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wienerbarnes · 4 years

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Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 2,622

Warnings: murder lol, mentions of gore/blood, mentions of rape (its described in like two sentences and theres a short non-graphic flashback, but pls pls pls message me if you dont wanna read and ill give u a sparknotes version), so theres angst but also some nice parts like bucky meditating okay

A/N: wrote this while procrastinating my art commissions but i bought my first laptop BY MYSELF after saving for months and im v excited :) lmk what yall think of this, i promise next part will be goofier/happier lol

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

“Shit… Fuck… Fuck! He’s gonna fucking kill me… fuck…”

The mumbles spill from your lips as you take in the scene in front of you. Puddles and puddles of blood covered the floor of your apartment, dirtying your beige tile and all the other surfaces with splatters. David lays in the middle, with about thirty-six stab wounds in his body.

When you and Bucky started the arrangement regarding your list, there were two rules you two agreed to follow - no matter what. First rule: Kills are never completed alone. You two are to complete the list together and help each other with everything that involves the person. Second rule: Bucky is to know everything about the person they’re killing. What they did to you, their name, their remaining family, where they live, what they eat for breakfast; everything.

And here you were breaking both of those rules.

It was too good of an opportunity, you try and convince yourself. Bucky will understand, he’s always so understanding, he never yells, he’s always so nice to you; a choked sob escaped your body as your dirty hands fly to cover your face, tears flowing down your cheeks mixing with the blood now smeared across your skin.

…

TWO HOURS EARLIER

Bucky always told you to be extremely cautious when leaving the apartment. Even though it had been well over a year, almost two, since your prison escape, you never knew who could be watching. Every few weeks or so, your name pops up in the news, Whatever happened to one of the worst killers in modern history, How did she pull off such an escape from such a high security facility, Is she even still alive, etc.

But as soon as your name appears, it vanishes once more, replaced by some other injustice happening in the world.

Your feet take you inside a small bar, the musky scent intrigues you along with the copious amounts of peanut shells littering the floor. You take a seat on the stool and try not to pay attention to the fact that every single person in the room is staring at you right now. But you can’t blame them; you’ve dyed your hair a pastel pink now, body covered in baggy jeans and baby blue long-sleeved milkmaid top, a gift from Bucky. “You can’t wear that one t-shirt, that’s mine, by the way, forever.” He’d told you. Your rainbow painted toes and fingernails stand out under the dimmed lights of the place.

An older man behind the bar approaches you and places a napkin in front of you, “What can I get ya’?” You order some beer plastered on the wall because as far as you know, you’ve never even tried alcohol before, let alone know enough about it to have any kind of preference.

You take sips of the beer for a while, aimlessly watching the sports game playing on the TV, every once in a while glancing at the pool table where a group of older men play a game together. Suddenly, the stool beside you becomes occupied. You know it’s not Bucky, he doesn’t know you’re here and it’s not his cologne, but for a second you were hoping it was. A parallel to when you sat with him in that cafe all that time ago. When he bought you that apple pie and hot chocolate. I miss him…

You refuse to look over at the man sitting next to you, but you can feel his eyes blatantly staring at you.

“So… what’s your name?” He breaks the silence and asks you. You don’t respond, simply just continue sipping away at your beer.

“My name is David.” He offers. A chill runs up your spine at the name and you look over at him. He looks so familiar… Where do I know him from? Have I seen him at the food market before? Is he Hydra? Did we go to school together? Were we in the Marines-

“Hey officer,” A deep voice curls into your ear, causing a chill to run up your spine.

“Fuck off, David. I’m trying to do my hair.” You don’t bother glancing at him in the mirror as you scoop more gel into your hands and smooth it onto the top of your head. You’ve let your hair grow to long and the strands keep sticking out of the bun, but the thought of asking any of the other women, or worse - the men, for help cutting it terrifies you. You’re still too new.

“Now, is that any way to talk to your higher up?” A large hand wraps around your middle and gropes your breast.

“I said fuck off.” A pointy elbow slams back into his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

“I’ll get you for that, just you wait. Fresh meat.”

Your body runs cold as you make the connection and you feel as though your entire body has shut down. You can feel the cold sweat gathering in your palms and your lower back. A lump forms in your throat and you want to cry; you want to scream. But something takes over, and although you feel terrified, you keep yourself composed; hide your anxiety.

“Do you want to get out of here? My place is only a few blocks away.” You ask, false sultriness dripping from your voice. David smirks at you, clearly not recognizing you from nearly a decade ago.

He takes out some cash and places it on the bar, grabbing your beer from your hands and placing it on top, grabbing your hands after and leading you out of the bar.

…

Bucky sits on the floor of his living room, practicing his twenty minutes of meditation before bed. Alpine rubs her cheek against the bare top of his foot that’s crossed under his knee, but eventually gets bored before trotting around behind him to start climbing her way up his back. Bucky tries his best to ignore her tiny nails digging through his shirt, but can’t help but chuckle as she makes herself comfortable in the curve of his neck. “Guess meditation time is over, huh baby?” He whispers before gathering her in his hands and plopping her on his bed. He reaches down to roll up his yoga mat when he hears a silent buzzing from his kitchen.

Confused on who would be calling him this late, knowing that Sharon’s visiting a college friend over in SoHo and Sam’s on a date, he sees a number he doesn’t recognize flash on the screen. Bucky hesitates answering, but he knows telemarketers rarely call this late.

“Hello?” Bucky answers.

“B-Bucky?” Your shaky voice sounds on the other end. The sound is watery and raspy, like you've been sobbing your eyes out and screaming for hours.

“Bucky, I-I-I need y-your help… I fucked up,” Your voice is cut off by a hiccup as Bucky goes to grab his closest pair of pants to go over his boxers and he pulls on sneakers before grabbing the keys to his bike.

“Hey, sweetheart? Do me a favor and relax, okay? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Bucky rushes out as he locks his door behind him before making his way to the staircase.

“I’m so so so sorry, Bucky… please don’t be mad at me-e… I broke t-the rules,” Choked sobs escape you and Bucky has never heard you cry like that before.

“Listen, I’m already on my way, okay? I’ll be at yours in twenty minutes, okay?” You don’t respond as Bucky listens to your crying and you eventually hang up.

Broke the rules? What does she mean by… oh. She couldn’t have… we had our next hit planned for a few days from now. Did she do someone else on the list? Bucky tries not to think too much about it until he can get to yours and figure out what’s going on, his motorcycle screaming through the quiet night.

…

You’ve been sitting in David’s blood for about an hour now. The liquid is cold, his body is cold, the phone in your hand is cold. Nice going, you’ve really done it now. Not only have you probably just cost yourself your freedom, but you’ve ruined your jeans and the top Bucky bought you. He’s going to be so mad at you; he’s going to be so mad that he’s going to have no choice but to bring you in. He’ll be laughing as the cops drag you away-

Your thoughts are interrupted by a frantic knock on your door, Bucky’s voice calling your name on the other side.

“If you don’t open the door, I’m breaking it down!” He calls.

You slowly stand, trying not to slip in the puddle, before walking over to the door and opening it about halfway. Bucky’s eyes widen and his brows furrowed together as he looks your body up and down.

The blood on your clothes is starting to brown and you’re covered up to your forearms in blood. Splatters decorate your face, neck and hair, and your eyes are puffy from crying.

“I-I-” You begin to stutter. Bucky silently pushes his way inside to see the bloodbath waiting for him. He pushes the door closed behind him and stares at the body laying in the middle of the floor. Your knife still sits standing out of his face.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Bu-Bucky- I can,”

“What, you-you can explain?!” Bucky snaps, turning to face you, and you’ve never seen him look at you like this. You flinch and take a half-step backwards, bumping into the door behind you.

Bucky turns back around, a flesh and silver hand running through his hair and roughly over his face.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” He begins, voice eerily even, still staring at the body. “You're going to go shower and wash all of the blood off your body. Then you’re going to make sure this apartment is spotless. I’ll take care of… him. And then we’ll talk when I get back. Are we understood?”

You can’t seem to make any words come out so you quickly make your way to your bathroom and close the door behind you softly.

You shower until the water runs cold and your skin is tinted red. Either from the blood or how hard you were scrubbing, you’re not sure, you just didn’t want Bucky to still be in your apartment when you stepped out.

It’s not that you were scared of him, because you weren’t. You knew that Bucky would never intentionally harm you, both physically or mentally. You were more angry at yourself. Bucky's done nothing but protect you; he’s kept you a secret, helped you indirectly work through your trauma, stitched you up, made you smile and laugh when you didn’t even think that was ever going to be possible for you anymore. You broke the only rules he asked of you. You disappointed him. You’ve put him in an even worse position than he’s already in by protecting your existence.

You turn the knob of the water to the right before stepping out and wrapping your fluffy yellow robe around your body, tying it at the waist. Your apartment is empty when you step out of the bathroom, Bucky nor David occupying the space. Your walk over to your sink and open the cabinet on the bottom to take out your cleaning supplies before getting to work.

…

Bucky’s calmed down significantly by the time he gets back to your apartment. He checks his phone to see that it’s almost five in the morning before reaching in his other pocket for your keys that he took off the table, slipping the key into the lock and jiggling it until pushing the door open.

He’s not mad at you. Perhaps he was for a bit, but he realized that anger was just fear. Had anyone seen you? Did this guy do something to you? Did he recognize you and that’s why you needed to kill him? Did you kill him because you actually wanted to experience that again? He really hoped it wasn’t the last one.

You're sitting on your bed in the corner of the apartment, splatters still visible on the sheets but the floors are clean. The room doesn’t have an overpowering smell of bleach or cleaner, but there is no trace of a body here, besides the small splatters, but those can be passed off as splashes of wine. You did good.

Your feet are stretched out in front of your as your hands are planted behind your back, propping you up. Your yellow robe is tied around your waist but the edges sit high up on your thighs.

He sets your keys on your table, kicks off his shoes, and walks over to take a seat next to you.

“Did you know I was a Marine before all of this? When I was, like, eighteen?” You break the silence, still staring at the wall in front of you.

“Yes.”

“The guy was my unit chief. He raped me twice during my first week there.”

Bucky remains quiet as you explain, watching your face and it’s calm expression. You hesitate, opening and closing your mouth before opening it once more to continue.

“I went to some bar tonight and he hit on me. He didn’t recognize me, and… I don’t know. I thought I’d scare him or something, remind him what he’d done. But then he was here and he kept trying to feel me up even though I’d push him away. I didn’t have a plan yet. And then he snapped at me and then I snapped back…” You trailed off.

“After I realized what happened, I panicked and I used his phone to call you.”

“I’m really sorry, Bucky.” You say, softer now. You bring your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins.

“Okay. I forgive you.” Bucky responds after a moment.

The two of you sit in silence next to each other on the thin sheets. You’re staring at the passing cars out the window. He’s staring at your plant that’s sitting on the small night stand next to your mattress. You’ve changed out the silver tin it was sitting in to a light blue one covered in green polka dots.

You tilt your head to meet his eyes and look away briefly before meeting them again.

“Can… Can I have a hug, Bucky?” You ask, with the smallest voice in the world, your sentence ending in a small crack.

Bucky doesn’t answer and instead scoots closer to you, wrapping his arms around your body and pulling you onto his lap, your thighs on either side of him, chests touching. His left arm wraps around your back and drags slowly up and down while his right hand rests on the back of your head, softly scratching through your still damp hair. Your hands are tucked close between both your chests and your breath fans softly against his neck where your head is tucked into. He silently breathes in your scent, the children’s strawberry soap you use mixed with a homey, warm small that’s just you. He watches out the window as the sky turns from a dark blue to a deep orange; it should be about five-thirty right about now and the morning traffic is about to start.

“There’s a ton of white cat hair on your shoulder, Buck.” He hears you whisper against him, voice slurring a bit with drowsiness, the last bits of adrenaline wearing off.

He smiles to himself and holds you until you're fast asleep, and then stays for a while after that, too.

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