Work Text:
Your hands are shaking as you unlock the door to the motel room where you’ve been staying for the past two days. And just as the key clicks in the lock and you try to ease the door open with your hip, you lose your grip on the bag clutched in your left hand and it starts to fall--
You’re almost to the server room- and all that’s keeping you from your goal is a long corridor and nine Hydra goons in full gear. The alarms had gone off the minute Bucky and you had broken into the facility: the incessant blaring and the flashing red strobe lights have you even more on edge than you had already been.
Your power leaks formlessly from your hands, and try as you might, you can’t manage to hold the straggling wisps of light to any shape- knives, batons, even your favoured whips, nothing will stay.
You’re tired. So tired.
Bucky touches your arm lightly, drawing your attention, and for a few seconds that seem to stretch on forever you are lost in his gaze. It’s all you need to pull yourself together and you ride yet another wave of adrenaline- it surges through you and drowns out the pain of all the bruises and scrapes you’ve incurred over the past few weeks.
He nods at you, slow, steady, before turning back to face the soldiers rushing towards you, just a few feet away now. And then you’re moving easily into the fight, feeling more grace in this than you do anything else.
And even as you lash out with your whips and snag the soldier who’s closest, you’re not entirely focused; somewhere in the back of your mind, you know that there is something wrong with the way this feels to you. You know you shouldn’t find it so easy to fight by his side when everything else has been so hard.
You push those thoughts away and with a jerk of your wrists, you release the man you had captured, sending him catapulting backwards. He hits the wall with a thud and falls to the ground, unmoving.
And then the rest of the soldiers are on you and you transform the whips into a pair of knives and everything moves fast after that. You stab and you slash and you dodge your fair share of the same, and it’s all almost a blur.
Until the moment when you’ve knocked down the last guy in front of you and you turn around, a triumphant smile on your face, only to find that Bucky is half-lying, half-sitting against the wall, eyes almost shut, his breathing loud, ragged. And he is bleeding-
It’s the sound of glass shattering that snaps you out of your reverie. The contents of the bag are lying on the ground in front of you and for a second you just stare at them, uncomprehending. And then you hurry to retrieve what you can- one of the bottles of whiskey has broken and from its debris you pick up the other bottle as well as the gauze and the surgical tape and needles and thread.
Bucky’s at the door by the time you’re straightening up, leaning heavily against the doorframe, skin pale in the failing evening light.
“Bucky, what on earth are you doing?! You shouldn’t even be on your feet!”
You shift all the stuff into one hand and with the other you tug one of his arms around your shoulders and guide him to the bed. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t say anything throughout the process, and with the exception of a pained grunt as you help him sit, an awkward kind of silence settles over you both.
There’s a part of you that wants to continue scolding him, for not being more careful, for not caring enough about his own safety. But you’re scared that if you start, it’ll lead to you talking about all the things that are wrong with this situation, and then you won’t be able to stop.
You don’t want that, just as you don’t want to ever speak harshly to him again, because he has been through so much, and you’re scared that you won’t be able to make up for it all even if you love him with every inch of your being for every single day of your life.
So you turn away from him before he can see the toxic mixture of concern and fear spreading undisguised across your face. And you try your hardest to muster some kind of calm.
His gaze weighs heavily on you as you bustle about the tiny room, depositing your supplies on a chair, shutting the door, getting a mug of water from the bathroom, all with only the smallest hint of a stagger in your stride.
And the weight of his eyes only grows heavier, becomes something scorching as you perch on the edge of the bed next to him and work on fixing the jagged cut across his chest.
He doesn’t flinch even when you begin stitching the cut closed. His eyes remain latched onto your form, and the few times you trust yourself enough to look at his face, you think you see something like regret, or maybe it’s only simple sadness.
It’s as you’re dressing the sutures with gauze and tape, hands shaking no matter how hard you try to keep them steady, that he finally speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, left hand ghosting over your hip, only actually touching you when your eyes flash up to meet his gaze.
“No,” even that single word is choked in its urgency, shrouded in the pain of a half-formed sob, “no, don’t apologize, James. This isn’t your fault. It’s just…”
You trail off, unable to continue. Because ever since he had gotten hurt, the fact that you might lose him at any point has become blatantly obvious, and even considering that possibility hurts so much that you can hardly breathe.
He cups your face with his free hand, thumb stroking over your cheek.
“Tell me, ___,” he urges, voice soft as the caress of his fingers, “I want to help.”
He looks at you with sheer, undisguised, affection, and there’s a part of you that responds with guilt. Because he is injured and you need to be strong for him, and yet, he is the one that’s comforting you. But you find you can’t wallow in that guilt for too long, not when he’s looking at you in the way that he is.
“I don’t know what I was thinking that night,” you admit finally, voice broken, “I just wanted to keep you safe, and I thought that wouldn’t be possible unless we got rid of everyone who did this to you. I didn’t even imagine that you might get hurt in this crusade. I was an idiot! I’m so sorry.”
Your eyes have begun to fill with tears, and through the watery haze, you look at him, and the pain in his eyes seems to be a reflection of your own. Immediately, you turn away, because suddenly you feel like such a fool.
‘Some things never change’ you had told him on that night—almost two months and countless destroyed Hydra bases ago now— and you had never been so wrong, because everything has changed, and you don’t know whether it’s enough that you love him.
Bucky’s fingers on your chin are gentle as he makes you look at him, and oh, the way he is looking at you- with a steady sort of love that is exactly what you need to find hope again.
“I was thinking of the day I shipped out with the 107th,” he says, lips curving into a gentle smile, “do you remember that?”
You are too choked up for words and all you can do is nod, wondering all the while about why he has chosen to bring up that particular day now.
“I asked you to marry me,” he chuckles, and for a moment you feel as if you’ve gone back in time, to when things were easy and the pair of you weren’t dancing around each other, trying to find a rhythm that fit, to a time when you knew each other as instinctively as knowing how to breathe.
“And I told you to win the war, to survive, and ask me again,” you’re smiling too, without quite realizing it, because despite the farewells that had followed afterwards, that had been a good memory, and you’re glad he has it now, “I told you that if you came back to me, I would marry you.”
You don’t talk about what happened next, don’t bring up the fact that he never came back, because scared and sad and lost as you are feeling right now, talking about that day is enough to remind you that having him with you is all you need.
“I love you, doll,” he tells you with absolute earnestness, “And I’m not leaving you again unless you ask me to.”
And then as if he feels the need to prove himself further, he leans in and kisses you. It takes you a minute to realize that this is the first time since he has come back to you that he’s initiated something, and not the other way around. It’s enough to make your heart skip a beat as you kiss him back.
By the time he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours, his hands still cupping your face, you’re feeling a little less empty, a little less lost.
“Everything you said on that night was true,” he breathes the words against your lips, half-lidded eyes staring so intently that you feel as if he’s looking into your soul, “this is the only way we can be free.”
You suck in a shaky breath, quite overwhelmed by his absolute faith, his all-encompassing love.
“I’m still sorry,” you tell him finally, after several moments have passed in silence, “I shouldn’t have doubted this, shouldn’t have doubted us.”
He draws away, and you feel suddenly cold as soon as his hands leave your face. But then he smirks, and there is a spark in his eyes that reminds you of the old days, and it warms you up from the inside out.
“You’re allowed to have your moments of doubt,___,” he tells you, his tone light, leaving no room for further guilt, or apologies, “we did lead something of a charmed life.”
You don’t speak of it anymore and it’s by unspoken agreement that you both settle down to sleep on the bed, breaking the arrangement—you sleep on the bed, he takes the couch— you had made on the night you had fled your apartment, the night he had been sent to kill you, the night that started it all again.
And you’re ever so grateful that he trusts himself enough with you to not dig up the old argument- that he is scared that he might wake in the middle of the night and hurt you; you’re ever so happy that you’re making progress, that there is still hope for all of this to end well, with the two of you together still.
“I know that we’re not what we were, but there’s different kinds of perfect,” he whispers, and as he speaks he reaches across the space between you and takes your hands in his, “it’s just going to take us a little more time to find the one that fits now.”
A smile blossoms across your face almost involuntarily- wide and brilliant, and your heart feels full to bursting.
“I’ll try to be more patient then,” you reply, voice as soft as his, squeezing his hands in yours, “I love you, James.”
And you drift to sleep with his eyes on you, still facing each other, hands still joined.