Make Yourself Sick
Marvel - Bodyguard!James “Bucky” Barnes x f!reader
4.4k || Atoning through amends simply isn’t enough to ease the burden of Bucky’s past, and he finds himself taking odd jobs in an attempt to right injustices in the community. Where that ended up being a body to the daughter of one of the richest men in the world, he isn’t too sure.
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Genre: Fluff, Light angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Canon-Divergence, soft!Bucky Barnes
CW: Allusions to kidnapping, panic attack, swearing, controlling parents, implied almond mother, other canon-typical violence associated with Bucky
Author’s Note: This is my first Bucky Barnes fic and, though I love him dearly, posting for big fandoms makes me nervous,,, so if he’s grossly OOC be nice about it please I beg || cross-posted on ao3 || inspired from a @creativepromptsforwriting dialogue prompt
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“What in God’s name are you doing?”
Bucky sighs. One tone, all he has. Exasperated.
His gaze drops from your face to the various plates of greasy, fried, and overall artery-clogging staples of carnival foods. To anyone else his expression remained that same careful, flat look he’d adopted since the two of you entered the fair. His work look.
You knew better, though. The way he ran his tongue over his teeth betrayed his, albeit aggravated, interest.
“I ran out of hands for the cotton candy,” you say by way of explanation. Moving as you always do throughout this world: like you don’t belong. The world is unsteady beneath your feet.
Bucky has no choice but to save the wobbling plate of funnel cake as you fumble with a corndog and tray of nachos in that same hand. The other holds an assortment of abominations, otherwise known as possibly edible objects deep-fried into golden deliciousness. The surprise would be a fun game in itself, so you just ordered the works.
“Figured we could go back to get some ice cream later.”
There’s no verbal response, but his jaw ticks. The metal hand, gloved despite the humid summer heat, comes out to grasp the fried smorgasbord. Bucky holds it at a distance. Finally, he says, “You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“No, I’m not.” You lead him towards an open picnic table. He follows, as Bucky always does, and hovers while you situate yourself.
Once you’re seated, Bucky reaches around you to place those last two plates. The gesture is practiced, if a little clipped. To anyone else, he looks like an attentive boyfriend. Black cat to your golden retriever energy; grumpy to your sunshine. The kind of opposite that meshes together surprisingly well and has complete strangers glancing forlornly at you in a ‘I wish I had that’ kind of way.
You shift and his broad chest presses against your chest, breath fanning your neck, and you’re suddenly all too aware of his presence. The way his body tenses almost immediately. That soft edge to his voice when he mutters ‘sorry,’ and straightens like he’s been burned.
Physical contact with Bucky has the opposite effect on you. Butterflies ignite in your stomach. You’re no better than a schoolgirl with a stupid crush. Whereas he can’t seem to step away fast enough. That about tracks with all your relationships, too.
“Sit.”
Bucky eyes the spot you’re patting next to you warily. The reason for all this food finally clicks into place. Steel blue eyes find yours, and he gives a disapproving gesture with his head before swinging his gaze back out towards the swarming crowds around you.
You try again.
“Please?”
He still doesn’t budge.
“We’ve been here for two hours.”
It’s like talking to a wall.
“Sit. Down.”
He does. Across from you instead of next to you, and only because you pull the business tone into your voice. Whatever, you’ll take the small victories. You start pushing food his way.
There’s exasperation in his eye roll. He’s a buff man, but you still have to wonder where he stores all this extra aggravation. It can’t be good for the soul.
“You don’t have to keep buying me food,” Bucky says.
You keep your most serious expression on your face. “You have to be strong to protect me.”
“Because this deep fried bullshit will keep me in prime condition.”
“I’m sure the metal armed super soldier can body a–” you poke at one of the golden lumps– “I think that’s the oreo.”
Bucky lets out the deepest sigh. One he’s likely been holding in since you told him the carnival was your destination. You stare at each other. Blank stare to grinning idiot.
With what appears to be great effort, Bucky glances at the surrounding area. Always on high alert. Like he’s being paid to.
“Eat,” you push. The amused stare turns smug when he finally picks up the corndog he’s been eyeing.
It’s a game you play. See how much you can feed the man who never eats, sleeps, drinks, or blinks. There’s a flare of pride every time he goes for another bite.
Breaking down that wall of icy professionalism has taken the better half of six months. Those first three Bucky didn’t even look at you. It took another two weeks after that to confirm he could speak. Hell, he still doesn’t call you by your name. You exist to him only in variations of twat, moron, or –
“Brat.” Bucky tracks your hand snatching a nacho from the plate he pulled in front of him. His gaze lingers briefly on your face. Long enough to catalog that you’re content, then he’s back to work.
For a while the two of you pick at the food. Bucky doesn’t pay you any attention, but he’s there in front of you, so you allow yourself the luxury to pretend this is some alternate universe. This is a date. The food wasn’t purchased with your father’s credit card and the distant screams from the rides were yours and his just a few hours earlier – in this universe, Bucky isn’t locked up behind all these icy walls.
Someone beats a game in your general vicinity judging by the trill of bells and whistles. You turn to glance a few booths down but, as you do, your shoulder collides sharply with the hip of someone passing back too close.
There’s a flurry of ‘oh’s’ and apologies as someone’s lemon shakeup ends up down your back. A relief from the sticky heat. You go to jokingly thank them for the cool down, but the words die on your lips.
In the brief five seconds between the bump and the pour, Bucky is around the table. “Step back.” The words aren’t polite. Nor is the way he roughly positions himself between you and whoever bumped you using his full height to be looming and intimidating. “Move.”
That poor person must be shitting bricks. All because of a mistake you made.
You go to stand, but his metal arm roots you in place. Firm enough you can feel the press of each finger against your shoulder. “Let me up,” you say, but Bucky doesn’t budge. “Barnes. Let me up. Now.”
The grip loosens enough to guide you up off the picnic bench. Bucky keeps ahold of you like your life’s in danger… from a young woman dressed in gingham. She’s got a matching set on with cowgirl boots and bows in her pigtail braids. Completely cowered in fear at Bucky’s terseness.
She can’t be but a couple years younger than you, probably here to have fun, cut loose, and not worry about anything for a few hours. Only to have her fight or flight triggered. Or, rather, fight, flight, or freeze, because she doesn’t appear to be moving. Definitely too scared to turn her back on Bucky.
Not that you blame her. He’s a wall of pure intimidation, and also the biggest asshole you’ve ever met.
“Hey,” you say, voice soft and kind. Her gaze snaps to acknowledge you peeking around Bucky before returning to assess Bucky’s next move. Addressing them both, you continue, “I’m fine. A little wet, but fine. No harm, no foul.”
If he weren’t working under such strict instructions from your father, likely thinking about how easily this poor girl could be a secret plot to distract and essentially end your life, you could imagine a world where he’d scoff at your words. Instead his hand tightens on your upper arm. A silent command: shut up.
You don’t take well with following the rules.
“Seriously, you’re all good, girl.”
Her eyes flick back to you, where you flash a smile and nod towards the moving crowd. It’s the signal she needs to high tail it out of there. She’s barely out of sight when Bucky voices, “We’re leaving.”
Fuck. You knew he was going to say that.
Good things never last. Every outing ends abruptly like this, and it’s becoming harder to escape your gilded cage. Forever on a leash to be tugged back at someone else’s whim. This freedom walking around the fair was only an illusion.
“No,” you argue, even if the effort is pointless. “I’m not done eating.”
You hit the park bench harder than you intend. Pain ebbs through your hips and back. The jolt causes his hand to grip the fabric of your t-shirt. All the butterflies from earlier are gone. This contact reminds you exactly why Bucky’s here at all.
“We’re leaving,” he repeats in that same no-nonsense tone.
Your grip on the picnic table tightens. Splinters push through the skin but you don’t budge. The discomfort is worth a few more seconds out in public. You can’t stomach the thought of going home. There were worse places to be trapped.
But that’s all you’d ever be: trapped.
“We haven’t gone on any rides.” This is a desperate attempt to reason with him. Any shakiness in your voice has to be masked. Tears and tantrums earn you no points, just eyes full of pity. “I’ve lost every game I’ve played.”
“You’re just bad at them.” Bucky’s voice is flat. He’s following orders, which is something he does a little too well. Almost like there’s a part of him that can’t shake the contract with your father out of his mind.
He does squeeze your arm in a fond, almost affectionate gesture he’s never extended before. “C’mon, your old man is going to be pissed.”
And Bucky’s right. Your dad is going to be royally pissed off. More so than he already was considering your conversation this morning, filled with an embarrassing amount of pleading for your grown age, had been stonewalled again and again. The reminder that the public existed out here, in the public, would ruin any chances of going out for a while.
What was I supposed to do? You think. Somehow maintain a thirty-foot perimeter between me and every person around me?
The thought itself is dangerous. If your dad thought Bucky could achieve such a thing, he’d add that to the contract. Pay him extra. Another responsibility to load onto an already exhausted man’s shoulders.
You’d hear about it, too. Your father loved nothing more than to prod at the growing soft spot for your bodyguard. Guilting you in believing calling Bucky in for a day trip was nothing more than a waste of his time. Regardless of the fact he existed in your life to be a bodyguard.
Bucky leads you away from the picnic table. Gently keeping hold of you until you start moving on your own. Every step tightens the hold of the leash. You have no way out. No work experience, no money, no possible way to avoid the eyes your father has everywhere. What could be considered yours is tied up in a trust fund or marriage clause or, if you’re being honest, isn’t actually yours at all and hasn’t left your father’s bank account.
These small moments outside were the only thing not completely structured by someone else. Lonely, sure, but you’d managed to rope Bucky into some shenanigans: giving opinions on outfits you wanted to buy, wandering museums together, lunches, volunteer opportunities…
Until he reminded you who was really in charge. The man writing out the checks. Most certainly not you like he’d usually let you believe. At some point the delusion of you holding power in this relationship ends, and you’re nothing more than an inconvenience in your father’s life.
Bucky says your name. His voice doesn’t register at first. The softness in the mix of general clamor is what grabs your attention.
You turn your head his way. Those eyes that never seem to look your way are hyper-focused on you. Soft in a way which transforms your bodyguard into a man you haven’t seen before. If your entire dynamic weren’t so fucked, you’d have half a mind to consider him a friend.
“Let’s go.” The gruff order reminds you, he isn’t a friend. Bucky is paid to be here. Despite the kindness in how he lingers while you dispose of the half-full plates of food.
Bringing any of it home would be a recipe for disaster. Any comments from your mother might send you right over the edge. If she had it her way, food would be banned entirely from your consciousness.
You keep the funnel cake to pick at. A small form of rebellion, if cold and inedible. The patheticness of it all feels almost cathartic.
As any good super soldier serumed bodyguard would, Bucky walks a few paces behind you. Far enough for visualization of danger at any possible angle. “Watch your step.”
You listen to him, correcting your pathing to avoid an ice cream catastrophe and a little kid melting down as quick as the dessert, but don’t turn back to look at him. The gesture alone is enough to know Bucky’s attempting to lessen the blow of leaving.
For a second you hate him. He isn’t a bad man. He’s loyal and considerate and a man who has been through too much in life.
Every time you have attempted to inquire about his past - you don’t know many people personally, and certainly none with a metal arm - he shuts you down with a vague story about being a supersoldier from the 1940s.
So you did what any reasonable person would do in the 21st century. You Googled him.
None of what you found was good. Russian asset, brainwashed assassin. His connection to Captain America, and the less talked about assistance in saving the world, meant anything leaked about Bucky was instantly blasted across internet forums. He was someone as out of place in this world as you were.
A ravine of loneliness separates the two of you. Knowing he’d somehow manage to save you from a drone strike targeted directly at this fair means nothing when you remind yourself he does so only because there’s a paycheck attached. Incentive.
He may be more willing to entertain you compared to past bodyguards, but even Bucky Barnes can’t escape the demands of capitalism.
After a good few minutes, there’s the same uneasy pit in your stomach at the thought of someone recognizing him. He insists the short hair makes him unrecognizable with the leather jacket and gloves covering his arm. You’ve read enough subreddits to know that’s not the case.
Your head swings around to spot him. Confirm, at the very least, he isn’t following you while being weighted down by the judgement of others. But he isn’t there.
Usually he’s right there, a good few steps between you, but always there. Easy to spot when you need him. Lately you’ve been letting yourself believe he lingers close enough to hear you rattle on because he likes listening to your nonsense. He doesn’t disappear when your one-sided conversation borders on senseless. He doesn’t vanish. Not on you.
“Barnes?” You call out only for your voice to be instantly swallowed by the carnival.
People part around you. They throw the occasional glance at your frantic expression. No one stops. Why should they for a grown woman? Just because the panic clawing at your chest, stopping your breath from calling out for Bucky a second time, equated you to a lost child didn’t mean you looked like one.
You didn’t think your first time being alone in public - feeling truly alone - since sixteen would be so paralyzing.
Every breath catches in your throat. Tremors work down your arms to reduce your hands to a shaking mess. The grip on your funnel cake threatens to slip entirely as the lights from every ride flash and blur.
They’re not the colors of police lights, but the blinking coupled with this pure terror rooted in your bones drag you backwards. Your mind clings to memories of darkness. Voices you still don’t recognize but haunt your dreams. Hands. So many hands grabbing you while the edges of your vision go dark.
More people have entered the fair since nightfall and the crowd surges. Someone brushes your arm. Another bumps you far less innocently when your knees lock. The forced stop sends the funnel cake flying. Sugar mixes with dirt. A kid shrieks in the distance, unrelated but appreciated considering you’re doubled over, unable to catch your breath and cry out yourself.
You can’t remember if you’re supposed to put your head between your knees or arms above your head when every desperate attempt to inhale is met with nothing. At this rate you’re going to pass out, which triggers a newfound anxiety. Your mind remains trapped in that moment a decade ago. The one where you woke up, drugged and confused, after being abducted.
Every noise out of you is humiliating. Still, no one spares you anything more than a lingering glance. If they knew who you were - who your father was - maybe they’d stop and record the daughter of one of the richest people having a panic attack. The headlines flash behind your eyes. Rich recluse terror-stricken, melts down mingling with commoners.
Hand. There’s a hand on your back, and you’re too far gone to know if memories can become physical hallucinations or if someone has finally decided to help. A strangled cry rips out. Adrenaline forces you into a deep squat. Anything to escape the feeling of the hands on you.
There’s a faint roughness of rope burning your wrists when you bring your hands up. They clamp over your ears, effectively muffling the chaos around you.
Through tears, you see ants crawling over the funnel cake you dropped. Shoes continue to pass by. You’re not their problem.
“Hey.” Bucky peels your hand back. Gentle, and only long enough for you to hear him say, “It’s just me.”
Then he lets go. He hovers, as he does best. Crouched in the peripheral of your blurred vision until his presence grounds you enough for your hands to fall from your ears. The onslaught of laughter and joy almost brings them back up. Bucky cuts in before you can isolate yourself again. “Can I touch you?”
About halfway through your singular nod his hand is on your back. Every muscle in your body tenses. The weight of a hand threatens to tumble you back into panic. Until he moves. Bucky’s glove rubs small circles right against the back of your pounding heart.
“What happened?”
His voice is low. It almost sounds like he genuinely cares.
“You were gone.”
“What?”
“I was looking for you,” you say, interrupted by a sniffle, “and I couldn’t find you.”
The circles on your back pause. He’s thinking. Despite the memories and the way your eyes stay trained on the scars left behind by rope a decade ago, you find yourself longing for the soothing gesture of his movements. All these years later, you still can’t believe there’s such a thing as positive touch.
“I’m sorry,” he settles on. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”
How could you do anything but notice? These empty voids in your life were only ever filled by the faux normalcy of these outings with Bucky. You aren’t allowed connection with him outside of what’s permitted by your father. Not that you would do much with his phone number other than treat it as a stream of consciousness. A void to share your every thought with Bucky. Like you do when you go out. Maybe the moments at home wouldn’t feel so suffocating without him.
His absence between outings aches worse each time. Starting as a whisper along your skin to just now, when you could feel the pain etched deep into the marrow of your bones.
“You scared me.” Somehow, you manage to keep your voice even.
Bucky sighs. You aren’t ever one to keep your feelings locked up. Especially the ones you shouldn’t verbalize. Call it naivety, call it desperation – doesn’t matter. Bucky can figure out how to handle this mess of dependency.
The movement on your back resumes. Somehow it’s easier to breathe bent down with Bucky shielding you from the real world. “I should have told you I was stepping to the side for a minute. That’s on me.”
For a man who never talks, you’re shocked by the effective communication. There’s no guilt-tripping or blatant dismissal of your emotions. Only acceptance and accountability. He overcorrects this show of intelligence by roughly shoving a bag of cotton candy in your face.
You flinch away from the sudden movement. Bucky makes no move to apologize, which you’re grateful for. The cold bodyguard you’re used to hasn’t abandoned you completely. “What’s this?”
“You know what it is, moron.”
“Yeah,” you concede, “but why?”
He shrugs. In one rough gesture you’re hauled to your feet. That, apparently, is as much of an answer you’re going to be given. Bucky’s too busy leading you to the car. His face is closed off again. Eyes sweeping all areas with more vigor now that there’s no longer a valley between you.
Bucky doesn’t remove his hand from your back. An anchor in a sea of people. Every time a part of the crowd surges your direction, he adjusts course. Gently enough not to trigger any unpleasant memories but at a speed which reminds you this hand on your back isn’t flesh.
Stories of his past float up in your mind. Conspiracies you’ve poured over in all your time cyberstalking him don’t match up to the man who reminds you when the grip on the cotton candy - the cotton candy he paid for with his own money - loosens. This strange desire to protect him as he is protecting you flares in your chest.
“Thank you,” you tell him. He hears your shout over your shoulder and merely flexes the vibranium hand on your back in acknowledgement.
Whatever front you’ve had up the entire time Bucky has known you vanishes completely the rest of the way to the car. These newborn fawn knees carrying you now are remnants of your panic attack. He doesn’t rush you. He certainly doesn’t comment at all the makeup on your cheeks.
The sneaking suspicion your father’s given him a full breakdown of your past traumas only solidifies when Bucky opens the passenger door for you instead of the usual backseat escort you’re always given. Put some space between me an’ all your yappin’, he always says.
He doesn’t let himself out of your field of view. Bucky’s eyes stay trained on you while he walks around the front of the car to the driver’s seat. You’re half convinced he can see straight through the blackout window tint. The reminder is clear. He’s right there.
“Want some?”
You’re extending a fluffy pink cloud his way before the door even closes.
Bucky helps himself to a hearty portion, then goes back for seconds. “What?” He side-eyes your amused smirk.
“Big cotton candy guy?”
A silence spreads between you. Comfortable. If not a bit nerve-wracking on your end. The muscle’s feathering in Bucky’s jaw tells you he’s working on formulating the right response. Always careful with his words.
“Reminds me of Coney Island,” he settles on.
Oh. You blink, barely able to manage the shock from registering on your face. Here’s a real piece of himself being offered. “Used to go as a kid.” His eyes are focused straight ahead, trapped in a memory. Far happier than the one you found yourself swimming through earlier. “They hadn’t invented all that deep fried you tried to feed me earlier.”
“Pity.”
What escapes him isn’t exactly a laugh. Bucky doesn’t seem capable of making that noise in all the time you’ve known him. And it isn’t like you haven’t tried to draw a genuine guffaw out of the man. He does that strange puff of air out of his nose. Paired with the way he rubs his lips together, you let yourself believe if Bucky was a little less traumatized that would be a laugh.
Your observation isn’t entirely off base. “It’s nice to still have memories of stuff not tainted,” he says. “You know, by all the bullshit.”
You lean back in the seat with your head tilted to study his profile. Sharp jaw, five o’clock shadow, and that permanent downturn to the sides of his mouth. You stuff cotton candy in your mouth like popcorn. This is better than any movie.
“How do you find those without hating them?” You ask. When Bucky’s eyes dart your way, you clarify, “Hating that you’ll never have them again.”
“You’ll have them again… dramatic brat.” Bucky reaches blindly for another bite. “Work for them. Eventually the need for good outweighs all the rest.”
Sugar dissolves on your tongue. The hum of acknowledgement you let out tastes sweet.
The two of you ride in silence for a bit. Bucky focuses on the road, you focus on keeping the cotton candy away from his greedy fingers. “Do you think that girl and I could’ve been friends?” You finally ask as the turns become too familiar. “Ya know, if you hadn’t scared her off.”
This time, Bucky spares a long glance your way. He’s not playing the part of a bodyguard. For the briefest second, he looks lost. “All your pointless questions would scare her off.”
“They didn’t scare you off.”
But he doesn’t respond. There’s an elephant in the backseat neither of you care enough to bring attention to. Not out loud, anyway. You huff, but keep the smile on your face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Neither of you acknowledge each other when you pass through the gates to your neighborhood or when the large gates to your father’s house open. It’s suspicious enough that the cameras will catch you in the passenger seat. Engaging in normal conversation could be enough to get Bucky fired.
When he puts the car in park, you sigh, “One day I’ll make a friend on my own terms.”
He gives his usual grunt in response. You pop your seatbelt, open your door, and, as you’re about to climb out, you hear Bucky’s soft words. “She’d be stupid not to be your friend.”
The last bit of cotton candy stays behind. Before the door can close all the way you turn to see him reach for it. Almost smiling.
And you decide to count him as a friend, father be damned. Maybe fate intervened to bring him to you this way but you could make up your own mind. On your own terms.
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Taglist: @sinistersnakey @kiatjuddae @buckyinmyuniverse
