Chapter Text
You sighed happily as the movie ended, riding the emotional high it had given you. Bucky looked over at you, lips curled in a soft smile, hand absently massaging your lamed leg. You met his gaze, brow arching slightly. There was a look in his eyes, one you knew meant questions were coming, he just needed a moment to figure out the words.
It had been a relief to discover he had speech issues, too. Not because of aphasia, like you, but because of how many languages he knew, because of the amount of times he’d been reconditioned—Shuri, he spoke of the princess-scientist with fond awe, had given him back all his memories; that didn’t mean the damage was entirely reversed.
There would be days when neither of you could seem to get the words together, and would resort to signing short-hand military signals, hoping context would be enough to get the message across. Small arms fire meant headache, or nerve pain, or muscle pain; deep hole meant hunger most often, sometimes anger; silent meant almost the same as its original intention—this was another thing of relief, that you had someone with whom you could communicate when everything else was failing you.
One-hundred percent disability didn’t get any easier as time went on, but Bucky was there, and he was always willing to do anything, be anything, say anything to help you. Some nights you woke up with flames eating away at your flesh, with jagged metal sawing through muscle and bones, and he’d pull you close, hold you as he’d held you that day in the medbay, squeezing tight and reminding you that you were safe.
Some nights it was he who woke from nightmares, from blood and bullets and bodies, and you’d drag yourself and your dead leg over to his side of the bed, clambering on top of him and hugging him as hard as you could. He’d shiver and whimper and sob, but that was okay.
You were both broken creatures, but you weren’t shattered, and the brokenness wasn’t nearly as common as everything else. As the laughter, the smiles—that goofy grin he’d offer just because he knew you’d roll your eyes and snicker and return it helplessly. As the days spent helping others, anyone, everyone; or the early mornings and late nights with the foster animals that kept you company. A kitten with a maimed paw, an old dog that limped and cowered, the snaggletooth cat with one eye, the Pitbull with permanent scars from being a bait dog—you showed them love and kindness and safety, and they loved you in return, and it was never more than a month until they found other humans that would love them even more than you and Bucky had.
Whisper, an old black cat with a snagged tail, padded from the kitchen, eyeing the sofa where you and Bucky sat, before deciding to just sit on top of you. You couldn’t help your smile as he leapt up, losing his balance because of his damaged tail. You caught him easily, gently placing him on your lap, close to Bucky’s other hand; he loved Bucky probably more than you.
The dark-haired man smiled, too, reaching over to gently rub Whisper’s head, and finally the words seemed to come to him. “Would you want to get married?”
You tilted your head, considering. You’d thought about it before, yes, but when imagining the rest of your life—“I don’t think so.” Those pretty, gentle eyes held yours as you spoke. “I never felt like it was right for me.” He just blinked, face neutral as he listened, and you asked, “Do you want to?”
A shoulder bobbed in a small shrug. “I always thought I would. Growing up, it was just the thing that you knew would happen eventually.” Another small smile quirked his lips as he reminded you just how old he really was. “But now,” another shrug, “it’s normal not to. They even have that common-law marriage or something. We’ve lived together long enough for that to apply to us.”
You pursed your lips, even as your eyes glimmered with amusement. “You’ve done your research.”
He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, moving his hand to scratch under Whisper’s chin. “I don’t want kids,” it was a topic you’d covered before, one snowy morning filled with hot tea and warm blankets, “so I don’t feel as if I need to be married.”
You reached out a hand to brush some of his hair from his face. “You don’t need to be married to raise kids, either.”
“Not now,” he reminded. Ah, right. He was doing really well with being a modern, progressive man, but some of the mores of the Forties were just too deeply imbedded. That was okay, too. He slid you a look that was as amused as it was exasperated. “I said that to indicate that I feel no need to be married, either, because I don’t want kids.”
You snickered softly, tugging his hair gently. “I know. I just like giving you a hard time.”
“Impossible woman.” He turned his head to press a soft kiss to your hand.
Some days it was ‘stubborn woman’ or ‘infuriating woman’ or ‘wondrous woman,’ but it was always, always ‘incredible woman.’ He didn’t need to say it anymore for you to know what he was thinking.
Oh, how you loved him, for that reason, and so many others.
Whisper’s purring reached maximum volume, and you snickered again, leaning down to kiss him. His fur was soft, and he smelled almost sweet; probably from the pine needles he liked to play in when he went outside.
Bucky watched, as you kissed the cat, as you rested your head against him, whispered softly to him. “Would you want to adopt Whisper for ourselves?”
You straightened, body still as you processed what he was asking, and the implications, and all the ways it would change your life. Finally, you looked at him. “Would you?”
“Yes.” The answer was immediate. “You’ll have someone when I go on missions.”
“I’m fine alone.”
“I know,” he slid you another look. “That’s not the only reason. Your heartrate slows when Whisper is sitting with you, your body relaxes, you sleep better when he’s on the bed with us.”
“You’re weird for watching me sleep.”
The jab was playfully said, and Bucky chuckled. “Maybe. But you watch me sleep, too.”
“Eh.” You shrugged, neither confirming nor denying, and Whisper echoed your noise with a contented mrrow . A smile tugged on your lips, and when you looked up, Bucky was watching you with a knowing glint in his eyes. You rolled your eyes for nothing more than dramatic effect. “Yes, I want to adopt him.”
“I’ll send in the papers tomorrow.”
“You filled them out already?”
“Figured I’d be prepared.”
For a moment, you couldn’t think of what to say, couldn’t find the words or make them leave your mouth, and when you could, the only words were, “I love you.”
He smiled, soft and gentle and lovely, shifting carefully so as not to disturb Whisper or hurt your leg, leaning over you and kissing you, long and slow and sweet. “I love you, too.”
***
You woke, clawing at your skin, trying to get the fire off, the metal out, gasping and crying and—
Something soft and warm and furry scrambling into your lap, vibrating with loud purrs, and you grabbed Whisper tightly, holding him close to your chest and burying your face in his fur. The sweet pine smell was stronger now that he spent more time in the needles, and you loved it. The old cat made a questioning noise, and you exhaled shakily.
The phone’s light made you squint in the darkness as you dialed. It rang twice before he picked up. “Everything okay, doll?”
Whisper nudged your chin with his head, still purring, and you tangled your fingers in his fur. “Nightmare.”
Bucky made a soft noise in the back of his throat. “How bad?”
“No scratch marks this time.” He’d often come home to long marks up your arms and stomach and legs, made by your own nails in your panic between awake and asleep.
His next noise was relieved. “And Whisper?” As if answering to his name, the cat mrrowed again, putting his nose against the phone screen. Bucky laughed. “Sounds like he’s taking care of you.”
“He is,” you agreed, finally calmed enough to lay back down. Whisper moved with you, settling across your stomach. “When do you come home?”
“Two days, maybe three.”
“Do you want anything when you get back?” It had become tradition to eat a food he’d missed whilst on the mission, or maybe go do something he hadn’t been able to do.
You could almost hear him salivating. “Chocolate chip cookies.”
Your laughter was low and quiet. “Easy.”
He laughed, too. “Sleep well, doll.”
When he returned three days later, he had a bouquet of flowers in his hand as he always did, and you had a plate full of warm, fresh cookies, and Whisper yowled happily and climbed his way to Bucky’s shoulder, and you laughed and kissed and held close this moment of warmth and love and safety.
You were both broken creatures, but you were healing, and life was good.