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He wished he had cried when it ended. Really, he did. But, it just felt like something he deserved. He had made his amends. He had been pardoned. He was working toward being a hero—or, at least, not a killer. He was moving on with his life. He knew he deserved good things. But, something in his heart told him that he still wasn’t worthy of having a good life. So, when you told him with a quivering voice and tear-stained cheeks asking why he was breaking up with you, it didn’t hurt the way it should have. Was that bad? Probably. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Bucky didn’t go out much anymore. Not that he went out much before. Most days, he sat on the floor—not the couch, never the couch, the couch was too soft—and just tried to keep the image of you painted in his mind. He was never an artist; that was more Steve’s speed. But he found himself wishing he knew how to paint, or how to sculpt, or how to draw. Something. Anything. A picture on his phone could never do your beauty justice. You looked like one of those grand marble statues that you would see in museums—something grand, something wonderful.
You were too good for him. In every sense. You were so beautiful, so kind. Elegant. Loving. Compassionate. Even when you leaned into your more goofy side, it was still a thousand times better than him. He had nothing to offer you. He was a broken man. He was Humpty Dumpty, and he fell off the wall, and none of the king’s men could put him back together again. You always told him that you didn’t mind his shattered edges, his frayed ends, but he knew better. If you didn’t mind now, you would mind later. Everyone always minds, eventually. Maybe that’s why Steve, his best friend who fought tooth and nail to get him back, left him, too. Maybe the man who swore to stay with him til the end of the line got sick of all the bullshit that came with Bucky too.
So, he never gave you the choice. He wouldn’t let you have the opportunity to leave him like the others. He had to nip this in the bud before he got hurt.
He was so sick of being hurt.
Bucky tried to not think too much about the day he shut you out of his life that much. Instead, he tried to remember the day he first met you. It had been a rainy day, and he was going to meet Yori for lunch. He had poor planning skills—or, perhaps, it was an subconscious way to punish himself for, well, decades of crimes—and he’d forgotten to bring an umbrella or wear a raincoat. So, as he stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn, he accepted his fate of getting soaked to the bone. Until— he wasn’t.
He looked around, before his eyes settled on a young woman, holding her umbrella out over him. It was a small umbrella, barely covering him. She was choosing to let herself get rained on, just to provide him some momentary comfort.
His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton as he tried to think of something, anything, to say. But then the light had turned and suddenly they were walking across the street, her still holding the umbrella over him. And she stayed like that, walking him all the way to the restaurant, never once moving the umbrella to cover herself instead.
It was only when he stood in front of the restaurant that he could think of something to say. “Would you like to have lunch with me? I’m meeting with a friend, but I don’t think he’d mind.”
And you smiled, agreeing without a moment’s hesitation.
He could never forget that lunch. The way you laughed at Yori’s jokes. The way he tried to stop Yori from telling you embarrassing stories about Bucky that he had collected over the course of their short friendship, or the way that you encouraged Yori to ignore Bucky’s complaints and tell you the stories anyways. It felt so easy. It didn’t feel like he had to put on a mask around you. It didn’t feel like he had to hide himself from you. And, for a long time, he loved that about you.
Until it got scary.
Your relationship with him grew quickly. One second he was asking you on a date, and a second later you were celebrating your sixth month anniversary. Bucky hadn’t felt anything this…permanent in a long time. And that scared the shit out of him.
Panic rose in him faster than the ocean at high tide. He knew what his life was like. He knew that good things didn’t come easily. He hadn’t experienced anything truly good for so long, and the few flips of goodness he was treated with rarely lasted. In his one hundred and six years on this wretched earth, Bucky had come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t allowed to have peace.
But you gave him hope. You made him smile. You made him laugh. You made him forget that he had a metal arm and a broken mind. You made him feel like he was human.
Never once did you shy away from him. You openly loved him. From grabbing onto his gloved hand when you went on walks, to curling into his side when you watched a movie together. You invited him to places, just because you wanted to be with him. You sent him memes—whatever the hell those were—just because you thought they’d make him laugh. You’d buy his favorite candy when you were grocery shopping just because. One time, you showed up at his apartment with a bouquet of flowers just for him and he had to stop himself from weeping right then and there. There was no question, no doubt, in his mind that you loved him.
That was the scariest part.
He didn’t know how long your love would last.
He didn’t know when you would realize you were too good for him.
He didn’t know when you would turn and leave, breaking his heart.
Bucky yearned for control. It was all he wanted. Not happiness, not love, but control. He had been pinned under other people’s thumbs for far too long. And, when he felt like he was relinquishing too much of his life into your hands, he got scared and he knew that he needed to get out fast.
So, just shy of your one year anniversary, he texted you that he wanted to end things. He had hoped it would end there, just like that, but you came storming to his apartment a mess.
“Why?” you cried.
“I can’t love you the way you want me to,” he said.
“I don’t care how you love me, I just want your love!”
And, if there was one thing he regretted, it was what he said next. “What if I didn’t love you?”
“You…You don’t…You don’t love me?”
“I can’t. I’m not…I’m too broken to love anyone.”
“That’s such bullshit, Bucky, and you know it!” you sobbed. “You’re just scared, and you’re trying to hurt me before I hurt you, or whatever story you’ve made up in your head!”
That was another thing that scared him—that you could read him so well. Bucky struggled to understand what he was feeling half the time, but you could always tell the good days from the bad days. And, on the bad days, you always made sure that he knew he was loved. You always loved him. Why did you always love him?
“I don’t want you in my life,” he said, not looking at you.
“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”
“I mean it.”
“Bucky, please—”
“Go,” he said. “I’ve never asked for anything this entire relationship. Please just leave me be. It’s what I want.”
“Seriously? Is that seriously what you want?” you said, unable to hold the tears in anymore, letting them freely flow down your face.
“It is. It’s the only thing I’m sure of.”
“Fine. But you better remember this was your choice. Not mine,” you said, pointing a finger at him before turning on your heel and marching out of his apartment. Forever.
And, God, did he wish he could forget.
He hated knowing that he was the cause of your pain. He wanted nothing more than to chase you down, pull you into his arms and kiss the tears away. Apologize for the shit he said. Tell you that he loves you more than he loves the air he breathes. That he’s scared shitless of you realizing that you could have anyone in the world, and that you didn’t want Bucky anymore. That he wants a future with you, and whatever that entailed.
Instead, he let you walk.
It’s what he asked for, after all.
He could only pray that you would forget about him. That you found someone better, someone good. That you found someone who didn’t have so many broken pieces clued together. That you found someone who wasn’t ripped apart and stitched back together a thousand times over. That you found someone who loved you as much as he loved you, minus all the pain that he knew he would bring.
If he could tell you anything, it would be that.
That it was ok to forget about him.
He would never know that you would never want to forget him.
Because, for as much as he looked at you like were the beautiful moon hanging in the sky, you looked at him like he was the ocean, reaching out to kiss you day in and day out.
If only he knew.