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bitsandbobsandstuff · 7 years ago

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Safe with me (Epilogue)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Brief description of smut. Mentions of depression.

A/N: The end has arrived! This Epilogue is a complete homage to CHAPTER 1, so I suggest giving that a quick re-read before diving in.

I am genuinely blown away at the reception this story has received - I never expected it and I’m SO grateful to each and every one of you. I’ve spent six months writing these characters and thinking daily about this story, and I’ll admit I’m feeling a little emotional about the end. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing.

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

*****

NEW YORK TIMES SUNDAY EDITION Features Section

The measure of a man By Anonymous

James Buchanan Barnes sits primly before me, mismatched hands folded on the table. Pushing a cup of coffee toward him, he unlinks his fingers, clasping them gratefully around the steaming mug.

"I don't really do interviews," he confesses. "Not sure what to say."

"That's okay," I tell him. "This isn't about being perfect or saying the exact right thing. It's just about being yourself."

He makes a face at that. "I don't think myself is something people want to hear about."

Looking into his nervous blue eyes, I give him a reassuring smile. "They absolutely will. People want to know the man behind the mask."

He doesn't like talking about himself, has never been overly comfortable in the limelight. Rolling his shoulders back, he takes a deep breath and gives me a tentative nod.

Like any good story, context is important, so we begin down the familiar route.

"Let's start at the beginning."

******

Crisp morning air wafts through the small kiosk, fluttering the bright covers of the magazines and newspapers lining the shelves. Taking a long drink of coffee, Riz smacks his lips and leans over his front counter, watching Manhattan's morning routine play out around him.

From out of nowhere, a giant stack of newspapers is hurled onto the counter and Riz tumbles back in surprise.

"What the - "

Bucky Barnes stands before him, wearing an old leather jacket and a delighted grin.

"Morning Riz, I need them all today. Oh, and by the way," he digs into his back pocket and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper, tossing it carelessly on the stack. "Got something to show you."

The black ink is smudged in places, but there it is, the numbered boxes filled with careful block letters.

Last Sunday's New York Times crossword.

Completed.

Riz stares at the paper in astonishment. Looking up, he begins to laugh at the smug triumph on Bucky's face.

"I fucking told you I'd finish one," Bucky says, slapping his hand on the puzzle once more to reinforce his success.

Still chuckling, Riz reaches below the counter and produces a dusty rectangle wrapped in tissue paper. Bucky peels away the layers, grinning happily when it reveals a black picture frame. Riz gives him a friendly slap on the arm.

"My friend, I never doubted you."

*****

He needs no real introduction.

Familiar to anyone who cracked a grade school history book in the last seventy years, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes is a quiet enigma. The American public first met him in 1943 as Sergeant Barnes, Howling Commando and right-hand man to Captain America. His lopsided smile became so well-loved, a comforting staple in the news cycle, the women on the home front declared it a national treasure. America swooned for him, cheered for him, prayed for him, and ultimately mourned him when the reports came home of his KIA status in 1945.

When he was resurrected in Washington DC, amid a whirlwind of gunfire and explosions, he was another figure entirely. Life ripped to pieces and commandeered for decades by Hydra's brutality, he bore only a faint resemblance to the grainy black and white pictures of America's charming hero.

The history books lean into war, into combat, into the tragedy of his service; it's where the facts are most prevalent, irrefutable and absolute. Barnes' first war was for his country and his second was against it, but both lead to an unfortunate truth – most of his life, has been death.

But, beneath that iron exterior lies something else. Focused on consolidating facts and figures, history so often forgets that war is comprised of a much more important number – the beating hearts and terrified souls of those on the battlefield. Soldiers are the flesh and bone reflection of a generation's ideals and Barnes is no different than the millions who came before and after him. Stretched across the burned-out fields and shattered cities of Europe, his first war was one who's consequences still reverberate decades later.

That was his first taste of battle. It was harsh and unforgiving, but in the grand scheme of things – it was blessedly brief.

His next experience would last a lifetime. As his world careened out of control, his moral compass was broken and recalibrated, setting a man full of soft smiles and boisterous laughter, down a path of unimaginable pain and torment.

Through the course of both his lives, he's been known by a million different names. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. The Asset. The Winter Soldier. Before we go any further, I want to make something crystal clear.

The man you will meet, is more than a number stamped on a paper-thin set of dog tags, clinking loose around his neck. He is more than the shadowy name in a ledger of Hydra weaponry, carefully and perfectly aimed. He is more than a salacious headline, blazoned across gossip sites for the world to read.

He is more. He is much, much more.

I want everyone to know him, because Bucky Barnes is worth knowing.

*****

Walking through the Tower, Bucky's giant stack of papers grows smaller. Opening every page to the Features section, he leaves copies scattered in every room he visits.

The coffee table in the common room. One in Steve's bedroom. One in Wilson's bathroom. One in Natasha's mailbox, because no fucking way would he try to sneak in her room. A copy in the library. One on each treadmill in the gym. One on Bruce's desk. Pausing outside Tony's lab, he sends the online link to Pepper and asks if she can post it to the official Avengers social handles. She responds with a winky face telling him it's already been done.

"FRIDAY, did you see it?" he asks excitedly, waving his last copy as he plops down on the sofa.

"Yes, Sergeant Barnes," comes the Irish lilt and Bucky wonders for the millionth time, how an AI can sound amused. "I found it to be an inspiring piece. She's a lovely writer."

"Yeah," he agrees fervently. "She's fucking awesome." Rustling the pages, he finds the article and folds it open, swallowing the lump in his throat when he reads the headline. Even though he has your story memorized at this point, he sinks into the words one more time.

*****

"Talk to me about growing up with Steve," I say, turning my phone to record and setting it between us.

Barnes looks to the ceiling and gives a low whistle. "Jesus Mary and Joseph," he says, "that kid needed a leash. Stubborn ass little ball of piss and vinegar, always getting me in trouble."

The pair met in a baseball field behind their apartment complex, when Barnes was seven-years-old, kick starting the most famous friendship in modern history.

"First time I met him, he was getting his ass handed to him. When I tried to pull him away, he was so wound up he took a swing at me. Got an arm around him and the little punk bit me. Still got the scar." Barnes extends his right forearm with a grin, showing me a faint pair of half-moons on his skin. "I knocked him upside the head, and then he wipes his bloody nose on his shirt and apologizes. Been best friends ever since."

Rogers is well-known for diving head-first into any fray, a behaviour an exasperated Barnes maintains he hasn't changed since that sweaty summer day in 1925.

"Look, he's a reckless idiot," Barnes states. "My best damn friend in the world and I'd do anything for him, but he's still an idiot."

Barnes is a colorful storyteller, spinning tales about their adventures through the streets and alleys of pre-war Brooklyn. While he talks, I find myself picking up on a theme, the word future cropping up several times. He doesn't notice until I ask.

"When you were growing up, what did you see in your future? How did you picture your life?"

Barnes raises his eyebrows at the question, falling silent as he thinks. He scratches his fingernail on the edge of the table for a few minutes, trying to articulate his thoughts. When it comes, I'm surprised.

"Not as a soldier. I never wanted to be a soldier." He bites his lip and when he speaks again, his voice is soft. "Guess I wanted what everyone wanted then. Get a decent job, put food on the table, buy a house someday. Find a nice girl to settle down with, maybe raise a couple kids. Grow old together." He gives me a wistful smile. "Always liked learning, would've loved to go to college."

The simplicity of his response is all the more heart-breaking, considering the trajectory he would later be set upon.

"All I ever really wanted, was a quiet, ordinary life."

******

The bruises littering your skin have mostly faded, the rope markings around your neck nothing more than a faint rash. Unconsciously rubbing the scabs on your wrists, you find the pain is gone, leaving behind a dull ache.

It's been over a week since that night and the entire experience still seems like a bizarre dream. There will be plenty of time spent parsing apart the details with a professional, and in fact Steve already booked you several months of weekly appointments with an experienced trauma therapist he knows through the VA. It's a relief to have that on the horizon, someone to help you work through everything.

Behind the walls of your heart though, a strange feeling emerges, one that is deeply frustrating. After everything he did, it kills you to think the traitorous thought, but your brain refuses to cooperate and there it is – there's a tiny part of you mourning the loss of a man you thought you knew. Not the man he really was – Jack deserved his violently bloody ending and you would never take that from Bucky. But Jack was someone you trusted, a mentor and friend, and you're bitterly disappointed in your inability to see the real man until it was nearly too late.

Nearly too late.

"But it wasn't," you say out loud, irrationally proud of the steadiness in your voice.

At Bucky's insistence, you've been comfortably ensconced in the Brooklyn apartment since you came back. Away from the bustle of the city, it's been heaven to hide away, resting and recovering.

Well, and of course – spending every possible minute with the moody, uncontrollable, uncooperative bucket of sarcasm that is none other than James Buchanan Barnes.

Waiting for him to come home, you wander through the comfortable apartment. Picking up his well-worn copy of The Book Thief, you tuck it carefully into the empty slot on the bookcase, tracing your fingers over the lettering down the spine, smiling to yourself.

Stepping back, you scan the familiar artwork on the walls, marvelling again at the cracked and peeling photos, at the beauty of Steve's sketches. Right then, your eye pauses when you notice two new additions.

In a shiny green frame, is an adorably childish marker drawing of a smiling Bucky holding the hand of a little girl with dark pigtails. Everyone is dressed head to toe in pink and the bottom is signed 'Gracie' in bright purple letters. The sweetness of the statement, of Bucky going to the trouble of framing and hanging artwork an adoring kid drew for him, makes your heart flip.

Above the drawing, in a simple black frame, is the other new addition. Peering closer, you find the selfie you took the night of Stark's party. Swallowing hard, you reach to touch the frame, losing yourself in memories of that night. The smooth motion of Bucky swaying, the feel of sinking into his arms, his quiet hums of pleasure sending ripples down your back.

"I had Stark get it off your phone for me," the husky voice is unexpected and you let out a bloodcurdling shriek when strong arms wind around you. Bucky chuckles, holding you tight, mouthing at the soft skin behind your ear. "Sorry, thought you heard me. Least you didn't attack me with M&Ms this time."

"That's only because we're out of them," you grumble, turning in his arms. Bucky grins, rubbing his nose to yours, before catching your lips with a sweet kiss. When he presses you against the wall, you feel every delicious inch of his heavy body and you shiver at the promise behind his hard grip. Smiling into the kiss, you slide your tongue against his, feeling the heat pool in your belly, before reluctantly pulling away. He gives a soft whine at the loss of contact, full lips dropping into a pout.

"Pathetic, Barnes," you sigh and he pouts harder. "Fine, you giant fucking baby. Ravish me then."

"Hell yes," he breathes, lifting you easily and tugging your legs tight around his waist. "Hell fucking yes."

*****

Ordinary was a sweet word, but it wasn't meant to be. Unknown to him, the darkest day of his life was drawing closer, one that would spin him in an entirely new direction.

Searching for more context around that horrifying day, I went straight to the man who saw it first-hand. He sheds the mantle when he talks about this memory, no longer Captain America – here, he is only Steve Rogers, a helpless young man watching his best friend fall to his death.

"I couldn't do anything. Nothing. I just watched him slip away," Rogers says. His guilt is palpable, the musings of a man shouldering far too much. "It pisses him off when I say it, but it's the truth. Won't ever forgive myself."

Barnes shakes his head when I mention this, adamant in his refusal to assign a hint of blame.

"There was nothing he could have done," he states emphatically. "Absolutely nothing."

While Rogers can recount every horrifying detail of that day, in this small fact, Barnes is lucky. I ask him what he remembers.

"It's funny. I remember wondering how the hell my hands could be so sweaty when it was so damn cold outside." He flexes the fingers of his right hand, considering them. "I lost my grip on the bar and I heard Steve screaming. I don't remember the fall itself though, must've passed out on the way down. Next thing I know, I open my eyes and I'm half-buried in snow. There was – the snow was red. All around me, bright red. My arm wouldn't move and I couldn't feel anything from the waist down."

Most of Hydra's files from the start of the Winter Soldier project have been lost, either as they changed hands over the years or through the natural decay of time, but those recovered allude to Barnes suffering catastrophic injuries in the fall that should have left him dead. His left arm was found hanging by no more than a few strips of muscle, his spine was shattered, his lungs nearly collapsed. There was no possible reason he should have survived.

But – running through his veins was something unexpected.

"Knock-off Nazi trash serum," Barnes drily refers to it. During his weeks spent as a POW in Azzano (the Hydra work camp he was liberated from in 1943), Barnes was an unwilling participant in a number of experiments conducted by that same Arnim Zola he was chasing that day on the train.

Laying in the snow, Barnes admits he thought he'd reached the end of the line. Every soldier entertains the possibility they may never return home, and Barnes made peace with that fact.

"Here's the thing. I had a family waiting for me in Brooklyn. A baby sister I promised to give away at her wedding. A best friend I left hanging on a busted train miles above me. I was 27-years-old, lost in another country, and I sure as hell didn't want to die. I kept thinking I had so much damn living left in me, so much I wanted to do."

His words are tragic in their familiarity, a prayer to be repeated by thousands of voices in the decades that followed, from Korea to Vietnam, from Iraq to Afghanistan. Generations of young men and women just like Sergeant Barnes, left broken and bleeding on foreign soil.

He cracks the knuckles on his right hand while he thinks.

"It seemed inevitable though, so I tried to get myself ready. Remember it being dead silent in that canyon, so I had plenty of time to think. Plenty of time to cry. There were definitely tears. But the longer I laid there, I started to feel warm and things didn't hurt so much. So, I thought hell, if I gotta go, maybe this is better than taking a bullet and bleeding out in the middle of a firefight." Barnes gives a hollow smile. "But right as it got dark, I heard dogs barking. Next thing I know, I'm surrounded by men shouting in Russian. Couldn't move a damn finger, couldn't do anything but lay there and panic. Took a boot to the head and passed out."

Here, he gets a distant look in his eyes. "The next time I woke up, it was – I don't understand it, I don't know how, but I guess it was months later. I was strapped to a table and the whole left side of my body felt like I'd been hit by a train." His lip curls. "And there was Zola, looking down at me again. Thought I was having a flashback."

It wasn't a flashback. On that surgery table, was the start of a waking nightmare that would continue unabated for the next seventy years.

******

The first night you spent together was marked with heat and urgency, a clear desperation to feel each other before the moment was lost. When Bucky pushed you away the morning after, it broke your heart, but the night itself, before all hell broke loose – it was beautiful and perfect and right. You wouldn't trade it for anything.

Now, though.

Now.

Fuck.

All his tight control and fervent attention to detail is one thing when he shifts into work mode – but in bed, when he turns that intense focus directly on you, he is devastating. Every stroke of his fingers comes slow and purposeful, building the heat in your stomach. Every kiss drips with love against your sweaty skin, full of unspoken promise. Every move of his body in yours is deliberate, wringing every last drop of pleasure he can coax from your body.

He was the kind of lover you dreamed about, committed to pleasing you above all else, making you feel everything again and again and then once more for good measure.

Never breaking his steady rhythm, Bucky now pulls you to your knees, your back flush against his chest. Wrapping his arm tight across your breasts, his tongue drags a leisurely line up your neck, his other hand slipping between your legs.

Breathless little grunts fall from his lips, warm panting against your skin with each sharp snap of his hips. Closing your eyes, you mirror his movements, clinging to the cool metal at your chest, desire crawling up your spine when you reach down and feel his fingers rubbing quickly.

Murmuring filthy little comments in your ear as he pushes into you, his words spark some unknown part of you that apparently lives for the sound of Bucky Barnes telling you how good you make him feel, how much he loves fucking you. Breath suddenly wrenched from your lungs, you tumble headfirst over the edge with a low, satisfied moan.

"There you go, that's it," he whispers encouragingly, sucking the smooth skin on your shoulder as you tremble in his arms, spiraling further and further.

You hope you never stop falling.

*****

Memories are a strange thing.

Through his time with Hydra, Barnes had his brain repeatedly wiped, cleared and cleaned out again and again. Since his return to the land of the living, thanks to intensive therapy and a determined Captain Rogers, he has broad strokes and frames of reference back in his life, remembrances before the fall settled firmly in his brain. But vestiges of his past still linger, and his time with Hydra has resulted in a sort of shared mental capacity.

"There's another guy in your life," I begin hesitantly and I see Barnes' lips twitch.

"That's one way to put it," he says.

When Barnes speaks of the Winter Soldier, his expression grows grim. The lines of his life are irrevocably tied to this legendary presence, a ghost sitting on the fringes of his mind, something more myth than reality. It is a heavy burden to bear.

"For the longest time, I tried to keep us separate. The Soldier was one thing. I was another. It was easier to blame all the terrible things that happened on him, rather than admit I played any part in it." I remind him he didn't – that's the fundamental issue with brainwashing, and he gives me a patient smile. "In theory, I know. All those years, it wasn't me. I know. But I still did it."

On a personal level, I own a single memory of the Winter Soldier, one that is overwhelming in its complexity. He was everything you've imagined. Hard. Violent. Angry. But behind that mask, I found a man I never expected. Gentle. Confused. Protective. Kind. The Soldier was a kaleidoscope of emotions, neatly packaged in the mind of a man who spent his entire life at the mercy of others.

I will not condone his past and neither will Barnes, but I highlight this simply to signal the opportunity for redemption. Earning that redemption has been a long process, one Barnes started by first bringing back his memories of their shared past. He recalls the experience of remembering cautiously, the process itself a memory that makes him flinch.

"There were days when nothing would happen. Mind would just stay white, it wouldn't show me anything. That was frustrating, but also kind of a relief. If I couldn't remember, then I didn't have to face up to the things I'd done. But other days. God." He blows out a huge breath and leans back in his chair, raking his hands through his dark hair. "They came back with a vengeance."

Sometimes the memories were hazy, surreal fever dreams that felt confusing in their reality. Other times, they were shockingly vivid, nightmares from which he visibly shudders as he recalls.

Not everything was returned, which is both a blessing and a curse. Some things his brain refuses to allow in, a coping mechanism he doesn't try too hard to unravel. He knows there are some things better left forgotten.

But where he can, as much as he can, he is adamant about making amends. He understands it won't change the past. That's not the point.

When he breaks it down for me, I ask a loaded question. Is there a measure of peace that comes with remembering? His nose wrinkles as he thinks, playing with the coffee mug still in his hands. One thing about Bucky Barnes, is that he never delivers a half-baked response. When he finally answers, his words have a philosophical bend.

"Yes. I've come to grips with the fact that all those years weren't something I could control. I don't like to remember, but I think I owe it to people." He nods slowly while he speaks, as if convincing his own heart to get in line. "If remembering is my penance, if my suffering gives others peace, then I guess yeah – I'm happy to pay it."

*****

Sucking tiny hickeys down his neck, you laugh at the sound of his pleased little purrs. Leaving one last purpley-red bruise above his heart, you settle comfortably between his legs and fold your hands across his bare chest. Propping your chin on your knuckles, you study him.

"Do you know my first impression of you, the day we met?"

Bucky raises a lazy eyebrow and grins. "Shock at how devastatingly handsome I was?"

"Don't get cocky Barnes, you're not that good in bed."

"Yes, I am," he promptly replies.

Wiggling against him, you rub your cheek against the bristly hair on his chest. "Hmmm. True. Anyway, I remember that day, you were acting all pissy and annoyed, big shocker I know, and I was looking at your scruffy face – "

"I didn't have time to shave that morning," he interrupts.

"And all your fluffy hair – "

"I was having a great hair day," he confirms.

"And that old leather jacket – "

"It's my favorite jacket, makes me look sexy and intimidating," he says.

"Buck, I'm trying to tell a story here."

"Right. Sorry babe."

"Anyway. You were standing there with your scruffy face and fluffy hair and that leather jacket, and I kept thinking you were the kind of guy who'd screw a girl in a bar bathroom, slap her ass, and never call."

"That sounds very unsanitary," he whispers, tapping your nose lightly. "But if you really want to try, I'll give it a go."

"What a saint."

"I really am."

*****

Just thinking about everything Barnes has experienced is enough to make my brain ache. Imagining what it must have been like for him, is baffling.

"All those years, through everything – how did you cope with it all?"

"I fought it for a long time, until they figured out how to wipe it all out – my memories, who I was. The longer I was out of cryofreeze, the more random thoughts would come back, but it was so confusing. I'd end up trying to compartmentalise it all. Separate it out, put parts of my life and my memories into little boxes in my head. It was the only way I could deal with it.

His ability to compartmentalise and separate himself from the situation at hand, would prove to be useful, a common coping method for trauma survivors. "I'd kind of retreat into myself. I got very good at finding safe spaces in my head." He gives a nonchalant shrug. "Knew if I didn't, there'd be hell to pay."

He must have learned new things then, other ways of coping. What gets him through the days now?

"I guess – it's like, you just put one foot in front of the other. Every day, you get up and do it and at some point, it becomes second nature."

"What was it like in the beginning?"

Rubbing his jaw, he shakes his head. "It was terrible. There were weeks I didn't want to get out of bed. Was terrified of what I might do, who I might see. And everything just felt – heavy, I guess? Not sure that's the right word. It was like my brain wanted to give up, but my body wasn't done yet. I hid from real life for a long time."

Known during WW2 as Combat Stress Reaction, Barnes was familiar with his symptoms. It took no time at all to diagnose him with one of the most disturbingly common conditions affecting those in service: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

"It wasn't something we talked about back then," he says. "But we all knew what it was. People just tried to deal with it though, they didn't look for help."

The world has changed for the better and now discussions around this topic are no longer taboo. Even then, Barnes says he initially found it difficult, because the idea of it – of help – was such a foreign concept. Now though, he's an enthusiastic supporter.

"We don't talk about it enough," he says firmly. "It's better now, but we need to be more open and honest with each other, so we can figure out how to live." Tipping his mug back, he drains the last dregs of coffee. "Humans are weird, you know? We make things hard sometimes and we shouldn't. You can't be afraid to ask for help. You're not alone."

*****

Bucky picks up his phone and gives a cursory glance at the list of notifications. The screen lights up with message after message, line after line, and he scrolls through nervously, before he realizes what he's seeing.

"Jesus H Christ."

Feeling your heart lurch, you look at him in alarm. "What? What happened?"

Slowly, he turns his phone screen to face you, eyes comically wide, face bone white.

"I'm trending on Twitter."

*****

Part of me expected Barnes to have a limited knowledge of culture and history. He likes to feign confusion at times ("honestly, screwing with Sam Wilson is a highlight in my life"), but in reality, he's one of the sharpest people I've met. Spending so much of his life as an undercover operative, he was required to keep up to speed on the world, always assimilating into new environments.

Finding a work-life balance is key though, so what are the things he does for fun, just for himself?

"Netflix," he declares. "is the greatest thing ever invented. You know Stranger Things, right? I love Eleven, that kid's my hero."

Agreeing wholeheartedly, I push him to expand. What else?

"Um, I like to eat? Tacos, pizza. Snickers. Breakfast cereal. Damn, yeah. Breakfast cereal. I could eat Captain Crunch every single day of my life. Captain Crunch kicks Captain America's ass."

On that note, he has a famous relationship with Steve Rogers, but what about the rest of the Avengers?

"Took me awhile to fall in with the team," he says matter of fact. "Didn't trust them and they sure as hell didn't trust me. But now? I'd take a bullet for any of them. They're – we're family."

Time for our interview is winding down, and Barnes is finally relaxed. With my final set of questions, I struggle to keep the smile off my face, but I can't help myself.

"You know you've got quite the status as a moody broody heartthrob, right?"

His eyes go wide at the question, a red flush instantly staining his cheeks. "What? No. No, that's – no. No. I'm definitely not – no. God no."

The look of horror on his face is entertaining and I wait for him to finish spluttering before I continue. "So, are you saying you're single? A free agent?"

He looks taken aback for a moment, but when realization arrives, along with a sparkle in his eye, he relaxes. He knows what I'm doing.

"I didn't say that."

"So – there's a special someone then?"

Barnes gives me that trademark smile and ducks his head. "Well, there's this girl."

"Tell me about her."

"She's a real pistol," he enthuses. "Smart. Funny. A real ball-breaker. Swears more than anyone I've ever met."

"She sounds like fun."

"She is," he agrees. Tilting his head, he fixes me with an intense stare and his voice grows serious. "She's got my whole damn heart, right in the palm of her hand. It's all hers. I'll spend every day if I need to, making sure she knows that."

At his words, my heart leaps. When I try to respond, I hear my voice crack.

"She's a lucky girl."

"Nah," he replies, bashful at the compliment. Reaching across the table, he picks up my hands and holds them tight. "I'm the lucky one. She makes me feel safe."

*****

"We haven't left this bed for a couple days. Should we go do something?" Drawing random little patterns across his skin, you pause at his nipple and give it a pinch.

"Nope, we're staying put," he says, shoving your fingers away and giving you a stern look. "That tickles."

"Does it?" Tweaking his nipple again, he yelps.

"Woman, don't you listen?"

"Sorry, couldn't hear you over the sounds of someone being a whiny bitch."

With an outraged growl, he rolls you over, using his knee to shove your legs open and pinning your arms above your head.

"Wanna try again?"

Batting your eyelashes at him, you mirror his earlier pout. "I was just saying how devilishly handsome you were and how much I love you."

Bucky grunts his approval. "That's what I thought."

Stretching up, you leave a sloppy kiss on his chin. "So, are we leaving or what?"

"Hard no," he shakes his head. "Made myself a promise, I'm not breaking it."

"Did you now? And what was that?"

"That if I got you back, if I didn't fuck it up again, I was keeping you in my bed for at least a week. Minimum."

"Hmmm," you say, trying to keep your face serious. "Sounds like a solid plan, except what if I want to shower?"

"Excellent," Bucky breathes, eyes lighting up at the question. "Then I'll join you. Never know what kind of trouble you'll find in the shower, when you're all wet and slick and soapy – yep, that's it. You're a dirty, dirty girl. Shower time you hussy, move your ass."

Scrambling off the bed, he tosses you over his shoulder and palms your bare ass, squeezing a handful. Giving you a playful smack, he stalks toward the bathroom, the sound of his happy laughter echoing through the apartment.

******

Recently, there was news coverage around the Avengers taking down a Hydra sleeper cell in upstate New York. The mission was led by Sergeant Barnes and was deemed a success, with the threat being fully eradicated.

That mission, was put in motion to save someone.

That someone, was me.

Here's the thing. In journalism, you need to remain unbiased and when I'm reporting on news, I'll always strive to report the unbiased facts. But if you haven't guessed yet, I have a more personal stake in this story.

Combine everything you know about James Buchanan Barnes, from annals of history to the words I've shared today, and you have a fact-based portrait of this remarkable man.

But facts are not what make up the measure of any human being.

Here's what else I know.

When he gets nervous, his palm sweats. He's terrible at sharing food and shamelessly blames his super soldier metabolism for that fact. When he concentrates, his nose scrunches up and when he laughs you can find little wrinkles circling his eyes. Sometimes when he can't sleep, he wanders down to the local rest home to visit with Alzheimer's patients, because he knows what it's like to not remember. He always keeps a crossword in his pocket because it keeps his brain sharp. He loves Rocky Road ice cream and fuzzy blankets and his favourite colour is actually pink. Bitter black coffee is his drug of choice and he could watch 'I Love Lucy' all day long.

Even now, as I hand you these snippets of his life and let you paint your own picture of the man so many still scathingly refer to as the Soldier, it's only a rough sketch. Like every person on this planet, Bucky Barnes is comprised of more complex layers and subtle nuances than it is possible to describe, a man full of contrasts. Made of unbreakable metal and soft touches, at times frighteningly rough and astonishingly gentle, swathed in despair and brimming with light. He's seen the blackest horrors lurking in the chaos of war and experienced first-hand the depravity of humanity, yet he remains one of the most compassionate people I've ever known.

The first day we met, I contemptuously declared "I don't do soft human-interest stories."

How times have changed.

Here I am, pen in hand and heart on my sleeve, so soft for this man I feel it in my bones. We live in a world where good does not always triumph over evil and where far too often, love is not enough. I am lucky beyond measure to have found Bucky Barnes. So here, at the end of my story, I leave these words, for him and him alone.

If Death sees fit to grant me his heart, I'll offer my own in return. Unreservedly, now and always.

*****

Bucky watches the shadows lengthen through the apartment as the sun sets. Eventually he'll get up and turn on a lamp to chase the dark away, but for now he's content to lay here with you humming sleepily, twirling a finger around his damp hair.

Sprawled together on his bed, tangled up in each other, the word flits through his mind. Bucky understands what he has now, what you gave to him. What it means to be –

Safe.

*****

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