pov- imagines

SILENCE IN COLORS- B. BARNES

pairings: bucky barnes x reader
warnings: angst, a fight, reader gets stabbed
about: a request that has been in my inbox for a long time (i'm so sorry) Could i request A fic where bucky or steve is giving civilian reader silent treatment?angst with a nice ending?

your anger is azure.

it drowns with the sea of its depth, cold with your silence and the tears that you can't help. it tinges your nails with a lack of oxygen, air stubbornly stuck in your lungs until it hurts yet feels better than the turmoil in your mind.

your anger drowns, cold in its waters and unforgivable in its waves. it pulls you down until you find a solution, a way to swim back up to the sun, to the yellow.

there seems to be no surface in sight beneath your sea, and you can feel the air lacking in your lungs, the blue tinting your fingernails, the verglas creeping into your bones. you don't think you've ever been this far down—deep enough for the amber to ebb away completely, erase the warmth that'll chase away the numbness of your fingers.

you reach for it anyway, sniffing away bubbles of tears that streak down your face after you look away from cold, tangled fingers.

your other hand reaches up to wipe away the drops, leaving behind salt that burns your skin. you prefer the ice of it.

you squeeze bucky's fingers lightly, the pad of your thumb running over his nails repeatedly. the sterility of the room you're in makes your anxiety worse, technology that you shouldn't even be able to see with your status—or lack of one—reminding you that even though you are a nobody, the man you love is not. your eyes catch on the worst of the many cuts on his face, and you run a nail right beneath it, careful not to touch it even if it's certainly not the worst he has arrived with. his cheek twitches and after a second of your gentle touch on his cheekbones, he leans into the familiarity of your skin.

a frustrated tear falls on your outstretched arm, making you retract your it, shaking your head so as to clear it. you bend down to get your bag, pulling out a box of band-aids you'd started carrying around for your boyfriend. the goofy designs you'd picked out with a smile only strain your lips as you try to keep your composure, shaky fingers tearing away the little papers and shoving them back in your bag before reaching over to bucky to gently press it to his wound. it'll heal by tomorrow, and the action is stupid when your boyfriend lays on a cot with a bullet wound, but it makes you feel useful and allows the layer of frost obscuring your clarity to begin to melt away with the heat of bucky's skin under the pads of your fingers.

you pat his cheek carefully before you let your anger bleed into your fear.

you shouldn't be doing this. you shouldn't be sitting next to your boyfriend in a chair that probably costs more than your entire rent in the avengers tower. you shouldn't be waiting for your boyfriend to wake up after he got shot and be sticking band-aids on the most minor cuts because it makes it easier for you.

you shouldn't be, but you do. because you love him with everything you have and you know he loves you too, so you can't understand why he can't love himself enough to take care of himself. you know his job is dangerous, but you cannot keep meeting an unconscious or bleeding bucky in the infirmary because he didn't follow instructions or came out guns blazing or was, simply put, absolutely fucking reckless.

you love him, but you cannot keep crying and running out of your apartment with shoes half on because you're afraid the love of your life might be dead.

"hey," a rough voice greets, a lazy smile tangled in the word. your hand gets squeezed lightly. "what a nice view to wake up to after getting shot," bucky laughs, quieting after a second once it pulls at his wounds. your deafening silence makes him cock his head at you. "how're ya doin', doll?"