➳ Oh, Well Imagine Marvel➳ FINISHED

•Close To The Enemy~Bucky•

This is for all of the Bucky girls out there. It's gonna make your feelings hurt but it gets better.

The reader controls Emotions.

You were yelling and you knew it was hurting him, that you were hurting him but you just couldn't stop. You were erupting from the inside, words spewing out like molten lava and smoke, ready to burn Bucky at any moment. He had known, and you had trusted him. How could you have done this, gotten so utterly close to the enemy and not even suspect him? You were so pissed and so sad at the same time, angry tears flooding your vision against your will. There was no way that he could be the good guy. Your parents were good, they never so much as looked at someone the wrong way. So why was he here in front of you with all this innocent blood on his hands while they were buried, cold and rotten in the dirt?
You needed to stop, you were hurting him. It didn't matter what he had done to them; to you. You could feel his heart tearing, you already knew he blamed himself for it all. You knew he hated himself, his metal extension that he tried so hard to categorize as 'not Bucky'. All the work you had done, all the caring smiles and hugs and open arms, all the soft words and the tear-stained shoulders were wearing off because if he lost you, what would there be in this world for him? He couldn't bare to imagine a world where you hated him and he was responsible for your pain. You could feel it all, resounding in your skull like a bullet bouncing off sheets of metal. It didn't matter how bad he had screwed you up, you couldn't stand to break him again.
The rage that had built up drained from every opening, it left you sad and empty and cold, like a kettle being taken off the stove before boiling. And you regretted it all because when your eyes cleared you were looking right at Bucky, and a brand new wave of self-loathing hit you like a bag of bricks.
Your precious soldier, the man you loved and trusted and cared about more than anything.
Your parent's killer, the shadow you hunted for years, the demon you resented with every square inch of your soul.
One and the same.
You wanted to punch him, to stab him and take away everything you knew he loved because you were still bitter and craved revenge. You needed to feel the superiority he must have felt when he stood over your parents crumpled bodies and watch the life drain out of his eyes the way they had yours when you found them.
You wanted to hug him and let him cry into your shoulder and hold him so tight he would never have another doubt about his worth ever again. You needed to make him feel loved and secure and human and you needed to wipe away those pained tears sliding down his cheeks.
These opposites were so overwhelming, because now that you were this frantic, emotions were attacking you from every corner. Straight ahead of you, inadequacy. Contempt, anger, pain. He had no idea how you could force those emotions on you, all that anger and grief and vengeance that built up between the walls of your lungs all because of his employer at the time.
Shock, wonder, worry from the doorway. Steve and Natasha's scared and curious feelings from the entrance as they checked to see what the yelling was about.
Fear. From everyone. Bucky was scared that he'd never be able to repent, gain your trust, forgive himself for doing such horrible things to anyone but especially for scarring you so harshly. Steve and Nat because they weren't sure what was going on, but the atmosphere was far too volatile to ignore, and one misstep could set the whole world aflame. You, or at least what you thought you could distinguish as your own emotion, because how could you have been so dull, letting this man in and giving him a free pass at your heart when you knew nothing good could ever possibly come from it. Because now that you were exposed, your power was running rampant and you have no control anymore.
You were burning, but not from the anger that had sliced through you before. You were about to explode because rivers of feelings that you had no part in feeling were flooding through you, your nerves were explosives setting off with every new wave and you had no idea how to stop it. You needed to punch something but you also needed to cry. Urges to fall in love and fall off a cliff, to smile and laugh and tear off someone's limb. You wanted to crawl into a corner and you wanted to rip through ceilings; mad and tired and excited and sick. You couldn't tell you apart from anyone else in the building and it was maddening. Everything was falling apart, starting with small crumbs of the walls you built up and ending with yards of debris knocked off with every beat of your heart. You were tearing at the edges, ink diluting into water and smudging across paper.
Bucky saw you breaking, he recognized the pain and the confliction in your frantic eyes and wanted nothing more than to help. Like you had once helped him when he was lost and scared and alone. There was no time to worry about how badly you must've wanted him to not come near you because he could clearly see you were on the brink of combustion.
He took three hasty strides and was right in front of you. Carefully, like he were about to hug a paper crane, he tucked your frame under his arms, placing his real hand against your head and directing it into the space between his neck and his shoulder. That's where you always put your head, when you were tired or stressed or struck with a brand new wave of adoration for the soldier.
With all the softness of a knit sweater, he stroked your hair and cuddled into the side of your panicked head. You could feel his heart beating, irratic but still somehow calming and grounding. You had every urge to push away from him, but the very same urges were pleading you to stay where you were because something about the way you fit perfectly against his muscles was relaxing and home-like.
"You're okay, focus on me, everything's fine." He said, in a tone between a whisper and a breath but with all the confidence of a speech and all the caring of a father to his daughter. You concentrated on how his breath dissolved over your ear, like ice slowly melting onto the floor. His contact was wet from tears and warm from love and your heart was climbing upwards, getting lighter every second.
Slowly, but not unbearably, all the feelings fled from your body and you were left with nothing. Just the silence of the muting grey walls and uncharacteristically white light pouring from the windows. Nothing but soft breaths and murmuring hearts and warmth, because even with a metal arm Bucky was nothing but a fireplace. No wonder you felt so cozy and safe between his muscles.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Buck." You whimper against his collarbone because the energy it would take you to look up at him would have been enough to knock you out. It wasn't clear what you were apologizing for, even to yourself; it might have been for blowing up at him, for hurting him, blaming him, making him help you, or just because it felt right curling it's way past your lips and twisting up into his ears.
"Everything's fine." He repeated, because what could he say to that? He hurt you, hurt your family and everything you ever thought you wanted. But maybe he could salvage this, actually make it fine. He couldn't lose you, so now that it was looking like he wouldn't he was so relieved that his words turned into a long breath.
But that was all you needed. You didn't need your powers to understand what he meant. It would be fine, you could push through this because that shadow you saw over your parents bloody corpses wasn't Bucky. It was the Winter Soldier you saw that night, and it was Bucky who was holding on to you, desperate for your love and comfort and care.
Bucky was the farthest away from the Winter Soldier as one person could be, he was so much more than a metal arm and a machine gun, just like how Steve wasn't Captain America; the name and the person were always different, trying times pulled out things that no one can ever relate to, and the man behind the glasses was a universe away from being the man with the cape riding his shoulders.
Bucky Barnes wasn't a villain, and you weren't a vengeful murderer. You could work through this because Bucky was Bucky, and he was the closest thing to home you had.