Secretive - Bucky Barnes

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[Nova]
»James« I greet him, not entirely surprised by my late-night-visitor. I have not heard him screaming yet, have not have my heart teared out and kicked; of course, he could not be sleeping, then. Next to the feelings I got sent from him involuntarily.

A shy smile plays around his small, rosy lips, blue-grey eyes gleaming although there is no light source on the corridor, neither in my room. He only wears a black shirt and jogging pants, which, too, is far from a surprise since this is his go-to-night-clothing whenever he is somewhere he does not live or feel safe at. He definitely must have laid in bed already, his hair is a brown mess, his dark eyebrows a little narrowed, but he was as unsuccessful as I have been. He does not seem like he exactly planned on walking to my room tonight, a little of confusion in his stare about what he is going to do or say next. Adorable.

»We, uh, hadn't finished our conversation earlier.« he mumbles, and mere the raise of his voice makes my heartbeat stutter.

I know he does not mean our small discussion; this one has clearly come to an end.

With a side step, I open the door for him, closing it right behind me, the smell of him hitting me while he walks past me. I sigh internally about it, every fibre of mine doing somersaults about how much I missed it.

I can feel his nervousness as it was my own. I mean, somehow, this new state I got myself in with him is not leaving, never leaving. His emotions and feelings have been in the back of my mind ever since they first entered, always knowing how he is. But I still can focus on my own, still can think about my own problems. It is like a live ticker, telling me whenever there is a change in his mood without asking, yet not in the least annoying or distracting. It is natural, like it always has been there, and I already know there would be a huge hole in my life if this bond is to be separated somehow, comparable to a separated limb.

When I return, he stands in the middle of the room, not really knowing what to do or say. Since he has not turned on the general light, I move to the night stand turning on the warmer version, before standing up straight again and stepping to his opposite, in awaiting.

Thing is, he is in awaiting to. Waiting for me to say something, anything, keep this going. He is as lost currently as I am, which is no wonder. I guess he decided about visiting so spontaneously, he did not even figure out a real reason to come up with for me, a real intention behind recalling the conversation, and since it is only one in the morning, both of us are somewhat overwhelmed with the situation.

More seconds pass in complete silence. He is tensed, his shoulders betray him as does his stomach, eyes locking with mine, the storm of the sea with the pulsating gold of the land. There is crackling in that second, in the hesitation, but it does not come from fire outside this time. It comes from the one in both of us. My nervousness is increasing, a tingling starting in my heart about the unawareness of what is about to come. I may can feel what James feels, but I cannot read his mind. Not right now. I am way too lost in these grey eyes to know what is written in them; cannot see the forest with too much trees around. I do not know when it happened exactly, but suddenly, I realize my fingers playing with one another on the mission to compensate the stress the tension in this room is causing, and I immediately unlock them.

This is James. I do not need to be stressed or nervous in the least.

»You know,« he starts finally, metal hand grabbing the other one as for support before stepping closer to me, »there... is something that you owe me.« The last part is mere a whisper, barely audible, himself being unsure whether to go there yet or not.

He stops when he is directly in my front reducing the distance to a mere minimum, his muscled, hidden chest stretching the shirt as if trying to break out, facing me. He looks down, cleanly shaved as I can see, smelling like he just had a shower - his hair probably a mess not caused by his bed but by a hairdryer, and still nothing in this world able to cover up the scent of Frozen River and Vanilla. Swallowing, his gaze coming up inhales me. I only wear a blue top, nothing underneath, and white shorts. And I know what it does to him, did to him. »I, uh... Well,« he clears his throat, as if reminding himself it is just me in his front and there is nothing requiring trembling words just as I did seconds ago, »I would like to honour that now.«