#traumatized!reader

Then, of course, the car. ‘A shield, not a bomb’. How deadly ironic. How sweet. Why did he have to say it then, after you already humiliated yourself?

‘I would do that again for you in a heartbeat.’ He’d said it like a promise, but he doesn’t know what he’s promising that to. All he sees is someone pitiful and small, not the person that’ll hurt him if he gets too close.

And that’s the worst part of it all. You’d take the cuffs if it meant it kept you away from him. It would be easier if he hated you, but the new fact that he doesn’t is worse. That means he’ll try to connect.

Your body is a trap waiting to spring. Why does he insist on keeping with you, as if he’s looking to be caught?

Creaking from the top of the stairs breaks you out of your whirling thoughts. You slow your breathing, trying to sound as if you’re asleep.

Thankfully, the landing creaks again, and you hear the low thunks of his footsteps going down the stairs. Letting out a sigh, you finally open your eyes to the dim room. Time to seize the day.

It takes you ten minutes to get up. Your headache gets worse once vertical.

As you get downstairs, Bucky looks at you over his shoulder, newspaper open in his hands. His clenched jaw softens as he looks you over. You wave a little, feeling a little silly but not wanting to speak. The corner of his mouth flicks up.

“Hey, party queen. How you feelin’?” He chirps.

“Ugh.”

“To be expected. Have some coffee.” He waves a hand towards the steaming cup on the table next to him. After a moment you go over, standing on the other side of the couch as you take the mug. The heat from it easily warms your cold fingertips, and you rub your thumb on the handle. He glances up from the paper, then fully looks up at you before folding the paper and tossing it onto the coffee table.

He looks back at you, leaning back and resting a metal elbow on the armrest, rubbing his stubbly beard with the same hand. He says nothing, just watching you as you drink, using the coffee to stop any words from bubbling out. You know what they would be. Either small pitiful things to make yourself smaller, or barbs to scare him off. Maybe he would take the bait, leaving you alone. Maybe that would help the pit in your stomach.

You look over him, avoiding his stormy blue eyes. Instead, you look at the rest of him, scanning his shirt, his pants, his tanned hand resting on the seat of the pleather couch and playing absentmindedly with the seam. He has a scar on his knuckle. You sip and wonder where he got it from, if it hurt. He scratches his throat and breaks the silence himself.

“You hungover?”

“Nah, I usually wake up with a pounding headache and an aversion to sunlight.” You say dryly. The corner of his mouth tugs up.

“You sound like a vampire.”

“I am. If you aren’t careful, I’ll suck you dry.”

“Hmm. Really? Didn’t think you were that kind of girl.”

You blush lightly, bringing the mug to your lips longer in an effort to hide your cheeks. He still must see it, with that never-ending gaze of his, because he flashes a wolfish smile that makes your chest flutter horribly. You cough before you answer.

“You’re a dirty old man.”

“Hey, I didn’t say it. All you, doll.” He says, like it’s nothing.

Nicknames aren’t new to you, but this one is different. It lands differently when coming from him. You’re not sure why it comforts you. Maybe it’s the roughness of his voice, or the slight twang of an old accent coming through. It sounds distinctly like him, a piece of his inner voice given briefly as an offering.

He stretches as he gets up, letting out a quiet grunt as he raises his arms above his head. His thin t-shirt clings to him, tanned skin peeking out from between its hem and his jeans. His metal arm glitters in the sunlight creeping in through the closed blinds. As he lets go of the stretch, he sighs, the tension in his shoulders melting away. You look away quickly enough that you can pretend that you haven’t looked, distracted instead by coffee and the dregs of sleep still left in your eyes.

He steps towards you and your body reacts first, backing away from him quickly. He pauses, showing his hands, palms open towards you as if surrendering.

“I’m just going to the kitchen.” He says quietly, as if speaking to an animal crouched in the corner. You get onto the couch and fold your legs against your chest, making yourself unobtrusive. He sidesteps you, keeping the distance you’ve made between you both. Once he leaves, you stretch out, rubbing your feet on the rough rug on the floor.

“I gotta fix somethin’ in the car today. Tried going out this morning for coffee and it wasn’t working. So, I’m sorry, but this is the last cup until I can get that going again.” That piques your interest. You quickly turn on the couch to face him. He glances over at you and his brow raises a little, quizzical. “You that addicted to caffeine? It’ll just take me a few hours, I promise.”

“No, no. What happened to the car?”

“Brakes weren’t responding like I’d like them to last night. We were slipping a bit.” Your brain whirs through a million possible reasons, the engine and body of the sedan outside opening in your imagination.

“Common. It was shuddering, right?” The rumbles of the car beneath your legs last night was an afterthought in your drunk mind, but the information comes quickly to the forefront sober. “Sounds like the rotors are warped. 2012 Honda Civic parts come cheap, at least. Still got to wait for them.” You sip again, glancing up at him. His eyes are wide, and you stop mid-drink.

“What?” You ask. Then, he chuckles. It’s a low rumble that washes over you like fireworks.

“You know all that? You’re a mechanic now?” He asks. You bristle, but the look in his eyes is true, admiring instead of accusing. You shrug a shoulder, relaxing and putting the mug down. Bracing yourself on an elbow, you half-turn towards him.

“Nah. Civics are some of the easiest cars to repair.”

“Done it often?”

“Not on 2012’s. Not really even on cars. I’ve mainly worked on pieces of them. Some basic machines, too. They’re all parts at the end of the day; you just have to know how each one works.” Your gaze is firmly on him, but anywhere other than his eyes.

He’s leaning against the counter now, the small of his back pressed against the lip and his arms crossed over his chest. He leans into the room like it belongs to him. Either that, or its a farce. Covering discomfort with confidence. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re avoiding him, he’s curled in on himself. Bent over the table with his arms on either side of his head, as if he’s a boxer defending his face. Now, he’s free and open.

“Wanna come help?” He asks, breaking your thoughts, and your heart leaps against your ribs.

“Really? Help? Or do you just wanna make me do it?” You joke, but you ask.

“I won’t make you do anything, doll.” You match his gaze. You say nothing for a moment, and neither does he as he waits. For you to talk. The words stick in your throat but you force them through anyway.

“Yeah. I’d like to.”

-

“Can you hand me – yeah, thank you.” You place the wrench he needs in his outstretched metal hand, being careful not to touch him. Even with him under the car and you on an upside-down bucket a couple feet away, you feel too close to him. He wheels back under the chassis on the repurposed skateboard you found in the old garage the car is sitting in to keep you both away from the sun.

It was small in here, dark and dank with the smell of gas, grease, and the sickening wisps of cigarettes from the inside of the car. Hot sun streamed through the open garage door. You let your head loll back into it, closing your eyes in a moment of rare relaxation. Both good and bad memories are associated with this smell, but this is a new experience altogether. You can get up and walk back inside if you want to. You’re not chained to the floor, scraps of exploded metal at your feet, cigarette smoke turning the room to haze and confusing your parts together. If you left, Bucky wouldn’t care at all.

“You were right. Rotors were shot.” Metal tings against the stained concrete as he tosses one out by your feet. You pick it up, grease covering your fingertips. It’s bent to hell.

“Lord. How much have you hit the brakes?” You quip. The car muffles his chuckle.

“It’s one of Sam’s cars. I’m pretty sure he abuses them all.”

“I guess if you could fly, being trapped in a tin can on the ground makes you frustrated.”

“Then he needs to fix his cars as much as he fixes that damn red spy-pigeon he has strapped to his back.” He throws out the other rotor, wheeling out after it. His short-cropped hair glitters in the sun, sweat beading at his brow. You flick your eyes back to the garage.

“I think he likes the more finicky things. Cars are big, cumbersome.” You say, shrugging a shoulder. Bucky sits up, going to run a hand through his hair but pausing, looking at his greasy hand. You toss him a rag sitting on the tool bench, him murmuring his thanks. He’s methodical as rubs his hands, going over every inch as if scrubbing in for surgery.

“And you?” He says, breaking your trance.

“And I what?”

“What do you like to fix? Or do you not like getting your hands dirty?” He’s looking up at you.

“I get my hands dirty all the time.” You scoff.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Good to know.” He says, smirking.

You bite the inside of your lip, quickly looking away from him.

“I’ve mainly fixed power generators. Some engines, but they were cobbled together from other engines. Like a Frankenstein of car parts.” You rush.

“Hmm. So you know a lot about a lot, then?”

The compliment heats up your cheeks, and you turn towards the sun, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“I guess you could say that. It does make it difficult when I see a fully assembled engine. It looks too perfect. I don’t know where to begin.”

“Well, usually with the broken part.” You look back at him and roll your eyes. He gives another wolfish grin, making your stomach do a flip. The sun shows off more of him, bathing him in a glow you can’t find in the house. Maybe you should open the blinds more, let more of the sun dance around the dark corners. How much more of him would you see?

“I was gonna do some basic maintenance too. You wanna see this engine? I can give you a tour.”

“Is that your idea of a pick-up line?” You ask, faux innocently. Might as well play with him too. He stills before smirking again.

“Only if you say yes.” He says solemnly.

“Such a gentleman. Just show me the engine, Bucky.” You snort.

He stares up at you for a moment before getting up in one fluid motion, picking the car up off the jack with his metal hand. You quickly kick the jack away and he lets the sedan down gently. Every time he shows his strength, you marvel at it. There’s knowing he’s a super soldier, experimented on, serum flowing through his veins, and then there’s seeing it. You’re split on whether it makes you feel protected, unsafe, or less alone. You settle on an unsettling mixture of all three as he moves around to the front of the car, opening the lid of the engine and beckoning you over. You follow suit quickly.

His shirt brushes against your arm as he leans over to point at something, and your neurons crackle in response. You tell yourself he doesn’t notice the way you lean into him.

“You know what that is?” He asks, and you can feel his eyes on the side of your face as you study it.

“Oil dipstick.”

“Good, you’re right.” His praise makes your stomach flutter again. The air between you starts feeling electric, and you take a small side-step away. He doesn’t seem to notice as he motions to something close by again.

“And that?”

“Uhm...” You stare at it, but all you can think about are the little zaps you feel between your fingers. “Brake fluid reservoir?”

“Close. Clutch fluid reservoir. Over there is the brake fluid.” He waves a hand at some other part, then leans back and crosses his arms. You let out a little breath that you didn’t think you were holding. “If you really want to impress me, show me where the blinker fluid is.”

You examine for a minute, before rolling your eyes again and looking up at him. He looks bemused but holding it in, biting the inside of his lip and smirking down at you.

“Did you really think you’d get me with that?” You scoff, and he laughs. It matches the warmth that comes up to your cheeks. You haven’t blushed this much in your life, but now all it takes is a few nice words and some laughter from him and you’re a mess.

“No, not really. But I thought I might as well try.” He says.

“Blinker fluid isn’t real, muffler bearings aren’t real, and elbow grease comes from hard work.” You say. He nods slowly.

“Alright, alright. I won’t haze you anymore. Check the oil for me, and I’ll check the tire pressures.” He says, tossing you the rag and walking around to the back of the car.

You take your time, taking out the dipstick and running it across a clean part of the towel, watching him from the corner of your eyes. He’s looking at you too, and when you match gazes, electricity crackles up your spine.

This is all getting to be too much. The smell of grease and sweat, heat against your back, tools all around you. Mixing that with the closeness of him, the easy laughter he’s sharing with you, the way he talks with you as if you’re his equal. His friend, even. The war in your head is growing louder and louder, and you count wordlessly. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 1. 2. 3.

“Tires are fine. Oil?” He’s suddenly next to you again, and you almost drop the stick.

“Could use some, I think.” Your mouth is dry.

“Alright. You know how?”

“Yes.”

“You want to?”

“Yes.” You say it too quickly, rushing around him to the side of the sedan. He comes over and lifts the car again, and you kick the jack underneath.

“You know, I could just hold it up.” He says as he puts it gently down onto the stand, and you shake your head.

“I’d rather not be crushed if you need to sneeze.” You say, and he laughs again.

“You really think I’d let you be crushed?” He says gently. Your brain shorts for a second.

“Not on purpose.”

“Never on purpose. I’m not that mean.” He kicks an old tray to you as you lower yourself on the skateboard, and you bring it with you as you wheel under.

You both sit in silence as you concentrate, unscrewing the drain plug quickly, but not quick enough to get your hand out of the way of the oil. You watch it for a moment, trying to calm down, but not managing to before it finishes draining. Your heart still beats fast, especially when Bucky bends down and smiles at you.

“All done?” He asks, and you nod, pulling yourself out from underneath after re-screwing the oil pan shut. You wipe some sweat off your cheek with the back of your wrist, taking a deep breath. He’s already gotten to the engine to pour new oil in. You stand up to go near him, watching from one side of the engine bay. He looks up at you, smiling at first, but then his brow furrows slightly. He beckons with his free hand.

“C’mere.” Your skin crackles. You hesitate, but he beckons again. Some tiny part of you steps forward as if Bucky is tugging on a fishing line. You have the sinking feeling this will end up bad, but the bait is too tantalizing. The risk that makes your heart flutter and the logical part of your brain scream.

Then, it happens.

With his metal hand, he reaches up to your cheek, thumb wiping a spot under your eye. His fingers curl slightly around your jaw, pawing your face. The combination of the soft touch with his gaze, and the smell of pervasive grease and nicotine from the inside of the car mixing with memories that feel too close to the surface, the numbers are useless.

The warmth of his eyes. The care. The way you want to nudge your face into his palm. Trust it not to grip hard. Trust yourself not to bite back.

You can’t. It’s not safe. You aren’t safe. You can’t be, you can’t-

Boom.

White clouds your vision as Bucky’s hand gets ripped away from you. Heat crawls over every inch of your skin as the ripple of the shockwave tears from you like horses out of a starting gate. Metal tears and screeches against concrete. Things shatter and crack, filling up your nose with the fume of smoke and oil. And the memories. Oh, the nightmares come crashing through. Thick, heavy sobs hit your chest as you’re back in that little room again, chained to the ground in an effort to keep you still amidst yet another chaotically forced explosion. Left to lay there as the data points come rolling in that damned computer, waiting another round. Here, now, you can feel the cuffs on your wrists, weighing you down as your lungs struggle to breathe. Somewhere far away, there’s a thud and a groan, snapping you back to reality. The heat around you diminishes, the wind from your shockwave dying down to nothing, letting the buzz of the cicadas in the summer air come back to the forefront.

Worst of all, Bucky is getting up at the other end of the garage, looking directly at you with a look you can’t decipher. The concrete wall behind him is cracked from his body being thrown against it but he still stands easily. He steps towards you but you back away and he does too, staying near the wall. His jaw clenches as his brow knits together, looking you over.

It almost looks like worry, but that’s not possible. That would be hope. You already know what hope is, the words branded on your heart.

Hope is the worst hurt of all.

He’s holding his hands out towards you, palms out again, and your nails dig into your hair. You both stay in that moment, examining each other.

He blinks slowly, opening his mouth to say something but closing it again. The possibilities rush through your head at once. Too many of them hurt your heart before you hear them.

You both stare at each other wordlessly, neither of you moving a muscle.

Before he can break the silence, you turn on your heels and run back up the road into the house, throwing the door open and running upstairs to the small bathroom. You slam and lock the door, shutting off the light and getting into the tub, bringing your knees to your chest.

1231923124.

1326183.

172631.

The air tingles as you dig your nails into your skin, trying to tamp down the residual energy building up again through useless counting. A sharp knock on the door makes you jump.

“Hey, please tell me you’re alright. Don’t worry about the garage, it’s barely messier than it was before.” Bucky’s words come out rushed, like he can’t say them fast enough. You don’t reply, and he talks again. “If you’re hurt, I can help you.”

You almost laugh, a bitter taste on the back of your throat. You wish he could help you. But you’ve proven you’re not trustworthy. He touches your cheeks once and you lose control? What happens the next time he’s close to you? A blast in this old house would cause it all to come crashing down around him.

“Go away, Bucky. Please.” You choke out, but the shadow in front of the door doesn’t move an inch.

“Do you need help calming down?” He says. Still painfully gentle. You can almost imagine him on the other side of the door, running a hand through his hair like he did the other night, when your nightmare shook him awake.

You pause. A voice in your head continues to spout off numbers, a never-ending river of confusion. Another one lectures you, shows a slideshow of him in the garage, standing away from you like you’re an animal waiting to attack him. A third one screams at you, kicking you into a corner even in your own psyche. The shockwaves always seem to make your brain explode too, splintering it into a chaotic mess.

In that chaos, your racing thoughts throw out a question that comes from the one voice you don’t let speak.

Why is he here, if he’s scared of you?

“Just...just follow my voice, alright?” He murmurs through the door. In spite of yourself, you find yourself yearning for his voice above the others. You take a shaky breath.

“Say five things you hear. Out loud, please. So I know you’re alive in there.”

You take a moment.

“The faucet dripping, the wind against the house, the creak of the foundation settling, a hawk outside, and y-you.” All of them come out in a rush of words, and you add a sixth to the list; him letting out a deep breath.

“Alright. Good, you’re doing good. Name three things you can touch.”

“The tub, the shower curtain, the soap.” Your fingers trace each item as you say them. They’re all cold to the touch, and you dig your nails into the curtain, making it crinkle in your hands.

“And one thing you can see.”

Some half-formed instinct pushes you forward to the door, numbly unlocking it. Pulling it open slightly, you’re met with Bucky’s gaze towering above you as he leans against the door frame. You flinch away but he doesn’t meet you with anger, or pain. Only a quiet, pensive look that you haven’t seen before on a person you’ve hurt.

“You. I see you.” You breathe out. His jaw clenches and relaxes and he runs his metal hand through his hair again. He’s jittery but won’t look away. You can’t either.

“Are you alright?” He whispers. You nod. “Are you sure?”

You nod as you wipe a tear off the same cheek he held before. Will never hold again, if he knows what’s good for him.

“I’ll clean up the garage.” You say.

“Don’t worry about the garage.”

“It’s all fucked up. I think the car-”

“Don’t worry about the garage or the car. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does, that’s the only car we have, and if I broke it then we can’t go into town, or get out of town, or-”

“What happened?” He interrupts.

Any explanation you can think of turns to a stone in your throat.

“What did I do? Did I hurt you?” He whispers and look up at him. His eyes are frenzied, almost panicked as he looks over you, but he keeps himself on his side of the doorway. His metal hand is clenched into a fist at his side, but at your glance he relaxes it, rubbing his thigh with his palm.

“No Bucky, you didn’t hurt me.” You murmur. You almost reach for him before remembering you’re the one who threw him into the wall at the first sign of a kind touch.

He studies you as you study him. Your defences are back up but the familiar adrenaline rush dies down quickly.

“Bucky, I’m...sorry. I can’t...” You trail off, closing your eyes and rubbing a temple. The storm of your thoughts has died down but the rain lingers, drowning out everything you try to say.

“It’s alright.” He says softly.

“I-”

“I’ll be downstairs.” He turns quickly, footsteps thudding quickly down. You stare at the empty doorway. The faucet drips beside you, beating out the seconds in the silent hallway.

When you finally rip yourself away from listening to the subtle sounds of him below, you go to your bed and fall on it.

When sleep comes, it’s not a comfort. Just an escape from yourself.

----------

A/N: This was a cathartic chapter for me to write, but I'm thinking that'll be a trend for the rest of the fic, lol. But it took me a while to get it out, so I apologize. When I started writing this, I didn't realize how hard-hitting it would be for me get everything out. Next chapter is already outlined, so will be quicker updates from now on :)

If you're struggling with C/PTSD symptoms, you are not alone. People care about you.

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