(Short Story) Stucky

Ghost of a man I once new

It was odd, the feeling of his hard metal hand against mine at first. The way his long hair framed our faces when we kissed. Hiding it from sight. Or the way he held my hand. It wasn't loose, and careful like before. He held it like he meant it. Making sure I was there, and he was there. And that he wasn't drifting away, and I wasn't either. Our kisses changed too. At first, when I- when we were younger, before everything, they were softer. Timid. Almost scared. To be caught. To be seen. To feel more than we should. It never went beyond that. He'd always tell me it was practice for the dames. I never believed him. And now? They were angry, and not in emotion. They way they felt. Rough, harsh, hot against my mouth. As if to make a point. To assure me he was there and that I was his. And vice versa.

He likes to give me hickies, and leave his hand prints on my waist. To hold me. To remind him that I was still there. When we make love, his prosthetic hand bruises my hip. It's not that I don't enjoy it. That's far from the case. I just wonder how much they've done to him. How they've hurt him. My James.

When he screams and kicks me in his sleep is the strangest. I don't know what to do. So, I get away from the barrage of blows and coax him awake. While. It is getting better. It's just as traumatizing for him each time. And he cries in my arms as I coax him to rest. James never used to cry before me, and now? Only at night.

None of this bothers me. He's my Bucky, and I'm forever thankful that he's mine again. I just noted some things that changed. I will never take one of these things for granted. Sleepless nights or no. He will always be my jerk.