He pulls on latex gloves, selects a small scalpel. Opening the newspaper, he skims the headlines, searching for what he needs. He hums under his breath as he works, carefully slicing out letters, words, small phrases. Each piece he cuts is delicately collected with a shiny pair of tweezers, before it's placed gently on a small silver tray.
He loves her. He loves her so much. He would do anything for her, be anything for her. He would kill for her, he would die for her. My god, he was so alone before, but then he found her and she is everything.
He found her first.
But then they found him.
They said they would help, if he just followed their instructions, did exactly what they said. So he did what they asked and it was working, he knows it was working. She was starting to love him back.
But now HE is there. He's everywhere all the time, and it's wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything is wrong.
He can't lose her.
He won't lose her.
Not to the Soldier.
He hisses a shuddering breath, and the scalpel slips and nicks his finger. Piercing the latex glove, he watches curiously as a drop of blood wells up, rising through his skin. It hangs precariously before it spills over, dripping to the paper and soaking in, like red ink spidering into tiny lines across the page.
*****
When the office goes quiet, you hit your stride. The words flow fast and furious, pouring from your fingers as the article takes shape. Headphones are nestled snugly in your ears, blocking out the world as the office powers down for the night, and the hours tick by as you lose yourself in the story.
It's late when you put the finishing touches on the final paragraph, and if your last two texts are anything to go by, Bucky will be pacing anxiously downstairs. They reduce building security after 23:00 and you know he's uncomfortable with you alone on the floor.
Over the past week and a half, you've finally started to figure him out.
The morning after your meltdown, he appeared in front of your apartment with a quiet 'good morning,' clearly relieved when you managed a hesitant smile in return. He didn't mention the night before, but when he fell in step at your side, he spoke lightly of random topics, making a conscious effort to put you at ease.
With that effort, an unspoken truce was established. Tentative at first, as you cautiously circled each other, but the glue appears to be holding.
That truce hasn't precluded you from still bitching at each other when the opportunity arises. Somehow, the man can get under your skin in just the right way, leaving you spoiling for a fight. But the more you learn about him, the more time you spend peeling away that stoic mask, the more you find yourself annoyingly intrigued.
He does crossword puzzles to keep his brain sharp. There are at least four knives strapped to his body at all times. He likes his coffee harshly, bitterly black. He speaks at least eight different languages and he knows the lyrics to every single Beatles song.
Bucky Barnes is refreshingly, unnervingly, unexpected.
Hitting save, you submit the final version to your proofreader, and slouch in your chair with relief. Rubbing blurry eyes and stretching your arms with a soft groan, you can feel the stress evaporate as you stand. Keeping your headphones in place, you pause to let the song finish, allowing your mind to wander into a blissfully relaxing dead space.
YOU ARE READING
Safe with me
Fanfiction"You call my name and I'll run to you. I'll always come for you. Do you understand? You're safe with me." When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. One catch. The man is infuriating. Finding a way to co-ex...
