Haven [Marvel | Bucky Barnes]

Chapter 17

But selling her aunt's old house was still one of the hardest decisions Iris had ever made, but the hurt that came from staying had long since begun to outweigh the memories. By some miracle when it managed to sell over the summer it went for just enough that the debt she was left with after dealing with the mortgage and outstanding bills and the like was far less than she had feared. It eased the worries the practical side of her had. But the sentimental side...

She'd been a wreck the last night she'd spent in the skinny townhouse. Most of it she'd spent curled up on the couch, the TV on in the background though it might as well been off for all she paid it any attention. Around her everything had already been packed up into boxes she'd scrounged from work and grocery stores, ready to either be moved to the small apartment she'd found a couple blocks away or donated. Not that there'd been all that much to pack anyway; neither she nor her aunt had been much into 'stuff.' After a while she'd tried falling asleep in her own bed. That had been an abject failure. It was only when she'd circled back to the couch, wrapped tight in a navy plaid button-up with a ragged left sleeve that she'd finally been able to drift into even a restless sleep. It had been faint, but it had still smelled like him.

She couldn't help but wonder sometimes if there was something wrong with her...like she should have gotten over him by now...

And of course she'd dreamed about him. She dreamt about him most nights, reliving the time she'd had with him. Or they'd be of sad, sweet little moments that lasted for an eternity where he was simply there with her. Others still were heart-pounding, terrifying nightmares where the enigmatic them were hunting him with ominous glittering weapons that threw spotlights on them even as they ran and hid, his body pressing hard against hers as he crushed her behind him, shielding her so she couldn't see, couldn't breath, his body going slick and warm and sticky as blood began to soak her dreams. She woke from those ones hoarse and aching, her mind still spinning and sick with terror. And most of the time, whether in nightmares or otherwise, they'd end the same way; him leaning in, breath ghosting across her skin, his lips just a hair's breadth from hers...and she would wake up. Even in dreams she wasn't allowed to simply kiss him.

But arguably the worst ones were the ones where he was simply gone; the street empty and silent with the air pressing down on her like a weight; the day he left only worse...

And she always woke desperately wishing he was there. Even now, in her new place, well over a year since he'd left, the feeling hadn't eased.

It was funny; she had now spent many, many more nights without falling asleep next to him since he'd left than she ever had with him. And yet, all these months later, she still found herself missing the reassurance of his presence or the quiet, comforting sound of his breathing as she drifted off.

A part of her even missed being woken by his nightmares. More than once in the short time she'd spent sleeping next to him she'd woken to find him caught in the grip of tormented dreams, his skin damp and clammy beneath her cheek as a sheen of cold sweat accompanied his ragged breaths. His murmuring voice hoarse with more than just sleep, reciting numbers—the sequence 32557038 was now branded in her memory thanks to him—or muttering in what sounded like Russian. More than once she'd been pulled from her own dreams as his muscles twitched, his heart pounding loudly enough she could swear she heard it in the deep silence of the dark, early morning hours. His whole body would tense with remembered agony as his face crumpled with despair and fear, his eyes roaming and frenzied beneath his lids.

The first time it had happened she'd been frozen with uncertainty, transfixed and beset with a feeling of helplessness as he shuddered in the grip of his dreams...or were they memories... She'd been jolted from her alarmed vigil when a pained moan deep in his throat had his brows furrowing deeper and his mouth twisting into a grimace. Almost at once the desire to smooth the expression away had come over her. Before she'd even been able to consciously react, her fingers were smoothing over his forehead, his lips, his eyes, brushing his tangled hair back from his face as she pressed herself more securely into his side.