Chapter 6: I'm so sorry that happened to you

5.1K 209 191
                                    

It's Saturday morning, but Bucky still rises before dawn.

He opens the tracking app on his phone and checks in on you. Feels the familiar spark of relief when he finds the blinking white dot in your bedroom, presumably fast asleep.

He takes a cold shower, rinsing away the sticky feel on his skin, the kind that clings after a night of restless sleep. The icy water shocks him awake, makes his blood scream in protest, chases away the memories that seem to bloom fresh following the nightmares.

He pulls on black gym shorts and a faded blue t-shirt, pads barefoot to the kitchen. He makes coffee, drinks half the pot in a few scalding swallows, fills a huge mug with the rest, and sets a second pot to brew.

He sits on the floor in front of the sofa, reads through outstanding mission reports and emails an update to Nick Fury and Jack Bernstein.

When 7:00 arrives, he texts you.

"Good morning. Call me if you need to go anywhere."

He heads down to the gym, flips on the treadmill, and knocks out 15 miles. Follows that with push-ups, sit-ups, lunges. Cycles through five sets of a hundred each before he checks his phone again.

Nothing.

Mildly surprised at the lack of response, he texts again, grinning to himself when he imagines the snarky response his words will elicit.

"Elementary level manners suggest responding when someone wishes you a good morning."

He goes to the heavy duty punching bags, the ones Stark bought especially for him and Steve, and lets his mind go blank for an hour, punching and kicking until sweat pours off his body. He drops to the floor with a groan, chest heaving as he catches his breath. He reaches behind him, plucks his phone from the mats.

Nothing.

Opening the tracking app again, he discovers you in the same place as before, a blinking white dot still in your bedroom.

He dials your number and it goes straight to voicemail. He rolls his eyes and hangs up when he hears the recorded voice.

"No one uses voicemail. Don't leave a message, I won't listen. Text me."

So he texts again. "Are we in a mood today? Respond please."

He takes a second shower and dresses for the day, old black jeans and a white t-shirt. He makes breakfast, using Steve's bright blue Captain America toaster, which mysteriously reappeared two days ago. It now imprints an Ironman logo on every slice of bread it toasts and Steve is pissed.

Slathering peanut butter over Tony's face, he takes a huge bite and looks at the phone again.

Nothing.

He narrows his eyes, feels the first flicker of fear pulse in his chest. The blinking white dot is still there, hasn't moved an inch, but this is so completely out of character. He calls again, growling in frustration when the voicemail picks up, so he texts again and waits.

"Respond in the next 60 seconds or I'm coming over. Not a joke."

Nothing.

"Fuck," he mutters, feeling his skin begin to crawl. He dumps his food in the sink and snags his leather jacket from the common room, tugs on a pair of heavy black boots. Walks quickly to his room to grab his gun, slides a knife into each boot and hurries to the elevator. When he reaches the garage, he breaks into a jog, winding through rows of expensive cars, until he reaches his bike parked near the exit. The engine roars when he flips the switch, and he checks his phone one final time.

Safe with meWhere stories live. Discover now