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marvelstoriesepic · 2 days ago

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Like a Phoenix (7)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, blood, loss of parents, fever, betrayal; injuries; grief; self-loathing; crying; heavy revelations; tension

Author’s Note: Omg I'm over 50k into this story, I can’t believe it lol. I'm actually proud of myself. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The collections of brilliant greens and golden blossoms are spread out before you. The merge of all the wildflowers and herbs is sharp with pine and earth and mint and honey-like. Invigorating.

You kneel on a patch of mossy ground near the campfire. Bucky had lit it the second you got back. The fire is crackling.

Pine needles shimmer faintly with dew, their resinous tang sharp in your nose. Feverfew with its delicate flowers nestle beside clusters of clover blooms, their soft pink petals almost luminous in the flecked sunlight.

Contemplating with what you are going to begin, you run your fingers across goldenrod stems, their tiny mustard-colored buds crumbling slightly under your touch. The medicinal scent of yarrow stands proud among the rest.

The familiar smells and colors again bring echoes of your mother’s voice from the palace gardens. Patient and gentle as she taught you the properties of each plant.

The pale leaves of Lily’s Balm feel waxy on your fingers. They are good for soothing inflamed wounds and drawing out heat from infection. Feverfew against his overheated skin, lowering the fever, its green frilled edges so delicate and lace-like. Wild mint will ease his breathing and calm his body. Clover blooms for their gentle healing abilities. Yarrow and Goldenrod, both strong bases, to slow his bleeding. Wild thyme to cleanse, and pine, sticky with resin, pungent and purifying.

You exhale slowly, deliberately dragging air through your lungs. This is your time to be useful. To actually do something other than dwell in your sorrows and the losses you had to endure.

Bucky is slightly hovering in your line of vision. He is silent. But you don’t like him walking and shuffling around the way he does while the fever sweat hangs onto his brows and the freshly stained blood lingers on his shirt. It makes you queasy. You don’t know if he hid his injury due to oversight or simple stubbornness, but either way, he should not walk around like that.

“You should sit down,” you tell him while beginning to strip the yarrow leaves from their stems.

He doesn’t answer right away, so you glance up. He stands there stubbornly arms crossed over his chest, looking right back at you with a guarded expression. Though he definitely looks paler than he should be. And you avoid looking at the blood stain on purpose.

“M’ fine,” he grumbles, brushing you off. And before you get to an answer, he continues. “Your side,” he counters, voice gravelly. “Let me check it first.”

“I am not the one bleeding.”

His lips purse. “You callin’ me color blind, darlin’? I know what I'm seein’. That’s definitely red there.”

Well, maybe you did bleed through Bucky’s bandage, but that will have to wait.

“We can get to that later.”

Bucky takes a step closer, shadows flickering across his face from the low fire. “Princess-”

“No. Now sit,” you instruct, cutting him off and surprising even yourself with your tone.

Bucky is silent for a beat. You hear him shifting but stay focused on your herbs. “You tellin’ me what to do now, princess?” There is a sparkle of amusement in his voice and in the tug of the corner of his mouth.

Briefly glancing back at him, you meet his eyes with a steadiness you don’t quite feel. “No,” you tell him. “I am telling you I would not know what to do if you passed out.”

He scoffs, clearly offended by the suggestion. “Gonna take more than that to knock me out, darlin’.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “Humor me?”

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing, trying to decide whether to argue further. But then he relents with a low huff, lowering himself onto a flat rock by the fire basically in front of you. The movement is slow and you catch the wince he tries to hide. But he looks more relaxed sitting down.

Satisfied, you turn back to your work. The yarrow leaves are crunched between your fingers. Their pungent smell rises while you release the healing oils from the leaves and add them to a small tin cup filled with clean water from the stream.

The goldenrod comes next. The yellow of the flowers vivid against the darker-turning liquid.

Furrowing your brow slightly, you swirl your head around to look for something that might help you prepare and stir the herbs. And then you remember. Hurriedly, you get up and walk over to the discarded cloak, the one you had laid over Bucky in his sleep. There’s something safely tucked inside that you can use at the moment.

It’s a dagger. It’s not as lengthy as Bucky’s, but it is enough. You took it from the fight. Obviously, it is not the very same one you picked up to throw at Rumlow, because that one is likely still buried in his body, but you found it lying on the ground and picked it up.

You just did not find something useful to do with it. Until now.

You walk back to the herbs and Bucky at the fire.

Since Bucky’s gaze followed you, he catches sight of the blade immediately and looks up at you in surprise. “You kept that?”

Not looking back at him, you settle down and focus on slicing the leaves of Lily’s Balm into thin ribbons. “Didn’t know whether I would have to save your life again,” you quip.

You don’t know where that came from. Perhaps having a real purpose for once is making you regain something akin to confidence.

The sound that follows though, startles you. It’s a laugh. Bucky’s laugh. Sudden and loud and gruff, lifting somewhere far within his chest. It’s so unbridled, stemming from surprise. And it is utterly captivating. It makes your hands halt. Never have you heard him laugh before. Really laugh. Not like this. You are entranced. The sound floats for a while and you never want it to stop. It makes his voice to a soft glow of mirth.

You stare at him, half amazed, half in disbelief.

But he isn’t even looking at you. His head is tilted to the ground, shaking. He’s still chuckling to himself. Lips pulled into a wide grin. “Aren’t you full of surprises, darlin’.”

You watch him for a few seconds longer. The corners of your mouth lift and there is nothing you can do to stop them. “I am glad that this is entertaining for you.”

Turning back to the leaves, you try to calm the fast pace of your heart. The blade slices cleanly through the stems and leaves. But you can’t really focus on that. The shake of Bucky’s shoulders in a silent laugh catches your vision. His laughter keeps ringing in your mind. And you still want to hear it again.

Pine resin is sticky on your skin, the sap gleaming amber in the sunlight. You crush the prepared leaves into the dark liquor and mix it into a fine paste, adding the pine resin to create a thick, fragrant balm. The yarrow adds a cooling element, its sharp scent cutting through the heavier tones. It is perfect to stop the bleeding and prevent infection.

You take a quick glance over at Bucky. His head is bowed, forearms resting on his knees, but his eyes are fixed on you, sharp despite his fever. There is something quiet in the way he watches you. Astonishment. Curiosity.

“Where did you learn that?” he speaks up quietly, as if using a normal voice would disturb something intimate. There is something about the way he uses his voice and winds his tone, that almost makes you believe he is admiring what you are doing. As if this is a wonder.

You don’t look up at him, hoping he won’t notice the slight flinch in your fingers. Or the pang in your chest. “My mother taught me.” Your voice is even quieter than his has been.

He doesn’t say more. Perhaps he doesn’t even have to see the pang in your chest. He heard it in your voice.

You start the second tincture, the one for him to drink. Feverfew, wild thyme, clover blooms, and wild mint. Combined they will help ease his fever and cleanse his body.

Your hands almost move on their own, preparing the leaves. On instinct. It feels unexpected. But it makes you realize just how important those moments with your mother really were to you. And now they turn so monumental, it makes your chest close in on itself. You carry this from your old world. Something useful. Something that has survived of her even if everything else now lays in ruins.

Your breath trembles on the cusp of grief. But you get a hold of it.

Another glance over at Bucky makes something cold skate down your back, leaving a trail of tension.

Sweat accumulates again on his forehead despite the coolness of the forest. His lips are pressed together. The bloodstain on his right shoulder has again spread further than you hoped, darkening the brown leather of his armor. His fever is climbing. That’s not good.

You rush through the second tincture, mixing everything in water again and heating it over the fire at the same time. The liquor is thick and green with a sharp scent. Carefully, you pour it into another small tin cup, making sure it’s not too hot for him to drink.

Rising, you cross the short distance to him and crouch down again.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks immediately, eying it warily.

“It will help you relax and lower the fever,” you assure him gently. “Drink it.”

He leans forward slightly, skepticism written all over his face. He grimaces faintly at the smell and you have to hold back an amused smile. For a man like him, he surely acts like a diva.

“You sure you’re not tryin’a poison me, darlin’?” he drawls, humor winding through his words. However, if you’re not wrong, you can detect a hint of nervousness.

It makes your heart sink but you manage to play lightly, rolling your eyes. “You are the reason I am alive, so I am pretty sure poisoning you would be counterproductive.”

His brows inch upward as he looks at you with an unreadable, but intense expression. With a deep sigh, he then takes the cup from your hands and downs it in one swift motion. His face twists with disgust and he swipes the back of his hand against his lips, releasing a cough. “Tastes like dirt,” he rasps.

Biting back a smile, you get up to retrieve the balm for his wound. “I think you will live.”

You watch him set down the cup with a heavy sigh, the lines of his face softening.

“You don’t gotta do this, darlin’.”

“You have done it for me,” you retort, walking back over to him and kneeling down. This time with the tin cup holding the balm for his wound.

Bucky lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. He watches you with intrigued eyes. But there still is that nervousness surrounding him.

“Let me see,” you request, almost timidly, but willing strength into your voice.

He shifts where he sits on the rock, clearly uncomfortable with the request. His jaw is hard. Muscles are tense beneath the bloodied remains of his shirt.

“You are still bleeding,” you acknowledge more firmly. “Take it off.”

His brows rise at your sudden authority, but there is amusement in the motion. A smirk curves his lips despite himself. He doesn’t make a move to do what you say though.

“Gettin’ a little too bossy there, for my likin’, princess,” he teases, each word dripping with sly delight.

“Bucky.” Your tone turns soft again, but your resolve remains firm. His shoulder is worrying you. “Please.”

After a tense moment of quiet, he drags out a long and sharp breath through his nose and straightens up. With a grimace, he slowly shrugs off his brown armor. His shirt underneath is sticking to his torso, dark with sweat and dried but also fresh blood.

You swallow hard as he peels the fabric away from his shoulder, revealing a part of the wound he’s been keeping to himself.

The gash extends out from his shoulder and dips slightly towards his upper chest. It’s an arc of torn and angry flesh. A mass of swelling blood crusts around the edges under a layer of sweat, laying a dreary tapestry of red and brown on the skin below. It looks puckered and bumpy, suggesting that the blade that pierced him must have been of serrated or distorted nature upon impact.

You might have stared at it a second too long because Bucky lets out an uncomfortable cough.

“Lucky swing,” he says tersely, to make this a little less awkward. It does not quite work out, because now you are staring at his face oddly. To you, this does not look like someone got lucky, considering the fact that the man responsible for this is dead now and Bucky has to carry this around.

But what snaps your attention back to the wound is the heat you feel radiating off it. And it confirms what you already suspected - infection is setting in. The skin around the wound is inflamed, making it glisten ominously.

However, what makes your hands tremble lightly in discomfort is the fact that you won’t be able to access every part of that gash with his shirt on.

“You, uhm-” you start nervously, unsure of how he will react. “I am going to need you to take your shirt off as well.”

He stares at you.

“I will not be able to reach everything like this,” you explain, still timid.

He sighs, dropping his head a fraction, before slowly starting to peel his shirt off. He winces with the movements of his arms, fabric tugging against drying blood.

The full extent of his wound looks even uglier. You try your best to ignore the pale lines of violence scattered across his skin, especially his other shoulder - the scars you caught glimpses of at the river. Your gaze quickly moves to the flesh injury.

You don’t want him to feel uncomfortable. Well, not more than he already seems to be.

“Lean back for me,” you instruct, not wanting to waste more time, but keeping your voice kind.

There definitely is something surreal about telling Bucky what to do. You’ve been doing that basically your whole life - giving instructions and following the ones you’ve been told by people higher than you - but with Bucky, it feels different. The words taste odd in your mouth.

Bucky hesitates. His lips press into a thin line and he eyes the tin cup gloomily. He looks as though he might argue but then he thinks better of it. Reluctantly, he shifts his weight and braces himself against a tree behind him.

You dip your fingers into the balm, the cool, thick paste sticking to your skin. Bucky watches you, his whole body full of tension. A tremor passes through his throat as he forces a breath past the lump there.

He is not used to this. To being cared for in this way, to having someone’s full attention on his pain. That much is clear.

“This might sting,” you warn, voice quiet.

He grunts.

Steeling yourself, you let your hand hover over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

He grunts again, giving you a tight nod. You try to ignore the way he watches you. He seems to be bracing for more than the sting of the tincture.

Warming the balm between your fingers, you press it gently against the torn flesh. The scent of the wild herbs is strong in the air.

Bucky goes incredibly rigid. His breath hitches sharply. His eyes flash for a fraction of a second before settling into a void you can’t decode.

Even the forest around you seems quieter while you spread the self-made lotion on his shoulder. You are precise in your sweeps, careful not to meet any of his skin that doesn’t need your touch.

The more you work, the steadier he gets. He doesn’t make a sound, but the discomfort doesn’t entirely leave his body. Discomfort of pain or vulnerability, you can’t tell. Probably both. His hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides. But you do notice the few relieved sighs he lets slip unintentionally after a few swipes over his skin.

The wound resists at first, but you move your fingers with patience and caution, in even strokes. Quickly, the ointment begins to calm the irritated areas, drawing out some of the heat.

Bucky’s chest rises in a deep inhale against your fingers and you avoid the almost magnetic pull his piercing eyes have on you. He watches you so intently, all you can do is to keep your gaze on your task and resist whatever heat simmers in his stare.

The herbs already seem to ease the swelling a little bit and you are confident that they will stave off the infection. It makes you breathe easier, despite the intimacy of your current situation. You’re so close to him, asking so much of him, and with every careful sweep across his torn skin, you are getting more aware of it.

Then, without warning, one of his hands reaches up and wraps around your wrist gently. Making you still mid-motion.

“Stop,” he says quietly, his voice rough but not unkind.

You freeze startled, blinking at him. “What?”

“Keep some of that for yourself,” he insists, slowly pulling your hand away from his shoulder. “You need it.”

You take a moment to consider what he even means. Then, you shake your head. “I do not-”

“You don’t wanna argue with me, darlin’. Keep the rest for yourself,” he repeats, more sternly this time. His eyes darken into something bordering on concern.

You stare at him. And then you don’t. Eyes going to his now-covered wound, and the tin cup in your hand that still holds some of the paste you made.

Biting pressure makes your heart seem to seize.

You didn’t even consider using the balm for yourself. Your side is still stinging. The bandage is still red with blood. But you did not spare it a single thought. Did not think about caring for it in the way you did for Bucky’s wound.

Every leaf, every petal, every drop of resin has been meant for him. The idea of keeping any for your own wound has never so much as crossed your mind. You haven’t thought about it consciously, but now it is glaringly obvious. You would use every last drop of the balm for him without hesitation. There’s something wrong about that, something you dislike confessing even to yourself.

Bucky is still watching you with his brows drawn together. He nods toward the tin cup in your hand but keeps his eyes on you. “If you knew how to do that the whole time, then why don’t do it earlier? For yourself?”

You take a pause. His hand is still warm around your wrist, basically lying on his lap. Sharp eyes are gauging your reaction.

“I just- It did not come to my mind,” you admit, shaking your head dismissively. “But it is of little consequence now.”

His expression is hard. Not the kind of hard you knew his features to hold when you met him. It’s not meant for you directly. But it still is there because of you, because of the way you think. His jaw shifts, muscles moving in tense vibrations, grappling with words he isn’t sure he should say. “That’s bullshit,” he voices with a stiffness in his tone.

The blunt language of this man is an insult on its own. But the meaning of his words still hit you.

A shaky breath falls from your lips.

Never once have you thought of soothing the pain of your own conscience or making a balm for yourself.

Your side has ached, the wound pulsing and throbbing and hurting, but it faded to insignificance as soon as you saw the streaks of sweat trickling from him and the blood blooming across his shirt. Every instinct has driven you to help him.

And why? Because you somehow deserve the agony, don’t you? The thought is bitter in your chest. You don’t believe you deserve the care, the relief of healing herbs, the preservation of your own body.

You haven’t been of use to him, needing his protection at every waking moment. You killed a man. You failed to stay out of harm’s way like Bucky had told you to. That’s what got you injured in the first place. Stupid girl.

It is shameful to think of how invulnerable you have thought him to be. You relied on him so utterly, so selfishly, leaned on him without a care in the world, and laid all your troubles upon his already burdened shoulders. How many times did you assume he is untouchable, indestructible? And now here he is, bleeding, just like everybody else, and keeping it to himself. Because you haven’t been enough.

This is your fault. You relied on him too much, demanded too much, not even considering the toll.

Darkness engulfs those thoughts.

Your throat feels bound. Your heart works in stuttered pauses. Breathing doesn’t feel like relief. Swallowing doesn’t drag down the tide of self-loathing making its way up your spine.

Bucky’s thumb brushes against your pulse and it snaps your attention right back to him. You pull away from his hold and he releases your wrist immediately. Though his hand retreats to his side rather slowly.

“Whatever you’re thinkin’, don’t” he states rather calmly but somehow still so intensely. His voice is so low it seems to be scraping against something hard.

You meet his eyes then. They are insistent. Resolved. Sharp. They make you attempt another try to gulp down the knot in your throat but it doesn’t work.

“What?” you ask weakly.

His persistent eyes remain fixed on you. “I know that look. Stop it.”

A choking sensation cinches tight around your throat. It is strangling and stifling and makes you want to turn away. But he somehow manages to keep you on the spot.

“I-”

“Don’t,” repeats, softer this time. His hand twitches at his side and he takes a quick glance at the quiver in your own fingers. “This isn’t on you, got it?” His voice is rough with conviction, so fierce.

His gaze still is so relentlessly focused on you to get his point across.

It makes you want to vomit. His words push against the very flimsy barrier of defenses that you have constructed around your guilt. He sees right through it. His gaze makes it see-through. Ineffective. Worthless. Fruitless. Just like how you feel.

“It is not about that,” you try to defend yourself, but it comes out with a frail voice.

“Yeah, it is,” he maintains. “Whatever you’re punishin’ yourself for. Stop. It ain’t gonna get you nowhere.”

The tension in your shoulders doesn’t fully ebb, but something grows warmer around you.

Letting out a long, reluctant sigh, you let your shoulders slump with surrender. Bucky’s gaze softens, something like gratitude crossing his face.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he says quietly, his voice sincere and grounding. “For this.” There is no bravado, just a genuine gratefulness.

You shake your head, heat flooding your features. Your knees ache when you shift and the pain in your side kicks in again.

Bucky stands up slowly and his expression shifts, something resolute settling in his features. “Now,” he announces. “Let me help you with that.”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden change in his tone.

“You don’t-”

He cuts you off with a raised brow and a gesture that brings back his commanding nature. “Sit down,” he orders, pointing you to the stone he sat on moments before. “And better do it now. Because that’s not lookin’ too good.” He throws a concerned look at the tear in your dress that reveals the bloodied dressing he put on.

You open your mouth but his eyes are authoritative enough. You stand up, only to reluctantly sit down again on the very same rock he’s been sitting on. You calculate your movements, to not show him how painful it actually is.

“You always interrupt me. That is not very nice,” you exclaime, perhaps to make his attention on you waver, or just to throw him off with another topic and distract you or him from what he is going to do. Or maybe you should really be annoyed at the way he doesn’t let you finish speaking. But somehow him constantly interrupting you even feels endearing in some kind of way you can’t explain, considering the fact that he only ever does it when he knows he won’t like the words coming from your mouth. Maybe because you tend to talk yourself small.

Bucky’s lips quirk into that maddeningly amused smirk as he takes the tin cup out of your hands. “Not used to people interruptin’ you, princess?” The title carries no cruelty, only an enjoyable warmth that causes a tingling sensation on your skin.

You huff. “Well, I am getting used to it now,” you grumble.

And there it is again. The sound that has caught you off guard before. That laugh. Full-bodied, sonorous, and so utterly disarming in its power over you. It makes its way into your chest. His head is tipped slightly backward, exposing faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.

You find yourself staring breathlessly. It’s a sound so human, so rare, so special, that you wish you could bottle it up and keep it safe.

You’re mesmerized by the perfect way his teeth are gleaming at his wide grin.

He catches your gaze and you quickly avert your own, neck turning hot.

Bucky shakes his head, an amused look on his face he obviously tries to stifle. “Come on. You made me listen. Now it’s your turn.”

You sigh, while Bucky moves closer to you in a crouched position. His eyes move to your side and his expression shifts to something far more serious.

“Let me see,” he orders, tone gentle, but somehow not meant to go against it.

The weariness in your body wins out. Or rather, his voice wins out. You pull apart the torn pieces of your dress to give him enough access to the makeshift bandage wrapped around your side. His brow furrows as he takes it in.

“You should’ve said somethin’,” he mutters, seemingly more to himself somehow.

“I was otherwise occupied.”

He snorts, clearly unimpressed with your lame excuse. “Bein’ the stubborn girl you are.”

“Do you feel a change yet? Is the fever going down?”you inquire after a beat.

“You tryin’a distract me, princess?” he hums with amusement. His lip tugs upward lightly.

“I might.” You guess, you can't directly tell him you're genuinely concerned about whether he's feeling any better yet. He certainly appears better, however. He ceased sweating, his eyes are focused and his actions are more precise than before. It causes you to inhale deeply. A sigh that is full of relief.

Bucky breathes out a small laugh. “Don’t know what it is that you did there exactly, but it worked,” he acknowledges with a lighter voice. There is something like disbelief in his tone. Delight. Appreciation. That tiny hint of admiration that seems grow an inch or two.

You watch him carefully remove the fabric around your wound, to look at the injury beneath it. His brows immediately cease together tightly. Tension draws along the lines of his face, knotting his jaw. His face is hard again.

He doesn’t waste time, dipping his fingers into the salve you prepared, the thick paste now covering his calloused fingertips. His other hand brushes against your soft skin as he rather unnecessarily helps you peel back the fabric of your dress on your side.

His other hand moves to your gash so slowly, reverent almost. The first touch to your wound makes you hiss through your teeth and he lets you adjust to the feeling before spreading it around gingerly.

Blue eyes glance up to your face, watching closely for any sign of discomfort as his fingers move over your side, slowing his pace, when he sees your brows twitch, and your breath hitch.

The light of the day shimmers faintly against the angry red margins of your wound getting deliberately covered by the dark paste.

The trail of the many intertwined scents goes for your nose, mingling with faint metallic tangs of blood.

The mixture tingles against your skin, cooling and soothing the angry redness.

It’s a distraction from the fact that he hasn’t bothered to put his shirt back on.

He’s still shirtless.

The forest air kisses bare flesh. The light brings a glimmer of sweat to stand out like bronze, bringing to life the scars and distortions of his muscles. You try and tear your gaze away, dizzy with heat as it spreads over your neck and cheeks, but curiosity is what pulls your eyes back.

He is so very close in front of you. You basically see everything. Each of those lines across his naked chest and shoulders has its own tale you are sure you will never be told. You look away again, but your gaze goes hopping back.

He’s so mesmerizing in every way. He was bleeding in front of you just a moment before, but he still looks so strong. So bulky, despite the fact that he can’t eat much out here and keep his muscles trained because he has to keep an eye on you.

“You’re starin’,” he remarks quietly, not looking up. Fixed on applying the ointment.

The next beat of your heart skips. “I was not-”

“You were,” he confirms, though his tone isn’t accusing. It’s rather light. Lighter than you would have imagined. Amusement underlines his statement.

You bite your cheek, seeking to say something. “I was just thinking,” you mumble, half-heartedly attempting a defense.

“That right?” Soft and subtle humor winds around his tone. He doesn’t glance up, still thoroughly smearing more of the balm over your skin, respecting your reactions. Concentration on his features.

Silence hangs in the air, only interrupted by the rustle of clumps of leaves and a softly wafting breeze.

You hesitate. Your heart gallops in your ears. You tentatively nod at the tin cup in his hand. “Maybe this might help with your scars?” you ask, voice so soft, they almost turn into a whisper. Your fingers are clammy. It’s a feeble question.

Bucky’s hand stills. For a moment, you think he might pull away, but he does not. His finger continues to sweep but a shadow of thought passes over his face. It is not hostile. Not repelling. Just contemplative. Maybe a little surprised.

Then, there is a faint shake of his head. “They don’t hurt anymore,” he says finally. There is a subtle thickness to his voice. But he seems to have control over it.

“We could try,” you say quietly, almost in a hopeful way. So full of good intention, it makes Bucky freeze again.

He huffs out a tiny and gasping laugh. It reaches your collarbone, grazing it faintly. His head drops as though it has become too heavy for him momentarily.

“It won’t work, darlin’.” He says it so softly. Carrying an almost apologetic tone, sympathy wringing his voice dry. His thumb lightly swipes over your skin right above where the wound sits as if it is you who needs the grounding.

Your eyes move to the forest floor. There is a stillness in the air between you, unsaid things hovering in the void. The only sound is the fire crackling undisturbed.

The balm is starting to cover your wound, fragrant with mint and resin, its healing properties also somehow meant for wounds deeper than skin.

The firelight dances across his scars, making them look almost alive. Like memories etched too deep to fade.

Timidly, your quiet voice breaks the silence. “How long?”

Bucky’s brows twitch further together, lips pressing into a thin line. He watches his fingers move over your skin. You see the glimmer of reluctance in his eyes, the internal debate waging behind them.

You immediately regret asking. “You do not have to answer that,” you rush to say. “I apologize for asking.”

He exhales slowly, a sigh heavy with something unnamable rising and falling with his chest. After a long, deliberate pause, his voice is almost indifferent. “Five years.”

The simple answer hits you harder than expected. Five years. A timeline begins forming in your mind, grim shadows stretching across those years - the kind of scars that can’t always be seen.

Your back tightens as a cold shiver winds through you.

Five years. You find it hard to process. Five years of carrying whatever - whoever - has carved those scars into his body.

“You were a soldier,” you express quietly, voice so small, almost fragile.

His eyes are detached when he nods once. It’s a simple gesture and yet so complex. “I was.” His voice is clipped, but not harsh. He lets out a sound resembling a cough.

You needed the confirmation. Needed to hear it from his own lips. It solidified something inside you.

You feel your breath grow shallow, thoughts going into a haze. You have heard the bitterness in his voice whenever your father was mentioned, words tinged with disdain. He didn’t hide his contempt. He even let it out on you. But it begins to take shape. Those scars. The way he no longer claims the title of soldier as if that privilege was taken from him along with something far more precious.

He still carries himself with that form of discipline, even when standing still. Always ready for the next hit to strike. But he tried to shrug off the remnants of that past as a soldier - a soldier in your father’s army, no less.

Something has happened. Something shattering. Something traumatic.

A shiver of unease crawls along your spine, prickling every nerve.

Your father always held you to impossible standards. His love was a conditional thing that you were forever grasping to earn. He has always been a man of authority, his word was a law, and his decisions were never questioned. But there were cracks in that facade, fractures that you have chosen to ignore a long time ago. And now, those cracks are gaping, yawning wide, and you are meant to fall into them.

Your gaze falls back to the marks on his shoulder. Throat feeling constricted.

“Did my father have a hand in that?” Your voice is wavering. Anxiety gnaws at your chest, each heartbeat heavy with dread.

Bucky’s gaze lifts to you. He looks you in the eyes so intensely. Whatever he’s thinking remains locked behind his gaze, hidden from reach. But he seems to be contemplating whether to shield you from the truth.

“Yes,” he admits then, the single word falling like a stone into the silence.

It struck you with breathtaking force. The earth seems to have slipped beneath your feet and the world tilts, causing a sudden strain in your chest with the awareness that came.

You want to deny it. You want to argue that your father wasn’t capable of such treachery. But deep down, you know better. The cracks have always been there. Carefully tucked behind his walls.

Your throat is a clenched fist, made of muscle, gripping hard against the swell of emotion threatening to rise. Every breath that tries making it up your throat is only getting squeezed out by that fist.

Tears are gathering behind your eyes, the sting of them uncomfortable.

Bucky watches you. He is gauging your reaction with a poignant gentleness - not cruel, not gloating. Just honest. His expression softens, guilt shadowing his features as he takes in your reaction. He clearly does not revel in your heartbreak. It’s clear he regrets having to say it.

You fidget with your fingers. It takes Bucky finishing attending to your wound - smearing the last bit of the balm onto it and dressing it again - until you get a hold of your voice again.

“What happened?” Your voice cracks. Part of you wants to withdraw the question, fearing what he might answer. Or if he even will.

He sighs again. A hand moves to slide over his face as he sits back down, keeping the tin cup in his hand. His forearms lean on his knees, head tilted to the ground. He stays like that for a little while.

He only lifts his head for a second to see the shake in your hands.

“We were in battle. Rumlow and his men went behind our backs. Slaughtered every standin’ soldier. Got me real good, but I wasn’t quite dead. Learned to stay real quiet. Lyin’ on the ground, and all.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. He can’t meet your eyes.

You don’t know if you’re still breathing. It feels like you aren’t.

Your hands clench instinctively, grasping for something that might steady you, but the air only offers shifting shadows.

“And my father-” you choke on a swallow. “He-”

Bucky nods once, sharp and terse. His jaw locks, bracing for words he’d rather not say. “He covered it up.”

An intense pain builds in your heart, burning through the last traces of your faith in the man who has raised you.

The muscles in your face are trembling and there is that stubborn pulse inside your chest where that sob you won’t release tries to carve its way free.

Your father had a hand in Bucky’s pain.

Not just the scars on Bucky’s body, but the ones that run far deeper, the ones so deeply embedded into his very being. A soldier, abandoned by the kingdom he served, betrayed by the very man who should have protected him. Betrayed by the very man whose daughter he’s now been forced to protect. It is such a cruel reality, you can’t breath.

You feel like the air is trying to choke you. Gravity itself seems to conspire against you, pulling you down into the earth’s depths where the air is thin and hope does not exist. It slips between your lungs before it can soothe you.

A picture forms you haven’t dared to assemble until now.

And it makes tears well in your eyes. Pain stabbing and stabbing and stabbing your heart to death. You blink furiously, unwilling to let them fall. You can’t look at him. Not even closely.

Bucky told you about his mother and sister. He told you that your mother sent them away for their own safety. But he didn’t tell you why they were in danger in the first place.

Now you understand.

Your heart races, seeming to try and outrun the collapse of your world. It hammers against your ribs like fists on a locked door. The more it hammers, the more chaotic it gets, beating to the tempo of misery.

“No,” you whisper, lips wobbling. Tears cling to your lashes. Your chest heaves with the effort to breathe through the pain.

Bucky’s brows are deeply furrowed. His eyes never left you, teeth grinding together. His features are full of a struggle he tries to break out of.

Bucky Barnes was a soldier, abandoned by the kingdom he served, betrayed by the very man who should have protected him. And worse, threatened into silence by the safety of his family.

“No,” you repeat, the word a single quiver. “Your mother, and- and your sister-”

Bucky’s head drops. His hand moves over his hair. His breath leaves him with a harsh, strained sound.

Your father has threatened them, using their lives as leverage to keep Bucky silent about whatever horrors he had endured. Because exposing the truth would have cost Bucky everything he held dear.

Bucky’s eyes are the confirmation of what you are already puzzling together.

And you can’t look at him any longer. A choking sound leaves you. Your gaze moves to the flames of the fire lazily flickering upwards into the sky. The heat sears in your eyes but you don’t look away.

If you weren’t sitting already, you’d be lying on the ground by now. Your muscles are unsure whether to hold firm or buckle under the pressure. A tremor starts in your knees, making its way upward like a warning your body already understands.

How could the man you once idolized be capable of such cruelty? And how has Bucky borne it all, carrying all of this silently, without breaking?

Shame prickles under your ribs, seeping through every breath. It’s like a slow erosion happening inside you. A sense that you are both too much and never enough. You burn, consumed by something that leaves no smoke but scars all the same. Each breath fans the flames. No matter how full or brittle.

Bucky’s eyes burn you down and you can’t help but meet them again.

His face is softened in a way you’ve never seen before - not even in those rare moments when his walls seemed to crumble just enough for something warmer. There are shadows in those blues but they lock onto yours with a gentleness that has your muscles trembling.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye and you swipe at it hurriedly. You try desperately to pull your thoughts together, but there is nothing left to be done. The dam has already burst. A sob leaves you.

Another tear follows, streaking down your cheek, hot and bitter, filled with all the hurt that has just been released between you.

“Hey,” Bucky says quietly, a gritted note in his voice full of kindness. “No.”

A large, calloused hand cups your face, his thumb swiping the damp trail across your cheekbone.

The unexpected tenderness makes your breath quake, and more shame creeps onto your skin for having allowed yourself to shatter in the open.

“C’mon don’t do that,” he murmurs under his breath. He sounds pained by the sight of you. The sight of your tears. Again. Like something in him is crying out for an answer to your broken heart.

He leans closer, shifting on the dirty ground, to brush his other hand gently against the side of your jaw, framing your face between rough palms. His palms feel warm in contrast to the hot current running through your body, but he holds on steadily.

Bucky tilts your chin enough for you to meet his gaze, blue irises that grapple with guilt, but also something more subdued. Something soft and real you aren’t sure you even earned from him.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. Please,” he pleads near a whisper and it rips something off inside you.

The pain in your heart only seems to get stronger. You want to claim him wrong, that if anyone should rightfully feel grief or tears for the pain they carry, it is him. But the words refuse to leave your throat. All that comes is a strangled sound, a whimper, a sob, followed by a few more sweltering tears.

His thumbs continue to diligently brush your cheeks once more, painstakingly slow as if erasing the evidence of your hurt could undo it altogether.

“I mean it, darlin’,” he implores quietly. His voice is still rough. “Don’t.”

It does not feel easy though. You just found out how much has been robbed from him, how your father has contributed to it all, the man who has loomed over your life like a shadow not easily warded off with a single light. The personification of cold judgment.

And still, Bucky is softhearted and steady-eyed against your breaking moment, offering kindness and comfort.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper thickly. “I am so sorry.” Your voice is fractured. It feels inadequate. Hollow. Not enough.

Bucky’s thumbs rest against your temples as if trying to reground you.

He bites down hard on a slightly trembling lip, the muscle in his cheek standing out sharply. For a moment, his eyes seem to look for a distraction somewhere far away, somewhere only he can see.

When they return to you, there is a pool of his own apology shimmering within them, deep enough to drown in.

He releases a gruff breath. “Not on you. This is not your fault, Y/n.” His voice is firm but also breaking with a sorrow he can’t fully express. “Wasn’t exactly easy on you,” he says lowly, gravelly. He clears his throat. “I was wrong. About you.”

You shake your head, still wedged between his hands. Your lips are wobbling, your voice in cracks. “You had every right.”

“No.” His voice is resolute. Tension pulls at his jaw. His brows almost meet each other. He shakes his head, letting his hands slide into your hair. “I didn’t.”

You sniffle. A harsh, wavering breath falls from your lips. A sob crawls up your spine. “I do not blame you for hating me.”

Bucky’s hands against your face go still. They stiffen. He even seems to flinch ever so faintly and it makes you look at him briefly. He bites back a dry swallow as if something wedged there might never leave. Something urgent pulls at his jaw, making it tick.

“I don’t hate you,” he leans his head in, looking you directly in the eyes. “Don’t hate you, princess. Alright? Don’t think that. God, please don’t think that.”

Your hands are still shaking in your lap and Bucky’s own hands fall from your face for an instant so he can trail the pads of his fingers along your wrist.

“I’m the one bein’ sorry, sweetheart.” His voice falters, a huskiness catching in his tone.

Your chest is swollen from the hard work of breathing against its pressure, while new tears still threaten to slip out of the corners of your eyes. But Bucky stays close. Still kneeling right in front of you.

“Look at me, please.”

You do, although your tears blur your vision.

“I’ll say it again,” he murmurs, swallowing dryly. “Please don’t cry, darlin’. Don’t cry.”

His eyes hold the pain he is too broken to voice.

“Yes, you will rise from the ashes, but the burning comes first. For this part, darling, you must be brave.”

- Kalen Dion

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd

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marvelstoriesepic · 26 days ago

Text

Like a Phoenix (1)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Word Count: 7.9k

Warnings: Bucky is a dick; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives; loss of parents; sexism; violence; prejudices

Author’s note: First part. Hope you enjoy! I'd be happy if you let me know what you think ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The evening went well. Or that’s what you tell yourself every single time.

You played your part impeccably - every nod, every word, every glance, and every smile was measured and graceful.

Even the rivals among the lords seemed charmed tonight.

You didn’t really catch a glimpse of your father, but that is nothing new to you.

Thankfully, you could spend a little time with your mother before the banquet began. She always insists on braiding your hair for formal events. Usually, that was meant to calm you down when you were little but she still insists on doing it, despite the fact that those formalities don’t matter to you anymore.

They always leave you feeling uncomfortable, like you are merely a sculpture to be appraised.

Tonight’s garment had been chosen with precision. Of course not from you. You don’t get to choose your own clothes. They are softly lilac colored silken folds, embroidered with delicate threads of gold to catch the light. It hugs your frame in a way meant to flatter but left you feeling exposed the whole evening.

You play your part, but you hate it.

The music, the scent of roasted meats, the spiced wine, the laughter of guests - it’s always the same. You scarcely even remember what kind of occasion today’s banquet even marked.

All you remember are the gazes lingering on your body.

Men who have long since passed their prime looked upon you with the hungry eyes of wolves, their smiles a thin veneer of civility. Their eyes did not see a girl barely stepping into adulthood, they saw a prize. A princess. A pawn in the great game of power.

Gazes can move away but the heat of every single one lingers. You still feel it on your collarbones, the curve of your neck, the way the gown cinches at your waist.

Your worth is measured not by your thoughts or your dreams, but by the alliances your hand could forge.

You despise it.

But your father doesn’t care. He doesn’t look out for you in situations like that. He just expects you to play the part you are meant to. And sadly, you do. Because you don’t have a choice. This is what your life was meant to be.

Only your mother would notice the way your shoulders always stiffen when a lord leans too close or the way you avoid the wine, lest you dull your senses in a room full of predators.

She would smile at you kindly, reassuringly, probably trying to give you some strength in knowing that she understands what it feels like. And you do appreciate her gesture.

But even her love and her sympathy can not unbind you from the duties imposed by your birth.

You wanted to scream the second you stepped into the great hall. You wanted to tear the silken gown from your body, strip away the gold and jewels, and stuff them into the faces of the many greedy men. You wanted to shout until your voice grew hoarse.

But you can not.

You are a princess.

A princess does not scream. She does not cry. She does not falter.

Your life is not your own. Your voice is not your own. Even your smile belongs to the court, to the crown, to the men who watch you with eyes that devour.

Sometimes, you long for freedom. But what does freedom even mean?

You have no frame of reference for a life beyond these walls, these duties, these suffocating expectations.

The world outside the palace is unknown to you - a mystery, a threat, a promise so far out of reach.

And yet, as you sat at the banquet table just hours before, smiling politely at a lord who complimented your gown while his eyes lingered far too long, you thought even the unknown would be better than this.

So now, back from hell, you are so ready to get into bed and sleep your misery away as you try every day. It hasn’t entirely worked out yet, but a princess can hope.

The tight corset, the layers of silken skirts, the necklace that hangs heavy - all symbols of your station, all unbearable tonight. Every night.

A maid is at your side, about to loosen the clasps at your wrists and shoulders to let the gown slip away.

You’re ready to let it pool around your feet and step into your robe, letting the candlelight brush and warm your collarbone and bask in the silence of the faded music from the hall below.

But before anything of that can happen, there is no silence anymore.

It’s distant at first, muffled. Unrecognizable.

But the sounds grow louder, sharper, and the hands of the maid freeze. You do too.

A roar pierces the stone walls, then another, and another. Steel clashes.

A scream, then another, and another.

Those aren’t screams of surprise, or anger, or perhaps the aftermath of too much alcohol. No, those are long, guttural wails that make your blood run dry.

Death spills over into sounds just outside your doors.

Your candle wavers as the ground beneath your feet seems to tremble. You clutch the edge of the dressing table to steady yourself.

It is as though the palace itself is exhaling its last breath.

The doors to your chambers burst open with a force that sends the wooden panels crashing against the walls.

Your lady screams at the sound.

You spin around, equally in fear, heart leaping to your throat and almost spilling over into a sound as well.

A relieved exhale flutters out of your body at the face you see.

It is Sir Barton.

He has always been there, from your earliest memories. You see him more often than your own father, though his face now is drawn, pale, and streaked with soot. His blond hair is usually meticulously combed, but now it’s disheveled, and his armor bears fresh scratches and bloodstains.

His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths and his eyes - fierce and determined, but aching with something more - lock onto yours.

“Your Highness,” he says, his voice breaking through the panic. “You must come. Now!”

He doesn’t spare a glance at the hyperventilating lady hiding behind your dresser. And after you take a second too long to follow him, he steps forward and grabs your arm - not with the gentleness of a knight guiding royalty but with the desperation of a man trying to save a life.

He leads you out.

“What is happening?” you whisper, a shudder raking down your spine at the way the sounds are getting so much more real with each step you take.

“The palace is under attack,” Sir Barton says, eyes still focused forward. “They’ve breached the outer gates. We don’t have much time.”

He seems to feel you hesitate because his grip tightens on you. His steps don’t falter.

The hallways are dark and thick with the acrid stench of smoke. Shouts echo from all sides, some distant, some too close.

Barton shields you with his body as a deafening crash shakes the walls, sending dust raining from the ceiling.

“This way,” he commands and you have no choice but to follow him blindly, clutching at his cloak.

At one point, he stops abruptly, pressing you into the shadow of an archway, shielding you again and only turning to you after the commotion turned far away. His face is grim, his voice a whisper.

“Stay close to me, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”

You nod, though your throat is too tight to form words.

The air in the tunnels he leads you through is cold and damp, pressing in from every side. But you can barely feel it. Your legs burn from the fast pace Sir Barton holds, your lungs clawing for breath.

Sir Barton's tight grip on your wrist is the only thing you can latch on in this darkness. His armor clinks with every step.

You don’t ask him where you are going. But there is a question you need to ask.

“Where are my parents? Where is Mother? Are they both led here as well? Will they follow us?”

Alright, perhaps more than one question.

Seconds stretch without an answer. His armor still clinks. He squeezes your wrists - a warning not to ask further. A warning not to expect an answer.

Something creeps into your mind, something insidious and cold.

Sir Barton guides you into a small alcove carved into the rock, barely wide enough for the two of you. His shoulders heave heavily and you make out the glistening of sweat on his face even in the darkness.

You open your mouth again, taking a breath, but his expression stops you.

Sir Barton, the unshakable knight, the man who stood at your father’s side for decades, looks broken. His usually grey eyes are shadowed. His lips are parted, but no sound comes out, the weight of what he has to say even too much for him.

His jaw is tight. There is a tiny shake of his head as he releases a breath that cracks you open right in the middle, leaving a gaping hole where your heart once was.

And in that shatter, you linger. You don’t know if you’ll ever get out.

Because you know what his silence means.

“No.” the word is barely audible. You stumble in your steps. “No. They can’t be. Don’t tell me they’re gone. They… They’re not!”

More silence. More tension.

“No!” You shake your head, stepping back until your shoulders hit the cold, rough stone. Your legs feel as though they might give way beneath you.

“Your Highness.”

Sir Barton takes hold of your arm again. Almost roughly. His voice is clipped, his breath is broken. But there is vehemence in his words. Something deep weighed, but strong and determined as he meets your eye intensely, gripping you hard.

“I feel deep regret for their loss. But I swore an oath to protect you. And I will keep it.”

With that, he hauls you forward again, falling into his fast pace.

You can’t help but follow. You let yourself get dragged.

The tunnels seem unending. And although the screams and the tumult are no longer in earshot, every sound you hear feels like a betrayal. Every footstep, every breath a reminder that your parents would breathe no more.

Your thoughts are wild things, crashing against the confines of your skull - flashes of your mother's sweet smile, your father's stern but still warm eyes, the sudden attack with the screams, and the clashes, and the steel.

Grief is an excruciating pain. Your breaths are trapped, pounding on the walls of the cage that is your chest. Begging for release. Your heart still seems to be missing. Or it simply is divided into so tiny pieces it feels like it vanished entirely. It disappeared into the crack of the earth, giving way to roots, the tremor of something breaking open to grow.

Grief is the fullness of too much.

Too much feeling, too much meaning, too much of the world compressing itself into a single-held breath.

And that breath lingers.

Not because it cannot rise, but because rising would undo you.

The tunnels end.

You don’t even know how long you’ve been walking them, but you emerge into a hollow chamber, dimly lit by flickering torchlight. The air is colder here, less stagnant. It smells faintly of earth and steel. Your pulse quickens.

There is a man.

He stands there, leaning against the far wall, the flicker of firelight wildly illuminating the sharp planes of his face.

He didn’t move when you entered, not even a shift of his shoulders. He remains standing there, utterly unbothered, casually sharpening his blade against the whetstone in his hand, as though your arrival is an inconvenience rather than an event of consequence.

His leather armor looks worn, clinging to his tall frame as if he’s been wearing it for years.

His hair is dark, a smooth chestnut brown, and it is unruly, curling slightly at his temples as though it had been left to grow wild for too long.

He looks like a mercenary. He probably is one.

You try to find strength in Sir Barton's solid presence beside you. He doesn’t seem surprised at this man being here. More like, he is relieved.

The mercenary sighs, long and exaggerated, as if this entire meeting is a chore he’s been dragged into against his will.

He tugs the blade back into its holster at his side, throwing the stone casually aside and the clank of it against the ground sounds out loud enough for you to shrink into yourself ever so slightly.

Slowly, the man pushes himself off the wall with the effortless poise of a predator, standing to his full, imposing height.

He is still a little distance away from you, but you find your skin prickle when his gaze falls over you. He seems utterly unimpressed.

His eyes struck you. They are icy, strategic. It’s not the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the color blue. However, that’s the essence of the blue in his eyes.

He doesn’t regard you as a princess. He regards you as a problem.

“Your Highness,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that makes the title sound more like an insult than an honor.

He gives the faintest bow, a mockery of decorum, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that barely hides his amusement.

This man regards you with the same detached air he might afford a stranger begging for coin.

His posture remains loose, almost insolent, and yet there is something in the way he carries himself that warns you not to mistake his casual attitude for weakness.

“Is this it, Barton?” he asks, turning his sharp gaze to the knight, who stands protectively at your side. “This is the prize you want me to bleed for?” He raises a single brow, arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of sardonic disbelief. His voice is rough, perhaps shaped by years of commanding others or cursing the world.

He throws you a single, apathetic glance. His smile turns into a sneer. “She seems awfully fragile to be worth the trouble.”

Your cheeks burn with anger and humiliation. Perhaps you are, in a sense, fragile. Your hands have never gripped a sword, your feet have never trudged through mud and blood, and the realization that your parents are no longer alive threatens to make you crumble right then and there.

But his dismissal feels like an assault on everything you still hold within yourself.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words are sticky and stay clinging to the back of your throat, the glue being grief and exhaustion.

Sir Barton, however, steps forward, his voice low and authoritative.

“She is not your concern to judge,” he firmly declares. “She is your charge, whether you like it or not.”

There is a pause. Sir Barton stands rigid and straight before he continues. His words seem to have trouble coming out but he still makes them sound strong. But you can see the strain in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusts his grip on the pommel of his sword. “Your Majesties - The King and Queen - are no longer with us.”

You flinch, breath catching sharply.

The mercenary stands still. Dark brows shoot up in genuine surprise, though his face remains otherwise unreadable. The contrast is startling, though. His indifference was disrupted by that sharp, flickering reaction.

His surprise unsettles you. His lips part slightly, but whatever words have formed behind them don’t emerge. For a fleeting second, his hard, smug veneer cracks, but just as quickly it reassembles itself.

He purses his lips, looking at the wall for a few moments. His face smooths into something almost deliberately blank. Then his eyes narrow slightly, and though his expression is hard to read, there is something dark and bitter there. But what scares you is the tiny glimpse of satisfaction.

“They’re dead,” he grounds out almost flatly and you find yourself flinching again.

The mercenary gives a sharp, mirthless laugh, the sound echoing painfully. He shakes his head, smile slipping from his face. “Well.” His tone is laced with bitterness. An air of irritation floats around him as he exhales sharply through his nose. “I do believe that changes things,” he then sneers.

Your heart is pounding so drastically, you hope it doesn’t echo around the room as well. You try to breathe as silently as possible. Barton's eyes gleam fiercely as he takes another step toward the man. The mercenary meets his gaze with raised eyebrows, not backing down, not bothered in the slightest.

“I am sure you have not forgotten, Barnes. Do not make me remind you.”

The mercenary - Barnes, you guessed - narrows his eyes, a flicker crossing his features. “I have not forgotten,” he says, voice quiet, almost a growl.

“You swore to protect what mattered to her. You swore to see her will be carried forward. You swore an oath to her. What mattered to her still lives. The princess lives. She is what the Queen cherished above all else, and it is her safety you are bound to protect.”

You watch Barnes’s jaw tighten, displeasure clear on his features.

“You will protect her daughter. Therewith, the oath will be discharged.”

Barnes’s gaze flickers to you, and for the first time, you see something other than indifference or scorn in his eyes. It isn’t kindness, not for a long shot, more like conflict. As though he is weighing you, judging you against the memory of the woman who had once earned his loyalty. The woman that is your mother. Or was your mother, you acknowledge with a lump in your throat.

“I swore to protect what mattered to her. But I did not know it would be her daughter. His daughter,” he spat out the last part, disdain following along his harsh tone.

Your skin is flushed, your chest is heaving, your hands curl into fists. You are confused beyond belief about what exactly is going on. It’s like you are watching yourself getting shoved off into the arms of a mercenary who couldn’t care less about your life.

You don’t know what your mother has done for this man, how deeply her actions have tied him to your family.

But you really don’t like this conversation.

Sir Barton is clearly losing his patience. “And yet, you will protect her still.” His words brook no argument. “The oath binds thee, not to the Crown, nor to me, but to the memory of the Queen. Do you mean to forsake it now?

Barnes exhales a frustrated sigh.

“Fine,” he says at last, the word dropping from his lips like a stone into a well. He straightens, his broad shoulders squaring and his hard eyes fixed on you. “I will keep you alive. But you better not expect me to bow, curtsy, or kiss your hand, your Highness. Do not expect me to coddle you. I am not your knight, and I am not your servant. I’m just the man who gets to clean up your mess.”

He then steps closer to Barton, standing almost nose to nose but none of the men back down. Barnes’s gaze is menacing. “I am a man of my word. But do not mistake my actions for loyalty to the Crown.”

“I would not dare, Bucky Barnes,” Sir Barton counters coldly.

Something twists inside you at this man’s words - anger, yes, but also something deeper, something more profound, something hard to press down.

You hate the way he dismisses you, the way he refuses to see you as more than your title.

You want to protest, to tell Sir Barton that this is a terrible idea. And that this is not his decision to make. You should have a say in who guards you, who holds your fate in their hands. Though, being realistic, you never had a say in anything. Your father always made sure of that.

And despite him not being here anymore, the safety of the palace is gone, just like your mother's love. There is no way you are getting out of here safely without some help and you hate it. You hate the fact that you have no idea how to wield a sword, throw a knife, or face the horrors of war.

You grew up in the sheltered halls of the palace, surrounded by courtiers and silks, not steel and blood.

So, Barton’s faith in this man - however misplaced it seems to you - is all that stands between you and whatever awaits beyond the damp darkness of the tunnels. It’s all that can get you out of here in one piece.

You want to hate this Bucky Barnes. To rail against the unfairness of it all - fleeing in the dead of night in a gown that is not at all suitable for an escape, weighed down by the pain of your parents’ demise, entrusted to a man who seems to care little whether you live or die.

He might have sworn to keep you alive, but that doesn’t mean he won’t happily watch you get hurt.

And yet - for all his roughness, for all his scorn - you can’t shake that there is something more to him.

He is dangerous, that much is clear, but there is also a sense of control about him, an air of competence that both reassures and unnerves you.

This man does not want to protect you.

He does not care about your title, your lineage, or your grief.

He is here because he has to be, because of a single promise he made.

You wonder if he really is a man of his word.

Bucky Barnes studies you again. His expression is hard, inscrutable. Then he says, his tone dry, almost mocking. “The road ahead will not be kind. Do not expect me to be sympathetic.”

****

You stumble forward through the tunnels.

Your limbs feel like lead, your breaths are shallow.

The air seems to have forgotten to hold you.

You don’t know how your legs keep moving, how your body is able to obey commands you no longer consciously give.

Perhaps it is the inertia of shock. The kind that shakes in your hands, makes them search for a reality that is no longer solid. The kind that makes you believe the universe is folding in on itself, a star imploding in the vastness of your chest. You are the void it leaves behind - immense, consuming, and desperately reaching for light.

But there is no light.

The tunnels are silent and dark, except for the torchlight the man in front of you carries and the footsteps that sound out. But the torchlight seems to illuminate more shadows than it chases away.

There is a distant drip of water echoing through the labyrinth but you are too tired to try and make out where it comes from.

Bucky - or Barnes - or whatever you even are supposed to call him now, moves through the darkness as though it is his domain, as if the passages yield to his command.

He scarcely takes a moment to reflect on his path, turning corners and selecting forks with an animalistic accuracy that disturbs you.

His pace is brisk, his steps calculated. There is a certain confidence, a strength, in the way he holds himself, an instinctual awareness that might have captivated you, were you not so consumed by sorrow and wariness.

Just earlier this day you had imagined leaving those constricting castle walls but it seems the freedom you had dreamed of meets you in a way you never would have thought possible.

You don’t feel like the perfect princess you played just hours earlier.

You are a disheveled figure trailing behind a stranger in the bowels of the earth.

The air is lacking the lavender and citrus of the gilded halls you walked through your whole life. Here, the air is damp, heavy with the scent of soil and decay. The stones of those walls are cold and rough, nothing like the smooth marble walls from the polished balustrades of the palace.

The man walking ahead of you hasn’t spoken a single word to you since you parted from Sir Barton.

You’re not sure if the silence is meant to intimidate or if he simply doesn’t care enough to speak.

His broad shoulders move steadily. His stride is long and swift, forcing you to half jog just to keep him in sight.

He doesn’t look back. Not once.

Maybe it's for the best, you reflect with resentment. Any word that could escape his lips would likely be brimming with animosity towards your family regardless. And distance between you and this man feels safer.

There is something coiled about him, something you can’t name but feel in the way he carries himself.

The torch he holds throws flickering light across the sharp planes of his face when he passes too near a wall.

His jaw is set, his expression grim.

His eyes - bright in color but oh so dark, when they had deigned to glance at you before - are unreadable pools of shadow, devoid of warmth.

He is not kind. He is not comforting. He is a stranger, forced into your service by circumstances neither of you have chosen.

You don’t know what desperation Sir Barton must have felt to send you away with this wild man. Bucky Barnes seems as indifferent to your survival as he is to your existence, and yet, here he is, leading you through an underground labyrinth you can only hope leads somewhere safe.

You feel the urge to speak - to inquire about where he is taking you, to seek answers, to convey the growing frustration and fear that seem ready to shatter you. Greater than you already are.

But the words flee as soon as they are formed. Leaving only the roar of nothingness.

There hasn’t been time to mourn, no time to feel.

Sir Barton had hurried you through the secret corridors under the palace, with his hold tight on your arm, and his tone tense with urgency.

He didn’t ask if you wanted to flee. He didn’t ask what you thought was best. He simply acted, as though you were another piece in this tragic game of chess, to be moved and sacrificed as necessity demanded.

You are a princess, yes. But first, you are a person. And in this moment, you feel like neither. You are a shadow following a stranger in the dark, uncertain of the path ahead or the person leading you.

But there is nothing you can do about it.

The tunnels begin to shift.

The walls widen slightly, though the ceiling remains low.

The air grows colder, fresher, carrying with it the faintest scent of pine.

You realize with a start that you must be nearing the forest. Relief and fear wars within you. The palace is behind you, but how is this supposed to go on?

Barnes slows. Finally.

He comes to a stop at a rusted iron gate, the hinges creaking in complaint as he shoves it open with one hand.

Beyond it lay a rough-hewn staircase carved into the rock, leading upward into a faint glimmer of moonlight.

He turns to glance at you for the first time since you are alone with him.

“Keep up,” he says, his voice low, and rough, and utterly devoid of warmth.

You say nothing, biting your tongue. Perhaps to stifle the frustration that threatened to shove a snarky retort out of your mouth that might lead to your early grave, or the tears that threatened to sting behind your eyes ever since you heard of your parent's passing.

Instead, you nod curtly - he isn’t even looking at you anymore to see it - and step forward, legs trembling, feet already aching, with the effort, and follow him up those stairs.

The stone steps beneath your shoes are rough - like everything in your life now as it seems.

Each step you climb seems to strip something away - your strength, your breath, your will. Each step seems to demand more from your trembling legs, every motion a reminder of how deep you’ve fallen - from grace, from safety, from everything you have ever known.

Erratic shadows move over Barnes's ahead of you, his broad frame a dark silhouette against the faint moonlight spilling down from above.

You struggle to keep up. The air is cold, sharp with the sting of frost and pine, but it does nothing to clear your thoughts.

As you reach the top of the stairs, the night sky opens before you, vast and infinite, studded with stars.

But their light is dim against the inferno that rages behind you.

You turn around slowly.

Shock and utter terror flood every single one of your senses. The world seems to pull away beneath your feet, but it does not let you fall. It lets you hover, holds you suspended in a hollow-out silence as if it means to forget about you. As if you’re not worth the fall. Meant to suffer in silence. Meant to suffer the terror of drifting in a void where even gravity has abandoned you.

Far in the distance stands your palace.

Your home for every single day of your life.

And it is all up in flames.

Consumed by them. Greedily gulped up by them.

The towers that once touched the heavens now spit fire and ash.

The gilded walls, the halls where you had danced and dined and dreamed, collapse in on themselves, devoured by the flames’s hunger.

The sight steals your breath.

Your legs give out for a moment, and you stagger, clutching the bark of a nearby tree.

Barnes notices you falter, his gaze flickering back toward you.

You don’t make a move to look at him. You don’t do anything other than stare at your life breaking apart in the distance.

But for his indifference and gruff demeanor, he does not bark at you to move along. He just stands tensely.

The flames lick at the night sky, their glow painting the darkness in hues of violent orange and crimson. Smoke rises in thick, twisting plumes, swallowing the stars, blotting out the heavens.

The great spires that had once stood so proud against the skyline now crumble beneath the viciousness of the fire. The golden banners that had fluttered in the wind just hours ago are ash now, carried in the same breeze that chills your skin.

It has been only hours - hours since you stood in the great hall, dressed in the very same silks you are still wearing, the air filled with laughter and music. The banquet, the formalities, the endless charade of being a princess - all of it suddenly feels like a lifetime ago.

You had thought it then. How it might feel to leave it all behind. How it might feel to shed the heaviness of the crown, to break free from the stifling demands and expectations that constrained you, the scrutiny of the court.

You dreamed of freedom, of a life beyond these walls. You imagined it. You wanted to see the world, to be more than a title, more than a pretty body in a gown, more than a vessel for alliances and admirations.

And now here you are, watching it all burn.

It doesn’t feel like freedom.

It doesn’t feel like anything you had dreamed of.

Your body becomes foreign, a machine running on instinct alone. Your chest heaves. Because it knows it needs air. But it doesn’t seem to get enough, judging the harsh rise and fall of your chest.

Your heart thunders, but it seems to have lost its rhythm, shaking but not steadying. It’s in panic. Pumping and pumping and pumping so much blood but where is it supposed to go?

Every room that now is a pile of ash on the ground held a memory. Every part of the castle was your home. The gardens where your mother had taught you the names of every flower growing there. The study where your father's voice sternly had shaped your understanding of duty. The kitchens where the maids had smuggled you pastries as a child.

It is all gone.

You are gone.

Your parents are gone. The King and Queen - your mother and father - are dead. Their crowns, their rule, their lives reduced to ash.

Yes, you wanted to be free. You wanted to leave this life behind but you never wanted it to happen like this. You never wanted your home to burn, your family to die, your title to become meaningless in the most violent of ways.

You wanted to leave the crown and not have it ripped away from you.

You wanted to see the world but now you aren’t sure you even have a place in it.

Swallowing the tightness in your throat, you force back the sting in your eyes.

You want to scream, to rage, to fall on your knees and weep until there is nothing left of you.

But you can’t break down now. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.

Barnes still stands a little away from you. He has turned as well, though his expression is unreadable. His eyes reflect the firelight, the flames flickering like tiny ghosts in his gaze.

He doesn’t say anything and you are sure you don’t want him to. He surely would not tell you he is sorry.

He doesn’t look sorry at all. If anything, he looks tired. Detached. As though this is just another job, another mission. Another life going up in flames.

He simply stands there, his figure slightly outlined by the torch and the moon, waiting.

You hate him in that moment. Hate the way he stands there so calmly, so unconcerned, while your world is crumbling down. Hate that he isn’t doing a single thing to acknowledge the gravity of what had happened.

But then his gaze shifts. Just slightly. For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw something crossing his expression. A shadow of something too fleeting to name. Pity? Regret? Compassion?

No, you tell yourself. He doesn’t care. Why would he?

And he shifts then.

After all, the world hasn’t stopped for your grief, and neither would he.

A clear of his throat. “C’mon. Told you to keep up.”

He doesn’t say it unkindly, but he says it bored. Monotone. Flat. And that might just be worse.

You draw in a shaky breath and turn away from the fire, though the image remains burned into your mind. It might be reduced to ash there too, but it won’t ever be swept away by the wind.

****

You have no idea how long you’ve been dragging your body through this forest.

It seems like an eternity.

Aching legs barely lift high enough to make the next step. The soles of your feet throb in time with the pounding of your head.

Your steps are so heavy, you might think the earth sought to pull you down, to bury you beneath its roots and brambles. You might just let it.

The thin slippers you wear - so ill-suited for a flight through the wilderness - offer little protection from the rocks and gnarled roots beneath.

The tightness in your chest is beating. Thud. Thud. Thud. It might be your heart, but it doesn’t feel like it.

Each inhale burns, the night air carrying shards of glass instead of cool relief. They scratch your throat and your face heats at the effort to keep from coughing.

Your arms hang limply by your sides. They are scraped and raw from pushing against barks and thorns. Even lifting your hands to brush a stray branch from your path feels like a monumental effort at the moment.

Your fingers are pale, losing their place in the map of your body.

The trees surrounding you loom high above. They stand so close together that only the faintest slivers of moonlight dare to filter through.

There are endless shadows, all connected with each other, twisting and merging, until there is no discernible path, no way to tell where you are or where you are going.

Not that you have a clue anyway.

The shadows seem to breathe. They surround you completely, absorbing every noise except for the crunch of leaves underfoot and the sporadic hoot of an owl, which causes you to jump each time it calls out.

Even Barnes seems like a shadow himself, moving with a surety still too many steps in front of you - silent, unknowable, untouchable.

And then he is gone.

You didn’t even notice at first. You were too focused on keeping your legs moving, too consumed by the fog of your thoughts. But when you lift your gaze, he is nowhere to be seen.

The tightness in your chest keeps thudding, so loud, so sharp, so fast. Thud. So many thuds. Thud. They try to escape. Thud. Try to leave your chest all of a sudden. Thud. Escaping. Thud. Fleeing. Thud. But there is no way out. Thud. Your ribs are closing in. Thud. Your chest is a locked room with no windows.

Panic.

Wild eyes are darting around, breaths sound in your ears, hands tremble at your side so helplessly.

You knew this was a bad idea. What in the world did Sir Barton think would come out of giving you into the care of a mercenary? Those men are not to be trusted. Those men don’t care about the things they promised.

Bucky Barnes waited for the perfect moment to leave you alone. He took you out, deep into the forest, and then vanished.

He left you alone. He left you to die. He left you to rot.

You should have seen it coming and yet your heart is thundering, your world is spinning faster than you can hold.

You won’t give this man the satisfaction of calling for him. Wherever far he might have gone already.

But you wouldn’t get a word out even if you tried.

Your body becomes its own betrayal, muscles taut and trembling, teeth clenching against the unbearable roar of your own pulse.

He betrayed your mother. He betrayed Sir Barton. He betrayed you-

There he is.

Leaning against a tree, arms casually crossed over his chest, making his muscles strain under the grey shirt beneath his brown leather armor.

He looks as though he’s been waiting there for hours, watching you stumble through the dark like some clumsy, lost creature. His head tilts slightly, his face twisted in an impassive expression that doesn’t make you relax as much as you had thought.

But then the corner of his mouth tugs up in a smirk. Amusement and mild exasperation mix in his gaze, as though your panic has been nothing but entertainment and a burden for him.

Your blood boils.

He doesn’t say a word. The slight raise of his brow, the subtle shift of his weight against the tree, say everything.

He simply turns and starts walking again, knowing you will follow.

You hate him.

Oh, how much you hate him.

But unfortunately not because of his smirk, tough that certainly stokes the fire. Not because of the way he moves through the forest so effortlessly, while you struggle for every step. Not because of his silence, his cold aloofness that feels like a slap to the face every time you dare hope for some shred of kindness.

You hate him because he is right.

You are fragile.

There is nothing you can do but follow. He knows it, and you know it.

You are helpless, a princess who grew up like one, trailing after a man who barely tolerates your presence. Because the alternative is unthinkable.

You don’t know these woods. You don’t really know any woods. Don’t know what or who might lurk within them.

You hate that he holds all the power, that your life is now tethered to his whim.

You hate that he seems so unaffected by it all while you are falling apart.

You hate the world for thrusting you into this nightmare.

You hate the gods that took your parents.

You hate the crown that marked you as a target.

You hate the life you lost in the span of a single, horrific night.

But most of all, you hate yourself.

For your weakness. For your dependence. For your title. For not fighting for freedom when you started hoping for it. For not learning what freedom even meant when you started dreaming of it.

Maybe you really aren’t even worth all this.

That would make him right again.

You would love to scream at him. To demand he acknowledge you, to force him to see you as more than a burden, more than a thing to be tolerated.

However, if you don’t believe in yourself as anything other than a hassle for him, then you definitely won’t persuade him to think differently.

Your hopelessness is rewriting you into silence.

And again, you hate yourself for it.

The forest stretches on and so does your pain. And somewhere ahead, Barnes moves through the darkness, being the guide you despise but can’t abandon.

The trees are swaying above you, almost whispering like they are mourners at a funeral. Your funeral.

Barnes stopped walking.

You almost noticed it too late, nearly colliding with him, his wide back suddenly a wall in front of you.

He cast a glance over his shoulder, his sharp eyes flickering down to your trembling form before moving past you to survey the shadows.

He says nothing - he never seems to say much - but you get the sense that this is where you will stay the rest of the night.

Or at least you hope so.

Your feet won’t carry you any longer.

He turns his back to you again and moves forward.

You follow his gaze. There is a small, haphazard clearing, tucked between the roots of a tall oak.

There is nothing welcoming about it.

A rough bedroll lay crumpled near the base of the tree. Its fabric looks weathered and stained. Beside it, there are charred remains of a tiny fire pit, though the ashes are long cold.

A battered pack leans half open against the roots, some of its contents spilling out. You glimpse rope, whetstone, and a dented flask.

You take in the thinness of the bedroll and how it might not even do anything for the hard ground, wondering how anyone could sleep like that.

Thoughts drift to your own bed that now may be reduced to ashes. It was high, draped in silk, the pillows stuffed with down. You used to sleep with the warmth of the hearth that burned low through the night.

It seems like a dream now, something too far removed from the reality that is your life now.

Barnes moves toward the tree, picking up the pack and tossing it down beside the bedroll.

He kneels, checking the contents quickly, before sitting back on his heels.

His eyes catch yours, and the twinkle of humor you had seen earlier is gone, replaced by his coldness, hardness.

You wrap your arms around yourself, partly to fend off the chill, partly to brace against the words that spill from your mouth before you can stop them.

This silence just got a little too unbearable.

“Is this where you slept?”

He looks at you, his expression flat. “What of it?”

The bluntness of his tongue stings, but you press on, emboldened by your desperation and the icy air that feels too silent.

“It does not look like much.”

His brow twitches. “S’ not meant to be.” Irritation roughens his words.

You hesitate. “Do you-”

“Let me make something clear,” he says, his voice low and dignified. He stands then, and even in the faint moonlight, his presence looms over you. He feels more imposing than the trees around you. You swallow hard. “I’m not here to answer your questions. I’m not here to keep you company or make you feel better about your little situation.”

Your cheeks burn, your arms around you tighten at the condescension in his tone. You say nothing, your breath caught in your throat. Your tongue is locked in your mouth.

His jaw is clenching and he exhales a sharp sound that is somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not a happy laugh though.

“I’m here because I have to be,” he continues. His eyes are fixed so intensely on you, you have to look away. “And you are here because you have nowhere else to go. That’s it. Don’t mistake this for anything else.”

He turns around stiffly and walks over to a patch of ground a few feet from his bedroll. He starts lazily removing sticks and stones to clear the space of dirt.

After he’s done, he moves away and gestures towards it with a careless hand, not even looking at you.

“You’ll sleep there.”

You are about to open your mouth, a protest on your tongue but his head snaps up, his eyes locking onto yours with a warning look.

“Go to sleep.” His voice is commanding. Unkind. He is done with tolerating you for today. “Now!”

You swallow the words that had risen, relieved they didn’t make it up all the way. Because there is no way you can win against this man and you don’t have the fight in you to argue at the moment.

Sinking to the ground he pointed at, you wrap your arms around yourself harder. The dirt is damp beneath you, cold seeping up through the ruined fabric of your gown. It is streaked with dirt, torn by brambles, and clings to you all wrong.

You shiver, your body curling in on itself, though that doesn’t make a difference.

You press your knees to your chest, burying your face in the crook of your arms.

But the chilly air still carves into your cheeks and whispers to your blood to slow.

You think of your mother then. Of the warmth in her smile and the way she used to stroke your hair as she tucked you into bed. You think of your father. He has always been a little harsh on you, a little distant. But you still relied on him in ways you always took for granted.

They are gone. And you are here. In the dirt. In the cold. In the woods. Alone but for a man who doesn’t care for you. He most certainly would leave you here without hesitation if it wasn’t for the oath he gave. To your mother.

You blink back tears, biting down hard on your lip to keep from crying. It is bad he already sees you like this. He can’t also see you cry.

The sound of Barnes’s blade scraping against the whetstone fills the silence.

You close your eyes and try to focus on the sound, trying to let it lull you into some semblance of sleep.

But it only makes your stomach queasy.

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Part two

#mercenary!bucky #princess!reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky series #bucky barnes x you #like a phoenix #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #enemies to lovers #james bucky barnes

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