The Twin Flame: Grumpy x Sunshine

Is It Over Now?

"Was it over then? And is it over now?"

"Hey, Bucky? Why don't you go in? One of us should be there when she wakes up."

Bucky nods, giving Sam a slight smile of gratitude, "Thanks."

Bucky can't really bring himself to care about anything else. His palms itch with the need to be with you.

That's his priority, not listening to some lawyer strategize about how to get General Ross off your back.

His place isn't out there. His place is beside you. In the small, hospital room. In the uncomfortable, hard plastic chairs at your bedside.

His place is holding your hand, waiting for the moment that you can hold his back.

His place is stroking the hair out of your battered face, whispering sweet nothings into your ear - even if he's not sure that you can hear him.

That's his place - and there's no where else he would rather be.

His eyes never leave you from the moment he walks into your hospital room. He settles into the plastic chair and prepares himself to stay there for as long as it takes, forever if he has to.

His eyes trail your face. Down to the ever growing collection of scars, wounds, and injuries. Some fresh. Some from long ago. Each a tale of the hero you were forced to be. He can't help but wonder: would you have chosen it? Was there any part of you that wanted to be a hero?

There's a romantic notion of being a hero that is so intrinsically you. Leaving the world a better place. Saving countless lives. Protecting people that couldn't protect themselves. The selfless act of putting your life on the line so others didn't have to. He can't picture you ever turning a blind eye, not when people needed you.

On the other hand, he can't picture you ever willingly signing up for this. For the side of heroism that people didn't see. Hurting others, even people who wouldn't hesitate to hurt you. Conflicts that chip away at morality. Losing your sense of self. Looking in the mirror and watching yourself turn into a person you don't recognize. It happened to the best of them.

You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain - wasn't that the saying?

He's not even sure why he's asking himself this. They all knew you weren't given the choice.

His eyes keep trailing down, bringing his focus back to your collection of hurt.

Your hands lie flat against the thin sheets of your hospital bed. The one furthest from him with an IV sticking out of it. His hand reaches for yours. His fingers trail over your hand. It was so familiar to him, just like coming home. His fingers run over your palm, only to feel the new roughness from even more cuts and scrapes you collected tonight.

Your hand is still cold. His own hand covers it, lending the warmth of his super soldier body heat in hopes of bringing you an ounce of comfort. He foolishly wishes that there was a way to lend you his rapid healing, his strength. He'd take your place in a heartbeat. He hopes you know that.

His eyes keep raking over you. The long, jagged scar up your wrist. It still sends a cold shiver up his spine. His gaze trails up, toward the newly restitched graze wound that he tended to in Riga.

There's a thin welt right above it. Another one across your clavicle. Like someone grabbed a piece of piping and was merciless.

The bruise on your cheekbone, the one you wore the night of your reunion and a story Bucky had not yet heard, is now almost imperceptible.