A Bond Can be Broken II
"Who knew the Winter Soldier would have such a little thing as his Bonded? There’s no way he’d want a weak little bottom feeding human,” The large male towering over you spat out with a slow smile working its way onto his chapped lips. You try to move your arms, but they are securely chained to the stone wall behind you and no matter how much you snap your jaw at the hands trying to touch your face, you can’t break free. It’s dark, dank, with shadows playing amongst themselves and another pair of feet moving about a few feet back, towards where you assume the door is.
“She’s pretty, ain’t she? You wonder what he’d do to get her back..” The second voice, deeper, more menacing, laughed out with a sadistic chuckle as a lock clicked into place. You blink rapidly past the pain between your brows where your head connected with the cement when you were forcefully taken, and try to press closer to the wall, legs clamping shut and curling up against you. Terror thunders through your blood, makes your panic tangible as if someone could cut through it with a blade, and every impulse is twisting its way down the bond, reaching Bucky with every passing second. But despite your fear, the only thing you want is to protect your mark. There is a nagging feeling, deep in the back of your mind, that is warning you that something terrible will happen to it if you don’t fight, if you don’t try and be brave.
“Oh, he’ll come. And then Zemo will take care of the rest. But in the meantime, how about we keep this little lady company, Rumlow?” The idea of being trapped in this darkness makes you scramble to break free, tugging and pulling as much as your weak limbs will allow. The man further back, Rumlow, stalked forward and you could hear the decisive crack of knuckles before a hand curls into the hair around your crown and tugged your head back, a low whimper escaping your raw throat as your skull slammed against the stone. Heat and pain quickly boiled long the wound as your hair grew wet with each passing second. You suck in a breath and refuse to let the tears in your eyes show. You are not weak, not weak enough to succumb to their heinous ways.
“Oh, she’s got a little fight in her, eh?” Another chuckle. Another slam of your head, harsher, quicker, stunning you as your shoulders slumped and you bit at your lower lip to keep from crying out. It only makes the pair more angry, more volatile, and they go about punishing you for not playing into their hands. You’re slapped until your cheek grows numb, choked until the darkness grows dimmer with bright popping stars invading your vision and only released to take in a heavy gust of air through your rattled bones.
You aren’t sure how long the torture lasts, sometimes you dream of it on the coldest of nights when the snow has covered up the world again, smearing out any tracks and steps that may have been left behind. In your dreams, the torture is in infinite loops, the attacks, the remarks, the same two voices and faces that brought you an inescapable pain to your chest and leg.
Your leg had been the worst of it.
It had been a month (you only found out after being rescued, the pair had kept you hidden in one of Zemo’s special labs; you were ‘lucky,’ Zemo had seen your perseverance as strength and would have used the powers of the scepter on you to turn you into a monster in just a few more days.) full of wishing to see the sunshine again, smelling in the rancidness of your own piss and dirty clothes, hair matted with dry and wet blood, arms bruised and weakened from Rumlow and another man as well as from the shackles, but the one thing they had yet to do was attack your legs. You kept them safely curled under you or crossed tightly while you took a beating, sending out as many panicked messages over the bond that you could with your limited strength. One day, Rumlow came in alone, drunk and maniacal as he stared at you through dazed eyes. You repressed the memory, but it still slips back to haunt you here and there, just when you tried to finally make peace. But Rumlow had no backup, just himself. You rose to watch him warily, staring through a black eye and bruised up face and taking note that he was alone. It made you unsettled and afraid because together, Rumlow and the other had been brutal, but the other had always called Rumlow off from almost killing you multiple times.
But now that it was just the two of you, you were beginning to tremble, shockwaves hurting your bruised up back even more. You watch him in the darkness, watch his feral smile as he reaches down to unbuckle his belt- no. No. He wouldn’t- No- those weren’t his orders- he- you start to take in shaky breaths as you watch him loom forward, pressing back into the wall as if you could sink into it and escape from the other side.
“Pretty little thing. Zemo wants your b-bond gone so I’m gonna do it. No worries, you’re going to like it, I promise.” He hiccups and trips up slightly on his way over to you and you turn your head away before sucking in a gush to calm yourself. He’s drunk, but still bigger, stronger, and you may be weak and small and bloodied up, but there was no way in hell you were going to let him near you, let him replace the bond that you have. Consummation with someone else has the highest potential of breaking a current bond, whether the person cheating intended on replacing the bond with a new one. To be bonded to Rumlow? You would rather die now. The second he’s close enough, he reaches down and quickly grapples onto one of your legs harshly, tugging it out from under you, but without missing a beat, you kick out with your free leg and land a blow to his jaw, making him hiss and back off. He rubs at his jaw and smiles before diving back in, attempting to crush your spazzing figure against the wall.
“You don’t want me? That’s too bad.” It’s the last thing he says before he pulls back a fist and swings it at you, your reflexes fast enough to miss the brunt of it against your face. It still hits your head and sends it pummeling into the wall, stunning you. Rumlow seizes the opportunity, reaching for your torn jeans and tugging them hard enough to pop the button right off. You ignore the stars sparkling in your vision and hiss at him, kicking again and again while trying to wiggle away from him, but he’s too strong, too much of everything. He manages to rip your pants down your bruised up legs, leaving you clad in your panties.
“Oh, that’s where it is?” No. He must have spotted your mark, stark against your skin. Shaking your head, you try to close your legs, weak tears brimming in your eyes once again and threatening to spill over. Your mark means- meant everything to you. It was the single most important thing in your life next to Bucky himself, and knowing that your mark was in danger made you terrified, angry, volatile with spitting anger and biting violence. Rumlow pulls back suddenly and stands, teetering for a moment before stalking out of the room while you try to regroup and reach your ruined pants with your toes. Your big and ring toe manage to get a sliver of the fabric and you began to tug just as Rumlow returned with something in his hand. He shut the door again and that familiar click brought back your anxiety. You abandoned your mission for the pants and instead, curled your legs up behind you.
“I’m getting rid of your bond, one way or another.” The flicker of the lighter surprises you, it’s the most light you’ve seen in what feels like a century, barely lighting up the room but giving you enough sight to see Rumlow’s face more clearly. He’s tall, brawny, reminding you of Bucky in a way only by his mere size, “Do you like fire?” It’s a playful question, and Rumlow waits for the realization to hit you before he steps closer, closer, enough for you to smell his musk again. There is nothing you can do as he comes closer, hunching and squatting lower to pull your leg out from under you again. The lighter keeps going, coming closer, closer, before your piercing scream rattles the air the moment the flame touches your skin, your mark, your soul, and burns up everything. It only took Rumlow five minutes to irreparably damage your mark, but he spent ten in the dungeon burning your hopes and dreams as well.
Bucky and the avengers find you in the next hours, find the broken shell Rumlow and by extension, Zemo, had left you, a special gift to the Winter Soldier.
Your mouth curled down into an unhappy grimace as you hobbled around your small apartment, cane long since forgotten against the couch as your thoughts twisted in endless loops. You had been pacing back and forth in the same direct line in front of your couch for the past few hours, still trying to work out how you had gotten to this time and place. Why did it seem that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t escape the past you abandoned? And even more so, how did James ‘Bucky’ Buchanan Barnes manage to invade your space, even here, where you had welcomed the cold, numbing snow with a heavy heart? It didn’t make logical sense- as a writer, it was hard not to view the various plots this could go after everything Steve told you.
But why should it matter? Why did this new development have to change anything you’ve done up to this point? It didn’t change the fact that Bucky abandoned you; he left you the moment you became a liability and damaged goods. There was no goodbye. One day he was present and the next, you could feel the emptiness so palpable in the air that it left you suffocating off of nothing but guilt and regret. Steve tried to quell your quiet sorrow, to be there for you in the waking moments of your nightmares that ate up the rest of you, to the crippling depression and the physical cripple that you had become. You were lesser, smaller than you once were, and sometimes you didn’t know who you were. Those were the darkest times, right after your bond snapped right in two and Bucky vanished.
Finally, with a weakened sigh and a twinge in your leg, you hobbled over to your couch and moved your cane aside to take a seat, resting back against the old material with a sigh that drags out all of the air and leaves you boneless. Your manuscript would not be getting any attention, you knew that much, which meant you needed to message your publisher, Amelie, that it would just have to wait no matter how many tacky emails and texts and voicemails she left for you to find. In fact, as a writer, there were too many words flying in your head, none of them pertaining to the unfinished book.
Replaced
Bucky
Asshole
Monster
Bonded
Mine
Missing
Empty-
The list goes on. It didn’t matter how extensive your vocabulary, you couldn’t find a word in any language to quite explain your feelings. Steve had opened up a floodgate of emotions that had been smothered out for months, the moment you made Maine your new home. You wanted to be angry at him for opening up old wounds, but you couldn’t, not at Steve, not at knowing what he was risking coming to find you and tell you in person all of the things Bucky was incapable of.
“He’s still carrying a torch for you, you know. That hasn’t changed, even now- even though-” You flinch at the way Steve has to take in a breath just to carry on, his guilt becoming more and more noticeable in the way he refuses to meet your eyes. He’s staring down at his hands, fiddling with his fingers, almost looking like a boy confessing to stealing a single cookie before dinner.
“He didn’t leave you because he didn’t want you anymore. Buck- he- he wasn’t right in the head after what they did to you, (y/n). You wouldn’t have recognized him if he had stayed; he was wild, crazy, he couldn’t function and being near you could have put you in more danger .”
Steve wouldn’t lie to you. That went against practically everything he stood for, what with the stars and stripes and shield of protection, but you didn’t know how to feel. Bucky didn’t try. He ran off to God knows where and left you a broken, empty, crushed mess of a human being. You were only human compared to his super soldier status, easily broken where he was strong and powerful, just a sad little smudge in his life.
“The first time he saw your mark after it happened, he locked himself up and cried for days, wouldn’t even let me help him, take care of him. Losing you to Zemo ate him up inside, ate up all the strength he built up because of you and he was scared being near him would get you killed next time- now, I know that doesn’t make what he did better. Everyone feels that way; it’s not right. You don’t belong here, (y/n). You may not be an avenger, but you’re one of us, always were. And we wanted to give you space to heal without us digging into your space or crowding you. Clint nearly blew up Bucky with an arrow and Tony’s- you should already know by now. But we- we miss you. All of us.”
The sentiment weakened your resolve somewhat, but you were still pissed and your ghost pains were coming back full force. Closing your eyes, you relax as much as the pain will allow, ignoring the moisture behind your eyes or the tear that trickles down your cheek, one, two, a flood.
“Why… would I ever go back?” You spat softly, the bite enough to make Steve’s face sink even further, “I can’t, Steve, you know that I can’t. Not with a mark like this… not when I am nothing.. Damaged goods aren’t worth the time or space. I appreciate you coming to see me… to tell me these things, but it doesn’t change the fact that our Bond is gone… and I wear this scar as proof of that. Rumlow didn’t just destroy my mark… pieces of me are still left down there in that dungeon, crying for someone who will never come…” You explain quietly, and you feel like your head's about to be slammed into a wall or someone is going to storm through the door and steal you away again, but this time, Bucky won’t need to rescue you, to try.
You hate the defeated look on Steve’s face, hate that you are the cause, but there is nothing else you can do or say. Steve sighs and before you can protest the closeness, his thick arms are draping around you and dragging you into a hug that you hate to need. You’d missed him too, missed how easy it was to be in his presence. He’d been one of your best friends at the tower, almost like a doting parent in the way he looked after you. He crushes you to his chest and drops a small kiss to the top of your head, against your curly locks. You feel your limbs lock up, not used to having people close due to your anxiety and PTSD but you force yourself to memorize the feel of him against you. It is not danger, not scary, only safety, and that helps you readily accept his hug. He lets go of you after a moment and stands from the chair slowly, shoulders hunched because he’s just too big.
“Just think about it, okay? We’d all be happy to see you home, (y/n).” You give a nod unconsciously and watch him leave, brain fuzzy with emotions you can’t place.
3 hours had passed since Steve asked you to think over his words and for the most part, they had yet to leave you no matter how much you attempted to empty your mind. It was unheard of, unfathomable, for someone to still be wanted with the remnants of a bond still on their flesh. Bonds naturally vanish when one Bonded dies, or if a bond is torn, but due to yours suffering physical damage, it was not possible to completely get rid of it. But you wanted it gone… maybe then the hurting would go away, maybe then you could let go of your anger and hurt and the missing that kills you in the middle of the night because your bed's too big without Bucky taking up almost of the space and pulling you against his chest. With the bond erased, maybe then you could think less of him and the happy memories that were so many and far in between from the bad. You’d been so in love, so invested. And all of that had left you as burned as the lighter when Bucky couldn’t touch you, wouldn’t, could only look at you with this face of horror. You had always assumed that it was because you were now too damaged, but Steve had brought reasonable doubt and reason now, suggesting that it was because he was guilty, angry, too dangerous to be near even you.
Ah, did it matter? Did it ? You were content enough here among the snow and evergreens with an apartment that had enough space to house your needs. The tower was always packed full of people during all hours, heros, heroines, and their Bonded all spending time together or doing something insane in Tony’s case. They were loud and you needed quiet to write (Tony did make you a soundproof space to remedy this situation, but that is besides the point). But they were family and they always cared for you, being the youngest of the Bonded and Avengers.
No. I’m staying . You think vehemently, reaching up to brush away your tears quickly.
A week passes, quiet, so quiet, and you finish your manuscript, mailing the thick stack of papers to your publisher with a renewed strength to you; running off of defiance and denial can do that to a person. Another week passes and your publisher calls you on a Thursday morning, screeching over the line over how smooth the book runs and a bunch of unintelligible words that you can’t understand because it is far too early and you are not mentally checked in. You grumble out a sound that sounds close to ‘thanks’ and curl up tighter under your thick covers, about to doze off as she continued speaking. She mentions something about ‘book tour’ and ‘so many cities blah blah yes blah money blah’ and you gave her an affirmative before hanging up and closing your eyes, delving back into the darkness that you welcome.
The following Friday is met with your room door swinging open and Amelie screeching at the top of her lungs. You’re sleeping, something you find yourself doing often because it stops you from having to think about anything and anyone and you are too tired to dream anymore. You pull a pillow over your head, but being used to your antics, Amelie is quick to tug the pillow away and force you out of bed gently, well aware of your background and hands you your cane to get around. You grumble out a few words that she actively ignores, making you wonder why exactly you keep her around.
“Up, up, no complaining. You’ve got a big day ahead of you, everything was put together so quickly because this book is going to shoot you right back up at the top and no one’s going to care about those shitty dystopian society books being pumped out right now. But we’re heading to New York in 2 hours, which means you have to be ready in one. The book tour starts with a live interview while everyone is already working on a few book covers to run by you before they do reformatting and make the book.” You weren’t listening for the most part.
“Did you just say New York? No. We can head back to Georgia or San Francisco or Chicago, or-”
“(y/n). This is huge. No! Bigger than huge. I don’t think you understand how much you need this, how important this is for your books. And you can’t let anyone take this away from you, not even yourself.” You shake your head and yawn, too tired to do much else but limp around your bedroom looking for a towel.
“(y/n), are you listening to me?”
“No.” You admit as you pulled a new towel from your dresser, “Not even a little.”
“Just go take a shower. We’re going. I’ve known you for a long time, remember? I know you. And I know what it’s like to be hit with something so horrible, so different, that it pulls you apart. Remy is my Bonded after all and you remember what that was like in the beginning. But the only person that can put you back together is you . Bonded or no Bonded. You have to keep on putting up a fight for yourself. So we’re going. And you’re going to be the witty, funny, rude person that I know is still deep inside there.” You pretend to be ignorant to her plea, nodding along to the pep talk because she is always like this, even when you are less willing to listen. You fidget past her and into the adjourning bathroom, closing the door behind you before she has the chance to follow.
The shower is on the hot side of scalding but you feel more awake afterwards, carefully tugging on your underwear after drying off your body. You don’t have time to look in the mirror right now and you don’t want to know what is hidden there in your eyes. You carefully tug on thick leg warmers that don’t irritate your skin as much and a knee length pencil skirt the color of blood. Wrapping the tower around your still drenched hair, you pull on a comfortable black, crewneck sweater, smiling small when you realize it’s one you pocketed from Steve a long time ago. It brings you comfort and strength in the same instance. You dry your hair in a flurry and tie it up in a semi-nice bun before tossing the towel in the hamper and reaching for your cane leaning against the sink. Amelie is already swiping clothes from your closet and dresser, and you let her, because she’s faster and moving with a purpose. Before long, she zips up your suitcase and takes it in hand, holding the door for you to wobble out as you get used to the feeling in your legs. You still hate using your cane in public, and seeing as you were being forced into the public eye, you were going to have to build up some tolerance with the cane beforehand to help you manage.
“So it’s New York for 2 days, then we head down to Georgia, your favorite, and then to Florida before heading up to Cleveland and Michigan. That will end your eastern tour and your western tour will pick up once the book has been finalized. Got it?”
“Mhm.”
“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” Amelie whined softly, huffing and shuffling through the snow to pack your luggage into the backseat of her car. You take slow steps, soaking in the cold brushing against you and looking at the snow in all of its glory. It’s about to snow again, you can feel it in the ache in your leg, and you wish you could say goodbye to your little coven of deer, but it can’t wait. You’re really about to toss yourself right back into the lion’s den.
Then why does it feel a little good ?
The airport is rather empty, but you were happier for it, putting on some sunglasses and walking with an assured stride to offset the pain shooting up your leg. Amelie carries your cane and bag, because well, she was the one forcing you into this in the first place. You both are ushered onto a private flight that takes off in less than ten minutes. You may have lived a life in Maine, but it didn’t take away from the fact that your books had made you millions and being the frugal girl that you are, you rarely touched it at all. Your publishing agent and friend sits across from you, staring at you while you stare out your window, silent and brooding.
“Can you at least try to smile… you haven’t been home in a long time, (y/n). Your mother misses you. Your father does too. And all of them.” You purposely tug your lips lower, a childish thing you haven’t done in a long time. In fact, after Steve’s visit, you’d been talking more, even if being rude is considered better than silence. You’d been feeling more too, maybe a bit of hope was still left deep in your chest, under the terror, and past your torn soul.
“Mom came to visit a month ago. And Steve-”
“Steve Rogers? Wait, Steve came to visit? What did he say? Are you and Bu-” You cut her off before she can finish.
“No. But Steve thought differently. He said that everyone misses me, him especially. And the only reason I’m going back is for the interview and then it’s off to Georgia, right? I don’t want to be there any longer than I have to.” You explain, still staring out the window at the passing clouds.
“Have it your way.” She said with a shrug of your shoulders, catching your attention instantly. She never gave up when she felt she could make a point about something, especially something as delicate as this. You should have realized she had something up her sleeve, but you had been so deep in your sadness that you couldn’t pick up on it. But you would once it was too little too late. The flight is quiet, save for the sound of the wings of the jet brushing through the air. And the flight itself isn’t the longest, only 3 hours of thinking and planning and regretting.
The moment you land, you’re being ushered off of the plane because the schedule is tight and you aren’t allowed to check into your hotel until after the first mid-afternoon televised interview of the day. You don’t miss this part of fame, being tugged back and forth between interviews and photo ops and forcing a smile you’ve lost. But Amelie is dead set on making this book rise above the last because you deserve something, anything, to call your own. You worked hard on the book, through the long nights of restlessness, depression, therapy sessions you eventually quit, and harboring your limp. You deserved for everyone to know of your accomplishment and how proud you were for finishing your sequel to a book many had positive feelings about if all of the fanmail accounted for it.
You don’t miss the traffic either, and how your personal driver is cussing out the taxi in front of you and screeching at the person next to you who tried to push over into your already full lane. It’s a disaster and a half and it’s only the beginning. You had grown used to your silence, your trees and snow, the deer that quietly poked out around your home. This was the complete opposite and you began to stew in the back seat like a toddler as the drive dragged on and on. Finally, you reached the appropriate studio in Time Square, and with some prodding, Amelie was able to force a smile out of you as you were ushered into the studio entrance, a male in all black clothes and glasses coming forward. Your bodyguard, apparently, to make sure nothing would happen at the studio or during the live recording. Amelie had mentioned that it was live, but not that it was going to be in front of a studio audience as well.
Not your forte .
You follow your bodyguard with Amelie by your side, staring at you carefully and trying not to smile so hard. She was happy for you, for this chance, and even if you were being a downer, she was going to make the best of this and all of the surprises it would bring.
You pass through a door that led into the studio, the curtain and dimmed lights full of cameras, chairs, a makeup desk, and people all over. The host is friendly, and nice, but you shrink back a little when he touches you and your bodyguard reminds him that close contact isn’t preferred. He apologizes, and guides you over to the makeup chair with no further contact, where a female artist is ready with foundation and a flat iron. Outside of your obvious discomfort, you can admit that it is nice to be doted on like this again, your eyes fluttering closed as you let the artist do whatever she pleases. It’s not long before she’s finished, fixing your bun high on your head, and lightly helping you from your seat and over to the dressing rack for a new outfit. It’s comfortable- a soft, black peplum dress with a plunging neck and a silver necklace to match the silver slippers.
Once you’ve been fitted with a mic and led out onto the platform and given a seat in the most comfortable chair you’ve ever felt, it hits you. You’re back in New York, on a book tour for a book you’d thrown yourself into the hide from your terrors. It is not commendable, it is cowardly; you’re still afraid of things that go bump in the night, of lighters and people that smoke, and brawny men that remind you of Rumlow. You’re scared of New York and of knowing that you alienated those close to you for your own coping benefit.
“Take it easy,” Amelie whispers through the mic, sensing your distress, “Smile. Be the amazing person I know you are. And if you need inspiration, look out into the audience.” You return the advice with a subtle nod, taking a deep breath and glancing at the packed studio audience full of eager faces. You graze over each person, male, female, child, Tony in a ridiculously expensive suit, some guy, girl, older lady, Natasha with her hair as stunningly red as always with Clint beside her, the pair holding hands- Your eyes widen a fraction and you almost choke on air. Steve smiles and raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck nervously, averting his eyes when you catch sight of him in the center of the audience, Wanda and Vision a couple seats back and Gambit sitting next to an already dozing Alex and his Bonded. There were more X-Men towards the back of the aisles, with more Avengers sitting towards the front. You could see all of their Bondeds, a lot of them having gone to the same high school as you. God, you knew so many extraordinary people, and they had all come just to see you? The little human with a scar bigger than herself? It was unfathomable.
The lights grow brighter and you turn your head away from the audience and over to the host sitting down with a few cards in his hand. He smiles over at you and gives you a few comforting words.
“If you feel that we need to take a break for anything at all, just make a fist and I’ll call it. I’m really excited to be working with you, Miss (y/l/n). The moment I heard you were doing a book tour and stopping here, I requested to be the first to interview you. So sit back, relax, and be yourself.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it so much and I’ll do my best not to be boring.” You smile small, you’re trying, and when the director began to count down, you left caution to the wind. A tune plays out and you keep your eyes on the host, trying not to pay too much attention to the eyes staring a hole into the side of your face. This isn’t your first live interview, it’s just been a long while since your last one.
“Welcome to today’s show! I’ve got a real treat for us today, ladies and gentlemen, coming out with a brand new sequel to her last book, “Finding a Needle in a Haystack,” let’s give a warm welcome to (y/f/n) (y/,/n)!” The crowd erupts with cheering and clapping and obnoxious hollering that could only come from your friends. Friends . People that loved and supported you despite what you did, despite knowing they didn’t have to love you anymore. You speak once they all quiet down, the small smile on your face growing.
“Thank you so much for having me. It’s been a long while since I’ve been on TV so this is quite a lot to take in. I didn’t think so many people would be here!” The host chuckles good naturedly as the camera off to the side pans in on how full the audience is, with not a empty seat in sight.
“The second I broadcasted this interview, people were lined out the door! They’re all excited to be seeing another book from you after your last book was a massive success. But let’s dig into this! What can we expect from this next book?” You let the question settle in your core, working an answer over your tongue before clasping your hands together.
“It’s… going to be a lot different. Between this book and the last, I had a lot of things happen. And because of those things, my perspective changed and that definitely reflects in this book. The main character takes on a darker personality along with the original struggles with her own identity to herself and how that identity is seen by others. And even though the book is a lot deeper, it helped me through a difficult time and I hope that it reflects in every page. I really did write my heart out.” You explain, a soft smile unfurling as you gave a small nod.
“Hm, a darker tone? Very interesting! Without giving it away, can you tell us some of the main symbols of the book? Does Constantine stay with Marceline?”
“I can tell you that Constantine and Marceline are still the main focus of this sequel, and they have so much more to uncover about each other. As for staying together? I can’t tell you! But some symbols are loss, discovery, having to put yourself first, different ways of coping before coming to terms with a situation, and acceptance. It was so freeing and I think everyone will appreciate how grounding this book is compared to it’s predecessor.” In a lot of ways, your heart was in that book, dripping into every word and page number, every adjective and sentence and it bled through to the spine, to corner of every page. That book held everything you felt dealing with Bucky and your torn bond.
“That’s absolutely beautiful, (y/n). Everybody, please be on the lookout for this upcoming book! When do you think it’ll be gracing the stores from coast to coast?”
“With the way my publisher pushed me to be here and pushed for the book publication, it’ll go through a bit of editing and all that, but it should be ready in about a month or two. I’ll even get you a personal copy if you want?” You offer, the words rolling off of your tongue like handspun gold. You were feeling more sure of yourself as the interview progressed and the audience was a foundation instead of pinning you with nerves. Sometimes you could catch Tony making faces to distract you out of the corner of your eye, or Steve having to tell him to cut it out. The host was amazing, whenever a question stumped you, he’d make it easier to answer or rephrase, and there were a few games you took part in the keep things interesting.
“Now, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but could you tell us why exactly you disappeared? There was a lot of speculation that you were writing in Berlin or somewhere in England?” You saw the question coming, had imagined answering it with biting volatility and anger, but now? Parts of the truth seemed like a better answer. There was only so much someone could hide before it ate up all the good parts of them.
“I assure you neither are true. I moved away, farther north because snow always made me happy and I just needed to get away and find myself again, you know? It was kept quiet, but- I think everyone, everyone that has ever believed in me, deserves to know why I just took myself out of the public eye and people’s lives. Picture the most painful thing in the world happening to you and not knowing how to talk about it. My-” You lick over your glossed lips lightly, feeling the scope of the room close to resemble a penny. Now that the moment for you to speak your mind is finally here, it actually kind of fucking hurts. There’s a punch to your chest and you clear your throat.
“My Bond mark was hurt. No one ever talks about it because they think that it won’t happen to them, that it’ll never happen, but it can and it does. And it’s scary and painful and you just have no idea how to cope with that kind of damage. I’d like to think I’ve come a long way from being the angry, scared girl that I was after it happened, that I’m a lot stronger now, but it’s a slow process that I have to take day by day. That’s why I had to take myself away as my way of coping. It was hard trying to pick up pieces of something that didn’t fit together anymore. But I’m here, and doing so much better so I don’t want anyone to worry.” I don’t want him to worry . The thought shocks you because you’d never cared about Bucky’s feelings before. You blamed him for everything, for not fighting for you, for not picking you back up after you were broken into miniscule pieces. But you don’t want him to worry about you…
The host seems so invested, so enthralled, that by the time you finish speaking, he has to reach up and brush at his eyes.
“Oh God, you’re going to make me ruin my foundation, (y/n). Thank you so much for sharing that with me and the world. Bond damage is always someone's worst fear, but there should be a better promotion for coping with it in the event that it does happen. What you went through was a horrible situation, but look at you know, you’re vibrant, isn’t she, guys?”
And somewhere between the cheering and screeching and clapping, you kind of felt a glimmer of something you hadn’t felt since the dungeon, happiness.
.x.
“Hey, I’m sorry he asked you about why you left. I specifically told the director to take that question out,” Amelie murmured softly after the interview wrapped up, taking you into her arms the moment you shed the mic.
“It’s okay… God, I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but thank you, Ami. Thank you. You’re the reason they were out there in the crowd, weren’t you? I should’ve known you’d do something like this… Having all of you here made me able to talk about it. I should’ve known that moving away from it all wouldn’t help if I didn’t have people to stand by me.”
“Is this the part where I can say I told you so?” Amelie supplied with a small squeeze, drawing away to look at you, “And I wanted to. They deserved to be here too. They may not have lost something as important as you did… but then again, they lost you . You are important to all of them. And (y/n). You’re still important to Bucky too. Even now. I know you don’t want to hear this. I know I can’t make you talk to him or see him, but God if you could just take one look at him then you’d know! When your bond tore, he lost it too. He lost you . And your name is still right there on him. And that has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?” Bond tattoos are odd, but a tattoo still being present means that in some way, shape or form, there was still a connection somehow . No one told you that he had kept your mark instead of getting rid of it. You had assumed, again, and made a mistake because of your anger. The evidence was starting to build up, thicken, become more than you could logically argue against. Steve had said that Bucky still felt the same, still wanted you despite the bond being destroyed at the hands of Zemo and Rumlow, and Amelie said the mark was still there, your name scrawled out across his chest in thin strokes, as timid as you used to be and still are. And well- you weren’t sure that seeing him was a good idea at all. This was new territory and it felt like you were moments from sinking right into quicksand.
“I- I don’t know, Ami… I don’t know.” You let your arms dropped to your sides, “Besides, didn’t you say there was another interview in a couple hours? We should focus on that right now. I want to check into the hotel and shower.”
“(y/n).” You turn away at her disapproving tone, ignoring the twinge in your thigh as you straightened your back and began to make your way towards your bodyguard standing towards the stage exit. The moment he caught sight of you, he pushed himself out of his seat and waited for you and Amelie to pass before following after you at a safe distance. Your friend sighs, knowing just how stubborn you can be.
“You can nap for two hours, then we have to be back at Madison Square for the next interview. I told all of the others that they can meet us tomorrow to talk to you. And no, you aren’t backing out.” Silent, you curl your arms around yourself and duck your head down once the sun presses against your figure after you exit the studio. Your inconspicuous car is parked nearby and the three of you hustle over to it, you carefully slipping into the back seat. Your thigh had been more sensitive since arriving in New York and it was beginning to become more of a nuisance. Every breath brought a new ache with it, and the more irritated the patchy skin felt, the more you felt like scratching at it. But you refused to touch it, or even look at it. The fact that it was there, that the memories would never ever fade completely and the tethers of your broken bond sometimes ripped at your insides on colder days was enough of a reminder.
But damn, despite the circumstances, you breathed easy in the back seat, taking in the smell of hotdogs and the sound of honking horns, yelling, and road rage. It was different from your serene quiet in Maine, surrounded by neverending evergreens. You fell into a kind of daze along the way to the hotel, readjusting your ears and eyes to the busy, boisterous streets around you. Had it really been so much time since New York had called out to you? Was it really that long ago you were shopping with Jean and Natasha? That Steve had taken you out for ice cream after a particularly long strip of writer’s block? Tony continuing to ask for a 5 page dedication? You close your eyes and rest back against the comfortable leather, the sun streaming in through the open window to warm your hollow cheeks. Maine had left you thin, smaller, less present, almost like a ghost drifting through day after day. New York had fed you well, or was it Bu-
Bucky.
“Darlin’, I’m not lettin’ ya outta here ‘til you eat somethin’. Steve said you barely had dinner last night and that’s not alright.” Bucky’s disapproving tone makes your cheeks puff up in defiance and you crossed your arms over your stomach, childishly turning your head away.
“I’m not hungry, that’s all.” You grumble out, eyeing the only exit behind him. Even if the walkway from the kitchen into the living room was expansive, with his quick reflexes, there was no way Bucky would let you get away without lifting you up like you weighed nothing. Clint stared at the spectacle over the top of the couch as he carefully cleaned a titanium arrow, being more nosey than ever. You shift from foot to foot, ignoring the sensation of Bucky through the bond as much as you can or else he’ll overwhelm you and you’ll give in like you always do. Bucky takes a step closer and you instinctively take two steps back, fighting the smile threatening to curl along your lips.
“Babydoll, don’t .” He can tell just by looking at your stance that you’re going to run for it which meant not eating. You glance at him under the cover of your long lashes, mischief in your gaze before you bolt to the left, ducking out of the reach of his mechanical arm the moment he tries to grab for you. You manage to make it past him for less than a minute before he’s scooping you up in his arms. You let out a squeal that devolves into giggles, wiggling despite his iron tight grip. He gives you a squeeze, small, gentle, never wanting to hurt you. Hunching slightly, he presses his head against yours, the smile on his face reminding you of a picture you had seen of him from a long time ago.
“Why don’t you ever listen t’me?” He murmured, trying to sound exasperated. You see through it- or rather, you can feel every sensation just from his touch alone. God, you could feel your cheeks flushing just from everything he doesn’t say. He never had to.
“Because then you’ll get a big head. Steve says it’s almost as big as your ego-” You tease, and Bucky scoffs, squishing you against him and walking over to the counter top.
“I gotta stop taking so many missions. I never thought Steve would be such a bad influence.” He sets you down against the counter, his hands drifting down to cup your sides. You peer up at him, into those blue eyes that often remind you of the sparkling ocean, and smile.
“He’s not! He’s a perfectly good influence. The absolute best. Oh, the stories he’s told me about your shenanigans are priceless,” You grin before reaching up to fiddle with a few locks of his hair free from his messy bun, “But, I wouldn’t be opposed to you being here more… I just know you. I know it makes you feel better to out there helping because of everything that happened. And sometimes I miss you so badly that it hurts. And I worry about you all the time, even if you can handle it. Even if I know you’ll come back to me. I don’t like mentioning it because then you’ll get your panties in a twist and be all moody.” You finish with a little tug to his hair, nibbling at your lower lip as you watch his expression shift . Sadness . Resignation. Guilt . Moody . Definitely moody.
“I’m not moody..” He murmured, brows scrunching up in that cute way, “And I’ll tell Fury I’m takin’ a break. It’ll be just me n’ you. No Steve. I’m startin’ to get jealous.” You blinked in surprise, pushing up to peck at the tip of his nose, laughing when his entire face scrunched up in response.
“Don’t be a brat, Buck. I love you. I mean, I love Steve too-” He glared down at you in an attempt to be menacing and you stifled a laugh, “I love Clint! (Clint returned the affection, also ignoring the glare aimed his way) And I love Tony! And Thor, too! Bruce is my sunshine. Sam and Scott give me butterflies.” Squeezing your sides in warning, Bucky squinted at you.
“How’d you feel if I said I still carried a torch for Tasha?”
“Two things. First, you’re a horrible liar. I mean, the worst. And second, you’d be out of our room and this tower by morning. Only one of us can love Tasha, and it’s me.” Bucky sputters at the declaration and tickled you to near death for it before finally getting you to eat, as long as he fed it to you. Clint shakes his head and laughs quietly, checking over his inventory as his own bond marked gave a soft hum. His Bonded was away visiting her family’s magically imbued compound.
“Those crazy kids were made for each other. ”
“(y/n)? (y/n), wake up, sleepyhead.” Amelie’s voice blooms in your subconscious and helps you wake up, murmuring unintelligibly as your eyes flutter open. Amelie smiles down at you and outstretches a hand to help you out of the car. Your thigh is burning, or is it more of a heat? You stretch a bit, but the heat pulsating in your thigh is a constant. Amelie carries your cane and takes your hand while your bodyguard has all of the bags in tow, heading into a side entrance to avoid any paparazzi or other famous people. You hobble over to the elevator with Amelie’s help and step inside, sighing as the button for floor 8 was pushed. The ascent up to the 8th floor was slow and you were still filled with sleep from the car ride, and the strange warmth where your tattered soul-bonding tattoo lays. The little ding of the elevator makes you jump and blink rapidly, taking Amelie’s hand to lead you out. Your room is conveniently located a couple doors down from the elevator, and one of the more expansive rooms with two beds in a wide space, a big screen HD television, a walk in closet, and a bathroom the size of your entire home in Maine. After Amelie left you to your own devices, you promptly curled back up on top of the covers like a tired out feline, your eyes fluttering closed as the heat against your mark intensified. It doesn’t hurt, in fact, it’s almost soothing in a way that you’re too tired to try and understand. You didn’t want to see another doctor. They would just try to poke and prod at you even more and remind you of everything that happened. It wasn’t worth the shame and ridicule. Maybe everyone else in the world that saw your interview would be more sympathetic instead of feeling only pity for someone like you and your situation. You fell into a sleep filled with cloudy dreams and memories that liked to squish and mix and confuse your body because it remembers things that you want to forget. It remembers what it feels like to be in Bucky’s embrace, to be able to cling onto him as he runs around the tower, being a complete nuisance. It remembers his soft touches, his hard ones that you like and beg for, every little kiss against your body and mark.
“Are you sure, (y/n)? I don’t want to lose control and hurt you.”
“But you won’t.”
“But-”
“Or are you chicken?” You raise your arm up, elbow against the table, poised for the challenge of taking Bucky down in an arm wrestle.
He let you win, of course.
“You know, I didn’t think I deserved your name for a long time, even before bein’ frozen. And it was crazy to me to think there would ever really be someone I could love, like with everythin’ I got, and be loved like that the same way. And yeah, it’s been a real shitshow for a long time, but I got you out of it and… seems pretty damn fair t’me.”
You grumble out nonsense in your sleep, the itchiness almost unbearable at this point. You reach down, bending your leg enough for you to reach at a perfect angle, and scratched at your mark, the skin peeling away like a weak scab, flaking away under your scratching. Your mind snaps to attention, eyes opening wide as you take in a gasping breath and physically lurch. Raising your hand up quickly, you see the pieces of dead skin under your fingernails, body trembling when you see what looks like writing on it. No- That had never happened before. You fight back the trembling and breathe in slowly through your nose to keep your mind clear. Had it really been a scab this entire time- but- no. The skin had been patchy and discolored, but not a scab. Never a scab. But if it was peeling away… would there be nothing underneath or something else entirely? Shaken, afraid, you sit up and spread your legs, turning them outward and peeking at them. Your ruined tattoo now lay in literal pieces, the scabbing easy to pull away from your skin without any pain at all. Leaning lower, you stare at your thigh, realizing that in the places where you had managed to scratch off much of the old tattoo, that there was something underneath it, something new. Would it be a new name? Or some type of bond expansion? A bond expansion is not widely studied because it is an even rarer anomaly than a stinted bond is. It is when a tattoo, for some reason or other, literally expands in the form of another type of tattoo. It could be a tattoo in the form of a symbol that appears on both parties, or it could be more writing near the original soul-bonding tattoo or even scattered over the body. One study has been show where a bond expansion not only extended the bond, but added on a completely new bond with a second person. Lowering your hand to the patches, you carefully scratch at them, ignoring the dead skin piling up, more entranced by the fact that your bond was truly going to be gone now and whatever was underneath might make it better or worse. Scratching at the edge, more dead skin chips away enough for your to see color, red and black, ending in a point. Scratching more, the skin tears away to reveal a red star- next to-
⭐ Bucky
Bucky. Once you finished clearing away the dead skin and patches, the name Bucky and a red star with a black outline lay against your renewed skin. And you were thrown for a loop because it could only mean one thing. That despite your bond being broken, for some strange reason, the universe decided it wasn’t finished with you or Bucky just yet. And it made sense, didn’t it? You’d been distraught and denying every single thing he ever did for you. But he was always there in the back of your mind, and according to Steve and Amelie, he still had your mark, still had some semblance of a connection to you despite the bond tearing up. And as twisted as it was, he wasn’t James anymore. James had died a long time ago, hadn’t he? He’d been killed by Zemo’s father the moment he was taken away and programmed to be a monster. And Bucky had taken his place in this life, a life he could finally call his own. And he- he was the person you’d met, loved, still loved even right now through the pain and twisted pride. And the star. Of course. It was the Russian red star engraved on his metal arm, a part of his past, a part of his present because the memories were still there shrouded under good deeds. And now the universe felt that red star was a part of you, too.
Well, shit .
You sit there with grimy fingers, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. It hasn’t hit you just yet, but you feel like you’re freefalling into the abyss and no one is there to catch you. This is too much, too soon. You had so much going on. You were finally back in the public eye, finally able to admit what happened to you to the world without caring how much their judgments truly meant to you. You were back in the city that gave and stole from you, in the same place the man of your dreams and nightmares still resides. Maybe it was just a sick twisted joke? Maybe you were still dreaming and you’d wake up in fifteen minutes to see the same disgusting dead skin and torn tattoo that had been staring you in the face for months, almost a year.
The moment you let out a sound, you’re sobbing into your hands, curled up tightly into yourself as heat tickles at every inch of your body. You can’t be alone right now. You need someone to hold you, to keep you upright before you finally broke apart for good. Sucking in a shaky breath, you reach for your phone and cuss under your breath at how many times you had to try and unlock it because of your shaking figure. When you finally manage it, you go for the first number that punches at your chest, voice shaking over the line the moment he answers. Tony had managed to teach him the value of a phone in your absence.
“C-Can you please come? I- I r-really need you.” He sounds alert, even if his voice is filled to the brim with the weight of a world and sleep deprivation. The fact that Steve was willing to come to your aid at a random hour in the afternoon with no preamble just proved how much he cared about you and even more so, Bucky. And it’s amazing that even after cutting him off with the others, he’d still be there for you. He talks you down from the impending panic attack clutching at your throat and promises to be there as fast as possible when you blubber out your hotel followed by a bunch of apologies and more sobbing. It’s not pretty, you sound wrecked and broken like a child crying over a broken toy or lost doll. But Steve would know what to do, he always knew what to do.
Steve had no idea what to do. The second he was off the phone with (y/n), Bucky was close to pummeling the information out of him after he refused to share. Maybe he had (y/n) ESPN (Tony taught him that, his Bonded called him old man for finally getting sports lingo. Tony was a bad influence on her and she was a worse influence on him) or something because he bounded through the captain’s door with that manic look on his face. It was close to the same expression he had when (y/n) was taken from him while he was on a high profile mission. It was close to the face he wore when (y/n) was found in the compound, bloody, bruised, destroyed. Maybe Steve is weak (his Bonded pretty much runs the tower at this point, he can’t lie about that or the fact that she’s so cute and small that he’s powerless against it), but the moment he saw that expression, he raised up his hands in surrender.
“If I take you with me, Buck, you have to promise to stay out of the room until I talk to her, alright? She’s had a rough time already and seeing you might make her close up.” Bucky is the second best at making Steve Rogers feel like shit. Maybe it’s because they’re brothers in every way or the fact that they were childhood friends brought back together despite being frozen and used and tested on. Or maybe it was the fact that he had to watch Bucky revert into a depressed shadow the second his Bond was destroyed.
“I swea’ I’ll stay out. I just- I gotta see her, not through a TV screen. I gotta see her forreal, Steve. I can feel her again. And that’s gotta mean maybe she can feel me too, right?” It was a possibility Steve was willing to take. He’d do just about anything to see them together again; they’d both been through enough already.
“Alright. Let’s go. Stay out or else I’ll tell her about your night in Normandy.”
“You wouldn’ dare.”
Yes. Yes, he would .
Dressed in street wear complete with baseball caps and dark shades, the pair took one of Tony’s more low key cars out into the city (it was not low key at all considering it’s Tony), making careful turns and going slightly way over the speed limit. The closer they got to (y/n)’s hotel, the stronger Bucky felt a pull at his expanded bond tattoo. The red star had stained his skin the day (y/n) left and he could hardly bear the sight of it, but if it would lead him to her now? He’d call it a blessing, a sign, whatever the fuck it might be. He’d trust it to get her back, if she could even stand to see him for longer than two minutes. (y/n) was adamant when she didn’t want to do things, if she didn’t want him to be there, wanted him to vanish, he’d go no matter how much it killed him to.
“Do you think… she might take me back?” He asked in the tense silence, watching all of Steve’s ticks. His hands tighten on the steering wheel and his jaw clenches up on the right side. He’s pained. Steve doesn’t want to hurt Bucky, but he also didn’t want to put (y/n) in the position to be hurt as well. This was a slippery slope and he wasn’t sure he could make the right call for either of them.
“Buck.. I don’t know, honest. I don’t. I’ll see if she’ll talk to you and you better fix it or else I won’t stop Tony from turning you into a robot.” Bucky can’t make a comment, staring off through his window at the city wide awake in the afternoon. His chest tightens as he thinks of the possibility of you finally telling him that he was too late, that they could never have a second chance. He would ask to be frozen again because living with the pain of knowing he failed her would be too much and he is, still, a coward.
They drive in silence, one trying to search himself for any ounce of redemption he could possibly deserve and the other trying to keep a grasp of his family, to keep it intact before he lost everything he loves all over again. Steve pulls into the parking lot of the hotel and takes in a deep breath, meeting eyes with Bucky for a moment before they both slip out of the sleek car and shut the doors. Steve remembers the hotel room number and slipping his hands into his pockets, he glances everywhere, always aware of his surroundings, and leads Bucky for the side entrance into the building. He has a feeling he’s been there before, probably for one of Tony’s big, fancy galas to garner more money and attention. After having grown used to the modern times and city life, Steve was a lot more comfortable going out on his own without the rest of the team worrying about him getting lost. Pushing at the arrow pointing up on the elevator, Steve glanced over at his best friend. Bucky’s face was pallid and anxious, skin so fragile that the blue of his eyes show stark against the backdrop of his face. How long had it been since he’d smiled, Steve wondered as they stood on opposite sides of the elevator, thoughts far and in between. Pushing off of the glass wall once the elevator gave a resounding bell, Steve and Bucky stepped off and ex-Winter Soldier followed after his best friend, stopping rather quickly.
“Stay put.” Steve murmured, walking over to the door and giving three short knocks before opening it and slipping inside. Bucky only gets a glimpse of her, of the girl he loves curled up with tears soaking her sheets. And it only took that one glimpse to set his tattoo on fire.
Your tattoo twinges and burns as the door opens up a fraction and Steve is entering, worry practically pouring from his pores. You push yourself up on trembling arms, hiccuping loudly and reach up with one arm to try and wipe some of the wetness from your face. The moment Steve was off the phone, without the sound of his familiar voice, you found yourself sobbing once more, crying into your pillow. You feel so twisted- confused- ashamed? Everything was starting to look more and more like you were the reason for so much heartache. Bucky didn’t come after you, but you ran away . You didn’t wait for him to come back, you’d given up so soon, so dejected that the idea that he could still want you was simply preposterous. Steve slowly walks over to you, first reaching out a hand to carefully pet your head. He strokes through your (h/c) locks slowly, soothingly, watching your vitals before deeming it alright to sit down on the edge of the bed. You scoot closer, hiccuping and lowering your head, ashamed. Steve’s Bonded was so lucky and so was he; she was strong, powerful, could contribute. You had always been so basic, so human, the thought of Bucky being alright with just you had also seemed unlikely. Maybe you had always doubted the relationship would last to begin with…
“Want to tell me what happened?” Steve whispered quietly, fingers continuously brushing your hair back. You close your eyes, think past the burning in your thigh, and breathe in deeply.
“I- I guess m-maybe the w-world thought that I should s-still be with Bucky… even if I w-wanted to disagree..” You explain, curling your untouched leg under you and stretching the other out enough for Steve to see the curve of the new, thick “B” coupled with the Russian star against your inner thigh. His hand stops moving, you notice, but picks back up after a moment.
“W-When?”
“I-I’d felt strange e-ever since coming back, m-my mark felt itchy and b-bad. When I m-made it to the hotel, I fell asleep b-but the moment I scratched at it, it started to peel. I t-thought I was d-dying, Steve… like a-all of my memories with him s-suddenly didn’t matter because h-he would never be a part o-o-of me again. But right u-under it… was this. I didn’t k-know who else to call… I’m s-sorry.” You hated dragging Steve into your mess, but you didn’t know what else you could do. As much as you loved Amelie and the others, they wouldn’t be able to understand at all.
“Don’t apologize. If I could do anything, you know I would… I hate to see you like this, (y/n). And to know even a fraction of the pain you went through from that interview… but I can’t make a decision for you. That’s something you have to come up with for yourself. Even if your old bond is gone, you’ve been given a second chance at happiness. Now, I may not know much about bonds, but I know second chances, no doubt about that. And you deserve to be happy. I know you’ve always felt a little left out just because you’re not a mutant or an Avenger, but you are one of us. You have a special power too. You create worlds no one else can. You give out pieces of yourself in the things that you write and every person who knows you can’t help but want to take care of you, and I don’t mean that in a bad way. You’re strong, (y/n). No one else would’ve survived what you went through, and I know it hurt, I know… and it’ll take a long time for that hurt to go away, but when you push Bucky and the rest of us away, you stop letting us support you and some of that weight on your shoulders.” He sounds like he’s talking to a child, and compared to the rest of them, you still had a long way to go.
“M’ sorry, Cap. M’ sorry. I- I w-want to s-say sorry to him too…” Steve lightly pats your head, glancing at the door.
“You sure? I mean this when I say please don’t cry or go into a fit, but he’s outside right now. Say the word and I’ll let him in or tell him to go. He kind of forced his way into the visit.” He confessed, smiling small when you glance up at him, wet eyes wide. You could almost picture Bucky being his big, bullying self to Steve, trying to push him around and Steve being too nice to do anything about it. Sighing, you lean into your dear friend’s hand. You didn’t have enough energy for another fit.
“Let him i-in. And thanks, Cap.” Steve raises his hand and nods, pushing himself off the bed and heading for the door, giving one last look back.
“Just don’t kill him.”
Ten minutes had past since Steve left Bucky in his place, and neither of you had spoken a word. He stayed back by the door, fingers hiding deep in the pockets of his sleeveless jacket, trying to keep his gaze from meeting yours. Your throat had clenched up the moment he stepped in the door and your tattoo had given a similar response, flaring up with a sensation closer to pain than before. He’s still fit, tall and hulking, like Steve, but where Steve gives you a homely vibe, Bucky is more threatening. But even you can see through the cracks in his impenetrable armor. His broad shoulders are too tense, jaw wired shut, anxiety making him bite his lower lip as his eyes, so much paler than you remember, glare down at his feet. He’s decked out in all black, sweats and that sleeveless jacket that’s too distracting. He probably did it on purpose .
“You-”
“I-”
You both stop, words dying on two pairs of lips. Why was this so hard? Seeing him again like this, so soon, made you feel… nervous? Anxious? Is that the reason every fraction of your face feels warm and there are knots in your stomach? You know you look like a mess, hair messy, cheeks splotchy and wet from tears, puffed up along with your big, red rimmed eyes. You watch Bucky take in a breath before sighing, the sound echoing.
“I”m sorry’, (y/n). I’m sorry for everythin’ that happened. For- For leavin’ when you needed me most. I was- no, I’ma coward. Seein’ what that monster did to you… I couldn’ stop searching for him. And when I finally did.. When I got my hands on him… it wasn’ enough. I felt dirty… like the monster I tried my bes’ not to be. When you left me, I didn’ go afta you because I though’ I was bein’ selfish. You deserved better than me, (y/n). You always did. The further away you got, the less I could feel you an’ it… it fuckin’ ate me up and spat me out. But I shoulda ran after you then before it was too late. I’m sorry… but I had to see you… had to. You’re still perfect t’me, jus’ like the first day I saw you.” And doesn’t that just make your stomach quake. You wrap your arms around your shaking stomach.
“I never thought that you could love me, or r-rather, that I could ever match up to your feelings.. No matter how many times others tried to reassure me, I was sure that you would get tired of me. I’m nothing special. I’m not. I’m nothing but a fragile human that you could break in an instant. And a-after what Zemo did… I hated you,” You confessed, voice quivering but barely retaining a stutter. “I hated everything about you, every memory. I wanted to die- I felt that maybe it happened because you didn’t want me anymore, maybe the universe had made a mistake and it was a way of fixing it. When you didn’t come after me, I hated you even more. You said you’d never leave me, but when I needed you the most, you were gone… I thought maybe your mark would fade or that you had gotten it removed, I thought you were happy.” You had taken to looking at your lap, a slither of the mark peeping out, unaware of the irritation growing worse on Bucky’s face.
“Up north, it was cold, just like how I was feeling. I tried to blame everything on you, but that was wrong and unfair.. And I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m sorry that I couldn’t have faith in you, that I tried to put distance between us without waiting for you to come back for us to talk. I was broken, I still am… but as stubborn as I am, I still- I’m still-” You can’t finish, but you don’t have to. Bucky’s staring when you finally find the will to meet his gaze, starstruck in your chest like the first time with your mark throbbing faster and faster. Can he feel it? Does he know that deep down, you’d missed him and those incredible eyes?
“So you still… want me?” He sounds so hopeful that it glues together one of hundreds of cracked up pieces clinging to you. You give a slow nod before shyly staring down at your lap. It had been a long time since you’d felt shy about anything, since your stomach was twisting up in more and more knots without you being able to do a thing about it. And somewhere in there, you can feel lighter, already. You hold your hands out to him, legs uncurling from beneath you and spreading to show off your new tattoo. It takes him less than a second for him to first make out the dazzling red star, eyes brimming with tears as he closes the distance in a few strides.
“No touching,” You murmur when his fingers twitch near your thigh, quickly changing course to curl around your torso instead. You’d make him suffer, a little longer, just for your pleasure. He deserved that much. Steve may know a lot about Bucky, but you were sure that you were the only one allowed the luxury of seeing Bucky crying, clutching at you like a puppy who couldn’t bear to see his owner leave for work. You lightly run your fingers down the expanse of his back with as much movement as you are able, murmuring for him to stop crying or else you wouldn’t let him stay or hold you. It seemed to work, the large male sniffling and wiping at his face roughly.
He hadn’t changed. He was still a bossy, oversized baby.
But he was yours.
Bonds can be broken. But bonds can also be forged.
(You never did make it to that second interview. Steve and Amelie took care of it).