The Soldier's Return (A Bucky Barnes Post-Civil War Fanfiction)

14

It's been a few hours since graduation, and we took one of T'Challa's high-speed jets back to Wakanda. I must admit, this place to starting to feel like home to me. Bucky and I are curled up on the couch in front of the tv, and I can't help but feel like I'd be content to stay in his arms for the rest of my life. I lay with my head on his lap, and his metal hand is playing with my hair. I look up at him, smiling as I take in every inch of his appearance. His scruff, his long hair, his bright blue eyes.

He's beautiful. He's literally perfection, yet he hates himself.

"You're staring at me," he grins, looking away from whatever tv show is on in order to peer at me.

"I can't help it," I shrug.

"Why's that?" he asks with a small smile.

"You're the most handsome man I've ever seen," I say, barely feeling any embarrassment, "and you don't even know it."

"I can't see myself like that after I've killed all those people," he sighs. "And the scars where my arm attaches...You've seen them. You know they're ugly."

"No, they aren't," I tell him seriously, looking straight up into his eyes. "For one, they're part of you. That makes it physically impossible for them to be ugly. Second, don't be ashamed of them. It just shows that you survived HYDRA."

"But if I shouldn't be ashamed of my scars, why are you ashamed of yours?"

I feel all the blood drain from my face, going as white as a sheet within seconds.

"W-What?" I stutter, hoping I heard him wrong. I sit up stiffly, my eyes wide.

"Claire, you don't think I know?" he sighs.

He pulls a tissue out the box on the end table, and he carefully takes my arm. He begins lightly rubbing away the makeup I so carefully applied there, revealing the countless scars as he goes. I wince, closing my eyes. I don't want to see his reaction.

"How did you find out?" I finally ask in a whisper, opening my eyes but training them on the floor.

"Sweetheart, we spend almost every night together. We cuddle for a few hours most days, and I'm with you all the time. Makeup wears off," he says, lovingly stroking my cheek. "I noticed a few weeks ago, but I didn't want to say anything until you did. But I have to know. Claire, did you do this to yourself? Because if you did, that's okay. I'll help you. But you need to tell me."

I shake my head, mentally melting at how sweet he is.

"I didn't do it," I say. "I told you how my foster family abused me, and, well-"

"They did this?" he growls, anger flaring up in his eyes. "Where else did they hurt you? I know about the scars on your neck and arms, but is there anywhere else I should know about?"

"My legs," I mumble. "Uh, my stomach and back, too."

He stands up instantly, his jaw clenched. He starts heading out of the room until I stop him.

"Where are you going?" I ask worriedly.

"To find those bastards and kill them," he says in completely seriousness. "Nobody hurts my girl and lives."

I freeze as he says that.

My girl.

He called me his girl. He uses my distractedness as an opportunity to slip away, and I have to work quick to catch up to him. I grab his hand, making him stop and look back at me.