Summary: When she volunteered as a combat nurse in the war, (y/n) (y/l/n) did not think that she’d end up working with the Howling Commandos. Most of all, she definitely didn’t expect to fall as hard as she did for a sweet brunette from Brooklyn.
New Beginnings: A young girl travels overseas to help her country during the Second World War.
A/N: Hey y’all! I hope you’ve had a great week! Sorry for the large gap between these few parts. I have been swamped on schoolwork because of AP exams coming up. I do not own any of these characters except (y/n)! Anyways, I hope you enjoy it!
Summary: Zemo has one plan to get to the source of the serum in Madripoor; the winter soldier. After a fiasco in low-town, the three of you run into an old ally who is willing to help you in your mission.
Warnings: mentions of blood, minor character death, typical cannon violence, angst, some fluff
(y/n) - your name
(y/l/n) - your last name
(y/n/n) - your nickname
(y/h/c) - your hair color
Italics - flashbacks
As I was slowly waking up, I hear the words I never wanted to hear; “James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone.” Suddenly wide awake, I shoot up out of my chair.
“No! Absolutely not! Bucky, you’re not him anymore!”
“Hey, take it easy, (y/n/n). You’re still hurt.” Bucky says softly. “As much as I hate it too, it’s the only way, doll.”
“You’re serious? James, come on! This is the same Zemo who made you fight all of us in 2016!”
Bucky stands up from his chair and walks towards me, gently grabbing my uninjured arm. He leads me away from the cabin and into the small kitchen where we could have some privacy. To my surprise, he immediately envelopes me into a hug, careful of my injuries.
Burying my face in his shoulder, I quietly ask, “Bucky, how are you actually feeling about this?
“I’m okay.” I know he’s lying because I can physically feel him tense up at the question.
“I’m terrified, (y/n). The last time I was him, I fought you, Steve, and the other Avengers.....I know I just have to act like him, but it just brings me back there.”
I pull away so I can look him in the eyes. “You didn’t have a choice then, but you do now. You’re finally in a good place. Please don’t do this Buck.”
“I hate this, but I have to. It’s the only way to find out where the serum is coming from.”
I sigh, stepping back from him to lean against the counter. “If I can’t change your mind, I’m coming with you.”
His expression hardened. “No. Absolutely not. You’re still hurt. You still have to wear a sling and have a cast on your hand!”
To make a point, I quickly take my arm out of my sling before he could stop me.
“Damn it, (y/n)!”
“See?” I move my arm around in a circle, biting back a groan because of the pain radiating from my bicep. “I’m fine!”
“You’re so damn stubborn!” He huffs before storming out of the room.
I can’t believe he’s actually going this, and I really don’t know why he’s trusting Zemo. I can’t help but think back to Berlin and all the problems surrounding our “Civil War.”
Zemo’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “James has informed me that you are going to be accompanying us to Madripoor. Here is your attire for the mission.” I take the dress he was holding out to me and hold it up to my figure.
“It doesn’t leave much to imagination, does it?”
“You will have to play as Smiling Tiger’s date. Sam will be playing him and James and I will be playing as ourselves.”
Scoffing at the fact Zemo thinks Bucky is only the Winter Soldier, I turn and walk into the bathroom to get changed.
The dress is upper thigh length, form fitting, dark green, and completely covered in sequins. It has a plunging neckline that makes me very self conscious of my physique. As I’m looking in the mirror, my mind wanders to the last time I got dressed up like this. Nat and I had went out for a girls night just a few weeks before the tragic mission in Lagos. She always had told me that I had to be willing to go out of my comfort zone for missions and just everyday life. Our current situation definitely qualifies as out of my comfort zone.
With every movement of my arm, it sent sharp pains through my bicep. I sneak into the kitchen and take more pain medicine without anyone else seeing, then go back to the bathroom. When I was almost done fixing my hair and makeup, I hear a knock on the door.
“Here are some shoes.” It was Bucky. I can tell he is still angry at me but I really don’t care. There’s no way I would let him go anywhere with Zemo without me, even if Sam was there.
“Thanks.” I open the door and grab the shoes as I walk past him. He grabs my uninjured hand, stopping my movement. I turn towards him and I was not expecting the look I got from him. It was like his anger had faded away as soon as he saw me.
“Wow. You look so beautiful, doll. I really like that on you.” His warmth filled eyes roamed my body and lingered where the dress was tightest on my curves. That was when I noticed the uniform he was wearing. It was very similar to the actual Winter Soldier vest that Bucky wore in D.C.
“Thanks James. I wish I could say I like yours.”
“I know. I don’t like it either.....look, I’m sorry about earlier. I just don’t want you getting hurt again.”
I nod as I sit on the seat to look at the heels he gave me. They were four inch black block heels with ankle straps. Surprisingly, they fit me perfect. Standing up, I pull the dress down, trying to cover as much exposed skin as I can.
Bucky looked like he was about to say something but stopped at the sight of Sam walking in the room. I look over to him and immediately start laughing. He was wearing a dark red suit with yellow circles and all types of decorations.
Looking to over to Bucky, I continue to laugh as a smile cracks on his face.
“Shut up, (y/l/n).”
Zemo walks in. “Time to go.”
Bucky and I haven’t said much to each other since his apology. We’re currently walking on a bridge, making our way to Madripoor.
“We have to do something about this. I'm the only one who looks like a pimp.” Sam complains.
“Only an American would assume a fashion-forward Black man looks like a pimp. You look exactly like the man you're supposed to be playing. The sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mack, aka the Smiling Tiger.” My eyes widen and a laugh threatens to leave my lips at Zemo’s words.
“He even has a bad nickname.” Zemo leans over and shows Sam a picture of Smiling Tiger on his phone. “Hell, he does look like me, though.
As I take a deep breath, my nose burns from some horrid scent. “You smell this?”
“Yeah, what is that? Acid?”
A car approaches us and stops about 10 feet ahead of us. As we all walk towards the car, Zemo starts talking again.
“Madripoor. No matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it. There's no margin for error. High Town's that way. Not a bad place if you wanna visit, but Low Town's the other way.”
Bucky opens his mouth for the first time in a while. “Let me guess. We don't have any friends in High Town.”
He gets no response as Zemo gets into the car and waits for the rest of us to get in. Bucky opens the door for me and gently grabs my hand.
“Please be careful. And know I’m sorry for whatever I may have to do.”
“Always, James.” I lean up and kiss him on the cheek before getting in the car, where he gets in next to me.
Arriving in the club, I could practically feel every man’s eyes on me. It made me feel so objectified, and Sam caught onto this. He pulled me closer to him by my waist and whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” into my ear. Looking over at Bucky, I see that it’s hard for him to keep his cool at all of these men looking me up and down. Even though he is frustrated with me, and vice versa, he still is my boyfriend. We make eye contact for a short second and his eyes convey a thousand emotions.
As we’re walking through the club, the people surrounding us start to notice and chatter about who was with us; the Winter Soldier. Finally making it to the bar, a bartender approaches us, looking at Sam.
Seeing Sam somewhat panic, Zemo saves him. “His plans changed. We have business to do with Selby.”
“What would you like, sweetheart?”
I clear my throat, “Just water please.” He gives me a weird look but hands me a glass.
This time he turns to Sam. “The usual?”
He nods and the bartender turns around and grabs a snake from a jar on a shelf. Sam looks at me with wide eyes as I suppress another laugh. The man cuts into the snake’s stomach, grabs something out of it, and drips
“Ah. Smiling Tiger, your favorite.” Zemo jabs with a smirk.
Looking extremely uncomfortable, Sam picks up his drink. “I love these.”
“Cheers, Conrad.” They clink their glasses together and Zemo drinks his shot straight away. Sam, on the other hand, just puts the glass to his lips. Getting a whiff of the strong stench, he groans, moving it to his eye level.
“Mmm.” He brings it to his lips once again but hesitates on drinking it. With a final, groan, he downs the drink while I just sip my water, trying not to laugh. Bucky subtly nods and looks away with a tiny smirk in order to stop himself from laughing too.
Eyeing Sam suspiciously, the bartender walks away. Immediately, our attention is stolen by a bald man with a bushy beard.
“I got word from on high. You ain't welcome here.”
“I have no business with the Power Broker, but if he insists, he can either come and talk to me...” Zemo gestures mover to Bucky.
“New haircut?” The man asks.
Taking a breath, Zemo finishes, “Or bring Selby for a chat.”
With that, the man walks away and I find myself drawing closer and closer to Sam out of fear of what might soon happen. Zemo turns towards Bucky as he grumbles.
“A power broker? Really?”
“Every kingdom needs its king. Let's just pray we stay under his radar.” This is the first time I’ve ever seen Zemo even moderately scared over a potential adversary.
Sensing there was something he wasn’t telling us, I break my silence. “Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation. In Madripoor he is judge, jury, and executioner.”
Within a few seconds of Zemo’s comment, another burly man walks towards us. As soon as the Baron started speaking Russian, I knew what was about to happen, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. The only thing I could do was hold onto Sam and try not to act like it bothered me.
“Зимний солдат. Атака.”
When the man placed his hand on Zemo’s shoulder, Bucky sprang into action, grabbing his hand and clotheslining him. As more men ran towards him, he continued to take them out.
Zemo leaned over to Sam and I, whispering, “Didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.”
At his comment, I almost punched him but Sam gripped my waist tighter, warning me not to. As if he felt my blood pressure rising, Bucky ended the fight by slamming a man onto the counter with his hand around the guy’s neck. Suddenly, guns were being cocked all around us and Sam placed a hand on Bucky’s vibranuim arm.
“Stay in character or the whole bar turns on us.” Warns Zemo in a whisper.
He turns to Bucky. “Молодец, солдат.”
The whole bar is silent until the bartender from earlier breaks it. “Selby will see you now.”
Bucky slowly lets go of the wheezing man who then falls onto the floor. He quickly looks over at me with a look I can’t identify except as shame. I wish I could run to him and give him a hug, saying everything is okay. Sadly, we have roles to play.
As Sam and I walk closer to him, Sam asks, “You good?” All James does in response is inhale sharply and nod quickly before walking away. Having enough of the act, I reach out for his hand. I’m quickly stopped by Zemo who gives me a death stare that reads, “Stay in character.” As much as I hate it, he’s right. Taking my place on Sam’s arm, I silently pray nothing else will go wrong in our mission.
Powers/No Powers. Bucky vs Depression storyline. TW for food mentions. (Reminder that I don't take food recs, but do occasionally venture there on my own.)
We play games of love to avoid the depression
We been here before and I won't be your victim
Steve pours the rest of the pancake batter into the pan, wondering why he's bothered with the double batch. He'd gone right along with the usual recipe, even though things haven't been usual for a while. He sighs and drums the spatula gently against the edge of the stove, then goes in to flip the sizzling cake. It's too pale at the center, probably still full of raw batter.
Steve knows he's blown it; turning the pancake back over will only result in burnt edges. But it doesn't matter, though. It's not like anyone's going to eat this one anyway.
Bucky sits curled on the couch in the living room, periodically glancing up at the black television screen and, presumably, his own reflection. He doesn't look well. He hasn't for a few days, his face especially pale with dark shadows rimming his eyes. He hasn't been sleeping. Just lying there, breathing quietly while Steve rests overnight, then coming downstairs in the morning to take up space in stony silence until evening sets in again and he can feign tiredness so as to return to the bed.
When Steve first realized what was going on, he took a day off work to observe, then a second to encourage Bucky to do otherwise. When that didn't work, he called Bucky's psychiatrist.
"He won't do anything," he explained to Dr. Maximoff. "He's not sleeping either.
"He's maxed out on practically everything," the docter had said. "I can prescribe something for sleep, but you'll have to be careful with it. It's a controlled substance. you can't let him get ahold of it on his own."
"Don't worry; I keep everything locked up..."
Steve still hasn't brought himself to pick up the Ambien from the pharmacy. He keep's imaging Bucky in front of the linen clset where the meds are kept, lying on his face and foaming at the mouth, this time too deeply unconscious to spit whatever he's taken back up. Even though Steve doesn't tell him what's what, Bucky has an uncanny knack for being able to pry the lids off the most lethal of substances. Dealing with Bucky's mood is better than dealing with that.
Steve's startled back to the present when the scent of smoke rises to his nostrils. He quickly digs the spatula under the ruin of a pancake, now showing one side burned to a crisp.
Steve swears under his breath. Now the pale, almost certainly raw side is on the griddle again, creating a most unappetizing batter gusher between two smoky brown-black sides.
He glances over his shoulder as he lets the disaster languish in the pan. "You, uh, want a pancake, Buck?" Steve flips the burnt cake again, then pulls a plate from the cabinet so the seared bits won't soil the other pancakes already waiting. "I promise I won't give you this one." He's sure the odor of the char is apparent all through the house.
Bucky sits up a little and pauses, then slowly shakes his head. His mouth opens a sliver, but no sound comes out.
Steve's heart sinks a bit, and he realizes he's no longer hungry either. "Ok..." he sighs. He flips the crispy burned pancake into the garbage disposal, then covers the rest in plastic wrap.
"You want me to come sit? Watch TV?" Steve's grasping at straws now. Saturday is supposed to be their together time, and now Bucky's acting as if he couldn't care less. Steve's sure it's just the depression talking, but the shrug Bucky offers in response feels a little too much like a personal offense.
Steve turns around to grasp the edges of the sink. He drags in a slow breath, holds it for a moment, then lets it out, trying not to make a sound and alert Bucky to his frustration.
"Steve, I..." Bucky's sitting all the way up now. His voice holds a cryptic note, something desperate or apologetic or perhaps both.
"I know you're in a mood," Steve says into the broken silence. "And I'm sorry, I haven't been able to, you know, do anything about it."
"Not your job," Bucky mutters. He pulls his arm across his chest and twitches his stump shoulder. The gesture is clear, even if he can't make it properly.
"Well, it's my job to help you." Steve lets go of the sink and turns to face Bucky, though there's still half the downstairs between them. "All I can say is that I love you. I care about you. I want you to... feel better."
"So do I," Bucky huffs. "D'you think I don't?"
"Of course not." Steve feels sick to his stomach. He peels up a corner of the plastic wrap and tears off the side of a pancake, then jams it into his mouth. He chews twice, then swallows, hoping the carb load will absorb the sour taste growing at the back of his throat.
"You sure you don't want one of these?" Steve asks. "They're good for feeling better."
"Glad it helped you." Bucky's tone is hollow. Not rude exactly, but cold.
Steve removes the pancake pan from the still-warm burner and puts the kettle on the stove instead. He'll warm Bucky up into personhood, something he probably should've done days ago.
"Give that just a minute to boil," Steve says. Then he slowly enters the living room and pulls the afghan off the back of the sofa. "Here." He unfolds the blanket and holds it open, ready to spread it over Bucky's curled form.
Bucky maneuvers himself into a tighter ball, ready to accept the blanket, but shying away from Steve's hands. It's another hearty disappointment that Steve tries not to show on his face. Their relationship isn't new; they have no need to avoid each other's touch. Hypersensitivity is a thing, and Steve knows it, but this doesn't feel like it. The look on Bucky's face when he approaches isn't uncontrolled panic. It's just frustration. Unhappiness. Disdain.
"Alright. There you go." Steve pretends he doesn't notice Bucky's uncomfortable shiver and tucks the blanket up around his shoulders. "That ok?"
Bucky gives a curt nod.
"Ok." The kettle in the kitchen begins to whistle, and Steve turns his attention to preparing the tea he knows neither of them will drink. Once the leaves have steeped enough, he carries the mugs to the coffee table and sits on the opposite end of the couch, careful so as not let so much as a stray movement of his elbow brush against Bucky's swaddled feet.
"Buck, I..." Steve picks up his mug, which is hot enough to turn his palms red. "I love you. I want to be with you."
Steve looks sideways out of the corner of his eye just enough to see Bucky's minute nod. He lets out the tiniest breath of relief, then adjusts the mug in his hands to see if they've yet burned to a crisp.
Sometimes when im stressed, even over simple stuff like an essay or something. I imagine my fav characters comforting me. I could talk to friends or family, but its easier and shorter to do this. Is that weird? I feel like it is XD
If its a big issue, then yall ill talk to real people (and my favs) but for simple stuff i just imagine talking to them and it honestly helps a lot?? Is that weird?
“If I turn into him-” Bucky gave her a look to keep her quiet. He knew she was about to argue that he wouldn’t. That Ayo had erased that part of him.
“If I do- I need you to swear to me you will run. If he comes back you run and don’t look back. You don’t try to help me, you don’t try to control me. You run. Promise me.” His eyes were watering now. He cradled her face in his hands, metal and flesh thumbs stroking the red of her cheeks.
“Buck.. don’t ask me to do that. Please.” Her eyes were puffy, her face stained with tear tracks. They’d been arguing for an hour. Bucky had to know she’d put her safety over his. If he was going to allow himself to love again- he had to know she wouldn’t get hurt.
“Y/N, I love you. More than I thought was possible. But if I think for one second that loving you puts you in danger, I'll leave. I can’t have your blood on my hands. Not yours.”
“Fine. Yes, fine. I swear. Just please- don’t leave me.” She clutched him to her chest, tears soaking his shirt. He held her gently, hands stroking her back and pressing a kiss to her hair.
“I don’t want to, baby. Just can’t have my best gal getting hurt, hm?” He pulls her away to get a look at her face.
“Will you smile for me? Give me that pretty smile. Make all the guys go wild.” Bucky put a little tune to his words in his efforts. She cracked a grin.
“There she is. There’s the prettiest dame I ever did see.” Bucky leaned forward and rubbed his nose against hers, eliciting a giggle from her.
Summary: Bucky's therapist talks him into going to Y/N's apartment
A/N: Thank you guys so much for the support on chapter 1, I'm so overwhelmed with joy. As a treat, I decided to post chapter 2!
“I made a friend yesterday. I think.”
Dr. Raynor’s ears perked up. “You think?” She asked as she adjusted her glasses. Bucky was in Dr. Raynor’s office for his federal mandatory therapy sessions. And mandatory meant one missed appointment meant another appointment in jail.
Bucky nodded his head, “Yeah, I met her last night.” He said. Dr. Raynor started to pick up her notebook. Bucky sighed. “Please, do you have to do this?” Bucky asked, motioning towards her notebook. She ignored him. “A her?” She asked, jotting something down on her notes. Bucky clenched his flesh fist. “Yeah, her name’s Y/N.”
“How’d you meet her?” Raynor questioned. Bucky took a breath before speaking. “She lives next door. Was playing some dumb song on repeat. Something about life going on, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that song was annoying.” He rambled. All Bucky heard in reply was the scratch of pen on paper. “Songs and conversations about ‘life going on’ get you upset?” Raynor asked, looking up from her notebook.
Bucky sighed and rubbed his face, feeling his stubble on his single calloused hand. “No, it’s just annoying.” He replied with annoyance in his voice. Dr. Raynor gave him a look. “We’ll save that conversation for another session. Right now I wanna hear about Y/N.” Dr. Raynor leaned forward. “All I did was knock on the wall, which caused her to stop the song. She then asked about the band and I didn’t know who it was. She came over pissed.” Bucky explained, shrugging his shoulders. He was getting a little agitated with Raynor today. But then again, he always grew agitated with her every session. “What was the band?” She asked. Bucky shrugged again. “Something with a bug, I don’t know.”
Bucky snapped his fingers with his flesh hand. “That’s the one.” He exclaimed, pointing at Raynor. She chuckled to herself. “What next, Bucky?” Bucky cleared his throat. “Well, she ripped me a new one for not knowing them, then came into my apartment -unwelcomed, by the way- and started looking around for my ‘shitty taste in music'.” Bucky did the little quotation mark gesture as he spoke. He went on, “I then told her that I don’t listen to music. She didn’t yell or anything after that. Just told me to come to her apartment today at 8. To do what, I have no clue. She then just left.” Bucky trailed off after saying ‘left’, which drew Raynor’s attention.
“Sounds like you like her already,” Raynor said, adjusting her position in her armchair. “You should go. I know you may think you don’t want to, but you do. Go.” Bucky rolled his eyes at her words. “Of course I don’t want to go, I don’t know her.” He did want to go. Goddamn, he wanted to go so badly. Why won’t he let himself go?
“You’re just saying that. You do want to go. This is the first person, other than-” Raynor stopped and flipped in her notebook. “Mr. Nakajima that you’ve had a connection with. Actually a first one outside of your list of amends.” Raynor was right. Bucky hasn’t spoken to anyone from the team in a while.
He’s been avoiding Pepper and Morgan because he still feels terrible about not being able to apologize to Tony about his parents. Thor’s doing whatever the fuck the God of Thunder would do. Sam’s in Louisiana with his sister and nephews. Clint’s trying to get over the guilt of Natasha’s death. And Bruce is doing “Brucey” things.
Bucky has no one. Just himself. Just like it’s always been.
He sucked in a breath. “Okay, I’ll go.”
“You better, Barnes. I’ll find out one way or another.” Raynor said, closing her notebook.
Bucky was sitting on his living room floor, staring at the clock in the corner of the room.
He still sat, his back against the wall, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall. “C’mon, Buck. You gotta go.” He mumbled to himself, rubbing his gloved hands together. He screwed his eyes shut. He didn’t understand why he was so nervous.
“This is the first person you’ve ever had a connection with outside your list.” He said, remembering Dr. Raynor’s words. Maybe that’s why he was so nervous. He just didn’t want to fuck it up. Didn’t want to lose the chance to live a normal life. Whatever normal meant nowadays.
A knock on the wall shook Bucky out of his small pep talk. “You coming over or what?” Y/N’s voice sounded muffled through the wall. Bucky took a deep breath before getting up and walking over.
Before he could even knock on Y/N’s door, she opened it. She had a white t-shirt on, paired with a pair of plaid black pants, matched with a maroon leather jacket. Her feet were covered in her white socks. The only makeup on her face was some eyebrow gel and mascara. Bucky thought she looked pretty.
He shook that thought out of his head. Just be my friend, he thought. Y/N gave him a small smile. “Never thought you’d come.” She said, moving out of the way to let Bucky into her apartment. He stepped in. It did look similar, structure-wise. The kitchen was in the same place, as was the living room. But Y/N had it more decorated than him.
She had posters of bands and artists framed on her wall. Plants littered the corners of her apartment. She had a nice couch and another nice armchair in her living room. She didn’t have a T.V. though. Where Bucky had his T.V., she had a long shelf full of records, new and old. Sitting on top of the shelf was a record player accompanied by two speakers on either side. And of course, above the record player, hanging on the wall was a poster of The Beatles.
“I didn’t know people still used record players,” Bucky said aloud. Y/N shot him a smile. “It’s the best way to listen to music.” Y/N chuckled and walked over to her fridge. She opened the refrigerator door and pulled out two bottles of beer. Kicking the door closed with her foot, she gave one to Bucky.
Bucky watched as Y/N popped the lid off with her finger and took a sip. “Hope you like Stella Artois.” She said, nodding towards his drink. Bucky gave her a small smile. “I do, thanks.” He said, cracking the beer open with ease.
Y/N strolled over to her record player and then turned around to face the leather-clad man. “So, got a favorite decade?” She asked, crouching down to search through her records. Bucky cleared his throat before speaking. “The ‘40s.” He mumbled, just loud enough for Y/N to hear.
“Hmm,” Y/N sat down on the floor, shuffling through her records. “I have Frank Sinatra, does that sound good?” She asked, looking back and showing Bucky her copy of Frank Sinatra’s Greatest Hits.
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard his stuff before,” Bucky said, the name jogging his memory. He watched as Y/N carefully took the record out of its case before putting it on the record player. She pressed the start button, making the record spin. The girl grabbed a brush-like object and carefully swept the record with it. She then picked up the needle and placed it on the record. As Y/N walked away Sinatra’s All of Me started playing through her book-end speakers.
Bucky gave her a look. Something about this felt too good to be true. “So, what is all of this for?” Bucky questioned, motioning to everything around him. Y/N shrugged. “I decided to be charitable because you don’t seem to know anything about music. You come over, we drink, listen to some tunes, talk about life and whatnot.” She said, walking towards her kitchen table.
“Few rounds of rummy, while we listen to Sinatra, Buck?” She asked, holding a deck of cards in her hands.
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warnings | injured!reader, first-aid stuff (some blood), me not knowing how to write scenes on planes/jets lol
requested by @hevans-angel | Can I ask for hurt/comfort with Stucky x Reader? Maybe she got badly hurt during a mission or something? Thanks friend! 🎈
an | hi friend of course thanks so much for the request!!! steve and bucky would take such good care of you, especially if you got hurt on their watch; they would feel so bad and just wanna make it all better!
"Just hang in there, y/n. Only an hour or so before we're back in New York," Bucky's frantic voice attempts to soothe you as you groan softly into his shoulder. Lifting you up onto the flimsy fabric of the fold-out medical cot, the brown-haired man looks worriedly over you, running a hand through your hair to tuck it back out of your face.
"Hour's too long to wait, we need to look at that wound now," Steve sighs as he rummages through the medical cabinet, pulling out a large red box and setting it down by your legs.
"She gonna need stitches?" Bucky asks softly as his flesh hand runs gently over the torn fabric of your shirt.
"Not sure yet. Need to take a look at it first," Steve says, sanitizing his hands before turning to address you. "Alright doll, just gonna lift this a bit to see what we're working with," he warns, carefully moving back the ruined garment to reveal your stomach, a large slash running down your left side.
"Jesus. A bandaid's not gonna cover that," Bucky curses.
"I need to clean it out, but it seems like it's mostly superficial. We'll get a dressing on it and wrap her waist," Steve decides, grabbing a wad of cotton and drenching it in rubbing alcohol. "Okay y/n, big breath. This's gonna sting."
You whimper as the fluid seeps into the torn flesh, tears building in your eyes at the terrible sensation. "Shhh, it's alright," Bucky hums, stroking your cheek as he looks down at you with pity. "Stevie here's practically a nurse; we'll get you all patched up in no time."
"Just need to make sure we get all the germs outta there," Steve hums as he finishes up, tossing the bloodied cotton away before selecting a dressing from the first-aid kit and tearing open the package. "Okay sweetheart, this should feel nice and cooling."
A sigh of relief escapes your lips as the aid is applied, and your eyes begin to grow heavy as your body finally begins to relax after all the upset of the fight and the injury. "You tired, doll? S'alright, you can go to sleep. We'll wake you when we land," Bucky promises, continuing to stroke your cheek with his thumb as Steve wraps up your torso, planting a kiss on your head as your eyes slowly shut.
(Powers/No Powers. TW for suicidal ideation. No one gets hurt.)
When Steve walks in the door, the first thing his eyes land on is Bucky's silhouette sitting at the top of the darkened stairway. It's evening, the shadows are long, and all the lights are off in the narrow townhouse. It's not far off from the usual, though Bucky typically waits for him in a more comfortable location such as the sofa or the bed.
"Hi," Steve says as he sets down his bag and digs his finger into the heel of his shoe to force it off. "You ok?"
"Um..." Bucky gets to his feet, holding tightly to the handrail. He descends a few steps, and Steve gets a glimpse of his face. Bucky's pale, almost ghostly in appearance. A vein stands out in his forehead, and his eyes are rimmed in red. His hair is matted on one side; Steve can tell he's been lying down, probably wrapped up in a ball and weeping.
"You're not ok, are you." It's not a question. Steve approaches the foot of the stairway.
Bucky slowly shakes his head. He takes another heavy step, leaving one foot on the stair behind until it drags forward, forcing his toes to curl under until it drops down heavily. He winces and visibly shrinks down as if he feels the pain through his spine and perhaps his whole body.
"You wanna come on down?"
Bucky stares at Steve blankly for a moment, then tips his head toward his stump shoulder. It could mean he is indeed suffering discomfort. Or it could mean he doesn't care.
Steve thinks through his options. Make tea? Turn on the television and hope for a soothing nature program? Tune the radio to the classical station? The oldies station?
But looking at Bucky's face, Steve knows none of those are the right answer. He keeps his eyes on Bucky as he slowly climbs the bottom few stairs. "You want me to come up?" he asks.
Bucky shakes his head again. He takes another slow step that brings him down one stair, twelve inches or so closer to Steve. The carpet completely absorbs the sound of his feet, so he may as well be a ghost, pallid and floating, drifting practically in place and making Steve come to him just to prove he's real.
"Ok..." Steve stops. "Tell me what you need, ok?"
Bucky stands there. He looks down at his feet, then raises his gaze to Steve's face. He opens his mouth a sliver, then a bit wider, and he works his jaw silently. "I..." he finally starts. "I want to die."
"Oh, Buck." Steve's up the rest of the stairs two at a time. He takes Bucky by the shoulder of the arm gripping the handrail and pulls his bony body against his chest. "I got you."
Bucky stays stiff for a moment, then begins to collapse in Steve's arms. "I..." he murmurs. "Don't know if I wanna stay."
"I want you," Steve says, pressing his lips to Bucky's ear. He doesn't want this to be happening right now, not when he's freshly home from work and in need of a shower and some dinner. He doesn't want this to happen ever. But Bucky, he wants always, no matter how grim the prospects begin to look.
"Hmm." Bucky shakes his head into Steve's shoulder. A shiver runs through him, sending tremors running into Steve's core muscles. Bucky's head shifts into the crevice of Steve's neck, his eyes wet and dribbling tears down into Steve's collarbone where they're absorbed by the neck of his t-shirt.
It's clearly a sound and motion of disagreement, but Steve won't let him get away with it. He doesn't want Bucky letting it out, not in any way. Emotional release is one thing, though these expressions of sadness are too much. Too much for Bucky to keep in his brain, but too much for Steve to take and absorb for him instead.
"Buck." Steve wraps both arms tightly around Bucky's body and sinks both of them downward. Steve sits first, and he pulls Bucky nearly into his lap. He brushes his lips across the stubble on Bucky's cheek before reaching up to gently comb through the greasy mats on the back of his head. "I'll never let you go. Not ever."
"But I--I--" A sob bursts from Bucky's chest and sounds loudly in Steve's ear.
"Hey, it's ok..."
Another sob comes, this one seeming to originate from deeper down. Bucky makes an odd noise as if he's smacking at the back of his throat, then snuffles into the organic cotton encasing Steve's chest. "Buck," Steve whispers. "I got you, ok?"
"I, um." Bucky gulps, and Steve feels his Adam's apple roll up, then down again.
"You feeling ok?" Steve asks. "You feeling sick?"
"I'm--" Bucky starts, his voice going weak and wet. "I'm gonna throw up."
The bathroom at the top of the stairs is closer, so Steve hauls Bucky to his feet and slips an arm around his waist. Bucky bends over immediately, his hand over his mouth and his elbow pressed protectively in front of his abdomen.
"We're gonna make it. It's gonna be fine." Steve guides Bucky across the landing and into the hallway bath. He paws at the wall to turn on the lights just as Bucky escapes his grasp and collapses to his knees to retch over the unfortunately closed toilet bowl.
"Open your eyes, Buck," Steve says in a rush, sweeping Bucky's hair back and tipping up the now soiled lid. "Just-- it'll be ok."
Bucky leans forward and curls his arm around the toilet seat, his shoulders heaving as he spits up what little remains in his system. Steve sits on his heels behind Bucky, holding his hair up in a makeshift ponytail and petting soft circles into the region of his shoulder blades.
Even when Bucky's finished, he doesn't move. His breathing echoes against the edges of the porcelain bowl, and Steve can see from his profile the wrinkling of his eyes at the corners, showing that he's still in pain.
"What do you need?" Steve asks softly. He lays his hand over the back of Bucky's neck, feeling clammy sweat and what might be the lightest flush of fever.
Bucky shakes his head. "Don't know," he whispers.
"Just c'mere, then." Steve quickly snags the towel from the bar and uses it to create a pillow on his lap.
Bucky pushes himself up and blinks slowly, even more pallid than before, and his puffy eyes set at a squint. Steve holds out his arms, and Bucky burrows into his beltline, somewhat sitting, but mostly lying across the light foam bathmat.
"We're not leaving this room," Steve decides. "Not till you feel a little better." Physically or mentally, he doesn't differentiate. He'll treat both the same. Bucky's not well today, and he needs help. He needs Steve. And in order for Steve to feel completely safe, he needs Bucky as well. "Ok?"
It takes Bucky a full thirty seconds to move his head into a decisive nod. "I don't feel good," he says.
"I... I want you."
Steve cracks a tiny smile and pets Bucky's hair away from his face. "I want you too. Forever."
"Forever..." Bucky muses on the word. Then he nods.
The only constant in a relationship with a time traveller he supposed.
They kept running into each other. Destiny was a cruel mistress. He knew. After all he turned her into an omega level mutant.
He anticipated the day when Ezra would look at him with the intention to avenge his mother. When they met behind enemy lines he had told him everything he knew about this day. Gave him so much hope about the future as they shared a hasted kiss in the covert of the darkness in the trenches. Even when he was Hydras puppet Ezra still found him. Jeopardized his own safety to save him. One time he woke up badly injured from a mission with him tending his wounds with such care he hadn't felt since he was forced into this life. It felt to be too good to be real. So he tried to choke the life out of this illusion. Yet Ezra didn't made a sound just filled his head with pleasant memories. Without any further doubt he let him go. Embraced him. In this night the ice melted which had created the terror of the winter soldier. His kisses were sunshine infused shots of whiskey and salted caramel. It was too easy to get drunk on them. Desperately he clinged onto the memory of his traveller as his mind got erased . Praying that he wouldn't hurt him again.
The modern world was too loud. Too much distraction. There was a lot of loneliness too. Everyone was showing off their loved one's these days. Not that he would ever admit it but he would love to do this as well. But that's the problem with dating a time traveller. They don't really stick to time lines.
It was raining of course. Always like the bloody movies. They were out training. Sam was trying to work on flying in the rain. So naturally he would enjoy watching him getting tossed around by the storm approaching.
It was then when he heard his name being called. Spoken like a curse. Met by cold honey eyes and a blast of violet energy to the shoulder. So heavy it knocked him right of his feet.
The day had come.
Ezra wore the same clothes the day he had found him hurt, without memories, soaked in an alley in Brooklyn. The vein on his neck wasn't imprinted yet. The blue bridge across his nose hadn't appeared yet either. Nor was his upper lip purple with a vertical line on his bottom lip in the same colour.
Just a few cute freckles from using his powers just now had appeared. He was certain he would die but if it was through the hands of his lover it would be okay.
Ezra leaped on top of him swift as a cat. It was an odd moment as he reached out to cup his cheek. The time traveller fought him off with the most painfully hateful burning look in his eyes. Nothing's more terrible as the look of a lover who doesn’t remember all the love once shared. He died in this very moment.
Ezra reached out. Placed a hand on his temple like so many times he had done before. For an hopeful moment he expected his mind to be captured with wholesome memories of them. Green flames of pain shot through his mind. Opening all the locks to well guarded do not open memories. Tears streamed down his face. He tried to reach out to him. Cause he saw how much pain it caused him too. The mark on his upper lip started to form.
Moments trapped in nightmares and pains seemed endless.
Suddenly all the tension dropped with a thunder bolting.
When he came back to his senses Ezra was knocked unconscious and bleeding from his nose. Sam shot him a worried glance which he shrug off. Crawling over to the lifeless body of his time traveller he cradled him. Wiped the blood away from his face. "1941 Brooklyn. I got you . I always will." He whispered before placing a soft kiss on his temple. Ezra opened his eyes. All the rage had turned into serenity "Bucky." He touched his cheek smiling before dissolving in a hasted of violet energy.
He got up with the help of his partner. Smiled through the pain. Right now in Brooklyn , a long time ago, their love story would begin and blossom. It felt like the end but it really was just the beginning.
So he hoped for the next day of rain to come and bring his time traveller back home.
A/N I was bullied into writing this by a friend cause I couldn't shut up about Bucky deserving the world. They told me to give him the boyfriend he deserves and well so I sacrificed Ezra ( who is part of a huge story line which I'm never going to publish). Don't ask me how Steven Rogers fits into this. I'm still too mad about Endgame (watched it for the first time some days ago that I deny his existence! The only Cap I trust is Sam!
Like a balm on frozen wounds (Bucky x Hydra nurse reader)
First of all, thank you @harlekin6 for the original idea. I'm sure it doesn't suits what you had in mind but I loved the idea of an HYDRA nurse taking care of Bucky so...thank you and lot of kisses.
Summary : What if you were an HYDRA nurse, taking care of Bucky as they try to turn him into a weapon ? What if you were his only spark of light and warmth in the painful darkness ?
Warning : maybe blood, pain, mention of torture, manipulation
Themes : hurt Bucky, HYDRA, healing, torture, comfort, love
The ambient humidity makes the walls ooze, giving the impression that they are dripping with black, foul-smelling blood. The hour of glory is far away, the Führer is dead and they had to flee, hide far away in the mountains while waiting for less gloomy hours. In the stench of failed machinations and scientific manipulations, HYDRA continues its experiments in the hope of being ready for a new golden age. Screams tear the silence, an agony that never seems to end even though the person strapped to the table is more dead than alive. His forehead is dripping with sweat, his bones are burning, and his gaze is veiled and haggard like that of an ox at the slaughterhouse. Around him, men in soiled blouses talk, put away their instruments. It is still a failure, it will be necessary to do it again. The same scene seems to repeat itself over and over again and the progress is so slight ... With a weary gesture, a man asks guards to transport the patient to his room, they clean the fluids on the icy tiles, they drag the young man in his dark cell, the rusty door of which is slammed, not without a frail figure having slipped inside. The prisoner must be treated well or there will be no other experience.
The spectacle is more heartbreaking with each visit, the once-vigorous body slumped against the wall, silent and listless. Gently, you wipe the wet forehead, the drool on his chin and above all, you speak to him in a low voice, almost caressing like a lullaby. At first, he refused your presence, being cold and ironic in front of a HYDRA nurse. It took a while for him to accept that you were a prisoner too, refusing your attempts at treatment even though he had never gone too, never violent. You remain a woman and he a gentleman. At least he was. Now the electroshock has burned his humanity, destroyed his sanity even though he still happens to be himself again when calm returns, which he can think a bit. At such times, he repeats his registration number, random words or even first names: Steve, Rebecca... These moments are shorter and shorter, more and more rare but still present. You are now the only one who can hear James B. Barnes and not an empty shell.
"... er ... newspapers ... shoes ... shoes ..."
The prisoner rolls his eyes and mumbles in a broken voice, gradually regaining his foothold in reality after locking himself in to avoid the pain. You suppress a painful sigh as you help him change position. As delicately as possible, you heal his wounds, your eyes moist as every time you see him in this state. A gleam passes through the tired blue eyes and James waves his one arm, too weak to touch you.
- Y/N... Y/N...
- Yes, it's me, Mr. Barnes, it's me. Don't worry, you are safe for now.
A shiver runs through the young man as his face seems to express a little relief, he lets himself go against your hand as you heal his temples. You are not allowed to call him by his real name, you are forbidden to speak to him but whatever, you are not afraid of dying. All that matters to you is to stay close to him, to comfort him. You are the only glimmer of hope and life in the perpetual fog of his existence. Your hand stops for a moment on his unshaven cheek, under your fingers you can feel his face, emaciated by hunger and suffering.
"I'm gonna take care of you, James, I'm there. Don't worry, rest if you can. I won't leave."
No one will be looking for you for hours, you can stay hiding here with the patient, speak quietly to him to chase away the darkness a little. But first, he has to eat, even if it's an infamous cold porridge. With any luck, no rat will have had time to taste it. Making sure James is seated, you pick up the spoon and help him bring it to his mouth, guiding his heavy, aching hand. If they continue to be so violent, he will soon no longer be able to feed himself, you will have to help him. HYDRA doesn’t understand anything, it is just a bunch of brutal and cruel animals. Slowly, very slowly, Bucky comes to his senses a little, eats with more ease even if he remains leaning against you to enjoy your warmth. The idea of kissing you crosses his mind but he still feels too weak right now. His stump hurts, it took all your energy to keep him from succumbing to the fever caused by the infection. You know the doctors have plans, they want to put a prosthesis on him, but as long as he's not a little more docile, it's impossible. One day he will crush them all under his fist.
- Dance... me...
- Promise, when you'll feel better. We'll go to dance.
Your voice shakes a bit, as always when he says he would like to dance with you. When he'll be free, he's gonna thank you, be a charming man like he used to be. Obviously, his thoughts are not that clear but it doesn't matter. Feelings remain. Exhausted, his eyes closed and he slowly falls on your lap to enjoy a little bit of peace, a few hours of rest. As always, you walk with the movement, a cool hand on his forehead as you part the long brown brands to clear his face. Sometimes you happen to hum to help him fall asleep, you love more than anything to see James's face relax as he sinks into unconsciousness and oblivion. In your arms he can taste a little peace and that's all that matters.
"Sleep, sweet soldier. You are safe with me."
He looks much younger when he is enveloped in sleep, sometimes you forget he's only in his twenties. All these tortures, these sessions of electroshock to break, it will end up killing him or turning him into a powerless vegetable. HYDRA scientists are fools, as if sheer violence can produce a result. You know that human beings need comfort, to feel safe. You have to be able to tame an animal other than with a whip. Governing by fear leads to rebellion sooner or later. But ruling from the heart is a more subtle game that pays bigger dividends.
"I'm gonna take care of you, don't worry ..."
Admittedly, James' enslavement produces faster results now that he is only a shadow of himself than if he had had all of his mental and physical faculties. The poor man is in so much pain that he is no longer able to think, not really. Slipping you next to him, caressing his bruised soul is extremely easy, your gentleness creates a flagrant contrast with the tortures of HYDRA, like a balm on burns. He may already whisper your name in his sleep, immediately relaxing upon contact with you. They want to break the soldier, you have already figured out how to reshape him into a more submissive being.
Footsteps are being heard outside, it is time for you to slip away so as not to arouse suspicion. You kiss tenderly the dry mouth of the young man and you feel him respond to your kiss, weakly but with a sigh of pleasure. Whatever they do with him, you know that what you have implanted is deeper, more undetectable. No violence, no key words or manual of instructions. So you come out of the cell with a smile, knowing full well that you will see him again soon. Day after day, you are there to comfort him, to rock him with sweet words by telling him that he is safe with you, that you are going to take care of him. Gratitude mixes with docile love, how could it be otherwise? You are his whole universe, his light in the frozen darkness.
As time goes by, HYDRA's haphazard method begins to bear fruit and they finally get the weapon they dreamed of. Of course, the Winter Soldier still gets startled, wants to attack his masters but he is gentle as a lamb under your hand, hugging you, kissing your lips devoutly, visiting your body like a sacred temple. It doesn't matter if they put him in a box while waiting for him to serve the interests of some madman, you know he will wake up just as amorous and docile and that you will be there to welcome him, whatever the time.
Summary: The reader has some very unhealthy eating habits that they avoid sharing with the team. One day, however, it catches up with them and the team expresses their support and concern.
Warnings: Disordered eating, food intake restriction, mentions of body insecurities, brief mentions of nausea and vomiting
A/N: This fic is in NO WAY meant to promote or glorify eating disorders and/or disordered eating. As with all of my fics, this is based off of my personal experiences. The feelings and things I experience/have experienced may be different from those of other people. Please do not consider this to be a 100% accurate representation of disordered eating. Everybody experiences these things differently.
If you feel that this fic may cause you any distress, anxiety, relapse, etc. PLEASE do not read it. You know yourself best, make the choice that is right for you. If you ever want to talk about anything, my inbox is always open and I’m more than willing to talk about anything.
The number flashed at you from the LED screen of the scale. “Ugh, it’s mocking me,” you thought to yourself. You turned around and stared at your reflection in the mirror. You stood in just your underwear, as you ran your hand over your relatively flat stomach. You had worked very hard to obtain this figure- and you were damn proud of it- when you looked in the mirror and saw your flat stomach and thin body reflected back at you, you felt a surge of confidence- you felt content. However, no one’s body always looked like that, and of course whenever you would eat a meal your stomach would expand, making that slim, fit looking stomach disappear.
Realistically, you knew this was normal- it happened to everybody- and you also knew that if you were to gain weight, it wouldn’t be the end of the world; you would still look perfectly fine no matter how your stomach and waist looked. But it was an obsession, and no amount of logic or reasoning could assuage the immense terror and nausea you felt when you even thought about gaining weight. You were at a healthy weight for your height and age- and you weren’t anorexic or bulimic- you still ate.
However, your diet and eating schedule were terrible. And honestly, you did it on purpose. You knew that in the long run, eating (or more accurately, not eating) like this would probably have the opposite of the desired effect on your body. But you just couldn’t explain the dizziness, nausea, and anxiety that filled your body when you considered having a normal diet and meal intake.
You were actually a little worried that you may have completely screwed up your body with your unhealthy habits. You had been doing this for years- and now, you hardly ever got hungry anymore. Sometimes you felt those aches and pangs of hunger in your stomach, but for some reason you liked it. It made you proud of yourself in some sick way, because you knew you were depriving your body of what it needed, and slowly causing your ribs to become more visible and your wrists to become bonier. You knew that something was wrong with your mind- you were sick- but you had no desire to fix it. Oftentimes, even the smell of food was enough to make you feel sick and nauseous.
Had you lived by yourself, this would’ve been fine; however, you were a resident of the Avengers compound and were almost constantly surrounded by at least one person, if not more. This meant it was very difficult for you to hide your incredibly unhealthy eating habits.
Most days, you forgot to eat until 3 or 4 pm; the thought genuinely slipping your mind because you just didn’t feel hungry. You had no want or need for food, so you generally forgot. Until you got a splitting headache, that is. You rarely ever drank enough water- you basically survived off of coffee.
As a team member of the Avengers, you were required to attend training sessions several times a week. Your skills were mainly in physical combat and working with technology. You usually brought water to these training sessions- you weren’t that foolish- but the lack of substantial nutrients in your body made the sessions that much harder.
You had periods of time when you would eat slightly more food and on a semi-regular basis. But after screwing with your body for so long, your desires and cravings (or lack thereof) for food were unpredictable.
Today was a training day and you were set to work on hand to hand combat with Steve. You often cursed the super soldier for his intuition and knack for observing others and picking up on their feelings and concerns. This had nothing to do with Steve being a super soldier, he was just a naturally observant person; which meant that he always noticed when you felt worn down from having little to no food or water that day.
Today was a particularly intense training day, and after 30 minutes you were already drenched in sweat. It didn’t take long before your movements and reflexes became sluggish. It was 3:30 in the afternoon at that point and you had eaten nothing but a few almonds today. Steve seemed to notice your exhaustion, and called for a five minute break. You both walked over to a table and chairs off to the side of the training area and took a seat.
“Hey Y/N, are you sure you’re alright? Did you get enough sleep last night?” Steve wearing a concerned expression and staring at you with that intense gaze of his. You looked away from his eyes because you found it very difficult to lie when making direct eye contact with him. Something about his expression and demeanor made you feel nervous and heavily scrutinized. You settled for simply nodding.
“You sure? You seem like you’re dragging a little today. We can take a break if you need to and come back to this tomorrow,” Steve offered. You panicked, fearing that it would raise suspicion if you agreed to that.
“No no, I’m fine, I wanna train. Come on, let’s get back to it,” you said, standing up quickly. That was a big mistake; not only were you running on no food, but you were also anemic, which meant that standing up too quickly was never a good idea.
Your ears began to ring and you felt as though you had put your head underwater. Everything sounded muffled and distant and your vision swam before your eyes. You felt your breathing pick up and saw spots in your vision as you felt your body grow incredibly warm. Oh no- this is how your body reacted whenever you were going to pass out. You didn’t want to do that- that would DEFINITELY raise suspicion. Your brain sluggishly decided that you should try and sit back down. And with that, you collapsed to the floor, as everything went black.
When you opened your eyes, the first thing you noticed was a lot of bright light. You squinted, your head aching from all the lights and sounds. You groaned and rubbed your eyes, yawning.
“Well, look who finally decided to wake up!” Tony said jovially. Your eyes were closed, but you could tell that he was smirking at you, just from the sound of his voice.
“Y/N, what the hell happened?” another, gentler voice asked. You knew that voice- you were still groggy, so it took you a second to place who it was. Bucky, that was Bucky’s voice. Slowly, you opened your eyes and saw the entire team gathered around you, all packed tightly together. You stared at them, looking slightly dazed and confused.
“W-what happened?” you asked, struggling to recall what you had been doing before waking up here.
“We were training and you stood up and then just passed out. You probably would’ve hit your head if I hadn’t caught you,” Steve said, the worry evident in his voice. Slowly, it all started coming back to you and a look of complete horror made its way onto your face. Suddenly, Bruce spoke up.
“Y/N, you passed out from dehydration and a lack of food; were you starving yourself?” he asked. You quickly turned your head towards your left to look at him.
“No, no I wasn’t!” you protested quickly. You technically weren’t lying; you had been eating, you had just been eating in very small increments, on an incredibly irregular schedule.
“Come on Y/N, seriously. We’re not mad at you, we just wanna know the truth. We’re worried about you,” Sam said, sounding as though he was trying to avoid scaring you off.
“I know, I know. I promise you guys, I’m not starving myself and I AM eating. I mean look at me, have I lost any weight? I still look the same as always. I was just being stupid and forgot to eat enough before training that day, alright?” The team scrutinized you with suspicion, exchanging looks.
“I’m FINE guys, I promise,” you said again. After a minute of silence, Bruce just sighed.
“You need to be more careful in the future Y/N,” he said, still eyeing you suspiciously, as though he didn’t believe you were being completely honest.
Ever since that fateful day, the team kept a much closer eye on you, especially in the kitchen and during mealtimes. You tried to follow your same routine as you usually did: take a small amount of food, eat that (to avoid getting a headache), grab something small and unhealthy with very little nutrients, make yourself some coffee, and escape to your room. But the team wasn’t having it.
On Wednesday, Sam made some dish with rice, which he said was a family recipe. Everyone piled their plates with food, gathering around the island in the kitchen where the food was sitting. You filled your plate with a small portion- truthfully, it did look good- but today was one of those days when even the smell of food made you feel queasy and nauseous.
You scooped a bit of rice, and you were about to head to the table, when you felt Bucky gently- but firmly- grip your arm to prevent you from walking any further.
“Nope,” he said casually, reaching around and grabbing your plate with his other hand.
“Hey!” you exclaimed, your voice filled with irritation. He released your arm, so he could add more food to your plate- a lot more- and handed it back to you. Holy shit- there was no way you were going to be able to eat all of that- and it wasn’t just due to a fear of gaining weight. Your appetite had shrunk A LOT since you had first started restricting your eating. You honestly couldn’t remember when it started, but you knew that you definitely couldn’t eat as much food as before. Bucky seemed satisfied with himself, and you made your way back to the table quietly.
You noticed as you sat down that your hands were shaking slightly. You hid them under the table, hoping that no one would notice. You ate the amount that you would normally eat- which was about as much as you could stomach- and left the rest of the food untouched.
“Hey,” Tony said, using his fork as a pointer and directing it at you. “Finish your food,” he said, sounding jokingly stern. You felt like a child being reprimanded.
“It’s super good Sam…” you said, trailing off as though you were preparing to add a ‘but’ in there.
“Oh what, so now you’re saying my food isn’t good?” Sam said, pretending to be offended.
“What no- I-”
“No no it’s fine, I know what you were about to say. You were gonna say ‘it’s super good Sam, but I’m so full’ or something. The classic excuse!” he exclaimed overdramatically, as Steve and Bucky laughed at his antics. You knew he was just joking, but you were already so anxious and hyper-sensitive that you suddenly felt the burning sensation of tears build behind your eyes. Oh fuck no, you were not going to let yourself cry in front of the entire team. You blinked rapidly, trying to get rid of the tears that were forming. Only Wanda and Natasha- bless their hearts- seemed to notice your growing distress.
“Hey guys, cut it out,” Natasha said. Her tone was stern enough that the three men stopped their laughter and glanced over at you.
“Hey, Y/N/N I was joking, you know that right? I know you don’t hate my cooking,” Sam said, his voice kind and gentle. You didn’t say anything, just nodding and continuing to stare at your plate. Wanda rubbed your shoulder gently. She leaned close so that only you could hear her and said,
“You okay? Do you want to go to your room?” You nodded and she got out of her seat and took your hand, helping you up and guiding you out of the room with her hand on your shoulder. The rest of the team (with the exception of Natasha) stared after you in stunned silence. As you walked away, you heard Bucky mumble,
“Wow, way to go Sam.”
“Me!?” Sam exclaimed slightly louder. “You stole her plate!”
“Will both of you knock it off?” Steve said.
Several hours later, there was a knock at your door. Wanda had stayed with you the whole time, talking about your eating habits and why you felt the way you did about your body. Wanda glanced towards the door, and then back at you.
“Do you want me to open it?” she asked.
“Yeah, I guess so. It’s probably Sam,” you said, sounding tired. Wanda got up from the bed and walked over to the door and opened it.
“Oh- hello- okay you’re all here,” she said, sounding slightly surprised.
“Can we come talk to Y/N?” you heard Bucky ask. Wanda looked back at you once again, silently asking if you were okay with it. You simply nodded and sat back against your wall, clutching a pillow to your chest and hugging your knees. Bruce, Tony, Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Natasha all entered and stood a couple feet away from your bed. They stood in awkward silence for a moment, before Sam finally spoke.
“Hey Y/N/N, we just came to apologize for everything. I’m sorry for messing with you and I hope you know I’m not really mad at you. If anything, we’re all pretty worried about you.” You nodded and said,
“Yeah, I know. That’s not what it was about.” You looked at your knees and began picking at a thread on your jeans. After another moment of silence, Steve said,
“Well… could you tell us what it was about? I understand if you don’t want to, but we just want to know what’s going on so we can help you.” You turned to look at Wanda, who nodded at you. Even though no words were exchanged, you could tell she was saying: “You should tell them. You can trust them, they’re your friends.” Sighing, you nodded back at her and turned to face the team once more.
“Okay. But you have to let me explain everything before you say anything,” you said, your tone cautious. The team all nodded and gave various responses of understanding and agreement.
Sighing, you took a deep breath and prepared yourself to share one of your biggest secrets/insecurities.
“Okay, well… I don’t know when it all started- I remember figuring out that weight was something people were insecure about- and by 7 years old I had started scrutinizing my appearance a lot, and keeping a close eye on how I looked,” you paused, still picking at the strings on your pants and refusing to look up at your friends.
“I remember I had a crush on this kid in 7th grade who used to make jokes about my weight and jokingly called me fat. Realistically, I knew I wasn’t fat, but since I cared so much about that kid’s opinion I began to wonder what they saw when they looked at me. What everyone saw. If they could make jokes about me being fat, I figured that that meant there had to be some truth to it. Otherwise, why would they joke about it? When I finally hit the 100 lbs mark somewhere between 7th-8th grade, I started to panic. Even though I knew it was normal for my age, I didn’t like the fact that I was gaining weight even if it was healthy. My weight would fluctuate a lot and if I complained about it, my parents told me I should exercise more or eat healthier foods, or snack less after school. I rarely ever had breakfast, and the school lunches weren’t very filling. So after school, I would go home and basically eat a small meal, and my mom would criticize me for it.
When my anxiety got really bad in high school and I got diagnosed with anemia, I felt nauseous a lot, so I usually didn’t want to eat much because I felt so sick. And then, I realized that my body was starting to look the way I wanted it to since I was eating in very small amounts. I could never completely stop eating… I was afraid of what would happen to me, and it tended to cause really bad migraines. So I always ate at least a little bit. But there were…” you hesitated, and then corrected yourself. “There ARE days when I don’t eat for a full 24 hours- sometimes even longer- and I’m proud of myself. I know I shouldn’t be, but I can’t help it. Of course, no one has noticed because I still eat, so as long as no one looks too closely, they can’t tell that anything is abnormal. Which is what I want, because anytime someone tells me to eat more or criticizes my eating habits or tells me that what I’m doing is really unhealthy and dangerous, I start to panic. Because I don’t WANT to fix it. I know I should want to- and I should do something about it- but I don’t want to.” You were quiet for a moment before adding,
“Today was the first time I’ve ever passed out. I’ve never gone that far before. I don’t know what happened. I think my appetite has changed a lot since this all started. I can’t eat as much food as I used to and oftentimes I just don’t feel hungry. There are a lot of times when I can’t think of a single thing I want to eat- everything makes me feel sick- even though I can tell I should probably have something. So, yeah, that’s everything,” you finished quietly.
The room was silent for a minute before Tony sat down and pulled you into a side hug.
“I get it kid. For me, it has nothing to do with weight or insecurity- I just forget to eat. I get so wrapped up in my work and everything I have to do, that it just completely slips my mind. I don’t even feel hungry, so I don’t notice until I start to feel really weak and tired. Or until Bruce or Pepper remind me to eat or bring me food,” he added, with a grin in Bruce’s direction. Bruce chuckled a little.
“Yep, that’s what I’m here for. Reminding Tony to eat, sleep, and shower; if it weren’t for me, he would look like a homeless man,” Bruce said jokingly. The team laughed a little, glad to have something to break the tension a little.
“Hey, I know I won’t ever fully understand what it is you’re feeling, but I do want to help you. Can you promise me something kid?” Tony asked, giving you a serious look. You stared back at him curiously.
“Can you promise that you’ll try something for me?” Slowly you nodded, not entirely sure what you had just agreed to.
“Let’s help each other out. I won’t push you to eat a huge meal or criticize what you’re eating, but I want to check in with you a few times a day to make sure you’ve had something to eat and some water. And in return, you can help me make sure that I don’t forget to eat. Pepper’s been on my ass about it for years, telling me how unhealthy it is. So, if you let me help you, I’ll let you do the same for me. How does that sound?” Tony asked. You bit your lip and considered it for a moment. You did want to help Tony, and holding each other accountable for your eating habits didn’t seem so terrible. And he did promise he wouldn’t judge you or tell you what to eat. You still had control- you didn’t have to feel so trapped- like a small child being reprimanded by their parents.
“You promise you won’t judge me or get mad at me?” you asked with uncertainty.
“I promise,” Tony said, giving you a light squeeze. You thought about it for another moment before leaning your on his shoulder and saying,
“Okay. I promise.” Tony smiled down at you.
“Good. I’m proud of you kiddo,” he said.
“Would you feel okay about the rest of us checking in on you sometimes? Just making sure you feel okay and you’ve had some water or something?” Bucky asked. You considered him for a minute, looking at his concerned expression and let out a barely audible sigh.
“Yeah, okay. Just don’t judge me or make me feel bad, okay?” you said, looking around at the group. They all nodded, still wearing various expressions of concern and sadness on their faces.
“Alright, now stop looking at me like I just told you I have a terminal illness. I don’t need any pity,” you said, your tone playful. The group laughed at your joke, glad to see you were starting to get back to normal again.
“You know we love you, right Y/N/N?” Sam asked. You nodded and smiled at him.
“Yeah, I know. I know you guys are just looking out for me and I appreciate it. I love you guys.”
“We love you too Y/N,” Steve said with a smile. Smiling contentedly, you leaned into Tony’s shoulder again and closed your eyes, feeling calm for the first time in a while.
'Falcon and the Winter Soldier' Short: Awkward Offerings
Missing scene for TFATWS 1.02. There's no way Bucky's metal arm didn't break Sam's ribs, right? Mild Hurt/Comfort.
Bucky has urges or instincts that he can’t fight. He’s not sure if it’s a part of his personality or remnants of the Winter Soldier programming. Even though he’s filthy and vaguely achy, and tired enough to attempt to sleep, he is compelled to clear the hotel, floor by floor.
And, of course, Sam picked a 14-story hotel.
Bucky dons his gloves and gets to work, trying to cut as many corners as possible.
Which is none.
It’s not until he gets to the 9th floor that he realizes he killed someone here. It takes longer because the entire hotel has been redesigned, prettied up with the sleek luxuries people liked now. But in 1961, it embraced the grittiness and instability of the times with graffitied walls and thick layers of varying types of smoke that lingered in like a fog.
Buck doesn’t fight the flashes of memory, no matter how much it tears him apart, it hurts more when he does. It had been a diplomat and his young aide staged to look like a murder-suicide. It had been quick for her. Longer for him as he had information to extract first. Back then, HYDRA had perfected more things than metal prosthetics. The coroners would never know the difference, and since this diplomat’s specialty was easing race-relationships across the globe, he doubted they’d even look.
The tone of the elevator snaps him out of a waking nightmare, and he pries his hand, the metal one, off the railing lining the elevator, wincing at the grip marks bent into the metal.
He slinks off and finishes his checks before he can let himself feel guilty about that too.
Finally, he enters back into the room, wishing Sam had listened to him and just stayed in the airport hangar until take-off tomorrow afternoon.
The room is too fancifully large, two beds on either end of the room, partitioned by a freestanding closet and entertainment unit. The bathroom door is open, Sam’s reflection visible through the opened bathroom door. Bucky opens his mouth to gripe about privacy but then Sam stumbles against the marble sink, pulling back a cloth from the wave of his ribs, revealing a dark, purpling bruise that speaks of possibly broken ribs. Bucky doesn’t need to be a super-soldier to see the bruising, the half-healed scraped and burns, the weariness on Sam’s face. He knows battle wounds when he sees them. He also knows exactly what broke Sam’s ribs, and it’s attached to his body.
He forgets sometimes that Sam is unserumed. They’d fought side-by-side, taking on Spider Boys and Thanos’ and Iron Mans and Sam rarely missed a step, rarely asked for help. No wonder he wanted a hotel room with its feathered beds and steam shower and room service.
He snags a pillow off his bed, stripping it of its case and slinks out of the room.
When he re-enters the room, he does so noisily. Sam’s redressed in sweater and jeans, and scanning the room service menu. “What do Cyborgs eat?” he asks.
“Motherboards,” Bucky replies dryly. The idea of food doesn’t never really excites him. “Do they have fries?”
“Frites,” Sam nods.
He lifts his eyes to stare at Bucky and the dripping pillow case hanging at his side, a small puddle darkening the carpet below. “Please tell me there’s not a head in there.”
Bucky groans. “Why would there be a…? It’s ice. Those buckets are gross, aren’t they?” He hands it over with a stiff arm, wishing he could drop through the floor just to avoid Sam staring at him like he’s a malfunctioning robot. He tries to find the words, to extend concern, but it’s all fumbled and disjointed and blocked inside the labyrinth of crap stuffed in his head.
He takes the bag of ice with befuddled confusion.
So the ice doesn’t cut it.
Bucky tries again.
He has few possessions that he cares about. He had never really been allowed to have things, and they generally irritate them now. So the things he carries are necessities or extremely important. And there are few that are as meaningful to him as his jacket. Or what Sam calls his “fightin’ leather.”
In the fluorescent light of the bathroom, with his Wakandian k-bar and the hotel’s sewing kit, Bucky gets to work. He cuts and tears away the silver lining of the jacket, revealing the bright red tribal material beneath it. Like all things produced in Wakanda, it’s woven with vibranium, which means it absorbs impact and force far better than Sam’s flight suit.
It doesn’t take much work: a few measurements, precise cuts and well-placed seams until he’s crafted one Frankensteined t-shirt. He holds it up to the light and juts his knife into it experimentally. The blade zings off the fabric instead of penetrating it.
Bucky nods in satisfaction.
Much like the ice, this awkward offering happens over eggs and sausages the next morning. Bucky holds it up before he loses his will, feeling incredibly exposed and stupid.
Sam once again regards the badly stitched shirt with utter confusion. “Use your words, Bucky.”
Bucky bites his lip, and tries to sort out his thoughts. “I figured if we’re going to be fightin’ supersoldiers you should have more protection. I made it from some old clothes I had in Wakanda...so…”
“There’s vibranium in it,” Sam says. He holds the red garb to the light and it shimmers. “Will I be bulletproof?” he smiles, mischief gleaming in his eyes.
Bucky lifts his eyebrows and produces a gun from an inner pocket. “Let’s find out.”
“That’s just creepy, man. You gotta smile when you say shit like that. Otherwise, I don’t know if you’re kidding.”
Something glints in Bucky, bright. He used to like to tease Steve. Mercilessly. “I’m not kidding.”
Sam stares for a moment, stricken. Bucky’s lips twitch.
Sam erupts into laughter, hand pressed to his ribs. He rubs them thoughtfully, and then regards the shirt, face softening. “Thanks, Barnes,” he says lifting his cup full of coffee in salute. “Thanks a lot.”
Bucky thinks Sam finally understands. It’s an apology and a thank you.
summary: bucky's having trouble sleeping and he just wants you around
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
warnings: none! this is completely self indulgent fluff
word count: 1k
a/n: i got the idea for this while watching law and order: organized crime bc detective stabler can't sleep due to his ptsd and i was just like, you KNOW he wants to call olivia for comfort. and yeah anyway. this fic would not exist if not for law and order and idk how i feel about that tbh
Bucky can’t sleep.
Which is nothing new for him. His bed is too big, he can’t turn his thoughts off, he’s exhausted but he’s not tired. He’d moved to the floor, which at least made him feel more solid in his surroundings- the hardwood is unforgiving, but it’s a discomfort he’s become familiar with.
He sits up for the umpteenth time, turning to look at the clock on his bedside table as if he could make time go faster by force of will alone. It’s been ten minutes since the last time he checked and it feels like an hour. 1:07 AM.
His bed is too big, he can’t turn his thoughts off, and he’s going to break if he doesn’t get some respite from the images flashing through his mind.
Sighing, he decides he’s finally reached the point of giving in. There’s only one thing he knows will help, and he’s done trying to talk himself out of it.
You’re watching TV in your room- well, not so much watching as you are using it for background noise while you scroll through your phone- when the screen is taken over by an incoming call. You smile to yourself. Bucky was stubborn, always preferring to call rather than text, even though he was perfectly capable.
“Hey, Buck,” you said softly into the phone, barely above a whisper, respecting the late night hour even though you were alone in your room a few floors down from him.
“Hey,” he breathes, and you can sense his relief through the line.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, doll, everything’s…” he trails off, because it’s fine, but also it’s not, and he doesn’t know how to tell you that. He decides it’s best to just bite the bullet, he can’t take anymore overanalyzing. “I can’t sleep. Can you come up? Can you… stay?”
You’re silent on the line. Bucky’s never asked you anything like that before. The two of you are close, of course, but not like this. Not until now, anyway. You’re wondering if you heard him right or if you actually fell asleep and you’re having another hyper realistic dream when he speaks again.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to, I’m okay, I just-”
His voice snaps you out of it. “I’m on my way.”
An embarrassingly short amount of time later, you’re outside his door in your sleep shorts and a loose t-shirt, having shoved your feet into your slippers and all but ran out the door.
Before you can knock, he’s opening the door, standing in front of you in a similar outfit to yours.
“Hey, doll,” he says, softly, and you can read all his emotions in his eyes, tentatively stepping inside before wrapping your arms around him. He exhales in a slight chuckle, hugging you back and relaxing into your touch.
“Hey,” you speak into his chest as he reaches one arm out to push the door closed behind you.
You disentangle yourself, moving to his bed and settling yourself in the middle of it. He follows, leaning his back against the headboard, his outstretched legs grazing your folded ones, and you find it so easy to lean into his touch. Resting your head on his shoulder, he wraps his left arm around you, pulling you in closer, and you take note of the quiet room. No music, no TV on in the background, just him alone with his thoughts.
“What do you need, Buck?’’ you ask, tilting your head up to look at him.
His eyes meet yours. “Just needed you here,” he half smiles. “What were you doing before I called?”
You try to ignore the way your stomach flips at the way he said he needed you. “Nothing, really. I was just bored on my phone. I’m usually up later than everyone else, anyway. Just don’t really get tired til late,” you finish, yawning immediately after because your body loves to contradict you. You’d roll your eyes at yourself if he wasn’t looking at you.
“Well, I guess it is officially late then,” Bucky chuckles. “You wanna lie down?” he asks rhetorically, getting up to turn off the light. You immediately miss his presence beside you.
“So, how’re we doing this, Barnes? You wanna be big or little spoon?” your tone is sort of joking even though it’s an honest question, trying to bring some of your usual energy to the unfamiliar situation.
He rewards you with a genuine laugh, turning back to you and allowing you to revel in the way his smile lights up his face.
“You gonna jetpack me, doll?”
“If you want me to,” you say through a smile of your own.
“Next time, then,” he says, flipping the switch, the room lit only by moonlight now. “Wanna hold you now, if that’s okay.”
Your heart stutters at the admission, voice a little shaky when you respond. “‘Course it is.”
The bed dips with his weight, vibranium arm sneaking underneath the pillow before you rest your head on it, his right arm pulling you in flush with his body. It’s been a while since either of you have had someone to sleep next to, and you could swear you’ve never been more comfortable. You fully relax into him, every inch of your body touching some part of his.
Your shirt rucked up slightly in the process, and his hand rests directly on your skin, thumb moving in soothing strokes against your stomach.
“Is this okay?” he whispers, fanning over your neck.
You hum your agreement, afraid to say out loud that it’s more than okay, it’s perfect, knowing your voice would betray you if you tried.
It’s quiet after that, with Bucky focusing on the sound of your breathing and the feel of your soft skin on his, and, blissfully, nothing else.
Your consciousness is just starting to slip when he speaks again.
“Thanks for picking up the phone, doll.”
“Anytime, Buck,” you answer sleepily. “Everytime.”
The next night, he stays over in your room. From then on, you and Bucky don’t spend a single night apart if you can help it.
Sam senses that something is wrong with Bucky since they left Madripoor, but he doesn't know how to reach him. Zemo plays matchmaker (of sorts), to help him open his eyes...
"Are you sure you're okay, Bucky?"
Ever since Bucky had come back from his meeting with Ayo, Sam had felt he was different. In fact, now that they were settling down for a bit in Zemo's mansion in Riga, Sam had had time to think about everything that had just happened and actually Bucky had been strange since the plane ride to Madripoor.
Sam couldn't put his finger on it, but he had the impression that Bucky was distancing himself.
"I'm going to bed. I'm dead." Bucky got up from the couch and headed for his assigned room.
"'Night." he added and closed the door behind him.
Sam, convinced now that something was wrong, got up and made his way to Bucky's room, determined to get to the bottom of it.
"If I were you, I'd give him some time."
"What are you meddling with, Zemo?" Sam turned back to the baron who was lying on the sofa.
"Samuel, do you realise the impact our little stint on Madripoor has had on James?"
"Of course, I know it couldn't have been easy." Sam came and sat on the arm of the sofa.
"Really?" asked Zemo, raising an eyebrow at him in his characteristically mocking manner.
"I realise how hard it must have been to consciously put on the costume of who he once was, to act like the one he's desperately trying to forget." Sam had been aware of this, though he had beenl surprised by the fact that Bucky could act so easily.
"Fine, but there's one little detail missing Sam."
"Oh yeah? And what's that?" Sam was growing increasingly annoyed with the man who acted as if he knew something Sam wasn't aware of. He waited for his answer.
"It's that he had to do it in your presence."
"I don't see what difference it makes, I knew him when he was the Winter Soldier."
It was true. He'd seen Bucky fight, he'd even fought against him, he'd seen him act like the robot killer he was back then. The killer with no conscience.
"So blind... you two are so hopeless. But thank you for the entertainment..." Zemo chuckled making Sam's annoyance rise a notch.
"Geez, are you going to end up talking in more than just riddles!"
"Think about it, what's different between the time you knew him and now, other than the fact that he was being controlled? And what did you feel? Weren't you worried to see him slip so easily into the skin of the Winter Soldier?"
After a few minutes, Zemo could see on Sam's face the realization of what his words implied.
"You understand now?"
"Yes." Sam stood up, "All the more reason for me to go."
Zemo rolled his eyes, said with a sigh, "So much for subtlety." then got up and headed for his own room.
"Good night Sam, give my regards to James."
Sam walked toward Bucky's room. He didn't bother to knock, he gently opened the door to Bucky's room and slipped inside closing the door behind him. The room was lightly illuminated by a bedside lamp in the corner of the room.
He wasn't surprised to see Bucky sleeping on the floor, they had already talked about it, their years in the war had left all sorts of traces. Bucky had spent more than half of his life in war, it was normal that the old habits were hard to die.
He went to sit on the floor next to Bucky who had his back to him.
"Bucky, I know you're not sleeping. We need to talk."
"Hm...no, not in the mood."
"And yet I think you know it's necessary."
Bucky let out a long sigh before rolling over onto his back, sliding the blanket off and revealing his perfect bare torso to Sam, who struggled not to gasp at the sight. But this was not the time. His eyes slid to Bucky's face, and he didn't like what he read. He'd seen a lot of emotions on Bucky's face before,, but never such deep sadness.
"Hey Bucky, I know something's wrong. Talk to me..."
He saw the expression of stubborn defiance come over Bucky's face, that expression he knew well, the one Bucky took when he didn't want people penetrating his shell. The one he wore the day of their couple therapy session.
Bucky said to him in a challenging tone, "You think you're my shrink Sam?"
"No, but I think I am your friend."
"Precisely..." sighed Bucky, the sad expression returning to his face.
Sam placed a tentative hand on Bucky's shoulder. He felt him tense under his hand before relaxing again.
"It's even worse because you're my friend Sam. Do you understand?" Bucky ran a hand over his face before throwing his head back and closing his eyes.
"Yes, I think I understand, but I want you to explain it to me. No pretenses or wordplay. Tell me!"
Bucky sighed again.
"Who am I Sam? Who am I? When you look at me Sam, do you see me, or do you see the Winter Soldier? Do you-"
"Hey Bucky for as long as we've known each-"
"Let me continue… What if Zemo was right?"
"In what way?"
'James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone.'
'Didn't take much for him to fall back into form.'
Sam remembered Zemo's words.
Bucky continued, "What if it was just me who thought the Winter Soldier was gone? It was so easy to impersonate him again, and so horrible at the same time! I don't want to be that man anymore Sam! But if that was all there was in me. And then I think, if I don't have it in me anymore, am I still useful to you? And if I'm no longer useful to you, will you still want me around? And-
"Wow, wow, wow, stop that right now! Your cyborg brain is smoking again. You're overthinking it Bucky. Let's go sit on the couch." He stood up, reached out to Bucky to help him up, sat him down on the couch, and sat next to him, so close their thighs were touching.
"Let's think rationally first okay?"
"Hm." Bucky nodded, keeping his head down.
"Bucky, look me in the eye and tell me, do you think the Dora Milaje would have let you go if they didn't think you were completely free?"
Bucky looked up, swallowed and thought back to the day Ayo looked him in the eye and said, "You are free white wolf."
He replied in a low voice, "No."
Sam patted him lightly on the back and exclaimed, "Ha see? And on top of that, I saw you as the Winter Soldier, you don't have anything of him in you I swear. I know it." He let his hand rest on the back of Bucky's neck feeling the man's tension.
"Secondly, what's this about you being useful to me or something? You've never been an instrument to me. Just like the winter soldier, that's all in the past. Bucky, you are you, free to decide, if you don't want to follow me then don't, but don't think you are here because you are useful to me. That's so far from the truth, from what I really feel-"
Bucky interrupted him, "That's just it! I don't know how you feel, you say we're friends, but what connects us if not the fact that we have or rather had a friend in common? Who am I to you?"
"I keep telling you you're my friend Bucky, but..."
He felt the tension rise under his hand and saw Bucky's features harden.
"Let me finish Bucky..., you're my friend but I want more for us." There, he had said it. The naked truth laid there in front of them. It wasn't the moment he would have chosen, but he had known that for a long time, not everything was going as planned.
Bucky turned his head towards him, "You mean you, that I- that..."
"I mean exactly that." Sam slid the hand that was on Bucky's nape around his neck and brought his face close to his, before kissing him, putting everything he was feeling into it. Seeing that Bucky wasn't pushing him away, he deepened the kiss while tightening his embrace around him. Bucky was not to be outdone, he placed his hands on Sam's head responding to the kiss with equal ardor. Someone moaned, and Sam didn't know if it was him or Bucky. They separated to catch their breath, letting their foreheads against each other.
Bucky whispered against Sam's mouth, "Are you sure that... hmph."
Sam put his heart into proving to him how sure he was. Then he moved sightly back and whispered, "I'm sure of myself and my feelings, but what you feel, I don't know...you still haven't told me what you want Bucky."
Bucky kissed him gently before saying, "You, Sam Wilson, you're the one I want, you're the one I've always wanted." before kissing him again.
When they caught their breath once more, Sam had a slight mocking smile and pushing back a short strand of Bucky's forehead he said softly, "My white wolf, what am I going to do with you and your cyborg brain?"
"Whatever you want, Sam, whatever you want." replied Bucky before settling down, his head in Sam's lap and raising his feet on the couch. Sam leaned back, and let his hand slide over Bucky's hip, who gripped it with his own, while Sam's other hand stroked Bucky's tousled hair.
They let themselves be lulled by the moment of serenity that was offered to them, a moment of respite in the middle of the chaotic time.
There would be time tomorrow for battles, conflicts, disagreements and they would face them, together as always, but aware now of the strength of the bond that they shared.
Thanks for making it this far, I hope you enjoyed your read.
Feel free to say what you liked (or not 😬) in this story.