#and I don’t have chooriyan

[suesheroll]

,

[barnesandco]

Nikah: January

Story Masterlist

Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.

Bucky marries Peter’s former tutor because her student visa’s about to expire and the government isn’t granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of grief, war.

A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart ‘s writing challenge. This story will update on weekends, with two chapters each on Saturdays and Sundays. Tags are open, and for now I’m only tagging those on my permanent list. You can always let me know if you want to be added or taken off of something. I look forward to your comments and hope that you enjoy.

Bucky Barnes did not plan to start the new year as a married man. Not until three weeks ago, when this entire ordeal began. Yet here he is, a gold band on his prosthetic hand that is buried beneath the pillow under his head, while he watches his near-stranger bride sleep next to him. They’ve met in person a grand total of two times, the second being the marriage ceremony itself. Ceremony is an overstatement, he thinks. They eloped. Oh, if his ma could see him now. Bruised and war-torn, reborn from Hydra’s ashes with the marvel of Wakandan technology, married to a woman he hardly knows. And it’s all Peter Parker’s fault.

It had started with his silence. Slowly but surely, the youngest Avenger, known for his jubilant enthusiasm, had become unnervingly quiet. 

One week, and they begin to notice. Curious look and additional encouragements to involve him.

Two weeks, and they suspect he misses Tony more than usual. It’s been several months, but the grief comes and goes in waves. Laughter can turn quickly into tears. Bucky’s seen them smile at a joke and turn to the head of the table, or a corner of the room, looking for Tony or Nat’s response respectively, only for the smile to fall at the proof of their absence. They give him time, Sam gives him a talk, and Pepper, an invitation to lunch at the lakehouse.

Three weeks, and they return from a multiple-week mission and brake outside the kitchen like eavesdropping teenagers. The actual teenagers - Peter and Wanda - are inside discussing something. By the distress in Peter’s voice, it’s whatever’s been bothering him recently.

“-but if the student visa doesn’t expire for another year, why is she applying already?” Wanda’s asking from the stove, stirring a Sokovian soup. Peter puts a Tupperware container of extra chopped vegetables in the fridge. Leans on the marble countertop, sighing.

“She suspected that they might reject her. He PhD ends in June so she’s applying for a green card instead, but immigration policies are stricter now. Especially for people from Muslim countries, and she’s Pakistani. It isn’t fair,” He reiterates, tastes the soup. Anything to distract from his shaking hands. Wanda looks on worriedly. “I just mean- like- she’s been living here for almost ten years. She just wants to be a permanent resident. If they don’t let her, she’ll have to go back. She doesn’t want to, but she’ll have to,” He concludes, opening the tap and initiating clean-up.

“And she’s… important… to you,” Wanda states, looking over her shoulder, giving him room to elaborate.

“She helped me with English class and lit in middle school. She was there when Ben died, when Tony died, she’s just been constant, y’know?” He explains. Wanda puts down the wooden spoon, rests a hand on the counter and absorbs her friend’s morose expression.

“So now what?”

“There’s no way they’ll extend her visa. She’ll probably try again for a green card, but I don’t think it’ll work. If she had a steady job, she could apply for a work visa, but she’s freelance. The only other thing I can think of is marriage to a US citizen.”

He hopes it works. The marriage. Green card by family, by marriage, by him vouching for her. The ring is constricting around his finger, a heavy weight reminding of the sanctity of marriage, and how he’s breaching it. He wonders if she feels the same way. At present, she appears unperturbed, lying on her side facing him. The hand bearing the ring is in front of her face, resting on the pillow like a crown on its pedestal. The scarce daylight, just cloudy watercolor, tip-toes through the gap in his blackout curtains, casting a thing stream of moonlight across her face. Snow day.

They had barely made it to his apartment last night before the blizzard hit. She had been quiet then, even more so than now, when he can at least hear her sleep-steady breaths escape the cage built by the pink pillows of her lips. Eyelashes like snowflakes against the bags under her eyes. 

The mildly disturbing nature of his actions occurs to him, and he decides to stop. Gets out of bed and tenses when she shifts.  The duvet slides down, revealing her white night-gown. Bucky moves, steps as soft and sneaky as fog on the carpet, to her side. Lifts the duvet up to her ching, grazing her silk-clad shoulder in the process. A mumble, and he holds his breath, but thankfully, she stays asleep.

Shutting his - their - bedroom door behind him, he makes for the bathroom first. The shower is scalding hot, and his skin pinks quickly. The Wakandan shampoo is running out. He makes a note to ask Shuri for more, and thinks about what American item to send in return. Dunkin’ Donuts, perhaps. 

Coconut goes well with the raspberry scent of his new wife’s body wash, already embedded in the walls because she takes evening showers. Claims they help her sleep. It didn’t help last night, however, because she tossed and turned throughout, only coming to rest around three. Bucky didn’t fare any better, eyes shutting an hour later. 

He rinses his hair, the condensation from the steam on his arm washing off. Resumes his morning rituals - conditioner, shower gel, rinse, dry off. As he’s towelling himself dry, he takes in the evidence of her presence once again. The bottle of lotion on the vanity, the make-up removal wipes in the cabinet next to his shaving things. Like this is all perfectly normal.

It is, of course, everything but. You don’t marry someone you don’t know. The gravity of his actions tug on his stomach as he walks past the couch he offered to sleep on. He hadn’t wanted to make her uncomfortable, but she had vehemently refused to kick him out of his own bed. Said she would rather sleep in the snow outside. He’s sure she would have, too, given the excuse, and she would’ve melted the snow into steaming puddles around her, anger coming off red-hot like the sun’s rage.

He lights the stove and fetches the ingredients necessary for pancakes. Opens a recipe on his tablet. Never made them on his own a day in his life - Sam’s are better, but he’ll never tell him that. Something in him just wants to put her at ease. Anyone who cares to look past the stiff demeanor, the jasmine flower in her hair, the reluctant mehndi on her hands, the fire in her eyes, will see resentment. At the government, God, fate, destiny - all scapegoats to blame for putting her in this situation. For reducing her to getting married just to stay in the country she considers home.

Bucky is, too. Resentful, that is. What’s worse is, he doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t understand where the love went. Then he feels guilty, snorts at his own naivete, his blissful ignorance. Lover boy Bucky Barnes. He was never one for politics, he thinks, pouring the first pancake. What little he remembers of his youth wafts up; taking care of Becca, taking care of Steve, taking girls on dates, taking the ship to the war, taking out Nazis. Even in the trenches, where soldiers had a tendency to question Roosevelt, or cuss at Hitler, he’d order them to shut up and shoot. If us fellas were meant to do nothin’ but talk, we’d be in Congress already, but we ain’t. So quit blabberin’ and do your jobs.

The second pancake is on the platter. A door opens somewhere down the hall. He waits, still and patient, as footsteps enter the bathroom and the sound of his sizzling frying pan and running water washes out the anxiety of talking to her. He will have to, at some point or the other. They live together. She had suggested briefly that they not, hadn’t wanted to burden him, but he reminded her of his public image. People would most certainly notice if he wasn’t living with his wife, and then where would they be?

Said wife is now in the kitchen, wringing her hands, the glass bangles - chooriyan - chiming, and he pretends to be unaware. 

“James?” This plan doesn’t last very long, and he turns to see that she’s wearing what he would call a tunic if Peter hadn’t taught him it’s a kameez - he’s been giving him desi culture lessons - over a pair of jeans.

“Just Bucky, please. Mornin’. Sleep well?” He returns to the pancakes, blushing at his ineptitude. Tries to convince himself it’s okay, she’s an introvert, too. She’s uncomfortable around new people, too. The pancake tower is now five high.

“You should’ve woken me. Why are you making breakfast by yourself?” She ignores his question, a question he doesn’t know why he asked if he knows the answer to, and comes up to stand next to him at the counter.

“Why would I do that? I can cook, you know,” He says, only half in jest, the joke the first of the day, of the year, of their relationship. She smiles - a reward.

“Yeah, but still…” She trails off, then shakes away what’s troubling her. Bucky files that response under Things to Worry About Later. “I can see that you can cook. A little too well, it seems,” She laughs, gesturing to the sizable stack. “Can you eat five pancakes?” She asks with wonder.

“What do you mean?” 

“I can’t eat more than two, and you just flipped your seventh one, so that means you’ll have to-”

“Don’t worry. They’ll be gone before you can say super-metabolism,” He reassures, and she nods dubiously.

“Can I at least set the table?” Bucky looks at her, soft and kind and wise, wishes that she didn’t have to experience this. Forcing a marriage to stay in the place she loves. What has the world come to?

He shows her where the plates are, sets about pulling out various pancake toppings. Syrup, honey, berries, Nutella. She places the plates on the table, brings him the pot of coffee he forgot he made. Finally, they sit. Minutes of utensils colliding and the pancake stack diminishing pass before either of them say anything. She pours him coffee.

“Thanks. You didn’t pour any for yourself,” He says, frowning around a mouthful of blueberries. 

“I don’t drink coffee?”

“Tea?”

“Yeah, but-” Bucky begins to get up but she reaches for his hand, chooriyan clinking against the vibranium. “I don’t feel like it today,” She tells him, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“You should’ve said something,” He says, upset at not being able to provide for a guest, the guest who’s going to be staying for a while. She shakes her head, spreads Nutella across her second pancake.

“It’s not that big a deal,” She laughs, cutting a piece. “Some days I feel like it and some days I don’t.”

“Okay.”

They finish breakfast in silence, and Bucky drinks more coffee than he should. She’s just picked up the dishes and is picking up a bottle of dish soap when Bucky opens the dishwasher and and takes both the dishes and the soap from her hands. Rinses and stacks them, then looks up at her as he’s drying his hands, still kneeling at the dishwasher. Observes the protest turn to surprise and then to veiled joy, and thinks: they might just make it through this.

Taglist:  @suz-123​ @mermaidxatxheart​ @buckyreaderrecs​ @shield-agent78​ @corneliabarnes​ @readerandcinephileingeneral​ @stevieboyharrington​ @notsomellowmushroom​ @veganfangirl5​ @mood-pancakes​ @lbuck121​

[chaandkeeroshni]

beloved, 

there are secrets only you and i know

when i was going through ugly storms at home

you were the one who made me seen for my pain of being the neglected child, of all the privileges my 6-7 year old brother was already being given

during fiascos going on at home you got to on call with me over ptcl for hours at night

and you innocently said to me you wanted to wait till you could get a car

so you could take me away, and drive me to school everyday

i fell in love with you a little by little, even though ive never given my heart to anyone, 

not before you, not after you,

a night before my CIEs you have me a grounding session over the phone, you put me to sleep

you had formed the initial attraction for a badass feminist, but you had identified the little girl within

whom you wanted to take care of, maybe she didn’t need you

but during nights similar to the night before CIEs you made big promises

that you’d always stay, whenever i was most out of breath, and vulnerable in my most fragile femininity stuck in abusive situations 

you promised me you’d stay and with each promise, i let my heart rule my brain, and make more and more space for you

to give all of me to you

after one of our fights i apologized to you and you responded by saying 

i promise i will hold you so close that nothing will be able to hurt you

now that you have left me alone, no matter how strong and fierce, you out of all people

also know the little girl in all the fierceness

who feels lost, she feels vulnerable and sometimes needs support 

and i think about all your promises

your promises that even if we fell apart one day you’d call me out of nowhere and tell me

whoever it was whom i was seeing was irrelevant, my actual partner 

my lobster, was here finally, and nothing could undo that

do I still wait for that phonecall when it’s been half a decade, I don’t know

what I do know is, i have not been able to let my heart rule over my brain ever again 

ive become cynical 

but when it comes to you and even if its just a “how are you text” it melts my heart and then all i know and feel is the heart

i remember the first present you ever got for me where chooriyan 

and i think of this ominous song, me laut aunga, 

where probably the man recognizes the vulnerable in the woman he has been in love with 

and he tells her pehnani thi jo chooriyan pehna jaunga

kiay thay jo waaday sab, woh mar kay bhi nibhaaunga

and during nights like today, i want to wish the best upon my beloved, but what do i do 

in the world you’ve left me alone in when you promised you wouldn’t

what do i do with each broken promise

take glass bangles and stab them in my wrists one by one, 

because i don’t know what to do with the promises

or the bangles

during phone calls where you say no one can break you off from the woman you now supposedly love

i know you know perhaps a love could never be as intense but also as unresolved and unsettling as ours

but sometimes i have no option but to wait

because as insane as it might sound, i hear you in that song 

the ominous song, me laut aunga

but i don’t know whom to confront because the man who made those promises looks so different from the one

who knew his love for me was intense so he wanted to cope with loss in the form of anger and certain politics and even 

revenge

i know you by heart, better than anyone else, 

i know you like to prove people wrong, i know you wanna be the most competent son of a bitch in the room

you wanted to prove me wrong and take revenge too probably

but im here to ask you

whats the point

of giving pain consciously to the woman you loved the most, as my shameless heart likes to think at least

i dont’t know what i want from you expect the awareness that i live with the weight of this reality, every single day of my life.

[unearthlyperennial]

|August 1, 2017| Untouched Monsoon. I remember being 5 years old, vacationing in Pakistan with my family during the hottest season. The first, and only, time I visited. I recall when my cousin would take the train from his assigned army base to my Khala’s home, as a friendly welcome, I would jump onto his back as soon as he walked through the door. One time, he brought back gifts for me and my sisters. Customized shimmery glass bangles, embellished with our names. I shoved them over my fists and onto my scrawny arms. I leafed through the set. Mine read: A-y-s-h-a. Or maybe it was A-y-e-s-h-a. I don’t remember if he knew how to spell my name. I ran around with my adorned arms held up in front of me, vigilant of the glass chooriyan on my wrists. I remember being told not to jump up and down, but since I was a hyper little monkey-child, I didn’t listen. One shattered on the floor...oh, so fragile they were. Didn’t expect that. Headstrong and stubborn, I believed it wouldn’t happen again. So I kept playing obstinately and recklessly. And another fell. But I jumped again on the charpai, and another broke. One by one, I lost all my chooriyan. Growing up in America was something like that. I thought I had enough of Pakistan inside of me to carry my roots throughout my lifetime, until of course I would move to my motherland, a land I thought was my own. But I lost my language, I lost my family, I lost large pieces of my culture and tradition, and the history of my ancestors became a faraway long-lost daydream, or nightmare. Sixteen years have passed in whimsical hopes and innocent fantasies. And I haven’t been back since. — I never saw Pakistan again, but I carry around shards with me wherever I go. -a.a