Saving Bucky (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

*Chapter 36 - Shouts, Straps, and Buckles*

"You owe her an apology, Buck!"

"And you owe me an explanation, Steve!"

The shouting floats up the stairs, muffled and dulled by the abandoned home's thin insulation. But you can still hear every word. As you lay in the big four-poster bed, still fully dressed in your evening gown, you find yourself curling into the sheets that smell just a little bit too much like candle smoke and aftershave.

"You told me you'd take her somewhere SAFE!" roars James as something goes flying, shattering on impact.

"I told you I'd keep her safe, pal," Steve counters, keeping his tone calm, but matching in volume. "And that's what I did!"

"You let her go into that party alone," James shouts. "Who knows if that bastard was even planning on letting her leave once he saw her?!"

"She wasn't alone," Steve says. "She had a team with her. I was there, Buck. Where were you?!"

For the first time in hours, the house falls silent.

"Where were you?" Steve asks again, more quietly this time. "When she needed you, where were you?"

You squeeze your eyes shut as a tear rolls down your cheek and a small headache sprouts in your temples. The voices downstairs have quieted. Fallen to soft, aching words and regretful whispers. You can't hear them anymore, but you don't care. All you really want is to get out of your damn dress. To scrub the dried blood off your hands.

Dragging yourself from your bed you wince, limping into the bathroom as your heels send jolts of pain up your thighs and through your back. You had tried to get them off, but still limited in mobility you couldn't bend down far enough to undo the buckles. You'll need to wait for Steve to help you.

So instead you focus on what you can fix. The blood beneath your nails. A sensation you haven't dealt with in a long time. Walking up to the white porcelain sink, you turn on the hot water. Thankfully this entire housing development had been abandoned by the contractor. So while the electricity might not be on, the water and sewage to the house still function. For how long, who knows? But who cares, as you stick your hands beneath the scalding hot water, allowing it to pour over your knuckles, leaving streaks of white-hot pain behind.

You scrub and scrub and scrub, growing more frantic as flashes of Palermo's body play through your mind. The way you had torn his throat open, digging the dull edge of the letter opener into the fat of his neck. How he had continue to laugh, even as he choked to death on his own blood. The same blood that sticks between your fingers and clots beneath your nails.

"Get off of me," you seethe through grit teeth, now using your nails to scrub into the skin. "Get off, get off, GET OFF!"

Suddenly a hand is on your shoulder and you jump, looking up in the mirror. Marco's face hovers behind you and you let out a small scream and turn, giving the man a hard push. But when you turn around, it's not Marco stumbling backwards. It's James. Still in his suit, but the gloves are nowhere to be seen.

Chest heaving, hands dripping wet and now covered in small scratches from your own scrubbing, you stare at him as he simply watches you for a moment, his gaze flitting from you, to the mirror, to your hands. Slowly, he steps forward, reaching around you to turn off the running water.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

You simply stand there, sweaty strands of hair clinging to your neck as water drips from your fingertips onto the skirts of your blue dress.

You want to be mad.

You want to be angry.

You want to scream at him and demand he leave because you both know that's what he's going to do anyway come the morning.