Soft Robotics ✧ Bucky Barnes

(monochromatic[4.05]);

"I wanna know more about you," I told Bucky. "Not about me."

We had settled onto his couch. He'd pulled me onto his lap, my legs laying horizontally on the cushion. He had a metal arm around my back, circling a spot on my waist with his thumb, and he was so strong that I could just lean back against his arm, pressing my weight into it to get comfy. It didn't seem to bother him at all. I wasn't sure if he'd even registered that I was doing it.

"What do you wanna know?" he asked cautiously. I'd expected that. He didn't seem to like talking about himself.

"Whatever you wanna tell me."

"Narrow it down for me," he said. "I've been alive a long time. You gotta ask me something specific or it all jumbles together."

"Okay," I said. I knew what I wanted to ask about. I wanted to know more about the scars all over his torso—I wanted to know if they still hurt him. Something about the sight of them had broken my heart. But I kept the question broad. "Will you tell me about a scar? Is that prying? You don't have to."

To my surprise, he laughed suddenly. "I know just the one to show you, too. I don't think I ever told you about it."

"Oh?"

"This one?" He held up the back of his right hand. There were a bunch of small, white scars on it, but I assumed he was talking about the long, red one that stood out near his thumb until he added, "It's hard to see. The one on the knuckle of my first finger."

"Oh, yeah, I see." It was tiny. Almost gone. I wouldn't have ever noticed it if he hadn't pointed it out.

"That's from Miss Stewart in '29. Caught me with the wrong edge of a ruler when I was dozing off in class. She's dead now. I looked her up." I looked back at his face as he glared at the ground. "I hope you're happy, you fucking bitch. This is your legacy."

"Bucky?" I asked gently. "Are you talking to Miss Stewart in Hell?"

"Sometimes we have little chats like that."

He was definitely avoiding the topic I was really asking about. I squirmed, feeling guilty. "I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have asked."

He sighed. "No, I'm sorry. I know you weren't asking about Miss Stewart."

"No, it's fine!" I said quickly. "Tell me more if you want. I hate her too."

He exhaled a laugh. "Thanks, sweetheart. I know you were asking about the ones by my arm. It hurts there sometimes, and you used to rub that shoulder for me. That's prob'ly what you were remembering."

"Oh, okay. I can still do that."

"Yeah, 'cause you're a sweetheart. But I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

"I'm actually extremely concerned about you."

"Yeah, you get like that."

"I always worry about you?"