not-so-normal-whore

A cruel storm was waging war over the city.

Harsh wind kept furiously blowing against the walls of the building, the rain fell so hard the roads below were barely visible. From time to time, lightning would crackle on the sky, almost as if it was splitting in half, then a deafening boom would soon follow.

You went to bed hours ago, so did he.

But he wasn't asleep.

The commotion in the sky outside made his body and soul tremble and fear. The thundering outside was all too similar to the sounds of explosions, gunshots and bombs.

Like when the helicarriers fell apart.

Like when he was left behind on a mission, because he didn't get to the extraction point in time, due to the weather's vengeful nature.

He remembered the cold. The silence. The dark. How he was soaked to the bone, shivering like a leaf left in a hurricane. He could barely see from his own wet hair and the endless drops ravaging his skin.

He fell to his knees, into the mud.

He was almost relieved to hear his handler's dissatisfied voice.

"If you can't even handle a bit of rain, what good are you then?"

This one pesky memory kept him from seeking your presence out like usual.

He knew, or at least hoped you wouldn't berate him, but still, the conditions were all too similar.

His hand kept wandering to his steel shoulder to claw at the junction, yet he made a conscious effort to keep himself from further worsening its condition. He also didn't want to see your face when you had to clean him up again.

You didn't seem like you minded, yet he didn't want to become a burden to you more than he already thought was.

He huddled close to the salt lamp you put in his room for him, saying it's good for him, and you haven't used the thing in forever anyway.

Little did you know, he was drawn to its light like a moth to a flame.

He hated the dark so much.

It reminded him of there.

In the dark, his defenses lowered, allowing the ghosts of the past to worm their way into his mind again.

Suddenly a loud boom echoed above the city, making his light flicker and die. The sound alone made him twitch, but seeing his only light source gone, he panicked further.

Ditching his belief that he was a burden, he scurried to your bedroom, clumsily pushing the door open further to see you awake as well.

The sound must've woken you too.

You switched your flashlight on after you realized the power was out, as your bedside lamp refused to come to life. You wanted to check on Winter, and jumped when he was lit by your flashlight.

"Winter! You scared me..." you said as you pressed a hand to your chest to calm your heart.

All you saw was his hunched position and his fearful eyes.

He wasted no time in walking up to you and hugging you close.

He has never initiated contact so suddenly and so closely before. You could only assume the storm had brought up some unwanted memories.

Your own arms circled his shoulders as you began soothing him.

His metal arm was very cold, but trying to suppress your shivers one hand travelled up from his spine into his hair, all the while you kept whispering to him.

"You're okay...it's just a storm and the power went out." He burrowed his face further into your shoulder as he was shaking all over.

You reluctantly let go of him, hands lingering at his shoulders. "I'm going to check some things, would you like to come with me?" You asked gently, hoping to redirect his attention and soothe his nerves.

He reluctantly nodded, and kept holding your hand while you went to the window to check the streetlights.

Despite the rain obscuring everything, the streetlights were visible, and the hallway lights worked fine too, so seemingly only your apartment was affected.

You turned to him.

"We're gonna have to unplug a few devices to avoid damaging them when I reset the breaker box. Would you like to help?" You inquired.

He was reluctant to agree. He didn't want to let go of your hand. But he didn't want to refuse either.

Sensing his trepidation, you reassured him "We don't have to split up. You can come with me," you whispered.

That seemed to calm him a bit, and he nodded as you both went to unplug the TV, your laptop, the charger and all the like.

You reset the breaker box, and soon enough, the power was back in the home, his salt lamp flickering to life.

"There. All done," you said gently as you turned to him.

His flesh hand was still tightly wrapped around yours, not showing signs of planning on letting you go.

"Are you okay?" You asked, as he seemed to withdraw into himself, while still clutching your hand. He didn't respond.

You reached up to touch his face, to hopefully gain his attention again.

He was still alone, in the rain, in the cold, soaked to the bone.

His scruffy cheek was warm against your palm, and he flinched briefly at the contact, wide, glacial eyes snapping to yours.

He seemed to hold his breath for a second, before he eased his head into your hand, metal palm coming up to hold your hand closer. He was slightly trembling, breaths shaky and shallow through his nose.

You began stroking his cheek with your thumb as his eyes slowly closed, tension bleeding out of his system slowly, but surely.

"Come on, let's go to bed." You gently interrupted the moment. As your hand fell away, his eyes flickered open, panicking for a fleeting moment.

You gently pulled him towards your bedroom, where it was dark, your blinds shut.

He stopped at the threshold, making you stop too when you were moving but he wasn't.

You looked back at him, slightly confused.

"What is it, Winter? You can tell me," you whispered to him.

He stood still for a few seconds, seemingly out of it again.

"It's...dark..." he whispered, haunted. It was so low, you nearly missed it.

Ah.

"Then we'll just flick this on..." you said, letting go of his hand and walking to your bedside lamp. You adjusted the light to be dim enough to not disturb either of you, but bright enough to see.

"Now, come on..." you coaxed him with open arms. He hesitantly set foot into your room, walking over to you. His eyes were filled with a strange mixture of trust and trepidation, and his hands still shook lightly from time to time.

As you both settled into your bed, he didn't lay on the opposite side, facing away from you, but instead laid his head on your chest, metal arm draped over your form.

This caught you off guard, but seeing his distress you didn't comment on it.

He snuggled his face further into your shirt as he held on tighter.

He was still lightly shaking.

"It's okay, you're okay..." you soothed, pulling the sheets up to his shoulders, tucking him close to you. As you rubbed slow circles into his back over the sheets, he let out a content sigh, body easing into yours.

Your hand soon moved up from his back his nape, lightly scratching at his scalp, your nails drawing swirls and circles on his skin. He nearly shuddered at the contact, and fearing you might've did something he didn't like, you lifted your hand away, but he followed it with his head, letting you know he liked the contact.

Gently smiling, you continued your gentle touches, twirling his soft strands inbetween your fingers until he finally drifted off, breathing deepening and evening out, his weight settling on you. He was heavy, but not crushing. It was soothing in a way, like a weighted blanket.

You pressed a soft kiss to his hair, the soft strands tickling your nose as you finally drifted off too.

Taglist open! Let me know if you'd like to be added/unadded any time.

Winter Soldier taglist: @missingddeanw @insomniac-astronomer @hagridshaircare @kasairnalkaelith

You knew he had nightmares. How could he not? Based on the knowledge you obtained, what HYDRA had done to him, should’ve killed him.

But it didn’t. Instead, it left extensive marks on his body and psyche.

And maybe that was a fate worse than death.

When you first managed to wash him off when he got here, you saw it.

The myriad of injuries, some still weeping, burn marks, gunshot wounds, old and new scars littering his whole body. Some so brutal you wondered how he’d survived, like the jagged scar near his throat. 

You wanted to help him, you really did. 

But, lacking a medical license and the knowledge necessary to help him heal, all you could really do was attempt to provide a safe space where he can let his guard down.

At first, you were terrified of him. Why did you offer him that coat? Strange dudes in alleyways were usually the ones that killed those who tried to help them, mocking sad eyes and maybe an injury.

But as time passed, you came to realize that while he did look scary on the outside, on the inside, he was probably more scared of you than you were of him. You came to see that he was simply a wildly mistreated man, one who forgot how to be human. It was so obvious from the way he behaved.

And that tugged at your heartstrings.

Was it basic human empathy? Or were you just crazy? 

You could have easily left him there. But it felt wrong.

He just looked so…lost and alone. You couldn’t just walk past him. 

So now, here he is, huddled away in your crumbling old closet, hiding like a ghost. 

He did venture outside from time to time, standing just at the edge of your vision, that if you turned your head to get a better view of him, he vanished. Kind of like a ghost.

Whenever you entered the room, you would be met with the usual sliver of blue visible through the slit in the closet doors.

It was really about to fall into pieces, one of the doors was literally hanging on by a thread.

Carefully setting down his dinner, you slowly moved to crouch in front of the closet to be eye level with him.

“Winter?” he didn’t answer. 

“I think you should try sleeping outside of the closet now. It can’t be comfortable in there,” you tried suggesting, and using the excuse of the obviously hunched position he probably slept in, instead of straight up telling him that the closet was falling apart. 

It might’ve set him off, told him the area wasn’t safe, prompting him to leave his only safe spot in the home.

He might’ve just crawled out, assessing the closet himself and looking for another den.

You couldn’t have known, so you decided to play it safe.

His head slightly tilted inside.

“Also, I brought you dinner. Would you like to eat?” you called again. That made him stir, the doors opening slowly with a loud creak. You both moved to stand, as he carefully stepped outside, like a creature stepping out of its chrysalis, eyes cast downwards, not looking at you despite him towering above you definitely would’ve allowed for eye contact.

As soon as he did though, the door that was barely hanging on finally snapped off. 

With a loud thud, it landed on the hardwood floor, stirring up the dust that has settled on the ground. 

He jumped, nearly knocking you off your feet, as he retreated into the corner next to the door, nearly knocking his dinner over in the process. 

He rigidly pressed his back into the wall, breathing erratic and fast.

All he heard was the crash. He knew the door would snap off, but he didn’t anticipate it, despite his hypervigilance.

It almost sounded like a gunshot.

A bomb set off.

“Winter, it’s okay. The door fell off. It was barely hanging on anyway,” you tried easing his nerves seeing his intense reaction. 

His wide, terrified eyes snapped to yours, breathing evening out just a little. He looked to the fallen wood, slightly nodding to himself as he too processed the information. 

It was just the door.

His bowl of soup was just by his feet, the liquid sloshed out. His eyes scanned the room for potential dangers, as the fight still hasn’t bled out of his system entirely. 

His gaze briefly caught on the bowl.

He made a mess.

He shrunk in on himself even further, gaze flickering up to yours, fear evident in his eyes, as it flickered away, darted across the room, then back to yours again. His breathing nearly stopped.

You watched his reaction with baited breath. His fearful demeanor greatly disturbed you, just a tinge of rage boiling in your blood upon witnessing how HYDRA has broken this poor man.

You knew trauma survivors usually flinched by loud noises, but it wasn’t what disturbed you.

It was the intensity of his reaction.

He damn near launched himself out of the closet, and then panicked upon seeing some spilled soup.

Something you would never pick up.

Sure, the loud bam of the door colliding with the ground would make you jump too, but not like he was evading a bomb.

You crouched down in front of him, gaze locked on you as you descended. His eyes were still wide with fear, breathing erratic even as he fought to suppress it. His hands came up to shield his face, peeking through his fingers.

“Winter, you’re okay. You’re safe, alright? It’s just some soup. We’ll wipe it up in no time…” you soothed, as you reached for a tissue in your pocket and began cleaning the soup up, making sure he saw what you were doing, to avoid stressing him out further.

“Here…all done,” you said, picking the bowl and spoon up and extending them towards him. 

“Now, here’s your dinner,” 

He didn’t move for a minute. He didn’t understand why you didn’t hurt him. 

You were unpredictable, because you were everything he wasn’t used to.

No screaming, no shouting, no hand in his hair, no knife in your hands, and it unsettled him.

As you held his gaze, eyes relaxed, he slowly uncurled from himself, and reached out with shaky hands.

As you passed the bowl to him, your fingers briefly brushed. The ice cold metal of his steel hand sent a shiver through your system, but his flesh hand was surprisingly warm. 

He flinched a little upon the contact, but held the bowl anyway. 

You gave him a small smile, and turned to leave him to eat.

You’d found out he won’t eat until you’ve left. Probably some gruesome conditioning or learned behavior, or perhaps he was just afraid you’d suddenly snatch it and pour it over his head for daring to accept anything other than his bland rations.

It has happened before…

He always took his time smelling and savoring the food for anything out of place, like hidden medicine or drugs, but like always, he couldn’t taste or smell anything out of place. 

Maybe you were just good at concealing them.

Then again, he always felt better after having eaten, so you couldn’t have put anything in it.

He still needed to grow to trust you with food…after all, it had been so difficult to get him to eat in the first place.

After he was done, he slowly stood up on unsteady legs, and made his way to the kitchen. He scanned the hallway before stepping out, seeing the lights were off everywhere in the house. 

He heard the shower running.

Just like always, he put the bowl in the sink, and cleaned everything up, like he was never there to begin with. 

Sometime in the night, you woke to hear him thrash and whimper in the other room. 

The volume meant he probably used the thin mattress you put down for him with the blanket. 

While you were setting up his “bed” he just stood by the closet and watched, confused.

He made no move to lay on it even after you left.

He weighed his options. 

The closet wasn’t safe anymore, but it did still provide some cover.

The mattress was entirely open, no cover. It was behind the door, so if anyone stepped in, he would have enough time to protect himself, even if he knew the likelihood of that was quite low. Nobody would enter besides you, yet the conditioning went deep in his brain.

And besides, you must’ve expected him to use it. 

He didn’t want to find out what would happen if you found out about him preferring the ruined closet over the bed you spent time preparing. 

So he went with the bed.

It was more comfortable than the closet, but the Soldier didn’t know comfort.

He felt guilty for feeling just a little bit good.

Still, afraid of the fictional consequences his brain cooked up, he stayed.

But sleep didn’t last long. It never did, not for him.

It was hard to even fall asleep to begin with, conditioning preventing him from being able to fall asleep naturally. 

And even when he did, he would wake to a cold sweat and his flesh fingers digging into his most vulnerable wound.

Tonight was no different.

A particularly horrifying nightmare had woken him, leaving him in a petrified, frozen state.

He screamed out, eyes flying open, breathing still harsh and ragged, and he couldn’t move to fight the shadows only he could see.

Figures were closing in on him, making his chest tight.

The door creaked open, with another one of them stepping in. It said something, something he couldn’t hear over the blood rushing in his ears.

His panic heightened as it made its way to him and crouched down. It reached out its hand.

He found the strength to move as he tackled the shadow to the ground, his metal hand gripping its throat. His breathing was still harsh, each exhale a growl as his wide, unfocused eyes fixed on the figure.

Its hands flew up to his steel wrist, clutching desperately as it tried to tug its hand off it.

This just made his grip tighten, brain blanking out as the machine momentarily took over.

It kept whispering, why was it talking? Why-

“W-Winter! Y-You’re-” you wheezed as your vision started to black out.

He blinked hard, several times before coming to his senses.

But by that time, you were already out.

He snatched his hand away as if your skin had burned him. He sat back, then began scrambling backwards, until his back met the wall. His flesh hand flew up to cover his mouth as all breath left his lungs.

He-did he?...

He stared at your limp form, brain unable to form a single coherent thought as his panic heightened.

He sprang forward, quivering hands hovering in the air, not knowing what to do.

Should he touch you? Should he try to wake you? 

He checked for your breathing. Shallow, but it was there. So was your pulse.

He crumbled in on himself, torso arching forward, hands coming to grip at his hair as he let out a frustrated, but panicked whine, and nearly began hyperventilating again.

He nearly killed the only person who seemed to care about him. 

“I’m sorry…” he rasped out, as his shaky arms snaked their way around your body, cradling you to his chest.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered again, head resting at your chest, as the apologies fell endlessly from his lips, clutching at your still-warm body hard, shakily rocking you back and forth.

A few seconds later, you woke with a harsh intake of breath.

He immediately dropped you, as you began coughing and sputtering. 

His back pressed into the wall, as he was still breathing heavily, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry!” he croaked out in Russian. You held yourself up by your elbow, as your other hand came to rub at your bruised throat. You couldn’t form a thought, and could only feel fear settle into your bones, as you scrambled to your feet and retreated to the bathroom. 

Now what? You must seek medical help immediately. But what will you tell them? That you have the very alive, volatile Winter Soldier in your home, who you willingly let inside?

You assessed the damage, and saw the deep bruises already forming.

You could breathe, it hurt, but you could, and you could also speak, though your voice was hoarse. 

You really thought about seeking medical help.

In the end, you decided to knock at one of your neighbor’s doors, who was actually an old friend of yours and a medical professional. He was always involved in rather shady things, and you never snitched on him, so he didn’t ask about what had happened when you told him you don’t want to talk about it. He told you he’d need to evaluate you at the hospital, and he could do so in secret, so that’s where the rest of the night went.

By sunrise, you were back in your apartment, having been told by your friend that you’ll be fine.

Winter wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but for now, you were a bit afraid of him, not checking up on him, despite your instincts telling you you should. You called your boss that you were sick and couldn’t attend work for a while. 

Eventually, you began preparing his breakfast. 

You knew, at least hoped that he didn’t do it on purpose. You knew HYDRA had damaged him, and you shouldn’t have approached him in such a volatile state…

But when you knocked on his door, then opened it to see the room empty, the window open, your heart dropped to your stomach.

Winter was gone.

You frantically ran to the window, scanning the streets below for any sign of him, he was nowhere to be seen.

Shit, shit, shit!

Where did he go? Where could he have gone?

You knew he was probably more than capable of managing himself, yet you couldn’t help but think of the worst. 

Maybe he was recaptured, or worse…

With your coat halfway on your body, keys nearly dropped, you scrambled onto the streets, frantically looking around. You bumped into several people rushing to their respective workplaces as you ran to the dumpsters where you originally found him.

He wasn’t there.

Then where was he? When did he leave? How far has he gone?

You knew about the helicarriers in Washington, and he showed up about two days after it had happened, which meant he could be anywhere right now.

You stumbled further into the alleyway, heart in your throat, breathing erratic, scanning the darkness, but still, nothing.

Why did you care so much about him in the first place? He nearly killed you. He’s an assassin, a killer on the loose. If anyone ever found out about him in your home, you’d be held accountable for having harbored one of the most dangerous men in the world.

And yet, you couldn’t help but worry for him. 

He really didn’t seem as vicious as he was painted by the media and the stories.

You ended up searching for him all day, now standing in front of your building, defeated. It was already getting late, and you’d promised yourself you’d try again tomorrow, even if the chances of seeing him were getting lower and lower every minute. 

You decided to check the dumpsters one more time, turning back towards the place where you first met.

Deciding to walk further than you previously have into the alley, lighting the dark area with your phone’s flashlight, you found him. 

He was here this whole time?!

He probably didn’t know where to go. Poor man…

“Winter?” you cautiously called out, disbelief and relief lacing your voice.

He was curled into a ball, sitting in a pile of mud and trash. He was dirty all over, much like the first time you brought him into your apartment. He was shivering violently, considering the only things covering him were a gray shirt and sweatpants.

Upon hearing you croak, his head snapped up, and as his glacial eyes locked onto yours, he scrambled to stand and run in the other direction.

“Wait!” you managed, your voice still hoarse. 

He reluctantly stopped and looked back at you over his shoulder.

“I was so worried you’ve disappeared…” you whispered. This made his brows furrow. “I’m glad to see you,” you whispered again.

He slightly turned towards you, as you held out your free hand.

“Please, come with me, you’re shivering…” he hesitated. 

“Even after…what I’ve done?” he croaked in Russian. You couldn’t make out what he was saying, so you just tried encouraging him again.

“I won’t lie to you, I’m scared. But I know you didn’t do it on purpose, and I’m okay.” you soothed. It didn’t work. 

“No…” he turned to leave again.

“Wait, Winter!” you called, stepping after him.

“I’m not mad at you. But I am worried. Please come with me, you’ll freeze to death…” you croaked, voice shaky.

He stopped again, and turned back to you. 

His eyes were filled with such profound sadness and defeat, you could hear your own heart shattering in real time.

He hesitantly reached out with his flesh hand, tentatively placing it in yours.

You had him sit in the bathtub, and began cleaning him thoroughly, as the poor soldier reeked of trash.

You were careful with him, especially with his wounds, as each seemed angrier than the last time you’ve seen them, especially the jagged scar at his shoulder. You made sure to inform him of every move you made, showing him the products you used to avoid potentially spooking him.

He never once looked you in the eyes, he actually avoided eye contact as much as humanly possible, hair curtaining his face. 

You took your time carefully washing him, each time you rinsed off the suds, a dark brown swirl would disappear down the drain. Cleaning the dirt out of the small spaces between the sophisticated plates of his prosthetic arm was a careful and slow process in itself, but it was worth it in the end. By the time you were done, it was as shiny as new, or at least you thought.

You noted the scratch at the star on his shoulder, the mark almost dividing it into two pieces.

His frame was still shivering violently even as the water was near scalding now.

“Can I see your face?” you carefully asked, as you were about to wash his face before moving on to his hair. His entire body tensed up.

“I just want to wash your face. That’s all,” you encouraged. 

He hesitantly raised his head from its bowed position, eyes still closed.

You took a new washcloth and applied the cleanser, then raised it to his face.

“I’m going to start now,” you murmured, as the soft cloth made contact with his skin.

There was a new cut above his eyebrow, one you don’t recall seeing before. Carefully working your way around the scars, you slowly rubbed the dirt and mud off his skin. Your hand moved circularly across his cheeks, and you took your time admiring his features. 

He was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, even with that permanent frown etched into his features, brows forever furrowed. His pink lips held a slight pout. 

He didn’t understand why you wanted him back. He didn’t want to come back. He hurt you, why did you ask him to return to you? Why were you so gentle with him?

He didn’t know why he came back. Was it a need to fulfill the hidden order in your words?

Or was it the knowledge that despite his trepidations, he knew your home was safe. 

Safer than the streets, at least.

As one hand glided across his features in soothing circles, your other hand lingered at his cheek, delicately angling his head from time to time.

He couldn’t help but feel…relaxed.

Somewhere deep down he enjoyed your gentle ministrations, even as the overwhelming guilt kept eating away at this feeling.

He wanted to make it up to you. And he didn’t know if it was a feeling of needing to satisfy his handler, or if he genuinely felt sorry, and wanted you to know that.

His eyes flickered open when you reluctantly pulled your hands away from his face, having wiped the last of the cleanser off.

He was already looking so much better, but his hair still needed your attention.

“Can you tip your head back for me?” you asked gently, and he wordlessly complied, closing his eyes once again. 

You took your time massaging the shampoo into his roots, making sure to not pull his hair while trying to detangle it to some extent.

After three washes and rinses, you applied some of your conditioner to his hair, seemingly lost in the repetitive motions. 

Your hands quivered slightly every so often, but you willed your body to calm now.

He didn’t mean it. You just knew.

But having felt his true strength, and that wasn’t even what he was really capable of, still frightened you. 

It definitely reminded you of just who and what he was, and that he definitely wasn’t as harmless as he seemed.

He was one of the most potent living weapons ever made, after all, and you tended to forget about that crucial part.

Rinsing out the conditioner, his hair was sleek and shiny now, and he smelled so much better too.

Shutting the water off, you coaxed him out of the tub and carefully dried him off. You left to fetch him some clothes, and by the time you were back, he was on his knees, hands back, head bowed.

Submitting for punishment.

The sight made you pause.

“Winter, you can stand up. I won’t hurt you for what you’ve done. You don’t have to…do that,” you tried reassuring him, but he didn’t move. Mouthing an “okay”, you placed the clothes in front of him.

“Please get dressed.” your gentle order luckily broke the spell, and he moved to dress himself. While he was doing so, you moved to start the washing machine, so he wouldn’t feel overwhelmed by you staring at him as he dressed himself. When he was done, he stood, back straight, hands folded behind his back. 

His entire demeanor screamed “I’m sorry, I’ll do anything, just please don’t hurt me,”. His eyes nervously darted across the bathroom, still avoiding your gaze.

“Come on,” you encouraged, walking past him, trying to somehow redirect his attention. You led him to the kitchen, where you sat him down at the table while you heated his breakfast from the morning, searching for a dinner yourself as you hadn’t eaten all day.

Placing the meal in front of him, you sat down opposite of the soldier, and began to eat.

He made no move to pick up his fork, as he just stared at the plate of food, mouth quivering, eyes wide and breathing shallow.

“You can eat, Winter. It's all yours,” you encouraged. He still made no movement to touch it, so you didn’t push it. You still knew that he won’t eat while you can still see him, so you hoped he will eat once you leave.

After you were done, you washed your own plate, and went to take a shower yourself.

“I’ll take a shower, then I’ll be in the living room if you need anything,”

He waited until he heard the shower start, and began eating only after. He ate like a man starved, barely taking breaths between the bites. After he was done, he cleaned up after himself, and went to hide in the storage room, like always.

He snatched the blanket off the mattress, and curled up under a rickety table in the other end of the room.

His entire body was still rigid and trembling, burrowing his face into the blanket in an attempt to soothe himself, which unfortunately did little.

Some time later, you went to check on him, just giving him a gentle smile before you got comfortable in your living room, catching up on a show to distract yourself, though you occasionally rubbed at the bruises on your throat, reliving that moment again for a fraction of a second.

He didn’t mean it. He didn’t want to hurt you.

You were a few episodes in, when he appeared again, blanket draped over him like a cape. 

He just stood at the far end of the living room, the lights from the TV occasionally illuminating his form. You were aware of his presence, but made no moves to actually acknowledge it. You didn’t want to potentially spook him. 

Eventually, he sat down on the floor at the other end of the couch, eyes fixed on the TV screen. 

“Thank you…” he whispered after some time.

You looked down at him.

His eyes were sleepy, though still guarded as he shyly glanced in your direction.

You smiled at him.

Winter Soldier taglist: @missingddeanw

You've been harboring this strange man in your home for a while now, the man you've come to know as the Winter Soldier.

The world's most deadly assassin.

You met him in an alleyway, offering him a coat which he refused, then showed up in your storage room a while later.

He probably stealthed his way inside through the window.

At first, he was wary, of everything, including you. Refeeding, sleeping, bathing were all a hassle, but he's grown more comfortable around you as time passed.

For the past few weeks now, he began seeking your presence at night.

You would either wake to him clumsily climbing into your bed next to you, his violent shivering apparent through the slight vibrations in the mattress, or just to his panicked gasps and that haunting scream.

Tonight though, you were still awake when his night terror began.

You knew better by now than to wake him in that state, as he nearly strangled you the one time you tried. He would usually show up a few minutes after he woke.

You were sitting at your desk, just staring at the wood, lost in your world when he stumbled into the hallway. The door was open, your table lamp casting an orange glow into the darkness, a beacon of light.

Even in your dazed state you saw the movement from the corner of your eye, which made you flinch before you realized who it was.

"Winter?" you called out to him.

Even if he referred to himself as Soldat, you chose to call him Winter instead.

It felt more like a name and less like a clinical, dehumanizing designation.

He didn't protest, and responded to the name regardless.

He just continued to stand awkwardly at the end of the hallway, just out of the light's range. All you could make out was his form, standing hunched over.

He seemed to slightly cradle one of his arms, and judging by his posture, he was contemplating leaving instead of disturbing you in your staring contest with the wood.

Whenever you slept, he could just sneak into your bed, not having to deal with your attention, which he actually started seeking out more often.

Still, he preferred to go unnoticed, following you from a distance like a shadow, a constant companion.

"What is it?" you called again, as he didn't respond the first time you did.

He slightly flinched at your words despite their gentle cadence through the darkness, making his gaze waver for a second.

Eventually, he took a tentative step closer, giving you a better view of him.

The white tank top he was wearing was stained red at his shoulder where metal connected to flesh. His other hand was awkwardly pressed into the junction, a bit of blood still spilling through his fingers.

The sight made you involuntarily freeze for a second, before he spoke.

"I'm...sorry," he rasped.

He rarely spoke, and when he did his words only consisted of short, clipped Russian phrases, so him apologizing in English was new to you.

"It's okay," you reassured him, despite not knowing what exactly he was apologizing for.

You made a move to stand, making sure your movements were slow and predictable. Despite your efforts though, his body still convulsed involuntarily.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?" your soft voice rang gently.

He slightly shook his head, and angled his body towards you instead of taking a step closer.

You cautiously made your way to him, watching as the usually towering man shrunk in on himself further. He fixed his gaze on the floor, avoiding eye contact.

Though you were closer now, from the lack of light, you still couldn't make out his injury, or why he was bleeding.

He abruptly turned on his heel and began walking back to the storage room with hurried steps.

When you didn't follow, he stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder, still hunched over.

Getting the message, you turned to follow him.

When you reached the storage room, a small ray of light spilled out from under the door.

So he was using the salt lamp you put in there.

As he disappeared behind the door, you took this and his silent message to follow, as permission to step into the room.

He was standing rigidly by the closet he spent so long hiding in, staring at the corner just behind the door he slept in.

He refused to use the couch, or the spare mattress you laid down for him, and instead slept on a thin blanket.

Now you could see that his flesh fingers subconsciously dug into the seam where steel met flesh, as his eyes nervously darted between you and the bloodstain on the blanket.

"I'm sorry...for...mess..." he whispered so lowly, you almost missed it, his fingers digging further into the weeping wound.

Your eyes caught on his actions.

"Hey, you're hurting yourself..." you cautiously called out, the sight tugging at your heartstrings.

He felt the need to tell you about the mess he made. Maybe then, when you would've eventually found out about it anyway, the punishment wouldn't be so severe. Even if you never so much as raised your voice at him above a gentle song.

His gaze darted down to his hand, eyes freezing and glazing over.

He sucked in a harsh breath and ripped his hand away. His entire body went rigid.

You noticed his obvious reaction, you knew him that much by now.

You knew he was bracing for impact.

"It's okay, we'll clean you up in no time..." you gently called out, hoping to ease his nerves. You turned to fetch a first aid kit, a bowl and a rag along with a new blanket and shirt for him.

He waited for you, every nerve on high alert. What if you went for a weapon? A knife? Would you hurt him for having caused damage to himself? For the ruined blanket? What if-

His train of thoughts was interrupted as you stumbled back into the room, hands full of supplies. He immediately went to help you, before recoiling, realizing his hands were filthy, and they would just soil the fresh blanket you've brought.

You just gave him a gentle smile, hoping to ease some of his nerves.

Setting the blanket down and folding the stained one, depositing it to the side, you turned to him.

"Can I see your shoulder?" you asked cautiously, making sure your voice and body language were loose and nonthreatening.

Despite the "bond" you two have been building, you knew injuries and his shoulder were still extremely sensitive spots for him.

After slight hesitation, he allowed you to see. Refusal was out of the question, even if all he wanted to do was tuck tail and run.

"I'm gonna have to take your shirt off. Is that okay with you?" You asked again, making him tense up again. Eventually, as he sensed no malicious intent in your demeanor, he allowed you to step closer and carefully remove his tank top.

Despite having a build and posture that would make a grown man weak in his knees, he surely carried himself like he wanted to disappear entirely. His entire body language screamed submission, fear and defeat as you carefully pulled the fabric away from his injured skin.

You tried to ignore the myriad of other horrible scars that were now on display on his torso. His shoulder needed all your attention, and you didn't want to make him feel self conscious.

This was already an extremely vulnerable situation for him.

Once his shirt was gone, you silently motioned for him to sit down, crouching next to him.

You silently examined the wound, and luckily it wasn't as bad as you feared.

A cleaning and some well-applied bandages along with the serum in his veins will surely do the trick.

You reached for the bowl and rag, and you felt him tense before you.

"I'm going to clean your wound, wipe the blood off, then I'm going to bandage it. Is that alright with you?" you asked carefully.

He watched the bowl and rag like they were coals and heated iron, eyes wide, breathing irregular.

"It's just warm water and a rag. See?" you explained, as you reached into the water, and held up the rag, showing him you were unharmed by them.

His shoulders loosened just a fraction, and you took that as permission to begin cleaning his wound.

You carefully wiped his pale skin clean of the crimson, making sure your actions were slow and predictable. Your hand moved with a gentleness the soldier wasn't used to across his toned pec. He watched, intrigued as the blood slowly disappeared from his skin.

You took another few minutes carefully cleaning the small spaces between the plates of his steel shoulder.

He didn't understand why you were so calm about it. You should be angry at him, furiously scrubbing his skin raw.

Yet all he saw was a sleepy calmness.

The strokes calmed you both, your eyes drooping closed, a few yawns escaping here and there.

Then you began patching his shoulder up. He anxiously searched for sharp objects in you kit, but all he found was gauze and cotton.

You were treating him like he was precious. Like you were afraid, that being just a little too rough with him would make him shatter.

After you were done, his shoulder was nice and secure, no blood dripping down his chest.

You yawned again before reaching for his flesh hand with a silent question in your sleepy eyes. His own wide ones were fixated on your hazy ones, not really understanding just how you could be so...calm around him. Sleepy, even.

Most handlers and doctors in his vicinity were ever vigilant, always prepared with a syringe in their pockets with his name on it.

He slowly raised his flesh hand, presenting his open palm to you.

You took his warm hand in yours, and began cleaning his fingers of blood too.

His hand was covered in scars and callouses, too, just like the rest of him. The skin was rough and dry, the blood he spilled forever tainting it. Yet, once again, you were so careful with him.

Like he was worth losing sleep over.

He felt guilty for making you tend to him, even as you were so tired.

Even if you couldn't sleep just half an hour ago, tending to the soldier calmed your nerves enough that your body now demanded you get some sleep.

But, you can't sleep until Winter is patched up.

After having cleaned the last bit of blood from under his fingernails, you carefully rested his large hand in his lap. His eyes flickered up to yours upon the loss of warmth.

You reached behind you and held the fresh tank top in front of him, silently asking permission to dress him.

He complied wordlessly, allowing you to delicately pull the fabric over his skin.

You sighed, satisfied, and laid out the new blanket for him.

"Good night, Winter," you said, turning to leave and discard the now useless supplies, before his flesh hand slightly brushed against your arm.

You turned back to him.

He avoided your eyes, but an unspoken request was apparent in the way he stood before you, eyes downcast and hidden by his unruly hair.

"Come on," you coaxed him gently with a small smile on your face.

After having discarded everything, the two of you stepped into your bedroom.

As you settled in, you didn't feel the mattress dip.

He just kept standing over you for a few seconds. Then he moved onto the bed.

At first he laid on the far side of the mattress, laying on his uninjured shoulder.

Then, as the minutes passed, he gradually inched closer to you, until his body was pressed against yours.

He made no move to drape his arm over you, or to lay on your chest, but instead he curled up like a cat would, head pressed into your side.

Smiling, you raised your arm, and rested it above him, not sure if he would want your hand on his shoulder, or in his hair.

Soon, you felt his breathing even out, and that allowed you to drift off too.

Tags: @iamthatonefangirl (I remember telling u about wanting to write some WS fanfic, and u told me u'd like to be tagged .<3)

Sam nodded slowly, deeply, like that was exactly the kind of spiritual obstacle he'd anticipated — was, frankly, honoured to shepherd Bucky through. "Then you gotta slow the rotation, man. Let the body lead. Not the mind, not the history, not the what-ifs. You just —"

His eyes fell shut. One long inhale through the nose, one deliberate exhale through the mouth, the whole performance so measured it could have been choreographed.

When his eyes opened again, he looked like a man who'd just returned from somewhere profound. "You arrive."

"Arrive," Bucky repeated.

"At the moment."

"I need to arrive at the moment."

"With your whole self."

Bucky looked at him for a long time. Sam looked back with the serene conviction of a man who had solved something.

"Sam, I'm asking you how to tell my boyfriend I want to have sex with him."

"And I'm telling you." Sam leaned forward. "Vulnerability is the doorway. Walk through it naked — not literally. Emotionally, metaphorically." A beat. "Unless it literally works for the situation, in which case, also yes."

That was the full scope of Sam's contribution: vulnerability and breath. Arriving at the moment with his whole self — which was, as a set of instructions, the equivalent of handing a man a compass and telling him to find east by feeling it.

Steve, when consulted separately (because Bucky was nothing if not thorough, because he believed in second opinions even when the first opinion had been essentially useless), took a different approach entirely.

He leaned back in his chair. His gaze drifted past Bucky's left shoulder as though he'd found a frequency only golden retrievers and supersoldiers from 1918 could hear.

"When you find the right person," he said, "it's like the heavens open up."

Bucky blinked.

"Everything aligns." Steve was warming to his theme now, his voice taking on that particular swell it got before he said something that belonged on a monument. "The physical, the emotional, the spiritual. You stop being two separate people. You become—" The word took a second to surface, but when it did, he held it up like something precious. "A union."

"A union," Bucky said.

"A sacred union."

"Steve."

"The body is the vessel, Buck, but the connection is the current." Steve's eyes were glistening now — not with tears, just with that particular luminosity of a man who felt things at an architectural scale. He looked like he was about to grab Bucky by the shoulders. "When you give yourself to someone — truly, wholly — the heavens open up. Everything you've carried, all of it, gets lighter. Because you're not carrying it alone anymore."

It was, objectively, a beautiful sentiment. The kind of thing you'd cross-stitch on a pillow or hear narrated over a montage of two people sprinting through a field at golden hour.

It was also completely, devastatingly unhelpful.

"I don't think I'm invited to heaven, Steve."

Steve frowned. "Of course you —"

"I'm being serious. I've done things that would get me turned away at the door. I think the heavens are opening for other people."

"That's not what I —"

"You said sacred union, Steve. I'm asking how to bring up sex without making it weird."

Steve blinked, before recalibrating. His hand landed on Bucky's shoulder with the tenderness of a man awarding a Purple Heart.

"Just speak from the heart, Buck."

Bucky stared at him. The hand stayed. Steve's eyes were so sincere they could have powered a small city.

He left with both their voices rattling around his skull, no practical information to show for any of it. One question. That's what he'd walked in with. One question — he'd walked out carrying two incompatible philosophies, one man telling him to breathe his way into the moment, the other telling him the sky would crack open when he got there, while the original problem sat exactly where he'd left it. 

Word for word. Syllable for syllable. Completely unresolved.

Your apartment ran warm.

You couldn't tell; it was just your apartment, the thermostat set to whatever number you'd chosen in October and never touched again.

But Bucky could tell.

His body calibrated temperature at a frequency that had nothing to do with comfort, everything to do with survival, so your living room registered against his skin the second he stepped inside. Every time. The residual humidity from the kettle you'd boiled twenty minutes ago. The particular dry heat of your old radiator fighting a losing battle with the window drafts. All of it settled over him like a hand on his back.

He liked it here.

You were on the couch with a book propped against your knee, a coffee cup balanced on the armrest in a way that would've given anyone with a cleaning compulsion a heart attack. You didn't look up when he came in.

You didn't need to. You'd long since acclimated to the particular rhythm of Bucky in your space — the near-silent footfalls, the way he drifted from room to room like he was mapping exits.

Except the exits were just your hallway, your bathroom, the kitchen where he sometimes stood in front of the open fridge for two full minutes without taking anything out.

Your boyfriend haunted your one-bedroom like it was a Victorian manor. you'd made peace with it.

Tonight, though, he didn't drift, he came in. His jacket went on the back of the chair — not thrown; placed, which was the first red flag — before he walked to the couch. Not to sit, no, he stopped beside you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to see his face.

He was looking down at you with that expression. The one you still hadn't cracked. Too steady to be casual, too soft to be anything tactical. Just fixed on you, like you were a sentence he kept rereading.

"We need to talk."

Your eyes left the page.

That wasn't his vocabulary. Bucky didn't announce conversations. He started them mid-thought, three sentences deep, as though you'd been listening the whole time. Bucky said things like "so the problem with the faucet is" without preamble, "I had a theory about your neighbor" without warning.

"We need to talk" was a press conference. "We need to talk" was structural.

You set the book down.

"I've been thinking," he started and stopped. You watched the machinery of his jaw tighten, release, reset. "About us."

Your coffee was in your hand now. You weren't drinking it anymore, just holding it.

"Not bad things," he said quickly. "Good things. Things that could be — that I want to be —" Another stop, another reset. You could almost see the index cards shuffling behind his eyes, the rehearsed version collapsing in real time. "There's a direction. That I think we should explore together."

"Okay," you said steadily. You gave him nothing to bounce off of, which, in hindsight, might have been worse than interrupting.

"A physical direction."

Your stomach dropped about three inches.

"I've been having these dreams," he continued, because apparently the man had chosen devastation tonight. "About you, about us. They keep — they're not just—" His left hand went to the back of his neck, which meant he'd already lost the ability to track which hand was doing what. "They're frequent. They're... vivid. I wake up, I think about what they mean, and I think they mean something. Because I don't dream about things that don't —"

He was still talking. You'd stopped hearing individual words.

Dreams about you. Vivid, frequent, meaningful dreams about you — dreams that kept him up at night, that he'd thought about long enough to come here, to stand over you with that face, to tell you there was a physical direction he wanted to explore.

This was it.

This was the three-month rule. The exact thing that influencer said in that video you scrolled past three separate times while thinking that's ridiculous, that doesn't apply to real life.

Your partner starts having dreams about you. Not the fun kind, but the processing kind — the subconscious rehearsal where the brain runs simulations of leaving before the body catches up. By the time they sit you down for "the talk," the decision is already made. They've already left in every dream. They're just delivering the paperwork now.

"I think we should address it," Bucky said, somewhere above you. "Before it becomes... bigger than it needs to be."

Before it becomes bigger. Before the breakup becomes bigger. Before the wound gets worse. Jesus Christ, he was being considerate about it. He was standing in your living room at eight o'clock on a Tuesday being gentle about dismantling your entire relationship, so you couldn't even be mad, because that's who he was. Careful, always careful, even when he was leaving.

"So I think," he said — you could hear him summoning every remaining shred of courage he had left — "that we should discuss positions."

You took a very slow sip of your coffee.

"Positions," you repeated.

"Or preferences. Whatever the — whatever the terminology is. I'm not sure if there's a standard..." He faltered. "A framework."

"There's a framework for this?"

"I don't know. I assumed there might be. Everything has a framework now." One hand gestured vaguely at the concept of modernity. "I thought we could talk through the options. Figure out what works for both of us."

Your mental math was running at full capacity. Positions in a breakup context — maybe he meant logistics. Who keeps what? Who stays, who goes? Division of assets, except your shared assets were a drawer he kept a change of clothes in plus a toothbrush he'd brought over in month two that neither of you ever acknowledged.

Oh god. He wanted the toothbrush back.

"I don't know what the key ones are," he continued, apparently committed to this wording now. "I figured you might have more experience with this than I do. Given that I've been —" That same vague gesture, this time aimed at the last eight decades. "Out of circulation."

"Right," you said. Your voice was impressively level for a man whose chest cavity had been hollowed out. "Positions in breakups. I guess — I mean, there's the standard—"

"Breakup?"

The word landed between you like a glass hitting the floor.

Bucky's face did something extraordinary — a complete system shutdown, every microexpression flatlined at once. He looked at you the way a frozen computer screen does: present, powered on, absolutely incapable of processing input.

"Is that not what this is?" Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. "The dreams, the physical direction, you standing over me like you're about to read a verdict —"

"Why would I be breaking up with you?"

"Because you said 'we need to talk' like a man who rehearsed it in the car, Bucky."

"I did rehearse it in the car. That doesn't mean —"

"The dreams. You said you've been having vivid dreams about me. That's — there was this influencer who said that's exactly what happens before someone leaves. Your partner starts dreaming about you because their subconscious is processing the separation —"

"What influencer? What are you —"

"And you want to discuss positions." You were gaining steam now, the coffee cup trembling slightly in your grip. "Like there are positions in a breakup. Like it's a — a procedure with steps."

"Is it a procedure?" Bucky asked. Entirely sincere. "Is that a key position? Breaking up? Because I'm not familiar with the —"

"What the fuck are you talking about."

It wasn't a question. It was a structural failure — yours, his, the conversation's. Two parallel misunderstandings collapsing into each other like buildings leaning until they met in the middle.

With an absolute-zero, plain face, Bucky looked at you. Every rehearsed speech, every philosophy, every detour he'd taken to avoid this exact syllable — all of it burned away until the word was the only thing left.

It sat on his tongue like something he'd been carrying for weeks.

"Sex."

The apartment held its breath.

"...Oh."

The silence lasted exactly long enough for every single thing he'd said in the last five minutes to reorganise itself in your head. A shuffled deck, finally clicking into order.

Physical direction — not leaving. Wanting.

Vivid dreams — not the processing kind. The other kind, the kind that made a hundred-and-six-year-old man stand in your living room unable to finish a sentence.

Positions — not breakup logistics. Actual, literal positions.

The influencer was wrong. Or at least, not applicable to situations involving supersoldiers with a compromised ability to say the word sex without looking like they'd swallowed a grenade pin.

He was still standing there. He hadn't moved, but something in his expression had shifted; the blankness was cracking into something cautious, almost unbearably hopeful.

He watched you recalibrate with the patience of a man who had waited through worse silences than this. His whole body was angled toward you — a dog who'd just dropped something at your feet, fighting every instinct to nudge it closer with his nose.

You set your coffee down. Your book went back to the side table with your hands folded in your lap.

"Yeah," you said. "We can do that."

He blinked. "You —"

"When are you free?"

The hope curdled into bewilderment so fast you almost heard the gears strip. "When am I free?"

"I just think it's better if we both stay calm tonight." You said this with the measured, reasonable tone of a man scheduling a dental cleaning. "So what day works for you?"

"What day —" He looked like he was trying to determine whether this was still the same conversation. "You want to — schedule it?"

"I want us to work through this properly. Physically. In person." Your arms folded. You considered the logistics with the same energy you'd give a grocery list. "Take our time. Show each other what we're working with. Figure out the dynamic. No rush."

"The dynamic," he echoed faintly.

"I'll make it romantic. Rose petals, candles, the whole thing." You said it the way someone would say I'll pick up milk on the way home. "Maybe some music. I don't know what you're into yet. We'll figure it out."

Bucky's mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

Because somewhere behind his eyes, two voices were stirring back to life.

Sam, one hand pressed over his heart, eyes shut, that measured breath still cycling in, out, in — it's about presence, Barnes, being fully here, breath to breath, soul to soul. 

Steve, his gaze fixed on something luminous that no one else could see, voice swelling like a hymn — it's sacred, Buck, the heavens open up, everything you've carried gets lighter, because you're not carrying it alone.

Romantic, physical, presence, rose petals, candles. The body as a vessel. The connection as a current. The heavens opening.

Those absolute saints. They'd known.

Every word, every impossible piece of advice he'd dismissed as philosophical nonsense — all of it was landing now, rearranged, radiant, slotting into place like prophecy.

"So," you said. Your phone appeared from between the couch cushions with the casual efficiency of a man checking a calendar. "Friday work?"

Carefully, Bucky sat down beside you in slow motion. He looked like a man who had survived something enormous; the dust was only now clearing, the shape of what almost happened becoming visible beside the much better shape of what was actually happening instead.

"Friday works," he said.

You picked your coffee back up. A sip. Your book found its way to your knee again.

He stayed exactly where he was, shoulder pressed to yours. He ran warm in a way you couldn't detect, but he could feel it all the way through — your apartment, your radiator, your coffee steam still hanging faintly in the air.

Warm. Warm. Warm.

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