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In moments like these he never touches her with his metal hand. He wants to feel her, to press his human flesh into her soft skin, to scratch his fingernails into her scalp and running his fingers through her locks. He is desperate to consume every pore, every strain in muscle, every scar and every bruise on her body and kiss it away. In moments like these, he wants to do everything all at once because they never know if it’s the last time they see each other.
She is laying down on her stomach on bed, her face tilted and chin gently pressed into her elbows, piercing eyes quietly watching him. Right now, his human hand is sending gentle tingles through her body as he trails the tips of his fingers alongside the fine curve of her bare spine. Up and down. Up and down. Sometimes he stops, puts his hot palm against her hip bone or shoulder or ribcage and just...savours her skin.
"Stop frowning."
He briefly glances into her green eyes as Natasha reaches out her hand and presses her fingers between his eyebrows. His thoughtful face scrunches, grimaces and his mouth turns into a small smile. She mirrors his expression, leans in and pulls him into a brief but intense kiss.
"I love you," she says and he opens his mouth to say the same thing but halts himself at the last second.
The voice.
It’s different, mechanical, cold, detached. Artificial.
Not hers.
"What’s wrong?" she asks, but no. It’s not Natasha who asks.
Looking at her, she’s here but her voice is one of a stranger.
He wants to touch her face, caress her cheek but he can’t. He’s frozen in time. He can’t speak, can’t move, can’t shout.
He blinks and -
Dark red of her hair is melting. Literally. Her locks are cascading down in a stream of ruby red blood, staining her porcelain skin, soaking into her skin, drowning the green of her eyes in dark abyss. Her once pink lips are sealed with sticky substance, unable to move.
He wants to scream or shout but he can’t.
Her blood-soaked hand starts sneaking its way to his throat like an impatient starving snake ready to eat its foolish prey.
He wants to grab her hand but he can’t.
Her fingers dig into his skin, pressing into his pulse point and she presses harder and harder and harder.
Until his vision turns into black and white spots.
When he opens his eyes, he is alone in a grey room with no door, no bed, no table or chair. Only a giant mirror opposite him, reflecting his confused stare. He is no longer naked like he was with Natasha under thin, scratchy sheets. His tactical suit is on sans his face mask.
Stop frowning.
Echoes her voice in his mind when he looks at his mirror self, frowning. He can’t feel her fingers on his face anymore.
The lights flicker and a room behind the mirror (now window) makes an appearance. His blood runs cold and he wants to curse, to break, to shout but he can’t. He can only watch, helplessly.
Natasha is sitting in a chair, dressed in a medical gown, her ankles and wrists strapped down so she can’t move. Big machinery is hovering above her, a reminder of what’s about to happen and his entire body goes numb.
He wants to smash and destroy but he can’t.
"I love you."
Somewhere in his room, through the speaker she says the words.
But it’s not her voice.
"I love you."
He can see her lips moving just when the machinery is coming closer to its target. To Natasha.
But it’s not her voice.
"I love you."
Cold, detached, artificial.
Not hers.
"I lo-"
She screams and he shouts her name.
She screams and he takes a step forward.
She screams and he punches the window numerous times.
She screams and the dark web of shattered glass on this unbreakable window glitches, changes and turns back into its original shape.
She screams and he stands there, feeling useless and paralysed.
She screams, the machine whirs and -
Bucky wakes with a start, chest squeezing in fear but fortunately no sound comes out of his throat. His heart beats loudly and he thinks, for one second, the sound of it is going to rumble through the whole room but everything is quiet around him. He sits on soft mattress, fingers clutching sheets and he flinches when a crack of thunder booms outside.
He licks his lips and closes his eyes, pulling his sweat drenched sheet off his chest and welcomes the cold air that soothes his heated skin.
"James?"
She’s here and she’s not screaming.
Her warm hand reaches out and squeezes his slightly trembling hand.
"Hey, I’m here."
"I know."
"Nightmare?"
He swallows and nods. Then he realizes she can’t see him in a dark of their room.
"Yeah."
She doesn’t ask him about it, doesn’t make him relive it again by talking about it. Natasha gently pulls him towards her, his back to her chest, her hand running through his hair, their legs entwined and finally her arm loops around his stomach. Their fingers weaving together, Bucky shifts their hands directly over his heart.
"I’m here," she mutters again and kisses his shoulder, leaving a butterfly touch on his skin.
He closes his eyes and lets her warmth wrap around his whole being.
"I love you."
The voice.
It’s full of care and kindness and glow.
It’s hers.