Safe with me

Chapter 6: I'm so sorry that happened to you

Nothing.

"Shit," he shouts, the words immediately swallowed by the thundering rumble.

He guides the bike into early weekend traffic and smashes the throttle, heading for your apartment, ignoring every red light along the way.

When he arrives, he wedges the bike into a spot that may or may not be an actual parking space, and sprints to the front door, wrenching it open. Ignoring the woman waving hello at the front desk, he skids into an open elevator, punching the button repeatedly until it creaks closed. When it finally reaches your floor, he nearly rips the doors apart when they slowly crack open.

And then he's pounding on your door, six sharp raps. "It's me, open up."

Nothing.

"Dammit, this isn't funny, open the door right fucking now or I'm using my key."

Nothing.

Something must be wrong. Even if you were furious with him, you wouldn't do this, you would always answer. Feeling a bead of sweat roll between his shoulder blades, he slides his gun from the holster strapped to his lower back, and cocks the hammer, the click deafening in the quiet hallway. His mind is shaking, but his hands are steady when they pull out a key, the one you grudgingly handed over after he promised to never, ever use it, except in dire emergency.

Slipping it into the lock, the tumblers turn smoothly, and he nudges the door open. There's movement in front of him, a shadow in the dim hallway and in the blink of an eye, he has the gun sighted, finger hovering over the trigger.

You freeze, staring down the barrel pointed between your eyes.

Bucky's eyes go wide. He gives a choked gasp and immediately raises both arms, hands in the air signaling he means no harm. Still raised above his head, his fingers un-cock the gun and he tucks it back under his jacket.

And in the next breath, he finds himself shouting, blindingly, overwhelmingly furious.

"Jesus god damn Christ, why the fuck didn't you answer me?! We agreed, rule number two, you fucking promised me, you can't just – " He stops abruptly, really truly sees you. Panicked eyes, wild hair, fingers in a death grip on the tattered patchwork quilt wrapped around you.

His silence asks the wordless question.

"I got another letter," you whisper.

*****

Bucky is livid.

Watching him pace an agitated path through your living room, Steve thinks he can't recall seeing this level of rage in years. Looking down at the letter, his lip curls in disgust at the splatter of blood soaked dark into the paper.

"What happened?" he asks quietly.

"I have no fucking idea," Bucky hisses. Scrubbing his hands down his face, he clips a leash on his anger and tries to compose himself, to make sense of the situation. "I check her mail every day, here and at work. It wasn't there when I looked, I know it wasn't, I would have fucking seen it."

He sounds desperate to convince Steve, to convince himself, that he didn't fuck up, that he didn't miss something important, something that could have put your life in danger.

"If you didn't see it, it wasn't there," Steve agrees firmly. "So, think – alternatives, what are they?"

Bucky takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, rifling through the possibilities, considering and rejecting one idea after another. He grimaces when he reaches the conclusion.