Never got over you (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Part 13

A/n- Hey! Guess it's the perfect time for this chapter to come out, since September is suicide prevention month! If you feel down, I just want to let you know that I feel the darkness trying to suck me under sometimes, too; you're not alone! And I ❤ your face, damn it! Don't take it away from me! ❤❤❤

Extra warnings and stuff: Sad feels... 💖💖💖 for Bucky... Much comfort needed in this one. PTSD depression issues. Hinted thoughts of suicide. Seriously, if you're having those thoughts, please get help. As much as it hurts to hear it (at least, it hurts me when I'm that low and I hear it), there are people who love you. (To talk to someone 1-800-273-8255 )

Story!

Bucky woke up sticking to his sheets, his heart racing out of his chest, trying to find the threat that made him feel so desperate to escape.

His hand swiped over the hair sticking to his forehead, trying to get it out of his face, but it didn't move. His shirt was twisted around his body from his tossing and turning, stuck to him with sweat, and the sheets on the bed were tangled around his legs.

Pressure and despair was filling him as the faces of all of the people he'd seen die haunted him, even in his waking, just after sleep moments, not only the people that were a threat and trying to kill him, but his squadmates, the people in the village he'd been in, trying to protect, bleeding and dying in the dirt- the innocent people, the good men and women- all of the people whose deaths he'd caused, hadn't stopped, had stood motionless and witnessed as flying dirt and confusion reigned.

His fault.

All his fault.

Everything.

He was the worst monster imaginable.

How did he deserve to live, get out with only a missing limb and an amazing replacement for it, when all of those good people, all of the innocent people, women, elderly, children had all died, for no reason other than they were in the wrong place at the right time...

He stood and left his room, walking downstairs.

(Y/n) rolled over, pulling Bucky's shirt around so that it was more comfortable as she sighed. "Time to make some tea," she muttered to herself as she climbed out of bed and made her way downstairs.

She saw that a light was on as she got closer to the kitchen, and as she turned the corner, she saw Bucky sitting in the half shadows, his arm glinting in the light from the oven hood across the room behind him.

Her hand reached over and flicked on the overhead light, about to tease Bucky about sitting in the dark, but the words fell from her lips as the whole situation was revealed.

Bucky was drenched in sweat, his tight shirt showing wet spots that took up most of the fabric, his hair was messy and stuck to him in weird ways or spots, and his posture was statue stiff.

The scariest part wasn't the knife in his metal hand, or the fact that he was staring intently at the inside of his flesh wrist and forearm, as though studying the veins along it, but the totally hollow, empty expression in his eyes, the vacant, haunted look that was more telling than any words he'd ever be able to say.

(Y/n)'s eyes widened and her heart clenched. She swallowed roughly as she stared at him, where he was still not moving or acknowledging her presence.

"Don't," she choked out, unsure why that particular word was the one that made it out. "Bucky," she whispered, slowly at first, then at a more natural pace, making her way to him.

She stopped in front of him, looking at the knife to make sure that as she wrapped her fingers around the handle, just above his, she didn't cut herself, then her eyes were back on his face. "Bucky," she whispered. He didn't even flinch, and she steadied herself, feeling tears trying to well up in her eyes.