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buckyismyaesthetic · 7 years

Text

Punk (Chap. 8)

Summary: You’re head over heels for your best friend Bucky and hate the nickname he gave you as it doesn’t exactly scream romance.

Word count: 4284...oops

Warnings: Same as always

A/N: Okay here it is chapter 8. Let me know if the flow of this chapter is okay, if it makes sense. I’d like to get a better feel of how I construct scenes so I can improve for the future. I LOVE feedback, you have no idea. So don’t be afraid to lemme know how you feel!

Also, there is a line in here with an asterisk (*) after it. It is a paraphrase from Criminal Minds season 3 episode 8 said by Penelope Garcia to Derek Morgan and it is something that has always stuck with me and I just thought it was so perfect for this chapter.

Perhaps watching Investigation Discovery’s documentary on the world’s most notorious serial killers at one o’clock in the morning while finishing off the leftover apple pie in an essentially deserted tower wasn’t the smartest move. Every sound was suddenly more sinister and every shadow could be hiding a deranged murderer who wanted nothing more than to chop off your head and keep it in the freezer, which had startled you so badly when it spit out ice cubes into its inner bin that you spilled an entire glass of water on Ferdinand who ran shrieking from the room and knocked over what was probably a very expensive vase. Fuck.

But you’d already fallen into the vortex of twisted true-crime stories and you weren’t likely to surface anytime soon. It was like watching a car crash. But it was a welcome distraction from your train wreck of an evening and took your mind off, however briefly, of the endless ebb and flow of self-loathing thoughts plaguing your mind. So if listening to psychologists throw out theories about psychopaths and narcissists and human behaviour made you forget your own personal problems, then so be it. Bring on the gore.

An hour later the pie was gone, you hated yourself and lack of self-control, and both the Zodiac Killer’s and Jack the Ripper’s identities were still unknown. The thought was unsettling. How had they gotten away with all that they’d done? Did they have help? Hydra, you thought wickedly. Or the Illuminati…or vampires...Freddy Krueger…Jason Voorhees…Michael Myers…You glanced around the dark, still living room. The others wouldn’t be home until closing time and the nearest person was at least three floors away….you glared around at the shadows…did that book case always look so….shelfy? Was the kitchen clock always so...aggressive? Tick!…tock…tick!…tock…

The faint sound of the elevator door opening had you springing from the couch, knocking the empty pie dish and all of its crumbs onto the carpet with a clang, and diving to the floor. Some brave Avenger you were. “Pssst, F.R.I.D.A.Y?!” why you were whisper-shouting was beyond you. “Is there a murderer in the building?”

“Several highly- trained assassins, including yourself, currently call this tower home,” the A.I. responded...AT A NORMAL FREAKING VOLUME! Great, now the murderer knows I’m here! Tony couldn't make a stealth-bot, could he? Something that understood the subtleties of surviving a serial killer!

Ok that might have been a tad dramatic. “Hey! I’m not an assassin! I’m an Avenger! It’s different!” you hissed. “I’m not, like, a serial killer,” you grumbled.

“Serial killer is such an ugly term. I was a specialized weapon and not by choice might I add.” Bucky’s soft, sarcastic voice came from behind you causing you to yelp and jump nearly a foot in the air.

“Oh my god, you scared the shit outta me!” Your hand was on your heart as it jackhammered against your sternum, something you were fairly certain Bucky could hear even from ten feet away.

Bucky laughed and flipped on the light, bathing the room in a soft, yellow glow. Immediately, you threw yourself back on the couch and grabbed the soft, plush blanket you’d been using as a shield during your murder stories. Hopefully, if you tucked the edges around your face at just the right angles, he wouldn’t notice your red, puffy eyes and runny makeup. But you’d avoid making eye contact just for good measure. And, for the first time since you’d met him, you wished he’d go away. Bucky Barnes was not someone you wanted to see anymore of tonight.

“What’re you doin’ home?” Your voice was muffled like you have a bad head cold and you cringed, hoping he’ll just think you’re tired rather than you’d spent the better part of the evening blubbering uncontrollably.

Bucky shrugged, leaning against the wall. “Didn’t feel up to it anymore. What’re you doin’ here? They uh, they said you left with uh, some guy.”

The uncertainty in Bucky’s voice caught your attention and your head whipped away from the television to look at him. Why was he making that face? He looked like he couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. “They said you left with some guy.” A wave of anger bubbled up. What, like it was so preposterous?! You felt your brow furrow and upper lip curl at the thought.

You nod curtly. “Yeah. I did.” Technically it was the truth. You had walked out of the club with a man.

Bucky cleared his throat. “He here?” He looks around for any sign of company; taking in the discarded pie tin and your change in attire since he’d seen you a few hours earlier. Your jaw clenched in anger. Thanks for the reminder, Buck, that no, you were not the only man to be repulsed by me this evening and yeah, I ate all the fuckin’ pie, so back off!

Why was he even asking you these questions? Clearly, he already couldn't imagine a male specimen being remotely interested in you. So what? He wanted confirmation or something? Did he need to hear it to actually get some fucking closure? Is that what he wanted? Your confirmation that, no, no man in his right mind would ever want to get involved with you? Fine, then he could have it. “No,” your voice was laced with underlying anger. “He’s not here.”

Bucky nodded and locked eyes with you, taking in the red, puffy lids, before you turned away again. If you looked at him too long, the mixture of sad, angry tears would return as you faced the truth that someone who looked like that would never want someone who looked like you. “He didn’t try anything?...Did he?”

And you fucking lost it.

“Excuse me?” He’d sounded if the mere notion of a man coming home with you was simply unbearable to think about. Really? It’s that implausible?! An anger you hadn’t known existed welled up inside. It was as if your heart, engulfed in flames, was pumping out waves of white hot rage through every vein. You pushed yourself up from the couch and faced Bucky like an angry tiger poised to strike. Never in a million years did you think you would look at Bucky like this. You’re fists were clenched painfully and your teeth were bared as you snarled, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Bucky had the decency to look afraid. His glacial blue eyes widened as he pushed off from the wall and stepped closer to you, hands held up in defense. “Wh-what—I d—”

“No, explain to me what the fuck that’s supposed ta mean!” Your roar had stopped him in his tracks as you trembled with rage. But the dam had broken, letting all the pain and anger you had been holding in, all of the fears and insecurities you'd been holding on to, come tumbling out. “What, so no one could ever wanna try somethin’ with me?! Is that it?! That I’m not worth it? Not good enough? Huh?! Is it that farfetched an’ ridiculous ta think that someone could ever wanna have sex with me?!”

“No! No, that’s not what I—” Bucky sputtered in horror but you cut him off, erupting like Mount Vesuvius. Your rage raining down around the once peaceful living room.

“No no no, go ahead! Explain it to me,” you challenged, throwing your hands in the air. “Tell me what you really think! That nobody could possibly want someone who looks like me! Maybe you wouldn’t stoop so low as ta give me a second look but that doesn’t mean that someone less superficial wouldn’t*! Just because you’re perfect doesn’t mean that everyone who isn’t doesn’t deserve to be liked in some way!” Your voice broke a little at the end and the fact that Bucky just stood there, hands covering his mouth slightly, looking completely shocked, did nothing to quell your fury.

“I—I didn’t—what I—”

But you were beyond listening to him. Your rage wasn’t over. And even if you knew logically that it really wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t attracted to you, that people like who they like, the fact that Bucky, your best friend Bucky, the man you loved whole-heartedly, body and soul, didn’t find you attractive in any way, shape, or form, well, that shattered your heart into a million little pieces. And that made you fucking furious.

And as hurt as you were that Bucky wasn’t interested and that he thought you so abhorrent that you could never manage to snag a man, you were mostly angry at yourself for even liking Bucky in the first place! It was ridiculous to have allowed yourself to fall so completely for someone like him. And forget what he looked like—He was a fucking superhero for fuck’s sake! He saved the world! He protected the weak and injured and innocent. He sacrificed his life, his sanity, for his country. He fought back against his tormenters. He fell apart and picked himself back up again after all he was forced to do and had the goddamn nerve to beg for forgiveness for crimes he had no responsibility over. Bucky Barnes was a goddamn treasure. Who the fuck did you think you were to covet it?

You were a complete moron and, in fact, you were so goddamn enraged with yourself that you had begun to both cry and laugh humorously at the same time. It was as if you no longer had any control of your emotions. It was fucking laughable! This whole thing was entirely ridiculous! The tears began to flow freely as you realized what a complete joke your life was at this point.

Everything leading up to this horrific moment was your fault and yours alone. It all could’ve been avoided if you had just kept your mouth shut and went back to your dorky, pathetic, loveless existence. Then you would still have Bucky’s friendship, your money, and whatever fucking dignity you possessed in the first place. But that was all out the window now! Now you were destroying it all.

“And to think I did all of this stupid shit just to—to get you to—and you didn’t even notice!” You laughed darkly at your own stupidity. “All this effort, and money and time, and for what? Nothing!”

Bucky pressed his hands through his hair, completely bewildered at the scene before him, when he stopped short. “What?” His eyebrows knitted and the colour drained from his face. “What’re you—what’d’you mean?” His voice was but a whisper. It annoyed you. What’d’you mean ‘what’d’you mean?’?!

You rolled your eyes obnoxiously. “I mean that I’m a fucking idiot for thinking that a dress and some makeup would make you see me any differently,” you seethed. When he continued to stare at you completely dumbfounded you sighed and quietly added, “I know what kind of girls you like… I saw you the other night…at Luke’s.”

“You were there?” Bucky stepped forward again, looking at you with wide eyes. His voice was low and serious and he shook his head as he spoke. “You saw-? Look, that wasn’t—”

“You don’t hafta explain. I was there. I know.” You stepped back from him, shaking your head sadly. Fat tears fell away from your cheeks and rained down to the floor. “And I’m so stupid.” Your voice cracked with emotion and you took in a shaky breath before continuing. “I did all of this, the hair and makeup and clothes, but I can’t compete with girls like that.” There it was. Out in the open. You’d finally admitted the truth; you weren’t good enough, attractive enough, for Bucky.

And when he just continued to stare at you, looking more and more horrified at your confessions, another wave of tears spilled over, choking your voice even more. “Who was I kidding!? I must’ve been out of my goddamn mind to think that all of this would work. That you’d actually–”

It was Bucky’s turn to interrupt you. He waved his arms to stop you and, with a voice filled with complete and utter bewilderment, “A—are you saying that this was all for me? Why? Why would—”

You couldn't bare this. Your face screwed up to stop more sobs from escaping; your chin trembled with the effort. It was too much. Actually having to stand there and listen to Bucky’s rejection, to his horror at your crush, no. That was too much. The look on his face, the shock, it was like a knife had been plunged into your heart. He’d had no idea how you felt. And now he was completely thrown, absolutely stunned. Your anger surged once again. Was it really so foreign for him to think that you could actually like him? Or that anyone could like you?

“Why would you fall for it?” you asked, finishing his question for him. “I’ve been asking myself that all night because clearly it didn’t work!” you cried causing Bucky’s mouth to drop open. “Congrats, you can’t be fooled! Apparently just because Y/N tries to dress like a girl, doesn’t mean she is one! To think for a second you'd see anything other than a reject, a whale, in a dress…” you shook your head dejectedly. “What was I thinking?”

“I—I just—”

“And to top it all off, you were right! Ethan isn’t here!” You laughed wetly as the endless river of tears fell. You displayed your arms widely as you spoke. “He didn’t want to come home with me. Why the hell would he, right? Look at me! No no no, it was just another delusional fantasy of mine. To think that I could actually get a guy to be attracted to me in some way, oh my god, it’s fucking laughable, right?! So let’s all take a moment and bask in your wonderful ability to be see the fucking future and come home to find me all alone, just as you expected.” Three sharp claps sounded around the living room, making Bucky wince. “Happy?” you demanded.

He stepped closer, reaching for your hand. His eyes welled up and his lower lip was shaking ever so slightly. “No, no, Punk, you’ve got it all wrong, that’s not what—”

“STOP FUCKING CALLING ME THAT!” You ripped your arm away from his grasp, causing Bucky to freeze, his arm still out stretched towards you. You’d never pulled away like that before.

His lips gaped open like a fish as he searched for something to say. You, on the other hand, were panting heavily as if you’d just run a mile. Hastily, you used your shirt collar to dab at the steady stream of tears.

It was certainly a night of new territory for you two. Not once had you ever mentioned how you felt about that particular nickname. That every time he called you that you felt a little part of your heart breakaway, shrivel up, and die like a flower dropping petals as the seasons change. No, you’d just responded when he said it, your head turning in his direction, knowing it was you he was talking to as less and less frequently the term was directed towards Steve. You were the punk. Just you.

Bucky cleared his throat and swallowed hard, pursing his lips. “Y/N, I—I don’t…” He stopped to clear his throat again and rapidly blinked his glassy eyes.

“Just forget it, Barnes.”

“Barnes? Barnes?” Taken aback by the use of his last name, Bucky sounded both hurt and offended. You’d never called him anything but some shortened form of ‘Bucky’, something that was always laced with affection. “You never call me—”

“Well, it’s a helluva lot better than being someone’s punk, don’t ya think?” you snapped. “I looked it up. I know what I mean to you. And I am fucking sick of it. I’ve never felt so fucking stupid in my entire life. Here I am pining after you, praying to gods I don’t believe in that you’ll feel the same way when all you see is this—this disgusting, thing and I—I can’t—I can’t take it anymore.”

“No, Y/N, just—just let me explain,” Bucky begged moving towards you again, but with each step closer he took, the more you backed away, making his face twist in an unrecognizable expression. Each breath felt like a thousand razor blades scraping against your lungs. Was this heartbreak? Or humiliation? Or was it something more? Whatever it was, it was unbearable.

“That’s the thing,” you whispered. “You don’t hafta explain anything. I get it. I already know. You’ve made it painfully clear.” A loud sob racked through you causing your whole body to shake. You couldn't meet Bucky’s eyes anymore. It hurt too much. You weren’t afraid to see hate there. No, Bucky didn’t hate you, not even after all of this. But you knew you'd find pity there. Pity for the poor, pudgy, pathetic, punk that was in love with a man so obviously out of her league.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into the ensuing silence. What you were sorry for you weren’t quite sure. For making a scene? For ruining a friendship? For taking your self-hatred and insecurities out on an innocent bystander? For shouting at Bucky for not feeling the same way? For falling in love with him in the first place?

Or were you sorry for being ugly and fat and embarrassing? Or for being terrible at being a girl?

Probably all of it.

Yeah, all of it.

A hot wave of embarrassment hit as your mind, at lightning speed, ran through all that had transpired since Bucky had walked in on your mini television marathon. The anger had all but drained away and was rapidly being replaced with mortification at your words and actions. Had you really just spilled your guts to Bucky? Did you actually reveal your feelings? Oh god, you’d told him all of your insecurities. Admitted your embarrassing and failed attempts to seduce him. Panic, hot and intense, surged up, triggering your fight-or-flight response.

And you gave in.

And you ran.

“Y/N, wait! Don’t leave! Please don’t leave,” Bucky called.

You could hear his footfalls behind you, but instead of bolting for the once safe haven that was your room, you turned down the long hall, and shouted for F.R.I.D.A.Y to shut the elevator doors the moment you set foot in it. Turning as the doors closed, you saw Bucky running towards you. He was shouting for you to stop. But he reached the doors too late and collided into them with the thud of metal on metal as they sealed you away.

The last thing you heard was the strangled cry of your name as the elevator descended deeper into the tower.

***

Please be here. Please be here. The elevator doors couldn't open fast enough. Each racking sob at what has just happened upstairs threatened to break you apart. Almost on autopilot you found yourself knocking loudly on the door, making it rattle in the frame. Please, please be home.

A sleepy, bleary eyed Clint Barton ripped the door open, ready to rage at the dipshit who had the nerve to wake him up when he had to leave at the ass crack of dawn for a mission he was less than thrilled to go on. “What the fu—?”

He stopped short to see you standing there, sobbing uncontrollably, in the dead of night.

“I’m s-sorry. I’m s-so- s-sorry,” you hiccoughed, trying to sign to him at the same time, before noticing that he’d shoved at least one hearing aid in before answering the door. She’s not here, she’s not home yet. “I-I thought Nat w-would—and you hafta go soon—I’m—I’m ”

Clint’s arm shot forward and pulled you roughly to his chest and into Natasha’s room closing the door behind you. “Stop, that doesn’t matter. What happened? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His hands cupped your face and he feverishly looked you up and down for any signs of injury.

You shook your head but continued to blubber letting hot tears fall onto his fingers.

Clint pulled you to his chest, allowing you to cry onto his t-shirt, and stroked your hair soothingly. He moved you both to the bed where he laid with you in his arms. “Talk to me, kid. What happened?”

And you spilled your guts about everything. About recruiting Nat and Wanda to try to make you pretty, about falling in love with Bucky, about not being thin enough or pretty enough or womanly enough for him. And you told him how much you hated every single thing about yourself because it just wasn’t right or normal or cool. And then you sputtered unintelligibly for a while because it all sounded so unbelievably stupid when you said it out loud.

“Shh, Y/N, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” Clint whispered, kissing your hair.

“No, it’s not,” you wailed, your voice muffled against his chest. You sniffed loudly. “I ru-ruined ev-everyth-thing.” As you retold the events of the evening, both at the club and in the living room, Clint let you sob without interruption. His hands rubbed up and down your back as you shook in his arms.

“Why doesn’t anyone like me?” Clint’s heart clenched sharply at your words. “Why doesn’t he like me? I—I just want t-to be pretty. Why can’t I be pretty?”

“Y/N, are you kiddin’ me? You’re beautiful,” Clint whispered against your hair. These confessions of yours had come to a complete shock to him. But your revelations about what you really thought about yourself made him angry. How could you think these things? Why did you think these things? How could you make him see what to him is so obvious?

Ignoring his proclamations, you cried harder, your frame shaking the whole bed as you curled against his side, fists curled in his shirt as a pain you’d never before experienced fell over you. And the only thing you could do was ride it out.

When you were done, when you’d exhausted both the story and your body, when you were all used up and were completely void of tears, when every emotion had finally poured its way out of you, you fell silent against him. Clint stroked your back absently and it wasn’t until your breathing had slowed and evened out that he realised that you’d fallen asleep against him.

Sometime later the door creaked open and Nat wandered in, shoes in hand. She let her dress pool at her feet as she slipped into one of Clint’s t-shirts and crawled into bed behind you. The dip in the bed pulled Clint out of his sleep and he squinted around in the darkness. Nat flicked a small nightlight on.

‘Hi, baby,’ she signed to him. ’What’s Y/N doing here? Everything okay?’ Her brow furrowed in concern.

Clint sat up slightly with a yawn, gently placing you back on the pillow. Once he tucked the hearing aids in snuggly he relayed in a sleepy whisper what you’d told him. Nat remained silent, her expression growing graver with each passing moment. She’d begun combing her fingers carefully through your hair as Clint spoke. Your eye lids were red and puffed up from crying and roughly wiping away the tears with your hand. Even in sleep Natasha could see that you weren't peaceful.

Her gaze moved from your tired form to her boyfriend. He looked so dejected. One of his hands was still wrapped around you but the other had found Natasha’s. He gripped her fingers tightly, rubbing a thumb against the soft skin on the back of her hand. Nat smiled and brought his fingers to her lips, leaving a soft kiss there.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” Nat mumbled against his skin, her voice flowing with love and gratitude.

Clint smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll always take care of her. I’ll take care of the both of you. Don’t ever thank me for that,” he whispered.

Nat nodded and whispered, “I love you.”

“Not as much as I love you.” When she rolled her eyes in denial at the proclamation Clint chuckled softly. The movement caused you to stir and you rolled over to face Natasha. Sleepily, you opened your eyes which were still sticky with half-dried tears. “Nat,” you croaked. “I—I’m sorry, an—and Clint’s le-leavi—”

She shushed you and snuggled closer, tucking your head under her chin, effectively cutting off an unnecessary apology. Clint moved closer behind you and you felt the two lovers joined hands resting on your back. Nat’s other hand was still stroking your hair as she whispered kind words and your blubbering ceased to silent tears falling on the pillow. Nat kissed your forehead softly.

Clint’s low voice vibrated through your back. “It’s okay, kiddo. Everything will be okay.” You murmured softly at his words as sleep claimed you once again in the warmth of their arms.

“Babe?”

“Hmm?”

“Why?”

Natasha didn’t have to ask him to clarify. She knew exactly what he was asking. Why did you think those things? Why did you, a lovely, beautiful woman, think you were so repulsive? Why didn’t you see what he saw, what Nat saw, what everybody else saw? Why didn’t you believe them?

“I dunno. I don’t understand it either,” she replied glumly.

“I hate it.”

“Me too, baby. Me too.”

And like that, hands clasped tightly, holding the broken girl together between them, they drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

TAG LIST: You know how much tumblr annoys me with its tag issues.

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