Captain America and Bucky Barnes Imagines

40. BUCKY: Pain Pals

Words: 4.5 K

A/N: the three dots signals a POV change (and in some cases, a slight time jump) between reader and Bucky

           

It's three AM when my phone starts to ding. I groan and roll around, trying to ignore the sound, before it starts back up again. With a grumble I reach for the obnoxious device. I've missed a few texts: both of which are from the same man. A man I've never met in person before, but talked to for nearly a year—a man who I met through an online, anonymous counseling group after my accident. I know how that sounds. Most people would assume I'm being naive. But really, my trust in this man wasn't dealt blindly. Our counselor has met us both in person. She tells me that it's true—his name is James, he's 26 like I am, and that he's missing a left arm.

None of that really matters to me though. All I care about now is knowing whether or not he's fallen in love with me that same way I have with him.

James: Are you awake?

James: I'm sorry; I know it's late there.

I rub at my eyes with the back of my hand. I owe it to him to see what's wrong, and I care very much. He's talked me through some hard nights of my own.

Me: Yeah, I'm awake. What's going on?

The typing bubbles pop up and then they're gone again. Suddenly, I'm worried.

Me: James?

Finally he responds.

James: Sorry, I just wanted to talk. Can I hear your voice?

I prop myself up against the wall with a pillow.

Me: Sure. I'll call you.

The upbeat chiming of the line ringing only lasts a mere millisecond before he's answered. He doesn't even bother with hello.

"How are you?" he asks me in that deep, dangerous voice.

"I'm good, thanks. How about you?"

He hesitates. "Much better now."

"What time is it in New York?"

James chuckles. "Not quite noon."

"And what are you doing right now?" I fold my left leg up to my chest and fiddle with the necklace that hangs heavily against my collar. It's from him, actually. He gave it to the counselor so that she could send it to me. We aren't supposed to know the addresses of the other, yet I oftentimes wonder why we haven't broken that rule. We're not just healing buddies now; we're nearly best friends. Hell, I adore him like any friend I've ever had—even more. I've no idea what he even looks like.

"Sitting at home, actually. Staring out a window," he answers my previous question.

"Is it a nice view?" Still I fiddle with the rose gold necklace: the chain warm from my skin and little ruby pendant heavier than it appears.

"Not as nice of view as you," James replies in that cheeky-bastard way.

I laugh lightly. "James, you've never seen me—how could you possibly know?"

"I just know."

My head gently lowers back to the wall. "Would you ever want to?" I ask. "See me, I mean."

"Of course I do, Y/N. I think about it every day." He clears his throat. "It's just not a good time."

"Right, right. You've told me before."