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thranduilsperkybutt · 2 years

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Lamb Among Wolves ♠️ Part IV ; Wild Card

Photo sources: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

| Part 3 | Part 5 (WIP) |

Imagine: Imagine owing mobster!Bucky a lot of money after your deadbeat brother bails with it, leaving you with his debt, and you offer yourself as payment that he is more than happy to collect himself.

Pairings: Mob!Bucky Barnes/Reader

Series Warnings: NSFW unprotected smut; phone smut; fantasy description & oral mention; teasing; dark!fic; dubcon themes; mobster/mafia AU; mentions of blood, guns, violence, murder, drugs, gambling, etc.; mentions of character injury which occurred in the previous part & IEDs; nightmares/trigger behaviors; not quite PTSD but it’s PTSDesque; brief mention of choking (not the sexy kind); it gets worse before it gets better but dont tell nobody mama aint never fed ya

Word Count: 22k words

Reader Gender: Female

Author: Meg

Summary: The stakes are higher than you could have ever known, and the comedown from the events leading up to now feels like it will kill you, if Bucky doesn’t first. Just when the numbness sets in, an unexpected and unwelcome visitor comes to call, bringing more trouble on the horizon.

A/N: This has taken a thousand years, I know. I’m sorry about that, but with the pandemic, it’s been very overwhelming. Either way, I hope you enjoy this part! Thank you all for hanging in there with me and sending such kind messages. This has not been proofread. I’ll do that later.

The smell of rubber burning is what you remember most. It stuck in your mind and clung to your memory as vividly as if you were still sitting there on cold concrete, watching the Jaguar burn in the sparking lamplight.

The heat had cast a sickening glow, slicing through the chilly air like a knife, and warming your face with a caress that was much too welcoming for the horror that played out before your eyes.

The wailing, you realized, was coming from you when the strong force of Sam’s hands on your shoulders kept you from scrambling up off the ground. If he hadn’t, you’re certain you would have attempted to run towards the burned, bloodied body of the boy resting on the sidewalk, regardless of the staggering vertigo that would have surely hit you far sooner than it did.

He’s only seventeen, you thought, over and over again, Peter’s only seventeen.

“Don’t look,” Sam ordered, voice tight and militant, but his hands were gentler than you would ever have thought them to be as he pulled you into his chest. You don’t know if he’d done it in an effort to keep you from escaping his grip, or if it was his attempt at calming you down, but his repeating of, “Just, don’t look,” hadn’t helped soothe your terror as much as he probably intended it to.

That was your blood still staining Sam’s shirt, you notice as your head throbs despite the medicine they’d given you for the pain. It’s the only part of you that doesn’t feel numb.

“The doctor thinks you might have a concussion, huh,” Sam’s voice carries in the small space of the curtained observation bay, accompanying the distant beeps and groans that define the emergency department’s sterile atmosphere. “At least that cut on your head wound up looking worse than it really was. Don’t think it’ll scar up too bad, since you only needed a couple stitches.”

Your hand reaches up instinctively, ghosting over the bandage on the side of your head. It was near your hairline, barely creeping down the northernmost edge of your forehead, and you know you must look as much the mess you felt right now.

Blood still stuck to the hairs there, though dried with the time that’s passed since your bleeding stopped. It all felt like a blur, though you’re certain that’s from the shock of it all. Fresher in your mind was the memory of the haze of fear that overcame you when the stitches were being placed, and the emergency doctor’s attempt at conversation throughout the process.

She’d talked about how your scar should mend into your scalp rather unnoticeably; that head wounds bleed more than in other places. There was an attempt at a joke at one point, about how this was why you and Sam looked like you had just walked off a horror movie.

You don’t think she was aware that you might as well have.

God, you need a shower, but the exhaustion that’s seeped into your bones with the tapering of whatever adrenaline remained in your bloodstream protested any thought that didn’t involve collapsing into your bed the first chance you got. Hell, you might could pass out right here, if your head wasn’t throbbing like this.

Sam hasn’t left you, not since you hit the pavement, except to have a hushed conversation beyond the range of your curtain with the physician. Whether it was due to some worry that if he left you unattended you would take the opportunity to tell the nearest medical professional in earshot everything you knew--- which was practically nothing--- or a genuine decency buried somewhere deep inside this man, you couldn’t figure out. You didn’t want to try. Your head hurts too much for complex thought, right now.

Even laying it down on the pillow makes you wince. You just want to go home. You want all this to be a bad dream that you can wake up from in the morning.

“Did you find out if they’re going to keep me overnight?”

“They aren’t. You get to go home,” he probably doesn’t mean it this way, but you can’t help to hear the, when Peter doesn’t, at the unspoken end of his sentence. Forcing your eyes away, you focus on the provided chair for visitors in the small space beside the bed, but you haven’t seen Sam sit down in it once. He just hovers around the part in the curtain, shifting his weight, sometimes moving beyond it. You wonder if he’s unable to sit down. If maybe he doesn’t, because the same nerves that were jittering under your skin had gotten under his, too. It’s about the only indication you get that he’s just as antsy for news as you are.

“I’m sorry,” you try to swallow it down, this feeling of dreadful worry. Focusing on the dark stain draping over the chest of his shirt. There’d be no getting it out; you’ve ruined it, “For bleeding on you.”

Sam stares at you for a moment, as if he can’t quite wrap his head around what you’re saying, until he scoffs, “Why are you apologizing for bleeding? Not like you could help it.”

Your mouth clamps shut at that, because silence is easier than trying to explain the habit that has followed you since childhood. You’re saved from needing to when Sam’s phone beeps. He reads the waiting text immediately, brows drawn together. Concern, in the way the endless abyss of his dark eyes seems to somehow widen, encapsulating his once-friendly posture with the stiffening cold within them.

“What is it?”

“You should rest. You’re pretty beat up.” Even his voice sounds tense.

“Sam,” your own shakes with the change in his mood, worry creeping up your throat, “is it Peter?”

This kid, he’s gotten under your skin. Or, maybe you’re too empathetic for your own good. Too soft, because you know what he is wrapped up in— has been wrapped up in, long before you ever entered the picture— but seeing that boy on that pavement had broken some small piece of you. No matter what life he chose, this was something you couldn’t believe anyone deserved. Let alone a boy with his whole life ahead of him.

You’re worried sick, and it only makes the sharp pain in your skull ring. Gritting your teeth, on the verge of praying for the pain pills to soon start kicking in.

“Look, you don’t need to get all worked up right now,” Sam’s voice is softer, undoubtedly with the pain he’s noticed along your face, but you cut him off with one last, pleading sound.

“Sam.”

He sighs deep, running his hand over the short crop of his hair, and relents much more easily to your pleading than a man like him probably should, “They’re taking the kid back to surgery.” Your breath catches in your throat, as Sam explains, “He’s bleeding, on the brain. They’re going to put in some kind of tube to help relieve the pressure.” None of that could be at all good, and your breath catches as he continues, “Steve went to go get Peter’s aunt.”

“Is he,” you dare the question, even though you know it’s a stupid one, despite how terribly hopeful you sound as you say it, “going to be okay?”

Sam’s eyes flicker with anticipatory grief, looking back to his phone when he clears the emotion from his throat, but you can still hear the lie there, “Of course, he’s gonna’. That kid? Knowing him he’ll probably be running circles around us all by next month.”

Fuck, Peter’s in bad shape. You have a sneaking suspicion that it’s even worse than what Sam will tell you. He’s minimizing whatever it is, maybe for your sake, maybe for his own. Maybe it’s too hard to say out loud, without bursting into a million pieces. Maybe it’s too much for even a big, bad mobster like him to fathom.

Or maybe it’s just none of your business.

The nurse pulling back the curtain breaks you from the verge of dissolving into tears, as she moves towards you with a stack of paper in hand, “Okay, so if you’ll just sign these, you’ll be good to go. Now, you’ll need to be watched for the next twenty-four hours, in case you get any worse. If you do get worse, you’ll need to come straight back to the Emergency Department, okay?”

“Watched?” you sit up, trying not to groan at the stiffness in your bruised bones, “I live alone---”

“That’s already handled,” Sam cuts in, drawing both yours and the nurse’s attention, as he addresses her with a smile that’s all assurances, but doesn’t meet his eye, “She’ll be well taken care of. Don’t you worry.”

“Alright then, sweetie,” the nurse smiles at you, flipping through the papers you return to her after signing them, separating the back pamphlet, “these are yours to take with you. There’s a list of symptoms to watch out for, a summary of your visit, and when you’ll need to go back to the doctor to get those stitches out.” You’re too busy dwelling on Sam’s assertion that you were going to be well taken care of to do anything but stare at the papers in your hands.

He makes up for your distant state when she passes him, “Thanks a lot.” Near asking him about it, you don’t get the chance when he offers you a wide, open palm to rise from the hospital bed with, “Come on, Bucky’s waiting for us upstairs.”

Right, Bucky.

There’s a clenching in your chest, which would be way too easy to blame on your currently injured state. It would be a lie, though, if you told yourself that this feeling wasn’t caused by the thought of seeing him again. The desire to do so. You haven’t seen him since he was pulled from your bedside by a rather determined nurse, intent on assessing him in his own designated trauma bed. His face had been bloody then, and as much as you wanted to not care, you hoped he was alright.

That was over two hours ago, and you don’t blame him for not returning to your bedside. You figured his prolonged absence was due to more important matters, upstairs.

Mainly, Peter.

Your suspicion is proven right, as you let Sam lead you up and down hallways, to an elevator, and beyond. Neuro Intensive Care Unit, sprawled in bold block-print on the sign pointing in the direction he walks down, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still keeping up with him. There’s a waiting room which catches Sam’s attention for the split-second it takes to note that noone recognizable sat among the sleeping, crying, or reading people within, and so he leads you further, until you reach a set of double-doors that require him to press a button on the wall in order to gain entry.

A quiet that was too peaceful for your raging soul seeps into every inch of the space beyond the locked double doors, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of monitors and airflow of ventilators. Lining the walls on either side of the nurse’s station Sam guides you to are glass doors leading into exposed rooms, the curtains hanging within them clearly only have been placed for a momentary privacy.

“Ma’am, I’m here for--- oh, there he is, nevermind,” Sam begins, and the nurse sitting beyond the desk nods as she registers the room you’re heading for.

He sits in an empty room, leant forward so that his hands could support the weight of his head as he rested his chin upon intertwined metal and flesh knuckles. The hospital bed was missing, you notice, as Sam ushers you forwards until the movement catches Barnes’ attention. From a distance, he had looked almost peaceful, or at least exhausted, but in the brief moment after his eyes landed on you, you knew that initial observation to be incorrect.

Glaring anger, worry, grief, and something almost hauntingly vacant swirled in the blues of his eyes. It’s replaced with something nearby relief almost as soon as you’ve noticed it, but just as quickly, that’s schooled into the unreadable mask of nothingness he loved to wear.

He’s cleaner, now, in regards to the blood that had once stained his cheekbones and jaw, but a hint of it crept against the collar at his throat. A bruise blossomed along his jaw, having the time to settle its pink threat beneath the hairs there, aside from which a few minor scratches trailed up over his left temple. Overall, he looks like he’s been in a fight, with the worst of his injuries being a cut against his forehead, secured with two butterfly-like strips of bandage. At least, from what you can spot at first glance.

Sam’s voice keeps you from freezing in the doorway under the weight of Bucky’s stare, “Hey, man.”

“There you are,” his voice is almost hoarse, but not quite, as he stands from the chair to make his way towards the two of you.

“Shit,” he sighs as he reaches up familiarly, catching your chin by the tips of his metal fingers, tilting your head to the side to get a good look at the bandage against your skull, “bet that smarts. They give you something for it?”

“They gave me some Tylenol. Apparently, it’s all I’m allowed to have,” you try not to sound too pitiful, but Bucky raises his brow regardless.

“Yeah,” he hums in a way that almost sounds sympathetic, “sounds about right for a concussion.” You don’t know why it surprises you that Sam’s apparently kept Bucky in the loop on your medical condition, with all that texting he’s been doing, but it does. Moreso, it surprises you that Bucky would want to know about it. Everything about this is surprising, down to the gentleness with which he smooths his hand along your jaw, and asks, “You hurtin’ too bad right now, doll? You should sit down.”

The flip of your stomach has you recoiling from his grip, away, to look at Sam in a way that you hope isn’t completely dominated by the embarrassment at Bucky’s open affection, “I’m fine, thanks.” Maybe it was a little clipped, your tone, but you don’t dwell on it in favor of trying to refocus on Sam. Anything other than your pendulum of consciousness, swinging from Bucky to Peter and back again.

Sam’s eyes are trained on Bucky, though, as he leans against the pane of the glass door, suggesting with a wave of his cell phone, “We should take this outside. Cap’s on his way up.”

When you look back to Bucky, you find his jaw’s set, agreeing, “That’s probably a good idea.”

It takes you halfway across the ICU to realize the dread mirrored in their posture is due to the fact that with Steve, would come Peter’s aunt.

And it’s all you can think of, by the time you’re standing in the waiting room with them. Who were you, to be here right now? To witness one of the worst moments in a person’s life?

A stranger is what you were, and the thought only makes you all the more guilty when the low back-and-forth conversation between Sam and Bucky trails off into low silence. The vision of a woman catches your eye, emerging from the extended hallway to march across the waiting room, towards your group, with Steve quick on her heels.

For an instant, you consider making your escape to the restroom on the other side of the waiting room, but you’re too frozen to even move.

She was strikingly beautiful, in a way that only became more distinguished with the years between her youth and older maturity. Brunette, donned in the pastel yellows of a coffee-stained, aproned uniform dress that came down to rest just above her knees. Her petite frame made her no less of the hurricane she was when she rears her hand back and slaps Bucky straight across the jaw so quickly that it knocks the breath out of even you with the pure shock of it.

Steve was quick, but not quick enough to stop her, “May---!” Steve tries to grab her by the shoulder, but she’s already too upset. Too easy to escape his first, initial grasp.

“You promised!” furious tears escaped her then, as Bucky caught her next swing, weak beats dissolving against his chest more feebly, but she continued her distraught accusations, “You promised to--- to look after him!”

“May,” his voice is tight, as he wrestles with little effort to pull her against him by his grip on her forearms, repeating the soft, near broken, plea of her name, “May---”

“Why didn’t you look after him?” and it’s not fair; it’s not something anyone can ever level on one person, but the words that spill from her mouth are wracked with sobs as she finally lets herself crumble into Bucky’s grip.

He holds her tight, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him close to tears as he clutches her to him, promising, “We’re gonna’ find who did it. Hear me? We’re gonna’ find them, May. I promise—”

All you can do is exist, stock-still, as the scene unfolds before you. Much the same as the few others who lingered around the edges of the waiting room, attention drawn when she pushes Bucky away roughly, and he lets her go just as quickly.

“Don’t you dare touch me right now, Barnes,” she sobs, all grief and anger, moving away until she collapses, exhausted, into a chair. “The last thing I need is more of your empty promises.”

Sam crouches down before her, watching her hands wipe at her eyes in an attempt to compose herself in vain, “May, listen, Peter’s got the best doctors money can buy.” She looks at him, weary through the veil of anguish that nearly consumes her, and he glances at Steve, “Steve, you already tell her everything?”

“Couldn’t really get down to specifics,” Steve rubs the back of his neck, stiff, as he catches May’s watery glare. He excuses his omission with, “You’ve been pretty upset since I told you what happened.”

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself, “Well, tell me everything. Now.”

Steve and Sam move back-and-forth between explaining the situation of what occurred outside Galereya Romanova to her in detail, and attempting to comfort her as best they can. Talking of Peter’s condition, you’re surprised to find, does not turn her into a mess of sobs again. Instead, she remains somewhat collected through the news of it all, and your eyes wander back to Bucky.

He wouldn’t look at her, fixated on the floor with his hands in fists at his sides, but anything else to suggest his emotional state was closed-off to you. A blank expression set upon his face, almost too calm for the detailing of Peter’s condition to his most beloved aunt. It looks as if he’s in another world, anywhere than right here, and your heart aches regardless of your better judgment.

It’s somewhere between Sam explaining the mild flash burns and Steve mentioning the broken ribs, that you move towards Bucky before you think better of it. Reaching out to brush the warm skin of his fingertips with yours in a way that you hope is at all comforting. Anything to pull him back from that haunting vacancy that’s overcome him. When his eyes cast upwards to find yours, they’re softer, if not minutely surprised, at the feeling of your fingers beside his own.

You’ve been through a lot tonight, and you’re too tired to think past the basest implication of what your hand reaching for his could mean.

Just this once, you can let whatever he’s done slide, because you need to feel okay in some small way, if it was at all possible. Any shred of comfort you could find, you were chasing right now. You know he needs it too, when his fingers flex, and he catches your hand with his own. Holding tight, as if you would disappear if he let go.

He looks like he’s going to speak, eyes searching yours for whatever there is that he needs to hear from you, but another, firm voice catches your attention with a call of, “Are Mister Parker’s family members in here?” A man in navy scrubs stands tall, glancing about the waiting room for the instant it takes to look up from the charting tablet he carried.

“Yes!” May all but leaps from the chair she’s in, Sam rising just as quickly, “I’m Peter’s aunt--- his legal guardian.” Her voice is rushed, in the same way that most people become when they’re on the verge of desperation. Sam and Steve flank her, as the doctor reaches to tug the scrub cap from his head.

“Ah, yes,” dark hair falls messily along his forehead, gray hair framing his cheekbones as he offers his hand for May to shake, “I’m Doctor Stephen Strange, your nephew’s neurosurgeon.” His arms cross in front of his chest, as he explains, “We’ve just finished in surgery, and you’ll be able to visit once he’s stabilized in Recovery. You are aware that your nephew had a subdural hematoma?”

“Um, yes, I’ve been told. There’s some kind of… tube you had to use?”

“Right, well, we had to go in, and place a Burr Hole in his cranium, along with a tube to drain the fluid, but it looks like most of the bleeding has stopped on its own, so that’s a good sign. We’ll keep him sedated and on the ventilator as the fluid continues to drain. He’ll be returned to the ICU after the recovery period is over. That should take a few hours,” the way he explains it is direct, as if he can’t quite figure a way to say it in layman’s terms or simply doesn’t care to, but May nods along regardless.

It’s Steve that asks directly, “You think he’s going to be okay?”

Dr. Strange’s attention slides towards the blonde, raising one eyebrow as if the answer should be obvious, “Brain injuries are somewhat unpredictable, so we’ll be watching and waiting to see how he progresses over the next several days. That said, if you’re asking for my professional opinion on his prognosis, I do think his chances are much improved with the drain placement than without it.”

An answer without an answer, and you’re certain Steve’s thinking the same thing with the way he smiles, dripping with sarcasm, “Thanks for your professional opinion, Doc.”

“Will I be told when I can go see him?” May fidgets with her apron when she’s worried, and her hands have balled into fists along the edges of the off-white fabric.

“I’m sure the nurse can help you with all that at the nurse’s station,” he gestures towards the double doors leading back into the ICU, before turning with a non-negotiable, “Now, please excuse me,” and briskly walking back down the hallway, probably towards the O.R. from whence he’d came.

Steve’s hand finds May’s shoulder comfortingly, ushering her towards the ICU, “Come on, we’ll go ask the nurse, okay?”

“Yeah,” May breathes, moving a few steps forward only to finally glance back at Bucky, and you feel his hand in yours clench ever so slightly. She looked hurt, but even more than that, she looked angry, with all the commanding authority of a mother in her tone as she said, “Barnes, you make this right.”

He doesn’t say a word, just stares back into the unspoken suggestion of her words. Giving a short nod, before she turns back to make her way towards the nurse’s station.

Even to your ears, her words had sounded like, “You make them pay for this.”

When he does speak, it’s to catch Steve with a call of his name, “I want extra security with the kid when we’re not here.”

“You read my mind, Buck,” Steve nods, reaching into his pocket to toss his car keys towards Sam, who catches them easily. “Sam, you need a change of clothes. It’ll take a while, handling stuff here, so you should take my car.”

Sam plucks at his shirt, scrutinizing it with a sigh as Steve follows after May beyond the double doors, “He’s right. This one’s history.” The urge to apologize again is quickly stamped out when Sam half-heartedly teases, pointing his finger at you, “You know, she apologized for bleeding on me? Who apologizes for bleeding?”

“You’re still on that? Excuse me for being polite. Won’t make that mistake again,” you defend as Sam’s eyes flick to where your hand rested in Bucky’s. It was stupid, to feel so self-conscious at your age, but you retrieve your hand, choosing instead to shove it into the pocket of your jacket, alongside the folded discharge papers you’ve tucked there.

The small quirk at the corner of Bucky’s lips appears for only an instant, yet doesn’t brighten his mood as he leans towards you, scrutinizing with only the barest hint at teasing, ”Maybe it’s that hit to your head.” His attention shifts to the bandage, then back to hold yours, “How ya’ feeling, doll?”

“Tired,” you admit, “sore, but my headache is a little better than it was.” Nodding towards the cut on his own forehead, “You?”

“I’ve had worse,” is all the answer he gives you, shrugging slightly, before his head turns towards Sam, “Give us a ride on your way?”

There’s no question, and you’re certain there’s only one answer, but Sam jokes anyway, “What? No, ‘please.’” Part of you is thankful for Sam’s attempts at lightening the overwhelming mood around you. It’s something you’re sure is for his own benefit, but the sliver of lighter conversation helps to soothe the worry in your own soul.

Bucky stares at him, deadpan for a moment, before dryly stating, “Sam,” like he doesn’t have the energy to banter with his friend right now.

Shaking his head, Sam calls your name, “You need less manners, he needs more.”

“Says the guy who won’t offer a ride before I have to ask,” Bucky starts, as if he can’t help himself, but any budding back-and-forth is soon stamped out when his attention catches beyond Sam, on two approaching figures. You can feel the tension rolling off him in waves, and when Sam catches sight of them, his demeanor changes as well.

A man and a woman approach the three of you with purpose, like they know who you are, but you’ve never seen either of them in your life. The man is older, dark-skinned, with a beard kept close to his chin, but even the simple suit he wore couldn’t hide the distinct impression that he was a threat. What’s jarring, though, is the eye-patch covering his left eye, and you have to force yourself to look away before you linger on it for an inappropriate amount of time.

The woman at his side wears dress slacks and a dress shirt, replacing the typical blazer that would accompany such an ensemble with a brown leather jacket that complimented her paler skin tone. It framed her shoulders in a way that suggested she was well-muscled beneath it, as blonde hair fell haphazardly from her ponytail against the sides of her jaw. Nowhere near as put-together as her male counterpart, but just as unnerving, because you make them for cops before they even open their mouths.

“Special Agent Nick Fury, FBI,” the man begins, reaching into the breast of his blazer to retrieve the badge he flashes at the three of you. “This is my partner, Agent Danvers,” he gestures to the woman, who flashes a similar badge with less enthusiasm. “Would you mind answering some questions regarding the explosion you were involved in earlier this---”

“I already told the cops everything that happened when they came through,” Bucky interrupts, tone solid, cold. Dismissing them with a shrug of his shoulders.

Sam chuckles dryly, “Don’t you guys compare notes?”

Agent Fury’s smile is tight, and his hands slip into his pockets, “We have reason to believe this bombing may be related to several others.” He speaks slowly, as he stares towards Bucky with an almost smug expression on his face, “Possibly even terrorism.”

“Unless you have a reason to believe someone would want to kill an upstanding businessman such as yourself, Mister Barnes,” Agent Danvers says it in an innocent enough tone, but your stomach drops at the sound of it. It was anything but an innocent question, that’s clear enough.

Bucky doesn’t bother looking at her, instead asking Fury, “Which department did you say you were from, again?”

“They didn’t say,” Sam crosses his arms.

“Criminal Response,” Danvers holds out a business card, and only then does Bucky glance at her. First her hand, then back to her face. He makes no move to take the card from her offering fingertips.

Sam takes it, scrutinizing the card as he comments, “If you think the bombs are terrorism, why isn’t counterterrorism standing where you are instead?”

“Possible terrorism,” Fury corrects, like the distinction is obvious, but you know a lie when you hear one, “but that’s still under investigation. What do you think is going on here, Mister Barnes?”

“It’s not really my job to figure out what’s goin’ on, is it? All I know is, my intern got seriously injured tonight,” comes, clipped, from Bucky. When Agent Fury’s uncovered eye casts his attention on you, Bucky clears his throat, “Look, Agents, now’s not really a good time. I’m still pretty shook up after everything, y’know. Maybe I’ll be more up to answering your questions at a later date.”

Trying your best not to visibly shrink under Agent Fury’s scrutiny, you know you’re not the poker player Bucky is. Before you think better of it, you murmur something about needing the restroom, and escape towards it before they can blink twice in your direction.

You were going to be sick.

The feds?

What were the feds doing here?

Bucky said he spoke to the cops, but you sure as hell hadn’t seen any of them since you’d been wheeled into the hospital. Would they come to ask you questions? It made sense, considering you were a witness, but what could you possibly say—?

Nothing, you’d say nothing, of course—

And you’re pushing a stall open, collapsing to your knees, dry-heaving into the toilet before you can continue that train of thought. Your head felt like it was going to explode, and you don’t know if it’s from the concussion or the borderline-hyperventilating state you’ve dissolved into in that brief moment it takes your stomach to realize there’s nothing there for it to expel.

Doing your best to collect yourself once the worst of it stops, you grip the stall door as the world spins ever so slightly, before leveling out again, and make your way to the sink to clean yourself up, even a little bit.

Harsh paper towels are all you have to work with, as you wash your face as tenderly as you can in the motion-activated tap, trying not to moan with the relief of the cool water on your overheated skin.

The sound of the bathroom door opening, and boots approaching the sink beside yours is what opens your eyes to the intrusive presence of the blonde federal agent— Danvers. You do your best not to tense up at her approach, as she leans towards the mirror to apply her chapstick.

Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool—

“You look pretty banged up, yourself,” she says, casting a sideways glance your way as you continue to drag the paper towel along your cheek.

“Wow, you sure know how to make a girl feel pretty,” you shoot back, hoping in vain your standoffishness would be enough to have her leave you alone, but she just cracks a smile.

The bathroom door opens again, just enough for you to hear Sam’s voice call your name, “You almost done in there?” There’s an edge to his tone. Something that sounded more like insistence than anything else.

“I’m coming,” tossing the paper towel into the trash, you move to pass Agent Danvers, but she holds her hand out.

“Hope you’ve got an umbrella,” caught by her index and middle fingers is her business card, and in her eyes is a suggestion of some deeper meaning you don’t quite understand, “It’s a little misty out there tonight.”

You don’t want to take it, but Sam was calling your name again, more insistent this time, and you needed to get her out of your way. Silently, you take it from her, shoving it deep into your coat pocket alongside your discharge paperwork before finally leaving the restroom.

“You good?” Sam stares down at you, moving you across the waiting room towards where Bucky waits near the hallway leading out of it.

“I just was feeling like I might be sick, but I think I’m okay, now,” is your answer, and it’s only half of the truth, because you feel the furthest from okay.

It’s only when you’re in the elevator, on the way to the parking level, that Bucky finally asks, “What did that agent say to you?”

Glancing up at him, you know he’ll see through anything but the truth, so you get as close as you can to it, “She said I looked banged up, then told me to watch out for the rain outside? I think she was just trying to intimidate me, or something.”

Sam huffs in annoyance, “They usually do. Bastards.”

“You don’t gotta’ worry about them,” Bucky begins as the elevator finally opens, and you all make your way towards the exit. “Their kind just like to flash their badges around, act all authoritative— it makes them feel like they’re doin’ something.”

“Yeah, nothing to worry about,” Sam agrees, as the sliding double doors open out into the night, but you’re not stupid enough to believe the lie they’re trying to sell you.

How can you, when you finally realize what Agent Danvers had meant? The meaning of it was literally staring you straight in the face from the other side of the road, begging to be noticed by the only person who would: you.

Dark brown eyes peer from beyond a rolled-down window, almost black in the dead of night, but there she was. Watching you for just long enough to know you’ve seen her. Only then does she turn her car from her park to pull out of the deck, but not before getting the message across.

Misty Knight was working with the feds, and the feds were watching Barnes— therefore, you. The walls were closing in, and you were going to find yourself stuck if you didn’t find a way out.

There’s a tinge of regret on your tongue at how you had left things with Misty last week, nerves spiking at the remembrance of the wire you’d abandoned beneath your bathroom sink at home. You can’t risk giving away how the sight of your old friend here truly shakes you, though; not with these two men at your side.

Something bigger was going on here, and you’re certain Bucky knows that, despite his attempt to minimize it in front of you. And, God, from the bottom of your heart, you want nothing to do with any more of this, but you feel entirely powerless to keep yourself from getting dragged deeper into this rabbit-hole of a situation you’ve found yourself in.

You’re so tense, so wound up, that as soon as you sit down in the back of Steve’s borrowed Cadillac Escalade, a wave of exhaustion practically melts you into the leather seats. This day’s been too much for you to handle, and your brain simply can’t take anymore with the stress it’s already been under. If it weren’t for Bucky sliding into the space beside you, you’re certain you would have slumped over and passed out in the backseat, right then and there. His shoulder is a welcome alternative, considering.

“I’m so tired,” you remember saying as Sam drove out onto the highway, and the feeling of warmth that radiated from the arm Bucky draped over your shoulders. You’ll blame it on the concussion, why you let yourself relax there, against him, when every logical part of your being would usually demand otherwise.

It’s later, and you’re groggy, when you’re jolted awake, hearing him murmuring softly beside your ear, “Sorry, doll, didn’t mean to wake ya’.”

“Ameye ‘ome?” you slur, before blinking into a more firm plane of consciousness at his next words.

“You’re at my place.”

His place? As in his home?

A sharp intake of air accompanies your squinting blink at your dim surroundings, and only then do you realize he’s carrying you, not unlike you would a sleeping child, through the hallway you remember leading towards his bedroom.

“Why?” is all you can manage, the blanket of sleep luring you more than the unease that comes with every moment spent alone with him.

Bucky’s chest, flat against your own, rumbles when he speaks, “You can’t be left alone with that concussion of yours.” It’s the only explanation you get, before he’s moving into the darkness past his bedroom doorway. It makes sense, but it also doesn’t. He didn’t have to do this. There are probably a hundred other options out there, aside from him watching you personally.

You’ve long since come to the conclusion that James Barnes doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. Maybe there was a time when he once did, but he’s fought hard to be in the position he’s now in. Killed for it, even—

Fists catch in the fabric at his shoulders when you lean back in his arms, just enough to get a better look at him. Hallway light illuminates his jawline, the cuts along his face and the bruise that’s only darkening with the passage of time, but he doesn’t shy away from your stare. You catching a hint of what he’s feeling seems to be the least of his worries tonight.

All it takes is the soft murmur of, “Please, put me down,” for the hands at your thighs to do just that. Easing you down until you find yourself standing along the side of the very bed you’d found yourself tangled up in not so long ago. Only as your feet rest softly along his floor do you realize that you’ve lost your shoes and coat somewhere between here and the car, but he has, too.

He looks different, in the lowlight and solitude of just the two of you in this room. More worn down than he had at the hospital, if that were possible, but with that same haunted vacancy in his eyes as he watches you. There was a carefulness in his eyes you aren’t familiar with, almost like he expects you to move away from him, further than you already have.

The familiarity of the situation, however, does not escape you. The closeness of his body to yours has come to be expected, but the moments of passion you shared hours ago had been separated by the horror of the night, until that felt like miles away to you, now. There’s no denying that the exhausted desolation of his stare is a stark contrast to the way he had looked at you in the redlight of the darkroom. It’s too tinted with grief for you to mistake this for want.

“There’s a room at the other end of the hall… you could stay there instead,” he splits the silence, as if it’s a revelation that he probably should have come up with the offer far sooner than he has.

“I…” you begin, hesitant to admit the truth, because as terrible as it is, the idea of being left alone in this foreign, vacant house after what’s happened creeps a fear up your spine that’s even more terrible than that of the man standing before you. The fact that, in this moment, you feel at all safer by his side than you would at the other side of that vacant hallway is almost impossible to accept.

The part of you that wants to run far, far away from him is no match for the side of you which wants anything but the cold loneliness that will allow you to dwell on what you’ve both gone through.

Only when you avert your eyes from his, can you finally say, “I don’t want to be alone… tonight.” It’s certainly early morning by now, but that technicality doesn’t really matter, because when you dare to look back at his eyes, darkened by the shadows across his face, you still make out how softly he looks at you. For a moment, you can almost trick yourself that you’re simply two people in need of comfort, rather than the truth of everything between you, “Do you want to be alone tonight, Bucky?”

His lips part, hesitancy on his own tongue, before he breathes a solid, honest, “No.”

“Okay,” you say, like it’s that simple, and crawl into his bed, clothes and all. Exhaustion capturing you and dragging you down into the mattress that was still too soft for a man like him, but is perfect for forgetting why. He just stands there, watching until you’re buried beneath his irritatingly soft duvet. Calling to him with that same drowsy airiness of someone on the verge of sleep, “Come to bed, Bucky.”

Your eyes are already shut by the time the bed dips with his weight, and you’re too tired to worry past the feeling of cool metal dragging along the hitch of your exposed waist, pulling you against the warm expanse of his clothed chest.

You have no idea where this falls in the context of your debt to him, or if it even counts at all, when he murmurs his own breathy exhaustion at the nape of your neck, “Night, doll.”

⤜♚⤛

James Barnes looks less threatening when he’s sleeping. It’s almost like, in full consciousness, he’s never truly relaxed, even when he appears to be. His apparent laid-back confidence doesn’t carry over in his sleep; when the actions and conversations and expectations all fall away into the pit of unconsciousness.

You don’t know what you’d expected. For his side of the bed to be empty, again, maybe? Or perhaps for him to appear just as much the icy-hot threat he was when awake? Something other than the simple, normal vulnerability of a man lost to the world at this current moment.

Part of you wonders if he’s dreaming, or if it’s one of those blissful periods where nothing at all disturbs the blackness of the mind. When the peace of it is as close as you can come to death.

The clock on his nightstand announces almost midday, now, but you figured as much with the strong sunlight shielded beyond the curtained windows. Even still, it’s too early to pick apart your every action or choice for the day before; micro-analyzing your time with him was a habit you struggled to break.

No, that… that would have to wait until after coffee, and another dose of tylenol for the throb in your head. It isn’t as bad as the night before, thankfully, and you have a sneaking suspicion the ache is more due to stress than your physical wound itself. Truthfully, your whole body aches to a certain degree, and you’re certain that it’s littered with bruises from hitting the pavement as hard as you had.

A lull of your head to the side reaffirms your proximity to the sleeping gangster, the part of his lips, the mess in his hair. Not even the scratches along his face or the purpling bruise on his jaw can keep you from staring. Your breath catches alongside the skip in your chest, and the guilt at the feeling washes over you only an instant too late for the thought of his attractiveness to blossom at the back of your skull.

He sleeps pretty well for a killer.

But perhaps the bitter thought comes too soon, because Bucky’s brow furrows and his body tenses. Discomfort spreads across his features as quickly as your brain can process them, and before you can think better of it, your voice parts the morning quiet with a murmur of his name. A brush of your fingertips at the scruff of his jaw and—

Metal digits wrap tight around your wrist so quickly you think it startles the both of you with how you gasp and he inhales, blinking wide-eyed like he doesn’t quite recognize you until his eyes focus. Whatever had been there before dissolves with the relaxation of the grip at your wrist. Bucky blinks, but even then it takes a minute for the startled look in his eyes to dissipate.

“Bucky,” even to your own ears there’s a hesitancy to it, a sobering concern in the back of your throat. You don’t care if you shouldn’t ask, if it wasn’t your place, “Bad dream?”

He releases you just as quickly, rolling onto his back with a groan, “What time is it?”

You don’t know why you ever expect him to give you a straight answer, literally ever, “Almost noon.”

“That late?” his fingers wipe the exhaustion from his eyes. “I overslept.”

He looks like the only thing he needs right now is to oversleep, you think, as you supply with a dry sarcasm, “I think the Queen of England will understand your tardiness.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, casting a glance towards you that is more unreadable than it is threatening. Irritation, maybe, you could expect, but the subtle curiosity there is something else entirely. You don’t know if he finds what he’s searching for by the time it melts into something closer to compassion.

“How’re you feeling? Any numbness? Nausea?” it takes you a second to realize he’s assessing you like a soldier would, straight to the point as his attention settles on the side of your head, and the bandage there.

“Just dandy,” you sigh into the pillow. You weren’t about to complain about the soreness, when you had yesterday’s throbbing pain to compare it to.

“Yeah, tell me that again when you get up, and maybe I’ll believe you.”

“What about you?” you question, and there’s that curious look again. You point towards his purpling jaw, “That’s bruising up nicely.”

He reaches for his jaw, a gentle caress over the affected area, and his eyes finally look away from you, as if the memory is somewhere far off, before repeating what he’d said last night, “Had worse, doll.”

But you’re tired of him avoiding you, and just this once, you decide to push it, “That’s not an answer. How bad does it hurt?”

“What? You gonna’ kiss it better for me?” Bucky’s teasing deflection cuts with his smile, until he flinches from grinning too widely, and you huff at him.

“Bucky.”

He grunts, and you thank your lucky stars that he looks too tired to keep this round of cat and mouse going, because he simply groans and deflates into the sheets, “Yeah, it’s kinda’ sore.” He’s minimizing, and you know it. The man can’t even smile naturally without flinching.

“That settles it, then,” Bucky glances towards you at that. “First order of business, pain meds for the both of us, and then I’ll head home—” Before he can say anything, you maneuver yourself to push off the edge of the bed. Standing straight only lasts for a split second, before the lightheadedness sets in and you’re falling back to the bedside once again.

Bucky makes a quick, “woah,” sound before you find his hands at your waist just as you hit the bed, the small effort to keep you from falling onto the floor being greatly appreciated.

“Fuck,” you groan with a soft defeat, trying not to look as embarrassed as you felt, but you can hear the man behind you start to chuckle as the bed shifts when he sits straighter. You can’t even stand up without fucking it up.

“Well, that didn’t go to plan,” his joking breath ghosts over your skin, perhaps genuinely enjoying your struggle or simply trying to lighten the mood. It could go either way at this point; you don’t know what to think of him, not when he leans his chin onto your shoulder, the tight grip at your waist easing with your steadiness.

Tensing up with his sudden proximity, you shouldn’t want to lean into him like you do. Your heart shouldn’t speed up like it does, hammering away in your chest like he’d just released a million butterflies there. Heat creeping up your neck from where the prickly set of his jaw leans into you, catching your breath from your near-fall seems easier said than done.

“Want to try that again, or maybe I should get you a parachute first—”

“Shut up—” comes out weaker than you intended it to, with less edge, and he’s chuckling again. Leaning further into you until he’s practically draped himself over your shoulders, trapping you in the cage of his arms, the prey instinct to run is nearly as powerful as the impulse to melt there. To accept your fate.

Your only saving grace is the sound of your stomach growling, alerting you to just how hungry you were, and subsequently making you wish that a hole would simply open up in the ground and swallow you whole right then and there.

You can hear the sound of the smile in his voice, coaxing in a way that makes you want to agree before he’s even finished his thought, “How about this, Sam’s probably starving, too. Let’s grab a bite, and then I’ll take you home, if you want me to.”

If you want me to has you wondering if he wants you to stay. If it was some kind of invitation. If perhaps you erupted the same borderline uneasy desire in him that he had set alight in you—

You fight to forget that train of thought, instead settling on, “Sam’s still here?”

“Yeah,” he hums, “he had to stay. After last night…” Bucky trails off, and you try your best to avoid the feelings that threaten to come rushing back all over again at the slight mention of it. “Well, let’s just say that Sam and Steve are the only ones I can trust right now.”

In the light of day, after the immediate shock of it has worn off, and enough time has passed for you to somewhat separate in your mind the pieces of what happened last night for appraisal, you can understand the implications of what he’s saying. You should have realized it sooner, but the rushing intensity of the moment coupled with your concussion had slowed your thoughts.

Someone wanted to kill him.

That in itself is probably nothing new, knowing him, but the fact that someone had so brazenly attempted to achieve it shocked you. Maybe you’re naïve to think of it this way, you don’t know for sure, but the idea that someone would simply try to kill him in such a public place was baffling to you. There was no finesse about it, no attempt at hiding their intent.

The thought of his attempted murder should have left you with some kind of relief. Your problems would be solved with him out of the picture, right? Shouldn’t you be hoping whoever it was would achieve their purpose?

The one thing you do know right now was that the idea of him being killed gave you a very different feeling than relief. This anxiety simmering within you was an unmistakable worry. You could try to excuse it, to say that you don’t want anyone to be killed. That this was simply a compassion for your fellow man and nothing else.

But you know that’s not true.

He’s under your skin now, and as much as you wish you could claw him out, or even feel some sort of indifference towards him, you can’t.

Turning your head slightly, you dare to look at him, catching his questioning eyes with yours. Reaching up to feel the warmth of his arm, caging you against his chest.

It slips from you before you can help it, “They placed that car bomb to kill you?”

You don’t care if it’s a stupid question. You already know the answer to it, you just need him to confirm that this is real. That this othered they you speak of exists.

Bucky’s jaw sets, before his arm slides in your grip to catch his hand at your own, “You’d think people would know I’m harder to kill than that.” And he’s slipping from you, pushing himself away and taking the warmth that has radiated through your clothes with him. Leaving you with a chill that was more than just the room temperature.

This was real. This was real, and someone was really trying to kill him—

Mind racing, you almost miss when he rises from the bed to stand before you, stretching for the moment it takes before he offers you the cool metal of his prosthetic hand, “Let’s go eat, doll.”

You take his hand with less hesitancy than you expect of yourself, using his strength to guide you to your feet slowly. Thankfully this time, the lightheadedness doesn’t follow you, so much as the aches in your bones do.

“Still feelin’ ‘just dandy?’” Bucky shoots at you, but lets you keep your pride and his assisting arm as you roll your eyes at him. When you finally let go of him on your steadier legs, he continues, “I’ll go see if I can find where Sam’s at.”

“Alright,” you try to breathe even, to focus on the small smile at the corner of his lips. Watching him leave the sanctuary of his bedroom, only one thought dominates your thoughts, coming to a head when he shuts the door behind him.

That someone who had tried to kill him last night had failed, and you doubted that whoever it was was going to give up so easily. They’ll try again, you’ll bet money on it, and anyone in their way is fair game. They’ve made that clear enough with what happened to Peter. Wrong place, wrong time had just turned into a life or death situation for anyone in a ten yard radius to James Barnes, and you’re already standing far too close.

That futile urge to run creeps up the back of your throat again. You swallow it down as you push into the ensuite bathroom instead, going through the motions. If you hadn’t liked the girl who looked back at you in the mirror the last time you were here, then you hated the girl who stares back at you now.

Damn, you look rough. The scrapes along your body from the pavement are nothing compared to the bandage on the side of your head. The bruising along your temple on that same side of your face maps where your head had hit the ground, and you hiss as you pick through the dried blood against your scalp. You need a good shower. The sooner you get back to your place, the better.

Aside from your clothes being wrinkled from having been slept in last night, your shirt has dots of blood on it, though it’s nowhere near as terribly marred as Sam’s had been. Wiping at it with a wet rag only seems to make the stains worse, and you sigh with defeat before meticulously removing the shirt entirely once you’re done freshening up as best you can.

Stealing is the least of your crimes, you suppose, intruding upon Barnes once more when you emerge back into his bedroom to toss your shirt upon the bed. That dresser with the picture from his army days upon it is your target, and by the time you pull out the second drawer from the top you hit gold.

Immaculately folded plain t-shirts stare up at you, and you reach for the black one. You’re in enough debt as it is with him, so what’s another twenty dollars?

Besides, this was more like borrowing.

The shirt is comfortably generic, if perhaps a bit inappropriate for the chillier weather, but when you find wherever Barnes has put your jacket and shoes, you know it’ll be fine. Scooping up your crumpled shirt from the bed, you haphazardly fold it as you make your way into the hallway, deciding to be lazy and take the elevator rather than the stairs.

Bare feet pad along the hardwood, as the elevator dings, door smoothly sliding open to expose the white walls within it, contrasting the light grays of the hallway. Leaning against the rail, you take the opportunity to scrutinize the operation panel after clicking the corresponding button to the first floor.

Scoffing in the silence of the moving elevator, your suspicion that this place was entirely too large for its own good is confirmed with the denoting B, 1, 2, 3, 4, R that are labeled on the panel. Four floors, plus a basement and roof space? You’d be terrified if you were living here all alone; it was much too big for your liking, but you guess that this was just another piece of evidence that Barnes had no fear whatsoever, and more money than God.

You’re torn from your mute appraisal of the elevator when it dings once again, alerting you just before the door opens and you find yourself walking into the vacant formal living room. The dim memory of when you had walked in on Barnes conducting business with Cornell Stokes scratches in the back of your skull, but the faint sound of voices drifting further into the home. Following the sound, you’re led down a short hallway until you can hear the sound of running water.

“---is handling the hospital, and Steve’s going to swing by here tonight after he checks out the car. I’m thinkin’ the two of us will alternate your security.”

“Sounds good to me, Sam,” the water turns off as you round into what you realize is the kitchen, catching the attention of Sam and Bucky with your presence.

Sam whistles, shooting off at the mouth before he brings a glass of water to his lips, “Even all beat up, she’s still prettier than you, huh, Barnes—” Bucky glares, as Sam grins with the opportunity to tease the two of you, “I mean you look rough—”

“Fuck off,” but it seems to be in good fun, this teasing, and judging by Bucky’s reaction and Sam’s low chuckling, it’s nothing new to either of them. Sam’s wearing fresh clothes, but not even his bright smile can distract you from the holster at his hip. It’s clear he’s not just here to hang out with an old friend.

“Bucky,” you move closer to the marble-topped island counter Sam leans upon, “where’d you put my coat and my shoes? I can’t find them.”

Sam looks pointedly towards Bucky, something playful in his tone that is so much like schoolyard teasing that you almost want to melt with the embarrassment of it, “Hmm, where did you put her things, Bucky?”

“They’re in the coat closet,” Barnes replies with only a hint of annoyance at how much Sam seemingly enjoyed goading him.

“Man’s a neat freak,” Sam sighs. “That’s a red flag.”

“You know what? Let me just show you where your stuff is,” rounding the counter, Bucky catches you by the forearm and all but drags you from the kitchen, shooting one last glare towards Sam. You have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from reflexively giggling at the bizarre exchange, keeping up with Bucky’s long strides until he inevitably releases his hold on you to open a door at the end of the small hallway you’d initially come down on your way to the kitchen.

It’s a walk-in, lined with a myriad of men’s jackets and coats, wherein your feminine ensemble sits on a wooden hanger as if it were at all meant to hang among the expensive fabrics there. Bucky plucks it from the hanger while you slip your feet into your shoes.

“Here,” when he hands it to you, the weight of it reminds you of its pockets filled with discharge paperwork and your personal belongings.

“Thank you for taking care of it for me,” politely draping it over your shoulder, you look back up at him, only to be rendered immobile by the hand that finds the side of your neck. His thumb caresses your jaw as he tilts your head under the more pointed closet lighting. It takes you a moment to realize he’s scrutinizing the bruising along your temple, with something akin to regret.

“Sam was right. You are pretty beat up,” you’re about to supply a sarcastic comment about how beautiful that reminder makes you feel, when his eyes refocus. Staring into your own with a weight in them that silences you completely, but it’s what he says that leaves you speechless, “I’m sorry. I got you hurt.”

He was apologizing. As if the entirety of your relationship with him hadn’t been spent with his constant disregard for your comfort or wellbeing. As if you weren’t near-constantly teetering between desire and outright fear of what he could do to you.

This confounding, terrifying man was apologizing for something he didn’t even do, and it makes about as much sense to you as the gentleness of his hand at your jaw does. You’re sure you could study him for the rest of your days, and still not have figured him out.

Because why does he care? Aren’t you simply his most recent object for amusement?

There’s the possibility that, in some way, you may have misjudged him.

It takes a second, before your tongue catches up with your mind, and you weakly supply, “You weren’t the one who did this to me.” You don’t know why you feel the need to absolve him of the guilt he rightfully has in this situation, but you’re starting to accept you don’t know much of anything at all.

“Still,” he murmurs, and when he tears his eyes from yours, they settle at your lips. His own promise, “I’ll find who did.” His promise to make it right shouldn’t leave you as indifferent as it did. You knew who he was, you knew his implied methods for dealing with these people would be less than above board, and yet… it doesn’t matter to you. The promise of his threat to the people who had tried to kill him, subsequently injuring both Peter and you, was perhaps the only time when a threat from those lips didn’t scare you.

In some sick, twisted way, it makes you feel a little safer in his arms.

“I know you will,” for a moment you think he might kiss you again. There’s something similar about this closet and the darkroom back at Galereya Romanova. Something intimate about being alone with him.

You’ll never know if your suspicions are correct, because the sound of footsteps strips whatever veil that had descended on you away, along with Sam coming into sight beyond the doorway, “Hey, we going to eat or not? I got that Tylen— Oh, am I interrupting something?”

Bucky rolls his neck, fixing Sam with another annoyed glare that’s a little more genuine this time before you move away from his touch, “Yes.”

There’s no remorse from Sam, who simply grins back at him while you try to melt into the floorboards beneath your feet. Clearing your throat, you pull your jacket on, gesturing towards the pill bottle in Sam’s grip in an effort to quickly change the subject.

“Mind if I grab some of those.”

“Course,” taking the bottle and the opportunity to escape the coat closet, you down the appropriate dosage of pain medicine as quickly as you can, before supplying Barnes with a matching dose.

By the time you make it into the garage, you find that Steve’s Escalade has been replaced with a black Mercedes G-Class which Sam unlocks before you even reach it. Sometime in the night it seems Bucky’s men had been coming and going while you slept, evidenced by the exchange of cars.

It’s a little diner in Brooklyn that Sam and Bucky finally settle upon, but hole-in-the-wall places like these are typically the best kind. Somewhere between deciding on if you wanted breakfast or lunch, you thank your lucky stars that you had decided upon only bringing your wallet and keys with you yesterday to work. They were still tucked into your jacket’s deep pockets by the time you found yourself searching for enough cash to cover your meal, only for Bucky to nearly laugh in your face at the notion that you were paying for your own brunch.

“I already owe you too much money as it is,” you huff, trying your best to snatch the receipt he’d cornered from his grip.

“Isn’t letting me do what I want part of you working off your debt, doll?” he playfully bit back at you, and you had settled into your seat with nary a grumble after that.

You half expected Sam to just dump you out at your place like he had the last time, but instead you realize Bucky’s quick behind you when you slide out of the Mercedes’ back seat.

“I’ll walk you up,” is all he says, and you know better than to argue with him, but part of you doesn’t want to. Calling back to Sam, “Won’t be too long.”

This time, you supply Sam with a proper good-bye, but any chance at hearing his reciprocation is obstructed by Bucky’s quick shutting of the back door.

“You really don’t have to,” there’s a hint of awkwardness in your voice as you begin the trek up to your apartment.

“Sure I do,” Bucky shrugs. “What would I be if I didn’t make sure you got in safe?” There has to be more to it than that, but you do have a terrible habit of overthinking.

Keys in your lock, you push your way into your quaint apartment, but your tension doesn’t fade like it usually did upon returning home. It lingers, like he does, on the precipice of your threshold when you look back towards him.

Wracking your brain for something to say, he cuts through the silence before you have the chance, “I’ll be back by tonight.”

Your brow furrows, evidencing your confusion, “Tonight…?”

“Yeah, I got that meeting to go to, remember? Though, with everything that’s happened, it’ll probably run a little later than I told you yesterday,” and that’s when it hits you. He had asked you to meet him afterwards for dinner. Truthfully, you’re surprised that he still wants to, considering.

“I… don’t know if I’ll be good company,” you begin, leaning into the doorframe with crossed arms. “I’m all sore, and my head’s still hurting—”

Stepping closer, Bucky shakes his head, “No, it’ll be lowkey. Don’t worry about it.”

“Bucky—” for once, you’re about to protest. The last thing you felt like doing was going out God knows where to be the thing on his arm like you’d been at his poker club. A girl can only take so much stress, and you don’t care if you sounded whiney, if it meant the chance at getting out of it.

Even if it meant turning down the first date he ever asked you on.

You’re about to go further, but he silences you when he steps into your space, leaning to ghost at your lips, “I said, don’t worry about it,” before capturing them entirely. He may as well have captured you, too, because your attention is completely short-circuited by the gentle leisure of this kiss.

It’s not the same hasty passion of that time in the darkroom, or the explorative touch from the time before that. No, this is something else entirely. A soft, delicate kiss that drips warmth down to your toes, and only after that do you feel the brush of his fingertips at your neck. Not to trap you there, but rather to almost steady himself against you.

It doesn’t last long, and you’re damned for wishing it was longer than it was, because when he pulls back he takes his hand with him, and you’re left only with the crooked smile on his bruised lips, “Better shut and lock that door, doll, or someone’s bound to walk right in.”

Flushing under the intensity of his flirting, you step back, away from his proximity, and grip to your front door for dear life, “Yeah, I ought to do that.”

You don’t bother telling him good-bye, because you’re afraid that if you linger too much longer with him staring at you like he was, the weaker, supid part of you would invite him inside. Locking and bolting the door, you take a deep breath, allowing one, two, three long seconds to pass before you dare look through your peep-hole to see if that action alone had been enough to keep the wolf from your door.

Forehead thumping against the door at the realization he’s gone, you take a deep breath in the hopes that it will cure you of this tension he’s set in your shoulders.

Your apartment looks too similar for the shifting in your stomach. Too much has changed too quickly, and in your efforts to maintain your life as closely as you could to what it was before these events were set into motion, not even your unaffected home could save you from this feeling that things would never be the same again. That you would never be the same again, once the chips fall where they may.

Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, you push yourself from the door, and this spell he’s cast over you. Emptying your coat pockets on your kitchen counter, you put your wallet and keys aside in order to sort through the discharge paperwork from the hospital, reading over the vague home-care instructions they had given you which amounted to little more than you already knew. You’re on the third page when the business card falls from between the papers, and you’re left staring at the name printed there.

Carol Danvers

Picking it up with your nails, you flick the card absentmindedly, wondering if it was even smart to hold onto it at all, or if throwing it into the trash was the dumbest option you could take. Misty had tried to get through to you as a friend, and it hadn’t worked, so now she was sending in the big guns.

Really, did she even have a say in what the FBI did? You remember from that fragment of a conversation you never should have heard that Bucky had told Stokes something about a task-force out in Harlem making trouble for him. Were Agent Danvers, Agent Fury, and Misty all part of that same task force he mentioned?

You refused to believe it was a coincidence.

But you have no idea what to do about it right now. You don’t think there’s anything to be done about it, at least not by you.

So, you decide to tuck the business card in your wallet among the gift cards you still haven’t used since your last birthday. Squirreling it away just as you had the wire that Misty left you with.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The rest of the midday consists of peeling off your over-worn clothing, and throwing everything into your wash, along with the shirt you’d successfully stolen from Barnes. Scrutinizing every scratch and bruise on your body came next, and then changing the dressing on your skull as you carefully washed the hair around the stitches there.

By the time you’re through, it’s near five o’clock, and while you would love nothing more than to crawl onto your couch and veg out, there’s something more pressing you feel you have to do.

⤜♚⤛

The gift shop is more like a highway robbery. Fifty bucks for flowers, balloons, a card, and a stuffed bear? Ridiculous, but you’re either a schmuck or a sucker, because you fork it over nonetheless when the receptionist rings you up.

The bear isn’t even a bear. It’s a panda, and you sigh as you look down at the items you’ve acquired when you find partial solitude in the elevator. Was it too much? You were second-guessing yourself, now.

But when the floors ding off, you have only a split second to decide if you truly want to do this before the doors threateningly begin to slide shut once more. Catching it just in time, you push your way out, along with your myriad of presents.

Fuck, you didn’t even know if they allowed gifts like these in the ICU. You hadn’t thought that far ahead.

You feel like a damn idiot as you walk the same path as last night once again, tunnel vision only easing when you’re standing out front of the push-button double doors. Deep breath. You reach out and push it.

The beeps are just as familiar as they are foreign, breathing whooshes of the ventilators accompanying the atmosphere of this place, but in the setting daylight, you notice it’s busier than it had been the night before.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” asks an older nurse with pulled back box braids from beyond the counter at the central nurse’s station.

“Oh, yeah, I’m visiting Peter…”

“Last name?”

It takes you a second, “Parker. Peter Parker. He is still here, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. Technically, we’re only supposed to allow two visitors at a time during visiting hours, but if you’re going to be quick, I’ll let you go back,” she offers kindly, and you nod. You didn’t need long. You just wanted to make sure he was okay.

“I’ll only be a second,” you agree, before she points you around to the same room he had been stationed in the night before. As you move around the ICU, you spot the room, now curtained, and the large hulk of a man standing beside the door to it.

He squints at your approach, before recognition eases his brow, “Oh, you.”

“Drax, wasn’t it?”

“That’s me,” Drax nods towards the items in your hands. “Boss send you down with those?”

“No, actually, I was just hoping to deliver them myself, for the kid… if that’s alright.”

He grunts, frowning, “Not supposed to let anyone in that the Boss hasn’t approved.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I guess. Can you just put these things in there for me, then?” you offer him the get-well-soon items, and Drax raises a brow. “I just… don’t want him to wake up to an empty room when he does, you know?”

“I don’t know. The boss said—”

The sound of metal against metal catches your attention when the curtain is pushed open, the same petite woman from last night staring out at you with a questioning gaze, before realization dawns upon her, “You’re that girl from last night. You were there when it happened, weren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, I was,” you supply awkwardly, and Peter’s aunt sighs with all the exhaustion it takes to wave off the guard at the door.

“Oh, let her in, Drax. She wouldn’t have blown herself up, now, would she?”

“I… guess not, Aunt May,” he concedes, and she waves you into the room.

“That one doesn’t have a whole lot going on between the ears, but he’s just a big teddy bear when you get to know him,” May moves around the bedside, returning to a small packet that she uses to produce lubrication for the boy’s lips. Glancing towards where you linger along the outskirts of the bed, she nods to the corner of the cramped room, “You can put all that near the window. That way he can see it when he wakes up. I know he’ll love it. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, I just… wanted him to know people were thinking about him,” you supply weakly, gingerly placing your various items on the small windowsill there. May was still carefully treating his lips around the endotracheal tube, and if the various wires and low rhythm of the ventilator weren’t there, you could almost believe Peter to be sleeping.

His head is bandaged, but from beneath the bandage comes another tube, hooked to some sort of draining mechanism on the other side of the bed. It must be the product of that surgery he had last night. One thing stood out to you, more than anything else, and that was how small he looked laying there. He was nowhere near the man he so desperately wanted to pretend to be.

May breaks you from your solemn observation of the boy, “I’m sorry, do you mind if I ask you something?”

Catching her brown-eyed stare, you nod, “Sure.”

“The other boys… I know they won’t give me an honest answer, but… was it— do you know if he was in a lot of pain, when he was on the street?” her question punches you in the gut, pushes all the air from your lungs and leaves you empty.

You gape like a fish for the moments it takes to collect yourself, and you avoid her stare when you reply, “Honestly? From what I remember of it, he was already unconscious. No… I don’t think he even saw it coming.”

She hums, tucking the blanket around him like a mother would her child, smiling weakly when she confesses, “That’s good. He wasn’t scared, then.”

Trying your best to swallow the lump in your throat, you aren’t ashamed when your voice shakes, “I’ve heard that sometimes people in comas can hear what’s going on around them, so right now, he might know you’re here with him. That you’re taking care of him. I might not know him as well as everyone else does, but I do know that kid loves you with his whole heart. There’s no way you can’t know that, if you’ve met him at all. I’m sure it makes him happy, having you here with him now.”

May looks towards you once more, hopeful, as if she wants to believe you, “I hope he can hear. He needs to know how much he matters.”

Silently, you nod, before reaching out to offer her the card, “This is for when he wakes up, but if you need anything, my number’s in there, too. I live in Hell’s Kitchen, but I’m just a call away, okay?”

“That’s awfully nice of you to offer to someone you barely know,” she begins, somewhat skeptical, but takes the card from you anyway.

“I know what it’s like to try to make it on your own.”

“You don’t know what I’m going through.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I’m only offering what I can, if you figure you need some extra help, aside from that big lug at the door,” a bittersweet smile cracks on your face. “But, I better go before the nurse comes in here and shoos me out. There’s only supposed to be two visitors at a time, technically.”

Before you’re past the curtain, her voice catches you, and you turn to find her reading your name from your signature at the bottom of the card, “Thank you for coming by to check on him. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Something told me I did.”

The path back through the hospital is something you’re starting to remember automatically by your fourth time through its curving, winding halls. It takes three stops by subway to get back to Hell’s Kitchen, and when you do, you find yourself taking your time down the brisque city streets.

The air’s getting colder as the hour passes, the threat of winter looming ever closer, and by the time you’re once again standing in front of your building, the sun has gone all the way down.

Barnes had said not to worry about tonight, but you weren’t sure if that meant you were off the hook or not. You wished he would leave and never come back, that he could take this uncertainty swirling in your chest along with him when he did, but it’s too late for that now.

The on-edge feeling returns as the evening hours tick by, until you’re barely able to enjoy the reruns you’ve taken to watching on your couch. Tension seeping into your skin until the way you constantly check your phone every thirty minutes to check the time gives away your anticipation of his possible arrival.

It’s past nine when you hear the rap at your door, and the way you nearly jump out of your skin is enough reason to thank the heavens that no one is around to see you do it. It might not even be him—

A glance through your peep-hole proves that thought incorrect, because there he stands in a leather jacket. More casual than you expected him to be with the jeans along his hips. Fuck, you’re still in the sweats you threw on after your shower, having been too ambiguous about his arrival to decide on a proper outfit—

Hesitantly, you unbolt and unlock the door, swinging it open just enough to catch a glimpse of the plastic bag he holds in his hand.

Barnes still looks like sin when his teeth cut in a grin at the sight of you, even with the bruising and cuts on his face. It makes him look somehow even more dangerous than he already did, in the low fluorescent lights of your building’s hallway. Lifting up his hand to dangle the plastic bag between you, you make out the unmistakable shapes of the to-go boxes nestled within.

“Told you it would be low-key,” he juts his chin upwards slightly, motioning for you to open the door wider. “Let me in.”

You do as you’re told, but mostly because whatever he’s carrying smells heavenly, “Didn’t you want to eat out, though?”

“Nah,” brushing past you, he spots your kitchen easily enough, placing the bag on the counter like he owns the place, “could barely stand to sit through the full meeting, with how long it wound up taking. Besides, you said you were sore, right?”

Upon re-locking your door again, you meet his raised brow, “Yeah.”

“Hope you like shawarma, ‘cause that’s all we got,” he grins, pulling the boxes out of the bag as you come closer to examine the food. You should be more uneasy with his presence here, but maybe you’ve become numb to the feeling. Perhaps it’s simply your new baseline, now, and you’re unaware of it.

Or, maybe, you don’t mind him as much in this moment as you used to.

He offers you a plate, “This one’s yours, doll,” and you take it from him like he doesn’t completely baffle you at every chance he gets. Looking towards the television, he asks, “What’re you watching?”

“Oh… reruns of some old show, but I wasn’t paying much attention, I’m afraid,” moving towards the couch while he finishes up grabbing his own plate, you tuck your legs under the box of food. You can’t help but wonder, “Aren’t you supposed to be under, like, constant guard or something, after last night?”

“Yeah, Steve’s sitting out there watching the place.”

“He’s just sitting in the car?” there’s no hiding the amusement in your voice. “Isn’t that kind of mean to just leave him there?”

“I could invite him up here, if you’re so worried about him, doll,” Bucky grins back at you, watching you lean back into the cushions with a snort.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So she does have a mean streak,” sitting his plate down on your coffee table, he sinks into the couch beside you. “Who would’ve guessed?”

“I’m not the one who left him in the car.”

Bucky’s shrugging off his jacket, draping it over the arm of your couch, “He’s not a dog on a hot summer day. Plus, the car’s on. I think he can handle himself for a couple hours while we eat.”

“Two meals in one day,” the smile on your lips is as genuine as they come, peeling open the plate of food to properly appraise it. You had to admit, it looked good. He’s begun to pick apart his own plate when you decide to tease him a little, “If I knew all I had to do to pay off my debt was let you feed me, I’d have sent you a grocery bill sooner.”

The initial bite of your wrap silences you and he shoots back, “If I knew all I had to do to keep that smart mouth of yours quiet was to stuff it full, I’d have done that sooner, too.” The mischievous glint in his eye is all it takes for you to know that he’s exactly aware of the double entendre in his words. It takes all you have not to choke on your bite before you wash it down with your drink.

“Gross,” you huff around a giggle when you catch a breath of air.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he chuckles, taking his own bite of his wrap.

The evening dissolves like this, and you hate to admit that it’s… pleasant. Talking and occasionally joking back and forth with him is dangerous, because he seems almost likable. As if he’s just a regular guy on a laid-back date. As if he didn’t have a disproportionate amount of control when it came to every interaction you had with him.

As if this weren’t the cost of a debt beyond your control, but as the night wears on, you start to wonder if that’s really the reason he was sitting here with you now. Surely there are other women he could be with. Women who don’t owe him practically anything he wants from them.

You should be thankful that all he wants from you right now is your company. That should be enough, but in the back of your mind, the thought crawls up your neck, planting the seed of uncertainty there. Of questioning.

And you know asking questions will only serve to get you even deeper into this mess.

The only question you should want to ask him is how much longer until your debt is paid, but that one— perhaps the most important question in your life right now— is far away from you tonight. Instead, a far more treacherous question eats at your thoughts.

Is there some part of him, perhaps the part that made him come here tonight, that might care a thing about you?

You shouldn’t wish for it. You shouldn’t want it. You shouldn’t want him, or want him to want you, but damn it if you haven’t become a complete mess in the head, ever since you first met him.

And when the dinner’s over and done with. When he’s leaning against your couch with you settled into his side, the reason you let him kiss you again is more than just the score you have to settle.

That realization is more terrifying than he ever could be.

His lips, his hands, his body pressing you into your couch— he’s all consuming. Burning away every shred of good sense you have left, and the butterflies in your stomach scream out how you’re in too deep for your own good— drowning in him in more ways than one. The Devil is supposed to be charming, though, isn’t he?

If he’s the Devil, you’re already falling.

Metal and flesh have become so familiar to you that you think it would be strange for two warm hands to touch you at the same time. The scrape of his beard is a map that you’re certain you could trace with your eyes closed. It’s already certain to you that he’s utterly ruined you, in just the short time you’ve known him.

Is it possible for a week to feel like a lifetime? Maybe you are completely insane.

His breath is warm as he kisses you into the couch, gasping into your lips when you tug gently at the dark hair of his head. You’re on the verge of doing anything he asks, when his lips part from yours to trail across your cheek, gently avoiding your bruised temple.

“Ask me to stay,” he murmurs into your ear, and you try to hang onto the last shred of your dignity at the sound of it.

“You can’t,” pushing against his chest, you’re desperate to distance yourself. To try and breathe a single breath of air that doesn’t smell like him, “Steve’s outside. He’ll be sitting out there all night if you stay. I’m mean, but I’m not that mean.”

He has checkmate when he counters, “Then pack a bag, and come home with me.”

Your eyes flutter open, staring up at him in the dim cast of light from the television and your kitchen light. There’s no teasing smirk on his lips, no evidence that he was simply trying to pull another one of those reactions he liked to get from you. He’s serious, and while it’s an offer, it’s not a question.

You’re nearly sobered by it, “What did you say?”

His hands find your thighs, still flanking his hips, giving you a squeeze to punctuate, “Grab a duffel, throw what you need in it, and let’s go.”

A refusal buds in the back of your throat, but what falls from your lips is, “Only for tonight.”

His noncommittal, “Sure,” convinces neither of you, but when he kisses you again, you’re too distracted to care.

He waits on the couch as you dump out your gym bag’s random contents onto your bed. Not wanting to stay for too long to start overthinking this more than questionable decision on your part, you hurry to sling some clothes in your bag, along with the bare necessities you would need to keep your third walk of shame less shameful.

Pausing in your bathroom, you glance towards the cabinet, the thought of Misty’s wire coming to mind once more, but you shake that off almost as soon as it comes. You were not going to get involved.

Flipping the light off, you grab your phone and wallet to stuff into your duffel, and by the time you’re back in the living room he’s standing in front of your door. Staring at you with an expectation that you’ll follow him from the safety of your home, into the night.

“Ready, doll?”

You’re already too involved with him as it is.

“Ready.”

⤜♚⤛

James Barnes has a way with manipulating his way into getting what he wants, and before you know what’s properly happening, one night has turned into two, and a lazy weekend spent between his home and accompanying his visits to the hospital flies by you in a way that’s strangely comfortable. As if bending to his whim is becoming somewhat natural with the passing days, and any discomfort at the idea of that dissolves when you think that maybe your increased time spent with him will absolve you of your debt all the more quickly.

The most baffling part of all of this is that, over those two days, save for a little hot and heavy kissing or teasing, Barnes hadn’t initiated anything more intimate than that. You don’t know if it’s because he was more injured from the explosion than he let on, or what, but it left you with time spent… unpressured. Less performance anxiety, at the very least, followed you through the weekend, lulling you into a state that was… almost, relaxed, in a way.

Truthfully, you’re satisfied with wasting the weekend away with him, refusing to question the moments he’s pulled away by either Sam or Steve for some sort of business not meant for your ears. Still, it’s clear they’re still working through the weekend, and even when one is keeping watch of their boss, the other is doing something. Your guess is on them investigating who was after Bucky, but you have no concrete evidence of what they were truly doing.

It’s just past noon on Sunday that he finds you in his bathroom, shoving your toiletries back into your gym bag, “Going somewhere?”

“Just getting ready to go home,” you say as if it’s obvious. This was already a day longer than you had initially agreed to, and on top of your seriously diminishing wardrobe which currently consisted of another of his stolen t-shirts and your recycled pants, you had other matters to worry about, “I have work in the morning.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says quickly, somehow entertained by your announcement, “so you literally almost get blown up, and you want to go back to work on Monday?”

“Some of us don’t have the luxury to not go to work on Monday, Buck,” you sigh, tugging your bag onto your shoulder once you zip it up. “I’ve got bills to pay legitimately. I can’t just miss work, or they’ll fire me, and I worked hard to get this secretary job.”

“Okay, I hear you,” his hands come to rest on your shoulders as if to calm your insistent tone. Raising one finger between you to pause your thought, he continues, “Hear me out, though. I’m sure they’ll understand if you need a few days off after going through what you did.”

“My boss isn’t the understanding type—”

“I could pull some strings—”

“Oh, really?” raising a brow, you place your hand on your hip in disbelief. “What kind of strings are you going to pull in an elementary school, Bucky. Gonna’ start strong-arming third-graders?”

“I have all kinds of strings I can pull, if you want me to… all you have to do is ask nicely.”

The taste of skepticism on your tongue, you search his amused gaze for an answer, “And what is this going to cost me?”

“Not anything that you can’t make up to me,” he grins, and you’re left chewing the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling reflexively.

“You won’t hurt any of these strings you’re gonna’ pull, right?”

Bucky’s metal hand comes to his chest, as if he’s hurt you’d accuse him of such a thing, “What am I, a common criminal?”

“No, you’re worse,” you step into his teasing with equal strides, in a way that you’ve come to realize is safe to do. The man who was once entirely unreadable to you had somewhat become understandable, at least at times like this, when his smile reached his eyes.

“Ouch,” he calls after you as you slip away from him, following not far behind your stride into the bedroom to search for any of the items you might have missed. He halts your scrutiny with a blatant step into your line of sight, “I still haven’t heard you ask me nicely, doll.”

Testing the water, you dare to be bold— to throw some of this tension he’s wound in you over these past two days back at him.

Slipping close, just a breath away from him, you all but purr, “Do you want me to get on my knees for you first?”

His grin falters, lips parting, and for once you relish in genuinely shocking this man who consistently seemed prepared for anything you could ever do. You even think you see a hint of a blush, before he clears his throat.

“Doll, you can’t go around just saying things like that to me…”

“And here I thought you wanted me to ask you nicely,” you hum, edging closer.

“You’re still a little too bruised up for all that, don’t you think?”

Oh, so that’s what this was about. Some sort of twisted guilt that he had for your injuries? Or… did he not find you as attractive with the healing bruises along your face?

Either option stings your pride, and has you leaning away from him, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just wouldn’t want to tear open your stitches.”

Swallowing down the urge to verbalize the insecurities jumbling around in your head for fear of genuinely irking him, you blandly ask, “Will you please help me get off work this week?” If there’s any evidence that your change in tone is deeper than the act of it you put on, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Bucky taps beneath your chin with his index finger gently, “Hey, try to sound at least a little enthusiastic about it.” Forcing a smile, he buys it just enough to allow you out of this conversation, “Let me go make a call, then I’ll get you home.”

You don’t know who he called, but it must have been one hell of a person with pull, because it’s barely eight on Monday morning when you’re woken up from a dead sleep in your own bed by a call from your boss, gushing about how terrible an ordeal you’ve been through. Better yet, you suddenly had enough PTO that your whole week off would be covered.

Thanking your boss as professionally as you could considering the groggy haze you were in, you dissolve back into your empty bed and try not to think about Barnes’ comments on your face. It might sound vapid, but it’s been bothering you ever since he left you at home last night. Sure, he’d taken the chance to kiss you senseless again before he left, but still.

You’d never had a problem being left untouched before now, but nearly every second you spent with him was a constant tease, and after his rejection yesterday, your mind was going down the path of worst-case-scenarios. What if he was starting to find you boring? Unattractive? What if he was getting tired of you entirely? What if that made it harder to pay your debt off? What if— What if—

Distance, that’s exactly what you need right now. Space to clear your head once again from him like you had last time. Everything would be just fine after a couple of days spent alone—

Easier said than done, when he’s calling you right now. You contemplate ignoring the vibrating phone when you see his name there. You could wallow in your own private self-pity a moment longer, if you did.

Just when you’re about to answer, it goes to voicemail, and you’re left relieved that the universe has chosen your fate for you.

Until he starts ringing you again. This time you answer.

“Mmm, Bucky?” you know you sound groggy. You don’t particularly care.

“Doll, did your work call? They’re supposed to let you off—”

“Mhm,” you sigh into the phone, stretching your tired bones and letting out a slight whimper in response. “My boss just did. I’m off the whole week. It’s even paid. Lucky me.”

“Lucky you,” he chuckles low into the phone, and you’re left wondering if he’s still in bed like you are, or is he doing that early-riser thing he seems to favor?

You hate that you know that about him.

“Yeah,” it comes out a sigh again, “thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he sounds so proud of himself. “Feel free to show your appreciation the next time you see me.” How dare he say things like that. He’s nothing but audacity, making your mind race with ideas fed solely by the memories he’s provided you with, only to turn you away like he doesn’t want you anymore.

You dare to ask, if only for a chance at reading his meaning, “And how should I do that, do you think?” He’s silent for longer than it should take to answer you, so you call his name. Had you been disconnected?

“I’m here… uh,” he breathes into the phone, softening his tone even lower as if to keep the conversation private, “I can think of a few ways.” If he didn’t want you, then what’s with that tone?

“Tell me.”

“It can wait until you’re better—”

Rolling your eyes, you huff into the phone, settling your other hand along your stomach, “When I do get better I’m just going to write you a thank-you note and call it a day at this rate.”

The sound of his chuckle settles into your chest, “That’s not quite what I’ve got in mind, doll.”

“Spell it out for me,” you taunt, using his own words against him. “You gotta’ tell me what you want, or you’ll never get it.”

“Now, where have I heard that before?”

“Some tight-lipped jerk told me something like that, once.”

He sighs into the phone, like he’s exasperated with you, but there’s also a hint of something electric there. Some kind of excitement that carries through the phone when he finally gives into your temptation.

“You really want me to tell you, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“This early in the morning?”

“Mhm…”

“I don’t know, I’m a busy man… might not have time to detail everything to you.”

“Bucky, I’m this close to hanging up on you—”

There’s his laughter again, and it cuts right through you like butter. The man was a tease. That’s what he was, and you were falling for it. Hook, line, and sinker.

“Hold on.”

You groan at the sound of his order, utterly fed up with him, but you don’t dare hang up. Not when the possibility of him spelling out exactly what he wants from you is within your reach. Staring at the ceiling, you lick your lips, and listen to the muffled sounds that you can’t make out on the other end of the line.

His breathing returns, closer this time, “I’m back.”

“And I’m still waiting,” you whine. You can practically taste the anticipation.

Bucky hums into the phone, “I don’t know, I can get pretty creative when I want to be.”

“Give me an example.”

“I’d like to see you on your knees again, just like you offered to.”

You have to bite down to keep from making some silly noise of excitement into the phone, “Oh? Here I thought you didn’t like that.”

“Doll,” it sounds chastising, nearly a growl, “you should know better than that.”

“And when I’m on my knees for you, then what?” your fingertips move along your stomach, southward at the sound of his voice. You don’t care if it’s selfish, the sound of the slight breathlessness in his voice is twisting the knot in your stomach.

“You looked so pretty with my dick down your throat, so I figured we could start there.”

“I wish I could taste you right now,” you confess quietly into the receiver, pushing your fingers beneath the elastic of your sleep shorts when you hear a responsive murmur in return.

“Yeah? I bet you’d take it all, wouldn’t you? You did so well last time,” his voice is getting lower, more raspy, and it’s making you insane as you drag your fingers through your wetness like he had in the past. Shutting your eyes, it’s almost like you can imagine him there with you now.

“You wanna’ get me messy again, huh, Bucky?” your voice hitches as you roll soft circles on your clit. “I’ll be good for you.”

“You’re always good for me,” there’s a groan in his voice. “I want you to beg me to make you cum, doll.” His words have you flushing from head to toe, heat pulsing through you in time with your increasingly hasty fingers between your thighs, and you can’t help the moan you try to muffle against the pillow. “I want to watch when you do. Do you know what seeing you walk around all weekend in my shirts did to me, knowing I couldn’t touch you?”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you worse.”

His words sober you, but only just enough to murmur into the phone, “I’m not that easy to break, Bucky. I would’ve let you have me.”

“I know you would have. You like it, yeah? You like when I touch you?”

You grit your teeth. It shouldn’t be hard to say it. It’s not like it wasn’t entirely obvious by now. It’s not as if you weren’t actively exchanging your fantasies of him with your hand buried between your legs right this instant.

Bucky doesn’t let up, “You’d like me to fuck you right now, wouldn’t you?” A swipe of your thumb puts him on speaker, and then your other hand dives beneath the sheets to join the first. This time, you can’t muffle your whimper.

“You’re touching yourself right now, aren’t you, doll?” the way his endearment for you rolls from his tongue should be illegal. It sounds as close to a purr as you’ve ever heard him, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice at having caught you red-handed. “C’mon, you can tell me.”

“Y-Yes,” you breathe around a whimper, and your lungs nearly close up entirely when you hear the faint sound of a zipper in the background.

“Shoulda’ told me sooner,” he pants, and you know he’s doing it too. “You’re so lucky I’m not in Manhattan right now. You’d really get it for starting without me.”

God, he’s completely melted your brain. That’s the only explanation for the reason his words alone are getting you so worked up.

“I can’t help it,” you turn over onto your stomach, hoisting yourself to your knees until your face is tilted towards the phone from the pillow it rests upon. “I need you so bad right now.”

“I know you do. Fuck your fingers like it’s me,” his breathing is speeding up, and you can’t stop the mewl that escapes you when your fingers dip into your entrance. Stretching yourself in as closely a mimicry of his own ministrations, you’re going mad here by yourself.

“I want to sit on your lap,” the thoughts spill from you, as you desperately chase the end of this moment with him, relishing in the moans that are spilling from his own lips at this point. “Ride you like that time… when we were on my couch, I wanted it then, too.”

“Doll, ah, fuck,” he trails off.

“And the way your beard feels on my skin— whenever you’re kissing me, I’m only thinking about what you feel like inside me,” this time you’re certain he whimpers. “Bucky, I don’t care who sees—” His breath hitches, a soft moan spilling from his throat before there’s even a chance at biting it back, before he dissolves into heavy breaths, and you can’t help but to ask, “Did you cum? Did I make you cum?” You don’t care how needy you sound, or if he can possibly hear how wet you are as your fingers desperately try to compensate for the lack of him.

His voice sounds utterly wrecked when he finally responds, “Yeah, you did. Fuck’s sake, you’re driving me crazy over here.” He’s closer to the phone now, voice coming in clearer beside your ears, “Tell me you’re close, doll. You go ahead and cum for me.”

You’re near drooling as you whine, “I can’t— I can’t take it—”

“You’ll take it,” he murmurs, and it sounds so low, so dangerously close, that you can nearly imagine him right behind you as he says it. “You’ll take it all. I’ll make sure of it—”

His name breaks in the back of your throat, bit down against a pillow as you try your best not to scream your way through the grind of your fingertips at your clit. You all but collapse with the weakness that settles over you in the immediate aftermath of your orgasm, and by the time the ringing in your ears dulls, you realize he’s coaxing you through it on the phone.

“---did so well. I knew you would. I bet you look amazing right now—”

“Bucky,” it’s nearly a whisper, and that’s all you can do to alleviate the confession in your chest, “I wish you were here.”

His laughter is more breathless this time, and there’s a dark promise that sends arousal seeping through your skin once again when he hums, “Trust me on this, no you don’t.”

There’s no energy left in you to argue with him, “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Do that,” he lingers, probably in just as much a stunningly blissful state as you were right now. It clearly takes a second for him to gather his thoughts, “Damn, I’m supposed to go help Steve and Sam with something, but you’ve completely derailed me.”

“This early?”

“It’s the city that never sleeps.”

“Well, the city may not sleep, but I sure do,” you don’t think you’ll be getting up any time soon after that.

“Then, I probably should leave you to it, huh?”

“Mhm… I guess so…”

He sighs into the phone, “You enjoy your time off, okay? I’ll see you in a day or two.”

“Busy, busy, huh?”

“Hmm, yeah. Business and pleasure don’t mix, unfortunately.”

You raise your brow, “Well, sometimes they do…”

You can practically hear the gears in his head turning, until you hear the amusement that accompanies, “Touché.”

“Hang up, Bucky. Steve and Sam are waiting for you.”

“Right… yeah, I probably should. I’ll call you later,” you don’t dare think that he sounds like he wants to linger longer, even if there’s barely a single thought in either one of your heads right now.

“Bye, Bucky,” you sigh, swiping your phone off the bed to hold closer.

“Try to not miss me too much,” he manages, and before you can get the last word, the line goes dead. Groaning, you toss your phone to the other side of the bed. You know you’re playing right into what he wants, but it was starting to become damn enjoyable.

Turns out, “a day or two” was more appropriately described as several days, because when Barnes showed up again, three days had passed. That’s not to say you spent the entirety of those days waiting listlessly by the phone. That time off was spent with you finally doing the things you enjoyed, as well as some errands here and there. Your bruises were starting to yellow, some of your scratches were nearly healed, and the stitches along your forehead were bound to come out any day now. The calls you did happen to receive from him had been shorter than the one on Monday, and less filled with pent-up frustration, but that didn’t mean that by the time you saw him you weren’t wound up.

Barnes shows up out of nowhere, not long after six in the evening, and when you wrench your front door open upon realizing it was him knocking, it takes only a split second to realize he was staring at you like a man starved. You barely have the time to breathe his name past your lips before his hands find your jaw, dragging you up to his lips with a haste that would have had you collapsing, were it not for the long form of him against you.

Walking you back into your apartment, he kicks the door closed with his boot before abandoning one side of your face for the breath it takes for him to fumble blindly behind himself and click turn the lock. The bolt would have to wait, it seemed.

He leaves you lightheaded, as his lips and tongue drag one kiss out into another, one of his hands migrating into your hair only to tug your head back, allowing him the access to your neck he desires. You’re pliable, putty in his hands.

“Bucky,” rips from your lungs, “what—?”

“Doll, I’ve been thinking about you all week,” is all the explanation he supplies before you shiver in his hold, the drag of his lips down your throat just as good as if he’d set you on fire personally. You thought you’d cooled off some with the days spent apart, but just like that you’re consumed with him all over again.

“If you don’t throw together your bag in the next minute, I’m going to take you right here, and if I do that, then Steve’ll be waiting all night in the car, and I know how much you worry about him,” Bucky teases, straightening up just enough to brush his lips against yours before releasing you entirely. For a moment, you stand there staring at him in a daze, trying to process what he’s just said, until he lifts his wrist and begins counting, “One, two—”

“Wait, like an overnight bag? Like last time?” you try to clarify and he smirks.

“Yeah, exactly like last time,” part of you wonders if he’ll keep his word were you to stall him, but at the sound of his pointed, “nine, ten… you better start packing… thirteen, fourteen,” you know he’s entirely serious.

“Gimme a minute—” you squeal before turning on your heel, trying your hardest to remember where all your crap is as fast as you can.

Bucky calls after you, a hint of laughter on his tongue, “You have forty-five seconds.”

You barely make the timer, but you’re certain that you’ve forgotten something important in your haste to meet him back at the door in the nick of time. He drags you back into his arms, kissing you deeply once more, before gesturing you out the door.

“Let’s go. You’ve got a long night ahead of you for that little stunt you pulled on Monday.”

He was right, too, and the worst part was trying your hardest to keep from letting Steve— and then Sam, when he switched out security at eight— from hearing every little cry or whimper that Bucky mercilessly wrenched from you. You’re certain he was working out more than just the pent-up result of your phone sex, because you may as well have been left entirely boneless by the time he was through with you. There had to be more to it than that, and you had a gut feeling it was due to a week’s worth of investigating the bombing with little progress, because if there had been progress, wouldn’t Sam and Steve be off security detail by now?

Bucky doesn’t tell you anything about it, and you don’t ask. You doubt he’d answer even if you did.

Instead, you settle into his side, and content yourself with your simple lot in life… for now.

It’s nearly five in the morning when you’re jolted awake. There’s a pitiful, soft groaning that sounds throughout the bedroom, and it takes you a moment to realize it’s coming from the man beside you.

“Nnn… Rebecca…” has you sitting up, flicking on the dim bedside table lamp to get a better sight of him. “No,” he struggles, slurred and smudged between his lips as he fights through whatever dream— or rather, nightmare— had claimed him. There’s a cold sweat on his brow, and while you’ve seen him in the midst of a nightmare before, this time it’s different.

His whole body is clenched, wrestling with the sheets at random as pained murmurs pass his lips before another, barely audible call of a name, “Becca…”

You reach for him before you think better of it, calling his name as you try to shake him awake, but instead of catching you by your wrist like last time, this time vibranium fingers catch you at your throat. You’re beneath him before you even realize what’s happening. Blinking up, at the confused, wild eyes of the man above you. Struggling to breathe. Choking around his grip.

“It… Bucky—” you barely manage around his closing grip, before the glassy stare in his eyes fades as he blinks down at you, realizing what he was doing. He releases you like he’s been burned, pushing himself off of you nearly as fast as he had pinned you down with a sharp gasp. Trying to catch your breath, you hear his shocked repetitions of an apology, before you manage to push yourself up on the bed.

“I’m sorry— God— Fuck— I’m sorry— I’m sorry—”

You’d gotten too comfortable, too complacent in whatever façade he had shown you over this past week, but that shaking, icy fear that chased up your spine now was as close to the truth of him as you can believe. He reaches for you, and you flinch towards the headboard before you can school your emotions. There’s no burying the terror in your eyes this time.

Bucky all but scrambles away from you until he’s reached the edge of the bed, recoiling from your reaction. Turning to sit his whole body off the edge of it, as if that will give you both the time it takes to compose yourselves.

Your throat is sore, by the time your breathing slows from its desperate wrenching of oxygen through your mouth. The threat to run slips through your addled mind before you manage to calm yourself enough to not shake entirely when you move away from the headboard.

Bucky is still tangled in the sheet, his head in his hands, and he is trembling.

“Bucky,” you try, but there’s a somewhat hoarse edge to your voice, and he tenses at the sound of it. You’re hesitant to touch him again, so you ghost around the edges of his space. “Bucky,” you clear your throat, and that almost fixes your tone. “C’mon, Bucky, look at me.”

His head tilts slightly, and with the dark shadow cast over it, you can’t help but think he looks like a fallen angel. A peculiar, foreign brand of terror that you’re entirely unequipped to handle stares back at you, nearly as deep as the pit of regret that, for once, is openly exposed for your perusal. You don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to hide it in this moment, or if he’s completely lost all control of his ability to do so.

His mask is gone, for the moment you ask him, “Are you okay?”

Irritation flashes, then he scoffs, “I hurt you,” with all the venom it takes to push another person away.

Still, you sit there, “You… didn’t mean to… right?”

“Fuck, you aren’t even certain about it,” he shakes his head, and once again his eyes are shielded in his hands. Anger radiates from him, but there’s a hurt, defensive edge to it. Ready to lash out like a cornered animal, when given no other option but to fight their way out.

You’re silent for too long, and when you do finally speak, the wrong question comes tumbling from your clumsy lips, “Who is Rebecca?”

He almost stops breathing entirely, before glancing towards you, “What?”

“Rebecca?” you stupidly blunder onwards, thundering all over the eggshells laid between you when you continue, “You were calling for her in your sleep.”

“She’s no one,” it’s a lie, and for once you hate that you’re able to read him so openly, when all this time you’ve been begging for the ability to do just that.

“I was just—”

“Just drop it!” his voice raises, biting at the person who’s cornered him in. Screaming, “Damn it! Can’t you just mind your own business for once?!”

There’s a specific kind of defeat which washes through you so quickly that it’s somehow faster than the immense regret that swells in his eyes when he dares to look at you again. You fight to keep the tears from welling up, but they’re blurring your vision before you can even escape his bed entirely.

Bucky reaches out as you try to stand, catching you by your forearm, voice heavy with grief, “Wait—” but you snatch away from him, despite knowing that if he had truly wished to keep his grip, he could have done so far easier than you could have broken away from it. He calls your name softly, like a wounded creature would cry out for help, and you try to keep the tears from falling, but they have a mind of their own, and an intent to blaze their way to the floor with one destructive streak along your face.

“No,” you step away from him, from the bed, backing towards the door. Before he can fully evoke whatever words are forming on his parted lips, that traitorous reflex to run creeps into your very soul, and this time you have the good sense to listen to it. Darting down the hallway, you don’t stop at the stairs, or the living room, you don’t tuck yourself into the coat closet, or pause in the small hallway that your feet lead you through.

You don’t stop until you find yourself cornered in the kitchen, choosing to fall to pieces against that beautiful marble-topped counter, sinking to the floor. Knowing you’ll look nothing near as pristine by the time you’re through.

You just need to cool off. To collect yourself. To fit these feelings back into the box they crawled out of, but you can’t possibly do that sitting by his side. You barely can regulate your own emotions, let alone that of one of the most dangerous men in Brooklyn.

The violence, the yelling, the uncanny similarity of the upheaval of that same feeling of walking on eggshells that had followed you most of your childhood— it turned out to be too much, and now you were sobbing your eyes out on this spotless tile floor.

You’re still trying to piece yourself back together— grasp one shred of composure— when the sound of someone approaching takes your breath away. Forces you to reflexively minimize yourself, but hoping whoever it is will move along without noticing you is too much wishful thinking.

“Shit!” Sam jumps like he’s been startled, upon rounding the corner of the island counter, not having expected you there, “What are you doing on the floor?” It takes him all of two seconds to roughly appraise your emotional state, and his voice changes accordingly, kneeling slowly with a hesitant, “Hey, woah, what’s goin’ on?”

“N-Nothing,” you try your best to keep it in. But when Sam reaches a finger out to carefully push away your hair from obstructing his view of your neck, the tears well up all over again.

“What happened?” it’s firmer this time, that same authoritative voice he had used when you were lying in the middle of the street after the car bomb, and all your resolve crumbles under the weight of it.

“I don’t think he meant to,” is your hiccupped excuse, before the whole story gushes from you through the blubbering expression of a hysterical woman. Sam listens, sitting on the floor beside you throughout it.

When you finish, he settles his chin in his hands, and sighs, “Rebecca, huh? Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

“Who… is she?” you carefully ask, and Sam frowns at the question.

“Don’t know if it’s my place really, but it’s not exactly a secret, either…” rubbing his hands on his sweats, he sighs, “I figure you deserve to know, considering…” Leaning against the cabinets, he explains, “Rebecca was Barnes’ older sister.” Was lingers heavily in the air, but you’re too worried about evening out your breathing to question him on it, “He doesn’t talk about her anymore. At least, I haven’t heard him talk about her in years. Steve says he still visits her grave on her birthday, and during Hanukkah, but other than that… Bucky isn’t really an open book when it comes to things like this.

“Steve knew ‘em both, back before the army. That’s where I wound up meeting them, though. From what I understand of it, they had a hard time as kids, and when she aged out of foster care the army was pretty much her only viable option. Bucky signed up more to keep tabs on her, rather than because he wanted to,” Sam goes on, and you don’t know why it surprises you that Bucky lied… or at least omitted some pretty important details, but it does. “Becca was… well, she was special. She’d do anything for the people she cared about. We were quite a unit back then, the four of us.

“And for a few years it was going good, y’know? The army is different from civilian life, your squad is your family. They’re the ones who keep you alive out there. No one else is going to risk their neck for you like that,” Sam picks at the fuzz on his pants, wetting his lips as he tries to find a way to say the next part. “We were on a mission— we didn’t know it was a suicide mission until after— and getting separated would’ve been no problem if it weren’t for the mines.

“The enemy was ready for us before we even got there, and we didn’t realize we were being used as a distraction by our commander until it was too late,” Sam blinks, avoiding your gaze to stare at the cabinets across from you, as if it’s the only way he can get through the story. “Becca realized before the rest of us that we were being led into a kill box— a place they’re leading you to die. She saved our lives that day, but an IED exploded when Bucky reached for her.”

Sam tries to remain steady, but you hear the quiver in his voice that he tries to fight back, you see the weight of his dark eyes when he fixes you with them, “That grave Barnes goes to, she’s not in it. There wasn’t enough left to even bring home.” Your breath hitches at the terrible dread that sinks through you, “On top of his sister, Bucky lost an arm. Mentally dealing with what goes on over there is hard enough without all that. I’m not surprised he still has nightmares about it… and with that bombing last week, I’m surprised he’s handling it as well as he is.”

Straightening up, Sam makes to stand, “That said, it’s not an excuse for how he handled you tonight. I’m sorry you were caught up in the middle of it.” He offers you a hand to help you up, but you don’t take it. You can’t. You’re not ready.

“I’ll just… stay here a little longer,” you breathe, trying to process everything he said. “If that’s okay?”

“Stay there as long as you like. I’ll go check on Barnes,” when Sam catches your questioning look, he shrugs, “I used to do some counseling to veterans after my time serving.”

You’re left sitting there, sorting through the pieces you knew about the man you had shared a bed with until you have some fractured, kaleidoscope picture settled in your mind. Just when you were starting to think you could possibly know something about him, you find you never knew anything about him at all.

Everything was the façade— it had to be. You have to believe that, in order to do what has to come next.

You didn’t learn by example from Pandora, or even Icarus, because the only thing you’re stuck with now is this box of frayed, torn feelings, longing to burst out of your chest at any moment, and the evidence of his metallic fingertips, burned along the column of your throat. The ultimate destruction of your very being was, perhaps, the fact that you can no longer deny that, good or bad, there were feelings in you for James Barnes.

And those are the last things you need.

Pulling yourself up, catching your footing on the cold kitchen floor, you wish you could leave these collected pieces of yourself there. Abandon them, like a changeling in the night.

The more time you spend in this irritatingly large house, the more claustrophobic you feel. Maybe this house was big enough for him. Maybe, it’s just too small to hold the devastation you construct here together.

Your jacket resides in the coat closet, alongside your shoes, just as before. Your bare necessities of personal effects were stuffed well enough in your pockets, and you sacrifice the rest to him at this very moment. You can’t go back.

It’s dark and dangerous on the streets of New York at night, but no moreso than it was in this brownstone, and you know your way around the city you were born and raised in to find your way home. One glance back, catching the dimly lit, deceptively beautiful sight of this empty palace, which you now realize reflects him perfectly.

A push of your hand to unlock the door, it beeps. The quiet denotation of your exit, and your lingering items on the second floor, are the only evidence that you were ever here.

Running seems to be the only option that was ever worth taking in the first place.

⤜♚⤛

The cold night air whips your long coat around your legs, but there’s no turning back now. Sleep shorts and another stolen t-shirt are all that accompany your coat and sneakers, but you make do with it, and by the time you reach the subway, it hardly matters.

The air does little to clear your head, consumed by the toxic swirl of longing, regret, uncertainty, and fear that follows you all the way back to Hell’s Kitchen. Truthfully, you don’t know how long you have until they realize you’ve gone.

Will Barnes even try to come looking for you, in that vast manor of his? Will Sam think you’re still sitting on the kitchen floor?

The adrenaline is the only thing keeping you warm by the time you finally find yourself on your own street, and you’re intent on abandoning it all. The sympathetic response to run is all that drives you when you turn your key in your lock. Thinking through it requires slower thought than the racing of your mind allows when you push yourself into your dark apartment.

You’re breathing heavy, relishing in the warmth of your home for the split second it takes you to dump your keys on the kitchen counter. The sun’s rising slowly beyond your drawn blinds, and you’re so focused on stripping yourself of your coat that it takes a moment for the eerie feeling of being watched to creep up the back of your neck.

You freeze. Hoping it’s only a lingering fear response from earlier. Peering through the melting darkness. You catch sight of a void in it. The shape of a person.

The urge to scream swells in your lungs. You don’t dare do it. Caught between the choice to turn the light on or not, and praying that it’s some collection of furniture playing tricks on your mind, you round into the kitchen.

Reaching for a knife just in case, you choose.

Light swims in your vision, and you almost scream at the sight of the man sitting in the chair across the room, only for the sound to choke off in your throat when you recognize him.

“Donnie?!” you gasp with all the heightened exhaustion you can muster at seeing your brother for the first time in five years, “What the fuck is wrong with you, sitting in the dark like some psycho?!”

He’s just as you remember, a spitting image of those old photos your mom showed you of your grandpa, if only he had been a degenerate rather than a coal-miner. A grin cuts along his teeth, and you suddenly recognize the dread swirling inside you for what it is— a premonition— because nothing good ever came from Donnie being in your life.

“What? Aren’t you happy to see your big brother?”

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