The night is still a deep velvet black, when you slip like shadows from the apartment.
Bucky's bike seems quieter than before, and you huddle against his back, locking your fingers around his broad chest when he takes off. He heads north first, tilting and turning through the tree-lined streets of the Upper West side, turning east to cross through Harlem, where a flickering neon orange bar sign spelling out LUKE'S briefly catches your eye.
When he hits the FDR, he slams on the gas, flying south. The Bridge looms ahead, white lights illuminating the smooth curve of cables. There's a heady rush of safety at the landmark, knowing what will follow.
Steps heavy, you walk slowly into Bucky's apartment, unclipping your backpack, dropping it with a soft thump.
Nothing has changed since the last time you were here.
His copy of the The Book Thief sits in the leather chair where you left it, your page marked with a battered Metro card. Bucky's half-finished crossword lays on the coffee table, waiting for him to puzzle out the remaining clues. Two half full glasses of water sit on the bar counter.
Everything has changed since the last time you were here.
Lightly touching the bandage on your forehead, you sigh. Even with your overactive imagination, you never expected this, and it makes you sick to your stomach.
"You're welcome to everything," Bucky says quietly. "I don't exactly get visitors, so if you need anything, just ask."
The world feels blurry, and you sway. Right now, the only thought in your head, is that you can feel your heartbeat through the cut on your forehead. It feels so fucking weird.
Opening your mouth to speak, nothing comes. Shrugging in confusion, you look to Bucky helplessly.
"Come here," he says, gently steering you toward an oak door at the far end of the apartment. Cracking it open, he stands aside to let you pass and you wander in slowly.
The room is small, but his bed is massive, dominating most of the space. The bed-frame looks handmade, boards slotted neatly together with reddish tints of cherry, dark streaks of walnut, and purplish swirls of rosewood. Cool grey sheets are topped with a puffy dark grey comforter, and there are no less than ten plush pillows piled at the headboard, shades of sky blue and stormy grey and inky cobalt.
It looks so comfortable you could fall asleep just staring at it. Cocking an eyebrow at the pillow mountain, you give him a small grin.
He laughs wryly. "I might have a thing for pillows."
"You really are a marshmallow, Barnes."
Bucky chuckles, but it fades when he sees the light leave your eyes. Since the first day he met you, he's been intrigued by the constant snarking, the quick jabs, the ever-present sass saturating every conversation.
But now, that unique bit of energy always simmering under your skin seems sapped, drained away by the night's events. It makes Bucky feel strangely hollow.
"You should go back to sleep, it's still early. The bedroom's all yours."
Rubbing the soft edge of the comforter, you feel a flicker of panic at the thought of being dumped and left alone for days. The question comes quietly.
"Will you stay here too?"
He doesn't respond, and after a moment's awkward silence, you glance up to find him watching you closely.
"Yes, I'll take the couch, as long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable. I need to go back to the city this morning, but I'll come back later."
Relieved at his response, you nod. "Sure, that works."
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...
