the three times you tried, and the one time it worked. (part three)
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ship: bucky barnes x reader
word count: 2.6k
authors note: i’m posting this one a little later than i thought i would, i spent more time with it to ensure the most satisfying conclusion :) i delve into themes of pregnancy, weight gain, and miscarriage, so please do not interact if these themes trigger, bother, or make you uncomfortable.
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there’s no word for a parent who lost their child. you’ve heard that before. but, there’s no word for a parent who lost their child before they were born.
he stopped touching you the way you liked. he didn’t stop loving you, but he grew sorrowful of the way you grew stiff at his touch. it wasn’t personal, you knew it wasn’t his fault. it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. you grew tired of hearing that, and the way peoples voice whined when they heard the news, and the way they tilt their heads, knit their eyebrows together and go “ohhh.”.
you became resentful. you were angry at the world, angry at yourself, angry at anyone who reminded you that your body was a failure, that you were a failure.
it’s safe to say that you hadn’t fucked in a while. the few moments you let him kiss you, and things got a bit heavy, you sighed and tapped his wrist twice, a signal you both have to show that it was time to stop. like clockwork, he smiled, kissed your forehead, and poured himself a glass of whiskey.
he started smoking again. you tried to protest, but you knew deep down you envied him. how dare he flaunt the fact he can damage his body with cigarettes, cigars, alcohol, and them have no effect on his body. you knew that wasn’t by choice, but you still felt jealous. he tried not to do it so often in front of you. there was a positive to this, though. you liked the smoky kisses he gave you when he was smoking, the tobacco taste of his tongue making you feel elegant.
most nights were spent awake. or, at least, him awake. you always fell asleep first, kissing him goodnight, and turning your back to him. he always looked at you, and just sighed.
he couldn’t sleep. it’s been years since he couldn’t sleep that way. he tried everything, from tea to subliminals. the white noise of the music couldn’t take him away from the fact that he felt grief, in all that which he was. and to make matters worse, his metal arm was the only part of him that didn’t seem to be affected. many days were spent without it, but the instant he put it on, he felt a surge of confidence. he felt disgusted with himself, reeling from the fact that the one thing he hates most about himself was the only thing in tip top shape.
you often wondered if your actions would lead him to get another lover. you scolded yourself for thinking that about him, as that wasn’t a fair accusation. you know that he held immense love for you, but you couldn’t help but feel cynical. maybe the only reason he stayed with you was some sort of ‘thank you’ for having stayed by his side so long after the effects of hydra. quickly, you pushed those feelings aside. you felt guilty to have had thought of him so poorly.
four months passed since maine. nine months had passed since the first time you were pregnant. the due date would’ve been any time soon, and every day was a reminder. the clothes in boxes, the pastel wallpaper rolled up. strangely, you felt somewhat normal. i mean, as normal as you can get in a situation like this.
you knew, deep down, it wouldn’t always be like this. you knew that eventually, you wouldn’t shy away from his touch, and you’d let him love you the way you wanted him to.
you decided to visit the shrine. you hadn’t done that in a while, but this time was different. you woke him up before the sun rose, and asked him to go with you.
of course he said yes. these past few weeks, you hardly asked him for anything. he was desperate, he was clinging to the ghost of your existence. your home was no longer blessed with your laughter, your dancing, your singing, your life. he wanted you, needed you, missed you. these disappointments had been the bane of his existence. he tenderly held your hand as you led him to your secret hideaway, the shrine. he kept quiet as you explained the meaning of the flowers around it, and the shape of the headstone. he admired your attention to detail, and for the first time in months, he saw, within you, a weight lifted. your eyes were tired, yes, but not resentful. your touch on his hand was no longer obligated, but appreciated. how obvious it seemed, sharing grief. how does that one quote go? a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. it seemed like you had spent hours together outside, and it wasn’t long before the rays of the sun warmed you both to the point of removing a couple layers of clothing. you wore a simple nightgown, the silk cloth having a sheer effect from the sun. his muscles looked toned from the shadows cast from the sun, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself go with your feelings. you placed a hand on his shoulder, his human shoulder. his eyes immediately zipped to you. he looked, nervous.
“james?”
his hand met yours, and held it. he then placed it on his cheek, inhaling deeply. his eyes fluttered shut.
you were kinder with yourself. you were kinder with him. you were kinder with the world. most nights were spent in his embrace, his soft kisses peppering your skin. you no longer stiffened at his touch, no longer dreaded his kisses. lazy mornings were filled with conversations about nothing, and everything. your value wasn’t determined by wether or not your womb could be fruitful. you threw away all pregnancy tests, hoping that would be a first step towards acceptance.
it was july, three weeks after the shrine, five months after maine, and ten ish months after you were first pregnant. hot summer nights were spent in a little gazebo in your backyard, the burnt smell of sweet marshmallows filling your nostrils. you laughed as he looked defeated at his small lump of charred sweetness. he rolled his eyes at you and threw a graham cracker at you, which made you laugh even more.
eventually, the fire died down, and you two were left stargazing. rather, you were left stargazing, and his gaze was on you. you didn’t know the name of the constellations, so you made them up.
“that one is a sword wielding cat.” you giggled, half asleep.
“yeah?”
“yeah. and next to it-“ you whispered. “next to it is his damsel in distress.” you pointed. you noticed his eyes linger.
“are you alright?”
“you are so fucking beautiful.” he said, almost in disbelief.
“…okay.” you smiled, and wiped a strand of hair away from his face. “is that all?”
“of course not.” he leaned on his elbows. he kissed your forehead, your cheek, your lips. “you’re wonderful, intelligent-“ a kiss on the bridge of your nose. “charming, gorgeous-“ a kiss on your chin. “and you’re…” he stopped.
“i’m?” you asked, holding his face.
“you’re mine.”
you smiled softly. his metal hand rested on your thigh, making you suck your breath from the cool touch. he waited for you to tap his wrist twice, to see if he was walking on eggshells. he paused, one beat, two beats, three. nothing. his eyes looked into yours, and you smiled.
it goes without saying that there wasn’t much sleep to be had that night.
now, you didn’t know you were pregnant. that is, you assumed, but brushed it off for fear of it happening again. you googled symptoms, but convinced yourself it was just hormones. what an easy scapegoat.
“why are you such a bitch?”
“hormones.”
it wasn’t until you looked a little fuller around your stomach that you bit the bullet and took a test.
two lines.
fuck those two lines.
you tried your best to hide it, you really did. you didn’t want to hide it from him, but you felt that another disappointment would break him completely. you could take one more, though. besides, this heartbreak would just be yours to bear.
you managed to keep it under cover for four months, until he found you out. you were taking a shower, and didn’t hear him walk in. you covered yourself in soapy suds, and hummed. he stayed there, watching you. he felt perverted, but he didn’t watch you lustfully. you looked different, fuller. he frowned, maybe it was the glass warping your shape. did you hide the fact you gained weight from him? he didn’t mind, why would you do that? he noticed you wore bigger shirts, and you stopped letting him hold your stomach when he spooned you. he was going to ask about it, but bit his tongue. maybe it wasn’t wise to ask his wife about her weight after two miscarriages. he may not know much about modern customs, but he knew that was definitely a bad idea. you kept humming, and turned off the water. you turned to see him, and your face flushed.
how. the. fuck. were you going to explain your bump to him?
“could you hand me a towel, dear?” you asked, trying your damn best to hide your nervousness. he nodded, and did as you asked. he slid the glass of the shower, and took you in your beautiful, bare form. the water droplets on your breasts made him blush, and he looked away out of respect.
“you’ve seen me naked before.” you teased.
“i know.” he mumbled.
“baby?”
“hm?”
“look at me.”
he did, and boy did he look at you. his eyes examined every feature on your face, every freckle on your cheek, every speck on your eyes, every pore on your skin.
“no, honey. look at me.”
he was confused. what on earth did you think he was doing? he tilted his head, and started to protest, when you grabbed his hand and placed it on your stomach. you didn’t say anything, just mouthed, “i’m sorry.” he just kept his hand on your stomach, his breath hitched.
“how long?” he asked softly.
“three, almost four months.”
“you should’ve told me.” he said, his voice breaking.
“i didn’t want to disappoint us again, and-“
“doll…” that shut you up. how you hated when he called you that, he could get away with anything with that name.
“bucky.”
“you could never disappoint me.”
“well, i-“
“no. you could never disappoint me. ever.” he tucked your wet hair behind your ear and tilted your chin lightly forward.
“you mean so fucking much to me, baby or no baby. i love you, regardless of the fact that-“ his voice broke. “regardless if…” you knew what he was trying to say, but did he? he cleared his throat.
“regardless if we have to dance this dance time and time again. i want to dance it with you. your sorrows are my sorrows, your joys are my joys. your love is my life and your life is my love.”
80 percent of miscarriages happen in the twelve weeks. you were on your fourteenth week.
the rest of the pregnancy felt like the other shoe was about to drop. you often woke up, scared you would be surrounded by blood, but…nothing. every time you went to the bathroom, you tensed up. nothing. you felt slight pain. nothing. you felt like you were going to be right, but how you hoped you were wrong. you begged, to any god who could hear you, that you were wrong.
he soon took you to medical appointments, to catch up on the ones you couldn’t attend when you were hiding. you went to ultrasounds, physical appointments. you even got to pack your hospital bag. you wouldn’t dare enter the nursery, you felt that it was bad luck.
you both knew the gender of the baby, but you didn’t host a gender reveal party. you wanted this to be your little secret, your little joy, your little loss. he agreed, because the only thing he ever wanted to be was with you.
when you were six months pregnant, he prepared a little dinner for you. when you were seven months pregnant, he surprised you with jewelry. every passing day was filled with suspense, as if the baby was going to come out and say, “sike! y’all really thought i was real?” you giggled at the image of that.
eight months rolled around. conversations about going to the hospital weren’t just a thing of the imagination, they felt real; they were real. one night, you laid in bed, ridden with pain. your back hurt, your feet hurt, your boobs hurt, your nails hurt. no matter what you did, it felt like everything was either sore or swollen. stretch marks adorned your thighs, stomach, arms and breasts. he never failed to let you know you were beautiful. god, and he truly believed it. your plump figure was that of a goddess, and he didn’t mind your breasts growing in size.
as a side project, without your knowledge, he started working on the nursery. your nesting behavior was set in the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom, but never the nursery. you hadn’t dared to set foot in that drab and desolate room, so he took it under his wing. when you were asleep, and really really asleep, like tired pregnant woman asleep, he left your bed, and got to work. he adorned the windows, the walls, the ceiling. stars decorated the ceiling, little constellations that you made up. he painted the stars from the night you first met. he built the crib, a beautiful, dark oak crib. he was always one to fiddle with things, as he found that it helped him stay grounded. he built the gazebo you frequented your days in, and a rocking chair. you didn’t complain, you liked the intoxicating smell of wood, sweat, and whiskey. what a man.
it hit you when you were nine months pregnant, that well, you were nine months pregnant. you didn’t think you’d make it this far, and now that you have, you felt at peace. if things fell into place correctly, you would have successfully carried a child to term. your husbands days were spent taking care of you.
you remember the day so vividly. you were wearing an oversized grey shirt that read, “practice safe lunch, use a condiment!” with a ketchup bottle drawing on it. how ironic, given your state. you stationed yourself in the living room, to be able to leave as quickly and efficiently as possible. somehow, you didn’t feel nervous. as your water broke, and you began dilating, you felt strong. maybe not physically, but mentally.
in the hospital bed, you groaned as you dilated. labor can last up to 12 hours for the first birth, so you had started taking frequent naps. or, attempted to. try taking a nap with your body being expanded by some watermelon sized child.
soon, it started. sweat beads overwhelmed your face as you began to push. blinding pain erupted from your skin, and you threw your head back. he, obviously, was there, holding your hand; supporting your weight. long felt the time that you spent pushing. you sobbed into his shirt, your white knuckles beginning to become sore, and your veins popping out so noticeably.
as soon as you were done, you were handed the baby, your baby. your baby. your baby with him, the baby you carried for nine months, the baby that stayed.
seven pounds, four ounces. this little baby boy, so tiny in your hands. he was a little one, but boy did he make it up in spirit. you named him after your husband, and his middle name from an old book you read when you were young. james oliver barnes, your darling rainbow baby.
three times you tried, three times you wept, but it was all worth it in the end.
