i miss you [oneshots] Mostly Sambucky

|９９| Ａｃｔ Ｉ ａｎｄ ＩＩ

───── ❝ ACT I ❞ ─────

The room looks like any other generic room one could think of, there's a bed, a chair, and a set of drawers. It's arid and something about the layout of the room seems simply off. Maybe it was the bed as it was slightly off centered or the way the sun beams light turned into an unnatural hue when it came through the glass of what could barely pass as a window. The light was blocked, Bucky Barnes tense figure cuts the streams from reaching any further into the small room. Evidently, what is seen isn't Bucky Barnes, of course it's him, but... He hasn't gone by that name in years. The chair groans as he seats himself once again, his arm reaches towards a gun which is nothing special. It gets the job done.

BUCKY BARNES, swayed: It's done. (Repeatedly)

HANDLER, carelessly: Shut up!-- [They're already moving forward, hand rested on the open holster pulling out the heavy gun. They turn towards their partner.] Get him ready.

BUCKY BARNES, his back already hitting the cracking walls of the rundown house: Why? He's all empty and curiousity. Fear beat out of him, all that was left was to question. Why... The terrible, cold, empty feeling becomes him.

At the time Bucky Barnes felt deserving of everything coming to him, sometimes he still does.

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The sun dims, it's almost six but the sun's already near to being halfway down the sky. Nothing's changed, Bucky keeps being as he always was and will be as the world surrounding turns to a new color and life. He still feels the same-- all the same aches, wants, and desires he has won't change, it makes him fill with self-disgust. To think about wanting to exist in another plane in time while now rots brings such ideas of possible ecstasy only to leave him with withdrawals, nostalgia, of a time that never existed. And god it fucking aches him, it makes him ail with an insatiable urge for something. Unaware to it, once Bucky's itching hands latched on the piece that would make him whole -be damned the idea of ever letting [him] go.

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Bucky sees the world around him for the first time in decades. It seems a little brighter and feels a little warmer, but that's not the world nor the sun: it's Sam smiling sweetly just for him. Well, maybe it isn't just for him, but there's no one else around to tell him otherwise. It's just the two of them in some office, somewhere in New York, in some building that was most likely owned by STARK Industries under some stupid alias. At least that's what Bucky is thinking.

Bucky shifts and the chair he's sitting in creaks, rolling slightly to his left. Sam's to the left of him, warranting for bumping their knees softly om accident and Bucky apologizes for it. He feels stuffy and his chest aches in an unfamiliar way, it makes his heart pound. The moments last only a blink before fading away, but Bucky hears Sam utter a response. ("S'okay, man.") Ironically, he's pissed off, there was no reason for them to sit this close. Except that really wasn't the reason why he was angry. The feeling was intoxicating, it made him reckless, stupid. He couldn't have that, the risk of this could kill.

The mood sours, it always did, Bucky always ruins.

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Bucky can't fall in love, can't cloud his thoughts with unreachable dreams,
can't hurt Sam.

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