𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆/𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒂 || 𝟐𝟐 || 𝑩𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒂𝒔𝒕 || <𝟑 𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒔

𝑫𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒛𝒊𝒏𝒈: @saradika-graphics <𝟑

𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ↓

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶦˢᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵖʳᵒᵍʳᵉˢˢ...

𝑺𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒂𝒕

Warnings: mentions of blood, torture, pain. all that fun stuff.

Stevie's input: This one's a short one. I had to write something to combat my WORSENING writers block. So this is what the seasonal depression came up with mid bed rot <3

this was actually inspired by the cannon that Bucky literally tried to CLAW his own arm off since in the beginning, it didn't have the stretched like tears in his skin, then as the years passed it looked like he tried to claw the arm clean out of the socket 💔

The night was cold.

Colder than most.

The little barred window up in the top corner of his cell let in little light from the bright, full moon. The cool white light shone down, creating a small square on the concrete floor. The streams of light were speckled with dust, barely lighting the room enough to see.

It was a silent night.

Quieter than most.

The Soldier could hear ringing in his ears, that's how quiet it was. He could hear his own breathing, the small puffs he allowed out of his nose. If he breathed from his mouth, he could see the heat from it in the coolness of the air.

He was sitting, shirtless. On the floor, back flat up against the concrete wall. It was cold when he'd first done it, but now it was warmed from his body heat. It wasn't too uncomfortable anymore. His butt had numbed from how long he'd been sitting there.

Silent.

Aching.

The Soldier's nails were crusted with blood. Only his right, since the other was metal. A cold, aching metal. The type that whirred when he moved it. His nails, cracked and short. Blood, still fresh was sitting on the pads of his fingers, caked under his nails. It wasn't someone else's.

Not this time.

Maybe tomorrow, but not today.

Today it was his.

Blood soaked the entire left shoulder of his body. Deep indents, scratched and torn in his once soft skin. Every harsh stroke of his nails left a jagged scratch in its wake. Every painful tear of his skin. In hopes...maybe...that the metal arm would detach. In hopes that it would just fall from the socket, free him from the phantom pain as if...maybe...his left arm was really there.

The whole left shoulder, to where the metal embedded into his skin, to the left peck, was torn. Bloodied. The Soldier had gotten down to his collarbone, the white speck of bone visible through torn skin, and given up. His muscles ached. His chest throbbed from how panicked his breathing was. Just...a half an hour prior.

Maybe he'd gone crazy, in this little concrete cell. Where the moonlight couldn't hit the darkest of corners. Where his screams reverberated off of the walls, piercing his own ears as if it was someone else's pained shouts. Where the soldiers beyond the heavy steel door that confined him to the room just breezed past, as if it was another...normal day.

It was.

It was normal.

The Soldier accepted that a decade ago.

The Soldier didn't... remember anything but.

Complying. Fighting. Killing. Screaming. Agony.

There wasn't any coddling. No wounds being patched up, no warnings. No gentle voice of his mother resonated in his empty skull anymore. No laughing voice of a young girl. No distant memory of a skinny blonde boy who wore newspapers in his shoes.

The Soldier sat. Here. Against the cold concrete wall, his back aching with the force of everything that's been put on him. His hair greasy and in his face, hanging in strands, getting blown upward with each harsh breath he let out. His left arm aching with the dull ache of an arm that wasn't there. His shoulder now throbbed, torn and soaked with his own blood.

Normally it was someone else's blood soaking his skin, drying till it cracked and turned a mud brown.

Now it was his.

The Soldier sat. Here. His mind that was once his, now not. His eyes, once a bright, playful blue...now a cold, empty gray. Thoughts occasionally drifted in and it was hard to tell what was his...and what was not. But mostly...it was nothing.

The ringing in his ears from the silence. The occasional quiver of his muscles from the cold, or the pain. The throbbing ache of his shoulder. Of the socket he tried to claw open. Of the fact that he was seeing and feeling from a body that wasn't his. Calculating from a mind he didn't own.

Sitting in the silence that felt uncomfortable.

Waiting, for that steel door to open. For someone to enter, for someone to give him a purpose for a fleeting night, to make him scream in agony as they violently tore the memories of what once was away from him, then toss him in the concrete cage for the cycle to start over again. For him not to remember why he was here. To tear his identity from him.

Because weapons weren't anything to be named. They were to be used.

The Soldier wanted the door to open. Wanted that voice to say,

"Soldat."

The Soldier wanted to be dragged down the hall. Thrown in that seat colder than the cell he was sitting in. Wanted to feel the electricity, wanted to feel the pain. Wanted to be used like he was intended. Not kept in a cell tearing his body to shreds.

The Soldier would rather refuse to hurt anyone but himself. He'd rather feel his eyes roll back as he drifted in and out of consciousness from the white hot pain. He'd rather feel his own blood coat his skin than someone else's. He'd rather claw off his own arm then use it around someone's throat ever again.

Because, pain was better than feeling nothing at all. Pain was better than seeing the life gradually disappearing from someone's eyes.

The Soldier sat. Here. Wishing with a mind that wasn't his. Hurting with a body he didn't know.

Sitting. In a cell. In the night.

A silent night.

Quieter than most.

In the cold night.

Colder than most.

writers block is kicking my ass...also sorry 'bout this idk what came over me

-stevie <3

𝑫𝒂𝒅 𝑨𝒏𝒙𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔

warnings: just the usual angst and fluff— y'all know 😼 mentions of pregnancy if that's a warning??

summary: bucky becomes quite the worrier once the new family member settles into your new home. the baby waking up in the middle of the night gives Bucky a bit of a revelation

pairing: husband!bucky (I wish, you wish, we all wish) x wife!you

Stevie's note: For some reason I literally see Bucky as SUCH a girl dad. Like he would sit there while his daughter would braid his hair or stick magnets to his arm like it was his refrigerator. He would totally attend tea parties and make a fool of himself just to treat his daughter like a princess. OR he'd sit there while his daughter messily put on fake makeup omg aaaa

Not to mention in the comics Bucky has an adopted daughter named Kobik which I think is so fucking cute— we stan comic bucky

(unedited as always)

Bucky was a naturally anxious person. He checked the lock three times before he could sleep, and even when he did sleep it wasn't peaceful. He picked his nails, chewed on the inside of his cheeks. He had a gun under his pillow. And in the flower pot beside the front door. And under the mattress. And in a broken cabinet in the kitchen. He was always...ready. Always on edge for the possibilities of Hydra finding him again, or someone breaking in and harming who he loved.

It only intensified when you came waltzing unexpectedly into his life. He checked the locks four times instead of three. Had a hand under his pillow, finger beside the trigger of his gun whilst the other arm was tight around you.

You were a...light person. Uncaring, distracted, you carried yourself without a single worry, which...worried him. You walked too close to the street when you balanced on the curb like you were walking a tightrope. You left the doors unlocked and forgot to shut them when you walked into his apartment. You found the gun in the flower pot— God forbid he protect you— and reprimanded him. Everything you did seemed to make him pull his hair. He wanted to strap you up in a straight jacket and tuck you under his arm every time he wanted to go somewhere with you.

Then, the baby came along. A tiny little bundle of joy—Becca, named after his sister Rebecca— that made his heart race every single time she coughed or sneezed. Bucky's mind always went to the immediate, she was dying. You laughed at first, then when he'd do that thing, chewing on the inside of his cheek and tracing the plates of the metal on his left palm repeatedly, you gently reassured him it would be okay.

That he needed to let loose. That Becca would cough and sneeze, getting used to the world around her. It wasn't an immediate, 'she was dying right before his eyes on a random Tuesday because she sneezed.'

Becca would cry. Because that's what babies do. To communicate, to share their emotions. To hear their own voice. Bucky didn't seem to understand that part. He'd burn down the entire house just to get to her if she cried, knocking over lamps, immediately checking her over to see if she hurt herself when in reality it she was just hungry.

It worried you, how much he worried. How much he was constantly on edge, constantly thinking about what could possibly happen, even if the chances were low. How much he'd linger when Becca was doing tummy time.

You were afraid he'd give himself a heart attack. He wouldn't die from a gunshot to his chest, but a damn heart attack from Becca sneezing.

»»——⍟——««

It was a quiet night. The moon was full, the stars twinkling. You were sleeping soundly, lying on your stomach, arms tucked under your pillow. You hadn't been able to sleep on your stomach for the entire pregnancy and now you'd been doing it every single night, loving it. You were snoring softly, the blankets pooled at your waist, hair messy. In a deep, comfortable sleep.

Bucky was beside you. He was wide awake, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Usually the sound of your snoring would pull him into dreamland but not tonight. Tonight he couldn't seem to settle. He had a hand on his stomach, the metal one. The other was extended, lazily resting on your back, feeling the soft breaths you took, reassuring him you were alive.

He tended to do that to fall asleep. Have his hand always where your lungs were, either on your chest or on your back while you slept. Or when you were awake, just to ground himself, touching you in some capacity.

The baby monitor was on his side table, the volume dial turned to maximum. The sound beside your soft snoring was the sound of Becca's breathing and the soft shuffle of sheets when she moved, which was often for her. She slept like you, always moving around and snoring like a bear. Which was adorable, the both of you, but sometimes frustrating when Bucky would attempt to cuddle you, only to get accidentally kicked in the groin from all of your shuffling.

Bucky sighed softly into the comfortable sounds of his girls, his eyes glued to the ceiling, his palm flat to the soft felt of your pajama shirt. He was measuring the feel of your breathing using it to count instead of counting sheep.

Inhale. 204.

Exhale. 205.

Inhale. 206.

Exhale. 207.

It was comforting.

Y'know. While it lasted.

The sudden sound of Becca's breathing quickened slightly, then the sharp shuffle of her sheets. Bucky furrowed his brows slightly, listening. Then it came, the soft cry that was the first of many louder ones if Bucky didn't get up soon enough.

Which wasn't a problem because as soon as that first cry flowed through the baby monitor, Bucky shot up from his spot on the bed like he was waiting for it to happen. His hand left your back and you audibly sighed in your sleep like it was the worst thing that had happened to you.

Bucky didn't spare you a glance as he nearly stumbled over his own feet as he rushed across the room. He opened the bedroom door without hesitation, then rushed down the hall. He entered Becca's room, his concerned eyes immediately taking in the scene.

Becca was on her stomach in her crib, her little head raised as she cried softly, her little face— that looked identical to yours— scrunched up.

A wave of utter panic flowed through Bucky as he walked further into the room, standing beside Becca's crib to look over the bars. There wasn't a reason she was crying. Her diaper looked empty, her favorite stuffed animal was beside her, the nightlight was dimmed and plugged into the wall.

Becca let her tiny head flop back down into her mattress, her face smooshing against her sheets, muffling the sound of her cries for a moment until she lifted her head again to look up at him. Bucky wasted not a second to gently slide his heads beneath her lifting her up into his arms.

Bucky cradled her in his right arm, his smooth skin warm against hers. She fit so perfectly against his muscle, her head in the crook of his arm, her feet across his forearm. Becca's face was still scrunched up as she whimpered, her little blue eyes trying to focus up on her father's face.

"What's wrong, love?" Bucky asked as soft as he possibly could, his voice just a deep, tired rumble. His eyes were locked on her sad little frown and the unshed tears in her eyes. "Hm? What's got you all upset?"

Becca couldn't do much but let out another small whimper, her eyes tired, but very clearly needing something. It always worried Bucky when he didn't know what she needed. It always frustrated him. He couldn't help but wonder if she was hurting somewhere, or sometimes itched and she couldn't control her hands enough to scratch it. Or if she was hungry or thirsty or she had a headache, if babies even had headaches. Bucky always assumed it was something worse than it was.

Becca whimpered again, her tiny face scrunching yet another time as she squirmed slightly in his arm. Bucky clenched his jaw, his heart racing in his chest. What if she was in pain? He lifted his metal hand, running his knuckle against her cheek, the metal a cool contrast to her warm skin. He wiped away the damp streaks of tears on her rosy skin, his knuckles gentle against her soft skin. The baby blinked, her tiny hand rising to grab ahold of one of his metal fingers. She was always mesmerized by the way it shone in the light.

Bucky obliged, letting Becca wrap her tiny fingers around his pointer finger. She stopped crying for a moment to look down at it, her brows pinched as she watched the metal glint from the night light reflecting on it. Bucky couldn't help but smile slightly as Becca seemed to examine the cold metal in her hand. She was still frowning, tears still filled up in her eyes as she slowly blinked, a clear sign she was tired.

Bucky found himself swaying on his feet, his arm still cradling her tiny body, his finger still in her grip. She— like Bucky had noticed Becca began to do with everything she got ahold of— stuck it in her mouth. Her little toothless gums ground down on the cool metal, sucking on his finger like it was a pacifier. Becca's body relaxed in his arms, her eyes beginning to droop again.

Bucky's chest ached with how adorable she was. Becca looked just like you. Same nose, same facial structure. But she had his eyes. The piercing blue. She had his dark hair tufted and thin on her scalp. It was like a perfect combination of them both.

Bucky would have never imagined this a few years ago. Together with you, the love of his life. You were so kind, always keeping him on his toes, so loving. He would have never imagined himself to be in the position he was in. The man who once used his left arm to murder, to cause harm, was now in his baby girl's hold, gentle and being used as a pacifier.

Bucky never thought he deserved it. He didn't when you'd come into his life. At first he pushed you away and was cold. You, being as stubborn as you were, stayed. When Becca was born he didn't use his metal arm to hold her or touch her, afraid he'd accidentally hurt her or corrupt her in some way. Now his metal finger was being sucked on and held in her tiny hands like it wasn't once used as a weapon.

The baby's eyes fluttered, her body relaxing further in the crook of Bucky's right arm. Bucky smiled softly, a genuine one that was only reserved for you and Becca. Every single one of his worries seemed to fade as Becca drifted back off to sleep in his arms, her expression going peaceful.

She was okay.

She's okay.

Babies cry, it's what they do, Buck. That's how they communicate. She's fine. Look, she's okay. She'll be okay.

Your words echoed in his head as his swaying body slowed to a stop, his finger prying from the baby's iron grip. He worried too much. You and Becca were his world. He couldn't lose you like he once lost himself. He couldn't. He wiped Becca's drool on his finger on his sweatpants without a second thought of it before shuffling closer to the crib, gently laying her back down on the soft sheets.

Becca shifted with a soft whine, disliking the cool sheets in contrast to his warm arms just a second ago. But as always, the baby shifted again, then her expression evened out.

Bucky watched her for a moment, watching that rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He made sure she was breathing steadily before his eyes scanned the room. Locked window, curtains drawn. Stuffed animal in the crib, nightlight still on, baby monitor beside the crib. She was gonna be okay. Seems like the reason for this late night cry was the need for snuggles against his chest. Her diaper was still empty, the crying slowed and stopped once she was in his arms.

Once Bucky nearly nodded off standing up from how long he stood there beside her crib, he finally, slowly, exited the room. His footsteps were shuffled, not shutting the door fully. Just in case.

He lingered in the hallway for a moment, just making sure before wandering back to the bedroom. You had shifted, as always when you slept. You were now on your side somehow lying on an angle now, half on his side, half on yours.

Bucky smiled, letting out a low laugh. He walked beside the bed, his hand brushing back a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear. You were such a deep sleeper. Even that worried Bucky sometimes. He wondered, seriously, if you were dead some nights. The frequent shifting and rolling around was the only thing that kept him from calling the mortuary.

Bucky shoved your shoulder softly, which elicited a small, annoyed groan from you. He smiled again shaking your shoulder harder. "Hey...sweetheart move over a bit."

You opened your eyes slightly, still clearly half asleep, your mind still in dream land. You shifted, your head scooting back to your pillow, but just the edge so she was still invading his space. Bucky couldn't help the smile spreading across his face as he climbed back into bed beside you.

His eyes went to the usual. Window, locked. His hand drifted under his pillow. Gun, there. Safety, on. Baby monitor, volume on max. Becca's breathing coming from the speakers made him calm slightly. Bucky's eyes fell back to you. You, safe. His hand reached out, going flat palmed to your back like always, feeling your breaths.

You were okay.

Becca was okay.

His girls would be okay.

lowkey debated posting this idk whatttttt idea this was...this has been sitting in my drafts finished for like a week sooo here you go 💔

𝑳𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒓

It wasn't supposed to go this way. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Bucky wasn't supposed to leave you alone with a pregnant belly and hopes that were likely to be crushed under the weight of his possible death. You were scared. You were so scared you were about to birth his baby three months early.

Bucky was a soldier. That was a fact. You weren't going to keep him from doing the thing he loved. Fighting for his country. Holding a gun just to look manly. Wearing that stupid sergeant's uniform everywhere to boost his enormous ego. You'd told him he looked stupid, when in reality you thought he looked so handsome in army green.

That said, Bucky being a sergeant—specifically in the 107th infantry regiment— meant whenever there was a war, it was almost like he had to be drafted as soon as possible to lead his team of idiots to an impending death. Or, so, that's what you thought it out to be.

When Bucky came home with those damned drafting papers one afternoon, you'd nearly died on the spot, begging him not to go. Begging him to stay with you, to create the world you'd dreamed of since you'd met him. For the unborn child in your stomach. For you. But you knew, deep down, he had to. Bucky had to. He needed to. The war was progressing and he wasn't allowed to simply quit the army now. Not when it was most important.

Because that's not the man James Buchanan Barnes was. He stayed.

»»——⍟——««

It was a late night. The last night you'd see Bucky before he departed in the morning for England. He'd had an argument with Steve earlier in the afternoon— reprimanding him for getting into another fight in an alley behind the movie theater. Bucky caught him at the right time, booting the man away before Steve got worse than a black eye. Then, Steve just had to tell Buck about another enlistment paper he'd lied on. The fifth, actually. And he was from New Jersey this time. At least, that's what Bucky told you when he'd gotten home ranting about how Steve was almost like the prequel to your unborn child.

You'd suggested going to the newest 'World Exposition of Tomorrow' hosted by Howard Stark to spend time with Steve before he left. Bucky loved going to that fair with you— calling Howard the smartest man in Brooklyn besides himself, which always made you giggle. You felt too pregnant to do much but sit down, so you'd just told Bucky to go with Steve, wanting him to hang out with his best friend alone for a little while before coming home to you.

Bucky, with lots of reassurance, finally left, leaving you alone. You stayed put right where you were. On your ass on the couch, hands on your swollen stomach, eyes shut, listening to Frank Sinatra on the record player beside the television Bucky saved his earnings to buy you. The record player was old, the needle dull and needed changing. Occasionally the record would skip or the sound would static a bit, but you didn't mind. You just listened, trying to calm the negative emotions swirling in your chest.

Once you'd finally seem like you got the last worry to simmer, a knock sounded on the door, before it slowly creaked open. The hinges needed oil— something Bucky said he'd do then got sidetracked before he could really do it. You slowly opened an eye, watching Bucky walk in, shutting the door behind him with an equally loud creak.

"Sweetheart?" His voice, so soft and soothing, called out for you. It always makes you want to cuddle up in his arms...or ravish him. It really depended on the mood.

"What are you doing?" You spoke up from the couch, making his pretty blue eyes immediately flit toward you, that boyish smile spreading across his face. "You're supposed to be at the Expo with Steve..."

"You really think..." Bucky began to say, taking off his hat, setting it on the hook beside the door, his other hand loosening his tie from his neck, tugging at the first button on his shirt. "You really think I'd leave my best girl all alone the night before I leave?"

A shy smile spread across your face as you stood, still getting used to the weight of a human being in your stomach as you walked over to where he stood beside the couch. Your hand rose, smoothing over one of the buttons on his collar.

"What'd you do with Steve?" You asked absentmindedly, your hand now running down his chest, tracing the buttons keeping his uniform jacket in place.

Bucky looked down at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. His hand trailed up to cup your jaw, tilting your head up so you'd meet his eyes. "Told him to stay with the lady. Took a few steps...looked behind my shoulder and he was gone. Probably off to convince some branch of the military to take him in...again."

You breathed a soft laugh, your eyes searching his as he watched you intently, his brows curved inward like he was concentrating. His eyes flitted over your features he loved the most, committing them to memory.

"He...he doesn't know when to give up, does he?" You breathed, your voice barely a whisper as his thumb traced your bottom lip, tugging it down slightly.

"No...he has a good heart." Bucky whispered back, his hand tilting your head up more, leaning down slightly, but not enough to where your lips met.

There was a moment of silence when he just stared down at you, his thumb tracing your lips, the curve of your top, then the plump bottom. The pad of his finger was rough. Your eyes stayed on his, fingers still fiddling with one of his buttons.

"You should stay...with me." You whispered suddenly after a moment. You'd probably told him that twenty times already. You'd probably told him more than twenty times. There was a dull ache beginning to settle in your chest and he wasn't even gone yet. "You could...maybe call in sick."

"Baby, that's not how it works." Bucky chuckled, though that dull ache was settling in his chest too, one that tugged at his heart, wishing it truly worked that way.

You sighed, shifting on your swollen feet. The record in the background ran out, static replacing the sound of soothing music. Bucky leaned in, placing a soft peck to your lips before pulling away and walking toward the record player.

He gently removed the needle, picking up the worn vinyl. Bucky pushed it back into it's case before carding through the collection you had, finding another Frank Sinatra, this one being a slow, "The Way You Look Tonight." Bucky set the vinyl on the player, gently placing the needle back to the groved plastic, waiting for a moment before the sound a soft trumpet began.

Bucky made a show of slowly turning on his heel, still wearing the sickly shiny black dress shoes that went along with his uniform. He slowly walked toward you as you bit back a smile.

Bucky stopped just shy of where you were standing, holding out a hand toward you. You couldn't help the small giggle bubbling from your chest as he smirked at you.

"Care for a dance, pretty girl?" Bucky grinned, his voice low and playful as Sinatra's voice filled your living room.

You giggled again as you took his hand. He immediately pulled you in, his other hand finding its place on your lower back as he began to waltz, his steps calculated and at ease. You looked up at him with a giant smile, your steps more clumsy than his were, yet his hand on your lower back was gently guiding you as you swayed and stepped along with him.

"Do...do you know when you'll come back? From...London?" You suddenly asked, the ache in your chest feeling more and more like a dull void as you stared at him, realizing how badly you'd miss him.

"I—" Bucky sighed, his fingers tightening on your lower back, curling into the soft material of your dress. "I don't know, Sweetheart."

"But...you'll come back right? In one piece, no arms missing?"

Bucky couldn't help but shake his head slightly, hand on your back trailing forward to rest on your swollen stomach, his waltz slowing as the record began to end. "I'm comin' back. I'm not missing watching this little guy grow up... though if I lose an arm, it better be the left. I'm right handed."

You smiled, satisfied by his answer until your brow furrowed. That was the first time he'd ever put a gender to the baby in your stomach. "Little guy? You think it's a boy?"

"I know it's a boy." Bucky said cockily, a smirk spreading across his face as his fingers widened on your stomach, his thumb tracing circles on the soft material of your dress. "I can feel it. I've got a little boy in there."

"What if it's a girl?"

"Then I'll love her all the same." *Bucky responded softly, his eyes meeting yours again in that soft way you loved.

You smiled again. He seemed so confident about coming back. About coming back in one piece. A little worn torn, but safe and in one piece. He was confident that's how it was going to be. So... naturally, instinctively, you believed him.

Like always.

Bucky smiled back, his free hand falling on your jaw again, tilting your head up. He leaned in again, his lips pressing against yours without hesitation. Your hands trailed up his uniform, twisting in the rough material, pulling him as close as your pregnant belly would allow. His other hand remained on your stomach, hand splayed protectively over it.

Bucky groaned softly, a sound you'd never get bored of. You smirked against him, your lips parting, an invitation for his tongue to slide into her mouth. Until you gasped. Loud and sudden, tearing your lips from his. Bucky immediately panicked, thinking something was wrong until he felt it.

The tiniest kick against his palm.

The baby kicked him. Kicked you.

Bucky's eyes widened, a disbelieving smile spreading across his face. He'd been praying for the moment when the kicks would come, wanting to at least feel one before he'd left for war.

"What a parting gift." You breathed, your hand falling to rest on top of his, guiding his hand to press firmer. The baby kicked in retaliation, hard against his palm, making him let out a small sound of disbelief.

"Fuck, sweetheart. This is what I'm doin' this for." Bucky stated suddenly, his eyes meeting yours again. "This. Right here. This baby. You. I'm going to war so you can live this life. If I don't come back, I died so you can live. So...he can live."

"Don't say that." You mumbled, frowning slightly at his words. "You'll come back."

"I'm serious. If I don't come back to you, know I did this for you and the little one."

You frowned again, but nodded. The baby kicked again, firmly against his palm. His thumb rubbed circles again, his eyes on yours seriously.

"I'll come back. I promise you. We'll have the world once this shit is over. I'll buy you a nice house, the little guy can get his own nursery... we'll make more kids, raise 'em up. We can have a cat, an Alpine-Lynx. I had one when I was a kid. We'll have a nice backyard and a big kitchen." Bucky began to list, his voice hardened and serious like he knew he was coming back to her. You nodded along, smiling as you imagined it. Growing old with Bucky.

You believed him.

You always believed Bucky.

What he said was always true, every single word.

"I love you, Bucky."

"I love you too, Sweetheart."

"We should get to bed. You have a train to catch tomorrow morning."

»»——⍟——««

The train came early in the morning. You'd walked him to the station, kissed him long and hard before he got on. You waved goodbye, standing with the rest of the wives and children waving to their husbands and dads, the question misting the air.

Would they all come back, or only a fraction?

You were confident in a few months you'd be standing on the station deck again, holding a baby in your arms, welcoming home a war torn Bucky.

Turns out...Bucky wasn't telling the truth after all.

You weren't on the train deck when you found out. You were at home, exhausted with a newborn sleeping on your chest. It was a boy. Bucky predicted that. He looked exactly like him, same nose, same complexion. His eyes were blue, his hair dark. You'd named him James, wanting to surprise Bucky once he stepped off the train.

You'd gotten a letter from England. You'd ripped it open excitedly, thinking it was a letter from Bucky.

Boy...you were wrong.

It was a death certificate.

A condolence letter.

Your world fell apart. The bubble, the perfect world you'd created crumbled in a few words and a 'sorry for your loss' printed at the bottom.

What happened to the Alpine-Lynx? To the big kitchen and the backyard? The nice house? The kids you'd yet to have? What happened to watching the baby grow up?

What happened to coming back?

#icriedalittle

The night was calm. The type of calm that soothed even in the darkest moments. The type of calm that slowed heartbeats and made sleep come easy.

The sun was completely down, the moon shining brightly in the sky, surrounded by tiny little stars flashing gently. Bats swooped through the air, their wings silent. Rabbits pounced, the sound of late night cars in the city distance now just a small hum of normalcy.

Though it was quiet, though it was dark and calm, inside of the tiny apartment in Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes was wide awake. He'd woken up a few minutes ago, the calm night doing nothing to soothe his racing heart. Sweat beaded his forehead, his muscular chest heaving through the breaths he fought to get out. Bucky's eyes were cinched shut, his jaw clenched tight, trying to will the sinking feeling of panic crawling up his throat.

Bucky did sleep that night. And that was the problem. He slept. Which meant a nightmare overcame him, attacking his mind, plaguing his thoughts. Usually the nightmares he'd get were of what he had done once in his life. The things he'd done that he could never forget, even if it wasn't truly him who did it, you'd say. Though, it wasn't guilt that gnawed at his chest tonight.

It was fear. Panic. Self-hatred that wouldn't seem to fade, even with the deep breaths he was trying to suck in. The nightmare was different tonight. It was about you. Bucky snapped in his dream and he used the damned left metal arm he absolutely despised against you. The metal fingers wrapped around your throat, squeezing tight until your eyes glazed, lips blue.

Bucky had killed you.

Now he couldn't help but imagine that was the very thing that could come true. All it could take was something to go wrong. Something you'd say that would annoy him. And he'd snap. Right back to the monster he once was. To the monster he could become again.

It scared the living shit out of him. That nightmare was just a reminder of what he was.

Bucky was standing in the kitchen of your shared apartment. He'd already mentally packed up all his clothes and left you, just to save you. But he was trying to keep away that panic threatening to take over his mind. His eyes cinched shut, his hands gripping the stainless steel of the sink. He was hunched, his head bowed, hair in his face. There was a glass of water on the counter beside him, discarded. He'd nearly spilled it from how violently his hands shook when he first woke.

I'm a monster.

I'm a monster.

I'm a—

That damned sound. The sound he once would smile at, the sound of your footsteps coming down the apartment hallway. The shuffle of sock covered feet on carpet. Panic surged in Bucky's chest again, his breath coming out shaky and in short pants.

"Buck?" Fuck, that sound. Your voice was tired, exhaustion lacing concern.

You knew Bucky had nightmares. But usually...usually he'd already turned toward you by now. Usually he'd already be holding his arms open to hug you tight, to listen to your heartbeat and calm his guilt, to listen to your reassuring words. Now he wouldn't turn. His bare back tight, body hunched over the sink.

"Bucky?" You called softly again, taking a step into the kitchen, passing the doorway.

"No." Bucky nearly growled out. He sounded like an animal. A wounded, untrusting animal that was scared, but needed help. "Don't."

You paused, the tone of his voice catching you off guard. It sounded wrecked. Not like anything you've ever heard before. You immediately thought he was hurt, like he'd fallen or gotten into something. But he let out a small shuttering breath, then the gears turned. He wasn't hurt. He was...scared?

"Was—" You swallowed a wad of spit, your eyes locked on the tense muscles of his bare back. "Was it a nightmare again?"

It was silent for a long stretch. Just the sound of Bucky's increasingly heavy breathing. His fingers tightened on the sink, metal and flesh, cold and warm. Then, he spoke. It sounded like the singular word tore from his throat. "Yes."

You let out a soft breath, wrapping your arms around yourself as you watched him. It was slightly chilly in the apartment—you were wearing a hoodie and long pajama pants— yet he looked like he'd just come inside from a blazing summer afternoon.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You asked softly, picking your words carefully, not wanting to make...whatever he was going through worse.

Bucky let out a ragged breath, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. "No."

Bucky felt like he was holding back from something terrifying. He couldn't indulge in the panic threatening to take over every sense he had. He felt like the metal arm attached to the left socket was foreign at the moment. He felt like he wanted to claw at the area again where metal met skin, wanting to tear it off and throw it in the garbage.

The sound of your soft breathing behind him held him back. The very feel of your presence behind him keeping him from fully submitting to the panic attack threatening to overcome him. He didn't want you to see that.

Your voice filled the silence again. The voice that grounded him even when he didn't notice. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

"Yes." It was the fastest response yet, followed by a loud shutter of breath afterward. "Stay."

You nodded, though he couldn't see you with his back to you. You stayed put for a moment, just listening to the hum of the fridge and his heavy breathing. Then you took a step, a cautious one, closer. He didn't react, so you took another, then another, until you were standing behind him, just a few feet away. You wanted to touch him, to put your cool hand on his warm back, to ground him without words. But you refrained— not wanting to do the wrong thing. So, you offered your presence instead. Standing close, breathing soft and steady.

Then it happened, Bucky's voice was raw, wrecked. The sound rasped and choked up. "It was...fuck, it was bad. It—" He cut himself off with a choked up breath, a sharp exhale as he shook his head slightly, like he didn't want to think about it. "It was about you."

Bucky couldn't think straight. Every single thought was that image—you, held at an arms length with his vibranium arm, fingers tightly held around your throat. He was slowly watching you claw at him, gasping, lips turning a sickly blue, legs swinging, trying to kick him away, then slowly stopped as life drained from her face.

It was so...real.

Like he couldn't believe you were standing behind him.

You could practically guess what he meant by 'you' in the dream. You could guess what the dreamlike version of Bucky did to her.

"It was about...me." You echoed softly, still not touching, still offering just your presence.

"You. I..." Bucky paused, suddenly feeling sick. His stomach churned.

He had to see. He had to see if you were real, or if you were a simple figment of his imagination and his dream wasn't a dream, but as real as it felt.

Bucky slowly turned around, his red rimmed eyes immediately finding yours. He wanted to touch you, to confirm you weren't just a ghost. "I...I killed you."

Your heart broke into a million pieces when he turned around, his beautiful blue eyes meeting yours. They were so broken. So afraid. His face crumpled, like he couldn't keep the mask up if he tried, his cheeks rosy like he had been crying— or stopping himself from doing so.

"It was a dream, sweetheart. It wasn't real." You said softly, your eyes never leaving his. His pink lips were parted as he breathed heavily, the hands once gripping the sink now curled up into tight fists.

"It— it felt real. You died. You died in my— in this hand. I killed you. With this hand." Bucky choked out, a stray tear running down his rosy cheek as he raised his metal hand, his voice rising with it. You didn't flinch. His raised voice was for him. Not for you.

"It wasn't real." You repeated, voice firmer than before. Solid. Knowing, like his words could never convince you otherwise. Because they couldn't. "Do you know why? Because the Bucky I know would never hurt me. The only thing that hand had ever done to me was to love me."

Bucky frowned, her words piercing his very soul. Her words were like daggers she threw, each one breaking a piece of his self-hatred off of him. Breaking down the walls he'd built fearfully. He stood there, another tear slipping free down his cheek, hands still curled into fists, staring at her with too much pain in his gaze.

You understood him. That's what hurt. You didn't laugh in his face, telling him his fears were stupid. That his fears were invalid. You understood that this nightmare drew out the worst fears he buried and brought them to light.

Bucky's next words were whispered. "I don't want to hurt you."

You shook her head slightly. Then, gingerly, slowly, your hand reached out. You slowly reached for his metal hand, the one he hated this very moment. You took it, causing Bucky to immediately freeze, every muscle in his body locking. He wanted to pull away, to yell and scream that he would hurt you. But he didn't. His gaze landed on your hand, soft and warm that held his hand in hers, his palm face up, fingers slack.

"You won't hurt me. You never will." You said firmly again, yet gently. Caring. Soft.

Your other hand rose, finger gently tracing the plates of metal on his palm, the curve of his fingers. Bucky stayed frozen, breathing shallow, like he was afraid he'd breathe too fast and scare you off.

"I could." Bucky whispered again, his eyes rising to meet yours, tear filled and beautiful.

You slowly intertwine your fingers with his, nodding, trying something different. "You're right. You could. But the thing is...is that you won't. I have the capability of hurting you too. But I won't. Because I love you, and you love me, meaning you won't hurt me."

Then your hand slid from his, cupping his jaw and tilting his head down, forcing his eyes to meet yours fully.

Bucky let out a breath, the first even breath of the night, her touch slowly uncoiling the worries in his bones, her muscles relaxing. You smiled at him, real and true.

"I love you." He whispered before he could even think about saying them. His hand, metal, slid up to rest on yours cupping his jaw. You were right. He was able to hurt you. But he wouldn't. It was a dream. Something made from his worst fears. It wasn't real.

"I love you too." You whispered back, rising to your tip-toes to gently press your lips to his, sealing the words right there. "Why don't we go back to bed. And if you have any more nightmares, I'll be right there.

Bucky sighed against her soft lips, then nodded. Because he trusted her true to her words.

Always.

GUYS DID I COOK

(unedited)