WinterIron one shots

Beautiful Scars

Word count: 1141

Summery: Bucky has scars , Tony has them too.

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He was all about the scars.

There weren't a lot of them, because Bucky was DAMN good at what he did, even if he did it under the control of an evil organization, but the ones he did have were deep and ugly, and he couldn't remember how he got them. Oh, he could tell what most were, like the bullet hole in his upper right thigh, the knife slashes across his left pectoral & upper right shoulder, the stab wound to his left side in between the third and fourth ribs. The whip marks on his back. The burn marks on his calves. He wasn't sure if knowing how he got them would be better than not knowing. What he did know was he was ashamed. They showed what he was...what he had been. A killing puppet. Someone, something, less than human.

Every time he had looked into the mirror, all he could see were reminders of what he had allowed to happen. If he'd only been better, faster, stronger. If only he'd been smarter, he wouldn't have been so susceptible to Hydra's experiments. If only, if only, if ONLY! He would trace the ragged edges of the knife wound on his right shoulder, wishing he could feel it with his metal fingers. He was broken, blemished, used.

So it was completely understandable that he had taken to wearing clothes that fully covered him at all times. The metal of his exposed hand would catch and reflect light, throw it around the room, and he'd seen the way the others would cringe away from it. (they knew, they KNEW what he was, what that hand had done). He'd hide it away in the pockets of the sweat pants he stole from Steve, in the pouch of an extra large hoody Sam had given him, and if those weren't options, he'd hide it in the folds of his crossed arms. He'd try to hide what he WAS. He was trying, he was trying so damn hard to be the Bucky Steve remembered. But he wasn't, not any more. He couldn't recall parts of his past, everything was a blur, and he honestly did not want to remember the missions he'd been sent on. All the lives he'd taken.

Which brings now...

Bucky standing in his briefs in front of the mirror in the room Stark, TONY, had given him. He stood and stared at his wrecked body and all the dark thoughts he'd worked so hard to move past flooded in.

He had fled the workshop, like a coward. Tony had finished his arm, and then pulled Bucky into a kiss. At first, it wasn't a problem, the kissing was nice, but then Tony's hands had wandered, slipped under Bucky's shirt. Tony had barely had a chance to graze the scar on his ribs before Bucky was pulling back from the kiss and high-tailing it out of there, Tony's confused shouts following him.

"How could he want this?" Bucky muttered as he twisted to look at the damage on his back. The reflection blurred, and tears welled up. He turned back around to take in the mess that he was. With a choked sob, his flesh hand impacted and shattered the image. He dropped to his knees, hands on the floor in front of him and let out heavy gasping sobs. God, he was pathetic. Absolutely disgusting and worthless and ....

He wrapped his hands around his waist, a poor imitation of a hug he'd never get now, not now after running away from Tony. He bent forward until his head rested on the floor and cried. It hurt. It hurt so bad. He just wanted... he needed Tony. He had fallen so hard and he'd blown it and god his head hurt, his hand was a bloody mess and he couldn't stop crying, giant hiccuping sobs now. How could he be so stupid as to think things would've worked out. It was hilarious, he thought, small chuckles that turned into dark laughter overriding the crying. Bucky Barnes didn't get 'nice things', not after every thing he'd done.

He'd just have to remember that from now on.

——
He wad exhausted.

The tears stopped a while ago and the unsaid laughter died down too, leaving him in a dark and silence room, his mind filling with the dark thoughts - clouding his better judgement. He let his head fall back against the wall, and just wished for it all to stop - to stop hurting.

A sharp knock on the door brought him out of they trance, and he turned his head to the door. It was silent. Maybe he was imagining things again? But when another shook the frame, and a soft voice called out , " Bucky, are you okay?" He knew it wasn't his imagination going wild again.

He slipped into the closest pair of sweats and a long sleeved shirt before reaching out - his hand shaking in the small light, and opened the door.

There stood a concerned looking genius, his hands playing with the hem of his shirt, his feet shuffling awkwardly inf don't of the much larger super soldier. He couldn't quiet meet the other mans eyes, so kept his gaze down on his suddenly very interesting shoes...

" I'm sorry, what happened... it was out of order and I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,"

Neither moved or said anything, " it's not your fault."

Tony looked up and met the grey orbs of the ex assassin before him, and saw the tears well up.

"Hey," Bucky stepped aside to let the genius in, and tony hesitated at first, but quickly walked in.

Nothing was said. Tony wanted to make sure Bucky was comfortable before he ruined everything - again. But he thought with all the constant flirting and time they had recently spent together - he thought he was doing the right thing.

He watched the soldier, and slowly, he reached down and cautiously removed his shirt. Tony stood with his mouth open, but his gaze softened when he saw the uneven skin scattered around his torso.

Bucky didn't look up, but tony took one look at the mans chest and fell a little bit deeper.

He too reached down and removed his shirt, revealing the jagged black lines and scarred tissue around the centre  of his chest whee the arc reactor used to sit. 

It was silent.

" no ones perfect," Tony whispered, and gently grasped the soldiers wrist and placed his palm on his chest. Bucky didn't know what to do, the intimate moment shared with tony made his eyes water a little more. He traced his own fingers over the pattens etched into his skin, and felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders.

" but your perfect to me,"