Redemption ||Bucky Barnes||

18. A Change in Routine

Winter has to be close, because lately there have been slight flurries making landfall in Washington. They don't make the roads bad, the snow melts and doesn't really freeze.

It's been about three weeks since Bucky and I have settled in our cottage. We've almost got a routine down through the week. It's almost like living in a dorm, really, having a roommate. Sure, we've got our quirks that get on the other's nerves, but overall we're okay.

Our days are the better than our nights. Bucky suffers more at night than I do thanks to his stubbornness to spend nights on the couch and watch over the cottage to make sure Hydra isn't breaking down our front door. When he sleeps, it's not for very long. At times, his dreams are so vivid that he speaks rather loudly in his sleep. He's caused me to wake up a few times during the night.

Sometimes, he's speaking in English, and the other times he speaks in a foreign language which I figure out is Russian after a while. His fluency in the language kind of frightens me, it makes his voice sound so harsh and cold. Like he's reverted back to his old Hydra self.

I don't fare much better in my sleep, as now memories are starting to come back. These aren't about the ambush, though, these are about my Hydra days. Me undercover, following orders through an earpiece, getting the order to kill. Exchanging gunfire with my enemies at the time, taking them out as though they're child's play.

Like Bucky's dreams, some of mine are too vivid that they scare me awake.

This morning, I'm suffering from another nightmare. I can feel my eyelids resist the urge to open. Every part of me is refusing to move, like they want to remain in the bed the entire day. I could be okay with that, provided nightmares don't bother me.

The bed moves, but not because of me. This gives my eyes reason enough to open, and I can't help but smile just a little bit. After three weeks of putting himself on the couch, Bucky caved and decided to get in the bed. He's facing me, his face in a calm sleep. He's so peaceful, like an entirely different person. His dark bangs are over his eyes, his arms under the pillow he's buried himself in.

I try not to stare at his shirtless form like a creeper.

My eyes goes from his face to his metal arm, more specifically the scratched red star. My head begins to pound as part of a memory comes back to me: The Winter Soldier getting defensive at my approach and attacking me, his way of making me keep my distance. Me not feeling frightened by his tactic, but more intrigued.

Curiosity failed to kill me when in his presence, and it has yet to kill me off.

His mouth is moving, and I barely hear unrecognizable words under his breath. I sigh quietly. Russian again. His muscles tense, I can see him visibly tighten up. I debate on whether or not to poke the sleeping bear.

I don't poke him, but rather massage his scalp. I don't know why the idea comes to me, it just does. I gasp loudly when the metal hand grabs my wrist, and Bucky snaps awake and sits up in the bed. Harsh pressure makes my wrist begin to throb.

Bucky looks at me sternly once before taking in my expression. He drops my wrist the moment he sees what he's done. I cradle my wrist against my chest, the throbbing is already beginning to fade.

"I-I'm sorry," he sputters.

"It's fine," I tell him. "Really."

"No, it's not. Let me see."

"Bucky, you're not a doctor."

"I just want to see. Please?" His question is practically permission, he tugs my hand away from my chest to fondle it gently between his hands. He gently probes the sore areas, I only wince in pain. He observes my reactions. "It'll be fine," he mutters. "Worst comes to worst, you get some bruising. I'm really sorry, Dani."