”

Steve opens his eyes and blows out a frustrated breath before walking to Bucky, putting his hand on the his shoulder. He ignores the way he tenses up and yanks, pulling Buck to face him. He tugs at his arm, pulling harder when he’s met with resistance, and rips his sleeve down.

Please just talk to me, is written in small print along his forearm, and Steve scoffs, tossing his arm back at him.

“Does she deserve to be alone?” He continues, pressing a finger into Bucky’s chest. “Doesn’t she deserve a choice in this? Because all you’re doing right now is taking that choice away from her, and I really thought you’d be the last person to take someone’s decision away from them.”

To this, Bucky has no reply.

“When you get your head out of your ass, Buck, you know where to find me,” he mutters, shaking his head as he stalks past the silent, long haired brunette. “In the meantime, just fucking talk to her, man.”

He leaves the kitchen and once again, Bucky is alone.

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