"Dawn, I'm going to need you to take your hoodie off,"
Immediately, my cheeks flush to a light pink. I feel my heart stumble in my chest, my pulse skipping painfully. I don't know why his request elicited such a reaction, but I do know that I'm beyond self-conscious. All of those years with Clayton, I had my top ripped from my body to allow easier access to tender flesh and skin. A small part of that trauma rests within me as I reach with trembling hands to the hem of my windbreaker.
"Yeah, of course" I practically whisper, feeling the rag pull away from my body. I take in a deep breath and pull the hoodie gingerly off, leaving only a sports bra on my body. Heat rushes through my cheeks and I wince slightly from the pain from my back. I shiver slightly, the room colder than I remember. Behind me, I hear Bucky take in a sharp breath. His presence makes my stomach do somersault after somersault. The alcohol-soaked rag lays against my wound again, but I feel Bucky's eyes burning into my back.
"Dawn..." he mumbles, his voice sounding almost broken. His breath fans my neck, making me shiver involuntarily. I jump slightly in surprise when his free hand that's not pressing the rag to my back reaches up and ghosts over something on my back. I furrow my brows in confusion before it hits me.
My back is streaked with every lash I've received from Clayton's barbed whip.
"I-it's nothing really, just, well-" I stutter out, letting my words die out. I have absolutely no idea how to describe the scars he sees, but shame floods through my body. If the scars on my stomach weren't enough, he most definitely is disgusted by my body now. There's a reason I hate mirrors.
"How could anyone do this to you?" Bucky finally remarks, his voice heavy with sorrow and pain. I feel my heart stutter, tears pricking my eyes.
"Some people are monsters," I respond, my voice quivering only slightly. I feel Bucky move away the rag and turn his attention back to the wound, preparing his needle and medics thread for the stitches I'll need.
"If I ever meet that doctor, I'll kill him." Bucky simply states, his voice now tight. For some reason, that makes me smile.
"For his sake, I hope you never meet him" I reply, wincing slightly as I feel the needle begin to weave carefully through my skim. Bucky works in silence, the heat from his body managing to keep me somewhat warm.
"Another scar," I observe, not being able to hide the sadness cloaking my words, "As if my body wasn't hideous enough"
Bucky's hands freeze.
"Your scars are beautiful," he rasps out, catching me by surprise yet again. My eyes widen slightly, the words completely foreign to me. I'm at a total loss for words, though, when Bucky continues.
"They make you more perfect than you already are"
He continues in silence, but his words are on repeat in my mind. I feel a single tear slip down my cheek, and I'm beyond glad to be facing the wall.
What is Bucky Barnes doing to me?
•••••
It's mid-afternoon, and life in the apartment has continued on as if the encounter from this morning never happened. If anything, Bucky has been sort of stiff around me. At this moment, we're both relaxing from the hectic past few days.
"Bucky," I begin, looking over at the lounging man, "What would you say if I asked you to come and fight with the Avengers?"
I hold my breath, anxiety pumping through me. This was the part of my mission I had yet to work on. The question isn't asked entirely in a job-perspective, though. The more I hang around Bucky the more I realize that he needs people in his life who care for him. Almost more important than that, Bucky needs the chance to see that he can help others, that he's not a monster.
"I don't think that's the best idea" he answers, sitting up slightly to look in my direction.
"Why?" I ask, not wanting to pry too much. He sighs, glancing down to his metal arm quickly.
"I can't even trust myself," he begins, looking up to me with a pained look in his eyes, "I don't even fully know who I am"
Sympathy burns within me and I stay silent, allowing him to continue taking if he wants to. I've never liked breaking into someone's confessions, I feel like those are the times when we should just listen.
"I work better alone, that way I can't hurt anyone." He continues. I nod, letting his words sink in. I pause for a moment, letting the silence of the room give my mind time to come up with a proper response.
"Sometimes," I begin cautiously, biting my lip as the words come, "Being alone is what hurts us most"
Bucky lets out a humorless laugh, fully sitting up and leaning forward. His eyes find mine, almost challenging me.
"That's easy for you to say, you don't have a murder switch in your brain." Bucky announces. I huff, the slightest bit of frustration settling inside me.
"Bucky, we all have our demons," I begin, standing up from the bed, "You're just gonna let your's keep you from doing something I know you want to?"
He stands too, his jaw clenched.
"Stop pretending like you understand what's going on in my head because you don't" he warns, pointing a finger in my direction.
"Then help me understand!" I exclaim, taking a step forward. He shakes his head at me, turning slightly away and then back.
"You can stop pretending like you care about my life now, I'm just your stupid mission," Bucky grits, stepping closer to me. This time I laugh dryly, crossing my hands over my chest defensively. For some reason, his words sting.
"Why is it so hard for you to believe that you might actually have a friend?" I ask, my heart burning, "Or that there's some people out there who look at you and see something worth saving?"
Bucky takes one more step towards me, the proximity between us minimal.
"I don't want saving, I don't need a friend, I don't need the Avengers," He growls, his blue eyes sparkling, "And I don't need you"
I swallow, trying to hide the fact that his words cut deeper than I expected them to. My arms drop from my chest, my expression no longer heated. I stare into his crystal blue irises for a moment longer, a bit of guilt filtering into me. I can't help but feel like I pushed him too hard, and that's nobody's fault but my own.
Still, his words hurt. And I can't figure out why.
"Okay," I mumble, stepping back. His eyes follow me as I turn from him and grab my suitcase, quickly putting in the things I need to before zipping it up. I stand, pulling the case with me as I walk and sling my backpack over my shoulder and slip my phone into my pocket. My heart burns in my chest to leave, a large part of me not wanting to walk out that door.
Bucky Barnes may be unhinged, but who hasn't been at some point? He's understanding, surprisingly gentle, and has a playful side that cracks through when his guard drops.
I can't help but wonder why it hurts me so much to leave all of that.
"Where are you going?" He asks, his voice strained. I look over to the soldier, examining his borderline-emotionless face.
"Home. My mission's over." I answer, walking towards the door. I swing it open, pulling my stuff out with me. I pause, sending one last glance over my shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Bucky"
"For what" he grits, not meeting my gaze.
"For pushing you. It wasn't my business anyways" I respond gently, making sure to not leave without apologizing for my side of the fight. No matter how much anyone yells at me, I'll always own up to my part in an argument. I make sure to keep my voice strong and my chin lifted.
"Good luck" I announce, observing the man once more. He still doesn't look at me.
Then I turn and leave.
•••••
Bucky Barnes
"I'm sorry Bucky"
Frustration courses through me. I can't bring myself to look up at the blonde woman who stands just outside my apartment door.
"For what" I ask.
"For pushing you. It wasn't my business anyways" I hear her respond. This only heightens my frustration. I can't place if it's because she can't help but be kind or because I know that I should be the one apologizing.
"Good luck"
Not soon after the statement, my door shuts.
I huff, walking over to the small kitchen and banging my metal fist down on it.
"She's so...so...aggravating!" I exclaim to myself, huffing. I stand for a moment, thinking over her words.
How could she find something worth saving when I don't even see it?
My mind keeps whirring as I walk over to my bed and sit down on the edge, placing my head in my hands. I can't stop thinking of how continually kind she is, but how she stands firm at the same time, and how she's about as stubborn as an ox. A part of me finds the deafening silence in my apartment suffocating without the bright woman.
It's good that she's gone, though, because she was bound to get hurt being around me anyways. At least she's safe from me, now. It stings, though, knowing I had to shove her away to do it.
More importantly, why do I care?