#widow reader

grief is truly a horrible thing. an all-consuming force that threatens to eat you from the inside out.

it’s a shadow that lingers, a specter that moves silently but persistently, weaving itself into the fabric of every moment. it does not announce its presence with fanfare, nor does it depart when you will it to. instead, it creeps, slow and steady, like the cold wind before a storm, pressing against your chest until breathing feels like a sin.

grief is not a feeling; it is a presence. it is a weight, heavy and suffocating, as if drowning in a dark, endless sea. the surface is so far above, unreachable, and the water presses in from all sides, choking the breath from your lungs. there’s simply no escaping it. eve when you close your eyes, hoping for a moment of peace, it finds you there too.

grief is a thief that takes more than just what you’ve lost—it takes time, peace, and clarity. it takes pieces of you.

and ever since your husband’s death, you’ve been trying to pick those pieces back up. but they slip through your fingers like sand, scattering in the wind, impossible to gather in their entirety. every attempt to rebuild feels futile, as though you’re trying to piece together a puzzle with missing parts, the picture never quite forming the way it once did.

the room is relatively empty, save for a few devout attenders who are spread out in their pews. the priest stands on the altar, the candlelight casting a soft glow on his features as he continues the mass. it’s a somewhat traditional ceremony, filled with prayers and rituals that you’d grown accustomed to.

the priest stands before the small congregation, the words of the mass flowing effortlessly from his lips.

you sit near the back, hands folded tightly in your lap. the rhythmic cadence of the priest’s voice, the latin prayers echoing in the cavernous space, should bring you some semblance of peace, but it doesn’t. it feels distant, as though you’re watching the service through a veil, separated from the others.

the priest's voice drones on, a familiar melody that fails to soothe the ragged edges of your heart. you feel like an outsider, a stranger among the devoted faithful. even the rituals that once brought comfort now seem hollow, the prayers falling flat against the weight of your sorrow.

as the mass draws to a close, the priest's eyes meet yours, his gaze piercing and knowing. for a moment, you feel like an animal trapped in his sights, vulnerable and exposed.

the priest's gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary as he processes the end of the mass. the small congregation begins to file out of the pew, murmuring gentle blessings and well-wishes to one another. he watches them go, his eyes lingering on each face, before turning to face you once more.

the nave slowly empties, leaving only a handful of devotees behind, including yourself. he remains at the altar, hands folded in quiet contemplation. the soft rustle of the evening breeze carries the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a melancholy reminder of the passing seasons.

"you stayed behind," leon observes, his voice a gentle whisper.

"is there something on your mind, my child?" he approaches you slowly, his large frame casting a long shadow across the stone floor.

“no, father, everything’s fine," you lie through your teeth, your voice barely a whisper.

"is all well?" there's a pause, and in it, you sense an invitation to share your burdens, to unburden yourself to this man of the cloth. but the words stick in your throat, tangled around the aching void your husband left.

what could you possibly say? what good would it do? the priest's eyes search yours, his face etched with compassion. then, he nods, as if he understands the futility of words.

he accepts your silence, his gaze softening with understanding. in this sacred space, he knows better than to pry, to force confessions or unburdenings. instead, he allows you the solitude you crave, the quiet contemplation you so desperately need.

the silence between you stretches on, a fragile truce that exists solely in this sacred space. it's a comfort, of sorts, to have this shared quiet, a reminder that even in the depths of your grief, there are still moments of solace to be found.

"i'll leave you be for now," leon says eventually, his voice a gentle murmur that breaks the spell.

"thank you, father." he nods, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips as he takes his leave, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound in the hallowed space.

eventually, you rise, stretching your stiff limbs. the cool stone beneath your feet is a jarring contrast to the warmth of the pew. making your way to the front of the church, you light a candle, your fingers brushing against the smooth glass as you set it upon the altar. the flame flickers to life, casting a warm, golden glow over the surrounding statues.

you linger a moment longer, savoring the peaceful atmosphere, before making your way out.

the church is bathed in an eerie, moonlit glow when you return late that night. the candle you lit earlier still burns, its flame a slowly dying down.

you move with a quiet reverence, your footsteps muffled by the soft carpeting as you make your way to the front row of pews. you've come seeking answers, but none present themselves as you approach the altar. the statue of the crucified christ looms above, his suffering face a poignant reminder of the pain that accompanies loss.

the shadows cast by the statues seem to deepen and twist, taking on a life of their own in the dim light. a shiver runs down your spine, the fine hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. something feels off, a discordant note that you can't quite place.

you pray, hoping it’ll all go away, but unease persists.

it's subtle at first, a whispered thought on the edge of your consciousness. but the longer you have your back turned, the more you feel as if someone is behind you. but you don’t dare look.

not until it speaks.

“what are you doing here, my child?," you hear him say softly, his voice carrying a note of gentle warning. "you shouldn't be here this late."

his words send a chill down your spine, the softness of his tone at odds with the tension emanating from him. you slowly turn around, your heart pounding in your chest. leon stands just behind your seat, his silhouette large and imposing against the blackness outside. his eyes glint in the candlelight, a predatory keenness that makes your blood run cold.

"father," you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. "i... i just felt the need to pray," he takes a step closer, his footsteps deliberate and heavy.

"at this hour? prayers can wait till morning. you shouldn't be here, not alone, not now.”

“but, why?” you ask, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “does the church not allow visitors at any time?”

guilt pricks at his heart, a sharp pang of conscience that he's not entirely sure he wants to acknowledge. “no, of course not. the church doors are always open. but this is late, and you're alone... it's just not safe,” his tone is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of something else - a hunger he's trying his damnedest to suppress.

“is that really the reason, father?”

guilt gnaws at him, a growing sense of unease that he can't quite shake. "of course, that's the only reason," he lies, his voice wavering slightly. but the truth lingers in the air, a palpable tension that he can't seem to dissipate.

he takes a step closer, drawn to you like a moth to flame despite his better judgment. "perhaps... perhaps i misjudged. the church's doors are always open, for the faithful and the lost alike," his eyes roam over your face, drinking in the curves of your features, the softness of your skin in the candlelight. “especially to you.”

a low groan escapes him, half-desire, half-anguish. "forgive me, child. i should not be saying these things,”

“no, wait—“ you softly reach for his arm.

he freezes at the touch, his breath catching in his throat as your fingers make contact with his arm. the sensation sends a jolt of electricity through him, his resolve crumbling like sand beneath the tide.

"don't," he whispers, his voice rough with strain. "please, don't." but even as the words leave his lips, he can't bring himself to pull away, to sever the connection between you.

“but i haven’t done anything, father,”

"you've done plenty, my child," he murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of longing and self-loathing. "just by being here, by existing... you've awakened desires i thought long buried." leon's breathing grows ragged, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

he steps closer still, the heat of his body radiating towards you like a physical manifestation of his turmoil. "i am a man, not a saint," his confession hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of his forbidden attraction.

“and…” he shakes his head, a bitter struggle that leaves him weak-kneed and aching. "i should send you home," he murmurs, his hand coming up to cover yours, to hold it in place. "before we both regret this.”

“no, please don’t push me away, father,” you plead.

his eyes flicker closed, as if in supplication to some higher power, as the admission spills from his lips: "i'm sorry, child. so very sorry for what i am about to do.”

his body crowds yours, crushing the air from your lungs with the sheer force of his need. his mouth descends, claiming yours in a bruising kiss that sets your very soul ablaze. the world narrows to the taste of him — smoke, spice, and something uniquely his own.

it's overwhelming, consuming, and yet, somehow, it's the most natural thing in the world.

and when you end up pushed up against his office desk, the wood cold and unforgiving against your back, you know things have gone irrevocably awry. his hands, so recently devoted to guiding prayer, now roam the curves of your body with a reverence bordering on the religious.

your lips part on a gasp, allowing him greater access, and he seizes the invitation with a fervor that leaves you breathless. large hands roam your body, mapping the contours of your frame with a desperation that belies his years of discipline. he breaks the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, the rapid beating of your pulse point a siren's call he's powerless to resist.

he's shaking, the tremors starting deep within, spreading outward through his muscles like ripples on a pond's surface.

"forgive me, lord," he whispers to himself, as if seeking divine absolution from the sin that he’s about to commit. but even as the plea leaves his lips, he doesn't let go. instead, he raises your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your knuckles.

then he's on his knees in front of you, hands grasping at the hem of your dress. the fabric rustles as he pushes it upward, baring your thighs to his hungry gaze. his breath is heavy, face mere inches from your center.

"tell me to stop," he pleads, his voice a ragged whisper. "command me to sin no more, and i will obey.”

for a moment, he teeters on the brink, the line between devotion and lust blurring until it's nearly indistinguishable. "please," leon's eyes lock onto yours, searching for the strength to resist, to obey his vows. but what he finds there is surrender, a silent plea that sends his resolve crumbling like the weakest brick.

"father," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

he closes his eyes, a silent, anguished prayer issuing forth from his lips. his hands tremble as they part your legs wider, stealing a breath from your chest. slowly, reverently, he leans in, finally dragging you underwear down, exposing you to his gaze.

"you are so beautiful,"

his voice cracks on the words, a mixture of awe, reverence, and raw, animal desire. he can't tear his eyes away from your unveiled flesh, drinking in the sight like a man dying of thirst.

"pray with me," he murmurs, his breath hot against your slick folds. "ask for forgiveness, for the sins we are about to commit." even as he speaks, he's dragging his tongue along your inner thigh, the sensation making you gasp and shudder.

"our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,”

his hands roam your hips, gripping the soft flesh as if to steady himself against the waves of his own depravity.

“thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,"

each curve of your body yields to his touch as his fingertips traced a path of fire across your skin. desperation and control tangled within his gestures, gripping onto the softness beneath his hands as he strives to anchor himself against the tumultuous waves of desire and decadence that threaten to crash over him.

“glory be to the father, and to the son, and to the holy spirit…”

the words are a broken whisper, a plea for mercy that's drowned out by the urgent throb of his own need.

“amen.”

he brings his mouth to you at last, and with a groan of surrender, he begins to eat you out with a hunger that knows no bounds.

he laves at your clit with a fervor that leaves you panting and weak-kneed. you're a mess of whimpers and moans, your hands fisting in his hair as he works you over. leon's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into the flesh as he eats you out with a single-minded determination.

"yes, yes, just like that," you babble, your voice a desperate chant, even as your vision starts to blur at the edges.

one of his hands drifts lower, his fingers seeking out the entrance to your womb. he teases the delicate skin, tracing the outline of your slit before slipping a finger inside. a low groan rumbles in his chest at the slick heat that envelops him, urging him on.he works two fingers in and out of you in a steady rhythm, the lewd squelch of your juices only further fueling his own desire.

"please, father, i need—" the words die on your lips as a particularly intense thrust of his fingers sends you plummeting over the brink.

his eyes blaze with an unholy light as he takes in your ravished expression, his own need reaching a fever pitch. he surges to his feet, shedding his robe and shoving his pants down with a desperate haste. he reaches for you, pulling you forward effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing at all.

he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself in time with the frantic beat of his heart. "i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice raw with anguish and guilt. "so very sorry."

he hovers over you, his thick length prodding, seeking entrance to the very core of your being. you help guide him in, a hand slowly pushing back on the back if his neck as the thick head of his cock breaching your entrance with a slight burning sensation. he groans, his hips bucking forward as he sheathes himself fully within you.

for a moment, you're both still, letting the intensity of it all wash over you.

and he starts to move forward, inch by inch, the wooden desk creaks in protest beneath you. his eyes squeeze shut as he buries himself to the hilt, your slick walls clenching around him like a vice.

"oh, my lord, forgive me," he breathes, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he struggles to still the tremors that rack his frame. "i am a man undone.”

he starts to move, slowly at first, each thrust a testament to the effort it takes him to resist the primal urge to rut into you like an animal in heat. his hips rise and fall in a deliberate rhythm, each stroke drawing a gasp from your lips.

"you feel so good," he rasps, his breath hot against your skin. he pulls nearly all the way out before plunging back in, the slick glide of his thick length a pleasure unlike anything you've ever known.

sweat drips from his brow as he pounds into you with a fervor that borders on religious ecstasy. each thrust is a prayer, a confession, a plea for absolution. his eyes never leave yours, searching for some glimmer of forgiveness in their depths.

"i'm— i’m close," he warns, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

your head rolls back, a silent moan escaping your lips as the pleasure mounts. his hands fly to your face, cradling your cheeks as he forces your gaze to meet his.

"please, please, don't look away." he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a chaste kiss. "i need to see you," he murmurs, his hips stuttering in their relentless rhythm as he fights for control.

he can feel the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter within him until he's teetering on the precipice. his hands roam your body, kneading and squeezing as if trying to imprint every curve and valley onto his very being.

he's a hairsbreadth from the edge, the tension coiled so tightly within him that he's not sure he can contain it much longer. but for you, he'll try.

he'll endure the sweet agony of restraint. he leans in, his breath mingling with yours as he whispers a final plea.

"dear god, i'm so very sorry." the words are a prayer, a plea for forgiveness not just from the divine, but from you. he knows that what he's doing is wrong, that he's violating the sacred trust that he's been entrusted with as a man of the cloth. but in this moment, caught up in the maelstrom of his own desire, he can't bring himself to care.

he hooks an arm beneath your knees, pulling you higher up on the desk. the new angle allows him to drive even deeper, the head of his cock brushing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your body responds, arching up to meet him as a keening wail tears from your throat. he watches, entranced, as ecstasy washes over you in waves, your face a mask of rapturous bliss.

you finally feel his heat as it floods your innermost depths just moments later.

he collapses onto you, his weight crushing in its intimacy as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his heart pounds against your ribcage, a frantic with regret and release.

he stays there, draped over you, his breathing ragged and uneven as he tries to regain some semblance of control. his body is slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks. slowly, he pulls back, his hands still cradling your face as he looks deep into your eyes.

his breath comes in ragged gasps as he struggles to regain some semblance of control, to quiet the chaos that rages within him.

"forgive me," he whispers, the plea hanging heavy in the air between you.

he knows it's not enough. he's broken the trust, violated the sacred vows he's taken. there's no going back from this, no easy path to redemption. the knowledge that he's failed, that he's fallen so very far from the path of righteousness, fills him with a deep, abiding shame. but for now, in this moment, he can only cling to the thin thread of your forgiveness and hope that it's enough.

It's my fault. Isn't it? Andrew would still be alive. Happy and in love. Married to some other woman, perhaps. Making her the luckiest wife in the world. Chatting over breakfast and giggling together as they joke their wake to work. She would get to admire his beautiful eyes and riot of freckles. He would write her terrible poetry.

They would be in love.

Alive... and in love.

But I ruined it. B-because I'm selfish. Right? That has to be it. Surely. It must be! B-because what else could it BE? He was healthy! It happened so fast! And now... now he is... is...

Sobs rip their way out of me, uncaring of the witnesses. My legs buckling under the weight of my grief. Who cares? Who CARES? So what if I kneel in the mud? He's gone! My best friend is gone! And it's all my fault! I deserve this! It should be ME!

I already lived once before. This was always borrowed time anyway. If it had to be one of us? It should have been me!

Someone kneels behind me, a shawl draped over my shoulders. An umbrella brought forward to shelter me from the rain. As though I don't wish to drown. Almost everyone else has left, now. But I can't. I just... I just can't. Leave me. Leave me to my grief!

This world was a Story to me. I escaped it. Selfishly thought there would never be a price for that. That quitely bowing out of my antagonists role to live quitely, humbly, with a good man, would never... would never...!

"Shhhhh....shhhhh.... It's okay. It's over now."

Over? Ha ha. How can it BE OVER‽ He's GONE! Another sobs wrenchs free. They seem unending. But oh, that voice. That cool, smooth, aristocratic voice. How is he even HERE‽ When I fled, I all but cut ties with my past. Traveled nearly two countries away. I am no longer the wretched, trouble-making daughter of a well to due man. The infamous leech, clinging to the grand-dukes unfavored first born son.

I am a bookstore owner's widow. Nothing more, nothing less. No royal dramas. No court intrigues. No otome game paths or thousand characters to remember. Why would he even look for me? How could he possibly have the time? With his brother the favorite to inherit and his father a cold hearted bastard. I was little more then arm candy. Vicious and childish arm candy at that.

Remebering, the person I was, before I remembered? I was a terrible, lonely child. And I took it out on everyone around me. I coveted the stars, because everything inside me felt empty. Because my family was cruel. Because the coin brought treachery and gilded chains.

Because I was terribly broken and hateful about it. Greedy for what I could not have.

I was indulged. Enabled. By this man, most of all. It only made me worse.

Of course I left. It was the only way to heal. To grow. And in the end? It made all the difference. Yet... he is here. How? Why‽ What part of that terrible brat of a child did he come for? That horribly broken thing? Our shared history is a shame to me. And it's not as though we were lovers. For all that the world certainly assumed as much. Did he actually consider us frien-?

"I always promised, I would marry you. When I became Grand Duke. Now we finally can."

The words seem to hang in the air like nooses. Full of unseen bodies that swing and creak, like silent horrors in the day's mild wind. Around us, the world was filled with a terrible hush. Rain muffling everything to distant, dull grey. And for a long moment... everything was cool, quite, and far away.

All at once, the world crashed back in. Like a wave crashing back in, after the tide receding before disaster. A tsunami of tiny things.

We were the last two here, I noticed. My in-laws, the neighbors, our... my social circle. All had left to give me privacy to grieve. The rain was cold. So much colder then it had seemed. I hadn't noticed. The wind whistling eerily through the near silent grave yard. As we kneeled at the foot of my husband's grave, the dark earth muddy. He... was he wearing cologne?

Kneeling in a wide open field... I suddenly felt cornered.

That expression. That... that was not the expression of a man who's feeling sorrow for an old friend. Not distant memories and what could have been's. That... that was hunger. A predator's patience. Was...? No. No, it could not have always been there. Right? I would have...

"You shouldn't kneel in the dirt, love. Not for him. He wasn't worth it." He murmured, soft and sweet as a lover. Eyes almost kind. "I'm here now. Here to make everything better, all right? No more worries. No more struggles. All the riches your heart desired. I got them for you. Isn't that nice? Let's go get you warm, hmm?"

I.. God, I wasn't an idiot.

What Did You DO?

You bastard. What did you do to my HUSBAND?! Ignoring the hand, softly held out, as though he had any fucking right, I grabbed the bastard by the front of his jacket. To shake him? Slam him down to punch until my fists break and bleed? I couldn't tell which impulse was stronger. It was like all my howling grief had turned to RAGE. As though my blood had filled with fire. My bones ropes made of live wires.

He has the audacity to smile. Fondly. Even as my white knuckled grip drags roughly at the fine fabric of his clothes, threatening to tear stitches. As I bear my teeth, unhinged like a mad dog. Wild around the eyes. I drag him closer. The bouquet, now made cruel mockery, that he brought, goes tumbling into the mud. Filth that he is, he sucks in a shuddering breath. Leans towards me.

"Ah, my love, you were always so magnificent in anger. You wear it like a queen."

Whispered towards me. Each word made obscene by the waver in his voice. The way he dares to roll it off his tounge! Another man's wife. You sick bastard, I was ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE! But you couldn't have that, could you‽ The shriek that howls free of me would put hawks to shame. I lunge. Hands clawing as I try to claw his fucking eyes out.

Shameless, he dares to have a laugh that is charming. How utterly practiced it must be! Effortlessly, he keeps my hands from his face, as I curse him. Holding my wrists as I struggle to maim. To avenge. Killer. MONSTER! I struggle to rip my hands free, so I can wrap them around his fucking throat!

The world spins. No longer am I pinning my husband's killer. The grey sky distant witness as I thrash like an animal. I have nothing left. NOTHING! He took everything from me! Andrew. My songbird. My everything! I won't let him get away with it. I WON'T. If it's the LAST THING I FUCKING DO. Screaming, thrashing, I try to get him off me. Clawing at the mud I can feel seeping into my back.

"Look at you... so broken." He said softly, like a confession. With an unholy reverence. "We always were so beautifully matched, weren't we? Two perfect little monsters."

His grip tighten. Painful at last. Bones grinding and bruises starting to bloom.

"But then you tried to run away, darling. Why would you do that? Were you scared? Afraid of loving me too much?" Furious at his audacity, I bucked and writhed. Get off. Get OFF! I'LL KILL YOU! "Shhh shhh shhh, it's okay, it's okay. I forgive you. I forgive you. My wildfire. My bride."

In the distance, the day's storm, long building, finally arrived. Thunder rolled as the rain picked up. The air biting.

"I'll take responsibility, of course. Who else could handle you? Knows you as I do?"

What was once morning coffee at the kitchen table, gradually morphed into tea on the patio with the lingering scent of tobacco drifting through the morning air in small clouds.

Then late-night TV, cuddling with the love of your life, turned into reading in comfortable silence on opposite ends of the couch with a content dog snoozing on the cushion between.

“I’ll do it fer ye, bonnie .” Became, “Lemme show ya how, in case I’m not around to do it for ya, doll.”

Celtic matches switched to Manchester United.

Cerulean eyes eventually became a rich, whisky color.

Loud, boisterous laughter replaced with gruff, shy ones.

Sunday mass was changed to lazy mornings, lounging in a big bed with his dog.

Scottish whisky became Kentucky bourbon.

The dark mohawk you used to caress was replaced with a full head of auburn hair.

Where Johnny’s love for you was as open and as free as the sea, Simon’s love for you was deeper than any valley, and stronger than any anchor.

Yet, they made you whole in different times of your life.

“Did you hear anything about the agents?” You are sitting on the bed, cross-legged while staring at old pictures of Ransom and you. “I don’t think they’ll give up so easily.”

Bucky watches you with worry. You closed yourself off once again. For days you barely left your room, coming up with new excuses every day. “Well, they won’t get you.”

“Hmmm…” You don’t look at Bucky when he steps closer to the bed. “One day, they will succeed and kill me too.”

“I guess if you keep on refusing to eat and leave the room, they don’t need to try to kill you.” You grunt at his words. “Get up from the bed, have a shower, and meet me downstairs for dinner. No more excuses.”

“You’re still an ass,” you snap at Bucky. “Don’t think for one second I’ll change my mind about you only because you showed those agents your muscles.”

He snorts. “You better not believe I’ll ever warm up for your bratty ass. Twenty minutes.” Bucky points at the door. “Shower and come downstairs for food.”

He turns on his heels and stomps off. Bucky smirks because you slip out of the bed. If he can make you eat something today, he’s not going to complain.

“What the—?” Bucky gapes as you walk down the stairs. You’re wearing nothing but a smirk. “What are you doing?"

“You told me to have a shower and come downstairs,” you chuckle victoriously. “I did exactly what you told me to do.”

“You know that I didn’t mean for you to come downstairs naked,” he huffs and strips his shirt off to cover your modesty. He shoves the shirt over your head, grunting like the grump he is.

“What? I thought you wanted me to follow your orders,” you smirk when you can see again. “Now, we have a problem.” You point at his bare chest. “You need a shirt for dinner.”

“Do you always have to be a pain in the ass?” Bucky snarls your name and points at the stairs. “Go back upstairs, get dressed, and come back down for dinner, woman.”

You drop your eyes to the scar tissue on his shoulder. Of course, everyone knows how he lost his arm, but seeing it up close makes you realize, he’s been through a lot of shit too.

Bucky follows your eyes, sighing as you look like you’re in pain. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he murmurs. “Or I got used to the pain. The arm is a part of me now.”

“It’s not the arm,” your voice softens when you step closer to look at the scar tissue. “It’s the scars.” You cock your head and blink the tears away. “You’re a lone survivor like me. No one left from your old life.”

Bucky wants to say something. He wants to tell you that there is Sam, but the ugly truth is that he feels as lonely as you do. You’re right. No one from his old life is left. Steve took the chance to go back to better times.

Sometimes Bucky asks himself if his friend left because he didn’t come back the way Steve remembered his friend. He’s damaged goods, and he knows it.

“You need to eat something,” Bucky grabs your hand when you try to touch his scars. “Lady, no touching if you’re not going to listen.”

You giggle, for the first time you meet. “Aw, you’re shy. That’s kind of cute. On the other hand, you’re a forties guy.” You lean closer to whisper in his ear. “Did you ever get laid, super-soldier.”

He huffs. “That’s not funny. Go upstairs and get dressed.”

“I knew you were a virgin, Sergeant Barnes,” you giggle before turning on your heels. You strip his shirt off to throw it at him. “You better put your shirt back on, sweet virgin. We don’t want anyone to get handsy…”

After your little banter with Bucky, you eat in silence. He’s an okay cook. The chicken is a little dry, and he used too much salt, but you’re not a picky eater. “What are you and Sam doing if you’re not keeping a widow hostage?”

“Missions,” Bucky grumbles. He’s still fed up with your little stunt early. “We help if we can.”

“Hmm…” You nod thoughtfully. “Why did he give the shield away?” You wince because Bucky slams his metal fist onto the table, making your tables clink. “A sensitive topic?”

“Sam believed he’s not worthy.” He shakes his head. “Sam is a good man. He believed it was the right thing to do and gave it to the Smithsonian.”

“Still, that guy has it now,” you huff. “He’s touching Captain Rogers' shield with his smeary and unworthy hands. I think your friend knew what he was doing when he gave it to Sam. He’s not only a strong man, but has a good heart too. That other guy doesn’t. I can see it in his eyes.”

Bucky smirks. He thought the exact thing about John Walker. The imposer pretending to be Captain America.

“Ransom would’ve told Walker to eat shit,” you grin at Bucky, earning a chuckle from Bucky.

“I’d agree with your husband,” Bucky grunts. “Walker is no good. I can feel it in my guts.”

You cock a brow but say nothing. Sitting there in silence, you try to ignore the fact that you hated your bodyguard not weeks ago. The last thing you need is to focus all of your energy on fighting with Bucky again.

“People believed Ransom was arrogant and selfish, but he wasn’t. Sometimes a pretty façade can hide an ugly character. And sometimes, behind a cocky smile and stunning blue eyes hides a good man.” You smile at the memory of your husband. “No one knew he anonymously donated money. Whenever people were in need, Ransom helped without telling anyone about it.”

Bucky nods before taking another bite of the chicken. “You said that you’ve got no one left, too. Why? What about your parents or siblings?”

“I have no one left,” you say, a pained expression on your face. “Let’s drop the topic.” You rub your itching nose. “What can we do around here but sit around and stare at the walls?”

“We got some books and an old TV. I think there’s a DVD player too.” Bucky points over his shoulder at the TV standing on a sideboard.

“Do we have DVDs too?” You snort when he shakes his head. “Great. I assume we don’t have Pay-tv either.”

“YES! Take that!” You snicker because you just beat Bucky at Monopoly again.

“We didn’t have that game in the forties, and while being brainwashed, I didn’t get the chance to play games.”

You stick your tongue out. “OH, boohoo, poor Bucky baby got booboo,” you imitate his voice. “You’re a sore loser.”

“You’re an awful winner,” he bites back. “Winning at a game your opponent doesn’t know is unfair.”

You look at each other before starting to laugh. Bucky holds his stomach while you slap the table, knocking the game over. “You shouldn’t play with me if you can’t take the heat …”

“Nooo!” You scream at the top of your lungs. Jolting up on the bed, you press one hand to your heart. It’s racing, and you don’t know for a moment if you were dreaming or if Ransom died again.

“Where is—?” Bucky secures his gun, seeing only you in your room. He tugs it away to check on you. “You’re safe, doll.” He murmurs and sits next to you on the bed.

You choke out a sob, realizing it was only a nightmare. Sadly, your husband is still dead, and your baby will never be born. “He’s gone…they are gone,” you whimper. “They took them away from me.”

“I know, doll…I know.” Bucky doesn’t think when he brings you into his arms to let you cry in his chest. At that moment, you’re not the two people who are at each other’s throats most of the time. You’re two lost souls looking for shelter. “I know.”

“Ransom,” you choke out your husband’s name, “he whispered something before he died.” You cry even harder when Bucky wraps his arms tighter around your body.

“What did he say, doll?”

“Agents, death, money,” you sniffle and hide your face in his shoulder. “Love.”

“You believe he wanted to tell you someone paid the agents for his death.” You nod against him. “Do you have more than his last words?”

“I have something better than my word and Ransom’s,” you clear your throat, realizing you’re in Bucky’s arms, and enjoy it. “He told me where he hid everything to bring the people killing him down…”

Part 5