Saving Bucky (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

*Chapter 55 - One More Try*

James' gaze is darkened by the storm brewing in the darkest parts of his mind as the metal hand that keeps your cheek cradled in its palm slips away.

Before you can protest, cold fingers change direction and ghost down your cheek over your lips. His eyes follow the languid movements of his titanium fingers as they hover over your skin, as if afraid to disturb the glass-top waters of your skin. But your eyes watch him, and the slight frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

James sucks in a breath as metallic fingertips drift from the softest, fullest part of your lips to the high point of your left cheek over your scar. A shiver runs down your spine as he traces over that thin little line, the cold of his touch against the warmth of your skin causing your breath to catch in a small gasp. At the sound of it, James' gaze flits to yours and he tenses.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, frowning as he pulls his hand away.

But you catch his metal wrist, holding it gently between the two of you. You turn it over and run your fingers down his arm and across his palm. The subtle whirring of metal plates adjusting to your touch sends vibrations all the way into your shoulder.

"No," you whisper, cradling his hand in yours. "It...it's good, James."

"Good?" he says darkly, pulling away completely and standing stiffly from the sofa. He takes a step back and stops, looking down at the metal hand he's curled into a first. His lip curled in contempt. "Nothing about it is good," he snarls.

Your heart sinks at the self-hatred so clear upon his lips, and a muted buzzing sprouts at the base of your skull - far back and away. But you can do nothing to stop the growing headache. Neither can you stop him as he retreats into the shadows of the room, seeking the darkest, furthest corner by the door. You fight your urge to rise and follow him – your interrogator's instincts kicking in instead. If he was an informant, you'd say he's withdrawing out of fear. Chasing after him will only cause him to flee further and faster. And you know his anger is misdirected - James is a wounded wolf, bearing its teeth in a bid to frighten off its pursuer as it flees.

But you aren't hunting him. You need him to come to you on his own. Without the fear.

So you stay seated, allowing him to put the space he needs between the two of you. However you refuse to drop your gaze as you stare into the dark, not quite able to make out his eyes.

"How do you know?" you ask quietly. You receive a condescending scoff from the dark in answer, and let out a sigh when James doesn't engage further. "James," you implore. "How do you know?" Again, you're met with silence. "You've never had a chance to try, you know," you say tentatively, squinting into the shadows, trying to see his eyes clearly. But it's too dark in the corner, so you focus on the conversation.

"Once you had it," you say cautiously, measuring his every response to each word. "You were told how to use it. Instructed. Ordered. But...you've never gotten to decide how you want to use it." James lets out a low growl of impatience, low in his chest. But you ignore it, keeping focused on him as he presses himself further into the dark. "You could do good things with it, James," you say. "You just...haven't had the chance yet."

You hold your breath, praying for a response. Pleading silently with him from across the room. But the quiet grows even heavier and a sense of dread unfurls low in your stomach. This approach isn't working - you aren't getting through. And he's quiet. Too quiet. When James goes quiet, James gets dark. And when James gets dark, the Soldier isn't far behind. You need to get him talking again.

"James," you whisper, reaching out a hand for him from your sitting on the couch. "Come here."

But he doesn't move. He stays rooted against the wall – still as stone. Your cheeks flush and your eyes widen as you realize that James is losing himself to his thoughts.