Always Coming Back
CW: Mentions of emotional dysregulation, intense feelings, fear of abandonment, crying, minor argument, self-deprecating thoughts, soft hurt/comfort.
Bucky knew you had bad days.
He just hadn’t expected this bad.
It had started small—he’d been late getting home. Not by much, maybe an hour, but when your phone calls went unanswered and his texts stayed unread, the familiar static in your brain started screaming. Logic told you he was probably fine, maybe caught in traffic, maybe in a meeting. But logic was a whisper, and your fear of losing him was a megaphone.
By the time his key turned in the lock, your body was tight with anger and panic.
You didn’t even say hello.
“You could’ve told me you weren’t dead.”
Bucky froze in the doorway, still holding his bag. “Doll, I—what?”
“You didn’t text me back!” The words came out sharp and hot, louder than you meant. “For hours.” Your voice cracked on the last word. “Do you even care how that makes me feel?”
He stepped inside slowly, shutting the door behind him. “I didn’t mean to worry you—”
“You never mean it,” you snapped, the heat in your chest tipping over into rage. “You just disappear, and I’m left here thinking you’ve decided you’re done with me, and—and you don’t even care—”
“Hey,” his voice dropped, trying to soothe, but you were already spiraling. In the back of your head, you knew you’d regret the words, but right now, they felt like the truth. “Maybe you should just go. Then I won’t have to sit here waiting for someone who doesn’t want to be here.”
It was the crack in his expression—the little wince—that made your chest squeeze so tight you thought you might stop breathing.
You hated yourself instantly. You wanted to take it back, but the words felt like they were cemented in the air between you. The static in your head was roaring now, telling you he would leave, that you’d ruined everything, that you were too much and too broken to be loved.
Bucky put his bag down and came toward you, slow like you were a skittish animal. “Doll, look at me.”
You shook your head, pressing your fists into your eyes. “You’re gonna leave. I can feel it.”
“I’m not leaving,” he said firmly. “Not now. Not tomorrow. Not when you’re mad at me. Not when you’re scared. Not when your brain’s telling you I am.”
His voice was low and steady, like he was anchoring you to the floor. “I’m your favorite person, right?”
You nodded miserably, even though it hurt to admit.
“Then you gotta trust that I’m not going anywhere.” He was close enough now to crouch in front of you, his metal hand warm from the heat of his skin one, cupping your cheek. “You split on me sometimes. I get it. I know it’s not really you talking when you say those things.”
Tears were hot on your face. “But what if one day you believe it?”
“Then I’ll remind myself that the person who says she loves me every morning is the real one,” he said softly. “And that the voice in your head telling you I’ll leave? That voice is a liar.”
You let out a shaky laugh that was more of a sob. “I hate this. I hate being like this.”
“I know,” he murmured, pulling you into his chest. “But I love you.”
You stayed there for a long time, his heartbeat steady under your ear, until the static faded and the crushing certainty of abandonment loosened its hold. And even then, he didn’t let go.