#coming in hot with bruce's continuous semi-denial of his did

[angerissue]

ID: UNKNOWN.

@mynameisanakin

It was midday in the Catskills, around the time of year when the days were beginning to shorten and darken, and the temperature was beginning to chill. From his glances outside and the occasional wanderings into the hills for some fresh air, he could see the maple trees blushing with a garish shade of candy apple red, the colours vibrant against the unchanging fir and pine. But attractive as the imagery was, when Bruce was indoors and preoccupied, as he was now, it didn't remain at the forefront of his mind, as if it was somehow immune to permanence. His focus was more immediate and didn’t care about the outdoors.

Cloud-bidden sunlight filtered through the windows, mingling with the fluorescence as he wandered down the hall and towards the kitchenette, a clipboard tucked under his wing and the desire for tea on his mind. Over the past few hours of work, his eyes had grown sore and a bit dry; a bit nearsighted from their fixation on the monitors in the laboratory, a problem that even his eyeglasses wouldn’t thwart. He almost forgot what that was like, to suffer the effects of prolonged screen time. Not that it was ever a bad idea to remind himself every now and again; to retain that connection instead of dismissing it.

(He wasn’t sure it would return again, if he did that.)

Regardless, after a good fifteen minutes or so, he would be back in business again and return to the lab. Not that he hadn’t brought some of his work along with him in the interim, because it felt odd, leaving his work unattended if he was enthralled in it to his current extent. Then again, he would be kidding himself to say this project was different from the rest. Piecemeal modifications to the quinjet’s power source were one project in an excessively long lineup of others. Yes — the efficacy of upgrading the quinjet was questionable. It may not have been practical, to invest in a vehicle that lacked proper permissions in the air and could only be used sparingly; with its cloaking, whenever he felt it necessary to slip from one location to another without using the Hulk.

But it remained a pet project nonetheless. The same went for his research into better performance textiles, mass-scale water purification units, and the applications of the Hulk's plasma — an interesting venture, because its ability to heal deep wounds and transport medicine in the bloodstream had shown promising results in mice, almost to the point of unnerving him with its potential. The only hiccups came whenever he contacted his sources, at which time he requested that they solely provide him with the "frail and ailing" specimens. It had always been an uncomfortable conversation; perhaps it was only Bruce's imagination, but he suspected that some of these men and women, while they were indeed fully aware of his qualifications in the sciences, believed he was gathering up sick mice to observe for kicks. He must have seemed like a sadist. It wouldn't have been difficult for them to believe, given he'd conceived of an AI that fit that bill. And he’d heard the murmurings over the years. Whether the infamous Doctor Banner was merely posturing as an unlucky scientist, and truthfully had ulterior motives for all his supposed blunders. The conspiracy theories had been less prominent and discussed since the snap was reversed, his name included in the list of those behind it, but they were still around.

In truth, he merely believed if the mice were on the verge of succumbing anyhow, they could only improve. Nothing he did could worsen their odds further; add more preventable deaths to his conscience.

But those experiments had been put on hold in favour of the quinjet modifications, part of which were attached to the clipboard that he lowered onto the kitchen island. There was only one remaining mouse in the observatory; a white-furred knockout he had affectionately named Eddie, who no longer lived in the lab, but off in the corner of the living room in a small cage. If he turned his head, he would see it next to the sofa.

Sometimes, Eddie joined him in the lab, seemingly at peace even on the big guy’s shoulder, or in his hand.

And Eddie wasn't a rarity in that sense. It seemed that most animals didn't mind the monster's presence. There was something about that state; he was never quite sure whether his presence alone was calming to animals somehow, or whether there was some attribute in his behaviour that was missing in an ordinary man's. Predictability, perhaps. Whatever the reason, when he wandered into the trees and crossed paths with deer, they seldom skittered away from him. They often approached him to say hello. The warblers and white-bellied thrushes never flew away in anticipation of an incident. Generally, the wildlife lacked fear. The doctor could tell this with certainty, because he could hear... Everything. The natural world's impression of him had been an odd lesson to learn, when he first learned it, but it ultimately made him feel better. Unnatural as he was, he felt anything but in these circumstances. It almost made him wonder if the concept of natural; unnatural, was a wholly human construct. A way of labelling, quantifying, and classifying things that were unfamiliar to them, but in the end, could still fit into the world like a missing puzzle piece. In that sense, perhaps nothing was ever really unnatural.

Bruce opened the kitchen cupboard. Then, fingers curling around the brassy handle, he carefully pulled the maple tea box from its resting spot, placing it on the counter and carding through the multicoloured packets for jasmine tea. The tea box was one of the few earthier items in the more clinical vicinity. A stark contrast, and definitely a conversation piece that could warrant questions, or at least unexpressed intrigue and curiosity, from newcomers.

Said newcomers would find it hard to believe, but the box had been a housewarming gift from Tony. Bruce theorized that he'd bartered for it from some small-time vendor or nabbed it from a pawn shop; it didn’t have the meticulous, almost machined finish that someone would expect from a mass-produced piece; there were flaws, but they were not the typical quality control issues of that production type. And when he saw the engraved name on the underside of the lid (which he presumed was the maker) and searched for it online, he received very few answers. Sometimes, he considered whether Tony himself had carved the tea box, which could feasibly correlate with his more slower-paced lifestyle as of late; one that was less inundated by bleeding-edge tech. Yet Bruce never asked him. One answer could’ve led to five more questions, or worse yet, he could’ve fallen into another one of Tony Stark’s infamous rabbit holes and had trouble digging his way out again. It wouldn’t have been the worst of rabbit holes; woodworking, but the guy had a wife and a kid. Bruce couldn’t have deprived Tony of his time with them; hard-earned time at that, even if the man himself said it was supposedly fine. Bruce didn’t trust his own judgement, but he didn’t trust Tony’s most of the time, either.

However, discussion of the tea box was nonexistent at the observatory. There were seldom newcomers to ask about it.

But he preferred the solitude. With interactions came problems. Quandaries to solve that wouldn't have manifested otherwise, like worms deep in the earth, invisible until someone rooted through the topsoil and disturbed them, throwing everything out of balance. And frankly, it had been ages since the hardest decision he needed to make was determining the kind of tea he wanted to brew. Since one of his decisions didn’t precede a potentially devastating domino effect, because in the company of others, his actions tended to have that outcome. It had taken him far too long to accept that this was unsustainable.

Nothing justified putting innocent people in harm’s way so he could chum around with his teammates.

Not to mention he sorely missed the calmer, easier days that came before all this; before the accident and the team and the culling. He wanted to restore them in the next few years, and beyond. He wanted to remember what they were like. He wanted to flex this old muscle, after allowing it to atrophy for so long, especially because with that atrophy, he had gradually noticed a kind of emptiness forming inside of him, like he didn’t know his truest ideals or intentions anymore; like he was being moulded by the others until he lost his own identity.

Forging a direction of his own was... Paramount to him.

Not that his years with the Avengers didn't bear validation and silver linings of their own, but the moments were often interspersed among more arduous circumstances, which he’d rather have avoided. A positive event derived from a negative event could never be considered a net gain, because they cancelled each other out. And this was what happened with the Avengers, at an uncomfortably frequent rate... The Sokovia relief efforts were a humanitarian, positive venture, but those efforts only happened because of the genocidal Ultron intelligence that had levelled the entire city. Among others. Bruce still bore the consequences from these antithetical happenings. Much as he tried to dismiss them, they still pricked at him every now and then. The fear he would never undo the public’s distrust of him. The omnipresent sense of never being able to make up for lost time, despite doing so now. This... Identity disorder that had proliferated in his mind like a cancer.

That part, in particular, still felt like a bad dream. Something he couldn’t believe was real, nor could ever be real. He had discounted Tony’s input and suggestions about it when he first heard them, and there were still moments when he couldn't accept the man's diagnosis, because it just seemed so outlandish. He'd done plenty of research himself into so-called split personalities. Bundle theories; ego theories. But nothing seemed remotely plausible or realistic. What happened to him in Johannesburg, at the New Avengers' compound, and less than a year ago in this same observatory; it was like something out of a movie... Pseudo scientific... Alien possession. Implanted memories. Dopplegangers. Perhaps Wanda had put something real in his brain, for all her intangible abilities. Perhaps it would show up as a shadow in an MRI. Perhaps the shadow would move.

But in the end, however real the problem was (and there was, indeed, a problem; his loss of time and consciousness could attest to this), Hulk hadn't made an appearance since then.

Bruce almost believed, or wanted to believe, these were isolated events. And Hulk wouldn’t appear again.

He suspected that being alone would help with it.

Perhaps his former teammates knew that he needed time alone. Perhaps it's why an unspoken understanding between them had arisen once he'd settled down, here in the Catskills — an understanding that, while they would continue to call each other acquaintances, they wouldn’t bother each other unless utterly necessary, because their paths had wholly diverged now. Because they had attained some new form of equilibrium with each other, unlike the kind that existed when they were all working together.

And perhaps, some part of Bruce feared that if he updated his teammates on all his recent ventures, it would inspire Tony to return to his own work (however improbable the idea was, since his family life had long been a priority for him). Bruce wasn't sure he wanted the competition. He was finally in a place where he could catch up to, and eventually even surpass, Tony's own milestones in the field, and this would become a lot more difficult if Tony was still chugging away. A selfish notion indeed, but it didn't adversely affect Tony in any manner, so while he did feel the occasional pang of guilt about it, he could ultimately shrug it off.

He poured some water into the electric kettle and plugged it into the backsplash. As he waited for it to warm up, problems and solutions for his current project passed in and out of his thoughts. His mind was never quiet, even now during his self-imposed break, and he couldn't help but cast occasional glances at his clipboard, as if it could record all his ruminations without contact.

Soon, the kettle was whistling. Bruce grabbed a mug from the cupboard and began steeping his tea, electing to stand at the counter rather than taking a seat — at least for now. The mug that he chose was made from white ceramic, and it bore a custom print job with a child's drawing on the front — a colourful crayon scribble of Captain America, which was one in a four-piece set that contained artwork of Thor, Captain America, Iron Man, and the Hulk; what the general public deemed the "big four" of the original Avengers. Multiples of this mug set, which was undoubtedly created by an enthusiastic child who loved superheroes, and a supportive parent who indulged the (perhaps misguided) adulation, had been in a fanmail package for Steve months earlier. Steve had originally offered Bruce a mug with the Hulk on it, but he'd turned it down on the chance that if someone found their way into the observatory and caught a glimpse of that mug, and only that mug, they could draw unwanted conclusions. He wouldn't have that. Rather than retracting the offer, Steve made it bigger and offered him all four mugs. Thus, he owned the entire set — Thor, Captain America, Iron Man, and Hulk.

(The Hulk mug received less use than the others, as evident from its comparative lack of tea stains.)

And at last, Bruce took a seat at the island.

He didn’t think about tea much when he was greener. Drinking it wasn’t something he could humour unless he wanted to make himself uncomfortable. But he couldn't deny the pleasure his ordinary self derived from tea — it was nice to wrap his fingers around a warm mug when they were stiff and sore from tapping at a keyboard. It was nice to let his elbows rest on a tabletop and give his shoulders a break, after they had spent hours propping his hands up for touch and gestural commands. He relished the sensations more the longer he abstained from them, the sensation of eating most of all. His transformed self simply couldn't do this without suffering ill effects; he wasn't designed to ingest things. While he could, theoretically, take a sip without swallowing and chew without swallowing, it lacked the fulfillment of the rest of the process, least physiologically. It was like chewing gum, but much more agitating. If stopping before swallowing were that simple, he imagined people would eat all sorts of things and not suffer the consequences, no matter how harmful. Wouldn't that be nice. As it stood, it wasn't possible.

Thus in a sense, the opportunities when he could eat or drink had become something of a treat for him. It was something that only happened if he slowed down a little, and yanked himself away from his work long enough — and spent some time as a frailer version of himself.

Both of these criteria were rarities.

Blowing across the top of the mug to cool it down, he took a swig of tea. Then he glanced down at his clipboard, the graph paper covered with iterations of a new device, both sketches and measurements. He inspected one set of measurements, then he flipped his pencil and scrubbed away a line of writing before thumbing the shreds from the rubber tip.

Reworking certain components of the quinjet, in a sense, reminded him of the time he designed the observatory. And he missed the design process, frankly, because it gave him a substantial sense of control in comparison to his accommodations at the Avengers facilities, where he could adjust his spaces but not overhaul them entirely; after all, the locations were not his own. Back when he designed the observatory, he could choose doors that locked on his own command, and ones that were tall enough to accommodate both his guises. He could choose the ratio of open space to smaller, more amniotic rooms. So while he didn't build the place, his input on the floor plans made it feel more like home than anything else.  

The entrance faced south and opened up into the main floor, which held the kitchen and living area. The latter space was dressed with a few sofas and a coffee table, and boasted large, open windows that easily permitted the morning sun. If one ventured further into the floor and passed through a closed door, they'd find the laboratories, and living quarters which consisted of his own room and a guest ensuite (it was still unfurnished, given the circumstances), or they could take one of two staircases. The first was a nautilus shell of a metal staircase that spiraled up into the dome, the room fitted with a massive telescope that passed through the paneled ceiling. The second was a straight staircase that led into the basement. The clutter of unused equipment against the pallid walls was evident the moment someone ventured down there — as were the control panels for the power source, which manifested as a sizable column of green light wrapped in thick glass. It originated in the floor of the basement and continued upward, stopping at the ceiling.

It was a proof-of-concept work, but unlike the towering arc reactor back at the Stark Industries headquarters in LA, which eventually gave way to the miniaturized version used in Tony's armour, this was not a publicity stunt for the doctor, but a means to an end. It was purposed as a self-sustaining, cyclical energy source that allowed Banner to work off the grid and operate the lights, appliances, and other power hogs without reliance on external sources.

And there were many of these power hogs. The refrigerator, dishwasher, and laundry unit on the main floor were the least of it — the two laboratories in the deepest part of this floor were outfitted with machinery and computers that never took a snooze, because in most cases, neither did he. (It felt somewhat... Gratuitous to sleep, when the monster didn't need to sleep at all.) The first and larger lab contained the bulk of these devices, being the place for heavy-duty conceptualization and fabrication, like a production line of sorts. It wasn't unusual for novel tech to be scattered throughout the vicinity, sitting pretty on desks and carts in readiness for completion. The second lab was smaller; more old-fashioned, and had less computers, containing the typical assortment of beakers, graduated cylinders, and other apparatus for chemical and biological experimentation instead. Fume hoods, eyewashing stations, and sinks in case of chemical spills were also present, but he never needed to use them. Not for the lack of incidents, but because it had become less of a hassle to hastily undress and, as Tony had consistently put it, "Hulk out" and allow his body to deal with the issue with utmost certainty of negating it, rather than spraying himself with water and hoping for the best.

(His condition could heal wounds; injuries, but not scar tissue. It was the reason he still hadn’t lost the chip of a scar beneath his eye, which he incurred so long ago that his memories of the incident were shrouded. It was odd, knowing something so small wasn't a match for his healing capabilities, while more... Grievous injuries never left a scratch on him.)

If he wasn’t already “Hulked out”, which was the norm.

Nonetheless, the chemistry lab could still be used for engineering in a pinch, if he referred to one of the few computers therein. The observatory ran on a single closed network, so the files were accessible from anywhere within its walls. It was difficult to access this network even if someone did manage to sneak into the building, however; he had made sure of it. Secluding himself from the rest of the world was only one way to ensure his privacy, and it was part of a bigger equation. Therefore, even the doors, not only to the labs but the living quarters and the generator room, were chronically locked and required a biometric scan to open, and it was of a certain kind that only someone with his condition could provide.

So if someone entered the building, they could wander around the kitchen; the living room, and find their way to the first bathroom, but everything else was behind those locked doors. This was for the better, because Bruce valued his privacy, and because guests might be uneasy if they realized the building ran on radioactive isotopes. Not unlike a neutered bomb.

He remained at the island for a few minutes. Uneventful, for the most part, save for the ideas and questions that were tumble-drying in his brain, wearing down both ends of his pencil.

Uneventful.

Then he saw the tea in his mug twitch.

He looked to the mug, intent on confirming the occurrence, suspecting he may have hallucinated somehow. No, he wasn't. It happened again. There. And then, something trembled in the soles of his feet.

Soon, it snowballed into a low-grade rumbling.

He tried to pick apart the reason. There were no trains this far out; nobody would dare budget an endeavour like building a railroad in these plateaus, nor was the area prone to tremors and earthquakes; he had ensured this when he was initially scouting the location.

The lights began to flicker.

With it, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Something was burning. It was a rubbery smell, like raw cable set aflame, mixed with the metallic tinge of static electricity. The tremors in the building were growing, small bits of dust and debris falling onto his shoulders and into his tea from the ceiling. And then, down in the basement, Bruce heard something fall to the floor with a deafening clatter.

His nerves kicked into gear. It was the kind of painful, adrenaline-fueled pulse that came from a sudden surprise.

He abandoned his drink, leaving the kitchenette and hurrying down the stairs to the basement, fluorescent lights running overhead like road markings. As he descended and reached the bottom of the steps, which opened into the basement's storage area for unused lab equipment and furniture (both were abundant, insinuating their owner was a bit of a pack rat and preemptive planner), his direction turned to the generator room. He needed to discern what was happening, and potentially shut off the power if there was a leak. Plutonium was polite if it was stable, but not in other situations. Potentially this one.

When he opened the door and entered the room, he stopped in his tracks. The siren kicking in over the PA system was the least of his worries; that much was expected and normal, if not slightly disconcerting, with the memories of a certain accident at Culver University that it conjured up. But the issue was worse than he'd anticipated, and as it sunk in, his throat seemed to plunge down into his stomach like an elevator in freefall.

The cell was pulsing. The green light became dimmer, then more vivid and brighter, oscillating between the two intensities. This effect became quicker and quicker until it escalated into a strobing effect, cell alternating between a dim glow and a blinding brightness like the chromatophores of a squid. And it was creaking; moaning — as if under duress; as if pressure was building within the glass and prone to bursting free any moment.

He’d never seen this before. Theories stirred and began racing in his worried brain, the first of which... Something must have been overloading it. Somehow. Experience told Banner he must have missed some important factor when he was first designing it; some misplaced detail that would only manifest over the long term. There wasn't a possibility of cross-contamination; there wasn't a possibility for anything except his own errors; nobody else was involved in this. But whatever the case, he needed to shut it down immediately.

But he couldn’t walk forward. Some part of him, however small, told him it wasn’t safe anymore.

Intuition, perhaps.

If he contemplated it more, he may have wondered if Hulk was stopping him from proceeding. If Hulk was calling him stupid. Reckless.

Again.

He was smart to wait. Before him, the chamber cracked, a hairline fracture creeping down the glass in incremental movements. This was all it took. The building heaved, and with a rising shriek that sounded eerily akin to the arrival of a nuclear bomb, the entire chamber exploded, blinding light erupting and shards of thick glass snapping and spraying out into the room like bullets. High pressure followed suit, knocking the wind from his lungs and causing him to lose his balance, gusting him back as he flew into the concrete wall and collided with a dull crack. He collapsed into a heap on the floor, ears ringing from the explosion.

And with a domino reaction of popping glass from above, and an electrical shudder, the lights went out.

Quiet. Still. Dark.

Heart pounding, loud in the blood barrier of his brain, Bruce staggered to his feet in the darkness, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through his lower back and threatened to lock the muscles. Glass crackled and crunched underfoot as he steadied himself, his skin stinging from newfound cuts. His breaths were strained and hurt his throat with every exhale. The inside of his nose felt wet. He smelled blood. He didn’t know what to do; shock had washed over him.

Can’t see... Can’t see. Oh god.

A few moments later, the backup generator kicked in. The room was bathed in a dim, eerie yellow, incandescence winning over the earlier fluorescence. Shadows blotted in the corners of the room and occluded the furniture, as if the recent darkness couldn't recede entirely. A chalky dust floated in the air, irritating the doctor's eyes and tickling his nose and throat. He sucked in a shallow, tense breath, and coughed from the dust that filtered down into his throat and lungs, lifting his elbow up to his mouth to muffle the sound. In concurrence, the air around him whorled in a puff of microscopic debris as, mind buzzing with adrenaline and unable to focus on anything except the damage before him, he tried to assess how bad it was.

The power source was gone. It had taken some of the walls with it, opening up the generator room into the rest of the lackluster basement. He looked up and noticed vein-like cracks throughout the ceiling, congregating into a massive hole where the power source had once inserted. A sickly yellow light poured in from upstairs, slivers of light bleeding in from the surrounding cracks. Instruments and tables from the lab upstairs had fallen through the floor, which were now strewn before him, the furniture and other apparatuses dented and mangled beyond repair from their impact with the floor. Metal trays were bent in half. Carts were relieved of their equipment as they lay dead on their backs, wheels still rolling in their casters. He saw his work, some pieces near completion and others in the beginning stages, destroyed. He didn’t know how far the damage extended past this.

Breathe.

He did, and then he gave another muffled cough, cheeks puffing. The entire place smelled like pig iron and ozone. He looked to the center of the incident, where the power source had been reduced to a smoking pile of dust, broken glass, and metal. At its peak, he saw a shape.

Breathe, Banner.

It was a man. Or, it looked like one. Bruce wouldn’t assume he was ordinary simply because he looked so; he’d been on the receiving end of that phenomenon too often himself.

And this man came from... Nowhere. Materialized, from thin air. There’s no way he could’ve snuck into the lab.

He stared at them, eyes intent. Words didn’t come; they were stuck behind his teeth. He wasn’t sure what he would tell them, anyhow. Every inch of him was on edge, and at the same time, too stunned to muster any kind of reaction; worst of all, this wasn't a simple case of misinterpretation and overreaction on his part. Whatever this person had intended, and whatever justifications and explanations they could give, they had just destroyed what felt like a part of himself, ripping months and months of his work apart like inconsequential sheets of tissue paper and rendering it useless; useless; as if he needed any more problems; what would it take for people to leave him alone and stop dragging him down?

He did what the public asked of him; he stepped out of the spotlight. Graciously. He never wanted it in the first place, not the way it was given to him. He never wanted to be known; half-known, at least, for the notoriety of the Hulk’s temper tantrums; those events were the direct antithesis of his lifelong plans and goals, and he was done with stitching up the wounds it kept opening up. Severing his connection to violence, and keeping his distance from it, he’d become so certain over the years, was imperative for progress. But once again, as it always happened in the past, violence had found him instead. Even here.

Courtesy of his new and egregious... House guest.

His jaw set. He could feel his fists coiling up, trimmed nails digging into the meat of his palms.

(Tch. If you’re gonna chew them out, then chew them out, dummy. Don’t make me do it for you.) 

Bruce's anger was enough to pull him from his stupor. He stumbled towards the man, steps unsteady but intentional. His voice was hoarse, uneven; close to catching in the dryness of his throat, and it was coloured by pain and disbelief from what occurred, but it remained full of the accusation and animosity he wanted to convey. The intent to single them out. Pass off the blame to them. No amount of shock would quell that, nor would the unknown nature of the newcomer; their unknown capabilities. It simply wasn't a factor when it came to the intentions that ailed him. He needed to get their attention.

He needed them to understand what they’ve done.

“Hey!”

Perhaps they would already know it, with the wreckage scattered around them. But he was almost hoping that wasn’t the case. Much as he couldn’t admit it, he wanted the honours all to himself... To yell; to accost them; to blame someone else, because he seldom had the chance, and it was clear as day who the guilty person was in this situation; maybe it was him, but probably not; he wouldn't accept it because if that were the case, a stranger wouldn't have landed in the middle of the room with smoke trailing from their clothes.

They did this. They did this.

His vision flickered.

And if words didn’t get through to them, some part of him had always found pleasure in the alternative.

[whitewolfbumble]

Needed Touch (Bucky x Reader)

Summary: They needed you, and he needed you most of all. You became his addiction until it was taken away, and then you were something else to him entirely.

Anon Request: Can you do a platonic!avengers x wolf!reader, maybe a specific ship like bucky x reader would be fine as well! Since the reader can turn into a big wolf, she often cuddles with the avengers to help them relieve stress, and they all really like her, and once they sent her onto a mission something really bad happens and really angsty stuff?

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Wolf!Reader

Warnings: Angst and fluff!, things get intimate for a hot minute

Word Count: About 6k

A/N: Thanks for the request darling! One of my favourite Bucky lines I’ve written is in here, and it makes me weak my dudes. Still a lil wrecked from surgery/pain meds so sorry for any typos, I’ll come back a fix this sometime

MY MASTERLIST // JOIN MY TAG LIST

Tony had an anxiety disorder. Bruce had, let’s say, explosive anger issues. Steve struggled, however valiantly, with depression. Natasha was obsessively striving to undo a past that couldn’t be undone, losing her identity and life in the process. Thor- when he was here- was in denial of the brutal grief he had suffered. Sam had a crippling case of survivor’s guilt that would strike hard without warning and stop him dead in his tracks. That was just scratching the surface of your team members, and there were more damaged people where that came from.

And then they added Bucky. You couldn’t even begin to get into the near century of trauma there.

But at least they all had you.

However much love and loyalty there was among you, you were what was holding this team together. Mentally and emotionally they needed you as much as they needed oxygen, being the balm and breath of air to them, outweighing their combined trauma.

You were human and wolf in one, each side of you forming one whole. A mutation, curse, and gift wrapped together, much like the various parts of the others on the team. And quickly from week one you had found you belonged among them.

Maybe it was the protective wolf in you. Or the feeling of companionship you exuded with every encouraging word or soft smile. Or the loving brightly, happy feeling those around you felt when you laughed and played, young and free like those cute little puppies in those cute little videos. Or maybe it was the ferocity and barred teeth you showed on the battlefield, unwavering in your aggressive defense of your team. Or maybe it was your other ability that did it.

Whatever the combination, it had made you a perfect- and necessary- fit to this team.

Tucking back your hair, you absently brushed fingers passed your subtly pointed ears. Settling into to a grey afternoon and a cushy couch had been easy enough, with a half decent book in one hand and the other placed on Clint’s head.

He was lying down on the couch, head on a thin pillow in your lap, feeling the calm of your other distinct ability seeping into him like custard into bread pudding.

Your legs crossed, Tony pressed a pleasant pressure against your knees, his anxiety held at bay by both you and the focused energy of tinkering with a delicate piece of paper-thin metal and razor-thin wires in his hands.

The people changed, the positions changed, but the constant presence of your team- your pack- around you was constant and most welcome.

As the slow afternoon silence stretched, you flipped to the next page in your book but didn’t continue reading. Head shifting slightly you paused, brow raising up ever so little before settling back into place as you understood what your senses had zeroed in on.

“Wonder when they’ll be back,” Clint said lazily, eyes closed and breath easy in his chest.

“They just pulled up,” you said absently back, eyes back on the text in front of you.

“Hmm,” he replied. “Hope it went okay.”

“Yeah, seems like it went just fine,” you said, shrugging a little. “No blood anyway.”

But in the back of your mind and in your ears you felt a nagging. Something off. Something not exactly quite right.

The wolf in you wasn’t separate like Bruce was to the Hulk. Your appearance may shift as you directed it to something akin to a large and black apex predator, a wolf in body and eyes and fangs. But that didn’t mean you were any less you in that state. Even now, human form with only little touches of something slightly “other” marking you like your ears, you still heard and smelt and saw with the enhanced senses of the shadowy beast you formed into. Not exactly as enhanced as in your other form, but still there nonetheless.

And sitting on the couch, listening intently to the sounds of Steve and Bucky return from their mission while your eyes were down in your book, you thought you could hear someone... limping maybe? The metallic, distinct smell of blood was absent though at least. Or maybe there were just too far away for you to smell it yet.

“And how would you know that?” Clint said, stretching and leaning up a bit to lock those hazel eyes to yours.

You wiggled your nose at him from behind your novel in teasing exaggeration.

“I can smell them,” you said, though Clint well knew that by now, though he loved to hear it. He was endlessly fascinated by who you were. That or he had taken a knock to the head too many times and really was that forgetful. “Sweat and quinjet exhaust, but nothing else really.”

Sitting in wait while Clint moved off you, you heard one set of footfalls approach nearer.

Now, however terrible it sounded, you hoped it was Steve that broke his leg and had sent Bucky to find you to help him. That would make this easier.

So, so much easier.

But when the blonde walked in your lips ticked down with a bit of a frown for a split second. Steve sat down beside you, limpless stride firm and precise though clearly a bit exhausted. He grabbed your hand as he sat and the both of you broke out into a smile.

“How’s our resident second super soldier?” you asked, subtly squeezing and moving your hand in his, caressing his palms and fingers. Comfort visibly eased into the lines of his friendly face and liquid light blue eyes.

“Hurt, but not much help there,” he admitted. “Unless you want to try again…?”

“Try again” made it sound like you had only attempted to corral Bucky once to indulge in that other specific ability you had. The man was unwavering like a marble statue, though you’d find a way to whittle him down. Or maybe he would do that himself.

“You know I will, Steve,” you said, standing up with a last pat to his hand and pat to Tony’s head as you shimmied passed him. “He’s one of us, even if he doesn’t yet think it.”

Because Bucky wasn’t the only one who could be considered unwavering and stubborn.

______

The door was open slightly like he was expecting you. He always expected you because let’s face it, he was smart enough to know persistence when he saw it. They others saw it as caring, but you didn’t think Bucky was quite ready to use that word just yet.

His room was somewhat clean, low lamps on instead of the main overhead lights, exuding a softer glow and casting darker shadows. It was small and comfy and how Bucky liked it, despite those descriptors being the opposite of the man himself.

He was peeling off his thick leather coat, arriving just before you did for one glaringly obvious reason. He had been slowed down to a snail’s pace by the broken leg that had somehow managed to make his whole body scrunch up tight and coiled. It was supporting no weight as he stood, held at just slightly an odd angle. Not to mention what you knew to be a pale and pain-hardened face if he were to turn around.

You leaned against the door frame, arms crossed with a bit of a huff you weren’t sure was from sympathy or exasperation.

“I could help with that, you know,” you commented, nodding to his limp as he glanced behind his shoulder to you, though his eyes remained low and didn’t yet meet yours.

You were tired of playing this game with him, but you knew by the weary lines and stiff way Bucky held himself that he was always far more weary of it. He had the ability to end that weariness and strain, if only he would reach out and simply touch you.

“I’ll heal,” he said, short and gruff.

Not because he was mad which you knew, though a flash of something- maybe guilt- sprung up through the pained look, and he took the time and effort to swivel on his good leg to face you more.

“I’m fine, Y/N,” he said, trying again and sounding a little more like himself. Seemed to take effort though. “You don’t need to keep checking on me.”

“I’ll stop checking on you,” you said. “When you stop leaving the door open for me.”

You stepped in silently under his watchful eyes, moving and sitting on the bed, back resting against the backboard. You didn’t snuggle down or sprawl out, wanting to be just a little respectful of his space you were invading, but clasped your hands in your lap and crossed your ankles neatly.

Bucky waited for a time before, with a bit of pain crumpled look on his face, turned to the bathroom and closed the door. You closed your eyes as you heard the shower, tried not to listen to him struggle and groan under his breath. When the streaming sound of the water stopped, you flicked the switch beside you and the lights went off, leaving you in semi-darkness with blinds closed tight.

The tiny amounts of grey light that came in was like that of the moon, beaming in cool and gentle. That was his kind of comfort. Bucky still enjoyed the darkness, able to move and stay shielded by the black murky shadows. To hide away from enemies and people and pain.

When he emerged from the bathroom, the light from it shone bright before he clicked it off, his frame clad in a black shirt and grey sweats turning shadowy. Though it was the afternoon, the room itself looked like it was the dead of night, with just those soft beams pooling on the ground at his feet.

“Are you going to wolf out on me?” he muttered through the space between you, though it was good-natured in tone. As much for him as for you.

You snorted quietly under your breath, a smirk on your lips.

“I’m not the Hulk, I have some control over myself.”

There was some hesitation after that from him, wavering there with weight on the one leg. It heavied the air that had been briefly lightened with jokes and teasing a second before.

You didn’t push or pry more than you already had by simply being here, but just waited. After another few moments the pain of standing seemed to outweigh the emotions keeping him from you.

Very slowly, he walked to the bed as you moved up your feet, giving him space to sit awkwardly but firmly on the edge.

He faced out for a few moments before placing his hand in the small space on the sheets between you, eyes refusing to turn to your own. Gently you placed your hand on top of his, ever so carefully entwining your fingers in with his. A minute passed before your other hand moved slowly and measuredly to the middle of his thigh and was held still.

He tensed as you did, but for much different reasons. He flinched at the contact of your fingers brushing his thigh. You at the familiar feeling of this process as it hit you, stark and bare and shook a little bit of your soul as your ability begin to work within him.

“Why do you do it?” he said quietly, face hidden in the darkness. “Why care?”

Everyone here knew what your ability was, even Bucky, though he refused to speak it.

It wasn’t healing, exactly. It was just taking the pain, giving them time to rest for their muscles to ease, for their teeth to stop grinding as they gritted through the pain. They could rest and their bodies would better heal themselves.

They sensed it when they were close to you. Felt it when they touched you. Relief and comfort and freedom from torment.

But the pain had to go somewhere. It couldn’t just evaporate and you couldn’t push it out, you could only pull it into your own body. So you took on their stabs and wounds, feeling the invisible injuries on your skin and in your muscles. At least with you, the second the connection was broken, it was gone. So you just breathed and you bore it.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Bucky,” you started softly, taking a moment as you felt like your femur was snapped in half inside your leg. “It’s not “why care”, but because I care. I know that’s foreign to you. Uncomfortable. And that’s okay for now.”

Your words were met with silence as there was no real answer for it, and none needed. It was truth and that caring he would call persistence. Because you weren’t going to let him live a pained life. Not when you could take it away from him and even if at a cost.

But for now, this was was okay. You could go one step at a time and nudge him along with you.

You stayed long beyond that, until the troubled man unclenched his muscles and his eyes drooped where he sat. Until his breathing became slow and deep and his head lulled. Until you gently laid him down when deep sleep took him over, painless and free.

_______

From there on, things started to change. Bucky had a hard time with your ability at first, clearly. He wasn’t particularly touchy or trusting to begin with, however cordial, which was pretty essential for your ability to work.

The next time it was a broken arm. How a super soldier could keep breaking bones like this, you didn’t know.

You went to his room and waited in the doorway just like before but you didn’t fully enter, leaving him alone instead. He was probably confused as he clutched his lifeless looking flesh arm, probably wondering and hoping you’d be your usual persistence self and silently insist again. But you hadn’t been.

You had gotten through a little to Bucky, even if only once. He had felt it and accepted it. Felt and accepted you, in that moment, finally. It was his turn now, to make the next step and you weren’t sure he would do it. But later that next night you heard a knock at your door.

“Can you help me?” he had asked, quietly, still holding his arm which close up looked almost shattered.

After the next mission and the next injury, he asked when you came to his room as you always did, almost steely look like he was fighting himself on saying something so vulnerable again. But the second he spoke that melted from his face, as though the words would have killed him to say but he survived, relief flooding him once uttered.

“I’m in pain, Y/N,” he had said, gruff and almost desperate. As though through all the years of pain he had reached his limit now that he knew what real comfort felt like. “Can you take it away?”

Soon enough as the weeks rolled by, he was coming to you for everything.

You expected this really, it had happened to everyone for a time.

Everyone hit a point where they clung to you at first, however subtly or not, until they realized both consciously and subconsciously that you weren’t going anywhere. That you were here to stay and this feeling was too. That you could be a reprieve to their pain and demons.

Bucky was different though. He had had no comfort, innumerable demons, and exclusively pain for much of the life he could remember. Now to be able to have physical hurts relieved and not inflicted, and with a simple touch feel comfort in his soul not anguish? It was massive for him.

He was addicted to you now. You were like the sweetest of drugs without overdose or side effects. Though you were beginning to wonder about withdrawal...

“This is really why you need me right now?” you said, in his bright bathroom on one late evening, months after that broken leg.

Bucky found quiet, intimate moments alone with you when he needed you close, always away from the eyes of the team. Pain he could admit to you now, but not them just yet, if ever.

But now whenever you walked into a room you saw the way he twitched, as though his automatic physical reaction was to reach out for you and it took his conscious mind a moment to stop himself.

But in moments alone with you he didn’t hesitate anymore. He let himself touch you and be touched, like a craving filled and peaceful contentment enjoyed.

“Yes,” he said simply, pleasant sigh on his lips as he sat on the bathtub ledge, head leaned up to you, standing in front of him. His eyes were still waters, glassy and serene, framed by those long lashes that matched his deep chestnut hair.

Your hand was placed on his neck, thumb moving across the line of his jaw. Just above your stroking was a small cut from shaving of all things, almost unnoticeable. You were surprised he had even felt himself do it.

This was a man who had been tortured. Shot. Stabbed. Forced to fight. Forced to kill. You would think one little nick would hardly be enough to call on you so late at night.

But a smug unheard purr settled somewhere in your soul, finally and truly having him trust you. The others could sit down beside you and hold your hand or give you warm smiles as your presence eased their soul. But from Bucky you had needed more. You had needed this.

And obtaining it was that same kind of hit Bucky got off of you.

“I think I’m just spoiling you now,” you smirked, his slow blink matching pace with your slow, caressing fingers.

“Then please keep spoiling me,” he whispered, leaning into you.

He rested his head on your stomach, nose and breath and lips pushing gently into the thin fabric draping your soft skin.

Steve had always ran hot, made into a super soldier in the warm New York summer heat. Bucky you thought was always deliciously cool, like the chill of Russian snow where he was made, clinging to him still. It reminded you of clean ice, fragrant pines, and a cloudless moon.

You could feel it all on his breath now, the cool air he sighed into your stomach making your skin tingle underneath. Without thinking your hands found their way into his hair, moving through the thick chestnut strands. Absently his hands moved up your calves to behind your thighs, hooking you lightly into him.

A slow sigh released from him into you, and you slipped one hand under shirt collar at the base of his neck, hand and nails lightly trailing down his spine. He clung to you all the more, a groan caught in his throat as you felt the delicate quiver of his skin under your fingertips. An arm wrapped around the small of your back, the other at the top of your thigh, constricting and binding you in.

You and he practically hummed in sheer contentment at this connection, a shivering pleasure between you both. Countless minutes rolled by, and also no time at all it seemed.

It was only when you pulled away that you saw his blissed and beautiful face, his hand moving up and bunching his shirt above his heart as he stared back at you. Those serene eyes were bright now, with a bright and beautiful smile to match.

“G’night Buck,” you murmured as you stepped back, voice with a bit of a wobble.

You turned, a little off kilter and touched down on the bathroom counter to steady yourself. As you walked out you caught a glance of yourself in the mirror above the sink, eyes half-lidded, a lopsided smile on your face. And it wasn’t from sleep-drunkenness.

It was from comfort.

It was from him.

“Then please keep spoiling me.”

The words ran in your mind like cool water lapping at a shore or warm fingertips trancing delicate lines on soft skin. That was what you dream of that night. It was only when you woke up, room filled with darkness and that comforting feeling gone did you respond to them.

Okay, you thought in silent response, I’ll keep spoiling you.

_______

“Good, we’re just about to start the new mission briefing,” Clint said to you as you walked into the small group by the couches.

When you entered the lounge the next day, several of the team had already gathered.

You expected that telltale flinch from Bucky where he said, wanting but stopping himself from reaching out to you. You had wondered after the closeness of last night if it would be worse. If your junkie would be craving you all the more now.

But he didn’t. He saw you, blue eyes behind brown hair sitting to himself on the side. But didn’t acknowledge you beyond those glassy ocean eyes connecting to yours. Not a flinch. Not a hello. Not a nod.

A frown fell on your face as your heart fell in your chest, and head filled with confusion.

Had last night gone too far? Should you have stopped it?

Well the answer to both of those was probably yes, but he had wanted it and you had wanted to give it, so why would have have been bad?

“We’re moving in on the Serpent Society tonight,” Steve said, looking out to everyone.

You achingly turned from Bucky, a shame and heat on your face now, looking instead to Rogers. Your eyes were intense and trying to hide it, focused on the blonde before you, but you weren’t seeing him.

You weren’t hearing the shuffles or sways of the team as they listened into the briefing. Didn’t smell the gunpowder coming off of Natasha, the steaming coffee in Tony’s novelty mug, or the clean crisp lemon of the freshly scrubbed floor. You didn’t notice anything outside of your focus: Bucky Barnes.

Steve talked on, background noise to you as you focused your senses to a sharp, steel point. Your body altered in response, the wolf in you showing in slight form little by little as you balanced walking the lines to stay on the right side of human-looking so as not to give yourself away.

A golden hue to your eyes began to shine, that liquid gold bright and deep. Nails grew and pointed, turning ever so like claws. You could hear and feel your body change just enough for your sense to enhance enough to zero in on the man you held last night. The one who had held you.

Then you heard it, a deep bass sound vibrating in your ear. A beating, low and rhythmic and pulsing.

A heartbeat, sped up and beating loud. In that moment you heard nothing else.

But you couldn’t feel eyes on you so you cleared your throat, and Bucky flinched, eyes snapping to you as you kept yours dead ahead on Steve, looking down and slightly away to hide the telltale glimmers of the something “other” always under your skin that was starting to show.

The moment his eyes were on you, the sound of his blood pumping and heart beating became thunderous, like the pounding beat of the drum. You heard him swallow, could almost hear his skin tighten, and lungs expand and deflate at a rapid speed.

All because he was looking at you.

You could feel his eyes detached from you, reluctant and pained like dropping a weapon in a fight. His breathing rightened, muscles unclenched just a touch in his shoulders, That modicum of calm was shot to hell when Steve spoke.

“Y/N,” he said, the shift in Bucky palpable to you, practically make you clenched your own muscles. “You’ll be on the west side with Bucky and Clint. They’ll sharp shoot if needed, you’ll watch their backs.”

At your name Bucky’s eyes were transfixed again, thunderclap heart beats almost filling the room and drowning out the sound of the others. You felt him swallow again, heard the creak of his chair as his hands gripped it tighter, felt the heat radiating off him like a heavy summer sun.

All because he heard your name.

You turned and left immediately once the briefing was over, under the excuse of prepping for tonight, but once out in the hall you rested against the cool wall. Again you eyes glinted gold, sense focused on the man inside that room.

He had walked closer to the door- perhaps following after you?- but had stopped. You heard a sigh, the wisps of fingers through chestnut hair as he stood on the spot, stopped by some thought or feeling.

You could hear the downturn to his voice as he answered a question, hear the shuffle of his feet where he stood. You could almost see his expression now, a miserable look, one trying to hide under a blank stare.

You walked down the hall, for the first time not knowing exactly what to do with feelings someone had about you.

This wasn’t about seeking your touch for ease. This wasn’t about comfort or calm. It wasn’t about a physical reaction to you at all, this was about you.

You could sense it, feel it, hear it, see it.

Bucky had feelings for you.

_______

“Are you going to stay like that the whole night?” Bucky said, peering to his side.

The woods were quiet, and most likely through decades of practice, Bucky’s voice lowered and morphed into a tone and volume that matched his surroundings. The forest was old and dark, with near-black greens from the tree mixing with near-black ground and sky.

In this space both you and he found the familiar darkness reassuring, both battle tested and trained to the bone on nights just like these ones.

Right now this wasn’t training, but a mission. You were a sentry and guard for Bucky and Clint, either positioned a distance apart with a gun or arrow pointed towards their targets base.

Bucky had found a bit of a cliff to set up on, body on the ground with sniper rifle pointed diligently and ready.

“Not that I don’t like it,” he continued quietly. “But I did want to talk with you.”

You made no movement or even acknowledgement that you heard him, though there was no way you wouldn’t have.

Tonight you were the wolf in full form, changing into a black beast of the night as soon as was possible. The rest of the Team had barely stepped off the quinjet when you were feet into the woods, shifting with ease like the shedding of clothes.

Black fur, long and silken, lined your frame and blended like a shadow into the half mooned night. Only golden, glowing eyes could be seen now, some feet away from Bucky, half watching his back and half watching for an enemy to emerge.

“I had the distinct impression…” he started after a minute of silence followed, pausing briefly before continuing, turning from his position to look behind himself at you. “That you ran from me this morning, and have been avoiding me since.”

The shift was silent, the darkness still hiding you. A human form, still hidden, save those golden eyes, was your form to answer him. Claws were still out and extended, ears at a point, senses picking up everything.

“What makes you think that?” you said, low and quieter than the wind.

Bucky’s jerked back to you in surprise, trying to find your golden eyes in the black.

“Well, usually you at least acknowledge me.” At that your eyes narrowed a little, and he caught their gleam.

Was he upset like you had been that he didn’t even say a simple hello or give a nod to you this morning? Not communicating had not been you forte, as guards tended to come down around you, making speaking and opening up easier. So this may was just a small thing, but it didn’t feel like it. And that explanation didn’t seem like it was the whole picture…

Bucky’s finger went to his ear piece as he stood, eyes locked on yours. “Clint, I’m moving positions. I won’t have eyes on this for minute. Will confirm when I’m back in ready position.”

“I’m not… I know when…” Your sigh came out almost as a hiss, struggling with the words. You focused back up at him, his shadowy frame in the darkness just an arm’s length away. “I’m not exactly clueless about what… feelings and attraction are. I can sense when someone has them for someone else.”

“And?” Bucky said. You went sure if he said that cluelessly or brazenly.

“And,” you said, quiet and firm. “You have feelings for me. I felt it this morning- I feel it now as you look at me- your heart catching and beating like thunder in your chest when you hear me or sense me. Your breath quickens, your skin flushes, you can’t stop blinking, you can’t help but move to get closer to me… I can practically smell the rush or hormones and chemicals racing through you when I’m close. It’s- it’s overwhelming.”

“You can sense all of that?” he said, before stepping closer. “What about now?”

You swallowed, brows pulling together, confused. “I… well, yes.”

“And now?” he asked softly, taking another step. This time it set his body right against you, his framed pressed to yours.

You had touched him before. Held him. Felt his skin to yours in quiet moments together. But this was much different.

You didn’t respond, just watched with throat tight and eyes wide as Bucky gazed down, nose brushing ever so lightly against yours. You felt his hand move up, slowly and deliberately up your arm, across your shoulder until it rest on the pulse point just under your jaw.

“Your heart’s racing too,” he whispered, fingertips pressing into your skin.

Silently he dragged them down, slow and smooth, stopping in the middle of you chest.

“And so is your breath,” he whispered.

You almost had a mind to huff and roll your eyes at him, your once distant Bucky long gone. But that reaction was quite lost to the one that was overwhelming you. It burned and tingled you skin and in your soul, it poured out of you in hot breaths and every pounding heartbeat, it rattled your soul as much as his touch did to you now.

Moving back up, his hand held your face, feeling the heat there that was threatening to boil you over now. 

“Your skin is flushed too,” he said, voice smooth and soft compared to the intensity of those blue eyes he had.

“You can stop there,” you managed to say, not exceptionally wanting him to go through the rest of the checklist.

A small smile escaped from him then, forehead leaning down to yours. You closed your eyes as he did, soaking in the feeling of him and the smell of him which somehow seemed more intoxicating than you remembered.

“So what if I have feelings for you,” he said eventually, so whisper quiet you could have dreamt it. “You have feelings for me too, Y/N.”

You could have said this wasn’t real, that this was Bucky just being addicted to a comfort he was deprived of. But someone like Bucky wouldn’t admit to feelings unless they were real.

You could have said you were just reacting to someone being this close or happy with how much he was opening to you, and accidently maybe took things too far. But that also wasn’t true.

All you could do was nod your head up in agreement, your lips brushing delicately against his as you did so. You heard almost a sighing growl as you did, and before you could decide if it was coming for you or him, his lips connect with yours.

In that dark woods you were sure the spark that erupted inside you at his kiss could have been seen for miles. It was like a slow burning fire, bright and intense and eternally warm. The pressure and feel of him against you, his lips moving and sealing against yours heating your soul enough for this lifetime and the next. It was a bliss and comfort you had not yet known in another person and it made you see stars that his connection to you conjured up.

“I’m spotting movement, north west of my position.” The voice over your comm came, breaking the two of you part if only your lips. “Y/N, is that you?”

“No,” you said, sounding as breathless as you felt and hoped Clint would chalk it up to trying to be quiet. Your eyes remained on Bucky though, seeing the same burning fire and pleasant heat in his blue eyes that you felt. “But I’ll check it out.”

Wordlessly you broke away, the cold air seeping across your body where Bucky had just been. But the cold couldn’t penetrate into your soul. That remained a cozy, toasty wash of heat. Taking several steps back, you kept your eyes on him until it was time to go. He gave you a nod by way of goodbye, unable to keep the lightest of smiles on his lips. You reciprocated it quickly before you were off.

You vanished into the dark in a shadowy blur, the change from human to wolf happening in less than it took to take a step. A moment after, you were running.

The pines and trunks of tree whooshed passed you, your paws hitting ground for only the briefest of touches before bounding for the next step. You wove and maneuvered through the forest as though you had made this trek a thousand times, your senses focused and guiding you to where you needed to go.

But a gun shot in the dark, far away from where Bucky was or where Clint should be stopped you mid-sprint. Claws dug into the ground, trying desperately to slow yourself down, until slamming side first into a tree did the job, bruising ribs and jostling your head as pine needles fell down around you.

Ignoring the shots of pain and careening to your right, you took off again, paws stumbling to get traction for several paces until you were back up to speed.

Voices rang out in the comms, all teams checking it. They came concerned, questioning, all converging on the various shots they heard around their respective positions.

You heard it first. It was a snap and then scream that turned to a thunderous roar.

You could feel it in the ground, feel the vibrations in the air. Bruce was gone, and the Hulk had come out. In the distance that roar sounded again, furious and unhinged.

“Pull back!” Steve said in the comm. “No one move towards the gunfire!”

But it was too late.

You didn’t have time to slow down before you heard that snap again, this time at your own feet.

It was like a crack of metallic lightning, and you felt the exploding of your eardrums before you felt the exploding of anguish. The sudden assault stopped you dead again, sending your body rolling and tumbling out of control through the woods then down a short hill.

You slid to a stop on your side, unable to speak or move or scream. Wrapped from your stomach up to your back was a metal set of jaws, like a lethal bear trap with jagged, biting teeth as wide as you palm and as sharp as you teeth. The death trap practically encircled around your whole body.

The pain doubled, then doubled again, poisoned tips of the metal releasing into your bloodstream. That was when you shrieked louder and more torment-laced than you had ever heard. Unable with this trap around you to change back into your human form, the shriek came out as a howl, reverberating through the air loud, unbridled, and broken beyond what you thought you could stand.

The pieces stabbing into you made you howl til you felt you felt you could no longer survive it, the poison made you convulse until you thought every venom-burned piece of you would melt away, the anguish of it was beyond your capacity to understand or function.

But then you felt steps moving closer to you. You heard voices. And why set a trap if you weren’t going to come back for your prey?

Your eyes glowed bright, edged on by the pain and fighting instinct. Your jaw snapped and growled mingled into your whimpers and howls, a pitiful warning at best.

You heard voices you thought you knew, but you couldn’t make them out enough above your own pain. It overtook everything. You thought you saw through the blinding haze of torment a hand reach towards you in the darkness, a slow and soft thing, trying to reach out to you and connect. Maybe to help and comfort, or maybe to hurt you all the more.

Instantly a feral part of you lashed out in ferocity, trying with mad snaps of your brutally strong jaw and sharpened fangs to cut off the hand offering you the unknown. The basic, primal part of you needed to keep hands and touches away from you, terrified and railing against any more danger.

There would be no comfort from someone else, even through your pain you wouldn’t allow it.

But at some point sharp stabs took your breath away yet again before you felt a telltale sign of release. Someway and somehow once you were released, you were like a bat out of hell, running under some hell-driven necessity to try and out run this all-encompassing anguish.

It clung to you as you went. The faster your tormented steps went, the even worse it became. Eventually you were breathless, whimpering and howling all over again, collapsing onto the ground in a blacken, blood-matted mess on the ground.

Digging claws into the ground you tried to move forward, tried to get more distance between you and pain, but you just couldn’t. You whimpered and begged for the pain to end, but it didn’t. Relief didn’t come until the pain overwhelmed every single ounce of your body and soul, and unconsciousness overtook you.

_______

That primal part of you, that frantic and brutal part of your mind that refused to let in any possibility of danger, clung to you like a vice. It gripped you as fast and unrelenting as the pain that would not leave your body.

“Y/N, please,” Tony pleaded, coming up from behind Bruce, one of several in audience on the other side of the glass from you. “Let us help you.”

But you could still feel it. Even curled up on the floor in a small med bay room, you couldn’t escape it.

The feel of metal locking you in, poisoning your body and mind, stabbing so deep into you that it felt like it split you apart. It left you open and exposed and vulnerable, the jaws of the trap sinking down into intimate places that should never have been touched.

You had the feeling of waking up on the quinjet, restrained and furious and unable to fight it. You were locked down and unable to move or run. You were powerless to know what was happening, too out of your mind to put anything together. All you felt was pain and voices and hands touching you, digging into the intimate places all over again.

You felt it when they tried to get you to shift back to human form at the med bay, hands and metal holding you down while you struggled. You felt pressure on your open, bleeding body, hurting you all over again in attempts to heal you. But you didn’t know healing or rational thought, the poison and your instincts taking over and blaring a red alarm of warning and danger and the need to get away.

You felt trapped. You felt locked in. You felt any touch, any subtle brush of feel against your skin would snap and instead you would feel the cutting, stabbing pain all over again.

Your breath came short and hard and shallow, trying desperately to get in enough oxygen to push out the pain, but it never did. You heart still raced, your blood still boiled under your skin, sweat dripping down it. Your claws, fully extended in your human form, matched your sharp teeth, with golden eyes swirled with blood red now.

Those eyes saw through the glass, protecting the others from you and you from escaping. You saw the massive needle with unknown liquid in Bruce’s hand, the braces and shackles in Steve’s hand, Tony suited up in his Iron Man suit. The pleading in their eyes you didn’t see. The pain in their eyes you couldn’t acknowledge.

You used to notice it before. You used to hold their hand when they looked like that. You used to comfort them.

When the door open your body shook with the simultaneous need to break free from this room and them, and recoiling back at the presence of someone approaching.

It was Bucky, hands up, feigning calm and submission, edging closer. He squatted down a few feet from the door while you growled and strained, claws shrieking out a high pitched sound as they scratched along the tile.

“You’re in pain, Y/N,” he whispered to you. “Let me help you… Please.”

There was second of giving in. A second where you would have agreed. But the pain inside you reared its head again, sending out shooting pains that spanned your whole body. Your eyes went red and deadly, snarling at the man.

“No,” you snarled, this time finding your voice, low and venomous, before the pain threatening to pull you into unconsciousness again. “I’m the family pet… and you should... you should just put me down like one.”

You felt the tears falling and the shaking sprouting out from somewhere deep, taking over you. You breathed faster as snarls turned to sobs, feeling him move closer. The darkness creeping on the edge of your vision kept you from moving or fighting him back.

You could feel him beside you, body so close he was almost pressed up against you. But before unconsciousness took you, all he did was place one hand over yours, and the other on your knee.

When you woke, it was more of the same torment.

And again, after that.

Soon you were functioning, but only just. The pain wouldn’t release you, not fully and perhaps not ever. You cringed when people came close. You yelled and snapped at them, you screamed for death sometimes and space from all of them other times.

The whole team was at a loss without you really, giving you the space you snarled and demanded out of pain.

Tony had more panic attacks. Bruce had a harder time reigning in the Hulk. Steve smiled less and frowned more. Natasha threw herself into more missions. Thor plastered on a fake smile and talked as though everything was fine. Sam was more withdrawn.

But Bucky stayed with you.

Once you were on the bathroom floor, claws scratching the side of the bathtub and teeth sunk into your lip to keep from screaming in pain. Bucky found you though, arms wrapping around you as you were hunched and crumpled. You fought him for a moment, struggling and twisting with your tears splashing over the bathroom floor and walls at the effort. But soon enough you gave into him and his gentle touch. In that moment he held you together while you broke apart.

Sometimes he couldn’t though. Sometimes you pushed him away, yelling at him and shutting him out, pain lashing bitingly and bitterly against every cell in you.

But you always left your door open. And he always came back.

To place a hand on yours. To whisper something soft and gentle in your ear. To gather you up off the ground and hold you close. To ease your trauma bit by bit in hopes it would eventually dissipate, just as you had once eased his.

_______

A/N: So if that ended too angsty for you, just reread the “Then keep spoiling me” part up until they kiss then just stop there lol. Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know??

Permanent Tag List: @dontpanc @smodvocate @bunsterjonez @buckybonky @marveloustrashpanda @hangirl93 @captainrogerrsbeard @friendly-neighborhood-lich-queen @thisgirllikeme @jjsoccer11 @innerpandablizzard-blog @fanatic-fanfic @mdgrdians @christinky @universal-death-of-a-fangirl @cauraphernelia @ailynalonso15 @cassiopeia-barrow @1elboomdemsechevarria @cameronskywalker @rogrsnbarnes @verygraphicink @onlyanothersocialcasualty @lisalisa007

Bucky Barnes Tag List: @bexboo616 @kaaatniss @lost-in-translating @emabookcookie @crazybutconfidentaf @jitterbuck

Join my tag list