Haven [Marvel | Bucky Barnes]

Chapter 15

He was laughing. He was happy. He'd been in the midst of a war but he'd still been able to smile. He was whole.

Iris was utterly speechless looking down at the old reels as they played beneath the exhibit display bearing the face she had come to love. It was him. But it also wasn't. This was Bucky Barnes. Confident, clean-cut and charming. He was so sure of himself and who he was. Sure that he was doing the right thing and proud to do it. Watching him standing next to Captain Rogers—smiling, laughing together—it nearly broke her heart all over to realize that this was James before he'd been broken.

He'd been happy.

Whole.

She could see traces of the man she'd come to love—that tug at the corner of his mouth when he was trying not to smile or the glint in his eye when he laughed—in this man from the past. The only Howling Commando casualty.

He'd lost so much more than just his life.

Her chest clenched watching him. Perhaps this had been a mistake. It had been hard enough when she'd first discovered this place. Her hand gripped tighter around her phone, fighting yet another battle to call it off. She wasn't sure if she could do this. But the part of her that had made this choice insisted it was her only chance. As soon as she had noticed the creased card sitting on the windowsill, still laying where she'd left it that last day, she'd known it was likely her only real option. There was no way she had the know-how or the resources to search for him on her own. It had still taken weeks to convince herself that she was right.

She'd sent only a single text to that number.

The Captain America Exhibit at the Smithsonian tomorrow at 3. You know which display. -Iris

It had been days before she could pull herself back together after he left. Weeks to feel almost normal. She'd tried to hate him, to push him from her mind for what he did to her, tried to tell herself she was better off only to fail miserably in the attempt. She understood why. And every time she tried to convince herself that she was angry at how badly he'd hurt her—that she should despise him for leaving her like that—the things he'd said, the fears he'd seen in his eyes always came back to her. She'd played their conversations over and over in her mind. Especially that last one after Sam Wilson had approached her on the street.

And she tried very hard not to replay the night that followed.

It hurt too much.

For that she still wanted to hate him. God, part of her still did. But the part of her that still loved him, that saw past his leaving just as she'd seen past his attempts to frighten her away from him, drowned out her anger and resentment.

Neither could she forget that part of what happened between them that night was on her too. That he'd left—worse, that he'd left without even saying a proper goodbye after what had happened between them—was him, all him...but she was the one who had invited him into her bed. She was the one who had initiated their love making. Had she not, she knew he wouldn't have dared. It wasn't in his character. Especially suspecting as she did that he had intended to leave before even entering her apartment that night. Heck, he probably hadn't been expecting her to wake up at all. She had encouraged him, implored with her touch and her kisses—not that it had taken a great deal of effort—but she'd seen the hesitation in his eyes and felt it in his body, yet she'd asked anyway. She knew he'd never been able to deny her, especially not when he wanted it as much as she did.

She was the one who asked him to stay.

Now there was a small, cruel voice in her head that pointed out how much harder she must have made it for him to leave. Despite not knowing a great deal about him, or knowing even a fraction of the things he'd done, she still knew him. She knew how he felt about her, and she knew he wasn't the kind of man who would trivialize what they'd shared; far from it. She knew he wouldn't have left if he hadn't believed he'd had no other choice. Especially not after their night together.