this is for the lovely @mylovingkiss i hope you like it!!! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
tehehe im fiiiiinally done sigh. it actually took me far too long, sorry bout that :(
lots of fluff, a piiinch of angst (if you squint enough) bc who wouldn’t i be if i wouldn’t write angsty stuff??? some patheticness on bucky’s side too lol (the way i would’ve folded so fast ong) ALSO this is so much longer than i expected like hello?! motivation kicked in somewhere along the way hihi
it’s kinda buns tho sadly 😔 i don’t like the ending too much bc does anyone even get what i mean? does my writing even make sense?
ship: james‘bucky’barnes/wintersoldier x gn!reader (meant to be fem!reader but can be interpreted however one wants:3), established relationship
That gooey kind of warm that seeps through the cracks of the window, into the blankets to worm its way under your skin, making your body feel all pliant and soft. Warm sunlight always announces a new day coming soon, with Bucky hopefully still close to your side—where’d been last night, curled protectively around your body, shielding what he deems important from a threat unseen to the naked eye. To yours, at least.
Not to Bucky. Unfortunately, no matter how much he wishes to, to him there’s always a threat lingering just outside his field of vision, ready to pounce whenever he stops looking for just a second. Old habits die hard, you suppose. Even harder with years — centuries — of orders drilled into his skull, the good kind of memories wiped out the moment he’d start slipping up, liable once again. He’s not there anymore. Not with Hydra, not with what was left of it, not with anything salivating at the mouth to clamp its jaws around what’s left of Bucky, not him. Not the Winter Soldier. He’s with you, instead. Safe. As free as a man like him can be. Finally.
It’s a nice morning, truly. Perfect only if Bucky was still where he belongs this early. At your side.
You realize his absence before you even fully open your eyes, sleep clouding your vision, shrouding your thoughts. You stir, just slightly, curling your toes to shake the kind of numbness that only a deep slumber ever brings away. It clings to your limbs like lead. Annoying, in a way, yet familiar.
A yawn tears its way across your face, working your jaw open, loose. By now you’ve come to realize Bucky really isn’t by your side anymore. The blanket is crumpled on his side of the bed, sheets left untouched and cold; for a while now. As obviously as the empty side of his bed is the weight of his body missing, pressed close to yours, wanting—needing—to hold, to touch you in any way through a night of peaceful sleep for you, and one of tossing and turning for him, willing sleep to steal the memories away. It never works often, scarcely even.
You pretend not to notice. For Bucky’s sake, maybe even yours too. You’re convinced he knows though, sees the concerned, almost pitying looks you give him whenever the shadows under his eyes grow deeper and the slope of his shoulders more taught. He doesn’t need pity, never wanted or expected it coming from you either.
Bucky was never one to let you in on what’s going on in his head though.
Lately, it’s been getting worse. He pretends—that he doesn’t wake in the dead of the night, gasping for air like a man held underwater for far too long, that he’s not whimpering when his dreams grow too much and too heavy to bear without a sound.
You do your best, truly, every time, to soothe away the broken memories, stroking your fingers through his hair when he’s slurring incoherent words into your skin and his hands hold onto you just a little tighter.
So yes, perhaps you’ve earned the right to be hurt by Bucky shutting you out so completely. You’re not mad though. Not really. Not at him, never at him because of something that’s not his fault.
Carefully, you stretch out your legs this time, shifting just enough to press your face into the pillow next to yours, inhaling the dewy scent of Bucky left on his pillow. You close your eyes. He smells like home, first and foremost. Like spices and musk, with just a hint of peppermint softening it at the edges. He’d probably say the same about you, or just grin at your cheesiness if you’d told him. For a while, you just breathe. Inhaling Bucky’s scent all over the side of his bed, from where it seeps into your nostrils, through your nose and down into your chest, leaving a warm feeling of giddiness behind, like a hole stuffed with sunshine and goodness.
A shiver ripples along your body still all bundled up beneath the sheets, goosebumps pricking at your skin, small and thin like pinheads. You raise your head, squinting at the early morning light slowly creeping up the horizon, bathing the wold in gentle hues of orange and yellow, clouds tinged a fuzzy pink at the edges.
The window is open; someone must’ve forgotten to close it before you had dragged Bucky off to bed last night. Or it just has been reopened.
Curtains sway in the light breeze, making you shudder again, as icy fingers spread to reach for you, longing to get their grip on skin left bared. Disgruntled, you pull your body back into the warmth the bed provides.
With a glance at the clock one the nightstand at your side—6:57 a.m. in bright red colors stares back at you—you’re stretching again until your spine pops, the sound of satisfaction lost somewhere between getting stuck in your throat and actually leaving you.
Even sitting up is harder than you’d thought it to be, sleep still clinging to your consciousness. Yet, you drag yourself out off bed anyway, away from its delicious warmth protecting you.
Bucky’s in the kitchen as you pad out of the bedroom, sleep crusting the corners of your eyes and hair ruffled like the feathers of a spooked bird.
He’s where you expect him to be; at the kitchen table, hunched over in a chair, nursing away at mug of coffee (still full)—entirely black, no sugar, no milk, he drinks it every morning, like clockwork, like a habit he’s unable to fully shake—with some stupidly ridiculous (a cat with a hat) design that you’d insisted on getting for him and for some reason he doesn’t remember, he had relented.
He doesn’t lift his head when you stroll into the kitchen—doesn’t have to, he heard you the moment you started walking down the hallway—just smoothes a thumb along the rim of his mug.
“Good morning.” Your voice is gentle, still laced with the last remnants of tiredness, like honey seeping through the cracks of Bucky’s armor, smoothing out sharp edges and bitter thoughts. His shoulders sag, like the unbearable weight of everything had been lifted away from him the moment you started talking.
“Morning.” He’s rasping again, voice a broken thing. It always sounds the same after another sleepless night.
You step closer to where Bucky sits, just to trace your fingers along his shoulders, simply to rub away at his burdens. He latches on immediately. Hands wrap your hips, tugging you closer between parted thighs, his lips finding home on your skin. Bucky presses a kiss to your collar, once, twice, while his thumbs smooth along your hipbones, holding you.
It’s something raw, unfiltered. Some intimate thing meant to be forgotten the moment his mind clears again. You rarely forget, simply because you think you should treasure every touch Bucky gifts you.
Diligently, you card your fingers through the tufts of his hair, dragging your nails down the back of his head, down his neck. His face presses further into your skin, huffing in the smell of your skin like a man starved. You can’t help yourself with the grin that spreads along your lips, cheeky in every sense of the word. Your hand falls from the tangled strands of his hair, just to play with the thinner ones at the base of his head. Bucky tilts his head into it, like a cat would lean towards head scratches.
You glance at him again. The tiredness in his gaze is there, barely hidden in the way he looks at you. “You doing okay? You’re up quite early again.” Bucky hides his gaze the second you ask. It’s enough of an answer for you.
You let go of his hair; his hands drop.
There’s space between you now that wasn’t there before, even if you’re still standing right next to him. And just like that, you slip away, as carefully and quiet as you ever are when—
It’s not like you feel like you need to act like you’re walking on eggshells around Bucky all the time. It’s just so easy to slip back into the same familiar pattern over and over again. With your back to him now, you shuffle over to the counter, turning at last to lean spie back against. Just to stand there, of course. It’s too early for coffee. Or even tea. It’s barely 7:00 a.m on a weekend, so there’s plenty of time later for coffee or other necessities.
“Are you sure you’re doing alright?” You’re prying now, you think. It’s not like you really care if you are. You care about Bucky. Not if you are prying for something that shouldn’t concern you. But the damage is done before you can take back your words. His expression falls, becomes tight and expressionless. “Just drop it, please.” Bucky sounds exhausted now.
You release a sigh. Part of you feels frustrated at his stubbornness, the other feels sorry for prying, again.
So you try a second time. “I was just asking because you’re up so early and you’re tired and—” The fingers of his metal arm—cold, lifeless, used to hurting others yet somehow still managing to hold you gently—flex. “Drop it, doll. It’s not—”
“It’s just that I care, sorry for—” And just like that, so very easily, something inside Bucky cracks. How dare you feeling sorry for something that comes with who you are. He never yells, doesn’t argue with you either. Because it’s pointless, truly. But sleep deprived, with too many thoughts too loud in his brain, with fear gnawing at his insides that you’ll leave, once you’ll release how broken he truly is, it happens without so much as him thinking about it a second time.
“I said drop it.” He’s not yelling, but there’s venom in his voice. Venom that sits like poison in your head, hurting. It hurts. “Just fucking drop it.” Something shatters under the weight of metal. The mug, coffee splatters the table. You flinch; it’s unbidden. You didn’t even mean to. Your expression pinches, then drops. Bucky’s does too.
Somehow, that’s worse than tears.
Both of you move at the same time; you to clean up the mess he’s made out of his mug and Bucky to get to you.
Halfway, you nearly crash into him, his hands frantic as they move to find purchase on your skin before you slip away from him.
“Baby.” Bucky’s fingers—both flesh and steel—scramble at your cheeks, tugging you in. You’re not looking at him. Pain spreads where he think his heart should be. “Baby, baby, baby, please. ‘m sorry. I didn’t—fuck—you know I didn’t mean to.” His thumbs stroke along your cheeks, coaxing you to look at him. You’re not budging.
You’re slipping through his fingers like sand, drifting apart from him.
His touch grows firmer, not to hurt you, never to hurt. He just can’t have you slipping away. Not when you’re the only thing left that’s still good to him.
The pain in his chest spreads, like flowers unfurling their petals, from behind his ribs outwards, bleeding into his skin.
“I’m sorry.” He says again. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Like that’ll fix everything, just like that. A sorry was never meant to fix what he had broken, not in the past, not now. “Please. I’ll get you a new mug, just—”
Your brows draw together tightly. “Kinda liked that mug though.” It was never about the mug, was it?
Bucky’s shoulders heave, a sigh punched from his chest. The heavy kind of sigh that tells you how tired a person truly is. And you’re still not looking at him, instead off to the side somewhere, expression remaining pinched. It looks like you’ve just bitten into a sour apple. He runs the pad of his thumb along your jaw this time, smoothing away at the skin under your eye. The callouses on his skin catch on yours, broken skin soothing soft. He tilts your head.
“I’m sorry.” He tells you again. Too many apologies so early. Something as simple as you asking how he was feeling shouldn’t have led to this. Bucky knows, he truly does. He tries at cracking a grin, hoping to see you smile back; you don’t.
Instead, you sigh too, shoulders raising. “Bucky…” Your touch slips away from his, your body ready to wind itself from his hands on your face. Fuck. He holds—clings—onto you tighter. “It’s just that I care, I’ll always care—” His lips crash into yours with a force that nearly knocks you over, and most definitely knocks the breath from your lungs. His teeth scrape your lip, hands cradling your face to tug you deeper into the kiss, deeper into him. You sigh into his mouth, lashes fluttering, threatening to make you buckle, to forgive him (not that never forgiving him was ever an option, of course).
Maybe you’re too soft on him, relenting too soon, too often, and every day a bit more.
Bucky strokes your jaw again when you finally pull away. “Don’t stop caring.” His arms wind around you, folding you to his chest. He noses at your shoulder, for the sake of it, savoring the softness and warmth your skin provides him when he feels cold inside. You embrace him too, for the sake of it. “I won’t. Just stop making me feel so shitty about it.” His lips brush your skin; you shudder and this time, it’s not from the cold, but because of the goosebumps that come with Bucky loving you. He’s grinning now, hiding. “Got it, boss.” You snort.
The mug remains broken where you both left it, barely visible when you peek over Bucky’s shoulder.
You could try to fix it, with bandages and great care. It won’t be as pretty as before, but it doesn’t have to be perfect. Given time, you’ll find to enjoy it again.
to whoever this reads, i hope you'll have fun with my silliness <3
