Boiling Point | Bucky Barnes x Reader
I am back back back again with a self-indulgent, borderline autobiographical fic! Unfortunately, my real life story doesn’t involve Bucky… sigh… anyway, please enjoy :)
Word count: 10.9k
Warnings: Anxiety, minor reader injury, toxic exes
Bucky knew he was being paranoid. Again.
He did his best to shake it off, to quiet his thoughts. But the quiet never came. The worry scratched at the back of his mind, dragging its jagged nails through his skull every few minutes. And in the deep trenches carved by its claws, it planted seeds. Seeds of catastrophes and what ifs that quickly blossomed into waking nightmares. Images of broken glass. Of blood. Of defensive wounds littering your hands and arms.
His mind grew louder. Louder with each imagined tragedy. Louder with every hypothetical disaster. Louder. Louder. Louder, still, until the inside of his head grew uninhabitable. He itched to crawl out of his own skin. To vacate his body. He’d pull himself apart piece by piece if it meant escaping the noise. The worry.
The unrelenting overwhelming, worry.
It was the perfect kindling, the perfect fuel source for the fire seething under his skin. And as his thoughts grew louder, darker, more horrifying, the fire ignited once more—though he supposed it never really left.
It sat under his skin, smoldering day and night. When he was with you, when you were safely at his side, it dulled into a calm simmer. It was harmless, almost imperceptible. But when you failed to text and let him know you got home safe, when you left your front door unlocked, when he was away on a mission, it broke into a frantic boil. It raged against his skin, roasting him alive, burning him down to the bone.
Eventually, it grew to be too much. He’d held off for as long as he could—longer than usual—but couldn’t outrun the dread. He reached for his phone, dialed your number, and held his breath.
With each passing second, the possibilities multiplied. A mugging gone wrong. A car accident. A random act of violence. A home invasion. A-
“Hello?”
He could hear the smile in your voice. The images of your demise returned to the dark corners of his mind. The heat receded.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he hoped he didn’t sound breathless, “What are you doing?”
“Nothing, really. Just watching tv.”
He could hear the actors’ voices in the background. It was that comedy you rewatched every year. The one from when you were a kid. The voices halted in unison; he knew you must’ve paused it.
“What’s up?” you asked, “Missing me already?”
It was a stupid question.
“Obviously.” There was still an edge to his voice that he couldn’t quite dull. “And I wanted to check in on you. I asked you to call me when you got home, but-”
“Oh, right. Oops.” He could practically see your shrug. Your light-hearted grin and innocent eye roll. “Don’t be mad?”
He could never be mad at you.
“That’s alright, no big deal, honey.” He decided to omit the vibrating panic that thrashed inside his chest. The relentless heat charring his organs. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” you assured him. “Well, physically speaking, I’m fine. But emotionally? A wreck…” There was a hollow laugh. A long pause. A sigh that sounded like agony. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Bucky eyed his bag of gear, his boots sitting by the door. Part of him was grateful for his job, for the chance to make up for all the horrible things he’d done. With every person he helped, every person he saved, he blotted out some of the pain he’d caused. But the other part—the much louder part—hated it. He didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to leave you.
If you needed him, if something happened to you while he was away, he’d never forgive himself.
His sigh echoed yours, “I know, sweetheart. Trust me, I don’t want to go.”
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” There was a tension in your voice, like you were bracing for the impact of his answer.
“I don’t know. Best guess is…” he thought through his team’s plan, “A week, maybe? But don’t hold me to that.”
A week was doable. Manageable. He’d been gone far longer in the past. One week was better than three. Better than a month. But thinking about each individual day—seven of them—made his hand twitch. Made his jaw tight. Beads of sweat formed at the nape of his neck. Anything could happen in seven days. Anything could happen to you while he was away.
“A week is-” something caught your attention, “Wait, what are you still doing up?”
Bucky half-smiled, “I’m talking to you, honey.”
“You shouldn’t be, you need to go to bed,” it was almost a scold. “You have to be up early.”
“I know, but-”
“No, Buck. No ‘buts’. You need to get your rest. It’s not safe-”
“Okay, okay. I know,” he conceded.
You always got like this the night before he had to leave. Always made sure he double and triple checked his gear. Always ensured he got enough sleep. You wouldn’t even sleep at his place the night before a mission, fearing that he’d stay up too late just to spend time with you.
He’d fought you on it at first, arguing that he’d much rather spend his last night at home with you in his arms. But you held firm. You knew him, knew him well enough to know that he’d forego his much-needed rest for a chance to chat with you all night long. And you simply wouldn’t allow it. You wouldn’t allow him to go into the field without a good night’s sleep.
“I don’t want you being tired when you go out there,” you told him. Your voice had been pulled tight, stretched thin with worry, “It’s not safe.”
“I know, baby. I promise I’ll go to bed now that I know you got home okay.”
He wouldn’t have been able to sleep otherwise.
“Thank you,” the word came out breathy, like a sigh of relief. “And Buck…”
He knew what you were going to say. Knew exactly how you were going to say it. It was the same thing every time. The same plea, the same prayer. Down to the letter.
“Please, promise me you’ll be careful and that you won’t take any unnecessary risks,” you said. “If things seem off to you, get out of there, okay? I need you to come home to me. A failed mission is better than you coming back in a- a body bag.”
Bucky heard it every time. A hitch in your breath, a current of despair washing over the words ‘body bag’. No matter how many times you said it, it didn’t seem to get any easier for you.
“And call me when you’re on the jet on the way home, okay?” The words sounded like begging. “That way I know you made it back.”
He hated knowing how worried you’d be in his absence. Hated knowing that heavy knots would sit like rocks in your stomach, twisting tighter as the days passed. Though he had to admit, it was nice having someone who cared. Someone who worried. Someone who missed him.
“I promise I’ll be careful, I always am,” he said. “I’ll be safe and I’ll come home in one piece, I swear.”
He wondered if it gave you any reassurance at all. Or if you counted it as an empty promise. His job was unpredictable. Dangerous. No amount of caution could guarantee his safe return. But he did his best because you asked him to. Because he knew you were at home waiting for him. And he’d do anything to get back to you.
“Now, you have to promise me a few things,” he said. “I need you to be safe while I’m gone. Lock your door, okay? Be careful when you’re walking home from work. Take care of yourself. And please, no late-night runs in the park. Alright?”
“Yeah, yeah,” a laugh obscured your words a bit. “Sure thing, Buck.”
Your nonchalance set him ablaze.
He drew in a small breath, nearly choking on the molten lava filling his lungs, “Hey, I’m-”
“Baby, it’s getting late,” you said. “You really need to go to sleep.”
It wasn’t late. It wasn’t even in the neighborhood of late. But you’d say anything to get him to go to bed.
He dragged his palm down his face, “Okay, yeah. I will.”
It wasn’t a lie—not exactly. He’d go to bed. He’d go through the motions of turning off the lights and lying down, but he wouldn’t sleep. His eyes wouldn’t even close. He’d, instead, stare at the ceiling, worrying about you. Thinking about all the things that could go wrong while he was away. All the things that could happen to you.
He’d hope that hearing from you would put him at ease. Hoped that once he knew you were home safe, the worry—the heat—would dissipate. And it did, for a moment. But only a moment. He should’ve known better, should’ve known that this conversation would play out the same way it had in the past:
You, begging him to be careful.
And him, swearing to proceed with the utmost caution.
Him, begging you to be careful.
And you, brushing it off like an inconsequential comment made in passing.
It didn’t matter how many times he pled with you, how many iterations of his requests he came up with, they were always discarded. Laughed off.
He shook his head, tensed his jaw. His window had closed; there was no arguing with you now. No circling back to his plea. The heat raged under his skin, forcing a tremor into his hand.
“Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you. So much.” He said it as though it might be his last chance to tell you, though it was his safety that concerned him. “Please take care of yourself while I’m gone.”
“I love you, too. Buck. So much,” you said. “Please be careful.”
Of course, he’d be careful. His life had more value now that he was with you. Now that he had something to come home to. Now that there was someone to miss him if he didn’t make it back. He only wished you felt the same.
The eight days and seven nights that he spent away were torturous. The mission itself was nothing to write home about. Not particularly challenging nor especially horrifying. But the nightmares? The nightmares ripped him to shreds. When he found a few hours here or there to get some sleep, he was haunted by the promise you refused to make. The moment he drifted off, he saw you—bleeding, cold, still. The victim of a break-in, a late-night mugging, a vengeful Hydra holdout.
He woke with his chest heaving, sweat beading across his forehead. The flames licked at the his throat and crawled down into his stomach. There was no going back to sleep, no recovering from what he’d seen. He’d, instead, lie back and wonder: were you locking your door? Were you taking care of yourself? Were you being safe? Though he knew the answer would do him more harm than good.
The second he boarded the jet home, he gave you a call, just as you requested. But the phone rang and rang and rang. No answer. His chest tightened with each passing second, each unanswered ring. Had his dreams been prophecies? Visions of the future? Had you fallen victim to some heinous act of violence? Were you lying still in a refrigerated drawer somewhere, waiting for him to identify your body?
His throat closed at the thought. Violent flames torched their way through his chest and rocketed up his spine. He fought to drag air into his lungs, but it only provided more fuel for the fire. There was no stopping the blaze, no quelling the path of destruction. Or so he thought.
Once his phone rang, once your name popped up on his screen, the heat settled into a calm simmer. He answered immediately, still teetering on the edge of panic.
“Hello?” The word came out desperate, demanding.
“Hey!” you sounded so cheery, so at ease, so alive. “You okay, Buck? You sound stressed.”
He forced himself to take a deep breath. “Oh, yeah, I’m- I’m fine, sweetheart. Just the adrenaline,” he lied. “I just wanted to let you know I’m on the jet on the way home.”
“Finally,” you sighed. “I miss you.”
A smile warmed his features, “I miss you, too. A lot.”
“A lot,” you echoed.”
“I have a debrief at the compound after I land, but I’ll come over as soon as I’m done, okay?”
As usual, you agreed with his plan. And, as usual, you simultaneously cursed the meeting that would keep him from you. Bucky knew to expect it; it was like this every time. You hated his post-mission debriefs, hated that they delayed your reunion.
“I don’t see the point,” you complained. “You just finished the mission. You don’t need a debrief—you were there!”
“I know, sweetheart,” he laughed. “Hopefully it won’t last too long. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way to yours, okay?”
But he didn’t.
He was released from the compound much earlier than expected, without debrief or discussion. And he itched to surprise you. To sweep through the door and watch your eyes light up at his unexpected arrival. He could practically hear your excited squeal. Could almost feel your arms wrapping him in a vice grip. A smile lifted his features.
He made quick work of shelving his weapons and bidding goodbye to his team. His mind was elsewhere—far away, tucked inside your apartment. He was half-certain that people tried to speak to him as he rushed down the hall and out the door, but it made no difference to him. Their words didn’t register, their faces blurred. He figured he might be regarded as rude as he brushed past without acknowledgement, but he didn’t have it in him to care. Nothing could keep him from your side.
Not even a locked door.
He spent the entirety of his drive to your apartment toying with the key you’d given him. He turned it over and over in his hand, running the pads of his fingers over its sharp edges. It was precious to him, his most prized possession. To him, it was so much more than a key. This was the physical representation of your trust in him—something he never thought earn, something he knew he’d never deserve.
But you granted it to him with no hesitations, no second guesses. And though it was something so small, something so mundane, it meant everything to him. Knowing that he was welcome in your home, knowing that you wanted him there—it was all he ever could’ve hoped for.
He tucked your key safely inside his fist and made his way into your building, prepared to surprise his best girl. But as he arrived at your door, his enthusiasm for the plan faded. He no longer desired to slowly sneak through your apartment, meticulously looking for you one room at a time. No longer desired to move quietly through your space until he could sneak up behind you. He couldn’t stand the thought, not when you were so close. Not when he missed you so deeply.
He wanted to throw the door open and rush inside, shouting for you, begging for you. Wanted to call you home to him as soon as possible. But he abstained, knowing the joy you’d take in a romantic surprise.
Slowly—painstakingly slowly—he slid the key you’d gifted him into the lock and gave it a twist. At least, he tried to. The key didn’t turn. The lock didn’t give.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Shouldn’t have been optimistic that you’d lock your door as he’d asked. That familiar sensation—the heat under his skin—turned swiftly into a rolling boil. Into an uncontrollable blaze. He swallowed against the flames licking at his throat, wondering why you’d even bother making him a key. At this point, it seemed that it was more of a gesture than anything else. More a token of your love than an actual tool.
After all, what good was a key in the face of an unlocked door?
He heaved a heavy sigh and opened the door, meeting no resistance at all. No deadbolt. No chain. The fire raged under his skin, crackling as he locked the door behind him. It burned away his plan to surprise you, ate through the excitement of his homecoming, leaving only devastation in its wake.
In the kitchen, loose chocolate chips were scattered across the counter. Measuring spoons and butter wrappers lay to the side, discarded. And there you stood, your back to him, scooping balls of cookie dough on to a baking sheet.
“Honey?” he called, knowing damn well that you hadn’t sensed his presence. That you had no idea he’d slipped silently through your door.
You jumped. A small shriek filled the air, and you whipped your head in his direction, your eyes wide. But you relaxed just as quickly at the sight of him. Your shoulders eased downward, your breathing slowed.
“Oh my god, you scared me!”
He caught you just as you launched yourself at him and held you tightly against his chest. Feeling you in his arms once again helped ease some of the heat sizzling under his collar, but nothing could snuff it out completely.
He thanked a god he didn’t believe in that he’d been the only one to sneak through your door. That no one else had happened upon you and your unlocked door. That you’d screamed in surprise and delight instead of terror—or pain.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” his words were muffled against your neck. “But your… your door was unlocked-”
“No, it’s okay!” Your arms wrapped tighter around him, “I’m glad you let yourself in.”
He could practically see his point fly over your head.
“Guess what I’m making for you?” you pulled back, beaming, and loosed one of your arms from his body. In a grand, sweeping gesture, you directed his gaze to the counter, toward the cookie dough, “They’re welcome home cookies!”
Bucky’s eyes followed your movement but didn’t make it past your outstretched hand. There, clutched tightly in your palm, was a bloody wad of paper towels.
The fire reignited. “Is that blood?”
“What?” you followed his gaze and gave a casual laugh, “Oh, yeah. Little baking mishap. No big deal.”
There was nothing ‘little’ about the amount of blood soaking the paper towels. But you didn’t seem to care. You were as nonchalant and carefree as ever, paying no mind to your wounded hand. Bucky paid enough mind for the both of you.
“What happened?” he choked against the smoke filling his lungs.
You shrugged, “I was chopping up some chocolate to add to the dough and the knife slipped.”
Bucky could feel his face twisting with dismay, with concern. He couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t mask his worry.
“But it’s okay,” you reassured him, “You don’t have to be grossed out. I cleaned it all up—there’s no blood in the cookies,” you laughed. “I got a different knife and a different cutting board and threw out the chocolate. So, it’s-”
“Can I see?” he asked, eager to assess the damage. Your method of wound care seemed to be comprised of paper towels and paper towels only, much to his dismay.
“Oh, um, yeah,” you gently tugged him toward the mixing bowl on the counter, “But I swear I didn’t get any blood in the-”
“Sweetheart,” he stopped in his tracks, not allowing you to pull him any further. “I want to see your hand.”
He wondered how you could possibly assume that he’d prioritize the food over your injury. It was like you were stoking his flames, adding tinder piece by piece until his entire being went up in a dazzling inferno.
“There’s not much to see,” you shrugged. “It’s really nothing.”
“Humor me,” he begged. He held out his hand, waiting for you to grant him your injured palm.
With a playful roll of your eyes, you dropped your hand into Bucky’s, allowing him a look at your cut. He carefully removed the wad of towels, his heart in his throat. There was something in him that knew, even before he lay witness to your wound, that things were worse that you’d let on. That you’d downplayed things for some unknown reason, as you so often did.
And he was right. He sucked in a sharp inhale as he laid eyes on the bloody crater in the middle of your palm. It wasn’t big, but it was deep. Deep enough to set him ablaze.
“Sweetheart, this is…” he replaced the wad of paper towels and wound your fingers tightly around them in an effort to stem the bleeding. “This is not nothing. I think you need stitches.”
The shrug you threw his way turned his insides molten. It was this nonchalance, this care-free attitude of yours that often sent him smoldering. Turned him to cinders. He never knew helplessness could burn this hot. Never knew worry could scald. But the heat vibrating beneath his surface raged like a wildfire, consuming him one acre at a time.
Of course, these weren’t new emotions for him. He’d been helpless before—for decades—under Hydra. And he’d worried himself sick nearly every day after his escape. But he’d never burned like this before. No, this all-consuming heat was new.
It started as a tiny prickle. A small spark here or there. Little flashes of fire that were snuffed out just as soon as they’d ignited. It took him quite a while—too long, perhaps—to find the source. But there was one afternoon that made it all click. It was back when things between the two of you began growing more serious. More real. He hadn’t yet realized that it was you. That you were the accelerant. That you were the match.
His request had been simple—a no-brainer, really. All he asked was that you stop running alone in the park after dark. He didn’t try to control you. Didn’t give you rules or forbid you from living your life. But after hearing about a woman who was attacked on her nightly run though the park, he worried. He knew you ran that same path, knew it could’ve so easily been you. And so, he asked you to adjust your schedule just a touch. Asked that you run before dusk, or that you bring him along.
He, naively, assumed you’d agree. But all you gave him was a casual shrug, a small chuckle. And your nonchalance turned his insides to kindling.
That was the first time it all made sense. He didn’t burn like this when he was helpless at the hands of Zola or Pierce. Didn’t burn when he worried about being captured after his escape. No, he burned for you. Burned at the thought of you in jeopardy. At the thought of you getting hurt. And, most often, it was your indifference to danger that set him on fire.
It wasn’t the fire of anger or rage—no, this was different. Deeper. This heat was sharper. It thrashed and roared inside his chest, screaming for release. It wanted out. It threatened to burst forth, to escape from his body and consume everything in its path. Bucky had to use all of his strength just to keep it caged. But he felt it every day. Felt its desperate fight for freedom.
He supposed it might quiet a bit if you’d just take him seriously. If you’d listen to his concerns and take them into consideration. If you’d value your life the way you valued his.
But nothing he said, nothing he did could rid you of that all too casual attitude. And all the days, all the months of his unchecked worry had grown and morphed and changed, exploding into the fireball that ate at him now.
“I don’t need stitches,” you said, the hint of a laugh in your voice. “I’m fine.”
“Baby, I really think I should take you to the ER-”
“For a cut this small?”
“It’s small, but it’s deep,” he sighed. “Let me take you to the urgent care, at least. That way a doctor can take a look,” it sounded like pleading. Maybe because he was, indeed, pleading.
“I promise I don’t need to see a doctor, it’s-” A bright smile spread across your face, “Do you have your bag with you?”
“My bag?”
“Your duffel—the one you bring with you on missions,” you said.
“Yeah, it’s in- I left it in my car.” He feared you were attempting to change the subject. To draw his attention elsewhere. But he wouldn’t allow it. “Honey-”
“You guys all have that surgical glue stuff in your medical kits, right? Just in case someone gets hurt in the field?”
He took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Allowed his forehead to lean forward against his cool, metal palm for a moment. It was all he could do to keep from turning to ash.
“Baby, we are not going to glue your cut closed-”
“Come on, Buck,” you leaned into him.
He knew he shouldn’t look down, shouldn’t allow your big, pleading, puppy dog eyes any power over him. It was your most persuasive tactic; a tactic he fell victim to time and time again. He swore you had a one hundred percent success rate. And as he glanced down and met your gaze, he knew you’d keep your perfect record.
“This really isn’t an ER-worthy injury—it’s tiny. It’s nothing. And you know they’d charge me at least six thousand dollars for two stitches and some Tylenol,” you laughed.
He hated to admit it, but you had a point. Was an injury that minor really worth the hefty price tag? He supposed not. He supposed that he should pick his battles. That he should save his arguments for the future, for the next time you got hurt and inevitably tried to weasel out of a necessary trip to the ER.
“Alright, alright,” he sighed, “Stop looking at me like that.” He covered your eyes with his large palm and laughed as your wriggled free. “I’ll go get my kit.”
The walk down to his car freed him from your spell, allowed his head to clear. The thought of gluing your wound shut struck him as ridiculous. Reckless, even. The glue he kept in his med kit was for emergencies in the field. For injuries that occurred far, far from medical help. But you were in the heart of the city; there was an urgent care right around the corner, an ER just a few miles away. There was simply no reason to opt for an at-home, DIY treatment when medical professionals were so readily available. No reason to be so careless with something as precious as you. And if you were so worried about the financial burden of seeking treatment, he’d foot the bill himself.
He planned to tell you as much as he once again swept through your front door. The words were poised on the tip of his tongue, prepared to persuade. But before he could open his mouth, you had another request for him.
“Hey, do you think you could do me a favor?” you asked as he made it back to the kitchen.
He breathed a small sigh of relief. He knew how independent you were, how strong-willed. And he knew that you most likely wouldn’t ask for help tending to your wound, even if you needed it. But you said you needed a favor. A favor! This had to be the part where you asked him to close your cut for you, right?
Wrong.
“This batch of cookies has…” you turned, eying the timer on the oven, “Five minutes to go. Would you mind keeping an eye on them and taking them out when the oven goes off?”
It wasn’t at all what he’d expected.
“I’m- what?”
“Would you take the cookies out of the oven when the timer goes off?” you repeated. “Please?”
There was this matter-of-factness to your words. This plain and simple attitude that made it seem like common sense. But it made no sense at all to Bucky.
“Baby, no, it’s-” the burning flared in his chest as though trying to escape. “If you’re not gonna let me take you to see a doctor, I’m at least gonna help you with the glue.”
Your soft, lighthearted laugh filled the kitchen, “I’ve used glue before, Buck. I think I can figure it out.”
Just then, your lips were pressed to his cheek. You slipped the bottle of medical glue from his hand and turned in the direction of the bathroom, but Bucky wouldn’t allow it. He started after you, hell bent on giving you the assistance he knew you’d need. The sound of his footsteps, however, halted yours.
“Buck, I’m okay. Can you please just take the cookies out of the oven when the-”
With a huff, Bucky turned back toward the kitchen. He dipped his vibranium hand into the oven, pulled out the cookies, and sat the piping hot tray on the stove top.
“There, the cookies are out.”
He strode toward you again, “Now, come on. Let me help you with your-”
“Buck! They still had a few minutes left!” you sighed, “They’re gonna be under-done now!”
For a split-second, guilt circled Bucky like a shark. He knew how much work you’d put into those cookies. Knew that you’d made them for him, wanted them to be perfect for him. But the condition of his welcome home cookies sat so low on his list of priorities that it didn’t even register.
“Your hand is more important,” he said, his palm resting against your cheek.
There was a flicker of disappointment in your eyes. A slight tinge of sadness. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful for your efforts. Didn’t want to hurt your feelings or ruin the first night of your reunion.
He swept his thumb over your cheek, “Besides, we both know you like your cookies gooey, anyway.”
The disappointment vanished. A smile slowly stretched across your face.
“Yeah…” you gave a quiet laugh. “But you like them crunchy. I wanted them to be in the oven long enough to get crispy for you.”
It was such a small gesture, but it did something to him. A gentle warmth drifted through his body. It wasn’t anything like the sharp, aggressive heat that plagued him. No, this was comfortable. Cozy. Like sitting by a gentle fire on a cold winter’s day. You made him feel so loved. So at home. His guilt returned.
He hadn’t meant to ruin your grand, romantic plan. But he couldn’t ignore the bloody wad of paper towels resting in your injured hand. Couldn’t allow you to put your wellbeing on the back burner.
“Well, that’s… that’s very sweet of you,” he leaned down and brushed a kiss to your hairline, “And if you let me help you with your cut, I promise the next tray can stay in the oven as long as you want. We can burn those cookies to a crisp, if you like.”
Much to his surprise, you allowed him to clean and close your wound himself. He wasn’t sure whether you did so simply because of the promise he’d made you, but he didn’t care. As long as the bleeding stopped and the cut was closed, he was happy. It dulled the raging heat just a bit. He only wished he hadn’t had to beg you to care.
Bucky knew he worried a lot—more than the average person—as a result of his past. He worried about things that other people wouldn’t even consider. You, on the other hand, didn’t worry enough. Though, he supposed that wasn’t entirely true. You worried about him. A ton.
But when it came to you—your safety, your well-being—you couldn’t be bothered. Couldn’t spare a single second of concern for yourself.
Meanwhile, Bucky worried about your safety almost constantly. He sometimes wished he could extract some of his worry and transplant it into your body. Not to burden you, of course. Never to burden you. But it seemed to him that you were allergic to self-preservation. It was the one thing he didn’t like about you.
And that one thing reared its ugly head again, just a few days later.
“Okay, I gotta go to work,” you pulled Bucky in for a long, deep kiss while simultaneously slipping into your shoes.
It wasn’t like you to run late. But you’d caught Bucky getting out of the shower, and all bets were off after that.
“Are we still on for tonight?” you asked when you came up for air.
Bucky was silent for a moment, his eyes still closed, as though your kiss left him in a trance.
“Um, yeah, yes, absolutely,” he smiled, joining you in reality once again. “You’re meeting Ava at eight, right?”
“Right,” you smiled back. “And I’ll see you at your place after. But she and I shouldn’t be out too late.”
“Don’t feel like you have to rush,” he took your hand in his and walked you toward the front door. Your front door. The door he planned to lock securely once he left for work.
He lifted your bag from the floor and gently rested it on your shoulder.
“Just do me a favor and call me when you’re ready to leave the bar,” he requested, “That way you don’t have to walk to my place by yourself in the dark. Okay?”
A strange smile yanked the corner of your mouth upward. A bemused look fell across your features. A wry laugh left your chest. Bucky waited. Waited for you to agree. Waited for you to promise. He should’ve known by now not to hold his breath.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” your lips brushed against his once more. “Have a good day, Buck. I’ll see you tonight.”
And then you were gone. You slipped out the door and down the hall, your facetious response still hanging in the air. Bucky’s insides exploded into a wildfire of biblical proportions.
It took most of the day for him to snuff out the vicious flames. The thought of seeing you again, of having you tucked safely into his side, was the only thing capable of quieting the inferno. And so, he turned the day into a countdown. Every hour, on the hour, he reminded himself that he was that much closer to seeing you again.
The thoughts were borderline obsessive. Possibly neurotic. But there was nothing he could do. He was powerless, helpless in his struggle against the worry. He just cared about you. Cared about you so deeply that he stood teetering on the edge of insanity. But it wasn’t his fault—you’d been the one to push him there.
It wasn’t purposeful, he was certain of that. And he was certain that if you knew how he felt, if you knew that he was burning alive, you’d change your ways. But you had no idea.
And in your ignorance, you forced him to confront the ugly, bitter truth. The truth that, as strong as he was, he couldn’t protect you from everything. He couldn’t even protect you from yourself. It was a hard fact to swallow; it went down like razorblades.
He heaved a heavy sigh and leaned against the nearest wall. He supposed he should’ve been listening to whatever was coming out of Fury’s mouth, but he didn’t have it in him. The exhaustion was finally getting to him. It had been chipping away at him for months now, eroding his energy into nothing. He was far too tired to sleep, too exhausted to relax. Worrying, as it turned out, was more tiring than he’d ever thought possible.
It was the endless thoughts that got to him. The ceaseless circling of the same anxieties over and over and over. He’d tried, at first, to fortify himself against them. To beat them into submission. But they didn’t fight fair. They kept him awake at night, depriving him of rest. Kept him from eating. Their cruel and unusual tactic brought him to his knees, rendering him utterly drained.
There was potential for rest, though. Once he picked you up from the bar, once he brought you back to his place with its securely locked door, once he had you in his arms—maybe then he’d finally sleep. Maybe then, with the knowledge that you were safe, he’d finally be able to rest.
The rest of the day dragged. He stayed at work later than usual, hoping to avoid the preoccupied pacing he knew he might fall into at home. But when the preoccupied pacing found him in his office, he gave up.
The fire in his chest still crackled even as he got home, even knowing that he’d see you in a no time. He sunk into the couch with a plate of leftovers in hand and retrieved his phone from his pocket. He gave the battery life a quick check, set the ringer to loud, and waited. Waited for your call. Waited for the moment when he’d grab his keys and rush out the door to pick you up. Surely, it wouldn’t be long; you’d said that you wouldn’t be out late.
But the minutes passed without a call. Without a text. Hours passed. He did his dishes. Cleaned his gun. Ate the last of the cookies you’d made for him. And still, nothing. The fire licked at his fingertips, pushing him to give you a call. But he did his best to hold out.
He knew you hadn’t seen Ava in months, and he didn’t want to interrupt your reunion. Didn’t want to be thatboyfriend. But he had a nagging feeling. It was this persistent gnawing, this tireless worry that something was off.
But just before he could bite the bullet and dial your number, there was a knock at the door.
And while he normally didn’t mind that his elderly neighbor often asked him for help with household tasks here and there, he didn’t quite have the mental capacity for it tonight. He rose from the couch, planning to tell Mrs. Beverly that he’d give her a hand tomorrow. But when he pulled the door open, he didn’t find Mrs. Beverly.
“Hi,” you stood before him, a warm smile on your face.
“Um…” Bucky was taken aback. Confused. He was, of course, thrilled to see you, and he appreciated Ava giving you a ride. But the change in plans caught him off guard. “Hi, sweetheart. I'm- what are you doing here?”
Your smile fell; a current of disappointment flashed in your eyes. “I um... I thought we said that I’d come over after the bar.”
“No, we did, we did, but I…” He noticed the small shivers making your frame vibrate, “Come in, baby, you’re cold.” He opened his door wider and allowed you inside, “I told you to call me when you were ready to leave. I was gonna pick you up-”
You gave him a wave of your hand, a small shrug, “Yeah, I know. But I figured I’d just walk, save you the trip.”
You dotted a kiss to kiss to his cheek; he wondered if you could feel the heat of the glowing embers beneath his skin.
“You walked?” Bucky’s bones turned to firewood, feeding the incessant flame. “But I asked you to-”
“Yeah, it was a nice night, so I thought I’d-”
“No, it’s not. It’s cold out, it’s-” He gave you a quick once over and frowned at your clothing. Jeans. A long sleeve t-shirt. Sneakers. The blaze crackled and flickered, gnawing at his lungs. “Sweetheart, where’s your coat?”
Again, you shrugged, “It’s really not cold out, it’s more- it’s cool.”
“Cool enough that you’re shivering,” Bucky wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, hoping his internal inferno might help the feeling return to your hands. Might warm your wind-chilled skin.
You laughed against his crushing grasp, “Hey, I made it here alive, didn’t I? That counts for something.”
He rested his chin atop your head and forced himself to breathe, to try and get ahold of the fire eating away at his insides. But it raged. It roared. It charred every last piece of him. He felt it swallowing him whole, engulfing his body and mind, leaving only smoke and cinders. Why wouldn’t you just listen to him? Why wouldn’t you just allow him to pick you up from the bar? Why wouldn’t you just wear a damn coat?
He could still feel the shivers shaking your body, could still feel your ice-cold fingers through his shirt.
“Come on,” he unwound from your embrace and took your frigid hand in his, “Let’s get you a sweatshirt.”
“Oh, no, that’s alright, Buck. I’m really fine-”
“I’m getting you a sweatshirt.”
It came out a touch sharper than intended, but he couldn’t help it, not when the blistering tendrils scorched the inside of his head. He gave you a small smile—kind, apologetic—which you accepted at once. And to his surprise, you allowed him to lead you toward his bedroom.
He did his best to regain his composure, to extinguish the flames eating at his very soul. At least you were finally at his side. At least he could keep an eye on you until tomorrow morning. At least he could keep you safe for another night.
“Did you have a good time tonight?” he asked as the two of you lazily strolled toward his room.
And he genuinely hoped that you did. He hoped that you had fun with your friend, that you got to catch up and laugh and enjoy each other’s company. Your happiness was all he cared about—that, and your safety. The former seemed plentiful but the latter, lacking.
“Yeah, we really did,” you smiled, “It was great to see Ava again. I mean, the whole night was just- well, I guess not the whole night. But yeah, most of it was great.”
Bucky furrowed his brow a bit, “Did something happen?”
“Oh, no, nothing happened,” you gave a casual wave of your hand, “It was just this annoying guy, he wouldn’t leave me alone.”
Bucky didn’t like the sound of that. Didn’t like the sound of a strange man relentlessly hitting on you at the bar. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you. Wasn’t that he suspected you of returning this stranger’s advancements. It was the picture your words painted. A picture of your refusals being ignored. A picture of harassment.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “What guy?”
“I don’t know—just a guy. He wouldn’t stop bothering me. He wouldn’t stop trying to talk to me,” you rolled your eyes. “He was at it for like, twelve blocks.”
Bucky stopped in his tracks. The flames engulfed him from the ground up, scorching everything from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
“What?”
You eyed him, confused. “What?”
“He… this guy followed you for twelve blocks?”
You shrugged, “Ehh… I mean, I don’t know if I’d say he ‘followed’ me, it’s-”
“He was with you for your entire walk- he harassed you for twelve blocks,” Bucky asserted. “He followed you.”
The heat grew unbearable. Uninhabitable. The flames wormed their way into every organ, every cell. Bucky felt himself roasting alive, broiling inside his own skin. His fingers itched to rip into his flesh, to tear himself apart piece by piece. It seemed the only way to vent the heat, to escape the oppressive, antagonistic flames.
He wondered if you could hear the sizzling. If you could smell the smoke.
“Baby, why didn’t you call me? I would’ve been there, I would’ve-”
“It’s okay!” you laughed, “It wasn’t a big deal.”
Bucky wondered if this is what cremation felt like.
Wordlessly, he pushed forward into his bedroom with you in tow. He opened the door to his small closet, flipped on the light, and began silently searching for a sweatshirt to give you.
There was so much he wanted to say to you. So many questions he wanted to ask. But he couldn’t find the words for the life of him. It just didn’t make any sense—you didn’t make any sense. And as he pawed through the items in his closet, he found himself on an all too familiar train of thought.
Since the start of your relationship, he’d been trying to figure you out. Trying to understand why you had these strange tendencies. He puzzled over it for hours at a time until the flames incinerated his ability to think straight. And here he was in that same spot, his brain melting.
He couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t possibly stand the oppressive heat. He’d fought against it for months, containing it as best he could. But he was too far gone now. He’d reached his boiling point.
With a quick yank, he freed a sweatshirt from its hanger and handed it to you without a word. And then he was gone. He quickly vacated the small closet and made his way across the bedroom, desperate for space, for air.
You stood there, sweatshirt in hand, watching him.
He was pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other buried in his hair. He knew he must’ve looked unhinged, but he couldn’t find it in him to care, not when he was actively being incinerated.
“Buck, are you mad at me?” your voice was soft, cautious.
He halted his pacing and turned toward you, “No, baby, I’m not mad. I’m just-” he let out a sharp exhale, “I’m frustrated.”
“Oh. Okay…” You gave him a small, apologetic smile, “Well, if I did something to upset you, I’m sorry-”
“I don’t want you to be sorry, sweetheart, I want you to be safe.”
The words didn’t come out with sharp, pointed edges. Like he said, he wasn’t angry. He was hopeless. Despondent. This was real begging. This was his most desperate plea. He was a man pushed to the precipice, teetering on a razor thin ledge. It would take only an errant breeze to send him hurdling toward the ground. To reduce him to something that had to be scraped up off the sidewalk. And you were that breeze. Though he supposed that he’d most likely combust before he ever hit the ground.
You cocked your head, “What?”
“I asked you to call me when you were ready to leave the bar. I asked you-” His voice broke as he begged, the weight of his worry growing too heavy. “I asked you to let me pick you up and drive you back here so that you didn’t have to walk alone in the dark-”
“I know,” A soft laugh pushed past your lips, “But it seemed silly to have you drive me—it’s basically right around the corner.”
Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, “Baby, it wasn’t about the distance. It was- someone followed you tonight. For twelve blocks. Twelve.” The fire in his chest rattled like a caged animal.
“I know, but it was fine,” your all too familiar shrug punctuated your sentence. “He didn’t do anything.”
Bucky’s brain short-circuited. He was certain it was the heat. Certain that the vicious flames had eaten through his neurons and fried his entire system. He just stared at you, confused. Hopeless. Was he speaking the wrong language? Was he not communicating clearly enough? How was it possible that you didn’t see his point?
The silence dragged on. And on. The tension grew palpable. Heavy. It seemed that all the oxygen had been sucked from the room; Bucky blamed the forest fire raging inside him.
“It really- it seems like you’re mad at me…” you finally said.
This snapped Bucky back into focus. Forced him to find his voice.
“I’m not mad at you, honey. Really, I’m not. I’m…” The words came out splintered, broken. Almost as though the shattered pieces he’d tried so hard repair spilled from his mouth, forming a pile at his feet. “I’m confused. I don’t understand, I’m trying to understand…”
You eyed him, uncertain. “Understand what?”
“Why you don’t care about your safety, why I have to beg you to care about yourself,” he gave a small shake of his head. “Every time I have to leave for a mission, you’re adamant that I go to bed early so I’m well rested. You won’t even stay here with me the night before because you don’t want to keep me up. You ask me to be careful, to not take any unnecessary risks, to call you on my way home—and I do all of it. Because I know you’re worried about me.”
He furrowed his brow, “But when I ask you to text me when you get home, to lock your doors, to please call me when you’re ready to leave the bar so you don’t have to walk here alone, you brush it off.” His teeth sunk into the raw flesh of his cheek, “You keep choosing to put yourself in situations where something could happen to you.”
You gave him your patented affectionate eye roll, “What’s gonna happen to me?”
“Anything,” The word tasted like blood. “Anything could happen to you, baby. And I’m not saying that you’re not allowed to live your life, I’m not trying to control you. But it’s—it’s the decisions you make. Like the decision to walk all the way here. Late at night. By yourself. In my sketchy neighborhood,” he huffed, “that guy who followed you? He could’ve been dangerous.”
“But he wasn’t,” you sighed, “He didn’t do anything.”
“But he could’ve- that’s exactly what I’m saying. You choose to put yourself in situations where something could happen to you—even when I give you an alternative. You always,” his breath came out shaky, “You always choose the most dangerous option. And I don’t understand why.”
The perfect example popped into his head, “Like: I bet you went on late night runs in the park while I was gone, even though you could’ve gone while it was still light out.” He eyed you for a moment, watching for some sort of reaction. But you gave nothing away. “Am I right?”
He wasn’t sure why he asked when he already knew the answer. But he just needed to know. Needed to hear you say it. Maybe it was the masochistic part of him craving the twist of a knife. Maybe it was the fire talking, seeking more fuel.
“Um…” your gaze drifted to the wall, the floor—anywhere but his face.
“Sweetheart, please just tell me the truth. It’s not…” He sighed, “You’re not gonna be in trouble, I’m not your parent. I just- I need to know.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, and at first, Bucky read the gesture as defensive. Angry. But your face remained soft, your features open. You weren’t irritated, you were protecting yourself. Bracing for wrath.
“Okay, yeah,” you finally said. “Yeah, I did.”
There was no wrath. No rage. Bucky didn’t yell or put his fist through the drywall. He simply nodded. Dropped his gaze to the floor, then dragged it to the wall. He shoved his hands into his pockets for a moment, but when that became too claustrophobic, he yanked them free and used them to cradle the back of his head. His feet moved beneath him, carrying him nowhere in particular. He paced side to side, forward and back, searching for his breath. It was a slow-motion breakdown, a piece-by-piece unraveling.
The fire pushed past white-hot and grew into a supernova with ease. But it didn’t even bother him anymore. He found himself void of sensation, his nerve endings scorched into oblivion. Somehow, it was almost better. Almost better now that his entire being had been incinerated. Better that he didn’t have to feel the flames eating away at him bit by bit.
When he finally looked at you again, your eyes were wide. Your mouth hung slightly agape. One hand was slightly raised, like you’d begun reaching for him and then changed your mind. Concern was splashed across your face, but there was something else there, too. Bucky couldn’t quite put a finger on it—was it disbelief? Shock? Confusion?
But as you spoke, the answer became clear.
“Do you…” It was disbelief. “Do you really worry about me this much?”
It was a ridiculous question.
“Yes. Of course, I do.”
Somehow, you appeared even more surprised. Even more confused.
Bucky joined in your confusion.
He offered an explanation of sorts, “I mean, you worry about me.”
“Yeah, but that’s- it’s different,” you shook your head. A soft, humorless laugh left your chest. “Your day job involves people shooting at you- and stabbing you. My life is just… it’s not that dangerous.”
“You worry about me even when I’m home,” he countered. “You worry when I have nightmares or when I’m depressed-”
“Of course, I do. I love you,” you said matter-of-factly, “I’m gonna worry about you.”
“It’s the same thing,” he said. “I love you, so I’m gonna worry about you.”
You held up a hand, shook your head, “No, it’s different-”
“How?” He looked at you expectantly. “How is it different?”
Your mouth opened, but no words came. Your brow furrowed. Your hands curled into fists and then splayed out again. There was a frustrated huff followed by a sharp intake of breath. But no answer.
“I don’t know,” you gave up. Defeated. “But it is- it’s different.”
“Honey, it’s not,” Bucky said, his voice soft. “It’s exactly the same. But for some reason, you’re allowed to worry about me, and I’m not allowed to worry about you.”
“No, no, you are! You are,” your palms pressed into your eyes for a short moment before falling down by your sides. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like… I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Buck.” Guilt dripped from your words, forming a puddle at your feet. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I don’t care about- this isn’t about my feelings.” He handled the words gently, carefully, absolving you of blame. “This is about you and how you don’t seem to care about your safety. And when I try to care, it’s like you don’t want me to.”
“Honestly, I just-” a strained smile stretched across your face, “I didn’t know you were being serious.”
He stared at you for a long moment, desperately wishing he knew what was going on inside your mind. A slight tremor in your hand caught his attention, and his heart sunk. Had he come on too strongly? Had he been too harsh with you? It was then he noticed that your entire body had fallen victim to the shaking—the shivering. He suddenly remembered the cold weather. Your lack of a winter coat. The shitty heat in his apartment. You weren’t frightened, you were cold.
“Baby, you’re still shivering. Could you- Can you please put the sweatshirt on?”
Miraculously, you complied. It soothed some of the supernova raging in Bucky’s chest.
You tucked your hands into the too-long sleeves and crossed your arms. There was something about the way your shoulders slumped forward ever so slightly. About the way your eyes remained locked on the wall. Bucky could practically taste the bitter flavor of your shame.
“I’m sorry about…” you sighed, “I just don’t really know- I don’t know what to do with this kind of thing. I don’t know how to react.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just not used to this—someone legitimately worrying about me, I mean. It’s… different than what I’ve experienced.” You pursed your lips. “I’m not used to having a boyfriend who gives a shit about me, that’s all.”
The words hit Bucky like a sucker punch.
“This is gonna sound dramatic, but my exes…” A cold laugh rattled out of your chest, “I honestly don’t think any of them cared whether I lived or died. At least, that’s how they made me feel. All of them. I don’t think any of them cared what happened to me.”
You shrugged, “Maybe it’s on me for dating assholes over and over again.” There was a quiet moment then, as though you were considering the possibility that you may be culpable. Then a shake of your head. A refocusing of your eyes. “My point is, when you ask me to be careful or whatever, it’s like- it’s like my brain doesn’t know what to do with it. I can’t possibly accept that it’s real. But accepting that it might be sarcasm is just…” you grimaced, “So I just brush it off.”
A tidal wave of guilt smothered the flames dancing under Bucky’s skin. It wasn’t your fault- none of it was your fault. And yet, here he was, confronting you, the victim, as though you were the perpetrator. He wished he could take it all back. If he’d known that you were simply the product of your circumstances, if he’d known that these were learned behaviors, he would’ve handled this differently. Handled it better.
This whole thing was a source of pain for you, he could tell. It wormed its way into your expression, though you tried desperately to hide it. There was a hollowness to your smile. A sad, anguished quality in your eyes. He knew your exes must’ve done irreparable harm to you. To be treated as though your life didn’t matter must’ve changed the very fabric of your being, whether you admitted it or not.
“Sweetheart, I didn’t-”
“I was actually with this one boyfriend for a good while,” you said casually, as if telling a lighthearted anecdote. “I was leaving his place around midnight or so, and he told me to text him when I got home so that he’d know I made it safely. It was the first time anyone had said something like that to me. And I was…” you gave a slow shake of your head. A soft laugh. A hint of a smile tugged at your lips. “I mean, it felt so good, you know? I felt so loved.”
The smile vanished. The warmth drained from your expression. “And then he started laughing. It was a joke,” you said, your voice flat, “He thought it was hilarious.”
Bucky didn’t know what to say. He just stared at you, his chest aching. You’d been treated with real cruelty. Real malice. And at the hands of someone who was supposed to care about you.
“Anyway,” you said, shaking your head clear, “I’ll be better, Buck. I’m sorry.”
“No, hey, it’s- it’s alright.”
Finally, he closed the gap between you. He strode across the room and wrapped you—gently, safely—in his protective embrace.
“This is new for me,” you said, your face resting against his chest. “So, it might take me some time to get it right…”
A heavy sigh left your chest, dragging your shoulders down ever so slightly. Bucky felt the way your posture curved forward under some new, invisible weight.
“Sweetheart, it’s alright-”
“It’s just that, when you ask me to be safe or take care of myself, I don’t know, it’s like…” You freed your face from his chest and leaned back the tiniest bit, just enough that you could look at him. “It makes no sense to me, you know? I spent so much time with people who didn’t care what happened to me. And when you’re around people like that,” your jaw tensed, “it kind of makes you wonder. It changes how you see things.”
“What do you mean?”
He could feel your hands fidgeting behind his back. Could feel you picking and pulling at your cuticles. Even with his arms wrapped around you, he couldn’t protect you. He couldn’t save you from your past.
“If the person you’re with—the person who loves you most—doesn’t care what happens to you, it warps you,” you said it simply, like it was normal. “You start wondering why you should care—why you ever cared—about yourself. And eventually, you stop caring, too.”
A sudden crop of tears welled in your eyes but never made past your lash line. Before Bucky could pull you tighter, before he could dry your tears on his shirt, they disappeared into the fabric of your sleeve. You mopped them up quickly, almost aggressively, as if trying to hide them.
“Sorry about that. This is,” you attempted a smile, but only managed a grimace, “This is kind of embarrassing for me. So…”
Bucky caught your chin and lifted your face, “Why?”
“Cause, I mean,” you shrugged, “I just openly admitted that I’ve never been able to convince anyone—not even the people who loved me—to give a shit about me. That’s embarrassing.”
Every time he thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. Every time he thought he’d heard your most painful truth, you found something sadder. Something more heart breaking.
“No. It’s not. This isn’t on you.” His hands drifted upward to cradle the sides of your face, “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. There’s no-” he sighed. Shook his head. This was so poorly handled, botched in his clumsy hands. “It’s not your fault- none of it is your fault. Sweetheart, I’m so sorry about this-”
“No, Buck, I’m the one who should apologize.” You gently removed his hands from your face, opting to hold them to your chest instead. “I should’ve been- this whole time, I should’ve been more grateful that you care. I should’ve been better.” You reached for him then, your palms resting against his chest, “I should’ve appreciated your concern. I’m sorry.”
He pressed his hands to yours, “Baby, it’s-”
“I should’ve been thrilled to be with someone who gives a shit.”
Buck gave a vehement shake of his head, “It’s not something you should have to be thrilled about.”
There was an edge to his voice; something resembling disgust. He hated the people who warped your worldview, your sense of self-preservation. Hated the people who made you feel like basic care and compassion were something novel.
“Caring about your partner is the lowest possible bar,” he said matter-of-factly.
Your features twitched like you’d been hit. Maybe it was the sting of reality sinking in. Or maybe it was the scrape of your past sinking its nails deeper into your bones, desperate for purchase. Bucky knew what it was like to have your perspective challenged. To be met with a truth that you never thought possible, that you never thought to consider. He knew how strange it could be, how uncomfortable.
“I know it’s…” he sighed, “I know it’s different that what you’re used to.”
“Yeah, it’s a- it’s a foreign fucking concept,” a broken laugh cracked out of your chest. “But it’s something I can work with. I’d much rather feel like-” Suddenly, your palms were pressed to your eyes, “Oh my god, have you really been worrying about me this whole time?”
Bucky nodded.
“And every time I- when I don’t text you after I get home, or when I run in the park at night… you’ve actuallybeen concerned?”
“Yes,” he huffed.
“Oh, god, that’s so- I’m so sorry, Buck.” Your hands flew to his cheeks, and your wide eyes bored into his, “I didn’t think you meant it, I swear. I wouldn’t have- shit, I’ve been stressing you out for months, haven’t I?”
A strained smile tore across his face, “You could say that.”
Horror pierced your expression. A plague of guilt followed.
“Buck, baby, I’m so-”
With a laugh, he pulled you tight against his chest and wrapped you in his arms.
“It’s okay, you didn’t do it on purpose.” He smoothed his hand up and down your spine, quieting your numerous apologies. “You didn’t know. And I didn’t know you were dealing with…” He tightened his grip on you, “It’s all okay.”
“I promise I’m gonna be better,” you said, your words muffled against his t-shirt.
And you were.
From that night on, you obliged Bucky’s requests just as he did yours. There were no more midnight trips to the bodega, no more solo runs in the park after dark. And the key you’d made for him finally got some use. You texted him when you got home just like he asked and even allowed him to pick you up from your office when you worked late.
They weren’t extreme changes, nor did they put a damper on your lifestyle. They weren’t even rules. You still lived your life the way you wanted, just with a different perspective and a newfound respect for your own well-being.
And in all honesty, you barely noticed much of a difference in your day to day. But Bucky’s life changed—changed significantly. And for the better.
He slept soundly, even when you weren’t tucked safely into his side. The hard knots in his shoulders dissipated. The anxiety thrumming in his chest quieted. And, finally, mercifully, the insidious, biting flames died. The embers cooled. No longer did he have a bonfire where his heart should’ve been. No longer did he choke on cinders and ash. All that was left was the steady, cozy warmth you brought. It didn’t thrash inside his chest, didn’t threaten to incinerate him. It simply kept him warm on cold days. Comforted him on dark, lonely nights. It was the kind of warmth that made him feel at home, the kind of warmth that he could curl up next to forever.
WOAHWOAHWOAHOKAYYYYYYYY🥺🥺🥺🥺
sweet protective worried anxious bucky losing his mind!!!!!!!!! 😭 and poor reader!!!!!😢
i think i need a hug after that
