Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Whoever u want to insert there’s no names.
Guest Appearance: None.
World: AU but avengers
Genre: Fluff, uhh does this categorizes as slam poetry cause it’s just a weird prose type of thing.
Warnings: bad writing.
Word Count: 1.2K
Summary: Where originally everything was meant for him, and him alone, eventually it’s made to fit two, however possible.
Prompt: Coffee Mug. written for @coffee-with-bucky‘s writing challenge that i am insanely late to. I’m sorry I’m actually the worst.
Beta’d by the loveliest of people @delicatelyherdreams
Smooches! xoxo L
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One cup of scalding hot coffee, one spoonful of sugar, at precisely 6:30 am.
A lone glass of orange juice, a slice of toast, a thin layer of strawberry jam spread with the single same old butter knife, while sat at the only plastic chair at the minuscule plastic table by the window, sometime between 7:00 and 8:00.
A lone toothbrush sat in the tiny blue cup in the tiny bathroom. One rug, one towel, one bottle of shampoo.
One fork, one plate, one bowl for fruit.
In bed by 10:00.
Bucky Barnes was a man of routine, or at least he had turned into one. There was something about his current routine that gave him normalcy. A contrast from a past so reckless, so messy, so dangerous he couldn’t do one thing the same.
Sure, routine sounds like the most dangerous thing for a man like him. Routines make you trackable. Routines make you an easy target. But for the time being, he enjoyed the routine of being alone, at least.
It didn’t matter if he did the same thing yesterday that he did the day before. One more step to the right, or to the left when coming up the stairs to his small apartment, another lap around the park. A stop at a different food truck or street shop, every other day. It was all the little things, done a little differently to keep safe, but measured to categorise as a plan. And always alone.
He could fend for himself. He could keep himself safe. That was all he needed. It was how he had planned it.
Bucky Barnes would say he had a normal week.
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One cup of scalding hot coffee, one spoonful of sugar, at precisely 6:30 am.
A lone glass of orange juice, a slice of toast, a thin layer of strawberry jam spread with the single same old butter knife, while sat at the only plastic chair at the minuscule plastic table by the window, sometime between 7:00 and 8:00.
A lone toothbrush sat in the tiny blue cup in the tiny bathroom. One rug, one towel, one bottle of shampoo.
One fork, one plate, one bowl for soup.
Unusual leftovers, clamoring the space in the tiny fridge. Leftovers because he took too long that day. Leftovers because he agreed to a sandwich on the way.
Leftovers because he let his guard down.
Still, he took one extra step to the right when walking back home, and chucked the single copy of the keys to his place on the bedside table, as his head rested on the single pillow, at 10:15 pm.
Bucky Barnes would say he had a normal week. Ran a little late, but maybe that was for the better. After all he did take that extra step to the right.
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One cup of scalding hot coffee, one spoonful of sugar, at precisely 6:30 am.
A lone glass of orange juice, a slice of toast, a thin layer of strawberry jam spread with the single same old butter knife, while sat at the only plastic chair at the minuscule plastic table by the window, sometime between 7:00 and 8:00, and a sandwich packed to go.
A lone toothbrush sat in the tiny blue cup in the tiny bathroom. One rug, one towel, one bottle of shampoo running out.
One fork, one plate, one bowl for cereal.
A trip to the grocers. A new bottle of shampoo, and a can of a soda he’d been recommended. A new taste because he let his guard down.
In bed by 10:00.
Awakened by a text by 10:05. Finally asleep at a time unknown, phone on his chest.
Bucky Barnes would say he had a normal week, and his eye would twitch because he knew deep down, it wasn’t all that normal.
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One cup of scalding hot coffee, one spoonful of sugar, at 7:00 am.
A lone glass of orange juice, two slices of toast, a thin layer of strawberry jam spread with the single same old butter knife on each, both packed to go.
A lone toothbrush sat in the tiny blue cup in the tiny bathroom. One rug, one towel, one bottle of a new brand of shampoo.
One fork, one plate, a bowl for whatever else. A bag of leftovers that didn’t have his name on it.
The small plastic chair on the rooftop, staring at the stars, while listening to an album he’d been recommended. Multiple texts. Awakened by the sun hitting his skin and a sweet backache he didn’t mind too much.
Bucky Barnes would say he had a different week. He had lost some control. He would argue with himself to get it back.
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One cup of scalding hot coffee, one spoonful of sugar, at precisely 6:30 am.
A lone glass of orange juice, a slice of toast, a thin layer of strawberry jam spread with the single same old butter knife, while sat at the only plastic chair at the minuscule plastic table by the window, sometime between 7:00 and 8:00.
A lone toothbrush sat in the tiny blue cup in the tiny bathroom. One rug, one towel, one bottle of shampoo.
One fork, one plate, one bowl for fruit.
In bed by 10:00.
Bucky Barnes would say he had a normal week, despite something being off, and his hand itching to grab his phone, burning a hole in his pocket with every buzz. Control was hard.
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No coffee this morning.
No glass of orange juice.
No toast, no jam, no dirty plates.
A toothbrush sat in the tiny blue cup in the tiny bathroom.
The single button up he owned, fingers fumbling to get it buttoned. Nerves and deep breaths. A single hole in his stomach that felt like it would eat him alive.
In bed by 11:00, grinning like a fool until 12:00.
Bucky Barnes would say he had a good week.
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Two cups of scalding hot coffee, one with a spoonful of sugar, one with dash of milk, at whatever time he’d gotten up that day.
A glass of apple juice and a new glass of orange juice, two slices of toast, a choice of strawberry jam or peanut butter, spread with the single same old butter knife, while somehow comfortable sat at one chair, bumping knees with the person on the second chair, at the tiny plastic table meant for one. By the window, being kissed by the sun’s warmth, and having his beard tickled by curious fingers.
Two toothbrushes sat in the tiny blue cup in the tiny bathroom, bodies dancing around each other in the space clearly meant for one, never two. Bump after bump of hips. One rug, two towels, two bottles of shampoo, scattered makeup.
Two pairs of shoes by the door.
Two forks, two plates, two bowls, that were impossible to place in his meant-for-one cabinets.
Limbs tangled in bed by whatever time. Cold toes caressing his shin. Mouths kissing and whispering and giggling until unknown hours. Waking up to a warm body across his chest, and a leg dangling off the tiny mattress, murmurs of good mornings and her hands helping his hair back into his bun.
Bucky Barnes wanted all his weeks like this.
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FIN
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hope you enjoyed this. idk what this was, sorry. FEEDBACK IS APPRECIATED! HERES MY ASK, HERE’S MY MASTERLIST
Have a good day dearies
Most of the time I like to pretend that I'm doing just fine, that I've always been doing just fine, and I want to say that I put on a pretty good show, but the truth is I'm not sure nowadays if I'm even pretending or if it even is a show. I know somedays the emotions come flooding in to the point that they overwhelm me and leave me breathless, but I also know that I'm numb to most of it nowadays. I know that when something happens, I've grown to expect it, and I can look at it with my head tilted in disappointed indifference. Another notch in the bed frame, another chapter in the memoir I'll never write, another reason to go to therapy and tell my therapist that I'm not sure if I'm even bothered by it. I am bothered by it, but I don't know how to feel it.
Because I want to hate you but all I can feel is sad. The anger gets doused by residual love, no matter how hot it burns there’s still droplets of it everywhere. I want to hate you but I don’t know how. So how do you hate me? Could you offer me some? Could you spare me some? How do you hate me if you supposedly loved me all the same? How did you burn away all the love? What’s the capacity of your inferno when you think about me, about us? How hot can your anger get that it was able to evaporate all the love?
I’m glad you learned how to hate me. I think it’s a pinnacle in healing, and you used to be so cold all the time. I hope it keeps the house warm, but we used to share that house. I’ve got more memories in your kitchen than I do my own and somehow I feel like every time I try to kindle my own fire it only skips over me and goes straight to you. My house is freezing. Every attempt at warmth is smothered by unrequited and unreturned affection because I don’t know how to stop loving you. I don’t know how to start hating you. I think that's why I haven't healed yet, because I can be angry at the universe, I can be angry at God, I can be angry at the circumstances and the actions and behavior, but I can't be mad at you.
And I'm still mad at the universe, at the circumstances, because why do you get to hurt me and I have to pity you? Why do you get to ruin and I have to salvage? Why do you get to burn while I'm left with my teeth chattering, muscles wound up, cold? Every consequence has it's action and I'm tired of them not lining up. Why do you get to hate me despite everything I've done and why do I have to love you despite everything you've done?
I hope it keeps the house warm. I hope it's a pinnacle for you, but could you offer me some? Could you spare me some? Could you tell me how to learned to hate me, could you tell me how you turned it into a survival technique? I'm freezing.
The first time I met you I had blood on my knuckles and your knuckles were white trying to hold onto me. Some back alley, some brick wall. “You’re fun” whispered between trembling lips.
I'm sorry I didn't know how to love you. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't mine, either. I'm sorry if I made you feel like I didn't want you- I wanted you, just not the way you wanted to be wanted. That's not your fault. It's not mine, either. I wish I could have explained it to you better, but there wasn't a word for it back then. Maybe a word wouldn't have been able to help anyway.
And it was months that went by like that, months that went by with bruising grips and caking blood, months that went by with you whispering, begging, "love me, love me, please love me." and me saying, pleading, "I can't, I can't, I can't, don't you see the blood?" and you're saying "I can teach you. I can teach you, don't I make you want to try?"
You did. You did make me want to try. I'm sorry I didn't know how to love you. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't mine, either. You keep saying you can teach me to love you, but I'll teach you how to hate me so badly you'll learn to love someone else.
I don’t think I ever got the blood off my knuckles, I don’t think you ever stopped trying to hold onto me. We could have done this a thousand different ways and they all would have ended with you standing on my porch saying “I'm not having fun anymore." Me, either. We're both too breathless for this, both too doe-eyed and mouth gaping for this. Both too green for things that we can't understand yet, things that don't have a word yet.
I told you it was okay, but you said it wasn't. Whispering, begging, "You don't have to love me. You can ruin me, fuck me up instead. That would be just as well." And me saying, pleading, "Please, there's already so much blood. I don't want to hurt you. I'm tired of hurting everyone." and you're saying, "I'd rather hate you than lose you."
Wouldn't we all. I'm sorry for breaking your heart, but it was the only thing that could break your grip. I'm sorry I didn't know how to love you. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't mine, either.
You finally let go of me, but I'm still standing here with blood on my knuckles.
FILL MY V E I N S WITH YOUR HOLLOWED BONES AND LIGHT THE WAY. YOU HAVE SEEN INSIDE OF YOUR EYES, AND NOW YOU WILL ALWAYS SEE. AND MY LIPS ARE TORN FROM WORDS I'D NEVER SAID, BUBBLING INSIDE AS IF IT WOULD CHANGE. GOD; JUST STOP STRUMMING MY HEARTSTRINGS LIKE THEY WERE YOURS. STOP IT NOW, FOR I FEEL MY STRINGS WILL BREAK. AND THEY WILL NEVER MEND. NEVER. TEAR THIS ABYSS FROM MY PAINED MEMORY, FOR I CANNOT BEAR IT. GONE; LIKE THE WINDS IN THE SEAS, LIKE THE SHIMMERING GRASS FROM A MORNING'S DEW. GONE; LIKE MY BLANK CANVAS WRISTS WHICH I'VE ETCHED IN INK. NOW YOU SEE, AND YOU WILL ALWAYS SEE. I NEVER HAD. NOT SINCE YOU WERE HERE. I'M SORRY I NEVER SAID GOODBYE ON THAT MIDNIGHT RIDE, WHERE YOUR EYES WERE SOULLESS AND BLACK LIKE THE NIGHT. I'M SORRY I WAS NEVER THERE TO CUT THE NOOSE THAT HELD YOUR HEAD HIGH. YOUR MARROW HAS SNAPPED AND THE FAULT IS MINE. I'M JUST SO SORRY I NEVER SAID GOODBYE. -Helana Michelle
