Man of the House | five
Sam Wilson/fem!Reader, dark!Bucky Barnes/fem!Reader | 18+
A visit to your landlord uncovers a past.
► word count: 3.6k
► warnings(!): injuries, masturbation, hallucination. this is a dark fic.
|| Series Masterlist ||
A/N: A bit of a slow chapter but we’re nearing the end lads!
𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝔼𝕝𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟
“We’ve checked everything, sir.”
It was hard to believe. There must be somewhere they had overlooked. Something felt amiss, you knew it.
“There were no signs of a forced entry. Everything was locked. Well, except for the balcony doors, but she had opened those.”
Had they checked the attic? The basement? He was there in the parlour windows, and the next, he was at the bottom of the stairs, close to the front door. You refused to believe he had came in easily, as if he had apparated in.
“The door she claimed the assailant kicked showed no damage whatsoever.”
That was impossible. You had heard it. You watched it shake as he demanded entry. You had felt it, the vibrations from his heavy boots passing through the floorboards. If there were no marked footprints, there should’ve been at least a splinter in the wood.
“We’ve received complaints like these before regarding the Rogers’ house, but we can’t really do anything when there’s no evidence. A ‘ghostly’ touch on the ankle can’t be taken as evidence.”
And just like that, your case was dismissed. Your encounter, taken with a grain of salt. Your experience, dismissed as a mere ghostly tale.
You had almost wanted to show them the purples around your neck. To take off the makeup and show them, to pass them off as evidence of an assault. But with no recollection of the event, and no solid evidence, you refrained. It would only backfire; not only towards you, but towards Sam as well.
“Thank you, officers. For all your help, but we can handle it from here.”
It was a long night and it ended when the officers had left. They had searched your house, taken your statement, and calmed you down. They were polite enough, listening when you recounted your harrowing experience, giving you comfort in the form of a shock blanket. However, their quick dismissal left a sour aftertaste within you. The disheartening feeling of being seen as a hysterical woman.
You only had Sam who believed. You hoped he did.
“Sam, you believe me... right?”
“Of course, baby. Of course.”
Too shook up after last night’s incident, sleep evaded you until the wee hours of the morning, all the while curled up next to your saviour. He had soothed you, a protective arm at all times, giving you time. He never left your side throughout the night.
Now, huddled under the warm comforter of your guest room, you played last night’s events on loop. Heart palpating by even the sight of your bedroom door, Sam had decided a switch was in order.
At the end of the bed, Peaches laid in a white loaf by your feet, softly purring. She was a comforting presence, the heavy weight a reminder you weren’t alone. A guardian angel in her own way.
The day came and went faster than you could register.
In the morning, Wanda had came by with Vis to check up on you. She was worried after your abrupt goodbye on the phone and she was right to be. You missed their visit, being at the forefront of sleep. The warm serving of Paprikash you had for lunch was the sole indication of her visit.
Tony and Pepper had called and sent a large bouquet of colourful assortments with a ‘get well soon’ card attached right to your doorstep. They had heard from Sam, who had taken the duty of taking messages and answering your calls for you, citing your need for rest. Both had expressed the desire to visit, unfortunately corporate obligation had swamped them both.
In the late afternoon, Sam had came in with snacks in bed to soothe your cravings before dinner. He had prepared a few biscuits and fruits and made the grand gesture of feeding you with grapes.
“Some folks in the area actually came by to give these to you,” Sam said, shooing a hissing Peaches off the bed. Those two will never get along. “A Mrs Proctor and her grandkid, said you’ve met before at her shop. Seems like you’ve been making friends.”
You hummed, confirming the information. It’s been a while, yet you still remembered your little visit and the incident. Warm, welcoming grandmother and her sour, distrustful grandchild. But after your harrowing experience, you came to realize maybe the teen had known something; it wasn’t just a tale told to scare teenagers off the property on Halloween.
If the both of them knew, then the whole neighbourhood knew. It isn’t a secret when the local police visited you in the middle of the night. Word always traveled fast in small neighbourhoods.
“She sent her regards and hope you’ll come visit soon,” he continued. “Her grandkid told me to relay a message to you too.”
You eyed him, prompting him to resume.
“She said ‘all the best’.”
There was no help coming for you.
—
As the Sun slowly descended into the horizon, you received your last visitor at the end of the day. He came to the house while you were in the bath, finally having the energy to rid off the grime from the last horror.
You scrubbed your skin until it felt raw, the stinging a reminder to stop. You watched as the water swirled down the drain, bringing with it the impurities of the previous night.
You began dressing, the dark turtleneck a warm choice against frigid Autumn. Wiping the fogged up mirror, you stared at your reflection, observing your state. Your skin was deadly pale with dark rings concentrated beneath your eyes; a perfect representation of a troubled person.
Carefully rolling down the collar, you gently thumbed the delicate skin of your neck. What was once a large bruise had shrunk, covering you in patches. They were now a faded purple with a tint of green; a sign of healing.
They disgust you.
Your stomach churned looking at them. They were a reminder of a fog: thick, dense, a swallower of memories. You stared at them hard, racking your mind for a smidge of something, for anything. The longer it took, the uglier they became.
You unconsciously wrapped a hand around your neck, covering the ugly bruises from sight. It felt familiar, yet foreign. Slowly, you began putting pressure, firmly squeezing the sides. You felt an amounting rush.
You sat yourself on the opened toilet seat, back resting against the body. With the unoccupied hand, you hastily pushed your skirt and underwear aside. You worked yourself, rubbing your clit and running fingers down your lower lips, spreading your gathering slick. You let your mind stray away, forgetting the upsetting contusions, driven by only pleasure.
Mewling, you pleasured yourself, knees in the air. More and more, you squeezed thoughtlessly, cutting your airways to chase that building pleasure. You let your imagination wander; visualizing thicker fingers spearing you and heavier palms circling your throat. Intermittently you’d pull out, slapping your cunt while envisioning rough digits handling you. You didn’t envision the physique of anyone, just the feel of a touch. They were familiar, kept in the back of your mind like a hidden memory. You were sure they were not that of your boyfriend.
You were becoming dizzy, high off adrenaline from your asphyxiation. Nearing the tipping point, you quickened your ministrations until you finally snapped. Your thighs quivered as you came crashing, gasping for oxygen as you released your hold. Slick painted your thighs as they trembled. Eyes brimming with tears, you eyed yourself in the opposite mirror. You sighed, lost in blissful delirium; the sound of a woman spent.
Your bliss was short-lived when a knock came on the bathroom door.
“Baby, you okay in there? Your landlord came by for a visit, he just left.”
The tenor of Sam’s voice startled you, grounding you back to reality. You sprung up, adjusting your clothes and making yourself seem proper. Thighs still shaky, your legs felt like putty as you tried to stand up.
“In a minute!” you respond.
When you’ve deemed yourself decent enough, you opened the door. Sam’s toothy smile greeted you.
“My girl’s lookin’ all fresh and smellin’ beautiful,” he whistled.
“That’s silly,” you laughed, hitting his chest. Sam grabbed you by the waist, pulling you closer to plant a kiss on your lips.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Feeling slightly better.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t closer to the truth either. “Being taken care of really did wonders, I want this to last forever,” you kissed him again. “Just the two of us.”
“I’d love that as well.”
It was quiet for a time, the both of you lost in a peaceful bliss. Foreheads touching, you both focused on the moment; taking in the scent of your partner, hearing the beat of each other’s heart, and overall enjoying being in the other’s company. If given, you would prefer to stay like this forever. The beating of his heart, it grounded you. This was your safe place.
Minutes passed and you were both still locked in each other. It took a sudden loud thump in the ceiling for you two to part.
THUD!
You quickly jumped away, horribly spooked. You were on high alert, fidgety, and distraught. The loud noise triggered your flight or fight, leaving you frantically searching for the source.
“Look at me, look at me,” Sam called your name. He grabbed your shoulders, rubbing your forearms in soothing circles. “You’re fine. Breath, you’re fine. I’m here.”
Sam guided your breathing and you followed his rhythm. After a while, you were calmed once more. It was obvious you were still spooked, a second thud confirmed it when you shot up at the sound.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Sam’s soothing voice cooed. “Would it make you feel better if I checked?”
You frantically nodded. Sam hastily strided through the hall with you close behind. He pulled the attic hatch but it wouldn’t open.
“It’s stuck.”
Sam tried again, giving it a pull a few times. On the strongest pull, it finally relented, revealing the ladder. As it slid down, a large heavy object came tumbling along with it, thudding by your feet. Sam picked it up and upon closer inspection it was an album. The word “Memories” greeted you; it was the photo album you had found a week earlier. You felt a cold run through you.
“Now, what do we have here.”
He flipped through, stopping on the wedding photo of Mr Rogers and his wife, their fading faces smiling at you. Photos of their vacations, anniversaries, and holidays passed.
“Seems that he had a fulfilling life.”
Sam continued flipping before stopping on an older photograph. It showed a younger Mr Rogers and a brunette man with his arm slung over the shorter blonde. You immediately paled, recognizing this man. The same hair colour, except shorter. The same steel blue eyes, except brighter. The same chiselled cleft chin.
It was no doubt, this man was your intruder .
You felt the temperature plunge upon your realization; wondering why he had seemed familiar. Panic began to consume you as Sam continued to flip through, the blue eyes in each photo seeming more sinister than the last, haunting your subconscious.
Sam stopped when he noticed your trembling. Your eyes were glassy as you stared at the photo of the brunette decked in a peacoat.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sam asked, worried.
“T-this man,” you pointed to the photo. “It was him last night.”
“Are you sure?” Sam closed the album, giving you a concerning gaze. “Do you need to lay down?”
How dare he. He didn’t believe you. After everything, was it all pity?
“Yes, I’m freaking sure!” you shouted, tears spilling over. “And I do not need to lay down, Sam. I’m perfectly fine.”
It was tense from there. None of you spoke for a while. You could see a shine of regret reflected in his orbs, softening your anger by bit. Despite his reserved apprehension, he had saved and later, attended to you. He didn’t deserve your fury.
“I-I’m sorry for shouting, but why would I lie about this Sam?” you sighed. You were tired. “I don’t know who he is or if he’s even alive. I’ve never met him, but it seems like my landlord has.”
“Do you want to see him? Tomorrow?” Sam asked. “I can arrange it.”
“Yes, please,” you pleaded, giving him an empty smile. “Ghosts or not, I need answers.”
“Okay,” he slipped the album beneath his arm. “Let me check the attic first.”
Sam had checked every corner twice before climbing down. There was nothing unusual, saved for the coincidental album.
𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕋𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖
The wet concrete was a hazard as you exited the car. Fall brought in cold winds as well as the small drizzles and showers here and there. The smell of rain mixed in with mud was high as you and Sam took deliberate steps on the pavement.
The mailbox was a rusted red with ‘Rogers’ scrawled in white, the lawn an immaculate green spread that showed its upkeep. Opposed to the grandeur and foreboding nature of your rental, Mr Rogers’ abode was a small little thing. It looked old and worn, with a browning chimney and paint chipping off its sides.
You rang the doorbell and waited. Soon, Mr Rogers greeted you and welcomed you both in.
“Come in, come in. Make yourselves comfy, it’s not much but it’s home.” he ushered in. “Please, take a seat. I’m making some tea in the kitchen. It won’t be long.” Mr Rogers disappeared, leaving you and Sam time in his living room.
Similar to the exterior, the interior was just as worn, with the lumpy couches and yellow staining the ceiling. This house had seen better days but you couldn’t deny the certain charm. Off to the side of the living room, a fireplace stood, its mantle littered with framed photographs. You took a step closer to observe them.
There were many photos of Mr Rogers with his wife, but there were equally the same amount with that of this elusive ‘James Barnes’. All of them were of the brunette with shorter hair, clean shaven, and lean; a contrast of the man who had grabbed you. A feature that stood out were his eyes. They looked hopeful and bright in these, the opposite of what you’ve seen. You shivered at the memory of locking with them through many mirrors.
“I hope you’re both fine with regular black tea.” The older man came in, carrying a tray of bone china tea set and finger sandwiches. He poured you each a cup, placing them on the coffee table.
“It’s more than fine, sir,” Sam took a cup. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
It was quiet for a moment with everyone sipping their tea. You sat beside Sam on the lumpy couch to the opposite of the older gentleman. You didn’t know where to start.
“I heard of what happened,” Mr Rogers started to your relief. “Officers Matthews and McCray phoned me in the morning. They’re probably exasperated, those two. Always getting calls about my house.”
“Enough about that, I should be asking you about your well-being. How are you doing, dear?” he asked, giving you a forlorn expression.
The blues of his eyes began to change, taking on a much more steely quality. His platinum strands darkened and lengthened, becoming dull and greasy. His frail body began bulking and doubling in size. The wrinkles of his skin disappeared, pulling taut over his cheekbones.
He was morphing, taking on the figure that haunts you.
In his place was your monster.
A nudge surprised you, pulling you away. The face of your nightmare nowhere, Mr Rogers remained in his armchair.
“Hey, you alright?” Sam shook you, concerned. “We lost you for a minute there.”
“Um, yeah.”
You looked at him, eyes vacant. You turned towards the older man, he gave you the same look of concern.
“It’s nothing, just thought I— Sorry, it’s nothing.” you gave a nervous chuckle.
“Is there anything I can help with?” Mr Rogers asked, refilling your cup. “I know this is far from just a friendly visit. From my experience with past tenants, I understand if you want to leave. And don’t you worry about the deposit, I’ll give a full refund. It’s the least I could do.”
Relief filled your chest at hearing those words. This wasn’t what you had come here for, but it was a welcomed balm to your already tumultuous mind. It was one less thing to worry about.
“Thank you, Mr Rogers,” you said. “But that’s not actually what we’re here for.”
Signalling towards Sam, he uncovered the photo album from a canvas bag. You took it and carefully set it on the coffee table, spreading it open to a portrait of a brunette soldier.
“We’re sorry for bringing this here, but it dropped from the attic when we opened the hatch,” Sam explained.
You watched as the elder’s fingers ghosted over the lettering of the man’s name; James Buchanan Barnes . They were light, careful, afraid of ruining the piece of antiquity.
“Mr Rogers, can you tell us a bit about this man?” you asked, desperate for answers. “Were the two of you friends?”
It took a while before he answered, eyes never taking off the photo.
“Bucky was my best friend. We grew up together in Brooklyn and he always had my back. Though, he was always neckin’ with a dame once in a while,” he mirthlessly chuckled. “He was always there.”
“When my ma contracted TB and passed, Bucky always helped. Late on the rent? He’ll cover it for ya. Low on food? He can cook.”
He flipped through the album, recounting every tale that came with a photo and you let him. This was a man who missed his youth, left for only time to claim.
He recited how they went to Connie Island and how he threw up after riding the Cyclone. The many dance hall dates that left him for his friend. The many tales of how ‘Bucky’ had saved his butt in alley fights. The war they spent together fighting in Europe, defeating Nazi base after Nazi base. The war where he returned the favour of becoming ‘Bucky’s’ saviour.
“Bucky was all I had.”
He stopped at the last page, where a photo of them in uniform in the snowy mountains stood.
“What happened to him?” Sam asked.
A long stretch of silence filled between the three of you, not readying you for the answer you were to receive.
“He died. Fell off a train in the Alps. I never saw him again.”
And it was back to silence. A beat or two passed.
“What’s this sudden interest in him?” the elder man asked, accompanied by a mirthless chuckle. “I didn’t think I’d be reciting his tale again after so long.”
You flipped the pages back to the portrait, stomach becoming queasy as you prepared to tell your tale.
“This man,” you paused, pointing at the photo. “He’s the one that came into the house the other night.”
“How…? Are you sure?” Mr Rogers’ breath hitched. “He’s been long gone for 75 years.”
“We’re not sure how,” you started. “But I have a theory.”
Sam handed you a flimsy folder. You opened it, taking out clipped pieces of paper. Most of them were screenshots of blog posts from previous tenants, recounting their part of the story living in your current residence. There was a similarity in their retellings that you noticed.
“These are some of the blog posts I managed to find on the house.” You arranged the papers on the coffee table, making them face the elderly man. “Sorry to sprung these on you, but I noticed a consistency in the hauntings that tenants before me have experienced.”
“Go on.”
You let out a breath before continuing, ”In each of the stories, everyone has said that they’ve seen an apparition of a man.”
You pointed to the highlighted texts, their descriptions of an encounter similar.
“Sometimes in an army uniform.”
You turned to the portrait film of ‘Bucky’ in his World War II uniform.
“And sometimes in a blue coat.”
You flipped to the photo of Mr Rogers and ‘Bucky’ on the Alps. It was too good of a coincidence.
“So, what you’re saying,” Mr Rogers put two and two. “Maybe it’s his spirit that has been haunting the house all along.”
“That’s a way to put it,” you confirmed.
He seemed to still be taking it all in. A conflicted expression on his face, full of sadness and worry. Minutes passed and everyone started to move on, with the elder steering the conversation away. You thought it would take time for him, after the sudden resurgence and recalling of a traumatic past. You thought he would have more questions. But he surprised you and Sam by bouncing back, carrying the conversation with the fond memories of his past. It seemed a bit odd, but you put it behind you.
The both of you ended up staying over for dinner.
“Won’t you keep an old man company? It can be quite lonely since I don’t have kids of my own.”
The evening flew faster, with Sam and Mr Rogers exchanging military stories over plates of spaghetti. They bonded over their shared experience, with you chiming in questions once in a while. You looked on in fondness, enjoying the time spent. Maybe you could do it again.
When it came time to leave, you both thanked Mr Rogers for his hospitality. You slipped him an invitation to have a meal at the house some time. However, before you could leave, the elder stopped you, a hand gripping your shoulder.
“Sorry dear, I needed to know. This theory of yours,” he said, forehead creasing. “You don’t believe in them, do you?”
You were caught in surprise by his sudden line of questioning, having thought of already getting past it. Nevertheless, you answered.
“Maybe I’m starting to have a change of thought.”
And finally, you were no longer in denial.
A/N: Next up: The Witch’s Visit
