Krasivaya

Part 11

Bucky's POV

He wakes slowly from the best dream he's ever had. A deep contentment has settled in his soul. It was just a dream, but such a sweet dream, the accumulation of all his waking fantasies made manifest. As he traces nondescript patterns into the bare skin of the woman plastered against his chest, he knows he needs to get up, but he's loathe to. He snuggles you closer, stealing a few extra minutes before he rises, breathing in your scent, taking in the smooth feel of your skin under his fingertips. He'd happily give up everything if he could stay like this with you, but he knows he did too much damage for that ever to be a reality. Sighing he untangles himself and heads to the bathroom for a shower, grabbing his bag as he passes.

Shuking off his sweatpants, he frowns at the garment. Is that....? Was that...? No, it couldn't be. It was just a dream. He must have gotten a bit too excited. Confused and slightly bewildered, he steps into the shower, trying to shake off the lingering effects of the dream. It was no good. Even standing beneath the water's cold spray, he could still feel you, smell you on his skin.

Rinsing out his hair, he grabs a towel, steps out of the shower and faces the mirror. He stares at his reflection. He was being an idiot. He was pushing you further into the arms of Steve. He loved the man in his own roundabout way, he would move mountains to protect him, but you... you were something else entirely.

You were special, smart, beautiful and kind. He'd hurt you in the worst possible way. No matter what, he was going to show you how much you meant to him. How much he coveted and worshipped the ground you walked on.

Without being an asshole. He hoped.

Mind made up, he threw on his clothing in record time. Walking out of the bathroom, he finds you awake, in the process of putting on the tightest leather pants he'd ever seen.

Where you purposefully fuckng with him? He groans inwardly.

You freeze, blushing deeply, not making eye contact.

It sets him frowning.

"Morning," you mumble.

He tries to catch your eye. "Mornin'," he replies. "You alrigh'?"

"Fine! Just peachy!" you squeak, clearing your throat. "Will you start setting up the equipment?" you ask, staring fixedly at the floor.

"Yeah, doll," he replies, wondering what the hell he'd done wrong this time.

Your Pov.

Awkward morning pleasantries. Check.

Embarrassed beyond belief? Check

Guilty as sin? Double check.

He obviously didn't remember. He didn't know how you had taken advantage of him last night.

Wishing desperately you could phone Natasha, you need to talk this out, but your phone is restricted.

Moving toward the equipment you take your seat, ignoring Bucky's presence completely, watching the target pull up to the curb to meet his contact. You jot down any distinguishing features and a license plate, committing him to memory. You strain your mind, pushing at the walls of his, sifting through his memories, but there's some sort of block. You can't reach the information you need.

Eyes snapping open, you murmur, "Something's wrong."

Bucky is immediately alert. "What is it?" he asks as he scans the surrounding area for any movement.

"I can't get into his head. He's blocked me somehow. They must have there own telepath."

Bucky looks worried. "Could you take them? Sense their power?"

You shake your head. "The person is too far away, I can't get a lock on them. I have no idea if they are on my level." Concentrating on the source, you push yourself to the limit, trying futilely to get a read on the mutant. Frustrated you push harder, the corner of your mind going fuzzy.

Bucky's hand, roughly shaking you out of your trance, brings you back to the present. His worried gaze boring into you, he eyes you up and down. "Don' do that! You could hurt yourself. Don' be so damn reckless all the time. You're my responsibility!" he snaps.

You're used to Bucky's about turns when it comes to the safety of his teammates. It still smarts though. You were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.

His words, though, feed your insecurities.

The Melissa-esq voice in your mind begins snarling obscenities at you.

Not enough... Never enough... You'll never be more than second best... A burden to those you love... A waist of space... Fat... Ugly... Worthless...

Your vision darkens.. The overwhelming pressure in your mind begins pouring out. You're losing your grip on reality. You can't seem to rein yourself back in.

Panicked, you try and find an anchor. A thought, a memory, anything to grab onto. There's nothing an empty void before your eyes. You know this feeling. It's the feeling of someone else pushing you out of your head, the way Charles used to when he was teaching you control.

You grab onto the first thing you can find, a physical anchor when you can't find a mental one, which happens to be Bucky's metal arm. Clamping down the scream rising in your throat, you throw up a shield around the two of you before seeking out the black tendrils in your mind.

The foreignness of the intruder makes you unbearably angry. You can feel the power leaking out of you. Paint starts peeling off walls, tiles crack, furniture splinters, and plants die while you fight for control of your mind.

Snarling viciously, you give an almighty push, lashing the intruder with a whip of psychic energy.

The accompanying shriek of the other telepath has you grinding your teeth. It's a painful, desperate sound. Your whip would burn like acid, sear through the nerve endings like fire, putting this powerful foe out of commission for at least a day.It makes every nerve in your body protest as, tied together like you were, you were the recipient of a vicious wave of backlash.

Slumping forward, you drop the shield, sucking in large gulps of air as you try and bring yourself back. Your head feels like the John Bonham from Led Zeppelin is playing a drum solo in it. "Jesus," you huff out, taking in the carnage which surrounds you.

Bucky's crouched in front of you, tilting your chin upward. He gently strokes your cheek, "What happened, Krasivaya?"

With his eyes searching yours, you can sense the barely concealed panic under the facade he's putting up.

"What was that?" he asks again, intertwining your fingers with his metal hand.

"That Telepath is a level 5 mutant, James. She's as strong as I am, if not stronger." Faltering, you squash the mounting dread. "She knows who I am now. She knows what my mind looks like." You scan the room, pushing your taxed senses to find any unfriendly minds. It feels like your brain is on fire, but you need to be certain no one was coming for the two of you. "We need to finish this as soon as we can, before it comes to a fight. I don't know if I can win if it does," you say, trying to make him understand. Guilt eats at you with your inability to protect him. What good were you to anyone? You were useless, a failure. You couldn't even keep yourself together, keep a stranger out of your own damn mind. What reason did you even have for being anymore?

He nods once, rising to his feet,moving toward the upturned chair. Righting it, he takes a seat at the window. Before returning to the surveillance equipment, he stops to side-eye you. "You ain't alone, Krasivaya," he says nervously. "I'll always protect ya."

A rush of hope fills your chest.

He clears his throat. "Steve would murder me if I didn't bring you home."

Your heart falls, shattering like glass into shards so small, you'll never put it back together.