"I kneel into a dream where I am good and loved. I am loved. My hands have made some good mistakes. They can always make better ones." - Natalie Wee
Bucky has to spend six months locked up with a stranger.
His teammates went on an international pres...
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Bucky came back from therapy to find you waiting for him just inside the apartment, your hands clasped anxiously in front of you. He shut the door and gave you the tiniest of shaky smiles, and you immediately flung your arms around him, more of a tackle than a hug. "Hi," you whispered when you pulled back to look at him. "How are you feeling?"
He felt like he had been out in the snow for too long, the wind whipping around his face and making his ears ring until the world was quiet, muffled. The numbness was insulating, wrapping him tightly, somehow holding together all the parts of him that had been threatening to shatter.
"Tired," he said, and that was the truth, too. "But it was good. It— it went well."
You called it a "therapy hangover," and you were prepared. You nearly forced him to his bedroom, shoved the door open with a flourish. There were fresh sheets on his bed, extra pillows and blankets piled into some sort of cloudlike nest. He spied the corner of your blue throw blanket peeking out from under his normal comforter.
"You didn't sleep much last night," you said as you fidgeted with your sleeve. "Thought you might want to catch up a little." You would know; you had spent the night in his bed again. He would've slept better if either of you had dared to cross that center line, but you stayed apart all night, just listening to each other breathe. It was still a comfort to him, knowing that you meant it when you said you wouldn't leave him.
Bucky spent the next few hours wrapped in blankets and dead to the world while you stood guard, curled up with a book on the other side of the bed.
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Bucky felt much better, much more whole by the evening. After dinner, you washed your hands and dried them on the kitchen towel before turning to Bucky.
"I think we need to celebrate."
"What, celebrate me going to therapy?" He rinsed a plate and set it in the dishwasher.
"Don't be ridiculous," you said with a smug look in your eye that told him he was absolutely right. "It's a holiday."
"You're full of shit."
You huffed, rolled your eyes in that overly dramatic way. "I don't know why you don't trust me, Barnes."
But he did. It was strange, but he trusted you more than anyone— that much he knew for sure.
