Found ⭑ A Bucky Barnes Love Story

33 - Secrets

That night, Bucky's sleep was broken and to say the least, uncomfortable. He'd chosen the small lounge out of selflessness for Hazel, but he was sure his body wouldn't forgive him for the unfitting decision. He was a muscular, 6'2" guy, and the leather couch barely spanned a metre and a half. His legs hung off the end of the lounge, calves hanging in mid-air, and his neck resting awkwardly against the arm of the couch, the position pulling on his shoulder-length brown locks and amplifying the discomfort he'd already had more than enough of. Both toned arms lay folded across his broad chest, which rose and fell with each laboured breath.

He propped one leg rigidly up against the back of the couch, bending it slightly as he squeezed his eyes shut, a headache brewing viciously in the back of his skull. Apart from the obvious disproportionality of the situation, his mind was running way too quickly to allow sleep to consume him.

He scrunched up his nose and rolled onto his stomach slowly, groaning slightly as his aching muscles were put into use once again. The thought of sleep clouded his mind, the hypothetical sweet relief of slumber provoking substantial irritation as he failed to get comfortable. He sighed as he now rested on his side, one hand hanging over the edge of the couch and the other under his head.

As his icy blue eyes began to adjust to the dark room, he took in various shapes that were situated around him. A king-sized bed lay in the centre of the spacious room, its sides grand and elevated, holding Hazel's sleeping figure about a metre from the carpet-adorned floor.

To the left of the bed stood a sleek dresser made from fine rosewood, a slim glass vase resting atop and holding a luscious rose, a colour which Bucky couldn't make out in the dark, but he knew it was beyond magnificent.

He exhaled deeply and raised his metal arm swiftly, bringing his hand in front of his face. As he moved his fingers and rotated his palm, he could hear the mechanism emitting a soft whirring sound. He squeezed his hand into a fist and then waited a few moments for the whirring to slow before stretching his fingers out again. His breath hitched as a gear stalled, sending a cramp up his wrist.

"Yeah, okay okay," he bared his teeth sightly and winced, "I won't do that again." As he relaxed his hand and allowed it to fall to his chest, he tilted his head and peered up at the small, sleeping figure, his expression suddenly changing as a vicious surge of emotions hit him all at once.

He'd never meant to hurt her.

His days as the Winter Soldier haunted him tremendously, the cries of his victims echoing mercilessly through his mind.

They never seemed to stop.

But nothing would ever compare to the guilt he felt regarding the murder of Gabrielle Whitman.

To him, his days as the Winter Soldier merely felt like he was trapped in a dream, the screams and tears of innocent people bouncing off of the hostile monster with no effect whatsoever. But her cry was different.

It broke through a part of him.

*6 years ago*

"Please," she sobbed, one hand extended out in front of her body, elbow partially bent and fingers quivering uncontrollably over a large, white sticker which read 'Gabrielle Whitman'.

"I have a daughter," she glued her eyes to the floor as tears began to slip down her cheeks, "we...we only have each other...you...don't understand," she winced and shuddered as he placed a heavy foot in her direction.

"Don't you get it?!" She screamed, forming a first with her extended hand, knuckles turning white as her nails dug into her palm, "do...do you have a conscience?! She's 15! She's...she's still a baby!" The woman hung her head and sobbed, mouth falling open.