Lavender Rain

It was comfortable. Better: it was safe. Painful, but safe. Nothing changed.

I knew exactly what I had to do and when I had to do it. Who I had to hurt and what the reasons were were very clear. Who I was to everyone else was also painfully clear. I knew. It was safe.

It was safe, for a change, to mean so little. Nobody cared if I died or lived. If I was sleeping well or if I spent hours awake. I can stay up all night if necessary. I can hurt myself terribly and be fine within hours. I'm good at that.

There is comfort in being overlooked. It fits well with how I see myself.

But with her?

With her everything is different.

I know, it sounds cliché, but fuck it. It's reality.

It's my reality.

Bucky Fucking Barnes is loved. Do you believe that?

There's a weight in my chest... that tightens from time to time to remind me of who I really am and what I've done, and especially what I deserve. It's like an alarm waking me up to the reality I can't escape. I can't forget.

I am a soldier ready to obey. Just that.

But with her?

It's uncomfortable. Feeling her eyes on me and knowing that she doesn't see the monster that I am. Feeling that she sees me and is not repulsed.

It's not safe. Being with her doesn't hurt, but it's not safe.

With her, everything changes, every day. Her heartbeat beats differently every time I see her, and the way she looks at me is always different. Never with contempt, but never in the same way.

What is this I see when she sees me?

The reflection of myself or the idealization of what she wants me to be?

There's no point in staying. At any moment she will open her eyes and see, really see who I am.

Or I might end up hurting her before that happens.

Either way, I lose.

If I were who I was in the past... at the beginning of it all... I think I would be worthy of her love. But that Bucky is dead.

It's good though. The feeling.

It's uncomfortable, but it's good. I'm not used to it, but I could get used to it.

While Hydra controlled me, in moments of sanity I imagined what my life would be like if none of that had happened. I imagined my life loving someone. Being loved.

I had this desire... it's almost inexplicable... to be loved until I couldn't take it anymore. To be loved until I say is enough. Love until I am satisfied. To be loved to the bone. Have you ever felt like that? Hungry for.. love?

Don't tell Sam any of this or he'll make fun of me for the rest of my life.

You understand what I want to say? Have you ever felt this kind of thing? This hunger? Have you ever had this dream?

I would kill for her.

I would die for her.

But she doesn't want any of that.

She wants me to live, can you believe that? She wants me to take care of myself and eat breakfast. She wants me to think about my dreams and try to sleep better, even though I know it's almost impossible.

She remains by my side even when I'm an asshole and when I'm grumpy. She asks about my day and waits for me for dinner.

She texts me in the middle of a fight, just to ask if I can play guitar with a vibranium arm.

She defends me even when I am indefensible.

It was safe to mean so little because I didn't care if I lived or died. Because I had no one to return to.

Being hated is horrible, but being loved? It's terrifying.

She makes me afraid of dying.

Dying means losing her.

Wonderfully terrifying.

I like it.

I hope she doesn't stop.

“Hey Hoob,” she called out as Donald Hoobler walked passed her. “Have you seen Bull?”

“No sorry,” he mumbled. “Not since we retreated. He was there during the advance though. I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”

Y/n nodded, continuing to wrap a sling around the injured soldier's arm, her mind too preoccupied with the thoughts of Bull.

She wasn’t exactly sure when she and Bull had become friends. He was a private person and hadn’t warmed to her as quickly as the likes of George Luz and Skip Muck had but they soon became firm friends. Bull seemed to have this older brother persona and was always watching her back, even though Y/n didn’t see him as a brother and may or may not have been harbouring the world's largest crush on the sergeant.

As the night drew in, Y/n finally retreated to the foxhole she shared with Eugene, although as usual, Eugene was checking on someone. Y/n often wondered if he ever slept. He would rise early and go to bed late, the second someone was wounded he was by their side and she often wondered how he got there so quickly.

She slumped into the foxhole, cursing the world as she threw her musette bag off her shoulder. She still hadn’t seen Bull and the niggling feeling in her stomach grew to an all consuming ache.

“Hey Y/n, have you seen Bull yet?” Johnny asked, glaring down at her. Johnny always glared, despite the three of them being friends she could rarely recall a time when she witnessed Johnny Martin really smiling.

“No I haven’t seen him and I’m getting really worried,” she spoke softly, trying to hold back the inevitable tears that she’d been holding in all day.

“Some of the guys are going out on a patrol to look for him…”

“I’ll go,” Y/n interrupted, grabbing her musette bag and scrambling to her feet.

“No. No. No. Bull would never forgive me if I let you get injured whilst looking for him. Not a chance Y/L/N. Stay here. I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything.”

She knew Johnny was right but the thought of Bull all alone, trapped and possible injured caused her heart to ache.

The next morning came too soon and with no sign of the patrol or Bull, Y/n couldn’t help the growing suspicion that something had gone terribly wrong.

She was sitting in an empty crate, counting through her medical supplies when she heard the all too familiar shout from Johnny. “BULL!”

Could it be? Was she just hearing things?

Shoving her supplies back into the musette bag she hurried over to the crowd, spying Webster and Hoobler who had gone out on last nights patrol. Then the unmissable figure of Bull Randleman appeared, his great barking laughter filled the air as he embraced Johnny and several other paratroopers.

“Bull?” She called out, stopping in her tracks. The group of paratroopers all turned to face her. Now normally at this point in the movies the girl would go running towards the man, jump into his arms and they share a passionate kiss as music plays around them. This however is real life and neither one moved. Johnny coughed and began to usher the other paratroopers away.

“Little lady,” Bull greeted her with his usual nickname, watching her cautiously as the cogs in Y/n mind seemed to turn into overdrive. Something within her snapped and she felt herself hurtling towards the large man her first raised.

“YOU IDIOT! What the hell were you thinking! You could have died!” She felt her fists hammering against his chest as she shouted, cried, screamed at him in anguish. Bull just stood still, waiting patiently for her to calm down.

“I could have lost you,” she sobbed, burying her face into his ODs. Bull quickly wrapped his large arms around her, pulling her closer to him and muffling her cries.

“Those Kraut bastards couldn’t kill me if they tried and by God did they try. I’ve got too much to live for to do something stupid like dying,” he confessed, cupping her cheek in his warm hand and bringing her face up to look her in the eyes.

“I’m sorry I made you worry. I promise I’ll try not to do it again.” He smiled and his heart swelled as she returned it with a tearful grin.

“You’d better keep that promise, Bull Randleman.”

“Anything for you Little Lady.” He looked passed her to check the others had dispersed before pulling her close again and placed a much needed kiss to her lips. The smell of tobacco was strong as she kissed him and had it been on anyone else she’d have probably pulled away for some fresh air but it made her want to kiss him more. His strong arms wrapped around her, pressing against the small of her back.

“Bull, I…”

“Shhh. For once in your life just don’t worry,” Bull comforted her but she fought against his grip.

“No Bull. I can’t give you my heart, you might break it and I don’t know if I could survive that.” Y/n felt tears welling in her eyes again and wiped her face in the grimy sleeve of her ODs.

Bull looked down at her, his eyes shining with adoration. “Oh Little Lady, I could never break your heart. I promise I’ll look after it.” Bull kissed her again, this time gentiler and slower, savouring every moment of…

“Hey Bull! Y/N! Come on, we're moving out.” Johnny called from somewhere on the road behind them and the pair couldn’t help but giggle like naughty children.

“Come on, let’s get that shoulder looked at Tough Guy.”

“Anything for you, Little Lady.”

You catch his limp as he climbs over the windowsill. It almost topples him, but he gets to the couch before it does. He doesn't make a sound. 

That had freaked you out the first few times he'd stumbled through your window. Once, he came with part of a windshield wiper impaled in his shoulder. He'd lain on your couch so still and so quiet, you'd thought Red Hood had croaked in your apartment. Which would not have been a good look for you. Or maybe it would. Depends on who you ask. 

Sometimes you want to tell him to make sounds. To hiss and grunt and complain. To grab your wrist so you'll slow down as you pull thread through flesh. 

But it's not your place to request such a thing. You don't know where you reside in Jason Todd's life, but it's not somewhere where you can request to hear him hurt. 

Outwardly, his injuries aren't bad-looking. He takes off his helmet and tosses it somewhere under the coffee table. You offer a hand to help him lie down on the couch—he doesn't take it. 

"Jesus Christ, Jay." You suck in a sharp breath and peel back his bloody suit. "What'd you do?"

"Took a midnight stroll in the Botanical Gardens. Why, what'd you do?"

You frown, eyebrows pinching in the center of your forehead. Jason's stomach is mottled with purple and red bruises. There's a sticky gash right above his hip. A knife. Or a sword, maybe. Apparently, swords are commonplace in Gotham. 

"How'd they get you?" you ask. 

It's a rule-break. Jason's number one policy: don't ask questions.

You always do. Even when it was new, this… thing between you two, you'd ask. Who were they? Why did they hurt you? Did you hurt them back?

The last one, you always know the answer to. 

"There were, like, ten of them," he says. "Cut me some slack, will ya?" 

He has a cut across his lips. A ringed finger that caught on his skin, you guess. You wonder if he'd wince if you kissed him. If he'd wince at the pain or the kiss itself. If you'd know the difference. 

Rage suddenly cuts through you. It makes your hands careless, cruel; you pull the bandage around his waist too tight. Jason coils up slightly. 

"Jesus—ever heard of bedside manner?" he asks, looking at you through his lashes. 

"Ever heard of not breaking into someone's apartment and making them patch you up?"

"I don't make you," Jason says easily. "You wouldn't do it if you didn't want to."

That only increases your rage. Because he's right. You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to be. You'd have kicked him out four first aid kits ago if you minded. 

You yank down his shirt and pack up the kit. Jason shifts on the couch. A sliver of skin above his waistband is still exposed. You have to turn your head to force your gaze away. 

"No bandaids?" he asks. "All my cuts'll be exposed to the elements."

"You can put them on yourself." 

His cheek could use one. And his eyebrow. You're not in the mood. 

Jason doesn't say anything in response to that. You get up to put the kit back under the sink. 

"Can I crash here?" 

"Do what you want," you say, suddenly exhausted. Like it's you who just went six rounds with Gotham's scumbags.

You peek over the kitchen counter when you hear rustling and the couch springs squeak. Jason leans heavily on the arm of the couch, reaching for the window. You walk over and stand in front of him. 

"What're you doing?" you ask. 

"You want me to go," he says flatly. "So I'm going."

"I didn't say that, I said—"

"I can read between the lines." 

"If you could read between the lines as well as you think you can, we wouldn't be in this situation," you say. 

"What situation?"

You turn your head. "Nothing."

Jason steps towards the window. You block him again. 

"What is the matter with you?" you ask. "You're injured. Lie down."

"I'm not your responsibility," he says, glaring. "I'm leaving."

"No, you're not. And since you're allergic to using the door, you don't have a choice."

Jason's eyebrow rises. "Are you saying you'd physically prevent me from leaving?"

You lift your chin. "If that's what it takes."

"Hm. Can't tell if your confidence is stupid or brave."

"Lie the fuck down, Todd."

His lip curls. "I don't stay where I'm not welcome."

Sometimes you forget how young he is. Not that you're not also young, but, well… you don't feel your youth as acutely as other people your age might. It's something you two have in common. 

Here, in the gritty glow of Gotham, you are reminded that Jason Todd died once. Before he finished school. Before he fell in love. 

Your stomach churns every time you see that Y-shaped scar on his torso, strapped over him like a chain. 

"I didn't say that you're not welcome," you say. 

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to."

He sags against the couch and it occurs to you that he's as exhausted as you feel. 

"Can you just—" You touch his bicep. He winces even though there's no injury there. "Can you just lie down?" 

You stare at each other for another minute. Slowly, Jason lays down. His eyes are alert instead of heavy with sleep. Instantly, you feel guilty for making him think he has to be cautious around you. His hand curls protectively over his stomach. 

"Do you want a blanket?" you ask. 

He squints. "It's August."

"I know, I… I thought maybe the blood loss made you cold." 

"'M fine. Perks of being risen from the dead." 

You watch him get settled for a minute. He shifts his weight to his uninjured side and meets your gaze. His eyes are gray in the weak light. 

"You're tired of me," he says. 

Your head snaps up. "No, I'm not."  

"You are."

"I'm not tired of you, Jay."

You see it. The fear. He thinks this is the last time you'll let him in. He doesn't know you can't lock him out. You won't. 

You get up and go to get the kit from the sink again. Jason follows your movement the whole time. His face scrunches in confusion when you sit in front of the couch and unzip the kit. 

You pull out the tiny red bandaids. You'd bought them as a joke, initially. It had made Jason laugh and that had been reason enough to keep buying them. And then he let you actually put them on.

You peel the adhesive off of one and gently stick it on his cheek. He blinks at you, thick, dark lashes kissing the corners of his eyes. 

"I'm not tired of you," you say softly. 

"I'd be tired of me." 

"You keep this city safe. How could I be tired of Gotham's defender?"

Jason scowls and turns his head into the cushion before you can put the second bandaid.  

"I'm not its defender. The others protect this city a hundred times better. Nightwing does it with a smile on his face."

"I like that you go out there even when it's hard, Jay," you say. 

He doesn't respond. You lean in, so close that you can count the freckles on his neck. 

"Can I finish putting the bandaids on?" you ask. 

"I don't need 'em."

"You do. You need another on your forehead."

"It'll heal fine without it."

Your shoulders bunch like a cat on defense. You grab his cheek (gently, always gently) and his head whips to yours in surprise. 

"Jason Todd, I am not tired of you. I'm tired of the fact that you only come by when you need fixing."

He scowls. "I never asked you to fix me. If you want me to leave, I'll leave."

"I don't want you to leave, I want you to stay!" you burst. 

Jason scoffs. "No, you don’t. I'll overstay my welcome real fast."

"Maybe I care about you on purpose!" you say, voice rising. "Maybe I didn't stumble through a window; maybe I walked through the door and bought the bandaids and learned how to stitch wounds because I wanted to."

He suddenly looks overcome by grief. The agony in his face startles you. 

"I don't know how to use the door anymore," he says quietly. "All I do is stumble through windows."

Your hand slips off of his cheek. Jason closes his eyes; they fly open when you stick the second bandaid above his eyebrow. 

"You can come in any way you want to," you say, face an inch away from his. "As long as you come back to me."

His gaze darts to your mouth. You don't kiss him hard. He breaks anyway.

You avoid the right side of his mouth entirely, not wanting to pull at his cut. Jason shudders into your mouth. You cup his pulse through his neck and it quickens.

His eyes are wet when you pull away. His chest heaves like he's been swinging through the city. 

"I wanna try to use the door," he says. 

You touch the bandaid on his cheek, humming. 

bucky's

love languages:

yours

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

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