Genre: Fanfiction
Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare
Rating: G
Warning: None
Pairing: None
Description: Layla remembers her time in the lab. Soap takes care of her. Continued from day 14.
Day 15;
@feveraury: "I don't think I've ever seen you ill before."
@fluffbruary: indulgence | measure | nest
@febuwhump: test subject
Ao3 or under the cut
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you ill before,” Soap comments.
“No kidding. We’ve known each other for four months.”
“Fair point.”
“I was sick for months in the lab.” Soap looks at Layla, worried. “It should be known that trying to change someone’s DNA will make them very sick and kill them. Of course, the scientists didn’t care. Of course, my father didn’t care. They didn’t care that their test subjects became very sick or screamed in pain before dying. I guess I should consider myself lucky. I survived, I’m a hybrid like they want. I should consider myself lucky they didn’t decide I should be dead for not being the perfect German Shepard hybrid.”
Layla cries. Soap pulls her into a hug.
“It’s ok, you’re safe,” he assures her, worried the memories will trigger a panic attack. “No one is going to hurt you again. Task Force 141 will protect you. I’ll protect you.”
Once Layla is calm, Soap gets off the bed. He goes into the bathroom and gets the thermometer. He sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for the thermometer to measure her body temperature.
“101, you got a cold.”
“I think it’s broken. I feel like crap.”
Soap chuckles. “A cold can make you feel like crap, you know. I’ll be right back.”
Soap leaves the room.
The Scotsman returns twenty minutes later, carrying a tray.
“Hot tea and toast.” Layla sits up as Soap puts the tray on her lap. “Eat, then you can rest.”
“Are you going to act like a mother hen?”
“Well, if you insist.”
Soap smirks as he gets an idea. He goes into the closet and gets the two extra blankets Layla has. He rolls the blankets and creates a nest around Layla while she eats.
Once Layla finishes eating, Soap puts the tray on the desk and lies on the bed beside her.
“Risking getting sick after all?” Layla asks.
“Let me indulge in cuddles.”
“Ok, fine, big softie.”
Soap pulls Layla closer to him, ensuring she stays under the blankets.
“Shut up.”
Layla chuckles and closes her eyes. Soon, both Layla and Soap are asleep.
Summary: A chance encounter at a diner leads to Bucky asking a woman patron to meet for breakfast the following Sunday.
Length: 4K
Characters: Bucky Barnes, named OFC x 3 (narrator and 2 minor characters)
Warnings: Account of serious assault on the narrator may be triggering to someone who has experienced a similar situation.
Author notes: Other than the recollection of the narrator’s worst night of her life, the tone of this is positive as she seeks to reclaim her sense of self. The support of the other two OFCs is meant to reinforce that.
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I hadn't been looking for anything when I first noticed the tall dark-haired super soldier as he came into the diner, the same diner where I spent my Sunday mornings, treating myself to a weekly breakfast of eggs Benedict. His arrival caused some heads to turn, as he showed up with Captain America, Sam Wilson, and a younger dark-haired man. The three men waited to be seated, as whispers from the other patrons repeated the instant recognition of Bucky Barnes and Wilson. The jury was out on the third man, but I realized he was likely the new Falcon, Torres was his last name. But it wasn't him that drew my attention. It was Barnes. I could feel my mouth drop open at the sight of the man, as he reeked with a smouldering masculine energy that was definitely attractive.
"They don't make them like that anymore," murmured the voice of the server, a 50 something Diane, who always seemed to put me at her table. I think she felt responsible for my safety as a single woman dining alone. "Damn, if I was only 10 or 15 years younger, I would like a shot at him. Coffee, hun?"
I slid my cup closer to Diane, still openly watching Barnes, until his gaze fell upon me, and I swallowed before looking away. Those blue eyes had been piercing in their intensity and I suddenly felt horribly exposed as his assessment of me lingered.
"Sam Wilson!" exclaimed a voice from the kitchen. It was the owner, Casey, who usually managed the diner from behind the pass through. He came out with his hand outstretched towards the current Captain America who pulled him into one of those pound hugs. "How the hell are you, man?"
There was a flurry of introductions as apparently Casey and Wilson knew each other from the military, then Casey seated the three men at a corner booth on the opposite wall, placing a menu in front of each man. It didn't escape my attention that Barnes placed himself in a position where his back was against the wall, but he could still see everyone in the diner. Every time I glanced at him, he was watching me, with an intensity that was unnerving.
Having already placed my order, I sipped my coffee, then pulled a paperback out of my purse, a copy of John Scalzi's The Collapsing Empire. I had read his book Redshirts, about a bunch of lower ranking officers on a starship realizing that one of them always managed to get killed on a mission, finding it entertaining then decided to read this series, with the book in my hand being the first of three parts. My order came when I was about five pages in and I put the book down to take my first bite, daring to glance at Barnes. Although he was focused on Sam Wilson he shifted his gaze to me, almost as if he knew I was looking at that moment. What was worse was that Wilson and Torres looked back at where his attention was, then I heard laughter, and the tones of gentle teasing that made Barnes' face scowl a little.
I shook my head in mock annoyance. Even grown men could be juvenile at times. Returning my attention to the book, I ate and read, immersing myself in the plot. By the time I finished eating and asked for the bill, the diner was quite empty, including the booth where the three men had been. Diane smirked at me.
"It's already been paid, hun," she said, smugly. "Bucky Barnes paid for it before he left. Left me a good tip, too." She leaned close. "Asked if you were a regular."
"You didn't tell him, did you?"
"No, I didn't but Casey did. Told him you were here every Sunday morning, for eggs Benedict and some reading."
I was caught between being flattered to have caught his notice and being irritated that Casey gave me up so easily. Having suffered a serious assault several years ago I cherished my privacy, especially as it pertained to men inquiring about me, even famous ones. It was my intent not to come back the following Sunday, but by the following weekend I found myself already sitting in my regular booth before recalling that. With a sigh, I resigned myself to stay put, refusing to relinquish my right to enjoy breakfast on my own. Their eggs Benedict really was better than anyone else's offerings and Diane assured me that Casey didn't give him my name or any other information about me. As I delved into the next book of the The Interdependency series, titled The Consuming Fire, I felt the prickling awareness of being watched and looked up to see Barnes sitting in that booth against the opposite wall, alone this time. A brief flicker of a smile flashed across his face when our eyes connected and then he became serious again. He reached inside his leather jacket, removing a battered paperback. With a nod, he began reading.
This time I made sure I would pay for my bill (and more) myself, picking my things up before Barnes was finished his meal. Diane, entering the amount on the terminal, glanced over at him then at me, lowering her voice.
"You sure you want to pay for his? He eats for two."
"I'm sure."
"You don't have to do that." His voice startled me, and I turned around to find him standing there in all of his tall glory, a line from a favourite movie running through my head at that very moment seeming to describe him to a T. Too much twisted steel and sex appeal. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation."
"Just returning the favour," I replied, trying not to get flustered at his close presence and how quietly he had approached. Damn, why did he have to be so good looking? "We're even now."
"Sweetheart," he began. I mean, who uses the term sweetheart these days and why did it make me feel a little giggly inside? He looked at Diane's name tag. "Sweetheart, Diane is right. I eat a lot more than you do. The way I see it, if you pay for me today then I still owe you a meal."
He leaned against the counter, resting an elbow on it, and tilted his head slightly as he gazed at me, his smug smile making me feel irritated as well as interested. We were definitely in a standoff. Diane just watched us with this little smile of her own.
"Okay, you still owe me a meal," I said, tapping my card against the terminal and completing the transaction. "Next Sunday, my booth."
He looked over at where I usually sat. "I'll have to sit in your spot. I can't have my back to people."
"Neither can I."
"You can sit side by side," said Diane, printing off the receipt and handing it to me. "That way, you're both facing outwards."
His head nod indicated his acceptance of her terms then he waited while I considered it. The truth was that I didn't know if I could sit next to him and keep my composure. Even just standing this close to him was doing all sorts of things to me. That assault I referred to had changed me, making me determined not to allow any man an opportunity to hurt me again. Not that Bucky Barnes would, but he did make me feel something I thought I left behind years ago. It took all of my willpower not to play with my hair, or lick my lips, or bat my eyelashes; all of those stereotypical feminine traits that were supposed to mark us women as sexual objects. After the assault, I had worked hard to rebuild my life, succeeding in most areas, except for dating. It was the final big hurdle, and I wasn't sure I was ready to jump over it yet. Being this close to this particular living legend was threatening to undermine all my progress.
"Fine," I heard myself say. "But don't expect me to fawn all over you. I come here every Sunday morning for the eggs Benedict, and some uninterrupted reading time. That's my routine."
"Fine," he said, that smirk appearing. "I'll bring my own reading material." I headed for the door. "See you next Sunday. What's your name?"
His question stopped me. Turning around I made eye contact with Diane, whose sympathetic look confirmed that she knew why I was being cautious. Bucky was quick to pick up on that look between us but said nothing.
"I'll tell you next week," I replied, then left before he could say anything.
I wish I could say I handled the week well, but I didn't. Yes, I was attracted to him. For the first time in what seemed like forever, I was attracted to a man. I was also scared, not of him specifically but of allowing myself to be open to someone. It's just breakfast, sharing a table with a guy. It's not a relationship. I kept telling myself that, but the dark thoughts kept creeping in. What if he tries to control me? What if he makes me do things I don't want to do? What if he hurts me? On Friday morning I called my therapist's office and begged for some time that day to deal with the shit storm my head had become. She usually kept an hour free for emergencies, and I begged off of work to take it.
"So, what's going on?" asked Elaine (she was okay with being on a first name basis), as she let me into her office, noticing that I curled up in the big round oversized armchair with the multiple cushions and blankets instantly draping them over myself. "Something has really bothered you."
"A man," I said. "Not just any man but a gorgeous man with a past." She kept her face neutral. "Bucky Barnes. I have a breakfast date with him and I'm freaking out."
I told her the circumstances that led to our date and how I kept fixating on what could go wrong. Her iPad was on the table next to her chair, and she brought up an image of him, studying it for several moments.
"He's an attractive man," she said. "Youngest looking World War II veteran, longest serving prisoner of war on record, survivor of horrific medical experimentation and physical abuse, former assassin, current Avenger. Why do you think something will go wrong?"
I struggled to put it into words that didn't specifically reference my past trauma, but I knew that it was the main reason. Even now, so many years after it happened, and the years of therapy I underwent to deal with it, the past was shaking my resolve, making me doubt that I deserved to move on, to have a life, to be happy. Elaine listened as I babbled on and on about my doubts and fears. She noticed how my hands fluttered over myself, touching the parts of my body that were scarred by the injuries I suffered, including my head where a titanium plate replaced a part of my skull that was crushed when my date attempted to finish me off. Not once did she comment when I wrung my hands together, hands that were brutally broken in the same attack. As I wrapped the blankets tighter around me, she didn't bring up that I was unconsciously binding myself up in the same way my attacker did when he thought he killed me and rolled me up in a plastic tarp to leave my body in a landfill where I was found by a family looking for an heirloom that was accidentally thrown out. Then she leaned forward, focusing on me.
"You don't have to go," she said simply. "If it is causing you this much distress then maybe you shouldn't."
"I know that and maybe by Sunday I might not go. But I want to. For the first time since it all happened, I want to be with a man ... like BE with a man, you know?"
There, I put it out there. After years of convincing myself that I didn't need a man in my life, I had finally seen a man that interested me, in a way I thought was gone.
"Physically?" She sat back. "That's a big step and a big jump from a breakfast date where you plan to read a book to being physical with a man."
"Yeah," I breathed out. "I know. But he's ... he's beautiful and I imagine he's gone through something similar because of his trauma."
There had been studies of the extent of the treatment meted out to Bucky Barnes over his 70 odd years of captivity. When HYDRAs secrets were revealed online in 2014 some enterprising people had taken advantage of that info dump to decrypt all of those secrets. They uncovered a lot of horrific evidence of the treatment he suffered, much of it presented to help exonerate him when he was put on trial after the battle that defeated Thanos. He had done terrible things but the treatment he suffered to force him into those actions was cruel and inhumane in its intent. His suffering was still on the internet for all to see. He was a survivor, like me.
Realizing I had bundled myself up I removed the layers of blankets and stretched out. Coming today had been the right thing. Really all I needed was a sounding board, a way to work through my fears and doubts. I knew what I was going to do.
When Sunday came, I arrived at the diner at my usual time. Diane smiled at me and took me over to "my" booth, putting a menu down, even though we both knew what I was having. She left another menu on the place setting beside me, returning a minute later to pour me a coffee. Then I waited for Bucky, taking my book out of my purse and placing it on the table. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, then thirty and when an hour passed, I accepted that he wasn't coming.
Diane brought me my eggs Benedict. "It's on the house, hun," she said gently, then placed her hand on mine, squeezing it gently. "I'm sorry."
"Me too," I whispered, picking at my food. "Thanks."
She left to take another customer's money then it was as if all the sound in the diner was sucked out in one single moment. I looked up to see Bucky standing beside the cashier station, holding a bouquet of golden flowers. Diane was glaring at him, as he looked afraid, not of her, but of me. Slowly, he approached and stood opposite, with his back to the other patrons. He was nervous, shuffling his feet.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "When I first asked about you, the people who work here were protective of you and wouldn't tell me much. I figured they didn't think I was good enough for you. So, I kept my distance last Sunday, until I finally spoke to you and got you to agree to meet me for breakfast today. Then I overthought it, and panicked this morning, and wasn't going to come. You could do so much better than me. You need someone who isn't still broken."
I understood, but the part of me that had just sat for an hour waiting snapped back.
"So why are you here?" I gestured to the flowers. "What are those?"
"Mimosas," he said. "They were chosen as the flower for International Women's Day in 1946 because they are sturdy and resilient and a sign of female strength. It was yesterday." He looked down at them. "You at least deserved an explanation of why I didn't show up."
He put the bouquet on the table, then turned to leave, as I just stared at them. As he walked back through the gauntlet of the disapproving eyes of the other patrons and staff, his shoulders slumped. For all that he had been portrayed by the media and himself, he was scarred too, even more than me.
"Hey, Bucky, have you eaten?" I asked, loudly enough to make him stop. He didn't turn around, but he shook his head. "Then sit with me and have some breakfast."
Turning, he looked at me with those incredible blue eyes, then nodded his head and slid into the booth beside me. Diane, still frowning, poured him a coffee and took his order, the big breakfast special, a double helping. I kept eating my eggs Benedict, very aware of everything about him. I could smell his aftershave, with scents of cedar and leather. He radiated heat that was kind of nice as it reminded me of curling up in front of a fire. It evoked thoughts of sharing the couch under a blanket while watching TV, and other moments of quiet intimacy. His gloved hands were fidgeting, rolling and unrolling the paper napkin that his cutlery had been placed on.
"I haven't dated much," he said, finally. "Used to be really good at it but I've changed, women have changed, and I'm unsure of what to say or do." I didn't answer. "This past week I've been overthinking this moment ... a lot. I originally noticed you because you were reading. I'm a reader too, and between that and listening to 40s music, is mostly what I do for entertainment these days. On that first day I saw you, I envisioned asking you about the book you were reading. Thought maybe it would help in having a conversation with you, and that it could lead to a date." He sighed, unburdening himself obviously difficult for him. "That led to doubts and a few nightmares and by this morning I thought it was better that I ... not show up. You don't need someone with my problems. I'm not worth it."
It was like listening to my own brain telling me the lies it did when I got into a downward spiral. Placing my cutlery down, I finished chewing my food, then I turned to him. I didn't mean to tell him everything, but it just spilled out.
"I've been through the same week," I said. "I used to date a lot, looking for the right guy. Thought I found him; a customer from work who said and did the right things." I swallowed, trying to find the words that wouldn't trigger either of us. "He picked me up, took me to dinner, was bright and attentive and then suggested we go somewhere to watch the sunset. What followed was the worst night of my life when he attacked and beat me, raped me, then tried to kill me. Almost succeeded. I was found barely alive in a landfill, where he left me wrapped up in a plastic tarp." I could feel Bucky tense up and the look on his face was full of both horror and sympathy. "I remember all of it which is unbelievable because I had a brain injury that required a titanium plate be put into my skull. I've been in therapy ever since. You were the first man that I felt attracted to since it happened. It hurt that you didn't ...."
I couldn't help it, as I felt the tears building in my eyes. Bucky immediately took his gloves off and grasped my hands, raising them to his lips. His kiss on them was so soft and gentle. Then he grabbed the paper napkin, the same one he had been fidgeting with, and dabbed my cheeks.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't know. You must hate me."
"No, I don't," I answered. "You've had your own trauma for a lot longer than mine. We've both been hurt. I just thought that because we're both survivors that maybe we had common ground."
"You would still give me a chance?"
I nodded. "You're a reader, like me, and you brought me flowers, which was sweet. You can't stand me up again. That wasn't cool."
"No, it wasn't, and I'll do all I can to make it up to you," he said, smiling softly at me.
Diane brought his meal then, topping up our cups of coffee moments later. Although she was friendlier to Bucky, I could see that he still had work to do to win her over. His late arrival had provided a rough start to the date, but it was still salvageable. I couldn't really blame him for having the same doubts and fears that I had faced. We were both a mess, but we were both trying.
He looked at the book I put on the table when I got there, the third book in the series, The Last Emperox.
"It's a good series, isn't it?"
"You're reading it, too?"
"I checked it out of the library after I saw you reading the first one." He reached inside his jacket, bringing out that battered paperback, a copy of The Hobbit. "I have my favourites."
"Tolkien, huh? Can't go wrong with him."
His first plate of food arrived, and he took his jacket off, revealing a blue Henley shirt that really suited him. We made eye contact, and I smiled at him, then I picked up my book, opened it to where I had left my bookmark and began to read as I continued eating my breakfast. He did the same, and we sat there for some time, reading and eating, while Diane topped our coffee cups up. I finished my meal long before he did, but I stayed, liking the feeling of sitting next to him.
"Anything else for you two before I present the bill?" asked Diane.
We both shook our heads, and she placed the slip in front of Bucky then went to get an order from the pass through. He picked it up, then frowned.
"I think she made a mistake. Only my food is on this. Ma'am?" Diane came over. "I'm paying for both meals."
"Hers is on the house this morning. We didn't think you were coming. I guess you'll just have to pay next week."
She winked at me, then went off to help another customer. Bucky looked at the bill then at me.
"Will you have breakfast with me next Sunday?"
"Yes."
He helped me on with my jacket before putting his on. At the till, he gave Diane a good tip, then opened the door for me and we stepped out into the now late morning sunshine. He put his left glove on his black metal hand. Before he could put the glove on his right hand I took it, bringing a surprised look to his face.
"Can we go for a walk?" I asked. "It looks like a beautiful day for a walk."
The smile he gave me was so worth it, making him even more beautiful to look at. His warm hand dwarfed mine, but it felt just right. As we walked, we both carried ourselves a little taller, enjoying the beauty around us. Then he laughed, a self-deprecating chuckle that had me looking up at him.
"I still don't know your name." I smiled then took a breath and told him. "That's pretty, just like you."
A kiss would have sealed the moment, but he knew that baby steps were necessary between us. This morning, holding hands would have to suffice. But more would come, when I was ready and when I was, I wasn't going to hold back. I had a life to live. So did Bucky. Our paths crossed for a reason, and I for one, was happy to share my path with him.
🌼 🔆 🌼 🔆
The movie referred to is the 1989 Steven Spielberg movie Always. The line was spoken by character Durinda Durston. "He's too beautiful. He's too much twisted steel and sex appeal. I can't be with a guy that looks like I won him in a raffle." The twisted steel reference was used by American Gladiator participant Deron McBee around the same time. It also appears in a 2014 poem by W. Todd Kaneko, Be More Like Sputnik Monroe and has been used by various professional wrestlers to describe themselves. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/145620/be-more-like-sputnik-monroe
Listened to a podcast where someone was talking about all the bunk science in psychology and how books like "the body keeps the score" uses bad science and she instead suggested the book: "remembering trauma" which uses better science to talk about what we do and don't remember from trauma
