Eyes of Fire | Bucky Barnes

34

"Good evening, James."

Bucky wasn't sure if he was grateful or not for the comfort that immediately came to him at Uxolo's familiar, honey-lined voice. It meant she was here, for him, to be beside him, to exist with him. But it also meant she was in the line of danger: much too close and much too unaware of the damage and destruction he brought wherever he went.

"I— uh, I didn' mean to call you."

She didn't miss a beat, pushing into his entryway and dropping her shoulder bag by the front door. "I think you did."

"I did." He admitted. It was almost pathetic, the hold she had on him, her ability to warm and melt him in the same movement. He thought he was supposed to be the fire.

Bucky struggled with his words for a moment, unable to explain what had happened prior and why he had called her in the first place, only to purposely miss her callback right after. "I just..."

"James, it's okay." She smiled, watching him shut the door and twist the lock shut.

He stayed faced towards it for an extra moment, mind still running a mile per minute. He mumbled to himself, "Right."

Bucky shifted, twisting around but his body still angling away from her, like he didn't want to be closer than necessary. He was trying to force a smile, but it fell fairly flat.

"What happened to your arm, James?" Uxolo asked carefully, reaching out for his hand.

He didn't reach back out. He had half the mind to hide that very arm behind his back, but he refused to allow himself to regress to such a childish state.

Her gaze locked on him, who was seemingly growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute. He looked... terrified. Like a rabbit caught in the sights of a hunt. The veins on the side of his neck were standing out, and his eyes were frantically wandering over everything in the room. His panicked eyes met hers, for only a moment and entirely by— on purpose, before he diverted his gaze again.

He didn't realize he was crying until she wiped a tear away from his cheek.

James stared at the ground, wide-eyed, his mind hearing the words he'd been told over and over again but finally starting to believe.

Before her hand could fully leave his skin, he leaned into it heavily, squeezing his eyes shut. Another tear fell but he pushed his lips against her hand instead, just feeling the skin against him, taking two slow breaths.

"It hurts, Uxolo." He admitted against her skin, his voice thick, "I can't sleep, I can't breathe, I can't make tea. It only stops when I'm with you, and I really want it to stop."

"Is that why you called me? So I could make it stop?"

James looked up at her and she had tears in her eyes, too, but she was smiling, in that warm way she always smiled at him. Him, of all people, graced with a smile that made him feel as if he was anyone but himself.

His hand — his disgusting, burned red and black hand — shook as her thumb gently stroked his cheek. God, when was the last time he'd let someone touch him in this way?

"It's not the only reason." He clarified. She knew it, there was no way she didn't, she was just waiting for him to say it. And so, he would, even if he knew he didn't deserve it or anything similar. "I-I'm going to try harder. I want to try and ask for help, when I need it. I want you... this, with everything in me. And I'm so sorry."

For everything. For all of the out-of-line, horrendous things I've said to you. For someone like me getting involved with you in this way when you could — and should — have better. More.

"I know." Uxolo said softly, stepping a bit closer to him, cataloging his sharp intake of breath as crossed a bit of the distance between them. "I forgive you."

"I'm trying." He repeated, as if he hadn't heard her.

He needed her to know, he wouldn't allow himself to be this broken, emotionally-void man who dragged her down from the heights she could reach. Because his Uxolo... she could soar with the birds if she wanted. If he had to pretend to be whole, if he had to force himself to be the playful and immature Bucky he'd been before — before what? Everything? — then so be it.

"I know." Uxolo said softly, and of course she knew.

Uxolo, God, she probably wouldn't even feel for the playful Bucky he could try to embody, purely because she'd know that he was faking it. Somehow, she would.

Her fingertips breaching his hairline — to feather through the strands that framed his face — were what broke him free from his thoughts. She made sure he wasn't looking anywhere but at her — not just at her eyes, but at her — before saying,  "I am all the more proud of you for it."

He wanted her, this, everything. Badly. He would try.

****

James looked at his mattress, his so-called bed, the very thing he hadn't asked to be replaced but had found in the center of his bedroom when he returned one evening.

In its place used to be the tattered remains of his old one, fluff and wire askew, representative of the fragile but aggressive mental state that had made it that way to begin with.

He peered over at Uxolo, looking at her as much as he could without fully twisting his neck to face her. "This really what you wan' me to do?"

As much as he covered the question with incredulity — as if being asked to sleep on a mattress for the first time in decades wasn't a big deal — Uxolo knew what hid within it.

Worry, embarrassment, fear — for himself and for her, anger, guilt, resentment.

She nodded, dragging the living room chair further into his bedroom. "I will be here the whole time, James."

She pushed the door shut, figuring he might be a bit more comfortable with less surface area to worry about, before setting the chair at the head of the bed.

Bucky watched her, carefully, this almost rejuvenated resolve of hers heightening his anxiety but warming him at the same time. He feared he'd disappoint her, that he wouldn't be able to meet these expectations, but then he remembered that she wanted him to be better. That she knew he could be better and feel better, and wanted him to get there. Was even willing to sacrifice herself and her own needs to get him there.

Still, he muttered under his breath. "That's the problem."

Uxolo shook her head, settling in the chair. She crossed her feet under her butt and leaned to one side, getting in a more comfortable position. She said simply, "You would never hurt me. I am not afraid."

"This is a bad idea." He reiterated. Because maybe saying it for the tenth time tonight would change her mind. He knew it wouldn't.

She simply patted the side of the bed, welcoming him in, showing him how truly okay she was with this whole thing.

"Could you at least handcuff me?" He asked — joked, kind of — climbing onto the bed and under the blankets carefully. He was careful not to move his arm more than necessary, the terrible wrap-job he did more and more obvious as time went on. He was surprised he hadn't managed to get aloe vera everywhere.

"No, James." Uxolo responded, making sure he settled in well before tucking her own head on the back of the chair. "Rest well."

He wouldn't.

His pillow was too mushy, his head felt as if it were dangling away from the rest of his body. The mattress was too malleable, shifting with each of his minuscule movements. The frame loud, underneath, prohibiting him from hearing everything outside that he needed to. The blankets were too soft, as if he were floating in the sky with nothing protecting him.

"You, too." He said anyway, blinking. "Goodnight, doll."