ᝰ.ᐟ longer than forever
| bucky barnes x reader. ~800 words. comfort. alphabet soup B.
masterlist. | oneshot masterlist. | alphhabet soup.
The apartment was quiet, but not in a hollow way. Outside, the city murmured the same endless story.. distant car horns, the faint thump of footsteps on the floor above, life pressing on in its usual, it was an unrelenting rhythm. But here, inside this space the two of you had made yours, the silence held a kind of quiet built not from emptiness, but from peace. Hard-won. Carefully cultivated.
Bucky was laying on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped across your waist as you nestled into the crook of his side. The muted flicker of the TV washed light across his face, though neither of you were really watching it. Your eyes followed the curve of his jaw instead, the subtle twitch of a muscle beneath skin when his mind wandered too far, too fast.
“I thought I’d be better at this,” he said suddenly.
You looked up at him, fingers absently tracing the metal plates of his arm. “At what?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the ceiling for a moment, like it held something he hadn’t yet figured out how to name.
“This,” he admitted eventually, “Being… normal. Calm. Safe.” There was no bitterness in his voice. Just quiet honesty.
You shifted slightly to rest your chin on his chest, “You don’t have to be normal, Buck.”
A faint breath escaped him, it was half a huff of dry laughter, half something more vulnerable. “Yeah, well.. tell that to the therapist who keeps insisting I try sushi and join a knitting club.”
You smiled at that, “You’d look great knitting. Real rugged. Like a lumberjack who’s in touch with his creative side.”
He rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the flicker of amusement that tugged at his mouth.
Unwinding him was a slow process, sometimes it felt like coaxing a wounded animal out of the bushes -- it wasn't done with force, but with consistency. With patience. With warmth.
Sometimes he didn’t even realize he was relaxing until you pointed it out. Sometimes, he fell asleep on the couch with your fingers in his hair, and woke up with a small, puzzled frown, like his body wasn’t used to rest without consequence.
You reached up and brushed your fingers along his jaw. “You’re not failing at anything. You’re healing. And healing isn’t linear, Buck. It’s messy and slow and sometimes it feels like it’s not happening at all.”
His eyes met yours then, tired but present. Always present, these days. That had taken time too.
“You really think I’m healing?”
“I know you are.”
And you meant it. Not just in the big ways with the apologies he’d made, the nightmares that came less often, the fact that he didn’t flinch anymore when someone brushed past him on the street.. but in the smaller ones too. The way he reached for your hand now without hesitation. The way he asked how your day was. The way he laughed, not just politely, but like something was actually funny.
He sighed, the kind of sigh that seemed to deflate years of weight from his chest. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”
You leaned forward, your forehead resting lightly against his. “You won’t.”
“I’ve messed up everything before.” He admitted.
“But this isn’t before.”
He was quiet again, and you didn’t push him. You knew how much effort it took for him to talk like this.. not just to speak the words, but to let them be heard. To believe someone would listen and not recoil. So you lay there with him in the silence, your hand resting lightly over his heart, counting the steady beat that had learned how to trust again.
Eventually, he spoke again, softer this time. “You know what helps?”
You tilted your head. “Hmm?”
“This. You. Just… being here. Not needing anything from me. Not expecting me to be anything other than... this.”
You didn’t reply right away, just tucked your head into the hollow of his shoulder.
“Then I’ll keep doing it,” you murmured. “For as long as you’ll let me.”
He curled his arm tighter around you. “Forever might not be long enough.”
You didn’t say anything else. Just stayed there with the weight of his arm around you and the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the quiet certainty between you that no matter how many ghosts still haunted the edges of his memory, he wasn’t alone anymore.