#really wanted to draw wels for a while and suddenly got an urge to draw thinghs idk what to tell you

[jestroer]

late night Wels in a cute outfit

[writingthingsisdifficult]

Saving the world (Double booking pt 2)

I was asked to write a second part, and as inspiration struck, well… here it is.

They've shared a room. Now what?

If you like it, let me know :D

Word count: 5655

Part 1

_______________________________________________________________________

The light is seeping under the curtains, dragging you back to the conscious world, but you're not ready to get up just yet. So you squeeze your eyes shut and stretch your back. It's stiff as a board, and your cheek has seemingly set in a permanently squished position. The room feels stuffy and warm, and there's a soft noise you don't recognise at first. But when you finally open your eyes, you can't help but smile.

Everything's a bit blurry without your glasses, but there's no mistaking the man sleeping in the bed next to yours. His arm, which you suddenly notice isn't gloved, but a prosthetic, is hanging over the edge of the bed, and if you strain your imagination, it's almost stretched towards you.

It looks like he hasn't moved at all during the night. Neither have you when you come to think of it. When you stretch again, your neck cracks as if you were eighty, and it's a struggle to lift one leg over the other, though that might just be that you're still half asleep.

As you fumble for your glasses, Bucky opens his eyes and gives you a sleepy smile. "Good morning."

Your heart skips a beat, and it's as if you've forgotten all suitable responses to such an innocent greeting. "Yeah." That's what comes out of your mouth, and you groan.

"You sleep good?" He yawns and props up on his elbow.

"Mhm. Like a baby."

"Me too."

You grin and roll over on your back just as the loudest growl erupts from your stomach. Heat creeps up your neck and ears, and you mutter a soft "Sorry."

Bucky laughs. "Don't apologise for being hungry. What do you say we go get some breakfast?"

"I could eat."

After a quick shower and a couple of frustrating minutes picking an outfit, you really don't want to look like a slob in front of Bucky, you're both seated in the restaurant, devouring the bacon and eggs like your lives depend on it.

The conversation is light. You're slowly getting to know each other. "I'm freelancing for the government," Bucky says and gulps down his orange juice. "It's all really boring, though."

You nod and stuff your mouth with bacon. "I'm sure it isn't. But paperwork, am I right?" you add with a chuckle.

Nodding, he wipes his mouth and takes another bite. "Mhm. How about you?"

"Oh, it's not very interesting. I freelance too, I guess. Right now I've been hired to design a calendar with paintings from the city. It's not well paid, but it's fun."

"So you're an artist? May I see some of your work?"

Suddenly you feel a bit self-conscious. That's weird. You haven't had doubts about your art in forever. "I've got some photos in my phone." You hesitate for a second, then fish it out and unlock it. Scrolling down, you find the series of paintings you did last spring. Green and lush, you get a pang of longing for the fresh air and colourful flowers. The contrast is vast from the grey city.

"Wow, these are good!" Bucky exclaims and starts gushing over your lines and colour and the composition, and you feel your ego inflating with every word. All you can do is sit there with a stupid grin on your face, and a pulsing heat in your cheeks, while he builds you up like he's a professional.

You've totally forgotten the time when the staff tells you that the restaurant, unfortunately, is closed now, but that you're welcome back for dinner later. With many an apology, the two of you get up and head to the lobby, where you stay, talking for almost an hour before you remember why you are here in the first place.

"Sorry," you say, and mean it. "I need to get some work done before the light goes. I was thinking of heading down to the harbour today. See if the water can inspire me."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess." Bucky looks down on his feet and gives you a small smile. Then he looks up again, his eyes shining, competing with the glorious smile that grows on his lips. "Do you mind if I come with you? I mean… you don't have to say yes, I just…"

"No, of course." You're relieved that he asked, letting you out of asking him yourself. "Some company would be lovely. Just gotta get my stuff. Meet you back here in ten minutes?"

He nods and sighs almost imperceptibly once you've turned away, watching as you almost skip towards the elevator. A tiny voice in the back of his head warns him that he has tripped and is going to fall hard if he doesn't get a grip soon, but he ignores it. The feeling is too pleasant to care just now.

The next few days you establish a routine of sorts. Bucky knocks on your door, asks to sleep next to you, you say yes, and you wake up, turned towards each other. After breakfast, you head out into the city, sometimes he's leading the way, sometimes you have a plan, and you spend the day drawing and talking and without realising it, falling hard for him. Every evening you have dinner in one of the restaurants near the hotel, and every evening you forget what is happening around you, and all you can focus on is Bucky.

_____________________________________________________________________

The sun is shining. A bird is singing in the tree behind you. You can barely hear the traffic from the road outside the park. Bucky is lounging on the grass, chewing on a straw, and you've been drawing him in secret for the past two hours, your original subject completely forgotten and rejected. When he looks up at you, his face is filled with happiness. "This is nice," he says, careful to mask his full joy.

"Yes, it is," you reply, quickly hiding the drawing under a sketch of the bridge and skyline.

He sits up and looks like he wants to say something, but he closes his mouth instead. After a small pause, he gets up and holds out his hand. "Let's go grab something to eat."

"Okay," you whisper, breathless from the feel of his hand in yours. "Lead the way."

He takes you to a small café at the edge of the park, explaining that it's famous for its fries, and they've got the bestdipping sauce, you just have to try it.

You're in the middle of the meal, laughing at a joke, when a shadow interrupts. Looking up, you hear Bucky mutter a curse under his breath, and you feel a pinprick of fear in your neck. He's glaring at the stranger, and the stranger surprisingly returns the look.

"Um…" You look between Bucky, sat at the table with a curly fry sticking out from the corner of his mouth, staring daggers, to the man who just interrupted your lunch. The truth smacks you in the head with force. Holy shit! That's Captain America. Captain freaking America! And it slowly dawns on you who Bucky really is.

The glass you just picked up slides back to the table, sprite sloshing over the sides as it hits, but you don't realise your hand is cold and wet. All you can focus on is that your roommate for the last week is… Bucky Barnes, AKA The Winter Soldier. Yeah. You try very hard to swallow the food in your mouth, but it's so dry, and forcing it makes your throat ache.

Said soldier quickly chews the curly fry and swallows thickly. "What do you want, Sam?"

Sam hands him a pad, and upon reading the contents, Bucky's frown deepens.

"It's very nice to meet you," Sam says, his shining smile lighting up the whole room. "I'm Sam, by the way."

"Y/N," you reply, still unaware that the hand you're using to shake Captain America's hand with is wet and slightly sticky. Actually, you're kinda unaware of your surroundings altogether.

Sam laughs, making Bucky look up from the message, scowls at Sam, then returns to his reading. "So you're the one who's keeping Bucky busy, huh?" He winks, and you feel that heat creeping up the back of your neck. "From the look on your face, I'd say you didn't know who you're having lunch with, right?"

You nod, squeaking a confirmation.

Sam laughs. "I thought after the whole Flag Smashers case, everybody knew who Bucky was."

Your ears burn, and you breathe a little faster now. Of course, you've been to the exhibit at the Smithsonian, and of course you know about Steve Rogers' best friend, it just never connected in your brain that this super sweet man is a WWII hero and assassin.

Your eyes flick from his prosthetic arm and up to his face. "Uh… I'm just not super into the whole celebrity thing?" you offer, blurting out the first thing that pops into your head.

Snickering, Sam turns to Bucky. "And you didn't tell her?" There's a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Bucky picks on a stain on the table before setting up a defiant face. "It didn't come up." And he wants to add And by the way, how do you go about saying Oh, and FYI I'm a former assassin and murderer, to a woman you really want to get to know better?

He looks so uncomfortable, you get a strong urge to hug him, but now you're uncertain of all this. What if the two of you are against the rules? Wait, what are you, really? Friends? Accidental roommates? You like Bucky. You really like Bucky, and you had kinda hoped it would grow into something… more, but now… Swallowing the lump in the back of your throat – that was an unexpected reaction – you smile flatly. "Are, are you allowed to, to… I mean, can you be friends with…" You swallow again. "Civilians?"

Sam's eyes widen for a split second, and somehow you feel as though he can see right through you. Then he laughs, and all the tension around the table dissipates. "Of course. We're human, Bucky's human, as difficult as that is to believe. Of course we're allowed to have friends, relationships, family. Wouldn't be much of a life without it, would it? But expect them to do a background check on you, hell, they probably already know what you ate for dinner on your twelfth birthday."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry, Y/N, but I'm afraid I have to whisk your boyfriend away for a while. There's a situation."

"We're… we're not…" You have to admit that thought feels good, but really, any hope you had has been well and truly smashed.

Bucky gets up and smacks the pad at Sam. "I'll see you later?"

"I'll be here," you reply with fake confidence. "Please be safe. Both of you," you add with a small smile.

"You too," Bucky says softly. "Be careful if you go out after dark. It's not as safe as you think here."

That makes you snort. "It's me. I don't even like people, what am I supposed to do outside after dark, huh? Don't worry. I'll probably stay in my room and paint all day anyway."

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "good", but it's hard to hear over Sam. "I'll take care of him," he laughs, ducking under Bucky's hand as he swats at his head. "Come on, Buck. Let's roll."

"Be safe," you mutter again, looking after them as they head to the black, unmarked car waiting by the flower shop on the corner. It's as if all colour drains from your vision.

_______________________________________________________________________

The first sip of coffee feels divine; just what you need to wake up after spending another night without Bucky. It has been another restless night. You tossed and turned and couldn't settle properly. And the dreams… You'd rather not think about them. Never before has your brain produced such chaotic absurdities, such eldritch horrors, but to be honest you're not really surprised. Sleeping next to Bucky; something just clicked. You smile into your cup, feeling calmer just thinking about it. It's weird how quickly you got used to his presence, and how wrong it feels when he isn't there.

But you don't get to enjoy your drink for long. Before you've even finished the second sip, someone shoves you hard from behind. The coffee spills over the sidewalk, painting the concrete and splashing all over your shoes. "Hey! Watch where you're going!" you bark, turning to confront whoever pushed you. But before you can even see them, they pull a bag over your head.

Panic rises in you, and you scream until your throat feels raw. Someone smacks you across the mouth, and the shock and pain shuts you up. Your lip thumps: it's split, you can taste the blood now. Tears stream down your cheeks, the soft fabric of the bag clings to your skin. Feeling the darkness caress your mind, the world starts folding in over itself. Still you possess enough awareness to kick the person holding you. They yelp and swear, resulting in a sharp rap over your ear. Your head is ringing.

A pair of strong arms pick you up as if you weigh nothing, and haul you along, struggling with your flailing arms and legs. There's a metallic clang, like a van door opening, then you're half lifted, half pulled up, all while screaming and cursing, hoping someone – anyone – will hear.

Someone speaks a language you don't recognise; your sleeve is pushed up and there's a sharp prick in your arm. Seconds later your brain starts spinning. The faint light that seeps through the weaving of the bag blinks like a starry sky.

You sway back and forth, feeling off kilter and fuzzy, as the voices around you grow all garbled and muted. Someone pushes you backwards, but before you hit the floor, you're out. As the world fades from your consciousness, you just wish you could have seen Bucky one more time.

When you come to, your head is pounding, your mouth is dry, and everything is dark. You try to move, but your hands are shackled, and your feet are bound to whatever you're sitting on. At least you're right side up, you think, before the situation dawns on you, and the contents of your stomach threatens to make an appearance. You swallow thickly. God, your mouth is so dry. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, and there's not enough liquid to even wet your lips. All you can do is grimace, feeling how they crack and pop. It stings. The taste of metallic, rusty blood coats your tongue.

Your throat itches, so much so that you can't even speak, but you can cough. Hard, like explosions in your head, and it's enough for you to lose your breath.

Something floppy is shoved into your hands.

"It's upside down, you idiot!" someone shouts, and the paper is turned.

Panic surges through your body, and your throat constricts, increasing your coughing. Your heart is racing, but everything happens so fast you just can't process it. Someone removes the bag from your head. The light burns in your eyes, and the shock stops your coughing instantly. Everything is white. There's voices, and movement, but you can't see anything clearly, and for a moment you wonder if you've lost your contact lenses. Slowly your vision returns, but they all keep to the shadows, and they've covered their faces, so you can't make out any details. The buzzing in your ears almost drown out every sound in the room.

"Look straight ahead," they command, and by some miracle you actually manage to move your head. "Keep your eyes open. Ready!"

There's a bright flash, someone else yells "Got it!" and then, in a flurry of motions you're untied, dragged through a dark hallway and unceremoniously dropped on the floor. The door clangs ominously behind you, and you freeze, waiting for someone to grab you or hurt you. There's no one in the room, but you remain in the floor, rubbing your wrists and trying to calm your breathing.

It's cold in your cell, room, whatever people call it, but at least you've got a blanket, and they've fed you, so there's that. But no matter how many times you've asked, nobody tells you anything.

You're over the initial shock now, and the fear has begun to settle into anger, but you're too numb to react.

"Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? I'm no one, never been important in my whole life, hey, someone please say something." Silence. You bang on the door, not sure what you're hoping for. In the back of your mind you know it's risky, but you need to know. The silence is making the walls come closer. You lick your lip. It's bleeding again.

You figure your friendship with Bucky has something to do with your current predicament, but you're not sure exactly what they hope to achieve. It's not like you're best friends or anything, but maybe what you have is enough for him to come for you. That thought sends an electric jolt straight to the small of your back. For a moment you allow yourself to hope, to imagine him blasting through the door and marching in with murder in his eyes, angels singing, and the light surrounding him like a halo.

You laugh grimly. What are even the odds of him finding out where you are? Does he even care? He is the Winter Soldier, after all. He's probably got better things to do, he's busy saving the world, no doubt.

_______________________________________________________________________

Bucky smiles as he walks through the hallway, the ugly carpet muting the urgency in his steps. He can't wait to see you again. It's only been four days, but it feels like forever so the moment he got the all-clear after mission report, he made Sam drop him off at your hotel.

A short walk later he's standing outside your room, heart in his throat and arm outstretched, ready to knock. His stomach dances, pure happiness courses through him. It's been so long since he felt like this; he swears he can almost feel it in his metal arm.

A soft knock. No answer. He knocks again, harder this time. Still no answer. It's only a few minutes past eleven, you won't be asleep yet. You never fall asleep before midnight.

Suddenly it's like someone's poured a bucket of ice water over him. Putting an ear against the door, he listens like some kind of creep, but the room is silent. Maybe you're out. But that doesn't make sense either. It's too dark to get any proper work done, and you're not one for night clubs, or so you've said. Could you have checked out? Bucky's heart skips a beat. What if you're gone? But… wouldn't you at least have left him a message?

Turning on his heel, he marches back to the elevator as if he's got the devil on his tail. There's a really nasty feeling growing in his gut, something he just can't afford to think about now.

He presses the elevator button multiple times, but it takes its sweet time, so instead, he heads to the stairs, taking several steps at once, then skips the steps altogether and jumps over the railing, landing with a heavy thud on the ground floor.

There's a tenseness to his stride as he walks to the front desk, feeling more and more anxious with every breath. He never thought he'd feel this way again; that pit in his stomach and the growing stone in his chest. Last time, he was on a plane, heading for Italy in 1943, not knowing what was waiting for him.

"Excuse me," he says, rather gruffly, spooking the receptionist, though how she didn't hear him stomping through the lobby is a mystery. His own ears buzz loudly, and it's a miracle he can hear her at all.

"Good evening. How may I help you?" She smiles in that professional way people do when they're interrupted and don't really want to talk.

Bucky glances at the reflection in the glass wall behind her. Solitaire. He shakes his head to clear it a bit. "Um, yeah. Is there a message for me? For James Barnes or maybe Bucky."

She looks through the papers on the desk and shakes her head. "Sorry."

He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. "Okay. Don't suppose you could tell me if Y/N has checked out of room 508?" His brows furrow, but he tries to smile anyway.

Another head shake. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not allowed to disclose that kind of information." She looks briefly at her screen, then back up at Bucky, fake smile plastered on her face.

Bucky bites his tongue and swallows the rage that's building in him. It's not the receptionist's fault. She doesn't understand. But then he gets an idea. "Right, of course," he says, making his voice sweeter. "But maybe you will allow me to leave her a message?"

"Certainly. Let me grab a pen and paper for you."

So you haven't checked out. From the look on her face, the receptionist doesn't realise she's confirmed his suspicions. Well, he'll leave a message just in case, but it's time for drastic measures.

Outside it's dark now. Low clouds are threatening with rain. No one sees the dark figure slipping around the corner and jumping to grab the lowest rung of the fire ladder. Bucky easily hoists himself up, and climbs to the fifth floor, keeping to the shadows and making as little noise as possible. He knows where the window to your room is, and in less than a minute he's standing on the tiny balcony, peering in.

The room looks untouched. The bed is made, your stuff is all there. There's an almost finished portrait on the sketch pad on the desk; a smiling, content picture of himself. Nothing is missing except you. Bucky is three seconds from losing it.

A cold raindrop hits the back of his neck, drawing him from his haze. Soon the sky has opened up, and he's blasted with icy water. It soaks through his jeans, and drips from his hair into his eyes. Without looking back, he slides down the fire ladder and lands in a puddle. He doesn't know what to do next. Maybe Sam knows, so he ducks back into the hotel to get out of the rain, but before he can make the call, he's interrupted by the receptionist.

"Mr Barnes, I apologise. I didn't see this before. Someone left this for you." The woman hands him a large, brown envelope. All of a sudden he's transported back in time; drowning in flashes of memories of past missions, but he shakes himself out of it. Leaning on the column by the door, he opens the envelope.

There's nothing in there but a photo. It makes his stomach turn, and for the first time since he's been free, he has to fight the rage of the Winter Soldier, expanding, threatening to explode and send him on a vengeance fuelled killing spree. "When? Do you know who delivered it?" His voice is darker than usual, and the woman steps back just from the sound.

"I'm sorry," she squeaks. "It's been here for a couple of days, I think. I wasn't here when it was delivered." She hurries back behind her counter, putting a safe distance between them.

Bucky adjusts his stance, and forces his voice to sound kinder. "Thank you. Is there somewhere I can make a phone call, undisturbed?"

She nods and points to a nook behind the oversized fern in the corner. There's a sliding glass door that will provide some privacy.

Turning the envelope over in his left hand, Bucky is careful to not leave any more fingerprints on it. It is unmarked, but he knows people who can read things that no one else can see.

Whipping out his phone, he dials the first number in the contact list. He doesn't realise it, but he's shaking. The four seconds it takes for Sam to pick up are an excruciating eternity, and Bucky grips the door handle to keep himself from running off without a plan.

Before he can even say hello, Bucky wheezes: "They've got her, Sam!"

"Who?"

"Y/N! They've taken her!" He closes his eyes. The photo has burned into his mind.

"I'm on my way."

Bucky relaxes his grip on the door. There's a dent in the metal, and that makes him even angrier. They've made him lose control. He curses as he exits the tiny room, pacing over the floor, waiting for the voice of reason to arrive.

Being Sam, being Captain America, opens a lot of doors, so when he shows up at the hotel, requesting to look through the surveillance tapes – though it really is a demand; he's got a way with words, Bucky muses, thinking back to when he realised that what he first took as being soft, really isn't soft at all. Anyway, they all fawn over each other, fighting to be the one to give Cap access. Bucky can hardly watch.

"Give us a few minutes," Sam says with a smile, settling in front of the computer.

"Of course." The manager bows and closes the door.

Then Sam turns to Bucky. "Okay. When did you see her last?"

"Four days ago, right before we left on that goddamn mission." He wants to beat himself that he exposed you to danger, and he resists the urge to take out his irritation by slapping Sam over the head. Instead he settles on a flat, emotionless that he hopes conveys all his frustration.

"Right, so somewhere after last Thursday, then." Sam pushes a button, selects the right floor and presses play. Nothing happens for a while, and he pushes a new button, making the footage speed up.

"There!" Bucky shouts, pointing at the screen. There you are. Leaving your room with a large bag over your shoulder. Bucky smiles in spite of his fear. A soft expression on your face and your trusty art supplies at your side. Everything looks normal.

Fast forwarding through the footage, nothing out of the ordinary happens. You return around seven, looking a little bit tired, but happy enough. Food is brought to your room an hour later, and you don't go out again that night.

"Sensible girl," Sam comments, drawing Bucky out of his thoughts.

"Yeah. But she didn't know how much danger she was in."

The night passes in a blur. A drunk couple stumbles through the hallway around two in the morning, but other than that it's quiet, until you leave again around 10am, again with your bag over your shoulder. You look tired, yawning and dragging your feet. The bounce in your step is gone, Bucky notices, and he wonders if it has anything to do with your abduction.

They keep fast forwarding, but when the time stamp shows 11.30pm, Bucky's chest plummets. He knows you're not coming back.

Sam looks at him. “Calm down, man. You look like you’re about to explode!” he hisses, putting his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky shakes him off and glares. “Because I’m this close.”

“But that won’t do her any good, will it? We gotta keep our cool, don’t do anything rash.” Sam's voice is still calm. Bucky doesn't know how he does it.

"Fine." Bucky takes a deep breath, just how his therapist taught him. "Show me what direction she went."

Sam clicks and drags the front camera onto the screen. You stop outside for a few minutes, then head down the street towards the city centre. They follow you on the screen until you disappear from view.

There's a shoe shop on the corner where you turned, so after thanking the hotel manager for the help, they follow your moves through the city. The shoe shop doesn't have a quality video, but it's enough to recognise you. Tracking you through the streets feels like an endurance hunt, Bucky thinks, impatient to find out who took you and where you are. That's all he can focus on: to get you back. And god have mercy on your kidnappers if you're not okay. Eventually Sam and Bucky stop at a small restaurant, but they don't have surveillance at all.

"Okay. Let's head to that Starbucks," Bucky says, nodding across the road. "They're bound to have surveillance, right?"

Sam rolls his shoulders. "Let's go."

The video shows three large figures, lurking in the shadows in one of the side streets. They're watching as you enter the café, and when you exit with a large coffee in hand, the gang is ready. The footage jumps a bit, but it captures the terror in your face, and Bucky feels like throwing up. You're hauled into a waiting van, it's an unmarked, normal van, but as it speeds away, luck strikes. The camera got a clear shot of the number plate.

Bucky lets Sam handle the rest. He can't shake the guilt, the pit in his stomach that grows larger and larger. And his anger grows too. Why didn't anybody react, nobody can convince him that nobody heard or saw anything. He watches as Sam talks on the phone, already mentally punching your kidnappers to a pulp. The metal arm flexes involuntarily.

Sam puts down the phone and turns to Bucky. "Okay, so here's what they told me: The van isn't connected to anything, they didn't even have a name for me. It's probably a fake number plate. But they said it's been spotted driving to and from a warehouse not too far from here. Let's go suit up while we're waiting for the address."

Bucky exhales. They better hurry up with the address. You've been in captivity for far too long already.

_______________________________________________________________________

It's quiet in the building now. You don't know what time it is; they've taken all your stuff, but you know it's late. Your eyes sting, both from exhaustion and from wanting to cry, not to mention your contacts are getting dry, but you refuse to remove them – not being able to see would terrify you. But neither sleep nor tears come. Sitting on the cot, wrapped in the blanket they thankfully provided, you are too wound up to relax enough to sleep. What if someone comes in while you're out? There's not much chance to defend yourself, but at least if you're awake  you can try to put up a fight.

How long have you been here? It's hard to tell. After the first shock they've pretty much left you alone. Except for the interrogation a few hours later. They kept asking you about where Bucky is, what he's doing, details on his mission, but you told them, truthfully, that you don't know anything. And they seem to believe you. But they still won't let you go. You sigh and pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders. Even if you knew everything you wouldn't have told them anything, but you didn't say that out loud.

Suddenly there's a loud bang reverberating through the walls. Instinctively you flinch, trying to make yourself smaller. Your blood roar in your ears, and it feels like your heart is trying to beat its way through your rib cage. There's a pause – the silence is deafening, then someone yells. You hear gunshots. Heavy boots rush past your door. It's torture just listening to the fight, not knowing what will happen. What if there's a fire? Or what if you're abandoned here? Is this how you're gonna die?

The fight is getting closer. You drag the blanket over your head, locking your arms around your neck. Unfortunately it doesn't mute the sounds, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. Slowly the fight dies down, and for a moment everything is calm. You feel woozy, grateful that you're already sitting down, and you steel yourself for what comes next.

The door opens. Heavy boots slaps against the hard floor. Someone blocks out the light, and you feel a gentle hand on your shoulder, making you flinch and whimper.

A soft voice whispers in your ear. "Y/N?"

You forget to breathe again.

"Y/N," the voice repeats, coaxing you out of your makeshift cocoon.

You look up, and into the eyes of the man you never thought you'd see again. His face is blood-spattered, and his expression is a murderous rage, but the moment your eyes meet, he softens. "Bucky," you breathe, folding yourself out, and reaching for him like a toddler.

He scoops you up, holding you close as you begin to sob into his neck, and he rocks you back and forth until you calm a bit. "Are you hurt?"

Shaking your head, you climb down from his lap and looks over at Sam, hovering by the door. There's a look in his eyes that you can't quite decipher.

"You're bleeding," Bucky says, touching your lip gingerly.

"Oh." You don't know what else to say, as he helps you up on your feet. His arm stays around your shoulders all the way out into open air, and you lean into his embrace. The building is littered with bodies, some are definitely dead, others are being detained by soldiers dressed in black. Your knees buckle from the sight.

"Hey, I've got you," Bucky murmurs into your hair.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming to get me."

"Of course," Sam says, offering you a reassuring smile. "Why shouldn't we?"

You exhale shakily through your nose. "I thought you were busy saving the world and all."

Bucky pulls you closer.

"Don't you know?" Sam asks quietly, so no one else can hear. "You are his world."

_______________________________________________________________________

@schwarzwaelder-kirschtorte

[the-black-birb]

3. Puberty Strikes

pairing: Ennoshita x Reader

masterlist

synopsis: Ennoshita begins to realize that you are a woman and doesn't know how to handle that information.

Junior high was a doozy.

You liked the word doozy; you'd learned it from Chikara. Although it meant “something extraordinary,” it was usually used to mean “something troublesome.” It sounded funny and rolled off your tongue easily. But you didn’t want to think about Chikara, not now. He was the reason why junior high was a doozy and why you kept saying the word doozy and frankly this was getting out of hand.

You groaned, staring at the blank page in front of you. Write about how your junior high experience shaped you. It was a strange question for a high school admission sheet but you hadn’t thought to question until now, wondering what words you could string together to sound meaningful.

***

Primary school had been easy with Chikara at your side, always helping you along the way. You didn’t question it (didn’t want to question it, really) until you were in your final year. He’d promised you when he went away to junior high you two would still talk, even if you weren’t able to share mornings together. On days when he didn’t come by for dinner, Chikara would still find time to meet you at his window with paper and sharpie in hand.

You didn’t mind it at first. Spending less time with Chikara meant the moments you did spend together were extra special. Every smile he sent your way or rock hitting your window (it was a wonder neither of you had broken them yet) was even more important. You swore you didn’t mind it.

Yet inevitably, school got busier for him. There were less late nights and colorful notebooks (reading was easy now so you’d taken to drawing out stories and making him guess). You could see his light on from his room, undoubtedly keeping him up while he studied intensely, but his attention was no longer on you.

You hoped in vain that you’d be able to return to your morning walks together when you got to junior high but there was no such luck. Your parents placed you in a school of their choice, which was conveniently in the opposite direction of Chikara’s. If you were lucky, you’d see him in the morning when you left the house and spare him a wave. He’d always smile charmingly, in a way that made it feel like he’d saved this moment just for you, and then in a few seconds, he’d be gone.

As school went on, it only got worse. You were an above-average student, keeping in mind all the rigorous habits Chikara had enforced in you over the years. You tried not to think too much about where you learned to study since thinking of the boy simply made your chest ache. Although you’d crawled out from your shell and no longer had issues making friends, you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was missing. You’d watch as the girls in your grade talked about guys and crushes, pointing out the cutest and most athletic, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take part. Your mind was elsewhere.

Often, you’d scold yourself for letting him affect you. Your parents were overwhelmingly proud of your grades and the friends you’d made, truly there was nothing for you to complain about. But every morning, you’d leave your house feeling disappointed.

It started during your second year of junior high, and Chikara’s last. Finally, you’d figure out his schedule and made an effort to leave at the same time (you weren’t stalking him, just being observant!) so you could relish in the thirty-second greetings you’d share. You’d changed up your uniform, switching to the summer style without a vest because your friends had insisted it was the cuter version. There was nothing stopping you from having a great day, you were sure of it.

Nothing except Chikara.

You’d walked out of your house gleaming with confidence, even more so because you saw Chikara had left his house at the same moment. With practiced grace (you’d grown out of your clumsy phase) you made your way down the steps of your porch adorning an inviting smile.

“Morning, Chikara!” you greeted. “How’ve you been?” You quietly hoped your cheerful disposition hid your desperation. Whenever you spoke to him lately, your palms would sweat and you’d feel your heart beating in the back of your throat. Your nerves, you’d assumed, were because you hadn’t spoken to him casually in such a long time, and you were starting to forget how. You just wanted him to smile back at you and tease you like he used to.

Instead, you saw red creeping up his neck. Did I make him mad? You’d wondered.

“[L/N]!” he exclaimed, voice cracking. “Good day to you!” was all he had to say before he was turning on his heel, shoulders tense and ears crimson.

You sighed defeatedly. After spending far too much time thinking over your interactions with him, wondering what you’d done wrong and how to fix your relationship, you were about ready to give up.

Your interactions with Chikara (pardon, Ennoshita) remained largely unchanged. On the occasion you saw him, you’d do your best to be civil and greet him with a smile, but he’d often run off in a similar fashion. Once, you’d seen him wait to leave his house until he knew you were gone. You’d daresay he was even trying to avoid you.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. Had you been too clingy? Was he tired of trying to amuse you? You certainly didn’t want to make an enemy of him, but the way his whole face got red whenever you were around you could only assume he was furious with you.

The tensions eased your last year in junior high. Ennoshita was too busy with high school to see you in the mornings (your mother, who still spoke with his parents, had politely informed you that he had volleyball practice in the early morning. You rolled your eyes at the thought. Of course it was volleyball) and often stayed late at school (“Chikara is such a diligent worker!” your mother crooned. You could care less). Fortunately, you had far less embarrassing encounters and on the occasion you were forced to see him (dinners, grocery shopping, spring cleaning), he seemed far calmer.

It was a relief to see him relax around you again. Finally, he regained some of the familiar energy that made you feel safe and sound, knowing he was there. Still, you were nervous around him, worried one of your actions would set him off again. You’d never really understood why Ennoshita got so flustered around you, after all.

Your worries were put to rest when his schedule suddenly changed. You were surprised, one spring afternoon, when you found him sitting on the doorstep of his house with a notebook in hand. Usually, he’d have practice right now and you knew from your mother’s constant babbling that Ennoshtia never skipped. Quietly, you debated calling out to him. He’d been far more polite lately and you’d even gotten him to talk with you about comics last time his family was over for dinner. But you still weren’t certain you two were in good standing, so you tried to test the waters.

“Locked out?” you called to him from in front of his house.

His eyes fluttered up to meet yours and a lazy smile decorated his face (how you missed that smile). “Yeah,” he chuckled. “Didn’t expect to come home so early and I forgot my keys.” You didn’t miss the pink tint of his ears as he explained his embarrassing mistake.

“Well don’t be a stranger, you can wait in my house for your parents to get home,” you offered, gesturing for him to join you. You weren’t certain what possessed you to say that, but the urge to talk with Ennoshita again and reform your friendship kept gnawing at you.

He hesitated for a moment and it was the first time you let yourself wonder if being alone with a boy in your house would make your parents suspicious but you brushed your worries aside. It was Ennoshita, he’d been like a brother to you! You stared at him persistently, and soon he found himself entering your house with his bag in hand.

“Sorry to intrude,” he apologized with a small bow, taking off his shoes.

“It’s no biggie,” you smiled, praying you didn’t seem too excited. “Mom would have my head if she found out I just left you out there,” you joked. She had always liked him, after all.

The two of you settled side by side at your counter, doing your work in silence. You shifted in your seat awkwardly, wanting to break the silence but scared of coming off as too desperate. Your throat was parched, nervousness sinking in.

“Lemonade?” you asked, getting out the pitcher your mother had made and pouring a glass for yourself.

“Sure, thank you,” Ennoshita smiled, realizing you’d already grabbed a second glass for him before he could respond. No one ever said no to your mother’s lemonade.

“You’ve gotten awfully good at literature,” Ennoshita noted, leaning over to look at your notebook as you grabbed a few pretzels to go along with your drinks. You smirked.

“Well, I had an awfully good teacher,” you responded proudly. You sat next to him again, drinks and snacks in hand, and let your thigh bump against his. Playfully, Ennoshita pushed back at you and you found yourself falling into a familiar banter. It was as if you’d never entered into junior high and instead you were back to walking together after school, entirely comfortable in one another’s presence.

You were almost sad when his parents came home and he bid you goodbye.

The next day you got home a bit earlier, just in time to see him walking into his house. Disappointment sunk into your chest as you realized days like the previous were likely few and far between. Maybe it was your own fault for getting your hopes up, but you didn’t want to let him go so easily.

“You know,” you called out, unaware of where your sudden confidence came from. “It’s awfully lonely to be home by myself.”

Ennoshita turned from his door, smirking at you mischievously. “Well, we can’t have that,” he quipped, all too eager to grab his bag and head towards your house.

The next day, he even waited outside for you, patiently reading on your doorstep. You welcomed him in without hesitation, letting yourself be distracted by the sudden company. For almost a whole week you continued this, falling into the habit of seeing him. Although something told you there must obviously be something wrong for him to suddenly show up, you couldn’t bring yourself to ask him why. After almost three years of avoiding you, why now was he waiting on your doorstep? Why wasn’t he at volleyball practice, even though your mother swore he was dedicated to it?

You were too afraid to ask, worried that you’d make him angry or uncomfortable and you’d no longer be able to sit next to him at your counter, blissfully sipping on lemonade without a care in the world. But after a week of spending time with him, you couldn’t stop your curiosity.

“Why aren’t you at volleyball practice?” you asked him, interrupting a rather intriguing argument on why Shakespeare is definitely overrated (“It’s just dick jokes!” Ennoshita insisted, to which you replied “But they’re funny dick jokes!”).

He paused to stare at you. The familiar sensation of fear resting in your stomach swallowed you whole as you were quick to apologize for the question. You’d figured volleyball would be the safest topic to ask him about, something your mothers spoke about. But his hesitation proved you wrong.

“It’s okay,” he calmed you. “Just...embarrassing, I guess.” Ennoshita laughed to himself, but you could tell something was amiss. He smiled wearily, and his eyes seemed to be looking worlds away from you.

“I’ve been skipping out on practice,” he explained to you, staring into his lap. “It got really difficult and I guess I needed a break.” He sighed, exasperated. “But that’s no excuse. I’m just scared.”

You were a bit taken aback with his honesty. To you, Ennoshita had always been someone who could do no wrong and make no mistakes. He wasn’t perfect, but he was damn near close to it. It wasn’t often that you were the one comforting him, and now that you had the chance you were at a loss for words.

“It’s pretty embarrassing to skip practice,” you agreed. Ennoshita winced before laughing it off (“yeah, I deserve that.”) “But isn’t it lamer to not go back at all?”

“Huh?”

You turned your seat towards Ennoshita so he could get your full attention as you stumbled over your words. “I mean, we all need a break sometimes,” you explained. “Like if all I ever read was Shakespeare-” Ennoshita laughed at you, all you had read that week was Shakespeare. “I’d get sick of it sooner or later. So I read some Hemmingway and some Euripides, but I still go back to Shakespeare.” You sighed, shaking your head.

“That analogy doesn’t make sense,” you mumbled, twiddling your thumbs. Seeing you nervous had Ennoshita relaxing in his seat. “You seem like you miss volleyball. What’s stopping you from going back?”

“Pride?” Ennoshita offered.

“What pride?” you snickered. “You’re already skipping.”

You wondered if that was too much teasing for someone you were trying to be cautious of. Ennoshita was awfully sweet, after all, and you didn’t want to offend him.

Your worries were met by hearty, full laughter and crows feet dancing at the corner of Ennoshita’s eyes. It was the first time he’d seemed so unhinged since he started visiting after school. You were glad for it -- after all, you wanted nothing more than to see him happy. But there was something in you screaming that you didn’t belong beside him. That you shouldn’t be allowed to indulge in his laughter or the way his face lit up as he wiped the tears away from his eyes.

“Thanks, [L/N],” he heaved. 

We’re barely even friends. You swallowed away your concerns. It didn’t matter, did it? Friends, acquaintances, neighbors. You didn’t need an excuse to sit next to him and smile.

Before you could respond, the familiar sound of car doors locking rang from outside. You and Ennoshita sighed in unison.

“I guess that’s me,” Ennoshita sighed, standing and grabbing his bags. “Thanks again, [L/N].” There was a newfound conviction in his voice that had you sighing fondly. He sounded so grown up.

“Anytime,” you muttered, watching him walk away to his house.

The next day, Ennoshita didn’t show up to your doorstep, but for some reason, you didn’t mind.

***

It was a nice consolation after spending all your time in junior high worried over some boy to finally get to a point of normalcy with him, but it didn’t change the fact that your memories of junior high were too clouded with worry to really leave you feeling content.

Write about how your junior high experience has shaped you.

In the back of your mind, you wanted to talk about how your relationship with Ennoshita changed and grew. There were so many lessons you could include. How sometimes people just need time to be comfortable with you. All the ways he taught you to study. Or maybe, you could write about picking yourself back up again even when you fall down. Writing about him was undoubtedly the most honest way you could talk about your junior high experience.

You laughed dryly. Write about a boy? That’s too embarrassing.

In the end, You wrote about your “favorite teacher.” It was probably more convincing, anyway.

It was a relief to finish all the paperwork. You knew highschool was important and all, but it was really such a pain with all the prep work you had to do. You were all too happy to be able to turn in admission sheets.

Taking one final look over your papers, you heard you friend ask “Why Karasuno?” as she peeked at your forms. “You could probably get into Shiratorizawa with your grades.”

“Well…” You had plenty of reasons you could give. It was fairly close to your house, and not a bad school at all. Their girl’s track team was really good, and you had thought about joining. But you know the only real reason you wanted to go was the image of a boy at your doorstep. “I guess I like the uniform the most,” you smiled.

Your friends laughed at you, telling you how weird you were for your choice but smiling along nonetheless as you handed in your forms, without even looking back.

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