🍊 tell me how ur day is going
🌼 tell me abt ur crush !
🍊 tell me ur plans for the summer
🌼 or ur plans for next weekend
🍊 tell me what u would wear to a festival
🌼 or just what ur wearing today !
🍊 suggest some films and tv I should watch
🌼 or books I should read
"There's too manny taakos in the community" never talk to My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, or Me ever again
Summary:After a rough mission Bucky comes home to you broken, he pulls away from you, stays out late, comes home drunk and smelling like alcohol and cheap perfume, you confront him about his behavior, Bucky reacts in a way you did not expect, and it destroys your relationship.
You were seated on the love seat in front of the television, your slender calves tucked underneath you, a warm faux fur blanket thrown haphazardly over your small frame with hair knotted in a high bun. Your favorite fuzzy pink pajamas bringing little comfort. It was almost four am. The clock ticking menacingly on the wall reminding you that this was the third time this week Bucky had failed to come home to you. Sighing deeply, ignoring the tears pooling in your eyes, you reach for your phone, hoping he had sent a message, telling you where he was at the very least.
Swiping at the screen, the glaring emptiness of your inbox was apparent. Not a single text from your boyfriend, not a missed call, nothing. You hurl your phone at the wall, watching as it smashes to pieces, bits of plastic raining onto the carpet. Immediately regretting your fit of pique, the shame blossoming in your chest has you rubbing your tired eyes gently. You settle back into the couch, staring at the door as your hand drops to your lap, fidgeting absent mindedly with the edge of the throw.
It hasn’t always been this way. Your relationship with Bucky had been a happy one, filled with laughter and love, respect and understanding. Granted, Bucky had never been an easy man to get along with. His PTSD and survivor’s guilt had plagued him nightly, manifesting in the most garish nightmares. He would flail and scream, waking drenched in sweat, eyes wild and fists clenched. He would brood for days after an episode, refusing to touch you, sometimes moving back into the tower only to come back after a couple of days. You had accepted him as he was, loved him for his flaws, his humor, his sense of morality. Bucky Barnes was inherently good, no matter how often he claimed he was a monster, you had never believed him.
The change had started two months ago after a particularly rough mission. he wouldn’t or couldn’t give you details, but he had stared vacantly at a wall for twelve hours, sending you into a panic when you couldn’t pull him out of it. Eventually you had to call Steve who talked Bucky back into the world of the living.
You had joked that he came back just to make Steve shut up, but Bucky didn’t even attempt to smile. A small part of you knew then, just knew, you had lost him.
It got progressively worse from there. He would stay out late, come home smelling like Bourbon and perfume, the stale smell of smoke lingering on his clothes. At first you confronted him, demanded an explanation for his actions. Bucky would merely sit quietly on the couch, not answering your demands for answers, before he would rise and lock himself in the bedroom, leaving you to cry alone.
It was the beginning of the end, one night a week turned to two, then three. He would barely talk to you, wouldn’t look at you, until he barely came home at all.
Pain. It’s such a broad term. Everything from physical to mental anguish falls under the word. It conjures up cuts and bruises, heart break and illness, yet it couldn’t describe what it was you felt when Bucky started to distance himself from you. It felt like heat, hot flames licking at your insides, burning a white path to your chest. It felt like knives, deliberately pushed into a raw exposed nerve. It felt like isolation, rejection, loneliness. Somewhere in your gut you knew that it was going to come to a head, and tonight would be the determining factor in your relationship.
The soft click of the door pulls you out of your head, your eyes focusing on the figure stumbling through it, his blue eyes red rimmed. You could smell the alcohol from your seat on the couch. Cheap cigarettes and perfume waft with it making you gag. You close your eyes tightly for there was no denying it anymore. You knew what he was doing, or at least assumed. It didn’t matter either way, you needed answers, needed an explanation for the distance, for the turmoil he was causing.
“Did you have fun?” you ask softly. “Did it make you forget?”
Bucky grunts, his metal fist clenched at his side. “I’m not in the mood for this,” he answers, throwing his keys nonchalantly in the bowl by the door. “I wanna go to bed, we can talk in the morning.”
You raise an eyebrow. “It is morning, James, and there’s no time like the present,” you reply calmly, covering the hurt with a mask of neutrality. Rising to your feet and closing the distance between you, raising a hand lightly to his face, just to touch, to soothe. You needed to feel him, just once. It had been so long since his smooth skin was underneath your fingertips, but he flinches away from you, his eyes set in a cold glare, slightly glazed from the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed. You swallow down the sob the action brings, dropping your hand limply to your side. “Please let me help you, Bucky, I can’t stand seeing you like this,” pleadingly, voice filled with emotion, you almost delude yourself into thinking his eyes soften, that his shoulders relax, but the emotion is gone before you can process it replaced by burning anger.
“You can’t help me! You are the problem!” he roars. “Leave me the fuck alone!”
Instinctively you grab his arm to pull him close, to offer comfort, your hind-brain not communicating the dangers fast enough.
Before you can process whats happening, you’re slammed into a wall, your head bouncing off of it harshly. Stars burst in front of you, a low moan of pain sounds in your chest. Your hair is suspiciously wet as Bucky’s metal fist slams repeatedly into the wall next to your face, drilling a hole in it. Chunks of plaster and chips of paint fall onto the floor while Bucky snarls viciously into your face.
Breathing rapidly, eyes wide with fear, your entire body shakes violently. You had never been afraid of him, never once had you thought he would hurt you, but you watch his eyes as he seems to come to, come back from whatever dark place he’d disappeared into.
Realisation dawns, brings revulsion at himself, his actions. Remorse and guilt fill his face as he raises his flesh hand to your face.
You whimper and flinch away, trying to hunch in yourself as he comes closer. You hear him suck in a sharp breath before he steps away from you. You don’t dare look at him, nor do you speak.
“Baby-” he stutters, his eyes wet with tears.
Shoving from the wall, you run as fast as you can. The door of your shared apartment bounces heavily in the frame as you slam it behind you. Fear and adrenaline pushing you to run faster. Blood is dripping down your collar, staining the pink of your pajama top red. Hailing a taxi through a haze of tears and delirious rambling, you tell the driver to take you to the one man that could protect you from Bucky, or so you hoped.
Trembling noticeably, your breathing labored, the taxi speeds down the streets of New York, taking you to your former home, the one place you had always felt safe. To your team, your family.
You needed to get to Steve.
The cab screeches to a halt in front of Stark Tower, and you clamber out unsteadily, tossing the driving a twenty in your haste. It’s started to rain, the heavy droplets soaking you to the bone in mere seconds. You bite down on your lip softly, the realisation suddenly hitting you that you couldn’t tell Steve what had happened with Bucky settles uneasily in your stomach.
Bucky was on temoultus ground as it was. Ripping Steve away from him would have severe consequences. He may even revert back to the Winter Soldier. No matter what he’d done, you couldn’t be responsible for that.
Sinking slowly to your knees on the curb, your body racked with silent tears, you decide not to tell Steve, but you couldn’t go home. You were stuck and alone.
You stay that way for what feels like an eternity before steadily rising to your feet. tucking a wet strand of hair behind your ear, then you enter the building, informing F.R.I.D.A.Y you would be staying in your old room.
The world and everything in it could wait till morning.
Tags: Are open. shoot me an ask .Strikethrough indicates broken tags