a messy person's writing blog

Your eyes locked on a tugged away corner underneath some stairs and you started to make your way through the crowd to your safe haven.

“Where are you going?” Kingsley's voice rang out from somewhere vaguely behind you. Maybe you should just go home.

“Away from the noise!” you shouted, hoping she could hear you, wherever she was.

“Would you live a little, nerd!”

“Heard that one already,” you sighed, mumbling more to yourself than giving an actual response.

According to your phone, it had been 1 AM when you gave up and decided to get a drive to your apartment, in hopes of a few hours of sleep before leaving for Malta again. You would be home by 1:30, getting ready for bed, that's 2 AM, which would leave you around 4 hours of hopefully uninterrupted slumber before-

“Leaving already?”

You cursed internally, before looking up to meet a rather amused pair of blue eyes.

“If you're telling me to live a little I will shove that straw up your arse, Bond.”

James chuckled, the chewed on straw falling back into the nearly empty drink in his hand. “I think that might be the longest sentence I have ever heard you say.”

“It's the alcohol, blame Cress.” You watched him put his glass on one of the steps, before going back to giving the ride sharing app on your phone your full attention. You expected the man to leave, go back to anyone in your little group or find the next woman to take home, satisfy and turn into the nth “call-me-back-please” post-it on your shared mirror. But instead he leaned against the railing.

James started, “Sooo…”

“Hm?” Your gaze stayed on your phone, pretending not to pay attention.

“Is it really that bad or was there at least a little fun involved tonight?” You looked up, confused by his sudden display of interest.

You two weren’t friends; James had been a dream of a roommate, tidy, quiet - for the most part - and a solid colleague. A troublemaker, sure, but dependable. Nice, funny and intelligent, even though your superior would like to differ. Good looking with his short brown hair and bright blue eyes. Given your training regiment, you could imagine what he looked like under those shirts. And imagine you did, more than you should.

But he seemed closed off and wore his confidence and mouthiness like a shield. And given that you weren't particularly social, it was hard to connect with your peers. Adding the fact that he was just so bloody attractive didn’t help with your timid personality. Especially around him.

James Bond made you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush on the unachievable.

After a moment of contemplation, you finally answered, “I guess I enjoy dancing. But I just don't particularly enjoy being around drunk people.”

“But you're drunk.”

“I had one drink, James, the buzz is making me talkative. Why does everyone think I'm drunk?” you whined, turning your head to him smiling. He shrugged his shoulders. An actual full smile, not his signature smirk.

“Didn't know we were on a first-name basis now.” Shit.

“I mean-” You wanted to shrink in on yourself. Making sure to keep your distance, even to this degree, gave you a sense of security.

Bond looked at you, brows furrowed. “I'm just messing with you. Come on, get up.” He straightened up, holding his hand out.

“Why?” you asked.

“You like dancing, so we are going dancing.”

You didn't expect James Bond, of all people, to care. Sure, he wasn't devoid of sympathy, nor empathy, and he seemed to care a lot about Cress and Lennox, but you didn't expect him to give you a second thought. And even less for him to want to dance with you in a packed club. You were probably overthinking the whole thing. Why would he? You were roommates for the past month and rarely shared more than a few sentences that didn’t revolve around dirty laundry and training plans. But you liked the thought a little too much, as unrealistic as it seemed.

And unrealistic it had been, because the moment you got back on the dance floor, he led you to Cressida. A lost puppy.

“Found her!” James had yelled at Cress, before his mouth turned into a one-sided smile and he disappeared back into the crowd or wherever this night was taking him.

What a dick, you thought.

Cressida laughed, definitely past the point of tipsy. “I was looking for you! Thought some hot guy might have stolen my girl!”

“Hoped he would have but here I am.”

Cressida's eyes widened, scanning the full club. “Oh! Who? And where is he? Is he cute?” That one clearly went over her head. You changed topics to something insignificant, before the comment might have turned around.

Another hour and some went by, you were waiting for Cressida, jackets in hand, when Monroe and a certain brown haired arsehole made their way in your direction.

“Leaving?” The smirk was starting to piss you off.

“Yeah, and you can't escort me back to hell under false pretenses anymore.” You really shouldn't blame Bond for having been tasked with finding you, just because you had hoped he would have- What even exactly were you hoping for? You needed sleep, and maybe make use of your buzzing companion inside that hidden shoebox underneath your bed. The sooner, the better.

“Are you drunk?” Monroe half laughed, half barked. “Jesus, you actually learned to live a little!”

“Tipsy, at most, blame the drink I had to consume to survive.”

“Survive? I thought you liked dancing with me!” Cressida returned from the toilet, linking her arm around yours.

“She likes dancing, not drunks.” James said, winking at you. You rolled your eyes before turning around and walking to the exit, with a drunk Cressida clinging onto your arm.

Back at your shared apartment, you made sure to get Cressida in her bed with water and painkillers ready on her bedside table for what's to come, before finally making your way back to your room. However, before you could even close the door, James came out of his.

“It's really sweet of you.”

“Huh?”

“Taking care of Cress, I mean. She’s going to regret this in a few hours.”

“Happens to the best of us.”, you retort sharply. “Night, Bond.” You turned around, raising your hand at an attempt of a wave.

“Are you okay?” You gave him a weak thumbs-up. “Did I do something to piss you off?”

“You annoyed me, that's all, I'm sure I'm not the first one.”

“Can you guys shut up!” Monroe's voice echoed from his room down the hall. James looked in his direction.

“Sorry, mate. Good night.” he responded to Monroe's shouting, gesturing to you to enter his room. Following him made you uneasy.

“Nice room.” “It's practically empty.” James responded, closing the door. Sure. That it was. But smalltalk has never been your forte.

You started before he could, “Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't really feel like talking this out with you in the middle of the night.”

“We rarely ever get to talk,” James countered, matter-of-factly. “We could have, at the club, before you shoved me back to Cressida. Your tone might have given him a hint.

“Why are you angry?” James asked, facing you in the middle of the room.

“Annoyed.”

“Why are you annoyed?”, he asked again.

“Don't know, we rarely ever get to talk.”

“So is this about me finding you for Cress or about leaving.” Shit. Fuck. You really wished you had sobered up fully by now.

“Both. Well, I had hoped I could actually get to talk to you, since we rarely ever get to do that and I might have gotten my hopes up that you felt the same and then you left the second you delivered your package and disappeared and that made me realise that spending time with you- I guess I just wanted to- I don't know.” Taking a deep breath, you cringed at your choice of words, or choice of the unsaid. The corners of James’ mouth turned upright. “And the fact that you kept me from going home early and getting enough sleep to survive whatever Greenway has in store for us.” He nodded, looking amused. Why was he so charming, all the time, doing nothing? “I talk too much.” you responded to no one. You couldn't decide if it was the alcohol or James turning you dumb, and you weren't even drunk, for fucks sake.

“I like talkative you.” You flipped him off, which he found to be very humorous, it seemed. He took a step into your direction. “I'm sorry if I made you feel abandoned in your quest for freedom.” And another step. “And I’m sorry we didn't talk. Or dance, how I falsely promised. You just always seemed uncomfortable around me, didn't feel like pushing your buttons even further.”

A dry laugh left your throat. “Who said I wanted to dance?”

“A guess.” His eyes fixed on yours.

“A guess?” you asked. James took another step forward, closing the distance between you. He whispered, “Spy's intuition.” James observed your reaction. “If I'm reading this right, this is what you wanted, correct? Being close?” You could catch his scent, cologne, sweat and something uniquely him. Your head began spinning.

“You’re insufferable, Bond.”

He chuckled. “So I've been told.”

“Yeah, that's the terrifying part-” you breathed. His eyebrows raised. “-can't be hot and insufferable, that's a deadly combo.”

James’ voice lowered, “I'll choose to take that as a compliment.”

“You hear that all the time.”

“Not from you.” You began to wonder if you bit off more than you could chew. Doing this with your roommate seemed like a mistake. “You looked nice today, even made me a little nervous.” His hand reached out to tuck a loose strand behind your ear.

“You know a little too well what you're doing, Bond.” you pretended to wipe something off his shirt, wanting to touch him, feel his warmth, at least for a second.

“I don't want to overstep, but I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it than just wanting to talk.” James’ fingers glided up your exposed arm.

“You're pretty mouthy,” you breathed.

“I have other talents.”

“Show me.”

James’ lips met yours in a hurried kiss, his hands grabbing onto your waist, pulling you even closer. You moved your arms around his neck, keeping him close. Close enough to feel his heartbeat against yours, or at least that‘s what it felt like. He tasted sweet, a hint of the sweet drink still left on his tongue. His mouth left yours, only to reconnect to your skin, leaving wet kisses from your jaw, down your neck, to your dresses neckline. Sharp breaths left your lips. James's hands moved to your back, finding the zipper he was looking for.

“I want you to keep wearing it,” he muttered against your ear, all breath, sending a shudder down your spine. He unzipped your dress, but only far enough to gently move the straps down shoulders, freeing your chest.

“Touch me,” you spoke, keeping your eyes on his.

“Yes ma'am.” His warm hands reached for your breasts, alternating between carefully kneading them and squeezing, while his mouth found yours again. You let out a whimper against his lips, to which he answered by gently biting your lower lip. Your hands moved from the back of his head, his short, brown hair feeling soft beneath your touch, to his sculpted back, and then waist, pulling upwards on the shirt he was wearing. James let go, but only for a second, to hurriedly strip off his shirt. The harsh training definitely paid off.

“Like what you're seeing?” he said, smirking. You nodded, letting yourself shamelessly take in the view. “Likewise.” His lips caught yours in another deep kiss. James was guiding you towards his bed, only stopping himself from taking your breath away to make sure you wouldn't trip.

“Lay on your back.” he was left breathless from the heated kisses you shared, saliva on his lips and the corners of his mouth shining in the small light his bedside lamp gave out. You listened, crawling onto the bed and laying down in a comfortable position, not once breaking eye contact. “You're so beautiful,” James whispered, while following you onto the mattress.

“You say that to everyone.”

“Only when I mean it.” he smiled against your lips before moving downwards, taking your nipple in his mouth. You moaned and grabbed a fistful of his hair, not to inflict pain, but enough to make him moan against you.

“Fuck. Keep doing that.” you told him, “Moaning. I want to keep hearing you.”

“Understood.” James moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention with sucks and licks to your hardened nipple. You keened, writhing underneath him.

Wanting to feel more of him, your legs wrapped around his torso, bringing him closer. You could feel him, his bulge warm and hard. Grinding your core against his cock brought another moan out of him. His head came up, his eyes locking with yours. “I want to taste your cunt. Can I?” You nodded eagerly, impatient to feel his mouth on other parts of your body.

James pulled up your dress and took off your panties, before laying on his stomach. His hot breath lined up with your pussy. Something about still being clothed, while exposed, felt dirty. In a good way. He used his pointer and middle finger to spread the wetness around your folds and teased your clit with small touches of his thumb. You whined his name. James groaned, “You’re soaked, darling.” You felt him trace your opening, before pushing only the tip of a finger in.

“Stop teasing,” you warned, or at least attempted, it sounding more like a beg. James smirked, before drawing out his tongue and licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit, before closing his lips around your bundle of nerves and sucking lightly. Your hands found their way back into his hair, pushing his face closer, trying to get the message across for him to be rougher. He groaned against your clit, sending vibrations up your spine. He licked in between harsher sucks.

James made out with your sex, wet and like a starved man, while his hips ground against the mattress. His tongue flicked your clit again, before moving down to your entrance, slipping the wet muscle in and out as far as he could. The loud moans and whimpers coming out of you, the sound of his name, over and over again, drove him mad. The man wanted to hear more of your sweet voice.

“James- fuck - I'm going to cum.” He lifted your hips in response, arms reaching around your thighs, changing the angle, while his hips thrust harder beneath him. He had been chasing his own release, spurred on by your pleasure. The pleasure he had been giving you.

“Cum for me, please, I need you to cum for me,” his voice breathy, resembling a whine. James’ hand left your thigh, moving to circle around your entrance with his index finger before entering you. Rubbing against your walls, you groaned when he found your spot, bending just right to massage it in tandem with his lips sucking eagerly on your clit. The pleasure was almost too much. You came with his name on your lips, your legs shaking, closing in around his head. James cursed and hissed loudly, and kept slurping, drinking up your come.

You were both out of breath when he came back up, his lips and chin wet, covered in you. “Let me return the favor.” You sat up before even finishing the sentence.

“I don't think that's necessary, but I appreciate the enthusiasm,” James responded, a hint of abashment in his voice, sitting back on his knees. Your eyes travelled from his face to the large wet spot on his crotch, up again to his face, a smile forming on yours. James Bond looked utterly debauched, having cum in his pants from eating you out. “I serve to please.” he commented, before you could.

James moved from the bed, picking up his shirt. The way he held it in front of his torso made you wonder if he had been embarrassed.

“You doing okay?” He asked, while reaching for the water bottle next to his bed.

“Yeah, more than okay, actually,” you chuckled.

“Got everything out of your system?”

You glared at him jokingly. “Hopefully.” You reached for the bottle in his hand, taking a few sips.

Having caught your breath, you got off his bed, looking for your scattered panties before picking them up. You fixed your dress to walk the meter back to your room.

You were slowly making your way forward, joining Bucky at the kitchen island, opposite him. “How are you feeling?” you asked. “I’m... uh…fine. Yeah.” He couldn’t even look at you, keeping his eyes trained on your mug with knitted brows.

“Be honest Buck.” “I am honest.” “Okay.”

He sighed. “Listen. Whatever happened yesterday, I am fine. Okay? There-“

Your eyebrows raised. “Whatever?” Bucky tapped against his head, his lips a thin line. “You don’t remember?” Bucky shook his head.

“Well, at least not everything. I’m aware of some stuff but…it happens. I’m used to it.” He shrugged his shoulders before taking a sip from his coffee, hiding behind the large cup.

“You hallucinated blood, Bucky. You thought the floor, the bathroom, you thought that you were covered in Sam’s blood.” He froze. “You scratched yourself bloody trying to wash it off. That’s not something to shrug your shoulders over.” That’s not how you had planned to start this conversation. You wanted to sit down with him, carefully bring up what you saw and try to talk to him, not serving it with a cup of morning coffee.

Silence. Bucky’s mouth opened and closed again. He swallowed and put his cup down. “It just happens sometimes; it’s no big deal and I am really sorry you had to witness all that but-“

“No. No buts. Stop it. Stop pretending like it’s normal and okay for it to happen!” You slammed your hand on the island. Bucky’s eyes widened. “I- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” you stammered, hiding your face behind your hands, your lower lip trembling.

Bucky brushed his hand across his face. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He was aware that he needs to, if it’s not for his sake then at least for yours. What you saw and heard was a lot harder on you than on him. And it deserved some explanation.

Bucky grabbed the cigarette pack on the island, taking one and putting it between his lips. “You want one?” he asked, holding the pack up to you. You looked up from your hands, tears brimming your eyes. Bucky’s heart ached seeing you like this, because of him. You rubbed your eyes before taking a cigarette and following him. Bucky opened the window onto the fire escape, climbing out before holding his warm hand out to help you out.

The sun was shining, the last bits of the summer’s warmth enveloping you. You both sat down, Bucky pulling out a lighter and lighting up your cigarette before his. He took a drag. You took a drag. Somehow this felt a little like the night where you both first met, but you weren’t on the roof and you weren’t just getting to know your neighbor in the middle of the night.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky turned to you, searching for something in your eyes. Any sign in your pretty eyes that he didn’t mess this up.

“For what?” you asked.

“Making you cry, messing up, pretending like I wasn’t home. having you see the fucked up shit my brain does. Everything I guess.”

“You didn’t mess anything up, Buck.”

“Ah well.” He cocked his head to the side.

“Can you tell me what happened? I mean what…triggered… this.” you tapped ash out on a tray Bucky kept on his fire escape. A pastel pink one you gave to him after getting the confession out of him that he actually really liked the color.

“We were given wrong intel on the mission and I couldn’t stop myself from following through. We got some important information anyways but there was this ambush and- Sam got hurt. Shot.” He sniffed.

Your brows knitted in worry. “But he’s okay right?” Bucky nodded.

“He’s in hospital, doing better and is allowed to leave today or tomorrow but I don’t- I can’t- I don’t think he wants to see me. I wouldn’t want to see me if I were him.” Bucky looked at the ground.

“I don’t think Sam’s upset, Buck.” you reached for him, carefully putting a hand on his shoulder and you felt him ever so slightly leaning into it. “If you felt like not retreating was the right choice, there must have been something telling you to keep going. I’m not part of this…world you are in and how things work but it comes with an immense number of risks and every mission could end up like this for a number of reasons. I am just glad he’s alright and that’s all you should focus on for now.”

“I can’t really focus on any positives if there aren’t any.” He pressed the cigarette bud out.

“You are both alive.”

“Well, that could have looked a lot differently… because of me.” Bucky’s voice got smaller with every word, until it was barely a whisper.

You knew Bucky felt a lot of guilt, constantly, at all times. There’s guilt over wrong words, wrong decisions, wrong actions. It didn’t really matter to him if his actions were actually his, if his decisions were actually what he wanted to, not what he had to or, horrifyingly, was made to do. Sometimes it felt like guilt was the only thing keeping him going because without guilt, he could barely be a person. He would search for guilt in the smallest things life threw at him, because what, or who, was he without and what was he supposed to do if not feel guilty?

“Did you talk to him since?” you asked, gently stroking Bucky’s shoulder, where his skin connected to the vibranium. “Kind of. We talked for a bit a day after but I just couldn’t pretend like this was some lousy work accident like Sam did so I left. I’ve been at the hospital almost every day since but I just can’t bring myself to enter his room. I feel like any moment the bomb would drop and he would tell me to go to hell. I can’t lose him. Not him too.”

“Listen Buck…I know there are so many voices inside telling you that’s not true but I genuinely don’t think that Sam’s angry at you.” You were speaking softly, trying to get to him and somehow, maybe, worry less. Your eyes were searching for his blue ones, trying to get him to look at you.

“I’m just scared of losing him. To a bullet or the fact that I’m terrible to deal with.”

You grinned. “Ah…you are not THAT terrible.” Bucky snorted.

“You are a horrible friend to tell me that now.”

“No.” you laughed.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Na-ah.”

“A very, very horrible friend, bun.” Bucky leaned back, his back against the wall, the sun warming him. He looked at you, his mouth curving into a smile. Bun. The small nickname stuck, and what was first meant teasingly and made you cringe now gave you butterflies. You too leaned back, resting your head against his shoulder. “Sam loves-“ he grimaced. “Yes, Bucket, Sam loves you. You two can’t go a day without annoying each other because you can’t live without the other. If he were angry at you, he would have told you. Like. Right at the hospital.” He sighed.

“I mean…yeah. You could be right.”

“I am.” You looked up at him, seeing his eyes on you.

“He could also just wait until he’s out to kick my ass.”

“Not likely, Buck.”

“You sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Nice.”

Bucky took your hand into his and you two sat in silence for a while, looking at the city below you. His gaze kept wandering to you, wondering how he deserved you. Life was scary and for someone his age, he was terrified of living. But maybe, you, and Sam, made it all worth it. But while Sam was his best friend, his brother, he wished he could call you his. His bun.

Fuck it.

“Do you know why I like that ashtray so much?” He pointed at the small, pink thing next to you. “Because you, a very intimidating, tall, broad, old man, happen to like pink?” “Because it’s a gift from my favorite person, in their favorite color.” You moved your head, looking at him. His face flushed. “I’m your favorite person?” He nodded. You smiled at him.

“I…uh. I’m not really good at this whole thing.” Bucky sat up, suddenly looking a lot more nervous. You didn’t really know what to anticipate, but it surely wasn’t what you hoped it was.

“But I am glad to have you in my life. I don’t deserve you and yet you are still here and I don’t think I could imagine my life without you. You are possibly my first thought when I wake up and the last before I go to sleep and I want you to- I want-“

Your heart was jumping. Doing cartwheels. What was he-

Bucky took a deep breath. “I want you beside me instead of on my mind. In the morning. And at night. All the time, actually. ” He tensed up. You are going to leave him. Right now. This is the worst timing to confess your stupid feelings James and you are now going to get rejected and never see her again because you just could not be happy with how it is right-

Silence.

Oh.

Oh.

“I would love to.” You returned, beaming. Bucky’s tense shoulders finally relaxed.

“So that’s what it feels like to get your feelings reciprocated.” You chuckled, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. Bucky laughed, stroking your hair.

Feeling Bucky’s left arm wrap around you, you looked up. His right hand stayed on your head, slowly making its way towards your face. He put a loose strand behind your ear. He whispered. “Can I kiss you?” “Uh-huh.” He bit his lip before pulling you closer, his breathe on your lips.

Except Bucky’s phone rang.

You both snorted. “Sorry.” He apologized. “It’s okay, go get it. Could be important.” He got up, almost tripping while hurrying back inside. Bucky looked back, embarrassed and laughing, before picking the phone up without looking at the caller’s name.

“Hey Buck, would you mind getting me from the hospital?” Bucky looked at you. “Sam?” you mouthed, looking over the window. He nodded quickly before answering. “Yeah sure, give me…10 Minutes or so.”

“Alright. And Buck?”

“Yeah?”

The only good thing was coming back to you. His neighbor. And friend. At least he liked to think of you as a friend. Bucky liked spending time with you, talking to you, going to your favorite cafés and bookshops with you.

You.

He liked you.

And that speaks volumes.

Bucky tried to stop caring about the people around him after Steve left. He always told himself that it would keep him from feeling left alone and lonely ever again. He could be on his own, right? People rarely treated him with kindness ever since he got his own mind back and left Wakanda. Bucky was a monster to some, a murderer to others, a criminal at least and sometimes, he admitted to himself, he wished he would have never gotten out of Hydra. But then came you. Beautiful, kind, cheerful you. And he thanked the entity watching over him, or destiny, or maybe just luck, that an idiot in your apartment complex had caused water damage and you were both looking for a way to escape the mess at three am on the building’s rooftop.

A long conversation, shared cigarettes and exchanged numbers later Bucky was cursing at himself for thinking someone would want to spend time with him.

Several small meet ups, phone calls and neighbor emergencies later, he cursed himself for trusting you enough to keep you in his life.

The worst thing about this week though, was Bucky knowing you were there. Just right next to him and listening to your favorite songs and walking around and watching TV and doing your daily routine that he has heard hundreds and hundreds of times with his enhanced hearing (he swears he's not a creep) , but he couldn’t talk to you. He just couldn’t. You would ask him about the mission, something you weren’t even supposed to know of, but he trusted you too damn much and what was he supposed to say? “Oh, I messed up and now my best friends in hospital, but it’s fine.”?

So, Bucky stayed by himself, ignoring your calls and knocks and hoping you too would soon realize what a massive fuck up he was. He figured that being close to him would get you hurt at some point, so Bucky stayed away for your sake.

What he didn’t know,

or at least didn’t think of,

was that you too could hear him sometimes.

You could hear him opening and closing his apartment door. Sometimes a neighbor would greet him, and you could hear his voice greeting them back. You knew he was there; it was hard not to, and you had long figured that something must be wrong. But you didn’t want to intrude.

Bucky had sometimes mentioned things about his past. Not too much, it made him uncomfortable and you could tell he didn’t want to scare you or something, but just enough to know why you heard him scream at night, why his eyes glazed up, why he tensed up and stared into the distance. So, you let him be, in fear of pushing him away from you. He would come around eventually, you hoped. And so, you kept listening to him opening and closing the door at the same time every day, as some sign of him being okay enough to still be keeping his schedule.

What you didn’t know,

was that Bucky was spiraling.

Pretty badly.

Three Hours. That’s how much sleep Bucky had before he was violently woken up by his dreams again, his throat raw. But he couldn’t escape. He could still smell the blood, the gore, he could still hear the scream. Sam’s scream. Bucky looked around himself and couldn’t recognize where he was, it was all too blurry and dark. He could barely breathe. But what he could see, and feel, was the blood on himself, on his left arm. The blood was stuck between its plates, dulling the black and gold.

Bucky stood up and ran into what looked like a bathroom. His bathroom. Was it his? He couldn’t focus on anything but Sam’s blood clinging onto him. Everything was so blurry. He fell over something, got blood all over the floor. Why was there so much blood? He got into the bathtub and turned the water on but somehow the blood just wasn’t washing off, while the water turned darker and darker. Bucky tried to rub the blood off himself, but nothing helped, nothing could rinse, clean him from the blood he had spilled. He kept rubbing, scratching, anything to get rid of it, but nothing had helped. He looked up, realizing he had painted the walls red. Bucky cried, he screamed. His throat hurt so much but he kept screaming.

And you heard him.

You had heard Bucky scream once already that night, knowing his past was haunting him yet again. But it was when you heard something fall that you put your ear to the wall between your apartments and heard water running for a while. He was probably okay, just trying get rid of the nightmare, you thought, taking a shower seemed like a reasonable thing to do in his position and so you moved away from the wall and were on the way back to your own bed until you heard the screams. His screams.

You rushed out of your apartment, taking the set of keys to Bucky's apartment he had once left for you in case of emergencies. You still knocked on his door, asking if he’s okay through it, just in case. He had stopped screaming at this point, but the water didn’t stop. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something just wasn’t okay, that he needed you. So, you opened the door carefully.

“Bucky, It’s me.”

You had looked around the corridor of his small apartment, slowly nearing the bathroom. You could hear Bucky crying. Quiet, exhausting sobbing. That’s when you entered the bathroom. And there he was. Small, oh god he looked so small and scared, in his bathtub, the water falling on him.

Bucky was still in his underwear, his skin red from the scalding water and his exhausted hands scratching his skin. There were deep scratches all over him, blood seeping through the torn skin. “Oh god…What happened?!” You had sunk down next to the tub, reaching over and turning the water off. “The b-blood. There is so much b-blood. And i-it’s not coming off. It’s everywhere. Go! Please go! You shouldn’t be s-seeing t-this.” You were confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Sam’s blood! It’s everywhere! See!” Bucky held his arms up but there was nothing apart from torn skin that was already slowly mending. You carefully moved your hand up to touch his arm. Bucky winced, his breathing getting shakier. “Hey, it’s okay, you are okay. Come on, breathe with me. In. And out. In. And out.” Bucky had once or twice mentioned that he hallucinated occasionally and you remembered him telling you about medication he had been prescribed to calm him down. Or at least enough to get him out of such intense phases. “I will be right back, is that okay?” Bucky swallowed, before slowly nodding. You smiled softly at him, rushing to the kitchen cabinet you knew he kept his medications in, before finding the pills he had told you about “in case he would totally freak out on you.” You took the right dosage and a glass of water with you back into the bathroom. “Here, take these.” “What's this?” Bucky’s voice was raw and quiet, you had never seen or heard him like this.

“They will help you; you told me to give them to you, remember?” You held your hand with the small, white pills out, trying to smile while you were slowly breaking apart yourself. Bucky reminded you more of a broken child than the strong, tall man you knew. He took the pills, putting them in his mouth before gulping down the glass of water. You sat there in silence with him, little, soft touches to his arm and carefully stroking his head while he slowly came down and started getting drowsy.

“I don’t deserve you…” his head was leaning against the bathtubs edge.

“Bullshit, I care about you.”

“Yeah…that’s the point y/n.”

He looked up, tears in his eyes. “You shouldn’t care about me. Everyone who ever cared about me died, left or gets hurt.” “I’m not planning on dying, leaving or getting hurt anytime soon, so you are stuck with me for a whil- “

“You will.”

You took his hand. “You know that that’s my decision, right? If I get hurt caring about you, that’s on me.”

“Sure…” “I mean it Bucky. I’m being with you right now because I choose to be here. Because I like you. You are my friend. My Bucket. Do you think I could just stop caring?”

“…Thank you.” Bucky rested his head against the tub again, closing his eyes.

“Come on let’s get you out of here, you will catch a cold.” “I can’t get sick y/n.” “Then I will, come on.” You got up, holding your arms towards Bucky to help him get out of the bathtub, before handing him a towel. “Should I get fresh underwear?” “So desperate to rummage through my underwear, doll?” He tried for a crooked little smile. “I will smack you.,” you deadpanned, trying to hide the growing smile on your face. “I don’t think I can stand for long enough without help…” Bucky’s voice dropped again. “I’ll help you walk to your bedroom. Come on.” You hooked your arm in his, leading him out of the bathroom to the bedroom Bucky admittedly rarely used and sat him down on his bed. “Where’s the underwear?” He pointed at a drawer. You threw the boxers at him and awkwardly pointed at the door. “I’ll uh… let you change.” And left the bedroom.

You walked back to Bucky's bathroom, cleaning up a little, putting back all the knocked down bottles and putting some kitchen towels on the wet floor before you could take a deep breath for the first time in what felt like hours.

You adored Bucky. So much. You wish you could somehow show him just how much, but you didn’t want to risk a friendship that meant so much to the both of you for feelings he probably didn’t reciprocate.

“Y/n?” You rushed back.

“You are not naked, are you?” You heard Bucky laugh.

“No.” You opened the door and he was already laying down under the covers, the exhaustion finally taking over.

“Do you need anything Buck? Water, I can make you some tea… I can… stay over on the couch if… you want…” your voice got quieter with every word, not sure if you were overstepping his boundaries.

“No. I mean. Yes. No, I don’t need anything but yes can you…stay over…please? And maybe stay here with me for a bit…” “Of course, Buck.” You went up to the other side of Bucky's bed, sitting down next to him. “Oh man it’s such a comfy bed, you are really wasting it Bucket.” You heard a small chuckle from the blanket burrito next to you. Bucky reached out with his right hand, taking your hand in his. You stayed like this until you were sure he fell asleep, before slowly moving your hand away and carefully getting up. “Please stay.”

“Bad habits die hard,” they say. Well, he said it. Steve’s voice, accompanied by his laugh, was Bucky’s first, and only, thought every time he took out a cigarette. Steve had always berated him on his smoking habit, something that formed a lifetime ago, literally, and something Bucky picked up right after turning back into…himself? (But it only got worse since Steve…)

Bucky sat down on the fire escape, a second cup of hot, brown life motivation in one hand, the world's number one cause for lung cancer in the other. He could probably afford a nice apartment somewhere better, something with an actual balcony he does not need to climb out of a window for. But what would be the fun in that, right? Bucky liked Brooklyn, sometimes it actually felt like home. (But then he remembers that his favorite bookstore is now a grocery store, his favorite diner is a bar and everything and everyone changed and died from old age apart from him.)

Bucky’s therapist tells him he is adapting well to the “modern world,” and he does not agree. She also keeps telling him about how lonely he is, which Bucky just accepts. He is lonely. Friendships are hard, it is not like he can just randomly ask someone on the street to be his friend. (Not like how he met Steve as a child, playing around outside their houses.) He was in fact lonely enough to try out those god forsaken dating apps everyone keeps telling him about. Bet nobody but him has to think twice about his birthdate, huh? (Bucky scoffed to himself. Maybe three times, James Barnes used to be what the cool kids call a “nerd,” but after Hydra fried his brain, he is not even sure if he is getting the change he is supposed to at stores.) But somehow, he managed to give himself a birthdate that maybe made sense under a somewhat recent picture of himself. Now did Bucky go on dates? Yes and no. He met up with a few women here and there but the ugly realization on how much the only thing he liked to do before his life went to shit changed, he stopped. Alcohol does not do its job; modern music gives him headaches, and everything just moved on too fast. But the Sex was still great though. Thank God. (Until he got asked to take off his shirt and left glove, then even that turns into Bucky’s personal hell.)

After finishing his cigarette, Bucky had to leave for his therapy appointment. He did not particularly like Dr. Raynor, but it is not like he had a choice. The state just wanted to make sure he would not start killing people out of nowhere again, and that was her job. Nothing more, nothing less. (He secretly wished she would care more, help him more.)

“You are not a monster, James…,” Bucky laughed while the wrinkles on Raynor’s forehead grew deeper, “…But everyone will keep viewing you as one if you keep staying in your head. Or your home.” She really knew exactly what to say to make Bucky’s day as miserable as possible. “I just don’t have reasons to leave the house much.” “Excuses.” He sighed. “Maybe I just like being alone.” “No, you don’t. And apart from that, you are not just alone. You are lonely.” There it is. “We had this already Doc…” Bucky did not like where this was going, but just accepted everything incoming because he heard it before. (And because he is not sure if leaving the session early would count as “showing aggressive behavior.”)

“One last thing, James.” He was already halfway through the door. “We should really start talking about Mr. Rogers.” (No, they did not.) “Sure.” Bucky left the building as fast as he could.

Steve left. (He left him alone.) There is nothing to talk about because Steve left and he is totally okay with it. (Bucky hated Steve for leaving.) Steve Rogers is (was) his best friend since childhood. Possibly his only friend in the past few years, and Bucky wanted nothing more than for Steve to be happy. Except he could not be happy with Steve’s choice. Because he left him alone. Steve Rogers left him alone.

Bucky sat on his floor; his back pressed against the wall while his entire body shook. Panic attacks were a regular occurrence for him. He hated it. It let all the feelings and thoughts in he has desperately been trying to keep out of his head. He hated hating Steve, he hated wanting to have someone care for his feelings, he hated having to always hide his vibranium arm under clothing, he hated how much Brooklyn changed, he hated waking up at ungodly hours with his pulse going haywire. But most of all, he hated himself.

Except he did not know himself. Who is James Barnes? The last time he spiraled, his therapist asked him exactly that, expecting something along the lines of “ex-soldier, maybe an avenger, mostly just a guy from Brooklyn” or even a “prisoner of war, ex- brainwashed assassin, the reason the avengers fell apart” to really spice things up. But none of that feels like the James Barnes he knew. The guy who liked to go out, social butterfly, ladies’ man, best friends with a small, sickly boy called Steve. So how was he James Barnes if he was nothing like James Barnes? In theory, all his memories have returned, and he should be aware of his existence. But realistically, those could still be fake. Bucky trusted his own mind less than the state did, but not the possibility of random outbursts of violence, everything else.

An hour passed. Or two. Bucky was not sure when he had stopped crying and gotten up. His head hurt. It always does, more or less. Shuri said some parts of his brain were irreparably damaged, resulting in a number of issues he did not like thinking about and constant headaches he chose to ignore. Getting a metal arm stuck in his skin hurt more. Getting brainwashed hurt a lot more. And Bucky also likes telling himself that his victim’s families losing their loved ones hurt them more than anything he endured could ever hurt him. What is a headache if you are responsible for hundreds of deaths? What are panic attacks if you are a monster. What is loneliness when the last person you loved left you all by yourself.