Trying Your Luck - Bucky BarnesxOC

Part 39: Some Unholy War

Author's Note: Smut - make up sex

This should be easy.

In theory.

Everything is easy in theory. Brain surgery, driving a race car without crashing it, flipping an egg over without breaking the yolk.

Bucky sighs.

"Shit."

All he has to do is drag his sorry ass downstairs, walk back to the house, and apologize.

But he can't do it. Every time he plays the scenario out in his head, it gets worse and worse. She slams the door in his face, she slams the door on him. She tells him to fuck off and never speak to her again. She leaves for New York in the middle of the night with Ace and never picks up his calls or answers his texts ever again.

Fuck. Why does his brain do this?

Now he's panicking.

Bucky finds a bottle of wine that they didn't drink during Shannon's birthday celebration and twists the cap off, draining the entire thing in approximately five minutes. It doesn't do anything, but the desperate burn in his throat makes him feel something. He lies on his back and runs through every possible nightmarish outcome until the world goes black.

"Bucky?"

Shannon's voice sounds like it's underwater. He hears birds chirping.

"Bucky."

Her voice is louder, closer this time. He jolts upward and his eyes pop open. Bucky gasps and looks around frantically. He doesn't remember falling asleep. She's standing at the very edge of the loft in her pale pink nightgown and a robe to match. It billows behind her in the soft breeze. Her hair cascades down her shoulders in a tangled mess. She hasn't slept, he can tell from the bags underneath her eyes. The morning light makes her look angelic.

Pissed off, but angelic nonetheless.

"Shannon?"

Exhaustion ties up his vocal cords and her name comes out as a soft rasp.

For some stupid, foolish reason, he expects her to glide across the floor and wrap her arms around him and forgive him instantly. Even at 106, he's still an idiot. The desire is met with a cold emptiness from Shannon as he watches her stare at him. Her arms are relaxed at her side. She's studying him, trying to make sure that he's safe. Stable. The distrust hurts, but it's fair. There's no indication of warmth in her face.

He really messed up last night.

"Yeah. It's me."

Try to keep the conversation going. That's all he has to do. He won't survive an ice-cold ride to the airport, followed by a plane ride where they sit in silence as the words they want to say live and die with each breath they take. This woman has a piece of his heart, and if he loses her, he'll never get it back. He can feel himself launching into another panic attack. He remembers Dr. Raynor's advice this time and touches the blanket, feeling the fabric ball up in his fist.

Try to keep the conversation going, he reminds himself. She hasn't shut him out yet.

"How long was I out?"

"Sam said it was best to give you some time to cool off," she replies, her tone is cool. Guarded. "It's 7am. Don't worry, I haven't been here long."

He sits up and pulls his knees into his chest. Bucky puts his head in his hands. Exhaustion pumps through every muscle and nerve in his body. He's never been good with apologies. He supposes that's the whole point of the list, to make him more comfortable with this sort of thing.