Nikah: January
Story Masterlist
Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.
Bucky marries Peterâs former tutor because her student visaâs about to expire and the government isnât granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Warnings:Â Mentions of grief, war.
A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart âs writing challenge. This story will update on weekends, with two chapters each on Saturdays and Sundays. Tags are open, and for now Iâm only tagging those on my permanent list. You can always let me know if you want to be added or taken off of something. I look forward to your comments and hope that you enjoy.
Bucky Barnes did not plan to start the new year as a married man. Not until three weeks ago, when this entire ordeal began. Yet here he is, a gold band on his prosthetic hand that is buried beneath the pillow under his head, while he watches his near-stranger bride sleep next to him. Theyâve met in person a grand total of two times, the second being the marriage ceremony itself. Ceremony is an overstatement, he thinks. They eloped. Oh, if his ma could see him now. Bruised and war-torn, reborn from Hydraâs ashes with the marvel of Wakandan technology, married to a woman he hardly knows. And itâs all Peter Parkerâs fault.
It had started with his silence. Slowly but surely, the youngest Avenger, known for his jubilant enthusiasm, had become unnervingly quiet.Â
One week, and they begin to notice. Curious look and additional encouragements to involve him.
Two weeks, and they suspect he misses Tony more than usual. Itâs been several months, but the grief comes and goes in waves. Laughter can turn quickly into tears. Buckyâs seen them smile at a joke and turn to the head of the table, or a corner of the room, looking for Tony or Natâs response respectively, only for the smile to fall at the proof of their absence. They give him time, Sam gives him a talk, and Pepper, an invitation to lunch at the lakehouse.
Three weeks, and they return from a multiple-week mission and brake outside the kitchen like eavesdropping teenagers. The actual teenagers - Peter and Wanda - are inside discussing something. By the distress in Peterâs voice, itâs whateverâs been bothering him recently.
â-but if the student visa doesnât expire for another year, why is she applying already?â Wandaâs asking from the stove, stirring a Sokovian soup. Peter puts a Tupperware container of extra chopped vegetables in the fridge. Leans on the marble countertop, sighing.
âShe suspected that they might reject her. He PhD ends in June so sheâs applying for a green card instead, but immigration policies are stricter now. Especially for people from Muslim countries, and sheâs Pakistani. It isnât fair,â He reiterates, tastes the soup. Anything to distract from his shaking hands. Wanda looks on worriedly. âI just mean- like- sheâs been living here for almost ten years. She just wants to be a permanent resident. If they donât let her, sheâll have to go back. She doesnât want to, but sheâll have to,â He concludes, opening the tap and initiating clean-up.
âAnd sheâs⌠important⌠to you,â Wanda states, looking over her shoulder, giving him room to elaborate.
âShe helped me with English class and lit in middle school. She was there when Ben died, when Tony died, sheâs just been constant, yâknow?â He explains. Wanda puts down the wooden spoon, rests a hand on the counter and absorbs her friendâs morose expression.
âSo now what?â
âThereâs no way theyâll extend her visa. Sheâll probably try again for a green card, but I donât think itâll work. If she had a steady job, she could apply for a work visa, but sheâs freelance. The only other thing I can think of is marriage to a US citizen.â
He hopes it works. The marriage. Green card by family, by marriage, by him vouching for her. The ring is constricting around his finger, a heavy weight reminding of the sanctity of marriage, and how heâs breaching it. He wonders if she feels the same way. At present, she appears unperturbed, lying on her side facing him. The hand bearing the ring is in front of her face, resting on the pillow like a crown on its pedestal. The scarce daylight, just cloudy watercolor, tip-toes through the gap in his blackout curtains, casting a thing stream of moonlight across her face. Snow day.
They had barely made it to his apartment last night before the blizzard hit. She had been quiet then, even more so than now, when he can at least hear her sleep-steady breaths escape the cage built by the pink pillows of her lips. Eyelashes like snowflakes against the bags under her eyes.Â
The mildly disturbing nature of his actions occurs to him, and he decides to stop. Gets out of bed and tenses when she shifts. The duvet slides down, revealing her white night-gown. Bucky moves, steps as soft and sneaky as fog on the carpet, to her side. Lifts the duvet up to her ching, grazing her silk-clad shoulder in the process. A mumble, and he holds his breath, but thankfully, she stays asleep.
Shutting his - their - bedroom door behind him, he makes for the bathroom first. The shower is scalding hot, and his skin pinks quickly. The Wakandan shampoo is running out. He makes a note to ask Shuri for more, and thinks about what American item to send in return. Dunkinâ Donuts, perhaps.Â
Coconut goes well with the raspberry scent of his new wifeâs body wash, already embedded in the walls because she takes evening showers. Claims they help her sleep. It didnât help last night, however, because she tossed and turned throughout, only coming to rest around three. Bucky didnât fare any better, eyes shutting an hour later.Â
He rinses his hair, the condensation from the steam on his arm washing off. Resumes his morning rituals - conditioner, shower gel, rinse, dry off. As heâs towelling himself dry, he takes in the evidence of her presence once again. The bottle of lotion on the vanity, the make-up removal wipes in the cabinet next to his shaving things. Like this is all perfectly normal.
It is, of course, everything but. You donât marry someone you donât know. The gravity of his actions tug on his stomach as he walks past the couch he offered to sleep on. He hadnât wanted to make her uncomfortable, but she had vehemently refused to kick him out of his own bed. Said she would rather sleep in the snow outside. Heâs sure she would have, too, given the excuse, and she wouldâve melted the snow into steaming puddles around her, anger coming off red-hot like the sunâs rage.
He lights the stove and fetches the ingredients necessary for pancakes. Opens a recipe on his tablet. Never made them on his own a day in his life - Samâs are better, but heâll never tell him that. Something in him just wants to put her at ease. Anyone who cares to look past the stiff demeanor, the jasmine flower in her hair, the reluctant mehndi on her hands, the fire in her eyes, will see resentment. At the government, God, fate, destiny - all scapegoats to blame for putting her in this situation. For reducing her to getting married just to stay in the country she considers home.
Bucky is, too. Resentful, that is. Whatâs worse is, he doesnât understand it. Doesnât understand where the love went. Then he feels guilty, snorts at his own naivete, his blissful ignorance. Lover boy Bucky Barnes. He was never one for politics, he thinks, pouring the first pancake. What little he remembers of his youth wafts up; taking care of Becca, taking care of Steve, taking girls on dates, taking the ship to the war, taking out Nazis. Even in the trenches, where soldiers had a tendency to question Roosevelt, or cuss at Hitler, heâd order them to shut up and shoot. If us fellas were meant to do nothinâ but talk, weâd be in Congress already, but we ainât. So quit blabberinâ and do your jobs.
The second pancake is on the platter. A door opens somewhere down the hall. He waits, still and patient, as footsteps enter the bathroom and the sound of his sizzling frying pan and running water washes out the anxiety of talking to her. He will have to, at some point or the other. They live together. She had suggested briefly that they not, hadnât wanted to burden him, but he reminded her of his public image. People would most certainly notice if he wasnât living with his wife, and then where would they be?
Said wife is now in the kitchen, wringing her hands, the glass bangles - chooriyan - chiming, and he pretends to be unaware.Â
âJames?â This plan doesnât last very long, and he turns to see that sheâs wearing what he would call a tunic if Peter hadnât taught him itâs a kameez - heâs been giving him desi culture lessons - over a pair of jeans.
âJust Bucky, please. Morninâ. Sleep well?â He returns to the pancakes, blushing at his ineptitude. Tries to convince himself itâs okay, sheâs an introvert, too. Sheâs uncomfortable around new people, too. The pancake tower is now five high.
âYou shouldâve woken me. Why are you making breakfast by yourself?â She ignores his question, a question he doesnât know why he asked if he knows the answer to, and comes up to stand next to him at the counter.
âWhy would I do that? I can cook, you know,â He says, only half in jest, the joke the first of the day, of the year, of their relationship. She smiles - a reward.
âYeah, but stillâŚâ She trails off, then shakes away whatâs troubling her. Bucky files that response under Things to Worry About Later. âI can see that you can cook. A little too well, it seems,â She laughs, gesturing to the sizable stack. âCan you eat five pancakes?â She asks with wonder.
âWhat do you mean?âÂ
âI canât eat more than two, and you just flipped your seventh one, so that means youâll have to-â
âDonât worry. Theyâll be gone before you can say super-metabolism,â He reassures, and she nods dubiously.
âCan I at least set the table?â Bucky looks at her, soft and kind and wise, wishes that she didnât have to experience this. Forcing a marriage to stay in the place she loves. What has the world come to?
He shows her where the plates are, sets about pulling out various pancake toppings. Syrup, honey, berries, Nutella. She places the plates on the table, brings him the pot of coffee he forgot he made. Finally, they sit. Minutes of utensils colliding and the pancake stack diminishing pass before either of them say anything. She pours him coffee.
âThanks. You didnât pour any for yourself,â He says, frowning around a mouthful of blueberries.Â
âI donât drink coffee?â
âTea?â
âYeah, but-â Bucky begins to get up but she reaches for his hand, chooriyan clinking against the vibranium. âI donât feel like it today,â She tells him, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
âYou shouldâve said something,â He says, upset at not being able to provide for a guest, the guest whoâs going to be staying for a while. She shakes her head, spreads Nutella across her second pancake.
âItâs not that big a deal,â She laughs, cutting a piece. âSome days I feel like it and some days I donât.â
âOkay.â
They finish breakfast in silence, and Bucky drinks more coffee than he should. Sheâs just picked up the dishes and is picking up a bottle of dish soap when Bucky opens the dishwasher and and takes both the dishes and the soap from her hands. Rinses and stacks them, then looks up at her as heâs drying his hands, still kneeling at the dishwasher. Observes the protest turn to surprise and then to veiled joy, and thinks: they might just make it through this.
Taglist: @suz-123â @mermaidxatxheartâ @buckyreaderrecsâ @shield-agent78â @corneliabarnesâ @readerandcinephileingeneralâ @stevieboyharringtonâ @notsomellowmushroomâ @veganfangirl5â @mood-pancakesâ @lbuck121â
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