Work Text:
He balanced the pen between his fingers, swirling it in circles, blankly staring at the open notebook before him. Journalling wasn’t something new to him, not since his memories had started to flow back and, in desperate attempt to reassure himself that they would not then again leave him, he had begun one at Steve’s advice.
But this was different. Hauled up in his new safe house (well, apartment, really), Bucky sat at his desk and could not write a single word, despite how much he tried.
And it was because it wasn’t just a journal. He had written entries about you, sure. A lot of them, actually. But this, this you would read . This wasn’t just for his sake, but for yours.
Bucky tapped the pen against the page. How could he put it into words? How could he manage to apologize for what he’d done? To what he continued to do by staying so far away?
He rubbed his free hand over the darkening, growing stubble over his chin before his attention turned to the window before him. The sun had dipped below the horizon, but enough rays broke through to cast the Wakandian forest in a deep, harsh contrast of shadow and light. The window just captured the mist off of the waterfall not far in the distance.
Time was fleeting. He didn’t know how he would even get the letter to you if he somehow got himself to write it. He knew that Steve’s package for Tony was a one time thing, since it was too difficult to get around sending it without giving away where their location. But for his own peace of mind, he knew he needed to at least try to give you yours.
Bucky readjusted his grip on the pen and forced himself to write it. The thing that was most present in his mind, that haunted him for weeks, that kept him up at night.
Every day, on the other end of every hallway, I see a girl that looks like you. I know it isn’t. As much as I wish it was, I know that you’re gone, and that you are because you wanted to be as far away from me as possible. I don’t blame you. I would want to be away from me, too.
He sighed, reading over the little of what he had written so far. He knew that it made him sound weak, delusional. But he knew he had to do this right, if he was going to do it. He couldn’t make it up, make himself sound okay. Because he wasn’t. He hurt you. He hurt so many others. But he couldn’t live with knowing that you were out there hating him, that you had run away when you had the chance, and now he was running from you, hiding away.
That one night is still one of the highlights of my life, (Y/N). I wasn’t drunk, it wasn’t just one drunken night. I had wanted it, wanted you from the moment that I met you. But I just had to go and fuck it all up. When you kissed me, I wanted to swear to you right then and there that I would be there for you, and that I wouldn’t do what I did. I fell for you, and I hated myself for it. You deserve better. So much better. I was scared as hell to say anything about it because I was afraid I would hurt you. But I did anyway when I let it happen that night because I was too overwhelmed, terrified of myself. I still am. I was terrified of how much I already loved you.
He was. He was scared shitless of how easy it was to love you. He hated the idea of you loving him too because he hated the idea of himself, of what he’d done, even if Steve tried and tried again to convince him that it wasn’t him. He hated it, purely and truly. But no matter how much he hated it, how much he tried to repress the feelings, he was drawn to you. Every room Bucky was in, he looked for you. Always for you. Never for anyone else. When he finally had you alone that night, when he tasted your skin and loved you like he wanted to, kissed your lips and watched them swell, when he woke up to you the next morning with your hair astray and your arm thrown across his bare middle, for a moment, he was content. For the first time in a long time. But then he had ran. Hid. And he wished every second of every day that he hadn’t.
So he did his best to put that into words. To explain why he had left. Why he stopped looking for her in each room. To explain why he pushed you away.
I don’t expect you to ever forgive me. I wouldn’t.
But (Y/N), as much as I wish I could say I just needed some time to get my head together, I’m still doing that. I’m still trying to comprehend it all.
But I know that I love you. I do. It scares the shit out of me, yeah, it’s hard for me to even begin to think I deserve any sort of love in return, especially from you. But I love you.
I love you, (Y/N).
Signed,
James
He dropped the pen on the desk and pushed the notebook away from himself. His elbows rested on the surface, and his head fell in his hands. It was stupid. He couldn’t say it in words, even if he wanted to. He didn’t know how to say it. This letter was probably only going to make it worse.
After a few moments of regretting everything he’d written and convincing himself of the worst case scenario, Bucky grabbed the notebook and tore out the page.
And in one quick, fluid motion, he crumpled the paper and threw it at the wall.
There was no chance you would forgive him, much less believe him. He didn’t know what got him thinking of doing this in the first place. Sighing, Bucky looked out the window again, watching the mist cloud the jungle floor, illuminated by the moonlight that had replaced the final rays of the sun. He was here. You were wherever. There was no chance. He had blown the only one there was.
And he would have to live with that.
There was a knock at his door. Figuring it was Steve, Bucky groaned in response, putting his head in his hands again. “What is it now, Steve?”
“Bucky?”
But it wasn’t Steve’s voice. He knew that voice.
He loved that voice.