verb.
To come or go back to a place or person.
noun.
The firing of a weapon to counter a shooter's shot.
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They recoiled from their pasts, and in doing so found each other.
But the universe isn't kind enough to let a moment of peace last.
It took se...
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I love you, Bucky Barnes.
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A slow, shuddering inhale crackled through his lungs, reminding muscles and cartilage that had sat dormant for too long how to move. How to flex and flow with the rhythm of a living body. How to settle into the instinctive motions that had been frozen in place for so long. A second breath came, and it didn't rake through him quite as forcefully. If he remembered nothing else, he remembered how to breathe.
There was no ache, no burn. None of the discomfort some hazy part of his mind had expected. His disjointed, uncomprehending mind that slowly reached out to his senses, lazily touching at something close to awareness. Every sensation seemed to be softly blurred, easing him back into consciousness with a gentle hand, when he had almost been expecting to be dragged towards it by the throat. The low, warm light permeating his eyelids was unfamiliar, unexpected, yet not unwelcome. Coaxing him from a cold, silent darkness that might have been so easy to sink back into, had the world beyond it not felt so warm. There was no fluorescent glare, no blinding beams searing his retinas even through closed eyes. even the sounds that his ears slowly began to register seemed distant, muted.
An intermittent chirp, a low hum of machinery, somehow familiar yet not. No voices, no harsh shouts, no demands, no forceful hands dragging him into place, holding him down.
Strange, that his weary mind so readily anticipated those sensations. Strange that his body was almost braced for discomfort, the slow flexing of his fingers almost instinctively rolling into a defensive fist before they hesitated. The pressure of his fingertips touching to his right palm was tangible, familiar, but his left...
More consciously, he envisioned that contraction of his fingers, waiting for the press of digits against sensors to travel up to his shoulder, to prickle along nerve endings in a vague mockery of sensation... But it didn't come.
Of course it didn't come.
A shaking exhale left him as that realisation settled through the haze that still clung to the edges of his consciousness, giving way to a clenching moment of panic that closed around his heart like a steely hand. Images flooded behind his eyelids, a confusing reel of sensations that slammed into him each more forcefully than the last; snow, blood, falling, pain- blinding pain, bone and muscle and flesh and steel tearing from his body in a simultaneous rush of agony-
A gentle pressure over his racing heart stilled those images. Something warm, something soothing chasing away that moment of torment with an accompanying touch to his hair. Something that told him that he was safe - it wasn't happening again. It allowed his breaths to steady, loosening the tightness in his chest as a light brush of warm skin touched to his forehead, accompanied by a voice that wrapped around him like an embrace. A voice that brought to mind images of soft, grey eyes. Tender smiles. Sunlight on a wooden floor, plants and books. Cinnamon and coffee grounds and gentle laughter. Music and the rumble of a motorcycle engine and tulip stems arranged beneath his hands. A voice that coaxed his heavy eyes to open, blinking in the low light as they struggled to focus, now that he knew there was something worth looking for.
"Good morning, Golubyye Glaza."
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