Trying To Convince Yourself To Write Like

Trying to convince yourself to write like

I definitely won't deny that

confessed feelings (3)

summary: Bucky finally confronts his thoughts and makes a decision.

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader

words: +3.5k (this is the longest i have ever written!)

warnings: some bad words? i think there are no warnings this time. i just want to say that this is more from Bucky's pov, all his considerations, and at the very end the reader appears. i really don't know if that's a bit tedious, or if this is what you were expecting, but i still hope you enjoy it!

note: thank you so much for all the support, it has been overwhelming in the best possible way! literally your words inspired me and I was surprised to write this third and last part so quickly, so here it is!

Part 1

Part 2

Bucky Barnes was sure of three things:

1. That he wasn't good with words.

Bucky was a disaster at finding the right words, and in any situation or at any time, not for any specific thing. His passive-aggressive attitude was the product of a myriad of bad memories and experiences that, little by little, dulled the light in his eyes. The man he was in the 40s definitely no longer existed, he had died the day he had fallen off that train. The man he was now was nothing more than a vague and poor attempt to recover what he used to be, but without finding the right path and making mistakes at every step.

And that wasn't wrong. I mean, it's human to make mistakes, he used to repeat himself; but as time went on he found it a better escape to withdraw into himself rather than take the time to give voice to his thoughts and engage in a lot of emotions that, after so many years, felt strange and not worthy of his time.

After spending years carrying around guilt, remorse and helplessness, Bucky had given up on trying to find a way to communicate in any other way than by staring at people, mostly with a frown on his face. He found it better for people to believe that he was angry, or that he was bitter, simply so he wouldn't have to deal with small talk about feelings and things that made him vulnerable and, consequently, an easy target.

2. He was also not very good at expressing his feelings.

That was obvious, it went along with the first point. If Bucky avoided everyday talk even with most of his peers, he would avoid talk about his feelings even more. For him, it was like trying to swim in the desert trying to reach an oasis; a constant feeling of suffocation and hopelessness. Talking about his feelings was touching an unfamiliar wasteland; it had been so long since the last time that he didn't even know how to handle it effectively. And he used to be a Don Juan, who knew?

If he wanted to make a simpler analogy, Bucky was pretty good with guns, pistols and rifles, even knives and switchblades, but swords? That kind of extremely big, loud and much shinier knife? No, too ostentatious and pompous for his taste, as well as being too indiscreet. If there was something he didn't like doing, or didn't like talking about, why would he waste his time trying? If Bucky didn't know how to use a sword, even though it would surely be as simple as a knife considering the skills he possessed, knew and was familiar with, then why should he feel obligated to do so? After all, it was his choice, wasn't it?

Or maybe he was simply avoiding it because he didn't want to realise how simple it was, just as he didn't want to know that he'd wasted so much time just because... he was afraid. Afraid of doing it wrong, afraid of failing, afraid of disappointing, afraid of losing control again because he didn't know how to handle himself.

But no, of course he didn't feel that way, that would be fucking crazy.

3. But he was particularly forthcoming when it came to you.

This... Well, this was a prime example of what happened when you gave Bucky a sword expecting him to walk across a desert without a drop of water. He was lost. He was doomed.

When Bucky didn't know something or didn't know where he was going, he hesitated, he fretted, he panicked, and most of the time he would rather run away than realise that the wasteland stretching out in front of him was really a green screen that his deepest fears had put in front of him to frighten him, to distract him, to keep him hidden.

But, really, there was nothing in front of him. Only the very fear he refused to accept.

And he knew that made him a coward. For God's sake, he could take on thirty men armed with a knife, but he couldn't tell the woman he liked that he'd be happy to take her out to dinner. But did that fact encourage him to take the risk? Absolutely not.

And Bucky hated himself for it. He hated the part of himself that refused to talk to you because it was terrified, and he hated even more having the ability and strength to face it.

“You told her what?” Sam's exclamation jolted him back to the stage he'd been on for a couple of minutes. His gaze refused to meet Sam's and instead focused on your figure, sitting in front of the kitchen counter talking animatedly to Steve while you ate your favourite cereal. And he knew he had no right, he knew he'd brought this on himself, but he couldn't help the burning in his chest every time you smiled at him the way you smiled at Bucky. It was fucking painful.

And was that enough of an impetus for him to finally speak to you honestly? No, absolutely not. Fucking coward.

“Bucky, have you lost your mind?”

The aforementioned let out a sigh, noticeably exasperated. He averted his gaze to begin counting the bubbles that were accumulating around the rim of the full glass of Coke he hadn't even tasted since Sam had put it in front of him.

Wilson, noticeably grumpy, pushed the soda out of his sight and planted his forearm on the table in front of them, leaning forward allowing Bucky to sense the irritability emanating from him. Honestly, Bucky didn't think Sam would take it seriously when he told him, just to get it off his chest, but the man had breathed in sharply with his eyes fixed on him, as if he could suddenly see and judge his every mistake.

So this is why, Bucky mentally told himself, I just shouldn't talk to anyone anymore.

“Look, man, I know you're older than me and I owe respect to my elders, but what the fuck was going through your head when you decided that doing that was a good idea?”

Barnes rolled his eyes, “It's not to make a fuss.”

“Oh, no, no. You're telling me that you like someone, but to really like her, for a relationship, and then you tell me that you dismissed her that way like she was a piece of old cardboard. And not only that, but that woman is Y/N!”

“I didn't dismissed her away like-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Sam interrupted him, raising his index finger and wagging it from side to side in denial, “You have serious commitment and communication issues.”

“Can you hardly tell?”

Sam lowered his hand, leaning over his forearm to observe Bucky's hard, impassive expression.

“Why do you think it's wrong that you like her?”

“Steve likes her.”

“No, Steve liked her.”

“No, he likes her. What he said was to not make me feel bad, but I can read between the lines.”

“Then you have lousy reading comprehension, Bucky,” Sam shook his head, “Steve liked Y/N, past tense. He told you there was nothing wrong with you wanting to date her, why are you reneging and twisting his words?”

“I'm not reneging-”

“Bucky,” Sam exclaimed, shushing him, “The problem isn't with Steve or Y/N, you're the one who wants to believe that all this drama you put together is necessary. Why?”

I can't tell him, Bucky thought, he's going to judge me. He's definitely going to. And who wouldn't? I would if I were in his place. For a moment, it frightened him how easily his mind played with his stability, leading him to believe, as it always did, that the problem lay with the others. That the others didn't understand, that they would never be able to understand what he thought or felt. It didn't allow him to see how much simpler and more bearable things would be if Bucky talked about them, if he could communicate, in that way that so terrified him, with others.

“Why, Bucky?” Sam insisted, and a pique of unease ran through the aforementioned's body.

“Damn it, Sam, will you just drop the subject for the hell of it?” Bucky raised his voice, gripped by his emotions, but instantly regretting it.

“No,” Sam shot back in the same tone of voice, “It's not right that you're always thinking of yourself this way. It's not healthy, Bucky.”

“In what way?” he asked sarcastically, letting out a short, unfunny laugh.

“The way you make yourself believe that you don't deserve any good. That everything that happens to you, a product of your own actions, decisions and fears, is some kind of punishment for everything they made you do in the past. And now you'd rather believe that Steve lied to you, that he didn't tell you the truth when he told you that he was moving on from Y/N and dating someone else, all because you want to hold on to the idea that you don't deserve it. That you don't deserve her. But, in case you haven't noticed, you're not the only one you're hurting with those self-destructive thoughts.”

Bucky watched him with a frown, his face feigning an expressionlessness that tried to hide the terror he felt at the mere thought that it was so easy for Sam to dig through his actions to uncover his worst fears. He felt exposed, vulnerable, an easy target...

“Maybe I don't fully understand what you are going through with this transition, but what I do know is that you are not going to get anywhere by letting your fears take over. If you keep this up, there's going to be nothing left of you in the end. You have to come out, Bucky, you have to believe that you really deserve what you have now, what you can have,” he said, and pointed discreetly into the distance at you, where Natasha had joined the conversation.

Sam's eyes were fixed on his, with a determination and confidence that made him wonder - why was he really telling him all that? Did he really want to make him feel better, or was he just pretending because he really cared more about what you felt than what he was going through? The things he was saying... they weren't strange, but they weren't welcome in Bucky's mind. What was he saying? That his feelings were valid? That was something new.

He was probably free of HYDRA's control, free of the Winter Soldier, but he wasn't free of the fears and doubts, he wasn't free of his subconscious, which constantly found ways to make him believe that everything good in his life came at a cost. No one could be so happy in such a short time without paying a price for it. It was impossible.

Wasn't it?

“Dude, just... think about it, okay? I can realize it's hard for you to push guilt and fear away from your decisions, but you have to do it, Bucky. You have to start trying so you can start living again. Believe me, there are a lot of good things you are missing out on as you ponder whether you are worthy of the good things you feel. But you are, Bucky, you have to know that, you can't let doubt become your guide. You are more than that.”

Bucky knew how to spot a person's lies like a pro. The way they moved, how they breathed or if they were sweating, even the way the words came out of that person's mouth were leading clues to make him conclude that someone was lying to him. But Sam... Sam wasn't. His posture was tense, his gaze stern but determined, his breathing calm and slow, normal, his face free of layers of sweat.

Sam wasn't lying to him, he wasn't messing with his mind. No one was messing with his mind but himself, and that made him think that maybe, just maybe, Sam was right. It sounded crazy, his subconscious was denying the possibility through a tantrum, refusing to let him believe that what Sam was saying was actually true, and that little dilemma made him realise something:

“That sounds like a long way off.”

Sam sketched a half smile, resting one of his hands on Bucky's shoulder, “I know she'll understand. Or better, if you let her, she can come with you.”

---

Steve had spoken to Bucky days before you left with the blond on your first mission after four months. And he remembered it perfectly, as if it had been that very morning, as he weighed Sam's words and the reality of Steve's words. He had intercepted him at the gym, the place Bucky had designated as his personal therapeutic place, where he used to spend most of his days. He knew he wasn't going to find you there because at that moment you were with Natasha, both of you in the equipment room as you helped the spy prepare for her next mission.

Yep, Bucky was avoiding you and very blatantly not trying to hide it.

“Hey, Buck,” he recognized Steve's voice echoing through the gym.

“Steve,” Bucky greeted him back, barely turning to watch him nonchalantly enter the place.

“I hear you've been talking to Emily these days.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replied nonchalantly, “She seems nice.”

“And what about Y/N?”

The pounding on the sandbag stopped abruptly as soon as Bucky heard your name leave Steve's lips. His brow furrowed and, coupled with the erratic rhythm his heartbeat had taken on, Bucky felt like this conversation wasn't going where he wanted it to.

“What about her?” he asked, suddenly defensive, and the blond didn't miss that.

Steve shrugged, cocking his lips, “I thought you'd try something with her.”

“I never said that,” he replied quickly with a frown, turning to look at his friend.

“Well, I assumed, after what we talked about last time.”

“You mean when you told me you liked her?”

“No, I mean when I told you that you didn't have to be self-conscious just because I told you I liked her before.”

Bucky didn't erase his gruff expression, but on the contrary, it intensified as he deciphered Steve's words that his subconscious knew, but hadn't allowed himself to parse the right way the first time.

“Whatever, Steve, she doesn't feel the same way,” the black-haired man turned his attention back to the bag, but didn't make a pretense of hitting it again. His mood had faded.

“You'll never know if that's true unless you ask her. What have you got to lose?”

“Time?”

“Please, Buck. I've seen you around her, she makes you feel good, comfortable.”

“She doesn't make me feel anything,” he exclaimed through his teeth, interrupting him, an angry flare flaring in his chest.

Steve sighed, finally deciphering his partner's reluctant attitude.

“You're scared of how you feel because she makes you think you really deserve it, aren't you?”

Bucky turned his face to look at him, but said nothing.

“She makes you feel like you deserve a chance. And now you don't believe it.”

Bucky hesitated for a few seconds, Steve easily noticing the dilemma inside him, but just as quickly as it came, just as quickly it went.

“She doesn't make me feel anything,” and he continued to pound the bag in front of him, harder and angrier than before, as if to make his decision clear.

Thinking about that conversation again made his stomach do a flip. It had taken him a long time to realise that his greatest fear was already a reality, that he had been wasting his time hiding behind a branch and being a bitter hothead because everyone already knew, everyone already knew him. The people around him knew more about him than he knew about himself, and even they knew that it scared him.

He hadn't even succeeded in trying to hide his fears from the world. All he had done was try to excuse his bad decisions behind them. Some soldier he was, huh.

Coming to that conclusion made him realise that you too were among that mass of people who knew him all too well. And now, two days after his conversation with Sam and sitting against the wall of the Quinjet returning to the Complex after a mission with you, Bucky still hadn't found the words to tell you all about the emotions that blossomed in his chest every time you were near him, or every time you smiled at him or told a joke that normally wasn't funny, but your sparkling eyes automatically brought a smile to his face that he didn't even bother to stop.

However, realising the truth did not mean that he was no longer afraid. On the contrary, he was terrified. Mainly because he knew you were going to be angry, and he didn't blame you, you had every reason to be. But he knew it would only make him more nervous and he wouldn't know how to handle his emotions in the environment. Now, time had run out for him. He could no longer postpone this talk with the excuse that he was still thinking. Besides, his fear was also justified in the future, in not knowing how to cope with a relationship, what commitment and trust were all about. Would he do it right? How did he know he wouldn't throw it all away the moment his insecurities took control of himself? Because of those doubts that wouldn't leave him alone, Bucky knew that the path he was taking now was one of vulnerability at its finest.

Your eyes, which at every turn tried to avoid his, had finally connected with his. Your expression was what it used to his, stoic and expressionless, and he definitely didn't like it. He already missed your smiling, animated gestures that contrasted too much with his, but in a beautiful way made him feel complete, even if he had spent days denying himself that just because he was scared.

“I...” he began, before you looked away again and they fell into another awkward silence, “I'm sorry. And I know you might not want to forgive me, and that's okay, I understand. I also know that you probably don't want to listen to me after- after what I told you, but I promise this will be the last you'll hear from me if you never want to see me again afterwards.”

You watched his clear eyes from a distance, his pupils slightly dilated that you could detail clearly thanks to your skills. He moved his thumbs over his clasped hands, in what you deduced was a nervous gesture you hadn't seen him make before, and you didn't know if it was because of that or the simple need to want to hear him, that you silently agreed without taking your eyes off him.

And Bucky understood, he was an expert at deciphering looks. Your looks.

“It took me a long time to realise that what everyone was saying was true,” he began, his gaze anchored on yours, “I've spent so much time locked inside myself with the memories, with the guilt, the remorse, the- the sadness, that now I feel like that's all I know. I can't acknowledge how you feel about me because I feel I don't deserve it, that's true. I can't accept that you love me even though you know what I did, that you know what I'm carrying on my shoulders, and that's something I'm going to have trouble getting rid of,” he watched your sad expression, “But I will, I know I can do it now.”

“And I'm going to apologise, probably forever, for trying to excuse myself behind lies just because I was scared. Steve was right, I'm terrified that you would make me feel like I deserve something good, just because I spent years believing I would live out a divine punishment for everything I did. I know better now, but... that doesn't make it any less scary.”

“My point is: I'll work on it. I mean, I want to. For you. For me. I want to accept what you give me openly and I want to have the ability to give you the same, and more, back. Because that's what relationships are all about, isn't it? Reciprocal affections. I know I'm going to make it, now I am... but I also know it's going to take some time, and I don't want to tie you down to the uncertainty of what may or may not happen in the future. However, it's your decision. But whatever you choose, I will always, forever, wait for you.”

Bucky watched you warily, his heart beating wildly and uncontrollably within his chest. At some point, he had leaned forward to get a better view of you, or simply to emphasize his words, so you could tell he really meant what was coming out of his mouth, and wasn't just getting the words out for the sake of it.

He noticed your flashing eyes, clouded in a couple of tears, and for a moment he paused to wonder if he had said something wrong. You didn't even answer him, and Bucky felt his body begin to sink into resignation.

You blinked a couple of times, trying to get a clear view of him, of his face and his expectant features. The hundred emotions coursing through your body at that moment left you in an ecstasy you couldn't describe, and you didn't really struggle to find what to say to him -you knew exactly what your answer was- you were simply stunned by the way he opened his heart and soul to you, knowing that he was entrusting you with something that, until moments ago, he treasured warily as his own and over which only he had power: his fragility, that vulnerable part of himself that he always hid from the world, exposed to you.

And you loved him. More than before, if that was possible.

You braced your hands to lift yourself off the ship's floor under his anxious gaze. You walked to close the space between you, and sat down again, this time, facing him. The way you looked at him made his world reel, wondering if he really had to go through so much to realise what he was missing; to realise that maybe he did deserve it.

Well, he had to erase that maybe, but he'd already said he was going to work on that, hadn't he?

“I can wait for you, Bucky. And I can walk you to the end of the world if you want me too.”

Bucky was the one who approached, knowing you were keeping your distance because you wanted to respect that he wanted to take his time. His hands, sheathed in his black leather gloves, cradled your face with a softness you could even feel through the rough material. A small smile took over his face, his eyes sparkling with the anticipation of a new possibility; a possibility in which he could be happy.

“Thank you,” he mused, pressing his forehead to yours.

Your hands wrapped around his wrists, holding him firmly but not too tightly, just to let him know that you were there, and that you were going to be there until he decided to walk away, if he did in the end.

His happy sigh brought a smile to your face, and the two of you stood together holding hands for the rest of the trip back to the Complex.

----

the ones who asked to me to tag them: @ladyfallonavenger @wanniiieeee

cursed

summary: Bucky is trapped with you after activating a curse, and the time you spend together waiting for it to be broken proves to be quite revealing.

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader

words: +2k

warnings: nothing i think, just a few mean words maybe. also, English is not my native language so sorry for any mistakes!

note: i don't think i like the way this came out, so i'll probably re-write tomorrow morning. there's just something that still doesn't fits me. but if you like it, please let me know! i really love reading your comments, it's kinda inspiring. <3

The hallway was silent as Bucky turned the corner, having spent several minutes walking from his own room. Tony, Natasha and you had just returned from a mission with not very good news, considering that the one you wanted to capture had easily escaped by setting a rather clever trap for you, which was the least you could expect from a sorcerer.

However, that was all Bucky heard. Steve had communicated with him as soon as they had all arrived, informing him that they would be in the meeting room and that he should also attend as there was an important matter to discuss. But Bucky wasn't too concerned about that, and instead asked him about you.

“Oh,” Steve had blurted out, confused by Bucky's strange need to know about you; normally he was quite reserved and discreet, “She's not coming, she's in her room. But don't even think about-”

Bucky suddenly felt strange, agonising nerves coursing through his body. Had something happened to you? Were you hurt? No, you would have been taken to the medical wing. Then again... you might as well have come from there. Worry bloomed in his chest and he felt dizzy for a few seconds. Seconds in which Steve continued to talk to him about something, maybe about the meeting, but about what Bucky hadn't heard at all.

“Okay. Thanks, Steve!”

And he hung up on him.

Immediately, Bucky started on his way to your room in the Complex, which wasn't too far from his. For some reason, the closer he got, a sense of anticipation grew in his chest in a rush. He had never stopped to think about it, neither at that moment nor the other bunch of times it had happened to him, ignoring the feeling as if it were a normal, everyday occurrence.

Now, he approached your room, whose door was ajar, and he could clearly hear you insulting someone from a distance.

His metal hand lightly touched the door, moving it without making a sound. He watched you with your back to him, your hands in your hair and your posture tense and irritated. You let out a sigh, rather sharply, for which Bucky arched an eyebrow.

Bucky approached, and with his blessedly quiet footsteps as quiet as a butterfly's flutter, you didn't notice he'd come in and gotten so close until you felt a hand rest on the skin of your forearm.

You tensed.

A hand, it was touching you.

You turned suddenly, at the same time gripping the wrist of Bucky's right hand with a little more force than normal. The man was a little taken aback, frowning at your rudeness and, moreover, at the hostile way in which your gaze rested on his.

You didn't let go and simply stared at his raised eyebrows and strangely defensive posture. He seemed too surprised to formulate a word.

“What the hell did you do?” you hissed angrily and between your teeth, in a tone that sent a shiver up and down Bucky's spine. Suddenly, he felt cornered and helpless in a corner with no way to defend himself.

“What do you mean, what did I do?” he asked in confusion, his face contorting in shock the tighter you tightened your grip on his wrist.

Bucky feigned to pull his hand away, to try to wriggle away from your predatory stance that made him feel disarmed and helpless. You had never seen him in such a... savagely wrathful manner. His thoughts turned to your last conversation, to the last time you saw each other, trying to decipher whether he had done something wrong. Or if, during the days you were gone, he did something that could cause you to be so defensive of him.

But you didn't allow him to pull his hand away. It became a game of tug and pull, where you wouldn't let him leave your touch even though it seemed like you'd rather have him more than a mile away, or not see him again for days at a time.

“What are you doing?”

“Me?” you replied incredulously, and your expression grew much more quizzical if that was even possible, “What are you doing, you big idiot? Did you think it was fun to come and do that?”

“Do what?” Bucky replied, but for some reason he felt he was only making things worse with his questions, digging his own grave, “I just wanted to come and see if you were alright.”

“Oh yeah? And do I look okay to you? Do I look okay to you with this?”

You squeezed his wrist once more and Bucky cringed under your gaze. Okay, this exceeded any outlandish situation he'd ever been in before today.

“I don't understand what's wrong with you, but I didn't do anything wrong,” Bucky tried to defend himself, but his words felt like he was trying to put out a fire with a piece of cardboard, “If you're upset about the donuts, it was Clint who ate them. And I found out when they were out of the fridge. Or I would have stopped it, I swear.”

You frowned, your grip softening a little.

“Clint ate my donuts?”

“Isn't that why you're upset?”

“No, you idiot! It's because you're here... touching me! How did you even think of that?”

Bucky couldn't make sense of your exaltation. Since when was him doing that bad? He tried to think back to something he might have done wrong to suddenly want to chase him away like that, but there was nothing....

You let out a snort and kept a firm grip on his wrist, which was still on your forearm, his hands wrapped around it in fear.

“I think Steve must have been pretty clear when he told you.”

What?

“When he told me what?”

You arched an eyebrow. Steve hadn't told him? No, he said he would talk to him to tell him as soon as he left your room, as well as informing him about the emergency meeting they were going to have with the rest of the team.

“Bucky!”

An exalted exclamation from the aforementioned. Steve. You and Bucky turned to see the blond standing in the doorway, watching Bucky's grip on your forearm. A forbidden grip at the moment.

“What did you do?” he spoke again, this time in a reproachful tone, “I told you she was cursed, Bucky!”

Cursed?

“The sorcerer they were facing captured her. He cast a spell on her saying that, the next person to have contact with her, however fleeting, would fall into a deep sleep as they drifted away from her touch.”

Oh.

Oh.

“The meeting we called was to inform everyone, and because Tony decided to call Strange, but you,” he pointed at him with narrowed eyes, “I told you earlier on the phone because I knew you'd come running and be reckless. How the hell didn't you listen to me?”

Bucky didn't answer him. The truth was, he had a habit of not listening to what Steve told him, especially when it came to not doing something. Sometimes he did it on purpose, sometimes he didn't, like this time.

“Now,” you took your turn to speak, in the same tone of voice, reprimanding him just as Steve had, “you can't let go of me until Strange gets here.”

Bucky nodded his head once, not looking you in the eye. A sense of shame came over him, and for the first time he decided he had listened to Steve.

---

You had sat on the floor of your room minutes later. Steve had left, telling you FRIDAY or Tony would let you know when Stephen arrived, and warned Bucky again what would happen to him if he ever let you go.

But there was no need, it had already been made abundantly clear to him.

Now you were in a rather awkward silence. You kept looking angry, and every time your annoyed gaze met his, Bucky would direct it elsewhere in the room, pretending that your posters were something to admire or that the trees outside the window had some profoundly interesting mystery to solve.

But he didn't dare speak to you.

That's why you decided to take pity on him.

“Sam told me that on Saturday you accompanied him to see a game.”

Bucky looked sideways at you, crestfallen. His throat made a sound of affirmation before he looked down again.

“I didn't know you liked football,” you continued.

“I don't,” he finally replied. He let out a sigh and his hand on your forearm tensed slightly, “I just wanted him to leave me alone. That was the only way.”

“Yeah, you know Sam's always badgering you with outlets to irritate you, but he never expects you to actually accept, do you?”

Bucky arched an eyebrow at you.

“Just the same, it was a nice gesture that you decided to go along with him.”

“It wasn't an at-will decision, I was tired of him asking me every few minutes if I wanted to go to a club or climb a mountain,” he blurted out gruffly, his features retracting in annoyance, “I was overwhelmed. He coerced me indirectly.”

You let out a chuckle at his choice of words, and you found the sulky way in which he tried to defend his stance of not putting up with Sam and his presence under any circumstances too funny.

“I think deep down you enjoyed it.”

Bucky let out a snort, followed by a wry laugh. He shook his head and his gaze returned to the trees.

“There's nothing fun about going to a bar to watch a simple football game. We didn't even have to go out, we have a TV here.”

You curved your lips into a smile, watching his frown.

“So you applied the law of ice to him.”

“What he deserved.”

“What he deserved for wanting to get along with you?”

“For screwing with me. You said so yourself.”

You let out a laugh, now strangely nervous at his meek way of getting irritated when it came to Sam. Ever since Falcon had told you that he'd dragged Bucky to watch a game with him after weeks of bugging him about it, you couldn't stop a thought from running freely through your head: if you'd asked him, would he have said yes? You had a good relationship, or at least you thought Bucky tolerated you, but you didn't know if he'd go so far as to agree to a date with you.

Especially knowing what that meant or, to your misfortune, that he would ignore it altogether.

His tense posture prevented you from asking him that question.

“Maybe you would have felt more comfortable on the mountain.”

Bucky took a deep breath, as if to imagine the scenario for a moment.

“I think it would have been better with anyone else.”

Your heart leapt.

“Anyone?”

Bucky shrugged.

“Steve, probably.”

“Oh,” you blurted out heavily, your shoulders slumping noticeably.

Bucky watched you in the silence, his eyes deliberately scanning the features of your face. He then decided to take the initiative to start the conversation this time.

“So, someone cast a spell on you.”

No, not like that, you idiot.

You frowned, shaking your head slowly in a nod.

“Yes, a sorcerer,” you replied sarcastically and amused, a smile dancing on your lips.

Bucky nodded.

“With magic,” you let out a laugh, “And it was my first time in case you were wondering too.”

Bucky sighed. His metal hand moved to rest behind his neck in a nervous gesture.

“I'm sorry, it's just that we hardly ever spend time alone. This is... weird.”

You scowled at him, again, and Bucky jumped in place running over his words.

“I didn't- I didn't mean it that way. I meant that- that we hadn't been the two of us before... like this, and we don't know each other. I mean, we do know each other, but we don't know each other very well, and this-this...”

The smile you flashed shut him up, pursing his lips in a frustrated gesture.

“Even if it wasn't like this before, I did look for moments to have alone time with you,” he blurted out suddenly, surprising himself.

You watched him frowningly, your shoulders squared with the tension of uncertainty. Your chest puffed out with a deep breath in surprise at his words.

Bucky wasn't lying. You mean, he would never say something like that just to say it.

Wouldn't he?

“Are you serious?” you couldn't help but ask.

Bucky licked his bottom lip, suddenly feeling the room shrink around him.

“Yes,” he blurted out, feigning a nonchalant tone, shifting his shoulders to emphasise his intent.

Suddenly, you felt bold, and decided to take the risk.

“So, if I had invited you instead of Sam, would you have said yes?”

“Of course,” Bucky replied without hesitation.

Your eyebrows rose, surprising you for what felt like the third time that afternoon. Bucky was watching you expectantly, nervous and looking rather out of place.

“Then maybe we could go out this weekend,” you suggested, unsure and testing a possibility.

Bucky didn't respond instantly, and with each passing second, the atmosphere grew a little more tense, or at least you felt that way. When your smile had almost disappeared completely, Bucky began to shake his head in assent.

“As long as it's not to watch a game,” he joked, and you felt your shoulders lighten once more.

You let out a laugh.

“I was thinking more like a restaurant.”

“A restaurant sounds good.”

“Thai food?”

“Okay.”

Bucky nodded, his eyes locked on yours. You pressed your lips together, trying to stifle the huge grin that wanted to plaster itself on your face, and Bucky's grip on your forearm suddenly felt more familiar and less rigid.

“Hey,” Tony's voice echoed through the speakers, “If you two are done flirting, Strange is here. He's heading over there right now.”

You felt your cheeks flush, but the fact that Bucky only smiled openly and spontaneously brought a warmth to your chest that made you feel more comfortable. And now you had a date with him.

Wow, who knew? All it took was a curse.

hi, can i just say your writing and just all your work in general is chefs kiss, like youre an amazing writer!:)

hi! omg, thank u so so much, your words just made my week, thank you for taking the time to read my stuff, i really appreciate it!

temporal infinity

summary: you arrive at the Complex wounded and Bucky can't cope with the avalanche of feelings that come with the possible outcome of this situation.

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader

words: +3k. i am TRULY sorry, this came out way too much longer than i expected, probably a lot of unnecessary words but i'm too sleepy to correct it. i'll see it tomorrow.

warnings: descriptions of injuries, blood and death. also A LOT of angst, i am sorry. i don't know what happened to me while writing this. English is not my native language so sorry for any mistake!

note: i just found it really funny and ironic that i'm listening to kiss me more while writing this, just fun facts.

Bucky felt his lungs fill with ice as he ran. The sound in the corridors was an annoying whistling in his ear, and the way his vision blurred every couple of minutes gave him a painful nauseating sensation that he knew he could only overcome by vomiting. His feet now moved on automatic, and his mind thought of nothing but getting there soon, getting there on time. His hands clutched at every structure he passed, steadying his body but shaking off the web of disjointed thoughts that barely allowed him to concentrate on what was happening.

That morning had started well. You were supposed to finally be back with the rest of the team -Steve, Nat and Clint- after two weeks since they'd left. Two weeks, fourteen days that had been tremendous torture for Bucky, because from the second day they had lost all communication with the team and had no idea what was going on. On the thirteenth day, Steve had managed to communicate with Maria Hill, telling her that he and Nat had been separated from you and Clint since the third day when they were ambushed. The building you were in collapsed and they had not heard from you for several days.

Bucky hadn't been able to sleep that night.

A rescue team went to the address Steve had told them they were at, with a medical unit on board. But Maria didn't say who needed that attention, though Bucky could sense it in a deep part of him. A part of him that refused to listen and that beat himself into silence at the thought of finally seeing you again after so many days and nights thinking about the endless possibilities; the myriad of endings.

He hadn't even noticed how dark the day had been since he woke up, or how everyone around him seemed so quiet. Or maybe it was him, who had drifted into his own world, the one where you came back from the mission and ran from the Quinjet to meet him, as you had hundreds of times before. Surely it was Bucky who was silent, and the rest of the world was running at a speed he refused to keep up with, because that part of him that didn't want to accept that small possibility kept nagging at his stability and the only way he found to quiet it was to walk at a slower pace. To reduce the odds to one: you had arrived safely. Everything was going to be all right.

But the moment FRIDAY announced to him in the training room that the rescue team had arrived, that small, demonic part of him had taken control of his body again. Now, Bucky was moving faster than the others, while they seemed to slow down as they accepted the truth that he'd been grimacing at and locking away in the back of his mind all day.

Now, Bucky was scared. He was scared to his bones.

As he turned the last corner of the hallway to get to the room he'd been directed to, he noticed Steve's body, sitting on one of the chairs in front of the door with the number he'd memorized in seconds, his head in his hands, his suit torn. His heart skipped a beat and, although he wanted to keep running, the pain in his chest and the uneasy tingling in his hands prevented him from hurrying any further. He felt he was reaching his limit.

Steve heard his footsteps and raised his head. Bucky quickly noticed the dried strands of blood, the bruises and the.... No. No.

"Bucky..."

The blond man stood up heavily, as if carrying his own body was too much at the moment. Bucky moved closer to him, but not too close, just close enough to shake his head. No. No.

"I'm sorry..."

He shook his head sharply. As more tears welled up in Steve's eyes after he uttered those words, Bucky hurried to open the door wide.

At that moment, he felt the blood rush to his feet. He had never felt fear as great as he felt at that moment, his body tense but light as a mountain of dry leaves, capable of collapsing in a mere autumn breeze.

You were lying on the stretcher. There were hundreds of machines around you, so many that Bucky could barely make out your body among them all. Your black suit was torn, there was blood everywhere, even on the floor under the stretcher, and soon Bucky had that vomiting feeling again.

His fingers were trembling, too weak to clasp his hands and have the strength to approach without collapsing. The pain in his chest had been replaced by a noisy emptiness; a silence so loud that for a moment he thought a bomb had exploded right next to him. When he felt his eyes water, he ran the back of his hand under them in an automatic action. Seconds later he didn't even remember doing it.

His steps forward, slow and fearful, felt numb, light and unsteady, as if you were trying to sink an empty bottle into the water, trying fiercely to return to the surface.

Clint was facing you, on the other side of the stretcher. His hands were resting on the metal edge and he hadn't left your side since you'd been brought back. Bucky barely glanced at him for a second, but Clint averted his gaze to look at the man with the metal arm, lost in a sense of unease like a castaway at sea, scared shitless but hoping to find land. To steady himself.

Bucky murmured your name, in a broken, strained sigh, like a prayer to an unknown god. Like a prayer to whoever was listening. He was already too close to the stretcher and too deep in pain to turn back and pretend that nothing had happened, that he would come back when all was well.

He watched you with eyes shining and abounding with a sense of brokenness. Your eyes weren't watching him, fixed on the ceiling as silent tears slipped away from you and got lost in the strands of your hair.

Bucky's hands burned to touch you, to squeeze your hand and pull you to his chest; his heart shrank with the need to make the pain go away, to take you and make the wounds in your body simply disappear to give way to the tranquillity of a secure future. The future you had promised him.

No, that couldn't be happening to him.

"Bucky," you whispered, barely on a breath.

He snapped out of it, a rush running down his back and the desire, the need, to care for you emerging from his chest with overwhelming force.

A few seconds passed as he made his way towards you, trying not to touch the machines too much.

Watching your face, after days of despair and worry, did nothing to change the drain on his hope. It slipped through his fingers like sand.

Your eyes moved from the ceiling, searching for his as you felt him move beside you. Finding them unleashed a joy in your chest despite the immeasurable pain you were going through, like the sip of cool water after hours of aimless running; like finding your home in a person's arms after years of running alone.

"Hi," you said, holding back a sob. You knew you couldn't hide the agony you were feeling, let alone the agony he would feel later, but you wanted to feel, even for a moment, as if everything was perfect.

As if you weren't really dying.

"Hello," he replied in a whisper, his eyes fixed on yours as one of his hands would have moved to cradle one of your cheeks, careful not to graze the small cuts you had on it.

"You know something? I thought a lot about what you said to me," you began, your voice breaking between words but trying to remain as steady as possible.

Bucky moved his hip closer to the edge of the gurney, watching you as if in that moment nothing else mattered; as if after that moment nothing ever ever mattered again.

"Which of all the things I said, sweetheart?"

His thumb stroked you gently, and the finesse courtesy of his touch sent shivers through the parts of your body that weren't numb from anesthesia, or the parts that didn't hurt. God, how you loved when he did that.

"If we had a daughter, I think I'd like her name to be Betty."

The lump in his throat became unbearable, and the first tears that escaped his pain-contracted face fell on your torn clothes. He watched you, and his gaze said a million things at once, while the hand that was on your cheek shook hard.

No, you couldn't say those things to him. Not at that time. Not ever.

Your left hand rested on his hand, and the ring on your ring finger glowed as if the promise of that future was taunting him; as if the universe had played a joke on him from the beginning, making him believe he could have it all only to have it all snatched away. How could he have hope after this? How could he go on living with your memories together haunting him, taunting his fateful destiny?

"You said- you said that was the name you liked best."

Your voice was a whisper, but Bucky could tell how hard you were trying to speak as steadily as possible. And he couldn't handle it, he just couldn't.

His eyes closed tightly and more tears rolled down his cheeks. With his head bowed, he sobbed loudly and the image broke your soul into a thousand pieces. You hated that this was happening, you hated that you were to blame for this suffering and you hated that you couldn't do anything to fix it. To help him. To stay with him.

"Yes," Bucky whispered, lifting his head to look at you again, though the mere image contracted his heart in pangs of genuine torment, "But you had told me you liked Victoria too."

You smiled at him as best you could, your hand tightening on his.

"I had considerable time to think about it. Victoria was my great-grandmother's name. The one who left me the typewriter, remember?"

Bucky nodded, his eyes never leaving yours.

"There was a time when I thought about naming my first daughter after her, but you captivated me from the moment you said Betty. I just wanted to play hard to get," you blurted out the last between a laugh and a wince, to which Bucky frowned, but said nothing about it.

"First? So you had time to consider having more?"

"Yeah, totally. I want a boy too."

Bucky smiled slightly at you, but without reaching his eyes fully, which were still awash with that agony and anticipated suffering he was not yet ready to endure.

"And what name would you give our son, love?"

"James."

Bucky frowned.

"James?"

"Yes," you replied with a slightly bigger smile, "It's a nice name, don't you think?"

Bucky just nodded, agreeing with you without hesitation. He finished settling his weight on the gurney, very careful not to brush against you, and lifted his other hand to accommodate your damp hair that was spilling over your face.

"I had also thought of another name for a girl, since we didn't agree on one last time."

You looked at him expectantly.

"Inez."

"I love it," you said without hesitation, your corners lifting, adorning your eyes bright with anticipation and missed possibilities, "It could be our third daughter's name."

Bucky let out a laugh, choking back a whimper in the back of his throat.

"How many of our children did you project?"

"Just those three. There could always be more."

"Yes," Bucky smiled ruefully, new tears gathering behind his eyes, "Maybe one will sneak in before the wedding."

"Oh, yeah. The wedding, right. I haven't finished arranging the invitations yet."

Your voice broke again, the feeling of the inevitable shaking your chest hard. You watched Bucky's contracted face, and you didn't want to suppress the urge to move your hands up to cradle his drenched face.

You smiled at him again, still mustering what strength you could to hold on for a few more seconds.

"I can't do this," he murmured, tears escaping once more.

"You'll be fine, Bucky," you assured him, wiping his cheeks with your thumbs. He shook his head frantically at your words, "Yes, Bucky. You're going to be fine, you're going to get through this, my love. And you're going to heal. You're going to be fine."

"No..." he sobbed.

Suddenly, you felt a stab of pain jolt through your body. You had to bite your tongue to keep from screaming in shock and to keep from scaring Bucky. The burning in the left side of your abdomen was becoming more and more present, the anaesthetic finally wearing off.

"I can't do this without you. Please, don't leave me."

"Yes, you can. You're strong, love. You're going to make it without me."

Bucky continued to deny, and pulled his head close to your chest to cry loudly. His shoulders shook violently and you felt the ravages of his suffering slowly shattering what tiny strength you had left.

"I'm going to miss you. Every damn day."

"I know, I'm sorry," you whispered, choking back tears just like him.

"This isn't fair," he mumbled through his teeth, his hands coming down to your shoulders, groping carefully not to hurt you, "It's not fair."

"I'm sorry."

Bucky lifted his head, and with tear-filled eyes watched you. Your body filled with a feeling of helplessness, your will to go on more alive than ever but a little strength couldn't change what was already written for your future. No matter how much you wanted, longed, wished or prayed, nothing was going to change that at that moment you were going to die and you were going to leave this man mourning your loss in life, empty and automaton-like for the rest of his days.

The pangs became more and more present, and you remembered the doctor's words, a few minutes before Bucky arrived: when the anaesthetic begins to wear off, there will be little time left.

You moved your hands over his cheeks, over his eyebrows, along his forehead and jawline, until you reached the curve of his lips. You didn't know where you were going after this, whether to heaven, to a new life or to absolute nothingness, but what you did know was that there was no place in this vast universe you wanted to be without remembering every millimetre and faction of his face. There was no place you wanted to be without remembering the colour of his irises and the way his eyes would close and his brow would relax every time you stroked his temples, as you were doing at that moment.

A feeling of despair began to emerge from your chest, so strongly that for a moment it took your breath away. More tears rolled down your face as you watched him, for a moment quiet under the effect of your caresses on him, surely thinking for a minute that you were somewhere else, doing something else instead of agonising over a premature goodbye. Perhaps you were at your wedding, after your vows, kissing, or perhaps on your way to your honeymoon destination.

Your hands moved to intertwine behind his neck, and before he could open his eyes to return to this reality, you pulled him forward and joined your lips with his. Strong, clumsy and desperate, but with a need to let him know that you were still there, that you were doing your best even when you knew it wouldn't do any good, and that even if you weren't around afterwards, you would always be with him. A part of you would always be with him.

Bucky was so desperate too, so anxious for the touch, that he couldn't even coordinate his movements properly. He just wanted to feel you, wanted to know that you were still there, that he still had seconds to lose himself in his temporal infinity.

His lips on yours, probably for the last time, were like a balm. A warm sensation and a burning feeling of tranquility and peace was what overwhelmed you as Bucky, desperately, clung to your body to try to keep the life inside you; to try to lengthen the thread of destiny that had already been cut.

No one had ever spoken to him about death, even though he carried it on his shoulders. No one had ever told him what it would feel like to lose the one he loved. No one had told him that he would be in so much pain that he would tear out his heart with his metal hand so that he would never feel it again, so that he would never feel it again for the rest of his life, so that he could go with her because he would not be able to bear her loss.

No one ever told Bucky how he would know when death would come knocking at his door, taking away the only good thing he had in his life, the only good thing he had ever managed to keep with him even though he didn't deserve it. No one told him that death would be so vicious, so ruthless and brazen as to attack him from behind while he was unsuspecting.

No one ever warned Bucky that death is unexpected and knows no boundaries.

And he didn't need to hear someone's words to know that, if he took his lips away from yours, he would no longer meet your eyes gazing adoringly at him. It had already happened. Just like that. You were gone.

He hadn't even said goodbye, and the last thing you had done was apologise to him. And for what? For the unholy, sadistic act of chance? Or maybe because of the divine punishment you had been the victim of for all the atrocious deeds that filled his hands with blood.

Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he had caused all this.

"Y/N..." he murmured against your lips, unable to pull away any further to confirm what his bruised heart already knew, "Don't leave me."

One of his hands went around the back of your neck and the other around your waist to pull you as close to his body as possible, even ignoring the sticky feel of your shirt on his right arm.

"Please, wake up. Look at me. Y/N. Please ,don't leave me. I can't do it, I need- I need you to be with me. Please. I love you. Don't leave me."

His shoulders shook, like that moment when he had hidden in the crook of your neck to cry vehemently, but even then it was worse. Because your hands didn't caress his hair, and he didn't feel your breath on his neck.

You just weren't there.

"No, no, no. Please. Please!"

You weren't there, and it was his fault.

"Y/N."

No answer.

"You're my life. I can't..."

His grip on your body tightened.

"Stay with me, please..."

Hearing his broken voice was agonizing, and no one inside the room dared approach to pull him away from your lifeless body. He just rocked back and forth, clinging as tightly as it could to the possibility of seeing you again just to beg someone, anything, for mercy.

But that wasn't going to happen. Because deep inside him, in the place he hadn't been since you came into his life, he knew he didn't deserve that pity. He didn't deserve that pity. Years of killing proved it.

And he also knew that this was the beginning of endless misfortunes that would follow him until his last breath.

Because the only thing that gave him hope that everything would be all right was you. And now you were gone.

Now there was nothing. There was no one. He was alone.

There was nothing left. There was nothing left to fight for. There was only a deep darkness, an empty and eternal hole of suffering.

The only light that came, that brightened his days and made him bloom was gone. His sun had gone out, and with it had taken everything with it.

There was nothing left.

He was alone.

-----

i am sorry.

and i did use the names of taylor swift's album folklore, i'm not the least bit surprised.

your blog sucks

you should see my life