Summary: Bucky meets a girl. A girl who stutters.
Pairing: Bucky x Stutterer! Reader
Warnings: Frustration. Harsh language because of said frustration.
Prompt: “I’ve wanted to say, ‘I love you’ for the first time without stuttering, but that failed.”
A/N: This one’s personal. I’ve had a lifelong stutter, and this is very real and true to what I’ve experienced. I’m doing fine, though. It’s not as bad now.
This is for @serpienten ’s writing challenge! Thanks for letting me participate!
The first time Bucky sees you is blue.
You’re wearing blue. A long blue coat, over black stretch pants. It’s raining, and you’re under a black umbrella. April showers. People pass you, hurrying to their own destinations.
God, you’re a sight. Beautiful, a goddess among mortals, yet so sad.
You’re having trouble speaking to someone on the phone. You don’t seem nervous… just a little sad. Frustrated, even.
You’re stammering, getting stuck on words. Occasionally, your head twitches for the tiniest bit until you manage to get a word or two out.
Bucky feels sorry for you. He remembers one man in the 107th, who had a severe stammer. Maybe because it was nervousness, or maybe it was related to trauma, or family history. Bucky didn’t know.
“Yeah,” you say, curtly, “I ju-just want to-” You stop, your head twitching again. “Eh-eh-explain to him th-that-” You take a breath. “Explain to him that I-I-I-”
He leaves then, only because he doesn’t want you to see him staring.
The next time is yellow. You’re wearing a yellow dress, with beige sandals. Summertime. August heat. It’s a miracle he even recognizes you - you have cut your hair.
You’re still a sight. A sight for sore eyes that are used to blood and death and frightened gazes.
You drop your groceries. Those new paper bags… sure, good for the environment, but not very good with carrying things. You crouch down and start to pick them up.
Wow, Bucky thinks, where am I? The 40′s?
Awestruck, and wordlessly grateful to whatever force that has led the both of you to the same place at the same time after months, he approaches you this time.
Your eyes turn, and you glance up at him. Your eyes linger on his arm, and you take a step back, practically falling on your bottom.
“You-” you say, cautiously, “I-I know you… S-suh-suh-soldier…”
He can hear the pain in your voice, and he knows what you are thinking: a) fear, since the Winter Soldier was right in front of you b) absolute patheticness - stuttering isn’t the best sign of confidence in the presence of danger.
“It’s not like that anymore, miss,” he says calmly, sure that you aren’t going to say anything. “And… if I’m being honest, it wasn’t really my fault.” All the while, he takes some of the heavier groceries you are picking up and carries them himself.
You notice what he does Your mouth opens, just a little, in surprise. “Thank you,” you say softly. Clearly.
“Can I walk you home, miss?”
It takes you a little while to respond, for a number of reasons. “Yes,” you practically blurt out finally, nodding your head frantically. “Yes. But.. p-puh-lease stay outside the d-door?”
“Of course. My name is James. What’s yours?”
You tell him after a few seconds of silence.
And he does stay outside your door. A gentleman.
The next time he sees you is pink. Red-related colors don’t always mean anger or lust.
It’s a date, and yet it isn’t. Coffee shop chatter and lofi music.
It goes well. You share stories of your childhood, your education, your interests. He knows that you already know a lot about him, but he also says things that you don’t know - like his favorite color (blue), and his favorite place to be (the beach).
All the while, he’s patient. Patient while you speak, patient while you try to. He lets you finish, and if you get even a little frustrated, he gently stops you and asks you to continue, this time more relaxed. And it works. Every single time.
Ten times and ten colors later, you’re ready to tell him that he’s the best person you’ve ever met. You’re in his car: he’s driving you home from a dance.
“Buh - Bucky?” you ask, your hand coming to grasp his. It’s gentle and slow, just so that he isn’t startled.
“Yeah?” he asks, and he sounds shy. It’s amazing how someone can actually be shy like that, even after months of being with someone they’re totally at ease with.
You open your mouth to speak, and you freeze.
Come on, it’s there. It’s right there. Just say those three words. Get it out. Get the Goddamn words out.
“I-I-” you manage, then you stop. Close your eyes. Try again. Stop. Dammit.
Bucky pulls over, and puts the car in park.
“Sweetheart,” he says, and you look up at him, tears in your eyes.
“No,” you say. “No, no, n-no. Shit. Wh-why does this a-alw-always happen?”
“Hey,” he says, “what did you want to say?”
“I-” you shut your eyes tight again, letting out a sob. “Buh-Buck, I-” You will it out of you, and it comes out almost as a yell.
He pulls back, startled. Then he realizes what you’ve said, and he gives you a small smile.
You don’t return it. In fact, you let your tears out, quietly crying into your hand. “Suh-soh-sorry, Buck,” you gasp. “Fuck, I-I- shouldn’t ha-”
“Look at me, sweetheart.”
You do. His voice is drenched with pain: it falls from his lips and hits the car seat with a heavy thump.
“Talk to me. Relax. Tell me everything.”
You breathe in and out shakily.. Breathe in his kind eyes, his gentle hand touch.
“I… I wanted to say "I love you” for the first time without stuttering, but that failed.“ You say it softly and slowly, your tense muscles relaxing.
He looks proud. Proud of you. He leans in and kisses you on the temple, lips so soft and barely there. "Honey,” he says against your forehead. You can feel and hear him grinning. “Looks like you’ve made up for it. I’m so proud of you.”
He pulls his head away and embraces you fully. “I love you, too.”
