December // A Winter Soldier Story

11

ｄｅｃｅｍｂｅｒ ２０ｔｈ， ２０１３

２４°

ℬ𝓊𝒸𝓀𝓎

Her room is unbelievably warm.

A bed lies in the center of the room, covered with a grey comforter, white pillows, and a soft black blanket. Both windows are framed with sheer white curtains. Picture frames and shelves litter the walls, making the space feel personal, lived in. There's a small desk in the corner, made of a piece of glass and thin white posts. The dresser and the nightstand are both made of a delicate white wood. A sweatshirt rests on the dresser in a pile, having likely been recently worn. A white rug is on the floor between the bed and the dresser.

Everything is simple, warm, inviting, and not at all a place he feels like he belongs in. Bucky turns to Lea. Her eyes are such a pretty color.

He doesn't want to look away, but he has to, of course he has to. He can't stay here forever. He's surprised they haven't talked about how long he is staying yet, especially after their conversation about his past went so poorly earlier. After that, he'd been sure that she'd want him out, but instead she had yet to bring the topic up at all.

That's ok, though, because he was planning to leave soon, anyway. The longer he stays, the more risk he brings her. He cannot do that. Not to her. He'd been trying to figure out when to leave for hours.

"You're welcome to sleep anywhere in the house, of course, including in here. If you want to sleep in my bed, I can sleep in the guest room, or on the couch. Anything is fine, really. Just pick wherever you're most comfortable. I'll work around you," Lea says, flashing him a smile that makes him want to smile in return. He takes a second to answer, weighing his options.

Considering what he is probably going to do tomorrow, he figures he may as well spend one less night of his life alone.

"You sleep in your own bed. I'll sleep on the floor in here. Beds are too soft for me, anyway," he replies in his gruff, unwelcoming voice. He speaks in the exact opposite of the way of how she delicately shapes her words, and subconsciously hates himself for it.

If he is not mistaken, her eyes seems to brighten at his response. "Ok. I'll grab some blankets and a pillow for you, then."

She leaves the room, taking the life with her. He stands awkwardly in the doorway. He is too bulky, too scarred, too imperfect to belong in this room. He feels like if he touches something, he'll mess it up. So he hovers by the door like a ghost, yearning to be a part of a world that he has been too long separated from.

Lea returns moments later. She sets another black blanket on the floor, along with two white pillows. She also has a toothbrush. She hands it to him.

"Here, thought you might want that. You probably also want a shower. If you do, you can use the bathroom in the hallway or the bathroom just off of this room," she informs him, pointing. The idea of a shower had never occurred to him. It's been so long since he'd had one, he hadn't even thought of asking her about it.

He takes the toothbrush from her and heads toward the bathroom that is connected to her room. Once the door is shut, he takes a moment to let his surroundings soak in -- the small shower and bathtub combination, the grey wall tiles, the pale blue shower curtain, the basket full of Lea's belonging under the sink -- before stripping of the foreign sweatpants and jumping in the shower, ignoring the fact that the water has yet to warm. Cold water doesn't bother him anymore, not when he's been exposed to it so many times. At least this water is clean.

He takes his time scrubbing the blood and dirt off of himself, not even so much as wincing when the water gradually becomes hot. It soaks through the bandage on his leg and into his wound. He uses the soap he finds on a shelf in the wall. It smells like Lea.