I Will Wait For You [ stucky ]

six

1926 words ✓

xxx

bucky

xxx

In all the hours spent reading about myself in a museum, nothing has helped me remember as much as tonight's storm has.

With every roll of thunder, a familiar voice calls to me, echoing and encompassing me from every corner of my dark and empty apartment. Every flash of lightning is followed by a flash of a smile from my mother, father, sisters, and most often, Steve. Steve, who smells of vanilla and kindness, and refuses to give up on searching for me. Steve, who apparently is my soulmate because of some cruel trick of the universe. Steve, who somehow has more of a presence in my head just from his existence than any HYDRA agent ever did by use of machine.

It's been a long week, and unfortunately tonight isn't the only night Steve's been in my head. It's like he knows I'm listening, the way he talks out loud as if I'm there. He's never admitted he knows about the mics, but I've got a growing suspicion he does. Why else would he spend so much time tormenting me?

Fuck him. Fuck him and his fucking blue eyes and his fucking nerve to say all those things, as if he knew I could hear him. Fuck him and his fucking smile and that fucking Kitty Kallen song that played the first time I saw-

Wait.

Sitting up in bed, my eyes grow wide as I run my right hand through my hair.

That song.

There's another flash of lightning and I see it all again. Steve's apartment. Nick Fury. Moonlight and the cityscape. Blue eyes. Home.

xxx

Brooklyn, New York

1934

"You think it'll stop raining soon?" Steve asks, forehead pressed against the window. Thunder booms and the room lights up for a moment, startling him away from the glass.

"Nope," I reply, chuckling from my spot on the couch.

He groans, walking over to the couch before plopping down on the other end, setting his feet in my lap. "I'm bored. I wanna go fishing."

Rolling my eyes, I flip the page of my book and continue reading. This seems to bother Steve because he groans again, letting his head rest against the arm of the couch. After a moment he kicks at my torso, gentle as a kitten but annoying all the same. Wordlessly, I grab his ankle to still his legs, but to my surprise the rest of his body does the same, and it's suddenly very quiet. I expect him to say something, to try and kick me again, but nothing happens. Considering I've been trying to read for the past hour, his silence should be a godsend, but all it does is make it harder to concentrate.

Sorry, Bilbo, but Steve's caught my attention now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see he's moved his head slightly, just enough to watch me without being obvious. Unfortunately for him, there is very little he can do that escapes my notice. He's still watching me, but he hasn't said anything. Hasn't moved. The air hangs heavy with tension, and nothing has even happened. My eyes are still on the book, too afraid to meet Steve's gaze. My hand is still wrapped around his ankle, both feet in my lap. My grip isn't tight at all, he could pull away if he tried. He should pull away, because my hand is still on him and it's been so long, and this isn't normal, and why isn't he moving?