Run (A Bucky Barnes Recovery Story)

54 Scars

Wednesday was approaching quicker than Bucky had imagined it would and he was becoming nervous. However, he didn’t confide his fear in either Natasha or Steve because he felt that he had no room to complain or be afraid. He had suggested this plan, and detailed it, and insisted, absolutely insisted, that they go through with it and now to admit fear would be like admitting some sort of premature defeat. He had to be strong. So Bucky bottled it up, the way his stomach turned and his hand shook because this plan was an intimidating one, and hid it from Natasha and from Steve when they saw him. They were ready. He had to be ready as well.

Natasha visited that day, as she did most days. She brought him a new jacket, with the entire left sleeve cut off. They had been in the process of doing that to all of his long-sleeved clothes, so that he wouldn’t have to pin them up awkwardly anymore, or else leave the sleeve hanging, but this jacket looked new. She walked in wearing it, her uncovered arm looking almost cold in comparison, and she slipped it off and onto him.

“Does it fit?” She asked. He shifted in it, feeling the fabric.

“Where did you get this?” He responded.

“That outlet mall, remember?” She said, brushing off his shoulders and adjusting the collar. “Is it comfortable or not?”

“It’s very comfortable,” Bucky replied. She smiled, her eyes downcast as she studied the fit on him.

“Good,” Natasha said. “It looks nice on you.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said, for a thousand reasons, and she looked up into his face.

“I thought you were needing something new,” she said and he thanked her a second time. She laughed and stood as tall as she could to kiss his face. “Of course,” she muttered. He rested his hand gently on her hip and she shifted over and began to kiss his mouth, slinging her arms around his neck. They stood there for a long time, kissing each other and muttering delightedly back and forth and Bucky’s only regret was that he didn’t have two arms to wrap her in closer to him, but as he was thinking this, he felt something unusual under Natasha’s shirt, by her waist, some sort of scar, and it felt big.

“What happened there?” He asked out of concern, kissing her again, but she pulled away and he took his hand back quickly, afraid that he had crossed some line or made her uncomfortable. Natasha looked down at her waist, frowning, then pulled up the corner of her shirt to reveal a large white puckered scar. Bucky gasped. “It looks like you got shot,” he said.

“‘Tis the life of a spy,” Natasha said and looked up at him with a smile, stepping closer to him again and clasping her hands around his waist. “Everyone shoots you.”

“Sounds like an interesting story,” Bucky said and Natasha stared at him for a long time and Bucky thought maybe he was missing something.

“It’s a very interesting story,” she said. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

“So do you expect me to just live with this?” Bucky asked and Natasha’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“With what?” She asked.

“This,” Bucky said, looking down into her face. “This thing you do.”

“I don’t do a thing,” Natasha said.

“Yes, you do,” Bucky replied adamantly. “I’ll say something or do something and you get this sad look on your face and make these confusing statements. Like you’ll ‘tell me someday’. Am I doing something wrong? Do the things I say make you upset?”

“No, no,” Natasha said, shaking her head.

“Then what is it?” Bucky asked. “You do expect me to just live with it then.”