His Soulmate | Bucky Barnes ✔

Chapter One

I climbed the stairs back up to the small flat. Peter had his internship tonight, and I stayed late at work so it was quite dark by the time I was heading back.

I walked through the reception, waiting for the lift as I checked my hand. A small paper cut appeared along my finger, the blood dripping down my palm. I sighed.

Whoever my soulmate was used to get a lot of injuries, and there were often months where I couldn't leave the house as I was healing from them. But over the past two years they seemed to have had no trouble, no injuries, except for the odd black eye or stubbed toe. I was happy that they appeared to be avoiding trouble, but when they had small injuries like this they never bothered to clean it up.

Sighing again, I sucked on my finger, stopping the blood flow. My soulmate also went through a phase of what I believe to be self harm. I still have the pale white lines decorating my right arm and both legs.

I yawned, brushing the thought away, and grabbed a biro from my coat pocket, drawing a flower next to the cut. Whenever an injury appeared on my body I left a small drawing, hoping to comfort my soulmate wherever they may be. They almost never replied in any way, but it didn't stop me from doing it. Last month I got my first reply.

A drunk guy had come into my work and tried to force himself on me. When I pushed him away he had gotten angry. I had a slap on my face, a cut on my arm and scratches on the inside of my thigh. I'd cried myself to sleep but when I'd woken up, along the edge of the cut on my arm were the words: are you okay? I had replied quickly, no, but I will be with a smiley face. Later that afternoon there was a small smiley face next to mine. Then they stopped replying. I was fine with it, maybe they weren't a people person, but it saddened me that they didn't want to talk to me.

My friend and her soulmate had the same sign as me, and know everything about each other. He lives on the other side of the world to us, but they write on their arms, and wash their conversations away every evening.

Stepping out of the lift, I paused, seeing the flat door was open. I knocked gently against it as I pushed it. "Mum?" No reply. "Pete?" Again, no answer. I breathed deeply, trying to steady my breathing as I walked through the flat.

I paused as I reached the main living room. "Mum?" I choked out a sob.
She was sprawled on her back, her long hair covered in thick blood, the smell making me feel sick. She was ghastly pale, and lying at odd angles. I knelt next to her, swallowing the rising bile in my throat.

"Mum?"

I heard a noise and jumped, my hair flying around as I leapt to my feet. I sprinted downstairs, and out onto the street. "Help!" I screamed, sobs strangling me as I choked on my cry for help. "Help!" I screamed again, swinging around. A hand gripped my arm.

"Ma'am are you alright?" A tall, broad shouldered man stood in front of me, concern filling his eyes. His tight t-shirt showed his muscles but his grip was soft. I shook my head.

"My mum..."

He held both my shoulders, "what's your name ma'am."

I breathed deeply. "Amelie. Um. Amelie Parker."

The man nodded, "I'm Steve. What's happened Amelie?" His voice was soothing but I shook violently.

"I think someone killed my mum." His eyes widened in surprise as I whimpered "please help." He nodded, and ran with me back up the stairs.

He pushed the doors open, and wrapped his hand around mine as we entered my flat. I paused as he walked over. I heard a sharp inhale of breath and within seconds he had wrapped me into a hug.