#because they were willing to overlook his PTSD for 10 years until then. and i have no doubt that the officers exaggerated his faults | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wkemeup · 5 years

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Guiding Light (10)

summary: It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get the intel and go home. Until everything goes wrong and you’re taken captive by Hydra and now, Bucky can’t breathe without you. Not until he brings you home. If he even can. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 10.6k (oops) warnings: angst™, PTSD symptoms (dissociative episode), FLUFF?? 🖤series masterlist // series playlist

Someone asked you a question but you couldn’t quite hear it over the buzzing in your ears.

Bucky’s hand gripped tightly in yours was the only constant keeping you from spinning. A soft squeeze every few seconds, reminding you that you weren’t dreaming, that this wasn’t some kind of sick ploy by Hydra to keep you compliant or submissive. It reminded you that it was really Bucky under your touch, Bucky who’s gentle reassuring smiles flash in your direction and Bucky who’s thumb traced over the back of your hand when he noticed the beep of the heart monitor tick faster for even a second too long.

You swallowed thickly, keeping your eyes trained on the end of your cot because there were too many people in the room, more people than you’d been around in months, and while they were all people you loved, it was taking all of your energy to keep steady breaths.

A squeeze in your hand and you turned to your right. Bucky offered you a reassuring smile, gentle and kind, and the blue of his eyes eased the tension in your chest. You nodded, drawing in a deep breath as you turned back to the team.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

Tony tucked his hands into his pockets, shrugging off your apology. He exchanged a glance with Steve cautiously before he spoke again. “Because of the, um, circumstances of the last video, we’ll need to ask you some questions to confirm you are who you say you are.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, glaring at Tony. Clearly, that wasn’t how he worded it the first time. “Cho already cleared her, Stark, and she’s barely even been conscious for a few hours. We don’t have to put her through that again.”

Tony clenched his jaw. He was about as happy about asking the questions as Bucky was hearing it. “Helen only cleared her physically. Shifters can be incredibly deceptive. They can take on scars and superficial markings, but they don’t replicate memories. We haven’t had a chance to talk to her until now and it’s the only way to prove she’s our Y/n.”

Bucky shook his head gritting his teeth and you watched as anger fumed from the red in his cheeks.

“I’m not going to interrogate her, Barnes,” Tony pressed, offering you a tight smile, “we just have to be sure. After what happened... you of all people should want that.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up to Tony and he nearly jumped up from his seat next to your bed to lunge at Tony if it wasn’t for your gentle tug on his hand. He turned back to you, slowly, and you nodded at him, curving the edges of your lips to a smile despite the ache in your cheeks.

You couldn’t help but wonder what Tony meant by that, what had happened to Bucky in the months he believed you to be dead, but you pushed it from your mind. A steady breath in and you straightened your spine.

“I'll do it,” you said, willing your voice less nervous than you felt. “I don’t mind.”

Tony smiled in relief. He gripped at the plastic railing at the end of the cot before he glanced back up at you. “They’ll be personal questions. Stuff only you would know.”

“Okay,” you responded and Bucky’s hand squeezed yours. You didn’t notice the beep of the heart monitor increase.

To your surprise, Tony stepped back against the wall, and it was Natasha that stepped forward. She brushed past Tony, giving Steve a subtle nod as he touched her shoulder encouragingly, before she took a seat on the edge of the bed. One leg handing off the side and the other tucked up under her lap, she exhaled a heavy breath.

She hadn’t let herself believe it was you, you realized. Her face was too cold, too numbed. Your best friend who had been nothing but impenetrably strong in all the years you’d known her and she was crumbling behind deteriorating walls and cracks in her defenses.

“Our first mission together,” she started, voice low, calculating, “you trusted me when no one else did; when the others were calling me a soviet spy behind my back and speculating about the red in my ledger. Why?”

You bit your lower lip between your teeth, thinking back to the mission in Boston, where you stood with her on the corner of Bay State and Raleigh, waiting for your mark to emerge from a brownstone apartment overlooking the Charles River. She was uneasy, putting too much distance between you because she had spent years as a single operative and wasn’t used to working on a team, wasn’t used to the prospect of trust.

One of the agents had forgotten to turn off his com and a snide joke about her past echoed through the speakers, enough to make her cringe, and you hadn’t even taken an extra breath before you’d ripped the agent a new one from where you stood halfway across the city, listing his own mistakes in the field and reminding him swiftly that Natasha Romanoff displayed more bravery in the choice to defect to SHIELD after what she’d been through than he had in his entire career. He shut up after that.

You smiled softly, remembering the cool breeze and the sound of traffic and chatter passing by, as she hesitantly asked why you trusted her so much.

“It was Barton,” you replied, confident, the conversation you had with her clearly coming back to you. “He made a call, chose to stake his career at SHIELD on it because he knew there was more to you than what he’d been told, that you had the potential to be more, greater, than what the red room made you. A call like that? It wasn’t one I planned on disregarding lightly and once we met, you gave me no reason to prove him wrong.”

Natasha grinned at you, almost in a laugh, like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She brushed the tears from her eyes.

“I think I said something to that effect,” you shrugged, lips pulling up in a tight laugh as Nat squeezed your free hand. She turned back to Tony with a nod, her signal of approval, and you felt Bucky’s grip tighten on your hand for a brief moment. You met his eye and he smiled softly at you, proud.

“Guess I'm up,” Sam said as he stepped forward. He stood at the edge of the bed with his arms crossed over his chest. You looked up at him, feeling a little more confident now that you’d passed Nat’s test and she was standing in the corner, giving you a short thumbs up and a reassuring smile when you glanced in her direction.

Through narrowed eyes, hardened features, he studied you for a moment before he spoke and you felt a sudden rush of nerves up your spine. You’d never been on the receiving end of anything other than light hearted jokes and cheesy smiles from Sam, so seeing him like this, wearing a scowl and a clench in his jaw, unnerved you.

He leaned in, eyeing you up before he asked in a slow, deep voice, “What’s my favorite ice cream flavor?”

Tony rolled his eyes as Sam’s lips curved up into a huge smile. Bright and bold and covering half his face, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hey, listen, only Y/n would know, right? She’s in charge of ice cream nights. We’re all aware of that, yes?” Sam defended himself, sending you a wink.

“Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey,” you replied easily without skipping a beat, “with chocolate syrup and m&m’s sprinkled on top.”

“It’s like he’s a twelve year old boy,” Tony scoffed, but Sam ignored him; all smiles and giving you a nod of approval.

“She’s clear in my book,” Sam stated walking back to his corner of the room and nestling against the wall. You watched him with a grin on your face, feeling light and at ease for the first time in months. He winked again and you only smiled wider.

But then Steve came forward. He wore a stern expression, one of a solemn nature too, and it wiped the smile from your face quickly.

“Three years ago, you were on a reconnaissance mission in Guatemala,” Steve began, giving no time for short introductions or greetings. He needed to get this over with you realized quickly, so you nodded, following his timeline. “I contacted you through the secure line with a code phrase that signaled you to return home at your first availability. What was the code word?”

You blinked a few times, mouth agape. Your mind was a blank slate.

“Steve,” Bucky warned, “those codes change every mission. No one should be expected to remember that.”

“Y/n would,” Steve argued, staring at you and you felt unsettled under his gaze.

You tried to rack your brain, thinking back to the details of the mission the best you could. You had been tailing a Russian operative for weeks by the time you got the call from Steve, that much you remembered. He was a guy by the name of Alexi Chekov, a soviet agent sent to make a deal with an organized crime syndicate in Villa Nueva.

“It was, um,” you started, hoping the answer would fall from your lips as you went, but still nothing. Steve exchanged a worried look with Tony and Bucky gritted at his teeth.

“This can’t be necessary, Steve,” Bucky urged as he noticed the way your eyes were darting at the foot of your bed, hand gripping his tightly, the steady beep of your heart rate upon the monitor increasing. “We know it’s her. Just look at her!”

“All due respect, Buck, but we all watched our friend get shot in the head on live television,” Steve snapped, a surprising kind of anger in his voice. “As much as I want this to be real, and it feels pretty damn real, so did that video. I have to be sure that this isn’t the trick. I know for a fact that only our Y/n would know this so I... I need her to remember, Buck. I need this confirmation. You’ve got to understand that.”

Bucky held Steve’s gaze, challenging one another, until you spoke up again.

“Just give me a minute,” you requested softly, tugging on Bucky’s hand until he met your eye and you nodded at him, letting him know you were okay. You turned to Steve. “I’ll remember. My memories are just... messy right now. I need a minute.”

Steve nodded, stepping back to give you space.

As you thought back, you closed your eyes, trying to picture the mountains, the striking greenery, the heat and humidity on your skin. Sweat dripping off your shoulders and thick warm air in your lungs. You were never meant to engage with Chekov, only to observe, and you had been watching him from a table outside of a small café as he talked with a man at the end of a long alleyway.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket and it almost startled you because that phone never went off without urgent need. Keeping your eyes trained on Chekov, you had pulled the phone from your pocket, a single, secure line reflected on the caller ID, the only number with access to this phone and you answered. Steve’s voice on the other end and he spoke a single word.

What was it?

It wasn’t Pelican. That was the return home code from your mission in Paris with Barton.

Couldn’t be Delta or Binghamton. Those were too recent.

He’d used Cambridge, Havana, and Moscato when you’d been on missions with Bucky.

You groaned, teeth clenching as you searched through the back of your mind, and you could feel Bucky’s grip on your hand tighten. Your heart rate must have sky rocketed because he was starting to argue with Steve again, telling him to back off, to give you space.

“No, I can do this,” you insisted sternly, eyes still closed, and Bucky silenced immediately.

Your memories were distorted, that much you knew. The pieces of how you ended up back at the Avengers compound were lost on you so it was safe to assume Hydra had done something to mess with your memories. It effected your long term, too, it seemed.

But you were determined, needed to prove that you were exactly who you said you were because these people were your family and you needed them to trust you, needed to be able to trust them too, implicitly, because you’d been through too much already to have to survive it alone.

You let out a steady breath, putting yourself back at that café in Villa Nueva. The bitter taste of coffee on your tongue. The smell of fresh meats and spices in the air, and your stomach was growling, but there was no time for that as you watched Chekov exchange a handshake with the unknown man. Your memory brought you back to the phone call, the buzz in your pocket that made your heart jump, and you answered.

The codes all had meaning. They weren’t just made up words Steve would pick randomly out of a dictionary. He’d sit down with you before missions and make sure it was something you’d remember, something that would bring you home without hesitation. So, what was happening at home before you left?

Bucky.

Bucky was being pardoned by the president for crimes he’d committed under Hydra’s control. He was coming to live at the compound, a compromise set by the attorney general, but you’d be gone before he arrived. Steve had been worried about him, nervous about how the team would take to him and if he’d forgive himself for the first encounter he had with most of them while he'd been the soldier.

It always came back to Bucky.

A breath of relief, and you opened your eyes.

“Sergeant,” you answered, the code word coming back to you, and Steve exhaled a long held breath. He nodded, a smile tugging at his cheeks.

“I knew it,” he sighed as he allowed the stiffness in his shoulders to fall. “It's so good to have you home, Y/n.”

A tension quickly faded from the room.

“Tony, I think it’s your turn,” you offered, feeling a little more in control of your memories, but he held his hands up.

“I’ve got all the proof I need, kid.”

You turned to Bucky to find him smiling at you, proud, lips curved so subtly but enough for the blue in his eyes to soften to a gentle hue, something that made your stomach weak.

“What about you, Buck? I could list every song on the playlist I made you or tell you the first book I forced you read or the path around the compound we used to run or--”

“You’ve convinced me, doll,” Bucky interjected gently, his hand brushing over yours and tracing delicate patterns on your skin, “from the second I saw you. I’m good. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

He brought your hand to his lips, kissed at your broken knuckles, and you watched him with awe. He'd never done something like that before, certainly not around others, not with that kind of ease and grace like he didn’t have even an ounce of hesitation. A tear slipped past your eye before you realized it, and Nat rushed forward, brushing it away and wrapping her arms around you in a tight embrace, though she was careful of the various scars on your body.

Steve and Sam laughed in the corner of the room while Tony observed from his quiet spot at the end of the bed. Bucky’s hand not leaving yours for even an instant. You had your family back and you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the gaps in your memories or the hell you’d endured in the last seven months.

***

Dr. Cho cleared you to leave the med bay a week later. Your body was stronger than they anticipated, displayed evidence that you’d been training and well fed in recent months, though you still couldn’t remember much of that.

It was harder than you thought to reacclimate to the compound. To get back to your normal life.

You found yourself unable to sleep on the soft surface of your bed, opting for the floor and sometimes finding yourself waking up to Bucky’s soft snores in the morning, realizing he had found his way from his own room to your floor at some point in the night. He was never far away, his hand only inches from yours like he had held it in his own in the middle of the night.

You had a hard time stomaching any of the food the team tried to prepare for you, even your old favorites, finding them too sweet, too potent; that in contrast to the stale bread you’d survived on for months, anything else was overwhelming to your senses. Natasha started making her homemade bread again and you started to reintroduce foods by adding a tablespoon of jam, or a slice of turkey breast, until eventually you could eat a sandwich without heaving it up an hour later.

The worst though, were the moments when you forgot where you were. When you woke up in the dead of night, screaming and shaking, believing you were back in that cell until Bucky rushed in, throwing on the lights, and holding you until you believed he was real. He’d whisper reassurances in your ear and hold you so tight against his chest, the compression alone was enough to pull your mind away from its haze. It never took him long to reach you and you started to wonder if he was sleeping on the floor outside your room. You’d found a pillow there one morning but lost the courage to ask him about it.

Some days, when you weren’t expecting it, you’d flinch violently away from any kind of touch, even when it came from Bucky, and he’d retreat with wide, fearful eyes. Embarrassment and shame would seep through you and he’d look down at his hand like he wanted to set it on fire for making you feel so afraid, if even for a moment.

Healing wasn’t easy and trauma wasn’t something you’d overcome in a week. Your memory was still in pieces and you couldn’t push past the lingering anxiety in the back of your chest, warning you that this wasn’t over, that you weren’t as safe as everyone thought.

***

Two months later and you were spending daily sessions in Dr. Cho’s office, attempting to piece your memory back together. While you had started to eat better, started to sleep through the night and in a bed, started to seek touch instead of run from it, you hadn’t made an ounce of progress with your memories.

They came in through blurry images, detached and unconnected, and you couldn’t stitch them together no matter how hard you tried. With no memories of an escape and only fragmented glimpses of the events following the final video recorded in your cell, you couldn’t help the useless feeling that burned in your chest every time Dr. Cho asked you a question about your captivity.

Bucky stayed out by the door as you asked him to, every session, acting as your protector and ready to ease you away from the distress the sessions caused you, because the not remembering was the worst of it. The idea that Hydra might have done things to you, things you couldn’t remember, was more terrifying than the few pieces you still had vivid images of.

Starving. The chair bolted at the center of the room. A man with a thick, angry scar down his face that carved through his clouded eye. A blonde woman with a camera. A lumpy mattress with sharp springs poking at you. The woman who wore your face. Blood stained red and dark upon the concrete. A second hostage, someone you had talked with, someone you felt a deep, unsettling grief for.

It was all your memory allowed for.

She had you writing in journals, hoping that it would bring something back to you, but no matter how many books you filled, you couldn’t seem to uncover anything from after the video shown in Times Square and even your time before that felt fragmented and distorted. It was chaos inside your head.

“Why don’t we end here for today,” Dr. Cho said softly and you realized she must have asked you another question. You glanced up at her from your stare on the wall and she was watching you under worried eyes, offering you a tight smile though you could see the lingering tension behind it.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled quickly, but Dr. Cho shook her head.

“No, no it’s alright, Y/n,” she replied, genuine, “it’ll come back. We just need to give it time. Try and let yourself heal in the meantime. These memories... they’ll be distressing when they return. You’ll want to be prepared when they do.”

You nodded slowly, feeling a little uneasy. Dr. Cho knocked on the door and Bucky stepped inside.

He smiled at you encouragingly, as he always did, and never asked about what you talked about in this room, knowing you’d tell him if you needed to and just thankful you were talking about it with someone, even if it wasn’t him. But your smile didn’t come as easy today and his hand snuck into yours and squeezed it, giving you a moment before he led you from the room.

He was so observant, so perceptive to your distress, and you wondered when he had learned to be so attuned to you; if it happened before you were taken or if he had committed to memory the second you returned. Regardless, as Dr. Cho left the room, he helped you back to your feet, even if you didn’t necessarily need the support.

“So, what do you want to do?” Bucky asked with a gentle smile as he led you out into the hallway, allowing your hand to slip away awkwardly. “We could make food and watch a movie? We never finished the series about that wizard kid you liked.”

How he managed to spark the light back into you after feeling trapped in darkness was beyond you.

“Harry Potter,” you confirmed with a laugh, nudging his shoulder as you walked beside him. His hand swayed at his hips and his knuckles brushed yours. You longed to pull his hand into yours again, but couldn’t find the courage, didn’t know if moments like that were reserved for hospital beds and I-almost-lost-you scares, not for walking down the hall in the open like you were.

“Right, Harry Potter,” he repeated, nodding in the memory. “We could try and get your muscles moving again? Maybe go to the gym but take it real easy? I know sitting around was hard for me after...”

He bit his lip, the smile faded from his face. He glanced over at you, nervous, but you met him with a soft, reassuring smile. He was offering you suggestions, giving you choices, in the way you had done for him when he first started getting used to the compound, from coming off the run and his imprisonment with Hydra. He understood that you weren’t used to having choices, that asking you something too broad would send you into overdrive. There were too many possibilities.

So, he offered you easy options. Movie or gym. Quick and easy. Simple. It gave you back a sense of control.

“The gym sounds nice, actually,” you replied, stretching your arm over your chest.

Bucky nodded, the smile returning to his face in a breath of relief. He paused at a doorway and you realized you had made it back to your room.

“I’m gonna run and change and I’ll meet you there?” he asked carefully.

You knew he was trying to give you space, to let you do things on your own, but it was hard for him, hard to be away from you for even a second because he might fall into a trap that convinced himself you weren’t really here and this had all been a dream. But he knew you needed to learn your independence again, so he was working on it. If you were honest, so were you.

You nodded in agreement and watched as Bucky quickly paced down the rest of the short hall and disappeared behind his bedroom door. It physically ached to be apart from him, like every time his back was to you the pain was being dragged away from him that day came rushing back. You tried to remind yourself that you’d see him again in a few minutes, that you wouldn’t be alone for long. It only seemed to ease you for a short while, but that was typically all you needed before he was by your side again.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed your way inside your room.

It wasn’t the first time you'd been in your bedroom since you’d been back, but it still disoriented you every time. It was odd, being back in this space, and having a drawer full of clothes to choose from. The fabric was soft under your fingertips and smelled of laundry detergent and florals. It was almost too sweet, the scent of it. It burned in your nose after spending so much time covered in filth and blood.

You changed quickly, throwing on a pair of leggings and a tank top to keep cool, and grabbed your sneakers from the space by the door. You froze as you picked them up, realizing they hadn’t moved since you’d tossed them off carelessly before your last mission with the team, the mission you were taken by Hydra.

A steady breath in and you tried to control the sudden surge of your heart rate. You focused on the feel of your clothes, the compression of the leggings, the cool air condition fanning down from the vent above, until you felt at ease again. You slipped the sneakers on and jogged your way to the gym, unable to be on your own any longer.

When you stepped into the gym, Bucky was leaning against the padded wall, waiting patiently for you. You waved at him as you jogged your way over, but his smile fell quickly to a frown as he pushed himself off the wall. Narrowing your eyes on him, you were about to ask what was wrong until you noticed the trail of his gaze over your arms.

Faded scars running against your skin like pieces of a mosaic, some sharp and short, others long and jagged, but far more than you ever had before Hydra. You realized suddenly that you’d been in nothing but long sleeves since you’d returned and Bucky hadn’t been exposed to the extent of your torture; torture you never talked about while he was in the room, even the small pieces you remembered, because you knew he’d commit it to memory and find a way to blame himself. He hadn’t even seen the full extent of the scars when you were unconscious in the med bay.

His hand slowly reached out, trembling, and it just barely graze the deepest cut on your left forearm, before he pulled away sharply. He couldn’t meet your eye.

“Bucky, I’m okay,” you urged, reaching towards him but he was too far out of your grasp, “they’ve healed. They don’t hurt anymore.”

“But they happened,” he countered, his voice low and aching.

“They did,” you replied, “and it was horrible and awful, the same way the scars on your shoulder are for you.”

You leaned forward, carefully allowing your fingers to brush over his hands, pulling them against your own and intertwining them together. He let out a heavy exhale. Slowly, he looked up until you were met with stunning blue.

“I’m here, Buck. I survived it. I’m okay.”

He nodded apprehensively, a clench in his jaw, and you knew it was hard for him, but again, he was trying. He forced out a smile for you the best he could.

“Alright, doll.”

You let go of his hands, stepping away nervously and tying your hair up away from your face. Turning back to face the gym, your eyes wandered across the wide variety of equipment and machines until you landed on the ring and an overwhelming rush of warmth and home filled your chest.

“Let’s spar.”

Bucky shook his head, hands raised. “Hold on now. I was kinda expecting we’d walk on the treadmill or sit on a bike at the lowest possible resistance.”

“You asked me what I want to do and this is it,” you argued playfully, backing up and moving closer to the ring as Bucky followed you. “Dr. Cho said my body is healthier than we think it is. Come on, Buck. It’ll make me feel normal, like I’m--” you huffed, looking around the room and feeling a sudden unpleasant twist in your gut, “like I’m not some broken, fucked up POW that’s gonna fall apart at any second.”

The words fell from you before you could stop them and Bucky furrowed his brow, thrown by the sudden self-deprecation that was so unlike the woman he knew.

“You’re not, Y/n,” he said sternly, heartbreak in his face, “and you never once thought that of me, so please don’t think it of yourself.”

“So, spar with me,” you asked again, quieter this time, “please, Buck. I promise to tell you if it’s too much. I just really need to feel like I can do something like I used to before, before what happened, and this, this is something I’m good at. Please.”

After a while of contemplation and a clear war in his head, Bucky conceded. He never could say no to you, so he tossed you the roll of tape and instructed you to wrap your hands. You did so with a smile on your face.

Once you were done, you climbed up into the ring, sliding between the ropes and jumping on the platform to warm your muscles. It was with the same excited energy you carried the last time you sparred with him, and Bucky wrestled between the fond memory and the horror that followed.

As he followed behind, hands taped, and stretching his arms in preparation, he shot you a serious look. “Don’t push yourself, you hear me?”

“Cross my heart, Sergeant,” you replied cheekily and for a moment Bucky forgot about the scars on your arms and the nightmare of the last few months. You were so you and he was thankful beyond words.

You rushed at him hard, determined with something to prove, and got a solid five hooks in before he could touch you. It was unusual for your sparring together. Even when he was holding back the full force of his hits, he always got in a few in between yours. It was a dance.

He backed up until he met the ropes and you swung around him again, pushing him down on the mat quickly. Too quickly. You stood above him, hands planted on your hips and you frowned.

“You’re holding back,” you scolded, offering him a hand to help him back up. “You didn’t even get in a single hit.”

He shrugged, brushing off his pants. “I don’t want to--”

“--hurt me. Yeah, I know,” you finished dejectedly, stepping forward to brush you hand over the cool plates of his left arm, “but if I wanted to hit a punching bag, I would.”

He chuckled at that and the tension started to fade from his muscles. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

He nodded, trying to psych himself up and give in to your request. You started to pace around the ring, circling him like prey, and for once, he was the one to charge first.

You blocked his first hit with your forearm, shoving it aside as you dipped under his arm, kicking him from behind enough for him to stumble a few paces forward. He turned back to you with a newfound smile on his face just as you knew he would and you rushed at him again. It was so familiar, this dance, circling one another and finding solace in the closeness. A laugh even escaped him as you got him on his knees for a second before he jumped back up.

In the ring, you felt normal again, like maybe the last few months had been a dream and you’d never left Bucky’s side at all. For a moment, you’d never been held in that cold, dark cell. You’d never been tortured by the same organization that rendered the love of your life into something outside of himself, something dark and twisted and empty. You’d never been forced to face the possibility that you would die without ever seeing Bucky again.

It was seamless. It was exactly where you were supposed to be. Focusing on Bucky’s breaths and the way he bounced around the ring so light on his feet with a smile that made your stomach ache.

In the moment of your distraction, Bucky clipped your shoulder harder than you were expecting and it sent you spiraling to the ground. You landed on the mat like you’d fallen from three stories above, hard and without time to catch yourself. The air was pushed violently from your lungs.

Suddenly, hands were ghosting over your arms, worried voice littered with concern and panic, but you couldn’t quite hear it, couldn’t feel the soft touch of fingertips upon your skin.

You were cold suddenly, freezing, and darkness blurred your vision. You didn’t move from the ground, eyes staring far off to the wall even as Bucky desperately tried to get your attention. He was shouting, arms waving frantically to someone beyond the doors of the gym, and you could only vaguely register footsteps sprinting towards you.

Red hair dipped into your vision, blurred and distant. It was there; you could see it, but it felt like you were miles away, like you were watching it all play out on a movie screen. You were underwater.

“What the hell happened?” a voice barked, feminine. Red hair swung over shoulders as she faced someone sitting next to you.

“I don’t-- I don’t know,” a man replied, scared. A cool surface brushed along your shoulder, hard like metal. “We were sparring and she just—I must have hit too hard and--”

“What the hell were you thinking, Buck?” a deeper voice questioned, one of authority, arms folded over his chest. Short blonde hair. “What made you think she was ready for this?”

“She just wanted to feel normal, Steve! What was I supposed to do?” he argued back, though his hands were shaking as they ran delicately along your arms, “Deny her? Treat her like she’s made of glass, like she could just lose it at any second, the way you all did to me?!”

“Well look how that turned out, Buck!”

You were lying on concrete. No, on a mattress with exposed springs. Blood stained on the floor not far from you. You started shaking, tears in your eyes and someone was pulling you off the mat, wrapped into strong arms, one colder and harder than the other. He was whispering in your ear words you couldn’t quite make out, but it was soothing, relaxing. A hand brushed over your forehead, wiping away the sweat and the hair from your eyes. Your heartrate started to come down and the haze faded from your vision and your mind.

“I’ll call for Helen,” Nat said, and you realized suddenly that you recognized her voice. She was pulling out her phone, sending a worried glance in Steve’s direction though his eyes were carefully trained on Bucky.

Bucky.

It was his arms wrapped around you, the warmth of his breath gently exhaling against your neck as he held you, his voice that had been shaken and scared as it called out for help.

“M’okay,” you muttered, coming back to the surface, shifting slightly in Bucky’s arms.

You felt his breath hitch at your movement, the collective sighs of relief from your friends as they stood at the edge of the ring. The panic on their faces, the fear in Bucky’s eyes as looked down at you, searching to make sure you were alright, set an anxious twist in your stomach.

You clenched your jaw, maneuvering yourself away from his embrace and he let you go without question, though his hands lingered as long as you’d let him before you tugged yourself away completely. You wrapped your arms around yourself, embarrassed and ashamed.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, honey, don’t apologize,” Nat urged delicately, sinking down to her knees so she sat at your eye level, her hand taking yours in her own. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s mine,” Bucky nodded, voice flat, detached.

“It’s not yours either, James,” Natasha said sternly, flashing a warning look in Steve’s direction before he could say anything. She took a deep breath, squeezing your hand and you found you couldn’t take your eyes off of Bucky. “We all know where the blame belongs and it’s with Hydra. There will be setbacks in recovery, Y/n. There always are. But you’ve come further than you’ve fallen back. You have to remember that.”

You took in her words, knowing there was truth in it. Bucky still couldn’t meet your eye.

***

It took another three weeks before Bucky even agreed to step foot in the gym with you again. Helen had told you that it was normal, expected almost, to have flashbacks like that after what you'd been through. Unprepared for the hit on your shoulder, it threw you into a dissociative state and rendered you outside of yourself, your body’s instinctive defense mechanism, to protect you from what it believed was about to come.

But you were safe, you were with Bucky, with your family, in a fortress surrounded by SHEILD agents and superheroes. The trick was convincing your body of that, too.

“Bucky, I can handle it,” you repeated after he’d only shaken his head at you, unwilling to listen to your requests to spar again.

“You said that last time and look what happened,” he sighed, fingers darting through his hair anxiously. “I set that off in you, Y/n. I triggered it. I was the one who made you feel like that, and I won’t do it again.”

You exhaled a heavy breath, so desperate to feel normal again but knowing that he was right, that you couldn’t throw yourself back into your old routine like nothing had happened. You needed smaller steps.

“Okay,” you conceded and Bucky’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Walk with me?”

He smiled at that, nodding, and let you take his hand in yours as you led him to the outside path around the compound; the same one you used to run together.

Weeks later, the walks turned into infrequent intervals with light jogs. Then, after you regained more strength in your legs and craved blood pumping through your veins, you started to run the entire path with Bucky at your side; laughing and sprinting the final stretch, teasing him about how slow he’d become until you heard the perfect sound of his own laugh as he caught up behind you.

He started to help you reacclimate to the punching bags, something that couldn’t hit you back, and brought Nat in to work with you on shadow boxing, though neither of them would step foot with you in the ring.

Two months since the incident in the ring and you’d spent multiple times a week in Dr. Cho’s office, working through how to handle episodes like that when they came up and sorting through the mess of memories in your head. You were more in control, felt like you had ownership of your mind and your body in a way you had tried so hard to believe when you stepped into the ring with Bucky the first time since you returned. You had wanted to believe it so badly then. You were certain now.

“Hey Buck,” you called his name gently, quietly, and he stilled his movements against the punching back instantly. He turned to you with a smile on his face, just barely there but enough to make your heart swell, hair damp with sweat clinging to the sides of his face and still looking like a dream.

You hesitated for a moment, worried he would say no, and fidgeted in your stance. You wrung your hands together as you met his eye.

“Will you spar with me?”

He clenched his jaw, smile fading.

“I’m ready now,” you insisted, voice stronger because you meant it, “I can handle it, Buck. You know I can. It’s been two months since I was last in the ring and I—I feel like I’m going stir crazy here. This is my life. It’s what I’m trained to do and I have to get back in eventually and I promise, Buck, I promise I’m ready for it now. You can talk to Dr. Cho if you need to but she’ll agree and --”

“Okay.”

“-- if you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who—what?” you froze, watching the way Bucky pushed out a nervous smile.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he said again, the gentle kind of smile on his face that was so incredible subtle and lit up the entire room all at once. “You’re ready. I can see that. You’ve been ready for the last week I think, but I wanted to wait until you said something. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not excited about the possibility it could happen again, but we’ll start slow, right?”

“Right, yes, of course,” you agreed, smile aching in your cheeks as you nodded. “I’m a little surprised you’re okay with this.”

“Yeah, well, you never treated me like I was going to break,” Bucky explained, stepping forward and picking up the tape from the side of the ring. He drew out a long extension before he cut it off, gesturing for your hands and starting to wrap them himself. It sent chills up your spine. “I want to return the favor. You say you’re ready? Okay. You’re ready. Besides, if anyone is going to get back in that ring with you, I want it to be me. Let’s me keep an eye on you.”

You smiled at him as he finished wrapping your hands, a soft blush in your cheeks.

His own hands already wrapped from hitting the punching bag, he led you to the ring, lifting up the ropes for you to duck under. He followed close behind and though he was hesitant as he brushed his hands on the thighs of his pants, watching you under cautious eyes, he trusted you implicitly. He believed you when you said you were ready. It gave you back the control you’d been missing for months.

“Slow, remember?” he advised, holding his hands up into position.

You nodded, doing the same and unable to wipe the smile from your face.

It started out in easy, cautious movements; like you were marking choreography. Starting to find the rhythm again with each other and never hitting at full swing. He reminded you what it was like to have to watch your opponent from all angles and how to anticipate movement before it strikes. You tapped his cheek with your closed fist, almost like a kiss, and he smiled with a nod of approval as you pulled it away. Everything was in slow motion.

A few days later and you worked up to increasing the paces of your movements; still never hitting at full strength and not enough to get a line of sweat to drip off your brow, but closer to the real thing. Bucky had asked Dr. Cho to come in and observe after your approval and she watched from the sidelines, nodding and studying your reactions when Bucky’s hand swung at you, albeit in a slow enough pace you could have stepped aside easily, but quick enough for it to resemble the sparring that used to take place in the ring. She nodded, giving you a thumbs up and you beamed in Bucky’s direction. He had a kind of hopefulness in his eyes you hadn’t seen in long time.

A month later and you stood at the edge of the ring, sweat dampening your hair and pooling in beads down your arms and neck. You grinned, adrenaline coursing through you to feel the rush again, to know that Bucky trusted you so completely to step back into the ring again with you after what happened, to be willing to spar with you at your full strength.

He’d gotten in a few hits and while his eyes burned wide and fearful of what might happen, you had only grinned, sending a wink before you took the opportunity to jump him. You kicked off from the post in the corner of the ring, lunging onto his shoulders and using the full force of your body weight as you swung around and slammed him to the mat in the momentum.

Your body on top of his, holding him down, and he groaned as his face scrunched up in a grimace from the impact.

“That’s new,” he grunted, barely opening his eyes from the glare of the florescent light above, but you cast a shadow over him, your face just inches from his as you started to laugh.

“Spent a lot of time watching Nat and Steve spar while I was sidelined,” you replied with a smirk, hands still gripping his wrists pressed down onto the mat by his face, held in a form of surrender.

“Should have figured you’d get a move like that from Romanoff,” Bucky chuckled. He made no effort to move out from under you.

“Feels good to be back in the ring,” you sighed, unable to wipe the smile from your face, a relief you couldn’t quite explain. “After all that happened, it just... it’s nice to know I can still take you down, Barnes.”

“Of course, you can. Never doubted that for a second,” he replied softly, the teasing fading away to something sincere, something that made your stomach twist into knots. “I am just... constantly amazed by you, Y/n. Everything you do, everything you’ve survived. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Your lips parted in a gentle kind of shock, watching as a lingering sadness masked over the pain filled shades of blue. A world of emotion settled in his eyes and an eternity could have passed by in that moment, the world spinning on without you because the only thing that mattered was soft blue, worry lines in his forehead, and the small freckle above his left eye.

The two of you never really talked about those months you were gone. You didn’t want to darken the moments you had with him by bringing up the hell you’d been put through or asking him what happened to him while you were gone. He never confronted you about it, either, but you could tell how much he wanted to.

It was a weight that sat between you, the knowledge of how he had lost pieces of himself when you were gone and how you had come to fully accept you would die in that cell.

Without thinking much of it, just wanting to feel more of him, you released his right wrist, trailing your hand up his arm, over his shoulder, until you cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing over cheekbone. He was so beautiful, so stunning and irrevocably broken, like you were, but he was everything; shattered and mangled pieces strung together with string and tape and still somehow the most perfect man you’d ever known.

Bucky just watched you intently as you gazed down at him, mesmerized in the feeling of the bristles of hair on his jawline and the smooth contrast of his cheekbone.

“I missed you,” you whispered suddenly, the words falling with ease. Even though it had been months since you’ve been home, the ache of being without him for so long still sat buried deep in your chest.

Bucky’s breath was warm against your face and you could feel the sharp inhale in his chest against you. He swallowed, licking at his lips, knowing exactly what you meant, because he always did.

“I missed you, too, sweetheart, more than you could ever know." He tried to push out a smile that fell too quickly as his eyes began to gloss over. “I… I didn’t know how to keep going without you.”

Heart feeling like it had just cracked straight through the middle, an aching pain and a twist in your stomach, you whispered his name with the sweet melody of a prayer and he exhaled a world of pain just to hear his name upon your voice.

His hand snaked up against your hair, pushing away the sparse flyaways in your face. The way he watched you, studied you, like you were something to be treasured, adored, like you were displayed in the Louvre itself, had your heart pounding in your chest, pressed against his. Short, careful breaths as his fingers raked gentle into your scalp, the tender look in his eye, and with a rush of courage, you leaned in.

His lips were unlike anything you'd imagined; somehow pillowy soft and rough at the same time, calloused and velvet. Hesitant at first and just barely touching one another, just feeling the warmth of his breath and the graze of his lips. He was gentle in his movements as he pressed up to kiss you, ushering your head to the side to kiss between your lips, angling you above him. Your hand released his left wrist, allowing it to find its way to your waist. Metal caressing up your side, smooth, steady motions leaving goosebumps in their wake, and you sighed against his mouth.

It was more, better, than you imagined it would be because it was Bucky, and there was never a moment with him that left you unsatisfied. It only took a few seconds before you caught taste of one another and once you did, you couldn’t slow down, couldn’t get enough.

It was months and years of pining, of holding each other in cover of the night and teasing smiles and checking in more than you needed to because not knowing whether or not he was okay on a mission unsettled you unlike anything else. It was too long of being at arm's length, too long of fear of the unknown, too long of being separated against your will and dreaming of him to keep you sane.

Bucky planted his foot on the ground, shifting until you rolled onto your back as he hovered above you. The weight of his body on yours and you kissed at him hungrily, deeply, wrapping a leg around his waist and pushing your heel against him, ushering him to where you so desperately needed him. The grind against you was sinful, perfect, heavenly and you let out a moan that nearly stopped Bucky in his tracks.

He kissed along your jawline, whispering sweet praises in your ear, words of “sweetheart” and “beautiful” chanting like a prayer, and you couldn’t get enough of his voice, of the feel of his hands on you, of his lips pressing and drinking yours in, and you reached for the hem of his shirt. Fingers brushing against his waist line and he flinched slightly, not from the fear of it, but because yours hands were on his skin and anticipation burned through every nerve in his body. Fingers curled under the fabric and began to inch it upwards when suddenly, the loud slam of the gym doors against the wall echoed through the rafters.

Bucky scrambled off of you, jumping up to his feet and adjusting his shirt quickly as he glanced down at the entrance. You were still on the mat, a little disoriented and hazy as you looked up at him to find him clenching his jaw nervously, a red swell of his lips and a slight mess of his hair. He still managed to look like a dream.

You pulled yourself to your feet, standing beside him as Nat and Sam walked into the gym talking to one another, swinging their bags by their sides.

“Oh hey,” Nat called, taking notice of you and Bucky. As she walked closer, her eyes narrowed, flashing quickly between the pair of you and it didn’t take a specially trained to know what happened. Your cheeks burned red. She pursed her lips into a smirk. “Having fun?”

You parted your lips to answer, but nothing came out. Glancing over at Bucky, and he was raking his hands through his hair, shaking his head because he knew Nat caught them. She was too observant not to. Sam, on the other hand, remained oblivious.

“Anyway,” Nat grinned, turning to you, “I was hoping I could steal Y/n for a bit. We haven’t really had a chance to talk and I miss my best friend.”

A warm smile pulled at your lips and you nodded. As Sam stepped forward to throw himself into the ring with Bucky, guilt hit you hard in the chest at the idea of walking away from Bucky, even for a few hours, after what just happened. There was so much to tell him, so many questions you had; like if this changed things and if he wanted more and if he’d let you kiss him like that again.

You glanced over at Bucky, apologies swimming in your eyes, but you were only met with curved lips and soft eyes. He ushered you towards Nat and helped you swing under the ropes and slide down the platform. The relief was instant.

“Have fun for me,” he asked sincerely, gesturing over at Sam who was cracking his knuckles, “since I’m apparently stuck with this idiot.”

You laughed, leaning into Nat’s shoulder as she swung her arm around you and started to gently tug you towards the doors. You went with her, turning over your shoulder to watch as Bucky started to walk back into the ring, his back to you, and you felt a surge of panic.

“Bucky, wait!”

He froze, jogging back towards the ropes as you met him at the bottom of the platform. He kneeled down to your eye level, gripping on the post for balance and concern filtering through his features.

“We’ll, um, we’ll talk later?” you asked nervously and Bucky’s lips curved up into a content smile. You weren’t used to being the nervous one when it came to him.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he replied breathily, his hand snaking behind the nape of your neck and carefully tugging you towards him to press his lips to your forehead. Warm and soft and gone far too soon, you didn’t mind at all that Sam had raised an eyebrow behind Bucky’s shoulder with a satisfied smirk. Bucky waited until you nodded at him, letting him know you were okay for him to go, before he stood back to his feet.

Nat was just over your shoulder by the time Bucky bumped fists with Sam at the center of the ring, ready to fight. Her hand slid into yours, knowingly, because Natasha Romanoff never let anything slip past her.

***

“Stop! He did not!” you burst into laughter, tears in your eyes as Nat finished telling you about how Sam had managed to crash one of Tony’s seriously expensive cars because Clint had convinced him it was the standard SHIELD issued surveillance vehicle. His reconnaissance mission had escalated to a full city car chase and it didn’t end well for the Maserati.

Nat nodded, grinning ear to ear as she tossed another bite of popcorn into her mouth.

Your stomach was aching from the laughter and from the snacks, but as you sat on the floor of Nat’s room, backs leaning against the wall, just finding space to be completely and entirely unbridged, you found you didn’t mind the twist in your stomach muscles. It was welcomed.

“Where was--” you laughed, trying to catch your breath, “Where was I? How do I not remember this?”

You brushed a tear from you eye just as Nat’s smile slowly fell. She swallowed thickly, pulling his legs up to her chest and turning to you with a solemn look on her face, giving you the answer that made the laughter die in your chest.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” she started, but you held up your hand.

“No, no, it’s okay, Nat,” you replied sincerely, grabbed her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m here now, right? I’m good.”

She nodded, though it was hesitant. “Are you?”

You thought about it for a moment. It was an easy response, convincing people you were okay. You'd had a long history of saying you were okay even when you weren’t, only because it was easier to brush it aside, to not have to talk about it, until it eventually festered and boiled and you woke screaming and crying in the dead of night.

You had gaps in your memory, trauma you still didn’t know you endured, and only of a glimpse of the hell you’d been put through for seven months, but it was behind you. You were home. You were safe. You were surrounded by the most advanced technology in the world and Fury had every agent available tracking down the man with the scar you described for their sketch artist. There was no shoe to be dropped, you had to believe that, otherwise you’d go insane. You had everything you needed, survived the worst of it.

And you had Bucky.

“I think I’m getting there,” you said, nodding with a relief in your tone that had Nat’s smile returning.

“You’re gonna talk to Barnes, right?” she grinned, nudging your shoulder until you were laughing again.

“I knew you saw that!”

“Don’t need to see it in action to know what you two were up to,” she teased. “Your face was the color of my hair and Barnes couldn’t meet my eye. It doesn’t take a spy to figure it out.”

You covered your face with your hands as Nat leaned her head on your shoulder, laughing. It was the lightest you’d felt since you’d been back, like you were teenagers again with so much too look forward to, naïve and care-free. After a while when the laughs died down again, Natasha was still leaning on your shoulder, playing with your hand.

“I like you and Barnes together,” she said quietly, a steady observation, one she’d had for years since you were sneaking him off to the city on adventures and back when he was accompanying you innocently on morning runs. “You’re good for each other. You helped bring him back from something dark when he first came to us and it’s obvious how much he cares for you.”

You nodded, trying to distract yourself in the tingle of Nat’s fingers as she drew pictures on your palm. “Was he okay?”

She paused. “What do you mean?”

“When I was... gone,” you muttered out and Nat sat up to look at you properly as you tried to find your words. You ran your fingers through your hair in a nervous tick. “I don’t remember a whole lot after the last video but I... I remember they showed me footage of you guys of when it aired. I saw Bucky react to it; kneeling in the street and just... screaming.”

Nat let out a heavy breath as she scooted closer to you, sitting hip to hip, and this time, it was you that leaned against her. She brushed her hand through your hair, trying to ease you as tears welled in your eyes.

“He... He really struggled, Y/n,” she replied after a prolonged silence. “Even before that video, he wasn’t himself, kept teetering back and forth between his depression and the winter soldier.”

You clenched your jaw and a tear rolled down your cheek. Nat squeezed your hand.

“After you di--” Nat sucked in a harsh breath, recollecting herself, “after we thought you died, he just lost it; stopped eating, stopped sleeping. Until one day he just up and disappeared. Steve told us he was traveling but we all knew was he was really up to. Took me a while but I finally caught up with him in Brussels a few months later and he was taking out Hydra agents on some hitlist he made up.”

“He what?” you gaped, sitting up as wide eyes met Nat’s, heart painful in your chest. She nodded carefully.

“I don’t know if you ever realized how much you meant to him, Y/n,” she continued solemnly. “He hit rock bottom for a while; gave into the winter soldier because it was easier than letting himself grieve. Took us a while to bring him home again but he started to come around. He was starting to heal again but... he was a wreck, Y/n. Hell, we all were, but James... he said some things to Steve that really scared us.”

You narrowed your eyes, heart already threatening to jump straight from your chest. “What are you talking about? What did he say?”

“That’s something you have to ask him about,” she sighed, offering you a pained smile. It didn’t meet her eyes. “My point, is that he wasn’t anywhere near okay, Y/n. He won’t let you see that because he’s trying to be strong for you. After what you’d been through, his pain, our pain, is nothing in comparison...”

“I’m not in the business of sizing up traumas, Nat,” you said sincerely and she nodded.

“I know,” she replied, snuggling up against you. “I just want to make sure you know you don’t have to be afraid with him. He cares for you, Y/n. There's no situation where he’d ever turn you away.”

You brushed the tears from your tears, curling up against the soft scent of vanilla in Natasha’s hair and hooking your arm with hers. There was nothing left to say, nothing that could change what happened over the last seven months and the heartbreak and suffering you’d both endured. But sitting here, leaning on your best friend while reruns of your favorite sitcom played from your laptop, it was all a little less painful. You’d find a way to chip it away, piece by piece, until it was a distant memory and you’d need your family to do that.

You’d need Bucky.

“I should go talk to him,” you said after a while, your voice rough as it came out.

Nat squeezed your hand, smiling softly as she pulled away from you. She brushed her fingers through your hair, taming it along your shoulders and rubbing gently under your eyes to wipe it clear of tears.

“I’m sure he’s still up, listening for you to get back to your room okay,” Nat teased playfully, drawing a smile from you like she intended. She pulled you tight against her side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders in a warm embrace. “I’d say good luck, but you clearly don’t need it.”

You laughed through the nerves in your stomach and pushed yourself to your feet. A short wave goodbye as Nat settled in with her bowl of popcorn, the next episode of the series you’d been watching on auto play and she gave you a wink as you closed the door behind you.

There was nothing to be afraid of. It was only Bucky. Sweet, kind, incredibly selfless Bucky whose lips had grazed yours just hours ago and yet your heart was in your throat. Anxiety and panic twisting and turning in your stomach with every step as you declined the stairs two flights to the floor you shared with Bucky.

Thousands of possibilities ran through your mind, wondering if he’d regret what happened on the ring or if he’d run from you or push you away. You wondered if he felt this way all along, like you had, if he longed for you the way you so desperately longed for him. You wondered if maybe all the pain and suffering you’d endured led you to this moment, just you so could be here, standing outside of his bedroom with only the thin layer of wood separating his quietly pacing steps beyond the door.

A heavy exhale, gathering what remained of your courage, and then, you knocked.

----

listen guys its about time I gave you something other than never ending angst 😉

tags 🧠@buckygrantbarnes / @mywinterwolf / @breatheeagainnnn / @jewelofwinter / @panic-naran / @fairislesheets / @kaliforniacoastalteens / @captain-hammer-of-asgard / @daydreamsquad / @deanssweetheart / @maybesomedaytho / @montypythonsholysnail / @saharzek / @jillybeaner13 / @chubby-dumplin / @searchingforbucky / @alohafromhell1 / @tabalugax / @shesalatesh / @whyamidoingthistomyselfhelp / @aliensbecameourstyle / @bucksgoat / @serpensortiaaa / @trash-rats-unite / @hungry-pasta / @nervosaa / @lbuck121/ @get0verit / @obama-mia / @imsoft-barnes / @this-broken-band-girl / @michelehansel / @itz-kira / @forever157 / @grey-water-colors / @sebastianstan-posts / @sarcastic-and-cool / @no-clue-whats-happenin / @capsgrl / @happyeyesandsunshine / @slithredn / @13sunken-ships13 / @thefandomplace / @wxstedhexrt / @jennmurawski13 / @galaxkay / @moonlessnight14/ @kittybritty7 / @sweetheartbarnes / @pancakefancake / @vitamingrant / @musiclover1263 / @pies-wands-and-more

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #marvel #bucky barnes x female reader #guiding light #tw: ptsd

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timelordthirteen · 4 years

Text

Killing Time 21/35

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: Belle and Weaver start working their new lead, and relationship status, with some surprising results.

Notes: This was a rough one to get out and I'm sorry it took so long. Here on out there will be two parallel plots: Belle's recovery and relationship with Weaver, and solving the murder of Eloise Gardener. Warnings in this chapter for discussion of PTSD, Belle's attack, and mention of her miscarriage.

Warnings: Miscarriage reference and discussion in some chapters. Please see AO3 for complete warnings and tags.

[AO3] Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20]

The room smelled like paper and tea, a comforting and warm contrast to the steady rain that was falling outside.

Belle pressed her hands over the front of her skirt and looked around the office of Dr. Archibald Hopper. There was a leather sofa flanked by two bookcases with a set of three black and white prints in thick black frames hanging above it. The shelves were arranged with a mix of artistic pieces and leather bound volumes of medical and legal books, looking so perfectly put together that combined with the rest of the room it all had less the feel of Archie, her friend and colleague, and more last month’s Pottery Barn catalog.

“Nice office,” she said finally.

Archie smiled and took a seat in the high backed leather chair across from her. “Thanks. It beats the south wing of the hospital.”

She laughed lightly, recalling the rather dilapidated old patient rooms that had once made up a sizable bed tower and part of the original hospital where Archie had once worked. While the rest of the building was expanded and renovated over the decades, the south wing had been largely ignored and converted into office space for those who didn’t rate mid century modern credenzas and floor to ceiling glass that overlooked the bay.

“Yeah, it definitely does,” she agreed, glancing around the room. “You’ve certainly moved up in the world.”

“It was those excessive bonuses the city paid me for all the consulting hours you demanded.”

His lips curved, and Belle shook her head. “Yes, well, good to know my budget overages were well spent.”

They shared a laugh, and then Dr. Hopper shifted in his seat, mentally moving from friend and colleague to therapist with no more than an adjustment of his body and the picking up of his pen.

“I’m assuming that what brought you here wasn’t a desire to reminisce about the city's lack of funding for prosecution experts.”

Belle looked down at her hands. “How did you ever guess?”

Archie flashed her a weak smile, and let out a breath. “Belle, I know what happened to you - not the details, of course, but enough - and I know that it’s policy to have a psychological review before returning to work. However -”

“That’s not what this is,” she interrupted. “I mean, yeah, I’ll probably need you to fill out the official form at some point, but I’m already back at work.”

Hopper frowned slightly. “I see.”

Belle glanced up. “Midas knows me well enough to know that I feel better being back at work than taking two weeks of leave.”

“And how do you feel being back at work so soon?”

She gave him a look. “Fine. We’re making some progress on, um, the body that was found in the community garden.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because -” she paused and licked her lips, spreading her hands over her thighs as her palms started to feel clammy. “Because it’s when I’m not at work that, um, that I don’t think I’m fine.”

He nodded and made some kind of mark on his pad. “What makes you think that you aren’t fine?”

Her head rolled back against the sofa as she blew out a breath between her lips. “Is this how it works? You just turn my answers into questions?”

“How else would you like it to work?”

Belle’s head lifted, her eyebrow arching. “Ha ha.”

Archie smirked and then made another mark on his notepad before setting it aside. “Look, this is like any other doctor’s appointment, right? You have to tell me your symptoms, as it were, so I know what’s going on and where to start. Right?” She nodded, and he continued, “So, what’s been going on?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, leaning forward to lean her elbows on her knees. “Got attacked by a serial killer in my own apartment, stabbed him in the leg, and now...”

“Now...what?” Hopper coaxed.

She sighed. “I can’t sleep unless my ex-husband is with me. I keep sort of - reliving what happened, but the memories are - are weird. I feel...I don’t know, like tired but jittery all the time? I only feel okay when I’m at work, when I can focus on the case, focus on doing something about what happened, you know?”

She left out that the only other times she seemed to feel normal was when she was playing house with her ex, eating, sleeping, and fucking like nothing had happened in the last two years, like they hadn’t made a mess of everything.

Archie raised his eyebrows when she mentioned Weaver, and folded his hands. “So, you and Detective Weaver are...?”

She shrugged and straightened. “I don’t know what we are. I stayed with him while my apartment was a crime season, but it’s been cleaned and released. I just haven’t gone back. I haven’t wanted to, I guess.”

“Okay, let’s, um, let’s park the relationship stuff for now,” he said. “Tell me - tell me about your memory of what happened. When does it come to you? What do you recall?”

“Usually when I’m alone,” she replied. “Day or night, doesn’t matter. It’s flashes, mostly, feelings. Cold from his - his leather jacket, pressing against my back. I was told that he’d been hiding out on the balcony, waiting until - until I got home.”

Archie swallowed and crossed his arms. “And?”

“Heat,” she continued. “Like my face is flushed, but it’s - it’s from, uh -

She lifted her hair at the front, exposing the red line where her skin was still healing even weeks later. “He hit me and it, um, made it hard to see. Everything was - was red.”

Dr. Hopper pressed his lips together, his eyes narrowing as her hair dropped back over the wound. “You said that your memories were off. Could you tell me more about that?”

She held his gaze for a long moment, as she bit her lip. His eyes softened and the corner of his mouth curved slightly as he gave her a brief nod. The room started to feel too warm, and she leaned forward to take a sip of the water he’d set out for her.

“It’s strange,” Belle said finally, sitting back against the cool leather. Her hands fidgeted with the ring on her right hand. “Remembering, I mean. It’s like - it’s like I’m outside of myself, but not - not in any kind of weird out of body experience way, more like... I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe it.”

Dr. Hopper gave her a small smile and nodded. “Try. Tell me one thing at a time, and take as long as you need.”

She sighed. “I feel - heavy. Like I can’t move my arms or legs no matter how much I want to. There's pressure too, in my head. It’s kinda like a sinus headache, but without being stuffed up at all, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.” Then he shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. “Does your heart rate increase or is it hard to breathe?”

Belle shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I just have this strange feeling, and there’s a flash of light. Then I look down and - and there’s -”

Hopper’s head tilted. “What? What do you see?”

She breathed in and out through her nose as her eyes fixed on the glint of the light as she twisted the white gold band of her ring back and forth. It was a square sapphire in a pale blue color, about a half carat in size. Weaver had given it to her for their first anniversary. She’d worn it nearly every day while they were together, but as soon as she left the divorce attorney’s office, it had been relegated to a small wooden box at the back of her dresser drawer where she kept some of her mother’s old jewelry. The first night they’d retrieved her things from her apartment, she’d grabbed it without thinking as she was rummaging for some socks.

“Belle, what do you see?” Dr. Hopper repeated.

Belle swallowed and looked up, meeting his eyes. “Blood.”

Hopper nodded, pressing his lips together again as his pen tapped against the pad next to him. It was an action she’d seen from him often when he’d consulted on a case, usually when he was thinking through his response to a question.

“Yours or - or his?”

“Both,” she said quickly, the hitch in his voice making hers waver as well.

He gave her a sympathetic look and took a breath before he asked his next question. “And, um, where is the blood?”

She breathed out again, slowly and took another swallow of water. “On my hands.” She set the drink down and looked down at her palms, blinking a few times as the image of the red, dripping stains flashed into her mind. “My blouse. The counter. The floor.”

Then she took another breath. “And sometimes it’s um -”

Dr. Hopper’s head tilted. “It’s what?”

Belle blinked hard. “Um, on my - my legs.”

“Why only sometimes?”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as she tried to force the image away. “Don’t know.”

The slight shift in Archie’s expression revealed he didn’t believe her, but he seemed willing to let it go for now, and she sighed again.

“Let’s go back to your relationship with Detective Weaver.”

She frowned. “Why?”

Dr. Hopper sat back, crossing his legs, and smiled. “I suspect some of this starts a little further back than Jack Branson.”

Belle huffed and shook her head. “It doesn’t. And you already know the story. We were married, then we got divorced.”

“And?”

“And?” She raised her eyebrows and held Archie’s gaze. “What?”

“And now you’re...?”

There was a low throb starting in her head as she pulled at her ring again, sliding it over her knuckle until it spun freely around her finger. “I told you, I don’t know what we are, not right now.”

“Can you tell me what you’d like to be?”

“No.” Then she sighed. “I let things go too far while we were working on the case, and before you ask, you know exactly what I mean by ‘too far’ Mr. I Accidentally Screwed the Waitress Who Was Also a Witness.”

Archie’s face flushed, and Belle flashed him a brief smile. His affair with Ruby had been problematic at the time, and it had forced him to step back from his role as an expert consultant. Now that they’d been together for a couple of years, it was all water under the bridge, and the switch back to private practice was overall better for everyone. She sighed. “Now everything is...I don’t know. It’s good, but it’s also temporary, so I’m trying not to get complacent or get used to anything, you know?”

Hopper shifted in his seat, his lips pursing for a moment. “Why does it have to be temporary?”

“Because we’re divorced,” she answered flatly.

“Why?”

Belle pushed her ring back on her finger and paused. “Why what? Why are we divorced?” Dr. Hopper’s head tilted again, and she gave him an annoyed glare. “I’m not dredging up our marital issues, Arch. I’ve been there, done that.”

“Have you?” he asked. “Been there, done that?”

She made a face. “Well not like this, obviously, but I think I’ve rehashed it enough in my head for ten therapists, thanks.”

Archie chuckled at that and shook his head. “Fair enough. Though I do get the impression there’s a piece I’m missing here.”

“How do you mean?” She folded her arms over her middle and mirrored Archie by crossing her legs.

He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “You and Ian were good together, Belle. We all saw that. I have to admit that when I heard you two were splitting up, it was - it was quite a shock.”

Belle looked away as he spoke, clenching her jaw as she swallowed against the lump in her throat. She’d heard the same statements from others before, during, and immediately after the divorce. Everyone thought they were so perfect together, but of course none of them had to live with a reticent police detective who didn’t know how to let anyone in. She always thought he’d change, that he’d soften with time, open up more the longer they were together. The night he chose a murder over her and their baby, she’d realized she’d been wrong.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “It was to me too.”

Hopper pursed his lips again and watched her as she tugged on her ring again, slipping it over her knuckle to spin it around her fingertip. She paused to wipe at her eye, and he sat back with another heavy sigh.

“Belle -”

“I had a miscarriage.”

Archie blinked and frowned at the words she’d blurted out. “You - what?”

He licked his lips as his mind grasped for words. Confusion and shock had made him lose his usual quiet coherence, and he leaned forward again. “I’m sorry, I’m just - I’m trying to understand. Was this after - after your attack, or -?”

“No,” Belle said quickly. She met Dr. Hopper’s eyes, her stare firm in spite of the tear that was trickling over her cheek. “No, it was - before. It’s why - why we divorced.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “So -”

She felt her face heat as her vision blurred. There was a faint ringing in her ears that made her shake her head, sending a volley of tears down her face. She was vaguely aware of the tissue box sliding closer, pushed by Dr. Hopper, when she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and then lurched forward. Her feet stumbled over each other, her shoe coming loose as she stood and tried to walk around the coffee table that was between her and Archie. He said her name as she moved, one hand stretched out in front of her to catch the bathroom door and push it open while the other was pressed to her mouth.

Belle sniffled again, wiping at her nose with the battered tissue before tossing it in the trash can and exiting the small bathroom.

Archie stood up quickly. “Are you alright?”

She nodded and blew out a breath. “Yeah.”

She was surprised how true it felt in spite of how upset she’d been a few minutes ago. It had been a long time since she’d said the words out loud, and once she had it was like the dam had broken, flooding her body with emotions she’d kept at bay for over two years. In hindsight, the miscarriage had bled into the situation with Ian, leaving everything a jumbled mess well before her encounter with Jack.

Archie was right.

“So, Arch, how fucked up am I?” she asked, letting out a humorless laugh.

Dr. Hopper sighed and came closer, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. “No more so than any of the rest of us.”

She shook her head. “I doubt that.”

“Belle, what’s happening to you is normal,” he started. “You were physically attacked in your own home, by a man whose pathology I can’t even fathom right now. Having some PTSD from that is completely expected. Everything else on top of that...? I can’t imagine what all you’ve been through.”

She breathed out, feeling a strange sort of relief at his words. “Yeah.”

“I think,” Archie started, cautiously, “that it would be a good idea for you to keep talking about this.”

“With you?” She blinked up at him, her expression pulled as the steady pulse of a headache grew.

He shrugged. “With whomever you like, whoever you feel comfortable talk to. That’s the only way this is going to get better.”

Belle reached up and pushed her fingers into her hair, rubbing at her scalp. “I don’t think I’d want to talk to anyone else, if that’s okay.”

His mouth curved slightly. “Of course it is. Whatever I can do to help, Belle.”

Belle checked her makeup in the mirror one last time and ran a hand through her hair, trying to smooth it into place. She looked passable, if a bit tired, but then that had been her almost perpetual state since the case had started. Her heels thudded softly on the carpet as she made her way back to her office, her gait stuttering briefly when she spied Weaver sitting at the conference table.

Shit.

She’d been hoping he was still at the station following up on Nick Branson’s former employer in Las Vegas. When she’d made the appointment with Dr. Hopper, she’d had every intention of telling Weaver that she was going, but in the end every moment that might have been right, wasn’t. He’d be supportive, of course, he had been when she’d first mentioned it a week ago, and their history with Archie had only raised the psychologist’s esteem in his eyes. Yet she’d held back that morning when he’d asked her what she was going to get up to while he was tiring his eyes out at a computer screen.

She let out a steadying breath and pushed open the door to the office.

Weaver twisted and looked over his shoulder at her, smiling. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said, brightly, hurrying over to her desk to set her purse down.

“I was surprised you weren’t here when I got back.”

“Oh, I ran a quick errand after lunch.” She shrugged and looked up at him, knowing full well by the way his eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly that he didn’t quite believe her. “Find anything?”

“Couple addresses,” he replied. “Some names to follow up on. The construction company Branson worked for went out of business a couple of years ago, but I have contact information for the holding company that took over its assets.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“I guess.” Then he frowned slightly, and pushed back from the table, twisting to face her. “Are you okay?”

Belle sighed and busied herself with sorting through some papers on her desk. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

His expression was inscrutable as he stood and came to stand in front of her desk. “I don’t think we’re going to get much more done today, if you want to take off early.”

She glanced up at him. “Why would I do that?”

Weaver shrugged. “You’re tired.”

She sighed again and straightened, knowing from his flat tone that he hadn’t believed her, but he was still offering her a way out anyway. It annoyed her and she wasn’t sure why. “Well it’s been a long...month.”

He gave a slight nod as his lips pressed together. “Yeah, and we worked a lot of weekends in the last little while. You need some down time.

She shot him a look. “I’m fine, Ian.”

He gave her a look and moved around the side of the desk until he was next to her. “Belle, you look absolutely shattered.” Then he took hold of her hand and started tugging her away from her work. “Come on.”

“Ian...” She pulled her hand away and crossed her arms.

He turned on his heel and faced her. “Belle...”

They stood for a moment, staring at each other with equal exasperation, until Belle’s shoulders sagged. She was tired, that went without saying, both from her appointment with Archie and the weeks and months that had preceded it. There was a standard level of fatigue that she’d dealt with her whole career, brought on by long days in court, and longer nights of composing motion documents and briefs. But this was new. This was a less familiar bone deep weariness that weighed her whole body down, pulling her to the Earth. It didn’t feel like being grounded so much as it felt like being drowned, sucked down under the dark waves and suffocated.

Belle’s head dropped as she exhaled. “I went to talk to Archie after I left Midas’s office.”

Weaver seemed to startle a bit at her words, shifting his stance as his eyes went wide. “Okay...and?”

“And, it was... a lot.” She looked up and blinked almost dazedly.

He moved closer, taking the kind of slow steps one might when they were approaching a skittish cat. When he came within arm's length, she reached for him, all but grabbing the front of his white shirt as he closed the distance between them. She turned, falling against him as he moved to hold her, and buried her face in his chest.

"You sure you're all right?"

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, breathing in his warm, earthy scent. “Yeah,” she replied, slightly muffled. He made a grunting noise, and she looked up. “What?”

One of his eyebrows lifted slightly. “Let’s go home.” She stiffened and he squeezed her against him. “You can take a hot bath, I’ll make the scallops I picked up on my way back form the station, and -”

“You got fresh scallops?”

His lips quirked as her eyes widened hopefully. “You won’t know until you get home.”

Belle pulled back and swatted at his chest. “You don’t play fair.”

He laughed softly, and she shook her head, knowing that what he was suggesting was for her own good. They both needed a break, and the lull while they waited for courts and county clerks to process a pile of paperwork and red tape might just be the thing.

“Yeah, okay. I can write up the rest of the records requests on my laptop.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, dryly, dropping his arms and taking a step back. “Just not in the bath this time, not after what happened with your iPad.”

She slung her purse strap over her shoulder and shot him a glare with significantly less venom than usual. “Shut up.”

Weaver pulled open the office door, still smirking, and held it for her as she stepped through into the hallway. “Yes, dear.”

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #woven beauty #woven beauty fic #killing time #fic #my woven beauty fic #cw miscarriage

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