How Many Times... @rhiisawitch - Tumblr Blog

Delicate Edges (10)

series summary: Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, it is only in moments when Bucky walks into your flower shop that you forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (Biker!AU) pairing: Bucky x reader chapter word count: 10.1k chapter warnings: big angst, physical assault, canon level violence, this is a doozy guys hold on tight

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A week had passed by since the Hydra club came to collect their dues and you still had yet to reopen your shop. You couldn’t stomach the idea of crossing the threshold into the west, of facing Ms. Leary and her stories of her sweet ailing husband at St. John’s or the kind man from the Italian bakery. There was no pretending like you didn’t carry the threat of war over your head; surrounded by the empty shelves, fumbling through shaking hands, unable to push aside the fear that the Hydra club could storm in at any moment and rip it to shreds.

Rumlow had bought Bucky’s act that night, but for how long? How long could the two of you keep up this rouse that you were nothing more to Bucky than a means for easy release? It was all that Rumlow would accept as long as you continued to make your payments. Anything more and he’d exploit the knowledge of what Bucky might do to protect you until it ruined the 107 and the entirety of the east.

It was one thing for Bucky to use you for selfish, uncaring gain; another to actually love the woman Rumlow held claim over with a ball and chain.

Wait—

Not love.

Bucky didn’t—

Well, you were almost sure he couldn’t possibly—

“Doll?”

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts as you looked up to find Bucky watching you with a worry line painted over his brow. He still had traces of flour on his cheek from the pancakes sitting under warm towels in the kitchen, batter on his fingertips. An apron laid over his bare chest, exposing the sleeve of tattoos running down his left arm. He sank onto the couch beside you and licked his fingers clean of the batter.

“You all right?”

You nodded, tugging at your hands in your lap, though you could not hold his gaze. “Just thinking.”

“Your mind still on the Hydra club?” Bucky asked slowly, a wash of guilt laced into his tone. It chipped at the crack settling down the center of your heart.

Still, you met the calming waves of ocean blue in his eyes and sighed, “how did you know?”

Bucky pressed out a smile, though it formed a thin line over his lips, barely touching the crescent fall of shimmering currents in his gaze. He covered your hands with his own, easing the restlessness inside his firm grip.

“Your hands,” he explained slowly, giving gentle strokes along the insides of your wrists. Compression subduing the tremors. “They start shaking when you’re frightened.”

When had he become so attuned to you that he could notice such things? You stared at him, a little wide eyed as he kept his focus on your hands. He brought your fingertips to his lips, kissing your knuckles before he released you. When they settled back in your own lap, you realized they were steady again.

“What am I going to do, Bucky?” you whispered, weight hanging on the end of every word. “We can’t keep this up forever and Rumlow—he'll find out who you really are if you show your hand to him... if he knows that we’re... that I... that you and I are... that we...” You cleared your throat awkwardly. “The border could be in danger again. He could retaliate against you for your involvement with me.”

“Let him,” Bucky shrugged and your gaze shot to his, stunned. He sighed, brushing his hands through his hair and littering remnants of white flour into his brunette strands. “The night Rumlow came for his money was one of the worst thing I’ve had to do since I started this charade. The things I said about you...”

“I know it wasn’t really you,” you tried, but even you remembered that glimpse of doubt you felt when the two of you were alone again, the need to see the Bucky you knew behind the mask to replace the terrible swell of panic stirring inside you. He blended in so easily amongst the Hydra men, his ability to slip into a whole new personality so seamlessly it had frightened you.

But you’d also seen the devastation flash over his features when you asked him to remind you who he really was – the guilt and shame that had broken him so terribly you knew him again within an instant.

“I still said them and I’ve... I’ve done much worse. Things that would make you ashamed of me,” Bucky admitted softly; his voice flat, aching. You parted your lips to argue but a subtle shake of his head quieted your denial.

“I won’t do it again,” Bucky said, determined. “I can’t. We’ll come up with another plan. I’ll-- I’ll talk to the club. Most of us are vets, anyway. It’s not like we’re helpless without the rumors backing us up. But it will... expose my vulnerabilities. The town will know who I am. It will make you a target.”

The way Bucky looked at you then, you understood why he kept this side of him hidden for so long. He was terrified to lose the little he had left, to allow Rumlow and the Hydra club to drag out the carpet from under his feet. This mask was his armor. His protection. And it had served him well enough for a long time but now...

“I’m already a target, Bucky,” you replied, inching closer to him. The length of your thigh brushed his, pressed up against one another. “Whether Rumlow knows about us or not, he’s got it out for me because of the debt. I’m already there, Bucky. Besides, we know Dot could give us up at any second, couldn’t she?”

Bucky nodded tensely. “Still don’t know why she hasn’t. Probably waiting for the right opportunity to twist the knife in.”

You thought of Mrs. Marcovaldo’s café sitting across the street from the Centenarian and the tea shop Wanda and Pietro ran only a few short blocks from the border. If Bucky dropped the mask, the Hydra club could swarm the east. The 107 weren’t strong enough to protect the town on their own – they didn’t have the numbers. The lie was the only thing preventing Hydra from taking over the whole town.

“What will happen to the east?”

Bucky pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to carry this town without losing myself and I can’t... I won’t put anything above keeping you safe.”

You leaned your head against Bucky’s shoulder, your arms wrapping around his bicep as you pulled him closer. The tense muscle began to ease under your touch. His lips grazed against your forehead; warm, steady.

“We’ll combine profits from the Centenarian for next month,” Bucky offered gently, “or I’ll find a way to sell my bike. We’ll figure it out, okay? I won’t let anything happen to you. As long as Rumlow gets his money and I’m not a standing threat to the west, he won’t care about us. He won’t have reason to come after you.”

You squeezed at his arm, rubbing your eyes on his sleeve. While his club had divulged into something darker over the years, you knew at its core was the love of the open road and those expensive bikes parked on the street. The fact that he was willing to part with his for you shattered every shred of uncertainty you carried of his feelings for you.

You ached to tell him not to do it – to not even consider selling the bike that started the family he’d build with his own two hands. But you knew how badly you needed the money, knew that if you were short next month, Rumlow wouldn’t care whether Bucky put on an act or not. He'd kill you. Maybe Bucky, too.

“And if that doesn’t work...” Bucky sighed, “we’ll run.”

You lifted your head, lips parted as you stared at him. “You’re serious?”

“You doubt me, doll?” Bucky chuckled, though it was low, almost pained. It was the same thing he’d said to you the morning he wandered in your shop, masquerading around like he was in desperate need of flowers; blush adorned to his cheeks amongst the dark colors of his clothing and the tattoos hidden under his jacket. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“I always liked the thought of driving with nowhere to go,” Bucky shrugged, a dreamy look in his eyes. “We could start over somewhere new. Somewhere Hydra can’t find us.”

You smiled sadly, imagining the wind against your skin as you clung around Bucky’s waist. His back pressed tight to your chest, the smell of leather surrounding you. The purr of an engine you could come to love because it was Bucky’s joy – not a reminder of the men in the west. But your lips curved downward, sinking as the image faded away.

“You wouldn’t abandon your family, Bucky,” you reminded him gently. “The 107 are too important to you. And what will Mrs. Marcovaldo do without you? Who would she force her free coffee onto if not you?”

Bucky let out a pained laugh as you pinched at his side, aching to see him smile again. You didn’t mention how easily Rumlow could swindle her out of her own business in Bucky’s absence. The fierce old woman would sooner give up the café than deal with the shit Hydra put you through over the years. She was stronger than you were.

“And I would never ask you to leave behind the flower shop,” Bucky added somberly. His large hand slid over your knee, squeezing lightly.

You didn’t know how the two of you were going to get through this, but it was a comfort to know that Bucky would be with you. He’d proven himself again and again. Even when you showed threads of doubt, he never once hesitated. He cared for you more than you ever gave him credit for. Perhaps, it was time you started to believe him.

***

The sun was setting over the west. Curled up on the firm wooden booth along the wall of the Centenarian, you watched through the window as the colors swept up into the crystal blue sky. Reds and pinks and oranges dancing amongst one another, coaxing the darkness and the stars hanging overhead from the harsh reflection of daylight.

You thought of your shop and the empty shelves lining the walls. The shattered remains of broken vases and crumbled flowers piled into the dumpster in the alley. Your stomach twisted at the thought, as if you’d left behind a piece of your soul and in your absence, allowed it to starve and wither to nothing.

You ached to return to May Flowers, to feel the sticky sweet comfort of sap on your fingers and the smell of fresh roses in the air. You missed your loyal customers and the ring of the bell over the front door. The smudge of lipstick on Ms. Leary’s cheek when she smiled and the hearty laugh of Mr. Jacobson when he picked up his usual order for his restaurant. The colorful array of flowers surrounding you like a warm, weighted blanket, even on the days you felt like the darkness had swept in and taken a hold of you.

Your father’s watch hung heavy on your wrist. An ease tugged in your chest as you began to trace the links absentmindedly; trailing over decade old scratches on the glass face and the fading golden color on the inside of the wrist. You’d never had the heart to clean it properly. Even if it was scratched and discolored and the gears had stopped turning, it was a living embodiment of your father. The dirt smushed into the creases evidence of his work at the shop and his love of the flowers he left behind for you.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

Peter slid into the opposite side of the booth, his folded arms resting against the table. He followed your gaze to the outline of buildings on the westside just pass the clearing.

“I do,” you said quietly.

“I know it might not mean much, but it’s been nice having you around this last week,” Peter mumbled, fidgeting in his seat. “Things have felt a little lighter, I suppose. Hasn’t been like this since before the 107 got involved with Hydra.”

Your heart sank as you glanced over to the bar where Steve, Sam, and Nat were hunched over the countertop. The three of them were quietly arguing over how to handle the next month’s payment if Bucky wasn’t going to keep up the charade. You hadn’t even opened shop for the first half of the month and no spare change to show for it. Dead weight hanging at their ankles as they desperately swam for the surface.

“Peter, I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” you sighed, guilt swarming in your stomach as if it were made of lead, “but I’m pretty sure I’ve made things a lot more complicated for you guys.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “but that doesn’t mean you’re not worth fighting for.”

Something lurched inside your chest as you looked back at him – hope slipping through the cracks of a paralyzing acceptance you’d already surrendered to. Peter Parker, with his boyish features and a grin sweet enough to melt a heart as stoic as Tony Stark’s. He smiled at you and crawled out from the booth.

“I should head out, boss,” Peter called to Bucky, who had just emerged from the office in the back corner of the bar. “Aunt May’s got lasagna waiting for me.”

Bucky wiped his hands on the towel hanging off his shoulder. “I’m closing up anyway, kid. Sneak me some garlic bread, will you?”

Peter beamed, holding up his thumb before disappearing out the front door.

Bucky wandered over to Steve, Sam, and Natasha. “All right, you three get out of here.”

Immediate argument ensued, voices carrying over one another:

“Give us another hour and we’ll figure this out,” from Natasha, despite the faint look upon her features. You hadn't seen her eat anything in hours for how long she spent at that counter flipping through old files.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” was Sam, a scowl on his face, though he was massaging the nape of his neck, a wince breaking through the bickering layer on his features.

“We should really keep at it, Buck,” came from Steve. He was rubbing at his temples from the headache you’d heard him mumble over hours earlier. They were relentless in their determination to find a way out of your debt to the Hydra club but it was driving them to exhaustion. And Bucky could see it too.

“Go,” Bucky ordered, though his gratitude was evident in the soft influx of his smile. “You’ve done enough tonight, okay? We’ll talk in the morning. You’re no help if you can barely concentrate on what you’re reading. Get out of here. Sleep.”

Natasha’s mouth tugged into a frown, but eventually relented. It was her hand upon Steve’s forearm that got him to slowly peel himself from the counter. He groaned as he straightened his back, a slight limp in his legs as he gathered his footing again.

Sam hung back only a moment longer than the others, narrowing his eyes on Bucky.

“You sure?” he asked, the façade of the relentless teasing slipping.

Bucky nodded. He clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and squeezed the muscle. It was more appreciation that he could offer out loud. You could see the lines on his face, the love between this makeshift family who somehow found the space in their hearts for you too.

Stark and Barton were already home for the evening with their families, so after Steve, Nat, and Sam dragged their feet through the door and the low hum of engines faded faintly into the distance, Bucky finally turned to you. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the jukebox, the rumpled creases of his t-shirt rolled high on his forearms. Glimpses of ink peaked out from underneath the fabric.

“You going to kick me out, too?” you teased, sliding to the edge of the booth. The hem of your dress danced over the mid of your thighs – delicate shades of pastels in contrast to the dark, faded colors of the old rock band posters on the wall and the sun-soaked wood near the windows. The flowers that had once decorated the tables were long wilted and dried, most of them discarded – though a few still remained despite the wrinkled petals circled around the vases.

Bucky laughed, his voice filling the Centenarian. “Of course not, doll. Never you.”

He tapped the jukebox to his left, hitting the side of the machine with a closed fist. A deviously playful smirk tugged on his cheeks as How Deep is Your Love began to play through the speakers. The song crackled through the decades-old speakers. Wordlessly, he held out a hand to you, gesturing to the open space between the tables.

Slowly, you slid your fingers against his palm, watching as a shiver slipped through his spine at the gentle sensation. Your pointer finger traced the lifeline in his palm, slowly following up to the veins in his wrist.

Bucky quickly tugged you from the booth, unable to take much more of your teasing, and pressed the full of your body against his. You gasped against the full brush of his body as his hand slid along your lower back, fingertips tapping sweetly into your curves as if following the keys of a piano. His free hand brought your knuckles to his lips, kissing each ridge of the bone.

“What are we doing, Bucky?” you asked breathily, the teasing between you lost within the sincerity of his movements.

Bucky guided your hands around his neck, allowing his own to rest on the small of your back. He kissed your shoulder; kissed every part of you like he simply couldn’t stop him, like he could never be close enough without it.

“Well,” he sighed, break warm against your skin, “I’d say we’re dancing, honey.”

You smiled as you ran your fingertips through the nape of his hair. His eyes fluttered at the feeling, his lips falling slack, and you reveled in the sight of a man draped in black denim and leather reduced to putty in your hands.

“Feels like we haven’t had a moment to breathe,” Bucky admitted slowly, blue eyes sinking heavily into your gaze. “I just wanted some time to hold you. To just be here with you. Is that all right?”

His lips were drawn into a frown, the weight of the last few weeks pushing down on him. You’d gone from one awful encounter with the Hydra club to another – spiraling from the moment Bucky had spotted Dot at the Lilac Festival to the charade he’d put on a week earlier in the dark of your shop. Constant panic etched into your veins, trembling in your hands and fear burrowed in your chest. To give him this moment – to allow it for yourself, too – was the least the fates could offer.

In answer, you brought his lips to your own, grazing them sweetly, almost chastely, before you deepened the kiss. With the soft influx of a synthesizer on the jukebox, Bucky’s hands spread against your back, his fingertips inching over the swell of your curves, lips parted and eager to surrender if you could stay with him in the security of that moment forever. So lost in his kiss, in his arms wrapped so tightly around you, you did not hear the rumble of engines approaching from over the hill.

“You know I’ll take care of you, don’t you?” Bucky murmured between kisses to the corner of your mouth, to your jaw and neck. “That no matter what happens, you’ll never have to face this alone?”

You nodded, hardly able to string words together. Whether it was due to his expert lips or the sincerity in his voice – you weren’t sure. But you believed him in his promise.

Slowly, you drew his head back from your body, smiling at the pout forming on his mouth at the loss of contact. You needed to look at him for this, to see the shades of blue in his eyes that first allowed you to trust him under the streetlight outside his bar. To speak the words aloud that had been brewing under the surface for as long as you’d known him – terrified to rise beyond the paralyzing vulnerability of being known. But he was worth it. He'd always been worth it.

What you felt for him could hardly be quantified into a single word, but you hoped you could try – that he might understand how immensely you fell for this impossibly kind man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Bucky,” you sighed, his name like a prayer upon your lips, “I–”

The door to the Centenarian swung open with a violent crash.

Before you could process what was happening, hands that had never once touched you with anything but gentle affection, roughly shoved you backwards. Bucky maneuvered his body in front of yours, the motion nearly throwing you off balance. Your ankle rolled in the sharp movement, pain shooting up through your leg as Bucky’s hand lunged backward onto your wrist to hold you steady. His grip ached around the bone.

“I see you’ve dropped the act, Barnes.”

The venom laced voice of Brock Rumlow punctured straight to your chest; like ice water doused over your head and coal burning fire under your feet. You sucked in a harsh breath as you pressed your forehead between Bucky’s shoulder blades, as if simply closing your eyes could transport you far away to somewhere safe, somewhere Brock Rumlow could not lay a hand upon you or the man who instinctively used his body as your shield.

“You’re on the wrong side of the border, asshole,” Bucky growled, disregarding Rumlow’s obvious intrigue of his protective stance in front of you.

Rumlow only laughed; something dark and voice of humor. “What border? You’ve been crossing it without consequence for over a month now. The border doesn’t exist anymore.”

Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightened and you were certain it would bruise by morning. You didn’t care. You’d welcome the swell, the discolor. It was the only thing keeping you from collapsing to your knees. His palm pinched at your father’s watch and it dug sharply into your skin. The pain of it held you together.

“What do you want?” You could feel the unsettling edge in Bucky’s voice tremble in vibration along his spine.

Rumlow paced along the border of the bar, his footsteps heavy against the old hardwood. They cried out under each step. “The rest of my money, you prick.”

It was only then that you realized Rumlow wasn’t alone. At least three other sets of footsteps walked into the bar – the final one delicate in stride with the clicking of heels against the sidewalk outside.

“Hi, sugar,” Dot purred and you felt every muscle in Bucky’s back tighten. Bucky started to turn, guiding you with him, as it seemed Dot was trying to get a better look at you from around his shoulders. She huffed in disappointment. “Don’t hide, Y/n. Let us say hello.”

Bucky squeezed at your wrist, urging you to stay put, but there was something in the challenge of Dot’s tone that surged fire into your veins. She paraded herself as if she still laid claim to Bucky’s pride, to his dignity and resolve. She made a mockery of his loyalty to her and the lengths he’d gone to protect her from the very men she climbed into bed with. To cower from a woman like that was to give her satisfaction she did not deserve.

You didn’t know whether she’d given up Bucky’s act to Rumlow or he found out the moment he stormed into the bar and found you draped sweetly in Bucky’s arms. You didn’t care. You weren’t going to let Dot thing she held a damn thing over you. Even if her manicured grip pictured through the thin tissue around your heart.

“Ah, there you are,” Dot smirked as you stepped out from behind Bucky. He let go of your wrist only long enough to drape an arm protectively across your chest, creating a barrier between you and the shine of reflective metal on the hips of the Hydra club.

Rollins was hanging back in the shadows, accompanied by two other men you didn’t recognize. A toothpick hung from his lips, twisting around his tongue as he greedily stared you down. That same hungry gaze remained in his eyes, the one that traveled from your chest to your ankles. Bucky inched closer to you.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen the inside of this bar,” Dot went on, drawing her hand along the countertop. A wicked grin curved high upon red stained lips as she locked eyes with you. “He fucked me once against the desk in the office. He do that to you yet?”

You tried not to let yourself react, knowing she was only trying to get a rise out of you, but you flinched at her words anyway.

You'd known who she was – that Bucky had once loved her enough to risk his life when he thought she was in danger. You’d known he’d been intimate with her and still— it hurt worse than you cared to admit. This woman who manipulated his heart and left him for dead, having touched him the way you have, his hands having been on her body the same way he lingered upon yours.

Bucky didn’t respond to her, barely showed any indication that her words affected him at all. But you felt Bucky's arm draw closer to you, felt the restraint radiating like heat off of his body to grab hold of you and run. You slid your hand along his spine, trying to ease the tension etching stone to his body. It was made of marble. Solid rock.

“Enough, Dot,” Rumlow sneered impatiently. She pouted, making a dramatic show of it before she winked in Bucky’s direction and slithered back in line with the rest of the Hydra goons. Rumlow returned his attention to you – his eyes near to black as he drilled holes with his stare. “You and I, my dear, have unfinished business.”

He took a step closer to you and Bucky pushed you backwards; the pressure of his forearm against your chest. Rumlow chuckled at the response, his gaze shifting between you and Bucky.

“You must think me a fool," Rumlow spat. "What were you hoping to accomplish with your little performance, Barnes? Huh? Convince me that she is little more to you than a toy to be played with and maybe I won’t punish her for her connection to you? Perhaps, you hoped that it would spare you as well, so that I might not retaliate against the 107 for stealing what is rightfully mine.”

“Y/n doesn’t belong to you,” Bucky sneered, his cheeks flushed hot with rage. “She doesn’t belong to anyone.”

Rumlow cackled loud enough for it to tremble inside your chest. “You’ve got it worse than I thought. For your sake, let’s hope she feels the same.” Narrowed eyes landed upon you, a devious grin curling upon his mouth. “Separate them.”

Bucky dove for you, but it wasn’t enough. Even if he had the chance to gather you into his arms before violent hands clamped onto his shoulders, yanking him back – what he could have done? Held you for just a moment longer? Preserved an ounce of the sanctuary you felt swaying in his arms just minutes prior? Pretend for just one more second that nothing bad could happen to you, to him, to the life you so desperately wanted to share together?

“Run!” Bucky shouted, his voice breaking in the effort, though you both knew it was no use. Each time he managed to shake an arm free, one of the Hydra men beat a fist to his spine, to his jaw or stomach, and he slacked just enough to grab hold of him again; an endless loop of hope for his escape and paralyzing dread with every hit.

Jack Rollins slowly approached you from the comfort of the shadows, a sinister look about his face as he admired Bucky’s helpless position from across the room. The toothpick snapped between his teeth and he spit the shards onto the floor. Hungry eyes trailed down the front of your dress, lingering along your exposed legs.

You backed into the corner, trying to keep as much space between you and Rollins as you could manage, but you knew it was only prolonging the inevitable. You couldn’t fight off a man like Jack Rollins. He was twice your size and you barely knew how to throw a proper punch. You grew up in a flower shop. You were trained in delicate things. Violence was never supposed to find you there.

The determination in Rollins' eyes and the sinister curve of his mouth sank like anvils to your stomach, weighing you down, sinking you deep underwater where the air could no longer touch your lungs. Unsettling dread.

Bucky was shouting on the other end of the bar, his feet scraping on the floors as he fought against the men holding him down. Even as they dove closed barrels fists to the side of his face, he shook it off, spit blood onto the floor, and tried again. He shouted your name, endlessly, but there was no use in running. No use in fighting. You were both trapped.

“Ain’t that sweet?” Rumlow chuckled, his attention turned to Dot. She smirked, a single unlit cigarette hanging from between the bright red stain on her lips.

Rollins grabbed a firm hold of your forearm and shoved you to the floor at the center of the bar. You spilled onto the hardwoods, laid upon the sticky surface where a faint outline of faded maroon soaked into the floors. Exposed. On display. You touched your fingers to discolored wood – to the spot where Bucky nearly bled out the night Dot betrayed him.

It was happening again. His blood was already trailing down his lips, dropping thick and heavy to the floor under his feet. New stains accompanying the old.

“Now,” Rumlow began, kneeling down next to you. He grabbed a firm hold of your jaw and forced your gaze to his, his fingers digging painfully against your cheeks. “You will get me the rest of what you owe. I don’t care if you have to steal it from a fucking bank. I still own you, darling.”

As if to punctuate his threats, Jack Rollins crossed the room and threw a heavy punch to Bucky’s stomach. You yelped, hands covering your mouth as Bucky doubled over in pain, an awful sound escaping him. The only thing keeping him standing were the two men restraining his arms.

“You see,” Rumlow began, “now that I know what he means to you, I will happily beat the arrogant prick within an inch of his life each time you fail to come through on your payments. Do you understand what that means, darling? I’ll break his face and I’ll give that son of a bitch brain damage because you failed to deliver what you owe me.”

You shook your head, tears swelling in your eyes as Rollins shook out his hand, readying himself. Bucky’s eyes met yours for only a second – a promise nestled into the blue of his eyes that he would be all right, that he’d survived worse, a terrible plea to just stand by and let this happen – before Rollin’s fist slammed into his cheekbone, breaking open the skin.

“Stop!” you cried, fingernails scraping into the floor. “Please! I don’t-- I don’t have the money! There’s nothing to give!”

“You think I give a shit!?” Rumlow slammed his hand against the counter, forcing a visible flinch from your body. “This is what happens when you fuck up, princess! You fuck me over; I beat Barnes into shit. Those are the new terms of our deal. Perhaps next time, it’ll be you instead. Maybe that’ll teach you a lesson.”

“You lay a fucking hand on her,” Bucky panted, blood spewing from his lips, “and I’ll kill you.”

The grin that curved over Rumlow’s mouth was near sickening. “You can’t do a damn thing, Barnes.”

Rollins' fist collided against Bucky’s cheek, bloodying the wound beginning to open along the bone. It silenced whatever argument he was about to make, his body fighting just to stay on his feet. Blood trickled from the ends of Rollins’ fingertips. Bucky’s blood, you realized.

“Please,” you begged, breathless as tears openly slid down your cheeks. “You don’t have to do this.”

Rumlow clenched his jaw, restraint inching away. Withering. His gaze remained on Bucky. “She says another fucking word, and I’ll go after her instead. You understand, Barnes? I know what she is to you, you pathetic shit. I’ll fucking kill her.”

Bucky swallowed what you were sure was the bitter, coppery taste of blood swelling on his tongue. His gaze slowly turned to you, eyes flickering hesitantly in Rumlow’s direction before he spoke.

“Doll, look at me,” Bucky called, his voice too gentle amongst such violence around him. You almost didn’t have the strength to meet his request, almost didn’t have the courage for it. But you could feel the warmth in Bucky’s gaze on you, how unbothered he was by the snickering taunts of the Hydra club around him.

Slowly, you met his stare and the thick ooze of blood drip from his lips and the open wound on his cheek. His skin was patchy with reddened marks. His lungs not drawing in nearly enough air and still his voice, though quiet was still as gentle as his kiss had been on your skin in the moments before hell swarmed through the doors.

“I’ll be okay, honey,” Bucky swore, though threads of uncertainty woven between every syllable. “You stay right there. Don’t make trouble for me. I can take it.”

A vicious grin curved up along the Hydra leader’s mouth – revenge coated satisfaction. Slowly, he slid his leather jacket down his arms and hung it over the bar.

“Listen to the man,” Rumlow taunted. He curled his hand to a fist. “Now, pay close attention.”

“Wait!” You lurched forward, fumbling fingers untangling the gold chain on your wrist. Cold air brushed at the exposed skin on your wrist as you removed your father’s watch and extended it to Rumlow. It shook violently in your grip. “Take this! Please. Take this and let him go.”

Bucky shook his head, devastation clouding over the blue still visible in his eyes. He knew what the watch meant to you; he’d seen you run your fingers against it enough times to understand the weight it carried; the last tie to your father now that May Flowers had been destroyed. His lips parted as if to stop you, to beg you not to, but he knew better than to speak as the men holding him back tightened their grip on his arms.

Rumlow narrowed his eyes, intrigued at the old, worn-down watch with hands that no longer counted the minutes. He peeled it from your fingers, your entire body feeling drastically lighter without it – like you might float off into the sky without its weight to keep you safe on the ground. He examined it in his hands and for a moment, there was a brief glimmer of hope that he might actually accept it as payment and leave.

But he was not capable of such a merciful kindness.

Rumlow dropped the watch to the ground if it were little more than trash. With your heart lodged in your throat, you watched as his heel came down over the glass, shattering it under his boot, fracturing the links to pieces. You barely flinched, too numbed to do much of anything else. You knees met the ground instead, your trembling hands gathering the fragile, broken pieces of golden metals and holding them to your chest.

There was barely time to blink before Rumlow barreled his first hit to Bucky’s temple. You dropped the scattered remains of your father’s watch, the pieces forgotten as Bucky grunted out from the pain. The sound punctured into your body, broke through your ribs, nestled into your heart and split through the seams from the inside out. It tore open every piece of you.

You scrambled to your feet; unrestrained now because they knew you could do nothing to stop them. Still, you inched closer with every punch, every drop of blood they spilled, every gasp for breath Bucky dared.

A terrible numbness took over as you watched Bucky’s body weakened in their arms. His face becoming swollen and red, blood dripping down from open cuts on his face. His knees wobbling, barely able to hold himself upright without the support of the men restraining him.

This man, who had given up his reputation, his life, to protect the town he loved.

This man, who dared to help a stranger under a flickering streetlamp in the dead of night.

This man, who so graciously offered you his heart, who held yours as if it were made of something precious.

And Brock Rumlow was breaking him.

Whether it was courage, adrenaline, or reckless anger, you could hardly feel the touch of flames burning on your skin. Red and scorching, surging through your veins. Ignoring Bucky’s desperate plea to stay safe within the shadows, to not draw any more attention from the Hydra crew that might turn their aggression onto you instead, you took a step forward.

Before Rumlow could raise another fist to the man who only ever sought to protect you, you grabbed a sharp hold of his arm, halting his fist in place. The surprise on Rumlow’s face was enough to startle his swing, shaking him off balance. Bucky looked to you with some sort of agony hidden behind the blood and bruising – agony you suspected had little to do with the pain coursing through his body.

“Fucking bitch,” Rumlow spat and peeled your hand from around his wrist. He shoved you to floor as if you were little more than a spec of dirt on the sleeve of his jacket, forcing your head to collide painfully against the frame of the bar. A terrible throbbing sensation followed, the warm drip of blood sliding down the nape of your neck. You smeared the red along your fingertips as you touched the aching blow.

Rumlow rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. Then, he returned to Bucky, his knuckles bloodied and broken under the effort of his closed fist. Under the evidence of what he’d done to Bucky’s face.

When you tried to meet Bucky’s eye again, to offer even a glimpse of an apology you could not hope to live up to, your vision quickly began burred with tears.

Bucky couldn’t have looked to you if he tried. Whether it was the swollen tissue on his left eye or the blood dripping down from his eyebrow on the right – you doubted he could see much of anything. You could only hope he would pass out soon, that he would allow himself some level of relief from the awful position you’d put him in, though you knew he was fighting it everything he had left. Clinging to consciousness in effort to not leave you alone in a room full of Hydra thugs.

You winced as Rumlow landed another blow to Bucky’s stomach. Blood spewed from his lips. Tears slid over your jawline and traced down your neck, settling against your collarbone.

You slid your hands along the floor, trying to find something to keep you grounded, to hold you steady inside your body when you knew there was nothing you could do to save the man who so easily used his own body a shield for you.

Helpless. So fucking helpless.

Until your fingertips grazed the fallen contents of your bag laid until the barstools. Through the awful sounds of Bucky’s strangled gasps for breath and the violent collision of fists to his body, the gentle keystrokes of Billy Joel’s Vienna filled the bar. You felt for the familiar plastic on the edge of your keyring, and slid your fingers through the grip.

It had given you strength in moments of weakness, of fear and panic – this small token from the first night you met Bucky Barnes under the street lamp outside the Centenarian. It quelled the panic, the devastation, only long enough to allow the cold rush of determination to settle in your bones.

You lunged to your feet and balled your fist into the thin black fabric of Rumlow’s t-shirt. Deep into his shoulder blades, rough enough that you felt your nails scrap over his back as you yanked hard enough to force him to face you. Impatient fury barely had time to register over his features before you swiped the edge of the keychain across his face.

He stumbled backward, the room falling to silence. Slowly, Rumlow brought a hand to his cheek where the sharp ends of the keychain had broken his skin; bright red coating over his fingertips. Rollins stepped forward from his position next to Dot, a low growl vibrating through the room as he prepared to retaliate, but Rumlow held up a hand in warning. Rollins stilled like the obedient dog he was.

You watched, panting heavily, as Rumlow slowly straightened his spine, revealing the deep gashes drawn by the pointed edges of the keychain Bucky had given you the night you met. Blood trickled down his cheek, obstructing the side of his face untouched by the myriad of scars.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Bucky struggling to lift his head, his legs dragging on the ground. He looked at you, though you were unsure how much he could tell what was going on around him. You were sure his hearing had been reduced to a dull ringing by now.

It was probably for the best. He’d begged you to stay complacent long enough to survive this night and you’d done the exact opposite. You’d attacked the very man who would do you harm. Twice.

But you weren’t going to stand back and watch him beat Bucky into a pulp; not while Dot was sharing the same air as him, smirking around the unlit cigarette with every hit Bucky endured. You weren’t going to succumb to the self-preservation instincts your parents had ingrained in you the moment Hydra entered your world. Not if it meant sacrificing Bucky.

So, you waited for Rumlow to hit you, to pull out his gun, to do something. You waited for him to follow through on his promise, but instead – he began to laugh. The sound was worse than if he’d started screaming.

“You surprise me, darling,” he finally said, the low tremor of humor still on his tongue. “You’re tougher than you made me believe. Perhaps, when the time is right, I will convince you to join us.”

Bile surged in your gut at the thought. Meanwhile, Dot grinned from her perch in the corner of the room. She'd taken that deal once.

Without waiting for your response, Rumlow circled a hand in the air. The men holding Bucky’s arms released him without so much as a warning and his body fell onto the floor in a crumpled heap. Heavier than it should have. He hadn’t even tried to catch his fall. The side of his head slammed onto the hardwood and it ripped open something inside your chest. You rushed toward him, knees skidding against the floors as the men stepped over his body as if he were little more than the trash under their feet.

With shaking hands, you gathered Bucky into your arms, resting his head against your lap. Blood soaked into your dress, painting red along the soft tones of pastels. Your fingertips gently brushed along his cheeks, desperate to rid the blood from his face, only to smear it over his skin, drying fleck speckling into the stubble on his jaw. You barely recognized him with all the swelling and discoloration.

He did not stir as you touched him, did not attempt to open his eyes. He’d lost consciousness the moment his body hit the floor and for that, you were grateful. Grateful, that his body took over when his mind so stubbornly fought against its very instincts – desperate to stay with you, to endure what he must to not leave you alone.

You set a tremored hand on his chest, focusing on the slow rise of his breaths, the faint pulsing of his heart. Reminders that he was still alive despite the violence dolled to his body. You could only vaguely hear the sound of footsteps fading down the sidewalk, of engines purring to life.

But Rumlow lingered by the door, a satisfied smirk touching the open wounds on his cheek as he watched you. “I hope this will serve as a final warning, darling. You’ve had enough of those, don’t you think?”

Then, he was gone.

The jukebox was still playing in the corner of the bar, though you could no longer tell what song it was.

“Bucky?” you called, though his name was little more than a whimper. You brushed your fingers over his brow line when he did not so much as stir. You nodded to yourself, swallowing back tears as you let yourself hold steady to the weight of his body in your arms. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Your hand slid into his pockets, searching for his phone. You had to be strong for him. Set aside the panic threatening to draw you under. Ignore the bile creeping through your throat, the taste of it bitter on your tongue. Focus on Bucky – on his shallow breaths and the warmth of his skin. Focus.

A pained gasp tugged in your lungs as the screen lit up in your hand. The glass had been cracked in the struggle; shards splintered down the screen, but the image that had once covered the screen when you first entered your number weeks earlier was no longer there. Instead, there was a picture of you – one he must have taken on a day he’d come to your shop during your lunch breaks.

In the image, you were looking to the left, a bright smile on your face as you carried an armful of bouquets. The petals touched your jawline, more than you could hope to carry, and the colors brightened against your face. You hadn’t even realized he’d even taken the picture, laughter echoing from the still frame. You couldn’t remember feeling so light, so unburdened by the weight of the war you’d become a catalyst for. It was an eternity ago.

You dialed Steve’s number first. What he said when he picked up, you weren’t sure. You were crying the moment his voice broke through the speaker; only vague murmurs of Bucky’s name and the Hydra club, begging him to come to the bar.

He stayed on the line even as he rushed out into the cold night air, even as the bike engine screamed through the speakers. You did not move a muscle until he barreled in through the front doors. Sam followed only seconds behind.

“Oh God,” Steve exhaled at the sight of his friend’s body laid unconscious in your lap.

Your hands were coaxing through Bucky's hair as if he were simply asleep, numbed to the dried blood now caked into his scalp and under your nails. Steve and Sam shared an uneasy look before they approached you.

“Hey, kiddo,” Sam sighed, slowly kneeling down beside you. His eyes trailed over Bucky, searching for fatal wounds. He’d seen this before – knew enough to not ask who had laid such violence upon Bucky’s body. Disdain burned into his clenched jaw, even as he set a gentle touch to your trembling hands.

Your eyes shot up to his, the blur of tears obstructing your vision.

“He’s alive,” you whimpered, gesturing to his chest and the light flow of air from his lips. “He’s breathing but—he hasn’t— he hasn’t woken up.”

Steve nodded, his gaze fixated on the swell of pink and red tissue on Bucky’s face. It would be badly bruised by the morning if the swelling even managed to go down by then. His nose was broken, blocking his airway, and leaving his lips dried with every strangled breath.

Steve reached out for Bucky to gently lift him from your arms but you tensed at the sudden movement, your grip on Bucky molding to stone as if you were protecting him from a new threat; forgetting the men who would have laid down and taken that beating themselves if it would have spared their friend.

“It’s okay, Y/n,” Steve said quietly. “I’m going to bring him home, okay? We’ll get him somewhere safe so he can rest. We’ll keep an eye on him. You know I won’t let anything happen to him.”

You stared into the pale blue of Steve’s eyes – so similar to Bucky’s, a tangible glimpse of the unbreakable bond they shared. Steve shared a pained look with Sam, both of their shoulders sunken with defeat the longer they looked at the unconscious body of their fearless leader.

Slowly, you leaned down and pressed a kiss to Bucky’s forehead and released him from your hold. Almost effortlessly, Steve lifted Bucky into his arms – the strain on his face more to do with the fresh blood smeared on your dress than the weight of his friend.

“Come on,” Sam eased, offering his hand.

You glanced down at your own to find the faint stain of Bucky’s blood coating your palms. You swallowed back something that tasted of bile and allowed Sam to guide you to your feet. Knees wobbling under you, legs feeling weak and jellied, you followed him to the door. The shattered remains of your father's watch were left on the floor in your wake.

***

After Sam used his spare key to open the door to Bucky’s apartment, he’d left to take word to the rest of the 107 of what happened. It was one thing to cross the border, another entirely to enact war in what they’d done to Bucky. Steve promised he’d stay the night to make sure the Hydra club did not return to finish the job.

“How long’s he been out?” Steve asked quietly as he set Bucky down on the edge of the couch.

You stared at Bucky’s face, paralyzed by the open wounds and bruising. Awful discoloration of blues and purples, reds swelling over his eyes and the gashes on his cheeks. Blood dripping down his neck, crusted. You could hardly draw in a full breath.

Steve prompted you again, ever so patient, and you clenched your hands into the fabric of your blood-stained dress. “Um-- I don’t-- I don’t know. I called you as soon as he collapsed. He lost consciousness after the Hydra club left.”

“Okay,” Steve nodded, seeming a little less distressed at the information. He offered you a smile, reaching out and setting a firm hand on your shoulder. “You did good, Y/n. It hasn’t been too long, all right? I got to you fast enough.”

You nodded, unsure. Steve tipped Bucky’s head back and lifted his chin. You watched as Bucky’s breaths slowly grew stronger in his chest. An eternity could have passed in the span of a few minutes – a millennia, maybe. You didn’t dare turn away, didn’t dare blink.

“Buck?” Steve called just as a twitch flexed on Bucky’s upper lip. The movement was slight, hardly noticeable at all, but it was there. Steve set a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Take it easy, pal. You’re home now. Everything’s okay.”

A low groan muttered from Bucky’s lips and your legs gave way. You dropped onto the couch beside him, relief seeping through the panic that had taken residency in your bones.

“Shit,” Bucky exhaled, his voice raspy as if sandpaper lined in his lungs.

Steve chuckled, his chin dropping to his chest. “Welcome back, punk.”

Bucky tried to open his eyes, though only one of them was able to part at all and even then – it was only a slit. He could hardly turn his head, barely move his body at all.

“Where’s--” his voice caught in his throat, almost like something had reached up through his lungs and swallowed it back whole. His chest was rising quicker, his hands clamping. He tried to push himself up from the couch only for his body to tug him back in pure exhaustion.

“Y/n?” Bucky whispered your name, a desperate request. Near fearful.

“I’m here,” you confirmed as gently as you were able and Bucky’s entire body seemed to sink into the soft cushion of the couch. Slowly, you moved yourself to stand within his limited line of vision and did your best to ignore the horrific brushing and swelling on his face. He tried to smile at you, his hand reaching out for your hip, but he winced in the effort.

Reflexively, you brought your fingertips, feather light, to the split of his lip. Bucky’s breath hitched at the sensation; the dull brush of comfort you granted over the wounds drawn by vile men. You traced your fingers under the open cut on his cheek, gingerly over the well of his eye. You touched him as if you could undo the damage done, as if you could turn back time to the night you met under the street lamp and spare him the scars on his body that would outnumber the one left on his ribs from a woman who never truly loved him at all.

Then, you set your palm against his cheek; the trembling evident as Bucky leaned against your touch.

“I am...” You drew in a harsh breath, and still – it was painfully shallow. “I am so sorry, Bucky...”

“Don’t say that,” Bucky pleaded, the rough edge in his voice only sinking the guilt deeper into your chest, clawing at your heart until it shredded under the talons. He closed his hand around yours. “Please, don’t say that. I’m okay. This isn’t your fault, honey.”

You pulled your hand tight to your chest and away from Bucky’s reach. He had little movement in his facial features amongst the aches and the swelling, but you heard his soft exhale when his fingertips slipped from your hand. It wasn’t mean to punish him. You simply couldn’t understand how he could offer you comfort when he was the one covered in bruises and blood for your crimes.

Bucky looked over to Steve, barely a word exchanged between them, and Steve quietly stepped out of the room. Bucky reached for your hand again, but you could not see his efforts for the tears blurring through your eyes.

This never would have happened if you’d been strong enough to deal with Hydra on your own, if you’d just gotten their money when they asked and sold every last valuable possession you had to get it done. But you were selfish and naïve, thinking you could hold onto your father’s watch and allow the register to remain short.

You did this to him.

The blood and the bruises and the swelling.

You might as well have done it yourself.

You sank to your knees at the edge of the couch, holding your arms tight against your chest to stop the shaking, though it would not relent. Violent shakes racked through your spine as you rested your forehead against Bucky’s knee. You could not stop the sob that broke through – the gut-wrenching sound that followed.

Bucky’s fingers brushed along your head, doing his best to soothe you though he could hardly keep his own eyes open. “Sweetheart...”

You gave yourself thirty seconds. Thirty more seconds to cry, to allow the guilt and the shame to crumble you completely. If Bucky was speaking to you, you could not hear it; not over the dull ringing in your ears, the memory of the god-awful sound that echoed through the bar each time Rumlow stuck his fist against Bucky’s face.

When your thirty seconds were up, you sat back on your heels. Tears were still fresh on your cheeks; wet and streaked along the flushed skin. You took in a steady breath.

“I’ll get a cloth for the blood.” Your voice was too flat, too clinical. It was all you could manage.

“Y/n, wait,” he started, but his limited gaze fell to the splattered red stains along your dress and his jaw wired shut – violence marred to the delicate floral patterns on a pastel fabric.

Steve had a first aid kit ready for you on the kitchen table. He didn’t say a word as he handed you the small plastic box and a warm wash cloth. On the table, Natasha’s name was lit up on his phone screen; three minutes and forty-seven seconds into the call.

He gave you a short nod, ushering you back to the living room. You were grateful for his silence because you knew the moment you parted your lips, horrors would spill out.

Bucky didn’t speak as you sat on the couch beside him. He only watched you as you gently dabbed the warm cloth against his wounds, cleaning away the bloodstains on his skin. Only once, he winced as you accidentally added too much pressed to the cut along his cheek. Another tear slipped over your jaw and Bucky did not flinch again, not even as you rubbed the antibiotic gel to the open wounds and tenderly pressed bandages against them to keep it secure.

When you were finished, you sank onto the couch next to him and turned on the television in hopes it might keep him awake. He wouldn’t be able to sleep for a few hours in case he had a serious concussion. Tension burned throughout your body as you forced distance between you and Bucky in fear of worsening his pain with even the smallest touch. It took until the end of the first late night show before Bucky managed to set his hand on the outside of your thigh and urge you closer.

Unable to resist his request, you inched closer to him and wrapped your arms around his bicep, holding him against your chest as you leaned onto his shoulder. You knew his arm was tender from where the men had gripped him – bruises already forming in hand marks on his skin – so you held him as gently as you could.

“You know I’d take that beating a dozen times to keep you safe, don’t you?” Bucky’s voice soothed through the low hum of the musician playing on the television.

You nodded against his sleeve, tears burning back into your eyes. That was the problem, wasn’t it? How easily he was willing to throw himself to the rubble for you.

Even hours later when Bucky had finally been allowed to sleep, you could not find the nerve to close your eyes. Instead, you kept yourself steady on the feeling of Bucky’s hand on the outside of your thigh, the warmth of his skin and the firmness of his shoulder. Tears swelled in your eyes even after you’d thought there were none left inside you to cry.

It had been foolish to think you ever had a chance of escaping your chains to the Hydra club. That debt would haunt you for an eternity. It hadn’t made an ounce of difference for Bucky to be himself or to wear the mask the town believed him to be. Rumlow was too powerful. The Hydra club would do everything in its power to break you down to your bones.

They destroyed your shop.

They threatened you.

They punished you by bloodying Bucky.

You didn’t dare imagine what they would do next, didn’t dare wonder whether Bucky would survive the next time they came seeking retribution for your lapse in payment. There was no escape. No surrender. The Hydra club would haunt you for the rest of your life.

Tears dripped onto the purpled skin on Bucky’s arm.

There was no escape.

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