Stucky One Shots

Part 26 - Butterflies [High School AU]

TW: Self Harm

Bucky POV

There was a note taped to the inside of my door when I turned around to lock it behind me.

The inside of my door. Natasha. Only Tasha could get in and get out without leaving a trace of her ever being there.

But there was something wrong with that explanation; the note was written in Steve's messy scrawl. Again, that shouldn't be possible. Steve was still in Afghanistan, would be for another week. I hadn't realised I'd said the last part of that aloud until a voice behind me made me jump.

"Steve is not still in Afghanistan. You counted your days wrong, love." I froze, allowing the familiar arms wrap around me, pulling me close to a firm, warm, comforting chest. He ran his thumb ever so carefully over the scar tissue on my left shoulder with a rehearsed accuracy. 

I'd been in a car accident when I was twelve - a drunk driver had hit the side of my dad's truck, killing him and leaving mom in a wheelchair. I'd been thrown out of the shattered windshield and skidded thirty feet along asphalt and gravel, leaving deep, mangled scar tissue across my left shoulder blade and the back of my neck.

"Steve!" I twisted around and launched at him, wrapping myself around him, legs around his waist, arms around his neck, burying my head in his shoulder.

"Hey, sweetheart. Miss me?"

"It's been eighteen fucking months, of course, I've missed you, idiot."

"You never got to read the note, Natasha made me write it, so it's from her, just in my handwriting."

"I knew it, the motherfucker."

"Well your potty-mouth hasn't changed since I left." He commented, hugging me tighter to him. "Jesus Christ, I missed this." He inhaled deeply, nose buried in my hair. "I love you so much, Bucky."

"I love you, Stevie."

"Read the note, love. We need to talk." That was never a good way to start a conversation. He let go of me, allowing me to slide down and set my feet back on the ground again.

Bucky,

We're worried about you. We know it will start to get better now Steve's home, but we've decided to take a stand. You're not going to cut again.

Over the next couple of days, you have plans with all of us at some point, so we're starting the project as soon as you get home with Steve. He'll explain, I've told him all about it.

Know that we're all standing by your side every step of the way out of this, and if you need us, talk to us. No exceptions.

Tasha, Clint, Tony, Bruce, Thor, Loki, Carol, Wanda, Pietro, Sam and Steve.

Steve dragged me over to the bed, where he sat down then pulled me so I was stood in front of him, his hands on my hips, holding me against his knees. "When did this start again?" He asked gently, pushing my sleeves up and running his thumb over the scars, scabs and still open cuts. I could see the hurt in his eyes. I toyed with the promise ring on my left hand, remembering what he'd said to me as he'd given it to me.

If you're hurting, I'm hurting. If you need me, I'm there, I promise.

"About three months after you left." My voice was quiet, weak almost. "I needed you, and you weren't there." Very quickly, I realised that sounded like I was blaming him. "It-it's not your fault though, it's mine. I'm so stupid for falling back into this." I fell forwards and accepted the hug he offered.

Somehow, we ended up lay down, Steve half sat up against the pillows with me across his chest.

"You're not stupid, love. I know how difficult it gets for you, especially after losing Becca."

Becca is - was - my little sister, two years younger than me. She'd been riding her moped home, through Brooklyn, one night, and a drunk driver had knocked her off then run over her. She'd been announced dead on scene. That was two weeks before Steve left for Afghanistan.

"I miss her." I whined, trying not to cry, burying my face in his hoodie.

"I know, love. I know." He cupped the back of my head and kissed the top of it. "I'm home, now. We're gonna be OK."

We lay together, in a comfortable silence for I don't even know how long until I sat up, slid off him, and lay against the pillows beside him. "What's this thing Tasha and the guys wanted you to tell me about?"

"The Butterfly Project." He stated simply. "I know we tried it once before, and it didn't work too well, but we didn't have ten others behind us at that time. We're gonna try again, and we're gonna be there, for the highs and the lows. Between us, we're all gonna help you stop. I'm starting tonight." He leaned over the side of the bed and pulled out his art pencil case. After rummaging through it for a minute, he pulled out a piece of tracing paper, and a handful of sharpies. Upon closer inspection, the tracing paper already had a butterfly drawn on it.

"I drew this on the flight home. I can't sketch on skin, so I'm gonna transfer the design over. It was a pain in the ass to draw it backwards, but I got there. C'mere." He took my hand and pushed my sleeve up, placing the stencil.

I didn't even know where he pulled the damp cloth from, but I hissed as the cold water his my skin, dripping down over the cuts. He pressed down on it gently, letting the water soak into the paper. After a moment, he pulled the cloth and the paper up, and there was a slightly bumpy outline of a butterfly.

Every so carefully, with mesmerising grace, he outlined the butterfly with a fine, black sharpie, then coloured it with the American stars and striped, though in such a delicate way it couldn't be compared to the flag itself. Finally, he wrote his name under it.

"There. My addition to the cause. You remember how this works, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't cut, or I kill the butterflies. No scrubbing it off." I muttered, rolling my eyes. 

When Steve had come home from Afghanistan the first time, he covered me in butterflies, shoulder to my knuckles, covering the backs of my hands too, all the way up my shoulder, meeting the scar tissue. I'd got three days before I cut again. 

"Exactly."

That night, we fell asleep tangled with each other, relishing in the fact we were finally together again.