Steve Rogers And Bucky Barnes Images

Grumpy(4)

Warnings - mentions of rape, talks of trauma, military things, mostly sad talk, little bit of angst little bit of fluff, a mix of both

Mostly long chapter lol

Bucky sits up in a hurry when he feels the warmth of the sunlight beaming in. The couch beneath him was completely broken, wood panels stabbing into his back and cold from the still nonworking breaker catching his arm and feet as he looks around the safe house.

Not a single movement. He peers down the hallway to make sure the door to the bedroom is still open, sighing in relief when he's able to hear your gentle heartbeat. Your calm breathing reaches his ears, and he settles back on the cushion beneath him, arm behind his head to stare up at the ceiling and just listen.

It took him hours to even sit on the couch after leaving your room. There was no point in trying to get work done. His mind was scattered all over the place, mostly focused on you and if he should sit in your room. After a few minutes of contemplating, he found himself in the corner, watching as you rest completely safe.

Bucky fought through the hell of his mind to leave after an hour, finally sitting down and settling for listening to you. It calmed him enough to fall asleep, and now that he's awake, he feels more energized than when he'd laid down.

Only a few more minutes of listening goes by before he hears the few clicks of the lights as they shift back on. The computer beeps in recognition, and he sits up to head to the kitchen, sitting in his usual spot and logging on. Blank screen, filled mind, and hungry stomach.

You haven't eaten anything in the past forty-eight hours, barely even got sleep in that time. And yet, he can't find a single thing for you to eat. It's only six. Bucky figures you'll be sleeping for another couple of hours, at least to wear down the shock and let exhaustion take over.

There's nothing close by, especially by walk, and with the hundred dollars cash hidden in the cabinet always stocked by Fury, there's nothing other than ordering to the house. Bucky doesn't necessarily trust the surrounding area. There's woods all around besides the drive way, and the jet takes up every ounce of space.

But you can't starve. The day before gave enough information for him to know he'd rather see you fighting to stay awake from exhaustion than the dissociative episode he'd brought you out of twice. The blood from his hands hadn't come out yet, and he finally feels the tension in his shoulders build up more the longer he tries to figure out what the hell he was going to do.

Moving to the bedroom, he stays along the wall to enter the bathroom. It's the same as when he came in the night before. Bare, blood ringed around the drain, and an emptiness he's slowly been getting used to as he finally closes the door silently and leans against the equally as shitty counter as in the kitchen.

He can't seem to clear his mind. His head is full of every event in the past twenty four hours, ears catching onto your sigh as you shift in the bed on the other side of the door. The mirror is dirty and barely even reflectable, too dim of lighting taking in the blood on his hands, staining the counter even more as it starts to flake off.

Bucky hasn't felt so unhinged like this before. Sure, he's felt annoyed and beyond pissed, but he's itching to go back to that base and kill every person there who hurt you. Go through the entire scale of Hydra and make them pay for the pain they'd put you through.

Bucky hasn't felt a bloodlust like this in so long, and he leans over the sink more to scrunch his eyes. He can't get the image of you slumped on the floor, mind still in anyone's worst fear. His shoulder aches, and he doesn't even have to reach over to know the scar is starting to form above his skin from your knife.