Endless were the number of cases each agent had been charged with, and despite insisting that he was kind of in the middle of something important, the Hunter that had come to collect Agent Mobius from the interrogation room persisted.
“Fine, fine. I got it.” Reluctance sags his shoulder as he pushes up from his seat. He mumbles under his breath words too soft in volume to make out at this distance, but what you assumed to be complaints by the how much his was frowning. “Don’t go anywhere.” A hint of movement from the other side of the table prompts the firm warning from the seasoned agent. His tone more in line with a stressed out parent at the end of long day than true anger.
“Now, see here--!” Riding on the waves of his own frustration, the Variant surges to his feet. He makes to round the table to reach the exiting Mobius, but a twist of a dial has him falling back into the hard plastic chair. A mixture of confusion and displeasure flickering across his fine features in waves.
TemPad in hand, Mobius now turns his attention to you. “D...47?” He squints, reading out the tag on your uniform. There were so many Hunters within TVA’s ranks, you couldn’t really fault him for not remembering you, even though it had been months since your arrival in his unit. “Keep an eye on him while I’m gone, will ya?”
“Yes sir.” Your response is simple, quick. And in the few seconds it takes for you to say them, he is already out the door. Your fellow Hunter hot on his heels and reiterating, once more, that he needs to see this.
For at time there is peace. Ten minutes of uninterrupted silence.
The Variant, or Loki (as he had been called by your absent superior), stewed in his thoughts. His attention drifting between the manila folder of papers that had been left spread across the table, and the Holoprojector that had shown him brief snippets of his life. Things that had already both come to pass, and things that had not.
You had watched in passive silence the range of expressions that moved across his face as Mobius played one scene after another for him. Irritation. Regret. Grief.
None of that was present now as he pins you with a curious blue stare.
You entire body goes tense. What now?
From head to toe he looks you over, observing and scrutinizing every part of you from the comfort of his chair. Like Mobius before him, he too squints at the name-tag emblazoned in bright red ink with your designation. “D47, was it?”
For a second time your eyes meet. Loki waiting for a response that he had, in fact, read those apparently hard to make out letter and numbers right.
You, on the other hand, blink at him in confusion. Up to this point, your only interaction with apprehended Variants had been escorting them before Judge Ravonna for sentencing. They were often too irate or shell-shocked by everything going on around them, you had never once considered holding a conversation with one before.
Perhaps he would lose interest if you said nothing--
“Do all of you wear code names on your uniform?” He spins his chair to face you, having decided to take it upon himself to keep things going despite your silence. One brow arched in a judgmental fashion toward the small bit of plastic he seemed to find so offensive all of sudden.
...why was he being so talkative all of sudden?
With Agent Mobius he had been nothing but sarcastic. Answering in circles, or straight up refusing to cooperate. Yet now of all times, he felt like talking to someone?
“Quiet, Variant.” You put on your best ‘serious Hunter mode’ voice and straighten your poster a little. All in an attempt to show that you were more in command of the situation than you actually felt.
“Loki.” He corrects, not the least bit intimidated by your efforts. In fact, he seemed to almost be laughing at you behind that sly smirk of his. Placing both elbows to rest on the table, Loki leans a little closer in your direction. Wavy locks of a dark hair framing his handsome face so perfectly, you can’t help but stare for a moment before he speaks again. “Which is it, then? A call sign? Company regulated nickname?”
He must be bored.
Stuck in room, bombarded by question after question, he was looking for some kind of distraction. And, seeing as how you were the only other sentient being in the room at current, you would have to do.
“...That is my name. D-4-7.” You take time to pronounce each part loud and clear, leaving no room for a misunderstanding of any kind.
And judging by the sudden dour expression Loki now sported, it wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “You can’t be serious?” He pauses, waits for you to say...something. But when it becomes glaring obvious by your prolonged silence that it was, in fact, 100% your name, he looks offended. “So you’re telling me, while he gets to be called Mobius,” he nods to the empty chair on his left, “all you get is a name and number? Not very creative, is it?”
“It’s enough.” Enough to separate you from the 46 other members in your rank that came before you, and the dozen more that came after. So what if it liked the flair of your superior’s own moniker? It served its purpose, and that’s all that matter.
Loki, however, just couldn’t seem to let it go.
You can see the gears in his head turning. His eye lighting up in such a way you would have thought it beautiful, were it not for the anxious pit now forming in your stomach.
“I suppose I’ll just have to come up with one for you then.”
“What? Why?”
“Maybe I’m just feeling generous?” He doesn’t elaborate, just smiles in such a way, it leaves you with far more questions than answers.
Missing You - Part Five - James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
“Sorry for the trouble, Bucky.” You call out, stepping from the elevator a half-step behind him. A medium-sized tote bag that held all your various snack items slung over his left shoulder. The morning you were set to leave the medical bay, he appeared at your door. Bright and early, eager to help despite your insistence that you would be fine on your own.
“No worries, Doll. This is nothing.” He adjusts the slipping tote strap while flashing you a charming lopsided grin at the same time. Rather than walk on ahead as you assume he might, Bucky remains at your side. The light press of his hand on your back urging you forward.
Passing one unmarked door after another, you follow his lead. The conversation shared between you and him nothing more than simple small talk. Mentions of the weather draw your attention toward the floor-to-ceiling windows on your right. The picturesque vision of upstate New York in all its autumnal splendor giving you pause.
Beautiful is the first thought to come to mind. Rolling hills and dense forest as far as the eye could see—a welcome change from busy city skyline. You linger for a time, trying to place the odd rush of nostalgia that comes over you, when the gentle call of your name pulls your attention to Bucky once more.
He stands only a few short feet away; in front of a door toward the end of the hall. By the time you manage to hobble your way over, he's already punched in the code for the electronic deadbolt. A soft melodic chime resounds, followed by the solid thunk of the turning lock. With one hand he pushes the door wide open and holds it there as he steps aside, allowing you to enter first.
A rather spacious room greets you on the other side, the walls painted in a muted tone of your favorite color. "This is...mine?"
"Yeah, it is." He lingers at the entryway for a minute. Observing from a far as you move about the room, eyeing books and posters with some level of uncertainty. As you busy yourself with the collection of books piled up by your beside, he takes a step forward. "Nat's in the room next to this one. So if you need anything..."
Hardcover novel in hand, you simple stare at the unfamiliar title. "And you?" Fingers running across the gold foil lettering used for the author's name, you look up at your guide. "Where would I be able to find you?"
He takes a moment to set the tote bag containing your most coveted snacks on the desk. "I'm at the other end of the hall. Last door, can't miss it."
Right next to Steve's room, you think and are immediately taken aback. As far as you knew, this was your first time setting foot into the new Avenger's Compound. You didn't have the time to acquaint yourself with the building's full layout, let alone what room the others were assigned to. So then how..?
"You should get some rest, Doll. It's been a long morning." His voice cuts your train of thought, and you find that at some point Bucky has moved for the door. "I'll swing by to check up on you later."
You nod, setting the book back on the shelf where you found it. Sending him off with a wave and the best smile you could manage, you watch him go. The door swings shut behind him, lock clicking into place seconds latter.
Alone, you turn to the spacious room before you. Everything very much how you remember it; minus one or two items. There were books on your shelf you couldn’t quite place, and a jacket you don’t remember owning draped across the back of a chair. Worn brown leather, with a hint of musk. Was it Steve’s?
Setting the garment aside, the row of photos taped along the vanity catch your attention. There was no rhyme or reason for their order from what you could tell; just a handful of favorites you felt like displaying. Like the photo taken of you and your mother a day before the big move. She had been so afraid of you living by yourself in a bustling city like New York, yet she still made a point to support your future endeavors every step of the way.
For you, it had been two years since that teary final parting at the airport, but in reality it was much longer than that. The accident, according to Dr. Belos’ explanation, had taken two years from your memory. Meaning a whopping total of four years had passed since your departure from home. You would have to make it a point to visit again, soon as things settled down over here that is.
Moving along from the pictures of family and old friends, a series of landscape shots make up some of the other snapshots that had been posted up. Places like Times Square and Manhattan Island. Within a week of landing, you made it a point to see as many tourist destinations as you could. A whirlwind, sightseeing tour that ended with a picture right across the street from your new place of employment: Stark Tower.
A more candid shot of you and Natasha hangs beside it. The latter frowning as she looks into the lens of the camera, but not resisting in the slightest to your arm draped around her shoulder. It had taken a lot of begging and bribery of fresh baked cookies to get her to sit with you. As a result, it was the only picture you had of the two of you together.
Birthday cards and faded notes follow, each one signed with a name you recall with fondness. Yet the one that truly brings a smile to your face is a card covered in far too much purple glitter. You reach for it, recalling that it had been an attempted glitter bomb prank by Clint that had taken an unexpected turn for the worse. Sure it had gone off like he planned, but the volume of the contents he poured in had been slightly off. Months later, and you were still finding pockets of glitter on your belongings.
“That Clint.” You chuckle, flipping open the purple sparkling card with one hand. What greets isn’t the messy scrawled words of ‘happy birthday’ you had been expecting, but a picture.
A picture of Bucky Barnes. Sound asleep on what appeared to be the very couch only a few feet away from where you stand.
Confusion rushes in. Had you taken this yourself? How? When?
You try searching for an answer, an explanation, but the sudden throbbing of your temple doesn’t allow for much progress. After a few short seconds of struggling and failing to find a reason behind the pictures existence, you set both items aside on the vanity. The constant pounding in your head forcing you to let it go.
It was probably something Steve snapped, you reason, recalling how it was once your job acclimating him to all the new tech and gadgets of the twenty-first century. But even if that was the case and it had been one of his test shots? That didn’t answer the nagging question of what it was doing here, mixed in with your belongings. Tucked away some place safe, like a prized possession.
For now, you focus on dealing with the repercussions that came from pushing yourself too hard, too soon. But as you sit at the foot of your bed, rummaging through your belongings for prescribed medication, you can’t help the deep-rooted ache that you had forgotten something.
One after another they drop like flies. Psychos and Tinks alike, mowed down by an endless barrage of bullets and grenades. Their strategy of attacking en masse never failing them—until today.
It was a straight up massacre. But Troy Calypso didn’t care.
“She’s beautiful.” He thinks out loud, gaze never once straying from the one responsible: a lone Vault Thief. Out to sabotage their plans of Godhood, no doubt. Yet rather than think of a way to stop her, he stares on in slack-jawed awe.
Much to his sister’s slight annoyance.
“….She's covered in blood and gore, Troy.” Tyreen scoffs, side-stepping a bloody stump of something sent hurling in her direction. She'd already gone through two pair of boots this week alone; the last thing she wanted was to ruin her coat too.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Not about to let the mood of his twin ruin the moment, he separates from his place at her side.
By now, things were starting to wind down. The handful of devout followers they had brought with reduced to a lone psycho.
Troy spots her crouched low behind a concrete barrier. The hulking frame of a rocket launcher resting comfortable on her shoulder as she takes aim. Before the psycho can even finish his nonsensical battle cry, he's gone. Reduced into a pile of radiated sludge and smoke with a simple pull of a trigger.
“Not bad.” He calls out, drawing her attention right to him. Her shocked expression as he starts his approach bringing a smile to this face.
‘Love at first sight’ was the stuff of trashy daytime Echnoet dramas. Mushy hoo-ha he could care less about on any given day.
And yet here, face-to-face with perfection, a part of him was starting to believe it might be possible.
“I like your style, Vault Thief.” His looming over her now, surprised that not once did she think to pop him in the kneecap on the way over. She simple stared at him in captivated silence; just as he had moments before. “Why waste your time runnin' with those has-been Crimson Raiders when you could be with a bona fide God King?"
“I don’t trust you.” Four simple words; unprompted, but not a lie. Those were the sort of things best left to the man now looking upon you in mild irritation. The infamous Prince of Lies-Loki Laufeyson.
He appeared as if from thin air, stealing you from the gardens long before the guards ever noticed.
There was no explanation, no sort of apology for the boldness of his actions. Only a curt reply that it was imperative you leave with him right this very second.
You refuse. Partly out of loyalty to your Master, but more so out of fear. Should He ever catch wind what he had done (and He would), the consequences would be severe.
But Loki doesn't listen. He leads on, never once looking back or stopping.
“You don’t have to trust me,” he huffs, pulling you along behind him. “Trust my self-interest.”
“What do you mean?” Where he moved in long, purposeful strides, you follow with uncertainty. Anxiety swelling as he leads you to an inconspicuous hole in the wall. There is no time ponder how a clear breach of security came to be as he guides you through the opening.
Here in the forest beyond the mansion's walls the trees grow free; untamed. The canopy so thick overhead that only the faintest hints of sunlight are able to pass through.
An unnatural silence fills the space. No bird calls; no hint of wildlife rustling about the underbrush. The hurried footfalls of yourself and your captor of a prince are the only sounds heard for miles around. And despite the weather being warm and sunny, there's biting chill to the wind.
The kind that leaves you rosy-cheeked and shuddering. And for too distracted in trying to keep warm to notice that the man in front of you has come to complete stop. Not until you end up running straight into his back, that is.
He spares a momentary glance in your direction, a brow raised in quiet curiosity. You start to apologize, but he's already moving on; the warmth of his hand leaving your wrist. “I’m not going to turn on you because I want to live, and you’re my best chance at that.”
The snapping of twigs and dead leaves breaks your concentration. His rather cryptic response to your earlier inquiry not at all what you expected.
“I know you can’t trust me as a person-and with all the bad things I’ve done, I don’t expect you to-but you can count on my selfishness.” Loki continues, though not once does he look at you. Instead his attention seems focused on the hollow log blocking the path forward.
Double his size and twice the weight, it had fallen at an angle; catching on the craggy terrain. He looks it over from top to bottom, as if intending to move it on his own. There's no way he can lift that, you think.
But he does. With a single push of his hand the stump slips free, hitting the damp forest floor with a mighty thud.
"...I guess that makes sense?" You mutter as an afterthought response to his reasoning from before. Sure there were still a lot of questions you wanted to ask (like why me? for starters), but hold off for now. Anything was better than facing the potential wrath of your Master.
Something grabs onto your wrist, and you startle to realize that Loki is now standing beside you. He takes a step toward the yawning mouth of a darkened cave his log-pushing antics had revealed. The light tug on your arm a silent command to follow, but you hesitate.
"Where are we going?"
He hesitates to give you an answer. Yet when it becomes obvious you have no intention of moving without one, only then does he yield.
Missing You - Part Four - James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Five
In the days that follow, your room in the Avenger Compound medical bay is a buzz with constant activity. Someone was always stopping by throughout the day, regardless of the hour.
Clint and Natasha were among the most frequent. Sometimes as a pair, often times on their own. For thirty minutes you would sit and talk, discussing anything and everything. From 'past' missions you took part in (the title of 'field agent' still seemed like a foreign concept in your head). To the more mundane every day things, like how the quaint little coffee shop you loved so much moved out of town.
Tony stops in whenever he can; two days a week at most, three if he didn't mind cutting things close schedule-wise. Which seem to happen quite often, much to Happy's dismay. Never one to visit empty-handed, he became your second provider of unhealthy snacks (the place of first going to Nat). Your conversations are casual for the most part. Trips down memory lane, with the occasional project update thrown in here and there.
On the weekends Steve would stop by after his morning workout routine. Some kind of health drink for himself in one hand, a packed light breakfast for you in the other. Most of his visits he did so alone, but one Saturday morning, he stopped in with company. Sam Wilson—you recall hearing about his first meeting with Captain America from Natasha. Learning that they not only ran together on occasion, but that he was now part of the Avengers brought levity to your situation. There was so much you had forgotten...
The most infrequent visitor of the bunch was Mystery Man. Who, as you learned after questioning Steve about him during one of his visits, went by the name Bucky. You could count on one hand the number of times he visited during your recovery period. His late-night arrivals announced by two light knocks.
He stays a few minutes at a time, sipping coffee, answering whatever questions you may shoot his way.
All save one:
"What happened to me?"
Now he's staring at the empty takeaway cup in his hand like it's the most interesting thing in the world. The atmosphere of the room shifting from light-hearted to serious in the blink of an eye.
You note the hesitation in his gaze, how he chews at the bottom corner of his lips. Silent gears turning away in his head as he contemplates an answer, but it never comes. He's already moving on, acting as if the question never came up in the first place.
And he's not the only one.
The others would do the same when asked. Pausing mid-sentence for a beat, and then it's over. They continue on, steering the conversation toward much lighter topics like the weather.
"An accident" is the closet thing you get to an actual answer from Tony after bit of puppy dog eyes coercion. He does so with reluctance, and by the time you think to push him for more, he's already halfway out the door. The insistent ringing of his phone calling him to parts unknown.
"Don't worry about, kid." He calls back on his way out, ignoring what had to be the tenth text from Happy in a row. "Focus on getting better. The sooner I can get my favorite assistant back in the labs, the better."
With nothing else to go on, it wasn't much. But something was always better than nothing. At least now you finally had a starting point to work with.
"Tell me about the accident."
"Have to admit, this isn't the direction I expected this visit to start on." Caught off guard by your rather blunt demand, Natasha takes a moment to settle in. She stopped in an hour earlier than usual, bearing the usual gift of salted baked potato chips you loved so much. "I see you got someone to spill the beans. Steve?"
"Tony." You wait until she is at least seated before reaching for the bag of crunchy, savory delights. With your one good hand you tear it open, tipping it so only a handful of chips come tumbling out. "Come on, Nat. You know I'm gonna find out about it one way or another. So tell me."
In the same silence as all the times before, you wait. Too nervous to partake of the snacks you had been looking forward to only seconds before. Would she finally give you the answers you had been looking for? Or would it be another day spent with more questions and confusion?
And so you watch as Natasha leans forward, plucking a lone chip from the napkin they lay scattered upon. Inspecting it under the light for only a moment before taking a bite.
“About a month ago we received word about confirmed Hydra activity on the western coast.” Pausing to lick the salt from her fingertips, she reaches for another. You take one as well, but hold off on eating it as she continues. “The team sent out to investigate was small. Myself, Stark and Barnes. You were already attending a conference in the area at the time, so we agreed it would be easier to meet us there.”
"Figures I'd be at one of those. Tony rarely liked going to those things unless necessary." Most of the time you went as a tag-along with Pepper, though there were a few small events that you attended alone. This time around seemed to be the latter. "And, so?"
"We went in. Took care of the stragglers that got left behind, then got to work cleaning up." She tries to play it off, shrugging her shoulders, finishing off her snack in tiny nibbles. Yet deep down, you could see something was getting to her. On the outside she was as calm as ever, but on the inside...
"...something happened, didn't it?" You cut in when Natasha goes quiet. The pillow at your back shifting to the side as you sit up, gaze locked in her direction.
All she does is look at you in return. At the splint holding your broken wrist in place, at the scars which would never quite heal over. You're trying to understand. Trying to put the missing pieces of these past two years together in your head. But she can see it in your eyes; the confusion, the fear.
And she hates it.
Brrr. Brrr. Brr. The frantic buzz of a silenced phone pulls Natasha back into the present. She reaches for the device in her pocket, tapping the screen to life with her index finger.
"Nat?" You call out to her between chews, having finally worked up a bit of an appetite. Her ever deepening frown signifying that what she was looking at, it wasn't good.
She swipes up, phone going dark as she polishes off a second chip in a single bite. "Fury. Says he needs me to come in and look at something."
"Duty calls." You think out loud, disappointed that such an important moment was now ruined. You hope that Natasha would continue on regardless, but she's putting on her jacket.
"You should get some rest." Rising from her seat, she offers you an apologetic smile. "We can pick this up again next time, okay?"
"Yeah, sure. Next time." You do your best to see her off with a smile, to ease that worried expression on her face.
You part ways with a wave, chuckling as she lifts one last crisp for the road. Then she's off, slipping out into the hallway and out of sight. Leaving you once more alone with your thoughts.
Hydra. The second Natasha mentioned their name, something inside you reacted. A flicker of recognition that had lasted no longer than a second.
The distorted memory of an overgrown woodland, the weight of mud clinging to the heel of your shoes as you walk.
And a voice—deep, familiar, calling to you from a distance.
Missing You - Part Three - James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader
Part One | Part Two | Part Four | Part Five
He knew. The moment he looked into their eyes, Bucky knew something was wrong. Not because of the way they pulled back that first time, but in the visit that followed, not once had they said his name. And now finds himself here, one of a small handful called to the compound's conference room. A scant twelve hours after his entire world fell to pieces after four. simple. words.
"I’m sorry. I...don’t."
Retrograde amnesia. He repeats those words. Once, to make certain he heard the doctor right. Then for a second time, because there was no way this could be happening for real. But the more he thought about it, the more it all made sense. The wide-eyed stare of confusion, the hesitation for contact, everything. Uncomfortable, he shifts in his chair, a heavy knot of anxious nerves coiling tight in the pit of his stomach.
Tony is the first to break free from the shock. His favorite pair of designer sunglasses tossed onto the table in frustration. He leaned back in his seat, eyes closed and furrowed brow as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re sure about this, doc? One-hundred percent?”
“Positive,” Dr. Belo nods, turning to the flat screen monitors mounted on the wall behind her. In the hours that followed she flitted about the compound busy as a bee. Ordering everything from blood tests to an MRI scan. The results of which she put on display for all to see. “As for how long it’ll last? I can’t say. Some patients recover in a few days, others take years. There is also a possibility that those memories could never come back.”
Natasha sits to Bucky's right, stoic expression, posture straight. She is the calmest out of everyone in the room following the doctor's blunt statement. Unwavering. Yet from here, he can see it. The subtle tremble in her fingers, reflective of the same fear lodge deep within his own chest.
At the end of the conference table, positioned opposite of the good doctor, Steve shifts forward. Where the others had questioned, seeking answers to their how's and why's, he chose to listen. Piecing together every bit of information she had to give. “Is there anything we can do for them? Anything that might improve their chance of recovery?”
“Aside from prescribed medications and therapy?” Remote in one hand, tablet in the other, Dr. Belo shuts off the wall of monitors behind her with the push of a button. Attention focused on the man seated across of her, she replies, "Talk to them. Reminding them of things they may have forgotten should help to 'jog' things along."
While Steve thinks over the best course of action to follow her advice, Tony resumes the lead. Rising to his feet, he approaches the doctor when she starts to make her way to the door. One hand hovering at her back as a guide, the other pushing the heavy glass door open. "Thanks for your time, doc. We'll call you if anything happens. Pepper has your number?"
"Of course. She'll know how to reach me." Tablet tucked safe under her arm, Dr. Belo takes a half-step out of the room but hesitates. She turns, gaze sympathetic toward those still seated around the table. "I know it won't be easy for any of you at first, but please. Try to have some patience with them."
She doesn't think to receive any sort of reply. Not after the troubling forty-five minutes spent together, but they do. A faint 'thank you' here, a 'goodbye' and 'take care' there. Only one member with brunette hair and a prosthetic arm chose to remain silent, too lost in his own thoughts.
Nothing more left to say, Dr. Belo bids the group one last farewell, then continues on her way out.
It isn't until the door slides back in to place that Tony returns to his seat. Days worth of fatigue catching up to him in that moment, and expressing itself in a long, weary sigh. “We never should have gotten them involved.”
“You know how stubborn they can be sometimes." From his side of the room, Steve chimes in, mouth curved down into a rather prominent frown. It had been there since the moment he entered the room and saw those charts on display. He might not have understood them, but deep down he knew whatever they had to prove couldn't be good.
And he was right.
"They never would have listened." Throwing in her own two cents to the conversation was Natasha. Gaze fixated on the intricate wood-grain pattern of the conference table. After several pregnant seconds of silence she looks away, eyeing first Tony, then Steve. "They would have fought us tooth and nail if we told them to stay behind."
"I blame you for that particular trait of theirs, by the way." An accusatory finger pointed in her direction, Tony eyes the fiery redhead. It had taken her only days to win over Stark Industries newest intern. Two years later and to his utter dismay, they were near inseparable.
A touch of playful banter ensues, a momentary distraction for both Natasha and Tony of a better time. The weary billionaire lamenting how one of his brightest had turned due to 'bad influence'. At some point Clint joins in, jumping to his partner-in-crime's defense. Reminding the now pouting business man that their becoming a field agent had always been a given.
It was a losing battle, two against one. And for a time, Steve seems content to watch the exchange happen. That is until his attention falls upon his still silent best friend. No matter how hard they kicked themselves mentally for what happened, no one took it quite as hard as Bucky. From the moment they landed in the Quinjet, not once had he left their side. He had been there through the surgeries and days of unchanging sleep. He was there when they woke up, and was the first to realize something wasn't right.
He notes the way the brunette's jaw tenses, swears he can hear the faint grinding of teeth. His concern doubling as the intricate gears of the shiny prosthetic arm whir. That hand gripping so tight at the armrest of his chair, the leather and wood in his palm begin to strain.
Without thinking Steve shifts closer, lips parted to call out to Bucky--
--when the sharp trill of a text message alert shatters the moment. The room falls into a still silence, all eyes turning toward the source.
Phone already in hand, Tony reads over the message. Expression serious, he slips the device away before looking once around the room. “That was the missus, asking for an update. Anyone care to come with to help break the news?”
“You’re on your own, bud.” Meeting drawing to a close, Clint rises from his seat and turns for the door. He pauses on the way, patting Tony once on his shoulder for encouragement. Behind him, Natasha follows suit, nodding once in silent parting.
"Cap?" Turning away from the leaving duo, he sets a hopeful gaze on the still seated Captain. A firm shake of the head is all it takes to dash any prospect for company, so he too pushes up from his chair with a sigh. Maybe F.R.I.D.A.Y. could help break the news to a no doubt anxious Pepper Pots...
The departures of the others unnoticed, Bucky spends some time in contemplative silence. Should he head up to see them? Would that even be a good idea? They already admitted to not knowing him, he didn't want to make things awkward. But then Dr. Belo did say talking to them should help.
By the time he decides that yes, he will go see them one more time, the gentle hand gripping his upper arm stops him.
Steve.
“Buck. You okay?”
He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t even look at his friend holding him in place. A part of him wants to lie, to spare the man reason for concern. But he knows Steve. He knows that he'll never let go when every fiber of his being screams that no, he is not okay. So after a few tense seconds, he surrenders.
“It’s my fault,” what little bit of courage he managed to build leaves in an instance. Consumed with guilt anew Bucky drops back into his seat, shoulders slumped, head down. "I did this to them, Stevie."
“Come on Buck, we’ve been through this.” The only two left in the conference room, Steve moves to close the gap between them. Worry etched plan as day on his chiseled features. “What happened out there wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“But it was. If I hadn’t been so distracted I could’ve...I could've...” He trails off, pulled back to that terrible day. Smoked filled the air, the remains of what had once been a Hydra lab all around him. Their assault had been precise, well-executed. The agents subdued and awaiting processing. Except for one; a lone gunman that had somehow managed to slip past them. He couldn't let them go, not after all they had done. But if he hadn’t been so hellbent on stopping him, if he had only heard that shout of warning in time, then--
“Buck? Bucky?”
He blinks. Once. Twice. As much as it takes to clear the cobwebs from his mind. He refocuses, locking onto a desperate gaze of deep blue and a longtime friend clutching at his arm.
A sigh slips past Bucky's lips, his body leaning back into his chair. He doesn't say anything for a long time. Only sits there, rubbing his face with his good hand as he thinks. The knowledge that someone so close to him had gotten hurt because of his own mistake eating away at him. “What if they never remember me, Stevie. What am I supposed to do?”
Hand moving from the upper arm to his shoulder, Steve gives it a light squeeze in reassurance. “We’ll figure this out, buddy. Don't worry.”
Missing You - Part Two - James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader
Part One | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
As promised Mystery Man returns the following morning, looking just as haggard as when he left. Clad in a dark blue hoodie and a simple pair of dark denim jeans, he greets you with a lopsided grin. He’s lost the hairband during his absence, those enviable brunette locks taunting you in both length and visible softness. What you wouldn’t give just to run your fingers through them once...
“Hey, Doll.” Hesitation resonates in his voice, uncertainty reflected in those clear blue eyes as they roam your face. Searching them for...something.
Acceptance, you think, recalling the awkward note the two of you had parted on just a few hours ago. With a wave of a hand you beckon him closer, returning his greeting with one of your own. And though your smile is clumsy, Mystery Man doesn’t seem to care. His entire being takes on a more relaxed stance. The once nervous expression slipping into something more pleasant as he enters the room.
And as it turns out, he didn’t come here alone. Trailing after him is a doctor—Dr. Mary Belo, according to the ID clipped to the lapels of her coat. You didn’t see her at first, the poor thing eclipsed by the towering stature of the man who entered first.
“How are you feeling today?” While Mystery Man reclaims the bedside chair for himself, the doctor remains standing. Her attention divided between double-checking the work of the nurse who had woken you that morning to do a basic check-up and the tablet balanced precariously on her left arm.
“A little bit sore, but otherwise fine.” Whether it was due to the medication or your own body finally overcoming the trauma it had gone through, the once constant ache in your neck had passed some time ago. Leaving you with just the pain of your broken right arm and bruised side to contend with.
Dr. Belo taps away at the screen of her device, nodding along at your response. She takes a moment, noting down a few more readings, before focusing all of her attention on you. Brown eyes full of warmth, the comforting touch of her hand resting upon your shoulder. “If you feel up to it, I’d like to run a few tests. Just to make sure we don’t overlook anything.”
“As long as it’s nothing too strenuous, I’m all yours.” The sooner you can get out of here and back to your every day life, the better. Sitting around doing nothing for hours on end could be entertaining for only so long.
The ‘test’, it turns out, are nothing more than a series of almost random questions. From simple everyday things (‘what’s one plus one?’, ‘can you recite the alphabet?’, ‘what city are we in?’), to your name and date of birth. You think it somewhat odd, but answer them regardless. Noting that on occasion, when it came to the more personal inquiries, Dr. Belo would glance over at Mystery Man. Who for the most part sits there at your side, quiet but attentive. A slight nod of his head would often follow your responses, to which the doctor would look down and check something off on her tablet.
“So far, so good.” Seated on a mobile stool she had pulled over from the other side of the room, Dr. Belo rests the tablet face up in her lap. Displaying what you assumed was a detailed chart of all the information she had compiled of you thus far. “I just have one more question ask: What year it is?”
“The year?”
“Yes. Can you do that for me?”
“It’s 2015.” To your left, Mystery Man goes tense. It was a subtle motion—a slight tick of his jaw, the straightening of his shoulders. Facing you with a wide-eyed stare of shock for just a moment before looking away. Had you said something wrong? Even the doctor who had been all smiles and praise up until now seemed to take on a more serious expression.
“What’s the last thing that you remember?” The way she looked at you when she spoke, concern and worry reflected in equal parts, you were certain that hadn’t been the answer Dr. Belo had wanted. So you sit there, anxious, trying to recall everything you did the day before.
“I remember being in my apartment? I was getting ready for bed, texting Nat when—oh god Nat!” Realization strikes quick like lightning, and you’re fighting to sit up. It looks more like wild flailing, given your injured arm and bandaged side, yet no one could say you didn’t try. Worried for your safety and well-being, Mystery Man leans in. A large, strong hand resting light on your good shoulder. “I was supposed to meet her today! Does she know I’m here?”
“Calm down, it’s all right.” Dr. Belo replies, voice steady and soothing. At some point she moved in as well, leaning against the railing of your bed. Ready to hold you down as well if the need arose. “We...informed Miss Romanoff of your condition upon arrival. Would you like us to call her in?”
“—no. No, that’s all right.” As much as seeing her would have made you feel better, the thought of interrupting her already busy schedule was the last thing you wanted. Easing back against the pillows, you were already thinking about how to make it up to Nat. A simple ‘I’m so sorry’ text probably wouldn’t cut it. Maybe you could bribe her forgiveness with a batch of those cookies she liked so much...
Assured that you were no longer a danger to yourself Dr. Belo sits back down, reaching for the tablet she had set down nearby. Typing away at the screen, her attention shifts between you and the device. “What about how you got here? Do you remember what happened?”
“...All I remember is going to sleep and when I woke up, I was already here.” Panic comes creeping in, clawing at the back of your mind. Leaving you dizzy against the starting signs of what was sure to be one monster-sized headache by the end of day. Desperate to recall something—anything—about what could have brought you here, you miss Dr. Belo excusing herself from the room.
The cool touch of metal fingers under your chin is what pulls you back to the present. And the discovery that only yourself and Mystery Man now occupy the room. He guides you to look at him, brows furrowed together in deep concern as he holds your gaze.
“Do you remember me, at least?”
What follows is an uncomfortable silence that stretches for a near eternity. Tensions so high, you could almost feel yourself drowning in it. He waits patiently for an answer, hoping against all odds that his instincts were wrong. Yet when you look at him, eyes devoid of any sort of recognition, he already knows what you’re going to say.
“I’m sorry. I...don’t.”
And in that moment, Bucky’s entire world goes cold.
Missing You - Part One - James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader
Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
The pain is what does it. A persistent dull ache at the base of your neck, begging for relief. It rouses you from a once dreamless slumber. Forcing you into a world of starch white sheets and antiseptic scented air. To your left, the steady beats of a nearby heart monitor drones on—assuring that without a doubt, you are very much still alive.
Flowers of varying shapes and sizes spill from a much too small vase at your bedside. The accompanying off-white card tucked between a pair of vibrant yellow sunflowers. ‘Get well soon’ reads the message scrawled in near perfect calligraphy. A rather generic note, but that’s not what catches your eye. It is the name signed beneath it that has you staring, almost in disbelief.
Tony.
There was only one Tony in your small circle of acquaintances that came to mind. Why would he of all people be sending you flowers? Sure you talked on occasion, exchanging and comparing scientific findings whenever possible. And while such instances were pleasant, you didn’t think they were enough to justify a bouquet of all things.
Attempting to sit upright brings a new rush of sensation. Sharp, unrelenting, and concentrated along the entire right side of your body. Fractured ribs and a broken wrist from the feel of it. What on earth happened to you? The last thing you remember was Natasha texting you before bed, adamant that you keep your promise to meet her for coffee the following morning. But that couldn’t be right.
Something felt...off. Out of place.
Like you had forgotten something very important.
That’s when you notice it. The firm touch of someone holding your left hand.
Despite the pouring outcry of your battered body, you move. Pushing past the throbbing pain to turn onto your good, less sore side. Curiosity trumping comfort as you come face to face with this mysterious stranger. And oh, what surprise it was!
Slumped over the edge of your bed, was a man. A very handsome, very muscular man snoring at such a noticeable level, it was a wonder how you missed it in the first place. From the state of his wrinkled shirt and unkempt beard, you could only assume that he had been here for quite sometime. A few days, maybe longer, going by the many empty takeaway cups stuffed into the small trash bin by the door.
Trying to place a name to this dark-haired stranger proved a much harder task than you realized. He had too strong a jawline to be Tony. And those soft brunette locks pulled into a loose ponytail made him a terrible match for Clint or Steve. There was Bruce, but the man was so timid around others, you doubted he would have a sudden change of heart and stay at your side all through the night.
No, this was someone else.
But who?
“--hey.” A voice—his voice—cuts through the silence. He’s awake, pinning you with a gaze so full of tender emotion, your heart skips a beat. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine! I’m fine!” Compared to his gentle tone, yours is of a more panicked state. Like you had been caught red-handed with your hand in the cookie jar. “I mean, other than being a little sore? It’s not too bad.”
A million thoughts run through your mind at once: Did you know him? From where? Since when? For how long? You’re certain you’d never forget an encounter with someone as easy on the eyes like good ‘ol Mystery Man.
It should be a crime to be that good looking. What with those kissable lips and striking blue eyes. Gosh, you could stare into them forever if he let you. And talk about those broad shoulders--
“--you in there?”
Crap, he was talking to you again. “Sorry?”
“I was saying, I thought about bringing you flowers, but looks like Stark’s got that department covered.” Ah, so Mystery Man was an acquaintance of Tony’s as well? That was something at least. Perhaps he worked in a different department than you. That’s why you don’t remember seeing him around. ‘Course that didn’t explain why he’d spent the night here. Holding your hand.
For now you turn to the colorful arrangement in question.
“Yeah. That was pretty thoughtful of him.” A little odd given you had just met him a few months ago, but maybe that’s just how he did things. Beneath those built up lairs of billionaire showiness, there beat the heart of man who genuinely cared about his fellow man.
The mattress dips beneath Mystery Man’s shifting weight as he leans back. The blanket once draped over his left side slipping away to the floor. You think to ask him what brought you here, where the others were, when the glint of something shiny grabs your intention instead.
His arm. It was made of metal!
“Doll? You alright?” You almost don’t hear Mystery Man over the buzz of your own thoughts. The sight of his prosthetic sparking something within you. The odd sensation that you were forgetting something very, very important resurfacing for just a moment. It’s lost just as quick as it came, and when you do eventually turn to face him, worry is painted clear across his handsome face. “Should I call someone?”
“No!” When he reaches out his hand, you pull away. Not from free, but confusion. Nothing was lining up. Nothing was making sense. You didn’t know this man. And yet seeing that hurt look in his eyes at how you rejected him, it felt as if your own heart was breaking instead. “N-no, that’s alright. I’m just feeling a little tired.”
An awkward silence fills the room. Neither of you quite certain what to do or what to say. After what felt like a near eternity, Mystery Man is the one to break the tension. The wooden legs of his chair scrapping against the immaculate tiled floor as he moves to stand. “I guess it is pretty late. Try to get some rest, and I’ll come by to see you tomorrow, okay?”
“O-okay.” A part of you is thankful that he decides to take you at your word. You weren’t the best liar under pressure. The fact you could even say that line about being tired without breaking was a miracle. You watch him go, waving with your one good hand when he briefly turns to look at you. There was doubt that lingering in his gaze, but he doesn’t push it.
He heads out the door, slipping around the corner and out of view.
“It was a two day trip. One night apart, that’s it.”
Another would have taken the answer as is, but not Loki. One look and he already knows what you’re thinking. Eyes so blue it could put the very sky itself to shame boring deep into your soul as he takes a step closer.
“That’s not what I asked, my heart.” Arm slipping naturally around your waist he pulls you in, gaze unwavering from your own as he smiles. That trademark half-smirk that never failed to send your heart a flutter. “Did you miss me?”
Deep breathe.
“More than I’m proud to admit.” Lying would get you nowhere while in his presence. No matter how much of a pro you considered yourself to be, he always saw through it in an instance. You speak the truth, determined to fight back the burning heat of your cheeks for as long as possible.
He can’t help but chuckle at your faltering efforts to stay so well-composed before him.
“Then I suppose we have a lot of catching up to do.”
