Fantastic Fanfiction: Marvel and DC Fanfiction

Paint - Bucky Barnes

"Buck? I'm home!"
There's no response, and you close the door behind you with a sigh. You have no idea if Bucky is here, and you don't want to catch him by surprise. He would never purposely hurt you, but he could easily turn to instinct if you startle him.
Entering the kitchen, you head towards the refrigerator to get a drink. You've just grabbed the handle when something on the floor catches your eye. The flecks of red make your heart stop - it looks like drops of blood.
"Bucky!" Has he hurt himself? Has someone broken in and found themselves and his mercy? "Bucky, are you here?" There's a trail of red out of the kitchen and down the hall, and you follow up with increasing worry. There's not much, but it's still blood.
You follow it to the bathroom and look up to see Bucky staring at you - and he's clutching a knife. Placing a hand over your racing heart, you ask breathlessly, "Bucky, are you hurt?"
He stares at you mutely - right through you, almost - and you carefully take the knife from him. Thankfully he's holding in his right hand; if he had in his metal fingers, taking it by force would have been a lost cause. But there's no blood on the blade, and he doesn't seem to be bleeding either. Confused, you put a gentle arm around him and lead him into the living area. "Come and sit down, okay?"
He follows your guidance like a lost child, and sinks down on the couch when you give him a gentle push. This is what he's like after having a flashback, but he's been "clean" for weeks and has never gone for weapon before. Still trying to find where the blood came from, you begin a more thorough examination.
It takes you a while, but you find it. There are scratch marks on the shoulder of his metal arm, right where the red Soviet star was displayed. It wasn't blood on the floor - it was paint.
"I didn't want it on me anymore." Bucky rasps, his voice hoarse like he's been screaming again. "It was . . . it was like a brand. Making me theirs. But I'm not their puppet! Not anymore!"
He tenses as his voice rises, and you place a hand on his chest to keep him in his seat. "No, love, not anymore," you repeat gently. "You're not that person anymore."
Bucky is shaking, and you can see the nightmares playing behind his haunted gray blue eyes. He reaches up and runs his fingers over the scratched metal of his shoulder, before tracing the seam of skin where the metal appendage is connected. The motion starts slow, then becomes frantic. "I want it gone," he says, his voice low and panicky. "I want it gone. All of it!"
"Bucky -" You start to speak, but he's beyond hearing you
"Get it off me," he says, his voice rising to hysteria as he starts to claw at the metal. "They made it, get it off!"
"Bucky! Bucky, look at me." You cup his face in your hands and force him to look at you. His eyes dart around for movement before settling on you, and though he doesn't stop scratching at his arm, the action loses its fervor. "Calm down, okay? Just breathe . . . breathe in and out, nice and slow. Calm down, you're alright, you're safe here now, I'm here." Keeping up the flow of soothing words, you slowly take his hand in yours to stop his self-destructive attacks. He whimpers slightly, and the sound breaks your heart as he goes limp, losing all of his previous fire.
"Why am I like this, Y/N?" He asks quietly, staring at his mismatched hands. "Why did this happen to me?"
"I don't know," you say, speaking honestly as you sit beside him. "But you are a good man, James Buchanan Barnes, and you're strong enough to come out on top of this. I know you are."
Slowly, Bucky meets your gaze. Tears gather in his eyes, and when you reach out to wipe one from his cheek, the dam breaks completely. With a strangled sob he wraps his arms around you and buries his face against your neck, shaking as he cries out the horrors.
You're crying at this point as well, but you cradle him close to comfort him the best you can. It hurts to see him like this, but it's part of the healing process. He needs to get it all out. So you hold him until the tears stop, then wait for him to pull away like he usually does. But this time he doesn't move, and you look down to see that he has fallen asleep in your arms, having worked himself to complete emotional and physical exhaustion.
Shifting so that you're lying back against the couch cushions, you continue to let Bucky use you as a pillow. He mumbles incoherently before settling back into sleep, and you smile fondly as you close your eyes. Life with Bucky isn't easy, but you wouldn't change a thing.