The verdant field stretches on for miles, tall grass weaving with splashes of white and yellow: daisies. The sun pulses amongst the clear, blue sky, but your frilly hat blocks it out.

The aroma of fresh floral is welcomed into your senses, a contradiction to the powerful medical scents you’re accustomed to smelling while staring at the same mundane walls. The company you acquire is favourable too. Instead of sick patients coughing away, informing you that could be your fate one day, you’re graced with the crickets of grasshoppers and your best friend who’s carrying you on his back.

You giggle, your little arms around his neck tightening slightly, “There’s no one else around, who are you showing off to?”

“I thought you were smart.”

“I am smart!”

“Then how can you not see I’m tryna show off to you?”

Shyness creeps into your bones, making them feel light and fuzzy, and you bury your face into his neck. A laugh, so childlike and blissful, escapes him. It’s contagious, encouraging a smile to spread across your mouth.

He has no obligation to flex around you. You already comprehend he’s the utmost wondrous person to walk on this earth.

Your parents are at work despite it being a weekend. Your mother a waitress and your father off mining coal. They need the money to pay for medical bills and your diagnosis’s. Your family isn’t poor. You have a nice home with nice things. Your father engraves that into you when the kids at school mock you for wearing handmade clothes your mother stitched herself.

Yet, you’re defective and it’s high-priced.

“Where are we going anyways? Your mom said not to go too far.” You ask curiously as you lift your head, scanning the surroundings. His house is in the distance, and you can faintly view the outline of little Rebecca Barnes through the window, playfully tugging on Winnifred’s hair.

You’re not worried though. You know Bucky will never take you somewhere an adult isn’t able to reach you quickly in case something bad happens.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Bucky, tell me.”

“No.”

“Bucky.”

“Don’t say it like that!” His resolve always crumbles around you, “You sound like a weepin’ puppy and I love puppies.”

“And me. You love me too.” You teasingly quip.

There’s no hesitation when Bucky answers, “More than a dog with its bone.”

“You’re strange.”

Before he can reply with something witty, something to knock the cotton socks off your feet, he reaches the top of the hill and halts.

Your eyes widen.

An oak tree stands, so vast and beautiful it appears as though it’s from a fairytale. Spirally, green leaves wave hello on the thick branches that loop and intertwine with others. Acorns form a group in every nook and cranny while its bark wears age lines. Dandelions sprout from the dirt beside the stump, swaying gently under the shade it’s protected by.

“Cool, right?” You can hear the grin his voice, eager to have shown you this, “Reminds me of the front cover of that book you’re always readin’.”

Cheeks flushing at his memory, you slide off his back and grab his hand, dragging him into the bed of grass and soil.

It’s usually been like that. Wherever your feet step, his does too.

Time passes, the dirt blemishing the hem of Bucky’s shirt that’s become untucked proof. Your fingertips are stained with pollen from linking daisies together, creating a crown.

“Here, lemme…” Bucky gently takes the completed flower chain from you and sets it upon your head, “…there,” he grins triumphantly, “You’re just missing a ring.”

“A ring?” You tilt your head in confusion.

He plucks another daisy, it’s stem tall, and ties it carefully around your finger.

"Yeah. The crown is your veil, and this is the ring. Now, we're married." He says simply, as if it's the easiest decision he's ever made.

Laughter bubbles within your chest, “That’s not how it works, Bucky.”

“Pretend then.”

“Okay, husband.”

“Okay, wife.”

Your cheeks ache from smiling incessantly. You part your lips, words on the tip of your tongue, but your eyes flit towards a low branch that quivers mildly.

A chrysalis stands out amongst the greenery, and a gasp escapes you at the sight of a wing emerging, ocean waves swirling with black accents. The faded blue of the lower wings that appear suddenly glint off the sunlight.

A beacon of new life.

Then, it flies away elegantly.

“Bucky, Bucky, look!” You excitedly exclaim, swiftly rising from the ground.

You don’t give him a chance to turn his head, you just begin chasing after it, ignoring the scuff of his shoes and his worried yell.

“Wait— you’re not supposed to run fast!”

You run through the field, your eyes set on the creature. You laugh as it swirls in the air, and it almost seems like it’s inching closer with each moment. The grass tickles your legs, the gentle breeze letting wisps of your hair dance.

You keep following it like it’ll lead you to a covert cove that’ll unveil a magical world, and, just for a moment, you wonder if this is what it’s like to experience a normal childhood.

“Bucky, come on!” You call back, “It’s… it’s…”

Your words are stolen as your lungs feel as though they’re being stretched then compressed, closing in second by second as your ankles radiate pain, an invisible rope tightening around your skin, leaving a burning ache.

You slow down.

The butterfly soars further.

The ringing in your ears is faint.

Are you coughing?

Your legs give out.

And, through the heaviness of your eyelids, the butterfly disappears.

Before you can hit the ground, arms tuck under yours and gently lowers you with him, your back against his knees. Your heart thumps swiftly. Harshly. You’re sure the organ wants to jump out of your chest and nestle in another body—a healthier, fitter one.

Bucky settles your hat aside so he can see you better, his hands hovering in the air, unsure and hesitant, “Hey, hey, you’re breathin’ funny again. Should I go fetch my Ma?” He tries his hardest to sound calm, but the slight crack in his tone reveals the inner-panic.

No!

If he gets his mother then she’s going to call yours at work and she’ll take you home. You can’t be the reason she loses pay or worse: fired.

You cause her enough trouble already, and you want more time with Bucky.

You shake your head frantically against his stomach, eyes wide and breathing stertorous. Your body is hungry for air, yet it’s not being served.

Until his hands carefully cups the back of your neck, his thumb a feathery motion soothing over your pulse point.

It jumps back into place.

“Okay, okay,” he reassures, “How does it go again? Uhm— relax your neck and shoulder.”

You focus on his touch, his voice, the way his face blocks out the rest of the world as you gaze up at him. His fingers are soft, not hardened by the working universe yet. He’s upside down in your vision, a crease in his forehead that shouldn’t be there for someone so young.

Gradually, your limbs grow slack.

“Good… good. Now, breathe in through your nose for two counts.”

The fuzziness clouding your mind is pierced while you repeat his instruction. You remember what to do, so you purse your lips and exhale slowly through them to the count of four.

Minutes pass, but the air no longer rejects you. Your chest rises and falls into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat returning to as regular as it can be, and all that remains is the fatigue.

The world comes back into motion, and a tranquil silence surrounds it. A peaceful apology for the disruption of your fun.

“That butterfly wasn’t worth it,” Bucky states, breaking the quietness, “Y’know how scared I was for you just now?”

Guilt glazes over your eyes, your bottom lip wobbling. You can bear the weight of your episodes, and you can handle the medicine you’ll no doubt be ingesting tonight instead of cookies and milk other kids receive.

But, you can’t handle him upset because of you.

“Sorry.” You whisper, voice slightly scratchy.

His shoulders lower, the crease hiding away until another moment like this occurs. You witness him soften like snow melting under the sun.

“Just… don’t do that again, okay? Please. I don’t wanna lose you,” he quielty and pleadingly says, “You’re my best friend.”

A beat passes.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“You reminded me of that butterfly.”

“I reminded you of an insect?”

A small smile graces your face at the amusement in his tone, the atmosphere shifting back into place like nothing happened.

“Not like that,” you softly say, rubbing your eyes gently, “Butterflies represent good luck sometimes. And, when I’m with you, I’m lucky.”

“How’re you lucky?” Bucky questions, the light in his eyes shining as bright as a firefly.

“I can breathe with you.”

SEPTEMBER 21ST, 1935

The autumn air nips at your nose, the bustling noise of cars in the distance intertwining with the sound of a rake scraping against the cobblestone to rid the mahogany nature from being stepped on.

Ten minutes have been swept away, but it‘s akin to a year for you. Everything’s slowed, every little noise muffled. Your eyes are glued to the ground as you’re perched upon a ledge outside the hospital. To anybody passing by, they’d assume you’re watching the earlier morning rain residue that’s stuck between the pavement and the road.

To you, however, you’re thinking. And, right now, alone, that’s a dangerous place to be.

Your mind feels like it’s been split into two, battling against each other to infiltrate every nerve in your system.

One side is a maddening, heavy flurry. It’s concrete crumbling as the hammer swings down on it. Future plans are gone, abandoned in a pile of rubble.

The opposite side is light. A relieving sensation that the carry-on of your body working overtime has finally been identified.

Heart valve disease.

That’s what you’ve been diagnosed with.

The balance between crying and smiling rages within you, but luckily you don’t have to focus on it for too long as a voice, as warm as honey, encourages your head to rise.

“Hey, honey,” Mrs. Rogers, clad in her nurses uniform, greets kindly. Her bouncy, blonde curls frame her features, an angel in disguise that roams through the hospital halls, offering comfort to anyone in need, “Do you need a lift home?”

You choose to smile, because why dampen someone else’s day?

“That’s okay, Mrs. Rogers. I’m just waiting for a friend, thank you though.”

“How long have you known me, hm? Six years and you still call me that. Sarah will do just fine.” She says, voice tinged with a hint of playfulness.

Before becoming best friends with Steve Rogers on the playground, there was his mother. A sweet soul who sat with you when your parents conversed in a hush discussion with the doctors. She would never ask how you’re doing, but instead inquired about your interests and favourite foods, making you feel like an actual human being and not just a patient.

A knowing glint shines in her sky-blue eyes, “Say hi to Barnes for me, will you, hon? And that he owes me a batch of lemon squares.”

The mere mention of him has your heart skipping, a small laugh tumbling from your mouth. The memory of him ‘taste testing’ one lemon square at Steve’s ended up turning into accidentally eating them all, while sneaking their golden retriever some crumbs, is still fresh in your mind.

“Will do, Mrs— I mean, Sarah.”

She gifts you one of those fond, mothering gazes before walking away.

The light at every corner of the earth dims again. Flickering. Waiting.

Yet, the dullness fighting to accompany you loses at the sight of Bucky jogging over. You smile at the sight of his trousers damp at the hem due to working at the docks.

“Did you go swimming in your clothes?” You quip, swaying your legs back and forth gently.

“Hm?” His chin tips downwards at himself, then chuckles, “Oh, right. I was searching for pearls to give to you.” His flirtatious, oceanic eyes meet yours, and everything stabilises.

“Any luck?”

He shakes his head and clicks his tongue at the roof of his mouth, perching beside you, shoulder brushing against yours, “I didn’t look hard enough.”

Are you imagining the hint of disappointment in his voice?

“My mind was too preoccupied with how you’re doing.” He says, tranquil yet worried.

You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s a thick lump in your throat that’s forbidding the words to roll from your tongue.

How do you tell the boy you’ve watched grow into the purest form of a gentleman that you have a life-threatening disease?

It’ll tone down his laughter. It’ll sprout worst case scenarios into his mind until they’re suffocating every cell in his brain. It’ll puncture his amiable heart until it eventually mirrors yours.

…Right?

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, your silence hurting his ears, “You don’t have to tell me right away, peach. I can wait.”

For the moment, all of the weight you’ve been carrying dissipates, replaced by a gooeyness.

His calloused hand lays upright in the air and you instantly intertwine your fingers with his. Gently squeezing your hand, he tucks them both away into his toasty pocket.

“Peach?” You repeat the nickname he called you, brows raised.

“Yeah,” he nods adamantly, “You’re a little bruised, but the marks on the outside don’t define the sweetness inside. Like a peach.”

A beat passes.

“Couldn’t just stick with ‘doll’?”

“Too common nowadays,” Bucky brushes it off, “‘Sides, you deserve your own nickname.”

You take a moment to just gaze at him.

Raven locks, mussed as though he ran his fingers through them endlessly. You appreciate how he didn’t brush his hair before arriving. That he just let himself be with you. You count the faint creases by his eyes—there from illuminating the world with his smile when the sun hides from the fog.

His lips, a shade of maroon under the golden rays of autumn, are a pair you won’t dare kiss, because they’re probably stained with someone else’s.

Clearing your throat quietly, you slip your hand away from his, goosebumps rising to plead with the bitter air.

“How was your date last night?”

You don’t sound jealous. You have no right to be. However, a sense of longing wraps around your words. A yearning for what you forbid yourself from having.

You force yourself to ignore the way his brows knit together when you pulled away. How his fingers left his pocket and twitched towards you, but stopped.

“It wasn’t great,” he exhales a long breath. “Terrible, really.”

Concern strikes you like a lightning bolt, pupils dilating, “Why? What happened?”

“She wasn’t you.”

She. Wasn’t. You.

Three words that can spark a generator back to life.

But you make it stall.

For years, Bucky has been confessing his feelings for you like it’s the only thing he knows. If he’s not outright saying it, then he’s slipping sweet notes into your bag as he walks you to the Library where you work, or he’s attempting to draw butterflies for you that you stow in your purse.

His love is loud, whereas yours is quiet.

It wasn’t thrusted into your palms, but it was something that brewed throughout the years. Slow, delectable, with time mastering it until your thoughts became enshrouded with him.

Yet, you’ve always shut him down. Guilt gnaws at you, the fabric of yourself growing threadbare. You know you’re letting him down. You’re aware you’re crushing him despite the unruffled demeanour and boyish grin he wears after.

You just can’t condemn him to a life of misery.

You clutch the edge of the ledge tight, “Why do you think they have cobblestone as a path to the hospital?” You ask, changing the subject, “They should really replace it with a flat walkway.”

“You can’t avoid me, this—” Bucky gestures between the two of you with his index finger, “—us forever,” his voice softens, “I won’t let you anymore.”

Frustration becomes your defence despite no attack taking place.

“I don’t understand you sometimes, Bucky.” You mutter, hopping onto the ground and dusting your hands on your coat.

“Why not, huh?” He mimics your movements and falls into step with you as you begin embarking down the path, “I make myself clear everyday how I feel about you.”

“Well, then, maybe you should stop.” You firmly say.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“…Yes.”

He laughs humourlessly, grasping your elbow gently and halting you both, “You’re a terrible liar.”

You falter by his warm touch, but you shrug yourself from his grasp, forcing yourself to put space between you, “I refuse to hold you back in life, Bucky.”

Stilling and shoulders tensing, Bucky blinks in bewilderment, “Hold me back in life? You know I could listen to you for hours, but what are you talking about? And will ya—” his chest rises and falls with a pained breath, “Will you quit pulling away from me, please?”

“You need someone fresh,” your wavering voice betrays the confidence of your tipped chin and feet firm against the pavement, “And that’s not me. I’m a wilting flower. Not enough sun or water is going to keep me alive for long.”

The pain of not merely today, but your past and future, is infused into a singular tear that trickles down your cheek.

“I’d just be a burden to you.”

The sky fades into mesmerising swirls of pink and orange, a dusk worshipping the pumpkin patch behind the nearby cafe. It’s bell hanging on the door dings faintly, muffled noises of greetings flowing into your ears.

And Bucky stands there.

Quiet. Calm.

No fisted hands, no clenched teeth, no darkening eyes.

His breaths are steady and gentle, and a part of you selfishly wishes his oxygen could hug you.

Then, he speaks, his voice a soothing wave that laps at your ankles, inviting you deeper into the ocean. His ocean, “Why don’t we get a drink, okay?”

“Now who’s avoiding talking.” You cross your arms, looking away.

“I’m not avoiding us, peach,” Bucky says, achingly soft, “I just don’t want you standing in the cold anymore.”

You close your eyes momentarily, exhaling through your nose, and nod feebly as the world is revealed to you again.

A brush paints the canvas of his face in relieved colours, and his steps fall in rhythm with yours as you embark slowly towards the cafe, granting you enough time for your head to clear.

Opening the door for you, Bucky follows you inside, warmth caressing your skin and the aroma of coffee wafting into your nose. Muted, checkered tablecloths layer over evanescing, wooden tables that waitresses weave around. A radio poses underneath crinkled parchments of posters hung upon cobweb-collected, brick walls.

Harmonies of jazz plays tenuously in the background, interlacing with Bucky’s voice, “Go sit. I’ll order for us.” He murmurs, but he doesn’t meet your gaze.

He’s lost somewhere.

As thought it’s muscle memory, you slip into the booth by the window, your ankles sighing in relief. They’ve been swelling all day, caged as a prisoner beneath the straps of your shoes.

Not much time passes until Bucky’s returned, setting your favourite drink in front of you, and a black coffee for him as he settles opposite.

His fingers interlock around the mug, pads of his skin tapping against it.

This is unbearable.

“Can you say something, please?” You softly ask.

Finally, his eyes flit to yours. A world of emotions on display, yet the strongest of all is what you’re afraid of.

“Do you honestly believe that I’ll agree with everything you said?” He rhetorically questions. “That I think of you like that?”

He’s calm as he speaks, and you’re beginning to wonder if he brought you here so you’d remain calm in front of others too. Not just for his sake, but for yours also, because arguing with him are like needles pricking under your skin until eventually the sharpness bursts through.

And he knows you’d bleed for him.

You part your mouth to converse, but close it, knowing now is Bucky’s time to talk.

“You’re grieving something—us—while we’re still breathing.”

The truth of his words makes you look down. You won’t deny it. You’ve already picked up a shovel and began digging deep into the dirt, ready to bury dreams and hopes you won’t experience. Maybe one day someone else would uncover it and have it as their own.

But Bucky won’t allow that. He’s taking the shovel from you and guiding you away from the wreckage, with your future still cradled to your chest.

Your vulnerable defences are slipping.

Sitting up straighter, his thumb and forefinger grip you chin, tilting your head up to face him. The hitch in your throat wasn’t unnoticed by him—his eyes momentarily darting down to your neck, and he soothes his thumb under the curved of your bottom lip.

“To me, you are so strong. Storms will pass by but you stay firmly planted in the ground. And that strength is admirable, peach,” he earnestly says, “I want to be by your side throughout it, even on the worser days so you can lean against me. In sickness and in health.”

James Buchanan Barnes’ loyalty is greater than the cosmos. Cowards shrivel up under in his presence, his shine burning them, and other men aspire to be a star like him.

His loyalty to you is locked tight. Nothing can break through it. Not the plans God has, not the course of turbulence expected to come, and definitely not your stubbornness.

“You’re acting as if we’re married, Bucky,” you say, “Not that we could afford that with all my medical bills.”

One last humoured try.

A mix of fondness and miff rolls around in his eyeballs, “For richer for poorer, peach,” he responds, “I’d spend my entire life’s worth of earnings if it means you’ll get better.“

He lowers his hand, grasping yours and stroking your ring finger. Your heart stutters as he traces a daisy, the same one that you wore until it wilted on your finger when you were kids. You never informed him you kept the petals in a small pouch under your pillow.

“I take vows very seriously,” he winks with a smirk, “And, when we were nine, I declared I was going to marry you. Nothing is ever going to change my mind about that.”

Alone in your bedroom, when you’d picture marrying someone, Bucky always sprung to mind. But your coughing would quickly turn your imagination to grey until it disappeared.

Now, it’s glowing bright. Staying.

Your lips turn upwards.

“You’re not proposing to me in a coffee shop.” You state, and he chuckles.

“Of course not, but I am plannin’ on kissin’ you in front of all these people.” He grins, achingly sweet your suprised his teeth haven’t rotted.

Your mug, raised to your mouth, quakes slightly at his sudden declaration.

Probably how you’ll be feeling in a minute.

“Wha—”

Before you can react properly, he sets your drink down and slides out of the booth, wrapping an arm around your waist and gently tugging you up.

Everything moves too fast until it slows down when he quietly asks, “Can I?”

You nod immediately.

His lips connect with yours. Slow and tentative. He’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

Your arms snake around his neck while his palm sends ripples of warmth through your clothing. He presses into your lower back, inching you closer, chests brushing.

His lips feel like the finest of silks against your lips, velvety and warm. You yearn to be wrapped in him forever, keeping you safe from the coldest of evenings. The dash of bitterness you taste from his coffee grounds you from getting lost in the moment—remaining with him.

You can feel the thumping of his wild heart, the passion in his movements, the adoration he’s pouring out and into your mouth.

It’s raw and undeniable. A poet’s love confession floating down your throat and resting beneath your ribs, healing where once was an ache.

“Aww’s” from kind voices and “get a room” from grumpier one’s sound out over your mingled, soft breaths, but you and Bucky simply grin against each other’s mouth before parting for air.

Nothing else matters but this.

Your touch soothes the goosebumps that have risen on the nape of his neck, your lovesick gaze matching his, “I love you, Bucky.” You whisper, only for his ears.

He cups the back of your head, fingertips sifting through your hair, and guides your forehead to his lips, his words seeping through your skin and becoming the forefront of your mind.

“I love you too, peach.”

Butterflies dance and cheer in your stomach. They don’t just represent luck, but new beginnings too.

DECEMBER 23RD, 1941

Every night, when you drift off into the realms of sleep, you relive your wedding. It’s not a dream. You’ve done enough dreaming for it to finally come true. It’s Polaroid photos projecting off your eyelids, and you flick through every single one, studying carefully, never missing a detail.

A pathway of petals trailed to the oak tree, bushy leaves parting for golden rays to gleam upon you and Bucky standing front-centre of the trunk. The flowers and grass settled behind, amongst the guests, silently commending.

The neckline of your wedding dress was a scoop, fitting the high-back. Your collarbones were bare, for you desired them not to be marked with jewellery, but the summer air’s congratulations. A waterfall of white cascaded to your ankles—pure, ivory linen with net lace protecting it. You requested your mother to embroider florals around the upper chest and sleeves that reached your elbows.

He didn’t waste a dime on his suit, not a missing piece, needing to be complete. Trousers that fit like a glove, a collar waistcoat, and blazer, all executed in the smoothest of grey fabric, with a white shirt and navy tie. A daisy peered out from his chest pocket too.

His feet were clad in the shoes his father wore when he wed Winnifred ( which were stored away in her attic ). They were vintage and decrepit, not enough polish to make them proper, but they were meaningful, and it reminded you of the tree’s aging bark.

Slicked-back hair you were desperate to run your fingers through, his gaze fixated on you the entire time.

Enamoured, zealous, proud.

You saw him in a different glow, and it was heavenly.

His vows held buckets of emotion it began welling in his eyes. His touch was incredibly tender as he slipped the ring on your finger.

But the kiss? Oh, it was passionate. It felt like pouring every ounce of yourself onto a love letter.

The branches shook their leaves in applause while others clapped, the sunlight burned brighter, failing to out-do you two, and the coldness of his ring against your cheek was a sighing relief against the air’s humidity.

It wasn’t a grand wedding, but it was yours.

Before another moment your sleep-induced mind can spectate, it costively flickers then disappears upwards as your eyes open by a light weight against your head.

Blinking a few times to rid the bleariness of exhaustion, your husband is crouched by the bed, stroking your hair lullingly. The decorative bulbs on the Christmas tree filter through the open door and into the darkened bedroom, enlightening his features.

“You were smiling in your sleep again,” Bucky says, before a teasing lilt takes over, “Dreaming of me?”

You shift so your face isn’t half-covered by the pillow, “Our wedding day.”

“Oh, so you were dreaming of yourself?” He grins, “‘Cause you were the brightest there. No one could even look at me.”

The giggle that escapes you is frangible. If you reached out to touch the sound, it’d crack.

Bed rest. That’s what the doctors prescribed you ever since tornados of dizziness struck you. Black pixels would invade your vision, closing in, making your feet sway until you’ve hit the ground. Yet, overtime, you’ve learnt to carry yourself to the couch.

When you’d return to reality in a cold sweat, a headache would arrive, pounding like an incessant drum within the left side of your head.

You continue carrying on with life, picking up the odd few jobs since you were laid off by your work, but lying in the haven of your bed has been occurring more frequently than not recently.

“What’s the time?” You quietly ask.

“It’s six, baby.”

“Six?!” You spew out too quickly, coughs following soon after that you cover with a frail hand. Bucky rubs your back soothingly, “I’ve been asleep for six hours… I haven’t even started dinner yet.”

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay?” He soothes, “It’s fine, peach. You must’ve needed the sleep. ‘Sides, we can cook together now.”

He’s so understanding it hurts.

You hum languidly. Then, slowly, your brows knit together.

“If it’s six, you should’ve been home an hour ago.”

A smirk graces his devishly handsome face, “I was doing some last minute shopping.”

“Bucky…”

“I know, I know,” he holds his hands up in mock defence, “You said you didn’t want anything, but I’m going to give you everything you don’t ask for anyways.”

Shaking your head with a feeble smile, you muster the energy you always reserve for him and grasp his collar, pulling him onto the bed and slowly slotting your lips against his as you recline against the pillows. His body hovers over you, and you feel as though you may become one with the plushness of the mattress.

Bucky’s hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head so he can delve deeper into the velvet walls of your mouth. Meanwhile, you grip his waist, urgent he moves closer, needing him to consume you whole. You don’t care if you lose any air, or if your heart can’t candle the exertion. If kissing him is the last thing you do, you’ll kiss him like you’re marching into battle.

You’re so lost in the precious whirlwind of him, you don’t feel your hair being brushed to the side, nor the sound of something skilfully clipping around your neck until a chilled weight rests on your chest.

Gasping when you break the kiss, you glance down as he tattoos your skin with his lips against your temple, cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth.

“Merry early Christmas, baby.” He whispers against your mouth.

A delicate chain glints off the celestials peeking through the window, and, in the centre, sits a butterfly charm.

“James.” You whisper in awe.

He props himself up with his arm by your head, “You couldn’t catch that butterfly, so I thought I’d buy you one.”

Describing love is tough, because there's not enough words in the dictionary. But you know how it feels. You know that your illness has become bearable, almost forgettable at times, all because of Bucky.

Carefully, as though it’ll crush under your touch, you trace the ridges and lines of the wings.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” you whisper, pressing a chaste kiss against his cheek. You lightly pat his chest, “Sit up, I have something for you too.”

Raising an inquisitive brow, he obliges, “Yes, ma’am.”

Your limbs protest as you sit up before he can help you, wanting some form of independence that keeps you sane. After turning the bedside lamp on with quivering fingers, you rummage through the bottom drawer of the nightstand and grasp an envelope, extending it to him.

“What’s that?” Bucky curiously asks, taking it, letting his fingers linger against yours.

“A pigeon,” you sarcastically murmur, “It’s a letter, darling.”

He shakes his head, smiling at your regular self making an appearance.

It’s rare nowadays.

“I know it’s a letter, but what kind? A cheesy love one?”

“No, I only send those to Steve.”

He lightly pinches a space of your calve that isn’t littered with bruises and you yelp.

Inspecting it as he turns it over, noticing it’s already been opened, he takes the paper out, and you nervously analyse how his eyes scan the inked words.

How his breath hitches.

How his fingers grip the paper tighter.

How the world shifts.

“Surgery?” He swallows thickly, eyes slowly darting to yours, a sheen of water glossing over.

“I’ve been put onto a waitlist,” you carefully admit, “They don’t know how long it’ll be, but I have a chance to get better. To be me again.”

His Brooklyn accent is prominent as his voice wavers, “You’ve always been you, peach. You just had some obstacles in the way.”

“…Bucky?”

“The survival rates are low, baby.”

He rubs at his chest like his words have physically injured him.

“Since when did you look on the bad side of things?” You inquire worriedly.

“Since this letter is saying a surgeon is going to jam their finger into my wife’s heart,” concern poisons his words as he stabs his own finger against the parchment, “What if they make a mistake, hm? What if this doesn’t help, but makes it worse?”

“Bucky, listen to me,” you cradle his face in your hands, “There are numerous what-if situations. The only one I’m thinking about right now is what if this makes me healthier? I could finally work again, I could breathe normally, I could live instead of survive.”

Bucky rests his forehead against yours, seeking solace, “You truly want this?” He asks quietly.

“I do,” you honestly, pleadingly, say, “I’m so tired. I can’t walk for more than thirty minutes without feeling like I’m going to collapse. I just want to be normal.”

It’s evident that your words strike a chord in him, coaxing a tear to trickle down his face which you wipe away.

“Okay, baby,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist and gently pulling you onto his lap, “So damn proud of you.”

Relief courses throughout you. He buries his face into your neck and presses a kiss to your pulse point.

“We’re going to be okay.” You whisper, gliding your hand up and down his back, feeling him melt under your touch.

“I know we are, peach. You’ve always been strong enough for the both of us.”

You don’t comprehend how true that is until two days later and Bucky’s own future is being determined by a letter.

Drafted into the Army.

JUNE 14TH, 1943

“Bucky, I’m recovering from surgery, not incompetent.” Your laughter, a sound full of life, bounces off the walls.

Four months has passed since your surgery took place, a scar on your chest to prove the events. Within two of those months, you remained at the hospital for recovery, medication pumped into your system and therapies to coax your body into regular movements flowing.

Every day, Bucky was by your side. Holding your hand and replacing the vase of flowers with fresher ones. He voiced his contemplation of quitting his job just so he could spend more time with you, to which you gave him a firm no as a response.

You can’t be more thankful to have him in your life, to be so lucky that he stayed throughout the whole journey.

You returned home three months ago. The process of healing is long, but gradually, your limbs are no longer bruising, but clearing up. And your heart is beating normally. No more of those random skips, no more of it feeling like it was being dropped from a mountaintop.

For once in your life, you’re happy with your body.

Make-up, hair products and handed-down jewellery are spewed across the bed which you’re perched upon, the bright evening sky casting light into the bedroom.

“I know, but this is my last night until being shipped off, and if I wanna take care of you, I’m gonna take care of you.” Bucky asserts with a cheeky smile.

“There’s a difference between taking care of me and dolling me up.” You joke, smiling knowingly.

You’re aware of why he’s being like this—why he’s determined to ensure you won’t lift a finger right now. It’s not because he thinks you’re delicate, and it’s certainly not because he thinks you can’t do things for yourself.

Bravery is mustered from experiencing fear, and apart of his brave-self, there’s cracks of fear that he won’t have the chance to do anything like this with you again.

So you let him, because he’s entering a place where his life will be risked every second.

He’s done your make-up surprisingly well due to watching you apply it throughout the years. You only needed to touch it up a little, but the lipstick is faded—most likely from him kissing it off.

Next is…

“Hair,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I only know how to braid hair from Becca.”

You shrug, “You can braid my hair.”

Swivelling around, your back to him, you gaze towards the open window, allowing the slight breeze to wash over you. The air is a sweet relief to your lungs, poison ivy no longer tightening around them until its bitterness has bled through.

His fingers entangle in your hair, weaving and letting his fingertips brush the back of your neck. It’s a simple action, but every stroke of his touch feels like he’s connecting to your soul.

“You’re going to be tripping all over my feet.” Bucky teases, his breath fanning the back of your head and encouraging wisps of your tresses to dance.

“Are you doubting my dancing skills?” You ask, feigning hurt.

“Baby, you haven’t danced in nearly three years.” Bucky points out.

A beat passes.

“I have a good memory. It’ll be fine.”

“Hmm, and if my feet are bruised by tomorrow, I’m blaming you,” he lovingly tugs on your completed hairstyle, “There. Now, I’d like my payment in the form of a kiss.”

Facing him, a grin hurting your cheeks, you slowly dive in for a kiss, before swiftly turning and kissing his cheek.

“Tease.” He mumbles.

You rise and approach the tall mirror, admiring your braid and emphasised features, “You could run a salon, you know.” You compliment while beginning to undress.

“And ruin my street cred?”

“Street cred?” You raise your brows, “You mean punching people in alleyways.”

You can recall the generous amount of times he’s returned home with bruised knuckles you’ve cleaned up.

“Punching douchebags in alleys.” He corrects slyly.

Rolling your eyes jokingly, you slip on the dress that was hung on the mirror. You reach around to do the zipper, but fall short, sighing quielty.

“Bucky?”

“Already on it.”

He towers behind you, zipping the back of your dress antagonisingly slow. You watch him through the mirror, watch as he ducks his head and kisses your shoulder, feel how his hand glides across your shoulder, down to your arm, then wraps both of his around your midsection.

“Your wings are growing, peach.” He quietly praises, swaying you both side-to-side in a steady rhythm.

Your body melts into his warmth, your back against his chest, your head against his collarbone.

“We can always stay home if you’re not feeling up to tonight,” Bucky offers, “I’d still be just as happy as long as I’m with you.”

“I know, Bucky. But my body is itching to dance, okay?”

“That’s my girl.”

۶ৎ

Dancing was made for you and Bucky. You spun together like everyone else disappeared into thin air. You laughed together in harmony of the music. Where your steps went, he followed. When your hands intertwined, so did the ocean meeting the shore.

You didn’t dance in the shadows, but front and centre, under the gleaming yellow lighting. You were a whirlwind of starlight, dazzling in every movement, and Bucky was by your side, burning with merriment.

It had been so long since you let yourself be carefree, and you had never felt more beautiful.

The loud of the night fades as you enter your home, shutting the night away as Bucky closes the door and locks it. Immediately, your arms snake around his neck as he turns, crashing your lips against his. He stumbles momentarily, before pressing his hand’s against your lower back, melding you closer together.

Your heart bucks wildly, gallivanting in ways you didn’t think possible. Fingers sift through his hair in rhythm with his sliding across and caressing your waist in burning strokes.

The kind of burn inside of you that you enjoy.

You half expect him to move this forwards as your mouths reconvene the dance your bodies did earlier, but as he departs from the kiss… he doesn’t.

A loving brush of his lips against your forehead and a light, almost apologetic, squeeze of your hip is all you receive, then he trudges off into the kitchen, putting distance between you physically.

Your shoulders slump dejectedly, mirroring the downturn of your lips. You can’t recall the last time he carried you to bed and undressed you with a fervour of lust. Perhaps on your wedding day? It’s not a necessity you’re desperate for—his profound love is more than enough. Yet, as you stand alone while the faint sound of cupboards closing and pill bottles rattling reaches you, insecurities invade your mind.

‘Did I become too sick to be looked at in that sense now?’

‘Is he repulsed by me? Worried I’ll ruin it by having a coughing fit?’

The thick layer of hurt stuck to the roof of your mouth is a harsh swallow, but you do it anyways and venture to where your husband is, desperately needing to quarrel these intrusive thoughts of yours.

You don’t believe them—you’re making yourself not to believe them, but him turning away at any given opportunity is beginning to toy with your head.

Stepping into the homely kitchen and rounding the counter, you poise near the sink, where Bucky is turning off the tap. A light thud and the drip of excess water reverberates after he sets a glass beside your medication.

But those pills can’t help the mental storm brewing inside you.

He parts his mouth to speak as his head raises to meet yours, but his features instantly change at the sight of your hurt expression, “Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks, taking a concerned step closer.

Exhaling steadily, you cross your arms in attempts to appear confident when all you yearn to do is fall into his chest. But you can’t always rely on him. You need to do this for yourself.

“James,” you begin, tone forcefully even, “I’ll respect your decision if you don’t want to touch me, okay? I just need to understand why. Do…” Ignoring his perplexed, widened eyes, you continue, “…do I disgust you? Has my appearance changed—”

"Peach."

"—changed for the worse? Is this something you've been carrying for a while? Do you need my permission to go off with other—"

Before you can feel the tears stinging your eyes, his lips collide into yours, silencing you. The impact is harsh at first, knocking your breath away, but as it achingly softens, your heart restarts.

So does your head.

Your arms grow slack by your sides, and his large hands smooth up them, skating across your shoulder blades and cupping the nape of your neck. His thumbs press into either side of your jaw, tilting your head up further so there's barely any space between you.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against your mouth, nudging his nose against yours tenderly, "I just had to stop you from speaking about yourself like that."

"James." Your voice finally wavers.

Your plea must have flowed into his mouth, because he bitterly chews on it that his jaw trembles and squeezes his eyes shut briefly.

"God, baby, I'm so fucking sorry for putting those thoughts into your head," his voice is thick with guilt and regret, "I've been so busy worrying about how sex might affect you physically, I overlooked how me pulling away must've been messing with this beautiful mind of yours."

His thumb rubs circles into your temple while slowly opening his eyes. They're consumed with emotions a man wouldn't normally share in this day and age, but he does because he isn't like any other man.

He's yours, and with you, he can express himself liberatingly.

"What if it gets too much and your heart can't take it, hm?" The question leaving his mouth breaks into tiny pieces, yet you cradle each one so you can mend the outcome together.

"My heart can't take this distance, Bucky." You whisper, a tear sliding down your cheek.

Bucky catches it with the tip of his thumb instantly, and you turn your face ever-so-slightly and brush your lips against his skin.

The collapse of his shoulders is enough to inform you the guilt of potentially harming you has been haunting him for a while.

Carefully, you cradle his hand and slowly guide it down. You press the warmth of his palm where your heart lays beneath the surface of yourself and feel his fingers expanding to touch more of you.

"It's beating to its fullest potential because of you," you earnestly admit, "Yeah, I had surgery, but I couldn't have survived this long if you weren't by my side."

"Peach..." He trails off, doubt burdening his tone.

"It's true!" You exclaim, the corners of your swollen mouth upturning, "I'm alive because you, my husband, have been my biggest supporter since we were kids. You have been my lifeline, darling, and as long as you're alive and happy, then so am I."

This time, his care for you is expressed in a globule escaping the corner of his eye after blinking. You watch it slide down his cheek before you poise on your tip-toes and kiss it away.

Your lips linger against his face long enough for his breathing pattern to change. It remains steady, deliberate, but peeking between each exhale is a quivering hunger that went into hiding, now coaxed out by your deep devotion.

Pulling back your face, your small and nimble hand covers the back of his against your chest, "You told me my wings are growing, and they are, but they flourish with you.”

"I love you," Bucky confesses for the umpteenth time, though now it’s layered with his insecurities bare and open, "I love you so damn much that I don’t even think the word love is strong enough to describe how damn mad I am over you."

His thumb and index finger pinches your chin, inching your faces closer, breaths becoming one. Both of your cravings are edged further, and you lock your fingers between the gaps of his, trailing his hold on you further down until a heat strokes your lower abdomen.

"Then show me,” honey drips from your voice, sweet and addictive, “Show me how much you love me, Bucky."

Your encouragement beholds an undeniable strength, alleviating the hesitance inside of him. He carries you to your shared room, he cradles you ever-so protectively, and he unveils every pent up desire in caresses and strokes—in edges of lust that are softened with his undying love.

Every sound coaxed from the depths of your chests—breathy and low and extremely unfiltered—have become your new favourite melody. Every passionate movement between yourselves, wrapped in each other’s embraces, is the epitome of comfort and pleasure rolling around together. Every reassuring word spoken, or kiss peppered against your scar, gifts you the most safest crescendo one can possibly experience.

Throaty laughter arrives afterwards, rippling through the haze of serenity. Bucky smoothes his palm over every inch of yourself, leisurely gliding over bumps and crevices, checking for anything amiss, but all that remains is your blissed-out self and his proud grin.

And when the dreaded day of his departure reaches, he disembarks from the very docks he helped build, carry the memory of the night before closest to him.

Because it marks the night you finally started soaring.

AUGUST 2ND, 1943

Two months have slipped by without the warmth of your husband by your side. All that remains is the ghost of his presence wherever you venture, the letters stacked neatly in a wooden chest, and the sneaky, hushed telephone calls.

Closing the front door behind you, you waste no time in tearing the seal apart and unfolding the crisp parchment. His handwriting coaxes a smile on your face, the bold strokes carefully crafted despite his cursive being a tad bit sloppy.

Your eyes begin ingesting the words he’s unleashed from the depth of his soul. The last time you heard his voice, it was muffled through the terrible signal of the General’s telephone.

Now? Now, it echoes clearly in your ears, so close you can almost feel his presence.

My love,

The camp is bleak and pitiful, hope ebbing away the further we advance to the front lines. I try my hardest to maintain morel and uplifting the other soldiers, but even my struggle is becoming noticeable the more I’m away from you.

I wake up on this stiff cot, facing the roof of the tent, and being reminded of where I am. I close my eyes in the few moments I have to myself and picture us sprawled out in the field we claimed as ours. The image of the sun casting golden rays against you remains vivid in my mind. All seasons compliment you, peach, but summer bathes you in a newfound light.

How is Brooklyn’s Summer this time around? Is it warm enough for you? You know I’m not the religious type, but I pray each night you’re able to fall asleep without any trouble. I know how the steam from the scolding roads used to affect your breathing.

You were fighting a war every day, and you came out victorious. It’s your unyielding strength and bravery that encourages me to lead myself and my infantry into battle.

I will win this war, peach. I’m not winning it for my country anymore, I’m winning it for you: my beautiful, one of a kind wife who I love more than a dog with its bone.

Your darling,

James.

Exhaling shakily, you press the paper to your chest, as though the ink will bleed off the page and sink into your heart.

Bucky Barnes has been your crutch for as long as you can remember, and while you’re his too, you just wish it was under different circumstances—not the fear of death looming over him every second he’s separated from you.

Thoughts spark in your mind, each one illuminating another idea of how to make sunshine pour into your letter so his bleak whereabouts will have a bit of shine.

You take a step towards the living room when a searing pain slices through your chest, reopening what was mended.

A pained whimper rips from your throat as your nails dig into your chest instinctively. Your feet stumble. The letter drifts onto the floor as your other hand uses the coat hanger for stability.

Everything rotates fast. You squeeze your eyes shut, denying the dizziness of its foggy, enclosing effects. You’re still standing, two feet firmly planted into the floor.

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” You choke out through laboured exhales.

The technique of settling your strenuous breathing slips back into place with ease, and you familiarise it for a few moments before you’re stable enough to slowly crack your eyes open.

The ache in your chest fades, replaced by a hollow dread. You shove it down immediately. It’s just high emotions physically pulled out from Bucky’s sentimental letter, that’s all….

It’ll pass soon.

Everything will return to normal when he’s home.

OCTOBER 17th, 1943

The campsite is peculiarly quiet this evening, no alarms shrieking nor any barked orders making the weeds flinch. While his comrades have ventured to town, gulping down what could be their last drink, Bucky stayed behind.

Something off has been accumulating in the pits of his stomach all day.

It could be nothing. It could simply be the enemy inching closer each day, as that’s become the normal nowadays, but his mind wanders to you and your most recent letter.

Shoulders hunched and perched on the edge of his cot, he grips the paper firm enough so the gust of wind drifting through the tent won’t snatch it.

It’s still your enchanting words, each stroke of ink letting him in on a glimpse of warmth. However, overtime, your handwriting has grown noticeably shaky, no longer appearing neat and barely readable.

He manages too, anyways, because he’d be damned if a letter of yours isn’t deciphered like it’s full of important codes.

Determining he’s just overthinking, he sighs and shakes his head. You’re a woman made of iron that's been hammered and molded into something even stronger.

He swaps your letter on the rickety nightstand for the polaroid of you he’s kept close. The glow of the lantern illuminates your gorgeous features, but a photo can only do so much. It doesn’t capture the playful melody of your teasing, and it doesn’t play your dance movements.

Luckily, every moment spent with you was unforgettable. A picture can only do so much, but it can also evoke memories that stretches a smile across his mouth.

In a feather-light motion, his thumb traces every curve and crevice of yourself, worshipping you even when your physical self is nowhere in sight. The entrance of the tent flaps in defence of the force of nature picking up, but if he just pinpoints his focus on the image of yourself, he can almost hear the thrum of your heartbeat.

Almost.

Quickly replacing it is a rough clearing of a throat, though Bucky’s brow perks up at a second one following. Softer, perhaps sympathetic, trying to override the first one.

He lifts his head and straightens up at General Smith entering. A solemn expression is written into his face, rubbing out the typically guarded one he equips.

Bucky rises to salute him, but is stopped halfway by a slow raise of Smith’s palm, “Sit, Sergeant.” He orders calmly.

For a man who usually reeks of confidence, hesitance conflicts Bucky’s senses as he slowly sits back down.

“Sir?”

Marching the front lines seems dauntingly in front of him.

“Bucky… hell, there’s no easy way to say this,” General Smith sighs and shifts uncomfortably, “Your mother-in-law rang.”

Rocks have piled onto Bucky’s tongue, his next three words managing to slip out through the cracks, “Is everything alright?”

“No, son,” he replies in a fatherly tone, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you…”

Bucky pales.

“Your wife passed last night.”

Those five words don’t reach his ears correctly.

They’re blocked out, muffled by the pounding of his heart while yours apparently lays still.

No.

Nonononononono.

He watched you wave him off at the docks. He listened to you converse about your day through the phone. Your heart was fine then. Cracked from his departure, but thumping healthily.

Speaking suddenly feels like the most strenuous action he can do, “She— ah…” his voice breaks, “She had a successful surgery. She can’t… she can’t have…”

A life without you doesn’t make sense.

Pain shoots through his chest, but he can’t see any bullets flying around.

His vision blurs with unshed tears. His lungs are too tight to accept breath properly.

The General’s voice remains a faded cadence, fragments piercing Bucky’s soul deeper.

‘Failed surgery.’

‘Couldn’t retain enough oxygen.’

‘Wasn’t alone.’

Head hanging low, eyes reddening swiftly, a broken noise is tugged from his throat. It doesn’t reach the sound-waves just yet, trapped in the confines of his aching self.

“It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true.” He mumbles repetitively and brashly cards his fingers through his hair.

The hollow pit inside his stomach fills with nausea.

You were suffering and he was unaware.

Angels recruited you and left him behind in the trenches… a place fit for a guilty man like him to be buried in.

OCTOBER 26TH, 1943

Rage never correlated with Bucky Barnes. His emotional intelligence didn’t let it simmer for long, but you were the one feeding him knowledge. Without you, the fury arose to the extremity of public humiliation.

At the time, he didn’t care when he stormed into the hospital, a body functioned by grief spitting at the ones who should’ve done more to save you.

Because they failed you.

He failed you.

No one flinched at his outburst, except for your father who heartbreakingly dragged him outside. To the medical workers, it was if that’s an every day occurrence and your death’s just another percentage in the charts.

He’ll go back and apologise later, comprehending how unfairly he directed his blame onto them. It takes the remains of his willpower not to blame you either for your stubborn mouth that was sealed tight throughout the months of his departure.

A weekend off was granted to him to get his head ‘straight.’ His teeth grind at the thought of returning to a place with hollowed men and no one yelling his name during mail-calls anymore.

Being drafted stole the time he had left with you, so a weekend to himself is a generous gesture.

Except, no one writes a manual on how to grieve properly. He’s transitioned into a new part of life without his permission, leaving him utterly lost and unable to cope.

Bucky’s legs forbid him from entering the Barnes home. The closest he reached was the door, thudding his bag to the ground in sync with the collapse of his knees.

An unopened letter of his, curled at the corners and dampening from his downpour of tears, taunted him from the welcome mat.

Now, he ventures where his heart navigates.

The oak tree slouches on the faded hill, silently battling against the invisible pollution that’s accumulated due to the war. The leaves are paralysed and the acorns have sorrowfully dropped, buried beneath layered of time and dirt. Weeds surround the stump like soldiers guarding their barracks, forbidding anyone from trespassing.

His boots are heavy against the cracked soil. A thick lump shapes in his throat and he forces it down. A ghost of vows and daisies flicker before him, but the grief rips it apart.

Bloodshot eyes roam the aging tree, noticing the lines in the bark have grown profusely. Maybe if his heart were to be x-rayed, there’d be jagged strikes too.

A sudden gust of wind pushes against him, or perhaps it’s trying to envelope him in a hug he’s unconsciously rejecting. The tickle of the breeze coaxes a twitch from his reddened nose, and his eyes drop to the ground as something featherlight sways in the air.

Immediately, Bucky glances upwards to the branch you once gazed at with child-like wonder, then drops his eyes to what’s fallen before him.

An envelope.

Shaky cursive writing.

James.

His hands tremble beside him.

You knew he’d visit.

He crouches down to pick it up, but it slips from his grasp.

“Shit,” he curses, vigorously wiping the specks of dusty soil off it.

When he’s sure it’s safe in his grasp, he slowly lowers himself to the ground, the bark brushing against his back like a reassuring pat.

After rubbing his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger, clearing any tears so he can read clearly, he expels a forced, steady breath. He doesn’t wish to have a heavy conscience when your literacy can float inside his chest instead.

My darling James,

A choked sound claws from his throat already.

He looks away, the taste of salt poisoning his lips as trails of pain dampen his face. It takes every bit of strength in him to return to reading.

My darling James,

I remember when you first introduced me to the oak tree. I had never felt so special in my life. I had already felt rejected by the world, barely scraping by, but you carried me outside and showed me there’s still hope and beauty out there.

That’s a feeling I’ll never be able to repay, no matter how much you say my love is enough, and I’m so sorry for the heartache I’ll leave behind when I’m gone.

I couldn’t tell you the surgery had failed. Selfishness took over; I didn’t want our final months together to have the impending grief looming over us. I was terrified it’d affect your sanity out there, and I needed you focused so you won’t lay to rest like me.

I lived longer than I expected. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I know loving you gave me a purpose and I was clinging onto that for as long as my heart could. Being with you made the pain bearable. I even forgot it at times when you’d hold my gaze with eyes the colour of the butterfly I chased.

You never left me, but I’m afraid if you’re reading this, I have left you. Butterflies are doomed with a small lifespan. I can relate to that a bit too closely.

When I pass, I will no longer experience that crushing sensation in my lungs. I’ll be light, soaring with my fully-grown wings, only feeling the comfort and safety you gave me.

I know it’s a lot to ask—you’ve done so much for me—but please keep that bravery inside of you pumping. Please live for me as I lived for you.

I love you with my entire being.

Goodbye, James.

Your love, peach.

Everything’s quiet.

The word has stopped to mourn you with him.

Yet, something foreign flushes throughout his body, lulling his aching bones. Closure’s arrival isn’t loud; it creeps in, slow and steady, and will take time to grow, but it’s a brave start, and he promises to forever be brave in your honour.

A slow, fluttering melody drifts into the environment. Landing on the parchment, littered in tiny damp splotches, is a butterfly.

A butterfly.

For the first time in days, Bucky’s lips curve upwards.

“Well, hello to you, too Dex…” Your voice was unstable. It shook with the joy of having him back and the fear of what he had done to get there.

Dex took two long strides until he was facing you directly. He smirked in that knowing way of his, where the corner of his mouth would turn up and the scar along his cheek move right with it.

You didn’t have to do anything else before he was kissing you. His hands cupped your face, and he yanked you closer. He kissed with everything that had been left pent-up after his time away. He kissed you to make up for those jail visits where all you could do was sit in front of him and talk.

It was consuming and obsessive like he always was when his head got too loud. Your lips on his, your skin on his, were his last desperate attempt at getting his mind back. He pulled you closer and almost forgot that breathing was a thing until you gently pushed him away by the chest.

“I need some air, baby,” you clarified the second you were able to, knowing that if you didn’t, it would send him to an instant spiral.

“I’m sorry,” he replied.

He kissed you again, gentler this time. Slowly but surely, the muscle memory came back to him. He remembered that carefulness that you had taught him and that he had tried so hard to learn.

“Dex,” you said when you finally pulled away from the kiss. “I love that you’re here; I really do.”

“There’s a ‘but’ coming.” Dex’s mood deflated, and you had to once again place your hand on his chest to let him know you were there.

“Tell me so we can get this over with. What happened?”

“You’re asking as if you were accusing me of killing someone.”

With all the fondness of your heart, you gave him a deadpan look. You knew your husband very well—murderer side and all.

“I didn’t —or at least not who I was aiming for. Matthew Murdock got in the way.”

You sighed and started tracing figures with your hand over his skin. “If I turn the news on, what will I see?”

Dex sighed and dropped his head to your shoulder. His mouth pressed against the cotton of your shirt, and he shut his eyes tight. After that, he securely wrapped his arms around your waist. “I had to. I still have to,” he murmured against you.

You moved to hold the back of his head, running your fingers through the hairs at the nape of his neck. Nobody knew what truly went on inside Dex’s mind. Most of the times, he didn’t even know himself.

The one thing he was certain of is that he would kill his way to you if he had to. He wanted his mind back and he wanted his wife back.

“Alright, hun, we’ll deal with that in the morning. Are you hungry? Should we cook some dinner?”

Dex breathed in and kissed you right on the shoulder before he pulled away whilst still keeping his hands around you. “Sure.”

Dinner was quick. Dex had always been a very efficient and clean cook. He only chopped precisely the amount of vegetables needed, and he washed everything right after he used it. He asked you if you still made sure to cut vegetables and raw meat on separate boards, and you laughed when you told him yes. Some of Dex’s neat and structured little habits had stuck with you.

You sat down to eat and chatted as if you had just returned from work after a normal day. You told him about Nancy, the new co-worker who had brought cookies from her mother’s shop, and how the toilet had started leaking that same morning.

Dex didn’t tell you much in return, and you chose not to ask, not even when you noticed how he struggled to adjust to eating with a missing tooth. A heavy conversation was in order, but you would leave that for later. In the meantime, you would hide your husband in your apartment for as long as you had to.

When you got ready for bed, Dex sat back and just watched you. He was there, in his boxers and light shirt, admiring the domesticity he had so greatly missed. You brushed your teeth and placed your toothbrush next to his. You took a clean pair of pyjamas from your drawer, which was also next to his.

Everything in the house had remained the same. Never once had it crossed your mind to put away anything that belonged to him. The apartment looked exactly like the apartment of any other married couple would. You had a few framed pictures on the walls, and his headphones and CD player were still resting on his nightstand the way he had placed them the last night he had spent with you.

You laid down in bed and he followed suit. He placed his head on your upper chest, and you pulled the covers over both your frames. It was usually the other way around: he would be the one holding you, but in that moment, being held and being loved was just what he needed.

You turned the lights off, and he closed his eyes. He could feel the way his own head moved as your chest rose and fell with your breathing; he could feel the way your index finger traced a path from his hair to his ear.

And as blissful as the moment was, there was something that still bothered him. The scales were still uneven. He still needed a good deed, something to make up for Foggy’s death. He needed to prove to you that he was a good man. That price could only be paid in blood. Vanessa Fisk’s blood.

Tonight, he would allow himself to have this, though.

bullseye divider by @uzmacchiato

The sun’s been up for an hour now. Normally you’d be up before the rays reach your vision, but the unusually comfortable position you find yourself in decided otherwise. A cave isn’t exactly the first thing one may think of when it comes to comfort. This one, though, had the smoothest stone and purest pools of water that could only be described as a unique kind of heaven.

Your coat on the bottom, his on top. You can both rest under it that way. The fur is no longer cold, easing the goosebumps once dancing on your skin the night before. Attempting to open, your eyelids feel too heavy, weighing down the contrasting feather-like lashes that bat once, then twice.

A yawn rises from your chest, too aware of the world to fall back asleep now. Awake? Certainly, but not enough to get up just yet.

His heartbeat steadies your already wandering thoughts. Jon Snow, a man of many titles. Never quite a Stark, once of the Night’s Watch, now of the free, and soon after, your man, as you are his. The one who’s dropped all titles and gained the honor of sharing this very cave with you every night.

The same man whose chest rises and falls right under your head, his arm kept tight around your back through the dark hours. You scoot closer to him, if that was even possible. Your hand rests where his abs are relaxed, the muscles still prominent when your fingers glide up and down softly. Your palm lays on his chest now, wanting to give him as much rest as he needs.

He stirs then, and you watch his eyebrows push together before his features ease again. A few minutes pass with no major action, just steady breaths and the occasional scooch to fully embrace his warmth. You weren’t sure how long this would last, but you never wanted it to end.

“You’re awake.”

Too bad.

It was an almost hilariously blunt statement spoken deep and gruff, followed by a yawn from Jon. His hand runs up and down your arm, as if to ground himself amidst adjusting to his conscious state.

“And I’ve been. Just wanted to keep watch.” you speak gently, tilting your head up to get a better look at his face. His eyes are low, meeting yours almost instantly.

You find him to be most vulnerable at times like these, and it’s all in the eyes. They run along every corner of your face like he’s struck the luckiest coin, but you were much more than that.

“That’s usually my job.” he mutters with little effort. He’s right. It’s more often that he’s up much before you, sometimes out hunting breakfast before you wake to him crouching over and admiring your morning form. The guilt on his poor, perfect face is shown when he speaks.

“A pretty face like yours requires many hours of rest. You know stress can catch up.” he watches you smile after your words, the sight reminding him of all the right reasons he ended up separated from his loyal men.

He lets out a huff, the small flustered smile making up for all the things he wanted to say. If that were true, how come yours is always prettier?

“I’m not stressed.” Is what does leave his lips, “Not with you.”

Your head dips down, resting on his chest again. Now it’s your turn to blush. His other hand tangles with your own, rough and warm.

“They could be looking for us.” you state simply, playing with his fingers and smoothing yours over the callouses on his palm. Tormund and Orell, that is, likely searching for the crow and his missus.

“Let them. I’ve got what I need.” he gets quieter towards the end, still hesitant when it comes to romantics. Not that this met up to the flirtatious banter a couple would have over a lavish dinner, but he wouldn’t be able to handle that either.

“What’s gotten into you this morning, Snow?” you prop yourself on your elbow, getting a better look at his expression. “The key to your heart is a night with a spear wife?”

He would have liked to respond. Truly. But when your hand moves up, up, up, and tangles right in the pile of curls atop his head, he’s gone. He hates when you’re right.

He hates it with all of the burn in his heart and the love in his eyes. The hate that travels through his veins, that cuts the circuits in his brain when you lean over his face. When your eyes trace down to his lips, using the locks of hair in your hand to angle him and land the perfect kiss.

It wouldn’t be a kiss with a man of the Watch if he struggled to find rhythm for at least a few seconds. He’s not particularly experienced, yet a clueless girl wouldn’t suspect a thing. That’s coming from experience as the clueless girl yourself. It’s not long before he melts into it, both hands sliding on your hips under the blanket of fur and jaw tilting to capture your upper lip.

Pulling back all too soon, you hear him nearly gasp. How dare you.

“You’ve got chills. I figured you had gotten over the cold by now.” you’re half on top of him now, surely enjoying the view. His eyes still glossy from waking up, kiss-swollen lips just barely parted like he’s expecting another. “Suppose I could leave a bit more warmth with you.”

Gods.

He’s barely woken up fully and you’re sending his mind in spirals. Fingers smoothing through his scalp, moving down to cup the side of his face.

Right before you go for one last kiss, the padding of footsteps echoes around the cave walls. Jon is quick to sit up, covering you from any view the mysterious person might want. But what sounded like footsteps turn into closer, more quiet—paws.

Sure enough, the giant shadow of a familiar direwolf rises before shrinking smaller when the pup actually comes into vision.

He seemed to have just woken up too, a yawn and a shake starting his morning off before settling on one of the rocks above the lake to, naturally, fall back asleep. His productivity was admirable.

“Your guard dog’s here. Don’t think we should take any chances, though. Handsome boys don’t get an exception.” you, cruel, cruel you, start grabbing your clothes from the side of where you rested. You’ve not leaving! You promised you’d keep him warm!

“We can be quiet.” Jon flips over to his hands, looking down at you now. His head lowers to your collarbone, leaving light kisses and bites scattered about. “Can’t go now…”

Your hands rush to his back, decorated with scratch marks and nail imprints from prior antics.

They stung when he stretched, but only a little.

“Not now..” you breathed, trying to push his shoulders away, but it’s no use. You act on instinct, face turning so his lips can trail back up to your neck. “I promise, tonight. We have to go—”

“Must you interrupt it?” he pauses, waiting until you finish talking to move to the other side of your neck. His hands are working between smoothing the fur beneath you and occasionally running along your thighs. He needs to make sure you’re comfortable, but forbid he gets just a tad greedy. “I know what you want. They’ll have to wait.”

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

“Aye.” he’s only getting lower, but lifts his head once to gaze up at you one more time before his focus switches to something more important at the moment. “I know some things..” words get muffled in your skin, tender touches blurring your vision. “I can show you again.”

⟡ extra yap — forgive me 😞 this is kind of all over the place but i very much enjoyed writing this.. i love him

You’re barely standing, crimson-stained knuckles clutching onto the edge of the doorframe like a lifeline. Your dark clothes bear sporadic slices and rips, blood clearly visible underneath and soaking the fabric that now clings to your skin. He hopes that most of it isn’t yours, but with how pale your face looks, he can’t count on it.

“Hey, Dex,” you murmur, trying to smile but it comes out as a grimace. “Hope it’s not a bad time.”

He doesn’t answer, just surges forward and scoops you up into his arms, your own wrapping around his neck instinctively.

Rage, white-hot and corrosive, floods through him—rage for whoever dared to do this to you, that they warped your first visit to his place into something filled with shock and horror. That they tried to destroy the only light in his darkened life.

Whoever “they” were, he would make them pay. Not with his normal expediency, oh no, their demise would be drawn-out; choking on their own spattering blood and pain while he watched. And he was going to enjoy every goddamn second of it.

You curse under your breath and it snaps him back to the present. Then, he does what he spent so many years perfecting: he shoves the rage down and buries it, ignores the metallic buzzing in his brain ordering him to punish, punish, punish.

He gently lowers you onto the couch, treating you like the most precious artwork he’s ever seen. You don’t wince too badly as he does it, though, which he takes as an encouraging sign.

“What’s the worst of it?” he asks as calmly as he can.

You sigh.

“Pretty sure I cracked a rib, maybe both, I’m not sure.” You tap your shoulder. “Got stabbed here. And I think my hip got grazed on the way out, but I didn’t have the luxury of time to check. Doesn’t feel like the bullet’s in there, though. You chuckle. “My lucky day.” You pause, shaking your head as you stare up at the ceiling. “And I’m just … tired.”

Dex drops to your level, wanting to do so many things at once.

Part of him wants to hold your hand, part of him wants to lick every last drop of blood off you, and part of him also wants to scream at you—that you should’ve been more careful. Because didn’t you know how special you were, how utterly irreplaceable you were to him? Sure, you’d had injuries before—a natural job hazard—but nothing like this. He could’ve lost you.

That thought cuts through the vestiges of the remaining anger, flooding his veins with ice. He can’t lose you, he just can’t.

“I know it’s really hard. But you’re safe now,” he says, nodding vigorously, trying to adopt the steady, soothing tone he learned back at the Suicide Hotline. “I’m gonna make sure you’re ok. I’ll be right back.”

“And I’ll be right here,” you deadpan, giving him a flicker of a smile through your split lip. A glimmer of relief ripples through him—if you can still smile, your injuries probably aren’t immediately fatal.

He jogs into his room and rips down the medical kit from his closet. He’s used it on himself plenty of times, sure, but this is the first time he’s grabbed it for someone else.

And then the truth suddenly dawns on him:

You needed him.

In the most primal, intimate way imaginable: to keep you alive. And you trusted him to do it.

Him. You chose him. No one else.

He gives himself a second to savor that truth, a wide grin breaking over his face as his eyes close. Was it fucked up to feel happy right now? Absolutely. But how could he not?

It might not have looked like anything he’d envisioned, but … maybe your arrival was better than that. Of course, he didn’t want you hurt, but he couldn't deny there was no better opportunity to prove to you that he was worthy, that he was valuable. That he could be good and that he was good for you.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to blow it.

Taking a second to rearrange his features back to a look of focused concern, he walks back out into the living room.

“Shoulder first,” he says, popping open the kit and sliding on the latex gloves. He’s rooting around for antiseptic and when he looks up, his heart nearly stops at the sight of you there, bare skin and sports bra exposed as your hoodie now hangs half on and half off.

You've only gotten one arm free though, wincing as you start to raise the other.

“Goddammit,” you huff, and then your eyes meet his.

Dex's pulse immediately quickens, seeming to reverberate straight through his whole body.

“Can I …” He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “You want some help?”

You nod without hesitation, so Dex slowly scoots forward, trying to keep his breathing even.

He’s so close to you. So, so close. It’s not fair—how can you still be so fucking pretty when you’re covered in blood? And are you somehow even more attractive to him because of it? The vivid, scarlet remnants of chosen violence across your face; clear, undeniable proof that, in some way, your internal wiring was twisted up like his.

No time to unpack all of that right now, though. So his hands—feared weapons in all other circumstances—go feather light on your wrist as he lifts your arm up, gently sliding the sleeve forward. He guides the blood-stained fabric up and over your head, an electric current flooding through him as his fingertips brush against your ribcage.

For the two seconds your vision is obscured, he can't help himself. His eyes flicker down, roaming across the contours of your chest, the bright colors of tattoos no longer hidden, scars and fresh wounds alike.

He drags his eyes back up as he tosses the sweater over the couch. Now, there you are, bruised and battered and half-undressed about a foot away from him. And somehow, you never flinched at his touch. And your eyes are still trained on his.

"Thanks."

"No problem," he replies, his chest tight. Seconds pass but it feels like an eternity to Dex as you both sit there in the stillness, and it feels like he's hovering at the edge of something more, something real, something that both scares and enthralls him far more than bullets or blades ever have.

He drinks you in, practically hypnotized at this point, and it's only when his eyes betray him, flickering down to your split lip, that he remembers what he's supposed to be doing.

“Right," he says, clearing his throat and turning you slightly to get a closer look at your shoulder.

"You'll need stitches, but I've seen worse," he says, and you hum in acknowledgement. He grabs some antiseptic and a cloth, brushes it over the wound, and watches for your reaction: you frown slightly but don't move.

Then, onto the scissors, needle, and thread, lining his hands up at the start of the wound. "You ready?"

You nod and Dex gets to work, finding a rhythm as he sews you up, skilled fingers moving with ease. It only takes a few minutes before he finishes and snips off the remaining thread.

“Done,” he says, gently brushing his thumb under the stitch, relishing any excuse to touch you.

You turn and look down.

“That was fast.” You smile. “Nice work, Dr. Dex.”

“Well, you’re a good patient,” he replies, and he’s not lying. You barely shifted as he wove the needle through you. “Give me two seconds, ok?”

You nod again and he walks to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with the coldest water he can.

He walks back over and hands it to you, being sure to brush your fingers with his.

“Drink.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Aye aye, Doc.” You take a sip and start to shift up slightly on the couch, a low hiss escaping your throat.

Dex is there in an instant, one hand wrapping around your waist to guide you up further as the other places the cup on the side table next to you.

"Let me look at the rest, now." His fingers pause for a fraction of a second, hovering just above your torso, deep bruises blooming like indigo flowers. It's unusual for him, being so tentative. He's not used to it, the hesitation, the nerves, of trying to be delicate for anyone.

You're the exception.

Slowly, he pushes in against your bones, feels the slight crunching underneath his touch. Your body pulls away reflexively, and for the first time, you flinch as your eyes shut tight.

“Yeah, that’s definitely broken,” he says.

“Mm." Your eyes are still closed, but there's now a strained grin on your face. "I think the proper medical term you’re looking for is ‘totally fucked,’ Doc.”

And Dex can’t help himself—he laughs. And so do you, the bright sound reverberating inside him, filling up all the empty spaces.

It's short lived though, your laughter morphing into a pained cough as you grab your ribcage with one hand, his forearm with the other.

It's not like your grip is anywhere close to hurting him, but part of Dex wants you to. To dig your nails in, draw blood, leave bruises; to let him absorb your pain as his own.

"Give it all to me," his brain begs. "Let me take it."

"Jesus Christ,” you mutter, your fingertips loosening against him. But before he can get too disappointed, instead of pulling away, your hand stays, and warmth surges through his entire being.

He looks downward toward your hip. You're right, you got lucky—it's a shallow graze, no remnants present. Reluctantly, he slides his arm out from under yours, quickly repeating the same process as before: antiseptic, needle, thread, stitch. He's just about done when you speak up:

"Do you have any Vicodin?”

He frowns, feels a twinge of panic. He doesn’t.

“No. But I can go get you some," he quickly adds.

“From where?” you ask, amusement evident in your tone. “Mr. FBI's got a narcotics plug?”

Dex shakes his head. “There’s always medicine cabinets. Hospitals. I’ll find some."

“And people say chivalry is dead," you say lightly, and then your tone shifts, gives way to something more sincere.

"Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.”

“Probably collapse in the street,” he says dryly, hoping the joke will make you smile. It does, and he melts.

God, he is so fucked. Absolutely, pathetically, fucked for you. And he doesn't mind it.

“That’s fair," you reply. "But really, Dex. Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course." His eyes meet your own. "I’d do anything for you.”

Your gaze burns back through him.

“Do you mean that?” you ask quietly.

Dex nods, his heart racing. It feels like he’s moving through water as he decides what he’s about to do, and then, somehow, he just does it; places his hand on your thigh and draws slow circles with his thumb.

You lean into the touch, moving even closer toward him, your leg now grazing his own, fully igniting something deep and buried within him.

“Well, in that case, I have a request.”

Dex swallows, tries to remember how to breathe, how to think, but it’s hard—really hard—because how is he supposed to function properly when you’re there with that voice and that look and that goddamn half-undressed body of yours?

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice slightly strangled. “Name it.”

“Kiss me.”

Finally.

And so he does, grabbing the hinge of your jaw as he brings your lips to his, desperation and want drowning out the usual din in his head; obscuring everything that isn’t you, you, absolutely fucking perfect you.

You’re right there with him, nails scratching at the back of his hair as you coax his mouth further open with yours, sliding your tongue in to taste his. There's the faintest tinge of iron, and his body hums with a strange exhilaration as he realizes he’s tasting your blood—tasting you from the inside out.

It’s everything all at once: hard and soft and sweet and fast, too fast for Dex’s brain to keep up with, and so he reacts to your touch without thinking, grabbing your hips and yanking you onto his lap because he needs you closer, needs all of you, now.

But it all comes to a screeching halt as you pull back from him with a gasp, not from pleasure, but with pain.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” you hiss, grabbing at your ribcage, and the last syllable is laced with faintest whimper that floods Dex with dread, his emotions spinning on a dime.

He hurt you. He had one fucking job: to make you feel good. And he couldn’t even do it right.

“Pathetic,” his brain hisses at him. “You ruined your chance. You always ruin everything.”

“Shit, I’m so, so sorry,” he says, panicking. “I wasn’t thinking, I just-“

Your voice overlaps with his.

"No, no, it’s ok, it’s not your fault. I was, uh, I was definitely all for it.” You smile, brushing some of his now-disheveled hair back from his forehead, and his anxiety lessens.

“I'll just have to make it up to you when I’m not falling to pieces.” You trace his jawline with your nails, sending shivers through him, your eyes reflecting back the same hunger that fills his own.

“I'm nowhere near done with you yet.”

Thank fucking God. He hadn't ruined everything.

“I’m counting on that,” he murmurs. He pauses, biting at the corner of his lip.

Dex has never done drugs before, convinced that they’d just fuck up his mind further (and the FBI tends to frown on illicit substances). But now, sitting here next to you, he wonders if this is what addiction feels like: this insatiable, pulsing current through him demanding more, more, more; willing to do anything at all if it means he can keep the high going. Even if it’s just a small taste.

“If I’m more careful though … can I kiss you again?”

You smirk slightly, propping your head on your arm against the top of the couch.

“How long have you thought about this? About me and you?”

Dex chuckles.

“It's, uh, gonna sound like a shitty cliche, but probably since the day we met."

“Good. Me too.” You shift forward, your tone softening. “Now, come here.”

Dex does just what you ask, kissing you gentler and slower this time as he savors you more fully—the feel of your lips against his, your face cupped in his hand, burning it all into his memory.

You pull back first, grazing your lips against his neck as you turn to rest your head there, nestling into him like it's the most natural thing in the world.

His hand finds yours and you sit there like that, together in the quiet; taking in the sounds of the city drifting in from his open window.

"You ... you need anything else right now?" he asks.

You shake your head against him. "Right now, just you."

Just you.

Dex could laugh at the absurdity of it—just him? Who's ever needed him before? Who's ever chosen him before?

"Actually, I lied." You sit up. "There's one more thing I need.”

Of course, there it is. You need to leave, you need to tell him this was a mistake. You need someone else.

"Yeah?" he asks and his hand squeezes yours, subconsciously trying to keep you close.

"Can I shower and borrow some clothes?" You smile. "I'll do my best to keep the stitches dry, I'm not gonna ruin all your hard work."

Oh. Relief floods through him. You're staying. You're staying. He didn't fuck everything up.

“Yeah, yeah, of course you can.”

You follow him down the hall as he grabs you a towel from the closet. Then, he switches on the light in his room, opens the dresser drawer.

"I, uh, I'm not sure what you're looking for, but you can pick whatever you want."

Your hand runs over the neatly folded clothes, settling on one of his old FBI t-shirts and some grey sweatpants.

"These work." You stand up on your tiptoes and kiss his cheek, his skin immediately heating up underneath.

"Thanks, babe."

Babe. You say it so easily, like it's nothing, but it's everything. You're speaking like he's something precious, something familiar.

Like he's yours.

"You're welcome," he replies, voice barely above a whisper, and he sits down at the edge of his bed as you walk into the bathroom.

As soon as you shut the door, he falls backward onto the mattress. He stares up at the ceiling and lets himself grin, runs his hands down his face in utter disbelief.

Then, he notices the red tinge on his fingertips, your blood staining his skin and parts of his shirt. He gets up and changes into a dark grey one—the same color as the one you took—and heads to the kitchen to wash the rest off, telling himself he should probably work on cleaning off the couch, too.

And yet, even with his OCD, he hesitates. Because those crimson splotches are a visceral, tangible confirmation that this wasn't all in his head, that he's not going to blink and find you've disappeared.

But, on the other hand, he’s also just sane enough to recognize that keeping your blood as some kind of a fucking souvenir is probably not a good look.

So, to the sink he goes.

He washes his hands and dries them, then starts to work on the couch. He's pretty much gotten it all out when he hears your footsteps, and he looks up and stops mid-scrub.

Your hair is wet and tousled, standing there with his shirt and rolled-up sweats loosely hanging on you. He surreptitiously pinches his forearm, double checking to make sure he's not hallucinating, but the scene doesn't change.

You're really there. Whatever this is between you and him, it's real.

“Hey," you say, then gesture at the couch. "Sorry about that."

He tries to give you a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, it comes off easy."

He grabs the rag and cleaning supplies, tosses them under the sink, and washes his hands again.

You walk over next to him.

"Do you have an ice pack I can borrow? Or frozen anything, I'm not picky."

"Yeah, I got it." He walks over to the freezer and gently tosses you one, which you throw between your hands.

"Thanks.” You pause for a second. “I’m gonna go get some sleep."

"Ok." Dex frowns. "Wait, you still need Vicodin."

You wave him off.

“I’m ok. Really.” You grab his hand, skimming your thumb across his knuckles. “Kissing you and taking a shower brought me up like 40%." You look up at him.

“You coming with me?”

If his brain wasn’t already short-circuiting, it sure was now.

"Yeah, I’ll be right there.” But then he stops himself, suddenly unsure. “That’s what you want, right?”

You squeeze his hand and give him a look he can’t quite read. It’s not pity exactly, it’s more like … understanding. Like somehow, you can see straight through him, right down to the deepest parts of himself he’s tried to hide.

“Yes, that’s what I want.”

You walk back down the hall into his bedroom while he stands there in his kitchen. He leans over the sink and closes his eyes.

He hears Mercer’s voice, reminding him gently of how alone he’d been in his childhood. He hears you saying “kiss me,” the way you called him "babe." He thinks of the way you just looked at him, without horror or confusion or anger.

You looked at him like you knew him, really knew him—and somehow, you were still here.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Don’t fuck this up,” his brain warns.

Then, he turns and walks down the hall to his room. Logically, he knows you’ll be in there, but taking in the sight of you already half asleep in his bed still feels surreal.

You look up sleepily and pat the mattress next to you. Carefully, he climbs in next to you, lets you slowly shift to lay on his chest. He’s sure you can feel his heart hammering there, but if you do, you don’t say anything.

Until you do.

"Are you ok?" you ask softly, looking up at him.

Dex swallows and nods, lies through his teeth. “Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"You just seem ... intense. More than usual.” For the first time that night, apprehension enters your tone. “Was this too much too soon?”

And he almost laughs because it's so absurd, the idea that anything to do with you could be "too much." "Too much" to most people was barely scratching the surface for him. He wants it all, to capture every single thing about you, in every way and every minute and every shade and color in between—how you laugh, how you cry, how you feel underneath him; empty it all into the hollow expanse in his chest and carry it with him forever.

“What? No, no, absolutely not,” he says, shifting so he can look you in the eyes, to make sure you know he means it. He brings one hand to your face, strokes away some of the damp hair clinging to your cheek.

“You are perfect,” he says firmly. “And I just. You're so special and funny and beautiful and I ... I want you to be happy … with me.” His voice quiets. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

"I know,” you murmur back. “But let me ask you something. Who did I come to tonight when I needed someone I could trust?"

Dex gives a half smile.

"Me."

"Who did I summon enough energy for to make out with on the couch even though my body was beat to shit today?"

"Me."

You spread your arm out wide.

"Whose literal bed am I laying in right now?"

He can’t help it, he smiles for real this time.

"Mine."

"Right. Those were all my choices. All you.” You bring his forehead to yours. “And I don’t plan on that changing any time soon. Ok?"

"Ok."

You kiss him again, slow and sweet, before you tuck back into him.

"Night, Dex."

"Night."

Your eyes close immediately but his stay open, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, grounding himself in the warmth of your body against his.

After a while, he checks his watch and realizes he's been watching you sleep for over an hour. He knows he could do it all night, but he also knows he needs to be functioning in the morning.

After all, he's got a plan to execute: he needs to pick up your favorite Starbucks and make breakfast before you wake up, figure out where he wants to score your Vicodin from, set up Netflix so you can watch whatever you want.

Anything to make you stay.

So he brushes his lips against your hair and finally lets his eyes close, the humming in his mind starting to slow.