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Carving Skin Until My Bones Are Showing

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

Summary: You'd thought that everything was fine, until one overheard conversation shattered the illusion, your rose-tinted glasses fading to black. The words cut deeper than anything you've ever heard, and suddenly, you're re-evaluating everything: your relationship, your body, your worth. Now, the man you love with everything you have exists peacefully beside you, as if nothing's changed, while you slowly unravel in silence. You're left wondering if he's already halfway out the door, and you're just the last to know.

Warnings: disordered eating, fainting, body image issues, insecure!reader, misunderstandings, female reader (no y/n)

word count: 4,059

A/N: it's a few days late cause i kept procrastinating on making the banner, whoops | prompt fill for day 30 of @juneofdoom | "This is it isn't it" | Doubt | Crying

{Read on A03} | what i'm listening to

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Sam.”

Bucky’s voice carries across the room and into the hallway, voice laced with mild exasperation. Sam, sitting across from him with an unimpressed look on his face, takes a sip of his coffee. You smile at the sight of Sam, his presence a welcome, if not completely unexpected, surprise at the start of your morning. He must have gotten home early from the mission he was on.

“She’s just so clingy,” Bucky says. “She literally won’t leave me alone. It’s almost annoying at this point.”

You freeze in the doorway, smile slipping off your face in an instant. His words tear through your heart, leaving a hollow ache in their wake.

“That just means she really likes you,” Sam says, shrugging his shoulders.

Bucky huffs, rubbing a hand down his face. “You don’t understand, man. It’s bad, like really bad. I can barely get any of my shit done with her begging for my attention twenty-four seven. I just need some damn space to breathe sometimes.”

You didn’t think you were that bad. Sure, you really liked to drag him away from his work for cuddles—but that was only because you thought he needed the breaks. You know that he used to run himself dry, never letting himself rest until he practically passed out from exhaustion. You didn’t want that cycle to continue. It wasn’t like you forced him to do anything. He could always say no to you. In fact, he has said no to you a few times before—when the work was too important to shove aside for later. All those times he allowed himself to be pulled away, reluctant as he was—how many of those times had he been covertly annoyed with your insistence? How many times did he wish you would just leave him alone?

Your stomach twisted, guilt looming over you. He struggled socially, ran on a limited battery when it came to social interactions—why did you think it would be any different with you? Why did you think you were special? Of course, Bucky is sick of you. When’s the last time that Bucky had some time to himself without you bombarding him with affection and small talk?

“She’s spoiled, that’s what she is,” Bucky grunts, shaking his head. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes. Spoiled? Is that what he really thinks of you? How could he say such a thing? And to Sam, nonetheless. “She eats way too damn much. She’s been gaining so much weight recently; it’s honestly a problem. She ain’t gonna lose it any time soon either with how fucking lazy she is.”

Sam snorts. “Sounds like someone needs to go on a diet.”

“Tell me about it,” Bucky huffs before taking a sip of coffee.

A wave of mortification crashes over you, tears gathering in your eyes. Heart pounding, you take a shaky step back, determined to run back to your room before either of them catches you eavesdropping.

You race back to your shared room, tears blurring the hallway beyond recognition. Once in the safety of your room, you sink down to the floor, back pressed heavy against the door. Your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps as you press a hand over your mouth—as if that alone could muffle the sobs wracking your body. The betrayal is sharp, sinking its claws into your chest and twisting deep inside of you. How could they say those things about you? How could Bucky say those things about you?

You weren’t that clingy, were you? You just liked being close to him, liked the warmth of his presence, the way he always made you feel safe. And sure, maybe you indulged a little too much lately, but had it really made that much of a difference? Have you clung so much that Bucky has started to resent you for it?

The words replay in your head, each repetition hitting harder, sinking deeper. He sounded so frustrated—so tired of you. Like he was already pulling away, one step from slipping through your fingers completely.

And could you even blame him?

You’ve seen the women he works alongside, the kind of people who seem like they belong in the world. Strong, confident, beautiful. Not needy. Not desperate. Not… you. Maybe he was just now realising what you had known all along—that you weren’t enough. That you never had been.

A fresh wave of tears burns your eyes, but you swallow hard, forcing them back down. You wouldn’t let this be the end.

You could fix this.

You could give him space—stop clinging, stop being so needy. You could take up less room, be less of a burden. And if you skipped a few meals, if you pushed yourself harder, maybe you could be someone he actually wanted again. Someone he’d be proud to love, instead of someone he merely put up with.

You just had to be better.

You would be better.

When you emerged from the bedroom for the second time that day, you made sure to make your arrival audible lest you walk in on them still talking about you and your shortcomings. Whilst you couldn’t stomach any breakfast, you needed your caffeine fix. Bucky greeted you with a wide, beautiful smile and a kiss on the forehead.

It almost made you sick—the way he was able to talk about you like you were the dirt underneath his shoe, only to turn around and play the role of your sweet lover. How could he act like everything was okay when he clearly held resentment against you? It almost makes you wonder how long he’d put up with you for the sake of maintaining this relationship—how long since he’d noticed your defects and realised that he deserved better. You almost feel selfish for keeping him tied to you. Now that the secret is out, there’s no point in dancing around the subject. And yet… here you are. In a kitchen you share with a man who doesn’t love you like he used to, and the man he entrusted with his troubles over you.

Just a little longer, you pleaded. You just need a chance to prove your worth. Bucky won’t have to worry about your overbearing clinginess. He won’t have to be embarrassed to be dating someone of your stature. Bucky deserves the best after everything that he’s been through; you were determined to be that for him in whatever way it took.

You startle out of your thoughts from the movement at your feet. A white ball of fluff looks up at you, meowing incessantly. You reach down to scritch between Alpine’s ears. “Hey, sweetheart,” you coo at her, abandoning your quest for coffee in lieu of holding your baby girl. At least Alpine appreciated your affliction for affection.

You don’t miss the look that passes between Bucky and Sam.

Stomach churning, you suddenly don’t feel the desire to make your coffee anymore. In fact, you don’t even want to be in this room anymore. “I’m going to go over to Nat’s,” you say, hoping that Nat isn’t too busy today.

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Weren’t we going to see that movie today?”

Shoot. You had completely forgotten about that. “We can go later, Nat wanted me to come over right away in the morning.”

“Let me make you your coffee before you go.”

“That’s okay, I’m stopping to get some for Nat and me,” you say, dismissal clear in your tone. It would have made you feel bad to act this way before—before his cruel words effectively tore your heart and spirit to shreds. You gave your baby Alpine a kiss on the top of her head, promising her that you’d be back soon before seeing her back on the ground. You grabbed your purse and sped out of the door without even saying goodbye to the two men.

You spent the majority of the day with Natasha, dread curling around your insides every time you thought about going back home, back to Bucky.

You had promised him that you’d be back to see the movie; however, so, too soon for your liking, you say goodbye to Nat and walk back to your apartment.

There’s a vase of your favourite flowers sitting on the counter when you enter. You frown at the sight, not sure why he would bother when he’s obviously upset with you.

You walk into the living space to see Alpine curled up on Bucky’s lap, his work laptop abandoned on the coffee table. Bucky greets you with a smile, setting a protesting Alpine aside to stand up and give you a welcome home kiss.

“What time were you thinking of for the movie?” He asks, arms resting around your waist.

Frustration begins to creep into your chest. If he had a problem with your clinginess, why is he initiating contact? That’s not fair. How are you supposed to leave him alone when he does stuff like this? “Doesn’t matter to me,” you shrug, not able to meet his eyes.

“There’s a showing in an hour, how does that sound? We can go get dinner afterwards.”

“Sounds great,” you replied.

The movie would have been great if you hadn’t sat there stewing in your own anxiety the entire film. Afterwards, Bucky took you to your favourite restaurant where you ordered a salad with the dressing on the side. Bucky’s brows furrowed at your unusual choice, but he didn’t say anything. The dinner was stilted and awkward, both of you running out of things to talk about sooner than usual.

For the next few weeks, you successfully distanced yourself from your boyfriend. You ignored the way your heart ached every time you saw Bucky alone on the couch, wishing you could go over and snuggle up to his warmth. You learned to ignore the hunger pangs, the way your stomach felt like it was eating itself. Your head split open with the force of the headaches pounding against your skull, vision swimming every time you stood up too quickly.

It’s fine, you told yourself. Who really needed breakfast anyway? Why eat lunch when you could have a few snacks? Bucky was right, you really did eat too much. You could survive on one meal a day, snacks thrown in when your hunger got the best of you, or your hands began to shake too much. You were getting better for him, though, so it didn’t matter. You were eating less, clinging less—just like Bucky had wanted; so why wasn’t he happy yet?

The bed felt colder than usual.

You used to sleep tangled up in Bucky’s arms, leeching off of Bucky’s furnace of a body. You used to tuck your perpetually cold feet against his legs, laughing off his grumbling about how your toes felt like icicles.

Now, you curl up at the farthest edge of the mattress, not willing to accidentally touch him when he clearly wants to be left alone.

You used to look forward to getting home from work, ready to melt into your supersoldier’s arms at the end of a long, tiring day.

Now, you’re filled with dread, wondering if this time will finally be the last.

You used to love the shared dinners at the worn table you had found at a thrift store long ago. Bucky and you would take turns choosing what meal to prepare—you had been on a mission to introduce him to the world of flavour the 21st century had to offer; he always used to say the best part of the ordeal was watching your expectant face as he tried the first bite.

Now your stomach twisted at the mere thought of eating in front of him. His words echoed through your brain with each bite you took—it was enough to make you sick.

Bucky had grown short and snappy with everyone (except you) lately; Natasha had complained ad nauseum about your grumpy boyfriend the last few times you’d hung out. You couldn’t help but think that all of those weeks of your overbearing clinginess were finally catching up to him, as if talking to Sam had opened the floodgates. He has finally realised what his problem was: you.

You really were too late to fix this. No amount of distance could fix what damage had been done. Bucky had a foot out the door for a long time now, and you had been too oblivious to notice.

It was a typical Tuesday when Bucky sent you a text that shattered any hope of repairing your relationship.

>>>Hey, after work, can you come straight home?

>>>We really need to talk.

The cursor blinked steadily even as your hand shook. Tears quickly blurred the damning texts beyond recognition—not that you’d ever forget those words; the words that signified the end of the best thing to happen to you.

After crying in the bathroom for the entirety of your lunch break, you passed through the rest of the day in a haze. Your coworkers knew something was wrong, of course, they did, but you didn’t offer up any explanation.

You felt something press against your throat as you slid the key into the lock, suffocating you with every step you took towards him. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable any further. You wouldn’t continue to drag Bucky down.

The vase of flowers was still sitting on the counter—he’d been buying you a new batch every time they started to wilt. Was he cheating on you? Was that why he was getting you flowers so much more often? The thought was something you’d have previously thought inconceivable, but now you weren’t so sure.

Breaking you from your thoughts, Bucky called out your name from the living room. You forced your gaze away from the flowers and to the living room.

Bucky was sitting on the sofa, hands clasped in between his knees and head hanging low. Your stomach swirled at the sight. This was it, wasn’t it? He was going to cut his losses—cut you from his life.

You crossed your arms, tucking your hands out of sight to hide the way they trembled. You waited for him to say something, not willing to be the person to instigate the conversation.

“Could you sit down?” Bucky asks, sounding so small as he gestures to the armchair. You walk over to the chair, despite wanting to stay as close to the exit as possible—ready to run away as soon as his words cut through you like a knife.

Bucky sighs deeply, his hands running over his face. You almost reach out for him, wanting to comfort him, wanting to kiss those lines away from his forehead. Stopping yourself, you remind yourself that it’s not your place, not anymore, and it hasn’t been for a while now.

“This isn’t working anymore, doll,” Bucky says, not even able to look at you. You saw it coming a mile away, and yet it doesn’t take away the anguish those words bring you.

You know you should say something, but words seem to escape you as soon as you open your mouth. Instead, a hot ball of grief and shame lodges in your throat. Tears spring to your eyes, despite telling yourself that you would not let him see you cry over this. It’s for the best, you try to tell yourself. You were but a stepping stone to Bucky’s recovery. You should be grateful that a man like him even offered you a second glance. Despite the way things ended, you know that you’ll look back on all the memories you made together and smile. Because, for once in your life, you knew what it was like to be loved so wholly. You knew what it was like to have a man who cared so deeply, loved so openly, and gave you enough devotion to last a lifetime.

“Yeah,” you agree with him for the sake of things. You hope he won’t look too deeply into your unshed tears, the way your voice wobbled and the way your body trembled. “I… I should go.”

“Doll-”

You cut him off before he can get another word in. “No, just… let me-”

Standing up to run away from this awful conversation, you feel the world sway around you. Black fades in at the edges of your vision as you stumble forward. You think you hear Bucky calling out your name under the sharp ringing in your ears. Clenching your eyes shut, you brace yourself for the hardwood floor.

—

“Doll?”

You groan as something prods your side. Just five more minutes, you think, burying your face into the warmth surrounding you.

“Sweetheart, please!”

Is that Bucky? Why does he sound so worried?

Blinking up at your boyfriend, you find that you’re both in the living room. Bucky’s clenching onto your body like a lifeline. “What’s wrong, Bucky?”

He stares blankly at you for a few seconds. “Doll… you just passed out.”

“Oh,” you eloquently respond.

The fog covering your brain begins to lift bit by bit. You were both sitting down… Bucky was… he was breaking up with you.

Jolting, you scramble out of Bucky’s arms, pushing him away, away, away.

“I’m sorry,” you say, covering your heated face in shame. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

“Don’t be sorry, honey.” He scoots closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” you say, despite knowing full well that ever since you started skipping meals, you’ve been prone to blacking out if you stand up too fast.

Bucky frowns at you, eyebrows furrowed. “I feel like you aren’t telling the truth right now.”

“It doesn’t matter, Bucky.”

“Like hell it doesn’t matter! You just fainted. If I hadn’t been there to catch you, you’d have cut your head open on the side of the table. Tell me what’s going on!” Never before had you heard Bucky sound so worried.

“Why do you care so much?”

“Why do I–Why do I care?” Bucky scoffs in disbelief. “You did not just ask me that.”

“You’re finally breaking up with me, you don’t have to pretend to care about me anymore,” you shoot back, venom lacing your words as you extricate yourself from under his arm.

“Breaking… I wasn’t going to break up with you,” Bucky says as if the idea alone was unimaginable.

“Bullshit! I know that you’ve been wanting to break up with me for weeks—months even!”

“Where the hell would you get an idea like that from?”

“I heard you talking to Sam last month. You told him that I was clingy and lazy and fat.”

Bucky looks positively bewildered at your words. “I would never say any of that crap!”

“But you did.” You cross your arms, daring him to continue lying to you.

“Why the hell would I ever say that? I sure as hell don’t think any of that-”

“Oh, give it up, Barnes. Who else would you have been talking about? Who else is such a spoiled, lazy, clingy, fat-”

“Oh my god,” Bucky interrupts you. “Are you talking about that time I was complaining about Alpine?”

Your heart stops in your chest. “What?”

“I was telling Sam about how annoying it was trying to work from home. She’d always sit on my damn laptop and yowl in my face until I payed attention to her.” Bucky shakes his head—his bemusement is quick to fade, however. “You seriously thought that I was talking about you?”

Sniffling back tears, you nodded your head.

“Oh, Jesus, doll. Why didn’t you say something?” Bucky wraps his arms around you. “Hell, if I ever said something like that, I’d expect at least a slap to the face.”

“But I was too clingy, always cuddling you and giving you kisses-”

“Is that why you haven’t so much as touched me the last few weeks?”

“I thought you wanted me to stop,”

Bucky squeezes you tighter. “Never. I’d never want you to stop. Doll, I thought you were mad at me. I kept buying you flowers and making your favourite dinners to try and get you to forgive me. But you didn’t even give them a second glance, and half the time you’d already eaten or you’d just push the food around on your plate.”

You melt into his embrace, his reassurances a balm over the lingering anxiety of being too much for him. “I was just trying to make you like me again.”

“Doll,” Bucky pulls away from you, sounding completely gutted. “You should never change yourself to make someone like you more. I love how clingy you are—I missed you so damn much.”

“What about…” No, you can’t ask that—you don’t want to hear his answer. “Never mind.”

And Bucky, damn him, doesn’t let it go. “What about what?”

“It’s nothing,” you say, pulling away from him.

“Doll, please don’t shut me out,” Bucky pleads, using those sad eyes that always make you fold.

“It’s just… You never… Do you have a problem with what I look like?”

Bucky’s frown deepens. “Of course, not. Doll, you are so damn beautiful-”

“But I could be thinner. Lots of other girls are prettier and skinnier,” you interrupt him. You freeze at the way his face hardens.

“I love you just the way you are, sweetheart. You don’t have to change a god damn thing about you. You want to know who drives me crazy? You. You want to know who I want to spend the rest of my life looking at? You. When I fell in love with you, I fell in love with all of you. It’s always going to be you. I don’t want no one else, got it?”

“I…” You stumble over your words, tears burning in your waterline. “I started skipping meals again. That’s why I passed out.”

Bucky’s face turns ashen. “You… you stopped eating because of me?”

“I didn’t completely stop eating! I had snacks and dinner most days. It’s not that big-”

“So help me god if you were about to say that it’s not that big of a deal,” Bucky interrupts you, voice sharp. “You need to eat, doll. This beautiful body cannot live without food.”

“I just thought… I thought if I started skipping meals and working out more, I’d look more like Nat or Sharon or-”

“If I wanted someone that looked like them, I’d ask them out. You wanna know why I asked you out? It’s because I thought you were hot. It’s because you’re as gorgeous on the outside as you are on the inside. I don’t want you to look like Nat, I don’t want you to look like Sharon. I want you to look like you.”

Bucky says it with such conviction, you can’t help but allow the tears to fall down your face. “You really mean that?”

“Of course, babydoll. You’re it for me. Don’t want no one else.” Bucky pulls you back into his arms, nuzzling his face into the junction between your neck and shoulder. “Call off of work tomorrow.”

“What? I can’t-” You screech as he lifts you into his arms. Clinging to him like a koala as he makes his way to your bedroom, you protest every step of the way.

“Hush,” he says, laying you down on the bed. “I have been deprived of your cuddles for too damn long. We’re gonna order whatever you want, and snuggle all night long. Then tomorrow, I’m going to make you a giant breakfast and we can go on a picnic for lunch.”

“I don’t ever want my best girl doubting my love for her again, got it?” Bucky asks, leaning over you.

You huff at his antics, rolling your eyes. He pinches your side, only the hint of a grin belying his angered expression. “Got it?” Bucky asks again.

“Yes! Okay, I got it!”

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you know just how loved you are,” he says as a promise before leaning in and kissing your lips.

That night, as you snuggle into his warmth, you endeavour to never let a misunderstanding like this tear you apart again.

Taglist: @hallecarey1 @harleycao @filmsbyblair

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Carving Skin Until My Bones Are Showing

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

Summary: You'd thought that everything was fine, until one overheard conversation shattered the illusion, your rose-tinted glasses fading to black. The words cut deeper than anything you've ever heard, and suddenly, you're re-evaluating everything: your relationship, your body, your worth. Now, the man you love with everything you have exists peacefully beside you, as if nothing's changed, while you slowly unravel in silence. You're left wondering if he's already halfway out the door, and you're just the last to know.

Warnings: disordered eating, fainting, body image issues, insecure!reader, misunderstandings, female reader (no y/n)

word count: 4,059

A/N: it's a few days late cause i kept procrastinating on making the banner, whoops | prompt fill for day 30 of @juneofdoom | "This is it isn't it" | Doubt | Crying

{Read on A03} | what i'm listening to

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Sam.”

Bucky’s voice carries across the room and into the hallway, voice laced with mild exasperation. Sam, sitting across from him with an unimpressed look on his face, takes a sip of his coffee. You smile at the sight of Sam, his presence a welcome, if not completely unexpected, surprise at the start of your morning. He must have gotten home early from the mission he was on.

“She’s just so clingy,” Bucky says. “She literally won’t leave me alone. It’s almost annoying at this point.”

You freeze in the doorway, smile slipping off your face in an instant. His words tear through your heart, leaving a hollow ache in their wake.

“That just means she really likes you,” Sam says, shrugging his shoulders.

Bucky huffs, rubbing a hand down his face. “You don’t understand, man. It’s bad, like really bad. I can barely get any of my shit done with her begging for my attention twenty-four seven. I just need some damn space to breathe sometimes.”

You didn’t think you were that bad. Sure, you really liked to drag him away from his work for cuddles—but that was only because you thought he needed the breaks. You know that he used to run himself dry, never letting himself rest until he practically passed out from exhaustion. You didn’t want that cycle to continue. It wasn’t like you forced him to do anything. He could always say no to you. In fact, he has said no to you a few times before—when the work was too important to shove aside for later. All those times he allowed himself to be pulled away, reluctant as he was—how many of those times had he been covertly annoyed with your insistence? How many times did he wish you would just leave him alone?

Your stomach twisted, guilt looming over you. He struggled socially, ran on a limited battery when it came to social interactions—why did you think it would be any different with you? Why did you think you were special? Of course, Bucky is sick of you. When’s the last time that Bucky had some time to himself without you bombarding him with affection and small talk?

“She’s spoiled, that’s what she is,” Bucky grunts, shaking his head. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes. Spoiled? Is that what he really thinks of you? How could he say such a thing? And to Sam, nonetheless. “She eats way too damn much. She’s been gaining so much weight recently; it’s honestly a problem. She ain’t gonna lose it any time soon either with how fucking lazy she is.”

Sam snorts. “Sounds like someone needs to go on a diet.”

“Tell me about it,” Bucky huffs before taking a sip of coffee.

A wave of mortification crashes over you, tears gathering in your eyes. Heart pounding, you take a shaky step back, determined to run back to your room before either of them catches you eavesdropping.

You race back to your shared room, tears blurring the hallway beyond recognition. Once in the safety of your room, you sink down to the floor, back pressed heavy against the door. Your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps as you press a hand over your mouth—as if that alone could muffle the sobs wracking your body. The betrayal is sharp, sinking its claws into your chest and twisting deep inside of you. How could they say those things about you? How could Bucky say those things about you?

You weren’t that clingy, were you? You just liked being close to him, liked the warmth of his presence, the way he always made you feel safe. And sure, maybe you indulged a little too much lately, but had it really made that much of a difference? Have you clung so much that Bucky has started to resent you for it?

The words replay in your head, each repetition hitting harder, sinking deeper. He sounded so frustrated—so tired of you. Like he was already pulling away, one step from slipping through your fingers completely.

And could you even blame him?

You’ve seen the women he works alongside, the kind of people who seem like they belong in the world. Strong, confident, beautiful. Not needy. Not desperate. Not… you. Maybe he was just now realising what you had known all along—that you weren’t enough. That you never had been.

A fresh wave of tears burns your eyes, but you swallow hard, forcing them back down. You wouldn’t let this be the end.

You could fix this.

You could give him space—stop clinging, stop being so needy. You could take up less room, be less of a burden. And if you skipped a few meals, if you pushed yourself harder, maybe you could be someone he actually wanted again. Someone he’d be proud to love, instead of someone he merely put up with.

You just had to be better.

You would be better.

When you emerged from the bedroom for the second time that day, you made sure to make your arrival audible lest you walk in on them still talking about you and your shortcomings. Whilst you couldn’t stomach any breakfast, you needed your caffeine fix. Bucky greeted you with a wide, beautiful smile and a kiss on the forehead.

It almost made you sick—the way he was able to talk about you like you were the dirt underneath his shoe, only to turn around and play the role of your sweet lover. How could he act like everything was okay when he clearly held resentment against you? It almost makes you wonder how long he’d put up with you for the sake of maintaining this relationship—how long since he’d noticed your defects and realised that he deserved better. You almost feel selfish for keeping him tied to you. Now that the secret is out, there’s no point in dancing around the subject. And yet… here you are. In a kitchen you share with a man who doesn’t love you like he used to, and the man he entrusted with his troubles over you.

Just a little longer, you pleaded. You just need a chance to prove your worth. Bucky won’t have to worry about your overbearing clinginess. He won’t have to be embarrassed to be dating someone of your stature. Bucky deserves the best after everything that he’s been through; you were determined to be that for him in whatever way it took.

You startle out of your thoughts from the movement at your feet. A white ball of fluff looks up at you, meowing incessantly. You reach down to scritch between Alpine’s ears. “Hey, sweetheart,” you coo at her, abandoning your quest for coffee in lieu of holding your baby girl. At least Alpine appreciated your affliction for affection.

You don’t miss the look that passes between Bucky and Sam.

Stomach churning, you suddenly don’t feel the desire to make your coffee anymore. In fact, you don’t even want to be in this room anymore. “I’m going to go over to Nat’s,” you say, hoping that Nat isn’t too busy today.

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Weren’t we going to see that movie today?”

Shoot. You had completely forgotten about that. “We can go later, Nat wanted me to come over right away in the morning.”

“Let me make you your coffee before you go.”

“That’s okay, I’m stopping to get some for Nat and me,” you say, dismissal clear in your tone. It would have made you feel bad to act this way before—before his cruel words effectively tore your heart and spirit to shreds. You gave your baby Alpine a kiss on the top of her head, promising her that you’d be back soon before seeing her back on the ground. You grabbed your purse and sped out of the door without even saying goodbye to the two men.

You spent the majority of the day with Natasha, dread curling around your insides every time you thought about going back home, back to Bucky.

You had promised him that you’d be back to see the movie; however, so, too soon for your liking, you say goodbye to Nat and walk back to your apartment.

There’s a vase of your favourite flowers sitting on the counter when you enter. You frown at the sight, not sure why he would bother when he’s obviously upset with you.

You walk into the living space to see Alpine curled up on Bucky’s lap, his work laptop abandoned on the coffee table. Bucky greets you with a smile, setting a protesting Alpine aside to stand up and give you a welcome home kiss.

“What time were you thinking of for the movie?” He asks, arms resting around your waist.

Frustration begins to creep into your chest. If he had a problem with your clinginess, why is he initiating contact? That’s not fair. How are you supposed to leave him alone when he does stuff like this? “Doesn’t matter to me,” you shrug, not able to meet his eyes.

“There’s a showing in an hour, how does that sound? We can go get dinner afterwards.”

“Sounds great,” you replied.

The movie would have been great if you hadn’t sat there stewing in your own anxiety the entire film. Afterwards, Bucky took you to your favourite restaurant where you ordered a salad with the dressing on the side. Bucky’s brows furrowed at your unusual choice, but he didn’t say anything. The dinner was stilted and awkward, both of you running out of things to talk about sooner than usual.

For the next few weeks, you successfully distanced yourself from your boyfriend. You ignored the way your heart ached every time you saw Bucky alone on the couch, wishing you could go over and snuggle up to his warmth. You learned to ignore the hunger pangs, the way your stomach felt like it was eating itself. Your head split open with the force of the headaches pounding against your skull, vision swimming every time you stood up too quickly.

It’s fine, you told yourself. Who really needed breakfast anyway? Why eat lunch when you could have a few snacks? Bucky was right, you really did eat too much. You could survive on one meal a day, snacks thrown in when your hunger got the best of you, or your hands began to shake too much. You were getting better for him, though, so it didn’t matter. You were eating less, clinging less—just like Bucky had wanted; so why wasn’t he happy yet?

The bed felt colder than usual.

You used to sleep tangled up in Bucky’s arms, leeching off of Bucky’s furnace of a body. You used to tuck your perpetually cold feet against his legs, laughing off his grumbling about how your toes felt like icicles.

Now, you curl up at the farthest edge of the mattress, not willing to accidentally touch him when he clearly wants to be left alone.

You used to look forward to getting home from work, ready to melt into your supersoldier’s arms at the end of a long, tiring day.

Now, you’re filled with dread, wondering if this time will finally be the last.

You used to love the shared dinners at the worn table you had found at a thrift store long ago. Bucky and you would take turns choosing what meal to prepare—you had been on a mission to introduce him to the world of flavour the 21st century had to offer; he always used to say the best part of the ordeal was watching your expectant face as he tried the first bite.

Now your stomach twisted at the mere thought of eating in front of him. His words echoed through your brain with each bite you took—it was enough to make you sick.

Bucky had grown short and snappy with everyone (except you) lately; Natasha had complained ad nauseum about your grumpy boyfriend the last few times you’d hung out. You couldn’t help but think that all of those weeks of your overbearing clinginess were finally catching up to him, as if talking to Sam had opened the floodgates. He has finally realised what his problem was: you.

You really were too late to fix this. No amount of distance could fix what damage had been done. Bucky had a foot out the door for a long time now, and you had been too oblivious to notice.

It was a typical Tuesday when Bucky sent you a text that shattered any hope of repairing your relationship.

>>>Hey, after work, can you come straight home?

>>>We really need to talk.

The cursor blinked steadily even as your hand shook. Tears quickly blurred the damning texts beyond recognition—not that you’d ever forget those words; the words that signified the end of the best thing to happen to you.

After crying in the bathroom for the entirety of your lunch break, you passed through the rest of the day in a haze. Your coworkers knew something was wrong, of course, they did, but you didn’t offer up any explanation.

You felt something press against your throat as you slid the key into the lock, suffocating you with every step you took towards him. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable any further. You wouldn’t continue to drag Bucky down.

The vase of flowers was still sitting on the counter—he’d been buying you a new batch every time they started to wilt. Was he cheating on you? Was that why he was getting you flowers so much more often? The thought was something you’d have previously thought inconceivable, but now you weren’t so sure.

Breaking you from your thoughts, Bucky called out your name from the living room. You forced your gaze away from the flowers and to the living room.

Bucky was sitting on the sofa, hands clasped in between his knees and head hanging low. Your stomach swirled at the sight. This was it, wasn’t it? He was going to cut his losses—cut you from his life.

You crossed your arms, tucking your hands out of sight to hide the way they trembled. You waited for him to say something, not willing to be the person to instigate the conversation.

“Could you sit down?” Bucky asks, sounding so small as he gestures to the armchair. You walk over to the chair, despite wanting to stay as close to the exit as possible—ready to run away as soon as his words cut through you like a knife.

Bucky sighs deeply, his hands running over his face. You almost reach out for him, wanting to comfort him, wanting to kiss those lines away from his forehead. Stopping yourself, you remind yourself that it’s not your place, not anymore, and it hasn’t been for a while now.

“This isn’t working anymore, doll,” Bucky says, not even able to look at you. You saw it coming a mile away, and yet it doesn’t take away the anguish those words bring you.

You know you should say something, but words seem to escape you as soon as you open your mouth. Instead, a hot ball of grief and shame lodges in your throat. Tears spring to your eyes, despite telling yourself that you would not let him see you cry over this. It’s for the best, you try to tell yourself. You were but a stepping stone to Bucky’s recovery. You should be grateful that a man like him even offered you a second glance. Despite the way things ended, you know that you’ll look back on all the memories you made together and smile. Because, for once in your life, you knew what it was like to be loved so wholly. You knew what it was like to have a man who cared so deeply, loved so openly, and gave you enough devotion to last a lifetime.

“Yeah,” you agree with him for the sake of things. You hope he won’t look too deeply into your unshed tears, the way your voice wobbled and the way your body trembled. “I… I should go.”

“Doll-”

You cut him off before he can get another word in. “No, just… let me-”

Standing up to run away from this awful conversation, you feel the world sway around you. Black fades in at the edges of your vision as you stumble forward. You think you hear Bucky calling out your name under the sharp ringing in your ears. Clenching your eyes shut, you brace yourself for the hardwood floor.

—

“Doll?”

You groan as something prods your side. Just five more minutes, you think, burying your face into the warmth surrounding you.

“Sweetheart, please!”

Is that Bucky? Why does he sound so worried?

Blinking up at your boyfriend, you find that you’re both in the living room. Bucky’s clenching onto your body like a lifeline. “What’s wrong, Bucky?”

He stares blankly at you for a few seconds. “Doll… you just passed out.”

“Oh,” you eloquently respond.

The fog covering your brain begins to lift bit by bit. You were both sitting down… Bucky was… he was breaking up with you.

Jolting, you scramble out of Bucky’s arms, pushing him away, away, away.

“I’m sorry,” you say, covering your heated face in shame. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

“Don’t be sorry, honey.” He scoots closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” you say, despite knowing full well that ever since you started skipping meals, you’ve been prone to blacking out if you stand up too fast.

Bucky frowns at you, eyebrows furrowed. “I feel like you aren’t telling the truth right now.”

“It doesn’t matter, Bucky.”

“Like hell it doesn’t matter! You just fainted. If I hadn’t been there to catch you, you’d have cut your head open on the side of the table. Tell me what’s going on!” Never before had you heard Bucky sound so worried.

“Why do you care so much?”

“Why do I–Why do I care?” Bucky scoffs in disbelief. “You did not just ask me that.”

“You’re finally breaking up with me, you don’t have to pretend to care about me anymore,” you shoot back, venom lacing your words as you extricate yourself from under his arm.

“Breaking… I wasn’t going to break up with you,” Bucky says as if the idea alone was unimaginable.

“Bullshit! I know that you’ve been wanting to break up with me for weeks—months even!”

“Where the hell would you get an idea like that from?”

“I heard you talking to Sam last month. You told him that I was clingy and lazy and fat.”

Bucky looks positively bewildered at your words. “I would never say any of that crap!”

“But you did.” You cross your arms, daring him to continue lying to you.

“Why the hell would I ever say that? I sure as hell don’t think any of that-”

“Oh, give it up, Barnes. Who else would you have been talking about? Who else is such a spoiled, lazy, clingy, fat-”

“Oh my god,” Bucky interrupts you. “Are you talking about that time I was complaining about Alpine?”

Your heart stops in your chest. “What?”

“I was telling Sam about how annoying it was trying to work from home. She’d always sit on my damn laptop and yowl in my face until I payed attention to her.” Bucky shakes his head—his bemusement is quick to fade, however. “You seriously thought that I was talking about you?”

Sniffling back tears, you nodded your head.

“Oh, Jesus, doll. Why didn’t you say something?” Bucky wraps his arms around you. “Hell, if I ever said something like that, I’d expect at least a slap to the face.”

“But I was too clingy, always cuddling you and giving you kisses-”

“Is that why you haven’t so much as touched me the last few weeks?”

“I thought you wanted me to stop,”

Bucky squeezes you tighter. “Never. I’d never want you to stop. Doll, I thought you were mad at me. I kept buying you flowers and making your favourite dinners to try and get you to forgive me. But you didn’t even give them a second glance, and half the time you’d already eaten or you’d just push the food around on your plate.”

You melt into his embrace, his reassurances a balm over the lingering anxiety of being too much for him. “I was just trying to make you like me again.”

“Doll,” Bucky pulls away from you, sounding completely gutted. “You should never change yourself to make someone like you more. I love how clingy you are—I missed you so damn much.”

“What about…” No, you can’t ask that—you don’t want to hear his answer. “Never mind.”

And Bucky, damn him, doesn’t let it go. “What about what?”

“It’s nothing,” you say, pulling away from him.

“Doll, please don’t shut me out,” Bucky pleads, using those sad eyes that always make you fold.

“It’s just… You never… Do you have a problem with what I look like?”

Bucky’s frown deepens. “Of course, not. Doll, you are so damn beautiful-”

“But I could be thinner. Lots of other girls are prettier and skinnier,” you interrupt him. You freeze at the way his face hardens.

“I love you just the way you are, sweetheart. You don’t have to change a god damn thing about you. You want to know who drives me crazy? You. You want to know who I want to spend the rest of my life looking at? You. When I fell in love with you, I fell in love with all of you. It’s always going to be you. I don’t want no one else, got it?”

“I…” You stumble over your words, tears burning in your waterline. “I started skipping meals again. That’s why I passed out.”

Bucky’s face turns ashen. “You… you stopped eating because of me?”

“I didn’t completely stop eating! I had snacks and dinner most days. It’s not that big-”

“So help me god if you were about to say that it’s not that big of a deal,” Bucky interrupts you, voice sharp. “You need to eat, doll. This beautiful body cannot live without food.”

“I just thought… I thought if I started skipping meals and working out more, I’d look more like Nat or Sharon or-”

“If I wanted someone that looked like them, I’d ask them out. You wanna know why I asked you out? It’s because I thought you were hot. It’s because you’re as gorgeous on the outside as you are on the inside. I don’t want you to look like Nat, I don’t want you to look like Sharon. I want you to look like you.”

Bucky says it with such conviction, you can’t help but allow the tears to fall down your face. “You really mean that?”

“Of course, babydoll. You’re it for me. Don’t want no one else.” Bucky pulls you back into his arms, nuzzling his face into the junction between your neck and shoulder. “Call off of work tomorrow.”

“What? I can’t-” You screech as he lifts you into his arms. Clinging to him like a koala as he makes his way to your bedroom, you protest every step of the way.

“Hush,” he says, laying you down on the bed. “I have been deprived of your cuddles for too damn long. We’re gonna order whatever you want, and snuggle all night long. Then tomorrow, I’m going to make you a giant breakfast and we can go on a picnic for lunch.”

“I don’t ever want my best girl doubting my love for her again, got it?” Bucky asks, leaning over you.

You huff at his antics, rolling your eyes. He pinches your side, only the hint of a grin belying his angered expression. “Got it?” Bucky asks again.

“Yes! Okay, I got it!”

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you know just how loved you are,” he says as a promise before leaning in and kissing your lips.

That night, as you snuggle into his warmth, you endeavour to never let a misunderstanding like this tear you apart again.

Taglist: @hallecarey1 @harleycao @filmsbyblair

[cricket-reader]

Carving Skin Until My Bones Are Showing

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

Summary: You'd thought that everything was fine, until one overheard conversation shattered the illusion, your rose-tinted glasses fading to black. The words cut deeper than anything you've ever heard, and suddenly, you're re-evaluating everything: your relationship, your body, your worth. Now, the man you love with everything you have exists peacefully beside you, as if nothing's changed, while you slowly unravel in silence. You're left wondering if he's already halfway out the door, and you're just the last to know.

Warnings: disordered eating, fainting, body image issues, insecure!reader, misunderstandings, female reader (no y/n)

word count: 4,059

A/N: it's a few days late cause i kept procrastinating on making the banner, whoops | prompt fill for day 30 of @juneofdoom | "This is it isn't it" | Doubt | Crying

{Read on A03} | what i'm listening to

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Sam.”

Bucky’s voice carries across the room and into the hallway, voice laced with mild exasperation. Sam, sitting across from him with an unimpressed look on his face, takes a sip of his coffee. You smile at the sight of Sam, his presence a welcome, if not completely unexpected, surprise at the start of your morning. He must have gotten home early from the mission he was on.

“She’s just so clingy,” Bucky says. “She literally won’t leave me alone. It’s almost annoying at this point.”

You freeze in the doorway, smile slipping off your face in an instant. His words tear through your heart, leaving a hollow ache in their wake.

“That just means she really likes you,” Sam says, shrugging his shoulders.

Bucky huffs, rubbing a hand down his face. “You don’t understand, man. It’s bad, like really bad. I can barely get any of my shit done with her begging for my attention twenty-four seven. I just need some damn space to breathe sometimes.”

You didn’t think you were that bad. Sure, you really liked to drag him away from his work for cuddles—but that was only because you thought he needed the breaks. You know that he used to run himself dry, never letting himself rest until he practically passed out from exhaustion. You didn’t want that cycle to continue. It wasn’t like you forced him to do anything. He could always say no to you. In fact, he has said no to you a few times before—when the work was too important to shove aside for later. All those times he allowed himself to be pulled away, reluctant as he was—how many of those times had he been covertly annoyed with your insistence? How many times did he wish you would just leave him alone?

Your stomach twisted, guilt looming over you. He struggled socially, ran on a limited battery when it came to social interactions—why did you think it would be any different with you? Why did you think you were special? Of course, Bucky is sick of you. When’s the last time that Bucky had some time to himself without you bombarding him with affection and small talk?

“She’s spoiled, that’s what she is,” Bucky grunts, shaking his head. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes. Spoiled? Is that what he really thinks of you? How could he say such a thing? And to Sam, nonetheless. “She eats way too damn much. She’s been gaining so much weight recently; it’s honestly a problem. She ain’t gonna lose it any time soon either with how fucking lazy she is.”

Sam snorts. “Sounds like someone needs to go on a diet.”

“Tell me about it,” Bucky huffs before taking a sip of coffee.

A wave of mortification crashes over you, tears gathering in your eyes. Heart pounding, you take a shaky step back, determined to run back to your room before either of them catches you eavesdropping.

You race back to your shared room, tears blurring the hallway beyond recognition. Once in the safety of your room, you sink down to the floor, back pressed heavy against the door. Your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps as you press a hand over your mouth—as if that alone could muffle the sobs wracking your body. The betrayal is sharp, sinking its claws into your chest and twisting deep inside of you. How could they say those things about you? How could Bucky say those things about you?

You weren’t that clingy, were you? You just liked being close to him, liked the warmth of his presence, the way he always made you feel safe. And sure, maybe you indulged a little too much lately, but had it really made that much of a difference? Have you clung so much that Bucky has started to resent you for it?

The words replay in your head, each repetition hitting harder, sinking deeper. He sounded so frustrated—so tired of you. Like he was already pulling away, one step from slipping through your fingers completely.

And could you even blame him?

You’ve seen the women he works alongside, the kind of people who seem like they belong in the world. Strong, confident, beautiful. Not needy. Not desperate. Not… you. Maybe he was just now realising what you had known all along—that you weren’t enough. That you never had been.

A fresh wave of tears burns your eyes, but you swallow hard, forcing them back down. You wouldn’t let this be the end.

You could fix this.

You could give him space—stop clinging, stop being so needy. You could take up less room, be less of a burden. And if you skipped a few meals, if you pushed yourself harder, maybe you could be someone he actually wanted again. Someone he’d be proud to love, instead of someone he merely put up with.

You just had to be better.

You would be better.

When you emerged from the bedroom for the second time that day, you made sure to make your arrival audible lest you walk in on them still talking about you and your shortcomings. Whilst you couldn’t stomach any breakfast, you needed your caffeine fix. Bucky greeted you with a wide, beautiful smile and a kiss on the forehead.

It almost made you sick—the way he was able to talk about you like you were the dirt underneath his shoe, only to turn around and play the role of your sweet lover. How could he act like everything was okay when he clearly held resentment against you? It almost makes you wonder how long he’d put up with you for the sake of maintaining this relationship—how long since he’d noticed your defects and realised that he deserved better. You almost feel selfish for keeping him tied to you. Now that the secret is out, there’s no point in dancing around the subject. And yet… here you are. In a kitchen you share with a man who doesn’t love you like he used to, and the man he entrusted with his troubles over you.

Just a little longer, you pleaded. You just need a chance to prove your worth. Bucky won’t have to worry about your overbearing clinginess. He won’t have to be embarrassed to be dating someone of your stature. Bucky deserves the best after everything that he’s been through; you were determined to be that for him in whatever way it took.

You startle out of your thoughts from the movement at your feet. A white ball of fluff looks up at you, meowing incessantly. You reach down to scritch between Alpine’s ears. “Hey, sweetheart,” you coo at her, abandoning your quest for coffee in lieu of holding your baby girl. At least Alpine appreciated your affliction for affection.

You don’t miss the look that passes between Bucky and Sam.

Stomach churning, you suddenly don’t feel the desire to make your coffee anymore. In fact, you don’t even want to be in this room anymore. “I’m going to go over to Nat’s,” you say, hoping that Nat isn’t too busy today.

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Weren’t we going to see that movie today?”

Shoot. You had completely forgotten about that. “We can go later, Nat wanted me to come over right away in the morning.”

“Let me make you your coffee before you go.”

“That’s okay, I’m stopping to get some for Nat and me,” you say, dismissal clear in your tone. It would have made you feel bad to act this way before—before his cruel words effectively tore your heart and spirit to shreds. You gave your baby Alpine a kiss on the top of her head, promising her that you’d be back soon before seeing her back on the ground. You grabbed your purse and sped out of the door without even saying goodbye to the two men.

You spent the majority of the day with Natasha, dread curling around your insides every time you thought about going back home, back to Bucky.

You had promised him that you’d be back to see the movie; however, so, too soon for your liking, you say goodbye to Nat and walk back to your apartment.

There’s a vase of your favourite flowers sitting on the counter when you enter. You frown at the sight, not sure why he would bother when he’s obviously upset with you.

You walk into the living space to see Alpine curled up on Bucky’s lap, his work laptop abandoned on the coffee table. Bucky greets you with a smile, setting a protesting Alpine aside to stand up and give you a welcome home kiss.

“What time were you thinking of for the movie?” He asks, arms resting around your waist.

Frustration begins to creep into your chest. If he had a problem with your clinginess, why is he initiating contact? That’s not fair. How are you supposed to leave him alone when he does stuff like this? “Doesn’t matter to me,” you shrug, not able to meet his eyes.

“There’s a showing in an hour, how does that sound? We can go get dinner afterwards.”

“Sounds great,” you replied.

The movie would have been great if you hadn’t sat there stewing in your own anxiety the entire film. Afterwards, Bucky took you to your favourite restaurant where you ordered a salad with the dressing on the side. Bucky’s brows furrowed at your unusual choice, but he didn’t say anything. The dinner was stilted and awkward, both of you running out of things to talk about sooner than usual.

For the next few weeks, you successfully distanced yourself from your boyfriend. You ignored the way your heart ached every time you saw Bucky alone on the couch, wishing you could go over and snuggle up to his warmth. You learned to ignore the hunger pangs, the way your stomach felt like it was eating itself. Your head split open with the force of the headaches pounding against your skull, vision swimming every time you stood up too quickly.

It’s fine, you told yourself. Who really needed breakfast anyway? Why eat lunch when you could have a few snacks? Bucky was right, you really did eat too much. You could survive on one meal a day, snacks thrown in when your hunger got the best of you, or your hands began to shake too much. You were getting better for him, though, so it didn’t matter. You were eating less, clinging less—just like Bucky had wanted; so why wasn’t he happy yet?

The bed felt colder than usual.

You used to sleep tangled up in Bucky’s arms, leeching off of Bucky’s furnace of a body. You used to tuck your perpetually cold feet against his legs, laughing off his grumbling about how your toes felt like icicles.

Now, you curl up at the farthest edge of the mattress, not willing to accidentally touch him when he clearly wants to be left alone.

You used to look forward to getting home from work, ready to melt into your supersoldier’s arms at the end of a long, tiring day.

Now, you’re filled with dread, wondering if this time will finally be the last.

You used to love the shared dinners at the worn table you had found at a thrift store long ago. Bucky and you would take turns choosing what meal to prepare—you had been on a mission to introduce him to the world of flavour the 21st century had to offer; he always used to say the best part of the ordeal was watching your expectant face as he tried the first bite.

Now your stomach twisted at the mere thought of eating in front of him. His words echoed through your brain with each bite you took—it was enough to make you sick.

Bucky had grown short and snappy with everyone (except you) lately; Natasha had complained ad nauseum about your grumpy boyfriend the last few times you’d hung out. You couldn’t help but think that all of those weeks of your overbearing clinginess were finally catching up to him, as if talking to Sam had opened the floodgates. He has finally realised what his problem was: you.

You really were too late to fix this. No amount of distance could fix what damage had been done. Bucky had a foot out the door for a long time now, and you had been too oblivious to notice.

It was a typical Tuesday when Bucky sent you a text that shattered any hope of repairing your relationship.

>>>Hey, after work, can you come straight home?

>>>We really need to talk.

The cursor blinked steadily even as your hand shook. Tears quickly blurred the damning texts beyond recognition—not that you’d ever forget those words; the words that signified the end of the best thing to happen to you.

After crying in the bathroom for the entirety of your lunch break, you passed through the rest of the day in a haze. Your coworkers knew something was wrong, of course, they did, but you didn’t offer up any explanation.

You felt something press against your throat as you slid the key into the lock, suffocating you with every step you took towards him. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable any further. You wouldn’t continue to drag Bucky down.

The vase of flowers was still sitting on the counter—he’d been buying you a new batch every time they started to wilt. Was he cheating on you? Was that why he was getting you flowers so much more often? The thought was something you’d have previously thought inconceivable, but now you weren’t so sure.

Breaking you from your thoughts, Bucky called out your name from the living room. You forced your gaze away from the flowers and to the living room.

Bucky was sitting on the sofa, hands clasped in between his knees and head hanging low. Your stomach swirled at the sight. This was it, wasn’t it? He was going to cut his losses—cut you from his life.

You crossed your arms, tucking your hands out of sight to hide the way they trembled. You waited for him to say something, not willing to be the person to instigate the conversation.

“Could you sit down?” Bucky asks, sounding so small as he gestures to the armchair. You walk over to the chair, despite wanting to stay as close to the exit as possible—ready to run away as soon as his words cut through you like a knife.

Bucky sighs deeply, his hands running over his face. You almost reach out for him, wanting to comfort him, wanting to kiss those lines away from his forehead. Stopping yourself, you remind yourself that it’s not your place, not anymore, and it hasn’t been for a while now.

“This isn’t working anymore, doll,” Bucky says, not even able to look at you. You saw it coming a mile away, and yet it doesn’t take away the anguish those words bring you.

You know you should say something, but words seem to escape you as soon as you open your mouth. Instead, a hot ball of grief and shame lodges in your throat. Tears spring to your eyes, despite telling yourself that you would not let him see you cry over this. It’s for the best, you try to tell yourself. You were but a stepping stone to Bucky’s recovery. You should be grateful that a man like him even offered you a second glance. Despite the way things ended, you know that you’ll look back on all the memories you made together and smile. Because, for once in your life, you knew what it was like to be loved so wholly. You knew what it was like to have a man who cared so deeply, loved so openly, and gave you enough devotion to last a lifetime.

“Yeah,” you agree with him for the sake of things. You hope he won’t look too deeply into your unshed tears, the way your voice wobbled and the way your body trembled. “I… I should go.”

“Doll-”

You cut him off before he can get another word in. “No, just… let me-”

Standing up to run away from this awful conversation, you feel the world sway around you. Black fades in at the edges of your vision as you stumble forward. You think you hear Bucky calling out your name under the sharp ringing in your ears. Clenching your eyes shut, you brace yourself for the hardwood floor.

—

“Doll?”

You groan as something prods your side. Just five more minutes, you think, burying your face into the warmth surrounding you.

“Sweetheart, please!”

Is that Bucky? Why does he sound so worried?

Blinking up at your boyfriend, you find that you’re both in the living room. Bucky’s clenching onto your body like a lifeline. “What’s wrong, Bucky?”

He stares blankly at you for a few seconds. “Doll… you just passed out.”

“Oh,” you eloquently respond.

The fog covering your brain begins to lift bit by bit. You were both sitting down… Bucky was… he was breaking up with you.

Jolting, you scramble out of Bucky’s arms, pushing him away, away, away.

“I’m sorry,” you say, covering your heated face in shame. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

“Don’t be sorry, honey.” He scoots closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” you say, despite knowing full well that ever since you started skipping meals, you’ve been prone to blacking out if you stand up too fast.

Bucky frowns at you, eyebrows furrowed. “I feel like you aren’t telling the truth right now.”

“It doesn’t matter, Bucky.”

“Like hell it doesn’t matter! You just fainted. If I hadn’t been there to catch you, you’d have cut your head open on the side of the table. Tell me what’s going on!” Never before had you heard Bucky sound so worried.

“Why do you care so much?”

“Why do I–Why do I care?” Bucky scoffs in disbelief. “You did not just ask me that.”

“You’re finally breaking up with me, you don’t have to pretend to care about me anymore,” you shoot back, venom lacing your words as you extricate yourself from under his arm.

“Breaking… I wasn’t going to break up with you,” Bucky says as if the idea alone was unimaginable.

“Bullshit! I know that you’ve been wanting to break up with me for weeks—months even!”

“Where the hell would you get an idea like that from?”

“I heard you talking to Sam last month. You told him that I was clingy and lazy and fat.”

Bucky looks positively bewildered at your words. “I would never say any of that crap!”

“But you did.” You cross your arms, daring him to continue lying to you.

“Why the hell would I ever say that? I sure as hell don’t think any of that-”

“Oh, give it up, Barnes. Who else would you have been talking about? Who else is such a spoiled, lazy, clingy, fat-”

“Oh my god,” Bucky interrupts you. “Are you talking about that time I was complaining about Alpine?”

Your heart stops in your chest. “What?”

“I was telling Sam about how annoying it was trying to work from home. She’d always sit on my damn laptop and yowl in my face until I payed attention to her.” Bucky shakes his head—his bemusement is quick to fade, however. “You seriously thought that I was talking about you?”

Sniffling back tears, you nodded your head.

“Oh, Jesus, doll. Why didn’t you say something?” Bucky wraps his arms around you. “Hell, if I ever said something like that, I’d expect at least a slap to the face.”

“But I was too clingy, always cuddling you and giving you kisses-”

“Is that why you haven’t so much as touched me the last few weeks?”

“I thought you wanted me to stop,”

Bucky squeezes you tighter. “Never. I’d never want you to stop. Doll, I thought you were mad at me. I kept buying you flowers and making your favourite dinners to try and get you to forgive me. But you didn’t even give them a second glance, and half the time you’d already eaten or you’d just push the food around on your plate.”

You melt into his embrace, his reassurances a balm over the lingering anxiety of being too much for him. “I was just trying to make you like me again.”

“Doll,” Bucky pulls away from you, sounding completely gutted. “You should never change yourself to make someone like you more. I love how clingy you are—I missed you so damn much.”

“What about…” No, you can’t ask that—you don’t want to hear his answer. “Never mind.”

And Bucky, damn him, doesn’t let it go. “What about what?”

“It’s nothing,” you say, pulling away from him.

“Doll, please don’t shut me out,” Bucky pleads, using those sad eyes that always make you fold.

“It’s just… You never… Do you have a problem with what I look like?”

Bucky’s frown deepens. “Of course, not. Doll, you are so damn beautiful-”

“But I could be thinner. Lots of other girls are prettier and skinnier,” you interrupt him. You freeze at the way his face hardens.

“I love you just the way you are, sweetheart. You don’t have to change a god damn thing about you. You want to know who drives me crazy? You. You want to know who I want to spend the rest of my life looking at? You. When I fell in love with you, I fell in love with all of you. It’s always going to be you. I don’t want no one else, got it?”

“I…” You stumble over your words, tears burning in your waterline. “I started skipping meals again. That’s why I passed out.”

Bucky’s face turns ashen. “You… you stopped eating because of me?”

“I didn’t completely stop eating! I had snacks and dinner most days. It’s not that big-”

“So help me god if you were about to say that it’s not that big of a deal,” Bucky interrupts you, voice sharp. “You need to eat, doll. This beautiful body cannot live without food.”

“I just thought… I thought if I started skipping meals and working out more, I’d look more like Nat or Sharon or-”

“If I wanted someone that looked like them, I’d ask them out. You wanna know why I asked you out? It’s because I thought you were hot. It’s because you’re as gorgeous on the outside as you are on the inside. I don’t want you to look like Nat, I don’t want you to look like Sharon. I want you to look like you.”

Bucky says it with such conviction, you can’t help but allow the tears to fall down your face. “You really mean that?”

“Of course, babydoll. You’re it for me. Don’t want no one else.” Bucky pulls you back into his arms, nuzzling his face into the junction between your neck and shoulder. “Call off of work tomorrow.”

“What? I can’t-” You screech as he lifts you into his arms. Clinging to him like a koala as he makes his way to your bedroom, you protest every step of the way.

“Hush,” he says, laying you down on the bed. “I have been deprived of your cuddles for too damn long. We’re gonna order whatever you want, and snuggle all night long. Then tomorrow, I’m going to make you a giant breakfast and we can go on a picnic for lunch.”

“I don’t ever want my best girl doubting my love for her again, got it?” Bucky asks, leaning over you.

You huff at his antics, rolling your eyes. He pinches your side, only the hint of a grin belying his angered expression. “Got it?” Bucky asks again.

“Yes! Okay, I got it!”

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you know just how loved you are,” he says as a promise before leaning in and kissing your lips.

That night, as you snuggle into his warmth, you endeavour to never let a misunderstanding like this tear you apart again.

Taglist: @hallecarey1 @harleycao @filmsbyblair

[cricket-reader]

Hiii, I was just wondering if you could write something inspired by this, because I've had it in my head for a while and I love how you write sooooo the reader is mute and meets Spencer in a library (where she works) he needs help and talks to her but she answers him with sign language but he doesn't understand, then she feels bad because she feels different again and Spencer realizes and learns sign language for her, then he goes again and talks to her with sign language and well they become close and they are very sweet and cute, so if you like the idea please do it and tag me if you do 😭🙏🏻

Ooh, I love this idea!!!! I’m starting to write it right now! I’ll definitely be sure to tag you when it’s up ☺️

[cricket-reader]

Dang, you had me in the first half, not gonna lie 😭😭😭

Sorry for making you cry (although that was kinda my goal with this one 😬). Thanks for the comment!!! 💕💕

Fraying Threads of Recovery

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: Bucky Barnes doesn't have a home. He is a relic of a bygone era, abandoned, forgotten and alone. Life has thrown everything his way, and he has endured it. The fight was never-ending, just one after the other. Bucky had had enough. This was no way to live. He just didn't know what he'd be leaving behind.

warnings: suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts

word count: 3,266

A/N: prompt fill for day 16 of @juneofdoom | Alt: "Why didn't you tell me?"

{Read on A03}

Bucky is tired.

It’s the kind of exhaustion that sleep can’t fix. The kind of weariness that clings like soaked clothing to a body. The kind of fatigue that weighs down a person until every breath, every step feels like a task insurmountable. Getting out of bed feels more and more like a chore with each passing day.

This tower, this place that Valentina tells them to call home, it feels like a cage. The modern walls and furniture suffocate him. The echoes of laughter from down the hall stab him like a knife. He sits alone in his room most days. He comes out to eat, to train early in the morning. He passes like a ghost in the tower, never heard and seldom seen. Sometimes he watches as Yelena and Bob laugh over a disaster they made in the kitchen, or as Ava and Yelena tirelessly make fun of Walker, observes the way they all have their own designated spots on movie nights. He watches the easy way they seem to get along, interconnected cogs in the grand machine.

Bucky doesn’t belong.

He notices the silence that coats the room every time he enters. Notes the way that the others never quite know how to approach him. He used to wait on his bed for one of them to come and invite him. Used to drop everything the second that he smelled the popcorn popping and heard the arguments over what they were going to watch. He sat there, listening as they settled, as they started the movie. Not once did they make mention of him. And he sat there, in the dark of his room, wondering why he could never find a home for himself—never one that lasted anyway.

The only time the New Avengers interacted with him was when they got called out on missions. And even then, he felt displaced, like a broken cog in the machine. Inside jokes that he wasn’t privy to, shared laughter and easy conversation. He was the puzzle piece that didn’t fit, the clashing piece of fabric, the odd one out.

Sam didn’t pick up his calls anymore.

Not since that stupid fight they had. The one person he was beginning to find a home in, and it was all torn away from him over something as stupid as a name. Bucky was beginning to see a pattern he wasn’t quite sure he liked: each time he dared to hope that he’d found a place to call home, it was ripped away from him, swiped away like a rug under his feet, leaving him flat on his ass and aching.

Loneliness has long since carved out a place in his heart, leaving him empty, devoid of everything that made him feel alive. Everything feels pointless, and he can’t bring himself to care anymore. Everything he eats tastes like ash, music is all nonsensical noise, even the sun seems dimmer.

There is nothing left of Bucky Barnes. There is nothing left in this world for Bucky Barnes. He is a relic of a bygone era, abandoned by those he trusted, moulded by the trauma that seeped into every aspect of his pathetic life. He’d learned long ago that this life wasn’t his. He feels it to be so when every day he sits in the passenger’s seat, watching himself through faded lenses as he pretends to be human—as if he is something more than just an empty shell. He is fraying at the seams, the thread unravelling at an alarming pace, and soon he’ll be nothing more than used fabric, torn apart and stained with blood.

This is no life. No way to live.

And so, with trembling hands and a heavy heart, Bucky opens the nightstand drawer. He stares at the sleek metal, matte black and perfectly polished. It will get the job done nicely, he thinks. Tears dot his eyes as he picks up the gun. It’s okay, a voice inside him whispers, it’s okay. No one will miss you anyways.

Bucky stumbles over to the ensuite bathroom. He yanks back the curtain, ignoring the three rings that snap, clattering to the floor. He sits down in the tub, eyes never leaving the cold metal that sits like a boulder in his hand. His mind races now, thoughts of Steve, of Sam, of the team sitting just outside watching another stupid movie without him. None of them will miss you, the monster inside him growls. You’re better off dead. They’re better off without you.

He almost screams; instead, he hits his head against the knees curled up to his chest. He wants the voices to stop, wants the memories of blood and grief to be wiped away. Choking on a sob, Bucky lifts the gun to his head. His heart stutters in his chest, staring down the barrel. He’s been on this side of a gun too many times to count. He never feared for his life as he does now. Because this time, Bucky isn’t fighting against someone else; this time, he’s fighting against himself. It’s a fight he knows he cannot win.

He closes his eyes, presses the mouth of the gun to his forehead, and murmurs under his breath. Tears stream down his face as his finger hovers over the trigger. This is it. He can finally rest now. He left notes just in case any of them cared enough to read them. Even left one for Sam on the off-chance that he’d give a shit. All that’s left is for him to pull the trigger.

Breathing in deep through his nose, he squeezes the trigger.

A strangled noise startles him just before the gun goes off, his eyes flare open to see Yelena standing at the entrance to his bathroom. His hand jolts, the gunshot echoes through the room, and the bullet barely grazes the top of his head. He bites down a scream as the bullet tears through his flesh. Blood streams down his face as Yelena darts over to him. He vaguely remembers her grabbing the gun, the sound of it skidding across the tile. She’s crying and talking to him, but it’s all muffled. He winces as she brings a white towel to his forehead, applying pressure and screaming for help.

He feels bad.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Yelena was supposed to be curled up next to Bob as they watched a movie, throwing popcorn at Alexei every time he interrupted the movie with a question or a stupid joke. They weren’t supposed to find him until he was nothing more than a cold corpse, dried blood across his temple and lips a shade of blue. Why did she have to find him like this? Why did she even come looking for him?

He sees a blur in the corner of his eyes, tries to focus his eyes enough to make out who else joined his sad pity party uninvited. Walker’s face slides into focus, mouth gaping and body frozen. He hears Yelena yell at him to “Do something, damnit!” and he blinks a few times before disappearing. Bucky’s eyes slide shut, exhaustion pulling him under. He blinks when a cold hand slaps his face once, twice. Yelena has tears streaming down her face, the makeup she likes so much leaving blue tracks down her cheeks. He wishes she wouldn’t cry over him.

“Stay with me, god damnit, Barnes. You gotta stay with me,” she cries, her hands tilting his head to the light. He grimaces as she removes the towel. It’s so red he has a hard time believing it was ever white.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. Because he is. He never meant for her to find him like this. Never meant to hurt her. Never meant to hurt anyone. He just wanted the voices to stop, just wanted the aching, all-consuming loneliness to go away.

She chokes on a sob, pressing the towel back onto his weeping wound. He loses time, and now Ava’s next to Yelena, face grim as she hands her a new towel. Bucky tries to tell them not to bother—no point in ruining another perfectly good towel, but all that comes out is a garbled grunt. He blinks as strangers appear before him, surrounding him, pushing Yelena and Ava aside. His heart races as the familiar faces are pushed to the background. He squirms as the foreign hands touch him, his skin crawls, and he lets out a groan that was supposed to be words. His brain is too fuzzy to be of any use as they load him onto a gurney.

Shame curls inside him, however, at the sight of Yelena and Ava watching him being dragged away, both visibly shaken by what they witnessed.

When he wakes up, he is alone.

He should have expected as much, but it still cuts him down to the bone. With nothing but the heart monitor’s steady beeping to keep him company, his mind begins to swirl down a dark, dangerous path. If the team didn’t like him before, they surely wouldn’t like him after pulling such a stunt. They already had been through so much, they didn’t need Bucky’s shit on their plate too.

The Watchtower was never his home, but now, it certainly never will be.

He startles when the door opens. Blinking fiercely, the image does not fade; he rubs his eyes to rid the figure from his mind. Certainly, he must be hallucinating.

Sam Wilson walks in the door, shoulders slumped and face pulled into a heavy frown. He has a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands, which he resolutely stares at as if it holds all the answers to the questions swimming behind his expressive eyes.

Bucky coughs then, doesn’t mean to, but after going so long without water, his throat is dry and scratchy. Sam jolts, wide eyes darting over to him. The coffee in his hand spills out of the lid at the sudden movement, but Sam doesn’t pay it any mind. His attention is solely focused on Bucky.

His eyes remain fixated just above his eyes, and for a second, Bucky isn’t sure what he is staring at. A cold rush of dread sweeps over him when he reaches a hand up to the bandages wrapped around his head. It’s instantly replaced with a burning shame that has Bucky looking down at the scratchy hospital blanket.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice cracks over the monosyllable. Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t respond because the only thing on the tip of his tongue is a scathing, Why are you here? After all this time of radio silence, after all the missed calls and ignored texts, why now? It’s not fair, and he knows it to be so, yet that is the only thing on his mind as he glances up at the man.

Sam clears his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable in his own skin, like an intruder in the sterile walls that hold Bucky. “John called me,” he says. “I’m glad I didn’t have his number saved, or I wouldn’t have picked up.”

The joke fell flat, only furthering the suffocating tension coating the room. Bucky didn’t know how he could just go back to that easy joking way they used to be with each other after everything that went down. Sam abandoned him. Just like Steve did. Everyone abandoned Bucky at one point or another. He couldn’t blame them either. Not when the only thing he seemed to be good at was fucking things up. So why did Sam come back? Why did he come back when he knew that the only thing Bucky was capable of was destruction?

Sam shifts his weight onto his other foot, looking back down at the coffee in his hands for a few minutes. He looks up, opens his mouth, then closes it. Bucky just stares at him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls,” Sam says, shuffling closer as if afraid of overstepping.

Bucky’s mouth twists into a frown. “Are you?”

Sam blinks at him. “I… I am.”

“And how much of that is because I tried to put a bullet through my skull?”

Sam tenses, furrowing his brows. “What… that has nothing-”

“The only reason you’re here is because I tried to kill myself. You wouldn’t be sorry about dodging my calls and texts if I hadn’t.”

Sam doesn’t respond to that. Probably, because it holds some ring of truth to it. Bucky coughs again. “Could I get some water?” he asks. Sam stares at him for a bit before grabbing the dull-looking pitcher and a plastic cup from across the room.

Sam sits down on the chair next to his bed once the cup of water is safe in Bucky’s hands. “Your team is in the family room.”

Bucky almost chokes on his water. “They’re not my team,” he gruffly denies. Then, “All of them?”

“Yeah, had them all super worried… You had me super worried.”

Bucky’s heart lurches in his chest. That can’t be true. No one cared about him. No one should. Was it because he tried to kill himself that they cared? “I don’t need your guys’ pity.”

Sam’s face scrunches up, anger flickering beneath his eyes. “This ain’t pity, man. Believe it or not, people do care about you.”

“Sure have a funny way of showin’ it,” Bucky remarks, shifting on the bed.

Sam sighs. “I messed up, okay? And I’m sorry. I didn’t know that the whole ‘New Avengers’ thing was sprung up on you like that. You gotta understand how it looked from my point of view.”

“Is a name really worth that much to you?” Bucky asks. “Is it worth more than our friendship?”

Sam has nothing to say to that. His head lowers to look back at that damn coffee. “No,” he finally says.

“Then why…”

“I don’t know, man. Okay? I… I don’t know.”

Bucky wishes Sam had a better answer than that. “You can go now,” he says once he realises that that’s all Sam has to say.

Sam’s face crumples, regret painted across his features. He stands up slowly, as if hoping Bucky will change his mind; he doesn’t.

“Is it okay if I send Yelena in? She wanted to see you once you woke up.”

“Fine,” Bucky says, although it’s not fine, not really. The door snicks shut quietly, leaving Bucky to stew in anxiety as he awaits the arrival of Yelena. He hopes that she’ll accept his apology, that she’ll understand he never wanted her to find him like that, that he never wanted to hurt her.

The first thing he notices when Yelena walks into the room is that he’s never seen her look more dishevelled. Even after fights that took everything out of the team, Yelena always managed to hold onto her appearance. He could see the bags under her eyes as clear as day, even from across the room. Her arms are wrapped around herself, her body tense as her eyes flicker over his body. She shoots him a smile that looks more like a grimace as she approaches him.

She plops down on the seat where Sam had vacated just minutes prior. She sniffs once before saying, “I’m sorry, Bucky.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.” It’s true. She didn’t do this. It wasn’t her fault. The culmination of decades of torture, murder and loneliness had just finally caught up to him; it was inevitable.

“I just… I just keep thinking that maybe if I paid more attention… if I-”

“Don’t spend your time on ‘what ifs,’” Bucky advises. “It’s a waste of your time.”

“You almost killed yourself!” Yelena shouts. “What if I hadn’t gone to check on you?”

“Why did you?”

“Because you hadn’t left your room at all, Bucky,” Yelena says, as if it were obvious. “Not to eat, not to train, not even to get your morning coffee.”

Bucky stares at her for a second too long, brows furrowed. “I didn’t think you guys’d notice.”

Yelena frowns at that. “Of course, we noticed. Bucky, you’re a part of the team.”

“Doesn’t really feel like it,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?”

Bucky sighs. “You guys don’t want me there. I get it, really, it’s not that big of a deal. I just wish you wouldn’t pretend like you did.”

“What-” she splutters- “of course we want you on the team!”

“And if I told you I wanted a break from the fighting?”

“Then you wouldn’t have to come out with us. You could stay back with Bob.”

Bucky doesn’t mean to let out the incredulous scoff, but it just comes out. “Yeah,” he says, voice gruff, “right.”

“You’re as much a part of the rag-tag family as any of the others,” she says, insistent and stubborn.

“Am I? I spend most of my time alone in my room. I don’t watch movies with you guys, don’t have a seat at your team dinners.”

“That doesn’t matter to us,” Yelena insists. “You don’t have to spend time with us to be a part of the team.”

“What if I wanted to?” Bucky questions. “What if I waited for you guys to invite me like a fool? What if I sat alone in my room, having to listen to you guys laugh and bicker and… and I wasn’t included.”

Yelena opens her mouth, brows furrowing deeply. “We didn’t think you wanted to hang out with us.” Bucky’s brows crease. “You always seemed so… unapproachable. Like movie nights and team dinners were above you. We didn’t… we didn’t want to annoy you.”

“Oh,” he says, at a complete loss for words.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say anything? Oh god… We… this whole thing could’ve been avoided if we just invited you-”

“It wasn’t just that, don’t… I don’t want you guys blaming yourselves. I’m fucked up. It wasn’t… it wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine. I just… I just wanted the voices to go away.”

“Oh, Bucky…” Yelena mourns.

He didn’t say anything.

His eyes are glassy, but he refuses to let anyone see him cry like this. He fixes his gaze on the opposite wall, knowing that if he looks at anyone, he’ll crumble.

Yelena stays quiet for a beat. Then, gently, like she isn’t sure if she’s allowed, she reaches out and brushes her fingers against his wrist.

He doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to carry it alone, Bucky,” she says, soft and light. “Not anymore.”

His lips twitch, hand clenching minutely around the scratchy hospital blanket. “I don’t really know how to not be alone,” he confesses.

“How about this,” Yelena offers, squeezing his hand, “when you get outta here, you’re coming to dinner. Ava makes the best Choripán. We’ll have a movie night too, your pick. It’ll be like a party.”

He blinks at her. “I’m not exactly the most fun at parties.”

Yelena smirks. “Neither is Walker, but we still let him come.”

Her words startle a small chuckle out of him.

“Be there at six, no excuses.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky murmurs, saluting her. He grins at the way Yelena glares at him, no real heat behind her eyes.

Things aren’t okay, and maybe they never will be for him. But maybe, just maybe, he can find a home for himself, carve out a place that’s just for him, and hold it tight, never letting go. Because if there’s one thing Bucky knows, it’s that life isn’t complete without a place to call home.

Taglist: @harleycao @hallecarey1 @filmsbyblair

[cricket-reader]

Fraying Threads of Recovery

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: Bucky Barnes doesn't have a home. He is a relic of a bygone era, abandoned, forgotten and alone. Life has thrown everything his way, and he has endured it. The fight was never-ending, just one after the other. Bucky had had enough. This was no way to live. He just didn't know what he'd be leaving behind.

warnings: suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts

word count: 3,266

A/N: prompt fill for day 16 of @juneofdoom | Alt: "Why didn't you tell me?"

{Read on A03} | what i'm listening to

Bucky is tired.

It’s the kind of exhaustion that sleep can’t fix. The kind of weariness that clings like soaked clothing to a body. The kind of fatigue that weighs down a person until every breath, every step feels like a task insurmountable. Getting out of bed feels more and more like a chore with each passing day.

This tower, this place that Valentina tells them to call home, it feels like a cage. The modern walls and furniture suffocate him. The echoes of laughter from down the hall stab him like a knife. He sits alone in his room most days. He comes out to eat, to train early in the morning. He passes like a ghost in the tower, never heard and seldom seen. Sometimes he watches as Yelena and Bob laugh over a disaster they made in the kitchen, or as Ava and Yelena tirelessly make fun of Walker, observes the way they all have their own designated spots on movie nights. He watches the easy way they seem to get along, interconnected cogs in the grand machine.

Bucky doesn’t belong.

He notices the silence that coats the room every time he enters. Notes the way that the others never quite know how to approach him. He used to wait on his bed for one of them to come and invite him. Used to drop everything the second that he smelled the popcorn popping and heard the arguments over what they were going to watch. He sat there, listening as they settled, as they started the movie. Not once did they make mention of him. And he sat there, in the dark of his room, wondering why he could never find a home for himself—never one that lasted anyway.

The only time the New Avengers interacted with him was when they got called out on missions. And even then, he felt displaced, like a broken cog in the machine. Inside jokes that he wasn’t privy to, shared laughter and easy conversation. He was the puzzle piece that didn’t fit, the clashing piece of fabric, the odd one out.

Sam didn’t pick up his calls anymore.

Not since that stupid fight they had. The one person he was beginning to find a home in, and it was all torn away from him over something as stupid as a name. Bucky was beginning to see a pattern he wasn’t quite sure he liked: each time he dared to hope that he’d found a place to call home, it was ripped away from him, swiped away like a rug under his feet, leaving him flat on his ass and aching.

Loneliness has long since carved out a place in his heart, leaving him empty, devoid of everything that made him feel alive. Everything feels pointless, and he can’t bring himself to care anymore. Everything he eats tastes like ash, music is all nonsensical noise, even the sun seems dimmer.

There is nothing left of Bucky Barnes. There is nothing left in this world for Bucky Barnes. He is a relic of a bygone era, abandoned by those he trusted, moulded by the trauma that seeped into every aspect of his pathetic life. He’d learned long ago that this life wasn’t his. He feels it to be so when every day he sits in the passenger’s seat, watching himself through faded lenses as he pretends to be human—as if he is something more than just an empty shell. He is fraying at the seams, the thread unravelling at an alarming pace, and soon he’ll be nothing more than used fabric, torn apart and stained with blood.

This is no life. No way to live.

And so, with trembling hands and a heavy heart, Bucky opens the nightstand drawer. He stares at the sleek metal, matte black and perfectly polished. It will get the job done nicely, he thinks. Tears dot his eyes as he picks up the gun. It’s okay, a voice inside him whispers, it’s okay. No one will miss you anyways.

Bucky stumbles over to the ensuite bathroom. He yanks back the curtain, ignoring the three rings that snap, clattering to the floor. He sits down in the tub, eyes never leaving the cold metal that sits like a boulder in his hand. His mind races now, thoughts of Steve, of Sam, of the team sitting just outside watching another stupid movie without him. None of them will miss you, the monster inside him growls. You’re better off dead. They’re better off without you.

He almost screams; instead, he hits his head against the knees curled up to his chest. He wants the voices to stop, wants the memories of blood and grief to be wiped away. Choking on a sob, Bucky lifts the gun to his head. His heart stutters in his chest, staring down the barrel. He’s been on this side of a gun too many times to count. He never feared for his life as he does now. Because this time, Bucky isn’t fighting against someone else; this time, he’s fighting against himself. It’s a fight he knows he cannot win.

He closes his eyes, presses the mouth of the gun to his forehead, and murmurs under his breath. Tears stream down his face as his finger hovers over the trigger. This is it. He can finally rest now. He left notes just in case any of them cared enough to read them. Even left one for Sam on the off-chance that he’d give a shit. All that’s left is for him to pull the trigger.

Breathing in deep through his nose, he squeezes the trigger.

A strangled noise startles him just before the gun goes off, his eyes flare open to see Yelena standing at the entrance to his bathroom. His hand jolts, the gunshot echoes through the room, and the bullet barely grazes the top of his head. He bites down a scream as the bullet tears through his flesh. Blood streams down his face as Yelena darts over to him. He vaguely remembers her grabbing the gun, the sound of it skidding across the tile. She’s crying and talking to him, but it’s all muffled. He winces as she brings a white towel to his forehead, applying pressure and screaming for help.

He feels bad.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Yelena was supposed to be curled up next to Bob as they watched a movie, throwing popcorn at Alexei every time he interrupted the movie with a question or a stupid joke. They weren’t supposed to find him until he was nothing more than a cold corpse, dried blood across his temple and lips a shade of blue. Why did she have to find him like this? Why did she even come looking for him?

He sees a blur in the corner of his eyes, tries to focus his eyes enough to make out who else joined his sad pity party uninvited. Walker’s face slides into focus, mouth gaping and body frozen. He hears Yelena yell at him to “Do something, damnit!” and he blinks a few times before disappearing. Bucky’s eyes slide shut, exhaustion pulling him under. He blinks when a cold hand slaps his face once, twice. Yelena has tears streaming down her face, the makeup she likes so much leaving blue tracks down her cheeks. He wishes she wouldn’t cry over him.

“Stay with me, god damnit, Barnes. You gotta stay with me,” she cries, her hands tilting his head to the light. He grimaces as she removes the towel. It’s so red he has a hard time believing it was ever white.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. Because he is. He never meant for her to find him like this. Never meant to hurt her. Never meant to hurt anyone. He just wanted the voices to stop, just wanted the aching, all-consuming loneliness to go away.

She chokes on a sob, pressing the towel back onto his weeping wound. He loses time, and now Ava’s next to Yelena, face grim as she hands her a new towel. Bucky tries to tell them not to bother—no point in ruining another perfectly good towel, but all that comes out is a garbled grunt. He blinks as strangers appear before him, surrounding him, pushing Yelena and Ava aside. His heart races as the familiar faces are pushed to the background. He squirms as the foreign hands touch him, his skin crawls, and he lets out a groan that was supposed to be words. His brain is too fuzzy to be of any use as they load him onto a gurney.

Shame curls inside him, however, at the sight of Yelena and Ava watching him being dragged away, both visibly shaken by what they witnessed.

When he wakes up, he is alone.

He should have expected as much, but it still cuts him down to the bone. With nothing but the heart monitor’s steady beeping to keep him company, his mind begins to swirl down a dark, dangerous path. If the team didn’t like him before, they surely wouldn’t like him after pulling such a stunt. They already had been through so much, they didn’t need Bucky’s shit on their plate too.

The Watchtower was never his home, but now, it certainly never will be.

He startles when the door opens. Blinking fiercely, the image does not fade; he rubs his eyes to rid the figure from his mind. Certainly, he must be hallucinating.

Sam Wilson walks in the door, shoulders slumped and face pulled into a heavy frown. He has a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands, which he resolutely stares at as if it holds all the answers to the questions swimming behind his expressive eyes.

Bucky coughs then, doesn’t mean to, but after going so long without water, his throat is dry and scratchy. Sam jolts, wide eyes darting over to him. The coffee in his hand spills out of the lid at the sudden movement, but Sam doesn’t pay it any mind. His attention is solely focused on Bucky.

His eyes remain fixated just above his eyes, and for a second, Bucky isn’t sure what he is staring at. A cold rush of dread sweeps over him when he reaches a hand up to the bandages wrapped around his head. It’s instantly replaced with a burning shame that has Bucky looking down at the scratchy hospital blanket.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice cracks over the monosyllable. Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t respond because the only thing on the tip of his tongue is a scathing, Why are you here? After all this time of radio silence, after all the missed calls and ignored texts, why now? It’s not fair, and he knows it to be so, yet that is the only thing on his mind as he glances up at the man.

Sam clears his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable in his own skin, like an intruder in the sterile walls that hold Bucky. “John called me,” he says. “I’m glad I didn’t have his number saved, or I wouldn’t have picked up.”

The joke fell flat, only furthering the suffocating tension coating the room. Bucky didn’t know how he could just go back to that easy joking way they used to be with each other after everything that went down. Sam abandoned him. Just like Steve did. Everyone abandoned Bucky at one point or another. He couldn’t blame them either. Not when the only thing he seemed to be good at was fucking things up. So why did Sam come back? Why did he come back when he knew that the only thing Bucky was capable of was destruction?

Sam shifts his weight onto his other foot, looking back down at the coffee in his hands for a few minutes. He looks up, opens his mouth, then closes it. Bucky just stares at him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls,” Sam says, shuffling closer as if afraid of overstepping.

Bucky’s mouth twists into a frown. “Are you?”

Sam blinks at him. “I… I am.”

“And how much of that is because I tried to put a bullet through my skull?”

Sam tenses, furrowing his brows. “What… that has nothing-”

“The only reason you’re here is because I tried to kill myself. You wouldn’t be sorry about dodging my calls and texts if I hadn’t.”

Sam doesn’t respond to that. Probably, because it holds some ring of truth to it. Bucky coughs again. “Could I get some water?” he asks. Sam stares at him for a bit before grabbing the dull-looking pitcher and a plastic cup from across the room.

Sam sits down on the chair next to his bed once the cup of water is safe in Bucky’s hands. “Your team is in the family room.”

Bucky almost chokes on his water. “They’re not my team,” he gruffly denies. Then, “All of them?”

“Yeah, had them all super worried… You had me super worried.”

Bucky’s heart lurches in his chest. That can’t be true. No one cared about him. No one should. Was it because he tried to kill himself that they cared? “I don’t need your guys’ pity.”

Sam’s face scrunches up, anger flickering beneath his eyes. “This ain’t pity, man. Believe it or not, people do care about you.”

“Sure have a funny way of showin’ it,” Bucky remarks, shifting on the bed.

Sam sighs. “I messed up, okay? And I’m sorry. I didn’t know that the whole ‘New Avengers’ thing was sprung up on you like that. You gotta understand how it looked from my point of view.”

“Is a name really worth that much to you?” Bucky asks. “Is it worth more than our friendship?”

Sam has nothing to say to that. His head lowers to look back at that damn coffee. “No,” he finally says.

“Then why…”

“I don’t know, man. Okay? I… I don’t know.”

Bucky wishes Sam had a better answer than that. “You can go now,” he says once he realises that that’s all Sam has to say.

Sam’s face crumples, regret painted across his features. He stands up slowly, as if hoping Bucky will change his mind; he doesn’t.

“Is it okay if I send Yelena in? She wanted to see you once you woke up.”

“Fine,” Bucky says, although it’s not fine, not really. The door snicks shut quietly, leaving Bucky to stew in anxiety as he awaits the arrival of Yelena. He hopes that she’ll accept his apology, that she’ll understand he never wanted her to find him like that, that he never wanted to hurt her.

The first thing he notices when Yelena walks into the room is that he’s never seen her look more dishevelled. Even after fights that took everything out of the team, Yelena always managed to hold onto her appearance. He could see the bags under her eyes as clear as day, even from across the room. Her arms are wrapped around herself, her body tense as her eyes flicker over his body. She shoots him a smile that looks more like a grimace as she approaches him.

She plops down on the seat where Sam had vacated just minutes prior. She sniffs once before saying, “I’m sorry, Bucky.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.” It’s true. She didn’t do this. It wasn’t her fault. The culmination of decades of torture, murder and loneliness had just finally caught up to him; it was inevitable.

“I just… I just keep thinking that maybe if I paid more attention… if I-”

“Don’t spend your time on ‘what ifs,’” Bucky advises. “It’s a waste of your time.”

“You almost killed yourself!” Yelena shouts. “What if I hadn’t gone to check on you?”

“Why did you?”

“Because you hadn’t left your room at all, Bucky,” Yelena says, as if it were obvious. “Not to eat, not to train, not even to get your morning coffee.”

Bucky stares at her for a second too long, brows furrowed. “I didn’t think you guys’d notice.”

Yelena frowns at that. “Of course, we noticed. Bucky, you’re a part of the team.”

“Doesn’t really feel like it,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?”

Bucky sighs. “You guys don’t want me there. I get it, really, it’s not that big of a deal. I just wish you wouldn’t pretend like you did.”

“What-” she splutters- “of course we want you on the team!”

“And if I told you I wanted a break from the fighting?”

“Then you wouldn’t have to come out with us. You could stay back with Bob.”

Bucky doesn’t mean to let out the incredulous scoff, but it just comes out. “Yeah,” he says, voice gruff, “right.”

“You’re as much a part of the rag-tag family as any of the others,” she says, insistent and stubborn.

“Am I? I spend most of my time alone in my room. I don’t watch movies with you guys, don’t have a seat at your team dinners.”

“That doesn’t matter to us,” Yelena insists. “You don’t have to spend time with us to be a part of the team.”

“What if I wanted to?” Bucky questions. “What if I waited for you guys to invite me like a fool? What if I sat alone in my room, having to listen to you guys laugh and bicker and… and I wasn’t included.”

Yelena opens her mouth, brows furrowing deeply. “We didn’t think you wanted to hang out with us.” Bucky’s brows crease. “You always seemed so… unapproachable. Like movie nights and team dinners were above you. We didn’t… we didn’t want to annoy you.”

“Oh,” he says, at a complete loss for words.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say anything? Oh god… We… this whole thing could’ve been avoided if we just invited you-”

“It wasn’t just that, don’t… I don’t want you guys blaming yourselves. I’m fucked up. It wasn’t… it wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine. I just… I just wanted the voices to go away.”

“Oh, Bucky…” Yelena mourns.

He didn’t say anything.

His eyes are glassy, but he refuses to let anyone see him cry like this. He fixes his gaze on the opposite wall, knowing that if he looks at anyone, he’ll crumble.

Yelena stays quiet for a beat. Then, gently, like she isn’t sure if she’s allowed, she reaches out and brushes her fingers against his wrist.

He doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to carry it alone, Bucky,” she says, soft and light. “Not anymore.”

His lips twitch, hand clenching minutely around the scratchy hospital blanket. “I don’t really know how to not be alone,” he confesses.

“How about this,” Yelena offers, squeezing his hand, “when you get outta here, you’re coming to dinner. Ava makes the best Choripán. We’ll have a movie night too, your pick. It’ll be like a party.”

He blinks at her. “I’m not exactly the most fun at parties.”

Yelena smirks. “Neither is Walker, but we still let him come.”

Her words startle a small chuckle out of him.

“Be there at six, no excuses.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky murmurs, saluting her. He grins at the way Yelena glares at him, no real heat behind her eyes.

Things aren’t okay, and maybe they never will be for him. But maybe, just maybe, he can find a home for himself, carve out a place that’s just for him, and hold it tight, never letting go. Because if there’s one thing Bucky knows, it’s that life isn’t complete without a place to call home.

Taglist: @harleycao @hallecarey1 @filmsbyblair

[cricket-reader]

The Rooftop Knows My Name

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: Daredevil hears a kid crying on a rooftop just outside of Hell’s Kitchen and rushes to talk him down from the ledge. What he fails to realise is that this kid just so happens to be Spider-Man.

warnings: mourning, survivor's guilt, references to suicide

word count: 2,651

A/N: prompt fill for day 22 of @juneofdoom | Survivor's Guilt

{Read on A03}

Peter thought he had become used to death.

He had thought that it couldn’t touch him anymore. Every time he thought about his parents and Ben, all he could feel was this hollow emptiness inside his chest. Like a part of him had been carved out. He didn’t think that he had the capacity to mourn again. The grief that stained his childhood—that seeped into every crack and crevice of little orphan Peter Parker—he thought that was all he had.

Clearly, he was mistaken.

Sitting on top of the same tall building he’s been coming back to for weeks, looking at what used to be the Avengers Tower, Peter couldn’t stop the tears rolling down his face. So many memories had been made there: late-night lab binges, Star Wars marathons with mountains of pizza, LEGO building and Thai food. All of that was gone now. Mr. Stark was gone.

It wasn’t fair, Peter thought. Why did everyone he love leave him? Mr. Stark wasn’t supposed to die in that battle. It shouldn’t have been him. Not when he had a child and wife to leave behind, not when he had finally settled down somewhere nice, not when he had done so much—had sacrificed so much—to deserve to live out the rest of his days, happy with Pepper and Morgan.

He should be here.

Mr. Stark deserved so much better. And, selfishly, Peter just wanted his mentor back. What had started off as the most awkward relationship Peter’s ever experienced—a burning dumpster fire from both sides—had grown into something more.

After the whole plane incident, Tony began to invite him to the newly repurchased tower for lab days. At first, Tony hid behind the excuse that he wanted the internship to seem legit—didn’t want people asking questions. Peter now knew that Mr. Stark had been concerned, no, downright terrified, that something like that happened right under his nose. And Mr. Stark—ever the engineer—needed to fix it.

Peter wondered if Mr. Stark had never started inviting him over, maybe this loss wouldn’t hurt so bad. Maybe it wouldn’t feel like Richard or Ben 2.0 because, for all intents and purposes, Peter had begun to see Mr. Stark as more than a mentor. He would’ve never admitted it to the man himself, but Peter had begun to see Mr. Stark as a father figure—someone he could look up to and go to for anything he needed. Mr. Stark pretended not to care, but he was really bad at it once someone had truly wormed their way into his heart.

None of that mattered now, though.

He was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

Maybe he was cursed, maybe the kids at school were right—better not get too close to Puny Orphan Parker, he loses everyone close to him.

He sniffled, wiping the pathetic tears from his face. He wondered how many more tears he had left to shed—how many more people he would have to lose. He abandoned that train of thought as fast as it started. He didn’t want to think of May or Ned or MJ or—stop

He pulled his knees up to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around them. The wind cut through his suit like nothing, but he barely noticed. His mask lay discarded beside him; it’s not like anyone could see him all the way up there. He was just another shadow on the skeleton of a building. Unnoticed and unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

If Mr. Stark were here, he’d probably joke about Peter’s teenage angst session—tell him to stop sulking on top of a tall building and come down to eat supper like a normal person would at this hour. But he’s not here. He’s not here because Peter wasn’t fast enough. If he had just gotten to Mr. Stark in time, maybe he could’ve convinced him to hand over the gauntlet, maybe he could have made him realise that he shouldn’t have to die. Peter was enhanced; he could’ve taken it. He might’ve even survived.

Peter nearly falls off the building when he hears a throat clearing from behind him. He frantically scrubs the remaining tears from his face, heart gripping in terror. Why is someone else up here? He thought this place was abandoned.

“You alright, kid?” A gruff voice asks. Peter looks back to see a figure clad in deep red staring at him. He remembers that he forgot to put his mask back on just a second too late, but that doesn’t really seem all that important at the moment—Daredevil knows a thing or two about secret identities.

“Uh… yeah, I’m fine,” Peter lies, the words unconvincing even to his own ears. He winces as the devil of Hell’s Kitchen tilts his head. Clearly, the masked vigilante doesn’t believe him. “You really don’t have to worry, Mr. Daredevil.”

He watches the man’s mouth purse, hands clenching at his side. “Why were you crying?”

Peter flushes in embarrassment. Daredevil probably never cries—he’s too strong, too collected, too untouchable for something as human as crying.

“It’s nothing,” Peter deflects, returning his gaze to the tower. “Don’t you have more important things to do?”

“No,” he responds without even a second of hesitation. “Nothing’s more important to me than you right now.”

That was… a sweet sentiment, Peter supposed, if not completely baffling. From all other accounts, Daredevil didn’t seem like he played that well with other vigilantes.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on, kid?”

Peter sighed, might as well get it off his chest. “I miss my mentor. He was the closest thing I had to a dad in a long time, y’know? I didn't think… I didn’t think I’d lose him too.” Peter sniffles back the incoming tears. “He shouldn’t have died… I could’ve… I could’ve taken his place. He’d still be here if I just got there first.”

“What about you then? I don’t think he would’ve wanted to live in a world without you,” Daredevil countered.

“I might’ve survived! I could’ve taken it. He shouldn’t have done it; it should have been me,” Peter put his head in his hands. The battle kept running through his mind—he had the gauntlet, he could’ve—he could’ve snapped right then and there.

Daredevil inched closer to him, uncharacteristically cautious. “He would have wanted you to live.”

“I know that!” Peter snapped—hearing that didn’t make it any easier. He was tired of the countless platitudes. “I just… What if I could have survived? What if his sacrifice was unnecessary?”

Daredevil took a deliberate pause, jaw working as if tasting the words before he released them into the brisk night air. “My father died when I was a kid.”

Peter looked up, brows drawn comically upwards. He didn’t expect Daredevil to open up about his past—didn’t think he was the talking-it-out kind of guy.

“I blamed myself—still do actually.” Daredevil shifted in place, clearly uncomfortable. “I miss him every day, but the thing is, life doesn’t stop when something terrible happens. I’d do anything to go back in time, to keep my mouth shut, to tell him that all I really want is for him to come home, to hell with everything else. But I can’t. He’s gone. I’ll always carry him in my memory, but there’s no way I could’ve stopped him. He made his choice, and now I have to live with it.”

“It’s just not fair,” Peter whimpered, curling up on himself.

“I know, kid, I know.” Daredevil had slowly inched closer to the ledge over the course of their conversation. “How about you come down, and we can talk over pizza? Kids like pizza, right? Who am I kidding? Who doesn’t like pizza?”

“I kinda want to stay up here. Thanks, though,” Peter sniffed, “I don’t really feel that hungry.”

Daredevil frowned. “Right, that’s… that’s fine.”

His phone buzzed. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know that Aunt May was probably texting him. She’d been hovering a lot more than usual lately, which Peter supposed was only fair. He should get home before she started to worry too much. “Goodbye, Daredevil, it was nice meeting you,” Peter said, snatching his mask and pulling it over his head. He stood up, dusted himself off, and leapt—

Or, that’s what he was planning on doing, anyway.

He grunted as Daredevil’s body collided with him, sending him sprawling back onto the rooftop. Peter gaped up at the man pinning his body to the roof. “Um… what the heck was that for?” Peter would like to say that he didn’t sound like a petulant child when he said that.

“Kid, you don’t want to do this, alright,” Daredevil said, tone frantic. Peter furrowed his brows as the man spoke under his breath: “God help me, I’m not equipped to deal with this.”

“I’m… I’m confused. What are you talking about?”

“You have so much to live for, okay, kid? I swear. It might not look like it now, but things do get better.”

Peter blinked owlishly up at Daredevil. “What do you—wait… You thought I was going to… You thought I was going to kill myself?”

Daredevil worked his jaw, voice hesitant as he said, “Yes…”

And Peter laughed.

He laughed at the sheer absurdity of the situation. It all made sense now. “Why would you think that?”

Daredevil spluttered. “You–you were crying on the edge of the rooftop! You were about to jump! Don’t tell me you weren’t because I had to body slam you to the roof so that you didn’t fall to your death.”

“I have web shooters. Wait… don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Spider-Man before! Come on, man!” Peter pouted. He really thought this was a vigilante bonding sesh. Did Daredevil just think he was a strange kid wearing a Halloween costume?

“Spider-Man?” Daredevil’s whole body froze.

“Yeah, you know, your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man—well, not your neighbourhood. I hang out in Queens… most of the time. Although I did fight against aliens, so it could be argued that I’m every neighbourhood’s friendly Spider-Man. I also was in DC once, but that was a whole other situation.”

“You’re Spider-Man…”

“So you do know who I am?” Peter lit up.

“Well, yes…”

Peter’s excitement of being recognised by one of the coolest vigilantes was tempered down by confusion. “You didn’t recognise the suit?”

“Uh… yeah, it’s uh, it’s really dark.” Daredevil scratches the back of his neck. Peter narrowed his eyes at him—he wasn’t the best human lie detector, but even he could tell that he was just making up a poor excuse.

“Right… I thought you had enhanced senses, too. Plus, it’s not that dark up here.”

Peter could see the panic overtake Daredevil’s face—or what he could see of it anyway. He immediately wanted to slap himself in the face—so much for making a new vigilante friend. “Don’t worry, Daredevil, I know how to keep identities secret. Besides, you’ve seen my face. I can’t reveal your secrets without risking you revealing my identity. And even if you didn’t, I’d never tell anyone.”

Daredevil sighed, his hands covering his head.

“Do you have some sort of eye astigmatism?” Peter questioned.

“Listen, kid, I’ve already told you too much. How about we just go our separate ways and forget this ever happened?”

Peter’s heart sank. Of course, Daredevil didn’t want to be his friend. He didn’t care about him. The only reason he cared about him in the first place was because he thought he was going to commit suicide. Now that the misunderstanding had been cleared, Daredevil had no reason to care about him.

“Yeah,” Peter hoped Daredevil didn’t notice his voice crack. “Yeah, that’s… that’s probably for the best… Um… it was nice to meet you, Mr. Daredevil. Stay safe.”

Peter gave Daredevil a shaky, forced smile, one that couldn’t quite reach his eyes. He walked over to the ledge, wanting to leave before he said something extremely stupid and embarrassing. Daredevil’s easy dismissal hurt more than Peter wanted to admit. Which was stupid—he’d just met the man, knew next to nothing about him. It wasn’t like it mattered. He didn’t need anyone, no matter how much they were able to relate to his grief.

He turned, hand gripping the edge of the rooftop, the cold material seeping through the suit. A sharp gust of wind rushed past him, tugging at the suit. He could still feel Daredevil’s eyes on the back of his head, his presence heavy behind him. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t fleeing the scene like he had expressed he’d wanted to. He was just standing there. Peter didn’t turn back.

I don’t need him, Peter said to himself. It’s better if Spider-Man works alone, less of a chance for history to repeat itself anyway.

But the loneliness clung to him like a second skin.

The problem wasn’t that Daredevil had no interest in interacting with Spider-Man; it wasn’t even the fact that he was turning his back on the trust he was offering. It was how easily Daredevil dismissed him once he realised that he wasn’t another civilian in distress, that he wasn’t someone Daredevil could save. Peter had been so desperate for someone who could relate to him, for someone who could see him beyond the infallible hero or the sad orphan, for someone who could understand the weight of everything this double life came with.

Peter was ready to leap off the building, to leave the humiliation and pain behind. He wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and the awkwardness that had settled in the space between them. The moment was over. Their possible connection severed. Before he could push off, however, a voice stopped him—low, rough, and hesitant.

“Wait.”

Peter froze, heart traitorously skipping a beat. He turned around to see Daredevil, head dropped and hands wringing together.

Daredevil looked up to the sky for a second, mumbling something under his breath.

“If you’re ever in trouble, call this number, okay? You don’t have to do this alone.” Daredevil muttered as he scribbled on a small slip of paper.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped, Mr. Daredevil… I won’t ask you any more personal questions,” Peter said, hoping to repair the broken bridge. He accepted the paper that Daredevil thrust at him and looked it over. The numbers were all lopsided and, were it not for Karen, he wouldn’t have been able to differentiate the ones and sevens (those z’s were supposed to be twos?). Yikes.

“It’s fine. You were just curious.” Daredevil sighs.

“So does this mean we’re going to team up now? Can we start our own Avengers? No, that would need more than two people… Don’t you know some other vigilantes? Do you think they’d want to join too?” Peter vibrated with excitement at the prospect of being part of a team again.

Daredevil grimaced. “I don’t think those guys play that well with others.”

“No offence, Mr. Daredevil, but something makes me doubt that you do either,” Peter said.

“You got me there, kid.” Daredevil tilted his head.

“So, does that mean you’ll ask them?”

“Absolutely not,” Daredevil said without any hesitation.

“So, what I’m hearing is that you’ll think about it?” Peter grinned.

Daredevil scowled. “I think you need to get your hearing checked.”

Peter opened his mouth to respond, but Daredevil tilted his head and turned away. “Stay out of trouble, Spider-Man,” he said before running to the fire escape.

“No promises!” Peter called after him with a grin.

He stood there for a moment after Daredevil left, the weight in his chest not so heavy now that he knew he wasn’t alone in the harrowing world of being a vigilante.

Taglist: @harleycao @hallecarey1 @filmsbyblair @vivalafrogs

[cricket-reader]

[cricket-reader]

Shadows Wrapped Around My Neck

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: One night, your boyfriend’s anger goes too far. Deciding you’ve had enough, you run away to the apartment of the only man who makes you feel safe—the man who has shown you nothing but kindness and respect: Spencer Reid.

warnings: domestic abuse, strangulation, alcohol abuse, violence

word count: 5,050

A/N: prompt fill for day 17 of @juneofdoom | "Give me another chance" | Bruises | Begging

{Read on A03} | what i'm listening to

Large hands wrapped around your throat, cutting off your air supply. Your hands reached up to his wrists, nails biting into his skin as you desperately tried to pry his hands away. As the air left your body, the face in front of you blurred, black seeping into the corners of your vision. The last thought that crossed your mind before you passed out was that you didn’t want to die, not like this.

You woke up with an aching throat. Your head felt like it was going to explode as soon as you opened your eyes, the bright light seeping in from your bedroom too much for your sensitive eyes. Clenching your eyes shut, you tried to piece together what happened last night—it wasn’t rare for you to wake up with chunks of your memory missing and bruises littering your skin.

When you got home from work, you were so tired. The week had been long, facing nothing but one problem after the other at work and trying to douse the fires by yourself before they consumed the business was not easy work. You had settled down on the couch, thinking you could take a quick nap before your boyfriend came home. In your state of exhaustion, it hadn’t even crossed your mind to set an alarm.

By the time your boyfriend got home, you were still sleeping peacefully on the couch, his supper nowhere in sight. He woke you up by pulling you violently off the couch by your already bruised wrist. He had berated you and belittled you for what seemed like hours, and you had had enough. This whole week had been nothing but constant abuse, from both work and home. You had snapped. Stupidly, you had yelled at him, telling him that he can make his own damn food. Following it up with a rant about how he never did anything–how he was so lazy and useless probably wasn’t the best idea, but you were sleep deprived and your patience had been growing shorter and shorter with each passing day, your short fuse had been lit and it was far too late to extinguish it by the time the consequences came.

You had come so close to dying. You weren’t stupid, you knew that it only took minutes for death to occur from strangulation–if Spencer were here, he’d probably be able to tell you several statistics about domestic violence and strangulation.

It was almost funny. Before, you had only wished that something like this would happen. Death seemed like the only way out of this relationship. No one would believe you if you had told them, and even if they did believe you, you had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. But it seemed fate had something else in the cards for you when you met the Behavioural Analysis Unit of the FBI. They had worked with your boyfriend on a case a few months back. You had met Agents Emily Prentiss and Jennifer Jareau when you went to the police station with a note from the serial killer–unsub is what they called him. He was targeting you next, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to be as scared as you should have been. You were at a really low point in your life then. With nothing to live for, you had numbed yourself to your surroundings, barely keeping your head above water as you trod the choppy waters.

Emily could see it; of course, she could—she wasn’t a profiler for nothing, after all. Perhaps that was why, even after the case was solved, she invited you out with JJ and a woman named Penelope, who you found out was also a member of their team. Life was finally starting to look up for you. You had friends again (all of your previous friends had been cut out of your life when your boyfriend moved you to Virginia). You knew he didn’t like the fact that you had made friends again, but he never forced you to cut them out of your life. It was probably your saving grace that he didn’t.

Eventually, the girls’ nights turned into invitations to go to team events. Emily always teased that you were her plus one when you tried to refuse to go, citing that you weren’t a part of the team. She liked to say that you were her arm candy for the night, playfully flirting with you the whole time. She never failed to make you laugh.

It was there that you properly met Agents Hotchner, Rossi, Morgan, and Dr. Reid. Without the threat of a serial killer looming over them, they were a much more fun bunch than you had originally assumed. Rossi was an excellent host, only rivalled by his ability in the kitchen. Hotchner–Hotch as he told you to call him, actually smiled and laughed a few times (which you were told was a rare occurrence). Morgan effortlessly teased you as if you’d been a part of their little group for ages. Reid was a walking encyclopedia, always ready to share random tidbits of information with you.

You felt like you had regained some control over your life. No longer shackled to work and home, you found yourself feeling liberated. Whenever they were free, it seemed at least one of them would try to rope you into some kind of hangout. Your favourite was when Spencer would meet you at the library or a cafe. There was something so cathartic about sitting in each other’s presence, reading your own books, and not having to fill the space with idle chatter. And when you two did talk, you found his endless source of knowledge and rambling adorable.

They pulled you from such a dark headspace, and you couldn’t imagine what your life would be like if Emily had never invited you to get drinks that one Friday night.

Your boyfriend had never hurt you like he did last night before. He had a drinking problem, you knew he struggled with it for a long time. At the beginning of your relationship, he told you that he was getting clean because he didn’t want to be like his father. He really tried, you know he did. Every time he would slip, he’d wake up the next morning, tearful at the sight of bruises you hadn’t had the night before. He’d promise to get sober before the whole cycle started over and over again. The worst part about it was how you kept making excuses for him. He would never hurt you sober. It was the alcohol. He didn’t mean it. He loved you.

Last night, however, was your last straw.

He could have killed you. It was the first time you had truly thought you were going to die from his rage, and you knew that it was only the beginning. It finally clicked for you. He wasn’t going to change. No matter what he said, he wouldn’t get sober–not even for you. If last night was any indication of your future, you knew that you’d die by his hand. You couldn’t let that happen. You’d let this relationship go on for far too long, giving him way too many chances to clean up his act. Well, he had his last chance. There were going to be no more excuses. You couldn’t keep living like this. Not when you knew of kindness and gentle hands, not when you knew of sweet words and laughter. You deserved better. It had only taken seven brilliant people to convince you of that fact.

Your boyfriend walked into the room, a tray of food balanced in his hands and an apologetic smile on his face. “I made you breakfast, babe,” he said.

You sat up in bed, stomach swirling and head pounding violently. You needed to get out of there. Pushing yourself off the bed, you stumbled into the wall. Black spots danced across your vision as your boyfriend frantically dropped the tray on the bed to steady you.

You blearily pushed his hands away from you. There were red scratches littered on his hands and arms, only serving to further remind you of what those hands were capable of. “Go away,” you said, bracing yourself against the wall to try and regain your strength. You surprised yourself with how rough your voice sounded. “I’m leaving, I’m done.”

The way he said your name grated on your nerves, knowing this tone better than the back of your hand. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just so mad. Please, babe, I love you so much.”

You scoffed, brushing past him to your closet. “I’m done. We’re over, okay? Just… just leave me alone.”

He followed after you. “Give me another chance, babe. I promise it’ll never happen again. I’ll get clean, okay? Just please don’t leave me.”

“I can’t even tell you how many times you’ve told me that. I can’t believe you. You never change. It’s like you don’t even want to help yourself. It’s honestly pathetic. I gave you too many second chances; I won’t give you any more.” You rifled through your closet, looking for some clean clothes to throw on. You could come back to get your stuff later–maybe you could convince Derek to come with you in case your boyfriend started to get violent. You knew that your boyfriend would be way too intimidated to even try anything if Derek was watching over you.

“So, what?” His voice rose with every word. “You’re just giving up on me? On us? After all we’ve been through-“

“You mean after all you put me through?” you snapped at him, your throat aching with the effort of speaking so much.

“Oh, don’t do that.” He pushed your shoulder, forcing you to look at him. “This is ‘cause of that stupid fed, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, I know about your little dates with that pathetic little loser. You thought you could keep that from me? I can’t believe you’d leave me for someone like that!”

“I’m leaving you because you hurt me all the time, and I’m sick of being your victim,” you said, eyes brimming with fury.

“It wasn’t even that bad! You’re just exaggerating everything. Besides, you have nowhere to go. I’m the only one that cares about you-”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” you interrupted him, “I have friends now. They care about me way more than you ever did.”

“So you are leaving me because of them. I knew it! Which one is it?”

“Oh, get over yourself! You always wanted to see what wasn’t there. I should’ve known; jealousy issues are like one of the first red flags.”

You tried to stomp out of the room, clean clothes be damned, but he grabbed your arm, his grip bruising. “Let go of me!”

“You’re not leaving me!” He yelled, spit flying into your face. “You can’t leave. You’re all I have, and I can’t lose you.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you tried to kill me.”

His grip falters, hurt flashing across his face. “I wasn’t trying to kill you, baby. I love you. Why can’t you understand that? You just make me so angry sometimes. It’s not my fault.”

“And I’m supposed to believe it’s my fault?”

“Yes!” He aggressively agreed. “It is your fault. I wouldn’t be forced to hurt you if you didn’t make me so mad. I can’t help it sometimes. That doesn’t mean I wanted to kill you, though. I really do love you… even when you make me angry.”

“Well, I don’t love you.” You shift in his grip, trying to get free. “I don’t think I’ve loved you for a while now, if I’m to be honest with you.”

You watched as betrayal swept over his face. It was quickly replaced with rage. “You fucking bitch!” He screamed, backhanding you. “I gave you everything! Without me, you’d be nothing. How could you be so ungrateful? After all I’ve fucking done for you?”

You scrambled away from him, face stinging and heart beating out of your chest as you watched the man you used to love unravel before you. You’d never seen him this angry; he wasn’t even drunk this time.

“I’m sorry!” you cried out, blocking your face with your arms as he stalked over to you. “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry!”

“You’re an ungrateful little whore. I bet you’re screwing all of your new friends. I can’t see why else they would put up with you.”

A sob caught in the back of your sore throat as he continued to rant about how worthless and stupid you were. You wished Spencer were here. Out of everyone on the team, it was probably him whom you had grown closest to. He invited you out so often, you doubted that he had anyone else to share his life with. It made a part of you sad that he was so lonely he’d resort to hanging out with you (someone he only knew because one of his coworkers picked up on your abject misery), but it also, selfishly, made a huge part of you glad that you were the one he chose time and time again to rid him of that loneliness.

So maybe your boyfriend’s jealousy over Spencer wasn’t completely unfounded, but could anyone truly blame you?

Spencer was everything your boyfriend wasn’t. He was so kind, so inherently good. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he’d never raise a hand to anyone he dated. His words would never turn needlessly cruel, his hands would never bruise the skin of his lover in the name of anger.

You latched onto his kindness and held it tight. You didn’t realise how much you had needed it before Spencer—didn’t realise how rare it was for your own boyfriend to give you even an iota of kindness. The scraps of love and kindness your boyfriend gave you weren’t enough. You needed someone who could care about you more than half the time; someone who didn’t only show you care when he felt like it. You wanted someone who put as much effort into the relationship as you did.

A sharp pain shot through your scalp, disrupting your line of thought.

“Are you even fucking listening to me?”

Your eyes watered as you sat up to try and alleviate the pain. “Stop, you’re hurting me! Let me go!”

“Promise me that you’re not going to leave me! Promise me!”

“Okay! Okay, I promise! I’ll stay, I’ll stay… just please stop hurting me.”

Your body shook as a violent bout of coughing took over. It felt like shards of glass were lodged in your throat, scraping your esophagus raw and bloody. Your boyfriend sighed as he released your hair, crouching down beside your trembling figure. “I’m sorry, baby. You just shouldn’t make me so mad. You can’t leave. We love each other, and we’ll be together forever.”

You flinched as he reached up to smooth down your hair, bile rising in your throat. You just wanted to leave. But there was no way you’d be able to escape—not with him in the room with you. You wondered what Spencer would do in this kind of situation; he’d know what to do. He practically dealt with volatile people for a living.

Thinking back on it, you remembered him rambling about de-escalation tactics out in the field. Whilst you weren’t dealing with a serial killer, you could probably apply that knowledge to the situation you found yourself in. If you could just play along with your boyfriend—convince him that you’d stay with him, maybe you could run away the next time he leaves you alone. You just hoped you could be convincing enough to fool him for however long it took for you to get alone.

“Come now, eat your breakfast before it gets cold,” he said, voice soft and gentle as he guided you from the floor to the bed.

“I’m not hungry,” you rasped, the words barely audible. Frustration flickered over his face. Heart racing, you said, “I need rest. ‘m tired.”

“Okay, baby. I’ll go put this away, and we can cuddle. I know how much you like cuddling.”

Tears in your eyes, you watched him walk away. The only times he had cuddled you since moving to Virginia were after he hurt you. How you didn’t realise that until now was beyond you. He used to be so open with his affection, sitting down to watch a movie with you pressed against his side. Sweet kisses and cuddling in bed–not pushing for more.

You didn’t want his comfort anymore. The last thing you wanted right now was to cuddle him. You wanted to be as far away from his hands–the hands that almost killed you–as possible.

When he came back into the room, you were sniffling on muffled sobs. He made a pitying sound before climbing into bed next to you. His arms felt stifling as he wrapped them around you, pulling you closer to his body.

“Shhh, just go to sleep, baby. I’m right here. Everything’s going to be okay,” he cooed, his hand running over your head in what was supposed to be a comforting motion.

You closed your eyes and forced yourself to relax. Just a little longer. You just had to hold on for a little while longer.

When your boyfriend finally did leave the apartment after you convinced him to get you food from your favourite restaurant, you wasted no time in grabbing your dead phone and your coat. Slipping on a pair of shoes, you booked it out the door. The restaurant was in the opposite direction of Spencer’s apartment, ensuring that your boyfriend wouldn’t run into you on the way over.

By the time you arrived at his apartment, you were shivering, your hands frozen, and your shoes drenched with the slush and snow that covered the sidewalk. You buzzed up to his apartment, praying that he was home. You had nowhere to go if he wasn’t.

A woman exited the building, glancing at you. She did a double-take upon seeing you, her dark eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Are you okay, hun? Do you need somewhere to go?” Her voice was thickly coated with a southern accent, warm and soothing.

“I just need to get in the building.”

“Sweetheart, if someone is hurting you, I can get you help.” She handed you a card from inside her purse. “I’m a doctor at the battered women’s shelter down the road. Let me take you there.”

You realised then that you didn’t have the time to cover the bruises that no doubt were painted on your skin before leaving. “I got out. I’m okay, my friend lives here. He’ll help me.”

“Alright, sugar, but if you ever need anything, the shelter has room for you, okay?”

You nodded, thanking the woman for her kindness. You must’ve really looked awful if the woman’s face was anything to go by. Shame curled inside you, its tendrils wrapping around your heart. You didn’t want Spencer to see you like this. What would he think of you for staying in such a toxic relationship for so long? Would he blame you for not getting out sooner?

Slipping into the warm building, you tucked your hands back into your pockets in search of warmth. You climbed up the stairs, breaths laboured as if you were trekking a grand mountain. By the time you reached Spencer’s floor, you had to lean against the wall to clear some of the spots dancing in your eyes.

You knocked on his door four times, leaning against the frame. There was no response. Knocking again, you hoped that he was just busy with something in there—that he just didn’t hear you. You didn’t know what you would do if he wasn’t home. After knocking on his door three more times, your hope flickered out. You could’ve cried if you hadn’t shed all the tears that you had earlier that day.

Instead, you walked over to the side of his door and slid down against the wall. You could sit and wait for him to come home. Best case scenario, he was out shopping or at the library; worst case scenario, he was on a case and wouldn’t get back for several days. Whatever the situation was, you felt safest staying here. There was no way your boyfriend knew where Spencer lived. You didn’t have anywhere else to go that he wouldn’t think to check. You just hoped that no one kicked you out of the building.

You grumbled as something nudged you out of unconsciousness, not ready to wake up just yet. You were tired and sore–everything hurt, and you just wanted to fall back into blissful sleep.

The prodding was relentless, however, so you reluctantly opened your eyes. Craning your sore neck up, you were greeted with concerned brown eyes and messy, curly hair. Spencer called out your name, his brows furrowing as he took in the angry red handprint on your cheek.

“Spencer,” you croaked out, voice frail and hoarse. “You’re here.”

“What happened?” He asked, crouching down to your level. He took your face in his hands as he peered into your eyes. He furrowed his brows, breath stopping at the sight of your bloodshot eyes. He lifted your chin, inhaling sharply at the mottled bruising wrapped around your throat. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“I didn’t know where else to go, ‘m sorry. You were close.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he chided. “You should have called me. How long have you been waiting for me?”

“Phone was dead. What time is it?”

“It’s almost four in the morning.”

Your eyes grew large. “But it was just six o’clock.”

Frowning, Spencer bit his lip. “We should get you to the ER.”

“I’ll be fine,” you protest, knowing full well that you couldn’t afford a visit now that you’ve run away from your boyfriend, who put himself in charge of all your finances back when you first moved in together.

“No, you’re not. You were strangled. Brain damage and death can occur even weeks or months after the fact. They need to make sure you’re okay.”

“How will I even pay for it? What if he finds me there?”

Jaw clenching, Spencer still managed to speak with an even voice. “Don’t worry about those things. Please, just trust me. I won’t let him hurt you again.”

“I do… I trust you,” you murmured, eyes brimming with unshed tears. You couldn’t remember feeling this safe in such a long time. It was really nice.

“Good,” he said, voice betraying just how much it meant to him to hear you say that. “Is there anyone else you want me to call? I can call one of the girls. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind letting you stay with them.”

“Can I not stay with you?” You did your best to hide your disappointment from him. It wouldn’t be fair of you to expect anything more of him. You guys were just acquaintances, friends if you wanted to push it. Of course, he wouldn’t want to have to put up with you. You didn’t have to tell him who did this to you, and he didn’t seem all that surprised either. He probably thought you were foolish for staying with your boyfriend. You wouldn’t be surprised if Spencer would blame you for staying with him after all the times he’s hurt you.

“No, of course you can… I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable or anything.”

“Why would I be uncomfortable?” You tilted your head. “You make me feel safe.”

His face did something strange then, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Can you stand?”

You nodded, not wanting to further agitate your voice by saying anything else. You had already spoken too much. Hopefully, the pain will go away soon.

Spencer helped you to your feet, steadying you with firm hands. He helped you down the stairs and into the car you knew he rarely used. He had told you about his dislike of driving, and you felt bad that you were making him drive you to the hospital because you weren’t strong enough to get away from your ex-boyfriend sooner.

The doctors gave you a clean bill of health, instructing you to rest your voice and instructing Spencer to keep an eye on your breathing for the next few days. On your way back, you picked up some bruise cream, a toothbrush and toothpaste, tea and honey, and takeaway.

By the time you both entered Spencer’s apartment, you were exhausted. You could tell that Spencer was, too. If the dark circles under his eyes weren’t indication enough, he kept yawning intermittently, making you yawn as well.

“I don’t know about you, but after we eat, I’m going to sleep for the next week,” Spencer said, placing his keys in the bowl.

“Gonna hurt,” you whispered, eyeing the food Spencer set on the table with weary eyes.

“I know, but you really need to eat. Besides, the soup shouldn’t bother your throat too much. Do you want me to put on the kettle?”

You nodded your head. As you watched him ready the water for tea, you felt something warm in your chest. You weren’t used to being taken care of so attentively. Most efforts made by your ex were half-assed at best. Spencer was always thoughtful. It was like he could anticipate your needs.

Taking your phone out of your pocket, you figured you should probably text the girls. They didn’t know what was going on with you, but you figured it would be better if they heard it from you and not someone else. Tapping Spencer on the shoulder, you held out your dead phone.

“My charger is in the bedroom by my nightstand. Feel free to move it if you need.”

You nodded your head, wishing there was a better way to express your gratitude. You watched the device turn on, the logo flashing on the screen before your lockscreen popped up. Cringing at the picture of you and your ex-boyfriend, you made a mental note to change it as soon as you got done texting the girls.

Your heart dropped to your stomach when you unlocked it to see hundreds of missed calls and angry texts from your ex. He was murderous. Each text was worse than the last. Sniffling back your cries, you swiped over to the group chat Emily invited you to. You stared at the blinking cursor for what felt like hours, the screen blurring as the tears built up in your eyes.

You jumped when Spencer called your name from behind you, clutching your phone to your chest. Rubbing the tears from your eyes, he came into focus, concern written all over his face. “Let me see.”

“‘ave to text the girls,” you weakly protested. Sniffling, you typed out a brief message, making sure to emphasise that you were fine and safe with Spencer now. Once you hit the send button, you handed your phone over to Reid.

He frowned when he pulled up your ex’s messages, brows furrowing deeper and deeper with every threatening word aimed at you. His hand was white-knuckled around your phone, shaking with uncontrolled rage.

Usually, the sight of a man this angry would scare you, your relationship with your ex having thoroughly damaged your acute stress response, but you knew that Spencer wasn’t angry with you. He was angry for you.

“How long has he been like this?” Spencer asked you.

You shrugged, “Like what? Explosive? Usually only when he drank.”

“Did he do that often?”

You nodded your head. “Alcoholic.”

He glared down at your phone some more, the fire behind it strong enough that you almost worried your phone would spontaneously combust.

“Do you think less of me?” you whispered, eyes trained on the soft rug you were standing on.

Out of your peripheral vision, you saw Spencer’s head shoot up. “How could I ever think less of you for this?”

“I should’ve left the first time-” cough- “he hit me.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. That… that asshole should have never hit you in the first place.”

“I made so many excuses,” you whimpered, curling in on yourself.

“Do you… Do you want a hug?” Spencer asked, voice tinged with rigid uncertainty. You nodded your head, and faster than you could blink, warmth engulfed you as Spencer gently pulled you to his chest, arms wrapping around you with care. He held you steady as you cried, soaking his shirt with salty tears and snot. Normally, you’d be too embarrassed to let anyone see you like this, but after the day you had, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

You both stood there for what felt like hours. It was only as your cries began to taper off that Spencer said, “The tea and food are probably cold now.”

Chuckling, you wiped away the remnants of tears as Spencer grabbed you some tissues.

After the tea and food had been reheated, you and Spencer sat down to eat. Spencer put on your favourite movie, surprising you that he cared enough to remember something as simple as that about you.

“Even if I didn’t have an eidetic memory, I’d remember what your favourite movie was,” Spencer had said after you shot him a confused look. You felt your cheeks warm, heart fluttering in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. You were grateful for the dark room. He didn’t mean anything by that; he was just being kind. There you were latching onto the first drop of kindness again, desperate for the care you’d been starved of for so long.

You didn’t remember watching the last bit of the movie, but by the time you were aware of your surroundings again, you were being tucked underneath covers that smelled of cinnamon, a gentle kiss placed on your forehead, and the words, “Goodnight, angel. I love you,” echoing in your brain.

[cricket-reader]

just want to let you guys know, if you’ve ever left me a comment, you’ve got me giggling and kicking my feet

[cricket-reader]

✪bucky barnes fluff fic recommendations page two

find page one here

*titles in red are suggestive, smut, or 18+ but smut is not the main focus which is why it's on this list and not the smut list. please respect authors by not interacting if a minor

**personal favorites at the moment

one shots (with an occasional two-parter)

come here, i'll keep you safe. swear: reader thinks there's someone trying to break in and bucky goes to investigate there's no one trying to break in though (@inkdrinkerworld)

cat's out of the bag: how Bucky's top secret was revealed to the Thunderbolts. ft. a secret wife and Alpine. (@magicaloneandmystery)

shoulder to lean on: When you fall asleep with your head resting on Bucky's metal arm, he starts to realize he's not just a weapon (@cassiemaebarnes)

glass hours: After a series of awful dates, Bucky is fed up with the way each man leaves her bruised. He gets a call late one night and doesn't hesitate to be there for her. Something fragile blooms that night, beautiful as the first snowdrop flowers after a long winter. (@cricket-reader)

•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈• •┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈• •┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•

series (completed)

•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈• •┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈• •┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•

series (ongoing)

[cricket-reader]

The Final Directive

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: While going through Mr. Stark's old Iron Man protocols, Peter Parker stumbles upon one that unearths the very ground beneath his feet.

warnings: descriptions of death

word count: 1,645

A/N: prompt fill for day 15 of @juneofdoom | "Please"

The lab hummed with energy, the holographic displays casting a blue glow on Peter’s face as he flipped through layers upon layers of code and armour schematics. He probably wasn’t supposed to be messing with the classified protocols, but Tony had left them wide open just within Peter’s reach. And it’s not like Tony specifically forbade him from it. They always did say that curiosity killed the cat, but Peter also knew that satisfaction brought it back.

“Cool,” he murmured to himself upon clicking one of the protocols. The lines of code were so intricate and advanced that he had a hard time not drooling over them. He scanned through the schematics: Energy redistribution nodes, kinetic dampeners, nanite reshaping subroutines—he felt like a kid in a candy store, staring in wide-eyed fascination at the goodies before him.

He started going back to the older protocols, the ones from 2012, after the invasion that brought the team together. A lot of them were deactivated, forgotten and trashed, but one caught his eye.

Avalon Protocol – [REDACTED] – PASS ENC.

{Continue on A03}

[cricket-reader]

Guilty As Sin

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: Every smile he gives Tony is an attentively constructed lie. Every touch is a carefully measured distance from temptation. Every glance lingers just a second too long, but never long enough to be noticed. Steve knows he's sick; he's just not sure how to fix himself.

warnings: internalised homophobia, misunderstandings, canon-typical violence, self-hatred

word count: 5,239

A/N: prompt fill for day 12 of @juneofdoom | "It's no use" | Carry

{Read on A03}

Steve Rogers is a good man.

He is a soldier formed by his experiences as a child in the early twentieth century.

The descendant of Irish immigrants—a soldier of the Great War, dead before his son’s birth, and a widowed, working mother.

The sickly boy with a list of health problems so long no one believed he’d live to see adulthood.

The little boy dragged to church every Sunday in his best clothes—the ones without the patches and tears.

He’s been taught right from wrong his entire life. Right is standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves, holding the door open for a dame, going to church on Sunday. Wrong is abusing your power, turning your back on those in need, wanting something you shouldn’t.

Wrong is the burning, aching feeling that sets deep in his ribs every time Tony Stark walks into a room.

It’s disgusting.

He’s disgusting.

His hands shake when he unbuttons the uniform after their latest mission, the fabric rough against his calloused fingers. He may be healthy now, but no serum can cleanse the sickness in his soul.

He scrubs his palms raw in the sink after shaking Tony’s hand, though it does nothing to rid him of the memory—Tony’s fingers, warm and rough, lingering just a little too long.

He sits in the scalding water trying to cleanse himself after a night of drinking with Tony—rapidly turning the knob in the opposite direction when memories flood, unbidden, of Tony’s arm wrapped around him, of his breath against his neck as he whispers a joke at Clint’s expense.

He avoids looking at his reflection. He can’t stand to see the filth in his own eyes.

It’s the worst at night.

When the tower is quiet, when the others are asleep and there’s nothing to distract him—nothing to keep his thoughts from twisting into something dark and unholy.

Tony’s laugh echoes in his mind, images of his lovely smile and gorgeous brown eyes haunt his visions. Memories of strong arms working in the lab, endless chatter as Tony explains the process to Steve—he wonders what Tony would say to him if he knew that Steve didn’t understand a word he was saying, wonders what Tony would think if he knew that the only reason he came down to the lab was to hear his voice and to watch his brilliant mind at work.

Tony would look at him with a disgust so palpable, Steve would end up choking. He’d tell him to stay away, to keep his perversion and filth to himself.

That’s what Steve would do, at least.

Every smile he gives Tony is an attentively constructed lie. Every touch is a carefully measured distance from temptation. Every glance lingers just a second too long, but never long enough to be noticed.

He lets himself dream sometimes, he lets himself dream up a version of himself that is as good as the comics, history books, and news articles make him out to be—where he isn’t sick, where he isn’t wrong. But reality always comes crashing back down on him, and with it, the weight of his shame.

—

“Hey, Cap, you alright?”

Tony’s voice snaps him back to reality. They’re in the kitchen, morning sunlight filters in through the large windows, casting a golden light over Tony’s bare arms, his collarbone peeking out from the loose neckline of his grease-stained shirt.

Steve swallows thickly, eyes darting to remain steadfastly fixed on his morning coffee. “Fine.”

He feels himself suffocating at the gaze he feels burning a hole through his side. “You look like you saw a ghost or something.”

Worse, Steve thinks. He saw temptation.

He forces a tight smile and excuses himself before his filth can spread.

Tony watches him go, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that Steve can only pray he never finds out.

Steve presses a hand to his chest, where his heart beats rampantly, traitorously whispering the one truth he refuses to accept.

He loves Tony.

And that is his greatest sin.

—

Steve’s hands tremble as he wraps them in cotton.

Training. Training will help.

The gym is empty this early in the morning—Steve can’t help but feel immense relief at that.

He throws himself into routine, his fists slamming into the punching bag with a punishing force.

Again. Again. Again.

Maybe if he hits hard enough, he can pay for his thoughts—if he leaves with bruised and bloody knuckles, he can repent. If he punishes himself enough, maybe it’ll be enough to burn it all away.

The thoughts. The longing. The sickness.

He’s drenched in sweat, arms aching and bandages red, when the sound of the door creaking open makes him stiffen.

“Jesus, Cap. What did that punching bag ever do to you?”

Tony.

Steve doesn’t turn around. He can’t.

“Needed to clear my head,” he grits out, his breathing heavy.

“Right,” Tony drawls out. “And you decided pulverising my gym equipment was the way to do it?”

Steve only feels slightly remorseful as he looks at the reinforced punching bag, blood smeared over it as sand seeps out of the seams.

“Something eating at you?” Tony’s voice is closer now. Steve can’t bring himself to look up from the bloody punching bag.

Yes.

The devil himself has his claws in Steve’s chest, ripping him apart and filling him with filth and darkness. He swallows past the brick lodged in his throat and shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

Tony makes a sceptical noise as he twists the heavy bag so that he can examine the damage. “The punching bag would say otherwise.” Tony raises a brow at him expectantly. Steve doesn’t respond. “I really thought I’d gotten it this time,” he adds as an afterthought, sighing at the bag he spent hours trying to perfect to withstand the strength of a supersoldier.

There’s a pause after that. Steve can feel Tony’s eyes on him, but his gaze remains fixed on the bag.

And then—Tony touches him.

A hand, light and fleeting, brushes against his shoulder. Completely friendly, completely normal—nothing to make a fuss over.

But Steve flinches.

Tony snatches his hand back, eyebrows furrowing as he scrutinises the man before him. Steve wants nothing more than to melt past the mats and past the concrete, preferably into the earth where he can stay.

Tony clears his throat, loud and abrupt. “Right… Well, I should probably go. Didn’t mean to disturb… whatever this is.” Tony waves a hand at the mess before him before scurrying back out the door.

It’s only when the door swings shut that Steve finally breathes.

He presses a hand against the punching bag, head bowed and stomach churning.

Steve Rogers, the strongest man in the world, had flinched.

Like Tony’s touch had burned him.

In a way, it had.

Because for one terrible second, Steve had wanted to lean into that warmth.

He had wanted more.

And wanting is a sin.

—

The morning after the gym incident, he finds a card for a therapist attached to—what Tony refers to as a new and improved set of punching bags (I swear to god, Rogers, you better make these ones last—my ego will be seriously hurt if you manage to rip these apart like they’re made of tissue paper).

He throws the offending paper away without a second glance, shame curling around his heart.

He avoids Tony the rest of the day—plans to avoid him for as long as he can get away with it.

It’s easier this way.

Easier to sit at the other end of the table during meetings, easier to stick to his own kitchen to make coffee, even if the stuff in the communal kitchen is worlds better than the cheap stuff he bought ages ago. It makes it easier to forget the way Tony’s touch feels, makes it easier to forget the way he sounds when he laughs—one of those precious, rare laughs that are real, not hollowly fabricated for the cameras and the public.

But Tony doesn’t let that slide for long.

He catches Steve on one of his bad nights—the ones where every time he closes his eyes, he sees flashes of blue and bullets and woods, when screams and gunshots echo through his brain, a constant horrifying cacophony of madness.

The billionaire plops down right beside him on the communal couch—too close, always too close. Steve learned early on that once Tony Stark let someone into his life, he was the most affectionate man to walk the earth, worlds away from anything the paparazzi said about him.

“So,” Tony says, stretching his legs out. “You’re avoiding me.”

Steve stares at the TV, absently wondering how he ended up staring—but not really watching—at a documentary about penguins. “I’m not.”

“Yeah, okay.” Tony scoffs, disbelief evident in his words.

Steve clenches his fists in his lap. Since when did he get so comfortable lying? Probably since he discovered the true nature of his dirty, blackened soul. Probably since he’s been desperately trying to cleanse himself of the sickness residing inside himself.

The silence between them speaks volumes.

Then, Tony speaks, softer this time, voice tinged with vulnerability and uncertainty. “Did I do something?”

Steve’s stomach churns. “No.”

In his peripheral vision, he can see Tony’s jaw work. “Then what’s your deal? You’re acting like I kicked your puppy and then spit in your coffee after pouring a heaping spoonful of salt into it—did that metaphor make sense? Probably not, you get the point.”

Steve swallows hard. His throat is suddenly very dry. “It’s not you.” It’s me. I’m sick. I’m deplorable. I will infect you with my wrongness, corrupt you, and bleed you dry.

Tony exhales, rubbing his jaw. “You wanna tell me what is going on, then?”

No.

He’d rather gouge his own eyes out, take a dive off of the nearest cliff, swerve his motorcycle into oncoming traffic—anything but that.

“I’m fine,” he says, trying his hardest to sound convincing. He just wants Tony to stop pestering him. The further he is from Tony, the better.

“You can’t just keep saying that and expect me to believe it, Rogers.” Tony sighs, heavy and disappointed. Tony never calls him Rogers.

Steve closes his eyes, resigned to the fact that Tony will never stop asking. If there’s one thing he’s learned, Tony is stubborn—just about as stubborn as he himself is. He wonders what Bucky would have thought about this mess he managed to get himself into—he quickly stops that train of thought; Steve would have never wanted Bucky to know how truly depraved his best friend was.

He opens his eyes, stares straight ahead, jaw tight, and speaks before he loses the nerve.

“I think things that I shouldn’t,” he says, for a lack of courage to come outright and just say it, to release the monstrosity within him.

Tony is silent.

Steve forces himself to continue, the words like shards of glass tearing through his throat. “My mind’s all messed up. I’m… there’s something wrong with me.”

Tony audibly swallows, shifting uncomfortably beside him. Steve clenches his fists as the man’s thigh rubs against his. Too close, too close, too close.

“Did you see that therapist I recommended? She’s the best of the best. Up to her eyeteeth in NDA’s too, so you don’t have to worry about anything leaking to the public.”

“She can’t help me.” Steve’s hands tremble. “No one can fix me. I’m… I’m… something is really wrong with me.”

“Steve,” Steve’s never heard Tony sound so grim before. “I really want to help you—I wish I could, but I’m not qualified, and let’s be honest I’m absolute shit at this, but this woman, she can really help you, okay? I really think you should try it out. Just go for a few sessions. If it doesn’t work out, we can find someone new, or we can just… try something else, okay?”

Tears burn at the corners of Steve’s eyes. Tony wouldn’t be trying to help him if he knew that Steve was pining after him. Tony would smash his face in, kick his ribs until they cracked and punctured a lung, maybe call the Iron Man suit to defend his honour and end Steve’s sick mind for good.

“You don’t fucking get it, Stark,” Steve snarls before storming back to his suite to mope and berate himself for the rest of the night.

—

He avoids Tony. Again.

But this time, Tony doesn’t let it slide.

It starts small, a passing comment at breakfast, a knock at Steve’s door, several text messages inquiring into his well-being—Steve doesn’t respond to any of it.

Then Tony escalates.

He corners Steve after his workouts in the gym (if you can call punching your knuckles bloody working out—seriously Steve, why aren’t you wrapping your hands anymore? Your getting blood all over my gym), corners him in the elevator, in the damn hallway.

And Steve, being the coward he is, manages to dodge every attempt.

Until Tony finds him in the library.

It’s late. The tower is quiet. Steve had stopped coming out of his room lately, but he figured—he’d hoped—he’d be safe here. But when Tony strides in, chin held high and determined eyes zeroed in on the supersoldier lounging on the plush couch, Steve knows he’s lost.

“We need to talk,” Tony says, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at Steve.

Steve stares at the book in his hands—pretends to read it even though his brain is running haywire. Their last conversation has been playing on repeat in his mind—he’d gotten so close to telling Tony the truth, and it scared him. It terrified him. He had almost revealed just how disturbed Captain America really was. “Steven Grant Rogers—that’s right, I middle-named you—don’t ignore me.”

Steve winces, lowering the book. “We have nothing to talk about.”

“Okay, that’s the biggest lie I’ve heard, and trust me, I’ve heard some doozies in my day.”

Steve clenches his jaw, barely remembering to loosen his grip on the poor book he’s holding before it breaks.

Tony steps closer, voice softer now. “Look, I won’t say I know what you’re going through, okay? That’s just insulting, I know. But I want you to know that you don’t have to go through it alone, okay?”

Steve’s throat tightens. He keeps his eyes on the page even as the words blur into a befuddled mess. “You don’t get it, Tony. You can’t get it.”

“Try me,” Tony challenges.

“I’m sick, Tony. I’m sick.” Steve’s shoulders hunch in on themselves.

Tony stares at him.

Steve feels like he’s going to throw up under his scrutiny.

“We can get you some help, okay, Steve?”

“Stop!” Steve jumps up from the couch, emotions boiling over. “Just stop, okay! You can’t fix me, so stop trying. It’s no use. There’s no fucking point, alright? What don’t you understand about that? Just leave me alone!”

—

Steve dreams of fire.

Of hands against his skin, a mouth against his throat.

He wakes up gasping for air, shame coiled tight in his gut and sweat damp against his skin.

He can’t do this anymore.

Avoidance isn’t enough, distance isn’t enough.

Nothing will ever be enough.

Because no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he fights it—

He still loves Tony Stark.

And Steve Rogers will not allow himself to corrupt such a beautiful person.

—

Steve is exhausted.

Not physically—he’s run for miles without breaking a sweat, fought battles for hours at a time that should have killed him—but this? This is worse.

Because it’s something he can’t outrun, something he can’t fight.

It’s inside him. Rotten. Festering.

And no matter how many times he pushes Tony away, no matter how many nights he spends wide awake staring at the ceiling in an attempt to stop the sinful dreams, it doesn’t go away.

So he does the next best thing.

He buries it.

Puts on the mask, smiles when he should, nods when necessary, pretends that the extra wide berth that Tony gives him after their last fight doesn’t cut straight into his heart. Pretends everything is fine.

And for a while, it works.

Until it doesn’t.

—

It happens on a mission.

A simple recon mission gone sideways.

Bullets fly, the air is heavy and thick with smoke. Steve flings his shield at the assailants, trying his best to take out as many of the threats while his team fights around him.

He hears it before he sees it. An explosion, burning heat billowing up from the blast site.

And then—

“TONY!” Someone screams. He’s not sure who. Doesn’t really care. The world narrows to a single point, time freezes, and Steve’s heart stops.

Tony is down.

Steve doesn’t think.

He moves.

He races to the blast sight, heart hammering wildly in his chest as he searches for the red and gold suit.

The suit lies in the snow, blackened and sparking. He can hear Tony’s breaths, wheezing and clipped. The blue light flickers in his chest. His hands hover uselessly over Tony’s prone body, unsure of how to help without making the situation worse.

“Latch,” Tony rasps, hand twitching towards the release on his suit. Steve immediately pulls it for him—tries to anyway.

“The latch is stuck,” Steve says, dread curling up in his stomach. Tony groans, pained and guttural in his throat.

Steve hears someone sneaking up from behind him and barely makes it in time to grab his shield, blocking the spray of bullets aimed at them. He chucks the shield at the goon with a little more force than necessary, anger and adrenaline coursing through his veins. “We gotta get you outta here,” Steve says.

“Suit’s dead weight. Too heavy… can’t move,” Tony murmurs, lethargic.

Steve sets his jaw, determination written all over his features as he lifts the Iron Man suit into his arms, bridal style. Tony makes a surprised noise at the sudden movement. “Damn, Cap. At least buy me dinner first.”

Steve’s glad that the cold biting at his face gives him an excuse for his reddened cheeks.

In that moment, with Tony bleeding, chest rising in short, uneven breaths in his arms, Steve realises something.

He can’t do this.

He can’t lose him.

Not to war, not to time, not to his own damn cowardice.

And suddenly, the weight of it is all too much. He staggers slightly, keeping a firm grip on the man he’s carrying in his arms. His breath hitches, tears forming in his eyes.

“Hey, you good, Capsicle?” Tony asks.

No.

Not even close.

But Steve nods, forcing a tight smile to his face. “Yeah.”

A lie.

But Tony doesn’t call him on it. Not this time.

Instead, he just watches Steve from behind the mask.

Steve wonders if Tony already knows.

Wonders what the implications of that would mean.

—

The mission is over. They all made it back in one piece.

Tony is fine. A little worse for wear, but he’s alive.

Steve should feel relieved.

But all he feels is wrecked.

Because the second he saw Tony lying on the ground, the light flickering and suit damaged beyond repair, the second he thought—this is it, this is where I lose him.

Something in him broke.

And now, sitting alone in his room, staring at his trembling hands, Steve knows.

He can’t keep pretending.

He can’t keep running.

Because if today proved anything, it’s this—

He loves Tony Stark.

And nothing—not fear, not shame, not the weight of his shame—will ever change that.

—

Steve doesn’t sleep that night.

He sits at the edge of his bed, hands clasped. Stares at the floor like it might offer him some answers.

It doesn’t.

Morning comes, and he goes through the motions. Debrief, training, and a forced half smile when Natasha asks him if he’s okay.

And then there’s Tony.

Teasing. Laughing. Existing.

Steve watches from across the room, his heart heavy in his chest.

He should leave—go back to his room—put more distance between them before this feeling, this sin, consumes him whole. He can’t be selfish—can’t ruin Tony with his depravity and filth.

But before he can flee like the coward he is, Tony turns, catching his gaze.

He feels like a butterfly pinned to the wall. Something flickers across Tony’s face, a moment of hesitation, and then—

“Hey, Capsicle. Walk with me.”

Steve’s gut twists. He thinks back to the promises he made himself, filled with leftover adrenaline from almost losing the one he loves and an inexplicable confidence that he’d be able to come clean without losing the best thing in his life. Thinks of how foolish he was. He can’t—they can’t-

He could refuse—could run away like he always does, but he told himself he was done running.

So Steve swallows hard, nods once, and follows.

Tony leads him down to the workshop.

The door slides shut behind them, locking out the rest of the world.

Steve stands stiffly, waiting.

Tony doesn’t speak right away. He paces, hands in his pockets, and jaw tight.

Then finally—

“I can’t keep doing this, Steve.”

Steve blinks, because of all the things he expected, this was not one of them. “What?”

“All this running, the avoiding, the outbursts. I want this bullshit to stop. You can’t go from hating me to being worried about me—like you actually give a shit about me—at the drop of a hat. It’s giving me fucking whiplash.”

Steve flinches. His body is screaming, abort, abort, abort. He needs to leave, shut this down, shove it all back into the box of repression until it never sees the light of day again.

But Tony doesn’t let up.

He steps closer—too close, too close, too close.

“I’m done, alright. I don’t want any more excuses. You only have a problem with me—no one else, just me. I want an explanation. What is going on?”

Steve’s heart stutters in his chest.

He closes his eyes, tastes the words in his mouth before he spits them out. “I’m sick.”

“I fucking know that, Steve!” Tony throws his hands up. “You’ve told me time and time again. Frankly, I’d be a little concerned if there wasn’t something wrong with you, given that you fought in World War Two, slept in ice for several decades, and fought off an alien invasion. You have PTSD, and that’s okay–”

“That’s not… that’s not it…”

Tony pauses, eyes squinting and brows furrowed in that adorable way they always do when he tries to solve an equation.

“I was raised to know right from wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “To know what’s natural and what ain’t. And I know–” he sucks in a sharp breath– “I know what I feel is wrong.”

Steve chances a glance at him. He expects disgust, shock, hate.

Tony just stares at him, bambi eyes wide and bewildered.

Steve nearly groans; for all the genius up there in his brain, Tony sure can be daft at times. Maybe he just can’t fathom the idea that perfect, war hero Captain America is truly a deviant.

“I’m sick,” he says again, not wanting to say those damning words aloud. “I’m sick inside… I think things that I shouldn’t. I’m not supposed to want… I’m… I can’t say it, please, don’t make me say it.”

Steve watches the realisation wash over Tony’s face. He looks away before his face can twist into hatred and disgust.

“Steve…” Tony sounds gutted. “You think you’re wrong for liking guys?”

Steve eyes the nearest window, wonders if he could end it all by flinging himself out of the building at such a height, even with the serum.

Tony exhales. “Jesus, Steve.”

And there it is: the disappointment.

Steve’s hands tremble, his chest burns hot with shame, and tears burn in his eyes. “You… you don’t get it.” He doesn’t just like guys, he likes Tony.

“No, I don’t think you get it.” Tony’s voice is hard. Steve tenses as Tony steps towards him, preparing for the slap or punch he’s had coming ever since that first damned thought came into his mind. “It’s not wrong, Steve,” he says instead.

“Don’t–”

“Don’t what, Steve?” Tony’s voice rises. “Don’t tell you the truth? That you’re not broken? That you’re not wrong for how you feel?”

Steve’s breath stutters. He can’t do this, he can’t.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Steve mutters as a traitorous tear slips down his face. Why is Tony lying to him? He can’t possibly believe the lies he’s spouting.

Tony grabs his wrist, his hand gentle and warm. Steve doesn’t think about how much he missed feeling those calloused hands.

Tony looks at him—not with disgust, not with anger, not with hatred, but something else, something raw. “Did you think that I wouldn’t accept you?”

Steve’s throat burns. “Yes.”

Tony’s grip falters, his face collapsing with grief. “Why?”

“Where I’m from… people like me—” he swallows, gut churning, thoughts of blue tickets, capital A’s, of black and pink triangles, of Sachsenhausen and Buchenwald. “People like that were arrested. Beaten. Killed.”

Tony is quiet, face blank, unreadable.

“If people found out… You lost everything.” His hands clench until he can feel the sting of crescents in his palms. “Your job, your home, your family, your life.”

“It’s not like that anymore, Steve,” Tony—brilliant, frustrating, impossible Tony—doesn’t waver. Despite having every reason to kick Steve’s teeth in…

“You think everyone just changed?”

“Not everyone,” Tony sighs. “But enough did.”

“It’s not that simple,” Steve argues.

“Why can’t you accept that things have changed, Steve? What are you so afraid of?”

Steve’s breath catches.

The answer, honestly, is everything.

He’s afraid of losing the team, losing his place in the world. Afraid of the world turning against him. Afraid of Tony turning against him.

But most of all, he’s afraid of the truth.

He loves Tony. And it’s not going away any time soon.

The one thing he can’t allow himself to have—the one thing he can’t bring himself to ruin—to taint with his sick, perverted mind. “I should go,” Steve shakes his head, already planning on fleeing the country and living in some remote area where no one will ever recognise him.

Tony grabs his wrist again, gentle but firm. “Steve-”

Steve jerks away, skin burning where Tony’s hand touched. Tony steps back like Steve hit him. Hurt flashes across his face, and Steve wants nothing more than to erase that horrible expression from his face.

“Look,” Tony exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not going to force you to talk about this anymore. You need space, right? That’s fine. It’s okay… just…You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I do,” Steve argues, a stubborn set to his jaw.

“No, you don’t,” Tony snaps right back, so goddamn earnest that Steve’s heart flutters and stomach swirls.

“You don’t understand-”

“Then make me understand, Steve! Help me understand,” Tony practically begs him.

The words sit between them, heavy and filled with emotion.

Then, barely a whisper, he hears himself say, “I’m scared.”

Tony stills, the fear in Steve’s voice palpable. The usually unflappable Captain, now scared and trembling like a small child. Tear tracks stream down his face.

Steve swallows hard, words tumbling out raw and unfiltered. “I spent my whole life knowing–knowing what people like me deserved. That we were wrong. Dirty. That if people found out, we’d lose everything.”

His voice shakes. “And I just—I can’t turn that off, Tony. I can’t just wake up one day and suddenly believe I’m–” he laughs, a sound both hysterical and bitter– “that I’m allowed to want this.”

The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The two men stare at each other.

And then, Tony steps forward.

Careful and slow.

And when Steve doesn’t pull away, he reaches out, grabbing Steve’s hands. Just enough pressure to tell him that he’s there.

“You… you like me?” Tony’s voice is quiet, hesitant and unsure.

Steve’s face bursts into flames, mortification flooding his body—he knows, he knows, he knows.

“I like you too, Steve,” Tony murmurs, carefully. “I’ve liked you for a while now…”

Steve gapes at him, convinced this is another one of his sick, twisted dreams.

“You obviously have a lot of things to work through, but… if you’d like, we can work on it together.”

Steve feels unsteady, like the ground beneath him is shifting. The entire world trembles at the weight of those words.

Tony is still standing close, still holding his hands, not forceful, not bruising, just there. A solid, steady presence.

And Steve?

Steve wants to believe him. Wants to take what Tony is offering, like the selfish heathen he is. Wants to let himself have this.

But the fear is still there, coiled tight in his chest.

“I don’t know how…” Steve admits, looking up at Tony with the most miserable expression Tony’s ever had the displeasure of seeing.

Tony’s grip tightens minutely. “How to what?”

“How to… want this. Without hating myself for it.”

“Then let’s start small,” Tony shrugs, a comforting smile playing on his lips.

Steve frowns. “Small?”

Tony nods, “Yeah. Like—I dunno, maybe you don’t run out of the room every time I look at you.”

Steve huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “I don’t–” and then he stops—because he does.

Tony smirks, “You so do.”

Steve looks away, embarrassed by his previous actions. “Hey, it’s okay,” Tony reassures him with a little nudge.

Steve forces himself to meet Tony’s gaze.

Tony’s expression is so uncharacteristically soft—Steve almost has to look away lest his heart float away. “We don’t have to figure everything out today. Or tomorrow, or even next week. We have time.”

“And what do we do?” Steve questions, butterflies swarming in his stomach.

“We exist. One day at a time.” Tony tilts his head. “And maybe get you to see that therapist I’ve been begging you to see.”

Steve’s eyes widen at the suggestion, terror gripping his heart. No one else can know—no one can–

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, Steve. She’s good. She knows I like guys and is completely fine with it. She won’t care, alright? I can even go with you, how’s that sound? She makes any comment about it, I’ll make sure her license is revoked, and she’ll never find another job again.”

Steve laughs, watery and teary, but he laughs because that is such a Tony response. He didn’t realise how much he’d missed the other man’s ridiculous tangents. “That seems a bit extreme,” Steve says.

“I’d say that she’d gotten what she deserved.”

Steve shakes his head, the chuckle dying out on his lips. “You’re impossible.”

“You mean impossibly amazing, right? No? Impossibly handsome, then? Impossibly charming? Impossibly-”

Steve playfully shoves Tony away, a grin sweeping across his face as he tells him to shut up. Tony squawks indignantly, clutching his chest as if physically wounded by his words.

—

Steve Rogers is a good man.

Sometimes he just needs a little help seeing it.

[cricket-reader]

Inheritance

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

Summary: Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers know that their love is wrong. So they hide it with stolen glances and fleeting touches. Never enough to make the Avengers suspect. Their facade comes crumbling down when Tony outs them, and Steve is quick to deflect their beliefs. Now, Bucky has to find a way for both him and Steve to disappear before the consequences of their forbidden love catch up to them.

warnings: sick Peter, near-death experience, medical innacuracies, past child abuse, bad parent Howard Stark, human experimentation

word count: 7,466

A/N: prompt fill for day 11 of @juneofdoom | Cold Sweat | Experiment

{Read on A03}

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” The cheerful voice of Peter Parker echoes through the lab space. Tony looks up from the Iron Man schematics he was working on, failing to hide the fond smile that creeps up onto his face.

“Hey, kiddo. How was the field trip?” Tony would have never envisioned having a son—a teenager at that. He never thought he had what it took to take care of another human being—not when he could barely take care of himself on a good day. If it were any other child, he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle them. At first, he’d taken the poor kid in after hearing a sob story good enough for any orphan—first his parents in a plane crash, then his uncle in an armed robbery, then his aunt with cancer. It was honestly sad how much the kid had been through.

It’s not like he didn’t have the means to take care of a kid either. He had money, food, a roof to keep over his head—all that jazz that kids need. It’s not like he had anything better to do with Pepper off running the company, the Avengers in hiding, and Ross still refusing to let Iron Man help with any of the issues that popped up around the world.

But nothing could have prepared him for the curly brown-haired, doe-eyed boy that walked through the elevator with nothing more than an old, beat-up duffle bag and a backpack hanging on its last threads.

He knew the kid was smart—no one gets into Midtown School of Technology on a scholarship alone who isn’t, but he wasn’t prepared for the kid to immediately break out into an awe-struck rant about Tony’s scientific advancements and how it was an honour to meet one of the greatest minds. (Tony pretended to act offended by the kid’s words, saying he was the greatest mind, only for the kid to go on about Dr. Banner and Dr. Richards—he’s still not bitter about that, no siree).

Whilst Tony was completely out of his depth with this whole parenting thing, he learned that the kid loved to hang out with him in the lab, fiddling with his own little experiments or doing homework. It was so domestic that the Tony before would have probably been sick.

“It was awesome!” Peter discards his backpack underneath his personal workspace with a flourish. “We got to see Oscorp’s robotic dog prototype. It’s so cool. It even did a backflip!”

Tony raises a brow at him. “Oscorp? Really? A robot dog that does backflips? What’s the point of that? At least Stark Industries makes things that are useful. You’d think that a school as great as yours would go to a company that’s actually competent.”

“Oh, come on! Oscorp isn’t that bad. They had some other pretty cool stuff—like their huge bioengineering lab. It was so awesome! We got to see some of their projects. There were a bunch of radioactive spiders, which was kinda creepy—especially since one of them got loose, but they said it was okay; the one that escaped wasn’t harmful to humans. They said they were experimenting with cockroaches too, but that’s where I drew the line.” Peter sticks out his tongue, face twisting up at the thought of the creepy creatures.

“As long as you didn’t bring any creepy crawlies home with you, that’s fine by me,” Tony says, eyes narrowing at the thought of a stowaway spider getting loose in the tower. Peter laughs at him before going over to his lab station, where he’s been working on a project for his engineering elective.

Tony and Peter get lost in their heads, each working on their own project, Tony’s lab playlist playing in the background to disrupt the quiet. It’s only when Jarvis reminds them to take a break to eat that they pause. “How does pizza sound?” Tony asks, barely looking up from the schematics to his suit.

“Only if we can get Hawaiian,” Peter counters.

Tony’s head snaps over at him, his face screwed up. “You are an absolute heathen, Peter Parker. Pineapple on pizza is a crime—a federal crime. I should arrest you right now!”

Peter chuckles. “You wouldn’t arrest your favourite lab buddy, would you?”

“If he likes pineapple on pizza, I just might have to.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Stark,” Peter goads. “It’s not that bad.”

“Not that—Not that bad? Are you kidding me?” Tony cries in mock outrage. “I am going to disown you!”

“Please, Mr. Stark,” Peter pleads, using his sad bambi brown eyes against his father.

Tony points accusingly at him. “Now that’s just not fair, kid.”

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?” Peter pouts leaning his head closer to Tony with the saddest eyes Tony’s ever seen.

Tony playfully shoves his head away. “Now you’re just overdoing it. I guess I’ll allow you to eat that crime against food. But don’t think that I will ever forgive you for this betrayal. I really thought you were my kid, but no self-respecting Italian would ever go to the dark side like that.”

“Good thing I’m only like 50% Italian then, right?” Peter smirks as Tony grabs the phone to order pizza.

“That should be enough Italian to know that you’re committing an atrocity.”

Tony orders the food—one Hawaiian and one supreme pizza. Peter tells him more about the field trip as they eat—Tony interrupts every once and a while to tell him how Stark Industries is better. They go back to work in the lab when they’re finished eating, promises of a late-night movie hanging in the air.

The fever hits Peter like a freight train, slamming into him out of nowhere. He stares at the project in front of him, vision blurring together. His insides boil, skin flushed and damp with sweat. He sets down the screwdriver he was using on the table, blinking as the metal underneath it warps slightly.

“Pete?” Mr. Stark’s voice is muffled against the blood rushing in his ears.

A chill sweeps through his body, causing him to violently shiver as he stands up from the workbench. Vision blackening at the edges, he sways on his feet as nausea curls through his stomach. He grips onto the metal workspace in an attempt to steady himself, not seeing or hearing the metal warping under his fingers.

“Jesus, Peter,” he hears beside him as a warm arm is draped around his waist. The familiar comforting scent of his father sends another wave of nausea coursing through his body. Hunching over on himself, Peter swallows back the saliva gathering in his mouth.

“I’on’t feel so good,” he murmurs, head spinning as he attempts to make his way to the bathroom. He can’t get sick in Mr. Stark’s lab. He crashes into Stark, body trembling violently. Tony guides the kid to the restroom, most of his weight resting against the older man as he stumbles to the bathroom.

“I knew pineapple on pizza was bad, but I didn’t think it was that bad,” Tony says, a poor attempt at humour to disguise the terror flooding through his veins. This is the first time Peter has gotten sick under his care—and it definitely hadn’t escaped his notice that the kid had bent fucking metal with his bare hands.

Peter groans from over the toilet, arms wrapped around his stomach. Tony grimaces, placing a hand on the kid’s back. He recoils upon feeling the damp fabric under his skin. Brows furrowing, he asks Jarvis to run a scan. “I’m going to call in a doctor, okay, Peter?”

“Don’ leave,” Peter cries, pathetic, tear-filled eyes shining up at him. Tony’s heart twists inside his chest at the sight.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, kiddo,” Tony says, brushing back the damp hair sticking to Peter’s forehead. “Jarvis, can you get a doctor, someone close by. We need to get him checked out right now.”

“Of course, sir. Dr. Cho is in one of the labs a few floors down. Would you like me to summon her?”

“Yes, tell her it’s urgent.”

“Of course, sir. Upon your request, I have scanned Mr. Parker. It would appear that his body temperature is dangerously high. I would recommend getting him down to the medical bay as soon as possible.”

“Peter, buddy, I need you to get up,” Mr. Stark says, voice tight. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s get you down to the med bay.”

“I’m tired, Mr Stark,” Peter whines in protest, eyes drooping and head dropping.

“No, come on, Peter. Don’t pass out on me now.” Tears burn at the corners of Tony’s eyes, his heart beating frantically as he wraps an arm under Peter’s arms. He helps Peter stand up, holding him up as his body sways dangerously.

“I don’t feel so good, Mr. Stark. What’s… what’s happening to me?” Peter chokes on a sob as his vision fades in and out. His entire body trembles with the exertion of standing. His body feels like it’s on fire.

“I don’t know, buddy,” Mr. Stark says. “We need to get to the elevator, okay? Just hang on a little longer.”

With great difficulty, Peter and Tony stagger to the elevator. Peter’s knees give way from underneath him three times, and he crashes into Tony’s side at least five separate times before they finally make it to the elevator. Tony holds onto Peter as the elevator descends, his heart breaking as the kid shakes with the force of his sobs. “It hurts,” he wails, clutching on tight to his father’s arm. Mr. Stark doesn’t have the heart to push him off, even if the grip his kid is using is strong enough to leave bruises.

The elevator arrives on the medical floor, where Dr. Cho and two other doctors are waiting for them with a gurney. They help Stark load him onto the gurney. Peter doesn’t let go of Mr. Stark’s shirt as they wheel him to the nearest medical room. He snivels fretfully as the doctors try to make him let go of Mr. Stark.

“Please, no,” he whimpers. “I want my dad! Don’t leave me, please!”

Mr. Stark’s heart stops in his chest, staring uncomprehending at the kid. He’s never called him that before. The tears he’s been pushing down begin to creep down his face. “It’s okay, kiddo. I’m right over here. They need to look you over, but I’m staying in the room, okay? You’re going to be alright.”

Peter mumbles something back, incoherent as his eyes roll back in his head. Tony’s entire world stops as Peter grows eerily still, eyes closed and tears shining on his cheeks. He can’t hear what the doctors are saying over the buzzing in his ears. His lungs do overtime as he watches his son get poked and prodded. His heart rate is abnormal, his temperature is rising higher and higher with each passing minute. Oh god, he thinks, this can’t be how I lose him. Not now, not so soon. He just finally started to relax around me; I can’t lose my son, not like this.

“-ter Stark? Mister Stark?” a voice drifts through his internal chaos. He looks up to see Dr. Cho standing over him with furrowed brows. Blinking, Tony briefly wonders how exactly he ended up on the floor before standing back up.

“What’s wrong with him?” Tony asks, voice garbled with gravel. He glances back over to his son, pale and shivering on the hospital bed.

“We found a spider bite on the back of his neck. Has he been outside the country or somewhere that he could have come into contact with any dangerous spiders?”

“Fucking Oscorp,” Tony mutters, murder in his eyes. “He went on a field trip to Oscorp today. One of their lab spiders got loose. They said it wasn’t dangerous!” Tony fumes, pulling up his phone to call his lawyers. He was going to sue Oscorp so hard, they’d be drowning in legal fees for the rest of their miserable lives.

“Did they do any experiments on the spider before it bit him?”

“Hell if I know,” Tony grumbles.

“Statton, get samples right now. We need to make sure the patient didn’t contract anything from the spider.”

“On it!” the younger man chirps, digging through one of the drawers.

Tony curses under his breath as he pulls up Oscorp’s website—an announcement of a science panel with radioactive spiders set for this upcoming Friday is displayed on the front page. “The spider may have been radioactive.”

Tony watches as Cho’s face blanches, and a pit settles in his stomach. This is bad, really bad.

“What can you do? How can we help him?” Tony asks, ready to pull out his hair. He had always joked that the kid was trying to give him grey hairs because he was always so clumsy and had the self-preservation skills of a moth drawn to the flame. This, though… this really took the cake.

“We can give him treatment for the radiation, but nothing like this has ever been documented. I’m not entirely sure that it will do anything at this point. We’ll give him drugs to help alleviate the pain and put him to sleep.” Dr. Cho looks back at the kid. “You should stay with him. The drugs should be taking effect soon, but I know he’d want you by his side.” She gives him a pained look before making her way to the door.

Which… no… this can’t be it. He has to be okay. He’s going to make it, he just has to.

Sighing, Tony trudges over to Peter’s bedside. Peter’s entire body shakes, silent tears roll down his face—Tony’s certain the image will haunt him for the rest of his days. He grabs onto one of Peter’s hands; they’re clammy and incredibly warm. He hopes the contact is comforting—hopes that Peter knows that he’s there—he’ll always be there for his kid, always.

“Is’so cold, dad,” Peter croaks, slurring his words. Tony’s heart leaps, eyes darting to Peter’s face. Tears creep down Tony’s face; he’s never been so terrified—not in Afghanistan, not in Monaco, not at the disasterous night at the Expo, not when he flew that nuke into space, not when Wanda showed him his worst nightmare, not when Steve tried to kill him with that damn shield—nothing could ever hold a candle to the sight of his child, his precious Peter lying in a hospital bed, looking like death warmed over.

“It’s okay, Peter, you’re gonna be okay,” Tony choked out because Peter had to be okay. He had to make it out of this okay. He couldn’t bear to think of the alternative. “Just get some rest now—let the drugs do their job. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“It hurts,” Peter mewls, face scrunching up. “Make it stop, Dad, please make it stop.”

Tony chokes on a sob, reaching up to wipe the sweat off of Peter’s forehead. “The drugs should kick in soon, okay, buddy? Just hold on. You’re being so strong, kiddo. Just hold on a little longer.”

He continues to hold his son’s hand as he shivers and sobs. “Dad?” Peter mumbles, eyes drooping. “Am I going to die? I don’t wanna die. Please, I don’ wanna die, Dad.”

Tony’s heart stops in his chest, his insides feel like they’ve been carved out and filled with lead bricks. “You’re not going to die, kid,” he says, hating the fact that he might very well be lying to his son. “You’re not allowed to die, y’hear me?”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter blinks up at him, confused, and his eyes glazed over. “I love you, Mr. Stark… is that okay? I… you’re the best dad ever. I’m sorry.”

The tears Tony’s been trying his best to keep hidden stream down Tony’s face, heart aching. Tony can’t take this—he swears if the kid keeps saying shit like this, he’s going to carve out every piece of Tony’s blackened heart. “Why are you sorry?”

“You don’ like the whole ‘feelings’ thing. It’s okay if you don’t love me too, or think of me as your son… I… I don’t want you to feel like you have to… I just… You’re a great dad.”

“Oh, kiddo,” Tony gasps, clutching Peter’s hand tighter. “I… I love you too. You’re… you’re such a great kid. Get some rest, okay? I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Peter doesn’t fall into unconsciousness, however. The pain remains front and centre, hot and burning.

“Why aren’t the drugs working?” Tony yells at the poor nurse that’s monitoring Peter’s condition.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know,” the nurse stammers, fiddling with the medical equipment.

“Dr. Cho said that they should have taken effect soon, that was like fifteen minutes ago. I don’t know what constitutes for ‘soon’ in the medical world, but it’s not good enough. My son is in pain, and whatever drugs you guys gave him aren’t helping.”

“Mr. Stark, I’m doing everything–”

“You’re not doing enough, can’t you see how much pain he’s in?” Tony questions, gesturing wildly to the boy on the hospital bed. His entire body is flushed red, tiny whimpers and groans escape from him even if it’s clear he’s trying to hold back.

“I’m sorry, I can’t administer any more drugs–”

“Why not?”

“I’ve already given him the max dosage for a kid with his weight, any more could severely damage his brain or even kill him,” the woman explains.

Tony exhales shakily. “So what? He’s just… he’s just gonna have to go through the pain?”

The nurse purses her lips. “I’m afraid so. I paged Dr. Cho, but I don’t know if even she’ll be able to explain this.”

Tony feels as if his strings have been cut. He collapses into the chair at Peter’s bedside. If—no, when Peter makes it through this, Tony is never going to let the kid go on another field trip—scratch that, Peter is never leaving Tony’s sight after this. He’ll wrap him up in bubble wrap and keep him high in the tower where nothing can touch him.

He never understood why parents were so highly overprotective before. Now, though, he completely understands.

Tony spends the night at his son’s side, wiping away the sweat and tears from his face. Peter never falls asleep, too uncomfortable, too anguished to even get in the slightest wink of sleep. Let it be said that Tony is not a religious man—he’s probably the furthest from it, but for the first time in a long, long time, he prays. He prays to a god he isn’t even sure is there because he doesn’t know what else to do.

By the time the sun creeps back up, Tony and Peter haven’t slept a wink. The nurses and doctors had flitted in and out of the room the entire night, checking up on him, collecting samples for tests, doing anything they could to help the poor child.

Pepper, having just arrived from Stark Industries’ Los Angeles division, sweeps into the room with a cup of black coffee and get-well soon presents. Tony sets the coffee aside, grateful for the gesture, but entirely unable to even think of consuming anything at the moment. Meanwhile, Pepper fusses over the scratchy blankets, fixes Peter’s damp hair and holds back the tears threatening to surface.

Dr. Cho walks into the room, face grim. “Mr. Stark, Miss Potts, can I speak to you outside, please?”

A boulder settles inside Tony’s stomach, the worst scenarios flipping through his mind at an inhuman pace. He nearly topples over upon standing up—Pepper comes to his rescue as she supports him. They walk out of the room, arms linked and dreading the words that may follow.

Dr. Cho shuts the door behind them. “There’s something wrong with Peter.”

“Yeah, we know that already,” Tony says, furrowing his brows.

“No, Mr. Stark, you don’t understand… His DNA… It’s completely changed.”

“How is that possible?” Tony questions.

“It shouldn’t be possible. If anything, the radiation could have caused damage to his DNA—breaks or deletions—this… I’ve never seen something like this before.”

“What does that mean for Peter?” Pepper asks, clenching her hand around Tony’s bicep.

“I don’t know,” Cho says, sounding more defeated than she ever has before.

When they go back to the room, Peter’s eyes are closed, chest rising and falling rhythmically. It’s the most peaceful Tony has seen him since they sat down to enjoy their pizza. He wishes Peter would stay this way, wishes he would never be in such pain again.

It’s too much to hope for, he knows, but that doesn’t stop him from holding onto the fragile hope that maybe Peter could come out of this okay.

Peter wakes up ten hours later. In that time, Pepper somehow managed to convince Tony to eat something and change into a new set of clothes. It’s only due to the fact that there was a restroom attached to the room Peter was staying in that he did the latter. She tried to get him to take a shower—to get some of the grease from his arms off, but he shrugged her off, saying that he’d do it when Peter was okay again. She just gave him a sad look that he didn’t want to dissect.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter murmurs, sitting up on the bed.

“Woah there, kiddo,” Tony gently pushes his kid back to the bed. “I don’t think you should be getting up so soon. Jarvis, call the doctors.”

“I feel fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter protests.

Tony narrows his eyes at the kid. “You said the same thing when you had an allergic reaction to that salmon I gave you.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Peter says.

“You wouldn’t stop throwing up! I thought you were going to hack up your stomach at the rate you were going!”

“Mr. Stark, you’re exaggerating! Besides, I feel completely fine now.”

“You were bitten by a radioactive spider. I don’t think anyone just walks away fine.” Tony grabs Peter’s glasses from the side of the table and hands them to him.

Peter takes them from him and puts them on. “Woah,” he immediately removes them from his face. “Why are they so blurry?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t see out of them,” Peter explains, brows furrowing. “…I can see just fine without them.”

“Peter, you have terrible vision. You’re not seriously telling me that suddenly it’s all just magically fixed,” Tony says, disbelief coursing through his tone.

Dr. Cho walks into the room in a flurry with a few nurses. “Peter, how are you feeling?”

“I feel completely fine,” Peter says.

Dr. Cho raises a disbelieving brow. “Okay, we’re just going to run some tests on you, is that alright?”

Peter nods his assent, sending the nurses into a flurry of movement. Tony watches, heart teetering on a precipice as he watches them check over his son.

When Dr. Cho pulls him aside later, results in hand, she tells him, “Peter shouldn’t have survived this. It’s a miracle he is alive.”

The words echo through his head, sending him back to that cold, damp cave where he was once told the very same thing. “So, how did he survive?” Stark asks.

“I don’t know.”

The answer doesn’t sit well with Tony. If there’s one thing that bothers him the most, it is the unknown. Whether it be worlds beyond theirs or an inexplicable cure to his son’s ailments, he needs to know the answers.

Pepper sighs upon seeing Tony drowning in notebooks of research down in the archives, where he shoved everything SHIELD had given him from his father. Every other route had come up empty, so now he’s left grasping at straws.

“Tony, you’re not going to find anything down here,” she says, exasperated as ever. “Why don’t you just give it up? Miracles happen sometimes. Maybe you should just be glad Peter made it out okay.”

“But what if he didn’t? What if it’s a fluke? What if he gets better only to get worse later on?” Tony questions, not looking up from the worn notebook.

Pepper frowns, stepping around the scattered papers to reach him. She lowers the notebook in his hands and fixes him with a firm look. “That’s a job for the doctors. He’ll be kept under observation for another week, just as you asked.”

Tony huffs, running a hand through his grease-ridden hair. “They haven’t been able to explain anything about his condition, Pep. If they can’t get answers, I gotta get ‘em myself.”

“Tony,” Pepper’s mouth purses, “the world doesn’t rest upon your shoulders. It’d do you some good to remember that every once and a while.”

Tony’s heart skips a beat, tears gathering in his waterline. “I’m supposed to protect him, though. He’s my son.”

“I know Tony, I know,” she coos, resting a hand on his unshaven cheek. “Just, please, don’t destroy yourself in the process.”

He finds the answer two days later, hidden in a small black notebook. He never knew something so unassuming could hold something so world-shattering. He pores over the pages time and time again—seeing but not really believing. Each readthrough draws him further and further from reality. The earth crumbles beneath him with each handwritten word until nothing is left but him and his father in that cold sterile lab.

He can almost see it now, memories suppressed so deep, he’s not even sure they’re real. The feeling of a cold table, of leather straps and pointy needles. He remembers crying—remembers the fire licking through his veins with each attempt. Remembers Howard yelling, screaming at him because it isn’t working, god dammit! Why can’t you just be as good as Steve?

Tony gasps back into reality when he feels a hand against his back. His cheeks are wet, hands trembling around the damning notebook that confirms everything his brain dredged up.

He half-convinces himself that he’s hallucinating when he sees Peter crouching over him, brows furrowed.

“Peter?” Tony snaps the notebook shut. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on bed rest.”

“Pepper sent me, said you needed me.”

Tony’s heart clenches as he looks at his child—a boy he brought into this world without knowing the risks involved—without knowing that his DNA was tainted. A surge of anger pulses up beneath the surface—what if Howard’s foolish tests had endangered Peter’s life? What if instead of being the thing that saved him, it was the thing that damned him? What then?

“What’s that?” Peter asks, gesturing to the notebook. Tony swallows, his throat suddenly as dry as a desert. He opens his mouth, once, twice, then closes it. How does he explain to Peter that there’s a pretty good chance the only reason he’s alive right now is due to Tony’s piece of shit father?

It’s the one thing Tony’s been putting off since he met Peter, telling him about his grandfather. Every time he came up, Tony expertly segued the conversation into something more comfortable—just as he does every time the media asks him about his father. He knew he couldn’t avoid it forever; he’d just hoped he’d have a little more time. But now that Howard’s actions directly affect Peter, it would only be sensible to disclose at least part of Howard’s abuse.

“I need to tell you something,” Tony says, his throat coated with sludge.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… um… is it… can we maybe go upstairs? Grab something to eat? I’m starving! How about you?” Tony jumps up from his spot. Peter blinks at Tony’s turnaround attitude, but nonetheless, follows him to the elevator.

Tony’s hands are still shaking by the time they reach the communal floor.

“Are you sure you feel okay?” Tony asks for the third time since getting in the elevator. “We can go back-”

“Mr. Stark, I’m fine! Promise. Plus, if anything goes wrong, Jarvis will alert the doctors.”

“What if they can’t get up here in time?”

Peter sends him an unimpressed look. “They are two floors away. And that elevator defies the natural law of elevators.”

“No such thing-”

“You worry too much, Mr. Stark.” Peter laughs—as if Tony’s worry was unfounded.

Normally Tony would make a throwaway, smart-ass remark—something like “Then stop giving me reasons to worry,” or “Do you know how bad it would look if I got a kid and lost it in less than five years?”—but he is rubbed raw, each and every nerve exposed, like a live wire set to blow.

So, he says, “You’re my son. It’s my job to worry about you.”

Peter’s laughter is cut short. His eyes blow wide like Tony had said the most unbelievable thing. Tony can practically hear his heart skip a few beats in his chest. Clearly at a loss for words, Peter ducks his head. Which only tells him one thing, Peter doesn’t remember what he said in his delirium, doesn’t remember what Tony said in response to him.

They stop at the centre island; Tony places the notebook on the countertop before separating to dig around in the fridge for something edible. Peter plops down on one of the stools, fidgeting with his fingers all the while.

“So what did you want to tell me?” Peter asks once Tony has pulled out an array of fruits and vegetables suitable for a snack to hold them over until dinner.

Tony visibly tenses, his hold on the carton of blueberries denting the flimsy plastic. He wishes there were a manual for this sort of thing: How to tell your son about being experimented on by your own father. He watches Peter pop a raspberry in his mouth, eyes wide and inquisitive as always. Looking at him like this, so pure, so happy, makes Tony want to protect him from the truth. He never wants Peter to know of the evils the world holds. But to hide such pertinent information from him would only cause him problems.

“My father wasn’t the greatest… father,” Tony starts, “He uh… he never really wanted a kid so much as he needed one… to take over the company and all that.”

Peter frowns around the strawberry he’s biting into.

“I avoided this conversation for obvious reasons, but… now that your life is being directly affected by his stupidity, I suppose now is as good a time as any,” Tony finishes with a flourish, stuffing a few blueberries in his mouth. He hopes that Peter doesn’t notice the tremor in his voice, the shining of his eyes, or the trembling of his hands.

“God,” Tony huffs, “There’s no easy way to say this.”

Peter glances at the notebook abandoned at the edge of the island, wipes away the red juice dribbling down his chin. “Would you rather me read it?”

“No!” Tony snatches the book, clutching it to his chest. No child, much less his precious Peter, should be subjected to Howard’s clinical notes—how cold and indifferent he was to his own child suffering and calling out for help and-

“Sorry,” Peter says, shrinking in on himself. Tony’s heart fills with ice at the sight. He used to do that whenever Howard snapped at him. Does Tony instil the same fear that Howard did? Does Peter feel the same dread seep into his bones whenever Tony walks into a room? Does he yearn for the moments away from him?

“Peter…” Tony clears his throat, trying to rid the emotion clogging it. “Do you think I’d ever hit you?”

It’s something he’s always feared. Even before he knew of Peter, Tony was scared that the cycle of abuse would only continue—that he’d turn into his worst nightmare one day. Tony’s entire well-being hangs in the thread of Peter’s hands right now, and he doesn’t even know it. It is a blow he’ll never recover from, being told that he is no different from his father.

“What? Of course not!” Peter splutters, shock coating his face. “Why would I ever think that?”

Tony practically collapses, relief flooding through his veins. He fights back the tears as he says, “It’s my greatest fear. To become my father. I never want you to be scared of me.”

“Mr. Stark…” Peter trails off, his brows creased so deeply, Tony’s half-afraid it’s going to stick that way.

“Howard experimented on me as a child. I didn’t… I didn’t remember until now. These are his notes.” Tony continues forward, better to rip off the band-aid all at once, after all. “I shouldn’t have survived Afghanistan. Whether it be the bomb, infection, or whatever else, it was a miracle that I survived. And then you… Cho said the same damn thing about you, and I couldn’t let it go. Howard was trying to recreate Erskine’s Super Soldier Serum. He obviously failed, but hey… at least he saved our lives, right?” Tony lets out a chuckle, a bit hysterical at this point, but can it really be blamed with all that he just found out?

“Mr. Stark… I… I’m so sorry,” Peter says, tears welling up in his eyes. “I… I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have brought him up so much-”

Tony waves him off. “No sweat, kid. It’s not that big of a deal anyway. I just… um… yeah.”

“Um… it kinda is a big deal,” comes Peter’s rebuttal. “Your dad experimented on you when you were a kid. He… he abused you. That’s not… that’s not okay.”

“That’s not… I wasn’t trying to dump that all on you, kid. Jesus, fuck, sorry, don’t repeat that,” Tony narrows his eyes, pointing a finger at Peter. “You don’t have to… It’s really not that big of a deal. I just thought you should know that, I don’t know, your grandfather saved your life? Yippee. I should get the papers down to Cho, make sure she knows, just in case it affects you-”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter interrupts, standing from his stool and dashing around the counter.

Tony is about to scold him for exerting himself when only three days ago he was bedridden, but is cut off by Peter slamming into him. Blinking, Tony looks down at his kid, clinging onto him like an octopus. He swallows down the emotions threatening to boil over and carefully wraps his own arms around Peter.

“I’m sorry he hurt you,” Peter mumbles into Tony’s shoulder. He pulls away only slightly—just so he can look him in the eye— “But I want you to know that you could never be like him. You’re a great father.”

Tony chokes on air at Peter’s words, tears springing to life.

“I love you, kid,” Tony says, not even trying to hold back the emotion that coats every word.

“I love you too, Mr. Stark,” Peter hums, burying his face into Tony’s chest.

Tony bites his lip. “You called me dad when I brought you down to medbay.”

“What? No, I didn’t!” Peter exclaims, face turning beet red.

“I wouldn’t mind if you did it again.”

In the days following, Peter is finally released from the watchful eyes of doctors in medbay. Tony wanted to homeschool him, but Peter was adamant about finishing off the rest of his years at Midtown. Luckily, spring break had arrived, meaning that Tony had a little more time with Peter to hover incessantly.

“Maybe I should get sick more often,” Peter remarks when he walks back into his room to find it filled with LEGO sets that he’d been wanting for years. “How’d you even get this one? They retired it like three years ago!”

Needless to say, their days were spent watching movies, playing with LEGO, working in the lab, and trying to figure out Peter’s new abilities.

The peace didn’t last, however.

Word came around fast that the Accords had been repealed. Each Rogue Avenger was to be pardoned, reinstating them back into the United States and clearing their fugitive status. It didn’t catch Tony by surprise, if only for the fact that he was one of the big players in getting the documents repealed—he had been from the very beginning, not that the Rogues ever cared enough to look deeper. He was playing the long game, the smart game all along—tried telling that to them too.

Regardless, the Rogue Avengers were meant to live at the Avengers Tower as a condition of their pardon. Just until they got everything sorted out.

They hadn’t spoken directly to Tony since their return. They hadn’t needed to. The tension settled like a storm cloud the moment they stepped inside. Every time he ran into them in the shared spaces, the room crackled with unresolved resentment. The wounds from the Accords and the events surrounding were still raw for each member.

And though they haven’t said much, their silence spoke volumes. Cold shoulders. Watchful eyes. Like they were waiting—hoping—for a reason to confirm the narrative they’d clung to since the beginning: Tony Stark was a selfish, arrogant, asshole.

Which was just fine with him.

His entire life has been built upon a facade of indifference and arrogance. People thinking the worst of him without daring to look deeper is nothing new. It shouldn’t sting the way it does when Natasha avoids looking into his eyes, when Steve frowns in disapproval every time he sees him, when the people he hoped could become the family he never had look at him with unmitigated disgust.

The only thing that he cares about is how the team interacts with Peter. He set up an alert system. Call him a helicopter parent, but every single time the Rogues interact with Peter, he’d watch the interaction to make sure that the Rogues didn’t take out their hatred for him on the most wonderful kid he’s ever known. And they don’t.

Peter, not knowing the terms of their estrangement, greeted them with poorly veiled enthusiasm. He stuttered and blushed when asking Captain America to sign his comics. He lit up when Clint showed him around the vents, all the best secret hiding spots that Tony had made specifically for Clint back when they were redoing the tower. He always lost his tongue whenever Natasha talked to him. The Rogues invited Peter to their movie nights, invited him to share dinner, and to hang out in the training centre—and Peter declined most of them because he wanted to be with Tony.

On the one hand, it made him incredibly smug that this beacon of light chose Tony over all the others, but on the other hand, it made him feel incredibly guilty. “You know,” Tony said one night, scraping his fork along the container of Thai food, “you don’t have to keep declining their invites to hang out with your old man.”

Peter looked at him, finishing what he was chewing before saying, “If they don’t make an effort to include you, then I don’t want to hang out with them anyway.”

Tony didn’t know what to say to that, so he just continued eating.

Tony is in the lab, working on some upgraded tech for the Rogues, when Steve rushes into the room. Not even looking up from the Widow Bites, Tony asks, “What can I do you for this fine afternoon?”

“You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?” Steve fumes, body tense.

It’s only then that Tony looks up, brows furrowed. What the hell did he do this time? Before he can even open his mouth to question the righteous fury pouring off of the blond, a fist connects with his jaw, sending him to the ground. Without another word, Steve storms out of the lab.

He raises a hand to his jaw, the skin tender to the touch. Wincing, he pulls it away only for it to come back red-stained. Tony groans as the blood trickles from his nose, staggering up to grab a tissue from his desk. Mind reeling, Tony can only begin to question what the hell he did to deserve that.

When the blood flow stops, he sighs. Best to get this shit show over with, he figures. If nothing else, he hopes that the other Rogues aren’t in on Rogers’ fury.

Loud voices echo through the halls leading up to the common room kitchen. Great, arguing, just what he needs. Just as he’s about to walk in and announce his presence, he stops, the blood in his veins turning to ice as he hears the subject of the conversation.

“What kinda piece of shit father experiments on their own son?” Sam questions. The floor drops out from underneath Tony’s feet. How could they possibly know about what Howard did to him? And why would Steve be mad at Tony for it?

“Tony Stark, apparently,” Clint says in response. “I knew he was an awful person, but… how could anyone do that to someone like Peter?”

“I never trusted it,” Steve added, his arms crossed tightly. “Stark taking care of a kid? Come on. There had to be something in it for him. There always is.”

From his place, hidden in the shadows, just out of view, Tony feels something coil tight in his stomach. Each word lands like a punch to the gut.

They really thought that little of him.

They really thought that he’d… that he’d use Peter. That he’d hurt his kid. That he was just as bad as Howard was.

Anger flared in his chest, burning brighter and hotter than the sun. He clenched his fists to keep from marching in right then and there and slapping that look off of all their faces. How dare they? After everything he’s done for them, after everything he’s done for Peter, how can they still view him as the villain? How can they believe that Tony Stark’s love for Peter was nothing more than greed?

To them, he would never be any more than the man they needed him to be: selfish, irredeemable, and a monster.

But before he could move—before he could walk in and set them all straight, another voice spoke up.

“How dare you talk about my dad like that?” Peter seethed in white-hot anger. Tony’s heart leapt up to his throat at the uncharacteristic molten anger rolling off of his son. “Mr. Stark is nothing like his dad! He would never ever hurt me!”

Realising what he had just revealed to the Rogues, Peter slapped a hand over his mouth. His wide eyes darted over to Tony’s hiding spot, leading the Rogues to glance back at a shell-shocked Tony.

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” Peter mutters, ears tinted red, “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” Tony waves him off, aiming to keep everything about him casual. Tony is surprised that most of the Rogues have the decency to look ashamed. Steve stands stock still, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Tony is flippant as he says, “Alright, guess the cat’s outta the bag. Dear old dad, Howard, as I call him, experimented on his toddler. Didn’t quite work out like he wanted–” Tony sends a pointed look at Steve– “but, hey, it ended up saving both mine and Peter’s life… so, all’s well that ends well, huh?”

Steve looks absolutely horrified. “Tony…”

“Nope, Peter and I are going upstairs… you guys can continue shitting all over me or whatever else you like to do in your free time. By the way, I finished all your tech upgrades if you wanted to try them out—not the Widow Bites, though, still working out a few kinks. Go and check them out once you’re done shit-talking the person who made ‘em for you.”

Without giving any of the Rogues time to get a word in, Tony and Peter disappear into the elevator.

When the sleek doors slide shut, Peter asks, “Are you okay?”

Tony hesitates. “I’ve been worse. You?”

Peter shrugs, looking down at his shoes. “Just angry.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear that-”

“You shouldn’t apologise for what they said. They should be the ones apologising. You didn’t deserve any of that,” Peter says, interrupting him, every word laced with so much passion.

Tony swallows down the urge to hold his child tight—the urge to thank him for standing up for him (something that so few others have done for him). “No, I didn’t.”

At the end of the day, they could believe what they wanted. Tony only cared about one thing: keeping Peter safe. And, all things considered, he’s done a pretty damn good job at it.

[cricket-reader]

We Were Born Sick

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Summary: Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers know that their love is wrong. So they hide it with stolen glances and fleeting touches. Never enough to make the Avengers suspect. Their facade comes crumbling down when Tony outs them, and Steve is quick to deflect their beliefs. Now, Bucky has to find a way for both him and Steve to disappear before the consequences of their forbidden love catch up to them.

warnings: internalised homophobia, gay slurs, Steve and Bucky's period-typical views of LGBTQ+, misunderstandings, injuries, canon-typical violence, mission gone wrong, mentions of coercion (doesn't actually happen)

word count: 7,034

A/N: prompt fill for day 9 of @juneofdoom | Alt: "Maybe it's better this way"

{Read on A03} | what i'm listening to

The city outside is just waking up–muted sunlight spills in through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the dust floating in the air. Steve sips at the now-cold coffee that he’d been nursing for a few hours now, staring off, detached and dazed.

He doesn’t hear Bucky enter the common room kitchen until he’s at his side—silent as ever, every movement still calculated, as if waiting for a fight or punishment around every corner. “You always get up this early?” Bucky questions—the Steve of the past used to groan and mumble, clinging to him like a koala, like he never wanted to leave their shared bed.

“Didn’t sleep,” Steve grunts in response, staring into the dregs of his coffee.

Bucky hums as he puts on a new pot of coffee. He doesn’t even ask before refilling Steve’s mug, doesn’t have to. “Thanks,” Steve says, as Bucky sits down next to him.

They sit in the stillness, drinking bitter coffee and staring out at the city neither of them quite belongs in.

There’s a tension between them—not too loud, not too obvious, but ever-present. “You settling in okay?” Steve asks; they’d finally accepted Tony’s offer to move into the tower after their last place had been ransacked and HYDRA grunts had been waiting in ambush.

“I’ve been in worse places,” Bucky dryly responds, looking around the opulence of the room. His eyes dart to the ceiling, where he knows JARVIS must be watching them; their one condition for moving in was that Stark had to remove the surveillance from their floor. (Bucky did a thorough sweep of their floor when they first moved in, not trusting the man to comply with their request, especially given that Stark had no reason to extend his generosity to the man who killed his parents). He was surprised and heavily suspicious to find that their requests had been met. “It feels weird… being almost free.”

Steve looks at him for a second too long, guilt shining through his baby blues. “You are free, Buck.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, his hand curling tightly around the coffee mug. “Are we?”

Steve swallows hard, knowing the true meaning behind his seemingly innocent words. He wishes he could say yes, wishes he could promise Bucky that nothing bad would ever happen to them anymore—that they were safe, that they were free. But they’d never be free. Not really, anyway.

—

Surprisingly, it’s Tony who first proposes their Friday night bonding tradition—masking sentiment behind sarcasm, something about building trust and camaraderie. The group was initially hesitant to attend—each used to going off on their own when Avengers duty was over with, never interacting apart from the fights or an awkward run-in on the communal floor, but everyone had shown up that first Friday, and no one had protested its continuance. Eventually, it just becomes their thing.

Some nights, they vote on a movie. Other nights, board games take over the common room, or they pair off for increasingly competitive rounds of Mario Kart. Sometimes, though, they don’t speak much at all—just lounging in each other’s presence, sprawled on couches and floors with puzzles, sketch pads or novels in hand—quiet togetherness that fills in the cracks of long weeks and harder days.

This week had been one of the rough ones—long missions, civilians lost, and hectic press stunts in response to those missions. By Friday, they’re all running on fumes and desperately in need of something normal. Something easy.

“I declare tonight a sucky chick-flick marathon with enough ice cream to put Ben and Jerry’s out of business and enough alcohol to get the tears rolling,” Tony declares, striding into the room with an absurd number of ice cream containers balancing in his hands. “Bar’s that’a’way, help yourselves,” Tony says, pointing to the wet bar.

Tony scurries off to get the second armful of ice cream, not before enlisting the help of Clint. By the time they return, Natasha has a shot of tequila running down her throat, and Sam’s popping off the top of a bottle of beer. Tony notices the two supersoldiers sitting it out and frowns. “You two! Get your super asses over here!”

“Alcohol doesn’t affect us, Tony, you know that.” Steve sighs. “No point in wasting alcohol.”

Tony tuts, “Thor left us with some of his fancy Asgardian alcohol—no excuses, Rogers.”

Both Steve and Bucky shake their heads at their exuberant friend, grabbing glasses to fill with Asgard’s finest mead. Once drinks and spoons for the ice cream are all distributed, the team sits down in their usual spots—Clint on the hanging net chair, Natasha on the two-person couch with her feet up on Bruce’s lap, Bucky on the floor in front of the centre couch where Sam and Steve sit, Tony in the reclining arm chair.

Two movies in and several rounds of drinks and commentary later, they’re watching Legally Blonde. Steve, a little flushed from the mead, feels more relaxed than he’s felt in days. He glances down at Bucky, who’s watching the movie with rapt attention. He smiles at the sight of him so relaxed, so happy, surrounded by their newfound family. His long legs stretch out, drink forgotten beside him—the faint flush to his features lets Steve know that he’s just as affected by the mead as he is.

Biting his lip, Steve slides a bit closer to Bucky. The last time they’d had a movie night, just the two of them, he’d ended up carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair absentmindedly—he needed something to do with his hands, and Bucky hadn’t seemed to mind. In fact, he’d tilted his head into it like a cat, calm and trusting.

The memory softens something in Steve’s chest, warming his face at the memory of the simple intimacy of the moment. Maybe it’s the mead, or maybe its just been such a long damn week, but he reaches out and threads his fingers through Bucky’s long hair. The strands are impossibly soft, and Steve marvels for the hundredth time at how Bucky always manages to keep his hair so perfect.

Bucky makes a low, contented sound in his throat, and Steve smiles at the way Bucky’s shoulders droop. Encouraged, he begins to gently braid a section of his hair, artist fingers moving with care, letting the repetition soothe them both.

By the end of the movie, Steve has woven a loose, haphazard crown braid around Bucky’s head, having started over time and time again to get it somewhat presentable. By the end, though, he’s too focused on the steady rhythm of breathing in front of him, the way Bucky’s head is tilted just slightly, relaxed and open in a way he’d usually never allow in public.

Neither of them is aware of the knowing green eyes that flit their way.

—

The explosion rips through the air with a thunderous roar, a wall of fire and pressure that sends Bucky hurtling backwards like a ragdoll. He lands hard, skidding across the cracked pavement, the back of his head cracking against the debris with a sickening thud. The heat scorches his skin, claws at him with blistering fingers, and for a moment, the world is nothing but smoke, heat, and agony.

Everything is muffled. Distant. Wrong. His ears ring violently, high-pitched and unrelenting. He forces his eyes open through the thick haze, blinking furiously as smoke curls around him, turning the world around him into a murky nightmare.

Pain thrums in his ribs, his shoulder, his head—but none of it matters. There’s something worse, something awful—a pulse of panic and doom and dread curling up his insides.

He drags himself up on trembling limbs, vision swimming, and scans the chaos.

Sam swoops down to help Natasha, black soot covers her pale complexion, and blood streams from a gash above her brow. Clint’s still firing from the rooftop, unaffected by the bombs. Tony rockets into the heart of the wreckage without hesitation, disappearing beneath the partially collapsed ceiling. And Steve—

Steve is—

He’s…

Steve was inside the building.

Bucky’s heart lurches violently, slamming against his ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“No,” he breathes, the words lost in the sirens and screaming and smoke. His boots slide against ash as he pushes forward, stumbling toward the inferno. The flames crackle dangerously, daring him against coming any closer, but he moves forward even still—he has to because Steve is in there, and the idea of a world without Steve is unthinkable, unbearable.

“Barnes! Stop!” Clint’s voice cuts through the ringing in his ears on the comm. “Stark’s got it handled. Hold your position!”

He doesn’t stop.

He can’t.

Each step is agony, the heat licks at him hotter and hotter the closer he gets, biting his already tender skin and stealing the breath from his lungs. But Bucky pushes through the pain because he can’t bear the thought of doing nothing as Steve is trapped inside the burning building. Steve is the reason he breathes. The only constant in the fragments of his broken mind. Steve is home.

And he will not lose him. Not again. Not like this.

He blinks when Sam appears in front of him, his hands pressing against his chest in an attempt to keep him back. He almost shoves Sam with all his strength—how dare he keep him from Steve—but he reins himself back in at the last second. Sam is not the enemy here.

“Get out of my way,” Bucky growls, his voice hoarse, a feral desperation bleeding through every syllable.

“Bucky, you can barely stand,” Sam protests. “All you’re gonna do is get yourself killed. Stark’s got it, okay?”

“I don’t care!” Bucky shouts, his voice cracking. “He’s in there, Sam! He’s in there!”

He shoves Sam’s arms off of him, not with full force—although he’s halfway tempted to—just enough to make his intentions clear. He doesn’t want to hurt him, but if Sam keeps standing in the way, he might have to.

“Please,” The word falls out of him like a sob. “I gotta save him, gotta—he can’t, I can’t–”

Sam softens at Bucky’s distress. “You’re no good to him dead. Stark’s in there right now, alright? He’s gonna get him outta there.”

Bucky shakes his head, regrets it as soon as the world starts spinning around him. He curls in on himself as he heaves onto the concrete. Sam curses under his breath. “C’mon, man, we need to get you back to the jet.”

“Not without Steve,” Bucky protests, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand.

“Christ, you’re just as damn stubborn as him,” Sam mutters, shaking his head.

A crackle sounds in their comms, and then—Tony’s voice, breathless but clear. “I’ve got him.”

Bucky collapses where he stands, relief crashing over him so hard it's nauseating. He sags under the weight of it, eyes stinging—and not from the smoke.

They pile into the jet, battered and silent. Tony carries Steve in his arms, faceplate lifted and face grim. Bucky’s breath hitches when he sees him.

Steve looks like death.

The left side of his uniform is charred and melted onto his skin. His eye is swollen shut, half of his face a macabre mosaic of blood and bruises. Deep, jagged cuts weep from his torso, the white star stained soot-black.

The second Stark sets Steve down, Bucky is at his side. He drops to his knees, ignoring the sting of the force he fell with. His hands tremble as they find Steve’s, his dirty fingers curling around bruised knuckles.

“Don’t you ever fuckin’ do that to me again, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, tears carving tracks down soot-stained cheeks. “You hear me? You can’t leave me like that, you can’t–” Bucky’s voice breaks off into sobs. He presses his lips against the back of Steve’s hand, fingers gripping like a lifeline. “Damn near gave me a heart attack, punk.”

The team doesn’t say anything, no one dares interrupt this moment of intimacy.

—

Bucky refuses to leave Steve’s side in medbay—they have to wheel in an extra bed just so Bucky gets treatment for himself. Even when Bucky is good to go, he stays—food, showering, and new clothes be damned.

The other Avengers take turns checking in on both of them, bringing Bucky food or books, anything he might need. They share knowing looks that pass straight over Bucky’s head—the only thing consuming Bucky’s thoughts is Steve.

Steve gets better ridiculously fast, thanks to the serum and Dr. Cho’s cradle. As soon as he’s discharged, Bucky and Steve disappear to their floor. Bucky refuses to sleep in his own room, needing to feel Steve’s warmth, needing to know he’s safe, alive, right here. Bucky doesn’t care enough to worry about the consequences that might befall them should anyone come looking for them, should JARVIS somehow know that they are lying in the same bed.

—

“Steve and Bucky are practically attached at the hip,” Clint brings up one morning as the Avengers, sans Bucky and Steve, are eating pancakes and bacon.

“How long do you think it’ll take them to come out and tell us?” Sam asks, exasperated. He’s had a hunch for a while now, but now there’s no way on god’s green earth that they’re not at least hooking up.

“Oooh,” Tony perks up, “Are we making bets on our resident grandpa’s love life?”

“What, no–”

“I give them two weeks,” Nat says. “With the way they’re clinging to each other, there’s no way they won’t spill it—I’m betting it’ll be totally on accident too.”

“Seriously, guys?” Bruce mutters over the newspaper. “Do you have nothing better to do?”

“Nope!” Clint chirps before placing his own bet.

Bruce grumbles under his breath before taking another sip of coffee.

—

Another month passes where Steve and Bucky dance around each other, touches fleeting and gazes longing. Which means that both Natasha and Tony have lost the bet. Clint has three more days, and Sam has another few weeks. Bruce point-blank refused to bet on his teammates' love lives.

“You’re not allowed to meddle!” Sam protests, half focused on the conversation and half focused on whooping Clint’s butt in Mario Kart. “That’s the rule.”

“Come on, Sam,” Clint whines, his legs hanging off the armrest in what’s got to be the most uncomfortable position ever. “This is honestly painful to watch.”

“Yeah, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you’d win the bet?” Sam counters, successfully avoiding Clint’s green shell.

“Maybe a little, but I swear to god if I have to watch them dance around each other for much longer, I’m going to lose my shit.” Clint slams the controller down onto the couch when he passes Sam at the last second. “Ha! Take that, sucker!”

Sam rolls his eyes, “That was nothin’ but luck. I should’ve won that.”

Clint sticks out his tongue at him as Sam begs for a rematch.

—

“Okay, this is absolutely ridiculous,” Tony mutters as soon as Bucky and Steve leave team game night early. “We all know that there is going to be no sleeping happening between those two.”

“Gross, Tony,” Sam screws up his face. “I’d rather not have that image in my mind.”

“Point is,” Tony flippantly continues, “We all lost the bet, what’s the point of not meddling anymore?”

“You got a point,” Clint concedes, moving his Sorry piece forward twelve spaces. “I’m sick of them trying to hide it from us. They’ve got to be the worst liars in the history of liars.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Natasha dryly says as she picks up a card. “If we weren’t trained spies, we’d probably be none the wiser.”

“Are you sure about that?” Clint raises his brow.

“Yes, their actions could be seen as completely platonic—even brotherly.”

Tony raises his hand. “Does anyone else remember the time that Steve braided Bucky’s hair for hours?”

“You noticed that too?” Natasha’s brows raise. “I certainly thought you’d have teased him for it at the time.”

“I may or may not have asked JARVIS for more proof of their relationship,” Tony sheepishly admits.

“Seriously, Tony?” Bruce grimaces.

“That’s a huge invasion of privacy,” Sam scolds, face stern.

“It was only footage from the common floors! I made JARVIS screen it for PG stuff only—he said there wasn’t anything more explicit, but I have my doubts.” Tony squints his eyes, pointing at the ceiling as if scolding a child.

A collective sigh rings out from both Sam and Bruce—both thinking that they’re apparently the only two sane ones left on the team.

“It’s your turn, Tony,” Natasha nudges him. “And I say meddling should be fair game.”

“Then it’s settled,” Tony proclaims, drawing a card. “Operation Truth is a go!”

“That name sucks!” Clint bemoans.

—

Next Friday night is movie night. Lord of the Rings is on the docket, and the team—sans Natasha, who is attending to some pressing matters out of the country—takes their usual spots. The sound of kernels popping and light chatter rings throughout the room.

“I can’t believe they made The Hobbit into a movie,” Bucky says, eyes shining with poorly contained glee.

“You’ve read the book?” Sam asks, raising a brow.

Steve chuckles. “More like he made me read the book to him. Several times.”

“Well, you would always snatch the book from me when I tried reading it aloud to you!” Bucky protests, nudging Steve’s leg.

“That’s because you were terrible at doing the voices!”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh, please,” Steve scoffs, “Your Gollum impression was terrifying. You sounded like a dying cat!”

“Maybe that’s what he was supposed to sound like!”

Steve grins wide, shaking his head. “You got us kicked out of the library the first time you tried to read it to me, remember?”

“Hey, I wasn’t the one laughing so hard I fell outta my chair!”

“It was your fault, though!” Steve argues. “I don’t think I’d ever seen Miss Demski so mad.”

“It’s lucky she thought you were a cutie, otherwise she’d probably have banned us,” Bucky says, leaning in close.

Steve scoffs, pushing Bucky away playfully. “Oh, please, I know for a fact that the only reason she let us come back was because of you being stupidly charming.”

“You think I’m charming?” Bucky playfully bats his eyelashes at Steve.

“Shut up, ya big jerk,” Steve scowls.

Tony flings an M&M at the pair, gagging dramatically. “Jesus, you two. Get a room already!”

The snickers around them are completely drowned by the flood of panic rushing in their ears. Their twin hearts simultaneously stopped with cold dread.

Steve’s reply is sharp and scathing, “Shut up, Stark.”

“Oh, come on! It’s not like you guys are being all that discreet!” Tony exclaims, looking around for some backup.

Steve’s eyes dart to Bucky’s, wide and stricken. His body is ramrod straight, every muscle in his body tensing. After all the years of careful hiding, the quick kisses when no one’s watching, the discreet touches, the “brotherly love” they projected—all of it is blown up in smoke.

Feeling sick to his stomach, Steve wonders what the Avengers will do with this knowledge—he knows that it won’t be anything good. If they’re lucky, they’ll get thrown in a cell, left to rot so their outsides match their insides. He couldn’t imagine that the law has gotten any friendlier to fags—perhaps the punishment is torture or death now. What if the other guys feel threatened by their deviance and deception? Perhaps they’ll take to the torture part themselves.

If there’s one thing Steve knows, it’s that Bucky does not deserve any more pain. He’s been through enough as it is, and he’ll be damned if he does nothing to protect him this time around.

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Steve says, trying his best to hide the desperation in his tone.

“Stevie, what-”

Steve cuts Bucky off with a glare. “No, Bucky isn’t in his right state of mind yet, okay? I’ve been… I’ve been taking advantage of him, okay!”

“What the fuck?” Clint splutters, dropping the bowl of popcorn he’d just made.

“You heard me!” Steve yells, trying to get all eyes on him. Run, Bucky, his eyes scream as he glances over to his one true love, run! “I’m the perverse one! Bucky doesn’t know what he’s doing—I’ve been—I’ve been coercing him all along. He didn’t know any better, alright? His brain is so scrambled, he’d do anything I told him t-“

“Shut the fuck up, Steve,” Tony growls, eyes murderous. Steve catches a glimpse of a concerningly green Bruce booking it out of the room. Good, yes, get angry at me, not Bucky. Steve chances a glance over at his lover—Bucky looks positively sick, tears well up in his eyes, knowing that he can’t do anything lest he damns them both—and what good would that do? If he plays along with Steve, maybe he can break him out of whatever dungeon they trap him in. Then they can go on the run (He knows the best spots to go to avoid detection). He only hopes that they keep Steve alive long enough for Bucky to get to him.

The tension lies thick in the room, silence so sharp and heavy it feels suffocating. Tony’s jaw is tight, ire dancing in his eyes, Clint looks concerningly pale, horrified eyes focused on Steve—almost as if he was trying to see if this was some sick joke—Sam looks gutted, confused at how his best friend could do such a thing. Bruce never comes back.

No one speaks as Tony strides up to Steve. No one stops him from socking Steve in the jaw. “Do I need to put on my armour, or are you going to come willingly?” Tony asks, his tone sharper than Steve’s ever heard before.

Steve doesn’t put up a fight as Tony guides him to the holding level. He walks like a man already sentenced, head lowered as he walks to the gallows. He does give Bucky one last glance, however. He isn’t sure whether to tell him to stay away or beg him for help, so he just settles on a blank look, his gaze as hollow as his chest.

Bucky watches the scene with a detached sense of horror and dread. He’d always done his best to keep his Stevie safe. He remembers all those days of chasing skirts back in the day just to get the neighbourhood gossips off their backs (especially after they moved in together), remembers the nauseating feeling of having to kiss those girls when he’d rather be kissing Steve, to dance with them when all he wanted was to be holding Steve in his arms. He remembers being so relieved to come home, seeing Stevie’s face smudged with charcoal, his face set in that adorable little frown he always wore when he was concentrating—how his entire face would light up at the sight of him home at last. It would warm him from the inside out, chase away that disgust festering deep inside him. Steve understood Bucky’s promiscuity was a front, never blamed him for it—hell, Bucky had tried to set him up with dozens of girls for double dates; Bucky never understood how they’d never give Steve a second glance when he was the most beautiful man he knew. It never erased the feeling that he was committing a sin worse than loving another boy—it never erased the feeling that he was cheating on Steve.

In the end, it seemed, he had still managed to fail at keeping his Stevie safe.

Sam places a cautious hand on his shoulder—his expression so careful. Clint stands right beside him, looking uncharacteristically serious. Bucky swats the hand away, bolting for the stairs to his and Steve’s shared floor.

He locks the door as soon as he passes the threshold, breathing heavily, not for the fact that he’d run down three flights of stairs, but for the fact that he was terrified for Steve.

Tony’s anger had been so palpable. Who knows what he’d do to Steve? And god knows that Steve wouldn’t do anything to stop him. Despite being more than capable of taking him down without the suit, probably even with the suit, Steve would never stand up for himself. Not when he believes the punishment to be justified—not when he believes that Tony has every right to beat him raw and bloody.

His throat closes up, strangled sobs tearing through his throat as he imagines Steve, helpless to the Avengers’ anger. It should have been him. He should have fought it, should have said something sooner than Steve—damn it! He was supposed to be Steve’s protector. He’d made that promise to Sarah Rogers the day he saved Steve’s scrawny ass in some back alley in elementary school. He’d failed both Sarah and Steve today.

He ignores the frantic knocking on his door, ignores the voices trying to get through to him—he can barely hear them under the sound of his bawling. He barricades himself in Steve’s room, arms clenched tight around Steve’s pillow, breathing in the scent like a man starved. He prays to any deity that might be out there, prays that Steve will be safe until he can hatch an escape plan.

It’s only when the knocking and voices stop, when the clock reads 2:43, when the tower is quiet again, that Bucky drags himself out of bed. He tosses aside the hastily made barricade, ignoring the sound of furniture breaking. Bolting across the floor, he runs for the stairs and makes it to the holding cell in record time.

He braces himself at the door for a second, braces himself for the sight of bruises and blood. When he finds Steve, he’s leaning against a wall, eyes drooping shut. He appears to be perfectly fine, but Bucky knows that is far from the truth.

“Stevie,” Bucky whispers, checking behind his back to make sure no one is around.

“Buck?” Steve’s head whips up, eyes wide. He looks around him, terrified to see that Tony has brought him in too.

“I’m gonna get ya outta here, okay?” Bucky says, examining the cell door. “We’ll run away, we’ll go into hiding. I know how to disappear. They’ll never find us, Stevie. We can visit all sorts ‘a places, yeah? Just like ya always wanted.”

Steve’s heart stutters in his chest, tears burning behind his eyes. The selfish part of him wants nothing more than to run away with Bucky, wants nothing more than to be able to hold him and kiss him and love him. But he deserves better. He deserves so much better than a life on the run, having to look over his shoulders at every turn, never able to put down roots or feel safe.

Without Steve in the picture, Bucky could have the perfect life. He’d have no problem finding a lovely lady, having some kids, maybe a dog or a cat too. Without the temptation, without Steve’s sickness and perversion corrupting him, he could have the life he’s supposed to have. The life intended for him. Without Steve dragging him down, Bucky could have everything he deserves.

“Maybe it’s better this way,” Steve says to Bucky

“What? Don’t say that, Stevie,” Bucky protests.

“You can go find yourself a nice dame, have a normal life with her. You-”

“I don’t want some dame, I want you! It’s always been you, Stevie, please,” Bucky sobs, “I can’t do this without you, please. I love you.”

“Buck,” Steve breathes out, gutted like a fish. “You can’t… You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not, Stevie? It’s the damn truth!”

“What if someone heard you, huh? We gotta make ‘em believe that I’m the degenerate. You… you deserve to have a good life. I failed you once, and I’m not letting it happen again.”

“I can’t have a good life without you, Stevie. You’re it for me, okay? I won’t ever love anyone else—not like I love you.”

Steve’s heart wrenches in his chest because for all the years they’ve been together—never before had they been so transparent, never before had those three words been spoken, never before had their love for each other been spelt out so plainly.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with ya, Stevie. Wanna wake up every morning beside you, wanna kiss ya and hold ya and… and grow old together. Please don’t take that away from me. All I’s ever wanted since I fell in love with ya was to spend the rest of my life loving you.”

Steve chokes on a sob, heart overflowing with love for the man behind the words. “You’re such a sap.” Steve’s voice cracks, tears flowing freely now.

“All for you, ya little punk. Now, please, please come with me, please run away with me. My life ain’t worth living without ya.”

“I never stood a chance, did I?” Steve questions, bowing his head in defeat.

Bucky smiles, weak and marred with underlying panic at being caught “Not at all. Now, how do you suppose I get you outta here?”

“Tony had Jarvis lock me in here, I doubt he’d be programmed to recognise your voice.”

“Damn,” Bucky curses. “You think I could bust the door down?”

“Might as well give it a shot,” Steve shrugs.

Bucky backs up a few paces, taking a deep breath before ramming into the door full force. His metal arm scrapes against the reinforced glass, the components whining underneath, but Bucky doesn’t care. He gears up again before slamming into the door another time. Cracks begin to spiderweb outwards. “I almost got it, Stevie,” Bucky pants, jogging to the other side of the hall. He runs full speed at the door, metal arm forward. Hitting it at its weakened spot, the glass shatters, raining down on the concrete flooring.

Bucky winces as he steps back, his arm sparking and dented from the force exerted. Each spark sends a jolt of electricity to his shoulder. He ignores the pain and continues to hack away at the compromised glass, intending to make a hole big enough for Steve to get through.

Red lights flash them out of their focus, startling them both into moving faster. Steve joins in on clearing the glass, uncaring about the fact that his bare hands are getting bloodied. They need to get out before the Avengers come for them. Steve doesn’t want to stick around to find out what kind of punishment Bucky should recieve for trying to break out a fag.

Steve tumbles out of the door when it’s sufficiently cleared. Neither have the time to care about their injuries—they need to keep moving.

They both halt in place, cold dread sweeping through their veins at the sight of the Iron Man repulser, Natasha’s gun, and Clint’s bow pointed straight at Steve. Sam arrives late to the party with a gun of his own. They all look livid.

“Step away from Barnes,” Tony calls out from inside the armour. Steve complies without question, holding his bloodied hands up in a sign of surrender.

“Bucky, come here,” Natasha says, voice deadly even.

“Natalia?” Bucky questions, eyes glimmering with confusion.

“I heard all about it,” Natasha says, sending a quick glare to Steve before returning her gaze to Bucky, “Come over here, you’re safe now.”

Bucky glances at Steve, his heart breaking at the resigned expression that sits upon his face. How could he have been so stupid? Of course, they couldn’t escape. There were no happy endings for faggots like them.

“Why the hell didn’t Jarvis alert us sooner?” Clint asks, his voice grumbled from sleep.

“I was fixing his system, he was temporarily down,” Tony says.

“Are you kidding me?” Sam huffs. “You really thought that this was the best time to do that?”

“I didn’t think Barnes would try to break him out!” Tony snaps, tone defensive.

“Clearly, you didn’t think at all,” Sam mutters. “Lord only knows what kind of bullshit Rogers put in his head.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony approaches Steve. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that, Rogers?” Tony questions, kicking him to his knees. He grabs his arm and yanks it behind him as he fastens a pair of vibranium cuffs to his wrists.

“Prison and death are too kind of punishments for an asshole like you,” Clint says, slackening the bow. “You deserve a long, slow death.”

Bucky whimpers, tears falling from his face. He’d failed his love, and now Steve will pay the price. He doesn’t think any of the Avengers are stupid enough to think that Bucky won’t try to break him out again. This was his one shot, and he blew it. Now, Steve is going to be punished for the both of them. Their flickering hope of a life together was snuffed out in an instant.

Steve shakes his head, silently pleading for Bucky to keep his mouth shut.

Clint kicks him in the stomach, thinking that Steve is disagreeing with him. “You are the sickest, most deplorable person I’ve ever called a friend. I can’t believe I ever thought you were a good man.”

“Clint,” Natasha scolds the irate archer as he delivers several more kicks to Steve. “We all want to put him through hell, but we shouldn’t-”

“Why not, Nat? He’s got the serum. He can heal through the worst of it before we hand him over to the law. It’s not like he doesn’t fucking deserve it.”

Natasha bites her lip, eyes glancing around people in the room. She hates to admit it, but Clint’s right. If she had her way, she’d be alone with him in the lowest levels of the tower with all her weapons to make him wish he were dead—to make him wish that he never laid a finger on Barnes.

“Fine, just… keep it clean, alright,” Natasha mutters, glancing between Tony and Clint. She holsters her gun and turns to get Bucky out of there, but freezes upon seeing the tears streaming down his face. “It’s okay,” she says, placing a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “He won’t ever touch you again.”

A sob catches in the back of Bucky’s throat as he watches the Iron Man armour drag his love, his everything, his entire world and universe away from him to be beaten half to death. It’s not fair, not fair, not fair.

“Stop!” He cries out, pushing Natasha out of the way as he runs to Steve. He will not let him take the fall for this, not when they’re both equally as guilty.

“Bucky, no,” Steve mutters, face white as a sheet.

“Steve lied! I’m just as sick and perverted as he is!” Bucky exclaims.

Clint's face twists up. “Bucky, no, you’re not. Whatever Steve told you, it was all lies, okay?”

“No! You don’t understand. I wanted it! I liked it-”

“Bucky,” Natasha cooly interrupts, “Sometimes your body can’t control how it reacts. It wasn’t your fault, and it doesn’t mean that you liked it.”

“But I did-”

“No, you didn’t, Bucky,” Steve grounds out, anger turning his entire face red. “I forced you, remember, or are you too brain dead to realise-”

Steve’s words are cut off with a swift kick to the side, the Iron Man boots cracking his ribs. “One more word outta you,” Tony mutters, threat clear in his tone even through the distorted tone of the Iron Man mask.

“If you’re gonna punish him, you gotta punish me too!” Bucky yells. “I’m just as much of a faggot as he is!”

“No, you’re not!” Steve protests.

“Shut up, Steve,” Bucky snaps. “I’m a faggot, and I love Steve. I’ve loved him since we were kids. So if you’re gonna punish him, you gotta punish me too.”

Clint and Tony exchange confused glances, utterly dumbfounded by the display. What the hell was Bucky going on about?

Natasha’s brow furrows before the realisation sets in. “Oh my god,” she murmurs.

“What?” Clint asks, completely baffled.

“You think that we are mad at Steve for being gay?” Natasha asks.

Bucky glances at Steve, brows furrowed. “Why else would you guys treat him like this?”

“Jesus, fuck,” Stark curses under his breath, releasing Steve from his unforgiving hold.

“Bucky… We thought that Steve was coercing you… we thought that he was raping you.”

“Wait,” Steve says. “You’re not mad at us for being fags?”

“We don’t really use that terminology anymore,” Tony says, lifting up the faceplate. “And no, we didn’t have a problem with you two being in a consensual relationship.”

“Steve, Bucky… It’s been illegal for states to criminalise same-sex relations since like 2003. Hell, you guys could get married in the state of New York if you wanted.”

“Married?” Steve gapes, disbelief coursing through his veins.

“So, let me get this straight,” Clint interrupts Steve and Bucky’s epiphany. He points to Rogers accusingly. “You thought it would be better to tell us you raped Bucky than for you guys to tell us you were gay?”

Steve looks at the ground, ashamed. “At least that way, Bucky wouldn’t get in trouble. I’m the one thats actually a faggot—Bucky can be with girls-”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Steve.” Clint interrupts, voice flat. “First of all, we can’t have you going around saying that word, okay? It’s a slur, and it makes me super uncomfortable. Secondly, I’m pretty sure what you’re trying to say is that Bucky is bisexual.”

“Bi…sexual?” Bucky questions.

“Yeah, means you like both guys and girls. I’m bisexual too,” Clint says.

“What? You… you like guys?” Steve questions, face scrunched up.

Clint laughs. “Jeez, don’t look so disgusted. Yes, I like guys.”

“And the team knows?” Clint nods in response to Bucky’s question. “And you’re all just okay with that?” Bucky questions, looking between Tony, Sam, and Natasha.

“Well, I’m not really in a place to judge, seeing as I’m a lesbian,” Natasha remarks, with an easy shrug.

“So you’re both…”

Natasha gives a half-smile. “Yeah, I don’t exactly broadcast it, but no one here cares, least of all me.”

There’s a beat of silence before Sam clears his throat. “Look, man. None of us cares who you love. We were never mad about that. Hell, we even made bets wondering when you were going to tell us.”

Tony leans against the wall, arms crossed, but no longer defensive. “We were mad because we thought Steve was taking advantage of your mental state, and your years spent as a prisoner of war.”

“I would never,” Steve protests. “I thought it’d be better if you’d only punish me for being a fa—for being… gay.”

“I should have thought about that,” Natasha says. “Sometimes I forget you two came from the early 1900s.”

“You should head to the med bay,” Clint says, examining Steve’s shredded hands.

“Hey, buckaroo, remember when I said that I wanted to play with your arm?” Tony asks, a grin splitting his face. “Now you don’t have an excuse.”

Bucky groans, looking morosely at his dented, sparking arm. “Can I at least walk Steve to med bay?”

“Go ahead,” Tony calls out, already dashing out of the room, “I gotta get all my toys ready!”

“I’m already regretting this,” Bucky mutters, frowning at the exuberant engineer.

Steve smiles at him. “Let’s go, Buck. That can be a problem for future you.”

The two super soldiers leave the room together. As soon as their away from the prying eyes of their teammates, Steve finally lets himself lean into Bucky’s side.

“I still don’t understand how everyone is just… okay with it,” Steve admits, breathing shakily. “They didn’t even care…”

“They cared,” Bucky says, “just not about the thing we thought they would.”

They spent the rest of the elevator ride in silence, hanging on to each other so tightly it was as if they were scared they’d be ripped apart again.

After the glass shards are pulled out of his hands and wrapped in sterilising gauze, Bucky and Steve are left alone. Bucky slides onto the cot beside Steve, who has his elbows on his knees, head lowered and hands trembling. He brushes his shoulders against Steve’s, quiet as he thinks of what to say. “We finally are free,” he says.

Steve lets out a breath, more broken than relieved. “Doesn’t feel real.”

“I know,” Bucky agrees, setting his head on Steve’s shoulder. They sit in silence for a while, minds running over the sharp turn of events, each so exhausted from the hellish day they had faced.

“You really think we could get married?” Steve asks suddenly, voice barely above a whisper, scared to breathe those words to life.

“Would you?” Bucky asks. “Would you really want to marry me? After everything…”

“Bucky, I love you more than the air I breathe—always have and always will. You’re it for me. Together till the end of the line, remember? Just you and me.” Steve shifts on the bed, needing to look his lover in the eyes.

“What if people still think that we shouldn’t… What if… what if us getting married ruins your reputation, what if you can’t be Captain America?”

Steve chuckles. “Bucky, I was a fugitive—I abandoned my duties as Captain America to go on a worldwide search for you. You know I’d burn down the damn world before I’d let anything separate us. I don’t care if they never let me carry that shield again. You’re more important than that.”

“Jeez, and you call me the sap,” Bucky teases, voice wobbling.

Steve huffs out a laugh, the sound wet with unshed tears.

They don’t talk about what comes next. They don’t have to. The truth is out, and nothing has fallen apart quite as catastrophically as they had expected. And that’s enough for now.

[cricket-reader]

Thanks for reading! I’m glad you liked it 💕💕

Picking Up the Pieces

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: Bucky’s girlfriend was on a business trip to New York when the void enveloped the city. Memories hidden deep in her mind surface, and Bucky is left to pick up the pieces.

warnings: alcohol, referenced past non-con, bathing, female reader (she/her pronouns)

word count: 2,366

A/N: prompt fill for day 1 for @juneofdoom | Slurred Speech | Darkness

{Read on A03}

“Doll?”

The pet name her boyfriend always used went in one ear and out the other, nothing registering in her brain besides the bombshell her mind had dropped on her just hours prior. She didn’t know how long she had been curled up like this, but from the stiffness in every joint in her body, she’d have to venture to say that it was way too long.

When Bucky walked into the adjoining bedroom, he was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of alcohol. The entire room reeked of expensive booze. And in the corner, curled up so small, was his girlfriend. A bottle of whiskey hung between her fingers, on the precipice of slipping right out of her loose grasp. It was half empty.

The sight sent his mind spinning. His girlfriend was not much of a drinker—and most certainly not a whiskey drinker. The only time he’d ever seen her drink was when she’d have those fruity little drinks at the bar or a glass of champagne at those stupid events he dragged her to. And even then, she drank it so slowly, she’d never feel the effects.

Something swirled in his gut, a premonition that nothing would ever be the same after this.

He approached his girlfriend slowly, the heavy footfalls of his boots echoing through the silence. Crouching down beside her, he was careful not to intrude on her space—not when something was clearly wrong. It was just as she had done for him many times before. But he never wanted her to be on the opposite side of this.

“Doll?” Bucky repeated himself. He reached out a careful hand, slow to give her enough time to pull away. It was only when skin met skin that she flinched away, eyes blown wide.

“Bucky?” She murmured, eyes glazing over. “When’d you get here?”

Furrowing his brows, Bucky swiped a thumb over her cheek. “You didn’t hear me come in? I called out for ya.”

She hummed low in her throat in response, eyes drifting to the right. Her head followed, listing to the side dramatically. He gasped when he saw the glimmer of blood across her temple, shining in the low light from one of the bedside lamps. “What happened?” He wiped a hand through the blood dripping sluggishly from her forehead down her face. His stomach swirled as the crimson liquid stained his hands like something out of his worst nightmare.

“The darkness… it w’s ev’rywhere,” she slurred over her words. Tears burned in her eyes as she stuttered over her next words. “I di’nt know… I di’nt think… he… oh god, Bucky.”

He blinked as she rushed into his arms, dropping the open bottle of whiskey for it to spill onto the plush carpet. He held her steady even as she shook with sobs. He ran his fingers through her messy curls, heart shattering with every whimper, every cry, every murmured apology that pierced his ears. When her sobs subsided into sniffles, he carefully pulled back. Taking her tear-streaked face into his hands, he frowned. “What did you see?”

She clenched her eyes shut, whimpering as the memories overloaded her brain. It couldn't be real, she told herself. She would’ve remembered something like that. “It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real,” she murmured, shaking her head as if that could clear the darkness creeping in, a void of shame and hopelessness she’d never felt before.

A pit settled in Bucky’s stomach. “Doll, what was it?”

“Oh…” she groaned, “I feel… Bucky, I feel sick.”

Bucky lifted her into his arms with ease, murmuring, “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get ya to the bathroom.”

He held her hair back as she expelled nothing but clear liquid poison, murmuring reassurances after every heave. “That’s it, honey. Get it all out, alright? You’re okay. It’s all gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

She slumped backwards into Bucky’s warmth, sobbing violently. Curling up on herself, she twisted around to hide her face in her boyfriend’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” she cried, holding on so tight—afraid that he’d leave her now that she’d completely lost it in front of him. “Stay ‘ere, please?”

“Don’t be sorry, and I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Bucky’s response was firm, his hands weaving through her messy hair. Terrifying as it was to see his girlfriend like this, he knew that she’d seen him much lower. She’d helped him pick up the pieces after every nightmare, after every flashback, after every violent outburst. Never once had she left him despite giving her a plethora of reasons to do so. And he’d be damned if he wouldn’t do the same for her. She deserved it so much more than he did, after all.

“I’m disgusting,” she said after a long period of silence, face still buried in Bucky’s shirt.

Bucky furrows his brows. He tried to get her to look at him, but she remained steadfastly attached to him. “Don’t say that, doll. You just drank too much. Your body was trying to get rid of it.”

“Not that,” she whispered, tightening her grasp around his shirt. He looked down at her white-knuckled grasp, noting the slight tremor that never quite left her body since she came back down to earth. It made him sick with worry.

“Then what? Because I know for a fact that you are the furthest thing from disgusting. You are the most-”

“You won’ be sayin’ that after I tell you…” she interrupted him, voice fading out suddenly.

“After you tell me what?” Bucky questioned, voice firm. He didn’t want to leave any room for argument. Nothing would ever make him think less of his girlfriend. The woman who single-handedly drew him closer and closer to the light. The woman who never failed to bring a smile to his face. The woman who stood by him regardless of how difficult it could be. “‘Cause there’s nothing in the world that could make me think of you like that.”

She bit down a whimper, not low enough so that Bucky couldn’t hear it, although not for a lack of trying on her part. He felt her shake her head against his chest. Something akin to desperation rose inside of him. He didn't know how to make her understand, didn't know how to pull her into the light when he was made of nothing but shadows and darkness. He couldn't be her sunshine on a stormy day, not like she could for him. He was right all along; she deserved someone better, someone who could bring her out of the darkness. Someone who wasn’t blood-stained and cold, someone who was dripping with the warmth needed to mend a broken heart.

“My father… he raped me,” she said, releasing the words like a bomb into the air.

Bucky’s heart stopped cold. His hands froze in her hair, messy locks entwined around his fingers. The words tumbled around in his brain, knowing, but not fully registering the full weight of her words. As soon as they settled, a boiling anger rose in him, explosive and all-consuming. He silently seethed, wanting nothing more than to find the piece of shit and rip him to shreds. His girlfriend was the definition of sunshine, the most pure and holy figure he’d ever met. How dare her own flesh and blood father try to take that from her? How could anyone ever try to pull her into the darkness?

He heard her breath hitch in response to his silent stillness. She tried to pull away, fearing that Bucky was as repulsed by her as she was herself, but he held her steady. “I am disgusted,” he said, “I’m disgusted by that piece of shit who never deserved to have a daughter.”

“I didn’t even fight back, Bucky,” she cried, wanting to make him understand.

“And how old were you?”

Her brows creased at the random question. “What? Uh… I don’t know… maybe like ten or eleven.”

Bucky pulled away from her to look her in the eyes, needing her to understand him. “Sweetheart, how is a ten-year-old girl supposed to overpower a grown man? He was the adult. He knew better. He should have never even looked your way.”

“I know, but I just… Why didn’t I remember that before now? What even happened? Why was everything so dark?” Her eyes grew as wide as saucers, her brain finally catching up to the implications of Bucky being there too. “Oh god, did the darkness get you too? Oh, Bucky, are you okay?”

Of course, she would be worried about him. Even after her darkest hours, she still made Bucky’s well-being a priority. “I’m fine-”

“Don’t you dare say that you’re fine, James Buchanan Barnes. God, here I am being a complete clusterfuck when you went through so much worse. God, Bucky, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to take care of me-”

Bucky interrupted that thought straight away. “Don’t ever apologise for needing to be taken care of.”

“But-”

“No buts,” he insisted. “You uncovered something really traumatic. It’s okay to not always be okay. I’ll always be here to pick up the pieces.”

She huffed out a choked-up sigh. “That’s my line.”

“Yeah, well, I’m adopting it.” He sighed, looking down at the tear-streaked, puffy face of the woman he would take down the world for.

“I feel so… so dirty,” she murmured, lowering her head in shame. “I feel used and… and violated. How could he… how could he just…” She choked on a sob, not able to complete the sentence, not able to put to words once again the horrifying reality that had violently blindsided her.

“I don’t know, doll,” Bucky murmured.

“I wanna take a shower,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Feel gross.”

“Okay, doll, just… is it alright if I stay? I don’t want you to slip and fall. I won’t look or anything—just don’t wanna leave you alone right now.”

“It’s not like you haven’t already seen me, Buck.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her inquisitive eyes. “Just don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, sweetheart.”

She hummed, a smile spreading across her face. “You’re the sweetest man in the whole entire world,” she said, leaning in and laying her head on his chest. Bucky flushed at her words; no matter how many times she'd said things like that to him, it always sets loose a horde of butterflies fluttering inside him.

“I’m just doing what anyone else would in this situation,” Bucky said, always quick to deny her praises. Because although they made him feel like he was walking on cloud nine, sometimes it worried him how low her standards were. She giggled at him, the alcohol clearly not having left her system. She mumbled something under her breath, too quiet and jumbled together for even his ears to pick up.

“Lemme start up the water,” he said, sitting her down on the toilet lid. He waited until the water was at the right temperature before turning around. She already had her top off and was struggling to unclasp the lacy bra from behind her. “Need a little help there, doll?”

She nodded her head and allowed him to gently unclasp the undergarment. She quickly rid herself of her leggings and underwear before stumbling over to the shower. Bucky’s heart raced as he heard her stumble to the shower, avoiding looking in case it did bring her discomfort—she never did explicitly state that it was okay for him to look.

He leaned against the wall, listening to her lather her body in soap. His attentive ears heard her breath hitch ever so slightly, the movements ceasing suddenly. He pushed himself off the wall, brows furrowed deeply. “Doll?”

His heart cracked upon hearing her break down. He watched the shadow of her figure slump down to her knees, the sharp sound of bone meeting the hard tub. “Bucky?” she whimpered, opening the curtain. Her hair was drenched, clinging to her face. Tears mixed with the water pouring down on her. He approached with caution akin to that of a man approaching a wounded animal. She reached out for him, her hand leaving suds and water to soak into his leather jacket. He didn't hesitate, then, climbing into the bathtub with her, holding her as she devolved into sobs. As they faded into hiccups, he asked her: “You wanna get dried off?”

“No,” she said, “Gotta get clean, gotta… gotta get clean.”

“Okay, baby,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “Let me help you?”

“Y’don’t have to,” she murmured into drenched leather. It was a weak protest, one that Bucky knew full-heartedly that she didn’t really mean. She always did this, always tried to give him an out whenever he tried to help her.

“I want to,” he reassured her. Grabbing the cloth from where it had hit the ground, he lathered it up with more soap. He was gentle as he wiped it across her clean skin, never lingering too long. When he’d finished, he grabbed the shampoo from the shelf, lathering up her hair and massaging it into her scalp. He rinsed it out with praises intermingled as she droopily tilted her head back. He reached for the conditioner next, plopping a dollop onto his hand to work into the ends of her hair.

By the time he was done, she was lax in his arms, like putty in his hands. He turned off the water and wrapped her shivering body in a large, fluffy towel. Once her body was dry, he dressed her in her favourite fluffy pyjama pants and an oversized t-shirt he was pretty sure once belonged to him.

He tucked her into bed, quickly changing into some dry clothes from his go bag before slipping out to grab a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin for the morning. Finally, he slid in beside her, revelling in the way she immediately drifted to his side in her sleep. As he held her in his arms, he made a vow that no one would ever hurt her again, and anyone who does, or ever has, will suffer the consequences.

Taglist: @harleycao @hallecarey1 @filmsbyblair

[cricket-reader]

not to be dramatic, but I'd die for everyone who comments on my fics. not to be dramatic, but I'd kill for everyone who comments on my fics. not to be dramatic, but I'd claw my way through hell, losing half my fingernails to the dirt and the gravel, for everyone who comments on my fics. not to be dramatic, but I'd carve my heart out of my chest, present it to them on a silver platter, watch them step on it if they so please, for everyone who comments on my fics. not to be dramatic, b-