The Twin Flame: Grumpy x Sunshine

Sad Beautiful Tragic

"Hang up, give up, for the life of us we can't get back..."

CW: Brief discussion of past self harm, blood, wounds, first aid, needles

It was probably because the man who framed him for bombing the UN was currently sleeping in the room just down the hall from him.

Being on guard was completely rational, even if the situation he found himself in was not.

It could also be because you were incredibly pissed with him. Or maybe because you did not once emerge from your room for the remainder of the evening. And also, maybe. slightly because you kept calling him Bucky.

Even the unfamiliar location could be blamed, the mattress that felt too lush, so soft it felt like it might consume him as he slept, those were all good reasons that he was up in the night, tossing and turning, laying in bed even though he knows it's completely futile.

But he knows the real reason.

As an insomniac super soldier who hadn't slept a full night since he'd returned from Wakanda, he knows sleep wouldn't come even if Mr. Sandman himself came and brought him the sweetest of dreams.

Bucky gives up laying in the suffocating bed at around 2 AM.

He tears off his blanket with an annoyed huff. His bare feet hit the cold floor and he honestly has no idea what to do with himself. It's too quiet in the dead of the night. The shadows seem just a little darker in the unfamiliar space. The demons lurking around the corner seemed just a little too frightening to stay in this room.

He dresses himself, prepared to wander the halls all night until someone makes an appearance.

Somewhere in his tired, muddled head, thoughts begin slipping in. Because who knows, maybe you'll be wandering the halls too. And maybe he'll be able to convince you to tell him what's going on. Maybe he'll coax out some of the secrets that haunted you to help you carry that burden.

He knows he sounds like a crazy person. The overthinking, borderline plotting, on some strange off-chance he might run into you.

He tries telling himself that maybe your insomnia was short-lived and that you were now peacefully sleeping through the night. He audibly scoffs at himself as he exits his room.

As much as he wants that to be true for you, he knows it's not.

It's like a strange sixth sense. He just knows it. He knows you lie awake at night. He knows you've also counted ceiling tiles while you laid in bed waiting for a reprieve that you know will never come, stared up at a bright midnight moon until the sun chased it away, watched lonely cars pass through even lonelier streets.

And with that final thought, he knows he's going crazy. A few conversations and a sense of familiarity that tugged at his soul did not mean he knew you. It meant he was crazy. And that's all it meant.

At least that was what he was telling himself. When he was being honest with himself, he knew it was just a way to feel less shitty about the way he left things with you.

You stand in the kitchen in the dead of the night, gritting your teeth as you unravel the bloodied bandage that covered the gun shot wound on your arm.

Pain was easy for you. Pain you knew like the back of your hand. Pain was familiar, like an old childhood friend that just wouldn't let you go.

It was the emotional stuff that you weren't good at. Or at least, you weren't good at anymore.

You were so good at ignoring the pain that now radiated up and down your arm, that by the time you stood over the kitchen sink, slowly peeling the bandage off of your skin, your arm was weak, trembling as you exposed the wound to the cool night air. The muscle beneath it twitched and your hand shook of its own accord.