Marvel One-shots (What if?")

Midnight Talks - Steve x Reader x Bucky

Credits to: rogerbarnesss

This amazing human being helped me plan out this fic, so without her, it wouldn't have been possible.

Summary:

When Y/N's room is facing reconstruction ( or even destruction ), she bunks with her playmates, her old comrades, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. This night, she's plagued by cruel evocations which she swore she'd end somehow. Well, Good thing she's got friends with her. They're just friends, right?

WORD COUNT: 8666

Narrator's POV, Ig ( I don't how this shit works )

A cold wind whipped your face, blustering through the cracked glass window which seemed adamant in standing still and strong, though broken for as long as time could tell. The windowsill collected dust over the years it remained unopened, but today was a day which stood prominent and unwavering in its utter dismay. Reflex tears sprung from your eyes when the wind's attempt to dry them out was approaching success, but this simple excuse was not about to amount for what you had to face, and why you couldn't help the emotions. You'd promised yourself you'd stay strong, but maybe that was just another thing you'd be breaking today.

The waiting room, once so jovial and filled with the twittering memories of adoration, now exuded a dead silence which you couldn't bear witness to. All because of your arrival. If you happened to leave at this very moment, you'd leave the regret, the ache in your heart, the horror betrothed to an emptiness you'd find yourself trapped in, unable to break out with every futile attempt dying out like the voice in your head. You'd rid this room of all the gloominess you'd inflicted upon it, with no intention to. You stared at the closed door, the smooth oak begging to be touched. No matter what, you'd wait this one out. Patience had never been your long suit, but if you wished to be able to collect even a fragment of your heart which would ineluctably be shattered after a few moments, you'd have to prepare yourself, both physically and mentally. Shutting out your feelings was never a problem, and neither was moving on. But when the only thing from your past which brought you joy weasels its way into the future in which you reside, all your principles go to hell.

The clock ticked laboriously, alerting you that it had been over a quarter of an hour since you were unmoving on the steel bench. Your fingers went pale from the pressure you gripped the edge of your seat with. Blood dripped from your fingertips, rolling down to your palm, and you welcomed the pain, certain that this was a distraction which would occupy you for at least a short while.

A bundle of tissue rolls caught your eyes, and the first movement you made after quite a while of being stationary was grabbing them. Once white, now stained with blood, piling up at the bottom of an unfilled bin. You stared at your hands to examine the cuts, when they started shaking. You stuffed them in your pockets before the slightest tremor could set off a chain reaction of bombs erupting in you, and you'd lose control once again. You were to blame. You put them there.

Light spilled out as the creaking of a door issued into your surroundings, a pale blue hue calming your apprehension. You steeled yourself and used all your strength to push yourself up off the bench, and trudged forward, each step painfully slow. He'd probably hear everything, but to passerby's, you were as silent as his room was. His bed was large, enough to give him room to toss and turn in nights, as you knew he so often did when enslaved in a world constructed by his worst fears and preceding torment, each shackle growing in weight as his burdens threatened to break his back. His blanket lay forgotten on the exquisitely veined marble floor. The smell of fresh coffee lingered in the air, and sure enough, stationed on the polished bedside table was a pot of coffee with a steam coated inside the glass, and a simple book.