Only For A Moment

Chapter 16

For hours you sit like that, your legs going numb, but you can’t be bothered to care. The only thing that matters to you, in this moment is holding on to him, stroking his thick long hair, rubbing your hands along his back, rocking him a little. There are no words. Some hurts can’t be encapsulated in syllables.

When his sobs slow a bit you coax him to lay down, his head on your chest and you hold him so tight. Using your power to tuck you both in and flip off all the lights save for the bathroom giving the space a warm glow. Within minutes you’re both out cold.

Sometime before morning a soft sound wakes you. Bucky is on his back, right arm tucked under his head, left hand splayed across his chest. He’s snoring, gently but audibly. You can’t help but stare at him. He looks peaceful, every muscle relaxed, and you think, This is the man from before, this is Bucky Barnes. They tried so hard but they couldn’t kill him. And if they couldn’t kill him after all this time… How can I let them kill me?

You slide up to his right side, lay your head on his chest, so slowly not wanting to wake him but you need to be close to him again. You cover his left hand with your right. Still softly snoring, very much asleep, his body responds. His right arm moves from under his head and wraps around you, left-hand slips from beneath yours and wraps around it, holding it over the steady beat of his heart. For a moment you revel in this feeling, something you thought you’d lost… and drift back to sleep.

The newspaper covering the windows makes the morning light hazy. You’re still laying on his chest, his arm holding you close, right hand encased in his gentle metal grip. He’s awake, his thumb is rubbing circles on your hand and his right is tenderly rubbing the flesh of your side. But you don’t move, don’t want to break this spell cast by the simple magic of touching another human.

He plants a kiss on the top of your head and happy tears prick, for just an instant, at your closed eyes. “I know you’re awake,” he coos. You shake your head, turning your face down into the hair on his chest breathing deep. His right-hand leaves your side and cups the back of your head, holding you to him and he places his nose to your short cropped hair. “Thank you,” he whispers against your skull.

You lace your fingers through his, amazed how the metal moves so fluidly, and look up at him. His hand runs down your back and you shudder. Quickly he relocates to your side and you give him a soft smile, “You can touch me there, it’s ok, I… want…” To be seen? To be known? Understood? There’s not a word that fits but suddenly you want him to touch it, to see this part of you that you hate so very much. Even without the words he understands and lightly runs his fingers along the thick crisscrossing scars that cover your back from shoulder blades to hips.

While you may want this you hate it, all the same, this physical manifestation of the two worst phases of your life. You try to hide your face in his chest but he lifts your chin with his left hand and kisses you deeply. He rises up, lifting you alongside. You both are on your knees, he rests his hands on your shoulders. “Can I?” and you nod.

He moves behind you and your arms cover your exposed chest. Metal and flesh run along the outer edges of the scars. You shudder violently and he pulls your back against his chest, “I’ll stop if you want,” his arms around your torso, chin resting on your left shoulder.

“No,” you rub your face against his rough stubble. “I don’t know.”

“That’s ok.” His right arm leaves your torso and wraps around to your left shoulder as if he’s worried you’re going to shatter. “It’s something you survived. Just another way they tried to break you and failed.” You want to tell him it wasn’t just them but can’t. He lightly kisses your shoulder, “That’s part of your strength.” You grip his forearms and shake your head, unable to keep the smile at bay.

“We need coffee,” he plants a kiss on your left cheek and hops up. He doesn’t head for the kitchen but instead walks to the closet. He fishes out a thick cable knit cardigan with buttons down the front in a warm brown and a midnight blue sweatshirt, “Preference?”

“Sweater,” you say gesturing to the cardigan.

He unbuttons it, “May I?” holding it open. You nod and laugh a little, it’s such an old-fashioned gesture but endearing. You stand, moving off the bed and he slips your arms through the soft warm sleeves. You button it up to just below your collar bones. The sleeves come to the tips of your fingers and you can’t help but hold them to your nose. “Do you like smelling sweaters as much as you like smelling books?” He asks as he slips the sweatshirt over his maddeningly ripped torso.

You shrug, “When they smell good.”

“What does it smell like?” He cocks an eyebrow.

“You.”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly and reaches out his left hand, metal glinting in the soft light. You take it and he pulls you into a tight embrace. You lift your face to him and he thankfully takes the bait and kisses you, slow and soft, his left hand stroking the scar on your right cheek.

Pulling back he takes a shaky breath, “Coffee.”

“God yes.”

He turns to the kitchen and you follow suit hopping on the counter next to the stove and take a deep breath. “Your breathing sounds a lot better,” he says over his shoulder while filling the coffee maker with water.

You rub your chest, only a little sore, “Yeah. How’d you know to do that anyway?”

He switches the pot on and leans against the fridge and looks down at his hands. “Steve…” He pauses and you let him take his time as the smell of coffee fills the space. “He always had problems breathing.” He crosses his arms and looks at the ceiling, eyes glassy, “His mom was a nurse and showed me how when I was, 12 I think because he’d had a bad attack while he was at my house and I didn’t know how to help him.”

“Did you write that down?” You want to be sure he remembers.

He laughs a bit and takes a step toward you. He strokes your cheek, “I did. It was something I remembered a while ago. Thank you for asking.” He leans down to kiss you again, your heart flutters, he stops, “Tell me if you don’t… if this is too…”

You pull him to you and kiss him hard your tongue gently finding it’s way past his lips, suddenly wanting to taste him. He groans a little, crushing you tight. The both of you seem to know when to stop and rest your foreheads together, eyes intent.

“This,” you say running your fingers through his hair, “is… phenomenal.” You kiss the place between his brows that always creases in worry or thought, “And unexpected.” You kiss the tip of his nose, “And something I didn’t know I needed.”

He smiles that dazzling smile and kisses your forehead, breathing deep. “Good.” Looking back into your eyes he’s stern, “Even so, all you have to do is tell me to stop and I will. No questions asked.”

You brush the hair away from his eyes, “The same goes for you. Just tell me if it’s too much.” He looks somewhat surprised like he didn’t expect to have the same courtesy directed toward him. Quickly he pecks your cheek and turns around grabbing your mugs.

Chapter 17

You clink your mugs, a toast to the little things that are so easy to take for granted. 

How many mornings had you rushed out, chosen to work late instead of having dinner? How many little moments missed because you thought you all had so much time together to come? He’s leaned against the counter and you lay your head against his shoulder sighing.

Lifting your hand you beckon your bag from the thrift store to you, it’s lighter than you expect and moves with a soft swoosh. “Amazing,” he whispers.

You shrug. “It’s always seemed so simple to me, as easy as walking,” you snort, “easier. My mom said I was moving things before I could even walk.” You decide to not mention that was the first time she called a priest. 

Setting your mug down you reach into the bag, wanting to inspect the items before washing them. Instead of finding the men’s clothing and sci-fi novel you expected you find a book of Romanian poetry and… a long black maxi dress.

“Oh,” Bucky reaches for the bag, “I think that one’s mine.”

“I see that.” You hold the bag away as the dress snakes out, dangling on an invisible hanger. “While I deeply approve of your style choices, I don’t know if this is quite your fit,” you tease.

You swear he’s blushing and you almost can’t keep yourself from smooshing his face. “But it will fit you…” He’s standing by the fridge running his left hand through his hair. “I… You looked like you liked it at the store.” He finally looks at you and sees that you’re beaming. “You do like it?”

Hopping down you catch the dress before it hits the floor. “I love it. Thank you!” You toss your arms around him. “I’ll wash it with the rest of my stuff today,” you hold it up, looking to see if there’s a care tag.

He clears his throat, rubs the stubble on his jaw, “Um, so, does that mean you’re planning on going out…”

You shoot him a sideways glance, “Yeeeah. Unless you’ve got a washing machine hiding somewhere.”

“Definitely not,” he looks so uncomfortable and you can’t imagine why. “So you’re planning on,” he gestures to his chest.

“Likely so… why?”

“It’s just… I know it’s not my place…”

“What? Just say it.”

“Maybe you should give your lungs a break,” he meets your eyes, concern evident.

You shrug, “I’ll be fine,” he clenches his jaw and you can tell he wants to disagree, “or just layer up, it’s just to the laundry.”

“Or I could take care of it.”

“You want to do my laundry?”

“No one wants to do laundry. But I’ve got some to do too… It’s not a big deal.”

There is absolutely no version of you, past or present that is ok with this. It’s somehow strangely intimate, How is this worse than last night. Sobbing. Topless. Fine. Doing my laundry? Too much. But… He looks so willing, so concerned. “If I say no you’re going to argue with me aren’t you.”

“Absolutely,” he smirks.

“Uggggggh!” You toss the dress to him, “Why do you have to be so goddamn nice it makes it so fucking hard to say no.” You throw your hands up and go to your coffee. He’s snickering.

“You really are shit at accepting help.”

“Yep.” You top off your mug and hop back onto the counter. He grabs his mug and downs the remnants.

“Well I’ll go ahead and take care of this,” and he heads for your bag, “I’m assuming what’s in here and in your thrift store bag?”

“Dude!” You blurt. He stares at you quizzically.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘dude’ in my life.”

You get off the counter and saunter over, “Happy to be the first. But I’m letting you do my laundry at least let me get it together.”

He laughs and plops onto the couch hands up, “If it makes you happy go for it.” You nod curtly and gather your laundry, including the new tees and boxers, in your duffel, removing your few toiletries, busted phone and charger, and clean underwear. 

You tuck a few Leu in to pay for it. “You know that’s not necessary,” he says and you glare, “Ok, ok.” You drop the duffel next to him, “Stubborn.”

“I’d say independent is a better word.”

“Nah,” he pulls you on top of him so you’re straddling him, “Stubborn.” He begins to undo your belt and you grab his hand.

“Bucky… I…”

He kisses the tip of your nose, “I just wanna wash my jeans, doll,” his smile is sweet and you feel a blush rise. He chuckles and rests his forehead against yours, for a few moments you both just sit there enjoying the feel of one another.

You take a deep breath and stand to undo the buckle fully and slipping out of the loaner jeans. “Thanks for letting me borrow your clothes.” He takes them from you and stuffs them in the bag.

“Thanks for letting me help you,” he says and heads for the closet pulling out a laundry bag.

“Ugh, that makes it worse,” you say as you head back to the kitchen for your coffee.

He shakes his head, “Ridiculous,” he says under his breath with a smile. You look at him as he bends over slipping into his boots. When he stands your eyes meet and for just a moment you can’t breathe.

He walks back to the kitchen and grabs an apple from a bowl by the sink, “There’s fruit and cereal in that cabinet,” he gestures to the left of the sink. Taking a long stride he’s beside you and lifts your chin gently, “Promise me you’ll eat while I’m out.” You smirk.

“Scouts honor.” He places a kiss on your forehead and lingers for a moment before walking away.

“Just make yourself at home,” he grabs the bags, “Which I’m sure won’t be a problem since you were here for what, an hour before stealing my clothes?” You use your ability to fling the book of Romanian poems from the counter at him. With a zinging of metal, he grabs it. “Thanks!” He winks, Smug adorable fuck. “I’ll be back.”

“Be safe,” you say with a serious tone and you share a long, knowing look both knowing how quickly things can change.

“I will. Promise.” With that, he’s out.

The silence is… uncomfortable. You down your tepid coffee and pour another cup. Taking a gulp ok with the too hot sting, the little nip of pain reassuring in its own way. You lean back against the small fridge and try to asses the last 48 hours.

How in the hell had you gone from tying him to a wall to letting him do your laundry in such a short amount of time? Were you really so desperate?

That wasn’t it and you knew it. If you dug a little deeper you had to admit from the moment you saw him you had doubts that he was there to hurt you. A part of you had known that the core of this man was the one who’d tried to help you escape not the Soldier. Now, you knew it in your bones. Beyond that he understood. Your journeys had undoubtedly been different and his painfully long but there was a simple, silent, understanding between you. And while you’d wish this nightmare on no one it was nice to know you weren’t alone.

Chapter 18

You eat an apple from the bowl of fruit but can’t really bring yourself to ingest anything else. You’d been alone for months and been fine yet now… the silence felt oppressive, unnerving. Slowly you make a round of the apartment, studying everything, sipping on another cup.

His makeshift bookshelves of cinderblocks and scrap wood oddly cute. The curbside furniture and hodgepodge assortment of kitchen goods he collected show someone, trying, really trying, to build a life.

Suddenly you’re ashamed. How much more had he endured and yet here he was living, or trying to. More than that he was helping you learn how to live too… trying to lift you up beside him for no other reason than that he was a good man…

You plop on the couch feeling like a complete piece of shit. From between the cushions, his book of E. E. Cummings poetry peeks up. For a second you think you shouldn’t open it, that maybe it will be private but your curiosity is stronger than your sense of honor.

This isn’t like the other books which have been annotated and marked like a student furiously researching for their dissertation. He’s underlined some lines, circled others. Snippets that reveal bits of him to you in the way only poetry can:

“The peaceful terrors of
the
snow,
and before your dead face
which sleeps,a dream shall pass)”

“and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we’ll dance and sing
“Noel Noel””

“but i have seen
death’s clever enormous voice”

“in the mirror
i see a frail
man
dreaming
dreams
dreams in the mirror”

“delirious, indivisible
grace
of dancing”

“he is called death.”

You slam the book closed after your eyes see that final line circled in red pen so hard the page has torn a bit.

The guilt is fucking palatable. You hate that you invaded his privacy but…

You begin to pace. Did he remember Christmases with his family… That bit had a neat little box around it. Dancing. Did he like to dance… Did he see himself as frail… Then there were all the mentions of death. It made sense… Peaceful terrors of the snow. A chill snakes it’s way up your spine. The Winter Soldier.

Nope. This is doing absolutely nothing for you. Your feet have aimlessly taken you to the cramped kitchen. Suddenly you desperately want to cook. When you’d had a particularly shit day you’d always cook an extravagant meal, invite everyone over, send them home full with lunch for the next day and satisfied smiles on their faces.

The fridge is sparse save for some half and half, milk, a couple of eggs, and your leftovers from the night before. The cabinet reveals cornflakes and a small bag of sugar. You smile remembering he bought that just because he wasn’t sure how you took your coffee.

Cooking was out.

Under the sink, there are basic cleaning supplies. A small, previously unexplored, closet near the front door gives up a mop and broom and in his closet, there’s a small battery operated AM/FM radio.

Perfect.

When Bucky walks in two hours later he’s faced with the full force of a classic anxiety fueled Y/N cleaning spree.

You had organized the kitchen, cleaned the inside of the refrigerator, dusted, swept mopped, organized, opened the balcony door to let in fresh air, and now you were cleaning the bathroom in one of his white sleeveless undershirts and your boxer briefs.

Static laced notes of Foreigner’s Hotblooded fill the small space from the little radio that was, seemingly of its own accord, floating about seeking the best angle to catch the random classic rock station you had found.

The door slams, you jump, freezing mid air-guitar. “It’s just me,” he bellows over the music. Immediately your hackles lower. Peeking around the corner you see him wave his hand around the floating radio fascinated.

“No strings attached,” you shout.

“What’re you listening to?” He asks, his tone jovial.

“You’re kidding?” You ask shocked before you grab your mic-stand-mop and begin mouthing along to the final chorus.

Well, I’m hot blooded, check it and see

I got a fever of a hundred and three

Come on baby, do you do more than dance?

I’m hot blooded, I’m hot blooded

He can’t help but laugh at your over exaggerated performance. You slowly sink to the ground, in full tired drunken rockstar style as the song fades out and the radio floats over to you so you can turn it down.

He’s clapping, wearing that incredible smile, as he looks down at your panting form on the floor. “Not bad for my first rock concert.”

You laugh, “Best one you’ll ever see.” He extends his right hand you take it and rise off the floor. “You really don’t know that song?” The question is out before you can stop it.

He gives you a half laugh as he grabs some grocery bags from by the front door, “I’ve, uh, missed a few decades.” When he turns back you’re worried he’ll be cloudy but he’s still smiling.

“Well, that’s not going to fly.” You lean on the bathroom door frame. “I will personally take on the task to begin your musical education Mr. Barnes.”

He drops the bags on the counter, “I’d like that,” his eyes meet yours and your heart skips a beat.

“I hope it’s ok I went a little clean crazy,” you walk to the kitchen, “it’s something I do… used to do when I’m… anxious,” an awkward laugh sneaks out.

“Why were you anxious?” He asks pulling assorted vegetables from the bags.

You chew on your bottom lip before shrugging, “When am I not anxious these days…” he looks at you for a second questioning, “I guess… after… not being… alo-“ He cuts you off pulling you into a tight embrace. Immediately you relax against him, breathing in his smell, not caring that you’re a mess from cleaning.

“I felt… off on my own too,” he sounds just as taken back by the feeling as you and you squeeze him tighter. You glance around him to the kitchen.

“So are you planning on making a feast?”

Releasing you he looks back and chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Well… Not sure,” he returns to the bags. “I’m not much of a cook but I figured with the basics I could… I don’t know… work something out.” Gesturing to a paper bag by the laundry, “I did get us some sandwiches for lunch, so at least if dinner’s a disaster we had one good meal.” That awkward laugh does you in, he’s trying so goddamn hard.

A laugh escapes you. “What’s so funny?”

“I just… really wanted to cook earlier and here you are like grocery Santa.”

“You like cooking?”

“Love it.”

“Have at it,” he makes a presenting gesture toward the counter. You smile and he watches as you take stock of what he bought. “What do you like to cook?”

“Honestly,” you pull a whole chicken out, “a little of everything.” Large onion, head of garlic, you’re putting the pieces together like a puzzle.

“Ok, well what’s your favorite thing to make?” He’s perched on the arm of the couch.

“That my friend is a loaded question.”

His eyes crinkle, “Are we friends?”

You hold his gaze, unable to contain your smile. “Yeah. I think we are… something like that…”

Chapter 19 

His initial question is lost for just a second in the silent static of your confirmation. Both of you like this idea, the thought of someone who’s more than just a stranger, but neither of you knows what to actually do with it.

“Good,” he says quietly, his eyes holding yours. “So…”

“Oh!” You know your cheeks are on fire and you’re more than a little annoyed at yourself. “Favorite… That’s so hard. I liked making things people think are complicated.” Your mouth begins to water at the thought, “French dishes like coq au vin and boeuf bourguignon, they’re really just stews but they never fail to impress. Um…  So much Italian. Fresh pasta is easy once you get the hang of it. Prime rib, it’s magic and all it takes is patience. Bread, macarons, any kind of cake. Oh god croissants…”

“Jesus,” he laughs. “You can really make all that?”

You shrug, “It’s… been a while…” Your hands begin to shake a little and you feel frozen, disconnected. It had been a long time…

Suddenly he’s behind you, so fast you hardly registered, arms wrapped tightly around your torso and it seems to bring you back into your body. “I’m sure it’s like riding a bike,” he says softly in your ear. You latch onto his arms and hold tight for a minute.

“Yeah,” your voice cracks just a bit. You give his arms a pat and he releases you. “You move fucking fast for an old man,” you say with a smirk.

“Heh,” he shrugs, leaning next to the sink, “yeah…” His eyes settle on the floor, “Tell me if I startle you…” You slide your hand into his metal palm and he takes it, not looking at you. “Sometimes it’s hard to gauge. It feels… natural to me so I don’t realize it’s not… normal.”

“Normal is a pretty low bar for me,” an onion does a dance in the air behind you and you give his hand a reassuring squeeze. He looks at you through those thick dark lashes flashing you a crooked smile.

Turning back to the stockpile of groceries you begin to calculate. No spices save for salt and pepper, you make a mental note to get some tomorrow. But there’s the onion, garlic, potatoes, carrots, zucchini, a couple of tomatoes, butter. Ok. You could work with his.

“How’s chicken vegetable soup sound?” Soup was always a great choice when you had random bits to work with.

His brows raise, “Great actually.”

“Let me clean up this mess,” you gesture to your barely clad self, “and I’ll start it, should be perfect by tonight.”

“You are not a mess,” he pulls you in and plants a soft kiss on your lips.

Patting his face you pull back, “You’re cute.” He smirks. “And very wrong.” Pulling away you head for your bag.

“Anything I can do to help?” He gestures to the groceries.

“Nope. I think you’ve done enough.” You flash him a smile before heading into the bathroom.

After a quick shower, you tuck your toiletries back into the side pocket of your duffel and go to pull out a pair of jeans when you stop. The black dress is folded on the top. You run your hands over it before letting it rise up.

It really was such a ‘you’ piece with its Stevie Nicks meets Morticia Adams vibe. In another life, you would have been dying to get home to show it off to Nix and Abby. You feel a lump rise in your throat and the lyrics to Rhiannon come to mind, echoing from one of your many evenings spent listening to old Fleetwood records with Nix on the roof drinking wine straight from the bottle.

You draw the garment to you and bury your face in the fabric. Closing your eyes tight against the memory.

You will not let them kill you, Y/N. Some part of you whispers. Drawing in a deep breath your resolve solidifies. You’d thought that same thing in the wee hours of the morning when you looked at Bucky. It was the best revenge against Hydra you were likely to get.

The dress slid on easily, cotton with a touch of spandex providing the right amount of stretch. It hugged you until just below your bust line where the skirt flowed to the floor, pooling a bit at your feet.

When you look in the small mirror you can only see to your waist but it still catches you. The deep V-neck exposing the set of your breasts, the sleeves tight on your muscular arms until the elbow where they flared out to a perfect boho bell sleeve. You hadn’t worn a dress, or something you actually liked, in so long.

For a moment you consider taking it off. It feels like too much suddenly like you can’t possibly do this, can’t handle the ghosts it summons in your heart. But no. You look at yourself in the mirror again. Breathe. And reclaim a lost piece of who you are.

Bucky is stretched out on the couch, legs dangling off the end, reading the book of Romanian poetry when you come out. His eyes lazily slide toward the bathroom door shooting open when he sees you. Sitting up he marks his place and a smile creeps onto his face.

“How’s it look?” You lift yourself a foot off the floor and spin making the skirt and sleeves flare. He’s by you in a flash, hands grasping your waist, your eyes level.

“Stunning,” he breathes. Your arms slide around his neck and you kiss him, reveling in this feeling of being present in a way you haven’t been in ages.

“Flatterer.” You float back from him and take one more spin before finding solid ground again. “I do like the witchy vibe. Very me.”

He laughs, “Oh?”

“Of course,” you walk toward the kitchen and lift yourself once more into the air arms spread, bell sleeves swinging. “I’m a woman who can move things with her mind. I’ve been called a witch or some variation my whole life. Eventually,” you spin, “I just embraced it.”

He laughs as you twirl your way into the kitchen. “Now excuse me, I need to work some magic.”

He settles back on the couch and you season the chicken, setting it to boil with some salt and pepper, basic but it would do with the garlic and onion later.

The afternoon is peaceful. You both eat the sandwiches he brought making small talk. You tell him how this one bodega near your last apartment had the best Ruben and he tells you about the first time he went to Coney Island. You’re fascinated by his descriptions of Brooklyn in the 20’s and 30’s, it was like a different world. But you don’t push him to divulge more than he’s comfortable.

You’re chopping vegetables. He’s reading more of the poetry book when you can’t help but ask, “Have you always liked poetry?”

He pauses, laying the book on his chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Yeah.” That far-off look, sad smile. “I used to read, well anything but mom loved poetry, to my mom and sisters. Especially when dad was gone… he’d fall off the grid for at least a week every few months…” His jaw flexes and you can hear the subtle sounds of the metal in his arm whirring.

“You had sisters?” You remember the Cummings piece about the Christmas tree. He looks at you his eyes so sweetly sad.

“Yeah… three.” He chews his bottom lip for a moment and looks back to the ceiling, “Rebecca, she was the oldest. Four years younger than me. Mary, she was seven years younger. Jo was eleven years younger than me.” He shakes his head, “I remember the day she was born so clearly.” His eyes shine with tears, fixed on his distant past, but he’s smiling as if he’d rather hurt and remember them than ever forget. Guilt rises in your chest for ever wanting to forget your loved ones.

A soft laugh escapes him, “She was so loud. Even when she got older I was more worried about her beating up the boys than the other way around.” He sighs, “Drove my mom crazy but I was always proud. Any time mom would get mad she’d run to mine and Steve’s place. We’d go get ice cream…” You can see it. Bucky as a big brother proud of this little girl’s scabby knuckles and big spirit.

“I’m,” he clears his throat, “I’m gonna to take a shower.” You stare at him as he stands and stretches. 

Obviously, your emotions are showing on your face because when he sees you he smiles and comes into the kitchen. Pulling you to him he kisses your forehead and you both stand for a moment entwined.

“I’m ok, doll,” he pauses. You surprisingly don’t hate when he calls you doll. Lifting your chin with his right hand he places a soft fleeting kiss on your lips. “Thank you for asking about them,” his smile is faint but his eyes are honest. You lift up on your toes and kiss his rough cheek and he turns for the bathroom.

Chapter 20

As he showers, you fall into the comforting rhythms of cooking. The onions sweat in butter with some salt. You break down the chicken, it was perfectly done, you remove the skin and crisp it in the pan with garlic for some extra flavor.

“Christ, that smells good,” he says the moment he comes out, toweling off his shaggy hair. You glance up at him, giving the onions a stir. His jeans are slung low over his hips, chest bare, hair damp. Your mouth waters, and it’s definitely not due to the onions.

“It’s just onions and butter,” you look back to your task not wanting to gape at him.

He opens the closet to pull out a shirt, “And? My skills pretty much begin and end with breakfast. I haven’t had a real home cooked meal in… Well, let’s just say too fucking long.” You smile to yourself, happy you can repay his kindness in this small way. “Sure I can’t help?” He asks as he perches on the arm of the couch.

“Yup,” you slide half of the tomatoes into the pan with the onions and add a touch more salt and small pinch of sugar. “You’ll be left with plenty of dishes to do later,” you gesture to the counter around the stove top.

“Worth it.” He switches to the couch and reaches under it.

“Oh!” You blurt, having forgotten about it earlier, “Your laptop is on the shelf,” your head nods to your left. “Sorry, I mopped and didn’t want to damage it.” He walks over and grabs it silently, “I didn’t look at it or anything.” You aren’t sure why you feel this need to reassure him that you didn’t invade his privacy. However, the guilt over the Cummings’ poetry book gives another pang.

He chuckles as he sets it on the table. “Wouldn’t have mattered,” as he opens it and you note it’s not password protected. You think about your phone, you’d hacked it to a military grade level just about, so this was surprising. Soft jazzy notes begin to spill from the speakers. “Just use it for music, watched some movies on it too.” He looks at you his features soft, “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” you say smiling.

“Coffee?”

“Always.” He starts a fresh pot as you slide the potatoes, onions, tomatoes, and garlic into the pot and cover it to cook. “This should be ready in a couple of hours.”

“Fantastic,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed and you turn to face him.

“What movies have you watched?”

The edges of his mouth tick up a touch and he looks away, “Just old stuff…”

You roll your eyes, “What kind of old stuff?”

“I can just show you,” he heads to the closet and pulls out a small box. Bringing it to the table he sets it down. DVDs are tucked neatly inside. You slide next to him and look in.

Your finger lights on Duck Soup and you smile remembering his story. “I never thought all this would be in circulation,” he says his voice soft. “But I went to a movie store not long after I got here and they had a section of classics,” he air quotes the word and laughs, “never thought some of these would be considered classic.”

A small gasp escapes when you see Jezebel, “You’re kidding!” You pull it out popping open the case just to be certain it’s actually in there. Bucky’s staring at you, eyebrow raised. “What?”

“I’m just surprised you know what that is.”

“You don’t know me very well so I feel obligated to tell you, you should never be surprised by my Bette Davis knowledge. I have, and I’m not exaggerating, seen every single one of her films.”

That smile lights up his face, “I knew I liked you!” He kisses you and you melt into him.

“Fellow fan?” You laugh pulling back.

“Oh yes. She was a dish. The dish.”

“I fully agree,” you look back into the box. “Gone With The Wind, Wizard of Oz… Frankenstein! King Kong!” He’s beaming at you. “No… No fucking way. Freaks!” You whip the case out of the box, your jaw slack. “Do you have any idea how much I fucking love this movie?!”

His laughter rings, “You look like a kid on Christmas.”

“I feel like one!”

“I was shocked that anyone even remembered it when I saw it at the shop.”

“What?!” You look at him appalled, “This is gold!”

“Well in 1932 people certainly didn’t think so.” He smiles, “I liked it but I was a teenage boy.”

“How old were you?”

“15.”

“I was 10.”

“TEN?” He shakes his head, “Rebecca, my sister, demanded to go with me and Steve even though we told her she was too young. She was 11 and absolutely terrified. I think we were able to scare her for at least two years with a well placed, ‘One of us!’”

You shrug, “I wasn’t even scared. But the standards of horror were very different in 1994 than 1932.”

He walks to the coffee pot and fills your mugs, “How’d you even see it?”

Handing you the steaming cup, “Thank you,” after a sip, you answer. “We were living in a shitty little town in East Texas, you pause. That’s where I grew up mostly, Texas.” You’d known people for years before and never told them that. His brows raise and you know what he’s thinking, “Get me drunk enough and you’ll hear it.”

“Noted,” he says with a chuckle.

“They had this crappy little movie theatre, only two screens. But they showed classic movies during the week for $1, different ones every week. I didn’t have anything to do, kept to myself a lot as a kid, so if I wasn’t at the library I was there. I’d just steal a few bucks from my mom or her boyfriend when they were passed out, enough to get me in.” You can still remember the smell of that place, stale with top notes of burned popcorn.

“For better or worse, we actually stayed in that town for a couple of years, got in a lot of old movies.” A sad smile curls your lips, “And when Nix and I lived together it was pretty common for us to go find the oldest and weirdest shit we could find to fill a weekend with movies.”

“That sounds like an excellent weekend.”

“They were.” You slug back the rest of your coffee and go to fill your mug as the distinct opening notes of Billie Holliday’s Summertime come from the laptop. You sway and softly sing along as you head back to the table to look at the rest of the movies he has.

His arms wrap around your waist, “Don’t tell me you like Billie too?”

You smile. “You may be surprised about the things from your era that I like. A lot of it stuck around actually.”

He pulls back and spins you to face him your coffee threatening to escape its confines, “How about dancing?” He’s practically glowing. You laugh.

“That’s a negative.”

“Come on,” he plucks the mug from your hands and sets it to the side, “You were floating around this apartment a bit ago and you want to tell me you can’t dance?”

You can’t help but laugh, “I’m pretty sure what I call dancing and what you call dancing are two very different things.”

“How so?” He tries to twirl you out and you stumble giggling.

“Well, yours has steps and shit whereas mine needs copious amounts of alcohol and a dark loud club.”

He looks at you, smile warm and inviting, and holds out his right hand. You slip yours into it. He’s always warm, his skin calloused but inviting. “I could teach you the steps and shit,” he pulls you close and looks down at you.

“That’s brave of you,” you wrap your arms around him. “But how about a movie instead?”

“Sure,” he plants a kiss on your forehead.

He pulls a dining chair in front of the couch and sets up the laptop while you give the soup a quick check. He plops onto the small couch, back leaned into the arm, right leg on the floor left stretched out. The other dining char begins to move toward the couch of its own volition as you head out of the kitchen.

“Come here,” he says softly and the chair freezes its trek. You look at him, his arms open face hosting a tender look and your stomach flutters. “If you want.”

Without hesitation, you settle your back against his chest head resting just under his chin. His arms wrap tightly around you and you use your power to hit the space bar.

Chapter 21 

You would like to say you paid full attention to Ms. Davis’ performance in Jezebel but that would be a lie. Nothing much happens but you keep feeling yourself distracted by his hands those strong fingers winding their way through your own, his steady breathing, his small reaction sounds. You wonder at how immovable he feels.

At one point you can’t keep from tilting your head back to see his face, relaxed and happy. When he notices the next five minutes are filled with him covering your face with kisses and your soft laughter.

You both hardly notice when the movie ends. You’re holding his left hand up in both of yours examining it while his right-hand traces circles on your abdomen. As you place a kiss on the metal of his palm he sighs in contentment.

“Can you… feel that?”

“Yeah,” he presses his palm against your right, “sort of. It’s as if… you know when a limb falls asleep and goes almost numb but you can still feel?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s kind of what it’s like.” He flexes his hand forming a fist and unfurling it, “Does it bother you?”

“Not at all,” you bring his hand back to your lips and kiss each fingertip, “it’s a part of you.” You look up and trace his jaw line with your index finger. “And I’m beginning to think I like all the parts of you.”

His face turns dark and he looks down at you, “You don’t know all the parts of me.”

Your hand presses into his cheek and your tone stern, “I meant what I said, Bucky.” For a second you think he will argue but instead he covers your right hand with his own and closes his eyes for a moment breathing deep.

He moves your hands from his face and looks at your own calloused palm. You notice his breath catch as his fingers slide down your forearm. They’re almost invisible, these old scars, but the skin was still raised a little. One thin line, three inches or so from the base of your wrist down.

“Got a matching set,” you say lightly holding up your left arm. His touch is feather light as it runs down the scars.

“When?”

“I was 14.”

His breath seems to rush out of him, “Christ, Y/N.”

You shrug, “Didn’t exactly have a positive childhood experience.” That’s a gross understatement but you’d rather not dive into that deep dark pool of memory. “I kind of forget about them, to be honest. Used to have them covered with tattoos.”

“Really?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“Yeah,” you run your hands down your arms. A bitter laugh tumbles out, “I was pretty covered overall. But…” Tattoos were recognizable. Tattoos made you an individual. In Hydra, you had no individuality, no choices.

Bucky runs his fingers over your scars and presses a kiss on your cheek, “What were they?”

You let your head roll back onto his shoulder and close your eyes trying to remember your body when it was only yours. “I had a pair of antique scissors on the right and a dress form on the left.” Sadness wraps around your heart, “I loved to make clothes.”  You sigh, “There were so many more. I started running out of real estate.” A laugh, “One of my favorites was on my left ass cheek.”

Bucky laughs, “Oh god!”

“It was a heart that said Not Your Baby inside.” You shake your head, “I got it on valentines day one year.”

“Just because?”

“Because men made me hate that word. It was all, ‘Hey baby. Nice ass baby. Why don’t you come over here baby,’ on the street. As if that was actually going to get them somewhere.”

He shakes his head, “On behalf of men I apologize.”

“You can actually answer a question I’ve always had.”

“Shoot.”

“Did guys do that… before… like when you were…” you fully regret this question.

But he just laughs, “Oh yes. We had other words than baby, but I regret to inform you that men have always been dogs.”

“Knew it.”

He laughs and twines his fingers with your own again and gives you a squeeze.”Do you think that soups ready?”

“Probably,” you untwine your hands, stand, and stretch. When you turn around he’s taking you in with a contented smile on his face. “Enjoying the view or something,” you playfully snipe.

He wraps an arm around you and pulls you down on top of him, “Something,” he purrs before kissing you hard and releasing you.

Dinner is pleasant. The soup is simple but still good and judging by the four servings Bucky has, and his endless compliments, he’s sold on the notion that you know what to do in the kitchen. He puts on more music before starting the dishes and you both sway as he washes and you dry.

As you dry the last bowl he comes behind you and wraps you in his arms, “Dance with me,” he says against your ear making chills run down your spine. The song that’s playing is slow but beautiful.

“Bucky,” you turn to face him, “I really don’t know how.”

“I said I’d teach you,” he steps back out of the kitchen to the small open area in front of the balcony door and extends his right hand. “Please?” His eyes twinkle and that goddamn smile…

“Fiiiine,” you take his hand, “but I take zero responsibility for any foot injuries.”

He laughs, “I can accept those terms.” He places your hands in the right position, “Just a waltz, it’s super easy.”

You laugh, “We’ll see.” He places your hand on his shoulder, “Who taught you to dance?”

“My mom. Follow me.”

You bungle your way through the song and he goes over to put a similar one on. Toes are stepped on, steps are missed, but you’re both laughing so much you can’t care.

“You keep trying to lead. Don’t think about it too much.”

“This whole ‘follow the man’ thing feels a bit patriarchal to me,” you say with a smirk.

“Once you learn how you can lead me all you want.”

Finally, after two more songs, you start to get the rhythm of it. “Minimal injury that time, I’m impressed,” he teases. You sock him on the shoulder playfully, he draws you closer and kisses you, “One more?” You nod and he steps away to change the song.

He takes your hand and you actually do it. The song ends and you throw your head back laughing, amazed that you just did a damn waltz. Bucky’s smile is big and heart-wrenchingly perfect. You float up a bit so your faces are level, wrap your arms around him, and kiss him.

His arms twine tightly around you as the next song starts. The kiss turns from sweet to something more demanding as your body begins to hum. You wrap your legs around him when his tongue finds its way between your lips. His left hand pressing into your lower back and right cupping the back of your head. You nip at his bottom lip and a rumble comes from his chest.

Bucky carries you to the bed, shutting the laptop as he passes. The room is silent save for your breathing. Slowly he sinks to his knees with you still wrapped around him. His hands run up your thighs gathering the folds of your already hiked up skirt, kisses pressing down your neck to the swell of your breasts. His eyes meet yours the question apparent when you nod he lifts the dress over your head.

He tosses it to the side and you lean back on your forearms. While you don’t feel particularly sexy in your boxer briefs this man looks at you like you’re Venus rising from the damn sea. It makes desire coil in the pit of you a feeling you hadn’t felt in so very long.

Tenderly he leans down to kiss you, left arm supporting him, stroking your cheek with his right hand. “Just tell me if you want me to stop.” You nod and his lips hungry catch your own again.

His right-hand leaves your face and wanders down to your left breast, cupping it in his large palm before catching your nipple and rolling its tender tip between his thumb and index finger. This alone sends electricity through your body and you press into him, a small moan slipping out. Falling back onto the pillows his lips wander down your neck once more sucking slightly at your pulse point, nibbling at your collarbones, sending shivers with every inch. When he takes your right nipple into his mouth pulling at it, his right hand still on your other breast, you cry out, hips rising, your right hand grabbing onto his shirt.

Those gorgeous eyes of his look up at you as he slides his right hand down your torso and slips his index finger under the band of your boxers. You gasp at the sensation. Releasing your nipple he moves down the bed and in a flash, he’s between your knees. His lips press against the inside of your left thigh then brush the scar from the tracker you dug out on your right. He runs his hands down your thighs, seeming to enjoy the feel of them and rests at your hip bones fingers slipping into the waistband of the boxers. For a second he doesn’t move further, waiting for you to signal it’s ok. You nod and he pulls them down leaving you fully exposed.

For a moment you just stare at one another. You become hyper-aware of your scars, of your body hair of every single imperfection. But then that immaculate smile blazes across his face.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he says as he leans over you to kiss your lips. And instead of doubt you actually allow yourself to believe him.  

Chapter 22

His lips trek paths down your body. The tip of his tongue traces the outline of your hip bones, your hips raise of their own accord, your body begging for what it needs. He runs his right hand down the inside of your left thigh to the dark hair between your legs and pauses, eyes glued he presses a kiss inside your right thigh.

“Yes,” you sigh and a grin comes to his beautiful face. Slowly his thumb circles just outside your clit and a tremor shakes your whole body. When he finally strokes it you cry out immediately back arching. You hadn’t… so long. It was like every sensation was a thousand times amplified.

Bucky moves his face from its spot against your thigh and places a kiss right above where his thumb rests before wrapping his right arm around your thigh and lowering his mouth to you. The tender stroke of his tongue feels like heaven and you tangle your fingers in his hair. A moan rising from the deepest parts of you. His hands reach for your breasts and the feeling of the metal on your skin is incredible and when he takes your nipple in his left hand your breath catches at the new sensation. He goes to move it away and you grab his wrist keeping him there.

Every movement of his tongue across your clit sets your nerve endings on fire. He sucks a bit at you and you feel the slightest trace of his teeth. Your breath is fast, ragged. You’re so close, every muscle tense, and suddenly…

“I can’t,” you pant, “Bucky I can’t.” Immediately he stops. His hands move away and he holds your gaze. Tears prick your eyes.

You want this. But… Everything they could use to break you they had and that included pleasure. How many times had you been held down, forced over and over again to come just so they could prove that they were in control of your body, not you. That this thing was theirs to manipulate and use as they saw fit. Sex could be a weapon… it was one Hydra was all too well versed in.

Even in all this time, you’d been out you hadn’t. Couldn’t bring yourself to. It was too close, too real, brought too many things to the surface.

“Do you want to?”

“Oh god yes,” your voice cracks.

“This is yours, Y/N, your choice, no one else’s.” You stare into his kind face and you ache all over. “This is yours,” he says again laying his hands on your abdomen. You cover them with your own locking your fingers together, letting your head fall back.

After a minute you reach down and run your fingers through his hair and look back at him. There’s no judgment there, just patience. You could say this was all over right now and he wouldn’t even bat a lash. He wasn’t them.

You want this. You need this. Bucky was right. This was yours and fuck them for trying to take it from you. Finally, you nod. He begins again gentle but steady. A flick of the tip of his tongue. The pulling of his fingers at your nipples. Within minutes you’re there again, so ready.

He pauses for a second, “Let go,” he whispers against you. A few more strokes and you’re over the edge. You pull at his hair back arched and a ragged cry rips through you. Everything is white for a fraction of a second. Your eyes are pressed closed, tears streaming out, and aftershocks cause you to whimper a little in pleasure.

Sliding up next to your left he presses a kiss to your damp cheek, his left hand turning your face to his own. “You ok, Doll?”

You kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips. “Yes. Fuck yes,” you say between breaths as you roll to face him. He holds your face to his, your kisses just as hungry as before and you run your hand under his shirt. Then down over his jeans where you can feel the swell of him and your hand squeezes a bit.

The swift sound of metal meets your ears before you feel his hand grab your wrist painfully tight. He pulls back his face hard and distant. Your blood, boiling lava a moment before, freezes in your veins. The person staring back at you isn’t the same as the one who called you doll not three minutes before.

Guilt bubbles up. You assumed since he was ok with this touch, but you didn’t ask. If his experiences were anything like your own…

“Bucky… I’m sorry, I-”

With blinding speed, he’s up and out the door. The slamming ringing in your ears.

For a few minutes, you feel paralyzed. Everything went from wonderful to horrible so fucking fast. You consider going after him. Wonder if he’s even himself. Wonder if you’ve opened Pandora’s box somehow.

When you finally feel able to move you decide to let him be. A shower. You needed a shower.

The steady stream of water calms your nerves but doesn’t truly lift the cloud of worry that hangs around you. When there’s a knock at the bathroom door you jump, your heart in your throat.

“It’s me,” Bucky’s voice calls from the other side.

You swallow hard, “Come in.” Peaking around the curtain you see his eyes are red-rimmed, his breath ragged. He approaches the shower eyes fixed on your own and tugs the shower curtain open a bit more. Pulling it back all the way you stand, water flowing down your body.

His right-hand traces down your face and neck, between your breasts. You shiver.

“I’m-” he presses a metal finger to your lips cutting your apology off. He pulls his tee shirt over his head, unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans. His eyes close for a moment. When they open and meet your own you smile, wanting him to know he’s safe with you.

Eventually, he slides down his jeans and boxers, steps free and you can see the whole of him. Every single inch of James Buchanan Barnes is corded in muscle. His thighs look more like the trunks of trees. Involuntarily you swallow at the sight of his cock. Fully erect and honestly, a little intimidating. But even so, it’s those smokey eyes that suck the breath from you.

Without a word you hold your hand out to him, beckoning him into the warm shower. For a moment he seems unsure but then he curls his right hand around yours and steps in.

He leans his head back into the water, soaking his thick locks. When he tilts his head back you wipe the wet strands from his eyes and hold his face in your hands. Once again you rise to him tenderly pressing your lips to his. His hands run down your back and you shiver but don’t pull away.

You slide your hands down his thick neck, his barrel chest. “You can tell me when to stop too,” you say looking into his eyes. He nods and you place a kiss on his neck your feet back on the slick surface of the tub. Your hands run down his sides, nails dragging down the V of his abdomen. Softly he groans and gently takes your right hand guiding it to his cock.

After holding his gaze for just a second and he nods. Wrapping your hand around him your pull his face to your own as you stroke with a twisting motion. You catch his moan with your mouth your tongue sliding in. Continuing to stroke and twist you slowly work your mouth down the length of his body, pausing to kiss the scar above his heart. You sink to your knees, left hand grasping his hip. You’re so close you know he can feel your breath on his head but you want to be sure.

He strokes your hair, tilting your face up, you open your lips just a bit and he slides his thumb over them. “Yes,” he rumbles.

You circle his head with your tongue and he shudders. Continuing to hold onto him with your right hand you cup his balls with your left and run your tongue over the tender flesh up the length of him before taking all of him into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he growls, hands bracing himself on the shower wall. Your nails run along the backs of his thighs and your hands grab his incredible ass as you begin to work him.

He hits the back of your throat and you gag against him but you don’t care. The moans and tremors running through him make you throb. Reaching your right hand around to the front of him you begin pumping his shaft, his head in your mouth, tongue flicking across the tip. He groans loudly as you begin a steady rhythm. Your left-hand snakes around and slides just behind his balls to press into that sweet spot.

“Oh god,” you press up, massaging slow steady circles, applying just a touch of suction to his head. “Y/N… I… I’m…” You quicken your pace just a little, hoping it’s enough to let him know that he can come.

He roars, it’s the only way to describe the deep bellow that escapes him. Holding your head steady as he comes hard into your mouth. Your eyes look up at him and you swear the look on his face almost makes you come. When he lets go of your head you swallow and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a smile on your face.

Bucky’s powerful hands slide under your arms and though you’re fully capable of standing he lifts you up. You wrap your arms around his neck and he presses you tight against his body, his face in your neck. His whole body is trembling against you.

Chapter 23

“Are you ok, Bucky?” In response, he lifts his head and kisses you turning you so the water runs down your back warming you.

When his eyes meet yours there’s no darkness there. “I’m great,” he smiles softly and rests his forehead against your own for a minute. You both just stay in this cocoon of steam holding one another, your toes just barely touching the tub.

The water starts to cool a bit so you turn the stream off. Once out of the tub he grabs the towel from the hook and runs it over your damp face. He pecks the tip of your nose and begins to gently dry you. Your breath shudders as he places a kiss on every newly dry region of your body. At your back your eyes squeeze shut, the towel gently running over the latticework of scars, the feeling of his lips pressed between your shoulder blades simultaneously wonderful and horrible.

As he kneels drying your calves you snag the second towel and you playfully dry his hair. He peeks up from under the towel, grinning and you can’t stop the huge smile from covering your own face.

Pulling the towel from you he makes quick work of drying his own body. You openly gawk, entranced by the movements of the muscles under his skin and the fluidity of his actions for someone so bulky.

When he’s just about done he catches you watching, tosses the towel away and scoops you off the floor in one sweeping motion. You giggle loudly, unable to remember if anyone had ever actually swept you off your feet before.

As he lays you on the bed you switch all the lights off save the lamp by the couch. He lays on his side next to you resting on his left forearm. The blanket slides its way up the both of you. There’s a part of you that desperately wants more of him but you know that neither of you is ready for that, not right now.

For a while you mirror one another hands clasped just looking into the other’s eyes. Studying, memorizing, holding on to this.

“I’m glad you found me, Bucky,” you whisper. His eyes are glassy and maybe a little sad, as though he’s not sure you should be glad. You press your body next to his and he envelops you.

Neither of you really sleep. While the relief of earlier was excellent it opened wounds for you and sleep, you knew, would allow memories you didn’t want to creep out. You suspected it was the same for him. Instead, you both doze. Hands wandering lazily over the one another’s bodies, not sexually just enjoying being touched in tenderness and not pain.

Dawn begins to light the windows and you flick the lamp off, the muted light of early morning giving the room a dreamy feel. Bucky’s head is resting on the left side of your chest, his breathing steady as you softly run your nails up and down his back. His metal index finger runs down the thick rope-like scar that stretches from your back around to your collarbone.

“Bastards,” he whispers, almost inaudible.

“You’re not wrong but your rage is a little misdirected there.” He sits up a little looking at you and you give him a wan smile. His eyes shift from the scar to your eyes and back again. This was always the part you dreaded about intimacy. Questions would, inevitably, arise quickly with your lovers and it never took long. You couldn’t blame them, the scars were brutal even before your stint with Hydra. When curiosity and concern mix, they’re hard to ignore.  

“How…?”

You sigh, “Short version… mom’s pastor boyfriend whipped me to drive the devil from me.”

His eyes spark with something vicious, “Long version?”

“I’ll tell you if you want to know. It’s a fucking ugly story though.” With him it’s the first time you want to tell it, you know he won’t run away or stop you half way. He just nods, his brows knit in concern.

You take a deep breath, sit up leaning against the wall, and dive in, “So… my mom grew up very religious and when things were floating around her baby’s crib she fully thought I was possessed.” He snorts a little and you shake your head, “I’ve had damn near every kind of exorcism performed on me. She always said I was her penance for her sins.” Your eyes roll, “Whatever. Anyway, after she broke up with the guy in the town with the movie theatre we landed in this microscopic town in backwoods Louisiana. Of course, we got involved with the church and she got involved with the pastor.

“About a month after we moved in with him she and I got in a fight and things began to float and fling around, I didn’t have a ton of control over it then. He saw and of course, I’m immediately deemed ‘possessed.’ I had just turned 13 a few months before and I literally didn’t see the outside world until I was 14.”

“What the fuck?” Bucky’s voice is a rumble.

“Can’t let the demon child out now can we?” You try to joke, always trying to make it seem lighter than it was. “But yeah, it was a fucking nightmare.” You trace the scars on your wrists, “That’s when I did this. Then they decided maybe they could let me out for church.”

You take a shaky breath, “It was October, the church was throwing a ‘Fall Festival’ because of course, Halloween is from the devil,” Bucky’s eyes roll and you laugh, “I know. And this girl… Beth,” your voice cracks a bit, “she was my age, the first and only friend I had there. She was dressed like an angel and she looked so gorgeous to me with her strawberry hair and green eyes.” You shake your head, “I was dressed like a fucking farmer.” He laughs a bit. “She asked if I wanted to walk around together and of course I did.

“We ended up sneaking into the chapel, sitting in the baptismal with our candy just laughing and talking. She told me she liked my hair,” your hand absently runs over the fuzz you’re sporting now, “I told her I liked hers, and her eyes and her lips. And…” you touch your own lips at the memory, “She kissed me.”

You let your head fall back against the wall with a thud. “I was walking on air when I got home…  Someone saw Beth and I though… of course they told the fucking pastor. He bursts into my room in the middle of the night, literally drags me out of my bed, down the stairs, and out back to the barn.” Your eyes are closed fists clenched. “Mom’s screaming to know what’s happened, he says I let my evil taint an innocent young girl that I was toxic and vile and an abomination… I went wild, kicking and biting and screaming trying everything I could to get away from him. It was like that only convinced him I had the devil in me.” You pause, gathering yourself to finish.

“He hit me so hard I lost consciousness. When I came to my shirt was gone and I was hanging from my wrists. Mom was crying and he kept saying I was their responsibility, the lord was testing them… He actually had the gall to say that he was doing this because he loved me, it was gods love, he couldn’t spare the rod and lose my soul.” You touch the scar, “It wasn’t a rod though. It was a fucking whip.” You can still remember how it felt. Bucky seems to be holding his breath.

“Thirty-nine lashes.” He breathes out and you look at him, his face a mask of rage and horror. “They left me there, hanging bloody and sobbing. Before dawn, I got myself down, snuck into the house, stole all the money I could find, some sheets and a few shirts and a jacket from the laundry. Ran. I wrapped myself in strips of the sheets, layered on like 3 shirts and a jacket just hoping I wouldn’t bleed through it all. Got on a bus and went to New Orleans.” Your eyes sting with tears.

“Nix found me a few days later bloody and half dead, brought me back to life. I became a different person. Never saw my mom or that bastard again. But… Hydra… got them.” Bucky snorts as if to agree, for once, with their actions.

You’re not done though. “After Hydra found me again in Brooklyn after you got me out. I wouldn’t comply with anything. I had no reason to. Everyone I loved was gone and I thought they’d just kill me if I didn’t obey.”

“If only,” he whispers and you grab his hand, holding tight.

“Yeah, I figured that out fast enough. It didn’t take a genius to ascertain those scars were from something traumatic so they used it. Didn’t comply, whipped, beaten, raped. Still refuse, chair. Back and fo-“

“Chair?” His eyes are saucers. Terror is etched all over his face.

“… yeah…”

Chapter 24

The chair was something you tried not to think of. Of everything they put you through that one was the easiest to push from your mind. Everything after a round in that was fuzzy, like looking at the world through a foggy window while being underwater.

The taste of the rubber, the pain, that you remembered clearly enough. Some sort of electroshock you assumed. You suspected it was in those times that you had learned things. Languages, programming, combat, espionage. Because you had no solid recollection of actually being taught these skills they were just… there. Plus, besides using it for punishment (usually a last resort) there seemed to be a schedule, a method to it, at the beginning of your time with Hydra that tapered off after a time.

“Bucky?” He seems so far away. The look of terror is still there but his gaze shifts from your face to your arm. He pulls it straight and runs a finger over the track marks tucked inside your elbow. Instinctively you try and pull back, your heart begins to pick up speed, he holds you examining them. You curl your other arm protectively against your chest. He releases you and you curl into yourself.

“Please?” He reaches for your other arm and you reluctantly comply. More track marks. So many needles, and tests, and monitors. Days, maybe weeks, spent physically ill body burning and freezing and aching. He chews on his bottom lip before releasing you and bolting off the bed. “Come here,” He walks toward the kitchen and stands by the counter. You don’t move and he waves you over.

“You’re scaring me.”

For a split second, he looks bereft before his brows set at a determined angle, “I’m sorry but really,” again he gestures. Tentatively you rise up, the familiar feeling of dread curling in your stomach.

“Stand here,” he points to the living room side of the counter and takes the opposite kitchen side. Leaning down he rests his right elbow on the counter hand up. “Come on.”

“You want me to… arm wrestle you?” To say you were confused would be an understatement.

“Yup,” a crooked smile rises. “Humor me.”

“I feel like you have an unfair advantage here.”

He snorts, “That’s what I wanna find out. Don’t use your power, just your strength.” You squint at him for a second before getting into position and clasping his hand. “Give me all you got.”

You’re certain he’s hardly trying, but once you actually apply yourself he begins to move. His eyes lock onto yours. You feel him advance on you and you exert more force, the counter creaking under your elbows, you manage to push him back. It hits you that he is trying… You’re distracted by this realization and he begins to regain ground. Before you know it your hand slams painfully into the counter. 

“Told you, unfair advantage,” you say in a light tone, rubbing the back of your hand. Any other humor leaves you when you look back to him. His right arm is across his chest, left covering his mouth, staring at you.  

“No… you should have lasted a fraction of that.” His tone is so somber. The dread in your stomach growing. You just stare at him, feeling frozen.  

You didn’t notice him next to you but you’re in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for everything.” His hand gently rubs your back and you shudder against him, arms still curled against your chest. Suddenly you pull away staring down at your hands. You knew… had known they had done something to you but you didn’t want to face it…

“What did they do to me?” You say, barely a whisper body trembling, chills racing over your skin.

“They were making a weapon.” His hands slide over your own, holding them tight. “I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice sounding like it’s about to shatter.

“You didn’t do this,” your voice is shaky.

He shakes his head and paces away, hands running through his hair. The muscles in his back ripple with tension. “I did though…” Your heart stops, you’re certain it literally stops beating because everything around you goes unnaturally quiet until he says, “After they… made me… made him… After it worked… they always wanted more…” Air rushes back into your lungs and you feel the reassuring thundering of your heart.

“Look at me,” your voice is stronger than you feel as you approach him. He turns slowly, lifts his eyes reluctantly to your own. “You did not do this. This, none of this was your choice.”

“Still…” his fingers gently run up your arm to the marks left by countless needles. “If I hadn’t…”

“What?” taking his hands in your own. “If you hadn’t what, Buck?” Something flashes across his face at this shortened version of his name before vanishing. “If you hadn’t survived? If you hadn’t been strong enough?” He looks away and you cup the left side of his face, forcing him to look at you. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“It’s just… You didn’t deserve this…”

“And you did?!”

“I… I don’t know.” The mix of rage, confusion, and pain on his face feels like a knife being twisted in your chest. “I was a soldier, Y/N,” he gestures to his chest with his left hand. “Even before… I did things I wasn’t… but you… you were-“

“I was a thief, a con woman, a liar, a fraud-”

“And… after…” his eyes wander to that scar and your blood boils for a different reason.

“Do not pity me, Barnes,” his brows raise a bit. “Ever,” you pull your hands back and step away. It was something you couldn’t bear, even before Hydra. How many relationships had ended because they only saw you as a victim, someone to be handled with kid gloves lest you break.

“I don’t. I wouldn’t,” his tone is measured. “I only meant you deserve something good, not more… pain.”

Tears burn your eyes but you won’t allow them to fall, “I had something good, for just a little while…” And it’s true. The little family you carved out with Nix was incredible. You approach him and grasp his hands tight, “And I think this may be something good too.”

His hands squeeze yours but when he looks at you there’s no light in his eyes, “I wish I could tell you, you’re right.” He lifts his left hand and traces the scar on your right cheek, “The truth is I don’t know how much good is left in me…” Your eyes narrow and he tries to pull away. Your grip tightens, and for extra measure, you wind your power around your clasped hands.

“You have been nothing but good to me… For no reason.” He won’t look at you but you won’t let him go, can’t let him go. “You’re a good man James Barnes,” now his eyes shoot to you, filled with some emotion you can’t name, “with a good heart…” A wan smile flickers across his lips.

Slowly he leans down to kiss you. At first soft, so gentle it’s barely there. You wind your right hand into his hair, pulling his lips hard against your own, your kiss hungry. Every fiber of your being burns with desire, not only for him but to make him see himself the way you did. You were never convinced of your own inherent goodness. Even before Hydra, you had always viewed yourself as someone with a less than stellar moral compass… But some part of you knew that before the war, before being unmade, Bucky was a good man.

Suddenly you want him. All of him. You want to forget talk of trauma and torture, of good and bad. All you want is to feel him. Your body grinds against him, you nip at his lip, and feel him stir against you. Your hands wander to his hip bones and begin tracing a path southward.

He gently lays his hands over yours and pulls back shaking his head slightly. “No,” his eyes are cloudy, voice a soft rasp. Your hands stop their journey and you look up at him as he straightens.

Cupping your face in his large hands he just looks at you for a moment, the space between his brows creased. His thumbs softly stroke your cheeks, his voice is thick with emotion, “Could… Can I just hold you for a while… would that be ok?” You can only smile gently and nod, unable to trust your voice to hold steady for a simple, ‘yes.’

Without another word he scoops you up, his grip pressing you tight against his chest. A seemingly unnecessary gesture considering you’re steps from the bed but there’s a sweetness to it.

Tenderness had never been your way. Even how you loved had been hard-edged, more of an escape than anything else. This was something different. Because while seconds before you were ready to fuck him senseless, to use him to blot out the darker thoughts in the same way you had used others, as he settles down on the bed, his back against the wall, holding you like he had that first night, you were never so happy to have heard the word, ‘no.’

Chapter 25

“Y/N?” You feel Bucky’s warm lips press against your forehead. “Wake up, doll.” His metal hand gently rubs your left arm his right fingers stroke your cheek.

Slowly, your eyes peep open. You hadn’t realized you’d drifted off. He’s looking down at you, a tender smile on his lips, and you’re overwhelmed by a feeling of safety, happiness and… What the fuck Y/N?! It’s been three days, come on… reel it in. You feel something in you begin to turn cold, turn inward.

“Sorry,” you say sitting forward, voice groggy.

“For what?” This metal hand rubs your back and you notice you don’t feel the urge to flinch away from his touch. He knows, you think, what’s there to hide?

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you… literally.”

A soft laugh slips from him and he turns your face to him. “I don’t mind,” his right thumb tracing your bottom lip before kissing you gently. You curse the fluttering in your stomach and pull away before either of you keep going. This was all happening so fast…

“What time is it?” You ask as you scoot off of him.

“Almost noon.”

“Holy shit,” you groan rubbing your eyes. “We have an appointment to keep,” you hop up and he stares at you confused for a second. “Mr. Goldstein.”

“Oh!” His face brightens with a smile and he stretches out on the bed, long and languid like a tomcat. Fuck, he had no right to look that good.

In an effort to tamp down the desire rising, you grab your bag and set it on the dining table. You weren’t looking forward to putting your costume back on, it had been nice to spend a day as… well something like yourself. It hits you that yesterday you were more you than you had been in years. You weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

You pull your bindings, clothes, and toiletries out, “You need the bathroom?”

“Nope,” he walks to the closet and pulls out a pair of boxer briefs, “I’ll start some coffee.”

“Perfect.”

You look in the mirror, tops of the bandages just showing in the reflection, and a dark sadness wells up in your chest. Being dead to yourself… was easier. Looking down you finger the buttons on the shirt in your hands not wanting to do this.

Letting her live meant killing her every time you had to become this character. Survival meant never really letting her, that true version of you, live. She could only survive in limbo, behind closed doors, and what kind of existence was that? Wasn’t death better than slow suffocation? Being numb was painful but it was easier than this… wasn’t it? And all of this… him… it was so much.

The sound of the small mirror trembling draws you out of your thoughts and your power back into your body. Your reflection looks like someone else. A rested version of the haggard woman you’d gotten used to these past few months, not the woman who learned to waltz the night before.

Sighing you slip into the charcoal grey shirt and do up the buttons. Everything fit somewhat closer to your body than Bucky’s clothing had but it still concealed your shape enough. Such simple armor, but fuck… it was so heavy.

The first thing you see when you open the bathroom door is Bucky leaning over the counter by the stove furiously writing in one of his notebooks. He doesn’t even react to the sound of the door opening.

It takes effort to look away, he’s only in boxers and even hunched over like he was the muscles in this thighs and back are breathtaking. It takes even more effort to swallow the emotion rising in you seeing him like this. Something made him remember, you hope it’s a good one, it’s a vulnerable moment, his guard is down enough to not feel the need to relinquish cataloging this memory for later. He trusts you…

You focus on putting things back into your bag and pull out your phone. From behind you, he lets out a long sigh as you plug in the charger.

“Sorry,” he says as you turn back. He’s already back in the kitchen filling your mugs.

“Was it a good memory?” You ask, noting that it’s not the big spiral.

He shrugs and hands you your coffee, “It was… just worth keeping… not good but…” You catch his eyes, stormy grey-blue with emotion, “Sometimes the… not so good ones are important…” The weight of that settles on your heart. He wants all of himself back, the good and bad parts that made him who he was before Hydra.

Almost every part of you wants to lean into him, touch him, make him smile but… you don’t. His need to resurrect himself is silently, unbeknownst to him, warring with your still present desire to be nothing but a shade of a person. Yesterday it felt like you could grab ahold of who you once were and wrench her free, reclaim her with nothing but a dress and a dance… today you know that was naive.

You sit heavily in the dining chair, “Yeah… I guess they are.”

“Hey,” he takes your face in his left hand. You smile up at him, laying your right hand over his, and he doesn’t say anything else, just looks at you for a minute. He sighs before moving his hand, “I’ll change and we can head out.” You just nod before he presses a kiss to your forehead.

As soon as the bathroom door closes you rest your head in your hands. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The last few days had been good, so good, but also… hard and they left something in you raw and exposed. It felt like you were dangling off a cliff, desperately trying to hold on to the connection you felt to everything just a few hours ago. Every passing minute seemed to shut another switch off, things going dark bit by bit inside of you. Signal lost. No image.

You hear the knob of the bathroom turn and you bolt up to pour another cup of coffee.

“Do you want more?” You ask, voice strangely hoarse.

“Sure,” he says as he crosses the apartment to lean on the counter behind you. His presence makes you freeze. “Y/N…”

“I’m fine,” could you really sound more unconvincing? Your hands grasp the counter, knuckles white. A cool metal hand lays over your left, you curse yourself that you can’t resist looking at him, now leaning casually by the sink, can’t help but want to seek those eyes out.

“I really hope you’re a better liar than that,” the corner of his mouth ticks up just a bit.

You laugh hollowly, “Usually.” His grip on your hand tightens.

“Ya know you don’t have to be fine on my account?”

“Just getting back into character,” you gesture to your outfit. “It’s… harder than I thought.” He nods sternly and you lean your head into his shoulder for a minute. Hating that you love the feeling of him next to you.

“Come on,” he says, tone light, “let’s go dig through some books.”

Chapter 26

The tinkling of the store bell and the smell of old books give you a comforting sense of deja vu. You hear a meow as Victor trots to greet you both

“Hey, baby,” you coo as you bend down to pick him up, hoping as one always did with cats that he wouldn’t claw you to death. He doesn’t and begins purring so loudly you can feel his tiny body vibrating.

“Afternoon!” Mr. Goldstein bellows from the back. “I was hoping I’d see you two today!”

“Said we’d be here,” Bucky responds with a smile. “Just had a late start.”

“Too much fun this weekend eh?” Mr. Goldstein ribs.

“Something like that.”

Mr. Goldstein approaches you, scratches his companions ears and smiles. You try to avoid eye contact, too worried you’ll be clocked, but it’s hard to resist this man’s warmth.

“Come, come!” Mr. Goldstein gestures for the two of you to follow. As you approach the back room Victor squirms his way from your arms. You notice two big pillows on the floor. “I thought I could make it a little more comfortable.” He turns to face you smiling big.

“Thank you,” you say trying to tip your voice low. Mr. Goldstein nods.

“The least I can do for your help.” He watches as you and Bucky settle in, “I will man the front. Let me know if you kids need anything.”

You both sort as you had on Saturday, a comfortable silence wrapped around you. At times you catch the other looking, expressions soft, words not needed. You both know you’re just happy to do this together, something good.

You’re on your third round of boxes when Bucky passes you a battered copy of Frankenstein since you’re in charge of authors in the latter half of the alphabet. Vaguely you remember reading it when you were a teenager, mostly because you enjoyed the movie, though you hadn’t much cared for the novel. Now though… Now you knew what it was to be made into a monster against your will didn’t you?

Gingerly you run your hand over the faded, bent cover and open it to a page, scanning the words. A line sticks out to you, “I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.” You look at Bucky sitting quietly before you, sorting his books. The curtain of disassociation lifts a fraction and you’re hit with just how much you want to make him happy.

No, you couldn’t wrench back your old self from the clutches of your past with a dance and a dress, in fact, you didn’t think your old self would ever truly see the light again. She was just another part of you now. Another piece stitched into the monstrous tapestry that made you what you were. And maybe that was ok. And just maybe… two monsters could find their way back to something human… together.

You’ve been staring at him for the better part of two minutes, time falling away from you as the lights begin to come back on inside. Bucky looks up at you without lifting his head, a half smile on his face.

“Thinking of keeping that one?” He asks.

You hadn’t realized you had been clutching the book to your chest while you stared at him, now you set it to the side, hand hovering on the cover. “Yeah,” your voice is a rasp, “I think I am.” You hold his gaze, a true smile filling your face.

His eyes sparkle, happy to see a smile from you, and he pushes his box out of the way. Leaning forward he cups your face in his hands and kisses you deeply. You feel yourself coming alive again, heart racing a bit, breath catching, and you don’t push the feeling of joy away. Happiness was rare in this life, you had learned that much, so why run from it when it came to you? Even if it was terrifying.

Suddenly a throat clears from behind Bucky and he jumps up a little too fast to read as anything other than abnormal, swiveling toward the door and your own power curls around you making you hover off the floor a few inches. Mr. Goldstein is standing there, smiling, unfazed. 

Years of thwarting unapproving stares tell you that he doesn’t care he theoretically just saw two men kissing, in fact, he looks sort of happy about it. You feel yourself since back to the floor, pretty sure he didn’t notice.

“Sorry to interrupt,” his smile is almost impish in a kind way, “but I wanted to see if I could get you two a pretzel?” Bucky is silent, you can just make out the whirring in his arm, his breathing heavier than normal.

“That would be great,” you answer smiling up at the old man. It did sound good but you agreed more to get him out of the shop so Bucky can have a moment to calm down.

“Alright then,” he turns and says over his shoulder, “I’ll leave the store open, I trust you can handle anyone that may come in.” A minute later you hear the front door tinkle open.

Bucky lets out a long sigh and walks to the back wall, leaning against it and sliding down to the floor. You give him a second to breathe before getting up to kneel in front of him.

“We’re ok,” you say covering his left hand with your right, ears still picking up those subtle mechanical sounds emanating from it. His jaw is tight, you can see the muscle flexing under his scruff, and his eyes are chips of cold steel. “We’re ok,” you repeat, tone soothing, more because you can’t think of anything else to say at the moment.

“We could have easily not been,” he growls out.

You can’t help but laugh a little, “He didn’t seem to care that we-“

“That isn’t what I mean,” he cuts you off, looking past you toward the front of the store. “I wouldn’t have fucking cared if he thought we were queer or whatever… I didn’t… I was distracted…”

Now you get it. Your immediate fear, unsurprisingly, was that Mr. Goldstein would be furious about two men kissing in the back room of his store. Bucky, however, was mad at himself for letting an 80+-year-old man sneak up on him. He was distracted… he was distracted because of you.

“Oh,” is all you manage.

“I can’t… afford to-“ he doesn’t finish just stands up suddenly and pushes past you. “I need some air. Are you ok here?” He looks back at you, his expression unreadable.

“Of course.” With that, he strides out the door. You sigh and resume sorting your books, ears attune to the front door. After a minute Victor comes and claims Bucky’s pillow for his own and you smile at your little companion.

Ten minutes pass and you start to wonder if he’s going to come back. The front door chimes and you shoot up.

“Just me,” you hear Mr. Goldstein pipe. You walk to the front as he’s setting his spoils on the counter. “Thought a little coffee couldn’t hurt either.” He’s got a carrier with three cups and a bag with fresh pretzels, that smell amazing. He glances behind you, “Where is Grant?”

For a second you have absolutely no clue who he’s talking about, then you remember the name Bucky had given on Saturday. “Grant… stepped out to get some air.”

Mr. Goldstein nods, rounding the counter to sit on his stool. His tone is almost sad, “I hope he, well you both, don’t think I,” he pulls out his pretzel, “would care.” You stare and he shakes his head. He opens his mouth to say something else but the door behind you opens.

“Just in time,” Mr. Goldstein says with a smile. Your hand is hovering over a cup of coffee and you jump just a bit when Mr. Goldstein takes it in his own, surprisingly large paw. “Come,” he holds the other hand out to Bucky.

For a second you think Buck is actually going to refuse and you seethe just a touch, not because you’re mad about it but this man is so kind you can’t imagine refusing him anything. He doesn’t though and lays his hand, the right on the old man’s. Mr. Goldstein grips both of your hands tight.

Looking from you to Bucky he says, “I want you boys to know I’m overjoyed for you. You’re both kind souls, kind souls deserve to be happy. I saw nothing but happiness and love back there.” He smiles big, not noticing how you flinch at the word love. He brings yours and Bucky’s hands together, laying yours on his and clasping his hands around them. 

He squeezes, “When I was a boy in the camps,” his eyes sparkle just a bit with tears and your breath catches, “I saw what happened when people judged others based on anything other than the merit of their souls. Nothing but hatred comes from that and I promised I would never live my life in that way. I haven’t.” He takes a shaky breath, “I know there are those out there who would judge you, not here. This is a safe place for everyone with kindness and light in their hearts.”

He clears his throat and smiles big once again, “Now, eat your pretzels, and enjoy your coffee.”

You smile and don’t care anymore if he notices your more feminine voice, “Thank you.” He nods and looks to Bucky who just stares at the countertop. 

You grab both coffees and the bag with the pretzels elbowing Bucky. “Come on, we’ve got a couple more boxes to get through before the end of the day.” You look back at Mr. Goldstein who just smiles at you both as you walk away.

Chapter 27

Back in the room, Bucky plops down on his cushion. You take your place and try to hand him his coffee and pretzel but he’s not even really seeing you. Worry begins to settle in.

“Bucky?” Slowly he looks at you, an emotion in his eyes you can’t name, but he at least seems present. That’s probably a good sign. “I’m sorry about earlier I-“

He softly cuts you off and reaches overtaking your hand, “It’s nothing you did. Not you. Don’t… Don’t apologize.” The corners of his mouth ticked up just a bit. “I’m ok.” You guess it’s his turn to lie and he’s no more convincing than you had been earlier, but you’ll let it slide.  

You finish your work in silence your brain rolling what happened over and over in your head. Someone like him would be shaken by being caught off guard, hell you would have been too in any other situation. Not to mention if you were an exposed nerve after the events of the weekend it stood to reason he’d be no better.

Sighing you shelve your last book. You’d try to talk to him later, tell him why you felt disconnected earlier. Maybe if you could just be honest with one another when you weren’t ok you could actually help each other. It wasn’t like you could roll up to a therapist and who else would be able to understand what either of you went through. It wasn’t exactly a wide-reaching shared experience, and thank god for that.  

Bucky exists the back room carrying your cups, still with some coffee in them. A book under his arm.

“Finished?” Mr. Goldstein asks.

“For today,” you say taking your cup from Bucky.

“You take some books?”

“Just this for now,” you show him the copy of Frankenstein.

He nods smiling, “Good choice. ‘Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature.’ I always thought that line was profound.”

“That’s beautiful. I read it when I was a kid but I think I’ll appreciate it more now.”

“We understand the stories about monsters, even more, the older we get, and we are more terrified by them because we see the truth in them,” he looks pointedly at Bucky for some reason. “You’ll have to tell me what you learn. There’s always more to learn from a book you read a second time.” You smile, this man had to have been a teacher once, and he was probably a good one.

“I will.”

He looks to Bucky again, “Did you find anything to take with you.”

“Yeah, just more poetry,” he holds up a collection of English poets.

Mr. Goldstein smiles at this, “Poets heart this one has,” and he winks at you. “Will I see you again soon?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers, “there’s still a couple of boxes. We can swing by later in the week if that’s ok?”

“Of course it is. I like having you both here.” You commit to cooking something for him next time.

Goodbyes given you both head out.

“I can go the market alone,” you say to Bucky once you’re outside not sure if he could handle being in public more than just the walk to his apartment. But groceries weren’t optional.

He shakes his head, “I can handle the market.” You try to slip your hand into his to reassure him, or maybe yourself, but he pulls away. Admittedly it stings a little but he’s on full alert, likely determined to not get caught off guard again.

Nothing else is said as you trek to the market. You follow him assuming he’ll go somewhere he knows and you don’t have a preference. The silence is fine though as it gives you time to let recipes roll through your head. Thankfully you always cooked by memory more than anything else, especially once you knew how to make something. All those old things coming back to you. He was right, it was like riding a bike.

Mental list taken care of you look to him before going in. That muscle in his jaw tightening and releasing as he looks around.

“Anything you’re picky about?”

“Huh?” He asks almost like he forgot you were there.

“Food-wise,” you flash him what you hope is a reassuring smile. “Is there anything you don’t like?”

“Oh,” he shoves his hands in his pockets, “no not really.”

“Alright. You ok with me leading the charge then?”

You’re happy to see a little light enter his expression, “Lead the way chef.”

Spices needed to happen, you refused to cook another meal with just salt and pepper at your disposal. You load up thinking about everything from curry to gumbo.

“I don’t think I know what half of those are,” he says looking into the basket.

“Well, you’ll learn,” you say tossing some turmeric in. Looking at him just in time to see him tense as a few people enter the aisle. “Come on,” you head away.

Coffee, meat, vegetables, and other various things procured you’re in the fruit section at his request. He must like sweets you think and wonder if you should grab something to bake too.

He’s rolling a green apple between his palms, gaze distant, “Can you make apple pie?” He asks looking at you with melancholy eyes.

How could such an innocuous question make your heartbreak? “Mhm,” you respond nodding. “Damn good one too.” He doesn’t say anything else, just looks past you, still rolling the apple. “Grab a few of those and I’ll make one tomorrow,” you rest your hand gently on his forearm and he jumps a touch.

“Yeah?” You just nod. “Ok.” He gathers the necessary apples and you both head back to the spices and get what you need to make the pie, including a tin.

Walking out of the market laden with a few days of food, plans for meals, all with someone you’re happy to be with almost makes you cry out in joy. You had never cherished little things like this in the past. 

Going to the store was a chore and while you loved cooking it could sometimes seem like just another thing you had to shove into a packed schedule of work and rehearsal. There’s a twinge of regret. No one thinks about how precious the littlest things in life are until they’re gone.

The market isn’t far and once back in his apartment a feeling of… safety hits you. Damn. Was this so foreign a thing to you now that it feels so strange, almost off-putting to not be afraid? You catalog this emotion for later, determined to examine it.

Bucky drops his bags in the kitchen by the refrigerator and you do the same. He rests his hands on the counter by the sink and leans his head against the upper cabinet, breathing hard, just like earlier the sounds of metal plates shifting, responding in some way to his tension. His whole body shakes. You aren’t sure why this raises your hackles but you feel your power tingle over your skin, ready just in case.

“Buck…” You begin to reach out to him.

Your hand is almost on his bicep when he says low, “Don’t.” Another tremor shakes him. He strides quickly toward the closet, “I have to go.” 

Chapter 28

Alarms begin to scream in your head. Go? Go where? Does he need to go because of you… “If you want me to go instead I can-“

“No!” He turns quickly looking at you scared. “Unless… unless you want to go… then…” He throws his cap onto the bed running his fingers, still gloved, through his hair.

You can’t help the anxious little laugh that escapes you, “Yeah, I just bought a bunch of groceries for the fun of it. No intention to stay in the place with the working kitchen to cook it in.”

He lets out a little, heh, sound that’s not quite a laugh but better than nothing. “Good… I,” he looks up at you, eyes so shot through with worry it kills you, “really like you… being here, Y/N.” You walk out of the kitchen toward him tentatively. He holds a hand up stopping your approach, “I just need to go for a run.”

You smile nodding, completely understanding the need to work out the energy in him. “Ok, just…” you can’t bring yourself to finish it.

“I’ll be safe… and back.” He offers you a half smile before turning to the closet pulling out sweatpants and sneakers.

Without another word, you head into the kitchen and begin unloading everything. In a minute he’s out the door.

You’re worried about him, hell you’re worried about yourself. Thankfully there’s the distraction of cooking. It’s still somewhat early, the sun just now setting, but you can take your time to set up everything in the small kitchen and make the pie dough for tomorrow.

Once everything is in its place you pull out Bucky’s laptop and put on some Billie, something that always used to soothe you. You get out of the button up and bindings, so happy to be free, and pull on a plain black tee before diving into culinary bliss.

It’s almost three hours before Bucky huffs into the door, drenched in sweat. Honestly, it’s not a bad look on him. You’re still listening to Billie and sautéing some mushrooms while reading Frankenstein. The look he gives you speaks volumes, you didn’t run away, you’re still here, and he feels like he’s home.

“Hey,” you smile bright, setting the book down, the worry that had been building in you beginning to melt. He begins to walk toward you, “Hope steak sounds good.” He comes up next to you, cupping both sides of your face in his hands to turn you to him. His kiss is slow and thorough, his tongue sliding past your unresistant lips, the taste of clean sweat and… him. He pulls back still holding your face and smiles down at you.

“Steak sounds perfect.” He kisses you briefly once more, “I’ll wash up.” You can’t help but laugh and shake your head a little at the domesticity of it all.

The rest of the evening is almost enough to make you forget the emotional turmoil you both silently went through today. Your meal of steak, potatoes, sautéed mushrooms, and green beans was, to pat yourself on the back, incredible. And while neither of you talks much there’s a comfort in the silence you’re immensely thankful for.

Once dishes are done Bucky pulls you into his arms. You rest your head on his chest and you stand in the kitchen, not saying anything, just holding onto one another for a few minutes.

He breaks the silence, “How’s a movie sound?”

“Great.”

Something light seems like the best choice so Duck Soup wins. Though, after the length of the day and since he didn’t really sleep at all the night before, it’s not long before he’s breathing steadily behind you, arms holding you close, small snores slipping out here and there. His rhythm and sounds are better than any lullaby. You lay your head back and drift off too, a soft smile on your lips.

Your sleep is the dreamless sleep you’ve been, somehow, having since being here. Because of this when you’re flung, unceremoniously, from your repose you’re immediately panicked.

Body sent flying vertically over the arm of the couch, head over feet. Anyone else would have hit the wall, likely hard enough to be unconscious. However, all those years training with Hydra weren’t entirely fruitless. Your power awakens before you fully do and steadies you midair.

Immediately you’re in defense mode, ready to attack whatever and whoever has pulled you from sleep and shaken the safety of this place. You spin lightening fast to look behind you, feet back on the ground, crouching. All you see is Bucky though…

He’s standing stock straight, though his head is tilted slightly toward the floor, hair obscuring your view of his face. Fists at his side, the only sound besides both of your breathing is the metal shifting in his left arm. His breathing you note is heavy but not panicked, just hard, like he’s fighting to keep it there.

Suddenly the fog of sleep lifts fully and you see the situation for what it is. A dream, he had a dream. You understand this all too well, having to coach yourself back into the present, back into a reality that isn’t hell, even though your brain thinks it’s still in it. He isn’t moving, neither are you.

Once you have a handle over your own breathing and heart rate you rise from your crouching position, slowly. His eyes are still on the ground and you don’t know what the best course of action here is. It doesn’t matter though. You want him to know he’s not alone, that you understand because… well, you do.

“Bucky,” you whisper softly, staying where you are. He flinches at the sound of your voice but other than that he doesn’t move. You give it another minute before trying again, “Bucky? It’s ok, you’re home, you’re-“

“No,” he growls. He looks up at you and you freeze. There’s something in that look that reminds you of the night before when you had touched him without asking, that reminds you of when you first saw him all those years ago in the facility. The Soldier.

Your mouth goes dry. You aren’t sure what to say. There is no way to know if there’s a Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde situation at play here. He refers to The Soldier as something separate from himself but is that true? If so you’re in a whole different situation than comforting the person you love… Love.

This isn’t the time to examine this or to mince words with yourself. Regardless of how fast this came about, you love this man and that’s the truth. The truth that scared you so much this morning it made you shut down, too afraid of it because the things you love are always taken from you. 

It’s a beautiful realization but you have to acknowledge that you don’t fully know what’s happening at this moment. Or how to help him. If somehow The Soldier is separate from him you are not currently dealing with the man you love. But… something tells you that isn’t quite right.

Suddenly he turns and bolts for the front door. Thought flees you then, and you reach out an invisible hand to slam it shut as he pulls it open, the sharp sound echoing. You don’t know where he’s at right now, you can’t let him go out there and maybe do something he will regret. If that means trapping him here, so be it.

The look he shoots you is murderous but you don’t let it sink in. “You’re not going out there like this. You’re spooked.” You keep your voice even and low.

“You think you can keep me here?” His tone is so sinister it makes a chill climb up your spine.

“I know I can,” your voice is dripping with confidence and conviction. You will keep him here, keep him safe, no matter what that took.

He cocks an eyebrow and strides toward you, “Oh?” You refuse to back away from him. His left-hand lifts and a fleeting memory of the feeling of that fist shoots through you. Still, you remain planted staring up at him. 

He touches the scar left there by him and says, “I don’t think our last fight necessarily worked well for you. Sure you wanna go another round?”

He’s not fully present, you can see that in the way his eyes are shifting around, seeing things that aren’t there. But there’s something that tells you this is Bucky and not some separate entity, he’s just fighting through a flashback. 

Holding onto this feeling you respond, “Are you really going to try and beat me senseless, Bucky?” There’s a flicker in his face and you know you’re right, “Or are you just trying to scare me?”

Chapter 29 

He takes a half step back at this. “That’s what I thought.” You shake your head, “You should know, it will take a whole hell of a lot more than that to shake me.”

“Get out,” he says through clenched teeth.

Those two words hurt more than you want to admit but you won’t let it show. “No,” you stare him down. “If you still want me gone later I will go, but I won’t leave you like this.”

Quick as lightning, his hands are gripping your shoulders pushing you with the force of a freight train into the back door. You hit it, hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to knock the wind from you. He’s holding back.

Making sure to keep each movement casual and unhurried you glance to your right at his grip on you, “Really?” You cock a half smile, “This isn’t enough to scare me either.”

His eyes shift quickly to the side, as though he’s hearing something behind him, his grip tightens. “Whatever you’re hearing isn’t there, Bucky. I promise. It’s just us. Just me.”

A shudder shakes through him, his grip loosens, and you think this is over… No such luck. As you go to move away from him he immediately locks on to you again, gaze cold, and pins you back against the door.

“Do not move,” he says, no emotion at all in his voice, the sound almost robotic.

“You are not going to hurt me, Bucky.”

“You think you know what I am,” he growls, looking down at your defiant stare, metal fingers digging into your flesh.

“I know exactly who you are, Bucky Barnes,” there’s a twitch in his face.

“No,” his voice is a rasp, just above a whisper, “I’m the monster-”

You won’t hear this. If he thought he was the only monster here… he was mistaken. Not wasting another second you cut him off, lifting your power between the two of you, a wall of invisible force, and slam it into him. As his grip is broken his left-hand tears your shirt sleeve, leaving bloody but shallow scratches. You keep pushing, taking a few steps away from the door.

But, he’s good. Very good. Ascertaining that you’re focusing on a specific point in space and pivots before you can reposition it. Closing the distance between you in a flash he wraps his right hand around your neck, left reaching for the door handle behind you. He’s not really squeezing, just exerting enough force to hold you. Refusing to react you don’t grab at him, just watch.

The door flings open and he pushes you through it back first. His expression isn’t sinister, it’s pained, his gaze like he’s not really seeing you. In a way he’s not, there’s a horror show he can’t look away from playing side by side with reality. He isn’t the monster like he thinks. He’s fighting the monster… monsters. The only thing was you couldn’t tell who was winning.

“Bucky?” Your calves bump into the balcony wall.

“No,” he growls.

“Yes. That is who you are,” you run your fingers over his left cheek. He grabs your wrist, twisting it, and forces it away. “You are not what they made you into. There’s just you,” you hiss over the pain in your wrist.

You have to believe this. Not only for him but also for yourself. Have to believe that you are both in control of who you are, who you can and will be. Not Hydra, never again Hydra.

Once again he shudders, you feel it shake through the hand gripping your neck. A scream, low and feral, bursts from him. He spins you, slamming your back into the wall by the door. This time… it’s enough to knock the breath from you, enough to cause pain to explode white and hot up your spine. This time… a fog descends over your rational mind. For a second he’s not Bucky, he’s a threat, and the monster Hydra put in you takes hold.  

Everything happens so fast…

You can’t breathe but that doesn’t mean anything. Your mind assesses the situation instantly. He had grabbed you with his right, that was just flesh and bone, all be it incredibly strong flesh and bone. You’re strong too, though, maybe not as strong as him, but it’s enough. After all, it wasn’t always the strongest who will win in a fight. It’s the fastest.

He seems distracted. Not wasting a second more you slam your left fist into the outside of his elbow. The force sends it bending violently in the wrong direction. There’s a loud pop, he cries out, his grip releasing instantly.

Staggering back he reflexively reaches for the injury with his left. If he’s standing though, he’s still a hostile. You wrap your power around his ankles and yank them hard, pulling them from under him. This brings him crashing to his knees. Threat neutralized for the moment flight overrides fight and you hurl yourself over the edge of the balcony.

It takes a moment for the fog to lift and for you to finally breathe. When it does you quietly take gulps of oxygen and try to get your bearings. You’re hovering close to the wall pressed against the balcony. When your eyes flutter down it hits you just how high up you are. It’s not possible for you to hover here forever. But you had a bit before you’d lose control and plummet to your death. Just don’t think about falling.

Guilt floods you. You would never have wanted to do that, never wanted to hurt him… But, hopefully, the pain of a dislocated elbow would be enough to snap him out. You remembered being caught in a flashback when you first stayed in your squat and the only thing that pulled you out was when you, not fully in reality, walked through the back of the house and fell through the floor, tearing a gash in your calf. Though, the pain could also make it worse… you knew that too. Hydra was all about pain after all.

Then you hear it. Something low and guttural, a sob maybe. Slowly you will your power to lift you up and perch on the edge of the balcony like a sentient gargoyle. If nothing else this would give you enough of a rest so you could make it to the neighboring rooftop if need be…

He’s on his knees bent over, supporting himself with his left arm. His right hangs limply at his side, bruising already starting to show. You flinch at the sight. He doesn’t look up, though you know he must be aware of your presence.

“You aren’t safe,” he says barely audible.

“I’m not the one with a dislocated joint.”

He makes a huffing sound and leans against the balcony wall, skull thudding on the concrete. His head rolls in your direction, though he doesn’t look at you, “I don’t need both arms to kill you.” Something in you snaps at this.

Hopping down you kneel in front of him. “Then do it,” your tone is exasperated.

Using your power you lift his compliant left arm bringing the hand against your throat. “Kill me. Right now, since you’re such a loose cannon since you have such little self-control, kill me.” He stares at you horrified. “Not like I haven’t thought about doing it multiple times,” you hold up your wrists, “obviously. So do it, Soldier. Save me the fucking trouble.” He looks away and pulls his arm back.

“Yeah, exactly what I thought.” Sighing heavily you sit cross-legged in front of him. When he finally meets your eyes fully he looks so tired. “You’re not going to-“

“Goddamnit, Y/N!” His fist pounds on the floor of the balcony causing an unsettling shake and you jump, on edge. “You have no clue what is in my head. None. What’s there could-“

“Yeah,” you concede, “you’re right. I don’t know. I won’t unless you tell me…”

He shakes his head, “No… look, I… just… You. Are. Not. Safe. Not with me, Y/N. No matter what you want to think that’s the truth. No one is.”

“What’s safe?” He rolls his eyes. “Seriously Bucky, I don’t know what safety is. I’ve never known.  Thirty fucking years on this planet and even during the best ones I wasn’t safe.”  He won’t look at you and you can’t stop looking at his elbow.

“Will you let me fix that?” You gesture toward his right arm. He grimaces and nods.

Honestly, you’re not sure how you know the proper way to set a dislocated elbow but there’s the knowledge in the forefront of your mind when you need it. Good to know you guessed. It didn’t take any first aid to know this was going to hurt. You pull his arm straight, a low groan comes from him but he doesn’t flinch away. Slow and steady you pull and realign. The pop is deeper, not as sharp as the sound of the injury itself.

It’s mostly drowned out by the, “Fuck,” he growls out and the sound of a metal fist meeting a concrete wall, the tops of his knuckles embedded in it. As he pulls away the imprint is clear as if it was cast there. If nothing else this confirms just how much control he had earlier. A hell of a lot more than you would have. Then you did…

The sound of his deep ragged breaths as he tries to recenter himself seem to fill the entire night sky. Ten minutes pass. Panic begins to burn in your chest and your heart ticks up.

He’s back, at least enough to be stable, that much is clear. And you had made a promise to him earlier, you intended to keep it, even if the thought of bringing it up made you want to vomit. Taking your own painful breath you brace yourself and dive in.

“Bucky?” He flexes his arm a few times, teeth grinding, before casting you a sidelong glance in acknowledgment. “Do you want me to leave?”

Chapter 30

He stares forward, head once again thudding into the wall, “No,” his voice is heavy with emotion, “God help me, but no…” He covers his face with his left hand. Before continuing he takes a few shaky breaths, “But I want you to be safe.”

You groan, “You’re going to need to let that go if this is gonna work,” you say tone stern. “I am not, and will not be safe. I’m a liability, to myself and everyone around me in one way or another, just like you.” You attempt a light tone, “Unlike you I’ve been a liability my whole life… so…”  He looks at you now, a question on his face.

“My mom drilled it into my head that I wasn’t normal and that being a freak was dangerous. I needed to be fixed so I could be normal.” You stand and move beside him, “So, outside of the church no one was to know. Honestly, it was sheer luck one of them didn’t turn me in sooner. Even so, she knew, that people would want this and that put us at risk.”

“That’s not the same,” he sighs.

Leaning against the wall next to him you sigh, “Look, it could have just as easily been me riding out a flashback tonight. Hell, I’ve been having them since I was a teenager. I could attack you in my sleep and never know I’m doing it if the dream is bad enough and my power gets out of control.”

“But it wasn’t-“

Cutting him off you hold up a hand, “You got triggered today. That’s not your fault. I don’t know if it was just getting startled by Mr. Goldstein or everything from the weekend or both. I wasn’t right today either, not fully.” His right-hand slides to touch yours and you take it gently, not wanting to move his arm too much.

“I noticed. I thought of saying something but I just…” He tapers off.

“Same,” you sigh. “In our defense, we’ve only known each other for four days. I think we are allowed to not be perfect at communicating yet.”

He snorts, “Four days. Goddamn.”

“Tell me about it.” You look over at him, his eyes are tilted up to the sky.

“That was part of it,” he says, tone low. “I haven’t…” He looks at you, eyes glassy, “Even just having someone… close is… strange…” It’s like he can’t quite find the words to express this but he’s trying. His fingers squeeze yours a bit, “Not to mention…”

“Yeah.”

The edges of his mouth lift just a bit. “I didn’t expect it. Not that I don’t… Not that it’s…” You give his hand a light squeeze back to indicate you get it. “Just thought I could… I don’t know… do something decent.”

“You did.” He just shrugs, clearly disagreeing.  

His eyes are back on the sky, “Then I let him get the drop on me, I… can’t let my guard down like that. Not in public.”

“You were in a place you knew, you were comfortable yo-“

“Doesn’t matter.” His tone is no-nonsense, “There are too many people who could be, probably are, looking for me. A hell of a lot more than just Hydra.” You knew this, had even thought it when you’d seen him on Friday. “And if someone gets to me…” They could get to you.

You wish, desperately, that you were brave enough to not be terrified at the thought. Being taken in would be worse than anything… almost worse than anything. Looking at him the horrible notion of losing him crosses your mind. It makes your stomach turn.

A shudder shakes his whole body, “You have no clue the extent of what I’ve done, Y/N.”

This sits on you for a moment. He wasn’t wrong, you didn’t know, but there was plenty of blood on your hands too. “I’ve done things too, Bucky… don’t forget-“

He laughs bitterly, cutting you off, “Are you wanting to compare body counts? Because trust me Y/N, you don’t come close…” The look on his face is twisted, dark, hollow. You swallow hard.

“It wasn’t like you had a choice.”

“Again, doesn’t matter. People are shit at seeing grey areas… I’m not even sure if…” He shakes his head, “If they can take me, they will.” The vastness ‘they’ implies opens a black hole of dread sucking away at any words either of you has for a while.  

“I can’t let that happen… not yet,” he says, pulling you back. You’re about to ask what he means by that but he keeps going, “Then-“ his voice cracks and he clenches his jaw, eyes squeeze shut, you see a tear slide down his cheek.

Without hesitation you lean up and kiss it away, tasting the salt on your lips. Bucky, looks at you slowly, a sad smile on his face. Every part of you wants to stop talking about these things that hurt him but you know this is necessary. If there’s any chance at either of you being able to make it through this you had to be able to talk about these things… Talk through them.

“Then he mentioned the camps, he was just a kid, and…” He digs the fingers of his left hand into his thigh, trying to hold onto composure in any way he can. “It hit me then, really hit me. For the first time since…” Since he got out, are the unspoken words hanging in the air. “I’m 97 years old… Old enough to have fought a war when he was just a kid.

“I should be a wrinkled old man, or dead, fuck I should be dead multiple times over by now. But… no. He calls me kid.” Something between a laugh and a sob escapes him and he leans forward. You wrap your left arm around him, though he doesn’t lean into you.

“I… can’t imagine. But…” You reach for something that may seem like a comfort, “Bucky, for all you know he’s here today because you signed up to-“

Another loud bitter laugh shakes him and you pull your arm back. He looks at you, “I didn’t sign up for shit.” You look at him confused, pretty certain you had read that he’d enlisted.

He shakes his head and leans back, eyes up, on the sky, “Just another thing they got wrong.” Another laugh, “You think I’m some noble hero from a bygone era don’t you?” He doesn’t wait for a response, “That’s how they painted me anyway. Only Howler to give his life in combat like it was some great honor. Fuck.”  His fist presses into the indention from earlier and grinds into the cracked concrete.

“Death isn’t an honor.” He punches his fist into the spot again, “Death is why I didn’t enlist. People went into the army and fucking died. I had a family, sisters and my ma to look after. And Steve, Jesus… left to his own devices he would have gotten himself killed in weeks.” He huffs a half laugh, “Guess I should have given him more credit, he did something much stupider than dying.” You make a note to ask him what the hell that could mean later. “Punk,” he says under his breath.

“So… drafted…”

“Yeah, fucking drafted.” He sighs, “Realized I could shoot straight, stuck a rifle in my hand, and told me to kill the right people… Guess I’ve been stuck doing that in one way or another since 1942.”

And none of it was ever his choice… This combination of rage and heartbreak is familiar, you’ve felt it since you ran to Brooklyn and found your family decimated, now you feel it toward every single person who played a role in hurting this man.

He shrugs, “It all just…”

“Was too much,” you move a lock of hair behind his ear and he smiles a half smile without looking at you.

“Yeah.” He sits in silence for a minute.

When he turns to look at you his expression is haunted, “Then I… I dreamt…” His right-hand lifts, slowly, he grimaces at the movement, the joint still swollen and painful. He does it anyway and traces the scar on your left cheek. The easiest way to tell you what he was trapped in without having to say the words.

“Remember, that story isn’t all bad, Bucky.”

“Only the bad is what was playing on loop, though… even after I woke up. Seeing… hurting you… fuck.” You think he’s about to break entirely but he goes on. “And then there was… the time after…” When he choked you. “And… others.” He swallows hard. “Others I couldn’t… or didn’t care to help all right here,” he gestures around.

Voice shaking he continues, “And I…” His eyes close, jaw tight. He opens them again, some internal anger darkening them, “I am a monster, Y/N. You don’t deserve more monsters in your life.”

You can’t help but smile, “Bucky…” Shifting your position you lay your right hand over his heart and cup his face with your left, “My monster sees your monster. She’s not afraid. Neither am I.”