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ghostlyfleur · 2 months ago

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you or nothing (fic)

bucky barnes x fem!reader | thunderbolts spoilers!!!

content warnings: mentions and descriptions of trauma and physical v!olence; implied m solo pleasure; self-loathing :(

word count: 8k. words.

blurb: when the Thunderbolts enter the void, Bucky goes missing. You take it upon yourself to find him, venturing into his deepest pockets of his shame.

“Where’s Bucky?”

Your chest is heaving, breath catching in your throat, refusing to fill your lungs. This whole place is a mangled maze of nightmares. A psychedelic trip that you unwillingly flung yourself into, after sharing one last knowing glance with the other misfit teammates. Somehow, you’d found yourselves together, footed inside of one of Alexi’s rooms: it looks like his house, covered in filth, unkept and unhomely. He’s sitting on the sofa, eating three-day old pizza, methodically avoiding the mold spores. Every other bite is washed down with lukewarm beer. His gaze is half-focused on the television screen, illuminating the otherwise dark room with memories of his past. Memories of his glory days. The Alexi of the past sits harmless on the sofa as the four of you pant and look around in search of the missing super solider.

“Where’s Barnes? Has anyone seen him?” your repeat, louder, more desperate. Ava shakes her head.

“He must still be in his rooms,” Walker replies. He speaks with conviction but there’s a weariness to his eyes, telling of the horrors he relived to try and fight his way to a common ground. “We need to find Bob and Yelena, and put an end to this shitshow.”

“Not without Barnes,” you snap. You look around and take a shuddering breath. “I’ll go find him.”

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” Ava asks. Her British accent almost sounds sardonic.

“I don’t know,” you mumble. You study every window, every mirror, every reflection. You need a passageway to his psyche. Shaking your head, you murmur under your breath, “come on, Bucky. Gimme a clue here.”

A raspy, Russian laugh has everyone jolting. Your head darts to the Alexi on the sofa, half-collapsed in his seat. He’s pointing at the screen, applauding seemingly himself, a chunk of pizza crust catching in his beard. The glorious Red Guardian, nothing more than a washed-up has been. The present-day Alexi cringes, head bowing slightly at the insight into his ‘secret life’. But then something glimmers. It catches your eye. You take a step forward to a framed picture. The glass almost sparkles in an inexplicable phenomenon. Somehow, something in your gut knows. Bucky. You take a breath and swallow. You know Bucky’s life is scattered with shadows. Warping, melting black holes of guilt and shame and terror. Stepping into his mind might shatter yours. But if he’s lived it and survived, you can take a pass through to find him. With that, you let your fingertips reach out to the glass. They slip through it like parting water, giving way to a portal of kinds, and your eyes slip shut as incomprehension overwhelms you. When you open them, you’re no longer in Alexi’s living room .

It’s cold. Water drips in the background, monotonous and repetitive. Drip, drip, drip. You’re standing on concrete, damp with puddles of water, stained with what looks to be oil and something darker. Blood. Metal walls built atop of cinderblocks surround you. Grey and dying. Lifeless. Fluorescent overhead lights dangle from the ceiling, lighting the facility like a morgue. You swallow your dread as you take in the view. It’s easy to denominate where you are without looking at the emblem shining proudly on the wall, like a hunter’s buck head mounted. Hydra.

Movement behind you has you turning, startled. You suddenly miss the company of the others. Of the Alexi sat slouched on the sofa. Your eyes fall on phantoms of Hydra, men dressed in white lab coats as if pretending to be doctors, dishonoring the name of scientists. That isn’t what makes your stomach drop though. What is, is the sight of the man between them. The man whose legs are dragging limply on the floor, arms slung over their shoulders. The man whose chest is barely moving, life barely flickering in his body, soul barely alive. Bucky. But not your Bucky - not the Bucky you know now, the Bucky you have the honour to call your closest friend and deepest confidant. No, a Bucky from the past. A Bucky whose mind was splintered into fragments, forced together to form the image of a Hydra. A mind that was wired to know only one thing: compliance.

Bucky’s sometimes shared bits from his past with you. Back when you were in Wakanda together, he’d sometimes find it therapeutic to share snippets of his nightmares that had awoken him. You’d talk over glasses of whiskey or tea, sitting before a bonfire, swatting away mosquitos, absorbed in the noises of nature. The pictures you’d paint in your mind from his stories were like stills from horror movies no director would even dream to make. You’d listen, allow him to free himself from the clutches of them by sharing the load, if only slightly. It brought the two of you closer. A friendship no longer forged out of happenstance but instead out of trust. Understanding.

But seeing it here, before you, played out like some twisted theatre, was different. This was almost a torture of its own.

You feel bile scratch at your throat when they force him into the chair. They’re careless with his body as though he’s nothing more than a thing. A weapon with the inconvenience of organs. And like all weapons, he needed to be cleaned.

The headpiece whirs to life, slowly inching down towards the frontal lobes of his head, as if taunting him with what was to come. You shake your head as if that might stop what’s about to happen. When the power whizzes to life, your hand clutches desperately at your thigh, clenching the thin, form-fitting fabric of your suit in a pathetic attempt to ground you. Blood draws from how hard you bite your lip. Tears sting your wide eyes. It’s like watching a car crash: you can’t look away. The human mind frozen in shock, gluing your vision to the horrible, detailed recreation of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes being scrubbed into the Winter Solider. His cries are the worst part. You never imagined them before. Your mind wouldn’t allow you to. Everytime it tried to conjure a picture, his mouth would open with soundless cries. But here, they echo off the walls. Bounce off each hard surface, shattering your eardrums, cracking your heart. They’re guttural. Feral. Something almost inhuman, primal that one would never need to tap into.

The words. Those Godforsaken words that held Bucky prisoner for years. The Russian sounds jagged like rocks on the soldiers tongues as they speak them. Demand them into his head, for him to comply. For him to be theirs. He’s heaving, forehead sticky with sweat, hair thick and greasy. Uncared for. Nothing more than a means to an end. The shiny silver metal of his arm is near unrecognizable. You’re so accustomed to the sleek black Vibranium one that it’s hard to recall this former appendage. The memories it held. The history. There’s a twinge of guilt when you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to witness anymore. It’s a luxury to close your mind to it - a luxury he never had. But you know Bucky. He wouldn’t want you to see this. Wouldn’t expect you to stand there and subject yourself to his torture. He was considerate like that. Sympathetic in a way you endlessly envied.

There was a job to do.

Bucky wasn’t here. That means he must be lost in another room. A room shrouded in shame.

Shame.

What was shameful about this memory? Maybe all memories of Hydra came with that gnawing guilt, that he was their fist for so long. But as the scene continues to play, you realise why this particular reawakening. The briefing begins once The Winter Soldier confirms his compliance to the soldiers: Two people. Murder. Make it look like an accident. Steal the serum from the vehicle. No witnesses.

Tony Stark’s parents.

The scene before you hazes like you blinked, and then resets. Bucky is no longer in the seat, the soldiers and so-called scientists no longer gathered around him. Instead, he’s being dragged over, hauled into the chair. There was no time to dwell, not when Bucky needed you. God knows where he is. You look around you, searching for something - anything - that might pull you into the next place. No glimmer. No reflection. Nothing.

“Bucky!” You yell. You cup your hands around your mouth and try again. “Bucky!”

It echoes off the walls of the base. Nobody pays you any mind. Then, Bucky’s own yells shadow your own. You whimper, clenching your eyes, turning your head away. You can’t bear to hear it again. Your hands twitch as if to go help him, but you know it’s futile. You learnt that from your own rooms. After what feels like an eternity, the cries stop, and the room falls silent. Completely silent. There’s no dripping of water, no utterance of Russian words. Nothing. Your eyes hesitantly blink open and–

It’s daylight. You’re outside. It looks like…a park? You frown, glancing around and taking in the surrounding view. Trees. Lots of trees. Bushes and shrubs and plants. A long, stretching field of grass. Some schoolboys kick a soccer ball between them, calling at each other to pass! Pass to me! There’s a couple sharing a picnic. Children playing in the playground, chasing each other from the slides to the climbing-frame, chattering as they swing side-by-side. Parents sit on the bench and observe, chatting amicably between themselves. A dog-walker here; a duck-watcher there. It’s peaceful. Serene.

“Mommy look,” a little girl whispers. Your ears prick and you turn your attention. She’s tugging on who you assume to be her mother’s sleeve of her coat. A small finger points over at something. “Look at that man.”

You remember where you are. Bucky’s rooms, resembling his shame. Your face crumples as you reluctantly follow the line of her finger. Bucky is walking, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other exposed. It’s only for a flash: he’s brushing some hair off his face. It’s cut short. It must have been from after the Battle of Thanos. The black metal of his hand catches the sunlight. It’s mesmerizing, the way the golden lines shine. You finally place where you are. Central Park.

“Isn’t that–”

“Don’t look at him, dear,” the mother interrupts. She sounds alarmed. You clench your teeth.

“But isn’t that–”

“Yes, dear. It is,” she hisses. She tugs the child protectively behind her legs, as if Bucky were to lunge for the child. Your patience wears thin. Bucky pauses his walk. He heard them, no doubt. He hears most things, whether he likes it that way or not. The mother gathers her daughter’s hand in hers and guides them away from the park. “That’s a dangerous man, Millie. A murderer. He should be ashamed, walking around a park near these children. There’s no damn justice left in this country.”

The mother leads them away from the park, the daughter in tow. The little girl spares one last glance at Bucky. He’s staring at his feet. His metal hand slips into his jacket pocket. You can practically feel the embarrassment radiating off him. He nearly shrinks into his frame. You begin to make your way over to him, to comfort him in the way you know best: a pat on the shoulder, to test the waters, then a hug, if that’s what he needs. Touch - gentle and caring in a way that he hasn’t known for so long. But he flashes out of sight before you can reach him. You glance around frantically. He’s reset, back to where he was before. You remember what’s happening. Remember the goal, the target, and shake your head.

Looking around, you search for something that might lead you to the next space, but once again, nothing gives a tell. You break out running into the distance, towards the park, and the futherer you get, the sooner you realise it’s a mock-up. Walls painted like trees and people. You brace yourself, raising your arms up to your face to soften the impact, and force yourself through the walls. They shatter around you, breaking apart like drywall and paper mache, and you tumble forward. It’s reflexive, the tuck and roll you catch yourself with. You return to your feet, panting lightly, hands raised and ready for battle.

You’re inside. No, not inside, but in an object of some kind…Wind rushes through your hair, nearly knocking you off your feet. There’s something tonally different to the park, and to the Hydra base. It’s tense. Hairs prickle on the back of your neck and you scan the area for threats. Force of habit, with so many years working for Shield, and later as a vigilante. The price to pay for helping Captain America. You finally recognise where you are. It’s the helicarriers. The ones from…

Oh no.

You know this memory. You know it well. It’s seared into your hippocampus, stained with blood, and no matter what you do to dispel it, it remains. You can understand why. It’s hard to force yourself to forget the day you nearly shook hands with death.

It smells like jet fuel and fresh air. You frantically look around in search of the two bodies you know are here. On the thin metal bridge opposite to the one you stand on, you make out your figure. It’s strange seeing yourself, almost hard to recognise it as you. But you know it is: can tell by the hair and the suit. You’re determined, face stoic, as you race forward to the motherboard of the ship. The chip is in your upper legging pocket. You can almost feel the press of it against your skin now, as you watch. Then, your eyes land on something you never saw that day. They spot The Winter Soldier climbing up soundlessly onto the metal bridge. They spot him following you with measured footsteps, moving fast but with deadly quiet, like a fox stalking prey. You’re unaware of him, eyes focused on the target. Watching on, your throat turns dry as the Soldier retracts a knife from his belt.

“Helicarrier two is nearly secure, Cap,” you inform the team through your earpiece. You pause to pull out the chip, and that’s when he gets you.

The soldier loops an arm over your shoulder, tightening it around your neck. You stumble backwards, gasping out painfully as your air supply suddenly cuts off. A hand scrambles to his arm only to find hard, unmoving metal. You can still feel the pulse of dread that ran through you in that moment. You’d seen him before, fought him on the bridge with Sam and Nat and Steve. He’d done a number on Natasha and she was three-times the agent you were. He was quick, relentless, free from remorse. Your other elbow jams into his ribs and it’s just enough to have his grip loosen. You waste no time, whipping a leg around his ankle, tilting him enough off balance that you both stumble backwards. Another elbow, this time to the nose, and he grunts, falling away from you. You pivot and raise your fists, only in time to dodge his swing. You’re not as lucky the second time: he catches you on the brow. A fist-fight follows, of jabs and ducks. You land a few but they hardly affect him. It’s like he’s made of brick. Then, he sucker-punches you in the chest. The air flew out of you, winding you, and you catch yourself on the railing of the bridge with a pained gasp. He lands another to your ear and you whimper out, head falling forward. Blood trickles slowly from the lobe. You watch the scene from afar, but something shifts in you when the soldier raises the knife.

“No!” you scream. You sprint ahead and collide with the soldier. You grab for his wrist and he looks at you. There’s pure ice in his gaze, no trace of Bucky in his eyes, and your blood runs cold. His metal hand locks around your throat and you gasp out. The ground slips away from you as he slowly lifts you. And then, you’re tossed onto the floor. Gasping for air, you scramble for purchase, desperate to stop the inevitable. You turn your face in time to see the Soldier plunge the knife into the side of your former self.

The scream she lets out has tears springing to your eyes. Her hand quivers as it hovers by the hilt of the knife, body immediately spiralling into shock. You can still remember the feel of metal piercing through skin and muscle. Tearing through the fragile casing of your organs. He twists the weapon and she cries out in agony, eyes clenched shut, drool falling from her lips. As you watch on helplessly from the floor, eyes wide in horror, you shake your head as if to plea for the Soldier to stop. But he doesn’t. He signs the death certificate as he pulls the knife from her body. Blood quickly seeps through her clothes. It pushes through her fingers as she desperately tries to force pressure on her own wound. The chip is forgotten by both you and the soldier. His mission is complete, for now: eliminate you. The soldier turns heel and strides away, ready to take down the next member of the team, to keep Hydra’s empire from falling. You rush over to the body of your former self, hands shaking as you check her over. Blood. So much fucking blood.

“Please,” she gasps. You realise then, that she’s not looking at you. She’s looking at him. You forgot this happened. The pain mostly blacks out the memory, after he removed the knife.

The soldier freezes. He heard you.

Your voice sounds powerless, raspy as you struggle to intake air. “Please,” you try again, half-whimpering. “Please help me.”

He hesitates. You see it. It’s a flicker. Nothing more than a twitch of one of his metal fingers. But it’s something. A sign that he was still in there, fighting to come out, to help you.

But he doesn’t. He has a mission. He walks away.

The warm body in your hands vanishes. It’s as if you hallucinated her. That is, until you see her running towards you, past you, for the motherboard. It reset.

“Oh, Bucky,” you whisper to yourself, shaking your head. Your eyes press shut, taking a beat to calm yourself.

The two of you had discussed that moment more than enough. You’d forgiven Bucky long before he even knew who you were. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have a choice. You never held it against him. Never blamed him for those months spent in hospital, in and out of surgery, tiring yourself out in physical therapy. And yet, it seems that despite those restless nights of talking it out, of you listening to his apologies and accepting each one without hesitation, it seems the moment still haunted him. You could understand why, the same way you understood why it still remained in your brain. It can’t be easy, letting go of the thought that he nearly ended your life. You just wished he wouldn’t blame himself for it.

Before you open your eyes, you feel the ground beneath you change. It warps into something squishy and plush, and your knees give way slightly at the feel. Carpet. You blink your eyes open into warm, orangey lamp light. You recognise this place like an old friend. It’s your apartment. Your brows furrow. No, that doesn’t make sense.

Bucky was your friend. Ever since Wakanda, the two of you had made some wordless pact to stick together. He understood you in a way that didn’t need verbalising. Could read you like a book from childhood, well-versed in your tells, your wants and fears. That’s what made him such a wonderful friend. You never had to perform with him. There was no need for filters, no room for embarrassment. You’d complain about your crappy dates over take-out; binge watch corny movies whilst sharing beers; try and bolster him up at bars when you went out with Sam and Jouqian for a drink; listen to him practice his speeches for his run for congress. There was no room for shame in your friendship. So…why were you here?

“You sure this ain’t too much trouble?” Bucky asks you. Your attention quickly pivots to you and Bucky. He’s hovering by the bookshelf, arms folded over his chest, dressed in sweatpants and a vest. You’re straightening a quilt over the sofa-bed that resided in your living room.

“Would you stop whining already? You’re worse than Wilson, y’know that?”

Bucky chuckles at that, bobbing his head. You straighten, hands landing on your hips, and nod to yourself as you take in your handy-work.

“That should be good. You want an extra pillow?”

“I think I’ll survive with three,” Bucky replies, humour evident in his voice. You roll your eyes and cross the room to him, pinching his cheek chidingly.

“Just trying to be a good hostess,” you sing-song, walking past him and into the kitchen. Curious, your eyes remain on Bucky. He’s watching the past-version of you. A smile rests on his lips. One that you’ve never noticed before. It seems almost secretive, because the minute you turn to ask him something, it’s fading into a different kind of smile. One you now recognise. Your brows furrow at the picture. Weird. “A’right, here’s your water. You think you’ll need anything else?”

Bucky shakes his head. He takes the glass from you as he replies, “this is perfect, doll. Thank you.”

“Course. Me casa est su casa,” you smile, stumbling through disjointed Spanish. You cringe at your former self. Bucky chuckles, as if it might be endearing.

“It’s es, not ‘est’,” he corrects. Then, he utters the phrase in perfect, fluent Spanish. The other you rolls her eyes mirthfully at him.

“A’right, we get it Mister ‘I can speak twelve languages’.”

“Thirteen if you count–”

“--Hey! Keep rubbing it in my face and you can sleep in the bathtub,” you warn, pointing a finger at him. He raises his hands in surrender, laughing quietly. You then melt into a smile, easing up the act. Crossing the room to him, the you of the past tosses her arms casually over his shoulders in a warm embrace. “G’night, Buck. See you in the morning.”

You never noticed before, too caught up in the act of doing, but watching it unfold now, you realise Bucky’s reaction. He seems startled, which is strange, considering you hug him rather often. His arm slowly loops around your waist, holding you to him, and you watch that smile return. His eyes slip shut and he presses his chin gently against your shoulder.

The moment shatters when you pull away, oblivious. You wave farewell as you leave the room, closing the door behind you.

You stand and watch, befuddled, as Bucky finishes getting ready for bed. This is bizarre. What the hell is so shameful about crashing on his friend’s couch for the night? He does it rather often, especially when he moved back to New York. The nightmares caught up with him then, after the pocket of peace in Wakanda was sacrificed. People knew who he was. The government had burdened him with a pardon that he always felt was undeserved, and that seemed to trouble his psyche more than anything. Couple that with the ghosts of his past, from a lifetime ago before the war, back when things were more simple and familiar, and Bucky was knocking on your door with an apologetic smile. You’d always welcome him in, would never turn him away. The two of you would watch a movie or show, talking over most of it with mindless commentary, before you’d set up the sofa for him. It got to the point that you decided to invest in a sofa-bed.

Now, watching the scene play out, you wonder if he feels ashamed for reaching out. For needing company and comfort of another’s home. You wonder if Bucky felt as though he should shoulder the burden of being alone. Men often felt shame for their mental health, so it would be wrong to assume that Bucky was different.

The lamp remains on. You glance around the room in search of something that might be the root of the room. Maybe you left a pair of panties drying on the radiator, and he was ashamed of seeing them? That seemed rather tame compared to the other horrors embodied in this maelstrom of pain…

Bucky shifts under the sheets. Looking over to him, you watch, intrigued, realising the scene isn’t over. His eyes are shut, metal arm whirring as he brings it up towards the pillow, messing with it until it’s how he likes. He’s rather…cute. Sweet as he tries to get comfortable. An unseen side to him, human and regular, that’s weirdly endearing. You begin to smile. Then, your brows furrow slightly. He presses his nose into the pillow - your pillow - and inhales, slow and deep through his nose. He isn’t just taking a breath. He’s smelling the pillow. Your stomach twists tight, as if trying to knot itself. A small groan pushes through his closed lips, muffled into the case, and your eyes widen. Is he…

He takes another deep breath in. His eyes squeeze, lips purse, and something akin to…pleasure twitches his features. He rolls onto his back, the blanket shifting with the movement, and then you watch, alarmed, as the silhouette of his arm inches below the sheets. You can’t seem to look away from his face. His brows twitch together, teeth catching his lower lip, and then–

He hums, deep, guttural.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, quickly turning your back to him. Your hands fly up to your burning face, lips agape, eyes wide, stupefied. The sheets rustle behind you and he groans, quiet enough to go unnoticed by other you, who lays unaware in her bed. You squeak, hands flying up to your ears, mortification flooding over you like a bath of cold water as you accidentally intrude on a very private moment.

A private moment, which happened in your living room.

A private moment, which sparked from Bucky smelling your pillow.

A private moment, which began from the mere smell of you.

He rasps your name, no louder than a breath. You only just catch it. The way your name sounds on his tongue...It's hotter than sin, and you let out a startled breath. You’re ashamed at the arousal that pulses through you at the sound. Shaking your head, you straightened yourself out. You can’t listen to this any longer. It feels wrong. No, it doesn’t just feel it - it is wrong. Bucky has spent his whole life having his humanity stripped away from him, as if he didn’t deserve it, and you refuse to be another name added to that list of people who didn’t treat him like a person. You rush to the door of the living room and swing it open. You don’t look as you step forward. Rookie error.

A scream rushes through you as you fall down, down, down.

You nearly bounce back up when you land. It’s soft, softer than the carpet, and gives easily under your weight. A mattress. Thank God, you think to yourself, pushing up onto your knees with a huff. You look around the room, searching for the man you’ve been chasing through each twisted, turning memory. Returning to your feet, you straighten your suit.

“Bucky?”

There’s no reply. You sigh, rubbing your forehead. Where the hell is he? Worry curls in your gut. What if something went wrong? What if his rooms were too heavy for him? What if he–

“Come on, doll. One more step.”

It’s his voice, but it isn’t him. You startle when the bedroom door opens. It’s only then that you register your surroundings. It’s his bedroom, the one from his old flat back when he lived in Brooklyn. God, that place was like a prison. He was punishing himself when he lived there. A sofa made of stiff leather sat before a flat-screen television. A kitchen barren of appliances or plants. The fridge was only filled with necessities. No art on the wall, not even a clock. The bedroom was just as desolate. A wardrobe organised with too much precision, almost display-art in its meticulousness, and a desk without any books or computer. The bed was comfortable at least, not that Bucky used it much back then. He preferred the floor. Would sleep on it in the living room with nothing more than a blanket, the hard wood cradling his body.

You take a step back as if to make way, as Bucky and this former version of you step into the bedroom. You’re hanging onto him, nearly blackout drunk, practically dragging his sturdy frame down like a heathen. You can’t help but cringe at the sight, bringing a hand up to your forehead. It seems your legs are rather useless as you practically trip over yourself. Bucky catches you, keeps you steady.

“Easy there,” he chuckles.

You groan, flopping onto the bed face-first. Bucky stands, watching, hands on his hips, and laughs to himself.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you slur into the bedsheets. You raise a finger in the air, arm wobbling as you do so, and Bucky laughs harder. He struggles to stifle them. He’s pretty when he laughs. Sounds young, carefree. It makes you smile as you watch.

“Come on, party animal,” Bucky chuckles, grabbing your hand to help twist you onto your back. He kneels by your feet and undoes your heels, metal fingers meddling with the tiny clasps. You smile to yourself, unable to place the memory in your own mind. You couldn’t remember this moment, just the incredible hangover you were met with the next day.

Once again, the question begs: why this memory? Bucky is a perfect gentleman as he helps you get ready for bed. You can barely keep your head upright. Your body rattles with hiccups, eyes half-closed, make-up smudged under your eyes. It’s not a good look, to say the least. Bucky eases your heels off one by one, placing them neatly by the wardrobe. You watch as he hesitates, unsure whether to offer you more comfortable clothes to sleep in or leave you in your dress. He stands, glances to his wardrobe, and runs a hand over his head, fingers brushing through his hair, as he thinks.

Your eyes catch a moving figure on the bed. You watch, mildly amazed that you even have the strength and coordination to do so, as you rise to your feet. Bucky hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy weighing up what to do next. He nearly jumps out of his skin when your hand lands on his shoulder. He turns his head quickly, body following soon after. One of his hands instinctively reaches for your waist to steady you on your feet. He’s confused and concerned, brows furrowing as his eyes scan over your squiffy features.

“Doll, what’re you–”

Your mouth presses against his in a heated kiss. You gape at the sight, mind drawing a complete blank at the supposed moment you lived. Bucky’s hands fly up, hovering, frozen like statues, by your sides. His eyes are blown wide. Your hands cradle his face, holding him close, turning his face just-so as you kiss him with unexplained fever. Shaking your head, you watch on, mortified, as drunk-you forces Bucky into a kiss.

And then…his eyes slip shut. One of his hands slowly lowers to rest against your waist, a shadow of a hold on your body, sinking into your skin like rocks on wet sand. He turns his head, chasing your taste, your tongue. Then, you listen as other-you sighs against his lips. That seems to flip a switch in Bucky’s head. He quickly pulls away with a gasp. His hands take you by the shoulders, holding you away from him, arms outstretched. He looks horrified, staring at you with damp lips and a heaving chest. You feel yourself wither with embarrassment and shame at the thought of forcing yourself upon him like that. Drunk or not, it was no excuse.

But then he’s closing his eyes and shaking his head. It hangs, low, defeated, and he takes a slow, almost sad, breath.

“Not like this, doll. I– You’re drunk and…It’s not…It ain’t how I pictured it…” he murmurs. Drunk you hardly seems to hear him. She takes a step back and melts down onto the mattress. Bucky helps you into bed with a distracted mind; guiding you under the covers and ensuring you lay on your side. Then, he heads for the door. He lingers in the doorway, finger hovering over the light switch, and watches you. A smile tries its way onto his face - that smile from before - but it is chased away by his frown. You recognise the shadow that casts over his face. You’ve seen it in the dead of night, when he’s awoken from a nightmare. You spotted it in Wakanda, when he pieced together who you were and what he did to you. You remembered it from the funeral, when Bucky realised that he’d never be able to apologise to Tony for what he did to his parents. Shame. One of his metal fingers lifts to his lips, as if he’s recalling the feel of yours on his. The room becomes engulfed in darkness.

It’s only for a moment. You’re left alone with your thoughts, trying to organise them into some sort of coherent system. Guilt, for kissing him; embarrassment, for, well, all of it; sadness, for not even remembering it; and…longing. Was that what that was? That odd twisting feeling in your gut, reaching out like vines, clutching at your heartstrings. Sadness, maybe? You can’t make sense of it. The one thing you can make sense of is the recognition that not one part of you is angry at him. Not even remotely. If anything, you’re curious about his moment of weakness. About that brief half-minute, when he allowed himself to kiss you back. About the way he looked at you before leaving the room. Had he looked at you that way before? Did you never even notice the way he–

The light flashes on and it nearly blinds you. You groan, rubbing your face, and you can make out muffled voices down the hall. The scene is resetting. Bucky still isn’t anywhere to be found.

It’s becoming exhausting, wading through these memories, confronting these pockets of Bucky’s conscience without him even knowing. Would he be mad at you, when you do find him? Or will he understand? There’s only one way to find out…

You slip out the bedroom door after you and Bucky make your way inside. To your surprise, instead of stepping into another memory or room, you simply enter his living room. You freeze. There’s a silhouette sitting on the floor, staring at the TV. Bucky. His knees are brought up near his chest, arms wrapped around them. Despite his large frame, body mostly muscle, he looks small. Fragile and scared, like a child trying to self-soothe. You glance around and wonder if this is another memory. But as your eyes adjust to the scene before you, you recognise his tactical suit from before you stepped into the void. His hair is longer, nothing like how it was in the memory, and his black vibranium arm glimmers in the flashing colours of the TV. He’s watching a soccer match. Although, something tells you that he isn’t actually watching. You swallow and take a step forward.

“Bucky? Is that you?” you tentatively ask. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He refuses to look at you, it seems. “Buck?”

His head hangs. Relief consumes you and you let out a sigh, clearing the rest of the distance. You drop to your knees and throw your arms around him, grateful he’s in one piece.

“Thank God you’re okay. I was so worried when you didn’t find us in Alexi’s–”

He’s stiff, still like a statue, unmoving like a corpse. Your words die on your tongue as you pull away, a hand lingering on his back.

“Bucky?”

He swallows. His voice is hardly more than croak as he asks, “how’d you find me?”

“I uh…” You hesitate, unsure whether you should be transparent or not. It doesn’t take you long to decide. “I went through your rooms until I found you.”

His eyes press shut as if you’ve delivered news of death. His silence unsettles you. Your hand rubs his back and he leans forward, out of your touch. A pain stabs through your chest.

“Bucky?”

“If you went through them…Then you saw it, right?”

Your lips move but no words come out. Instead, you swallow. Bucky isn’t looking at you but he must be able to catch you nodding your head in his peripheral, because his face becomes twisted with agony.

“Oh God,” he mumbles. Balling his hand into a fist, he presses it firmly against his forehead. “I’m so fucking sorry…”

You shake your head, going to touch him again before freezing. Your fingers hover half a centimetre from his back.

“Look, we…We need to go help the others and stop whatever the hell is going with this…thing that Bob’s become but…” He looks up at you then. Bucky’s eyes are damp with unshed tears as he holds your gaze, and you know you can’t bring yourself to look away even if you tried. “But I promise you, you don’t ever gotta see me again after that, yeah? I promise you that.”

Your stomach opens with a pit of dread. “Bucky, I–”

“--I’m so sorry, okay? You gotta believe me when I say that. I…” He gasps, trying with all his might to keep it together, “I tried so hard not to want you, I really did. I tried so fucking hard but I…I couldn’t help it…”

He clenches his eyes closed and grits his teeth, jaw going taut. He presses further into his fist, knuckles turning white. A single tear slips down his cheek. Your heart splinters and you fight the urge to wipe it away.

“I couldn’t help it,” he whispers, as if admitting a sin to God himself.

You shake your head slightly, mouth moving uselessly. A small, shaky breath escapes you. Tears prick your waterline as everything you’ve seen hits you like a freight train. It barrels through your mind and tears your hippocampus open, flooding you with memories. A new light is shed on them. A perspective you never allowed yourself to see before. The unexplainable serenity and safety you felt in his company, despite the start of your friendship. The kind of safety that enabled you to share stories of your life with him without fear of judgement or rejection. The kind of safety that you sought out after a hard mission or a nightmare haunted you. The kind of serenity you craved when you were bored out of your mind on a mission, and Bucky’s off-handed quips were your only company through a cracked phone screen. The kind of serenity you were consumed by during the nights spent by his side, laughing as he teased you, raving over your favourite shows and sharing the theories and backstories to each storyline. Never afraid to be too much or too little. No, it was always just right.

And now you see it. The longing glances. The tenderness in his gaze when his eyes landed on you. The extra layer of panic when you were in battle, scanning over your body to make sure you’re alright. The smile that you kept catching sight of as you ventured through his shame that was reserved just for you, when you weren’t even looking. And how couldn’t you look, because he was right there, all this time.

“I don’t want you to leave,” you breathe.

Bucky frowns. His brows furrow, mind struggling to parse together your words. You shake your head, slow then fast, and swallow your anxiety because this was much more important.

“I don’t want you to leave. I don’t…I don’t care about any of that, I just…I don’t…” You can’t find the words. Every sentence is weak, sandcastles in rain, and you shake your head and grunt, annoyed. Bucky looks at you, addled, and you wipe the tears from your cheeks with an aggressive sweep of your hand.

That’s when the answer comes to you.

Pushing to your feet, you extend a hand down to him. He blinks at it, then up at you. “Do you trust me?”

It takes less than a second before he’s lifting his hand and guiding it into yours. You help ease him to his feet. Then, you turn and face the door to the bedroom. As you begin to move, Bucky holds the two of you in place. You look back at him. He’s reluctant to meet your eyes.

“I don’t…I can’t see that again,” he admits. Your heart squeezes. You gently clench his fingers in your hold.

“Trust me, yeah?”

He takes a shuddering breath before nodding. His feet give way as you guide the two of you to the door. You turn the knob and close your eyes, steeling yourself for what you’re about to face.

The only room you couldn’t bring yourself to face before, instead fighting your way to Alexi’s horrors.

The door opens to a well-lit room. It’s modern, with floor-to-ceiling length windows lining one of the walls, and a sleek, silver bartop busied with guests and party-goers. Streamers decorate the ceiling, twinkly lights looped around pillars. Music plays from speakers in every corner of the room. Classic hits that everybody knows. Some people are dancing, others tapping their feet along and drinking, good-natured. There’s sofas which are occupied by chattering groups of friends and co-workers. A pool table crowded by primarily men, likely congratulating themselves on being the masters of the universe for another year.

“Where’re we?” Bucky asks after a beat. You take a small breath before looking at him, forcing a smile that you know he’ll tell to be fake.

“One of my rooms.”

Bucky frowns. You slowly let his hand slip from your hold. You know this evening well. It’s a repressed memory that enjoys making a guest appearance, most often when you’re around Bucky. The evening you realised that there was something more there, something deeper under your skin, but that you refused to touch.

Dressed in a floor-length gown, you saunter up to the bar, sadling by the side of the present-day you. There’s no need to look at Bucky to know he’s watching.

You order a drink and toy with the olive skewered on a cocktail stick, sloshing it in and out of the martini. You take another glance over for the millionth time that night, eyes landing on Bucky. Not this Bucky, but the Bucky from the party. The one dressed in a suit that was designed for him to wear it. The suit that ruined all other men for you, because nobody else could possibly make it look that good. The Bucky that was currently talking to a gorgeous, tall blonde lady, with eyes that could bewitch and thighs that could kill. The Bucky that was talking to his date for the New Year’s Eve Party.

“I don’t…” Bucky’s words fade into the rhythm of the song currently playing. He glances at you - you see it in your peripheral - but you keep your eyes trained on the phantom of your memory as she drinks. You know there’s bigger things at stake, an entire city in peril, but this feels a thousand times more pressing and important. If you don’t have Bucky, you have nothing. It’s a terrifying but simple conclusion. So you need him to see.

You take a sip of your martini and let out a sigh. Your head hangs and you purse your lips, and for a long while, just stand there, alone, thinking. Then, your head darts up. You toss back your drink, leaving the olives neglected in the glass, and stride back into the party, eyes set on a random former-Shield agent who has been occupying the pool table for the larger portion of the night. You watch as you shake his hand, smiling all pretty at him, before the scene flickers and resets. Bucky shakes his head, looking at you.

“I don’t understand,” he murmurs. “What’s so shameful about that?”

“It’s not what I did,” you tell him, unable to look away from the Bucky in the distance, talking to his date. He’s smiling. You think that’s what had bothered you the most. That he wasn’t smiling at you. “It’s what I was thinking.”

“What were you thinking?”

You chuckle humourlessly, dropping your head and gaze. A moment to still yourself, then you face him.

“That I hated your date. That I hated everything about her, and wanted to fucking gut her in the middle of the party, and rip her hair out of her head, and scratch up her face. I was thinking that I hated her because…Because I could never be her. And I wanted to be her so bad, because I realised - at that stupid New Year’s Eve party - that I wanted to be the only person you looked at like that. The only person you wanted to see. I realised I wanted to be the best thing at the party, to you. And I wasn’t…And I hated her for that and I…” You take a gasping, short breath. The words that follow are guilt-ridden, your body shrinking with shame, “I hated you for it too. But most of all, I hated myself, because I’d…I’d let myself...want you.”

Bucky stares at you. His eyes dance over your face, searching for some lie, some sign that this itself was part of the mind games you’d both been thrown into. But instead, he just saw you. Saw it plain and simple, written across your face in big, black ink.

“Why were you ashamed, of those things? The things in your rooms?” you quietly broach.

Bucky grunts, shaking his head. “It was wrong. You were my friend - you are my friend - and I…I let myself fucking…” He shudders at the memory. You think you know which one is playing in his mind right now. Then, his expression deepens. Sadder. “I kissed you back. You were drunk, and you trusted me, and I took advantage and I let myself kiss you back, when I knew it was wrong.”

“Only for a second,” you tell him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, quick, like he’s rehearsed this apology a thousand times before. You wonder if he’s thought of confessing, to clear his conscience. Wonder how long he’s let himself rot under the shame of harbouring feelings for you. Because that was what this was, right?

“I don’t even remember that night.”

Bucky doesn’t seem to like the sound of that. His eyes close and he tries not to wince.

“I wish I did though,” you whisper. “Cause that was the first time we kissed, I don’t even remember it.”

He’s hesitant when he opens his eyes, as if waiting for you to take it back. But you don’t. You stand there, a shadow of a smile on your lips, and shrug.

“I’m sorry I did that to you, but I’m not sorry I…I’m not sorry I…”

“You’re not sorry you what?” he pushes, wide eyes staring at you. It’s as if his whole world hangs on your next words.

“I’m not sorry I have feelings for you. No matter how hard I’ve tried to be.”

Bucky gazes at you, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His hand twitches, fingers reaching out towards yours, and you meet him halfway. Loosely intertwine your digits with his. He shuffles a step forward, and his forehead slowly eases down until it rests against your own. You let out a small huff and he takes a breath in, and the two of you stand in the room of your shared past.

“I’m not sorry I have feelings for you, too,” Bucky admits in a low rumble of his voice.

Your hand lifts to his face, cupping his cheek in your hold, cradling his jaw. He finds your lips like ships returning home in the night, guided by the glow of a lighthouse. It’s sweet, and tender, and wistful from years of wanting. His tongue darts across your lower lip and you gladly give way, sinking into the taste of him as his hand wraps around your waist, tugging you closer, holding you near. Eventually, the two of you break apart, but you refuse to step out of his orbit. His nose nudges yours in a silent kiss, and you smile. A strand of his hair curls around your finger and he sighs, content.

“What say we go save the world now, huh?”

“Only if you’re there too,” Bucky replies, tone lighter than you've known it to be before.

You realise then that your absolute truth is the same for Bucky: if he didn't have you, he didn't have anything.

#fic recs #bucky barnes #thunderbolts!bucky

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