Chapter Text
When you first met Bucky, you were in Bucharest working on your dissertation for your Ph.D. You both lived in the same apartment building, but the only time you saw him was when he was doing his laundry or out to do his grocery shopping for the month. Being the friendly person that you were, you would greet him each time you saw him when you crossed paths.
The first time you greeted him, he just stared at you. As if he couldn’t believe someone had gone out of their way to say hello to him. The most he could muster was a short nod of his head before he hurried off to his apartment. Luckily, this didn’t deter you from initiating a conversation with him. Your persistence seemed to wear him down enough to tell you his name when you ran into him at the grocery store one day. Other than his name, you didn’t really know anything else about Bucky, but you could tell he was a very private person and preferred to be left alone. Or so you thought.
Bucky had shown up at your door holding a case of beers.
“You thirsty?” Bucky asked, awkwardly rubbing his shoulder. “I wasn’t exactly sure how else to say thank you.”
“Thank you?” You repeated, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “For what?”
“The fact that you’ve gone out of your way to talk to me and try to make conversation. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s something that I’ve…learned to appreciate.”
You stood there silently, unable to formulate the words to respond to Bucky’s words. Up until now, you had assumed that Bucky didn’t want to be bothered. So, it was reassuring to find out how wrong you were about him.
“If this is too much, I understand. I can just—” You interrupted Bucky and shook your head.
“No, it’s not too much. Not at all. Come in, Bucky.” You held the door open to your apartment to allow Bucky inside.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Bucky smiled before stepping inside your apartment.
That one evening of sharing drinks together and chatting in your apartment quickly became one of your favorite past times. It had gradually become a weekly ritual to have Bucky come by your place on Friday nights and share a drink after you finished your research for your dissertation. The majority of those nights were spent discussing the work you were doing and the stress you felt trying to finish your dissertation to earn your Ph.D. Sometimes you’d switch it up and talk about your childhood or your interests that led up to you studying and working abroad in Bucharest today.
You’d constantly ask Bucky if the topic of your dissertation or venting about it was boring him and he would insist that it was anything but boring. Bucky seemed more interested in learning about you than talking about himself. It wasn’t until you worked up the courage to ask about his gloved hand did you get a chance to learn more about him.
“Hey, Bucky. If you don’t mind me asking, why do you wear that glove over your hand?” you asked, motioning towards his gloved hand.
Bucky stared down at his hand silently, clenching and unclenching his metal hand that was hidden underneath the fabric before he met your gaze again. You suddenly felt guilty for asking such a question.
“I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me to ask you that. You don’t have to tell me.” You reassured him.
To your surprise, you watched Bucky slowly remove the glove off his hand, revealing a metal hand. You stared at Bucky’s metal hand, amazed at the way his metal fingers would come to life as he moved his arm.
“Are you afraid of me?” Bucky whispered.
You stared at Bucky taken aback by his words. “Why would I be?”
“This hand is a reminder of all the things I want to forget but can’t. All the things I’ve been forced to endure and live with. It’s what makes me… a monster.”
Instead of reassuring Bucky with words that he wasn’t, you carefully took his metal hand in your own, intertwined your fingers together, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Oddly enough, the cool surface of his metal hand against your warm one soothed you even if his words about his metal hand were meant to have the opposite effect. Bucky froze, unable to look away from you as you silently held and squeezed his metal hand.
As your hand squeezed and held his metal one, Bucky couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace wash over him. A feeling that he desperately wanted to feel, even though deep down he didn’t think he deserved to feel that way. Despite the fact he didn’t think he deserved peace, you gave it to him anyway. And for that, he was grateful.
“Thank you, (Name),” Bucky said.