verb.
To come or go back to a place or person.
noun.
The firing of a weapon to counter a shooter's shot.
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They recoiled from their pasts, and in doing so found each other.
But the universe isn't kind enough to let a moment of peace last.
It took se...
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"You're sure?"
Part of him hoped she would change her mind. That she would bite her lip and shake her head, when she thought about what she would see beneath the layers of fabric concealing what remained of his left shoulder. In truth, he hadn't even looked at it since the day the plating had been removed. Since he had endured the agony of that welded metal being peeled away from his flesh, separated as carefully as possible by Wakanda's nanotechnology, though no advances this country could boast could undo the crude amputation techniques of the Forties, nor the utter lack of care taken by his captors. He could only pray that his accelerated healing would ease the angry, freshly cauterised wounds. That the vicious pink scarring would fade with time. That had been weeks ago, when he had last glimpsed it in a mirror. Since then, he had been avoiding casting his eye downwards as he washed his body in the shower behind his hut. He hadn't so much as shifted the blanket draped over the mirror on one wall.
But she looked at him now, braver than he was in this moment, her head inclining in a small, yet confident nod.
"You won't scare me away, Golubyye glaza."
It was a tender promise, one that came with a light touch of her hand over his heart, which thumped erratically beneath her palm. He could feel his throat drying with that familiar fear, of exposure, of vulnerability and rejection, but it was soothed away by her fingers sliding up to cup the left side of his neck gently, those deep, stormy eyes never once leaving his. Lending him the strength he needed to reach to cover her hand with his own, carefully guiding her fingers down over his skin, over the open collar of his khaki shirt to settle atop the heavily draped wool that shielded his shoulder.
He didn't take his eyes off her as he let their joined hands push that fabric aside, letting it fall around his hips to expose the knotted sleeve of his shirt which betrayed just how little of him had been left after the procedure. The knot sat tight against the shoulder seam, far beyond where the stump of metal left after his fight with Stark had sat. There had been no bone left beneath it to salvage, HYDRA had taken that long ago to replace it with unyielding metal. Well, unyielding until it had met a repulsor blast.
There was a slight widening of her eyes at that small revelation, but she didn't balk or hesitate, instead lifting her gaze back to him as she shifted closer, drawing her legs up beneath her to kneel beside him on the sleeping mat.
"Still want to keep going?" Bucky asked softly, his voice unexpectedly rough and strained as his right hand reached to brace gently on her hip, letting her know that it was okay if the answer was 'no'.
"As long as you want to." She reassured him in a tentative whisper, seemingly equally afraid of pushing him, but he had come this far already. He may not find this nerve again.
"Then I might need some help, sweetheart." He admitted, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his voice as he glanced down at the worn fabric of his shirt. "Buttons take a little more time with one hand."
