Eyes of Fire | Bucky Barnes

45

Around her, the hallway was quiet. A small maze that she could navigate in her sleep. She knew all of the creaky floorboards, so she avoided them as she opened the door to slip inside the bedroom.

Bucky was laid on the bed. His face was white — almost translucent; sharp worry speared through her gut again anew, piercing more than before. The air caught in her lungs.

He was nothing more than a dark shape in the bed — slumbering in slow, heavy repetitions.
She watched him from the threshold for a few moments. A soft smile twisted her lips - he was alright. Crossing the room, she took a seat on the edge of the bed.

It was impossible to fight the urge to be close to him — to keep an eye on him just in case.
Those eyes caught his as soon as she made contact with the mattress. Prickling across her skin in a silent surveillance. It feels like they scour every inch of her — an invasion that would be unwelcome if it hadn't been him.

But it is, and so a soft, sweet smile twists her face in greeting. "Hello."

His tongue darted out — tracing over cracked lips as he answered roughly. "Hi."

"How are you doing?" The words were breathed from her softly, but she made no move to approach.

That silent gaze assessed her more. Still, he didn't speak. There was a rustle, and then Bucky winced — lifting up the bedsheet that covered him in silent invitation.

Something about it compelled her to move. She slid in beside him and and arm wrapped around her waist, Bucky shifting to adjust for her. His chest pressed against her back; the heat of it was reassuring.

Her fingers found their tentative perch upon his forearm. They tapped lightly against his skin in indecision. The air between them is soft and weighted all at once. Unspoken words drift through the space around them both, before she finally built up the courage to reach out, grasp one, and speak it aloud. "Are you in pain?"

"Yes." It was a slow affirmation. Coming after a pause, and not so readily offered. Even in lieu of that first admission, Bucky still hesitated as a few more seconds pass before continuing, "Sometimes. The-uh, the scars hurt."

That strong arm tightens around her front. She could feel the tip of his nose on the back of her neck. Her travelling fingertips bumped against one of those raised litter of scars. He must've sensed the resulting tension that hunched her shoulders as he murmured again, " 'm okay."

Seconds ticked by. One after the other. Below, Bucky's thumb began to rub soothing circles upon her skin. His bare skin was warm and comforting against hers. A thick swallow constricted her throat, pushing the words up and out.

"Can I see?"

It was still dark. The thick curtains pulled in, blocking out the golden rays of sunset. She hadn't see his nod but she felt it. It dipped against the back of her shoulder, the briefest brush of his lips.

Uxolo struggled to push herself into a sitting position. His arms unraveled reluctantly behind her, and she turned — guiding a fallen strand of hair behind her ear.

Bucky watched intently as her hand fell to his shoulder. A simple, gentle push, and he rolled obligingly onto his back.

Her hands skated over his skin as she bent inward — seeking out the scars that caused him so much anguish. She heavily doubted it was a true, physiological pain; rather something in his mind that associated the pain he'd once experienced, that had marked itself against his skin, with the scars he still saw today.

And when she looked down at him she didn't see the brooding former assassin, she saw... Bucky.

Nervous and unsure of himself. But most of all full of devotion. Despite all the hate he had experienced, he had the fullest heart she had ever encountered. And when she reached up to cup his face, his eyes closed and he became putty in her hands.