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#so i kinda frustratedly confronted her asking 'what's happening to us
thecharlester77 · 5 years
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Suspicion - DH AU Short
It’s been a while since I’ve written a short! Here’s another DH one; enjoy!
Suspicion - DH AU Short He quietly enters the kitchen and makes his way over to the coffee machine. Apart from the Sad One, he's completely alone in the kitchen. He places his cup down on the side and reaches for the sugar. As he goes to tip a little into his mug, a small amount of sugar spills on to the counter top. He stares blankly at it, before a sudden surge of frustration grips him. Letting out an angry shout, he violently tips the contense of the entire sugar packet all over the floor. It's not enough. He grabs his mug and smashes it recklessly on the side. Almost as quickly as the rage came, it abandons him, leaving him feeling empty again. He becomes aware of a throbbing pain in his hand...It's bleeding. Silently, he turns to leave, but is immediately confronted by the Nice One. "Sit down," the kind one orders, blocking the kitchen doorway. He expects a rebuttal, but doesn't receive one. Instead, the Scary One silently obeys. Sighing, he scans the mess made on the kitchen counter top. "Look at the mess you've made!" he scolds, "I warned you about breaking things!" "I know where this is going, and I don't want to be a part of it," the spiteful one mutters as he exits the kitchen. The kind one rolls his eyes before turning his attention back to the crazy one...Who is sat there in silence. He suddenly notices blood trickling from a cut on the violent one's hand. "Did you hurt yourself?" he asks, gently taking the other's hand. There is still no reply as the Scary One looks at the floor. He sighs, frustrated by the psychotic one's sulking. "Wait here," he says, "Don't move." Hurriedly, the kind one goes to the living room and grabs a first aid kit off the bookshelf. He then returns to the kitchen, finding the erratic one exactly where he left him. He hadn't moved...As instructed. "...Good," he mumbles, trying not to be unnerved by the Scary One's uncharacteristic obedience, "Give me your hand, please." After a couple of moments, the crazy one holds out his hand. "Thank you." In silence, the kind one quickly disinfects the cut and bandages it. "Alright, your hand's fine now." The Scary One returns his hand to his side, still averting his gaze. "So," the Nice One pulls up a chair and sits across from his crazy-self, "Ya wanna tell me what all that was about?" Still, there is no answer. The Nice One sighs frustratedly. "There's no point in sulking," the kind one snaps, "I just want to know what happened." After another long period of silence, the crazy one looks up. "...I spilled sugar...So then I spilled all the sugar. And broke the cup..." "You did that just because you spilled sugar?" the Nice One sighs, "What are you, five?! I am constantly having to clean up after you and-" he cuts himself off, suddenly noticing how...empty the other looks. He feels a pang of guilt for having snapped at him...He should have known something was wrong sooner. "Are...Are you okay?" The crazy one nods, saying nothing. "Are you sure? You're...being very quiet. This isn't like you." "I'm fine," the other mumbles. "I...I'm going clean up the mess," the kind one sighs, "Stay there, okay?" "...Alright." "Okay, good..." The kind one quickly grabs a broom and heads over to the other side of the kitchen. Being wary of broken pottery, he begins cleaning up the mess. He steals a couple of anxious glances back at the crazy one as he clears up; he's sat quietly at the table, staring vacantly at the wall. The silence feels strange. Especially from him. A couple of minutes later, he returns to his seat opposite the crazy one. "I've finished cleaning up your mess," the Nice One mutters, breaking the awkward silence, "How's your hand?" "Fine," the violent one answers quietly. "Why are you being so quiet?" the kind one asks, "You usually won't shut up." He receives only a shrug in reply. "Is something wrong?" The Scary One eventually looks up from the floor, meeting his calmer-self's eyes. Hesitantly, he nods. "What's wrong?" He quickly looks back at the floor. "If you're not going to tell me what's wrong, I can't do anything a-" "You can't fix it anyway," the psychotic one interjects quietly. "Do...Do you want to talk about anything?" the gentle one asks. "I don't know..." the violent one mumbles. The Nice One sits quietly for a moment, pondering over a solution. "How about we play the question game?" he suggests. "Is that the one with the 'yes' and 'no' questions?" the Scary One asks, still looking at the floor. "Yes," the kind one replies, "Want to try it?" "...Alright." The gentle one smiles a little, glad to be getting somewhere. "Okay. Is something wrong?" he begins. The other nods. "Is that thing bothering you?" "...Yes." "Do...do you feel sick?" he asks, trying to account for the psychotic one's strange silence. "No." the crazy one mutters. "Alright. Are you upset?" "...Maybe..." "Was it an event that upset you?" Slowly, the psychotic one nods. "Did the event happen recently?" "...No...It happened ages ago," he says quietly. "What's upsetting you?" The Scary One stares at the floor. He takes a shaky breath before responding, his voice hardly above a whisper. "I...I j-just-" he chokes on his words as tears well in his eyes. He quickly attempts to wipe them away, sighing angrily. "It's n-nothing," he mutters harshly, "I'm f-fine!" "You don't seem fine." The psychotic one suddenly rises out his chair, glaring down at his calmer-self. "I just miss Evie, okay?!" he snaps, "I miss...I m-miss her." He quickly sinks back down into his chair, his hands covering his face. The Nice One looks back at his crazier-self in silence for a moment...His strange behaviour adds up now. "It's okay," the kind one says softly, "It's okay to grieve." The Scary One doesn't respond to the other's statement as he once again attempts to wipe the tears from his eyes with frustration. "I-I'm fine," he mutters stubbornly. He doesn't want to feel like this...It's embarrassing. It's too abnormal. It's too...weak. "Howzabout I make a cup of coffee for us both?" the gentle one suggests. After receiving a brief nod from his distressed-self, he rises from his chair and makes his way over to the coffee maker. Carefully, he prepares two mugs of coffee and brings them back to the table. "Here ya go, man." He slides one mug over to the crazy one, before taking a sip of his own. "Thanks..." the psychotic one mumbles a reply, but doesn't touch his cup. "Don't you want it?" "I do...Just...gimme a minute, Shoulder Angel..." "Take a couple of deep breaths," the Nice One suggests. Following his sane-self's suggestion, the violent one takes a deep breath before eventually sipping his coffee. "Feel any better?" the kind one asks. "...Kinda..." The gentle one gives a sympathetic smile before setting his cup down. "Do you want to talk things out?" he asks. "No," the crazy one replies, "I...I don't wanna talk. I'm fine. Thanks for the coffee, Shoulder Angel." Before he can even reply, his psychotic-self takes his coffee cup and vacates the kitchen. "People deal with grief in their own ways," he mumbles to himself, "I'm sure he'll be fine..." ....... A couple of hours later, the kind one decides to return to the living room. He's done all the cleaning up he can... Upon entering the room, he spots one of the girls sat on the sofa...It's the Scary One's kid. She appears to be wrapping herself in bandages. "You okay, sweetie?" The child in the dark grey jumps, startled by the Nice One's sudden appearance. "I'm fine," she mutters, returning her attention to her task. "What...what happened, sweetie?" the gentle one persists. "Nothing," she snaps, "It's non of your business!" "Sweetie...You're not in trouble, kid. I just want to know what happened." There's a long moment of silence before she slowly turns around. "I...I tripped," she says, "N-nothing else!" The Nice One gives her a concerned look. She's lying, and he can tell. He doesn't want to push her too far to tell him...but he's worried. "Are you sure, kid?" She nods. "...Okay then, sweetie...If you need me for anything, just come and find me, okay?" "Okay..." He gives a quick nod, and then heads upstairs. He needs to talk to the Scary One; he has a sickening suspicion as to what...really happened. The crazy one looks up from his desk, hearing a knock on the door. "Come in!" Almost immediately, Shoulder Angel enters the room. He doesn't look pleased. "Hey, Shoulder Angel...Something up?" The Nice One forces himself to take a deep breath; he doesn't want to just accuse the other...Even if he is right. "Your kid's in the living room," the gentle one begins, "She's wrapping herself in bandages." "...Is she?" The kind one nods before continuing, "Do you know what happened to her?" "Did you ask her?" the psychotic one countered. "She said she tripped," the Nice One sighs. "Well, there ya go then!" the crazy one gestures dramatically before returning to sit at his desk. He takes a sip of coffee and then recoils, "Bleh! Cold!" He heads for the door. "I'm gonna go get a fresh cup of coffee. Coming, Shoulder Angel?" The gentle one nods and then follows him back downstairs. The two pass the Scary One's child again on the way to the kitchen. "Hey kid," the crazy one greets his kid, "Shoulder Angel told me you tripped?" The kid in the dark grey nods slowly, continuing to bandage her arm. "Ya gotta be more careful, sweetheart," he adds with a small grin. "Yep," she mutters. The two men then carry on to the kitchen. "Gonna be careful with the sugar this time?" the kind one remarks. "...Maybe you should make the coffee..." The Nice One sighs, taking the erratic one's coffee mug, and goes to make the coffee as requested. "How are you feeling?" he asks. "...Better," the crazy one replies, sitting down at the table, "Better than this morning anyway..." "Good," the kind one places a cup of coffee in front of him before sitting down opposite him, "What changed - if you don't mind me asking?" The psychotic one takes a sip of his coffee and smiles. "And what if I do mind?" he retorts with a smirk. "Then I suppose you don't have to tell me," the Nice One shrugs, "I'm just...curious." "Why?" "I guess because you're not really one to...have a breakdown in the kitchen." "You made me stay," the Scary One mumbles, trying to hide his embarrassment, "A-anyway, what's it matter?! I'm fine now." The kind one hesitates for a moment, unsure of whether he should press the issue. "If you wanna talk about anything, ya can talk to me," he says softly, "I don't want you - or anyone else - to get hurt." The crazy one laughs. "Thanks, Counsellor Shoulder Angel," he laughs, "I'll let ya know if I do." The Nice One watches as his crazier-self up and leaves the room. He catches a glance of him saying something to his kid, but can't quite make out what, before he leaves the living room. Alone, he takes a sip of his coffee and sighs. He steals another glance at the Scary One's child, who is still bandaging herself, it appears. She's scowling and muttering to herself. "Poor kid..."
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a-splash-of-stucky · 6 years
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A Messed Up Place | Thirteen
Pairings: Bucky x Reader
Summary: Bucky pays a visit to the compound, to have a chat with you.
Warnings: Language. Mentions of: past non-con events and sex. Implied masturbation. I think that’s all, but if you spot something else, do let me know!
Notes: Written for @hellomissmabel’s challenge, using the prompt ‘Lacanian Love’. I know that lots of you have been waiting to see how this chapter plays out, so I hope that it lives up to your expectations!
*A small portion of the dialogue was inspired by ‘One Last Time’ by Ariana Grande.
Important note: Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait until next year for the remaining three parts to this fic. I’ll be going somewhere between Dec 20th-Dec 30th and won’t be able to take me laptop with me. Sorry about that. I hope you all understand that real life comes first, sometimes ❤️
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The compound may as well be deserted.
That’s pretty much the only thought that Bucky allows himself to have as he punches in his entry code at the front door. All other thoughts would thrust him into a state of panic, despair or some combination of the two, and none of those options are ideal, at this moment in time. Right now, he needs to ensure that he is as calm  and level-headed as possible. The front door swings open with a quiet hiss. Bucky steps inside, shrugging off his bomber jacket as he glances around the entryway.
“Hey FRIDAY,” he says, taking his cap off his head and ruffling his fingers through his hair, so as to make himself look less like a hobo.
“Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes,” says FRIDAY, “Your presence has been missed.”
Bucky’s lips twitch of their own accord. He’s not sure if AI systems are supposed to be able to express emotions, but that sounded like as much of a sentimental greeting as Bucky’s ever heard. “Thanks, FRIDAY. Hey, listen — d’you know where Y/N is?”
“In her room, sir,” is the swift reply he receives. “I should warn you — Miss Y/L/N has not been very accepting of company, as of late.”
Bucky takes note of the warning but chooses to ignore it,  figuring that he can deal with whatever it is you decide to throw at him — in the literal and verbal sense. He strides confidently down the hallway, heading in the direction of your room. “Thank FRI!” he calls over his shoulder, “I’ll bear that in mind.”
The nerves hit him like a derailed train once he’s standing outside your door. His fist is raised, poised to knock. Bucky swallows down his the uneasiness sloshing around inside him, to no avail. He drops his hand, tugging on the hem of his plain black t-shirt listlessly as he chews on his bottom lip.
Though his talk with Sam has helped to clear his mind and geared him up for the confrontation that is about to take place, Bucky can’t stop himself from feeling downright terrified. Your last talk with him had not gone particularly smoothly, so he’s praying to the heavens above that this one doesn’t end in the same manner. Taking a deep breath to steel the butterflies in his stomach, Bucky raps his knuckles on the door, before stepping back to wait and see what happens.
“Who is it?” you call.
“It’s me,” Bucky answers.
A pause, then, “Bucky?” you cry in disbelief.
“Yeah, Y/N,” Bucky confirms. He runs his trembling flesh hand through his hair. “Yeah, it’s me. Um…look, I’m really sorry I ran out on you, but…I’m here, now, so…so can we talk?” He places his hand on the handle and gives it a turn, only to discover that the door is locked. Of course it is. Bucky squints his eyes and studies the lock closely. He figures that he could probably bust the door down if he wanted to, but then…that probably wouldn’t sit too well with you. Wrong first impression, and all.
“Can we talk?” you repeat incredulously, “Bucky, I have waited to two whole months to talk to you!”
Bucky winces at your tone.
“Why is it that you get to decide when we get to talk, huh?” you ask, your voice getting louder. Bucky hears footsteps coming from inside your room and thinks that you must be making your way to the door. “You break off all contact with me, with the team, you leave us no way to get ahold of you — nothing, Bucky! I have been worried sick over you.”
“I know, I know,” Bucky sighs, letting his forehead thump against the cool wood of your door. “Dick move, I know. Look, Y/N, doll, I’m sorry. I really am. I can’t — I dunno how I can make that up to you, but—,” he swallows, “The past is the past. I can’t change that, but I am here now, and—and I want to talk to you, if that’s okay?”
“Sure, we can talk,” you grumble.
“Can you…can you open the door?” Bucky asks hesitantly.
“I said we can talk, Bucky,” you remind him,“I ain’t opening the door.” Your voice is clear enough for Bucky to presume that you must be right on the other side.
“Ohhh….kaaaay?” Bucky says, perplexed.
“I’m gonna sit on this side,” you say, “And you’re gonna sit on the other side, and we’re gonna talk.” The door groans suspiciously, rattling on its hinges. Bucky hears a loud thumping noise coming from your side as you — presumably — collapse in front of the door.
“Is there a reason why you don’t want to do this face to face?” Bucky asks, giving  into your strange request because it’s apparent that you won’t be swayed. He settles his back against the door and allows his legs to sprawl out in front of him.
There’s a moment of silence, a loud sigh, then, “Bucky, I look like shit right now.”
“I don’t care, doll,” Bucky says fervently, twisting around to look at the door over his shoulder. “I don’t care what you look like, I just wanna talk. M’pretty sure I’ve seen you looking worse, anyway.”
“No…no, it’s not just that,” you admit, “It’s just…I don’t think I’ll be able to do it if I have to look at you.”
“Gee, am I that ugly?” Bucky jokes, “I showered today. And I shaved too, I swear!”
You snort. “That’s a shame. I like you with some scruff.” After another pause, you sigh heavily,“But…no—no, that’s not what I mean. I just—I think I’d be calmer if…if I just listened, y’know? If I don’t see you, if I can’t see you, and you can’t see me, then we’ll have to listen to each other more, right? And we can’t infer what the other means just from facial expressions and body language and shit, right?”
Bucky tips his head to the side, corners of his mouth pulling into a slight frown as he thinks over your reasoning. In the end, he just sighs and shakes his head in amusement. “You’re a strange woman, Y/N,” he remarks.
“You’re telling me,” you retort dryly.
“So then,” Bucky says, “Talk.”
“What d’you want me to talk about?”
Bucky hesitates, toying with the seam of his jeans as he considers. There are many things that the two of you need to talk about, so many topics that he could pick to start you off with. “Steve,” he says finally, “Let’s talk about Steve.”
“Okay,” you reply. “That’s still…a pretty huge area. Which…what d’you want me to talk about, exactly?”
“Your feelings for him,” Bucky replies. “I mean, I think I kinda know what they are, but…but him or me, Y/N? Who did you love more?”
“Oh, askin’ me the tough questions, straight off the bat, huh?” you chuckle mirthlessly. “Well…here’s the thing. I loved Steve. I still love him, in fact. But—and don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m being honest when I say that my love for him was still nothing compared to what I felt, what I feel for you. If my love for him was a drop of water, my love for you would fill an ocean.”
“So why’d you lead him on?” Bucky asks.
“I never meant to lead him on!” you cry frustratedly, head thumping against the door. “No, hold up, sorry,” you sigh, “Okay, I never wanted to lead him on. Like I told you, I never meant to fall in love with Steve in the first place. I just—I was just…yeah. Initially, I started that relationship with the intent of making you jealous, sue me, I’m a horrible person. But…karma’s already got me back. The more I hung out with Steve, the more I fell in love with him.”
“It was a head over heart kinda thing, Bucky,” you explain tiredly. “It sucked, because my heart wanted you, but I never thought that we could work out. So I…I just…my head told me that Steve was the right one. The he was enough. That I could be happy with him.”
“Why did you think we wouldn’t work out?” Bucky asks curiously, sitting up a little straighter to hear your answer.
“In truth? I don’t know,” you sigh. “Maybe…I dunno. Y’know, I don’t think I believed that we wouldn’t work out, per se. I don’t think that’s the problem. The problem was…I was too scared to find out whether or not we did. Because—the fear of losing you? Completely? Bucky, that idea terrifies me more than anything else.” There’s a raw vulnerability in your voice that forces Bucky to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe deeply through the acute pain in his chest.
He’s not exactly sure how to interpret your words.
Bucky sighs, shifting around to tuck his legs underneath him. “But…but I—how could you? I mean, I know why you got with Steve, I think, but how could you…bring yourself to—to pretend that you liked him? Even if it was only for a little while?”
You’re silent for a moment. “Because I was liar,” you say, your voice thick and croaky, as if you’re fighting to hold back tears. “Because I am a liar, Bucky. That’s why. I’m not…good. Not completely good, at least. I’ve done terrible things to people who didn’t deserve it.”
“Y/N—,”
“M’no angel, Bucky,” you confess, “M’not a goddess, nowhere close. With the amount of sinning I’ve done lately, m’probably closer to hell than I am to heaven. I’m a failure — I get that, I realise that. A few days alone with nothin’ but your own thoughts to keep you company really does help you to come to your senses,” you sigh. “I should’a done you better, I should’a done Steve better. Neither of you deserve a liar and I’m sorry that that’s…who you fell in love with.”
Bucky was aware that coming to talk to you would be tough for him to stomach, but he never expected the conversation to be this difficult. The uninhibited emotion in your voice is ripping him apart, making him question some of the assumptions and grudges he made against you. Your admission is not enough to make him forgive you completely, of course it isn’t. But—it might make the journey to forgiveness a little easier.
“Bucky?” you ask timidly, pulling him out of his reverie. “Can you—can I ask you a question, now?”
“Sure, doll.”
“What d’you think about all that?” you ask, “I mean, you’re Steve’s best friend, so—I know you guys were close. How’re—you takin’ this?”
“It hurts,” Bucky admits. “Yeah, it hurts. I—I don’t appreciate the fact that you did it, and to be honest, I can’t support the reasons as to why you did it — your justification to me seems…flawed, but—but I get you, in some weird way.” He pauses to take a breath, clasping his hands together in his lap. “Yeah, there are multiple dimensions of love, and I can see that you loved me and him in different ways. I think it’s okay for someone to have that. But equally, I think your head was in a confused place.”
“I was disillusioned,” you sigh, shuffling noises coming from the other side of the door as you re-situate yourself against it. “I wanted you to…I dunno, prove yourself to me? No, no, that’s not—that’s not it,” you say hastily, “You have proved yourself to — you know what? You don’t even fucking need to prove yourself to me. I don’t—you’re enough! You’re more than enough, more than perfect, just the way you are, Buck.”
“I did what I did because…fuck, I’m not even sure why, to be honest. I don’t…I don’t know, I legit have no fucking clue why my past self ever thought that anything I did was a good idea. I tried to…I wanted an idealised, completely unrealistic romance, but — and when I didn’t get it, I tried to manufacture one of my own, I guess. And when that didn’t work, I tried to project blame onto you, which was completely uncalled for.”
“I’ll say,” Bucky mutters.
“My expectations of you, of us were too high, too unrealistic,” you continue, voice becoming more animated, words tumbling out of your mouth at full-speed. “I shouldn’t have been expecting all that in the first place. I told you that I never intended to hurt you, or guilt-trip you, but—,” you cut yourself off, going silent for a minute as you mull over your thoughts.
“Sometimes, it’s the thought that counts,” you say quietly, “Other times, it’s the end result that matters. And in this case…I think the second statement holds more truth.”
“You know what?” you cry, voice suddenly spiking in volume, making Bucky’s pulse jump. “I’m not even gonna try justifying myself anymore,” you say sharply. “You’re right, Bucky, my reasons were all fucked up. There’s nothing I can say to fully justify what I’ve done, both to you and to Steve. You’re right. I could’ve come to you first. But…but I didn’t because…well, because I was scared of your rejection, that’s why.”
Bucky is floored. Completely, utterly speechless. That was the best apology he could’ve ever hoped for and more. Still, apologies are only one part of the solution. The wounds you’ve inflicted upon him are still scabbing over, barely healed in most places. Your apology is enough to take away some of the pain, but it’s not everything he needs right now. It’s not some miracle cure. He still needs time to heal.
He takes a shuddery breath, surprised to discover that his heart is thumping erratically in his chest. Bucky licks his dry lips, before opening his mouth to speak.
“I’m…not saying that you’re completely innocent,” he starts, voice slow and hesitant. “I—far from it, actually. I’m not…not absolving you of your crimes, and I’m not sure I’m forgiving you for what you’ve done, either. I’m not even sure if I’m the right person to be asking for forgiveness from,” he admits, laughing bitterly. “But, I accept that you’ve made some mistakes in the past and…I can optimistically hope that you’ve learnt from them.”
You bark out a sharp, surprised laugh. “Thank you, for that. Y’know, the more that I think about it, the more I realise how…stupid I was. I don’t know why I ever thought that dating Steve whilst being in love with you would ever work out in my favour. I was an idiot,” you murmur.
“Hey—,”
“And I think your feelings are justified,” you add, ignoring Bucky’s interruption. “I’m not expecting forgiveness from you anytime soon, if at all, Bucky. But—but thank you for being honest about that. I don’t…I realise that I don’t necessarily deserve your forgiveness, now or ever. I know I don’t deserve it, but—Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You pause to take a shaky breath. “If you do choose to stay with me, if you choose to try an’ see if we can make things work between us — and I’m not in any way saying that you have to,” you add hastily, “I’m just—if you do, then I swear I’ll make it worth it. I promise to be better. I promise to be…not an angel, but a…less terrible, less bitchy version of myself.”
“B-but I’ll say it again,” you stammer nervously, “You don’t have to be with me if you don’t want to, at all. You know I’d…I would understand if you hate me.” You let out a harsh, self-depreciating chuckle, “I kinda hate myself, to be honest.”
“I don’t…hate you, hate you,” Bucky says quietly, fingers fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt again. “Y’know how there’re multiple dimensions of love? I feel like there should be multiple levels of hate, too. I…I think I have a strong loathing for what you did, but I don’t hate you as a person, inherently.” Bucky shrugs one shoulder, even though you’re not there to see him do it, “Good people do bad things, sometimes. Or, perhaps I should say, good people make bad decisions, every now and then.”
You’re silent for about half a heartbeat. “Um…hello, are you sure that you’re James Buchanan Barnes? Because if so, I’d just like to know if you’ve had a brain transplant or something?” you ask sarcastically. “Bucky — never in my life did I think that you were capable of such wisdom.”
Bucky blinks slowly. “I…am not sure whether that’s a compliment,” he teases, lips pulling into a lopsided smirk.
“Pretend that it is,” you deadpan.
Bucky rolls his eyes, shakes his head in amusement and readjusts his position, bringing his knees up so that he can rest his forearms on them. “Okay,” he says, “I picked out the first topic, so you get to pick out the second.”
“Oh, is this how things are working tonight?” you ask, your voice lighthearted and playful.
“Yep,” Bucky replies, popping the ‘p’.
“KL,” you say decisively, after a brief moment of thought.
Bucky’s heart skips a beat in his chest. “Uhh—shit, can I retract my previous statement?”
“Nu-uh,” you sing-song.
He groans resignedly, letting the back of his head thunk against the door. “Okay then,” he sighs, “What about KL?”
“When we…fucked,” you say slowly, “What—was going through your head? What—were you thinking?”
“Umm,” Bucky mutters, swallowing nervously. He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging a little on the ends as he thinks. “Well. I, uh…I had feelings for you, obviously, but you were engaged to Steve, and Steve’s my best friend, so I wanted to…not do it, both for your sake and for mine,” he says. “But—at the same time,” Bucky pauses, running the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, “I kinda wanted to do it. I—wanted you, but—not like that. Not…under the circumstances we were under.”
“I didn’t want to do it, but I did it anyway,” he growls, voice tinged with frustration. Just the thought of that night makes him queasy, uneasiness swirling in his gut and leaving a foul taste in the back of his throat. “Every emotion I had was a double-edged sword, y’know? I wanted you, but I didn’t. It felt good, but it didn’t. It was all bittersweet.”
“But even so. Honest-to-god that was…” Bucky says, voice softening, fondness creeping into his tone just as a wistful smile curls on his lips, “The best night of sex I’ve ever had in my life. S’just a shame that it also had to be the worst.”
“Damn,” you mutter, “I wish I remembered it, then.”
Bucky gives a startled laugh. “Yeah. No—I don’t think you do. Y/N, emotionally, I felt terrible, during and a long while after,” he says desperately. “Everything about it was wrong, so wrong. It shouldn’t have ever happened, and I—I’m sorry for what I did to you, and where you’ve ended up, and—,”
“Hey, hey, none of that,” you say soothingly, drawing Bucky back from the edge of a full-blown breakdown. “S’my turn to talk now, okay?”
“Sure,” Bucky replies, voice raspy.
“I’m sorry, Buck,” you say.
“Wait were you not—,”
“No, no, hear me out,” you interrupt. Bucky forces himself to take a deep breath and relax. When he doesn’t speak, you continue. “I’m gonna be honest here. When you told me that we’d had sex, I was—shocked. But y’know what my first thought was? I hated myself. I didn’t hate you, I was angry at myself for putting us into that position.”
“I trust you, Bucky,” you say, “If you told me that you said no, if you told me that you didn’t want it, if you told me that you’d pushed me away to put a stop to things — I am 100% confident that you did all those things. So. Did you take advantage of me when I was drunk? Maybe. But I put you into that setting in the first place. And for that? I’m appalled with myself,” you growl, voice laced with bitter self-hatred.
“Y/N—,”
“Remember that time Tony hosted a party for Steve’s birthday? Last July?”
“Yeah,” Bucky replies, brow furrowing in confusion at the sudden change of topic.
“I got piss drunk, remember?”
“Oh—right, yeah, you did!” Bucky chuckles, lips twitching at the memory.
“I wasn’t as blackout drunk as in KL, so I remember a few things from that night,” you continue. “One of the things I remember very clearly was you walkin’ me back to my room and me tryna get you in bed with me.”
Bucky remembers this event very well. You’d been tipsy, leaning heavily against him, unsteady in your black stilettos. You’d been wearing a short red dress that enhanced your legs wonderfully — he’d been unable to keep his eyes off them all night. Bucky brought you to your room and sat you on the bed, laughing softly at your drunken attempts to pull him down next to you. But, no matter how ravishing you’d looked, no matter how much his body was screaming at him to take you, he’d resisted the urge.
“And you said no,” you say quietly, drawing Bucky out of his thoughts. “You pulled off my heels, helped me take off my earrings, and then called Nat to help me get changed. I remember that.”
“My point is, I know you wouldn’t have given into me pressuring you without a fight, Bucky,” you say, “I know you’re a good man, no matter what anyone else tells you. It’s like you said — sometimes, good people make bad decisions.”
It takes Bucky a moment to process everything that you’ve just told him. His brain feels like it’s overheating, going into overdrive as it tries to sort through all the things you’re saying to him. “Wow,” he says finally. “I’m —wow, Y/N. That…yeah. Thank you.”
“I forgive you,” you say, “For what you did. S’okay if you don’t forgive me, but I do. Forgive you, that is.”
“Jesus, okay, this is intense,” Bucky mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose in his flesh hand.
Though it may be intense, at least it’s not terrible. In truth, this confrontation is panning out far better than Bucky could have ever thought possible. You’re not yelling at him, you’re not outright blaming him for the shit that’s gone wrong over the past couple of months, you’re even listening to what he has to say. Beyond that, you’re taking some, if not most, of the blame onto your own shoulders, admitting all that you’ve done wrong. It’s…it’s a lot to digest, but at least the discussion thus far has been rather positive. In retrospect, Bucky’s fears seem to be rather unwarranted.
“Alright, what else do we need to talk about?” you ask.
Bucky hums thoughtfully. “It’s…let’s talk about this baby,” he suggests.
“Ah,” you mutter, as if the thought had, up until this point, slipped your mind. “Right. Okay. Baby.”
“You’re what…four months along, now?” he asks hesitantly.
“Mmhmm,” you confirm, “I’m starting to show, y’know?
Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his hands into fists, trying to reign in the thoughts running wild in his head. It’s not hard for him to imagine how beautiful you must look, tummy rounded out, yet barely showing beneath the clothes you wear.
Get your head in the game, Barnes, he thinks absentmindedly.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks, after clearing his throat to rid his voice of the hoarseness that has crept in.
“Second trimester’s so far been easier than the first,” you remark offhandedly.
“Uh…was that in English?”
You giggle. “Yeah…the…um, it’s been getting easier. I’ve got more of my energy back, these past couple of weeks. My mood swings have been less crazy, my cravings have calmed down a little. It’s been…well, not easy, but then that’s parenthood for you, right?”
Bucky nods in agreement, momentarily forgetting about the fact that you can’t see him. “Sam…came to see me. He—uh, he said that you’d told everyone that it’s Steve’s?”
“I did,” you confirm. “Wait, Sam came to see you?”
“Long story, tell you it some other time,” Bucky mutters. “Why?” he presses, “Why’d you tell everyone that the baby is Steve’s?”
“Well…because it could still be his,” you answer, your voice small and timid.
“But…you said it yourself, you’ve never had unprotected sex with him before!” Bucky cries, throwing both hands in the air. “All the evidence lines up perfectly, Y/N, you can’t deny that.”
You sigh heavily. “Bucky…it’s not that I don’t want this baby to be yours, that’s not it at all,” you explain, “I don’t care whether it’s yours or Steve’s. We can get a paternity test if you’re so desperate to find out, but to me? It makes no difference. I’m gonna love this child as much as I can, all the same.”
“I…okay,” Bucky mutters, brows pulling together in thought. “I’m….well, okay.”
“What?” you prompt, “What’re you thinking?”
“I just—why?” he asks helplessly, “Why d’you wanna have this baby so bad?”
“Because I — want to,” you say, as if it’s as simple as that. To you, perhaps it is. “It’s not that I’m particularly religious, nor am I against abortions, or anything like that, but I just—it feels wrong to not have this baby. My gut’s telling me that this is the right thing for me to do and—and I haven’t been listening to my gut enough in recent weeks.” Your voice hardens, tone becoming more resolute, “It’s telling me this loud and clear. M’not gonna make the same mistake again; I want to have this baby. There’s nothin’ I’ve ever been surer of.”
“Okay,” Bucky murmurs, his body slumping against the door, tension seeping out of his shoulders. He knows that there’s no way to sway you — not that he was ever going to try anyway. Bucky’s just relieved to learn the true intention of your pregnancy; knowing that this is not some elaborate scheme to trap him into a relationship with you gives him a peace of mind.
“Well, uh, I was wondering something,” Bucky says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I was um…if you’re gonna be having this kid, then I’d…I’d like to stick around, if that’s okay. To help. We don’t need to be together, like, in a relationship, or anything, but I just…wanna be around to help you.” He pauses, gulping audibly, “Even if it’s not my baby, y’know? Even if it’s Steve’s—I hurt him, I owe him so much—,” Bucky cuts himself off when his voice cracks unexpectedly.
“Bucky—,”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Bucky mutters, scrubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. “I just…it’s not only ‘cause he’s gone, but just…I owe him a lot in general, y’know? In life. He’s my best guy. And,” Bucky pauses, takes a deep, fortifying breath, “And before he died, he told me — he made me promise to keep you safe. To keep an eye on you. So—so this is me keeping that promise, alright?”
“He really said that?” you ask, voice breathless with disbelief.
“Yeah, doll,” Bucky says, lips curling into a sad smile. “He did. And besides—you shouldn’t have to do this whole parenting thing alone.”
“Shouldn’t?” you breathe, “Bucky — it’s not about should or shouldn’t, anymore. I don’t want to…force you into doing anything!”
“You’re not—,”
“No, I don’t want you to feel obligated in any way,” you continue, barreling over his words. “I swear, this—us being together is not my endgame, here. Please don’t do this because you feel like you have to. You can back out now, say you don’t wanna do this and I won’t hold a single bad thought against you.”
“I’m not doing this to guilt-trip you, at all,” you say sincerely, “I’m not doing this for anyone but myself. I know…this baby might have been conceived under dubious circumstances,  but whoever the father is — I’m still the mother. This is my child, no doubt about that, right? I want this baby, because I want this baby. That is my one and only motive here — no hidden agenda in my pockets, Buck.”
“And besides,” you huff, the door rattling in its hinges as you lean heavily against it. “I won’t be doing it alone. I’ve got a whole squadron of superheroes to help me out.”
Bucky barks out an incredulous laugh. “You really gonna leave Stark alone with your baby?” he asks.
“…maybe not alone,” you admit sheepishly. “But I’m serious. If you wanna stick around for the shit-show that is gonna be me tryna raise this baby, then by all means, stay. But don’t feel obliged — for my sake, or for Steve’s. I can get by on my own, Buck,” you say softly, firmly.
Bucky huffs. “The thing is, you don’t have to,” he replies. “I’m with you, Y/N. I’m gonna stick with you through all of this.”
“You said you wanna do this for yourself? I wanna do this for myself too,” Bucky says. “Whether or not I’m the father, but especially if I am — I’d like to be involved, if you’d let me.”
“Of course I’ll let you,” you assure him.
“Good—yeah, um…yeah. Just because you’re doing this for yourself, doesn’t mean you have to do it by yourself, y’know? I wanna support you, Y/N,” Bucky says, sincerity evident in his voice. “I wanna be there for you, whatever it is that you choose to do. If you wanna have this baby? Well, then—I’d best start reading those ‘what to expect when you’re expecting’ books, huh?”
“I can give you one. I’ve got a spare,” you mumble shyly. A moment of silence passes. Bucky imagines you gnawing on your bottom lip listlessly, the way you always do when you’ve got something weighing heavy on your mind. “You sure ‘bout this?” you ask, “It ain’t gonna be easy, Bucky.”
“I know,” Bucky replies, “But it’ll be worth it, right?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, voice fond. “Um…Bucky?”
“Your turn to pick a topic?” he guesses.
“No! Wait, actually, yeah — I, um. So. Where does that leave us, then?” you ask, “Are we…what are we, to each other?”
Bucky hums, pursing his lips pensively as he flips the question over in his head. “For now? Friends, I think. That could probably work,” he replies. “Maybe without the benefits,” he adds jokingly.
“Damn,” you mutter, “Seems my dildo and I are gonna get really well acquainted, then.”
“I—what?” Bucky sputters, bolting upright in shock.
You burst out into peals of laughter. “Okay, okay, I’m only joking, Bucky,” you tease, in between fits of giggles. “But no—that’s fine with me. More than fine. I think that’s what we gotta do,” you agree, “Start all over. New page in the book, and all that stuff.”
“But uh…but let’s be clear about something,” Bucky says, leaning back against the door as rakes his fingers through his hair. “I still have feelings for you. I still — love you. Don’t think it’s the same kind of love that it was a few months ago, but something’s still there.”
“Likewise,” you reply, voice soft and tender. “I still love you too, Bucky.”
He swallows nervously, viciously tamping down the overexcited butterflies in his stomach. “So…what? How does this work?”
“We just need to be careful,” you reply, “Communicate. No bottling things up anymore, or hiding things from each other ‘cause we’re tryna make the other person feel better. We gotta be honest. We gotta learn from our past mistakes.”
“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, nodding in agreement. He clears his throat, “Yeah, um. Yeah, I agree. That’s cool.”
“We gotta—if someone steps over a boundary, or something, then the other person’s gotta tell them, y’know? Like, I’m telling you right now, you wanna hold my hand? I’m down for that. But I don’t think I’m ready for you to kiss me,” you admit.
“Okay,” Bucky says, nodding more vigorously now, even though you’re not there to see it. “Yeah, cool. I can get behind that.”
“Get behind what?”
“The—all of it. Boundaries, yes to holding hands, no to kissing,” he clarifies.
“Well…not yet, at least,” you say, chuckling softly, “But that’s good. That’s…yeah, good to know.”
There’s one more thing Bucky needs to mention. He is reluctant to bring it up, though, because the thought alone is enough to tinge his vision green with jealousy, enough to make his heart clench painfully. Even so, he steels himself with a deep breath. “Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“If you—,” he breaks off, curling the fingers of his flesh hand into a fist, his nails digging in hard enough to leave welts in his palm. “If you—happen to meet someone who you like…as in, really, really like, then…m’not gonna stop you,” he says quietly, “Sure, yeah, it might hurt—I dunno, but…if you wanna date someone else, then feel free. And when the baby comes, when the baby grows up and—,” Bucky stops to swallow nervously, “Well, we don’t gotta be together together, but I’ll be there for you.”
“Oh, Bucky,” you breathe and something in your voice — the sympathy, the tenderness, he’s not sure — makes tears well up in his eyes unexpectedly. “Bucky, is this—are you—is this outta concern for me? Or outta concern for you?”
“Um…you, I think?” Bucky replies, voice low and unsure.
“Then you don’t gotta worry, Buck,” you say reassuringly, “I wanna take things slow with you, ‘cause we did everything backwards. We fucked before we even went on our first date, Bucky. I want this to work, Buck, I really, really do. I mean — yeah, if it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t but…I would like it to. I really do love you.”
“I—okay,” Bucky says, smiling to himself. An invisible weight feels as if it has been lifted off his chest. “That works for me. I want this to work too, doll.”
“Besides, no one’d want me when I look like a whale, anyway,” you mutter dryly.
“You do not look like a whale!” Bucky protests.
“Have you seen me Barnes?” you retort.
“No, I haven’t actually,” Bucky says, breath catching in his throat. “Can you—will you show me?”
“Yeah, okay,” you reply, “Gimme a sec—,”
Bucky scrambles off the floor, turning around just as you unhook the latch and pull the door open. You pop your head through the crack, flashing him a shy grin. Bucky’s heart just about melts on the spot — he’s missed your smile. He’s missed you, period.
“Hey,” he breathes, taking a hesitant step forward.
“Hey yourself,” you reply, opening the door further and beckoning him inside.
Bucky steps into the room and turns to face you as you nudge the door shut with your toe. You’re wearing an oversized flannel over a ratty white t-shirt and baggy grey joggers, topping the outfit off with bright pink fuzzy socks. Your hair looks like it hasn’t been washed for a couple of days, there are darkened circles under your eyes and not a hint of makeup on your face but — you couldn’t look more perfect, in his opinion.
Bucky’s eyes drift downward, to your mid-section. Realising where his gaze is headed, you grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up, out of the way. Your tummy is only just beginning to round out, he notes. If Bucky wasn’t acutely aware of what you looked like naked, he’d barely notice the tiny swell in your lower abdomen. He might even write it off as you making a few too many trips to the junk food cabinet.
As it stands, Bucky is in fact, very much aware of what you look like naked, so his eyes are immediately mesmerised by your little bump.
“D’you wanna touch?” you ask timidly.
“Y-yeah,” Bucky stammers, his flesh hand reaching out towards you. The tips of his fingers trail over the swell of your stomach, his touch feather-light and hesitant. Though Bucky keeps his gaze focused on his hand, he can feel your gaze focused on him, burning a hole into the top of his skull with the intensity of your stare.
“You don’t gotta be afraid,” you murmur, taking a step closer so that you can grab hold of Bucky’s wrist and press his palm flat against your stomach. For good measure, you snatch up Bucky’s metal palm — ignoring his muted sounds of protest — and bring that to your bump as well.
Bucky splays his fingers over your rounded belly, wordlessly marvelling at the miracle growing inside you. Without warning, he feels overcome with a flood of emotions; tears spring up into the corners of his eyes.
“Oh—oh, Bucky,” you whisper, one hand reaching up to caress his cheek, “Hey now, it’s okay.”
“I know,” he mumbles, laughing breathlessly. “S’just…it’s been a lot today, hasn’t it?”
You hum in agreement, taking another step towards him. Bucky slowly slides his hands across your belly, over your sides and to your back. Once you’re close enough, you press your cheek to Bucky’s chest and loop your arms around his torso, crossing your wrists behind his back.
“We’re okay, right?” you ask, your voice muffled against the fabric of his t-shirt.
“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, tucking your head under his chin protectively. “We’re okay. We’re gonna be okay.”
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