2 weeks Trigger warnings for PTSD, mentions of war, torture, etc. Bucky Barnes x F Reader Chapter 1 3850 words angst, comfort. 18+ MDNI After the downfall of HYDRA it takes 2 weeks for you to find him. Somehow, it seems like far too long.
It doesnât take her long to find him, not really.
It takes 2 weeks, and 4 burner phones, 1 hacked computer, and 15 hours on a plane- all in all, Y/N thinks, tracking the infamous Winter Solider definitely, could have been worse.
She hopes the way that sheâs managed to locate him so swiftly is because of the time theyâd shared in captivity, she hopes, itâs because he remembers her, that he remembers the conversations they shared about dreams, about friends and the importance of being able to find each other someday.
He must remember some of it, she decides, still padding across the dimly lit ally way that leads to the half-derelict apartment block where she hopes to end her journey- he must do, because he did what sheâd asked of him, heâd finished his mission to save Steve Rodgers, and then, heâd vanished.
Her eyes run over the dark brick building before her. Itâs early evening, the sun is already half set, and misty white clouds have woven a lace across the violet sky above her head. She can see her breath fanning out in front of her face as she breathes, debating whether or not to announce her arrival.
Sheâs not the only person searching for him. Her brother is trying, too, and that means at least one other avenger wonât be far behind.
Captain America isnât the kind of companion she needs right now, even though she thinks he must be a good man, for both Bucky and Natasha to hold such a fondness for him, even her brother loves him deep down- but heâs dangerous, heâs linked too heavily to HYDRA, to missions and wipes and everything else that the man sheâs tailing fears, to be anything other than a hindrance.
Luckily, their efforts have been somewhat slack. Sheâd disrupted the drones theyâd sent out when sheâd noticed it getting a little too close, sheâd blocked all attempts theyâd made at sharing his picture around various underground networks, and eventually, theyâd picked up on a false lead, half a world away.
Itâs for the best they follow it, for now, even if it does make her feel a little guilty.
Sheâll call them, later, when everything is a little less raw.
âHere goes nothinââ she murmurs quietly, breath puffing out against the cracked, wooden door.
Gloved hands press forward against the surface, and sheâs only mildly surprised when it swings open, a chip of blue acrylic sticking to the leather coating her knuckles.
Smart, she thinks, nobody bothers checking places that they can just walk into.
Thatâs very him- well thought out, tactical, if a little rushed.
Her boots crack gravel under their soles as she continues to pace across the dirt coated floorboards.
The stairs creak under her weight when she finally reaches them, and she canât help but smile, when she doesnât hear any movement in response.
Built in alarm system, too she thinks, very nice, Barnes.
Finally, something catches her eye- Thereâs a door to one of the suites, that looks almost identical to all of the others sheâs passed by, except this one, has a metal handle that isnât drowning in cobwebs. Itâs not shining, or polished, but itâs used.
She holds her breath as she touches it. Itâs cold, even through her gloves she can feel the iciness of it against her palm.
âAlrightâ she whispers, to herself as opposed to anyone who might have been listening, âhere we goââ
This one has the chain on, she can feel it the second she starts to turn the handle.
She stops, not wanting to spook him, anymore than he already would be.
Her fingers fiddle inside her pocket, clumsy from the cold, from the gloves sheâs still wearing.
It takes her a moment to find the tool she needs, but once she has it, she moves quickly, slipping it into the upper corner of the frame, slicing through the delicate metal with its sharp vibranium blade.
The door swings open, then. It barely takes a tap, for it to tap against the inside wall, and bounce back with a muted whine.
She enters carefully, eyes assessing the dirty interior as she shuts herself inside.
Heâs in the bathroom. She knows, he is.
The kitchen is the front room. Itâs open plan and broken- the stove has an old, gas fulled camping burner positioned on top of it, with a pan balancing precariously by itâs side.
An open, and empty can is there too, lingering next to the sink.
There is a quiet dripping sound coming from the faucet, and as she looks at it, she notices the way that she can see dust in the air, even though there arenât any lights on in the space.
Thatâs how she finds him- the windows.
Itâs high, here, they must be 7 flights up, and there isnât a fire escape- the glass that she can see from the door is barred, but, there is a soft, white glow coming from the one other door in the apartment. Itâs only open a crack, and itâs not artificial.
Judging by the building, by the decor, floorpan and general neglect of the place, she knows itâs old. She guesses itâs late 50âs, early 60âs, probably had a restoration at some point in the 90âs if the kitchen tiles are anything to go by, but either way, that all suggests thereâll be a window in the bathroom, not a fan.
Itâll be small, she thinks, too small to realistically fit through, but still, itâll offer the possibility of escape, just like it offers light.
Thatâs definitely where heâs hiding.
As she comes up to itâs entrance, she pauses, eyes dropping to the floor. There is carpet, now, itâs filthy, so filthy that she can barely make out the awful floral pattern that itâs printed with.
Itâs nicer than the wood of the hallway outside, though, and itâs an improvement from the cracked, discoloured slates in the kitchen.
Her hand finds the door, she lets it linger there for a second, feeling it, as though it might start to warm up under her touch.
It doesnât.
It swings openly silently, she keeps hold of it, this time though, to not let it startle him by hitting the inner wall.
Thereâs a knife by her throat in seconds.
She raises her hands, and smiles a little.
âWho sent you?â he gristles, voice hot in her ear.
âNobodyâ she replies honestly, âIâm a friend, remember?â
âYouâve got the wrong personâ he tells her after a pause, âYou should goâ
Y/N canât help but shake her head, despite the way the blade is still smooth against her throat.
âIâm not goinâ anywhereâ she murmurs, âput the knife down?â
He ignores her request, she thinks she can hear him panting.
âListen,â he tries to growl, âIâm not who youâre lookinâ for-â
âI know exactly who you areâ she tells him, own tone deliberately calm, âYouâre-â
âno-oneâ he whispers, throat suddenly tight again, ââm- âm nobodyâ
âYouâre Sergeant James Buchannon, Barnesâ she whispers, feeling the pressure against her neck lessen, âbut, you told me to call you Bucky, because Iâm-â
âmy friend.â he finishes, like heâs remembering for the first time, like heâs finishing the lyrics to something that used to be his favourite song.
Silence sits in the air for a few seconds then, as the pair both just breathe.
The knife retracts, but she stays still, arms still raised in surrender.
âY/N?â she hears him murmur, like heâs not 100% sure heâs allowed to be speaking, â-âs, âs that you?â
Her head nods as she starts to turn, slow, on her heals to face him.
His eyes are wide, and searching her face frantically-
âY/N?â he asks, voice still terribly unsure, âYouâre⌠Youâre here?â
The blade heâs been clutching falls to the floor between them, it bounces against the mould-ridden linoleum and lands by the toe of her boot.
She nudges it absentmindedly, as she lets him stare at her with a disturbing amount of intensity.
âYeahâ he hears her whisper, âItâs me, sweetheart- I told you I was gonnaâ find yaâ, do ya remember?â
The man blinks, his hair is long, itâs matted and wild. He doesnât seem to notice the way itâs hanging by his eyes, not even as he nods.
Y/N beams at him, she hates the way he looks so cornered.
Her heart physically aches when she notices the way tears are filling his eyes.
Theyâre already bloodshot, and his pupils are so huge theyâre more black than blue.
He looks terrified, she decides, he looks worse than sheâd ever seen him with HYDRA, even though the only injuries he seems to have are the grazes on his flesh knuckles, and the small gaze on top of his cheek.
âI-â he says quietly, âI- thought you were a dreamâ
She tilts her head at his confession, at the way heâs dropped his gaze to the ground.
âI-I donât- I donât know whatâs- whatâs real and- and what-whatâs notâ
His face screws up a little, his head shakes as he metal arm groans with tension.
âThatâs okay-â she soothes, staying still, even as he takes an unsteady step towards her, â-Iâm real, I promise, and Iâll help yaâ figure out the restâ
His arm extends out, like heâs reaching for her hand, but suddenly he flinches like heâs been burned, even though he hasnât come close to touching her.
He looks unsteady, he recoils, and backs away in a panic, until he crashes into the sink, metal shoulder smashing the mirror thatâs hanging above it.
The noise startles him. He freezes like an animal in a trap, and then, he falls to the floor.
He drops to his knees, surrounded by shrapnel, by shards of broken glass, and dirt-
She watches him cut his palm on a jagged chunk of crystal as he tries to scramble back into the wall.
Blood pools in his palm, it drips down his wrist and mares the floor as he pulls his legs up, so he can bury his face in his thighs.
Y/N moves slowly, she scans the room and sees an old, stained rag hanging on a towel rack by the shower.
She grabs it, finding the cleanest area of it to use, before she moves over to him.
Her approach is careful, itâs announced by the crunch of glass under her boots, and by the way she sighs when she crouches beside him.
âItâs alrightâ she murmurs, being very careful not to touch him, âBucky, I-â
Fingers, both metal and flesh tangle in his hair, she hears the way the joints whine, as he starts to tug at the lengths, rocking a little on his heels in a desperate attempt to ground himself.
Y/N sighs, seeing blood soaking into his scalp- itâs smudged down his wrist, itâs staining the grey of the hoody heâs wearing, she shakes her head unhappily.
âLook at me?â she requests, âPlease?â
He moves with inhuman swiftness. A chunk of hair catches in his fist, and she grimaces as comes away in his gasp, but he seems not to notice.
Blue eyes are staring at her, before she manages to take her next breath.
âThank youâ she says, trying to calm him with her tone of voice, âItâs just me, Iâm not going to hurt you.â
The cowering man doesnât respond, she doesnât even think heâs blinking.
It makes her nervous, he doesnât look right, he looks more like a cornered stray than a person, and she canât help but feel awfully sorry that she took so long to find him.
âI-â he whispers at last, â-I-I donât know your real- I- this might be a trick-a - a trapâ
She tilts her head, confused by his urgent mumbling.
Heâs less coherent now, heâs slipping between english and russian like itâs not something he can control.
The sentiment of his words isnât changing, though, heâs worried that she isnât real, heâs worried sheâs some kind of decoy, or delusion- something thatâs going to either vanish, or hurt him somehow.
Minutes pass, and Y/N is still and patient. She waits for him to grow quiet again, for him to go back to watching her in silence.
âDid they do that, before?â she asks, âMake you see things that werenât there?â
Her question jars him. His brow furrows, and he goes back to muttering things she canât decipher, before eventually he nods, scared but honest, in reply.
She hums, and pushes some dirt out of the way so that she can sit back on her knees.
âAlrightâ he hears her whisper, âThatâs alright, Buckyâ
He thinks she sounds calm. Sheâs not screaming at him, sheâs not barking commands or trying to escape.
That doesnât seem right. Whenever itâs quiet he hears the shouting, but now, all he can hear is her, the way sheâs breathing, the way that sheâs waiting for him to look at her again.
âThose things they made you seeâ she continues softly, âdid they ever touch you?â
He squints, deciding wether or not to admit anything more.
He trusts her, he decides, even if he shouldnât, even if he doesnât totally know why. Sheâs his friend, sheâs always been his friend.
Doubt stabs at his chest, making his swallow hard- maybe they found out, maybe this is all a dream theyâve put him in, to worsen his punishment for running, maybe this isnât Y/N, maybe heâs not himself, maybe- maybe heâs already back in the chair.
âHeyâ Y/N soothes, seeing the way the man has started panting, air leaving his chest in visible bursts. âItâs only me, remember, Iâm not going to hurt you.â
âThey never touched meâ he says, voice quiet, âTheyâd disappear and-and then- and then theyâd hurt me, for believinâ it-.â
A piece of her heart shatters at that development, at the knowledge they tortured him so cruelly.
âCan I see your hand?â she asks, seeing the way the blood from his wound is drying, âLet me clean you up.â
If she touches me, Iâll know sheâs real- that all of this is real, that Iâm not there, anymore, Bucky considers, teeth tugging at his lower lip, or, sheâll disappear, and this whole reality will crumble, and Iâll be back there, Iâll be back there and theyâll do those things, again.
She can see the way heâs fighting himself in his head. The struggle is plain on his face, and sheâs not totally sure of what way itâs going to go, he seems torn between offering his palm, and clutching it tighter to his chest and curling up into a ball on the floor.
âDo you remember what I told you back when we first met?â Y/N asks, sheâs unsurprised when he stays silent, when all he does is stare at her with wide eyes, âFriends donât hurt friends.â
He remembers.
He shuts his eyes, he buries his face back into his knees, and he very slowly, moves his flesh arm out, and over, so that she can reach his injured palm.
She beams proudly, she canât explain how flattered she is by the faith heâs putting in her, in the way heâs being so brave, when heâs clearly so frightened.
âThank youâ
His jaw is locked tight, he really is expecting to wake up in agony the minute her skin meets his, but instead, he hears something, the softest thud as her gloves are discarded and abandoned on the floor beside them, and then he feels her fingers, warm and gentle as they prise his hand apart.
Sheâs real, he realises, Sheâs real, it, it all is.
Something awfully close to hope swells in his chest, it bites back against the sheer, overwhelming panic that has made a home there whilst heâs been on the run.
âYouâre coldâ Y/N notes, dabbing away at the liquid sticking to the edges of his wound, itâs healing already, she knows it wonât take long for the semi-deep cut to be nothing more than a scratch, but he hasnât withdrawn from her, and he seems to be breathing a little more steadily now that heâs able to feel her, to feel that sheâs flesh and bone like him, that sheâs real and not a figment of his imagination, âcouldnât get a fire goin?â
âI didnât tryâ he confesses, feeling like a disappointment, âI-I donât need oneâ
She hushes him kindly, murmuring something about that being alright, the sound of her assurances are awfully familiar, it makes tears swell in his eyes when he realises how nice they are to hear.
âBuckyâ He hears her call, voice a little louder than it had been before, âDo you want a hug?â
His eyes widen impossibly. She sees something traumatised flash behind them, something beaten and caged and broken.
Y/N prepares herself for rejection, but then suddenly, he glances around the otherwise empty space, surveying it one last time before he nods, the smallest, shyest nod, she thinks sheâs ever seen.
She lets his hand go, and opens her arms in invitation.
A quiet âbe careful, sweetheartâ is all she can manage to say before he moves over, tentatively shifting into her embrace.
ââm sorryâ he croaks into her shoulder, ââm-âmsorry bout the knife-I-I donât want to hurt you-â he repeats, as he feels her holding him in place.
Y/N shakes her head, she closes her eyes and lets her cheek graze his hair, even though itâs now flakey with old blood.
âItâs alrightâ sheâs quick to tell him, âI know you donâtâ
His breathing is audibly laboured, he doesnât remember the last time heâs had someone this close to him in a non violent way.
People only touch me, to hurt me, he thinks sadly, remembering kicks, and slaps, and fights.
Panic gnawers at his nerves when he considers how likely it is that heâll have to pay for this moment of tenderness.
Thereâs always a price, he reminds to himself, You donât get things like this for free.
Y/N knows heâs clutching onto her jacket, she can feel metal fingers tearing at the denim, and itâs all she can do not to cry.
âOh, Buckâ she murmurs, breath hot in his hair, âhow long has it been since anyoneâs just, held yaâ, huh?â
He doesnât know, so he doesnât answer. Since heâs going to be punished for actually escaping, he doesnât think adding insolence to the list of his transgressions is likely to make much of a difference, considering how big of a penalty heâs probably already earned for himself.
Y/N hears him whimper, itâs the softest, slightest sound, but she catches it, and draws him in impossibly closer to her front.
âWeâve gotta warm yaâ upâ she comments next, the fabric of his hoodie is frosty, and the skin of his face is cold, even through the barrier of her top, âyouâll catch your deathâ
She knows he doesnât get sick, but the turn of phrase seemed like something he might have heard before, like something he might relate to care, to affection other than instruction.
He doesnât want to move. He doesnât remember ever being warm. The heat from her body is heavenly, though- itâs drawing him in, itâs sapping the tension from his exhausted muscles, itâs even making the pounding of his head seem lighter.
Or maybe thatâs the way sheâs started to rub a small circle over the fresh scar that is still stinging on the base of his neck.
The gash is raised, itâs pink and angry underneath the coils of his hair.
Heâd given it to himself, weeks ago, in a hotel room in Budapest, when heâd taken a dull switch-blade and carved out the tracker that had been inserted there nearly a century ago.
Itâs been hurting him ever since, but pain is familiar, itâs something he can handle, itâs not something he has a say in-
Itâs bothering him less, now, he realises, her thumb is warm and gentle, and sheâs soothing the irritated skin by stroking it, by drawing lines across it, as though it doesnât revolt her.
âWe should make a fire, if weâre stayinâ hereâ her voice soothes, next, âand see if we can get some blankets from somewhere.â
âWeâ Bucky repeats, the word muffled by her body, âyou-youâre not leaving?â
Y/N shakes her head, silent as she lets him absorb the information.
Even though heâs heard her, it still doesnât seem real. Heâs confused, he wants to pull back and look at her face, to try and search it for any sign of dishonesty, he wants to ask her why on earth sheâd want to spend even a second more of her time with him, when she could be doing literally anything, else, but more than any of that, all Bucky wants, is to believe her. Is it finally not be on his own any more.
âI donât understandâ he whispers honestly, âwhy would you stay with me?â
âBecause I care about youâ Y/N answers, tone as soft as velvet, âIâve told you that before, do you remember?â
His eyes sting, again. He does remember, but, half of him had thought that had all been a dream, that the beautiful women who cared for him when he was injured or coming round from a wipe had been a hallucination brought on by the grim nature of his reality, or by the drugs in his system, or maybe a mixture of the two.
She feels pretty real now though, with her arms around his back, with his face in her neck.
For the first time in a long time, Bucky canât help but think that heâs lucky to have lived through everything he has.
âI never forgot youâ he murmurs, âI-I sometimes thought I dreamt yaâ up, but- I- Iâve always cared about you tooâ
Y/N hushes him again, she nuzzles at his hair and relishes in the way he shivers against her, body finally surrendering to the temperature, to itâs need to be touched in a non-terrible way.
ââm not a dreamâ she swears, ânone of this is, Bucky- weâre never goinâ back okay? Nobody is ever gonnaâ hurt you againâ
He doesnât reply, he doesnât think the right words exist to express what heâs feeling, anyway.
Hope and despair, fear and longing, guilt and affection are all swirling around his head at once, making him dizzy, making him vulnerable, and itâs all he can do not to sob.
âThis is a good spotâ Y/N notes, âWe should stay the night- head to a safe house tomorrowâ
âSafe house?â he echos, uncertain.
She just nods, smoothing down his back.
âWeâll need that fire tonight, sweetheartâ she tells him, ââs only gonnaâ get colder-â
âI can do thatâ he swears, eager to please her, âIâll make us a fire, dollâ
Her grin splits her face at the use of the nickname.
Bucky decides instantly that even though it had been an accidental slip of the tongue, that heâs going to call her that more often.
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