Mosaic (Bucky Barnes X OC / Winter Soldier x OC)

Chapter 9: Bucky Barnes - Smoke Twisted Memories (Part II)

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"It'll come back, Bucky." Fingers combed through my hair. Pushing it out of my face.

I reeled back, away from her. Away from those fingers. Slamming into the cupboards in my attempt.

"Bucky, you can lick the bowl instead," a voice echoed in my head.

And that was when it hit me.

"Mom."

It was my mom.

The voice was my mom's.

I remembered my mom.

That was all I could remember of her. Not even a face. Just a voice and a wooden spoon. But it was something.

It was my mom.

By the time I pulled myself back together again, Valeriy was back at the sink, rinsing her hand and rubbing her eyes. Took two steps to reach her from the kitchen corner I ended up in. My hand froze in the air between us.

Break the skull on the counter. Target incapacitated.

Fill the sink. Shove head underwater. Target incapacitated.

There was far too many things that could be used in a kitchen and there were far too little she could do against me. My own mind still unsettled me with how it kept coming up with ways to kill her. But in the same breath, I didn't want to hurt her.

I don't want to hurt anybody. Not anymore.

Dropping my hand to my side in a tight fist, I cleared my throat. To which Valeriy flinched at. Unsuspecting that I would be standing next to her. Far too unguarded.

"More spoon whacking?" she asked lightly.

"Let me see them."

"The spoon?"

"Enough with the spoon. Your burns, Valeriy."

"Oh." She tilted her head back, trying to keep her eyes from blinking. "Please tell me I didn't cook my eyeballs. I remember the egg demonstration in chemistry.... Everything's all blurry."

I caught her arm before she could continue rubbing at her eyes. "They're going to be fine... if you stop irritating them. That help the panic?"

She chuckled shakily.

One of her nervous ticks. A moment to gather herself. Buy a bit of time. But she nodded, as I soaked a paper towel in cold water.

"Thanks, Bucky."

Getting her to hold the paper towel to her eyes, I pulled her hand out of the stream of water. "That should help it a bit."

An angry blister welled up on the side of her index finger. I had a sinking suspicion she forgot what an oven mitt was.

"Keep it under the tap for another twelve minutes. At the very least."

"'Kay," she chirped with a soft smile.

"What are the cookies for?"

"For you."

"Me?"

"Yup. All yours. I've been a temperamental asshat the last few days. Sorry. And I was looking for a dish from the 1930s last night but got sidetracked by sweets. Ended up in Marshmallow's recipes. I don't know if they're from the right time, but they're like old. So maybe the 40s? Don't know if her parents passed them down to her, so they could be super old?"