Summary: The last thing she needs is the Winter Soldier crashing on her couch. It’s only a matter of time before someone tracks him down to her apartment, the only place he visits more than once. All she can do is hope Hydra doesn’t get their first, or if they do, that they kill her before they recognize her.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female OC/Reader
Chapter Warnings: no use of y/n, mentions of canon typical violence and torture, descriptions of physical injuries, invasions of privacy, mind and memory reading reader, depictions of mental illness and flashbacks, cursing, recovery focused, Steve Rogers haunts the narrative, implied abuse, Brock Rumlow mentioned (ew)
Word Count: 2908
Guardian Angel
He’s in her shower, watching his diluted almost-pink blood swirl down the drain when his mind catches back up to his body.
He hadn’t even thought about it when she’d suggested he take a warm shower while she fixes up breakfast, he’d just blindly obeyed. And now he was alone and naked, surrounded by all sorts of mysterious bottles and containers, his weapons still abandoned on the armchair in the other room.
He cautiously picks up the bottles she’d pointed out to him when she’d started the water for him. She said they were ‘shampoo and conditioner’, whatever the fuck conditioner was he couldn’t be sure, but shampoo was familiar enough albeit a distant memory. Flicking open the cap the soft scent of wildflowers and honey wafts up to him. He sighs and settles a little as he rubs the relaxing smell into his hair, letting his eyes shut and his mind to wander into a field of flowers, marigolds like the ones on her counter.
He can hear her in the other room, she’s humming along to an upbeat song.
Next is the bodywash, another bottle she’d shown him. The bodywash is gentler, unscented. For the first time in nobody-knows-how-long he’s scrubbing layers of dirt and blood and sweat off his skin. There’s something indescribable about feeling clean, just scrubbing muck out from under his nails is like lifting an elephant off his chest.
His hands pause at the raised lines on his core, fingers softly running over the edges of the uneven stitches. He peaks down at them. They’re imperfect but not bad, add in his advanced healing factor and he’d be able to pull out the thread in a week, maybe week and a half.
He returns to scrubbing, cleaning off every inch of himself with relentless dedication as a realization gradually dawns on him. Being covered in blood, sweat and dirt, slowly bleeding out after collapsing wherever he’d managed to drag himself, it was normal to him but to anyone else….
Why hadn’t she called the police? Or an ambulance?
Questions are bubbling up inside him, cramming more and more into the already crowded space in his head.
Had she recognized him? He couldn’t decide if that made more sense or less. Sure, it might explain why she didn’t call for help, but it would make her dragging him into her apartment then crashing in the same room as him even more nuts. She hadn’t even bothered to hide his weapons, as if she was confident he was no threat to her. She had no reason to be so confident, so brave, and she didn’t seem stupid enough to not recognize the obvious risks he came with.
This girl must have a death wish.
That’s all he could land on as he turned off the water, stepping out into the steam filled bathroom and grabbing the soft towel she’d left for him. Beneath it is a small pile of clothes, left intentionally for him to pull onto his now softer, cleaner skin.
The sweatpants are barely wide enough for him to squeeze into and significantly too short, the cuffs at the end of each leg sitting stretched out halfway up his calves. The shirt fits better, although the printed ‘Plant Mom’ text pulls wider over his broad chest, and the still packaged fuzzy socks slip onto his feet perfectly, even if he cringes a little as he pulls off the cardboard.
The second he steps out of the bathroom he’s overwhelmed by the warm smell of baking, an upbeat song spilling out of the kitchen alongside soft humming. He takes a second to breathe it all in, the quiet domesticity of it all nearly knocking him off his feet.
When he turns the corner into the living space he’s struck by how her hair is pulled up into a messy bun at the top of her head and the warm yellows and oranges of the floral dress she’s changed into. She turns to great him, wiping her hands on her apron as she does so.
“You have perfect timing, I only just finished them,” he glances down to the plate she’s setting onto the island, catching a glimpse of her vase of marigolds, now moved over to the sink.
Pancakes. She’d made him pancakes.
“Juice, tea, or coffee?”
The breakfast on it’s own is disorienting enough, an authentic question combined with an invitation to want something is the final straw. He seizes up, body frozen just in front of her wooden barstools. She has to see it, has to notice his stiffness and the seconds ticking into minutes of silence, but she doesn’t react. She’s just standing there smiling, only moving to retrieve the kettle after it dings.
“Is it orange juice?” As if it was possible the smirk across her lips only widens, head nodding carefully as she pours hot water into her own mug. “I like orange juice,” the words weren’t meant to come out of his mouth, more a thought of his own as he grapples with a bizarre craving for something he can’t recall the taste of.
“Perfect!” The cup is in front of him, cool and refreshing, just waiting for him to drink it.
He’s somehow surprised at the familiar sweetness and the bright citrus in his throat. It tastes like Saturday mornings, listening to baseball games over the radio, watching a smaller blonde man draw buildings and people. It’s so overwhelmingly comfortable and easy it knocks the wind out of him.
“I should go.” The words surprise him just as much as it does her.
She sits down next to him, stirring her tea. “Look out the window.” He glances out, past the frozen fire escape, at the heavy snowfall. When he looks back she’s mindlessly massaging her hands in repetitive, practiced motions. “It’s freezing out there, won’t stop snowing until things warm up this afternoon.” She takes a sip, then pulls out the tea bag. “Your clothes are approaching threadbare with no layers of insulation, your shoes and socks have holes, you clearly haven’t eaten in days. If you go out there before the storm passes you’ll be lucky to only lose a couple fingers and toes.”
“You want me to stay?”
“I tried pretty hard to keep you from dying last night, I’d hope I bought you more than just one day.” She’s calmly eating a bite of pancake now. She knows he’s not going to leave.
Fuck it, he knows he won’t leave too, not right now. So instead he sits, and starts taking bites from his own plate.
“Are you an angel or something?”
“I think your real guardian angel is the cat,” she talks with her mouth still slightly full, a playful look in her eye, “I never would’ve seen you if she hadn’t led me down that alley.”
“Doctor or nurse?” She looks up at him, an eyebrow raised, “The stitches.”
She laughs, a bubbly but substantial sound, like the church bells by his childhood home. Bells he couldn’t recall just a moment ago. All he wants is to hear more of it.
“I used to sew.”
“Used to?”
“My hands aren’t as steady as they once were,” a heaviness creeps into her voice as she talks about it, the minute change cracking his heart just a tad. “I do mostly machine stuff now but it doesn’t scratch the itch like hand sewing did.” He wants to press, but he knows better, instead letting her pull the conversation to more comfortable waters. “How about I see what I can do in the way of mending your clothes?”
“That would great.”
—
She spent hours painstakingly mending his clothes with patches and thread in front of the crackling fire. She reinforced areas, closed holes, wove thread through the fabric like a new layer of cotton. Every once in a while she’d have him try them on again, telling him to check how they fit, to test his range of motion and see if any new seams bothered him.
She’d shown him how to use her laptop in the meantime, opening a ‘incognito’ window she said would hide what he looked at from her.
“My only request is if you’re gonna watch porn please do it in the bathroom.” That had made him laugh, he can’t remember ever doing that before.
Once he understood how the ‘Google’ worked, and what it could do, he got to work. He pulled the small, battered notebook from his bag, his memories in the palm of his hand. He started with the few names of Hydra agents he’d managed to write down, frantically scrawling down any information he could find on them. She’d moved on to adding extra insulation to his jacket when he finally gave in and and searched for the person he wanted to know the most.
Captain America. Steve.
He’d survived the airship. He’d survived.
And that was all that mattered.
—
He hadn’t noticed when the snow stopped falling, he was too entranced watching her slowly fix and alter his clothes with impossible care he couldn’t possibly deserve. He couldn’t stay, even if he wanted to, so he changed back into his tactical gear and attached layers upon layers of weapons to his body. He wanted to argue when she’d packed food and clothes into a sturdy bag for him, but one stern look from her soft features was enough to silence him.
Now she’s leading him out of her apartment and down the stairs. With every step down the thin, tall steps all he can picture is her pulling his entire weight up three fucking stories after dragging him from whatever alleyway he’d collapsed in.
She must be a lot stronger than she looks.
Every inch of him is filling with dread as they reach the bottom and leave the building, blinding reflections off fallen snow reminding him of the harshness of the real world. He’d been living inside a fantasy, and the stifling grasp of reality is crashing into him.
“Well,” she’s shifting uncomfortably on her feet, “It was nice meeting you, um,”
It hadn’t occurred to him before this second that she didn’t know his name. She seemed to know him so well, to understand him in a way someone he’d known less than 24 hours just couldn’t.
“James.”
“It was nice meeting you, James.”
He still has so many questions, things he didn’t have time to ask but has to know. Even if they had the time, could he ask them?
Has she done this before?
Would she do this again?
The idea of her carrying and patching up someone else has his chest tightening, red rising up his neck and face. It’s a strange feeling, an odd sort of burning, aching, discomfort that he can’t name but it has his muscles tensing up. He can’t help but turn back.
“Don’t do this again.” Anyone else could’ve killed her, hell, he could’ve killed her. “People can be dangerous.”
“You turned out fine.” She’s rubbing at her hands again, a hesitant smirk playing across her lips. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes up. Instead he swallows the lump in his throat, a lump that’s begging him to disagree.
“An exception, not the rule.” He clenches his jaw. “Stick to stray cats and dogs, not stray people.”
“Noted.”
He really needs to leave, at the very least he can’t risk being out in the open like this for so long.
“Hey,” he pauses again at the sound of her shaking, quiet voice, “if you’re ever in town again,”
“Careful Angel,” his voice is so smooth and effortless, a flirty air to it he can’t comprehend as he begins to turn and walk away, “your halo’s showing.”
—
She’s quick to close the apartment door behind her, locking it and leaning back into it. With a sigh, she slides down it, sitting on the floor at the door’s base and running her fingers through her hair. The cat is sniffing at her but she is barely aware of the whiskers tickling her knees as she pulls them into her chest.
Did she really just tell him he could come back?
One night with the world’s most wanted man in her tiny apartment was dangerous enough, if he returned the risk would only grow exponentially. Part of her knew he wouldn’t come back anyways, so what’s it even matter what she’d offered.
Ghosts like him don’t go anywhere twice, if he came back it could be bad for both of them.
Some deep, dark, lonely part of her wants to cry at the thought. It hates the idea that their first and last meeting would be one and the same, that the sparse comfort of someone who understands, even if he doesn’t know he does, would vanish just as suddenly as it appeared.
She could hate it all she wanted to, but it had to happen.
Soon he’ll be just a memory, and maybe it’s better that way, she’s good with memories. It would hurt less soon, once she readjusted to her self-enforced quarantine. At the end of the day, she knew for certain that complete isolation for the rest of forever would be infinitely better than Hydra, than Brock, finding her.
If only knowing that was enough to stop the tears gliding down her cheeks and the sobs building in her chest.
—
It had been one whole month since he’d woken up on her couch and every last token of his brief time in her apartment was gone. His hair didn’t smell like wildflowers and honey, the thread she’d sewn him up with was gone and the wound was healed. They had all been precious symbols, reminders that he’s welcome somewhere even if he couldn’t ever go back, but now they were gone.
Even worse, his damaged and confused brain could only produce fractured images of her apartment, of her. He had no choice but to grip onto the few pieces that remained, the unconscious way she massaged her hands, the bright smile and gentle voice, the deep knowing eyes, the vase of marigolds on her counter. His angel was fading away from him, slipping through his fingers and pulling any comfort he felt with her.
He knew he couldn’t go back. Every repeat visit could only make him easier to track down, and if they tracked him down to her place there’d be no telling what they’d do to her.
She may have a death wish but he wouldn’t risk granting it.
Maybe that’s why he didn’t question where he was going as his feet led him away from his latest mission, a Hydra facility burning to the ground behind him. He just let them take him, let instinct guide him through cleaning himself up. He was just pulling his hair back and up to keep it out of his face, not to look nicer. He needed new clothes, why not pick out a blue Henley for between missions. If it brought out the blue in his eyes that was only a coincidence, just a by product of getting a comfortable shirt in his favorite color.
When he stopped at a flower stand, drawn in by the golden ruffle of familiar flowers, he had to stop pretending he wasn’t wandering closer and closer to her apartment. Still, it was just to drop off the flowers, an anonymous thank you for everything she’d done for him a month ago. All he had to do was pick the lock to get into the building, set the flowers in front of her door, knock, and hide somewhere he could watch her receive them without being noticed. He’d even scouted out his hiding spot. Surely all he needed was one glance of her, just to refresh his memory of what an divinity on earth looked like.
Now he’s here, on her doorstep flowers in hand. He knocks, once, twice, three times.
He knows he should set the vase down and hide but he can’t. He can’t move at all. He’s frozen right in front of her apartment, unable to will himself to slip away when the one person he couldn’t get out of his head all month is so close.
The door swings open with a creak.
She’s gorgeous, flushed cheeks and plump lips and vibrant smile. Her hair is pulled into two braids, one behind her back and the other resting on her shoulder. She’s wearing a dress, a deep forest green dress that lands just above her knees with a little white collar peaking out of the neckline. She’s barefoot, the seam of her hazy white tights covering her black painted toenails.
He can’t help but notice she’s surprised to see him, maybe a little confused, a little worried but she shakes those off quickly.
“You’re back.” He feels impossibly vulnerable under her gentle gaze, exposed as if he was stark naked.
“I-” he pushes the vase closer to her. “I wanted to say thank you.”
“Marigolds,” her smile brightens, blinding and beautiful like staring into the sun. She pushes the door open a little further, moving to the side as if inviting him in. His body moves without him again, stepping back into the warm, bright apartment. Any tension left within him melts the moment he breaks through the threshold. One word comes to mind before he can stop it.
The guard dog -> loyalty has been ingrained into their bones, following their handler around like their shadow. No one dares stand against the organization because of the legendary dread surrounding this living weapon. They hardly say a word but every movement is calculated, eyes always darting, always watching. (“You always were their lapdog.”)
The loose cannon -> dangerous for both sides. Always talking back and never predictable, their value is dependent on their skill. If it wasn’t for that, they’d be dead a long time ago. Their loyalty is earned, not bought. No one wants to be on their bad side, walking on tip toe whenever they show up. And they enjoy it. (“What’s everyone looking at? Aren’t you happy to see me? I even brought my rifle!”)
The broken down -> most common type of whumpee I’ve seen. They’ve been overpowered and forced into the commission. They hate their handler more than anything else but see no way out. When they’re told to shoot, they don’t even blink. It’s always “yes, sir” this and “yes, sir” that. If they feel any sympathy, they don’t show it. They’ll do anything to avoid punishment and flinch at quick movements. Nothing they face on the field is worse than the cards they’ve been dealt. (“I understand, sir/ ma’am. I-I’m sorry.”)
The dissenter -> Usually recruited into the organization or joined as a last ditch option. Not necessarily against using their abilities or skill, they just hate being told what to do. As time goes on and their disobedience is punished over and over again, they grow reluctant. Bitter. With every order, they slip in a snarky comment. Roll their eyes. Anything to assert their own identity. Or what’s left of it. (“ah ah ah, you didn’t think i’d notice? The middle finger was a bit much. I’m afraid it will have to go.”)
The ghost in the machine -> known only by their codename by outsiders and by their number in the organization, they’ve been stripped of all humanity. They live, breathe, and think by their handlers orders. They’ve been told over and over again that they are just a weapon. And a weapon does what it’s told. Their anonymity is attached to the organization in the same way a gun is simply an extension of their arm. But at night they still stare up at the ceiling with a blank stare— did they ever a life before this? They can’t remember. (“It’s not like it’s a person. It doesn’t have feelings like that.”)
This morning I was thrust into a surprise Easter egg hunt for my Wild Life felt snails.
For context, for Christmas my lovely fiancée made me little felt plushies of everyone’s Wild Life snails. They are such an incredible and thoughtful gift, I love them so much.
Anyways, they live in a little trinket board on the wall of our living space, at some point last night either it fell on its own or the cats managed to jump and bop it aggressively enough to know it down.
Either way I woke up to Etho, BDubs, and Sizzleman on my bedroom floor (the cats aren’t allowed into the bedroom so they often push toys under the door gap in protest).
It took me 45 minutes to find everyone, at least 15 of those was spent looking for the last two, Gem and Tango, who were hiding together in the bristles of the broom in a closet.
I’m happy to report no losses, and I suppose I can declare Gem and Tango joint winners of Cat-induced Hide and Seek.
For anyone curious, here they are safely back in their homes. I’ll need to figure out a sturdier way to attach them to the wall before I put them back up.
Summary: The last thing she needs is the Winter Soldier crashing on her couch. It’s only a matter of time before someone tracks him down to her apartment, the only place he visits more than once. All she can do is hope Hydra doesn’t get their first, or if they do, that they kill her before they recognize her.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female OC/Reader
Chapter Warnings: no use of y/n, mentions of canon typical violence and torture, descriptions of physical injuries, invasions of privacy, mind and memory reading reader, depictions of mental illness and flashbacks
Word Count: 2743
Note! - thank you to my lovely fiancée for helping name the story and the chapter, as well as being my wonderful beta reader to catch silly little mistakes (like when I imply Bucky only has one lung)
Look What the Cat Dragged in
She’s always liked taking walks in the rain.
There’s something so peaceful about the way the world slows down and the air gets crisper, something that just opening the windows to her apartment can’t fully capture. Down here, on the city streets, it’s so much stronger. That’s why she’d pulled on her soft blue, long sleeved dress and fleece lined leggings to brave the chilled early evening.
The streets were practically deserted by the time she stepped out of her apartment building and opened her black umbrella, but that only made it better. She might as well be the only person in the entire city, walking her familiar loop around closed storefronts and locked doors. Now, only 2 blocks away from finishing her loop with waves of comfort rushing through her, movement at the edge of an alleyway catches her attention.
Whatever moved was small, maybe a racoon or a stray dog or cat. The weather report she’d watched earlier rings through her head, it’s meant to freeze tonight. She’s quick to veer off her loop, stepping into the mouth of the alleyway and scanning it for life while chirping to get the animals attention.
“Come here sweetheart,” she calls. A sudden flash of mottled gray before her makes her yelp, then laugh as she takes in the dirty gray soaked fur of a ragdoll cat.
“Well hello there beautiful.” She smiles as the cat weaves between her legs, “What’re you doing out in this kind of weather?” The cat doesn’t stay with her for long, prancing further into the alleyway but pausing every couple of steps to check if she’s following. She does.
“Are there more of you back there?” She calls, scanning the area nearby for something she could carry the cat back to her place in, eyes landing on a damp cardboard box. She pulls it from a pile of trash, carefully keeping it under her umbrella as she follows the slender watercolor gray cat deeper into the dark alleyway. She’s trying not to trip on the uneven asphalt, watching as the drenched animal vanishes around a corner.
She wasn’t entirely sure what she expected to find. Probably a litter of kittens or a pile of trash turned into a small shelter.
The last thing she was expecting was to find a man there in the dark, his hulking frame sprawled out on the floor, bloody and rain-soaked. He’s in worn dark clothes, resting on his stomach, head facing away from her so his shoulder length dark brown hair blocks his face from her view. The cat stops at the man’s side, sitting expectantly with big eyes trained on the girl it’d led here.
She takes a single step forward, opening her mouth to call out to him but the syllables die on her tongue as she notices the knives and guns strapped to him. That sends her stumbling back, the umbrella and box dropping from her hands, her body pressing into the dirty alleyway wall.
She stays there a moment, watching and waiting for him to move. He doesn’t.
The puddle of rain surrounding him is dark, bloody. He’s obviously hurt, presumably unconscious. The cat is next to his head now, licking his cheek without response.
She should call the cops, and ambulance, help in general, but a nagging feeling tells her not to.
“Fuck.” She curses, taking slow careful steps closer to him before kneeling down beside him. He doesn’t look incredibly dangerous, famous last words, she knows, but what if he isn’t. What if he needs help.
There’s a way to know for sure.
Self loathing soaks into her alongside the rainwater. She hates that the idea even came to her, that something deep inside her would dare to recommend she use her disgusting ability. She didn’t need it. It wasn’t her, just a remnant of the worst experiences of her life.
She couldn’t let him die there, but if she was in his position she’d sooner die than risk detection in a hospital. What if he was running too?
One step away from the wall. Her worry for the man’s life is winning and she knows it. It’s dishonorable, sure, but is invading someone’s privacy worth it to save their life. She takes another step, then another, until she’s kneeling next to him.
The hem of her skirt is soaking up rainwater and blood, the liquids creeping up the fabric. She’s holding her breath, reaching out with her pointer finger but stopping before she can feel the soft skin of his bare and bloody cheek.
Just one touch, one unethical, invasive peak into someone else’s mind to decide where to go from here.
His skin is cold, but she only manages to feel that for a moment before its overtaken by a deep burning. Instantly her head is throbbing, her vision blurring from the pain. She can feel water filling up her lungs and electricity throbbing through her hands, her arms, her core. Everything aches and stings and glows white hot. Hands are grabbing and hitting her everywhere, bruising fingers and violent impacts making her dizzy. All she can see is a blur of harsh men and bright lights. There’s blood in her eyes, sticky thick liquid dripping and gliding down her face.
Just when she thinks it all might knock her unconscious a new, stronger cold soaks into her. It’s deep and throbbing, bringing a new burn alongside a painful numbness. She can’t feel her fingers, her toes. She can’t breathe or scream or cry out. She’s frozen. Completely and utterly.
The girl falls back with a gasp, panting as the images and feelings slowly vanish. She’s completely sitting on the ground now, desperately trying to adjust to a spinning brutal world. The feeling of soaked fur and chilled toe pads pull her back into the alleyway, the cat brushing past her shoulder then hopping up to stand on her bare thighs. The cat chirps at her, tail flicking gently behind it.
No hospitals. No police.
If she wanted to help him, and she did, she’d have to do it herself.
“I’m gonna need a bigger cardboard box.”
—
It only hits her a couple hours after she finally managed to drag him into her apartment just what she’s done.
The Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra, is laying shirtless on her couch, his massive form making it seem comically little. He’s wanted by Hydra, every government worldwide, and the Avengers. The three groups she wants in her life the least are actively tracking down the guy she’d just stitched up like she was sewing a new skirt.
If her body wasn’t so exhausted she’d be terrified, but instead she’s just semi-panicking while half awake. It had taken 2 hours to pull Captain America’s right hand man 2 blocks, stopping only when the pain from his memories forced her to throw up or collapse into a wall. She’d tried to avoid touching his skin but it was nearly impossible to do while heaving him onto her shoulders or yanking him down the sidewalk. Her one saving grace was his left arm, thankfully the sleek metal didn’t conduct the inside of his mind like his skin did. Unfortunately that didn’t protect her from his memories when she’d handled his injuries.
It was nothing she couldn’t handle, just a stab and a couple gun shot wounds. She’d spent another hour tackling those with her handy sewing kit. It would’ve been so much quicker, but she needed 30 of those minutes to get herself to a point where she didn’t flinch and yelp with each brush of his skin. The end result wasn’t perfect or ideal, the unsteady stitches making her curse her once steady hands for their current tremors.
She can’t tell which has been more exhausting, heaving around a man twice her size or taking in the unbearable torture inside him.
With her guest handled she moves to care for the cat, wiping dirt and grime from its fur with a warm wet washcloth to reveal pure white. She trudges around the apartment, setting up a litter box alongside bowls of dry food and water on her living room floor.
Now, with everything and everyone handled, the newfound calm gives way to her own horrors.
She spent too long too close to him and now even across the room she can’t get his head out of hers. She’s a broken radio, stuck on his station at full volume. His memories are overwhelming, overloading every sense in her body. They’re blurring, blending into her own experiences, building into unstoppable flashbacks until she has no clue what sensations are hers. She stumbles back against the wall, sliding down it and setting her head into her hands. Bones are cracking and splintering, lungs are heaving, whimpers and screams are bubbling up into her throat.
It takes every grounding exercise in her toolkit to calm her body down and by then even crawling to her room is out of the question. Instead she leans back into the wall, shutting her eyes as the damp cat crawls into her lap. She’s out in minutes, free falling into the dark void of sleep with a strangled sigh.
—
His eyes snap open into a room he’s never seen before.
The couch he’s laying on is plush. A thick soft blanket wraps up from under him until it hugs around his shoulders, locking him into a comfortable cocoon, but otherwise he can’t feel any restraints. In front of the couch is a coffee table, strewn with bloodied medical and sewing supplies. Beyond that is a fireplace, the sparse glowing embers quietly crackling, and a chair piled up with dark thick fabric, metals, and plastics.
His hands shoot to his body, pulling away his cocoon and searching for his weapons in a panic. Not only are they missing, presumably within the pile on the chair, but so is his jacket, his shirt, even his shoes and socks have been removed leaving him semi-exposed in only dirt and blood cacked tactical pants and underwear.
He shoots up to a seat with a sharp wince from his strangely cleaned and bandaged core. Even the healing gash on his right forearm he got climbing a fence is wrapped up. He tries to push away the uneasiness of having been cared for while limp and unconscious, instead scanning the space. It’s an apartment, a modest living space broken between living room and kitchen with an island of countertops. What catches his eye the most is the vase of flowers, bright marigolds on the island.
Every movement he makes is careful, slow, cautious. The last thing he needs is to get the attention of whoever brought him here. He had no reason to think they want to harm him, he’s not bound, his stuff is right there on the chair only a couple feet away, still the idea of him being found and moved while he was so vulnerable makes him want to run. Run fast and far, and never look back.
Better to be gone than risk meeting his host.
He makes it a couple steps towards the chair, reaching out for the handgun still in a holster at the top of the pile before he hears it. A gentle… purring? It’s coming from behind the chair. His gaze moves downwards, peaking delicately over the top of the pile in search of the source of the sound.
His tired, gray-blue eyes land on vibrant icy ones. The pupils seem to grow at the sight of him, purring turning into chirping as a fluffy white ragdoll cat squirms out of the arms of a sleeping girl and prances over to him. It rubs it’s head against him, chirping louder and louder by the second.
“Shh.” He hushes but the cat doesn’t seem to care, now chattering and pacing back and forth against his legs. “You’ll wake her.” He whispers, watching the cat hop up onto the pile and carefully climb the exposed edges of the armchair. It’s first meow is enough to push him over the edge, his right hand rubbing a warm cloud onto its head. “Please.” The touch appears to placate the cat, returning meows and chatter and chirps to methodic purring.
Still petting the cat he dares for a moment to scan the girl behind the chair. The first thing he notices is that she isn’t really behind the chair, just in the triangular space between it and the wall because of its angle. The next thing he takes in is the girl herself, she’s softly breathing, curled up into a loose ball, eyes solidly shut. Asleep. He takes slow and deliberate steps around the chair to get a better look at her, the cat following his hand to the other side of it’s back. She doesn’t look much like a threat to him.
His heart races a little when he notices the blood stained all over her baby blue dress and gray leggings. Her hands are bloody too, stained and coated in cracking dried red without a source he can identify. He’s crouched beside her, having halfway convinced himself to pull her out of the corner for a proper injury assessment when he realizes where the red came from.
Him. It came from him.
He glances back at the coffee table, at the blood soaked needle and thread haphazardly thrown into a clear lidded tin to keep the cat from getting it, at the trashcan at the end of the island and the completely soaked bandage trapped just barely poking out of the lid. Had she really fixed him up?
He doesn’t get to grapple with the question for long before a gasp pulls him back to her. He stands again stepping back quickly to give her space, but she doesn’t stand. Her eyes don’t even open, but another gasp escapes her lips, this one accompanied by a panicked whine.
It’s a nightmare, he’s sure of it. He’d recognize the way her unconscious body squirms and twitches, the way her eyes dart around beneath her eyelids, the quiet breathy half-words anywhere. He should leave but he can’t. Instead his hands stretch out towards her, slow and wary. He doesn’t let his fingers meet with her soft skin, only grabbing onto her shoulders where the long sleeves of her dress cover her and shaking her frame softly.
“You’re okay.” It’s practically a whisper, every syllable hoarse and raw from disuse. It occurs to him in fleeting concern that this is the first thing he’s said since the airship. He tries again. “You’re okay. It’s just a dream.” Her chest is heaving more and more with each strangled breath.
“Ple-” there’s something so heartbreakingly familiar in the way her numb lips stumble through only a fraction of a word. Her eyebrows knit together, face tensing up as her head lolls forwards. “No.”
“Fuck.” He can’t help but curse, releasing her left shoulder and pushing a strand of her from her face. “It’s just a dream.” She seems to settle a little, as if she can hear him through the mist of her own nightmares, but the fear builds up again into an agonizing whimper. He doesn’t think, he just acts, cupping her cheek into the palm of his hand. He can feel the warmth of her flushed face as he lifts it up.
“You’re okay.” He repeats for the last time, as firm and loud as his damaged voice can handle. “It’s just a dream.”
Her eyelashes flutter open, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, bright eyes boring a hole through his head. There’s something gorgeous about them, so vibrant and detailed he could search them for hours. That is, he could search them for hours if he could manage to ignore her flushed cheeks and plump, parted lips.
With a jolt he realizes just how hard he’s staring and the intimate way his fingertips are cupping her cheek, tilting her chin up towards his face almost as if….
He pulls his hands from her suddenly, blush creeping up his own face at an alarming pace. The silence between them might as well be another bullet forcing it’s way into his side. He screams at himself to say something, anything. Unfortunately part of him takes ‘anything’ a little too seriously and, instead of concocting something endearing or charming to say he can only force out a pathetic…
Summary: For decades her hands have been the only ones to bring him comfort. She’s the only person who’s ever treated him like a person, of course she’d be the person to pull him away from Hydra and stitch him back together.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female OC/Reader
Chapter Warnings: mentions of Canon-typical physical violence and torture, implied abuse, descriptions of physical injuries, no use of y/n
Word Count: 1433
Note! - I'm finally posting some writing! I hope you enjoy it and I'll try to add more parts fairly frequently. FYI, I intend for things to get a bit darker as the story goes along so be sure to check each chapters specific warnings before reading.
Also thank you to @vunblr for their recently finished Toy Soldier series which inspired me to write about an OC/Reader with healing powers!
Anywhere but Here
He’s not sure where he’s going.
Well, he’s not sure who he is so maybe he has bigger problems than where he’s headed. Honestly, there’s only one thing he does know and that is that he failed his mission.
He knows that that man, Captain America, his target, was alive when he left him. Bleeding, injured but alive. He’d made sure of that, he’s pulled the man from the water, pushed the water from his lungs. Hell, he’d called the ambulance just to be sure it got there in time.
He wasn’t sure what it meant, to fail a mission.
He can’t remember any other missions, but he’s confident there have been many. He’s searching through the disorganized snipets of his broken memories but he can’t find anything to suggest he’s ever failed a mission before.
What would failing mean?
It’s impossible for him to tell how long he’s been walking, but his steps are slowing now, quietly leading him down the driveway of a familiar house.
—
She’s not sure where she’s going.
Anywhere but here.
That thought keeps running through her head, like it has been since she watched the helicarriers crash into the Potomac on the news. She was almost ready to follow that instinct now, a backpack full of all the cash, medical supplies, and food she could scavenge swung onto her shoulder. Her hands are shaking as she tightens shoes far too big for her onto her feet. She’s pulling one of Alex’s jackets off a hook by the garage door when she hears it, a quiet crash.
She curses under her breath, stalking over to the fireplace to grab a poker.
Slow, cautious steps take her closer to the sound, muscles tense in preparation for whatever she finds. Whatever or whoever it is, they’re in the dining room. A chill runs through her, her cheeks flushing, chest heaving, poker held back and ready to swing any moment.
She peaks around the corner, relief spreading through her at the familiar sight. It’s a man, tall and bulky, with shoulder length dark brown hair in dark tactical gear.
James.
She lowers the poker, setting it leaning against the wall. There’s no need to fear him. He won’t hurt her, not while Alex is gone.
“Soldier?” Her heart aches to call him that but its the safest option. He doesn’t react when he notices her, he just walks closer, stopping only a foot and a half in front of her. He’s drenched and bloody, blankly reporting back, acting on protocols he can’t even recall. His right arm holds a gun. He raises it, arm extended, barrel pointed at his own chest.
He’s offering it to her, just like he usually offered it to Alex.
She closes the gap, reaching for his other hand, fingers interlocking with cold metal. Tears shine down his face in the dark room.
“I failed.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard his voice. It froze through her. “I failed the mission.”
“I’m running.” The words surprise her as much as they surprise him. “You could come with me,” she shifts, pulling the backpack further onto her shoulder, “if you want.”
“Where?” His voice is scratchy and raw with disuse, but she’d listen to it for hours if he’d let her.
“Away from the capital. There’s a big bus station a couple hours away. From there, anywhere.” She sighs, “Only problem is I can’t find his keys.”
“I can hotwire it.” He doesn’t know where or when he learned it, only that he did.
She smiles, then falters. Her hand is reaching out to brush his bloodied cheek.
“You’re hurt. Can I see?” His nod is small. Without a thought, she brushes the hair from his face and inhales deeply, activating something deep inside herself.
The first thing she notices is a dizzy, muddled fog. The headache starts small but builds on itself, every part of her is aching and throbbing. Her ribs hurt with each breath, each movement. The headache is only getting worse. It’s painful, uncomfortable, exhausting but nothing deadly.
Still, it’s better for her to carry it than him.
A soft hum stems from her chest, a habit she’d taken to over the years to push through the suffering. She takes his hand again, leading him slowly to the garage door and guiding another one of Alex’s jackets onto his shoulders. Before she knows it they’re in the car and its sputtering to life with his practiced movements. All she can think as they pull out of the garage is how much easier this all feels with him at her side. It makes her wonder if she could’ve done it without him, if she could’ve left him.
She’s so grateful she doesn’t need to find out.
—
There’s something disorienting about how much better her presence makes him feel, how the dizzy fog and throbbing, aching pain seem to disappear when she touches him. He tries not to stare, some part of him vaguely aware that his handler’s don’t like it when he stares, but he can’t stop himself.
She’s in a thin black dress, a large jacket surrounding her as she carefully drives them away from the house. He watches her while the sun begins to set, taking in every detail of her. He’s stuck in the long blonde hair pulled back with a thin black ribbon and the dark knowing eyes watching the road.
He wants to ignore the finer details but he can’t.
He can’t ignore the cuts, the dark circles under her eyes, the hollowness of her cheeks. Deep red bruises wrap around her everywhere a hand could grab, her neck and arms and legs.
His stomach turns as the memories of Alexander Pierce grabbing her, fingertips burying into her skin as he tossed her into the wall, cloud his mind. He can practically hear her crash against the brick, her usually so gentle voice cracking as she begged and cried and pleaded for mercy.
All while he just watched.
“James?” Neither of them had spoken for hours. The last stray rays of sunlight are fading and the car is stopped, tucked away in a sparse forest. “Soldier?”
His eyes skip over to hers, falling endlessly into their depth. She smiles at him, the gesture piercing deeper than bullets or knives ever could.
“We’re just a mile from a large bus station just outside New York,” with a nod he shifts to unbuckle himself but a soft hand on his stops him from opening the passenger side door. “They’ll be looking for you tonight,” he can’t decide who she means by they, he can’t even place all the options in his head. “Let’s rest here, we’re far enough away that we can wait to ditch the car until morning.”
Nothing happens for a moment, a long moment, then he realizes she’s waiting for him. She wants him to respond. He nods again, curt but it satisfies her enough to fiddle with the controls for her chair.
It collapses back. She yelps. Then laughs.
It’s warm, sweet and dripping like a spoonful of honey stirred into hot tea, light as a cloud but still slamming into him. He watches her crawl into the backseat, glancing away as she passes him so as to not give her short skirt the opportunity to expose her. He turns back when he hears her settle into the leather.
“There’s more space back here.” She pats the seat next to her, those dark eyes watching him struggle to crawl through the cramped car. He’s sitting next to her again, except back here there’s no console to separate them.
He doesn’t think, just moves.
“Oh.” Her voice is soft, surprised but not upset. He’s in the middle seat now, pressing his side into hers. “Are you cold?” He shakes his head, nuzzling just a bit into her. Even through all his layers he can feel her warmth, her comfort oozing into him. It’s addictive, unfamiliar in the best way.
It’s like she can hear his thoughts, her bare finger running up his spine and into his hair.
“Rest.” She’s guiding him down so his head rests in her lap, fingertips rubbing slow circles on his scalp. “I’ve got you.”
His eyelids are immediately heavy. An exhaustion he didn’t realize he’d been carrying crashes into him like a wave, pulling him under. He closes his eyes, focused on the feel of her hands in his hair and the sound of her gentle humming, until even those things are slipping from him and he’s drifting into a peaceful nothingness.
the sacred combo!! steve is a clingy mf - either always having his arms wrapped around his s.o, a hand on their leg or on their waist, and if he's not with them, he'll be texting you all day, asking how you are and just chatting. steve has had to learn to live every day like it's his last, so he'll never go to work, bed, or even to the shops, without telling you he loves you. it's just part of his routine, really.
bucky barnes - acts of service
bucky is not very good with words, or with expressing himself. even before hydra, it was something he struggled with. so, acts of service are his main love language. it can be little things - making coffee in the morning, putting the laundry away when he knows you're busy - or bigger things, like taking your car into the shop when you forget, or building new furniture, or shaking down your weird co-worker who was kinda mean the other day. he finds so much purpose in just making your life easier (in a healthy way!!).
sam wilson - quality time
sam is a man of quality time. he has to work away quite a lot and is always on the go with work and his tasks, but when he does see you - and he makes sure it's a fair amount - he tries to make it count. hell, it doesn't even matter what you do, as long as he's with you. sam does try to make sure you're always having a good balance of chill time and fun activities though, so he always plans the best day.
frank castle - words of affirmation + gifts
aight this might seem weird bc frank is not very good with words (try and make him form a sentence without a swear word or abbreviation, i dare you) but the ones he does say, he always means. especially when he says that he loves you and would probably kill for you. but, it's frank's famously bad way with words that make you realise how much he loves you - because you're the only person he will verbally open up to and be a complete and open book with. as for gifts, every single one he has ever bought you has been the most thoughtful, sweet things; stuff you wouldn't even think to buy yourself. it's just a testament for how well he knows you.
matt murdock - physical touch
this one feels fairly obvious tbh, because alongside his hearing, matt's touch is his the sense he relies on most. he loves your voice and the way you sound but most of all, he loves the way you feel. whether it's the feeling of your skin against his, your fingers all tangled up, or when you kiss him, he just fucking loves it. physical touch is matt's favourite way of knowing you.
It's a good month to whump our favorite characters!
In AitCM, to complete, you only have to write 15 days, and the other fifteen days you read & rec a fic that fits one the prompts for the day. (Feel free to create and promote art pieces as well!)
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You are more than welcome, of course, to write all thirty days or rec all thirty days—or both—but that is not necessary to complete the challenge.
Join us in filling the world with spectacular whump stories!
Tag us in your stories, recs, and art!
Choose one or more of the prompts daily (or use an alt prompt) and get to work!
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Do your best and get to whumping!
Special thanks to Lynn(justanotherinterneruser) for helping put this together. <3
Did you know that between 1939 and 1941 the NYC Tax Administration and the Works Progress Administration collaborated to take photographs of nearly every building in all 5 boroughs of New York City? And that you can see these photos today thanks to NYC Municipal archiving? This is, obviously, amazing for hundreds of reasons. For the purposes of this post, it's fantastic because this is a very real address:
And when I put that address into the photo locator map, I get this:
Going from there, we can walk around the surrounding blocks via photographs. And if we assume that Steve and Bucky's pre-war apartment was fairly close to the Barnes', then these photos from 1939 to 1941 are a historically accurate trip to their neighborhood.
So, let's explore some pre-war Brooklyn. For your fic inspiration needs, your feelings, the general Stucky vibes, or just because:
160 State Street, bigger and without the map.
(If you ever feel like making the details of a fic incredibly historically accurate, there are so many real businesses to choose from in these photos.)
Like I said, there are pictures of nearly every building. This is just a small collection of the images I grabbed from the immediate blocks around 160 State. You can walk around the neighborhood in more detail, or anywhere else in 1939-1941 New York you want on the map I used.
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
andulkaphoto
amandla
