Moments - 3
soulmate au where the first words you’ll hear your soulmate say are inscribed on your wrist.
warnings: swearing, injury
word count: 1187
Desperate. That’s what you are: too eager, and too fucking desperate. You’d cried and you’d felt this hollowness in your chest that you’d imagined would magically go away once you’d meet your soulmate. You’d offed relationships because they weren’t the one. You lost friends because you were too fucking caught up wallowing in your own sadness, pitying yourself. Now you’re wishing for that hollowness to come back, because even that would be so much better than this.
You see the way he looks at her. It’s hard to ignore, especially when he’ll break off midsentence when talking to someone every time she walks into the room. His eyes trail over her body and his face quirks into one of his rare smiles. She returns them too, with a seductive half smiles and a subtle wink. Everyone else on the team nudges him about it, laughs over it, and is so fucking happy for him.
You want to be. You really do. It’s just–
You can’t do it. Not when you spend the majority of your day at the tower, because you can see both sides of him. You can see the pull he feels towards Nat, and it’s only increased after he’d clutched his arm and fled the training room like he’d seen a ghost the first and last time you’d talked to him. You can see how he spends every second with your best friend, the way he sits more than comfortably close to her during dinner and the way he disappears behind her door every night.
Even still, he’s distracted. He spends most of his time with Natasha, but when he’s alone, you see how uneasy he looks. Sometimes he watches a show or a movie, but his eyes are glassed over and he isn’t paying attention. Other times he’s talking to Steve and his lips are pulled into a grin, but his eyes are looking anywhere but Steve’s face. And it hurts. It really fucking hurts, seeing him so distraught over something and knowing you can’t do anything about it because even when he’s become everything to you– you’re nothing to him.
(He still rubs his arm where you touched him though, and it creates this warmth that swells from your chest, but then his hands ball into fists and his teeth clench and it feels like you’ve been dunked into ice-cold water, because you know he feels the same tingling that you did, feels the same pins and needles running down his arm with a mixture of discomfort and contentedness. You know he feels it too. You know he doesn’t want to)
Sleep and hunger evade you. It’s been days since you’ve gotten a proper night’s sleep, but every time you close your eyes you’re met with his wet, red ones, followed by the sight of him punishing himself for whatever reason and punching the bag over and over and his split knuckles and the blood and then you’re sitting up and rubbing your eyes. You’re exhausted, and you know that the only way you’re going to get any sleep is if you aren’t at the tower.
It’s late, nearing midnight, when the bus drops you off a block from your apartment. You’re walking down the familiar streets to the home you’ve been neglecting in favour of the tower. Except– there’s something about the entire scene that has you on edge.
The hair at the back of your neck is standing and your arm is covered in goose bumps as a chill runs down your spine. Something’s wrong. The streets are empty and there’s a heavy fog settling in, reducing your visibility. Your senses are alert and your heartbeat is picking up and your hand slowly inches it’s way towards the gun in your purse and–
It’s not there.
Your heart skips a beat as your hand searches frantically for the gun, but it comes up empty. You tighten your hold on your bag and pick up your pace and–
The first gunshot makes you jump. The second makes you run. You’re booking it towards your apartment, except there’s a car pulling up at the intersection you have to cross, blocking your path. You back away, slowly, heart feeling like it’s going to beat out of your chest, and then you’re spinning on your heel and running the other way. The headlights turn on, illuminating the path head. You can hear the wheels screech loudly, like nails on chalkboard, as the car turns towards you. It moves slowly, at half your pace, mocking you.
Every part of you feels like it’s on fire as the car picks up speed. You duck into an alley.
They’re on your tail, and you don’t know where you’re going anymore as you move from one alley to the next. The car follows you where it can, but you don’t look back. You can’t look back.
Stupid. You’re so stupid for losing your fucking gun. It’s like Tony losing his suit or Cap losing his shield, except you’re nowhere near as skilled as the two of them in hand-to-hand and you’re still a considerable distance from your apartment and your legs are on fire and your heart is pumping so fast it might fail and–
Your side burns in agony, pain erupting through your entire body as you stagger forward, hands touching the spot where the bullet pierced you. There’s blood. So much blood.
You swallow, and then you’re running again. You pull out your phone from the back pocket of jeans. It slips between your blood-coated fingers, and you fumble and stagger forward. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The car is right behind you and you can feel warm liquid trickling down your side. Frustrated tears burn your eyes and blur your vision and you can barely see who you’re calling as you fingers tap on the first name that comes up. You bring the phone to your ear as you run towards the end of the alley and–
A second car pulls up in front of you, blocking the exit to the alley.
You turn around, holding your phone with shaky hands and run the other way but the first car is there. You’re trapped.
Your back hits the cold, brick wall.
The ignition to both cars turn off.
Your vision swims from blood loss.
The blurry forms of six figures move towards you, guns pointed.
“Help–“ The phone slips from your hands and falls to the ground. You drop beside it, arm outstretched to reach for it, and your fingers just grips the edges and you’re almost there and–
Something hits the back of your head, hard. A strangled sound crawls up your throat and escapes your lips as your hands press down on your skull. Your eyes roll back and your vision darkens, the edges becoming blurrier and blurrier.
The last thing you see is Bucky’s name on the screen, then the cold ground touches your searing hot skin. There’s a numbness spreading through your entire body. It’s calming. Inviting. You’re so tired.
You close your eyes.