We'll Meet Again...I Know When || Bucky Barnes x Reader

29 || The Woes of Past, Present, and Future

The forest is quiet, making for what should be the perfect place to let thoughts wander without limit or distraction. These thoughts - no matter how dull - should only stray to the sound of a bird flapping its wings above or the distant rumbling of a car - Oh, and there's also soft crunching beneath every tig-covered footstep. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Loud to his ears, yet still too silent for anyone else to hear.

There's voices now - both mumbled, although somehow he can still make out the joy behind whatever words are being spoken. A door closes when the voices stop. Footsteps, which are much louder than his own seeing as they make no attempt to hide, skip over gravel, stopping only temporarily at the side of the rumbling car - its door is opened then closed - before moving around to the opposite side. One of the voices from before is humming a happy little tune that a side of him, buried deep, deep down, is tempted to sing along with.

Why is he here? He shouldn't be here. He needs to be here, but he also shouldn't. He wants to leave for some reason possibly relating to that same side of him that wanted to sing, although it doesn't really want to sing now. Currently, it's aching - crying maybe - and filling his heart with a foreign feeling he doesn't quite remember, yet has felt someplace before; he just wouldn't know where.

He feels truly sick - sick right down to his bones. He's never felt sick before or has he? If so, it's definitely been awhile. He feels sick pulling the trigger and he feels sick walking across the beautiful green lawn that has been religiously watered out front of a very fitting mansion. His own boots soon click across the same gravel driveway, approaching the rumbling car that speaks alone now, no longer accompanied by that happy little tune from before.

His hands are shaking now - no longer steady as he's always known them to be. There's an extra wetness to his eyes, too much for them to handle which results in them overflowing as he kneels down and hesitates to reach out.

The person who that sweet, joyful voice belonged to no longer makes a sound - not in words nor breath. She instead lies motionlessly, slumped with her back against the car and head hung forward limply. He has to carefully move her long brown hair aside to actually see her face, but when he does, it just makes this whole nightmare a million times worse.

Bucky could throw up at the sight of you sitting there, (e/c) eyes half lidded in a dull stare as thick blood drips down the front of your face in more rivers than one. The sight takes him by surprise, causing him to rip his hand away from your hair as he almost tumbles backwards in horror. A gurgled sound leaves his lips - something between a cry of fright and moan of heartbreak. It echoes even when he shoots up straight, sucking a deep breath into his lungs which suddenly feel like they haven't had air in ages.

Bucky heaves, his eyes quick to scan his surroundings to ensure he's still right where he had gone to sleep last night, lying on the floor of his apartment with a thin blanket and the TV on low, its screen giving light to the otherwise dark room.

He runs his hands through his hair then drag them over his face where they remain as he sobs into them. Being safe in his apartment gives him no comfort. Existing forty-nine years after that awful incident makes him feel no better. His anxiety makes the walls close in, suffocating him against his own thoughts and nightmares which apparently take turns torturing him day in and day out.

For a second, he actually glances around the floor for his phone, his mind jumping to the instant idea of calling you. If he does, regardless of the hour, you'll more than likely answer - that be it groggy since he would be waking you up at an ungodly hour, but you'd answer nevertheless. Knowing you, you'd question if he's okay, however you wouldn't dare go any further into the matter unless he's willing. You'd spare him the horror of having to discuss his nightmare and probably even be kind enough to avoid bringing up any mention of your last conversation...but he quickly gets rid of that thought; he refuses to call you.