#aloudplace

On this Sunday morning, when neither of you had any plans for the day, Bucky opened his eyes to find you snuggled up to him like a koala, legs and arms wrapped tightly around him as you slumbered on, and that same pang of sweet ache hit him as he looked down on you, saw you so relaxed and peaceful in his arms. By God, you were a deep sleeper, and you slept a lot, too. Bucky’d been baffled to observe how fucking much you slept if only given the chance. Proper sloth, he’d tried to tease you once, only for you to stretch with a lazy smile and nuzzle his chest. That had in turn only served to make Bucky’s heart melt right out of his ribcage. You were too cute, damnit, and far too powerful, and Bucky could only clutch you tighter to him. 

Bucky looked down at you, the soft rays of the warm spring sun coming in through the open curtains and casting your beautiful face in a golden sheen, taking his breath away as his gaze flitted about your face, without a single tension, mouth slightly open, quiet, steady puffs of air coming out and fanning across Bucky’s face. He put his nose gently to your throat and breathed you in, pulling in a grateful fill of your mouth watering scent, all warm and heady from your sleep.

He wondered what you were dreaming about, and how long you would sleep like this, undisturbed and unburdened, like you deserved. Did you even know how much of a miracle you’d been to him? How you single handedly fought off his nightmares? Kept him sleeping through the night, not awakening to sheets damp with sweat and an even more exhausted mind than the night before? He suspected you didn’t have a single clue. And maybe he was to blame for that. Cause even though his body had practically leapt at the chance of living in semi-permanent connection with yours no problem, he still had a little ways to go when it came to properly opening up emotionally. With words. God, he hated talking about his feelings, hated how vulnerable and easily wounded he felt, how much he fumbled for the right things to say and the guilt of taking comfort from others when he’d been the cause of so much horrid pain in the past. Whenever he felt the need to get things off his chest, those thoughts would hit him. It wasn’t right to demand people soothe and comfort him, he didn’t deserve it. He needed to own his actions, no matter if Hydra was og wasn’t here anymore. Especially because of that, actually. If he didn’t repent, how would he ever make up for all those people who’d suffered at his hands? 

So no, it was better to just work on it himself, to not burden anyone with it, and especially not a sweet, loving, caring ray of sunshine like you. You deserved so much better. 

Bucky stared at you while his thoughts whirled. He would let you sleep in, he decided, and after bending slightly forward to kiss one of your eyelids as softly as his body could possibly allow him, he started the meticulous procedure of removing his arm from under your neck and extracting himself from the secure cage you’d made around him with your limbs, so he could go start his morning routine. Just when he’d managed to untangle your legs and was about to slip his arm from under your head, your brows crinkled and the most adorable little sound of protest came from you. Sluggish and weakly, you reached for him, still mostly asleep, and tugged at his shoulder and arm to get him back to you. 

Bucky’s heart clenched again, and he huffed a laugh as he let himself be pulled back into your embrace, secretly relishing the feeling of you determinant pulling him close to you, of wanting him close to you. He couldn’t help it, those small reassurances meant so much to him. 

Your eyes opened to slits and looked up at him. 

“Mornin,” he mumbled, feeling himself light up with a sense of excitement at having you awake and with him.

You hummed long and slow, settling down with your head on his chest.

“Mornin, baby, what’s the time?” you asked, and your small, raspy voice was so fucking cute Bucky had a hard time dealing with it, actually.

He didn’t have to look at the clock on the nightstand. 

“Just past six,” he said, still gazing at your sleepy form. 

Your face scrunched up in what could only be described as disgust at his words. 

“What? Whyyyy, Bucky, it’s Sunday,” you whined, and Bucky couldn’t help his grin. 

“Can’t help the way I am,” he said as his only excuse, hoping you didn’t catch on to the way the words reflected his earlier thoughts. 

You stretched like a cat in his arms and snuggled closer to him, pressing a kiss to his throat. 

“I can help you. Settle down, we’re sleeping in today,” you said, eyes closing. It seemed you were halfway back to sleep already, though your grip around Bucky was uncompromising. 

“Is that an order?” Bucky murmured, so stupidly entertained by your every word he just kept grinning, the ache in his chest growing stronger.

“Yes it is, so you better obey me, soldier,” you mumbled. 

Bucky chuckled, watching you drift back off to sleep, but found he couldn’t quite get there himself. He found himself gazing out into the room, mind still going over his worries like a steadily churning maelstrom. Sleep didn’t come easy when he was stuck in a thinking loop like this. It didn’t help that his morning wood was as incessant as always, and you snuggling your warm, soft body up against it only made it worse. That wasn’t that much of an issue, though. He actually, secretly kinda loved just laying like this, feeling how you aroused him and knowing you reciprocated. 

To Bucky’s surprise, he looked back down to find you watching him, having cracked one eye open. He almost started. 

“What’s the matter?” you asked, sounding vaguely concerned. 

Bucky schooled his expression and shook his head. 

“Nothing, sweetheart, go back to sleep,” he said, kissing your forehead and then kissing it again when you hummed contentedly at the gesture. 

Your hand came up and started gently playing with the hair on his chest, something you often did when you were thinking and wondering how to say something. A contemplative gesture Bucky didn’t think you were all that aware of. Not that he’d ever made you aware of it. He liked being able to read your behavioral patterns. Liked it when you were open and honest and comfortable showing him your authentic self. He wouldn’t dream of taking that away and making you self conscious. 

“You sure? You look like you're thinking very hard and not talking about it,” you said and Bucky blanched. Had he been that obvious? Maybe he had some revealing behaviors he wasn’t aware of too. For some reason, it warmed his heart to know you could read him as well as he could read you. That you paid attention. That you cared as much as you did. He took your hand in his and played with your fingers, loved the way his hand engulfed yours, seeing how elegant your bones were while knowing the strength you could pack in a punch. 

He turned your hand over and though he’d only meant to buy himself some time with his exploration, he noticed for the first time a scar on the tip of your ring finger. He brought your finger closer to his eyes and yes indeed, in the shape of a question mark without the dot, the pad of your fingertip was sliced in two by a fine, pale scar line. He ran his thumb over it, suddenly engrossed in this detail he’d missed until now. 

“Where’d you get this?” he asked, curiosity making him giddy while deep down, a furious anger stirred; Anger that promised death and despair upon those who dared hurt you. 

You giggled as he brushed his thumb over it again, squirming slightly in his arms, and Bucky got even more curious. 

“It tickles. And it’s nothing exciting, just a small accident from when I was a kid,” you said, squealing lightly when Bucky brushed his thumb even more gently over the scarred skin, watching you avidly. 

“Tell me,” he said, giving your fingertip peace, but not letting you pull your hand away. 

You gave him a stern look, though you couldn’t hide the smile tugging on your lips.

“Fine, I’ll let you distract me for now, but I want to know what had you looking so forlorn earlier,” you said, the most adorable flush creeping up on your cheekbones as Bucky slowly pulled your hand up to his mouth and kissed each fingertip, noticing with glee how your pupils dilated as you watched his lips caress your skin. 

“Forlorn?” Bucky repeated, settling down even further into the soft mattress and the soft, silky sheets he’d gone out and gotten that first week you started sharing his bed, “I like when you go Shakespeare,” he teased, grinning when you smacked his chest in petulant offense. Bucky pulled you even closer to him and rolled you over so you lay across his chest as he settled on his back. “No, c’mon, tell me,” he insisted. 

You lay there together as the sun rose higher, Bucky listening intently as you told him about the accident that had split your finger tip as a seven year old, and then the stitches you’d have to get sewn while in the ER. Bucky couldn’t help pulling you closer and kissing all over your face when you talked about the praise you’d gotten from the nurses for being so brave. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmured onto the skin below your ear and relished the way you shivered. You gave him that look you got when you were delightfully preening under his praise while at the same time getting just a little bit shy - that look that made Bucky go half-mad with desire. 

“Tell me about this one?” you asked, pointing to a scar that ran along his lower abdomen, a  line that zig zagged diagonally up to his waist. It was one of his more gnarly scars. Thick, ragged and ugly, with darker, blotchy scar tissue, indicating a more serious injury. Not that Bucky knew. 

“Don’t know, I don’t remember how I got them,” he said, finding the words a bit more difficult to get past his throat as he focused on the scar, and the lack of memories accompanying it. 

You looked up at him in surprise. 

“Any of them?” you asked. 

Bucky gave a noncommittal shrug, fighting off his self-consciousness. He didn’t want to get defensive around you, knew he didn’t have to. Hell, you were the one person he knew by now he could be open and honest with. But the lack of knowing was still a sore spot for him.

“I know where the arm went, Steve told me, but the rest is, um…well, mysteries,” he said. 

You blinked, looking a little like a wounded puppy as your fingers traced another scar. You were so empathic, always caring so deeply for others. It was something Bucky admired about you, along with how open you were yourself about your feelings and stuff like that. Bucky drew a steadying breath, gathering his courage. 

“I’m glad I have them,” he said, catching your attention again. Your brow crinkled for the tiniest moment. 

“Why for?” you asked softly, a small, perfect encouragement for him to elaborate. 

Here we go, Bucky thought, a shrill nervousness suddenly swelling inside him.

“I wouldn’t be here today if I didn’t have them,” Bucky said, swallowing thickly. His courage faltered slightly and he averted his eyes, but he forced himself to continue speaking, “They’re a part of the life that led me to this, to…you. I wouldn’t be here with you right now if I didn’t also go through whatever gave me all these scars…and for that, I’m happy,” he said, drawing a mortified breath as he stopped speaking, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. 

The silence felt like an eternity, and Bucky steeled himself for whatever reaction you might come with. Was it too much? Too weird? Too morbid? 

Your hands cupped his face and brought his eyes up to yours. They were shining with emotion, with empathy so deep he almost winced at the raw intensity. 

“You’re so strong, Bucky. A strong and good man, and so fucking sweet. You didn’t deserve any of your scars, or any of the pain you went through to get here. And I know you feel guilty, and I know there is little I can do to make it alright, but I…,” you trailed off for a beat and to his astonishment, Bucky swore he heard the words love you hang in the air between the two of you. Your heart, which Bucky could feel between your two bodies pressed together, shot up to an alarming speed, and a crimson flush stole across your face. 

You must have seen him catch on, for you lowered your gaze and laughed a bit self deprecatingly. No, no, no, don’t hide, please say them, Bucky thought desperately, his own heart picking up speed, thudding hard in his chest. God, could it be true?

“Is it selfish to say I’m happy you’re here with me too, even though you had to go through so many unfair, horrible things to get here?” you asked, and Bucky wondered if you were feeling guilty too at that moment. 

He hugged you tighter to him, lowering his head to catch your down-cast eyes. 

“I want you to. Be selfish, I mean, ehm, with me,” he said in a surge of bravery that had him fumbling his words all the same. “I mean I like it when you are - I mean, oh God, I -”

“I get what you mean,” you said softly and assuringly, biting your lip and smiling so sweetly Bucky’s heart lurched. 

He bent forward and caught your lips, so fucking grateful for you, for caring, understanding and supporting you. Maybe he didn’t need to hear you say you loved him yet. His heart was soaring in his chest just by the implication, just by having you here in his arms. He could be gracious and continue working to deserve your love in the future, and be completely ready to receive it. 

You broke the kiss and settled down on his chest again, and his hand found your hair, playing with it. 

“I need a haircut,” you said after a few moments, voice just the tiniest bit tense for it to be a nonchalant remark. Who needs a distraction now?, Bucky thought a bit smugly, listening with his enhanced hearing that your heart was still thudding just a little faster than usual. He could be gracious, though it was a near thing. 

“I like your hair like this,” he said, kissing the top of your head, satisfaction surging warm and proud when you tried to snuggle even closer to him, tangling your legs even more with his.

“Oh lord, no it’s all frizzy. I once had a hairdresser -”

You spent some time talking about nothing and everything, the languid morning settling heavy in your bones. Bucky felt like he was floating, like time slowed and you were hiding away together on a cloud of affection and drowsy, peaceful contentment. 

Nestled together in the privacy of his room, Bucky’s thoughts went to the future for once, and not the past. They went to the hope that you would tell him you loved him one day. That he would be ready to receive that love then, and be truly deserving of it. As of now, maybe he could get used to sleeping in, Bucky thought as he listened to you murmuring about a dream you’d had.