A Bond Can be Broken Part I
James Buchanan Barnes. “Bucky” for short; but for all intents and purposes, you referred to him as the asshole every time you thought of him and his insufferable existence. He was the ex-winter soldier that the world had feared before eventually accepting; the ex-villain who remade himself into the hero little girls dreamed of one day marrying. And above all else, the most defining part of him in your eyes was the fact that he was your ex-bonded.
There is no righteous reason behind it, no need to save you by giving up the only bond he could ever know, oh no, there is no happy ending with a picket fence and a home to share. Whenever you thought back to what he stole from you, there would always be unbridled anger to match the pain still palpitating against the flesh just along the back of your knee. Hidden under the covers, the tell-tale signs of a bonding mark remained; remnants of a name now too scratched up to be recognizable. But you could still read it, every time your fingers stroked over the sensitive, scarred area in front of a mirror, or the material of your jeans pressed against it firmly, you remembered.
It hurts.
That is the one thought dancing along the blurred lines separating you and the waking world. Pain licks at your insides, twisting you up so badly that you know you don’t want to wake up, not really. You’d rather stay this way, stuck in the in-between with nowhere to go and no one to wonder where. Your fingers seize up and slowly but surely reach for the patch of discolored skin, the pads of your fingertips faintly caressing the soreness until your eyes drowsily flutter open, tears brimming against your long lashes out of reflex. It takes you a moment to become aware of your surroundings, the plain light grey walls of your apartment meet you after you blink back the moisture forming. You allow yourself the luxury of touching your damaged skin a moment longer; it’s rare now, where you feel human enough to touch the ugliest part of yourself come to life. God, it feels disgusting and wrong- marks are supposed to be a representation of the person you love, the person fate chose to push into your arms, but the state of the mark reflects back on you. The faintness or boldness of the mark could show how strong or sensitive the bond is, versus a scratched bond needing more time to heal. Damaged bonds are almost impossible to fix- it’s been studied, you know the facts, they’ve been shoved down your throat and into the hollowness of your chest long enough for you to know that this can’t be fixed.
It’s worse than even the doctors could tell. The discoloration revealed varying stages of healing, the burns and scratches tore up letters to the point where “Buchanan” could barely retain the ‘B.’ That first day, after it happened, you’d picked yourself up and checked into a Bond clinic to see if there was anything you could do. You were inconsolable and broken and you needed to be told that you could fix this mistake, this tragedy. And when they told you there was nothing to be done if your Bonded didn’t want to fix it, the bond dependency tipped and you fell over the scale. It’s rare, they say, you are rare; you are broken and alone,
but “You’re so lucky to be alive. Broken bonds have a 99% death rate these days. You are amazing, Miss (Y/N). I know it’s hard right now, but you will be able to move on.” They had no idea.
The nightmares won’t stop. It starts off slow and gradual, the sun is shining. It should be safe, right? Nothing can go wrong on a sunny day like this. The sky is glittering, it’s beautiful like hidden jewels are embedded in the blue and you’re smiling because it’s dazzling. You’d always been attracted to shiny things and with your head tipped back, you viewed the sparkles that reflected back in your eyes. It feels nice out here with the wind whisking by in a silent greeting to welcome you home and you’re so warm. The sun glints off your soft skin, embracing you as an arm curls around your small figure. You never fight it in your dream; it’s familiar to you, it's so natural that you can’t help but to gravitate towards this beautiful unknown. And the moment you open up your soul, it’s being torn from you. The sun cracks in half, the diamonds shatter into tiny blots of black ash that drapes the sky in darkness and those arms, the glittering of metal, is gone. It’s always the same. Sunlight. Hope. Happiness. Love. Darkness. Rinse, lather, repeat.
But sometimes, the nightmares are more tangible, more real, and they slip into memory format that makes you wake up and want to cut your throat out. The memories keep you aching for the past, before things self destructed and you realized love had never truly been your ally.
“I love you.” Your memory provides a play by play of words and sensations, enough audio, but not enough video. It’s blurry, shaky, like a shitty homemade video you never want to watch again.
“I know.” It’s not the same as reciprocation, you’d later realize, no, it’s an admission of the fact. It’s the same as saying, “I don’t love you back. I don’t want you back, but thanks for giving me every part of you.” Ugly. You called yourself that after every memory wakes you, sweat trickling down your brow and an edge of pain swallowing your ravaged mark whole. You’d think death would have been the sweetest salvation, but you can’t give him the satisfaction. James would be so thrilled to know his ex-Bonded is dead. That your name could finally leave his skin behind, unless he’s had it somehow removed already.
You close your eyes and try to breathe deeply, slowly, each breath a little miracle and goal met; even though it isn’t. You are a miracle, a scientific guinea pig waiting to be studied and dissected because your survival is something unheard of. But you aren’t lucky, you are not a survivor. Every day you die a slow death at the hands of the person you-
Shaking your head slowly, you let your index press into the rough patch of flesh, a few letters left of what used to be the best part of your life. When the pain becomes too great, you edge back and leave the self contempt alone. It’s a new day; a new hour to try and make the best of what you have left. You’d done well for yourself after your life ended. You moved out of the city and somewhere nondescreet. Maine is… nice. Yes, nice is the only word for it. It’s calm and cold and you can usually see a few deer loitering around from your apartment window. The evergreen trees are beautiful and strong, tall and resilient, the way you used to be. It feels good to be around them, to touch them sometimes on your daily walk around the woods. It always soothes you and the aches that remain.
Grunting quietly, you force yourself up into a sitting position and look around your room once more. It’s still as bare as the day you moved in besides a few necessities, but everything else had been abandoned with your parents and storage. You work from home because being surrounded by too many people frightens you. It’s a blessing to have your own work hours, but the quiet makes you paranoid and anxious. Your mom had suggested getting a dog, but you had never gotten around to it. You weren’t sure you could form physical and emotional attachments anymore after what happened; it would be better for the dog if it never stepped foot in your apartment.
“I wonder how many there are today,” You murmured softly to yourself, flinching as ghost pains echo throughout your bones as you slid out of bed, shoulders rolling as you shuffled towards your window. You push back the dark drapes and manage to crack a small smile. Several deer are rummaging through the soft drift of snow from a few hours prior and making quiet noises at each other. A buck is hidden in the evergreens, watching over his family as they search for food to consume, an ever present protection to them. It’s almost comical how parallel the situation is to the way your life had been years ago, when he had promised his soul to you. You’d always been smaller, weaker, a little thing always in need of someone there to watch out for them, even if you spoke brashly and had the temper of a full grown ox. It had been easy to trust him, God, he had your name branded on his chest and that had been enough, and for a while, it was wonderful. It was spectacular, great, special, an adventure, it was-
It was everything.
Until it wasn’t.
The smile slips off of your plush lips as you reach for your cane on the nightstand beside the window. You force yourself not to use it when in public, but the pain is too great right now. The memories make it fresh in your blood stream, pumping agony through you repeatedly. Some days pass where you can pretend that you feel nothing but rage and anger, but the moment it ebbs away, it leaves you tired and weak, aching for something that will never belong to you again.
You’re being too nostalgic and it’s beginning to worry you. The smudge of dignity you have left is enough to set you in motion for the day. You want to finish your manuscript (your publisher has been on you for weeks about the impending deadline) and sleep. Sounds doable, doesn’t it? In theory, it should be, but again, life has a way of shoving horrible things into your soul. The sudden knocks at the door are enough break your attention from the deer and pull you out of your dark reverie. You reach up with your free hand to smooth down your (H/L), (H/C) hair and lean on your cane heavily to take careful steps out of your bedroom. Your living room is small and meager with a connecting kitchenette and a worn out television set that you watch for the white noise it brings. The walls are the same shade of gray as your room with a few plaques on the walls and a single painting you couldn’t part with. Your one couch is begging to be replaced and your black, leather recliner is the newest thing you own.
Clearing your throat, you reach for the handle of the door without looking in the small peep hole to be sure it’s someone you want to see. Sometimes clients come over to be interviewed for your projects or it’s your book manager coming to put you back on track in person. In this case, it’s neither. When you open the door, your mouth runs dry, all the moisture in your body suddenly not enough to wet your single tongue. You can almost feel that sense of safety return to you, but you press it down and stomp it out. You left behind everything and everyone in New York, friends, family, your shambled life. This was not needed. This was not wanted .
Before assumptions can be made, it’s not Bucky on the other side of the door. You would’ve spat out the worst, most vile things if it were, but it doesn’t make you feel any better. It’s Steve, sweet, practical, boyscout Steve Rogers, all blond hair and shocking blue eyes that stare down at you with the guilt still present. He’d had that same look on his face after it happened.
Maybe he'd had that look perpetually instilled in him; you couldn't stay angry with him, though. Steve had never done anything wrong to you. Quite the contrary, he'd always done his best to be as cautiously gentle with you in Bucky’s stead.
“(Y/N).” He says your name softly, making you revert back to your skittish ways. Your eyes widen a fraction and you feel like the deer outside, caught in the headlights of a range rover. The air shrivels up around you and you feel your chest squeeze tight, the guilt in his eyes taunting you. It was foolish to think that you could run away from them, that you could find a new life outside of the Avenger’s gaze.
“S-Steve… why are you here?” You murmured softly, teeth digging into the flesh of you thin lower lip before your gaze fell away. He and Bucky are alike enough for it to hurt seeing him too.
“(Y/N)... Everyone said that I should be the one to talk to you. He’d kill me if he knew I was here with you, but I can’t stand seeing this anymore. Can.. Can I please come in.” His voice is soft and placating, as if he’s coaxing out a scared kitten from under a car. You can only imagine what everyone else has been saying, and it makes you feel sick to your stomach. Were they happy about this? That you, a weak, ordinary soul, was finally cast aside? No. The avengers had been good to you, kind; they made you feel at home. He was your home. You shift your weight onto your cane for a moment before taking a few steps back and nodding mutely.
Steve steps his way through the door, shoulders slightly hunched because the ceiling is lower than usual and there’s just too much of him. On a good day, you could laugh at this fact, but right now, you can barely feel anything at all. Gesturing towards the couch in offering, you use your cane to maneuver towards the small kitchen. There’s vodka stashed in the back of the your cabinet for special occasions.
This…. is one of those occasions.
Steve is uncharacteristically quiet as he waits for you and you decide to face this with a clear conscious and sobriety. With a quiet sigh, you brace yourself and turn back to hobble into the living room empty handed. Steve glances up at you and smiles small, guilty as charged.
“What did you have to tell me?”
He started quietly, and as you listen, you realize that things are never truly as they seem.