soft&subtle;♥

Because for Bucky, you would.

I’d go to the ends of the world for you, you’d told him. I’d go to the ends of the world with you.

You had meant every single word—and it was a promise you intended to keep till your dying day.

Dinner—you would make him dinner. And maybe you would finally summon up the courage to tell him that last night was the best night of your life. That kissing him was the only thing in your life that you didn’t regret.

That it was him. It was always him.

“Here you go,” you said, handing the woman your card as another customer—a man appearing to be in his late thirtes—halted in front of the checkout desk next to yours. You didn’t bother looking at him, only noting his presence through your peripheral vision.

He was wearing a flannel shirt and blue acid-wash jeans—both pieces appearing cheap in their make. But there was something about the way the man carried himself, something about the way he favored his left leg when he walked, something in the way you saw him turn his head to look at you out of the corner of your eye—something horribly familiar.

It was over before you could even register it.

His hands thrust out towards you, the impact forcing you to the floor, your shoulder stinging at the impact. Your legs shot out in protective instinct, hooking around his ankle and pulling him down with you, the two of you colliding to the floor in a tangle of limbs and missed punches.

You rolled over, pinning the man’s body to the floor. And that was when you saw his face—Christian Andrews, the man known as Silverblade, the man you’d put away three years ago.

The man who had sworn to end your life in front of a courtroom full of people.

The man who now lifted his head upwards, his forehead colliding with your nose. The sickening crunch of bone breaking filled the silent room—the clerks had disappeared. Some part of you was thankful for it—the part that had been trained to protect people who couldn’t protect themselves.

But you felt the cold metal of a gun press against your belly, and dread settled itself into your veins.

You couldn’t go out like this—not without a fighting chance.

The shot rang out, loud enough that you knew the whole block heard it. Loud of enough to drown out the strangled gasp the parted your lips as the bullet tore through layers of skin and muscle and sinew.

Your vision was tinged blue at the edges—a cold, dark blue, so unlike the warm ice of Bucky’s eyes you’d been staring into not six hours ago.

Bucky.

I’m getting blood on his coat, you thought. I’m getting blood on Bucky’s coat.

Stupid stupid stupid.

You couldn’t go out like this. You had to go home to Bucky. You had to tell him—tell him that he deserved the world and you wanted to give it to him. That he might be broken and shattered but you’d tear your own heart apart if it meant fixing him.

That you loved him—You’d always loved him.

His name was the sole thought that echoed through your head as you felt your grip on consciousness loosen, as you felt yourself slipping from the clutches of the bone-shattering pain in your gut and into the welcome embrace of unconsciousness.

Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.

And the world went black.

*****

Bucky was going to lose his mind.

He lay in his bed, his vibranium arm tucked underneath his neck, cradling his head, as his flesh arm reached out over the wide expanse of his bed, patting around in search for his phone until his fingers brushed the cold glass of the screen.

Bucky lifted the device, his thumb clicking the power button, lighting up the screen. His lockscreen was devoid of notifications, revealing his wallpaper—that picture he’d taken of you in the rain, your hair drenched and your clothes soaked, and there, visible only if you knew to look for it, was the slight bruising around your mouth—evidence of confessions spilled in the rain, washed away like Bucky wished the lingering scent of your perfume on his clothes would too.

That was the first time he had kissed you. That was the last time he had kissed you.

He sighed, rolling over on his side, his arm still braced below his neck. He wanted to call you. To hear your voice, to say something to make you laugh.

God, he loved hearing you laugh. The sound filled up an empty room—filled up the empty spaced in the cracks of his heart, until he felt whole again.

He wanted to drive over to your place, to knock on your door and kiss you again. To fall asleep next to you, to press his face into the crook of your neck and let the steady rise and fall of your chest rock him to sleep.

He wanted—he wanted. For the first time in a long time, Bucky wanted something—someone.

You. He wanted you.

Pathetic, he grumbled to himself. But there was a smile on his face regardless—an involuntary smile, one that appeared every single time he thought of you.

Sighing, Bucky pushed himself out of bed. The sheets still smelled like you, but now there was a lingering scent of woodsmoke and oak and his cologne mixed through from when he’d lay awake next to you the night before.

The two of you had spent the night talking, your hands tracing idle circles on his chest, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. It was better than anything Bucky could ever have dreamed of—the sound of your voice, the delicate rise and fall of your breathing. The warmth of your body pressed against his, the fluttering of your eyelids when you started to fall asleep.

And somewhere between the sound of your voice and the exhaustion weighing heavy on his bones, Bucky did too.

It was the first time in a long time that he slept dreamlessly. It’s the fatigue, he’d told himself. But he knew it was a lie.

It was you. It was always you.

He wanted nothing more than to tell you—that you were all too good for him, that you were everything he’d hoped to have but never dared wish for. That he was a broken, shattered man, but for you, he’d tear himself down brick by brick so he could rebuild his heart to be better for you.

Bucky could hear the sound of the television outside. It was still turned to the same sports channel it had been on last night, the commentary punctuated by the cheering of the crowd. He knew that Argentina was playing France, and that if you were here, you’d both be rooting for the ones in sky blue and white.

But football games were your thing—something the two of you did together. It didn’t feel the same without you; without your head against his shoulder and warmth of your fingers trailing up his arm.

Sighing, he made his way over to the wardrobe, throwing the doors open and pulling out a black t-shirt and dark jeans. Might as well take a shower while he was waiting for you to show up.

He passed his bed on his way to the attached bathroom, casting a glance at his phone just in case you’d texted him. You hadn't—but there was a voicemail from Steve.

I'll check it later, he thought, shoving his way into the bathroom.

The water was warm, bracing—reminding him so much of the rain last night. He remembered every little detail about that memory, having played it over and over again in his head until it was impossible for him to close his eyes and not see the image of your face, rainwater clinging to your lashes, the white fabric of your rain-soaked t-shirt sticking to every dip and curve of your body, and that beautiful half-smile on your face that made the world disappear from his periphery because all he could see was you—all he wanted to see was you.

God, he missed you.

There was no other way to put it, no softer way to say it. He missed the sound of your voice calling him, ‘love,’ the lilting notes of a smile hidden somewhere underneath. He missed your ready tongue and your relentless teasing, he even missed the sarcasm that used to get on his nerves when he first met you but now couldn’t imagine going a day without. He missed the color of your eyes, swimming with a million different emotions that eased the dull ache in his chest whenever you were gone.

He missed you.

Bucky stayed in the shower for a long while, until the water began to run cold. He stepped out, dressing swiftly, his hair still dripping water into his eyes as he pushed the bathroom door open, only to be greeted by the flash of his phone screen lighting up.

He walked over to where the phone lay on his bed, picking it up and turning the screen on. There, across the lockscreen, was the notification telling him he had seven missed calls from Steve. Along with two voice-mails. And three text messages.

A feeling of unease settled itself in the pit of Bucky’s gut. Something was wrong—something was very, very wrong.

*****

Cold white tiles were all he could see.

Bucky's hands shook in his lap, and he held them out before him, his blue eyes unseeing, empty. Haunted, almost, with the image of you standing in the rain with that smile that sent his heart sputtering still burned into the back of his eyelids.

Cold—he was so cold. It wasn't even that the waiting room of the hospital was chilly, or the fact that he wasn't wearing anything warm. It was the fact that you were in the operation theater, fighting for your life, and he was out here, unable to do anything about it.

I should've been there, he thought to himself. I should've been there with her, to keep her safe.

Because what good was he, really, if he couldn't protect the one person who had given him a reason to fight? What good was he if he couldn't keep you safe when you had done it for him, over and over again, even when he didn't have the strength or will to do it himself? What good was he—what goddamn good was he if he failed you, just like he'd failed everyone around him?

Because losing you would destroy him. Because losing you would break that thin thread of sanity he was barely holding on to. Because losing you would mean losing an irreplaceable part of himself.

Bucky hadn't prayed in a long time. What good was it, when no God had ever been kind to him? Gods didn't pay attention to people like him—to sinners and killers like him, born and bred to take lives.

But for you, he was ready to sink to his knees on the cold hard floor and pray to whatever deity would listen. Because he might be a sinner—but you were his salvation, and even the cruelest monsters deserved redemption.

Sitting there, with his head hung low, staring at his trembling hands yet seeing nothing but the that angelic smile of yours, he wondered how he would ever deal with losing you. He'd lost nearly everyone—even himself.

But you—you brought him back. Bit by bit, with every kind smile and soft laugh, with every word you said edged by something so gentle he couldn't begin to believe there was a way to describe it, with every night you spent at his place, curled up in his bed until all he could smell every time he stepped into his room was you you you.

Bucky would set the world on fire and watch it burn down to ashes if it meant that you'd be okay.

Distantly, he could hear Steve calling his name. It didn't sound like his name though—not in the way you said it. The three syllables sounded lifeless on Steve's tongue, like the his own existence was slowly ebbing away with every drop of blood spilling from your veins tonight.

The warmth of Steve's touch on his shoulder was unfamiliar, unwelcome. Bucky flinched, drawing away, but he looked up to meet Steve's eyes anyway, his own cold stare curling into his friend's worried one.

"Did they find Andrews." The words were not a question. He didn't have it in him to form questions anymore.

"Bucky, I don't think—"

"Did. They. Find. Andrews." His temper flared with every word that left his mouth. Not the usual hot flames of fury that curled in the pit of his stomach, but cold, icy rage—like the blood in his veins had frozen over and nothing but frost and rime replaced it, held stagnant by the dam he had built up brick by brick that now threatened to fall to pieces.

Steve heaved a sigh—not one of exasperation, but of understanding. Because he knew that Bucky wouldn't have even an inkling or illusion of peace until he did what he had to. "They tracked him down to an abandoned warehouse a couple of blocks from the grocery store. That's his LKL—Fury sent a team in, but they lost him. They're trying to track him as we speak."

Bucky rose to his feet. There was a cold efficiency in his movements, a murderous purpose. Part of him screamed at him to stop, to stay where he was, to stay with you. But it was the part he was tired of listening to, the part that had gotten you hurt. He refused to listen to that part, not right now. When he finally spoke, it wasn't Bucky's voice that echoed through the empty waiting room. "Tell them not to bother."

The Soldier was out for blood tonight.

*****

The Soldier's hands never shook.

Tracking Andrews hadn't been hard for him, and he now stood in front of the ramshackle old house, the heavy weight of his weapons pressing into his body. A gun strapped to his thigh, the other tucked into the leather holster hooked into the waistband of his pants. But stashed away in the leather of his jacket were six knives—besides the one he now held in his hand.

His vibranium fingers, shot through with gold, flipped the blade between them, over his knuckles until the handle pressed against his palm. He took a step in through the door, his boot splashing into a puddle of water. The sound reverberated through the empty house, but he didn't care—the Soldier had no need for stealth. Death was death, forewarnings be damned.

The only light illuminating the dilapidated old house was the shafts of buttery yellow street lights bleeding in through the cracks in the boards blocking the windows, but it didn't matter. His heightened senses could pick up on things that no one else could.

Dried blood trailed in rusty smears across the floor, tracks in the dust marked in scarlet. A mess of footprints—both animal and human, tracked across the floor. Boxes stood piled high, pressed close to the cracked plaster of the walls but not quite pressed against it.

Only hours ago, he hadn't been able to hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears, over the haunting sound of your lilting laugh. And now, there was nothing between him and the blood that would soon stain his hands crimson. Nothing between him and the Soldier—nothing that made him human.

A flicker of movement, the faintest sound—barely audible, even to his superhuman hearing. The slight graze of the sole of a shoe against the dust-covered tile, coming from his right. That was all he needed.

The Soldier stalked towards the sound, tossing his knife in the air.

*****

He'd trailed blood all over Steve's floor.

He couldn't bear to go home, not when everything in that house reminded him of you. That spot on the couch you always curled up on, the television where the two of you watched your football games. The bed with the covers that still smelled like you, the lingering presence of you haunting every inch of that house.

So Steve's apartment it was, then.

His friend had just gotten home from the hospital, judging by the weary look in his eyes when he opened the door. That look vanished in a second, however, as he took in the sight of blood that covered all of Bucky's clothes, and he shifted, using his body to block the entrance.

"Bucky?" he asked tentatively, as if afraid that the Soldier had come calling.

Bucky nodded. "Who's with her at the hospital?"

"Tony and Nat," Steve said, shifting his weight again, this time pulling the door all the way open and moving out of the way to let his friend in. "The doctors said she'll be out of surgery soon."

Bucky only nodded—a single bob of his chin. The cold, empty look was back in his eyes, and the smell of blood was making him dizzy.

But it didn't matter—none of it mattered. Not if you wouldn't come back to him.

Steve's tone of voice was careful as he asked, "Is Andrews..."

"He won't be a problem anymore," was all Bucky said, the clipped finality of his voice signalling to his friend that this conversation was well and truly over.

Steve let out a slow breath. "Hop in the shower, Buck. I'll get you fresh clothes and something to eat."

Another curt nod. Bucky turned his heel, silently stalking through Steve's living room and into his bedroom, blood still caked into the crevices of the soles of his boots, leaving a trail of crimson in the wake of his heavy footsteps—more proof that he destroyed everything that ever came close to him.

He wasn't going to allow himself to destroy you.

Bucky peeled off his clothes, dropping them in a bloody pile into Steve's dustbin. Stepping into the shower, he stared at the valve, the red marking on the right indicating hot water, the blue on the left marking icy cold.

Bucky hated cold showers. They reminded him too much of the feeling of being hosed down, too much of the ghosts of his past that he tried so goddman hard to escape from.

He stared down at his hands. That strange, inhuman steadiness had bled out with Andrews's bullet-hole riddled body on the floor of the abandoned house, and now his fingers trembled again. There was blood caked underneath the nails of his flesh hand, the same crimson seeping into the cracks of his vibranium arm. A cruel, cruel joke—a worthless life in exchange for one that had saved his own.

He wanted to wash that blood off—he had to wash that blood off. It seemed to seep into his bones, staining his very being. He needed the familiar comfort of the warm jets of water.

Gritting his teeth, Bucky turned the valve all the way to the left.

He almost screamed out loud at the feeling of the water hitting his skin, tears pricking the back of his eyes, threatening to spill. Bracing a palm against the shower wall, he set his jaw so hard his teeth stung. Eyes screwed shut, muscles tensed.

Torture—It was torture, but he kept at it, even as the memories flooded in, even as he felt his legs tremble and give way, his knees hitting the floor. Cold, cold, cold water, cold enough that his teeth chattered. Streams of red ran down the floor, creeping into the drain. So, so cold, and yet he willed himself not to move, willed himself to fight. He sat there, hands clenched in fists, muscles wound so tight they hurt, until the memories blurred in with reality.

He didn't have the sound of your voice to pull him out of it this time.

*****

Steve, to his credit, didn't say a much when Bucky finally stepped out of the shower.

But the tightness in his voice didn't ease when he said, "She's out of surgery. We can head there now, if you'd like."

Bucky had only nodded.

And now here he was.

Dr. Kristina Dawson was young—far too young to be working on such a high-profile patient, on one of S.H.I.E.L.D's most valued agents.

"She hasn't woken up yet," Dr. Dawson said, sweeping her long ponytail of night-black hair off of her shoulder, her voice grave. "She's lost of blood—so we're not quite sure if she'll make it through the night. But one of you can stay the night, if you'd like." Then, surveying the crowd of agents gathered in the waiting room, she reiterated, "Only one."

"I'll stay," Bucky said, his voice sweeping through the room before any of the others could even open their mouths. And then, even more firmly than before, as if he was afraid someone was going to deny him, he repeated, "I'll stay."

Without even waiting for a response from the others, he motioned to the young doctor to lead the way, disappearing out of sight, down the long, sterile white corridors until they halted in front of a gleaming wooden door with a rounded panel of glass set into it.

The hospital room was crammed full of machines, the incessant beeping of the heart rate monitor marked each pump of your cardiac muscles.

And there—lying on the bed, hooked to three different monitors using various wires, were you. Dressed in a loose hospital gown, a bandage peeking out over the neckline.

Bucky’s heart shuttered at the sight. Y/n—his y/n.

He slipped into the chair next to your bed, his blue eyes taking in the sight of you, his hair still damp.

She's alive, he thought. She's okay.

Tentatively, he reached a hand our towards yours, dragging the tips of his fingers over the exposed skin of your wrist until he could feel your pulse thrumming beneath his touch.

Alive—you were alive. The steady beat of your heart was proof enough.

Bucky choked back his tears, his throat burning. He'd almost lost you. The thought drove him nearly feral, and when though he knew you couldn't hear him, he said, his hands starting to shake once more, "Promise me. Promise me you'll be okay. Promise me that—that this wasn't a lie, that I didn't lose you because I can't, not anymore. Not you. Please, y/n. Promise me."

He slipped his fingers through yours, his head lowering in exhaustion and defeat as he pressed his forehead against the thin mattress of the hospital bed, muttering, "Se réveiller, mon solil. Revenir à moi." Wake up, my sun. Come back to me.

*****

The glow-in-the-dark tips of the hands of the clock mounted on the wall of the hospital room told you that it was fifty-three minutes past five.

You grimaced, wincing at the mere action of peeling back your eyelids. Everything hurt—but something told you that the dull throbbing echoing through your abdomen could be a lot, lot worse.

You could feel a weight pressing into the mattress on your side, and you slowly turned your head, wincing at how rusty your muscles felt.

And there, with his forehead braced against the mattress, was Bucky. He was sleeping—you could hear the sound of his breathing. Your heart twisted around itself, knotting in your chest as you slowly lifted your hand and shook his shoulder. "Buck?"

He jolted awake, his body lurching upwards, eyes blinking the sleep away, his stare already awake and alert. Your heart shuttered at the sight of him—those familiar blue eyes, the messy hair, the dark five o'clock shadow of his beard hardening the square of his jaw further still.

"Water," you croaked. The pipe they'd slipped down your throat to pump the anesthetics into your body had scraped your throat raw, and your swollen tongue scraped against the roof of your mouth with every word you spoke.

Bucky was on his feet in a heartbeat, breezing out of the room and returning minutes later with a paper cup full of ice chips in one hand, followed by a raven-haired woman in blue scrubs and a white coat, who you assumed was your doctor.

Sure enough, as Bucky braced a hip against your bed and spooned ice chips into your mouth with a plastic spoon, the woman said, "Hello, y/n. I'm Dr. Dawson, your doctor. How are you feeling?"

"Sore," you muttered. "How long was I out?"

"Not too long, actually. You were shot less than forty-eight hours ago. Do you have any recollection of the incident?"

You furrowed your brows. "I remember the grocery store... And I remember bits and pieces of the fight. I don't remember the gun or getting shot."

And yet there it was, utterly undeniable, hidden underneath layers of bandages tucked under your hospital gown—the hole where the little piece of lead had torn through you.

After Dr. Dawson had updated you on your condition and left with the promise of coming to see you when she made her rounds in a few hours, and your throat felt less like the the surface of Mars and more like the Sahara Desert, you leaned back into your bed, surveying Bucky. "You look terrible."

He looked beautiful, with his dark hair falling into his face, his icy blue eyes tired but brimming with warmth as he gazed down at you. The dark five o'clock shadow on his jaw, and even in the dim lights of the hospital room, he looked like every single of your dreams brought to life. "Says the woman in a hospital gown."

You wanted to tell him—you were supposed to tell him.

Instead, like an idiot, you croaked, "J'ai du sang sur ton manteau." I got blood on your coat.

Bucky had been the one to teach you French, on one of those late nights when he couldn't fall asleep and you refused to let him retreat into the gilded cages of his own thoughts. And now—now it was something the two of you did, switching between English and French.

He let out a low chuckle, the sound warming you up like the summer sun. "C'est bon. Les manteaux sont remplaçables. Vous, par contre, ne l'êtes pas." It's alright. Coats are replaceable. You, on the other hand, are not.

You shook your head. "Bucky, I—"

"I know."

"You do?" you asked, eyes widening.

He nodded. "I—I was going to tell you last night, but..."

"I was going to tell you last night too."

Your heart thundered in your chest as he braced his index and middle fingers under your chin, tilting your face upwards to meet his. "Je sais, mon cœur." I know, my heart.

You sucked in a deep breath, even as he continued. "I was terrified of losing you. These last forty-eight hours have been ten types of hell, but the thought of losing you—I couldn't bear it, y/n."

His breathing staggered. "So... I guess what I'm trying to say is, je t'ai aimé depuis le jour où je t'ai vu, et je t'aimerai toujours, mon soleil." I have loved you since the day I saw you, and I will love you always, my sun.

You smiled, tilting your head upwards until your lips brushed against his in the faintest of kisses. "Tu as mon cœur, mon amour. Prends-en bien soin." You have my heart, my love. Take good care of it.

His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, the touch gentle and fleeting. "Je promets." I promise.

You shifted, making room so that Bucky could climb into bed next to you. Despite the cramped space, you didn't want to be parted with him for even a second. "Stay with me tonight?"

He didn't answer, only hoisted himself onto the bed. You tucked your own body against his, his fingers twisting a strand of your hair around his fingers.

Comfortable silence engulfed the two of you, broken only by the sound of your breathing and the beeping of the heart rate monitor. That was, until you said, "Promets-moi, s'il te plaît. Promets-moi que ce n'est pas un rêve. Promets-moi que tu seras là quand je me réveillerai le matin." Promise me, please. promise me this isn't a dream. Promise me that you'll be there when I wake up in the morning.

"Je promets."

And even through the haze of morphine and exhaustion, you knew it was a promise he would keep till his dying day.

Tags:

@goldengoddess @wherearethesantreys

“Bucky? Are you okay?” You ask gently above a whisper, tapping your knuckles softly against the door. You hear a shuffle on the other side of the door and a slight whimper was heard. “Bucky? Can I come in?” You ask again. With no reply afterwards, you turn the knob only to be surprised that it’s unlocked. “Bucky, I’m coming in” You whisper while entering the room, closing the door behind you.

You slowly approach Bucky's bed only to find the bed empty and neatly made. You furrow your eyebrows at the sight. You're sure that you heard the sounds coming from in the room. You look around the dark bedroom, the soft blue light peeking in through the window allowing you to see the silhouette of your surroundings. You jump at the sight of Bucky curled up in the corner of his dark bedroom.

He was shirtless but wrapped in a thin grey blanket, his skin was coated in a sheet of sweat and his dark hair was ruffled. His eyes were closed tightly as he leaned against the corner of the room, shivering in fear. “Bucky?” You ask, a little louder than the previous times.

He quickly jolts awake and pushes himself back against the wall. He looks at you frantically and confused. He tries to speak but finds himself stumbling over his words and unable to form a single word, let alone a sentence. “I’m sorry for letting myself in” You apologize while slowly approaching him.

“The door was open and I heard a scream…” you continue as he pants and studies you as you approach. “I was worried” you add, slowly lowering your voice. He nods to let you know that he heard you and looks immediately at the ground in front of him.

You kneel beside him and study his face. His under eyes are darkened, his lips and cheeks are rosy, his eyebrows are furrowed and his breath is staggered. “Do you wanna talk about it?” You ask gently, not wanting to speak too loudly and frighten him. He looks around the room, finally landing on your eyes and settling.

His hands were clenched into tight fists and his knuckles were white. “Bucky… it’s okay” you whisper before placing your hand on top of his clenched fist. “You can relax…” you whisper again. He looks down at your hand on top of his and sighs. “I won’t let anything hurt you” you finish. The comforting phrase caught him off guard, and he didn’t know how to react.

Bucky never talked about his nightmares. It didn’t matter who you were, his nightmares were always kept to himself. Even though Bucky was a very closed-off person, it was no secret to everyone in the compound that he was having nightmares. The screams were so loud they could be heard throughout most of the building. It wasn’t often that someone came to check on him.

Occasionally, Steve would check in on him and make sure he wasn’t hurt or anything very bad but there wasn’t much that he could do. Bucky was the definition of being through hell and back, he has experienced the worst of the worst. Tortured, Abused, Manipulated, Experimented on, Brainwashing and the list just goes on.

“I- I had a-a nightmare” Bucky chokes out, struggling to form the words. You nod slightly and shoot him a comforting smile. “It’s okay, it was just a nightmare, nothing more” you whisper. He pushes his lips together and nods. “Do you want to talk about it?” You continue, slightly caressing his still clenched fist.

“I- I can’t- I just-“ Bucky struggles to find the words as he keeps his attention on your hand caressing his. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me” you reply. “Do you want me to stay here with you?” You ask. He nods his head and you gently smile. “Okay. I’ll stay” you reply, any quieter and he probably wouldn’t have heard you.

“I know it’s hard but you’ll have to help me get you into bed” You mumbled, standing up beside him and reaching down to help him up. You gently wrap a hand around his forearm and he weakly pushes himself to his feet. You wrap an arm around his back and guide him to the bed slowly. His feet shuffle against the floor and his walk is clumsy and weak.

You release Bucky just before reaching the bed and begin to pull back the sheets for him. After getting the bed ready, you help him into it. Bucky simply watches you as you help him to bed. Once he is under the blanket, you gently tuck the blanket it securely wrapping his body.

“My mom used to always tuck me in after a nightmare…” you mutter as you place another blanket on top of him. You sit on the edge of the bed and smile warmly at him. “She told me that as long as I was tucked in that nothing could ever get me. It always made me feel so safe” you continue.

You hesitantly brush the hair away from Bucky’s face as he lays in his bed, watching your every move. “You are so strong, so capable and so brave. Even if you don't think you're strong, or feel like you're at the breaking point, or afraid, you keep going, you've kept going, taking all the things that life and the universe threw at you, even when you felt like you were falling apart” you sympathize.

A tear rolls down Bucky's cheek as he listens to you and your praises. You gently caress his cheek, softly brushing his warm skin under your thumb. “You need sleep Bucky, you look like you haven’t slept in days” you admit.

Bucky nods and smiles weakly at you. “Can-can you stay” he mutters, catching you off guard. You smile back and nod without hesitation. “Would you like me to just sit here with you?” You ask, barely above a whisper. Bucky nods and presses his lips together, almost like he was trying to stop himself from saying something.

You look at him in slight confusion and he sighs. “Can-can you maybe- can you sing?” He stutters. “Sing?” You ask in disbelief. He nods and you chuckle to yourself. “What would you like me to sing?” You ask. “My mom- she used- used to sing this song. It was- it was about sunshine” Bucky whispers, struggling to remember the song.

“You are my sunshine?” You smile. He nods and his eyes soften as his memories rush back in. “My mom used to sing that one to me as well” you admit. You brush more of Bucky’s hair back off his forehead and he sighs at the touch. Your fingers gently combing through his hair, comforting and soothing him.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine” you sing, a soft gasp escapes Bucky’s lips at the familiar tune filling his ears. “You make me happy when skies are grey” you continue, gently reciting the comforting rhyme.

Your fingers continue to comb through Bucky’s hair as you sing. With each lyric his mind becomes quieter and quieter, silencing all the pain that was filling it to the brim. “You’ll never know dear, how much I love you” you continue.

“Please don’t take my sunshine away” you finish the song, slowly falling into a whisper as it ends. Bucky’s breaths become balanced and steady. He gently closes his eyes and his mind is filled with sweet memories of his childhood. Memories of his mother and his sisters. Memories of Steve and the things they did together in their youth.

His head continues to fill with these memories, almost as if he was watching a slideshow of all the good in his life. All the good that kept him anchored. Memories of Steve and Sam filled his head, the morning runs they would go on together and how hard Sam tried to get him to smile. Memories of Natasha and Steve arguing about the silliest of things, almost ending in Natasha tackling Steve to the ground.

Memories of you crept in. He saw you helping Sam make dinner for everyone and laughing as Natasha stood to the side and criticized everything Sam did. He saw you frantically rushing around the living room during movie night, making sure everyone was comfortable and had all the things they needed. He saw you smiling, your cheeks becoming slightly flushed. He saw you.

As Bucky laid there with his eyes peacefully closed, you admired how calm he looked. When you thought he was asleep, you slowly rose from the bed and quickly felt Bucky’s hand wrap around yours. His eyes opened slightly and he sighed. “Don’t go,” he whispers. You look at him in confusion at first but simply nod, knowing he didn’t want to be alone.

As time went by, you continued to brush your hand through Bucky’s hair soothing him as he laid peacefully. You knew he was asleep and you could leave without him knowing but it felt wrong. You didn’t want him to wake up alone. Your eyes soon grew heavy and your body slowly felt weighted. You tried your hardest to keep yourself up but it soon grew almost impossible. Your body soon fell, resting on top of Bucky and for the rest of the night, that was where you stayed.

The sunrise crept in through the window, shining on your face, the unfamiliar warmth waking you. You slowly rose, sitting upright on the side of Bucky’s bed. When you looked down at Bucky, he was looking back at you with a sluggish expression. He gently rubs his eyes and they widen once he realizes that you’re truly here beside him.